My Introduction

 

 

Introductions

I am not supposed to exist.

            Sounds so delicious and intriguing when you put it on paper: I am not supposed to exist. If you’re not supposed to exist, then why are you here, sitting on this rickety old chair and writing on a termite-infested table under the dim glow of candlelight? Makes you want to know more, draws you closer, uncover the mystery and the depths of layers beneath it.

            Unfortunately, when you say it out aloud, especially if you are the mystery person in question, it doesn’t sound half as exciting anymore. Rather, it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth and you’ll suddenly feel as though the whole world is watching you, waiting. Waiting for you to make that fatal mistake that will reveal who you really are.

            I am not supposed to exist.

            But I do exist. Now the question is, why? Why? I’ve been searching an answer to that question for the past 13 years of my life, but every single fruitless attempt just proves futile to the great powers of the Universe.

            I won’t write here why I’m not supposed to exist, because it’s a secret I’ve been bearing all my life, and I certainly won’t reveal it now. Another reason is simply because I am already not supposed to write ‘I am not supposed to exist’ and writing ‘why’ is simply going to throw me into even graver danger. In fact, I’m already in grave danger by writing out that sentence, and if anyone reads it I’ll be hanged, no matter is it true, but I’ve already confessed to an inexplicably absurd crime(though I did not choose to be born). 

            Then why am I writing this? Why am I so stupid? Why. Why why WHY. I’ve been asking that question all my life. No one answered me. Not even the Pietists for Heaven’s sake. Not one tinsy-witty little stingy bit of a miraculous sign. I’ve cried and shriek before the altar of my champion Pietist, Pietist Bronicus more times than I could count. But still, NOTHING.

            So why am I writing this? Surprisingly, I can come up with an easy answer for that question. Maybe because after 13 years of Hiding a Dangerous Secret I’ve finally had enough. No, no, I won’t tell anyone, I’ve always been an excellent actor and liar, and keeping a secret only boosted this talent. I just need somewhere, some THING to help me channel my thoughts, my emotions, so I can concentrate better on my day. I think it’s working so far.

            Anyways, I’ll only write about really interesting events, and will probably log in only every week or so, which is really scrimping on my part because charcoal has been hard to come by lately, and I only have a limited amount of it.

            And so it begins.

 

A (Wintry) Birthday Celebration

            “Strike!”

            Several figures stood out starkly against the icy-white landscape of the land, their dark cloaks fluttering in the biting wind, their cheeks and noses tinged with redness from the frosty cold. One of them, his once-warm coat wet and sloshed with snow, instantly sneezed as soon as the snowball hit him, and he shook off the snow like a soaking-wet mongrel.

            “You’ll pay for this, Teeny!” shouted the boy gleefully, and gathered snow in his frigid fingers �" he’d refused to wear gloves when they went out, and he was paying dearly for it. His brothers and sister giggled at him in amusement.

            “Really? Come get me then,” taunted Teeny, the oldest of the five siblings. His brother threw the snowball at him, but missed horrendously, for Teeny had already disappeared out of sight with inhuman speed. His brother stomped in the snow out of frustration.

            “Not fair, Teeny,” scolded Isolde, the only sister among a family of boys. She looked like, as most girls would at ten years-old while offering a lecture, rather prim and proper, with her hands on her hips and lips pouting disapprovingly. “You can’t just simply use your abilities just because you’re a champion. And how are we supposed to win if you keep cheating?” Teeny just laughed.

            “Which is why it’s all of you against me,” drawled Teeny, pointing at each individual in front of him. “And which is why I have to hit each of you five times before someone is eliminated. We agreed to this, remember?”

            “It didn’t include having you using your abilities!” protested Isolde.

            “Ah, but no one said that I couldn’t use them,” answered her brother, wagging his finger at her. “So we’ll continue.”

            Isolde looked like she was about to argue further, but got cut off when a torrent of snow hit her squarely in the face. “Strike five and you’re out,” grinned Teeny.

            “But…but…You �" I �" talk,” stammered poor Isolde, her curly hair positively drowning in the snow. Then she threw her arms up in surrender and stormed off. “Fine! I give up!”

            Teeny chuckled while forming the next snowball in his hands. “So, who’s next?”

            “Children!” yelled a distant voice. “Time to come back in!”

            The eldest sibling gathered his younger siblings and ushered them towards the direction of their castle. “Come on, let’s go back before Isolde catches a cold,” he teased. His

sister harrumphed in irritation and turned her rather pretty nose up.

            As soon as the five children got back into the castle, they immediately huddled about the toasty warm fireplace in the even toastier kitchen, their skins relieved of the cold. Their mother, Marcella Rutherland padded over to them in her silk slippers �" only to be worn indoors �" with the woolly blankets in her arms threatening to overwhelm her any moment.

            “Maid Finella didn’t give you any blankets?” queried the Lady as she handed the children the blankets. “I’ll have a talk with her about proper serving etiquette later. The nerve of the woman!”

            “Ma, she’s only sixteen, and she’s new to the staff,” said Joblin, second-youngest of the Rutherland siblings at eight, who was never afraid of speaking up and pointing out awkward truths.

            His mother sighed in exasperation. “I know, dear. But really, Mistress Fostier has the most awful taste in choosing staff. Sympathy indeed! I honestly don’t know why I ever made her head of the staff.”

            “Because you said that she is really the most competent person in the world and she has a much more level head than you,” retorted her eldest and turning back towards the fire.

            “And children, when you’re done warming up, your father has requested that all of you to go to the drawing room to celebrate Constantine’s birthday,” said Lady Marcella, slightly exhausted to argue, calling over her shoulder while she walked away.

            “Which drawing room?” asked Percival junior, the youngest of all the five at six. His question was not irrelevant as they were numerous drawing rooms in Rutherland Castle, some large, some small, some so dusty that nobody would even dare entering to leave footprints.

            “The second one in the east wing,” replied his mother automatically.

            After five minutes had passed and the siblings felt much better, they hauled themselves up to their feet and handed their woolly blankets to the working charwoman before heading towards the second drawing room in the east wing.

            “Happy birthday, Teeny!” chirped Eric, second eldest brother at twelve years-old in greeting towards his older brother as they walked.

            Constantine (as was his proper name) laughed and ruffled his brother’s hair. “But you’d just said it to me this morning!” he said.

            “Then I’ll say it again!”

            The eldest sibling shook his head and smiled in defeat, then stopped in front of a massive, oaken door that had ancient carvings on its handles. Constantine inhaled deeply to steel his nerves and pushed.

            This particular drawing room was one of the larger ones, and was Lord Percival’s favourite one. It consisted of: a fireplace, four bookshelves filled to the brim with books, three large tables, two small desks, seven chairs, a grey-stoned wall, eight torch holders and a rack for stationery, not necessarily in that order.

            Percival and Marcella Rutherland were seated at the largest table side by side, with several unidentified objects situated on the flat surface before them. Now, with husband and wife together, it was easy to see where the children had gotten their appearances from. The four younger siblings each had their father’s curly blond hair and their mother’s warm, brown eyes; the odd one out, Constantine, had obtained his mother’s dark brown locks and father’s grey eyes. Only the most expert observer would notice that Constantine had tensed before his father’s presence.

            “Hello, children!” said Marcella while standing up and walking over with arms spread out, as if she’d never seen them before.

            “Father, mother,” responded the five harmoniously, while each gave their mother a tight squeeze. Lord Rutherland sat back stoically, any trace of expression invisible on his face. His wife guided the children to the table they were seated at. She placed her small, nimble hands on Constantine’s shoulders.

            “Well, Constantine, your presents!” she said with relish, gesturing at the five cloth-bound objects on the surface. Her son cautiously took them apart, and unwrapped a book (Eric’s thoughtful gift), a bunch of lovely, but pollen-infested wildflowers (Isolde’s lovely, but impractical gift), a fish (poor Joblin had sobbed at this point because he didn’t know what to get), a silky, spotted feather (Percival junior’s romantic one), and last of all, Mother’s smoothly calf-bound book along with some charcoal, and a tiny, tiny dagger with a beautifully adorned hilt.

            Constantine smiled and thanked everybody, all except his father. Percival then stood up slowly to his imposing fullness of height, and said in a deep, commanding voice, “Constantine, come.”

            Teeny gulped in response �" he’d anticipated this �" and followed his father meekly. Lord Rutherland guided them towards the stone-cold balustrade, exposing them to the dry and bitter winter wind. He swept a hand over the unimpeded scenery; villages scattered around the snowy landscape, with little puffs of smoke rising like dancing wisps in the air, to the east, a glittering lake under the frozen surface, whilst to the west, a column of mountains vaulting to reach towards Heaven, and the slow, winter sun rising behind it, timid rays peeking over the valleys.

            Percival finally spoke. “Constantine, you turn 13 winters today, and it’s finally time for you to begin your training as a squire in Melieva.”

            Constantine inclined his head slightly as he spoke, “Yes, father. I swear on the name of Pst Bronicus that I will do my best.”

            Lord Rutherland turned to his son suddenly, startling him. “I want more than your best,” he said vehemently. “You must prove your worthiness �" that you are worth everything, as I did for my father, and his father before him, and so on. The province of Rutherland is a prosperous one, and has been passed down from generation to generation. I wish not for it to fall into the hands of a man foreign to our blood, or to unscrupulous souls."

            Constantine remained silent.

            "You have known this since your birth, and I fully expect you to fulfil your obligations to me. Only by becoming a true knight will you be worthy of Rutherland. And then, and only then, will I name you as my rightful successor. This is my gift and promise to you. Do you understand?"

            Constantine nodded solemnly. “I understand, father.”

            “Good,” was the reply, then his father turned towards the ascending sunlight, basking in the little warmth it gave. “You may go now.”

            His son gave a quick bow and walked out stiffly.

 

My Point of View

Constantine, is of course, me. I chose to write from a neutral person’s point of view, so that I can exclude all thoughts and feelings I had during that period of time. So there.

            Now I’m writing in aforementioned notebook, along with before-said charcoal, in a little hiding place in the castle that’s surprisingly warm and toasty, at least compared with the cold drafts they let in through the windows �" I really don’t understand why they asked Maid Finella to be in charge of it.

            That’s all for now. Not very interesting I’m afraid, but it’s all I have for the moment.

Author's Note

So...not very interesting I'm afraid, but it's all I got for the moment. A little too early to know how it will progress, but I'm open to ideas!