Tale As Old As Honey
I have always been sure of one thing; I will never live up to my fathers expectations of me. I have known that since I was young. My father was a King and his father a King, and his fathers father. That is how my family has always been.
Until I failed them, though it is best to not acknowledge that fact when it is not necessary.
My father married my mother, who was not only related to him, but a woman he found extremely ugly. It is not abnormal, to do and think both those things, but it is awfully disgusting.
My father did not think much of marrying his cousin. His goal was to always have powerful sons that continued to create a powerful bloodline, which did not come to be, as many would soon realise as I grew. Anyways, there would always be his maids. He sought after those when necessary.
When I was born, my father was quite ecstatic, although my body was scrawny and size small. It was not until I was older he would notice how disappointing I was and leave me to rot. My mothers midwife took me swiftly from her arms and let my mother rest, so she could not see her baby boy so gross looking with his depressing features.
I grew to be nothing, and very quickly. I was only slightly a man, if one could even consider my form that. I was not fast and strong like the other boys. I could not sing or play a beautiful instrument like the girls. I could do nothing, and it was as simple as that.
The only good thing that could be said of me was that I never grew ill. No matter how many children succumbed to sickness, I was left untouched. My father became suspicious. How weird was I? Was I really a human, or only a creature my mother created in her sad womb?
He watched me with disgust. Every time his glare caught my eyes, the hair at the nape of my neck stood. When I turned my head, my mother sat and frowned. I could see in her eyes what her words would not say. You are a disgrace.
✵✵✵
My father hosted the games at my ripe age of five years old. Men gathered from the far lands of Thessaly and Sparta and many others with their sons and wives, sometimes daughters in tow. Our stores grew rich with their riches.
As many as one hundred servants created the racing track over half a month's time. My father fed himself on the pride he felt from knowing he would have the best games of the century. He would not have it any other way, he had to go down in history.
The bull was killed and the blood spilled into the bronze bowls. A good omen to my fathers “marvellous” games.
The runners were my favourite. Their bodies slick with oil and hair cut short. They all looked the same, nut-brown skin with dark hair and carved muscles. I looked no such way, not as if it mattered. I did not try.
My skin was always pale, as one is in death, and my hair black, something unusual at best and a female trait at worst.
They all gathered before the dais my father and I sat, prizes surrounding us that would be given to the winners. The prizes drenched us in golden light.
The largest and most glorious prize of all was the one I was holding, in a way I wish was confident. A wreath of fresh green leaves sat in my palms, rubbed to a shine by my own two hands.
My father only gave it to me because of my princely status and my weak effort to create something worth giving. His words told me I would only hold it, nothing more, nothing less.
The boys my age ran first. They stood, shifting their weight from foot to foot, waiting for the sign to run. Everyone could see they would grow to be handsome, unlike me. They’re features were sharp, cheeks flushed with life.
One boy caught my eye — I had leaned forward to view him better. His skin reflected the Sun and his hair lighter than the rest, a hazelnut brown with golden ends. He was the reflection of a prince.
He was taller than the others, yet he seemed younger than the rest. His hair was dishevelled — was his father not ashamed? His face grinned as he waved to the crowds gathered around the track. He was happy, while everybody else was not.
I wished I could have felt that way. I still do. My heart yearns constantly, whether it beats or not.
My eyes trailed over his strong yet thin build, his muscles strung tightly around his young bones. I envied him more than I had ever before.
The runners were set free, their feet striking the ground. The other boys struggled, he did not. His body moved fast while his face stayed calm. He won easily.
My father stared at the boy blankly. He stole my garland from my hands and placed it on the boy's head. Dread filled my bones and weighed them down like stones. I watched as his father came to claim him and celebrate, proud of his son.
King Fleamont's kingdom was smaller than ours, but much more famous. His wife was known to be a Sun goddess, and therefore his son a demigod. Everybody loved them, my own father included, although he was secretly envious.
He turned and headed back to me, his face twisted with spite. His wife was plain and son was slow in many ways. He turned to me at that moment and spat at me, “That is what a son should be.”
That day, I decided I resented King Fleamont and his stupid son. A son should not be so happy at all times, that is not normal. It is not true. He continued laughing and smiling as he basked in his victory. My mind grew empty as he tossed my garland, the one I made with my own time.
Their family name filled my mouth with vile and my veins with poison.
✵✵✵
Despite my hatred, I remember little. Next to nothing. Of course, there would always be my father. His scowl as he stared me down from his throne. Would that ever grow old? My mother on the beach while her skin roasted and turned pink with heat. That would grow old fast.
In that memory, I skipped stones so she could watch and be entertained. They plunk, plunk, plunked against the waves. One other thing I was decent enough at. I like to think she was happy there, although I am still not entirely sure.
I tried not to disturb her as I reached for rocks, protecting her rare peace. I flung another one at the ocean. I am finally good at something, I thought. This is the only remaining memory that exists of my mother. The only good one of her, other than her lyre.
It was special when we spent time alone together, my father was strict about not letting the two of us run a muck. We were far too simple for him.
I can not even recognise myself there. I looked far too happy. It is not true.