He helped Sauthen take off his heavy backpack, pointing to a protruding rock where he could rest while he and Basilius unloaded their bags. After they had a light meal, bread hardened by the toxic air and cheese they kept wrapped in delicate cloth—while Sauthen breathed heavily beside them, Arendor lay next to Basilius, the firelight comforting them.
“Why do you make me do these things?” he mustered the courage to ask.
Basilius chuckled. “Child...” he began, as if apologizing. “It’s okay if you’re angry with me,” he clarified to the silence—but Arendor wanted to say, what will I have left if I’m angry with you? You’ve already taken so much from me.
“I’m trying to prepare you,” Basilius said succinctly. “When I found you...” poor choice of words, Arendor thought, “you were already eight years old and had never left the capital, spent most of your time in the palace... training with swords.”
“That skill!” he burst out, and Basilius raised his heavy hand, his palm full of cuts and calluses from years of working in the metal mines. “I know, I know... you’re an excellent fighter—I’ve seen you train. But you’re not meant to be a fighter, Arendor—you’re meant to be a king, and if you don’t know how to be a good king... I fear what will happen.” His voice was heavy.
“I’m tired,” Arendor confessed. “I don’t want to see these things, I don’t want to work the fields until hunger, I don’t want to walk in poisoned areas! I don’t want to understand why you can’t take fruits from merchants when they’re not looking—unlike all the other kids,” he raised his voice now, loud and clear—and the forest responded, exciting and inciting him.
The forest’s silence was broken by the sound of cracking, and Arendor quickly sat up—afraid he had awakened something dangerous, but it was just Sauthen, sleeping deeply after a long day, turning on his back and breathing a sigh of relief.
“I don’t want to be anything!” he continued, desperate. “I want to be carefree—like everyone else! Like him!” he pointed to Sauthen with envy—thankfully he was asleep and couldn’t hear.
Basilius remained silent, letting him vent. He knew the boy was on the brink of collapse; he wasn’t even eleven yet, and his body bore the scars of their journeys. And there were many—this was their fourth journey in two years, but they didn’t have enough time. Dela had asked him—forced him to promise.
“I won’t be a good king, no matter what you do,” Arendor said, his voice trembling with sadness and fear. “I’ll be just like my father...” the tears welled up in his throat, constricting his breath. He could almost feel the bridge now, as if all the pain and anguish were gathering inside him. “When you show me all the pain in the kingdom now, you’re only making me miserable too. I’ll know what my impact is when I’m a bad king—wouldn’t it be better to be like my father? He ignores it, yes, but at least he doesn’t suffer—like I do.”
The forest around them was dark and threatening, heavy clouds obscured the moon, and only the faint light of the stars managed to penetrate between the dense branches. The distant sounds of nocturnal animals heightened the sense of fear. Arendor felt his heart pounding wildly, the pain in his muscles weighing down every movement.
“You will be a good king, child—I promise.” Basilius patted his back, a pat so heavy it knocked a few more tears down. “I know you’re scared,” he took
a deep breath and looked down at him. His breath was warm and smelled of cheese—it comforted Arendor, bringing back a bit of a homely feel. “I’m scared too,” he said with moist eyes.
Basilius mustered a small smile, trying to encourage the boy, “Of all the people we’ve met so far—who do you remember?” He leaned back on his bag, resting his head on it. Arendor rolled his eyes, feeling the exhaustion overwhelm him.
“I don’t know,” he said reluctantly. He had no strength for these games.
“One last question for today—who do you remember?”
He sighed, knowing the answer. The Ronen family, their little boy—the small tuft of hair on his head and how he ran home happy every day. Arendor couldn’t stop staring at him. In the evening—the family was so poor in resources—yet—their parents served him soup with a big smile on their faces. Arendor cried for an hour afterward. The guilt ate at him from the inside, and not just that... there was also the envy.
He wanted to be that boy more than anything else. Yes, he ate lavish meals, just a year ago he was in the palace—but always alone, or with his father sitting distant. Maybe his tutors were beside him—evaluating him on one thing or another, but never with love.
Not only had his father neglected the kingdom, but when it was time to hand him over, he did so with anger—yes, but not with pain.
“Nadla... the boy with the big eyes from Ronen—remember him?” he said with a smile, chuckling. Basilius laughed out loud, the laughter filling the cool air.
“Yes,” he didn’t stop laughing, “he was so hungry all the time.” His stomach tightened with wild laughter, and the feeling was so good. Until the moment he remembered the boy—Nadla, almost fainting in the field. He sobered, the tears not yet dried, continuing to sparkle down his cheeks.
“You’re not to blame for them, child,” Basilius said. “I promise you’re not to blame.” He repeated it again, still staring at the stars. Arendor swallowed hard, a heavy lump descending his stomach—when Basilius said something, it was usually true.
“Go to sleep, child, I’ll watch over you. Tomorrow will be better—I promise.” These were the moments he hated Basilius the most—when his heart clenched with love. Yet he turned his back to him and sank into a deep, comforting sleep within moments.