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Elder Brother does not come to you for favours often. There is little you can offer he is incapable of doing himself, and even where your abilities overlap, anything of importance is best left to the true heir of your namesake.
In the occurrence he requires your presence for household matters, he is wont to send a maid on his behalf, summoning you not unlike an unruly dog kept at a kennel. You go, of course, tail wagging at the thought of being needed. Most of the time, you aren’t. These requests are more of a placation than something Elder Brother requires of you, simple commands like fetching a guest or passing on a message; the sorts of administrative tasks he no longer has time for himself.
This is one of those times. Elder Brother calls for you, and you paw at him for stories of his travels, desperate to lap up depictions of knighthood you used to dream of. He is patient in his retellings, fondness seeped in every word he uses for the two knights he now spends most of his time with. You have always known and loathed the Sword Saint, but the name that follows rings unfamiliar. Felix Argyle, is it? New to the Royal Knights, and an instant fixture into Elder Brother’s life. Another potential threat to you. When asked, you lave praise on how open and accepting your dear brother tends to be, welcoming someone in such peculiar circumstances.
One might think the Fourth Prince likes to play favourites, bolstering those that fit his tastes with no regard for how his darlings are seen by the world. The thought makes you sick. He should be thankful Elder Brother was raised to treat his peers on equal grounds—you doubt the Sword Saint would show half the sincerity your brother holds in his heart.
It’s then the conversation shifts, tea growing cold over tales of his new comrade and the undead they were to face. You interject with filler words, cheer on a man you care little for, feel your heart clench with how sombre Brother’s voice becomes while relaying his personal weaknesses as a knight. This is something you challenge, mindless compliments on the tip of your tongue, but he does not let you finish. His tone changes. Where it once registered as pained, awe and respect now lace his speech.
“As Ferris left, His Highness had taken note of my lacking composure and enquired about it,” Julius says. “His words were what established my belief in him as a member of the Royal Family. To not only know what to say to his people, but also endeavour to dismantle the rumours that surround him in the castle—that is the work of a man greater than his title implies. To dismiss him as simply the Fourth Prince is a grave mistake I plan to atone for once I am relieved of some of my current obligations.”
The sentiment is sweet. The contents suffocate you. Once again, you become background dressing for those far more affluent than you ever will be. Elder Brother pronounces ‘His Highness’ the same way he says the Sword Saint’s name, and what little amount of good faith you have for his new friend and his master diminishes.
“I see,” you reply, nails leaving crescent marks in your palms.
Elder Brother does not notice. He never does.
His expression does soften, though. There’s no awe when he looks at you, only a lifetime of concessions for all you’re incapable of. He takes on the weight that comes with being a Juukulius while you enjoy the privilege of having no expectations placed on your shoulders. You love him for this. Honour has been brought to the family name, free from becoming a pitiable tale shared between nobles when they think Father can’t hear. Maids do not talk of other options of employment in hushed voices outside his door. The family’s no longer ruined. It’s just you.
“If it is not an inconvenience to you, I would like to request that you visit His Highness on my behalf. While it may be easier to pass on any communications through Ferris,” Elder Brother pauses, cupping his chin with his hand. That fond look of his fades into something more conspiratorial. “I would prefer a first hand account of how His Highness is doing. While I have not known either of them for a substantial amount of time, Ferris’ actions as of late have been… concerning.”
Ah, this is—despite your earlier grievances—exactly what you wanted. Without the Felix part would have been ideal, but, but, but! Elder Brother is relying on you; not on a knight, a ‘friend’ he considers worthy of his time, not the wretched Sword Saint he keeps on a short leash. Julius Juukulius asks for your opinion as if you are something reliable, and for the tiniest second, you feel like you are worth the burdens you have given him. Think about it, how he shows such open doubt for the people he cares for, yet still indulges you with information you both know could be seen as disrespectful to His Highness’ vassal.
Now, now. You are getting ahead of yourself. Do not smile at his lack of faith in others; it’s unbecoming of a nobleman. By the time you return, you know he will have forgotten you again. Gone back to work knowing he has left you enough to stay occupied with.
“Of course, Elder Brother! It is my pleasure to act on your behalf. I have no doubts in my mind that His Highness will wholeheartedly appreciate your kindness and concern for his well-being,” you say, perhaps layering it on too thick.
You’re rewarded for it, as you always are. “I’m counting on you,” Elder Brother says, near fond.
He’s not. Still, you leap at the thought of maybe, this time, for the first time, making him proud of you.
Getting to the Royal Castle is simple. Journeys like these used to be a luxury to you, more accustomed to short trips from one wing of the estate to another, but the years have brought more than just distance between you and your brother. Where your only friend was your replacement, you now find yourself enjoying the company of other artisanal nobles and connoisseurs in the Capital. With them comes routine trips to all sorts of locations and landscapes you used to read about, including the Palace that casts a stark, standstill impression against the constant movement of the city below. A building far removed from those around it, much akin to the family that inhabits its walls.
The exterior is as grand as you remember. Nothing has changed beyond the nameless faces of staff by the front entrance. As you would expect, even the foliage has been maintained with expert care. Rows of trees pruned to the perfect arrowhead shape, bushes sheared into neat spheres along the street, and a variety of exotic flowers you do not recognise all welcome you. Father spares no expense on gardening, yet the sheer scale of the Royal Castle and its immeasurable wealth does not fail to impress you a third time.
A maid lets you in, considering the wax seal from the letter in your hand as enough to authenticate your intentions with your visit. Which is excellent, because everything in you is embarrassed at the flat stare she gives you for requesting to speak to ‘His Highness.’ The Fourth Prince, you clarify, receiving a raised eyebrow in return. She doesn’t ask for your name, nor does she say anything as she escorts you through the castle corridors. He must not receive many visitors if this is the reception his guests receive, you figure.
What starts as one corridor soon becomes a series of hallways, each adorned in curated portraits and gilded decor along the walls. The walk is tedious, though you struggle to consider the journey as boring itself. You have plenty to admire in the thin brush strokes on each canvas, with the maid taking a slower pace to account for your wandering gaze. Her silence also grants you a moment to think, decide over how you wish to present yourself to His Highness once you reach his room.
You've rehearsed the words you want to say a thousand times. Put a tad more weight on the syllables that sound right, leave little inflections on the ones that make you look half the man your older brother is. It's not as if it's entirely performative. His Highness' suffering speaks to you the same way getting up too quickly makes you weak in the knees—a quiet reminder of how you used to be, bedridden and left behind. His condition must be serious if a man of his standing is receiving guests, and you’re not so depraved that sympathy for him is out of the question. Yet there's a part of you that cannot help but envy that man, surrounded by the people that would do anything to improve his condition even the slightest bit. Blessed from birth, someone whose good fortune had bled dry alongside his lineage, everything you're not.
It's fine, you tell yourself. When Julius leaves your bedside, and you sit out of reach from all that matters, that's an act done for the betterment of the family. His role is not to be your keeper—he is destined for greatness, to summit peaks you cannot view from where you're forced to lay. The disgrace of the Juukulius family has no right to look upon the Lugunica heritage with bitterness. The unnamed men in folk tales do not speak untruths of the heroes in their world. Bite your tongue and swallow it. Follow dogged at your brother's heels and maybe he'll throw scraps of hollow victories your way. This is your purpose. You've known this for a long time.
By the time you hit your third flight of stairs, you find yourself winded enough to stop for a second, worn down from your own internal monologue. Oh, and the journey, of course. Any sort of cardio is still a challenge for you, no matter the years that pass since you graduated from your own bed. The gaze she sends your way is anything but kind, yet she stills, giving you a needed moment to adjust. If travelling the lengths of your home is a moderate amount of exercise, walking the perimeter of the castle is a pilgrimage. You dig through your pocket for your handkerchief, dabbing the spots of sweat that affect your complexion. It would not do to appear dishevelled in front of His Highness—not on the behalf of your dear Elder Brother. What if he holds that first impression of yours against him?
Pressing on, motivated by that sole thought, you find your way to His Highness’ room. An unprecedented amount of weight falls on your shoulders. You know how this can go, the errors you can make in front of him. The faith Elder Brother has placed in you. Should you let him down, then—
You stand at His Highness’ door, worrying your lip. The maid raises an eyebrow at your hesitancy. With a few short breaths, you place your hand on the door knob, giving it a firm twist. If nothing else, you can rely on imitating Elder Brother once more.
His Highness welcomes you, cheery. “You must be Julius’ little brother! Joshua, right?”
Of all things, you do not expect this. The informality astounds you, more than how raspy and unravelled his voice sounds. His Highness’ stature far exceeds yours, and Elder Brother had stated himself to still retain some distance with the prince. For him to be so familiar with you—there are a few possibilities that run through your mind. That his nature is one of naivete, formalities not imposed in accordance with his status as fourth in line. Or that he has more duplicitous intentions, seeking to be underestimated by those he keeps as company. This reads more likely to you. Elder Brother would not approve of someone so lacking in their manners.
No matter. You bow, as is custom, entering the room with a quick apology for interrupting his bed rest. He says nothing to it, implying some recognition of his title, at least. You walk to his bedside and hold out the letter to him.
“Thank you for the warm reception, Your Highness. Elder Brother sends his well wishes, though he hopes to meet with you again at a later date to give such words in person.”
“Ah, thank you, Joshua. It is kind of you to visit on his behalf. I imagine you are quite occupied.”
“It’s no trouble at all. It is an honour to be in your presence.” You incline your head, an imitation of Elder Brother’s impeccable manners.
His Highness rests his back against the headboard of his bed. From this angle, you can identify a light cluster of freckles on his cheeks, faint yet prominent marks against his pale skin. Standing over him feels strange to you. Was this the view Elder Brother had of you? Even with your head lowered, the crown of your head still remains higher than His Highness’ slumped-in form can stiffen up to. He does his best to remain upright, and you give him the decency of looking away while he pushes himself up against his pillows.
“Please, Joshua, raise your head.” You do so, meeting His Highness’ eyes. “You really are the spitting image of Julius.”
It’s a testament to your character that you are able to keep your smile in place. Of all things the prince could have mentioned, he goes for the one topic you have always struggled to talk about. How are you supposed to respond? ‘Thank you, Your Highness. I hadn’t noticed.’ or perhaps the more deprecating ‘Elder Brother would not stand so stiff, nor find himself so out of breath in your presence.’ Neither appeal to you. Mercifully, His Highness continues on without waiting for a response.
“I’m truly grateful for Julius’ efforts. He is a fine retainer and the Royal Knights are privileged to receive his dedication.” His Highness pauses, a strange look in his eye.
You preen at the response, ruffling your feathers as someone, for the first time, gets what you have always held as truth. The Finest Knight does not begin to describe how great your brother is. From enlisting at such a young age, to his diligence in swordsmanship and practice as a spirits user, there is very little about him that you would consider less than perfect. Being around him, being family to him, being an imitation—these are all luxuries afforded to you. You love him more than anything, really. His Highness may not know the full extent of his legacy, part of a newer chapter of Elder Brother’s history, but the recognition is more than you expected of him.
A muted laugh fills the room, and you realise that, no, that diatribe was not kept to your thoughts alone. You fix your monocle’s position in disbelief. His Highness had not interrupted you. Elder Brother would be ashamed of you, repugnant at how brazen your attitude had been to run your mouth in front of royalty. Father would be worse. As you sputter apologies, stammering a short “M-my apologies, Your Highness.”
“It’s no issue. Your brother must mean a lot to you,” he says. Understatement of the century, you think, straightening your cravat.
“I am glad that it was Julius who was charged with supervising Ferris after his appointment. They seem to get along quite well. Ferris has always deserved more friends than just I.”
You hum, indifferent about the knight in question. Still, you reply with “Elder Brother has spoken much of Sir Felix, and has wished to meet Duchess Karsten after hearing a great deal from him.”
His Highness looks back down at his lap and smiles. “Julius wants to be introduced to Crusch, does he? I imagine he’s failed to mention this to Ferris directly, though perhaps it’s just a matter of their respective duties taking up too much time.”
Either option is possible. Elder Brother wears his heart on his sleeve, though he is not immune to others misunderstanding his genuine intentions. If he has expressed any interest in Duchess Karsten, it would not surprise you if Sir Felix had interpreted his inquiry as something more suggestive in nature. Few understand your brother the way you do, after all.
“Merely one meeting with Crusch could never be enough, regardless. Seeing just a single side to her, either in her usual attire or in those rare occasions she dons the clothes of a woman, would simply be insufficient to gain a full impression of—what have they been calling her as of late? Ah yes, the Valkyrie,” His Highness continues.
He turns away from you, looking towards the window. A bird chirps in the distance, but he does not seem to notice. “When I overcome this illness, I’ll see to it that we’ll all come together. Ferris and Crusch both could do with some time away from their responsibilities. Julius can finally meet Crusch, and perhaps he can officiate for us a rematch. I have only bested her once in a duel, and I am keen to prove it was more than a mere fluke.”
Somewhat idealistic, in your opinion, though you suppose it is this sort of optimism that attracts your brother towards him. Perhaps his condition is better than you thought. His Highness’ gaze lands on you again, studying you in a way that leaves you vulnerable. A moment passes, and that scrutinous look eases. You remain stiff regardless.
“You’ll be there too, won’t you, Joshua?”
“Of course, Your Highness. If you wish for my presence, I shall come.”
“Excellent. Tell me, what do you occupy your days with as of late?”
Asking about you? Why? “I have recently reapplied my efforts toward a particular landscape piece. It is of a scene from some literature that has captured my attention, and I’ve had trouble visualising it without ever laying my eyes on it,” you say.
“Ah, so you are a painter, Joshua. I’m glad to hear more about you, as the circumstances of my encounter with your brother were not of the ideal kind for idle talk.”
Confusing. His Highness is a confusing man to you. In the presence of the Finest Knight, why would conversation gravitate towards his lesser? You frown. Is this some ploy to win your favour in some capacity? It would be much more effective to go through your brother, the heir, for any sort of political support. There is a chance his words are a mere flattery he offers to all guests of his, though some part of it rings as an honest statement.
Sensing your confusion, or more likely noting your silence, His Highness continues, “We all have our challenges. Ferris is kind, blessed with the kindest power of all, yet unable to be kind to himself. Crusch is resolute, unyielding in her resolved goals and intentions, but she does not always readily accept that to compromise does not mean to waver.”
“As for your art, Joshua, I do not mean to be presumptuous, but I have the inkling that it is not a matter of visualisation that blocks your path, but rather of acceptance of what tangible work has been made of said image. Tell me, how many canvases have you discarded for this single piece?”
You feel your mouth dry. Swallowing nothing, you reply, “I believe I am on my eighth now.”
His Highness is unsurprised. “Art is not a discipline akin to the training of knights in swordsmanship. It is—Ah,” he stops himself, “You’re of a knightly house. Juukulius. You would know their training better than I.”
In some parts, you do. The last time you put effort into training was, hm, seven or so years ago? Too weak to hold a sword upright, nothing close to the prowess Elder Brother shows with a blade. You explain this to His Highness, the training your brother excelled in. Etiquette and chivalry classes you attended with him, a practice partner with patience unlike their strict tutor. Reinforcing those lessons of nobility through the stories you would read to him as a child. Though you could not contribute to the household, you could at least rear your new brother into the heir you should have been.
With rapt attention, His Highness listens to you, urging you to continue. In the moments between sentences, he fills the empty air with affirmations and encouragement. ‘Oh, really?’ and ‘I see!’ and ‘Incredible,’ all feeding you pitiful ego pittances of recognition. His efforts pay off, and you dig deeper. Stories you have not shared with anyone—the first time you met Elder Brother, a child ripped from his parents too soon. Then the one of you and him riding his treasured Shaknar without permission, going on a trip you both knew you were too unwell to go on. Where both tales would send pains in your chest on prior recollection, the way His Highness’ eyes wet upon hearing of your aunt and uncle’s fate makes the stories sit more fond in your heart.
You look at him, the man your brother cannot look away from. His Highness is smiling at you, dimples in his cheeks and posture relaxed. He is happy to hear from you, for your sake, from your perspective. Elder Brother’s letter goes unread. And before you can second-guess that, His Highness speaks.
“You’re a good brother, Joshua. I am certain that Julius is proud to call you his family.”
The phrase lingers in your ears. Then, going back to your previous conversation, “It seems to me that you hold Duchess Karsten in the same high regard as I hold Elder Brother. How did you two come to meet?”
“My first encounter with Crusch was one-sided. She was standing in the royal garden alone, and I saw her through a window. She held a blade, looking upon the flowers yet to bloom, but the only bud I could fixate my eyes upon was her,” His Highness explains.
Laughing to himself, His Highness coughs into his fist. What starts as a light noise ends as a harsh death rattle, one he writes off as something stuck in his throat. You say nothing, letting him collect himself before he continues with his story.
“Her first memory of me would be one of holding me at knifepoint. You see, my young self concocted the ingenious scheme to prowl around the castle dressed in the rags of a vagabond. I was so desperate to escape my lessons, if only to catch just a quick sight of her once more.”
“This was all when we were mere children, and the time that has since past has forged a powerful bond. Likewise, though it has been for some years shorter, Ferris is my dear friend. Crusch and Ferris both have answered my calls and held me with great hospitality time and time again. I desire nothing more from this life than to stand from this bed so that we may once again laugh together in the gardens,” His Highness says, taking a sip of water after. “And as I’ve said, Joshua. I hope you will be there too.”
Something about His Highness feels greater than him. The words he speaks become an artform. You only have experience with landscape work, yet you can visualise them just as well. Duchess Karsten, a sword to His Highness’ neck, and a sheepish prince on the grass. With just a few sentences, his adoration for his closest friends—or perhaps something more—rivals even the most potent of novels you have in your bookshelves. In better circumstances, you wish you could take His Highness up on his offer, to meet the two he holds dear in better terms than you likely will.
Portraits are difficult. His advice eases the critique in you, but it does not quell the hesitation that fills you at the idea of painting a person. Yet still, some part of you, seeing the content expression on His Highness’ face, wishes to capture him, his lady and her vassal on canvas. To immortalise those peaceful days His Highness speaks of. Further, under that feigned altruism, to leave an impression on those far better than you. Become entangled in their legacy through a kindness that’s unlike you.
The idea is lovely. But you’ve grown attached to a doomed man. The ending is right around the corner, and your compassion won’t add more pages to the story.
You see what Julius saw in him. And it's with that you realise that this will not last. His Highness’ cheeks are gaunt, dark eyebags covered by a light dust of concealer. Corpse pale skin must be hard to blend into something natural, you think, noting the thin sheen of sweat around His Highness’ neck. While it may be enough to deceive Elder Brother, you know all the techniques he employs to keep himself presentable. There's resignation in his eyes you've seen in the bedroom mirror. By the time you hold the ability to capture their fondness for each other, His Highness will have drawn his last breath.
Elder Brother will be sad when he finds out. Sir Felix’ strange behaviour makes far more sense than you would like to admit. For a moment, you debate prying further. Getting clarification on the true extent of His Highness’ condition, if only to satisfy the pangs in your chest at the thought of him saying goodbye far earlier than you expect. This is one boundary you do not cross, just as you avoid commenting on how raw his voice had grown in their talks. From one marked man to another, open talks of what awaits them in the coming months is more cruel than caring.
If His Highness notices the sombre mood, he does not mention it. Instead, he signals you to sit with him on the edge of the bed. You do so, and he presses a weak hand to your shoulder. His hand trembles, and it feels clammy against your neat suit, but you smile at him anyway. A genuine smile. You owe him that much.
“Though times may be uncertain now, you will not receive anything from hesitation and doubt. I choose to believe in the people around me, instead," His Highness says, tone light and airy. Half way through, his voice cracks. "Things will work out. Leave all the complications that ensue to me."
For a moment, you almost believe him.