My Writing

Casimir could feel the eyes of everyone around him as he walked through the busy streets. He didn’t often go into the city; it was too risky. Too many people around, and too many whispers around him to make him feel uncomfortable even though he was leagues away from the old palace. His village was safer, where the few people who lived there had accepted his story years ago that he and his two younger siblings, Ivor and Maeve, were refugees from a distant war. In all reality, he knew the people in the city weren’t truly looking at him. There were so many people, and the hood he wore that he drew up over his head would have hidden his face from anyone looking in his direction. Gone were the days he dressed in the finest clothes gold could buy; he dressed now in the clothing of the plain people, those with barely enough money to afford what they needed. It was an adjustment for him, but one that he knew he needed to make. It was the same for why he decided to settle himself and his siblings in a village rather than the larger city—he knew that if the people who killed his parents were looking for them, they would look in larger cities, not in a small village that was not even on the larger map of the country. However, there was a sense of anxiety that seemed to hang in the air around Casimir, and he often wondered if others around him could pick up on his uneasiness. He had spent the past few months in a constant state of fight-or-flight when not at home in his village. A few months prior, he had received a letter; it was simple, on a small square piece of paper that seemed to be torn from a larger piece of paper, its edges frazzled with small tears in places, as if the person who tore it off didn’t take care when tearing it. It was written in a hand that Casimir did not know. Working now for the local shipping and merchant’s guilds, Casimir had seen many different handwriting from those in the village; their writing was more unrefined, messy with letters looped strangely from what Casimir was taught in the palace. The hand that wrote the letter that Casimir had received, however, was steady and trained with a fancy script, signed with An Admirer. He hid the letter from Ivor and Maeve, not wanting his siblings to know that someone out there knew their secret. After everything Casimir had done, everything he had given up and changed about himself to fit in with the local population, he couldn’t let his siblings know that he might have ruined it all himself after so many years of hiding. Casimir did, however, have one clue to go by. The letter made mention of a small pendant that Casimir had owned, always kept under his shirt. It bore the sigil of his family, the Lesaks, the once proud and royal house now reduced to ash except for Casimir, Ivor, and Maeve. He wore it even to bed, and neither sibling was aware that he still owned it. It had been stuffed into Casimir’s pack by his mother the night of the fire, and he had kept it safe ever since. The chance anyone could have seen it, Casimir knew, was very slim. However, he knew also that he had been out drinking a few weeks before the letter arrived, a night that he needed to have been persuaded by Ivor to go out. Casimir, for obvious reasons, did not enjoy going out to the nearby villages in order to get drunk, not like Ivor often enjoyed, but work had been rough and Casimir needed to ignore his responsibilities for a while. He hadn’t foreseen the trouble it would get him in. Casimir did what he needed to do in the town quickly and made his way back to the cottage in the neighboring village that he called home, his eyes darting all around him as he briskly walked. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, and everyone who made their way towards him was a potential threat in his eyes. He had a hand firmly on the dagger at his belt. It had been given to him as a gift from his father prior to the attack on the royal family. The family’s crest was embedded in the hilt with diamonds and emeralds and, despite knowing it would fetch a good price in the market, Casimir had never thought to sell it, not even a few winters ago when he and Ivor had gotten sick, and the medicine they needed was expensive. Casimir was able to cut back on other things, and they had survived. He had instead kept the dagger hidden and brought it out of its hiding place once he received the letter, not wanting to be without it since he did not know who had knowledge of his family. “Casimir!” Ivor’s voice rang out, jostling Casimir from his thoughts. Ivor was panicked and panting as he ran up to the side of the road from the forest. They were very close to the cottage Casimir shared with his siblings. Casimir dropped what he had been carrying in his arms—bread, a few spools of thread and cloth for Maeve to work with, and his dagger—and hurried over to where Ivor was standing. “What is it? Has something happened?” Casimir’s voice matched the panicked tone in Ivor’s voice, and then— Nothing. “You did well for so long keeping yourself and our younger siblings safe, brother…” A voice came through as a whisper, yet Casimir was certain that whoever had spoken was not whispering. Casimir’s head was pounding, and he tasted the familiar, awful coppery taste of blood upon his lips and in his mouth. He groaned and rubbed a hand along the side of his jaw. “Oh, yes, that…” The voice said with an exaggerated sigh. Casimir’s eyes flew open; despite the pain he was in, as he finally recognized the voice. “You see, you couldn’t just come with me willingly…you had to fight. And in your fight, stubborn as the child I remember you being, you simply forced my hand. A fight, I must say, you failed spectacularly at. I’m sure those memories will come back to you as you wake up a bit more, but trust me, you’re better off not remembering them, if only for your pride.” A playful smirk played on the man’s face; it didn’t tell Casimir of danger or malice in the man, but rather something…familiar. Something Casimir knew. “I see that your magic is still quite unrefined, which is a pity but something that we can work with, but we will need to do it quickly. Casimir felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he lifted his head up slowly to match his eldest brother’s gaze for the first time in fifteen years. His appearance had no doubt changed from age over the years, as he was in his early twenties the last time Casimir had seen him, but he now also bore the aftermath of the attack. His face was scarred, burns covering the right side of his face and, as Casimir looked closer, he noticed the burns went further down the side of his neck, disappearing into his collar. His long blond hair was tied up in its classic bun, slicked back so that every hair was in its place. Casimir could also make out in the dim light from the torches that it seemed the burns on his face had gone into his hairline as well. “Kaspar, what are you—” Casimir was cut off by a quick smack to the back of his head. Ivor knelt to Casimir’s level and gave him a warning look. “Listen to him… please, brother, just listen…” Ivor’s voice was pleading, matching the expression he wore as he looked at his brother. Ivor looked frightened, but in a moment of clarity through the pain in his body, Casimir realized why: their eldest brother, thought dead for so many years, was now standing in front of them. Ivor would have been only seven years old when they last saw Kaspar; he had gone a little more than a third of his life without seeing him again, until now. Casimir felt his vision blur again, as Kaspar continued speaking. “Ivor, help him to the room we’ve readied for him. Get Maeve from your home and bring her here without fuss, please. Perhaps you could inform her that I am here, maybe that way one of my siblings will be happy to see another Lesak survived.” Kaspar said. “I would like at least one thing in my plan to go right.” “Plan?” Casimir furrowed his brow, unsure of what was happening. What plan? Why was Ivor involved? How deeply was he involved? “You were drunk when we came up with it, dear brother. You see, despite being eleven years old the last time I saw you, your eyes have not changed. Father tried, but the magic still swirls in them, beneath the surface. I recognized you right away, of course, we Lesaks know what we are looking for. At any rate, that is more than I can say for you in your drunken state that night. And oh, dear brother,” Kaspar stopped to let out a soft laugh as he spoke, stressing the call to Casimir. “You were all too eager to spill your secrets when I noticed the pendant hanging from your neck. Did you not get my letter?” Kaspar asked. Then, another chuckle. “Well, it was my letter, but written in my loyal knight’s hand. I knew you’d recognize my writing the moment you saw it, and it was far too soon then to reveal my survival to you. It was a blessing, really, that you had been so drunk that night at the bar. At any rate, I signed it as an admirer because that is how I feel towards you, dear brother. I admire the way you have kept yourself and our siblings safe from those who killed our parents and from those who killed Lorcan.” The conversation left Casimir with more questions than he had answers to. He had so many questions going around his head to ask, namely who had killed his family. But Casimir knew he would have to wait. The moment he opened his mouth to speak, Kaspar held up a hand in protest, willing Casimir to be quiet. “Now, I know we have a lot to discuss but first, you must rid yourself of those peasant clothes and wear what I have brought for you. We have a war to win, dear brother, and I intend for us all to look our best on the day I declare it.”