Before I continue, there was one other thing that happened during my two weeks with Conifer that I should write here in this story. It’s not as if it never happened before or since that time, but something about this memory of my mother resonated with me while I was away from Sage and Basil. It feels right to place it here, during my time with him.

Self reflection became something I did constantly, especially after I learned of Conifer’s—and Sage’s, for that matter—past, something I still do too much to an unhealthy degree of paranoid, self-inflicted depression. Overthinking is something I need to work on, for sure.

But anyway, here it goes:

My mother had some free time one day when I was about nine, and decided to come with me to the garden outside our castle. It was her spot and mine, the place we’d come when we just wanted to get away from everyone except each other, and of course the attendants gardening, but they knew to let us be.

She wouldn’t look at me, simply choosing to walk forward, expecting me to follow her. She seemed to do that to everyone, choosing instead to appear stoic and beautiful at all times.

“I’ve heard you are doing poorly with your battle studies,” she began, sounding more professional than motherly.

“They pit me against the kids that hate me the most, that are the oldest and most gifted, and then they laugh when I lose,” I sulked, and it was the truth. She pressed her palm lightly to the back of my head, sending me forward, nearly tripping.

“Don’t make excuses,” she said, sounding as cold and ruthless as ever. “You must become strong, and prove to them that you are worth serving.”

Rubbing the back of my head, I said, “But I’m not good at this stuff, mother. I’m not even going to have to go into battle, it’s peacetime and I’m a prince. They’ll protect me and I’ll continue my studies here.”

She sped up her step, the stomp of her high heels echoing throughout the garden with enough force to make me wince with each clak-clak she took. When she made it to a bench at the end of the cobblestone walkway, surrounded by pure white chrysanthemums, her favorite flower, she sat down with so much elegance you’d forget she was mad, then she tapped the spot next to her, indicating I should sit there.

I felt sweat beads on my forehead, and it wasn’t because of the heat.

“Peppermint Avocado,” she said in that motherly way, that disappointed way. “You more than anyone should know how important it is for the leaders of the country to stand tall and proud, out in the open for all to see, to be a role model for the citizens to take after.”

She was talking about father again.

“Couldn’t I just be a scholarly personality though?” I asked. “I’ve been doing very well in my history studies and—”

She cut me off with a slap, her habit, bad or good I couldn’t say. “In your history studies, have you encountered a prince or a king who ruled that wasn’t a warrior or viewed as strong? Even those in peacetime showed their strength in the hunt and their various exploits, which though they were small made waves among the citizens to the point of becoming legendary, such as King Chicane and his fight with a baby dragon some centuries ago.”

“But mother,” I said, “That story was a fabrication. He never fought a dragon, dragons aren’t even real.”

She went for my head and I winced instinctively, but instead she softly moved my bangs to the side. “Correct. But my point remains clear; you must be a strong leader. Strong leaders don’t give up, right?”

Sighing, I gave a small nod, “Right.”

Then she grabbed my hands, rubbing the tops of my fingers with her thumbs, and staring down at them brightly she demanded, “Look at me.”

And I did, as our ritual went.

“You seem to be feeling well today. Is that correct?”

My health had been poor since I had gotten sick when I was about six, back when my dad came to visit and mother sent him on his way. “Yeah, I feel fine today,” I said. My eyes strayed for a moment and her grip tightened, a firm reminder to lock eyes with hers.

“Good. Then today you must use the gift of good health you’ve been bestowed, and practice your fighting and strengthen your body. Does this sound fine to you, my son?”

In my heart, I knew it sounded awful. Pointless, even. My health was better than usual, sure, but it wasn’t like I was suddenly the picture of perfection. Disappointing my mother when she was in one of her moods was the worst thing I could possibly do, though, and I knew that I should at least try for her.

“Yes, mother,” I said, unblinking and lost in those hypnotic green eyes of hers.

“Good,” she said, then proceeded to get up and leave. Before she could, though, I decided I’d ask her something which had been bothering me.

“Is it really that bad that father is always away?” I blurted out.

My mother’s body went rigid, and her anger became palpable in the air around her. Knowing I had messed up, I tried to backtrack a little.

“I’m just saying, word is that his work in foreign lands has actually helped our image change from being heartless tyrants to a decent country. Maybe his work is unorthodox, but it seems to be—”

She cut me off with a loud slap that actually sent me sprawling backwards, over the bench we sat on, which now was knocked over and on the ground, myself sent hurtling through the bushes, covering myself in a myriad of cuts, scratches and bruises, some of which got itchy very fast from the irritation. She stomped over to where I had fallen, remorseless face studying me.

“Who told you?” she demanded.

I groaned for a response, falling down to the ground in my attempt to stand up.

“Son, who has been talking about your father?”

“No one in particular, mother, honest. Everyone seems to know the rumors about father these days,” I babbled, rubbing my chin. My fingers were bloody, but only slightly.

“Well, that’s just great,” she said, shaking her head at me. “My son, the scholar, believes in rumors.”

Instant regret filled my lungs, and my pallor cheeks were infected with the usual scarlet that accompanied it. My mother stared down at my visible embarrassment with a sick satisfaction, and for a second her pale eyes flickered a vibrant, sinister jade.

“I have an idea,” she sneered, tapping an obscenely long fingernail to her chin.

Those words stopped me from trying to get out of the bushes. I distinctly remember thinking, “Just let me die here, get it over with already.” Obviously my wish wasn’t granted.

“Sumac is close to your age,” she purred, walking closer to me so that she could eclipse the sun from my face. “And he’s engaged in warrior training as well. I will arrange for you two to spar together, how’s that sound?”

I don’t think I replied to that. Wouldn’t have mattered anyway. In just a weeks time, I would spar with the prince from Cashew in a neutral location, the border between our countries.

♣ ♣ ♣

The day my pride as a man was slaughtered before it hit puberty was a day that lives in infamy within the heart of myself and perhaps my mother, if she even has a heart. Luck was never on my side—as you may have noticed—and my mother accompanied me on the trek to the border. We made the journey in a carriage with a couple knights to guard us and nothing else. The actual ride surprised me in how short it took, with us reaching the border in only a day and a half. I was never allowed out of the carriage, and my mother made sure that I wouldn’t see anything. For all I know, we could have been riding around in circles the entire time. I was even to sleep in the carriage, the doors and windows shut tight, a prison where all I did was stare at that damned sword of mine. In my posession, it was cursed to lose and I knew it.

Why would mother do this to me? She had to have known that I was weak. I always complained about it, this wasn’t the first time for me to bring up how poorly I’d been doing in my physical studies. It was all so drastic of her, even her leaving the capital to come with me for this was out of the ordinary. She never left for anything, even meetings with other leaders occurred in our capital only.

We reached our destination, and the horses clopped to a gradual halt that seemed to last an eternity for me. The men in our carriage were stoic and stared ahead, determination so constant and in their blood that they were always on, even with a job so simple as accompany the weak prince to his grave. I glanced at my mother, and her lips were in full bloom, a smile signaling the excitement would begin soon.

I stared at my sword, silent prayer wishing it were legendary.

To be honest, that prayer may have been answered.

“Put this on,” my mother said, tying a blindfold around my eyes. I could feel my blood pulsating with enough force to explode in my neck.

“What’s this for?” I stammered, my sword chattering against my legs.

I could feel her smile. “It’s for the duel,” she declared.

When I shook more violently, she laughed prettily and our knights chuckled with her. They would make jokes about what they would do in bed with her when she was out of earshot, and hearing them laugh at all made what little pride I had turn my vision red.

“Don’t fret, child,” she cooed. “It’s just for you before you get to the location. Neither of you are to see where you are going.”

“Why?” I asked.

She thought for a moment, then said, “It’s an old tradition, most likely to keep things as neutral as possible. Neither of you will know if you are on Cashew or Avocado soil. That sounds correct, doesn’t it boys?”

The two knights nodded, chiming in with, “Of course, ma’am,” and “I should think.”

Darkness followed me to my destination, and without vision everything passed in a moment and an eternity simultaneously. Futile attempts at remembering my training only seemed to make me more nervous. The basics were something I knew, but my body was just so weak, I couldn’t do the moves like other boys. The mechanics of a simple stab or slash of the sword made perfect sense to me, both then and now. A punch and a kick are nearly second nature. I know to keep my movements compact, hard to read, and snappy so as to follow up with more offense or defense according to the situation. It was all so simple. It made the impossibility of my body to react, the slowness of my fists, the weakness of my arms, the wobbliness of my knees, the quickness of my faints, all of it was so much more frustrating than it should have been. My own body prevented me from being who I wanted to be, who I desperately had to be for the sake of my survivability in the environment I was placed in.

I wondered silently if my life would have been easier as a commoner. A simple farmer, a healer, even a petty thief. Anything could have been easier than being a prince.

“We’re here,” my mother said, gently undoing my blindfold. She held it the moment before it was completely gone, a hesitation I wasn’t expecting. “Are you ready, Mint?”

I gulped. No saliva. I nodded.

She removed the blindfold completely, and the sun shone brightly through the windows of what appeared to be an abandoned building. The roof was filled with holes, and the walls appeared to be growing moss and vines. Where once there was a floor made from wooden mats, there was now dirt and grass, even a few flowers growing here and there.

Across from me stood a boy at least a half hand taller than myself, with chartreuse hair and garish, mauve eyes. He held a blade that tossed light around in a brilliant spectrum when it caught the sunlight just right. To my surprise, he didn’t appear to be adjusting to his eyesight. He must have been standing there for a long time already, or as I suspect now, he never had a blindfold. His entire dress was purple, appearing all too royal for a duel.

Waving a hand at me, he called out, “Hello there! You must be Prince Peppermint.” Bowing with with such grandiosity it conflicted with the abysmal house, he introduced himself. “My name is Prince Sumac de Candolle Cashew, but Sumac will do just fine.”

My knees chattered below me while my mother elbowed the small of my back and whispered through grit teeth, “Bow, it’s courtesy.”

So I did, nearly dropping my blade.

It then occurred to me that we would be fighting with steel, and I nearly vomited. The bitter taste of nausea stayed with me the remainder of my time conscious.

Gripping the hilt of my blade with enough ferocity to create blisters, I breathed deeply and held the blade pointed outward, toward my opponent in hopes that he may be too frightened to come near me.

I must not have struck him as fearsome.

The moment some omnipresent voice yelled, “Begin!” Sumac leapt at me gracefully, sidestepping my blade and pushing it aside with his unarmored palm. A surprising thing happened in that short, split second moment between him hitting me with his blade and him pushing my blade aside so easily.

I realized that I had seen all of it and had time to react to it.

So why didn’t I? Why was my body so heavy? Was it fear, or something else?

I had no time to figure out what it was before I passed out. Maybe that moment lasted forever because of the pain.

Rain was smacking our carriage when I woke up. The moment I caught my mother’s distant glance, that sideward disdain, that permanent disgust on her slim upper lip, I wanted desperately to return to a state of nonexistence. Unfortunately, mother was perceptive and she caught my eyes. Unexpectedly, she actually smiled at me.

“You lost soundly,” she whispered.

The rain stopped, then started again as if we had gone under something. I shut my eyes and tried to ignore everything, unsure of what to do. The embarrassment of the whole thing was too much for me to bare.

“That was the best you could do, though, wasn’t it?” she tittered. I felt my face burning up and I had to sit up to feel more comfortable.

“Don’t worry about it, my son,” she cooed. I couldn’t tell if she was attempting to comfort me or actually found this amusing. I suppose she could have been doing both, but knowing what I know of her I doubt it. “I think we’ve done all we could. Your body probably just needs rest. We never really had you take a break after you got sick, did we?”

I nodded cautiously. “No, we didn’t. But why am I alive? Didn’t Sumac cut me down?”

My mother and the guards all chuckled at that. The one guard actually slapped his knee, which was more emotion than either of them had shown the whole trip.

“Come now, dear,” my mother giggled. “Did you really think we’d give you both metal weapons? He was using a practice weapon. Feel your forehead and you’ll see what happened.”

I did, and immediately cried from the pain of touching the enormous lump right above my eyebrow.

“So our weapons were practice then?” I asked, grabbing for the sword I had been given.

She shrugged though. “No, just his. Yours was real.”

Before I could ask, my mother saw my reaction and just ruffled my hair, hurting my forehead in the process. “Don’t worry, dear. It was just for fun. We wanted to see if you could actually use a real sword.”

It didn’t feel right though. I stared down blankly at that blade, wondering if my mother had planned to have me kill Sumac.

“Don’t look so serious,” she teased. “Be glad you can get some rest a while, my son. You won’t have to fight until you’re at least fourteen or fifteen.”

That perked me up. “Really?” I asked, excited. She nodded, and the rest of the trip was peaceful, the raindrops tapping idly, my heartbeat easing me into peaceful sleep.

The thought of her attempted murder never truly left me, though. There was no way that wasn’t the forefront of her plan in having me use a sword of steel.