Human Again

by E. L. Tenenbaum

  It took half a year for it to happen, but it was inevitable that it would at some point. My life, stolen by Adlard’s death, my thoughts and feelings bottled into silence, my fears and inhibitions endlessly shoved farther into the void, festered and multiplied like wild, untamable weeds. They leeched onto every muscle and fiber of my being, rooted in me an incredible, irrational anger.

  Unsurprisingly, I eventually turned that anger inward, mercilessly berating and labelling myself a coward for my inability to control my impulses or stand up to my father and the perceived injustices of my life. Hate, resentment, and shame gnawed at me, an ugly, toxic cocktail that ate away my decency like rust on a forgotten blade.

  Unwilling and unable to release it upon my father, or anywhere near him lest I destroy the image of a perfect and controlled son—the son who wasn’t spontaneous, adventurous, and rule-bending—it exploded onto my servants as spiteful diatribes and physical aggression. I distinctly remember the first time I saw a servant flinch when I passed too close to him, when fear of what I might suddenly do knocked away his careful composure, if only for an instant. I remember how good, how grounded that reaction made me feel. How it dissipated the helplessness. How much it made me feel like my own man. One with power and control over something.

  The curse is usually where my faery tale begins, but my youth cannot be overlooked. Perhaps I always had the anger inside of me, perhaps it never would have come out had Adlard lived and left me to my expected life, or had I just been strong enough to hold closed the door on such bitterness instead of blasting it from its hinges. I understand that every decision I made, every time I lashed out, I gave strength to that fury, though I never thought it at the time. It was my responsibility alone to bear, but the fact remains that outside circumstances and my father’s approach coupled with my personality resulted in a very unfavorable chemical reaction.

  And in the end, I was the one to get burned.

  I’ve heard tell of a Beast so reduced by his inhumanity that his Beauty had to teach him how to read again. The very thought is laughable. It simply never happened. However, aside from the library most palaces anyway keep, I had my own sort of library, one made up of a small collection of precious sheet music gathered from various kingdoms. Before Adlard died, I would suggest to Mother that she ask Father to include a line in messages to visiting dignitaries requesting a page or two of melodies from their lands to help us develop a better appreciation of their culture. When I was at the Academy, I requested the same from the students who attended from all over the kingdoms.

  After Adlard passed, I had even less time to practice playing, but I always heard the notes in my mind, wherein the music spoke for my thoughts as well. Thunderous strokes, gentle chimes, each found its way into my thoughts well before words ever did. In music, I found a singular solace from the darkness of my heart and mind, a guiding glimmer of light from other worlds and lives. I wasn’t particular about the types of arrangements I collected, they ranged from the majestic to the mundane, the philosophical to the profane, the lyrical to the inane. Whereas I once loved hearing the melodies rise from every instrument in the castle, I now jealously guarded every note. These were my singular sanctuary, my solitary escape, and any servant who upset their order, any foreign finger that carelessly trespassed across their ink, any fold and every crease created a ripple of imperfection not easily forgiven. I lost more than one friend over their perceived mistreatment, yet how could it be any other way?

  Herein were hopes and dreams of man not subject to time or nature, herein were secrets as to how mortal man endured, herein were people who outlived even death.

  When I was eleven years old, just over a year after assuming the hated position of heir, it was unwisely decided to send me off to the famous Academy in Laurendale, a longtime ally and neighboring kingdom. Our kingdom had its own share of military schools, but the Academy of His Majesty King William Robert Alexander was unmatched in its equal emphasis on and high standards for all levels of diplomacy and military strategy. Diplomatically, it was the place to meet and build relationships with the next generation of rulers, officers, and noblemen from ally kingdoms. Militarily, the only better training a man could receive was as a Queen’s Huntsman, an elite and exclusive class of men native to Calladium, another neighbor and ally. No one fully knew the extent of their training, but all knew that not all selected survived.

  I should have left around the same time as Adlard, who would have attended once he turned fourteen. At twelve, I would have been much younger than past Delphen princes were usually sent, but Father had insisted that even our time at boarding school was to serve in preparing me for my place in my brother’s kingdom.

  “You’ll be my shadow,” Adlard had promised me in late night talks about the future our eight- and ten-year-old selves could see, “perfect training for the kingdom’s future protector.”

  And I was as honored as could be. Together, we would have conquered every manner of potential ally at that school. Together, we would have excelled.

  Instead, I was sent off alone, and even earlier than planned.

  I learned of my fate when I was called to my father’s study one lovely, wholly innocent spring day. I knocked on his large, carved oak door and was immediately granted admittance. Father was seated behind his oversized mahogany desk, upon which stood an unmissable framed portrait of Adlard. An advisor balancing sheaves of papers stood across from Father, his valet was on hand, and Amellia sat on his lap, happily eating treats from a small bowl he’d surely requested just for her.

  I had once adored Amellia, heaping tons of attention on our first princess and fiercely protecting her, just as Adlard had silently taught in his treatment of me. Then, Amellia inspired melodies of joy and serendipity for me. Once Adlard died, all I could think was that I would never want her to know that sense of pain and loss should I suddenly die as well. If I wasn’t focused on a specific memory, the main sound I heard when I thought of Adlard was a lone, low, echoing note, a prolonged reverberation in the dark, empty expanse once holding our laughter and my adoration of him. Since Adlard’s death, I’d started shutting her, and her music, out more and more, protecting her in a way Adlard never did for me.

  So seeing her there as I stood stiffly before Father, I thought, how, at eight years old, she was much too old for such nonsense. The sight of her so happily attended to by my father also made me seethe inwardly, blinding me to her soft brown curls and charming blue bow, to the lingering resonance of spring melodies and merriment and everything my world could no longer be.

  “Father?” I tentatively asked.

  “Azahr,” he said shortly, “you’ve finally made it.”

  As though I had not run there directly after receiving his summons not three minutes prior.

  Father studied me over my sister’s head, then absentmindedly kissed it. I forced myself not to consider the last time my father had shown me any affection, let alone so casually.

  “It has been decided,” my father told me, his gaze boring into mine, “that you will indeed attend Laurendale’s Academy at the start of the upcoming academic year, three weeks hence.”

  “You-You’re sending me away?” I managed.

  I may not have been entirely happy, but it was still home. And why so young? Even Laurendale’s crown prince wouldn’t attend until he was at least twelve, if not older. Was I such a disappointment that my own father couldn’t bear the sight of me?

  Father’s face immediately darkened. “You question me?” he asked harshly. “You doubt your father’s ability to decide what’s best for you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Answer me!” Father roared, banging his hand on his desk, causing the little bowl of treats to jump.

  Amellia started, her bottom lip puffed out and began to tremble. Father immediately tightened his arms around her, cooing reassurance as he set the bowl to rights, glaring at me over her head as if her discomfort was my fault.

  “No, Father, I do not
doubt you,” I finally said, just then beginning to think it may not be such a distasteful idea to be sent away from the shadow of hell my home had become.

  “You understand,” Father enunciated, “what is expected of you there. As heir to Delphe’s throne, and royal namesake of Delphe’s greatest general, there is no doubt you will do your kingdom, and your family, proud.”

  “Yes, Father,” I affirmed.

  Father nodded once to acknowledge my compliance, then flicked his hand toward the door. “Dismissed,” he said, then he turned back to his advisor as if I was already gone.

  “This amendment must take effect immediately,” I heard him say as I left. “Should it come to pass that within the direct line of descent there be no male to stand heir to the throne, the princesses of the line shall inherit the throne. Thus, the eldest princess of the line shall henceforth be known as ‘The Heir Presumptive’ to be first in line after the male Heir Apparent. Should it come to pass that there be no male Heir Apparent, ‘The Heir Presumptive’ immediately stands in his place and the princess to follow her shall be named ‘The Heir Presumptive’ until…”

  I regained enough control as I left to keep from embarrassing myself, and my kingdom, with my tears. Aside from Father sending me away, did he really have to make clear how little faith he had in me? No doubt losing Adlard had shaken his perception of the future, and I understood his taking steps to guarantee the crown would remain with his direct line, but why couldn’t he believe that would happen through me? Why make his lack of faith so obvious with formal titles and public decrees?

  With white-hot determination, I made my own decision then, one that would affect the next few years of my life and ensure I thrived at the Academy even if was to my detriment in the long run.

  I was not Adlard, would never, could never, be him, but I was still my father’s son, even under the long specter of my brother’s death. If Father who was so wise, so great, so adept at running his kingdom, if he could not, would not, allow himself to show any emotion toward me, then I would act in kind. Certainly, it did not behoove a future king to rule without keeping emotions at bay, to give so much love and trust to people who would only ever leave or disappoint. I resolved then, with the beginnings of the darkness spreading through my veins, to harden my heart and strengthen my mind, to demand nothing less than perfection just as Father had unequivocally taught in his treatment of me.

  Any desirable good, beauty, laughter, kindness, or joy was already being poisoned within me. So I froze everything over, preserving it as it was, keeping my thoughts and feelings safe under a cold, deliberate fury far more terrifying than the fire I’d been nurturing thus far. Once I was cursed, the frost created to protect my heart and mind thickened into an icy prison, holding them captive as even the blood chilled in my veins.

  My father and his advisors considered it a relatively wise move to send me to a friendly kingdom where I could craft alliances with the men who would one day run allying states and militaries. My father surely imagined the famed strategist, soldier, and politician such an education would turn me into, whereas my mother no doubt simply prayed that a few years with the military would firmly pull me back in line. I even met the Laurendale heir during my time there, though I’m not sure much else was accomplished diplomatically. As it turned out, neither of them could have been more wrong. Attending the Academy in the crown’s shadow instead of Adlard’s only further served to remind me of what could no longer be mine.

  I was one of only a handful of foreign noblemen allowed to attend the physical military training program rather than just the strategy classes, and most were relegated to training as infantry or, rarely, cavalry. I was next only permitted into the higher levels of training because of our shared border and the pressing need to assist should the ogres or gargoyles dwelling in the mountains between us attack. Honestly, I rather looked forward to the idea of war, to living up to the name I was given and the destiny that should have been mine.

  I didn’t tell anyone that I was a year younger than most of the starting students at the Academy, and, because of my size, I didn’t think it mattered. I threw myself into my studies, particularly taking to my physical training with an unshakeable determination to prove just how good I could be. I didn’t play pranks, I didn’t take breaks, and I certainly never fooled around. Adlard had been the son of fun and spontaneity and games, and that did him little good. I had a name to live up to; I had two sets of immeasurable footsteps to fill.

  My years at the Academy proved to be both my making and my undoing. Before, I could never fully identify the fury that raged within me, could never give name or form to the dissatisfaction, the chafe of injustice, the restlessness that caused it, that underlying sense preventing me from thinking anything was ever good enough. Yet, from the moment the first of our instructors started beating us into military shape, from the moment all pretext of title and birthright fell away and we were stripped down to our barest selves, I finally discovered what had begun growing in the void: a hideous, vicious monster formed and nurtured by my anger, my insecurity, my anxiety, my desperate need to regain control.

  One day in my second year, we faced off in pairs to practice various methods of taking a man down in hand-to-hand combat. As when I was eight, at twelve, I was already physically bigger than most of my older classmates, so I usually held back during drills to keep from seriously injuring my opponent. The instructor must have noticed because in an instant he was looming over me, shooting daggers from his eyes and bearing down despite his smaller stature.

  When he had determined that the fear of Heaven had not sufficiently overcome me, he loudly berated me instead.

  “You’ll need to work harder than that, Azahr!”

  “MORE!” he yelled, as my opponent struggled against me.

  “Is this how you intend to defend your borders?” he mocked. “With little taps and pats? No wonder Delphe lost Yadrehena.”

  “Stop holding back, you pathetic excuse for a prince! General Azahr would cut off his sword arm if he knew he shared blood with such a pretender! Lives are at stake! And you will fail them unless you RELEASE YOUR INNER BEAST!”

  Yes.

  That’s what it was.

  My mind shut down. My heart closed off. There was only a coldness within me, a crash of cymbals tingling through my limbs, as for the first time I realized there was a way I could finally be more than Adlard ever could.

  I faced my opponent with steel and ice. I feinted, darted in, and gripped his arm. Then I broke it, eliciting a scream from the deepest pits of hell.

  “Satisfactory,” the instructor concluded.

  I stared unresponsively as other classmates helped my opponent to the infirmary. The Academy employed a Healer to tend to the various types of injuries expected from boys in a military school, but the Healer couldn’t undo the pain. I watched removed, remorseless, uncaring. Just as I’d been raised to be.

  I shudder now to think of that moment when I first identified the primal creature lurking inside of me, just beyond the surface of my psyche and biding its time as it stalked my frozen soul. When the beast finally burst forth, it was with the deadly speed of a cobra, the fatal sting of a scorpion, and a ravenous hunger for power it leeched from the fear it instilled in others. That night I went to bed trembling, confused and infused by the intoxicating feeling that would accompany giving in to the beast.

  Once awakened, the beast lured me in, urging me to forgo all doubt, all worry, all dissatisfaction in a rush of monstrous power. Nothing and no one could hurt me when I gave in, no part of me was vulnerable anymore. It no longer mattered that I was not the first choice, I would have the kingdom someday anyway. Plus, with the beast I used my strength without reservation, enough so that my viciousness alone was enough to propel me to the top of my class. Within weeks, my fellow classmates refused to train with me, fearing irreparable physical damage. I began training with even older students, mentors and soldiers stronger, bigger, faster than me, who used ski
ll and experience to bring hardened men to their knees.

  Looking back, I’m certain that what scared my peers most was the calm and cold of my absolute indifference, the lack of compassion with which I approached violence. It wasn’t just dangerous, it was deeply unnerving, too. A man only gained such control when he relinquished all else. Such a man has no conscience, no mercy, no passion for life with which to respect the flames burning brightly in others. So they were not wrong to be afraid.

  By the time I was not yet fourteen, neither bone nor steel could withstand me. The first time I broke a sword with my bare hands, I was alone in the training room, and shocked enough to quickly dispose of the remains. I don’t exactly remember what happened, only that I sought to work on some particular drills that were challenging me at the time. I remember getting frustrated because my feet just wouldn’t keep up with my hands, and blamed the uneven heft of the sword for my mistakes. I remember the growl of the beast, I remember the blackness clouding my eyesight, and when it had cleared, each hand held a piece of sword, the blade slick with blood though no pain crossed the frozen threshold of my mind.

  I went to the infirmary to have my hand healed, but didn’t know how to explain why.

  “The sword cut me,” I tried, surprisingly numb to the acute sting of pain as my hand stitched back together in the purple glow of magic.

  “You lads oughtten to be more careful,” came the reply.

  “I was practicing alone.”

  “Then you oughtten to be more careful,” the Healer amended.

  “I broke the sword,” I confessed, unable to stop myself, as if hearing the words could explain my bizarre feat of strength, could help to understand why I did something so needlessly destructive.