He was a boy on the edge of becoming a man when his world slowly but surely began to fall apart. Drystan von Reuß, son of the princess of Dale, did not understand the anger within himself. He did not understand the distance between him and everyone else.
But there was nothing he could do about it.
He had tried his best to be a good son, to make his father proud, to make his mother smile. But whenever his mother smiled his father became angry. And whenever his father was proud, his mother became sad. There had been a time when he thought himself the reason for that. Had they not been happy when they first married? Lady Mother often spoke of that time.
Brand was the crown prince, the golden boy, the wonderful future. They loved him. They adored him. Drystan was ready to die for him. The two boys were the best of friends, playing between the flowers in Dale’s gardens, fighting each other with wooden sticks. They hunted dangerous dragons and wild beasts in their dreams together. Nothing could tear them apart. Nothing and no one.
But deep inside his heart, hidden away between hopes he never dared to speak about, dreams he never dared to dream, there was a different feeling altogether. There was agony. There was pain. And worst of all there was jealousy.
And nothing he could do about it.
He was seven when he first realised that there was something different about them. Something different between them. Where Brand was met with smiles and laughter, only cold hands and stern faces greeted Drystan. His father grew ever more distant, he could hear them shout at night, fight and bicker. Over the kingdom, over their honor, over the truth. Uncle Bain and Sir Lancelot turned away when Drystan approached with Lord Heinrich. They turned away from him, they turned away from his father.
All he wanted was to make them proud.
It was during that time that Brand became too busy to play with him. A future king needed a different sort of upbringing, a different sort of teacher. He was the heir after all. And Drystan was left to bend and break under his father’s iron fist, always eager to please but never good enough.
He was seventeen when he dreamed of dying a hero’s death. When he dreamed of being a knight in splendid armour, living forever in songs and poems. His father would be proud of that, what other choice did he have? Mother would be sad. But she was always sad. And at least he would give her a reason for it. At least she would have to think of him for once. Brand laughed at him for that.
All he had wanted was to make him proud.
He was a grown man when he stood upon a bloodied battlefield, watching Dain Ironfoot defending a motionless body, a dead king. A dead cousin. Dain died that day, like so many others he died protecting the king of Dale and their kingdoms, the vision they had built for their future. But Drystan survived.
And there was nothing to be done about that.
Drystan, the spare, the one they had never wanted. He was the one that survived, for fate played a cruel game in those days. They cried for Brand. They sang songs and wrote poems, they would remember him forever. And princess Tilda, his own mother, was so so proud. Drystan could not help it. He was jealous. He was angry. He should have been the one to die. And Brand should have lived. Should have ruled.
He had been ready to die for the other, but not even that he was allowed in the end. He was guilty all the same.
