Written by pr0nz69 the younger.
Whoa, I wrote something that's not smut for once?! -don't get used to it, gotta save that cleanliness for my professional writing-
Anyway, somebody pointed out the following Sharena quote, and I just sort of ran with it:
"I often write letters to my mother. We live in the same castle, but we rarely have a chance to speak!"
Title sucks because I'm lazy. Written at like 3 AM and kindly critiqued on Reddit. Thanks!
He detests writing.
There's nothing romantic about it, really, nothing charming about hunching over his writing-desk long into the night, eyes straining by candlelight, scribbling lies into parchment with a feather pen that cuts like a blade and ink that shines like blood. Writing is like war: Cruel, indefensible, necessary. He engages in both far too often.
His door creaks.
"Alfonse?"
He jumps, scrambles to cover his draft. It's only Anna. He falls forward, expels all his breath.
She looks around, looks at him. "You're doing that again." It isn't a question. She isn't surprised.
"I don't want to," he says. "You know I don't want to. But-"
"Peace, friend. I pass no judgement upon you."
"You ought to. What I'm doing-this is wicked."
"Something born of as pure a love as yours can never be wicked."
He doesn't believe that.
"I need to tell her," he says, but he's halfhearted, unconvinced of his own earnestness.
"Yes," Anna agrees, "eventually. When the time is right. I still believe that somewhere in her heart, she knows the truth, that she'll remember everything of her own accord."
Alfonse lays down his pen, blankets his eyes with his hand. "I don't know. I don't know what to do."
"For now, we carry on. Sharena will come around. She's a strong girl."
Alfonse lowers his hand, grips the edge of his desk. "It's been two years. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. I'm grieving, too, but I must suppress it. Sometimes I cry at night when I'm alone. But I cover my face with a pillow in the event that she passes my chambers on her way to the latrine and chances to hear."
Anna is silent for a long while, and then: "Do you resent her?"
Alfonse looks up at her in alarm. "No-never! She's my sister, and with both Father and Mother gone, it's up to me to take care of her. I could never resent her."
Anna smiles a little. "You're a dutiful big brother." She draws up a chair to sit beside him. "I never knew my birth family. Her Majesty was like a mother to me, and you two, my cute younger siblings."
Alfonse blushes. "Please, Commander, you're scarcely older than I am," he says, not entirely seriously.
"Oh, come now!" she laughs. "Let me act the part of a doting big sister at least once, won't you?" She taps the letter he has lined up beside his own draft. "Now let's see... What did dear Sharena write this time?"
Alfonse falters, glancing between both writings and then back to Anna. "She spoke at length about the ball," he says at last. "She wants to know if Mother thought she looked very charming."
Anna grins. "Sharena always looks charming."
"Yes," he says, "but would Mother say so? In this particular instance? Or would she comment how her shoes were too tight, she ought to get new ones tailored, or her hair was a little unkempt, next time let Mother help?"
"You're thinking too much into this," Anna says quietly.
"No-not enough. Mother loved us, yes, but she was not without her foibles, her queerness of character. As princess, Sharena knows that better than anyone." Alfonse hesitates, dips his pen back into the inkwell. "Please," he begs. "Give me one thing."
Anna sighs, lifts her finger to her lips in thought. "I suppose she was rather subdued. She didn't dance nearly as much as she usually does."
Alfonse writes it down, another lie like a leech clinging to his conscience.
"Make sure you include how fetching you were in your new waistcoat," Anna adds, giving him pause. "Her Majesty would have noticed that, you know."
"Do you suppose so?" he asks uncertainly.
"Her Majesty loved you as well, Alfonse. Do not write yourself out of your own story."
"I-yes," he relents after a moment. "I'll write it in."
It doesn't take him long to finish Mother's response. Her voice comes easy to him now. When the ink has dried, he folds the letter into thirds, places it inside an envelope-always the kind for royal correspondences, like Mother used-and seals it with the Askran insignia.
"Let me take it to the spot," Anna says, standing with him.
"No. I can't ask you to be a part of this. This is my burden to bear."
"Please, Alfonse. Let me at least be an accomplice in this. You needn't carry this burden alone."
She doesn't wait for an answer, just gently pries the letter from his fingers. He doesn't resist. He's so tired.
"I'm a pretty good writer," she tells him on her way out.
Alfonse sits back down on his stool, rubs his wrist over his drooping eyelids.
"I'll remember that," he says to himself.