The day my brother left ruined my life. I ran after him, begging. I told him to defy our father, and stay with me. I needed him. He was my brother, a prince, and, he had the kindest heart I had ever known.
I grabbed his hand, pleading. He stared at me in a dejected sort of way, a look he had acquired two days earlier. The day it happened. He was only fourteen, and I was eleven. He stared at me, with yellow eyes that had recently lost their flame, their spark, their life. A hideous burn now surrounded one of these dead eyes. I looked at him, tears running down my face, and he pushed my away. And then, he got into a ship, and sailed away.
At first I thought it was a joke, that he'd be back within days. Then, when he'd been gone months, I started praying for a miracle, that he'd return, his task completed. And then, I began to believe he'd never return home at all.
Thusly I thought I'd never see him again. I brooded over it, became dark and distant, but lashing out at those who got in my way. I started becoming like the one I so despised, my father.
And so, I was moody, quick to anger, and thoroughly depressed that night. The night he came home. He knew I was angry. He knew I hated him. But he was there for me anyway.
My brother, gone almost three years, was back. He hadn't changed. The sea had hardened him, quickened his mind and his tongue, and hidden some of his compassion. But he was there, and he was my brother.
And now I know I need to record the events following that day. And for you to understand, you'll need to know some events of our childhood, as well.
Because by this tale's end, no one will dare say I'm wrong about my brother.