Golden Bel
I'm one of the beautiful people. Everyone says so: Father, Mother, Pol. Riva.
He's never actually said it, but I know he would. I know it because the two of us are connected in a way that I've never been before. The link between us is stronger than the link between Pol and me, though I'd never have imagined that possible. If I thought it could be put so simply, I'd call it storybook love. But I grew up in the Vale, surrounded by Aldur's disciples, and nothing is simple there; as a result, I'm not inclined to believe in simplicity. Still, I lack Pol's intellectualness so I'll just call it a connection.
Pol is the core of my life. She's got an acid tongue and biting wit. I think that if I possessed such poison, I'd be afraid to use it. I'd be too afraid to hurt someone, though I don't suppose my uncles would be offended by a swearword or two. Pol certainly wouldn't be. She and I are so different. I can see her sitting by the rail of our ship, looking into the water and thinking some deep thought that I won't be able to comprehend. She'll try to explain it to me, though, despite my inability to grasp the concept. I hope she tries. Her dark hair is the opposite of my blonde.
She always thought she was ugly because I was so pretty. Was all her self doubt worth it for me? What right do I have to light hair and fair skin untarnished by the sun?
I don't deserve it just for being beautiful inside. Pol is beautiful inside and out, like me, just different. But some people who are good aren't so pretty. It isn't fair. I don't want to be one of the beautiful ones.
Everywhere I go, people turn their heads to get a glance at my blonde braid. I quickly whip around corners and shrink a bit under their stares. Almost nobody lived in the Vale, so while I can focus with thousands of animals watching, I can't bear to be under human scrutiny. It's another place for Pol to balance me out.
In a crowd she'll walk tall, proud of her newfound stature and beauty. She radiates confidence wherever she goes. People stare at her too, her with that deep black hair and startlingly white lock, but she isn't like me. She doesn't wilt under their gaze. Here, on this boat, she calmly ignores the sweaty sailors and stares into the moody water's depths. I stare at the spot where the coast used to be, hoping to catch a sight of familiar land.
Father is here too, maybe buried in his cabin with Uncle Beldin and a beer barrel. Or a book. Or all three. With father, I never know. He's like Pol, only more distant. Still, I love him and after Pol, he's the center my life. Or maybe after mother.
Mother is also important to me, even though she left us when we were young. I remember her from dreams she sent me, dreams about love and life and purpose. Pol says that she never got dreams, and I think that made her resentful. Or sad. If I look at her eyes, they already seem so much older than her and than me. We may be sixteen, but Pol's eyes are ageless and eternal.
I always envied her eyes. I'd take her scraped knees and sacrifice my alabaster skin for their beautiful blue depth. Don't get me wrong, I have blue eyes too. But mine are light and almost common, no matter how nicely they go with my skin and hair. All that is only on the surface. If put next to Pol's shifting, majestic eyes that tell so much about her hidden self, mine simply cannot compare. Hers show emotion in a way that mine can't. I don't know if I'd really want people reading my soul, the way I'm sure they'll someday read hers. For now, the blue book of Pol's existence will be mine only.
I won't be here forever, though, so I suppose someone else will eventually decipher her… her what? I'm not quite sure how to put it because I'm not half so brilliant as her, so I just won't say it. Maybe you'll understand and maybe you won't.