.2.
My fingers trembled, and I nervously licked my lips as I slowly opened the white book. Could this be what Marko had been looking for?
Tita Felix's black ink scrawl filled the first page:
"This is a work in progress about my son, Marko Simaun. It is a Mirandus tradition for family and friends of the royal family to write biographies of the next in line. While I've read the stories of those before me, I couldn't help but wrinkle my nose at how stuffy some of them sounded when the people have so many more stories about how their rulers were warm, real human beings."
"Hopefully, this book of my son will be the first of a similar kind: a story not of how he succeeded me or of the great things he did for the kingdom, but a peek into who he is as a person, a citizen of Mirandus, a child - " and here it was crossed out, changed to "young man" and then back to "child" again, " - like everyone else."
"Hence, this book is filled with notes, feathers, songs, pressed leaves, sand pictures, and things like that - including drawings by Marko's father, Leandro, Marko's cousin Lakan, or even by Marko himself. They are in no particular order. Maybe someday, they will be organized, or maybe the pages will be left the way they are. Either way, when this is finished, it will still be a book about my son, Marko Peter Simaun, who will be loved till long after we collide with our star."
At the bottom of that page, Tita Felix had added in a quick scribble: "302 Strika 5197 (June 3, 2140) - Marko joins the relief operations to counter the effects of the Scabrous Invasion, and Lakan takes over the book. For now."
I quickly flipped the pages and saw that Tita Felix was right. It was a book of notes and pictures in no chosen order, they were all about Marko. I was immediately curious. This was an atlas to the being of Marko Simaun, long a bane of my summers and now a tower quickly crumbling under the pressure of - what? This missing book? Some secret duty his mother had given him?
I sighed. I was tired, so I decided to read - if it could be read - his book later. But as I riffled the pages one last time, my name leapt out at me, and I stopped, surprised. Slowly, cautiously, I opened the book again, to the spread with my name. The only word I could see was my name, written in bold black letters in the center of the page. Around my name were sketches of me and Marko playing when we were kids. As I scanned each drawing, I saw how they gradually changed from pictures of our innocence to those of our constant competition and resentment for each other. On the opposite page were pictures of me alone, also arranged according to how I grew. I furrowed my brow. That can't be right, I thought. I'm not that -
I noticed that in the bottom right corner was a pressed flower that resembled a tiny lily. It was Mirandus's national flower, the estreya, which grew only in the planet's deepest jungle; white with tiny stripes of blue, violet, yellow, and green in the center of each soft, velvety petal. Somewhere in the background, I heard the tired steps of someone coming into our quarters, but I ignored it. Along the stem of the flower, I saw that there were six short words in faint and tiny writing, and I brought the book closer to my face to see...
The book was violently wrenched out of my hands. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Marko screamed. I looked up at him, stunned. His face was contorted with anguish, and he held the book closed and tight to his side. Was it my imagination, or was he fighting back tears? He closed his eyes and took two deep breaths. He was shaking. But when he opened his eyes, they were cold and steely again. He tucked the book into his coat and then stepped toward me. I was still on the floor, and I scrambled backwards, hitting the side of my bunk.
He knelt so that his eyes were level with mine. He said, more calmly, more softly this time, "What the hell do you think you're doing, Aaren?"
I stammered, trying to find my voice. I tried to tear my eyes away from his piercing, frost-blue gaze, but I couldn't. There was something, something besides fury and scorn in them, and I was trying to give it a name. I finally found something to say. "I - I didn't see the whole book. What I saw wasn't enough to - to - " He sighed and shook his head, and then he stared at me for what seemed like forever. In reality, it must have been only a few seconds, but I couldn't help wondering how much longer I'd have to suffer from its intensity. "What I saw wasn't enough," I said again.
He slowly stood up again and took a step back, and for a moment, he only watched me. "Regardless of what you say, Aaren," he said quietly, "I will not know what to believe about what you have and haven't seen in this book. And so I have nothing left to to or say to you except that you've won." I watched Marko as he spoke. He looked tired, resigned, and yes, defeated, but also angry. This was definitely a different Marko, and I couldn't make a sound.
"To you, Aaren," he continued, "it will be as if you've finally won. But to me, it will only be a reminder that you have always won against me." My mouth opened in surprise. What was he saying? "Good night, Aaren," he said. And without another word, without another icy stare at me, Marko turned around, climbed into his bunk, and closed his eyes.
After a few seconds in stunned silence, I did the same. But as I lay there wondering at what he'd said to me, it was I who cried myself to sleep, feeling just as defeated as he.
.Author's Note.
Strange stuff, no? If you've been reading this, I'm sorry to have been gone. Things here just took over...