Viego speaks with his brother Nivor and tries to share a bitter drink.
A Bitter Pairing
It's the anniversary of her death. He's going to be despondent today. He always is, but this time, I want to help.
Careful not to spill anything on the tray I carry, I slowly make my way towards the study I know he has locked himself away in. Such a task as this is below me, I know, but I understand that the gesture will mean more if I alone am the one to do it. So alone I go.
Others pass me in the halls and cast strange looks at me but none of them say anything. At least, they say nothing while I am within earshot of them. I wonder, what do they say behind closed doors?
"Why is he doing a servant's work? That is hardly becoming behavior of a prince. Even if it was, looks how the cups shake. His balance should be perfect. Why does he even try?"
"Let them say what they want," I tell myself, "their words don't matter."
At the door of the study, I brace the tray against my chest. Despite my best efforts, some of the drinks spill out of the cups and pools into the carved grooves of the tray.
"A servant would be chastised for such a thing. How is a sticky mess going to cheer anyone up? Such a clumsy, childish thing to do."
I pull the handle to the study.
Locked.
This just confirms to me that he is in there. I take a deep breath to steady myself, then rap the door with my knuckles.
"Brother," I call out, "are you there? It's me, Viego. Please let me in."
No response.
I knock again a place my ear against the cool wood.
"I brought you so food and some wine."
Still nothing.
Try one more time.
"Perhaps we can share it together?"
"Why does he speak with such uncertainty in his tone? He should speak with authority. He sounds weak. Why would the prince want to spend time with him?"
"Please let me in."
Through the door I hear footsteps. At once, I right my posture, rebalance the tray, and do my best to look as proper as possible. The door opens and I look up at my brother.
Nivor. My brother, the man next in line to be king, a man more than twice my age, a man who is, at once, family and a stranger.
He looks terrible. On any other day, he would look like the ideal prince; handsome, graceful, powerful, and regal. Someone you would want to look up to. Today however, he looks as though he just pulled himself from bed after a night with no sleep. His hair is completely disheveled from fingers constantly running through it and sorrow has tinted his dark eyes pink and weighted down his posture. For dress, he wears simple black clothing, not even bothering with his circlet or any other finery, save his wedding band.
"Viego," he addresses me.
The smell of alcohol clings faintly to his breath and I suddenly wonder if it was wise to bring him more. Or maybe this just means it was the right thing to bring? I do not know.
"Hello, brother."
I try and make my voice sound friendly, but not too happy. I know he is mournful and I feel as though speaking in a cheerful tone will only annoy him and make his mood worse. What even is the correct tone to use with someone who is mourning?
"What do you need?" Nivor asks.
He sighs as he speaks, as though answering the question is exhausting.
"I don't need anything from you," I answer, "but I thought you could use some food and drink and maybe some company?"
"Please let me in."
For a moment, he looks down at me and I know he is deciding whether or not to just shut the door in my face and return to his grief alone. Oh, I know he will turn me away in a far more diplomatic and gentler way than a slammed door, but the message will still be the same.
"I don't have time for a child like you."
I offer a weak smile and hold the tray out.
"I can also leave, if you would prefer that," I say.
"Please don't shut me out."
"but I think you should still eat something."
"Please let me in."
"Please."
Another sigh, but this time he steps aside and motions for me to enter the room. I do.
This is the study that once belonged to Nivor's wife, Eliante. The room is small, but cozy and clean. Nivor has worked hard to keep this room ready as if she could walk through the door at any moment and resume her writing.
Against the far wall, there is a small couch. One of its arms is far more worn than the other, evidence of the direction the one who used to sit in it preferred to lean as she read. Beside it, a bookcase towering floor to ceiling occupies half a wall. Its shelves are filled with books that interested the late princess: botany, agriculture, trade records concerning foodstuffs, and culinary arts. One shelf was even set aside for a collection of dried herbs and flowers.
From what I have been told, Eliante had been fascinated with collecting recipes. She would ask not just the castle's cooks, but also servants, soldiers, guests, artisans, performers, knights, diplomats, and anyone else who would be willing to speak with her and share what they knew about cooking or talk about a favorite family recipe. These were easy conversations to have. Who doesn't enjoy talking about their favorite foods?
And then she would take everything all these people had told her and she would write it down. Never, not even once in her life, did she have to cook. She had always been nobility, she never needed to, but they said she always wanted to learn. 'Someday,' I was told she would say, 'someday I will lean.' But that day never came. She went and joined the Revered Ancestors before she could.
My eyes come to rest on the bottom most shelf of the bookcase. The books kept here are completely different from everything on the shelves above it. These are books of fairytales and legends. These were the books she would read to Kalista when she was young.
I can imagine it. Eliante, sitting on the couch as Kalista looks up from a plush cushion on the floor. Her voice is soothing but is still completely capable of enchanting Kal and drawing her into the story. As she speaks, her hands are animated, adding more character and energy to the telling. And her eyes are gentle and loving as she looks at her child.
"Why am I feeling jealous of this imagined scene? I do not know if it ever happened."
I push the thought from my head, try to shake the feeling from my heart, and look for a place to set down the tray.
In the corner there is a small desk of dark wood. A candle holder topped with a half melted beeswax candle sits atop a trap to keep the wood clean. Despite this, it is too late to keep the furniture pristine. Black stains run down one of its sides from an inkwell that was spilled years ago. Nivor refuses to get rid of the desk. He will say that it is because it is still a usable piece of furniture, but everyone knows that he will not part with it because it was her desk.
Now it has a half-empty bottle of wine on it. I set the tray down next to it.
"How are you feeling, brother?" I ask.
He gives me a look that reads 'you already know the answer.'
"What a stupid question! The answer is obvious."
"Melancholy," Nivor responds.
"I thought you might be," I say, still unsure of the tone I should be speaking in, "which is why I brought you something. Wine, bread, oil, olives,"
His expression does not change.
"and company."
I can hear my voice withering not matter how much I will it not to.
"I thought you shouldn't be alone."
Nivor looks down at me. I cannot make out the expression in his dark eyes. They are somber, but there is something else.
"What? What is it? Anger? Disappointment? Did I say something wrong?"
He speaks with such a practiced diplomatic cadence that even if he were angry with me, I would not be able to tell. But because I have heard that tone used so much by the nobility here, I have my suspicions.
"Thank you, Viego."
I take a step back as he approaches the table and takes a glass from it. A lone drop of spilled wine drips from its base and onto his fingers. Nivor's gaze moves from the cup to the tray and then, without saying anything, he pulls a kerchief from his pocket, wipes the bottom of his glass, and does the same to the other.
"You should have done that first. You aren't a child he needs to be picking up after."
"Here," Nivor says and hands the second glass to me.
I take it.
"Thank you."
Lacking any of his usual grace, he pulls the chair from the desk and sits heavily into it. I take a seat on the small couch. Then, without making a toast or even acknowledging me, Nivor takes a drink. I raise my hand slightly in an unseen toast to nothing, his health I assume, and drink as well.
Before I have time to suppress my reaction, I feel my face pinch and my nose wrinkle at the taste. This wine is incredibly bitter, so bitter I would call it unpleasant.
"Do people actually enjoy this?"
Perhaps I should have asked someone about which wine was actually a palatable one instead of just grapping the nearest one in a fancy bottle that I could reach.
I chance a quick peak over at Nivor. His expression is still unchanged.
"Am I supposed to be enjoying this?"
I take another sip. It's still awful. Deciding that my tongue doesn't deserve further punishment, I instead look into the glass, swirling the contents, and pretend to admire the color or aroma or whatever it is people are supposed to appreciate about this bitter drink. And more importantly, I try and think of something to say to Nivor.
He hasn't said anything. I haven't said anything. This silence is loud.
"What do I say? Do I talk about Eliante? I didn't know her. All I have are a few hazy memories. Should I distract him by talking about something else?"
"Nivor," I speak up.
He looks at me and I feel my mind go blank.
"What do I say? Talk about the weather? This awful wine? What I am learning from my tutors? Say something."
"Ah, never mind," I say aloud.
We each go back to staring into our drinks.
"Try again."
"I uh –"
Nivor's attention is now on me instead of his cup.
"What? I what?"
"Umm,"
He makes a sigh that this time sounds more annoyed than sad and takes another drink.
"Why are you struggling this much? You are not a son speaking to his father. Grow up, Viego. This is your brother. Isn't he supposed to be your peer? Why is this so difficult?"
"So,"
"Why are you really here, Viego?" Nivor cuts in.
"Companionship," I answer quietly.
Nivor scoffs.
"I wanted to cheer you up. To let you know I am here."
"Is that so?" he gives a chuckle almost as dry as the wine and puts on that diplomatic tone again, "I appreciate the effort,"
"Please don't turn me away."
"but you don't need to be here."
"Don't shut me out."
"You may go about your day," he dismisses.
"If you don't want me to cheer you up," I hear the words come from my mouth before I can think them over, "let me be sad with you."
"How can you be?" Nivor snaps, the alcohol making his façade of practiced calm crack, "How can you grieve a woman who, to you, is mostly just a name on lineage records? You didn't know her."
"No, but I wish I did."
His brow furrows.
"Idiot! Why would you say something like that? Quickly, apologize before he gets angrier."
"Brother, I- I did not wish to offend you, I-"
"No," Nivor interrupts, "you are not offending me."
He takes another drink and says no more. In the silence, I too take a drink.
"Still unpleasant."
Though I do believe I am getting better at hiding my distaste for this drink.
At last, after several minutes, Nivor speaks again. He begins with a long sigh.
"It is a difficult feeling to explain. You understand that someone is sad, but you cannot fathom how deep the pain is until you feel it for yourself. Loss. I thought I knew it when my mother died, but, but losing Eliante was a whole different type of pain."
He looks down into the glass, but I know his eyes aren't looking at the remaining wine. They are looking back at something that happened years ago.
"I," his voice is a whisper, "I held her hand until it turned cold."
His chest does not heave nor does he make a sound, but I see the shine of tears rolling down his cheeks. I have never seen him so vulnerable looking before. Right now, with his posture crumpled over a half-empty cup, he does not look like the man who sits beside the king in all the meetings I am not allowed to attend. He does not look like the man who goes before soldiers and gives inspiring speeches, nor the man who stands tall as he greets visiting nobility, nor the man who speaks with encouraging confidence as he assures Kal that that someday she will, with time, be able recognize the heraldry of every knightly order, major noble family, and city. He doesn't look like any of these people. But I know he is still my brother.
"Nivor."
I open my mouth but no words come out.
"Think of something. This is it. Think of something to say."
Before I can think of some comforting response, he pulls himself from his memories and the chair. He gives his cup of wine a final look as he swirls the contents around.
"I should stop," he sighs, "she wouldn't want to see me like this."
Then, much to my dismay, he steps over and pours the rest of his cup into mine.
"Loss is inevitable," he continues, "but I hope you never have to experience this grief, Viego. I don't know how father has experienced it four times. Perhaps that is why he is always thinks of campaigns, some form of work to bury himself in? I know I could not go through it again."
"How did you endure it?" I ask.
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them, but much to my surprise, Nivor does not seem angered by this question.
"Kalista," he answers without hesitation.
"Kal?"
"Yes. Kalista," he repeats as the faintest hint of a smile crosses his face, "there were nights, so, so many nights, after I lost Eliante that I wondered if I was not far behind and that, if I were to join her in my sleep, that would not be such a bad thing. My heart felt as though it was underwater, cold and in the dark, but I knew that I had to keep on living. I had to be there for my daughter. Anytime my grief felt unbearable, I turned to Kalista. I looked at her and felt my desire to live return. My love for her is deeper than my sorrow."
Nivor goes to the window and looks out towards the sea. In the sunlight, I can still see where the tears have made his cheeks wet but he no longer looks as mournful.
"I see so much of what I loved about Eliante in her. Her effortless grace, her kindness, her willingness to try new things, her ability to make those around her want to follow her. So many things the same, but just as many uniquely her. It makes me want to see the woman she will become. I want to see so that when I go to join my wife and all the other Revered Ancestors, I can tell her about how strong and beautiful our daughter is. Do you understand?"
I nod, thought I am not sure I do fully understand. I love Kal dearly. She is my closest companion, but I imagine that it is an entirely different kind of love that Nivor feels, the love between a father and his firstborn.
As if sensing my thoughts, Nivor speaks.
"I should not have asked you that," he says, "I don't think it is something you understand yet, but you will once you have children of your own one day."
Then without giving me a moment to respond, not that I would even have a comment to respond with, he goes over to the tray, opens the delicate decanter of olive oil, and pours some into the two shallow dishes beside it.
"Here," he says, "come have some."
I do, thankful for the opportunity to replace the lingering bitterness of the wine with something I actually like. The thickly sliced bread I had brought will make for the ideal vessel for the oil. I tear off a piece of the slice, dip it into the oil, and eat.
"I would gladly drink a glass of this over that wine any day."
The flavor is fresh and herbal with just the slightest hint of lemon to it. Hastily, I take another bite. I go to tear off a third piece, but see from the corner of my eye that Nivor is still on his first piece. I slow down to match his pace.
"Savor it."
Once again, it is quiet in the study but this time the silence is not loud as it was before. It is almost comfortable.
"I still haven't thought of the right thing to say. Maybe the right thing doesn't exist?"
A quarter of an hour passes in this almost comfortable silence before anything else is said.
"I do not think I should have anymore," Nivor says, "not now."
"Hmm?"
I look over at him. He is closing the decanter and arranging the items on the tray so that they are balanced and easier to carry.
"I'll be having dinner with Kalista before too long," he continues, "I don't want to ruin my appetite. It's one of the few things she asks for; a quiet dinner, just the two of us on this day. Time for us to reminisce."
He brings the tray over and hands it to me. I take it without thinking.
"It's is not as though I was not enjoying our time together, I do appreciate the effort you made in visiting me, but I am sure you understand how important this evening is to us."
I feel his hand in my shoulders, pushing me gently towards the door, like a child being directed by his parent.
"I understand," I answer as I step outside.
"Thank you, Viego."
"You are welcome. I will be around, brother, if you need me."
Nivor gives me a small smile and I force one back. Then, he closes the door. Behind me, I can hear the footsteps of others and I wonder what it is they are thinking about me.