What did I get? That means nothing now.

Did father consider my existence when he loved
my mother - (the physical act, strictly, never mind
when their mouths met or hands, both calloused,
would journey each other's solemn pathways)?

Ramza Beoulve, second youngest child, bastard son.
This was what I received: his surname, his awkward,
large feet, and all the prestige of being a nobleman's
offspring with a tossing of shame and whispers.

I did not get his shoulders, I did not get his stern
eyes- my mother, built like a dancer, thin hands and
compact frame I could never erase despite battles
and running (ruining). I did my fair share of running.

You, the son of a man who worked at the stables.
Father saw our meetings, a friend of his son was
a son of his; how old were we then, five? Six? He
would tell us war stories. We would sit, enraptured.

This is what I got from you: something of love, just
as brothers loved each other, just as my brothers
failed to love me, and we shouted and played with
swords and then we stopped playing altogether.

Did you think of your birth when we fought the
thieves, our first battle (not our last battle, for
battles are not purely a physical act, nor are they
purely an act of hate, but also one of love)?

Us, by chance, unfortunate chance, were caught;
a battle that killed your sister, a battle that I thought
killed you. I was killed too, a part, a (w)hole. And I
thought of you, and I thought, how wrong I was.

This was what I found: my life was served to me,
a feast. I learned how to look at bodies and see
people instead of wrong- a child saw thieves, a man
saw desperation. And I now I had no food to eat.

A year, two years? I see you alive. My heart brims
with love and fear and we battle, a different kind of
war than the one surrounding us and eating our
land's men. "Let us fight this wave together," I say.

I never saw you as monstrous. I never will, though
you can play people like instruments and cards,
but I blame circumstance, I blame fate, I blame
myself for being an idiot child, when you declined.

What did you get? My name is not in history, and
you are now the king, but I no longer care about
dying in obscurity or even dying reviled. To say I
didn't regret would make me the worst liar.

What did I lose? You.