During the Spring Festival (4)

Sparks flew. A flurry of ringing metal that left the majority of the crowd dumbstruck and unable to commentate. Two thin daggers parried, struck and prodded. A sword twisted and spun. Footwork. Flow.

It was a dance. A ballet of blades. The sparks creating dazzling lights.

Pirouettes of electric fire.

Mesmerized.

Awed.

Then the fireworks came. Magical booms prompted colorful lights—a slideshow of hues and thunderous applause.

The two battled in a display of grace and tranquility while maintaining their ferocity. Even the crowd could read the undertones of broiling emotions. Bitterness and resentment. Comradeship. Honor. Duty.

Their names forgotten and left behind, leaving only majesty.

And then it stopped.

Blades at each other's throats. Panting. Sweaty. Tired and entirely mortal.

Two magical fireworks boomed—the entire venue cast in contrasting orange and blue.

The only sound after was the heaving breathes of the two contestants.

Someone inhaled.

The crowd erupted.

The bets canceled. Reasons put aside. Woes were forgotten.

That was the start of the party.

=

Lecil nudged Anne.

"Hey, what was that all about earlier?"

"What was what about?"

"You know..."

Anne gave Lecil a look. Then her mouth formed a small o.

"It is a riddle father gave me a long time ago. I think I have the answer now."

Lecil thought back to Anne's small episode.

"The answer is the people?"

A nod.

A pause.

"So what was the riddle?"

"Secret."

Lecil eyed Anne for a while.

"I'll trust it isn't something I need to know. You really surprised me, though. I didn't think you'd suddenly turn so affectionate towards me."

A playful jab.

"What's that supposed to mean? I can be nice if I want to?"

"Weren't you the one who ripped up all my clothes?"

Anne had the decency to appear abashed.

"I was angry. I'm sorry. And weren't you thankful I did it?"

"I knew you were listening."

A visible flinch.

"Ouch. My bad. I'll remove it."

"It's still there?"

Another flinch. Lecil spoke again before Anne could feel bad.

"I'm just teasing you. Don't worry. I don't blame you. Destroying my clothes and furniture did help me in a roundabout sense. It was just difficult, you know? I've always felt so alone in that place. Ever since mother died, I feel like everyone blames me..."

Anne turned, shocked.

"That's not true at all! We know it's not your fault. I think... I think everyone just coped with her passing differently."

"The servants and cooks haven't been kind, not to mention the guards... You and Kly stopped talking to me, so I just, sort of, hid away...

Lecil's voice was subdued and not its usual tone. Remembering all the hardship when her voice wasn't even her own.

"Tristan seems to have it out for me specifically."

Anne examined her flat shoes. Trying to find a good answer. But there was none.

"Tristan misses mother most. Are you aware he goes to her room every morning? He has to pass by yours on the way, and I think he negatively associates the conflicted emotions."

Lecil quieted. She didn't know that. It didn't make what he did right in any way. Not at all. But it explained more than she knew.

"I didn't realize."

The two stood there unsure of what to do or say. There were too many years between them to sum up in a few sentences. Too much to tackle in one conversation. They couldn't hope to hash things out and say everything was fine. It was not fine. They both knew it. But one of them had to be the adult. And it was Anne's turn.

"I'm sorry we've been neglecting you."

"And I'm sorry I haven't been pulling my weight."

As they stared awkwardly at each other, they knew there was a hug in there somewhere. But they coughed instead and turned away.

A moment passed.

Then Lecil coughed again, raising an important question.

"Do you think we should stop them?"

"Do we have to?"

Piles of gifts and stall prizes were piled up on either side of them, nearly as tall as they were. Wrapped presents. Flowers. Jewelry. Perfume. Bags filled with clothes. Even a cart each of piping hot food and assorted desserts.

Anne picked up a pair of frosted biscuits.

"Biscuit?"

"Thanks."

They both bit into their biscuits, watching absently as the two Dukes tackled another stall game. The total score tied again at 27 - 27.

=

Bellavarn drank alcohol.

Just a bit.

He wasn't a drinker in either life. Bellavarn Sallow sampled it in the past, the drinking age being practically nonexistent. It was never to his liking, and the effects always seemed negative. Braster laughed and laughed, pounding the table that his son was a lightweight. What did he expect from a fifteen-year-old? It wasn't cheap beer either, but refined wine that was aged for years.

It hurt Bellavarn at night, thinking of how rare his father's laugh was. He'd rarely heard his father laugh so exuberantly in all his years. Earning a chuckle was a cause for celebration.

Bellavarn could recall so many occasions of his father smiling. The way his mustache curved upward with his mouth. He used to make fun of it, saying it looked like a crescent roll because of the shape and golden color. More often than not, the smile looked pained. Like he would rather be scowling and saying what was on his mind.

You could tell if the smile was real by how his eyes shone with a tinge of aqua-green. The few times Bellavarn saw that smile, it was always with family. When seeing grandfather off before heading to the capital. Whenever mother came back safely from battle. When Bellavarn hugged his father for the first time in what must have been years, right after his memory incident. When Bellavarn proposed his invention idea.

And now.

Braster Sallow drove a rickety wagon, touring a part of the countryside just outside the festival venue. Trisha was sprawled out on bales of hale in the back of the wagon, fast asleep. Every now and then, she would spout a few words. Some decipherable. Others not so much.

Bellavarn sat in the front seat with his father. The night air was cold, but the alcohol in him warmed his blood.

The clouds stayed parted, revealing a beautiful moon. Bellavarn wondered if it was the same one he'd always known or if it was somehow different.

The twinkling stars blanketing the night sky provided abundant ambient light, illuminating the rolling fields.

"This moment won't last... will it?"

Crickets and other chirping insects filled the void of voices. Braster adjusted his grip on the reins. Their speed stabilized to what would normally be an agonizingly slow trot. No one else was around—the Duke's word forbidding company for the duration of this ride.

Braster sighed through his nose, speaking through tight lips.

"No. It won't."

The words were so sad that they hurt.

"But that doesn't mean we can't enjoy it."

Braster smiled. It wasn't a happy smile per se. But it was genuine, and Bellavarn fully appreciated it.

"Hey... Dad?"

The word of endearment was hesitant.

"Yes, son?"

The responding word made Bellavarn tear up a little. He began to worry he was a sad drunk.

"Am I? I wasn't entirely truthful about my amnesia..."

"In what way?"

Braster held the reins, his full attention of his only son.

"I lost my memory. But I gained another's. I have both now... I am your son. Bellavarn Sallow. But at the same time, I remember my life as a different Bellavarn. I remember my other parents. I remember laughing with them as they bought me toys and played with me as a child. I remember them supporting me throughout school and helping me with homework and studying. I remember sleepovers with friends. Get-togethers. Birthday parties..."

A shaky breath.

"I thought they were so obnoxious and overbearing at times. They were so protective. They would always walk or drive me to school and make sure I got in the door. Embarrass me in front of my friends. Sing stupid songs and tell the dumbest jokes. Mom would kiss my cheek in front of the girl I liked, and Dad would laugh and offhandedly mention an old bedwetting story."

Braster remained silent.

"And then they died, and I was alone."

In the back seat, Trisha's expression was unreadable as she laid an arm across her brow.

Bellavarn choked up.

"They died. In a world where death isn't so common. In a freak accident. I remember attending their funeral. I remember crying my heart out. And I still have all these emotions inside of me from an entirely different life and sometimes I believe myself mad or insane. It doesn't make any sense. Why would it happen? Why me? Is it because we share the same name? For a reason so simple..."

Sniffing, Bellavarn wiped his eyes and sighed. Waving an arm.

"I am terrified you and mom are going to go away. Someone will get you. Or you'll perish in a wagon accident. I don't know! I'm trying so hard, but I'm scared because I don't think I could live without you two."

A firm hand clasped his shoulder. Braster looked his son in the eyes. It was painful and calming at the same time.

"You are my son. Our son."

Braster didn't glance back at Trisha, who kept wiping away her tears, biting her lip.

"You are stronger than you know, and even if we do disappear one day, you will never be alone."

"But-"

"Never. Or are you forgetting some people?"

His eyes widened. Remembering. Smiling faces. Waving hands and voices calling out his name.

"We love you. No matter who or what you become that will never change."

Salty tears now. Bellavarn couldn't help it. He tried to forbid them, but they came all the same. Braster held his grown son, proud of who he was. The world will keep spinning, and continents will shift, but his son would always remain such.

Trisha couldn't hold it any longer and pounced up from her spot, embracing both of them, the least composed of any of them. Her words were incomprehensible as she sniffled and rubbed Bellavarn's hair affectionately.

A family.

That is what they were. And that is what they will always remain.

=

Later, Bellavarn sat in the front seat with his parents in half-comfortable silence and half awkward silence. Braster thankfully filled the void.

"We are leaving in five days. I've worked it out with the King and we will be going home soon."

Bellavarn let his mother rest on his shoulder, looking down at her stomach. A sibling.

"Home, huh?"

=

Jeral bent down over the thief's corpse. The stench was awful.

Searching the perp's pockets produced Bellavarn's inventions. Twirling one between his fingers, Jeral sighed.

"I gave you plenty of time to steal it. So why didn't you just leave quietly?"

The man's face was frozen in a rictus of pain. The cuts on him were mostly superficial and not life-threatening. Jeral had tried to take him alive, but the idiot swallowed a poisoned pill. A gruesome one too.

"Jeral?"

He whipped around, seeing a figure in the doorway. One he easily recognized.

"Lannie?"

Blood splattered as her chest ripped open.

"LANNIE!"