As I suspected, my ties with Swethyna had been severed. I no longer saw her in the hallways anymore, nor did I ever look for her.
It was like the world I had been in for so long was pushing me out of reach. I had no time to adjust or assess the situation. My world had become my bedroom and the throne room. No more childish games, no more charming stories, no more excitement in my life.
Throughout the whole course of my day, I probably said less than twenty words. The only responses I would give to my mother- the only ones she seemed to accept- were "yes" or a simple question. There wasn't anything to talk about.
I probably wrote more than I talked. The rest of the day was spent in my room; writing, reading, or doing other various tasks. If I could keep my mind off of how lonely I was, then the pain wouldn't come.
There would be periods when my powers would surface again and I made sure to always be away from others when I could feel it rising. The usual feeling became like a warning bell. The buzzing, the gradual increase of pain, the quick release, then the burning sensation in my hands as the result. Sometimes I could suppress the darkness- hold it in long enough so the buzzing would go away. This, though, was the most excruciating process. The longer I resisted the more my body felt like it was on fire. My head would throb nonstop and my vision become distorted. But I would have to keep holding it, clenching my fist, until the invisible force stopped drowning me. Afterwards, my hands felt like they had just taken a thousand lashes and my skin felt raw, my mental and physical state would become drained of energy, and everything on me would ache. A few good hours of rest would often repair me, but it took a toll on me, which was why I always feared the next attack.
There were times when I tried, unsuccessfully, to control and suppress my powers. I held it back for so long- fighting it down. I bit my tongue till it bled, clenched my fist until I swore marks would be left there for days, prayed to the Fates that they would take this burden away from me, but I couldn't take the pain any longer and would released the pent up darkness. The force of it took me back. The small room I had once escaped to looked like a war zone. Broken glass from a once beautiful vase, furniture in disarray, the window glass badly cracked, but not yet broken.
It scared me. The glass wasn't shattered like the vase, but it was damaged beyond repair. You couldn't even see out of it- only a broken, blurry view of the outside was possible. Just one good tap and the glass would shatter to the floor. I didn't know if this meant my powers were getting stronger or if I was losing control of them- of myself- or both.
I never had time to properly train myself with my abilities. Magic was a tool that had to be taught. If not taught properly then you neither had control of them or yourself.
It frustrated me though. It wasn't that I didn't have someone who could train me, it was that, in fact, I had someone who could train me- my mother- but chose not to.
It confused me actually. If she was so repulsed by my powers, which I gathered she was, then why not teach me to suppress them so not to accidentally call upon them. It baffled me. Even though I knew the bitter truth that she had turn her back on me, there was always that innocent hope that she still wanted to try and be my mother again. I still wanted to hear her stories and talk to her when I felt down- I still wanted a relationship with her.
Sometimes I'd look back and wonder what if she came to me and apologize for the time that she cut me off. Would I have accepted her apology and forgotten about the lost time? Would I have truly forgiven her?
Thinking those thoughts back then, I wouldn't have hesitated at all. But it was futile to imagine such happenings.
Especially when there were other things to concentrate on. Most of my mental and physical energy went to the sword lessons my mother had begun to train me in.
"You're going to be a king someday and you've never picked up a sword. It's time you've begun to master your swordsmanship."
She tossed me a sword and ever since had been teaching me everything there is to know.
When I was younger it was my dream to become like the heroes in the stories. But like everything else in my life, nothing I dreamed of was how I imagined it to be like.
I wasn't a natural swordsman and my mother not the most patient teacher. She knew my blindspots- and I had many- and would always knock me down before commenting on how I could improve. If I didn't fix my errors she would increase the difficulty until we both would become frustrated.
"Why don't you apply the corrections you need?" Her voice was always icy and hostile when addressing me. Something I had, unfortunately, become adjusted to.
"You expect me to pick something up that you never explain to me. What am I suppose to do?"
"I tell you where your mistakes are being made, yet you still leave yourself vulnerable and open to an attack."
She walked away, running her hand through her hair, upset. Getting back up on my feet I sulked over to the windows to look out at the view.
"You let your guard down too easily. An enemy could attack at any moment and if they catch you off guard for at least a second, they won't hesitate to end you."
I didn't comment on that. Instead I continued to stare out at the broad horizon where, in the distance, two ravens flew freely in the sky.
"Ok, we shall try this again." She said readying herself. "Xalale, come."
The way she said my name was bitter to hear.
"What's the point of doing this? By the sound of it you think I'm never going to master this."
"Do not put words in my mouth."
The warning tone in her voice only grated my nerves.
"You don't have to say it for me to know what you're thinking."
"A king is never paranoid." She replied sharply.
I faced away from the window and approached her.
"What does it matter that I can wield a sword? Even if I did everything you asked of me, it would never be enough." I threw my sword to the ground. "Why don't you actually teach me something I need."
She knew what I was implying and reacted like I suspected she would.
Her eyes were deathly, trained on me in a stone cold glare that she often gave prisoners.
"A king never quits half-"
"And a queen should lead." I snapped back.
I never saw her swing her arm to strike me, I only hear the quick sound of the blade cutting through the air and felt the sting across my cheek.
Shock was the first emotion to register once I realize that the blood trickling down my cheek was caused by my mother. Humiliation and hurt were the next emotions to follow.
I didn't want to cry, but the tears were rising anyway. It wasn't out of pain- for the cut only grazed my cheek- it was more out of shock that my mother had struck me.
"A king doesn't cry." She said gravely.
I was still a child and I was still hurt physically and emotionally by her action. How could she not expect me to shed even the slightest tear?
Turning away from her was not an option, as she gripped my wrist- her nails making marks in my skin- and firmly held it.
"I never want to see a tear come from your eyes. If you cry you are weak and I will not pass my crown down to someone who is too weak to lead this kingdom."
Her voice came out low and hardened.
I bit my lip, but didn't let a single tear slide. She finally let my wrist go and told me to pick up my sword.
Letting my eyes dry, a new emotion rolled over me: resentment.