A Boy in a Tree

I was not more than five or six when I first climbed one of the many trees surrounding my family’s property. On the way up, nothing had ever felt more natural and as I sat high above to observe the forest around me, I felt both powerful and content. Unfortunately, making my way down was not as easy as climbing up. It was well past supper time when my brothers came looking for me and spotted me clinging to the tree trunk, too scared to make any sort of movements.

After a while of laughter and jeering on their part, they left to fetch father. By the time he sauntered on out of the house, already dressed for bed, I was nearly down. He waited in silence until my feet touched the ground, then proceeded to chastise me–not for risking my health in climbing trees, but for missing dinner and being out past dark. He then forbade anymore tree climbing, and said should I do so again and end up hurting myself, I would see no sympathy from him.

For a while, I listened. However, I often found myself looking out my bedroom window and reliving that thrill I got during the climb, as well as the terror I experienced when I discovered I had to eventually get down. Such a memory might deter most children, but I took it as a challenge and every time I glanced out at the forest on the edge of the property it was as if the trees were egging me on.

I took to scaling the trees when my father was gone on business, which was often. It gave me ample time to get up and down the trees until I found the courage to leap down from one of the lower branches instead of wiggle the rest of the way down the trunk. Eventually, the trees became my safe haven when my elder brothers were bored and sought me out for entertainment. Neither of them ever tried to follow me up into my trees.

One late afternoon, I was feeling especially daring for some reason. I had been trapped inside for most of the day, suffering my asinine studies of etiquette and family history and I was anxious to get out and get some mud on my shoes. I decided to ignore the fact that my father was home for the evening already, and I set out for my trees.

It was a tree I often sought solace with. It was especially tall and had plenty of cover so no one could see me perched on a branch high above the ground. I was comfortable with this tree, and climbing was second nature to me now. So you can imagine my shock when half way up, the branch I was using to pull myself up snapped.

The next thing I knew, I was at the foot of the tree, clutching my arm with  the breath knocked out of me and tears streaming down my face. When I regained some of my senses, I noticed that I was not alone. My father, who had probably been watching me the entire time, stood over me. I continued to sob and try to put together some kind of coherent sentence, and he continued to stand in silence. Finally, once my sobs had subsided into hiccups and sniffles, he spoke up.

“That hurt?”

I nodded feebly.

“Good. Go inside and get cleaned up for dinner.” He turned and began to walk away, then stopped and looked back at me with a critical eye. “Do not let me see you crying again.”

I did as he said.

Again, most kids would have allowed such an event to keep them away from trees for good. And for a while, I did. It was as if my trees– my trees– had betrayed me, I thought. Well, that eventually just pissed me off more and once my wrist had healed I returned to climbing them. I still fell, and every time my father was there to watch me while I struggled with the pain.

I never cried though, not in front of him. I had made the decision to go against what he told me. He was just holding up his end of the bargain. I decided to climb the trees, the falls and resulting injuries were my problem.

Eventually, though, I was able to pick myself up and dust myself off before he reached my side. And when I did so, I told him I would see him at dinner and limped off back to the house.

The Morning Post

The letter arrived first thing in the morning, though it did not find its way into Cersei Sorrelon’s delicate hands until brunch. As she settled down at the table, opposite her husband, a servant approached. Usually if there was any mail, it was all handed over to Caloneth, even the mail intended for his wife. However, the envelope that was slipped onto the table before Cersei was a special one. The handwriting on the back, spelling out only her name, was vaguely familiar, but it was the wax seal on the front that had caught the attention of the old servant.

“Impossible…” Cersei murmured, one well-manicured finger brushing over the wings of the phoenix on the seal.

“Pardon?” Caloneth had looked up from his own mail and was peering curiously across the long table at his wife–or more specifically, at what had captured his wife’s attention.

Cersei swallowed back a few un-ladylike words and fixed a well practice smile onto her face. “Just some mail,” she said with her soft, lilting voice. Her eyes dropped back to the envelope in her hands. Well, now Caloneth was paying attention to her; there was no hiding this message. Delicately she broke the seal and lifted two folded pieces of parchment. It took an immense amount of will to keep her hands from shaking as she slowly unfolded the first piece.

He is long dead…It has almost been a century. He is dead.

A tense silence permeated the dining room as Cersei read over the letter, and Caloneth watched. With a carefully controlled countenance, Cersei set down the first letter and picked up the second, an invitation. A small line creased the space between her eyebrows, and she lifted the first paper again. It certainly was not what she had expected, though it was not any less shocking either. Quietly she pondered until Caloneth could no longer take it.

“Well?” He snapped, leaning forward.

“Our son is getting married,” Said Cersei, looking slowly up and across the table at the aging Magister.

Caloneth narrowed his eyes and steepled his fingers. “Cal is already married.”

“Our other son, dear.”

“Vathal is dead.”

Cersei sighed and straightened her posture, beginning to cut up her omelet before it got cold. “Westel.”

Across the table, the Lord snorted. “Your son, you mean.”

Cersei’s lips thinned and she bowed her head, without response. Caloneth had never openly acknowledged Westel as his son. Why should he, he would argue when the boy was young and Cersei brought it up. After all, Westel really was not his son. When Westel cried as an infant, Caloneth would alert Cersei that her son was making a fuss. She needed to control her son when he acted out as he got older. And Cersei could not argue, could not complain. It was good of Caloneth to even let Westel live with them.

“So, the boy is getting married again. What sort of Murder Row orphan did he pick up this time?” Caloneth sneered and stabbed a small potato with his fork.

Cersei glanced at the invitation and allowed the slightest of smirks to tug at her lips. “Lady Astoreth Duskflame.”

That wiped the sneer off the Lord’s face. “Duskflame?” He asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Were they not all wiped out?”

“I believe a few of the children survived.” Replied Cersei, though she was uncertain.

Caloneth just snorted again.

“What?”

“It must be a joke. That boy, or someone that thinks they’re funny, is playing a joke.”

Cersei sighed and tucked the letter and invitation into the envelope. “Perhaps you are right.”

When brunch was over, Caloneth left for some kind of business in the city and Cersei busied herself with to-do lists for the estate. She marched through the halls, sending servants in every direction on jobs and errands. She had much to do, but the letter nagged at the back of her mind. As one young servant girl came bustling up to to her with some kind of inquiry involving candle holders, Cersei waved her away and excused herself to her room.

Over and over she read the letter, to the point of memorizing it.

“Fifteen years,” she murmured quietly. Cersei shook her head and dug her planner from her desk drawer and swiftly wrote under June 30th:

Westel’s Wedding 7 o’clock

We Choose Our Joys and Sorrows

The Ranger paused about one hundred feet out from the estate. Before him stood a grand home, a bit more modern than the places he was used to; brighter and flashier, a gaudy display of wealth and grandeur. So this was the life she had chosen, he mused to himself as he tipped his head up to observe the building in its entirety. Silently, he wondered if life on the other side of the huge front doors was as magnificent as the home suggested. As he stalked up the path to the front door, the man was happy to assume that it was all a sham.

Upon reaching the huge doors with their thick golden knockers, the Ranger drew himself up to his full, impressive height. A gloved hand rose to lift the heavy knocker, but the door was open before he dropped the metal the first time.

“Can I help you, sir?” Inquired his greeter, a small dark-haired woman in a servant’s garb.

“Ah, yes,” he flashed her a nervous sort of smile, despite the confidence he was attempting to exude, “I have business with the lady of the house. Could you let her know I am here, dear?”

The servant woman narrowed her blue eyes at him, and gave the tall man a long, critical once over. His hair was long and ill-kept, pulled haphazardly into a ponytail so to keep it out of his scruffy, sun-kissed face. While he was tall and obviously fit, he was not big, and actually appeared not to have been eating well for a while. His long ears almost twinkled in the sunlight, due to the amount of  rings pierced through them, and as the breeze blew a few of the earrings jingled softly against each other. The dark leathers he wore were scuffed and dirty, and one of his gloves was missing the thumb; this man certainly could not be here for business with her Lady.

“Servant’s entrance is around to the side, sir.” Said the woman curtly before moving to close the door.

“Oi!” The Ranger shouted indignantly, his left hand darting out to catch the heavy door as the woman continued to shove against it. “We’re friends, the lady and I. Old…old friends.” He tried to keep the pleading tone out of his voice as the servant continued to try and shut him out. The man gave the door a shove with his shoulder, causing the servant to stumble backwards, panting and looking quite frightened of this unkempt man now. He growled in frustration and pointed to the huge staircase at the woman’s back.

“Tell Cersei that Ranger-Captain Tyren Firewing has called on her. And that is an order.”

She gave a small squeak and dashed up the stairs without further protest.

Tyren stepped over the threshold, grumbling to himself as his dark green eyes scanned the foyer. His old leather boots were certainly muddying up the pristine white floors, and he made a point of smearing the marks across the entrance with an indignant snort. “…Servant. Bah.”

Hands knit behind his back, Tyren waited stiffly in the center of the foyer. After a minute, he could hear voices drifting from the floor above.

“He was very insistent, my Lady, and strong…” Whimpered the servant who had tried to force him out.

“Momma I’m hungry!” Moaned another voice, a young one that made Tyren’s gut twist into a knot.

He remained still, despite his body’s impulse to bolt, as he strained to hear the third voice.

“It is fine, Irona. I will deal with it…” Cersei’s firm tone faded slightly as she rounded a corner and spotted Tyren from the top of the stairs. Her fair, pale skin appeared to lose what little color it had to it. She faltered for but a moment before she straightened her shoulders and descended the stair case with all the elegance of the Lady she had shaped herself to be.

Silent, Tyren watched her, not quite able to save face the way she could. Cersei was not the epitome of beauty; her nose was a little too small, her lips slightly too wide, and she had never quite adopted the womanly figure of her female peers. However, she had slightly more curve to her than Tyren remembered. Probably thanks to the small blonde boy who padded along at Cersei’s heels. Behind the make-up, outrageous jewelry, and rather tawdry and low-cut gown, she was of average appearance, as far as their beautiful-by-law race went.

“You look surprised to see me, Cersei. Did your lovely, hospitable servant not inform you as to who your caller was? Or were you expecting a different Ranger-Captain Firewing?” He smirked, and his voice carried with it a light-hearted mirth.

“Irona,” said Cersei, never taking her eyes off of Tyren, “take Vathal to the dining room and have the cook fix him lunch, please.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Irona eyed Tyren with a scowl and reached down for the boy’s hand and began to lead him away.

“Oh and Irona?” Cersei finally tore her gaze away from Tyren.

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Lord Sorrelon does not return this evening, does he?”

Irona eyed the Ranger as he smeared more mud across the floor she had wiped down just that morning. “No, my Lady.” With that she tugged young Vathal away, leaving the Lady and her caller alone in the foyer.

“Captain Firewing,” Cersei dipped into a small curtsey, “I apologize for my servant’s earlier rudeness. It is not often I am paid visits by…Rangers.” She left the last word hanging as if speaking of some grotesque ailment or deformity.

Tyren rolled his eyes and folded his arms over his chest. “Let’s cut the bull shit, shall we, Cersei?” He brushed past her to a small end table with little more purpose than to house an old vase which hadn’t a purpose at all. Tyren lifted the delicate pottery and tossed it back and forth from hand to hand. “How are you doing, my old friend?”

“I thought we were cutting the bull shit, Tyren.” Cersei hissed and snatched the vase from his grubby hands.

Tyren scoffed and turned to snatch the vase back. “That was not bull shit. That was genuine interest in how you are fairing.”

Cersei reached for the vase with a sigh of exasperation, but Tyren held it just out of her reach with a sly smile. “I am doing marvelous, Tyren. Everything is fabulous– Please put that down!”

He turned the vase over to peer down inside of it, with one eye shut. “A little dusty. Your maids clearly aren’t up to snuff.” Tyren grinned devilishly and tossed it up into the air. Cersei squeaked and cringed in anticipation of the ceramic piece crashing to the floor. The Ranger-Captain snickered and held it up between them. “Are you quite sure everything is fabulous? You are far too young to have those creases in your forehead, love.”

Cersei sighed at him and leaned up to take the vase back from him again. But just as her fingertips brushed its slick surface, Tyren snatched it away again and swiftly leaned down, his lips pressed to hers. Cersei’s green eyes went wide and for a moment she was frozen as Tyren kissed her. Once he finally pulled away, she stared at him, as the blood rushed to her cheeks. Tyren just smirked, quite satisfied with himself.

“You–You…!” With an unintelligible shout she grabbed the vase from Tyren’s hand and smashed it furiously against his chest. The vase shattered and the pieces fell to the floor at their feet.

“…Now that was a little over dramatic, don’t you think?” Admonished Tyren as he rubbed his chest.

Cersei was in shock, standing in front of the Ranger in silence.

A moment later, Irona appeared in the door way, “My Lady? What has happened?”

Being addressed by someone other than the scoundrel Ranger seemed to bring Cersei back to the present. “I– Yes, Irona. Just..clumsy, quite clumsy. Clean this up, if you please.” She stared up at Tyren for a moment, then turned on her heel and stalked from the foyer.

Tyren smirked at the servant girl and patted her cheek. “You heard her, doll. Clean up!” Grinning he slipped out of the foyer after Cersei. She continued  to march through the house, passing through the parlor, down a corridor and into a room off to the right. Tyren quietly followed, ducking into the vast study. Book shelves lined the walls and a large portrait of Dath’remar was mounted on the wall above the fireplace. Cersei perched on the edge of a large desk, pinching her slightly too small nose.

“What are you doing here, Tyren?” She asked quietly, all the venom gone from her voice.

Tyren sighed and closed the door behind him, closing them off from the rest of the house. “I came back to see if you had thought about what I said, last we spoke.”

She looked up at him, delicate brow furrowed. “I have not seen or heard from you in almost sixteen years, Tyren.”

“I suppose that means you do not recall my proposal.” He replied quietly, his charming smile faltering.

“No, no I remember it. But it’s been sixteen years! Tyren I have two sons, a husband, a life.” Cersei shook her head and stood up. She watched Tyren as he avoided her gaze, looking around at the hundreds of books kept in the study.

“I merely thought to give you plenty of time to think about it.” He shook his head and looked around the study again. “You can’t possibly be happy here, Cersei.” Tyren looked back to her, confident in his assertion. He knew her. He had known her for almost his entire life. “This is not the type of place we used to talk about. It’s outrageous.”

“I…bettered my standards.” Cersei insisted.

“No, you weighed down your coin purse. And stooped ridiculously low to do so.”

“Tyren I am comfortable here, happy. I don’t have to worry about anything. I can just live my life freely, without a care in the world.”

The Ranger-Captain shook his head, “You’re not happy. I have seen you happy, and that’s not how you look or act when you’re happy.”

“Perhaps I have changed.” Snapped Cersei, causing Tyren to wince. She frowned and strode forward, placing her hand on his arm. “I am not the same girl who dreamed of prancing about the world, living on whatever we could scrounge up. It is a childish romance, I know this now. We were just a childish romance.”

“I am not a child, Cersei.” Tyren growled. “I am a grown man, a Ranger-Captain. I have esteem, I have a social life outside of boring political parties and stuffy brunches, I live a comfortable life. But I’m still missing something.” He looked down at her meaningfully. Under the intensity of his gaze, Cersei tried to look away, but he lifted his hand to cup her cheek, forcing her to look back up at him.

“Tyren…”

“I’m missing you, Cersei. Us.” His thumb gently stroked her smooth cheek and he smiled softly. “Let Lord Sorrelon find himself another trophy wife.”

Cersei’s lower lip trembled and she leaned away from Tyren’s warm touch. “I can’t do that, Tyren.” She insisted. “I am a mother, a wife, a Lady.”

“You could still be all those things– Well perhaps not the Lady bit, but who gives a damn about that anyways? Come on, I have given you sixteen years to play princess in the castle. Come back with me.” Before she could protest, Tyren pulled her into his arms. Feebly, Cersei tried to squirm out of his grasp, but it really was no use.

“I cannot, Tyren. I am truly sorry, but I made my choice many years ago”

“And so did I.” He pulled her into a kiss, holding her steadfastly to his chest.

Cersei tried to protest, but soon her I can’ts were lost to his lips as she melted against him.

Entry #1

August 11

Age 11

Today is my birthday.

My litter sister, Melody, has declared today to be my birthday. Everyone else in the family has a birthday, she says, so why should I not have one? Three days ago she decided that today, Thursday, would be my official un-official birthday. She is five, but her tiny heart is in the right place I suppose. And I got a present out of it- this journal. To write all about how much I love my little sister, she told me. To be honest I think this ragged leather book was all she could afford with the spending money mother gave her when they went out shopping the other day. I rather like it, though. Mel also managed to sneak a couple left over pieces of cake from Caloneth’s birthday last week up into her room, along with a candle. Cal is my oldest brother, by the way. She told me Cal blew out a few candles on his cake, but she figured even one would grant me my birthday wish.

I wished Mel said I am not supposed to tell anyone what I wished for. I do not know if the journal counts, but I’ll be safe. I wonder if the wish only works on your real birthday. Probably.

My name is Westel, by the way. I probably should have mentioned that at the beginning. Mother says it is polite to introduce yourself, but many of the people I have introduced myself to I have either never seen again or they ignored my existence all together. I do not think formal introductions are all that important, but I do try to make mother happy. So I’ll properly introduce myself.

I am Westel Araseid Sorrelon, son of Caloneth Sorrelon I and Cersei Sorrelon. I am the third son of the Sorrelon family, a blessing supposedly. Children are not a common thing among our race, so I hear. My immediate family is uncommonly large, but has plenty of funds to support it and have left over for the luxuries of the manor I live in. My eldest brother is Caloneth Sorrelon II, after him is Vathal Sorrelon, then myself, and then my little sister Melody Sorrelon. Everyone in the family has light blond hair except me. I suppose I live up to the name “black sheep” with my strange hair color. I remember once my mother contemplated dying it so I would “actually look like a member of the family, even if I do not act like it”.

I would like to write a bit more, but we are being called for dinner and if I am late I will not eat tonight. Good night.