i think conrad had a journal he kept while he was living with halcyon, but in it he would only write letters. some addressed to himself, his mother, his father, liprica, anthiese. some were angrier than others, more frustrated, and others were full of nothing but love and kindness. some were tear stained and full of grief and some were bittersweet and melancholic. he’d sometimes write about what he thought could have been, and sometimes about the reality of it all. they were never meant to be delivered, only a release from the pent up emotions that halcyon forbade him from having. sometimes he’d jot down things he learned -- he had a specific place where he kept his notes to remember. but i think he had a room boarded with wooden panels, a tiny window, a desk and a chair, and a bed frame. his journal sat on his desk, a quill and ink aside it. on it, there were a few other books. some for academics, others for training, and few just for leisurely enjoyment. he liked to keep drinking water aside his bed for when he woke up in heated sweats or lonely panic -- it seemed to help him calm down, and remember how it felt to breathe.

                                          FIRE , FIRE ! ASHES , ASHES .

HEAT IS A LEECH THAT DEPRAVES HIM OF OXYGEN & fear is pierced like spear through his heart. the onset of FIRE, FLAMES, THE WRATH OF HELL has engulfed his home & destroyed those who never loved him. those who cursed him with torments & low self-esteem -- the family he thought was family, but was no family at all. but he’s sorry. guilty, even, as he chokes on his own life. this pressure that builds & builds has no release & the tears will not stop spilling from his eyes, his nose, his mouth. he is riddled with anxiety, & he cannot breathe. the boy is clenching his throat, his fingers grasping for something that does not exist, praying that someone, somewhere might help him  .  .  .  but he doesn’t cry for help. he cries loudly, alone, afraid, as if he wants someone to hear him but he knows better than request assistance. he doesn’t deserve it, after all.

knees give out, & he crashes to the ground. he’s crawling, but he doesn’t know where. he can hardly see, eyes clouded with smoke & tears while simultaneously trying to blink away the dryness of the air. he gave up on yelling, on announcing his presence. some strange instinct comes over him, lest he would have let himself perish. he remembers women -- three of them. mother, lady liprica, anthiese. he doesn’t want to leave without saying goodbye  .  .  .  but it may be too late.

while he thinks of them as some symbols of hope, a woman’s feet would bestow themselves in his bleary sight. exhaustion has become him. he can no longer move. on the verge of unconsciousness, he’s lifted with familiar arms, but he can’t recognize whose they are. suddenly his vision fades to black & his ears are ringing before his senses fall short.

                                                      .  .  .

CLACK , CLACK , CLACK .  he knows the sound of boots upon pavement & his eyes squint open, unaccustomed to the light. ah -- it’s her. his mother’s closest companion, one of his most trusted people. of course she would save him, but it doesn’t stop the sorry conscience from festering within. he’s still in her arms, & he can tell she’s growing weary. they’re travelling through dark halls, lit only by the lantern in her hands. sometimes she stops abruptly as if to find which direction opens next. she probably doesn’t know that he’s awoken, so he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t speak. some strange anxiety pulses through his veins  .  .  .  is he allowed to be awake ? no. he must speak. he knows that there are matters far more important than his selfish fears.

                             ❝   where  .  .  .  ❞     his voice is soft at first. hesitant.

                                                          ❝   where is anthiese .  .  . ?   ❞  

he’s tired, weary, desperate. it takes a moment for it all to sink in. he stops at first, his eyes wide. the words replay like the repeating fractions of his mind. ‘ princess anthiese was not found. i’m sorry, conrad. she is no longer with us. ’ & he doesn’t know what that means -- no, he doesn’t want to know what that means. so, he asks again.                      ❝   wh -- what do you mean ?! ❞

& she speaks again. that sweet familiar voice now laced with the venom of a traitor, ‘ she has died, dear. i am so sorry. your mother along with her. i’m so sorry, my love. ’ but he doesn’t want apologies. tears stream down his face once more before he can even form an expression & they do not stop. he lays in her arms, dormant, still, as the emotion he wishes he could feel pours only in rivers out of him. it does not take long. the realization, struck like lightning, electrocuting his body in a fit of absolute terror, turmoil, regret. he doesn’t even think -- he only wails into the woman’s tattered cloak. he knows it well... white & ripped at the edges. he’s only staining it more with the way he leans his entire weight into it. he grips on her clothes & screams. how can the only good he’s ever met face with in this cruel world be stripped from him ? the only rays of hope that ever allowed the flowers to bloom in the spring time  .  .  .  killed away with winter’s eternal dread.

                                                mommy , anthiese , lady liprica  .  .  .

his sobbing is uncontrollable. he knows that he does not deserve much, but does he deserve this? he must, he thinks, but he has a hard time coming to terms with it.

                                                           --

move on, continue forward, grief is for those weak of heart, & sadness must be kept dormant, lest you fail to prove yourself a proper knight.

he’s older now, living in a town, sage’s hamlet. he lives with a man, halcyon, some man once devout in the faith of duma, until he was replaced with some other man named jedah. conrad is unfamiliar with the politics, for he was never explained them. he’s a servant now. & a student, at that. that woman had handed him off to any who would seek pity on a child abandoned of life through death’s relentless grasp. there’s some bitterness he holds toward her still. why couldn’t she take care of him ? he knew her. she knew him. was he truly so unlovable ? well, of course. he’d only heard it one thousand times over. halcyon was a nice enough man, but he was nothing tolerant of any sort of emotional expression  .  .  .  which made it quite difficult on a boy of overwhelming feeling.

surely  .  .  .  a good man, a good teacher. not a good  .  .  .  father. though what is he to know of the goodness of men ? nothing. even he, himself is so poor of heart. he was often the brunt of rage in men. halcyon was no different, truly, but he was better than that king. that king who wears the same flesh as he, the same blood, the same eyes. it’s inescapable as he looks at himself with hatred in a mirror. he lives his life in the dusty village, commanded & trained. academically, physically, emotionally. he learns the person of a worth man, a prince, a knight & he takes this idea & creates some facade of self worth. this is who is he now & he must be content until he is not.

he sighs for a moment, & closes his eyes. he knows the smell of his pillow, his lightweight wool blanket & his creaking bed frame. he curls into himself, wishing that he had something to hold onto. it’s quiet, only the sounds of chickens clucking in the darkness seen through his tiny window. he pulls his blanket over his nose & eventually all the sounds fade into the bleakness of night.

tag drop !

Conrad is really withdrawn honestly to the point where it’s hard for him to make friends or open up or trust people. Like of course his mask is just that, a mask, but I think it ties into the roots of his past of constantly being shamed for who he was and abused and bullied just for merely existing. All of his siblings hated him and looked down on him and spat at him (aside from celica) and their mothers did as well, even his father did not care about him. He has a Lot of self esteem issues and the only person he’s truly himself around is Celica. That’s not to say that he can’t grow to become comfortable with people, but he’s so fearful of them and untrusting. He avoids closeness and intimacy, mostly because it’s something that’s foreign to him. He doesn’t understand it outside of his sister because she’s the only one who’s genuinely cared for him. I think that Halcyon cared for him as well in raising him essentially but he didn’t look at Conrad as a son. Conrad was his servant. His student. And that was all. Conrad learned from Halcyon and was provided a place to stay, but it’s like... staying at a dorm for schooling. It wasn’t really a home, despite how he believed that it was (because he’d never known a true home) and i dont know he’s just. It’d take a lot to get close to him and to get him to open up. 

He’s gentle by nature, it’s who he is as a person, but he’s just so guarded that he has a hard time acting like himself in front of anyone who he isn’t extremely familiar with. He didn’t have friends growing up, he didn’t have company, he was so so lonely and that’s why it pains him so much to hear Celica lash out and grieve openly about her loneliness. She represses a lot of her feelings as well and he could really see himself in her. He’s suffered a lot and when he revealed himself (even going against Halcyon’s orders) it was the older brother in him that just couldn’t bear to see his sister go through what he went through. He knows she doesn’t deserve that pain. When he slapped her, it wasn’t a form of punishment, and it’s definitely not excusable. He shouldn’t have slapped her, no. But it was nothing born of malice -- it wasn’t a slap of any force or pain, only a sort of wake up call. A light sting to bring her back to reality. It’s something that he wishes someone would have done to him in the moments when he got so lost in his thoughts and self destructive tendencies.