Eight words.
In the privacy of his room at the palace, Kyle opens his mail. The package or the letter? Which first?
Curiosity gets the better of him, and he draws a small blade to cut the twine holding the worn, linen wrappings together. A sword rolls out of the fabric. Not a surprise. And the linen itself? Proves to be an old shirt, still completely intact, although it looks as if it's been carefully mended in several places during its lifetime.
The weapon is sheathed in a beaten up scabbard, wrapped in leather. The guard and hilt are a little more impressive, more for their quality than any sort of decoration. Kyle's seen his fair share of swords in his life, and he can recognize good craftsmanship when he sees it. The weave of the leather on the grip is tight, flush, and precise, the hilt is iron, engraved with a single wave. He draws the blade from its sheath to reveal over two feet of gleaming, folded steel.
A sturdy weapon, and well-loved by its previous owner, if its maintenance is any indication. It still smells like oil and polish.
He takes the linen shirt and unfolds it completely. The front is half-way laced, and the whole garment speaks to an earlier sense of fashion. The cuff of the right sleeve is decorated with some subtle, worn embroidery. Kyle feels like he's seen it before. Probably just a common design.
Taken by an odd impulse, he begins stripping off the top of his uniform, and pulls the shirt over his head, tugging the sleeves neatly to his wrists. He doesn't even consider why the compulsion to do this is so strong. It fits, though, like it was tailored for him.
From the corner of his eye, he catches his reflection in the mirror, and feels his stomach drop. The blurred profile of the man he sees is so familiar, but just as quickly as he turns his head to face the mirror, he's gone. Just Kyle looking back at him.
This is when he turns to the letter. He slowly exhales, and breaks the unadorned wax seal.
Inside are only a few words:
Sorry I couldn't be there for you.
The hand holding the letter drops to his knee, and in its turn, the letter drops to the floor. Kyle takes up the sword and stands in front of the mirror again, looking closely this time. He kept his hair short . . . This was his favorite shirt. Kyle glances down at the cuff of the sleeve. He realizes he's not used to looking at it from this angle. The last time he saw it . . . over twenty years ago, it was damply clinging to a wrist as white as the linen itself. He didn't understand then . . .
But he understands now. In a flurry of movement, the shirt is a rumpled pile on the floor. Kyle's bare chest is heaving, heart pounding in his ears.
His eyes twitch back to the letter, open on the floor.
Sorry I couldn't be there for you.
What about my mother? he wants to ask, as if the eight words on the paper would reveal more information, indulge his question. What was her name? What was your name?
Who were you, and what does that make me?
Curiosity gets the better of him, and he draws a small blade to cut the twine holding the worn, linen wrappings together. A sword rolls out of the fabric. Not a surprise. And the linen itself? Proves to be an old shirt, still completely intact, although it looks as if it's been carefully mended in several places during its lifetime.
The weapon is sheathed in a beaten up scabbard, wrapped in leather. The guard and hilt are a little more impressive, more for their quality than any sort of decoration. Kyle's seen his fair share of swords in his life, and he can recognize good craftsmanship when he sees it. The weave of the leather on the grip is tight, flush, and precise, the hilt is iron, engraved with a single wave. He draws the blade from its sheath to reveal over two feet of gleaming, folded steel.
A sturdy weapon, and well-loved by its previous owner, if its maintenance is any indication. It still smells like oil and polish.
He takes the linen shirt and unfolds it completely. The front is half-way laced, and the whole garment speaks to an earlier sense of fashion. The cuff of the right sleeve is decorated with some subtle, worn embroidery. Kyle feels like he's seen it before. Probably just a common design.
Taken by an odd impulse, he begins stripping off the top of his uniform, and pulls the shirt over his head, tugging the sleeves neatly to his wrists. He doesn't even consider why the compulsion to do this is so strong. It fits, though, like it was tailored for him.
From the corner of his eye, he catches his reflection in the mirror, and feels his stomach drop. The blurred profile of the man he sees is so familiar, but just as quickly as he turns his head to face the mirror, he's gone. Just Kyle looking back at him.
This is when he turns to the letter. He slowly exhales, and breaks the unadorned wax seal.
Inside are only a few words:
Sorry I couldn't be there for you.
The hand holding the letter drops to his knee, and in its turn, the letter drops to the floor. Kyle takes up the sword and stands in front of the mirror again, looking closely this time. He kept his hair short . . . This was his favorite shirt. Kyle glances down at the cuff of the sleeve. He realizes he's not used to looking at it from this angle. The last time he saw it . . . over twenty years ago, it was damply clinging to a wrist as white as the linen itself. He didn't understand then . . .
But he understands now. In a flurry of movement, the shirt is a rumpled pile on the floor. Kyle's bare chest is heaving, heart pounding in his ears.
His eyes twitch back to the letter, open on the floor.
Sorry I couldn't be there for you.
What about my mother? he wants to ask, as if the eight words on the paper would reveal more information, indulge his question. What was her name? What was your name?
Who were you, and what does that make me?