Episode 35 - Corrections

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  Welcome back to yet another episode of me complaining about myself on the internet. I’m sure it’s getting annoying. And I’m sorry about that. Because that is not what it says on the tin now is it? This was supposed to be a podcast about, what did I call it again, ‘life on the social internet,’ but between the lines, it was meant to be a podcast about my life on the social internet. And my life hasn’t always been great. In some ways, this was expected, I’m sure. Knowing me, which you did not. But still, if this podcast was going to devolve into me complaining about myself seemingly nonstop, I should have warned you. I should have written it on the tin, somewhere. It’s only polite. But I didn’t do that. And maybe it’s because I knew that if I did, no one would listen to this podcast. And I couldn’t have that. I needed someone to hear this story. Or the version of it that I’m telling. Which is needlessly cryptic, I’m sure. I’m sure it seems like I’m fishing for listeners, which is part of the podcasting game but also gets annoying. Marketing can be annoying, but it shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t act so annoying. But I do. There are a lot of things that should be different that I cannot change.

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But I can change my perspective. So why don’t I do that? Instead of talking about things I don’t do well or don’t know. I could talk about something I’m an expert in, right? And cue the good ole ‘it’s my podcast and I can do whatever I want’ mantra. (sigh) It’s not that I don't care what you think or what you want to hear or want this show to be. It’s not that I’m the sort of creative who cannot take criticism ever. Right now, I can’t, though. Or it’s hard to. Because I know where this is going and you don’t. I can’t tell you where I’m taking you. I can’t share the map with you. I can’t really disclose anything right now. That was always the problem. I’m not good at explaining this. Even when I had the chance to, even when the opportunity to speak was being handed to me on a silver platter, I couldn’t do it. So I stayed silent, and now I deeply regret it. 

So the first thing I’m really good at: regretting things.

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Princess Eathebel waited anxiously for her brother to summon her. She had asked for an audience with King Ezin, but it had not happened yet. The new king was largely spoken for. Jewels and royal robes had to be refitted for the younger man, and advisors had to be switched out and then met with. Those loyal only to the old king had to be sent away, and those loyal to either had to have whatever reckoning was owed to them. The newly freed castles and titles then needed to be reassigned. There were budgets to review, executions to order, and any number of smaller things that needed to be reconsidered under the eyes of a new king. These things were necessary, Princess Eathebel would remind herself. Those hastily crafted assurances, however, felt hollow. And maybe in many ways they were. After all, she was the king’s sister. And did he not owe her comfort and consideration as her brother? Did being a king really negate that?

She could hardly catch more than glimpses of her brother, which made it hard to know what his answer to that question would have been. He had become more sullen and distant while the pulls of leadership stretched his face and aged him. Heavy was the burden that came with the crown, she had read, secretly off course and tucked away in some nook or cranny in a quiet part of the castle where she could not be seen and thus disturbed. No one had ever really liked the idea of her reading or doing much of anything besides being obedient and proper, those things that she hated most. 

She was surprised to find that the resentment she carried had lingered for so long. She had hoped it would go away by now. Her father was dead, was he not? Dead and buried. Some place where he could no longer bother her. But the hurt lingered, and she could not understand why.

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At this point, I want to say that sadness is something I’m unfortunately good at. But I don’t know what the, um, clinical implications of that statement would be, even in this setting: in a podcast that is somewhat tied to my name, but it’s a name that other people could also have. And we live in the age of so-called ‘reality’ TV where everything or almost everything can at least be accused of being scripted in order to create that sweet, sweet marketable drama. Personally, I don’t know how much of it is. People can suck sometimes. Maybe the camera crew was just in the right place at the right time to capture it. 

Anyway, what I meant to say is.. Well, I don’t mean it to be concerning, but I was walking in a bookstore the other day and saw a book entitled something like ‘How to be Sad.’ I don't remember the specifics which is most inconvenient right now, but the underlying premise of the title was that sadness can be, in some ways, thought of as an art form. It’s not a great art form or one worth displaying, but there’s a way to do it that isn’t so horribly destructive and painful that it eats us alive. And frankly, I think I’m at that point. I think I know where the limits to sadness are. I think I could have written that book. And it’s a shame that I did not. The money has got to be great.

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Princess Eathebel had time to waste while she waited for her brother to acknowledge her in the way that their father had hardly ever done. There wasn’t much for her to do, however. There were no royal duties assigned to her, though she was ready to ask her brother for some. There were certain activities and behaviors denied to her while her family remained in quasi-morning. For yes, their father the king was dead, but there was a new king whose certainly prosperous and joyous reign needed to be welcomed in with all the fanfare that he was owed as king. So the royal family remained in black but with gold trimmings and accents. 

Princess Eathebel spent some of her days looking into mirrors, admiring how the color black seemed to look so well on her. It was one of the rare times in her life where she thought herself well and truly beautiful. There was no one to share that thought with, however. There was the sister-in-law who was at least willing to show Princess Eathebel some sort of kindness. And it was not as if Queen Evanora knew about the plot. Or so Princess Eathebel had come to believe. Frankly any alternative just seemed too far fetched or impossible. And the whole thing felt like another lifetime. A past life of theirs, one might call it. And the act of rebirth had wiped the slate clean.

“What is the king up to these days?” the princess would ask. Sometimes it was meant innocently, but there remained the lingering hope that the king would summon her soon.

“I do not know,” Queen Evanora would answer. “He said nothing to me about… our concern however.”

Sometimes they would talk about the young girl in the queen’s arms, the child quickly becoming a toddler and leaving her infant years behind. She hardly fit into the royal infant gowns anymore. She was growing far faster than what seemed normal. The two women would talk about that, talk about the curls losing their shape on the baby’s head, and the many plans the king had for the infant. There were to be tutors coming in from all over the world, the queen had said. And despite how stoic Queen Evanora was about these things, a small flicker of pride would flash across her face. And it gave her sister-in-law unfounded hope. 

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I didn’t min-max to get to be so good at sadness by the way, I feel like that needs to be said. Although, that is a phrase that you might only understand if you play tabletop role playing games or anything like that. It’s the sort of contextual vocabulary others might not understand. But what I mean to say is that I did not choose this. I did not seek it out, and I don’t take much if any joy in it. Part of my sadness skill is just a naturally inherited talent. It runs in my family, you could say. And maybe some of them were more drawn to it than others, but that isn’t my fault. So don’t hold it against me. So many of us have to lug around these inconvenient and unearned inheritances. We do the best we can. Why should we be punished for trying to do it well? 

Rhetorical question, of course. Because we’ll always end up doing it to ourselves. Your opinion is decidedly irrelevant.

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After two months on the throne, the king finally sent for his sister. By then, royal mourning colors included white. Or small additions of it across the neck and wrists. Princess Eathebel had been thinking about how unwelcomed this inclusion was when the servant came to get her. But that thought fell to pieces the moment he called for her 

Her heart leaped out of her chest in excitement and with the blood moving so forcefully through her veins, it was hard for her to keep a proper pace as she moved through the palace. Her steps remained a beat or two too quick, and she felt the eyes of her mother stare at her with venom and condemnation as they passed each other in the halls. The princess couldn’t even walk right, the glare seemed to be saying, but Princess Eathebel did not care. She was finally going to see her brother and get her future sorted out. Everything was going to be okay.

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My family had such grand plans for me. Or at least, my parents did. They were the sort of ‘no expense spared’ sort of parents. They could certainly spare a lot of things that I actually needed them to give me. I would have loved to always be on the top of their priority list, but that just was not going to happen. It wasn’t how they were raised or inclined to behave, and I am very good at being bitter about it. It got to the point that I genuinely worried I was actually narcissistic, like a narcissistic abuser because Tiktok kept showing me that sort of content. Maybe my parents were just the scapegoats for everything that was wrong with my life and every sort of grievance that I had. But that wasn’t it. 

The content wasn’t unfounded. It was just founded in a different way. And my parents genuinely let me down. And there’s a body count to show for it, so why wouldn’t I be bitter? Even after all these years. 

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Joy shatters violently. Such is a simple truth hardly acknowledged as it points to an aspect of reality we want so vehemently to avoid. But as the princess stood before her brother, she found it to be inescapable. 

“You really intend for this to happen then,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. 

“It is what is best for you,” her brother replied, but he would not look at her when he said it. 

There was no sympathy or compassion in the avoidance. He was simply staring at his papers and would not give her the dignity of any formal acknowledgement. Perhaps the marriage treaty was already there then, she feared. She did not know what to think.

“You don’t know what’s best for me,” she replied. 

She would not use the proper titles for him, the newfound honorifics that neither fit on his shoulders or in her mouth. It seemed to prove the queen mother’s point, but the king hardly acknowledged that thought. He only let it sit and fester unchecked in his mind, which was likely the worst approach. It gave the accusation teeth.

“A household, an estate, children,” the king replied. “That’s what’s best for you.”

“Is that what is best for your daughter then? We are both princesses.”

The king looked up at her, eyes burning .“She is my heir. You are my sister. And when the mourning period for father ends, you will be someone else’s problem.”

With a cry, she snapped, “Oh how generous of you to give me that long.”

“It’s what’s proper,” the king snarled back. “We cannot have a wedding while the family is still in mourning.” 

And he was right, but perhaps, he should have held his tongue. For mourning is not finite and clocks can always be reset. 

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When I talk about my family, there is an element of it that is speculative. I grew up with my aunt living with us, and the stories she and my father do share shed light on things. They don’t always line up, of course. Sibling won’t always agree on everything, but there are common points that I can use to guide the rest of my conclusions. By no means is it a great or infallible system for pulling together my family history, but I catch the overwhelming themes of it quite well. 

It reminds me of ancient historians or what I learned about them: how not all of them told the truth in the details, but they could make you understand the sentiments of the world they lived in or was around them. I understand the general problems even if I can’t lay out dates and times when it specifically went wrong. 

And maybe that influenced my storytelling, if you can call what I do that. Maybe the reason why details don’t come easily to me–why names and facts weren’t always important enough to type out, why I’m so bad at them full stop–is because this is how I learned to tell stories. This was how I learned to be. Your family maybe doesn’t or at least shouldn’t dictate what matters, but they certainly influence it. And this wouldn’t be the first time mine led me astray. Nor would it be the most important. 

I’m good at wanting things. And I want to be able to tell someone specific that I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not anymore anyway. 

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Wane had offered to do the dirty work. It was something he was always willing to do. It was not just that this was his line of work, that he had spent so many of his days killing men and women or that he had already killed one already. Rather, he wanted to make life easy for the love of his. He would do anything for Princess Eathebel, anything to spare her even the slightest of difficulties. But there would have been an ache in letting someone else do what she had always wanted to do. This was her dream, in so many ways. Or it was a recurring one she often had. It was right and just, the princess wanted to call it. After so much heartache and hurt, after the rejections that no child should ever have to experience. 

Queen Asha was not the princess’s real mother, she wanted to say. Not in any way that counted. She had birthed the princess and charged a steep toll for the honor. The rest of the ledger was markedly empty. It was a truth that she told to Wane and Wane alone, that she–the Princess Eathebel had no mother–and this would only be a correcting of the record. 

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Aishi Online is a production of Miscellany Media Studios. It is written, produced, performed, and edited by MJ Bailey with music from the Sounds like an Earful music supply. If you like the show, please leave a review, tell a friend, or donate to the show’s Ko-Fi account.