Episode 41 - Layers

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  Welcome back to the podcast. (Pause) I’m sure you don’t believe that’s a genuine expression. I’m sure you’re confused as to why I keep saying it when you know I don’t mean it. It’s yet another thing about me that you find endlessly confusing. 

And it’s not that I don’t understand why you might be confused. You wonder why I speak half-truths that I didn’t want anyone to hear despite publishing them on a platform with a great deal of accessibility. Heck, I even sprung for transcripts to maximize said accessibility. I know what you’re thinking. That’s not all of the contradictions I display, just obvious part of the pot. It’s the most relevant part, I would think. It’s the contradiction at the forefront of your mind, but I don’t think it’s a contradiction. I think it’s complexity. Complexity of human nature. Complexity of the mind. Or the soul. 

And at the risk of sounding like a boomer. I think we’ve forgotten about that. I think there’s no room for it in the narratives we spin about our world and each other. We live on apps that emphasize a sort of speed or ease of access. And with that, complexity had to fall away. But we need to recognize it. We need to see it. It’s part of our reality, a part of human nature, but it’s the part of us that can frighten us because of the implications. Because it makes us unpredictable and uncontrollable. And it means the consequences of our choices are much the same. Unpredictable and uncontrollable. We like predictability and control. We may even need it. But control and predictability weren’t things that were sewn into our reality. Our reality is bent towards disarray and something lesser than chaos. And we’re constantly fighting against that. 

Which is understandable. If not admirable. But that doesn’t change the fact that there are situations that will resist our earnest attempts to simplify them. I know that all too well. 

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King Ezin sat back and watched his intended brother-in-law as he moved through the court. He watched as Duke Jemes did all that was expected of him and hit all of his marks. The performance was flawless and effortless. He took on the role of royal bridegroom as if he were born for it. But no one is ever really born for it, the king knew. He knew better than anyone the years of instruction and careful planning that goes into being royalty. This wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t a coincidence. The duke had been made ready for something like this. The king could not be sure by whom or why, but it was clear that Duke Jemes had been groomed for royalty.  And that was not a good sign.

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I think some people call it nuance. And they think of nuance as being able to scoop up the details of a situation–the many small crumbs spilled in by other forces–and keep hold of them. They try to flow from your fingers like grains of sand, and the challenge is in keeping them in. And it’s such a difficult challenge that we stand impressed when someone manages it. If we think about it, of course. But think about my previous point for a moment. 

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Queen Evanora did not make visits. It was not that she thought herself beyond them, quite the contrary. She was a humble royal, the court would always say. As she once said to them–or as they understood the matter–it was for this humility that she did not invite herself when she could not serve those in her presence. If she could not give of herself, if she would only take away by being in a room, then it would be for the best if she refrained. sHe would keep to herself then.  She would restrain herself from complicating anyone’s life or current moment. That was a reason to love her, perhaps. But it meant that when she deviated, in moments such as this when she sought out the princess in her chambers, it was all the more noteworthy. 

Servants held their breath as the queen processed by them with only two of her ladies and not the full train. Their racing minds spun clouds that filled the air. This was meant to be a happy time, they thought. There was to be a wedding, after all. What could have the queen so occupied as this?

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On a related note, even if it doesn’t seem related, what would you call me in this work you’re proposing? Do you mean to call me a hero? Because I wasn’t. A protagonist? I was a child through so much of this, though I suppose that does not say too much. There are children who can be protagonists, but I was not one of them. I didn’t have the agency required to be one. Then I became a teenager in body but not in mind. And I still hid because that was all I knew to do. I hid and so many worlds and lives came apart. I did nothing. I learned to do nothing. And there were consequences to that nothing. 

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The servants could be dismissed by the wave of a queen’s hand, but the eyes in the shadows remained. The eyes in the shadows did not adhere to royal protocol, and there was something unwise about even acknowledging them. Queen Evanora could sense they were there. She could feel their weight on her and the subtle threat they posed. She could not prove they were there. And so, she had to ignore them. But their presence made her uneasy, even though she knew he could not harm her. She had ensured as much. It was more about the morality of it all: this belief that the Princess Eathebel should be able to make an informed choice before she acts. If she wanted to risk her own life, then that was her business. But she had to know that was what she was doing before she could make that choice.

Coldly, the princess lowered herself in the expected curtsy. Her form was flawless, the sort of thing you would expect from someone made royal by their birth. But in that perfection, it drew an artificial feeling. Queen Evanora had seen the princess stumble through one when excitement filled her, when sisterly love filled her, or when any emotion at all coursed through her veins. The absence of that complication whispered a dark warning into the queen’s ear. 

“Your Majesty,” Princess Eathebel murmured. 

There was ice in her voice. The queen could hear it, but what was offered could always be served back. For she too had been raised for nobility and taught to guard against the usual tactics of humanity. It was a language she was more fluent at than the princess was. After all, the queen’s parents had actually loved her.

So, matter of factly, the queen presented a simple question. “Would you like to know how your daughter died?”

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I can’t blame anyone who finds themselves swept up in the true crime craze, really, because I can’t know what it is that pulled them in. Maybe that thing is actually a problem. But there is something alluring about the darkness of the human mind. It is fascinating. It frightens us, and yet, perhaps if we confront it, we can overcome it, deconstruct it, and the like. Or that’s what they say, whoever they are. But personally, I don’t think that’s possible. I’ve been too close to it myself to ever think that’s possible. There are things that are beyond our comprehension, though I recognize that is difficult to understand or believe. There is a strong incentive to not believe as much simply because of the implications latent in that sentiment. We like the narrative of good versus evils when it is something being written or controlled by human hands. No matter what the text says, there is a subtext there that is hard to see and seldom talked about, but it makes us feel safe. Maybe we can feel that it is there. Maybe we can sense it. And that’s behind so much of what we do. 

It’s instinctual, you could say, and I would support that statement if you meant it as a fact not an excuse or a justification. Because that can be true, this may be an instinct, but that doesn’t mean we’re bound to it. We can do better. We can always do better.

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Queen Evanora had expected screaming. She had expected an outburst of some kind from the princess given the weight of information she had to bring. If the truth were diluted down enough, then it could be said that Princess Eathebel killed her own daughter. And as said princess was one for simplicity and directness, it seemed like the line of thought would suit her mind but not her heart. There was a part of her that did love the babe, after all. There is always a part of a mother that loves their child. The part may not be enough. It may hardly be enough, but it still lingers there. 

The queen could feel the shift in the shadows. She could feel the weight of the strong crash down in on himself. He did love the child, presumably his child, she thought. She had cast a light on all that her sister-in-law had tried to keep hidden. There was no going back now. 

“I know we’ve made mistakes,” the queen said coldly. “I know the sort of people the belated king and queen could be. I know my husband should have done better to listen to you, and I should have done better to keep silent. But we cannot change the past.”

It was a simple statement. Factual and dry. Mere mortals could not change the past. They could not erase their sins. They could not raise the dead. Those matters were settled but what came next was not so clear.

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Maybe you would try to call me a victim instead. I am a victim of my family in the same way everyone else was. I was pulled into this storm without my consent. I was frightened. My parents protected me physically but little else. In fact, my history on the internet is really just escapism, right? You’re tempted to point that part out because you don’t know where the truth ends and the lie begins. It’s not that clever, I think. It’s not that clever, and I am no victim. At least, not in the way that you understand the term. It’s more complicated than that. Everything is more complicated than you might think,

But that doesn’t absolve me of anything. I know. It’s not that I think that it does. I’ve said this before, but I don’t know where I fit in a conversation that is designed to ignore complexity. And nuance. There are crumbs that have slipped through fingers. This is one of them.

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The days ticked on. The lead up to the wedding continued to grow. The excitement crescendoed. But all the while, Princess Eathebel wore a stoic expression. Her complexion was paler than it had ever been, but the absence of blood in her face did not raise alarm. It was just pre-wedding jitters, the courtiers would say, about a face that hardly seemed to suit that of an excited bride. It was just different for royal marriages, they would add should the need arise. The need to clarify seldom arose. Everyone was content with the version of the tale they told themselves. It was just easier that way. 

In any event, there was much feasting to be enjoyed. There were many banquets and much entertainment. The food was overserved. The wine overpoured. And the musicians all played a bit too loudly. 

It was perfect cover for the king to slip next to her sister as she watched Duke Jemes play to the crowd. They loved him, but oh how she hated him. The mere sight of him turned her stomach. And yet, she was going to be stuck married to him, she knew. There was no way out of it now. The memory of her daughter sent a pang of heartache through her, warning her of what was to come if she dared to resort to her old methods. After this wedding, Wane could at least follow her to her new castle. He could stay with her, stay in the shadows watching her as he had always done, but for that, he would have to live. He had to be unharmed. His life could not be put in danger, no matter what the death of her brother could do for her.

Under the weight of her own resignation, she shut her eyes.

“Do as you will with him,” she suddenly heard. 

With a start, he turned to see her brother at her side, sporting a smile he flashed to anyone who might cast a glance at the bride and her brother. But Princess Eathebel was close enough to see into King Ezin’s eyes. Joy was not there. Life was not there. They were blank. 

“Your wife came to see me,” she whispered.

“She told me. And in light of that conversation,” he hissed, still sporting that fake grin, “I should tell you that he is a problem for us both. A problem that could go away without repercussions for you.” He paused. “If you’re careful, of course. I need to be able to pretend that I do not know what happened.” 

That was all he said. In many ways, he did not need to say anything else. With that, he stepped away and let things fall the way they may. It was of no more concern to him. 

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I am not a victim. I should not present myself as the center of this tale. It might have made sense when this was an investigation. The weakest link would get the spotlight as the craftsmen worked to break into it. But effectively, we’ve moved past that. Or we should have. This is something else entirely. Something worse, I suspect. I should have told this tale right away. More directly. I should have done everything differently. And for that, I’m sorry. But I doubt this apology really means anything.

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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.