My Brother. The Son. The Prince. - Part I

"You're saying it's hopeless, that I should hope less
Heaven can help us, well maybe she might
You say it's beyond us, what is beyond us
Let's see and decide..."

"Pick it up Arima! The stopwatch is ticking!" Berates the drill instructor.

Running. Jumping. Climbing. This damn obstacle course is a bore. I'm first in the lead with just a few of the more promising recruits keeping up. Sweat is dripping down my back and pooling where it forms. If one were to take a pair of scissors to it, my shirt could transform into a tank-top. I can only imagine what I smell like. Miira would testify for roses.

"A friendly reminder that the last five recruits caught finishing last get to continue running the course until I feel like instructing you to stop!"

"And no one gets a freebie," I murmur to myself. Unfortunately, the instructor can read my damn thoughts, and says, "Arima! If you're going to speak, you better speak up! So that we can all hear you!" I repeat what I say, albeit louder so that everyone within earshot can hear it. There is a noticeable pace shift for several recruits lagging. I can hear their footsteps pound the pavement. Like sledgehammers.

Or their defeat.

Alas, I finish, with the nearest recruit lagging 30 seconds behind. And yet,

"Arima! You're 2.5 seconds short of your last run! I should make you do the course over again! And have you flogged to immortalize your impudence!"

That was the line.

"If you're so damn good, why don't you show them how it's done!" I rebuke.

My voice, without restraint, had raised in volume, so that not just the recruits nearby could hear, but everyone on the field.

"Could you repeat that again, Prince Arima?" Says the instructor. Slowly. Carefully. Like a lone roaming spider, eyeing its prey from a distance slowly closing.

"Apologies, ma'am," I say loud enough for those close enough to hear. She presses further,

"REPEAT THAT AGAIN PRINCE ARIMA!?" She's asserting dominance. "This is all an act," I think to myself. I need to keep repeating this phrase. In my head. One time. Ten times. A hundred times. A thousand times.

I need to walk away.

"MY MOST SINCEREST APOLOGIES, DRILL INSTRUCTOR PRINCESS VERONICA!"

I walk away. Trying to moderate my pace. Knowing that for just those few moments, the eyes of the world were focused upon us. The tabloids will get this leaked. The Court will smother it up. And tonight, I need to walk away. Like how she does. Except instead of two weeks, I get one night. And unlike her, there is no bed for me. No eyes to stare at me in the dark. No beach to walk on that's soft or calming.

Tonight, there is no rest for the wicked.

I'm here, at the normal spot, drowning in what could be construed as guilt. It's not exactly guilt. But it feels like guilt. And what's weighing on me isn't responsibility. It's inheritance. An inheritance I was born with and had no say in. Lo and behold, I'm not the only one. Nonchalantly, she walks through the door at the front of the pub. A few faces turn and salute. A few more bow respectfully before returning to their conversations. No one is obligated to do anything. No law says "Thou Shall Bow Before Her Grace."

But they do it anyways. Because they care. They wouldn't do it otherwise. And very few people could ever command the fabled Prince currently sitting at the bar. Fabled being a joke. One thoroughly sold to the retainers wholesale and without remorse or thought.

Did you know fables might be lies shrouded in gold?

"Bourbon please," she says to the bartender. I do nothing. Not like I need to. Freedom of choice. Something I frankly don't have despite having every entitlement to it.

"You know it's all just an act, right?" She says to me.

Of course it is. It's all part of the show. One, big, scripted play. Every act has its comics, it's protagonists, antagonists, and playwrights. The damn thing never ends.

"Arima…" she says searching for acknowledgment.

I can feel her eyes on me. More specifically, I can imagine they're searching for me. Because technically, I'm not Arima right now. I'm just some guy getting drunk in a pub in the middle of the night.

Finally finding some sort of resolve from the bottom of the glass, I look up.

"My, my, to what do I owe the pleasure of the Empress coming to talk to little ol' me?" I say while throwing one back. I motion to the bartender when I catch his attention. More boroshi. The hard stuff. I catch him pausing for a moment, probably debating on whether or not to just hand me the gourd instead of pouring yet another drink for me.

"Arima," she says, again searching my face for something; I don't know what.

"It's my own **** up. My apologies, I'll be fine in the morning Mom," I say, trying to wave her off. She doesn't budge.

"You know you can walk away from all of this right?" She says.

In our garden, there's a carrot rooted in the ground that really isn't there. Kind of like how they say "hope is fleeting" or that "faith is the belief of something that exists in non-existence." The bartender puts the gourd on the counter. Pretending not to understand what was being said, he moves in such a way where he motions towards an open private booth in the corner. My mother thanks him. And he continues to pretend as if he were deaf.

"You know fully well that I can't," I reply. As those words leave my mouth, they feel empty and full. I don't know how. But try to imagine feeling like if you flew up, you'd fly down in the same motion. If I looked left, I would instead see what's on my right.

"And why not?" says another voice. This time, I look up immediately.

"Isn't there some sort of regulation against us three being seen together in public without some sort of protection?" Not that I cared. But I'm pretty sure there was a rule somewhere or something. However, considering that the rules and regulation of the Principality aren't just plastered to the walls, I won't be answering my own question anytime soon.

Ignoring me completely, she flags down the bartender. "Chardonnay please. With your angus mini's and garlic mushroom poppers," she says to him.

"Respectfully," he begins, looking between his newest customer and my mother, "not that it really matters, but are you all on his tab?" He says referring to me. "Whatever makes it easier for you," replies my mother. "Thank you ma'am," he acknowledges before turning to our party's latest arrival, "I'll get your order in after I serve their drinks," he says while motion towards the end of counter.

"When they're finished, can you put their tab on his as well?" says the newcomer.

She always turns something simple into something complicated; I swear. I wave my hand dismissively and he does as he needs little more from me.

"Hey Reggie," beckons my mother to the bartender. He looks our way for a moment, as my mother adds, "You know the drill." He nods in acknowledgment and continues on with what he was doing.

"Because I care. About you two. About our country. About it's future," I say to her to answer her earlier question.

"You know Arima, the Principality got along just fine before you came along," says my sister.

"And it will do so long after we leave."

"You don't actually know that," I say while throwing another back.

"Does it really matter?" Chimes in my mother. "We're all just people Arima. We just choose to do more."

"Did you really have a choice in the matter Mom?" I say eyeing her. She nods while beginning to nurse her cup of bourbon.

"I still have a choice," she says while throwing a glance towards my sister, "And so does she."

"So why doesn't it feel like I have a choice?" I question back. My sister and mother both shrug. Because the answer to that question is really only something I would know. It's an answer all of us would know in pertinence to ourselves and only ourselves.

"Arima… I'm sorry about today… I overstepped again." I can't tell if she's also feeling what I'm feeling. Or if she's just trying to guilt-trip me.

"It's okay," I lie.

"No it's not damn it. You're my brother. My older brother," she says chugging her glass of wine down without taking a bite out of the food steaming in front of her.

"We're just under so much pressure you know?" She says searching for some sort of empathy from me.

"Believe me sis, I understand completely," I say trying to reassure her that I was okay despite the exact opposite being true.

"I wish I hadn't ever said yes to your offer," she says beginning to greedily dig into her burger. My mother, seemingly oblivious to my sister's blubbering, was enjoying herself some french fries while watching the game currently playing. The Nioki Arsenal, their football team, was squaring off against South Nioki United; their sister team and rival. Some northerners would call the sport "soccer," which confuses me sometimes.

"I wish you were the Heir still," she continues. She continues to stuff her burger into her mouth after downing her second glass. It had barely been five minutes.

"Veronica…" I begin to try to reassure her, but the words failed to appear.

"I'm sorry for stealing away Akira from you."

"Veronica," I respond sternly; just loud enough to try and snap her out of it. Looking up at me, I can see tears forming in her eyes. Like the surface of a lake were forming. Or clouds tuning from white to grey.

"You need to stop okay? I will not and never will hold anything against you. You're my sister for Emperor's sake."

She nods while holding back her tears. And frankly, I don't know why she's even at this point right now. She has everything. She's first in line to the Throne. She's, for all intents and purposes, my mother's proxy. She has the perfect girlfriend who, despite knowing the social norms, decided to stand by my sister instead of abandon her. She commands the authority of the IYG by her own efforts and can make a deal with even the most reluctant of foes.

She is the envy of all of Yukkira, with those who meet her outside of the higher echelons of the Court, practically singing her praise.

She has the perfect life that I freely gave up to her. Because I knew that as my mother's keeper, I could do more by serving with less distinction. By being selfless and becoming self-effacing. I knew this when I had made this arrangement before we were even teens.

To shun the spotlight at such an early age was nothing short of crazy. My own mother couldn't even accept it until we got older and my sister's phenomenal potential began to show. It was unprecedented and an entirely progressive ideal in its own right.

Old grandpa Kodo did not like the idea at all.

"Arima is your firstborn! Therefore, he should be your Heir!" I remember him saying to my mother.

"So what if he was born first dad?! My daughter has shown such amazing potential, that if Arima, by his own hand, wishes for his sister to inherit the Throne, then there's no reason for me not to consider his decision!" She would answer back.

"Arima's just a child! He doesn't know what he's saying!" My grandfather would point out.

"How dare you! My son knows exactly what he's saying! Maybe he doesn't understand the implications of what his decision, but a child will want what a child will want!"

"Oh I agree," says my grandfather sarcastically, "Look where that got you."

"I hate this family!" My mother would screech.

"No, my child," grandpa Kodo would go on, "You just hate to do what is necessary to ensure the continuation of our traditions."

"As long as I still draw breath, should you ever declare your daughter as your Heir, I will use all of my influence to ensure that such a notion never comes about. We honor our ancestors by honoring our traditions. You wanting to go against it is a dishonor and a disgrace; purposely spitting upon their graves."

"Why did you ever take me back dad?" My mother would question him. Probing him to find more old chinks in his armor. Grandpa Kodo would always shake his head in a disappointing manner, saying,

"Because by tradition, you are my Heir. I have no other children, so I have little choice in the matter."

The argument continues onward thereafter. Because that part about gramps having no choice is a white lie in and of itself. He did have a choice. He always had a choice. But because of a perceived barrier, he only saw one way forward as the right way forward. Kind of like me. I have choices that I can make. But for the greater good of others, I have none and only one.

Like my grandfather before me, I choose to sacrifice myself in order to ensure a better future for all. I am my sister's living shield, guardian, and protector. At least, whenever I don the uniform. Tonight, I am just Arima Yuki. Sitting next to my sister, Veronica Yuki, and my mother, Kirin Yuki. We are a simple family of three sitting at a pub somewhere in downtown Seta, enjoying the live music; drinking to our untold faults, mistakes, and half-secret regrets.

I am my mother's son. My sister's brother. My country's beloved Prince. Sitting here with this uncounted cup of boroshi, the gourd sits almost empty against the warm-cold surface of the counter.

And life continues onward around us; paying us little indifference.