Started: September 10, 2003
Finished: October 2, 2003
Revised: July 1, 2005
Prologue: A Journal Entry
I don't know where to start. I've never liked putting my thoughts down on paper, but Apple keeps on badgering about how this is a good practice and I find myself always hearing her in the back of my mind. She says good strategists often write down their plans and theories to hone them later.
If that's the case, I bet he has a library of his own writings.
No matter what I do, I always find myself wondering how Albert would fit into the puzzle. I guess it's just become a habit. I mean, he was a major part of my life, considering there were only two of us and we were always surrounded by tutors, professors, and other crocks that wanted to be a piece of Silverberg history. We were drilled and trained about basic tactics about the same time we learned how to read.
Whoever said Silverberg prowess in warfare is in the blood is full of shit.
Albert kept me sane back then. I don't know how he did it, really; I mean, he had to put up with the same crap I had to when he was my age, but he didn't complain or anything. I … well, I fought tooth and nail over each lesson until I was 12 years old. That was when Albert became 'Sir Albert Silverberg, genius grandson of Leon' and stopped being 'Albert, my big brother.'
But I'm getting ahead of myself now.
He was great as an older brother. I don't really have anyone to compare him to, but he was always there when I needed him and simply … I dunno, God? … Maybe not something that high… An angel? Saint? Hmm… I think 'angel' is the best comparison. He was my saving grace when I thought the entire world was going crazy and everything didn't make sense.
And that was before puberty. Heh.
Anyhow, Albert kinda kept all of his "pre-professional" stuff out of the house once he was "of age." Somehow, he managed to make it seem like nothing had changed throughout his teenage years, although I know now that he went through a rigorous setup of political histories and law books, sprinkled with ancient philosophies of warfare and whatnot. (I skipped ancient history and philosophy since I thought that was even more crap than any of my other studies. Call me arrogant, but I think the farthest back I need to know is when Julian Silverberg helped establish the Scarlet Moon Empire.) He continued to read stories to me before I went to sleep and he made time to play with me despite his schedule.
Looking back on it, I constantly wonder the significance of those years. Was he acting back then? Was he acting during the Second Flame Champion War? Have I ever seen Albert's true face?
I don't know. I really don't.
We used to do so much together when we were younger. He made it his business to babysit me when I was little - I don't think I ever had a nanny because of him. It's kinda funny, since he really doesn't seem like the type to like kids. Then again, neither does Grandpa, and he took pretty good care of his family. He did all these silly things for me, like hold me up when I wanted to look in a fountain or read to me when I couldn't sleep at night. Hell, he even let me sleep with him when I got scared of the lightning and thunder.
Yeah, yeah. I was only five. Everyone is scared of thunder at that age.
So, anyway… This is becoming an essay of Albert and my childhood. Funny thing is, I don't even remember what I had in mind when I sat down and started writing. Looking back and reading the beginning of this crap, I mentioned Apple and Albert, and then everything spiraled into teenage angst and my damnable big brother. He messed up my life when he left to "study abroad," which basically meant he went to Crystal Valley and locked himself in a library for several months. I was completely at a loss as to what to do with my life. I was only twelve years old.
Dammit. Dammit. Now I'm crying.
I had absolutely no interest in studying. I knew I was smart, and I knew I could do whatever I wanted to do, but nothing interested me. Nothing. I wasn't fond of being a doctor, or a lawyer, or a merchant, or anything like that. At the back of my mind, this incessant voice kept nagging me about the Silverberg family traditions. But I was sick of strategist paradigms, war history, and thinking of people as pawns to move on a chess board.
On a completely unrelated note, Albert kicked my ass in chess.
Apple broadened my perspective of the Silverberg family. She actually came to Gregminster to interview Dad, saying she was gathering information for a biography on Uncle Mathiu, who died a year before I was born. She let me read notes and rough drafts she had written while writing. It still amazes me that she's been searching for information for Uncle Mathiu's biography since she was fifteen years old. I think she must've taken some time off after the Dunan Unification Wars to pursue love or other stuff, since all her notes are pretty old now.
She'd probably knock me over the head for musing over her past, so I'll stop that now. I've lost a lot of sleep over comments I made on Apple's past; she likes to remind me that I'm a kid and that I don't need to pry into things that don't concern me.
I love her and hate her for it.
'Never wanted to grow up. I liked being irresponsible and not dealing with reality. That's probably why I clung onto Albert as much as I did. He shouldered responsibility like pillows. It was his cup of tea. It was the feather in his cap. I could use so many more stupid metaphors, but I'll plead laziness. He was more than willing to shield me from the rest of the world's troubles.
Was he honestly protecting me from the cold, harsh world?
Or was he suppressing the only person who could stop his great ambitions?
What a laugh. A year's passed since the Second Flame Champion War, and I've had time to grow cynical.
Guess what, Albert?
I'm all grown up.
He trudged through the dark forests, his burden slung over one shoulder and a grimace on his face. Behind him, a flank of dour-eyed colleagues watched out for any witnesses to their deed and held weapons at ready for any monsters that may come after them.
"Okay. This is far enough. I want to make it back to the horses by daybreak."
A grunt escaped the man as he finally stopped, nodding in agreement to the speaker before dumping his extra weight on the hard forest ground. "Let's get outta here, then. I can't believe the bishops spared the guy." Shaking his head darkly, he kicked the heap he had deposited on the ground.
"Stop that. He's harmless now. Just leave him be."
The others were already walking away. Sighing to himself, the one that had been carrying the exiled man gingerly pulled the article of clothing that had been slung over his other shoulder and flung it over the body on the ground.
"The gods have mercy on your soul, boy."
There was no movement from underneath the long, white coat as the men walked away.