2.IV :

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Tristan? May I come in?” 

I stood, waiting. My heart had leapt into my throat. In my head, I pictured every time my brothers had run to me for comfort. Big Sis! Big Sis! Why was mom yelling? Why did we hear something break? And I would shush them, tell them not to think about it. They were merely children.

What were Tristan’s thoughts when misfortunes—fighting and arguing—had inevitably arrived? 

I nudged the door open and peaked in. Where were the toys? Where were the knick-knacks? Where was the personality? I stepped into the room—bare, like mine. It left a sour taste in my mouth, and I cursed in my mind. For God’s sake, Albert! You were a King, wealthier than most, yet your son does not have a single toy or stuffed animal. 

“Are you awake?” 

No reply came. I closed the door, tip-toeing inside. On one of the dressers was a stack of thick, leather-covered books decorated with golden trimmings. I lifted the topmost book: The Ancestry of Avalon’s Royal Family. Was this book part of Tristan's curriculum with the tutor?—it must’ve been a bore. I opened the book and flipped through the pages. Stuck between the pages were countless notes written in cursive ink. Wasn’t this book’s vocabulary too advanced for a boy no older than seven? 

Tristan tossed and turned in bed, snatching my attention. I set the book back in its place. 

There Tristan lay—hopefully dreaming of floating castles, courageous heroes, charming princesses, fantastical voyages, anything except heartache. I ran my hand through his hair—soft, the color of a raven’s feathers—and brushed it behind his ear. If he woke this instance, he would be scared shitless or struck with shock. Was it too late to fix this father-son relationship; had the ship already sunk? 

I gazed downward at his lashes. If he opened his eyes, then. . . I turned away. Whoever transported me to this world—if such a fictitious thing as God exists—must’ve desired to give me a kick in the teeth: a boy, abandoned by his father—and, if I was correct, his mother, too—with my lifeless eyes. How ridiculous. 

Amongst my many thoughts, I roamed about the room. On the far wall, there was a set of double doors that led to a balcony. 

Long ago, when I still visited my grandparents, my father’s parents, I had joked about my great grandmother’s picture albums—one touch and the brittle books would turn to dust. They stored them in a chest, shoved away in an itsy-bitsy corner of the attic: pictures curated with a 1930s Kodak and roll film—film! If my phone’s camera wasn’t broke, with one button, I could create countless photos! In this world, modern delicacies—phones, internet, fast food, cameras, even film—did not exist. Air conditioning did not exist! 

I opened the double doors, and the crisp night breeze blew against my face. 

“Hmmm? . . . Is someone there?” 

“Yes. Forgive me for entering your room unannounced. It’s almost like I’m a mugger!—and you’ve caught me red-handed.” 

“Mugger? Red-handed?—what does that. . . No! What do you want!?” 

“Did the cold air wake you? I thought you might be hot under the blankets, and a cool room is best for sleep.” 

Tristan gawked at me, mouth gaped open and eyes as wide as saucers as if he’d seen a ghost. The stupefied expression lasted no more than a few seconds before he stiffened his face. 

“Why would you care? Why aren’t you in your office, working on papers, performing your ‘precious’ duties? Doesn’t it irritate you—two months gone, work wasted!”

“Duties? In the middle of the night?” I stepped towards the bed and sat on the edge beside the headboard. “I care because you are my child. Though I can’t remember, I”—Albert—“must’ve done you wrong. Do not forgive me; this time, I want to be a genuine father to you; allow me one chance. I will make it up to you!” 

He opened his mouth, only to clamp it shut. The night was silent, the room, too, till he spoke, no louder than a whisper. “Do you swear on Isadora’s name, even if you eventually remember?”

“I can promise you, but I won’t swear on any name. I’ve been told actions speak louder than words,”—I slid towards him, cupped his rounded face, and kissed him on the forehead—“so, for this once, would you mind if I slept here tonight? With me, the bogeyman can’t get you.” 

“I-I—I guess. . . but you can’t complain to me in the morning! And you're taking the left side!”