The Forsaken

He drummed on the desk with the pads of his fingers, reading the letter in front of him over and over. The dark violet ink on the parchment glistened in the flickering yellow candle light as he picked it up again to inspect it more thoroughly. The handwriting was neat and simple, and the parchment carried the ever so slight scent of blackberries. The seal, now broken, had borne the unmistakable sigil of their family. He was certain it was from Vesper.

He didn't know the reason for her sudden reply—she usually just ignored his messages—especially since the only thing she wrote was a plea for him to leave her alone. He scoffed and read it again.

My dearest brother. That was the first lie in the letter. As children, they hardly even saw each other, and cared even less for one another. Her favourite brother was always Frederick, the youngest, with whom she would spend a lot of her time outside classes.

I appreciate your concern, but I can assure you I am doing well. The second lie. He had learned of Vesper's illness from one of his most trusted friends five months ago.

I do not and have never needed your support, which not responding to you has evidently not made clear. He clenched his jaw. Her refusal of his offer wasn't entirely unexpected, but something about her reply, in particular this part, enraged him.

I am not some property you can buy back for our family. That was what hurt him the most. Certainly, paying for her treatments would not be too different from a bribe, but that was an unfair comparison. He was concerned for her health, not trying to win her over.

If my fleeing decades ago did not make it clear enough, then let me tell it to you again, as plain as I can. I want nothing to do with you, nor with the Bellowbrand name. Leave me alone. His eyes rested on the last three words of the letter as his fingernails dug into his palm. Vesper left when he was thirteen, maybe fourteen years old, leaving him to take over as the eldest child.

Unlike Vesper, he always worked hard to make his mother proud. She taught him of the importance of the Bellowbrand legacy—something he was now passing on to his own children—and showed him how to lead.

Vesper had always been disrespectful and ungrateful, denying her role as heir, never acknowledging the importance and greatness of such a position. Evidently, she had not changed. He was offering her a chance to have her sickness be cured, to save her life, and she just spat in his face.

He tossed the letter onto the desk and walked over to the hearth. The fire had died out hours ago, making the thin candle on his desk the only remaining source of light. He crouched down and began piling fresh wood in the fireplace, his mind racing. He tried to remember Vesper's face or voice, but it had been too long. Leave me alone. What a thankless bitch.

He grabbed the letter, the smell of blackberries hitting him in the face. She had always liked blackberry perfume, and had worn it every day since her fifteenth birthday. He was never partial to it in the first place, but now the smell made him sick. With a last glance at the words, he tore the letter in half, then in half again, scrunched up the pieces, and placed them between the firewood. He lit it with the candle on his desk and watched the fire slowly consume the parchment, quietly cursing his sister.

The fire grew, much more than it should have with so little tinder, and soon the flames danced in a way that it almost looked like there was a face in it. He stood rooted in front of the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the soon roaring fire. First, he saw his mother, her expression disappointed. Then, his younger siblings. Frederick, who abandoned him, and Cassian, who called him a madman before disappearing without a trace.

He heard their voices and felt their betrayal. None of them cared like he did. None of them knew what was right. They only worried about themselves, pushing aside the greater good. He stared into the fire and pictured them all burning. They deserved to burn, just like all the others who mocked him. A wave of rage washed over him, one that made him want to destroy everything around him.

Then, he heard a voice. At first he thought it was his mother's, but that would be impossible.

"I like your temperament," the voice said. He wanted to move his head and look around to see who was speaking, but could not bring himself to look away from the flames.

"Who are you?"

"Do not worry about that quite yet. What matters right now is you. I felt your rage from far away. It burns bright. Tell me, what do you seek?"

He hesitated. "I— I'm not sure."

"Retribution?"

"No, I—"

"Influence?"

"I have enough of that."

"What then?"

He remembered his siblings, and the rest of the people who looked down on him throughout his life.

"I want to be respected. I want to be feared."

The voice laughed. "Good. I can help you with that."

"How?"

"You will see. All I ask is that, when the time comes, you will repay me."

He listened to the fireplace cracking and snarling at him, contemplating his options. Whoever this voice belonged to, she was powerful.

The flames shifted again, and he could have sworn he saw himself in them, surrounded by thousands of people kneeling at his feet. He smiled. If this was what it took to be respected, then he would gladly embrace it.

"I accept."

Laughter echoed across the room, and the fire flared up once more before completely going out. He stood in the dark, shivering. The voice was gone.