Three Fortunes

I suppose now comes the time to properly introduce myself. My name is Samuel Sylvester, only don't call me that, because no one calls me that. If you must call me something, I prefer Sam. Nevertheless, my name is Samuel Sylvester and, although I've tried very hard to over look the fact for a very long time, I am the Prince of Corsica.

My childhood was rather depressing and can be simply summarized by saying that I spent a great deal of it dressed in black. I'll save you time and sympathy by not elaborating. For our purposes, my story begins on a summer evening only days after my eighteenth birthday.

The way he looked at us in disappointment, his arms crossed as he entered the room, told Robert and I we'd be facing another one of our father's famous lectures. Luckily, we'd both developed a talent for pretending to listen, while really paying him no more attention than we would the crickets that chirped outside our window on this breezy Saturday evening.

No need to waste time explaining the complicated turn of events that had lead us to deserve this lecture, the point is, we'd gotten into trouble, and our father was not at all happy.

"You two are grown men, for god's sake! It's time you started acting like it!" He said, as the endless lecture at last drew to a close. This had been his go-to line ever since I'd turned eighteen, and come to fit his definition of a grown man. He looked at Robert in specific. "You especially, you better get your act together soon. One day―"

"Yes, I know" Robert interrupted. "One day I'm going to be the King of Corsica, and I'd better start to show some responsibility because you want to know that your dear country will be in good hands. I know, I'm trying."

"And you," Father said, now turning to me. "I've learned to expect this kind of behavior from this one," He gestured towards Robert. "But you, Samuel? I expect more from you." Very rarely did he use my full name, but when he did I knew he was serious.

Although this comment came across as offensive to Robert―which he expressed at that very moment―there was truth in it. Robert was three years older than me, making him the heir to the Corsican throne, but it seemed to be the case that he was in trouble much more than I was.

"You two need to learn to be responsible." Father continued. "And I know just how you can do that."

This wasn't sounding good, normally by this point we would have apologized and been free to go. I shifted uneasily in my chair. "What do you mean?" I asked.

He rose from his seat at his desk and walked to the window, staring out of it a moment, most likely just wanting to leave us in suspense.

"You two, are going to serve in the Corsican Army." He explained, still looking out the window. He turned back to face us as soon as the shock had worn off and we'd simultaneously begun our protest. He held up a hand to silence us.

"There's no point in arguing, it's already been arranged. You leave in two days, so I'd suggest you go and get ready. A good friend of mine, General Dawson, suggested it actually. He will be your commanding officer. You'll spend six weeks in training, and then you'll be sent to fight those damned Chesterians." Corsica had been at war with Chester off and on since my father had come to power eleven years ago, and he'd come to hate them very much.

Experience had shown that once our father had made up his mind, there was not a thing in the world that could change it. I accepted my defeat pretty quickly, but Robert insisted on protesting.

"You can't do that, that's ridiculous!" He protested. "There is no way I'm going to risk my life fighting in this pointless war!"

"Yes, you are going to go, and risk your life defending the country you may one day be ruling!" Father said. "Now, go. You need to be ready to leave early Monday morning."

"No, I―" Robert began.

"Go!" He demanded.

Robert was furious, I could see it in the way he clenched his fists as he stood up, glaring at him with fierce eyes. Simply put, my brother had a terrible temper, and it had gotten him into trouble on many occasions. Sometimes, if I was very lucky, I could calm him down before things got bad, something very few people could do.

I stood up as well. "Come on, Robert, let's go." I said. He looked at me over his shoulder, relaxing ever so slightly. Through a series of looks, we managed to have an unspoken conversation that went something like this:

We can't let him win this, we need to stay here.

No, we're leaving.

But….

You know you can't win this.

Fine.

And without another word spoken, we left the room. Two days later, despite many continued attempts at protest, we left.

* * *

It was a difficult transition, going from being the Prince of Corsica, and never really having to do anything myself, to being just another soldier fighting in the war. No one cared who we were, they treated us just the same as everyone else. We absolutely hated it at first, and I can imagine we were not particularly pleasant to work with, but after a while both Robert and I came to realize this may be one of the few chances we'd have to not be the Princes of Corsica. It was the one chance we had to escape the life of the upper class.

Now that I look back on it, my father was absolutely right in saying that serving in the army would be a good experience for us. Not only did it give us a chance at adventure, and a chance to live as people no more important than anyone else, but we also grew much more responsible and mature in that time, just as he had expected.

Now, you're probably wondering how all this is of importance to my story, well I'm getting there. You see, there were many good things that came out of that year, and one of them was meeting the best friend I've ever had, William Pearson.

Long story short, we met Will at the training camp and he was sent with us and a number of others to be part of a troop defending the Corsican border. Before we left the training camp I was wondering aloud if it wouldn't be easier if we were to pretend we were different people altogether. That is how Robert and I came to be fighting in the Corsican Army, pretending to be Will's brothers, and going by the names of Mathew and Michael Pearson.

I'll also spare you the long story of the chaotic year that followed that. As that year drew to a close the war ended, and though General Dawson claimed he was confident we'd driven away the Chesterian Army for good, I was almost certain they'd be back soon enough.

I did not share this certainty however, because I was eager to return home. Although I would miss the freedom and adventure this year had given me, I knew that it was time for Robert and I to leave. Will―who had shared with us his aspirations of becoming a high ranking general many times―stayed behind, for they still needed soldiers to stay at the border in case of another attack.

We bid our dear friend Will goodbye and good luck, and returned home.

Life went on in the normal dull way it always had for another year after that. At the time both Robert and I grew rather frustrated with the lack of excitement. We were practically begging the universe to make something, anything, happen. Yet when excitement finally came, I would have gladly traded it for the boring year before.

* * *

On a cold winter night, one year after we'd returned home, the excitement began. It was nine thirty, the air cold and dry. Clouds darkened the stars and moon as they moved onto the horizon, clouds that might later add to the icy mess of snow and sleet that had covered the ground since yesterday afternoon. Will had written me recently, saying he was going to be stopping in the capitol briefly on his way to Southern Corsica. We'd planned to meet, on this particular evening, at the harbor.

Robert came with me, but then decided to go off on his own, eyeing the bar across the street and saying he may catch up with us later. I had the feeling I wouldn't be seeing him again until the next morning.

Will and I spent the evening catching up, though I didn't have much to say about my uneventful year. Luckily, he'd had a rather busy year, and his exciting stories made up for my dull ones. Much later in the night, as we were thinking of saying our goodbyes, we noticed a commotion on main street.

A crowd had gathered around on a street corner. I heard a woman's gasp and the shouts of several men. Curious as to what the cause of all this noise was, Will and I walked closer. Once we'd successfully pushed through the frightened crowd we found a rather disturbing scene in the middle.

A man, and a young man at that, lie stiff and lifeless in a pool of his own blood. His unseeing eyes stared up at me, as his face still held an expression that showed his last moments of shock. Tears in his shirt revealed a series of stab marks, leading to the rather obvious assumption that he'd been murdered.

The crowd around us seemed to be dealing with the victim, but one question remained, where was the murderer?

I had but a moment to wonder about this before I realized that the street on which we stood was the very place that Robert and I had parted ways earlier that evening. After I'd mentioned this to Will he suggested we set out looking for him. We began with the bar he'd headed in the direction of when I'd last seen him. My concern did not lessen when I found he was not there, and was told that this had been where a fight had broken out that had led to the evening's tragic events.

We must have searched all across downtown, wandering down the empty streets and calling his name through the nighttime silence. Finally, we gave up, and after saying goodbye and assuring me Robert must've headed home, Will left.

I was already headed in the direction of home, trying not to worry about what had become of Robert, when I heard someone calling my name. It was Will. I noticed rather fearfully that his tone was noticeably worried.

He said nothing else, simply led me a ways down the street and pointed at something in the distance. Someone else lie in a heap on the ground, this person hidden on a dark corner, but still noticeable if you looked carefully. I rushed towards him, Will following closely behind me, silently praying he'd be anyone but the person we'd been in search of.

It took but one glance for me to recognize the face of my brother. He lie on the ground, his eyes closed, and his hands and shirt stained with blood.

I turned away, unable to look as Will knelt beside him to get a closer look. I held my breath, preparing for the worst of conclusions from Will's brief inspection. A minute felt like a thousand years as I waited for him to say something.

"He's not dead." He said finally. The fear drained from me in a wonderful moment of relief, only to return yet again as Will continued.

"But the blood on his hands," he said. "It's not his own."

* * *

Everything changed after that. Our father did all he could to cover it up, but it wasn't enough to stop the rumors that spread through the capitol and beyond. People knew what Robert had done, though no one spoke directly of it. Suddenly, he was a completely different man. No longer did he have the reputation of the reckless young prince that was always getting into trouble. Now he was known to all as a murderer.

I knew for certain that he regretted it. He'd said it that very night, when Will and I found him lying unconscious in the street. "I never meant to hurt anyone." He said as he awoke, in a solemn tone I'd never heard him use before. "You have to believe me! I never meant to kill him!"

The memories of that night would haunt us both for years to come.

That night changed him. It changed him more than any of our father's plots to make him a more responsible man ever could have. Suddenly he became very serious. He spent long periods of time by himself, and when he was in the company of others he said very little.

Robert had always been a somewhat introverted person, that was nothing new, but before then I had been one of the few people he trusted to share his thoughts and ideas with. I was closer to him than anyone else in his life, and yet after that night he pushed me away as well.

* * *

Six months after the incident, on my twentieth birthday, my father called me to his study. I felt like a child as I reluctantly came to see him, wondering what I'd done wrong. However, as I entered the room the look upon his face told me the matter he wished to discussed was not about something I'd done wrong, rather something he wished to tell me. I found him sitting at his desk, distantly staring at the wall. I sat opposite him, looking at him expectantly as I waited for him to begin.

"I worry about your brother." He said eventually, still staring into the distance.

"As do I, for a number of reasons." I said with an air of humor. "Which one do you wish to discuss?"

I stopped smiling as he began his serious reply. "He's got quite the temper, as recent events have shown. I worry it may get the better of him again, and lead to another such incident."

"I wouldn't worry," I said, though I have to admit I was a bit worried myself. "I don't think it will happen again."

"But can you be sure?" He asked. We both knew the answer to this question, though I did not want to say it.

"No, I suppose there is no way to be absolutely sure." I said. After a moment of thought I added, "But, you can never be absolutely sure of anything when it lies in the future."

We sat in thoughtful silence for a brief moment after that, as he thought over what I said and I came across a question I wished to ask him.

"But why come to me about this?" I asked. "Why not speak to him yourself?"

A possible answer lingered in the back of my mind, but I refused to believe it was true.

"Because, not only do I worry about him, I worry about what might happen when I am gone, when he is to take the throne." He answered. I was not very pleased with the direction the answer seemed to be going. "And I've begun to wonder if he is the best possible choice―"

I interrupted to answer the question he had not yet asked with a simple, "No."

"I haven't even―"

"You don't need to." I said. "I know what you're going to say, and I….I can't possibly do that."

I knew exactly what he was trying to say, he was worried that Robert's temper may continue to get him into trouble and feared that could bring harm to his beloved country if he were to be the king. His concern was reasonable, for although he tried to deny it, my father had not been in good health for a very long time, and his health could very possibly worsen soon. When the time came, he wanted me, not Robert, to take his place as king.

Perhaps the idea and the expectation that came with it frightened me, or perhaps I was afraid the change may turn my brother's temper upon me. Maybe in truth the cause was both of these reasons. Whatever the reason, I was dead set against the idea from the moment it was suggested.

I argued against him, though my father seemed to have yet again made up his mind with no ideas of changing it. He was however, remarkably patient with me, saying he had confidence I would make a wonderful leader.

"You're much too doubtful." He said. "You have the capability of being―"

"I'm never going to be this great man you think I am capable of becoming," I said, my temper rising. "I am no more capable than anyone else! Argue all you want, nothing will change that. I could never be king, I don't want to!"

"I don't think you have much of a choice." Was his calm reply.

"That's what you think." I said. Without another word I stormed out of the room.

That night I gathered my things and left. On that cool summer night, as I left the palace not in rage but in fear, I had no idea that would be the last time I would ever speak to my father.