Hello, there. I see you have discovered my lore thread, a series of canonical stories that take place in the past over the course of Alastair's and his families lives. The main purpose of this thread, of course, is to give me a place where I can write about Alastair's past in more detail. Although I usually write canonical prose in dispatches, I felt inspired to make a thread because my good ol' friend Brettenwald is made a forum thread for canon stories. ('Tis really good so far.) Like Bretten's thread, this thread is also CLOSED to anyone except myself, because this is meant to be for stories that are strictly WF canon. I am just writing this for fun, so please read and enjoy at your own leisure.
I'm probably going to jump around in the timeline, so I may have one post be in 1994, the next in 2001, and the subsequent in 1998.
This is basically just a lore dump/storytelling space with little rhyme or reason, and I don't want to confine myself to chronological order. I'll try to give it some semblance of a plot, but meeeeh.....we'll see how this goes.
Fare thee well, old sport.
Signed,
WF.
Chapter 1
Tuesday, 27 April 1993
He does not feel like driving to school today.
As he adjusts his uniform blazer for the umpteenth time, smooths out any wrinkles in his shirt, he thinks of the dull, gray classrooms and their rows of desks, worn down from years of use. The drab walls, the lifeless corridors. The same people he has known for over thirteen years.
He has no friends. There are only people he is willing to talk to, and people he avoids. He's tried for so long to be nice to them, but now he's given up, resigned to the fact that they have no interest in being around him. For years, they ceaselessly tormented him, and now they ignore him; he is an outsider, a quiet, awkward boy known for being overweight. He's not even that fat, not the way he was in the lower grades, but he is on the chubby side. He was 85 kilos at his doctor's appointment in March. His weight has actually been fairly stable over the last three or four years. Yet everyone still remembers him as the fat kid despite the fact that none of them are children anymore.
Alastair reaches down for his backpack and slings it over his left shoulder. If he waits any longer, he will be late to breakfast. He does not want to be late, though he wishes he could skip it, just once. He wants to pretend for a few minutes that everything is alright.
He arrives later than his parents and Wilhelm, who smirks as he enters. Breakfast is already laid out at the table: moderately sumptuous, but not too rich, with scrambled eggs, toast, freshly caught fish, some imported citrus from nations thousands of kilometers away. He chooses a seat across from his parents, leaving two spots between him and his brother, and immediately reaches for the nearest dish.
"Good morrow." Mother smiles at him, the way she always does. She has already gotten herself food, but has not yet begun dining. Wilhelm, on the contrary, is scarfing down his fish. Ever since Papa died, he has gone out of his way to irritate Alastair.
He sets the dish down once he has finished serving himself. He has not really heeded how much food he got. Wilhelm notices, and his eyes widen ere he swallows. "Art thou gonna eat all that?"
"Wilhelm." Mother shoots him a warning look. Alastair glances at his plate; he's piled on several pieces of fish onto 't, more than he originally intended. More than he wants.
"Mayhap," he replies, lacing his fingers over his stomach. He might eat all of it now just to piss off Wil. "I might eat more. You never get second helpings anyway."
"Well, you're already fat, so I suppose 't does not matter to thee."
Alastair goes cold. He feels numb, like he has been doused in ice water. He can hear the pounding of his heart in his ears, the deafening silence of the room. His breath is almost nonexistent for his fear of making a sound.
"Seriously. You eat like a pig. Somebody ought to tell thee, since there is no way Mom and Father would dare say anything bad about their favorite son."
"Wilhelm Kehrer!" Father, who has been mute up until now, explodes. "Apologize to thy brother right this instant. Thou wilt not speak to him or any member of this family with such a despicable tongue."
Mother joins Father, her voice the higher and shriller of the two in their furious chorus as they lecture Wilhelm. Alastair tries to tune them out, but he can only hear over and over the words Wilhelm spat out with such conviction. Is he really--a pig? A mere animal that stuffs its face with all of the slop its stomach can possibly hold? His appetite is diminished now, gone alongside any will he has to slog through the day. If he eats, he is no better than livestock. Yet he must eat something, else Wilhelm will be appeased.
He starts tackling the topmost sliver of fish, a whitish, slimy, floppy thing that is nigh tasteless. Though he uses proper utensils, he is eating as rapidly as he can, for he knows 'twill show the little carbuncle.
The heated berating subsides by the time he finishes his plate. His whole family is gawping at him in revulsion. He cares little; he did 't to upset Wilhelm, and if his waistline pays the price for it later, so be it. As Wilhelm so eloquently blared, he is already fat.
"Was that supposed to upset me?" Wilhelm wrinkles his nose. "Because all thou didst was prove my point. You are a pig, and you can hardly control yourself." He shakes his head, probably to clear the worms from his brain. Gott knows what kind of parasites are feasting in there.
"Silence, young man," warns Father. Though he is generally calm, he can get steamed when either Alastair or Wilhelm, most often Wilhelm, is being a twit.
"I mean, you still have not gotten over the death of Papa. He died suddenly, 'twas sad, ja, ja, but we've all gotten over 't. Except thee, of course. Thou hast to mope around the palace like a big baby instead of just moving on with life. It happened three months ago. Get over 't."
Alastair's tolerance of Wilhelm's outbursts, which has been very low, finally breaks. He speaks, but with an unusually calm tone, because that is the opposite of what Wilhelm expects. "You know, Wilhelm, that I am driving thee to school today?"
Wilhelm scoffs. "After three months of not driving?"
"I can always leave thee here, Wilhelm. Let thee walk to school. Driving you is a gift that I am more than willing to take away."
Wilhelm goes quiet, his mouth sort of hanging open as whatever comeback he had in mind fades. Alastair does not wish to be cruel to his brother, not the way Wil is to him, but he can think of no other way to get him to shut up.
He stands, lifting his backpack again, feeling slightly nauseous from his breakfast but not letting on. "I will wait for thee in the car, and then I will drive thee to school. I have debate practice today, so do not be incensed when thou must stay afterward." He waits for Wilhelm to say something, a simple snide comment, but he does not. Apparently, Alastair's threat of making him walk to school is very harrowing.
His car is just as he remembers it: parked in its own corner of the private garage, separate from the two state limousines but still facing the same direction. A light silver Mercedes from two model years ago, gifted to him by his parents when he had just started learning to drive. In a nation where most automobiles are imported from Japan, the sight of a Mercedes is rare. Rarer still are the keys to the said Mercedes resting in the hand of a secondary school student. No normal parent would trust a teenager with such an expensive set of wheels, but Alastair does not have normal parents or a normal life.
He stops just short of the front door, his left hand slightly outstretched toward the handle. He hasn't so much as glanced in the car's general direction, let alone driven it, in more than three months. Standing before it, knowing he must face this obstacle and open the door, he sees how utterly powerless he is, how useless he is compared to the rest of his family. He cannot step into his own car because he feels like he is being sucked into a rubber tube. He's finding it harder and harder to breathe the longer he stands here.
Alastair hangs his head in shame and opens the door, slips inside. The seat is the same, oddly comfortable for a vehicle, the seatbelt fits the way 'tis supposed to across his chest and lap. Snug, but not cutting into his flesh.
He reaches out and brushes the steering wheel with the tips of his fingers. Part of him expects it to be ice cold, the temperature of that part of the room directly beneath an air conditioner in full throttle. Aching from neglect and abandonment. Yet it feels only slightly cool, and there is an indentation in the upper right he does not remember--his vehicle has been tampered with.
More fearfully, he runs his hands across the gauges to make sure the dials and knobs are all at the settings they should be. He does not fully recall what all of them are. But he still feels reassured knowing nothing is egregiously out of place sans the scratch. If everything is alright, if nothing is wrong, he will not...make a mistake. He will not be hit by anyone.
He sticks the key into the ignition, turns the engine on. The fuel tank is full. A palace employee must have gotten petrol for him after he'd decided he was going to drive to school again yesterday afternoon. That explains the indentation, but 't does not account for Alastair's fear.
He remains utterly still as he awaits Wilhelm's arrival. His mind blank, body numb. How can he really be doing this? Driving again? One mistake, and both he and Wilhelm could perish.
The slamming of a door and loud, clambering footsteps signals the entrance of his brother some minutes later. Alastair frantically twists to the right as Wilhelm yanks the passenger door open, stormily flops into the chair, snaps a gruff "I'm sorry," and slams the door shut again.
"Don't--shut the door so hard--"
"Whatever," Wilhelm mutters, clearly disinterested.
Alastair starts the car and slowly pulls out of the parking garage. His stomach starts to ache, mayhap from breakfast, but his hands are cramping and the steering wheel is slick from his sweat. He inches out slowly, slowly. Yet he is somehow going too fast, he is overdoing 't, he could turn too quickly or not quickly enough.
Wilhelm, for once, does not mock him for being so cautious. Some of Alastair's fright must have wafted over to him, for he is sitting straight as a rod with his eyes fixated on the road before them. He says nothing when Alastair goes out of the way to avoid the intersection they have all come to despise. And, as soon as they arrive and Alastair parks the car, Wilhelm leaps from the vehicle and heads determinedly into the building without so much as a thank you.
His knuckles are white on the steering wheel from gripping 't so hard. The car is turned off; he has arrived in one piece; he is shaking and sweating, determined to never subject himself to this again. He cannot calm down enough to make himself move, to enter the school and pretend all is well. He replays the events of that day over and over in his mind, of that dreaded phone call and that futile rush to the emergency room and Papa's body, lying cold and still, mangled almost beyond recognition, in the morgue.
He steels himself against the rising bile in his throat and forces himself to exit the car. He locks 't, tucks his keys into the front zipper of his backpack. Heads into the building with the rest of the kids trickling into the student parking lot. Nobody says hello to him or bothers to offer him more than a judgmental stare. He's used to their ogling by now. They never do more than watch him, and they never will do more, because that is all he is worth to them.
Classes are dull, stretched out, the teacher's voices bland and his fellow students cold and distant. No one greets him in the corridor between classes or looks him in the eye. Does he look as ghastly as he feels? He must. At luncheon, he sits alone, consuming all of his lunch despite not being peckish in the least. 'Tis no wonder that Wilhelm teases him.
Debate meets after school in an English classroom. Of the pool of students who are old enough to join, around 500, only eighteen are part of the team. Such a small number diminishes Alastair's position as co-captain. The other captain, Martin Decker, is a wiry, bespectacled politician's son whose face is ridden with acne. He's far more aggressive than Alastair, more mean, whereas Alastair simply likes debating for the fun of it. Perhaps that was why he was given a leadership position; he enjoys debate for what it is, not for the thrilling rush of victory.
Wilhelm is just outside the classroom door, twiddling his thumbs in boredom and annoyance because he does not have his Walkman. He'll keep out of trouble on school grounds, but Alastair knows he will offer unwarranted opinions as soon as they pass through the school doors.
Debate practice is precisely what Alastair needs after a day in the doldrums. He values his time here, although the people never talk to him outside practice barring debate-related questions. He gets along well with the team, finds his and Martin's personalities compatible, appreciates the input from the teacher in charge of the entire operation, Mrs. Danton. Debate is where he is at peace, because nothing else in his life matters or has to matter. He does not have to fret over his weight or what other people think of him. He just has to discuss, deliberate, lead.
Much to the chagrin of Wilhelm, he is required to remain for thirty minutes after practice is over to review plans for the next practice and competition. The final tournament is fast approaching; although there is another tournament before that, the final is the one that attracts undivided attention because it is a national competition. As of now, only Alastair, Martin, and Timon Anderson are qualified to participate. Alastair had been looking forward to 't all year, envisioning scanning the crowd and finding his parents and Papa in the audience, up until January. Today, he hardly cares at all.
When the meeting finishes, he exits swiftly and stops right in front of Wilhelm, who is half asleep with his mouth hanging open. "Hey." He snaps his fingers once, fails, resorts to shaking his brother's shoulder.
Wilhelm opens his eyes suddenly and lets out a sharp cry. "What!"
"I'm finished. Time to leave."
"Finally..." Wil makes an exaggerated eyeroll. "I thought I was going to be stuck here all evening."
"Wil, 'tis the same duration every week. Stop being such a worrywart and come on." He tries to hide the annoyance in his voice.
Wilhelm reluctantly pulls himself to his feet and casts Alastair a look that could shatter stone. "I don't want to wait for thee every single time thou hast some sort of stupid meeting."
"'Tis not stupid just because I do 't."
"No, 'tis stupid because I don't feel like waiting all the time." Wil lets out a snort. The two of them begin walking down the corridor toward the main portal of the school, Wil insistent on complaining every thirty seconds about how he loathes having to tag along to Alastair's activities.
When the exit is in sight, he stops short and turns to Alastair. "You know, I don't really care how thou think of me. I've never really thought much of thee in the first place."
Alastair knits his eyebrows together. He's hurt, taken aback, and mildly flummoxed; where is this coming from? Why now? Why all of these nettling remarks?
Grief. He should have seen 't before. Wilhelm is grieving. He's taking his pain out on Alastair and everyone else around him because it is easier to deflect his own emotions. He's never had to handle such strong negativity before because their lives have been so sheltered; because, whenever Wilhelm has one of his blasting fits of rage, their parents immediately rush to his side and console him instead of disciplining him. He has less control over his feelings than he should because he's never learned how to regulate them.
"Why art thou staring at me like that?"
"Huh?" Alastair wipes his nose with his pointer finger and thumb. "Oh. I was just thinking about something." He says nothing more and turns away from his brother, heads out the doors without checking to see if Wil is following him. He's tired of pretending to play Wil's game, and he's not going to try and interact with someone who clearly doesn't like him.
He isn't a belligerent person. He isn't going to lash out on Wilhelm and rail against his misery by taking it all out on him. 'Tis not his nature. He'll just ignore Wilhelm as always, wait for his abrasiveness to eventually die down. He'll treat this the way he's always treated Wilhelm's blowouts.
Wilhelm meanders toward the car two or so minutes later, and he's still rambling on about random things he hates. He must know that Alastair isn't listening.
Alastair does not acknowledge Wilhelm in the least throughout the drive and continues to avoid him after he's removed the key from the ignition. He has nothing to say that Wilhelm doesn't already know. So he plods into the living quarters of the palace and drops his backpack at the foot of a couch, then makes a beeline toward the nearest kitchen so he can get an afternoon snack.
At first, he thinks himself to be alone. There are no staff members in this part of the palace, as it is primarily a pantry; there is no space to cook anything here. But a faint rustling noise makes him realize that someone else is present. Tentatively, he takes a few steps forward so he does not disturb whoever else is here. It could be Wilhelm scouting the cupboards for anything Alastair might like so he can hide it, or someone from the staff, but not--
"Dad?"
His father is rummaging through a cupboard, murmuring intently to himself with his glasses sliding crookedly down his nose. He's disheveled, his shirt wrinkly and his tie tucked oddly into his waistcoat. Hearing Alastair, he freezes, his fingers suspended in midair centimeters from something he finds enticing.
"Art thou alright?" Alastair bites his lip, nervous.
Father nods in Alastair's direction and gives him a gentle smile. "Ja. I'm fine. How was your day?"
"Alright. I guess." He heaves a noncommittal shrug.
"Wilhelm giving thee a lot of trouble?"
"Um..." His lack of eye contact says it all. Father approaches him, concerned, and Alastair leans into his side and rests his head on his shoulder. He's at least as tall as his dad now, but he still needs his father.
Father envelops him in a hug and kisses the side of his head. "'Tis going to be alright. Thou wilt be alright. Thy mother and I love thee very much."
His throat tightens ere he searches for the right words to say. "I just--I guess I just miss him." His voice cracks at the end, pitifully.
"I miss him every second of the day." Father pats the small of Alastair's back in a gesture that is meant to be loving but comes off as empty. "Every day. I--still feel as though I will round the corner and see him, but I never do." He gives Alastair a brief squeeze and loosens his hold a bit, peering into Alastair's eyes. "You shalt get through this. Thou hast been so strong."
He makes a move to let go, but Alastair stops him. "Please," he croaks. He isn't ready to leave the safety of his father's embrace quite yet. "Don't--don't leave me."
"I'm not going anywhere, Allie," Father assures him, cradling Alastair in his arms.
