almost home (or “The Tale of Tiberius, Andal Gunther”)

a work written after watching almost home by The Theatre Practice

(this is not a review. I could not stress this point more strongly enough.

this is how I said goodbye to someone I had the fortune of knowing, yet not befriending; the fortune of greeting at the door, but not the fortune of saying goodbye to. I didn’t get a chance to say farewell, so this unknown, likely-to-be-unread farewell letter, will be my self-given chance to say my final farewell, to you.)

I last saw you at the garden party —

No.

It was at the feast in the hall.

Where men drank ale, and — well, everyone drank ale. No one cared what we were eating, the ale was the important part.

I remember seeing you laughing, gallivanting, having to speak to this lord and that lady, give them the customary listening ear while they spoke of this conquest and that.

And you, being you, always sat; always patient, listening to them, with watchful eyes and intent ears.

I remember you drinking your ale — you drank only a single flagon, or was it two? I don’t recall.

I only remember you did not drink it like some others did — like I did, with careless abandon.

Nor did you only drink the one flagon, which of course meant that it was all for show — purely to appease the lords and ladies of the land.

And drink and talk, and drink, and talk you did.

Until it was time for you to leave.

I remembered the first time I met you.

You were tall and imposing, already tall as a giant, far taller than most common folk I had met, with a swing in your step that spoke to me about countless victories you had no doubt won. From the moment you first swung your sword upon the battlefield on which we all lived, from the moment your dancing master declared you fit for your first battle, I knew you had always triumphed, and never fallen (as far as I knew, anyway).

You had exchanged brief words with me, a simple question and answer, likely about how the winds fared, how the men fared, how the coming battle would be like — or probably not. You seldom, or even never, spoke about the affairs of our House, and how our battles would do.

Probably never spoke about it to me because there wasn’t time.

I remember before leaving you asked my name.

House Sardonius, of Refus Thurrin.

No, you silly boy, you replied. I couldn’t see your face, covered as it was by the mask you wore to shield you from the cold and the spells, but I could tell you were smiling. I asked for your name, not your House’s name, you said.

And I gave my name.

It was nice meeting you — and then you left for the frontlines.

As it was time for you to leave the hall, I simply asked if you were leaving.

You said yes.

I can’t remember what else you said.

All I remember were the lords and ladies laughing brusquely, taking you by the hand, the arm, the shoulder —

What rights did they have?

What Houses did they hail from, that they deigned to touch your person?

You were the mercy and gift of the gods, I cried out, inside.

You were the prince that was promised.

But in High Valyrian, that proverb has no gender affixed to it.

So in the common tongue, it would actually be:

“the prince/princess who was promised”

So it could have been you.

Couldn’t it?

It pained me, that I couldn’t cry out for more of your words.

It pained me, that I could not swear myself into your service, to squire for you, to follow you all the days of your life, to make you my home.

And because I did not cry out, you left.

The next I heard of you was through the seers.

The old maesters who consulted their crystal balls, and their abilities to see into the eyes of the ravens and birds of the air, told me this:

“They have gone far beyond the seas. They have entered the Academy. To learn, to read, to gain what cannot be found here, to bring it back — if indeed, they come back — and replenish this land and bring the Long Night to an end.”

I could not believe. I would not believe it.

So — just like that? Across the seven seas, across the fleet that guarded our harbours on nigh a thousand years, you took your sword and your shield and your gold — and went across the seas, all for a chain?

And because of that chain, I could not see and would probably never see you again?

I could not believe it. I wouldn’t.

It broke my heart.

Right there, in the midst of the room where the old men divined fortunes and futures and the matters of yesteryear, I screamed. I cried, and cried, and I cried some more.

The old men did nothing to help, nor did they look shocked. After all, what was my news? That an honorable knight had left the continent to further their skills and their training without letting me know? These men had announced the death of sons and daughters, of firstborns, to their sombre and often incapacitated parents.

What then should it matter, that a single knight — a strong, undeafeated one yes, but still, a mere knight, — had left for the continent across the sea, to simply become a doctor, and not a knight?

It was only after I had lain there in pain, in sorrow and in agony, screaming for the whole castle to hear, for the fourth hour, did an old man, likely the oldest of them all, whose hair had all but fallen and whose beard was thinning and greying terribly, get up with much difficulty, hobble his way across the long, wide tables at which his compatriots sat, and reached down to try to get me up.

I allowed him to attempt to lift me (though in truth, it was his touch that I needed to give me the strength to rise on my own), place me on a nearby bench (which had no old man occupying it) and make me a cup of tea.

As I sat there sipping it, the old man simply looked at me.

I knew not if he understood, for no man, woman, child or animal alive knew I had any relation to this knight who had crossed the sea.

I knew not if he knew, that this knight, this cherished person, who had survived a thousand battles and would survive a thousand more, had a living human in this realm who would gladly die ten times over, if it meant that the knight would never die.

I knew not — until I did.

For the old man said,

“Qoy Qoyi.” (blood of my blood)

And he paused, before continuing,

“Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor.”

Zaldrizes buzdari iksos daor.

A dragon is not a slave.

And that was when I realised.

I had always seen you only as the knight that all others saw you.

That all the lords and ladies saw you.

In truth, I was no better than them.

I sought to go after you, to take after you, to take your name, your sword, your armour — simply because I saw you, as the knight that you were.

But that was not all that you were.

For your men, your friends, members of your House, and your sworn brothers and sisters, had seen, heard and known more of you than I ever could.

But was it any fault of mine then?

Should I have spoken up more, at the party, and at the gates of the castle, before you left?

Would anything change?

I realised then, that truly, to realise you were a dragon and not a slave, was the moment that I said farewell to the idea of you.

a dragon is not, will never, and must never be a slave.

For all men must die, yet still,

all men must serve.