Yhako reflects on his introversion

“I was never much of a brother to Ansidrion, I am sure you know,” Yhako shrugged.

“No, not at all. The two of you always seemed to be a united force, and I felt that if one of you held an opinion, the other would as well, although he might present it with more aggression, and you with more wile.”

“That is true, of course. Ansidrion and I are in almost constant agreement at all times. But I was never quite able to give him what he needed from me. When Sirlay was in the home, the two of them were always close, and Ansidrion saw him as a hero. I might have felt the same way, but that I resented it; Ansidrion and I were so close in age that I expected to be his mentor. But instead, I was like Father, always full of ideas, always lost in thought. When he became old enough to think for himself, Ansidrion would love to passionately debate with Sirlay, sometimes becoming so fiery in his convictions. Sirlay always won the debates, of course, and although Ansidrion would never concede, he could be seen to hold the reverse position several days later. I, meanwhile, listened to it all, but said very little.

“After Sirlay left, Ansidrion was devastated, and this was accelerated, of course, by Father’s death and Mother’s sudden change. He and I both felt we had no one, but while this meant very little to me, Ansidrion was lost, and needed someone upon which to depend. So I had to step in and become his mentor, but I was fumbling at it, and often preferred to withdraw from him than to help him grow. I loved that he looked to me for ideas, but I hated that he challenged me, and that he demanded my attention so frequently.

“When we left Mother and you in Kapabaj, the relationship became more strained than ever, because we had no common enemy, no one against whom we were united. I loved him, of course, and I admired him and on my best days I loved laboring and studying at his side, but other times I felt that there was no reason for the two of us to even so much as live together.”

“I had never suspected as much,” I interjected. “I never sensed that the two of you might feel anything but love toward one another.”

“I am glad for that, because I hoped that neither he nor you would ever notice. This was my struggle, and although it involved others, I felt that it was purely external. I knew that I had a responsibility to him as my brother, but I also felt that a common belief system and bloodline alone are not enough to keep two men together. I grew miserable; exhausted in both body and mind, because of the great toll this conflict took upon me. I still slept at night in those days, but I was never fully rested with Ansidrion around, for I was forced to spend every waking moment with him, and devote all of my conscious energy to his well-being. Ansidrion, as you know, lives outside of his head, and relies on validation from those around him to thrive. He demanded it from me constantly, and I never had time to myself.”

“It is odd for you to say such a thing, for I felt the opposite. When Ansidrion came to visit me in Kapabaj in those days, I felt joy, for unlike with Mother, I always knew his mind exactly, and had a constant source of interaction. He doted upon me, spent his every minute talking to me or seeking to entertain me.”

“That is precisely what saved us. You needed attention from someone more stable than Mother, especially after Qhema left, and he was just the man to give it to you. I convinced him that he should visit you on occasion, but this was due to my own selfish motives, as I merely wanted a week or two apart from him. He would return to find me refreshed, emotionally equipped to handle his codependence. He never acknowledged it, but I think some part of him realized that, whenever he returned home from Kapabaj, I was always more pleasant to him, and for that reason he enjoyed it all the more.

“Eventually, though, even these small respites were not enough. I would grow accustomed to his presence once again, and become exhausted. My time spent studying or toiling at the business became less productive again, and I despaired of ever being able to labor successfully again. Knowing that I had to spend time away from him, but that I could never say it, I devised a plan. I knew that Ansidrion had never taken much interest in the as’shelik, but that he thoroughly enjoyed his studies. I needed to be able to undertake both, and enjoyed both besides, so I proposed to him that I should take on all of the business responsibilities. I had to find a way to spend this time alone, so in return, Ansidrion would take on all of the sleeping responsibilities.”

“Now the story! I have always been so curious as to this arrangement. Now that I know the details, please tell why Ansidrion never questioned such a thing.”

“You know how rash Ansidrion is. When he is offered favorable terms, he never thinks to question the motives. He was blinded by the offer of days half of sleep and half of study—the thing he wanted most in the world. And so, without a second thought, he took it. He took it with a great grin on his face as though he had won a great battle and, indeed, perhaps he did. It is entirely possible that such a thing was his plan all along, and were you to talk to him, he would tell you that he tricked me into this agreement.

“I had thought that adjusting to this new lifestyle would be gravely difficult. I had been sleeping all my life—or, a few hours of each night of my life—and to forego it entirely was a remarkable change. But the truth was that I had been living without rest for years. Being constantly at Ansidrion’s side had worn me down such that even sleep exhausted me. He found his way into my dreams, hassling me with his bold pronouncements and heavy arguments as I sought sleep. Now, as I had half of the day to myself, it was more restorative than any of that shallow sleep could ever have been. I felt more restored with the change. And, what was more, I found spending time with Ansidrion enjoyable. Studying at his side was a pleasure, and we no longer competed with one another, but rather complemented each other.”

“And your relationship has been ideal ever since?”

“As near as it can be, with a pair of men as different as the two of us. He does things that I would not, and I am sure he finds many of my actions confusing, but I have learned to accept him as I never had in our youth.”

“I had no idea that you were so intolerant of others!” I smiled at him, surprised at the depth of his revelations. I had never thought of Ansidrion as so dependent, or of Yhako as so grumpy. “Had you felt this way about me, as well?”

“Oh no, not you, Federan. You were much easier to manage. You were such a quiet child that if I were not careful, I would not have noticed you at all. I do not mean this as a slight, for this was a characteristic I enjoyed in a person. No, you were much more like me; quietly curious and thoughtful, saying much less than you could have. I enjoyed you, although I am sure it never seemed that way.”

“No, that is correct. You did not think much of me in those days. Although I
thought very little of you either.”

“And for that I apologize, but in my youth I was so concerned with my own thoughts that I had no time for others. I did not know how to converse with a child, as I had spent much of my youth with siblings my age, with Father or alone. Besides, Ansidrion required so much of my attention that I could not make much for you.”
I suddenly felt that Yhako and I were alike, much more than I had ever realized. He had always been an admirable but distant figure, but as a man of few words, a man who kept many hours to himself, we had never become particularly close. I had not had the chance to know him much as a person, and having this conversation with him now made me happy. It seemed right that I should tell him as much. “It would seem, then, that Mother, Sirlay and Ansidrion are cut from the same cloth, as are Father, you and I.” I smiled at him.

To my surprise, however, he did not smile back, but rather looked vulnerably nostalgic once again. “Yes, it was so,” he said. I felt as if he had intended to go on, but he stopped short. Yet, in a peculiar way, I knew exactly what he meant to say, and I, too, wanted him not to say it. This statement, completely unsaid and even unprecedented in the current conversation, loomed over us. It demanded to be uttered, so Yhako and I both knew we could say nothing, less the statement take control and transform our words into itself.

Mother, Sirlay and Ansidrion were alike. Those three had made sacrifices, taken daring decisions for their beliefs, risking everything to do what they thought was right. For Mother, it had cost her her sanity. For Sirlay, his life. And yet, here sat Yhako and I, doing nothing for our beliefs, simply spouting our truths from the comforts of our city home. Yhako had already lost hope of doing anything. He had already accepted that he would die like Father, having accumulated an impressive wealth of knowledge, but having used none of it to make a difference in the world around him.

It was at that moment that I vowed not to be like Yhako. We might have been born with some of the same characteristics, but I could not allow myself to give in to this apathy. Father had imparted his wisdom unto Yhako, and Yhako his unto me, but now I would do something with it. I did not quite know what yet, only that it had to be something important, and it had to be soon.