A part of me clings to the hope that my father kept the photo there because he misses her, wants to remember her, but the more grown-up part of me knows better. Before my mother vanished, there was no love between them. It was purely another of my father’s business relationships, using my mother for the sole purpose of demonstrating stability at the top of the government.

At some point in my parents’ relationship there must have been love—at least from my mom’s side—but I don’t think it lasted very long. As far back as I can remember he had the young, scantily clad servant girls. As a kid I thought they were just fun little helpers who giggled and helped my dad around the office. Almost like elves. That is one fantasy I wish I hadn’t outgrown. The truth is far too sickening.

Roc is saying something. “Huh?” I say.

He repeats himself. “You know it wasn’t your fault.”

Roc’s words sound cryptic, but I know exactly what he’s talking about. My mother’s disappearance. Two years ago, but still as fresh in my memory as if it was yesterday.

“I wasn’t thinking about that.” Well, not really. But it is on the fringe of my thoughts; it is always there. No matter if I am thinking about what to eat for lunch, or the next sword maneuver I will teach Roc, or even if I am thinking about a girl, like the one from today, thoughts of my mom are there, buzzing about on the edge of my consciousness, suffocating my heart.

“It doesn’t matter what you were thinking,” Roc says. “I know you still blame yourself.”

I don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to dredge up the memories again—they are too painful. I am fine to just let her memory cling to the edges of my mind where maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to face them. Sometimes talking to Roc is like talking to a shrink, only without the comfy couch to lie on.

“Not now, Roc,” I say.

“Then when?” he asks.

“Maybe never,” I say honestly.

Roc stops, grabs my shoulders with both hands, forces me to look at him. His dark eyes are serious. “Blaming yourself is like a curse eating you from within, a rogue virus, cancerous and poisonous. It will drive you mad if you let it. You’re my friend and I hate to see you like this. And your mother would hate to see her disappearance cause you to self-destruct.”

I expected Roc to say something cliché like Blaming yourself won’t bring her back, Tristan, but instead, his words are like darts embedding themselves in my chest. I don’t want to let him down. Nor my mother. But I can’t help it. The pain is more than I can bear. The what-ifs are a cancer, like Roc said. What if I was a better son? What if I’d stood up to my father? What if I’d been with her on the day she disappeared, refusing to let her out of my sight? Would everything be different then? Would we be a happy little family?

I want to believe the answer is yes, but in my heart I know it isn’t so. Accepting that fact will set me free. But I can’t…or won’t.

Not that it matters. I will hang on to the what-ifs and continue to blame myself regardless of whether I truly believe I had any influence on the events that transpired.

There isn’t much to believe in these days. I once believed in the love of a mother, but then she left me. I used to believe in honor, in chivalry, in the power that one person has to enact real, positive change in the world. My mother taught me all that. It vanished when she did.

Now all I believe in is pain.

Pain is the great equalizer, the cure to mental anguish, the antidote for a hopeful heart. It comes in all different forms—physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. Most days I like physical the best, choosing to throw myself into my training with unbridled aggression. I make my challenges impossible, sometimes facing twenty or more opponents simultaneously. And because I am the President’s son, they have to obey me, have to attack. At first they’re timid, afraid to bruise me, but after taking a whack or two from the broadside of my steel blade they change, becoming more ferocious than attacking lions.

I still have scars from those training sessions.

The beauty of physical pain is that it wipes out the other forms of pain. Not necessarily completely or for an extended period of time, but long enough to grant a reprieve from my tortured mind and soul.

“On guard!” Roc yells, his teeth clenched together like a wild beast. He’s realized I’m not going to speak to him about my mother. I’m glad he’s given up for the time being. His new approach: beat it out of me.

I don’t even have my weapon yet, but it doesn’t matter. Roc’s clumsy swings feel like they are in slow motion, coming in at awkward angles, without any attempt to hide his intentions: he is going for my head. He’s probably trying to knock some sense into me.

He knows better than that—I’ve taught him better. Feinting is as important as the actual attack. Disguising one’s intent is the key to fighting. But he is on a mission. I know it’s because he cares about me—wants better for me—that he is trying to crack me across the skull.

Not today.

I spin to the left and drop to a roll, hearing Roc’s wooden blade crash thunderously into the wall behind me. When I fight it’s like I have eyes in the back of my head. I’m looking in the other direction, reaching for my own practice blade, grasping it, but I can picture Roc’s blade rebounding off the wall, him repositioning his feet like I’ve taught him, his next swing…

I whirl around just in time, catching the tip of his sword low on my own. Thud! The sound is dull and won’t carry past the walls. We fight with wooden practice swords in the privacy of my room because no one can ever know I am training my servant to fight. It’s nearly as effective as using metal practice swords out in the yard—I can teach him the proper technique, the footwork, the positions—but I know at some point we will need to find a place to practice with real swords. If he is to get any better, that is.

Instinct takes over. That and years of the highest quality training that money can buy. Without thinking, I bend my knees, straighten my back, keep my hips aligned with my shoulders. Roc attempts to do the same, but in the wall-length mirror I can see that next to me he looks amateurish, awkward.

I’m not being vain. Just realistic. Roc needs lots of work on his posture. I can help with that. But not today. Today is about passionate fighting. At least for Roc. Me, I’m calm, unemotional, businesslike. Just like I’ve been taught.

I easily parry Roc’s next three attempts at taking my head off, and then duck the fourth, moving in close to his body and elbowing him hard in the chest. One of the most important lessons in sword fighting—especially for real, life or death, fight-like-there’s-no-tomorrow sword fighting—is to use all parts of your body. Most people assume that because you have a pointy sword you should use it exclusively. Not so.

With a grunt, Roc goes down hard. Lucky for him he crashes onto my bed, ruffling the perfectly ironed red comforter. One thing Roc has going for him is his athleticism. While not trained in the art of fighting, or of swordplay, he has a natural speed and quickness that is particularly effective on the defensive side. His speed temporarily saves him from another defeat at my hands.

After crushing him with my elbow, I continue surging forward, following him onto the bed and attempting to get the point of my dull wooden blade under his chin and against his neck, which is the requisite for victory.

He recovers beautifully, executing a graceful backwards roll, and manages to maintain his grip on the sword. He lands on his feet on the other side of the bed, grinning slightly. His brown skin is shining with sweat under the soft lantern glow. Outstretching his off-sword hand, he flicks his fingers back toward himself, as if to say, “C’mon, bring it!”