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William peeked out of the window of his and his sister’s shared room, the sun shining through the small crack between the silky curtains and draping his face in a comforting warmth. He watched as the world went by, soundlessly, clouds drifting by as if something that he couldn’t see had been beckoning them onward. There was dew on the grass that shimmered almost reluctantly, leftover from the rain that poured down just a night ago.
He wondered if they made noises, the clouds. When he walks through the grass and leaves, what lies just beyond the reach of his ears? Does the wind, when it hits his skin and scales, sing of stories and recite beautiful melodies he will never know? Was the world, when created by God, designed with only the Hearing in mind?
His fingertips traced the dusty windowsill beneath him, breathing deeply to smell the petrichor. Will tried to remind himself of the senses that were still left over, that he could still hold closely and cherish; just like his tutor had instructed him to. He believes his name was Boris, or something of that nature.
Boris was not a kind man. William couldn’t hear the words that came out of his mouth, but he knew that look all too well; utter loathing. He had a short temper, spittle flying at Will’s face as he barked out words that he knew the younger couldn’t hear, and seemed to think of him as ‘deaf and dumb,’ just like many others.
But there was nothing he could do about that. Boris was the only one, to his knowledge, willing to help him learn the Hearing and deaf languages. He taught Will how to read out loud – despite his inability to hear himself.. he supposes it was to appease those who were blessed with the gift of Hearing, to make him look less ‘stupid’ – how to write properly, how to speak with his hands.
Most of his reading lessons, however, centered around memorizing the Bible, scriptures written by ancient Holymen and quoted by priests throughout the decades, because ‘people like you are going to need it with where you’re heading.’ That is what his tutor wrote to him. And he believes it. He thinks others do, too, whenever they look at him.
… There he goes again, getting off track. Boris signed to him that he had a problem with that, memories and experiences bleeding into each other until they became interwoven into a tapestry of madness and pure nonsense.
Shame overtook his heart, and the tuna began to tighten his grip on the ledges of the windowsill. He would never learn properly, would he? How could he make himself into something more — someone productive and kind, who fit into the mold of what a royal was supposed to be? How could he possibly feel as if he was real, as if he mattered again, if he couldn’t get such a simple thing correct?
And before the tears could gather in his vision, a hand, gently touching his shoulder, yanked him from his thoughts, a feeling that he could only describe as a shrill vibration clawing its way up his throat, escaping his lips as he spun around to face whoever was behind him, eyes shot wide.
It was his older sister, Penny, concern seated deeply in her eyes. He hadn’t felt the way the ground gently quivered every time her hooves hit it; the only way he could tell someone had entered a room.
His stare dropped down to her mouth, watching it move, untranslatably, uselessly. He couldn’t read her lips properly. She forgot about his deafness a lot, which proved both a blessing and a curse.
Careless for what she spoke of now, he stepped toward her, arms open, as if to ask her if this was alright, if he could find consolation and sympathy like he had sought from her numerous times before this. And, gracefully, she accepted him into her arms, into an embrace that, for a moment, melted away his worries and despair.
William wished never to show the world his face again, to experience this forever, until the end of time.