My father, Sir. Markus de Catamule is a man who knows what is right and what is wrong. He also know what he has to do as a friend to the King and as a father.
But the only thing he doesn't know is that it's not my fault I'm always sick. Mother and I where both always sick. At least that is what I am told. Mother died after I was born and she was sick every day that she was pregnant with me.
Before I was born father would laugh, smile, play with my brothers and would bring things of beauty into every room. Matter of fact, many of the older servants said that he would laugh much that he had laughing lines by the time he was twenty five.
But then I was born and mother died. And he changed.
He doesn't laugh and he keeps the sun blocked out in many rooms. But mostly his own room.
Father seems to be so lost in his despair that he doesn't smile any more. He blames it on the weather, the war, getting up on the wrong side of the bed. But every one knows that none of that is true. Every one knows that it's because of Mother's death that he is like this.
And I blame my self for it. Mother is dead and I am a live. I should have been the one dead and Mother the one alive. Making father happy.
Father has only looked at me a hand full of times with a mild acceptance. But that is my father. And I love him. No matter how much I feel like I am being pushed away.