The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

Epilogue

When was the last time Able had walked through the east fishing wharf in Blueport? Probably after graduation. He'd returned here after most of the important events of his adolescence, then stood staring at the bay with his hands in his pockets for want of anything meaningful to do. He had not been here with his brother since they had moved in with their aunt and uncle.

"I was thinking..." Practical started, then hesitated. "I was thinking that maybe we should bring him home after all."

When Able had first gotten back, Practical had unloaded an excessive denunciation of Able's claim he had found their father's remains—a rant he had apparently saved for months since Able's letter about the matter had arrived. As Able had settled into a routine for finishing the chronicle, Practical had pivoted to arguing about the expense or the coordination of such an undertaking and how it wasn't worth it on the rare occasions he had Able's ear.

Now that Able was done, his book out of his hands and in those of the publishing department, he'd stayed home a while, taking Lark's advice to let his family love him, trying to accept the ways they showed it without irritation.

"Being loved the way you need to be loved is damned important," he'd said, angelically illuminated by the window he'd been staring out of. "But it's no reason to block out the imperfect love given to you along the way, yeah?" Likely he'd been fortifying himself for his own trials ahead by advising Able, but that was no reason to disregard this.

So he'd let his aunt throw a feast—actually several. Let his uncle invite all his friends to them so they could pepper him with questions. Let his mother make him more socks than he could probably wear in a season. And when his brother had abruptly asked to take a walk after breakfast, he'd accepted this too.

"I agree," Able replied with a simple nod and no smug retort. "Pa was a traditionalist and would have wanted it. We're lucky it's even an option."

"You mean that he wasn't lost at sea?" Practical asked without looking at him.

"That, and they buried him in a box. Traditionally Borealunders keep their dead at home until they're ready to say farewell, at which point they're left exposed in the forest."

"What, for the wild beasts to eat and stuff? That's disturbing." Practical snorted. "I don't get what you see in those savages."

Able smiled patiently. "They're people. Like we're people. They just have different ways of expressing the same sentiments."

"What 'sentiment' could that possibly be?" he scoffed.

"I've accepted that you're gone, and I'm prepared to move forward with my grief into a life that cycles on." Able turned to meet his brother's eyes and offered him a sad smile.

Practical turned away, but not so quickly that Able had not seen the tears touch his eyes. "...yeah, let's bring him home. Give him a proper service."

Able hesitated a second before surrendering to his impulse to put his arm around him.

Practical sniffled, then shrugged as if annoyed. "Let's go."

They returned home. Auntie Charity had also been out while they had and bounded up to them with the latest sensational circular on the Lost Prince rumors when they got back. Able tried to be amused rather than annoyed that after avoiding the subject completely for over a decade she was lapping up every scrap of print about it and was delighted even when he refuted every sentence in some of them.

"No mention of you though, Able," she admitted though this did not diminish her enthusiasm.

"Thank the Prophets for that." As he refrained from rolling his eyes he noticed Ma standing in the doorway to the kitchen biting down a cheeky smile. "You checked the post?"