The two of you learned many things. Gaelic literature, religion studies, arithmetic, the workings of the kingdom. But amidst the daily droning lectures of the tutor, an odd silence persisted between you and the boy named Banquo.
Maybe it was because the words simply wouldn't flow properly from your throat. As though there was some understanding between the two of you that couldn't be said with words.
Maybe it was because the tutor spoke to Banquo gentler, more patiently, more satisfied when Banquo answered his question then when you stuttered your own clumsy response. He is more mature, eloquent, thoughtful, rational.
Your mother tells you to be grateful and pull up your socks. You try.
Then one day, the tutor plops down another literary text by some famous author and leaves the two of you for a drink of water in the kitchen.
The two of you peer down at the book, heads nearly touching. The words look like black worms, with meandering sentences leading nowhere.
"What even is this?" Banquo whispers. This is the first thing he has ever said to you.
"You don't understand either? You always know everything. "
"Listen, I've just been making things up!"
"No way, teach me!"
"Stop chattering and focus, you two!"
That is how you and Banquo became friends.
A few years later, you and Banquo begin to learn the way of the sword.
A beginner's wooden sword.
The handle nestles firmly in your palm, an extension of your arm. You brandish it, drawing smooth arcs in the air with your blade. Your father taught you well.
"Beautiful," says the teacher.
"Beautiful," echoes Banquo. His own strokes are hesitant, awkward. His fingers wrapped round the wood tremble.
It takes a whole extra hour of training for him to make a decent slash downwards in the air.
"Now a hundred times of that. Do not leave the yard until you are done." The teacher stalks away for a cup of tea indoors.
Banquo struggles a little with swordfighting but improves day by day, strokes becoming more and more confident. You still win every spar though.
With this routine, the sun rose and set and rose for about seven years. You are now thirteen.
Looking at it now, the little metal sword your father had given you as a child looks like a toy, or an oversized needle. You have a larger one now, but still keep the child sword in your drawer.
The teacher only has praise for your swordplay. As though the weapon had morphed permanently with your hand, not training for even a day makes your fingers twitch restlessly.
Your studies, not so much.
"Your instincts are insane," pants Banquo, lying down on the grass after another sparring session. You are with him under a huge oak tree, on a hill overlooking the town and castles. The faint call of mothers reminding their children to come home and stop playing already echoes through the village.
You gaze at the warm glow of evening sun through the yellowing leaves.
"One day we'll fight in battle together; protect the nation," you reply, as if you have a choice. You were training to be thanes after all. Stretching out beside him, time seems to slow down here under the tree.
"Maybe you'll be king," Banquo jokes, throwing a fistful of dried leaves at you. The crown isn't inherited by bloodline here, the king can choose whoever he wishes to pass the baton onto.
You hurl a handful of leaves back at him.
"No, you'll be king, and I will be your dashing knight. "
Under the oak tree on the hill, the sun seems to never set.