Chapter 128 - 127: A Father’s Words.

Chapter 128: Chapter 127: A Father’s Words.

It’s a thought that has him looking anywhere but the Captain at his side lest his face betray his treacherous thoughts.

But it means that he’s instead confronted with the faces of a shocked crowd, and that of Rogard’s Father.

He doesn’t look disappointed. He looks resigned, and that’s immeasurably worse, like he’s just tried and tried with his son, and has decided that there’s nothing more he can do.

​Guilt, like a poison, floods Rogard’s system; so vile he nearly chokes on it, and Drogger’s arm clenches tight around him like somehow, he can tell something’s not right.

​" Rogard ," Drogger says, startling him, and Rogard wishes he wouldn’t say his name like that; with such concern. It’s not good for him.

Who’s he to worry about him like that, when Rogard’s Father’s all but given up? "What’s going on? Come on, take a seat and let a medic take a look at you."

​Subdued, Rogard allows himself to be led to a bench, and two medics start fussing over his head and his eyes and the blood that’s trickling down his cheek.

For some reason, Drogger doesn’t leave his side, and maybe he’s just feeling a little hazy, but he thinks he hears relief in his sigh when they announce that he seems to be okay.

Shaken, and a little shocked, but who isn’t when they get speared off a horse at high speed?

​"I’m sorry, master," he says quietly, swaying as his brains slowly start to unscramble and the weight of what’s just occurred starts to properly sink in.

"...I let you down." It’s hard, bringing himself to look at Drogger --possibly one of the hardest things he’s ever done, he thinks -- and when he meets his gaze, finds him looking vaguely puzzled.

​"What are you talking about?" he asks, and seems to have genuinely no idea what he’s talking about even though it’s obvious.

Rogard can’t believe he’s making him say it out loud.

​"I lost."

​It sounds even worse out loud.

​Drogger blinks at him, and then predictably, his expression morphs into one of anger.

​"Don’t be ridiculous ," he snaps sternly, and abruptly it’s Rogard’s turn to ogle him owlishly, because that’s not what he’d expected him to say at all.

He even looks a little startled by his own reaction. "You did great out there." Rogard just stares at him, and then at his murmuring audience; decidedly less adoring than they had been mere minutes ago.

​"But they..."

​" --You did great," Drogger repeats seriously, in the tone he uses when he expects people to shut up and listen because he has something important to say.

It makes Rogard believe him. "Don’t you let anyone make you believe otherwise, you hear me?"

​"...But Loac..." he tries to say, glancing over at the jet black horse and rider ambling towards the royal booth like they hadn’t just wrecked havoc upon the proceedings.

​"You’ll get him next time," Drogger tells him, and despite his track record against Loac, for a second there his words really make him think he will.

​"But what if I don’t?" he mumbles, and an unseemly squeak escapes his throat as Drogger lands a hefty clap on his back to smack him back to his senses.

​"...Then the time after that," he says matter-of-factly, and some of the weight of losing evaporates from Rogard’s shoulders.

He still aches, and he looks like a travesty, and having suffered defeat at Loac’s hands yet again tastes sour, but when he cracks a smile for Drogger’s benefit, the one he receives in return makes it all feel not quite so terrible.

​" Well ."

​Honestly, even Gurdet is a little lost for words.

​"He certainly has his mother’s flair for the dramatic," Bongo offers, when the rest of the royal booth seems equally at a loss.

​"...And his father’s timing," Gurdet snorts, shaking his head incredulously as his nephew ambles over towards them on his wild thing of a horse, "Shitty."

He smiles though, as he approaches, and raises his glass in greeting. "Loac," he says brightly, like he’s only just realised he’s there, "What a..." He pauses theatrically, and makes a show of deliberating on his word choice, "... Surprise ."

​Loac doesn’t bite. He rarely does anymore. It’s very boring of him.

​"What’d I miss?" he asks casually, not even bothering to greet his cousin and not seeming to care that it hurts her.

​"Most of the day, actually," Gurdet hums flippantly, "...And yesterday."

​"Huh." One would think he hadn’t even known there was anything to miss.

"Oops." He doesn’t sound sorry, and seems completely unaware of the hundreds, if not thousands of people currently ogling him like they can’t quite believe he’s real. "...So, was that it?"

​"Yes, Loac," Gurdet replies dryly, resisting the urge to sigh, "That was it." For some reason, his nephew looks irritated by the answer.

It’s his own fault. If he had’ve shown up earlier, there would have been more devastation to see, and more dreams to trample.

Not that that would have changed the outcome. Probably would have hastened it, if anything.

Loac is a force to be reckoned with, after all. Rare are the men who can hold their own against him.

The young Spidra probably doesn’t feel like it,but he had done extraordinarily well. Most men don’t even make it to a second pass.

​"Can we expect your company at dinner tonight?" he inquires, and refuses to look at his daughter so he doesn’t have to see her eyes flood with hope that her cruel nephew will just go and dash.

But Loac just spares a scathing parting look up into the royal booth and wheels his horse away; the creature moving so docile under his touch.

​"I’m not hungry."

​It’s odd that he says that, because when he locks gazes with Khobi, there’s something in his jaded eyes that looks almost anguished.

​...And absolutely starving.

...

Loac doesn’t show up to the festivities that night.

​(Gurdet isn’t surprised.)

​But someone else does. Not to the feast, but after, when the moon is high, and the candles are burning low, and the revelries in the dining hall are drunken and growing sleepy.

​Gurdet isn’t surprised by that, either. After all, he comes every year. Always around this time, and always to the same exact painting.

So when Gurdet arrives in the hallway, he’s already there; a shadow, hovering just beyond the reach of the torchlight, staring up at the painting with deep, agonised longing, as if to memorise the woman depicted there.

​Perhaps he wouldn’t have to look so long and so desperately, if he’d spent a little more time with her in life.

​"Right on schedule," Gurdet remarks conversationally, coming to a halt several feet from the and letting the echoes of his footsteps wear themselves out against the walls, "I thought perhaps you weren’t coming this year." It’s an unconvincing lie if he’s ever heard one, but he just can’t help himself.

​"Horang," the man greets flatly, without looking his way. "It’s been a while."

​"...Not long enough," he replies pleasantly, and out of the darkness, midnight blue eyes slowly slide towards him, and then away again on a blink.

​"You don’t seem surprised to see me," he states, but doesn’t seem all that surprised to see him either.

​"I know what goes on in my own castle," Gurdet assures him with a light smile, and a humble shrug, "Did you really think I wouldn’t know? Year after year? For a gypsy you’re rather predictable."

He always had been. Inconstant as the weather, except when it came to one thing.

​"...I miss her," he says simply, and Gurdet fixes him with a look.

​"Is that so?"

​"Of course," he replies, offended that Gurdet even has to ask, "She was my wife."

​"She was," Gurdet concedes, "And she deserved better than you gave her." A fact. Not an insult.

​"I loved her," he counters, like he really, honestly believes that that’s all that matters.

​"That’s not always enough, is it?" Gurdet sighs, shaking his head at how foolish he sounds.

His wife would freely admit that he was never a perfect husband, and his daughter would claim that he was never a perfect father, and he’d honestly agree with them --but at least he was one, which is more than this man can claim.

His daughter seems to think that love is this beautiful, all-sustaining thing, but the truth is that it’s not.

​"...Your daughter is very beautiful," the man deflects quietly, as if reading his thoughts, and gazes up at the painting with soft eyes that shimmer in the torchlight like moonlight across a still lake, "...She looks so much like her mother."

​"I know," Gurdet sniffs, and in the torchlight, those blue eyes dance with mirth.

​"...It seems we both married women who deserved more."

​"So it does," he remarks agreeably. Bongo would be ever so proud of how much venom he manages to keep from his voice.

His wife could have done a lot worse than him, and she knew it. It was why she agreed to marry him in the first place.

​"And the prince?" the man asks vacantly, and Gurdet feels a rush of dislike for him.

​You mean your son ?

​"Will he end up deserving more?" he continues, gazing forlornly up at the painted memory of his beloved wife.

"Will this boy he’s marrying make him happy?"

​What do you care ? Gurdet thinks to himself. In all this time, he’s never cared for his son’s happiness; why should he start now?

​"...That remains to be seen," he replies noncommittally, "Forgive me, but you gave up your right to have any say in the matter a long time ago."

​It irks him that he doesn’t argue; that someone so wild, and who had so famously almost wrecked a castle down in the courtship of the woman he loved, won’t fight him on this.

​There’s no wind tonight --strange, for this time of year --but the torchlight flickers like there is as Loac’s father turns to face him, arm extended out towards him.

And despite the prowess of this man with a blade, and a knife, and bow, and any other weapon put into his hands, Gurdet feels oddly unafraid, and the hand that reaches out to him, palm upwards, holds no malice.

​Instead, it holds a ring. Simple in design, silver, and set with a drab, brown stone. Almost like the kind that might wash up on the side of a river after a storm.

It’s honestly hideous, and Gurdet recognises it immediately.

​"I know you don’t owe me anything," Loac’s father murmurs, cradling the ring like it’s something precious even though Gurdet’s probably never laid eyes on anything cheaper, "But would you give this to him? When he’s ready?"

​Who would want this old piece of junk, he can’t help but think to himself as he plucks it up between two fingers with distaste. It’s still warm, too, like it hadn’t left a finger until this very moment.

​"This ugly old thing?" he grimaces, "You still have it, after all these years?"

​"Of course," he replies solemnly, brow creasing like he doesn’t understand the question, "It’s all I have left of her."

​"It’s not," Gurdet informs him coldly, and spares a glance at the painting that brought them here.

You have the son she left behind. He doesn’t say that, but he hopes that it goes understood regardless. "...He’s a lot like her, did you know?" he adds, a little snidely.

Because there’s no way he would know. He’s never stuck around long enough to figure that out for himself.

But the jab falls flat, and Loac’s father simply fixes him with a vacant stare.

​"Is that why you haven’t sent him away?" he asks, and even though the question is clearly rhetorical, Gurdet doesn’t dignify that with a response.

​"...I’ll give it to him, one day," he promises, testing the weight of the ring in his palm. It’s not particularly large but is heavy for its size, and well-worn, "But not for you. You’re right.

I don’t owe you anything. But don’t be surprised if he doesn’t want it."

​He doesn’t expect to be thanked, and he isn’t.

The man in front of him just backs away into the shadows again, giving the painting on the wall a final, parting glance.

He says something to her as he goes, a soft, sad whisper that Gurdet, for both their sakes, pretends not to hear, and then, just like that, he vanishes; melting off into the night like a wraith, there one second and gone the next.

​Just like always.