Chapter 129 - 128: Aftermath Of Loss.

Chapter 129: Chapter 128: Aftermath Of Loss.

This is the moment Rogard has been dreading.

All evening he’d been wishing for the night to never end. Not because it was particularly enjoyable, but because he’s been terrified of what his father will say once the festivities are over and they’re behind closed doors.

During the feast, he’d almost managed to forget what he’d done, because around strangers and the people he calls their friends, his father had smiled, and laughed, and sung his son’s praises, and acted every bit the proud father he’s supposed to be.

​But they’re alone now.

​And without an audience to pander to, his father’s charming mask disintegrates into an expression of fury .

For how close winter is, the night has been surprisingly cosy, and full of cheer, but the courtyard around them suddenly feels like Rogard has been plunged headfirst into a midwinter storm.

In the dining hall, merrymakers continue to drink the night away, and somehow, even though it’s close enough enough that he can make out the words to every song that falls from a bard’s lips, it feels an entire world away.

​"What were you thinking, Rogard?" he snarls, the words coming out spiteful and full of venom. Even though Rogard had been expecting it, he still flinches. "Have you lost your mind ?"

​"No, father," Rogard assures him quietly, and the look of betrayal his father sends him feels like a slap.

​"Clearly you have ," he corrects angrily, and Rogard shies away as he swoops in closer. He doesn’t touch him --he’d never do that --but in the moonlight like this he looks gigantic, and his eyes, redder than Rogard’s own, look otherworldly, and terrible.

There aren’t a lot of things Rogard is afraid of, but his father is one of them. When he was younger, he liked to pretend that the man at the feast was his real father --the one who laughed, and smiled at him, and told him that he had grown into such a fine young man --but he knows better now.

​" --Because the son I raised would know better than to defy his father."

​Apparently he doesn’t. Because he did it, didn’t he?

​"I’m sorry, father," he mumbles, dipping his head respectfully, because he is sorry, really he is. He wants his father to be proud of him --more than anything else in the world.

​Or rather, more than almost anything else in world.

​"Oh, you’re sorry, are you?" his father scoffs, brushing off his apology as little more than words, "You could have been a king someday, and you’re sorry ."

​It’s not fair. Rogard knows that that’s always been his father’s dream for him --his dream for their family, and their future, but as much as he’s wanted to follow his father’s wishes, he’s never wanted to be king, and it’s not fair that he’s apologising for losing something he never even wanted.

​"His Majesty never would’ve agreed to it and you know it." It’s foolish to argue, and his father has always hated being talked back to, but Rogard still feels the need to point out the futility of the plan he’s ruined, "Neither would the princess."

​"The princess doesn’t have a choice," his father sniffs irritably, stormclouds brewing in his eyes at being questioned so directly. "In the end, she’ll marry who she’s told to marry.

And that, my boy, should have been you. You could have asked for her, and instead, you asked for nothing ."

He’s practically frothing by the end of his speech, but Rogard has to keep his gaze so he doesn’t look weak; so his father can’t tell him, with disgust in his eyes and a cruel sneer, that he’s a coward, as well as a disappointment.

​"She’s not a thing , father," he says, and the words come out a lot sterner than he was expecting. His father, too, seems taken aback by the conviction in his voice, so he keeps going, before he can take exception to it.

​"I won," he states, fixing his father with a defiant glare, "Like you asked me to. What difference does it make?"

​He thinks it’s a reasonable question. He didn’t do everything that was asked of him, but he made an effort. A good one, he thinks.

​His father does not appear to agree.

​"Did you?" It’s a statement, more than a question, and a confusing one at that.

​"...Excuse me?" Rogard ventures with a small frown, and his father’s expression is chilling.

​" -- Did you win?" he repeats, enunciating each syllable, and the words are even more venomous the second time, "You let that disgrace walk all over you."

He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice and Rogard instinctively scopes out the courtyard to make certain no one else has heard.

​"...He’s our prince, father," he reminds him in hushed tones, because as much as the castle shares some unkind opinions about Loac, he’s still a part of the royal family, and such thoughts are generally only voiced in whispers.

​"Don’t make me laugh, Rogard," his father sneers, "He’s an embarrassment to this kingdom, and you know it."

​Rogard doesn’t know it, in fact. Loac has his vices --and a whole bunch of them, for sure --but most of the princes that he’s met do, and he’s an incredible fighter.

The best he’s ever faced. And one that their kingdom should be proud of. It’s frustrating, as someone who can’t seem to surpass him, no matter how hard he might try, but it is magic, what he can do with a sword; an artform what he is capable of with a lance.

It’s not fair of his father to pass judgement on what happened earlier at the jousting lane. He doesn’t know . He’s never faced him.

​"But this isn’t about him," his father continues, not noticing Rogard’s lack of response, "This is about you, and the future of our house. I’m losing faith in you, Rogard, and believe me when I say that it hurts me to say that."

​Rogard doesn’t believe him.

​He listens, though, because he has no choice; listens to his father tell him that he’s weak-willed, and useless and irresponsible, and that he’s embarrassed them both today, in front of so many of their cherished friends.

It’s the same tirade as it always is, and Rogard listens, because he has to, but even though his father’s open disgust with him still makes bile rise up in the back of his throat, he finds that this time, his words don’t cut him quite so deep.

​And it’s because this time, he doesn’t believe him.

​This time , there’s a voice in the back of his mind that is louder, and immeasurably kinder than his father is cruel, and it tells him, in a voice so stern and sincere, that he did great today.

That he should be proud of himself, and all that he has achieved.

​And that he shouldn’t let anyone try to convince him otherwise.

​This time, he believes Drogger instead.

​His father pauses to draw breath, and in the silence, someone clears their throat.

​He freezes, and Rogard tenses.

​"You should really keep it down out here," a voice rumbles from the darkness, voice lazy and slow.

And a moment later, who should come ambling out of the night but the prince himself. He yawns, but there’s not a shred of sleep in his eyes. "People are trying to sleep."

​"Hey, Loac," Rogard greets, without enthusiasm, as Loac slinks out from the shadows and into the moonlight, brushing past Rogard’s father as he does so. He reeks of booze, and perfume, and he’s sure his father can smell it, too.

​"Yo, Rogard," Loac greets back, voice hoarse and low, and Rogard wonders, with a flash of shame, just how much he’s heard. "...I thought you’d still be at the party."

​"Your Highness," Rogard’s father remarks sourly, without bowing, and Rogard prays that Loac doesn’t notice. Or that if he does, he lets it slide; after all, he’s never been one to care about how the castle nobility saw him, or spoke of him, or to him.

​Rogard’s not that lucky.

​"Is there a problem?" Loac asks, voice dark and suspicious, and edged with something that sounds almost like a threat.

And his father must hear it, because the thunder instantly vanishes from his expression and is replaced by a filthy, bright smile that is all teeth and no heart.

It makes Rogard’s skin crawl, and he finds that he despises it.

​"Of course not," he assures him lightly, using that airy tone that the castle women can’t get enough of, "Can’t a father borrow a moment from his son to congratulate him?"

​"...That’s what’s happening?" Loac says flatly, undaunted by his father’s dangerous leer. He sends Rogard a sidelong glance, clearly unconvinced.

And despite the sting of his recent loss and the associated lingering bitterness, there’s something lurking in his face --something dangerous --that has Rogard feeling oddly grateful to him. "Rogard?"

​"...It’s fine, Loac," he placates quietly, feeling his father’s eyes burning holes into the side of his face. He doesn’t want trouble.

​And it’s clear that as open as he is with his distaste for Loac, his father is wise enough to still be wary of him, because being on the receiving end of a stony, distrustful, blue-eyed stare makes him back off.

​"I’ll speak with you later, Rogard," he sniffs, and even manages a stiff movement in Loac’s direction that, if pressed, he could probably argue was a bow. "Good evening, Your Highness."

​He doesn’t look back, as he stalks off, and the air around them instantly feels lighter as soon as he’s gone.

And usually, Rogard feels terrible after these conversations with his father, but tonight, for some reason, he feels okay. A little sick, but surprisingly okay.

​"Sorry, about him," Rogard sighs, running a hand back through his hair.

​"Don’t be," Loac states, like that’s the end of that, and then adds with an offhanded shrug, "...You fell off your horse pretty hard today."

​The bitterness resurfaces instantaneously, and Rogard sends a cool look his way at the unwelcome reminder of the events of the day. It just glances right off.

​"I’m fine," he huffs emphatically, " Thanks ." He’s felt better, but he’s not going to tell anyone that.

And tonight’s feast is meant to be celebrating him; he’d rather not spend it being reminded of his single, decisive loss of the day, especially with the guy he lost to.

That he always seems to lose to.

​"...I should get back to the party," he sniffs, and Loac makes no move to stop him.

​"...You’ve improved," he says instead, and that does the job for him.

​"I’ve been practicing," Rogard informs him stiffly, but can’t help but feel a tiny rush of pride that he’d noticed.

​"...Thought you didn’t do that sort of thing anymore," he remarks, after a moment of consideration, and perhaps surprise.

Rogard gets it; he really does. He spent so many years avoiding training, and thinking that he’d learned all he could learn.

But things change, and when he tells him that, Loac just shrugs, like he’s welcome to believe whatever he likes.

​"Some things," he retorts ominously, and seems to decide that they’re done here because he yawns again, loud and wide, and more real than before, and turns his back on him.

He waves, as he meanders off towards the nearest hallway, letting the darkness swallow him whole and adds, almost as an afterthought, "...See you tomorrow."

​"Yeah, whatever," Rogard mutters dismissively, and then feels a flash of confusion, "I’ll...wait, what?"

​By the time he turns to ask what exactly he means by that, Loac’s already gone.