Chapter 151 - 149: The Hunt For A Man.

Chapter 151: Chapter 149: The Hunt For A Man.

Some people seem surprised to see Rogard there, and honestly, he’s a little offended.

​He’s never been one to miss a party, after all, and he doesn’t intend to start now.

His ankle’s hurting, and so’s his pride, but they don’t need to know that. Keeping up appearances is almost second nature to him by now, and even if his father isn’t speaking to him, he’s not going to let that ruin his night.

​Because he knows that he did everything he could. He practiced, and he trained --he worked his ass off, and when he went out there, he put his everything into winning.

​And that was good enough.

​Not for his father, no, but for someone.

​For a lot of people, actually. More than he’d thought.

The soldiers he’s been training with have been surprisingly supportive, and he supposes that they know he’s hurting, because they’re all hurting too. Losing, in all its many forms, sucks .

​It just somehow sucks just that little bit less when someone tells you they’re proud of you anyway.

​He could have made the decision not to come tonight. He could have stayed holed up in his room, wrought with guilt and shame, but he’s stronger than that, and he refuses to act like the failure his father says he is.

Especially when he knows there are people out there who don’t see him as one. This was one tournament, and he’s not going to let it ruin him.

There’ll always be another. Another chance to fight; another chance to prove himself.

​(Loac’s beat him hundreds of times, each time almost easier than the last; why should this loss be the one that breaks him?)

​So if his father is expecting him to hide away tonight, well, he’s going to be disappointed, and it’ll be the first time Rogard doesn’t even care.

​And, because he’s petty he wears white, in open defiance of his father’s colours, with just enough blue trim that he can pretend it’s not.

He doesn’t even try to cover up the bruises from his fall because they’re not marks of his failings, they’re just...marks. They’ll heal, and they’ll fade, and then (unfortunately, but inevitably) someone else will get the chance to put more on him.

It means he doesn’t look quite as impeccable as he’d hoped, but he still has no trouble in finding a pretty girl to accompany him onto the dancefloor.

​Dancing’s never been his greatest strength, and on an unstable ankle he’s definitely not the swiftest or the most graceful, but the young lady doesn’t seem to mind one bit, and looks overjoyed to be carted around the ballroom to the sweet strum of spirited lutes.

It’s beautiful music, really; fit to match the extravagant decorative wall trappings, and hanging crystals that warp the moonlight streaming in through the high windows and make it dance.

It catches on the jewels in ladies’ hair, and on the gemstones woven into mens’ tunics, and as they move across the dancefloor, and laughing amongst themselves, the very air seems to shimmer.

The girl he’s dancing with seems almost as enchanted with the patterns dappled upon the ceiling as she is with him.

Combined with the torchlight and starlight, it certainly is something. Almost otherworldly.

A special kind of night.

​Crade may be known for its military strength and for its beautiful princess, but its king sure knows how to throw a party.

The last few nights have certainly been a testament to that. And tonight, everyone seems in particularly high spirits.

​A ball has that kind of effect on people. And it’s a nice night for it, he thinks, bowing to his partner as the song ends and offering her his arm to escort her back to her friends while he tries to disguise a limp.

Almost immediately there’s another one ready to take her place, equally beautiful and equally dazzling, and Rogard has to use his most charming smile when he tells her and the rest of the women that swarm him, that he best go easy on his ankle.

They all look so very disappointed to be missing out, but he leaves them all with pretty, false promises of returning to them later in the evening.

He even throws in a wink as he spies a familiar group of soldiers clustered a little too obviously away from the dancefloor, and takes his leave of them.

The wink might have been a tad too much because it makes them giggle and swoon like maidens.

​In the past he would have kept their company a while longer; laughed with them and gossipped the night away, flirted a little, or even a lot, depending on how long they held his interest.

But tonight there’s company he’d rather keep, and he’s begun to notice that it’s harder for a pretty face to hold his interest these days.

​He’s not sure if it’s because they were never very interesting to begin with, or because his interests have changed.

...

Gurdet does so wish his daughter would stop looking so longingly towards the entrance.

It’s a bad look, especially in front of so many suitors.

Fortunately, they’re so blinded by the beauty of youth and their own ambition to notice that her smiles for them are a courtesy, and nothing more.

All the same, on roughly the twelfth time he catches her attention drifting, he settles her with a polite, questioning look.

​"They’re late," she informs him, like he wasn’t already well aware. At this point he’s not sure why she’s surprised, or why she’s even expecting to see them at all.

Sure, Khobi has thus far been fairly consistent with attending the events he’s supposed to, but Loac is a law unto himself. After what happened yesterday, he wouldn’t be surprised if his nephew vanishes and doesn’t surface for weeks.

​Not that he tells her that.

​"...Xena, I’m not sure what’s given you the impression they’d be on time," he remarks airily, and her next words must have been snarky because when another gentleman approaches them, she bites them back down and polishes up her smile.

He’s there to ask her to dance, of course. Like the rest of them.

Men are just falling over each other trying to get a dance with her --to the point where Gurdet is a little embarrassed for them.

It’s so dreadfully misguided of them to think, even for a second, that a mere dance is going to win her over.

​In fact, given her feedback in between dances, he’s gathered it does much the opposite.

They all step on her feet and pretend they don’t, she says, and pretend she doesn’t when she deliberately steps on theirs.

Because apparently that matters.

​She claims it’s because she could never marry a liar.

​Gurdet thinks she’s just being picky.

​But she accepts each invitation, just as she should, and no doubt hates every second of it.

​Which, by default, means that Gurdet immensely enjoys watching it unfold.

​"Do I have to dance with all of them?" she asks him as loudly as she dares, when she returns from the dancefloor for the umpteenth time.

Her expression, however, says that she already knows the answer.

​"Of course not, sweet daughter," he assures her with a wide smile that makes her grimace, "Only the ones that ask."

​Which will be almost every nobleman here, and they both know it. She’s got a long evening ahead of her, and Gurdet can’t wait.