Chapter 199 - 197: Salt To Injury.

Chapter 199: Chapter 197: Salt To Injury.

True to his word, Montrel gets him to the infirmary, safe and sound, and into the custody of the medics there who are not pleased to see him back so soon, and with the same, aggravated injury.

Out of necessity it isn’t far from the training grounds but getting there always feels like miles, and by the time they get there, his good foot is starting to throb as well.

Montrel keeps him company as long as he dares –the medics are always busy and have a very strict ’no loitering’ policy that is enforced with very few exceptions –but eventually even he gets chased away, leaving Rogard to their care.

​They make him wait –there are men sick, or bleeding after all, and his ankle is fine as long as he doesn’t try to stand on it.

The cots aren’t exactly comfortable, but they’re clean and practical, and he fits just fine sitting, leg extended out in front of him. And he doesn’t mind waiting.

​His ankle is just getting bandaged and splinted when he gets a visitor.

​And not the one he was hoping for.

​The last, even.

​"Good evening, Rogard."

​Was it evening already? He hadn’t even noticed.

​"Father," he stammers out, eyes wide in surprise. "Wha-what are you doing here?"

​The question makes his father’s eyes narrow; it’s clearly the wrong thing to say.

Whatever he says always seems to be the wrong thing to say these days.

​"I could ask you the same thing," his father replies flatly, stalking down the rows of cots towards him. He’s not smiling. Rogard dials his smile up to its very brightest, to compensate.

​"It’s nothing major," he assures him, waving away the question, "Just tweaked my ankle again at training, is all –"

​" –We had plans today, Rogard," his father states thickly, and Rogard can’t recall the last time so few words filled him with such dread.

"The Lords of Movang wished to speak with us before they departed."

​Oh.

​That was today, huh?

​Out of reflex, Rogard shrinks back into himself, because he knows that the only answer he has is an unacceptable one.

​"I...forgot."

​If his father had been anyone else, the medics would have already chased him out.

They would have swooped in with their pointy hands and sharp voices and told him that the infirmary was for the sick and the sore, and if he wanted his loved ones to get the help they needed, then he would leave them in peace.

​But they don’t, and Rogard suddenly wishes that they would as his father’s eyes flash.

But not bright, like Khobi’s do when he’s excited.

​Dark, like when his father is furious.

​"Do you understand just who the Prince of Movang is?" he asks, and his voice is terrifyingly even.

​The guy who’s sneaking around with his Captain.

​Rogard hates it when he shouts, but he hates it even more when he doesn’t.

The shouting is just loud, and he would never do that in a place like this, where there are others around to see.

When he gets so quiet and measured like this, that’s when he’s at his most venomous.

​"Do you understand what an arrangement with a prince like that could mean for us? For this family?"

​Nothing, because he’s sneaking around with his Captain .

​"...Sorry, father."

He says the words, because he knows he’s meant to –because that’s what his father wants to hear.

He wants him to grovel, and say he’ll do better – be better; that he’ll make him proud. Rogard had said it so many times, for so many years, and honestly, truly meant it each and every time.

​He says them again. But he doesn’t mean it this time.

​"It’s not good enough, Rogard."

​"I’m sorry, father."

​There’s only so many times he can apologise for wanting what he wants and being who he is.

​And because he doesn’t have anything to apologise for.

​" Look at you ," his father scoffs, expression curdling in distaste as he looks down his nose at him.

Rogard wonders if all fathers look at their sons like that. "You’re filthy. And what are you wearing ?" His gaze sweeps up and down the length of Rogard’s shape and he feels dirty everywhere it touches.

It lingers on his bandaged ankle –the grim reminder of the latest of his many, many failings.

He doesn’t have to list them aloud; Rogard has heard them all so many times he can read each and every one in his face, plain as day.

" Gods , I hardly recognise you these days."

​" Good ."

​The word is out of his mouth before he can help himself. It’s becoming a dangerous trend.

He instantly bites his tongue, as if he can swallow it back down, but when his father’s voice turns to ice, he knows the damage has already been done.

​"What was that?" he snaps, and even though he was ready for it, Rogard flinches.

​"Nothing, father."

His father takes a step closer to him, towering over him.

​"Are you sure?" he demands, voice still quiet, so that those in the cots across the room won’t hear, but still hitting harder than a slap to the face, "Because for a moment there, I could have sworn you spoke back to your father.

But you wouldn’t do that, would you, Rogard ?"

​"...No, father." He hates how small his voice comes out; hates that his rebellious streak can only go so far before the teeth of his father’s words make their mark.

​"That’s what I thought," he retorts flatly, straightening up with a look of distaste, "I would watch your mouth, if I were you. And who you associate with. Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you fraternise with all the rabble. Frankly, it makes me sick."

​" –I’m not fraternising ," Rogard tries to say,

"They’re my fri –"

​"Rogard please , if you call those mongrels your friends –and to my face –then I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive you."

​That stings.