Chapter 113 - 112: The Ceremony.

Chapter 113: Chapter 112: The Ceremony.

Bongo was right.

He’s not the only one who looks stupid.

He still feels stupid, but at least he’s self-aware.

Unlike everyone else, apparently, who seem genuinely oblivious to the fact that they all look ridiculous .

And they get even more ridiculous as the night wears on. They all listen intently as the king addresses them all --welcomes them to his kingdom, and his home, wishes them all the very best of luck in the imminent tournament, and invites them all to join him in celebrating the upcoming nuptials of his beloved nephew.

A beloved nephew who is noticeably absent. At his own celebratory feast.

The room toasts him, nonetheless, but it’s somewhat forced, and with an underlying air of disapproval.

If the king notices, he doesn’t show it --just smiles, raises his glass, and bids them all, in his nephew’s name, and his mother’s, to eat, and be merry.

Khobi reckons he doesn’t mean a thing he’s saying, but the entire room holds onto his every word, and when at last the servants pour out into the enormous dining hall carrying trays upon trays of meats, and fruits and bread, the music strikes up and a cheer rises with it, and the celebrations begin.

For some reason Khobi doesn’t exactly feel like celebrating.

But he keeps his promise. Quite admirably, he thinks, considering the number of people that make it pretty damn obvious that they’ve taken exception to his being there.

He eats, and he drinks --until Bongo politely cuts him off --and he replies when the princess addresses him; pointedly ignoring the empty seat between them.

Over the course of the night it seems like every nobleman in the room ventures to their table to beg a moment of her time, and with a gentle smile, she painstakingly grants them one, each time.

It looks exhausting, and each one is greasier and more cringeworthy than the last.

It’s clear that she’s not buying what they’re selling --usually their sons, by the sounds of things --but she humours them, and does her best to pretend she doesn’t see the looks of disgust they send Khobi’s way as they depart.

"Don’t worry," Drogger says from the seat beside him, where he’s working his way through his meal like there aren’t hundreds of eyes upon him.

Because Khobi’s noticed that for every snide look that comes his way, there’s three thrown at Drogger.

Like for some reason his being seated with the king is somehow equally offensive. And he’s the Captain . "You get used to it."

Khobi doesn’t bother telling him that he’s already used to it.

He just doesn’t like it.

No one says anything to his face, because he’s seated next to the princess, looking down upon the room from their royal dais, but he knows when they whisper that they’re talking about him.

...

Xena Hector is a princess.

A Crown Princess, in fact,heir to one of the most powerful kingdoms in this part of the world.

Beautiful, gentle, and kind --the perfect little figurehead for her father, some might say.

And she knows they do. Her father isn’t the only one who listens out for whispers.

She shouldn’t be here like this, out unescorted at his late hour, with the torches almost burnt out and the halls smelling of wine.

It’s not proper at all, but it fills her with a small thrill. Because, for all her talk of etiquette and propriety, she’s more than just a princess.

In her heart; in secret, she’s just another girl. One who’s not afraid of the dark. Not here.

Not in her own home. And one who loves her cousin. Always, and forever. No matter how many times he pushes her away, or how hard, she’ll always love him.

"Hello Auntie," she whispers quietly, and drops into a curtsey before the tapestry more out of habit than anything else.

Her father thinks it’s silly --pictures can’t curtsey back, after all --but she thinks it’s only right.

Her mother was a queen, and just because she never got to see her become a lady, doesn’t mean she shouldn’t behave like one.

"Mother. It’s been a while."

There are many paintings in the castle dedicated to her mother --the royal family has always been an endless source of inspiration for painters and sculptors alike --but of them all, this is her favourite.

It’s the one that depicts her how she best remembers her, the last one ever made, and the only one that truly captures the bright spirits of both her mother, and her aunt.

In it they’re not only beautiful, but full of life, and fire. But where her aunt’s is bright and open and wild --the spirit that stole men’s hearts out from under them --her mother’s is more reserved, and burning soft.

She thinks her father loves this painting, too.

He might never admit to truly loving her mother, but when he looks at this painting he doesn’t have to.

"He’s getting married, did you know?" she says quietly, like somehow they can hear her.

She likes to think that they can. "He probably hasn’t told you, but he is. Father’s idea, of course."

She knows what they would say, too. Her mother would say it was about time little Loac found himself a match, and her aunt --his mother, would roll her eyes and scoff at stuffy court traditions and that her son would marry someone when he was good and ready, and had found someone who wanted to marry him just as desperately.

That was just how they were. So, so different, for sisters --in both temperament, and ideals --but closer for it, and Xena and her sweet little cousin had been raised from birth like siblings.

She was older --just --but had spent most of her childhood chasing after him. He was running almost as soon as he could walk, and hadn’t stopped since, always looking out to the world with such bright, excited eyes.

Not his mother’s eyes though --hers were a royal pink, and his were the infinite, brilliant blue of a father he would never really know.

He had been fearless, and he had taught Xena to be that too.

A bad influence, her father had sometimes said, but he had never sent her cousin away, and for that she was endlessly thankful.

(She’d promised her auntie, after all, that she would always watch over him. Even if she couldn’t reach him.)

"I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you in so long," she murmurs sadly, "And I’m sorry he hasn’t, either."

She’s speaking for both her cousin, and her father.

She can’t remember the last time they looked up this painting together. Or when she even last came here herself.

She wonders if it makes him sad, too.

"...I think he misses you."

She so desperately wants to be able to tell her aunt --honestly, even if just once --that the son she’s left behind is happy.

But she can’t, and clearly no one else in this castle seems to care, and there’s nothing she can do.

She’s a princess , but what does that matter if she can’t even help her own family?

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t come here much anymore.

No one likes feeling like somehow, they’re failing.

"...Is something the matter?" the darkness suddenly asks of her, so soft that for a second she thinks she imagined it.

"Excuse me?" she inquires of the shadows, hastily blinking away the wetness that’s risen to her eyes unbidden and standing tall.

"Is someone there?"

For a moment she receives no answer, but then the shadows shift, and the slumbering torchlight births the hazy silhouette of a man.

"...My apologies," he replies, voice deep and melodic, like bells, or chimes in the wind. "I didn’t mean to startle you, My Lady."

"The apologies are mine," she says politely, dipping her head in apology, "I thought I was alone."

"As did I," he replies, and she thinks maybe his voice sounds like wind whistling through the trees, or dancing across mountaintops.

"Pardon my intrusion,I was just leaving."

"No, please, feel free to stay," she urges, inclining her head back down the way she had come,suddenly aware that she was alone in a deserted corridor in the middle of the night with a man she didn’t know.

At best, it was scandalous --at worst, dangerous. "I should be getting back to the party."

"Ah," the man says like he’s remembered, but doesn’t sound like it’s something he’s forgotten, "Of course. For the prince.

He’s...to be married."

"He is," Xena confirms, even though it didn’t really feel like a question.

Maybe she should be afraid, but strangely, finds she isn’t. The man’s not even looking at her; instead, he’s looking up at the very painting she herself had been gazing upon but doesn’t really seem to be seeing it.

"...What’s he like?" he asks suddenly, and his voice seems to come from a far off place, or time. "The man he’s marrying."