Chapter 383: Tears Of Joy Falls.

Chapter 383: Chapter 383: Tears Of Joy Falls.

Joy is contagious like that; so sickeningly bright and blinding that it is both hard to look directly at and impossible to look away.

Trent had always looked like that when he was young; joy laid bare like this before the world and holding it spellbound.

Until the day it hadn’t.

​When had it faded?

​And why, why –even with eyes as excellent as his –hadn’t he noticed?

​( No, he’d noticed, hadn’t he ?)

​He must have been so lonely.

There are some people in this world touched by something wild –something as dangerous as it is beautiful.

Many give chase, but few ever come close to taking it in their grasp, and even fewer are permitted to keep it for themselves.

There’s no such thing as magic, but to look upon such a person was to stare into the heart of the wilderness itself and believe that there was.

​And he’d stood idly by while it languished.

​But there it is. Right there in Trent –in his eyes and in his every move and pouring out of him as he and Khobi weave intricate shapes mere mortals can only dream of –surging bright and wild as the first day he’d picked up a sword.

​Gods, he can’t help but think, He really does look just like her.

​The wind picks up –it does that here even in spring; gentle and carefree one moment, and then prone to storming the next –and as it does, Gurdet inexplicably starts to feel his vision blur.

​What ?

​Confused, he reaches up to scrub at his eyes, and despite there not being a cloud in the sky, his hand comes away damp.

​Tears ?

​His other hand comes to his other cheek and finds it the same.

​He’s crying.

​Gods .

​The tears don’t stop, and he wishes they would not just because it’s unbecoming of a King to have a heart, but because suddenly he wants to watch ; wants to see the man his nephew has become –or rather, the man he should have always been.

​"Your Majesty –" Bongo begins to say, perturbed by the unusually human display of emotion from his king, only to get cut off before he can ask.

​" –He looks happy, don’t you think?" Gurdet finds himself saying, and the words come out more choked than he ever would have imagined they could.

The surprise in Bongo’s expression softens. He knows who he’s referring to.

​"... He does ."

​Gurdet gives up on trying to stem the flow; lets the tears fall freely as he gazes down at the ring, lets himself feel .

​Sorrow, for the light his nephew had lost. Unbridled joy, that he’d found it again. Overwhelming shame, for the part he’d played.

​(It doesn’t feel good. No wonder he avoids it.)

​"...Come, Bongo," he decides quietly, stoically wiping away the dampness spreading across his cheeks and sparing a parting glance for the men down below them, dancing together with such familiarity it’s easy to imagine that they’ve been doing it their whole lives.

Or perhaps would like to.

​"...Remind me to thank him, one day."

​Bongo nods.

​"Of course, Your Majesty," he states dutifully, "...But I’m sure you’ll remember."

​...

​Gurdet had a lunch scheduled for today, but he doesn’t go there.

They can wait. He has somewhere much more important to be.

​On a nice day like today the castle is brimming with life, but this corridor lies particularly quiet.

It always is, and today he’s relieved for it. Bongo knows him well enough to leave him be –to let him wander on alone –loitering at a safe distance in the passageway just beyond.

​With a heavy sigh, Gurdet sinks down into the seat opposite the painting; the two women depicted there staring down at him like they can see right through him.

Which they can.

They’re probably the only people who ever consistently could.

​That makes this so much worse.

​He clears his throat, laces his fingers together, and then fumbles. Probably because his hands feel so clammy.

There’s another thing he’s not used to, and another thing he doesn’t like.

The crown atop his head suddenly feels very heavy, and the weight in his chest even heavier.

So with a grimace he takes the damn thing off and sets it down beside him. It leaves him feeling oddly naked, but maybe it’s best that way.

To be a man, instead of a king.

​Where to even start?

​Today, his wife is silent, like she knows that he’s not there for her.

But he knows what she would tell him, anyways.

​Say what you mean, for once, Shou. She won’t listen if you don’t.

​And be sincere. She hates it when you’re not.

​She’s right –his wife is always right, after all –so Gurdet steels himself and gazes up into the fiery pink eyes of the woman whose son he’s let down.

​"I’m sorry."

​It’s something he doesn’t say often and means even less, and when she says nothing, Gurdet realises dimly that it’s probably because he has absolutely no idea what she would even say to him right now, because he’s never apologised to her before.

She probably wouldn’t believe him; she’d spent the entire time they’d known one another convinced that there wasn’t a sincere bone in his body.

​Be specific , he can hear his wife chiding, like she’s right there over his shoulder to tell him exactly where he’s gone wrong.

​"I’m sorry I didn’t watch over him," he says again, softer this time.

And even though he knows that this isn’t where he needs to be; that the person he really needs to apologise to is laughing under an open sky right now, he needs her to know too.

"And I don’t know if I can ever make it up to him, but I’ll try."

​He’s not sure how, but he’ll figure it out. Words won’t be enough for Trent; not coming from him.

​"You better, Gurdet ." She was listening, after all, and may as well have reached right out of her painting to slap him with how vehemently her words ring in his ears.

​Ah, well, he can’t argue that he wouldn’t deserve it if she had.

​"...He’s so much like you, did you know?" he finds himself whispering quietly, and then can’t help but chuckle wryly to himself, "...Just perhaps with better taste in men."