Chapter 81: Father’s.

Chapter 81: Chapter 81: Father’s.

Being summoned to his father’s chambers never fails to make Rogard feel like a child again. Waiting in his drawing room has always reminded him of when he was little and had been sent to answer to his father for misbehaving. The silence had always been crushing, the weight of what he’d done and the scorn to come from his father had brought him to tears too many times.

Crying had always made his father angrier. Tears were unbecoming, he said. They were a sign of weakness, and he would not suffer a weak son.

Rogard had tried really, really hard, to be a strong son.

He’s not really sure his father ever noticed how hard he tried.

Still tries.

He looks after his looks, laughs when he’s supposed to, and says the right things to all the right people at all the right times, but standing in this room, with his father sitting straight backed at his desk, ignoring him, he suddenly feels like he’s done everything wrong.

"Rogard," his father suddenly says, not looking up from his writing. They can’t be more than a few feet apart,the space between them split by an enormous oak desk, but somehow he sounds very far away. "Tell me,have I taught you nothing?"

Oh, he’s definitely in trouble.

"Because lately it seems as though I’ve been wasting my time all these years," he continues, ice creeping into his voice. It’s a lectureRogard’s heard quite often, although admittedly less as he got older.

He notices that his father’s gotten a little more dramatic over the years. "Our family has a reputation , Rogard. One I have built with my own hands, for you . I have done everything in my power to make sure that you have the world at your fingertips. And now what do I hear?"

Here it comes.

"...That you’re making a mockery of me. Of our house. Mingling with the common rabble. Losing to a slave --"

"He’s good, father," Rogard chips in, against his better judgement, "Like, really good."

"...I don’t care if he’s good, Rogard," his father says flatly, his tone souring at his son’s interruption.

Rogard’s mouth automatically snaps shut as his father’s eyes glower at him across the desk, roving across his face and lingering on the ugly, still-healing wounds he’s been accumulating in days of late.

They don’t hurt very much at all, but under his father’s gaze they smart something terrible. "You’re meant to be better."

Sudden shame washes over him like an icy bucket of water, and his head dips towards the ground.

"Sorry, father." He wants to say he’s trying, that all he wants to be is better, but he’s pretty sure that his father won’t like to hear that at all. Trying isn’t good enough.

His father sighs. It’s difficult to tell whether his father is pleased with the apology, or annoyed.

"...No matter," he decides, after a long, agonising moment of silence. "All is not lost. I suppose you’ve heard about this tournament His Majesty is insisting on?"

Rogard nods. He doesn’t think he’s meant to use his words yet.

"You’re entering?"

Another nod.

"As expected."

Silence descends once more, and Rogard resists the urge to fidget as his father returns to his work.

He doesn’t seem to have anything further to say to him, but he’s not been dismissed yet, and there’s a distinct sourness to his expression that says he is wholly displeased with the manner with which his son has been conducting himself.

He should have known better, obviously. Drills, and getting beaten up on the daily were for common soldiers.

He wasn’t meant to be associating with them, let alone sparring with them. And gods forbid, occasionally being bested by them.

It was frustrating, and interesting , and...minus the pain, and the bruises --which really didn’t compliment his complexion --it was actually kind of fun.

The most fun he’d had in a long time, actually.

"I expect you to win, obviously," his father says, and it’s obvious that in his eyes, there’s no alternative.

"Of course, father," Rogard assures him dutifully, and lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in.

"Make this right, Rogard."

He’s being dismissed. He thinks he’s gotten off lightly this time, considering his crimes. Considering how he’s going to continue to perpetrate them. His father will be furious.

And let him be. If he wins, then he can’t complain.

"Don’t worry, father, I’ll win you your tournament," he says, and makes sure to bow before turning to leave.

Respectfully, like a good son would. He catches sight of himself in the mirror as he rises, and tries to hide a grimace at the dirty man in scuffed leather that peers back at him. It’s certainly not the best he’s ever looked.

He probably should have changed.

"--Don’t go anywhere until you clean yourself up," he fathers adds, clearly agreeing. "It’s disgraceful. You look like you’ve been crawling through a sewer."

As bidden, he changes, but it’s not into the pretty blue silks his father was probably hoping.

...

"Well, I hope you’re happy with yourself," Gurdet sighs flatly, pushing his empty plate away from himself with a grating noise that rather sums up the last few hours of his life.

Bongo makes hastily drags the doors closed before their departed dinner guests overhear anything best not overheard. "...That was exhausting."

" Father ," the princess chides, as long-suffering as ever, "...Why must you...It..." It’s obvious how much she wants to scold her father, however after a moment of consideration, she relents, and smiles, despite herself. "...It was, wasn’t it?"

"Finally, something we agree on," His Majesty chuckles, shaking his head and waving for the nearest servant to bring wine. One of the servants nervously locks eyes with Bongo, but scurries over to the table at a curt nod from him. "I never thought I’d say this, but thank the gods you don’t want to marry him."

"Oh come now, father," Princess Xena scoffs, as if he’s said something entirely unreasonable, "He’s nice, and very earnest, and cares deeply about his kingdom..."

"Oh come now, Xena, no one wants to marry earnest ."

"... Someone might."

"Bongo, back me up here, would you?" Gurdet tuts, and usually he would do his utmost to adhere to his king’s whims, demands and general insufferability, but sometimes he’s wrong, and occasionally he needs to hear it.

"...Conviction is an admirable trait, Your Majesty," he replies staunchly, and ruins it with the thinnest glimmer of a smile. Which of course Gurdet sees.

"Since when do you take my daughter’s side?" he laments, childishly, "It’s a most unattractive quality, I must say."

"My apologies, Your Majesty."

"Please don’t apologise to him, Captain," the princess sniffs, "Father could use a few more people who speak to him so plainly."

Bongo quickly suppresses a smile. His king will complain often, and loudly, about how difficult his daughter could be, but he’s always quick to forget just who raised her that way.

"...And look who finally made it to dinner," Gurdet remarks with a roll of his eyes, as who should suddenly come loping out from the shadows but his wayward nephew.

Instead of acknowledging his family, Loac just hoists a serving dish away from a petrified servant and starts helping himself to the leftovers. "You’re late, by the way."

"Am I?" he says vacantly, waltzing over to the table and perusing the remnants of their meal. Xena cringes politely as he starts picking his way around the vegetables to get to any of the uneaten meat and bread. "...Didn’t realise I was invited."

"...I invited you," the princess reminds him softly, and suddenly sounds about half her age. Bongo catches the way Gurdet’s jaw clenches infinitesimally and reads it as annoyance.

The princess might claim that her father didn’t have a paternal instinct in his body, but occasionally he proved her wrong. It was just that he’d rather die than let her find out.

Loac doesn’t even have the decency to pretend he hears the sadness in her voice.

"Oh."

In the silence, Gurdet nurses his wine and watches his daughter’s eyes track her cousin’s journey around the table. As usual, he makes no sign of wanting to join them, and an eternity seems to pass in which it seems like he might just leave again without another word.

"...Is he entering?" Loac asks, all of a sudden, and glances briefly towards his cousin. She jumps, and looks a little stunned to have been addressed out of nowhere.

"Excuse me?" she says blankly, rightly confused.

"Is he gonna fight?" he asks again, picking out a piece of fruit and testing it with a bite. He mustn’t like it, because he puts the rest of it back on the plate. "In the tournament?"

Again, Xena looks bewildered.

"Who?"

"Khobi," he replies simply, as if to say who else ?

"I, well...I...I don’t know," she stammers, looking to Gurdet and Bongo in turn for clarification, "Can he?"

"I don’t see why not," Gurdet shrugs.

"...He...He is, Your Highness," Bongo informs the room, "It’s...It’s his intention to enter. I think you’d have quite a riot on your hands if you refused to let him fight."

Gurdet raises an eyebrow and Bongo lets out a reluctant sigh.

"My soldiers have grown quite...fond of him, I believe," he explains, and his king looks politely amused.

"...Fond of him, or fond of beating him up?"

"...I believe it’s a lot of both, Your Majesty."

He can’t quite tell what Gurdet makes of this information.

"Well now," is all he says, and directs his attention to his nephew with a surprising --almost concerning --amount of interest.

Loac isn’t looking at him though, he seems completely absorbed in whatever’s on his plate. In fact, it’s difficult to tell whether or not he even heard what Bongo said, let alone if he even cares about the answer. "I’m glad to see he’s making himself at home."

"...Loac, you know you can get food sent to your room, don’t you?" the princess winces, as her cousin chomps his way through a loaf of bread.

Considering her strong sense of propriety, the sight of her cousin shovelling food into his face seems to make her a little queasy.

"Or you could join us when we’re having dinner," Gurdet points out, not for the first time, a protest that goes ignored, also not for the first time. Or the last time, no doubt.

"This is fine," Loac drawls disinterestedly, as he relieves a servant of the bottle of wine she’d just been about to pour for his uncle, "It’s not like you were gonna eat it anyway."

Well, neither his uncle nor his cousin can argue with that.

Gurdet actually looks fairly put out that his nephew has stolen his wine. Loac must know --or maybe that was even his intention --because as he turns to leave, he sends his uncle a small smirk, and takes a swig from the bottle.

"It was so nice chatting," Gurdet calls after him dryly, and unhappily drains the last dregs of his glass, "We should do this more often."

Loac, vanishing off to wherever it is he goes, doesn’t bother responding, and the early shadows of the evening swallow him up again, like he’d never been there at all.

The princess watches him go with the face she always wears when he does --like she longs to reach out and stop him, but is afraid that if she does, he’ll shrug her off and disappear forever.

"...How strange," she says quietly, still staring into the empty hallway after him, and for a second there her eyes look uncannily like her father’s.

"What, seeing your cousin?" Gurdet sniffs, just shy of scathing, and pushes himself away from the table with an air of finality.

Bongo automatically stiffens to attention, but relaxes when his king waves away his formalness. " Truly. "

" Father ..." Xena presses, "They barely know each other. And Khobi hit him. Why would he ask something like that?"

"Why, indeed, sweet daughter," he muses, almost convincing in his lack of interest. Almost . "Maybe they have more to do with each other than you think."

"Considering how poorly they seem to get along, I doubt that," the princess sniffs, brushing off the notion as absurd, which is exactly what her father had been hoping for.

Gurdet chuckles, and just smiles at her with a fondness reserved for when he knows something she doesn’t.

It’s a smile that always makes Bongo sigh, because it serves as a reminder that the king he’s loyal to is a very petty man.

He just hopes Khobi doesn’t react too badly.

"...Well then, maybe they will."