Chapter 315: Never Would , Never Will.

Chapter 315: Chapter 315: Never Would , Never Will.

"Would you just look at him, Rogard. What an absolute disgrace ."

​Rogard doesn’t need a name to know instinctively just who his father is talking about. He should’ve known it would come up; he does this every time the princess holds court.

Whether Loac is there or not it makes no difference; his father will invariably have something to say about it. Always bad.

And today is no different; nevermind the fact that Loac has clearly made an effort for a change –he’s here, for one thing, and dressed proper nice to boot. And like, Rogard approves, kind of nice.

He’s even got his crown on straight and he hasn’t fallen asleep once .

​Yet still his father prattles on to whoever will listen about how it was just so generous of him to take a day away from his whores, and have you seen the disgusting state he roams the castle in these days, and of course his favourite: that what else could you expect when his father’s who he is?

"Breeding matters", after all, and when you dirty a bloodline with common rabble, you get dirty, common rabble.

​His father doesn’t know what he’s talking about. At this point it’s just slander –the ever-so-scandalous marks he’s harping on about were made by Khobi , not an army of whores (although it feels like a bad idea to point that out), and there’s just physically no way Loac could possibly be spending as much time at brothels as his father likes to claim when he spends all his time at the training grounds.

And as for judging him based on his father, well, that hardly seems fair. Rogard wouldn’t want to be judged by the measure of his.

But the other nobles sitting in the gallery alongside him don’t think about any of that and all just start up their whispering and their murmuring and nod along with him in agreement like they always do.

​Rogard’s ashamed to admit that for the longest time he was just like them.

He’d listened and he’d agreed, and he’d looked down his nose at the way Loac made a mockery of their kingdom with the unroyal way he acted and dressed; parroting his father’s words and ideals like they were his own, because saying the words pleased his father, and at the time he would have done anything and everything to please his father.

​But Loac’s not so bad.

​He never was.

​If anything, Rogard was the worst, for believing it; any of it.

And it’s sad and kind of disgusting that the people around him don’t realise what absolute hypocrites they all are.

They all whore around just as bad, and do much worse things than they scorn Loac for.

By Binny’s account, Loac’s never laid a hand on a servant which is more than can be said for many of the noblemen who frequent his father’s company.

​He can’t believe that these were once the people amongst whom he so desperately wanted to belong.

​From up here he has a vantage point over the whole throne room, so it’s not difficult to spot Khobi down with Gandy, whose parents at least are perfectly content that he loiter in the eaves like any other soldier.

Montrel’s less lucky; he’s up on the dais with Bongo, hovering with visible discomfort between the princess and the king. And, from the interesting expressions he’s making, Khobi and Gandy are probably making fun of him.

​Rogard so wishes he could be down there with them.

Or anywhere other than here, actually, so he doesn’t have to listen to his father badmouthing Loac the way he has been for years.

It won’t be long before he starts in on Khobi, too. He always does, because the castle nobility love that, too.

And while Khobi is most certainly a ruffian, he’s hardly the monster his father likes to paint him as and doesn’t deserve the way that these people still look at him.

​If they got to know him, they’d see.

​(Rogard did, after all.)

​But they never would. So they never will.

​...

​Gods, it’s such a pity that holding court as a family is considered a time-honoured tradition.

Gurdet can think of at least three things he’d rather be doing than sitting here listening to nobles and commoners alike from the far corners of his kingdom blather on about how much they appreciate his ongoing financial support and how they would really, very much appreciate some more.

​Cleaning his nails. Having a bath. Drinking some tea. A nap, maybe?

​Oh look, that’s four things, right there. He’s sure if he tries he could think of a half dozen more.

​At times he really does envy Loac for his frankly callous disregard for royal decorum; these thrones are ever so uncomfortable, and it’s honestly rather tiresome pretending that they’re not.

Loac might not have the posture expected of a prince, but at least he looks comfortable which is more than can be said for him or his daughter, who is doing a very good job of not fidgeting despite how sore her back must be getting .

And he’s not asleep, which has to count for something.

​On the other hand, perhaps not.

The nobles like to think that they play the same games as him, but how can they possibly when they make absolutely no attempt to hide their thoughts from their faces? Do they not realise he can see them? Do they not realise he hears their whispers? From his position on the dais he has an unobstructed view of the entire hall, which means that he sees their little looks and the way their whispers roll through the gallery like an invisible creature, roving from one person to the next and then on and on; their disdain centered firmly on his nephew.

​It’s somewhat admirable, how unaffected by them he’s remained all these years.

​(Gurdet has never given him enough credit for that.)

For how blatantly they’re wearing their thoughts, Loac doesn’t seem to see them.

Although physically he’s here, it’s clear that his attention is not, and that he has zero interest in the proceedings –to which Gurdet can most certainly relate –and from the moment he sank into his chair his gaze has been wandering aimlessly.

​Or so it would appear to the casual observer.