Post by Muse on Feb 14, 2014 14:14:19 GMT 10
Title: Retroition
Rating: PG-13
For: Shhasow
Word Count: ~4100
Prompt: Roger. Because power-hungry mages are fun, but maybe he has a soft spot somewhere...
Summary and Warnings:
It's as though they've seen a ghost...Roger looks Roald in the eye. They really ought to have paid attention. Warnings for references to off screen character death, non-explicit violence, insanity.
For my most lovely Nat! I hope you can imagine the giggles when I discovered I had received you to write for
I really and truly attempted to give you your prompt, but the concept for this fic took a much different route than I had first imagined. I've been assured that it still is, in fact, a romance fic, of the Roger/Roger variety (joking, joking). That being said, I hope you enjoy our favorite power hungry mage. Happy Secret Admirer's Exchange, darling!
1st November, 438 H.E.
It’s as though they’ve seen a ghost, Roger thinks before his mind catches up to the reality of the situation.
He has been dead for almost a year, after all.
Still, the looks on the King’s face and that of his Champion warm him, deep down in the cavity where he has no heart and he has no soul.
**
(Twenty-eight years earlier…)
Roger sits on his hands, through with trying to appear as though he is still interested in the plate of food in front of him. Understandably, with the Marenite delegates visiting for the month, King Roald is more than kept busy in the mess of politics that negotiations with the neighboring country has become, but Roger still sits with the few other pages that have remained in the Great Hall through the summer months. As heir apparent, certainly his place is on the dais with the rest of the family, singled out with approval in the sight of the full court?
Roger tugs his tunic a little straighter and squares his shoulders, eyes on the King and Queen. At least now, without page classes to go to and without a knightmaster, he is free to wear the Conte royal blue and silver. He will take what he could get, and he will make sure everyone else knows it.
**
It’s hard not to be a little smug, when one has bested something as final as death. Dressed in his funeral garb, he certainly looks the part he was given: the handsome and refined Duke, honored member of the nobility.
It’s almost a crime to hustle him into what becomes an emergency interrogation in the Prime Minister’s study.
Roger looks up at the Duke. Gareth of Naxen stands imperiously over him, but Roger simply stretches his legs luxuriously in front of his velvet armchair.
He’s perfectly willing to bide his time.
**
Roger’s sword slides along his opponent’s blade, hissing down the length of steel to tangle with the guard at the hilt. Duke Gareth leans into the parry, forcing his superior height and weight against Roger’s still weedy frame. Breaking away, Roger sucks several hard, harsh breaths in and tries to force his sweaty hair off of his forehead with the back of his arm before settling back into a defensive stance.
“Hold!”
Roger tenses, attention flicking from the duke to his uncle, standing against one of the low walls that surrounds the practice court. Gareth relaxes, his sword lowering and his muscles uncoiling from a premature leap into another attack. Roger bends at the waist, half a bow and half an attempt to catch his wind.
“I was looking for you, Roger.”
The Marenite ambassadors must have left, then. Roger has wondered when Roald would make another appearance.
Abruptly--
“It would please me if you would be my squire, Roger.”
For all that he has imagined the way these words would sound in the open air, now, here, with his shirt unlacing in the front and glued to his back with sweat, they feel flat and hollow and Roger wonders what stole their weight from them.
He unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I would be honored, Uncle.” He hastily, clumsily, resheathes his practice blade, only to realize that Roald’s hands still hung at his sides, and his own hands fall ungracefully to his own sides.
Gareth, somewhere behind them, clears his throat.
“Well,” Roald offers hesitantly, “I can have your things moved from the page’s wing.”
Roger blinks, then shrugs. “If it pleases your Majesty.”
A pained look crosses Roald’s face for a moment, and Roger suffers through a moment more of awkward formalities before Roald escapes the conversation. Roger turns, but Gareth has vanished and the only thing that remains is the churned sand and silence.
**
“You must understand, Roger, that there is precious little precedent on these situations--”
Roger laughs, interrupting Roald’s carefully worded plea. Trust his uncle to require precedent. No matter. He really doesn’t care anymore and Roald has only himself to thank for that.
He is the one who stomped it out of Roger in the first place.
“Either you’re happy to see me, uncle, or you’re not. It’s quite simple, I assure you.”
**
Aside from the awkward meals taken with Roald and Lianne at the end of every week, life as Roald’s squire is not so different than what Roger is used to. Duke Gareth takes over his weapon’s training, saying it gives him something to do as King’s Champion that makes him feel useful. Various ambassadors and legal advisors poke at and add to Roger’s comprehension of the Crown’s authority, adding knowledge of the law to the many things Roger doesn’t have time to study and yet is expected to already understand.
**
Roald has taken over Gareth’s desk, leaving his dutiful Champion to stand at his side while they face down Roger. Too bad the imagery is lost on Roger.
He focuses more on the dirty little jabs that keep sliding into the conversation instead.
“Am I a complicated man, your majesty? My responsibilities have always been rather scarce, so you’ll excuse me if I am puzzled by the nature of what you’re suggesting.”
Roger blinks innocently. It’s good to be him.
**
Roger feels sorry for the squire in Nond’s yellow and brown tunic as he straightens his own, royal blue edged in silver. Even without the Conte crest splashed across his chest, the colors set him apart and point out exactly who he is: the Heir, squire to the King, Prince Roger of Conte. He doesn’t need to stand at Roald’s right hand to be seen, though he does because it paints an alluring, romantic picture of the monarchy and a dedicated squire is a well-received one.
He smirks at the Lady of Eldorne, who is not subtle with her wandering gaze, ignoring the glare her husband sends his way with an untouchable, carefree grin. It’s good to be him, and this Midwinter is shaping up to be the best yet.
**
“We must be certain of many things, Roger. You know this.”
Roger would almost respect Gareth--almost--if the man would stop talking down to him. Of course he knows these things; he hasn’t forgotten that he was the Tortallan heir for fifteen years, even if everyone else has. The fact that Gareth himself was the one to teach him most of his statecraft just drives the dig deeper under his skin.
“--Who you are, who you were, what will happen next.”
Roger looks forward to what will happen next.
“People do not tend to react well to upsets.”
No, no you don’t, Roald.
**
Spring’s longer days keep Roger running through the Palace from sunup to sundown, and even the weekly meals with Roald become few and far between. The delegation from Tusaine consists of men with harder faces than in years past, and the lack of ladies accompanying the nobility is not lost on the Court; Roger hears the rumors behind the whispered hands and sees the eyes that follow him as he turns quick corners down the back halls the servants use. It seems the Queen has taken ill, though, so perhaps it is all for the best that she not worry about entertaining through the season and leave the revelries to her ladies.
Roger certainly does not mind, when he has a free moment.
When Gareth has the time, the King’s Champion puts Roger through his paces on the practice court, correcting his footwork and rapping his spine with the flat of his blade. Apparently, no one will take the heir to the kingdom seriously if his posture is not perfect, duel or no duel.
“The delegate would not be appeased in the Morning Council,” Roger observes, deftly slipping to one side of Gareth’s lunge.
“So you were paying attention,” Gareth returns wryly, his balestra smooth and completely opaque.
Roger feints, teasing out a reaction from his teacher. “Of course I was, sir. With the unrest on the border, I should be the first to be prepared for his Majesty’s next negotiations.”
Gareth’s passata sotto, executed with all the grace of a cat landing on all four feet, sends Roger backpedaling rapidly, but not quick enough to completely evade the hit Gareth manages to land. “Good, squire, but not good enough. Again.” They retreat to their respective ends of the court, but Gareth pauses before raising his blade. “You think it will come to conflict, then, Roger?”
Thoughtfully, Roger meets his teacher’s eyes as he raises his own blade. “You don’t?”
Gareth responds with a stomp of his foot and the raising of his blade. Roger mimics the pose in response, paying more attention to the slide of Gareth’s eyes away from his own than to the clash of blades. His footsteps measure out careful space as he breaks away, circling, and Roger tucks the observation into the back of his mind before surrendering himself to the familiar pattern of attack and riposte.
**
“Is that what this is? And am I once more an upset, your Grace?”
Now both Gareth and Roald look uncomfortable, and Roger has never felt better.
**
The Beltane feast is exceptionally enticing and bountiful this year, and Roger can’t complain about the food, either. From his perch on the dais, wearing his own tunic in his chosen shade darker than the traditional Conte blue, Roger meets the eyes of a lady in low cut light green. Roald sighs when Roger winks, but tonight he is the heir, not the King’s Squire, and Roald offers no verbal reproach.
“This year, Prince Roger will have the honor of lighting the Beltane fires,” Roald announces towards the end of the meal. Roger carefully places his fork alongside his plate, disguising his reaction. Roald has never offered him this kind of royal acknowledgement before, and Roger glances sidelong up at Roald.
Roald’s eyes never leave Lianne’s and she blushes slightly as Roald lifts his wineglass in a toast. “This year, Mithros be praised, the gods have blessed Tortall. I am proud to announce that Lianne and I are expecting a child.”
The wave of approval from the court turns to a roar in Roger’s ears as the bottom drops out of his stomach.
**
It’s easy enough to let some of the chill, some of the anger that has crystallized and hardened into diamond strength over decades through his mask of serene good-nature. It is, after all, what has fueled him through death, propelled him into life. In a morbid sense, it has given birth to him out of the mouth of hell, of the living death itself.
“I have been questioned within an inch of my life, have performed up to your expectations within an hour of drawing my first breath, have done everything you’ve requested of me, and my grave is hardly cold and lonely yet. Tell me, then, what more you wish of me.”
**
Ignoring the sting of salt and the flop of his hair into his eyes, Roger advances relentlessly, hacking and slashing haphazardly. Carefully maintaining distance, Gareth throws up block after block, unable to break through Roger’s wild offense.
“Mithros, Roger,” the Duke pants, spinning out of reach. “You need to--”
“Now you’re going to tell me what to do?” Roger screams, furious. “What--tell me what I should do, I dare you!” He presses, hard, into the Duke’s parry, bringing both blades up between them as he leans in, freezing them momentarily.
“Roger--”
“I don’t want to hear it!” He shoves, shoulders bunching and arms screaming, knocking Gareth off balance for the first time.
Tumbling to the ground, Gareth looks up at Roger, chest heaving. “It’s not--”
“--it is!”
Roger’s sword hits the sand by Gareth’s side, and the Duke realizes that Roger has been using a live blade.
“Roger!”
The doors to the salle swing on their hinges, banging off the frame in the wake of the prince.
**
“You have no reason to see me as a threat, your Grace. I assure you both, that you are in no way at risk in my presence.”
Gareth’s hand moves to the hilt of his sword, and Roger lazily tracks the movement with half-lidded eyes.
“According to trial by combat,” Roald interrupts the battle of wills before him, “you were found guilty of treason and attempted regicide and duly sentenced.”
Spreading his hands in a conciliatory manner and leaning forward slightly, Roger shrugs. “True.”
Gareth’s fingers tighten on the hilt of his blade.
“That was before I died.”
**
Roger purposefully skips his weekly dinners with Roald and Lianne; the sight of her burgeoning belly takes away any appetite he has.
**
“My intentions are pure.”
In one less delicate, the noise Gareth makes could be called a snort. Roald simply scrutinizes Roger, as though he has ever had the ability to look at his nephew and understand what Roger is thinking.
**
As the end of the summer draws nearer and Lianne’s pregnancy comes to its close, Council meetings grow shorter and more concise. Other members of the Council would have been blind to not realize the steady tension beneath the surface of the King, his Champion and Prime Minister, and Prince Roger, but the prince maintains a calm demeanor and a cool judgment that is not unwelcome in session. Roald and Gareth exchange glances when Roger disappears after meetings are dismissed, but he neither approaches them nor lets any of his emotions through his smile.
**
“Is there some question you’ve yet to ask?”
It’s a polite way of telling Roald to get on with it, because Roger knows what is bothering the man the most. He’s in no rush to help him out, either.
**
Roger knows, the moment that Roald does.
The lady who interrupted the Council meeting goes straight to the King’s side, murmuring urgently in his ear. Roald stands abruptly, ignoring the spill of parchment and documents that flutter to the ground in his wake as he leaves the chamber without a word.
Roger looks reluctantly to Duke Gareth, avoiding eye contact. Gareth also stands in the King’s wake with an odd, excited look on his face .
“This session is adjourned.”
**
“Do you think I am here for fun, or would you like a dramatic retelling of what death is like? These politics bore me, I assure you. No, I am being serious, Gareth; don’t you trust me even now? Pity.”
**
In his rooms, away from Roald’s tireless pacing and Gareth’s calm muttering, Roger prays for a princess.
**
Roger drums his finger on the arm of his chair. He is a patient man, the very definition of patient--having spent ten months in a tomb-- and still.
“I am waiting, you know.”
**
Duke Gareth gestures with two fingers, calling Roger to his side. Beyond the gauzy curtain on his right, a balcony, and beyond that, the kingdom waits with bated breath.
Roger’s pulse thrums in his throat. He swallows.
Gareth’s gaze sweeps from his head to his feet. “Very nice.” Roger simply inclines his head at the comment, not trusting his voice.
At the other end of the room, Roald and Lianne step through the double doors. The queen leans on her husband, her tired face triumphant as her gentle fingers rearrange the blankets in her arms. Roald’s eyes shine with a fierce kind of joy as he bends to kiss her cheek.
Roger’s stomach starts to sink.
“It’s time,” Gareth says, taking a breath and squaring his shoulders before stepping through the curtains and into view. Waiting a beat, Roger fixes a pleasant expression on his face and follows. The crowd falls into a hush, looking from Roger to Gareth, and then to the curtain.
“Lords and Ladies of Tortall,” Gareth’s voice rings out into the silence.
Roger’s heart climbs into his mouth.
“It is my honor to present to you, for the first time--”
Roald and Lianne advance to the rail of the balcony, passing Roger without a glance.
“--the new crown prince of Tortall, Jonathan of Conte!”
**
“As your workspaces remain property of the Crown, and you yourself pose a threat to the security of the realm, it must be addressed.”
**
Roger stumbles back from the railing, feeling the blood rushing from his face as he trips over his heels.
--newcrownprincenewcrownprincenewcrown--
The words ricochet around the inside of Roger’s head, and he’s gasping, and then he’s through the doors, down the hall.
Something snaps.
**
It’s very simple, and very clear. Roger looks Roald in the eye.
“I have no Gift now. Talk to Trebond.”
**
Pain.
How can Roald do this to him? When has he ever done anything to Roald? He’s the perfect squire, ask anyone--ask Gareth, who should know, because Gareth is the one who praises him for his fencing skills, his diplomatic solutions during Council sessions when he is actually asked his opinion, his gentility and charm at Court.
And Roald--
the thought tears at him, and Roger gasps. He feels as though he is being ripped in two, torn straight down the center, and the agony paralyzes him. Bent in two, unable to scream, Roger prays to the gods-- let him die.
Let this end, let it be over. Let me die.
(It would solve so many problems.)
Fire in his limbs, screaming through his veins, burning him from the inside out, Roger reaches the breaking point, and something gives.
Release is sudden and swift, and with a roar Roger sees a wall of orange explode from beneath his skin before darkness swallows him up.
**
Their beliefs about his priorities are laughable, and Roger tells them so.
**
“The Gift?” Roald’s voice is clear, even through the thick doors separating their chambers. “What do you mean, he has the Gift? Since when does it simply appear?”
“He has it in spades, your Majesty.” The healer’s voice is ragged, and Roger doesn’t blame him. He feels like a limp noodle, a puppet with all its strings cut, and his emotions are strangely far away. When the fog in his head clears, surely, he’ll be able to think straight.
A child’s cry cuts through the conversation, effectively ending the shouting and Roger’s interest in anything outside of his own small space.
**
Perhaps laughable doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s hard to disguise the grin on his face, so Roger doesn’t try very hard.
“Believe me, I have no intentions towards the Copper Isles Princess. Why would I sabotage Jonathan’s happiness? I’ve never hurt him, Uncle, and you know this. Besides, her charms are not to my taste.”
Or Jon’s, but if his cousin is too dense to figure that out, then Roger is not going to intrude upon his happy little fairytale.
**
The most he can do is call it to the palm of his hand, where it sits warm and comfortable like a small animal, but already Roger likes the tiny orange light of his Gift. In the confines of his quarters, where he’s mostly been on house arrest since, well, whatever had happened, it looks cheery and inviting.
Technically, Roald is still Roger’s knightmaster. It’s probably Jonathan that’s taking all his attention and time, but Roger doesn’t even want to look at the child, so he doesn’t mind that.
He tries to call more of his Gift--it’s there, just beyond him--but his chest constricts and his lungs lock up and Roger lets go before he passes out again.
Maybe his knightmaster will visit sometime soon. There was something Roger wanted to remember…
**
“If you won’t trust me now, I must assume there is nothing more to be done in this situation, or to be said on the subject. May I go?”
**
“He’s too dangerous to have here!”
“Surely there is someone to give him the training he requires, here in the City.”
“Even if there was, it’s too much of a risk. Who knows what could happen next time, or to whom. I can’t run that risk, not anymore.”
“But still, what will the rest of the Court think?”
“It’s not as though he’s the heir any longer, and the settlement of his estates and title should deflect from many accusations. Otherwise, well, isn’t that what I have you for, O my Champion?”
**
Roger gets to his feet, using his height to his advantage as he looks down at Roald. The king remains behind the desk, the trappings of his authority his shield against the threat that Roger has always posed.
His once knightmaster returns his look, eye for eye and breath for breath. How much longer will they dance around each other?
**
Breathing in the dry, hot air is a bad dream that Roger can’t wake up from.
Foreign architecture, foreign words, foreign sound, and foreign smells assault him from all sides.
The yellow mage forces him to swallow orange fire when he lashes out against everything he doesn’t know, and Roger sinks to his knees.
Even the ground feels different here; grains of sand dig into his skin like unpleasant reminders.
---newcrownprincenewcrownprincenewcrownprince--
Somehow, the whispers are louder here.
**
He takes great pleasure in bowing to the exact degree required between family members and not a hair’s width more. It never hurts to remind Roald where they stand.
Where Roger stands.
Where they’ve always stood and what has always been between them, even when Roald turns a blind eye to everything Roger has worked for.
**
A raw edge lurks beneath his skin, one that breaks, doesn’t bend.
They think it’s because his Gift is so new.
Roger thinks many things and doesn’t say a single one of them. He just pushes harder, faster, stronger.
The ladies appreciate Roger’s attention to detail. The tailors, his style and bold color choices. The lords don’t have much to say to him at all once unpleasant things start occurring in places, with people, that should have no connection to the nobility.
The emperor keeps an eye on the Conte boy, the newly made Duke.
If they notice he works himself to exhaustion, no one says a word.
**
“I return to you the titles, deeds, and holdings you maintained before your untimely and premature death, Roger, Duke of Conte. May you serve them ever as well now as then.”
**
The first thing Roger does is find the yellow robe and give him a taste of his own medicine. It’s intensely satisfying, forcing the feeble, straining skin of a human to contain more power than any one is meant to house.
The noise that results is satisfying.
Let it be a warning.
**
Gareth is disgusted, even if his expression is smooth and calm. Roger learned the tells of his former fencing teacher years ago, even if it pleases Gareth to remember exactly who Roger was to him.
The once-heir. His one-time student. The erstwhile Prince.
The saboteur, the renegade, the regicide.
**
He steps back onto Tortallan soil with more than a year’s worth of sun and sand at his back. He flaunts the Conte colors he still lays claim to, flashing grins at the people that line the streets. If it’s all he will get, it’s worth taking it all, so he kisses babies and takes flowers from maids who offer them with a shy smile.
It’s worth it for the look on Roald’s face as Roger straightens from his shallow bow.
“Hello, uncle, it’s been a while.”
**
Roger will take this with him to the grave.
The door shuts behind him, and Roald is gone.
There is no going back, no matter how hard Roald tries to play at pretend.
There is no fixing Roger.
**
It really is ironic that Jonathan latches onto Roger, though the drool and other bodily fluids of toddlers are the last things Roger desires to be covered in.
“--ger! ‘Ger!” Jonathan reaches up impatiently, interrupting whatever small talk Lianne has been plying Roger with. Quickly and smoothly, Roger swings the child up into his arms, with the stray thought that, in another time and place, he could almost find himself liking Jon.
**
It is an easy, almost lazy tug, and he is made complete. Dark and violated, his Gift settles in the cavity within him, where it has eaten him from the inside out.
**
It’s not his fault that his young cousin doesn’t know what’s good for him. Roger basks in the warmth of his Gift, far away from the Dukedom that reeks of pity, the Court where broken dreams cut into his every step like broken glass.
They really ought to have paid attention.
**
Roger’s footsteps pause in the hall, and briefly a dull glow illuminates his features. Fire appears in his hand, his smile a bloody mess in its light.
Roger quenches it in his fist.
Rating: PG-13
For: Shhasow
Word Count: ~4100
Prompt: Roger. Because power-hungry mages are fun, but maybe he has a soft spot somewhere...
Summary and Warnings:
It's as though they've seen a ghost...Roger looks Roald in the eye. They really ought to have paid attention. Warnings for references to off screen character death, non-explicit violence, insanity.
For my most lovely Nat! I hope you can imagine the giggles when I discovered I had received you to write for
I really and truly attempted to give you your prompt, but the concept for this fic took a much different route than I had first imagined. I've been assured that it still is, in fact, a romance fic, of the Roger/Roger variety (joking, joking). That being said, I hope you enjoy our favorite power hungry mage. Happy Secret Admirer's Exchange, darling!
1st November, 438 H.E.
It’s as though they’ve seen a ghost, Roger thinks before his mind catches up to the reality of the situation.
He has been dead for almost a year, after all.
Still, the looks on the King’s face and that of his Champion warm him, deep down in the cavity where he has no heart and he has no soul.
**
(Twenty-eight years earlier…)
Roger sits on his hands, through with trying to appear as though he is still interested in the plate of food in front of him. Understandably, with the Marenite delegates visiting for the month, King Roald is more than kept busy in the mess of politics that negotiations with the neighboring country has become, but Roger still sits with the few other pages that have remained in the Great Hall through the summer months. As heir apparent, certainly his place is on the dais with the rest of the family, singled out with approval in the sight of the full court?
Roger tugs his tunic a little straighter and squares his shoulders, eyes on the King and Queen. At least now, without page classes to go to and without a knightmaster, he is free to wear the Conte royal blue and silver. He will take what he could get, and he will make sure everyone else knows it.
**
It’s hard not to be a little smug, when one has bested something as final as death. Dressed in his funeral garb, he certainly looks the part he was given: the handsome and refined Duke, honored member of the nobility.
It’s almost a crime to hustle him into what becomes an emergency interrogation in the Prime Minister’s study.
Roger looks up at the Duke. Gareth of Naxen stands imperiously over him, but Roger simply stretches his legs luxuriously in front of his velvet armchair.
He’s perfectly willing to bide his time.
**
Roger’s sword slides along his opponent’s blade, hissing down the length of steel to tangle with the guard at the hilt. Duke Gareth leans into the parry, forcing his superior height and weight against Roger’s still weedy frame. Breaking away, Roger sucks several hard, harsh breaths in and tries to force his sweaty hair off of his forehead with the back of his arm before settling back into a defensive stance.
“Hold!”
Roger tenses, attention flicking from the duke to his uncle, standing against one of the low walls that surrounds the practice court. Gareth relaxes, his sword lowering and his muscles uncoiling from a premature leap into another attack. Roger bends at the waist, half a bow and half an attempt to catch his wind.
“I was looking for you, Roger.”
The Marenite ambassadors must have left, then. Roger has wondered when Roald would make another appearance.
Abruptly--
“It would please me if you would be my squire, Roger.”
For all that he has imagined the way these words would sound in the open air, now, here, with his shirt unlacing in the front and glued to his back with sweat, they feel flat and hollow and Roger wonders what stole their weight from them.
He unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I would be honored, Uncle.” He hastily, clumsily, resheathes his practice blade, only to realize that Roald’s hands still hung at his sides, and his own hands fall ungracefully to his own sides.
Gareth, somewhere behind them, clears his throat.
“Well,” Roald offers hesitantly, “I can have your things moved from the page’s wing.”
Roger blinks, then shrugs. “If it pleases your Majesty.”
A pained look crosses Roald’s face for a moment, and Roger suffers through a moment more of awkward formalities before Roald escapes the conversation. Roger turns, but Gareth has vanished and the only thing that remains is the churned sand and silence.
**
“You must understand, Roger, that there is precious little precedent on these situations--”
Roger laughs, interrupting Roald’s carefully worded plea. Trust his uncle to require precedent. No matter. He really doesn’t care anymore and Roald has only himself to thank for that.
He is the one who stomped it out of Roger in the first place.
“Either you’re happy to see me, uncle, or you’re not. It’s quite simple, I assure you.”
**
Aside from the awkward meals taken with Roald and Lianne at the end of every week, life as Roald’s squire is not so different than what Roger is used to. Duke Gareth takes over his weapon’s training, saying it gives him something to do as King’s Champion that makes him feel useful. Various ambassadors and legal advisors poke at and add to Roger’s comprehension of the Crown’s authority, adding knowledge of the law to the many things Roger doesn’t have time to study and yet is expected to already understand.
**
Roald has taken over Gareth’s desk, leaving his dutiful Champion to stand at his side while they face down Roger. Too bad the imagery is lost on Roger.
He focuses more on the dirty little jabs that keep sliding into the conversation instead.
“Am I a complicated man, your majesty? My responsibilities have always been rather scarce, so you’ll excuse me if I am puzzled by the nature of what you’re suggesting.”
Roger blinks innocently. It’s good to be him.
**
Roger feels sorry for the squire in Nond’s yellow and brown tunic as he straightens his own, royal blue edged in silver. Even without the Conte crest splashed across his chest, the colors set him apart and point out exactly who he is: the Heir, squire to the King, Prince Roger of Conte. He doesn’t need to stand at Roald’s right hand to be seen, though he does because it paints an alluring, romantic picture of the monarchy and a dedicated squire is a well-received one.
He smirks at the Lady of Eldorne, who is not subtle with her wandering gaze, ignoring the glare her husband sends his way with an untouchable, carefree grin. It’s good to be him, and this Midwinter is shaping up to be the best yet.
**
“We must be certain of many things, Roger. You know this.”
Roger would almost respect Gareth--almost--if the man would stop talking down to him. Of course he knows these things; he hasn’t forgotten that he was the Tortallan heir for fifteen years, even if everyone else has. The fact that Gareth himself was the one to teach him most of his statecraft just drives the dig deeper under his skin.
“--Who you are, who you were, what will happen next.”
Roger looks forward to what will happen next.
“People do not tend to react well to upsets.”
No, no you don’t, Roald.
**
Spring’s longer days keep Roger running through the Palace from sunup to sundown, and even the weekly meals with Roald become few and far between. The delegation from Tusaine consists of men with harder faces than in years past, and the lack of ladies accompanying the nobility is not lost on the Court; Roger hears the rumors behind the whispered hands and sees the eyes that follow him as he turns quick corners down the back halls the servants use. It seems the Queen has taken ill, though, so perhaps it is all for the best that she not worry about entertaining through the season and leave the revelries to her ladies.
Roger certainly does not mind, when he has a free moment.
When Gareth has the time, the King’s Champion puts Roger through his paces on the practice court, correcting his footwork and rapping his spine with the flat of his blade. Apparently, no one will take the heir to the kingdom seriously if his posture is not perfect, duel or no duel.
“The delegate would not be appeased in the Morning Council,” Roger observes, deftly slipping to one side of Gareth’s lunge.
“So you were paying attention,” Gareth returns wryly, his balestra smooth and completely opaque.
Roger feints, teasing out a reaction from his teacher. “Of course I was, sir. With the unrest on the border, I should be the first to be prepared for his Majesty’s next negotiations.”
Gareth’s passata sotto, executed with all the grace of a cat landing on all four feet, sends Roger backpedaling rapidly, but not quick enough to completely evade the hit Gareth manages to land. “Good, squire, but not good enough. Again.” They retreat to their respective ends of the court, but Gareth pauses before raising his blade. “You think it will come to conflict, then, Roger?”
Thoughtfully, Roger meets his teacher’s eyes as he raises his own blade. “You don’t?”
Gareth responds with a stomp of his foot and the raising of his blade. Roger mimics the pose in response, paying more attention to the slide of Gareth’s eyes away from his own than to the clash of blades. His footsteps measure out careful space as he breaks away, circling, and Roger tucks the observation into the back of his mind before surrendering himself to the familiar pattern of attack and riposte.
**
“Is that what this is? And am I once more an upset, your Grace?”
Now both Gareth and Roald look uncomfortable, and Roger has never felt better.
**
The Beltane feast is exceptionally enticing and bountiful this year, and Roger can’t complain about the food, either. From his perch on the dais, wearing his own tunic in his chosen shade darker than the traditional Conte blue, Roger meets the eyes of a lady in low cut light green. Roald sighs when Roger winks, but tonight he is the heir, not the King’s Squire, and Roald offers no verbal reproach.
“This year, Prince Roger will have the honor of lighting the Beltane fires,” Roald announces towards the end of the meal. Roger carefully places his fork alongside his plate, disguising his reaction. Roald has never offered him this kind of royal acknowledgement before, and Roger glances sidelong up at Roald.
Roald’s eyes never leave Lianne’s and she blushes slightly as Roald lifts his wineglass in a toast. “This year, Mithros be praised, the gods have blessed Tortall. I am proud to announce that Lianne and I are expecting a child.”
The wave of approval from the court turns to a roar in Roger’s ears as the bottom drops out of his stomach.
**
It’s easy enough to let some of the chill, some of the anger that has crystallized and hardened into diamond strength over decades through his mask of serene good-nature. It is, after all, what has fueled him through death, propelled him into life. In a morbid sense, it has given birth to him out of the mouth of hell, of the living death itself.
“I have been questioned within an inch of my life, have performed up to your expectations within an hour of drawing my first breath, have done everything you’ve requested of me, and my grave is hardly cold and lonely yet. Tell me, then, what more you wish of me.”
**
Ignoring the sting of salt and the flop of his hair into his eyes, Roger advances relentlessly, hacking and slashing haphazardly. Carefully maintaining distance, Gareth throws up block after block, unable to break through Roger’s wild offense.
“Mithros, Roger,” the Duke pants, spinning out of reach. “You need to--”
“Now you’re going to tell me what to do?” Roger screams, furious. “What--tell me what I should do, I dare you!” He presses, hard, into the Duke’s parry, bringing both blades up between them as he leans in, freezing them momentarily.
“Roger--”
“I don’t want to hear it!” He shoves, shoulders bunching and arms screaming, knocking Gareth off balance for the first time.
Tumbling to the ground, Gareth looks up at Roger, chest heaving. “It’s not--”
“--it is!”
Roger’s sword hits the sand by Gareth’s side, and the Duke realizes that Roger has been using a live blade.
“Roger!”
The doors to the salle swing on their hinges, banging off the frame in the wake of the prince.
**
“You have no reason to see me as a threat, your Grace. I assure you both, that you are in no way at risk in my presence.”
Gareth’s hand moves to the hilt of his sword, and Roger lazily tracks the movement with half-lidded eyes.
“According to trial by combat,” Roald interrupts the battle of wills before him, “you were found guilty of treason and attempted regicide and duly sentenced.”
Spreading his hands in a conciliatory manner and leaning forward slightly, Roger shrugs. “True.”
Gareth’s fingers tighten on the hilt of his blade.
“That was before I died.”
**
Roger purposefully skips his weekly dinners with Roald and Lianne; the sight of her burgeoning belly takes away any appetite he has.
**
“My intentions are pure.”
In one less delicate, the noise Gareth makes could be called a snort. Roald simply scrutinizes Roger, as though he has ever had the ability to look at his nephew and understand what Roger is thinking.
**
As the end of the summer draws nearer and Lianne’s pregnancy comes to its close, Council meetings grow shorter and more concise. Other members of the Council would have been blind to not realize the steady tension beneath the surface of the King, his Champion and Prime Minister, and Prince Roger, but the prince maintains a calm demeanor and a cool judgment that is not unwelcome in session. Roald and Gareth exchange glances when Roger disappears after meetings are dismissed, but he neither approaches them nor lets any of his emotions through his smile.
**
“Is there some question you’ve yet to ask?”
It’s a polite way of telling Roald to get on with it, because Roger knows what is bothering the man the most. He’s in no rush to help him out, either.
**
Roger knows, the moment that Roald does.
The lady who interrupted the Council meeting goes straight to the King’s side, murmuring urgently in his ear. Roald stands abruptly, ignoring the spill of parchment and documents that flutter to the ground in his wake as he leaves the chamber without a word.
Roger looks reluctantly to Duke Gareth, avoiding eye contact. Gareth also stands in the King’s wake with an odd, excited look on his face .
“This session is adjourned.”
**
“Do you think I am here for fun, or would you like a dramatic retelling of what death is like? These politics bore me, I assure you. No, I am being serious, Gareth; don’t you trust me even now? Pity.”
**
In his rooms, away from Roald’s tireless pacing and Gareth’s calm muttering, Roger prays for a princess.
**
Roger drums his finger on the arm of his chair. He is a patient man, the very definition of patient--having spent ten months in a tomb-- and still.
“I am waiting, you know.”
**
Duke Gareth gestures with two fingers, calling Roger to his side. Beyond the gauzy curtain on his right, a balcony, and beyond that, the kingdom waits with bated breath.
Roger’s pulse thrums in his throat. He swallows.
Gareth’s gaze sweeps from his head to his feet. “Very nice.” Roger simply inclines his head at the comment, not trusting his voice.
At the other end of the room, Roald and Lianne step through the double doors. The queen leans on her husband, her tired face triumphant as her gentle fingers rearrange the blankets in her arms. Roald’s eyes shine with a fierce kind of joy as he bends to kiss her cheek.
Roger’s stomach starts to sink.
“It’s time,” Gareth says, taking a breath and squaring his shoulders before stepping through the curtains and into view. Waiting a beat, Roger fixes a pleasant expression on his face and follows. The crowd falls into a hush, looking from Roger to Gareth, and then to the curtain.
“Lords and Ladies of Tortall,” Gareth’s voice rings out into the silence.
Roger’s heart climbs into his mouth.
“It is my honor to present to you, for the first time--”
Roald and Lianne advance to the rail of the balcony, passing Roger without a glance.
“--the new crown prince of Tortall, Jonathan of Conte!”
**
“As your workspaces remain property of the Crown, and you yourself pose a threat to the security of the realm, it must be addressed.”
**
Roger stumbles back from the railing, feeling the blood rushing from his face as he trips over his heels.
--newcrownprincenewcrownprincenewcrown--
The words ricochet around the inside of Roger’s head, and he’s gasping, and then he’s through the doors, down the hall.
Something snaps.
**
It’s very simple, and very clear. Roger looks Roald in the eye.
“I have no Gift now. Talk to Trebond.”
**
Pain.
How can Roald do this to him? When has he ever done anything to Roald? He’s the perfect squire, ask anyone--ask Gareth, who should know, because Gareth is the one who praises him for his fencing skills, his diplomatic solutions during Council sessions when he is actually asked his opinion, his gentility and charm at Court.
And Roald--
the thought tears at him, and Roger gasps. He feels as though he is being ripped in two, torn straight down the center, and the agony paralyzes him. Bent in two, unable to scream, Roger prays to the gods-- let him die.
Let this end, let it be over. Let me die.
(It would solve so many problems.)
Fire in his limbs, screaming through his veins, burning him from the inside out, Roger reaches the breaking point, and something gives.
Release is sudden and swift, and with a roar Roger sees a wall of orange explode from beneath his skin before darkness swallows him up.
**
Their beliefs about his priorities are laughable, and Roger tells them so.
**
“The Gift?” Roald’s voice is clear, even through the thick doors separating their chambers. “What do you mean, he has the Gift? Since when does it simply appear?”
“He has it in spades, your Majesty.” The healer’s voice is ragged, and Roger doesn’t blame him. He feels like a limp noodle, a puppet with all its strings cut, and his emotions are strangely far away. When the fog in his head clears, surely, he’ll be able to think straight.
A child’s cry cuts through the conversation, effectively ending the shouting and Roger’s interest in anything outside of his own small space.
**
Perhaps laughable doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s hard to disguise the grin on his face, so Roger doesn’t try very hard.
“Believe me, I have no intentions towards the Copper Isles Princess. Why would I sabotage Jonathan’s happiness? I’ve never hurt him, Uncle, and you know this. Besides, her charms are not to my taste.”
Or Jon’s, but if his cousin is too dense to figure that out, then Roger is not going to intrude upon his happy little fairytale.
**
The most he can do is call it to the palm of his hand, where it sits warm and comfortable like a small animal, but already Roger likes the tiny orange light of his Gift. In the confines of his quarters, where he’s mostly been on house arrest since, well, whatever had happened, it looks cheery and inviting.
Technically, Roald is still Roger’s knightmaster. It’s probably Jonathan that’s taking all his attention and time, but Roger doesn’t even want to look at the child, so he doesn’t mind that.
He tries to call more of his Gift--it’s there, just beyond him--but his chest constricts and his lungs lock up and Roger lets go before he passes out again.
Maybe his knightmaster will visit sometime soon. There was something Roger wanted to remember…
**
“If you won’t trust me now, I must assume there is nothing more to be done in this situation, or to be said on the subject. May I go?”
**
“He’s too dangerous to have here!”
“Surely there is someone to give him the training he requires, here in the City.”
“Even if there was, it’s too much of a risk. Who knows what could happen next time, or to whom. I can’t run that risk, not anymore.”
“But still, what will the rest of the Court think?”
“It’s not as though he’s the heir any longer, and the settlement of his estates and title should deflect from many accusations. Otherwise, well, isn’t that what I have you for, O my Champion?”
**
Roger gets to his feet, using his height to his advantage as he looks down at Roald. The king remains behind the desk, the trappings of his authority his shield against the threat that Roger has always posed.
His once knightmaster returns his look, eye for eye and breath for breath. How much longer will they dance around each other?
**
Breathing in the dry, hot air is a bad dream that Roger can’t wake up from.
Foreign architecture, foreign words, foreign sound, and foreign smells assault him from all sides.
The yellow mage forces him to swallow orange fire when he lashes out against everything he doesn’t know, and Roger sinks to his knees.
Even the ground feels different here; grains of sand dig into his skin like unpleasant reminders.
---newcrownprincenewcrownprincenewcrownprince--
Somehow, the whispers are louder here.
**
He takes great pleasure in bowing to the exact degree required between family members and not a hair’s width more. It never hurts to remind Roald where they stand.
Where Roger stands.
Where they’ve always stood and what has always been between them, even when Roald turns a blind eye to everything Roger has worked for.
**
A raw edge lurks beneath his skin, one that breaks, doesn’t bend.
They think it’s because his Gift is so new.
Roger thinks many things and doesn’t say a single one of them. He just pushes harder, faster, stronger.
The ladies appreciate Roger’s attention to detail. The tailors, his style and bold color choices. The lords don’t have much to say to him at all once unpleasant things start occurring in places, with people, that should have no connection to the nobility.
The emperor keeps an eye on the Conte boy, the newly made Duke.
If they notice he works himself to exhaustion, no one says a word.
**
“I return to you the titles, deeds, and holdings you maintained before your untimely and premature death, Roger, Duke of Conte. May you serve them ever as well now as then.”
**
The first thing Roger does is find the yellow robe and give him a taste of his own medicine. It’s intensely satisfying, forcing the feeble, straining skin of a human to contain more power than any one is meant to house.
The noise that results is satisfying.
Let it be a warning.
**
Gareth is disgusted, even if his expression is smooth and calm. Roger learned the tells of his former fencing teacher years ago, even if it pleases Gareth to remember exactly who Roger was to him.
The once-heir. His one-time student. The erstwhile Prince.
The saboteur, the renegade, the regicide.
**
He steps back onto Tortallan soil with more than a year’s worth of sun and sand at his back. He flaunts the Conte colors he still lays claim to, flashing grins at the people that line the streets. If it’s all he will get, it’s worth taking it all, so he kisses babies and takes flowers from maids who offer them with a shy smile.
It’s worth it for the look on Roald’s face as Roger straightens from his shallow bow.
“Hello, uncle, it’s been a while.”
**
Roger will take this with him to the grave.
The door shuts behind him, and Roald is gone.
There is no going back, no matter how hard Roald tries to play at pretend.
There is no fixing Roger.
**
It really is ironic that Jonathan latches onto Roger, though the drool and other bodily fluids of toddlers are the last things Roger desires to be covered in.
“--ger! ‘Ger!” Jonathan reaches up impatiently, interrupting whatever small talk Lianne has been plying Roger with. Quickly and smoothly, Roger swings the child up into his arms, with the stray thought that, in another time and place, he could almost find himself liking Jon.
**
It is an easy, almost lazy tug, and he is made complete. Dark and violated, his Gift settles in the cavity within him, where it has eaten him from the inside out.
**
It’s not his fault that his young cousin doesn’t know what’s good for him. Roger basks in the warmth of his Gift, far away from the Dukedom that reeks of pity, the Court where broken dreams cut into his every step like broken glass.
They really ought to have paid attention.
**
Roger’s footsteps pause in the hall, and briefly a dull glow illuminates his features. Fire appears in his hand, his smile a bloody mess in its light.
Roger quenches it in his fist.