In Which Rudolphus Sees Whom He Loves More

September 16, 1167

Though Raia had assured them that Severin had known to expect them, Rudolphus wasn't quite convinced. His brother looked far less like a man confronted with heralded company than a man who had simply lost his ability to be surprised. The Lord God and the Devil himself could have danced in together like fellow barflies and Severin would not have blinked.

But now that he thought about it, he had been expecting worse. At least Severin actually seemed to have been attending to some business, which was an improvement--from what he'd heard, the older children had been forced to pick up much of his slack over the past few months.

"Son," Lonriad addressed him as he closed the door behind him. Following his lead, Rudolphus locked eyes with his brother and nodded. Their father had lectured him incessantly over the course of their journey--"Don't mention anything about Alina being your betrothed!" this and "You'd damn well better be nice to your brother!" that--and the last thing he needed was an after-the-fact lashing that lasted the entire return trip.

It wasn't as if he wanted to be here. The woman he'd longed for all these years was dead, and he'd been dragged along to pay his respects and give his sympathies to her husband, who happened to be his little bastard half-brother. He would have almost preferred to be home with his hideous shrew of a wife, and his bawling little drip of a son, and the daughter to whom he had to lie through the teeth every time she asked him if she was pretty. No matter what else lurked at home, he would not have been in the presence of a ghost.

Severin pulled himself from the desk chair and made his way toward Rudolphus and Lonriad. For a second, he looked to be attempting a polite smile, but the weight of it proved too heavy for his tired, listless lips. "Father. Brother."

Before arriving here, Rudolphus had decided that he blamed Severin for Alina's death. And really, who could argue with that? After all, had it not been Severin's spawn the killed her? And even if it hadn't, had he not been the one to drag her away from Rudolphus and into this godforsaken valley in the first place? By no logical means was there anyone else who could have been responsible. Now, however, he was beginning to have second thoughts. Babies were dangerous things, after all, as was the case with love.

He looked away as their father embraced Severin, muttering trivial little comforts that might as well have been comments about the weather; if Severin was vulnerable enough to let Lonriad touch him, then he probably would have wanted the privacy, if only so no one could remind him of the hug afterwards. How did he do it? The more Severin pulled away, the more their father longed for him--meanwhile, Rudolphus had been there all along, but had never been enough. Lonriad loved Severin more... Alina had loved Severin more...

How was it that a half-pagan bastard had it all? A father who agonized over his approval, and a beautiful, loving wife. The dark, brooding good looks... the tall stature... the ability to actually grow facial hair...

Seeing Severin step back into his peripheral vision, Rudolphus turned back to his father--not that Lonriad was looking at him. "Severin, I'm so sorry."

Severin briefly looked away before muttering his reply; he seemed disappointed when the right words didn't appear in front of his eyes. "Father..."

"Look, if you need some time away from home," Lonriad offered, his hand outstretched as only Severin could make it, "you and the children are more than welcome to come back to Luperia with us."

Well, they certainly hadn't talked that over; to Rudolphus's relief, however, Severin shook his head. "The people need me here."

"You're distracted, though," their father pointed out. "It would be better for everyone if you took a little time to just clear your head."

"I don't know. Some people would probably rather I stay put."

He'd been looking at Rudolphus when he'd said it, the look in those brown eyes spelling out all he needed to know.

Rudolphus did not hate Severin. He was jealous of him, and perhaps a little resentful as well, he could admit it--but he did not hate his brother. Even if their father did love Severin more, he was still the tiny little baby who used to lie on the floor while Rudolphus dangled toys in front of his eyes. Even if Alina had chosen him, he was still the four-year-old who would crawl into Rudolphus's bed whenever he'd woken from a nightmare. Even if he was tall, dark, and handsome, he was still his brother--and after all this time, it finally occurred to Rudolphus just what that meant.

He'd always loved Severin, and he'd loved Alina--he had not been wrong about that. His mistake had been in incorrectly guessing whom he loved more.

"Severin?" His brother stepped around and met him with a frown. Perhaps he hadn't been expecting to hear anything from Rudolphus; perhaps he'd thought he'd hear something cruel. Rudolphus himself didn't know what to say in the first place. He simply pulled his brother into a tight hug for the first time in a quarter-century and began to gently rub his back, just as he had when they were small children.

"I'm sorry for your loss. Nobody could have loved her like you do."

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