In Which Sparron Learns What He Wants

March 24, 1178

Perhaps it had been a waste of time, calling at Searle and Lettie's when it turned out that neither of them were even home, but if anything Sparron was relieved. Time spent with Searle was awkward and strained, and then Searle would make it more so by trying to make it less so. As for Lettie, he supposed he was growing accustomed to her--grudgingly fond, even, if he forgot his resolve to hate her--but he was only comfortable around her so long as he didn't look. She was getting bigger and bigger and meanwhile Camaline was stuffing her dress and the whole thing was just bizarre.

Camaline. She looked fucking ridiculous and he wasn't the only one who thought so. Searle shot transparent grimaces and Lettie made increasingly witty comparisons. His father had taken to greeting her with sweeping glances and even his stepmother had to blink and he didn't even want to think about Florian. At least his little siblings were still too young and oblivious to suspect anything.

This was stupid. He had three little brothers. What were the odds that at least one of them would outlive him? Practically a hundred percent. They were the sons of a princess, which he wasn't. They were healthy, which he wasn't. They would probably marry women who could give them sons and they would probably be enthusiastic about making said sons--which he hadn't, which he wasn't. Nythran and Farilon were more personable than he, more prone to action and yet more diplomatic, subtle but with a way of getting things done, and all this before they were even ten. Hell, even baby Oswald had more of a leader's personality than he did. What the hell had he gained from all this? Concrete proof that he could cum in the right hole?

Bah, who was he kidding? Wouldn't have even managed that without Searle's tongue running laps around his neck.

Why the hell did I agree to this? He didn't need an heir. He didn't need to get caught up with Searle again and he didn't need to drag Lettie into it. And for all he cared for Camaline, he felt no obligation to care quite that much.

"Your father."

The hairs on the back of his neck stood. This voice was not like the others. Immense will could keep the rest at bay, but this was one voice who would not be silenced. She came and went as she pleased and would continue to do so, just because she could. And he could do nothing.

"We've been over this. Men want children, men want grandchildren. Men like your father? They want them more than most--believe me."

He did. He wasn't sure why. "Don't..."

"Don't what? Tell you how to make him happy?" Her laughter was a bad rash spreading on his brain and he wished he could scratch it. Scratching would kill her. Better yet, it would kill him too. "Don't be stupid. You know that's all you really want--your father to love you. Give him a grandson and he might."

Beneath his weight, his arm stiffened. His father did love him, or at least he said he did. And he couldn't have been lying. Sparron's feelings weren't worth the trouble of lies. "Who says my father doesn't love me?"

That haughty sniff might as well have been spit in the eye. "So naive. Men love sons who are strong and bright and produce sons of their own. You're a weak, half-mad little pervert with a barren wife you're too spineless to divorce and a sick fondness for your own sex. He's smarter than he seems, you know. He knows it's not a baby under her dress. He knows that Kemorin boy isn't just a special friend. When he knows all that, what reason has he to love you?"

Sparron's shaking hand hung over his knee like a threatening storm cloud but he didn't let himself look. Staring straight ahead was all that was keeping him from collapsing into a crying mass of raving lunatic. "He doesn't know..."

"Stupid boy. Of course he knows. It's obvious, all of it." He shook his head, but he wasn't sure why. It didn't make sense if part of him agreed. "Your own fault, of course. Is it that difficult to feign an interest in cleavage? Or are you so far gone that you've lost control of your eyes?"

He said nothing. He just sat there like some half-wit child who'd been smacked into a stasis. Not that he was anything else.

"I thought so. You're just as weak as your father, aren't you? You're lucky he can't find it in his heart to punish you. A stronger man would have sent you off to some monastery to have the depravity flogged right out of you. Of course... you would have enjoyed that, wouldn't you? Naked on your knees while another man beat your back?"

His teeth had sunk into his tongue and his mouth tasted of rust. He swallowed back the blood and prayed that he'd choke. "Please leave."

She just laughed again. He wished that nearly twenty-two was young enough to barge into his father's meeting and sob into the shoulders that held the world in place. He wished his father cared enough to let him do so. His father was the only one who could make her go away.

"I want my papa..."

He thought he felt a finger scarf itself with a lock of his hair. He thought he felt it yank.

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