(1865-10-13) A Facade
A Facade
Summary: Depression can do funny things, exploring the surface strength that Henry shows and the emptiness within. After receiving Favour and Prior to the Tournament.
Date: 1865-10-13
Related: Tags: Henric
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Henric  

A façade. That was all it was. The strong front he put forward, it was what they needed to see… it was what he needed to show them. All of them (including himself) had to buy it; the Duke and the men the Duke assigned to him, the other lords, anyone who called him a friend, his siblings, the courtesans… and the two royal women that spurned him so easily. They had to believe it. They had to see the strength of will to carry on, to see a man who wouldn’t break under his own disgrace, to see him rise from the ashes and give a damn to move forward.

Easy enough for them to expect it…

The truth was that nothing he did erased the numbness of apathy within, the sense of loss that filled with every draw of breath, the dead and black feeling that consumed his thoughts. He was robbed of something so profound that he deluded himself and everyone else into believing he could enjoy life again, as if nothing had happened. Even hiring a courtesan (or two) for an evening did nothing to lift him but for a night, as the encompassing depression returned in the morning as sure as it had never left.

His eyes looked down to the palm of his hand, where within sat a throwing dagger with a Romante ribbon around it. His thumb traced down the sides of the well-crafted feminine blade, while a troubling expression settled onto his features. He was sitting on the edge of his cot, underneath the pitch of his tent. He had thought of how she looked when he asked for it. She didn’t even blush. She didn’t even look happy that he had asked. She was in perfect control. Something he wished he could claim.

And what would’ve happened had she shown him that she had been happy with him asking? Would he have been expected to push himself to kiss her if she stood there with appreciation upon her face for being asked, or would he have naturally wanted to?

Instead, Kira had stood as controlled as any Romante he had known. She did retort that it was an honour, but that is to be expected, and House Cassomir was a vassal under House Romante, so, it was in line with her dutiful response.

Still, his heart wasn’t in it beyond the momentary reflection. How could it be after everything? This too had been for the sake of appearances, wasn’t it? She was the one to offer to be seen at his side, so it had been her plan all along. She wanted his friendship. Friendship. With a sigh, he put the token aside on a night stand next to him and pulled his feet up onto the cot, lying back as he stared up at the peak of the canvas tent.

What about him? What did he want?

He realized as he lied there, that if he died on the morrow, or even this night, it would be a merciful release, for wanting anything now seemed irrelevant. His body was a dudgeon, his name a curse, and his bleakness constant. Did he even want to win another tournament? Did he even want to be a commander? And for House Tarris? Did he want to draw his blade anymore to take life? Everything could be easier if he ceased to be…

He rolled onto his side as he drew his knees up, thinking of how many friends and companions had died beside him and how many times he could’ve easily been amongst them. Why had he survived? For what reason did the One wish him to live? To walk in shame? To regret the fact that he lived while they died? God was a liar and enjoyed the misery of Henric Cassomir. He knew, a part of him longed to join the dead, a large part if he was honest with himself. And the One could go fuck himself.

He buried his face into the pillow, twisting on the cot, fingers clawing into the furs while his jaw tightened with the reflex to yell and yet no sound came. He couldn’t find himself to care enough to fill his lungs for that purpose. Instead, his eyes opened when he rested his cheek against the pillow, staring off into the distance of his thoughts.

He was useful because of his skills. That was all. All he had to do was prove his skills were still useful. Everything else could be kept in a façade, until a man came along with better skills than he had and cut him down on the field.

It would happen one day. Riding as the of commander of a cavalry regiment, likely sooner rather than later.

He just had to keep his mask on long enough for that to happen.

Then it would be over.

All he had to do was stand and fight.

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