Once upon a time, there lived in a kingdom, ruled by King Harold the Third of the Bergen clan. He had eight children, all born to five women, on the same day. One of these eight heirs, was a man with black hair and brown eyes, with a slender build, his name was Sigurd.
He looked nothing like his seven siblings, all with blonde hair and brown eyes. Even his skin was slightly darker than theirs. He was truly a remarkable feat in such a family as this. Even his mother was blonde, no one knew where he came from. The nobles of the court and even his own siblings made fun of such a man for how different he looked from the other heirs.
Even his own father made fun of him for his claim to the throne as he sat along the great chair of Bergen. “You will marry Hanna of Clan Nio,” he said, the corners of his mouth moving up a bit as he spoke. His raven-haired son, stood before him, wearing an emotionless expression. “You take me for a fool, father?”
“You only want me to marry another bastard to toy with my emotions,” he continued, while his words would appear as stoic from any onlooking, to Harold they meant only one thing, frustration.
Harold shook his head. “Who else would marry the dark-haired child of a king? Who else would marry the least likely to take the throne upon my death? Who else would marry the man so skinny, you’d take him for a woman? Who else would marry the man so ugly, you’d take him for a circus performer? You have always been a disappointment to me, and you always will be.”
“Marry another bastard who falls to your ranks of filth and disgust. She is just like you in many ways. You two should get along well. You’re both unwanted bastards of whores after all.”
Harold’s words could cut anyone’s heart deep, but to Sigurd, they weren’t nearly as loud as the mice chewing on the stored bread from the kitchens. He merely stood before his father, staring into his eyes from his spot three meters away. He did not move, he did not cry, and he did not break eye contact.
This went on for a minute, a long gut retching minute before Harold pulled away, moving his arm to rest his head against it.
“She will arrive in a week’s time. I suggest you prepare yourself for your marriage to her, she is mute.”
Sigurd broke away his eyes too, staring at the wooden walls surrounding him, making out the polish against the candlelight.
“Do you hate me, father?” He whispered, unsure if he would hear him or not.
“What?”
Sigurd turned back to face him, his eyes widening. “I said, do you hate me, father?!” He shouted, his voice strong, but somehow it didn’t sound angry.
“How dare you ask me that question after all I have done for you!” Harold’s voice rang through the feast hall, causing the gentle candlelight to flicker. “I have given you your own plot of land away from the confinement of the palace! I have given you your own guards! Even your own assistant! How dare you stand before your father and ask such stupid questions! How dare you offend me with your constant complaining! How could a father hate his son?! No matter how hideous you are, no matter how much I wish I never fucked your mother, I could never hate you!”
Silence followed. And more silence, as Sigurd stood before his father, unsure of his next words. It seemed to him, to be all lies. Just lies upon lies upon lies. When would his father admit that his hatred burn more for him than for any rat that lay siege upon the palace stored goods? Or any traitor who dared defy their great King, King Harold the Third, The Slayer of Pagan’s, The Great King of Crops.
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