Marianne At Court Ch 08

Sir Derrick Pelgair stood in the doorway of the Sunflower Room in the palace.

His eyes drifted, out of focus, to the four doorways that would lead to private bedrooms. He had shared this apartment with the Mullenax brothers when they were here, visiting Jason. Staring at the table in the center of the room, he thought about how Matthias and Adam would laugh and Bowen's japes, sipping ale while Derrick read in silence. He reflected that he was often frustrated at the noise that dominated the Sunflower Room at times, and would make his way to the library to get some sense of quiet. He longed for their jovial voices now - to hear Bowen rant, even Matthias's snores, rattling the stone walls. Most of all, he missed Adam. Poor, happy, kind, Adam.

Dead Adam.

Adam had fallen on their campaign, struck down by the blade of a massive knight. They had their revenge - and their victory as well - but if those facts had ever comforted Derrick, they didn't now. He dreaded returning to this room almost as much as he dreaded bringing Adam's body back to Norshire.

Bowen and Matthias didn't join Derrick on his journey back. He didn't blame them - Derrick hadn't wanted to come back to the capital either. As a matter of fact, as he stood there in the entryway, he wondered if he shouldn't just turn and leave - find a quiet corner of the kingdom to raise a homestead, and put war behind him for good.

Without closing the door, Derrick walked in, and unceremoniously dropped his bundle of belongings on the floor near the door to the room that had once been his. The knight pulled out a waterskin and drank deep. The liquid was lukewarm, from the sun beating down on his horse and pack all day. Derrick barely noted that as the water dripped past his mouth and off of his chin, leaving dashes of wetness on the front of his light blue tunic.

Derrick was dressed plainly today, in a light blue tunic and light grey riding pants. The sword that hung at his waist was leaned against the chair as he moved to stand in the center of the room, near the table.

Derrick always dressed plainly. House Pelgair was a new and relatively minor house - or poor, as many would say. It was founded some 130 years ago when the first Pelgair, Arliss of the Bronze Blade, rose to prominence as captain of the guard for King Morgan Algrave II. Their fortunes quickly drooped, it seemed to Derrick. The subsequent members of the knightly house of Pelgair have been warriors of negligible ability. The Pelgairs had moved from castle apartments to varying minor homes throughout the capital city, never marrying into significant families or garnering significant wealth, nor lands. Derrick's father, Horvan Pelgair, married his favorite whore - a woman named Aileta, and got a child out of her, with her dying in the process. After that, Horvan spiraled. He had already spent the majority of his father's modest amount of gold, and the spending got more egregious after Aileta's death. By the time Derrick had reached the age of 13, Horvan was fleeing debtors, abandoning Derrick to a friend in the castle guard before stealing himself away in the night. Derrick wasn't sure where he was. Derrick also wasn't sure he cared.

He ran a hand through his floppy, wavy light hair. It was hot, he noted, and his tunic stuck to him by water and sweat. He stood in front of the open window and pulled it off, along with the undershirt, tossing the clothes in a heap on the table in the center of the room.

"Eep!" he heard, a sharp feminine sound, coming from the doorway. There stood a serving girl in a long plain dress, with her straw blonde hair in a bob. She stared at Derrick's exposed chest before blushing. He met her gaze with his green, dead, eyes, flat with disinterest. The girl quickly was on her way.

Derrick knew the effect that being a knight had on many women. Being a soldier, he was of sturdy shape, and his muscular chest made him seem built like a polished sword. A few faded scars raced across his body, but Derrick rarely allowed opponents to get that close. He was deadly with a blade, with many ghosts able to attest to that fact.

But Derrick didn't spend time with the whores and servants that Jason did. Derrick smirked at that. The two of them were the best of friends, but couldn't be more different. Derrick was a quiet, perceptive man that loved a captivating novel more than he enjoyed carousing with friends. Jason was the opposite - boisterous, impulsive, and often a slave to his vices.

What they shared was a love of friendship. Companionship. Derrick learned long ago that connections in this life are fleeting, fragile, prone to twist and pull and shatter in the wake of the shifting sands of time. One day his father was there, the next - he wasn't. Derrick felt the need to cultivate strong friendships as best he could.

Prince Jason felt similarly. However, it seemed to Derrick that Jason was just lonely. Jason's sister was scarcely around, and the King had no other children. The weight of the dynasty was solely on Jason's shoulders, and he struggled with that...Jason had told Derrick on numerous occasions about how he needed to look at his people in a more mercenary sense. They were tools and dependents. The people of the realm were his to deploy as soldiers, all for the good of country. If he couldn't make decisions without emotion, without connection, then he was putting the people at risk. But at other times, Jason was different...clutching onto friends with one hand, a drink with the other. Smiling and singing and laughing the loudest.

Sir Derrick felt bad for his friend. The tethers of companionship obviously were something that the prince struggled with.

Derrick sighed and stripped himself down to his undershorts, short grey garments that clung to the muscles of his thighs. He walked over and closed the door to the Sunflower room before turning and finding a bed. He needed to sleep. He needed to forget everything...Adam, Jason, the country...just for a while. Just for a while.