Chapter 60: The Humanity of Vanity (Patreon)

“I heard about what happened with Hans,” Arend said as he and Willem prepared for a sparring bout. “I admit I had my own troubles with the man, but… no warrior deserves something like that.”

“Why not?” Willem asked. “Out of most occupations, I think it’s one of the most likely to both take someone’s hand and lose your own.”

“It’s an injury that ends the career,” Arend said. “That’s all I mean.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel better?” Willem asked.

Arend stopped. “What in the world are you saying?”

“I don’t know,” Willem shook his head. “Whenever I get down on myself, I just take a look at all of the people that have a worse situation than I do and still manage to be happy. If they can be happy, then I can definitely be happy.”

“Is Hans happy?” Arend asked.

“Well… no, but…” Willem shook his head, and then hefted that greatsword. “Whatever. Let’s start the beating.”

***

Eleanor stood ready to watch the bout between Willem and Arend play out. Baptiste had sent her to look for Willem after the announcement of what the contest would be, and this was the only place that she knew she’d be able to find him. She’d still yet to find a good answer on why Willem had changed his mind on this point. Perhaps his family had changed his stance.

But then, as she watched… she saw a shift. No one normal would’ve seen it, but she had spent the majority of her life in Avaria with many people just like herself. The subtle mannerisms that Willem carried died, and were replaced by new ones. The manner that he walked, the posture that he bore, the way he handled the greatsword… they shifted.

Eleanor didn’t quite know what to make of it. It wasn’t unheard of for people to distance themselves from the persona that they assumed on the battlefield. The warrior could become entirely divorced from the person. It was how people that endured and committed acts of brutality stayed together. But this seemed a lot more than that.

And then the fight began, and Eleanor found herself engrossed.

***

Willen van Brugh disarmed Arend, then pointed his blade at the man’s heart. “One simple thrust, and it’d all be over.”

Arend gently forced away the sword. “But you won’t.” He looked up at him. “Same as ever.”

“No, not the same,” Willem said. “You push me a little harder every time.”

Arend accepted the praise with a simple nod, then stared into Willem’s eyes. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

Willem hefted back his sword, resting it on his shoulder. “What’s that?”

“Why did you do what you did to my sister?” he asked quietly. “Not exposing her, but… separating her from Godfried. All those years, ago, why…?”

Willem took a deep breath. “Does that matter? She’s gone.”

Arend rose to his feet. “If you want me to work for you, I need an answer.”

Willem ground his foot against the arena, clearly debating whether or not he should be honest. Then, he looked up with clarity in those blue eyes of his. “I liked your sister. I’ll admit it. She was a nasty piece of work and I knew it, but… in the end, she wanted to come after what was mine. She wanted to come after the Brugh family.” He met Arend’s stare as he shook his head. “That wasn’t tenable. But all of that should be obvious to you by now.”

“And was she working for Avaria even then?” Arend asked.

“…yes,” Willem admitted. “But I knew that, and I kept it quiet.”

Arend looked up to the sky, staring directly into the sun as if to punish himself. “Thank you for pulling no punches.” He looked back down. “I have to talk with someone. Set something straight. And then… we’ll talk about terms to work for you.”

Willem smiled. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

“If I can’t serve the king, then I’ll serve the kingdom. And right now, the best way that I can serve the kingdom is at your side.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Willem raised a brow.

“I don’t agree with the king’s methods, but there’s no denying that the king has been a positive force for the kingdom. His actions toward the nobility have been brutal, but that stands in stark contrast to how beneficial his reign has been for the peasantry. Better to kill the figureheads than those they represent.” Arend held out his finger and tapped Willem’s chest. “And in you… I see him.”

“I’m somewhat insulted.”

Arend patted Willem’s arm. “Tomorrow.”

At that, the former royal knight walked away, leaving Willem van Brugh to switch places with Willem Jansen. By the time the hunger for money was back in those blue eyes of his, someone was already walking into the arena.

“Good day,” Eleanor said formally and politely. “Did you enjoy your spar?”

“No, I hated every second of it,” Willem said, adjusting his hair. “Why are you here?”

“As ever, Baptiste delivered me an order and thus I rush to fulfill it,” she said. “Do you remember our last conversation?”

“I hope so.” He thought back. “Ah. You caught me planting soap on you.”

“You planted a great deal more than that,” Eleanor said. “In particular… you planted ideas in my head. Given the tenor of our conversation, I assumed you to be more a thinker than a fighter… but today proved otherwise.”

“So, what do you want? An autograph, I imagine,” Willem hurried her along.

“The duke wanted me to bring you back to him,” she said. “He wanted to discuss the future. He’s quite panicked—he thought that he would be able to have a better influence in the proceedings of the contest, but it’s slipped out of his hands.”

“Tell the duke that I’m not busy, but I’m not going to go see him,” Willem said, then prepared to walk away. “Remember—not busy, but I won’t see him.”

“Are you sure about that?” Eleanor called out as Willem walked away. “The Dubois family has information on the Eye of Sovereigns.”

Willem did eventually slow his roll and looked back. “You’re serious?”

Eleanor walked back up to him, hands politely behind her back. “Of course. The conquest of Valdérie is something that took the Kingdom of Ravenveld nearly a century. During that period, the families were closely intermarrying to codify peace. It’s not a stretch to say that Duke Baptiste has as much of Lazzaro the Twin-Soul’s blood as His Majesty does.”

“Is that why Arnoud is so determined to slice up people that have Dubois blood and mannerisms?” Willem asked. “Because they have a legitimate claim?”

“I imagine that’s part of it,” Eleanor said. “His mother was quite the awful woman. She was very promiscuous—somewhat common in Valdérie—and tended to be very possessive. When she found her favorite man had cheated on her, she chopped off the woman’s limbs but kept her alive, then forced her to live in a pigsty feeding from the trough. I’m told the woman eventually died from malnutrition after eating food meant for pigs for months.”

“I see Arnoud gets his creative expression from his mother,” Willem noted.

Eleanor laughed lightly through her nose, then continued, “She was also quite nepotistic, expanding her family’s power greatly while she ruled as regent.”

“I’m sure Arnoud takes more issue with that than the whole human pig experiment,” Willem said with a shake of his head. “Look at you. You’re quite the gossip.”

“In the capital, that’s a legitimate business,” she said “Now… will you go to Baptiste?” she asked.

“I suppose,” Willem agreed. “But I have to take care of something with my brother, Hans.”

***

Hans struggled to pour tea with his left hand, boggled by how inaccurate it was. He spilled more than once before he even filled it halfway. He set the pot down and looked at Willem.

“You’re just gonna sit there?” Hans asked.

“Hey. The faster you learn to use your left hand, the better,” Willem said. “Also, I may have forgotten.” Willem took it and poured the tea.

Hans watched, and then awkwardly picked up the teacup in his left hand. “What did you want?”

“I’ve thought about your little problem,” Willem said. “Gone down the list, thinking about what you might be able to do going forward. So… let’s review what I’ve got.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “Now… are you good with numbers?”

“No,” Hans said. “I can barely read—you know that. The letters and words seem to dance and change places when I try to read. It’s as if my mind can’t hold them still on the page.”

“Dyslexia?” Willem asked.

Hans looked at him strangely. “What did you say?”

“Never mind.” Willem shook his head. “So, if you’ve…” He ran down the list, crossing them off one by one. Hans looked into his tea, having somewhat expected this result. “Hmm. If you can’t read well, that cuts off a lot of options. I did think about making you into a celebrity or an actor of some kind. They’re generally worthless human beings that are paid far more than they’re worth, and you are the most handsome of all of us brothers… but we don’t really have the institutions for stardom.”

“Generally worthless human beings,” Hans repeated.

“Well, you’re not giving me much to work with here,” Willem said. “If you want to do well, we have to be honest. You’re like a pink crocodile—you try to blend into the foliage, but everybody sees you coming with your nonsense.”

Hans tried to wipe his face with his right hand, but there was no right hand—he felt a phantom pain, and looked at his stump with some distress.

“Well… alright. This isn’t my preferred way of doing things, but I know what job suits you best.”

Hans looked up at Willem. “What might that be?”

“You’re going to be a stay-at-home husband,” Willem said. “And I’m going to use you to get a wealthy, talented in-law.”

Hans blinked a few times, having trouble putting the puzzle together. “What?”

“We’ve got our work cut out for us, but like I said, you’re handsome, you have a tragic backstory, and you’re currently in a broody phase.” Willem pulled out a book—The Flower of the Cold Northern Grand Duke, Volume 13. “After reading this, I can assure you that broody men with tragic backstories are more popular than ever. Provided we market you right, I’m positive you can hook a big fish.”

Hans looked at the book. “You, uhh… you read those?”

“Catharina seemed to like it, and I wanted to see why.” He flipped open to a page, then recited, “’I have lived for a thousand years, but I have never wanted anything the way I want you,’ said Darian Nightshade, his ivory chest…’ well, this isn’t the best passage to demonstrate…” Willem trailed off, shutting the book. He held it up. “My point is, these books have an entire printing house dedicated to them here in the capital. Noblewomen buy them like you wouldn’t believe. You’re my brother. That makes you the second most eligible bachelor in the kingdom, tied with Godfried and Lennard. And there’s all kinds of noble ladies gathering here.”

Hans leaned his head against his hand. “You have to be joking.”

“Look, you’re an asshole. But in the romance department, that’s not always a deal killer. Take it from personal experience.” Willem tapped his chest. “You’re just going to have to find a strong, independent noblewoman to take pity on you. Then, you’re going to seduce her with your sad eyes. I’ll teach you how. You can try to hide your tears with your missing hand, only to lament its absence and display vulnerability. They’ll swoon.”

“Get out of my room,” Hans said, looking away.

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but you got evicted. This is my room we’re in.”

“Is your plan to make me so miserable the turnip farm seems a pleasant alternative?” Hans asked, trying not to sound choked up.

“Listen, Hans… good looks open doors. You were born with a silver spoon in the face—born with a perfect jawline and a head start. Now, if Arnoud had cut up your face, this might be a different tale. But I’ll promise you—there’s someone shallow enough out there to overlook all of your many shortcomings.”

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