Rejected

Chapter 4

"...And Lord Garmond was very insistent that he meet his 'dear old friend'," Damian scoffed, "Friend indeed, I know for a fact that he has been in the same room as you only thrice." The man he was having the conversation with was silent as he had been for two weeks.

"Prince Damian, y-your Highness, your father," a nervous man coughed from behind them, "the King, cannot hear anything you say. Talking to him is rather futile."

"As your clever little eyes can already see that mine aren't bright blue buttons and I don't exhibit any signs of being struck by amnesia so I know the facts you speak of but what I do with my comatose father is my business," Damian replied harshly though he kept his voice low like one did instinctively when they were in a patient's room.

The healer muttered a feeble apology and tripped out. Damian sighed as he realized he needed to start looking for another healer soon. This one was proving to be as useless as all the others. Every new healer would try a different dosage of medicines and give the Royal family new hope but nothing would come out of their efforts.

His father wasn't always inert. He occasionally gained consciousness but he was never really very lucid. Sometimes he would display bouts of uncharacteristic temper; swearing and crashing into things, while at other times he would complain about feeling hot and feverish when he was clearly clammy to the touch. The illness was never fully away from his being and it was slowly corroding him away. He was half the man he used to be; literally.

The King had always kept a very healthy regime and even at his age contained more muscle in his body than some of his young soldiers. He was always an impressive man to behold and none could deny his strength of both mind and body but nowadays he looked fragile and old. His altered appearance worried Damian's mother so much that she seemed to already be contemplating widowhood. Damian had once found her perusing her collection of mourning gowns after a particularly bad day for his father.

Damian's mother too was starting to look waiflike; as dead as his father. She would sit by his father's bed day and night and this was taking a toll on her. Damian had taken to bringing all his Ball related problems to her to divert her mind but she had been unable to focus. She had also completely refused to be publically participate in the Ball hosting duties. That, Damian was sure, had much to do with her previous experience of the Ball. His mother had forgiven him after the debacle of the last Ball; eventually. It had taken time and patience for him to completely regain her trust and he had succeeded but talk of this year's Ball dug up old wounds.

Damian let out another sigh, thinking about his parents. He looked down at his father and decided that continuing his conversation with his father was the only way to improve his dwindling spirits.

"And did you know this year's crop of Debutants consists of mere children barely out of their nurse's laps. It makes me feel so old. I might as well dye my hair white and grab hold of a cane," Damian smirked at thought of trying to get a dance if he looked like that. He knew the spate of eye fluttering he received were purely because of the way he looked. If he was an unsightly creature even being the crown prince wouldn't have helped his popularity.

"I only danced with mother's friends' tonight. It seems impolite to force oneself upon an unsuspecting debutant. I think I would have made a few of them cry," Damian paused and resumed the one sided conversation, "I think I did make a few of them cry although it could have been the chilli in the soup. I must tell that foreign cook to stop trying to kill us with his damnable spices."

Damian smiled as another thought flitted in his head.

"And, father, I seem to have stumbled upon some women who don't seem to like me at all. I believe you've just won your bet father although you are unconscious and don't know any better so I shall keep this information and the winnings all to myself."