Chapter 4: In Zolas absence
The next morning, Zola left for a party hosted by one of her acquaintances from the capital. Or so I heard—not that she would give anyone living out here the time of day. She swept out of the house with her usual entourage of mostly male attendants, her children left behind with her parting decree ringing in my ears.
"Nicks and Leon are to serve as your sparring partners, Rutart," she announced as though she were granting him the world's greatest gift. "Make good use of them."
I shudder, being the only one aware of their talk last night. But Rutart's face lights up with enthusiasm, his hand already clutching the hilt of his wooden sword. "I'll make sure they earn their keep!" he declares, his tone brimming with arrogance.
Dad, however, had other ideas. "Not before they finish their chores," he says, his voice calm, meeting Rutart's eyes with a steady gaze. "Why don't you use this time to warm up? It'll make training easier when they're ready."
Rutart straightens, his chest puffing out. "But Mother said they're supposed to help me! You can't just ignore her orders!" Dad sighs, setting down the tool he'd been working on. "I'm not ignoring anything," he replies, his tone still even. "But there's work to be done first. You'll get your sparring partners once the chores are finished."
Rutart's grip tightens on the hilt of his sword. "I'm the heir! You can't just—"
Dad's expression hardens, and he stands, his full height casting a shadow over Rutart. "That's enough," he says, his voice low but firm. "You can go train on your own. But you're not training with them until they've finished."
Rutart falters, his face reddening as he plants his feet. For a moment, it looks like he might push further.
"Fine," he mutters finally, lowering his sword and stomping off.
Dad watches him go, exhaling quietly before turning back to his work.
The hours pass as the farm work gets done for the day. Nicks, as usual, is calm, accepting it as a natural part of life.
By the time we are finally free, Rutart has vanished.
I go looking for Rutart but find Jenna instead. Near the doorway to the kitchen, she stands awkwardly, her arms hovering at her sides like she doesn't know what to do with them. She is watching Mom and Finnley as they bustle about with the housework, their laughter floating through the air. Jenna's expression is hard to read—emotional conflict, maybe?
This isn't the first time I've caught her like this. I remember seeing her at a window once, staring out at us working the fields. When I waved at her, she bolted like a startled rabbit. Maybe my actions are bearing more fruits than I expected.
I can't help myself. Walking up behind her, I tap her shoulder.
She jumps, spinning around with a gasp, her face immediately flushing red. "You!" she hisses, glaring at me like I've just insulted her. I raise an eyebrow. "What about me?"
"You agreed not to talk to me when Lady Zola's group is around!" she snaps, her tone a mix of embarrassment and irritation.
I shrug. "Yeah, yeah. And yet, here we are." I nod toward Mom and Finnley, who are now debating something about the best way to fold linens. An unusual topic for the kitchen. "You know, you could just talk to them. If you wanted to help, they'd probably let you."
Jenna's glare intensifies, and she crosses her arms tightly. "And why would I want to do that?" she says, her voice dripping with indignation.
"Right, forget I said anything." I wave her off, already turning away. "Do it your way. I have to find Rutart anyway. Bye." I leave her standing there, stealing one last glance over my shoulder. She still hasn't moved.
When I eventually find Rutart, he is sitting in his barely used room, stabbing at some toys with his sword. His earlier excitement has faded into sulky boredom, his shoulders slumped.
"Ready to train?" I ask, stepping into view. Rutart jolts upright, his face twisting into an exaggerated scowl. "Of course! Let's get started right away!"
To my surprise, the training session went better than expected. Rutart didn't command us around—not much, anyway—and he even listened to Dad's advice without fighting back. The punching bag thing was either forgotten or never meant seriously.
By the end of the session, his swings are steadier, his movements less erratic. He still has a long way to go, but at least he is trying. Looks like I found a way to get closer.
With Zola gone, Rutart and Merce joined our dinner on their own—a first for both of them. Merce, in particular, looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. She sits with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression carefully neutral, though her sharp glances at Rutart say plenty. Whatever has brought her here, it clearly wasn't her choice. Rutart is stiff, his back unnaturally straight, trying to exude authority while glancing at Merce as if he wants to be praised when he thinks no one is looking. I'm really lucky this visit, first Rutart and now Merce, maybe I´ll get closer to both of them.
The meal is more elaborate than usual, thanks to Mom's efforts, but it is far from the extravagance Zola demands. Rutart is trying to mask his discomfort, cutting his bread into absurdly precise pieces, while Merce regards the food with thinly veiled disdain.
"This is... sufficient," Merce's voice carries an air of condescension. "I suppose I shouldn't expect more from rustic dining."
Mom flinches slightly, but she keeps her focus on Collin next to her. "We do the best we can."
Finnley, oblivious to any tension, pipes up as cheerful as ever. "Big brother, can you pass the vegetables?"
Rutart freezes, his hand halfway to his glass. For a moment, his jaw tightens, but he sighs and passes the dish to Finnley without argument. "Thank you, big brother!" Finnley chirps, her smile gives a low groan, muttering, "Yeah, yeah."
I can't help but grin at his tone—more resigned than angry. "Big brother," I say, pushing him a little further, "can you pass the bread too?"
He shoots me a glare but reaches for the basket anyway, shoving it across the table. "Here. Happy?" "Very," I answer with a grin.
Across the table, Merce's fork hovers mid-air as she watches the exchange. Her gaze is sharp and calculating, flicking between Rutart and me as if trying to decipher something.
"Big brother, can you pass the stew?" Finnley asks again, clearly delighted with her new favorite term.
Merce's eyes narrow slightly, and she straightens in her chair. "It's hardly appropriate," her voice clipped. "You have to use his proper title."
"It's just a name," Rutart mumbles, looking away.
For a moment, Merce's composure wavers, her fingers tightening around her fork. She doesn't respond, and her expression burns with something—hate, or maybe jealousy?
Mom glances at Rutart briefly, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Thank you, Lord Rutart," her tone more composed than yesterday.
Merce remains quiet for the next few moments, her focus shifting back to her plate. Despite her aloofness, her gaze flicks toward Finnley whenever she speaks, her eyes almost curious. That could be my way in,but let's observe for now.
Jenna watches the scene with careful neutrality, her hands folded in her lap. I can tell by the way her shoulders tense that she is anxious about offending our step-siblings. Nicks, on the other hand, keeps his face carefully blank, only speaking when directly addressed. But I catch the way his grip tightens on his fork whenever Merce's haughty tone cuts through the air.
By the time the meal ends, the tension in the air has softened somewhat. Rutart, though stiff, has settled into a resigned acceptance of Finnley's antics, while Merce maintains her aloof demeanor, speaking only when necessary.
For a brief moment, the lines between us feel a little less sharp, though I doubt either of them would admit it.
The next day around noon, Zola returned. As usual, the entire household moved to accommodate her. Us boys and our few maids scramble to prepare everything for her departure—bags packed, carriages readied, and every detail fussed over. Meanwhile, her numerous attendants mostly sit around looking pretty, adding nothing to the effort. What a waste.
Still, the time passed quickly enough. Nicks and I managed another training session with Rutart, making sure he didn't miss dinner again. By the time Zola departs just before nightfall, she is smiling in that calculated way of hers, her eyes flicking briefly over the bruises Nicks and I bear from the session.
"Good," she remarks as she climbs into her carriage. "At least you're getting something out of this."
Rutart stands behind her, his posture unnaturally stiff. His own bruises are safely hidden beneath the long sleeves of his shirt. He avoids looking at us as Zola's carriage pulls away. I can't help but feel relieved that no one has tattled to her about yesterday's dinner. If she'd known, her good mood would've been the first casualty.
The day after Zola's departure, things feel different. Jenna, who had kept her distance during Zola's visit, starts spending time with Finnley and me again. She is careful about it, though—always keeping up the pretense that it is for Finnley's sake. Still, it is nice to have her join us. The games feel livelier with Jenna's sharp wit and competitive streak in the mix. Finnley adores having both of us around, her laughter echoing through the garden as we play tag or hide-and-seek.
As the sun sets on that day, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, I find myself reflecting on the strange, shifting dynamics of our family. Zola's presence is like a storm cloud, passing through and leaving tension in her wake. But it's mostly her. With only her kids around, the air feels a lot lighter, easier to breathe.
A/N
23.12.24 - Minimal changes, adding more of Leon's thoughts.
So yeah, I realized I want to interact more about this story. At first, I just wanted this to be out there and try to not involve myself. But talking about it with my fiancé made me reconsider. Maybe I'm attention starved. I have a bit of fear that I just put myself out there with no answers. But if you never try... So, let's try for now.
For anyone already keeping up with is story at this point I put an A/N under the prologue about how I came to write this story.
By the way, is it normal to get two artists asking to turn is into a comic on the first chapter? I guess it's active marketing, but I was bewildered to say the least.
But thanks to my first real commenter under chapter 1. I don't know if I should shout out by name, so let's leave it at that.
With a turning stomach, I hereby ask for your comments. About the lore, mistakes I made, advice and so on. Every not shit post is appreciated.