Chapter 18.

 Oliver watched Charlotte assure her father that she was safe, wondering if perhaps his mother had been alive, they would have had a similar healthy relationship.

The old knight pulled away from his daughter, his relief visible on his face.

"What happened?" he asked.

"It was nothing," she said, "He seemed to only want to send a message. I am fine."

"Your leg?"

"I stepped on some glass."

The old knight turned to face Oliver. An apologetic smile on his voice.

"Sorry about earlier, I was just worried, you understand."

Oliver nodded, he understood more than anyone knew.

"No one needs to know." he smiled back, sending a pointed look to his guards. "It was just a misunderstanding." 

The old knight sent him an appreciative look, turning to his daughter.

"You forgot your sword, I brought it by." the old Knight said, handing the delicate sword to his daughter.

He had never known where his daughter had gotten the sword, but it had been perfect for her.

"Thank you, Father," Charlotte said, pleased with the return of the intimate object.

" Walk with me, sweetheart." The old knight said to her, offering his hand for support.

They turned and walked away, charlotte avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time.

He watched father and daughter leave, realizing the only person who cared about him was dead. The only other person hated him.

He turned away from the guards, dismissing all but two, and walked to his brother's study, now his, and wondering how it was that no one in the palace had a recent injury that would explain who had attacked Charlotte.

He wondered too who it was that would dare attack the king's guest inside the palace.

He hated his father, blaming him for bringing her into the palace and putting her in danger.

He thought about the chief maid, 'would she be stupid enough to poison Charlotte's soup, and deliver it herself?' he wondered. But then again, the woman was too entitled. His father had given her too much power in the palace.

"Find whoever that man was, he must still be within the castle," he said to John, before disappearing into the study.

He sat on the visitor's side of the desk, which days ago had been his brother's, and stared at the portrait hanging over his brother's chair, willing for it to come to life and tell him what to do. Yet despite his powerful hoping and insistence, Fredrick's image stubbornly remained still and unmoving.

He stared at his brother's powerful gaze. Fredrick had grown into the leader he was meant to be. Even his poise and gaze on the canvas exuded leadership and power. He wondered if he could ever fill his shoes. His father already despised him, and his brother's death did nothing to soften his cold heart.

He stared at the papers on his desk. His father had already instructed him to take over some of Fredrick's roles. He had no energy in him to start his tasks. His thoughts were consumed by a woman that hated him, a woman whose life was in danger, because of him.

He willed himself to try and look over the documents, but he couldn't even bring himself to sit on the proper side of the table. He had never been interested in politics. He had never had to be, and no one had insisted he be. To everyone, even him, Fredrick was a god that would never die. Frederick was beloved by all, no one could hurt him.

He needed to find his brother's killer, who was also probably the reason for the threat on Charlotte's life. He wondered how he would achieve that if the best investigators in the palace had failed so far.

His brother's portrait stared back at him. 

"Why did it have to be you and not me, Fredrick?" he asked, tears stinging the back of his eyes.

His brother stared back at him, his regal and fierce gaze giving him no answers.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat. What would his father think of him if he found him crying like a baby?

As if on cue, the doors behind him opened without the guards announcing his visitor. Immediately, he composed himself, taking in a deep breath and wiping the sorry look off his face.

He heard his father's heavy footsteps as the king walked into the room. He listened to the thud of the closing doors without turning. He did not stand to look at his father, afraid his father might see the grief in his eyes.

"Well, I see you haven't touched your share of the kingdom's affairs," the king did not try to hide the disdain and disappointment in his voice. Oliver's heart twisted in his chest. "I should have had more sons," he added, as if to himself, but loud enough for Oliver to hear.

"Maybe you should've," Oliver mumbled bitterly. The king though surprised, ignored him.

The king stood beside him, and when Oliver looked at him, he noticed that the king was looking at his brother's portrait. If he didn't know better, he would have thought his father was grieving.

"Such a beautiful boy, what a shame. He would have made the perfect king."

The lump in Oliver's throat grew. He remained quiet, staring at the chair opposite him, where Fredrick would have sat if he had been alive, imagining he was sitting there now, smiling at him reassuringly.

'Just ignore him,' he would have said.

"You should replace this portrait with yours, you don't want everyone to think you live under your brother's shadow." He paused. "Obviously you do, but you don't want to leave a constant reminder for everyone who walks into your office."

Oliver swallowed hard, wishing to punch something.

The king sighed, walked around the table, and sat in the chair, forcing Oliver to look into his eyes. Oliver hated the idea that his brother could be so easily replaced. If it were up to him, he would have taken another room to be his new office.

His father's piercing gaze bore into his skull.

"Since the only  thing you can do well is fight, you will join Sir Edward and Sebastian to battle in two days."

The king paused, waiting for a reaction. Oliver's face remained a stone.

"You have to, it's not a discussion, after all, what's a king that hasn't seen a war? Try not to embarrass me, please, though your teacher says you have potential, potential doesn't win, skill does."

Oliver's face did not change. The king wondered if the despise in his son's eyes was visible in his.

"Make yourself useful will you, make a name for yourself among your peers, they will be your knights. Especially that Edward knight, his father could be very useful."

Oliver clenched his jaw at hearing his name. He hated Edward for no reason other than that he had gained his father's and more importantly, Charlotte's favor before he could. 

The king did not notice his son's mood change.

"And your girlfriend, I am told you had a fight?" the king chuckled. "Determined, she is. And feisty, much like her mother." 

Oliver stared at the king, wondering at the loving sound of his voice as he mentioned Charlotte's mother. Still, he remained quiet.

The king did not notice his son's mood change.

"You should fix that if she's to be your queen."

"I never wanted this arrangement," Oliver said quietly.

"Doesn't matter. She is the best fit for you, she will make a strong woman."

"Is she my best fit, or are you holding her to hurt her father?" Oliver asked through gritted teeth, unable to stop himself, and hating the telling emotion in his voice.

The king laughed, a rich deep laugh that surprised his son.

"Don't be ridiculous, son," he said. "No one can tell that old knight what to do." His voice was filled with fondness.

Oliver wondered if maybe the old knight was as complicated as his daughter, which would explain his father's complicated feelings towards him.

The king stood. "Fix whatever is going on between you and your girlfriend before you leave. The palace needs a princess."

Oliver forced his mouth shut as the king walked out of the room.

As the doors closed, Oliver smashed his brother's pencil holder against the wall, relishing in the sound of it breaking into little pieces.

He wished to scream, but was worried the palace would hear him.

He did not care about politics, but he now had to. On top of all of that, he would have to fight against a rebellion whose agenda was probably right.

He wished he hadn't been born to his royal blood. Again, he found himself looking to his brother's portrait. His brothers face offered no advice.

He sighed. If he was going to live a political life he did not want, he might as well do it with the woman he loved by his side.

He had two days to convince Charlotte his feelings were going nowhere, and they should leave their previous disagreement in the past.