RP:Hold the Line, Boy, Hold the Line

Part of the Thy Kingdom Come Arc

Summary: Balgruuf confronts Balder and holds him responsible for the death of Mimsgor, the failure to assassinate Hildegarde, and the subsequent loss of a trade agreement. Balder tries avoid accountability, but without any reasonable defense soon finds himself shamed and blamed entirely; he storms out.

Frostmaw Fort Main Room

Balder scratches at his beard, eyeing the many trophies of his forefathers. In truth, he hadn't meant to pause, and lately he's enjoyed the pleasure of traipsing through the fort with familiar leisure, treating the stately fort more like a personal clubhouse. The stale trappings had scarcely drawn his eyes in recent days, falling into the dusty, static background of tradition and antiquity. "Hmph." He tears his gaze away. This hall will be more lively once the walls sport a few trophies of his own, Balder muses alone. "Right there," he points to a prominent spot now occupied by a tapestry, "'stead of that old rug."

Balgruuf did not doubt the fact that he was viewed as an antiquity in the eyes of his son. He watched Balder from the doorway with quiet interest. He loved his son, that much was true, but on some level he feared him. His rage and temper was monstrous, he had no head for business. He only thirsted for blood and battle, for getting his own way regardless of honour or traditions. That much was made clear when Hege came to Balgruuf in tears, telling him all about her brother’s untimely – and stupid – demise. “Is this your fort, boy?” he finally asked.

Balder catches himself and quickly drops his hand. It was obvious he'd been lost in a private moment, and the voice of his father snaps Balder immediately back to the here and now. "Not yet," he answers, putting on his coolest front, eyes on the floor. "You yourself said I'm to carry the line." The warrior takes a few steps, heel to toe, not bothering to raise his gaze. Balgruuf might imagine he sees several things in his son's face, but care and worry are both notably absent.

Balgruuf ‘harrumphed’ at that response. ‘Not yet’. The giant moves away from the doorway and towards his son, the apple of his eye, and clasps his hand against his shoulder affectionately. “True, I did. But by the grace of Aramoth, I will rule for a few years yet and then you may inherit a kingdom that is wealthy and put to rights,” meaning there wouldn’t be a whole lot for Balder to muck up. Or worse, he could destroy everything Balgruuf intended to build. Though he doubted it would come to such: more likely that Balder would spend his lordship hunting and whoring, while someone ran things behind the scenes for him. “I like that Hege girl, she seems fond on you,” was he hinting at a possible marriage for his son? “Yet she tells me that she mourns for her brother.”

Balder looks up at the touch on his shoulder, meeting Balgruuf's eye. The mention of Aramoth has him looking back down immediately, and the father will sense a flicker of guilt. "Aramoth willing," he politely, detachedly replies. For something to do, he tugs at his belt, pulling it straight. The mention of Hege pulls Balder's eyes to the ceiling, but the allusion to her brother, Mimsgor, sends a chill through through his typically fiery blood. "Mourns him?" He repeats with caution, trying not to betray any knowledge, but the dread is creeping upon Balder already. "Mimsgor is my friend," he swallows, "and a good ally. Surely, you can't mean him, f-," something falters in his throat, "father?"

Balgruuf’s hand remained on Balder’s shoulder and it certainly had no inclination of leaving, even with Balder near enough squirming beneath its grasp. “Mimsgor is dead. Killed by Hildegarde,” he explained, having heard the news from a trader in Larket who had subsequently cut his ties with Balgruuf. His grip has tightened on Balder’s shoulder, “Mimsgor tried to feed, apparently, Hildegarde with a poisoned cake. Then…” he huffs, as if with shocked laughter, “then! He took a lass hostage. And Hildegarde, being the noble bitch she is, she slew him like a PITIFUL DOG!” His grip must be painful at this point, domineering; pushing down upon Balder, “She declared herself *Queen* due to this idiocy! Idiocy only you, an impudent wretch, could have dreamed up off! You’re almost as shameful as Bry… as HIM!”

Balder's eyes widen at the mention of Hildegarde, his darkest fears confirmed. Before he can adequately process this revelation, the grip upon him tightens in condemnation. Balder must resist the urge to jerk away; he knows he cannot improve his position by fleeing now. "You said it shouldn't be traced back to us," Balder limply rebuts, doing his best to work up a sneer of defiance, "that we couldn't be implicated. If it had worked, no one would have known." He dares to meet Balgruuf's gaze. "Not even you, father." Lips tighten as he bites back whatever he had planned to say next, and his jaw grits. Beneath the clamping hand, Balder's shoulder has begun to tremble, and he must swallow again. "I can't," he tilts up his chin, struggling to put on an air of haughty confidence, even as his wavering voice betrays him "be held accountable for Mimsgor's failure!"

Balgruuf looks astonished at Balder’s retort. “I’m not so stupid as to forget that a dragon cannot be poisoned, you fool!” he spat the words out venomously, feeling as though he was definitely the smarter out of the two. “By not being implicated I meant send some kind of hired knife, arrange an accident that would *physically* harm and kill the dragon, not give her the sh-ts!” he growled furiously. Finally, he shoves Balder back. “You have cost me an important trade deal. And now Hildegarde is not just intent on returning as the Steward, but as the Queen. This is worse than it was. We must save face, save business, save our family.” He fumed. “I must save your hide again.”

Balder is shocked yet again by his father's words, this last revelation being, by far, the most bitter. "Cannot be..." Truly left without a leg to stand on, Balder can only stagger away as he is shoved, reeling away like a drunkard to stumble into the wall, knocking against the tapestry's lower hem. His gaze shoots up to the depiction, to Ishataulak and Satoshi, the dagger and the eye. Balder's lips part in an instant of true dread. "No!" With nothing left to fall back on by raw, emotional reflex, the warrior reaches within himself to grasp his last stable handold: anger. Matching fumes for fumes, seething in silence, he scowls over at Balgruuf. In a moment when he should be begging his father's forgiveness, instead, Balder is picking back up the pieces of his shattered pride. With nothing left to say, he turns his back, intent on storming out like the scolded brat he is.

Balgruuf would be unsurprised should his son decide instead to storm out like a scolded child. “You *will* attend this trading caravan on Friday or so help me Aramoth, I’ll make you like your brother!” Shunned, excluded, disgusting. “You will dress like a Lord’s son, you’ll do as you are bid and you WILL NOT dishonour our family name, Balder Balgruufsson, do you hear me?”

Balder flinches at the second mention of Brynjar, but he doesn't bother turning around. "Spare me," he calls back sarcastically, his receding voice echoing through the hall. "You'll get your 'lord's son'." Behind him, the fur hem of his cloak waves an irreverent farewell with every bitter step. It wouldn't be the first fit he's thrown.