If there was anything that made Galahad notably different from his brother, it’s that he was never taught to be as introspective. From an early age, policy and routine became second nature for him almost to a fault, while Rumil delved into academics and sciences. He recalls a particular day from his youth when his father took him to a court proceeding, and he recalled feeling such admiration for the wit of the elvish juror that he’d go on to study law and legislature at the age of just eighteen, and later find a calling among Celia’nor’s prestigious courts as a soldier and city guard.
It was this emotional dissonance that his father and siblings were sometimes able to identify. Although Rumil was of a far more boisterous, unruly disposition, his studies permitted that he’d become self-actualized in a way Galahad always fell short of. Of course, when they talked about it, the point of contention was whether or not Galahad even believed he had issues at all, no matter how deep seated or superficial. It wasn’t necessarily denial, but some crude mix of emotional blindness and misguided judgment instead.
When he and Rumil began drifting apart, the thought was put on the backburner, replaced instead with dreams of high-stooped spires and glimmering towers that would later become Cauróst. As years passed, the spoils of war and omens of elvish glory slowly tempered whatever familial angst that followed him to Princehood. Though quelled, they’d never be erased, permitting that his childhood shortcomings become lasting, reticent faults in adulthood.
For the first time in years, these thoughts had finally resurfaced with the unforgiving force and suddenness of a warhammer. Though he had emerged victorious in his tumultuous duel with Galar, vainglory did not find a home in his heart that day, but something so, so incredibly anguished instead. It was the sort of anguish one feels for the somber memory of a loved one in spring, or vicious, self-eating hatred for oneself in winter.
As with his childhood bouts with Rumil, the question remained of whether or not he’d be able to come to terms with such turmoil. Days following the duel, a sort of weariness weighed on him that he hadn’t felt since he wept in his father’s arms when he was a boy, which would soon be supplemented by outright sickness. It simply coiled in his chest at first, leaving him an anxiously ridden mess most of the day, and soon festered into notable feelings of nausea and vertigo that left him discreetly fleeing from his royal obligations while delegating the paperwork to his secretaries and council. There were times where he’d take to procuring some infusion of herbal tea to ease his condition, but his lack of familiarity to herbal medicines seldom granted him the solitude he so desperately needed in those moments.
But he never understood why he felt the way he did. It started after the duel, but the rest of it was beyond him. It felt like looking through a foggy window, able to make out the silhouette of a figure behind it but not enough to pick apart the complexities or nuance of it.
Maeline had entered the clinic as the physicians tended to Galar. It went without forethought at the time, but Galahad instructed her to leave in spite of the kindness she arrived with. When she brushed past him and made her way towards his cot, he had never felt such immediate vitriol simmer in his chest, and for as thankful he was that Maeline chose not to protest when he had chastised her, the other part of him dwells on what he would have said if she did.
There are times where he questions if he’s merciful or powerful for withholding his judgment, but what merit to Princehood if not for such dilemmas that come with it?