Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 268: His Redemption 2

He stood there in silence, his gaze fixed on his mother’s portrait, lost in a flood of memory and emotion. The room—her sanctuary—wrapped around him like a forgotten lullaby. It smelled faintly of lavender and rose, and every corner whispered echoes of his childhood: the soft rustle of her dress, the warmth of her touch, the beautiful voice that gently hummed lullabies.

He hadn’t stepped foot in this boudoir in two months. Not since that night. He’d always thought his sneaking in had gone unnoticed, but now he knew—his father had known all along.

King Heimdal stood by the vanity, his broad frame silhouetted against the golden candlelight. The flames danced on the polished marble, casting trembling shadows that made the portrait of Astrid appear almost alive. Her painted eyes—soft, intelligent, haunting—gazed down at them both.

"You have her eyes," the king said, voice low and strained. "That is why I couldn’t look at you. Every time I did, I saw the reminder of what I lost... of what I failed to protect."

He lifted a trembling hand and let his fingers hover just above the painted curve of her cheek. His touch never landed—just a whisper of longing in the air. "She died under my watch. I failed her." His voice cracked like splintering glass.

Without looking at Alaric, Heimdal reached for a decanter and poured deep red wine into a second glass. He offered it, but Alaric’s arms remained unmoved, his hands rooted at his sides. The king placed the untouched glass gently on the counter beneath Astrid’s image, a quiet offering.

"I wronged you, son," Heimdal said, his voice thick with regret. He did not look at Alaric, but at Astrid—his eyes pleading with pain. "I was a terrible father. And now, standing before her, I am ashamed. But I want her forgiveness, even if it is too late... and yours too."

His next words were barely audible, a breath more than a confession: "I was a coward. Still am." He exhaled shakily, eyes glistening. "When she died, something in me broke. I drowned in guilt... and when I saw you—so fragile, so small, so broken—I was afraid. Terrified that I would lose you too." The king choked with emotions so raw that he almost could not breathe. "If I, even as a king could not protect my beloved from the malice of the politics in the palace, I was scared that I could not protect you, and that you would leave me to."

Emotion surged through him, raw and unfiltered. His shoulders trembled. His grip on the wineglass tightened until his knuckles turned white.

"And so I thought... maybe, if I pushed you away—if I married the legitimate daughter of your mother’s father—then fate might spare you. Hide you from the palace’s malice. From the politics that killed her." He gave a bitter laugh, short and hollow, and a ghost of a smile flickered on his lips before vanishing. Alaric saw it—sharp and painful as a knife.

"I suppose it worked," Heimdal continued. "You’re alive. You survived. And even though it broke me to see you cast aside, denied the title you were born to carry... I truly wished for your happiness, my son. You are after all, Astrid’s legacy, a life that she believed worth dying for."

"I even you, my son, do you know that? She was willing to leave me forever just so you could live."

Alaric stood like a statue, his posture stiff, his breath shallow. He had dreamt of this moment for years—of his father standing before him, apologizing. Admitting what he’d done and calling him ’son’ at last.

But now that the moment came, he felt nothing. Had his heart become too callous that he could no longer empathize, or had he waited for so long that he became tired and indifferent to it all?

But he said he envied him, how could he say that?

He didn’t know whether to pity himself more, or the broken man before him. Yet, in the heavy silence, something within him eased—a knot that had sat twisted in his chest for years began, ever so slightly, to unravel.

"I don’t blame you if you hate me," Heimdal said at last, breaking the stillness. "I made it easy for you to do so. I drove you away."

He lifted the wineglass and took it down in one go. He poured another glass and then watched the crimson swirl lazily in the cup, like blood in water.

"I only hope that one day, you might find it in your heart to forgive your old man. That... that would be my redemption."

Alaric stared at the glass of wine sitting beneath his mother’s portrait, the one that his father handed him earlier but he refused. The candlelight flickered in its surface like tiny dying suns.

The king had said so much, so many truths revealed and regrets laid bare—and yet he felt no impulse to move, no desire to lift the glass or step forward.

Now, with the king’s words hanging in the still air like incense, Alaric felt as if he were looking at a shrine whose god had finally answered—only to find he no longer believed.

His throat was dry, but he didn’t reach for the wine. Instead, he let his eyes drift to the portrait of his mother. Astrid. The queen consort, the heart of the realm, the woman whose memory had become both armor and wound. Her painted gaze met his, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t flinch.

"I don’t hate you," he said softly, almost surprised by the sound of his own voice. It was deep and smooth. "I used to. When I was a boy and didn’t understand why I was invisible to you. Why every laugh from you was for another child, and every stern word was aimed at me, and never followed by comfort."

His eyes fell to his hands. Strong now. Scarred. Shaped by sword and solitude.

"But the older I got, the more I understood. Not accepted—just... understood."

He looked up at Heimdal then. The king looked tired. Not in the way old men looked tired after battle, but like someone carrying a sorrow too heavy to name. A sorrow that had eaten into his soul.