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It's not a big deal at all.
In fact, Alrond thinks it's very little, but it has always been like this. Wellgrove owed its once thriving economy to the tireless efforts of its people, and more than once he has wondered how the town would fare without his family. That was not a thought he was supposed to have, but without his father to remind him of the importance of keeping everything in order, he's caught himself slipping more often lately.
What order was there in a life torn down by tragedy and loss?
And yet he does what he must, hides the wounds, and keeps moving through a world of pitfalls.
It's what they've always done, it's in his nature to hide and distract. To offer enough and say very little. Endless masks and negotiations, going in meaningless circles until no one knows what the truth is anymore.
Reality is expensive floorboards to keep him grounded.
There's s not much he can do for his town, but what little he can, he does.
The messages are subtle, but he was trained to read between the lines. They compliment Wellgrove's beauty (wouldn't it be a shame if something happened to it?), commend his leadership (how are you going to protect that little town of yours?), and offer friendship and alliances (we're not asking much of you in return, only a few favors… and that's where he's smart enough to play along where the words end but their meaning is clearer than ever).
He slips into his role with remarkable ease, the first time he's kneeling on a mammoth sheep carpet and trying not to think too hard about the taste, the pretense of previous conversations long forgotten, but he keeps track of the names. Of the small things that happen behind pleasant words—every subtle look, every seemingly coincidental touch that accompanies another offer for protection, every knowing smile that says we both know you can't refuse. He files every detail away for when it may come in handy later. He wears his masks well. Perhaps it's Sealticge's blessing that his tongue is skilled in more than fancy talk; he can stay quiet this way, keep his thoughts concealed.
With a mad conqueror king too close to his borders and the gods know what's happening in his forests, he takes every alliance he can get.
And does what he can to ensure that they never have a reason to turn on him.
He's been to this house enough times to expect the inevitable any day.
Things have been looking up lately; thanks to Partitio's contributions to restoring Wellgrove back to its former glory and the prospect of a peaceful, maybe even beneficial relationship with the newly reformed Ku had put Alrond in a much stronger position in the political landscape of the Leaflands, and once he has Hikari fully on his side, he expects the rumors about how King Mugen died to play a significant part in keeping the worst of them in line. By now he has a few attempts to assassinate him under his belt too, which has connected him with a few individuals who have little reason not to switch sides for the right price.
Until then though, he has to keep up his act.
And with this man, it's personal.
Alrond is always on edge around him, has been from the moment he first met him and sensed something deeply unsettling behind the respectable facade that he was too young to define. Something that had slipped out years later when their paths crossed again for the first time after Alrond's parents died, without the safety of a well-planned social gathering of the elite that provided ample opportunities to politely excuse himself from uncomfortable company. When the grounds where he fought his battles were a private office and established routines that let him drown out that smug bastard's recounting of how much he'd been looking forward to this ever since he first laid eyes on the former lord's young son.
Alrond would have settled on a merciful assassination otherwise, but this man does not deserve the relief of death.
Objectively, he is not in a position to refuse when his town and his people are under threat. If he plays his cards right—and he is good at playing long, drawn-out games—he can expose the creep for everything he's done. The department store and his investments in the steam engine for a better future for everyone (and international papers reporting extensively on both for months) have earned him a very positive reputation among people all over the world. The courthouse of Timberain is on shaky grounds with the public ever since the whole extent of its corruption came to light when Osvald made a spectacular return to the world of the living and his testimony alone was enough to dismantle Frigit Isle's prison system. People are paying close attention to how the court handles people who had been wronged, and nothing suggests Alrond had ever been a willful participant in their "negotiations."
He's been carefully placing evidence that will serve his revenge later. A forced smile, a too-quick reassurance that he is feeling fine, just tired, a tense avoidance of his usual exchange of pleasantries with the servants. Nothing too suspicious, but enough to let the pieces fall into place when he reveals his hand and they learn what he had to endure behind their master's doors.
He's prepared. For their usual routine, for the false affection, the praise for his compliance. He's played his role well so far, and it surprises him it took so long to get to this point. Nevertheless, he's prepared, has been prepared for a long time for being told to bend over that fancy desk, for the gleeful anticipation in that bastard's voice telling him just how long he had been waiting for this day, for a particularly arduous evaluation of a part of Partitio's railway plans that he had been putting off so he could use it to keep his mind occupied on this very day.
Just do the calculations. Don't think about what's happening to you.
He tries, and manages to review part of the planned route before the sensations become too much, too distracting to keep occupying himself with numbers and maps, and he's all to aware how little it would take to break his composure—he cannot allow himself to feel too much, he reminds himself firmly, desperately. He will not give the bastard the satisfaction of defeating him, no mater how deep the violation runs, how many marks he leaves, how much, deep down, Alrond wishes and prays for the ordeal to be over.
No matter how dire the situation, Alrond Rondwell never shows weakness in the face of an adversary.
Later, when he leaves, it catches up to him.
Hidden from unsuspecting onlookers, he allows himself a moment to lean on a wall in the courtyard to calm himself before he has to temper his distress in front of other people on his way home.
Predictably, the coachman asks if he's not feeling well.
Alrond feels the cracks in the mask when he answers. He's practiced these conversations over and over until they came naturally, measured perfectly for the effect he intends to achieve—mild suspicion, but no further prying questions, just enough to linger in the minds of people until he can make use of it. All that practice fails him now. His voice is too strained, too raw, he claims he's fine but so much more than he wants to let on bleeds into his words and all he can do is cut the exchange short before he truly breaks.
And yet it serves its purpose. When the time comes, this man's testimony will ensure no one can claim he was pretending.
Until then, he has to be patient, and keep playing his part.