Basil stared at the Legate as if the man had suddenly sprouted horns.
Pissed himself? Father? That... that is not possible.
He tried to reconcile this image with the man he knew, the Prince who stood atop the hill, watching the long, grey lines of the retreating army with the detached gaze of a god.
He thought of his father's hazel eyes; they were plain, dull, almost entirely normal, seemingly impossible to concord with the great man he were, yet were anything but that.
It was if he could see inside you, could see how weak and worthless and ugly you were down deep. When he looked at you, you knew and he knew both.
He was a man of fate, acting as if every victory was a foregone conclusion written in the stars long before he drew his sword.
The idea of that man with wet britches, warm liquid running down his legs in a fit of terror, was a cognitive leap Basil simply could not make.
