Chapter 50: Chapter 50: Culprit
"Do you suspect I drugged Kastiel, darling?"
The question hung in the air like a guillotine blade, poised to drop at any moment. Alaric felt a shiver of unease crawl down his spine. Carlton’s question hit him like a rogue fireball in a game of "Truth or Dare." Honestly? He did have suspicions swirling around this whole mess like gnats at a picnic.
It was utterly implausible that Kastiel and Rowan – rivals for over a decade – would suddenly decide to swap spit, especially considering their history involved full of drama worthy of Romeo and Juliet but without the poetry and romance; think smutty novel instead. There had to be something fishy going on, something involving questionable substances and probably more than just a healthy dose of perversion. And in this kingdom, Carlton could easily win an award for "Most Perverted Person Alive."
Alaric wanted to deny Carlton’s words vehemently but the truth hung between them like an unwelcome cloud. He nodded hesitantly before shaking his head as if trying to shake off the very notion itself.
"I do have my suspicions about you," he admitted reluctantly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Besides the timing of them doing it the day when we... slept together during those last three days..." He trailed off, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment at the memory.
Carlton arched an eyebrow imperiously but remained silent as Alaric continued to stumble through his accusations.
"...you were the one who had the aphrodisiac," Alaric finally blurted out, his words tumbling over each other in his haste to get them out. "I mean, I know you’ve denied it and claimed that you didn’t force it down my throat or anything... but with how delusional that wombata fruit made you..."
Here he was, accusing Carlton of drugging Kastiel based on nothing more than a hunch and a questionable piece of fruit. But, maybe it was just the fruit’s effects making Carlton delusional? Or perhaps he’d gone full-on ’wicked stepmother’ and slipped something into Kastiel’s tea?
So yes, Alaric suspected Carlton might be behind this whole debacle, but instead of blame, there was a twinge of sympathy mixed with understanding.
Carlton’s face contorted into a mask of irritation, his laughter erupting like a startled badger. It wasn’t the joyous cackle of someone finding amusement; it was more akin to the frustrated snort of a dragon whose treasure hoard had been slightly rearranged. The sound abruptly cut off as he fixed Alaric with a glare that could curdle milk – a look decidedly uncharacteristic for future Carlton, who usually resembled an overstuffed teddy bear most days.
"You really don’t trust me very much, do you, darling?" Carlton huffed, his voice laced with disbelief and perhaps just a touch of wounded pride. "I told you I don’t have an aphrosidiiac!!!" He punctuated this statement by jabbing an accusing finger at Alaric. "You have one in your room!!!"
Alaric, trying to maintain a semblance of calm amidst the escalating absurdity, stammered out a response.
"There’s no way I have aphrodisiacs!!!" he exclaimed, his cheeks flushing with indignation. "I have no reason to use them!!! Who do you think I’m going to use it with?!"
The question hung in the air for a moment before Carlton’s expression shifted from irritation to something akin to bewilderment. A realization dawned on him like the sun breaking through storm clouds – a realization so profound it made him look as if someone had just told him water was wet.
He knew future Alaric only used those things when he forced him into it! And this young Alaric? Well, let’s just say he was about as experienced in matters of romance as a newborn giraffe attempting ballet. The young man lived and breathed kingdom business; love and lust were concepts that existed somewhere beyond his comprehension (at least until three days ago).
So... what exactly had happened? Was his mind truly playing tricks on him? Had some cosmic force scrambled his memories like an overcooked egg? The aphrodisiac mystery deepened, leaving Carlton staring at Alaric with a mixture of confusion and growing suspicion.
Tristan felt like he’d stumbled into a particularly heated episode of "Royal Rumble," and not the fun kind with glitter cannons and inflatable crowns. The back-and-forth between Crown Prince Alaric and Duke Carlton was making his head spin faster than a poorly balanced carousel horse.
Was this some sort of passionate lovers’ spat? Because if so, Tristan had to say, their definition of romance was decidedly...intense. He desperately wanted to burrow under the nearest stack of parchment scrolls and become one with the dusty history books.
As an assistant, should he step in? Was it his duty to defuse this royal grenade before it exploded? Or would that just make things worse? This whole situation felt incredibly awkward – like being caught in a middle school cafeteria staring contest where everyone involved is secretly judging your lunch choices.
He yearned for escape, fantasizing about leaping out the window (a highly impractical solution considering his lack of wings). But alas, professionalism held him captive on that uncomfortable velvet couch like a lovesick knight chained by chivalry...or maybe just bad posture.
Finally deciding action was better than inaction, Tristan decided to intervene. "Your...highness..." he squeaked out, his voice barely audible over the thunderous clash of wills between Alaric and Carlton. He felt like a toddler desperately trying to get his father’s attention during a particularly boring business meeting.
Unfortunately for Tristan, both royals were too engrossed in their own drama to notice him. Alaric was a whirlwind of frustration, running a hand through his hair and letting out a frustrated groan that could curdle milk.
Tristan’s attempt to get noticed backfired spectacularly. In Alaric’s flustered state, he didn’t remember the figure sitting on the couch beside him. His downward sweep collided with Tristan’s forehead with the force of a rogue bowling ball. The world went fuzzy for Tristan as he was propelled backwards onto the cushions, momentarily seeing stars in an alarming kaleidoscope of colours.
Alaric, oblivious to his accidental assault on poor Tristan, continued staring at Carlton while Tristan lay there, dazed and wondering if he’d just experienced a concussion or the beginning of a very bizarre fever dream.He could feel his forehead throbbing in time with Alaric’s increasingly heated pronouncements.
"Did I just get handbutted by my prince?" Tristan mumbled to himself, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. "Is this what it feels like to be collateral damage in a royal feud? Should I start wearing a helmet around these two?"
Tristan, sporting a rather fetching red mark on his forehead courtesy of Alaric’s accidental headbutt, decided he couldn’t just sit there like a potted plant. He had to make Carlton notice him! Fear momentarily paralyzed him, but Tristan rallied with the courage of a squirrel facing down an angry hawk. He clapped both hands over his throbbing forehead as if it were some sort of protective helmet against impending doom.
"Your...grace..." Tristan squeaked out, hoping to catch Carlton’s attention before he became collateral damage in this royal power struggle.
Unfortunately for Tristan (again), Carlton was not your average conversationalist. This man thrived on theatrics; every word seemed accompanied by an elaborate hand gesture designed to emphasize its importance And when frustration struck him like a rogue wave of bad etiquette, well... let’s just say things got physical – metaphorically speaking at first.
When frustrated, Carlton didn’t simply raise an eyebrow or sigh dramatically – he spread his arms wide like he was conducting an orchestra playing Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on amphetamines.
The problem? Carlton possessed the strength of ten regular humans. So when those expansive gestures went haywire and landed squarely on Tristan’s unsuspecting nose...well, let’s just say things got messy fast.
The impact sent Tristan tumbling backwards onto the sofa with a resounding thud that echoed through the study room. His nose began to sing its mournful tune as crimson droplets bloomed on his fingers. But it wasn’t just his nose that felt violated; Carlton’s overly enthusiastic display had left him with a bruised cheek and what could only be described as "a very strong case of being unfairly pummeled by someone who didn’t even throw a punch."
The young assistant looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards – minus any romantic charm associated with such activities. He resembled less of an opera star and more of one particularly unfortunate contestant in "Royal Rumble: The Unintentional Edition."
Tristan, a walking testament to the phrase "persistence pays off," refused to let his bruised visage and throbbing nose deter him. Even though he felt like a human piñata that Carlton and Alaric had taken turns beating with an assortment of empty hands, but he was determined to bring peace to this chaotic kingdom...or at least stop them from accidentally handbutting him again.
Seizing the opportunity when both men fell silent, lost in their own storm clouds of indignation, Tristan decided it was time for his third attempt at being noticed. He raised his hand, hoping against hope that it would attract their attention like a frantic traffic cop directing cars through rush hour chaos.
When those stormy gazes finally landed on him, Tristan felt a surge of triumph – as if he’d just won the lottery or discovered the secret recipe for eternal youth. It wasn’t exactly winning over hearts and minds; more like surviving an encounter with two particularly irate rhinos who mistook him for a particularly delicious shrubbery.
The silence shattered as both men stared at Tristan’s face, which was now a masterpiece of bruising and swelling.
"Tristan! What happened to your face?"
"Why do you suddenly look like you’ve been in a brawl with a particularly aggressive flock of pigeons?"
They bombarded Tristan with questions, their expressions a delightful mix of concern and horror. It was almost as if they were genuinely surprised that someone could experience such dramatic facial trauma while sitting perfectly still in the same room as them!
Alaric, however, seemed to be wrestling with an additional layer of confusion:
"You’ve been in this room with us," Alaric said incredulously, "sitting there like a statue. How did your face become...that?"
If Alaric lived on modern life, instead of some medieval realm, his question would have probably been something along the lines of:
"Dude,you’ve been sitting here the whole time. How did your face go from ’perfectly fine’ to ’looking like it went ten rounds with Mike Tyson?’"
Tristan hesitated. Should he confess that his current state was thanks to their combined efforts? The thought of admitting defeat to these two titans while looking like he’d wrestled a particularly vicious raccoon sent shivers down his spine.
He opened and closed his mouth several times before finally managing a feeble, "I...uh..." The stoic maturity he had cultivated over years seemed to have evaporated in the span of ten minutes, leaving behind a quivering mess who desperately wanted to crawl under the nearest table and hide from reality.
Carlton, chin held high like a detective straight out of one of those mystery novels Tristan had once read, declared with the utmost seriousness: "Wait... since there’s no one here... maybe... it’s a ghost who hit Tristan!!!"
"......?????"
Tristan blinked. He wasn’t sure if Carlton was pulling his leg or if he genuinely believed that spectral beings were responsible for his bruised visage. He chuckled internally – the Duke was truly something else.
Despite the absurdity of the accusation, Carlton continued to strike a pose as if he’d just cracked the most intricate case in history. His expression shifted from bewildered confusion to triumphant realization, as though he’d unearthed vital clues and identified the perpetrator with supernatural deduction skills.
"Oh my god..." Carlton whispered dramatically, eyes wide with faux-horror,"it really seems like a ghost? Perhaps the aphrodisiac that appeared out of thin air, and whose origin remains shrouded in mystery, is also the work of a ghost! It all makes sense!!!"
No, it doesn’t make any sense!
Tristan’s inner monologue screamed. He was pretty sure ghosts weren’t known for their culinary expertise or their penchant for delivering love potions.
"Hmmm..."
Alaric muttered thoughtfully, his brow furrowed in a way that made Tristan wonder if he’d just discovered a cure for baldness.
As Tristan braced himself for Alaric to demolish Carlton’s ludicrous theory, the crown prince continued with an expression that could only be described as strained agreement:
"...I...see....makes sense...."
Your Highness?! What are you saying?! It makes absolutely no sense! You don’t believe this nonsense, do you? Is it because Duke Carlton is your secret lover that you’re being so ridiculously supportive?
Seeing his beloved Prince fall prey to Carlton’s bizarre logic, Tristan suddenly understood why Kastiel had been so stressed out lately, like he had witnessed the apocalypse – except now, Tristan was the one on the verge of an asthma attack.
The main culprit was undoubtedly Duke Carlton, but Alaric’s unwavering support for his ridiculous theory had thrown a wrench into Tristan’s already chaotic day.
Alaric, bless his heart, was trying to be rational. After all, he’d met a time-traveling Carlton who somehow managed to make ’ghostly love potion’ sound plausible. Ghosts were practically the least bizarre thing on Alaric’s mental checklist these days.
But Tristan had reached his limit. He couldn’t take it anymore!
"No, it’s not ghosts!!!" Tristan blurted out, pointing an accusing finger at the pair of bewildered nobles in front of him. "What hit me were your Highness and your Grace!"
A stunned silence descended upon them like a thick fog. Carlton blinked owlishly while Alaric looked as if someone had just told him unicorns flew backwards and ate rainbows for breakfast.
"Huh....???!!!"
They both exclaimed in unison – their mouths hung open in unison as they processed this unexpected accusation. Were their words so potent that they could inflict physical harm? Had they accidentally launched verbal projectiles?
Tristan sighed inwardly; explaining this would be harder than teaching Kastiel how to fold laundry without creating a black hole in the process. But before he could launch into a detailed account of the event, Alaric cleared his throat and offered Tristan a handkerchief.
"Here," Alaric said gently, "for your nosebleed."
Tristan took the handkerchief with a grateful nod. He wasn’t sure if it was the royal silk or the sheer earnestness in Alaric’s eyes that made him feel better.
After that, Tristan quickly recounted the events leading up to his bruised cheek and nosebleed during their argument about... Alaric and Carlton listened with growing guilt, realizing that Tristan’s injuries were not the result of spectral shenanigans but rather their own clumsy enthusiasm and perhaps a touch of Carlton’s overzealous use of hand gestures.
To make amends, Alaric pulled out a special cream reserved for royal family members – the kind that supposedly healed even the most stubborn bruises in record time. He dabbed it gently on Tristan’s cheek, earning himself a rare smile from the young man.
Tristan felt warmth bloom in his chest – not just from the soothing cream but also from the unexpected kindness of his beloved Prince/employer/idol who seemed determined to make things right despite being caught up in this bizarre ghost fiasco. Emboldened by this gesture of care, Tristan decided to take a leap of faith:
"Actually... there was something else I wanted to talk about...something about Kastiel."
