The Real Wedding Day of the Fresh Prince of Val Royeaux

Jean fought back a wave of vertigo as the maids dragged his ankles and yanked him to stand. A steaming bowl of porridge with a pot of honey sat on his table and he stumbled and collapsed into the chair clutching his head. Messily, he dumped honey into his porridge and stirred it like it wasn't food but salve for a wound. 

Kieran was back? He'd survived his deployment? The world wasn't ending? Or it still was in a new way - what happened to his sister? He remembered the sound of her cut scream and shivered. He slowly ate the oatmeal while letters were piled beside him. He shoved them onto a seat to ignore them easier, his mother's words still fresh and overwhelming. 

He was to be emperor. He was to marry Kieran - or whatever Kieran had become. Jean had tried sending letters, but nothing came back. Dejection darkened his brow as he shoved his half-finished bowl away and began to crawl back under the covers.

"Oh no you don't," sassed one of the handmaids, and she hauled him to his dressing room where four tailors fussied with pins over a semi-complete groomsmaid's costume. A new mask twinkled on his vanity - an emperor's face. Whether he still felt sick from the last party he'd drifted into, or the anxiety of seeing Kieran again, Jean could not untangle. But he would get through today and figure it all out tomorrow, or the next day. He had time, as abrupt as all of this was, eventually, everything would wind down and he could figure out what the fuck was going on with or without Kieran's help. But for now, he nursed the hazy ache of his head and gave himself to the tailors.

A ragdoll kitten in the blazing suit of an Orlesian Emperor, Jean was swept through the palace. Music hummed through the walls of a fully assembled orchestra. New flowers burst out of every vase he stumbled past. Finally he was hustled into an antechamber blessed with the Chantry's special blend of incense - the smell of their halls unmistakeable - and into the company of a Kieran five years older than Jean remembered.

For a moment, his eyes scoured Kieran, picking out the differences from what he remembered. Meanwhile, Jean was oblivious to how his own face had grown into sharper angles and a coldness had begun to spread across his features like a slow death. Monsters danced in his eyes as he felt how Kieran had left and never once written back. He turned away quietly, awkward broaching the topic as the music vibrated the walls and glittering crystal chandelier in the tight space. 

[color=orange]"You were probably forced into this, too,"[/color] he said bitterly, crossing his arms, and looking at a corner. Just like Kieran had been forced into the frontlines because of him five years ago. Jeans crossed arms were but a wish he could keep his wretchedness to himself.

Marriage. He never thought he would be married so quickly. But when your mother was Morrigan...he didn't have a choice in the matter. It was all for political moves and alliances. At least it was with someone he knew...or well used to knew? He hadn't seen Jean in over 5 years. He had been away for some time dealing with dark spawn. What a welcome present he thought to himself as he stared at himself in a mirror. Servants and tailors continued to work around him, making sure the wedding outfit was perfect. The colors of black and red flourished around him. Around his neck, there were black feathers to represent his mother. Several silver chains as accessories paired within his robes. Kieran didn't care for the dress up but it was the wedding day and Orlaisians needed to have something to talk about. Kieran could only imagine the words and whispers that would be made at court if he showed up in just regular robes. After a time, Kieran could see people mingling and eating food. He walked to a corner to look out a window. The sun was shining and the sky was beautiful. 

Kieran had grown a few inches and his build increased with some muscle. Along his entire body were tattoos, some magical and some for show. All relating to something in his life. Though being covered up, Jean wouldn't notice the tattoos until after the wedding or at least when they went to bed. That conversation was going to be awkward. Do they try to have sex? Awkwardly make out? Who is on top? Who is on the bottom? The anxious feeling of just everything about today was beginning to sink in. He could feel the dread swing its claws into his chest. His heart began to beat faster and faster. His eyesight began to feel slightly blurry until he heard someone's voice. Jeans. 

Turning toward the voice, he saw his friend....Jean....the prince...husband to be. With a quick breath, his eyes connected with Jeans. "[color=#005dc2]More just told that this was happening...wasn't much of an option to be forced. It was just a matter of fact...." [/color]

Kieran eyes lingered on Jean. Evaluating him. It had been 5 years. The prince was already attractive when they were younger but even now he felt the prince had a glow up. Red checks emerged on his face. [color=#005dc2]"You look good...handsome...um I..uhhh I'm sorry I didn't return your letters...I could blame it on the war but I should have been a better friend. I got wrapped up in the war and I wasn't in a great place..."  [/color]Kieran's face faded from his red embarrassed face to guilt. 

Jean winced as Kieran uttered 'handsome', and not believing it, he flinched to gape quickly. Was Kieran genuine? Hundreds of mouths saying the same word to him richoted across his mind and he stiffened with suspicion. Then, he looked straight ahead. The doors were carved and painted royally. He made a vacant 'enough' gesture with his hand as Kieran trailed off. He took a deep breath.

It's going to be a long day, so let's just get this over with? he sighed, a bitterness curling his question.

He risked a glance back at his former friend from the corner of his eye. Kieran would give up and seal his lips. Just like he had when he left. And that would be it. And they could wait the next three minutes in this rare peace that Jean wanted to gather up and fortify himself with from everything that was to come. Because Kieran had left. And he hadn't said a word through the space between them. At the end of the day, it had all been a Game. Just a Game. What if... Jean had pondered for five years, only to be slammed now with the realization of how stupid he had been with his poetry. How drunk. How drunk for but another pawn.

Kieran was a bit taken aback by the response. Though part of him deserved it most likely, for ignoring his letters. War changed him a bit and maybe Kieran didn't want his friend to see that side of him. Maybe he should have written back. Maybe it would have made some sort of difference...hope that Kieran could be brought back from war. Kieran stood there, watching out for all the people enjoying the feast and drinking plenty of ale. Kieran wanted to question him but clearly, he got the message loud and clear. "Your right...better to get this over with then..." His words came out cold as he darted toward the crowd leaving Jean by his side. Part of him wanted to just say sorry but clearly Jean didn't want anything to do with Kieran at this moment. Or was this all just within his head? Did his mind come up with the idea that Jean was over the wedding and just wanted the day to be over? To he misread signs. His mind began to dive and twirl into a spiral of anxious feeling. 

With relief, Kieran gave him space and wandered off. But that didn't stop Jean from glancing at him, trying to update his memories of the boy with the man he was now. There was a polished coldness to him that Jean thought he saw himself in. But no, that was what soldiers were. Polished, cold, stately, and loyal to something incomprehensible.

They didn't come back together until it was time to take their vows, but as important and climactic as these moments tend to be in most stories, for Jean, the entire ritual was merely a staged comedy of royal superstitions. Every little tick of tradition to avoid bad luck and evil eyes performed.  Jean would glance at him, but never for long, uncomfortable by rigidity and formality of it all, the emperor-to-be a mirror of what he perceived. Jean felt numb and vacant. Invisible strings pulled him taut. Dressed in his blazing costume, surrounded by candlelight, he felt like he was being eaten alive at a witch's banquet. Where was his sister in all of this? He hated Cecilia, but she would have stopped this, too. Jean said his vows. He knew them rote, so his mind could take him through the few secret passages he knew to escape the palace. If he could find a moment where he were to be left alone, he could get away from all this. Tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, when things settled down and he became plain again.

At the end of it, he was whirled away, thrown someplace high to share a speech, and then the rarest delicacies piled before him of which he might have eaten two unhungry bites slowly so no one would say anything. Every door he was left to idle beside, he tried the knob: locked. And so, we begin a new era for Orlais. Every window, he felt the edges of the panes: welded. We are grateful, most of all, to Morrigan. He smiled when he saw others around him smile. Under her protection, we do not survive, we thrive. He raised his cup when he saw other's begin to. It is for this I unite our families, by marrying her son, whom I also love and respect. He lost himself and became a reflection of the room, giving so many pieces of himself away as he crawled deeper down into himself like a loathsome creature into a cave.

When the time came, he was pulled away again, the party immortal in the streets of the city, which he watched from his bath for the briefest, most luxurious moment of peace and solitude. He gathered himself then. Dragged back what he had given away, let himself feel the awkwardness and forcedness of it all. The heat of the water was, at least, a comfort. He sat silently with himself but it was hardly long enough.

At last, he was tossed into his father's room, wrapped in intricate silks and smelling of money. He sulked, looking around it like a stray cat, and feeling out of place. He felt nothing like his father, but here he was. In his father's room, unchanged. His father's books of history and strategy on the shelf. His collections of Tevint small relics from where their borders flicked across the map like an angry cat's tail. The servants hadn't even bothered to bring his things to the room. He shuffled to a chair by the fireplace and collapsed. 

On the ornate table beside it, a silver tray held a long flute of a glass filled with a milky gray liquid. A tag on it said 'to help with sleep.' Beside the strange concoction was a fresh pot of tea and empty cups. He only glanced at it, a nervous fullness still pervading his stomach. His fearful grace gone, his hands shaking, he pressed them into his hair and bent over, palming his eyes and clawing his scalp. What should he prepare himself for? Not in terms of Kieran. He wanted to believe Kieran would let him have peace tonight, at least. Their distance was still so fresh it would be effortless. He had buried Kieran five years ago. He just had to keep his walls up. But what should he prepare himself for in terms of the witch? How will she use Kieran against him? Morrigan really had let him think he was free enough for five years only to snatch it all away. Now, the title of Emperor had become his imprisonment.

When he heard a door open and shut, he assumed it was Kieran, and he tried to gather back his dignity from the broken pose. He straightened his back, and jerkily reached for a book, any book, to pretend to read. He plucked up his father's copy of Hedonism: The Origins of Living. The text blurred in his mind's eye as he scrambled for something to say. Something safe. Don't look up.

Kieran? I know, it's been five years. We don't have to... he trailed off, gesturing a hand to the bed. He tried his best to look the part of the nonchalant heir, but something heavy, almost sticky, betrayed him in his voice. Did he want to? Yes, a small part of him did, but not tonight. Any night but tonight. He felt so utterly wretched and used.

ooc: the milky black concoction is the drug. the tea is safe. Hedonism is the belief of living for pleasure - a funny title and fitting of Orlesian culture. It was a bit tough thinking of something for Kieran to bounce off of - Jean is still giving off a lot of 'can it wait til tomorrow' vibes, but i know this part is important for Kiernan because it'll be the last time Jean is lucid and real for a while.

Kieran's eyes were tired. He had been staying up late these past few weeks. Looking for his sister and then having to worry about Jean's symptoms. His life was in crumbles and he just wanted his life to be normal for one day. He walked in and he took a few steps in the room, a book along his side. The Path of Blood and Rituals. He placed the book on his night stand and moved toward Jean's side. What ever Jean had caught...the symptoms were at least stable. He just wished he could do more for him. "Jean...of course I do...through sickness and health. I said yes. And I will be by your side until you get better...my mother says it should help you sleep..." Kieran's bags under his eyes were apparent. He took the cup and offered it to Kieran. "I can stay in for the evening...I don't think I can stare at another map for the rest of the evening....you can put your head on my shoulder...we can talk about the time you decided to make your move when we first talked..." 

Jean looked up at Kieran, the wet strands of his hair youthfully and messily splattered to his cheeks. It had become disheveled from nervous toying with. Now they clamped to his book, white knuckled, but hidden beneath the baggy sleeves of his silk robe.

Uh, sure, he managed. Kieran's familiar perfumed oils swam around him, teasing him with the memories they brought back. Perhaps, for this, he felt defeated in repelling his old friend. He couldn't push the very air away. He shifted to the side in armchair, which was large enough to be a small loveseat. He set the book on the table and took the drink from Kieran mechanically. But he held it on his lap and looked at it sorrowfully. You mean, Giada's Birthday Party, he asked, feeling flubbish, awkward, like the memory were a red pimple.

For the truth of that moment he had never admitted to Kieran. That his gall and charm in that moment were someone else's hand. He was nothing but a coward.