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.
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.
11-11-2023, 10:26 AM
