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.
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.
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.
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.
02-01-2024, 12:07 PM
