She only must wait minutes before he arrives in turn, but they are minutes that feel stretched overlong with tension and anxiety, a stillness that might as well be a thousand blades hanging from the ceiling of the old, crumbling cathedral. Punctuality was not a mere courtesy, but a requirement in times of war — to appear late to a signing, or a conclave, or a meeting, was as good as insult. And an insult that ghosted along the floor of politicians and heads of state would soon turn into corpses on the battlefield, blood sinking deep into soil.
Five minutes. It is only five minutes that she must wait, before the great wooden doors to the cathedral opened, heralding Ardyn’s arrival. His own escort had been left on a wide hill overlooking the river, where they could see the dotted figures of the Tenebrae soldiers. His bodyguard, a man with a solemn frown and standing nearly a half a foot taller than his King, advised against this foolishness. Said it smelled of the workings of a trap, that he should not travel alone from here, and allow him to be at His Majesty’s side for the rest of the trek; Ardyn waved away the idea, silencing the hushed murmurs rest that had begun to rise. He would be fine, for he did not go unarmed. They knew this to be true.
And so he arrived, cloaked in a faint smile, thin around the edges. He was dressed for travel, formal but certainly not adorned in the usual fineries of court. The soles of his boots were caked in dirt, and his footsteps echoed hollowly along the marble floor, the door behind him left slightly ajar to let sunlight in. He passed under the outstretched wings of one of the gods — a once finely-carven statue of it, at least — that was missing its head.
“My Lady,” he spoke first, voice carrying easily. He drew closer, tired eyes keen with observation. There was no tension in his shoulders, instead exiting in his jawline, the way a muscle worked within it as he strung his next words together.
“The usual courtesies go out, regarding my gratitude for the time you’ve taken to meet me here. Not to mention the lack of blades at my throat as soon as I’ve walked through the door. I think we may finally make progress today."
no subject
Five minutes. It is only five minutes that she must wait, before the great wooden doors to the cathedral opened, heralding Ardyn’s arrival. His own escort had been left on a wide hill overlooking the river, where they could see the dotted figures of the Tenebrae soldiers. His bodyguard, a man with a solemn frown and standing nearly a half a foot taller than his King, advised against this foolishness. Said it smelled of the workings of a trap, that he should not travel alone from here, and allow him to be at His Majesty’s side for the rest of the trek; Ardyn waved away the idea, silencing the hushed murmurs rest that had begun to rise. He would be fine, for he did not go unarmed. They knew this to be true.
And so he arrived, cloaked in a faint smile, thin around the edges. He was dressed for travel, formal but certainly not adorned in the usual fineries of court. The soles of his boots were caked in dirt, and his footsteps echoed hollowly along the marble floor, the door behind him left slightly ajar to let sunlight in. He passed under the outstretched wings of one of the gods — a once finely-carven statue of it, at least — that was missing its head.
“My Lady,” he spoke first, voice carrying easily. He drew closer, tired eyes keen with observation. There was no tension in his shoulders, instead exiting in his jawline, the way a muscle worked within it as he strung his next words together.
“The usual courtesies go out, regarding my gratitude for the time you’ve taken to meet me here. Not to mention the lack of blades at my throat as soon as I’ve walked through the door. I think we may finally make progress today."