sits down in a comfortable chair, cushioned up so he can be taller, while radagon sits on the ground in front of it. small hands move to the red strands of his hair, quickly beginning to clump it into three seperate bundles. "i'm going to make this braid so tight it'll never come undone ever." / miquella having questionable ideas on how to do hair to help malenia and practicing on radagon's poor scalp
๐๐ง ๐๐๐ฒ๐ง๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฒ๐ญ๐ก๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐จ๐ฅ๐จ๐ซ๐๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ ๐จ๐ฅ๐. โ๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ฅ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐จ๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ซ๐๐ญ๐ซ๐๐, warmth bestowed as golden light thrown across the capitol. Touching across every surface save for what hides in the shadows. Most days would Radagon be prostrate upon his balcony, hands held fast to the cold marble of the railing with no prayer in his heart save but a desperate burning wish unheard by greater deities. Of course, heโs used to the silence, of being ignored. Heโs spent every moment of his life since the first moment heโd opened his eyes understanding his place in the world.
High noon means the city is at its brightest, white stone dazzling against the glare of abundant light. Even after so many years spent within the capitol does it still hurt his eyes. So, he allows himself to be led away, a small and chubby hand slipping into his much larger one that urges him to the furthest reaches of the palace.
Much as children do, have the twins found for themselves a playground amidst the monuments and tapestries. A nursery of their own making set against a site meant to be sacred and holy. For the seat of the goddess and queen could be naught else but sacrosanct. Yet through the years has he espied his children at play between the pillars, their laughter brighter than any divine light, sweeter than any blessed sap. โTis such a sound that melts away the iron bitterness thatโs gathered about his heart in but an instant.
How then could he deny his dearest son when Miquella arranges him as best he could when his father towers above him. Yet his child has grown amongst even taller and far more imposing statues and blinks not an eye beneath the stare of such graven images. For being the smallest of the twins, is his son the most imperious, making demands of his father with the expectation of utmost obedience. Radagon only has himself to blame for this, having over indulged both his children. Spoiled, mayhap.
Such as he does now, head yanked sharply to the side when Miquella tightens the braid once more. He does his best not to wince. It matters not that there are still prayers to be heard, sins to absolve, that blasphemers encroach upon the edges of their territory as a black rot. For one who might very well live a life eternal, he finds himself with so little time at all. So much of it falls away. A handful of decades, if that at all, gone within a moment. In a few short years will his children grow. What then will become of him? What then must he lose?
โNever is quite the promise, my little sapling.โ He closes his eyes despite the torture that his son puts his scalp through, a smile tucked into the corners of his mouth. โAm I not allowed to have a say in how mine own hair is to be styled?โ Thereโs the grumbling protest thatโs answer enough. Heโll wear the atrocious braid his son gives him for a time, never mind the stares he might endure. Warmed not by the light of the Erdtree, he hopes that his child will stay for moments longer once he tires of this game.
