Autolatry - The worship of one’s self.
He was always destined to rule. Even as children he felt it in his veins, that he deserved to own and control, that he deserved so much more than he could even imagine given the meager scraps he was given to define his world by. Dirthamen had always said that Elgar’nan treated him as he did from fear; fear of his own son doing as he had to his father. Falon’Din still wasn’t sure how much of it came from his own hatred of losing, but neither mattered now as he stood before a full length mirror looking at himself.
He looked every bit the part of a god king, a crown forged of bone china and light, it’s shimmering creating a dance upon the walls, his clothes loose but fitted, swaying as he moved and walked, trailing after him when he commanded his servants to let it. Why should he care if the train got dirty? It was good for one use anyway, the deep purple satin in stark contrast to his pale skin and bringing out his eyes, while the silver embroidery danced with movement and magic. He stood at his full height, and it felt right.
“You were made for this,” Dirthamen says from his pile of pillows in the corner, a plate of sweets nearby as he studied Falon’Din as deeply as he studied himself.
“I was made for more,” Falon’Din responds and he feels the sheer pride rush through the link in their minds, watches the twinkle in Dirthamen’s eyes, the ever so slight turn of his lips. “This is merely a step towards it all. I deserve the world and will not stop until I have it, through gift or through blood.”
His eyes slide back towards the mirror, lifting one arm, to watch the draped sleeve dance, searching for any imperfections, studies his hair, in a simple braid pulled over his shoulder, but with purple stands and gems woven in. Lifts his long and delicate fingers to his crown to make sure it was secure upon his head, stands of light hung from it, framing his face, causing the jewels in his ears to sparkle and shine.
Truly, he was the most beautiful of the Evanuris, save, perhaps, for Dirthamen, however his twin did not show his face to any save him. Dirthamen’s beauty was a gift for Falon’Din’s consumption alone and he valued and guarded it highly. But Falon’Din was made to flaunt, to parade and be seen. He was not gifted with his complexion to hide it away, he was not born with ambition to settle for anything less than he deserved. And he deserved people falling to their knees as much for his beauty and his power.
After long inspection of himself in the mirror, he steps around it and stops before Dirthamen, head high, shoulders square, and hands apart, presenting himself to his twin. “Do you approve?” he asks. It’s needless; he can feel the love and approval in quiet and steady waves in his mind, but sometimes he wished to ask all the same. Perhaps it was a holdover from their childhood, but he deserved every ounce of validation he could get.
Dirthamen looks him up and down, and a smile spreads across his face as he nods. Carefully, Falon’Din bends over to kiss him on the forehead, one hand on his crown to keep it steady.. “Thank you, vhenan.”
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