What is brewing behind hazy silver? Clouds that are low and heavy, trembling from static tension that has yet to be resolved. Zacharias swallows, the hand combing through Darios' hair coming to a halt — instead, it is now a gentle pressure cradling his nape as Zacharias searches.
...What is it, then, that Darios fears?
It could be the eyes of others: anyone that could piece them both together with enough careful observation and time. But that can't be it — or at least, it isn't at the core of the darkening clouds, instead part of the quiet rumble of thunder that accompanies the truth. Regardless: "I believe I know who you speak of." Voice low, gentle, hesitant. "Purple hair, correct? She had approached me about it. Regardless, she... does have a sharper intuition, but she is also not the norm."
It could be the eyes of others, still: those who are interested in chasing power out of Darios' hands for their own gain. Then, that makes her observation a warning — a silent message that they were lucky to only be commented on here, compared to the turmoil that would have started if they were overseas. Then, the path of their future is clear too — as they grow more accustomed to the company of each other, it is an inevitability that they will have to rebuild false walls to protect the other from scrutiny.
It will only become more difficult, and Zacharias agrees. It will, he knows. But he had sat in courts and watched, slowly, how the conclusion of expulsion was reached; he had been on the end of scrutiny and still clawed his way back into decent graces. It will only become more difficult — and Zacharias interjects himself — but this behavior is not wholly new. They can be afraid together and still let familiarity guide their hands; that, Zacharias believes.
It could be the eyes of others, again: those who look on at Darios with expectation riddled in their gazes. A silent demand to take hold of the throne fast, because a kingdom without its king is merely chaos waiting to claim it for its own. It will only become more difficult, and even if Zacharias will never find himself in such a position, he had done what he could to take this burden off of his sister's shoulders; and he will do the same. He will find a way to clear the path to the throne before Darios even steps foot into the throne room — if that is what Darios is afraid of.
It could be the eyes of one other — Zacharias — but Darios had said it was not.
It could be the eyes of himself. Pitch-black clouds that suffocate the gleam of the moon and stars in Darios' eyes; a fear that somehow, somewhere, Darios will make a mistake that will cost him everything. And to that, Zacharias has nothing good to say beyond a soft hum in understanding. ( because fate is fickle enough that such unrealistic imagination could always become reality. nothing is protected from the whims of luck; and sometimes, many times, Zacharias believes it will strike himself one day when he cannot afford to lose anyone. )
At least, if that is what Darios is afraid of, Zacharias knows he would still be here to pick up the pieces alongside him. If not here, mere millimeters away, then around; and if not around, then skeleton and rotted flesh will crawl out of its grave to return.
It could be none of it. It could be something else. It could be all of it.
He glances down at the crown and reaches — not for the crown itself, but to wrap his own gloved hand around Darios'. Then, back into the storm he searches, waiting for the eye to surface. "Nothing will be easy. It will be easier if we face it together, though." A pause as he mulls. "Rest assured that I know it isn't me you fear; but even if it was, I would do what I could to dismantle it, no matter what it took."
Even gentler, even softer: "If not myself though, then what claims your fear for its own?"
