WHATEVER COLOR WAS in Lear’s face drains at the question, and though his mouth opens to retort, he can’t actually seem to push any sound out. So... he stops trying, closing his mouth and shifting his gaze down to one of the bands fastened so proudly to his arm...
He stands like this for a while, gloved fingers digging into the cloth of his jacket and brows knitted tightly in a cocktail of emotions that were hard to place.
The crown... hadn’t that been what he was working for all this time? All the effort he put forth, everything he’s gone through up until this point was to pave his way to the throne. Surely it should be an easy answer... but it it meant throwing away Pasio...? The one thing that he’s poured himself into, the one thing that was really and truly his?
What was the point if he has to chose one over the other?
In an instant, Lear’s contemplation shifts to anger, the emotion exploding forth in jarring contrast to his silence moments before.
❝How dare you come to me with a question like that! I refuse to be forced to choose between two things that are rightfully mine; not in fiction, not in fact! It’s as if you all live to be the thorns in my side, as if I didn’t have enough already! Go, get out of my sight now before I decide to have your head for your insolence!!❞
