date: december 21st
year: one
location: grand palace ballroom
time: 10:50pm
availability: closed for @altanyulsuhe
The evening creeps by slower than any before it, and while he knows that it is unfair of him to do so, he places the blame on Gemma’s shoulders to carry on her own. It is by the Sun Summoner’s hand that the structure of his life has steadily begun to crack. Now the shards of her jut out from his scarred palms, and try as he might to pull the pieces out, he still loses them in all of the red that’s trickling down the length of his arm. How bloody this existence is; how lonely. He finds himself thinking of Altan after that thought. His bloodied prince and right-hand. If ever he could have an heir, it would be him. The wounded thing that he rescued from the cruel grasp of the Shu — who has since grown into such a capable man that a foreign organ swells in the Darkling’s chest at the sight of him. He used to wonder often of what it would mean for them if he could give the boy even just a shred of his immortality. A taste of eternity. But he’s lost an Altan before this one’s ancestors were even born, so he shrugs off the urge to care. He knows what fate has in store for the both of them.
Altan is already standing there when the Darkling turns and lifts his gaze, looking tired and restless all at once. He wouldn’t call it a smile in the genuine sense of the word, but the corner of his lip inches up the side of his face when he makes his way over to the Heartrender. The two are never far from the other, their bond positioned somewhere between brotherhood and the kinship of two military men, and there are times when the Darkling wonders which of them is truly the protector. He knows that he is the one that isn’t expendable, and he will steel his jaw and look away should ever Altan perish — but while he had been an unsteady chick when he was thrown into a nest of hawks, Altan learned to fly against all the odds. It is his duty to keep the Darkling safe from harm, but it is the Darkling’s right to shelter what is his and his alone. He is a selfish man; territorial and vicious to those that stand too close to his hoard. He recalls Altan’s first fete, he remembers holding him close and away from the whispers of court, and he often has to remind himself that Altan can stand on his own now. It’s a concept that almost pains him to linger on.
He wraps an arm around Altan’s shoulder in the way that a father would take his son under his wing, and he draws him close enough that his words are shared only with Altan. “Are you well?” the Darkling starts, looking the younger man over and wiping sweat off of his brow without registering the movement of his fingers. “I trust you’re still steady on your feet. I can’t recall a fete that was ever as endless as this one seems to be.” And then he does. “Do you remember your first, Altan? When I brought you to Ravka?” He doesn’t laugh, and he doesn’t grin, but there’s a warmth to his tone as he tells the story. “You were just a pup back then. I thought I’d have to use the Cut on the duchess that had you escort her to the dancing floor. She held onto you like water to a seal’s hide.” The chuckle comes before he can repress it, and it ricochets off of his teeth and into the air with an awkward hiss. He doesn’t let himself think about how long it’s been since he last made that sound. “Is it sentimental of me to think of how much you’ve grown? It’s been so many years, Altan. You’re no longer an infant wearing a soldier’s garb, are you?” His face clenches, a sharpness and gentleness taking hold of it all at once. “I'll always view you as one, though. Little soldier boy.”
