@theartofruling | Elias and Iris
Some mornings, Elias would descend onto the marble and gold encrusted grand hall. No pomp and circumstances of his guards and courtiers. No string quartet, playing nimbly in the corner, in anticipation for the High Lord’s presence. Simply Elias, donning his tailored wears, pacing the length of the grand hall for hours on end. He took to the silence like a moth to the flame, for only noise filled his ears. He was a green lad on the cusp of his first century when it all came down on the Wakefield dynasty. Back then, he was emboldened by bravado and a birth right. He roamed Lumenopolis with the confidence that their reign would be forever. The centuries thereafter felt like a fever dream, with one foot in his decadent past and another in his presumed future. But since his return to Dawn Court, he looked nowhere but the future. Except, of course, on quiet mornings when the dawn scarcely began. In those quiet moments, Elias allowed himself to live in the past, and wallow in its horrors. He can still hear his sister’s screams, as the upheaval came into their palatial home. Elias remembers holding Iris in his arms, striking a fire at anyone that dared lay a hand on her. Iris forever lived in his mind and heart, even when they were a world apart.
Naturally, then, he doubts her presence when he sees her standing in the grand hall. Elias was the Lord of Daydreams, the maker of one’s wildest dreams. But he was the victim of his own daydreams. When life finally mimicked reality, he could scarcely believe it. It’s only as he moves closer to Iris, her faint perfume filling the space, that Elias knows her to be real. Not a mirage of his own making, but of flesh and bone. It didn’t matter that it had been more than a month. Elias is overwhelmed by her still. “You should be sleeping.” He admonishes with brotherly authority, following her matching blue eyes to the sight in question. An old family portrait, tucked away by one of the remaining Wakefield loyalists, recently mounted on the wall. He glances between Iris and the portrait, catching the wistful glean in their eye. It wasn’t their family now. The last of the older generation of Wakefield’s had gone, and in their place came Elias’ children. Nephews who never had the privilege of his sister’s wisdom, or charms. “We’ll commission a new one.” Elias mutters, his voice as silent as the hall itself.
“We are together, at last. It seems pointless to recount the past.” And yet, was that not what he was doing? Walking the grand hall, listening for memories. He can still hear it; his father’s loud and spirited voice, his mother’s nightingale voice, and the sound of Iris’ laughter filled the air. He frowns, looking at her and the weight of the centuries apart. A hand gently on her shoulder, coaxing her out of her stupor. “Come out of the clouds, sister. Come be with me instead.”
