@tragicxscarlet - continued from HERE:
Silence reigns as the blond sits in that overstuffed chair, surrounded by a robe of thick brocade–she’s still not entirely accustomed to how cold it can get in the World of Ruin, and there’s only so much that the fire can do. The memory of being able to cuddle up to the most noble mountain of a man she’s ever met only serves to make the chill worse, the moments of preciousfreedom that she’s only ever found in Leo’s arms having long since grown sharpened edges in the months… no, years, now, that they have been apart. It’s only through a stubborn refusal to accept that he’s never coming back that she hasn’t chosen to dress all in black the way she does in all red when she’s on Gaia, though the last time she was there? Well, that was quite some time ago.
…and never has that been clearer than when she finds herself regarding the uncomfortable features of Figaro’s king.
She’s done a good job of keeping his brother– bastard that he was to her!–out of her mouth, of stifling those feelings of disgust she feels for his kin in favor of keeping the peace. But then again, she’s also done her utmost to strangle the beginnings of what might be more than a friendly affection for Edgar himself in their proverbial crib, smothering them the way she sometimes wishes she’d done for the love she still feels all too keenly for Leo. That love has ensnared her and trapped her in place, leaving her unable to free herself and move on from her life.
And there he is, trying to have his cake and eat it too.
“…you mean you won’t keep me, but you won’t let me go.”
There’s nothing accusatory in her tone–if anything? She’s resigning herself to being stuck in limbo, in making her stay in the twilight between the past and the future forever. It’s the most that she deserves, her self-loathing insists… but yet, why is he bringing this up? Why put it lie that, as if he wants her for himself?
“Is that too selfish, perhaps?”
He’s felt this before, he realises; that dreadful, lingering regret that accompanies the thought that he’s already said far too much. There he stands before her, so close and yet so distant -- soaking in the warmth of the fireplace. It does little to warm the cold indifference that he tries so desperately to shield himself with, not wanting to seem too affected for his own good.
Figaro’s King is a boy no longer, not too terribly prone to the outbursts of his youth... And yet he feels no less lost at this moment as he did in those days, internally bewildered and overwhelmed by his feelings and equally as unequipped to properly deal with them.
The lady at his side reminds Figaro’s King of someone long gone -- every ounce as stubborn and full of snark as a woman he had once LOVED wholeheartedly, igniting within him an uncomfortable sense of nostalgia. She, too, had been unavailable to him: someone he had no choice but to pine over from afar, and God has he grown SICK of it.
...But none of that matters. She was doomed the very day the Royal family welcomed her into this blasted court, her life laid to waste during a failed attempt upon the life of their former King. The day he laid his love to rest, his heart lay utterly empty. He cannot risk that happening again. Not now, when he has already lost so much. It would destroy him, and he knows it.
“If only it were so easy to tell you my feelings, I would.”
Love is an ugly, complicated thing -- and he must wonder if either of them would truly be better off without it. The sensible thing to do would be to marry someone of nobility; a marriage of convenience that would suit his need for an heir, and some noble family’s need for greater connections and power.
“You deserve so much more than to remain shackled to these walls, as I must. I fear that life here would only make you unhappy.”
