“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.”
Cold and distant were two words that seemed ill-fitting when it came to Figaro’s King, and they were obviously something he found himself uncomfortable in when he attempted to robe himself in them. The act might’ve fooled the vast majority of his court, but it was an outright clumsy attempt at forcing himself into austerity to one that had all but made it an art in the name of surviving ShinRa’s less than tender mercies. She could see through it--through him--in most regards, as a matter of fact, but this sudden attempt at trying to put a knife through the heart of what she’d been trying to deny not only confounded her, but it made those emotions take a deep and Earth-shaking breath within her chest. Truly, his attempt to oppose his feelings out of... well whatever inspired him to do so to one who built an entire dynasty for herself out of spite was probably the worst thing he could’ve done.
It seemed Edgar was about to learn that lesson for himself in a way he never expected.
A scoff, unabashed and dripping in derision, was her response as she settled back into that chair, green eye burning their way into his gaze as she shook her head. He’d all but admitted to feelings for her, and his excuses were absolutely pathetic. A faint rendition of that infamous laugh left her before she spoke, words coated in the darkest brand of humor one could have that didn’t outright involve genocide jokes.
"I’d be unhappy no matter where I was, if I was this damned lonely all the time. Trust me. It was my life for years before I made the decision to come here.”
Isolde jerked her head faintly toward the fireplace as if dashing a glass against it out of frustration. The gesture spoke volumes without the need for cleaning up glass before she continued, her tone giving way to something that bordered on the edge of being accusing.
“Not only that, but you do know you essentially just did tell me how you feel, right? So stop tiptoeing around the subject, Edgar, and just say it.”
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