[Their arrival into Garlemald proper denotes a different type of fanfare.
He bothers not with the frippery or the gilt and the gold- arriving much as he would to any other unknown land- clad in padded armor and with a blade strapped to his back. Nonetheless, the congregation warrants a response of some kind- even if it is merely onlookers who would gaze upon the savage whom is marrying into their vaunted nobility. Their whispers, nor their disdainful gazes, are not missed.
Ze is not particularly offended- for he had never intended to hold a position of affection to these people. The masses will think what they want. Either his actions will change their thinking, or it won't. It is hardly to his benefit to break himself to please their whims.
Alisaie, on the other hand, is wrathful.
"You're going to be their prince. You came all this way for the sake of both of our peoples. It is the least they could do to be respectful." She hisses, clearly unhappy with no clear outlet with which to release her anger. Ze can relate, truthfully, even if he does not respond for knowing it would only fan the flames. Alisaie does not want to be soothed- she wants to be mad and, given all that has transpired to see them there, he is content to allow her to be his temper.
They arrive in proper time, Maxima doing his best to see them in good spirits as they are welcomed by the palace. In no time at all they are greeted and escorted to their quarters, a promise of a bath and dinner to ease them into their first night.
The first true hiccup comes when they attempt to disrobe him after introducing the delegation to their respective quarters. The servants likely mean no ill by it (or perhaps they do) but when the move to take his weapon, the hand he places upon the man's wrist is steel-like.
"No." Is all he says, treating those around him to an uncompromising- if not frightening- stare.
"You cannot be allowed weapons within the presence of-"
"No. The dress, the jewels, the perfumes and silks- you may do as you wish. This, stays." He tone brokers no argument. It has been years since the incident at Ul'dah- a scene of laughter and jewels and merriment. A celebration among purported allies that ended in blood and grief. He has never been without a weapon since and they would require more than those present to see him without- especially in a place where he intends to sleep with an eye open. The point is taken and they leave it alone, even if their gazes speak of disdain.
Eventually he is left to bathe on his own, the blade remaining within reach- even if he can do true damage without it- the sentiment remains and he intends to make his intentions clear. He is here to make peace, but he is not a victim to be encased in a gilded cage.
Following the washing he is pampered in ways that could only be noted as uncomfortable. Lotions and creams and oils to make his hair silky smooth and his skin shiny with health. He fights the urge to squirm when they treat his tail and ears the same, gritting his teeth at the discomfort of the situation and bearing with it until they adorn him in furs and silks that make him feel puffed up and stifled.
Alisaie doesn't bother to hide her smirk when she sees him, succumbing to a fit of giggles- perhaps the first true bit of laughter she's had in days.
"You look ridiculous." Is her remark, evidently she having been spared at least half of his misery. Alphinaud, to his mercy, merely smiles in awkward compliment. Ze echoes her sentiment with an eyeroll.
The days follow much the same as he becomes settled into his new "home." (He worries at how the thought prompts a twinge of unhappiness, swiftly buried and forgotten.) Between the preparations and the instruction for how the ceremony ought to go, Ze finds himself escaping on more than one occasion when there is naught that requires his presence nor his attention. Or, rather, matters that he deems unworthy of his attention. He learns to dance their dances, learns to eat with their manners and even manages to learn a little of their history when all of it would be as boring mummery to him in the past. But he is here to do a task and he is committed to the success of it.
But there are moments when he needs the peace- the freedom he has so willingly given up to secure this truce. He makes for the city when these moods take him, exploring the unknown land with a hood over his ears and a fogged breath buried into heavy gloves. Garlemald is cold- he had known that- he had simply just not known how cold.
And if he should wander a little farther each day, to the very edges of the royal district and then further beyond, who could fault him? He is only curious.
The day before the wedding, when all meaningful preparation is surely completed (to his opinion) and the servants and staff scramble to make the day as perfect as a sham of a wedding can be when he does not even know who is to be his partner, he finds himself at the very edge of the city- staring out at the vast plain of snow with the smoke of ceruleum factories pumping smoke into the air in the distance. He had not thought himself possible of melancholy- not anymore, but perhaps that was arrogance on his part. It is surprising to him to find there is some part of him that truly hopes this will turn out to be a trap. That tomorrow they will spring the steel and gunpower and he can put this farce behind him, for the alternative- years spent masquerading as a royal in this land that would hold him as a political captive- seems hellish. Even moreso when he thinks there will come a time when Alisaie and Alphinaud both will have to leave for their own needs. That the Scions will inevitably have to tend to the needs of the Star and he will be left as alone and trapped as the prisoner he is trying not to think of himself as. Garlemald is interesting. It just isn't where he wants to stay.
He exhales- releasing a fog of white breath into the darkening sky. One more day.]
no subject
He bothers not with the frippery or the gilt and the gold- arriving much as he would to any other unknown land- clad in padded armor and with a blade strapped to his back. Nonetheless, the congregation warrants a response of some kind- even if it is merely onlookers who would gaze upon the savage whom is marrying into their vaunted nobility. Their whispers, nor their disdainful gazes, are not missed.
Ze is not particularly offended- for he had never intended to hold a position of affection to these people. The masses will think what they want. Either his actions will change their thinking, or it won't. It is hardly to his benefit to break himself to please their whims.
Alisaie, on the other hand, is wrathful.
"You're going to be their prince. You came all this way for the sake of both of our peoples. It is the least they could do to be respectful." She hisses, clearly unhappy with no clear outlet with which to release her anger. Ze can relate, truthfully, even if he does not respond for knowing it would only fan the flames. Alisaie does not want to be soothed- she wants to be mad and, given all that has transpired to see them there, he is content to allow her to be his temper.
They arrive in proper time, Maxima doing his best to see them in good spirits as they are welcomed by the palace. In no time at all they are greeted and escorted to their quarters, a promise of a bath and dinner to ease them into their first night.
The first true hiccup comes when they attempt to disrobe him after introducing the delegation to their respective quarters. The servants likely mean no ill by it (or perhaps they do) but when the move to take his weapon, the hand he places upon the man's wrist is steel-like.
"No." Is all he says, treating those around him to an uncompromising- if not frightening- stare.
"You cannot be allowed weapons within the presence of-"
"No. The dress, the jewels, the perfumes and silks- you may do as you wish. This, stays." He tone brokers no argument. It has been years since the incident at Ul'dah- a scene of laughter and jewels and merriment. A celebration among purported allies that ended in blood and grief. He has never been without a weapon since and they would require more than those present to see him without- especially in a place where he intends to sleep with an eye open. The point is taken and they leave it alone, even if their gazes speak of disdain.
Eventually he is left to bathe on his own, the blade remaining within reach- even if he can do true damage without it- the sentiment remains and he intends to make his intentions clear. He is here to make peace, but he is not a victim to be encased in a gilded cage.
Following the washing he is pampered in ways that could only be noted as uncomfortable. Lotions and creams and oils to make his hair silky smooth and his skin shiny with health. He fights the urge to squirm when they treat his tail and ears the same, gritting his teeth at the discomfort of the situation and bearing with it until they adorn him in furs and silks that make him feel puffed up and stifled.
Alisaie doesn't bother to hide her smirk when she sees him, succumbing to a fit of giggles- perhaps the first true bit of laughter she's had in days.
"You look ridiculous." Is her remark, evidently she having been spared at least half of his misery. Alphinaud, to his mercy, merely smiles in awkward compliment. Ze echoes her sentiment with an eyeroll.
The days follow much the same as he becomes settled into his new "home." (He worries at how the thought prompts a twinge of unhappiness, swiftly buried and forgotten.) Between the preparations and the instruction for how the ceremony ought to go, Ze finds himself escaping on more than one occasion when there is naught that requires his presence nor his attention. Or, rather, matters that he deems unworthy of his attention. He learns to dance their dances, learns to eat with their manners and even manages to learn a little of their history when all of it would be as boring mummery to him in the past. But he is here to do a task and he is committed to the success of it.
But there are moments when he needs the peace- the freedom he has so willingly given up to secure this truce. He makes for the city when these moods take him, exploring the unknown land with a hood over his ears and a fogged breath buried into heavy gloves. Garlemald is cold- he had known that- he had simply just not known how cold.
And if he should wander a little farther each day, to the very edges of the royal district and then further beyond, who could fault him? He is only curious.
The day before the wedding, when all meaningful preparation is surely completed (to his opinion) and the servants and staff scramble to make the day as perfect as a sham of a wedding can be when he does not even know who is to be his partner, he finds himself at the very edge of the city- staring out at the vast plain of snow with the smoke of ceruleum factories pumping smoke into the air in the distance. He had not thought himself possible of melancholy- not anymore, but perhaps that was arrogance on his part. It is surprising to him to find there is some part of him that truly hopes this will turn out to be a trap. That tomorrow they will spring the steel and gunpower and he can put this farce behind him, for the alternative- years spent masquerading as a royal in this land that would hold him as a political captive- seems hellish. Even moreso when he thinks there will come a time when Alisaie and Alphinaud both will have to leave for their own needs. That the Scions will inevitably have to tend to the needs of the Star and he will be left as alone and trapped as the prisoner he is trying not to think of himself as. Garlemald is interesting. It just isn't where he wants to stay.
He exhales- releasing a fog of white breath into the darkening sky. One more day.]