and horror in the halls of stone
First impressions are usually a simple affair among the Davke. Unlike the Capitol, the Davke do not waste time dabbling in elegant exchanges of necessities and casual wordplay. It is easy to see if someone's war stories match up to their scars and one can discern a significant amount just by observing the condition of one's spear. Jahin likes to think he is a quick study of character but right now he feels worlds away from everything he has ever known.
All of this hits him at once with the force of a violent desert wind. He realizes just how ill-prepared and unsuited he is for the job and already feels hopelessly tangled and trapped in the web of court intricacies. For the first time, he wonders if perhaps Avdotya is right about him--if he is indeed weak. He doesn’t know this complex dance or any of these courtly rituals where any number of things could offend the opposite party. Nor does he know whether he ought to bow or not once Orestes enters the room. He’s never bowed to any one before, not even Avdotya. Davke backbones don’t bend easily.
But Orestes doesn’t seemed concerned in the slightest and doesn’t observe any sort of court routine. He simply comments on the golden throne, expressing mutual distaste. Jahin relaxes, suddenly aware of the ache from clenching his jaw. Orestes maneuvers about the room with the effortless, nonchalant grace of someone who has navigated court all his life. A golden lion meanders up the steps leading to the throne and stretches out lazily on the marble, blinking unconcernedly at Jahin. Now that they are in the same room, instead of facing each other from across a courtyard, Jahin isn’t sure what to say or do. He eyes the delicate, shimmering golden lines traced meticulously across Orestes glowing skin, wondering what they mean and if he was born with them or acquired them later in life.
In Orestes’ regal presence, Jahin feels foolish and every bit the heathen the Capitol people must think he is. He is keenly aware of the uncombed tangles in his sun-bleached hair and the jagged lines of scars that litter his body like constellations, in stark contrast to the beauty of Orestes’ shimmering tattoos. There is nothing elegant or beautiful about Jahin--he is calloused and worn by the harshness of the unforgiving desert and relentless sun. They are an interesting pair, to say the least.
“I’m sure you’ve been busy appeasing unappeasable citizens. Proving you’re not a tyrant like the last king, or the one before him, is no easy task,” Jahin responds, a hint of amusement in his thickly accented voice. Orestes suggests that they walk outside and Jahin nods in agreement, eager to leave the stifling palace rooms behind.
The day is frigid but not altogether unpleasant. He breathes a sigh of relief as the wane sunlight floods across his skin and a refreshing breeze tousles his hair. He would much prefer hot sand beneath his cloven hooves to the cobbled walkway, but he supposes he ought to become accustomed to Capitol living sooner rather than later. Silence endures between them but the lack of conversation isn’t uncomfortable. In fact, the silence is almost amiable.
“Why me?” Jahin asks at last, glancing at the king walking by his side. Orestes could have chosen anyone. Better yet, he probably should have chosen anyone but Jahin. He can’t imagine the decision to appoint a Davke warrior as Regent was in anyway popular or well-received. Jahin himself wonders at the wisdom of Orestes trusting someone from a culture that despises the Capitol and its kings more than anything.
J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
All of this hits him at once with the force of a violent desert wind. He realizes just how ill-prepared and unsuited he is for the job and already feels hopelessly tangled and trapped in the web of court intricacies. For the first time, he wonders if perhaps Avdotya is right about him--if he is indeed weak. He doesn’t know this complex dance or any of these courtly rituals where any number of things could offend the opposite party. Nor does he know whether he ought to bow or not once Orestes enters the room. He’s never bowed to any one before, not even Avdotya. Davke backbones don’t bend easily.
But Orestes doesn’t seemed concerned in the slightest and doesn’t observe any sort of court routine. He simply comments on the golden throne, expressing mutual distaste. Jahin relaxes, suddenly aware of the ache from clenching his jaw. Orestes maneuvers about the room with the effortless, nonchalant grace of someone who has navigated court all his life. A golden lion meanders up the steps leading to the throne and stretches out lazily on the marble, blinking unconcernedly at Jahin. Now that they are in the same room, instead of facing each other from across a courtyard, Jahin isn’t sure what to say or do. He eyes the delicate, shimmering golden lines traced meticulously across Orestes glowing skin, wondering what they mean and if he was born with them or acquired them later in life.
In Orestes’ regal presence, Jahin feels foolish and every bit the heathen the Capitol people must think he is. He is keenly aware of the uncombed tangles in his sun-bleached hair and the jagged lines of scars that litter his body like constellations, in stark contrast to the beauty of Orestes’ shimmering tattoos. There is nothing elegant or beautiful about Jahin--he is calloused and worn by the harshness of the unforgiving desert and relentless sun. They are an interesting pair, to say the least.
“I’m sure you’ve been busy appeasing unappeasable citizens. Proving you’re not a tyrant like the last king, or the one before him, is no easy task,” Jahin responds, a hint of amusement in his thickly accented voice. Orestes suggests that they walk outside and Jahin nods in agreement, eager to leave the stifling palace rooms behind.
The day is frigid but not altogether unpleasant. He breathes a sigh of relief as the wane sunlight floods across his skin and a refreshing breeze tousles his hair. He would much prefer hot sand beneath his cloven hooves to the cobbled walkway, but he supposes he ought to become accustomed to Capitol living sooner rather than later. Silence endures between them but the lack of conversation isn’t uncomfortable. In fact, the silence is almost amiable.
“Why me?” Jahin asks at last, glancing at the king walking by his side. Orestes could have chosen anyone. Better yet, he probably should have chosen anyone but Jahin. He can’t imagine the decision to appoint a Davke warrior as Regent was in anyway popular or well-received. Jahin himself wonders at the wisdom of Orestes trusting someone from a culture that despises the Capitol and its kings more than anything.
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
@Orestes
