even after they have been stepped on
It feels like relief when she first begins to speak, and all at once the silence shatters into pieces so small they seem to have never been significant to begin with. He can hear the fountain again, and the birdsong coming in through the window, and the shuffling of the trees from outside. Their hoofbeats are achingly sharp against the marble floor, as together they turn and make for the table waiting for them.
It is only as he settles down onto the cushion - large and maroon, stuffed with what he imagines to be feathers until he sinks down so far down it seems like he is trapped - that he realizes he has no idea what to expect from their meeting. Ipomoea studies the scholar from the corner of one eye, head turned towards the cut crystal glass that he lifts carefully, slowly, from the tabletop. Llewelyn had always been difficult for him to read. Most of the nobles (and noble-esque) had been; they were all too polished, too impassive, too quick to say one thing and mean another entirely.
When compared to him - Ipomoea who had no refinement, Ipomoea who wore his heart on his sleeve - it had always felt as if they could see through to his very soul. And the feeling of being placed beneath a glass and studied was all too uncomfortable.
He had sometimes felt that way with Messalina, too. And now he turns his eyes quickly away from the horned girl, unwilling to meet her gaze.
“No, thank you.” He had, once; maybe it had not been all that long ago that he still ached for something sweet, but it feels like a lifetime had passed.
He follows her lead, setting down the water glass and politely taking the tea cup she offers him. Steam curls in the air above it, the honey-colored liquid smelling strongly of cloves and cinnamon. He has to force himself to exhale, blowing over it much the same as Llew.
“It wasn’t anything special,” he tells her, and he doesn’t bother to try to hide the small smile he wants to make. “It was a rather busy time, there wasn’t much of an opportunity for any sort of celebration.” Nor, he doesn’t say, would he have wanted one. His heart is already picking up with the lie, however small it is. He takes a quick sip to stop himself from saying anything more.
Sometimes he wonders what the Court would do if they had known. That the smiling, flower-laden Regent had come home with less than honorable intentions, that long before he had made the decision to return he had already known he would return a king. A part of him is still glad that Somnus had surprised him - and unknowingly made the transition easier both on them, and the Court.
But somedays he is selfish, and uncaring, and wishes they all knew he was not as soft as they all remembered him.
“Surprising how?” the words come too quickly at the end of her’s, and he has to stop himself again, reminding himself that it’s his own anxious heart filling in the gaps between her words with his own. He shifts, setting the teacup back down a little too sharply. He prays she doesn’t notice, as he smiles again.
“It felt natural, I suppose-“ another lie, when had he become so good at lying? “-Somnus knew it was time. All of Novus was already changing, it felt right that Delumine should, too.” He reaches for the teacup again but stops himself before he lifts it from the table. And then, as passively and innocently as he can, as if he’s not weighing each word she speaks, he asks her, “Were you? Surprised?”
@llewelyn
