The scholar hadn’t bee expecting the company of her Sovereign to be so pleasant and disjointed all at once.
Tension or discomfort, she had been prepared for; it wasn’t as if one met their ruler for the first time every day. Llewelyn had also been at least partially expecting for the meeting to be fulfilling; after all, from what she had heard and observed of Ipomoea, he seemed enthusiastic enough about his chosen people, and he was attempting to manage the Poacher issue with what could be interpreted as passion. However, the mare wasn’t quite sure what to do with the king’s contrasts.
The flower laden patriarch came off as kindly, there was no discounting that impression, but he also seemed jerky and jumpy, as if his skin fit just a little too tight and he was worried about breaking out of it. She blinked golden eyes slowly, carefully crafted expression never faltering in the face of such strangeness. Ears tilted forward and gaze intent, Llewelyn aimed to embody the very image of a doting and dutiful subject, hanging on each and every word that spilled from her beloved Sovereign’s mouth.
Of course, this was an accurate depiction, but given Ipomoea’s behavior, maybe not in the way that he or she would have expected. Indeed, the ebon spattered lass was paying rapt attention to the stallion perched across from her, though attention was fixed not upon his words, but the way he said them.
Ipomoea had always been spoken of as genuine, as honest and guileless, but noting the way that the king watched her from the corner of his eyes and how he refused to truly meet her gaze, Llewelyn began to wonder how much guile one would have to possess in order to play such an innocent part. The mare felt her lips tug upward in a prim smile; it seemed her liege was a far more fascinating figure than she has previously thought.
His voice was as honeyed as the tea they drank, the timbre something that Llewelyn knew she could fall into if given enough time. No wonder Messalina and he made such a pair, both were hypnotic, though in different ways. Briefly, the maiden’s thoughts drifted to the pale specter of a mare, and the garnet flowers that adorned her skin like drops of blood. What parts of Ipomoea did the ivory woman see that the rest of his subjects did not? Did she pry him open, splitting the heavy drapery of his near flawless facade to find the golden truth beneath? Or was she another devoted, entranced by the subtle mystery and the careful composition that mixed together in riotous harmony beneath the Sovereign’s skin?
Llewelyn would have to meet the Pale Daughter soon, and discover this for herself.
He set his tea cup down too quickly, too hard, and the sharp clat of porcelain broke through whatever musings Llewelyn had found herself in. Blackened lips curled a bit further as the stallion’s response shot into the air between them, only a fraction too quick to be natural — the courtier was practically dying to respond, to watch his reaction to her planned reply, but she forced herself to wait patiently as he finished.
The mare noticed how his smile matched hers so well, each of them playing a part so practiced that it was ingrained in their lying, blasphemous hearts. She supposed that when one lied enough, when one embodied their lie, that it then became truth — and as a scholar, wasn’t she supposed to be a seeker of truth?
She had nodded along dutifully, alternating between sipping at slowly cooling tea, stirring the steaming drink, and placing it gently back upon its saucer. As Ipomoea’s question faded into the shimmering sound of the fountain, Llewelyn allowed a beat of silence to thicken the air between them, Aurelian eyes flashing with a mix of wryness and curiosity that she had no intent of hiding.
”I had been surprised, yes, but in a pleasant way. You seemed just the innocent and kindly Sovereign that we would need to lean on after the sky erupted,” The mare leaned a bit to her left, taking some pressure off of her right knee and allowing the tendons there to relax. ”Now, though, I cannot say that I am all that surprised, my liege.”
Llewelyn took another sip of tea and pursed her lips at how quickly the winter chill had lowered the temperature. Taking her time and moving with a habitual grace, the scholar took a larger drink to make space before spilling some of the hotter and more fragrant tea into her cup from the pot. Stirring the mixture in with a filigreed spoon, she once again raised the teacup to her lips and took a tentative sip, sighing in satisfaction when the temperature proved to be more to her liking. Setting the china back down with a gentle click, Llewelyn returned her gaze to the cherry red of her king’s before continuing.
”You’re a liar, Ipomoea, and a secret keeper — It takes one to know one.” Her smile became wider, and her eyes became softer, taking the edge from her words and forming them into something akin to acceptance, ”There is no blame in it, of course, it is doubtful that there has ever been a Sovereign who is not at least one of those things.” Another sip of tea, another contented exhalation, ”I don’t intend on doing anything nefarious, if you have any concerns of that, but I would like for us to understand one another. I keep secrets, my liege, but I also disseminate them. I study how the tiniest ripples turn to waves in the grand machine of the Court and the continent — I am a scholar after all.”
Her last statement is punctuated with a soft laugh, and the mirth in her eyes belied the serious nature of her words.
”Whatever you did or didn’t do to obtain the throne, whatever plans you had, they mean nothing now, for here you are and I have no care to change that. However, I would extend an invitation to share your secrets with me, and the secrets of others that you gather. I wish to watch them in motion, an observer with enough information to understand the experiment, and I shall share with you whatever whispers I find have yet to reach your ears — if you wish to hear them.”
Llewelyn treads dangerous waters, this she knows. Such words, such an offer, could be perceived as a threat by lesser men, but having watched the sharpened edge of Ipomoea’s wit these last few minutes, the mare had every faith that her Sovereign was far from being anything close to a lesser man.
@Ipomoea WELP
