He is not prepared for the way her expression falls when she sees him, especially after seeing how bright it could be when she was with a friend. She’d gone through many expressions during their brief meeting on the beach - he supposes they both had - but never one quite so warm, so comfortably happy. Charlemagne can’t remember the last time someone smiled at him that way; he only realizes then how fiercely he wants a friend, how lonely he is. Even in a short lifetime of loneliness, the ache of it here in Novus is different, for he had hoped for — oh, so much more. He’s too sorry, then, to feel guilty or glad at the way she looks at him. The chestnut almost startles to hear his name on her lips - he hadn’t thought she’d remember it; she’d only called him other names, names that fit just as poorly as his own. He takes a few steps forward, further into the courtyard where the light falls soft and gold. “Florentine,” he answers, though it seems strange to say her name when she hadn’t been the one to give it to him. He wonders if she’s sorry he knows it. Her question makes him wonder more - does she mean to tease him again, here, in front of others, in his own home? - and his gaze darts uncertain and brief as a dragonfly to Po before settling back on the girl. “Likely duller than your adventures,” he says, but he does not say it cruelly, only softly. The cherry-and-snow stallion addresses him then, and Charlemagne smiles, but it is less cheerful than rueful. He does not say that he’s seen the other boy - knows his name, even - from the court gathering. Few, it seemed, had noticed his presence there. Instead, he nods. “I can’t imagine a more suitable place for it,” he says, still soft as the light in question, “though I should like to see it from every court.” He is spared from saying anything further by the appearance of their King, and he ducks his chin at the dark bay’s appearance, unsure whether to feel further humiliation or relief that the man neither greets nor possibly even notes him. Perhaps he ought to have been a spy and not a sage. He watches with longing and sorrow with the way Kasil greets Po, the ease with with the three name each other friends. Between the shadowed hallways and the open stones he is caught; between slipping away and joining them, speaking and silence. It feels like more of a crossroads than any in the maze had been. He closes his eyes and sees the Shaman’s sneer, sees the mists begin to rise, hears the mocking word: Wrong. Charlemagne is so very tired of being wrong, even when he feels he is doing right - especially then. With a held breath he steps forward to join the trio, his gaze finding Florentine’s, wearing a smile that grows gradually less fragile. @ |
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