For a year he’d dreamed and planned, imaging his escape from his own people and country to the refuge that Delumine was in his mind. Here he was, now, and all that awe and wonder and expectation that had built up in him was bitterly mixed with disappointment.
First there was the winged girl, with her dagger and her grinning insults, and then there was the maze (his tail is still singed from his encounter with the wyvern; he has yet to find some way to shear the burned parts away), the lackluster meeting with their sovereign, the way the halls echoed, empty. Nothing was as he had pictured it.
So, as he had always done, Charlemagne sought respite in the library.
This, at least, was as grand as he’d imagined. The wood was old and gleaming, the smell of leather bindings rich as sunlight. Huge windows arched gracefully and the slanting late-afternoon light set dust motes to dancing. Musty and boring, the strange girl had called his scent, but the young unicorn found it nothing short of magical. Even so, her insults toward scholars and books nagged at him, weighing on his heart like ballast. There was a part of him that hated her for how she disenchanted him from what he loved — and a part that suspected it was his own weakness to blame.
It made for a bad collection of thoughts, ones he was eager to shake. There weren’t many others in the library, and those present had the good grace to ignore him, leaving the dappled chestnut to wander the aisles, his reflection an indistinct echo on the marble floors. Occasionally he would touch his muzzle to a worn spine or pause to scan a collection of tomes. He isn’t looking for anything in particular, but when his green-eyed gaze finds a book called The Magic of This World he guides it from the shelf.
And then stands in the middle of the library, uncertain where to take his prize. Along the far wall there is a collection of cushions for reclining; to the left, a row of tables. The colt, seized with indecision, makes no movement toward either, and then a cough sounds from behind him.
Cheeks burning he turns, finding himself face-to-face with a stallion he doesn’t recognize. “Er,” he says, feeling his cheeks begin to burn, “sorry, I - I’ve never been here before. I wasn’t sure…” Trailing off, the unicorn darts his gaze away, swallowing against his embarrassment and frustration. He can't even say what he isn't sure of, but the truth of the statement is obvious enough in every line of his body.
It seemed that even here he was doomed to a poor first impression.
@Aion pardon the length, he has a lot of feelings right now xD
Aion had usually found libraries calming, the soft ruffle of book pages being turned and pens scratching parchment surface becoming a sort of white noise in the back of his mind, quieting him and allowing him to focus. It never mattered if it was an actual library or a makeshift office; as long as a book wasn’t too far from his grasp it made him feel safe.
That wasn’t the case here.
It was no fault of the architect, nor even the figures scattered about the great hall, for they were quite literally as quiet as mice. It was his own mind, refusing to turn off long enough to relax. He felt guilty for stopping in to see the records at all, for even a few minutes taken to sightsee were a few minutes he could have spent looking for his mate. ’But I’m already here,’ he had told himself, never slowing his pace around the outskirts of the bookshelves, ’I might as well be sure he isn’t here somewhere.’ He probably looked quite strange, circling the room and glancing into every corridor and study room he passed. Any white coat or flash of blue gave him reason to pause, to double-check that the one he was looking for—the only one he cared for—wasn’t here. Of course, he would know him as soon as he were to see him, but wishful thinking had clouded his mind.
The more bookshelves and aisles he passed the more he was tempted, until finally he began to weave his way through them. His ivory tail dragged gently on the ground behind him, black and white hooves striking the floor in a satisfying staccato that served only to numb his mind. He wasn’t sure how many books he passed, or how many turns he made; the titles went through one ear and out the other, the end credits of a movie he never bothered to pay attention to. Simply having something to do, somewhere to go was desensitizing, his limbs moving and pumping fresh blood to his senses. He knew that stopping for too long would let horror creep back into his currently peaceful mind.
Aion hadn’t given any thought as to what he might do if he encountered someone; but really, he hadn’t expected to find his way blocked by a chestnut colt taking up all the room in the aisle. Only half a glance was given to the book held before him, assessing in a single look that the unicorn wasn’t planning on moving any time soon. So he coughed, perhaps a little faster and more impatiently than was necessary, but tact was no longer his strong suit.
He didn’t have time for some child to figure out where he was going. Eros was waiting.
”You weren’t sure what?” The question came out far more impatiently than he had intended, not bothering to censure or think over his words before blurting them out. ”I’ve never come here, either but I know blocking a hallway isn’t the typical fashion of a library.” Again he found himself not bothering to question what he was about to say. It didn’t matter to him what impression he left on the blonde fellow; new faces faded from his mind nearly as quickly as he saw them, so long as nothing important was attached. And what were the chances Aion would ever see this stranger again?
How is it, he wonders, that everyone he meets looks so very self-assured?
Like Bexley and Florentine, this stranger was striking, but he managed to look a new level of imposingly beautiful. The young unicorn had never seen anybody quite like him before, and as soon as he glances away from that impatient gaze he finds that the stallion is as lovely as he is irritated.
It’s a combination that Charlemagne is not entirely sure what to do with.
The sharp question rings prematurely loud against the silence of the library, and his reply is much more hushed. “I wasn’t sure where I ought to go.” It’s foolish and he knows it; he can feel his cheeks burning, and he casts his gaze away as the imposing-looking stallion reprimands him. It’s a scene that could have just as easily happened at home, and that’s what, perhaps, he finds the most frustrating - that so little is different here, when he had expected it all to be. That he should be confronted with his own weakness of character in a library, of all places, was nearly unbearable.
That, surely, is what prompts him to respond in a fashion quite uncharacteristic for the chestnut scholar. “And I didn’t know it was the typical fashion of the Dawn Court to be so terribly rude,” he says, the effort to hush his words making it nearly a hiss. He imagines that anyone within earshot is surely staring at them, but he doesn’t look; he’s managed to bring his gaze back to the vivid blue eyes.
For a moment, at least. That’s all it takes for him to become aghast at his response, but he is too proud to apologize again. Still wearing a look of horror, he whirls aside, muttering to himself. “I’ll just -” and without finishing, he stalks away down an aisle, hooves clattering on the gleaming floor.
When he realizes that he has dropped the book in his haste, he hesitates for only a moment before deciding not to turn around. But Charlemagne’s heart sinks, as he goes, with the sickening feeling that everyone from his home court was right: he is nothing but a coward, best at running away.
@Aion please excuse how late this is! also his actions xD feel free to follow or not, but it seems I cannot control the boy D:
