[His smile twists at that. It's something he's thought about, perhaps more than once, though shared with no one. Though if Rosalind has brought up the subject, he supposes it wouldn't hurt to speak in hypotheticals.]
Even if I have been brought down to the level of being... mortal in that way, then I can tell you with certainty that it would still take an inordinate amount of effort to kill me.
[And that's not necessarily a matter of pride. It's merely spoken as if it were truth -- he knows himself better than anyone else, after all. He can feel the Starscourge swirling in him, like a storm just under his skin. Even here, it would not release him so easily.]
And I have a habit of returning from what most people would call a state difficult to revive from. But yourself? [A hand to prod at her shoulder, just to be annoying.] Flesh and blood, now? As easily injured as a normal person?
[She waves a hand at him, though she doesn't yet turn.]
And I've no idea. I suspect no, not entirely normal; likely more resilient than your average human, but by no means immortal. As you may imagine, I've little desire to test it out to the extreme.
[This is where never having had siblings comes back to bite her; she has no idea how to stop this. Rosalind swats him this time, turning to scowl back at him.]
Stop it. I wonder if you'd know of them regardless, frankly. Would you feel it if I died? Perhaps. We're bonded on more than just a ceremonial level.
[Ardyn had a sibling once, but We Sure As Hell Don't Talk About That.
Still, he pulls his hand away when she swats at him, easy as you please.]
Testy, testy. [A click of his tongue.] I assume I would feel it. The darkness you've borrowed from me should return to its rightful home, and I would lose what talents you've granted me. Impossible to miss, if not feel.
Don't prod at me like a child and I shan't grow testy.
[But now that he's gotten her attention again, she might as well face him properly (besides which, it's a bit undignified, kneeling down and chatting to him while he's still standing). So she gets to her feet, tearing at the notebook paper to free it.]
Have you been using my talents, then? I have yours.
[He's undeniably stronger than her, but still Rosalind reaches for his hand, holding it tightly.]
The former. And you, first and foremost, though I gave Prompto a bit of a start doing that. But Robert as well. It's much more freeing to walk about as a man, especially at night.
[He is stronger, but he just doesn't move his wrist, letting her hold onto it if she so wishes.]
You've been walking around as me? [And she ran into Prompto? Gods, if he could only have seen his face then.] I'm sure you terrified Prompto, but that's nothing particularly new.
I would suggest that you pick an easier subject to mimic, however. [Rosalind acting like him... his mind is trying to imagine how that might've looked.]
[It only lasted a few seconds, thank god, but he's correct: it did terrify him. She still doesn't release him, though her attention is for the moment focused back towards him instead of his hand.]
So concerned I'll get it right? Or do you just dislike the thought of anyone doing something under your name?
Firstly, don't flatter yourself. You're grandiose, but that doesn't equate difficulty. Secondly, you're hardly known to everyone here. So long as I don't act myself, that's all that matters.
And thirdly . . . you ought to know better than anyone that people are dull. Even if I don't get you down perfectly, they'll chalk it up to a thousand different mundane reasons. Perhaps he's ill, perhaps he has something on his mind . . . the last thing they'll suspect is the truth.
But it's hardly impressive if you can pass yourself off as me to complete strangers. No, the art is in getting those who know me to not suspect a thing. But I wonder if that's a challenge you'd be up to? Surely doable, if I don't "equate to difficulty", according to you.
[Mind swirling, he's already thought of something amusing.]
[Prompto is, unfortunately for him, the only one here from Eos who knows him best. He is the perfect candidate for this.
Ardyn frees his hand from her grasp -- simply by phasing through it with his magic. It lasts for a second, and then he's back to normal, undoing the scarf around his neck.]
Approach the boy, and neatly tie this around his neck. Tell him that your reasoning is that you'd hate for him to catch a cold. Simple enough, hm? [He offers it to her, with a raised brow.]
Regarding the rest of how you act, it's completely up to you. If he still believes you to be me, even through his inevitable confusion, then I will concede the fact that you're more of an actress than I give you credit for.
[Mm . . . she pauses, torn between eagerness to prove him wrong and affection for Prompto. But she takes the scarf.]
I ought to just burn this. It's hideous.
[God . . . her expression flickers, because regardless of what Ardyn says, it would be cruel, and it would terrorize him. He'd gone stiff and frightened when she'd merely approached him as Ardyn; she can't imagine how he'd act if she did something so bizarrely intimate.
On the other hand . . . she might have her cake and eat it too. Prompto would surely be fine with lying to Ardyn, even if it wasn't for her sake. And she really does want to win this challenge, because she's competitive like that.]
Give me one week. But as satisfying as the joys of winning will be, I think I'd like something else as a prize, once I inevitably convince him I'm you.
[God knows if he'll agree to this. God knows if he'll actually follow through on it. And really, as far as she knows, he hasn't yet lied to her, but--]
Understand him? What a project that'll be. How eager she is to unravel the ugly, monstrous parts of him. He wonders if she knows what it is she's getting into with that, how unwilling he will be to answer even if she does manage to fool Prompto, because this is asking for him to be vulnerable to her questioning.
Mentally, his instinct is to balk. And yet by refusing this, it's vulnerability in its own way. A Catch-22.]
And yet this is a lopsided request, my dearest wife. I do not gamble if there's nothing in it for me. And so I expect a prize in return, if you fail.
[Something that may be just as uncomfortable for her as an hour of honesty is from him. He supposes he could ask for the same thing, but why not make things more interesting? Why not exert control, controlling man that he is?]
An entire day of you being by my side, doing whatever it is I ask of you. Mundane tasks, tedious tasks. Or maybe bracing ones, who's to say? I shall call you any pet name you like, and you shall not complain. If I ask you to sing, you sing. If I ask you to dance, you dance. If I ask you to kill-- well, I wouldn't do that.
[That was a joke. Probably.]
No snide remarks, only obedience. A doting, dutiful wife. How does that sound to you?
[Because an entire day's worth of that is equal to an hour of honesty from him, as far as he's concerned.]
[Her cheeks drain of color, her lips pressing tight together. They're the only giveaways she has; her expression doesn't change otherwise, because she's damn certain to be sure it doesn't. And she has to be certain, because if she were any less in control of herself she'd balk, gasping and gaping at him like an idiot.
Because the sheer audacity of what he asks is absolutely staggering. It's nothing compared to what she demanded of him. An hour of that, perhaps, but even then . . . she'd demanded honesty. She hadn't demanded he act like the healer he once was; she hadn't taken everything he'd struggled his entire life to break away from and throw it in his face.
If I ask you to sing . . . God. God. Does he know the magnitude of what he's asking her? Perhaps. She'd told him of the sexism that pervaded Columbia-- but does he have any idea? Does he have an inkling of an idea? How many times had she had to endure all those criticisms, all those prodding suggestions, malicious in their sweetened tones, disguised as merely helping . . . smile, Rosalind, you'll look prettier that way; don't speak out, Rosalind, no man will want a wife who upstages him . . . and oh, that stupid poem, that utterly inane piece of drivel that was meant to guide every upstanding woman. The Angel in the House, she'd torn it up when her mother had pointedly left it on her bed. Man must be pleased; but him to please / Is woman's pleasure, and she'd sworn to herself she'd never be in a position where anyone would dare ask that of her, and now here Ardyn is, doing just that.]
I asked an hour. You demand a day. It's not remotely the same.
[He watches her reaction, and can tell, immediately, that it has the intended effect. He cannot see the magnitude of which she really feels about this request, nor can he read her mind. But if he can, even by the smallest measure, make her understand that what he asks of her is of the same magnitude to what she's asking of him, then perhaps they shall remain on even ground.
All of this, hinging on the hope of fooling Prompto.]
You asked for an hour of truth. I've granted no one that, not in nearly two thousand years.
[He smiles, but his words are heavy and weighted. They may as well be a hundred pounds each, pressing into her with their intensity.]
It is the same. Perhaps you simply don't realize what it is you ask.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
originallutece) wrote2017-09-22 05:41 pm
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Even if I have been brought down to the level of being... mortal in that way, then I can tell you with certainty that it would still take an inordinate amount of effort to kill me.
[And that's not necessarily a matter of pride. It's merely spoken as if it were truth -- he knows himself better than anyone else, after all. He can feel the Starscourge swirling in him, like a storm just under his skin. Even here, it would not release him so easily.]
And I have a habit of returning from what most people would call a state difficult to revive from. But yourself? [A hand to prod at her shoulder, just to be annoying.] Flesh and blood, now? As easily injured as a normal person?
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[She waves a hand at him, though she doesn't yet turn.]
And I've no idea. I suspect no, not entirely normal; likely more resilient than your average human, but by no means immortal. As you may imagine, I've little desire to test it out to the extreme.
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Well, should you wish to, do let me know of the results, hm?
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Stop it. I wonder if you'd know of them regardless, frankly. Would you feel it if I died? Perhaps. We're bonded on more than just a ceremonial level.
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Still, he pulls his hand away when she swats at him, easy as you please.]
Testy, testy. [A click of his tongue.] I assume I would feel it. The darkness you've borrowed from me should return to its rightful home, and I would lose what talents you've granted me. Impossible to miss, if not feel.
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[But now that he's gotten her attention again, she might as well face him properly (besides which, it's a bit undignified, kneeling down and chatting to him while he's still standing). So she gets to her feet, tearing at the notebook paper to free it.]
Have you been using my talents, then? I have yours.
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[P o k e.]
I have! I'll be the first to admit that teleportation has its advantages over warping. It's faster, and less noticeable, if you wish to not be seen.
Who have you been disguising yourself as? Or do you mean instead that you've been destroying trees?
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The former. And you, first and foremost, though I gave Prompto a bit of a start doing that. But Robert as well. It's much more freeing to walk about as a man, especially at night.
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You've been walking around as me? [And she ran into Prompto? Gods, if he could only have seen his face then.] I'm sure you terrified Prompto, but that's nothing particularly new.
I would suggest that you pick an easier subject to mimic, however. [Rosalind acting like him... his mind is trying to imagine how that might've looked.]
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So concerned I'll get it right? Or do you just dislike the thought of anyone doing something under your name?
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[A shit-eating grin goes here, and he would bring his free hand to splay at his chest, if she wasn't holding it hostage.]
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And thirdly . . . you ought to know better than anyone that people are dull. Even if I don't get you down perfectly, they'll chalk it up to a thousand different mundane reasons. Perhaps he's ill, perhaps he has something on his mind . . . the last thing they'll suspect is the truth.
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But it's hardly impressive if you can pass yourself off as me to complete strangers. No, the art is in getting those who know me to not suspect a thing. But I wonder if that's a challenge you'd be up to? Surely doable, if I don't "equate to difficulty", according to you.
[Mind swirling, he's already thought of something amusing.]
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[Because she really does like him. But she does so love a challenge . . .]
Tell me what you have in mind.
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[Prompto is, unfortunately for him, the only one here from Eos who knows him best. He is the perfect candidate for this.
Ardyn frees his hand from her grasp -- simply by phasing through it with his magic. It lasts for a second, and then he's back to normal, undoing the scarf around his neck.]
Approach the boy, and neatly tie this around his neck. Tell him that your reasoning is that you'd hate for him to catch a cold. Simple enough, hm? [He offers it to her, with a raised brow.]
Regarding the rest of how you act, it's completely up to you. If he still believes you to be me, even through his inevitable confusion, then I will concede the fact that you're more of an actress than I give you credit for.
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I ought to just burn this. It's hideous.
[God . . . her expression flickers, because regardless of what Ardyn says, it would be cruel, and it would terrorize him. He'd gone stiff and frightened when she'd merely approached him as Ardyn; she can't imagine how he'd act if she did something so bizarrely intimate.
On the other hand . . . she might have her cake and eat it too. Prompto would surely be fine with lying to Ardyn, even if it wasn't for her sake. And she really does want to win this challenge, because she's competitive like that.]
Give me one week. But as satisfying as the joys of winning will be, I think I'd like something else as a prize, once I inevitably convince him I'm you.
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But he sees that hesitation in her features, and for a moment he suspects she'll decline him. Yet then-]
Oh? And what would you wish for your prize to be?
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[God knows if he'll agree to this. God knows if he'll actually follow through on it. And really, as far as she knows, he hasn't yet lied to her, but--]
Without evasions.
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And why is that a prize of any value to you?
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Did you expect me to beg you for a dance or a kiss? No. And it's of value to me because you're my beloved, Ardyn. My husband.
[It's a mocking drawl, but there's something a little more serious in her tone as she finishes:]
I want to understand you.
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Understand him? What a project that'll be. How eager she is to unravel the ugly, monstrous parts of him. He wonders if she knows what it is she's getting into with that, how unwilling he will be to answer even if she does manage to fool Prompto, because this is asking for him to be vulnerable to her questioning.
Mentally, his instinct is to balk. And yet by refusing this, it's vulnerability in its own way. A Catch-22.]
And yet this is a lopsided request, my dearest wife. I do not gamble if there's nothing in it for me. And so I expect a prize in return, if you fail.
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[And though she's private and loath to promise anything, she knows you can't get anything if you don't risk anything.]
The same prize? Or do you want something else?
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[Something that may be just as uncomfortable for her as an hour of honesty is from him. He supposes he could ask for the same thing, but why not make things more interesting? Why not exert control, controlling man that he is?]
An entire day of you being by my side, doing whatever it is I ask of you. Mundane tasks, tedious tasks. Or maybe bracing ones, who's to say? I shall call you any pet name you like, and you shall not complain. If I ask you to sing, you sing. If I ask you to dance, you dance. If I ask you to kill-- well, I wouldn't do that.
[That was a joke. Probably.]
No snide remarks, only obedience. A doting, dutiful wife. How does that sound to you?
[Because an entire day's worth of that is equal to an hour of honesty from him, as far as he's concerned.]
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Because the sheer audacity of what he asks is absolutely staggering. It's nothing compared to what she demanded of him. An hour of that, perhaps, but even then . . . she'd demanded honesty. She hadn't demanded he act like the healer he once was; she hadn't taken everything he'd struggled his entire life to break away from and throw it in his face.
If I ask you to sing . . . God. God. Does he know the magnitude of what he's asking her? Perhaps. She'd told him of the sexism that pervaded Columbia-- but does he have any idea? Does he have an inkling of an idea? How many times had she had to endure all those criticisms, all those prodding suggestions, malicious in their sweetened tones, disguised as merely helping . . . smile, Rosalind, you'll look prettier that way; don't speak out, Rosalind, no man will want a wife who upstages him . . . and oh, that stupid poem, that utterly inane piece of drivel that was meant to guide every upstanding woman. The Angel in the House, she'd torn it up when her mother had pointedly left it on her bed. Man must be pleased; but him to please / Is woman's pleasure, and she'd sworn to herself she'd never be in a position where anyone would dare ask that of her, and now here Ardyn is, doing just that.]
I asked an hour. You demand a day. It's not remotely the same.
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All of this, hinging on the hope of fooling Prompto.]
You asked for an hour of truth. I've granted no one that, not in nearly two thousand years.
[He smiles, but his words are heavy and weighted. They may as well be a hundred pounds each, pressing into her with their intensity.]
It is the same. Perhaps you simply don't realize what it is you ask.
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