[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.
[If nothing else, she can at least say he's taking this seriously. He isn't flippantly offering it, too hungry to get his way to see what he's asking. No, he knows perfectly well what it is he's demanding of her, and that in turn . . .
That in turn, what she's asking of him terrifies him. Or at least sends him reeling behind that frivolous mask.
She stares at him for a long few seconds. Now that the initial shock has faded, she's more able to think.]
. . . I won't fuck you.
[Perhaps he'll laugh at that stipulation, but Rosalind means it. Part of being a dutiful wife is signing over your body, and that she won't concede to him.]
[Enough to send him reeling, yes. Enough for his mind to be tempted to call the whole damned thing off, that opening up his very soul was hardly worth anything at all, much less to prove that she is good at utilizing his own powers.
But in the end, it is a matter of pride. A matter of two vulnerabilities, and which shall be cracked open first, for the light to shine upon it. And, in his opinion, Rosalind does have the advantage, because how it all plays out is entirely in her hands. He's being generous.
Silence lingers, and then she says that, and Ardyn does laugh. He cannot help it, though he knows she's quite serious. His response, at least, is sincere.]
[He laughs, but she isn't embarrassed or flustered. She doesn't have much of a reaction, frankly, beyond a slight nod to acknowledge she's heard him.]
And how much of this would you demand to be in public?
[And it's amazing, really, that she's continuously prodding at this. Surely the correct course of action is to call the whole thing off. And yet the lure of having him be honest with her is too tempting; she's willing to risk something so horrid for that chance.
(And frankly? It's a little thrilling. Nervewracking, yes, utterly terrifying, but she can't deny he's got her attention. There's few people who can successfully do that).]
[Does she really want to do this? It might not happen at all, of course, especially if Prompto lies well, but still. She has to contend with the possibility that it will, and is she truly all right with it?
But she wants that honesty. She wants something he hasn't given anyone in two thousand years. And frankly, she wants to understand him, because it's as she told Prompto: he's something a little like herself. She'd be a fool not to try and learn as much as she can about him.]
[A challenge, then. A bet. The gears in his mind turn, again and again and again, angles upon angles presenting themselves.]
I'll be there, of course, to see all of this transpire. To confirm whether or not he's fooled by you; though, naturally, Prompto will not notice me being there.
[He'll be someone else, or he'll just appear invisible. Either would suffice.]
And why not just tell me when you plan on doing this ahead of time? I shall simply meet you there. There's no need for me to "haunt" your steps for the entirety of a week.
[Ardyn is shrewd, and if she thinks he will just trust Rosalind (or Prompto) will be truthful about this, then she's...wrong.]
[Well he's gonna have to learn how to trust his wife. It's shit like this is why she wants him to be honest, okay, they have to work on this relationship.]
Because I've no idea of when I'll do it-- and if it's to work, I'd like it to be a natural meeting, not me springing out of the shadows. He nearly pulled a pistol on me the last time I shocked him as you; I'd rather not end this bet with you being honest as you pull bullet fragments from my ribs.
[She hums softly in disagreement: the bullet might not have done anything at home, but she's not sure Prompto wouldn't try again here, just to see if it'd work.]
Have I lied to you once? I should think I've been more honest with you than I have any other person here.
[Except maybe Bigby, but that's a different case.]
[Stillll not buying it, sorry, Rosalind. Trust is something that doesn't come very easily to him. Real trust, not the sort that relied upon manipulation to garner.]
You know the saying. There's a first time for everything.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
originallutece) wrote2017-09-22 05:41 pm
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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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That in turn, what she's asking of him terrifies him. Or at least sends him reeling behind that frivolous mask.
She stares at him for a long few seconds. Now that the initial shock has faded, she's more able to think.]
. . . I won't fuck you.
[Perhaps he'll laugh at that stipulation, but Rosalind means it. Part of being a dutiful wife is signing over your body, and that she won't concede to him.]
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But in the end, it is a matter of pride. A matter of two vulnerabilities, and which shall be cracked open first, for the light to shine upon it. And, in his opinion, Rosalind does have the advantage, because how it all plays out is entirely in her hands. He's being generous.
Silence lingers, and then she says that, and Ardyn does laugh. He cannot help it, though he knows she's quite serious. His response, at least, is sincere.]
Don't worry. I won't ask for you to.
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And how much of this would you demand to be in public?
[And it's amazing, really, that she's continuously prodding at this. Surely the correct course of action is to call the whole thing off. And yet the lure of having him be honest with her is too tempting; she's willing to risk something so horrid for that chance.
(And frankly? It's a little thrilling. Nervewracking, yes, utterly terrifying, but she can't deny he's got her attention. There's few people who can successfully do that).]
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If I happen to be in public, then you will be in public with me. None of it purposefully to provide a show to everyone around us.
[Ardyn has a sharp edge of a cruel streak in him, make no mistake. But often times it is coupled with purpose, or with anger. Neither of these apply.]
I don't expect anyone to gawk. A devoted wife is not that strange of a sight, is it?
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[Does she really want to do this? It might not happen at all, of course, especially if Prompto lies well, but still. She has to contend with the possibility that it will, and is she truly all right with it?
But she wants that honesty. She wants something he hasn't given anyone in two thousand years. And frankly, she wants to understand him, because it's as she told Prompto: he's something a little like herself. She'd be a fool not to try and learn as much as she can about him.]
. . . all right. Agreed.
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[A challenge, then. A bet. The gears in his mind turn, again and again and again, angles upon angles presenting themselves.]
I'll be there, of course, to see all of this transpire. To confirm whether or not he's fooled by you; though, naturally, Prompto will not notice me being there.
[He'll be someone else, or he'll just appear invisible. Either would suffice.]
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[And to be fair, that's partially why she doesn't want him there.]
Ask Prompto, if you won't trust me at my word.
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[Ardyn is shrewd, and if she thinks he will just trust Rosalind (or Prompto) will be truthful about this, then she's...wrong.]
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Because I've no idea of when I'll do it-- and if it's to work, I'd like it to be a natural meeting, not me springing out of the shadows. He nearly pulled a pistol on me the last time I shocked him as you; I'd rather not end this bet with you being honest as you pull bullet fragments from my ribs.
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He wouldn't waste the bullet.
[He should know that it's pointless.]
Besides, Rosalind, do you really expect me to trust either of you to be honest about this with me?
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Have I lied to you once? I should think I've been more honest with you than I have any other person here.
[Except maybe Bigby, but that's a different case.]
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You know the saying. There's a first time for everything.