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[Ah, the satisfaction of that pause runs poignantly through him.]

When it suits me.

[And just to be frustrating, to be stressful, he won't respond beyond this. That's what she gets, for being a cheater.]

I can't guarantee my schedule will be clear if you don't give me a date.

[About half an hour later:]

Ardyn.

Ardyn.

[YOU KNOW WHAT, FUCK THIS, FUCK HIM, she ignores her stupid phone until the end of the day-- but when he still hasn't responded, she sets out from the Institute with the express purpose of finding him. And she will find him, because she's determined to.]

Edited 2018-01-15 18:10 (UTC)

[She will find him easily enough, as the tall shape of him is often difficult to miss in a crowd. Ardyn is located in the Market District, donned in the black of the Guard's uniform, which suits him just fine. He has just fininished his rounds in the residential areas, but whether it is his work or his idle nature that's drawn him here is up for debate. Regardless, he speaks to a vendor, his back turned to her, when she spots him.]

[It's no good to simply stride up to him and wait, fuming, for him to finish; she'll look ridiculous. Instead Rosalind slows, her eyes narrowing as she spots him, trying to decide how best to approach him.

But no, she'll wait. She'll wait until he's done speaking, and then, in a flash and a deliberate burst of energy, appear next to him. It's too much to hope he'll flinch, but it'd be nice if he did.]

[When he's done, Ardyn turns around -- only to be met with Rosalind flashing into existence before his eyes. This would perhaps be more surprising if he were not 2000 years old and difficult to startle in general. If nothing else, her sudden appearance is just as mundane as warping is to him.

(The vendor behind him gasps a little, though.)]

Rosalind. [A grin, annoyingly "innocent".] To what do I owe this pleasure?

Oh, I think you know.

[For all she's irritated, her pride stinging and dread making her heart hammer, none of that shows on her expression. She drawls that out, languid and unconcerned, for all the world looking almost bored.]

Are you on duty at the moment?

[He arches a brow, very determined to be as insufferable as possible on this day.]

Oh? Do you require the assistance of the Royal Guard?

Oh, not in the least. I simply would hate to distract you from your job if you were occupied. But as it seems you've time to chat . . . shall we walk together?

[He nearly shrugs.]

If you like. [He gestures in a direction to walk, along a line of more stalls. It's busy, but easy enough to avoid the crowd if they walk around the outer edges of it.]

What's on your mind?

[They're hardly out of earshot with the general population, but at least no one will hear more than a snatch of their conversation.]

You know perfectly well what. Cash in your end of the bet-- we can start when you're off your shift, if you want, but I'm not going to live the next few weeks with the world's stupidest sword of Damocles hanging over my head.

[The murmur of the crowd quite clearly illustrates that people are more concerned with their wares than overhearing their conversation.]

Well, at that, I have a question for you.

Go on.

[Is it going to begin now? Not officially, but still she braces herself. Perhaps this is the prelude.]

[Oh, Rosalind. You give him too much credit..........]

Who is Damocles?

You make it easy to want to slap you again.

[She remarks it; a short sigh follows, the only visible sign of her growing irritation.]

Damocles was a servant of a king. He was sycophantic, constantly telling the king how good and wise he was. One night, however, he mentioned how fortune the king was to be surrounded by wealth and power. In response, the king offered to switch places with Damocles for a day.

However. He arranged for a sword to hang over his head the entire day, suspended only by one single hair off a horse's tail. The entire day, Damocles sat there, terrified that should some stray action be taken, some careless word be said, the thread would snap and he'd be killed.

It's a metaphor, of course. It means that for all that great power is enjoyable for any number of reasons, power comes at a price.

More colloquially, having a sword of Damocles over one's head means that one does not want to spend the entire day with something hideous hanging over one's head, waiting for it to drop. In our case: our bet.

[You learn something new everyday.

And yet, it is an interesting metaphor, and a wholly correct one. Ardyn thinks of Regis, the man weakened and greying, holding his city's bulwark against invading forces, and delicately balancing all facets of a war in his court. He thinks of Aldercapt and the immense power of his empire, but how his mind withered with corruption, easily manipulated with a few coaxing words here and there. A sword that hung over both of their heads, and in the end, both were split in twain.

Fitting, he supposes.]

Ah, then at that, a second question: did you by any chance not comprehend what I wrote you? I said I would let you know — when it suits me. Allow that sword to hang over your head for a while yet, Rosalind. I’ll be merciful and cut the thread eventually.

Edited 2018-01-15 20:00 (UTC)

I comprehended it. I came to see you because that doesn't suit me. I promised you a day; I never promised you days of making me wait. Either cash it now or I'll ensure I'm not available when you want me.

[She's stubborn, but so can he be. Especially if he's feeling particularly spiteful because someone tried to cheat.]

I never promised taking advantage of a won bet the moment I won it. If that was your assumption, then the fault lies with you. As simple as that.

[He stops briefly, though, turning to look at her.]

But since I'm so generous -- ask me nicely, and perhaps I'll consider it.

[Ah, and there's a reaction: minute, minuscule, but there. It's in the way her cheeks flush; the way her mouth thins and her eyes turn colder.

What are her options here? Refuse him, that's one. She could spitefully refuse, turning on her heel, leaving the rest of her day free. It'd leave her jumpy and irritable for the next god knows how many days, though. She'd be paranoid as to when he'd cash his bet, certain he'd do it at the worst possible moment, eager to see her squirm.

Or: accept his offer. Ask nicely, and watch him grow smug. It'd be an undeniable victory for him, and one he'd surely hold over her head for the next twelve hours. There's no guarantee, too, that he won't take the best of both worlds: have her ask nicely and refuse anyway, citing his perhaps as all the justification he needs. But there's the chance he'll simply get it all over with now, for better or worse, and they can put this behind them.]

Don't lie. You aren't generous in the least.

[She steps in closer to him. There's absolutely no warmth in her gaze, and icy disdain drips off every word.]

Please, Ardyn, may we start now.

[It's theoretically a question, though the way she says it so flatly rather renders it a statement.]

[Normally, that might be good enough. But Ardyn is, generally speaking, a cruel man. And if she wanted to make things difficult for him from the start, he will do so in kind -- tenfold. Such is his character.

So, no, he does not want a flat statement. Even if it is insincere and dripping in sycophancy, much like Damocles, he wants to hear something syrupy in that request. Say it like you mean it.

He will relent then. But only then.]

No, my dear, that's not good enough. Nicer. Smile for me, say it like it means the world to you.

[He's pushing her to her limits, especially in public. Rosalind balks, her cheeks first paling and then flushing darkly, fury making her react far more than humiliation (though that, too, is a factor).

She takes an awful long time about it, long enough that he wouldn't be faulted for thinking she isn't going to do it at all. But soon she tips her head back again, facing him, and the expression on her face might be called a smile, in that her mouth is soft and her lips are gently upturned--

--but the fury in her gaze means that the result is distorted. It means that she looks more as if she's self-righteously satisfied at a viewing of an execution, not a wife simpering up at her husband. Every other bit of her expression is as it ought to be, though, soft and sweet and pliant.]

Please.

[She murmurs it, and her voice, too, sounds right: soft and breathless to the point of nearly being a parody of itself. But her eyes ruin the effect, and that's precisely how she intends it.]

Please, will you start now?

[And so is his response equally swathed in a long pause. That fire in her eyes is certainly indicative of her true feelings, but Ardyn did not expect her to sweep away all fury and defiance just because he asked for it. But this, how she strains and how she absolutely hates it, is enough to satisfy him. This is what he wanted to see.

And Rosalind is right; he does not bother to hide his grin of great satisfaction. And some idle part of his mind wonders, truly, if she was so eager to get this done today that she does not notice the mood that he's in. That perhaps rushing things has made it all the more difficult for her.

Well, that's her problem now.]

Perfect! [He laughs, lets it ring out to be heard even over the crowd.] Good, exactly that. What an effort -- I think I shall reward you for it, and adhere to your request. We can start now.

[This isn't the end, she promises herself, but of course it isn't. He isn't fool enough to think he'll be able to hold this over her head forever. She'll find a way to return this favor tenfold, needling him and forcing him into a position just as uncomfortable.

But not right now. Right now . . . the smile drops off her face, and though her ears have turned red, her expression is its usual neutral mask.]

Good.

[And that's all she says. He'll have more than enough ideas of his own; she won't talk and give him more.]

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