If Koumei had meant to dispel the words so this is your strength, the man had failed—spectacularly so. The tale he spins of miscalculations and of homage paid; of protecting that which one held most dear in all the realms at the expense of being stripped of identity, of one's face and name... there is only conviction, in the telling.
Though he has made his peace with the loss, Koumei (who twirls a silvered lock of hair about his forefinger; whose heartache even a King could not absolve) has not been buried along with it—the scar upon his chest is not his tombstone, but his spirit. It is unsung and it is dark, the path of a Prince who walks forward in exile, but it is beautiful (tragic) all the same, and Sion (with a gaze boring into the very heart of the man beneath him) is moved beyond words by Koumei's thanks.
(By the way his star laces their fingers together, Koumei's hand blanketing Sion's own in a gesture wholly profound on its own, with no need for the bonds of mana.) ]
You should know it by now, my scarlet star, that I am not one for flattery. Nor do I believe action taken on behalf of sentiment to be so grievous an error, so shameful a mistake. [ Regardless of what ruin had been sown because of it. Bowing his head, Sion's hair falls in a tumble over his shoulders, veiling his face as its silvered ends curl and coil atop bare skin and scar tissue—though the King wishes, in part, that he might be able to take both the wound and its memory away from his friend... who might Koumei be without it? To deny the old wound would be to forsake the feelings which had caused it. ] For as long as your heart remains your own, know this: you possess a power which no one can infringe upon, not even the Gods above.
[ Gingerly, gently, he reaches with his free hand to cup the side of Koumei's face, his thumb brushing along the slender rise of the man's cheek before falling away. Really, this is much too intimate, much too scandalous contact for anyone—let alone royalty—to indulge in beneath the slow rise of the moon and darkening skies, and yet... Sion seems either not to care (or not to realize). ]
Thank you, for telling me. [ For trusting in him. ] Since the day we first met, I had wanted to know your story, but Koumei...
[ It happens in swift succession, then: Sion, rising to his feet, pulling Koumei along with, their handhold steadfast—strong. ]
...you should know that my friendship comes at no price at all; that I wish only to see you lifted up.
[ A wish is innocent and earnest both, in stark contrast to the way he shifts close, his free hand righting the fabric of the hanfu he'd parted, pulling the material back up, over a pair of narrow shoulders gone exposed to the cold for much too long already. ]
Have faith, in your sister. She has chosen her path, as you have chosen yours, but until the day when you are able to return to her side, strive to live in a way which would make her smile.
You were not meant only for a life of atonement, Koumei. Your spirit... it is worthwhile, too.
[ Lightly: ] And this Hero King should hate to crush it, as impetuous as he is.
no subject
If Koumei had meant to dispel the words so this is your strength, the man had failed—spectacularly so. The tale he spins of miscalculations and of homage paid; of protecting that which one held most dear in all the realms at the expense of being stripped of identity, of one's face and name... there is only conviction, in the telling.
Though he has made his peace with the loss, Koumei (who twirls a silvered lock of hair about his forefinger; whose heartache even a King could not absolve) has not been buried along with it—the scar upon his chest is not his tombstone, but his spirit. It is unsung and it is dark, the path of a Prince who walks forward in exile, but it is beautiful (tragic) all the same, and Sion (with a gaze boring into the very heart of the man beneath him) is moved beyond words by Koumei's thanks.
(By the way his star laces their fingers together, Koumei's hand blanketing Sion's own in a gesture wholly profound on its own, with no need for the bonds of mana.) ]
You should know it by now, my scarlet star, that I am not one for flattery. Nor do I believe action taken on behalf of sentiment to be so grievous an error, so shameful a mistake. [ Regardless of what ruin had been sown because of it. Bowing his head, Sion's hair falls in a tumble over his shoulders, veiling his face as its silvered ends curl and coil atop bare skin and scar tissue—though the King wishes, in part, that he might be able to take both the wound and its memory away from his friend... who might Koumei be without it? To deny the old wound would be to forsake the feelings which had caused it. ] For as long as your heart remains your own, know this: you possess a power which no one can infringe upon, not even the Gods above.
[ Gingerly, gently, he reaches with his free hand to cup the side of Koumei's face, his thumb brushing along the slender rise of the man's cheek before falling away. Really, this is much too intimate, much too scandalous contact for anyone—let alone royalty—to indulge in beneath the slow rise of the moon and darkening skies, and yet... Sion seems either not to care (or not to realize). ]
Thank you, for telling me. [ For trusting in him. ] Since the day we first met, I had wanted to know your story, but Koumei...
[ It happens in swift succession, then: Sion, rising to his feet, pulling Koumei along with, their handhold steadfast—strong. ]
...you should know that my friendship comes at no price at all; that I wish only to see you lifted up.
[ A wish is innocent and earnest both, in stark contrast to the way he shifts close, his free hand righting the fabric of the hanfu he'd parted, pulling the material back up, over a pair of narrow shoulders gone exposed to the cold for much too long already. ]
Have faith, in your sister. She has chosen her path, as you have chosen yours, but until the day when you are able to return to her side, strive to live in a way which would make her smile.
You were not meant only for a life of atonement, Koumei. Your spirit... it is worthwhile, too.
[ Lightly: ] And this Hero King should hate to crush it, as impetuous as he is.