[Felix observes the surprise, then the recovery, because it’s useful to see how she’s changed and just how far she’s come. It’s useful to use the now to overwrite the before, not so much cleaning the slate as it is filling in all the extra lines. Marie-Claude’s answer is not unlike a flag planted in the ground, a one-liner that could be televised or featured online, looping over and over until the point can’t fail to come across. He can see that point now, which means he knows what he should say next. These are the roles they play, and these are their places.
He tracks the movement of her hand, watches her smooth out her hair, testing to see if all is in place. The gesture is oddly endearing, like a marble statue made flesh. Or like a warrior checking the clasp of her mail.]
I understand.
[He says, instead. It's the kind of remark that should come with a disclaimer. What does the Crown Prince of Ludon understand, exactly? Nothing of strunggle, according to his latest biography, written this time by a self-proclaimed admirer. "Felix of Ludon was raised with care and all the privilege afforded his station," followed by several more saccharine lines about his idyllic childhood and loving royal family. That had been a rough one to sit through, but it came at the right time -- back when it was prudent to pretend that he'd always been popular. As if he hadn't been hated for the audacity of his existence, the palace a constant reminder that he should not belong. The lie is more palatable now because the privileged would only ever care about his victories, and not the struggles underneath.
Still, his smile remains. The amusement from earlier is almost affable now, as he regards her with familiarity than might be appropriate. As if their positions opposite could easily be connected with a single line, if one simply changed their perspective.]
It might help if you think of it under more familiar circumstances. Not as a symbol, [and here he gestures too, lifting his arm to indicate the castle around them,] but perhaps as a place we used to play in.
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so true i do love reading meta
He tracks the movement of her hand, watches her smooth out her hair, testing to see if all is in place. The gesture is oddly endearing, like a marble statue made flesh. Or like a warrior checking the clasp of her mail.]
I understand.
[He says, instead. It's the kind of remark that should come with a disclaimer. What does the Crown Prince of Ludon understand, exactly? Nothing of strunggle, according to his latest biography, written this time by a self-proclaimed admirer. "Felix of Ludon was raised with care and all the privilege afforded his station," followed by several more saccharine lines about his idyllic childhood and loving royal family. That had been a rough one to sit through, but it came at the right time -- back when it was prudent to pretend that he'd always been popular. As if he hadn't been hated for the audacity of his existence, the palace a constant reminder that he should not belong. The lie is more palatable now because the privileged would only ever care about his victories, and not the struggles underneath.
Still, his smile remains. The amusement from earlier is almost affable now, as he regards her with familiarity than might be appropriate. As if their positions opposite could easily be connected with a single line, if one simply changed their perspective.]
It might help if you think of it under more familiar circumstances. Not as a symbol, [and here he gestures too, lifting his arm to indicate the castle around them,] but perhaps as a place we used to play in.