o o 6 ♥ dream
Effects: Longing, sorrow, quiet resolve.
The room is set off and quiet. Dust constantly is swept off the floor with the only object present being a piano covered by a white sheet. Waiting. Eternally.
A young man stares at it - sadly, kindly - before quietly walking over, careful that his heels do not disturb the silence too much. His blond hair tied carefully in a ribbon. Something he had yet to grow out of. Clothing carefully chosen to show his ranking - ordained with frills and the like riddled throughout its design. He takes hold of the sheet before pulling it off. It falls slowly, unceremoniously, onto the floor.
He sets his hand lightly against the piano, sighing softly, before the door behind him opens. The person that he would like to enter is not on the other side, of course.
"Your Highness." He dabs his forehead with a handkerchief, obviously has been running around searching for him. "Your mother has been--"
"Before you say anything, I would like you to do something for me, Bartley." His voice is surprisingly steady, calm. He keeps his hand settled against the piano to act more as a crutch than anything else now. "I would like you to know I plan to send a message to His Majesty about becoming the Viceroy of Area 11."
There is stunned silence. "Prince Clovis?"
"I cannot stand to see things play out as they are there anymore." The hand upon the piano becomes a fist. "It is not right. That is where ... that is where we lost our precious--!" He flattens his hand out to gloss over the surface of the instrument, calming himself, before finally saying. "I wish to do something in the name of Britannia." Final. For once not faltering or showing the usual anxiety that he has about ruling.
A slow nod, stunned. Yet he can see pride in the man's eyes that Clovis is finally coming into himself, finally acting as a prince should. "I see. I shall make preparations for you to speak to His Majesty."
"No. I wish to write him in letter." He pivots on his heel to turn away from Bartley now. Clovis is unable to see the fact that the man makes but he is certain it is a confused one. "The Emperor will ... he will try to talk me out of it. I will write out my argument and express myself eloquently so that he cannot refuse." And so he cannot hear his words and lose nerve.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"That is all, Bartley." A beat. "Tell my mother I will see her soon, but right now I wish to be alone."
"Of course." He does not turn around until the door has opened and shut once more.
A soft sigh as the blond takes his seat at the piano, finally, and begins to tune it. For his own purposes, and his own wishes.
Eventually, he finishes and stares at his work. Tapping each note carefully so that it rings out true in the empty room. His gaze slips to the side before he sits back down. Spreading his fingers across the keys, his eyebrows knit together as he tries to remember which one to press. The beginning of the song - the first five or so notes - sound familiar and right. But it eventually falls to calamity as he continues to try to recreate the melody.
"No good if it comes from me, eh?"
[Clovis pales considerably before throws the embarrassing transmitting machine against the wall. At least it is off now.]
The room is set off and quiet. Dust constantly is swept off the floor with the only object present being a piano covered by a white sheet. Waiting. Eternally.
A young man stares at it - sadly, kindly - before quietly walking over, careful that his heels do not disturb the silence too much. His blond hair tied carefully in a ribbon. Something he had yet to grow out of. Clothing carefully chosen to show his ranking - ordained with frills and the like riddled throughout its design. He takes hold of the sheet before pulling it off. It falls slowly, unceremoniously, onto the floor.
He sets his hand lightly against the piano, sighing softly, before the door behind him opens. The person that he would like to enter is not on the other side, of course.
"Your Highness." He dabs his forehead with a handkerchief, obviously has been running around searching for him. "Your mother has been--"
"Before you say anything, I would like you to do something for me, Bartley." His voice is surprisingly steady, calm. He keeps his hand settled against the piano to act more as a crutch than anything else now. "I would like you to know I plan to send a message to His Majesty about becoming the Viceroy of Area 11."
There is stunned silence. "Prince Clovis?"
"I cannot stand to see things play out as they are there anymore." The hand upon the piano becomes a fist. "It is not right. That is where ... that is where we lost our precious--!" He flattens his hand out to gloss over the surface of the instrument, calming himself, before finally saying. "I wish to do something in the name of Britannia." Final. For once not faltering or showing the usual anxiety that he has about ruling.
A slow nod, stunned. Yet he can see pride in the man's eyes that Clovis is finally coming into himself, finally acting as a prince should. "I see. I shall make preparations for you to speak to His Majesty."
"No. I wish to write him in letter." He pivots on his heel to turn away from Bartley now. Clovis is unable to see the fact that the man makes but he is certain it is a confused one. "The Emperor will ... he will try to talk me out of it. I will write out my argument and express myself eloquently so that he cannot refuse." And so he cannot hear his words and lose nerve.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"That is all, Bartley." A beat. "Tell my mother I will see her soon, but right now I wish to be alone."
"Of course." He does not turn around until the door has opened and shut once more.
A soft sigh as the blond takes his seat at the piano, finally, and begins to tune it. For his own purposes, and his own wishes.
Eventually, he finishes and stares at his work. Tapping each note carefully so that it rings out true in the empty room. His gaze slips to the side before he sits back down. Spreading his fingers across the keys, his eyebrows knit together as he tries to remember which one to press. The beginning of the song - the first five or so notes - sound familiar and right. But it eventually falls to calamity as he continues to try to recreate the melody.
"No good if it comes from me, eh?"
[Clovis pales considerably before throws the embarrassing transmitting machine against the wall. At least it is off now.]