ISHMAEL + DIYA // progress
Who: Ishmael & Diya
When: The ball
Where: Myron compound
Ratings and Warnings: G
The masque was shaping up to be everything he'd expected. Myron's taste was questionable given these decorations, but the refreshments were fantastic and there was no shortage of interesting conversations to be had. And, of course, no shortage of bores, drunks and women with hideous laughs, but those were ball staples. Ishmael watched with some interest as a group played chairs across the room, wincing each time a particular woman began to shriek laughing as she was sat upon. He rubbed at his temple, disturbing the angle of his tricornered hat. As he set it straight, champagne flute still in hand, a bit dripped down his cheek. Laughing, he wiped it away, excused himself to the person he was talking to and went to grab a napkin. Another bore successfully dealt with.
Third. Three. Was it three? Or four. Frowning down into his empty glass, Diya set it aside. The woman he was speaking to very plainly fancied him, but he was having trouble of keeping track of the conversation. It was extremely one-sided, with Diya giving slightly pained smiles and nods while she continued on about all the scandals that plagued her house. Maids possibly stealing things, other people possibly being rude to other people (possibly), and some cousin that wore the same dress twice. When the woman glanced over her shoulder at the shrieking from the chairs game across the room, Diya caught the eye of the nearest man and gave an exaggerated eyeroll, miming pulling a noose around his neck when she looked back.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes," he said, and she continued on. Diya inhaled deeply, then frowned. He'd recognized that man. Glancing over again, his mouth twitched into a brief smile. The King had a rather distinct profile. "Excuse me," he said to the woman, who was in mid-sentence and didn't seem to hear him, and only began talking at his back as he walked away.
"A pirate, m'lord?" he asked when he reached Ishmael, plucking up a fourth - or was it fifth? - glass from the table to toy with. "Please, steal me. I'm liable to give myself up as Other feed if that woman finds me again."
He tilted his eyes up, not at all surprised to have been recognized. A more paranoid man would choose a full mask, but he planned on drinking tonight. It was a ball, after all. And, if he made a fool of himself (though he never did- not in a drunken state, at least) he could claim that it hadn't been him. Ishmael narrowed his eyes as he studied Diya, because it was certainly Diya, then took a sip of his drink. "If you're going to recognize me, at least call me by a more appropriate title." It was said with a light laugh despite their last encounter.
"You are," he looked the lordling up and down, his mouth pulled to the side in thought. "A chicken?"
He made a pained grimace. "A hawk, your Grace." A chicken, really? Diya looked down at himself, brushing a loose feather from his vest. He'd thought he was rather identifiable, but there was always the chance Ishmael had grown himself a sense of humor and chosen to tease him. "A chicken," he muttered, half to himself. "Well," he said, louder, as he looked back up with a wry smile. "I'm sure no one has put it past me to come dressed as a cock."
Or a peacock, in Cosimo's case, though he didn't look half as ridiculous as she did. "Enjoying yourself?"
"That was the joke," he mumbled, brow knitted and a slight smile on his face. Medellos was much easier to take when he had a few glasses of wine in him, or perhaps it was that he could only see half his face. "Why a hawk?" No one had asked him why he'd dressed as a pirate, probably to avoid any unfortunate comments about seamen.
Ishmael nodded. "Yes, quite a bit, actually. Most people are deferential to the point of pretending not to recognize me." As if these masks actually served a purpose, aside from being ostentatious. "But not you."
Oddly, he liked that. It was refreshing not to deal with someone being ridiculously kind to him so that he might think they were that kind to everyone. There were no people genuinely like in Tyrol.
"Why a pirate?" he asked with a shrug. A hawk had no special meaning to him. He'd gone to a tailor and asked for a costume, they'd suggested a hawk, and there it was. He doubted half the people in attendance had any better reason than 'because I thought it would be interesting'.
Diya took a sip of his wine, mouth twitching into a smile briefly at Ishmael's remarks. "I can pretend not to, if you like," he said when he'd swallowed. "But you've rather a distinctive..." He wet his lips slowly, eyes narrowing as he thought of how to put it. "Chin," he said finally with barely contained laughter.
Ishmael let the question go; it sounded rhetorical, though he did have a well-thought through answer. It was impossible for the king to do anything without thinking too much about it. A blessing and a curse, but then, he'd never fathered a bastard, started a war or harmed himself. Sometimes, caution was rewarded.
"You mean distinctive lack thereof," he said. The smile was still on his face. He didn't mind the slight on his appearance. He was not a handsome man and therefore sunk his self-esteem into other good qualities. Diya would not care if he was called ignorant and poorly read, after all. "No, I enjoy being spoken to candidly."
"You look as though you've been having a fine time." He was drunk, Ishmael could smell as much. And the man in the chicken costume had danced with more than his share of ladies.
"I'm glad," Diya laughed. "I imagine if you didn't I'd be in the stocks by now." Or dead. He lifted his glass to his lips again, studying the waves of Ishmael's mask before he answered.
"I am." Him and glass number four-five were having an excellent time. He'd danced quite a lot, angered quite a few, but the point of the ball hadn't yet made its appearance. The only Other he was able to pinpoint was Thea, and she was hardly an exciting discovery. Very pretty, more than he'd expected, but he'd been hoping to spot something truly monstrous. A yeti, or a centaur. Something obvious, something shocking. "I met your Jumbie. Theadora. Very beautiful."
"On a spike outside the city more likely. My sister insists that I set examples," he said, returning the laugh, not that the subject was terribly funny. Ishmael took every opportunity he could to laugh at his sister. He told himself it helped to make her less terrifying.
Who? For a moment, Ishmael didn't follow, but then he remembered telling Diya of her. "Yes, quite beautiful," he said in a way that suggested he was calling a painting or a view beautiful, not a woman. "I've heard that she eats infants."
"Theadora or your sister?" Diya asked with a smile. The Duchess seemed to him a bull of a woman. The exact opposite of Ishmael, though he could see the resemblance between them as well. He wondered if the other man wanted to be his sister or be the farthest thing from her. It was hard to tell, sometimes.
For a horrifying moment, Ishmael wondered if it sounded like he'd called his sister beautiful. But then he remembered the comment on baby-eating and took a sip of his champagne. Raising his eyebrows, he answered quietly, "Both, but I only have suspicions to go on in Theadora's case."
He watched the dancing over Diya's shoulder for a moment. He enjoyed the idea of dancing, of watching people behaving so innocently and intimately at the same time, but the execution... His knee ached just to think on it. Turning back to Diya, the king paused. "I'd like some fresh air. Would you care to join me?" With one finger, he signaled the guard at his elbow.
He grinned and sipped at his wine, eyebrows raising at the invitation and sudden ring of guards. Had he done something wrong again? Diya tipped back the last of his wine and set the empty glass on the table with a faint frown. "Of course, your Grace." It wasn't usual for him to be easily unnerved, but this man had had him by the collar not a few nights ago and could have him executed in the blink of an eye. Even Diya felt some caution was in order, and so he bowed his head and let himself be led out.
The night air was a cold shock, but Diya welcomed it the moment they stepped outside. Though he doubted he'd want to linger, the change of temperature was refreshing. Inside it was stuffy and hot, full of noise. He could actually hear crickets here, and he slipped his mask up onto his forehead to look up at the stars with a faint smile. "Nicer out here," he remarked quietly, and slouched back against a wall.
"Mm," he said, taking off his mask to let it hang round his neck. He stood with his hands behind his back, back to Diya, and his eyes on the city. It was oddly peaceful tonight. Presumably all the trouble was concentrated at the ball. "One can only remain in a crowd for so long." They agreed, but Ishmael found it strange that Diya valued solitude. He'd never met anyone so thoroughly extroverted.
Turning, he studied the lordling's face. Save for the red mark cutting across his nose and cheeks where his mask had sat, his face was near perfect. No doubt it had made his easy life even easier. "Why have you not take a wife? You could marry below you in an instant, then forget her once you had an heir." It was as though he wanted a complication or something to complain about. His life would change with a wife, but not much.
His black eyes settled on Ishmael and narrowed. Of all the topics he'd thought the King would offer, this hadn't been one of them. Did he truly care?
"I don't want one," he replied quietly, for once without any trace of a smile. "I'd make a terrible husband for a hundred reasons. Besides that, it's my sister that deserves my birthright, not me. If I don't marry, if I don't produce a legitimate child..." Diya shrugged lightly, his hands slipping into his pockets. "She'll inherit everything." It was a selfless reason put atop a very selfish one, he knew, but he did honestly want to help Merena. It was squarely his fault she was in this position. With the entire Medellos fortune at her back, men would be more inclined to look past her scar.
He ran a hand through his hair and inhaled deeply, wry smile returning. ""For now, I'm delaying the inevitable. My father will run out of patience soon enough."
That was a much more thoughtful and selfless reason than he had expected. Was it entirely true, he had to wonder. But Ishmael frowned and nodded, taking a sip from his champagne flute as he searched for something to say in response. "Why follow your father's wishes at all? He'll disinherit you either way."
He felt something like pity or camaraderie with Diya at that moment. Both were hated by their fathers for the disposition they had been born with. But, it would not do to show that imagined bond. "You are welcome in my court whether your father wishes it or not. So long as you don't continue to embarrass us," 'us' meaning his sister, "That is."
"Honestly?" Diya grinned. "It's another few months I can live as I please. He'll send me threatening letters every few weeks, but my time here is my own. I'll enjoy it until it runs out." And he couldn't say he hadn't enjoyed himself so far, with the notable exception of the last conversation he'd had with the King. Tyrol had no shortage of brothels and alehouses.
He swept his mask off entirely, letting it hang by the straps around his wrist as he shook a hand through his hair. "I'm working on it, your Grace," he murmured with a smile. "And my thanks. Truly."
So it was money. He couldn't condemn Diya; he had enjoyed his family's riches his whole life. But, more than the money, he wished to prove himself. He'd failed with his father, he would fail with his sister as well. But Ishmael could not help but try. "You do seem to be enjoying yourself." Friends with Others and whores and madams alike.
"Don't thank me," he said. It was hard not to say 'I was wrong to berate you. I only wanted to make you understand the weight of your words.' Instead, he took another sip of wine and started walking out to the estate's lawn. "You," he said to the guard, "Stay behind. You," to Diya, "Come with me."
He followed with a glance at the guards, curious as to what Ishmael's intentions were. He'd sent his men away before when he'd wanted to shout at Diya, but there was no hint of anger in his expression now. For once, the King seemed almost at ease.
The grass was soft and wet with dew beneath his boots, and Diya watched the moths that swarmed to the lanterns that hung on the edge of the estate. Quiet and peaceful, but cold. A still night. He followed and waited, hands still loose in his pockets.
He walked around to the side of the mansion, tapping absently on his glass. His guards were everywhere, but having one hanging on him was tedious. Once they were in the shadow of the building, Ishmael glanced around. Finally, he said, "I can send you away, if you truly wish, when your father's patience runs out. I will explain everything to him."
Diya was foolish and rude, but something endeared him to the king. probably his face. His affection for his sister was admirable. also his face.
The young lord stopped, eyes narrowing. Send him away? Help him away, he meant. A provided escape... Diya's lips parted as he tried to construct a reply. "Your Grace-..." was all he managed out at first. For once, he found himself speechless. Ishmael's offer negated a list of worries he'd had no satisfactory remedy to before, worries that'd left him anxious and wary. And now, gone, all. An escape. Merena would be furious, of course, but after a few years she was sure to forgive him.
"Why?" he blurted after a minute's staring. "Yes, of course yes, it would- it would solve everything, but I don't--..." He studied Ishmael curiously, wetting his lips. "Why?"
Ishmael blinked rapidly, his mouth slightly open. Was it such a kind thing to do? It seemed simple and easy enough to achieve an end to this situation; who would not do such a thing for the lordling? Slightly, the king shrugged. "I very much dislike controlling fathers," he had to catch himself before he simply left it at 'fathers'. Ishmael continued to walk. "I'll simply say that a certain foreign noble found you entertaining and I sent you off as a diplomatic retainer. I doubt even your father can argue with that, unpleasant though he is."
He was almost insulted by the way Diya reacted. Surely, it wasn't so shocking that he would give a member of his court such assistance.
He followed alongside, curiosity still unfulfilled. The King seemed startled by his surprise. Was this a usual thing? Certainly no one in Tartessos would've given him such a favor. Not without a heavy purse or more in payment. Diya clasped his hands behind his back, black eyes going to Ishmael when he spoke. "He'll try, your Grace, I promise you that," he laughed quietly.
Disliked controlling fathers? He'd never come to Tyrol before this; he knew nothing of the previous King. He supposed for a man to produce both Ishmael and the Duchess, he must be overwhelming. "If there's anything I can do to repay you," Diya started, eyes narrowing as he did his best to sound genuine rather than suggestive, "Please, ask. I'm good company if nothing else."
"I'm sure he will." But, though he was a timid king, he was still king and arguing with his decisions would not take you very far. Ishmael rubbed at the bridge of his nose, certain there were ugly red marks where his mask had bit in.
In all honesty, he hadn't expected Medellos to be so gracious. It proved he knew what manners were, even if he possessed very few of them. He gave a small nod of his head and an almost smile. "Of course. I'm sure I'll find some way in time. For now, rejoin the party. I'd like a few moments to myself. Well," his eyes went to the guard, "Relatively to myself."
"Good evening, Lord Medellos."
"Your Grace." He bowed with a smile, then swept his hair back and refastened his mask. Chicken. Diya held in a snort and crossed the lawn back to the main hall, relieved by the gust of warmth that greeted him when he opened the double doors. The conversation with Ishmael had been an unexpected, still startling addition to his night... but what would follow, he suspected, would be all the usual things.
"You," he called to the nearest waiter. "Wine!"
When: The ball
Where: Myron compound
Ratings and Warnings: G
The masque was shaping up to be everything he'd expected. Myron's taste was questionable given these decorations, but the refreshments were fantastic and there was no shortage of interesting conversations to be had. And, of course, no shortage of bores, drunks and women with hideous laughs, but those were ball staples. Ishmael watched with some interest as a group played chairs across the room, wincing each time a particular woman began to shriek laughing as she was sat upon. He rubbed at his temple, disturbing the angle of his tricornered hat. As he set it straight, champagne flute still in hand, a bit dripped down his cheek. Laughing, he wiped it away, excused himself to the person he was talking to and went to grab a napkin. Another bore successfully dealt with.
Third. Three. Was it three? Or four. Frowning down into his empty glass, Diya set it aside. The woman he was speaking to very plainly fancied him, but he was having trouble of keeping track of the conversation. It was extremely one-sided, with Diya giving slightly pained smiles and nods while she continued on about all the scandals that plagued her house. Maids possibly stealing things, other people possibly being rude to other people (possibly), and some cousin that wore the same dress twice. When the woman glanced over her shoulder at the shrieking from the chairs game across the room, Diya caught the eye of the nearest man and gave an exaggerated eyeroll, miming pulling a noose around his neck when she looked back.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes," he said, and she continued on. Diya inhaled deeply, then frowned. He'd recognized that man. Glancing over again, his mouth twitched into a brief smile. The King had a rather distinct profile. "Excuse me," he said to the woman, who was in mid-sentence and didn't seem to hear him, and only began talking at his back as he walked away.
"A pirate, m'lord?" he asked when he reached Ishmael, plucking up a fourth - or was it fifth? - glass from the table to toy with. "Please, steal me. I'm liable to give myself up as Other feed if that woman finds me again."
He tilted his eyes up, not at all surprised to have been recognized. A more paranoid man would choose a full mask, but he planned on drinking tonight. It was a ball, after all. And, if he made a fool of himself (though he never did- not in a drunken state, at least) he could claim that it hadn't been him. Ishmael narrowed his eyes as he studied Diya, because it was certainly Diya, then took a sip of his drink. "If you're going to recognize me, at least call me by a more appropriate title." It was said with a light laugh despite their last encounter.
"You are," he looked the lordling up and down, his mouth pulled to the side in thought. "A chicken?"
He made a pained grimace. "A hawk, your Grace." A chicken, really? Diya looked down at himself, brushing a loose feather from his vest. He'd thought he was rather identifiable, but there was always the chance Ishmael had grown himself a sense of humor and chosen to tease him. "A chicken," he muttered, half to himself. "Well," he said, louder, as he looked back up with a wry smile. "I'm sure no one has put it past me to come dressed as a cock."
Or a peacock, in Cosimo's case, though he didn't look half as ridiculous as she did. "Enjoying yourself?"
"That was the joke," he mumbled, brow knitted and a slight smile on his face. Medellos was much easier to take when he had a few glasses of wine in him, or perhaps it was that he could only see half his face. "Why a hawk?" No one had asked him why he'd dressed as a pirate, probably to avoid any unfortunate comments about seamen.
Ishmael nodded. "Yes, quite a bit, actually. Most people are deferential to the point of pretending not to recognize me." As if these masks actually served a purpose, aside from being ostentatious. "But not you."
Oddly, he liked that. It was refreshing not to deal with someone being ridiculously kind to him so that he might think they were that kind to everyone. There were no people genuinely like in Tyrol.
"Why a pirate?" he asked with a shrug. A hawk had no special meaning to him. He'd gone to a tailor and asked for a costume, they'd suggested a hawk, and there it was. He doubted half the people in attendance had any better reason than 'because I thought it would be interesting'.
Diya took a sip of his wine, mouth twitching into a smile briefly at Ishmael's remarks. "I can pretend not to, if you like," he said when he'd swallowed. "But you've rather a distinctive..." He wet his lips slowly, eyes narrowing as he thought of how to put it. "Chin," he said finally with barely contained laughter.
Ishmael let the question go; it sounded rhetorical, though he did have a well-thought through answer. It was impossible for the king to do anything without thinking too much about it. A blessing and a curse, but then, he'd never fathered a bastard, started a war or harmed himself. Sometimes, caution was rewarded.
"You mean distinctive lack thereof," he said. The smile was still on his face. He didn't mind the slight on his appearance. He was not a handsome man and therefore sunk his self-esteem into other good qualities. Diya would not care if he was called ignorant and poorly read, after all. "No, I enjoy being spoken to candidly."
"You look as though you've been having a fine time." He was drunk, Ishmael could smell as much. And the man in the chicken costume had danced with more than his share of ladies.
"I'm glad," Diya laughed. "I imagine if you didn't I'd be in the stocks by now." Or dead. He lifted his glass to his lips again, studying the waves of Ishmael's mask before he answered.
"I am." Him and glass number four-five were having an excellent time. He'd danced quite a lot, angered quite a few, but the point of the ball hadn't yet made its appearance. The only Other he was able to pinpoint was Thea, and she was hardly an exciting discovery. Very pretty, more than he'd expected, but he'd been hoping to spot something truly monstrous. A yeti, or a centaur. Something obvious, something shocking. "I met your Jumbie. Theadora. Very beautiful."
"On a spike outside the city more likely. My sister insists that I set examples," he said, returning the laugh, not that the subject was terribly funny. Ishmael took every opportunity he could to laugh at his sister. He told himself it helped to make her less terrifying.
Who? For a moment, Ishmael didn't follow, but then he remembered telling Diya of her. "Yes, quite beautiful," he said in a way that suggested he was calling a painting or a view beautiful, not a woman. "I've heard that she eats infants."
"Theadora or your sister?" Diya asked with a smile. The Duchess seemed to him a bull of a woman. The exact opposite of Ishmael, though he could see the resemblance between them as well. He wondered if the other man wanted to be his sister or be the farthest thing from her. It was hard to tell, sometimes.
For a horrifying moment, Ishmael wondered if it sounded like he'd called his sister beautiful. But then he remembered the comment on baby-eating and took a sip of his champagne. Raising his eyebrows, he answered quietly, "Both, but I only have suspicions to go on in Theadora's case."
He watched the dancing over Diya's shoulder for a moment. He enjoyed the idea of dancing, of watching people behaving so innocently and intimately at the same time, but the execution... His knee ached just to think on it. Turning back to Diya, the king paused. "I'd like some fresh air. Would you care to join me?" With one finger, he signaled the guard at his elbow.
He grinned and sipped at his wine, eyebrows raising at the invitation and sudden ring of guards. Had he done something wrong again? Diya tipped back the last of his wine and set the empty glass on the table with a faint frown. "Of course, your Grace." It wasn't usual for him to be easily unnerved, but this man had had him by the collar not a few nights ago and could have him executed in the blink of an eye. Even Diya felt some caution was in order, and so he bowed his head and let himself be led out.
The night air was a cold shock, but Diya welcomed it the moment they stepped outside. Though he doubted he'd want to linger, the change of temperature was refreshing. Inside it was stuffy and hot, full of noise. He could actually hear crickets here, and he slipped his mask up onto his forehead to look up at the stars with a faint smile. "Nicer out here," he remarked quietly, and slouched back against a wall.
"Mm," he said, taking off his mask to let it hang round his neck. He stood with his hands behind his back, back to Diya, and his eyes on the city. It was oddly peaceful tonight. Presumably all the trouble was concentrated at the ball. "One can only remain in a crowd for so long." They agreed, but Ishmael found it strange that Diya valued solitude. He'd never met anyone so thoroughly extroverted.
Turning, he studied the lordling's face. Save for the red mark cutting across his nose and cheeks where his mask had sat, his face was near perfect. No doubt it had made his easy life even easier. "Why have you not take a wife? You could marry below you in an instant, then forget her once you had an heir." It was as though he wanted a complication or something to complain about. His life would change with a wife, but not much.
His black eyes settled on Ishmael and narrowed. Of all the topics he'd thought the King would offer, this hadn't been one of them. Did he truly care?
"I don't want one," he replied quietly, for once without any trace of a smile. "I'd make a terrible husband for a hundred reasons. Besides that, it's my sister that deserves my birthright, not me. If I don't marry, if I don't produce a legitimate child..." Diya shrugged lightly, his hands slipping into his pockets. "She'll inherit everything." It was a selfless reason put atop a very selfish one, he knew, but he did honestly want to help Merena. It was squarely his fault she was in this position. With the entire Medellos fortune at her back, men would be more inclined to look past her scar.
He ran a hand through his hair and inhaled deeply, wry smile returning. ""For now, I'm delaying the inevitable. My father will run out of patience soon enough."
That was a much more thoughtful and selfless reason than he had expected. Was it entirely true, he had to wonder. But Ishmael frowned and nodded, taking a sip from his champagne flute as he searched for something to say in response. "Why follow your father's wishes at all? He'll disinherit you either way."
He felt something like pity or camaraderie with Diya at that moment. Both were hated by their fathers for the disposition they had been born with. But, it would not do to show that imagined bond. "You are welcome in my court whether your father wishes it or not. So long as you don't continue to embarrass us," 'us' meaning his sister, "That is."
"Honestly?" Diya grinned. "It's another few months I can live as I please. He'll send me threatening letters every few weeks, but my time here is my own. I'll enjoy it until it runs out." And he couldn't say he hadn't enjoyed himself so far, with the notable exception of the last conversation he'd had with the King. Tyrol had no shortage of brothels and alehouses.
He swept his mask off entirely, letting it hang by the straps around his wrist as he shook a hand through his hair. "I'm working on it, your Grace," he murmured with a smile. "And my thanks. Truly."
So it was money. He couldn't condemn Diya; he had enjoyed his family's riches his whole life. But, more than the money, he wished to prove himself. He'd failed with his father, he would fail with his sister as well. But Ishmael could not help but try. "You do seem to be enjoying yourself." Friends with Others and whores and madams alike.
"Don't thank me," he said. It was hard not to say 'I was wrong to berate you. I only wanted to make you understand the weight of your words.' Instead, he took another sip of wine and started walking out to the estate's lawn. "You," he said to the guard, "Stay behind. You," to Diya, "Come with me."
He followed with a glance at the guards, curious as to what Ishmael's intentions were. He'd sent his men away before when he'd wanted to shout at Diya, but there was no hint of anger in his expression now. For once, the King seemed almost at ease.
The grass was soft and wet with dew beneath his boots, and Diya watched the moths that swarmed to the lanterns that hung on the edge of the estate. Quiet and peaceful, but cold. A still night. He followed and waited, hands still loose in his pockets.
He walked around to the side of the mansion, tapping absently on his glass. His guards were everywhere, but having one hanging on him was tedious. Once they were in the shadow of the building, Ishmael glanced around. Finally, he said, "I can send you away, if you truly wish, when your father's patience runs out. I will explain everything to him."
Diya was foolish and rude, but something endeared him to the king. probably his face. His affection for his sister was admirable. also his face.
The young lord stopped, eyes narrowing. Send him away? Help him away, he meant. A provided escape... Diya's lips parted as he tried to construct a reply. "Your Grace-..." was all he managed out at first. For once, he found himself speechless. Ishmael's offer negated a list of worries he'd had no satisfactory remedy to before, worries that'd left him anxious and wary. And now, gone, all. An escape. Merena would be furious, of course, but after a few years she was sure to forgive him.
"Why?" he blurted after a minute's staring. "Yes, of course yes, it would- it would solve everything, but I don't--..." He studied Ishmael curiously, wetting his lips. "Why?"
Ishmael blinked rapidly, his mouth slightly open. Was it such a kind thing to do? It seemed simple and easy enough to achieve an end to this situation; who would not do such a thing for the lordling? Slightly, the king shrugged. "I very much dislike controlling fathers," he had to catch himself before he simply left it at 'fathers'. Ishmael continued to walk. "I'll simply say that a certain foreign noble found you entertaining and I sent you off as a diplomatic retainer. I doubt even your father can argue with that, unpleasant though he is."
He was almost insulted by the way Diya reacted. Surely, it wasn't so shocking that he would give a member of his court such assistance.
He followed alongside, curiosity still unfulfilled. The King seemed startled by his surprise. Was this a usual thing? Certainly no one in Tartessos would've given him such a favor. Not without a heavy purse or more in payment. Diya clasped his hands behind his back, black eyes going to Ishmael when he spoke. "He'll try, your Grace, I promise you that," he laughed quietly.
Disliked controlling fathers? He'd never come to Tyrol before this; he knew nothing of the previous King. He supposed for a man to produce both Ishmael and the Duchess, he must be overwhelming. "If there's anything I can do to repay you," Diya started, eyes narrowing as he did his best to sound genuine rather than suggestive, "Please, ask. I'm good company if nothing else."
"I'm sure he will." But, though he was a timid king, he was still king and arguing with his decisions would not take you very far. Ishmael rubbed at the bridge of his nose, certain there were ugly red marks where his mask had bit in.
In all honesty, he hadn't expected Medellos to be so gracious. It proved he knew what manners were, even if he possessed very few of them. He gave a small nod of his head and an almost smile. "Of course. I'm sure I'll find some way in time. For now, rejoin the party. I'd like a few moments to myself. Well," his eyes went to the guard, "Relatively to myself."
"Good evening, Lord Medellos."
"Your Grace." He bowed with a smile, then swept his hair back and refastened his mask. Chicken. Diya held in a snort and crossed the lawn back to the main hall, relieved by the gust of warmth that greeted him when he opened the double doors. The conversation with Ishmael had been an unexpected, still startling addition to his night... but what would follow, he suspected, would be all the usual things.
"You," he called to the nearest waiter. "Wine!"