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Seven Devils (for ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
littlemother)
"No," is the first word from his mouth, flat and disbelieving, when the idea is put to him.
He'd expected the worst when the other Alorn monarchs - and isn't having to preface that collective title with other a horrifying experience - had cornered him in the council chamber. Cho-Hag is inscrutable as always; Anheg is wearing the irritated look of a man who regards the proposal he's putting forward as the lesser of two evils. Garion just looks nervous and vaguely guilty, and with every underhanded instinct he possesses he seizes on the obvious weak link.
The argument goes on for quite some time. The horrible thing is that from a dispassionate, purely political point of view, he can see the sense of it. Drasnia rests uneasy with her king newly buried and no son to succeed him. They're a few short years past one war, with another not far enough for comfort off their eastern borders; the Bear Cult is on the rise again, and now...now is not the time for instability. Now is the time for as much continuity as humanly possible. Now is, in short, the worst possible time for Aloria to look divided. Now is the worst possible time for Drasnia to have a king who clearly doesn't want to be there on the throne.
By the time the argument fizzles out they're just going in vituperative circles, and it's with no excuses and scarcely even an attempt at a farewell that he storms out. Garion follows, catches his arm, only to start in faintly hurt surprise as one of his oldest friends jerks furiously out of his grasp with something that's very nearly a growl.
Infuriated energy propels him as far as a deserted distant corner of the palace gardens where - hidden from prying eyes by ornamental trees and the sheltering darkness of deepening night - he sinks onto a stone bench, buries his face in his hands, and very quietly panics.
He can't do this. That's the one inescapable fact that everyone around him seems wilfully blind to, for reasons absolutely beyond his understanding. Yes, he fully agrees, someone should rule Drasnia. But only an idiot would suggest him for the role and expect it to end anything but spectacularly badly. It's a mystery to him why otherwise intelligent and sane people who a year ago wouldn't have trusted him with their coinpurse are suddenly determined to entrust him with an entire kingdom.
He's never dealt well with feeling trapped, figuratively or literally, and this gods-forsaken mess of a situation is closing around him like a noose. He presses his palms over his eyes and tries just to breathe past the dizzying knot of grief and shame and fear wrapped around his chest and clawing its way up his throat. Someone is probably watching, of course. In Boktor someone is always watching. But he doesn't have it in him to care right now.
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"Oh, yes, I'm sure I'll be called to meet with the Council of Kings after tomorrow's ceremonies have concluded, where they'll present this carefully considered solution to me as though they don't know that I already know." A trace of irritation, then amusement glints briefly in her eyes, "I wonder who will have the nerve to speak first."
But Kheldar is right — she is tired, and it's starting to show, her mind exhausted and her heart weary. She begins to pull out the pins holding her hair in place, one by one, and waves a stray wisp of hair away from her face. Yes...yes, she ought to rest. She begins to comb her hair loose with her fingers, rising from the chair, and smiles faintly.
"Goodnight, Kheldar."