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Jan. 16th, 2016 11:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vorbarraThey bring her to him in one of the formal receiving rooms at the Residence, the walls covered in rose damask silk and the floor elaborate parquet wood tiles. Whatever else she is, she is a visiting dignitary as well, and the representative here of an entire planet no matter their relationship to it. She's accorded all the respect she's due from that.
Gregor is wearing a plain black military-cut suit, a concession to try to make things less stiflingly formal, though he doesn't expect her to understand the distinction that he's not in uniform. She is also to be his wife; presumably he's going to have to sleep with her at some point, or what is the purpose of this whole affair...
God. The whole concept makes him feel slightly ill just thinking about it. She's not hugely younger than him, but she's enough younger that Gregor is highly conscientious of it. If not for him, she'd be in the peak of her romantic explorations, most likely, free to make all of her own choices. Now he's tying her down as surely as he is, a sacrifice they're both making for the Imperium and for New London.
None of this shows on his impassive face. He's seated in an ivory tufted wingback armchair, a matching one set at an angle to face his. One long leg is crossed over the other, his hands neatly settled on top of them. One of his Armsmen shows the lady in, then fades back into a corner to nominally attend them, but really to stand guard. It's as private as Gregor could afford to make it, given his intended's known political dissonance and history of violent action, however well-justified.
"Thank you, Arkady," he says to his Armsman, voice quiet, eyes resting on Kitty. "Please take a seat. We have much to discuss."
He at least manages to sound smooth, all stiltedness polished out of him by this point in his reign. There is a small table between the chairs, with a sleek decanter of water, two glasses, and a flimsy with their marriage contract on it. A highly political document labored over for months upon months to the final details, and yet he still finds himself unwilling to sign it without discussing it with her personally. One last gasp of independence, he supposes glumly. The flimsy is a stark anachronism in such an archaic room.
Gregor is wearing a plain black military-cut suit, a concession to try to make things less stiflingly formal, though he doesn't expect her to understand the distinction that he's not in uniform. She is also to be his wife; presumably he's going to have to sleep with her at some point, or what is the purpose of this whole affair...
God. The whole concept makes him feel slightly ill just thinking about it. She's not hugely younger than him, but she's enough younger that Gregor is highly conscientious of it. If not for him, she'd be in the peak of her romantic explorations, most likely, free to make all of her own choices. Now he's tying her down as surely as he is, a sacrifice they're both making for the Imperium and for New London.
None of this shows on his impassive face. He's seated in an ivory tufted wingback armchair, a matching one set at an angle to face his. One long leg is crossed over the other, his hands neatly settled on top of them. One of his Armsmen shows the lady in, then fades back into a corner to nominally attend them, but really to stand guard. It's as private as Gregor could afford to make it, given his intended's known political dissonance and history of violent action, however well-justified.
"Thank you, Arkady," he says to his Armsman, voice quiet, eyes resting on Kitty. "Please take a seat. We have much to discuss."
He at least manages to sound smooth, all stiltedness polished out of him by this point in his reign. There is a small table between the chairs, with a sleek decanter of water, two glasses, and a flimsy with their marriage contract on it. A highly political document labored over for months upon months to the final details, and yet he still finds himself unwilling to sign it without discussing it with her personally. One last gasp of independence, he supposes glumly. The flimsy is a stark anachronism in such an archaic room.
