[ He’s lounging with as much (or as little, really) grace as he can muster while bored out of his mind on yet another day in Fillory as High King and no backup. Or alcohol.
Being evening, he’s been left to his own devices, which is so dreadfully and mind-numbingly bland when even his wife has gone off to deal with official business that his Highness is too highly esteemed to be attending, and the couple guards will, once again, be his only company until he decides to retire. At least the blond one is cute.
God, he never thought being a king could be so awful. Then again, he never thought his friends would really ditch him in another world because it happened to fit their needs, and yet here he is, alone, weary, and sober.
It’s such a regular event in his life now he doesn’t even anticipate the visits anymore. He used to try, bother hoping even as he told himself not to hold his breath, but it only hurt worse when each day passed and he was simply expected to deal with the troubles he’d inherited before all else. The cosmic joke really comes down to the fact that, for whatever royal blood he has, his upbringing ended up mattering more here than anything else he’d ever learned for himself. In Fillory, he’s truly no one of worth, crown removed, and Eliot doesn’t quite know how to deal with that realization yet.
There’s not enough coke in the world to help.
Ha. Get it? Because there’s none?
When the familiar face comes into view, there’s a delay between the greeting and the sharp inhale of recognition as Eliot forces himself upright. ]
My, God, you’re alive— [ And his eyes drift to the suspicious clinking carrier, eyes gradually widening. ] —and you come bearing gifts?
[ Before, the mass of his clothing and body could have been mistaken for a slug, but his muscles seem to remember themselves as he draws abruptly to his feet to, ahem, investigate the goods. ]
Please tell me you don’t have any other companions lagging behind and that we’re not sharing.
no subject
Being evening, he’s been left to his own devices, which is so dreadfully and mind-numbingly bland when even his wife has gone off to deal with official business that his Highness is too highly esteemed to be attending, and the couple guards will, once again, be his only company until he decides to retire. At least the blond one is cute.
God, he never thought being a king could be so awful. Then again, he never thought his friends would really ditch him in another world because it happened to fit their needs, and yet here he is, alone, weary, and sober.
It’s such a regular event in his life now he doesn’t even anticipate the visits anymore. He used to try, bother hoping even as he told himself not to hold his breath, but it only hurt worse when each day passed and he was simply expected to deal with the troubles he’d inherited before all else. The cosmic joke really comes down to the fact that, for whatever royal blood he has, his upbringing ended up mattering more here than anything else he’d ever learned for himself. In Fillory, he’s truly no one of worth, crown removed, and Eliot doesn’t quite know how to deal with that realization yet.
There’s not enough coke in the world to help.
Ha. Get it? Because there’s none?
When the familiar face comes into view, there’s a delay between the greeting and the sharp inhale of recognition as Eliot forces himself upright. ]
My, God, you’re alive— [ And his eyes drift to the suspicious clinking carrier, eyes gradually widening. ] —and you come bearing gifts?
[ Before, the mass of his clothing and body could have been mistaken for a slug, but his muscles seem to remember themselves as he draws abruptly to his feet to, ahem, investigate the goods. ]
Please tell me you don’t have any other companions lagging behind and that we’re not sharing.