𝑶.❜ 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑼𝑺.

As one might expect, this stance made him quite unpopular at court. But he, stubbornly, refused to give up. Just as the others would not budge in their protests, the Archduke would stand firm with his own convictions.

So why, then, had Elwin retreated to a quieter corridor of the palace in order to be alone and collect his thoughts? And why was one leather-clad fist slammed against the polished stone exterior, while lips were pulled back in a frustrated grimace of sorts? Well before the time came for him to take the throne, his parents had warned him of the hardships he would be presented with in terms of making decisions. They had been upfront that each one, no matter how great or small, would have lasting repercussions, and that some choices would have no easy solution.

No amount of tutelage or counsel from those older and far more experienced than he could have ever truly prepared him for the reality of it all. That was, above all else, what frustrated him the most -- that despite his position of power, he was still so powerless. But all he could do was press on, as always.

Approaching footsteps saw Elwin's hand withdraw from its lingering position. The seemingly ever-present furrow of his brow deepened all the more, as it so oft did. He took a brief moment to smooth out and brush off the front of his surcoat, then his arm dropped to his side, and he released a faint, inaudible sigh.

"If you are here to inform me that another meeting has been called by the council, pray tell them that I will not be joining them," he called out to his newfound company without looking up, under the assumption that it was a servant come to fetch him for something or other.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛   Then you’ll be pleased to know I bear no such news, Father.  ❜

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐀𝐧 𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 ⸻ 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. It is guidance he seeks of his Grace ; stoicism finds no weakening in its yield upon features and persists. It's a remnant of the anxieties plaguing him for indulging that shred of boyhood, an unfortunate degradation to his respect in the eyes of men and his mother. Despite such, he allows a modicum of concern to bleed just so, reminding of the humanity of emotions negative and positive. He does not hold his father to unattainable standards ; rather, the Archduke is a man like any other. So natural does a son revere his sire, revere his attachment to his worldliness and morals, a man ever dynamic and veritable. Charm colours his manner. Flaw flows so free. He is responsible for both. It is what the boy idolizes most, authenticity next, just short of courage. A shame, truly, that he cannot emulate that which he admires ⸻ reproach lies at the ready from the voices of superiors and maternal figures alike. Such carelessness begets shame.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛   Is something bothering you ? Earlier, you took your frustrations out on the wall. I assume your negotiations ended less than favourably ? ❜

It is not the norm, though it's a sight which has grown ever frequent. Many find wisdom born of Rosarian tongues to be too foolish, too outlandish, and at times even blasphemy in the eyes of clashing nations. Even among their own countrymen do criticisms circulate far more venomous than casual critique, fit to tear such utopian nonsense before it spread. As Clive envisions what challenge toils within his father's head and heart, lips purse ever slight the creep of shadow framing as if it finds the young Shield coy, lining the tight, concerned dip at mouth's bow. Now, a frown of his own, while gentle, grows as if fatherly frustrations are vicarious. He can surmise, he can make an educated guess. Seldom do these suspicions overshoot.

A palm is outstretched, his posture receptive, allowing for openness.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  Lord Murdoch has rescheduled our drills. I have time to hear your concerns, if you’ll have me. ❜