#maybe... one day...

(palantir is king, early on on his rule, a courtly celebration)

After a short wait, the court was graced with their king’s presence. He took his seat: a sign that the musicians were allowed to resume their playing, and courtiers, their conversation. Yet no melody could hide the palpable change in the room. Unease descended on the attendants like thick smoke choking back their words, and the noisy chatter turned into whispers under the unrelenting royal gaze. It was as if everyone felt, in turns, compelled to steal a glance in its direction, only to quickly turn back in mortification, feeling as if the king was indeed watching. Such childish displays irked Gimilkhâd, especially when he forgot himself and fell into the same trap, stomach filled with shame and anger as he hastily turned back to his own cup.

 (It had always been like this, in a way. Ever since their mother's treachery(?) had been uncovered, Inziladûn had started to look at him with different eyes. Decades had since passed, but Gimilkhâd could see them quite clearly in his mind still: hurt at first, and then pleading; growing distant and colder with alarming speed. When they finally settled, it was into an intense stare that managed to be all things at once, and none of them, and was reserved for him and him alone.

 How Gimilkhâd hated it.)