Realistic or Modern 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 - [𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫]

Her father's amused voice rang out from behind her. Malavika turns from where she's been staring at herself, tugging down the different folds of the pink dress she wore, to see her father leaning in the doorway. There's nothing about him that indicates that he's sick, aside from the handkerchief he has to hold to his mouth to cough into. Malavika scolds as she turns to him, immediately hooking her arm with his and allowing her father to lean on her. It's moments like these where she's able to recognize how much weight the war had stolen off his frame--he's lighter than ever. She makes a small mental note to talk to the chef about increasing his meal intake.

Her father chirps cheerfully, shrugging his shoulders as he tugs her out of her room. They begin a walk to the center of the palace, where their most ornate ballroom is, and despite his protests, Malavika urges them to go at a slower page.

Her father's always been rather excited for things like this. Malavika wants to tell him that she could care less about being married to some strange person, all she wants to do is to take care of him and their own nation, but she knows that'd cause her father to fret more than he should. She finally says.



A rare laugh bubbles on her lips.

Her father says cheekily. Her father snorts, and pats her hand gently to soothe her.

She teases, and her father chuckles, shaking his head at her. Comfortable silence dawns on the two as they approach the stairs that would lead them down. They pause for a moment, and Malavika takes it in stride, knowing her father needed more pauses on his walks to catch his breath.

The silence is broken by him speaking. He speaks, almost distantly. Malavika follows her father's gaze up to see the portrait that hangs at the top of the stairs, covered with a sheet after one of the nights where she had howled the command out for all portraits in the palace to be obscured from her sight. She knows this one from staring at it often--the portrait of her and her brother, her father, and mother. She remembers the expressions clearly, every stroke. She used to stare at it in wonderment when she was younger--a wonderment that was quickly replaced with the nauseating feeling of failure everytime she looked up at her dead brother's face. She knows what her father is thinking and she knows not the words she could say to comfort him. Instead, she squeezes him tightly and leads him down the stairs.

As they reach the doors, his dark eyes crinkle at the corners, fond and warm in a way that makes her feel like she's still a little girl. He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, before he's guiding her through the doors and into the ballroom, a loud announcer's voice ringing out that the Mahavijay King and Heiress had arrived. She's barely allowed to receive a gentle squeeze from her father's warm, rough hand, before they're parted, him taking the seat at the head of the function, and her trailing off to find the table where she's meant to be sat. The cameras on her make her nervous, though she schools her face in a mildly disinterested expression -- she's not willing to have her microexpressions scrutinized today.

She's the first to the table, as customary of a host. A quick glance at both of the namecards on either side of her reveals the names of the companions that will be sitting on either side of her for the evening. The heir of Polchi and the heir of Misbury, if she remembers correctly. She'll have to make small talk, but everything that comes to mind as a conversation starter is either pointed or does little to hide her distaste for this entire occasion. Neither were quite promising. She'd only hope that her companions were more skilled at making small talk than she was.

She thinks back to the schedule--- once all the heirs were seated, there'd be a small introduction, knowing the cameras, some kind of interview, possibly? Her father had said something about a dance, and then the announcement of the pairs.

Discomfort curls bitterly in her stomach. She'd entered the ballroom as a single woman, unburdened of a partner. She'd leave it engaged to one of the enemies of Salhai, the vipers waiting to strike her family when they were down. There wasn't a single thing she could do, not with so many eyes watching. Malavika breathed out steadily though her nose, and reached for a small flute of champagne nearby, taking a long sip to try and settle her nerves. Everything would be fine.

“I want to thank you Osín, for looking after my kingdom while I was recovering and for so graciously accepting that task that I have given you. Worry not brother, the kingdom, your mother will be well looked after.”

Elion, no King Elion, had a way of speaking that made his threats undetectable to untrained ears. Osín had always despised how etiquette called for unclear intentions and useless subtly. There was no doubt in his mind that his brother would see his mother harmed should he not do as told. No amount of slick, honeyed words could hide the malice from Osín’s ears. It burned him inside to see brother claim the throne. He had been named crown prince but it had been Osín who had been born first. While Misbury threatened to topple from their unexpected attack, it had been he who put the kingdom together again and made it anew.

The young prince knew that he could not act foolishly. His anger was so intense that he feared that it might melt him from the inside. It was not enough to attempt to treat rot at a surface level, no it was better to cut it out at its source. He knew that now. Osín should have taken his brother’s head when he had the chance. Only then would his birthright be unquestionable. Such thoughts plagued his mind for the duration of his trip to Salhai.

Osín had not even realized that the carriage had come to a stop until a guard alerted him. Once upon a time ago he would have taken the time to appreciate the array of colors as they passed his carriage window. Had Osín’s visit been one of leisure, he could have marveled at the beauty of Salhai in all of its glory. His face remained stone-faced as he left his carriage, adorned in the gold and green of Misbury.

With each step towards the ballroom, a lump formed in his stomach. It was a feeling he knew to be dread in its purest form. His form was tight, rigid in a way that almost looked uncomfortable. The large doors of the ballroom were pushed open and Osín was formally announced. “This may very well ruin us,” was his only thought before he was escorted to his seat.

“Your Royal Highness, I am Prince Osín of Misbury. We extend our thanks towards you and your family for hosting this…event.” It was easy to remember the lessons given to him. His tutors would sometimes praise him for the way he remembered his manners, repeating after them like a prized parrot. He spied the flute of champagne in her hand and nearly grabbed one himself. “Your palace is marvelous, it is everything that I’ve read about.”

Malavika says to a nearby waiter, who holds out a plate that is simultaneously her salvation and the very same precipice she can tumble down from. She places her now-empty flute of champage on the tray before replacing the absence in her palm with another filled flute. The glass is cool to the touch, condensation crisp at the edges of the frosted glass, the liquid sloshing in its depths a bubblier pink than the dress she currently wears. Malavika twirls the glass thoughtfully between long fingers, staring at the flute. She doesn't want to go overboard in her drink, doesn't want to make a fool of herself at such a televised function. The last thing she wants is to be painted as a silly girl, twirling around in a pink party dress, too drunk and too dumb to lead a nation. But at the same time, the tension in her shoulders seems to remind her that this is not a night for rigid politics, for harsh debates and tense dialogue--it's a night to win over hearts, to cement her position as the heir of Salhai, and she'd hate to be too uptight about it. One sip wouldn't hurt, she surmises, and lifts the glass to her painted lips for the bubbles to embrace her tongue.

The chimes of announcement sound in Malavika's ears, and she lifts her head up, catching the ends of the pleasant rings of arrival. The heir of Misbury has arrived, the first of her companions for the night. One out of five. She turns fully, now fully expecting a figure to approach where she sits at her table, and as she does, she casts a wayward glance at the namecard beside her-- one of her seating companions is here. She wonders how they'd be, how they'd look. Would they get along? She had nothing against Misbury personally, though there are a few things she just doesn't see eye to eye with, but would that sentiment be returned? Would this heir be hostile?

All of a sudden, a thought resounds in her brain. These are the people, the pool in which she will marry from. As she meets heir after heir, in an hour, one of them would be the partner she ascends the throne with. Would it be the one coming to her right now? The mysterious heir of Polchi, on the other side of her, maybe? She has no clue, and all of a sudden, her heart starts beating loudly in her chest. Her torso feels tight and the lacings at the back of her dress seem more restrictive than ever, and she has a strong desire to rip off her brassiere and chuck it when someone wasn't looking. Her heart is in such a panic that she can feel evidence of her nerves at her carotid, a thump-thump-thump that makes her ears ring and the bitter taste of panic bubble at the back of her throat.

She hurries to take a long sip of her champagne, hoping that she's schooled her face into a mask of polite interest, that her nerves don't peek out of her carefully curated facade. Not here, not when there were so many cameras scrutinizing every bit of her features for a reveal of her true feelings.

Finally, the heir of Misbury makes his way to the table. She stands, welcoming him, pressing a smile to her lips. The other's visage is wonderfully pleasant, a full face with stunning eyes, and a wonderful suit. She rather adores the clean, crisp cut of his silhouette and the cape-esque material off one arm. He's elegant and put together, and what soothes her the most is the tense rigidity to the other that indicates she's not alone in her turmoil of the night.

He introduces himself as Prince Osín, and her keen ears don't miss out on the way there's a little pause before describing their meetup as an...event.

She says, the smile coming a bit more to her lips. Small talk isn't one of her interests. She's quite adept at it, don't get her wrong, as one from a nation surrounding diplomacy has to be, but small talk has always been more of Aditya's forte, not hers. Though, she decides to take a page from his book and extend a verbal line to the other, hoping that it'd ease them past the odd stilted phase of talking she always deplored when establishing new connections. Perhaps it wasn't as eloquent as her father would have done it, but it was good enough, right? Either way, she's already mentally patting her back.

She says. There, she's said it. She's toeing the line between appropriate and inappropriate--to disavow the very mark of alliance amongst the six nations was a dangerous little game, but there was no way in hell she wanted anyone to feel as though she was approving of such an idiotic course of action. She did not want to be here as much as the next heir, and there was no reason to promenade as otherwise.

Osín expresses a pleasantry about her abode, and it's simple and a regular remark at its core, though she jumps at the chance to discuss something that isn't their idiotic impending marriages to complete strangers for the sake of their nations. The gentle joke at her father's expense (thank you, appa!) comes naturally to her lips, trying to nudge the other into more warm conversation. She sees no reason why not, the other heir must be just as nervous as she is. If she's lucky, she'll come out of this conversation with a book recommendation or two.

princess malee

polchi

“My journey was well. To be honest, I could not enjoy the scenery as much as I’d like.” Full lips pressed into a thin line at the mere thought of their upcoming unions. Quite frankly he was not as optimistic as she seemed to be. How could he be? He was not foolish enough to believe that he would marry out of love, but he would have at least thought that he deserved to have some type of influence in the situation.

It was easy for Osín to fall into the role of an avid scholar. He felt the tension in his shoulders ease ever so slightly, happy to drop the subject before it could completely sour his mood. Princess Malavika’s inquiries took him back to the comfort of his personal library. It had acted as a safe space for him throughout his life and he would spend hours amongst the books, reading literature from the other kingdoms and tales of the stars above.

“I am, your highness. While reading about Madari I found myself hoping to see and experience the colors for myself. And not to mention your street stalls. They remind me of the open markets we have in Misbury.” Without permission a small smile creeped onto the lips of Prince Osín. It vanished as soon as the doors to the ballroom opened again.

The arrival of the Princess of Polchi seemed to bring Osín back to the situation at hand. He became all too aware of the cameras that surrounded them. His tense posture returned and once again gray eyes post their previous spark of interest. He willed himself to school his features and not let his emotions leak through. To say that he found the actions of Polchi distasteful would be a severe
understatement. The most that the prince could manage was a curt nod in her direction, only locking eyes for the briefest of moments.

Before long the doors were opened once again. The Prince of Darten’s entrance was what drew Osín’s attention. He did not realize that he was staring until the prince was seated beside him. He had read about the kingdom of Darten, and had heard the stories of the black magic that they dabbled in. He could feel the urge to question Prince Kaido was at the very tip of his tongue.

Malavika's just about to finish her sentence, to nudge her companion into speaking more about his home, when the arrival of the heir of Polchi has her attention swayed and any attempts of distracting herself from their impending doom out the proverbial window. Princess Malee is just as stunning as she remembers her to be described, with a sort of aura that only could best be described as .... catty? Snakelike? She's not quite sure when she decided to spiral into said animal comparisons to understand her companions better, but she has to admit, the Polchi heir is rather similar to those descriptors. There is an incredible allure to the other's visage, a sort of gravitas she wasn't expecting--one that is neither friendly, nor hostile, but not an energy that Malavika particularly feels comforting. What unsettles her is the air of calculation that the other heir brings to the table, one that directly contrasts to the assumed innocence of the Misbury heir-- Malavika feels the pull of two extremes, and suddenly, her father's earlier nudging to be mindful of the colorful personalities around her makes a bit more sense.

Malavika doesn't necessarily have a lot of love for the heir, but the Misbury heir doesn't seem intent on offering more than a curt nod, and given that she's the hostess, it doesn't seem right to let her distaste filter into conversation--at least, not yet. She has half a mind to let her tongue slip, to slice scathing words to the representative nation that stood by and sensationalized the struggle of her people, of her nation, but she quells her internal turmoil in favor of a warm, polite greeting.

Malee's arrival seems to have triggered the arrival of the other heirs as well. The next to join them is the heir of Darten, who greets them all by tossing out his name and a snappy little response about not hexing anyone. She hopes to the gods it's an actual joke, because even she can't stifle the little bubble of laughter that slips out behind a white gloved hand, the slight shaking of her shoulders betraying her. If the heir is so comfortable teasing the rumors and scandals surrounding him and his family, perhaps he'd take her little joke with grace. Either way, this function is far too long for her her to continuously be reserved and polite.

She's getting a little exhausted with the whole "thanks so much for the invitation, let's not kill each other anymore, blahblahblah" routine that each of the heirs are presenting. She knows damn well it's for the benefit of the camera, for the bigger performance they are all expected to deliver, though the Wyrn heir's introduction sends her slightly for a loop. She was expecting something curt, maybe even hostile from him, but the only thing that he is is eloquent, in a sort of way that makes her take pause. Is this the Wyrn duplicity she's assumed and grown to know during the war? Either way, she relaxes her features and inclines her head. She's a bit flat on the excited, not quite with the same kind of verve that anyone else would have said it, but hey, she's never claimed she was perfect in any capacity. Either way, she tries to make her response less cold, a bit more gentle, because she can't imagine any other person at the table being entirely too receptive to the presence of that heir.

And then finally, finally, the last of them arrives. The heir of Zeher, the one she's been dreading to see. She knows him only distantly -- Adi was the one with ties to Zeher, not her. The arrival of Prince Ze'ev makes it so that everything is much more sooner, the impending marriages, the announcement and everything-- her chest constricts, and she has to force herself to quietly suck in a breath. In, out. In, out. Relax, Malavika. There are eyes on you.

She finds herself repeating again for the thousandth time that night. She's about to say something, drawing up one of the useless platitudes that she's offered to each of the other heirs throughout the night, right after she takes a sip of her flute to soothe her now-dry mouth, when the newly joined heir opens his mouth and asks about her brother. He asks if Adi will be joining them tonight.

In that moment, she swears the world goes silent. She freezes, knuckles white around the delicate stem of her glass.

Aditya. He should have been here, with her, today. He wouldn't have been the one getting married, no, but he would have been a welcome presence, bright and bubbly, like the sun, soothing other heirs and striking conversation to set the others at ease. He would have been beside her, squeezing her hands in excitement to see who his new in-law would be. And all in all, she can't help but feel acid roil in her stomach, bitter and venomous. She tenses, her shoulders tight and stiff, as though she's about to lunge at the newcomer and bang his pretty face against the stupid table until she feels better.

Breathe. Breathe, Malavika. It feels like he's asking her to rub it in--she lost her brother during the war, to them, of all people, and she knows, damn it. She knows.

She takes a long, drawn out breath, before answering. She smiles, but it never reaches her eyes, her tone frigid. Her gaze sweeps out towards the rest of the heirs, pointedly ignoring the one that's asked her the question. Her gaze flicks to the heir of Darten, and her eyes crinkle in slight amusement, though it's clear from her rigid posture that she's not entirely unscathed from this whole interaction about her brother. She jokes.

My. This is going to be a long night.

“Breathe, my little fawn. When your emotions are feeling too big for your body, just remember to breathe. In…and out….in…and out, just as mama taught you.”

The wine glass threatened to splinter in his rough hands. For so long he had imagined coming face to face with the betrayer. He was aware of the glossy lens of the cameras more than ever. His shoulders felt heavy with the weight of their gaze. Osín’s free hand twitches, searching for the cool handle of a sword but finding none. He took a breath, closing his eyes for the briefest of seconds in an attempt to calm himself.

By the time the Prince of Zeher had entered he had successfully ironed his face into a mask of cool indifference. He would not…could not look in his direction in fear of his inner thoughts appearing in his eyes. Mother had always told them that they gave him away. There was no hiding the storm brewing in his mind. The light gray had transformed into dark storm clouds.

Osín could only watch Princess Malavika with a combination of envy and admiration for the way that she kept her composure. He felt a sense of kinship with her in a sense. Prince Kaido’s words brought a malicious little smile to his face that he hid behind a sip of wine. “I find myself most interested in that particular topic of conversation. Darten’s…culture has always been a topic that I sought to gain more knowledge in.” His stare shifted to Malik then, gaze unblinking.