[ When the question is past her lips she can't help but feel a little foolish for asking it in the first place. Why else would a sibling or half sibling hate their own flesh and blood enough to spew such hateful words were it not over a right of succession or birth? But maybe this is just another part of her blissful ignorance, a possible family dynamic that she had narrowly missed because of luck. Maybe she had just been fortunate enough to have a happier childhood than most where her Crest hadn't made her more desirable as an heir, and Holst didn't have a cruel bone on his body.
There's so much to digest. To have to fight not just for a birthright but for just the right to be accepted by your own people – her heart hangs heavy at the thought of a younger Claude trying in vain to win approval that no one should ever have to. Her heart sinks and clenches tight at the implication that he and his siblings could easily have made attempts on one another's lives for their father's title.
All of that is to say that there's a multitude of thoughts running through her mind that it doesn't immediately register what Claude is telling her. Because unbeknownst to her, her assumption had been right. They had been fighting for a title. Just not for the title she thought. In almost comedic slow motion it plays back in her mind. She stares at him, wide eyed and unblinking, expression impossible to read.
There's a beat of silence. And then another before – ]
Your father is a what?
[ A king. A king? The king of Almyra? But then that would make Claude...
Light, tittering laughter flits from her mouth as she takes her hand, slapping it down onto his chest like he was kidding and this was a joke he had almost pulled over her eyes. Her mouth twitches as if waiting for him to toss in the punch line. ]
No. No, no, there's no way you're a prince. I mean – [ She motions to him pulling away this time to sit up on her knees and fully look at him. ] look at you. Great joke, Claude - you got me there.
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There's so much to digest. To have to fight not just for a birthright but for just the right to be accepted by your own people – her heart hangs heavy at the thought of a younger Claude trying in vain to win approval that no one should ever have to. Her heart sinks and clenches tight at the implication that he and his siblings could easily have made attempts on one another's lives for their father's title.
All of that is to say that there's a multitude of thoughts running through her mind that it doesn't immediately register what Claude is telling her. Because unbeknownst to her, her assumption had been right. They had been fighting for a title. Just not for the title she thought. In almost comedic slow motion it plays back in her mind. She stares at him, wide eyed and unblinking, expression impossible to read.
There's a beat of silence. And then another before – ]
Your father is a what?
[ A king. A king? The king of Almyra? But then that would make Claude...
Light, tittering laughter flits from her mouth as she takes her hand, slapping it down onto his chest like he was kidding and this was a joke he had almost pulled over her eyes. Her mouth twitches as if waiting for him to toss in the punch line. ]
No. No, no, there's no way you're a prince. I mean – [ She motions to him pulling away this time to sit up on her knees and fully look at him. ] look at you. Great joke, Claude - you got me there.