Post by Deleted on Apr 20, 2017 21:26:26 GMT -5
He had fallen back asleep almost just moments after she had come to see him, but that didn't make Antoinette leave her father's chamber -- rather, she had taken to the stuffed chair that was placed beside his grand bed, the edge of the seat pulled just a fraction too close to the four-poster monstrosity. It threw off the entire balance of aesthetic of the chamber, something Antoinette could feel down to her very bones -- but she appreciated its presence.
It might have been there to aid in his stability in rising from his bed, or for someone to administer a meal or a tincture at a predetermined time. But mostly, it meant he wasn't alone.
From where she sat, her posture straight, feet planted firmly on the ground, voluminous skirts spilling out over the chair and pressing up against the many layers of his blanketed bed, Antoinette watched her father where he lay; his breathing steady but slow, his once-regal face now cast in shadows. She felt -- uncomfortable, to say the least. This was not a man she remembered with warmth, something more like indifference.
They didn't really know one another. At least, before it felt too late.
Crags and spots had begun to appear in places on his face that Antoinette hadn't remembered. It was strange, even, spending this time with him -- for although she and Nicolette were always kept abreast of his condition, since the coronation, so much had fallen into their laps that their focus was now on maintaining the kingdom -- looking to the future, to change and improvement.
And in so many small, unfortunate ways; the man in the bed was a relic of the past.
He shifted in his sleep, and his hand fell out from beneath the soft blanket. And without thinking -- or asking herself why -- the Princess Royal felt her shoulders relax; moved to allow her feet to tuck up beneath herself on the chair; and ever so gently, so as not to wake him -- she moved to clasp his cold hand between her own. To keep him warm.
It might have been there to aid in his stability in rising from his bed, or for someone to administer a meal or a tincture at a predetermined time. But mostly, it meant he wasn't alone.
From where she sat, her posture straight, feet planted firmly on the ground, voluminous skirts spilling out over the chair and pressing up against the many layers of his blanketed bed, Antoinette watched her father where he lay; his breathing steady but slow, his once-regal face now cast in shadows. She felt -- uncomfortable, to say the least. This was not a man she remembered with warmth, something more like indifference.
They didn't really know one another. At least, before it felt too late.
Crags and spots had begun to appear in places on his face that Antoinette hadn't remembered. It was strange, even, spending this time with him -- for although she and Nicolette were always kept abreast of his condition, since the coronation, so much had fallen into their laps that their focus was now on maintaining the kingdom -- looking to the future, to change and improvement.
And in so many small, unfortunate ways; the man in the bed was a relic of the past.
He shifted in his sleep, and his hand fell out from beneath the soft blanket. And without thinking -- or asking herself why -- the Princess Royal felt her shoulders relax; moved to allow her feet to tuck up beneath herself on the chair; and ever so gently, so as not to wake him -- she moved to clasp his cold hand between her own. To keep him warm.