170: Use; what a caged bird is to a man
The Marquess of Wales' silence was made heavy not by his own will, but by the howling winds around them.
He stared at the Duke of York, unflinching as he read the man, the language his body spoke, the things his ethereal beauty preferred. The way his gaze studied the painter.
Drystan saw it all, mind running a thousand miles as he maintained the smile, the expression on his face turning more and more genuine as the time passed, as he observed.
Adrastus stayed silent, occasionally glancing at the ruin of the faultless flowers at Drystan's feet as he blinked, long eyelashes fluttering every so often.
The painter observed, taking in the hatefully beautiful appearance.
The man was a thing of reverence, created by the artful hands of the God who stood above all. And him? He was nothing but a shell of pretence made to come into this world by the hateful emotions that came alive that fateful day.