Of all the things he likes the least about having had to step in personally to shepherd the Empire he has so carefully constructed to its true glory, it's that he hasn't been able to stop. There is a unceasing amount of paperwork. Troops to command (and not in person, not any more), infrastructure to build, fledging rebellions to quell, and any of a number of things besides. Enough that he has had no choice but to let himself grow old. To maintain this one, single, form (though that in itself is no trouble) and constrain himself to the tedium of it all.
He doesn't know what the papers arranged before him are. He doesn't care, and perhaps it doesn't matter, though given that it's one of the tribunii who's brought them (he has allowed himself to forget the man's name) it's probably news of unrest in one of the lands they've subjugated. Nothing new, then, and he lets the man drone on for a moment longer before raising a hand.
"Enough."
His voice is unbent by the years that have weighed so heavily on his mortal frame; his one small concession to himself, for having to tolerate all the rest and it cuts through the air almost like a knife.
"Your Radiance?" the tribunus asks, uncertainty apparent in his voice even through the helmet.
"I grow weary. You may leave."
It's a dismissal, for all that it's not stated in so many words, and to his credit, the tribunus picks up on it immediately.
"A-at once."
The man sketches out a properly respectful salute, and then is gone, vanishing out of the room with a haste that might almost seem supernatural, doors swinging shut behind him as he goes. It's only then that Solus permits himself a sigh, shoulders bowing, even as he longs for the days when he'd been young enough that he might have been able to simply plant his head into his hands or against the table without his borrowed frame taking complaint with it.
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Dream event; as discussed on Discord!
Date: 2020-11-24 09:51 pm (UTC)He doesn't know what the papers arranged before him are. He doesn't care, and perhaps it doesn't matter, though given that it's one of the tribunii who's brought them (he has allowed himself to forget the man's name) it's probably news of unrest in one of the lands they've subjugated. Nothing new, then, and he lets the man drone on for a moment longer before raising a hand.
"Enough."
His voice is unbent by the years that have weighed so heavily on his mortal frame; his one small concession to himself, for having to tolerate all the rest and it cuts through the air almost like a knife.
"Your Radiance?" the tribunus asks, uncertainty apparent in his voice even through the helmet.
"I grow weary. You may leave."
It's a dismissal, for all that it's not stated in so many words, and to his credit, the tribunus picks up on it immediately.
"A-at once."
The man sketches out a properly respectful salute, and then is gone, vanishing out of the room with a haste that might almost seem supernatural, doors swinging shut behind him as he goes. It's only then that Solus permits himself a sigh, shoulders bowing, even as he longs for the days when he'd been young enough that he might have been able to simply plant his head into his hands or against the table without his borrowed frame taking complaint with it.