The Englishman had hardly forgotten his father-in-law's gift for restoration, the Frenchman having ostentatiously displayed it time and time again. He doubted, somehow, that the finicky fae might be coaxed to utilizing such a gift for his benefit, though such contemplations were hardly uttered aloud while Dorian so fervently attempted to reassure him. A soft sound left his lips, the vampire purposefully choosing to neither agree nor disagree with the fae King as he leaned forward, his fingers tracing the wooden surface of his once glorious piano in a tender caress. It was only with that final goodbye, of sorts, that prompted Sebastian to lean back and survey the damage of the room at large. The gaping hole within the side of the home was, admittedly, the most pressing of concerns. The elements hardly the only thing that might be able to gain access to the room. A soft breath left his lips as he reached for those crimson threads he wielded, they would at least provide a temporary 'fix' to the massive problem at hand. The very last thing he anticipated, however, was the utterance of his wife's name upon his husband's lips. The syllables that made up her name seemed to provoke an immediate reaction within him, Sebastian quite near freezing in place, the vampire forgetting at that moment to so much as breathe as Dorian insisted that tonight had brought questions that needed to be asked.
His lover's words faded into oblivious, the usual fluency of the King somehow failing him in the wake of those words Dorian clearly wished to say. Slowly, the weight of those navy irises turned towards the Monarch, and yet, Sebastian remained the epitome of silence as Dorian finally queried after the death of his late wife. How Sebastian had tried to avoid any conversation of the woman at all in those years he'd remained at Dorian's side! Those details he'd offered his husband to date were exceptionally vague and truthfully, Sebastian had even less desire to discuss the particulars of Isabella's passing. His tongue flicked almost nervously along his bottom lip, the weight of his once steady gaze turned from his lover, tracing instead the splinters that littered the floor of that music room. That silence persisted unusually long before Sebastian finally muttered of the illness that had afflicted the woman he'd once love, an illness that had inevitably led to her death. Those facts were, admittedly, hardly any more informative then he had offered the King before....nor were they the whole story that had led to his wife's demise. It was, however, almost preferable to simply allow Dorian to think Isabella had followed the same fate as the fae's own mother. Letting his lover fill in those gaps himself was...better than the vampire having to utter the events of that fateful evening, even though they played vividly across his memory like a sickening horror film he couldn't look away from. He was silent, for several moments longer before, in a softened whisper, Sebastian admitted that the whole affair had been his fault.
His lover's insistence that it was hardly his fault Isabella had fallen ill prompted an almost soft snort from the Englishman's lips. After all, he understood well the circumstances that had led to Isabella's illness after all these years. Modern medicine had made enough advances that the mystery around her sickness had dissipated entirely. "I was," Sebastian responded simply, his voice holding a note of sharpness within that British lit. Of this, there was little point in arguing. All of it had been his fault. He had failed her...he had failed his duties to her as her husband. It had been enough to prompt the vampire to swear off such commitments as marriage for near two hundred years and now...? Would there be a time in which Dorian too suffered the same fate? Those increasingly dismal thoughts so toyed with his mind, the vampire interrupted only by his lover's gentle voice as Dorian so attempted to pry the facts surrounding Isabella's death from his lips. It was that second inquiry, however, that prompted a visible frown to his features, his gaze sweeping away from the fae as Dorian so plucked at the threads of that tale. It would seem, tonight, his lover was not nearly as willing to be placated.
There was a small shake to the Englishman's head, that blatant dislike of the conversation so provoking him to simply change the topic. It was, admittedly, largely a result of his upbringing that prompted him to dance so fluidly around those far more uncomfortable conversations. "Is what Alfonso said true?" He inquired abruptly, the navy of his irises turning upon his husband as he so obviously deflected away from any further mention of his wife. After all, though Sebastian had said little of those ancient Italian words his lover's brother had directed at him, there was little doubt that he had understood them, at the very least. Those declarations that their relationship was against God himself was hardly anything new, those insults one he was willing enough to overlook and yet, it had been Alfonso's declaration that Dorian had somehow contributed to their father's (or faux-father) death that had prompted a level of curiosity within the Englishman. After all, the Italian he knew was literally incapable of harming even the smallest of bugs, much less murdering a human. It was, perhaps, hardly any more pleasant of a topic than his own wife's death...but at least it wasn't Isabella they were speaking of.
His Royal Highness, Prince of Italy