Endymion, meanwhile, was very nervous. It wasn’t his wedding, so he really oughtn’t be; and for that matter, he wasn’t used to ever being nervous at all. Nevertheless: today he was hot and itchy underneath his collar, something racketing about in his ribs and making him queasy in his gut, and try as he might, he couldn’t seem to manage sitting still. Not when his brother was about to sacrifice himself on the altar of... well, that was just it. He couldn’t understand why Oz was doing this. Honour? Intransigence? Spite?
He had missed the beginning of their courtship, so maybe he was missing something, but no one else had been able to explain it to him either. Dymion had been counting quite fervently on Dashwood to say something to Ozymandias, from the candidness of friendship – but now they were down to hours and minutes and the wedding hadn’t been called off, so Dashwood had either lost his mind and come around to this whole endeavour, or, even worse, he’d tried and failed and Oz hadn’t listened.
And Endymion didn’t make a habit of giving unwanted advice or opening his mouth for the sake of argument – argument was not his forte in the family – but he had paused on the stairs, heard the pacing from the floor above, and decided that someone really had to rescue his brother before it was too late.
If no one else would do it, then it would just have to be him. He let himself in, proving himself right about the pacing. “Ah, no – the flowers are all there –” Endymion said distractedly. Their mother had evidently had higher standards than the florist, so it had been touch-and-go for a while, but the flowers, now in place, were exquisite. The flowers were very much not the problem here. But there was a deep crinkle of concern on Endymion’s brow as he pulled the door up behind him and tried to work out how to put it delicately. He cleared his throat, fidgeted with his collar. “...Is everything coming along alright with you?”
He had missed the beginning of their courtship, so maybe he was missing something, but no one else had been able to explain it to him either. Dymion had been counting quite fervently on Dashwood to say something to Ozymandias, from the candidness of friendship – but now they were down to hours and minutes and the wedding hadn’t been called off, so Dashwood had either lost his mind and come around to this whole endeavour, or, even worse, he’d tried and failed and Oz hadn’t listened.
And Endymion didn’t make a habit of giving unwanted advice or opening his mouth for the sake of argument – argument was not his forte in the family – but he had paused on the stairs, heard the pacing from the floor above, and decided that someone really had to rescue his brother before it was too late.
If no one else would do it, then it would just have to be him. He let himself in, proving himself right about the pacing. “Ah, no – the flowers are all there –” Endymion said distractedly. Their mother had evidently had higher standards than the florist, so it had been touch-and-go for a while, but the flowers, now in place, were exquisite. The flowers were very much not the problem here. But there was a deep crinkle of concern on Endymion’s brow as he pulled the door up behind him and tried to work out how to put it delicately. He cleared his throat, fidgeted with his collar. “...Is everything coming along alright with you?”
