Prince of Ambition - Part 1 + Characters:
Cyril Kamelot + Rating:
E+ Word Count:
419+ Author's Notes:
A story about the youth of one Cyril Kamelot.
Cyril Kamelot was always a spoiled child, and it was only natural that he grew into a spoiled young man; His father and mother were a beautiful couple, dignitaries from the not-so-distant land of Portugal sent to England for political purposes. Though he remembered the warm, lush landscape of his homeland in childhood memories, he grew up in the manicured streets of London...
The wallpaper was beginning to fade in his mother's parlor, Cyril noticed; the once-rich shades of rose were paling from the ravages of the harsh spring sun. It gave the room a feeling not entirely unlike that of a funeral salon: Dreary, lifeless, and capable of sucking the joy and life out of any creature that spent too much time within its confines.
What a suitable comparison, especially at a time like this.
"Are you paying attention?"
His father's sharp, condescending Portuguese stirred Cyril from his introspection, though he made sure not to betray his inattention.
"Of course I am, Father." He smiled, expression genial despite the bile of hatred that embittered his tongue. "This is a very important discussion, after all."
A discussion he had little say in, for the fourth time. Marriages for political gain were arranged at such early dates that social disgrace and financial ruin provided many opportunities for change. Ambassador Kamelot simply had poor luck in choosing his allies, when it came to his son's prospective suitors.
The poor little daughters of two barons and a viscount had fallen by the wayside in the last two years; Cyril hadn't particularly cared for any of them, but the price of arranging another engagement was afternoons of debate in this silly, dreary room, watching his silly, dreary parents bicker over what was best for them, forcing him to pay attention all the while.
"Hm?" Pausing in his rumination, Cyril realized his parents were waiting for some sort of response from him. Do you have any preference?
, as though it influenced the decision at all. "The Pritchard girl isn't so bad, I suppose."
The ambassador nodded sharply, closing the ledger on his desk with a sharp, snapping sound as he rose to his feet.
"Good. You'll have the opportunity to begin winning her over at the gala next week."
His mother stood as well, draping one of her delicate hands on her son's shoulder as if he would break at too harsh a touch.
"Don't disappoint us, Cyril. You know how important this is for our family."
It was such a laugh, really: That they expected him to disappoint them, when their ambitions were so meager in comparison to his own.
Cyril nodded, giving his mother a pleasant smile as he smoothed a single misplaced wrinkle from his trousers.
"Of course, Mother. You can expect nothing short of my best behavior."