xanthe chrysós { d1 } fin

[ely]

Xanthe
eighteen 
golden boy
refined & restrained
wants fame, fortune, & freedom



thanks fox bab <3

[ely]

[presto]

Xanthe Chrysós

[/presto]

Beneath his skin there lies his true ego, small and dark and fragile. Cut him open with some convincingly harsh words, and perhaps it’ll slip out, shatter silently into a million pieces. Even so, he will find the strength to stitch them back together. For he must; he will not permit himself to fail before their cold stares. No matter what it takes, he will prove himself worthy.

And so this is how he handles it:
Head up, back straight (show off his blond hair, show off his new shirt);
Golden eyes gleaming, mysterious;
A silver tongue, alluring, placating, cunning ("I’m very well, pretty Miss—how are you faring?");
His smile, a barely-there smirk, so very charming—

—and fake, fake, fake.

He faces the world with his soul hidden, tucked away into the corners of his clockwork mind. He is the golden boy: well-mannered, sophisticated, perfected right down to his manicured fingertips and bronzed skin. Years and years of lying to tutors, pleasing his parents, and charming guests at their lavish parties have made maintaining this façade child’s play. In it he finds a certain comfort. He knows that he is handsome, likeable. He briefly delights in having this power over others; their attention signifies his self-worth.

But he feels nothing more towards these people. Veniunt et eunt; they come and they go. Their transitory appearances mean more little to him than opportunities to lie, influence, toy with. Even his parents, a flickering pair of shadows at the edges of his life—though they have perhaps from time to time evoked in him the feeling of dread, and shame, and duty… they have succeeded in doing little else. And truly, he hates it. God, he hates this life: groomed to meet others’ expectations, chained within a cage of extravagance and superficiality.

But he’ll be damned if he lets himself fail.

[ely]

The golden boy grows up sheltered, solitary. Nannies raise him; tutors educate him. His parents (Mother and Father dearest) float in and out, chastising him, spoiling him. This is a household full of strangers, in which he is the sole object of permanence.

He is a restless child, filled with life that they struggle to contain. So they push him into a myriad of pursuits: first the violin, then dance. And so they clip his feathers, one by one.

¤

‘Failure’ is a word he learns at five.

“Don’t be so hard on him,” his mother murmurs.

“He’ll never learn otherwise,” his father bites out.

He learns to obey, learns the meaning of shame. He practices until his fingers and his feet are aching, reads fairy tales until he falls asleep. But there are also things that he does not learn of: candor, empathy, familial love.

¤

When he is six, a flower by the name of Iris blooms in his life. She is always happy, always trusting, always obedient; she is his baby sister, his first glimpse of human innocence.

As the years elapse, however, Iris begins to excel at the things he does not. And so he learns what it is like to crave his parents’ praise, to feel inferior.

Yet, he loves her still.

¤

The Chrysós family values: honour, dignity, and success.

Throughout his youth, he pursues accomplishments, whatever they may be: he runs faster than the boys around the district, develops a taste for expensive fashions, and studies the art of the sword fighting. Never does the desire to be victorious, to be recognized, to be superior within him die; it continues to burn, black. He lives for the glory, because he has learned that this is all a game—

—one that he must win or die trying.

[kaяi ♕]

beautiful