Two hundred and, oh, forty, give or take, [ he says mildly, relieved to have a new focal point for their conversation, barely removed though it is from deeper waters. (He recovers, within the space of moments, the lines drawn upon his features smoothing into the appearance of amusement.) He doesn't blame her, ultimately, though irritation is a feeling he's long had difficulty in banishing, having lived in a state of perpetual roiling hatred for so long. ]
How old was he?
[ Another question, another potential for them to trip into painful territory. Following a pause, he rethinks his line of inquiry: ]
How old were you, when you wed?
[ He expects a painful answer but reasons, at the same time, that it would have been common knowledge, in her realm — royals hardly ever marry without some great to-do — and he's deliberate in not (yet) asking her how she felt about it. She's already alluded to it, anyway. Better to attempt to let a wound scab over than to continue picking at it. ]
no subject
How old was he?
[ Another question, another potential for them to trip into painful territory. Following a pause, he rethinks his line of inquiry: ]
How old were you, when you wed?
[ He expects a painful answer but reasons, at the same time, that it would have been common knowledge, in her realm — royals hardly ever marry without some great to-do — and he's deliberate in not (yet) asking her how she felt about it. She's already alluded to it, anyway. Better to attempt to let a wound scab over than to continue picking at it. ]