A warm simper of satisfaction so readily touched the Monarch's lips as Harley selected one of those offered coffees. The Were woman added that cream before lifting the steaming cup to her lips. Her clear satisfaction prompted a nod from the Monarch. That singular hint of approval, in turn, seemed to satisfy that guard as he stepped out of the room. The Monarch left alone with Harley, save for Lucas within the corner. The security guard was content to merely observe in silence as was often his way. Harley's attempts to offer that Italian thanks was met with a ready grin. The Fae King chuckled softly as he nodded once more.

"Prego" (You are welcome)

Harley moved to offer him her sketchbook then as Dorian's own hand extended to take it. The Fae King rested the book upon the table before him, the first of those pages turned neatly over before his silver gaze eyed the drawing upon it. Each page within that book was carefully turned, Dorian taking due care to observe each image with that same clear consideration. The work of another artist, after all, was most fascinating. Art was an expression of so very many things. That subject, the subject manner, the medium, the pose, the view, the highlights. Each and every stroke and decision spoke of the very person whom had crafted the image and too- of that image themselves as seen by the artist. It was, however, one of those first images that seemed to capture the Monarch's attention so fully- a ready grin finding his lips once more at the pun printed across the page. Dorian content to insist his sibling, while so often serious, seemed to adore those word puns in a fashion Dorian himself was assured he might never understand. Harley was quick to insist her own brother so apparently lacked humour of any kind- at least around her. That singular revelation prompted the Monarch's gaze to meet her own near questioningly before he shoulders rose in a loose shrug. Perhaps she was not close with this brother she mentioned. Dorian, for now, content not to press upon the subject as he turned to that next page. His gaze once more ran gently over the black and grey that made up the work before Harley queried that manner of whether or not he was close with his own sibling. That very question prompted a frown to his features as he considered it. His gaze once more lifting to Harleys own.

"My brother is not a man inclined to closeness, at least, not in the way most others would consider it. He is aloof, by his very nature- but I know he cares for me. He would come at the first call if I needed him and we do spend time together, when we can. I care about him very much, even if we are very different people."

Dorian's gaze shifted back tot hat artwork before him. His accented words offered with a simple, easy honesty. After all, his relationship with his sibling was so hardly any great secret in that regard. The Fae King assured he desired to be closer with Aiden still and yet- such things took time. Aiden, as Matteo had said, took longer then most. His sibling prone to stubbness in...everything. Those thoughts of Aiden, however, were cast easily aside for now. Dorian content to fixate upon that work in front of him once more before commenting upon his like for her art. It was different, unique and wholly intricate in its intent. Thatvery comment seeming to prompt a snort from the woman-as if she hardly believed his words to be genuine. Perhaps it was so that she was not often complimented? Perhaps others has commented too harshly on her work? Perhaps she merely doubted her own skill. Dorian so readily offered her a near curious look as she insisted that she suspected this style of art was perhaps not his 'cup of tea' if only how vastly different it was from his own. How surely it was Dorian's own turn to lift his shoulders in that loose, easy shrug.

"I may prefer some art to others, yes, but there is no one type of art, no definition of what is right or wrong when it comes to art. By that notion I think I would be misguided were I to only ever find joy in art similar to my own. One does not like only one type of food.One should not like only one type of art."

That warm simper found his lips once more, the Fae king falling silent for but a moment longer before commenting upon Harley's use of black and white and grey- of light and shadow. Her artworks so rarely if ever possessed any true colour outside that grayscale palette. How very curious! His query upon why she chose to express her works within that medium were met with a look of surprise- the young woman admitting that he alone had ever bothered to ask such a thing before insisting that colour allowed things to hide. That grey scale was a bold truth,in a fashion, one that showed the world as it was even if she had once thought differently. Dorian's own head titled ever so slightly,the Monarch considering those very words as he nodded.

"This makes a great deal of sense."

After all- the sheer depth of her honesty within her art....within her soul, so readily spoke to the colours of the aura that shone about her figure. An Aura the Monarch found most curious in several aspects. Her sketchbook was handed back to her. Dorian took that moment to retrieve the white pastel from his pocket before beginning to sketch upon that page, his silver gaze glancing upward on occasion before he softly requested she speak of herself. That singular request seemed to prompt a measure of hesitation within the woman as she queried whether or not her aura was not being helpful. Dorian's head shook softly.

"On the contrary, your aura is very expressive, I am merely curious if what you believe of yourself is reflected truly in your soul."

That response, once more, was nothing short of honest- the Monarch softly gesturing for Harley to continue as his own gaze fixated upon the paper in front of him. Dorian continued with that white sketch while Harley debated that answer. The woman declared she liked his own honesty before insisting she could tell part of her story at least. Whatfollowed was a veritable rush of words delivered with the apatheticness of one who had come to accept their families situation even if they did not take pleasure in it. The deaths of her parents, it seemed, were ones she had almost tired speaking of. Her own brothers distance a hardly desired trait and yet one she had resigned herself too in turn. She spoke of herself,however, with a confident assurance. The very kind that betrayed itself in the way she spoke, the way she walked- the way she carried herself before she had even opened her mouth. She spoke of love- but only for her dog. Along with a desire for 'witty' conversation before declaring she hated this tye of conversation entirely. How utterly her aura seemed to bloom as those emotions were pressed to the forefront! Her soul so relatively....searching itself in those moments. Offering the Monarch an insight into those layers of colour so often concealed behind another. Her honesty, perhaps, the very reason beings such as Matteo and Alexander were impossible to read. Their souls possessed layers....depths they refused to allow anyone to see and yet Harley was perhaps more...willing in some sense. In the very least-her aura was. She spoke readily than of those things she hated. Her aura shifted to display the very depth of that disdain before abruptly announcing that she was certain he was not interested in this. Her bluntness prompted a glimpse of surprise to the Monarch's features as he glanced upward again.

"Few people speak so honestly to me, in truth I find it rather fascinating. More so, it shows me even more of your aura. I like to capture as many colours as I can. Even if you only touch upon certain subjects it still offers insight."

Harley was quick to insist they surely could not cover it all, Dorian's own head nodding in agreement. To cover an entire lifetime was almost impossible and yet- he so hardly needed to. Not when he could see so clearly into her very soul in those moments. The Monarch, however, so hardly anticipated those questions to be turned back upon him. Dorian abruptly given to pause in his white sketch. No one, he was certain, had ever asked him such questions before. After all- it was akin to heresy and yet- Harley was so hardly his subject. Nor would any admittance to her be viewed as such. A faint simper tugged at the Fae King's features, Dorian dutifully returning to his sketch, his features frowning in consideration for several moments before those accented words parted his lips again.

"It does not bother me in the sense that I have never known any different. I was born into a royal family. My life has never existed without restriction and obligation in one form or another. I cannot miss what I do not know."

His shoulders rose softly in a loose shrug, Dorian pausing for a moment to add several more lines to that sketch before continuing.

"But, as for the matter of freedom- yes. To be free of rules and responsibility and social constraint. To go where I pleased when I pleased, to wear what I desired to wear, to say what I desired to say- I often long for these very things. My every move, my every word, my every action is judged by those around me and it can be truly exhausting. I often wonder who I would be- were I allowed to be me."

That soft simper, once more, tugged gently at his lips, Dorian continuing to work quietly at the drawing, his head tilting slightly to examine it from another angle. The Fae King hardly paused to consider his own words any longer. Such things, perhaps, were better not dwelled upon.

"There are some parts of your aura that are so strikingly clear, the depth of colour is intense and quite lovely. You are wonderfully intelligent, but prone to rashness. That rashness however is interwoven with passion. You are a deeply passionate person in the sense that those things that matter to you- matter deeply. You are stubborn and wilful and impatient at times. You act as if the deaths of your family and your brother's distance no longer truly affects you but that are marks on your soul and why should they not be? They mattered to you- they still do. Even if there is anger connected to them all. You are creative, bold and prone to using sarcasm as a shield. You hate to be commanded in any sense,t o be powerless, to lack choice. These are critical values to you. But beneath it all and at the very core of your aura- you are a good person and a kind one. The things you do come from a desire to shield others, when you can, from suffering what can be prevented."

Those words were a veritable rush, dorian, at last, glancing upward from that paper to meet Harley's gaze. His fingers, in that same moment, content to brush across the page in front of him. How readily his affinity seemed to answer his call. That page before him veritably exploding with colour. Red and gold and violet and blue and grey intwinging with one another,blending and shifting to settle around the sketched image of Harley herself, sitting upon her desk, one leg folded over the other, her gaze turned sideways,a half smirk upon her features as if laughing silently at a joke she alone could see.That aura surrounding her like a halo. An impossible blend of colour that followed flawlessly into the next. Thatimage offered for Harley to view.

"Is there any colour you should like to know about?"

Dorian Aragona