For centuries, Sebastian had carried the weight of his sins. The events surrounding his wife's death had once filled his every waking thought, the Englishman's decidedly analytical mind had contemplated every single 'what if', every feasible way in which he could have done things differently, much less every choice he could have made that would have saved her. He had done too much wrong to believe his lover's gentle efforts of reassurance, the vampire entirely staunch in his insistence that it had been himself to blame for Isabella's death. That, he was certain, was all the fae Monarch needed to know. That silence in the aftermath of his insistence was altogether rare for the couple. The pair were not usually inclined to linger upon such distressing topics. Sebastian, in turn, so seldom denied his husband anything in the entirety of the world - except this. Isabella had been the one and only thing he had kept for himself. Naively, he had hoped that vague explanation might once again prove to be enough to silence those questions that lingered upon his lover's mind, questions that Dorian found himself needing answers. What he had failed to consider was all the astute fae might notice of the state of his sweet Isabella's ghost.

That very inquiry of her dress seemed to prompt that still silence from the vampire again, those very memories, those minute details, somehow still painful even after all those years. Of course he remembered the very state she had been in that moment of her final breath. He remembered how her blood had tainted the sage hue of her gown, just as it too had smelled as that orange scent became tainted with her own blood. Sebastian forced those very memories from the forefront of his mind, his own shame prompting a small shake of his head as the Englishman simply refused to answer that question at all. It was, admittedly, his own upbringing that prompted Sebastian to simply turn the conversation away from those matters he found too uncomfortable to speak of. After all, his late wife had hardly been the only ghost to materialize within those halls. He had been...shocked, of course, to see the tangible figure of a man he'd only before seen in aged paintings. Dorian had spoken little of his family, Sebastian had garnered enough to know that they had hardly been much of a family at all to his husband and yet, he had not anticipated the accusations that had fluidly left Alfonso's lips over and over again.

The Englishman was aware of the sharp way in which his lover's gaze had turned from him, those striking silver irises instead scanning the room in the exact manner that Sebastian himself had once done. He could hardly help that guilt that invaded him - guilt at inquiring after his lover's own clearly traumatic past. As if Dorian had not lived through enough with those years of forced solitude! He watched that frown upon his lover's lips, Dorian's own voice turning soft as he insisted that Alfonso had simply....misunderstood. Though that sentence was never finished, those words were enough to prevent the vampire from seeking any other details of his faux father's death. After all, with what he knew of Ferdinand, it was likely the Italian had deserved it all the same. His lips parted though he hardly had the chance to apologize to the fae before Dorian's gaze turned pointedly towards him. That sharp tone to the King's voice prompted Sebastian's lips to press together ever just so. Oh, how he wished they were discussing anything but that which Dorian seemed so determined to speak of!

An audible breath left the Englishman's lips as he rose from his knees, the Prince almost seeking that physical distance from his husband as he took several steps away from Dorian and his shattered piano. The hole in the wall instead garnered his attention as Dorian adamantly inquired just why Sebastian so sought to avoid the topic of Isabella. His head shook ever so slightly as he glanced towards the view of the gardens outside, his lover's once manicured yawn suffering some disarray from the creature climbing through their backyard. He turned back towards the King, his brow furrowing, his voice holding some hint of exasperation within the depths of that British accent. "Why does it matter, Dorian? She's dead. She's gone. How she died isn't going to change anything." He insisted, the vampire making some final effort to shut down that conversation, to keep those memories from ever being spoken of again, those emotions still too much for the Englishman to face.

Sebastian Ellington-Aragona

His Royal Highness, Prince of Italy