[The reasoning, in theory, becomes evident a moment later when the man reaches the throne: he bends the knee, his form so proper as to imply he knows precisely what such an action means. And the curve of his lips never leaves his face.
To her credit, though she does not wear her disdain as openly as her young charge, the woman at Zelda's back does not seem to have relaxed in the slightest between speaking with Giorno and Ganondorf's entrance. Her hand remains upon the princess' shoulder, her fingers firmly pressed into the fabric of her gown. Piercing red eyes remain locked upon Ganondorf's kneeling form, and the muscles of her jaw flex with increasing tension. Neither of them appear like they want to be here, but duty demands restraint.
The king, in contrast, maintains his stoic facade, neither seeming overjoyed nor incensed by the Gerudo prince's presence. He stands after the prince kneels, arms opened to invite all in attendance to hear him. But this is a dream, and Zelda's attention was clearly captured elsewhere when this event occurred, and so when he speaks, Giorno does not so much hear words as he finds a collection of ideas entering his mind.
A long, arduous civil war, one lasting decades, if not longer. Trading assaults on towns and settlements, and terrible casualties mounting upon both sides. A ceasefire a few years ago that evolved into legitimate peace talks. And now, the hope of bridging the distance between their peoples, and building a stronger country for a future generation who will never know war.
Ganondorf nods along and doesn't interrupt, and Zelda's anger, by necessity, subsides back into that more childish pout of displeasure. It is, after all, very hard to maintain righteous indignation when your father is droning on about what seems like ancient history to you, and you are also ten years old.
Her eyes move to Giorno at some point during this, the question found in her wary curiosity resonating through his mind just the same as the king's speech.
no subject
To her credit, though she does not wear her disdain as openly as her young charge, the woman at Zelda's back does not seem to have relaxed in the slightest between speaking with Giorno and Ganondorf's entrance. Her hand remains upon the princess' shoulder, her fingers firmly pressed into the fabric of her gown. Piercing red eyes remain locked upon Ganondorf's kneeling form, and the muscles of her jaw flex with increasing tension. Neither of them appear like they want to be here, but duty demands restraint.
The king, in contrast, maintains his stoic facade, neither seeming overjoyed nor incensed by the Gerudo prince's presence. He stands after the prince kneels, arms opened to invite all in attendance to hear him. But this is a dream, and Zelda's attention was clearly captured elsewhere when this event occurred, and so when he speaks, Giorno does not so much hear words as he finds a collection of ideas entering his mind.
A long, arduous civil war, one lasting decades, if not longer. Trading assaults on towns and settlements, and terrible casualties mounting upon both sides. A ceasefire a few years ago that evolved into legitimate peace talks. And now, the hope of bridging the distance between their peoples, and building a stronger country for a future generation who will never know war.
Ganondorf nods along and doesn't interrupt, and Zelda's anger, by necessity, subsides back into that more childish pout of displeasure. It is, after all, very hard to maintain righteous indignation when your father is droning on about what seems like ancient history to you, and you are also ten years old.
Her eyes move to Giorno at some point during this, the question found in her wary curiosity resonating through his mind just the same as the king's speech.
Can I trust you?]