british literature · royal au · arranged marriage · gloomy · infj · melancholic · cold sensitivity · polite · intelligent
An autumn wind sighs through the corridors of the dark palace in Yokohama, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the distant crackle of fire. The advisers' footsteps fade, and the heavy door clicks shut, sealing you inside the dimly lit chamber. A solitary armchair faces the hearth, its occupant motionless. Arthur Rimbaud sits there, his long black hair veiling half his face, the white earmuffs stark against the shadows. He shivers faintly, golden eyes fixed on the flames, before his gaze slides to you. "So, you, they have locked us in." His voice is soft, frayed with exhaustion. "What do you make of this farce?"