Sacre Background Fiction

For the sake of ease, I'll be using this for the altered background of the character Sacre.

Archer Oak's scene, the 'split point' for Lunar and Sidereal Sacre

"You were almost late, I believe, Your Majesty."
"A king is never late, young Cyrano." His Highness of Telleimare, Archer Oak, stated with a smile as he shut the door, tucking something into his vest. The afternoon light made the tapestries almost glow, which made the black-haired youth patiently standing beside the table seem both painfully drab and threadbare in his gray tunic and leggings. Archer himself was a riot of reds, greens, and golds in his hair alone, with leafy-green eyes helping to betray that he was chosen of the Dragons. "Sit, sit, sit, lad. I am aware that your father was up to his usual tricks again. What was it today?"
The boy sighed as he sank down onto the stool, rubbing his neck with a tanned hand. "Improvised combat again, sir. In the library of all places. I worry for my father's sanity sometimes." A servant who had awaited outside of the door entered and poured tea, before leaving again.
"Vert Cyrano is most definitely not sane, Sacre. I'm surprised you never realized that. There is a method to his madness. At least he brought the message to you." The expression on the jester's son's face was perfectly blank with a faint frown to betray his lack of appreciation. Archer knew that in many ways, laughing, handsome Vert and soft-spoken, intelligent Sacre couldn't be more different, a fact that he was reminded of almost every time he saw father or son. "Anyways. The years have passed quickly. You are almost eighteen!" Archer couldn't help smiling at the moment of his own birthday at that age, freshly Exalted, the world open to many more possibilities.
"I know, Your Majesty." Smiling gray eyes, already just beginning to line with laugh lines, closed for a moment as their owner's face crumbled, Sacre coughing painfully. "Wood you like me to say how many times I heard this branch of conversation this last month?" He ducked his head to take a sip of the bitter herbs the King always set out for his lover's son. Archer Oak sighed inwardly, his good mood mildly dampened. He loved the young man as if the blasted lad was his own son, had tended to him as an infant, but sometimes he was painfully reminded of just which of his lovers was the boy's father. For every time he was reminded that they were opposites, one or the other would smile in the same exact way, or use the same turn of phrase, or, most often, slipped a play on words into their speech.
"Sacre," The Wood Aspect let his mind drift as he talked, his hand on his temple, where he had begun rubbing it after Sacre had spoken, "Lad, it is still a strange thing to think about for an Exalt." He could remember meeting Sacre's sire, his granddam, his great-grandfather when they were on the threshold of adulthood. All of them jesters, all in his service and bed, with Vert being the finest of them. Black hair, handsome features, dark skin that only enhanced the brilliance of his green eyes...
Sacre, on the other hand... He was plain, and somewhat paler, keeping to the library to read, even though he would go out in the sunshine often at his own father's insistence, born with his courtesan mother's dancing gray eyes. What he lacked in his family's looks, he more than made up for in other ways. "I knew you before you could even walk." His green eyes flicked to the boy's nose, still smudged with ink. "Or read." He plucked a handcloth from his side, licked it and leaned in.
"Sir-"
"Hold still, you have ink on your nose." As Archer expected from the command, Sacre stopped fidgeting, watching his liege lord. As he continued cleaning off the black shadow from the boy's face, he continued speaking, smiling. "I remember the first time you toddled, and how your father and the court laughed and clapped and cheered, and how you began crying from the uproar. Vert had to pick you up and cover your ears until you stopped crying."
"My lord," The jester's son rubbed his nose, crossing his eyes, "I was barely able to walk. All I can remember from there is blurs of color and sound."
Archer took a sip of hot tea, deciding how to approach what he was about to do. He wasn't as skilled at words as his nobles, he was merely the king who had the blessing of the Dragons. "Then, let your king see what you know, young Cyrano." He taps a spot just before his plate. "What would be here, during a formal dinner in the Realm?"
Sacre's eyebrows rose, frowning. "Your chopsticks, sire." Archer smiled inwardly as Sacre's posture straightened and he widened his eyes, forcing himself to not squint.
"And for Lookshy?"
"The same, but you have something to rest your chopsticks on."
The king nodded and took a different tact, speaking in careful High Realm as he asked the next question. "Sacre, I know that you speak this tongue. My question is how."
Youthful laughter emerged before Sacre could answer, answering in the same language. "My lord, High Realm is a rather common tongue among the Dynasts of House Ragara who come though here. I asked one nicely a time ago to teach me." He took a careful sip of his own tea. "The same one who sold you the red tea you are drinking, and the herbs you keep giving me for my health."
Archer's smile grew as Sacre quietly answered questions to satisfy his king's curiosity, until finally, the young man looked at his empty cup and then up at the Dragonblooded. "Ah, I was waiting for that expression. I will finish with this after one request, my patient boy." The servant set down a small place of cakes in between king and commoner, as the Dragonblooded casually asked, "Could you sing Tamiz's opening part, in the Saffron Sitar?"
Sacre coughed, his brow furrowing in confusion. "I am not a musician, sir. I do not even know what that is."
"Precisely my point." Archer leaned back, hiding his pleasure with a frown of disappointment, looking outside at the late afternoon light. "I have seen three jesters, all of your lineage, come and go. You won't be one of them."
"You must be jesting, my lord." Much to his shock, Sacre didn't begin to cry. He stared at Archer with a blank broken stare, which hurried the Dragonblooded's next words.
"Sacre, by the Dragons, have you listened at all to the questions I have asked?" The king stood up, inwardly beaming at the reflex of the Cyrano standing up as well. "I asked you of your knowledge of culture, of society, of language! And each time, you displayed a mastery of such things remarkable in a noble, let alone a commoner boy. Yet, I ask you for a simple question of music... one that if you had displayed any interest in music to your father, he would have taught you-"
"Your Highness," Sacre's spine was now stiff, not straight as he spoke almost venomously, "if this has a point, stop rubbing your refusal in my face and get to the fucking point."
In a flash, Archer crossed the space and lifted Sacre's chin up hard, making the gray eyes begin to weep from the pain, without a sound from him. "Language, Sacre. You may be the great-grandchild, the grandchild, and the son of people I held dear, you may be someone I see as a son. However-" He seized the rough cloth of the young man's clothes and lifted, reminded of just how fragile this particular mortal was, "- my kingdom is more important. I am not wasting you on laughter, on cheap laughter and pranks that a sick mind could do. I will not allow the boy, no, the man who stands here, with an enraged king in front of him, with a face of stone be nothing more than a mere common performer." He released Sacre's shoulders, letting out a soft breath as he wiped his mouth of spittle. As much as he loved Vert, had loved the Cyranos, in this, he wouldn't stand.
"Then, Your Majesty," The man looked up with the closed mask that Archer had seen on him so many times before in court, speaking in that light voice, "What part would you have me play, if not the one that my father inspired me to?"
"You are not a musician, not a jester. You are not a commoner, Sacre." Archer shook his head. He could remember thousands of faces over his hundred years of rulership. Sacre was a rarity, something sang of destiny even as a little boy. "Born of it, yes, but you are not meant for the dirt path." He strode to the window again, sighing at the sunset. "If you had the Dragons' blessing, I would have made you my heir."
"I would have been quite the Air."
"Sacre." He looked at the sheepish, embarrassed smile on the young man's face. "You are pushing it." The smile grew bigger, and Archer shook his head, chuckling. "This is what I mean, lad. Your father, your grandmother, they would have done something comic. You, on the other hand, take a courtier's path, hiding your emotions, agreeing with me. You have two choices. You can have your freedom, Sacre."
"Freedom?"
"In exchange of never returning," The Wood Aspect heard Sacre made a minute choking sound, "You would be able to do whatever you wanted. Freedom is a rare thing in this world, Sacre. However..." He turned to the young man, "There is what I had hoped you to do. In a week's time, Ragara Euphemios will be leaving in the company of Soft-Spoken Words. If you agree to it, you'll begin training as a diplomat under him."
"I will serve, Your Majesty." Sacre went on one knee smoothly, his eyes shut. Archer nodded and took out a sealed letter from his doublet. He had hoped the discussion would have gone more gracefully, but he couldn't complain now. Not with having the man finally in a place that he could make the most of his social graces.
"Go to him now then, and give him the letter. You are dismissed."