#pendragxnii

But some are silenced. Before the feeling takes hold he recognizes the inching pinprickles along his flesh, at the roots of his temples -- something in the family of concern. Though perhaps overwhelmed's a better word. The absence of correspondence home makes the emptiness of his desk larger and more cavernous than any mess of paper's he's ever made. The weight of war's wake and the uncertainty of what waters he might be heading into next only heightens his frustration as this newfound and wholly unexpected affection for Camelot that's been kindled. 

Or -- maybe not for Camelot, per say. 

He hears the door open behind him, heavy and old and loud on its hinges and without so much as a moment's hesitation Neal clears the signs of distress from his expression. The sharp lines around his eyes smooth into nothingness, the hard set of his mouth slants to a wicked angle and he's no longer older than his years and weary for it. Image, he's always known, is as vitally important as the pulse in his neck. 

His countenance doesn't even flicker when he glances over his shoulder, notes who has entered. Neal's always been an overthinker. It's his talent; like Kel and her quiet heroism or Alanna and her stuff of legends, his sharp moving mind will likely always be the definition of his character. So he should be moving five steps ahead, thinking of how to extricate himself from this country, this situation, before he falls further and farther and winds up with no shores in sight. 

That's what he should do. What he does is grins. 

"You know, this whole kingdom of yours could be mightily improved with some well placed holidays, highness." 

"-- What?" 

It's not as sharp as Neal expects, and that almost makes him laugh as he kicks away from the desk, balancing his chair on its back two legs. 

"I was just playing the sentimental fool, thinking of the Spring Feasts that pop up all around this time at home. Tournaments in the capitol, banquets. Dancing." 

"How about work?" 

Neal does laugh at that, springing languidly from his chair with one graceful step. "Oh no, how droll do you think us? Doing the pragmatic thing when the snows are finally gone and take all the mud and rain with them? Hardly." 

He's smart, not prosaic. Even if it makes him selfish and impulsive he needs something nice, something good. 

His gaze is sharp but he doesn't make eye contact, letting his words spill up and distract and generally do what they do best. 

"You know, if there's any hope for diplomacy, you'll need to know some of our customs. Do you dance?" 

"Do I what?" 

"Dance -- don't argue with me. And don't make that face. You're royalty, you ought to know how to present yourself with grace if you're invited to dance." 

"Are you saying I'm not graceful?"

"Would I ever do that? Let me show you." 

"You should have a little more respect and not be so bossy, you know." There's a hint of a laugh in the prince's words and it's like something unrecognized and purposefully ignored swells in Neal's chest. 

"Shall I tack on some more formalities then, highness? Your gracious eminence? Prince among men --" 

"Alright. Impossible." 

It's not the words that bring Neal up short, it's the hand that takes his and the realization that his own had been trembling all the while -- noticeable only for its stopping. That's the moment that he meets Arthur's eyes, and instead of amused exasperation he catches the glimmering edge of confusion in his gaze. 

Neal doesn't let the moment to linger. He assumes the position that had been drilled in by every elder noble and instructor he'd ever known and goes through the familiar steps with more patience and care than he'd realized he possessed. 

This should be agonizing -- finding some soft spot for a monarch of a kingdom that would have him executed for existing; of a kingdom that's not his home, not his place not his problem --