#touch aversion

The blaring of trumpets, the sound of a heralder shouting out the incoming array of participants, and the dawn light sharpening all beneath it in clarifying gold and crisp, white, mottled relief.

Today was the tournament.

You, however. Were bloody bored.

Stifling a yawn, dull eyes surveying the pickings. There was little to do as a young royal - little power, little favor, and little fun. The names of idiotic elders from yesteryear were still jumbled in your head from the previous day: history had been hell, and you never wanted to bother learning what morons had come and done before you. No one ever bothered to ask you what you thought of the kingdom, but you supposed.. that was just going to be how it was.

Listless rule with no real change.

Someone caught your eye today anyway.

Truth be told, you did actually eye the knights from time to time.

I mean, really, what was one meant to do if they were visible from the high windows? Available to spy on a little between useless study and boring lectures from tutors who you knew didn't give a damn whether you made it to crowning or not. The training grounds were right there, the halls and studies overlooking the area since you were technically in charge of overseeing the second unit.

Only a dull figurehead responsibility, really - you had found out you couldn't actually do anything with it rather early on when apparently promoting any truly outstanding knights to the first unit was a promotional action barred by your biological father's approval. It was common knowledge the king uniquely favored the first unit, to the point of outright ignoring the condition of both other units as well as all in charge of them. He was neither an acquiescing nor logical man.

You might as well have been told to watch ducks all day.

But you had at the very least learnt faces after a while, despite not being able to change much around the place. And.. they were good men. Frankly. Still training and defending the kingdom, a belief in something even if not in their ruler, and it was.. perhaps something far more mutedly interesting than the dull pages of a history of rulers who didn't seem to have done much at all.

There was sometimes a bit of a thrill in the heart, watching from high above. Seeing their determination, wondering about the battles they came back bloodied but victorious from. Their aspirations, desperations and skill. They were out in the world, defending the kingdom, fighting first and last.

But it was easy to fall into a certain.. dulled empty hollowness. Thoughts and wonderings if things could have been different, if you could have any further titles at all to your name, something earned, something achievable.

Some powerful position this was.

You knew, your.. physical limits were the problem. Were the reason why you weren't in much winsome favor with the king. It was probably why he'd relegated you to administrative ideating over truly bringing about any form of progress - you had already been told to stay off the battlefield from your 'condition', and now even management of your own unit was at best a tertiary function.

And even beyond that, your reputation as the cold, young, heartless royal preceded you - 'royal secret' of your inability to handle touch or no. That was the excuse needed, true or not to your 'real' personality.

In one sense, you didn't care.

Heartlessness didn't matter in decisions, and neither did personality - that was far clear by the books. But since you weren't even making decisions, nor able to be yourself in the stifling castle walls, it felt a bit miffing to be looked at like some cruel anomaly regardless. At least I bother with the knights we're training, was your frequent annoyed thought. Sure, you couldn't do actual battle. Fine. But you had been trained anyway, and even when off the battlefield you could note those doing well.

And most aggravating to note: there were several doing well in the second unit. Potensibly far more than the first.

To the point where you seriously doubted the boasts of your father about his unit being all that accomplished.

The resultant aggravated decision-making resulted in what you thought might be a few surprised faces, when you stiffly announced new training equipment last month. You had bargained rather viciously with tradesmen that weren't terribly connected to him, using your reputation to your advantage for once. And with the quiet shock - their frowningly confused eyes on you, and even a few almost-beginnings of grateful looks compared to the irritated suspicion at the start of assignment - it felt sort of good.

At least some people notice I try.

But out of all the blunt, abrasive, steely but loyal men of the second unit - who you'd now come to recognize by even their swing - one had been drawing your gaze rather often.

He was.. handsome. That much you could notice from afar. Rough, sure, like any of them - they didn't do battle just to come back unmarked and unblemished. But his face wasn't bad to look at.

It was.. something you'd be mildly embarrassed by if your focus was pointed out, maybe, but there was none around you who were any sort of companion. None to chide, hinder, whinge. So it simply.. became an idle observation, a small angle to your pastimes when 'dawdling' during study (your history tutor's words).

You found yourself sketching the lines of his solemn, brooding face at times, only to be sure to rip said pieces of parchment off to rid of evidence, while musing about his personality. What would he be like? Was a quiet, blank thought.

Would he understand? Was a self-indulgent other.

And for the most part, you could spend your thoughts in those compacted moments as the borders of your musings, the limits of your willingness to let this brief infatuation go further, ripping it into smaller and smaller pieces and exhaling it all away, letting it go in your mind as much ado about nothing. But in reality you knew you were spending a bit too much of your thoughts on this man. This knight you barely knew. Save for his scarred face and the heft of his frame when he swung.

His eyes, maybe. You couldn't really see his eyes from afar.

..If I don't like his eyes I'll let this go.

A meaningless bet.

A fact you ignored.

At the sound of a horn, you pinched your thigh to stay focused as the participants lined up. Don't daydream now. There were hours to go.

It was an annual item, the jousting tournament. Usually the most-attended by the commoners, an open invite to all. Their heroes, after all, you supposed, hence the sheer numbers in attendance. Though of course the king made sure to put all emphasis on the first unit alone, the few knights of your unit partaking in the competition looking more than a little irked. You felt a wry smile on your lips at the disgruntled, almost withering looks aimed at the king while he prattled on with his opening games speech.

The picking of participants from your unit wasn't even your decision, after all that. You felt a bit in agreement with those looks.

He'd go on for a bit, so you took a moment to look round. Little would pay attention to you regardless, at least until the winner handed over a rose to you. Each round's winner could give a rose to those of their choosing - the subject of many current love tales, so you'd heard - but the final one was always handed to the next in line to the throne. Something about a promise to the land - a crimson rose in regard to the live blood of the people.

You had skimmed it mildly when being lectured on etiquette, but you supposed now, thinking of it again, that it wasn't a terrible concept, however morbid the implications were.

You sighed a bit as you watched the proceedings crawl along - hopefully the winner doesn't loathe me. That would be a bit irksome.

There had been dashed roses and resultant public beheadings before. You'd wondered rather frequently how anything had got done in this kingdom if they had been so quick to off their best, but you dryly supposed that was the very glaring issue itself. Something you'd change - again, if you ever made it to crowning.

Perhaps short existences are what we all have in common.

.

And yet.

Striking, straightforward eyes.

It was less his eyes itself rather than the way he looked silently back. A moment.

Your poor focus on your father's words trailing, mind going a bit blank as your gaze locked. The aforementioned thoughts you'd been refraining from rising slowly to the forefront once more.

It was a possibility, wasn't it.

That you weren't the only one who'd been looking.