she makes the sign of a teaspoon, he makes the sign of a wave

Emperor Hugo Ardanach was raised with a thick, sturdy decorum that Prince Addam Origo walks with only the veneer of upon the points of his shoulders.

Addam was never allowed to show visitors around the palace, because he had no such authority or station. Hugo was never allowed to show visitors around the palace, because such a duty was thought beneath him. For those guests which were beneath him, of course, which was most.

Even at fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, Addam doesn't scarf his food. That much is not an issue. He isn't quite so jocular as to be unable to act a little prim, here and there, and especially in impressedly precious company. But Hugo, the prepubescent pre-incumbent, bears beyond that to an incomparable grace. He's not robotic, no, not that imprinted after Aegaeon (the occasional internal hesitation could be seen if one was disposed to staring, as Addam was). Neither is he uncanny, as Brighid.

This individual in indigo and ivory is enchanting all on his own, for being a being of impeccable grooming atop an inherent complexity that his obvious intelligence belies. All as he is, he's perfectly engaging. If the tiresome nature of all other politicians is all Addam has to refresh himself against, he will do so gladly. Hugo is a doll, and a doll.

That's Prince Hugo, anyway. That's the watched and attended, the anti-idiosyncratic except for the fact that anyone would be, in contrast to an older brother as impendingly sour as Domnhall. That's the plate armor erecting the boundaries of a throne where they needn't be.

Hugo, in battle, keeps a low stance (as if he wasn't born with one, indeed). A natural slight crouch hides any stumbles, and the backbone of his thumb passes over his forehead with such regularity as he strokes that a bead of sweat is rarely seen. He truly enjoys this, doesn't he? Even if it weren't for a kingdom and a people, the sport of it is a wonderful thing.

Addam, standing straight up but for a light lazy listing, does nothing to self-efface for his gift of height (and growing all the time). He's too busy stretching into one stride, arcing out of the next. Dodging back from Hugo's strikes much more often than he uses the flat of his blade to block, because he finds that he wouldn't mind if the left side of his chest did take a slash from that short sword.

So absentminded is Addam that Aegaeon calls a break for hydration much earlier than expected. A bolt of electricity to the brain, then, and Addam watches Hugo drink: watches the larynx bob and the chin peak above it.

The corner of a dark eye darts over, and catches gold. A breath. A smile.

What's so secret? We all drink from the same well, right?

And then a throat is cleared that is not Hugo's, and Addam watches imperial shoulders snap to attention.

Domnhall is the Tornan boy's own age, but he carries eighteen years much differently, in his father's illness rather than principally a directed emotional absence.

What fierceness Addam has, he swallows, not cherishing the lump in his own throat half so much.

And then it's over. The end of innocence, as Minoth might say. Everything after that was a snatch at the sun; sharp breaths and aborted grasps.

Eloquence Hugo may have had, and certainly a golden earnestness, but not maturity's warmth.

So, of course, the address by "dear Hugo" to "dear Addam" is a hot, distant euphoria.

Indeed, the Emperor does not slouch. But Addam fancies, if not fantasizes, that he can see just where the sigh would bow, if it ever were to appear. That chance undulation which would bring into relief once more - and perhaps for the last time - the boy that the prince will always love.