She may have grown up in the countryside, but Alethea was still noble-born – she had an idea of what to expect when she walked through the door, and was calling to mind every etiquette lesson she had ever been subjected to. Though there was no fear in her (she was rarely afraid of, and more often excited by new things) she was deeply conscious of the fact that this was The King of Shaman, and furthermore a person with an intriguingly famous past. He deserved her respect, and the best way she knew to show it was by being a gracious guest.
Alethea allowed herself to be ushered into the room, curtsied politely at the King’s acknowledgement. “Your Grace.” As she moved to the chair, her eyes flitted over her surroundings, resting on Tristan for a goodly length of time before returning to the King. Leto sat tall at her feet. “Yes, thank you. It is a beautiful room, and we were all so relieved to rest after a long journey. My mother sends her love, and also so many trunks that our carriage had a broken wheel several hours into the trip.” She smiled vaguely, almost as if she hadn’t been intentionally funny. Her cheeks did warm a little at the suggestion of “things she might not want to talk to Arthur about,” but the blush was more mirth than embarrassment – anything she might have asked had already been posed to her mother, years before Oenone had wanted to discuss them. Alethea wondered, absently, if Arthur was so ignorant of female biology that he supposed she hadn’t already flowered, for example. It seemed likely; he hadn’t any daughters, after all.
“Your Highness,” she smiled at Tristan, a little mischievously, and lowered her head. “Thank you both for your hospitality. I won’t trouble you with questions, your Grace – I’m sure there will be plenty of time for them, later.” The realization that this was true, that there would be years, in fact, at this castle, gave Alethea her first little pang of heartache. But she smiled anyway, first at the King and then his son, as she followed the latter out of the room, threading her hand through his uninjured arm as they walked.
She liked a little physical closeness. It didn’t occur to her that this might be intrusive, to a twelve-year-old boy. She also did not even consider that her careful observation of him, now that he was in proper range to be inspected, might be too thorough. Her blue eyes brushed over his features like a breeze, taking in both color and structure, and marveling at both the similarities and dissimilarities between the Prince and his father. She also noticed, though could not say she was surprised, that Tristan was good-looking. For a twelve-year old.
Older boys had really always been her style.
“How did you hurt your arm?” She asked, almost as soon as they entered the hall. Leto looked up at him expectantly from her position beside the girl, Alethea’s free hand resting on her back. “Is it very painful?” Curiosity as well as concern were evident in her voice.
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