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“Uncle?” asked Sean – King Sean – a little uncertainly. He was toying with the rich fabric at the end of his sleeve, and Halt wanted to tell him to stop it, that it gave away his nervousness, but there were no courtiers present in the throne room, only Will and Horace, who were conspicuously looking away, chattering between themselves. Sean would know to keep any fidgeting hidden around the people he ruled; he was a natural leader, and the guards and castle staff seemed to trust him and his capabilities. So, Halt raised an eyebrow, inviting him to speak his mind.
Sean didn’t seem to understand the signal, though, so Halt sighed, mentally, and turned one wrist outward, physically. “Yes?” he asked, working to keep his voice sarcastic instead of damning. He didn’t want to make an enemy of Clonmel’s king, and he wanted to get along with his nephew, and he knew he wasn’t the most skilled diplomat, or an easy person to get along with.
The young king smiled winningly; maybe encouragingly. Halt wasn’t used to being encouraged, except patronisingly (Duncan, or Crowley, or Arald)… or in a way he trusted more, by a loved one. He didn’t glance over at Will, but he could have if he’d wanted to. Sean wouldn’t have noticed.
“May I hug you?” asked Sean, raising his arms up a little bit by his sides.
Out of the corners of his eyes, Halt saw Will and Horace freeze, Horace trailing ever-so-slightly behind Will, and whip around to focus on the two of them. Sean raised his hands up higher, taking half a step backwards. “It seems I may have crossed a line I didn’t know was there,” he said, his tone conciliatory, but Halt shook his head.
“Go on, then.”
Again through his peripheral vision, Halt saw Horace’s hand withdraw from a place near the pommel of his broadsword. Will had no signs of battle- or threat-readiness, of course – he didn’t need seconds to prepare, let alone to be observed if he did. And Sean was moving forward, and Halt opened up his own arms in time enough to be hugged.
Sean was tall and lanky, like Gilan, although not as tall as Gilan or Horace was – more along the lines of ‘tall by comparison,’ although most people were. Will was a similar height, though. Sean was slimly-built, again like Will, and really, with his black hair falling over his face as he leaned over to hug Halt, and the strange feeling of genuine comfort Halt seemed to be getting out of this, not just reassuring Sean, it felt a lot like hugging Will. Halt slowly wrapped his arms around Sean’s back.
“Thank you,” said Sean, from directly above Halt’s ears. The sound was muffled. “For everything. Thank you so much. I’m so sorry…”
“‘Sorry’?” repeated Halt incredulously. “You’ve naught to be sorry for.”
“I thought you were dead,” he said. “My mother, your sister Caitlyn, never stopped believing you were alive, but I did. I gave up on finding you.”
He said that as if he had to specify to Halt who his mother was (or ‘had been,’ more correctly). “Good,” he replied. Sean drew back, finally (although it hadn’t actually started to feel like too much for Halt, he just acknowledged the sense in quitting while ahead), and looked at Halt, confused, the question as clear in his eyes as they always were in Will’s. My sons, maybe? he thought, then shook the thought away, discarding it beneath his heels. What he thought about the King of Clonmel was irrelevant. His relationship with Will was his own business, but getting personal with kings seemed to end messily. Duncan had only banished him for a year, true, but if he’d let Halt go after Will he never would have committed that particular high treason, and there'd have been no call to banish him in the first place.
“I’m a very hard man to find,” he clarified.
“Right, of course,” said Sean, laughing. He glanced over to where Will and Horace were, and Will raised an eyebrow back at him. He sobered rapidly. Despite his capacity for humour, he seemed to be a serious person – not in the ‘naturally serious’ way, like Halt was, more the suggestion that his life had forced him to be serious. Halt was familiar with that, too. That had happened to Caitlyn. “But not to Ranger Will, so I gather.”
“My name’s Will,” Will put in, a further offer of friendship to Sean.
Horace grinned. “If we’re using first-name terms like ‘uncle’.”
Halt raised his eyes to the heavens – or, in this case, the throne room ceiling. Sean looked back at him, lost, seeking his gaze and an explanation Halt didn’t have. He was so trusting, Halt thought. You’d think that he would have learned, living in a castle with Ferris for all these years. Sean got the message, nodding and clearing his throat, then moving on easily. “But not to Will, I gather, then,” he corrected.
“Well, Will’s a Ranger too,” said Halt. He knew the hint of jealousy in Sean’s eyes for what it was – not jealousy of Will, but jealousy of circumstances and history having allowed Will to have a relationship that Sean had never had the chance for. Halt understood that feeling, too. He was so lucky to have Will.
“He’s something special to you,” pushed Sean. Maybe he was emboldened from Halt allowing an embrace. “So is Horace, but he’s not a Ranger, of course – he is Princess Cassandra’s champion, a knight.”
“He wishes he could be a Ranger,” Will put in cheerfully.
Sean wasn’t being distracted by the jokes – and nor, Halt realised, was Horace, who was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He didn’t look enigmatic, but that was a damn good thing, because this wasn’t the time to be smelling rotten fish. “Should I be greeting a cousin as well as an Araluen King's Ranger?” he asked. “Or two cousins, even?”
Halt opened his mouth, but, rarely enough for him, a word didn’t come out. Horace stood up, though. Will remained seated, watching Halt carefully. He was doing an excellent job of not showing that his heart was in his mouth, despite the fact that Halt knew that it was. He knew only because he knew Will well enough to predict that, not because Will was giving away any signs of it. “A cousin and a nonspecific other relative,” said Horace.
Halt slipped a glare onto his face, turning it onto Horace. This was easier, natural, even, glaring at Horace. It wasn’t as difficult was a conversation with a king who was his nephew and who wanted to have known him for longer, and who was somewhat jealous of his second apprentice’s relationship with him. As well he should be, Halt thought again. “Don’t push it,” he warned Horace, the insult as easy and casual as it sounded serious. Horace’s guileless, friendly smile was replaced by another grin, an almost-laugh; the invitation to a laugh.
“Hey,” he said, “I could have gone with ‘two cousins’.” As his response, Halt grunted.
Will collided with his ribs, and he grunted again, this time from the impact. Sean’s hug had been very different from one of Will’s, he realised belatedly, restrained and privately desperate where Will’s was open and honest with its desperation, its need for Halt’s reassurance. “Shouldn’t you be hugging Horace?” he demanded, once he got his ribcage free. He knew that Sean was watching with a smile, and he knew the jealousy behind the smile, one that would never want to take what Will had away from him.
“There’s room to share,” replied Will, reaching out an arm and pulling Sean into the hug, as well.