Arenor expected death. As he guided his dust-stained horse through wooded paths and toward the heart of Lysandria, Arenor thought of death. Only the child at his back reminded him to fear it, although he knew any remnants of kin and kin betrayers might allow an innocent to live, perhaps as a pawn in their machinations, while they might assassinate an adult. Yet if they dared… A presence within him whispered  and uncurled its talons in offering.  Arenor clamped down on the darkness which lapped at the edge of his soul, and he reached for his staff. Carved oak and magic met his calloused palm and in an instant soothed that which lurked in him. The sapphire jewel riven atop the staff glistened through the dust. Its power blazed with strength enough for all magic-sensitives near to feel. Though Arenor knew these Lysandrians disliked magic, he feared no man's hate.<br/><br/>When the two arrived in the capital and rode toward the palace, few took the dusty, raven-leathered sorcerer as the long-lost prince, nor his child as yet another one. Arenor's eyes held the old blood, a kind of hazel green common to his mother's lineage. His pallor was theirs, as well, and the razor-sharp cheekbones in his elegant face, yet the resemblance ended with these blood-born gifts. This man held himself with iron posture, his expression chiseled as a statue's, and a scar marred his right cheek. He and his exhausted child wore long braids, yet the dust had stained their hair from black to brown. The grime and Arenor's forbidding expression and the pristine staff glittering amongst the dust kept most of the city folk at bay. Outlanders, some whispered. Demons perhaps, said the devout.<br/><br/>Even were he not a sorcerer, Arenor would know their enmity. It lurked at his back thick as a blanket. Hundreds of silent eyes watched and conversations hushed in their wake. The city gave way to a well-kempt royal road and gilded passers-by that gaped at the strange pair, although Arenor sensed curiosity of these young bloods rather than fear. Perhaps in their pampered life, they had not learned it. Had fate dealt him another hand, he might yet number among these flashy folk in their crimson jackets as they rode out with hounds at their heels. He couldn't imagine it.<br/><br/>The child stirred and murmured at his back. "Can we go home?"<br/><br/>"We are," he said, an ember of kindness in his grim voice. "The home of my mother. It is yours by birthright."<br/><br/>The child only sighed. Neither spoke again until they reached the palace. Arenor announced himself to the shock of the guards. Although his hand itched for his staff, instead he lifted his fingers for the guards and gathered crowd to see. Upon his smallest finger rested his mother's ring. It glowed red and gold with the ensorcelled magic placed inside by the religious mage class, of which he knew but little. Yet with her dying breath, his mother had spoken. "It will only glow for our lineage, Are. Our people cannot contest it." Pride had laced her voice even as she died. Regret and a little anger twisted up in Arenor's heart, but he did not allow the people his grief, only the hard carved expression of what might be called a beautiful face in a less fearsome man.<br/><br/>After that, he took the child's dirty hand in his own and slid the ring onto one of the tiny fingers and held it there, lest it slide off. It glowed there too and drew the onlookers' attention to the prince's companion. Not a servant of any sort then, they realized, but a son or daughter, androgynous enough to be either one. The child dressed in boys clothes, patched brown leathers, and but for the trademark hazel eyes bore little resemblance to the father, dark where Arenor was fair and softer-looking, with a wild curl to the hair even through the braids. They might have been perhaps eight or ten and ducked their head to avoid prying eyes.<br/><br/>The guards parted like an uneasy sea and let the two pass. What else could they do? Arenor held back a moment as if expecting a trap, and even as he urged the exhausted horse into the palace proper, he almost wished for a direct battle, for he sensed a trap indeed, a silken one of sorts that would consume both himself and Alain, the child. A red-haired man watched them with silent cunning along with the guards. Their gaze met like a clash of steel and Arenor did not like the tight-lipped smile that bloomed along the nobleman's face. He liked even less his own lack of information, how few weapons he bore to fight any sort of political battle.<br/><br/>Pampering followed in their wake. A pair of boys rescued their beast to stable it. A bevy of ladies in dresses like sea froth appeared and ushered them into a room that seemed carved in silk with silver furniture and portraits of hard-eyed women and armored men, many of them with his face. Alain's eyes widened to see such familiar visages in paint and gripped onto Arenor's arm. The women chattered and cooed over the child as if hoping for gossip. Arenor sent them off with a few simple words, a request for similar clothing, black and of form-fitting leather, a suit of clothes for the child, whatever court boys wore, and food for them. They scattered like birds. One woman returned with a man as well as clothes, and both made clear the intent to wash and dress the two wayward royals. Alain flushed red as the silk bedspreads, and after a glance at the child, Arenor instructed them to fill the bath and then depart.<br/><br/>The two took turns in the bath and dressed. Arenor vested himself of the new leathers emblazoned with the dragon signets of his mother's-- no, his family. A cloak paired with the leathers and after a moment Arenor found he liked it, like a heavy black flag upon his person or a second shadow. He replaited his hair with silver braid before turning to help Alain, who fumbled over the fastenings of his velvet tunic and close-fitting trousers and fancy boots.<br/><br/>"Don't tell them I'm a girl," the child whispered in his ear, as he knelt to lace the boots.<br/><br/>Arenor shrugged. If body servants were to attend their every move, such secrets seemed dubious to him. "You are my child. Girl or boy, it matters not." Though he knew his words for at best a temporary truth and an eventual lie. Gender couldn't truly matter in a child so young, propriety aside, and propriety be damned, but no doubt it would be quite different when Alain came of age. Perhaps then being female would not bother her, but in the meantime he would at least guard Alain's comfort.<br/><br/>Soon after, a beautiful man ushered in, one of these foppish nobles -- Arenor thought for a moment, but his eyes narrowed and he dismissed the purple and silver finery to focus upon the man's noble bearing. The men were of a height or near it, each close to six feet, and though he did not know it, close in age. Arenor had seen one more summer than Nikolas, but with his own hardened demeanor and the weight of experience he carried, he thought the other man far younger than himself.  He had gathered enough intelligence at certain towns to guess this person by appearance and demeanor, although he paused to consider before speaking.<br/><br/>"You are Duke Nikolas Caspian." He spoke with a sonorous accent of the Tribe, as the forest-folk called themselves, in clipped words that held elegance nonetheless. The staff glowed softly against the near wall, close enough for Arenor to grasp if need be. "I am Arenor of Arnath." His mother's surname lay heavy upon his tongue. "And this Alain, my child." He rested a hand upon Alain's shoulder and felt the tension in the little body. The child looked to the floor rather than the nobleman who Arenor must determine as an enemy or ally. Arenor's gaze fixed upon Nikolas as a hawk regarding another hawk in uncertain territory.