In Arenor's travels, in his grim hours a-horse in rain and muck and starlight, with only a sleepy child and his own thoughts for company, he often envisaged this Duke Nikolas Caspian. His tentative anger had sketched the Duke as an exaggerated mirror, harder and perhaps crueler than himself, a personality Arenor must keep at arm's length lest harm befall him. Nikolas met few if any of his expectations and yet the sorcerer-turned-prince could not read him. Even as Nikolas swept a bow, elegant as a girl almost, Arenor wondered if he did so with reluctance or withheld rage. What poisons lurked within a nobleman's respectful gesture? Arenor offered a deep nod in turn but would not soften his hooded gaze an iota. Rather, he tracked Nikolas' expression and posture as the Duke crossed to a window. A show of wistfulness, perhaps?<br/><br/>Arenor joined him in two clipped strides and yet kept to the opposite edge of the window. A veritable fairyland stretched out below them, or what foolish men might imagine as fairyland, Arenor thought and grimaced. Royal gardens of exotica burst forth below, turquoise roses, maples red as fire, man-high sunflowers with an unlikely violet bloom. Much like Nikolas' eyes, Arenor thought, as he glanced between the Duke and the scene below. This creature belonged here. Arenor did not, and yet his blood disagreed. He crossed his arms, each one hard with muscle and scars. The frothy servants had attempted to offer him black gloves to no avail. A sorcerer never sheathed his hands if he could help it.<br/><br/>Arenor laughed low in his throat at the man's warnings. "My reasons are my own, Duke Nikolas Caspian. I will not share them with you. I know what befell my ancestors here." He turned to face the courtier, his voice and posture cold as marble and yet not cruel. Not yet. "You know many who will try to kill me? You know their reasons--are you sympathetic to them?" Arenor stepped closer to the Duke and his eyes glittered with exhaustion and rage held back. "Tell me--"<br/><br/>The child stood half-forgotten behind the two men, her gaze on her shoes and bangs in her eyes. An awkward thing and harmless, most would assume, but at the threat to her father, her head snapped up and she strode over to the pair. Unlike Arenor, she had not learned to mask the rage that poured itself into her features. Despite her darker skin, with her eyes blazing, she matched the portraits in the royal suite as much as her father did. "If anyone dares to lay a hand on him, they'll regret it!" She spoke like a boy with her fists balled up. "They'll…"<br/><br/>The sorcerer swooped down and placed a hand to the child's lips. "Alain, dasha-a requia," and he lapsed into the language whence his accent came. "Go." Arenor grasped her shoulders and pushed her toward an adjoining room with carved ivory doors.<br/><br/>The child stood firm. "But…"<br/><br/>A faint smile threatened to soften Arenor's expression. "I am capable of protecting myself, Alain. Go."<br/><br/>The child stalked out of the room, hands still in tight fists and muttering expletives in her own language. Arenor shook his head. When he turned to face Nikolas, he found himself unable to recover the heat to his former words. At times he was grateful to Alain. Her existence ensured something in him aside from darker emotions. He allowed his smile to remain for the moment, though it also remained faint. "Have you children, Duke Nikolas Caspian? If so, I hope they do not often hear threats against their father's life from strangers."