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Vincent tensed for barely a second before he was able to identify whose steps his ears picked up (caught between swift and languid, sure but not strong) and loosened his hold on the hilt of his sword slightly. There were other footsteps that accompanied the prince's of course, but Vincent was able to put a name to the other three right after and the only person Vincent could think to worry of was His Royal Highness.
He did not bother to glimpse at the group that was nearing the gate he was stationed at. The king was talking clipped to the adviser who was informing—or reminding, and that would have explained the king's responses, the king would have normally talked more, discussed everything in great detail because he accepted nothing less than complete understanding and discerning—the royal kin of what was expected and what was not of this meeting, of who exactly the Bell family was and what the young Penelope of the North was like, and the schedule of the entirety of the meeting. The man in waiting, Arden who was either young or old, depending on how one looked, was perceivably quiet by the prince's side.
The prince was silent himself, unobtrusive and unwilling to draw attention to himself. Never invisible though, never anything less than a striking presence.
Vincent could not think of His Royal Highness as anything less.
He wondered if Prince Theodore’s—Teddy, he once murmured, his breath ghosting over Vincent’s lips and the same cheeks he grazed his fingers against, and all of Teddy’s touches were like imprints on the knight’s skin and Vincent wanted, right now, never then, to scrub away the burn bitterly—silence was because he wanted none of this as well, if he was quiet because the only thing that could have left his mouth was disdain over this whole thing and a prince was better than that. Nothing could have quite caused his heart to squeeze as much.
He finally turned an eye to them, His Majesty's and His Royal Highness’ crowns shining against the light like beacons. It might have been because the prince's own was pristine silver, but Vincent thought that his was far brighter and more welcoming than that of his father's. Prince Theodore—not Teddy, not Teddy—looked firm and sure against the image of his father, powerful but gentle, a worthy king.
He did not look the littlest bit like how Vincent felt, deep inside, hidden underneath muscle and bone and blood and heart, underneath the whispers that hiss your duty your responsibility he is of royal blood your prince your king-to-be yourmasternotyourlover. But a prince needed to learn to put his kingdom before himself, to learn how to wear a mask if he needed to, much like how a knight needed to put the royal house before himself. Vincent unknowingly clung to the knowledge, because there was little more for him to believe in, little more to keep him on the ground.
This was the first proposal to Prince Theodore’s hand in marriage and that fact alone took away some of his sanity.