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"What the hell are you doing all the way up here?" Duncan's voice carries only mild curiosity, but it startles Paul anyway, jolting his awareness back to the parapet on which he stands.
Paul has far too much control of his physical reflexes to give any outward sign of his shock, but he throws a sheepish glance over his shoulder anyway. Careless, to have gotten so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice Duncan's approach—though he consoles himself that his defensive senses are well enough trained that he would have registered and reacted immediately to the footsteps of someone less familiar.
He finds Duncan standing in the open door that leads back into the keep. Duncan's posture is loose as ever, his beard trimmed shorter than it was yesterday, his arms crossed as he leans one shoulder against the stone archway.
Duncan's eyes hold a familiar glint somewhere between teasing and concern, and Paul does nothing to restrain his own wry smile.
"Just needed some air," Paul says. The answer is truthful but nowhere near complete. Yes, he needed the open sky of Caladan above his head following a tense diplomatic introduction. He hates when his father plays host to other Great Houses of the Lansraad, hates how these visits always put everyone on edge, hates the extra security precautions and added military presence within the castle.
He's glad his father relies on him now, to help shoulder the burdens of political functions like the one that put him in full military dress today. Paul is no longer a child, and he aches to be useful.
But he's also terrified that he will never be enough.
The wind picks suddenly up, whistling faster between the walls and ramparts, whipping Paul's curls into his face. It's an uncomfortably cold wind, but Paul is used to it. He doesn't so much as flinch from the onslaught, continuing to brace his elbows on the rough stone wall with an illusion of ease.
He wonders how well Duncan can see through this pose. The man knows him well—better than anyone perhaps Paul's own mother, and of course Gurney Halleck—and he wouldn't have come looking for Paul at all if he weren't worried. Paul's got a long history of hiding himself away in every corner of Castle Caladan, but he never does it without purpose. He spends too much of his life alone as it is, and while he would never look at his own life and call himself lonely—how can he, when both past and present are filled with so many people who care about him—he only ever seeks solitude when his head needs clearing.
"What's troubling you, my boy?" Duncan pushes off the door frame and uncrosses his arms, traversing the narrow walkway with quick strides. The usual jovial air is banked within him—which would prove even without the question that he knows Paul has sought this quiet perch for a reason—and even though his smile is genuine, the air of worry is unfamiliar enough to make Paul wonder if Duncan sees other things too.
He can't. It's not possible. Paul has been so careful.
But Paul is also alone and wrapped up in his own thoughts because of Gurney Halleck's necessary absence from court. He doesn't know the precise nature of Gurney's assignment, but that usually means something dangerous, and Paul will remain on edge until the old warmaster returns. He will not rest truly easy until he can put his hands on Gurney and reassure himself of the strong, steady heartbeat beneath his touch.
Can Duncan see this truth in Paul's face?
Would he forgive them if he knew?
When Duncan reaches Paul's side, he moves without so much as a flicker of hesitation, tucking the worst of Paul's errant curls back behind one ear. Then, nudging shoulders, he takes up the space directly beside Paul and mirrors his leaning pose.
Together they stare out across rolling green and crashing waves. Paul considers how different his devoted but brotherly adoration for Duncan Idaho feels, compared to the soul deep yearning he harbors for Gurney. Even the simple touch of Duncan's fingers in his hair brings such simple and uncomplicated affection—when the same gesture from Gurney can make Paul's knees buckle and his breath turn shallow. Duncan's presence at his side is grounding and appreciated, but if he were gone on some mysterious mission, Paul would not be lost in his own head over Duncan's absence.
He would worry for his friend. He would stubbornly want details he is not yet privy to. But he would not have needed to abscond himself up in the nooks and crannies of the keep just to be alone with the force of his own yearning.
It has been far too long for the natural rhythm of conversation, but Paul makes himself respond belatedly, "I'm okay."
"I didn't ask if you were okay," Duncan retorts, bumping his shoulder again. "I asked what's troubling you? You going to be a brat, or tell me what's wrong?"
Paul breathes out slowly, not quite a sigh, not even a sound loud enough to be heard over the rough and unsteady wind. Then, because this is also easy and uncomplicated, he slides his stance until he is leaning against Duncan's side. He smiles a little at Duncan's humoring huff of laughter, and then Duncan's arm rises to drape across his shoulders, squashing him more securely in place and grounding Paul where he stands.
Strange, to share a moment like this that has nothing to do with roughhousing. Paul and Duncan's friendship is not prone to stillness. But it feels good. It settles Paul in his skin a little, makes him feel the closest he will manage to calm until Gurney returns.
He should find some pretext to answer Duncan's question, but he can't find it in his heart to lie. Not directly. Not when Duncan has tracked him down to offer comfort without even knowing why Paul needs comforting. It would be terrible recompense for such true friendship, and Paul swallows down bile at the thought of misusing Duncan's confidence so brazenly.
But he can't think of anything near the truth that won't confess too much. And so Paul keeps quiet and tips his head wordlessly against Duncan's massive shoulder.
"He's perfectly safe," Duncan murmurs, and the words spear through Paul in a painful mix of relief and terror.
So much for his calm facade and his ability to check his physical responses. He jolts in place, and when he turns his head—tilts his face up in incredulous curiosity—he finds a spark of mischief in Duncan's eye.
"What?" Paul rasps, unable to dissemble even enough to ask Who. He knows damn well who Duncan is talking about.
"I can't divulge specifics." Duncan's arm tightens around Paul's shoulders, as though sensing his need for reassurance. "But I've been in contact with him. He'll be home within two days, whole and uninjured."
Paul jerks his gaze forward, staring across the wind-shivered waves of long grass. Fighting to keep his face impassive, agonizingly aware that he is failing. How much does Duncan know? How does he know? There's no way Gurney has told him anything—not on principle and especially not without warning Paul—which leaves Paul spiraling in questions he doesn't dare ask. There is no way to discover if Duncan harbors suspicions or certainties without giving away more than Paul dares to admit.
It's not that he distrusts Duncan. But what Paul and Gurney share amounts to treason. Paul would be a cruel and unworthy friend to put these truths on Duncan's shoulders, to make him choose between duke and heir, duty and friendship.
But there's also no point denying whatever Duncan does know. So Paul makes himself swallow down the wave of panic and speak calmly.
"Thank you."
Duncan only hums, an agreeable sound, and squeezes his shoulders again.