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The body of a Prince was not like anyone’s. His hand only ever held others in a firm handshake, and rarely without gloves. Sometimes he would raise the delicate hands of noble ladies to his lips for a brief kiss, but it was all out of propriety. He rarely touched others, but what was even rarer was others touching him. The only ones who dared were his knights, and even they only smacked his shoulder or patted his back in friendly roughhousing. Gripping each other’s arms before battle was the most heartfelt touch they exchanged. Lingering soft touches were not done. Any lingering touch on his person could be interpreted as political movements. After all, Arthur’s body wasn’t his own. It never had been. He was Camelot’s first and foremost. Even above his own needs and wants.
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