Considering how many times he had been violently ambushed by bounty hunters and assassins in the past couple years, Prince Hans Westergard had a slightly pronounced dislike of doors slamming open unexpectedly with men rushing through them. He was sure that no one would attempt to cause him blatant harm in Denmark, where he had been granted political refuge by King Henrik and Queen Freida (and his very close friends Prince Eric and Princess Ariel, of course). Still, it was always a possibility that some fool vigilante might want to make a statement by firing a crossbow at Denmark’s adopted fugitive regardless of the laws of protection.
And even if none of that was true, the man had just practically kicked the door down to the library where it was rarely, if ever, acceptable to make such a racket.
Hans flinched at the door slamming open, momentarily shrinking behind the text he had been reading on the small German kingdom of Wildungen, but he sat up straighter when he saw that the man carried only a ukulele. The prince frowned at being scared half to death by this buffoon playing an instrument and dancing around his table in the middle of library, and frowned deeper upon realizing that he knew exactly who it was.
Maybe the ukulele strumming man was harder to recognize outside of his fine white suit, turquoise sash, and glistening golden I’m-the-fool-who’s-going-to-inherit-this-kingdom crown of his, but all the music and the total disregard for protocol and simple rules struck the fugitive prince as distinctly familiar, from a very different time in his life…
Prince Hans lowered his book, resting one elbow on the table beside it, and propped his cheek up against one hand.
“…Hello Prince Naveen,” he said, managing a wry smile. “I see you haven’t changed a bit.”