They say it's never been a choice to make. The mark appears, you're brought and dressed up, have a haphazardly organized ceremony and done, go ahead and take trainings which consume your mind and energy day after day. You have a kingdom to rule, if you're queen, a king to assist and the foreign office to handle. The military, the treasury and legislation is not your business. Act politely still handle everyone in a firm way so no one dares to doubt your words. It requires a manner of fashion to master this, some queens had to get rid of all their merciful thoughts in the meantime. At all times, carry yourself with pride and withheld wisdom so people will know you are in charge.
Never. Never object your king.
Since he is the one leading the military, the treasury, the legislation and judicial branches. If you get in an argument with him, your reason must be unquestionable and solid. The king bears all on his shoulders, confusing him or mixing his emotions up for your sake is selfish and repulsive.
Even if this means, in certain times you have to let him decide the flow of your life as well.
. . .
Away from the palace, away from wealth and superstitious kindness, turquoise silk and titanium blue brooch discarded on the road, not a single stripe of bronze on the horses. The forest is silent, trees observe and witness the scene from a treacherous distance, and hence the clearing is enveloped by their shadows. Dim luminance allows the royals to settle in the only sanctuary that remained for them, to hide and return to their human self. For once, and for perhaps the last time their titles are forsaken for their own good.
"Just for once."
"I've never assumed you'd be the one telling me this."
"Just for this one time. Please."
The hall sinks into mumbling which is like the noise of flies to their ears. The queen lowers his sorrowful gaze, bites into his own lower lip from the inside and releases a sigh. Defeat and grief glows in his eyes which no longer reflect the freshness of the forests in the summer, the rich fields of grass. The spark is forlorn and the King is aware of his fears. The object of it. The magistrates, ministers and advisors sink into disagreements and arguments about the future, the war, the numbers. All forget about the humans involved. The king should lead the army here, battle there. Ambush here, devastate there. Allies are counted like sheep in the autumn. All have lost their humanity in the hall, and it makes the King shake his head in a slow, grievous realization.
His Queen is shaken. He's in fear from an unspoken shadow that lingers above the King's head.
Glancing to the side, he can spot how cold his fingers are, trembling from the anxiety that pulls his mind deeper in despair in every moment he spends in stagnancy. The mere thought of losing his King devastates him. He can't rule alone, and Alfred knows that. He can't lead offices, can't deal with the troubles every day alone. The world would eat him up and spit him out in less than a month, without leaving him time to deal with the pain.
Without him, Arthur is stumped.
"Please," no more than the weight of air, he's pleading.
"I'll come back."
"How do you know?!" That's a reaction he's never gotten before. Only proves him more: Arthur is on the edge. In the startle he is unable to form any reply, merely stares in the other's eyes which burn and ache from the inside, an unbearable pain no one should feel. "You don't know!"
The entire hall falls into grim silence upon the Queen's words. Hushed gasps, treacherous murmur envelopes the royal couple. Alfred remains silent, incapable of looking at his love. The knights, ministers and all present hold their breath in the moment when all would be decided. All knows well, it depends on the king... but in this century, in the reign of Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland the future lies in the hands of both.
They've always had attempts to follow the traditions but all these were forgotten in the last moments.
"You're riding into war but you have no idea what is to come out there!"
"We have a strategy."
"Strategies can be discarded when all falls apart and you know that as well!"
His words carry the entire kingdom's fear.
"You have no idea what you've unleashed on us! You're taking such risks for such a piteous matter that could have been solved by the tables as well, I could have handled it without you! Your foolish, blasted visions of justice will bring only fire and devastation to this land and you're leaving me behind, alone to deal with it!"
"I'll solve this, you'll see!"
"I'll see but you won't!"
Three words that stow all replies he had before, back down his throat. His breath is caught. Arthur's gaze breaks, his own breathe is sucked in order to control himself all in vain. His heart was out, in front of the whole assemble. Sentiments, emotions are brought to the platform where they were forbidden to exist.
Alfred doesn't remember when did he stand up but now he's the one kneeling in front of his Queen, holding his hand and trying to calm him insufficiently. The man who's always in control of his temper, his words and actions is falling apart in front of him along with his ambitions; he can't bear the sight. Hearing the ragged, drained breath escape the other's lips tears a string in his own soul. Arthur's grieving him. He's wearing a dark, metallic blue uniform with the coat of arms of Alfred's family, his kingdom and his title. Spouse and Queen, he's grieving. He's unable to cope with the mere thought of losing him.
And it was all the King who's started this.
"Then, for the Gods' sake, I resign."
Hoarse yelling, panic and bewilderment follow his words in the ceremonial hall which has been refurnished to function as a vast place for negotiations and military planning. The whole castle echoes and trembles behind his back, Arthur's eyes widen in plain petrified bafflement a few inches in front of him. All that matters is the spark is shining its way through the thick clouds of terror, just seeing the hopeful appearance of it reassures the young King. He might lose everything, but he can't lose his Queen.
"Ivan has problem with my person, not with the kingdom," he declares, words carrying his usual determination which alone rejects the mere idea of objection. "I insulted him and refused to serve him apology. I shall correct my behaviour, show proper respect and display my regret for my actions. I'll start with my resign."
He blinks and offers a weak, apologetic smile for the only person whose opinion matters. Still holding the delicate fingers in his calloused hand, he rises to stand and bow in front of his spouse, a gesture the world has never seen before. The King shall never put anyone above himself in hierarchy.
"I hope you'll accompany me on our last journey, my Queen."
As the calmness, the fundamental certainty returns to the green eyes and Arthur has to blink to regain his composure, Alfred nods and pulls him up to stand by his side. While he's wearing his military uniform, the black leather boots, dark blue shaded camo pants and the suit, Arthur wears his everyday official clothing... quite the opposite sides of politics as they have always been in everything. They stand, the mass of noblemen wait for their final declaration. Their only hope is Arthur's sanity, to bring the King back and end this mad war.
"I never swore for the customs. I meant it all. 'Till the ocean dries, till the vanish of light in the stars, I'm following your steps, my King.' My resign accompanies yours."
It is Alfred who's lead him here and the blonde man is glad for the unknown location. The nearest village is in a day's ride, the nearest road is in an hour's. Here, in the hidden depths of the forest their existence will be just as uncared for as their reasons behind their decisions. The past is behind the woods, out on the fields and on the streets on the tongues of the people. Both are aware of their filthy reputation; their betrayal of duties, their pathetic escape... which saved thousands of lives.
Looking around, Arthur's heart begins to slow its unsettled rhythm. The forest's embrace provides them safety from now on, there'll only be a handful of people who'll know their location, only the trusted few from their company of friends.. including Ivan himself. With a sigh which indeed helps to ease the burden of memories, the former queen of Spades dismounts and takes his own bag from the horse to follow his spouse. From now on, this cottage will be the place they call 'home'.
The disgraced King lights fire in the stove to warm the sturdy stone walls. Their bags, equipment and clothing is stacked in a corner, from which Arthur can't tear his eyes away. They haven't packed any uniforms, any stamps or stripes which might sign their previous titles. Nothing that could remind them of the past nor could grab unnecessary attention at them. The bags, including their contains are not meant to comfort them, only to provide their service. From now on, there won't be anyone to serve them either, for which Arthur is glad.
Taking Alfred's hand in his own in a weak attempt to warm his skin, the former Queen smiles as his eyes examine his spouse's expression; the King who's deep in his thoughts and of course, what else could he do, plans their future in the forest.
"We'll be fine, dearest," the Queen whispers, voice barely audible though there's no need for such low tone: there's no one nearby to overhear their words. The sound of his own utter calms the emerald-eyed man and causes the honey-blonde to sigh.
"I never wanted this. I mean... I dreamt about it. Escaping, away from politics and duties only with you, no one else. No guards, no followers, nothing. Just us. And now that I have it, I wonder if this is the way it must have happened or not?" His gaze is distant, puzzled in doubts, "I mean, the mark is still on us. I still have it, and you too."
"Then, when our kingdom needs us again, we'll return."
His answer reassures the King, the shade of blue solidifies and is filled with confidence soon. The young man nods, squeezes the hand of his love and leans in to steal a short kiss, "Yes. We will."
. . .
Ivan has forgiven them in the instant he heard their resign. By the time they reached the capital of his kingdom, he sent a group to welcome them and reassure them of safety and his intentions to establish peace again. He withdrew his army and was ready to agree in the status quo while Alfred, in the last days of his reign, bowed and apologized in front of Ivan's entire court. To show respect and appreciation, Ivan held supper with them in the famous Hall of General Winter, dined with them and had a pleasant conversation with Alfred about everyday things.
That night, they ceased to be royals. Alfred Jones and Arthur Kirkland, they remained.
. . .
The smile he earns is cloudless, the chuckle he hears is playful, almost childish: a sound he never heard from his usually stiff Queen. From now on, there was no etiquette to follow either. He could embrace his love whenever he wished, hug him from behind and place a gentle kiss into the crook of his neck, feel the warmth of his skin against his own and fill his lungs with his scent. No one stopped him from blowing air in the skin thus go on the nerves of his husband and earn a slap on his shoulder for it. No one scolded him for keeping Arthur in bed and not letting him go but tickle him and enjoy the laughter Arthur never rewarded anyone else but him. The shine of his eyes, the toothy smile, the content, sated puffs of air with the wild, passionate pump of his heart is enough for him to know, everything is as it should be.
If Arthur is with him and he's able to make him happy, as long as he's able to make him happy, Alfred will be content as well.
He surprises him in the shower and is entertained by the blush that appears on Arthur's face. He splashes mud on him outside and initiates a mud-fight, knowing that it'll be just them to see such an undignified scene. Cuddling under the blankets in the winter in front of the stove, he pulls him closer and functions as a pillow for Arthur to sleep on. He pinches his side in appreciation of the tummy Arthur has begun to grow (without the stress of the palace) and merely smiles at his husband's grumbling. The more time they spend without the world, without reality, the more he loves him.
Thus, he makes love to him, heart bursting and pumping feverishly at every single time. It's unbearable. He's going insane with love but from the way Arthur clings to him and holds him tight, tighter, in a nearly impossible way, he knows it's mutual. He bites, Arthur nibs on his ear, he grabs and holds, Arthur's nails draw blood on his back. His mere presence is blessing, his existence and the gift of having him in his own life is a blessing of the Gods.
. . .
They say, the mark of royals is not merely a sign who's in charge of ruling the country. It is said to mend two halves of the same soul, often two entirely opposite sides since two person who are full on their own cannot depend on other ones. What the King lacks, the Queen will fill in.
Their love for each other is above reason, it has never meant to be explained. When the time comes, it'll be their mutual agreements and unbreakable bond that'll save the kingdom and establish peace again; for the foolishness of the King, the Queen shall stand and bear the consequences.
In the case of Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland, this applied to both. Losing their position, wealth and previous lives, the world decides to stamp disgrace on their names and urges the time to forget their mistakes.
Even then, deposed and left behind in the forest, in his husband's eyes he never ceased to be Queen, nor did Alfred cease to be King for him.
Till the ocean dries.
Till his heart stops beating.
There is only one object that recalls the time they spent in the castle. A photo of them, both sitting on their thrones beside each other; Arthur in his official every-day uniform, Alfred in the suit and his coat, one hand holding the wand with the leaf of Spades on top of it. His other hand, fingers entwined with Arthur's hang in the air between the thrones as he points at something with the wand and Arthur has a nearly invisible smile on his lips. He doesn't look at the subject of Alfred's motion but at his King, eyes reflecting adornment, elated thoughts of love and unspeakable affection.
Once, they ruled an entire country.
Once, they went to war.
Once, in the history of the Kingdom of Spades, a king and a queen resigned.
For once, Alfred could tell he made decision that Arthur fully approved.
. . .
In the sanctuary, his tired breathing is embraced by Arthur's voice. Arms locked around his shoulders, fingers brushing through his hair, the honey-blond man's eyes slowly close as his mind drifts into the blessed sleep of afterglow. His body and mind is drained, still he craves the man beneath him. Without his touch, scent and sight he's starving.
It is Arthur's voice, in the entire world, that can sooth and calm him. Nothing else would give him the same relief and peace; these times the waves of his soul straighten and he's nothing more just a relaxed, sated man who's in harmony with his life.
We reach our destination,
A landscape soft and white,
So pure the snow we crunch underfoot
A deceptive, calming sight.
Author's Notes:
Poem from Perfect World International, G16 weaponry at Nirvana forges.