This is my latest multichapter fic. It's set in the canonverse, i.e. the non-OC's are countries (and yes there will be minor OC's as plot devices, may have an OC as a fairly major bad guy later, but no country-OC romance. I genuinely cannot stand those fics, it's like a Mary-Sue infestation.)

If you're reading If You'd Let Me, then here's my explanation on the lack of updates.

Stories:

If You'd Let Me- Unfortunately, I am having a little trouble with this one, so I will not be able to update this week. I have two chapters in the works but writer's block is a bitch, so probably won't be finished until next week at the earliest. Sorry! (Although there will be some loose ends tied up, so it should be worth the wait. Don't give up on me!)

New- Au Cœur de la Fôret- It's a canon/fantasy crossover, and it has an England related love triangleandsome ScotEng. That's all I'm saying. I love fantasy, I grew up on Eragon, Artemis Fowl (which sort of inspired this in a way), Chronicles of Ancient Darkness etc. I've wanted to write one for ages. I will try from now on to update either this or IYLM weekly from now on. The prologue goes up on Saturday.

New -Please Don't Send Me Roses - One-, two- or three-shot depending on how the idea takes me. England x the World. Will be up on Sunday.

So I am well and truly stuck IYLM-wise. Also, I have a lot of GCSE stuff going on right now, and thus I haven't got the time to battle on through with one story at a time. I will update one of my multichapters (i.e. IYLM or ACdlF) weekly, and if I can't I will at least put up a conciliatory short story to keep the muscles flexed as it were, more for me than you but still. That's what's going on. But keep an eye out, I'm not done with it!


Prologue

Three days before the summer solstice. It is pure night, and utterly silent with it. The sort of night where if you didn't know better, you might think the whole world had simultaneously died. There is no light from the moon, although it is clear – the moon is new, so there is nothing but the pale glow of a million stars dusting the landscape pale grey.

A figure stands at the edge of a dark wood, the trees three times the height of a man or more, the entrances blocked by brambles, untouched by man since prehistory; an oasis of ancient wilderness in a desert of quaint English fields and countryside. He is waiting for something. Someone.

He occasionally graces his lips with the cigarette perpetually in his leather gloved hand. At first glance he would appear normal looking, if of striking appearance. The wild, flaming red hair, glowing green eyes and prominent eyebrows are generally the things people notice first. He is also wearing a royal blue hooded cloak, darkening his features, in a style not widely used outside of plays and films in over seven hundred years. Fitting, considering his actual age. Were you to guess you might put him around twenty-seven, thirty at a push. But something about him seems old beyond his years, and if you fathomed that, you would be correct.

His attire and general air are not the only things odd or noteworthy about the man. Were you to remove his cloak, worn for more than just warmth, you might notice that his ears are a little larger than what you might expect considering his almost elfin but still strong and masculine face. If you were paying particular attention you might notice that beyond the pierced lobe the ear peaks at a distinct point, rather than curving off as usual. The point is so rounded as to be almost unnoticeable to the average observer, but nonetheless entirely there. You might also notice that his shoulder blades are considerably longer and sharper than most humans', poking through his shirt and brushing the back of his cloak, and his pupils seem to have a point of light in them, a little like a star in the centre of his eyes.

These diversions from the human form may not seem amazing, but they denoted something more than unusual in this man.

His head turns slowly to the left as he hears a sound inaudible to human ears coming from the direction of the small country lane at the end of the field that is the only connection to civilisation. There are few places like this is Britain anymore, it has been so effectively tamed.

He unsheathes from his belt a dagger polished and sharpened to the point where it cuts you to look at it. He pulls it from its silver embossed case and tosses it up and down in his hand, catching it by the point each time. It is a strange knife – handle and blade seem to have no visible join, despite being different materials. The handle is silver with writing – Old English – engraved around the bottom, and the rest is decorated with embossed Celtic knots. A triskellion is embossed right at what would be the top of the handle when the knife is upright. The blade itself is completely smooth and made of pure diamond, sharper than a razor and not a scratch on it. It gleams in the moonlight, an odd contrast to the handle's dullness. If you were feeling irrational, you might think the whole thing was glowing.

He does this for a minute, still looking left, before the quiet of the night is sliced in two by the ever-nearing roar of a motorbike. Another minute passes before the motorbike and its rider zoom into view at a speed that is unmistakeably above the speed limit. He is wearing a similar cloak to the first man's, only in emerald green, the silver ties glinting in the moonlight. Were you to look under the cloak's hood, you would find the same green eyes and prominent eyebrows as the first man, only in blond and set in a decidedly more feminine, delicate face. His face is also more youthful, looking no older than twenty-three. He has a similar air of years beyond apparent age, as it were, to the first one. You would also find his ears, eyes and shoulder blades to be in much the same state as the man anticipating him, if not worse.

He turns through an open gate in the hedgerow onto a path through an empty field leading to the woods, not quite wide enough to properly accommodate his motorbike, but enough to disguise its presence a little. He dumps it at the top of the field, covering the last fifty metres or so on foot. The flame-haired man has been watching him the whole time, silently tracking his movements blank-faced. The younger man meets his gaze, although neither face betrays any emotion. It is as close as they will come to a greeting. On closer inspection their eyes are slightly different shades of green; the elder's eyes could be called either toxic or neon, the younger's emerald or pine.

At the top of the field the younger man looks the other over, raising an eyebrow at the unusual variations on the human form. "I would ask how you plan to hide it if didn't know you wouldn't tell me."

The other just smiles.

The newcomer walks all the way to the older one, who is still throwing and catching the knife by its point. On the next throw, the second man grabs the knife by its point before the first one, yanking it away and holding his palm out for the sheath.

The elder chuckled, handing it over. "As quick as ever, Artie." There is a little affection in his voice, although the tone is teasing and sarcastic.

The second man – Artie or Arthur – has nothing but hate in his eyes for the other man, combined with unease bordering on fear. This is reflected in his tone when he practically spits, "Don't call me that. I don't see why you have to keep it. I can handle a knife, as you know perfectly well." The first man's smile turns dangerous and more serious.

"An' that's exactly why I keep it. Wouldnae want little Artie in charge of a dangerous weapon now, would we? Ye might go getting ideas." The answer is a little cryptic but the second man seems to understand. He replies unsmilingly, "You know me too well."

The first man's eyes gleam mischievously, and he smirks. He reaches out a hand to caress the other's cheek while adding, "Don't I just, Artie?" Arthur flinches at the touch, his eyes widening. His fear becomes ten times more obvious and he whispers "Don't touch me." His voice cracks a little and he clears his throat, his face steeling. "Give me the sheath, Alasdair. I don't want to spend any more time with you than is strictly necessary."

Alasdair removes his hand from where its thumb was rubbing circles on the smaller man's cheek. "Yoo're so mean ta me, Artie. I dinnae do this for many, ye ken. Yoo're ma favourite. I dinnae even make ye call me ma proper name."

Arthur looks bored, as if he's heard it all before. His voice is unrepentantly sarcastic. "I'm flattered. The sheath."

"Say please now, Artie, there's a good boy." They are now practically nose to nose, or would be is Alasdair wasn't a good five-and-a-half inches taller. Arthur doesn't blink, but looks him straight in the eye and answers, "No."

Alasdair leans down so their foreheads touch. If you weren't observant it might look like a touch between lovers. That would be if you didn't count the utter loathing in the younger's eyes, or the way he is clenching his fists, one around the handle of the knife. Or the positively malevolent gleam in the elder's eyes. He leans down further, so his breath strokes the blonde's ear and murmurs "No manners. I though we raised ye better." It takes all the strength in Arthur's body not to shiver.

Touching foreheads again, he tucks the sheath in Arthur's belt, cover's Arthur's knife hand with his (noticeably larger) hand, and moves the hand so the knife is sheathed. Arthur obligingly lets go of the knife. Alasdair does not let go of the hand. "Alas…" Arthur's voice is warning.

"C'mon, Artie. Where's ma reward? I look after ya precious knife for ye, go to the stupid fucking meetings in your place – "

Arthur interrupts. "I don't ask, and indeed don't want, you to look after my knife. It is in fact damned inconvenient. You love going to the 'stupid fucking meetings', that's why you stop anyone else going when I can't."

Alasdair keeps going regardless, his face hardening, his tone both sickly sweet and dangerous in a way that would rival Ivan for psychopathy, "And I'm so nice ta ye. Deliver ya knife personally, let ye call me ma human name, look after ye." Arthur snorts incredulously, but freezes when he sees the look on Alasdair's face. He is promptly terrified.

"Don't make this hard for me. Make this hard for me, and I'll make it hard for ye." He takes Arthur's chin in his hand. Arthur looks away, fists still clenched at his side. "It's not much ta ask now, is it?" Arthur does not answer, looking away blank faced, trembling slightly. Whether from rage or fear is hard to say. Alasdair looks annoyed and impatient, and decides to just take what he wants. He smashes their lips together, one hand on the small of the younger man's back and the other a little lower, dipping so he has no choice but to put his hands around the taller man's neck. The older of the pair bites down hard, not caring about the taste of blood in his mouth. He forces the other's mouth open and slips his tongue in.

At first Arthur freezes, completely tense, but the bite wakes him up and when his mouth is invaded he bites down hard, first on tongue then lips. Alasdair doesn't flinch but breaks away, still holding Arthur. He goes to Arthur's ear and moves his hand through his hair. He practically croons, "Ye're mine, Arthur. Always remember that." With that he releases Arthur, who stumbles two steps backwards. "Bastard." He hisses, hatred and fear evident on his face. Their mouths are both swollen and bloody, and both are panting a little. Arthur's hair is messier and his face is a little flushed. He looks debauched.

Alasdair has a smug air about him, and is a little turned on despite the state of his mouth and tongue. A little blood trickles down from the side of his mouth. He purrs, "Should be enough to tide me over until we meet again." His eyes spark and he directs a predatory grin at Arthur. Arthur is in too much of a state not to shudder.

Alasdair has his usual smirk on, now. He raises his hood, nods at Arthur and says. "Until next time." He turns and glides into the forest, seeming to melt into it once he is beyond the first line of trees.

Arthur watches him leave, slightly shell-shocked. He shakes his head, trying to clear it before turning back into the field. He mounts his motorbike speeds off into the night, cape flapping behind him.


Thank you for reading.

ASAS xx