Warning: Implied Mpreg, dysfunctional familial relationships, and minor characters' deaths.

Note: This is a sequel to "His Heart Will Be Undaunted", so the reading of that fic is essential to the understanding of this story.

Shadow That Bears His Form

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"A king that would not feel his crown too heavy for him, must wear it every day, but if he think it too light, he knoweth not of what metal it is made."

- John Locke, "Of a King", The Conduct of the Understanding: Essays, Moral, Economical, and Political.

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Alfred the First was not stranger to killing intent, be it a nobly glare from across a treaty table, the gleam off sharp edges wielded by enemies, or shadowed figures ordered to be after his blood. People tended to wait for his death, it seemed.

Down to the dungeon, it had been calculating and resentful neglects fraught with crooked gloom behind rusty, yet sturdy, iron bars, and quiet prayers whispered by Matthew to a God Alfred had beheaded with disbelief and contempt. Then, came his following abrupt enthronement, a ten-year-old crowned before the astounded eyes and angry bellows of Spadian High Court. His thin neck was hidden by the high collars of a splendid blue robe, which made splitting throat just that bit harder. Dissidents surged up in rich-cladded tidal waves, clashing against the cold wall of his sentinels. Amidst the upheaval, red splattered on the sword piercing through one objector, who had been bold and foolish enough to attempt hauling off the newly-made ruler, and, as a result, got within close distance.

See for your eyes, Wang had said, the chaos that is ruling this powerful land in the wake of its emperor's decease.

The kill had been a careful pick; they had needed a pawn whose standing afforded his presence in the Palace Hall that day, but not very essential to cause tremendous disruption to a whole chess match - This is just a warning, Alfred had softly stated to the crowd unnerved to silence, a cooling corpse sprawling on the steps to his throne. It had been the first, public, bloodshed in his ascendancy, his swift and efficient way to make clear the new King of Spades was not a trembling child forced to early reign - unhesitating to get rid of resistances upon sight. Calm in front of the riots.

Thus, he was undisturbed as a knife was being pressed to the curl between his jaw and neck exposed in his state of rest. Alfred opened his eyes, blues agleam in the darkness of his chamber, and shoved off the silhouette hovering above him, mindful of the promised cutting to his vein. The figure fell heavily out of his bed to the carpeted floor under, body stiff and unmoving.

Alfred took his time to get up from his sheets, a foreboding idleness to put his assailant even more on edge. Through the thin clothing of his gown, his left shoulder glowed eerily in the gloom.

"How interesting," the King - still bare-toed and underdressed - mused, ambling close to the frozen heap of his has-been-assassin, "that you could get past my troupes of guards to be this intimate in my quarter." Even in the unlit dark, the glare sent his way was potent enough to be sensed, the hatred so predictable it held no surprise to the sovereign. Alfred was not in haste to finish off this attacker, whose silent insolence was nothing but harmless as the risks it posed had been eliminated. Then again, if it was displayed in the presence of his Court, such attitude could be punishable by death, killed on the spot.

But he recalled the seconds the blade hovered close to his throat, a mere twitch away from a final swipe and the fatal blow Alfred had readied while feigning sleep - when came up a pause. Hesitancy so palpable it made him slow his own intent to kill. In a way, the King was curious, taking in the details like a cat observing the rodent caught in its claws before any interest was waned.

Young, was what first glimpsed, or just permanently physically-underdeveloped, but the builds were all wrong for that to be likely. Not to mention, the previously amateurish delay was not out of consideration concerned with youth and inexperience either. Though, absurd as it seemed, sentimentality could be a possibility. And that would mean the assailant had known of him beyond a simple understanding of orders and targets to make the guilt more burdening.

Still, a child-assassin holding probable personal grudges towards him did not narrow down the list of perpetrators and accomplices. As it was, after this, it would be his interrogators' job.

"Does it feel morbid?" Inquired the King amidst observations, soft and cold in his nonchalance, foot stepping on an immobilized, gloved, palm - grinding down until the knife clenched in its hold clattered free and was kicked off to some corner out of reach. "Frightening that it can be when all will is rid. Humans are always obsessed with absolute control, and then power that way."

The body lay prone still; but if able, his attacker would be hissing in pain, clutching at broken fingers. An unresponsive opponent was beginning to look less interesting as the edge of danger turned blunt; and Alfred was not much keen of indulging a one-sided conversation - not for so long. Kinghood accustomed him to have his speech catered to, to see the people fear the weight held by its utterance. Years of superintendence branded his person, the searing burn of it agonizing who had been there before the beheld name of Alfred the First. Nights were long and full of whispers, the weight on his head not ceasing regardless of the setting of the sun; even when Alfred stayed away in his pitch-black encasement of lavishness, knees still fell to his breaths and left him towering.

Suddenly bored and disgruntled, he moved away from the human mass on the floor; the blue lit just above his left bicep put the haunted creases on his face to tender. Thirty Spadian winters and then some – he had outlived the most stubborn of warriors, and outdone the most weathered and damned. The glint in his eyes shone, but was voided, just like how they had been when he tore through beasts and monsters and men in the Doom Riptides many years ago. Though now, out of his armor of finery and weapon, bared to the raw and gentle tilts of torment and coating, stood Alfred in his most beastly – terrible mortality clung to his majesty as though a heavy, minacious cloak. With a brief flick of fingers, blue light gathered in his palm, beaming the glow of potent magic. Bygone then.

But before the kill was made, a large feathered form soared through the windows, untangling the shields woven outside of them just by sharp sweeps of its massive wingspans. Alfred turned to face this new foe, which appeared to be a great owl spreading its appendages wide and aggressive, hunching between the King and the assailant. The owl was silent in its threats and protection – the same as Alfred in his own astonishment and contemplation. Familiar were the gleam of its solemn golden eyes and the lethal curls of its enormous horns. Somewhere amidst the winding corridors in that land far up North, there had been a figure tending to a fiery Lord and the shadows of old mysteries, adorned with white gloves and impeccable black. Alfred recalled the perfect bows and attendance, accompanied by leading hands and trenchant gazes that were, when caught in light, shaded like flickers of gold.

Everything and nothing of that should have been called a butler. But then, monsters were of many guises.

Alfred drew up his mouth, vague of teeth, "And Anglia dares claim its disinterest. Mayhap, Alistair has finally been sick of wallowing in his cowardice and bereavement, and decided to make things done?" The creature just wordlessly stared at him, seemingly ignorant; but he knew close subjects were especially loyal to their liege, and those words would well be minded for many deliberations to come. And if it were truly whom he thought it to be, he doubted any reactions too revealing would be executed, lest there be any tokens that might work against them in a situation still too ambiguous to be worth great disadvantages.

However, as particular as the circumstance could get, the winged beast bowed to the King, curtsying its animal parts in a refined incline speaking of homage and regret, before gathering the frozen frame it had been shielding in men-shredding talons and flying off. Alfred stood singly in the sombre of his royal grandeur, his pale laughter of scorn tattering to such an egress and the unearthing of unrested grievance. Before the reminiscence of green eyes and arch grins became too much, he relinquished his hold on the castle's Time, listening to it bursting to life, and hollered for his alarmed guards to hunt the grounds.

Wang was, as par for the course, not gratified by the intrusion and attempted felony. In grim misgivings and a temper frayed with added age and early wrinkles, the Jack excused himself from Alfred's study to make strongholds out of his legion of guardians. The King, already thorough with political speculations and palled by the drills of them all, left the bureaucrat to his own device.

Alfred's mind had been distracted since the day before, attentive to the reports of his soldiers after the scouting only because of his grudges. He now sat elbows down on the shepherd's crook arms of his chair, steepling fingers pressed just under the tip of his nose. Excogitating. Though, the spread of affairs stated on scrolls and papers were foraying the enormous desk; looking at them made Alfred abruptly feel crowded. Restless, he rose from the seat and swept out of the room, dark blue coat whirling. The shadows in the hallway shifted and stretched to come after him, guarding but keeping distance.

Pursuing half-formed memories led Alfred through the castle, unmindful of the servants who kowtowed to him and were unnerved by the silent silhouettes following the steps of the King. They exited the palace, striding out into one of the well-trimmed courtyards – hydrangeas and delphiniums bloomed blue under the sun. The sight of the blossoms almost halted Alfred's tread, but he pressed on; something in his heart burnt and needed.

The path just seemed to last on - endless as the urge grew and grew while leaves and branches got thicker, the grass trampled under hasty boots moist and dark. A wooden door hammered to green-covered stone-walls brought their journey to a stop. With its handle rusty and weak, wood scratched and mossed, it was a miracle the door was still attached to its hinges; albeit the magical shields humming over its frame might be the reason.

And it was those shields which denied the King's guards entrance whilst he pushed the door open with his magic, and disappeared from sight as the wooden barrier snapped shut. Alfred paid ignorance to the agitation of his sentinels from being kept out.

Inside the hidden place, bright was the daylight, baring clear blackened, scorched earth - where nature and time failed to revive. Though, the walls encircling the ruined garden were now wrapped tight by stubborn vines and shaded by thick vaults of nearby trees outside. Stood the King in the middle of these all, dazed. It was as if he had crossed a line - unlocked something he had chained and buried - for realization to pounce on him, making him stagger: All of the pains were there. And it was a testament of how distraught and off-guard he currently was when it took Alfred a moment to find himself not alone.

His skills kicked in immediately, training so ingrained his body instinctively reacted to potential threats. He took in the dark blue robe that blended well with forests and shadows, hood and mask hiding the face - a stance unappalled by Alfred's powerful magic marking the place as impassable. As mobilized and healed as the intruder was now in a sun lit space, the King still had no difficulty figuring out who the person was.

After all, Alfred had been able to see well in the dark.

Such foolish determination, the King absentmindedly mused. Out loud he said: "Who are you? Who are you that even Alistair deemed worth of sending his prized Guardian over despite the many risks of exposure?" Alistair who wouldn't care less of anyone, except for one. Solitude disturbed and tremendous dissatisfaction toward the unfairness of past misery made him feel defensive and predatory – nor curious, nor merciful.

But that dark-cladded, thin figure dauntlessly stood up to his wrath, uncowered. Slowly, a hand reached up to catch on the mask covering half of a face. The mask slipped off, revealing an expanse of paleness, a straight nose over thin lips and a chiseled chin, blue eyes calm despite the hatred sparking in their shines – King Alfred stared at the incarnation of his younger self. That glimpse caught blurry on a rare sunlit water-puddle stinking of rats and urine, behind bars and surrounded by stones.

Alfred had once been thin then, not quite malnourished, but far from well-fed, enough for his cheekbones to hollow out a little with hunger languishingly churning in his stomach, feeling like teeth nipping and eating him from the inside. It was never tremendous, those tugs of starvation, so mid and constant that emptiness had become a part of his life.

And now the being before him was bearing the features once harbouring that soul, yet fuller of emotions and senses. It was someone who had been nurtured and sheltered in spite of terrible fated inevitabilities. Who had been loved, so he had the strength and drive to be protective. This was like a nightmare resurfacing, but gradually turning out to be something else not quite horrid. Still, no less ominous and shattering.

"What are you?" Alfred growled like a great beast, hounding after bloodletting. "If this is the way your Lord wants to cross with me, I'll be sure to befall him a demise so horrible he would wish he had not done so."

"Uncle were right," was suddenly uttered back as a response, that thing using his snarl to lash out, furious and alive as though a wicked manifest of Alfred's conscience. "That Pa should not have loved you. He should not have paid the prices for you." The imposter spat, and Alfred charged forwards. Because he knew, even without a name put to it, there had been - was - only one person who looked at Alfred and thought, he needs to be saved.

How dare this isolent miscreant!

His mark flared, almost blinding as magic sparked under the sun - Alfred went in for the kill. But instead of a paralyzed target, Alfred was countered in a form he had never anticipated he would ever be met: The Spadian King Mark. Which was still weaker than his own, but it was there on his opponent's left shoulder, glowing and expanding shields to nullify his attack. The two magic of the same kind collided, the impact of which was extremely explosive.

Experiences alone helped the King remain erect through the blast while the other was thrown against stony wall. Nevertheless, the young fraud was quick to recover, bravely hauling himself up on shaking legs, opposition casted clear and honest on his paled, bruised face. And Alfred - Alfred gazed at that creature - that boy - and saw the differences between the two of them for all of the frightening resemblances, while half of his limbs were stiff from the effect of torn shields.

They stared at each other in a silence much troubled and heavy, as the cords in Alfred's mind turned on notions so preposterous he almost barked out a laugh to ridicule himself. For, no matter how absurd some conclusions might be, they virtually tasted wishful. "I should just finish you off, not only owing to the previous nightfall, but also because of the Mark alone." The King daunted, tall and regal even with his gold-embroidered coat and shirt marred with upturned dusts.

Brazen blues rose up to clash with his frigid ones, and Alfred found himself bemused and diverted by this show of willful insolence – which, as reeking with wobbly lethal intents as it had been the last dark, was empty of innate malevolence. Did it get trained right to full potential, such a spirit would make a fine serviceman. Grudges aside. "Why had you not used the power of the Mark the night before? You could have easily rendered my invasion useless, instead of having bones crushed, or the likelihood of being dispatched."

Seemingly suspicious with the fact that the King was asking questions and not killing, the other just mutely looked at him, hesitation and compulsion warring through his yet-to-be-controlled expressions. But eventually, with lips gnawed and brows creased, the young assailant spoke up, "… Until recently, I have known not of what the Mark is truly able to accomplish. There are people trying to guide me around it, but even they acknowledge little about the thing." A pause; then firmness and something else sentimental gripped at the continued sentences, "You're the first one to show me that it can be handled like that; the rest of it I figure out by myself."

And those pair of youthful eyes shone benevolently like sky, open and calm to the King's cold and deep pools of sea. Alfred glimpsed at the sandy strands exposed by fallen hood, at the freckles scattering across the bridge of nose and the corners of eyes, at the cheekbones a bit higher than his settling near a set of delicate ears. "You are not an imposter sent by Alistair, nor can you be an unknown lost heir of my father," Alfred exclaimed.

"I am not," the boy confirmed, "it's just you who refuses to see what is right in front of your eyes." A malapert, arch grin lifted up, too familiar. "After all, Uncle Alistair says if there were any immediate threats to your crown, Wang would make certain you heard of it. And Uncle also comments it is permissible to murder you if I deem the act to be due, and can manage such a feat without wars declared. Considering what Pa has scarified, the many fingers Albert had to heal for me, and two near-death reunions, I have reasons to despise you enough." And with that, the other disappeared, in the whirlwind of a teleportation. Leaving the King hovering in the midst of a memory-haunted place, wide-eyed and livid and amazed.

At the end of summer, a noteworthy event stole the attention of all of the Four Great Kingdoms: King Alfred the First paid a nonbelligerent visit to Anglia, the first of its kind after years of conflicts over the supposed decease of Spadian beloved late Queen. Breaths were held as treaties were dealt; the foremost change was Anglia's border gates gradually opened to Spadian merchants. Fall came when the defenses from both lands still remained rigid, but the diplomacy had been managed in a more secure ground.

The first snows descended in November during a late-coming winter in Anglia, when Lord Alistair announced to have his protégé – a nephew born from far-blooded relatives and in possession of great talents - travel to Spades as a peace embassy. A hostage, foreign Courts whispered, how low down the once-fierce Lord Kirkland had come to now?

So then, speculations about the fate of such an excellent youth began to crop up in many wily conversations occurring at noble affairs, as well as behind the hush-hush of peasant gossips; but nobody outside of the Spadian Palace's walls knew of any truths concerned. Not until the name of Archibald was beheld throughout the streets of Spades as its regal crowned prince.

A/n: (1) Archibald means "genuine, bold, and brave."

(2) I always think Alistair would make a fine uncle, who tends to give dubious advice, but can be sensible at times.

(3) A sequel, and all I give you are a huge time-skip and more questions. Well. It'll be cleared in the later parts. Thank you for reading!