Author's note: Hello, you. :) How are you all? I have been quite silent lately, and more than anything, this piece is to show you that I'm still alive and to get back into writing. I haven't been replying any reviews lately, either (meaning the last four months or so :'D), but I'll get to that, too.
Meanwhile: this fic is my translation of my story Taas niitä päiviä. It's about time I finally translated it as I promised in the far past. The plot for this story had been on my mind for three or so years before writing it down, so it's a bit embarrassing to publish it – you will see why if you read it. :)
And before I let you move on to the story, I'll have you know that translating one's own text is freaking hard, at least in the beginning. As the original words were my own, too, I couldn't detach myself from them enough to create as hueful a result in English as it (hopefully) is in Finnish. So I apologise for the not-so-smooth and flat-ish text. And by the way, I'll have you know that there are 7 957 words in the original Finnish version and 10 658 in this English translation.
Now you may read the story.
One of Those Days Again
The moon was already high on the sky when Arthur Kirkland rubbed his hands together in vain attempt to get even some warmth into his stiff fingers, cursing. The autumn night was freezing-cold, so guarding the treasure chamber of the lord of the castle offered very little enjoyment – particularly as the said lord himself was probably enjoying the warmth of his hearth within the safety of his stone walls at that very moment. The image irritated Arthur, because Mister High Lord had known not a single day of work in his whole life, and he didn't even seem to realise how hard others slaved for him.
But such was the way in the world; some people were born rich, others had to work their asses off to make a living. Not that Arthur was unhappy about his life, not particularly. Despite his young age, he had rather a high position among the guards of the castle. He was, after all, one of those few who were entrusted with the key to the treasury. However, it wasn't that Arthur did his job so responsibly and well for the love for the lord – truly, he didn't give a damn about the lord. No, he was an excellent guard because he took pride in what he did. However, the lord of the castle (in other words, the payer) didn't need to know that.
A freezing gust of wind woke Arthur from his thoughts, and the Englishman tried to wrap his cloak more tightly about himself. The lord was truly a useless idiot for deciding to have his treasury right outside the main castle itself – that, or he enjoyed having his guards freezed to death. Sure, a massive stone wall surrounded the whole castle area, including the treasury, but it hardly was any good for the guards; if anything, the wall only served to make their duty even more miserable. The narrow passage that was left between the wall and the castle walls only served to give a nice passage to the freezing wind. Fighting thieves kept you warm at the very least, but against the wind one could only defend oneself with a thick, furry cloak – if you happened to have one, that is. Well, lucky for Arthur, his shift would end in an hour, at the booming of the midnight bells. The Englishman pitied the poor fellow who would have to do the actual night shift.
To get his remaining hour pass by quicker, Arthur began checking his equipment for what felt the hundredth time. The sword – in its scabbard on his belt. Two knives – hidden in his clothes. The key to the treasury – hidden safely in a masked hollow in the sole of his boot. Everything was how it should be... so what next? Arthur sighed, both of boredom and cold. Well, he could check his equipment to kill time and to stay warm. His sword – in its scabbard on his belt. Two knives...
"To hell with it!" the Englishman spat out. At that rate he would sink into madness, and sooner rather than later. Once again he found himself wondering if his pay was really worth either getting bored or freezing to death. Or, most likely, both at the same time. "Two in the price of one," he muttered to himself with dark sarcasm, rubbing at his arms.
His gloomy musings, however, came to an abrupt halt as a hand covered his mouth and another wrapped around his torso. The young guard started and his right hand flew reflexively to the hilt of his sword, but as cold steel touched his unprotected neck in a subtle warning, he changed his mind about that. Heart beating furiously in his chest, Arthur froze, cursing his own carelessness.
"A wise fellow, you," a voice whispered into his ear, hot breath tickling his cold skin. "Aren't we incautious today, hmm?"
Fear evaporated at the very moment Arthur recognised the familiar French accent in the voice of his assaulter, but it was immediately replaced with something worse: a disgustingly annoying feeling of sheer and utter idiocy. How could have Arthur let himself be taken unawares by the Frenchman... again?
"Hands off me, Francis," he hissed, both relieved and ashamed of the fact that his assaulter had turned out to be just the cook of the guards. A French cook, to worsen his abashment.
Arthur felt the knife leave his neck, only to find the arms around his chest tightening, bringing him close to the man behind him. The Frenchman's chuckle made the Englishman curse his stupid heart, which continued to beat like there was no tomorrow even though there was no danger any more. Well, though, there might be a completely different kind of danger present...
"Now you can say that," Francis allowed, "But what if I were a murderer or something? By know, you'd be a corpse, licking the dust off my boots."
"Shut up," Arthur snorted and pushed away from the Frenchman in irritation, hating him even more because he was absolutely right. In his defence the young guard could only say that nowadays, it was only Francis Bonnefoy who had the ability to take him by surprise. The Frenchman was able to move so silently yet swiftly that he could get himself almost anywhere without being noticed. No one knew how a simple cook had acquired such a skill, though Arthur was convinced that Francis, known to be a bloody lothario, had learnt it during his not so secret nightly visits that he was said to pay young men and women – the Frenchman seemed to take himself for a fucking Casanova. What Arthur didn't understand, though, was Francis' position as a mere cook; with the talent he possessed, the Frenchman would make an excellent guard. And yet, in all that five week's time that Francis had spent in the service of the lord, the Frenchman put to use his gift of moving only to infuriate Arthur... just like now.
"Rude, as always," the Frenchman said and clicked his tongue. Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, trying hard not to notice how cold it got again after Francis' arms were gone. "What are you even doing here?" he demanded; the cook's shift always ended an hour before midnight.
Francis flashed him his cursed smile that had managed to tie Arthur's insides in knots more than once. "What, do I have to explain my every move to you?" he asked playfully, leaning against the wall. "You just looked so miserable standing here, alone and cold, that I thought I would grace you with my company for the rest of your shift."
"How thoughtful of you," Arthur muttered dryly. And yet, despite having his doubts about the cook's real motives (everyone knew Francis to run from one conquest to another, never truly taking interest in anyone), the Frenchman's words made him feel a little bit warmer inside.
Francis had seemed to set his eyes on Arthur since the very day he started working as the cook of the guards. The Frenchman's constant flirting and quickly spreading reputation had only served to annoy the young Englishman, and when Francis had started pouring all his attention on Arthur, the guard had proudly announced that he would never join the imbeciles drooling after the cook. Despite the Englishman's rejecting behaviour towards the Frenchman, Francis never seemed to get discouraged, vice versa; the more Arthur tried to be unpleasant to him, the more delight Francis took in plaguing him. In spite of the Frenchman's efforts, however, Arthur's inner defences didn't fail him; Francis would never be able to brag about charming him, at least. Arthur saw no sense in giving in to Francis, only to be cast aside like all the others had been before him. Not that Arthur had ever considered giving in to him, goodness, no!
"Your shift ends at midnight, doesn't it?"
Arthur shook off his silly thoughts and looked at Francis, raising his rather impressive eyebrows. "Judging by your earlier words, you'd think that the answer was obvious."
"And how are you planning to spend the rest of the evening, after you are free?"
The question deepened Arthur's earlier doubts about the cook's motives. "What does it have to do with you?" he asked suspiciously.
"Are you going home?" Francis continued, unfazed by the reserved response.
Arthur snorted. "Where else can you go in this rathole of a town?"
"Just asking~"
The Frenchman didn't press the matter any further, and Arthur dropped it, as well. It was not like he had had any hopes, after all.
For a while neither of the two said anything, both focusing on trying not to freeze alive, but soon enough Francis stretched his back and gave Arthur a small smile. "Well, I'll be on my way, then."
Arthur was too busy convincing himself that he wasn't at all disappointed to spare a look at the Frenchman. "Right," he only uttered, nonchalantly. "So much for keeping me company till the end of my shift."
"I have matters of great importance tonight, I'm meeting my friends." Francis grinned. "Ah, so you would not like me to leave?"
"You wish," Arthur muttered and hoped to sound convincing. He probably succeeded, at least in his own ears.
"Don't worry, chou," Francis laughed somewhat mockingly, knowing perfectly well that Arthur couldn't understand a word of that stupid croaking that was generally known as French. "You will get into my bed some other night."
"Go to hell."
"Ever so eloquent." Francis leant in to place a light kiss upon Arthur's cheek and quickly withdrew to avoid the punch that he knew would follow.
"Hey! How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?"
"You can tell me not to do that as many times as you wish, cher, but it will never be many enough."
Arthur shot a dirty look at the smirking Frenchman. "I thought you were leaving. It's impolite to keep you 'friends' waiting." No doubt the Frenchman had once again managed to wrap some innocent lady around his little finger.
"You are not the one to preach of politeness to other people." Francis sighed condescendingly and gave a wave with his hand. "See you later."
Arthur followed Francis' retreating back with his gaze until he disappeared behind a corner, then allowed himself to sigh. Perhaps he truly ought to quit working for the lord; the pay was nowhere near sufficient to cover not only boredom and freezing, but also the nuisance of the French cook, too.
When the midnight bells finally rang, Arthur all but flew to the guards' room to mark his shift ended and to leave the key of the treasury to the guard who would be on duty from midnight till dawn. But instead of his colleague, he found only the commander of the guardsmen in the room, a large Russian called Ivan Braginski. Shit, that was bad news – if the guard who would take the following shift wasn't waiting in the guards' room, it could only mean that...
"Oh, Arthur," Ivan noted, content. "Tino fell ill today, so I'm afraid you have to take his shift, as well. I have understood you have no plans for the night anyway, am I right?"
The tone of the commander suggested that even if such plans had existed, they had better be cancelled now. Arthur groaned, but he had enough self-preservation not to show his discontentment more than that; Ivan Braginski was known to be a man who was not to be annoyed too much. "Tino had best make it up for me," the young guard grumbled to himself and looked at his superior. "Fine. But I expect this to be noted in my pay."
The Russian shrugged. "That's for the lord to decide."
His mood considerably lower than before, Arthur stalked into the kitchen to have a mug of something hot before a new freezing session, then forced himself out of the door again – not home, like he had been supposed to do, but back to his place between the walls. The night would be long...
But he was wrong about that. The night didn't turn out long, it turned out even longer. Minutes dragged by like hours, and hours dragged by like... Arthur didn't even dare think of that. There was an eternity between him and the dawn, at which his shift would finally end, and that eternity wasn't any shorter even after Arthur had checked his equipment ten times. The guard didn't even have anyone to share his misery with, as every guard had their own area to watch – alone.
"This sucks..."
In the lack of anything better to do, Arthur settled for staring at the castle and imagining how the lord was wrapped in blankets in his warm bed, sleeping sweetly, protected by his strong walls and loyal guards. The lord really had no reason to complain; he had a nice castle, five hot meals a day, and a bunch of people, who were stupid enough to give even their lives for him and his damned possessions, if it ever came to that.
Arthur sighed. Every passing day he found it harder and harder to find sufficient reasons to stay in the lord's service... and the ridiculous cook of the guards' room was definitely not among those reasons! But he had to earn his living, and for the time being the young guard had no idea where to go should he abandon his current job. One day, he thought, moving his eyes from the castle to the stars, one day I'll get away from here and start enjoying my life for real...
Clang!
Arthur froze. Right, either that metallic sound was some guard fooling with his sword, or then something was amiss. Well, it might have been only Arthur's imagination, too, as the sound had been very faint, but the Englishman trusted his instincts. Thus he started creeping in the direction where the sound had come from. He didn't hear it again, but better safe than sorry, right?
Approaching the corner of the building, Arthur pressed against the wall and proceeded to have a careful peek what was behind. That was when he heard them: whispers. Very quiet whispers, but the Englishman could make out the words nonetheless.
"You are late, idiot!" one voice hissed.
"Can't help it, amigo, I had to take care of a guard there."
"Whatever, let's hurry now. The area of the guard with the key should be just behind the corner."
Something twisted in Arthur's stomach at that. The guard with the key? Blimey, that probably meant him, didn't it? A quick check proved that there were two intruders, which made two on one. Arthur forced himself to stay calm and think... and think quickly.
"Heh, everything runs smoothly!" the firstly spoken voice sniggered quietly. "After this job is done, fame and glory will rain on our awesome Bad Touch Trio! Chicks will-"
Arthur felt adrenaline rushing in his veins. Bad Touch Trio? He had heard much and more about that gang of thieves, everybody had. The infamous trio was formed, according to the name, by three men, and those men were known to boast that no lock would hinder them. No treasure was safe from the band of thieves, and even rumours of the gang's interest in a treasure was enough to leave the owner of that treasure shaking. On top of that, the trio was impossible to catch, if tales were to be believed, and not one of the gang had ever been captured to answer for their crimes. Well, that had to be true, as there would be no mercy should any of the members get caught; for such a long list of thievery there was only a noose awaiting them. Getting caught once was all it needed, there would be no need for a second time. In the underworld, the reputation of the trio was already legendary.
His heart beating rapidly, the Englishman backed off from the corner. So, now that infamous gang was after his lord's treasures. Well, they would never get so much as to look at them, if Arthur had any say in the matter – and he had. He didn't give a shit about the lord's treasure itself, true, but he had his pride as a guard, and that was enough.
"Shush, Gil," the second voice, the one with a Spanish accent, hushed the first one. "We are not there quite yet."
Yes, you are not there yet. Arthur's only hope was the advantage of surprise; those two oafs were clearly ignorant about his presence, so-
Wait. Two oafs?
Arthur's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Two could not form a trio. So where was the thi-
Thump.
Arthur's vision flashed with a white lightning and suddenly the ground was no longer beneath his feet, but beneath his face. A muffled moan, a mixture of pain and surprise, escaped the Englishman's lips as the night around him faded into complete and utter darkness.
xXx
The first thing that got through Arthur's unconscious mind was warmth, blessed warmth. It almost felt as if it was warm tea flowing in his veins instead of blood, and his whole body was floating in a warm cloud. For few precious moments, Arthur's world included nothing but warmth.
This bliss was abruptly ended as the young guard budged to get a more comfortable position. Pain struck his head with the fury of a lighting, and alongside with pain it brought recent memories: the extra shift, coldness of the night, and Bad Touch Trio's attempt of theft. At least I hope it remained a mere attempt, Arthur thought grimly. Where am I? Trying to think as well as he could with hammers pounding in his head, the Englishman opened slightly his eyes to get some clue of his precise situation without giving away his awakening.
The sky was still dark, so he couldn't have been unconscious for too long, which was good. To his discontentment, however, he found that his hands were tied at wrists behind his back, which made lying on his back quite uncomfortable. A barely noticeable shift of his legs convinced him that his feet were left free, but that was cold comfort, as even small movements made the pain in his head radiate all over his body. Despite being undeniably a captive, however, Arthur found his captors oddly considerate; a blanked had been spread over him, which explained the heavenly warmth. There was a fire, too, a bit further away. The Englishman saw three men sitting around that fire – the Bad Touch Trio, no doubt – and only then did he realise he could hear what was being said.
"Why the hell did we have to drag him with us?" a pert voice was demanding. Arthur winced; even though there was plenty of space between him and the speaker, his voice was enough to add a nasty tinge to his pounding head. "I doubt he will be of any use even if he did awaken on time."
"Gilbert, if you had found the key 'in one swift motion' like you boasted you would, we could have left him right where he fell. Instead, you didn't find the key at all," another, much calmer voice pointed out. Arthur recognised the Spanish accent to be the same he had heard right before being assaulted. "And we couldn't really wait there for his return from the dreamlands."
"It's not like you had found the key, either," the first voice grumbled sullenly. That voice had a thick accent, too, but Arthur couldn't quite put a finger on it. Not that he truly cared.
The voice continued, "Wasn't it your job to find out about all possible details?"
A new voice joined the conversation. "Oddly enough, no one bothered informing me where guards hide the key during their shifts. Perhaps it's not even with them for all I know."
For one second Arthur felt his heart stopping in his chest. That voice he had no problems recognising, with its annoying accent and all, and not being able to help himself, the Englishman raised his head so quickly that his whole body twitched in pain. Letting out a quiet whimper he let his head fall back on the ground, but the name escaped from his lips nonetheless. "Francis?"
Three heads turned simultaneously towards him, and for a moment three pairs of eyes were staring at him as shocked as he stared at them. Only one of the men, however, captured Arthur's eyes. No, his ears had not lied to him; the accented voice, those long, golden locks, and deep blue eyes could only belong to one person in the whole world, and it didn't take Arthur long to realise that that person had probably been the one to knock him unconscious earlier. Somehow that little notion made the pain in his head twice as bad.
"Francis, what the hell..?" Francis was the cook of the guards, he could not, he could not be part of the infamous band of thieves... and yet Arthur knew that neither of the other two men had been able to knock him out at the castle; he had had his eyes on them all the time. Now, however, they had their curious eyes upon him.
Francis' expression melted into a troubled smile. "Oh, I see you are awake, Arthur," he said with an apologetic tinge to his tone, getting to his feet and walking over to Arthur, but the Englishman didn't give him a chance to start with any of his games.
"What the fuck is the meaning of this, Francis?" he shouted, shooting the Frenchman the most murderous look he could muster. "You are part of this filthy gang? Did you, just mere moments ago-" He cut himself off to inhale and winced again, fighting the pain. "Did you, just mere moments ago, fucking knock me unconscious?" Even Arthur himself could hear the bitterness in his voice, but despite his unwillingness to show any emotion he wasn't able to hide it.
Francis opened his mouth, but the answer came from elsewhere. "Stop whining!" the pert-voiced thief exclaimed, stalking over to Arthur as well. It was humiliating to be looking up at his captors, so Arthur, biting his lip, managed to get himself into a sitting position despite the headache and his tied hands. The thief continued, "You should be grateful to be still alive!"
Francis shot a glare at his companion. "Be quiet, Gilbert. Let me explain to him."
"What is there to explain?" the man called Gilbert grumbled, but fell silent nonetheless. Crossing his arms over his chest, he remained standing there, staring at Arthur with his disturbingly red eyes. His white hair was almost glowing in the light of the fire, and Arthur realised he was an albino.
Francis turned to the captured guard again and smiled apologetically. "Désolé," he said quietly. "But I had no choices. You would have shouted, or fought us, which would have alarmed your colleagues. We couldn't have that, you would have ruined our work."
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Arthur hissed, furious. "I guess it's perfectly okay then for you to ruin my work!"
The biting comment made Francis look somewhat remorseful. "But you don't even like your job."
"Well that makes up for everything!" Anger boiled within the Englishman, but even that couldn't quite conceal the bitterness of the betrayal. Arthur had trusted Francis. In spite of everything, in spite of all the faults of the Frenchman, Arthur had trusted him, and now he saw what good that ever brought to him. Francis had appeared one day at the guards' room, announced to be their new cook, and before long he had won everyone to his side, had become one of them... and all that just to stab their back later! Or, in this case, strike them unconscious. All Arthur could now do was to be grateful for managing to keep his walls strong before that scoundrel's cursed charms. At the very least he was spared the humiliation of falling for him, if nothing else.
So why did he feel as if something had broken within him?
"Arthur," Francis tried again. He captured the Englishman's eyes with his own damned blue ones and looked at him pleadingly. "I truly am sorry, I never wanted you to be part of this. I thought you'd be home already, safely sleeping in your bed when we would kick off our plan."
Arthur could only glare at the Frenchman the best he could; he didn't trust his voice to speak even if he had had a snarky response in mind. Francis sighed and reached to brush the Englishman's messy hair from his face, but drew his hand away when the guard started at the touch. "Had everything played out as planned, we would have been far from here by dawn, and none of this would have happened."
We would have been far from here by dawn. All of the sudden Arthur felt as if someone had thrust a knife into his heart at twitched it. So, Francis had been planning to disappear all along, right from the beginning. Every time when he had talked with Arthur, flirted, teased, bickered with him, or just talked, all the while he had been just secretly laughing at the Englishman, how he bought it all. Every time when Francis Bonnefoy had given all his attention to Arthur, letting him imagine... letting him imagine that perhaps he might actually mean something to the Frenchman, it had all been just a farce, just some fun at his expense.
It actually stung. It stung much more than it ought to, much more than what Arthur dared admit to himself.
"Wouldn't that have been a funny joke," he said quietly, unable to look at the Frenchman. Only sheer willpower kept his vision clear of tears that threatened to prickle behind his eyes. "How you would have just vanished from our lives just as suddenly as you had shown up." Well, shit. Perhaps his walls hadn't been quite as strong as he had imagined, after all.
"Actually-" Francis begun, but Gilbert cut him off. "Yeah yeah, a sad story, I know, but as it happens, we don't have the time for sob stories right now." The albino's bloodred eyes bored into Arthur. "So, Artie,we need the key to the treasury. Where is it?"
The Englishman met the red gaze unblinking. "I don't know. And what fucking 'Artie'?"
"You," the third piece of the trio announced cheerily, joining the others. "Francis has been talking of you so much that it feels like we already know you. Artie is Gilbert's nickname for you."
Arthur swallowed upcoming curses and fell stubbornly silent. That trio would not get a word out of him.
"Thank you, Antonio, Arthur really had to know that," Francis uttered, rolling his eyes, but Antonio wasn't bothered by him and continued, "I suggest teamwork, amigo. You see, the three of us had best be far from this town by dawn, so would you be so kind and give us a hint of the key's whereabouts? We found only two knives when we searched you."
Arthur felt himself blush; if both of his knives had been found, the search the thieves had carried out had been rather thorough. Trying not to think of all those hands roaming over his unconscious body, he shut both his eyes and mouth tightly, shaking his head.
"Oh well," Gilbert said and Arthur could have sworn that there was an annoying smirk on the albino's lips, even though he didn't opened his eyes to check the truth of that. "Once again, asking nicely didn't work. I guess we have to rely on violence, then."
On hearing this, Arthur's eyes shot open again, not of fear, but of defiance. Good, let them beat him as much as they liked, he would not so much as give a syllable for them!
"I think violence will be wasted on him," Francis said with a tired smile. "Arthur is too stubborn to reveal anything if he puts his mind to it. Believe you me, I have plenty of experience about that."
"What do you suggest we do, then?"
"Well..." The Frenchman crouched, bringing his face close to Arthur's. "How about you two leave us alone for a moment? I'm sure I can convince him of the perks of teamwork, but he might be a little shy of you."
Arthur didn't like the way that Francis' friends laughed at his words. Neither did he like the thought of being left alone with Francis, but Antonio draped his arm around Gilbert's shoulders and guided him away with a kind chuckle. "Let's go for a little walk," he said. "Those two require some privacy."
When the sound of their steps had completely faded away, Francis sat down beside his captive. He let the silence prevail between the two of them, but both knew that dawn was mere hours away, and after that, it would be too late.
I will never tell them about the hollow in the sole of my boot, Arthur swore to himself. Least of all to that traitor. They will leave this town empty-handed, even if they had to kill me.
As if reading his thoughts, Francis decided to open his mouth. "Arthur, I beg you. Our success depends on you now."
Bitterness forced Arthur to respond. "Why do you think that after all this, I would be willing to help you?" Anger started bubbling within him once more, but he forced his voice to stay cold and steady. "Why do you think that I would be willing to help you with anything at all?"
Francis didn't reply straight away, just looked thoughtfully at his captive instead. When he spoke, there was serious earnestness in his voice, the kind that Arthur had never heard from his mouth before. There was not a trace of his usual playfulness. "I don't," he said, eyes locked on Arthur. "That's why I'm asking."
The Englishman averted his gaze and snapped his mouth shut. Not of stubbornness this time, but because he simply had no idea how to respond to the words.
"I assume you know that we will be hanged, should we get caught?"
Of course Arthur knew. The thieving trio had committed so many robberies that they would not get out of it, not even by chopping off a hand. "Don't get caught," he advised somewhat unnecessarily. Despite everything, he couldn't stand a thought of Francis twitching at the end of a rope. "Though you do deserve it, all of you," he couldn't resist adding, just to show that he didn't give a damn.
The Frenchman uttered a laughter. "Yes, I did know that fishing for sympathy from you is useless."
"Damn right. You can't deceive me, I see trough all of your tricks." Would that I did.
"No," Francis said, "I don't think you do." The smile that the Frenchman sent Arthur's way was so sad that words got stuck in the guard's throat. Something was amiss about that. Confused, he cleared his throat and fixed his eyes upon the crackling fire. The flames, however, were starting to die down. "I don't see how I have anything to do with you getting or not getting caught. If you just let the treasure be and took off now, there's no way you'd get caught."
"Am I hearing the implication that you are offering not to tell anyone about us, even lie?" Francis asked, raising his eyebrows, and this time amusement was clear in his voice. Arthur would have been almost relieved to hear it, had it not irritated him so much.
"No! I mean, well..." What could you say to that? Arthur would never give his help to a criminal, but... Francis wasn't a criminal, technically speaking, he... Oh, what the hell, of course he was! What on earth was Arthur thinking? The Frenchman was a criminal as much as one could be, and he, Arthur Kirkland, was considering helping him! But then again, could he give away his friend, even if he had been pickpocketing a bit? Wait, his friend? Francis was anything but, and the word pickpocketing was an understatement of the century!
Arthur let his head fall into his knees and cursed aloud. He could argue with himself as much as he liked, but deep down he knew that the result of that argument would not change. He would never be able to give Francis away.
"I wouldn't lie," he finally said, as if reassuring himself. "I just wouldn't tell them everything..."
"Arthur," Francis said very softly. "Thank you."
Arthur felt blood rushing to his cheeks and hoped that the Frenchman wouldn't notice.
"I truly appreciate your offer," the thief continued, "but unfortunately I cannot accept it. We cannot back away now that the whole town spreads rumours about this gig."
"What, where have the townspeople heard about it?"
"Rumours spread quickly in the underworld, and even quicker when the townsfolk hears about them. We have a reputation, and fleeing would do no good to it."
"Are you a complete and utter fool?" Arthur snapped. "Is it really so hard to give in before your stupid pride, even when you will be punished by death should you fail?"
"You would know about clinging to pride," Francis shot back sharply. "You have your foolish pride, we have ours. I did fear we would come to this. Let me make this clear now, Arthur. If you won't give us the key, we have to find it ourselves." The Frenchman leant closer to the Englishman, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, and Arthur swallowed nervously. Then he felt a hand creeping up his thigh and, in all his manliness, gave a small squeak. "And that, mon ami," Francis continued, sliding his hand up the Englishman's thigh, "means a very thorough search."
"What, wait, what are you-"
The Frenchman grabbed the blanket covering Arthur and cast it aside, making the Englishman feel suddenly very vulnerable and very, very naked despite his clothing. Why, oh why had his hands been tied?
"Are you still refusing teamwork?" Francis asked, raising the guard's chin to get an eye-contact with him. There was the familiar mischievousness in those damned eyes again, but something else too, something entirely else that Arthur couldn't quite put a finger on. "This is your last chance."
"Go to hell, frog!" was what Arthur offered as a response, but the Frenchman merely shook his head.
"As I thought," he said, almost pleased for some reason, that fucking pervert. "Fine. Just remember that this was your choice."
What have I got myself into... Arthur thought when the thief leant closer. My pay is definitely too small for this!
He lost his train of thought the second the Frenchman leant over him and undid the buckle that kept the Englishman's cloak on his shoulders, then moved on to the many buttons of his tunic, so naturally, without so much as a pause to reconsider.
"Wait, waitwaitwaitwait!" Francis couldn't be serious, could he? And yet Arthur had experienced enough harassment from the frog to believe that this time he was, in fact, being absolutely serious. But Arthur would not simply submit himself to Francis' mercy, oh no, that would not do. Arthur was a guard after all, rather skilled a swordsman and not so bad at close combat, either. His current situation wasn't really a combat, and he was tied up on top of that, but the Frenchman had been right; the young guard was too proud to give the key to the thieves or suffer their whims. Besides, those idiots had made one crucial mistake.
Arthur raised his leg and kicked.
Apparently Francis had not taken it into account that the captive might actually resist, because the kick to the stomach took him unawares; the Frenchman stumbled backwards, letting out a surprised whine as air escaped from his lungs. Oh, sweet revenge! "That's for knocking me out," he announced, victoriously, while the Frenchman fought for his breath. "And if you try anything again, you'll get more of those."
"Uhh," was what the Frenchman said, wincing. The wince, however, turned soon enough into a rather forced smile. "I guess I deserved that," he admitted. "But how about we put the violence aside now that we are even?"
"And let you grope me? Keep dreaming!"
"Every night." Francis grinned mischievously. "But I'm not groping you now, dear Arthur. I'm simply searching for the key and, well, if undressing you happens to be part of it, what can I do? You did choose it yourself."
"Don't you imagine that I will let you succeed." Arthur raised his leg, ready to use it again should the Frenchman attempt anything. The ache in his head had not disappeared, but at least it had slightly decreased, and in the absence of the two other thieves Arthur felt more confident.
The Frenchman merely raised his eyebrows in response. "I did not know you were this much into binding games," he said lightly and fetched another rope from a backpack nearby the fire. "But that's alright. The pleasure is entirely mine."
"I dare you try."
And Francis did, with success. He managed to capture the guard's thrashing legs and tied them, as well – the tied hands had sealed Arthur's defeat. "Here we are. No kicking now."
The bitter taste of defeat silenced the Englishman. He couldn't fight back anymore, not with his limbs tied. Francis bent over him once more, muttering an apology and fingers working on buttons again, and a wave of shame washed over Arthur. Shame and... sadness.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be this kind of situation where Francis would undress him. It was supposed to happen in a different way, in a different place, for a different reason. Above all, for a different reason.
"Stop," Arthur whispered. He had already lost, so he might as well spare himself from this torture. "It's not there."
The fingers on his tunic halted, and Arthur felt his captor's eyes on him despite keeping his own eyes on the ground. "It's not there," he repeated quietly.
There was no response, Francis kept silent, but his unspoken question echoed in the air as loudly as if he had asked it aloud. Arthur kept his eyes fixed on the ground. "I- I can't reveal where the key is hidden," he said. "But it's not in my clothes, truly, it's not."
"Arthur." It was only one word, but the Frenchman's hands twitched on the fabric of Arthur's tunic, delivering the message. Arthur shifted, alarmed. To avoid the worst humiliation, he had to get Francis to believe him. "I'm telling the truth!" he cried out on seeing that the Frenchman was growing impatient and opened one more button – though uncertainly, almost questionably. "Believe me, it's not hidden in the fabric of my clothes! You'd only end up wasting your time." Francis hesitated, and Arthur swallowed his pride at last. "Please," he whispered, looking into the blue eyes. "Don't do this to me."
The blue eyes met the green, and Francis stood up with a frustrated sound. "Damn you!" he spat at the Englishman.
A wave of relief washed over Arthur and the tension in muscles relaxed a little. "Thank you." Francis only shot him a glare, but Arthur met it. "Francis, I mean it. Thank you."
"If you tell the truth and the key is not anywhere in your clothes, then where is it?"
Arthur bit his lip. Perhaps he could give a small hint, Francis had probably deserved it, sort of... But he would only hint, and nothing more! "I did tell you that it's not in the fabric of my clothes."
The blue eyes stared intently into the green, then moved to Arthur's sword and its scabbard, but returned soon upon the Englishman again. The gaze was enough to make Arthur wiggle uncomfortably, but the feeling eased as the Frenchman's eyes ended up on the guard's leather boots.
"It's not in your clothes, huh..?" The thief crouched at the Englishman's feet. "We did check your boots, too, when you were unconscious, but..."
Arthur's legs were tied together at his shins, and taking off his boots would require setting the legs free. Francis gave a suspicious glance to his captive. "Do you promise not to start kicking if I..?"
Arthur merely nodded and so the Frenchman cut the rope with his knife and swiftly took the boots off the Englishman's feet. He examined them carefully, running his fingers all over the leather in search of possible bumps or seams, but found none and threw another glance at his captive, an accusing one this time. Arthur shrugged in response and remained silent – it was up to Francis to find the key now. If he was as good a thief as he was said to be, he should manage.
It appeared that Francis did live up to his reputation. Years of thieving had sharpened his eyes and sensitised his fingers, since after a while the Frenchman did hit on a hollow space in the thick sole of the boot. A triumphant smile flashed on his handsome face when he turned to Arthur. "Very clever," he admitted and smiled – smiled a smile so sincere that the Englishman's heart skipped a beat. "Now it's my turn to thank you."
"Whatever."
"I mean it."
"I didn't do it for you," Arthur lied, even though he didn't know for whom else he could have done it if not Francis. "So don't bother."
Francis' smile withered. "Arthur," he said, crouching down before him. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"Whatever, now you have the key, so feel free to fuck off. Preferably forever."
"Arthur, look at me."
"Do you want me to kick you again?" What was Francis playing at, he had got what he wanted so why wouldn't he let Arthur be?
Strong fingers caught the Englishman's chin and forced him to meet the Frenchman's gaze. "Listen to me," Francis said, emphatically. "It is true that had everything gone as it should have, I would've been far away from here by the time you woke. But I would've returned for you, either before leaving or after several days, depending on the situation, and cleared everything between us."
"Cleared everything?" Arthur snorted. "You mean you would've returned to inform that you're a thief and boasted how you managed to cheat m- us all?"
"That, too." Francis gave a small smile. "But before anything I would've-"
"Aaaaaaaand cut!" an annoying, familiar voice boomed from somewhere nearby, making both Francis and Arthur jump. "It's a tragic thing, as we have already established, but as it happens, we really don't have the whole night, so how about we go through with this?"
Francis turned to glare at his friend, who emerged from the bushes with Antonio. "This is already the second time when you cut me off at a crucial moment, it almost feels that you're doing it on purpose."
"Oh but Franny, I am doing it on purpose," Gilbert announced proudly and grinned. "And don't give me that look, you are well aware that it takes time to sort out fucked-up relationships, and time is something we don't really have right now. You can well talk or whatever afterwards."
The Frenchman directed his glare at Antonio. "To think that I trusted you to keep him in the leash."
A sheepish smile spread on Antonio's lips. "Sorry... but this time he has a point."
The albino gave a modest wave of his hand. "I know, I know, I'm awesome. You can spare your gratitude for later."
Not particularly impressed by his companion's words, Francis got up and tossed the just-acquired key to Gilbert, who caught it in the air. "Well then. Who of us will complete this task? We don't need more than one to carry one goblet."
The Frenchman's words cut short Arthur's disturbing images of eavesdropping albinos. "One goblet? That's all you're going to steal?"
"That's all we're going to steal," Antonio confirmed. "The goblet in question is the apple of your lord's eye, he has been boasting with it long enough already. It'll be enough for us."
"I thought you were after gold and wealth."
"Don't forget that the goblet is made of pure gold and jewels."
"Perhaps I should go, as I know the place," Francis volunteered, but Gilbert's crimson eyes stared at Arthur in the way the Englishman did not like.
"Wait, you," he said, a shrewd grin spreading on his face. "You would only attract attention if you went there, you were nothing but a cook for them, after all. I have a better idea..."
"Oh? I'm listening."
"A cook sneaking around where he shouldn't will attract as much attention as a stranger doing the same. But." The Albino's eyes bored into the captured guard, making him expect the worst. "If the one sneaking around is a trusted guard, it wouldn't matter if someone caught a glimpse of him. In fact, no one would even notice him because he is part of the picture."
Anger flashed on Arthur's face for the hundredth time during the night. "If you bastards think that I-"
"Be quiet, of course we don't," Gilbert snorted. "As if we would trust a mission of this importance to you. But the two of us, you and me, we are about of the same hight..."
"Same body structure," Antonio continued thoughtfully, catching on his friend's plan.
"Same messy hair," Francis added, smirking to scowling Arthur. "In the moonlight no one will notice a difference in the colour."
"Listen, buddy." The albino crouched beside the Englishman, grinning annoyingly. He seemed to be grinning annoyingly all the bloody time. "Would you lend me your clothes for a moment?"
"Never!"
It took only one wink from Francis to convince Arthur otherwise, and cursing loudly he agreed. It was not like he had any choice. "I'll undress myself," he hissed, definitely not blushing, as a smile lightened up the Frenchman's bloody perverted face. Oh, how he wished that a lightning would strike him down right there and then, or if only Francis had hit his head hard enough to kill him, or, at the very least, the ground could open beneath him and swallow Arthur whole, the Englishman would be eternally grateful for such kindness. But now, it looked like there was no end to the torturous night and its humiliations.
Francis freed Arthur's hands after getting a promise that he wouldn't attempt an escape, and Antonio gave him a pair of slacks and a simple tunic. The Englishman strode to change behind the safety of some bushes, as he would never, ever undress before Francis and his stupid friends – that was a pleasure the Frenchman would not get. Meanwhile the albino pulled on the guard's outfit and adopted his sword. To avoid any mishaps, he pulled the hood of the cloak over his head, covering both his hair and the absence of thick eyebrows, and grinned triumphantly. "How do I look?"
"Quite believable," Francis complimented. "If I didn't know better, I would almost like to surprise you from behind."
The oh-so-funny comment earned laughter from everyone else but the object of the jest; Arthur frowned and tried not to remember all those times when Francis had sneaked behind him and drawn him into his arms. Though, that habit would come to and end as well, as soon as the trio got their goblet and ran off. Arthur would have never believed – and even less likely admitted – how sad the thought made him. Somehow, during those several weeks that Francis had spent among the guards, the Frenchman had managed to dig himself a cave in Arthur's heart and made himself comfortable there, a cave so deep that getting the Frenchman out of there was an impossible task. It had happened so secretly that even Arthur himself had not been aware of it, not until now, when Francis was about to leave that cave himself and leave only a hollow, empty hole behind.
"Good luck," Francis and Antonio bid his friend as the albino disappeared behind trees, but Arthur remained silent. He sat down where he had first been placed as a captive, and covered himself with the blanked Francis had cast aside earlier. His mood was growing darker and darker, and when Antonio asked him to join them at the fire, he only shook his head.
"Now there would be time for sorting out your relationship," Arthur heard the Spaniard telling to Francis, and soon enough the Frenchman did approached him. But the Englishman could think of several thousand more pleasant activities than talking with him, like for example sleeping in a pit of angry, poisonous snakes, and so he shook his head when Francis tried to talk to him. "Leave me alone." There was no malice in his voice – in fact, there were no feelings at all in his voice, only plain tiredness, and perhaps that made the Frenchman listen to him and for once leave him alone.
Time dragged by and the sky began turning from black to blue, but there were no signs of the albino. The two other thieves began to worry, so Arthur decided to be helpful and reassure their dubiety by telling stories of Ivan, the commander of the guards, and how he had acquired his nickname Ivan the Terrible. No criminal was safe from him, Arthur told, because Ivan would never rest before an offender was caught. For some reason, however, the remaining two of the trio didn't appreciate his case studies, even though they, being criminals, had probably heard the name more than once, and Francis even knew the man personally. It gave Arthur great pleasure to see the two thieves wiggling on their seats in worry, though he had to admit that he did not truly wish for Gilbert to fall into Ivan's hands. The Russian's wrath was something that was hard to wish for even one's worst enemy.
The sounds of running steps coming from the forest put an end to waiting, and all three men – even Arthur – jumped to their feet, half expecting to see every guard in the lord's service striding at Gilbert's heels. But no, when the albino emerged, he emerged alone. Breathless but victorious, he waved the golden goblet in his hand. "I got it!"
"Wonderful!" Antonio exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "Were you followed?"
"They lost me, but I'd say that we have a couple of hours at most to get out of here before we find our heads on spikes."
"So you were seen."
"No, I wasn't."
"But you just said that you were followed!"
The albino ignored his two friends and turned to Arthur instead. "How the hell do you survive in these clothes outside? I'm more warm naked than wearing these!"
Arthur's momentary I-knew-I-suffer-too-much-for-my-pay and the following wicked happiness that even for a moment, Gilbert had to suffer the same vanished as the albino continued, "By the way, you have some nasty friends there, buddy."
"Huh, what do you mean?"
"They just swore to kill you, accusing you of treachery. If I were you, I'd be quite careful from now on."
"What?" A vague sense of fear settled in the Englishman's stomach. "But you said you weren't seen!"
"I wasn't," Gilbert explained patiently, as if talking to a child, "But the same thing can't be said about you."
"What are you talking about?"
"Well," the albino said condescendingly. "You were just seen escaping the guards and waving the goblet. And maybe you were also heard shouting obscenities to your employer and, yeah, I think you also declared to be assisting the awesome Bad Touch Trio."
Arthur opened and closed his dry mouth, much like a fish taken out of water. That idiot had pretended to be him, and then got all the blame for the crime on his reputation! Why, he could have simply offered him as a gift to Braginski, since now Arthur would find himself in the Russian's hands before long anyway. Who knows, perhaps they will give you as a gift to Ivan, a quiet, nasty voice whispered into his ear. They hadn't had any problems with getting you in trouble to begin with.
"Gilbert, was that truly necessary?" Francis asked sharply. The albino scratched at his neck, looking slightly bewildered. "Well, I guess not, I just got a bit carried away. You would understand if you had been there! There were two extra guards in the treasury, you should have seen their faces when I marched in and declared to take the goblet! The alarm, guards, and that pursuit! Hah! But Gilbert the Awesome is not easily caught. Though it was a close call, Ivan the Terrible was this close to getting my head, but hah, he didn't, I..."
At that point Gilbert the Awesome noticed the pointed looks his friends were giving him and trailed off. At least he had enough decency to look apologetic when he turned to Arthur again. "Sorry, mate. Nothing personal."
Nothing personal? Arthur laughed aloud. Nothing personal! Maybe that's what Arthur ought to say when Ivan imprisoned him. Nothing personal, Ivan, he would say. Or would, if he lived long enough to open his mouth. On the other hand, he would surely live long enough to speak, in fact, he would be made to speak much and more in Ivan's hands.
Oh my God. Arthur's laughter turned into a wave of nausea as suddenly as it had began. On purpose or not, Gilbert and the Bad Touch Trio had written him the most dreadful death sentence possible – that earned for treachery, carried out by Ivan Braginski.
"Arthur?" Francis knelt down beside the Englishman, who had collapsed against a tree. "Are you alright?"
"Alright?" Arthur croaked. "I am most certainly not! Why don't you do me a favour and slit my throat right here and now, then I'll be alright!"
"What are you talking about?" The shock in Francis' eyes brough odd pleasure to Arthur, but it didn't last long.
"My dear thieves," he announced, almost laughing at the puzzlement of the Frenchman. "The lord of the castle has been robbed. The lord of the castle. And he has not just been robbed, he has been robbed of that one thing that he has taken great pride in. What you just did is a worst possible insult towards his persona, and he can't let that go unpunished. Or, well, I guess what I did, thanks to you."
"You could tell them the truth," Antonio suggested uncertainly, knowing full well that it would be in vain. Arthur didn't deign to respond to his words, just rolled his eyes.
Surprisingly enough, it was Gilbert who gave support to Arthur's grim words. The albino shrugged and looked at his friends. "I'm sure you do realise that if a noble high-arse like a lord is robbed, he needs to find the guilty ones, at any cost. Arthur will become a warning example to others, naturally."
"Speaking of which, I do believe we should get out of here, don't you think?" Antonio pointed out as matter-of-fact. "Francis' face is as known as Arthur's."
"Wide words, my friend."
Francis, who had been thoughtfully silent until then, opened his mouth at last. "So you don't wish to stay and have a chat with Ivan?"
Arthur gave him an expression which clearly doubted the Frenchman's thinking abilities.
"How convenient," Francis uttered briskly and nodded to his two friends. "As it happens, we don't wish for that, either."
Before Arthur had time to comprehend what was happening, Gilbert and Antonio moved behind him and grabbed his arms tightly enough to prevent a bear from escaping. "What-?" Arthur started, instinctively – and in vain – struggling to free himself, but words got stuck in his throat when he saw Francis expose his knife.
"Francis?" His voice was questioning; half warning, half incredulous.
The Frenchman responded to his name with a careless smile. "Hmm? Oh, don't look so upset. You'd think that a man like you would realise that we can't leave a possible threat running around."
"Threat?" What had gone into Francis, had he finally lost his mind completely? Arthur stared at the knife in his hand. The blade was clean and shiny and ominous. Francis wasn't serious, was he? It was not like Arthur had really wanted to die, he had only said so to make his situation clear to the three thieves!
Francis raised his brow, as was his habit whenever he was amused. "I refuse to believe you are this naive, Arthur dear. You do realise that if you stay here, you will end up in Ivan's hands, and we wouldn't like to spend our time wondering what you might have told the man." The Frenchman stepped closer and Arthur's blood turned cold. "And even if you didn't get caught, we don't want to worry about possible revenge." Then Francis seemed to come up with something clever, as his face lit up. "Or, you could think that for once, I do agree with you. It was unconsiderate of us to drag you into an unpleasant situation like this, so now we'll help you out of it."
Fucking hell, the Frenchman was serious! Arthur grinded his teeth. Fear mixed with burning anger and bitterness. This was Francis' true face, then? Would it really be that easy for him to get it done with one swift movement of his hand, and let Arthur become a ghost of past and nothing more?
"You wouldn't dare," he hissed, consciously focusing on his anger instead of hurt – he wouldn't show his weakness, not before Francis.
"You ought to be happy, I did admit you were right for once, didn't I?"
As all Arthur's struggles went in vain, he settled for kicking. That didn't last long, though, because Antonio and Gilbert captured his legs between their own, and Antonio grabbed his head to hold it in place. Francis stepped close to him and leant to murmur into his ear, "So let me take my responsibility." He grabbed the collar of Arthur's tunic and exposed the soft, vulnerable skin on his neck.
Time froze. Arthur felt his heartbeats in every part of his body and heard blood rushing in his veins. Despite himself, his eyes fluttered closed and a vague picture of Francis smiling warmly at him formed before his eyes. What a joke, he had time to think, to fall in love with a man who takes not only your heart, but to boot your life, too.
Warm lips pressed against his neck where the knife was supposed to give its deadly kiss. "I guess we have to take you with us, then."
Arthur's body jerked violently, first because of the unexpected gentle touch and then because of warm breath tickling his skin. His eyes flew open, and only then did he comprehend what had been said. "W-what..."
Francis' twinkling eyes met his bewildered gaze. "Just what I said. I hope you did not truly believe that I could take your life?"
Realisation crushed on Arthur with finality. "You bastards," he muttered, as if wondering how someone could be that fucking stupid. Then he let it out from the top of his lungs. "You fucking bastards! What was with this bloody theatre?"
Gilbert began to cackle behind the Englishman, and he and Antonio freed him from their grip. As soon as he got one arm free, he swung it and gave Francis such a cuff on the ear that the fucking frog would remember it till the end of his days. "How dare you?" he yelled, absolutely furious. "How! Dare! You!" There were so many things he wanted to shout out, but none of them came out, so Arthur, frustrated, punched Francis again, this time on his arm. "How could you pretend- joke- Do I, do I look like some pet fool to you? I don't..." Arthur felt that he was chocking on his words, so he just buried his face in his hands, his body shuddering of suppressed yet storming feelings.
"I was kind of hoping that you wouldn't believe me capable of something like that," Francis admitted, rubbing his head where Arthur had hit him. "I guess your opinion of me isn't too flattering, is it?"
"How could it be, after all this!"
"I'm sorry, I-"
"Go to hell with your i'msorries!"
"I just wanted to make sure you aren't truly suicidal and willing to die."
"And I was kind of hoping that you wouldn't believe me capable of something stupid like that," Arthur mimicked, starting to calm down a little.
Francis' expression melted into a gentle smile, the one that made Arthur's heart always leap in his chest. "Touché," he said. "When the world tries to put Arthur Kirkland down, it has to humble before his colourful vocabulary."
Arthur had regained his mental balance and was once again able to shoot his trademark glares at the Frenchman. "Don't you think that I have forgiven you."
"So is everything sorted out now?" Gilbert, who had stopped laughing the moment he saw how hard Francis had been punched, asked. "If we don't hurry and do so soon, we will all get a private chat with Ivan and a date with the noose."
"True." Francis bored his eyes into Arthur's. "You can forgive me later, but I was serious when I suggested you to come with us."
Arthur didn't move. "Because you have to."
"No." Francis' eyes were exceptionally honest. "Because I want you to."
"If, if you think you can manipulate me according to your wishes-"
"Arthur, come with us." All the usual drama was dropped from Francis' voice and expression. Arthur had never seen him so serious, so pleading, so vulnerable before. "I do not want to manipulate you, and I doubt that I could even if I wanted. The decision is yours. I do realise that I have hurt you in a single night more than enough for a lifetime, but please, give me a chance to make something right, too. We want you to come with us. Well, I want you to come with us." The hold the blue eyes had on Arthur was as tight as Gilbert and Antonio's grip earlier, and the look in them seemed to give the words all their meaning, and more. "With me."
And after that the Frenchman had nerve to claim that he didnt want to manipulate Arthur? Well, whether or not it had been his intention, he had succeeded; Arthur could not refuse his offer, not when it was phrased like that. Worse: he didn't want to refuse his offer, but that was something the Frenchman didn't need to know. His ego was swollen enough as it was.
So the Englishman only said, "Let's get going then before the lord gets to voice his objection."
It wasn't like Francis could offer him stable life or safety, Arthur was well aware that, but it wasn't like he was in need of safety or protection, and it had been his stable life that he had wanted to get out of to begin with. There would be time for those later. But there, in that very moment, Arthur felt that the sincere flash of joy in the Frenchman's deep-blue eyes was enough of a reason to follow him to the edge of the world.
Besides, he did owe Francis a sweet revenge, did he not?
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