It felt good to be out at sea again. He rarely got to sail anymore, because of how much his government and current king asked of him. He used to sail frequently, but his new monarch gave him more responsibilities the others did. Much to his relief, he was out on the water once more, setting sail across the seemingly endless ocean westward to his settlements in the Americas for the first time. To him, sailing represented freedom. He loved to be in charge of his ship, where he could feel the wind blowing through his uncombed hair and bask in the glory of the open sea without interruption. After all, who could interrupt him in all the way out here?
His first mate, Thomas, interrupted his basking. "Captain... sir... a ship has been spotted that seems to be following us."
His heart leapt into his throat, but he only nodded and kept his expression calm.
"Colours?"
"Gold and white."
"Bonnefoy." he growled.
"... sir?"
He turned toward Thomas, "Full speed ahead. We've got to leave that ship with nothing but a fleeting glance at our arse. They will attack, should they get close enough. Do you understand?"
Thomas merely nodded before turning on his heel to leave his captain leaning a shroud.
He allowed Thomas to run around shouting orders as he pinched the bridge of his nose and begged God to give them speed. The part about the other ship attacking had been complete shite (their diplomats were on about as good of terms as they ever could be, seeing as his king's wife was French), but he felt a headache coming on, and he really didn't feel like dealing with the French bastard commanding that ship.
Their disliking for each other seemed to stem from the fact that they were so similar. Both were so headstrong and prideful, they could have made it an art. Of course they didn't know these things when they first met, but even then they had a certain distaste for one another. Neither could quite put his finger on it. On the other hand, Francis was also very much his opposite. He loved to be a part of his country's politics, but was rarely needed. Therefore, he had much more time on his hands than he was comfortable with: time he seemed hellbent to use for annoying Arthur. He pretended to know everything, spent far too much time on his appearance, and insisted that his language was superior. It didn't help that the people of England had at one point spoken French as their official language and eternally worshiped French fashion. This made Francis smug, which made Arthur's blood boil. He couldn't stand how smug he could get (though he'd deny it to his last breath, he could get pretty smug as well). But that wasn't the only thing that angered Arthur... Francis had developed a reputation around the world for being a lady's man. He'd had sex. With many different women. Arthur would never admit it out loud, but he was still a virgin. It was his decision, he told himself. It was just because he couldn't bring himself to use some poor girl like that, and not because of his eyebrows, he told himself. Nonetheless, he was jealous of Francis. Somehow Arthur had gotten it in his head that sex turned a boy into man, and he couldn't stand that he was still a boy, while Francis had become a man.
He clenched his jaw and pulled out his captain's reserve. It wasn't the best rum, but it was better than the piss his crew was drinking. He swirled it around in its flask, sniffing it.
It's not as if I've never had the chance, he thought as he took a swig. There had been plenty of girls who had fancied him, and he in return. It just... never happened. And while he felt the physical urge, he never thought it was that important. That is, until Francis earned his reputation. What a hypocrite. There he was, still Catholic, acting pious and holy and screwing women left and right. Just another reason to hate that imbecile. He'd had plenty of rulers that did just the same things, but he couldn't hate them openly like he could Francis. Plus, it seemed so much more wrong, because France claimed to be the most loyal to Rome, and was the "first daughter of the Church". Heh... Daughter of the Church...
So with that last thought and a few more gulps of rum, he was able to cure his headache and focus his attention elsewhere.
He ambled around the deck, watching his crew's frenzy. It wouldn't be long before they reached the shores of the New World. He wondered what it would be like. He really couldn't imagine anything all too different from Europe, though Antonio did say something about thick forests with terrifying creatures and hostile natives... maybe he was just trying to scare him. He reasoned with himself that that was the case, considering he'd met an indian woman named Rebecca (previously known as Pocahontas) when a certain John Rolfe brought her to his home in 1616, and she was perfectly civil. The only thing he found unsettling about her was her skin. He wasn't sure what to think of it, was it a curse? And, oddly enough, he had found it aroused him. It also increased his interest in the New World. He'd had monetary and political interests in it before- Antonio earned a mountain of gold in his efforts- but this woman, this princess from another world, she really did make him want to see her home.
What if there was someone like him in this New World? … what if that person were a she, like his visitor?
He began to wonder about this mysterious woman from across the ocean. What did she look like? What was her name? Would she like him? What if she liked Francis better? What would that mean for his colonial endeavors?
She was one of the biggest reasons he was being sent out there: none of his colonizers could find her.
Why was she hiding from them?
He was striding through a thick forest, searching. Surely she was somewhere around here, he just had to find her.
Suddenly, there she was, as if she had popped out of thin air, in the nude. It upset him that she was moving away from him. Her long, dark hair swayed as she walked and covered her backside. The skin he could see was dark and smooth. He pursued her, wanting only to have her in his arms, to feel her warmth. She seemed to radiate it.
His hand caught her shoulder, ivory met bronze, and he turned her toward him. As she turned, her face morphed from hopeless to elated. The moment their eyes met was made of gold.
"I've been waiting for you. I've been waiting for a big, strong, handsome nation to show me the way in this world." she said, searching into his eyes and caressing his face with her fingers.
He pulled her closer by the waist, "I know."
And then they kissed. Deeply, passionately. Everything else they needed to say was in that kiss. It wasn't long before they were on the forest's soft floor. She made him a man, and he made her a colony...
"Ahem. Captain? Your… orders have been carried out, and the French ship is lost to the horizon… sir." Thomas said, pulling him out of his daydream.
Arthur blinked a while as confusion dawned and screwed up his face. "How long has it been?"
"A few hours, sir." So it seemed. The sun's last rays were barely peeking over the horizon to the west.
"Oh..." Had he really been thinking about her for that long? He drew himself to his full height, which, sadly, wasn't much more than young Thomas's. "I see." he cleared his throat, "I think I'll retire to my quarters now. Tell the crew to do the same. They've earned it."
"Yes, sir." What a nervous child. Thomas couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old, hadn't shaved yet. He was always wringing his hands when he wasn't doing something, and he never looked his captain square in the eye. But Arthur was fond of the boy. Though he was a little young to be a first mate, he did exactly as he was told in a timely manner, and that was all it took to be an adequate first mate, in the captain's opinion.
He made his way to his room in deep thought. He wished with all of his being that his daydream (which had admittedly gotten out of control) would become a reality. As he lay in his bed, he revisited that dream and reveled in it until he fell asleep.
His eyes flew someone trying to break in, or were they knocking on his door? He sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"Who is it?"
"Captain, the French ship has caught up to us, and their commander is requesting permission to come aboard." Thomas answered.
"WHAT?" he roared as he took the two short steps to wretch open the door. On the other side was a frantic Thomas looking quite ready to piss himself.
"Th-the c-captain of the other ship wants to c-c-c-come aboard... sir."
"That bastard!" he slammed his hand against the frame of the door. "Why can't he just leave me alone?"
"... sir?"
He closed his eyes. "What time is it?"
"Just after sunrise, sir."
"Fine. Just keep him occupied while I make myself presentable. Keep him on the main deck. Don't let him go anywhere else, do you hear me? I'll be there shortly."
"Yes, captain."
Once Thomas was gone, the captain got ready. He wanted to wear the best clothing he had with him without indulging in French fashion, which would be difficult. He sighed, looking at his meager wardrobe. He really never felt the need to dress to impress unless Francis was around. It's not that he felt the need to impress him, exactly. He just wanted to avoid harassment. He settled on wine-colored breeches and a cream doublet, with his regular knee-high leather boots.
Feeling triumphantly un-French yet fashionable, he looked toward the mirror. He frowned. Why wouldn't his hair just do... something? It was like someone had carelessly piled a bunch of hay on his head. He desperately tried to smooth it this way or that, but his efforts were in vain. His hair would do what it had done for the past thousand years. He wondered why his hair was the way it was. After all, his mother had had lovely red, curly hair, and his brothers all had gotten something from it: Wales had dark hair, but it was curly, like their mother's; Scotland got the color; and Ireland got both. If there was any reason to be jealous of them, it was their hair. Otherwise, there really wasn't. He was more powerful than they could ever dream to be. Maybe that's where the blonde comes from. Power. He beamed at himself in the mirror. Power. That was it.
When he stepped out on deck, he did so confidently. After all, Francis was his equal. There was no reason to be afraid of any judgement he could pass.
There he was, surrounded by other Frenchies. All of them armed. What an idiot. He knows I can't attack him.
"Hello, frog."
Francis, who had been scrutinizing the deck, looked up, "Good morning, friend."
Francis Bonnefoy: sex god, fashion icon, one of the world's most important nations. And he hated him. He was dressed in the most up-to-the-minute trends. His entire outfit was a flamboyant pink. His shoes were low heels with a large silk roses on top of the arches of the feet. His breeches were the same fabric as the lining of his cape, which came down to his hip and was slung over his left shoulder. His blonde hair cascaded down to his shoulders and was curled, much like a poodle. Atop his head was a hat cocked to the opposite side of the cape, and from it spouted a fountain of ostrich feathers. Lastly, and most upsettingly for Arthur, who still couldn't grow facial hair, on Francis' face was a mustache and goatee, Van Dyke style. He was the epitome of modern fashion, and Arthur hated him for it.
"Why are you here?" he decided to cut to chase.
But this fop wouldn't comply. "'ow 'ave you been, Angleterre?"
"I don't have time for this. Why are you here?"
"So I can see. You seemed to be in such an 'urry yesterday. Or were you fleeing?"
"Fleeing?" he scoffed and folded his arms "From what? I have nothing to be afraid of." he gestured to Francis' moustache, "Enlighten me, is that a dead rat I see on your lip?"
Francis laughed, "Mon cher, this is facial 'air. Maybe in a few 'undred years you can grow some for yourself."
"I pray mine is more even than yours. I wouldn't want to make a fool of myself."
"Too late."
Arthur worked to keep his outward dignity, but he knew this match was over, and any efforts of his would be in vain. Instead, he huffed and started again, hoping this time Francis would answer.
"What are you doing here, Francis?"
Francis smiled darkly a while, knowing he had won, then drew an aloof breath "I wanted to inquire about my Henriette Marie. 'ow is she?" he asked while examining his fingernails.
Henrietta Maria was King Charles' wife.
"That's all you wanted to know?" Arthur asked harshly.
"I will get to the rest after you tell me about her."
He sighed. "Fine. She is well. As you know, she and the King have had another child, Elizabeth, who is healthy. Is that all?"
"'ave patience, Angleterre. One would think you didn't want me on your ship."
"In all honesty, I don't."
A laugh. "Oh, old friend. You are an angry one. Fine. My goal was to make you aware of my presence. We should be arriving together, you know."
"Yes, I know." Francis' king had 'ordered' him to go to the New World about the same time Charles had ordered Arthur to go. He theorized that Francis may not have been under orders after all. Rather, he had asked to make this journey. To annoy him. For God's sake, did this man have a life of his own?
"I hear there are people like us there. I hope to win them over." His heart stopped.
First of all, them? There are more than one? Second of all, who gave Francis permission to do this? Suddenly, his glorious daydream turned into a nightmare in which the dark beauty chooses the frenchman over him. He'd realized the possibility of Francis running into her, but now that he knew he was actively seeking her... he snapped.
"Get off my ship, Francis. We have some distance to go until we reach the shores of the Americas, and I can't waste any of my time. Oh, and don't ruin your shoes on your way back. My ship has actually seen years and battle, so it might not be as forgiving as yours is to silk."
"Never the one for manners." Francis mused, "Aren't you going to invite me to eat breakfast with you? You are acting as host, you know."
He stepped closer toward Francis. They were practically nose-to-nose. He was puffed up with anger, and his face was flushed (embarrassing, but it always happened when his temper flared).
Arthur didn't want their curious crews to hear what he was about to say, so he spoke in a tense whisper, "Listen, frog. Do I need to remind you that you are on my ship? I'm not in the mood to go through the trouble of starting a war, so I want you to turn around and go back to your floating palace."
Francis chortled. "Very well. But you need to learn to control that little temper of yours, boy."
He turned around and went back the way he came. The captain watched as Francis crossed the makeshift bridge between the two ships, praying he'd fall and drown.
His crew stood there, afraid to move. Arthur's anger was palpable.
"THOMAS!" he thundered. The whole crew jumped and started pretending to be busy.
Thomas frantically made his way through the crowd "Yes, sir! Here, sir!"
"GET US MOVING THIS INSTANT. I MEAN IT. NOW. IF I DON'T SEE LAND IN TWO DAYS, I WILL THROW YOU OVERBOARD!"
The poor boy's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened as a wave of terror momentarily overtook him . Then all at once he was all over the deck screaming at the crew.
Arthur brooded all the way up to the crow's nest and kicked out its inhabitant. He was aware of how childish it was to go somewhere remote and pout, but in these circumstances he didn't give a damn. So, he sat up there, pouted, and desperately tried to figure out a way to keep Francis away from his future colony.
Author's Notes: Arthur's daydream is supposed to be cheesy. Don't worry, that's not how I write romance. At all. That's just what little Arthur wishes would happen. Poor dear.
Thanks for reading, there will be more to come! Review it if you see any glaring character problems! (and don't get all huffy about France just quite yet, I'll give him some depth later)