Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
"Sadly
We settle for
What we're used to
Even if what we're used to
Is pain."
— r. h. shin
Things do not look better in the morning. They did not look better for a full month. Her Grace fusses and frets and worries that he might have taken ill.
Madara assures her that it is not so, and avoids his father's attempts to summon him and people as much as possible.
To do this, he spends an inordinate amount of time hawking and studiously ignores all attempts to speak with him.
"Milord!" Yakumi cups his hands around his mouth and shouts from the edge of the field. "You have an early day tomorrow."
"I don't care to think of that." He has to travel to Islay for the trade talks with the Scots in the morning, and the twilight is deepening all around them. He doesn't want to think of it.
"His Grace would like the speak to you before you go." The Marshal is relentless.
It is most likely on the subject of marriage again. Madara is unrepentant. "We can speak when I return from Islay."
"That implies that you will be in any fit shape to travel to Islay in the morning, Milord." Yakumi urges his horse forward. "At the moment, since you've been hawking all day and drinking all night for the past week and haven't climbed out of bed before noon since two weeks ago, that is in doubt." The Marshal keeps a sharp tongue, but he had grown up with the older man.
It is easy to forgive him for the slights when they are, in fact, true. It is easier hearing these criticisms from a friend rather than a stranger.
Though, criticisms from strangers also have their place in this world.
"I'll be fit to leave tomorrow morning." He sends Garuda off before them, lets the hawk find its way home, and turns his own horse homeward.
"Are you certain?" Yakumi falls in behind him. "Milord, are you certain the trade talks will go well?"
"I'll not drink tonight." It's all he can promise. He'll sleep on the way if it comes to that. He'll be traveling with an entourage, so it'll take at least four days of heavy riding to even arrive in Islay to begin with.
"If you say so, milord." Yakumi takes the horse's reins when Madara dismounts in the courtyard. "But His Grace will be highly displeased."
Madara shrugs. He can be as displeased as he likes. It will not help me or him.
No, it is not his father that he faces at the dinner table, because his father does not leave his chambers these days. It is his mother, the formidable Her Grace Harumi Uchiha.
"We need to discuss your behavior." She's sitting at the head of the table in his father's absence, her hands loosely folded on her lap, her lips pressed tight. "I thought you made me a promise, my son. You'll find yourself a bride in two months time, or you will force me to make a choice for you."
He takes a seat at the table and under the weight of his mother's glare, feels ten years old again after just breaking a vase. "I don't want to—"
"I don't care if you want to discuss it or not." Her Grace gestures for for the servers to bring in the first course. "You will be the Duke of Warwick, and your behavior is entirely intolerable."
The shame burns his ears. The servants move as mechanically and invisible as ever, but they are there, listening, judging, and finding him lacking.
Perhaps they've been judging his behavior all month. "You will stop feeling sorry for yourself, and you will make an effort, or so help me—" She sighs and takes his hand. "I know it is hard for you. I know you are unhappy, but this is not about you."
He bows his head. "Of course, Mother. I understand." If he does not have a bride, and by extension, a son, then his cousins are perfectly allowed to turn his mother and brother out should he die.
Warwick is their home. He cannot let cousins, any sort of cousins, rob them of that. "You may plan my wedding after I come home from Islay."
It's unlikely that he'll find someone to fit his mother's criteria considering that he doesn't even have any idea where to begin. It sits uneasily with him to let it happen through no choice of his own, but he's running out of time.
"Make sure to return from Islay." He is about to protest that he's hardly going to stay there indefinitely among the Scots, but his mother pulls him into her arms and kisses his temple. "The roads are dangerous, my son. Keep your wits about you in Scottish territory. They have no love for the Crown."
"I will be careful." Mother does not let go. "There will be an entourage with me. All will be well."
It's true that the Scottish haven't much regard for the Crown given that they aren't truly a part of it. The man that he goes to deal with styles himself the King of Islay and South Scotland. He, an English baron, goes to treat with a Scottish King. The thought is halfway preposterous.
But there is much to say; there is even more to do; and Ashina Uzumaki had agreed to talks, so he goes to treat with a Scottish King.
He decides against riding in the carriage despite Setsuna's misgivings about the state of the roads. He has no desire to be black and blue by the time he arrives in Islay or slow the journey down by too much either.
The carriage can be smashed to bits, and he'd be happy to do a dance over the pieces. He hates the thing, and it's not as if he needs the status symbol. He might be going to meet a king, but it isn't the trappings that make the man, and any man who doesn't understand that doesn't have his respect.
Ashina Uzumaki can chose to trade or not as he likes. Madara is going to ride.
The mountains loom overhead, dark and grim. Yakumi slaps his reins against his horse's neck and trots up to Madara. "The land doesn't want to welcome us." He shudders slightly. "They have no love for Englishmen in these parts."
Madara's horse snorts and continues over the ridge. Madara turns in the saddle to look over at the uneasy marshal. "They were the ones who contacted us about trade. They won't attack us before we get there." At least, he doesn't think so. These mountains would make an excellent spot for an ambush by those who know the lay of the land.
The mountains do seem to have eyes, and there's a pricking between his shoulder blades trailing uncomfortably down his spine. Bad faith. What does he want from these talks anyway? For them to stop raiding the fields during harvest? Pearls? Whiskey? Gold? A wife. A random voice whispers. If they can give me a wife, that would be nice. He shakes the thoughts and the strangers' gaze from his shoulders. He has no idea if Ashina Uzumaki has any daughters, and he further doesn't want to think about getting married.
Even if he does have to think about it sometime. He doesn't want his mother to pick a woman out of hat, but it's not as his own abilities are any better.
The thoughts persist anyway, because his mind doesn't want to let it go. The mountains fade down into the sea and against the backdrop of the waves a ship bobs up and down on the surf. The gulls scream with human voices.
There's a man standing on the rocks by a boat. He has faded blue eyes and fiery orange hair. He looks surly, his arms crossed over his chest as the bay pounds behind him. "Lord Madara?" His voice is tinged with a thick scottish brogue, r's trailing. It's odd, but not incomprehensible.
Madara swings off his horse and throws the reins to Yakumi. "Yes." He steps forward a hand outstretched.
The other man clasps it, but his face doesn't change. "Asuran." He jerks his chin toward the ship. "Captain of the Storm Queen. She's been waiting for you."
Madara does his best to smile despite not entirely understanding. "Well, lead the way." He is here to meet their king, not their queen.
He might have chosen to ride instead of taking the carriage, but he does want to complete the trade deal. Warwick will benefit from it one way or another.
The ship shudders out to sea beneath his feet, and he alone stays top deck while the rest of his men retire below. He stands there with his cane in hand, leaning against the railing, watching the black water pitch and toss as the ship cuts through the waves.
He's not sure he likes the idea that there is only wood between himself and the water. "You're looking for land, aren't you?" The Captain's come to stand beside him. The man isn't all that old, but he is older than Madara.
His hands are weathered, rough, scarred from more than just hawking...and missing a finger on the left hand.
Madara glances over at him, noting the heavy tan on the Captain's face. "What?" It's been a long time since he's been addressed without 'Milord' following directly after.
The Captain shrugs. "It's what all Englishman do, search for land beneath their feet." The ship lurches. "She's making good time." The Captain notes. "We'll be in port by midday."
"Why do you call..." He's assuming that the mysterious 'she' the man is referring to is the ship itself. But why the feminine pronouns...he has no idea.
"Because she's a mother and a lover." The Captain pushes himself off the rail. "Because we depend on her not to be wrecked."
"Why should I trust you?" He's starting to wonder. The ship looks official enough. It hoists the spiral of the House of Uzumaki. The crew doesn't look like they're ill-liveried. It'd looked like a royal vessel from the outside. It looks like a royal vessel now from the inside.
"What?" The Captain drawls. "You think I want to be hunted by the English Crown for kidnapping a duke's son?"
When put that way... "No."
A slow smile draws across the man's face. "I used to be a pirate." He holds up his hand and winks. "But don't worry, I've always worked for my king." And with that unsettling statement, he walks off, barking orders to members of the crew.
Madara's stomach rolls. The deck heaves.
He can't see any land on the horizon and now he's worried.
If the man — his name is Asuran — will risk the wrath of his dying father and does decide to kidnap him and the rest of his men...well, it doesn't bear thinking about.
He spends a very terrible two hours thinking over every decision and lamenting that Ashina Uzumaki did not tell him who he was supposed to meet to cross the strait.
But as it turns out, whether or not the Captain and his crew are pirates, they sight land by midday as predicted. The port city is down below, nestled into the shadow of black cliffs, a sprawling mass of colorful buildings painted in all the shades of a dawning sky. Above them, atop the cliffs sits the castle, hewn from dark gray stone, four spires rising into the sky, the surrounding walls as gray as the castle itself.
The ship pulls slowly into port, and the Captain orders the gangplank lowered. Madara begins the descent, and his men follow in a single file line. They are uneasy, strangers in a strange land. Madara makes sure to stride down assuredly, despite his legs not entirely obeying him as they ought.
He does not like seafaring journeys. He does not like how wobbly he must seem when touching dry land once more.
There is a young man standing on the docks in a loose fitting tunic and hose with a black cloak thrown over his shoulders. Madara spies the glint of a rapier hilt by his side. A nobleman at the very least then.
He has windblown black hair of medium length, a pale face and icy blue eyes. He looks chiseled from marble, unusually beautiful with sharp features and a pointed chin.
"Kyoya Anharaya." He offers Madara a long-fingered hand. I've only just made my way off the gangplank. "I will be your escort into Uzu Castle." He speaks the King's English as though he's just blown in from London. It is unexpected in this land where the sailors speak a tongue he can barely make out while paying attention, and the Captain speaks with a heavy accent.
"Madara Uchiha." The other man hadn't offered any titles. Madara does the same. "I am the Englishman who wants to speak to your king." They shake hands.
Kyoya smiles at the Captain as he disembarks. When he opens his mouth again, it is back to that nearly incomprehensible accent. "It's good to see you home, Asuran." He just barely makes out the words, but the good cheer in them is so easy to note.
The Captain guffaws. "I only left land yesterday evening, my prince." Kyoya Anharaya is an acknowledged bastard then. He wears his mother's name but his father's regard since the king's man calls him a prince.
Yakumi shifts uneasily on next to him in the balls of his feet. What's gotten into him? Of course, they are in a foreign land among strangers, but it's not as if the Scots are barbarians.
And even if they are, it's not as if Yakumi would be the first person to die, that dubious honor would fall on Madara himself. He'd be the one with the most expensive price on his head, after all.
The party, headed by Prince Kyoya, winds toward the castle which looms large now that they are closer.
They clatter over the drawbridge and the moat into the bustling outer courtyard. There's noise and light, some sort event going on. There are men streaming in and out of the gates towards what looks like a tourney field, but Prince Kyoya cuts through the teeming mass of people like a broadsword through a length of silk.
Every servant who passes him bows quickly before making way. Prince Kyoya offers them all a curt nod before continuing to stride forward. He is used to respect then, Madara notes. And other people are used to giving him respect.
"My king is in the blue room." He glances back. "It will not house all of your men." He looks over the crowd, scanning it for a face. "Chihaya!"
A girl appears from the mass in a dull, steel gray dress. She bobs a curtsy in Kyoya's direction. "Your Highness?"
"Would you show Lord Madara's men to their quarters?"
"Of course, Your Highness." She bobs another curtsy and gestures for the men to follow her. Most of them go. Yakumi stays behind.
Kyoya raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing.
The Marshal steps forward, his chin raised. "I don't trust you, bastard." An explicit declaration of mistrust towards someone who is clearly important to the state of Scotland is such a bad idea.
Madara could pinch the bridge of his nose and bemoan the state of the Marshal's sharp tongue, or he could attempt to apologize for his man's lack of tact.
Parentage is a sensitive topic. Duels have been fought for mere insinuation, and this isn't an insinuation so much as a bold-faced frontal attack. Perhaps he is supposed to be displeased that King Ashina had sent a bastard son to greet his party at the docks, but he rather suspects that this is the son that the King of Scots loves better than all others, and as such, not really an insult.
Kyoya smiles. "Telling me that you don't trust me is a very bad idea of yours." He leans in close to Yakumi, his tone as sharp as a dagger. "Insulting my king is also a bad idea of yours." He turns and begins to lead the way through the airy halls to the blue room. "Please refrain from being insulting, and I shall refrain from running you through with my sword." He's ignored the word bastard. Strange, for a bastard to not care about being called so.
Most are sensitive, but Kyoya has focused on the insult to his father. They are close then, King Ashina and his bastard son.
"He has a sharp tongue." Madara smiles at the other man who has turned to regard him with heavy blue eyes. "It gets him in trouble, please do not take offense to it."
Similar platitudes pass Hashirama's lips on a daily basis, and they are not something that Madara would normally think to say, but at the moment, it pays to be polite.
If Kyoya Anharaya is indeed King Ashina's best loved son, earning his trust will be important for the trade talks to come. At least, he ought not earn his ire.
Kyoya blinks. "If you are concerned about whether or not I am personally insulted, the answer to that would be no." He smiles, too many teeth and too sharp cheekbones, at Yakumi. "I know my place in the world."
A vein jumps in Yakumi's jaw, but Madara strides forward, and the Marshal says nothing further.
They walk in silence toward an audience with the King of Scots.
Kyoya pushes open a heavy wooden doors, pale hands a stark contrast against the dark wood of the doors. "The visitors are here, Father." The man standing by the window nods to his son.
The King does not wear a crown and dresses in plain clothes which is odd. He has fading red hair and gnarled hands, a faint scar on his neck. He sits down by the large bay window, and the afternoon sunlight casts his face in shadow and makes him difficult to look at. Dust motes dance in the golden light, and the walls are hung with rich blue tapestries. The chairs are upholstered with royal blue fabric. The books strewn across the desks are bound with dyed blue leather.
It is indeed the blue room.
So much dye had to have been expensive. The Scots are richer than he'd expected. They are richer than anyone might have expected. He's the first Englishman here in Islay, that he's heard of anyway, since the war with the French his father fought in his youth.
"Baron Uchiha." The King extends a hand. "I hope your trip was well."
Yakumi shifts once more, uneasy. Madara curses him in his head. I did not bring you so that you may ruin the talks, Marshal.
Madara pastes the smile he'd learned in London to his lips and does his best to seem jovial. "It went well, Your Majesty. We made good time." This is not his king, but the man before him is a king, and worthy of that respect.
He is here among the Scots in Islay. He ought to at least respect the man. "I believe we are here to negotiate terms of for a trade of goods?" Once again, he wonders if the heavens would be kind enough to drop a woman into his lap from the sky. Preferably one of enough status to please his mother and fulfill his obligations.
Knowing his luck, the heavens will favor his mother.
"Yes, but of course, do sit." King Ashina gestures to the chair opposite his. Madara sits.
Kyoya moves to stand behind his father, a hand on the hilt of his rapier. He does not wear armor.
Neither does Madara or Yakumi.
Madara's grip tightens on his cane. It does not look like a sword, the hinge and clasp is cleverly concealed in the design of it, the only thing to give it away is a hairline crack. It does not look like a sharp weapon, and as a result, he can bring it anywhere he likes without being offensive.
"You must be tired from your journey." King Ashina steeples his fingers and smiles. "I have set up lodging for your men."
The chair is comfortable, and the room is arranged in such a way as to be pleasing. There's a vase of blue wildflowers in the King's desk. It does not look like an addition that a common servant would make. Perhaps it is a gesture by the Queen?
So it is to be tea and pleasantries first. If it is to be that, he won't protest it. "Your hospitality has been excellent." So what if it is a bastard prince who met him at the docks? House Uchiha is related to royalty through his grandmother, but he is farther removed from the throne of England than Kyoya is from being the King of Scots.
Not to mention, a prince is a prince, bastard or no, and this one is both acknowledged and much loved by his father by the look of things.
There is a warm breeze from the sea, and even here, on the cliffs there's the smell of salt drifting from the window, the dull crash and roar of the waves down below. The water is pervasive. It fills the senses, sight, sound, scent, touch, taste.
"You are in mourning for someone." The King nods towards his black clothes.
"No." He shifts in his seat, grip on his cane loosening. "It's merely the style in London." It really isn't, but he's resisted changes to his wardrobe well. He will not wear red and white and lace and gold. The gaudy trappings of prestige and titles have always seemed slightly mocking to him.
"I see." The King taps his steepled fingers together and regards him for a long silent moment. "Perhaps we should speak of business after the welcome feast. You will less tired from the journey then." Songs and pleasantries. They will have broken in the stiffness between them and convene again in a more jovial mood.
It's a good plan for both sides.
To succeed there must be some form of trust between them. His men will most likely be more amenable to the deals as well.
"It's a good plan." He concedes with a smile and a nod. "We shall be certain to not intrude over much on your hospitality."
The king smiles slow and soft. Madara feels the warmth of it down to his bones. A kindly king. How odd. "Islay is my home, and open to you as it is to me."
Prince Kyoya escorts him to his chambers near silently with the Marshal's glare on the back of his head.
The door clicks shut behind him. "I don't think we ought to—"
He cuts across Yakumi's protests with a glare. "Do not mock our hosts, Yakumi. They are not barbarians." The prevalent philosophy in London is that the Scots are cruder somehow, less, but he hasn't seen much difference between himself and these Scotsmen. "They build castles, sing songs, calculate sums, and write stories. Do not think that we are so much more than they are."
Yakumi falls silent.
"Give me your clothes." He holds out a hand. Yakumi blinks once in complete bafflement. "Oh for God's sake." Madara mutters as he throws up his hands. "Just go find everyone else. They won't kill me and risk war with the throne."
Yakumi examines him for a long moment and then leaves.
Madara waits for his footsteps to fade away down the hall before he opens his bag and pulls out the oldest set of clothes that he owns. It is not as good as borrowing the Marshal's clothing, but it will be good enough.
He's restless, and the courtyard is just down below. He's been allowed the rare opportunity to witness the heart of Scotland. Edinburgh might be the Church's seat, but Islay is House Uzumaki's ancestral seat, and they still rule from the castle on the cliffs and the port city below.
He throws the end of his cloak over his shoulder and glances down at himself. His clothing will not pass as Scottish for even an instant, but he will pass as one of his own servant men.
He steps out into the hall, searching for the path down to the courtyard. He doesn't make it to the same one that he'd passed through when he came in. Instead, he ends up in the tiltyard with a contest ongoing.
There's a small crowd gathered to watch as the horses thunder toward each other from opposite ends of the field.
Both figures are in full armor, visors down, one on a roan horse, the other on a blood bay. As he watches, they shatter their lances on each other's shields, and duly trot back to pick fresh ones from the pages at either end.
Both shields are painted with the red spiral of the Uzumaki sigil. The King's younger sons then? They might be the King's sons or his trusted knights, but either way, the display of athleticism is enjoyable to watch.
"I bet you four ryal that today's the day that Sir Ashiro unseats Sir Kanae." The man besides him grins and guffaws, slapping him in the shoulder.
Madara allows it. The man isn't one of his, and has no idea who he is. It doesn't bother him much. He turns to examine the field. "Sir Ashiro is the one on the blood bay?" Sir Kanae. It's a feminine name, but women are not knights, and on occasion, boys are named Kanae after the patron saint.
"You've got it backwards, good sir. Sir Ashiro's on the roan." They are not the King's sons then. A subject wouldn't refer to his king's sons by just their knightly titles.
The man on the blood bay is the better of his brother in arms in terms of skill. It's the way he holds his lance, the way his weight settles in the saddle. He does not look like he will be thrown from his horse any time soon. Madara itches to go a pass or two with him.
"I'll take your bet." Madara decides suddenly. "Four ryal that Sir Kanae throws Sir Ashiro."
They shake on it, and just in time too, for the horses come back around the tiltyard.
"A hit!" A boy cries as the horses meet. "A hit for Sir Kanae!"
The knight on the roan horse goes flying into the dust. "Aw hell." The man besides him mutters. "I should've known that Sir Kanae'll never lose." He passes Madara four ryal, and Madara nods to him once.
The man shuffles away.
"You gotta hit me so hard?" The downed knight groans from his place flat on his back. It doesn't seem as though he's even attempting to get to his feet for a sword duel.
The horses' training is excellent, Madara notes. Other horses wouldn't be so docile as to stay so still after a joust. Clearly, these two joust often.
He starts forward to speak to the winning knight. It's always nice to meet another who's fond of the sport.
Sir Kanae swings off his horse, and laughs, giggles ringing out in the tiltyard. "Oh, but brother mine, did you think I didn't practice while you were away studying books?" He has a high sweet voice. "You've been slacking with the lance while you charm the ladies in Edinburgh."
He's also rather short now that he's off his horse, at least a full head shorter than Madara himself.
"Sweet sister mine," Sir Ashiro moans from the ground. "That is still no excuse for you to hit me so hard."
Sir Kanae rips off his — her helm, and a tangled mane of red curls tumbles free. She has laughing green eyes, a sharply angular face, a teasing smile. A woman, and a knight. How odd.
Madara admits it to himself. He's intrigued.
He hasn't met a lady knight before. Not that this is a meeting, but it is unusual nonetheless. Would she agree to a match if I proposed one? That she is a woman doesn't diminish her skill with a lance.
"A grown man worried about how hard he's been hit?" She offers her brother a hand up. "Such a crying shame."
Sir Ashiro ruffles her hair with a free hand. "Well, at least we know that Big Brother taught you well."
She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm the one that beat you, not Big Brother, not anyone else. Little Kanae beat you in a tilt, fair and square." She walks off the training field with her brother's arm still thrown over her shoulder.
"Sir Kanae." He calls after them. His feet take a step forward. "A match?"
They both turn toward him, but he's more fascinated with her green eyes. They are large against her pale face, and oh, what a face it is, sharp lines and edges with a hint of tenderness in the turn of her lips. It's a rare woman who's so lovely. "You're one of our guests, yes?" She lets go of her brother's arm and walks toward him.
He inclines his head. "Yes."
"I wasn't aware that the English approved of women in the tiltyard." The uptilt of her lips is wry and amused. The late afternoon sun sets her hair aflame. Oh, if only she'd been a princess. He laments it. This woman would be infinitely more interesting than anyone his mother will find for him. She's the most interesting woman he's met since Toka Senju.
If she'd been a princess, he would ask for her hand, and her titles would assure that she would be match enough for the seat at Warwick and his troubles would all be over.
But there's no use in lamenting what is not. At best she is the daughter of a Scottish nobleman, which would not be match enough for Warwick according to his mother's tastes.
"They don't." He tells her, matching her smile for smile. "But your talent is clear."
It's been a long time since he's been assured of a good tilting partner. The last had been at the tournament he'd won during Prince Indra's confirmation as crown prince.
She laughs, the golden sound of it ringing out over the stone. "An unusual Englishman, how quaint."
She nods to his cane. "Would you care to draw your sword, my lord?"
So she's noticed then that his cane is a sword. He straightens and switches it to a different hand. "Are you as good with a sword as you are with the lance?"
"No, my lord." Her hand falls to the rapier by her side. "I'm better in the tiltyard than a duel, I'm afraid, but alas, you do not have a horse with you."
"We can select a horse for him and fit him with armor if he needs that too." Sir Ashiro has made his way over. "And we can schedule a match for later. You're tired now. It won't be a fair fight." Sir Ashiro watches him with distrustful hazel eyes. Brothers, whether they be English or Scottish, are all the same, it would seem.
They guard their sisters well.
"Would that be amenable to you, my lord?" She seems disappointed. Make that the most interesting woman that I have ever met.
Toka had slapped him upon first meeting, but this is the first woman he's met who's been disappointed about not fighting.
"Tomorrow then."
She might not want to fight him after she learns his name. It is a crime to injure a nobleman, but if she scratches him, he wouldn't be overly displeased about it.
He won't be anonymous forever, but perhaps she might still want to take the challenge.
"Tomorrow." She agrees. "But I suspect we'll see each other tonight, my lord." A half bow, and her brother drags her away. She means the welcome feast then.
Well, it's likely that the surrounding nobility will be in attendance. She ought to be as well as a knighted lady.
Oh, if only she'd been a princess.
She would make the most scandalous duchess Warwick has seen in centuries. He'd pay good money to see her in Court.
A.N. So I have until Chapter 5 completely edited and written of this story, at which point I might as well share? Right? At least that's how the saying goes.
I'm officially home for the summer, and I have lots of chapters of things I'm super excited to share with everyone, so hopefully we'll see me updating more frequently!
That said, thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed! It always means a lot to me.
~Tavina