(Wow, ya'll. So many views, likes, favs, and reviews! Thank you!

For my spanish reviewer - Me gusta leer su comentario! Muchas gracias para sus amable sentimientos.

Berwald - Sweden - is Alfred and Matthew's biological father in this story. Next chapter will be back to Alfred at the river. This is just a quick glimpse at the past.)

Of Father And Son

"But m'lord! Your attire!" The messenger, a slight man named Evan, called. "His Majesty said -"

"It was urgent," Alfred interrupted, neither glancing back nor slowing his brisk pace. Evan's hurried footfalls chased after him. Feet had always followed Alfred. That was the life of a prince.

A flushed and breathless Evan caught up and took the lead. The much shorter man had to run to match the wide stride of Alfred's longer legs, and his egg-shaped head bobbed on his long neck as he moved.

Although Alfred still wore the coarse clothing - a padded leather jerkin and loose pants - from his Dueling Class, he would never be mistaken as a commoner. That didn't happen. It was not that he'd care if it did. It was just that it didn't.

There was something that radiated authority and command in how Alfred walked, talked, spoke, carried his broad shoulders, and looked at others. It was ingrained in him from a lifetime of being trained not submit to anyone but his father, King Berwald, and even that was a chore.

From his earliest memories, both Matthew and he had been treated as unique by others. Told to distinguish their friends by status. Told to follow traditions that seemed outdated and trite. While Matthew had accepted this role, Alfred had rebelled against it at every turn. He had spoken to servants as equals. He had ignored meaningless customs and rules. To Matthew the rules and walls protected; to Alfred they only contained.

Alfred wanted independence.

Not Evan guiding him to a place he already knew how to reach.

King Berwald would be found in his personal study, atop Grisholm Castle's central keep, the Quarry. To reach the Quarry, the way Evan wanted to go, they would have to cross the gallery, pass through the middle and inner walls, and ascend more steps. All because it both stayed out of the rain and it was custom to use the main entrance.

Alfred had enough of useless traditions.

Without a word, he turned left and went down the steps, taking them two at a time. A gasp from behind alerted him that Evan had noticed.

"M'lord! Where are you going?" Evan cried, sounding like a baby bird chirping for its mother. His footfalls echoed down the stairway as he scurried after Alfred.

"It's faster to cut across the courtyard," Alfred called, rounding a landing. A wide-eyed servant girl carrying folded linens yelped and ducked out of the way of Alfred's ascent. He felt her confused eyes following him. Eyes had always watched him. That was the life of a prince.

By the time he reached the bottom and entered another white-washed corridor, a panting and exhausted Evan had caught up. "M'lord," he wheezed. "We shouldn't... go... this way."

"Nonsense," Alfred said.

They strode toward an arched door where a surprised soldier leaped to attention and rushed to remove the wooden bar from it. Nailed above the exit was a rusting horned helmet over a round shield, a leftover symbol of the many wars Alfred's ancestors had fought.

The door's rusty hinges squealed as it opened; the thrum of the rain grew louder. Moisture-laden air blew into his face. Alfred stepped outside with Evan, sheltered by the overhang of the inner wall. The rain was streaming down and had left puddles throughout the flagstone paths and grass of the courtyard.

Up on the walkways of the inner walls, guards - dim shapes in the grey curtain - patrolled back and forth with crossbows. Several yards ahead stood the Quarry, tall and proud, and at its massive base was a square door for servants. Two elite soldiers in dark green cloaks stood on either side of it.

"Not this way, m'lord," Evan pleaded like a mouse attempting persuade a bear not to eat a fish.

"It'll be faster," Alfred said, flashing a grin at the wilting Evan before he ducked into the downpour.

The rain pelted him, soaking his hair and chilling his skin. His boot splashed through puddles. Despite this, Alfred walked as if unfazed by the foul weather.

The elites, however, seemed very shocked. Rivulets of water rolled off their cloaks as they scrambled to open the door. It was barely opened in time for Alfred and Evan to enter the dark interior.

"M'lord, this is so improper!" Evan whined. He sneezed a couple time in concession and then continued his complaining. "What has come over you?"

"Who knows?" Alfred said with a shrug.

Inside they climbed more stairways, passed through more corridors with countless arched windows - closed to keep out the rain - and finally reached the top floor. No one could be here that was not invited by the King.

The double oak doors at the far end led to the study, a room Alfred had not been in months? Years? Alfred remembered he had been a gawky, long-limbed lad then. Now he had filled out his frame and lean biceps.

His father and he had not spoken since their argument, one started when Alfred learned of Matthew being sent to the East.

Evan ran to the doors and, with a knock, called inside, "Your majesty, your most blessed son, Prince Alfred, has arrived."

That voice - stern as Alfred remembered - grunted back, "Let him in."

Even pulled back one of the doors, bowing to Alfred, who strolled inside. The door was shut behind him. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting.

The octagonal-shaped room, like the man who used it, had changed little. Dark-wooden bookcases, stuffed with every shape of book, glasswork, and metal contraption, were crammed into every available wall space. Most likely with an even thicker coat of dust than Alfred had last seen.

A small fire crackled in an arched fireplace on the right wall and, on the opposite side of the room, was a partly-opened window that allowed in grey light. Beneath the window was a red-cushioned sofa, worn and stained by time, where a small, slender man sat, knees together and posture rigid.

The black-haired man had the features of someone from the East Lands, the region Matthew lived in now. Was he why Alfred had been summoned?

In the center of the room, King Berwald stood solemnly behind a black oak desk, studying the map spread out across it. Scrolls, letters, and parchment littered the spaces around it. He did not look up when Alfred stopped in the middle of the room's black and red rug. Father never let anything move him. His attention would come when he was ready.

Alfred would wait.

It disappointed Alfred to see his father remained taller than him, a pillar of a man. His father had a grim cast to his green-blue eyes, blurred at the bottoms of his glasses. Exhaustion had added wrinkles.

"You couldn't dress proper?" Berwald asked harshly, finally raising his gaze to Alfred. Those blond eyebrows, same color as his air, knitted together in a frown. His square jaw set.

Alfred imagined if his father ever had a heart - something Tino, father's deceased lover, had insisted existed - he must have dug it out long ago and cast in into a fire so it would never trouble him again.

From his earliest years, Alfred and Matthew had come to learn not to expect affection or any warm regard from their father. He considered such things a nuisance and a burden.

The closest thing Alfred ever had to a father had, ironically, been Tino. Just thinking of him caused Alfred's hand to twitch. He itched to reach into his pocket and touch the silver pocket watch Tino had given him - the last thing Tino ever gave him.

"I heard it was urgent, father," Alfred said, slapping on a smile.

"I expected you to read between the lines. I expected too much."

Alfred's jaw clenched and his fingers curled into almost-fists. "We are at war, father. An urgent message could you know be urgent."

Berwald only grunted in response, then waved at the other man to come over. That short man rose gracefully, like a cat, and came over, footfalls near silent. The better light revealed the delicate features of his thin face. He had high cheekbones, a small mouth and nose, and almond-shaped eyes.

His outfit was like nothing a Northlander would wear; it was a white, close-fitting uniform with gold-threaded frog clamps on the shoulders.

"It is an honor to finally meet you, Alfred-sama," the adroit man said with a bow from his waist.

"This is General Kiku Honda of the Japanese Province of Kanto," Berwald said. "He is to escort you on your journey to the Japans."

Alfred almost fell over at that statement. What did his father say? Mind reeling, Alfred said, "My what?"

"No need to thank me," Berwald said in a dismissive way. "You will get to see that brother of yours. You are to escort Matthew to Yao's kingdom for his arranged marriage and negotiate our alliance with Emperor Yao. You leave tomorrow morning. That is all. You may go."

Alfred felt kicked in the stomach. He wanted to scream, to shout. What madness was this? How could his father send away his last heir?

Alfred's mouth opened and shut several times before he could form words coherently. Rage dripped in his voice as he asked, "You don't actually think I'm grateful, do you?"

An alarmed look widened Kiku's eyes. Meanwhile, Berwald seemed confused by Alfred's bitter tone. "You can't be angry. You pined about Matthew leaving. Now you can join him. Go. I'm busy."

Alfred blinked fast to keep the tears from his eyes. he breathed in and out, trying to calm down. His hand balled into his fists. He laughed, this was too funny! Too horrifying.

"Father, you are mad!" Alfred said in a tight voice. "You'll just send off your last heir like it's nothing?"

Kiku looked nervously between them.

Berwald's chiseled face darkened considerably. "I don't like your tone. You don't speak that way to your king. As for the matter of heir, that's not your concern anymore."

"What do you mean?" Alfred asked.

"You won't be king," Berwald said. His every word crushed Alfred's soul. "I have accepted that. Your cousin will assume the throne."

"You can't do that," Alfred said in a devastated tone.

"I'm realistic. You are a loud mouth, brash fool who is not fit to lead a kingdom. And you'd be assassinated by your cousins anyway before the crown ever touched your head. I'm doing the kingdom a favor and sparing it an unnecessary civil war."

As each word sunk into Alfred, knives to his heart, something rose in him and all he saw was red. Charging at the desk, he shoved off the map and grabbed the front of his father's blue coat, shouting, "You son of a bitch! How dare you!"

His father hardly reacted, that uncaring look never leaving his face. Nothing Alfred ever did pleased this man. And now here was the proof that he saw Alfred as a miserable failure.

"I apologize for this, General Honda. He gets emotional," Berwald said, turning to Kiku. "Could you wait downstairs? My son will join you shortly."

Kiku remained stoic as he left, only stopping to bow, and then hurried out. Alfred remained, glaring at the desk, breathing heavily. Shaken to the core. Destroyed. Teardrops landed on the surface of the desk. More slid down Alfred's cheeks.

"How could you?" Alfred asked, breathe hitching. His chest hurt.

Berwald sighed. "There's no pleasing you. I thought you wanted to see your brother. You need to restrain your feelings better."

"Screw you!" Alfred snapped, slamming a fist on the table. "Who the hell are you to talk about restraint? Did you restrain yourself with Tino?"

Berwald's deep-set eyes narrowed.

"I am tired," Berwald said, pulling Alfred's hand off him before folding his arms over his chest. "I'm tired of you blaming me for everything. Of your rude attitude. Honestly, when you calm down you'll realize this is for the best and that I'm right."

"Go to hell," Alfred said, straightening up and wiping his eyes clear. Without glancing at his father, he added with contempt, "Your majesty."

I'll never call you father again.

And without asking to be excused, he pivoted on his heels and stormed out.

His father seemed determine to die alone. So he'd let him.

(Note - Tino is dead in this story through circumstances that will be revealed later. That backstory caused a lot of the strain between Alfred and Berwald.

Note #2 - This story is about 15-20 chapters long. The first action scene is in four chapters and it's explosive. Literally. You'll see.

Note #3 - Geography is wonky in this world. The Swedish Empire is separated by an ocean from the Japans. And they use magic to speed up travel over the great distances.

Next time - We go back to the present. Alfred and Matthew go for a bathe in the river and Alfred gets pulled under...

TBC in Chapter 3 "Down In The River")