Arthur awoke, only to see more endless darkness. However, it was colder than the blank kind of his sleep – or unconsciousness? Likely the latter; his head was pounding insistently, a splitting headache rattling through his skull. Arthur was reminded of a bad hangover (and he had his fair share of those in his time), but he hadn't been drinking. It originated from a point on his forehead, so he gingerly raised a hand to touch it (he realised with a rush of relief that he could move again). When he did, he hissed sharply in pain and drew back. He was likely bruised, because Gilbert probably hit him with the pommel of his sword to knock him out.

How could I have been so fucking stupid? Arthur wondered, realising that he was in a cell; as his eyes began to adjust to the dark, he could make out the gloomy shapes of bars.

His body was aching and his bones were stiff. Arthur was laying on straw, and it was itchy. He was used to a fairly lavish bed, what with the profit that came with his line of work, so the accommodations here only made is muscles hurt more. He supposed that in a jail cell, straw was better than nothing. Actually, he would have expected nothing, but for some reason, he was being treated better than he thought he would have been. It made no sense to Arthur why he was given what he was; he was an assassin who had likely killed more people in Lord Edelstein's court than could fill a graveyard, and yet here he was, laying on straw instead of stone.

The darkness in the cell was deep and unnerving, and Arthur swore it was staring at him – or something within it was. His eyes were stretched wide as he strained to see through it, but it was no use; it seemed to have settled over his body like a permanent layer of dust. It was cold, too; the wet kind of cold that seeped through the walls and permeated your skin until you were left feeling nothing but it. Arthur was sure that it had soaked through the fabric of his clothes long, long ago, and now it felt like he was swimming endlessly in cold water. Arthur was shivering uncontrollably, and he had to clamp his jaw shut to keep his teeth from chattering. He couldn't curl into a ball because of the soreness of his body, but he wished he could. His nose was even running.

Arthur realised that he hadn't eaten in a long, long while, and probably wouldn't for even longer. He was a notorious assassin, and though the jail master might have been kind enough to give him some straw to lay on, Arthur couldn't count on regular meals.

Or water, Arthur frowned as he began to notice the rough, sandpapery feeling at the back of his throat and the heaviness of his tongue in his dry mouth.

Blood had dried uncomfortably all over him. It itched. His clothes were ripped and caked in mud, and he didn't have any of his weapons anymore, which annoyed him more than anything. He couldn't even reach into his boot to check if he still had his hidden switchblade.

No matter, Arthur told himself as he began to pick the blood out from under his nails, I will survive. I will escape, and everything will be fine. I will not die. I am the best ruddy assassin this dreary fiefdom has ever seen!

Arthur closed his eyes against the never-ending darkness, only to be engulfed by more. It was nicer, though, he supposed; this darkness was homier than the one outside. The silence in the cell was deafening, the sort of buzzing silence that drills into your head. He tried to sleep, for there was nothing better to do in his cell, but his mind was racing. He imagined himself dead in multiple different ways; Arthur decided that he would rather be beheaded than hanged, and that an axe would be swifter than a sword. He wondered if he would be allowed to stay in the cell instead, if only to avoid his impending doom. Discomfort was better than death.

Arthur began to long for the outside, for the feeling of sun on his skin, because the air in his cell was stale and foul-smelling and there was no light save for the dim orange-red of the torches that guards carried as they patrolled past every so often. It was so strange how something which surrounded you for the entirety of your existence could become a memory so quickly.

Eventually, Arthur fell into a restless sleep, and dreamt of Alistair laughing as he was killed by the Captain of the Guard and his ponytailed attacker.


Arthur awoke, feeling no less tired than when he had fallen asleep. In fact, he felt worse, if that was possible. He had no idea how long he had been out; hours? Days? In the darkness, there was no way to tell.

His hunger and thirst had only worsened, and he felt extremely light-headed now. He could hardly move at all, but it wasn't really like he wanted to.

"Hello?" called a voice from the other side of the cell.

Arthur looked up, wild-eyed and frantic. He ignored how it made his head swim and his vision spot. Had there been someone in here the entire time? No, it was impossible. The notion was ridiculous; he was an assassin, trained to notice the presences of others. Luckily, in the place of another person in his cell that he was afraid of, there was a guard standing on the other side of the bars, and a person standing beside her. Arthur squinted against the brightness of the torch in the guard's hands.

"See, Fran? I told you he was awake," the guard said. Arthur thought that her voice was rather melodic.

"Ah, yes, you were right," the person beside her, who she had called "Fran", chuckled nervously. They had a similar accent to the first speaker, though much thicker. They glanced at Arthur with fear in their eyes. "Um, okay, we can go back now."

The guard laughed. "He can't hurt you. He's in a cell, Francis."

"Francis" had long, light hair and wore jewels that shone as brightly as fire in the torchlight, but his face was hardly visible. Arthur thought that the name didn't really suit him.

"R-right, but…"

"Oh, come on, Franny, don't be a wuss. You were the one who made me bring you here, and I am not going to leave until you talk to him."

"Michelle, I really do not want to…" Francis whined. "He could probably kill me through the bars somehow."

Arthur didn't really know how thick someone could be. This man must have been the pinnacle. Where did he get these ideas? Did he think that Arthur had a poison barb hidden under his tongue or something?

Actually, Arthur mused, that isn't such a bad idea.

"Thank you very much," Arthur said smugly, wincing at the rough, dry sound of his voice. "I am truly flattered that you think that I could do such a thing."

Francis and Michelle both jumped, as if they had forgotten that Arthur was even there. Their eyes were wide with horror, though Michelle tried her best to hide it.

"Y-you…" Francis stammered, as if he had lost his voice.

"I talk? What's the matter, Franny, did you think that inmates were just supposed to look at you with dead eyes? Come on, spit it out!" Arthur's words were crisp and biting, mostly because he finally had someone to be mad at for what Gilbert did to him.

Francis ignored Arthur and turned back to Michelle, quaking in his boots.

"Can we go back now?" he squeaked. "This was a terrible idea."

Michelle frowned and glanced between Arthur, who was glaring menacingly at them, and Francis, who was trying his best not to meet Arthur's gaze.

"Scared?" Arthur taunted. Francis gulped.

Arthur wondered if the straw in his tousled hair and the hunger gnawing at his belly made him look more deranged than he actually was. It was likely.

Francis began to speak to Michelle in a language that Arthur didn't know. They yelled at each other, and Arthur could detect tones of frustration and wariness, though he did not understand the words. In a way, it was kind of nice; whatever language it was, it was smooth and lilting.

Finally, they stopped, and Michelle crossed her arms sternly, like a mother scolding a child, though she was clearly younger than Francis. Francis stared at Arthur for a moment before shaking his head vigorously.

"I cannot do it," he whispered, and Michelle raised an eyebrow in irritation.

"Francis would like to tell you-" she began, addressing Arthur, but was cut off.

"Fine, fine!" Francis threw his hands in the air in exasperation, nearly knocking the fancy hat off of his head. "Are you the Cluaran Assassin?"

Arthur huffed and rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"I'm…I'm Francis Bonnefoy. We used to be friends as children?"

Arthur frowned. He vaguely remembered one Francis Bonnefoy from when he was young. Actually, he remembered fighting with one Francis Bonnefoy, and beating his arse to a pulp for a reason that Arthur couldn't recall. Probably because he had been annoying.

"That is not how I remember it."

"Euh, okay. But we knew each other."

"Yes," Arthur answered in a way that asked where is this going?

"I overheard Lord Edelstein and Lady Héderváry talking, and… Well, in a few days, Captain Bielschmidt is supposed to give you an audience with Lord Edelstein, who is going to request your services to kill a changeling that has infiltrated his court and is plotting against him and his family. Do not do it. It is an incredibly dangerous mission that will only end in your death," Francis explained madly, words tumbling from his mouth. "Please."

"I will do whatever I bloody well want, thank you," Arthur hissed, annoyed. "I am going to face the death penalty regardless."

"A-Arthur, I cannot stand by and watch you walk straight into a trap. It's suicide," Francis pleaded.

"Do not call me Arthur. We are not friends."

"We used to be!" Francis protested, voice pained.

"But we aren't anymore, and I cannot help but wonder how true your claim is that we once were," Arthur scowled, words laced with steel. "If that is what is going to happen, so be it. Maybe I can escape death for a while."

"You really do not remember…" Francis muttered, shoulders drooping. "Alright. Do not say that I did not warn you."

Michelle looked at Francis with concern in her eyes.

"Thanks for talking with us," she smiled a little at Arthur before departing with Francis in tow.

As soon as they were gone and Arthur was left alone in the boundless dark, he longed for them to return, if only to have someone's voice to counteract the crushing silence in the cell. In the quiet, Arthur replayed his conversation with Michelle and Francis again and again and again. What had he meant, "you really do not remember"? Arthur could not decide what that was about for the life of him. It was bothersome.

The more he thought about it, the more memories of him and Francis as children came back; he remembered playing tag, Francis forcing him to wear a flower crown for some reason, and exploring the forest just outside the northeastern section of Carriedo. So maybe they had been friends? Arthur couldn't remember what ended it, but he remembered Alistair yelling at him about Francis and then beating Francis up. He assumed they parted ways there, for he had no further memories of him until today.

Arthur frowned and picked slowly at the piece of straw he had been twirling between his fingers. It was smooth and dry, and it crinkled when he tried to tear it. There had to be something else. None of the things he could think of were significant enough for Francis to think that they were still friends seven or so years after their last conversation. Arthur pondered the situation for a long time – what could have been hours (it was so difficult to tell in the dark). He was hungry and thirsty and cold and uncomfortable, but he still had the energy to wonder whether he should trust this Francis Bonnefoy.


A trembling young boy delivered Arthur a meal, which consisted of stale bread, a hunk of cheese, and water. Arthur was not a gourmet, but even he found it a tad unsatisfactory. The boy apologized over and over and over and nearly broke down into tears. Arthur had to forgive him just to get him to shut up. He assured Arthur that it wasn't poisoned when Arthur eyed it warily, and then he left, muttering nervously to himself. Arthur sniffed the meal in front of him, and it didn't carry the scent of any poisons he knew, but there were many that were colourless and odourless. Despite his conscience's protests, he divided the food into three portions and wolfed down one, leaving the other two for later.

He had no idea when the next time he was going to eat would be, and it turned out that it wasn't often or regular. They likely gave him meals at random intervals in order to further throw off his perception of the passage of time, a form of torture in its own right. It worked; Arthur had no idea whether it had been an hour or a day or a month since he had been captured by Gilbert. The darkness muddled with his senses, and he lived in constant discomfort. It felt like years since he had spoken with Francis and Michelle, and in his boredom, be began to count how many guards passed. He missed the sound of his own voice and was nearly going mad from lack of activity.

He was saved when Gilbert, along with attacker and a crowd of guards, piled into the cell block. The torches in their hands hurt Arthur's eyes, which were too used to the dark.

"Get up, Kirkland," Gilbert commanded.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. Had Francis been right? Or was he being taken to be executed?

"Why?"

"Just do it," he hissed and tossed some fresh clothes at Arthur, who was silently grateful for them. His own were in tatters. "Change into those. We will not look."

Gilbert nodded at his companions and they all turned their backs as Arthur removed his soiled clothes and slipped on the new ones; a white tunic, brown trousers, and black leather boots. The fabric was rough, but honestly, anything was better than what he had been wearing.

The guards turned back around. Gilbert spoke quietly to Arthur's attacker (who was much shorter than Arthur had originally thought), and Michelle stepped forward, shooting Arthur a sympathetic glance before removing a ring of keys from her belt and unlocking the cell door. Arthur took only a few steps, and hadn't even made it out of the cell when he was grabbed by his attacker, who had a very tight grip. He half-stumbled and was half-dragged into the awaiting group of guards. The situation took him by surprise and his eyes widened comically. Gilbert laughed a shrill, grating, cold laugh that annoyed Arthur very much.

"Nice going, Yao!" he chuckled, slapping the person holding Arthur, apparently Yao, on the back.

"Thank you?" Yao frowned. His voice carried a strange accent that Arthur had never heard before.

Gilbert huffed, a sharp exhalation from his nose. "Alright. Move out!"

The guards began to file down the long hallway, lined with more cells. Some had people, ragged and drawn, contained within them, and Arthur wondered why he was allowed to leave and they were not. Perhaps they had committed worse crimes than he had, though it seemed unlikely; the ones in the cells had probably been thieves or inconvenient courtiers. Only those who had atrocious criminal acts on their record had the honour of being beheaded or hanged.

The prisoners watched him with hollow, sunken eyes that stared out from the deep shadows in their bony faces, and Arthur had to suppress the chill he got from them. What scared him more than their skeletal appearance was that he had been so adamant that this…wasting away would be better than death.

The torchlight glowed eerily on the prisoners' ashen skin, highlighting how their flesh seemed to be falling off their skulls…

"Move it, Kirkland," Gilbert growled, and Arthur tore his gaze away and began to walk more quickly. If Francis had been right, he was not going to ruin his opportunity by being stubborn.

Arthur was led (or rather, was taken) through a few more cell blocks and then up a dark, steep spiral staircase. His muscles protested with each step, but he made it. As soon as Gilbert opened the heavy wooden door, however, Arthur almost didn't. He hissed and squinted against the harsh white light of the sun. His eyes burned, and Gilbert, Yao, and a few other guards laughed at his predicament. Michelle, one hand on the pommel of her sword, looked sympathetic, almost as if she was contemplating helping him but just could not do it because of her sense of duty. Arthur ignored them, because he could hardly see. Really, the situation was more annoying than anything.

Finally, Yao composed himself, smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in his tunic, and said haughtily, "Let's not keep Lord Edelstein waiting."

Gilbert wiped tears from the corners of his eyes and nodded. "Indeed, he can be…grating when his orders are not followed to the letter."

So, they are taking me to see Lord Edelstein, Arthur smirked, but it faltered when he realised- Francis was right. So, will he be right about the suicide part of it, too? Am I to die for whatever Edelstein is going to make me do? Or will it be killing the changeling, like Francis predicted? Shite.

Arthur was led through a maze of hallways, all ornately decorated. Intricate tapestries hung on the wall, stained glass windows cast multicoloured light onto the floor, paintings by famous artists were displayed in regal frames. Alistair had never quite seen the use in beautiful architecture, so Arthur hadn't really been exposed to it, even though his family had the money to commission such things. He was in awe by the time they reached carved mahogany double doors that towered far above his head.

He was even more in awe when they entered the room, which he had been informed was the throne room (why a lord needed a throne room, Arthur could not comprehend). It had high, vaulted ceilings, which had been painted with a fresco of what was likely family history. Pillars of white marble reached up, and purple banners bearing the gold flower seal of the House of Edelstein lined the walls. Arched windows allowed light to spill into the room and gave a view of the entire city of Carriedo. A long maroon carpet led to a trio of thrones upon a raised section of floor, the largest window in the grand hall behind them. The smallest throne, on the right, was empty. The middle was occupied by a rather pretentious-looking man who Arthur thought of immediately as a complete prick. He was likely Lord Edelstein. A woman was draped over the throne on the left, cleaning underneath her nails with a knife. Arthur smirked and knew that he would like her.

"Hello, Arthur Kirkland. Or would you prefer the Cluaran Assassin?" the woman spoke, her voice, refined and powerful, echoing through the chamber in a way that made chills run down Arthur's spine. "We have a proposition for you."


What? An update on time? What is this sorcery?

Don't count on others being this fast, please. I was just really motivated this week for some reason. We're getting to the good stuff! Though the exposition hasn't ended yet, it's starting to get fun to write (dialogue is way more interesting than internal monologue or descriptions).

A lot of planning went into this chapter, but I don't particularly like it. There's too much boring stuff and not enough action. I dunno. Jail scenes are super annoying to write, because they're a lot of the same thing. I'm sorry if it was boring to read, too. I promise next chapter will be better! This was kind of a filler.

I know that there are some names for characters aren't listed in canon or the fandom can't agree on, so characters that appear that have this issue, I'll list the names I'm using in this fic in the author's note (if they appear in the chapter). I also realised that I didn't list the ones from lat chapter, so here we go!

Michelle: Seychelles

Alistair: Scotland

Dylan: Wales

Seamus: Northern Ireland

Patrick: Ireland

I think that's everyone, so thanks so much for reading, and I'll see you in the next update!