Prince's Hand And Half of the Kingdom

Chapter Nine:

Reality of a Faery Tale

Francis' blue eyes stared at Arthur as if dumbfounded. "Wedding rehearsal?"

Arthur, positively in sour mood (like he had continuously been for the past week or so), only nodded in response and kept his own eyes trained on a tree down in the garden.

"Wow," Francis muttered, massaging the bridge of his nose. "I hadn't even... it really came so fast. A month isn't that long after all when you stop thinking about it. Even here," he added, but the poor attempt of a joke didn't get any response from Arthur, so Francis, too, shut his mouth and turned to look out of the window. They stood like that for some time, looking anywhere but at each other, trying to pretend that the matter was completely settled at that and there was absolutely nothing more to say.

At least that's what Arthur did. And in a way, there really wasn't anything more to say from his part; he wouldn't tell Francis to leave, but he wouldn't ask him to stay, either, not even for the life of his.

Pride. It has always been his greatest weakness. (And maybe there was some fear of rejection, but there was no way Arthur would admit that even to himself, which lead back to pride.)

Francis, however, finally decided to voice what both were thinking. He cleared his throat. "So. I suppose we should agree on the date of departure."

In spite of having fully expected those words, Arthur couldn't save his heart from sinking. Silently reminding himself that he was a prince so he should act like one, he focused on keeping his voice emotionless. "Yes."

"In that case. Well. How about. How about two days before the wedding?"

"Three." Arthur's voice was firm and steady. "Three days. Leaving for only one night would seem a bit girlish. Leave three days before the wedding, so that your supposed return would be the day before the ceremony."

"Right."

"You'll leave with Gilbert and Antonio. No one will suspect anything, because nobles never travel alone." Is this me talking? Arthur felt as if he was someone else, as if his body had no connections to his mind, so fluently did his words flow. "And if I recall correctly, we told no one that you three are friends, so it's unlikely for anybody to suspect you three run off."

"How lucky am I to have you considered everything to the very details," Francis said, and Arthur wasn't quite sure whether there was sarcasm in his voice or had he merely imagined it.

"Someone has to," the Prince responded quieter than he had intended.

At that very moment the bell rang calling everybody for dinner, and without another word, Arthur turned his back on Francis and walked away.

The dinner proceeded like normally – on the surface, that is. Like each and every evening since Francis' arrival, the closer the wedding day sneaked, the murkier the King became, and he kept either shooting impressive glares at the Frenchman or, conversely, pointedly ignoring him as far as courtesy rules allowed. It had never seemed to bother Francis though, for the Frenchman apparently enjoyed tormenting his supposedly soon-to-be father-in-law. Usually he kept actively starting or attending conversations, making sure to address the King for his opinion on some subject matter or another and thus forcing the old man to reply in order to maintain his own etiquette. This always annoyed the King to no end, but what infuriated (as much as secretly delighted) him even more was the fact Francis was incredibly clever a debater. It had even become a habit for the two to start a conversation or debate and try to beat the other one in every aspect possible, using conventions of behaviour as much as rhetorics.

Watching those shows rarely failed to entertain Arthur, but that particular evening he couldn't as much as pretend to be following the conversation. Even Francis, in contrast to his usual playfulness and talkativeness, was uncharacteristically silent, which wasn't left unnoticed by the King. The old man, however, didn't comment the awkward atmosphere in any way, both to relief and surprise of Arthur.

Eventually the dinner came to the end. Instead of joining the court in the great hall for music, Arthur decided to withdraw into his room; he felt like immersing himself in his favourite books instead of joyful company of the habitants of the castle. Maybe he'd read a story with an unhappy ending, just to remind himself that not all faerie tales ended well – or then he'd choose a happily ending tale, to remind himself that faery tales were faery tales and had nothing to do with reality. He, however, didn't make it to his room – Antonio caught him in the hallway.

"Hola, Arthur!" he chimed happily. "Are you not going to go to great hall tonight?"

"No," Arthur said and braced himself for protests; Antonio had already very early found it his mission to encourage people to take part in social gatherings. But, for once, that wasn't the Spaniard's goal.

"Perfect!" he exclaimed and grabbed the Prince's wrist. "Then you are free tonight. Follow me!"

It wasn't as if Arthur had much of a choice; Antonio's grip was firm, and in spite of all Arthur's objections the groom dragged the Englishman out of the castle and into the garden.

"What's your problem?" Arthur demanded once the Spaniard let go of his hand, but then his eyes took in his surroundings and he fell silent.

There, in the protection of evening darkness and apple trees and flower bushes, was a small fire, securely surrounded by stones to prevent the fire from escaping, and at that fire, right on the grass, were sitting Gilbert and Francis. The two ceased to chat with each other on noticing Antonio and Arthur, and looked at them, greeting them with smiles. Arthur suddenly got a strong feeling of déjà vu and shuddered, remembering how he had first met the peculiar trio and how at that moment his current downhill had begun. (Even then his mind refused to recollect that in fact his downhill had begun ten years earlier the moment he had shown not so much courtesy to a certain frog.)

"What is this?" he asked a bit rudely. "Are you trying to burn down my garden?"

"Hey, no need to be a prick there!" Gilbert instantly retorted – always ready, Arthur thought. "Antonio and I just wanted to relax with friends a bit, you know, maybe for the last time, and this is the thanks we get?"

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and didn't say anything; even if Gilbert was right, he would not admit it aloud. (And Gilbert was right, damn him, he was right and in a couple of days he, too, would be gone, and after that Arthur would be always right again, because there would be no one who would tell him otherwise.)

"Sit," Antonio urged, and the Englishman complied, finding a spot beside the Prussian and the Spaniard to avoid any physical contact with a certain Frenchman. If Francis was somehow disappointed by this, at least he didn't show it, merely gave Arthur a barely noticeable wink over the fire – he seemed to have returned to his normal self. Unnecessarily troubled by such vulgar actions, Arthur turned to Gilbert to ask what exactly was on their mind, but was cut off before he could even start.

"Oh look, Romano, they are already all there!"

"Wha- They?"

With this, Veneziano and apparently unpleasantly surprised Romano entered the scene.

"Hey you two, fancy seeing you here," Gilbert said playfully, turning to the brothers, and Romano instantly turned to his brother. "You plotting traitor!" he yelled. "You never mentioned there would be other people plus two assholes here!"

"Eek, I'm sorry, I forgot!" Veneziano squealed and quickly skittered to sit beside Francis, out of his brother's reach. "But it sounded so fun to spend a great evening all together when Antonio told me about it and I thought you would like it too because you always just withdraw in your own room and-"

"I don't! And this is stupid!"

"Aww, Romano! I thought you would like to spend some time with me," the younger Italian whined, tears coming to his eyes.

"Don't worry, he doesn't mean it," Gilbert reassured Veneziano and grinned at the elder brother, correctly believing to be one of the two mentioned assholes (who was the other one, only Romano knew). "Now that you are here, you can as well sit down. There is no point in going back and forth between the stables and the garden for nothing. That would be stupid."

"Hmph." Romano was clearly torn between leaving and staying, but the latter won. "Fine. But I'll stay only because if I don't, I'll have to bear with Veneziano's whining for ever." The older Italian positioned himself beside his brother, giving first Francis and then Gilbert suspicious looks.

"Espléndido!" Antonio exclaimed contentedly. "Now that we are all happily here, we can enjoy ourselves."

The five young men sat around the fire side by side, shoulders almost touching, and the intimacy of their circle, the shadows of the evening and the warmth of the fire soon lulled Arthur into comfortable, secure feeling of timelessness. At first they all sat silent, then someone made a comment about something, which started an idle conversation about this and that. When they eventually fell all silent again, Antonio reached behind himself and revealed a string instrument Arthur hadn't noticed earlier, probably due to darkness.

"This is my dear flamenco guitar," Antonio said softly, his fingers gently moving along the strings. "She has been with me for a long, long time."

Not waiting for anybody to answer, he started playing the instrument, his fingers running expertly on the strings. It was amazing; Arthur got the impression that the Spaniard was setting free the soft chords that flowed into the night to dance in the open air. First Antonio played faster songs with a catchy tempo, but then he took a break and when he started again, his songs were slower, calmer, and most of all, clearly more romantic. That was also when Antonio started to sing – his voice was rich and deep as Spanish lyrics flowed from his lips, and Arthur, just like everybody else around the fire, found he was enchanted. It felt to him as if the night itself was breathing magic that very evening, entwining the small group in its secrets, filling their hearts with undefined emotions and calling to release those same emotions into the air.

That's right, Arthur vaguely thought, there must be magic in the air. Otherwise I would never regret not sitting beside Francis. The thought made him steal a quick peek at the Frenchman, who, like all the others, had his eyes fixed on fire. Seeing the Frenchman so serene and watching the game of flames apparently deep in though made Arthur unwillingly imagine how it would feel like, leaning his head on that safe shoulder and holding that hand in his own.

Suddenly, as always, Francis interrupted the Englishman's track of thoughts by raising his eyes from the fire and catching Arthur gazing at him. Remarkably, there were no smug smirks on his lips – in fact, his face stayed perfectly neutral. Yet in his eyes, behind the shadows cast by orange flames, there Arthur located a warm smile, and didn't know what to do or where to look.

Fate seemed to save him once more; final chords of the guitar faded into the night and Antonio stopped playing with a happy sigh. The magic around let go a bit, and Arthur tore his eyes from Francis to Veneziano, who immediately on Antonio finishing started talking. "Wow, Antonio, that was amazing! I didn't know you could play any instruments!"

The Spaniard smiled. "She is my first love," he said, referring to the guitar. "I learnt playing guitar when I was a child."

"I have never heard Spanish songs before," Arthur said to say something. Antonio grinned and readily turned to him.

"Really? How did you like them? I played almost all the Spanish love songs I know."

"Do you know any English ones?" Gilbert asked indifferently. "You know, now that we are in England and all."

"Oh, funny you should ask!" Antonio chimed casually. "I actually happened to learn one when I was at a local pub the other day. Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes please!" Veneziano clapped his hands enthusiastically. "And then you can learn Italian and French and-"

"Shush," was all that Romano said, sleepily yet effectively silencing his brother although the large smile never left the younger Italian's face.

"Great!" And Antonio lifted his guitar on his lap again and began to sing.

Arthur's cheeks started gradually heating up. The Spaniard had indeed learnt an English love song, and even one of Arthur's favourites at that.

"Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously. For I have loved you well and long, delighting in your company..."

It wasn't fair, Arthur thought, how his mind seemed to turn to Francis even at the mention of the word love song, especially now that he could understand every word that passed Antonio's lips. It wasn't fair how Arthur's stupid heart seemed to interpret every word as if they had been born from his own life and feelings and not from an unknown poet's pen.

"Your vows you've broken, like my heart, oh, why did you so enrapture me? "

There are no vows he could have broken, Arthur scolded himself, His only vow was to get away from here and he is only bloody happy to keep it! And what concerns enrapturing, it's all due to the curse!

"If you intend thus to disdain, it does the more enrapture me, and even so, I still remain a lover in captivity."

But try as he may, Arthur couldn't deny the truth: his secret romantic side had got stronger and louder during the past days and weeks and now demanded to be heard – and although the Englishman didn't want to listen, it wasn't in his power to silence his heart. Stop lying, it demanded, and Arthur couldn't help glancing at Francis for one more time. This time it was him who caught the Frenchman staring, and he started at seeing the blue eyes bored into him so intently. But Francis didn't bother pretending he hadn't looked at Arthur, and the Englishman couldn't find it in himself to turn away.

After all, only in three days he would never see those eyes again, so he might as well memorise them now.

Only when Antonio finished the song and put his guitar away did the couple break their locked eyes. The Spaniard stood up from his place and stretched his back. "My, how late it is!" he uttered. "Come, Veneziano, we have an early morning tomorrow."

"But I'm not ti-" A yawn cut off the younger Italian's protest, and he changed his mind. "I'm too sleepy to walk," he whined instead.

"Don't complain, you manage sleep walking perfectly well in your work time so it shouldn't make a difference now," Arthur remarked, making all others – including Veneziano and excluding his brother – chuckle.

"Buenas noches," Antonio said and left with his guitar and Veneziano.

"Well, I should-" Arthur started, getting up, but Gilbert didn't let him finish.

"Romano and I will take our leave now, too," he quickly interrupted. "Look at him – poor guy exhausted himself at the stables today." It was true; one of the studs had fallen ill and Romano had taken care of him the whole day. Now Romano's body had claimed its right to rest; the stableman's head was resting on the Prussian's shoulder in a way that would have never happened had Romano been in even half of his senses. "Could you two take care of extinguishing the fire?"

"Sure," Francis said, smiling. "Take care of your... hm, Romano."

"What were you about to say?" Arthur asked him as they watched Gilbert leading awakened, sleepily grumbling Romano away.

"I don't know," Francis admitted. "Saying 'lover' would have been inappropriate because they are not exactly lovers yet."

"Yet?" Arthur asked and looked down at Francis, confused. The Frenchman grabbed his wrist and tugged, signalling for him to sit back down, and Arthur's stomach did flips. "Yes, yet," Francis said and held the Englishman's wrist until he complied. "I hadn't even realised it until Antonio told me."

"What... You don't mean..?"

"I do," Francis said. "Look at them! Aren't they just complementing one another so well? Both of them have somewhat rough personalities, but... Well, I don't know about Romano, but Gilbert actually has a heart beneath that armour of what he calls awesomeness."

"No wonder Romano has been in such a terrible mood lately," Arthur mused, too tired himself to be properly scandalised. "He handles it pretty well for somebody who realises to be in love with Gilbert."

"Come off it! Gilbert is not that bad at all. Where from have you got that idea?"

Arthur shot a glare at the Frenchman. "Oh, I don't know!" he retorted sarcastically, crossing his arms. "Maybe the first time I met you all?"

Francis laughed. "Oh dear, first impressions truly never die then."

"Damn right."

Francis didn't take the quarrel further and Arthur let it be, too. After all, it was a beautiful night, he was sitting together with Francis – right beside him, this time – and though the nightly air was cool, both fire and the Frenchman's body offered him plenty of heat to stay comfortable and not to freeze. To boot, Arthur didn't need much imagination to hear the soft chords of Antonio's guitar still lingering there, dancing with flames, and such a magical, soothing atmosphere was too precious to break with pointless bickering.

Neither of the two young men did bring up the idea of distinguishing the fire and leaving, despite it being terribly late. Instead, they both sat side by side, listening to the cracking of logs, and Arthur wondered if there was a way to keep that moment his forever.

xXx

"Move your head, I can't see a thing!"

"Shh, not so loud! We don't want them to hear us, do we?"

Sure thing they didn't – Antonio and Gilbert, that is. After the two had made sure each of their respective Italians had been taken care of (in other words, now safely sleeping back in their own beds), they had returned to the scene of crime as soon as possible; being the masterminds behind the overly genius plan to get some action between a certain two, naturally the two plotters wanted to see the results of their awesomeness. For, this time they were sure, they would finally get some concrete results, so favourable was the setting – romantic music and evening and all.

Too bad though that stalking wasn't quite as glorious as one might imagine.

"Antonio," Gilbert said falteringly after a long silence during which there was more action in the bushes where the two friends were lurking than between their targets at the fire. "I think there is something long and hairy and with many legs crawling under my shirt."

"Don't be silly, even from this distance I can tell that Arthur's eyebrows haven't left him yet."

"That was so fucking hilarious, Toni," Gilbert hissed, shuddering at the image that Antonio's words created as much as at the itchy feeling on his back. The Spaniard's joke would have been funny, had there not been an army of bugs on Gilbert's back at that very moment. "Shit, either that thing was just apportioned or it has a friend!"

"Hush, I want to hear if Francis and Arthur start talking!"

"They haven't uttered a word since our arrival!"

"Stop wiggling!"

"Yeah, well how about you try offering your body to a feasting load of bugs and we'll see how much you will want to stay still! ...Oh, you already started."

"Started what?" Antonio turned to Gilbert, alarmed. The Prussian shrugged indifferently. "Hosting bugs. That one on your head is rather impressive."

"I thought it was just a stick! Take it off!"

"Take it off yourself!"

"Disgusting." The Spaniard shuddered. "I'll make sure the gardener will hear about this... Oh, look Gil, hush, Arthur is moving!"

"You are the one blabbering!"

"Shh!"

"We should probably put out the fire," the two heard the Englishman say hesitantly, standing up.

"Wait," Francis said rather hastily, and his fingers touched Arthur's briefly. "Don't go yet. After all, this is one of our last evenings together."

"But... We... we have an early morning tomorrow."

"Forget it," Francis said, more quietly now, so that the two stalkers almost couldn't catch his words. "Come on, Arthur. Join me."

"Join him," Antonio and Gilbert urged together.

Arthur did. Carefully he sat back down, avoiding looking in the Frenchman's direction. Francis smiled (stupidly, Gilbert would add) and took Arthur's hand, bringing it up and brushing his lips lightly along the knuckles. Arthur, on his part, went all rigid and shot a glare at the Frenchman, who laughed and released his hand.

"What the hell are you doing?" Arthur asked, barely avoiding stammering.

"Is he flushing?" Gilbert asked, momentarily forgetting his discomfort.

"He is definitely flushing," Antonio confirmed, satisfied.

"Don't be so uptight," Francis chuckled. "It was merely a thank you."

"What sort of thank you is that, you sod?" Arthur raged, visibly flustered. It amused Antonio and annoyed Gilbert.

There was a moment of stillness during which Arthur, almost pouting yet red-faced, glared at Francis, who gazed at his fiancé with an expression his two friends rarely saw; the one Francis had whenever he was about to do something that might cost him his life. "You are right," the Frenchman said slowly. "That was not a proper thank you."

"Gil," Antonio started, perplexed, but the Prussian didn't have time to respond, because right then Francis reached with his hand and placed it on Arthur's cheek, stroking it with his thumb. Arthur was apparently paralysed, because he didn't shy away, and Antonio knew what was to happen next. Barely breathing, he turned to look at Gilbert – and at the huge, no, tremendous spider on his shoulder. Whoops, better not mention that to the Prussian...

Gilbert looked at the Spaniard, saw him staring at his shoulder, and followed his look to see what could possibly be more interesting than the scene before them.

What followed next happened all in mere moments.

Gilbert's eyes widened in terror like two crimson bloodstains on white fabric while Antonio proved the speed of his reflexes; the Spaniard smacked his hand over the Prussian's mouth to muffle the upcoming yelp. Gilbert's hand roamed frantically on the ground to find something to brush off the spider with, but his action proved needless; the icky thing escaped easily on Antonio's arm – apparently it had connected the two stalkers with a web before either of them had noticed. Now, Antonio, who, despite not being terrified of bugs like his friend, was not particularly fond of them, either. So, reflexively, the Spaniard slammed his arm against a tree trunk beside him to get rid of the eight-legged offender.

This sequence of actions costed the life of one poor spider and a kiss that was never delivered.

"What was that?" an alarmed voice asked.

Gilbert and Antonio both froze, not daring move, eyes locked together.

"Probably just a rabbit in the bushes or something." A chuckle. "Relax, you are so jumpy."

Slowly, ever so slowly, the two stalkers turned their eyes on their targets. Arthur was on his feet, still scanning the surroundings with his eyes, but eventually calmed down and lowered himself on the ground by Francis' side again. "A hell of a rabbit if it caused that hassle," he muttered.

Francis smiled and placed the tip of his fingers on Arthur's throat. "Your heart beats so fast," he said, feeling the pulse. "You are like a rabbit yourself. Alarmed by the faintest sounds, careful..."

"S-shut up, I'm not..." Arthur put his palm on Francis' arm to push his hand away from his throat, and he succeeded – in a way. Francis captured his hand between his own two hands and grinned. "Got you," he said, planted a small kiss on Arthur's knuckles and then released the Prince's hand in favour of sliding his fingers up his arm to take a good hold there.

"Francis," Arthur started, sounding as if he was out of breath, but whatever he was going to say next was to remain a mystery forever.

"Who's there?" a stern voice demanded, and Gilbert and Antonio turned their heads to see a guard approaching the small fire.

"Hell," the Prussian muttered, and Antonio got an urge to squeeze his eyes closed to avoid seeing what would happen next – maybe the guard was merely a nightmare, a product of his imagination?

Too bad that wasn't the case. As soon as Arthur and Francis heard the voice, the Englishman started and tore himself out of Francis' immediate proximity, hopping on his feet once again. This time he was followed by the Frenchman.

"It's just me. Er, us," Arthur said, visibly struggling to sound calm and composed and not frustrated or disappointed at all.

"My Prince." The guard – a man in his late forties – looked surprised. "Forgive me, I did not expect to find you here. I saw a fire from my place and decided to make sure everything is in order."

"Everything is in order," Francis said, just the tiniest bit murkily.

"Splendid." The guard hesitated a bit. "Forgive me, but don't you think it might be for the best to extinguish the fire? We haven't had rain for a while, and the grass is dangerously dry."

Although the guard's words came out in a form of question, the authority in his voice was evident to everybody – even Gilbert. "Fucking mood-killer," he hissed, and Antonio couldn't but agree.

"You are right," Arthur said, resignedly, and the guard smiled softly. "Let me, my Prince," he said and got to work. Francis and Arthur just stood there watching him, not looking at one another. When the guard was done, he suggested to escort the two to their rooms to not alarm other guards, and soon they were all gone, only leaving smoking ashes behind.

"Well, shit," Gilbert said, not losing time in getting out of the bushes as soon as it was safe.

"I'm starting to believe that Arthur's curse includes bad luck in it," Antonio said. "That's the only explanation to why Francis hasn't got to kissing him yet."

"We are running out of time." Gilbert sighed and looked at where the fire had been. It had been put out just like the evidently blooming romance-in-denial had been. That fucking guard.

"And chances," Antonio pointed out. "The life is starting to be rather hectic in the castle due to the wedding. Everybody, including me and Francis and Arthur, have loads to do."

"Well," Gilbert said sadly, the scowling face of Romano emerging vivid before his eyes. "Better start preparations for the 'hunting trip' then."

X

Author's note: The English love song Antonio sang here is of course Greensleeves, written in medieval England. The legend has it that King Henry VIII composed it to Anne Boleyn, who turned the King down as is expressed in the lyrics. Anne Boleyn did eventually become the second wife of Henry VIII after all, but was later beheaded by the orders of the very same Henry VIII. This legend of Henry composing the song, though, is probably only a legend.

...I know most of you probably already know all this. It's just that I wanted, even for once, make an author's note about historical references.

Also, I know Gilbert is tough. He's awesome. But still, he does have some weaknesses, too, and I imagine spiders could be one of those. xD

One more thing: this fic is starting to come to its end, so be aware of that. :3