Chapter 10 Apology Not Accepted
(And the plot begins to race...)
Alfred couldn't breathe. In mere seconds he would be too weak to fight back. He had one shot. Ivan's hand was close. With a final sure of energy, he pushed the pipe back enough to clamp his teeth onto Ivan's hand, biting to the bone, blood filled his mouth and numbed his tongue. Is blood supposed to do that? he wondered distantly. Body heat was always ambiguous when it came to the Russian.
Ivan didn't cry out, but he did release his pressure on the pipe and back away. Alfred coughed and gasped for air, clambering to his feet. His eyes were watery. Wasting no time, he ripped the pipe away from a very confused Ivan who was blinking at his wounded hand in shock. Some recognition was leaking back into those opal eyes.
"M-Math-," Ivan stuttered out, but Alfred didn't let him finish, gripping the pipe with both hands, he whammed it into the side of Ivan's temple. A normal man would be dead, but Ivan merely collapsed and Alfred stood over him, holding it up, ready to bash his brains in. He wanted to.
Kill him, a voice urged in his head. It wasn't his own and it chilled Alfred to his soul. Iciness crept down his hands from the pipe toward his shoulders and heart.
We will be one, the voice murmured. For a moment, Alfred saw nothing but red and he raised the pipe higher for the killing stroke, then Ivan groaned and clutched at his temple, blood was trickling down his cheek and dripping onto the carpet.
Alfred dropped the pipe; it landed with a muffled clatter. He backed away, horrified by what he had done and almost done. Fingers went to the red blood on his lips and chin. Ivan's blood.
I almost..., he realized, his eyes flickering from the pipe to Ivan. He swallowed, wincing at the pain, his throat felt like he had gulped down pieces of glass. The sight of the Russian, the pipe, and the feel of his bruised throat all sickened him.
He bolted from the room, never looking back.
.oOo.
"D-do you have a three?" Raivis asked.
"Go fish," Eduard answered. He had only two cards left. Raivis had eight. They were sitting four steps up with their spears beside them.
Raivis sighed, drawing another card, "S-still no pairs? W-why are you so good at this?"
Eduard opened his mouth to reply when they heard the noise of bare feet running toward them. The deck and cards quickly went back into their satchels, but before they could grab their spears and be at attention, a naked man with blonde hair streaked past them, hopping down every two steps.
"Commie...psycho...ghost," he wheezed as he went by, his almost inaudible cries disappeared as he rounded a corner at the end of the dark hall.
Eduard and Raivis exchanged a stunned look and shut their mouths, realizing they were both gaping.
"W-was that Prince M-Murphy?" Raivis asked.
"Er...," Eduard began, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I believe so."
"W-was he...?"
"I'll check on Master Ivan," Eduard sighed, already heading up the stairs with his spear.
"B-but what am I supposed to do?"
"Go find, Prince... Prince Marvin," he said.
"B-bu-."
"Would you rather check on Master Ivan?"
"R-right," Raivis said, hopping to attention, he headed after the Canadian Prince. Sure that even at this hour others would notice the croaking, bare-as-the-day-he-was-born Lord.
.oOo.
Gilbert was a trained warrior like his father and his father before him; he knew the awesome ways. Unnatural sounds woke him. So he was already out of bed and reaching for his sheathed sword where it hung from a hook on the wall, when the sound of those bare feet reached his door.
What he didn't expect was for the person to kick it down. The locks flew across the room and the door landed with a whump.
"Christ!" Gilbert said, not sure if he was facing a demon or a man.
The answer of the intruder's identity was quickly revealed when a voice croaked in the loudest it could muster, "Gilbert?"
"Al- your Majesty?" he gaped, grabbing his lantern from its hook, he turned it on, smelling the kerosene light up. "If you wanted a burg...," he trailed off, seeing a stark naked Alfred before him, with a very injured throat. "What the hell happened to you?" And you can't be better hung than me, no way. Must be a trick of the light, he thought, gravely annoyed by that and the fact that that was the first thought that popped into his head given the situation.
"I...almost...killed him," Alfred gasped, his face full of despair, he stumbled toward Gilbert's bed where he sat down heavily. He hugged himself for warmth.
Gilbert started to respond, but he heard the footsteps of his awesome guards and ran over to his broken doorway, peaking his head out.
"Sir, wh-," one of his awesome men began, but seeing Gilbert's raised eyebrow quickly changed it to, "Your most awesome sir, what happened?"
"Nothing for you to worry about. Go back and watch the entrance to this hallway. Allow no one to pass," he called. The two solders nodded and headed back.
He turned around to see Alfred wrapping himself in one of Gilbert's woolen blankets, shivering from what appeared to be more than just the cold.
"Tell me everything," he said, grabbing his gear and light armor. Dawn was a mere hour off and it was going to be a long morning.
.oOo.
By the time, Alfred had finished recounting his story, Gilbert had on his brown boots, red pants, white chest plate with the maple leaf on the front, and a black undershirt. Alfred had dressed in one of Gilbert's spare flannel shirts and a pair of loose brown pants. He had no shoes that would fit Alfred. It irked Gilbert that the shirt was tight across Albert's chest. He can't have a broader chest than the awesome me, Gilbert thought.
"That son of a bitch must pay," Gilbert said, making sure his sword and sheath were attached firmly to his belt. "We'd better move and find somewhere to regroup and figure out our next course of action. If he survived like you said," And holy shit, that bastard survived a direct blow from Alfred? Are they both superpowers or something? Gilbert wondered, continuing, "Than he'll surely come here looking for you."
Alfred nodded, getting up. He wanted a weapon. Gilbert could see that and tossed him his spare dagger with its red sheath. Alfred tucked it into his belt.
"Is your throat feeling better?" Gilbert asked.
"A little," Alfred rasped. "Whatever happens. I'm not going back. Deal or no deal. That creep is a psycho."
"Everyone knew that," Gilbert said. "It's just he's never gone so far against nobility before. He seemed content to humiliate them with subjugation."
"Shows what I get for trusting nobles. I didn't sign u-" Gilbert clamped a hand over Alfred's mouth, giving him a warning look. Booted footsteps were coming and there was only one man that arrogant gait could belong to.
"We have to run," he hissed as they edged to the door. What happened to my awesome men? He wondered, but he could guess. That asshole better not have killed them, he thought.
He turned off the lantern, setting it down without a sound. He gripped Alfred's arm to pull him along and counted in his head, Three...two...one.
They burst out, ready to run down the opposite hall, but a stuck out foot, sent them to the floor, Gilbert narrowly avoided smashing his nose on the flagstones. Alfred landed on top of him with an "oof".
"Son of...,"Gilbert trailed off, feeling a spear jab into the back of his neck, drawing a welt of blood. Alfred was equally motionless and by the faint starlight leaking out of the his own room, he could see two figures standing over them.
Four Russian guards with torches rushed forward from the left hall, aiming their spears at Alfred and Gilbert as well. He saw who had tripped them. That little frightened mouse, Raivis, had been waiting by the door and done it. Didn't know the slavic worm had it in him, Gilbert growled in his head, realizing the bastard had been listening. It was Raivis who now had his spear tip against Alfred's nape, along with two others, and another guardsmen who had drawn Gilbert's blood. Gilbert studied that guard's face. He would remember him.
"Going somewhere?" asked a cold voice. Gilbert's hand remained on his hilt as he fixed his red eyes on that bastard. The creep giggled as emerged from the shadows into the torchlight, dressed in his usual brown coat and beige scarf, but there was something far more terrifying in his childish smile than usual. The dried blood caked on the left side of his face only heightened the effect. He looked like a man clinging to his last strands of sanity.
Gilbert personally wished Alfred had killed him. Nobody would have missed Ivan.
"The Prince will come with me, da?" Ivan grinned.
.oOo.
Something is wrong, that thought woke Matthew. He felt sick and afraid, but he didn't know why. His polar bear was curled up beside him, it's cold nose pressed into his arm. He stared up at the starlight of his slitted window. The sky was already lightening. Dawn was coming.
As he got out of bed, he heard the iron door to his secret room grate open and saw golden light spilling down from the top of the stairs. Two sets of boots clacked against the steps as their owners came down.
Only Francis and Gilbert know of this room, which means,he thought, excited to see Francis again. He slipped on his glasses and threw on his red robe with a hood and the Maple Leaf sewn on the back.
No twiddling. Stand straight. Act like you own the place, he went over in his head, trying picture how Alfred had done it so naturally. It bothered him that a simple peasant could attract the attention of so many leaders with such ease. That traits that Matthew had spent his life learning came so naturally to Alfred. It wasn't fair.
He stood in the middle of the room waiting happy to see that the man carrying the lantern was indeed Lord Francis. He didn't wait to see who was the other man, assuming it was Gilbert.
"Francis!" Matthew said, rushing over and hugging him.
"Mon cher!" The French Lord chirped, returning the embrace.
Matthew froze, frowning. He should have known better. "Lord Francis."
"Oui?"
"Please remove your hands from my buttocks."
"Whatever do you mean?" Francis said innocently, squeezing harder. Matthew yelped, jumping away. "Ah, how I missed my little Prince."
"Who is that?" Matthew asked, noticing the other man was not Gilbert. He was too short and his face too boyish. He reminded Matthew of someone. Of a portrait of his father, King Arthur, but how? Is he a tall midget? Matthew wondered, studying the boy's eyes and bushy eyebrows.
The boy-man opened his mouth but Francis started first, clapping the man on the shoulder he said, "This mon cher, is an old acquaintance of your father. His bastard cousin in fact. His name is Peter Kirkland and you know him better than you realize."
Peter scowled at the Frenchman who shot him a look that immediately wilted Peter back into his groveling self.
"P-Pleased to meet you Prince Matthew. My have you grown," he said meekly, bowing, his eyes glancing at Lord Francis occasionally.
"I don't understand. Why did you bring him here?" Matthew asked.
"Don't worry about your secret. Peter would never betray that. Not to help Ivan at least. Right, Peter?"
Peter quickly nodded, mumbling something under his breath. Matthew only caught the words, "scoundrel" and "Frog".
"He bigger secrets to share with you. Don't you, mon ami?" Francis asked, smiling with an evil gleam Matthew had rarely seen in him before. Peter nodded, coming forward.
"What is going on? How do you know me?" Matthew asked.
"Mon cher, you had better sit down for this. You may not like what you hear. It's about your birth and your father," Francis said, urging him toward the floral-patterned sofa, a keepsake of his father's like much in this room from the wooden toy soldiers on the fireplace mantle to the books on the shelf. Matthew let himself be led, nervous about what was going on. Peter followed, standing with his back to the warmth of the fireplace, facing them. Something about this felt wrong. Like Matthew was about to learn something he would rather not know.
He only realized after he sat down that he was not on the sofa, but the Frenchmen's lap. He stared flatly over his shoulder at Francis who asked, "Oui? Is something the matter?"
Matthew moved to get off, but the Frenchman held him saying, "Relax, mon cher. Let Papa France comfort you!"
"I'm not-," Francis let go and Matthew stumbled up, seeing Kumajaro had sunk his teeth in the Frenchman's ankle. "Gah!" he cried, trying to shake the bear off, "Get it off! Get it off!" Several French cuss words followed.
"Kumajaro! Down boy!" Matthew ordered. The bear released, looking at Matthew with round, black eyes. "Yes, yes, I know. Daddy loves you," he said, petting the bear before hoisting it up in his lap as he sat down, looking at the Frenchman warily.
"That bear!" Francis huffed, massaging his socked ankle. The bear had not even broken through the cloth, but he acted like it had torn of his foot.
"If I may begin, Peter said, clearing his throat. Matthew's eyes met Peter's equally nervous gaze. That dread from before would not leave his stomach.
"It began many years ago when that jerk Arthur..."
(End of Chapter 10. Chapter 11: Better Left Unsaid Ivan demands Alfred forgive him and Matthew learns the truth of his birth. This chapter might get expanded and it'll be a bit of a bitch to write. I don't know whether it will take a week or more, but I will try to keep up the pace. If I break up the chapter than parts of it will be posted faster.)