Arthur sighed wearily. He'd been having the same conversation with his son upwards of six times a day for almost a week now, "Just because you are no longer next in line to the throne, Alfred, does not mean that you can go running off to see your…. Your…"
"Lover," Alfred provided smugly, and his father winced.
"Please. It was bad enough that I had to see you like that. I really don't need to be reminded every five minutes that you let that boy …" he grappled with his words, determined to finish the sentence he had started but rather unable to do so without reliving the experience – something he definitely did not want to do, "Deflower you."
"Betrothed, then," Still, Arthur grimaced, not entirely sure of where he stood on the issue of this 'betrothal'.
"Fine. But like I said, just because you're no longer my successor does not mean that you can go gallivanting off to Gaul at the drop of a hat. Your uncles are coming around tomorrow, and we're expecting dignitaries and royalty from another five kingdoms while they're here, so I do rather hope that you intend to stay here for the party. And should you even think of running away this time," it was an unfortunate trait of the High King of Albion that he tended to get a bit shouty when engaged in passionate conversation, and there was very little that brought out his loud nature like his children, "Then you will wish that you had abdicated!"
"Argh! This is so unfair! I hate you!" Alfred stalked out of the throne room in high dudgeon, hands clenched in the air, as though he were throttling an invisible neck.
Head in his hands, Arthur groaned, "And he wonders why I think he's not mature enough to be in love?"
~====o)0(o====~
"A six-month has passed, Matthieu," Francis sighed, one hand on his son's shoulder as they both looked out through the diamond-faceted window across their kingdom and away across to Albion, "Perchance they have forgotten us?"
"My Alfred will not have forgotten me," the prince answered, voice soft but ringing with certainty, "I can only hope that we shall not be parted much longer. I have no fear of his love waning, but I have little hope of High King Arthur respecting our promises to each other."
"Think not so unkindly of the king. He wishes only for the safety of his son, as I wish for mine," there was a softness to Francis' tone, and a sigh to his words that made Matthew look up from his pensive view of the mountain pass that separated Albion from Gaul,
"It is most unlike yourself, Papa," he said slowly, eyes narrowed in suspicion, "To hold such sentimentality for a lover."
A rueful smile graced Francis' lips, "The men of Albion are most enchanting, are they not?"
"Papa," Matthew most sorrowfully did sigh, "You do not mean to tell me that not only have you bedded the father of my betrothed but you hold affections for him also?"
"Not since your mother have I felt myself so consumed with adoration for another," Francis answered without a hint of remorse, "Though I do feel he is less than pleased with the present standing between our families. Was it really of utmost necessity that the pair of you consummate your desires then?"
"Twas no intention of mine but his," the Princes said, a little snippily, "Alfred had been most adamant that we should remain chaste until wedlock. When that option was removed, he thought to offer himself to me rather than remain in eternal virginity."
"And had you not thought of the political ramifications of your actions, my son? In your lust you could have started a war between our kingdoms. One we can little afford," It wasn't often that Francis felt the need to scold his son; it wasn't often that Matthew needed it. And it was rarer still that he could do so without having his own misdeeds brought to light.
"Père, imagine a moment that you had been in my place and that it was your dearest King Arthur who sought your chambers in the dead of night, pleading with soft and thoughtful words for a physical token of your love. Would you have denied him?" The prince knew he had his father in a corner when the king harrumphed and turned away a little.
"Arthur has no words that may be mistaken for softness, though should he have, I cannot say I would have acted any differently in your situation," he relented.
Rather than saying anything so crude as the medieval equivalent of 'I told you so!' Matthew returned his gaze to the window, letting the silence steep between them like tea.
"Matthieu, I have a request to make of you," Francis said suddenly, and Matt suspected that this might have been the whole reason his father had struck up a conversation to begin with. The King of Gaul never made his motives obvious at first.
"Ouais, Papa?" the prince answered lightly, knowing that the pronunciation was irritating to the other, but not minding in this instance.
"My presence has been requested at a royal celebration, a wedding, I believe, in one of our neighbouring Kingdoms. Now, I realise that perhaps this is not the kindest request I could make, given the delay to your own nuptial, but I find myself to have had disagreements past with one of the attendees, a rather powerful Lord, and I would be most grateful if my prince regent would fill my shoes as, as it were?" the king's expression was so earnestly hopeful that Matthew couldn't help but sigh and nod.
"Of course, Your Majesty," he said wearily, and Francis beamed.
"Garb yourself in a manner befitting of our court. Something blue."
~====o)0(o====~
A man knelt in the middle of the of the stone floor, a claymore at his kilted side. He was very similar to Arthur in his appearance, though his hair was a shocking shade of red, and his eyebrows were slightly narrower – if darker.
"Presenting His Royal Majesty, King Alistair Kirkland, Thane of Glamis and Thane of Cawdor, Laird of Castles Duncan and Powrie, Champion of the Highlanders, True Ruler of the Picts and Most Valiant in Battle to his esteemed brother; His Majesty, High King Arthur of Albion, on Whose Empire The Sun Never Sets, Lion of The Realm, Conqueror of All He Surveys, Lord of the Four Kingdoms, Tamer of the Picts, Slayer of Barbarian Kings and Dragons and his Royal offspring, Her Royal Highness, Distaff Inheritor Elect, Crown Princess Amelia the Beautiful, Jewel of Albion, Duchess of New England and Heir to the Throne and His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Alfred, Southern Wolf, Eagle of Albion, Tamer of Beasts, Duke of Montana and Lord of fife York." Alfred didn't envy the bard his job, not when it involved memorising all their titles. He knew his father wasn't likely to try and behead him if he got anything wrong, but Geoffrey didn't and was sweating like a pig for it.
"Alfie! Amie!" Alistair bellowed, straightening up from where he had been kneeling on the flagstone floor, "Come give yer Uncle a hug! Ah have nae seen ye since ye's was wee bairns!"
Obligingly, Amelia picked up her skirts and hurried over to the Highlander, flinging her arms around him, "Uncle Ali, Uncle Ali, did you hear?" she gushed, her crinoline forcing her to bend over so that she could hug him properly, "I'm going to be Queen!"
"An a faine wee Quin ye shall make, lass," he said, patting her hair affectionately. Alfred's approach was more sedate – as was everything about him since he had returned from Gaul. He'd been distinctly lacklustre since then, and Arthur was going out of his mind with worry.
"Hi, Uncle Alistair," the prince offered a half smile and a hand to shake when Amelia pulled back, only to be pulled into a breath-robbing, back-slapping hug.
"Alfie, ye wee devil! Ye've been a busy lad! Ah had heard tha' ye snuck yer way tae Gallia an bedded Auld Francy's bairn. Tell yer auld Uncle Ali tis so?"
"Aye, Uncle, tis so. Ah had meself a right wee adventure," He may not have been behaving quite like himself, but Alfred did like to show off a little when given the opportunity, and showing his Uncle his gift of tongues was definitely an opportunity.
"Guid Laird, lad!" Alistair gaped, pulling back, the wode on his face making strange shapes as his expression changed to one of surprise, "Whit hae have ye been practisin'? Ah ken well tha' Arthur dinnae teach ye tae speak as such!"
"Alfred drank dragon's blood," Amelia chimed in, flouncing her skirts a little, "He's been doing that since he go back. It's really annoying."
"A drac!" the Highlander thought he might have to make surprise his new default expression, at least around his niece and nephew, because they never failed to amaze, "A gand auld adventure indeed, lad. Ye have tae tell me aboot it."
"Aye, ah, will, Uncle," Alfred's smile was more than a ghost for the first time in months.
"Ye two, gae awn ahaed, yer Pa an meself hae matters o' Kingin' tae discuss," Alistair shooed the prince and princess out of the throne room and turned to face Arthur, "Greetins tae ye also, wee brother."
"And to yourself, Alistair. Must you insist on bearing arms in my court? And for God's sake scrub that muck off your face. You're in a castle, not on a battlefield," the High King sniped, his tone weary.
"Same as ye e'er was," the Highlander groused, smiling fondly.
~====o)0(o====~
"My sincerest apologies for your lack of reception, Your Highness," the blonde girl smiled winningly at Matthew as he exited the airship, feeling slightly queasy, "But with all that's going on tomorrow, we're a little lacking on fanfare."
"There's no need to apologise," the Gaul said, returning the smile, though it was several watts lacking in brightness, "I have no need for pomp and circumstance." Especially not when he felt ready to hock his guts. He understood now Alfred's aversion to hover bikes. It had been his first trip on an airship, and he had spent it lying face down in his cabin, groaning periodically.
"If I may ask," she said, her eyes sliding just to Matthew's left, looking for someone, "Where is His Majesty?"
"His Majesty is unavoidably detained and sends his most sincere regrets, and his Regent to stand in his stead," the blond prince recited dutifully, Before he might have thought this girl pretty, might even have been tempted to charm her to bed, but now – what with her blonde hair and blue eyes – she only served to remind him of Alfred.
"I see," she pursed her lips, "And you have brought no Lady Love to stand beside you at this joyous occasion?"
"No," It was almost as if she was aiming to provoke him.
"Have you a need of one?" There was a coy little smile on her lips as her eyes ran across him, and Matthew fought back the urge to shiver.
"I have brought no love for my own lies far from me, and his absence weighs heavily in my heart. I could not replace him with another." Much to Matthew's surprise, the girl beamed happily, clapping her hands, before motioning for him to follow.
"I'd heard rumours that the Ice Prince of Gaul had lost his heart to a Celt, but I didn't believe them until now!" Sighing, the prince hung his head and followed her inside. Rumours did travel fast.