A Not-So-Classic Romance

by Galythia

AU Victorian London. Alfred is a noble bachelor who in no way wants to get married. Arthur is a promising but young actor struggling to pay rent. When the two meet on the street, Arthur drops Alfred's family ring, which gives Alfred an idea: why doesn't Arthur just act the part of his fiancée? Duels, family issues, love triangles, and angst. Cover by Haku. Abandoned.

14. Heart of Darkness

"It is better to have loved and lost,
than not to have loved at all."

- Lord Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H.
(written for his friend, Arthur Henry Hallam) -

---

.: 13. Heart of Darkness :.

---

"Mr. Kirkland? It is barely half past three, sir. Were the Count and Countess expe—err."

The butler froze at the sight before him. He stared, mouth slightly agape with surprise and wonder—and then apprehension, when he registered the look that was on Arthur's expression, the obvious tear tracks on his cheeks, the unfriendly hunch in his shoulders as he stood there, motionless and grim. Even in the dark of night (or more so the dark of morning), it was clear that those green eyes, often so bright and exuberant in the past, were now sheathed in a deep-rooted pain that was already gradually dimming to a hollow and empty dullness.

"Mr. Kirkland..." the butler murmured, searching for words with as much confusion as his eyes were searching Arthur's for any sort of explanation. "If you would wait a moment, sir, I… I will arouse the Count."

Arthur didn't reply. At least he had the decency and politeness enough to nod, although his eyes remained removed from the situation as much as his mind was trying its best to escape. Arthur needed a happy place for his conscience to travel, even for just a moment. The only problem was that all the serene meadows of his mind that he had come to know in recent times involved the face and the name of Alfred Fitzwilliam Jones—bringer of joy, bearer of justice, and one stupid and heartbreaking son of a bitch.

The actor stood there, trying his best to be unfeeling even as the warm breeze choked his throat and the beginnings of a light rainstorm pattered against his skin. For all that the drops were few in number, it felt like they were practically pelting on Arthur's head, drilling into his shoulders, mercilessly trying to punish him for a crime he had not committed.

Or had he?

As the butler was off waking up Count Edelstein—a fact for which Arthur felt even more guilt than he already was for his general situation—the actor was left to his thoughts, a danger if there ever was one. It was a precarious situation, considering Arthur knew he felt remorse far more often and more easily than he ought to have. And as such, a small part of him—a part that was conflicted with so many other warring sides—was madly berating himself for setting off a snowball that he could not stop. If Arthur had never lied, where would they have been then? Would they have been better off? Well, of course. Of course they would have been better off.

Because then at least no one would have had to die.

Arthur would have wallowed further in his own mess of guilt, struggled more under the weight of bearing responsibility for another man's imminent death, had the hurried patter of footsteps not pulled him—willingly yet unwillingly—out of his thoughts.

"Arthur!" came a voice from out of view, to the left of the door. "Arthur, do you know what time it is? Are you all rig—"

Both the Count and Countess froze, just as their butler had done so not so long ago. The question still hung in the air, half clinging to Count Edelstein's slightly parted lips. Disbelief shown on both of their faces, even though the answer to that half-spoken question was already clear: Arthur was here, and no, he was most definitely not "all right."

"Good morning," Arthur murmured blandly, his voice trembling despite his best attempts to keep it calm. He took a shaky breath and willed for his eyes to remain dry at least for the few moments it would take to go through the proper etiquette of waking someone—a Count and Countess, no less—up at three in the morning. Oh, and asking for lodgings as well. Was there a handbook for these sorts of situations?

"I… err…" Arthur continued, when no one spoke anything in reply. "I apologize for intruding at such an unconventional hour," he murmured, punctuating his words with deep breaths, bowing in apology. Perhaps it was his practice as Elizabeth, but these words were coming out naturally, without the need for focus or thought—which was good, since Arthur couldn't spare much of either at the moment.

"I just…. I needed… I would appreci—"

"Stop this polite nonsense, Arthur," the Count muttered, having recovered from his temporary shock. He reached an arm out and pulled Arthur in by the shoulder. "Step inside before you catch a cold standing in the rain."

The actor really had no choice as his feet were dragged past the entryway, his eyes wide and his lips sputtering in surprise.

"I—"

"Are you hungry?" Elizaveta chimed in, her eyebrows furrowed in great worry, but her skills as hostess took precedence. "At least let us get you something nice to drink, Arthur," she continued, when she saw the immediate reaction to refuse flash past Arthur's tear-stained, puffy-eyed expression.

"A simple cup of earl grey will do," Madame Hedérváry decided, turning to her butler. The man hesitated for a moment but hurried off at the lethal look that Elizaveta sent his way. After that, Arthur found himself whisked off to a sitting room and placed into a comfortable chair across from the couch, which the Count and Countess then occupied themselves.

Arthur was glad for the distracting motion and movement, considering that meant he didn't need to speak. He could just let his mind take flight, lose himself in the realm of numb imagination as his body was dragged around and taken care of. There was no thought necessary, and that was good, considering any amount of thinking would have only brought reality crashing back with a vengeance.

It wasn't until the butler had returned with a whole pot of earl grey, along with a few hurriedly prepared sandwiches that Arthur had no intention of stomaching, that the actor even thought to bring himself back a little to the situation at hand. He needed feelings, even if it was just for a short while. He needed to communicate, to let people know why he was here, rudely intruding upon their home at an ungodly hour of the morning.

Then again, wasn't everything ungodly at the moment?

The actor opened his mouth, but closed it again just as quickly. He tried a few times, but nothing came. What was there to say? What could he reveal, and what, for the sake of everybody's privacy and not just his own, should he keep to himself? Worst of all, how was he supposed to explain any of this to the unknowing couple without the dangerous term of "love" coming into play?

Well, he wouldn't.

"So Arthur," the Count began at last, when the room became too claustrophobic in its silence, "it is obvious that—ow!"

Arthur's eyes widened. Madame Hedéváry had punched the Count in the arm, and not too lightly at that. It was very much an "uncomely" and rare action for a lady, but from the way the Count reacted (with indignation but not with surprise), it didn't seem like the action had been seldom seen in the past.

"Roderich," the Countess scolded, giving him a disapproving glance, "have some patience." She leaned in and whispered, though Arthur could still hear, "At least let the tears dry first."

Elizaveta then turned to Arthur and pushed the teacup toward him. "Drink, dear. It wouldn't do to let it grow cold." When Arthur hesitated, the Countess added, "It wouldn't be polite."

The actor needed no further prompting. He picked up the steaming cup and tentatively brought it to his lips, his hands still a bit shaky. Arthur hadn't realized how much he needed this cup of tea until the first drops landed upon his tongue, soothing his soul as a soft heat spread through his body. His mind immediately likened the comforting warmth to that of Alfred's firm embraces, which had come rarely, but when they had come, they had been unbelievably magnificent.

What a mistake that train of thought was, for the moment Arthur placed the teacup back down, now empty of his contents, tears were slowly coming down his cheeks once again, out of their own volition. Arthur no longer even registered that he was crying. He barely registered anything. All that he knew was that someone was going to die, he would be responsible for it, and to exacerbate the situation beyond his grasp, Alfred seemed to hate him with a passion for his "disgusting inclinations" as well. The Marquess might have been fighting for Elizabeth, but it was clear that he couldn't have cared less what happened to Arthur. After all, if that weren't the case, the actor wouldn't have been at the Edelstein Estate in the first place.

Elizaveta's expression turned utterly stricken at the sight of Arthur's frail form suddenly and silently crying before her. The Count was quite surprised himself at this clear display of unmanliness. But he of all people understood that everyone needed to break down every once in a while; it wasn't as if Roderich Edelstein had been without his share of unmentionable secrets in the past.

"Arthur…" It was the Countess this time. "Are you… Would you like to—"

"Alfred's going to kill someone," Arthur murmured, quietly but clearly, the slightest tremor in his tone. "Either that, or he's going to die." Saying it aloud brought on another wave of fresh tears, unable to be held back, despite Arthur's best efforts. Well, he was far too numb to even try. Let his body do what it wanted, for his mind had far more with which it had to occupy itself.

"What?" the Count said, leaning in with the most intrigued and surprised expression. "You can't be serious. What are you—"

"A duel."

The Count and Countess sat in stunned silence, waiting for further explanation. But when none was forthcoming, Roderich squared his shoulders and leaned his chin upon steeped fingers, his mind racing at a mile a second. His voice was quiet but hurried when he finally started speaking.

"With who?"

Arthur didn't even think about correcting that grammar within his head, which was a clear sign that his mind was far gone into the realm beyond. He simply poured himself another cup of tea and closed his eyes, grimacing as he willed for the tears to stop, if only for a moment. Just a little reprieve. That was all he needed.

"Ambassador Bonnefoy," Arthur finally managed to reply darkly. He didn't even care to disguise the venom in his tone.

"Francis?" Elizaveta asked, once again appearing quite unwomanly by her usage of another man's first name. But from the way that her expression (and her husband's expression) clouded over, it was clear that they knew the weight of the situation.

"Again?" Arthur heard the Count whisper under his breath, along with a strong curse to follow.

That was it. The final straw. Arthur was sick and tired of being kept in the dark on a matter that everyone else seemed to know about. He wouldn't have been surprised if the squirrels in the neighborhood were in on it as well, and were just silently mocking him from their comfortable perches in the treetops.

Arthur clenched his teeth. "There seems to be something there that I don't know about, isn't there?" He looked toward the ceiling when he spoke, struggling to let gravity keep his tears in for him. "Something in the past?"

"Not at al—" the Countess began, but was immediately cut off by her husband.

"Of course there is, Arthur." His tone was businesslike but his expression was caring and sympathetic. Arthur was a fellow man, and he deserved to be treated as such, with respect and… equality. Luckily for the actor, Roderich Edelstein was one of the few aristocrats who could ignore social status in favor of the merit of the actual person himself.

"But it would do to remember," he added softly, "that everyone has their secrets."

Well, it wasn't like Arthur, of all people, didn't know that. He had come to learn quite quickly just how much the aristocracy liked to keep their affairs and dealings behind double-locked closed doors.

"I'm tired of not knowing," Arthur said, struggling to keep his voice calm and even. As a "commoner," he knew he had no right to make demands upon those above him, especially to high and esteemed members of the aristocracy, but it hurt. His brows were furrowed in frustration and pain as he continued to blink in hopes of clearing away the tears.

"What happened between them?" Arthur asked softly, "What are they to each other?" Did Francis love Alfred once upon a time? Was Arthur now tossed into that same category of demented and scorned admirers of other men?

Did he even have a right to care as much as he did?

Arthur was far too tired to keep the guilt and jealousy from running amok through his heart, and they coursed through his veins like pulsing fire, burning and pillaging anything that stood in the way. Arthur didn't know if he was ready to lie down and fall asleep forever, or if he was ready to go out and pick a fight with anyone and everyone who dared return the challenge.

Whichever the feeling, it was a dangerous emotional place to be.

There was a long silence, in which Arthur sat there, shoulders shaking as he tried to keep his tears of anger, sadness and frustration at bay. But he had no energy to say more, having spent it all on pushing out those last words. Arthur wasn't just tired of all the secrecy. He was tired of the acting, tired of life, and tired of… Alfred.

The love he felt for the Marquess was still there, and if anything, it was brighter and stronger than ever. But there was doubt, a dark seed growing in the corner of his mind that was gradually trailing its roots down deep into his very soul. There had been doubt all along the journey thus far: doubt of his own sexuality, doubt of the distinction between himself and Elizabeth, doubt of Alfred's stance on their relationship (although that was obviously clear at this point)—and now doubt of the truth behind the man with whom Arthur had irrevocably fallen in love.

In a world full of lies, where whole people—fiancées, even—were simply conjured upon a Marquess's whim one fine evening, who was to say which people were real and which were fake? Who was to be believed? Was Alfred just some other actor as well?

Arthur almost wanted to laugh. Of course he was. Alfred was an actor of the highest caliber, the greatest skill.

Alfred was an aristocrat.

Arthur was pulled out of his thoughts by the Count's gentle voice. "Arthur…" the man spoke, having the decency to sound at last a bit apologetic. "These are simply not my secrets to tell."

Arthur chuckled humorlessly, wondering if he was laughing or crying. These aristocrats were all one and the same. None of them different. Perhaps Arthur had been right to hate the lot from the very beginning, and damn Alfred for having made him doubt himself. Damn Alfred for having made Arthur shun his own religion. Damn Alfred for having damned Arthur from the grace of his own God.

And damn Alfred for having made Arthur fall into a love he now could not escape.

The actor dug himself into the couch, wishing to be absorbed into its very material. He closed his eyes and swallowed, very much wishing for another cup of tea, but being far too lethargic to find it in himself to pour it.

"Of course it isn't," Arthur whispered with a wry smile. "Nothing is, is it?"

That phrase seemed to be the nobility's excuse for everything. If they didn't want to speak about it, it was a secret they could not tell. If they wanted to avoid mentioning it, it was a secret they could not tell. If they just wanted to mess with the minds of the ignorant, it was a secret they could not tell.

The bastards.

Arthur had come here seeking solace, seeking knowledge and understanding from these people who had treated him so well in the past. But it turned out that at the end of the day, they were still aristocrats before they were anything else. Everyone was—except Arthur, and he had never felt that fact bearing down upon him more so than he did then.

"Arthur," the Count spoke, eyebrows furrowing, "I understand your frustration, but—"

"No you don't," the actor snapped. Arthur had come a long way from that terrified but rebellious lower class peasant. He could now cut off a Count mid-speech. Perhaps it was a sign that he, an outsider, was getting comfortable in this elitist world—a bit too comfortable.

Honestly, that was his worst nightmare, but he was already in far too deep to back down.

"There is no way you can possibly fathom my situation," Arthur muttered, no longer caring for his tone, or the fact that his speech was punctuated by deep, shuddering breaths.

Arthur heard a sigh from across the table, accompanied by the ruffling of clothes as bodies shifted around.

Finally, Count Edelstein spoke, "Perhaps you are right. I don't." He sounded defeated and regretful—helpless, even. "But I am sorry. It really is not my place to say anything upon the matter."

Arthur heard the pouring of more tea, and he instinctively reached out for the cup without looking. Feeling its warmth in his hands managed to clear his mind for just a brief moment.

"Then who do I ask?"

"Your fiancé," the Countess replied, as if that was the simplest solution in the world. "The only one who has any liberties in this situation."

Arthur took a sip of his tea and chuckled wryly, wondering just what in the name of God had happened to his simple, countryside life.

"Elizabeth's fiancé," Arthur corrected softly.

"Well, as of now, they are quite synonymous," the Count spoke. "Working for the Marquess, they are one and the same, are they not?"

Hah. "They never were."

Arthur slowly sipped upon the rest of his tea as silence fell upon them once again. It was nigh impossible to make sense of the emotions that were coursing through him. Was he angry or in love with Alfred? Was he depressed or grateful that his life had taken such turns from what it once was? Was he resigned to or actively against the coming duel? Was it his fault or not, when he would be forced to view the carcass of a man he quite possibly could have inadvertently killed?

But most importantly, would he want to die himself, if it were Alfred's lifeless face he would be seeing below him?

"I apologize," Arthur spoke slowly at long last, turning his eyes back to the couple before him. It wasn't the fault of the Count and Countess that his life was a mess, and Arthur already had enough guilt on his plate to last him a lifetime or two, this matter aside. "I was out of turn earlier."

Being the kind and forgiving people that they clearly were, Roderich simply smiled and Elizaveta shrugged. "Your situation is unthinkably stressful," she conceded. "I can still barely stomach it. Your reactions are understandable."

"Nevertheless—"

"What's past is past," Roderich spoke dismissively.

Arthur nodded. Although grateful at how quickly they moved on, he actually felt guiltier that he had—for just the briefest of moments—lumped the couple together with "the rest of the aristocracy." Count Edelstein was not one and the same as Duke Harrington. And certainly nobody was the same as Marquess Jones.

"Now tell us, Arthur," Madame Hedérváry began, leaning in with a motherly expression upon her features though she had to stop to yawn, "what brings you here so early? Surely that news could have waited until the usual calling hours?"

Arthur further calmed his nerves with another cup of tea before he managed to switch his mind to the matter at hand. There was simply so much to think about, and so little time or brainpower.

"Well…" After he had had that argumentative outburst before, how could he now then ask for a place to stay? "I just… I apologize once again. I simply overreacted. With everything so fresh, I didn't want to go ho—" Home? "—back to the Jones Estate."

At least speaking was coming more easily now, and Arthur's tear ducts seemed to be too dry to carry out their continual downpour any further. Progress.

"I am sure Alfred is worried about you," the Count spoke, his eyes shining with the truth. It was clear that he honestly believed in the meaning behind his words. What naiveté. "I think it could be best if you head back before he drives himself mad with anxiety."

Arthur almost choked on his tea. Alfred's disgusted and irate expression returned vividly to the actor's memory. He felt like his heart was being pounded to the pavement with a hammer, cold, hard and unfeeling—just like Alfred's eyes had been the last time they had encountered each other. Every word Count Edelstein had spoken only brought Arthur's soul down further, until he felt like it was buried ten feet below the ground.

"That is highly unlikely," Arthur managed to whisper at long last. It was a struggle to the very end, squeezing the words past his vocal chords and into the air, like unwilling flightless birds who already knew they were going to die, even before a cruel hand knowingly pushed them from their perch.

Elizaveta's eyebrows furrowed, sensing that there was more to the story than only what Arthur had mentioned.

"Alfred is—" she began.

"The Marquess and I are not on speaking terms, it seems." The words were choked, airless—lifeless.

"What?" It was the Count this time. Judging from his expression, this news seemed to be even more of a surprise than the duel had been. "Why not?"

Arthur closed his eyes. He felt so numb that it almost seemed euphoric. Perhaps this was true happiness—the inability to feel anything whatsoever.

Or perhaps, more likely so, it was the cold numbness of death. The death of his spirit, damned to the lowest depths of Hell for a love that would never be returned. So many sacrifices, so little reward. Then again, such was the life of a commoner in this world, a sheep among wolves.

"Well," Arthur replied, an ironic smile almost reaching his lips, "as interesting as it is, that simply is not my secret to tell."

Except that in this rare case, it was. Excuses, excuses.

---

Alfred had never regretted anything more in his life. The moment he made it home, he locked himself up in his office and dropped into an armchair, full bottle of scotch in hand. After an hour of ceaseless knocking, Oswald gave up his attempts to reign the master into a proper bed and departed wearily to his own.

Alfred buried his face in his hands, too angry at himself to even drink. He let the bottle slip to the ground, not caring if it broke. Nothing deserved to be whole, least of all himself, after the atrocious way with which he had treated Arthur.

Arthur, his actor, his sunshine, his love—his future that would never happen.

Alfred wanted so desperately to apologize. He wanted so badly to throw himself at Arthur's feet and beg for forgiveness. God, he had been so stupid.

Starting from the death of his mother, Alfred had always had a streak of harsh temper and lack of good anger management. He knew that it was detrimental to the image which he had strove so hard to perfect for a reason he still did not understand. But seeing as reputation was important, Alfred had spent hours training himself to stay calm and under control when he was younger—and it had paid off. Well, mostly.

The Marquess slammed his fist into the armrest, so hard that the chair gave a creak and his hand was left vibrating with bullets of pain shooting up to his shoulder. But it wasn't enough to distract his mind from his own never-ending list of mistakes.

Arthur, the only good thing that had ever happened to him in this unforgiving life ever since days long gone, was now gone himself. And it was Alfred's fault. It was every bit Alfred's fault. He could still remember the biting words he had tossed so carelessly into the air just a few hours ago. The uncaring way in which he had left, in a huff, turning his back on the one person who had ever made him truly smile in years.

Had Francis already won?

The truth was that Alfred was so deeply in love that he had no idea what to do with himself. It was a terrifying emotion, far stronger than what he had ever felt for the callous ambassador. That was practically child's play compared to the boisterous rapids of love coursing through his veins now. And when he had been in danger of losing it, Alfred had been unable to stop himself. Arthur was his, damn it. Arthur had to be his. Hadn't Alfred suffered through enough hardships in his life? Couldn't God just grant him a wish just this once?

Couldn't God just listen…?

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he kept whispering to himself as he curled up upon the chair. Alfred felt like a child again, caught for breaking his mother's precious vase. Except that he had to be his own parent this time. He had to hold himself responsible, but damn was that hard.

Alfred had just never felt jealousy that great before, or experienced hatred so strongly. It was astounding how one person could change Alfred's life so much—and it was utterly depressing how another person could snatch that away in the blink of an eye.

Damn Francis Bonnefoy to Hell.

Alfred had wavered back and forth with his emotions toward this man for years. But in this instance, sitting by the empty fireplace with his legs upon the chair and his knees tucked to his chest, the Marquess knew that it was done. He was over it. The relationship was gone; it had been gone, long before Arthur had ever come along. But as it was with so many things in Alfred's life, it had taken Arthur's shining light to make him realize the truth that had been dwelling there this whole time. And again, as was with so many things in his life, he had come to the realization just a little too late.

Arthur was already gone.

With a surge of energy, Alfred managed to force himself to a straighter sitting position. He picked up the bottle of scotch, which lay forgotten upon the ground, and absentmindedly studied his muddled reflection in the glass.

This duel was the decider. It was to be a pivotal moment in his life, and oddly enough, he wasn't as panicked about this as he ought to have been. Perhaps it was simply perspective, in which a duel seemed so unimportant next to his own crisis of losing Arthur—to Francis, of all people. Just thinking about it made his blood boil once again, and that was enough to make him lose any sense of remorse. Francis and Alfred had played with each other in the past, had pushed each other to new levels of trickery, mind games and cruel mockery. But this was one step too far.

Even now, when he had been just momentarily in doubt of whether or not this was the right way to settle matters, the thought of Arthur laughing with Francis suddenly made Alfred not care. However they settled it, it was either him or Francis, and Alfred had no plans on going down.

Did he want someone to die? No. If it came down to it, would he kill? ... Yes?

It would have been nice if a death wasn't necessary, but now that he had had this enlightening night to realize that he felt absolutely nothing for Francis anymore, there was no stopping Alfred Fitzwilliam Jones. The Marquess would do anything for Arthur, go to any length. Such was the strength—and the demented twistedness—that was his love.

Alfred resolved that tomorrow, first thing in the morning, he would find Arthur and he would apologize. He would plead for forgiveness, and beg for Arthur to return to the manor. Alfred could put it past him that Arthur had picked Francis over him, for the sake of getting Arthur back into the house, at the very least. He could. He really could.

Really.

They still had two weeks to go before the duel. Those could very well be the last two weeks of Alfred's life, and though it was clear that he and Arthur would never be lovers, they still had to act like it for that duration of time, and that meant working together.

But Alfred was fine with that. He was fine because, as a dying man, he could appreciate almost any good thing that was still left within his life. As a man left with very narrow options and boundless limitations, he'd take whatever he could. And what he could came in the form of Elizabeth, because it seemed that acting was the best Alfred was ever going to get in the way of love from Arthur Kirkland.

It was pathetic, but love brought out the best and the worst in all people, and Alfred was a little more desperate than most.

---

Alfred awoke the next morning to find sunlight streaming through his window, at a level a bit too bright to be anything but noon.

Noon.

The Marquess shot up from his position, but he regretted it immediately when his vision began to spin. With a groan, Alfred fell back to the warm and comfortable… rug.

It seemed like he had somehow fallen down there during the night from his perch upon the chair. He was still fully clothed, and in the sunlight and stifling heat, that meant that he was also sweating profusely.

With a moan of disbelief that his day was already off to such a terrible start, Alfred lethargically rolled onto his side and tried to get up once again, more slowly this time. He clung to the armchair to help himself up, as his mind whirled around why he was even upon the ground in the first place.

After a few minutes, Alfred was finally up and standing. Luckily, he always kept a closet of a few spare articles of clothing within his main office. He changed in silence, feeling that he had had the most peculiar dream. Something about Francis and a crazily outlandish duel. How odd.

The Marquess shook off the eerie feeling as he fastened the last few buttons to his shirt and tightened his tie. It was only then that he finally took a moment to glance at his watch—and he froze.

It was ten in the morning, earlier than his sleep-logged mind had thought, but later than his awake mind wanted it to be. Alfred couldn't quite remember what day it was, but he was sure he had to have been late for something. Rarely did a morning pass when he wasn't out the door attending to something or other by nine o'clock.

Why hadn't Oswald woken him up?

Alfred slammed open the door and rushed down the hallway, intent on finding his butler. He wasn't angry. He was more worried that something had happened, since the ever punctual and strict old man never missed his duties. This was beyond rare. This was terrifying.

"Oswald?" Alfred called, peeking within doors here and there. Tino had not seen the butler that morning, which was another troubling fact. It meant no breakfast upon the table, which had never happened before.

Just where could the man have gone?

"Berwald!" Alfred called, spotting his main bodyguard from across the foyer. "Berwald, have you seen Oswald?"

The guard seemed to be in a rush, as per usual, but he stopped ever so briefly to bow and reply with his highly accented quiet mumbling. Alfred would have asked the man to repeat himself, having been completely unable to understand the message's full meaning, except that the Marquess had heard all that he needed to hear—"Arthur."

The Marquess thanked the butler quite hurriedly as he immediately ran for the guest house. If Arthur was involved and Oswald was missing from duties without a note, it must have been something atrocious. Alfred felt his heart tighten with worry, though it was much more for Arthur than for anything else. Oswald was capable and self-sufficient, but Alfred was—well, he wanted to be—Arthur's knight in shining armor. The one who rode to the rescue.

And he was late for his date with the dragon.

Alfred still couldn't quite piece together what had happened last night, or what that odd dream was about, but some of it felt like fiction and some of it felt like reality. It seemed like one of those dreams that he would forever confuse for real memory in the future. How inconvenient such dreams were.

The grounds of the Jones Estate weren't as large as that of some of the countryside manors, but it was sized decently enough to make Alfred out of breath by the time he reached the guesthouse on foot. The journey was generally meant to be made by carriage or by a long, leisurely stroll, and Alfred had neither the time nor patience for either at the moment.

The Marquess let himself in the front door, feeling his shoes clack along the front of the foyer, on the marble before the carpeting began. The sound reverberated emptily in the spacious area, sending shivers down Alfred's spine. It was only when he reached the second floor that he began to hear faint sounds coming from down the hall. Multiple voices, floating in gentle conversation.

The Marquess took a moment within the hallway to gather himself, making sure he looked presentable for whatever guests who had made themselves comfortable that morning, and quite unexpectedly so. Visitors usually presented themselves at the main manor, and Alfred usually had them notated down in his schedule book, which was glaringly clear of calls that morning. He had checked hurriedly in his rush out.

Thus, it was with a rapidly beating heart and confused eyes that Alfred strode down the hall, trying to rush while still keeping his outward composure. Something was wrong. He could taste it, bitter and vile upon his tongue.

He broke into a run when he neared the voices enough to distinguish their owners, his heartbeat quickening even more as his complexion lost all its color. He would have liked to have been mistaken, to have heard those tones incorrectly, but that was impossible. It was very hard to mistake one's own father.

"Duke Harrington!" Alfred called as he forcefully opened the door, speaking loudly but still with civility (though barely so). "What brings you here so early, and why was I not informed?" Those last words were directed at Oswald, who had looked up momentarily only to turn away once again. He was flagrantly avoiding Alfred's gaze as he busily served the Duke some light morning sandwiches.

Both the Duke and Elizabeth glanced up from their conversation, surprise written upon both of their expressions. But whereas Elizabeth's was tinged with pink, fear, and a bit of relief, the Duke's was almost completely made of arrogant and mirthful contempt, with a slight hint of offense.

"Well, well, if it isn't my lazy son," he spoke, putting down his teacup and standing up. Alfred strode over to stand behind Elizabeth's chair, trying to keep his expression calm even as a cold fury bore down upon his heart. Who did his father think he was, intruding upon Alfred's estate without the owner's knowledge? More importantly, who did he think he was to terrify poor Elizabeth (and Arthur) like that?

"You have finally decided to grace us with your presence, have you?" the Duke continued, his voice taking on an edge.

"I had other matters which needed attention," Alfred replied calmly, though through clenched teeth. He shot a worried glance at Elizabeth, whose bright green eyes bore back at him, sending him a look he could not understand. Why did those eyes suddenly seem so pained and… defeated?

"Matters more important than your own father?" the Duke mused, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"First, you are not and never will be 'my father,'" Alfred muttered.

"Semantics."

"And second, as I said, I was never informed of your presence." Oswald was still focused upon the ground, though his hands were fidgeting in that way that could only mean he was sincerely apologetic. Alfred would deal with that matter later. Knowing how exact the butler had trained himself to be, there was bound to be a good reason, but knowing how Alfred felt right now, it had better be a reason more brilliant than Homer's Iliad to make a dent in the Marquess's mind.

Then again, a surprise visit from the Duke of Devonshire was reason enough for practically anything. Oswald had done well, under the circumstances.

The Duke turned to face Alfred, a light smile upon his lips that could only mean he was mocking his son. You've lost control of your own estate, have you? Alfred could almost hear it word-for-word ringing in his ears.

"Why did you not come to the main house?" Alfred snapped tersely, placing a gentle but strategically protective hand upon Elizabeth's shoulder. Symbolism was the name of the game.

"Well," the Duke replied, shrugging broadly, "I had the intention of staying a few days because there was much I wanted to discuss with you—but imagine my surprise when I found this house already occupied."

Alfred's mind worked quickly. It was clear that Sir Harrington and Lady Percy had been together for long enough to have at least had a decent conversation, which meant that Arthur had undoubtedly conjured up some excuse for Elizabeth's presence. Judging by the Duke's expression, it had been a plausible one, for there was no darker suspicion smoldering away within those generally judgmental blue eyes.

Now that was brilliance on Arthur's part that Alfred could appreciate. And if only he could have figured out what had actually been said, then they would have been golden.

"I have no obligation to inform you of all my affairs," Alfred said, buying time as he glanced back down at Arthur. There was something in those eyes once again. What was it? Anger? Apprehension? Depression?

"That may be so," the Duke conceded tensely, "but it is improper in the eyes of society to house your fiancée under your roof, especially so close to the wedding. Who knows what could happen? People might start to talk, Alfred."

"So let them talk."

"Oh, they have been," the Duke muttered, clenching his fist, "they have been."

A dark cloud passed his expression as he turned away from Alfred, making his way slowly to one of the windows. Then, abruptly, Sir Edward Harrington whirled around once again, his light jacket cutting the air with a distinct whoosh, his expression contorted with harsh disappointment and irritation.

"And they have been talking," he spoke, his voice trembling with what Alfred guessed was pure, unadulterated rage, "about your duel."

Alfred swore his heart skipped a beat. That dream, then, was actually... reality?

It all came flooding back into his mind, as memory now, rather than as figments of his imagination. Alfred swayed a bit and was forced to take a seat. He stared blankly at his hands for a brief moment, blinking as thoughts of yesterday assaulted his brain in a series of blurred images, noises and sensations.

"Duel…?" the Marquess asked numbly, sending Arthur a look of horror. Elizabeth's eyebrows only furrowed ever so slightly in confusion before looking away.

"Do not feign innocence," the Duke scolded coldly.

Alfred was still staring blankly at his father, the pieces coming together in his mind far more quickly than was comfortable. Alfred wanted to vomit and lie down, but all he could do was lean back and take a deep breath. There was no fast route of escape.

So it wasn't a dream. Damn.

And if it wasn't a dream, then that meant Francis and Alfred would really settle their score once and for all. It meant that Alfred had two weeks left to prepare before he faced one of the hardest challenges of his life. It meant that Arthur—

The Marquess shot Elizabeth a wide-eyed look of understanding. The expression in Elizabeth's eyes before made sense now. Well, the look in Arthur's eyes did, at the very least. Alfred still didn't know why Elizabeth would worry so mu—until Alfred remembered that a duel meant that he would possibly only have two weeks left to live, as well.

Elizabeth could have already been viewing her fiancée as a dead man.

"I—I am not denying anything," Alfred replied at last, gathering together his thoughts as fast as he could as he sat up and straightened out his waistcoat. "I just… I was surprised by your visit and the knowledge you possessed, is all." He couldn't very well admit that he had forgotten that the duel even existed.

"You, of all people, should know how fast news can travel from ear to ear," the Duke replied darkly, something in his tone once again hinting at that secret that made Arthur inwardly scowl once again. It really was tiring, being the only one left in the dark.

Alfred laughed wryly. "Well, yes. And better than anyone else, I should presume." He was regaining his confidence and easy speech once again, though slowly so. Years and years of training came in handy for just this purpose. Composure at lightning fast speed. If there was a competition for this, aristocrats would be the only competitors, and of them all, Alfred was sure he would place with at least a medal, if not first.

The Duke clenched his fist. He was trying to calm himself, but it was clear that he was struggling down to his very bones with the effort. That almost made Alfred happy to see, that he could hold his hard facade when his father was having such a hard time doing the same. Almost. But all traces of mirth disappeared when the Duke turned his beady but frosty eyes upon Alfred once again and shook his head.

"Are you insane?" the Duke began. "Do you remember what—"

"I do not need a reminder," Alfred shot back. "And if that's all you're here to discuss, might I ask that you leave?" The Marquess stood back up. "Frankly, your presence is wasted air."

Silence weighed down the atmosphere as the Duke stared long and hard at his son, choosing to ignore the snide comment Alfred had tacked on at the end. To Alfred's credit, he did not blink or back down, a far cry from the gentle and naive boy he once was—much to his father's deep, internal regret. Alfred had grown up too much, too fast.

Where had Sir Harrington's beaming little blond boy gone?

The surprise of the duel, the sheer reality of it, hitting Alfred when he was finally awake, logical and sober, was too much to handle. It was already a mouthful to swallow, without the added stress of his father's presence thrown into the fray. Alfred could do without this man—for good, if he could help it.

"That is not all that I came to discuss," the Duke replied coldly, finally shifting from his frozen state, like an ancient statue come to life. He took a brief glance at Elizabeth, pausing as his eyes passed over her gentle and reserved figure. What a waste, he thought, for there to be such controversy at this point. He was actually coming to like this relationship, even though he had strongly opposed it at first. But when he saw how happy Alfred suddenly was, how much more his son smiled (which was a surprise, considering how Alfred had always swore he would never marry)... Well, what man could still call himself a father and not be a little moved by such a sight?

The problem was, according to his own son himself, Sir Harrington had no right to that title.

But the Duke had all but given up any hope of his son ever marrying a suitable woman, or marrying any woman at all, for that matter. Beggars could not be choosers, he thought, and as such, Sir Harrington resolved to try and accept whatever female Alfred decided to take into his life. However, perhaps the adultery was going a bit too far.

"I don't know what rumors to believe at this point," he sighed at last, "but I had initially thought to come talk out your wedding arrangements." The rest of his words hung clearly in the air: of course, you had to be a fool and make a mess of things again.

Alfred's father grimaced. "Are you cancelling the wedding?"

Alfred started, crossing his arms and sputtering in surprise. The idea hadn't even crossed his mind. "What? What? Of course the wedding is still happening!" Alfred missed the surprised but relieved look that Elizabeth sent his way. The Marquess laid a gentle hand upon Elizabeth's shoulder once again, his thumb rubbing small, protective circles upon the nape of her neck.

"Elizabeth is the woman I love," Alfred murmured with convincing passion, even though he was inwardly wincing at the mere thought of it, especially with Arthur so clearly removed from the equation now—as if he had ever been in the realm of possibilities before. "And as such, duel or not, I still fully intend on marrying… her."

The Duke raised one incredulous eyebrow. "Even after the adultery?"

Elizabeth gave a small gasp of shocked offense, apparently not having heard the full contents of the rumors flying about just yet. It was quite a rude awakening. Alfred glanced between his fiancée and his father, and then whirled upon the Duke with seething white rage.

"I am appalled," Alfred hissed through clenched teeth, "that you would be so improper as to accuse my fiancée of such vile actions. There is no proof, and rightly so, because there is none to be had."

To hammer in the point, Alfred ran a soothing hand over Elizabeth's shoulder and down her arm, causing her to shiver and Arthur to look away. It was too loving an action for the young actor to handle at the moment, too caring. It only made Arthur remember Alfred's scathing look from the previous night, a throbbing reminder of the love he would never have.

On the other hand, this was Alfred's best acting job yet, considering that the rumors actually seemed to be right for once. And that fact in itself cut deeper than anything else ever would. To be honest, Alfred's heart was already well dead at this point, so who cared if his body would follow suit in two week's time?

The Duke turned away and paced back toward the window. "I do not know what to believe."

"She is pure," Alfred assured. "I have finally found a woman I can love, and you wish for me to be rid of her? All for the words of those too ignorant to know the truth? Those who spend their despicable time trifling in the affairs of others?" he asked disbelievingly.

"No! Of course not!" the Duke burst, slamming his fist into a table. How could his own son believe such a thing to be the truth? Where in their lives had their paths divided? "I simply do not want another situation like last time."

"What, in the name of God, is last time?" Arthur wanted to call out, and it was a desperate struggle to keep his mouth shut. Like a good little lady, he reminded himself bitterly. This act was getting old. Fast.

"It is already bad enough out there," the Duke continued, keeping his eyes trained on the grounds outside the window pane. "Now I find out that you have her in your guest house? Do you know the uproar—"

"She has been ill!" Alfred replied, making up something upon the spot. He was hoping Arthur had given some plausible excuse that had fallen along the same lines. "She has been ill, and it is the duty of a gentleman—not to mention the duty of a fiancé—to ensure that she rests. Did you see how much it rained last night?"

The Duke turned around, his eyes narrowed. Alfred could see him studying the situation carefully, and the Marquess swallowed ever so slightly under pressure. Elizabeth was looking down at her lap, which meant Alfred couldn't use her eyes for confirmation. Her cheeks were flushed, as she was most likely still reeling from the "adultery" comment before. The Duke should have apologized. Alfred hated his father even more in that instance than he ever had before, even though he would have thought such a feat was impossible until right at that point.

"Very well," the Duke finally murmured, turning back to face the window. Alfred quietly let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and he gave Arthur's shoulder a soft squeeze, under the excuse of Elizabeth. It seemed like any form of affection they shared from now on would be under the guise of Elizabeth, didn't it? No more reading in the library, storytelling under the stars, conversations in the garden…

How could it all have disappeared so quickly?

Arthur nodded ever so gently, confirming that Alfred had told the right lie, given the right excuse. It seemed that they had both been thinking about Jane's situation in Pride and Prejudice, though Alfred wasn't completely sure if that was the reason behind Arthur's words. Nevertheless, thank God they just liked the same books.

"She must return to the Edelstein Estate as fast as is feasible, Alfred," the Duke reminded. "It is improper. And you are already in a large enough mess as it is."

Alfred gritted his teeth. "Why do you even care? If you are here to tell me about the volume of trouble in which I find myself, I think I am perfectly capable of gauging that value myself, thank you. And I could do without you insulting my beloved, as well," he spat out with dark sarcasm, his voice growing in agitation and emphatic volume as his rant progresssed. "Seeing as the guest house is already occupied, you cannot stay." He rounded upon his father.

"I trust you can see yourself out!" Alfred finished with a huff.

Arthur grimaced, as Alfred seemed to be doing this a lot recently, blowing up at anything and everything in his path. Where was the gentlemanly, sweet and caring Marquess with whom Arthur had fallen so deeply in love? Where was the sun-tanned face with those developing laugh lines and that soft, secretive smile? Where was the person Arthur so desperately believed to be the real Alfred F. Jones...?

Elizabeth, on the other hand, only gave a small squeal of surprise to reveal any of her reaction. Alfred gave her shoulder a soft squeeze, though it only made Arthur want to hurl. Such sweetness was sickening nowadays, rather than comforting. Arthur could do without, if such affections were forever to be for Elizabeth and Elizabeth only.

The Duke's shoulders tensed visibly, silhouetted against the light from the window. He partially turned around, as if to say something, but hesitated and paused last minute. Alfred held his ground, and finally, after considerable silence and an unsettling stare-down, the Duke relented.

Sir Harrington's shoulders sagged as he sighed and stuffed his hands within his pockets. He turned around and assessed Alfred with an oddly calm gaze. No anger, no ridicule or mockery. Alfred saw it as a frigid coldness, but Arthur saw it as… sadness. Elizabeth could see that too.

"Very well," the Duke muttered, scowling and turning away. "But I hope you are aware that this time," he informed, "I will not help you."

Sir Edward Harrington gathered up his jacket and turned to leave, knowing that his son would not follow. The symbolism of that was lost on either member of the Harrington family. Oswald rushed to get the door for the Duke, his scuffling feet being the only noise to permeate the uncomfortably pressing silence.

"You are on your own," the Duke said quietly as he reached the door, his voice guarded, his tone hard steel.

"I have been so ever since mother died," Alfred muttered as he turned his back to the Duke, his words almost too soft to hear.

Almost.

Sir Edward Harrington paused only briefly. Elizabeth had her eyes on him, even if Alfred was concentrating on staring hard in the other direction. She saw his shoulders droop ever so slightly, though it could have easily been a trick of the light (or the fault of Arthur's partially distracted mind and wandering imagination).

"I know," the Duke replied softly, right before the door closed behind him.

Alfred stood there in the silence for quite a while, his hand still resting passively upon Elizabeth's shoulder. It was only when he could no longer hear his father's retreating footsteps that he finally backed away, ironically making for the same spot by the window his father had occupied only moments ago. There were instances in which Elizabeth and Arthur could both see that Alfred was truly his father's son, no matter how much the Marquess didn't want it to be so.

Elizabeth yearned to walk up to her lover and give him a comforting kiss, for it irked her to see him so uncomfortable, but Arthur held himself back. Part of him wanted to do that as well, but luckily, the greater, more reasonable part of him remembered that that wasn't his place. That wasn't his job, and it never would be.

Arthur knew that in Alfred's mind, he had not only picked his path already, the path of Francis Bonnefoy, but he was also deemed as despicable for it. Scum of the Earth, if you will. Clearly, there was no love to be had in that realm anymore—not that much had been there in the first place.

It was Alfred who finally broke the silence, though with such soft words that Arthur thought he was imagining it at first.

"When did you return?"

Arthur looked up, half expecting to meet those same cold eyes from the night before, lashing out at him once again. But all he could see was Alfred's broad back, perfectly lean and muscular, the statuesque contours still visible even through his shirt and vest. If the actor ever had to see somebody so thoroughly avoid his gaze, at least it was Alfred, owner of the most pleasant behind Arthur had ever had the pleasure to encounter.

"Count your blessings," his mom had always told him. Well, Arthur was enumerating them now, and all he needed was half a hand to do it—but by God, what good blessings they were.

"This morning," Arthur replied. Just in time, too, he wanted to add sarcastically. But that would have been childish, and surely, they were beyond such petty remarks.

The actor kept his voice light and airy, a perfect mimicry of Elizabeth. Arthur almost laughed right then. He was acting as if Elizabeth was a real person, separate from himself (though she might as well have been, considering how removed from her the actor always felt). They lived in two separate worlds. There was the rich and the poor, the lucky and the miserable—the loved and the scorned.

Needless to say, fiction and reality was the least important and least concerning of all the distinctions.

"I'm surprised that frog let you go so early." Do your hips hurt? Alfred was tempted to ask, but he knew he'd regret it the moment those words escaped his lips. Keep a calm head, Alfred reminded himself, taking slow and deep breaths as he let his eyes trail absentmindedly over the ornate wood carving that decorated his windowsills.

"I didn't come from the ambassador's abode," Arthur spoke, gently and softly. Being Elizabeth was so much easier than being himself. No tears, no hyperventilating anxiety attacks, no incredible desire to just fall onto his knees and spill forth the whole truth then and there. They were already in too deep to return to how things once were, anyway, and any effort to do so seemed like it would just complicate matters.

"Oh?" Alfred asked, trying to keep his tone disinterested as well, a perfect example of good, high class English, an accent held by only the best of the best. This careful playacting could have just been the hardest challenge allotted to him yet.

"Thomas was kind enough to bring me back home, to Madame Hedérváry."

"Ah." Alfred clearly understood that that had meant disturbing the Count and Countess at an unpleasant and quite an unacceptable hour of the morning. The remorse—an act or not, Arthur could not tell—was clearly written upon his face.

It was funny how much more the Edelstein Estate felt like home to Arthur than the Jones Estate did at the moment, though he wasn't sure if that was just a side effect of Elizabeth or not. Whatever it was, he was starting to tire of all aristocrats. They were far too dramatic for his simpler, countryside tastes. He remembered that as a child, he used to wish upon the stars every night for a life of greater adventure. He had a best friend, though he could barely remember what the kid looked like by this point. However, he had confided this wish to that boy, told him about Arthur's own desire for the chance to go to London, to see the sights, to study among the most promising, the best of anyone that wasn't already simply born into a position of "greatness."

Well, "be careful what you wish for." His mother had told him that too. Arthur realized he ought to have listened to his mother a lot more as a child.

"Arthur..." Alfred tentatively began, turning his head ever so slightly so that Arthur could see the glow of his perfect eyes in the light of the sun, like the endless ocean on a clear afternoon. Those seemingly soft eyelashes seemed to take up the very warmth of the day as they curled gently and alluringly, creating a sight that Arthur couldn't help but revere.

Damn Alfred and his golden angelic aura. It made it impossible to remember, for the briefest of moments, that there was even anything amiss between them. For a short while, it was almost like before. Almost. But close enough that Arthur could still taste the sweetness of Alfred's lips upon his own once again.

"Yes, Alfred...?" the actor asked breathlessly, reverting a little back into his own voice and staring for all that he was worth. His heart was beating wildly, and though Alfred was still directing his gaze at the ground, refusing to make solid eye-contact, Arthur could already barely think straight as it was. Imagine the disarray Alfred's full attention would have wreaked upon the actor's body.

Something in Arthur's tone made the Marquess glance up, a fatal mistake. They beheld each other's eyes for quite some time, attempting to communicate so much in such a short instance. Regret, apology, and sadness were evident, but the undercurrents of outrage, resentment and blatant distrust undermined whatever effect the former emotions would have had.

However, both members present in the room were temporarily ignoring all of those frilly, unnecessary feelings—or at least they seemed highly unnecessary, when compared to what was trickling beneath, tucked deep into the dark tresses and caves of their hearts, locked away because it was twisted, because it was despicable—because it was forbidden.

Love.

Arthur opened his mouth, his mind so lost in that moment that he almost blurted out those three key words right then and there. But he caught himself last moment, just as Alfred seemed to have regained his senses as well. The Marquess clenched his fists and swiftly turned back around to give his attention to the ornate sill once again.

"Remember that it is rude to make disruptive appearances at others' homes uninvited," he reprimanded, his voice firm and filled with stubborn softness, "especially beyond the acceptable hours."

Arthur's eyebrows scrunched up, and he felt tears of disappointment come to his eyes. Then again, what could he have expected? Just because his own heart was threatening to beat itself right out of its bodily cage, it did nothing to imply that Alfred was feeling remotely the same way. From the calm way with which the Marquess held himself, the passive tone with which he addressed the matter, it was almost actually clear that the situation was the exact opposite.

Obviously, it was just Arthur's imagination.

Alfred heard the rustling of a dress from behind him. He expected Arthur to speak up, to voice some sort of argumentative claim against his words, to defend himself in a continuation of the stressful encounter last night. But as was more often than not, the actor surprised him yet again.

"Yes... sir," was all Alfred heard, before the sudden swish of a dress and the soft patter of shoes accompanied that distinctly male and highly treasured voice right to the door.

The Marquess was thoroughly caught off guard by the abrupt attempt to leave, and he whirled around, his eyes widening in surprise. Reaching out a hand, the first syllable of Arthur's name was out of his lips before he could even stop himself. But by then it was too late. Arthur had rushed out, and all that was left of him was a door still slightly ajar.

Alfred stared after the blank space, getting a feeling that he was seeing this sight extremely often in recent times. He was witness to it far more than he'd like—what he'd like being no time at all. Alfred felt a cold numbness course through him as he decided on the spot right then that there was no use in giving chase. His heart sank to irretrievable depths as he remembered Arthur's parting words.

"Sir," Arthur had called him.

It had been a long time since Arthur had uttered that word in reference to Alfred, and the word pierced right through the Marquess's heart like a barbed javelin. It had been a long time since the two of them had been in any sort of relationship that had called for such formalities. It had been ages since Arthur and Alfred had been at a point in which they weren't intwined within each other's lives...

It had been forever since Alfred had fallen in love.

The Marquess bit his bottom lip in an effort to hold back his tears of bitter frustration as he finally turned back to the window. He closed his eyes and took a shaky but deep breath.

In two weeks' time, this would be over in some way or another. Arthur didn't seem to care that Alfred was in danger of perishing; in fact, he seemed to support it, considering he hadn't said a word regarding the matter when they had been together just now. Well, maybe Arthur would finally get his wish. Maybe Alfred would really go.

Maybe forever would finally end.

"All the world's a stage," Alfred whispered to himself, a humorless smile at his lips. And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts... Alfred had memorized this from the countless times he had witnessed the production, many of which had been held at his very own theatre.

"Exits, huh..." Alfred mused, his eyes glazed over as he stared out the window. What a genius the playwright was. Shakespeare always knew where to hit humanity right at its heart.

As for Alfred... Well, so much for "begging for forgiveness, first thing in the morning."

---

Just as was reported by the Duke, news of the duel had indeed passed around quickly. At a blindingly fast speed, rumors had permeated the aristocratic circle, whose listless members were always greedy for more gossip and juicy tidbits to fill their otherwise dreadfully boring lives. Arthur swore he would never understand just how people could be left so unoccupied despite the vast wealth and power left at their disposals.

The fact that Alfred possessed an opposite sort of mentality was one of the aspects that Arthur liked about the Marquess, actually. But now he wasn't quite so sure if that was even the truth anymore. The lines were so blurred, reality so surreal, that practically anything was possible—including the fact that Alfred F. Jones was no more than a mere stranger to Arthur's heart. And vice versa.

Was Arthur in love with a lie?

Part of him lost countless hours of sleep over that simple question, especially after their terse conversation right after the Duke's visit. Alfred hadn't seemed to care one bit, he hadn't said a word to soothe Arthur's heart—or even Elizabeth's, for that matter—unlike the perfect gentleman, Marquess Harrington, would have done.

This restless part warred with the other part of him—the greater part of him—which refused to believe that that was the case. Arthur had not journeyed through a religious crisis, abandoned God, damned himself to Hell and beyond, all for something that was fake. He couldn't have.

All those smiles that Alfred had shown him, all those times that they had kissed (under the guise of acting and not), all those moments that they had shared, the paths they had walked, the books they had read, all the while with laughter ringing loud and clear wherever they tread—there was absolutely no way it could have been anything but the most real either of them had ever been with anyone else. It just couldn't have.

It couldn't have, because it was in those times that Arthur had really been the most like himself. Arthur had given Alfred a look into who he really was, underneath all the make-up, underneath all the acting. In other words, Arthur had given Alfred a piece of his very own soul, and by God, Alfred must have been doing the same. Surely, the Marquess wouldn't have been that unfair.

But try as he might, Arthur was finding it harder and harder to cling to that shaky belief as time went on, and nothing improved.

The initial days after the challenge had been declared were the absolute worst. Arthur and Alfred exchanged barely any words beyond that first conversation earlier in the week, and to rub salt into the wound, Francis did not allow Arthur to back down on their agreement, even in light of the recent developments. So the actor continued to disappear on certain afternoons here and there for hours at a time, and there was no pretense in the air whatsoever as to where he was going. Thankfully, come the second week, Francis had abruptly stopped sending for the actor, quite out of the blue, and Arthur was aching too much (physically and emotionally) to care or wonder why. He was merely counting his meager blessings as they came.

With everything that was happening, however, Arthur and Alfred had little time to spare for each other. Arthur would occasionally pass by Alfred's study, on his way to a meeting with the Countess, for example, and he often stopped, his body wondering whether or not to check in on the Marquess's health, for fear of him overworking. But then his mind fought back, and unfailingly, Arthur always left once again with the door still firmly shut.

Alfred was also often unable to sleep. Thus, he wandered he halls late at night, and quite a few nights, he had found himself somehow outside of Arthur's bedroom, all the way in the guest house. The Marquess would then sit down with his back to the door, head on his knees, as he thought about his egregious mistakes. However, he was always gone by dawn, occasionally just moments before Belle made her appearance to assist Arthur in his morning preparations.

These instances, added with the fact that they also held their meals separately, ran their schedules independently, and only encountered each other when the situation absolutely called for it (which basically meant only when acting), resulted in their paths rarely ever crossing.

That is to say that Alfred and Arthur rarely ever met at all.

But the Marquess saw plenty of Lady Percy—perhaps a bit too much for his own liking. Elizabeth, Alfred and Francis were still present at those social gatherings and balls which they had already promised to attend, but their appearance only made the atmosphere foul and the air unbreathable, both for those involved and for those observing.

Luckily, Elizabeth was left alone for the majority of it—a fact for which Arthur was infinitely grateful. Sometimes being a woman definitely had its benefits, especially when said woman was supposed to be in extreme emotional distress over the fact that her fiancé's life was at stake. And it was much easier to act this part, considering that Arthur himself was in great emotional distress. He could barely wake up in the mornings and get out of bed, let alone put on layers upon layers of itchy clothing and drag himself around to parties where women would either gather around him with coos of sympathy or send him dirty looks that obviously spoke volumes of how they thought Elizabeth deserved everything that was coming to her.

After all, not many were lucky enough to capture the heart of the Marquess of Devonshire (much to the chagrin of especially those who had been trying to do so for years). Yet here Elizabeth was, throwing that godsend away like it was nothing. The words "whore," "adultery," "cheating," "stealing," and "lying," all floated around in Elizabeth's wake, swarming around her until she could barely stand it anymore. At one dinner party, a week into the two weeks' time, Lady Percy had even fled the main hall to find her fiancé, only to crumple into his arms and beseech that she be allowed to take her leave early.

It was in these times—times in which Arthur was doubting his own love—that Elizabeth realized she had never loved Alfred more than she had right then. The Marquess, ever chivalrous, could not stand the gossip, the betting, the prospecting that was going on around them. He saw how much Elizabeth was often close to tears as she sat through these events, silently taking in the carefully disguised remarks that came hidden behind open fans and smiling lips.

No matter how much it pained him to do, Alfred tried his best to defend his fiancée, for Arthur's sake. He preached to anyone who would listen that she was not to be faulted. It was the ambassador who had presented himself to her, who had approached her when such approaches had been unwanted. And she had refused as graciously as a lady could—or so he said. It would have been very nice if that was the actual truth in the situation with Arthur, but Alfred was beyond hoping for that, especially since Arthur continued to cavort with Francis, even after the duel had been declared. The actor sure knew how to hit where it hurt.

Although Alfred gave the defense his best effort, it inwardly brought him no small satisfaction to see the Elizabeth suffer. She was the root of many of his troubles, after all, though he had found her tolerable at first because of Arthur. But now that the sight of the actor also brought along its fair share of issues, there was almost no reason for Alfred to like Elizabeth, beyond the fact that she was his fiancée—by his own oh-so-cunning plan.

Needless to say, there were times in which Alfred sincerely doubted his own intelligence. That scheme had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time, and now it was an absolute misery.

If Elizabeth and Arthur really were different people, then Alfred would have likely watched these events unfold with glee.

But as it was, if Elizabeth suffered, Arthur was undoubtedly suffering as well. And as much as Alfred resented the relationship the actor had with the ambassador, and as much as he was still angry at Arthur for what the Marquess (irrationally) felt was a deep betrayal, at the end of the day, Alfred was still tumbling head over heels for his countryside employee. He would have liked not to be—well, that was a lie. It would have made made matters unimaginably easier, but being in love did have its moments.

Too bad that most of those moments seemed to have passed and were already long gone, leaving nothing but darkness in their wake.

---

Francis uncrossed and crossed his legs for the fifth time that minute, or at least it seemed like it, though the Frenchman had already long lost track of time. All he knew was that he was in one of his sitting rooms, he wasn't hungry (though he hadn't eaten), and it was daylight. More specifically, it was early afternoon—noon on the day of the duel.

Often one to take care of his nails well, for they were the pride and joy of every well-groomed man, in Francis's opinion, the Frenchman found himself biting upon them now, nibbling absentmindedly at his thumb as his naturally perfect eyebrows were crinkled with... worry? Had anyone been there to witness it, they would have pegged his fidgeting as the result of such an emotion. But if anything, Francis was perfectly calm.

Well, about the matter of his imminent death, at least.

No, what was bogging down Francis's mind was a set of mundane questions and problems, which he was currently using to occupy his attention and pass the time until the duel. He didn't trust himself to have the attention span to do much official work, or the desire to do it, for that matter. What use was there in caring about the passing around of petty things such as gold and wealth when Francis was likely to not even be around to worry about it further beyond today? His will was already written, for the sons he obviously did not possess. Thus his wealth would be spread out, divided among those who had been loyal to him over the years. A little of it even went to Arthur, though the actor would likely never accept.

Francis had been hesitant about that at first, especially since it would have been suspicious for any sum to pass on from his hands to an actor from the countryside. But... well, in reality, he felt like it could serve as the apology he would never have the chance to give.

Over the past week, the ambassador had had plenty of time to himself to gather his thoughts, in addition to sorting out his final affairs in case the worst outcome did indeed come to pass. He had tried to continue his "affair" with Arthur after his confrontation with the Marquess, but the sex hadn't even been brilliant anymore. It had never been great, to be honest, considering Francis had just been pretending that it was another body moving beneath him—one he knew he never could have held again.

But pretend was fine, back when Francis still believed that at least there was some truth to be had underneath all the lies. He played the game because it was his own twisted way of showing Alfred his remaining affections, much like he hoped the Marquess was doing by playing in return. Living under that pretense was as close to happiness as Francis could have gotten—before that fateful conversation in the dead of night two weeks ago, that is, when his life had finally changed. It was in that conversation that the ambassador realized once and for all that Alfred really had found someone new, thereby achieving the one thing Francis knew he would never be able to do—

Move on.

After that, intercourse with the culprit behind such a change in the Marquess's stubborn heart did nothing for Francis anymore. There was no longer even any satisfaction in hurting Alfred, simply because back then—before the truth hit Francis like a tumbling obelisk—the blackmail, the taunting, the teasing was all a sort of special Bonnefoy-style game of "hard to get." Except now there was nothing to "get" anymore. Things really were over.

And Francis owed Arthur an apology.

Money would hopefully do the job in death, and if left alive, Francis would likely never say a word about it—mostly because at that point, the ambassador, king of relationships and peaceful negotiations, was sure that even with his own prowess, there was nothing he could say that would bring Arthur even remotely close to forgiving him for the death of one Marquess of Devonshire.

Ambassador Bonnefoy was not a bad man. He had a slew of people willing to line up behind him and defend him to the grave. Things were simply a little bit sour between him and his ex-lover—honestly the only lover he had ever truly possessed, despite his vague reputation as a flirt. Alfred Jones was something special, though, a cut above the rest. Everyone around the Marquess realized it, including, clearly, Arthur as well.

But the ambassador knew he had destroyed that relationship enough as it was. He wasn't proud of it, upon reflection, but he wasn't guilty about it either. Love was a sick and twisted thing, and all play was fair play. If Alfred had the right to hurt him, Francis had the right to hurt the man right back, all accomplices included.

Francis finished with the thumbs of both hands, leaving his nails mangled stumps as he thought about frivolous things like gardening patterns and wine aging techniques. Having done this for about the past two hours or so, Francis was close to the point of recycling information. It wasn't like his brain was a never-ending well of mundane knowledge, and keeping away from the serious matters of business and politics definitely left little to be had in a mind so used to thinking upon current affairs. It was a little funny, actually, considering the current affairs involved mostly Francis and Alfred at the moment.

Ambassador Bonnefoy looked up at the heirloom clock he had sitting upon the mantle. The ornate timepiece was a gift from Duke Harrington. It seemed that any decorative piece Francis had lying about came from the Harrington family in one way or another. This specific one had been imparted upon him with relatively warm wishes. A small smile ghosted about Francis's lip as he remembered the Duke's exact words, which still stuck in his mind verbatim, even after all this time.

"I am not happy about it, by any means, monsieur Bonnefoy. I still haven't quite come to terms with it either. But it seems unavoidable, so if it must be anyone, I am... how should I put it... I am content with the fact that it is you, someone so well spoken and respectable, who is my son's... lover."

The way Sir Harrington had swallowed nervously at that last word had been so uncharacteristic of the Devil Duke's fearless personality that Francis remembered he had almost laughed at its sheer comicality. That would have broken the spell of the moment, however, and so, young Francis had only solemnly accepted the token, still reeling from the surprise that this situation was even occurring in the first place. He remembered distinctly that it was with great disbelief—and even slight suspicion—that he had thanked the Duke for his gracious understanding. After all, not many sons were lucky enough to have a father who not only knew, but also (grudgingly) accepted the darker sides and secrets within their sons' lives.

Francis's father himself had disowned him the moment his naively young self had decided it was a decent idea to let his old man know that he was capable of feeling anything toward men. It was done in a quiet way, at the very least, which enabled Francis to still go on and possess the successful career that he did. But Francis was capable of feeling affections toward women in addition to men, unlike Alfred, who was decidedly against the female population. In light of Francis's father disowning him for merely his "greater range" of possible lovers, Francis could barely believe at the time that the Devil Duke, so strict and feared, would still somewhat stand by his son, even after discovering (by his own means and observations) that Alfred could only ever really love people of his own gender. That likely meant no marriage, no wife, no children.

The end of the line.

If that wasn't the greatest and most disheartening shock to a man of such a great wealth, power, and familial history, Ambassador Bonnefoy didn't know what was.

Alfred was such a lucky bastard, and he didn't even know it. That was the frustrating part. For a man who so often victimized himself, who so often viewed himself as the odd one out, the one left behind in the rain, Alfred was so incredibly fortunate that it sometimes almost made Francis hate him for it. But only sometimes, and only almost.

The ambassador had been staring at the clock for quite a while, lost in his old memories and thoughts, before he finally managed to shake himself out of it and bring himself back to reality, back to the matter at hand: his own death. One final focused glance at the ornate hands of the mantlepiece confirmed it. It was time to face the music.

With a surge of energy and a grim resolve to do what must be done, Francis gripped his arm rests and hoisted himself to a standing position. He stretched himself out, leaning backwards as he took a deep, cleansing breath. He wrung out his shoulders and rolled out the kinks in his neck as he shook out any final jitters his body could have possessed. Even though his mind was ready to face the end, with only his best effort left to give, it didn't mean that his body was ready to do the same. Too much of a natural instinct to survive still remained.

Francis felt his heart rate speed up as he bent over, giving his toes a light touch. He was wearing clothing especially tailored to still look good but give him brilliant flow and freedom of movement. No doubt Alfred would be wearing much of the same, if not items from the very same tailor. It was mostly due to Francis's influence that the Marquess possessed such good style, after all.

With adrenaline now coursing through him, Francis bounced upon the balls of his feet. He felt lightheaded, but his heart took that a sign of readiness. He was already partially passing into the life beyond, it seemed, whatever that was. Much like anyone else, the ambassador hoped for Heaven, but chances were, from the way he had lived is life, Hell would have been getting off easy.

Ambassador Bonnefoy took one last glance at the clock, letting the nostalgia wash through him once more. He had led a brilliant life, he had to admit. Even after being disowned, he had still managed to create a proud and spectacular career, propelling him right into the very tightest circles of arguably the most exclusive group of citizens in the world. He had also developed a magnificent reputation, contributed to a variety of important and life-saving treaties, and changed (or so he liked to think) the continent-wide standard for civil debate as well.

Although his most important and impressive feat in life, in Francis's esteemed opinion, would always be capturing the heart of one Alfred Fitzwilliam Jones, Marquess of Devonshire. He had been the only one with such a feat to his name until a pair of viridescent eyes had come along to take the throne.

Well, you win some, you lose some. Even this situation wasn't much different from that, in a way.

Francis stretched his arms one last time before he nodded to himself, closing his eyes and speaking a quick prayer. He then calmly but swiftly approached the door. On his way, he nonchalantly picked up his undecorated sword case, without a thought as to how insane it was that he was putting his life on the line at the defense of a single blade. With no final hesitation, no break in his stubborn but grim resolution, Ambassador Francis Bonnefoy was out the door.

A dead man walking.

---

Alfred licked his lips, wetting them just as quickly as the blazing end-of-June sun chapped them once again. He took one glance down at his blade, which was glinting at an angle that was almost blinding to the crowd that had slowly gathered upon the field. It was quite a numerous crowd, but they gave Alfred a wide berth, partially because the Marquess occasionally gave his sword a few wide swings to test its weight and balance, and partially because many of them had witnessed enough of Alfred's fencing matches to know the glare that the Marquess would send their way if they came any closer. They stood far off along the side, most of them under the protective shade of the blooming trees. The women gripped their fans for dear life, while the gentlemen bore their burden of layered clothing with courteous and polite expressions.

Elizabeth was standing partially among them, though in a position (as she insisted) right in the middle, where all would be visible. Some considered it improper for a woman, especially the fiancée, to be witnessing such heart-wrenching and tragic events unfold, but Elizabeth had threatened them with tears and feminine distress until they had finally relented. Arthur knew that whatever happened would be partially his fault, and as such, he only owed it to both participants to view each and every scene. He had come to terms with the matter already, after long nights of thinking alone in his bed. Of course, Arthur wasn't sure how he was supposed to cope with the result, whatever it was, but he was at least knowledgeable of the fact that he was basically an accomplice to the death.

It was ironic how months ago, he was thinking that he was far too young to die, yet now, it was just the opposite. Arthur still felt far too young to kill.

Many people had canceled their previous engagements just to come and witness this much-discussed spectacle. Alfred was aware that there was plenty of under-the-table betting, which was highly offensive, but could never be prevented. A few of these people had come to see the results of their gambles with their very own eyes, while a few others were there because it would have been preposterous not to have been able to say that one attended such an event. Plus, Francis had not mentioned that it would be a private affair, so naturally, everyone and his mother decided that it would simply not do to not attend.

The sword glinted further as Alfred absentmindedly moved it back and forth, his eyes looking but not really seeing. The dazzling light from the blade shot right at the listless collection of observers. A few of them shifted and looked away, but Alfred paid them no mind. They could have been mere blades of grass, for all their importance was to the Marquess, their movements just a side effect of the nonexistent breeze. Alfred had better things with which he could occupy his mind.

Like death, for example.

The Marquess was not nervous, contrary to how most would have been in his situation. Quite a few of the aristocracy had approached him already, patting him on the back and giving him wishes of good luck. Although he thanked them graciously enough, Alfred inwardly scoffed at such treatment. He did not need luck to come out of this situation on top. In fact, if he put his faith in such a frivolous idea, judging from his record with Lady Luck already, Alfred was sure he would have been dead from some sort of poisoning even before the match began.

Alfred was tossed out of his deep thoughts by yet another hand upon his shoulder. Turning around, the Marquess was ready to confront the man with his standard speech, until his eyes landed upon who it really was: Charles Brentford, Earl of Westerholme, also known as Alfred's second—not that the Marquess needed one. It was simply standard to choose somebody, but Alfred was not going to let someone win the fight for him, especially when he was actually quite sure he could win himself.

"Good afternoon," Alfred murmured, letting a small smile manifest upon his lips. He didn't have energy for much beyond that, but for Charles, there was always at least a small reserve left. After all, if it weren't for the Earl and his challenging fencing matches, Alfred would have only been half as good as he actually was. Charles could have very well been responsible for saving Alfred's life later on upon the field.

"Hullo," the Earl replied, nodding in greeting. Though his lips were relaxed and set in a lighthearted smile, his eyes were clouded over with worry. "How are you feeling?"

"Alive," Alfred breathed, giving his sword another swing. His father would have been bristling at this show of poor manners, practicing upon the field, but the Marquess did not care. The Duke was not even present at the moment anyway—not that Alfred knew, for he surely had not searched.

"That's good," Charles laughed, giving Alfred's shoulder a squeeze before letting his arm fall back to his side. "Let us hope that that feeling lasts beyond today."

"I'm sure it will," Marquess Jones replied with no hesitation, his eyes already fiercely fighting off an invisible foe. His voice rang out confidently, with no trace of worry or fear.

"Good, good," the Earl of Westerholme murmured, before falling into a companionable silence. He stood by his friend's side for a few minutes, watching as Alfred gave a few more half-hearted swings. He wasn't even trying, having already warmed up long ago. Now it was merely for the comforting weight of a weapon in his hands that Alfred still stood upon the field, far away from everyone else. Well, that and he didn't think he could deal with the superficial aristocratic coddling at the moment.

"Look, Alfred," the Earl began, "how are you really feeling?"

Something in the Earl's tone caused the Marquess to stop his aimless movements and look up. Alfred gave his friend a careful once-over before replying, with a slightly quizzical expression, "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Charles said, placing his hands in his pockets in a way that only spoke of grace and distinction, the true carriage of a nobleman. He met Alfred's gaze with a strong one of his own, his intently focused eyes passing on the final message. Of course Alfred knew.

Are you ready to kill?

It was notably not a question of readiness for death, for both Alfred and Charles knew of the Marquess's sheer prowess with a blade. They practically had the victory already. No, the problem lay in the price that came with said victory. For one to come out on top, another must fall—often, permanently.

"I am fine," Alfred replied, though he did look away once again as his words passed through gritted teeth. Despite the past two weeks of constant thinking, Alfred was still unsure about the matter. There had been times when his anger had resurfaced so strongly that he felt like he was ready to kill a whole hoard of Francises. But there were other times when he would get brief flashbacks of times long gone, memories of a—mistaken—relationship he had once possessed. And it was in those times that Alfred desired most to return to Le Chateau and work things out like... well, diplomatic ambassadors.

But they were beyond the point of a simple discussion now.

"Are you sure?" the Earl asked, giving the turf beneath his feet a gentle kick. He was trying to play the situation lightly, but the skepticism was clear in his voice. That angered Alfred.

"Of all the years that you've known me," Alfred began, nostrils flaring as he gave a particularly harsh jab at his malevolent foe that was the air, "have you ever known me to be a coward?"

It's not a matter of cowardice or bravery, Charles thought sadly, with a minute shake of his head. However, all he replied was, "No, of course not." He gave the ground another little kick, not hard enough to destroy the grass, but strong enough to emphasize his mild frustration and worry. "I have just never known you to kill, as well," he added softly.

Alfred blinked in surprise. He had almost forgotten that Charles hadn't been there for those years of his life. The Earl was only a recent friend, and one who was new enough upon the scene that the rumors had long dissipated by the time he had even entered the game. Thus, of course Charles was under the impression that Alfred had never come at anything with the intent to kill before.

How wrong the Earl of Westerholme was.

The Marquess shrugged nonchalantly and came to rest with his sword by his side, feeling refreshed and ready for battle, though thoroughly weary at the same time. "There is a first time for everything, Charles," he murmured softly as he gazed distantly into the clouds. Many of Alfred's firsts had been terrible experiences.

The Earl straightened to his fullest height, making as if he was ready to leave. "I know, Alfred." He gave his friend a good natured pat upon the back, smiling as warmly as he could, though he knew Alfred would not care for any frivolous words. "Good luck, old friend."

"I'm only twenty-five," Alfred muttered in mock offense, chuckling as he did so. His demeanor completely changed as he returned his gaze to his friend's face once again, eyes no longer distant, but warm this time. "Although I don't need any luck to win, thank you very much."

Charles laughed, but his eyes spoke of a deep sadness and pity. "My wish is not to count toward your victory, old chap," he spoke, finally letting his hand fall as he turned around to make his way back into the crowd (which had grown even more in number just through the course of their conversation).

"Then what is it for?" Alfred called out quizzically to his friend's slowly retreating back, the ghost of a bewildered smile manifesting upon his lips.

"It is for the consequences afterward!" Charles replied simply, and before Alfred could even begin to think upon his friend's cryptic words, the Earl of Westerholme was already too far away.

The Marquess's thoughtful gaze lingered upon his friend's back for a moment before they passed briefly over to Elizabeth's face, purely by instinct. Her expression was set in deep and stubborn concentration, as if she were ready to see the worst. It was clear what "the worst" would mean for her, though Alfred was quite sure the exact opposite was true for Arthur. The Marquess had already made the monetary arrangements for the actor's wages, in the unlikely case of his death, so there was nothing to fear there. All that was left to do for Arthur was to watch, and then either cry or rejoice.

However it ended, Alfred was quite sure Arthur would have a Hell of a conflicting time acting it out. Was it bad that the Marquess felt just the smallest bit of smugness in that fact?

Elizabeth caught Alfred's glance before he could look away. She took it as an invitation to approach, detaching herself from the crowd and making her way across the field. Belle made to accompany her, torn between her duty as a companion and her desire to let Elizabeth have her privacy. In the end, she refrained from movement, a fact which Alfred appreciated, despite his warring desire to talk to yet avoid Arthur and Elizabeth at the same time.

"Good afternoon, the honorable Lady Percy," Alfred murmured, bowing low at the waist. Elizabeth blushed and curtsied in return.

"Good afternoon, Alfred," she murmured, unable to help a small smile, despite her tension-filled eyes. "There is little space for formalities this day, though, is there not?"

"There is never too little space to treat you like the highest of royalty, Liz," Alfred replied gently, chancing to take her by the hand, despite their crowd of observers. Extended public contact was frowned upon, even between couples long married, but the Marquess thought the aristocracy could just forgive him this once. Give a dying man his last wish, and all.

The sweetness of Alfred's own words had almost choked him, causing his throat to tighten up. But it was worth it, considering the graceful blush that settled over Elizabeth's cheeks. It wasn't her Alfred was trying to placate, however. He was doing it in the selfish hope of seeing some of Arthur's intelligent smile return to those bright jade eyes. Despite himself, Alfred kept searching for it.

But Arthur wasn't budging.

"You are far too sweet, Alfred," Elizabeth replied, not even one hair out of character. "Then again, you always have been." Elizabeth ran her thumb over the wood of her fan, her delicate brows creasing ever so slightly with worry. "How are you?"

"Never better," Alfred assured, giving his fiancée such a beatific smile that Elizabeth was temporarily struck silent. Or more so, Arthur was, having lost his train of thought somewhere in Alfred's perfect face.

"I-I'm glad," Elizabeth finally managed to stutter, her gaze utterly transfixed. Alfred chuckled, though he only found himself wishing that it was Arthur looking at him that way instead of Elizabeth. The feeling behind the gazes of actor and of Lady were wholly different, despite the fact that it was still technically the same set of eyes. Arthur's acting was far more brilliant than Alfred had ever even realized.

"You ought to return to the Count and Countess, Liz," Alfred murmured, more for his sake than for hers. Arthur's proximity, however comforting yet painful, was at least tolerable despite the conflict. Elizabeth's, however, was not.

"Y-Yes," she replied, blinking, some sense finally returning to her head. "But before I do, I just..." she trailed off, glancing back down at the richly thick ruffles of her dress. "Alfred..."

"Yes, love?"

Elizabeth took a deep breath then looked up at Alfred's slightly bemused expression. "I—I don't want you to die!" she cried, tears glistening brightly in her eyes.

"You're worried about that?" Alfred murmured, his eyes alight with mirth. "Don't, my dear. Frowning does not suit your complexion, just as anxiety does not match your heart." Alfred leaned in close to her ear, just the way he knew women liked it. "Smile for me, love, and I will live on," he whispered.

Elizabeth shivered and Alfred laughed, sweetly enough that it was clearly not in any ill will toward the Lady. He was merely amused, in the sense that he thought her worry was cute—or at least he acted like it. In all honesty, it was quite annoying, and this conversation was distracting him from much needed mental honing. If Arthur wasn't going to make an appearance in this conversation, then Elizabeth had no point in being there, in Alfred's opinion.

But he was trying hard, and it was paying off. Elizabeth was practically glowing. In her eyes, Alfred was never more brilliant than he was then. He was so kind, smiling at her and trying to soothe her worries, despite the fact that she should have been comforting him instead. It was the mark of a true gentleman, in her opinion, and she once again wondered just how she had been so lucky as to land a man like him.

Despite Elizabeth's warmth, Arthur felt cold to the bone. He felt like he was helplessly watching the scene unfold, like an audience member trapped in his seat, viewing the stage. Those sweet words, that warm breath—none of it reached his heart, which felt like it was shriveling up considering the excruciatingly constricting pain within his chest.

In the past two weeks of lacking proximity, public or otherwise, Arthur had started to forget just how much he could be at Alfred's mercy, and how much he missed being at Alfred's mercy, to be honest. But only in the gardens and those private rooms, when they could just be themselves with no other pair of watchful eyes. Now, under the guise of Elizabeth, this warm attention just felt downright cruel instead.

But Arthur, too, was trying, just like Alfred.

Elizabeth took Alfred's hand in both of hers and beamed up at her fiancé. Alfred looked lovingly back at her, which made it harder for Arthur to do what he was about to do. But he had to. This could have been his last chance, and very much like Elizabeth—in fact, far more than Elizabeth—Arthur didn't want Alfred to die either, especially without a few last words that remained glaringly unsaid.

"I..." Elizabeth began, her voice breaking ever so slightly in a way that could have easily been interpreted as a side effect of crying. But it was merely Arthur, forgetting himself and his act for just a short moment as he swam in those piercingly cerulean eyes. "I..."

Alfred gave Elizabeth's hand an encouraging squeeze, even though he wished that she would loosen her grip ever so slightly. In fact, moving a couple hundred yards away would have been nice as well.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and steadied herself. Arthur concentrated on calming his heart, though to no avail. He had to say it. It was now or never.

"I love you so much, Al."

Elizabeth murmured these words gently, and it absolutely broke Arthur's heart. His hands were practically squeezing the life out of Alfred's.

The Marquess was vaguely annoyed that Lady Percy had forgotten once again. Only two people had ever called him "Al" with his consent: his mother, and in more recent times, Arthur. Alfred had thought that that number would have remained as one person for the rest of his life, but Fate had had a way of surprising him once again. Pleasantly so, at first, but now Alfred wasn't quite so sure anymore.

"Alfred," the Marquess corrected gently, "is my name."

But instead of relenting as usual this time, Elizabeth only smiled sadly and let go of Alfred's hands. She stepped back, running her eyes over that face she loved so well, as tears threatened to spill forth.

"I know," she replied simply, though it was only Arthur's heart reflected within those viridescent eyes. No trace of Elizabeth, but only for a brief flash, and then he was gone.

Alfred blinked quizzically at her, unsure as to what he could say in reply. He was a bit too surprised at her sudden unpredictability to even formulate sufficient words. Surprises were the last of what he needed on this afternoon.

"Best of luck, my love," Elizabeth spoke, curtsying once again. Then without further fanfare, the Lady turned and began to make her way back to her guardians.

"Thank... you..." Alfred murmured absentmindedly, his brain still working out whether or not he had imagined that last moment right there. Had a piece of Arthur resurfaced, or was it just wistful imagination?

The Marquess shook his head clear of the matter, though he couldn't help but cast a few more glances back in his beloved's direction, those startlingly intelligent eyes still lingering in his mind. Whatever it was, perhaps Alfred had the right to fool himself this once, even if it was only a lie. Then again, from the way that he had been treating Arthur for the past few weeks, perhaps he didn't deserve even that much. There was still so much to say, so much for which he had to apologize. But he had simply been far too cowardly to pull it off.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Alfred whispered, turning his attention to his blade once again. "I love you... too."

Sometimes, wishful thinking and self-deception were all one had to live by.

---

"I see you have finally found the right way out of your own house," Alfred muttered, giving his limbs a gentle stretch as Francis finally appeared. The crowd fell silent, whatever whispers floating about dissipating almost instantaneously. All eyes turned toward the scene, an epic theatrical production about to unfold, they were sure.

"I am still on time. It is merely you who are early," Francis replied, placing his case into Henri's hands and opening it up. His expression betrayed none of his inner adrenaline, just as Alfred's joking and passive demeanor gave nothing away about his once again growing misgivings about killing. The sight of Francis—dressed up, confident and graceful like always—caused for several of Alfred's qualms to resurface. But now was not the time to dwell upon doubt, otherwise it was possible that Alfred could very well actually perish—and he wasn't ready to give up life just yet, however tragic it was.

"I merely have a dinner engagement afterward," Alfred replied, rolling back his shoulders and standing fully straight. "I wished to have enough time to prepare for that as well, so if you would kindly..." He trailed off, gesturing to Henri, who was still standing there, gripping the open case, his expression the perfect reflection of well-practiced passivity. Very professional. Alfred was impressed.

"Patience was never your côté fort, mon chéri." Francis winked, which for some reason irked Alfred. The Marquess looked away, much to his embarrassment, though he quickly regathered his thoughts.

"And swordwork was never yours," Alfred replied, frowning. His voice carried across the field loud and clear, reaching any and all ears that were ready to listen.

"Touché," Francis chuckled. He took out his sword, a well balanced blade, light and aerodynamic, meant for small fast movements. It had been refurbished in the past week, having fallen into disrepair out of disuse. But the craftsman that had fixed it up was the best in London, and it now shone just as brightly as Alfred's carefully-kept blade did in the scalding sunlight.

Alfred couldn't help the smallest smile, despite his situation. He was so confident in his victory that it felt almost thrilling, especially now that the adrenaline was taking over any weariness that had been borne of overwrought thinking. And if he just avoided touching upon the cost of such a win, then Alfred could almost pretend that this was just another fencing match. The sword was weighted differently from the usual, but the concept was still the same. Go in for the contact and come out unscathed.

It was just another game.

"Shall we begin?" the Marquess murmured, motioning for the Duke of Rutland, their officiator, to approach.

"I thought you would never ask," Francis replied with a smirk of his own. He was not confident in any sort of win, but he knew that he could only do his best, and nothing more. That thought was far more comforting than the ambassador would have expected it could be before this whole affair.

The duke did a brief check of their blades, bringing back the conventions that had long been forgotten about how a duel by swords would be carried out. It was a rarity in this day and age, and many had scoffed at the concept when gossip of the duel had initially made its appearance. But once both Francis and Alfred had separately and on several occasions confirmed the fact, many of the old souls warmed back up to the idea.

Once all was in order, and once the pair of them had gone through the official formalities, the duke gave his wish for good luck and stepped back to take his place among the watchers once again. Now all that was left was for one of them to make the first move, and the dance would begin.

Alfred chanced one last glance at the audience, not for their sake. He was merely searching for the one pair of eyes he needed most, and when he found them, Alfred immediately felt like a changed man. It was not Elizabeth who was looking back at him, those bright eyes shining with cleverly disguised worry. It was undoubtedly Arthur, with the way his brows furrowed and the telltale way he nibbled upon his delectable bottom lip. The actor froze the moment they made eye contact, but that was enough for Alfred. He saw what he needed to see.

Arthur still cared, if only a little. But that was enough for a man who had already given up on everything else long ago.

If he could have rewound time, would Alfred have prevented all of this from happening? Would he have simply taken the ring and left Arthur to Bradley's care? Would he have resigned Arthur to being the anonymous identity of just another actor in his vast and successful theatre?

Alfred would have liked to think that he would have left the actor alone, had he had the sufficient foresight to see this trouble down the road. But those eyes—those damn emerald eyes—were irresistible to an aristocrat, especially one from a family supposedly so greedy and so covetous. Alfred had thought once that he would kill for those eyes.

He never thought that it'd be taken so literally.

Alfred turned his attention back to Francis, who had shifted to a beautiful stance, poised and ready for the kill. His aura was practically glowing with lethal intent. There was definitely something different in the way the Frenchman carried himself now, different from those sparring matches they had held long ago, back when this had merely been a recreational sport between two fantastic friends. Francis was more confident now, more prepared. It was as if he—

Then the Frenchman struck, moving faster than Alfred had ever seen him shift before. He changed his weight from left to right, coming in for a thrust directly at Alfred's chest. But surely, the ambassador knew that Alfred could have parried such an easy blow.

The Marquess did just that, and was surprised by a rounding swing from underneath. It was a risky move on Francis's part, for it left his right side exposed, a weakness in his defenses. But the speed with which the ambassador was working was miraculous, leaving Alfred barely any space to even think about taking advantage of such an opening. Alfred swallowed as he immediately saw his mistake.

Francis's style had changed.

Of course, so had Alfred's over the time that they had been apart. It was now merely a game of who could adapt faster to each other's improvements, speed and agility versus strength and sheer pressure. Alfred was good at the offensive, though sparring with the Earl had taught him a fair share about defense as well. Thus, he quickly changed his mindset as he adopted a heavy stance, low to the ground but still light on his feet. Balance was the key.

They went back and forth for a while, with only the sound of heavy breathing and clashing steel to disrupt the otherwise eerie silence. Nary a leaf stirred as the captive audience watched, none of them having expected the duel to last that long. Many noblemen had predictably placed their faith in Alfred's victory, and they were now sweating under the worry that their assumptions (and gold) had been misplaced. Francis had come back out of nowhere.

But Marquess Harrington was a fast learner. As quickly as Francis came at him, Alfred learned how to parry. Then once he had the defensive aspect down, it was only a matter of time before he began to toss offensive moves back into the fray as well. It was clear from the sweat on Francis's brow that the man was struggling, despite his vast improvements. Francis simply possessed a smaller frame, and he came into the battle at a disadvantage, so it was no surprise. The sweat on Alfred's forehead was, however.

They could have been at it for minutes or hours, nobody kept track. But somewhere in the feints, the dodges, the thrusts and the parries, Alfred had been adapting. The mark of a good swordsman was that he could win the majority of his battles, due to sheer skill and a small helping of luck. But the mark of a great swordsman was that he could win practically all of his battles, due to his ability to evolve with his opponent.

And Alfred Fitzwilliam Jones believed himself to be one of the greatest.

Very quickly, the audience forgot about their miserable lives, their dreadful boredom, their vast but aimless wealth. They were enraptured within the swings and swipes, their eyes following those blades as if they were pulled along by strings. This was entertainment far better than any dinner party, and no matter who came out on top, it was sure to be the highlighted topic of conversation for months to come.

Charles Brentford, ever keen and knowledgeable, watched with a much closer eye than his fellow onlookers. Standing close to Elizabeth, only separated by the broodingly worried Count Edelstein, the Earl of Westerholme observed their footing, weight balance, and changes in center of gravity, all in addition to just the sword movement.

When he gave a startled gasp, Elizabeth jumped, shooting him an anxious and slightly reproachful glance. Before she could even ask what the problem was, the rest of the nobility around her cried out themselves, several women even looking away and wincing as they exclaimed their high pitched surprise behind suddenly open fans.

Arthur involuntarily clutched at Belle's arm, his heart at his throat, his mind already fearing for the worst, even though he could barely even register what that possibility was at the moment. He whirled back around, eyes at the ready, and there it was—

Francis was on the ground.

Alfred's sword point was threateningly positioned right at the Frenchman's throat. One small movement to the left, one ounce of pressure, and Francis would have been bleeding. Any more, and he was sure as dead.

It took quite a few breaths for Arthur to stop hyperventilating, and Belle had to pat his arm soothingly as he shuddered uncontrollably. It was a brilliant act, in Belle's opinion. She was in awe of Arthur's ability to portray such horror at the possible death of Elizabeth's fiancée. Of course, little did she know...

Before the nobility could break out in surprised chatter as they were wont to do, Alfred stepped in closer to the Frenchman at his feet, silencing the audience. This was his stage, his time to shine. All men might have had their exits and their entrances, but it wasn't the Marquess's cue out stage left just yet.

"Francis Bonnefoy," Alfred spoke, his voice low but clear. A small breeze had picked up, brushing leaves into his slightly matted yet tousled hair. "I..."

Alfred stared down at that heavily breathing face, that defiant expression that Francis still held, despite the fact that the ambassador was one movement away from death—and by painful bleeding, no less. Not the fastest way to go.

Could Alfred do it?

"Oui?" Francis spoke breathlessly but challengingly, making sure to stay as still as he could, despite his strong urge to swallow. That would have been a bad way to die.

"I..." Alfred hesitated a moment before finishing. "I am offering you the opportunity to concede."

Everyone else would only view it as compassion, as an act of kindness to let his opponent go when Alfred already had the victory secure in his hands. It was the mark of a gentleman, to be satisfied with only the concept of victory, without the need for bloodshed and unnecessary deaths. This was the noblest of the noble.

That would be the impression, at least, but both Francis and Alfred knew better. The Marquess was simply having qualms, and this was his easy way out. Well, there was no way that Francis would be that kind.

"Never," the ambassador hissed back, a small smirk at his lips. There was a nick next to his nose that was already scarring over, the blood running thin scarlet rivulets down his scruffy, unshaven cheek.

"You are leaving me no choice," Alfred said threateningly, his eyes glinting. It looked so real that for a moment, Francis believed Alfred could and would actually do it. Too bad that the Frenchman had accepted the fate of death long ago, and it no longer posed any threat to his confident and composed self whether Alfred was serious or not.

"You also left me no choice before," Ambassador Bonnefoy shot back. "It is only fair, non?"

That ghost of a smile on Francis's lips was really beginning to get on Alfred's nerves, even though the Marquess's cold dead eyes betrayed nothing. Alfred was struggling internally, until he came to realize then and there that he could not do it. He really couldn't. He had won already, so why wouldn't Francis just save his own damn life and back down?

Of course, Alfred already knew the answer. If Francis left now, he would have no life to which he could return, save one of loveless disgrace. And for a man so proud and accomplished as the ambassador, such a Fate was worse than death itself.

They were at a standstill.

"I am warning you—"

"With what, mon ami?" Francis would have shrugged then and there, if he thought it wouldn't have drawn blood. "If you will kill me, do it now. And I pray zat you do it swiftly."

Alfred stared long and hard at the man below him. To his credit, Francis stared right back, his eyes hardened and determined. Hopeless depression coursed through his veins, because after all, those cold unfeeling eyes above him were once the eyes of his lover. This was an unfathomable turnabout from the way things once were, but Francis let none of his sadness through, just like Alfred betrayed nothing of his own wavering strength in his carefully guarded gaze.

"Do you not have a dinner to attend?" Francis asked, too softly for his voice to carry in the wind. It was only in that small moment that he let even a little of his hopelessly sad emotion shine through, right in that bittersweet smile, too real to be acted. Alfred felt his will crumbling, as he forgot for a moment why he was even there, sword lifted to Francis's throat. Was Arthur's affection worth the death of a respected ambassador? Heck, this didn't even guarantee Arthur's affections. If anything, killing Francis would warrant even more of the actor's hatred and resentment.

It was only now that Alfred began to really realize just how stupid he was. But before he could say anything else, Francis's carefully calculating eyes suddenly changed expression. They lit up and the ambassador abruptly fell flat on his back and wormed his way backwards. He flipped onto his feet, gracefully coming up to a standing position. This distracted Alfred from his temporary moment of sentimentality, and he was right back on guard once again, his sword up and at the ready.

The Marquess, highly offended, opened his mouth to speak, but Francis was already there.

"Marquess Harrington! I do not sink zat it is fair for you to decide matters by such an outdated means," he accused, his face contorted in affronted outrage. The Frenchman gave Alfred a small wink only he could see before continuing, all the while with Alfred completely lost as to what was happening. "Let us settle zis like men, monsieur."

"What? What do you mean?" Alfred asked, his bewilderment completely truthful, the most convincing of acts. He searched Francis's eyes, trying to discern just what was happening, but all he saw was disgusted anger staring back. Francis was already deep into his act—but that was the thing: Alfred could tell it was an act. Just what in the world was happening?

The Duke of Rutland detached himself from the crowd, which was thoroughly silent as they too struggled to figure out just what Francis was talking about. The ambassador turned when the duke asked if there was a problem.

"It is an outrage to zis age of innovation to settle matters zis way," Francis ranted, complete with sharp emphatic gestures and all. "I demand zat we utilize real weapons. It is an insult ozerwise."

Alfred flared up, completely caught up in that argument as he forgot his confusion for the moment. "Wait a minute—an insult? Swords?" He couldn't believe his ears. If anything, it was a damn sacred art.

"Oui!" Francis cried back, possibly overdoing the act just a little bit. However, perhaps that was only Alfred's well-tuned nature noticing it instead, for the duke seemed highly convinced of it. "We must use pistols," Francis concluded.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy," the duke murmured placatingly, "it was you who suggested the means of settling this score in the first place."

Francis shot Alfred a glance. "I was feeling generous," he muttered, "but I do not know why. It is clear zat zere is no trace of amicability left in 'is blackened soul." Francis jabbed a finger in Alfred's direction as he ran his other hand frustratedly through his heavy locks. "So since it was my right," the ambassador argued, "to choose the weapon before, ze same right still stands now."

"But you cannot simply switch once it is decided—" the duke began, his perplexed expression quickly devolving into one of agitated exasperation.

"I can if the Marquess agrees," Francis pointed out, using his quick thinking mind to his advantage. It was very difficult to win a debate with an ambassador.

"What?" Alfred cried. Why in the name of all things would he have ever agr—

Ah. But there it was. His way out.

If they kept with the swords, Alfred would have been forced to kill while still staring right into those very same eyes he used to love so much. But guns were impersonal, and seeing as death seemed unavoidable, now that Francis had made his stance clear, that could have just been the best bet to settle this matter once and for all. Any more with the swords and Alfred wasn't sure if he had the stomach and the nerve to continue on, Arthur or not. In fact, if he killed Francis with a gun rather than with a sword, even less blame could be placed upon him by the actor, due to the sheer luck of the draw sometimes. And less blame meant a greater chance of forgiveness.

Dear Lord, Alfred wished so much that he had never even issued the challenge for a duel in the first place. He was not ready to kill. He was not ready to die. And he was definitely not ready to incur Arthur's wrath.

How in the name of God had the Marquess ever thought that a duel would settle matters?

However, it was far too late to back out now with even a shred of dignity left to his name. Alfred still wanted to fight for Arthur, and he was quite sure he was still willing to die (if not kill) for Arthur. Nevertheless, what use was it if the outcome was even more detrimental to his situation with the actor than the one in which he had found himself from before the duel? Alfred bit his lip. He should have seen this through before acting upon his whims once again.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Well, monsieur 'arrington?" Francis said expectantly, pulling Alfred out of his calculating thoughts.

"What? Yes? Yes," Alfred replied quickly, making a split decision. If he came out of this alive, he swore he would put three times more effort into controlling his anger, just so that idiotic situations like this would never happen again. Nobody deserved to die—not for any reason.

"You see?" Francis spoke, gesticulating emphatically in Alfred's direction. "He agrees."

The duke gave Alfred a completely dumfounded once-over, completely not understanding why one so close to victory would give it all up at this point. But the steady way in which Alfred gazed back, added with the confirming nod he gave, was enough to convince the puzzled duke, even if he could not comprehend the reasons. It was not his place to understand, however. It was only in his place to make sure that it was a fair battle—however fair things could get with people so varied in skill sets.

"So be it," the duke finally decided, with a sigh that clearly declared he not only did not follow the proceedings, but also thought that Alfred was completely insane.

Francis spoke quickly to Henri, who had rushed over upon being called. The butler rushed away once again, back in the direction of the house. He was likely retrieving a pistol, if not two, simply because Alfred had come unprepared.

The butler returned at top speed, carrying a case large enough for two guns. Upon opening it up, it was clear that Francis cared for his pistols with much more love than he did his blades. The two revolvers, Colt Walkers, from the looks of it—fresh from the United States—were at their best, recently polished and carefully replaced back into the case. They looked almost new, though judging from their make, they were at least half a decade old.

The duke gave the guns a once-over as Alfred regained his thoughts once again, and with it, his bewilderment. It was to his benefit that this was a nice opportunity to get out of his earlier predicament, but surely that was a coincidence. Then again, it was beneficial to Francis too, to get another chance to beat Alfred out of the game—so perhaps that was the real play. Had Alfred just agreed to his death sentence without knowing it? Should he have taken his victory when he could have? He would have lived, but would he have been able to live with it?

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred could see Elizabeth's confused but worried expression, so lost amidst the changes. Her countenance was reflected in the faces of a few others around her as well, including that of the Earl, who was shooting Alfred the most surprised and puzzled look the Marquess had ever seen. Well, at least Alfred wasn't alone in his confusion, even though he already had a vague idea about the reasoning behind Francis's sudden change of heart.

The answer came after the duke let Alfred pick the first weapon, then passed Francis the remaining one. When he retreated back to the crowd, his expression grim as he refused to answer any questions whispered to him, Francis abruptly stepped close to Alfred and leaned in.

"Mark my words, mon ami," he whispered, his voice lethal like a viper's hiss—yet there was an unbearably sad quality mixed in at the same time, "zis is the last thing I do for you."

Alfred blinked and made to turn, but a light hand upon his left arm—the arm on the other side of the aristocratic crowd—stopped him. It was so incredibly gentle, like a lover's touch, rather than that of a man who was about to attempt a kill on Alfred's life moments from now.

"Do not thank me, Alfred. For I will not go easy on you, now zat I have my opportunity for victory once again."

And with that, Francis was suddenly back a few feet once again, his expression just as angry as it had been before, but with a small hint of satisfaction now, as if it was he who had already won. Alfred still didn't quite understand what had happened, but he somehow felt indebted yet cheated at the same time, if that was even possible.

Damn Francis for eliciting such confusing reactions.

"I never expected anything less," Alfred muttered back, too low for anyone else to hear but the ambassador himself. The Marquess shook any distraction out of his head as he honed his attention into the weight of the pistol in his hands. It had been at least a year since he had fired one of these before. On the other hand, if he remembered correctly, Francis had won a medal for his marksmanship just this past winter.

Yes, Alfred definitely felt cheated, any reprieve be damned. He still wasn't sure if he should have taken his win when he could have, but he sure as hell was not appreciative of what he now viewed as a trick on Francis's part. That switch of weaponry had helped Alfred in a way, but it had hurt him so much more—or at least it could.

The Marquess didn't necessarily want to find out how much.

They were to do this the standard way, with pacing and everything. Alfred didn't necessarily want to savor the moment, because there was no longer any moment to savor. He was tired, having spent his energy on his parries and thrusts. Francis seemed quite spent as well, though the prospect of a second chance seemed to have cleared up his expression quite considerably.

Thus, without further ado, Alfred lined himself up with Francis, the two of them facing off in opposite directions.

"I at least hope you end up in Heaven," Francis murmured softly, though there was a hidden resentment there that definitely undermined his words.

"I have no similar wish for you," Alfred shot back, though his full feelings were not behind his words. However, he was not allowing himself any space for sentiment. His mind was already racing, trying to memorize the weight of the revolver in his hands, trying to remember how to aim, trying to focus on imagining where to shoot. God, he had been stupid for accepting the switch in weaponry. He was simply a coward all around, too afraid to kill, too afraid to apologize, and too afraid to admit his feelings to the one person that was behind all of this stupidity in the first place. Now the chance was gone, and that was all Alfred was left with—

The knowledge that he was a coward to the very end.

The duke began to count out the paces, and Alfred felt his heart beat quadruple the counts, increasing with every step. His palms were sweaty, his hair was matted right to his forehead, and his knees felt like they were about to shake right off. The great heroic and gentlemanly Marquess Alfred Harrington, son of the fearsome Devil Duke of Devonshire, was nothing more than a pitiful mess, too idiotic for his own good. He should have listened more.

But once again, Alfred had come to this humbling realization just a little bit too late.

When the duke finally uttered the last word, Alfred's mind suddenly cleared. He felt like the wind from a thunderous storm was rushing by his ears, the sheer might of ambrosia itself coursing through his veins. He whirled around, hands up at the ready, even though his palms felt like they were practically soaked with sweat. There was not enough time to think, not enough time to gauge Francis's state of mind, not enough time to see just what expression was on Arthur's face as he watched Alfred, standing for what could be the very last time.

There was only time to raise his gun.

Only enough time to take aim.

Only enough time to shoot.

Arthur winced and gasped simultaneously, instinctively hiding his face behind his open fan. He had no idea what was going on, or why Alfred had suddenly switched to guns instead of swords, the latter of which clearly being his area of expertise. Arthur understood nothing of the proceedings, had no grasp on politics or rules. All he knew was that he had felt so relieved when Alfred had apparently won, and then that happiness was snatched away from him once again just in the blink of an eye.

And then the process began again, the sweating skin, the erratic heartbeat, the jumpy nature that seemed to overtake his body as he watched on with fixated horror, unable to tear his eyes away until the very last moment. It was a cruel enough punishment to force himself to watch at all, Arthur thought. And now he needed to do it twice?

Clearly, God had never forgiven him for his past betrayals.

Arthur's grip upon Belle's arm had been vicelike, and the companion was wincing, but had also been too caught up in the proceedings herself to notice. Then the two of them, much like the crowd around them, watched with twisted fascination as Alfred and Francis went at it once again, this time in a much faster, far more decisive battle.

The actor had counted the steps right along with the duke, whispering under his breath. He had watched those leather shoes tread across the grass, had observed Alfred's intense expression of concentration as he finally whirled around, had admired the extremely magnificent way in which Alfred adroitly lifted up his gun, the steady confidence with which he aimed, and the clarity with which he—

Arthur jumped as the shots rang out, far louder than he thought they would. He instinctively shielded his eyes from whatever horrors awaited him, throwing up one of his arms, fan out in the open. It might have been a feminine reaction that had rubbed off from his role as Elizabeth, but both the Earl of Westerholme and Count Edelstein were turning away as well. It seemed as if barely anyone had witnessed the moment in which the final decision had actually been made.

However, as fast as Arthur could recover his wits and regain control over his body once again, he whirled back around and put down his fan. And then just as quickly, before anyone could say anything, before any reaction could have been made or whispered comments uttered, Arthur fell down to his knees. He did not care about the dirt soiling the priceless dress, nor did he care about the fact that he had pulled Belle down with him before letting go of her arm.

The actor's hand automatically shot to the sapphire ring around his finger, his eyes still glued to the scene before him. He could not breathe, he could not think. All he could do was see—and it couldn't be unseen.

There was one figure still standing, while the other was prone upon the ground. The one lying down was unmoving, almost completely lifeless, as if he had died immediately, upon bullet contact. It had likely been a fatal shot, judging from the blood that was already collecting upon his white shirt. The other figure was still upon his feet, though barely so. He staggered, gripping his shoulder as blood had already began to soak through the clothing under his hand. The man still upright had dropped his gun with a resounding thud, and now he was simply standing there dumfounded at his situation. Wincing in pain, he cursed for dear life.

In cold.

Hard.

French.

---

References/Notes:

1. "Hello" didn't come about until much later, toward the end of the nineteenth century. "Hullo" was what you said up until that point.

2. "Côté fort" means "strong suit" or "specialty."

---

Author's Comments:

/collapses

First, if you're one to read the A/N before the chapter, stop now. This A/N is going to give so much away to the chapter, and I want you to discover it in writing, not down here. So I beseech you to read the chapter first (I know there are a few of you out there who do this; you know who you are :I).

If you've read already, then hooray! We've reached that point. This is the absolute longest chapter yet—the longest chapter I have ever written for anything. *dies* And I'm actually quite proud of it, unlike usual.

But I said I'd write an extra good one to make up for the April Fool's joke, didn't I? (I hope you guys liked the joke, by the way. I did it early so that you guys wouldn't be suspicious of me, hahaha. I just needed to lighten the mood of writing this chapter for a bit, since, as you can see, it was dark, heavy, and an absolute pain to churn out.)

I'm also sorry I couldn't do accents for the Count and Countess this chapter. I just don't quite know how to write an Austrian accent from the 1850s, since it's changed so much. And I'm too lazy to look it up and learn it. So you'll just have to make due with them sounding English. OTL

IMPORTANT NOTE: I promised I would end with a HAPPY USUK ending, so trust me on this one. IT IS NOT A TRAGEDY.

In case you guys haven't seen, I've written quite a few more stories for Sweethearts Week, which is why this one hasn't been updated in a while. And then I've been traveling with Teenage Mouse all around Japan, and we've been talking USUK nonstop. It's given me a lot of inspiration, but for other fic ideas and not this one. OTL

OH! Before I forget, can anyone just fangirl with me for a moment about how PERFECT In Memoriam A.H.H. is? Lord Alfred, writing poetry about love and friendship for his good buddy, Arthur? History is telling me that USUK is a thing. IT IS SPEAKING TO ME.

Ahem.

I got some more fanart you guys should all go see and shower with love (because I can't believe how talented all you artists are).

One last thing—PLOT TWIST. Did anyone see it coming that the Duke knew about Alfred's homosexuality? I mean, Alfred isn't the most brilliant at hiding it, no matter how much he thinks he is. Simply not speaking about it doesn't mean that it doesn't crop up in other ways, but still. Did any of you see it coming? I'm curious.

Happy reading!
Galythia