"Sire, you're alive!"

Arthur's breath left him when the other boy hit him with a fierce hug. His brain blanked and he couldn't remember how to speak, so he settled for nodding slowly over the brunet's shoulder, still looking lost when they pulled apart.

"It's been almost a year, m'lord! We assumed you'd been killed!"

Finally, some small part of him snapped back to attention and he fixed the shorter youth with a hard stare. Alan went to speak again, his eyes bright with excitement.

"Sire, I must tell you-"

"Shhh, Alan, please, don't address me like that." The blonde checked quickly over his shoulders, hoping no one from in or around the castle had heard the formal titles. Thankfully, it seemed like people were too involved in their own conversations and exchanges to take much notice in theirs. "Just Arthur is fine."

"But, sir-"

"Please," Arthur hissed, "just use my name."

Alan seemed to study him for a moment, then pursed his lips and nodded.

"Si- Arthur. I have so much to tell you!"

"And I'd love to hear it, but perhaps not here." Arthur glanced around at the crowd. Even though he was sure that no one was expressly listening to them, he couldn't take the chance that someone would overhear something they shouldn't. "Let's get out of the square and we'll talk somewhere quieter."

Alan nodded quickly, and Arthur let out a slow sigh of relief. He looked the brunet right in the eyes and spoke firmly.

"Just wait here a moment."

Arthur turned and picked his way through the crowd. He retreated back in the direction he'd come, looking for the familiar flash of green amidst the hues of browns and grays and blues. When he found it, he approached the little Irish woman from behind and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Arthur!" she beamed, "I was wondering where you'd run off to! Come now, you must see this sculpture, it's come all the way from Italy!"

Cait turned to lead the young man away, stopped when Arthur grabbed her arm.

"Actually, I just forgot there was a list of things Alistair needed in his study. He'd be livid if he learned I'd forgotten and didn't fetch anything. I came to tell you I need to run back for it."

The Irishwoman blinked.

"Well, I'll come back with you to get it."

"No, there's no need for that. Enjoy the atmosphere! I'll find you when I get back and we'll walk home together, yeah?"

The woman seemed to think this over, biting her lip as if he was asking her to do something wrong. It took a moment, but eventually she found her smile again and nodded.

"Alright, I trust you."

Did she think he would try running again?

"Don't be too long! I'll likely need help carrying things back again."

Arthur promised he would return soon, and Cait waved him off. Satisfied enough with this hasty excuse, the Brit tucked himself back into the bustle of people. He retraced his steps once more, working through the crowd until he found Alan again.

When he did, he stood still and studied the boy for quite some time, still in disbelief that he was actually here – that he was alive. Part of him had expected to be stuck searching for a hallucination for the rest of the day.

"Everything alright?" Alan asked, glancing past the former prince.

"It's fine," the blonde shook his head to clear it. "Come on. We just need to get out of the crowd."

The pair found that once they had put the marketplace behind them, things in the town were quiet. It made sense enough, though. Most of the townspeople were in the square – gathered to see what treasures had been brought into their home.

Arthur lead his former attendant through the town, heading past the shops and pubs and towards the residential district. It was quietest there even on a normal day, and the boys found a stone bench to rest on.

"How are you, m'lord?" Alan asked once they'd settled, but he was too impatient to wait for an appropriate answer. He turned to the blonde and prodded him hesitantly – experimentally. When his finger poked into the flesh of his arm and Arthur scowled, the elder youth gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry, sire, I'm in a bit of a shock to see you here. You're taller than I remember."

"Alan," Arthur protested, "use my name, please."

"Ah, my apologies, Arthur, it's just..." the young man paused and ran his eyes up and down his old friend. "How are you alive?"

"Frankly, I could ask you just the same. You were stabbed!"

"Ah, yes, well, that was a long time ago."

Arthur scoffed.

"It's still the last time I saw you. Obviously you survived, but how?"

Alan turned away, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his head. Slowly he lowered his hand and rested his palm over the middle of his chest, just below his ribs. It took the Brit a moment to realize that he was covering with his hand the place he'd been run through with a sword. He frowned at the memory.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

"Remember the driver of our carriage?" Alan asked. "He came looking for us. He found me, in your clothes, bleeding out on the earth. Thankfully he knew enough to keep me alive until he could get me to a doctor. It's a miracle, really, even I was expecting to perish."

Arthur thought back to the very last image he'd retained of his friend – the sight of Alan shifting, reaching out to him as the prince was whisked away on the back of a horse. At the time, the blonde had dismissed it as a hallucination. Now he began to think that maybe this wasn't the case.

"The last memory I have of you is..." the Welshman furrowed his dark brows in thought, "...I think...I saw you in the bushes when I fell...Everything after that is a haze until well after a very, very long stay at the doctor's." It was his turn to look confused, firing off questions one after another. "Why are you here? Did you get away? What happened to you?"

The former prince gave a dry laugh. There was no way he could answer that last one. Far too many things had happened to him over the past few months to summarize easily. But he did the best he could, sticking with the basics.

"I was discovered by Laird Alistair."

"Who?"

"The man who stabbed you. He..." Arthur trailed off as everything came rushing back. Just how was he supposed to share it all? Did he even want the boy to know everything? Certainly not, the more intimate details were obviously private, but how much should he tell his former attendant?

The blonde felt his eyes fall upon the shorter boy, who looked to him expectantly.

Alan had said it himself: it had been almost a year. Obviously they'd changed physically – Alan had filled out while Arthur had grown taller – but surely that wasn't the only thing to have changed. Was the young man who sat with him the same Alan from his past? Because Arthur knew for certain that he was not quite the same person the former attendant would remember serving.

Arthur's life outside of royalty had taught him humility and patience. It had also taught him that people were often more than who they seemed to be.

Once upon a time, he would've told the older boy everything; now he was wizened with secrets and experience. He knew he had to handle all of this with utmost care. After all, the life he'd finally grown used to was teetering in the balance.

"I was captured," he said simply, "I took your name, though, so everyone here knows me as Arthur Kendricks."

Everyone except Alistair.

"I kept my identity as a prince secret, and I've been working for the lord since."

Alan's eyes were as big as dinner plates.

"You, M'lord? You are working as a servant?!"

"Alan!" Arthur hushed him desperately, "please! I've managed to keep my title a secret for this long and it's allowed me to keep my life, so please do not call me anything but my name!"

The former attendant blanched at his mistake and nodded.

"A thousand pardons, Arthur, old habits die hard and whatnot."

The blonde let out a long breath, blowing hair out of his eyes as he did. Alan's spirit was not dampened by the error, and there was a lift to his voice when he spoke.

"But Arthur, this is great!" Arthur was confused, and it showed in the way he tilted his head and made a face. "Your mother and father – they've left you for dead! Your siblings, too, they all thought you'd perished in Scotland!"

Dead?

Had they truly given up on him so easily? For as long as it had felt to Arthur, it really hadn't even been a year.

"...How is that 'great?'" The former prince's tone was firm and curt and not at all as excited as Alan's was. The older boy drew back and raised an eyebrow at the sound of it, but he recovered quickly and pressed on.

"I can bring you home! I'm sure the that lord won't notice or care terribly if one of his servants goes missing."

Oh he'll notice.

"I don't know if that's a good idea. I've tried running before." Arthur knew he didn't sound as defeated as he should have.

"You have? What happened?"

"I didn't make it," the Brit responded flatly, gesturing to their surroundings in testimony to the fact that I am still here, after all. "See, I'm not just another servant. Because I took your name, I introduced myself as your attendant. Because I did that, Alistair took me on as his."

"Ah..." Alan nodded slowly and frowned. "I suppose that does complicate making a subtle escape." The young man brought a hand up to rub absently at his chin in thought, and it was then that Arthur noticed the shadow of stubble beginning to decorate Alan's jaw. "It must have been awful," he mused, "serving that warlord."

The blonde shrugged and found himself echoing words that had once been spoken to him, a modest smile on his lips as he did.

"He's not so bad, once you get to know him."

There was resignation in his voice and Alan caught it. He raised an eyebrow again, studying the lax expression and trying to decipher that curious tone. He spoke slowly, watching his lord carefully for how he reacted.

"The same came be said for anyone, Arthur."

Arthur only grunted in agreement and the conversation fell slowly to a silence. Alan had undoubtedly returned to trying to think of a way around the prince's predicament, whereas Arthur was once more trying to decide whether or not he truly wanted to leave.

After all, he had only just finished confessing to actually being happy here. This was his life now, however turbulent it was. Could he really so easily return to being a prince? Did he event want to?

Could he really so easily leave Alistair?

However, it was England. This was home and his own flesh and blood they spoke of. He could overlook that they'd given up on him and written him off as dead, because they were still his family and he still cared for them.

But he also cared for the family he had here – one not bound by blood, but by time and trust and laughter. Was England really worth leaving that all behind? He certainly couldn't live with one foot in each world, especially not with England and Scotland locked in a war that never seemed to want to end.

"Well, Arthur, there is something we can do."

Arthur did not answer, but he flicked his stare to the boy he'd spent much of his youth with. In the hesitation between them, he could not help but to notice more of how much the boy had changed. He was stockier than he remembered and his eyes sparkled with an ambition he never could recall seeing before. Was it new? Or had it always been there and Arthur had just never noticed it?

Alan lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned close.

"To tell you the truth, sire, I'm not here to trade."

Arthur didn't like the darkness in that tone, but he remained still and listened patiently.

"I am part of an elite raiding party, right out of Northern England. We've been quietly travelling north from Fife. We had heard that the Lord of Forfarshire had effectively halted any British advancements – disinherited or otherwise. The idea is that if we execute the Lord here in Arbroath – his stronghold – we can strike a blow to Scottish morale and start moving on Northern Scotland by the end of the month."

The prince maintained his expression as he stared down at the shorter man who spoke so eagerly of a battle. It was kind of distressing to hear that excitement – and not the concern for the innocents that battle would involve. Alan searched his lord's face for a reaction, confused that he could seem to find none. Arthur had learned to keep himself in check – especially when thinking negatively of a person – and it showed in how he kept composed. The Welshman prodded his lack of reaction.

"What's wrong?"

"It's just..." the youth fumbled for words, "you know the Lord of Forfarshire is Laird Alistair, correct?"

Alan stared for a moment, then nodded.

"I suppose I definitely do now, yes, but what of it?"

Arthur was at a loss for words. Just how would he explain this?

Then, quite suddenly, Alan smiled sadly and leaned back.

"Ah, you care for them."

"Them?"

"The servants, the people here, the lord himself – whichever it is, I can see it." The way Arthur lowered his gaze and looked away was a sure sign to the Welshman that he had hit his mark. "Arthur," his sympathy sounded strained. "This is your home, your subjects and your family. I know you've spent a lot of time here, but can Scotland truly replace all that? England is where you belong! You were born to lead, not to be at the beck and call of some lowly Scotsman."

Arthur kept his gaze on the ground, though some small part of him was laughing. He used to think the exact same thing. Exactly when had his opinion changed so dramatically?

Probably when I started caring about the arse.

"Arthur – no – Prince Kirkland, please hear me."

Reluctantly, the blonde looked to the Welshman from the corner of his eyes.

"Do you not miss it? England? Your old life? Have you truly forgotten all of us?"

"Of course not," Arthur snapped, "I love my home."

"Then stand for it, or at the very least, return to it," he begged, "It kills me to know English royalty is wasting away here serving Scottish barbarians."

Arthur stiffened at the derogatory word. Alan was right about one thing – Arthur was a prince. It was time to handle himself as such.

"It's not so simple," he began. His voice was strong and level and out of habit, Alan sat just a little straighter. "Alistair has stopped any advancements into his territory or those north of him, but have you considered why he has not retaliated and marched South?"

"Well, to my understanding he was quite involved in the Scottish loyalists in the not-too-distant past. He frequently commanded troops from the front, did he not? I may have not known his name, but I know his title."

Arthur was a little annoyed that the Welshman knew more of Alistair's military history than he did, but he did not linger on it.

"Yes, but when was the last time you had to deal with his presence in English territory?"

Alan frowned. They both knew he had no answer to give that would help his argument.

"Alright, Sire, then tell me why he has stopped his contributions? Why does he not turn on the English?"

The Brit let out a long sigh, recalling his outburst at the meeting. He didn't expect to be repeating himself so soon, and it came as a bit of a surprise that this time he reiterated to an English soldier, instead of a Scottish one.

"Because his people do not want to fight. He protects his lands and those he is charged with, but does not impose on his fellow lords."

"If they do not wish to fight, then it would be an easy victory," Alan pointed out.

"Just because they do not want to does not mean they won't. But Forfarshire has become a haven for those pushed out of their homes by soldiers. Would you truly wish to drag innocents back into a fight they want nothing to do with?"

Alan narrowed his eyes, and it was that act that helped Arthur realize what had changed about his former friend.

"It is war Arthur, it does not matter what the people want – much less the Scots. What matters is what is best for England, your home, Prince Kirkland."

But Prince Kirkland simply smiled, internally correcting himself. Alan wasn't the one who had changed; Arthur was.

"Is war truly the best for anyone, Alan?"

The former attendant sighed and shook his head – not as an answer, but out of frustration.

"So you're saying...what? That we should not attack Arbroath because there are people here who are innocent? Who don't want to fight anymore?"

"I'm saying this war is pointless. What is going to be gained from this? One man and his fellows gain back the land they feel cheated out of? England expands her territory or Scotland cements her own?"

"That's not the point, sir, the point is-"

"No, that's exactly it," Arthur cut off the brunet, his voice firm. "This war is pointless, and you seek to continue it."

"Not just me," Alan cried, exasperated. He threw his arms in the air. "Your father commands our armies, Arthur. He believes this war is for the betterment of England, why don't you?"

The blonde frowned, but refused to let his family be used as a weapon against him. He hadn't really seen much of his father for years – and that was something Alistair had nothing to do with. His father was a busy man. He couldn't always dote on his children and warfare drove quite the wedge between parent and offspring.

"My father and I are two separate people. My opinion on this matter is my own and it is final."

"Arthur," Alan sighed, "the only way your "pointless war" will end is if there is a victor." The young man turned and propped his elbows against his thighs, burying his hands in his hair while he let out a frustrated groan. He sat like that for a few long minutes before he straightened out and began again. "There is to be an attack on Arbroath," he said plainly.

Arthur was not surprised by this, and he did not pretend to be. He had guessed as much from what he'd been told so far.

"With you on the inside, helping us, we can push through to the castle much faster, and this battle can be won with minimal casualties." Alan again sounded far too eager. It was quite the contrast to how Arthur had gotten used to hearing Laird Graham speak of the war. Alistair always sounded annoyed, tired and frustrated. "All you would have to do is meet us at the gates tomorrow night. Have them opened for us – our attack would be much quieter."

"Tomorrow night?"

"I am only here to preform the last sweep of the town. We want to get a good lay of the land before we strike. We have to look for the best route to the castle and scope out the enemy's defences in advance. I'm here to make sure nothing has changed drastically enough to alter our plan."

"Tomorrow night?" Arthur repeated as the full weight of the information sunk in. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again as he struggled for words. "How do you know I won't just go tell the Lord this?"

Alan looked appalled for only a moment.

"Because, sire, you are a Prince of England. You have a duty to the throne and your people. I suspect no amount of passed time can change that."

He hated the way Alan seemed to hold the whole 'being a prince' thing over his head as incentive to act. Arthur should be acting based on his beliefs as a person. Not just as a prince. It was why his tone may have come across far colder than he intended.

"And if I cannot help you?"

Alan frowned as his the last reserves of his patience finally evaporated.

"We were planning on attacking without your help anyways, my lord, because we did not know of your presence here." The man rose, tossing his tattered cloak over his shoulder. "This is a pivotal step in bringing this war to a close, and I understand if for personal reasons, you cannot help us in the fight. But one way or another, when we finally take Arbroath, will you return home where you belong?"

The prince said nothing, staring up at Alan with a decidedly blank expression.

"You are free to make your choices, sire, that much I cannot take from you. I just hope when the time comes and a line is drawn that you are standing on the correct side of it."

Somewhat stiffly, the brunet tucked into a bow.

"Until tomorrow, Prince Kirkland."

And he was gone.

Arthur sat alone on that bench for the longest time. For all his stubborn opinions when speaking with Alan, he couldn't deny that the elder youth did have a point. He had a duty to the people of England. To turn against them would be treason. He would be exiled.

He would be exiled from his homeland. His people would know him as a traitor. It would mar his family name and damage the reputations of his mother and father and siblings.

How did he ever believe he could ignore all that?

It had to be now that Alan arrived with news of an ambush, of the planned execution of Alistair Graham. Part of him wanted to run and find the man and tell him everything – warn him of the attack so that he might better prepare for it. The other part longed for home and found some sense in Alan's words. He was an heir to the English throne. He carried the weight of his family name with him wherever he went. Did he truly think he belonged in Scotland? How much longer did he think his life could continue the way it was?

If he sided with the English, he would preserve his name in the eyes of the English people and in the eyes of his family. He would be hailed as a hero – an underdog that had returned from the dead to turn the tides against the Scots. He could return home and see his kin, return to his cushy lifestyle and live once again as royalty. He would be treated with respect again – by everyone he met and not just a select few. Never again would he be bent over a table by a drunk, filthy Scottish Laird and expected to endure. Nor would he be expected to cater to the whim of one irritable man against his will.

But staying with Alistair was the option that didn't make his heart ache so fiercely. It meant he could remain with Alfred and Cait and everyone else. It meant he wouldn't be expected to believe things because he was a prince, but because he was a person. His life wouldn't be flipped on its head once again; he wouldn't be made to start over a second time. He could stay where he was wanted and where hardly anyone loved him for the fact that he was royalty. They loved him because they knew him, they laughed with him and they lived with him. Who he was beyond 'Arthur' didn't matter. He was a friend and a brother in a different sort of family – one he loved just as much as he would an authentic one.

It was really a matter of who he could stand to disappoint: an entire kingdom of people who looked to his like as leaders, because he was a Kirkland – or an estate full of those who loved him because he was Arthur.

"The gates are a wee bit down the hill from here, lad, I donnae think ye made it quite far enough."

Arthur was slow to bring himself out of his thoughts, blinking with the effort of it all. He rubbed at an eye, then looked up to where Alistair stood above him, an eyebrow raised curiously. His pipe was held between his lips. The moon was behind him and the stars were out, and it was then that the boy realized just how much time had passed.

"...O-oh?"

He shook his head to clear it of the stubborn fog and Alistair frowned. Perhaps he'd dozed off and just hadn't realized it?

"One o' your less dramatic attempts to escape, Arthur," the Scot mused, setting down on the bench beside him. The Brit felt warm when he heard his name.

Not sir or sire, m'lord or my prince. Just Arthur. Arthur.

"I wasn't trying to escape," said the youth with honesty. "I really was down here with Cait to check out the marke- Oh fuck me." Alistair snickered, but thankfully held his tongue. "Cait! I left her in the square alone!"

He rose quite suddenly to his feet, only to be tugged back down when Alistair grabbed his hand without looking and pulled. He plopped onto the bench with an oomph.

"She's back home, lad, beside herself because she thought you'd run off again an' couldn't imagine why."

Arthur's gut twisted guiltily. He would have to prepare the ultimate apology for the Irishwoman. Then, the Brit looked to the man who leaned back on a hand and puffed nonchalantly on his pipe. Something occurred to him.

"Did you...think I had run off?"

The Scot shrugged.

"Nae, not really." He pulled the pipe from his lips and blew a haze into the sky. He looked at ease, and Arthur drew comfort from his calm. "But I cannae help tae wonder why ye sit alone in the dark on a bench."

"It was kind of a...weird day," Arthur admitted, resting his head in his hands and leaning forward. All the thoughts and doubts and conflicting feelings slowly trickled back.

"Aye? 'N what made it weird?"

There was another long exhale and then the smell of smoke tinted the air.

"Just..." Arthur's heart seized guiltily and he dodged the subject, only to question the instinct immediately afterwards. "...I got hit with a lot of memories, all at once. I guess I just sort of...shut down."

Why am I lying?

"Ye do that," Alistair mumbled, "what were you rememberin'?"

Because I don't know what else to do.

"Home," the word slipped out before Arthur could give it thought, "...England," he corrected quietly, but the Scot was not angry.

"What about?"

Instead of answering, Arthur asked a question.

Help me figure myself out.

"Am I letting my people down? I'm a bloody Prince of England and I'm here in the midst of a war and pretending it's not happening."

Alistair took a while to answer, and during that time the youth fidgeted with his hands in his lap. He didn't like appearing so insecure and unsure to the Scot, but he wasn't sure what else to do – who else to turn to. He was hoping that he could get some valuable advice from the lord without actually tipping him off to exactly what had happened that day – at least, not before Arthur was ready.

"Do ye feel like yer lettin' 'em down?" The man was watching the blonde from the corner of his eye, his mind racing behind the calculative stare.

"Not always, no. I mean, there's my father and brother before me in terms of the monarchy, and I...I get the feeling that for all the time I've been missing, it hasn't really impacted anything."

"Then what's with th' guilt?"

"I...I don't know." The former prince scrambled for an excuse. "I'm having one of those days..."

Alistair regarded the boy subtly for a little while longer, not without suspicion. He grunted as if agreeing to something, before switching his pipe to his opposite hand. He leaned close to the boy and gripped his jaw tightly. He turned the blonde's head and planted a firm kiss.

Arthur pushed him away quickly and flushed.

"Someone will see, you twit," he hissed. Alistair raised a red eyebrow.

"And?"

"I'd rather not be lynched, thank you."

But Alistair didn't think this a good enough reason to abstain and kissed him again. Arthur was caught trying to struggle quietly against the firm hold, not entirely unwilling but knowing now was not the time or the place – but if he kicked up a fuss, he'd definitely draw attention to them.

Eventually, his restrained protests were heard and Alistair pulled away, absently wiping the corner of his mouth with a thumb.

"You're insane," Arthur grumbled, tasting smoke on his tongue.

"I'm nae lettin' ye leave, Arthur, if that's what yer thinkin' 'bout."

Alistair's tone was firm.

"Well, no, not quite. But-" Arthur searched desperately for the right things to say. "Just...how long do you think this can go on?" he was waffling: redirecting questions that had been asked of him in hopes that someone else could provide an answer he could use. "This...whatever it is between us?"

Alistair put a hand on the blonde's thigh and leaned in close, looming in on the Brit and studying the blush on his face.

"What's got ye thinkin' it'll stop?" His tone was just a hair too close to a growl for Arthur's liking. This was too soon. He wasn't ready. He hadn't decided.

Not now, please not yet.

"N-nothing in particular," he lied, "but you can't tell me you aren't worried that something will happen?"

Alistair stayed close, eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the youth's face. Arthur began to feel paranoid that somehow the Scotsman would just know and it would be something in his expression that gave it away – no matter how hard he tried to mask it.

"Like what?"

Arthur didn't answer at first and became determined to distract the man from how dangerously close he was to hearing a terrified, thoughtless confession. He went with the most obvious distraction he had available to him: he closed the distance between them and kissed him hard. It was frantic and panicked and definitely not distracting in the sort of way he was hoping, but he didn't stop and he didn't pull away; not until his jaw hurt and he was close to tears again.

"Ye bin possessed, boy?" Alistair asked, raising an eyebrow as Arthur turned his head away quickly and covered his mouth. When he'd calmed his racing heart and reigned in the expression of fear, he shut his eyes and let out a shaky breath. He wasn't entirely dishonest when he spoke.

"I'm just scared," he breathed.

"Och please," the Scot rolled his eyes, "I was gone fer a day in Perthshire, ye gonna fret like a lass every time I leave?"

"Yes!" Arthur snapped, and the ferocity in his voice startled even himself. "As long as this goddamned war is in effect, yes! I'm gonna bloody well worry every time you bloody leave and I can't help but to think of the things that could go wrong and what'll happen if you died or if I'm discovered and all of this-" he paused to gesture wildly between the two of them, then threw his hands up in the sky "-has to end!"

That was the core problem here – the war. Without it, things would be plainer and easier to deal with. He wouldn't feel torn in two as much as he did then. He wouldn't feel like he was betraying an entire kingdom every time he let the Scotsman too close – every time he let a supposed enemy too close. His frustrations from the day's events bubbled over into something far worse and just as ugly.

Alistair began to laugh, but he'd barely even begun when Arthur punched him hard.

"Don't you dare laugh at me!" he snarled, "don't you dare laugh at me for caring when I can barely stand it myself!"

In the wake of Arthur's outburst, the Scot fell quiet, his expression blank. The English youth wasn't about to apologize, as annoyed and hurt and conflicted as he was. He massaged at his knuckles with a scowl while the fire-haired lord cracked his jaw.

They sat in a tense silence and Arthur knew he'd gone a step too far. He was angry and scared and confused. He couldn't shake the feeling that the answer to all of this was obvious, but he was just too dense to see it – and struggling to grasp at a string he couldn't find was just giving him a headache. He felt stupid, and though the man's laughter didn't help that feeling, it still wasn't fair of him to take that out on Alistair.

The Scot broke the standoff when he spit blood into the dirt beside the bench and grimaced, bringing a hand to wipe at his mouth.

"Ye punch less like a woman each time," he noted, and Arthur was not fooled by the hushed tone – Alistair was furious. However, this anger was not like the man's usual battle-hungry rage. It was darker and colder and far more terrifying.

The funny thing was, Arthur had dealt with it before. He wasn't afraid as he knew he should have been. Though admittedly Arthur took no comfort in the way the lord banished the roughness of his brogue almost entirely.

"I have a question for ye, boy," he ground out slowly, keeping his eyes on the air ahead of him. "How long are you going to loathe the act of loving me?"

The man was stone still, and as much as Arthur wanted to, he could not move away. They sat frozen, each for different reasons, in a silence that was steadily smothering the younger.

'I have come to love ye, lad, and it's ruinin' me.'

Those words fit them both so well.

Arthur was being torn in two: England standing expectantly on one side and Scotland beckoning from the other. He wanted to stay with Alistair. He could live with losing his title – he hadn't been a prince for months now. He was satisfied with the way things were, and would be happy enough if they stayed that way.

But he felt an obligation to his family and his people. England was his home, his childhood and his inheritance. No matter how much he wanted to, he found it too hard to just turn away and ignore it. Some small part of him would always chastise him for making the wrong choice. The selfish choice.

Selfish. Oh you bloody fool.

Arthur had once called Alistair that, not too long ago, and Alistair had responded by calling him a hypocrite. He couldn't have been more right. With a long sigh, the youth buried his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said quietly, breaking the heavy silence with a tone of understanding. He felt himself smile sadly. "I've treated you unfairly."

Alistair chuckled, but the sound was hollow and dry. He had said the very same thing to the boy on the very same night he discovered the youth had a maturity and a sense of justice beyond his years.

"I'm selfish," the blonde admitted, "I am a selfish, entitled brat whose only true skill is the ability to take without giving back." Arthur would have thought he'd be fighting back tears, but instead he found himself calm. He was accepting. "How can I not be? Before Scotland, everything I'd needed or wanted was handed to me on a silver platter, and were it not to my liking I could merely kick up a fuss and see it changed. All of the harder decisions were made for me."

Arthur shifted to press his fingers into his temples.

"Even after all this time, I still think that way. I put myself before others, because it is all I've ever done. Caitlin, Steven, Alfred – even you. Especially you. You have all done so much for me, and I have hardly repaid anyone in kind."

His concerns thus far had been a touch too conceited. He had been so blinded by his own uncertainty that he hadn't taken the time to think about the thoughts or feelings of those around him, when those were the people that were affected the most by his choice.

If the English took Arbroath, whether or not Arthur helped them to victory, all his earlier concerns about the estate staff would undoubtedly become reality. They would be sold to the highest bidder, made to serve a new lord, told to adopt their way of life for one decidedly more English. And Alistair...

Arthur turned his head to look up at the man who sat beside him, watching with guarded emerald eyes.

Even if he survived the attack, it would break Alistair. For all his strength, Arthur knew the man had weaknesses. He was lonely and possessive and when he loved he loved fiercely – proud no matter what the circumstance. He had placed so much trust in Arthur, confessed to so much, thrown away riches and land, esteem and respect, all for his sake.

For Arthur to turn against him would belittle every one of those deeds.

It made him smile to think it, though it was a broken, guilty expression: this untouchable force of a man had a chink in his armour, and Arthur had become it. It made the prince feel horrible.

England was his home, his roots and his family.

But here had also become a home. He had a different kind of family here.

No matter the personal repercussions, he had to do what was right by the people he cared for. He could not live with himself if any of the people he'd come to love were hurt or killed and he had done nothing to prevent it. He could, however, live with the disapproval of his family. He could live with exile. Their lives did not hang in the balance of this impending battle.

"May I ask something, too?"

Alistair raised an eyebrow, but gave a curt nod. He looked like he hadn't decided whether he or not he was still angry.

"Why me?"

Silence.

"I mean, of all the people you know or have known or will meet; Why choose me?"

The silence just kept on. Arthur worried that he wouldn't get an answer, that this was the outburst that would see an end to the Scot's patience. He usually wasn't the one to flip-flop back and fourth between emotions, and obviously it was throwing them both off.

Eventually, the man turned his attention to his pipe. He turned it over and tapped it against the stone, content when no tobacco residue fluttered down from the chamber. He pocketed it afterwards and leaned back on his hands.

"I told ye it took me two weeks to figure out who ye really were, but even before that, I was suspicious. Most o' the time, I figured ye such a spoiled, whiny crybaby that I was sure you were nobility of some kind."

Arthur felt nothing as he watched the man's expression change.

"But there were times I doubted it...the times I saw the kind of person you really were beneath all that formality and complainin'; the kind of person you were outside of your obvious upbringing. Ye could be brave – cursing out me and my men while on the arse of a horse. Ye could be kind – wanting to take Cait's punishment for acting out. And ye could be considerate – bringin' me my pipe even after I had you bound to the gates, and still offering it after I'd pinned you under my blade."

The blonde felt himself chuckling at the memories – mostly because to him they were such small things and he didn't think Alistair was the type to be so sentimental.

"I admit, I even found it refreshing how ye could yell right back at me an' not care about the abuse or the threats, it was what made me hesitate using ye as a bargainin' chip in the first place. Never before had someone spoken to me so blatantly. I knew with you gone or our circumstances changed, I'd come to miss it."

He grinned,

"Things would've gotten boring again without ye around cursin' or complainin' or pickin' fights."

Arthur had no words with which to interrupt or respond to the tease. To his understanding, he'd been kept initially because of his status. At some point along the way, Alistair had grown fond of him and decided to hold off on using his unwitting hostage. Things had escalated from there.

Obviously.

"It was eventually Francis tae confirm my suspicion of yer bloodline," Alistair continued. "But by then it was too late and I was already attached. It was also Francis to later point out that my attachment was more than just that."

The memory of the men bickering outside of Alistair's study rang through the boy's mind.

'How dare ye! ...I am not weak!'

'I did not say that, frere. Why do you?'

Francis had known before either of them were ready to admit it and Arthur couldn't say he was surprised.

"So I suppose, th' most direct way to answer your question, Arthur," the Scot summarized with a grin, "Who else could it be?"

Arthur was touched in just about the same regards as he was annoyed. Even when being sentimental, Alistair could manage to ruin whatever the moment with a rude remark or a mocking tone. He could admit to such embarrassing things while simultaneously insulting the object of his affections.

Even so, Arthur could not deny that for all he claimed to hate the man or be annoyed with this trait, it was one of the things he could love about him too. Above all else, Alistair was honest about how he felt and he had always been that way. Coming from a world where people pretended to like Arthur to get in good graces with his father, it was– as Alistair had said – refreshing.

He knew what he was going to do now. He would like to say that underneath it all, he'd always known how he was going to handle this. He just needed a push to get him started – a reminder that he was making the right choice, despite how both options could be considered the 'right' one, depending on where you looked at it from.

But he was not quite ready to ruin his feeling of contentment with bad news. It was another selfish deed, one Arthur justified by promising himself it would be his last.

Instead of talking, Arthur put his hand over the Scot's, hiding his blush with a bashful smile as he did. It was him to lean close and kiss the lord, chaste and innocent. It was Alistair who steadily turned to nature of the exchange to something wild and racy.

And for that time, Arthur didn't care where they were or who could see them. Alistair had been proud and unafraid from the very beginning, and Arthur had only ever pretended to hate him for it. Here he would draw on the lord's courage and pride to show him he was sorry:

He was sorry for ever even questioning what the right thing to do would be. Sorry for trying to downplay the way he felt with complaints and false loathing. Sorry for being selfish and conceited at all the worst times.

Most of all, he was sorry that he could never seem to understand the puzzle of a lord he'd grown to love.

He hoped Alistair would forgive his last selfish act, but this moment was just too warm to ruin with more talk of war. He would tell him first thing in the morning, and happily accept the consequences of his tardiness.

It was Alistair suddenly sitting upright in his bed that stirred Arthur. The blonde turned his head and looked back to the Scottish man, whose expression was one of deep concentration.

"What's wrong?"

The man didn't answer immediately, and Arthur cast his gaze out to the window, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He would've been up soon anyways, given that the sun was beginning to light up the sky with dawn, but Alistair usually slept later and did not wake gracefully.

"Wot th'bleedin'-" Alistair rolled out of bed quickly, collecting his pants from the floor and pulling them on as he walked around the bed to approach the window. Arthur wrinkled his nose, but held back from reminding the Scot that those clothes needed to be washed.

But the Scotsman didn't seem to care, grabbing his shirt from the bedpost as he passed. He hesitated by the window, glancing this way and that as if searching for something. He then turned and crossed the room again, pushing his way into the lavatory and leaving Arthur to wonder just what had gotten into him.

His mind wasn't completely awake when he went to dress – in clean clothes he'd set aside a previous day. It was why he was so startled when he heard a muffled boom echo over the hills.

In the seconds following, the entire building shook and there was a terrific crash from somewhere down the hall.

Alistair burst out of the lavatory.

"I fuckin' knew it!"

But he stopped dead at the sight of Arthur standing shocked in the middle of the room, his eyes wide and his mouth hidden behind his hands. He didn't flinch when Alistair stormed across the room and towards him, just as he didn't flinch at the sound of a second explosion.

"Never heard cannon fire before, lad?" Alistair sneered, waving his hand in front of the youth's wide eyes. That horrified expression turned up to him and he could clearly see the panic in those jade colours. He couldn't ignore his concern. "Ye alright, Arthur?"

"No..." the boy breathed, "They're...they're early."

Alistair felt his blood run cold.

"...What?"

But Arthur didn't hear the warning in that tone. He shook his head, and his mouth began to run in his panic.

"He said tomorrow night. I know it. He said tomorrow night. Why is he here now?" He pressed his hands into the side of his head. "It's morning...they're attacking in the morning...I should've known...Oh, what have I done?"

He looked up to where Alistair stared down, the understanding on his face vicious and cold and absolutely enraged. Everything froze for Arthur in unison with how everything clicked for Alistair.

"You knew."

Awww he knew.
(I'm going through a cliffhanger relapse, guys, I'm sorry.)

Happy Wednesday, everyone.

I'd like to thank all of you for your continued support and feedback - Guests included (I wish I could answer you guys, but I can't!) Not a day goes by where I'm not eagerly checking my inbox for a review notice. I'm even glad to get the e-mails telling me someone's favourited or is following, it sends me over the moon each and every time.

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Thank you for reading this far, and I look forward to hearing from you,

Until next time (Saturday, probably)

Ami.