Hey, new story(un-original). It's a bit out there, but I will try my best to tone it down. I hope you will give it a chance.
Original name: Royally Screwed
Author: Emma Chase
Therefore, I do not own Merlin or the characters, neither do I own Royally Screwed...just an over-active imagination and three wonderful boys!
ARTHUR
My very first memory isn't all that different from anyone else's.
I was three years old and it was my first day of preschool. And for some reason, my mother ignored the fact that I was actually a boy and dressed me in God-awful overalls, a frilly cuffed shirt and patent-leather brogues.
Well, I don't have to tell you, I made up my mind to smear finger paint on the outfit, the first chance I got.
But that's not what stands out most in my mind.
By then, spotting a camera lens pointed my way, was as common as seeing a bird in the sky. I should've been used to it, and I think I was.
But that day was different.
Because there were hundreds of cameras.
Lining every inch of the sidewalk and the streets, and clustered together at the entrance of my school, like a sea of one-eyed monsters, waiting to pounce.
I remember my mother's voice, soothing and constant as I clung to her hand, but I couldn't make out her words.
They were drowned out by the roar of snapping shutters and the shouts of photographers calling my name.
"Arthur! Arthur, this way, smile now! Look up, lad! Arthur, over here!"
It was the first inkling I'd had, that I was...that we were...different.
And in the years after, I'd learn just how different my family is.
Internationally renowned, and instantly recognizable, our everyday activities were headlines in the making.
Fame is a strange thing.
A powerful thing.
Usually it ebbs and flows like a tide.
People get swept up in it, swamped by it, but eventually the notoriety recedes, and the former object of its affection, is reduced to someone who used to be someone...but isn't anymore.
That will never happen to me.
I was known before I was born and my name will be blazoned in history, long after I'm dust in the ground.
Infamy is temporary, celebrity is fleeting, but royalty...royalty is forever.
One would think, as accustomed as I am to being watched, that I wouldn't be effected by the sensation of someone staring at me while I sleep.
One would be wrong.
My eyes spring open, to see Fernando's scraggly, crinkled countenance, just inches from my face.
"Bloody hell!" I shouted.
It's not a pleasant view.
His one good eye glares disapprovingly, while the other...the wandering one...that my brother and I always suspected wasn't lazy at all, but a freakish ability to see everything at once...gazes towards the opposite side of the room.
Every stereotype starts somewhere, with some vague but lingering grain of truth. And I've long suspected the stereotype of the condescending, cantankerous servant, began with Fernando.
God knows the wrinkled bastard is old enough.
He straightens up at my bedside, as much as his hunched, ancient spine will let him.
"Took you long enough to wake up. You think I don't have better things to do? I was just about to kick you."
He's exaggerating...about having better things to do...not the plan to kick me.
But yeah, I love my bed.
It was an eighteenth birthday gift from the King of Spain.
It's a four-column, gleaming piece of art, hand-carved in the sixteenth century, from one massive piece of Brazilian mahogany.
My mattress is stuffed with the softest Hungarian goose feathers, my Egyptian cotton sheets have a thread count so high, it's illegal in some parts of the world, and all I want to do is to roll over and bury myself under them, like a child determined not to get up for school.
But Fernando's raspy warning grates like sandpaper on my eardrums.
"You're supposed to be in the green drawing room in twenty-five minutes," he said.
'So ducking under the covers is no longer an option. They won't save me from machete-wielding psychopaths...or a packed schedule.'
Sometimes I think I'm schizophrenic.
Dissociative.
With possibly a split personality.
It wouldn't be unheard of. All sorts of disorders show up in ancient family trees...hemophiliacs, insomniacs, lunatics...gingers.
Guess I should feel lucky not to be any of those.
My problem is voices.
Not the kind that is heard...more like reactions in my head.
Answers to questions that don't match what actually ends up coming out of my mouth.
I almost never say what I really think.
Sometimes, I'm so full of shit, my eyes could turn brown.
And, it might be for the best.
Because I happen to think most people are fucking idiots.
"And...we're back, chatting with His Royal Highness, Prince Arthur."
Speaking of idiots...
The light-haired, thin-boned, be-speckled man sitting across from me, conducting this captivating televised interview, is Theodore Littlecock.
No, really, that's his actual name...and from what I hear, it's not an oxymoron.
Can you imagine what it must've been like for him in school with a name like that?
It's almost enough to make me feel bad for him.
Almost.
Because Littlecock is a journalist...and I have a special kind of disgust for them.
The media's mission has always been to bend the mighty over a barrel and ram their transgressions up their aristocratic asses.
Which, in a way, is fine...most aristocrats are first-class pricks...everybody knows that.
But what bothers me, is when it's not deserved.
When it's not even true.
If there's no dirty laundry around, the media will drag a freshly starched shirt through shit and create their own.
Here's an oxymoron for you...journalistic integrity.
Old Theo isn't just any reporter...he's Palace Approved. Which means, unlike his bribing, blackmailing, lying brethren, he gets direct access...like this interview...in exchange for asking the stupidest bloody questions ever.
It's mind-numbing.
Choosing between dull and dishonest, is like being asked whether you want to be shot or stabbed.
"What do you do in your spare time? What are your hobbies?" the reporter asked.
See what I mean?
It's like those Playboy centerfold interviews...I like bubble baths, pillow fights, and long, naked walks on the beach.
No she doesn't.
But the point of the questions isn't to inform, it's to reinforce the fantasies of the blokes jerking off to her.
It's the same way for me.
I grin, flashing a hint of...what I've been told...perfectly aligned white teeth.
I've also been told...women fall all over themselves for them.
"Well, most nights I like to read," I said, answering Littlecock's question
'I like to bang women,' is what I really wanted to say...in vulgar terms though.
Which is probably the answer my fans would rather hear. But the Palace, however, would lose their ever-loving minds if I said that.
Anyway, where was I?
That's right...the banging.
I like doing it long, hard, and frequent, with my hands on a firm, round bottom, pulling some lovely little piece back against me, hearing her sweet moans bouncing off the walls as she explodes around my length.
These century-old rooms have fantastic acoustics.
While some men choose women because of their talent at keeping their legs open, I prefer the ones who are good at keeping their mouths shut.
Discretion and an ironclad NDA, keep most of the real stories out of the papers.
"I also enjoy horseback riding, polo, and an afternoon of clay pigeon shooting with the Queen," I say.
I enjoy rock climbing, driving as fast as I can without crashing, flying, good scotch, B-movies, and a scathingly passive-aggressive verbal exchange with the Queen.
It's that last one that keeps the Old Bird on her toes...my wit is her fountain of youth.
Plus, it's good practice for us both.
Camelot is an active constitutional monarchy so unlike our ceremonial neighbors, and the Queen is an equal ruling branch of government, along with Parliament.
That essentially makes the royal family politicians.
Top of the food chain, sure, but politicians all the same.
And politics is a quick, dirty, brawling business. And every brawler knows that if you're going to bring a knife to a fistfight, that knife had better be sharp.
I cross my arms over my chest, displaying the tan, bare forearms beneath the sleeves of my rolled-up, pale-blue oxford.
I'm told, they have a rabid Twitter following...along with a few other parts of my body.
I then tell the story of my first shoot to the old buzzard.
It's a fandom favorite...I could recite it in my sleep...and it almost feels like I am...asleep, that is.
Theodore chuckles at the ending...when my brat of a little brother loaded the launcher with a cow patty, instead of a pigeon.
Then he sobers, adjusting his glasses, signaling that the sad portion of our program will now begin.
"It will be thirteen years this May, since the tragic plane crash that took the lives of the Prince and Princess of Cameliard."
Called it.
I nod silently.
"Do you think of them often?" he asked.
Of course I do.
The carved teak bracelet weighs heavily on my wrist.
"I have many happy memories of my parents. But what's most important to me, is that they live on through the causes they championed, the charities they supported, and the endowments that carry their name. That's their legacy. And by building up the foundations they advocated for, I'll ensure they'll always be remembered."
Words, words, words, talk, talk, talk. I'm good at that. Saying a lot without really answering a thing.
But I think of them every single day.
It's not our way to be overly emotional...stiff upper lip, onward and upward, the King is dead...long live the King. But while to the world they were a pair of HRHs, to me and my brother Andrew, they were just plain old Mum and Dad.
They were good and fun and real.
They hugged us often, and smacked us about when we deserved it...which was pretty often too.
They were wise and kind and loved us fiercely...and that's a rarity in my social circle.
I wonder what they'd have to say about everything and how different things would be if they had lived.
Old Theo's talking again.
And I'm not listening, but I don't have to...the last few words are all I need to hear.
"...Lady Elena last weekend?"
I've known Elle since school days. She's a good egg...loud and rowdy.
"Lady Elena and I are old friends."
"Just friends?"
She's also a committed lesbian. A fact her family wants to keep out of the press.
And I'm her favorite beard.
Our mutually beneficial dates are organized through the Palace secretary.
I smile charmingly.
"I make it a rule not to kiss and tell," I tell him.
He leans forward, catching a whiff of story.
The story.
"So, there is a possibility that something deeper could be developing between you two? The country took so much joy in watching your parents' courtship. The people are on tenterhooks waiting for you, 'His Royal Hotness' as they call you on social media, to find your own ladylove and settle down."
I shrug.
"Anything's possible."
Except for that.
I won't be settling down anytime soon. He can bet his Littlecock on it.
As soon as the hot beam of front lighting is extinguished and the red recording signal on the camera blips off, I stand up from my chair, removing the microphone clipped to my collar.
Theodore stands as well.
"Thank you for your time, Your Grace."
He bows slightly at the neck...the proper protocol.
I nod.
"Always a pleasure, Littlecock."
That's not what she said.
Ever.
Barbara, my personal secretary...a stout, middle-aged, well-ordered woman, appears at my side with a bottle of water.
"Thank you."
I twist the cap.
"Who's next?" I asked.
The Dark Suits thought it was a good time for a PR boost...which means, days of interviews, tours, and photo shoots...my own personal fourth, fifth, and sixth circles of hell.
"He's the last for today," Barbara said.
"Thank God!"
Barbara falls into step beside me as I walk down the long, carpeted hallway, that will eventually lead to Orkney House...my private apartments at the Palace.
"Lord Gwaine is arriving shortly, and arrangements for dinner at Sarras are confirmed."
Being friends with me is harder than you'd think.
I mean, I'm a great friend...my life, on the other hand, is a pain in the ass.
I can't just drop by a pub last minute or hit up a new club on a random Friday night. These things have to be preplanned and organized.
Spontaneity is the only luxury I don't get to enjoy.
"Good," I respond.
With that, Barbara heads towards the palace offices and I enter my private quarters.
My private quarters consists of three floors, a full modernized kitchen, a morning room, a library, two guest rooms, servants' quarters and two master suites with balconies, that open up to the most breathtaking views on the grounds.
All fully restored and updated...the colours, tapestries, stonework, and moldings, maintaining their historic integrity.
Orkney House is the official residence of the Prince or Princess of Cameliard...the heir apparent...whomever that may be.
It was my father's before it was mine, and my grandmother's before her coronation.
Royals are big on hand-me-downs.
I head up to the master bedroom, unbuttoning my shirt, looking forward to the hot, pounding feel of eight showerheads turned up to full blast.
My shower is freaking fantastic.
But I don't make it that far, because Fernando meets me at the top of the stairs and croaks,
"She wants to see you."
And 'she' needs no further introduction.
I rub a hand down my face, scratching the five o'clock shadow on my chin.
"When?" I ask.
"When do you think?" Fernando scoffs. "Yesterday, o' course."
Of course.
Back in the old days, the throne was the symbol of a monarch's power.
In illustrations, it was depicted with the rising sun behind it, and the clouds and stars beneath it...the seat for a descendent of God himself.
If the throne was the emblem of power, the throne room was the place where that sovereignty was wielded. Where decrees were issued, punishments were pronounced, and the command of "bring me his head" echoed off the cold stone walls.
That was then.
Now, the royal office is where the work gets done, and the throne room is used for public tours.
And yesterday's throne, is today's executive desk.
I'm sitting across from it right now.
It's shining, solid mahogany and ridiculously huge.
If my grandmother were a man, I'd suspect she was compensating for something...maybe she is, who knows...
Charles, the Queen's personal secretary, offers me tea, but I decline with a wave of my hand.
He's young, about twenty-three, as tall as I am, and attractive...in an action-film star kind of way.
He's not a terrible secretary, but he's not the sharpest tack in the box, either. And I think the Queen keeps him around for kicks, because she likes looking at him, the dirty old girl.
In my head, I call him Igor, because if my grandmother told him to eat nothing but flies for the rest of his life, he'd ask,
"With the wings on or off?"
Finally, the adjoining door to the blue drawing room opens and Her Majesty Queen Margaret stands in the doorway.
There's a species of monkey indigenous to the Colombian rain forest, that's one of the most adorable-looking animals you'll ever see.
Its cuteness puts fuzzy hamsters and small dogs on Pinterest to shame...except, for its hidden razor-sharp teeth and its appetite for human eyeballs.
And those lured in by the beast's precious appearance, are doomed to lose theirs.
My grandmother is a lot like those vicious little monkeys.
She looks like a granny...like anyone's granny. Short and petite, with soft poofy hair, small pretty hands, shiny pearls, thin lips that can laugh at a dirty joke, and a face lined with wisdom.
But it's the eyes that give her away.
Gunmetal gray eyes.
The kind that back in the day would have sent opposing armies fleeing...because they're the eyes of a conqueror...undefeatable.
"Arthur."
I rise and bow.
"Grandmother."
She breezes pass Charles without a look.
"Leave us," she commanded.
And he wordlessly disappeared.
I sit after she does, resting my ankle on the opposite knee, my arm casually slung along the back of the chair.
"I saw your interview," she tells me. "You should smile more. You used to seem like such a happy boy."
"I'll try to remember to pretend to be happier."
She opens the center drawer of her desk, withdrawing a keyboard, then taps away on it, with more skill than you'd expect from someone her age.
"Have you seen the evening's headlines?" she asked.
"I haven't."
She turns the screen towards me. Then she clicks rapidly on one news website after another.
PRINCE PARTIES AT THE PLAYBOY MANSION
ANDREW THE HEARTBREAKER
RANDY ROYAL
WILD, WEALTHY...AND WET
The last one is paired with the unmistakable picture of my brother diving into a swimming pool...naked as the day he was born.
I lean forward, squinting.
"Andrew will be horrified. The lighting is terrible in this one...you can barely make out his tattoo."
My grandmother's lips tighten.
"You find this amusing?" she asked.
Mostly I find it annoying.
Andrew is immature and unmotivated...a slacker.
He floats through life like a feather in the wind, coasting in whatever direction the breeze takes him.
I shrug.
"He's twenty-four, he was just discharged from service..."
Mandatory military service, I might add. Every royal is required to give two years.
"He was discharged months ago." She cuts me off. "And he's been around the world with eighty whores ever since."
"Have you tried calling his mobile?" I asked.
"Of course I have." She clucks. "He answers, makes that ridiculous static noise, and tells me he can't hear me. Then he says he loves me and hangs up."
My lips pull into a grin.
The brat's entertaining...I'll give him that.
The Queen's eyes darken like an approaching storm.
"He's in the States...Las Vegas...with plans to go to Manhattan soon. I want you to go there and bring him home, Arthur. I don't care if you have to bash him over the head and shove him into a burlap sack...the boy needs to be brought to heel."
I've visited almost every major city in the world, and out of all of them, I hate New York the most.
"My schedule..." I started.
"Has been rearranged. While there, you'll attend several functions in my stead. I'm needed here."
"I assume you'll be working on the House of Commons? Persuading those assholes to finally do their job?"
"I'm glad you brought that up." My grandmother crosses her arms. "Do you know what happens to a monarchy without a stable line of heirs, my boy?"
My eyes narrow.
"I studied history at university. Of course I do."
"Enlighten me."
I lift my shoulders and say,
"Without a clear succession of uncontested heirs, there could be a power grab...discord...and possibly civil war between different houses that see an opportunity to take over."
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. And my palms start to sweat.
It's that feeling you get, when you're almost to the top of that first hill on a roller coaster.
Tick, tick, tick...
"Where are you going with this?" I asked. "We have heirs. If Andrew and I are taken out by some catastrophe, there's always cousin William."
"Cousin William is an imbecile. He married an imbecile. And his children are double-damned imbeciles. They will never rule this country."
She straightens her pearls and lifts her nose.
"There are murmurings in Parliament about changing us to a ceremonial sovereignty," she added.
"There are always murmurings."
"Not like this," she says sharply. "This is different. They're holding up the trade legislation, unemployment is climbing, and wages are down..."
She taps the screen.
"...and these headlines aren't helping. People are worried about putting food on their tables, while their prince cavorts from one luxury hotel to another. We need to give the press something positive to report. We need to give the people something to celebrate. And we need to show Parliament we are firmly in control, so they'd best play nicely or we'll run roughshod over them."
I'm nodding. Agreeing. Like a stupid moth flapping happily towards the flame.
"What about a day of pride?" I asked. "We could open the ballrooms to the public, and have a parade," I suggest. "People love that sort of thing."
The Queen taps her chin.
"I was thinking something...bigger. Something that will catch the world's attention. The event of the century."
Her eyes glitter with anticipation...like an executioner right before he swings the ax.
And then...the ax comes down.
"The wedding of the century!"
My entire body locks up.
And I think my organs begin to shut down.
My voice becomes rough with pointless, illogical hope.
"Is Great-Aunt Esmerelda marrying again?" I asked.
The Queen folds her hands on the desk...a terrible sign.
That's her tell, which says, her mind is made up and not even a gale-force wind could sway her off course.
"When you were a boy, I promised your mother that I would give you the space to choose a wife for yourself, as your father chose her. To fall in love. I've watched and waited, and now I've given up waiting. Your family needs you. Your country needs you. Therefore, you will announce the name of your betrothed at a press conference...at the end of the summer."
My grandmother's declaration breaks me out of my shock and I jump to my feet.
"That's five bloody months from now!"
She shrugs.
"I wanted to give you thirty days. You can thank your grandfather for talking me out of it."
She means the portrait on the wall behind her. My grandfather has been dead for ten years.
"Maybe you should be less concerned with my personal life and more concerned with the press finding out about your habit of talking to paintings."
"It comforts me!" she blasts.
Now she's standing too, hands on her desk, leaning towards me.
"And it's just the one painting...don't be obnoxious, Artie."
"Can't help it." I look at her pointedly. "I learned from the best."
She ignores the dig and sits back down.
"I've drawn up a list of suitable young ladies...some of them you've met and some will be new to you. This is our best course of action, unless you can give me a reason to think otherwise."
And...I've got nothing.
My wit deserts me so fast there's a dust trail in my brain. Because politically, public relations–wise, she's right...a royal wedding kills all the birds with one stone.
But the birds don't give a damn about what's right...they just see a rock coming at their bloody heads.
"I don't want to get married."
The Queen shrugs.
"I don't blame you. I didn't want to wear your great-great grandmother, Queen Miriam's tiara on my twenty-first birthday either. It was a gaudy, heavy thing. But we all must do our duty. You know this. Now it's your turn, Prince Arthur."
There's a reason duty is a homophone for shit.
And she's not asking me as my grandmother...she's telling me, as my Queen.
And a lifetime of upbringing centered around responsibility, legacy, birthright and honor, make it impossible for me to refuse.
I need alcohol.
Right now!
"Is that all, Your Majesty?"
She stares at me for several beats, then nods.
"It is. Travel safely and we'll speak again when you return."
I stand, dip my head, and turn to leave, and just as the door is closing behind me, I hear a sigh and my grandmother's voice.
"Oh, Henry, where did we go wrong? Why must they be so difficult?"
An hour later, I'm back at Orkney House, sitting in front of the fireplace in the morning room, handing my empty glass to Fernando for a refill.
Another refill.
It's not that I haven't known what's expected of me...the whole world knows.
I have one job...pass my tiger blood on to the next generation...beget an heir who'll one day replace me, as I'll replace my grandmother.
And run a country.
Still, it all seemed so theoretical.
Some day, one day.
The Queen is healthier than a whole stable of horses...she's not going anywhere anytime soon.
But now...a wedding...
Shit just got real.
So, as you can see, I've taken certain liberties with the names of places, monarchical etc. They are not based on anything factual, so please forgive me if I've caused any offense...it was never intended.
What do you say? Yay or Nay?
Stay safe!