Arthur's eyes remained fixed on the ground, processing the new information. Of all the thoughts bouncing around in his head, one thing was certain, Peter was going die. Arthur felt tears escape his eyes and trickle down his face in frustration with his failure. What failure you ask, the failure to keep the promise he made to his mother before she was arrested.
Arthur's 12th birthday had just passed, and he and his small family was celebrating with make shift decorations and a stale loaf of bread. It was a long time since Arthur had a decent birthday, so the loaf of bread was a luxury to him, and he treated as a blessing. Before he and Peter dug into the loaf, his mother flicked them both and scolded them about saying grace before every meal. They complied quickly, making a rushed prayer and a quick salute to god. A few hours later, after they had savored every bite of bread, Arthur's mother pulled him aside and whispered softly into his ear.
"Promise mummy that you'll look after Peter" she said with desperation in her eyes. Arthur was confused by her pleading look, but he promised anyway. She gave him a quick kiss on the head, and they made their way back to the alley they resided in. Arthur fell asleep in her arms next to his brother, expecting her to be there when he woke up. But in the morning, when she wasn't wrapped protectively around her sons, Arthur instead found her being dragged away screaming by guards, accusing her of theft. Arthur made brief eye contact with her as she was hauled away, the message in her eyes clear.
They were never going to see each other again.
Arthur felt his body shake at the memory, and the Americans noticed too. Dennis felt guilty for blurting out what he said, but Kevin kept on a smug smile. Dennis sighed heavily, trying to drag the brit out of his feelings. "I really don't know what would happen to your brother! I was just talking stupid; I don't even know why I said that!" Dennis chuckled, eyeing the Englishman. This did little to soothe the brit, who actually felt a bit offended at Dennis's laugh. Why was he always laughing!
Kevin was really enjoying the emotional pain Arthur was going through, and he couldn't resist the urge to taunt. "I lost a brother too, you know, to you filthy brits. I'm just so glad that I get to play a hand in your brother's death. I wonder what they'll do... will they leave him outside? It's awfully chilly in November, especially at night. He'll die in fear and regret, in fear of death and his inevitable place in hell, and he'll regret ever relying on you in the first place." Kevin watched in satisfaction as the brit's expression became even more pained.
Arthur feared that Kevin was right. Peter would have a slow, agonizing death, and Arthur couldn't do a thing to stop it. Arthur fell to his side and instantly got into a fetal position, opting to sleep, or pretend to sleep as long as the conversation ended. The brit felt an undying hatred sprout in his heart towards Kevin, an animosity he doubts would ever go away. He heard Dennis swear at his friend and a hard thud, shortly followed by a whine of pain. The Englishman heard Dennis tell Kevin that he was taking the first watch, to which Kevin was happy to hear.
Arthur felt his eyes get heavy with emotion, and he soon found himself succumbing to sleep. But at the same time, his mind was racing, racing for a solution to his problem. It took Arthur a few hours to actually sleep, satisfied with what he was able to formulate in such short notice.
~~~~~~~~ Wounded Knight~~~~~~~~
It was dawn when Arthur was rudely awoken by Kevin and hauled over to the cart. There was something different about Arthur's resolve; it was less jittery and more confident. It appears the young Brit had an epiphany that night, or had a spectacular idea that withdrew him from his depression. He was given a few fresh apples for breakfast from Dennis, which he ate silently. He suddenly remembered the apple that was still in his pants, unsure of how he even slept without squashing it. He figured he might as well keep it there, who knows when it might come in handy.
The sky was still a little dark, the sun leaving the sky a little rosey in color. When the wagon had started to move, Arthur evaluated his plan. What plan? The plan he had made to escape and find Peter, but first, he needed to get to the fortress. Arthur cleared his throat before starting conversation. "Dennis? When are we getting to the fortress?" He asked softly, portraying indifference in his voice, sounding too eager would incite suspicion. Dennis hummed lightly as he looked at the sky for a moment.
"About four days at least"
What! Four days, that gonna fuck up his plan completely. Well, thank goodness the Brit made a plan b. Arthur snuggled into the blanket Dennis had given to him and pretended to sleep. After a few hours of traveling, the sun had finally decided to go down, leaving the Brit happy. He didn't feel ready to feel the sun head on, not yet. When the cover of night shrouded the cart, Arthur felt confident of his new plan. He was annoyed of the Americans constant chatter though, but at least he got to hear the ending of the story. And Arthur's interpretation went a little like this:
. Dennis and Kevin keeping watch
. Dennis and Kevin hear a yell and go to investigate
. Dennis and Kevin hear the noise again, coming from the king's chamber
. They bust into the room to see a bunch of unconscious women and a woman who was being beaten by the king
. Woman runs to Dennis and Kevin for protection
. Dennis and Kevin interrogate the king, who fires them on the spot
. They argue about how they signed a contract and that their service cannot be relieved
. The king kills the woman, and puts the two guards on Brit duty
After hearing the story, Arthur realized how crazy Dennis actually was. To think he thought Dennis was a decent guy. This story was hardly funny, so the constant chuckling from him was disturbing. Dennis gave the impression of the story being light hearted, being all smiley about it when he tried to tell to me. Arthur was beginning to regret not actually sleeping. This worrying new realization only fueled Arthur's eagerness to escape as soon as possible.
A few minutes had passed when Arthur's saw his opening, the dry brittle grass turning into muddy ground. He don't want to sneak off when there was dry grass on the ground, afraid of being heard and getting caught. However, when they the started getting closer to the fens, the land got softer, and the wildlife got denser, giving the Brit the perfect opening. He poised himself in a crouching position and waddled towards the opening of the wagon, just like he did last time when he retrieved the apple. He turned back to see if the Americans were still chatting, they weren't, but they still weren't facing his direction. It was a go.
He landed on the soft earth with an inaudible thud, turning around just to be safe. They didn't seem to notice, so he made a break for it towards the forest and off of the road. As he marched through the under growth of the forest, he found it tedious to be stepping so carefully. After he felt he was safe and far enough away, only then did he walk normally. The adrenalin pumping through the Brit's blood kept his pace fast, and he moved skillfully in between thick brambles and dead trees that had fallen long ago. But most importantly, he moved with purpose. He had overheard the American idiots talk about the trail the other cart was using, somewhere in the east. He thought nothing of it when he heard it at the time, but last night, when he was thinking of a series of plans, the information seemed vital.
After what felt like forever, the sun was high in the sky, but thankfully, the thick canopy of the Forrest he was in blocked almost all of it out. Arthur didn't really know why he was avoiding the sun so feverishly, but he went along with his subconscious. There was a smile on his face anyway, still basking in the smell of freedom. The Forrest had this interesting scent, a mixture of various fruits and mosses. The smell was intoxicating, and Arthur found himself falling in love with it. He found a stream in front of him, and kneeled before it to wash himself. After glancing at himself, he flinched.
"Jesus, I look horrid!" His face was bruised, most definitely due to the punches the American asshole had landed on him. He had dirty cheeks, and muddy hair. He was pretty sure his hair was still blonde, but the lack of a proper mirror had always left it as just a hunch. The Brit opted to take a bath, knowing it was cold this time of year didn't make a difference. He deserved this. He peeled off his muddy clothes and slowly lowered himself into the water, breathing shakily as the cool water swallowed more and more of his body. He pulled his dirty clothes into the water to clean them, not wanting to wear dirty clothes. He doubted they would be ready in time, but nevertheless, when he was done he wrung the water out and placed them on the bank of the stream to dry.
After about 15 minutes of relaxation, Arthur had a bad feeling pooling in his gut. The sensation was out of nowhere, and the brit knew he had to leave then and there. He placed both hands on the bank, ready to pull himself out when suddenly he heard a hard crash nearby. Shit! He wrapped himself in the blanket he stole from his captors and collected his clothes. He heard another clang, the sound of metal bumping into things, and it was coming closer. He heard heavy breathing, and coughing, and Arthur, despite his internal protest, was transfixed in his spot, staring with wide eyes at the looming shadow coming his way. The wind blew harshly, moving the branches enough for light to shine through, landing directly on the unknown figure. Arthur gasped as he saw an armored hand grab the trunk of the tree before the rest of the stranger's body leaned against it.
Arthur stared at the Knight, disappointed to see the royal seal of the United States on his surcoat. The knight slid to the floor with a painful groan and a loud clash, startling the brit from his stupor. The brit was conflicted. Does he leave him, or does he help? The knight looked to be in a critical condition, and if someone didn't remove the armor and see to his wounds, he wouldn't have long. But he was the enemy, and by the look of his fancy suit of armor, he was an important enemy. Letting him die could probably aid whatever English efforts were left. But doing that would be wrong, and letting someone die would never sit well with his subconscious. But he spent the entire war doing nothing, this could be his moment to do something meaningful. But Dennis's words rang in his ears.
The war was over.
Arthur grumbled something indecent before rushing to the American's aid. He pulled off the American's helmet first, wanting to check if the American was awake, or alive even. He was met with the most beautiful blue he had ever seen; it was such a shame that they were glassy and losing focus by the second. He saw the knight's lip move, as if trying to speak, but nothing was coming out, besides blood of course. The warm liquid reminded the Brit of the task at hand. He removed the rest of the armor as best he could, nut he had a little trouble with the breast plate. "Shit, how the hell do I do this!" he grunted. He flipped the American over and saw some fastenings. It took Arthur a moment to undo them and pull off the metal piece.
"Alright, what do I do now, Mr. Knight?" Arthur peeled the blood soaked shirt the American wore off, grimacing at the damage that was done to him. There were several deep gashes on the soldier's torso, oozing blood faster than Arthur could react. Arthur ran back to the bank of the stream, grabbing his freshly washed shirt and dampening it, and returning to the American to clean some of the wounds. As he applied pressure and dabbed the first wound clean, the American cried out in pain, shaking and cursing. Arthur kept apologizing, trying to think of some way to calm the American down. Maybe conversing would take his mind off of the pain.
"Who are you? What happened?" the Brit asked calmly, glancing at the American's face. The knight's eyes widened, and again tried to scramble away again. Why? The Brit didn't know. Arthur sighed in frustration, put held in his annoyance since he was on the last gash. He had torn parts of the American's shirt into thin strips of cloth he could use to cover the wounds he cleaned. He needed to find help. When he wrapped the last wound, the Englishman sat on the ground besides the panting patient. Arthur did an amateur job at treating the wounds, and he knew they would start bleeding once more eventually. He needed a professional, or at least better supplies. Arthur hadn't noticed the piercing blue eyes that were tracing his body warily.
"Who are you?" the Brit jumped a little, completely startled by the deep, commanding tone the knight used on him. Arthur whimpered silently, before shaking his head wildly. What the fuck? No, he asked the stranger first!
"Not until you tell me who you are first. Or at least how you were injured so badly." The Brit said calmly, looking at the palms of his hands. His heart was racing and his cheeks were heating up; he was nervous and he didn't know why. Was it because he didn't obey the knight's order? He didn't have to oblige to anyone's wishes, especially an American's. The American in question just rolled his eyes and frowned, before speaking.
"I was hunting for some boar with my father when we were ambushed," he deadpanned, not meeting the Brit in the eye. "By the British." He added with a sneer. Alfred sat up with a hiss and placed his back on the trunk of the tree behind him, gazing intently at his savior. Arthur felt the stranger's hot gaze on his skin, searing the hair on his arms. It actually hurt, a lot.
"Ow!" the Brit hissed, looking at a now red patch of skin. "What the hell!?" he asked quietly, but still loud enough for the American to hear. The American studied him harder, before finally noticing the new burn on the Englishman's arm. The American hummed in realization, catching the Brit's attention.
"What?" the Brit asked timidly. The blush was still staining his cheek, but there was nothing he could do about it, so he opted to hide it. He lifted the warm blanket up little higher so that it covered a bit of his face. Consequently, it revealed more of the Englishman's thighs to the stranger, who had noticed. He hummed again, but more in frustration than anything else. "What?!" the Brit asked again, a rare emotion in his voice. Alfred cleared his throat before speaking.
"Do the British always walk around with nothing but a blanket, or is that just you?" he asked, his mocking tone infuriating him.
"HOW... dare you!" the Brit began to yell but lowered his voice after receiving a look from the knight. Arthur cleared his throat began again. "The reason why I'm naked is because I was in the middle of a bath when you crashed into the bloody clearing, you bastard! And the reason I'm still naked is because I used my shirt to tend to your bloody bleeding wounds!" he huffed and turned away, face red with rage, continuing his rant. "I swear! every American I meet is a douche or crazy!"
"You've met more Americans?" the stranger asked, portraying no emotion. Arthur nodded in response, not wanting to speak to the rude stranger. "Who were they?" Arthur quirked an eyebrow before shrugging. Arthur felt the heat of the other's gaze on him, and it made him shiver. Suddenly, a warm hand was on his shoulder, causing the Englishman to turn around in shock. He was met with the deep blue eyes of the stranger, unable to move or speak. The American moved his hand shakily to the Brit's face and pulling him in closer to his, a deep blush gracing the Brit's cheeks. Arthur wasn't afraid though, not yet at least.
"Who were they?" the American repeated, a smirk playing on his lips. Arthur caught the look, and was infuriated all over again. Thinks he could pull a fast one, huh? The knight's face was met with a hard slap, the hardest the Brit could muster. His hand stung, and the echoing of the slap was reverberating through the forest.
The American was now on the ground cradling his cheek. He swore obscenities and huffed angrily before asking. "DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM?!" Arthur rolled his eyes at the question before snapping.
"I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU ARE! EVERY TIME I FUCKING ASK YOU, YOU SAY SOME BULLSHIT. ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS HELP YOU, BUT YOU ARE SO FUCKING INSUFFERABLE! SO PLEASE! ENLIGHTEN ME! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" he yelled, darting grass at the stranger, who didn't need to move because the grass went everywhere. Alfred growled angrily before barking at him.
"I'm Alfred fucking Jones, the crowned prince of America."
Arthur stared blankly at the American before actually understanding. The crown prince? Alfred noticed the shock on the brit's face, and smiled. He tried to stand up, but the burning pain in his torso caused him to fall flat on his butt. Arthur finally got a hold of his thoughts and swallowed harshly.
"I-I... should have let you die" the brit blurted out before he knew it, throwing his hands over his mouth in disbelief. He gave the American a mortified look, before looking down at his lap, tears streaming down his face. The American was thoroughly confused, and a tad bit hurt. Alfred crawled slowly towards his companion, humming so his presence would be known, the last thing he wanted was to sneak up on him. Arthur looked at the prince and whimpered, the guilt evident in his eyes. He was soon a mere 3 inches away from the other.
The brit pursed his lips before speaking shallowly. "My name is Arthur, Arthur Kirkland."
Arthur eyed the prince as his eyes shot open. Alfred started to move his lips, but nothing was coming out. Arthur found it interesting that a last name was all it took to shut the American up. eventually, the prince found his voice, and began shooting a series of questions at the Englishman.
"Kirkland? Like resistance group leader Kirkland? I thought you were wiped out!" he yelled, scaring a few birds out of the nearby trees and the squirrels to climb up some. Arthur flinched too, eyes widening in realization of what he had just done. Did he just commit suicide? There was no way the prince would have mercy on him now, slapping him and worse, being related to one of the most powerful men in England. His father was dead, but his brothers were assassinated just in case the position was hereditary. There was no doubt in his mind that he was going to be hanged. He squeezed the prince's hand and nodded.
Alfred gazed at the man in front of him; a pale scrawny man with sun blonde hair and the most dazzling green eyes he had ever seen; they were like emeralds. He smiled fondly and nodded at Arthur trying to soothe him his worry. "Is that why you want to kill me?" the American asked suddenly. Arthur looked taken aback by the question, as if Alfred had crossed the line, but he just gave the brit an expectant look.
The look Alfred gave Arthur made him cave in. Damnit, Arthur was tired of being all difficult and stuff, so he just told the American the truth. "I don't want to kill you; I would never kill anyone. I don't have it in me." He sighed, eyes locking with the man in front of him.
Alfred gave him a skeptical look before asking another question. "But you regret saving me, right?" Arthur looked down and gasped, the wrapping on the American's wounds were dripping with blood. Arthur shook his head and stood up suddenly, taking Alfred's hand. Arthur helped the crown prince up, apologizing when the American hissed and cursed in pain. With the other's arm swung around his shoulder, the brit made his way towards the direction the American came from.
"Why are we going there?" he asked, putting most of his weight on his companion. Arthur glanced up at him before looking back to where he was stepping.
"You came on a horse, right? My understanding is that your fortress is four days away by wagon, so you took some sort of transportation, yes?" Arthur asked. The prince was baffled by the brit's conclusion, but nodded anyway.
"There should also be some clothes there too. Something is bound to fit well enough." Arthur hummed in agreement and kept walking, placing an arm around the other's waist hesitantly. The other didn't protest, but Arthur noticed the other frown.
"Does it bother you if I put my arm there? I just wanted to keep you steady is all." Arthur huffed, removing his arm from around the prince. Alfred snorted, but spoke up anyway.
"I don't have a problem with that, but I do have a problem that you know where my fortress is. Did the Americans you mentioned earlier tell you? What were their names?" Alfred growled into the smaller one's ear, inciting a gasp from the brit. Arthur was silent for a moment, but decided he had nothing to lose.
"The Americans I met kidnapped me and my brother from the tunnels and separated us. One was named Kevin, and he was a complete bastard! He punched me and insulted me and... Dennis was nice at first, but it didn't take me a while to realize that he was insane. He thought the story of- "Arthur paused, looking at the American in shock. The words Kevin told him resonated loudly throughout his body.
We wouldn't want the princes finding out...
"His mother dying was funny." Arthur continued, looking straight ahead. "He also told me that my brother would be left to die of exposure because of his disability, which is why I escaped, trying to find my brother before he was killed." Arthur concluded. He didn't want to mention his brother being in the opposite direction, it would only make him want to hurl what little food remained in his stomach.
"Dennis and Kevin... they were taking you to my fortress then, right?" Alfred asked his companion, whose arm wrapped around him once more. The Englishman shrugged his shoulders, not knowing for sure.
"Is your fortress 4 days away?"
"Yes"
"Then yes." The brit answered, his annoyance clear. Alfred hummed, for the umpteenth time since they've met, Arthur noted. He wanted to question him about it, but than it might make the prince hostile towards him again, so he decided not to. Arthur had more important questions to ask. "How far away is the fortress on horseback?" the brit figured it was a four-day journey on a heavy wagon, but much quicker with only two people.
"If we take the best horse, my father's, then maybe a day and a half? Two and a half tops." The American said dryly. More of his weight shifted onto the small Englishman, a sign of his worsening condition.
"How far away is your campsite?" the frail teen squeaked, the pressure taking most of his strength. Alfred hummed again, but did not answer, only barely moving his legs enough to keep up with the brit's pace. Arthur just took that as an I don't know, and kept walking, hoping he was going the right way.
~~~~~~~~~~ Wounded Knight~~~~~~~~~
After a few hours of walking without instruction, or light when the sun went down, Arthur had finally stumbled upon the royal campsite he was looking for. He couldn't say he was impressed.
The tents were torn, food was scattered, and dead bodies littered the place; it wasn't exactly inviting. However, Arthur wasn't looking for somewhere cozy to stay the night, he was looking for supplies to help the dead weight that he was carrying. Alfred had passed out from blood loss about half an hour ago, leaving the brit to lug a man twice his size. The journey, despite its difficulty, remained uneventful.
Arthur laid Alfred down near a few dead bodies to go looking for some medical supplies. He raided what was left of the tents, losing hope after seeing that one after the other had been ransacked and looted. He found a spool of thread and a needle, which would be useful for sealing the wounds, but he needed to clean the wounds first, and he found nothing to do that. Desperate, Arthur began foraging around the area of the camp, praying that one of the attackers had left something useful he could use. He found some fancy purple pants and a pearly white top, some money, and a dagger.
"SHIT!" Arthur yelled, letting his frustration out. He was so fucking useless; Alfred was going to die if he couldn't think of anything! He returned to the campsite to check on his friend, who was still kicking, but unsure of how long. Arthur was losing patience, and he began to lash out on the dead bodies before him. He kicked them, he spit on them and he rolled them over so he could give them a good one to the cheek. He kicked one particularly hard, and felt something hard against his foot. A rock maybe?
He rolled the corpse of the fat man over and saw an untouched bottle of wine in his firm grip. Arthur tugged the bottle free before rushing over to Alfred, who looked to be a few minutes from death. "Okay, Okay, this is going to hurt. I'm sorry" the brit rambled as he removed the makeshift bandages. He poured wine onto the bleeding gashes and didn't stop applying pressure until the bleeding stop. He ran back to a tent to retrieve the needle and thread he foolishly left behind and sprinted back to the prince. He stitched the American as best he could, it was halfway decent if you asked him, but the blue teen had lost a lot of blood. Arthur wasn't sure he was going to make it.
Arthur returned to the forest and put on those clothes he found earlier, glad that they actually fit. He made his way to the tent that seemed the least damaged and began to tidy it up, unsure of how long they were going to stay there. Arthur foraged the entire campsite for furs and candles and put them into the tent, setting up two fur beds with fair lighting. He smiled at his handy work and returned to Alfred, carefully dragging him to the tent, being careful not to reopen his wounds. Arthur placed him on the bigger of the two beds before leaving the tent, looking for some food.
He found a wooden bowl nearby, so he started gathering fruits and nuts in it, using the dagger he found earlier to cut the high ones down. He also found a canteen of water, luckily, which he brought back to his tent. Alfred was still unconscious when he returned, but his lips were moving again. Arthur took that as a sign that he was getting better, and the brit was relieved. He brought the canteen to the prince's lips and poured a little down his throat. Alfred needed to replenish his liquids, so Arthur wasn't going to drink any of the water. It was for the prince.
Arthur suddenly found himself exhausted, but he didn't feel comfortable sleeping with no one out there to watch. Alfred was in a coma and all he had was a dagger, which he barely knew how to use. What if the attackers came back? They would be slaughtered like cattle. Arthur groaned as the chilly night's wind began to blow. He pulled some furs over the sleeping American to keep him warm as he slept, and he wouldn't appreciate the prince dying of pneumonia after everything Arthur had been through.
"Sleep tight"
~~~~~~Wounded Knight~~~~~~
A few days have passed since the brit had met the Crown prince of the United States, who still refused to wake up. Arthur spent the monotony foraging and hunting for food, which he found incredibly annoying and unnecessarily difficult. He killed a rabbit by catching it in a trap and stabbing it with his dagger, using the knowledge he gained from Dennis and Kevin to make a meal. He got a fire started with ease, and he had found a little stream nearby to fill the dented pot with water. The area surrounding the clearing offered tons of vegetables and roots he could use to season the stew. His first attempt was a failure, and so was his second, but his third attempt came out decent, so he patted himself on the back.
Currently, Arthur was back in his tent to try and make the American drink more water. Most of the prince's color had returned, but he wouldn't wake up. He drank water, and sometimes, if Arthur was lucky, he could pour some warm stew into his stomach so he wouldn't starve. Usually, Arthur would grind up some fruit and mix it with the water he gave to the American so he was still getting some sort of energy. Carbohydrates Arthur called them.
So besides the boredom, Arthur was better than he had ever been since he was 10. He was fed, clothed and despite how it felt, he wasn't alone. The guilt he felt about peter was intensifying, but he was thinking of a game plan. Maybe he could deliver the prince to the fortress, and look for peter there, or should he just drop the prince off near the fortress and look for peter in the forest, just in case they turned him away already? Arthur was about to leave the tent to go climb a tree or something when he heard humming.
"A-Arthur?" a weak voice whispered. Arthur turned to see Alfred blinking wildly, arm raised, reaching vaguely in his direction.
"Alfred!" the Englishman squeaked, too happy to hide it. He ran to the other's bed side and hugged him lightly, not wanting to inflict pain. Alfred hummed in confusion before hugging the brit back, breathing in deeply. The tent was open, and the sunlight was flooding in. Arthur had gotten used to it, and didn't fear it anymore. As long as he wasn't exposed for more than a few hours he was fine, not like last time when a small ray could singe the hair off of his arms. The smell of quail eggs and roasted rabbit wafted into the tent, which reminded Arthur of what he was supposed to be doing.
"Who's out there?!" the American asked excitedly before adding. "Where are we even? Whose tent is this?" he said with a smile. Arthur grinned at the curious American and answered while making his way to the fire outside.
"No one's out there, I'm cooking. We're at your campsite, and at the moment, the tent is ours" the brit sighed. He extinguished the fire and set the fried quail eggs on a porcelain plate. Thank goodness he made more than enough eggs, the American must be starving. He returned to the tent and handed the American a plate, who took it hesitantly. He wasn't in a good mood.
"What's the matter?" Arthur said softly, handing Alfred a fork. He took it gingerly and began to eat, ignoring the other's question. He hummed in delight when he took a small spoonful, causing the brit to chuckle softly.
"This is really good Artie!" the prince moaned exuberantly, making Arthur laugh loudly. There's no way it could be that good. Alfred saw the doubt on his face, and gave him a reassuring smile. But Alfred seemed to believe so.
When the two were done eating, Arthur set the plates aside and sat beside Alfred, who hummed with content. The worried look was back on the prince's face, and Arthur felt the urge to barrage him with a ton of questions. What could he be so upset about anyway? He was asleep for five days. However, Arthur kept that all inside, and asked him one simple question.
"Are you feeling okay?"
Alfred nodded before speaking, taking a swig of water. "Yeah dude! I'm a little sore though, but I'll live" he said with a wicked grin. Arthur grinned back and pulled out a cloth with alcohol, dabbing the soft fabric in the strong wine.
"Do you mind lifting your shirt? I need to keep your wounds clean." He said with a blush. Alfred shrugged and pulled off his torn shirt, giving Arthur a view of his torso. The prince had broad shoulders and firm pecs, the taut skin shimmering with a light sheen of sweat. His abdomen was flawless, save for the stitches, and his six pack was dark and defined, probably from training in the sun. Arthur didn't realize he was staring until he heard the American hum cockily, causing him to glance up. Surely enough, the prince was grinning.
"Checking me out, Artie?"
Arthur's face burned red as he briskly cleaned of the wounds, trying his best not to linger. He cleaned these wounds about a dozen times, and he never, not even once ogled his body like this before. Was it because he was awake? Arthur cleared his throat and moved away from the American, tossing him some clothes to change into without a word. He left the room quickly and rushed down to the stream, looking at his reflection.
His skin wasn't as pale anymore, and now he was fair in pigment rather than deathly grey. His cheeks were fatter and his hair was no longer as drab as it was before, it had some volume to it. Arthur looked down at his outfit, nodding his head in approval. Today he wore green pants that were designed to grip the hips, accentuating his feminine hips. He had a puffy white top that was embroidered with lace, which he had tucked into his pants. He wore dark green knee high socks and brown leather boots that went up to his knees; they even had a little heel. To finish it off, he had this dark brown woolen shawl, one that was so thick, not even the harshest of winter winds could penetrate it.
While he was checking himself out, he pulled out his dagger, which he had stored in his boot, and began to wash the dried blood off. After a few rinses, he wasn't impressed with the shine as he was a day ago, so he decided to go back to the campsite to find some oil to rub on his blade. As he approached the clearing, a familiar bad feeling was pooling in his stomach. Alfred?
Suddenly, a blood curdling scream erupted from the back of the campsite, forcing Arthur out of his thoughts. He ran towards the sound, which remained constant and just as heart stopping. Arthur stopped just short of his destination to pull out his dagger, just in case he needed. The sight before him stopped him in his tracks, however, guilt and shock pooling in his subconscious.
Alfred was wailing, tears pouring down his face as he begged god to bring the figure in his lap back. Said figure was the fat man Arthur had taken his anger out on the day he got to the camp. It was only at this moment did he notice the dirty blond hair the dead man sported, or the blue eyes and sharp cheek bones that were so familiar to him now. Alfred shook violently and sobbed out, and Arthur couldn't watch anymore. He ran to the tent and sat on his bed, staring blankly at the empty bed beside him.
The horrible cries were haunting, but Arthur drowned them out, feeling tears escape his eyes. After half an hour, Alfred waddled into the tent with bloodshot eyes, shaking and wheezing as he spoke. "We must leave."
Arthur only nodded, not having the voice to speak to the disheartened prince. Alfred didn't see the brit nod however, and he got angry in his vulnerable state. The brit was suddenly pinned to the fur bed by the bigger man, who growled at him.
"I said we must leave! We must inform my people of the death... of the death of their King for god's sake! Don't make me repeat myself!" he sobbed, placing his head on the terrified teen's shoulder, who just nodded wildly.
After a few minutes, the prince's breathing slowed and became even, bringing the brit to the conclusion that Alfred must have been asleep. Arthur didn't have the heart to move him, not after watching him cry over his father's dead body. Arthur felt tears of guilt slide down his face as he stared at the tent ceiling, swearing to never disrespect the dead again.
