Chapter 8: The Ace of Spades

Chapter Song: Down in the Valley - The Head and the Heart

A.N: Sorry for lateness! This chapter is a fairly long one to make up for it a tiny bit?

*edit* The Ace of Spades = Egypt!


It was over three weeks before Arthur saw the Spades palace again. Even then, he did not catch so much as a glimpse of its youngest prince.

Much to Tim's pleasure (and to Arthur's anxiety) the warehouse had been made a capital contact, his employer waving the official letter proudly on the morning of its arrival, its royal seal, waxy and glaring.

The capital had lost any communication with the further reaching rural suppliers over the winter and so were taking on the deliveries they needed from Kattleroot's district. This was good news for the town – good news for Tim – but not, Arthur had thought somewhat sheepishly, so good for him and his vow to keep as far from the royal family as possible.

Regardless, he'd had a stroke of luck for the first three weeks, throughout which they were running to and from the royal city on so much as a bi-weekly basis, however, all the deliveries had been only to the capital, with no further mention of the palace at all – which avoided calamity on Arthur's part. Despite this relief he felt over the course of the month, there was another feeling, one which sat tight in the pit of his stomach and that he thought might be guilt. When, three weeks and three days after his first visit to the palace, Arthur finally did end up on a run to the royal estate once again, he couldn't help but crane his neck to peer at that same slight gap in the trees where the river meandered past the road, marking it out by the ragged end of the broken branch on the opposite side. Yet there was no sign of anyone present there, nor an opportunity to actually go down there again – the idea of which was absurd anyway – yes, the threat of the situation had subsided in Arthur's mind, but he wasn't one to tempt fate, at least not without a good reason.

Perhaps then it came as an even greater surprise when he did encounter Alfred again only two weeks later, taking Clover to the water just as he had done over a month before, using the same knot to tie the rope and the same tree to tie it to. He heard Alfred before he saw him, his shoulders tensing reflexively, the hairs on his arms standing up from more than the chill in the air; his entire body reverting to its primal protective state at the mere crack of a twig behind him.

"You said you'd come back..." the subdued voice wavered above the quiet babble of the rivers waters, hovering on the fringes of Arthur's perception of reality. Was he merely imagining the presence of the prince?

Straightening his back and releasing his tightened grip on Clover's rope he was aware of the falseness in his assumptions. No – the prince was very much real, head on one side, a slightly perplexed expression on his face, hands clasped in front of him in an almost humble way. Arthur spied a blanket on the ground beneath the nearest brooding willow tree, atop this he could make out the shape of a half eaten apple and a piece of parchment covered in ink blots. Something about this sombre arrangement in the greying light of the morning sent a small, sharp prick of guilt straight to that tight knot in his stomach.

"Have you been coming out here often?" he had found himself asking somewhat tentatively, abandoning any previous plans at walking away at even the scarcest glimpse of the youngest prince.

There was a nod, his pose not changing, nor his expression.

"I'm, um, I'm sorry," Arthur found he couldn't meet the boy's eye when he addressed him, fiddling with a button on his shirt instead – he thought to add as an afterthought, "...your highness."

"Where were you?" Alfred seemed either oblivious to or unconcerned with Arthur's awkwardness, now gazing at him expectantly and with some unhidden sadness, "I came out here as much as I could to wait – I got the Jack to let me take work even."

Arthur felt himself glance at the ink stained page again, feeling the same small stab of guilt as before and pushing it as far out of mind as possible. Not that he could be blamed for the absence. No...But the suggestion he'd given the boy, the reinforcing of hope...maybe he should feel guilty after all.

"I had other work to do in other places – I wasn't allowed to come here until now..." He sensed the weakness of the answer but Alfred's slow nod seemed to show the young prince's understanding of the obstacles in Arthur's way.

"I wasn't allowed too sometimes – the Jack gets so fussy about where I am and what I'm up to," He seemed to have relaxed now wrinkling his nose slightly and shifting his footing. It seemed as if his disappointment was evolving slowly to the hopeful satisfaction that this strange and interesting commoner boy was finally back with all the strange excitement of his odd world.

"I, uh, also thought I should probably apologise to you...uh, your highness," Arthur felt the need to take a hold of what should be achieved – if anything - from this much avoided conversation which was to attempt to clear his name of any slur on the prince he had made last time they met, "I understand I may have spoken...out of turn before."

Alfred laughed that easy tumbling laugh that Arthur remembered so vividly from their first meeting, the sound of it reverberating around the small clearing and halting Arthur's words before they left his open mouth; the expected apologies of 'not bothering the prince again' and 'hoping he had not caused him any trouble' stayed hanging where they were formed: in the back of Arthur's mind.

"You sound like Yao talking like that," and there was the smile, followed by that slight cock of the head, "Just call me Alfred anyway."

Arthur had been avoiding doing just that for the entirety of their encounter, feeling the weight of his title ever more strongly as a result of his own first attitude towards the boy: as no more than a pushy child. Now he merely nodded shortly.

"If you insist," he agreed uncertainly.

"So..." Alfred was smiling now almost charmingly, leaning further over the bank to address the older boy, "Did you bring the bow?"

Arthur was taken aback for a moment, unable to comprehend what he was asking. Then his foggy mind cleared and upon realising what the boy was referring to he had to stifle a snort discretely and somewhat guiltily at the expecting face in front of him.

"I'm not sure how my employers would feel about me bringing a weapon to the royal palace," he reasoned.

Alfred considered for a moment before returning to his carefree smile again.

"I don't mind," His eyes lit up, "I don't mind because you're back."

And before Arthur was able to get a hold on himself an hour had passed there in the shady patch of riverbank with the Spades prince for the second time in his life. Yet again he was struck with a barrage of questions, the young boy's voice taking on an excited breathy quality which was seemingly tireless, his insatiable appetite for knowledge overwhelming Arthur slightly, who felt he was eternally anticipating the boy's next intake of breath. He wanted to know everything it seemed – what Arthur did, what his village was like, where he lived, even what he ate, Alfred's mouth falling open at how little this really was as Arthur showed him a daily portion, tied in brown paper in the bottom of his pocket. Arthur had to swallow the resentful feeling swelling within him at the other's shock. Alfred was still undeterred however and asked of Arthur's friends and family (a subject Arthur skated around with little detail, still wary for their safety) and what it was like to have a real job and use a real weapon – what it was like to hunt.

Oh, the endless hunting questions – swarms of them in excruciating detail. But Arthur found that oddly enough, he always had an answer – not only this, an answer enough to make the boy gasp or laugh or widen his eyes in that glimmering way, the blue of them coming out more vividly against their grey surroundings. And it was in this way he found himself compelled to keep talking to him, even if he was spoiled and ignorant and childish, even if he made Arthur feel uncomfortable and self conscious – he was one of the most compelling people he had ever met.

Perhaps it was this compulsion then that kept Arthur returning to this place where the river grazed the road and where, simultaneously, his common life grazed that of the epitome of royalty. As the delivery runs became more frequent and regular he observed how hours rolled past here the way they had not before, how they developed slowly into weeks and months which melted and faded into seasons; seasons of this impossible exchange of lifestyles here on the edge of two different worlds. Each time they met the conversation would flow from the point it had been ended as if there had been no time between them at all, as if life started and halted with these meetings - this shady spot by the river the one corner of their existence where time could move freely and continuously like wind. Not only was Arthur subjected to speaking as these encounters became more and more common, but he found himself listening too.

Alfred flung himself, unconditionally at Arthur's company and the opportunity to talk to someone outside the palace about his own feelings. He spoke of his expected kingship often – of his apprehension of the role as well as his wish that he were old enough to be powerful already (an expression which left a panicky feeling with Arthur, imagining this young, frivolous child demanding that the kingdom provide him with something to please him immediately – such as more pudding). He talked of the Jack and of his brother – his only real friend – the things he did to fill his time and the subjects he loved and despised learning about. He chattered with little sense of squeamishness about the natural deaths of his parents and his requirement of marriage looming on his horizon. The latter however was a subject he fixated on more as the summer months rolled on around them – Arthur having long since crossed to Alfred's side of the river by grassy stepping stones, a nervous feeling in his stomach and the urge to run almost overpowering the urge to devour the lunch the boy was inviting him to share on the condition that he did so. He thought his queen was already chosen, he explained, but he was worried he wouldn't be in love with her. Arthur found this oddly sentimental for someone so young and so trained to the ways of the royals and he wasn't sure whether the romanticism of the boy was something he found sensible or senseless. He supposed he would not want his marriage dictated for him. To be bound to someone before you even knew them? That seemed like some kind of punishment to Arthur. So this was one of the surprising occasions in which he pitied the prince and his way of life, feeling his own freedoms more strongly in ways he hadn't ever considered.

It was with a wariness Arthur experienced this series of quiet revelations, sitting just out of view of his co-workers. Of the pure loneliness of Alfred's existence enhanced by his absence of parents his longing for paternal and maternal figures shown not through his direct words but the way he spoke of Yao – his pining for his approval – or his nurse maid whom he referred to most commonly as 'Georgie'. He realised rather quickly that Arthur had limited experience with other children and had learned how to entertain himself from an early age, how to play alone and to fill the vast and silent palace rooms with boisterous laughter. After every visit Arthur would return pensive and puzzled at the old familiar world of Kattleroot and its relativity to the boy who would someday rule it, feeling that all the places in the world were one and the same, governed only by their quantity of poor and the nature of their loneliness...

With a dazed jolt, Arthur realised he had been completely oblivious to this same world going on around him at his present and returned abruptly to the small wood cabin room of the old school building in which sixteen other kids were perching, close together due to the lack of space. His brain temporarily fazed back to the simple arithmetic being recited from the front of the class by their aging tutor. Even in Kattleroot education had its importance, but Arthur found these primitive Sunday classes slow and dull, the room cramped and stuffy with the heat of August. Arithmetic also was not one of his favourite subjects and possibly the only one in which he was behind the rest of the class.

With a start he saw that droplets of ink had been dripping from the end of his quill pen on to his empty page, blackening a corner of his rough parchment. He tried to dab at the stain quickly, panicking a little, his arm nudged his ink pot. He felt his stomach drop sickeningly as it tilted, looking for a moment as if it would right itself before depositing its contents with a clatter and spilling over his desk, splattering his best work trousers. A girl beside him shrieked, leaning away from him roughly, pushing another student against a wall.

"-Um..." There was the jarring sound of Arthur's chair against the wood floor, his table bumping up against the one in front as he stood up swiftly and awkwardly.

It dawned on him that he had nothing to say, the eyes of the class now turning to him in surprise, his teacher mid-way through a mathematical problem, Belle looking quizzically in his direction and Antonio smirking at him with a hint of concern – all the others just blurring into accusing shapes with piercing eyes. Arthur felt his face begin to burn.

"Soldiers!" a sudden exclamation from the opposite side of the room distracted this attention, the culprit leaving his chair eagerly with a screech to cross to the window, hand outstretched to point outside.

There was a spark of energy which seemed to ignite the class as they began to babble excitedly pushing away their chairs abruptly to clamber on tables and over one another, hoping to catch sight of the activities outside. Belle was among them, never to miss an opportunity for rubbernecking. As she stretched up on her toes to see, leaning over a desk in the process, a greasy haired village boy leant far back in his chair, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of what was beneath her skirt. Arthur frowned and thought to say something, his train of thought interrupted by the hard, sharp kick of a foot on the leg of the offending chair, sending the worm sprawling back onto the floor looking bemused and angry. Arthur was not surprised to see that this foot had belonged to Antonio, now observing the wincing boy with narrowed eyes.

In the chaos few noticed the boy on the floor and Arthur stepped over him gingerly to join his friends by the window.

True to word there was a procession of the royal guard on the other side of the misty glass, weaving through the gathered crowd on the dirty street, people parting as they came. Arthur felt, firstly terrified that the guard had come for him at last, ready to whisk him off to the Spades jail but then, after pushing these thoughts away, oddly curious. He craned his neck with the rest of them.

"-Look at the carriage!" He caught someone yelling and scanned the bustling crowd until he found it, gilt in gold and blue and white, pulled by a grey horse, so out of place in the rough stone and wood of Kattleroot, the rustic dirt paths and shambling fences dwarfed by such splendour.

Having a good view of the old town hall from the school building, the class pressed their eager faces against the windows, waiting for what was to come. The carriage halted its path directly in front of the hall's old wood doors, the horse braying loudly due to the claustrophobia of the crowd. The opulent carriage door was opened by a member of the guard, inside the carriage was shaded from the sun and their visions.

"Who is it? Who is it?" The babble of voices within the classroom only increased and swelled.

As the figure emerged from the carriage and bowed it was the teacher who stepped forward now, making his presence known for the first time since the excitement began.

"By God..." He pushed his tiny glasses up his nose," That's an Ace - that's the Ace of Spades."


Alfred's collar was rough on his bare neck, the scratchy fabric irritating his skin and rubbing uncomfortably each time he twisted his head. It made his whole body feel hot and itchy just to wear that one garment, it's stiff edges scouring the places it touched, the top of the thing just a bit too close to his chin, the centre sitting just too far out from his chest.

He raised a hand to pull at it almost subconsciously, receiving the sharp tap on the wrist he should have pre-empted.

"Leave it be, your highness," his maid sighed from where she was kneeling to fasten his jacket buttons, her voice soft but weary, "fussing will only make it worse."

It was no wonder she had grown tiresome in honesty, as she had been fighting a battle with Alfred - who was, in turn, fighting one with his attire - for over an hour now. Her best efforts to organize and smooth over the boy were very much in vain for the most part, Alfred's wriggling and picking and fussing annihilating most of her work.

"It's uncomfortable," Alfred mumbled with a mixture of dejection and stubbornness.

"Why don't you take a look in the mirror, Alfred," she began to reason with him, a hopeful edge in her words, "It really does make you look very handsome."

She pulled him to the full length mirror beside the dark wood dresser, tilting it to show him his entire outfit.

Alfred winced at his reflection. The damned collar was ugly too. It stuck out more than he'd imagined, the ruffled edges remaining completely stationary as he turned to see if he looked any more 'handsome' from another angle. A big powder blue confection in the centre of his chest, the elaborate collar stood out for sure, even with a royal blue velvet jacket and britches set to contend with. The suit's gold fastenings were too tight around his front, the tails too long at the back. His shoes looked to Alfred like something stolen from a court jester's closet.

"Are you sure this is handsome?" Alfred asked, wrinkling his nose. He didn't think it was, but then again, Alfred felt inexperienced in knowing how to judge such things. Perhaps when you got older fancy clothes with too many ruffles and colours was what was approved of and comfortable clothes were just seen as ugly? He thought quite possibly that fashion was a trial to see how uncomfortable you could be - like an initiation! - some garish show of strength and willpower to prove yourself at social occasions. Well, in an outfit like this Alfred did feel slightly handsome after all - the shoes pinched and the shirt itched and the collar scratched. If he could endure this then surely the card council would see his potential as future king?

"Very handsome, your highness," she smiled resting a hand on his shoulder.

Alfred's attention was caught by an extraordinary sound breaking through the other side of his bedroom doors.

"Already?" His brother's raised voice burst, muffled by wood, into the room.

Alfred turned his head in the direction of the closed door, his brow furrowing. Mattie never raised his voice. Well, he did sometimes, usually at Alfred if he was bothering him too much, but most of the time his brother was almost too shy and retiring in his manner, eyes downturned and hands folded and always, always soft spoken.

He saw Georgia's eyes dart in the direction of the door before hastily settling back down on several specks of lint on Alfred's shoulder, throwing the boy an odd variant of a carefree smile as he looked at her in puzzlement.

The conversation was quieter now, no more than a soft murmur reaching Alfred's cocked ear.

"...but it wasn't due to happen for months at the least, I cannot believe you've sent him," Matthews voice rose to audible levels once more.

A murmur of reply.

"What about the agreement? For my brother's sake?" Alfred was twisting around now, glancing back at Georgia as if for approval or explanation or both. She took the boy firmly by the shoulders to the vanity by the bay window, a look of finality on her face suggesting strongly that Alfred shouldn't ask questions. Taking up a comb with conviction she began busily beating non-existent tangles from the boy's hair. Still craning his neck in the door's direction Alfred found his head sharply rearranged in a fresh bout of combing.

"But-" he began to protest.

"Hush," his nurse replied firmly and he settled for gazing grudgingly at the engraved gold initials on his dresser, glimmering in the afternoon sun. A. F. J.

The sound of the door swinging open with a harsh creak turned both Alfred and his nurse's heads in surprise as the Jack of Spades strode authoritatively into the room, a look of frustration taking his features - he was dressed in his evening finery, the same blue as Alfred's.

"Your highness," he announced too loudly and formally as ever - the harsh sound of the doors slamming shut behind him reflecting the sharp tone of his words ," Come, it's time to prepare for the ball - I trust you know your speech?"

Alfred nodded, any curiosity reduced now to apprehension


Pushed roughly from the chaos of the school building Arthur found himself swept up in the crowds of the dusty street below. Bodies pressed and shoved on every side, the smell of muck and stale water kicked up from the gutters with the motion of hasty heels and horse's hooves filled the breeze. The only constancy was Antonio's work-rough hand tight on his arm dragging him through the throng, perhaps he wasn't even being dragged but both of them were merely being pulled with the great tide of the villagers. He had to wonder what they were moving towards, what result the Ace of Spades held for them and why there was so much drive in his direction. An old lady to Arthur's left could barely walk and yet she too pushed on, frail fingers clawed around her old cane. The noise too, was obscene, and each shout had the harsh metallic edge of steel – desperate – but with something else, something indignant. Above the street level and its restless stench of earth and sweat the spades flag rose and flickered with the sun. Arthur caught a glimpse of that splendid carriage again; they were not so far off now.

"I see him!" yelled Antonio from somewhere just ahead of Arthur in the crowd, his hand squeezing his arm, "he's going up the old hall steps!"

It wasn't long before Arthur saw him too, that same man they'd glimpsed from the stained classroom windows ascending to the lopsided porch of the square's central building. The wind whipped his robes, gleaming white and rich orange flashes against the splintered wood walls of the town hall. The movement of the flowing fabric revealed the formidable khaki of his military uniform beneath, casting a shadow of his authority over Arthur for a moment. The Ace emblem was pinned on his breast pocket; it glinted as he turned to the crowds appearing untouched by their yells and the push and shove just below his feet. He seemed to look just above their heads, his dark, tapered eyes inquisitive to what looked to be something on the distant horizon.

The man held up a hand, possibly to issue silence, however this request went unnoticed – yet the eyes remained unfazed. Arthur was beside Antonio now, not far off from where the carriage was, spades soldiers barring the restless crowd from pushing against its sides. A mother held a bundled blanket in her arms, the grimy face of a wailing child peeking out from its tattered depths, she yelled with the rest of them.

"They're angry," Arthur turned to Antonio in realisation, "Toni – they're all so angry."

His friend turned to him in disbelief, placing both of his hands on Arthur's shoulders.

"Of course they are, Arthur! Have you seen the state of Kattleroot – of the farming region? It's been five years since any of them up there have been down and we're going to waste out here – you know it just as well as me," their figures were jostled and jolted ceaselessly, Antonio leaning closer to Arthur to be better heard, "It's not just anger – they're helpless, they want to be heard – hell, I wouldn't mind being heard for a minute if I thought anything could change, just the tiniest thing..."

Arthur knew his friend's words were the truth, the village had been growing more dishevelled by the week and food was scarce. Winter had been harsh for everyone and the little food grown was mostly taken and re-issued elsewhere leaving a hunger in people's bellies un-sated by the stifling drought of the summer. And he saw it in the faces of the crowd around him, a crowd he and Antonio now found themselves at the front of, a pressure on Arthur's chest which he now saw was the press of a soldier's hand.

"People of the farming region," the voice of the Ace rose above the crowd without the expected formal introduction casting, for a moment, a hush over the seething mass, "I have been appointed this kingdom's new Ace of Spades and so the personal guard to you and your regency. I hope to serve you and the Spades kingdom in an honourable and valiant way and - I will lay die my life for the cause of the kingdom."

A silence, the first of the visit, spread over the square now that he held the undivided attention of the people, darkened, tired faces upturned to hot beating of the sun. The dying wind rippled the edges of the Ace's white keffiyeh.

"We are training an army," He went on, mysterious dark eyes roaming the crowd, " one which can protect our shores from anything the other kingdoms throw at us, and we do this in anticipation of our new king who will in less than a half decade be of age – our long awaited King Alfred."

Arthur flinched a little at the mention of the youngest prince; Antonio by his side was still, eyes straight ahead, not knowing of the extended relationship between his best friend and the Prince of Spades, thinking it had consisted of no more than stolen glances since that day all those months ago. He stared at the Ace with such concentration, such focus – almost to a point of will – his lips parted slightly as if still amazed at the Ace's very presence here in a rough little place like Kattleroot.

"I know you are weary – I see it in your faces but I ask of you your patience," dark eyes surveying still, "we – all of us – are surrounded by the surging sea of these difficult times and it is our job as a kingdom to turn the tides for ourselves. No exceptions."

A murmur through the crowd, silenced once more the by the slim hand of the Ace, palm outward to the heated swarm of villagers as if to say.

"We cannot know what to expect in these final few years of mergence period but it is of the utmost importance that we dust ourselves off from the harsh winter we've had – and from this dry summer we're suffering from now. Our focus lies with supporting the royals at this point – old and new – for the introduction of a new royal - a new queen - at the start of a new reign is crucial and I'm sure you're aware that my own appointment as Ace reflects this oncoming change and development to our political state."

He spoke cryptically, Arthur thought, in ways which made you think for a moment before reacting. Perhaps this was purposeful, as the crowd here seemed ready, eager even, to pounce at any opportunity – to release something within them which could only exist now as a flex of the jaw or a clenched fist. There was the sense of injustice, of apology from what the Ace spoke to them. As if there was a 'but' coming after all this patriotic talk.

But how could they help but have a glimmer of hope? The Ace had come - the Ace who is the bringer of change, who is the voice of their class and people and who can bring them to contact with the royal council themselves. The Ace who was now talking of the choosing of a new queen - a new queen to rule the starving villages – to rule the starving people at his feet. And to Arthur a sudden resonation of realisation: not just the queen. Alfred's queen, the one he is so afraid of. Choosing her now seemed too soon somehow and jolted Arthur like hands thumping him on the back because the boy he had befriended was the future king and soon he would have a queen and Arthur would go on living in Kattleroot and working deliveries for less than minimum wage.

"- I feel I owe you a truth from the palace..." The Ace seemed to contemplate for a minute. Arthur noticed one of his guards glance at him in wary alarm briefly. Perhaps he was speaking off script or pausing too long. The crowd would grow restless again if he didn't continue to captivate them. "...We have failed before. Failed the safety of the royals – unnecessary blood has been spilt by our carelessness. At this time of delicacy it is of the highest importance we protect the princes of Spades and all future monarchs and court members from such forces who would like to see our council become nothing but dust on the ground."

Arthur tried to rack his brains for a piece of gossip gabbled by Belle or whispered by someone at the Goose of a fatal incident in the royal court but came up with nothing and joined his village neighbours in a frown of perplexity at the Ace's words.

"It is for this reason that my presence at the royal palace is urgently needed this evening for an extremely important event taking place – and the reason for the lack of procession time for this visit, for which I can only offer my most profound sympathies."

Then the eruption came, the one which was stalled for so long, which had wavered on the edge of being and hung in the balance with every sentence which left the Ace's mouth.

Arthur had only heard of procession a few times, but Antonio knew it's value all too well. He knew what the lack of it meant to people in the region.

No procession: No groups putting forward long rambled and hard considered plans for the development of the farming region. No families begging for a tribute to their cause – a dying daughter, starving livestock, spreading disease. No time to plead. No procession, no hope.

Like a solid wall the body of hopelessness slammed against the royal guard, anguished cries fighting over one another to be heard – but how could they be with no procession time? Immediately the soldiers went into the aggressive stance, shoving back against the siege, calling to the Ace to come to the carriage as quickly as possible. Antonio and Arthur were heaved forward and Arthur found himself momentarily winded by the arm of a soldier jamming against his stomach. He remembered thinking of that old lady with the cane – surely she must be trampled in a mess like this, he thought, and it was a sad thought, that feeble old cane crushed on the ground in all this fury.

A glance upward saw that the Ace still had not made his swift escape and still seemed to be scanning the horizon for something, his expression barely even changed by the anger directed towards him now – and this time there was no mistake of course, it was most definitely anger. A guard was pulling him by the arm now, yelling almost in his ear, but by the look on his face alone you would have thought the Ace could not hear him at all.

Something changed and Arthur felt the hairs on the back of neck stand up and the crowd around him seem to slow in his mind and no longer touch him. The Ace was staring into his own eyes.

He felt himself swallow, an uncomfortable dry throated kind of swallow. Through a pang of fear he felt his own hand grip Antonio's, just thankful his friend hadn't been carried off somewhere in the panic. The dark eyes of the Ace narrowed in concentration and time seemed frozen. The Ace reached into his pocket, eyes still hooked on Arthur. An age seemed to go by, the roar in Arthur's ears coming through to him as silence in the time. There was a moment where Arthur thought he saw something in his hand, a flash of white, but it disappeared quickly and he saw the Ace frown for the first time for the entire visit.

And then he was gone. It sounds childish to say it like that – like it was a magic trick of some kind – but that's merely how it felt. Arthur was sure if he tried he could remember the guards pulling the man down to the waiting carriage and the way his robes swayed as he swiftly sat inside and the to and fro between the road wagon and the passionate crowd, not wanting to let the Ace slip away, but it felt like it was so much quicker than all of that.

Arthur realised with an out of place feeling of humiliation that he was still holding Antonio's hand and let go of it with intense conviction.

"Hey – Arthur...are you alright? You look ...bad." Antonio, angry like his neighbours for the most part, broke out of his own disappointment to notice the pale face of the boy beside him.

Arthur just shook his head, not so much as an answer to Antonio's question, but as an attempt to shake off the feeling of being singled out by the Ace of Spades in such a startling way.

"We're going home," his friend decided firmly, his mouth set in a grim line. "Enough of this. We're going home."


A.N. I hope people are enjoying this story, and any comments are really greatly appreciated as I'm currently reviewing/improving some of the next chapters and am still a bit stuck on later ones. :S

But I promise there is much more to come if you stick around! :)