Chapter song: Yann Tierson - La Valse D'Amelie - Orchestre (particularly for the dance scene!) - ( watch?v=3QWaNV4EWb8)


* Angelique Mancham: Seychelles

Chapter 9: Fate's Tide

"More wine! Quickly - look sharp - that's a royal request, that is!"

The clink of glasses, a clatter of plates, the sweltering heat of the palace kitchen and the heavy crate in Arthur's arms all coincided in one tired, heavy moment as the shout was uttered by the head chef at the Spades royal estate.

Of course it had to be tonight that the usual in-and-out delivery job had been extended to extra heaving service urgently needed for the largest Spades ball of the summer, draining more food and wine than Arthur had seen before, let alone held in his arms. He'd been at it for an hour, the initial nervous thrill of actually being in the Spades palace long since billowing away with the steam rising from the misty, open windows.

Not to say that even the kitchens weren't grander than anything Arthur had laid eyes on before -as they were - large and clean and bursting with sources of nutrition and flavour and real equipment untainted by rust or dirt. It was full of people too, of cooks and maids and serving girls and platter boys, an image so far removed from Arthur's own situation at home: a solitary woman stirring a meagre watered down stew by the fire. But Arthur's exhaustion was getting the better of his awe and he saw the kitchen not as grand as all this but as painful as the ache in his back and grinding as the repetitive task before him and jarring as the wicked sound of china scraping china.

He'd gone home with Antonio after the disastrous Ace's speech feeling queasy and exhausted. The Carriedo house was almost empty, the family members who did return home during Arthur's time there not bursting in with anger as he had expected, but almost retreating within the house in subdued contemplation. It hit him that the atmosphere had not been this solemn for a good while at the Carriedo's – not when Arthur had been around at least. He supposed he had felt it creeping in slowly over the past few months or so – it was just that the Carriedo household was not normally one to lose a feeling of hope as it seemed to have done now. Regardless, Sophia still had a weary smile for him and offered him some of the broth she had prepared for the boys. Arthur declined, not for its thin, watery taste but the knowledge that if there was a serving to be spared for him it was hers.

He hadn't stayed long, feeling the weight of the house around him settling on his shoulders like damp cloth, a sense which could not be dislodged by Sophia's offerings of food and Antonio's warming smiles. Both of them looked at Arthur in sympathy, as if his sudden nausea was somehow more tragic than what their family must be feeling at the cancelled procession time. Mr. Carriedo had yet to return home from the square but Arthur noticed Sophia glance anxiously at the door every so often. Looking outside, Arthur saw the light had faded slightly; they might have opened up The Goose already, he thought, he's was probably drinking away his sorrows right now.

He did feel awful though, his stomach turning, but it was for his own private, selfish feeling which the weary faces of the Carriedo family only made him feel guilty for. He wasn't sick with the thought of Mel and his brother starving in the coming winter (though it simmered in the back of his mind) but the possibility that the Ace had seen something in him which struck a bell: something which had caused him to frown.

But there was a task to do now and it was better to focus on it rather than the day behind him. He went for a second crate stacked by the back step, struggling with it for longer than usual, breathing hard with the effort of lifting the large creaking, rattling mass with his slight frame - this really was a job for Antonio, he had thought honestly and somewhat bitterly. It irked him to always think this way on any occasion where he was too weak for something – when he couldn't lift or reach something and Antonio would lean over in that effortless way to do it for him, shading him in his superiority and cheerful ease and whatever else Antonio consisted of. He was never making a show or anything like that, he'd just smile in an almost affectionate way and hand Arthur whatever it was he'd acquired for him. It annoyed Arthur like hell: how he could belittle him and yet still be so damn charming about it all.

The crate was taken from Arthur suddenly and roughly before he even had the damn thing airborne and he reeled back with a frustrated sigh from the removed weight. He hadn't been entirely useless this time, he persisted in telling himself; it was just fatigue holding him back now.

The chef caught sight of him in his solitary idle moment and he felt himself swallow as the cogs of his brain rapidly considered how to make himself look busy. He immediately felt guilty for his distracted swimming head, irrationally feeling that the bulky chef somehow knew he wasn't focusing solely on the task at hand. The image of the Ace's frowning face pricked him like a pin in his side for a single moment, a sudden fear taking him. It doesn't matter, he tried to tell himself, even if it's the worst and he's knows I've been talking to Alfred it doesn't matter – I'm not breaking the law just by talking. He felt the weakness of the argument as if it were a living thing in his hands tied together by cobwebs and string.

"You," Arthur felt his stomach drop at being so suddenly addressed, feeling uncertain, he had to stop himself from glancing over his shoulder nervously as the chef approached him. Surely it was someone else he wanted? Yet his gut knew it was him. And all he could think was that the Ace was right there in the palace – somewhere in there – watching the royals, watching Alfred and he hoped to God not watching him.

A stack of trays were pushed into his arms, cool silver against his raw palms, he barely felt the jolt of surprise which came with them, the movement being so swift.

"Help the platter boys."

Arthur paused before giving a short nod of approval, knowing not what this job consisted of but feeling a wave of relief at the sight of a table of canapés being loaded onto platters by boys of around his age. It was nothing at all, he was being so foolish – no wonder he couldn't lift the crates, his mind was so scattered. He headed for the table hastily.


Not far from the bustle of activity in the palace kitchen, Alfred was trying his best to look dignified while resisting the urge to gorge himself on every platter of canapés he caught sight of.

The grand ballroom at the Spades palace glowed this evening with the presence of everybody who was anybody across the kingdom - and further still. The summer came and the doors opened and the elite came and went like moths to a flame – basking in the glow of the royal palace – the glow of each other. It started slow at first, meetings with the royal court, formal lawn games and tea parties. Then were the balls and dances, the lords and ladies of the kingdom flooding in, circling the pillars and walls of the palace in awe, singing praise to so much as the polished tiles and the sparkling windows – the door knobs or the closet latches, anything that glittered. Alfred tried not to laugh at these moments, having been firmly assured of the impertinence of this by the Jack, but secretly feeling that life in the Capital must be even duller than his own; if they were to get so invigorated about shiny door knobs.

But there was not a moment for door knobs this evening, nor windows nor closet latches - at the Annual Final Summer Ball there was only time for dancing and festivity and frivolity – rubbing shoulders with the royals and drinking too much. The orchestra, an impressive arrangement, was splayed across the room's front platform, the sway and swell of the strings and flutes and everything else setting the way for the fine lords and ladies of the Spades kingdom to float around the room. It felt as if everything swayed, the gold threaded drapes at the tall windows, the twinkling glass of the chandeliers dangling from the high ceiling overhead and the people too, unsteady and giddy from both the dancing and the wine.

The newly polished tiles reflected every moment.

Alfred enjoyed to people watch at the Spades balls, picking out royal members of the card council through the crowd in particular - the king of Diamonds, flamboyant and impeccably dressed as usual in cadmium gold, bowing in a silly, extravagant way for some pretty young girl who turned an embarrassed pink and put a nervous hand over her mouth as he complimented her dress – or something about her at least – Alfred thought it was probably her dress - hopefully. Through a part in a crowd of smartly dressed male court members could be seen the King of Hearts, looking stern and spotless as ever, nodding shortly along with the conversation with an earnest look in his eye, a large glass of ale in his hand which he took heavy gulps from at regular intervals. But it wasn't all watching of course, it was official now: the future king of spades - and the boy everyone wanted to meet.

And he felt as if he'd met everyone too. He must have surely, for it was hours into the evening and the constant stream of eager, excitable faces had slowed to a crawl. Though he normally became restless and bored at this point in the evening, missing the attention which shifted with the moon to food and wine and dancing, tonight he was a little relieved. He was distracted from the festivities by a nervous feeling which came with his expected kingship - something which people didn't bother to mollycoddle him about now but congratulated him on. He always knew he would have to be king deep down, but the prospect scared him a little now. Some of it was because of Arthur. Arthur who lived unlike anyone in this ballroom and so far from all Alfred knew. It hadn't really hit him before meeting the peasant boy that Arthur's people - poor people - would also be under his rule one day. How could he please them all at once? Could he keep his people rich and stop Arthur's being poor? Questions such as this left him with a restless desire to focus more in his economics classes.

Having checked quickly to see that the Jack was suitably distracted by his guests, Alfred pushed through the heavy doors to the hallway with the intention of using the restroom, feeling suddenly nauseous. As he left the swirling noise and commotion of the ballroom he had a feeling of being plunged into water, the music muted and suddenly far, far away from him along with all those enjoying it. He let out a sigh before realising he wasn't alone out in the hall. He caught the sound of a raised voice, recognising it but not quite being able to place it. It was coarse and heavily accented and seemed to be expressing a tone of amusement.

Tentatively, unsure of whether he was intruding on something private or not, Alfred allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and ventured around the bend in the hallway. He was mildly surprised to meet his brother on the other side, sitting upright in one of the reading chairs, a man Arthur could not place by the back of his head alone, lounging across from him with his feet up on the mahogany coffee table. The tension which had eased upon seeing his sibling washed over him again at the sight of the stranger.

"Alfred!" His brother's surprise was unmasked upon seeing him away from the party and he seemed to sit up even straighter – if this was at all possible.

At the mention of his presence the other man twisted in his seat, grinning, eyes gleaming at Alfred, a deep red. Of course! Now the reading light hit him properly and the pale silver of his hair was clear too.

But what was the Joker doing with Matthew of all people? - Sitting out here in the dim hallway when he should be the centre of attention.

"Princelet!" The Joker exclaimed with true enthusiasm, uttering his wild laugh and proving that he was as giddy and drunk as the rest of them - not that he wasn't always a bit full on like this - in Alfred's experience anyway, "how's it going pal?"

"It's going alright," Alfred was happy to see the Joker here, he hadn't caught sight of him all evening and smiled truly for the first time that night, approaching the comfortable reading chairs he and his older brother were inhabiting, "I didn't know you were in the kingdom this summer? What made you come?"

"Ah, intuition," he winked at Alfred with a nod, his hair was bleached from birth rather than age, the man himself appearing only to be in his twenties - but who could tell with the Joker? It fell over his forehead slightly as he leaned away from Matthew.

Interested now and having forgotten about his need to use the bathroom, the younger prince leant on the arm of the man's chair eagerly, looking at him with the spark in his eye which had been absent from it all evening.

"Really?" he looked from Matthew to the Joker restlessly, "like proper intuition you mean?"

"Well of course, princelet," the Joker shot him a grin, "I heard the news about you, pal - you're gonna be the king!"

"Oh, yeah..." Alfred, disappointed with this answer but trying weakly to hide it, gave a smile more lopsided than usual.

He so badly wanted to know whether the Joker could really see the future like the Jack had told him he could.

Matthew was frowning slightly at what looked to be the grain of the table but looked up with a sigh and thought about ushering Alfred back to the party. He was having a nerve racking time out here alone with Gilbert, it was true - the other man was drunk and forward and Matthew would much rather have Alfred there as a distraction from his own much less drunk and much more awkward character - but without Yao around to keep him in check they would both be scolded for Alfred's absence from the ballroom. And, what's more, why had the Joker been hanging around out here with him any at all? Perhaps he should be ushering them both off; Matthew was the one who should be hiding away in shadowy corridors, not the future king of spades and the only known Joker in the four kingdoms. He tried not to feel any self pity at this truth but could not push away an odd feeling of solitude he felt was most often reserved for Alfred. His brother was becoming part of something bigger now, and Matthew, well; he trained and went out and spoke to people but was he part of anything? Was he really? He had no reserved place in the royal court, no known military position - not even a role as the Jack's assistant lined up for him. But none of this explained why the Joker had wanted to sit out here with him in this solitude.

He was over thinking, he told himself, and he knew it was true, but it was just that... the Joker did have a sight that others didn't - or so it had always been told - and he felt a yearning he thought his younger brother may also have now for the reassurance of that sight. But did either of them really want to know what fate had in store for them? Or would that only make things a whole lot worse?

"You know, you two might be missed from the party soon..." Matthew's voice was soft but easily heard in the intimate space of the corridor; he didn't look at them, regretting speaking before he'd even said the words.

The Joker laughed loudly and raucously, making Matthew jump a little in his seat and glance at him with wide eyes.

"Getting rid of us, Matthew?" he lifted his glass to his lips, cocking his head on one side with an amused grin, "oh, you wound me, sir."

Matthew tried not the flush, aware of being wound up but not knowing how to react to it – he wasn't witty enough to laugh it off or offer some kind of retort – nor did he want the Joker to feel he had truly offended him or hurt him, lest he seem like some kind of weakling.

"Just in case anyone's looking for either of you...I mean it's expected of you to be at the party, so..." He was mumbling which he hated and screwed up his face in discomfort and frustration at the way his neck pricked with nerves just from having to explain himself.

"What about you, Matthew?" The Joker didn't smile with such careless amusement now, keeping steady eye contact with the eldest Prince of Spades over the rim of his glass, squinting slightly as if reading a message playing across Matthew's face.

Matthew swallowed, glancing around him – anywhere but at Gilbert – he felt stumped for words, not quite understanding what was being asked and forever aware of the intense gaze from across the coffee table. Just as he felt the silence would become unbearable, the Joker laughed softly, more to himself than at Matthew, and knocked back his drink.

"So what about you, princelet? Tired of the adoring faces? Too many canapés, not enough wine?" mercifully, the Joker fixed his attention on the younger of the brothers – something Mattie had never been more relieved to experience.

Alfred smiled but didn't reply in the way which he usually would have – spilling out a detailed account of his entire evening. In fact, the boy's reply came as a surprise to both his brother and the Joker.

"Sir... can you see my future? Like, do you know what happens?" Alfred didn't feel particularly nervous asking such a question, as Mattie undoubtedly would have – the boy himself now gazing at Alfred in a stunned silence, his brother addressing what his own thoughts had addressed just moments before – but he was strongly inquisitive.

The Joker merely looked at Alfred for a long moment in which both of them had to wonder whether he would answer his question at all and Matthew had to hold his breath, half expecting the man to lose his temper. Finally he sighed, replacing his now empty glass on the table.

"Funny you ask, Alfred," he replied at last, settling back in his seat with what looked a little like exhaustion, "I can't really, no."

Both Matthew and Alfred were leaning in now, perplexed looks on their faces and whirring thoughts threatening to leave them behind in the darkened hall.

"But – so you can't see the future?" Alfred's alarm came out in the ringing of his voice and the widening of his eyes.

"Hey, hey calm down, kid – that's not exactly what I said," the Joker put up his hands in a good natured surrender, "I can see the future, yes... but it's not as simple as all that, you know? And it's not all laid out for me either – takes a lot of work to do my job."

He now held the full attention of the two brothers, both of them watching him make his tentative way through his explanation, hanging on his every word.

"You see, some people you can read easy – take your brother here for example-"Gilbert broke off to gesture to Matthew and catch his eye with a slight smirk on his face. Matthew himself turned a deep scarlet at the Joker's notion. "Frankly, he's an open book – it's not like some crystal picture – but I have the gist of it all pretty well mapped," he tapped two fingers to the side of his head.

"So... what about me?" Alfred interrupted before Matthew could offer a protest to the insinuation the Joker was giving about him, his cheeks still flushed; it was the oddest feeling knowing Gilbert could see things about him he couldn't – something he'd hoped for just previously but now made his skin crawl.

"It's complicated. It's like...It's like, people always expect the future to be something solid; they talk about 'fate' like it's a big box that they'll open one day and – hello! – out pops the future...but no, no it's more like...water. Every person travels through life like a leaf on a river - sometimes it's a stream – or that's how I see it at least. That's Matthew for you, when I look at him it just flows, you know? Like a smooth body of water. That isn't to say it won't change, nor that it'll be a breeze or anything – not that I can see all the details – ah, details are so limited anyway – I wish people knew that, right?" the Joker paused to shake his head as if irritated by something, "anyway, the thing is sometimes the water's turbulent, it's like white froth in my mind, it moves consistently – ever-changing – and I sure as hell can't keep tabs on it. Time pulls a person from all angles and some are certain to go one way while another will be bound to two equally – or none at all – I want to say it's a personality thing but...no, I don't' really believe that. The point is that some rivers just aren't smooth, you can't even determine which direction they're headed – they're whirlpools" another pause, "well, that's you princelet – you're one of my enigmas, that's for sure...I guess 'fate' just hasn't quite marked out your route yet." For a few seconds it seemed as if the Joker was deep in his own thought, one hand raised to his mouth and a furrow between his brows. It was a short lived moment; he focused on the boys again with a sharp bout of laughter, "you two must think I'm crazy."

About to reassure the Joker that he felt like he understood – but had not been comforted in the slightest by his words – Alfred was cut short by a hand falling on his shoulder.

"Here you are, your highness, the Jack is looking for you inside – there's someone who would like to meet you post haste."

Unfamiliar with the even voice of the man, Alfred glanced up past his shoulder. It was him, the new Ace of Spades, dressed in blue robes for the evening but with the same white headress as before, when Alfred had first met him in Yao's office.

"Oh, okay sure, sorry," he glanced at the Joker and his brother – the latter getting to his feet, obviously self conscious now that the Ace had appeared.

As he was led back to the ballroom he felt as if his brother was going to follow but the way he bit his lip and furrowed his brow should have indicated that he had one last question for the Joker before returning to the party.

"I'm glad we found you, your highness – it worried us to lose sight of you for so long – it's your party after all."

Alfred didn't reply to the Ace, who kept his palm resting on the shoulder of his ridiculous jacket for the entirety of the walk back, but he quickly remembered his need for the bathroom.


Arthur was closer to the party than he'd imagined, peering through the servants entrance to the lively ballroom beyond, the joyful sounds of laughter and music escaping into the small room where he stood poised with a laden tray of canapés.

His job wasn't to serve, but rather to replenish the supplies of the smarter dressed, better groomed, royal serving boys weaving through the crowd to sate any slight lingering states of hunger the party guests may be experiencing. This arrangement was understandable, his discoloured work shirt, scuffed boots and tousled hair considered, but to an extent he wished he could be out amongst it all. Arthur had never seen a party like this and on several levels it appalled him; it was excessive and luxurious and so free of inhibition it seemed other-worldly to him. It looked, from the outside, to be no more than an arrogant show of wealth without a purpose other than that they could at all. However, a small part of him was completely entranced. It was as if he was rooted to the earth here, watching through a shadow as they floated in clouds above him, lighter than air itself. In Kattleroot they had dances at the Goose on several occasions - and they could be spirited enough - but never had he seen anything like this. Never could they quite shake free of their roots in such a way.

Just as Arthur noticed one of the platter boys heading his way with an empty tray and was preparing to hand his own over - with relief, having avoided so much as glancing at any of the food in case his growling stomach got the better of him - the music died and the voices hushed and the serving boy slowed in his tracks. He felt an urge to lean out of the doorway to see what the fuss was but his smarter self reminded him that if there was an issue, far better to lurk in the shadows unnoticed. Despite being so tucked away Arthur found himself with a perfect view of what was occurring, the crowd even parting to form an eager circle around the object of interest and voices raising and falling in breathy excitement.

After catching sight of a tuft of glowing blonde hair -like a stalk of wheat glimmering through the crowd - Arthur realised with his breath catching in his throat that it was Alfred. He even felt himself breathe his name under his breath in disbelief. But of course it was Alfred; he was the prince of spades - who else would be the centre of attention? Seeing him like this did shock Arthur though, so formally dressed and surrounded by such adoration, each guest smiling down at him as if he were the sun itself. A tall man with a ponytail stood by his side with a hand on his shoulder - that must have been Yao. He was not as Arthur had imagined him but it made sense, the rigid posture, the composure, the way he guided Alfred - these things all fit in with the man the boy had described to him. There was an air of expectancy in the room as the prince was led forward to whatever fate awaited him on the other side of the hall. He halted, or rather was halted, suddenly where the crowd had parted at its widest and, catching a glimpse of the boy's face, despite the way Alfred puffed out his chest and stood as a King's son should, Arthur thought he saw a hint of fear in it.

"Your highness, Prince Alfred Jones," a ridiculously pompous voice (so nasal it possessed a strangulated quality) rang out over the heads of those in the mingling crowd - over Arthur's head - the room hung waiting on strings,"...Miss Angelique Mancham."

But what did those two names uttered together mean? He experienced a moment of confusion and then all made sense. An introduction, a meeting, a dance. Always a dance wasn't it? Isn't that what those stories said about kings and queens and palaces? Where had he even heard such tales - Mel had never told him of these things, he was sure - but why did he feel this nostalgia? But there wasn't much time to puzzle over that hazy memory (less time for that since meeting Alfred he found: there was way too much trouble at his present) but for now there was too much to watch, though he despised his very interest; if the platter boy didn't need him he should just leave the thing and find more work in the kitchen - there was nothing for him here. Needless to say his feet seemed sealed to the floor on which he stood.

Through the figures of the crowd Alfred, illuminated by the light of the chandeliers, gave a bow. It was a low one and he felt as if it might have gone on forever had she not chuckled slightly - girlishly. He would have said childishly but there was something commanding about it which held a maturity. Arthur still couldn't see her face. He thought Alfred might have to say something to her, a formal invitation perhaps, before proceeding but - at the unexpected and sudden touch of their palms - the orchestra, never to miss a beat and seeming to rise up to the high ceiling with the gasps of the enchanted crowd (Arthur himself suppressing surprise) lifted the suspense from the room and shed it like rain drops over the heads of the guests in the music it played.

Arthur figured Alfred wasn't much of a dancer, the concentration on his face edging very closely towards pain and his back straighter and more rigid than even etiquette required, but that didn't stop the movement of the two from seeming as fluid as the harmonious liquid sound the orchestra made. Royal guests watched on with smiles of endearment for the young couple with hands clasped and drinks raised. They seemed to float over the floor the way a feather floats through air, the pink chiffon skirts of Miss Mancham swirling behind her like smoke. She was pretty, Arthur had to admit - and it was an admittance for some reason - with large dark eyes and immaculately styled hair, dotted with pink daisies.

They danced on but as Alfred twirled her, the two in the centre of the room like a light source, a point of beauty amongst the crowd, the prince happened to glance around him, maybe noticing the room full of people for the first time. A split second after the decision to take in the room was made a case of chance let his eyes lock onto Arthur's in a surreal and stomach dropping instance. The boy was shocked, he made it clear enough, his mouth falling open slightly as he kept his eyes straight on Arthur in his doorway, watching over the slim brown shoulder of his dance partner. Arthur felt as if his mouth could well be ajar too and made sure to straighten up, feeling he was leaning forward once again. Feeling, utterly stupidly, that the Prince of Spades was looking at him and he should at least make himself presentable. It felt wrong for Alfred or anyone to see him - he should be invisible, unimportant, a ghost of this world around him - not gawped at by Alfred who surely should be enthralled by the pretty thing in front of him, in his arms. But for these few seconds he and Alfred were the only two souls in the room and the look on his face was the only thing which existed.

After what felt like too long Arthur gave a slow nod, gathering himself, and the spell melted and the sound swelled back to full volume and he took a step back, surrounding himself in shadow with a sudden hold of shame and forcing Alfred to let him stay a ghost today; it wasn't somewhere he should be getting himself noticed. It wasn't a world where he was supposed to exist. Not to anyone. Especially not to Alfred.


A/N: An update that's on time yay! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and it was nice to see some speculation in the reviews heh heh! :B

The song I listed above played a really big part in how I envisioned the ball to be, so check out the link if you want to/can spare the time :D

Thanks to those that reviewed, I really cherish any comments people have about the story!

Anyway, I'll be back with more soon!