There was another knock on the door the following day. Two days in a row the hermit had company! It must have been a new record.

Arthur, however, did not seem surprised at all. "That must be Gilbert," he said, closing the spellbook he had been poring over. "Well, I'm off to the pub. Watch the house for me, would you?"

"You're leaving me here? Just like that?"

Arthur did not even deign to give Francis a proper response. He grunted in what might have passed for an affirmative if one were some sort of caveman and went to answer the door. Francis, unable to stifle his curiosity, absconded from the potion he had been steeping in and followed him to greet the guest. He launched himself off the coffee table just in time to grab ahold of Arthur's back as he passed, and from there it was but a short climb to the man's shoulder. Arthur, having become increasingly distracted through the day, did not seem to notice.

When the door opened, the white-haired man from the first night, now sober, immediately raised his hand in a casual salute. The chick on his head mirrored the action.

"Yo. Ready to get shit-faced?"

"Ugh. You've no idea how badly I've needed a stiff drink these past few days."

"Yeah, you look like crap. Jeez, Arthur, you should just keep a gallon of rum in your house so you can be an awesome pirate all the time instead of this workaholic nerd that takes over when I'm not here to awesome you up."

"Don't remind me of the pirate thing."

"Speaking of, didn't we agree that you needed a parrot? What's with the frog? Did you get jealous of my Gilbird or something?"

It was then that Arthur noticed his little passenger. "Ah, y-yes. He's my... er, Arth-frog, my pet frog." He shot a look at Francis as if daring him to disagree that he was anything more than an ordinary pet.

Arthur had perhaps wanted to keep things simple. Letting Gilbert in on Francis' situation would result in a long question and answer session that he wasn't up for at the moment, impatient as he was to seek the sweet, blessed release of self-medication via unhealthy dependence on alcohol.

Francis, however, was no one's pet unless it was in the bedroom, so he spoke up. "That's very kinky, Monsieur Kirkland. Do I get a slave collar?"

"I said pet, not sex slave!"

"Hell yeah," Gilbert said. "Little guy's awesome!" He then proceeded to offer his hand for a tiny high-five. And that was how Prince Francis first became acquainted with the infamous Gilbert.

The three companions - or four, including Gilbird - went to the pub with the goal of getting two of them embarrassingly smashed. (Gilbird, Gilbert explained, chose to remain sober in order to drive Gilbert home by chirping directions from his high perch. Though Francis enjoyed his fine wines, he figured it would be for the best if he were to do the same for Arthur.)

It was as they were only halfway to that goal that the conversation drifted to topics of great importance, both for politics in the world at large and for Francis personally. It was a throwaway comment that Gilbert made as they spoke of annoying family members that sparked the change in subject matter - "My little brother is such an uptight bastard. If he nags me any more I might just decide not to tell him that the king he's working for is gonna get his head popped. See what that does for his career, heh."

"What king?" Francis asked. "Where? Why? How?" Being a prince and raised on politics as his bread and butter, he was naturally curious about such things. Despite there being many kings in the world, there was also an ominous feeling his gut that had increased the more Gilbert had spoken about his brother.

"Our king," Gilbert said. "Or the one just across the border, really." He shrugged. "Some of my old mercenary buddies were yappin' about it. Some sort of assassination gig or whatever. The prince is missing and they're gonna pop off the old man soon, so there might be a war brewing in the near future."

From that revelation, it didn't take much to pin down that the reason Gilbert had seemed familiar to Francis in an odd way was because, as different as he was from his brother, Gilbert still shared some of Ludwig's facial features. It was, Francis realized, definitely Ludwig that Gilbert had been talking about (for no one else in all the realm could be so stiff as Ludwig), and so it was, Francis admitted with a sinking dread, definitely his own father who was about to be murdered. Conversation between them was subdued after that, though Gilbert filled it up with half a bottle of spirits, and Arthur filled it up by dancing provocatively without his shirt on.

As the night wound down, the pub closed and they slowly made their way back home, parting with Gilbert at the bend in the road. Francis had been uncharacteristically quiet the whole way, preoccupied with his own thoughts. He rode upon Arthur's head, and Arthur, though he cursed when he stumbled, was mostly quiet also.

Francis almost did not notice he was being spoken to when Arthur began to mumble.

"If they're planning what Gilbert says they're planning, then your father is in serious trouble."

Francis was surprised that Arthur had been able to pay attention to Gilbert's whining through his own rum-induced stupor, but quickly retracted the thought. Of course, with Arthur's tolerance, he must have been a very high-functioning alcoholic. But it was still surprising that Arthur, the eternally prickly mage, had bothered to bring up the subject with Francis, almost as if he cared. Francis cleared his throat and tried not to look flustered even though no one was looking. He was supposed to be suave and flirtatious to the end, but he had never really liked anyone the way he liked Arthur. It was starting to ruin his carefully crafted mask, so he tried twice as hard to maintain it.

He responded flippantly, "I never took you for one to state the obvious."

"Oh, piss off. I'm just trying to be a good concerned friend here."

"We're friends now? Really?" Dramatic disbelief colored Francis' voice.

"Yes."

"Really really?"

"No."

"What! You can't just take it away that easily!"

"I just did."

Having successfully steered the conversation back into his comfort zone and wrung a friendship-confession out of Arthur to boot, Francis was in a much better mood as they arrived back at the little cottage he had begun to think of as home. Arthur parted the gate and made his way to the front door without too much trouble. They stumbled inside and shut the door as in the distance, bells began to toll the hours.

The clock rang midnight as the yard blew up.

First there was a curious shaking, and when they glanced back out the window, they heard the boom and clods of dirt rained down from the sky. The force of the explosion shook the house, and there were terrible rumbles and groans emitted by the antique furniture as they threw off their loads. Vials and phials crashed upon the floor and smashed into the walls, lending their sharp cracks to the symphony of destruction. It went on for a full minute before it subsided, the great belching upheaval withering down to tiny splitter-splats as hunks of grass and sod rolled down roof, smaller and smaller pieces until they stopped.

And there was silence.

The two spectators remained rooted to the spot, transfixed with horror.

"So what do we do now?" Francis asked. Arthur merely cussed in reply.

-oOo-

In the morning, Arthur turned his misfortune around spectacularly. While mending the fence, he took the opportunity to re-paint the rusted signs that hung at the gate, and he even added an extra sentence to the end of the larger one. Francis had not been able to read the signs when he arrived, but now they were restored to all their former glory, and for the first time he took in the words. The first was rather simple and straightforward.

BEWARE OF WIZARD.

The second? ...Not so much. Francis found himself cocking his head to the side as he read the sign and was forced to reassess his earlier diagnosis of Arthur's "mild" sociopathic behavior. It said, in no uncertain words:

NO TRESPASSING. ANY DIMWITS ATTEMPTING TO DO SO WILL GO HOME WITH A MISSING KIDNEY AND NO RECOLLECTION OF HOW IT WAS LOST.

Well, Francis thought, it was certainly consistent with Arthur's attitude thus far - that of a miserly hermit who only left his estate once or twice per month to get raging drunk at the local tavern and wreak havoc about the town while swearing like a sailor with a speech impediment.

Perhaps it was the result of Francis' own presence, or at least exacerbated by it, but Arthur had, in hasty, angular brushstrokes, tacked on the new fine print:

I HATE ALL OF YOU.

"Kidneys, Arthur?"

"That ought to teach them to piss off! And I'll feed their own kidneys to them before I make them forget!"

And that night, as they surveyed what remained of the wreckage, at the piles of glass and spilled potions still to be mopped up, Francis asked, "If I never turn back, would you mind if I stayed?"

And though Arthur would later pretend this never happened, his eyes softened and he said, "I would like it if you stayed."