Chapter 2

A velvet sofa set against an inconspicuous grey wall. In it sat a man, his eyes an odd blue that shone with shades of violet. His right hand twirled a delicate rose, its thorny stem clasped in two long gloved fingers. His left gripped a thin stack of papers, fingers splayed to support the thin material. Medium length blond hair brushed against a flamboyant coat which stood out against the neutral browns, beiges and greys of the room. Long legs shifted slightly as their owner tried unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable position, before swinging up and coming to rest on the opposite armrest. The man lounging on this sofa was none other than Francis Bonnefoy, king of Durandal.

Fine brows furrowed as his eyes ran over the small print. It was definitely not pleasing news, to hear of such killings in what is, or what was, a peaceful town. That is, before the war struck. The last time the states had clashed it had taken a heavy toll on each of them. Durandal, for one, had suffered great losses and had taken years to rebuild its army. Even now, Francis doubted that the army could stand against a strong attack.

The thwack of a young sapling hitting the window frame was what alerted him to the incoming storm. The booming thunder that followed made him cringe slightly as he lifted his gaze from the paper in his hand, refocusing on the large expanse of land that the castle looked out upon. Squinting, the man could make out the tiny dots which sped towards the gates. Alfred and Toris, he assumed. With a thump, his legs connected with the floor and he strolled over to the high windows, idly twirling the rose in his hand as he peered out. The grey clouds obscured the sun and now only a few beams of sunlight filtered through the clouds. Most of what he saw was cast in shadow, which didn't exactly help him in his casual observation.

As he tried one last time to see beyond the whitewashed walls of the main city, something caught his eye. On a wide, well-trod dirt road leading in from the east, Francis spotted a couple of small figures, slowly inching their way towards the eastern gates. A cluster of small green dots amongst fields of dull beige and brown. Herne, perhaps.

As he watched, the group disappeared under a cluster of trees of a small forest and didn't reappear for quite a while. Another clap of thunder sounded.

Having nothing else better to do, he decided to go for a quick ride before it rained. Francis threw the papers back onto the sofa, huffing as they scattered across the seat. The rose he left in a small dainty glass vase which perched on a mahogany end table. There was a spring in his step as he made his way towards the stables, pausing only once to talk to Michelle, his advisor. For once in the dreary day, Francis felt glad as he stepped out of the room, which was suffocating him with its dark with velvet drapes and walls, making the room seem much smaller than it was. As he stepped out, he called out, cupping his hands over his mouth to ensure that the sound travelled.

"I'm heading out for a little while, don't mind me, ma Cherie!" Momentarily, Francis slipped into the language of his origin, namely a small reclusive village in the west of Durandal. He flashed a quick grin at the young woman before disappearing with a flourish down the spiralled stairs. An indignant shout quickly followed.

The stables were rather empty, save for one lone groom who looked up, startled at the arrival of his king. Abandoning a small, worn book, the groom hurried to tack up the king's steed, a compact black gelding by the name of Meren that crabstepped nervously in his stall as a curry comb ran over his dense coat. Francis, meanwhile, observed the gradually darkening sky, waiting patiently. Not long after, Francis was bent low over the gelding's neck, a small smile playing on his lips as the pair galloped out of the gates.

oOoOoOoOo

He straightened up gradually, slowing Meren to a steady canter as they neared the tall grasses. The steady three-beat pace gradually slowed to a steady trot, Meren's hooves hitting the ground at a rhythmic two-beat gait that allowed Francis to survey his surroundings.

Being without the usual company that accompanied royalties had its plusses. For once, Francis could enjoy the tranquil peace of the calm before a storm. A bluebird flew overhead, chirping frantically as it dove into a nearby tree, seeking shelter. Below him, Meren's ears flicked back and forth as his rider continued to gently guide him along a narrow path.

The wind blew gently, shifting as it did so. Francis drew closer to the main road, shifting off the smaller path that he had previously been on. As he did, he scanned the area, wondering if the newcomers were still there. People from Herne were rather interesting, to put it mildly. He did have a good relationship with the king of Herne, even before they were crowned. The king of Herne had been a constant mentor and guide to him for quite a while. Constant travelling back and forth the two neighbouring countries and much drinking was rather common a few years back, until they were both crowned and went their separate ways.

A rustling to his left alerted Francis to the approach of another creature. Meren snorted at the newcomer – a riderless horse. Its saddle was tilted haphazardly on its short back and broken reins trailed uselessly on the ground. A dark substance crusted the thin frame of the mare as it trotted unsteadily towards Francis. Upon closer inspection, Francis realised that the substance was indeed dried blood. It matted the ropey mane of the horse and the thin leather of the saddle.

He beckoned to the mare, hoping she would approach. Instead, she threw her head up nervously before backing away and cantering in the opposition direction. Despite the mare's unsteady gait, she seemed to know where she was going, and possibly leading him someplace, piquing Francis's interest and causing him to steer Meren after the runaway mare.

Weaving in and out of the trees, Francis wondered what had happened. Perhaps they had run into a couple of wolves, or possibly bandits. Either way, it wasn't likely that either reason would have led to such damage. Unless the man facing his opponent was dreadfully inexperienced, of course. With one's mount in such a state though, it was certain that the rider had run into some sort of trouble. Francis nudged Meren gently with his heels, urging the horse to lengthen his stride, pursuing the mare with increased urgency.

oOoOoOoOo

Pain. Everywhere. Down his back, across his chest, and throbbing aches in his side and head. He lifted one blood-stained hand which weakly thumped back down into the ground due to a lack of energy. He couldn't see much, one half of his vision seemed to be obscured by something he couldn't quite identify. Was he blind? A surge of panic ran through the young man and he lurched into a sitting position, emerald eyes widening as he did so. A surge of pain ran through his wiry frame, forcing him to choke back a scream. Instead, he lay prone on the uncomfortable surface, grimacing as another jolt shook him.

Arthur angled his face upwards. A pale figure floated there, barely visible. A fay? She seemed to be rather anxious. Her hands waved in the air wildly as she shouted incoherently at him. Delicate white wings fluttered, working to keep the tiny figure suspended as she hovered just outside his peripheral vision.

What had happened? His memory was fuzzy, only bits and pieces were recovered. The thunder of hooves, a swoosh as a volley of arrows were released, the tearing sound of flesh ripped apart and the screams of dying men. Everything was slowly growing numb as Arthur struggled to remember. Just before he claimed by darkness, he noticed that a few things. His clothes clung to his body, soaking wet with what seemed to be rather muddy water. Second, he was lying on yet another damp surface. So for, everything seemed to be dull, soggy and depressing. The sky didn't seem too happy either, it was crying fat raindrops that thudded in the soil next to him, churning up the dark soil into a runny mud that only added to his displeasure. Compared to the current reality he was facing, a dreamless sleep seemed rather inviting. And thus, Arthur welcomed the feeling of slowly sinking beneath a dark blanket that numbed him to anything the outside world might have to say.

Yet more darkness. Arthur awoke in a place void of colour and light. He wasn't familiar with this place, but he suspected it was probably a part of his unconscious mind. Hesitantly, he placed one foot in front of the other, lurching forward immediately when his foot came into contact with thin air. He clawed desperately, hoping to grab a hold of sort but failed and plummeted downwards, mouth gaping in a soundless scream as he spun for what seemed like eternity.

Eventually, he landed heavily in what appeared to be his own room. He did a quick inventory check, realising his body had taken on a ghost-like quality, being translucent and able to pass through objects easily. Curious, he poked his hand through a nearby chair leg just to make sure and as expected, his hand came out perfectly fine through the other side. Blinking in surprise, he realised he was reliving a memory.

Looking up, he saw a mirror image of himself. Or really, it seemed to be him exactly. He was dressed in casual clothes that hung loosely around his waist. Draped around his shoulders was a cloak that was worn primarily for travelling. Arthur frowned. Was he embarking on a long journey then?

He moved with a sense of urgency, with a light bag slung over his shoulders. The scene swiftly melted into one of the grey stone stables, bustling with horses and men as they mounted up and checked their gear. Each was dressed in hard leather, made to withstand harsh climates and light attacks. His memories slowly floated back to him. Ah yes, he was travelling to Durandal, wasn't he? A friendly visit to pass on some news, he was certain. Another fragment of his memory was returned.

Again, the scene shifted. This time it was a sheltered forest trail. Arthur stood at the side of the path, watching as his other self cantered smoothly to the front of the ride, surveying the dense trees for any danger. Satisfied with the fact that he sensed none, he returned to the back of the ride, resuming the most secure position of the entire group. It wasn't a large group, just a small group of five elite escorts, three of which being friendly acquaintances, one being his advisor, Matthew, and the last being a man he wasn't quite sure about yet. Matthew had recommended him though, so Arthur assumed he was fine.

In a way, he floated in between both bodies. Original-Arthur seemed to be invisible and was watching his memories unfold from a third person point of view. Subconsciously, he could tell what Memory-Arthur was thinking It wasn't surprising, considering that they were both actually the same person. At this point of time, he could feel Dream-Arthur's quiet excitement beneath his calm demeanour at meeting new people and going new places.

He walked along the group, making use of his current invisible state to examine each of his men. All of them seemed to rather comfortable, chatting quietly amongst themselves about trivial issues. They hadn't let their guard down though, each was poised for action and every soldier had one hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword. Well, most of them at least.

Matthew had his head tilted slightly to his left as he occasionally nodded in agreement, responding to what the other man was saying. The latter had let go of his reins, guiding the horse confidently with slight leg commands. One hand rested on his lap and the other was raised in the air as he gesticulated wildly to accentuate his speech. A broad grin was plastered on his pale face and light glinted in energetic crimson eyes as he jabbered on. Arthur couldn't really make out what he was saying and by the looks of it, neither could Matthew. There was a rather confused look on his advisor's face as he nodded hesitantly.

The scene changed once again. It didn't seem to change that drastically. It was more of a fast-forward this time. If he looked back, he could see the place where the previous scene had taken place. Arthur looked around, wondering why his memory had chosen this particular part. There was a voice nagging him at the back of his head, warning him that something bad was going to happen. He tried to ignore it, he didn't want to know.

He closed his eyes, his heart heavy with dread as a familiar whoosh sounded, passing dangerously close to his head. A scuffle of hooves as the horses reared in alarm, a dull thump as an unfortunate man fell to the ground, the screech of metal as swords were drawn hurriedly and raised to defend their king. The noises died away as soon as they began. Arthur slowly blinked his eyes open, biting his tongue in alarm as he realised he had lost his third person vantage point. Now, trapped and powerless in the mind of Dream-Arthur, he could only watch as the scene unfolded before him.

A barbed arrow protruded out of a man's back, its cruel tips shining with dark blood. Frenzied, the riderless mount reared before crashing mercilessly down onto the ground. There was an explosion of blood and Arthur involuntarily glanced down to see the crushed remains of a man's head and helmet. The horse once again reared, shrieking as it fell to the ground, an arrow buried behind its elbow.

There was a momentary silence and no one moved a muscle as two lithe figures appeared before them. One was clearly female yet gave off a menacing aura, dressed in a long sleeved dark green top that seemed to resemble a foreign traditional wear. Golden eyes gleamed dangerously as they glared out from under hazel bangs and a curved spear was clutched in her hands, poised to strike. The other looked similar, except he had chosen to cover the lower portion of his face with a black cloth. If anything, his overall appearance looked duller and darker as compared to the female, but wide sleeves that revealed portions of scarred lower arms and bandaged fists proved that he was definitely as strong as her. Perhaps stronger. He neglected the use of weapons, preferring to use bare hands as he cracked his knuckles.

A bow lay discarded behind them, its purpose having been completed. The result lay before them, one man and his mount down and dead, another gripped his thigh, mouth agape in a silent scream of pain. The arrow had torn through cloth and flesh and now a gaping hole was visible mid-thigh, carmine blood slowly dripping down and staining the previously-brown leather saddle an ominous black. Only three remained, Arthur himself, Matthew and the crimson haired man whose name escaped Arthur's mind for the moment.

He was once again bound to the back of Dream-Arthur's mind as the scene played out in front of him, like a bloody battle scene in a fast-paced action film, except there was no cool composure in the actor's mind ready to act out a choreographed fight sequence. No, it was pure panic and apprehension behind a shield of indifference as Dream-Arthur raised his sword. A flicker of what seemed like amusement passed over their opponents' eyes as Arthur's companions mirrored his gesture.

Without warning, they charged forward, swords lowered to pierce through the heart of an unsuspecting enemy. The swords were steady, controlled with practiced ease and each made a beeline towards his target. Unfortunately, these opponents were far from unaware of their intentions. Swiftly, they sidestepped, dodging the advancing beasts. A spear flashed by Arthur's eyes and he felt himself falling as the saddle slipped sideways, slowly depositing its passenger ungracefully on the ground. He sensed Dream-Arthur's frustration and then fear as his mount bucked, steel-shod hooves landing barely a feet from his head before fleeing into the distance. He rolled, grimacing as he untangled his legs from the leather stirrups and stood, sword once again ready for action, facing the green-clad woman who gazed at him, eyes burning with hatred.

She ran at him, spear raised high and screaming a wild battle cry as the heavy blade came crashing down. He deflected it, muscles screaming with the effort. No matter how hard he trained, Arthur just didn't compare to his sturdier brothers who could confidently stand their own in a street brawl. His style of fighting was rather different, relying on the size of his opponent. Not that he could use it now, though.

"Gilbert!"

A shriek quickly followed, distracting Arthur momentarily as he spun around. Immediately, regret at the instinctive reaction flashed across his mind, followed by blinding pain. He staggered forward in pain, Dream-Arthur's mind was muddled with pain, focused on the white-hot burning sensation that spread over his back. For a moment, he experienced a strange out-of-body sensation as he reverted to his third person point of view, staring down in shock as he watched his body contort in pain. The painfully stoic expression on the woman's face as she stared down at him made it even more unbearable. Droplets of blood arced through the air as she spun the spear gracefully, advancing to put the suffering man out of his misery.

A dragging sensation passed over and once again he watched through Dream-Arthur's eyes as he frantically tried to regain his bearings. Valiantly, he rose to meet her gaze but the darkened green eyes met none. He turned around on impulse, instantly regretting the decision as the pain exploded in his lower back. He thought he saw a flicker at his side and turned, just in time to receive another gaping wound across his arm, which he had raised to defend himself.

His attacker quickly vanished as a flash of white hair swept across. Gilbert, that was his name wasn't it? Crimson eyes fuelled with anger clashed with cool indifferent golden orbs. Hurt, but not yielding, Gilbert drove her back in a flurry of attacks, sparks quite literally flying as metal clashed against metal.

Arthur spared a glance back behind the raging swordsman and was startled to find the male assailant completely defeated. The black cloth obscuring his face was torn as were the sleeves of his shirt. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding and the bandages were beginning to unravel.

Standing nearby was Matthew, panting heavily as both arms hung by his sides. Similar to his opponent, his fists were clenched, torn and bleeding. The skin seemed to have almost torn off and Arthur grimaced at the grisly sight of a thin layer of pale skin dangling by a thread.

Something, or someone, barrelled into this right and Arthur lost his footing. A quick glance upwards allowed him to glimpse Gilbert scrambling to his feet, the sword held steadily despite his obvious exhaustion. There was a blur as the woman shot past Gilbert, slashing at him. His foot caught on a tree root and Gilbert let out a low shout of despair as he failed to dodge completely. Blood sprayed as the spear pierced his shoulder. The woman pulled it out with a jerk, letting Gilbert stumble back unbalanced and turning to Arthur, raising her spear as she did so.

It stuck a chord of fear in him and Arthur only looked on in fear as she advanced, spear raised above his heart, gazing down with eyes completely devoid of emotion save for a flicker of hatred. It felt familiar, this situation. Another glimpse of his memories flitted across his vision, one of a blood-stained young woman, a small hunting knife poised over his head as he blinked eyes bleary with sleep.

The blade swung down and Arthur slipped clumsily to the side in a failed attempt to evade. The spear missed his heart, but plunged deep into his side, twisting as it tore itself out of his flesh. He let out a strangled scream, vision momentarily blacking out due to the pain. He lashed out wildly, swinging his sword up haphazardly and kicking out, hoping to connect with his target. His sword met some resistance and his vision cleared and he looked up to see his sword bloodied and his attacker staggering backwards, eyes wide with undisguised shock as she clutched her thigh, teeth gritted in pain.

Grunting with effort, Arthur managed to get on his feet. He held the sword level with his opponent's chest, stepping forward as he threatened her. This time, she backed off, sparing a glance over her shoulder as she easily picked up the limp body of her comrade and vaulted onto a chestnut horse that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere before fleeing swiftly. Before she vanished out of sight, she turned back and gave them a strange look. One possibly filled with a hint of pity.

Arthur let confusion wash over him for a moment before starting to observe his surroundings, grabbing a tree branch for support. A few metres away, Gilbert was being helped up by Matthew, who seemed to be the better off out of all three. His eyes fell on something else moving around beyond the circle of trees. It seemed that Matthew had also seen them. Gilbert though, was completely unconscious, his head lolling loosely as the irregular flow of blood slowed to a steady trickle.

Wolves. Attracted by the scent of fresh blood and weakened humans, drawn to the unwary prey like moths to a light. The canines circled the trio, moving smoothly as one, just outside the ring of trees where the battle had taken place. The wolves of Durandal were exceptionally ferocious and cunning, tales were often heard of these wolves taking down large prey in small numbers, and the few cases where these wolves had attacked humans, disarming the men with a little deft flick of their tail and killing them with a neat bite to the neck.

Arthur moved closer to Matthew and Gilbert, while Matthew tried, and failed, to lift the heavier man. Both stood back to back, Gilbert balanced between them, swords raised as the wolves tightened the circle. Arthur's heart sank. There were at least 15 wolves, all of which looked battle-ready and able to kill, whereas Arthur and his companions were rather near collapsing of exhaustion and were in absolutely no state to fend off hungry wolves.

"When you see a chance, run for your life."

Arthur felt surprised as he heard himself utter those uncharacteristic words. Matthew nodded, violet eyes lighting up momentarily as he scanned the surroundings for an opening. He gave a little grunt as he heaved Gilbert onto his shoulders and at this the wolves stepped forward, whining in anticipation.

He steadied himself and let out a piercing whistle, hoping that his mount would hopefully hear him and provide a way to escape. Instead, a few fays flew into his scope of vision, each tinted a vivid splash of colour, leaving a mystical trail that shone in the light. They danced around the trio, delicate wings allowing them to swoop and soar as they came between the exhausted men and the wolves. One flashed a reassuring smile at Arthur and he felt a list mist settle on his skin.

A surge of energy made him straighten his back and raise his sword. A glance to his right showed him that Matthew and Gilbert had also received a burst of energy and were now staring in disbelief at the fays that appeared before their eyes. Gilbert had regained his energy and was able to stand, albeit a little support from Matthew.

You should be able to run now, sine we've given you some of our energy. There's a stream nearby, and we can hold off these creatures long enough for you to reach your destination. The wolves of Durandal fear water, or so I've heard.

A fay dressed in a pale blue dress addressed Arthur directly, gesturing in said direction as she explained. In a low voice, Arthur relayed the message to his companions, who had gotten over the initial shock and were now eying the wolves instead.

As soon as he did so, the fays disappeared without a trace, earning a gasp from both Matthew and Gilbert. They reappeared soon enough, just as the wolves leapt forward, with ropey strands of saliva hanging from gaping maws. The air seemed to waver and the wolves collided with an invisible force field that held them at bay.

Legs pumping, Arthur ran. His companions soon disappeared from view as he ducked under low hanging boughs and bounded over overgrown tree roots. A thick shield of shrubbery hid his impending fall from view and unknowingly, Arthur crashed ungainly through the bushes, only to have his foot step on thin air and fall into a freezing cold river below. The last thing he saw in this memory was the bubbles of air escaping his lips, a stony riverbed and white foam and waves crashing against sharp rocks as the river twisted and bucked violently before he felt a painful impact on the back of his head and he saw no more.

oOoOoOoOo

The mare led the way across a pebbled riverbank, stumbling a few times in the process. The steadier Meren followed at a steadier pace, picking his way across scattered pieces of driftwood. All of a sudden, the mare threw up her head and reared before attempting a clumsy jump across a rather large fallen tree. There was a painful scraping sound as her hind legs snagged on a branch but the mare managed to get over safely, more or less.

The metallic tang of blood caught his attention. He rode Meren at a strong canter, rising up slightly out of the saddle as the gelding hurdled the log. He sat back, slowing Meren to a walk and stifled a gasp. Instead, he bit his lip as he observed the scene before him.

A man clad in what used to be a quality cloak had been washed ashore. He was unconscious and breathing raggedly, his chest moving up and down in an irregular rhythm as he lay spread-eagled on the ground, still half immersed in the river.

The mare nosed the limp hand of her rider gingerly, her ears drooping as she received no response. She raised her head to gaze at Francis before stepping back, granting permission and access to her fallen rider. Francis dismounted, looping Meren's reins over a branch and approached the unconscious man carefully. Eventually, after several cautious steps, he drew close enough to thoroughly examine him.

Thick brows rested above closed eyes. His features would make him a popular man amongst the ladies, if not for the blood that coated them at this point of time. His hair, under the mud and blood, would probably be a bright blond not unlike his own. Francis stretched his hand forward to gently skim through his hair, sucking in a breath as he saw the deep gash on his head. This man needed medical attention as soon as possible, and despite being a king, Francis wasn't the best one to give him that care.

Slowly, he looped his arms under the other's shoulders and slowly pulled him out of the river. He released the man, staring in amazement at the amount of blood that had seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Scarlet liquid floated in the crystal clear waters of the river, resembling a ruby scarf that floated on the river without a care in the world before the water carried it downstream. It followed the man, leaving a trail of blood across previously-grey pebbles and pooled beneath torn flesh and cloth and his side.

Francis started panicking, muttering profanities in his original tongue. He turned on the spot, trying frantically to spot anything that might help stem the bleeding. He turned a full circle before coming to a stop at the exact spot where he had started. Seeing nothing that would help, Francis shrugged off his coat, feeling a twinge of regret as he did so. It was one of his favourites, after all. Bending down, he tore off a portion of the sleeve, binding snugly it around the man's forehead. Another portion of the other sleeve was torn off and wrapped around the other gaping wound in his side. The remainder of the coat was wrapped wound the man the best as it could.

Stepping back to view the results of his handiwork, Francis contemplated on what to do next. His next move would probably be to carry him and rush back to town, screaming for someone to help the poor soul but due to the head wound, he probably shouldn't.

"What…where…"

Francis's eyes widened in surprise. Two seconds ago the man was barely breathing and now he was struggling to sit up, and talking! The man's head swung in his direction, emerald eyes staring questioningly at him. He seemed to be about to stand up, before his body was racked with a bout of coughing. Turning away, the man threw up some water, shoulders heaving with the effort.

He turned back a moment later, lurching unsteadily to his feet as he approached Francis. Francis found himself backing away, hands raised. Or some reason, the sword that the man held didn't seem entirely welcoming.

"What have you done, and where am I?" The man rasped, his throat obviously sore.

Francis was startled at the other's quick recovery. "Francis Bonnefoy, king of Durandal, I have done nothing except to kindly bandage your wounds. I found you here thanks to your horse. You're in a small forest just outside the city walls of Durandal." He stood his ground this time, seeing that the sword was in fact lowered.

"Arthur Kirkland, king of Herne. I must thank you then," Arthur met his gaze evenly, before turning away to cough. He murmured a quick thanks to an invisible figure at his side before collapsing forward.

Francis caught him, knees momentarily buckling under the weight. Arthur Kirkland? That meant that the previous king had died, didn't it? And now the king was young Arthur, instead of his elder brothers Dylan, Allistor, Connor and Darren. Francis shook his head, the questions on the tip of his tongue, but decided to hold them until Arthur was properly healed up.

"An hour." Arthur was shivering uncontrollably at this point, barely managing to squeeze out words between chattering teeth.

"An hour till what?" Francis guided Arthur towards Meren, taking care as to not trip over the various obstacles nature presented to them.

"An hour until the spell wears off and I completely go unconscious and possibly go into a coma." Arthur stated. "The fays are helping at the moment, but I need to get patched up as they can't possibly help me forever."

Personally, Francis thought Arthur might have gone insane. Then again, Herne was a kingdom with a strong belief in magic. Many strange things had happened the last time he had visited and now, thinking of it, what Arthur said didn't seem too crazy after all.

Bracing himself, he helped Arthur into the saddle before mounting. Meren flattened his ears in response to the additional weight but didn't complain further as Francis coaxed the gelding to carry them home. A firm squeeze sent the horse into a smooth canter that enabled them to travel swiftly across the trails.

Arthur had settled down comfortably at this point, but as they passed the shelter of the trees, Arthur sat up ramrod straight and seemed to scan the surroundings rather worriedly. "My companions are missing too," he murmured anxiously.

Francis frowned. He had not seen any other person in the forest, though he clearly remembered a group of people entering the forest. Though with an hour left, he didn't want to tarry any longer for fear of that hour running out and Arthur slipping away. He had known him for such a short period of time, yet felt a sense of affection towards him. He didn't want Arthur to disappear. Definitely not. Nope, that thought seemed completely out of question.

"I'll find them later. First things first, I'll get you to a doctor." Francis focused on the road ahead, clicking his tongue to urge the gelding faster. Meren's strides lengthened and soon they were quick approaching the city. Arthur seemed slightly reassured, relaxing a tad more as they entered.

The streets were empty, save for a few who were rushing home. The rain fell in sheets, obscuring vision. They pulled up slowly, trotting into the shelter of the stables where Francis slid off first before helping Arthur off. Meren stood obediently as his riders dismounted, trotting off as soon as he felt the weight leave his back and announcing his arrival with a ringing neigh.

Footsteps sounded as people rushed down. Arthur stepped backwards, one hand on his head as he grimaced in pain. Francis held his shoulders, steadying the younger man, looking up as a familiar figure approached.

"Ma Cherie! Would you be so kind as to call a doctor?" Francis called out to Michelle. She gazed, horrified, at Arthur's state before nodding and rushing off.

Francis turned back to Arthur, scanning the other's face. "I'll be right back, stay here, okay?" He patted Arthur's shoulder reassuringly before jogging off to have a few words to a groom.

oOoOoOoOo

He barely felt the hand on the shoulder, nor heard the words Francis uttered. A cold numbness was starting to envelop his body and his head was throbbing. As he took a step forward, a stabbing pain made him look down and lose his balance. Down, down, down… The floor rushed to meet his face.

And once again, darkness.

-End-

A/N:

I'm sorry it took so long to upload! This chapter is a little longer than the previous one and centres on the two kings Francis and Arthur. I apologize for any errors in the chapter. If anyone's wondering, here's some trivia about the stuff I've written. Arthur's older brothers would be Scotland (Allistor), Wales (Dylan), Ireland (Darren), North Ireland (Connor) and Sealand (Peter). Sealand wasn't mentioned cause he isn't an older brother. They might come in later chapters. Probably will.

Meren, Francis's horse, is modelled after the Mérens horse, a horse native to France. Arthur's unnamed horse is a chestnut Thoroughbred mare. For those who don't know, Thoroughbreds originate from England.

Age difference between Francis and Arthur is roughly two to three years.

Arthur doesn't remember Gilbert's name cause Gilbert was cared for by Matthew and not Arthur. He's in the guard cause Matthew recommended him and Matthew is Arthur's trusted advisor and also good friend and thus Gilbert is part of the guard.

More family relations regarding Arthur, France, Matthew, Alfred and many others will be revealed eventually. Let's just say I've thought of a complicated background with help from my friend Kiho.

And I'm done, Akairuka out! Expect an update in a week or more, depending on my schedule. Thanks for reading!

Edit: Added "oOoOoOoOo" to seperate timeskips, POVs etc. I don't have time to go back and check this chapter for mistakes right now since I'm busy writing the third chapter I'll get any errors corrected once I post chapter 3!