A/N: Late Chapter is late. Sorry, I am alive. But I'll have a USUK one-shot up either tomorrow or early in the week in addition to this. I did work over those two weeks! But anyways, now that finals are over, college acceptances are in, and life is returning to something a little more normal, I should be back to my once a week updates.

Chapter Five

"Alfred, if you can't sit still you're going to have to leave," Francis sighed as he rubbed his temples. "It's obvious your mind is elsewhere."

Alfred set down his lyre and shuffled from side to side, looking at the calluses beginning to form on the sides of his fingers. He maintained a nervous silence despite Francis' expectant gaze. Francis frowned. The boy's silence concerned him. He usually couldn't get Alfred to shut up, but today he'd hardly spoken two complete sentences.

"You can talk to me, Alfred," said Francis, as he laid a hand on Alfred's shoulder. The boy flinched. "Have I done something to offend you? Or might this be about your little meeting later tonight?"

Alfred shrugged, saying nothing. He was nervous for tonight, that much was true. Arthur and their upcoming meeting hadn't left Alfred's thoughts the entire night, as the circles under his eyes could attest, but his daily practice session with Francis also brought back the disturbing encounter of the day before. What Vash had said about the dedicates of Francis weighed on Alfred's mind. It didn't make sense to him. Francis could be superficial and petty sometimes, but Alfred would never expect him to condone — let alone encourage — prostitution in his name.

He glanced up into Francis' blue eyes. Alfred opened his mouth several times, closed it several times. "I didn't think you were like that," he finally said.

Francis blinked in confusion. "Happy we've got that cleared up," he said sarcastically. When Alfred didn't respond, Francis squeezed his shoulder. "Like what?" he asked. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Them — your dedicates. How could you really tell them to do something… like that? It's wrong!" said Alfred, eyes swimming in confusion.

Francis wracked his brain. His dedicates were mostly upstanding people who gave their lives to art and love. Alfred did tend to have a black and white view of morality, but what could have caused such a reaction?

"Aenea," he whispered. The boy must had seen or heard something about his dedicates in Aenea while he was there. Francis pressed his palms into his eyes.

"You heard something at the festival?" he asked. Alfred nodded. "I understand now, but Alfred, please believe it when I say that I in no way condone their behavior. My dedicates — my real dedicates — give their lives to art and their families."

Alfred stared at the god. His response and explanation were reassuring, but brought to light a more urgent issue in Alfred's mind.

"Then why don't you stop them?" he asked, frustrated. "Those people are devoted to you, if you said something—"

"Do you think I haven't tried? It's not so simple."

"What's not simple about it? You tell them to stop, they'll obey. That's what dedicates do."

"Whoever told you that was lying," said Francis, his voice weary.

That took Alfred by surprise. A priestess lie? Now that Alfred thought about it, it wasn't that unlikely. It had just never occurred to him that one of Arlya's faithful would be anything but truthful.

"What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.

Francis let out another sigh and turned his back to Alfred. He stood in silence, pondering the dimming sky.

"The dedicates claim to follow only the orders of the gods, and many honestly do. But there are also places, such as Aenea, where that gets lost." He paused and began pacing.

"Alfred, promise me that anything I say stays between us and will never leave this hill."

Alfred nodded.

"Cities, such as Aenea rely on a strict hierarchy to function," he explained. "When so many people live together, it's necessary for the survival of society. However, the time may come when those hierarchies as an institution feel threatened. They feel they must retain—"

A swooshing sound cut him off. Arlya appeared on the hillside, just outside Francis' garden, a smile on her lips but an angry look in her eyes.

"Alfred, it's time. It would be unwise to keep the Daemon waiting," she said and extended her hand. Alfred didn't take it, but stood by her, looking back at Francis, still confused. The god of love gave a slight shake of his head, cutting off any lingering questions. He locked eyes with Arlya, her suspicious glare falling on his now defiant one.

With a frown, Arlya grasped Alfred's hand and took him to the gate of Caelei.

Alfred looked up at the impressive marble archway. A star hung from the keystone, with a paper charms hanging from each point as if waiting for a non-existent wind.

"Just think of where you want to go when you pass under. You'll end up there," the goddess said. Alfred nodded. He had heard all this before.

She squeezed his hand. "I can get you out of this. I'll find that Daemon and force him to release you."

The offer was tempting. Alfred wasn't eager for his next encounter with Arthur, but he wouldn't back down so easily. Something stubborn rose up within him. No, he would go through with their agreement, at least for now, and see where it took him. If nothing else, this encounter would soothe the anxiety that kept him up the night before. Alfred scowled at those green eyes in his mind. Hopefully they would be gone by tomorrow.

"No, Arlya," he said. "It's not worth it. He won't hurt me, so please, stop worrying."

"He won't hurt you? Where ever did that idea come from?"

Alfred ignored her. He wasn't convinced of it himself, but had already resolved himself to go. He jerked his hand away and strode under the archway, vanishing into the mortal realm.

He stumbled as he was tossed from the gate by some unseen force, but he was not met with the cobbled stones of the threshold, but rather a soft dampness. He pushed himself up from the grassy hillside and straightened his glasses. The sun was lowering in the west, unhidden by the few wispy clouds in the sky. The golden light bathed the rolling hills, catching here and there off pools and little streams.

Alfred turned his face up at the gentle breeze that rustled over the grass. It was chilly with humidity from a recent rainstorm but thick with a vitality that the static air of Caelei lacked. True to his vow at the festival, he had come in his messenger's boots, white wings humming with anticipation. He flung himself into the air. The hills fell away below as he climbed towards the setting sun. The wind was stronger the higher he flew but the growing chill faded in the joy of flying through real, living air.

He spun and flipped and practiced all his acrobatics in the sweet air, only halting when he noticed a black-cloaked figure gazing at him. Alfred swooped down, touching down next to Arthur, who watched him with an unreadable expression.

Alfred opened his mouth to apologize for not coming down sooner when Arthur spoke first.

"You love it, don't you? Flying?"

Unsure how to reply, Alfred just nodded.

"You're movements up there, they're happy and very free," he continued, expression open and almost curious.

"I guess," Alfred said, smiling. Arthur gave a small, barely-there smile of his own, and gestured up the hill. "Come along then."

Alfred followed, tripping a few times over stones that Arthur's paws just seemed to glide over. They reached the crest of the hill between a circle of boulders where a small gathering of firewood, a clay cooking pot, a pile of vegetables, and two dead rabbits were laid.

"As you're mine for the night, I figured you'd want to eat sometime," he said in explanation. He found two boulders rather close together and reclined against one of them, indicating for Alfred to do the same.

Alfred brought out his lyre and shuffled his shoulders against the lichen-covered stone. He glanced over at Arthur whose russet tail was draped over his lap, out of the mud, and noticed the hint of a smile still on his face.

"You're in an awfully good mood today" he said. "It's been a couple minutes and you haven't insulted me yet."

"Well, that needs to change, as you are an idiot," said Arthur, though there was little venom in it. "I suppose I am happy, though. It's rare to have such a sunny day. Not that rain bothers me, but days such as this are… pleasant."

Alfred let the silence hang a moment before strumming a few chords. He glanced up at Arthur, whose eyes were closed in enjoyment.

"I have to warn you," Alfred said, "All the music I know is about love."

Arthur snorted. "Francis is you teacher correct? That fool hasn't changed a bit."

Alfred's fingers picked across the strings, warming themselves up. "You know Francis?" he asked.

"Of course I do," Arthur said. "Anyone who has been around as long as we have will know each other in one way or another."

"Even though he's a god?"

"Especially because he's a god. Now, stop talking and begin."

Alfred bit down the questions that were rising in his mind and launched into on of his favorite pieces. The world fell away as the music filled his mind, taking up all of his concentration. His audience was forgotten as the notes drifted from the strings, occasionally missed but quickly fixed.

The wetness in the air and covering Alfred from his flight began to chill as the sunset and a breeze picked up. The sky bled red as the last of the light tipped behind the horizon. In a moment, everything was washed a dark blue. Alfred strained his eyes and ignored the small shivers that ran up his damp back and neck. It was only after a horribly dissonant slip that Arthur raised protest.

"What was that?" he demanded. "I though you were going to play for me, not maim my ears."

Alfred flinched at the comment but fought back. "I can't see anything anymore and my fingers are freezing—"

"Oh woe is you. Life must be hard."

"If I'm so bad, you can just let me go and find another human to slave over an instrument for you," Alfred responded, voice tight with hurt and frustration.

Arthur's expression softened from outright irritation to mild exasperation. "You're not bad, per say," he said, getting to his feet. "Just careless. You get ahead of yourself and then you trip over your own fingers. Slow down a bit, and you'll be better."

"It also helps when I can see," said Alfred. He shook out his hands and rubbed his arms, trying to ward of the chill. A gust of night air blew over his neck and into his damp hair, sending him into an involuntary spasm.

Arthur noticed this with a frown and slung off his cloak from his shoulders. Muttering something about idiots and catching death, he tossed it to Alfred who slipped under the worn but warm material without a second thought.

"Thanks," said Alfred. "I don't deal well with cold."

Arthur nodded in acknowledgment, a small frown just barely visible in the night. "So it would seem. But I won't allow you to get out of our arrangement so easily," he said shifting into an outright glare, "I could have let you been ripped to shreds, so you still owe me. A couple of ballads don't begin to cover your debt to me."

Alfred nodded, suppressing a comment about how Arthur had ordered for Alfred to be killed in the first place. He stood and wrapped the cloak around himself as he watched Arthur build the beginnings of a fire. He looked on with interest and was startled when Arthur addressed him.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

Arthur gave a long-suffering sigh and repeated, "Would you mind getting the fire going? I was going to prepare the ingredients for some stew."

Alfred was thankful the night hid his face. "I don't know how," he mumbled to his boots.

"Come again?"

"I don't know how. Never made a fire before. Sorry."

"Can't say I'm all that surprised," Arthur said. "Would you like me to teach you?"

Alfred's head jerked up at the unexpected offer. Arthur looked up at him from the pile of wood expectantly. "Sure," Alfred said, "If you don't mind."

"Not particularly. I doubt survival skills are something the gods teach their pets." He beckoned Alfred beside him. "First the kindling— these little pieces here. We'll make a little pile of them, plenty of air of course. Now when those start to burn we'll begin adding the bigger pieces."

Alfred imitated the kindling pile perfectly on his first try, and though he had some trouble at first getting a piece of flint to spark, he managed it well enough. Soon Arthur and Alfred were tending a healthy fire, and Alfred felt better for the warmth. Arthur didn't seem to be bothered by the chill in the air as he moved around, attending to the rabbits and the vegetables. Alfred was given a water-filled clay pot to hang over the fire, which was a task in itself. Finally he had it hanging from a careful construction of branches that he was quite proud of.

Arthur walked over and deposited he chunks of rabbit meat along with what just looked like plain grass into the water. Alfred watched him, never having cooked himself. Arthur was careful and methodical as he prepared the stew, counting stirs to the left and right in what looked to Alfred a very complicated and precise method.

Awhile later, Arthur declared it ready. Arthur looked at the bowl that was presented to him with curiosity. Meals in Caelei were never so rustic, as Heracles, Francis, and Gilbert insisted, and the latter two often competed, on preparing the food. Alfred lifted the bowl to his lips and took a sip of the broth. He froze, eyes wide. It was the worst thing he had ever tasted, including the snails Francis made occasionally. He managed to swallow the mouthful of broth that tasted of warm, gritty dirt. He gasped, trying to pull fresh air into his mouth to rid it out the gamey, dirty taste.

Arthur watched the display with a frown. He sipped from his own bowl and though the taste was not good by any means, he didn't think that strong of a reaction was necessary.

"What is this?" Alfred demanded.

"Stew."

"Are you sure?"

Arthur huffed, his face reddening in the firelight. "Yes, I'm sure," he said. "I can't be blamed if you have no taste."

"If I don't, it's because whatever this is killed all sense of it I had," Alfred retorted, swirling his bowl. The near raw vegetables clicked against each other and the chunks of rubbery, grainy meat floated in the poor broth.

"You don't have to eat it, you know," Arthur said. "But you could be a little more grateful. I gathered all of this myself. I thought you might appreciate something warm, but I suppose I was wrong. Is gratitude beneath you? I lead you out of a forest that you were miserably lost in, and got the same reaction."

Alfred didn't meet his gaze. He wrapped Arthur's cloak tighter around his chilled body as the itch of guilt he had felt since the last day grew and gnawed at him. Almost no one treated him with anything but condescension and the festival had been his breaking point. So he had taken that frustration out on Arthur, someone whose feelings he had been taught ever since he was small didn't exist or didn't matter. He knew what he did and was sorry for it.

He took another long sip from the bowl, crunching some of the undercooked vegetables but holding down any grimace he was tempted to let slip. It might taste awful, but Arthur was right about one thing, it was warm and it helped dispel some of the chill that clung to him. The Daemon watched Alfred finish his stew in silence, then stare at the empty bowl. The boy sat there, occasionally opening his mouth, as if to speak, only to shut it again.

"But if you don't mind me asking," Alfred said with a gesture at the stew pot, "where did you learn to cook?"

Arthur's face bloomed scarlet and he found some piece of the darkening sky to scowl at. "I never did learn," he admitted, "not properly at least. It never occurred to me to try to prepare food until humans started to inhabit my moors. I tasted some of their food some time ago, and it was better than any raw rabbit or deer. So I watched them, and tried to learn that way. Needless to say, I'm still learning."

"So all that precision?"

"Just something to make me feel as if I know what I'm doing."

Alfred shot the Daemon a tentative grin. Arthur didn't return it, his face still a bit flushed. They fell into a companionable silence as Arthur poured himself some more stew and Alfred traced idle patterns around his bowl. The sun had completely set, leaving the two with only their small fire for light. Arthur had just put down his bowl when Alfred spoke again.

"Thank you for helping me out yesterday," he said with uncharacteristic softness, "I would have been lost in there for who knows how long if it weren't for you."

Arthur huffed, unwilling to forgive so quickly. "That's what I told you, but you sulked the entire way. It was rude, and I won't be so eager to help you again."

Alfred bristled. "I sulked because I'm sick of everyone treating me like a child—"

"You are a child," Arthur commented.

"Am not."

"You certainly act like one."

Alfred felt an angry flush run over his face. He decided to not respond to that last comment.

"Anyways," he continued, "I was supposed to be at the festival to celebrate my own adulthood, and the last thing Arlya says is for Kiku to keep an eye on me. That's how someone treats a child, not an independent adult. I mean, sure, Kiku and I are good friends, but it was the principle of it all."

He fidgeted under the cloak, then stood and shifted from foot to foot. The flickering firelight caught his turbulent eyes and threw shadows across his upset face.

"And then, I was lost and everything, I have to be lead out of the stupid forest by a Daemon—"

Arthur stood himself, in one fast, fluid motion. "And what does that have to do with anything?" he asked, eyes narrowed and hands clenching.

The Daemon's burning eyes startled Alfred. "What? Wait, nothing really, it wasn't because you're a Daemon, okay so maybe it was a little but—"

"But what?" Arthur demanded. "If I help you, you resent it just because of what I am, but if Arlya had come to fetch her little pet—"

"Stop it!"

"No," Arthur said, "Look at them, how they treat you. You're their animal, their little plaything for whenever they get bored. I've known Arlya for millennia; everyone is just a toy to her. You are no exception."

Alfred flinched. The truth of the words cut him to his core. Arthur took his silence as affirmation.

"So why should it matter what I am?" Arthur asked. He swept around the fire and grabbed Alfred by the clasp of the cloak. His burning green eyes pierced Alfred's blue ones, forcing him to hold his glare. "I helped you. I didn't have to; nothing was stopping me from leaving. But I helped. I showed you the way back. I didn't patronize you or take advantage of you in any way, yet you still resent it because I happen to be a Daemon! Why?"

Alfred caught Arthur's wrists and attempted to hold him away. Finally, he found his voice.

"I don't mean to!" he said, trying to shove Arthur away from him. The Daemon clung fast. "Whenever I see you, I see what you're supposed to be, what I was told you are. You helped me, and my brain knows that— I know that— and am grateful, but a little part of me couldn't drop the feeling it was a conscious-less, slaughter-reveling Daemon guiding me. The villain of the stories Arlya used put me to bed with, horrible stories of Daemons and what they did to people and the gods."

"What? What did we do?"

"In the stories? You were bloodthirsty monsters. You killed for the sake of killing, the thrill of the slaughter, the high the screams of your victims gave you," Alfred said. He clawed at Arthur's hands as they pulled the cloak too tight around his neck. "Arlya told me that you would cut me open alive and drink my blood if you ever caught me. She made me scared of you."

"And you went along with it?" Arthur growled, giving Alfred a hard shake. "Never once did you think of finding out for yourself, because Arlya must know everything. Why question her? Who would think of doing something so bold as questioning?" He threw Alfred to the ground with disgust.

"Of course I didn't question her!" said Alfred, propping himself up on his elbows. "She's my mother! Maybe not literally, but she's the only thing I have! Of course I trusted her."

Arthur stared down at him in silence. His face hidden in shadow. Alfred took it as a sign to continue.

"But why do you think I'm here?" he asked. "Sure the blood oath is a part of it, but do you really think Arlya can't find a way to break it? She wanted to come down here and kill you herself. I'm here because every time I'm around you a part of me fears that this'll change into those stories. I can tell myself over and over that it won't happen, that it was just a story, but the fear is still there. I hate the fear. I hate that cold trembling in my gut. I'm here because I won't be frightened of stories anymore."

Alfred started when he realized he was running his mouth. He looked up, holding Arthur's eyes, just glints of reflected firelight, and wasn't embarrassed, only a little vulnerable as the shadowed face stared down at him.

"Yet you are." Arthur's voice was cold. "You are still frightened of the stories, of me."

Alfred grimaced internally but nodded, not breaking eye contact. "I don't expect you to understand," he said, "but a mother's words are hard to forget."

Arthur turned to the fire. His eyes were pressed shut, whether with anger or something else, Alfred couldn't tell. His head hung against his chest and his entire front was illuminated by the dancing, erratic shadows the fire threw.

"You're wrong," he whispered. "I understand."

He sat down beside the fire, a small distance away from where Alfred still lay on the ground. His eyes were still held closed, though the rest of his face gave no indication of his feelings. He motioned beside him.

"Come," he said, voice soft and distant. "Play some more."

Alfred slid close to the Daemon, pulling cloak after him. He held his hands up to the fire, letting the warmth sink into his fingers. He watched Arthur next to him, curious, though he didn't press. The Daemon's reaction confused him, and he felt his own anger melt as it slid off the other's face.

"Anything in particular?" Alfred asked after a pause.

Arthur shook his head.

With a last confused glance, he began. It was quieter than last time, and no bickering interrupted him. Eventually Arthur opened his eyes. He was a statue, unmoving, as he stared into the heart of the fire with unreadable eyes. Alfred glanced over to him every so often, wondering what he was thinking about, what had made his anger fall so suddenly.

The night grew late and Alfred felt his eyes grow heavy. Arthur still hadn't moved from his place by the fire. He let the last measure of the song die, and when Arthur didn't comment on the silence, curled up under the black cloak Arthur hadn't taken back. He told himself it was just for a moment, he was just resting his stinging eyes, but with his arm as a pillow and the cloak over him, he drifted to sleep.

Alfred woke with a shivering start to the diffuse, grey light of the overcast morning sky. He blinked and sat up, finding his glasses were wet with dew and crooked on his nose. He was still on the top of the hill. The pile of cinders remained next to him, but Arthur was gone, as was his cloak.

A/N: Not a ton of action here, unless you want to count arguing as action. But it should be back by next chapter.

Congrats to XxKuro-koneko-nyaxX, Aenea is named for Aeneas, Vergil's hero. He's famous for his piety, so I figured I'd name the city of religious fanatics after him. On the whole, he's really quite boring. Odysseus is much cooler. Athena over Aphrodite any day. -ahem- I'll stop my mythology tirade now...

Reviews make my life. Really, I get sooo happy when I roll over in bed in the morning and check my email (isn't that the first thing everyone does in the morning?) and see reviews and subs and favs. So thanks for everyone who makes my day~

So please send in your questions/concerns/hopes/dreams/other kind of review!

~Kitten