A/N: Ahaha, this one got long...

The Room of Golden Books

What Alfred had hoped would be a merry chase was actually far more of a merry, "barrel into the chest of an unfairly large dedicate." Without the merry part either.

As he dashed away from Feliciano, a large group of dedicates poured out of the stairwell. Alfred had no time to react, and slammed into the one leading the charge. It sent them both sprawling across the floor, but the dedicate was quick enough to grasp Alfred in a bear hug and not let go.

Alfred was carried down to the chambers where a group of dedicates held him down as others tied him to a chair. Though he squirmed with all his might, Alfred could not escape. The dedicates pried his boots off—though Alfred managed to give one a good kick in the face.

Once he was thoroughly restrained, the dedicates stepped back. Some had to catch their breath, which gave Alfred a small sense of satisfaction. They looked at each other uncertainly. Clearly, they'd never had an intruder like this before. Alfred imagined library heists weren't a particularly common problem.

Finally, a dedicate in a dull grey cloak—much like the one Circalous himself wore—stepped forward. She was tall, even taller than Alfred, and glared down at him like he was a cornered mouse and she a bird of prey. Age had stretched her mouth into a permanent frown, which even the loose curls of white hair framing her face failed to soften.

Her small, bright eyes flicked from Alfred, to the winged boots, to the dedicate he'd kicked in the face, and back to Alfred.

"You're Arlya's boy," she said. It wasn't a question.

When Alfred didn't answer, the woman's frown deepened. A feat that impressed Alfred.

Some of the younger dedicates began murmuring at the woman's words.

"Should we untie him?" a young man asked. "If he's one the god favors—"

"No," the woman said sharply. She stepped forward and grabbed Alfred's face. He could feel her fingernails digging into his chin. She dragged his face up so their eyes were locked. Whatever she saw in him left her unimpressed.

"Alfred," she said. "I am Augusta, the first of the god of prophecy's dedicates. This is my library."

Alfred stayed silent and continued to glare at Augusta. After a while, she sighed and continued.

"What were you doing?" she asked.

Alfred shrugged. "Catching up on my reading."

Augusta raised her eyebrows. "Catching up on your reading?"

"That's what I said."

"The gods have libraries," Augusta said, humoring him. "We have many books available to the public."

"I read them all," said Alfred with a grin.

"All of them? That's quite impressive."

Alfred shrugged again. "I'm a fast reader."

Augusta made a disgusted noise. "Why were you really here?" she demanded.

Alfred tried to plaster the most innocent expression he could on his face. "I told you," he said. "Do you not believe me?"

"I know you were banished from Caelei. I know the gods have abandoned you for now."

Alfred frowned. He guessed it made sense for the gods to tell their dedicates about his treason, though he had just sort of assumed that they'd keep it quiet.

"And now you show up here. You'd only come here searching for knowledge that was either ancient, forbidden, or extremely dangerous. Now. You will tell me what you were searching for."

"I told you," Alfred said, "Just a bit of light read—" a crack echoed through the room as Augusta slapped Alfred across the face.

"What were you looking for?" she asked again.

Alfred's cheek stung, but it just made him feel a little giddy. "I told you, lady."

Crack. Another slap. This time across the other cheek.

"Dedicate Augusta?" a small voice said. "He is Lady Arlya's son. Perhaps hurting him is not wise?"

"She's not wrong," Alfred said cheerfully. "Last time she thought someone was hurting me, she showed up with Pakram's flaming sun sword and tried to kill him."

Augusta stilled at this, then a smile that Alfred really didn't like spread across her wrinkled face.

"Perhaps you're right," she said. "Buy why don't we ask her in person?"

Alfred felt the blood drain from his face.

Shit.

Alfred was thrown into a cell much like the one he and Feliciano had shared for the past week. The notable difference was that this one locked from the outside. Alfred stretched his shoulders, which were sore from being tied down. He needed a plan. He wasn't sure what Arlya would do, and that was the problem. Half-formed plans appeared and disintegrated in his head as he tried to figure out just how she'd react to his situation. Each sound outside the door made him jump. It was then that Alfred realized that he was scared of Arlya.

Ever since she had tried to kill Arthur, things had been different between them. Before Arlya had just been his mother. She loved him, was occasionally overbearing, and more often then not treated him like he was still a little child. But the fever-bright gleam in her eyes as she tried to skewer Arthur on an enormous burning sword made him shudder. It made him think of what might happen if she decided he wasn't her child anymore.

The bold on the door slide open with a thunk. Alfred turned to see Augusta enter, flanked by several elderly dedicates. Behind them, drifting into the room like snow caught in a breeze, was Arlya.

She took one look at Alfred and ran over to him, clutching him so tight it hurt. Alfred allowed himself to relax, just a bit. She hadn't come with a sword after all. At a loss of what to do, he hugged her back. It felt nice, right even, to be held like this. Arlya was so tall that Alfred did feel like a child again.

"Oh, my baby," Arlya cooed. "Everything is going to be alright now."

Alfred didn't say anything, just clung to her.

After a long embrace, Arlya sat Alfred down on the bed.

"Alfred," she said. "I need to know why you're here."

Alfred glanced behind Arlya at Augusta. Arlya followed his glance and frowned. "She's a friend, Alfred. We just want to help you."

For a brief moment, Alfred considered telling them everything. About Albion, about the ancient temple in the mist, and his and Feliciano's search for She Who Sleeps Below. After all, besides the daemons, who would know better than the gods?

But he stopped himself before the words came rushing out. He remembered the strange inconsistencies in the texts he and Feliciano had searched through. How the gods and their followers had distorted the daemons to make them creatures out of nightmares. Arlya herself had ingrained those sorts of stories deep in Alfred's mind as he grew up. Even though she knew that most of what she told him was an outright lie.

He couldn't trust her. He couldn't trust any of the gods, except maybe Francis.

"I told her," Alfred said, indicating Augusta. "I just came to do some reading."

Arlya's face stayed perfectly smooth, but Alfred saw a hint of frustration form in her eyes.

"Of course," she said, her voice as warm and safe as ever. "But what about?"

Alfred shrugged. "This and that."

"Alfred," Arlya said patiently, "We're not going to be mad at you. There are dangerous things in this library. We just need to know so we can keep you safe."

Alfred looked at Arlya and stayed silent.

Disappointment flooded her beautiful face. Alfred thought he might have seen anger too, but it was gone so fast he wasn't sure.

After a long silence. Alfred dared to speak. "Are we going to go then?"

Arlya looked at Alfred as if her heart was breaking. "We can't. Not unless you tell us why you came here."

When Alfred said nothing. She approached him again and cradled him to her chest. Alfred didn't reciprocate the gesture this time. "Then you'll just have to stay here until you're ready to share," she said.

Abruptly, she found Alfred's injured wrist. It had been a few weeks since the break, and it was healing reasonably well. Arlya prodded at it, feeling around the break. It was uncomfortable, but not agony.

She tutted. "This won't heal right at all," she said. With a sudden jerk, she yanked his wrist and pulled it towards her with surprising strength. There was an audible crack, and Alfred cried out. He collapsed on the bed, waves of nausea, threatening to overcome him.

Arlya stood, frowning down at Alfred as if he had made her do this.

"I'll be back soon, my baby," she said. "Maybe you'll be more willing to help your mother."

With that, they were gone, and Alfred as locked in the room once more.

Time passed in a haze of pain and boredom. Alfred could make a reasonable guess at the time from the quality of light that drifted through the narrow slit in the wall. However, it wasn't long before he lost track of how many days had passed. He could find nothing to stabilize his newly broken wrist, and so every time he moved his wrist pulsed with pain.

After just enough time had passed that the agony had dulled to constant throbbing, Arlya appeared again.

Alfred jumped, jostling his wrist as the bolt on the door slide open. Arlya rushed in, just as she had the first time. She embraced him, and the affection after so long of being locked in a room made him melt inside. He returned the hug gratefully and sighed with relief in her arms.

Arlya stroked his hair, murmuring soothing nothings to Alfred. Gingerly, she took his swollen wrist and retrieved a bottle of a thick salve from her robe pocket.

"This looks like it hurts," she said, rubbing the salve onto his wrist. It felt blissfully cold on Alfred's inflamed skin.

"That's much better," he said. For the first time since he'd been locked in the room, he felt his mind able to focus on something other than the pain.

"I thought this might help."

They sat quietly for a while, neither talking. Alfred found his eyes tearing with the relief the salve brought him. He wiped them away with his uninjured hand.

"Can we talk?" Arlya said. She sounded anxious.

"Sure," Alfred said.

"It's just. I felt terrible after last time we spoke," her voice trembling. "I would have come sooner, but I just couldn't face you hating me after what I did to you."

Tears gleamed as they slid down her face, plopping onto her lap.

"I don't hate you," Alfred said. How could he, with the soothing coolness spreading over his arm, easing the pain?

"I was just so angry," she said. "I didn't want to be. I'm your mother. I never want to be angry with you."

"I'm sorry," Alfred said.

"I just wish you'd see things from my perspective," Arlya said. "I've given you everything—love, protection, everlasting youth, a mother."

"I know."

"I just didn't think it was so much for you to answer a few simple questions."

"I'm sorry," Alfred repeated guiltily.

"Are you?" Arlya asked. "Are you really?"

"I didn't mean to make you angry," Alfred said.

"So now will you tell me? What were you looking for here?"

Once again, Alfred almost told her everything. It would almost be worth it for more of the affection she offered. Alfred was sure if she told her, she'd take him back to Caelei. Where he could spend time with Francis and Kiku and never have to spend time locked in a tower again.

But what was Caelei but just a slightly bigger tower?

"I can't tell you," he said.

Arlya's face contorted. Her tears remained, but now they were tears of rage.

Even Alfred could read the change in the atmosphere.

"Can we just go and forget all about this?" he said, trying to mollify her.

With a wordless shout, Arlya hurled the vial of salve at the wall, missing Alfred's head by a hair.

"You ungrateful, willful boy!" she screeched. Alfred tried to twist out of the way as she sprang for him, but he was no match for the god's tall stature. She pinned him to the bed and grabbed him as he struggled. She went for his injured wrist again, wiping off the slave and wringing it like a chicken's neck.

There was a loud series of pops and Alfred screamed. The last thing he remembered before he passed out was the feeling of Arlya's soft fingers running through his hair.

It became some nightmarish routine. Alfred would lie in the cot, subsisting on rations from the dedicates. He drifted between nightmares and long stretches of insomnia. Every time the pain in his wrist started to die down, Arlya would appear. She would make a dramatic entrance begging for Alfred's forgiveness and offering a short respite from the pain and boredom. Then the conversation would inevitably turn to what Alfred had come to the library to learn. Every time she came, Alfred came closer to telling her. When he didn't, Arlya snapped and continued to destroy Alfred's left wrist.

Then the cycle started over.

Alfred had lost track of how long he'd been there, and how many times Arlya had come. It was difficult to tell which visits had been real and which were just nightmares recreating the events.

Arlya's visit was approaching, and Alfred was sure that he'd spill everything this time. Anything to get out of this room. Anything to have a proper splint.

The lock on the door slide open with a familiar thunk that made Alfred feel sick to his stomach. He curled in on himself, bracing for the inevitable. But there was no rush of feet, no soft form draping itself over him in apology and regret.

"Fucking hell," said a familiar voice. "It reeks in here!"

Alfred rolled over and found himself looking at the last person he expected to see here.

"My land is filled with bogs and it still smells better than you," said Arthur. He stood in the doorway with his cloak pulled over his nose.

Alfred let out a weak laugh that wouldn't stop. He lay on his back, giggling helplessly while Arthur stared at him. Finally, when he got himself under control he grinned at Arthur from behind his sweat-soaked hair.

"Sorry my captors don't empty the chamber pot as often as you'd like."

Arthur let his cloak fall. He wrinkled his nose but strode forward anyway. Alfred let out a little groan as Arthur sat down beside him.

"You're a right mess," Arthur said.

"And you're a sight for sore eyes," Alfred said. "Why are you here?"

"To get you out, you dolt."

Alfred nodded. "I guess that's obvious. But how? How did you know where to find me? Or even that I was in trouble."

"Feliciano," Arthur said.

"Bastard," Alfred spat.

"He managed to get back to Albion. It took him some time to find me, but he was rather determined to save you."

"If he hadn't been such a fucking coward, I might not have needed to be saved."

"Or you could have both been captured," Arthur said.

"Don't defend him."

"I'm not," Arthur said, "I'm just stating possibilities."

Alfred groaned. Arthur looked him over, worry in his eyes. He swore when he laid eyes on Alfred's wrist.

"Stars and stones, Alfred. What happened?"

"Arlya," Alfred said. "Whenever I wouldn't tell her why I came here she'd do something new to it."

"Shit," Arthur said. "Feliciano said you might be hurt, but I wasn't prepared to deal with a torture victim."

"She just lost her temper," Alfred said. He didn't know why he was defending her, only that he felt compelled to give her side. "She wasn't herself."

Arthur stared at Alfred. Alfred shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not defending her," he said. "I just want to be clear she wasn't in control. It's not her fault I made her so angry."

"Alfred, she broke your already injured wrist. Repeatedly."

"So?"

"If she was out of control, you would be black and blue. This is a precision strike it takes planning and intention."

Alfred said nothing to that. Arthur let the silence hang for a while. Eventually, he returned his attention to the pouch at his side. There were bunches of herbs wrapped in bundles of moss.

"These is works better when brewed in tea, but we don't have time," Arthur said, unwrapping several of the bundles. He gave Alfred a handful of various leaves and roots, followed by a strip of bark.

"Chew," he ordered. "It'll help the pain and nausea."

It felt gross chewing on a bunch of raw plants, but Alfred did as he was told. Arthur swore as he turned his attention to Alfred's wrist. He had supplies for splinting laid out, but he seemed unsure of how best to go about it.

"She really did a number on you," Arthur said. "I…I don't know how much use of this you'll get back."

"Doesn't matter right now," Alfred said through a mouthful of chewed plants. "I just need to get out of here."

Arthur nodded and set about stabilizing the breaks the best he could. Alfred sighed in relief once it was set and cushioned by the cool moss.

"Alright, now spit those out," Arthur said. "How are you feeling?"

"Awful," Alfred said. "Which is a big step up from before."

Arthur gave a small laugh. "Come on, Smelly. Lets get you out of here."

"How are we going to get out?"

"Up," Arthur said. "There'll be less resistance that way."

"And also no way out?"

Arthur gave Alfred a cocksure grin. "Alfred, I'm a high daemon. Have a little faith."

Alfred got to his feet and wobbled. Arthur caught him by the arm and steadied him, but Alfred shook him off.

"I'm fine," Alfred said. "Let's go."

How Arthur had managed to sneak past the dedicates on his way in, Alfred could only guess. But they were making no effort at stealth now, relying only on speed and surprise to get them out. Their feet pounded down the hall towards the staircase. Heads poked out into the hall at the racket, but most were taken so off guard that they didn't react. A shouted alarm went up and spread through the library like wildfire. By the time Alfred and Arthur reached the doorway to the staircase, a sizable group of dedicates stood in their path.

Arthur pushed Alfred to the side and put himself between Alfred and the dedicates. They charged him at once, but these were scholars and scribes, not soldiers or warriors. Arthur planted his feet, centering his balance and waited. The dedicates all charged at once, trying to overwhelm Arthur with their superior number. But Arthur had a lot of experience fighting whilst outnumbered. He moved between the charging dedicates like water, and used their unskilled momentum to send the three men and two women sprawling down the hall behind him or into the wall.

While they tried to regain their feet, Arthur circled back around and grabbed Alfred. When they were in the stairwell, they heard a commotion from down below. They must have gathered what had happened, as they were piling in the stairwell on the floor below them.

As much as Arthur could fight outnumbered, there was no way he could break through the mass that was forming on the lower levels. With Alfred close behind him, they charged up, leaving the throng behind them.

At the top of the staircase there was a heavy iron door. Unable to slow, Alfred and Arthur ran into it. Arthur yelp in surprise and pain as the cold iron of the door burnt into his skin. He sprang back and cursed.

"Someone doesn't want daemons in there," Arthur said. He looked to Alfred. "Can you open it?"

The door was heavy, but Alfred managed to push it open. Arthur slipped inside and Alfred followed. Alfred shoved the door closed behind him, and to his surprise, found that he could bolt the door behind him. For good measure, Alfred and Arthur dragged a nearby bookshelf in front of the door. As they turned away, Arthur slunk down, breathing heavily.

"Arthur?" Alfred said. "You hurt?"

Arthur stared at his hands and arms where they had touched the iron door. They were blistered as if they had been severely burnt. Arthur sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"I'll be fine," he said. "Just give me a moment."

"Sure. Take you're time," Alfred said. There was no way even all the dedicates working together were going to break into this room any time soon. The chamber they were in was built like a fortress.

Alfred took a moment to take in his surroundings. The room was odd—it gave the impression of both an impenetrable fortress and a decorated temple. The door that he and Arthur had barricaded was the only entrance into this chamber. Like the rest of the tower, the walls were lined with thin slit windows. Unlike the rest of the tower windows, glass and thin metal bars covered the little openings.

But perhaps most spectacular and intriguing was the ceiling. The tower, like the others in Aenea, tapered as it rose but ended in a flat roof. In other towers, this could be used to light watch fires or station archers, but the roof of this tower was different. Rather than the ceiling Alfred expected, he looked up into the evening sky through the clearest pane of glass Alfred had ever seen. It stretched all the way across the tower roof.

In the evening glow, the chamber shone golden. It took Alfred a moment to realize that this was partially because many of the books kept here were bound in gold leaf. Some of the books looked like they could have been a thousand years old.

"What is this place?" Alfred said, walking between the rows of golden books. In addition to the enormous tomes, smaller books and scrolls filled the room. Alfred peaked in some of those smaller ones. They were filled with what looked like page references and scribbled notes.

"I think it's Circalous' chamber of prophecies," Arthur said. "I've heard about it, but never seen it for myself."

Alfred stopped at one of the enormous golden books. He opened it to a random page and started reading. The text was written by many different hands, though all of them were precise and easy to read. Next to many of the entries were notes, most written by a different person than had written the entry. They seemed to indicate a complicated cataloging system.

One entry caught his attention.

Do not fear, for your daughter's shall be safe so long as she remains in the tower. It is her fate to die only when she leaves.

Next to the original entry there was a note: Referring the Lemuria and the fall of its royal family. Index: 1.

"Hey Arthur," Alfred said. "Come look at this."

Alfred showed him the entry.

Arthur read it. "It's about Elaine."

"From the story?"

"It would see so."

"So it really happened?" Alfred asked.

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know how true the story is to history, but Elaine and Lemuria were real. She died just after the fall of the kingdom."

Alfred looked between the entry and Arthur. "You're saying the prophecy was true?"

Arthur gave a little snort. "Alfred, we are standing in the hall of prophecy. Why would so many people dedicate their lives to recording and tracking down prophecies if they weren't real?"

"I don't know!" Alfred said. He flipped through the pages, landing on a new entry.

From the fields burnt and salted, the prince of crafts will be plucked as a reluctant lover. Though locked in a gilded prison, he will find joy in mechanical mastery never before conceived in mortal minds.

Beside it was another note: Refers to Heracles taking the mortal Prince Kiku as his consort. Index: 1.

"What on earth…" Alfred said, trailing off. "Kiku's in here."

Arthur joined Alfred and read the entry over his shoulder. "I remember that war," he said. "It was only a few hundred years ago."

"So it was prophesized that Kiku would live with the gods?" Alfred asked.

"It seems so."

Alfred left the book and walked to a new one. The entries in this tome must have been more recent, as there were fewer with notes indicating their completion. One of these notes ones jumped out at Alfred.

The coward, courageous only in his curiosity, will be cast out from the embrace of Caelei. He flees the consequences, and finds contentment in simplicity. But it is not to last. Caught in conflict he can't comprehend, he will conquered by his complacency and bring ruin to his companions. Index: 1.

There were no notes by this entry, but Alfred knew to whom it referred all the same. It was written in this very book that Feliciano, even here called the coward, would betray him.

"So it's real?" Alfred asked.

"You'll have to be more specific," Arthur said. He was examining the walls and ceiling of the chamber, looking for any weak spot he could exploit.

"Fate. That everything we do will lead us to a set outcome?"

"I've tried to tell you that before," Arthur said.

"So why do we do anything?" Alfred asked, distressed. "Why do we try to make anything better?"

"Because there's nothing else we can do," said Arthur. He had a melancholy look about his as he spoke. "It's like the weather, or the seasons. They will happen, even if the spring comes a little later or earlier than usual. It does not matter what we want, they will come to pass."

"But you can change the weather," Alfred said. He realized he was clutching at straws, but the whole idea of Fate being really Real filled him with anger and distress.

Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes. "It was an analogy. And even so, I can only do a very small amount in the grand scheme of things."

Alfred turned back to the tome. The more he looked, the more familiar events popped out at him. Could Arthur be correct? Was the entire story of the world already written in these golden tomes?

As he neared the end of the tome, the more Alfred was convinced it was true. There were just too many uncanny accuracies.

He stopped at once entry near the middle of the tome. It was one of the few that had notes written by it. In fact, it had about twice as many notes by it as there was of the actual prophecy. And many of them contained his name.

Daemons howl and pierce our very core,

As order crumbles—Gods, your power wanes!

Now time grows still, a breath before the war

When Moon will spatter blood o're silent plains.

But plucked from mountain snows will he be brought

To mountains on the sky, to Caelei, God-home.

He shall here learn the world, and dreams, and thought,

Though whispers in the sky call his blood to roam.

A gift the gods give naught shall his guide be

Though deep he shall fall, down to daemon's heart.

Returned from purgatory, eyes ready to see,

He'll take up metal cold to play his part.

Against this chaos he will lead the quest:

The final vict'ry by steel of th' God-Blest.

Index: 1.

Along the margins of the prophecy itself, notes mentioned him and drew connections between his life and the words of the prophecy.

"This can't be real," he said.

"What is it?" Arthur asked, looking over his shoulder. Alfred slammed the book shut.

"Nothing! Just some stupid prophecy nonsense."

Arthur looked at him with worry in his eyes. Alfred tried to process everything he had read.

It wasn't even vague like some prophecies. Alfred didn't have to stretch anything to make it fit his life. It was about him. But all the talk of cold metal and steel meant there was only one way he was going to bring about the end of the war. Somehow, according to the prophecy, he was going to kill the daemons. He was going to kill Arthur.

Arthur made to pat Alfred's shoulder, but Alfred batted his hand away.

"Don't," he said.

Arthur looked hurt, but stepped back. "Alright, Alfred. Just tell me what's going on?"

This couldn't be happening. Arthur was his friend. The last thing Alfred wanted to do was hurt him, let alone murder him.

But the prophecy was burned into his mind. He couldn't unsee it. It made all the incomprehensible actions of the gods make sense. They hadn't killed him for treason because they knew he would. They knew he would return to fulfill his destiny.

He had to get Arthur away from here. He didn't know how it would happen, but it would. Alfred would literally be the death of him.

"You have to go," Alfred said, backing up.

"Yes, and you're coming with me," Arthur said. "That's the whole point of this 'escaping' thing."

"No," Alfred said, and it came out choked. "I can't stay with you."

Arthur frowned. "What did you read?"

"It doesn't matter," Alfred said. "Just go!" He turned back to the door and the barricade. As he was trying to shove the bookcase aside, Arthur approached. He put his hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"Alfred, I need you to talk to me," Arthur insisted. Alfred shook his head, a lump forming in his throat.

"Yes," Arthur said, shaking him slightly. "You clearly read something that upset you, and you're going to tell me what it was."

"It's for your own good," Alfred said. "You're happier not knowing."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, though his hand stayed gentle on Alfred's shoulder. "That's not your call to make," he said. "Is it about me?"

"Sort of."

"Then I deserve to know!" Arthur said, frustrated.

Alfred caved. Arthur was right. He had no right to withhold the truth.

"I'm going to kill you," he said softly.

"You're going to what?" Arthur asked.

"Kill you!" Arthur said with a wail. "Or maybe not you personally, but the daemons."

"There was a prophecy that said that?"

"In no uncertain terms."

Arthur chewed on his lip, mulling over that information.

"And you want to leave?"

"No. And I don't want to kill you. But you've said yourself, that we can't defy Fate."

Arthur nodded. "I have lived much longer than you, and seen the iron fist Fate keeps on us all."

"So I have to stay away from you. Maybe I will end up killing the daemons, but it doesn't have to be soon."

Arthur looked pensive. "I don't know if that will work," he said. He hesitated before continuing. "But I do not want to die," he confessed.

That made up Alfred's mind. "Then I'm leaving. Going back to Caelei. Maybe from there I can keep this stupid war stalled for a long, long time."

"She's up there," Arthur said. "I don't want to send you back to her."

"I can deal with Arlya," Alfred said with a shrug. "Once I'm back she'll be happy with me again."

"And when she decides she's not happy with you anymore?"

Alfred hesitated. "I'll figure out how to keep her happy."

Arthur started to say something, stopped and then kept going. "If you're in trouble, get Francis to help you." He looked like the words pained him as they came out. "He's good to have at your back in a pinch."

Alfred stared at him. It was a struggle to get a good word out of Arthur about anyone, let alone his former lover. He must really be worried.

Alfred lunged forward and hugged Arthur, who squawked in surprise.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said.

Alfred was surprised when Arthur returned his embrace just as fiercely. "I know. But sometime we must follow Queen Elaine and leave the tower."

"We'll make sure to do it on our own terms then. Like she did," said Alfred. He pulled back, releasing Arthur. "Now get out of here."

"Farewell, Alfred," Arthur said. Then he was gone.

Alfred managed to get the bookcase out of the way. When he opened the door. Dedicates rushed in.

Alfred stood there, surrounded, unarmed, and alone.

He said, "I wish to speak to my mother."

A/N: We're in the final stretch dear readers.