Chapter Text
If Arthur had known he would be trapped in some French prince’s castle, he’d have at least brought his cloak.
He has had the most confusing week of his life; battling the French forces in Agincourt, watching that arrow whizzing through the air, moments away from his face when a flash of purple blinded him, waking up somewhere unfamiliar, clearly no longer near Calais but somewhere completely foreign to him. It’s still France, of course, he can tell by the garish decorations and the sheer lack of manners the prince in front of him has. And Arthur is certain the strange Frenchman who’s currently staring at him in worry is a prince, he has a multitude of reasons; in fact, he’s made a mental list.
First and foremost, those curtains. When the prince was sleeping in his oddly cushioned seat, Arthur had inspected them closely. Felt the fabric between his fingertips, how soft it was, not harsh like burlap at all, and here’s what really helped to convince him—the curtains are purple. Such a vivid shade, too. Not one made from left-over dye tossed aside, but of concentrated royalty. A purple fit for the cloak of a king, squandered on curtains. Or, perhaps, the France Kingdom is so affluent they can afford to dye mere curtains such an expensive shade whilst hardly making a dent in their purse. That thought is an alarming one. How are their forces supposed to defeat the phony king if such riches are in the palm of Charles’ hand?
His second clue that the prince is indeed a prince is the bed. Whatever it’s made of, and Arthur dare not hazard a guess as to the mystery material that sunk so far when he laid upon it, surely isn’t of England. Nor for any mere serf. The mattress wasn’t made of the straw he’s so used to, he’s able to ascertain at least that, much too soft and not once did he wake due to a harsh poke in his side. Even the blanket is odd—not the many layers of fur and embroidered blankets one would expect, but one thick, warm cover that enveloped him head to toe. It was, if Arthur were to be honest, the best rest of his life. Much nicer than sharing his small bed with his brothers, and only serves to strengthen his belief that he is trapped in a French castle, with a French prince, whilst currently at war with France.
But what is worse, what has forsaken Arthur to a life of disgusting French servitude, is his own stupidity. His foolishness. His arguable mental retardation.
Arthur has sworn himself to the enemy
He deserves to be beheaded. To be hung, drawn and quartered. To be burnt alive so that his body shan’t be restored on Judgement Day.
It was a heat of the moment ordeal. Something that, had he thought about it for even a moment, Arthur would have realised how stupid it is. He was terrified, still quite afraid even now, and did the first thing he could think of to both prove he isn’t a threat towards the prince (since he had held a sword to the man’s throat not hours before) and that he doesn’t deserve to be executed where he stands. So, he did the first thing that crossed his mind: Arthur dropped to his knees, took the prince’s hand in his own, and vowed to serve him as his loyal knight until death do they part.
Arthur isn’t only an idiot, but a treasonous idiot at that.
And since Arthur can’t speak French, all he had to go off of was the prince’s shaky agreement. Or, more accurately, what he hopes to be an agreement. Because if not, Arthur’s headed to the gallows.
Perhaps that would be better… Arthur thinks solemnly as another tear drips down his face.
A traitor to the Kingdom of England, to his king, and to his own knightly values. But what has Arthur crying as the prince flutters about him worriedly is that he can’t help but feel guilty. He’s done what he needs to do to survive, Arthur knows that, he’s certain the courts would know, that his brothers would know that, so then why does his chest wrack with wrongdoing. All those years of training, from page to squire to knight, falling away like fog on a dreary day. Instead of serving his king as he has sworn himself to do, reclaiming what is rightfully England’s, Arthur is trapped. Trapped in a cell of his own making.
And the worst part is, the thing which makes regret and guilt coil in his stomach, that makes him silently sob now, is that he feels better than he has in years. Warm, fluffy food of unknown origin in front of him that tastes sweeter than any apple and a full-night's rest for the first time in months. Body aching from horse riding, arms so heavy from all the non stop warring and pillaging that at this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if the only thing keeping him upright are his manners and his quickly diminishing pride. Arthur doesn’t want to feel safe here. He doesn’t. He doesn’t trust this food, or this castle, or this prince, no matter how loud his heart screams at him to.
In this current moment, Arthur wants nothing more than to return to his village, the warmth of the hearth and the familiarity of his small cottage making his chest ache with what, if he were a lesser man, he’d believe to be consumption. So what if in the cold winter months they have to huddle in close with the livestock to preserve heat? When faced with the prospect of forever being held in France, with a prince whom he can’t understand and therefore can’t know how to act, what’s expected of him, whether he’s here to be a knight of this house or… something worse.
Arthur can’t even pay for his freedom. However much the prince is expecting for his upkeep, his family can’t pay. They can hardly pay their Lord for their croft, and with no Arthur bringing in the much needed revenue from the war, he’d be surprised if they could scrape together even a pittance to send. No, he’ll be put to death no matter what he does.
Wiping his eyes and staunchly avoiding the prince’s gaze, he continues to slowly, very, very carefully eat the foreign food that the prince strangely baked himself. That’s odd. So much has been odd today.
“Where be all the servants? The cooks and the valets and everything else a castle needs to properly function?” Arthur finds himself quietly asking the prince, after swallowing his mouthful of cr ê pe-like fluffy things and wishing he has a cup of ale to help wash down the stickiness.
Naturally, the prince responds in French, and as Arthur both cannot and refuses to understand the foul tongue, he’s left in the same state of confusion as before. A fruitless endeavour, but at least he attempted communication. How he’s going to survive here, in a constant frenzy of fear and worry, never knowing if the prince is pleased or upset with him, Arthur hasn’t a clue. At least the prince makes that horrid language sound somewhat passable; what he would pay, the gold he would offer up, to hear the prince speak English would make even the ever economically effective king feint at the prospect.
Nonetheless, it’s evident that the prince is attempting to calm him. Arthur appreciates the sentiment, even if the act falls short as Arthur is still half convinced he’s going to be sent to the chopping block. He wants to snap that he doesn’t understand a word being said to him, to hurry up and get his execution over and done with, but he doesn’t. Arthur doesn’t say a word more, not when it could be used against him, not when the prince could be playing him for a fool, luring him into a trap to incriminate himself. No, he’ll be put to death no matter what he does. Therefore, Arthur supposes, he may as well enjoy this luxury whilst it lasts.
And so he eats his food. Copies the prince as best he can and uses this odd little bit of metal to stab his fat-cr ê pes, savours the onslaught flavours whilst he still has the tongue to, forces his unshed tears not to fall. He’s a man, he shall act like one.
Finishing his plate much slower than the prince, which he attributes both to those peculiar culinary instruments and the prince’s sheer vigour, he’s now back where he started: sitting at an awfully short table, finding France a very, very strange place. The food settles well in his stomach, which is nice, and leaves him feeling unusually full. Full and tired. If he were home, with his brother and animals and that sense of belonging he so craves in this moment, Arthur would slink off back to his box-bed, shut the doors closed and sleep until his brothers joined him later in the night. Instead, in this house, with this very different bed and very different person staring intently at him, he doesn’t know what to do. If only the prince could speak English, then he could tell Arthur just what is expected of him and just how to avoid execution. A lofty dream, he knows, yet he can’t keep that want from his heart.
The prince stands and easily swipes the dirty, and surprisingly modest plates, from the table, dumping them into an empty water basin. That makes Arthur confused, as it seems most things here do. Why have a water basin meant for cleaning in the prince’s bedchambers? Won’t it dampen and stain the lovely white carpet? Moreover, if Arthur’s eyes don’t deceive him, it appears that the prince is the one doing the washing up. There isn’t a chance in Hell that France is so backwards as to force their royalty to do the common chores!
Spying his opportunity to enter the prince’s good-book, Arthur jumps to his feet, dries his cheeks and hurries to the prince’s side. Using very rudimentary gestures, he points from himself to the basin and makes a scrubbing motion with his hands. He’s certain the prince must have some tallow soap somewhere for him to clean, even if it may blister his fingers as it does his brother’s, or perhaps even Castile soap, since the prince is clearly very fortunate. This has been, so far, his one opportunity to prove himself to be of some worth, and with the Lord as his witness he isn’t letting this pass him by.
The prince, as it seems despite all his wealth he’s still a bit dim, only tilts his head curiously and utters something in French that they both know Arthur can’t understand. If possible, Arthur would just roll his eyes and get on with the chore, but he’s encountered a problem:
There’s no water. And Arthur’s pretty sure he’s barred from leaving this room.
That leaves him at a bit of an impasse—does he directly disobey the prince in order to prove he should be allowed to live, scurry off to some stream to fetch a pail of water? Or does he abide by the prince’s directions and thus prove that not only is he a waste of space, he also has no spine?
With a foreboding sense of vigour, Arthur slowly looks from the prince to the only door he can spy, then back again. He knows the prince won’t like this, but his pride as a knight and his will to stay alive commands him to do this. So it is with a heavy heart and similarly heavy legs that Arthur bolts towards the door.
He makes it surprisingly far, all things considered, his hand reaching out towards that unengraved doorknob when the prince slams into him from behind and pins him to the floor. Now Arthur can feel the odd touch of the carpet, how fuzzy it is like rough spun wool, see the strange and infrequent patterns that were the prince not a prince, Arthur would assume to be stains. The prince’s weight on him is a tad lighter than he’s used to, no heavy iron armour and chainmail to crush him, yet in conjunction with his own armoured trouser legs, he’s rendered practically stuck. How lovely.
And now, Arthur’s certain, is when the prince will execute him.
For what other outcome is there? He’s been unsuccessful in fetching water, disobeyed one of the few rules he actually understands, and is already an enemy to France’s fake monarchy. He’s trembling again, he knows that much, little tears beading in his eyes once more; he hates that. He hates feeling like a child sobbing over a scuffed knee, not a knight who’s trained for years and was, before today, more than willing to sacrifice himself for England.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
That motto repeats in his head, over and over, over and over, until he has been alive too long for it to be fitting. Peeking an eye open, Arthur finds the prince’s face staring down at him, a finger irritatingly poking his cheek. There’s no calling for the castle guards to come take him away, nothing of that sort at all. No, just a very confused face looking down at him.
The prince doesn’t exactly look mad. Or upset or perturbed or even miffed. Just curious. With no crown of gold adorning his head, the prince doesn’t look so much a prince but a man perhaps only a few years his younger. Arthur’s sure he would take the time to ruminate on this philosophical thought, if only he isn’t so occupied believing he’s about to be executed.
As the man he is, Arthur lays still and accepts his fate. Whilst yes, the prince seems to be dragging his death on for an awfully long time, who is he to judge that small fact? But still, he’s taking his time. Not moving, just watching him, continuing to poke at his cheek in that ever annoying manner.
“Well? Are you going to get on with it or not?” Arthur eventually snaps, spitting out the words without much of a second thought, then immediately regrets his decision, a wave of dread washing over him.
His prayers shift from begging for his life to begging that the prince doesn’t understand English, and is so obtuse that he doesn’t pick up on Arthur's horrible tone of voice. There’s a long while where Arthur holds his breath, his mind flitting between thoughts of his imminent death and irritation at the prince for taking so long. Finally, after what feels a lifetime to him but couldn’t be longer than a quarter of an hour, the prince pulls himself up off of Arthur and simply, as though they both were equals, holds out his hand for the taking.
Arthur’s brain stops working.
Like an old broken cart, he cannot move. Or much think, for that matter. Purely on instinct does he take the prince’s hand, being helped up as if Arthur truly matters to him, hurriedly wiping his eyes dry so that he may face the prince properly.
The prince—his name is Alfred, he really should remember that, no matter whether Arthur will ever genuinely refer to him in such a casual manner or not—is talking to him, waving his hands about in a feeble attempt to break the language barrier. Arthur doesn’t understand, of course, but still tries to act like he does to make the prince feel better, because Arthur is just nice like that; and, perhaps, so that the prince’s punishment may be softer. He can just about make out the occasional ‘Arthur’ sprinkled into the man’s mad mumblings, so he reasons Alfred is not only talking to him, but about him also. That is a disconcerting thought. It seems, today, all Arthur has are disconcerting thoughts.
As seems to be their routine, he cannot understand anything aside from his own name. That leaves Arthur simply standing there, looking a fool, as the French prince named Alfred casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, walks back to the water basin, finally releasing Arthur’s hand. It’s a shame, he thinks. Holding the prince’s hand was rather nice.
So many strange things have happened to him today, from sleeping in a prince’s bed to even having said prince cook him a meal. Truly, all he wants is to go home. However, Arthur must accept his circumstances, and he has. He has. And so quietly, very quietly, does Arthur follow the prince back to the water basin. Perhaps he’ll be drowned, or waterboarded for information against England. He would not be surprised. It would not be undeserved.
Apparently, France does not need soap to clean its dishes—no, it uses a magically produced from the wall liquid. It looks unsightly, and sticky, and smells like nothing Arthur has ever smelt before. He does so sincerely wish to scamper to the other end of the room and mutter Bible verses under his breath, because that liquid slime surely is not of Earth. Instead of doing the logical, and arguable moral, thing of destroying the strange substance and hurrying to Church to repent, the prince coats his hands in the stuff. He then glances between Arthur and a metal thing protruding from the wall, looking quite befuddled.
Through a mixture of gestures and the repetition of Arthur’s name does he begin to sort of understand what the prince requires of him, which is a nice change of pace, and an awfully large relief. He thinks, and is pretty certain, that Alfred wants him to do something to that piece of steel. It is much better than being promptly executed, so he does as he has been commanded: Arthur cautiously steps next to the prince, places his hand on what he assumes to be the handle, and copies the prince’s twisting motion.
Water flows into the basin.
Arthur near passes out.