Chapter Text
Gold was blinding, but it couldn't hide the smell of mud.
Arthur stood at the edge of the great pavilion, his throat tight against the stiff white lace of the rims on his collar, feeling more like chains tightening around his neck as punishment. Glasses clinked together. Chatter and laughter in the distance. But to him, it was just white noise.
It was supposed to be a celebration today to celebrate Eternal Peace. But to Arthur, it felt more like a funeral.
"Look at him, Arthur." The voice rumbled behind him.
Arthur didn't have to turn around to know that it was Henry's voice. His King's presence was like a psychical burn. Henry's hand draped onto Arthur's shoulder, golden rings biting through his skin.
"See how the French man preens and spits?" Henry gestured across the field to where Francis stood, covered and draped in silver accents as he'd laugh. Laughing with grace that made Arthur's heart ache with a familiar, poisoned longing. "Fool. He thinks he's found a brother in me. He sees a lover in you."
Arthur doesn't dare to retort back, nor look back at the pair of eyes dreading over him. But continue to stare over the horizon. His heart beats, beats, beats, against his ribs. ".. Of course. He believes in the treaty.. your Majesty. He believes us."
Henry's laugh was short and sharp, yet so taunting, like the snapping of bones and limbs. "A foolish man. And you. My personification, are being paid to play the part of his little tomfoolery and obsession. Go to him. Confess your sins. Give him the heart of words he wants so badly."
The King then leans over, his whispers close to Arthur's ear.
"And when the fool believes - really believes that he's put a stake through your heart, most vulnerable and prone-- that is when I will have you tear the throat out of his kingdom. Do not let your affections make a traitor out of you, Arthur. To this glory and kingdom. A King does not forgive the heart that beats for the enemy."
Francis turned and caught Arthur's eyes. Arthur's heart leaped in his throat as he watched him. That stupid infuriating.. beautiful smile bloom across the French man's face.
.. 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. Arthur thought to himself, his fingers digging into the fabric of his own sleeves until his knuckles turned white. *And I would rather kill than admit I already do.*
Who knew that Francis' smile isn't the only thing blooming, but instead the blood and tears blooming out later on.
/0000/
Rain pours down, ruinous to all the silver and gold draped. The rain didn't care about all the silver and gold. It turned the event into a sodden, heavy mess that smelt of wet wool and broken promises.
Arthur's footsteps felt so heavy. His heart felt so heavy with sins and guilt. But he had to.
Arthur finally then met with Francis at the valley between the English base at Guines and the French base at Ardes. Everybody else was focused on wine, as they both stood on mud.
The mud was already reclaiming the finery. It sucked at Arthur’s boots, a greedy, primordial sludge that didn’t care for the prestige of the Tudor rose or the Valois lily.
Francis stood a few paces away, the rain turning his golden hair into heavy, darkened ropes. The silver embroidery on his doublet, once shimmering like moonlight, now looked like tarnished lead. He looked less like a king’s jewel and more like a man drowned on dry land.
"𝘼𝙧𝙩𝙝𝙪𝙧," Francis called out. His voice, usually a melodic taunt, was thin—buffeted by the wind. He took a step forward, his hand outstretched as if to steady himself, or perhaps to reach for the ghost of the smile they had shared only hours before. "The weather is... uncharitable. My King has retreated to the tents, but I thought—I hoped—you might still be out here."
Arthur didn’t move. He felt the cold seep through his layers, chilling the skin where Henry’s rings had bruised him. "You shouldn't be here, Francis. The 'Eternal Peace' doesn't cover pneumonia."
Francis let out a wet, breathless laugh, closing the distance until they were inches apart in the downpour. "Since when have you cared for my health? You usually spend our meetings trying to find the quickest way to put a sword through my lungs." He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he brushed a stray, soaked blonde lock of hair from Arthur’s forehead. His touch was warm—terrifyingly warm.
"𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆... 𝘁𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝗳𝗲𝗹𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁. 𝗜 𝘀𝗮𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝗲. 𝗧𝗿𝘂𝗹𝘆 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝗲."
Arthur’s breath hitched. The "heart of words" that his King Henry demanded felt like a lead weight in his throat. He could see the absolute, blinding trust in Francis’s blue eyes—a trust that had no business existing between two nations built on a thousand years of spite.
"I look at you and I see a 𝙛𝙤𝙤𝙡..!" Arthur spat, though the venom lacked its usual sting.
"Then we are a pair," Francis whispered, leaning in until their foreheads touched, the rain dripping off Arthur's nose onto Francis's lips. "Because I look at you and I see the only thing in this valley that isn't a lie. This treaty, the gold, the wrestling—it is all theatre. But this? The way your heart is hammering against your chest? This is real."
Arthur’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, his nails drawing blood from his palms. He could do it now. He could say the words that would tether Francis to him, making the eventual betrayal a fatal wound. He could play the "tomfoolery" to perfection.
"Francis," Arthur choked out, his voice cracking like a breaking branch.
"Yes, mon cœur?"
Arthur looked at the man who was supposed to be his ruin. He saw the "blood and tears" already beginning to haze his vision, mixing with the rain. He didn't say the scripted words of devotion. Instead, he gripped Francis’s damp collar and pulled him close, his voice a ragged, desperate warning disguised as a snarl.
"𝙍𝙪𝙣," Arthur hissed against his lips. "Take your King and your silver and run back to Paris. Before the mud swallows us both."
Francis froze, the warmth in his eyes flickering into confusion, then a dawning, horrific clarity. But before he could speak, Arthur turned and began the long, heavy trek back toward the English camp, his boots sinking deeper into the mire with every step.
He didn't look back. He couldn't. If he did, he knew he would see the exact moment the "Eternal Peace" died in Francis's eyes, replaced by the familiar, cold steel of an enemy.
The air between them was thick, not with just rain, but the suffocating weight of everything Arthur couldn't say. Francis' hand was still hovering, a silent ghost of gesture, his expression a fragile blurry mosaic of promise and dawning terror. But the spark of hope was still there.. fluttering.
" 𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘳. You're trembling." Francis whispered, stepping closer as his foot is slowly devolved by the mud. "If this is a lie. Everything between us. Then why do you look like you're the one being executed?"
Arthur opened his mouth to retort -- ready to scream out the truth of desperation -- but the scream that came out wasn't his own.
A ragged, high pitched wall tore through the rythmic drumming of the rain. It was the sound of the man, like a man whose seen the end of the world, coming from the direction of English base at Guines.
"𝙏𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘾𝙃𝙀𝙍𝙔!"
The scream was followed by a sharp, metallic crack -- the unmistakable sound of a musket firing, echoing off the valley walls. Metal clashing into each other.
Both nations froze in their tracks. The 𝘌𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘗𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦 didn't just break - but 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙.
".."
"Arthur..?" Francis' voice was barely a breath, his eyes widen as he looked past the British man's shoulder.
Figures were already emerging from the grey mist of the rain. The British archers, their faces grim and set, were not retreating but advancing. From the French side, the frantic blare of a trumpet began to signal the alarm, a discordant shriek that signaled the end of a masquerade.
"Arthur.. What have you 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦?" Francis stepped back, his black boots splashing deep in the mud. The warmth was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. He looked at Arthur. Not as a lover in this moment. But as the personification of the crown that had just drawn the first blood. Arthur felt the "chains" of his lace collar tighten until he could barely get a breath. The mud felt like it was rising, pulling him down to the grave that Henry dugged for the both of them. "I.."
"I told you.. I told you to run, goddammit!" Arthur shrieked out, but the words were drowned out by the roaring and screaming of the thunderstorm.
A line of British cavalry broke through the treeline, mud flying from their horses' hooves like a dark spray. They didn't slow down for the two rivals that were once meant to be lovers. A soldier barked out an order, and suddenly, the valley was no longer a meeting place for peace. 𝗜𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝗹𝗹𝘇𝗼𝗻𝗲.
".. So.. be it, Angleterre." The French man forced the words to get out of his throat, staring into the bright emerald eyes of the man he wanted to love. His voice was flat and devoid with the music it held seconds before, a hint of betrayal, but expected.
That gold was gone, the silver was tarnished. There was only the mud, the rain, and the red slowly sprouting across the valley as the first line of infantry clashed in a roar of steel and dying men. Slowly, Francis stepped back as that stupid smile was still painted on his face. Until finally, he was no longer seen as he blended in with the chaos and clashing of metal.