[APH] A Garden of Decaying Flowers
A/N: I recently posted this story to FFNet, and some readers asked questions about the setting of the story, particularly about the Harem system and about begetters. I did some research to answer those questions, and it becomes very apparent that I didn’t plan the story thoroughly before I started. I wanted to focus on the characters and less on the setting (that’s why the names of the Empires were West, East, South and North - so creative eh - and the capital remained unnamed until now). But the setting is important too. So I may be establishing some new facts. E.g. the harem system now has more structure. Read here: http://aria-dc-al-fine.livejournal.com/16255.html (along with some research findings about Chinese and Turkish harems)
I want to make one thing clear: “begetters” are biologically impossible. There are concepts that come close in RL, called intersex, but intersex materializes in different ways, not in the same standardized way begetters are for being men with wombs and ovaries in their abdomen.
Anyways, the point is, please do not ask biological questions about begetters, like: How can one tell that a guy is a male or a begetter? When a begetter’s womb is stimulated, why does his male genital also react (to those of you who wondered this after reading the USUK smut)? You can, however, ask questions related to gender roles of begetters in society.
Okay, enough rambling. Here is your update.
Piece 2: A Wedding with (almost) no Witness
Prince Alfred was avoiding Arthur’s eyes again.
The young monarch had been on cloud nine since…they’d lain together for the first time, sending him moony eyes whenever they occupied the same room. At first, Arthur was embarrassed and worried about how the court viewed the suggestive looks, but he’d been secretly happy about the attention, about the love-struck expression on Alfred’s face whenever he made love to Arthur. Arthur often ran his fingers through the expanse of the Prince’s back and the golden strands of his hair in amazement, and thought it so surreal he was scared to breathe too loudly, lest these dream-like moments shatter.
Yet, during the days leading to the commemoration of his father’s death, Alfred started becoming withdrawn, scarcely telling him anything of value, anything that wasn’t empty reassurances. Arthur let the young man keep up his appearances and play the hero, and fulfilled his information needs from elsewhere: Duke Edelstein, Lord Zwingli, even Xin and Prince Matthew, whom Arthur was initially hesitant to approach because Prince Alfred seemed to put so much faith in his twin. Yet, Matthew volunteered his concerns of Alfred to Arthur readily (and discreetly. He didn’t seem to trust anyone else with that information, not even Duke Edelstein). He was Arthur’s window to the thoughts running in Prince Alfred’s head.
“Everything’s ready,” Roderich had told him in the evening of the commemoration. “A date has been fixed for the extraordinary general meeting. It’s next week.”
Arthur merely nodded mutely. What else could he do, other than helping the Prince prepare his speech and his rebuttals? He could not even be there on that day itself.
“He’s insecure,” Xin told him as she visited him on the pretence of cleaning his chamber. “Everyone seemed to be measuring him against his father, whom he has resented. For letting his mother die, may be, or for marrying you, amongst other things.”
“That can’t be true,” Arthur commented.
The Eastern girl shrugged.
Arthur shook his head silently.
(He didn’t inform her that, two days later, when he conversed with Prince Matthew, the monarch basically told him the same piece of information, in a more sympathetic manner. Xin and her network of information, he didn’t know how she secured it.)
Arthur knew Xin didn’t trust that Alfred could be a good Emperor. She didn’t really express this sentiment to anyone, for the very simple reason that she could lose her life if she did, but he knew, from the storm brewing in her dark eyes, that she doubted his capabilities, but like any other lesser commoners [1], she was resigned (because what else can they do?).
Lord Zwingli was more vocal about his complaints, especially after the arguments in late night meetings. “I thought the traditional custom of Princes competing for the throne was brutal,” he had grumbled to Arthur, once, as he chugged mugs of beer over their private dinner. “But now I’m wishing that the damned brat has at least a few half-siblings to teach him a lesson or two. Prince Matthew is too loyal to his twin.”
Oh, Princes and Princesses were ordered in their succession to the throne, like how Alfred and Matthew were first-in-line, Maria was third and Gilbert’s child, if born safely, would be fourth (Arthur suddenly realized with a pang that he’d missed the albino), but this was just numbering. It was not certain at all. Generations of half-siblings used to sabotage each other with claims of insanity, infertility, insurgency - anything that rendered the other contenders unfit for succession. The Princes performed deeds to prove themselves and rallied the support of noble Houses, dividing the court to factions who donated money, battalions of army, knowledge - anything to help the Princes win (and in turn get themselves elevated when the Prince they’d supported won the throne). Often, Princes lost their lives in these races. Emperor Francis himself hadn’t been the first-in line for the throne. A few of his older brothers died in battlefields. Others were exiled, poisoned or worse. May be Emperor Francis had committed those crimes himself. May be his supporters had committed them without consulting him. May be other Princes or supporters had committed them, and Francis was just smart enough to leverage on the turns of events. Nobody knew. Nobody really cared, as long as these blood feuds did not affect the economy or the well-being of the Empire. (There seemed to be an unwritten agreement amongst the Princes that once a victor had emerged, the rest would back down.)
Contrarily, if there was anything good about this system, that ruthless competition ensured that whoever won the crown was intelligent, knew how to forge strong bonds with people who could help him, and had some talents - charisma, military strength, strategic thinking - that benefited the Empire. So this system, along with the Emperor’s harem that came in a package with it, persisted.
“One day,” Lord Zwingli had sighed to his drink, “I swear his ideals will kill him one day.”
Arthur was painfully aware of that, of how naïve and groundlessly optimistic Prince Alfred was and Arthur felt he was to blame. He’d failed to teach the monarch the workings of the world, wasn’t willing to let him see the ugliness.
Arthur forced himself to think positively. He could remedy the wrong, and help Alfred adjust to the changes he would surely experience after he took up the crown. He would coerce the Prince to start talking, really talking to him again.
At least, that was the resolve Arthur had come to, after Lord Zwingli had left, as he lay in his bed, slowly succumbing to sleep.
The next morning, Arthur woke up to the sight of Xin, who was shaking his shoulder. “Good morning,” she greeted him as he got up, rubbing his eyes.
“Morning,” Arthur eyed the barely glowing sun on the sky of dawn over his window in surprise. “What’s the occa-” he asked as he turned back to her. And froze.
There was a large, relatively thin box in her hands, beige in colour, with a white ribbon tying it in place. “His Highness told me to pass this to you, milord,” she placed the parcel on the nightstand next to his single bed.
Arthur blinked. “Call me by my name, Xin,” he reached for the box and untied the ribbon. “What’s brought this change-”
Inside the box, lay a set of clothes in various shades of white, covered by a lacy veil so delicate, so thin, with tiny patterns of flowers intricately embroidered in the net. When Arthur touched the silky vest, his fingertips skimmed through the cool, smooth surface. “Xin,” he whispered through a tiny gap between his lips, afraid that spittle would drop on the expensive fabric and ruin it. “What does this mean?”
The Easterner fell to her knees. Next to her feet, there was a metal basin - rich in colour and design - containing bottles of fine oil and a fragrant bar of soap. “His Highness had told me to prepare you, milord,” she spoke with her head bowed.
Arthur followed Xin to the nearest private bathroom in a daze. He’d let her wash his hair as he sat in the brass tub, soaking in blissful hot water. He’d let her rub him all over, from the broad expanse of his back to the tiny spaces under his toenails, with the washcloth she’d lathered with soap, and he’d let her wash the suds off, dry him with a large fluffy towel gently, covered his skin in scented oil and lead him back to his room in his bathrobe. He’d never had to lift a finger. Everything felt surreal…and vaguely nostalgic. Arthur remembered receiving such a treatment, such pampering, when he used to be at the top of the Empire, and he marveled how something he’d taken for granted then could almost bring him to tears now.
“Milord.” When he was pulled out of his reverie, he was already dressed, finest fabrics fitting his form flatteringly. The brush of nylon on his calves. The cool satin against his palm. The delicate cravat around his neck. “Milord, please bend down a little,” Xin requested.
He accidentally caught his reflection on his window pane as he turned to her, and Arthur could not recognize the blonde in the white three-piece suit. Any traces of raggedness, of maltreatment, were concealed by the powder and cream covering his face, by the thick fabric covering his scars and thin limbs. He looked just like any other ordinary noble, prepped up for a wedding.
As though the last seven years didn’t happen.
A flash of déjà vu, of himself, so many years ago, in a similar (frillier, unnecessarily more extravagant) ensemble flashed through his mind and he sank into desperation. “I…” he forcefully shifted his gaze, only to stare again at the veil Xin was holding in her hand. What have I suffered for? He wondered as she stood on her toes to place it on his head and secured it to his hair. What is going to happen next?
“I’d like to believe everything happens for a reason,” she whispered as she purposefully brushed her knuckles against the side of his collar. Her eyes bore into him when he looked at her, depthless twin dark pools which expressed so much and so little at the same time. His companion in misery. She shot him a small smile as she moved on to helping him wear a large, dark cloak that completely shrouded the apparel beneath it. “Today is supposed to be the start of your new life, so please be happy.”
He remembered nodding absentmindedly before he was led out of the Castle, to an obscure, dark brown carriage. They passed through the Castle gate with ease when Xin showed the guards a letter through the window. They travelled in silence, the curtains hiding the streets from view, the gentle rocking helping Arthur make peace of the chaos in his head. It took a while before they finally stopped.
The sight that welcomed Arthur when he stepped down from the carriage was that of a chapel. A small chapel, with two half-moon windows flanking its wooden door, surrounded by the woods. There were other carriages parked by the side, the white mares munching on the grasses lazily. They must be at the outskirts of the capital.
“My job ends here,” Xin said as she removed his cloak.
Arthur halted, and turned to her. Her face was filled with hope when she smiled at him. “You’ll be fine.”
She disappeared back into the carriage. They took off before Arthur could call them to bring him back to the Bonnefoy Dynasty Castle, and nearly half a beat afterward, the door to the chapel creaked open.
“Arthur,” Prince Matthew greeted him as he held the iron handle of the door with a gloved hand, handsome in pale blue robe and violet vest. He was holding a bouquet of flowers in his other hand, white orchids and champagne roses. “We’ve been waiting for you,” his smile grew as he handed the bouquet to Arthur and pulled him into the chapel.
Once Arthur stepped into the building, Lord Zwingli took Prince Matthew’s place at Arthur’s side, offered his arm awkwardly. The older blonde looked uncomfortable, and slightly bleary, telltale of a hangover he must be recovering from yesterday’s dinner. “I wanted to drop you a hint last night,” he whispered and fought the grimace from showing on his face, “but the brat insisted it be a surprise. Said you’re mentally ready for this anyway. So here I am now, sending you off.”
The organ started playing the wedding march. From the side of the chapel, Roderich briefly looked up from the chamber organ and shot a smile at him. Arthur returned the smile, took a deep breath, and began walking down the aisle.
The aisle was relatively short, definitely shorter than the one in the Royal Cathedral - that was for certain. There was no red carpet over the stone floor. The pews were bare, backless wooden benches, so old the grains were visible. Somehow, these tiny differences mattered to Arthur.
And ahead of him, standing next to the altar were Matthew and Alfred, the latter decked from head to toe in white, a three-piece suit that accentuated his frame, his superior bone structure. Not in his House’s colours. Not with a velvety cape hanging off his broad shoulders, or an oversized crown nestled between his golden locks. Just Alfred, striking, young Alfred, with a dashing smile and bright sky-blue eyes, his figure both cast in shadow and illuminated by different-coloured patches of light streaming from the large stained glass windows on the walls of the chapel. As Arthur drew closer and closer to the altar, he became dizzier with awe, his heart beating faster and faster under his ribcage. Alfred looked so perfect, so otherworldly, like an angel. An angel who had stolen Arthur’s breath, and never gave it back [2].
“Today, we’re gathered here, in the presence of God [3], to unite these men in marriage,” the organ had stopped playing. Elizaveta, who was apparently facilitating the ceremony in a priest’ stead, had begun, yet Arthur didn’t notice. His whole world was, again, zeroed in the man, the boy who’d always garnered his attention since the day he took his first step in that Castle. To the wide curve of his lips. To the light flush on his cheeks. To the way those eyes lit up when they fell on him. The happiness in his expression. The nervousness belayed in his slightly shaking hands. Why did I ever hesitate? Arthur’s mouth was dry. How did I ever think things may proceed the same way they did in the past? I’m such a fool.
“Therefore, if any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now, or else hereafter hold his peace,” Elizaveta ended her speech, and waited. Of course, the few audiences they had wouldn’t object. She turned to the groom almost excitedly. “You may recite your vow.”
Prince Alfred visibly gulped. The first time he opened his mouth, no sound came out of his lips. This was strangely endearing to Arthur. When Alfred’s cheeks burnt red in shame, Arthur nudged the Prince's hand lightly with his hand, and gave him an encouraging smile when the younger blonde looked at him. Alfred smiled back, and tried again.
“I, Alfred Franklin Jones Bonnefoy, take thee, Arthur Kirkland, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part." Arthur kept his gaze on Alfred’s eyes when he recited his vow in a steady voice.
It was Arthur’s turn to be nervous now. He clenched his sweaty fists around the bouquet and cleared his throat. “I, Arthur Kirkland,” his breath failed him and he had to pause to inhale, but Alfred looked supportive, and Arthur felt warmth spreading in his chest, “take thee, Alfred Franklin Jones Bonnefoy, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part."
Alfred smiled at Arthur, pride shining through his eyes, and Arthur returned the smile. God, he didn’t think he’d ever stopped smiling through the whole ceremony.
Elizaveta took a step back, and Prince Matthew replaced her, carrying a small cushion on his hands. Lain atop the pillow was something Arthur thought he’d never see anymore. “That ornament…” The worries he’d had came back.
“I’m sorry,” the first time in that ceremony, Alfred’s face fell, and Arthur quickly, deeply regretting showing his doubt in front of the Prince. “I wanted to give you another title. Make you a new jewelry. But the preparations have been happening so fast, and Rose, incidentally, also means true love-”
“Alfred,” Arthur stopped the other blonde with a caress on the cheek when the Prince’s words were uttered faster and more garbled. “I don’t mind,” he gave him a reassuring smile.
Alfred sighed in relief, but there was still a tiny frown etched between his brows. Nevertheless, he took the hairpin, which held rubies, diamonds and pearls arranged in the shape of a Tudor Rose, from the cushion, and clipped it to Arthur’s hair. “With this Crown, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, with my worldly goods I thee endow,” Alfred finished the last of his vows, the vow that slightly differentiated their wedding from an ordinary wedding.
Elizaveta took Matthew’s place when he retreated. “By the power vested in me by the Empire,” the brunette winked at the Prince when she announced that, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” She sounded so enthusiastic, Arthur had the feeling that last sentence was almost spoken with an exclamation mark.
The brush of Alfred’s gloved fingers hovering near his jaws brought him back to his husband, whose lips had curled upwards in a giddy, slightly unsure grin. Arthur decided to not let his mood be brought down by the reminder of their reality, and expressed every ounce of his love for the young man in front of him as much as he could. The darling who’d over and over again, bent the sky for him, and would give him heaven if he knew how to. This idealistic man who always meant him well. Arthur was always torn between keeping Alfred just the way he was and changing his views of the world. He doubted he’d be able to make him a cynic. “Come, love,” Arthur beckoned as he placed the hand that wasn’t holding his bouquet on Alfred’s shoulder. “Come and kiss me,” he mouthed.
Alfred’s smile brightened as he lifted the veil and smoothed it against Arthur’s hair. With one hand resting against his nape and the other cradling Arthur’s cheek, he leaned closer, closing his eyes before their lips touched. It was chaste and sweet, and-
Arthur’s heart soared.
(Later, much later, when they curled around each other in the Prince’s bed, sticky and sated after rounds of lovemaking on their wedding night, Alfred apologized.
“It wasn’t very romantic,” he whispered as he mapped Arthur’s knuckles with his thumb, the pads of his fingers skimming lightly against calloused skin, studying, pawing. Never seemed to have gotten enough of him. “I wanted to marry you in the grandest church, the Royal Cathedral…or at least one of the heritage sites away from the capital may be. I want to gift you the most beautiful crown mankind has ever seen, in front of everyone-”
“Shh,” Arthur stopped him with a kiss. “I loved it,” he whispered against the other’s mouth. “I was married to you, just now. Not to the Empire, not to my duties. Just you. Like any ordinary couple. I’ve never had that kind of marriage. I like that more,” he nuzzled Alfred’s shoulder.
Arthur felt Alfred’s other hand tightening his grip around Arthur hip, briefly, before soothing the skin with lazy circles. “I love you,” he declared suddenly, after a brief period of quietness.
“Me too, Alfred,” Arthur smiled against his lover’s heated, sweaty skin, his eyelashes fluttering against the Prince’s collarbone as he began to slumber. “Me too.”)
TBC to
Piece 3: There is no Heaven on Earth
Notes:
I want to make one thing clear: “begetters” are biologically impossible. There are concepts that come close in RL, called intersex, but intersex materializes in different ways, not in the same standardized way begetters are for being men with wombs and ovaries in their abdomen.
Anyways, the point is, please do not ask biological questions about begetters, like: How can one tell that a guy is a male or a begetter? When a begetter’s womb is stimulated, why does his male genital also react (to those of you who wondered this after reading the USUK smut)? You can, however, ask questions related to gender roles of begetters in society.
Okay, enough rambling. Here is your update.
Piece 2: A Wedding with (almost) no Witness
Prince Alfred was avoiding Arthur’s eyes again.
The young monarch had been on cloud nine since…they’d lain together for the first time, sending him moony eyes whenever they occupied the same room. At first, Arthur was embarrassed and worried about how the court viewed the suggestive looks, but he’d been secretly happy about the attention, about the love-struck expression on Alfred’s face whenever he made love to Arthur. Arthur often ran his fingers through the expanse of the Prince’s back and the golden strands of his hair in amazement, and thought it so surreal he was scared to breathe too loudly, lest these dream-like moments shatter.
Yet, during the days leading to the commemoration of his father’s death, Alfred started becoming withdrawn, scarcely telling him anything of value, anything that wasn’t empty reassurances. Arthur let the young man keep up his appearances and play the hero, and fulfilled his information needs from elsewhere: Duke Edelstein, Lord Zwingli, even Xin and Prince Matthew, whom Arthur was initially hesitant to approach because Prince Alfred seemed to put so much faith in his twin. Yet, Matthew volunteered his concerns of Alfred to Arthur readily (and discreetly. He didn’t seem to trust anyone else with that information, not even Duke Edelstein). He was Arthur’s window to the thoughts running in Prince Alfred’s head.
“Everything’s ready,” Roderich had told him in the evening of the commemoration. “A date has been fixed for the extraordinary general meeting. It’s next week.”
Arthur merely nodded mutely. What else could he do, other than helping the Prince prepare his speech and his rebuttals? He could not even be there on that day itself.
“He’s insecure,” Xin told him as she visited him on the pretence of cleaning his chamber. “Everyone seemed to be measuring him against his father, whom he has resented. For letting his mother die, may be, or for marrying you, amongst other things.”
“That can’t be true,” Arthur commented.
The Eastern girl shrugged.
Arthur shook his head silently.
(He didn’t inform her that, two days later, when he conversed with Prince Matthew, the monarch basically told him the same piece of information, in a more sympathetic manner. Xin and her network of information, he didn’t know how she secured it.)
Arthur knew Xin didn’t trust that Alfred could be a good Emperor. She didn’t really express this sentiment to anyone, for the very simple reason that she could lose her life if she did, but he knew, from the storm brewing in her dark eyes, that she doubted his capabilities, but like any other lesser commoners [1], she was resigned (because what else can they do?).
Lord Zwingli was more vocal about his complaints, especially after the arguments in late night meetings. “I thought the traditional custom of Princes competing for the throne was brutal,” he had grumbled to Arthur, once, as he chugged mugs of beer over their private dinner. “But now I’m wishing that the damned brat has at least a few half-siblings to teach him a lesson or two. Prince Matthew is too loyal to his twin.”
Oh, Princes and Princesses were ordered in their succession to the throne, like how Alfred and Matthew were first-in-line, Maria was third and Gilbert’s child, if born safely, would be fourth (Arthur suddenly realized with a pang that he’d missed the albino), but this was just numbering. It was not certain at all. Generations of half-siblings used to sabotage each other with claims of insanity, infertility, insurgency - anything that rendered the other contenders unfit for succession. The Princes performed deeds to prove themselves and rallied the support of noble Houses, dividing the court to factions who donated money, battalions of army, knowledge - anything to help the Princes win (and in turn get themselves elevated when the Prince they’d supported won the throne). Often, Princes lost their lives in these races. Emperor Francis himself hadn’t been the first-in line for the throne. A few of his older brothers died in battlefields. Others were exiled, poisoned or worse. May be Emperor Francis had committed those crimes himself. May be his supporters had committed them without consulting him. May be other Princes or supporters had committed them, and Francis was just smart enough to leverage on the turns of events. Nobody knew. Nobody really cared, as long as these blood feuds did not affect the economy or the well-being of the Empire. (There seemed to be an unwritten agreement amongst the Princes that once a victor had emerged, the rest would back down.)
Contrarily, if there was anything good about this system, that ruthless competition ensured that whoever won the crown was intelligent, knew how to forge strong bonds with people who could help him, and had some talents - charisma, military strength, strategic thinking - that benefited the Empire. So this system, along with the Emperor’s harem that came in a package with it, persisted.
“One day,” Lord Zwingli had sighed to his drink, “I swear his ideals will kill him one day.”
Arthur was painfully aware of that, of how naïve and groundlessly optimistic Prince Alfred was and Arthur felt he was to blame. He’d failed to teach the monarch the workings of the world, wasn’t willing to let him see the ugliness.
Arthur forced himself to think positively. He could remedy the wrong, and help Alfred adjust to the changes he would surely experience after he took up the crown. He would coerce the Prince to start talking, really talking to him again.
At least, that was the resolve Arthur had come to, after Lord Zwingli had left, as he lay in his bed, slowly succumbing to sleep.
The next morning, Arthur woke up to the sight of Xin, who was shaking his shoulder. “Good morning,” she greeted him as he got up, rubbing his eyes.
“Morning,” Arthur eyed the barely glowing sun on the sky of dawn over his window in surprise. “What’s the occa-” he asked as he turned back to her. And froze.
There was a large, relatively thin box in her hands, beige in colour, with a white ribbon tying it in place. “His Highness told me to pass this to you, milord,” she placed the parcel on the nightstand next to his single bed.
Arthur blinked. “Call me by my name, Xin,” he reached for the box and untied the ribbon. “What’s brought this change-”
Inside the box, lay a set of clothes in various shades of white, covered by a lacy veil so delicate, so thin, with tiny patterns of flowers intricately embroidered in the net. When Arthur touched the silky vest, his fingertips skimmed through the cool, smooth surface. “Xin,” he whispered through a tiny gap between his lips, afraid that spittle would drop on the expensive fabric and ruin it. “What does this mean?”
The Easterner fell to her knees. Next to her feet, there was a metal basin - rich in colour and design - containing bottles of fine oil and a fragrant bar of soap. “His Highness had told me to prepare you, milord,” she spoke with her head bowed.
Arthur followed Xin to the nearest private bathroom in a daze. He’d let her wash his hair as he sat in the brass tub, soaking in blissful hot water. He’d let her rub him all over, from the broad expanse of his back to the tiny spaces under his toenails, with the washcloth she’d lathered with soap, and he’d let her wash the suds off, dry him with a large fluffy towel gently, covered his skin in scented oil and lead him back to his room in his bathrobe. He’d never had to lift a finger. Everything felt surreal…and vaguely nostalgic. Arthur remembered receiving such a treatment, such pampering, when he used to be at the top of the Empire, and he marveled how something he’d taken for granted then could almost bring him to tears now.
“Milord.” When he was pulled out of his reverie, he was already dressed, finest fabrics fitting his form flatteringly. The brush of nylon on his calves. The cool satin against his palm. The delicate cravat around his neck. “Milord, please bend down a little,” Xin requested.
He accidentally caught his reflection on his window pane as he turned to her, and Arthur could not recognize the blonde in the white three-piece suit. Any traces of raggedness, of maltreatment, were concealed by the powder and cream covering his face, by the thick fabric covering his scars and thin limbs. He looked just like any other ordinary noble, prepped up for a wedding.
As though the last seven years didn’t happen.
A flash of déjà vu, of himself, so many years ago, in a similar (frillier, unnecessarily more extravagant) ensemble flashed through his mind and he sank into desperation. “I…” he forcefully shifted his gaze, only to stare again at the veil Xin was holding in her hand. What have I suffered for? He wondered as she stood on her toes to place it on his head and secured it to his hair. What is going to happen next?
“I’d like to believe everything happens for a reason,” she whispered as she purposefully brushed her knuckles against the side of his collar. Her eyes bore into him when he looked at her, depthless twin dark pools which expressed so much and so little at the same time. His companion in misery. She shot him a small smile as she moved on to helping him wear a large, dark cloak that completely shrouded the apparel beneath it. “Today is supposed to be the start of your new life, so please be happy.”
He remembered nodding absentmindedly before he was led out of the Castle, to an obscure, dark brown carriage. They passed through the Castle gate with ease when Xin showed the guards a letter through the window. They travelled in silence, the curtains hiding the streets from view, the gentle rocking helping Arthur make peace of the chaos in his head. It took a while before they finally stopped.
The sight that welcomed Arthur when he stepped down from the carriage was that of a chapel. A small chapel, with two half-moon windows flanking its wooden door, surrounded by the woods. There were other carriages parked by the side, the white mares munching on the grasses lazily. They must be at the outskirts of the capital.
“My job ends here,” Xin said as she removed his cloak.
Arthur halted, and turned to her. Her face was filled with hope when she smiled at him. “You’ll be fine.”
She disappeared back into the carriage. They took off before Arthur could call them to bring him back to the Bonnefoy Dynasty Castle, and nearly half a beat afterward, the door to the chapel creaked open.
“Arthur,” Prince Matthew greeted him as he held the iron handle of the door with a gloved hand, handsome in pale blue robe and violet vest. He was holding a bouquet of flowers in his other hand, white orchids and champagne roses. “We’ve been waiting for you,” his smile grew as he handed the bouquet to Arthur and pulled him into the chapel.
Once Arthur stepped into the building, Lord Zwingli took Prince Matthew’s place at Arthur’s side, offered his arm awkwardly. The older blonde looked uncomfortable, and slightly bleary, telltale of a hangover he must be recovering from yesterday’s dinner. “I wanted to drop you a hint last night,” he whispered and fought the grimace from showing on his face, “but the brat insisted it be a surprise. Said you’re mentally ready for this anyway. So here I am now, sending you off.”
The organ started playing the wedding march. From the side of the chapel, Roderich briefly looked up from the chamber organ and shot a smile at him. Arthur returned the smile, took a deep breath, and began walking down the aisle.
The aisle was relatively short, definitely shorter than the one in the Royal Cathedral - that was for certain. There was no red carpet over the stone floor. The pews were bare, backless wooden benches, so old the grains were visible. Somehow, these tiny differences mattered to Arthur.
And ahead of him, standing next to the altar were Matthew and Alfred, the latter decked from head to toe in white, a three-piece suit that accentuated his frame, his superior bone structure. Not in his House’s colours. Not with a velvety cape hanging off his broad shoulders, or an oversized crown nestled between his golden locks. Just Alfred, striking, young Alfred, with a dashing smile and bright sky-blue eyes, his figure both cast in shadow and illuminated by different-coloured patches of light streaming from the large stained glass windows on the walls of the chapel. As Arthur drew closer and closer to the altar, he became dizzier with awe, his heart beating faster and faster under his ribcage. Alfred looked so perfect, so otherworldly, like an angel. An angel who had stolen Arthur’s breath, and never gave it back [2].
“Today, we’re gathered here, in the presence of God [3], to unite these men in marriage,” the organ had stopped playing. Elizaveta, who was apparently facilitating the ceremony in a priest’ stead, had begun, yet Arthur didn’t notice. His whole world was, again, zeroed in the man, the boy who’d always garnered his attention since the day he took his first step in that Castle. To the wide curve of his lips. To the light flush on his cheeks. To the way those eyes lit up when they fell on him. The happiness in his expression. The nervousness belayed in his slightly shaking hands. Why did I ever hesitate? Arthur’s mouth was dry. How did I ever think things may proceed the same way they did in the past? I’m such a fool.
“Therefore, if any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now, or else hereafter hold his peace,” Elizaveta ended her speech, and waited. Of course, the few audiences they had wouldn’t object. She turned to the groom almost excitedly. “You may recite your vow.”
Prince Alfred visibly gulped. The first time he opened his mouth, no sound came out of his lips. This was strangely endearing to Arthur. When Alfred’s cheeks burnt red in shame, Arthur nudged the Prince's hand lightly with his hand, and gave him an encouraging smile when the younger blonde looked at him. Alfred smiled back, and tried again.
“I, Alfred Franklin Jones Bonnefoy, take thee, Arthur Kirkland, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part." Arthur kept his gaze on Alfred’s eyes when he recited his vow in a steady voice.
It was Arthur’s turn to be nervous now. He clenched his sweaty fists around the bouquet and cleared his throat. “I, Arthur Kirkland,” his breath failed him and he had to pause to inhale, but Alfred looked supportive, and Arthur felt warmth spreading in his chest, “take thee, Alfred Franklin Jones Bonnefoy, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part."
Alfred smiled at Arthur, pride shining through his eyes, and Arthur returned the smile. God, he didn’t think he’d ever stopped smiling through the whole ceremony.
Elizaveta took a step back, and Prince Matthew replaced her, carrying a small cushion on his hands. Lain atop the pillow was something Arthur thought he’d never see anymore. “That ornament…” The worries he’d had came back.
“I’m sorry,” the first time in that ceremony, Alfred’s face fell, and Arthur quickly, deeply regretting showing his doubt in front of the Prince. “I wanted to give you another title. Make you a new jewelry. But the preparations have been happening so fast, and Rose, incidentally, also means true love-”
“Alfred,” Arthur stopped the other blonde with a caress on the cheek when the Prince’s words were uttered faster and more garbled. “I don’t mind,” he gave him a reassuring smile.
Alfred sighed in relief, but there was still a tiny frown etched between his brows. Nevertheless, he took the hairpin, which held rubies, diamonds and pearls arranged in the shape of a Tudor Rose, from the cushion, and clipped it to Arthur’s hair. “With this Crown, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, with my worldly goods I thee endow,” Alfred finished the last of his vows, the vow that slightly differentiated their wedding from an ordinary wedding.
Elizaveta took Matthew’s place when he retreated. “By the power vested in me by the Empire,” the brunette winked at the Prince when she announced that, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” She sounded so enthusiastic, Arthur had the feeling that last sentence was almost spoken with an exclamation mark.
The brush of Alfred’s gloved fingers hovering near his jaws brought him back to his husband, whose lips had curled upwards in a giddy, slightly unsure grin. Arthur decided to not let his mood be brought down by the reminder of their reality, and expressed every ounce of his love for the young man in front of him as much as he could. The darling who’d over and over again, bent the sky for him, and would give him heaven if he knew how to. This idealistic man who always meant him well. Arthur was always torn between keeping Alfred just the way he was and changing his views of the world. He doubted he’d be able to make him a cynic. “Come, love,” Arthur beckoned as he placed the hand that wasn’t holding his bouquet on Alfred’s shoulder. “Come and kiss me,” he mouthed.
Alfred’s smile brightened as he lifted the veil and smoothed it against Arthur’s hair. With one hand resting against his nape and the other cradling Arthur’s cheek, he leaned closer, closing his eyes before their lips touched. It was chaste and sweet, and-
Arthur’s heart soared.
(Later, much later, when they curled around each other in the Prince’s bed, sticky and sated after rounds of lovemaking on their wedding night, Alfred apologized.
“It wasn’t very romantic,” he whispered as he mapped Arthur’s knuckles with his thumb, the pads of his fingers skimming lightly against calloused skin, studying, pawing. Never seemed to have gotten enough of him. “I wanted to marry you in the grandest church, the Royal Cathedral…or at least one of the heritage sites away from the capital may be. I want to gift you the most beautiful crown mankind has ever seen, in front of everyone-”
“Shh,” Arthur stopped him with a kiss. “I loved it,” he whispered against the other’s mouth. “I was married to you, just now. Not to the Empire, not to my duties. Just you. Like any ordinary couple. I’ve never had that kind of marriage. I like that more,” he nuzzled Alfred’s shoulder.
Arthur felt Alfred’s other hand tightening his grip around Arthur hip, briefly, before soothing the skin with lazy circles. “I love you,” he declared suddenly, after a brief period of quietness.
“Me too, Alfred,” Arthur smiled against his lover’s heated, sweaty skin, his eyelashes fluttering against the Prince’s collarbone as he began to slumber. “Me too.”)
TBC to
Piece 3: There is no Heaven on Earth
Notes:
- The phrase ‘lesser commoner’ may be strange, but well, the status of slaves is lower than that of pheasants, so…
- This phrase is borrowed from Ellarose C’s Rainbows in My Wine, http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6693415/1/Rainbows_in_My_Wine, recently recc-ed in the usxuk community
- I don’t think the religion here is Christianity. I know I used words like Cathedral and church and chapel, because that’s my religion in RL (at least, on official papers), I’m most familiar with that, but since Christianity advocates one-man, one-wife marriages, I don’t think the national religion is Christianity. A spin-off? Idk, religion doesn’t play a big part in this setting anyways.
- There is, deliberately, no exchange of rings. Because this is an elopement, in essence. If everyone in court knew they’d been married when Arthur and Alfred wear their rings in public, the courtiers would be ballistic. In Arthur’s marriage to Francis, he didn’t get a ring either. So I made it not a part of their marriage customs.