Prince's Hand and Half of the Kingdom (11/12) [fanfiction]
Title: Prince's Hand And Half of the Kingdom
Author: marinoa
Characters/Pairings: England, France, Spain, Prussia, Romano. FrUK, some Prumano.
Rating: T
Summary: Having once refused to obey a frog, Prince Arthur is now forced to marry one. Both parties are unwilling, but even with the help of their friends, can they win against spells... and time? FrUK AU.
Author's note: It's a bit silly, but I didn't (and still don't) know whether the last part of Antonio's name (Fernández Carriedo) is his family name, or if Fernández is his second name and Carriedo his family name. Thus I've used the whole Fernández Carriedo as his family name.
So, one more chapter left! Finally; even though I'm fond of this story, the feeling of accomplishment is sweet when a story is (hopefully) successfully finished. And besides, I have many new ideas that need my full attention. ;)
I guess what I really wanted to say now is a huge, massive thank you to all of you, who read this fic, and a special thanks to those who bothered to leave a comment! Your patience with my slow updates is admirable, truly. (Not that there is much you could do even if you had no patience at all.) Hopefully the ending of this faery tale will please you. :3
Prince's Hand And Half of the Kingdom
Chapter Eleven:
The Other Side of the Story
Francis Bonnefoy did not come from a noble family; despite him being a fluent liar he had told Arthur the truth in that.
Regardless of his low birth, however, Francis had never truly felt poor or unhappy about what he had, especially not after meeting the two people who had perhaps had a greater affect on his life than anyone else, ever. Gilbert and Antonio and he himself had formed an unbreakable trio, and together they had had - and would yet have - the time of their lives. They were young and wild and free - every day was a new adventure to them.
First they had wandered around France, then travelled to Spain, where Antonio had taken them to his family's house. The estate of the family Fernández Carriedo was not very big, nor was it particularly splendid, but it was a beautiful house nontheless, and Antonio's family had been warm and kind. They owned a large tomato field, and such was Antonio's love for it that the trio had spent three weeks in the house whereas they had meant to stay only one; it had been the time for harvest.
”When collecting the harvest there are never too many helping hands,” Antonio had told them rather sheepishly. ”Now that I'm here, it really would be rude not to help my own parents.” Francis and Gilbert had laughed at the obviousness of their friend, and they had helped with tomatoes too. ”Since we are that awesome,” Gilbert had explained contentedly with a basket full of ripe, beautifully reddened tomatoes.
After the harvest had been cared for the trio had set off on the road again. Antonio's parents, cheerful and easygoing as they were, had no objections to their son's desire to see the world; they were conviced he would eventually return and take his place as the head of the family when the time came. Antonio himself wasn't quite as sure as his parents, but he kept his thoughts to himself; why trouble himself with something that wasn't even of current interest yet? Time would surely show what was to come, so Antonio kept living his life day by day without worrying about the future.
After Spain Antonio and Francis had suggested Gilbert to show them his country and family, but the Prussian had been somewhat reluctant. Eventually he had told them why: there had been some family issues. The thing was that Gilbert, the elder son, had left to serve in the military, so his father, upset by his first-born's decision, had given the right to their farm and all its property to the second son, Ludwig. But then Gilbert had returned.
A lot might be said about Gilbert Beilschmidt, but no one could claim he didn't love his little brother. Gilbert hadn't demanded what should have been his by birthright, but his father's mind had softened and he had given half of the property to his eldest son. Their father had died soon after that, and after a while Gilbert had realised how problematic it was to have the farm divided between two. Thus one day he had made up his mind, gone to his brother and granted his half of property to him. Ludwig had opposed his proposal, at first, but Gilbert had assured him that he was totally fine with it, and after some time, Ludwig had agreed. He was not stupid, Gilbert's little brother; he was aware that it was for the best of the farm. Shortly after that, Gilbert had left. “I'm not made for sticking to one spot,” he had claimed, and the brothers had separated in friendly spirits.
Gilbert had visited Ludwig every once in a while, but it had always become somewhat awkward; Ludwig kept worrying that his brother didn't have a place whereto settle down, and Gilbert kept assuring that he was fine and content, even though deep down he felt that Ludwig's musings had a shade of truth to them. And so it happened that despite their brotherly love and respect to one another, they both always ended up feeling uneasy in each other's company.
“I won't return there any more if I can help it,” Gilbert had told his two friends, “Not until I have something to reassure my brother with. He is such a worrier, that one.”
Regardless of Gilbert's resolution, he had taken them to his brother's farm once, and after that they had travelled wherever they set their eyes upon. In some places they had stayed a while longer, in others only briefly, and not a trip happened without some kind of obstacles or adventures.
The result of their latest adventure - or an obstacle? - was painfully plainly in view: three men riding on, hunched in their saddles with heavy hearts. Francis thought it was pathetic.
And yet, despite all the misery it had cast, he couldn't help but think that it could have been the greatest adventure they would ever experience. If it hadn't ended as abruptly as it had begun, that is.
As silly as it was, Francis could recall the beginning of their if not greatest, then at least the most unexpected adventure as clearly as if it had only now just happened. Weirdest of things had stumbled upon them from bushes, anything from mean trolls to even meaner children, but never had they expected to meet in forest a prince, of all possible creatures. Princes belonged to their castles, not into the real world - the world Francis and his friends were living in.
Yet expected or not, there Arthur had stood, right before them. Frankly speaking, no one could have blamed the trio for not realising who the young man was; he had looked miserable with his wet and dirty clothes, messy hair and black circles around his eyes. (Francis had judged from his bushy eyebrows that the man had been wandering in woods for weeks, but, as it later appeared, he had been wrong about that.) The funny man had spoken funny words about unicorns and such, and possessed a terrible temper too, but kind-hearted as the trio was, they had offered to escort him back to his home town. Little had they known then... oh, how little!
Francis hadn't particularly liked Arthur then. Sure, it had been amusing to vex him, easy as it was, but Arthur's personality had appeared annoying on the long run and he wasn't even attractive enough to make amends for his bad temper. Thus, when those knights had caught them on the road on that day a million years ago, Francis had believed it was all a terrible nightmare. Then he had met King Lionheart and realised that no nightmare could be so unbearable and that it was all real, and, worst of all, he was alone in the castle without his familiar pack.
Thankfully Arthur had proved to be just as reluctant to wed as Francis, and the thought of an escape plan had made the Frenchman calm down and ease up a bit. When even his friends had made their appearance in the castle, Francis had felt that maybe, just maybe, he might actually take some enjoyment of the surreal situation.
After that things had started to roll on rather nicely, he had to admit. After the first shock was gone even Arthur had seemed to become slightly less infuriating. Or, for a more accurate wording, Francis had started to realise that the Englishman wasn't truly quite so sullen and angry all the time, even though he always appeared so. The moments when Francis had seen glimpses of what he suspected was the real Arthur were those when the Englishman had thought he was alone - walking in the garden, trying to pet wild rabbits, reading books. In those moments the frown on his face had melted away and he had looked being at ease with himself and his surroundings.
After the fiasco at their engagement celebration when Arthur had shown Francis his secret creek and apologised, the Frenchman had grown truly curious about his fiancé's true colours. He had seen enough to suspect that under that armour of restrained lived a different Arthur, a shy yet lively and mischievous, intelligent and interesting Arthur. Arthur that smiled.
Funnily enough, the more time Francis had started to spent with the Prince, the more often he had begun to see behind that armour, see that rare smile. Fencing lessons they took together had revealed a wild, physically fit Arthur; lessons on literature and history had revealed a smart and curious Arthur; etiquette lessons had revealed a socially challenged Arthur, yet in most charming of ways; and their rides or walks together had revealed many kinds of Arthurs, from laughing Arthur to a silent or deliciously flustered Arthur. Slowly slowly, step by step, Arthur had become something enchanting, and his smiles had become something very precious to Francis. It hadn't been until the night when Arthur had cooked for him (and vice versa), when Francis had realised that something was not right about the way he felt around that charming little Englishman. And then had come the moment when Francis realised, startled, that he really, really wanted to kiss Arthur. The realisation had been so sudden that Francis had not kissed him; call it a shock if you will.
But there had appeared a difficulty: the odd messages Arthur kept sending him. One moment he had seemed to invite the Frenchman to do what lovers did, the next moment he had looked angry at him and completely withdrawn. Go figure which was the best way to act with such a difficult little brat.
The second difficulty, however, was much more tricky: Francis had never been in a committed relationship before, not even properly in love after turning sixteen. He had had his first and purest love when he had been around fourteen, but two years later the prestige that had killed his parents had taken her away, too, and after Jeanne's death he hadn't had anyone that special. Besides, it had turned impossible to developed special bonds with anyone due to the travelling lifestyle of his friends and him; they were all young and free, no one had wanted to settle down just yet. Occasional (and not so rare) chances to have some non-committed fun had always been the right way for them.
And yet Francis had started to feel that he didn't want it to be like that with Arthur. He didn't want to have him just once or twice and then leave it all behind. No, he wanted Arthur with not only his bed, but with his terrible temper, weird unicorn-hallucinations and, God save him, even with the freaky eyebrows too. He wanted Arthur whole, and dear Lord how this had scared him!
And then there were the words King Lionheart had said him at the stables that day...
But none of it mattered any longer. None of it mattered, because when night fell upon them on their departure day Francis learned from his friends what a treacherous, feigning and selfish little bastard Arthur turned out to truly be. Oh yes, he had been absolutely willing to be kissed by Francis, but only because he was burning to get rid of him. How very flattering a thought (note the sarcasm, s’il vous plaît), yet however unpleasant the truth was, there was no sense in denying it: Arthur had only used him to rid himself of his curse (which, frankly speaking, he had fully deserved).
Now, Francis Bonnefoy did not come from a noble family... but in spite of that he had a pride of a man who knew himself as noble as any highborn. And when that pride had been dishonoured, his burning rage was something any fierce warrior would be proud to possess.
But beneath that pride, beneath that fury, Francis Bonnefoy had a beating heart that was just as vulnerable as any other.
X
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Author: marinoa
Characters/Pairings: England, France, Spain, Prussia, Romano. FrUK, some Prumano.
Rating: T
Summary: Having once refused to obey a frog, Prince Arthur is now forced to marry one. Both parties are unwilling, but even with the help of their friends, can they win against spells... and time? FrUK AU.
Author's note: It's a bit silly, but I didn't (and still don't) know whether the last part of Antonio's name (Fernández Carriedo) is his family name, or if Fernández is his second name and Carriedo his family name. Thus I've used the whole Fernández Carriedo as his family name.
So, one more chapter left! Finally; even though I'm fond of this story, the feeling of accomplishment is sweet when a story is (hopefully) successfully finished. And besides, I have many new ideas that need my full attention. ;)
I guess what I really wanted to say now is a huge, massive thank you to all of you, who read this fic, and a special thanks to those who bothered to leave a comment! Your patience with my slow updates is admirable, truly. (Not that there is much you could do even if you had no patience at all.) Hopefully the ending of this faery tale will please you. :3
Prince's Hand And Half of the Kingdom
Chapter Eleven:
The Other Side of the Story
Francis Bonnefoy did not come from a noble family; despite him being a fluent liar he had told Arthur the truth in that.
Regardless of his low birth, however, Francis had never truly felt poor or unhappy about what he had, especially not after meeting the two people who had perhaps had a greater affect on his life than anyone else, ever. Gilbert and Antonio and he himself had formed an unbreakable trio, and together they had had - and would yet have - the time of their lives. They were young and wild and free - every day was a new adventure to them.
First they had wandered around France, then travelled to Spain, where Antonio had taken them to his family's house. The estate of the family Fernández Carriedo was not very big, nor was it particularly splendid, but it was a beautiful house nontheless, and Antonio's family had been warm and kind. They owned a large tomato field, and such was Antonio's love for it that the trio had spent three weeks in the house whereas they had meant to stay only one; it had been the time for harvest.
”When collecting the harvest there are never too many helping hands,” Antonio had told them rather sheepishly. ”Now that I'm here, it really would be rude not to help my own parents.” Francis and Gilbert had laughed at the obviousness of their friend, and they had helped with tomatoes too. ”Since we are that awesome,” Gilbert had explained contentedly with a basket full of ripe, beautifully reddened tomatoes.
After the harvest had been cared for the trio had set off on the road again. Antonio's parents, cheerful and easygoing as they were, had no objections to their son's desire to see the world; they were conviced he would eventually return and take his place as the head of the family when the time came. Antonio himself wasn't quite as sure as his parents, but he kept his thoughts to himself; why trouble himself with something that wasn't even of current interest yet? Time would surely show what was to come, so Antonio kept living his life day by day without worrying about the future.
After Spain Antonio and Francis had suggested Gilbert to show them his country and family, but the Prussian had been somewhat reluctant. Eventually he had told them why: there had been some family issues. The thing was that Gilbert, the elder son, had left to serve in the military, so his father, upset by his first-born's decision, had given the right to their farm and all its property to the second son, Ludwig. But then Gilbert had returned.
A lot might be said about Gilbert Beilschmidt, but no one could claim he didn't love his little brother. Gilbert hadn't demanded what should have been his by birthright, but his father's mind had softened and he had given half of the property to his eldest son. Their father had died soon after that, and after a while Gilbert had realised how problematic it was to have the farm divided between two. Thus one day he had made up his mind, gone to his brother and granted his half of property to him. Ludwig had opposed his proposal, at first, but Gilbert had assured him that he was totally fine with it, and after some time, Ludwig had agreed. He was not stupid, Gilbert's little brother; he was aware that it was for the best of the farm. Shortly after that, Gilbert had left. “I'm not made for sticking to one spot,” he had claimed, and the brothers had separated in friendly spirits.
Gilbert had visited Ludwig every once in a while, but it had always become somewhat awkward; Ludwig kept worrying that his brother didn't have a place whereto settle down, and Gilbert kept assuring that he was fine and content, even though deep down he felt that Ludwig's musings had a shade of truth to them. And so it happened that despite their brotherly love and respect to one another, they both always ended up feeling uneasy in each other's company.
“I won't return there any more if I can help it,” Gilbert had told his two friends, “Not until I have something to reassure my brother with. He is such a worrier, that one.”
Regardless of Gilbert's resolution, he had taken them to his brother's farm once, and after that they had travelled wherever they set their eyes upon. In some places they had stayed a while longer, in others only briefly, and not a trip happened without some kind of obstacles or adventures.
The result of their latest adventure - or an obstacle? - was painfully plainly in view: three men riding on, hunched in their saddles with heavy hearts. Francis thought it was pathetic.
And yet, despite all the misery it had cast, he couldn't help but think that it could have been the greatest adventure they would ever experience. If it hadn't ended as abruptly as it had begun, that is.
As silly as it was, Francis could recall the beginning of their if not greatest, then at least the most unexpected adventure as clearly as if it had only now just happened. Weirdest of things had stumbled upon them from bushes, anything from mean trolls to even meaner children, but never had they expected to meet in forest a prince, of all possible creatures. Princes belonged to their castles, not into the real world - the world Francis and his friends were living in.
Yet expected or not, there Arthur had stood, right before them. Frankly speaking, no one could have blamed the trio for not realising who the young man was; he had looked miserable with his wet and dirty clothes, messy hair and black circles around his eyes. (Francis had judged from his bushy eyebrows that the man had been wandering in woods for weeks, but, as it later appeared, he had been wrong about that.) The funny man had spoken funny words about unicorns and such, and possessed a terrible temper too, but kind-hearted as the trio was, they had offered to escort him back to his home town. Little had they known then... oh, how little!
Francis hadn't particularly liked Arthur then. Sure, it had been amusing to vex him, easy as it was, but Arthur's personality had appeared annoying on the long run and he wasn't even attractive enough to make amends for his bad temper. Thus, when those knights had caught them on the road on that day a million years ago, Francis had believed it was all a terrible nightmare. Then he had met King Lionheart and realised that no nightmare could be so unbearable and that it was all real, and, worst of all, he was alone in the castle without his familiar pack.
Thankfully Arthur had proved to be just as reluctant to wed as Francis, and the thought of an escape plan had made the Frenchman calm down and ease up a bit. When even his friends had made their appearance in the castle, Francis had felt that maybe, just maybe, he might actually take some enjoyment of the surreal situation.
After that things had started to roll on rather nicely, he had to admit. After the first shock was gone even Arthur had seemed to become slightly less infuriating. Or, for a more accurate wording, Francis had started to realise that the Englishman wasn't truly quite so sullen and angry all the time, even though he always appeared so. The moments when Francis had seen glimpses of what he suspected was the real Arthur were those when the Englishman had thought he was alone - walking in the garden, trying to pet wild rabbits, reading books. In those moments the frown on his face had melted away and he had looked being at ease with himself and his surroundings.
After the fiasco at their engagement celebration when Arthur had shown Francis his secret creek and apologised, the Frenchman had grown truly curious about his fiancé's true colours. He had seen enough to suspect that under that armour of restrained lived a different Arthur, a shy yet lively and mischievous, intelligent and interesting Arthur. Arthur that smiled.
Funnily enough, the more time Francis had started to spent with the Prince, the more often he had begun to see behind that armour, see that rare smile. Fencing lessons they took together had revealed a wild, physically fit Arthur; lessons on literature and history had revealed a smart and curious Arthur; etiquette lessons had revealed a socially challenged Arthur, yet in most charming of ways; and their rides or walks together had revealed many kinds of Arthurs, from laughing Arthur to a silent or deliciously flustered Arthur. Slowly slowly, step by step, Arthur had become something enchanting, and his smiles had become something very precious to Francis. It hadn't been until the night when Arthur had cooked for him (and vice versa), when Francis had realised that something was not right about the way he felt around that charming little Englishman. And then had come the moment when Francis realised, startled, that he really, really wanted to kiss Arthur. The realisation had been so sudden that Francis had not kissed him; call it a shock if you will.
But there had appeared a difficulty: the odd messages Arthur kept sending him. One moment he had seemed to invite the Frenchman to do what lovers did, the next moment he had looked angry at him and completely withdrawn. Go figure which was the best way to act with such a difficult little brat.
The second difficulty, however, was much more tricky: Francis had never been in a committed relationship before, not even properly in love after turning sixteen. He had had his first and purest love when he had been around fourteen, but two years later the prestige that had killed his parents had taken her away, too, and after Jeanne's death he hadn't had anyone that special. Besides, it had turned impossible to developed special bonds with anyone due to the travelling lifestyle of his friends and him; they were all young and free, no one had wanted to settle down just yet. Occasional (and not so rare) chances to have some non-committed fun had always been the right way for them.
And yet Francis had started to feel that he didn't want it to be like that with Arthur. He didn't want to have him just once or twice and then leave it all behind. No, he wanted Arthur with not only his bed, but with his terrible temper, weird unicorn-hallucinations and, God save him, even with the freaky eyebrows too. He wanted Arthur whole, and dear Lord how this had scared him!
And then there were the words King Lionheart had said him at the stables that day...
But none of it mattered any longer. None of it mattered, because when night fell upon them on their departure day Francis learned from his friends what a treacherous, feigning and selfish little bastard Arthur turned out to truly be. Oh yes, he had been absolutely willing to be kissed by Francis, but only because he was burning to get rid of him. How very flattering a thought (note the sarcasm, s’il vous plaît), yet however unpleasant the truth was, there was no sense in denying it: Arthur had only used him to rid himself of his curse (which, frankly speaking, he had fully deserved).
Now, Francis Bonnefoy did not come from a noble family... but in spite of that he had a pride of a man who knew himself as noble as any highborn. And when that pride had been dishonoured, his burning rage was something any fierce warrior would be proud to possess.
But beneath that pride, beneath that fury, Francis Bonnefoy had a beating heart that was just as vulnerable as any other.
X
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