1336
The first time Arthur had seen him was during the Hundred Year War.
At that point in his immortal life, he had finally aged again. Past being a gangly teenager into a sturdier young man. What was his first decision as a kind of adult? Finally listen to the humming, the urge, in the back of his mind to pick up a sword and join his fellow men in the heat of battle.
He raced to enlist in King Edward the Third's army. Just in time to accompany half of his fellow army men to the tumultuous Gascony.
It was a late, hazy, summer night. After finishing up a shift on guard duty and he was on his merry way to the local tavern. A nice way to end yet another week of his long life. He stuck to himself for the most part. Ordering quick before secluding himself to a table in the back. Ready to spend the rest of the night people watching.
Only a couple of moments went by before he saw him.
A man with golden locks that fell to his shoulders sat at the other side of the tavern. Laughing with his drinking buddies. He was quite handsome, in Arthur's humble opinion. With the prettiest blue, almost purple, eyes and just the right amount of scruff on his chin. His clothes indicated he was a nobleman yet here he was, conversing with peasant folk.
Arthur would've said he respected a man like that before…
Before their eyes locked.
In split second, something came over him.
It started as a thumping in his chest. Or was it a ringing in his ears? It didn't matter where it began because soon it became a fury hotter than the sun. Lighting his whole being aflame. He had to do something. It felt like he was moments away from combusting. Exploding like those cannons he's heard about. He had to do something or else.
His body moved without his input. Raising from his seat and stalking towards the other man. Luckily, or unluckily, he's not sure which, the other man strode over to him with the same certainty. The same fire in his eyes. Like two stars caught in each other's orbits. Gravity soon to insure their untimely meeting.
The whole tavern went silent as their steps brought them together. Dozens of nosy gazes trained on them. They stood almost chest to chest, their eyes never straying.
Mr. Almost-Purple-Eyes spoke up first. Eyebrow cocking as he asked in a heavy French accent, "Do I know—?"
Well, he tried to ask.
As soon as his plummy cadence hit Arthur's ears he erupted. Everything in his world went red. He curled his fist tight. He swiftly wound his arm. And, with a power he's never known he possessed, he delivered a biting right hook to the French man's nose.
And as quickly as the something came, it went. Leaving only an overwhelming sense of guilt.
"I. Am. So. Sorry." Arthur said, worry and panic filling his voice. His mind racing, trying to figure out what exactly happened in the last few minutes. "I don't even know what came over me. Are you—?"
Before he could get another word out of his mouth, it was promptly shut by Almost-Purple-Eye's fist.
He didn't feel the punch at first. Not until he gained his bearings again. Once the world stopped spinning and he didn't feel like throwing up is when the stinging pain in his jaw came by to say hi. His shaky fingers feathered over the connection point. Grimacing every time he managed to touch it. With his chest heaving, he got a good look at the bruise forming in the French man's face.
Oh.
It was on.
If you had asked him what had happened next he wouldn't be able to give you a straight answer.
Fists flew, teeth drew blood, bodies were slammed, and chairs were broken. From the outside, the fight looked horrific. It wasn't every day you got to see two men clash like this. As if they wanted the other man dead.
Anybody who saw past the flailing limbs and warring bodies, saw two pairs of eyes lit with the feral fires of war. No one in their right mind wanted to get in the middle of them.
But, someone did. Eventually.
It took four full-grown men to pry them away from each other. And another two to throw them out into the street.
They both laid there for who knows how long. Staring up at the stars in the sky. Listening to the muted sounds drifting from the tavern. Their pants the only other nose around. Wincing at every little movement they made.
"Francis," Almost-Purple-Eyes said between his huffs.
Arthur lolled his head toward Almost-Purple-Eyes Francis' voice not too far away. Their eyes locked again but no something came 'round again. No, a certain peace washed over him. Like he had righted some wrong. Which was odd, admittedly.
This man, who's golden hair still looked perfect ruffled and splayed out, was a stranger. In any context, what he did was wrong. Francis hadn't even said anything insulting. There's no logical excuse he could come up with. He couldn't even say it was because of his face. Objectively, the man has a wonderful face.
So, why on Earth did he want to punch him so badly?
And why does the world seem right after he did?
Ugh, he needs more liquor.
"Arthur." He responded finally, screwing his eyes tight as he lifted his top half onto his elbows.
"Arthur," Francis said with a purr. Saying his name like how one would taste wine. Swirling it around his mouth to see if he liked it enough to say it again. "Englishman?"
"Frenchman?" Arthur countered. Maneuvering his way to a sitting position against the tavern. Francis not too far behind. His perfect head tilted his way, wearing a tired smirk.
"Of course," He said, with a light chuckle. With a flourish of his bruised hand, he added, "You are in France after all."
"No, I'm in Gascony." He countered once more. Showing off smug defiance that only an English man could. It seems like the only natural response he could give to this Francis.
Francis barked out another laugh. A sardonic smile playing on his lips. He lazily nodded as he stared out into the night sky.
"Yes, definitely English then."
Hey! I hope you enjoyed this because I enjoyed writing it. It's a fun concept and I think I might even add on to it with a couple more parts but who knows. I might get lazy. Anyways, thanks for reading!
Later Days!