If Heaven's grief brings Hell's rain, then I'd trade all my tomorrows for Just One Yesterday.

The carriage lurched violently and Arthur clung desperately to the bench, a strangled cry of fear escaping him despite his attempts to be brave.

His steward looked to him and smiled, green eyes sparkling. It helped to calm the young blonde, but not by much.

"Don't worry m'lord, we'll be fine."

Arthur paled as the carriage lurched again, but managed a rapid nod.

There were shouts from behind them, accompanied by the thunderous gallop of horses. Their own horses would never outrun them all. They may have been the finest the Kingdom of England could supply for the voyage, but they carried a heavy load and three passengers. It was a miracle they were still going at all.

Then something snapped, and both of the passengers inside the carriage jumped at the sound. The steward did a quick investigation of the inner cabin, then stuck his head out the back. He grimaced at the sight of their pursuers, who were steadily gaining on them. He retreated into the cabin once more.

"How are you holding up, my prince?"

Despite the situation, the Welshman managed to keep his expression calm. His smile was gentle and the light in his eyes was reassuring. Even so, Arthur could only stare in shock, wondering what witchcraft the man preformed to keep so composed in such a dire situation.

"Ho-how?! I'm bloody fucking terrified!" The youth could feel his face heating up, his arms shaking wildly.

"Mind your tongue, young lord. Your mother would pale to hear such language."

The English boy made no effort to hide his fear, nor his disbelief.

"Y-you're scolding me now for poor language? Now?!"

Something whizzed by the side of the carriage and the noble jumped. For the first time since the chase started, the brunet allowed a look of disdain to take over his features. He cast a nervous look to the blonde, who shivered madly where he sat.

"Forgive me, my lord, and pray we survive."

"What?"

Arthur's question went ignored. His steward stuck his head out the carriage and yelled something to the driver. There was a moment of silence, where Arthur could hear little over the roar of blood in his ears, then something was shouted back and his attendant ducked back into the cabin.

"Hold on, sire!"

Arthur thought he couldn't possibly hold on any tighter. Perhaps he should have tried, because he went flying forward when the carriage bucked violently. He collapsed on the bench across from him, having barely any time to react before his steward descended upon him. One firm arm hooked around the boy's waist, while the hand of the other had a death grip on the bench.

The blonde then made the mistake of looking outside and noting how the edge of the dirt road was getting closer and closer to the carriage, while the sounds of the horses drawing their carriage were steadily fading.

"Al-"

"Shh, Sire, don't look."

Arthur hadn't the mind to listen, it was instinct that drove him to bury his face into the chest of his friend and servant as their carriage lurched off the side of the road and tumbled into the ravine.

"-ire..."

Arthur could hear a buzzing in his ears.

His head felt heavy.

"-ord..."

There was a voice calling to him somewhere nearby, sounding distressed. The blonde let his eyes flutter open, though his sight was blurry.

"-ur...Ar...ur...thur...Arth...Arthur!"

His world came into focus and he bolted upright, almost knocking heads with his steward who leaned over him, both hands gripping his shoulders.

"Thank goodness you're alright, Arthur!"

"Alright...?" echoed the boy, dazed. His steward fell back on his hands with a relieved sigh and Arthur took a moment to study their surroundings. They were in the forest, soft earth below them and trees framing the clearing. Their carriage lay in ruin nearby, split clean in half, one of the wheels still spinning loosely in the air. There was a path of destruction that trailed up the hill – broken trees and flattened bushes the evidence of their stunt. The youth suddenly felt nauseous. "Did we...?"

"Go over the ravine? Yes."

Arthur began shaking again.

"Alan, we could have died!"

"But we did not! Optimism, sire!" The brunet gave the boy a soft smile, then rose to his feet. "Now come, we're not safe yet."

As if on cue, the hush between the two was broken by voices from above – harsh, angry voices and the thunder of hooves.

"Come quick, and be quiet," hissed Alan, putting a finger to his lips for emphasis. He grabbed his lord's hand and together the pair took off into the woods, away from the carriage and away from the horses above. Arthur let hope flutter in his chest until one voice boomed over the ravine and shot that hope down before it had truly begun to fly.

"Bide, ye fools!"

"Don't stop!" urged his steward, pulling along the youth who'd hesitated at the sound.

"Th' cab is doon thaur!" Arthur looked back, seeing the man perched atop his white stallion at the top of the ravine, waving to those still behind him. "Uch, dunderheids, th' lot o' 'em! Th' rest o' ye, wi' me!"

Arthur's heart kicked up into a panic again as he heard the horses begin to descend the slope.

"Alan!" the youth whispered, turning desperate eyes on his only caretaker.

Alan turned and green met green. The young man felt his heart twist with sympathy and he pulled his friend and master aside, diving into a thicket and ignoring the youth's cries of protest, all while shushing him adamantly.

They crawled together while the men on horses beat the bushes with swords, trying to scare their targets out of hiding. Alan peeked through the leaves to watch them approach, a feeling of dread creeping over him as he watched those swords slice their way through the thicket.

But then he took a look back to the young noble, who sat shivering on the forest floor, green eyes wide and unabashedly afraid. Something in Alan broke, staring into the frightened face of a boy he practically grew up next to, and he made his decision.

"Your clothes, sire, take them off!"

Without fully explaining, the steward began to pull at the boy's ornate coat.

"W-what? Unhand me! What do you think this will accomplish?!"

Arthur tried to swat the other boy away, but Alan held firm. He looked his master straight in the eye and spoke in a limpid tone.

"Arthur. Please. Take them off."

Caught off guard by his normally soft-spoken steward's bold demand, Arthur's stubborn attitude faltered. The look in those green eyes were pleading, and the youth couldn't bring himself to ignore them – propriety be damned.

He sighed quietly, shrugging off his heavy coat and his ornate vest, toeing off his polished black shoes and shimmying out of his velvet trousers. To his surprise, his steward did the same. His worn brown loafers were kicked off. His brown vest and patchy trousers removed in quick succession, all shoved towards the young lord in a pile with the ragged brown cloak Alan typically wore over his shoulders.

"Put these on, quick."

Arthur was stunned into silence for a moment, watching as his servant began to dress himself in the ornate clothing the blonde had just shed. When he realized he was being stared at, Alan turned that pleading look to him again.

"Please, m'lord."

Without answering, Arthur slowly began to pull on the trousers, lifting his hips to wiggle them into place, then pulling the dusty vest over his blouse. While he struggled with the vest, Alan had finished dressing himself and now helped slip his old shoes onto the blonde.

The exchange was miraculously quick, and even when completed Arthur did not quite look right. Alan licked his hands and rubbed them in the dirt, before dragging them across his master's face.

"Hey!"

"Shush, sire, forgive me!"

He ruffled the boy's hair, despite mumbled protests and demands for an explanation. He cleaned his dirty hands off on Arthur's shirt, then did the best to wipe the dust from his own face with the back of his wrists.

It was then, with the men almost upon them, that Arthur understood what his steward was planning. He would later blame his mental lethargy on shock.

"Alan-" he was beginning to form a protest, but his tongue seemed to swell in his mouth and his throat closed up. His eyes stung.

"Hush, m'lord, Arthur." The steward turned his kind eyes to the boy, patting his cheek with his knuckles. "This is my duty."

"But-!"

"Shh. You'll get the chance to grow up a bit, yeah? England won't miss me."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest again, but Alan turned away and in one fluid motion, rose to his feet and stepped out into the clearing – right in front of a warrior on horseback.

The blonde scrambled forward on all fours, fully intent on following his steward out into the open, but his limbs became heavy with fear before he got very far. He could only stare apprehensively into the clearing, watching as the warrior stopped his horse, his men rallying behind him.

The one in front – the leader, Arthur was guessing – dismounted his horse and approached the noble-looking boy, who stood perfectly attentive, his back rigid and his expression fearless.

"Ach, sae thes is th' brat," the leader mused. He was tall, but his face was young. His fiery red hair was capped by a blue beret, but it did nothing to tame the mess. He, like the soldiers behind him, wore a uniform garment of blue-and-green plaid, and something that looked like a skirt.

Arthur, love, never call a Scotsman's kilt a skirt.

The memory brought tears to the blonde's eyes. He wondered if he'd see his mother again, and covered his mouth to silence any potential sobs.

"Ye got a tongue, bairn?" the man withdrew his sword and pointed it at Alan. His accent had gotten softer, probably to make sure the English snob would understand him. He brought the steel edge of his blade to the boy's jaw, who maintained the courage to nod. "Use it, then."

"And what would you have me say, Scot?"

Even Arthur was surprised by the bold challenge in Alan's voice. He did not shake nor stutter, but glared right at the fire-haired general without fear.

"Yer name, loun."

Alan answered without missing a beat.

"Alan Kirkland."

There was a chorus of whispers that arose from the gathered soldiers. They fanned out in a messy semi-circle around their leader, their horses restless as their riders exchanged rumours.

"Hush, ye fools," hissed the leader, barking over his shoulder to his fellows. They fell silent almost instantly. When they were still, he turned his attention back to the boy and rolled his blade so he could pat the boy's cheek with the flat of the metal.

"Kirkland, ye be?" echoed the Scot, something sinister glittering in his eyes. "Any relation to guid ol' Eddy three?"

"Edward the third?" the boy repeated, fixing the slander of the great king's name. "I am his son."

The whispers started again, silenced by the bark of a word Arthur wasn't even going to pretend to understand.

"Ye ken what 'at means, do ye, bairn?"

"I do," Alan said, his tone suddenly somber.

Arthur, however, did not. He crouched anxiously in his hiding place, fearing the moment when the men would drag his friend away.

The man's expression suddenly became much softer, the hard light in his eyes fading to something that could be called kindly. He stepped closer and clapped the boy on the shoulder. He abolished his Scottish drawl almost entirely when he spoke again.

"You got a set o' balls on you, boy," he said quietly. "I'll make sure they know you went with honour."

Went with hon-

Arthur didn't get the chance to finish his thought. All at once, the man pulled his blade back only to thrust it through the child's stomach. Alan sputtered and paled, blood dribbling from his lips as the man lifted him up, pressing the guard of his sword into the soft flesh of the seemingly royal child.

No man cheered at the sight of the child murdered, and the leading Scot withdrew and let the boy clatter to the floor in a dismal silence. He cleaned the blood from his blade with the plaid cloak adorning his shoulder, then sheathed the weapon and turned.

"Such is the rules of war," he said simply.

Arthur couldn't help it. A cry escaped his lips and through the protective cover of his hands. Alan's face had fallen towards him, and the blonde was left looking into the lifeless eyes of a longtime friend and ally. He couldn't still his tongue, nor could he stop the tears that began to spill over grubby fingers.

"Hauld a moment," said the leader, pivoting in the dirt and marching to where the sound had escaped from. "Whit hae we haur?" Arthur couldn't tear his eyes away from Alan's body, and couldn't muster the will to do more than cry out when a large hand came down on his head and gripped a fistful of blonde. He was yanked to his feet and out of his hiding place and he was sure he looked a mess with tears streaming down his face and slathered with dirt.

"Another wee one!" laughed the Scot, giving Arthur a good shake. The boy tried to pull the offending hand out of his hair, but the grip was far too strong. "A slae-bairn? Did the guid prince hide ye away to protect ye?"

Arthur didn't answer, his eyes having found the bloody body of his steward once more. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"Well, bairn? Gon' let yer master's sacrilege go t' waste, are ye?"

Arthur was shook again, and something in the Scot's words resonated in the youth. He wound his slack jaw shut and convinced his body to stop producing the tears that cascaded over his cheeks. He was royalty. Alan had given his life to protect him, and he would not allow that death to be in vain. He would carry himself like a noble – like he should have been doing from the very beginning.

"Kill me, if you must," the blonde could not believe the words as they tumbled from his lips. They were not as strong as he would've liked them to sound, but at least he'd the courage to utter them at all. He drew strength from his friend and servant's final display, no matter how much it hurt to do so.

"Kill ye, loun?" echoed the Scot, who chuckled dryly. "A slae bairn in the woods, aft' endin' his master?"

Arthur rallied the necessary composure to glare up at the man, who leaned in close to study his face. The man tightened his grip on Arthur's hair, using the hold to turn him this way and that as he studied the youth.

"Yer name, lad," demanded the Scot, and Arthur was almost hesitant to answer.

But he wanted to be brave. He wanted to have spine and courage and show his friend he too could be a hero – even if the opportune moment had passed. He was a pampered noble and had been teased for it by his steward since childhood, so these sort of violent situations were alien to him.

How would his parents feel, seeing a snivelling mess in place of their son? How would Alan feel, to know he'd given his life to a coward too scared to stand up for himself?

It would kill them. It killed Alan.

No more.

"Arthur," he said, willing his voice to be strong and his stare to be fearless.

"Arthur?"

Ah, what was Alan's name?

"Arthur Kendricks."

The man narrowed his eyes, studying the youth in a heavy silence that made Arthur worry maybe his pride had shown a little too well – maybe he'd somehow given himself away.

But the man only grunted, nodding to a soldier who got off his horse. He turned and shoved the boy towards him.

"Well then, Kendricks, ye hae a new master now."

Dread lanced through the blonde's gut as the soldier lifted the boy and tossed him over his shoulder like a lowly sack of potatoes. He felt himself flush at the indignation.

"Ye answer tae Laird Alistair Graham, and it be best ye brace fer a proper life in bonnie Alba."

Arthur paled as his hands and feet were bound by a leather cord and he was thrown unceremoniously over the back of a painted horse. The soldier charged with his transport climbed on with a grunt, pausing as his leader passed. The Scot regarded Arthur carefully again, lifting the youth's chin to study the jade eyes that glared daggers at the general.

"Aye," Lord Alistair muttered, "bonnie Scotland."

He trotted off to head the small squad of mounted warriors, and as Arthur turned involuntarily with the horse, he was given another glance at his former steward who still lay in the dirt.

The boy's blood ran cold to see that Alan's head had shifted, his dull eyes following the horse that held the young prince, one hand outstretched as if reaching to him, blood still spilling from his mouth.

Arthur screwed his eyes shut at the horrid illusion and could do nothing to stop the fresh torrent of tears that went ignored by everyone but the hallucination he shunned.

Ohohohoho. What have you done now, brain? What is this nonsense you're conjuring?
(also I haven't edited this yet so it's probably littered with errors, I'll fix it when it's not 1:00 in the morning)

So, first attempt at a multi-chapter, this should be uhm...interesting. I'd say it'll be short, but let's be honest, I tend to lie when I say things will be short. Jyes, it's England/Scotland. Yes I butchered history to do it. Why England/Scotland, you say? Why not swap some characters and locations and time periods and make it a more popular coupling? Saaaaay UsUK? BECAUSE I LIKE SCOTLAND, OKAY?

Don't judge.

So here's the medieval beast. Arthur is probs 15/16ish here, acting like a child 'cause let's face it he's lived a sheltered life. For those of you who hadn't guessed, Alan Kendricks is the totes random personification of Wales I threw in there. I allllmost made it Alfred but naw, naw, I got other plans for that gangsta.

I'll still do little oneshots on the side, but I'm excited to see how far I can get into this. I have ideas! Also PS this is rated T. There will be some dark scenes and probs some steamy sections, but nothing so heavy or explicit enough to call for the M rating. But this is your advance warning.

Anyways, thanks for giving this fic a shot! I really appreciate your time, and would love if you just sent me a review to let me know what you think. I don't bite, and do try to answer them all.

Until next time, lovies, stay beautiful!

Ta~

Ami

P.S.
I FIXED IT.