There was blood everywhere; his hands and arms were coated, sticky and slick and stained. He felt sick, but did his best not to focus on that. He focused instead on the end goal – the result, the relief, the destination.

This life had left him behind anyways, was it truly so bad for him to do the same?

Arthur was an irritated whirlwind of motion as stormed through the doors. Alan was there in a heartbeat, struggling to catch the crumpled-up letter that was thrown at him.

"Sire, is everything alright?"

"No."

The young man threw himself onto one of the benches in the lounge, rolling quickly and pressing his palms into his eyes. Alan stood by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot, kneading the paper in his hands.

"Will he not hear you?"

"He won't even give me a bloody audience with him," Arthur snarled. "Me! His fucking son!"

"To be fair, he is a very busy man." A pause, and then the Welshman spoke in a quieter voice, "also mind your tongue, m'lord."

That last remark was ignored.

The alarm bells that woke the county of Yorkshire the morning after the 23rd of April were accompanied with panic. The news spread like a wildfire, twisted and exaggerated as it was passed from mouth to mouth.

Some said it was suicide – that the boy had always been a fragile one, that he would never be able to carry the weight of a true royal. Even though his time away had strengthened him and given him the obvious qualities of a leader, he did not stand with his father on matters that he should. Perhaps the frustration of working against his family had finally broken him?

Others said that it was a kidnapping. They theorized that in a few days' time, His Majesty would be informed that his second born was in the custody of the Scottish, or another kingdom who was at odds with their own. Blood did not always mean death, after all.

But there were those who disagreed with both and claimed it was a murder. The trail of blood lead to no body, they said. Why would a suicidal walk himself away from his death bed and leave no note? There were also whispers that one of the young prince's attendants had seen a man dump a large sack into the River Hull. Even though the river had been scoured in hopes of finding answers, nothing was found. The body must have been lost to sea – or at least that was what they said to ease the sting of their failures. There were whispers that the Disinherited had finally grown tired of the young prince's vocal lack of support for their cause and had taken it upon themselves to silence him.

But no matter what had happened or who had done it, Prince Arthur was gone, and he was not coming back.

"It's complete rubbish. If he's got time enough to find a suitor for my fickle sister than he's got time enough for an audience with me. He just doesn't want to hear what I have to say."

"It's not like he hasn't already, though," Alan was hopelessly fighting a losing battle, and Arthur blew out his lips at this, pushing the fringe of his hair back with a hand.

"Oh sure, he's heard, but obviously he's yet to actually listen."

"You've been saying the same thing for years, master Arthur. Maybe your father won't ever be ready to have that kind of talk with you."

"Bloody shame, that," he grumbled, itching absently at the top of his skull and scowling at the ceiling. Alan smoothed out the paper in his hands and read the letter for himself. He had to admit, for a letter from a man to his son, it was awfully formal and distant. If he didn't already know, he would've assumed this was from a total stranger.

With habitual neatness, the brunet folded the page into fourths and placed it on the short table in the middle of the room. He moved to go stand by the door, but a scoff from the miserable blonde stopped him.

"Oh please, Alan, that last thing I want right now is formality. Sit your arse down."

The funeral was somber and grand and befitting of a prince. There was no corpse to show, but they buried an ornate casket with the rest of the family nevertheless. The entirety of the royal family was present, sharing fond words and stories and dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs.

But the death of nobles and royals were so common in times of war and struggle, even the one of a prince would soon be forgotten.

"Is it even worth it anymore?" Arthur asked, careful to keep his tone level. "I mean, it's been almost twenty one years since the beginning of this stupid war and we still can't look to the north without reaching for our blades." He furrowed his brow and laughed. The sound was harsh and dry and made Alan jump. "I was a year old when this war started. Look where I am now, and nothing about our relationship with Scotland had changed."

"There have been small milestones," Alan put in hopefully, and the young man only scoffed.

"Not enough to mean anything in the long run."

Arthur sighed again, stretching his arms above his head until his back cracked, then rested his hands over his stomach.

"But really, is it even worth it?" he repeated, quieter. He rolled on his side and looked up at Alan, who sat in the chair nearby. Alan felt guilt well in his chest at that heartbroken expression. "It's been five years, Alan." He lowered his eyes to the floor and seemed to deflate, crestfallen. "And not even a single letter."

Alan shifted uncomfortably, reminded again of exactly what he'd taken his lord away from.

He spent years rebuilding a trust with the young prince and rekindling their friendship. Arthur had caved on the eve of his twentieth, telling his attendant everything in an emotional confession brought on by french wine. While Alan always had a feeling that he had been close with the lord he'd served in his time as an attendant, he had never quite guessed the feelings ran as deep as they did.

"Well, the kingdoms are at war," he said helpfully, "and it can't be easy for a Scottish lord to get a letter to an English prince."

But Arthur didn't want to hear excuses.

"Five years, Alan," he repeated.

Alan couldn't meet that stare any longer, and he fixed his gaze instead on an oil lamp nearby.

"One would think I would've moved on by now," Arthur hissed, bitterly, "god knows Father would probably listen to me a little more willingly if I did as he asked and took a bloody bride."

He was quiet for a while, and only when Arthur looked back to the young man did he speak again.

"What am I waiting for, Alan?"

The attendant had no answer, so he shrugged and stared instead at his knees.

Alan fell into his chair with a great sigh, rubbing at his temples as his muscles relaxed, but his brain did not unwind with them. He found his eyes gravitating to the desk he sat behind until a feeling of all-consuming guilt drove him to open one of his desk drawers.

There were stacks upon stacks of letters, all unopened and bound into piles with twine.

For five years he'd been intercepting the messages.

At first he'd done it to protect Arthur. Though he did not know the details at the time, he knew that thoughts of Arbroath made the prince miserable. Why was the lord sending a former servant letters at all? He didn't feel proper to read them, so he simply stockpiled them in his drawer - including the many Arthur passed along to him to send. For a long time, he justified his deeds by telling himself that he was helping the prince get over his attachment, that he was making the process of moving on easier to deal with.

It had eventually become habit, and then as the letters began to add up, Alan was not sure how to come clean gracefully.

So he never did.

He really wasn't sure what motivated him to open the last letter, but now knowing what had happened between the prince and lord, the words meant so much more.

I made you a promise, it had said, then four little letters that made Alan's blood run cold. Soon.

Alan was one of the last people to leave the gathering. He stood over his friend and master's grave, feeling oddly as empty as the casket buried beneath him. The sun was high above his head and beating down on him, trying furiously to be warm and pleasant though the star's efforts were undercut by a chilly, damp spring breeze and the occasional gray cloud.

He was alone for a long time, standing above that plot without words to say. They all felt wrong, spoken here and now and to a pile of dirt on the ground. He should have said them all sooner, in happier times. More importantly, he should have said all the right things when they would have meant the most.

He spent so long disapproving and trying to protect a friend who needed no protection. He had made it quite clear that he could handle himself. The only reason he never had as a child was because he was never given the chance to show he could.

And Alan, as ignorant and presumptuous as anyone in the prince's early life had ever been, had been no different. Now he knew better, and just as he'd said before the worst pain of his life, Arthur had been given the chance to grow up a little.

And grow he had.

He'd left them all behind for something better, with a wisdom and acceptance that should have belonged to someone three times his age.

The meeting was meant to be discreet. It was planned on a very early Monday morning on a street that was sparsely populated on even the busiest of days.

Alan stood against a building wall, his old green cloak pulled up to hide his face. He had a dagger hidden in his belt, but assured himself it was only for self defence. They didn't have the best track record when it came to confrontations, after all.

He was alone in that alleyway for a long time, and part of him hoped that he was being stood up. His plan was foolish and reckless anyways, and there was no way he could ever easily-

"I donnae remember sendin' an invitation tae ye, boy."

That voice was dark and dangerous and made the attendant jump away from the shadows that had spoken it. When his initial shock was past him, he began to wonder what had tipped the man off that Alan was not Arthur.

"I came anyways," he said, lowering his hood and dipping his head out of habit. It was an act of respect meant to be shown to those who ranked higher than he, and even if he was Scottish, Alistair was still a lord.

The man melted out of the shadows like he'd been a part of them all long. He wisely had abandoned his blue-and-green cloak for something a little more covert.

"Where is he?" Alistair asked, pulling his hood down to reveal that wild red hair and more importantly – the threat in his eyes.

Alan backed away, more cautious than afraid.

"Sleeping, I would imagine," he watched the lord for any sudden movements, hand on his dagger under his cloak. His heart began to race in anticipation. He would somehow have to explain himself before the man could kill him. "He doesn't know you're here."

"An' how is it tha' you do?"

The Welshman paused, unable to rid himself of the feeling that Alistair was only humouring him – that he already knew what crimes the attendant had committed.

"I intercepted the letter."

"As ye have all the rest, aye?"

Ah, so he did know.

"Yes." There was no point in lying here. He still clutched tightly to his dagger, tensing at even the slightest of movements. By the smirk on the Scot's lips, he knew full well how weary he made the younger man.

"And yet, ye have th' balls tae meet me here," the man purred, but there was no mistaking the menace in his tone, "brave o' ye, lad."

Alan swallowed and cut right to the point.

"Arthur is miserable here," he said, backing up as the Scot advanced. He kept talking, knowing his words would save him from whatever wrath the man had planned. "His father won't listen to his requests to diplomatically end the war, and it's a battle he's been fighting with His Majesty since the moment he returned to England."

The Welshman stopped when his back hit a wall.

"I stopped your letters at first because I thought it would help him move on, but he's unhappy. He has been for years. He's bound to a duty he's come to hate and His Majesty won't grant him authority because of his political views."

"I didnae come here to talk politics with ye, Kendricks."

"Nor did I. I'm only giving you an explanation."

This made the Scot pause.

"Oh?"

"I have a proposition for you."

Arthur's twenty second birthday was admittedly lacklustre. He was thrown a party, of course, and there was a feast and dancing and general merriment, but the prince couldn't help but to compare it to the party he'd had as a youth with a litter of servants in a dimly lit mess hall.

Here he was expected to dance stiffly, perfectly in time to the beat of an elegant tune. He was passed lady after lady to swing around the ballroom in hopes that they might work their way into his good favours and make a husband out of a prince. But Arthur was uninterested in the painted faces and the tight, elaborate dresses that only seemed cumbersome.

All these women were putting up a front for him, and because it was his birthday he didn't feel inclined to play along.

Which is why, after the last of his guests had seen themselves out, Arthur asked to just be left alone. When his servants seemed unsure at the request, he changed his tone and made it an order.

He was not to be disturbed, no matter what.

Maybe, Alan thought, had I done something differently...

The 'What if's' were unavoidable, and the Welshman thought he was the one plagued with far too many. What if they had stayed hidden in the woods, all those years ago? What if they had stayed with the driver of the carriage – hopped up onto the horses and ditched the coach? What if he'd found the boy sooner – if he'd thought to look deeper into Scottish territory?

What if his wound had killed him, and he had never found the boy at all?

How would things have changed? Would they truly be better? Would they be any worse?

And Alan was left staring down into an empty grave with no answers to give.

It was dark when Arthur pushed his way into his room, already beginning to undo the buttons of his gold-trimmed tunic. He walked forward into his quarters, frowning at the grand bed as he began to toe off his boots.

He stopped dead when he felt a chill crawl up his spine, accompanied with the feeling that someone was watching him. Arthur heard a shuffle from behind him and the click of the door being shut. He wasted no time in diving for the sword leaning against his wardrobe and unsheathing it. He spun on his heel and pointed the blade at the intruder.

"Sharp as ever, lad."

The familiarity of that voice hit Arthur with all the force of a charging horse. He felt all the air in his lungs leave him as he studied the face of the man in the dark. His blade clattered to the floor and everything was still.

At least until Alistair went to speak and the prince cut him off with a furious punch.

Alistair laughed as he stumbled back, managing to retain his balance and keep himself from falling into the door. He was prepared when the younger man flew at him again, catching his fist and stepping behind him. He pushed Arthur forward into the wall, wrenching his arm behind his back and pushing up, stopping only when he heard the young prince hiss with pain.

"Your right hook has gotten rusty," he observed with a smile, leaning forward to press his weight into the Brit.

"Fuck you," he hissed.

"Not quite," teased Alistair, "but I'm glad tae hear your tongue hasnae dulled."

The Scot swore suddenly when the young man drove his heel back into his captor's shin, and he responded by pushing up on the prince's arm until he cried out.

"Who the hell do you think you are, showing up here?!" Arthur began to struggle, enduring the pain in his shoulder until he was afraid it would pop out of its socket. "It's been years, you stupid Scot."

Alistair said nothing, watching through hooded eyes as the boy began to twist again. This time, more out of curiosity for what the lad would do, the Scot let him go. Arthur whirled, swiping his foot along the ground and knocking the lord's feet out from underneath him. Alistair swore loudly, unable to react quickly enough to stop the Brit from pouncing on him. He was still when he felt the cold steel of a dagger against his throat – withdrawn from the prince's boot.

The estate the prince used to live in was bought out by an Irishman, who also purchased all those who worked within it. It took time to adjust to the presence of a new master in the manor, but as the months passed and the memory of the former lord of the estate trickled away, life resumed as it once had.

The Irish lord was kind, patient and fair. He believed that hard work built good character and lead by example. He was out in the smouldering heat with his servants when they worked outdoors, and was sure they had a warm shelter to return to when they toiled in the cold. He was loved by many, and widely respected.

Even Alan found himself taking a liking to the modest lord. It also helped that in the first few weeks of the man's presence in the estate, he'd taken the time to get to know the head of staff. He had been sympathetic of the way the Welshman would seem distant and withdrawn at times, and had once managed to draw out the confession that the young brunet thought often on his former friend and prince.

The Irishman, in turn, would talk now and again of his brother and dear niece – his only family left in the world – lost to the hills of Scotland years ago, and insist that he knew what the lad was going through.

Arthur was perched above the Scot, a sharp dagger pressing lightly into an unprotected neck. The prince fought to catch his breath and Alistair watched; the younger man looked like he was on the verge of tears, but he appeared no less livid despite it.

"I wrote to ye, lad," Alistair said calmly, not without a sly smile. "Jus' as I know ye wrote to me."

The man seized the prince's shock and quickly snatched a pale wrist. He pulled the dagger away from his throat and threw his weight up. Arthur was bucked off, but given no time to collect himself before the other man rolled on top of him, pinning his wrists to the floor beside his head.

"This brings back memories," he said scandalously, eyes on the prone form beneath him – relishing the way the blonde still blushed red and panted so marvellously. He compressed the bones of the prince's wrist until he released the dagger, then Alistair laced their fingers together and squeezed tightly. He wasn't gentle in the least, and still kept him pinned to rug.

"What do you mean you wrote to me? I have never seen a letter from you. I was beginning to worry maybe you'd become illiterate," the jab was accompanied with a nasty scowl, but Alistair did not care.

"Ye can thank your good attendant fer that," Alistair hummed, all too pleased with how this was all playing out. Arthur paled.

"Alan?"

"Aye, bin collectin' our messages fer years."

The prince narrowed his eyes and tried to shoot up, but Alistair leaned down and pressed their chests together, keeping him caged with very little room to squirm.

"I'll kill him," the blonde hissed, ignoring the way the Scot only chuckled at the threat.

"Again, not quite."

Arthur raised a thick eyebrow. He knew the Scot was being intentionally vague, just to frustrate him. It was working.

"Why do you think it's okay for you to act this way?" Arthur scolded, twisting his body in a futile attempt to escape. The Scotsman tightened his grip on the younger man's hands until the pain stopped him from moving. "It's been so long, and I could very well be betrothed by now."

"But you're not, are ye? Been quite turned off by the thought of weddin' anyone but me, aye?" Arthur went bright red and renewed his struggling, working through the pain in his knuckles and fingers. "We've been o'er this, Arthur. Of all th' people I know or have known or will come to meet, there is only you."

These words, sincere and quiet, stopped him again. He stared up at the red-haired lord, puzzled, not quite sure how he felt.

"I never said the same applied for me," he pointed out, but they both knew that this was irrelevant.

"True enough, but you 'n I both know that ye belong only to me. I willnae allow time tae change that."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and frowned.

"I am not a thing to be owned, Alistair."

"I know that, Arthur, but you are mine nevertheless."

In accompaniment with these words and probably to prove a point, Alistair kissed the prince. At first, Arthur pursed his lips and remained still, stubbornly resisting until the Scot bit quite harshly at his lower lip. A cry escaped him, and he was tempted to bite the tongue that delved inside his mouth until he tasted smoke.

That familiar taste was what ended his struggling. All the memories and the feelings and the heartache came rushing back. He narrowed his eyes to banish the tears and kissed the lord back fervently. His heart began to race and he wanted to reach up – to pull the man closer and keep him where he couldn't slip away again, but Alistair was holding firmly to his hands and keeping his arms down. He loved and hated how he felt dizzy and lightheaded from lack of oxygen, and when Alistair slowly withdrew, he had to struggle to focus on the man's face.

"Told ye," the Scot purred, and Arthur scoffed, but the noise caught in his throat and it ended up sounding more like a breathless choke.

"You're abhorrent."

"That's a new one," Alistair was unaffected as ever by the blonde's insults as he leaned back, slowly pulling his hands away. Arthur was caught between punching the man again or pulling him back down.

Only somewhat bitter for his decision, he settled on the latter, flying up to snatch the collar of the man's shirt and sitting up to meet him half way, seeking the familiar taste of smoke and Alistair, unabashed if only because it had been so long.

He was practically hanging off the man's shoulders before he was pressed back into the floor and ravaged appropriately for his encouragement. He wrapped his legs around the Scot, and Alistair answered with salacious gropes at his thighs and rear.

Arthur didn't care that they were still on the floor. He didn't care how improper the entire situation was. He didn't care how he was answering every lascivious grab and kiss with ones of his own and that his family would pale to see the raunchy display – even were it not with another man. At that moment he was too wrapped up in how much he missed this feeling.

It was an uneasy churning in his stomach, but he felt like he was flying.

It was an aching heart, but his chest felt warm and the tingles were indescribable.

It was a crippling need that he dreaded he'd never be rid of, but the relief that buzzed in the back of his brain with every touch made it worth it.

It was Alistair and Arthur and the lord was right – they were helplessly addicted.

He surprised them both when an instinctive growl rumbled in the back of his throat, caused by the lord pulling away and pressing a firm hand down on the middle of his heaving chest. He scowled up at the Scotsman, still holding fistfuls of the man's shirt and tugging impatiently.

"Wha' happened tae 'I never said the same applied for me'?"

"Don't you start," Arthur hissed, trying to lift off the floor. Alistair kept him pinned, ignoring his strangled grunts and embarrassed whines.

"Happy birthday, by the way. I brought ye a bit o' a gift – other than me, o'course."

Arthur stilled and frowned, refusing to react to the self-confident remark. He furrowed his brows and stared up, expectant. He was not quite sure what sort of gift he wanted from this man – just what sort of gift he thought would make this all better.

Alistair's smile was slow and wicked as he picked up Arthur's dagger from the floor.

"I'm gonna give ye the ultimate way out, lad. I'm gonna kill ye."

There came a day many weeks after the passing of Arthur Kirkland that Alan was called for much earlier than usual.

This was because a messenger had been by, carrying but one letter, addressed not to the lord as such messages usually were, but to an Alan Kendricks.

"This is for you" Lord Donovan passed him the envelope, an eyebrow raised curiously. He watched as the young man opened it carefully, relieved when Alan's face lit up as he read the words on the page. The Welshman covered his mouth to hide his smile, though he needn't have bothered – the Irishman smiled just the same, glad the news seemed good. "Who is it from?"

"It's from my brother," Alan said, reading the short letter a second time.

"You never told me you had a brother, lad."

Alan grunted and turned the letter over in his hands. He would apologize later to himself for lying to his employer. For the time being, he let his eyes return to the neatly written words on the parchment and he read it once more with a feeling of warmth.

Alan,

We made it.

I must keep this brief. I just wanted to make sure you knew that everything is alright. I hope your life was not too unsettled. At least now you won't have to worry about me anymore.

Optimism, Alan!

I owe you more than I could ever repay, brother. I will keep your memory with me always. Thank you for everything you have done.

Sincerely,

A. K.

P.S.

He apologizes for stabbing you.

Alan chuckled to himself, folding the letter into neat fourths and slipping it into his pocket.

"So it is good news?" Lord Donovan asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes."

Then lord's face brightened with a warm smile. There was a twinkle in his deep green eyes and his laugh was uplifting. The sound had a pleasant tune to it, and after giving it thought, Alan could almost call it melodious.

"Then I'm glad for it."

The Good Lord knows not to meddle in the lives and the loves of his people. He cares not who you love, but how you come to love them. He judges only what you endure to keep them with you, or how much you regret when you finally let them go.

END.

Thank you.

Thank you all for your continued support, for your favourites and follows andreviews alike. Thank you for giving me the confidence and encouragement needed to see this all the way through eighteen chapters. I am so grateful to all of you, and I cannot stress enough that without you, I would have abandoned this weeks ago. Thanks to those of you who have been with me faithfully since day one, to those of you who have joined us along the way and to those of you who I am going to hear from in the future.

And thank you, reader, for seeing this all the way through to the end!

You'll see more from me, I promise. I know I have little oneshots in my mind for this AU, as well as completely new ideas. I'm far from done.

So again, don't hesitate to review - let me know what you thought or how you felt. Send me a PM if you'd like, for I am a very talkative person and I love to chat. I really do love hearing from all of you, and I'm glad to have attracted the attention of such a marvellous group of people.

Once more: Thank you - we made it!

Until next time,

Ami.