[FIC] Waes Hael
Title: Waes Hael
Author: mikkary_bones
Rating: K/PG
Prompt: the Ghost of Christmas Past
Notes: Christmas during the middle ages; Arthur is visiting and Francis thinks the castle is much too cold. It's almost like old times. See the end of the fic for historical notes.
The castle was both drafty and choked with smoke, the way most castles were; the ceilings were soot-blackened even as the stone seemed to breathe out cold, defying the warmth of even the great hall's fire. It was late and the Christmas feast was slowly ending; the wassail was finished and servants were clearing up the platters and tankards, sweeping the table scraps into the rushes, to be fought over by the dogs. Now the Great Hall was turned into a place to sleep, even as the English and French nobility retired to their chambers. Men were bedding down in their clothes. Francis grasped Arthur's wrist. "Not here," he said. "Come on." With only slight hesitation, Arthur followed.
Northern France was the worst place to spend the winter, Francis thought; he would much rather be in the south, where the climate was more temperate and one could be a little warmer, no matter how cold the castle halls became. But the monarchy needed to establish constant control over the northern provinces, always at risk of English domination, and so here they were. And here were some English dignitaries, too, celebrating Christmastime with them. And here was Arthur.
They padded down the halls and Arthur looked around himself with interest; he had never been inside this castle before and he found himself, as much as he could, evaluating it for strength and weaknesses. Who knew when they would be at war again, and his troops might have to take this area by force? But his military machinations were distracted by the chill and his relative unsteadiness. They had both consumed a great deal of ale at the feast. Francis's bone-thin fingers were digging into his wrist.
"Where are we going?" Arthur asked. His voice seemed high and lost in the cold corridor, and he clamped his mouth shut.
Francis shook his head, not answering, and tugged Arthur down another hall and then into a small, dark chamber. Arthur stood stock still, his heart hammering in his throat (remembering recent altercations with France), as Francis released his wrist. There were a few scuffling noises, and then a spark flared up, growing into a flickering fire atop a coal brazier, which illuminated the room in faint orange light. There was a bed in the middle of the room, high, with curtains draped around it, a chest in the corner, and a washbasin that had already been iced over.
"A bedroom?" Arthur asked, rubbing at his wrist. He shivered. It was much colder here than in the great hall, which had been warmed by the hearth as well as the press of bodies.
"It's mine," Francis said, and there was a hint of pride in his voice. "They didn't want, I mean, I don't have to sleep in the rushes with the dogs anymore." He looked at Arthur as though he was expecting some sort of impressed reaction; Arthur remained impassive. "It's just, here... there's no one, I mean..." He put his hands behind his back, scuffed his shoe against the floor, and didn't meet Arthur's eyes. "It's less... smelly than the hall, at least."
Arthur looked at Francis, often his adversary but often, too, his friend (and nicer than his brothers, sometimes). "I hope you've stopped kicking like you always used to," he said finally, grudgingly, as he slipped off his shoes and put them on the chest. The floor was bitingly cold against his feet and he hurried, on tiptoes, to pull back the bed curtains and clamber up and under the thick pile of blankets.
When he realized Arthur was fine with staying, Francis's face broke out into a smile of relief, and he removed his own shoes, hurrying across the floor to blow out the light before diving into bed, snuggling under the covers. They slept in their clothes, in the cold castle; it was warmer that way. Half of Francis's blankets were actually cold weather cloaks that he wasn't wearing at the moment. It took the blankets several minutes to warm up and they shivered together under the covers in the dark.
It had been a long time since they had slept like this, huddled together like children. Arthur had grown -- Francis remembered chubby hands clinging to the front of his tunic. And Francis had grown too -- his limbs were now too gangly and long to let him curl up around Arthur the way they once had, like puppies sleeping among the rushes. Arthur's bony shoulder dug into Francis's arm; Francis's elbows were sticking uncomfortably into Arthur's ribs.
"Budge up," Arthur said, and scooted around to make himself more comfortable.
"You!" Francis retorted, scooting around. Eventually they settled lying face-to-face with one another, though they couldn't see each other in the dark, their arms and legs tangled together. "It's warmer now," Francis admitted, his voice sleepy.
Arthur made a noise of agreement. "How much ale did you have to drink?" he asked. Francis smelt slightly of alcohol.
"I pissed before I went to bed, if that's what you mean," Francis replied, somehow sounding arrogant even when speaking about his bodily functions.
"'Snot what I meant," Arthur replied, and tried to kick at Francis's shin under the bed, but missed. He was glad there wouldn't be any midnight runs to the privy, at least. "You stink, is all."
Francis shoved him. "I do not!"
A brief scuffling match ensued, which came to a draw when Francis nearly fell out the bed and almost pulled the curtains down on top of them, trying to regain his balance. They lay together and panted for a while, each regaining his wind; at least this had helped warm up the room. Francis stretched out his arm across Arthur's chest, Arthur shoved it back off. "You're taking too much space," he complained.
"Am not."
"Are too. You wouldn't sleep all spread out like this if you were still sleeping in the rushes, like everybody else," Arthur added, his tone accusing.
"Oh, don't be so jealous," Francis said dismissively, and didn't mention that he usually slept curled up into a small ball, trying to keep the cold at bay and missing the warmth of bodily contact. "Just because your monarchs don't value you enough to give you a room of your own."
Arthur hit his shoulder. Francis's wince was invisible in the dark. "Shut up. I fight with my men; I don't parade myself around like some sort of poncey--"
That was call for another scuffle, where Francis clapped his hands over Arthur's mouth and Arthur pulled at Francis's hair. And this time, instead of separating, the fight naturally died down and Arthur found himself pillowed on Francis's chest. He could feel Francis's breath on his face and his stomach did a funny twisting motion. Must've been the roughhousing, after so much food and so much ale. He could feel Francis's chest rising and falling with each breath. "If you keep insulting me, we're not going to get any sleep," Francis said, after some time had passed.
Arthur rolled off of him and onto his back on the bed. Francis took a deep breath and urged his heart to slow down, hoping he wasn't getting sick. "It's not my fault," Arthur replied, tetchy as usual. "If you would stop taking offense at the smallest things..."
Francis made as if to hit Arthur, then sighed and let his hand fall back on the bed. "Fine," he huffed. They lay in comfortable silence for a while, while Arthur basked in the warmth and the clean(er) feeling of the blankets. He had to admit it was better than sleeping in the rushes, which were pungent with the smell of rotting food, in the great hall, which already stunk of stale smoke and sour sweat. Then Francis had to go and open his mouth again. "Your clothing today..."
"What of it?" Arthur snapped defensively. He was actually quite proud of his new woolen garments, dyed a dark red that, he thought, looked very royal and fine.
"Too large in the shoulders," Francis said.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's just more to grow into, innit?" he asked, and then added, spitefully, "What I wear doesn't matter as long as I can beat your troops in battle." Which he very well could. "And I don't look like a girl," he finished, adding insult to insult.
"I do not look like a girl," Francis snapped.
"Well when I met you--"
"And if I do look like a girl, at least I'm a pretty girl," he concluded. Arthur thought about that. Francis would have made the perfect girl, when he was younger. Now, they had both grown; Francis had lost his childlike grace as his limbs had lengthened. He had yet to fill out his gangly frame -- like, Arthur thought, some of the younger squires, he was all arms and legs.
Not that Arthur's figure was any better; privately, Francis found Arthur's arms spidery and his ribs, too skinny; he had fond memories of Arthur's older, northern brother, who had dazzled him with feats of strength. And right now Arthur's bony knee was putting an uncomfortable pressure on his thigh. Francis kicked him under the blankets.
"Ow!" Arthur said, shoving at Francis. "What was that for?"
"I was uncomfortable," Francis said primly, even as he jabbed Arthur's ribs with his elbow.
"You didn't need to-- ow!" Arthur said, and fastened his teeth onto Francis's forearm.
Now it was Francis's turn to yelp and writhe in pain. "Stop it!" He hit Arthur in the nose.
"You stop it!" Arthur snapped, and, sulkily, they separated to opposite sides of the bed, backs to each other. Arthur pulled up the blankets around his shoulders (relieved that Francis didn't immediately pounce on him for 'stealing them') and relaxed into a pillow, letting a warm and sleepy feeling wash over him. He didn't know how late it was, but the feast had lasted a very long time (was still going, in some parts of the castle) and he and Francis had been bickering for quite a while, he felt. He was still full. This Christmas, he admitted to himself, had been rather nice, though the festivities weren't over yet. He was more excited for Twelfth Night, anyway, which he would be spending on his own lands (well, lands the ownership of which was not under dispute). Still he had to admit it had been a... rather fun evening, all things considered. And he and Francis hadn't fought, not really, and that was... good.
"Good night, serf," Francis said from the opposite side of the bed, his voice muffled by the blankets.
Arthur wrinkled his nose and thought of responding with a kick, but sleepiness had already seeped into his bones. "Same to you, ponce."
They awoke the next morning to find themselves curled together in the center of the bed, arms entwined and legs tangled. It was warm, and comforting, and both of them pretended they were still asleep for quite a while longer.
Notes [written from memory]:
Author: mikkary_bones
Rating: K/PG
Prompt: the Ghost of Christmas Past
Notes: Christmas during the middle ages; Arthur is visiting and Francis thinks the castle is much too cold. It's almost like old times. See the end of the fic for historical notes.
The castle was both drafty and choked with smoke, the way most castles were; the ceilings were soot-blackened even as the stone seemed to breathe out cold, defying the warmth of even the great hall's fire. It was late and the Christmas feast was slowly ending; the wassail was finished and servants were clearing up the platters and tankards, sweeping the table scraps into the rushes, to be fought over by the dogs. Now the Great Hall was turned into a place to sleep, even as the English and French nobility retired to their chambers. Men were bedding down in their clothes. Francis grasped Arthur's wrist. "Not here," he said. "Come on." With only slight hesitation, Arthur followed.
Northern France was the worst place to spend the winter, Francis thought; he would much rather be in the south, where the climate was more temperate and one could be a little warmer, no matter how cold the castle halls became. But the monarchy needed to establish constant control over the northern provinces, always at risk of English domination, and so here they were. And here were some English dignitaries, too, celebrating Christmastime with them. And here was Arthur.
They padded down the halls and Arthur looked around himself with interest; he had never been inside this castle before and he found himself, as much as he could, evaluating it for strength and weaknesses. Who knew when they would be at war again, and his troops might have to take this area by force? But his military machinations were distracted by the chill and his relative unsteadiness. They had both consumed a great deal of ale at the feast. Francis's bone-thin fingers were digging into his wrist.
"Where are we going?" Arthur asked. His voice seemed high and lost in the cold corridor, and he clamped his mouth shut.
Francis shook his head, not answering, and tugged Arthur down another hall and then into a small, dark chamber. Arthur stood stock still, his heart hammering in his throat (remembering recent altercations with France), as Francis released his wrist. There were a few scuffling noises, and then a spark flared up, growing into a flickering fire atop a coal brazier, which illuminated the room in faint orange light. There was a bed in the middle of the room, high, with curtains draped around it, a chest in the corner, and a washbasin that had already been iced over.
"A bedroom?" Arthur asked, rubbing at his wrist. He shivered. It was much colder here than in the great hall, which had been warmed by the hearth as well as the press of bodies.
"It's mine," Francis said, and there was a hint of pride in his voice. "They didn't want, I mean, I don't have to sleep in the rushes with the dogs anymore." He looked at Arthur as though he was expecting some sort of impressed reaction; Arthur remained impassive. "It's just, here... there's no one, I mean..." He put his hands behind his back, scuffed his shoe against the floor, and didn't meet Arthur's eyes. "It's less... smelly than the hall, at least."
Arthur looked at Francis, often his adversary but often, too, his friend (and nicer than his brothers, sometimes). "I hope you've stopped kicking like you always used to," he said finally, grudgingly, as he slipped off his shoes and put them on the chest. The floor was bitingly cold against his feet and he hurried, on tiptoes, to pull back the bed curtains and clamber up and under the thick pile of blankets.
When he realized Arthur was fine with staying, Francis's face broke out into a smile of relief, and he removed his own shoes, hurrying across the floor to blow out the light before diving into bed, snuggling under the covers. They slept in their clothes, in the cold castle; it was warmer that way. Half of Francis's blankets were actually cold weather cloaks that he wasn't wearing at the moment. It took the blankets several minutes to warm up and they shivered together under the covers in the dark.
It had been a long time since they had slept like this, huddled together like children. Arthur had grown -- Francis remembered chubby hands clinging to the front of his tunic. And Francis had grown too -- his limbs were now too gangly and long to let him curl up around Arthur the way they once had, like puppies sleeping among the rushes. Arthur's bony shoulder dug into Francis's arm; Francis's elbows were sticking uncomfortably into Arthur's ribs.
"Budge up," Arthur said, and scooted around to make himself more comfortable.
"You!" Francis retorted, scooting around. Eventually they settled lying face-to-face with one another, though they couldn't see each other in the dark, their arms and legs tangled together. "It's warmer now," Francis admitted, his voice sleepy.
Arthur made a noise of agreement. "How much ale did you have to drink?" he asked. Francis smelt slightly of alcohol.
"I pissed before I went to bed, if that's what you mean," Francis replied, somehow sounding arrogant even when speaking about his bodily functions.
"'Snot what I meant," Arthur replied, and tried to kick at Francis's shin under the bed, but missed. He was glad there wouldn't be any midnight runs to the privy, at least. "You stink, is all."
Francis shoved him. "I do not!"
A brief scuffling match ensued, which came to a draw when Francis nearly fell out the bed and almost pulled the curtains down on top of them, trying to regain his balance. They lay together and panted for a while, each regaining his wind; at least this had helped warm up the room. Francis stretched out his arm across Arthur's chest, Arthur shoved it back off. "You're taking too much space," he complained.
"Am not."
"Are too. You wouldn't sleep all spread out like this if you were still sleeping in the rushes, like everybody else," Arthur added, his tone accusing.
"Oh, don't be so jealous," Francis said dismissively, and didn't mention that he usually slept curled up into a small ball, trying to keep the cold at bay and missing the warmth of bodily contact. "Just because your monarchs don't value you enough to give you a room of your own."
Arthur hit his shoulder. Francis's wince was invisible in the dark. "Shut up. I fight with my men; I don't parade myself around like some sort of poncey--"
That was call for another scuffle, where Francis clapped his hands over Arthur's mouth and Arthur pulled at Francis's hair. And this time, instead of separating, the fight naturally died down and Arthur found himself pillowed on Francis's chest. He could feel Francis's breath on his face and his stomach did a funny twisting motion. Must've been the roughhousing, after so much food and so much ale. He could feel Francis's chest rising and falling with each breath. "If you keep insulting me, we're not going to get any sleep," Francis said, after some time had passed.
Arthur rolled off of him and onto his back on the bed. Francis took a deep breath and urged his heart to slow down, hoping he wasn't getting sick. "It's not my fault," Arthur replied, tetchy as usual. "If you would stop taking offense at the smallest things..."
Francis made as if to hit Arthur, then sighed and let his hand fall back on the bed. "Fine," he huffed. They lay in comfortable silence for a while, while Arthur basked in the warmth and the clean(er) feeling of the blankets. He had to admit it was better than sleeping in the rushes, which were pungent with the smell of rotting food, in the great hall, which already stunk of stale smoke and sour sweat. Then Francis had to go and open his mouth again. "Your clothing today..."
"What of it?" Arthur snapped defensively. He was actually quite proud of his new woolen garments, dyed a dark red that, he thought, looked very royal and fine.
"Too large in the shoulders," Francis said.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's just more to grow into, innit?" he asked, and then added, spitefully, "What I wear doesn't matter as long as I can beat your troops in battle." Which he very well could. "And I don't look like a girl," he finished, adding insult to insult.
"I do not look like a girl," Francis snapped.
"Well when I met you--"
"And if I do look like a girl, at least I'm a pretty girl," he concluded. Arthur thought about that. Francis would have made the perfect girl, when he was younger. Now, they had both grown; Francis had lost his childlike grace as his limbs had lengthened. He had yet to fill out his gangly frame -- like, Arthur thought, some of the younger squires, he was all arms and legs.
Not that Arthur's figure was any better; privately, Francis found Arthur's arms spidery and his ribs, too skinny; he had fond memories of Arthur's older, northern brother, who had dazzled him with feats of strength. And right now Arthur's bony knee was putting an uncomfortable pressure on his thigh. Francis kicked him under the blankets.
"Ow!" Arthur said, shoving at Francis. "What was that for?"
"I was uncomfortable," Francis said primly, even as he jabbed Arthur's ribs with his elbow.
"You didn't need to-- ow!" Arthur said, and fastened his teeth onto Francis's forearm.
Now it was Francis's turn to yelp and writhe in pain. "Stop it!" He hit Arthur in the nose.
"You stop it!" Arthur snapped, and, sulkily, they separated to opposite sides of the bed, backs to each other. Arthur pulled up the blankets around his shoulders (relieved that Francis didn't immediately pounce on him for 'stealing them') and relaxed into a pillow, letting a warm and sleepy feeling wash over him. He didn't know how late it was, but the feast had lasted a very long time (was still going, in some parts of the castle) and he and Francis had been bickering for quite a while, he felt. He was still full. This Christmas, he admitted to himself, had been rather nice, though the festivities weren't over yet. He was more excited for Twelfth Night, anyway, which he would be spending on his own lands (well, lands the ownership of which was not under dispute). Still he had to admit it had been a... rather fun evening, all things considered. And he and Francis hadn't fought, not really, and that was... good.
"Good night, serf," Francis said from the opposite side of the bed, his voice muffled by the blankets.
Arthur wrinkled his nose and thought of responding with a kick, but sleepiness had already seeped into his bones. "Same to you, ponce."
They awoke the next morning to find themselves curled together in the center of the bed, arms entwined and legs tangled. It was warm, and comforting, and both of them pretended they were still asleep for quite a while longer.
Notes [written from memory]:
- Castles were originally made from earth and stone; it was only in the 11th/12th century when architects switched to stone construction. Even then, northern Europe was slower to make the switch than southern Europe. And stone castles, although perhaps more durable than their wood-and-earth cousins, turned out to be much colder.
- The chimney was not invented until sometime much later, and so original stone castles were full of smoke and poorly ventilated. Individual rooms could not have large fires, and most people slept on the floor in the great hall, huddled together for warmth. (The invention of chimneys increased the people's privacy while improving ventilation and heating!)
- To keep themselves warm, people would sleep in their clothes. Special nightclothes and undergarments did not become the norm until around the 13th century. Since it was so cold in castles and during the winter in general, people would often put on extra clothes to sleep.
- Only the most important people in the castle had their own bedrooms. Privacy was increased by high bedposts and curtains that surrounded the bed. In addition to blankets, once again, clothing that was not being worn would be piled on top of the covers for warmth.
- Christmas in the Middle Ages was not as important as days like Epiphany/Twelfth Night, when gifts were exchanged as churchgoers celebrated the visit of the Magi to Jesus' birthplace. Christmas was also created from a pagan holiday that had fallen on that date. It was traditional to go to mass that day (up to three times?) and then attend a feast given by one's lord, where, depending on one's social standing, one could feast on boar's head at the high table, or be served umble pie ("humble pie" made from the entrails and leftovers of deer) afterwards. "Wassail" was the name for a traditional Christmas drink and comes from an earlier pagan tradition of saying "Waes hael," or "be in good health," before sharing a ceremonial Yuletide drink.