Not Another Cinderella - Chapter One
Arthur
It’s a truth universally known that a Prince suffocated by duty and propriety is bound to rebel at some point in his life. Or at least it should be a universally known truth, as far as Arthur Pendragon was concerned.
With his twenty-fifth birthday slowly drawing near, Arthur had spent the last four months locked away in Cabinet meetings and attending pompous balls thrown by one lord or another; who’s names he would not have been able to remember even if threatened with death. It was all, of course, an attempt to have Arthur choose a bride from among the many daughters of lords and dukes and even a few kings were trying for Arthur’s hand in their daughter’s marriage.
He found it all to be so archaic and was one step away from finding himself in an arranged marriage.
Tonight he was meant to be attending a charity dinner thrown by Lord Burnham of some place or other for whales or children or something (Arthur hadn’t actually been listening). But after taking one look at the pressed tux lying out on his bed, the black material in contrast to the chartreuse bedding, he had felt suffocated and boxed in; the walls closing in on him and duty and propriety a noose around his neck.
Lungs void of breath, his stomach churned and his head buzzed as he thought about being tied for life to someone he didn’t even know, probably wouldn’t like, and was only marrying him for his title and a chance to be queen. So he’d bolted. And, really, it said all kinds of horrendous things about the palace security that he was able to slip away without anyone seeing him. Of course a childhood spent hiding from his keepers had taught him all the little cracks within the palace where no one ever looked.
And twenty minutes and a few broken speeding laws broken, here he stood in a dance club that was a little more than a watering hole. The floor was sticky with substances that it wouldn’t do to think on too closely. The air reeked of bodily fluid, stale liquor, and illegal drugs. The food was crap. The drinks were strong. He found it on one of his rebellious nights were he had stolen a Mercedes and kidnapped his bitch of a cousin Morgana.
Or maybe he had been the one kidnapped. Most of that night was still a blur.
The club was packed, as usual, with young people in various stages of dress grinding against one another in fashions that should not be found outside of an adult film. A couple plastered in a near corner grunted and wiggled against one another; harsh moans and dark curses spilling from their lips and made their way to his ears. The cheap vinyl plastic of the seat he sat in had cracked long ago and now poked at his arse, his shoe was sticking to the floor, and his arm rested in a pool of wet liquid, the source of which was more than likely of a dubious nature.
He’d be disgusted if he wasn’t so aroused by the tanned flesh and solid muscles pooled in his lap. Music pounded in his ears but Arthur didn’t hear the lyrics, too busy as he was wondering what the man’s lips would look like stretched around his leaking cock.
The bloke couldn’t be more than twenty, if that, but his cock was hard and felt nice in the curve of Arthur’s hip. His dark hair was cut awkwardly close to his head, and he wasn’t the type Arthur usually went for (the usual involving breasts). But the usual no longer appealed to Arthur; big breasts and long legs were no longer enticing to him. The bleached blond and fiery red-heads that were paraded before him like prize cattle didn’t even cause interest to spark in him.
He had known he was in trouble when the brother of a nobleman’s daughter he had been seeing aroused more lust in him than the girl herself.
Arthur wasn’t stupid. He knew that he paid more attention to blokes than he ought, just as he knew that stripping his cock while imagining one in his mouth wasn’t normal. But he didn’t think he was gay, he liked women just as well as he liked men. Maybe the correct term to use would be bisexual, only he had never actually been with another man before - it wouldn’t do to have the Crowned Prince of Avalon found out to like men.
Which is why Arthur had snuck away from his keepers, no doubt his father, the king, would express his disappointment in Arthur by shouting for an hour once the morning came and saw Arthur back at the palace. Arthur would apologize - only half meaning it - and see days confined inside the walls of the palace, opening Cabinet meetings and exuding an air of the perfect son and devoted prince. He would hate it, but for his men to find out that he….the prince….the palace was not free of gossip, and his sexual preferences would find its way to the pages of the country’s tabloids. It would become a bigger scandal than the time he wrecked his car into the palace gate while - allegedly, for it had never been proven - inebriated with a half-dressed woman in the front seat.
In other words, shit would hit the fan.
The club, Nexus, owned by a weird girl that fancied herself a witch, was the perfect place for Arthur to indulge his needs. Or so he had thought. It wasn’t until he found himself roughly pulled from his seat and pushed against a cold stone wall, the lad pressed tightly to his front and his hand down Arthur’s trousers, did he realize the flashing light he could see going off in the corners of his eyes weren’t the strobe lights of the club but that of a camera.
“Fuck me,” Arthur groaned as he spotted the man that held the blasted device; another flash of light as the man took yet another picture.
“Gladly,” was the reply he got from the lad who had yet to spot the paparazzo. He sucked at Arthur’s neck and angled his body in such a way that Arthur knew the camera wielding man would end up with a perfect shot of the lad’s hand working on Arthur.
“Fuck. Me.” Arthur repeated, banging his head off the wall.
“Smile your highness,” the weasel paparazzo said with a smug smile..
Arthur had hoped, naively so yes, that he had imagined the weasel face paparazzo. Or at least that it had been a dream, and surely pictures of him and some twink were not going to be splashed on the telly and in the popular press. Then Leon, his ex-best mate as of today, seeing as how he had refused to help Arthur escape before it was too late, had woke him up with a frown and a copy of The Coin clenched in between long fingers and manicured nails.
Prince Arthur - More of a Princess Than Anyone Ever Knew!
The headline was splashed in bold red across the cover above a truly unflattering picture of him and the twink from the night before. His eyes stared back at him wide and panicked; the pale arm of the lad bright against his blue shirt and framed by the v of his opened trousers.
He had taken one look at the glossy tabloid, groaned, and promptly vomited on Leon’s polished loafers. There was no need for him to actually look inside the tabloid to know why Leon had thought to bring it to him seeing as how on any other day, Leon would make sure one never entered Arthur’s sight.
After he finished emptying the contents of his stomach, which at eight in the morning had consisted of nothing other than bile and liquor, he had tried to fit himself through the abnormally small window in his en-suite and got stuck for his troubles. An hour had passed before Leon had come in search of him and found Arthur half dangling out the window; feet kicking, arms wailing, and silk brief covered arse stuck up in the air.
Arthur was sure that Leon had nearly broke something vital with all his laughing before he -reluctantly on Arthur’s part - helped Arthur get unstuck.
Now he was seated in his father’s study, with Leon blocking the only exit; beefy arms crossed over his chest and bushy red hair in standing on his head in disarray.
His mother was sitting on a finely made sofa, a handkerchief clutched in one hand a low sobs escaping her as she patted her chest with the other. Arthur didn’t know if that was worst than his father sitting stonily silent before him.
Arthur was proud of himself for not fidgeting under the icy stare of his father. He was no longer a child; he was a man and the Crowned Prince of the great country of Alba. He had no need to explain himself, not even to his father.
It sounded great and assertive in his head, but when he opened his mouth he heard himself saying, “I’m sorry, sire.”
Uther Pendragon, King of Alba, was a terrifying figure at the height of six feet with salt and pepper colored hair that was slowly becoming more salt than pepper, and lines that marred the skin of his face from equal parts of laughter and anger. His stormy, slate grey eyes cowered men and his scowl made children cry. But he was a king that ruled with love and the interest of his people in his heart.
When he was five, Uther had taken him to the top of Camelot - the royal palace located at the heart of Avalon in Albion - and told him that one day the people of Alba would look to him to lead them. Father had said that he was destined to be a great king, but to do so, he must love his people beyond all else, for while he may wear a crown upon his head and the people shall bow before him, he was there to serve them. Arthur had taken those words to heart that night and stored them away; he wanted to be a good king for his people and to be a son his father could be proud of.
He knew his father was anything other than proud and could very well be disgusted with Arthur for his actions the previous night.
Uther huffed, but said nothing in response to his apology, instead tossing another tabloid to join the pile of glossy popular press on the polished surface of the redwood desk. It sported one of the better photos - a bright display of the arm of the lad between the dark material of his trousers. It didn’t show Arthur’s face or the love bites the bloke had left Arthur with like some of the others the popular press did.
“Who was he?” Uther said.
“No one.” Arthur paused to clear his throat, to remind himself that he was prince and the only heir to the throne - surely his father wouldn’t disinherit him over this one silly little thing - surely. “He was no one special.”
Arthur had thought the news would pacify his father and stop the rant that was sure to come before it got started. Only, it seemed to have the opposite effect, as the skin of Uther’s face flushed red.
“No one?” Uther’s voice boomed, bouncing off the polished oak paneled walls and into the high ceiling. The tempered glass windows shook slightly in their frames from the king’s harsh voice. He stood to his full height, looming over Arthur, who remained seated but was no longer able to keep himself from fidgeting.
“You have made a spectacle of the crown, embarrassed yourself as well as me, and all for what? A…a spring?”
“Fling dear.” Queen Ygraine spoke for the first time since her son had entered the room.
Ygraine was a slight woman in appearance and Arthur had doubt that she even reached the height of five feet and five inches, though the length of her legs and the shoes she wore gave the impression that she was taller than she was. Her coloring was that of Arthur’s and he was often told that he had her eyes while he possessed his father’s temper, which was brash and quick to catch fire but slow to cool. But he also possessed the loyalty and strength of the Pendragons that ran deep within his father and took Avalon from a small poor farm country by the Atlantic to a great kingdom that was quickly becoming a superpower in the world..
Uther sputtered for a moment, the ice that colored his eyes when he looked at Arthur thawing when he looked at his wife. “Fling what?”
“No, I was correcting you. The term isn’t spring, its fling.”
“What? I thought it was spring, like springs in a mattress.”
And Arthur thought he must still be asleep, because surely his mother and father were not having this conversation. Though on the other hand, the longer their attention remained elsewhere the more likely Arthur could walk away without a severe punishment and with his crown intact.
At twenty-four, one would think Arthur was far too old to be punished by his parents.
Those people would be wrong.
“No, dear, I assure you it’s fling. As in, when you are through, you fling the person away,” Ygraine explained with the patience that she applied to everything else.
Apparently they were having this conversation. Arthur groaned and threw his head back to knock it against the high back of the chair he was seated in. It was plush but solid and far more comfortable than it ought to be given its appearance. The wood of the arms had been delicately carved over the crimson Pendragon red upholstery, the back stiff and straight, and the feet designed to resemble the claws of a dragon. It gave out a whine and there was a sharp crack as the back of Arthur’s head met the arched wood - it wasn’t the smartest thing he could have done seeing as it drew the attention of his parents back to him.
“You are to be king one day, Arthur,” Uther was saying said. Arthur wondered when he had left the topic of flings and springs behind. “What shall your people think of you after this?”
“That I am human, just as they are,” Arthur said, somehow finding it within himself to look his father in the eye.
He would not be coward, not even before the King.
“They don’t want you to be human Arthur. They want you to be their leader, and for they want you to be above the weakness of common folk.”
“We all have our weak spots, Father.”
“Yes, but you are not to expose yours to the public,” Uther said with a sigh, looking older than the fifty-eight years that he was and far more vulnerable than Arthur had ever seen him appear to be. “These….your antics must cease, Arthur. You are to be crowned king on your twenty-fifth birthday. How am I to hand the crown over to you while you continue to behave like a randy teenager?”
“I know, Father.”
“You do not know, Arthur! Or we would not have to deal with the likes of this,” Uther said flicking the edge of a tabloid with his pointer finger as though it was something disgusting that would infect him should he get too close. “You must learn responsibility.”
“I agree…”
“That is why I am sending you to Ealdor.”
“I…Ealdor?” There were many small farming towns and villages on the outskirts of Avalon whose names Arthur didn’t know, but he was sure Ealdor was not one of them.
“It is a small village located at the border of Great Britain.”
“And why am I going there?”
“An old friend of mine owns an inn there; you shall go to work for him.”
“Work?”
“Yes Arthur, work. As in a job, employment, something to teach you responsibility.”
Arthur frowned. He knew what work was.
“But, but I….” I think you’ve gone mental is what Arthur wanted to say. “You want me to run away,” is what he said instead.
“You are not running away, Arthur.”
Uther had reclined back in his chair and had placed his reading glasses on his face. He shuffled through papers that Arthur figured were a matter of state and had all but dismissed Arthur.
“It will seem that way to the public,” Arthur pointed out, not yet ready to lose this argument.
“I shall worry about that.” He looked at Arthur over the frames of his glasses. “You are not getting out of this, Arthur.”
“I, but, I…” Arthur paused to breathe through his nose and calm himself. There had to be a way out of this. The hands of an antique father clock ticked by as seconds - maybe minutes - passed before Arthur’s mind came around to the fact that there was nothing he could say to change his father’s mind. Stubbornness was another Pendragon trait. “For how long?”
“Hm, oh I think six months should be long enough.”
“Six months!” Surely father Uther had to be jesting. Six months would see him in this Ealdor well past the Yule holiday and into spring. There were charity events he was set to host, not to mention the annual ski trip he took with Leon, Lancelot, and Percy every year.
“Yes, I believe that will give you enough time to learn.”
“Learn responsibility? And that’s it?”
“If you cannot figure out the answer to that question before your time is through, then maybe you are not ready to be king.”
“I…Why can’t I learn,” Arthur questioned, “here in Albion, or any of the other great states of Avalon?”
“Because nowhere in Avalon can you go and not be treated as prince. In Ealdor you shall not be Prince Arthur, you shall be Arthur Penn, a common lad.”
“How do you know that they won’t know who I am there?”
It was Ygraine who answered with a un-lady like snort. “In Ealdor? I doubt that they know what their own royalty looks like, let alone Avalon’s.”
She had ceased her crying, at least. Arthur figured that was a silver lining if he ever saw one.
“And if I were to refuse?” Arthur inquired.
“Do you?” Uther asked, setting down his papers and looking into Arthur’s eyes.
Arthur thought about it, seriously thought about saying no and leaving and carrying on with his life. But that would just prove it, won’t wouldn’t it? That he was still behaving like a teenager and not a man, not a prince, and certainly not as a king should.
“No. I was just inquiring,” he said as the hands of the clock ticked off more seconds. “What is to happen if I should accomplish this…” he searched for a word, “…task?”
“Then I would know that you are ready to be king and shall pass on the crown with no doubt in my heart.”
“Fine,” Arthur said with a nod.
“You say that with such finality. As though you think it shall be easy,” Ygraine said rising from the couch. Her trousers were cut in a bellowing fashion so that they swirled around her legs as she made her way to where he sat. She looked at him with such fondness, love, and pride that Arthur felt something swell inside his chest.
“It can’t be that hard, surely.”
Ygraine laughed a high, light sound that reminded Arthur of the sounds of wind chimes in the summer months. “You believe so, do you?” She took a seat in the chair opposite him and patted his knee. “You have never had to work for your pay, or your food, or your and bed, Arthur. Everything you have has been provided for you.”
Arthur knew that his mother had not always been queen and had, in fact, not even been born of noble blood. Her father had been a butcher, and she had worked in the shop for years before she had finally met Uther Pendragon and he defied propriety and made to make her his bride. She no longer ate meat - and actually got nauseous at the sight of it - and wore a crown on her head while holding the title of Queen, but Arthur knew that she never forgot from which she came.
“Do you think I can do this?” Arthur asked his mother, suddenly uncertain.
“You are my son, Arthur, and a son of the Pendragon line. You can do whatever you put your mind to.” She leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, surrounding him with the smell of honey and ginger - a scent that was pure Ygraine Pendragon.
“Thank you,” he told her with all sincerity before turning to his father. “When shall I leave?”
“In the morning. Leon and Lancelot shall accompany you. You are still my son after all.”
Arthur raised a single eyebrow. “I don’t believe normal people have bodyguards.”
“Well then, I suppose you best not refer to them as such.”
Uther dismissed him with a wave of his hand and a flutter of paper. Arthur only waited a beat before kissing his mother upon the cheek and rising to his feet. By the time he crossed the span of polished hardwood flooring that lay between where he had sat and the door, Leon already had it open for him.
The click of the door shutting and the snap of his loafers on the floor were loud in the empty corridor. As was the harsh hiss that left him as he rounded on Leon.
“You knew about this.” It wasn’t a question. There wasn’t much that involved him that Leon did not know about. After fifteen years with the man by his side, Arthur had learned to put up with it, though that didn’t make it any less creepy.
“Sire….I-”
“You knew,” Arthur said, prowling forward until the taller man was crowded against the stone wall. “You knew and you did not think to tell me?”
“Your father only mentioned his plans to Lancelot and me this morning.”
“Oh, so Lancelot knew as well?” Arthur ran his fingers through his hair and turned from Leon. “Am I the only one unaware of what’s happening in my life?”
“You had to know that you’d be punished after last night,” Leon said out of the corner of his mouth, lowering his voice so that the passing servant girl would not overhear, though if the blush that flared up as she caught sight of Arthur was any indication, he need not bother. “Especially coming so quickly on the heels of the Barcelona scandal.”
Ah Barcelona. 2006. One yacht, a helicopter, and a whole lot of expensive alcohol. The papers had a field day with that one. His father had been more pissed than the time he had climbed to the top of Camelot’s battlement when he was five.
Arthur groaned, forcing his feet to carry him towards his rooms. He would never be able to look at another servant ever again. They all knew now. They had all seen it upon the telly and read it in the popular presses; their prince was a prick lover. He could feel his blood rushing to his cheeks,and wondered how he would ever live this down. Not that he thought there was anything wrong with homosexuality of course, a person’s sexual preferences was their own business, and Arthur was not one to judge.
The problem was his sexuality was not his own anymore, it appeared, now that it was plastered in every popular press out there. And he would be judged, no doubt very harshly. Some would be pleased, and other’s would see this scandal as an opportunity to promote gay rights; then there will be others that will want him removed from the throne. Though that did not concern Arthur. The only one in the kingdom with the power to take his crown from him would be his father. And despite this farce with sending him off to ‘work’, Uther had been worryingly silent on the fact that his son liked other lads. Arthur should probably think himself lucky, instead he found himself waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Yes, I knew I would be punished. But I thought it would come in the form of boring Cabinet meetings, being made to attend more charity functions than usual, and being grounded with you creepily watching over me,” Arthur said. “I did not think I would be sent to another country to work in some bloody inn.”
“I don’t creepily watch, I-”
“That’s not the point,” Arthur said, cutting him off. He really was not in the mood to debate how creepy it so totally was to have his best friend know everything about him. And Arthur meant everything. Leon knew just by looking that Arthur was going to catch a cold, days before Arthur even began having a sniffle.
“Then what is the point?”
If Leon weren’t so proper, in his job Arthur would swear that the man just rolled his eyes.
“The point is….the point is that I don’t want to work.” Arthur didn’t miss the look Leon threw at him as he opened a heavy wood door that led out to the south wing. “And don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what sire?”
“Like I’m some child.”
“I would never,” Leon said with wide eyes full of false innocence.
A rendition of ‘Barbie Girl’ blared out, and Leon proceeded to pull out his phone with far more ease than Arthur had.
“I thought I told you to stop messing with my phone,” Leon said in greeting.
Arthur supposed it must be Percy. Percy had a problem understanding personal space and keeping his hands off of other people’s possessions. He was more than likely calling to bask in Arthur’s misery.
They passed an alcove, while Leon muttered on about Arthur’s stupidity (and yes he heard that - did they not know he was the prince and as such they were not allowed to say things like that? Arthur was sure he could have them beheaded for something so offensive), to round a wide corner and be faced double doors; the Pendragon crest etched upon each. The crimson red of the dragon twisted around the gold and green shield was a bright contrast to the dark wood and stood out against the polished surface.
Arthur opened the doors, took a step inside his rooms, and was sorely tempted to leave again.
“Get out,” Arthur hissed at the prone figure splayed over his bed.
He tugged the ascot from around his neck and threw it in the general direction of his armoire, the grey waist coast followed, and there was a succession of thumps as his polished, black Gucci loafers hit the opposite wall. They had been a present from Morgana; she had recently taken a liking to overpriced clothing with a big ‘G’ or ‘LV’ sewed into the fabric.
“No,” Morgana said, and that was that. “Hullo, Leon.”
“My lady.” Leon even bowed, pulling his cell phone away from his ear so that he could do it properly.
Arthur sat on the bed with a groan, back towards his pain in the arse cousin, and tried his best to pretend she and Leon did not exist. It didn’t work. Morgana was too bloody pushy to be wished out of existence.
There was a flutter of paper and a loud slap, and Arthur found himself looking down into his own face.
Another bloody tabloid! He thought he had ordered them all burned.
“He’s…well I wouldn’t use the word handsome. Not even attractive. Though I guess ‘easy’ would be a good fit if this picture is anything to go by.” Her chin rested on his shoulder and she reached around to tap at the tabloid with one scarily long fingernail painted a deep Pendragon red. “Was he any good?”
“I wouldn’t know, now would I?”
“What? You mean to tell me that with you creating all this fuss and getting into trouble no doubt, that you didn’t even get laid?” Arthur stayed silent. “Poor baby, left with a sore cock only to be reamed out by his father.”
Arthur winced and shrugged her off. “I just vomited a little into my mouth.”
“Hmm. So how much trouble are you in? Grounded?”
“Yes, to a place called Ealdor.”
“What’s an Ealdor?”
“Don’t ask me. I suppose it’s a town or something.”
“Uh huh, so why this town that I’m partly sure you’ve made up?”
So Arthur told her, sure that he would end up regretting it.
“Oh, that’s good. Genius!” She was laughing so hard he could see tears. “You? Work?”
Arthur frowned a little offended. “I can work.”
“No. I don’t think you can. Arthur, you have a steward dress you in the mornings.”
Only because it was proper. And certainly not because he was unable to do so himself.
“I’m not sure you can boil water let alone cook,” Morgana continued. “You don’t even clean your own rooms.”
“Neither do you,” Arthur pointed out.
As the Duchess of Allura, the state known as Avalon’s most beautiful, Morgana had no more experience with ‘work’ than he did.
“I might not clean my rooms but I do volunteer at the cook houses and hostels. I have cleaned and prepared meals.”
Yes, but the only reason she volunteered was because she was made to do so as a punishment, or so that’s how it began. She had been caught stealing a blouse and cheap pair of sunglass from a boutique; the total of both items did not even add up to twenty pounds. So why had the Duchess of Allura felt the need to steal them when she could have not only easily bought them but also could have bought the boutique itself? Because she was Morgana.
“Yes, I did hear about that outbreak of stomach flu at one of the local cook houses. Didn’t realize it was you who had caused it.”
She punched him in his arm. Hard enough that he was sure to be bruised later.
Arthur had learned long ago that Morgana had a mean right hook. The first time she had hit him they had been eight, she had taken offense to being called a girl. Didn’t appear to matter that it was true….though sixteen years later he was beginning to re-think that.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you.”
“Most of the time. Yes.”
“Well you’re not, your Highness.” And why was it that she only called him ‘your Highness’ when she was being cheeky?
Arthur watched as Morgana rolled off the bed, pausing to straighten out her blue silk blouse before padding barefoot to his armoire. She flung open the smooth cream doors with a flick of her wrists and began rifling through the clothing inside.
“What are you doing?”
“Seeing if you have any clothes that would fit a norm,” Morgana said. “Five thousand pound loafers and oxford pinstripe shirts won’t do Arthur.”
“Leon will see to that.”
Morgana turned her head to look at the man who had taken a seat in a plush armchair situated beneath the large bay window that overlooked the sculpted gardens and clear blue waters of the shallow pond. It was filled with exotic fish that Arthur couldn’t name and was the home of two swans; gifts given to the royal family, one on the day of the king and queen’s marriage ceremony and the other on the day that Arthur was born.
Leon was still on the phone and Arthur was torn between curiosity and fear at what he and Percy could be talking about.
The last time the two of them had gotten together, Arthur had ended up drunk and half naked stuck on a ski lift in St. Mortiz; only the loyalty of the Badrutts Palace Hotel staff kept pictures of Arthur’s pants clad arse out of the popular press. Arthur mourned the days when Leon had been too scared to even look Arthur in the face, but fifteen years of Arthur all but pleading for his friend to stop with the ‘sire’ stuff in private had turned Leon into a monster. Percy on the other hand had been a nightmare the moment Arthur open the door to his dorm room at Cam University, but Arthur trusted him as much as he trusted anyone; four years of drunken parting that the he was not particularly proud of with Percy keeping his silence had earned his trust.
“I’ll do it,” Morgana said eventually. Finding nothing in the armoire apparently acceptable, she closed the doors and turned to pass the bed, cuffing Arthur upside the head as she went into the large walk-in closet.
“I’m quite capable of buying my own clothing, Morgana.”
“You’re not even capable of leaving the palace at the moment Arthur. There’s a legion of paparazzi just outside the gates. I nearly ran two of them over when I entered.”
“Too bad you missed,” he said under his breath, flopping down onto his back and disrupting the perfectly made bedspread and fluffed pillows, wondering when his life became such a spectacle.
“Hm.” She poked her head around the doorway, a pea-green cashmere sweater dangling from one finger. “Why the bloody hell do you have this? And more importantly why have you not worn it.”
The sweater had a picture of Arthur on the front of it from when he was a baby. Brown antlers rested atop his golden curls and a red button nose dropped from the tip of his nose.
“It was a gift from Aunt Catherine.”
“Well God bless the queen of Spain.” Her smile was wide and full of mischievous that did not bode well for Arthur.
“Morgana.”
“Yes sire?” She blinked with innocence she had never possessed in her life.
He watched as she sauntered pass, folding the sweater and placing it inside her overgrown purse.
“Morgana.”
“What?” She said shrugging her shoulders and flipping her hair. “It’s not my fault. You shouldn’t keep such good blackmail material in your closet Arthur. How’s a girl to resist?”
He thought about jumping up and fighting her for it, but in the end it was just wishful thinking that didn’t even rouse a twitch from his fingers.
“So, when do you we leave? I need to know how long I have to procure norm clothing for you.”
“We?” Arthur quirked an eyebrow and pushed up to his elbows.
“Yes ‘we’. You didn’t think I would miss this, did you?”
“Oh, no, you are not coming.”
“Arfur, Arfur, Arfur,” She repeated the infuriating nickname over and over with a ‘tsked’ of her lips and a shake of her head. “Fight is futile, I thought you’d realized this by now.”
“You’re not coming,” he said with a point of a finger that Morgana obviously did not find as threatening. “Leon, tell this she-witch that she cannot come.”
Both cousins turned to look at the man who cleared his throat around something that sound like ‘children’ before straightening in his seat; the phone that had been plastered to the side of his face no longer in sight.
“My lady it would hardly be appropriate,” Leon said after a moment.
“As though I give a bloody hell about propriety. I am a Pendragon after all.”
“I haven’t seen the proof of that,” Arthur muttered.
“As I was saying, it would hardly be appropriate for you to tag along. Furthermore, how can it be explained?” Leon questioned.
Morgana frowned, then, crossing her arms and tapping the toe of one pointed oxford against the rich, creamy Persian rug. “Well, how are you all going to explain your and Lancelot’s presences?”
“We’ll be working too, of course. The King has arranged for it.”
“Well, I can work to.”
“Morgana you’re not going and that’s final,” Arthur said with authority.
Morgana huffed, threw something at Arthur that barely missed his head, and stormed out with a ‘this is not over’ thrown over her shoulder like the bad villain in a cartoon. Arthur waited for seconds to pass, listening to the grandfather clock position in the far corner tick away before speaking:
“She’s not going to give up is she?”
“Not likely sire.”
“Bloody wonderful….just, perfect.”
………………
~~~~ Masterpost~~~ Chapter Two~~~