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hwsforeignrelations · 1 month ago

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A Fogged Up Plan

Summary: For three weeks, the Kingdom of Spades’ royals have been held captive in Diamond’s Fort Shellac. After one weevily meal too many, they hatch a plan to escape.

Made for @usuknetwork's USUKUSTwicePer zine: Cards, With Spades to Start. Read the full collection here (hehe I also designed the cover, please show everyone some love!!)

AO3 Link // Words: 3,812

Five moons before Queen Arthur Kirkland’s coronation, the isolated swamps of Southern Spades were inhabited by an insect known as PB Cup.

Previously known but unstudied, a small population found itself in the hold of a cargo ship en route towards the Kingdom of Diamonds.

Once docked, it is rumored that a seawoman unloading barrels and crates of imports carried the insects to her town on the outskirts of the port, where the red buzzers settled onto a Camellia sinensis farm. There, the small population decimated the crops. When customers purchased the expensive processed leaves in tea, it tasted of woody, bitter peanuts.

Diamond’s PB Cup population quickly spiraled into millions and one of the kingdom’s primary exports, tea, crashed.

With it, Diamond’s economic influence sank to match the impoverished Kingdom of Clubs.

Through no fault of his own, Queen Arthur inherited one of the world’s worst foreign affair conflicts in history as the Diamond government demanded compensation for their introduction of the bug to their crops, and Spades denied any responsibility for the lack of preparedness on the part of Diamond’s farming protection or economic infrastructure.

Thus a war broke out between the two kingdoms. Luckily, the Queen of Diamonds, Francis Bonnefoy, and Queen Arthur Kirkland had fluttered in similar social circles on opposing navy forces, during earlier military careers, before Oracle selected them for positions of royalty.

Due to their previously-held relationship, the conflicting countries maintained (albeit strained) contact.

However, twenty years later, the strung out conflict saw no resolution in sight. Neither party would budge. In the last two decades, Diamonds had mostly recovered, converting and subsidizing previously small industries to make up greater lumps of their exports.

Diamond GDP had mostly recovered, and the occasional skirmishes along the Spades-Diamond borders had lost their impact to both sides' citizens.

Mentions often paralleled this tone:

“Hey mom, Junior’s little league game’s canceled. Queen Arthur just announced Diamond shots fired near the field.”

“Gee, I’m in absolute shock. Let’s order a Continental basket for the other team. I know those sweet kids were looking forward to a Spadian roast but it can’t be helped.”

“Yes, ma.”

“Our government should really step off their high horse- it’s practically a soap opera! ‘You sent our kingdom into a depression!’, ‘No, your lack of planning sunk your economy!’ Honestly. Time for Gen. Jones to call it cuts… bring the phone while you're up, let’s reserve that basket before we forget.”

“Yes, ma.”

And so you see, neither kingdom withheld reservations to mock the ongoing conflict. So far in, it was nothing more than a contest of resolve between two too-proud kingdoms.

Bi-annual tea shortages, sport game cancellations, flight and ship delays, internal division among governments… but neither party appeared to be dismounting their positions, and as the conflict neared its twentieth anniversary Spades-Diamond tension surged.

Unbeknownst to regular citizens, the jack, queen, and king of Spades had disappeared from the castle three weeks prior.

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Drop-drop-drop sounded a mysteriously originating source of water, droplets plopping onto a moist stone ground.

The Jack of Spades, dressed in creased gold, purple, and blue fabrics cast his eyes towards his hands where he organized a cheap deck of playing cards.

The action demonstrated disinterest to anyone unattuned to Yao’s discreet mannerisms, but the way his fingers twitched to swipe brown hair behind his ear was telling.

“...I beg your pardon?”

Drop-drop-drop.

Army General Alfred Jones raised thin eyebrows above round glasses in a look that read “everyone in this dungeon heard me loud and clear”, but continued in a patronizingly careful tone.

“You need a command like brown bananas to banana bread, or day-old rice to fried rice. Something that suits your past-prime station, y’know?”

Drop.

Arthur Kirkland’s forehead actually twitched but his expression remained unaffected. “Well done, dear. I’ll be the first to admit, never in a million years would I imagine you capable of something so complicated as a simile”.

“Har har, Your Majesty,” Alfred reached across the cramped cell to knock his knuckles against the wrought iron bars.

Drop-drip.

“When I met you, 200-odd years ago, those magic bones would have no problemo melting, or-or slicing through these bars like butter.”

“-OH be silent for once, blathering-”

“And now look at you!” Alfred flung his hand in the general direction of his husband, himself melted on the floor, head balanced on a rock. “A washed-up seadog, no good for nothing but a semi-ok fuck. What the hell happened to you, man? You used to bring dragons to their knees. Now some Diamond-fired metal’s too much? Y’all know their quality’s shit,” he yawned.

“Retirement might be on the horizon, sweetheart. But no offense.”

Drop-drip-drop. Drip.

Yao didn’t even blink when hands lept for King Alfred’s throat.

“Gah-!” Vague choking escaped Alfred’s mouth while his oily hair tossed wildly and his cheeks went red from the loss of air.

Drop-drop-drip.

“Worthless excuse for a leader, I’d sew your thin lips shut before these stinking walls hear another lie from them. Seadog I am- and proud, too!” Arthur gave one last throttle before throwing Alfred aside in disgust.

It could have been his breath, too. They hadn’t exactly been given a toothbrush. Three weeks into captivity and their last frigid bucket shower was over four days ago.

At least they had a toilet, even if it was awfully cold when you sat. Stars above, Alfred wanted out.

Patience, Alfred reminded himself. That voice in his head sounded suspiciously like a certain magical queen, and the king ignored his own internal voice which insisted self-restraint would never be his specialty.

Drop-drop-drop.

The queen had retreated to the opposite wall to collect his composure, Alfred’s own ragged breathing filling the chamber and he coughed, once, before resuming his idle splay on the floor.

Arthur ascertained the damage choking his spouse had cost his nails.

“As for the jab at my sexual performance, love, I think everyone in this room can deny that claim with absolute confidence. Isn’t that right, Edison?”

Drop-drop-drop.

“H-huh?” Their guard startled at his post, not expecting to be addressed by name. His feet kicked at the ground, “Um. I-I guess rumors do get around.” Arthur turned smugly towards the army general and received a playful scoff for his troubles.

The jack spoke up, unimpressed by the exchange, “Do be mindful of others nearby who may not be so invested in his co-workers’ thrilling sexual escapades, please and thank yo-”

“Chow time!” Interrupted another guard, sliding three portions of beige sludge through a small slit in the bars, accompanied by biscuit.

All three groaned.

“C’mon! I get the prisoner thing, but is this,” the queen knocked his biscuit against the bars and three weevils fell out, “really necessary?” said Alfred.

The guards shrugged with indifference and Yao dipped the corner of his flour ball in their water, softening it enough to break off a piece and chew. He paused, fiddled the bite with his tongue, then pulled a long, curled hair out from his teeth.

Both guards had left for a smoke break.

With stony resolve, Yao declared, “We’re getting out of here tonight.”

“Fiunwwy!” said the king through his porridge.

“Ditto,” Arthur scowled. “And, these meals aren’t so bad. Navy ships serve far worse.”

“Ugg. That doesn’t make you look good, Admiral.” Alfred took a small handful of his food and fed it to a cluster of shadows in the corner of their chamber.

Gotta keep his slimy friend nourished, Alfred smiled as the shadows accepted the grub.

Meal finished, Arthur tossed his tray through the bars and sat against the wall, joining Yao where the jack dealt out three piles of playing cards. His technique was quick and clean, and Arthur would never admit to admiring the show.

Not even magic could put on that performance.

Envy forced him to deign his husband with a response. “Do us all a favor and shut your trap.”

Alfred clutched at imaginary pearls and Arthur smirked. “And finish your plate. Besides, army rations hardly pass as food, General Jones.”

Cramming the rest into his mouth with hardly a gag, Alfred discarded the plate and crawled towards the pair. He added an ass wiggle while Yao’s attention was elsewhere. The queen’s ears glowed red and he sneered at Alfred, disapproving of his husband dangling treats with no ability to give in the confined space.

Alfred laughed to himself. The queen was afflicted with an unfortunately high libido. Something which Alfred eagerly satisfied, even if his own needs paled in comparison. However…

Restricted to the meager dimensions of their cell with the observant jack… well, all jokes aside, the king looked with a mixture of trepidation and delight at the demolishment of his ass the moment they found a private space.

They were lucky enough to acquire the deck of cards and spent their time playing every game under the sun- and some new. With Arthur’s unmet sexual needs and most forms of exercise impossible, stir-crazy was an insufficient descriptor for the kinetic energy burning through them.

Cards helped starve off frustration, and offered an iota of normalcy.

Their favorite guard, Edison, returned from his break and all three royals exchanged glances. Alfred straightened up and humm-ed, “Did I ever tell y’all ‘bout that time Major Maisie single-handedly rallied the marines through Norbrandy?”

Yao and Arthur, having heard Alfred’s stories a million times, shook their heads. Alfred laid down a Four of Clubs and dove into his narrative, smiling behind his cards as Edison’s head tilted to hear their conversation better.

“Soulda heard from the boys direct-like. Said she flew in like a cannon. Fort Potomac was occupied by Hearts. Maisie rode in under the shield of fog, took one look at the opaque path ‘round the hill, and led her advance in the dead of night. Bombarded out of nowhere, King Kiku’s soldiers resisted heroically. But,”

“Potomac was conquered by dawn, with only five Spadian casualties.”

Arthur inspected his nails, ignoring the swell of power growing in his breast. “Impressive, I’m sure. What were the odds?”

As an ex-citizen of Spades (likely hired by Diamond forces for better wages than Spades’ less impressive salary), Edison’s vague admiration for his home-kingdom’s success fed the royals’ power. Having been away from the appraisal of most Spadian citizens for a month now, the ignorant guard was their only supplyant.

“Four Hearts soldiers to every one of ours.”

Alfred shivered in excitement when that number reached Edison’s ears and their unknowingly-benevolent guard emitted a burst of patriotism.

“Capital.” The queen spun a card onto the pile.

Yao delivered Arthur a sharp look. Sarcasm was fine, but not when a deaf person could hear it.

“500 points”, Yao announced in a tone which attempted neutrality but failed, tossing the last trick towards himself.

Arthur and Alfred groaned in unison, scratching one more check to the scoreboard on the stone wall. The box under “姚” had comically more checks than the “Al” and “K” beside it.

Alfred thought dreamily of their own castle’s gameroom, which displayed a point board of less comparatively devastating results.

The king’s husband stared hard at their score board, then exchanged with Alfred a look he recognized as offense. Eyebrows drawn to etch little wrinkles above his nose and the tiniest sneer curling the right side of his mouth.

The admiral��s tisk made Alfred break out into pearls of laughter and Yao allowed his own expression to revel in the satisfaction of besting his co-workers.

It was these shared moments which reminded Alfred of Oracle’s excellent match-making.

Drip.

Behind them, soldiers shuffled their shoes into the floor and small movements clinked metal armor.

Probably jealous they weren’t in on the joke, heh.

Yao caught his eye, subtly jutted his chin towards their window. A few miles off an oncoming fog made itself known. Alfred nodded, canines flashing in his grin.

It was go time.

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That night, all men finished their trays of food, persevering through the mealy texture.

Finally, after three weeks of drawing on Edison’s flaky Spadian patriotism, Yao, Arthur, and Alfred felt strong enough to fuel their escape.

But that had been true for three nights now. There was something else they needed to ensure a successful breakout from Fort Shellac. They knew it was only a matter of time, in Diamond’s chilly forest climate, for moisture to collect in the air. All they had to do was intensify the natural way of things.

In the ancient and clammy foundation of their prison, fog poured in through the bars and it only took slight encouragement from Arthur for a Féth fíada to emerge.

“Maisie’s a mage as well as a scientist, no?” asked Yao as the mist grew thicker.

Alfred nodded proudly, cupping something close to his chest so he wouldn’t lose it in his blindness. “Made her own fog machine and bribed some fairies to superpower it- resourceful as always.”

Their security was starting to notice the clouds curling at their metal feet and muttered in distress while their prisoners whispered and waited.

Moonlight cast its reflection on the fog, and as the minutes passed the damp room filled with blue hues.

Drop.

“H-hey!” Edison finally addressed them, kicking spastically at the vapor as though it could be intimidated by violence. He pointed an accusatory finger at Arthur, who played a game of Patience against the tilted wall, “You’ve something to do with this, necromancer?”

Drop-drop-drop.

The Queen of Spades didn’t respond, pulling an ace from the stockpile and whipping it at his captor.

It bounced off Edison’s helmet.

“What on Earth?” The guards watched in horror as the fog swallowed up their legs and began on their chests. “Find the director,” one snapped. Edison didn’t waste a moment, keys clanging in his grip as he scrambled to the exit.

His hurried footsteps echoed through the stairway while silence enveloped the prison. Yao could smell anxiety pouring from the invisible guards, the gentle clinking of their metal armor interrupting an otherwise soundless environment.

Suddenly the cast iron bars screamed, brute force bending and tearing through the metalwork. “Merde!” cursed a Diamond accent.

“That’s a lad,” complemented Arthur, patting his husband’s back while the King of Spades huffed another breath before finishing the job, ripping the door out of its hole with one last ear-splitting jerk.

With inhuman speed Alfred was gone in the fog. Before the unfortunate Diamond soldiers realized, their prisoner smashed them apart so they couldn’t see the other.

“Heh- happy to help.” Alfred smothered the unnamed guard’s mouth, delivering a fist into the armored abdomen. The force was enough to penetrate the protective metal and padded fabric and the body slumped instantly, held up by Alfred’s hand gripping his face.

Yao stepped over the raw metal of their prison door and into the face of Alfred’s catch. The Jack of Spades reached into the guard’s fauld and produced a string, on which he pulled and produced a small sheet of inscribed metal. In complete blindness Yao skimmed his finger beds along the sheet, memorizing the meaning of the indents, before stepping back and handling it the the Queen, who confirmed his interpretation with a hum.

“Thank Oracle for y’all’s Diamindortic, couldn’t read it even if I could see an inch from my face,” Alfred said, dropping the unconscious body and listening with satisfaction as it crashed into the floor.

Dusting off his hands, the cluster of shadows from their cell made itself known against Alfred’s prosthetic leg, oozing up the complicated gears and bolts. It chirped.

“Butters would like some gravity, Arthur,” Alfred said, taking “Butters” from his thigh and flailing in the air before locating the queen’s outstretched hand.

Butters slid the languid journey onto Arthur’s palm and waited patiently for the kiss which Arthur pressed to its head. “Erg. Revulsion doesn’t scratch the surface of your pet’s chosen skin.”

“Yeah, I know. But the mucus keeps ‘im healthy!

A large silhouette, barely discernible in the air, expanded before the three Spadian royals. It stopped growing at around six feet tall and sneezed when Yao touched its nose, approximately the size of a bocce ball.

“What a fine boy,” the jack complimented Butters’ chosen form, petting what felt like an enormous panda.

Yao felt the round ears under his hands and the strength behind the bones of its face. The doublecoat swallowed his fingers when the jack adoringly brushed them under Alfred’s pet’s ears. Beneath Butters’ muzzle were thick canines, and from the animals’ stomping Yao sensed hoofs rather than paws.

“Excellent form, bao.”

Butters wiggled at the praise.

With reluctance Yao released Butters from his coddling and stepped back, allowing the king’s approach towards his service animal.

Steps hurried down the staircase towards them, the sound bouncing off the walls like a stampede of metal-wearing bison.

“Time to go,” Arthur said, dragging a sword off an unconscious guard and advancing towards the stairwell, blade tip forward-facing. Yao chose a barbed mace from his own casualty and wasted no time in singing it through the air.

Alfred cringed against Butters’ neck after mounting, listening with unwanted familiarity to the shrieks and groans of wounded men and women. He had blown off many faces in his long career, but avoided violence when he could.

Right now they could not, and Alfred didn’t bother looking away when he held out two fingers and punctured a soldier through the neck as he and Butters rounded the last turn.

Ignoring any pain emitting from the base of his amputated leg, Alfred ushered Butters onward, the overgrown puppy smashing a recovering enemy back into the stone as they ascended the stairs behind his queen and jack.

Arthur’s weapon, guided under the experienced swordsmanship of a centuries-old navy admiral, sliced through Diamond flesh like butter. The queen was momentarily distracted by Yao’s comment and jammed the mental length through a ribcage up to the hilt.

The soldier’s scream was cut off as blood pooled up her throat and over her teeth, and when yanking went nowhere Arthur pressed one foot against the woman’s side and pushed, orange blood spurting all over him as the body crashed, limp and lifeless.

“Somehow,” panted Yao mid-run, “I didn’t expect so much blood.”

“We didn’t correctly anticipate enemy numbers,” Arthur nodded. “Either our previous estimations of Fort Shellac were off by hundreds, or Diamonds has since fortified its defense.”

“Fucking Francis,” Arthur grumbled to himself, sweat pouring down from his hairline and mixing with the Diamond blood on his cheek.

In Alfred’s marital opinion, his husband looked actually terrifying- and handsome as heck.

“You better not be,” Alfred laughed. In front of him, Yao groaned in a mix of exasperation and disgust.

“Spare me,” the jack pleaded.

Two pairs of feet and one set of hoofs ran along the fort’s main floor, evading who they could and decommissioning any who they couldn’t with little regard for the permanentness of the blow.

With poor Edison’s admiration for Spades to blame, amassed over weeks of captivity, the three royals utilized their inhumane strength without restraint, bulldozing through room after room, leaving behind a trail of massacred soldiers, heads and limbs and organs soaking the stone floor with orange and yellow blood. Like a line of sheets hung out to dry whipped up by a hurricane, screams tore and ripped themselves out from the throats of the wounded and dying.

“And that’s why we don’t wear white to the wedding,” Alfred joked at a guard’s white armor soaked through with orange “wine”. General Jones maintained a light mood with breathless chatter and the queen and jack responded in kind.

Anyone watching might express disgust at their attitude, might expect more from such experienced political figures.

The seasoned monarchs had no reason for suppressing resentment, for the trust broken and their own time wasted and negligent treatment, and did not benefit by acknowledging the graveness of their actions in the moment.

Kidnapping a suit’s royalty was a serious crime, war or no war. It would spell out a dreadful escalation back home. The Spadian monarchs were no wet-behind-the-ear politicians- they were representatives of an empire, with a responsibility to their kingdom above all else.

King Rajesh and Queen Francis would regret their decision, and the first part of Spades’ retribution began with the public condemnation which would befall Diamond royalty when the media caught wind of Fort Shellac’s heavy casualties.

Finally, Yao caught sight of sunlight streaming in through the squares of the portcullis. "सृ��्टि डायमंड्स के साम्राज्य और इसे बनाए रखने वाले सभी लोगों को अच्छे अवसर प्रदान करे।, “ said the jack without much relish, quoting from the metal sheet’s engravings.

Only four women stood guard and they jumped in surprise at the correct spell, frozen with disbelief as the gate lifted.

The moment they advanced, the three royals were gone. Beneath them Butters galloped past, encouraged by Arhur’s remaining strength. They rode mile after mile, thoroughly exhausted by their massive expense of magical energy in so short a time.

The Clock gave them inhumane tolerance, but it would never be enough to keep the strain off their bodies in a fight like that.

Eventually, Butters’ pace petered until he came to a complete stop on a road.

Arthur and Alfred had passed out against the soft fur off Butters’ back, too exhausted to stay awake.

The weight of Yao’s eyelids threatened him with the same fate, but sleep wasn’t an option until they were with Spadian authorities.

Thankfully, Spades and Diamonds shared a long boarder and Yao only had to encourage Butters for another hour before a Spadian soldier’s blue armor could be spotted up the road.

She saw them immediately and grabbed her sidearm as she walked up. “Identify yourselves,” she demanded.

Without the energy to even speak, Yao peeled Alfred’s head from between Butters’ ears and used his sleeve to wipe the grime and caked blood from his face.

She recognized her army general immediately, even beneath the thickly remaining dirt, and dropped her weapon to fall to attention.

“Y-your majesties! My deepest, sincerest apologies, I didn’t recognize-,” She stumbled over her words, clearly struggling to find the next course of action.

“It’s fine,” waved aside the jack, feeling himself losing against consciousness. The woman before him might be a fresh recruit but he could care less. The sparkling spade over her breast was all that mattered.

“Just lead him to the nearest lookout,” Yao pointed to Butters. “Don’t bother waking us up,” Yao said before he slumped like a deck of cards with his king and queen, dead to the world.

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hwsforeignrelations · 1 year ago

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Southern Nights and a Balled Up Shirt

AO3: Leave kudos and and comment! Starved for feedback :)

Words: 2k+

Summary: Queen Arthur Kirkland is joined by Army General Alfred Jones for the centenary Royal Southern Spadinan Tour.

Based on the song Southern Nights by Glenn Campbell for 2023 @usukustwiceperyear Zine: “I Love You Like A Love Song” hosted by the amazing and fantastic TheNarcolepticOne and VerusMayaii II!

Beta-ed by the magnificent @corvussei. Thank you so much friend!!!

Alfred Jones grasped the top of his hat to fan his face, blond eyelashes fluttering blissfully over flushed cheeks. Air sweeping across Southern Spades' dusty earth provided momentary cool. When it passed he pried open his eyes with great reluctance.

Replacing the wide-brimmed hat over sweaty hair Alfred peaked over his shoulder as a crumpled figure adorned with inadequate purple fabric swelled with breath.

"Have you ever felt a southern night like this, Your Majesty?"

"Gmungh." Alfred lazily dodged an unmotivated pinch.

No matter how many times Arthur Kirkland set foot in any of Spades’ southern regions, the monarch of an empire spanning several continents never could appropriately pack for the weather. Personal aids, Alfred himself, and Jack Yao’s cajoling to make the man see reason stood against the latest (urban) Spadian fashion.

They had no ghost of a chance in influencing Arthur’s packing.

Three hundred years of rule made anyone accustomed to prioritizing appearance- a ludicrous endeavor traversing lands like these, not running into another soul for days at a time.

"I know you’ve taken these tours before - the people need to see their leader every once and a while. Why pay taxes if you've never heard of the peeps representing you up at Parliament, amirite? Yao and I tried to tell you- YOUCH"

This time, Arthur’s pinch struck its victim with the invigorated purpose of its perpetrator.

“That’s what you get for being a smart-ass.” Arthur straightened and held his reins with more purpose, sniffing his way past America's horse. Eyes stared down his nose at the road. ”I refuse to be seen, the only Spadian royalty these people might ever meet in their eighty-odd years, gallivanting about wearing anything less than a proper shirt.”

He kicked out the leg closest to Alfred for inspection. Alfred smirked at the pristine pair of jeans Arthur submitted to at the castle, after Alfred took every opportunity they spoke to nail in the supreme importance of denim pants during their tour. “Look at these-these… these things,” the queen’s regal lip curled in distaste while Alfred’s eyes laughed behind his glasses. “You couldn’t understand, Alfred,” he intoned, concealing his amusement at Alfred’s scandalized expression.

Arthur continued, “As leader of my most excellent military, public appearance speaks well for Spades in your creased, town-to-earth glory. You need only slip into a uniform for ceremonies. Not present the best Spadian fashion in crisp, tailored form every waking moment.“

Alfred scoffed, stabbing a thumb towards his puffed chest, declaring, “My taste in fashion is the pinnacle of class and culture. With our Jack and Queen and every Royal Guard maintaining Spades’ image of fancy-schmancy puffs and ruffs, it all comes down on my shoulders to show the people that their government, too, drips hip and trendy with Timeless Togue.” (Famous Spadian magazine equivalent to Vogue).

This is why Arthur preferred summers in the capital. Unbearable heat was less unbearable with flash showers to cool the air and wet cobblestone, with morning fog to beat back the sun a few hours before it broke through. Arthur did not want to be here - would not be here but for Yao and Alfred’s insistence. The affection he felt now started budding years ago. He liked being near his Army General so much, it often frightened him.

Many Christannikas ago Arthur addressed a holiday card to his Army General’s office. Then existed a grudging hope in Arthur’s mind that the handsome and highest member of the Spadian Royal Guard should receive said card - unlikely given the honey blond’s habit of not staying in one place longer than duty demanded. A week later Alfred responded with his own motley card. From there, infrequent casual letters greeted their desks. The now-weathered papers signified their first non-diplomatic interactions.

Never terribly personal, but consistently cordial, their exchanges contained areas which held mutual interest: travel, gossip, which fashion trends were lively to survive the decade. Especially gossip. Which members of the military were boning which of Parliament, which international relationships exceeded diplomacy. Occasionally politics, and the general wellbeing of their respective personnel.

Alfred enjoyed his Queen’s company, his quips and snark and resilience in the face of struggle. He knew Spades stood stronger for their royalty (not always a constant in any monarch’s history) and respected Arthur, cared for his well-being.

Every hundred years, the Queen made tours through the southern regions, Spades’ most rural, sparsely-populated towns and farmland. Alfred spent many decades living in the South. Due to homesickness and knowledge of the terrain, combined with concern for his Queen and a desire to be with Arthur (a desire Alfred wasn’t completely conscious of), he offered early on to escort Arthur through this years’ Southern tour.

The Queen struggled to acclimate to the southern region’s dry, humid, dusty plains. His centenary “cultural tour” was a nightmare for someone accustomed to chill to moderate temperatures. Cowboy camping under the stars, baking under an unrelenting sun and swallowing mouthfuls of dust, and watching Alfred charm small-town Spadians with broad smiles, full pockets and good labor at every wooden welcome sign their horses trotted past was their life during the twelve weeks.

Arthur held town meetings, presented state of affairs with overconfidence, shook hands, handed out stickers designed with the Spadian Coat of Arms, answered basic questions, ate (and drank) well, slept in a proper bed, then left for the next town. It was a dull, sweltering business. On the off chance his neck was exposed, mosquitoes ate him alive.

Between towns the occasional tree, Alfred and the horses’ shadows, and the tall slabs of limestone speckling the landscape provided the only shade to be found. SPF 500 did nothing for Arthur’s cheeks and neck, baked a bright red with not even the beginning signs of a tan.

Alfred’s bronze complexion seems to laugh at him and the freckles which dotted his nose. “Freckles look healthy on you,” Alfred offered once, unprompted.

Within the first week, Arthur was ready to return to the Capitol City. Eleven weeks left.

Arthur would never admit to enjoying the sight of Alfred in his element, broad shoulders stretched out in the unconfined outdoors. If the brown and beige ground existed for anything, it was to provide a flattering background to Alfred’s portrait. An eagle riding the wind cast ethereal sun rays over his General, the light bouncing off his lenses so his expression seemed mature. Capable. His relaxed silhouette upon the horse looked free as a breeze.

It was hard to imagine Alfred indoors now that he’d seen him like this. The landscape, although dry and hot as all Oracle’s worst punishment, was beautiful. The clear skies and uncrowded sounds of nature were so different from the crowded stress of urban living and the rolling Spadian countryside he was familiar with. Plants adorned the land even in this heat. Their survival reminded him to straighten his back and keep his chin up. If these resilient plants wouldn’t be caught drooping in this damned heat, neither would he.

Arthur imagined his countryside estate, the twisting mountain range of paperwork bending the thick wood of his desk. Though he shouldn’t be capable of the sensation from deskwork alone, his back ached at the prospect of pouring over thousands of documents, of the weeks it would take to make up for this damned cultural tour.

“- An’ I had a hotshot blast right past my year just five years ago. Seafaring is hard work, Queen Arthur, I commend your take-over of the Royal Navy from my management. The people you selected to run really know what they’re doing, and it gives me a more comfortable bandwidth- Royal Army’s always gonna be my favorite, y’know. Anyways, after that hotshot tore through the beam over my head I swore I’d never step foot in another boat. Besides awful seasickness, I’d much rather kiss the earth goodbye than some crummy wooden deck.”

Arthur tuned into Alfred’s narrative. He raised an eyebrow, though Alfred couldn't have seen it behind him. “If I didn’t know you better, it sounds like you’re running from danger,” he said it was a slow shoulder roll to tell Alfred he was joking. “But I agree. It’s far better to have the Navy under more specified command, and as you know from my early days working as a captain under the previous Queen, I do so enjoy taking more of a role in Spades’ overseas trade.”

Alfred hummed, considering Arthur’s contribution. In casual conversation, Alfred’s expressiveness meant you could perceive him regardless of whether your eyes were on him. He could imagine Alfred tapping his stubble with a dusty, gloved finger, and he could hear the other hand drumming over his saddle. Arthur found the repetitive action more soothing than agitating. Which was… perhaps a strange thought. Arthur further imaged Alfred blue eyes peering at the back of his head behind their lenses, was somewhat disturbed by the detail in which he could recall the likeness. Lost in thought, an unnatural shifting of dust behind them alerted Arthur’s senses.

Gooseflesh rippled over Arthur’s back and he whipped his head around.

“BLAM!”

In a flash Alfred's firearm was pulled an inch from his nose into the belly of a blue wolf. Arthur's ears rang momentarily.

Silver blood met his tongue in the same moment he opened it in shock. So rarely could anything sneak up on him, much less magical beings. Their auras alerted Arthur miles away. Arthur perceived Alfred’s heightened breathing after the encounter and internally berated himself, so distracted by present company he’d endangered them.

Alfred was fussing over Arthur when he broke the silence. “By Oracle, man! Let’s get a wiggle on before we shoot more poor beasts.” He still couldn’t hear so well and fixed it with a thimble of magic. Much better.

Now thoroughly awake, Arthur took his Stallion round and broke into a trot, Alfred coming up alongside moments later. Both men breathed closely as they surveyed their surroundings, Alfred with his natural senses and Arthur with his magic, exhausted though he was. Whispering wind was equivalent to a scream in an otherwise silent landscape.

Alfred spoke, “Poor buddy musta lost his pack, looked awfully skinny.”

Arthur knew that, of course. Even predators as powerful as a blue wolf had to have been starving to attack two humans. On horseback, no less.

“There’s no town for miles, Your Majesty. I’ll start setting up camp.”

Even for the bureaucratically-resentful Alfred Jones, no one ordered monarchs to perform domestic tasks. As the Army General, a high agent of state, the man wouldn't dare ask Arthur to get off his ass and help.

But he wanted to.

A golden sun cast its remaining specks of heat over the horizon and a breeze picked at their skin - Alfred’s unsubtle eyes ran over their stash of firepacks (self-contained fires) before busying himself with the horses' care, their sleeping arrangement, and supper.

Arthur flicked his index and a spark of blue erupted in a circle of rocks, the fire spitting at the air. Arthur watched Alfred labor. When the sun fully set the Queen and Army General sat close, eating their sandwiches and soup in silence. After supper they laid on cots under a clear Southern sky, stars brighter than anything either man was used to in the light-polluted city.

Neither man said a word when Arthur abandoned his cot altogether and buried his nose against Alfred’s warm neck. A chill swept the land, and Alfred had heat to spare.

–

When morning broke their bags were already packed.

Arthur shrugged into his warm long-sleeved, navy blue shirt (the coolest he’d brought) and felt sweat pouring from his pits before he saddled his horse. They went an hour before Alfred stopped them.

Arthur dismounted without question, already exhausted from the heat, irritated by the warm dampness of his torso, and sleepy from getting up earlier than usual.

He didn’t realize what was happening until Alfred’s hand offered a baby blue, light-weight shirt. Arthur looked up into Alfred’s smiling, slightly anxious face. “No use overheating when I packed plenty of tops.”

Arthur didn’t bother to fight that sound statement. He felt beyond grateful as he took the shirts from Alfred’s hands, but the day he displayed weakness to Alfred-Golden-Chucking-Jones was the day his heart stopped.

“Thank you, Jones.” His fingers reached the button over his collarbone on the queen's damp shirt, and Alfred’s ears turned a funny shade of red. He looked away, pretending to watch a cloudless sky and chattering nonsense while Arthur changed.

“King Ivan and Francis’ dispute over Campbell River’s gone south- well not actually but, like, figuratively, y-know. Anyways, the last town we stopped at had a few telegraphs from General Maisie. She’s got a few squadrons keeping an eye on things and looking after Spadian press- not to mention Francis feels safer with someone other than his and Ivan’s men to back up stories if shit really goes down. It’s worse than when we left, not sure quite how bad but we’re gonna have our work cut out when we return to the capital. Fact, I might be flying right back out. Real glad I was able to join you out here through, Yer Majesty. I woulda been worried if anyone else were out here guarding during your tour,” Alfred flicked one eye down to Arthur, who was just buttoning the last shirt.

“Does it feel better?” he asked.

Arthur moved around a bit. The shoulders looked ridiculous and it was very roomy, but he felt a million times better than he had inside that stuffy dress shirt. The collar smelled like Alfred. He was warm for an entirely different reason now, but he ignored it.

“Much,” he paused before adding. “You might know more than I do, right now. Yao insisted I take this tour as a break from diplomacy beyond interacting with these people. He must realize this forced ignorance only causes me more pain. But… it is a possibility we might be taking a more physical presence as Diamond’s ally if this dispute broadens.”

Alfred nodded, still flustered. For a man who didn’t hesitate to take off his own shirt during sparring practices, he went awfully red at the sight of Artur’s bare neck.

They had, of course, engaged in physical relations once or twice. Perhaps, Arthur admitted, with occasions ranging in the 50s (56 times, he knew. But who was counting?). After working alongside one another for over 100 years, who doesn't want to release a bit of tension after a stressful meeting, then and again? Or after a particularly merry holiday ball, or an unplanned run-in in an otherwise empty meeting room?

The detail that neither of these men knew was that this boning had been monogamous. Neither Alfred nor Arthur had engaged with, nor desired, another sexual partner in all their years of intimacy.

As they continued their ride along the humid landscape, Arthur’s gratefulness for Alfred lending his shirt expanded with every breeze which broke through the loose collar and cooled his skin. By the afternoon, thanks to their early start, they reached the next town and conducted their usual business with its population.

The inn-keeper set down a heaping plate of sauteed vegetables and shredded chicken with a liberal portion of gravy, eaten over corn muffins fresh from the oven and slathered with butter before the Spadian officials. They watched behind the counter with a prideful expression as Alfred tore into it with his usual gusto and the Queen polished his own portion at a slower pace, humming appreciatively.

Arthur didn’t bother interrupting Alfred’s fork romance with conversation and took his chewing breaks to watch Alfred enjoy himself. To see someone as expressive as his General unabashedly taking pleasure in a simple, good meal made the Queen’s breast grow warmer than any spiced brandy could hope to. Once you worked past Alfred’s generally animalistic method of consumption (which didn’t include a whole lot of chewing) it was a gratifying sight to see another human take such delight.

The night’s inn, the Blue Wolf, was better than most Arthur had slept in. The hesitant knock on his door was expected and he opened it in the nude, hand on hip and swung Alfred shirt, held between his two hands, around the Army General’s neck.

“These Southern nights felt so good, Your Majesty,” Alfred breathed against Arthur’s forehead, “Wish I could…”

Arthur pulled him inside.

“Bit warm, luv.” Arthur teased gently, “And… you can.”

Alfred shut the door behind him.

#hetalia #usuk #hws america #hws england #fanfic #my art #cardsverse #hwsfr cardsverse

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