Title : Of Silence and Thievery (1/10)
Genre : humor, action/adventure, fantasy and, of course, romance
Pairings: USUK main, minor others
Warnings: AU, human names used, fantasy plot line ^_^ future sexy times
Summary: Arthur had a voice, a good one, but it's been stolen from him and he's prepared to do everything he can to get it back. Even traversing across the world with a bunch of lunatics with a leader who just might be his hero after all.
Note: This is kind of an experiment. I've had this idea in my head for awhile and figured I'd give it a shot, and if it turned out all right, work on this as an original work. Please let me know what you all think and remember, comments are love!
Of Silence and Thieves
Chapter One: Wherein Thievery Occurs and Arthur's Day is Ruined
Arthur Kirkland was having a rotten day.
First, he'd had to deal with his oldest brother that morning while trying to open his quaint little bookshop, trying and failing miserably to assure his fellow vendors that the drunk and raging man outside his shop in fact was not related to him while simultaneously trying to beat William* within an inch of his life for ruining his morning completely. Then he'd had to deal with his youngest brother Peter, who seemed to live for knocking over his book stands and setting important receipts on fire just to see Arthur squirm. After, there was the utter nauseating chore of actually dealing with his customers…something which he many times contemplated just forgoing completely and not selling any of his books. He was sure he could find another way to earn his necessities…he could garden his own food perhaps…
As the day wore on things did not get much better, what with villagers now knocking over stands, his lunch overcooking (the pot was faulty…had nothing to do with him), and realizing that the supply of used books he received from a neighboring village that day had been, in fact, nothing but gross and disturbing smut. He had a terrible headache by the time he slammed his store's door shut that evening, wishing nothing more for the day to end and a chance that perhaps the next day wouldn't be quite so bad. Arthur pinched his green eyes shut before he started on the task of going through his records for the day, taking a small comfort in the silence that currently surrounded him. When his hand began to cramp up a bit, Arthur stole a quick, furtive glance around and outside his windows, ensuring that no one was around or peeking, then took a deep breath.
"Write," he murmured softly to his pen. He let go of the quill and, instead of falling down as it should in any other case, it continued to write, the gentle scratch echoing in the quiet of his empty shop. He glared at the pen for a moment, as if he was offended that it had actually listened to his command, before he pushed away from his register counter and made his way to the back office.
Arthur had a gift in his voice. His family had never known exactly what to call it, and to be honest, preferred to forget its existence entirely and Arthur hadn't ever known what to call it, but it was there and there was no changing it. He spoke like most others in Britannia, properly and clearly with no real special reason for his voice to be different, but underneath it all, there was a power there that was more a pain than anything else.
Of all the different countries and lands that existed, Britannia was not the best when it came to the acceptance of anything of the mythical nature and his village of Berth was by far the worst. Something mystical, despite what Arthur claimed to his family was nothing more than some kind of odd tick, was exactly what his voice was. Wish for it speak for it, simple as that and it could make all sorts of things possible, such as getting your pen to write up your inventory or making sure his flower garden stayed free of weeds without much gardening effort. Still, it didn't do him any good to go broadcasting to any of his neighbors that he practiced witchcraft on a daily basis, even if it wasn't really witchcraft…oh bugger it all.
Arthur heaved out a deep sigh as he went about straightening his back room. As useful as his 'talent' was on a day-to-day basis, Arthur supremely wished he didn't have to deal with it. He didn't have the best of tempers (though he could hardly blame himself that the villagers were so idiotic they drove him to it) and his 'voice' did tend to unleash unwanted consequences when he was upset or particularly emotional…like when he accidental set William's shoes on fire by speaking a few choice words in the middle of a fight. It was hard to pass off flaming shoes as anything other than a mystical occurrence. Arthur put away the last of his wares and focused on the small pile of dust he had collected during his cleanings.
"Go." The dust sparked and disappeared in a flurry of color, leaving Arthur smiling softly at the sight before he thought better of it. If Arthur was completely honest with himself (which wasn't often), he didn't really mind his gift…it was dead useful and it made him feel a bit more than just another one of those 'Kirkland brats' the villagers seemed so fond of reminding him he was a part of. Still…he also preferred not being burned alive which meant it was a bit of a detriment.
Arthur dusted off his hands and made his way back towards the front of his shop, sure that by now his records for the day had been completed by now. More than anything, he wanted to grab one of his books and head upstairs to spend the rest of the evening in peace of his living quarters, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. He wasn't looking forward to the weekly Kirkland dinner he was all but forced to attend that night…why did his brothers all insist on eating together when it was well known how much they hated each other? He made a mental note to try and stop by the butchers before it closed, sure that his brothers were going to need something for dinner and they sure as hell weren't about to get off their lazy arses for it, but the thought met an abrupt end when he walked back into the main area of his shop.
There, holding the once writing quill in his hand, was a rather tall man with hair so pale it looked white and an oversized scarf wrapped around his neck. Arthur froze and felt his breath quicken in panic for a moment before he narrowed his eyes and grabbed the wooden club beside his back door his third oldest brother, Patrick*, had given him as a store-opening gift (aka, his anti-theft weapon), and tried to look as menacing as possible against the giant of a man. The man turned to face him with a child-like smile on his face and bright, violet eyes, eyes that looked at him with an interest that made Arthur's skin crawl.
"Good evening." The man's voice was soft and gentle, at stark contrast with how big he was, which did little to ease Arthur's apprehensions. He knew that the quieter or friendly the supposed thief, the worse one he or she was, and if there was one thing Arthur had an in depth knowledge of as owner of his little bookshop, it was thieves and how much he loathed them.
"Good evening my arse, get the bloody hell out of my store!" Arthur brandished the club menacingly, his admittedly large eyebrows drawing fiercely together in his glare. The man unfortunately did no such thing, just continued to smile creepily and stare at him. Arthur felt a chill creep down his spine at it, feeling the very air around him seem to flicker and change. He didn't show his unease however, gripping the base of the club tighter and bared his teeth angrily. He focused on the man and felt the power build behind his voice…if the man didn't leave on his own Arthur was prepared to make him. He may not like to use his gift in front of others, but he wasn't about to just roll over and let the man rob him.
"I said get ou—"
"Your voice, it is very nice, da?"
Arthur froze and stared wide eyed at the man invading his bookshop, the power in his voice stopped abruptly as it had been about to be unleashed, the words choking in his throat. In his shock, he dropped the club and his hands went up to his throat, circling around as he felt it constrict and air was stopped in his lungs. Arthur looked up at the man who was staring at him, eyes glowing, bloody glowing, and making his way closer to Arthur, who could hardly find the strength to move with those eyes pinned on him. He tried to move away when a chilled hand wrapped around his arm, his vision going spotty with the lack of air, but only succeeded in stumbling over his own feet, which felt heavy and leaden. Another hand wrapped around his throat, covering his hands, and tilted his head upwards to stare into those frightening violet eyes, Arthur's panic and dread reaching a crescendo when the man's smile widened and loomed over him.
The last thing Arthur knew was that smile…that and rather nasty bump to the head via a lead pipe.
The first thing Arthur realized when his eyes blinked open who knows how much later was that his head hurt something fierce but that he was still alive. The second thing he realized, to his great frustration and worry, was that he was tied down by the arms to a table in his bedroom, surrounded by black candles and not far from him was the man from downstairs, eyes not glowing but still terrifying enough. He felt sluggish and heavy and each time he tried to move his arms tied above his head; they felt as if they were stuck to the table and even though his legs weren't tied down, he found he couldn't even get them to budge. The man chuckled a bit as Arthur's slow movements caught his attention, walking around from another table set up, holding some kind of knife in his hand; Arthur did not think the situation could get much worse before, but the wickedly curved knife told him otherwise.
"Ah, you are awake now? You should not struggle too much, you won't get to far, comrade."
Arthur attempted to give the man a piece of his mind, but his voice was muffled against a cloth…and while this normal didn't stop him, the cloth felt a bit odd, heavier than it should have been. The man smiled and leaned in close, the blade of his knife coming with him and reflecting back Arthur's pale reflection, moving the knife up to brush away some of Arthur's hair. Arthur could feel his breathing quicken and he tried to squirm back into the table, tried futilely to put some distance between him and the man. This seemed to amuse his captor and he chuckled softly at Arthur (who normally would have scowled at this but was too preoccupied thinking he was about to be ritualistically murdered to really give it much thought).
"I have watched you for some time, Mr. Arthur, and you are special, like me. Your voice, it can do things, da? All kinds of things…I admit my own cannot compare and even my other gifts cannot command like yours."
Arthur blinked and stared at the man in response.
"It is a shame you must hide such a wonderful gift, a shame that it hinders you and makes you different…don't you think?"
Arthur could feel himself begin to shake as the knife drifted down the side of his face, the tip lightly pressed to his skin, and settle against his neck. He slowly nodded his head as the man continued to stare at him, silently commanding him to answer the question; whether he agreed or not was hardly on his mind, he just wanted to ensure he kept that knife from cutting into his throat.
"You may not understand, but this is necessary. You cannot use your gift…but I can. I think you will be happier afterwards…"
Arthur mumbled pleas, curses, any string of words together behind the cloth to try and keep the huge man away from him, to keep him from coming any nearer, but it was useless. The man's eyes glowed again in that eerie purple glimmer and he cut the palm of Arthur's hand with the knife, eliciting a hiss from him. The man smiled and took up a spot standing beside Arthur's head, placing one hand over the bleeding palm and the other untying the cloth from around his mouth and clamping a hand over it before Arthur could let out any noise. The man mumbled on in some sort of gibberish, but all Arthur could focus on was how an odd sort of pressure began to build up in his head, through his body, in his very soul, and made it hard to focus on much of anything. Especially not how the candles around him flamed higher or how a wind had started to swirl around him and the man the more words he spoke; and especially not how a glow formed in his throat and was slowly pulled out of him and into the man.
It was all too much for one miserable day, really, so Arthur didn't feel too much shame in feeling the blackness of unconsciousness come back again as a ringing grew in his ears and his throat burned as if something was pulled away. His green eyes, hazy and unfocused, began to slide shut, but not before he felt a rush of sudden stillness and could hear a voice whisper against his skin.
"I will enjoy being one with you, Mr. Arthur…"
For the second time in less than a full day's cycle, Arthur awoke to a blinding headache.
He blinked his eyes open and looked around blearily, feeling as if he'd had more than enough whiskey to get all of his brothers, and himself, drunk, and unsteadily pushed himself up from the floor beside his bed. He was disoriented and nauseous and wondering just how much of what he thought happened the previous night was a nightmare and what was real when he looked down at his wrists. They were raw and blistered…key features of wrists tied and restrained by rope to a table. He looked around once more, much more alert and cautious than he had been before, looking to see if that man was still around, lurking by in a corner with that bloody creepy smile.
To his relief, there was no evidence of the menacing man anywhere, and aside from the splitting headache, the raw wrists, and the black candle wax on his floor, there was no sign that the man had ever taken Arthur hostage. He pushed himself off the floor, feeling supremely lucky that he hadn't been killed or violated (the man had tied him up when he had already been rendered immobile…Arthur was fairly confident that made him a pervert), and stumbled his way into his washroom. The sun had already risen, which meant he was late in opening his shop, but he could hardly find it within himself to care…he was fairly sure any of his more prized books had been stolen last night.
He glanced at his wan reflection briefly before he splashed some cold water on his face, mentally promising to ream his no good siblings for being absolutely no help to him. He obviously hadn't shown up for their weekly dinner and not even a whisper of help sent his way to see if anything was amiss…no good arseholes. He rubbed at his eyes and toweled off his face of moisture and then he saw it. He dropped the towel down to the floor and looked closely at the thin but intricate band going across his neck, a vivid red against his pale skin. He gingerly touched; he flinched when it burned against his fingers. He felt something cold settle in his stomach as he stared at the band, the man's words from the night before etching themselves into his memory before he worked up the courage to try and say something.
Nothing sounded but air.
Arthur stared at his reflection and tried again. He tried to laugh, he tried to scream, he tried to say anything at all but nothing escaped, not even the terrified gasp as his hands encircled his voiceless throat despite the burn. He hurried out of his washroom made his way downstairs to his shop, uncaring that he was still dressed in his clothes from the day before, looking for anything telling the violet-eyed man may have left behind. There was nothing and he felt himself begin to panic slightly.
That man, that fiend, he had stolen his damn voice!
All right, all right, calm down old boy…I'm sure this can be fixed. A good healer or apothecary must have some kind of potion or…or…oh fucking hell, who am I kidding?
Arthur took a couple of deeps breaths to clear his head, to replace his fear with righteous indignation, and stomped out of his shop, ignoring the morning greetings the other villagers inanely shouted his way. He wouldn't have responded even if he could so there was no worry that there'd be anything amiss. He half contemplated going straight to William's pub and explaining (through writing of course) all of what had transpired, but considering it was nearing noontide, his brother was surely well and shit-faced by this hour and would be no help. So, with a determination most probably would not have in such a situation, he stomped his way to the local constabulary. He had been stolen from after all, it was only logical he informed the authorities.
However, in his angered and confused and possibly still disoriented state, he forgot a very important fact about his kingdom; how much they loathed anything mystical (which he really should have remembered, considering he had been attacked and stolen from for BEING mystical in a sense). Instead, he had stormed into the low leveled building and scribbling angrily and gesturing at his throat, writing down a detailed description of the man who had attacked him, what had happened, and the like, thrusting the bits of paper in the guards' faces after he was finished. One of the burliest guards, who was undoubtedly the leader, read the papers and then looked at Arthur before he gestured to the smaller man.
"You ''eard' 'im men, bring 'im out."
Instead of beginning their deliverance of justice, they grabbed Arthur roughly by the arms and hauled him outside, the large guard calling out for the folks of Berth to gather in the town square. Arthur felt a brief moment of sheer disbelief as he was paraded down the cobbled streets that this, this, on top of everything else he had been put through was actually happening. He could hear the whispers as he was tugged along, and he could see how they all pointed at his neck, the red markings which stood out even brighter in the sun.
"Did you see those, Bernice?"
"Cursed, the poor boy's been cursed!"
"The color of blood they are…dangerous…"
Arthur was brought to a halt in the center of the village, a crowd of villagers surrounding him and the guards. The lead guard strode forward some time later, the village's mayor striding alongside with a pinched and carefully constructed mournful expression on his face. The man, a sort that looked as if he had consumed too much wine in his youth and had a permanently ruddy face as a result, tilted Arthur's chin up, looking closely at the red markings but not moving to touch them; he utterly ignored Arthur's voiceless curses and pleas (though the pleas were not as numerous as the curses). He looked back up, and gave Arthur a sad look, one which the dirty-blond haired man was purely for show and made him want to punch it clear off, and shook his head before he turned to face the crowd.
Arthur tuned most of what was said out. It was all generally about how it was unfortunate, a terrible tragedy, that Arthur had been attacked and cursed by a malignant sorcerer, but how they had to keep the greater good of the village in mind. That Arthur was cursed now, and marked so that whatever stole his voice originally could return and take him back whenever he wished and maybe even cause untold damage to the rest of the village. He was cursed, voiceless, and marked and it would be a mercy to just put him out of his misery.
He scanned the crowd to see if any of his siblings, utter gits they may be but still his family, were there, might speak in his defense or suggest that instead of outright killing him they could always just banish him…banishment was all right, at least one still breathed. None were though…and with a shuddering sigh that no one could hear, Arthur knew that if they were informed, they likely wouldn't do anything. He'd always been 'touched' with his voice…the one who could be a danger. This was their way to finally be rid of the one thing that could damn their family.
The walk back to the guards' building was equally somber, people following, some crying and all murmuring what a shame it was that such a young man had befallen to such a fate. Arthur wanted to do nothing more than tell them all exactly what he thought about their fucking platitudes , but alas, he could not speak, so he settled for glowering at them quite balefully (his large eyebrows furrowed quite menacingly you see). The crowd, unfortunately, was too busy acting sad for him and feeling relieved that someone tainted by magic would soon be take care of (for his 'voice' hadn't really been the best kept secret…his brother tended to blabber when drunk, which was often), to notice though. They dispersed as Arthur was herded into the building and subsequently led down into the dank dungeons reserved for dangerous criminals.
As Arthur was locked into a cell, he made a silent vow that he was going to make it is personal business to find that violet-eyed giant and serve as his personal poltergeist as long as he could. He sank down to the floor and pulled up his knees, resting his head on them as he fought with himself to not suffer an emotional breakdown on top of everything else. Yesterday, just yesterday his life had been set, somewhat boring and mundane, but set nonetheless. And now…Arthur looked around for a moment and gave a silent, rueful laugh at how much had changed in such little time. Now he was going to die for something he had no control over and there wasn't a thing he could to help him…how could you argue for your life without a voice? Oh yes, once he was dead, he was going to hunt down that bastard and haunt him until his eerie eyes bled!
It was a small comfort that his small cries and shakes were silent as well.
The fitful 'last night sleep' he had been having (he had since started referring to everything in his head as 'last time' terms) was rudely interrupted when Arthur was awoken by several very loud, very obnoxious voices. He narrowed his eyes in confusion at the door of his cell, wondering in a sleep-addled manner just who the hell would be traipsing down the corridor of a prison in the middle of night, knowing that the guards had all left for home hours before. He pushed himself to his feet slowly, eyes trained on the door as the voices drifted closer and closer.
"—know is your damn 'vision' led us here so you can damn well come on the patrol!" That speaker was loud and self-assured, speaking with a swagger that clearly thought highly of himself.
"You wound me, Gilbert, making a poor, blind man traverse these 'orrible smelling—" A cultured and accented voice which immediately Arthur felt himself disliking for some reason.
"If you both don't shut up I'm going to run you both through!" That was a woman, her voice also was accented but it had a pleasant lilt on the vowels.
"Come on guys, let's cool it all right? He's gotta be around here somewhere…let's see, oh! Definitely here, this one's locked!"
Arthur froze as the door, which was very heavy and very metal, was pounded on fiercely, twice, before it flung open wide and a bright light flooded his dark-accustomed vision, outlining the four figures in light. When Arthur blinked away the harshness and opened his eyes, he was met with the bluest pair of eyes he'd ever seen, belonging to a tall young man with golden hair, a handsome face, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He was the kind of boy that young women and men did crazy things over and he was smiling a perfect smile at Arthur.
"Arthur Kirkland, right?"
"Well who the else could it be, hero?" The self-assured and cocky voice belonged to an equally cocky looking man with white blond hair and red eyes. "Not like there are a lot of scruffy little guys down here."
"Are his eyebrows as large as I saw?" The remaining male voice belonged to a man with long, blond hair, which he kept sweeping elegantly from his face, and a horrible looking goatee. His eyes were also blue but they were unfocused and had a light film covering them…he was blind. Arthur, however, felt no pity for the man as he had just insulted his eyebrows and justified his instant disliking as stated previously.
"Shut up, Frances, it's not the time." The woman was shorter than the men but nearly as tall as Arthur was, with a long, dark braid that spilled down her back and olive skin which complemented her dark eyes. She was beautiful in a dangerous sort of way, like a wild cat or wolf might be.
"Guys, chill out, you're freaking him out." The young man shot them all a disgruntled look before smiling back at him like Arthur was some sort of skittish colt. "Hey, no worries, they're all cool…so, you're Artie Kirkland right?"
Artie…he hated the name Artie.
He scowled and swatted the hand coming near him away, opening his mouth and fully intending to let these four have a piece of his mind, when all that came out was air…which immediately made him sullen again. He didn't really take into account how much he had insulted people and how much he really relied on it to defend himself until now. The young man's smile abruptly changed at the sight of Arthur's failed attempts to speak and he leaned in closer, tilting up Arthur's chin before the shorter man could move away. Arthur heard a knowing set of hisses and grunts as the red band came into view, but he was mainly focused on how warm and positively delightful the young man's broad, calloused hand felt against his cold skin. Arthur inhaled sharply at the thought and pulled away quickly, resting his back against the stone wall, admonishing himself for the completely unnecessary thought (there was already enough going on, he didn't need to add this too).
"Well, looks like you were a little late there, Frances."
"'Ow was I to know that Ivan would attack so soon? My Sight is not what it was, you know, mon ami." Arthur noticed that Frances spoke very slowly and looked directly at Gilbert when he responded.
"At least he's not dead, others were not so lucky…he must have had something Ivan wanted…"
Arthur scowled deeper as they spoke about him as if he wasn't present; just because his voice was gone didn't mean he couldn't hear, the daft fools. He pointed at his throat angrily and made several sarcastic attempts to speak, demonstrating what exactly was missing.
"We know he took your voice, Artie, we just want to know why." The young man was still smiling but it was harder and not nearly as friendly, clearly not focusing his attention any longer on Arthur…Arthur ignored the little wilt of disappointment he felt at that. "Anyhow, first things first, we gotta get you outta here! You do know they want to execute you, right?"
"I think he's fully aware Alfred, it's not as if he's deaf like Gilly." The dark skinned woman flashed Arthur a bright almost feral grin before she whirled out of the room with her curved sword in hand, winking at Gilbert as she passed.
"Even though I can't hear you, I know when you're talking about me, Esther*," the man quipped after her. "Just awesome like that." He flashed Arthur a cocky grin before he pulled out a long sword and headed out the door after the woman, Esther, looking quite eager to start hacking anyone who might get in his way. The other man, Frances gave a flourished wave and followed after, moving with more surety and confidence than Arthur thought a blind man should have. The young man, Alfred, looked at him expectantly while he bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet, flashing Arthur a grin.
"Well, you gonna come with us…or would you rather get your head cut off? I know you probably don't trust us, that you don't know us, and you probably don't even know what's going on but I can tell you that we do. The guy who took your voice, we're tracking him down and we'd be more than happy to let you join in. You probably got a bunch of questions and astuff too, but we can answer those later…right now, I want to know if you wanna bust outta here or not?"
Arthur weighed his choices briefly. True, he did not know these people and by all accounts they seemed to be a group of dangerous lunatics and were talking about leaving the only home he'd ever really known, but still…they seemed to not only know what had happened to him but also who the violet-eyed man was who did it to him. That, and apparently they were offering to save him from the chopping block; it wasn't a hard decision, really. He gave Alfred a firm nod and followed him out of the cell and out of the guard house where Francis was waiting for them, motioning for them to both be silent (which Arthur did not appreciate). The white-haired Gilbert was further up the road, scouting and motioning for the others to follow while Esther was farthest ahead, her sword glittering dangerously in the moonlight.
They continued in this vein for some time and Arthur started to feel a thread of hope that maybe he could sneak out of the village without incident…but as they made their way nearly halfway across the village and a dog (who had obviously been tailing them for some time in his dog-like fashion) ran up and tackled Gilbert with a large bark, he felt he really should have known better by this time. Gilbert swore angrily and loudly, most likely because he couldn't hear how loud he truly was, which of course alerted anyone within a one mile vicinity and then, out they poured, villagers and guards alike (though as they were all in night clothes it was hard to distinguish who was who) all calling out what was happening.
"Get going!" Alfred yelled, giving Arthur a healthier-than-normal shove that nearly sent him flying forward. Francis grabbed Arthur's wrist and dragged him along, weaving and dodging as if he had two perfectly working eyes while Alfred punched the ground, literally punched the ground, which then seemed to cause a mini earthquake. Arthur blinked a few times as he watched the young man stand up and smile, shaking his hand off while he followed them at a run.
Gilbert pushed off the beefy dog and took off at a sprint to where Esther was waiting for them at the edge of the village, steadying five black horses and calling for them all to hurry up, slapping her horse's rump for emphasis. They were ahead of the villagers, who all seemed much too intent on getting Arthur back so they could execute him right and proper than seemed fair, but Arthur knew that with the time it would take for them to mount the horses and get going, their lead wouldn't mean much. He had just about had it. He stopped running and yanked his arm out of Francis' hold and stomped back towards the stampeding villagers, ignoring Alfred's look that clearly said he did not understand what the shorter man was doing.
The past day had been wretched. Nothing had gone right at the store that day, his brothers were prats, his voice had been stolen by a mad man, and he'd been condemned to death and now wouldn't even get the chance to pay back that giant bastard since the villagers were complete morons. He didn't have a voice and there wasn't much he could without it, but he did have his anger and that was enough. He screamed at them silently, screamed all his anger, all his frustration, all his uncertainty and how he just wanted to be left the hell alone and then, funnily enough, each and every one of the villagers were halted and thrown backwards by a huge gale of wind that swept by Arthur but moved nothing more than the hair on his head.
He inhaled deeply to catch his breath after he was finished (because even if you couldn't hear his scream didn't mean he hadn't done it and now he was quite out of breath), still angry and shaking as he glared at the villagers mouthing one word before he turned back around and made his way to the waiting horses.
And sure enough, they did, pushing themselves up only to have their limbs give out and send them back to the ground. It was only once he got to the waiting horses and mounted that the anger started to fade that realized that his odd little tick, the whole reason that man had attacked him in the first place, was still there, buried deep within.
The others mounted and nudged their horses into a gallop, each of them looking at him with varying degrees of interest; Arthur had to look away quickly when Alfred's eyes zeroed in on him, feeling a rush of heat flood his cheeks. Oh bollocks, this was just ridiculous...he did NOT need this at the moment.
"Well, guess we know why Braginski went after him…guy's got a set of powerful pipes, don't he? Don't you worry, Artie, we'll fill you in on everything once we get back."
Alfred didn't say anymore about where or what 'back' was, but Arthur couldn't find it within himself to question it. The weight of everything that had happened to him in the past day and a half had finally started to come to fruition and he simply felt too drained to care. He was alive for now and surrounded by a group who at least seemed to understand what had happened and who had attacked him…that was enough for now. No, for now he was just going to go with it…and try hard to not stare into perfect blue eyes of course.
Gods, it was going to be a long day…
Whatever FFN new rules regarding borders is, it's retarded and I do not approve.
***Israel (I imagine her as on bad ass chick)