#atff: story
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Fancy a brief tour of Wellingham State Palace in Lundenborough, Prydain?
Click the images for their descriptions. x
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Do you know any furry atl fics by slim chance?
I don't know of any actual furry fics, but there is a werewolves tag on atff. There is a pet play tag, too. Not exactly the same thing, but one of my all time favorite fics is Can't Beat the Heat by @neon-danger. And in this story, Jalex are cats lmfao. There's another one like that somewhere, but I can't find it. I wish I could help you more, but I have never once come across a furry fic in this fandom.
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It was ATFF’s 10th birthday on the 22nd August.
I’ve been wanting to make a post about it but I honestly didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t a mod when it began but I’ve been here for a very long time now and I was a follower very soon after it was made so this feels pretty surreal. All the mods that have come and gone, stories posted and deleted, the dumbest dramas that are so silly in hindsight, fic after fic that made me and so many others emotional.
I guess a special thank-you to Chloe (and Rhea) is in order for making the blog to start with, wherever they are. I hope all our past mods are doing amazing.
I know it’s just a silly wee blog for imaginary stories but I care about it so deeply and I just wanted to say I’m grateful people still use the blog. ❤️🩹
Happy birthday, ATFF. 🎂
- Eve
#feeling emo as fuck rn don’t text#no actually do text tell me things u love abt the blog#all time low#alex gaskarth#Jalex#modpost#evepost
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your local follower here to tell you to just do all the ask meme questions please :)
idk why that smiley face feels ominous to me. but whoever u are, i love you lmao. and also thanku to the two other anons that sent me asks - i'll just put them all here.
ps. this is a lil nsfw and also fairly atl-centred since that was the fandom i read for the most soooooo ya just a warning if u don't wanna read
what is your all-time favourite fic?
oh... there must be many. but i'm gonna say the devil wears prada and 69 BRO! (the walk of no shame)
what is your favourite fic right now?
i'm just gonna link y'all my faves tag on atff but i do have more in other fandoms
what is the longest fic you have ever read?
eek. not sure tbh. i've read jalex fics with over 100 chapters but some of the chapters were ridiculously short (as in, cutting ONE scene into four chapters short) but they were on lj so idk the word count. and then there's a beautiful disaster that has over 100k but half the chapters so... yeah, i don't know.
which fic is your guilty pleasure (trash pairing, dodgy content, etc.)?
your "everything better" plan was an incest jalex fic that i straight-up would've died for back when it was being written, i loved it sm
which fic trope/genre will you never read?
daddy kink
which trope/genre is your favourite?
fake dating and enemies to lovers (but not like ENEMIES enemies, just like... u irritate me/shock me/not my kind of person type of way).
which trope/genre do you think is overused?
love triangles where a woman is picking between two men fighting to 'win' her. don't get me wrong, sometimes it's an enjoyable part of a story but it has to be done well or... just not be the main focus? that goes for everything - fic, books, tv shows, etc.
how many fics do you read per week?
LMAO baby i haven't regularly read fic in forever bc life be kicking my ass but i think i'm gonna try to start by re-reading all my old faves
when did you start reading fics? how old were you?
i was 14, and i remember previously hearing about the concept of fanfiction and immediately thinking it was creepy. and then one day, i can't remember how, but i discovered livejournal and clicked on a jalex smut fic and i was like 👀
do you remember the first fic you read? what was it about?
YEAH LMAO it was wet hot american summer and i nearly fucking collapsed i'd never heard anything so explicit in my entire life and then i re-read it probably 18,000 times a week for months it was problematic. one moment i'm thinking fic is creepy and one well-written masturbation scene later i was obsessed. clown.
how do you feel about second-person Y/N fics?
not a fan, never have been. and i say that as someone who tried writing them on those 'imagine' blogs for a while. i cringe.
what pairing have you read the most fics for?
it's gotta be jalex. i stayed LOYAL.
have you ever written a fic? did you publish it?
lol yeah they be everywhere. including the ones that i should've deleted long ago.
have you ever cried because of a fic?
bruh... i used to cry until i was nearly SICK at some of these fics as a teenager they ruined meeeee
what website do you read fics on?
livejournal, mibba, ao3... rarely anything else.
which rating do you usually read (gen/teen/nature/explicit/etc.)?
ig somewhere between pg-13 and nc-17 is the average?
take a guess - how many fics do you think you’ve read, total?
oh wow. uhhh. including fics i have skimmed out of necessity for @alltimefanfiction? fuck. hundreds, potentially in the thousands.
fanfic reader ask meme
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[THE FOLLOWING MORNING...]
The weekly team meeting began after the crew had their breakfast.
It was a small meeting and the base was relatively quiet-- non-essential research teams were either well on their way home the prior month, weeks before Longest Night and the New Year, or back at the main, larger research base--or one of the Prydainian Navy's research ships--rather than spend the rest of winter in this particular outpost.
Despite the serious nature of a skeleton-crew meeting, the Captain's introductory remarks had been rudely interrupted...
-----
FRANCIS: --One of you: Take Frankie back to his spot downstairs so we can resume this meeting.
JAMES: Sorry, Captain. None of us has the heart.
ARTHUR: I dunno Sirs, I think Frankie has something to say.
FRANCIS: Does he, now? Let's hear him then.
EVERYONE: [EXPECTANT SILENCE]
FRANKIE: ... Meow.
THOMAS: See, Captain? This cat here is a valuable contributor to our team.
FRANCIS: Why don't you train him to be your replacement, then, Thomas? Seeing as you're willing to vouch for him.
THOMAS: A fine idea, Captain. I'll ask him.
THOMAS, LEANING IN: Frankie, would you like to have my job?
FRANKIE: Meow!
THOMAS, LOOKING TO FRANCIS: Sorry, Captain. He says 'no.'
---
If you think I'm going to write a dialogue-heavy meeting scene in prose, you're outta your damn mind. <3
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Dear Alice: Part 1 of (?)
---
"Alice,
I'm sorry for not contacting you sooner. I know it's been ages. You really don't need to worry about me though, I promise. There are certain things I just can't talk about, this being a military base, I'm sure you know what I mean. But I'll try to tell you what I can, OK?
It's beautiful here. Beyond the treeline and past most of the tundra, it's absolutely desolate, but breathtaking. I don't know how else to describe the magic of a white, sparkling void. It all feels so alien and yet, so familiar, especially knowing that this our planet!! Like, we're not in some sci-fi drama, this is home.
And what a home it is! Cabot Sound's little "slice of paradise" as the Captain calls it, is here explicitly for research, obviously. We're at the edge of a glacier that's been receding considerably over the last five decades.
Research has been going as well as anyone could hope. The water, soil, mineral and ice core samples have already told us so much and we've barely scratched the surface.
It isn't all poetic imagery and frolicking. Work can be extremely dangerous, and it's always demanding. There's nothing like trekking through a popup blizzard in -40 at the glacier foothills to make you feel wholly insignificant. I'd still rather do that again than imagine what Dad's going to be like when I come home.
But speaking of people I hate: Let's talk about a special group of people I actually don't.
—
An interlude of sorts, ripped from inspired by one of my favorite shows growing up, M*A*S*H. I think it's a fun framing device that can give insight into both the narrator (in this case, Arthur) but also into the other characters, even in cases where Arthur isn't present.
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((Continued from here.))
--
EVERYONE (BUT THE CAPTAIN): [LAUGHING]
FRANKIE: [NOW BORED, LEAVES ANYWAY]
FRANCIS, TRYING TO HIDE HIS AMUSEMENT: Alright, alright, we've had our fun.
FRANCIS: Now then! Listen up--
FRANCIS: --The holidays are behind us, but that doesn't mean we can afford to let ourselves relax.
FRANCIS: Rising temperature averages have made the winters here harsher, in some ways--unpredictable.
FRANCIS: This is why the Powers-That-Be have elected to withdraw most of our personnel from outposts as remote as our little slice of paradise, save for a select few, where necessary.
FRANCIS: As you're all already aware, this team of just a dozen will maintain the Cabot Sound outpost until summer. Commander Murray, I give the floor to you to explain our plan of attack to help us avoid preventable, horrific tragedy.
JAMES: Thank you, Captain. A very cheerful, yet sobering reminder of the devouring, unfeeling void that awaits us all.
FRANCIS: I'm always happy to motivate.
JAMES: As the Captain said, we all need to be extremely diligent. That means no skipping meals, no skipping sleep, and attendance at daily meetings is required.
JAMES: The rota for duties will be updated and posted here every week at 18:00 sharp every Sunday. If you have any questions or complaints, bring them first to your immediate superior or to myself or the Captain.
JAMES: Morale is also paramount, as is health. Physicals will be conducted every fortnight and they are mandatory. Any small injury or condition could become something deadly, and anything you hide from us might come back to hurt yourself and others later.
JAMES: That should be all. Did I leave anything out, Captain? We already spoke to the other shift--
FRANCIS: No, Commander, you've covered the whole of it.
JAMES: Any parting words, Sir?
FRANCIS: Indeed, James--
FRANCIS: To all of you: May we all have a smooth winter and a bright spring ahead of us. ... Don't fuck this up. You're all dismissed.
FRANCIS: And-- Lieutenant Kirkland?
ARTHUR: Yes, Captain?
FRANCIS: I know you've already pulled an extra shift. I can't have our Engineer swaying on his feet.
ARTHUR: But, Sir--
FRANCIS: You look like shit. Go to bed--that's an order.
ARTHUR: Yes, Sir.
---
Not changing format or anything, but for dialogue-heavy scenes, this is just way easier.
Time to get to know our characters a little bit more, yeah? Yeah!!!
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Elsewhere in the palace, George tried, and failed, to indulge in his daily comfort.
". . ."
In his office, he stood alone, pouring his drink--
". . ."
--and drinking his drink--
But something was wrong; not with the liquor itself, nor with the King, but...
He felt some kind of shift. His daughter's words and even those of his son had been swimming through his mind as of late. Even the strong taste of liquor could no longer wash away and numb what he was feeling. It was a desperate and ugly sort of state of mind, but a sense of new, anxious urgency settled itself on his shoulders and remained perched there.
He had to lie down.
So, the King lay himself down on his settee to rest and ruminate, his drink unfinished.
Alice marched from breakfast tea with her battleaxe of a grandmother and made her way through the quiet palace--
--down halls and through meeting rooms--
--over corridors and past busy staff and stoic guards--
At last she reached the audience antechamber that sat as a buffer between her father's private office and the rest of the palace.
She entered, did not even bother to knock--
--Alice couldn't help but feel the sink of disappointment at the sight of her father. Drunk, she assumed, and it wasn't even 10:00!
"Father," she called, surprised at the tremble in her voice.
"Father," she echoed again, louder and firmer than before.
"Nhhh.." The King grumbled as he roused up from the chaise. His head swam at first, then found equilibrium, though the light pouring in from the windows seemed almost too much to bear.
He had only slept for about an hour, but his head felt clearer than before. That came as a surprise. Rest? In George's life?
How novel.
He raised his eyes, shielding them from the morning light. With his weariness, he thought he glimpsed--
--or perhaps dreamed...
. . .
George's voice was soft and small as he squinted against the spears of sunlight beaming through the office windows:
"Anne...?"
Alice stood, all the angry wind taken out of her sails at the utterance of her mother's name.
Hearing it felt like a punch to the gut.
"N-no, no Dad," she shook her head, swallowing thickly.
George rose to his feet to meet her halfway, to reach out to his daughter.
"Alice..."
"... Are you alright?"
"Dad... we need to talk."
---
That moment when you have a flash of clarity and realize how wretched you are. Whether by divine intervention, introspection, or some measure of both, you can no longer abide by settling for the hole you jumped into. You don't know if there is even a road to a better place, and whether you deserve to walk it isn't even something you dare to ask-- all you're certain of is, things cannot continue as they are. You cannot let them.
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[MUFFLED SCREAM OF FRUSTRATION]
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Same.
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---
He followed orders, but he can't sleep.
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[MEANWHILE...]
[PRYDAINIAN ROYAL NAVAL RESEARCH BASE, CABOT SOUND, ARCTIC CIRCLE]
LATE JANUARY, 202[X]--
Arthur had lost track of time.
One of his more difficult habits was his ability to hyperfocus on one thing to the exclusion of all others. This had led to an overreliance on caffeinated beverages and a color-coded system of physical and digital reminders to get through his school years and now, through adult life. This ability was excellent when he could harnass it to accomplish things that most of society might argue were "productive," but the problem was that he could not always harness it; and the hyperfocus could come and go in any direction like the wind.
This instance he'd been lucky, and had caught up on a number of reports--but the hour was getting late, so he slipped from the laboratory shed back into the research barracks with every intention of getting a bite to eat before heading to bed.
It was then that he stumbled across Captain James Walker Murray, the base's second-in-command, hovering by a heater, apparently lost in thought. Although he'd wanted to speak to Murray, Arthur thought better of it. it was late, so... not wanting to interrupt the man, Arthur turned to take his leave in silence, when suddenly--
"Lieutenant!" Murray cheerfully exclaimed, waving Arthur over to him. Arthur froze as if he'd been caught sneaking about by one of his parents. Snow was already melting off his shoulders and hair and he suppressed a shiver, wanting to shake away the residual biting cold from the Arctic winter outside.
"U-uh, Sir-"
"I was thinking you'd already bunked down for the evening. What's kept you up at this hour?" Murray waved Arthur over once more as he settled down comfortably onto one of the couches.
Arthur shuffled over to the Captain and sat next to him, silently appreciating the warmth of the communal area's heating and, in particular, that of the heater nearby.
"Everything alright?" Murray inquired curiously, now seemingly aware that there indeed was something on Arthur's mind; though he was not at all surprised, apparently.
"I'm... uh... I dunno if it's... really anything, Sir, I'm fine--"
Murray smiled warmly, encouragingly, at Arthur. There was a sense of.. was that... nostalgia? It was nostalgia and sympathy in the Captain's eyes.
"Take a breath, Arthur. I mean it," he advised. "It's too late to be worried about propriety, and too deep into winter not to be sharing what's eating you."
Arthur... really could not say "no" to such a friendly and encouraging offer.
"Of course, Sir. It's just... I've had a lot on my mind lately. I mean, about... everything! My future, as King, and... that sort of thing," Arthur admitted rather uncomfortably. Discussing uncertainty was one thing, was bad enough, but discussing uncertainty about his own role as the monarch? He had always been taught that this was out of the question.
But... things like that... seemed to matter less, there in the middle of Frozen Fuck-All Nowhere.
"Like... what if I cock it up? Let the entire United Kingdom and all our allies down because I say the wrong thing at the wrong time? What if I can't do anything good, and I'm just--a laughingstock? What if nothing I do matters? I--" he huffed. "It's stupid, it's all silly," he hurriedly added.
"'Ooh, he's worried about being the King! Poor diddums in his posh palace with all his servants and money!' Yeah, I get it. First world problems, I know."
"So what you're telling me is," Murray pondered, gesturing at the air, "that you aren't allowed to have any doubts, that you must clearly be absolutely perfect because you're the Crown Prince? Bit arrogant, if you ask me."
Arthur had grown accustomed to Murray's relatively easygoing personality over the last eight months, but that had caught him off guard. He peered at the Captain to gauge just how sarcastic the man was being, but that only confused things further.
He appeared to be completely serious, and Arthur began to immediately regret his decision to join the Captain for a late night chat.
Fortunately for him, Murray elected to elaborate without prompting.
"If I ever learned anything from Catholic school that had a positive outcome on my life," he explained, "it would be that each of us has our cross to bear. Metaphorically speaking," he clarified.
"You, your father, your sister, you're all as-- as fallible and human as the rest of us commonfolk," Murray went on. "Not a one of us, in any circumstance, is absolved of... trying to work out how to... be a human being."
"You landed a better hand in this cosmic poker game than most of the planet, what of it?" Murray shrugged. "Going and... and denying your humanity by acting like you aren't allowed to have your own thoughts and feelings, just because of your status--one you did not choose, mind you--you're still separating yourself away from the rest of us."
Arthur listened to the Captain speak, and he felt his cheeks flush red with embarrassment. But he did not interrupt the man, and listened on.
"Don't go so far up your own arse that you forget your fears are as real to you as anyone else's," Murray said, knowingly nodding.
"Kings, Captains, cadets, commonfolk--we're all afraid of letting people down, being alone, and so forth. You are allowed to be human, lad."
Arthur was abruptly left in relative silence to ponder this advice, and he glanced down at his (now somewhat soggy) boots.
The seconds ticked on and with each passing moment, he had less and less heart to look over at the Captain again.
In reality, scarcely a few seconds had actually passed, and Captain Murray seemed to be content with the brief stew in which he'd just left Arthur.
"... Though when you're King, promise me you'll tell my father that we're all allowed to be human and imperfect."
Arthur glanced up at Murray, whose smile was back, albeit a bit wry now. "Your father, Sir?"
"My old man, yes," Murray snorted. "You set fire to your Gran's apron once on Christmas Eve and you never hear the end of it--!"
---
I had to break the tension somehow!
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George couldn't keep Alice's words out of his mind.
They and Arthur's return haunted him like unwanted spectres, especially during these long winter months where his drinking worsened as the deep cold from the north spread its fingers downward across the hemisphere.
A day later, the King stood burdened by a raging hangover as the palace staff filed out of the audience chamber.
A King should never have to wait for someone else to arrive, George thought bitterly.
Not even for his mother, who he knew was late on purpose. 'Fashionably late' as she used to say to her late husband, the former King.
The hangover raged on and all the tension in George's body seemed to funnel painful fire up through him straight into his head, aiming right between the eyes.
When the staff were gone at last, he settled on a settee and blocked the bloody morning light with his hands.
Why on Earth did she have to insist on early meetings...?
"Why the fuck can I not say 'no'?" he muttered.
"Because I didn't raise you to be a disappointment," the Queen Mother quipped, causing George to sit bolt upright with a scowl thrown to the men at the door. She probably told them not to announce her-- cowards.
Gwyneth stood nearby, eyeing her son disapprovingly.
George wanted to sneer at her, but he didn't have the fight in him at the moment. He hadn't had that fight in him since the death of the Queen those years ago.
"And yet, you seem intent still to be just that--disappointing! Really, Georgie, not even your father stooped to hangovers affecting him so openly--"
On and on she nattered. Watcher, help him, on and on and on--
"--you really should get your act together. You're the King, and you must set a better example--"
--and on and on and ON--!
"Enough!" George wearily snapped. Gwyneth raised her eyebrows over her shoulder, and perhaps surprisingly, she smiled.
"Good to know you still have a backbone."
George nearly rolled his eyes right out of his skull, but he didn't want to give his mother the satisfaction.
"What is it you want, Mother?" he asked dryly.
Gwyneth, as ever seemingly unaffected by her son's demeanor, carried on.
"I've asked you here-"
"Asked. Ha!"
"--I've asked you here," she continued firmly, "because i've caught wind of dear Alicia's plans for little Artie."
The last words Arthur spoke to George in private suddenly floated through George's dehydrated, sleep-deprived mind.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"What of it, Mother?"
---
I hate her so much. I hope you learn to hate her too.
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Before she was set to meet with the King, Alice sat down with her Gran for tea.
They had always been somewhat close--though they had drifted apart since the death of the Queen. Alice knew that her mother and her grandmother had never really liked one another, but Queen Anne's death had shaken the family far beyond even the expected grief of such a terrible, untimely loss.
Nonetheless...
It was still lovely to sit down with her Gran.
"Thank you for joining me, dear," Gwyn smiled as the two sat down together.
"Of course, Gran. We really should have tea more often. I miss our tea parties when I was little," Alice smiled in turn.
"So..." Gwyn began after a sip of tea, "tell me how you've been."
Alice felt a little taken aback by the chilly response, but she knew her grandmother well: When she had something on her mind, she pursued it with laser precision.
"Ah, yes, well-- I've been fine, thank you. Alfonso and I are struggling with the thought of Carmen entering school next year," Alice laughed softly. "But she's really a daddy's girl, so he's taking it particularly hard--"
"Motherhood suits you," Gwyn interrupted. Alice, confused, wasn't sure whether she ought to take that as a compliment.
For the moment, she opted to see it that way.
"Oh. Yes, thank you, Gran--"
"Listen, my dear, I would love to sit with you and discuss all the frivolities and drama of motherhood, but we've a pressing matter to discuss," Gwyn went on in her airy and dramatic way Alice found so characteristic of Gwyn's generation.
"I-I-- Sure, certainly," Alice replied, a bit disappointed that Gwyn had apparently no interest in discussing something so integral to her granddaughter's life. "What shall we discuss? I'm here to help."
"Of course you are," Gwyn affiirmed stoutly. "We must discuss your father, and your brother. Your father told me of your idea to throw a party for Arthur and I must protest."
Surprised and doubly disappointed, Alice frowned, her smile melting away to be replaced with a look of concern.
"What did Father s--"
"I'm not finished, Alicia," Gwyn cut in. Alice bit her tongue, knowing now was not the time to protest the use of that version of her name.
"Apologies, Grandmother, please continue."
With a melodramatic huff, Gwyn went on: "You will not be carrying on with this escapade. Arthur cannot continue running about doing silly things just to come home and be rewarded for it!"
Alice blinked at her grandmother in honest shock.
W h a t?
---
The plot begins to thicken.
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Francis shifted in his seat with a furrowing brow, creased in thought. His gaze questioned Thomas silently even before he finally spoke:
“Has there been an incident?” he asked.
Thomas shook his head, his slight smile returning; and at that reassurance, Francis seemed to relax.
“I’ll be glad to give it, but... where did this come from? I’d like to know.”
Thomas’ gaze drifted toward one of the small, reinforced windows--pathetic things, but nonetheless welcome little portals. Even though all they opened up to was the white death of the icy landscape outside.
“The First Lieutenant-- the Prince--” Thomas corrected himself, “--he’s a right good lad, a fine head on his shoulders and an actual brain inside it. But we’re almost at spring, the end of his tenure here. He seems distracted, and I think he intends to put in a request to stay. Word is, His Majesty is of a mind to let him.”
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[EARLY SUMMER THE PREVIOUS YEAR]
[THE PAINTED HALL, OLD ROYAL NAVAL COLLEGE, LUNDENBURGH, PRYDAIN]
The Painted Hall-- Called the ‘Sistine Chapel’ of Prydain and site of weddings and ceremonial dinners and grand events and even art exhibits--it was a grand edifice, a monument to the glory of the Royal Navy, simultaneously a labor of love and an expression of decadent imperialistic self-revelry.
It sat quietly now, empty of any patrons of the museum within its vaults and the other wings of the College. The sun shone brightly through the high windows, casting beams of unrelenting bright gold through the air only for the light to spill upon the gleaming, polished floor.
The weighty hush that so often hung over sensible and stern places--like churches and libraries--was broken only by the footsteps of a man and the clink-clink-clink of the medals and orders so ceremoniously pinned to his chest.
The footsteps ceased, as the man had found the person for whom he’d been searching.
The man, the father, stood straight and firm, the very image of the expectations that rested so heavily on his shoulders.
“... Father,” greeted the son.
This silly boy, this foolish lad, had ducked away from the afterparty of a ceremony conducted in his honor once he’d socialized ‘enough,’ when he had had enough, when he had desperately desired solitude and wished to drown himself in the splendor and memory of a place far older than he.
The father stopped short--distant, like always.
“I thought I’d find you sulking here,” said His Royal Majesty, King George X.
His Royal Highness, Prince Arthur, answered with only silence.
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CONTENT WARNING: Adult language, emotional/verbal abuse and gaslighting, implications of substance abuse, mentions of death, and depictions of an anxiety attack.
“Jesus Christ Arthur, can you not hear yourself?! We are in public--” The King scoffed, sounding scandalized.
Arthur, embarrassed by his own outburst, huffed and turned his back to his father. It was the only ‘escape’ he could make, for the time being. He didn’t want to look at him, or hear him, or be near him-- one out of three was enough to keep him sane for the moment. He could feel his heart racing, the stresses of recent events, and all the pressure that his father was putting on him, it was getting to be too much--
“--Of course we would be worried sick! Have you even thought about how that would affect the family? The kingdom? Your sister?! You will be King one day, Arthur, and that means--”
Arthur had broken out in a cold sweat.
It had come on so suddenly, Arthur hadn’t even had time to realize, but now it was too late, and--
--and his limbs began to feel numb, rigid, even brittle--
Oh fuck. Oh no. Fuck, fuck, fuck--
--Steady. B r e a t h e.
He began to count to ten in his head. There was a high, heavy ringing in his ears, in his head, right through him, and--
He forced himself to b r e a t h e -- to ground himself -- to count the shapes in the hard marble floor under his feet, the symmetrical and predictable lines zig-zagging across the smooth, cool surface.
-- B r e a t h e, s l o w l y -- You are going to be okay. You are going to make it. You’ve got this. B r e a t h e.
In. . .
Out.
In. . .
Out--
“Arthur! Are you even listening to me?”
The King had clearly not noticed the state his son was in, or if he had, it did not seem to matter.
Arthur let out a harsh exhale, and feeling so cold, he might’ve thought it should’ve been visible in the air before him.
“I am always listening to you,” he bitterly muttered.
“--I am telling you that you should be grateful to me for letting you run away from your association with that Ionian girl--”
The ringing in Arthur’s ears began to diminish with the slight regain of his composure, and feeling as though he’d just surfaced from dark water, he slowly turned toward his father.
“What...?”
“--The Ionian girl! Do not think it escaped my notice--”
The King was ready to go another round of verbal sparring, but something within Arthur had snapped.
“Eloise. Her name is Eloise.”
“Arthur, I am not finished--”
Arthur did not let him finish, and turned to face his father fully.
“To you, she is Her Royal Highness Princess Eloise of the Ionian Union. She is a wonderful and brilliant woman, not a girl, and she deserves our respect--which is about the only good thing this family has to offer!”
The King narrowed his eyes, clenched his fists but to his credit, seemed to rein in his own hot temper. “... Did you get her pregnant?”
“Oh my God--NO!” Arthur snapped, the word echoing throughout the nearly empty hall enough that even the King seemed surprised at the force of the outburst.
“Perhaps I am running away-- from how I ended things with her-- But I am trying to do something right!” he cried, abandoning all pretense, and even abandoning some of his anger in exchange for a more vulnerable, visceral honesty. It all seemed to come flooding out of him at once.
“I am trying to be a better man, to do what I know I’m good at! This is my last research trip, ever, because I know I have to grow up and step into William’s shoes whether you and Gran want me to or not! Since you won’t bother being a father or a mentor, I have to figure it out on my own! And fuck, if you don’t like how I’m doing it, why don’t you take your own advice and try putting the fucking bottle down?!”
The two men stared at one another; Arthur wild-eyed, green eyes glittering with anger and pain and his cheeks ruddy from the adrenaline rushing through him at that moment; the King, shocked at having actually been told off by his son.
Arthur took a shuddering breath, let it out. He needed to get away before he absolutely fell apart. He needed to go now.
“--For the record, Dad, I just wanted a breath of fresh air before going back out to the rest of my engagements. You want me to take charge? Fine. This is me doing that.”
Arthur turned on his heel and strode out of the hall like a mad lion with the look of murder on him; all the whlle terrified that his father might call at his back.
But he did not call.
The King was silent.
- - -
Mention of @funkyllama‘s Eloise x x x Arthur’s about ready to throw down.
I promisie the whole story won’t be like this-- I just needed to get this pivotal scene out of the way. Setup and all that, yanno.
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Following his arrival at the base, and after his physical, Arthur barely had any time to settle in before he was set to meet the various research teams-- as well as the primary group he would be working with: The personnel over engineering and operations.
He didn’t like preamble, nor the spotlight-- he never had. But it was a necessary evil to get through so he could settle in properly and get his bearings. The whole thing made him anxious, but he had been learning during his time in the Royal Navy and through his royal engagements how to channel that tension into masking. It was exhausting, but it seemed to be working and he admittedly seemed to be getting more skilled at navigating social functions over the years.
The introductions went well enough, and he did his best to present himself as friendly and approachable. The social awkwardness of being a Prince would never go away, though. He’d accepted that, or... tried to. There was nothing else to be done about it and it was a screen of isolation he would have to endure for the rest of his life. Nonetheless, he was still looking forward to spending close to a year here. This was not his first research trip, nor his first excursion to a polar region--he’d gone Southward and spent a year with the joint crews of American and Prydainian teams several years prior, and had had such a successful time there, he had finally earned his promotion to First Lieutenant.
Honestly, he could not wait to settle in and focus on his work, not on appearances and proprieties--things he felt were shallow, fake, frivolous.
He really, truly wanted to help study the environmental changes happening in the polar regions; in particular studying atmospheric readings, fluctuations in the permafrost, view millions of years of air and water trapped in ice cores of primeval glaciers. Cross referencing that data with ongoing studies across the world, understanding geographical, geological, meteorological shifts in the past and present, was something he cared about.
To Arthur, climate change was something worth focusing on! Rather than those vapid, empty appearances to wave at the public; and gilded dinners with the other elite who were content to keep the rest of the world dangling over oblivion if it meant they could continue not to curb their gluttonous appetites for wealth and luxury. As the original spare, he’d intended to become an engineer, work his way up through the ranks of the Royal Navy, and dedicate his life to helping that cause--figuring out how things worked, tinkering, and a love of nature, were passions that his mother had always encouraged. He felt that it was the least he could do for her, and for the people of Prydain, to make good on his intentions.
That was all well and good-- right up until the death of his older brother, William, at which time Arthur became the Heir Apparent to the Crown.
He was now destined to become the King, and as his father had so bluntly put it, ‘It is not the King’s job to fritter away the years hugging trees and taking apart old radios.’
Evidently, Arthur’s father had never been one for vision.
- - -
“Lieutenant.”
The Captain Commander’s sharp address snapped Arthur out of his reverie and he sat upright with an immediate “Sir!”
They were all sat in the main meeting-and-dining area and Francis had already stood up to go to his office.
Evidently, Arthur was prone to being lost in vision--a bit of a dreamer, a thinker. His cheeks heated with mild embarrassment at being caught spacing out.
“We’re not quite finished with you yet. To my office, now.” Francis’ order was clipped and blunt and without sentiment.
Arthur replied a hasty “Yes, Sir” and jumped to his feet. The structure and rigor of military life was... refreshing, for him, if he had the right commanding officer. It was, by now, relatively safe--safer than being at home, safer than being near his distant, booze-numbed father and overbearing, neurotic grandmother; safer than having to endure worried glances from his sister, though he really, really missed his twin.
It was a chance for him to be just... Arthur. Just a Lieutenant. Just an Engineer who had a job and he could focus on it and that was it.
He supposed, maybe it was naive of him to want such a thing-- but naive or not, the desire for simplicity drew at his heart like the string stretched taught against a bow.
He followed the Captain to his office dutifully and joined him, sitting across from him at the man’s desk.
“Thank you for accepting my request to join the team as the Chief Engineer, Sir. I also wanted to start by saying that I do not expect any special treatment--” he began--
“--Good, because you won’t be getting any,” Francis cut him off sharply.
Arthur resisted the urge to look taken aback. He wasn’t offended! Just surprised at his new Captain’s abruptness. Instead, he remained stoic and waited for his Captain to have his say.
“Here on Cabot Sound, you are no longer His Royal Highness. On my base and under my watch, you are First Lieutenant Kirkland. You, as well as every other person here, myself included, have a responsibility to conduct yourself with great care.’
“To say that this place is hostile is to limit its ability to kill us all. The cold does not care about rank, nor does it give a damn about any sort of status you may or may not have. What will determine your success here is your behavior and your willingness to work together with the rest of us.”
“Now there’s the matter of your history with the Royal Navy. I’ve seen your records,” Francis went on, his voice sharp and to the point. It made Arthur sit rapt at attention, eyes and ears focused on the other man.
“You’ve done well on other research expeditions, the most of recent of which was under Captain Goodfellow. I spoke with him personally and he had good things to say--”
Arthur dared to feel a moment of relief at this, and yet--
“--However,” Francis noted, eying Arthur with his keen and surly glare that made it seem like he could sense what Arthur was thinking, “it seems you had a record of troublemaking in the Academy’s university program and even earlier as a cadet.”
Arthur froze, curled his toes in his shoes and willed himself not to give anything away. Just... let him have his say, just let him get this over with--
Francis leaned forward, eyes full of fire that would put the sun to shame.
“Should you decide to perform such antics here, I’ll personally hand-deliver you back to your father myself.”
“Have I made myself clear, Lieutenant?”
“Crystal clear, Sir.”
“Glad to hear it.”
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WHEW! What an auspicious start! But fortunately, we know the Captain means well, and we know they’ll grow to trust each other. But how they will do so is as of yet something of a mystery. How will the Prince of Daddy Issues handle this??? We just don’t know! (Yet.)
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