Archive of Our Own

"Goosefat," a sleep-roughened voice carried across the great chamber from the nearest door. "What're you doing down here?"

Bill looked up from contemplating the last of the lukewarm wine in his goblet to meet the bleary, blue-eyed gaze of his new king. "The same thing you are, I imagine," he replied with a tired smile. Their last conversation hadn't been a comfortable one, but it was easier to let the lingering frustration go in the quiet pre-dawn hours while most of the castle slept. "The last couple of decades haven't exactly been conducive to restful ease. I don't know how I ever slept through the night on a bed that soft."

Arthur snorted, then padded further into the room, brushing shaggy, sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes. He was dressed down for the night in a loose linen tunic and trousers, feet bare and royal jewellery conspicuously absent. Without the fire of Excalibur in his eyes or the steel of the Londinium street boss in his spine he seemed more the man and less the legend, a rarer and rarer occurrence in the weeks since his coronation. He'd come a long way from the angry young man trying to find his footing in that cave, or the carefully disinterested purveyor of flesh turning an inconvenience over to the Blacklegs.

"One thing you can say about Vortigern, he did appreciate his luxuries," Arthur agreed dryly, pacing around the wide curve of his extravagant table to drop into a seat next to Bill. "Pour me some of that, would you?"

Most of the debris from the evening meal had long since been cleared away, but the servants generally left a corked wine jug and a handful of cups on the table at all hours; meetings were prone to take place at any time of day as new issues kept cropping up in Arthur's efforts to stabilise the foundations of his reign. The Vikings were not the only threat previously checked by Vortigern's reputation now determined to test his nephew's strength and convictions. The legend of the Sword only went so far.

Bill had seated himself conveniently in front of the jug; thus, it fell to him to play host. Though he didn't doubt that if Arthur had come down first, he'd have done the same. For a man not unused to leading with a firm hand, however unorthodox his method of earning that experience, the new king was remarkably cavalier about the little deferences most men of rank expected as their due. Bill poured a generous measure in an empty goblet, then pushed it Arthur's way.

"Your wine, my king."

Arthur snorted, then tipped it back for a long draught. "None of that now. No crowns in here tonight. Where's the man who took such joy in slapping me the second time we spoke?"

He'd acquired the temptation to take joy in other, equally inappropriate thoughts concerning his sovereign, Bill thought but did not say, watching the muscles in Arthur's throat work as he swallowed. "That man had reason to provoke you," he shrugged. "You'd yet to prove yourself anything but a liability to the Resistance, yet we had no choice but to hang all our hopes on your name and that Sword."

"And that seemed the most efficient way to go about testing me, I suppose," Arthur replied, grinning at him. "I don't blame you; I'd not have lasted as long as I did, where I did, without learning how to size a man up. Didn't much appreciate being on the other side of the coin, but there's no point resenting it either. I got knocked down plenty as a lad. The trick is to keep getting back up and do better the next time."

"And cheat as much as you can to give yourself the advantage," Bill replied, not unappreciatively. Arthur had been quick on his feet from the beginning and quite gifted in the art of fighting, an extremely fortunate break given their complete lack of other options after the river had dropped and the Mage had walked into Bedivere's workshop. Especially given his lack of a noble education. It had left a very sour taste in Bill's mouth when he'd realised just who she'd expected them to rescue; he couldn't pretend to have been anywhere near so even-handed when it came time to play his part in introducing the other man to the Resistance. But there had been a lot of water down the Tamesis since then.

"Within reason," Arthur replied, smile fading as he looked down into his goblet. "Never thought of myself as a man of principle until I met my uncle. I took care of my people, added to my coffers. 'Hic habitat felicitas', and all that. Then he told me we shared a palate for power, had Lucy killed in front of me, and said the others would die too if I didn't bend my neck for him."

Here happiness resides. Bill wondered how much Latin Arthur actually knew; little more than he'd need to keep the ledgers and read any words that might be carved into the old stone of the brothel's walls, he'd wager, though at least he seemed educated enough in his own tongue not to need someone else to read the barons' correspondence to him. Literacy was usually the mark of the rich and well-born; that Arthur could do more than scrawl an X to his name was yet another fortunate dice-throw in the kingdom's favour.

"I'd wondered at the speed of your conversion to the cause." He picked up the jug again, topping up both of their cups. It seemed the night for it.

Though perhaps he shouldn't have wondered, Bill realised, taking in the grim, thoughtful set of Arthur's mouth and the long stare the king directed toward the Pendragon banners hanging on the wall, the red and gold fabric flickering with darker hues in the torchlight. Arthur was pretty close to the age Bill had been when he'd last sat on Uther's council. One night's betrayal had drastically altered his life, too.

He couldn't claim to have been as pragmatic as Arthur about that, either. Bill had been little better than a strung bow aimed at Mercia and Vortigern since the fall of Uther's Camelot and the purges that had followed. His ability to see past that impossible, burning goal had grown a little rusty in the meantime.

"Wouldn't call it a conversion," Arthur shrugged, ruefully. "I wasn't doing it because some mage had spoken a prophecy, and definitely not for you lot. At least, not at first."

"Of course you weren't," Bill tipped his cup to him. "Would it surprise you to know I didn't join the Resistance out of principle, either?"

Arthur raised an eloquent eyebrow, a wry quirk at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't need your story to tell me you're a bit more, let's say, personally motivated than most. Never met a man so quick to stab on first acquaintance, especially when you had to know it wouldn't get you any closer to the door."

"You'd be surprised what a little chaos, properly timed, can do," Bill countered. Although Arthur wasn't wrong; the odds of success hadn't been high. But anything he could do to reduce the odds of ending up in the hands of Vortigern's torturers – one way or the other – he'd been willing to risk. He'd been unutterably lucky over the years, but it only took the once. Fortunately, that day his luck had been as good as ever, much as it had seemed otherwise at first. "You were a little more capable than I'd been expecting."

"Lot of that going around lately," Arthur agreed, raising his cup in a return salute. "What is your story, then?"

"Mmm." Bill had never actually had to tell it; Bedivere had been there when the news had reached him, and Maggie knew first hand, her father having chosen differently when Vortigern had taken up the crown and made his expectations clear to the kingdom's oldest families. Everyone else had had their own stories and made their own assumptions. "There was a little time between the war and your uncle's takeover, you know. Time for peace to grow, for your father's triumph to begin to fade in the people's memory. For the next generation to be born and the barons who bore the most cost for the reconstruction to feel themselves ill-used by their sovereign, encouraged by certain whispers in their ears. I was younger than you are now when I took a seat on Uther's council to represent my family. I wasn't much older when Vortigern made his move. But I'm hardly the only one of his critics who kept speaking up and suddenly had no one left to represent. Just one of the few to survive the experience."

"Lot of that going around, too," Arthur sighed, then finally brought up the subject they'd both been avoiding, drawn back to it by the flow of conversation. "You were angry today when I said I'd support leniency for former Blacklegs, if they could find an ordinary citizen willing to speak for them."

"And the sky was blue, and the river is nearly back up to its original course," Bill replied tersely. "It's a practical choice. A reasonable one, even. Probably the right choice for a king to make. After all, 'why have enemies when you can have friends'." He couldn't quite keep the sharpness out of his tone.

"But you're still angry." Arthur noted, eyeing him carefully. Something in Bill's face must have warned him how that sounded, because he raised his hands as he continued, palms outward. "Not that I'm saying a man doesn't have a right to feel what he feels. You know I'm not looking for a council of lackeys, either; there's friends, and then there's friends, and you've met most of mine."

"Then what are you trying to say?" Bill replied. A little bit of the king had seeped back into Arthur's expression as they sat there, a gravity to his gaze that felt like it weighed and measured ... but irritatingly, wasn't any less attractive than the other.

Arthur shrugged. "I'm not my uncle. But I'm not my father, either. I wasn't taught in their school of ruling." He knocked his knuckles against the heavy wooden surface of the table. "I made this table round so everyone sitting at it would have just as much voice as everyone else. If you have something to say, if there's an angle I haven't thought of or something I can do to ease things, then I want you to say it."

Bill really thought he meant that. But the problem wasn't Bill's concerns, and he didn't see what good talking out his long-smouldering feelings would do. In either respect. There was another question he had been wondering about though; one likely to be nearly as provoking. He hadn't had reason to ask it. But he suspected the time had come that it did need to be asked, one way or another.

"You said it isn't a question of blame for them, moving forward. Only what the kingdom can live with without building on a broken foundation. Is that why you never said anything to me about Londinium?"

It took a moment for the reference to register; then Arthur's jaw set, mouth drawing into a flat line. "I think you're going to have to be a bit more specific, mate."

Bill sighed. The assassination attempt in Londinium and its aftermath had been, in many ways, the turning point for both Arthur and the rebellion; but it could all have been avoided if Bill hadn't shot a particular arrow at a particular moment. "Do you blame me for the death of your friend?"

Arthur took a deep, measured breath, then continued evenly. "I might as well ask if you blame Rubio for what happened afterward."

They'd found out later that Rubio, who'd deliberately fallen behind during the escape from Londinium to give the rest of them a better chance to flee, hadn't been killed by Blacklegs after all; he'd still been in the dungeons when the Resistance took the castle, considerably worse for wear. He hadn't been as lucky as Goosefat Bill. "That's not the same. He wouldn't have been there either if I hadn't killed Mercia and Clarendon that day."

"No, he wouldn't have," Arthur replied, in a ruthlessly calm tone. "But do you know who they'd have probably asked if they hadn't caught Rubio? Someone Vortigern already knew was a traitor, much closer to hand."

Maggie. Bill had put any such worries out of his mind after they'd found her locked in the slave pens along with the rest of the prisoners Vortigern had meant to sell to the Vikings; not all of them had been young boys intended to replenish the benches of the longships. But Arthur wasn't wrong. "I thought she was dead, you know," he said wearily, yielding. "Or as good as. I thought we'd already signed her death warrant and spent our last chance at Vortigern into the bargain. And if we had already lost, and Mercia was right there...."

"For want of a nail," Arthur snorted, then took another long draught of wine. "If we hadn't lost Rubio and Backlack that day. If I hadn't had to use the Sword. If I hadn't woken from a nightmare afterward and tried to throw the Sword away, and you and Bedivere hadn't decided to follow. The Blacklegs would have caught all of us, not just some of us. D'you know many times I've escaped death by a hair's breadth since this all started? More than in all my years in the brothel, and that's saying something."

Bill had seen Arthur's scars; the young man was not body shy in the least. Many of Uther's best knights couldn't have boasted as much evidence of past fights – or as much finely crafted musculature supporting it. It never failed to amaze him how different their king's upbringing had been from what it should have been; his chief male role models had been the patrons of the brothel he was raised in, a retired foreign fighter who had paid him to run errands until Arthur folded him into his burgeoning criminal network, and a scattering of halfway-benevolent self-interested Blacklegs. And yet, that upbringing had somehow shaped him to be exactly what England needed. The women who'd taken charge of him must have been quite formidable in their own right.

"You know, before we met, I'd never have guessed how many skills crossed over from brothelkeeper to king," he allowed, a degree of tension that had been knotted in his shoulders for months finally beginning to relax.

"Come now. Don't exaggerate; that might have been the first time we had occasion to talk, but that wasn't the first time we met," Arthur teased back, finally sprawling more naturally in his chair as the mood began to lighten. "The doorkeeper would never have let you in without a closer look that night if you weren't known, so don't try to pull me on it. The Red Door at the Bridge was a popular enough meeting place – it would have been a surprise if the Resistance hadn't used it from time to time – but until then you all'd been quiet enough to ignore it. You could change your hair, change your clothes, and change your accent, but you couldn't change your face. But you were always polite and never tried to short the ones you took upstairs, so we left well enough alone. Wondered if I'd be one of them for a while there, but all you ever did was look. Wondered more about that, after I found out about my father."

For a moment, Bill couldn't imagine what he meant by that last; he'd been aware of Arthur of course, the well-built blond man always at the corner of the eye in that neighbourhood, frequently watching over the main room at the brothel over the last few years. He'd kept the area orderly enough to make the bridge an even more popular meeting place, as long as one kept away from the Blackleg patrols. But ... if he truly had grown up there ... Suddenly, Bill remembered a younger face, a leaner and hungrier one; hair slightly darker, not yet lightened by the sun; chin sharper without the frame of his short beard. And of course, he couldn't have always been the one in charge, which would have meant ... other roles.

He caught a shaky breath, blinking as that image settled in his mind. He'd been just as unreasonably attracted to that pretty young man, but even more unwilling to indulge the thought, for a multitude of reasons. "I hadn't realised that was you. But yes. You looked even more like him when you were younger, you know. It's a mystery to me that you weren't found out sooner. How did you ever end up there?"

Arthur shrugged, expression as satisfied as a cat. "The ladies always said they found me afloat; but if I was ever asked, I was to say I was born there. A few of them were down the docks washing laundry when they spotted a drifting skiff. No one in it, just what looked like a pile of expensive furs. They made sure no one was watching, then went to tuck them into their baskets – and found me curled up under the lot. It might have all ended there, if the news from Camelot hadn't just reached Londinium; customers had brought word about how many had gone missing. As far as the girls were concerned, it didn't matter who I used to belong to, there was no one else left to keep me. And I was just big enough to be useful."

"Didn't they ever wonder at your name?" Bill shook his head. "Or the richness of your clothes? Didn't you say anything to them about your family?"

Arthur shook his head. "I didn't say anything at all, not for weeks. As they told it, they called me Art in honour of the lost prince because I wouldn't even give them a name, but I answered to it well enough, so it stuck. They cut my hair, gave me new clothes, and sold the things they'd found me with. By the time I was talking again, I had nothing left to hold onto, and too many things to keep me busy. I only ever dwelt on the past in dreams. Twenty years on, I had no idea the beautiful woman falling into the river or the voice telling me to run had anything to do with my parents. As far as I was concerned, I was born in that brothel."

"For want of a nail," Bill repeated, wonderingly. Arthur hadn't just been put on a boat; he'd been there when Vortigern had confronted Uther, and somehow managed, alone of his family, to escape. Had the Lady of the Lake guided him to the right place to find shelter, much as she'd kept the Sword itself safe in the years since Uther's loss? Impossible to ask. The Magefolk had watched over the Pendragon line ever since the rise of Uther's father, in the years after the Romans withdrew from the island and took their legions with them. Perhaps they'd known even then that their fates would be tied, for good or ill. Rumours had spread that that tie might be renewed the traditional way after the defeat of Vortigern, though the Mage's departure before the coronation had quieted them somewhat.

Some irreverent urge – the stirring of the waters of what-if, the closeness of the way they were sitting and the acknowledgement of the possibilities – opened his mouth again before he could think better of it. "If I had asked you upstairs when I had the chance. Would it have changed anything?"

"You know it wouldn't have," Arthur replied, meeting his eyes solemnly. "Not if that was all it was. And if it wasn't." He let his gaze sweep over Bill then, as if allowing the possibility that it might have happened more than just the once. "If it had mattered enough that you'd gone elsewhere that night for cover, or if you'd asked me for help and I'd hid you ... chance would be a fine thing. Jack's Eye passed on a warning that day because I'd turned you over, and I was only on a boat upriver the next morning because I didn't wait around to be strung up for causing trouble with the king's guests."

"'The man you previously met'," Bill quoted from Arthur's confrontation with the Vikings, then shook his head, carefully folding the unlikely possibility away again. "I think I might have felt better not knowing just how slim our chances were. Not that the road ahead is likely to be much smoother. Even if we settle this matter with the Blacklegs without too much bloodletting, the Vikings will be back soon enough, and we still have Vortigern's loyal barons to bring to heel. If we're not careful, they'll declare for Vortimer instead, and that's a situation we will need fighting men to handle. Whatever their previous allegiances," he sighed, finally conceding the point.

Arthur completely failed to deliver the predictable smug reaction, however; an unexpected degree of surprise chased the dangerous warmth from his expression instead. "Vortimer? Who the hell's Vortimer?"

...Of all the topics for the new king and his informants to not already be aware of.

Bill winced, then threw back the last of his wine and let all hope of getting any more sleep – or barring that, some more pleasant alternative – that night drain away with it.

Bedivere, it transpired, had been waiting to fill Arthur in on certain complications of the Pendragon bloodline until after he was absolutely certain Princess Catia hadn't been somehow sent away during the raid on the castle. They knew the former king had dismissed her handmaids sometime between the attack by the great snake in the throne room and the battle in Vortigern's Mage tower, but no more than that. The texts they had found in the man's study had been suggestive, certainly, but they hadn't yet explored the obvious possibility; no one was willing to let Arthur go looking for mythological creatures who could turn men into demons until after the Mage returned to back him up. In the meantime, the counter-rumour that perhaps the new king might have turned away the Mage in order to unite the realm's factions via marriage to his cousin instead had been helping keep a lid on things.

"He had a son?" Arthur blurted, staring at his chief advisor, who was picking blearily at a plate of eggs and salted bread along with the rest of the inner council. None of them had been best pleased to be awakened at the break of dawn, and Bedivere in particular kept shooting glares at Bill over each bite, fully aware of who must be to blame for Arthur's impatient summons.

"At least one. According to rumour," Bill said, apologetically. "He never confirmed it; for whatever reason, he never had the boy brought to Camelot."

"Likely for appearance's sake," Bedivere explained with a grimace. "He always publicly blamed Mages for his wife's disappearance, along with that of the king and his family, the night he took the crown. A thin fiction, but one that most of the barons were willing to pay lip service to, given the alternatives. One of the methods he used to maintain their loyalty was to delay arranging a marriage for the princess; choosing one of the barons or their sons would have effectively declared the groom his successor, but the longer he put that off the more they were willing to do to prove themselves a better choice than their peers. If he had disinherited Catia entirely in favour of the bastard son of a Viking's sister, no matter how highborn, he certainly would have lost a great deal of their support."

Arthur sat back at that, fingers tapping on rim of the table as he thought things over. "There've been sea-wolves on the island since before the Romans left; everyone knows that much. Tribes they brought over and settled on the eastern shore to help defend the borders when they started drawing back the legions. We thought the redbeards in Londinium mistreating our girls and trying to evade the local taxes were more of the same at first, but they weren't, were they. Vortigern was paying them to maintain his borders, once he'd conquered all the other local kingdoms. And they were bringing more in. Greybeard was reporting to a king of his own."

"For quite some time," Bedivere agreed. "Their demands seem to have escalated of late, but Vortigern had been using Greybeard's faction – followers of a warlord named Hengist – to fend off the Picts and keep order amongst their own for many years. And right after he took the throne, before he began building that tower, he was still somewhat vulnerable to ... more ordinary lusts. I think they hoped he would marry the woman and make her his new queen; Rhonwen, she was called. But you met your uncle; he could only be pushed so far. Instead, he took the child and gave him to one of his more loyal barons to raise. Called it a fostering, for the nephew of his allies' chief. The boy is perhaps fifteen years old now, serving as a squire to the son of Sir Ector."

"But it's got to be an open secret – especially with a name like that – that he's Vortigern's son," Tristan concluded with a furrowed brow.

"In certain circles," Maggie agreed. As the Resistance spy in the castle throughout much of Vortigern's reign, she held her own seat on Arthur's inner council, and typically of Maggie, she was much better put together than any of the rest of them despite the early hour. "He never visited the boy himself that I was aware of, but he often sent Lord Mercia with 'messages' for Sir Ector. And Sir Ector was not among the barons who attended your coronation."

"Then I think it's about time we paid the good baron a visit," Arthur concluded, slapping a hand against the table.

"But if we move against him directly, he'll know we're coming," Tristan countered. "I'd lay good odds he'll have this Vortimer hidden away long before we arrive."

"Wasn't Bedivere just saying I need to make a royal procession? Visit the greater lords in their own castles, show off the Sword, make matters clear to them? If we make it a royal visit, not an accusation, he won't dare. I won't even start with Sir Ector; someone a little more on the fence, maybe. Maggie's father." Arthur nodded to her. She had only come to court in the first place, after all, because Vortigern had demanded a representative from 'the oldest families of England' and her father had had little choice but to comply. But he hadn't come to the coronation, either; he didn't appear to have particularly high hopes that Vortigern's nephew would be any more welcome a liege lord. "Visit Sir Ector second or third. Not far enough down the list to court an ambush, but not at the top so we don't spook him. And in the meantime, we'll send some of the lads ahead to keep an eye out, track him if he does try anything."

The others met gazes around the table; Arthur had been resisting that very suggestion until that morning, claiming that he wanted to wait for the Mage's input before leaving Camelot. Bill cleared his throat, then asked the obvious question everyone else was avoiding.

"And what do you plan to do with Vortimer, once you've found him?"

The corner of Arthur's mouth curled, but his expression was about as informative as a brick wall. "I have a feeling the answer'll come to me when I meet him. Until then; Sir Bedivere." He locked eyes with the disgruntled knight.

"Oh, no you don't," Bedivere retorted immediately, straightening in his chair and wiping his hands on a cloth without even waiting for Arthur to elaborate. "You have the diplomatic skills of a Londinium brawler and you know it. That might work with the Vikings, but you need better buy-in from your own lords, at least for the time being. You need someone to talk to the barons who actually knows what they're doing."

"They were always going to be disappointed in me, Bedivere; I've told you that from the start," Arthur countered. "Best they learn to moderate their expectations upfront. I'll not tolerate anyone cosying up to me while eyeing my back for where best to place the knife. But don't worry, I'll take someone along to smooth the waters once I've done stirring them. Goosefat."

Bill felt his own spine stiffen as that steely gaze met his. "Yes, sire?" he replied, dryly.

Arthur grimaced, but soldiered on. "Pick fifty men. Enough to discourage raiders, but not enough to suggest an army. None of George's lads; they'll leave at the same time for their own errand. But some Resistance, some of the new blood, a couple of the former Blacklegs that've already been cleared, a nice assortment to give the barons something to chew on. Wet Stick too, if you're willing?" He cut his gaze over to his old friend.

Tristan nodded, expression solemn. "Nowhere else I'd rather be, Art."

"Forgive me, Maggie, but I'd prefer not to give your father the opportunity to make your decisions for you; there's too much still up in the air right now. I'd appreciate if you'd stay and support Bedivere."

Maggie nodded, mouth set in a firm, unhappy line. "There's much still to do here. The repairs and the cleansing of the castle are still ongoing, and settling or returning all the children who were taken in lieu of their parents' debts will take some time to finish."

There was a distinct sense of another conversation going on beneath the spoken one as Arthur continued, one Bill did not have the key to decipher. "Good. Pull in Kay and the rest of the girls once they've finished with their errands in Londinium; I know they'll be willing to help. They need to pick a spokeswoman for the council, anyway. If the Mage drops by, fill her in; she might, once she knows I'm gone, and there's a seat waiting for her too. We'll talk more when I get back. Though this little trip might reduce the urgency somewhat."

She looked startled to hear that; a hint of surprise and an almost relieved appreciation briefly lit Maggie's expressive eyes, followed by a swift smile. "Then I wish you well on your errand."

"You want to leave Maggie and I behind, and take Goosefat?" Bedivere objected, a long-suffering tone in his voice. "You realise he's not actually much more diplomatic than you are."

"I'm right here, you know," Bill complained, more for form's sake than to actually refute the statement.

Arthur shot them both a wry look. "But he does know who he's talking to, where they stood with my father and where they stand with my uncle's policies, and that's all I'll really need. I'm not looking to make new enemies here, Bedivere, but I do mean to start as I'll be going on. I don't intend to make anyone fear me, not like my uncle did, but I can't afford to let them think me weak either. Now, we've waited long enough they won't think me desperate; given the seamstresses enough time the lot of us aren't dressed like beggars and outlaws anymore; but things are still unsettled enough that they'll all be thinking more about opportunity than resentment. You were right, there'll never be a better time to do this."

Bedivere considered that, then heaved a frustrated sigh. "As I said once before – you've found your feet very quickly."

"I know there's still a lot to learn; but hopefully I won't need that sort of kingdom-level strategy until after I have a larger army behind me," Arthur grinned, sensing victory. "Until then, that's what I have you for. And that's really why I need you here. I do need the castle to still be standing when I get back."

"I appreciate your faith in me," Bedivere conceded at last, inclining his head. "When will you be leaving?"

"As soon as everything can be readied. A few days?" Arthur glanced at Bill again.

Bill thought over the logistics, the people he'd need to talk to and how long it would take to set everything up; twenty years on the run had taught him a great deal about such necessities. "That should work. But I'll need to get started right away. I'll find you this evening for final details?"

Arthur nodded, glancing around the table again to meet everyone's gazes. "Then let's get at it."

The day went by quickly; the rhythms of Camelot had just settled into some sort of order again after the upheaval of Vortigern's overthrow, and the preparations for the king's trip had stirred it all up again. Arthur had taken much of the crown's resources intact, ironically including the coffers Mischief John had taken as spoils from the brothel. Supplies weren't an immediate problem. But many of the king's household had scattered, disappeared, or been killed by the Resistance if they'd lifted a hand to anyone during the liberation of the castle. Many of the servants and skilled craftsmen Bill should have been able to delegate the necessary tasks to were either missing altogether or replaced by former Resistance and townsfolk with rusty or minimal experience. They'd learn soon enough, and recruit others as needed, but it was still early days yet. He didn't have a chance to find Arthur again until nearly the same hour they'd met the night before, blinking blearily at the great round table in the torchlight.

Weariness, and some heavier emotion, carved furrows in Arthur's forehead and bracketed his mouth with deep lines as he stared absently at the seal in the centre of the table. The gold Pendragon phoenix on a field of blood had been set there with Excalibur clasped in its talons; sigils representing Arthur's other advisors were ringed about it in a circle. Official coats of arms mingled side by side with more suggestive symbols: a lantern painted red, a falcon carrying a snake. But when he heard Bill's step on the threshold, he looked up, a genuine smile lifting his features.

A jolt of breathless emotion flared in Bill's chest at the sight. He'd thought the man unfairly attractive long before he'd learned to respect him, sometime during those long weeks of hard work between slapping Arthur across the face and setting up the assassination attempt on his uncle in Londinium. Somewhere in the midst of their reckless desperation as they raced across the city that day, he'd finally accepted the young man as more than just a means to an end: as his future king. But the greed to possess that which was beyond his reach had never been among Bill's besetting sins; he knew exactly what he was and what he was good for. And yet, he'd rarely faced such temptation as that smile.

"Arthur," he said, just to see his mouth curve further.

"Goosefat. All in motion, then?"

"We'll be ready." Feeling reckless, he decided to lean against the table within arm's reach rather than taking a seat of his own. He saw Arthur's gaze trace over him again, then thought back to that oblique conversation with Maggie and the king's sudden desire to track down a potential heir to the crown. There would never be a better time for this question, either. "Would it matter now? Could a knight ask his king the question the spy didn't dare ask the young man in the brothel?"

There was no doubt Arthur understood what he was asking. "The spy had his reasons to hesitate then. The king has his reasons now," he said warningly, the smile taking on a tired edge.

That wasn't precisely a no. "And is that the final word? Or do you anticipate a time when it can be asked?"

Arthur considered that for a moment, the long line of his throat and the open neck of his shirt very enticing at that angle. Then he surged to his feet, looming close, practically trapping Bill against the table with the muscular frame of his own body. He was taller than Bill by a couple of inches, with the wide shoulders and rippling forearms of a man who'd earned them by dint of hard labour. Bill was no slouch himself – maintaining proficiency with a longbow was no minor feat of physical endurance – but he'd catch no one's breath in plain leather and linen. Yet as pretty as Art had been at perhaps nineteen, he hadn't yet had the charisma or the presence of this Arthur, the one who'd knelt at his feet, pressed Excalibur into his hands, and unwittingly taken everything of Bill's in exchange.

"The king needs a stable kingdom, if he wants to keep protecting his people. An heir is part of that picture. So is a queen," Arthur replied, carefully. "An assumptive heir already half-grown, and a queen with her own interests...." he trailed off, shrugging. "Like I told Maggie, I have my hopes about this trip."

That explained the conversation that morning; tied to Catia – and to Vortigern, in the minds of the public – Maggie had been unable to marry since her arrival in Camelot. Surrounded by cruelty every day, she'd taken occasional refuge with some of the other women supporting the Resistance, who'd been able to come and go from the castle with less scrutiny than the men. Goosefat owed them several of his escapes, and knew she'd dreaded the day Vortigern might choose to marry her off to one of his supporters ... or send her back to her father, who would have his own expectations as well as the legal right to enforce them. She'd shine as Queen, if her negotiations with Arthur went well; it would be duty for them, not love, but they'd deal well enough together.

The possible heir ... now, that was a riskier subject. "We don't know what the boy was raised to expect, or even if he's truly Vortigern's seed," he said, musingly. The wall of Arthur's chest in front of him was an immense temptation, but he kept his hands braced behind him on the table, shifting his legs a little further apart to give himself room as he enjoyed the closer perspective.

"He's fifteen; he'll expect a lot more than he's entitled to, like we all did," Arthur scoffed. "A few questions'll settle whether he's teachable on the subject. And as for the other ... well, that's what the Sword's for. If it wasn't bound to the bloodline, I'd just name Blue Boy and have done, but it's not a legal contract; it won't wake for him. So we'll introduce this Vortimer to it and see what happens."

Blue Boy – christened Gawain, although he disliked answering to his proper name even more than Wet Stick – had been less enthralled by Arthur's new title since the loss of his father, but he was still young enough to learn a new role and endlessly loyal; there was no guarantee Vortimer would be either. It likely depended much on what he'd been raised to think of his own father. And whether he'd had much contact with his mother's family.

"The answer will come when you meet him," Bill said, paraphrasing his earlier answer, and gave him a crooked smile. "A little while longer, then."

"A little while longer," Arthur agreed, then finally took that last step forward, body pressing against Bill's as their mouths brushed together. The contact was a searing line of heat between them, the tickle of his beard against Bill's lips a teasing spark of sensation against the rush of his blood.

Then Arthur stepped back, grinning, and nodded to him. "Night, Bill."

Bill swallowed, helpless in the face of that look. "You too, sire."

They didn't speak of the matter again before leaving Camelot; the necessary work kept them busy, and Bedivere's sharp stare grew ever more suspicious at Bill's irrepressible mood as he went about his duties. He'd known Bill a lot longer than anyone else in the castle; if anyone was going to guess, it would probably be him. Bill wouldn't keep any developments a secret, from either his good friend or the king's chief advisor, but he would prefer it to be a more certain thing before he dealt with that conversation.

And there were other conversations to prioritise, anyway. Bill had been fairly certain, but he confirmed it with Tristan before they left: the king had never left Londinium for more than a brief errand in all the years between his watery departure from Camelot and his unexpected return up the same river. Most of his knowledge of the wider kingdom was either hearsay or gleaned from his brief time conducting raids with the Resistance; most of the kingdom's landmarks, both beautiful and terrible, were new to him.

Two days out from Camelot was one of them: a valley with a trickling brook running through it where a weary Bedivere and those of his men still able to mount a horse had tracked the last and greatest of Mordred's forces to ground, twenty years before. There wasn't much left to be seen, and there'd be even less after another few decades of wear and weather, but what was there was still enough to dwarf a man body and soul; a sight that he thought Arthur might appreciate, particularly after his time in the Darklands.

He dropped a word in Tristan's ear when the procession passed down the river valley the brook branched away from, then drew Arthur aside, leaving the younger knight to keep the escort headed toward that day's destination. The supply carts only moved so swiftly, and it was only a short detour; they had his bow and Excalibur, and the locals avoided the place as cursed ground. There really wasn't much risk. And the look on Arthur's face as scepticism faded into awe was more than worth the hassling questions beforehand.

"What is this?" Arthur asked, dismounting from his restive horse to approach the spread of vast, ivory pillars curving up what seemed like half the height of Camelot's wall. "They look like...."

"Bones?" Bill replied, swinging down and tethering both of their mounts before following him closer. "That's because they are. You may have heard about Mordred's creatures of war?"

"Stories," Arthur agreed. "I never quite believed them. Beasts as tall as the castle bridge, with houses on their backs holding hundreds of warriors and Mages, throwing fireballs with their snouts? Until I went to the Darklands, I'd never seen anything like them. But these bones are even bigger than anything I saw while I was there."

"It was Mordred throwing the fireballs; but yes. Every bit of it. Ask Bedivere sometime; he had to try to hold the men against them, before Uther took up Excalibur and severed Mordred's control. They shook off all the Mages' trappings, including the men they were transporting, and fled the moment the spellfire went out of their eyes – but he was the one who'd summoned them, and without him they had nowhere to go. Merlin had already left, and none of the other Mages would risk coming, not when so many felt as Vortigern did – that they were all to blame for the war, no matter their allegiance. So it was left to our men to stop them."

"How?" Arthur asked, reaching out to place his hand against one towering rib bone.

"The death of a thousand cuts," Bill said, shrugging. "They couldn't be left alone; they could strip a forest in a single meal and were too big for any barrier to slow them down. We were months repairing the causeway and the castle walls from only a few casual blows. They'd have been a blight on the kingdom as long as they lived. One more tragedy amongst so many others."

"Just when I think I have a handle on the scope of my world, something comes along to shake it up again." Arthur shook his head, staring around at the rest of the aging bones littering the valley where the giants had fallen, then turned that piercing gaze back on Bill. "Was that when you decided to take up the longbow?"

Now how had he known that? "Most assume I had an unfashionable fondness for it in my youth; or that I took it up expressly for the purpose I put it to in Londinium," Bill answered with a slow smile.

Arthur answered him with a smile of his own. "Like I said, I never met a man so quick to stab on first acquaintance. You don't seek power for its own sake. But powerlessness – that's a strong motivator."

There were so many differences in their backgrounds and styles; it never ceased to amaze Bill that Arthur could see right through that to the similarities that did exist and use them to boil a matter down to its essentials. It was a powerful tool for him in general; one that must have served him well as a street boss in Londinium. Here and now, it made Bill feel seen in a way that could quickly go to his head if he wasn't careful.

"And it certainly served me well, when the time came that I had to live by those skills," he deflected. "But these are what was still in the people's memory when Vortigern began his purge of the Mages. It's what they'll think of when they hear about how you took the castle. The wonder of it – and the terror."

"Couldn't have been helped, not if we wanted any chance at winning," Arthur replied, frowning. "I had thought about asking the Mage first, not Maggie, if I was going to have to get married – since I figured there was no way Bedivere would let me avoid it. I need a woman I can trust, and the list of those I know outside the brothel can be counted on the fingers of one hand. But she said much the same. She could give me the chance, but she couldn't strike the fatal blow or put her hand in mine after. Not after Vortigern and Mordred."

"A lot to balance. Mages and non-mages. Resistance and Blacklegs. Legacy ... and happiness. Sometimes I think it may be too much to ask at all." Bill turned his own gaze upward, feeling the years and the wear press closer than usual. What legacy did he have to leave behind, after everything?

"That's as may be," Arthur replied, voice lowering, "but you know me. Never met a headwind I didn't tack into – so long as the reward was worth it."

Bill shook his head once more in wonder. "I know why it's worth it to me. Not sure I know why it would be worth it to you. But far be it from me to question my good fortune."

Arthur laughed, a bright cheering sound in that place of dark memory. "And to that arrant bit of nonsense, let me just say: I'm going to kick your arse when we spar tonight, and I'll even borrow Percival's sword to do it."

"Lie to yourself if it makes you feel better, Your Majesty," Bill retorted automatically, then grinned back. "I've often wondered what Excalibur would have done against one of these, if the King could have been spared at the time. But no one was willing to risk Uther against them, any more than we'd let you go looking for the syrens. I hope Vortimer does pass your test, for more reasons than just my own selfishness; it would be nice to have someone else who could wield it in less immediate crises."

"Short-sighted of the Mages, wasn't it? Or maybe that was the point; if they were going to hand a human king a weapon that could cut through a Mage's spells, best make sure it'd never end up in potentially unfriendly hands." Arthur drew the enchanted weapon casually from its sheath, slung comfortably over his back on this trek, then held it carefully in one hand, the runes along its length barely glimmering. "You ever try to pull it?"

"The first time I followed one of the branding barges upriver," Bill admitted, not even tempted to touch it again. He'd seen how sharp it could cut, despite all the years it had slept in stone and the way Arthur abused it; it hadn't dulled at all since the moment of its forging. "At night, when the guards were fewer, I took a Blackleg uniform and crept close. We'd thought you were dead for years, the Sword simply lost with Uther. But there it was, and yet Vortigern hadn't claimed it. We had to know whether it was real. It didn't respond to me at all. But the runes were there, and the hilt I'd seen in Uther's hand. It's a hard thing, to learn to hope again after years of desperation."

"Good thing you're equal to it, then," Arthur said, smile taking on a knowing edge. Then he settled his second hand on the hilt, and Bill's breath caught as his eyes lit up along with the sword.

The entire world seemed to hold its breath too as Arthur stared up again at the vast bone arching above them, wider around than a man's torso at its base. Then he moved, arms a blur as he struck the rib straight on with the cutting edge. It shuddered, a sound like the cracking stone of Vortigern's tower quivering through the air; then Arthur stumbled back, second hand falling away from the hilt again as the fire quenched in his eyes. They stood together, staring, as the ivory pillar above them wavered, then began to tilt like a tree chopped through its base; then they both swore at once and scrambled backward as it picked up speed and finally struck the earth with a vast, staggering jolt.

Arthur stared at it, then at the edge of the sword, still entirely unmarred by its adventures. "Maybe the Mages did know what they were doing. You know, I think I'm going to go looking under the castle anyway after we get back to Camelot?"

Bill snorted, glancing over his shoulder to where the horses had been tethered, before they'd pulled loose and gone galloping back down the valley for all they were worth. "If Bedivere doesn't chain you to your chair first. And if Tristan doesn't kill me after the horses turn back up without us."

"Such a pessimist, Sir William. At least it's a nice day for a walk," Arthur shrugged, sliding the Sword back into its sheath.

"Sometimes I think it's definitely too much to ask," Bill sighed long-sufferingly, then turned to begin the long trek to catch up with their escort.

Arthur chuckled, whistling cheerfully as he trudged along at Bill's side.

That little interlude did, in fact, put an end to Bill's opportunities to get Arthur away from the rest of the escort for the remainder of that leg of the journey; between Tristan, Percival, and their designated deputies, there was a suspicious eye on Bill at all times whenever the king was demonstrably restless. A lengthy clash of blades under the eye of half the party had to substitute instead; not that it wasn't still highly enjoyable, but the scrutiny rather took the edge off. The lack of privacy didn't let up much even when they reached the keep of Maggie's father, though there it was at least as much due to the wariness of the residents.

It would have taken a colder heart than the baron's, however, to hold out against Arthur's concentrated charm, and by the time they were ready to move on, there was a distinct sense of anticipation rather than resentment in the air between king and titled subject. No direct promises were made, but the implications were clear; when Maggie became Queen, her father would be Arthur's most loyal subject, et cetera, et cetera.

It was hard to blame him for the belated support, though it grated somewhat against the fortitude of those who'd been living in caves and the like for years. Many of those who'd joined the Resistance full-time had done so because they'd had nothing left outside the cause. Men like Leodegran, with many more lives and livelihoods still dependent upon their own, had had more difficult choices to make. And it showed in the tattered dignity of the furnishings and the limited delicacies the castle was able to offer its guests, a very clear contrast to the state of things at Camelot. What limited benevolence Vortigern had possessed had clearly not been spared to any of Uther's old allies, even those who had made the necessary compromises to survive his reign.

A baron whose loyalty they were already sure of was next; one of Bedivere's old compatriots, a survivor of Mordred's attack on Camelot and the hunt for the war beasts. His castle was little better off, though the meal demonstrably better; with a little more forewarning, he and his knights had gone on a grand hunt to supply the table. Bill was sad to have missed it; years of living by the bow had given him an appreciation for the less murderous and more productive uses of his skills. Also much improved was the conversation: the baron was happy to share some of his many stories about attending Uther's court and fighting alongside Bedivere with his new liege. He was even more pleased to see Arthur wield Excalibur, proving himself Uther's true heir; a valuable training session for both the baron's knights and Arthur himself, who – their little detour aside – was still learning to exercise its abilities in a less destructive manner.

Sir Ector was third on the list. Bill would not have called the journey relaxing up to that point – there was always the chance of an ambush, either by ruffians or men who had no desire to call Arthur their king – but at least they had had some idea what they were walking into. The tension of the party gradually increased when they crossed the border into Ector's lands, looking not only for signs of an active foe but also any clues George and his men might have left behind from their earlier passage. Bill had spent half his life on edge, staring past his bowstring at potential threats; the habit was easier than he would have liked to slip back into.

Nothing worse came their way than a bit of bad weather, though; Goosefat Bill's luck apparently still held. George himself appeared a few miles before they reached the castle, ready to report on Sir Ector's movements; the baron had had several visitors arrive after word had begun to spread that the king had left Camelot, all familiar names, but they had all departed again within days, none of them looking very pleased with their reception. Possibly coincidentally, Sir Ector seemed to have let his ward continue as his son's squire throughout all of the visits rather than dressing him as a prince and showing him off to his guests.

"Perhaps he isn't Vortigern's son after all," Bill mused, frowning.

"He does look much like Vortigern; or like Arthur when he was younger," George shrugged. "But many men might."

Arthur shook his head, taking the news with a slow, satisfied smile. "No. I think it's something else. Whatever doubts he might've had about my father, Sir Ector's a principled man; Vortigern wouldn't have chosen him to raise his son otherwise. It's backfiring on the other barons now, that's all. Vortigern thrived on fear, but he gave Sir Ector something to care about. He knows about the Sword, and what happened to Vortigern; he doesn't want that to happen to Vortimer, too. Not unless he's given a better reason than other men's greed."

"That's possible," Bill agreed, reluctantly; he had known Sir Ector himself, many years before. He was the sort of man to believe in strict discipline and insult his peers to their faces if they didn't meet his expectations.

"Good. No more skulking about, then; fold your men in with ours, George, and we'll all sleep a bit easier tonight."

Sir Ector didn't even dress the boy up to meet them, though Bill wasn't sure whether that was meant as compliment or insult. Possibly both. He was there when they rode through the castle gate into the bailey, stood next to Ector's son Cynyr like a younger brother tagging after a favoured sibling, expression as wary as Ector's and his son's were belligerent.

Ector eyed Arthur as he dismounted, gaze slipping to the hilt of Excalibur, then offered a disgruntled, "Your Majesty. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Sir Ector," Arthur replied cheerily. "No need to pretend. You know why I'm here. But there's no need to worry either; I've no quarrel with you. Especially since you've looked after my kin so well."

There really was no question, looking at the boy; Bill had glared at the usurper's profile enough over the years to have etched the man's features into his mind's eye. Many of them were present on this much younger face, softened a bit by youth and his mother's contributions, under a full head of hair even blonder and wilder than the adult Arthur's. He didn't look as afraid as Bill might have expected either, more curious about their presence; but whether that was being fifteen, his foster father's training, or the apparently innate Pendragon self-confidence shining through, Bill couldn't have guessed.

"If you mean the rumours about my squire, I don't know anything about that," Ector bluffed warily. "And so I've told everyone who's asked. What I do know is that he hasn't finished his training, and won't until my son says he's ready. Unless you intend to separate a sworn squire from his knight."

"That's good to hear," Arthur said, still grinning as if blind to Ector's fumbling wrong-footedness. "I'd hoped recent events wouldn't have interfered with his education. A man can't choose his parents, after all; I certainly didn't choose mine, however much that that fact might have guided others. All I'm here for is to introduce him to the Sword – hilt first, not blade – and extend an invitation, whenever he's able to take it up."

"And leave a number of guards – who will not interfere with his training or other activities – in the event that your recent visitors return with more insistence," Bill added with only a hint of malice, because as positive an omen as Ector's protectiveness of the boy might be, he could see where this was going. Forget Tristan; Bedivere would kill him if he left the king's new heir open to attack before the boy ever set foot in Camelot, or left Sir Ector an opening to do something ill-considered after all. And the expense of supporting them would be added incentive for Ector to bring Vortimer to court sooner rather than later.

Ector managed to bluster enough about the cost to delay a response to that while bustling them into the castle and ordering up a meal. But he couldn't put it off much longer than that, and by the time they were all putting their knives down that evening, Arthur's patience won out; Ector called Vortimer over to 'introduce him to the king'.

The boy was slighter and a little shorter than Arthur, but in a rangy way that made it obvious they would have similar builds once Vortimer was full grown. Dressed in beiges and browns rather than Vortigern's habitual black and silver, with none of his mother's people in his style or his accent, he didn't seem much of a threat; perhaps Arthur's ridiculous optimism was not without foundation after all.

"Everyone says you're my cousin," Vortimer confronted Arthur directly, once the introductions were finished. His expression was sceptical, but still intrigued, and impetuous as any teenager, though from Sir Ector's faintly horrified look he had been taught better manners. "That the old king was my father. And you killed him."

"I think everyone's probably right," Arthur agreed, mildly. "And I did. My uncle killed your sister, her mother, and both my parents too; and a whole lot of others who didn't deserve it, all to get his hands on this." He'd unbuckled the sword-belt when sitting down to dinner; Del, one of George's lads, had held onto it for him during the meal, as the length made it a bit awkward to manage at table. Del brought it over now at Arthur's gesture, holding it hilt-out between Arthur and Vortimer.

The squire's eyes went wide and round as he stared at it; then he swallowed, looking back at Arthur. "Is that Excalibur?"

"It is. You've heard the story? The Lady of the Lake enchanted it; they say she bound it to our bloodline. I've met her, so I believe it. But it wouldn't answer your father. Do you think it'll answer you?"

Vortimer licked his lips, finally looking a little uncertain; then he summoned his bravado and tipped up his chin. "I think that depends on the question," he said.

"Good answer," Arthur said, grinning at the kid, then nodded to it. "Go on, then; a light grip should be enough to know. Just touch it and tell me how it feels."

Under the edge of the table, Bill clutched at Arthur's thigh with shaky fingers as Vortimer reached for the sword. He could see Ector holding his breath in his peripheral vision, and Cynyr scrambling to his feet behind Vortimer, trying not to look worried about his foster brother. No one had expected this today.

Arthur cast Bill a warm, trust-me sort of smile, then nodded again to his cousin. "I promise it won't hurt."

Vortimer took a shaky breath, then settled his hands on the hilt and gradually tightened his grip. After a long moment, he let the breath back out, then furrowed his brow, concentrating. A faint blue light flickered on the sword's runes, and an audible murmur ran up and down the tables, the sound of another piece of King Arthur's improbable legend falling into place. Then the teenager snatched his hands back off the hilt again as though his fingers had been scalded, staring in disbelief at his cousin.

"I didn't believe that would happen. You're really...? I'm really...?"

"You are. I am. And I didn't believe it at first either," Arthur smiled at him. "But unlike me, you don't need to do anything more about it just now; you've your training to finish, and I've more barons to visit and a kingdom to set to rights. But when you're ready, you know where I'll be, yeah?"

Vortimer was plainly too stunned to answer. He looked to his foster father for reassurance, then let Cynyr lead him away while Bill contemplated once more the dizzying horizon of possibility opening before him after years of looking only as far as the next – and always potentially last – necessary action.

Sir Ector had finished swearing his oaths to his sovereign almost before the wine jugs were emptied, and late that night, after half the company had been sorted out for a temporary stay in Ector's barracks and the rest had snuffed their candles for the night in the guest wing, a quiet murmur in the hall outside Bill's room was followed by a shuffling step and a creak of hinges.

Arthur entered with a candle in hand and a devil-may-care grin lighting up his face, dressed the same as when the whole mess had started weeks before. Only Excalibur, its belt strapped loosely over his shoulder, and the clear relief in his expression differed. And yet what a difference that made; hope made Bill's breath catch in his chest as he sat up to greet him. Of course, that could have been the chill in the air; Bill was considerably less clothed this time than at that prior meeting.

"Had a letter from the Mage today," Arthur said quietly as he pulled the door shut behind him.

"I saw the hawk," Bill acknowledged, grinning lazily back. The bird had reached them just before the castle, a giant brown and white feathered thing; he'd nearly put an arrow in it before Arthur had raised a hand to greet it.

"It was carrying a roll of parchment. Apparently she's been named the new Merlin by her people, to no one's surprise, and she dropped by Camelot to share the news with Maggie. They're going to be resettling the Darklands, now that the last of Mordred and Vortigern's curse there is gone. In the meantime, she says she will take that seat at the table if it's still on offer. But only after I'm safely wed."

There were many who wouldn't be pleased with that news, as much because she was a woman as because of her nature; but Arthur had faced that sort of trouble already with Maggie, and Bill was beginning to doubt there was any difficulty their combined luck couldn't conquer. "And did she say how the prospective bride feels about that stipulation?"

Arthur's smile grew even wider, if that was possible. "She had a talk with Kay and the others after we left. She says she's willing, if I've managed not to go to war with her father, and if I don't happen to find anyone else more suited before I return."

"And the other answer did come to you when you met Vortimer," Bill said slowly, smiling back. It might even help somewhat with their Viking problem; surely Hengist would be less inclined to pillage the land his own nephew was potentially in line to rule. "So. Arthur. How's that list of the king's priorities looking?"

"Depends on whether the king's knight still wants to ask the question," Arthur replied, chuckling as he slung Excalibur off his back and dropped it carelessly at the foot of the bed.

It wasn't a wide mattress; just enough for two if they were cosy. And a magical sword, of course. Much more luxurious than a draughty tent, if not quite up to Camelot's standards. Bill reached out and snagged the hem of Arthur's shirt as he stepped closer, tugging until the king took the hint and stripped it off, looking insufferably pleased with himself as he did.

"Sorry. I didn't think walking the halls in the altogether was polite guest behaviour," he said, eyeing Bill as he pulled at the ties of his own trousers. "Think the bed will be a little less comfortable with two in it?"

Bill smiled at the reminder of what had started that conversation about roles and responsibilities as he admired the preening display. "Somehow, I don't think that will be conducive to more sleep than a more solitary appreciation of its amenities," he said very dryly, watching with appreciation as Arthur's interest in the proceedings was finally bared to his view.

"But will the sleep we do get be more restful?" Arthur teased, palming himself as if to show off.

His 'altogether' was indeed worthy of being seen; Bill cast the bedclothes entirely out of the way in order to settle his hands on the warm, muscled flanks that had been taunting him for months. "I think we'll just have to test the matter and find out," he replied, feeling lighter than he had in ages. He wasn't sure he'd even recognise happiness these days if he found it, but he wasn't averse to testing that matter, too.

The candle, set on the bedside table, fluttered out at a sharp breath from Arthur. Then he nudged Bill back on the mattress, crowding in over him to apply mouth and hand where they were wanted most.