Ardaik 17th - Homenil, Serellia

Rowan's vow felt as though it still occupied the space between them, well after it had been made. Artus didn't mind that Rowan hadn't said anything else for some time after that. Instead, he quietly reveled in the gentle crackling of the fire while turning the relic in his fingers beneath the confines of his fur cloak. The only thing that could've improved the moment would be for Flann to have been occupying the empty armchair to the left of Rowan...the three of them together again, safe and all in one place.

The warmth and darkness of the room eventually coaxed Artus into closing his eyes, though only for a moment. He wasn't ready for sleep. There was too much he wanted to tell Rowan...too much he very likely shouldn't say.

Glancing over at the other chair, he noticed Rowan's lids drifting shut as well. Artus couldn't help the short chortal that burst from him, causing Rowan's lulling head to snap to attention. "Hm?"

"Are you comfortable?" Artus wondered, removing his hand from in front of his mouth and allowing the limb to drape over the arm of the chair he occupied.

Rowan cleared his throat. "More than I've been in what feels like a lifetime."

Shifting slightly, Artus sat up a little, tilting his head and peering at something on the floor next to Rowan's chair. He hadn't noticed the strange profile of the heap before. The objects were metallic, reflecting flecks of orange and yellow. "How long has that been there?"

"Oh!" Rowan practically leaped to his feet. "I discarded them there when I removed them," he explained, quickly lifting the pieces of armor to tuck them back into a crumbled sack he retrieved from the floor next to the hearth.

"Where did you get plate-mail?" Artus was already off of his own chair, trying to get a better look, when he spotted the sword as well. His hands were around the hilt before Rowan had any chance of stopping him.

"Be careful with that!" Rowan snapped before flushing fiercely at the stunned look on Artus's face. He cleared his throat, seizing the bastard sword from the prince. "I–uh... It's not a decoration."

Artus's black brows pinched together. "I know that."

"I don't want you hurting yourself."

Artus's frown faded into a neutral stare. "...I suppose I should have asked first," he conceded, "May I see it? I should like a better look at that crest."

"What crest?"

"The family crest? It's just there," Artus pointed. "You didn't notice it?"

Rowan spent a moment studying the design, turning the edge of the sword towards the fire to get a better look at the etching on the flat of the blade near the crossguard. He didn't recognize the emblem, which was no surprise, given how long its owner had likely been deceased. Artus, however, came closer, nearly leaning his chin on Rowan's shoulder.

"It looks familiar."

"Does it?" Rowan raised a brow.

Artus withdrew, returning to his chair to seat himself and cross his legs. "That family no longer holds a title."

Rowan felt his gut becoming as heavy as a lead weight. It was bad enough to carry something handed down from someone else, like some commoner, unable to purchase or have made something for your own use, but to have it also bare the crest of a family stripped of their title was beyond disgraceful. He'd have hurled it all into the fireplace if the memory and scars of what happened the last time he'd tried to rid himself of it were not still so fresh.

"One of my great grandfathers, however many generations ago it was, tasked the kingdom's most highly regarded knights to subdue the greatest threats to the early territory of Lorellia...though I've mostly only read about Sir Auberée de Billeay, since he was said to have slayed a kraken."

"Well...these were made mine out of necessity."

"Necessity?"

Rowan wasn't entirely sure, but he thought he noticed some of Artus's color drain. A thrill of excitement nearly put a smirk on his face. He wouldn't deny that he rather liked the idea of Artus being concerned for him. It meant the prince cared, or at least...he told himself it did.

"Surely, you don't need them anymore," Artus said, "Now that you're here."

"Perhaps."

"...Have you not returned home yet?"

"Maybe I should be asking you that question?"

Artus's instinct was to withhold why he'd come to Serellia...Why he'd wanted Lord Cullach's aid. Rowan didn't know the Marquis was a mage. Nor that Artus himself supposedly was. However, something that would have come so effortlessly before, harboring secrets, now spoiled his stomach. He didn't want to lie to Rowan, but... "I've not returned to La'Trest yet, clearly," Artus replied softly. "Why've you not returned to Boreven? Surely, you passed it to get here."

"Surely," Rowan echoed Artus's words back at him. "But from the back of a dragon it was too small to tell apart from anything else," Rowan explained in his typical tone, one that Artus was well acquainted with from parties and other social gatherings. "I'm sure I'll see it soon enough, when you return La'Trest. You'll likely go through Boreven or Garesto."

The prince's gaze wandered back to the fire. "I still have business to attend to here in Homenil. So, I do hope you won't mind a bit of a stay."

"Not at all," Rowan agreed, his gaze following Artus's to the fire. "You've had plenty of opportunities to return to La'Trest if that's what you planned on doing...and I've had plenty of opportunities to protest."

A smile tilted the corner of Artus's lips upwards. "Fair enough." Contemplating a moment longer, Artus added, "Lord Cullach has been a decent host, and this is a large house, with which I assume you're familiar. I'm sure he wouldn't mind one more guest."

"If memory serves, Lord Cullach is quite practiced at the art of avoiding his guests when he chooses." Rowan followed his words with a light hearted chuckle that trailed off into thoughtful silence. Rowan's blue eyes were as clear as the waters off La'Trest's coast, and Artus could see him connecting pieces and motives even without him saying a word. "I think this is the first place we met... My father and I were sent to retrieve the lost prince. You know, I don't think that I ever imagined that we would be back here playing out the very same scenario again..." Rowan's piercing eyes now settled squarely on Artus as though they could see right through him. "This wouldn't have anything to do with what happened ten years ago would it?" It seemed too perfect of a coincidence to just be chance, and in Rowan's experience, things were seldom random.

Artus sighed. "You couldn't simply be painfully handsome and dim, could you?" Artus drew the relic from under his cloak, turning it and watching the way the shadows clung starkly to every carved edge. "That would make my life far too easy, I suspect."

A lopsided smile pulled Rowan's features into a devilishly attractive smirk. "I hate easy," he said as his gaze drifted back to the fire.

***

Ardaik 17th - Tulot, Serellia

Flann's day couldn't have been going any worse. Artie returning to Homenil with Bhalthier had already taken a heavy toll on his mood, but fate clearly wasn't finished with the Serellian prince. Only a few hours before dawn, the family was awoken with news of his grandfather's passing.

The blow was devastating. For despite having passed on the crown nearly twenty years ago, his grandfather had remained a mentor and advisor to Flann's father for as long as Flann could remember. He'd recently fallen ill, and Flann couldn't help but feel guilty for the fact his father had to choose between going to look for him in Lorellia or staying home to look after his own ailing father. He was sure that his grandfather's poor health was what had prompted Liam to want to pass on his crown as soon as possible, and now, with his death, Flann could only assume that Liam would be even more adamant about it.

But for now, things were relatively quiet. His mother and father were too busy with funeral arrangements and other family business to focus on him or his siblings, so Flann had retreated to the hunting den to spend a few hours alone.

"Still pining are we?" Alorta's sing-song tone danced into the room as freely as the princess. Flann was in the middle of stringing his hunting bow when her words caused him to falter, the loop missing the catch.

"Ah, and what makes ya think that?" he wondered with a sigh as he released the tension on the bow and looked over to his sister who had plopped herself down on the couch across from his chair. Flann thought that she held all the characteristics of a cat, splayed out on the lounge with her chin resting on her palm and that bored look on her face.

"Am I wrong? Hm, I suppose I didn't take you for the sort to get involved with a foreign prince just for fun," Alorta mused as she rolled onto her stomach and began idly toying with the fur pelt beneath her. She paused to meet Flann's gaze as her eyes widened in surprise. "Were you just toying with him!? Oh Flann, I never thought you the sort!" she chortled.

"Ey, now I ner' said that!" Flann turned his attention back to his bow. "That's all you and yar friends."

"Oh." The excitement drained from Alorta's expression once more. "Well, you shouldn't speak so glibly of my friends. You're probably going to end up married to one of them soon," Alorta suggested in a disinterested tone just as Flann had started to draw on the string once more, but this time he gave up even faster as he turned back to her.

"N'what business is any o'that ta ye?" Flann wondered pointedly.

"Ah! See, I knew ye were pining!" Alorta accused as she sat up.

"I aren't!"

"Oh, come now, Flann, 'tis nothing to be so defensive over! Sides, if not with family, then who can ya speak with about such things? O'course I always seem ta fall fer commoners—"

"Like Eron?" Flann interjected as he stretched the string into place.

"Hush!" Alorta giggled, though she made no attempt to deny her brother's claim. "My point being, no one really cares as long as it stays between us. But you've gone and tangled yourself with the crown prince of Lorellia, of all people! Oh, Flann, Flann...what ever will you do?"

"Not much that I can do," Flann replied, looking over the newly strung bow a little more carefully than he probably needed to. "Artie's got responsibilities, and no siblings."

"And yet he still managed to drop it all to trollop around in another country, it would seem," Alorta pointed out as she leaned back into the plush furs of the couch. "Trust me, there's no shortage of people looking to take Lorellia's throne. I don't even blame Artus for wanting to leave. He'll probably have a longer and happier life for it!"

Flann snorted out a soft chuckle in response. His sister did have a point. Rumors of Lorellia's cutthroat politics weren't anything new, and while they could very well just be rumors, Flann was sure there was enough truth to them that he would worry about Artus's safety when he returned to Lorellia.

"Aye, maybe Artie does mean to shake his crown, but I can't do the same."

"Why can't you?"

"Well..." Flann trailed off as he quickly tried to complete the list in his head before continuing. "Mum and Da fer one."

"But it's not Mum and Da's life, Flann. If you don't want to be king-"

"Now I ner' said that," Flann protested.

"All I'm saying is that there are people who might be a little more...interested in taking the throne..." Alorta trailed off.

"You?"

"I am older," Alorta said with a coy smile. "And father never even bothered to ask me."

His sister's pouted words brought a thoughtful look to Flann's expression. He'd never considered the fact that Alorta might actually want to be queen, which suddenly changed everything.

"Come on, Flann, no one really expected you to become king. You're a sweet person, but kings aren't supposed to be sweet. They need to be stern." Alorta's harsh words probably cut deeper than she'd meant for them to, but Flann understood what his sister was getting at.

"Lorta, if you want ta be queen, all ya gotta do is ask Da."

"I can't! Not as long as he's expecting you ta be his heir. You have ta tell him you don't want it, that's the only way he'll even consider me!" Alorta was all but begging now, and Flann couldn't stand to see his sister like that.

Suddenly, Flann set his bow aside and stood up. "Alright then, we'll go talk to him together."

His declaration surprised Alorta, but she wasn't outwardly against the idea, especially if it got them both what they wanted. So, she popped up to her feet beside him.

"Agreed!" she chimed, hooking her arm in Flann's and strolling out of the hunting den to find their father.

Liam was in the war room, a steady stream of servants and advisors entering and leaving which caused both siblings to pause.

"Oh Flann, this seems like a terrible time, perhaps we should try again tomorrow."

"Nah, it's gonna be a bad time fer Da until one of us is crowned anyway. Might as well get on with it," Flann insisted and started forward, pulling Alorta along with him as he opened the door.

Liam glanced up from the large stone table, briefly catching sight of them and sighing before dismissing the few servants who stood around him. "Right, that's all for now. Leave us..." Liam's words were soft and weary. He groaned as he stretched his back and turned to his son and daughter. "What's happened now?"

"Nothing!" Flann defended before Alorta stepped forward.

"Father, Flann doesn't want to be king, and we're in agreement that I should take the throne when you step down." Alorta interjected in a very matter of fact way.

For a long moment Liam was silent, and both Alorta and Flann began to shift uncomfortably the longer the silence stretched.

Finally, Liam gave a sharp snort of a laugh, though there seemed to be little if any amusement in it. "Hah! And where is your betrothed? Yer older than Flanny and equally without a suitor!" He leaned forward on one hand, pointing with the other. "If either of ya are earnest bout being my heir, then you'll show it by being more serious about continuing our family name." With that, Liam waved them both out of his way. "Now off with both of ye!"