Arthur was scarcely halfway across the lawn when a hand closed down on his shoulder; he turned, expecting Yao, his stomach already turning with remorse and shame – not for storming out on the boy king, but for disappointing his governor, who already tolerated so much with little compensation for his trouble – and was stunned to find himself face to face with King Francis.

"I ought to slap you," he panted, glaring. "Because we both know that Yao will never do so, no matter how many frightening faces he makes." He shook Arthur once, twice. "I ought to turn you over my knee like a child instead of a queen."

Arthur swallowed and tried to lift his nose into the air. "I should not have to stand to be made to look the fool."

Francis laughed shrilly. "And neither should your kingdom, Arthur. And yet here you are."

Struggling to retain some semblance of dignity, Arthur shook Francis' hand from his shoulder with a sneer, taking a step back over the grass. "You have no right to speak to me so," he hissed, and before he could catch himself: "Your kingdom needs mine just as desperately as we seem to need that blithering infant King Jones."

Francis was silent. He lifted his hand and struck Arthur across his right cheek. The blow stung, but Arthur hardly felt the pain. He lifted his fingertips to his face gingerly, forcing his mouth into an expressionless line. He heard the labored come and go of Francis' breathing, watched him curl his hands into fists at his sides.

"Mind your place," he said through gritted teeth. "Or your power will overwhelm you and the unthinkable will come to pass."

Arthur laughed hollowly. "I could say the same to you, your majesty." He dropped his hand from his face. "And pray tell, what is this unthinkable, exactly?"

Francis surveyed him steadily. His eyes glinted in the dark, catching the distant lights of the Grand Hall of Old Spades, still winking against the opaque velvet lawn like scattered diamonds.

"Do not speak as if you were not already quite aware," he said eventually, smoothly, his breathing calmed. "The Hearts are hardly appreciative of the regime as of late. Whether they are justified in this sentiment or not is a matter of opinion, but regardless the fate of the Suits has fallen into your hands, should they be joined with those of King Jones or not." He shook his head slightly. "Do you not understand what hangs in the balance, that your behavior as of late has terrified us all more than we should ever prefer to admit? You and no other are the master of our livelihoods, and yet you throw tantrums and risk shattering the balance of peace all because of a few years of age, because you think we are all mocking you. For what reason would we do such a thing? You are not incorrect; we need you. And yet you bring shame upon yourself by fault of vanity and insecurity. Pride is a sin, your highness, and it will be your downfall should you not take action against it."

He fell quiet, and Arthur did not reply. A breeze rippled across the lawn, tossing their hair and flitting through the folds of Arthur's heavy satin cloak. The lights of the ballroom still danced, wavering across the dark ocean of grass. Francis did not break away from his gaze. Arthur finally swallowed and ducked his head.

"It is not my fault," he said quietly. "It cannot be my fault. I did not ask for this."

Francis sighed. "Nobody does, your majesty. It would do you well to realize this."

And with that, he turned and began to wade back across the lawn. A bar of light streaked across his body every once in a while and illuminated the brilliant orange silk of his dinner suit. Arthur stared after him for a long moment before he started off again in the opposite direction. He could not turn back. He could not apologize. It would be an insult to his dignity beyond measure. He unhappily wondered what he could say to Yao. How could he face his disappointment?

But perhaps still more important was what he could say to the infant king. Francis had not been wrong.

He slipped back into the empty palace unnoticed and had nearly reached the base of the staircase that led to his room when he heard footfalls behind him and stopped with his hand paused on the banister, knowing without having to turn that Yao must have finally subdued the chaos of the ballroom and caught up with his runaway queen. The footsteps slowed and eventually trickled away a few paces behind Arthur.

"I ought to slap you," said Yao. Arthur sighed, ducking his head.

"You wouldn't be the first," he replied quietly.

"Francis," said Yao after a moment. There was a trace of a smile in his voice. Arthur nodded.

"I have always approved of him." Yao sat down at the base of the staircase with a sigh, resting his elbows on the tops of his knees. "Despite what seems to be the opinion of the entire rest of the world regarding his morals."

Arthur sat two steps behind Yao and drew his knees to his chest. They were quiet for a time. Arthur guessed that much of his punishment would include allowing him silence so that he might agonize over his guilt. The realization was an uneasy comfort.

"I should hope you realize that your display has done nothing to better your situation," said Yao finally. Arthur could have snapped in two with exasperation and relief at hearing his voice. "You will still marry King Jones. You will still rule the Republic of Spades with him. Until death do you part, I might add." That same trace of a smile in his voice again. "The ceremony will merely be infinitely more uncomfortable. Well done."

Arthur glanced up at him warily. "Are you not going to scold me properly?"

Yao shrugged. "You've already been slapped, as you quite rightly deserved. And I highly suspect that Francis has also given you a thorough lecture; he is so terribly superfluous with words, after all. Besides, at this point, your highness, your puerility has reached such a pinnacle that I doubt you would listen to reason, let alone understand what you have truly done. Frankly, I have much to do as a result of you foolishness and would prefer to save myself the effort."

Arthur felt as if he had been struck again with twice the force. Yao turned and flashed him one indulgent smile before he rose to his feet and swept away, leaving Arthur with nothing but a glimpse of his blue cloak as he disappeared up the staircase. The taste of guilt was bitter in his mouth. He swallowed, torn between laughing and burying his face in his hands.

Certainly the Jack of Spades was nothing if not a master strategist.

Arthur had allowed a few minutes to pass seated on the stairwell, hoping that Yao would have finished sweeping through his room, pulling at the drapes and fluffing the pillows, by the time he rose and began to plod slowly up the stairs, clinging to the rail. He was suddenly exhausted, weighed down by shame, the remnants of his anger, and most of all the growing understanding of the consequences which were to come.

He was gratified to find his room deserted and locked the heavy oak door from within. He shed his cloak, sighing in relief as it crumpled around his ankles, as if he were standing in a pool of cool water instead of satin and the golden ornaments were nothing more than sunlight reflecting off the surface.

He undid the first four buttons of his shirt and climbed from his boots. The stone floor was cool against the soles of his feet and he stepped gingerly onto the rug. He considered the bed. He was exhausted but felt little desire to sleep. The morning would bring the reproachful eyes of his people, the disappointed half-smiles of Francis and Yao, the new creases of worry and fear at their foreheads. But worst of all, there would be Alfred. He could no longer be avoided. Best to postpone everything as long as possible, Arthur thought, without realizing his selfishness.

He was young and lonely, after all, and wielded so much power.

He went to the closet and gathered his slippers and a light wool coat. He secured the pin at his throat and blew out the candles in the lamps before he slipped onto the balcony, welcoming the breeze on his face. The air was cool and smelled of night and the city, of exhaust and rain and dust. Arthur closed his eyes and forgot the persistent glow of the Great Hall in the distance, the winking of the lanterns against the lawn, dreaming for an instant that he was suspended alone in the soft dark, free of his own worries and blunders.

He reluctantly opened his eyes and swung one leg over the balcony, gripping the marble with both hands as he flailed momentarily through thin air. Then, with a practiced step, he levered himself over the edge and, digging his toes into chinks in the side of the palace, descended silently into the gardens. He felt the mossy earth come pressing up beneath his shoes, and lifted the hood of the cloak to hide the telltale glint of his hair and eyes. He did not want to be disturbed.

The gardens were vast and overgrown. They spilled from their confines with the alien twisted species which the holocaust of war had produced. Strange trees reached up towards the sky with knurled fingers; curious and fantastic flowers bobbed and trembled in the wind; the ground seemed to whisper underfoot. Stories that had long been forgotten drifted upwards from the moss with every footstep. That night, the air was moist and heavy with the smell of growing things, with the reek of thick waxy white petals of flowers that only bloomed beneath the starlight. Arthur inhaled deeply. The moonlight winked wet and milky through the trees, but he could have followed the path by touch alone.

Children whispered rumors about the keeper of the garden of the Kingdom of Old Spades; they spun wild stories of madness and bloodlust and ghostly prowls through the trees. To them the gardens were a fearful place; years ago, Arthur had been just as frightened. He would not go unless Yao would hold his hand and guide him down the path in broad daylight. Imagine his surprise upon encountering the notorious gardener himself and finding that he was not bent and knurled like the trees he pruned, but rather that his eyes were as bright and brilliant as the unfurling blossoms of the flowers and his voice as soft and lush with wisdom as the moss underfoot.

"He has lived for many years," murmured Yao when they had walked further down the path and Arthur tugged at his sleeve, asking him in the sort of hushed voice that can only belong to awed children. "Nobody quite knows how many."

Arthur had returned in a few days, alone for the first time, too fascinated to be afraid. Besides, the gardener had seemed so kind, his eyes so warm, and his hands so wide and apt for protecting the tiny fingers of little children. Arthur stumbled upon the old man not but a few footsteps down the path. He was struck by the most curious suspicion that perhaps he had somehow known, and come out to meet him.

Arthur asked politely, but he would not say his name. The corners of his eyes crinkled and he ruffled at his hair and promised that it did not matter. Arthur persisted. The gardener sighed and replied that he could be called everything and nothing, for the world continued to turn and he stood fast to watch. He needed no name. Perplexed, Arthur complained.

"If you would like," chuckled the gardener when Arthur had realized the futility of his argument and ducked his chin down dejectedly. "You may call me Rome."

Arthur knew of no such place, but he quickly took a great fondness to the gardener. Rome was infinitely kind and possessed a vast knowledge of wonderful ancient stories. He spoke of fantastic journeys and strong warriors and brilliant and terrible emperors using an alien language that sung and danced with a sweetness not unlike that which flowed from the lips of the Diamonds when they spoke the native tongue of their King. Arthur began to see him more and more often, but kept their relationship a careful secret from Yao. Rome was a connection to the world beyond the Old Kingdom, where the trees grew twisted and deep and where legends flitted glimmering between the branches, and even at his young age Arthur somehow understood that he would do well to treasure such a thing for as long as he could.

He grew, but Rome did not age. Instead he pruned the trees, gathered armfuls of flowers, and scattered handfuls of glittering seeds onto the moss. At some point, Arthur accepted that there would never appear a new crease at the corners of his eyes (which already had the texture of a brown paper bag), that his gaze would never dim, that his hands would never stumble or slow in their work. The world indeed to turn and Rome stood fast to watch. Arthur was only glad that he was able to watch him in exchange, and listen to his stories. He wondered how many times the world had spun on its axis since Rome was a child, since he could slip his fingers into the wide hand of someone older and wiser. Arthur eventually came to understand that there existed no such number.

It was Rome whom he sought that night, slipping down the path like a shadow draped in soft blue wool, though he had not laid eyes on the gardener for years. He had wandered through the grounds in search of his company many times. He had been met with solitude just as frequently. At first he was bitterly disappointed, but he soon found that he enjoyed the quiet, and was no longer as enchanted by the old stories. He had not felt compelled to search for Rome in months, but that night he could taste his heart in his throat, pounding with an inexplicable desperation to see him.

He reached the small stone bench that Rome had once built for him beneath an overhanging oak. He remembered fondly that his legs used to dangle from the edge so that his heels scarcely brushed the moss underfoot. When he sat, tucking his cloak beneath him to ward off the cool stone, he nearly hunched over. He sighed and tilted his face upwards, watching the starlight filter through the canopy overhead. If Rome was to come, he would. Arthur could only wait.

Some time passed. The breeze toyed with the trees. Eventually, Arthur heard footsteps. Joy swelled in his throat. He stood eagerly, tipping back his hood with a smile. Then there came a low swear from a few feet away, just behind the cover of the undergrowth. The voice was unfamiliar. Arthur was paused in pulling back his hood when Alfred Jones stumbled from the path into the shade of the oak.

They stood staring at one another for a long moment. The wind chattered; the hood fell from Arthur's limp fingers in a dreamlike motion, crumpling at the nape of his neck. It was Alfred who moved first: he stood upright and opened his mouth, only to exhale and close it again. The moonlight glinted from the ring that rested on his finger. Arthur felt a surge of disgust rise in his throat. Words escaped him.

"If I had known…" attempted Alfred, feebly, gazing with no small measure of panic at the little white stone bench and the sheltering branches of the oak tree and the wild expression that Arthur knew had begun to consume his face. "Look, I'm…"

Arthur hissed, whipping his head wildly from side to side for a moment.

"No, hush," he said, "don't say anything; I don't want to hear it."

Alfred seemed to fall numb. Arthur immediately regretted his words. This only angered him further.

"Why are you here," he demanded, taking a step forwards. "Nobody knows about this place."

Alfred wavered. "I wanted to get away," he replied, tilting backwards on his heels. "Everyone is in a tizzy; I didn't want to deal with them anymore. I slipped out and just started wandering. I ended up here." He bit down on his lower lip. "Sorry."

"Stop saying that," said Arthur. "I didn't ask for your apology."

Alfred blinked. A slow change seemed to come over him. "Well, it's just common courtesy," he said eventually. "Please rest assured that it doesn't come from the heart."

The words shattered like a crystal champagne flute. The shards were tossed up towards the canopy by the breeze. They caught the beads of starlight. Arthur could only stare, dumbfounded. He saw that the moonlight rent changes on Alfred's face, turned his cheeks sallow, but pooled in his eyes a thousand times brighter than before. His glasses glittered; one could almost taste the acrid flavor of defiance in the curve of his mouth. Arthur curled his upper lip.

"Glad to oblige," he spat. "Have you nowhere else to be?"

Alfred stood his ground. His timidity had faded in a handful of words. The angles of his face seemed stronger. Sure it was a mere trick of the moonlight.

"I might ask you the same question," he said, unwavering. Arthur could have screamed in confusion. "What gives you the right to speak to me like this?" He didn't give Arthur the chance to answer, taking a step forwards. "Actually, come to think of it, what gives you the right to act like this at all?"

Arthur stepped forwards to match him, digging one hand into the fabric of his own shirt in a vain attempt to curb his fury.

"Funny," he hissed. "I might ask you the exact same question. I merely came out here looking for a little solitude..." He bit his tongue against the lie and kicked at the base of the little stone bench for emphasis. "And of course I had just gotten comfortable when…when you, you blundering child, came stumbling in all innocence and apologies, mumbling some sort of cutesy thing about the kingdom being in a…in a…" He paused. "Sod, what did you call it?"

"A tizzy," answered Alfred through gritted teeth.

"Dreadful colloquialism," muttered Arthur. "Evidently the boy king can't even boast a mastery of his own language."

At this Alfred seemed to raise his hackles in earnest, anger kindling in his eyes, staining the reflection of the moonlight.

"Boy king?" he cried. "Don't speak as if you were some sort of upstanding example of maturity yourself. I didn't ask for this!"

Arthur turned on him outright. "And you think I did?" he cried, voice cracking. "You think I asked for you to be brought here, for the entire world to tell me that I'm not good enough, to replace me with a shiny new model that's got a nice white smile and an extra..." He gestured helplessly at the fat ring on Alfred's finger. "An extra bauble on his finger, with his head full of silly dreams of freedom and individuality and self-expression, and his hands overflowing with those bizarre contraptions that your people seem to be inventing every other moment and selling for piles of gold and prestige and praise and such, and with his heart just positively brimming with generosity and kindness enough to help this poor little hapless queen from the pit he's dug himself? You think I wanted that? How could I?"

He took a shuddering breath. His head swam with the rush of his heartbeat.

"But at least," he continued, gasping, "at least at first I thought you would be older and wiser, that there would be an evident reason for bringing you here besides uniting the kingdoms, some quality you had that I honestly didn't, something that would help us. I thought you might be an improvement; I was even humble enough to think you might…that you might teach me something. I thought there was a reason!" He laughed shrilly. "Instead of a reason, I got a boy of eighteen stumbling onto my doorstep. How can you be my superior? How?" His fingers shook with rage. "And yet everyone seems to think so."

And with that, he fell silent, shaking. Alfred stared. He had curled the hand which bore the ring into a fist at his side and the starlight caught the gold band.

"I don't think…" he began eventually, and his tone was infuriatingly calm, almost sympathetic. Arthur's stomach twisted. He couldn't bear pity. He wouldn't. "I don't think everyone thinks so."

Arthur actually stamped his foot. "For the love of…don't look at me like that!" He took a step forwards and grabbed Alfred's jaw. "Don't look at me like that!"

Alfred jerked his face from Arthur's grip and shoved him away, swearing under his breath.

"Like what?"

He looked almost worried. Arthur felt sick.

"I don't want your pity!" he shouted. "I don't want it, I don't need it. I didn't ask for this! I keep telling everyone, I didn't ask for this! I keep telling everyone, but they won't listen to me! I didn't ask for this, I didn't ask for this! Nobody understands! Am I not the ruler of this kingdom? Why is my voice the only one to go unheard?" He brought his foot down heavily on the ground again, felt the moss give beneath his weight. "I am the Queen of the Old Kingdom of Spades, if you haven't heard!" The words tore from his throat, raw and wild. "You are a disgrace to me, Alfred Jones, your highness." He colored that with a sneer. "And I am the Queen of the Old Kingdom of Spades, and will not be made to look the fool!"

Quiet fell, almost ghostly. The wind toyed with the branches. Arthur faintly registered the ragged come and go of his own breathing. The moon had strengthened and spilled into a silver lake of light between them. Alfred was wiping his glasses on the edge of his cloak. When he lifted his chin, his expression was unthinkably angry. Arthur felt the breath rush from his lungs. Alfred took a step forwards, gripped him by the shoulders, and shook him once, twice.

"I beg your pardon, your majesty," he said, "but I am not the one who's making you look the fool."

Silence settled on their shoulders, but only for an instant. It was with the dreamlike slowness of a sleepwalker that Arthur lifted his left hand and brought it down across Alfred's right cheek. His palm stung. He could not hear the slap above the thudding of his own heart.

Some number of seconds passed.

Alfred's hands had long gone limp on his shoulders. Arthur easily shook himself away. A moment of hesitation, and he was fleeing down the path, blindly stumbling deeper into the gardens until he was tripping over the thick winding roots of the trees and splashing through fathomless puddles of moonlight, his breath tearing from his throat.

The world was turning.

How Arthur wished he could stand by and watch!

The morning found Arthur curled at the roots of an enormous oak, somewhere towards the center of the gardens. Exhausted but unable to bring himself to return to the palace, to Yao and his serenely disapproving stare, to the red mark on Alfred's right cheek, he had collapsed at the base of the trunk. He had fallen asleep easily with his cloak drawn around himself and his head pillowed on his hands.

A pathetic portrait for a queen.

The sunlight woke him. He was sore. The roots had wound knots into the muscles of his back and shoulders. He heard the laughter of the breeze through the leaves, the trill of a bird somewhere in the distance. He smiled. In the gardens of the Old Kingdom of Spades, one could forget that they were in the middle of the ruins of a city.

Rome was seated beside him on the grass.

Arthur sat up slowly. Perhaps he was dreaming. The morning was young and the sunlight was clean, delicate yellow like a lock of hair. Rome turned and looked at him. His old pair of pruning shears rested at his side. He was neither smiling nor frowning. Arthur bit down on his lower lip. A moment later he was clinging to Rome, burying his face into the crook of his shoulder. He smelled of earth and of a thousand irretrievable eras and of impossible wisdom.

"How you have grown," said Rome eventually. His voice was gravelly and warm and ancient like late afternoon sunshine. "It is almost hard to believe that it is really you." He ruffled his hair almost as a father might have done. Arthur laughed weakly.

"Why," he mumbled, "why did you choose now, of all those times?"

Rome stood and pulled Arthur with him. He held him at arm's length and straightened his cloak across his shoulders, plucking an oak leaf from his hair. He licked his thumb and rubbed at a smudge of dirt on his cheek. Arthur didn't try to twist away like he had done when he was a child. He knew well by then that Rome did everything with a purpose.

"I cannot believe that you truly have to ask such a question," said Rome at long last. He took a step back and observred Arthur expressionlessly. His gaze did not make provoke discomfort as Yao's often did. It did not leave Arthur shifting unhappily as if the ground were hot beneath the soles of his shoes. And yet Rome was even more cryptic than his governor, except when he was telling stories.

Arthur sighed.

"I suppose that you know when you are needed," he mumbled, not bothering to hide his shame; he knew that Rome would be able to taste it on the air regardless. "This is a mess."

Rome nodded serenely. Arthur felt his mouth snap into a crooked smile.

"But is it really all my fault?" he asked, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead. Rome shook his head.

"The blame never belongs to just one person," he said. "Never."

Arthur sighed. He should have known better than to expect a straightforward answer.

"Right," he mumbled, adjusting his cloak over his shoulders. He was the Queen of the Old Kingdom – or perhaps the Republic, he should say – of Spades. He could no longer avoid his duties. "Thank you, I suppose. For watching over me, that is."

Rome looked up and smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing. In the strengthening sunlight his gaze was the color and possessed the same ancient crystalline facets of amber. He stepped forwards and pressed his lips to Arthur's forehead.

"Remember, dear Queen of Spades," he murmured as he stepped back again, briefly smoothing Arthur's hair from his face. His callused palm felt sandpapery against his skin. "We cannot alter history. We may only watch as it unfolds."

And with that, he took up his pruning shears and brushed past Arthur to disappear into the gardens.

Arthur slipped into the palace through a hidden side door and flickered through the hallways like a shadow. He had drawn his hood and cloak closely around himself so as not to be recognized. The morning was still young and the corridors were peaceful; most of the royalty was probably still tucked beneath their blue silk sheets. Arthur willed his feet to carry him soundlessly, not wishing that his footsteps should disturb those whom he would have to face with his reputation in shreds.

He wondered fleetingly where Alfred had slept, but pushed the thought from his mind. He finally slipped into his chambers and locked himself inside. He leaned heavily against the door to take a moment to breathe. He realized that he was very hungry. A headache was blooming at his temple. There were still knots in his shoulders and neck. He could feel the dirt clinging to his was doubtless a sight to behold.

He stood from the door and undid the latch of his cloak. It crumpled to the floor with a whisper. He kicked off his slippers and sighed at the feeling of the cool stone against the raw soles of his feet. He made his way over to the bed with the intention of sitting down for just a minute and feeling fine satin beneath his fingertips. He drew back the blue tulle canopy.

King Jones shifted with a soft groan, kicking at the sheets. His head was wedged between several pillows. His lips were parted slightly. One hand was splayed across his chest. He shifted again and Arthur could see a bruise across his right cheek.

He was too horrified to take any satisfaction from that.

Before he could scream and tip the mattress, the doorframe shook and the scratching sound of a key filled the room. Yao exploded inside a moment later. His chest was heaving. One hand was knotted into his own hair. Arthur forgot his anger; he had not known that the Jack of Spades could look so terrified. He let the canopy fall back into place. Not a moment later, Alfred, woken by the noise, pushed it aside again, blinking sleepily. Arthur spared him one look of contempt before he turned to Yao.

"What is it?" he breathed.

Yao gazed at him for a long moment, stunned at the sight. Arthur remembered the dirt, the exhaustion that would be evident on his face. He tilted his chin into the air. He must at least act as if he did not care. Yao cleared his throat. His eyes were frantic. Arthur thrilled with fear.

"Yao." He took a step forwards. "Yao, please."

A moment passed in agony. When Yao spoke, his voice was unsteady.

"They're here," he said quietly. "The Hearts have come."

AN – So sorry for the delay, everyone. As always, thank you so much for reading (and for all your encouraging feedback, which honestly amazes me every time), and I hope you enjoyed!