A Tale as Old as Time

VI

Ever since that first dinner together, Francis had been wondering about that serpentine master. Arthur, he'd said his name was. Arthur of the Kirkland family in Strathclyde. Arthur Kirkland. While it sounded strange because he wasn't used to English names, Francis sort of liked how that one sounded.

There wasn't any real point in knowing his name. They dined together twice a day most days, and more often than not, both of them were silent. Francis had no interest in setting the ill-tempered master off, and it seemed Arthur was very deliberate in how he ate. Neither of the two had time for small talk.

That changed one day nearly a week into the whole ordeal, where, all of a sudden, Arthur set his silverware aside and rested his chin on his wrist, something quite informal that Francis had never expected from him. He also set his silverware aside, unnerved by the master's seemingly mindless attitude.

“How did you develop such a strong relationship with your so-called brothers?” Arthur asked suddenly, those sharp eyes of his examining Francis.

So-called? What gave him that sort of notion? Francis brushed it off and cleared his throat. “I'm sorry?”

The serpent flicked his tongue out and huffed. “You're unusually kind to your family. None of my brothers ever acted so kindly towards me,” he explained, and the Frenchman had to bite back his thoughtless response of ‘Well, it probably helps that I'm not like you’. As entertaining as it would have been to see his reaction, it would almost certainly get him into trouble.

Instead he thought it over, wondering how much detail he really wanted to give him. Well, there was no use hiding it; it wouldn't serve him any purpose. Besides, getting Arthur to understand a little bit of humanity wouldn't hurt. “Their mother was some unknown English woman. She passed during her voyage here just after she had named the boys. My family took them in; there weren't any monasteries close enough to us that would,” he started, and, to his amazement, Arthur was leaning forward, seemingly interested in the story.

“When he was eight, Alfred decided he wanted to be a guard, and someone in the next town over was willing to train him once he turned twelve. Matthew and I sent him off when he was old enough, and that was the last we heard from him. We had no idea he ended up here instead. Funny how things happen that way.” Francis chuckled and wiped his eyes, sighing. Even if it was relieving to see Alfred alive and well, the memories still stung. They went nearly seven years without any sort of sign to tell them he was alive.

Arthur traced shapes on the tablecloth with a frown, his gaze softer than any Francis had ever seen from him. “So, because you lost one of them, you became overprotective of the other. That was why you took his place,” he muttered, then he leaned back in his hair with his head in his hands. “It's so obvious.”

The Frenchman nodded slowly and looked down at his plate, pretending to be interested in the breadcrumbs. He loved Matthew only as much as any older brother would love his sibling. There was nothing more to it.

“Family love. Nothing like it,” Arthur scoffed as he folded his napkin.

Francis watched him as he recoiled, seemingly disgusted by the thought. So, treading carefully, he asked, “What are your brothers like?”

“My brothers? Why would you care about them? They're back home in Britain, undoubtedly enjoying themselves far too much with drinks and women. Maybe men as well.” The serpent rolled his eyes, straightening up. He didn't seem to be very comfortable in his seat, but his expression didn't show any signs of pain. Either Francis was worrying too much about this, or he had simply forgotten just how displeased Arthur seemed to be about everything.

“Loud. Rude. Reckless. Useless. Bothersome. Apathetic. Overall, they're just annoying,” Arthur said finally. He ran his hands through his hair before resting his scale-covered elbows on the table. It didn't do anything to fix his hair; Francis doubted even the Lord Himself could tidy that blonde mess.