"My young brother is doing well, I trust?"
Angus McFife, first of his name, raises his head from a deskful of paperwork to regard his firstborn, hovering next to him with an expectant expression.
"Yes," he responds, setting the quill aside. "Your mother, likewise, is in good health after the birth and both of them are currently resting. I shall see to them once I take care of some official matters."
Angus II brightens, relieved. He has Iona's smile, bright and beautiful, which would have won him a legion of suitors were he actually interested in any of them. "Wonderful. I take it that soon we will be hosting a welcome party for Angus III?"
"That we will." Angus I dips the quill in ink and adds another line of text to the letter he's drafting. If he notices the air of anticipation radiating from his son, he does not make it evident.
A moment of silence stirred only by the scratching of quill against parchment.
At last, Angus II clears his throat.
"What are the chances," he begins, perfectly casual, pretending to study the hemming on his sleeves, "that you skip me in the line of succession and hand the crown over to my brother?"
There it is. The king of Dundee takes a long drink from his cup to mask the knowing smirk on his lips. He's known that this subject would come up ever since Iona announced that she was with child again.
"You would prefer to be out on the battlefield than in the throne room." It's not a question. Angus McFife knows his son, thank you very much. Perhaps even better than said son thinks he does. "I understand."
What appears to be a rehearsed string of excuses freezes on his son's lips. Angus II chokes on his next breath and emits a sound not unlike a startled egret. "I- really?"
"Yes, really." Angus I reads over his writing to check if he missed anything. "You're quite proficient at it, too - Sir Proletius speaks highly of your triumph against the Witch-Queen of Cellardyke."
A chuckle, one positively brimming with false modesty. "Ah, yes. Hopefully she won't rise from the dead ever again. When was the last time we had problems with her? 20 years ago?"
"Mhm. She fell to the forces of Auchtertool. Speaking of which-"
Angus II perks up like a hunting dog catching the scent of its quarry. His eyes widen with interest, his back straightens up, and if he had a tail, it would be sweeping the floor at an alarming speed. Subtle as a siege weapon.
"If you do not wish to inherit the crown," Satisfied, Angus I stamps the letter with his royal seal and seals it in an envelope, "then I'm going to have to find another use for you. I understand that you long for a life of adventure, but there is an urgent matter of diplomacy which I need you to attend to for me. Auchtertool is now a sovereign kingdom and, though smaller than us in size, it is important for us to maintain friendly relations with them. They are a powerful ally, as I'm sure you know."
He passes the letter to his son, who accepts it with a serious expression. "Of course, father. May I ask what the matter concerns?"
His father leans back in his chair and stretches with a cracking of joints. "I have extended an offer of friendship to the Mecha-King and inquired about his preferred way of sealing the alliance between our kingdoms. He replied with an offer of arranged marriage. The letter," he gestures at the envelope, "contains my regretful refusal."
"WHAT?!" The young McFife sputters, face even redder than his bandana. He's clutching the letter like he wants to burn it. "I- Father! Surely you don't actually mean- Would it be wise to refuse the King like that? I-I mean, you said yourself that Auchtertool is a valuable ally, so-"
The king of Dundee arches an eyebrow. Hook, line and sinker. "Your brother is too young and you have no interest in marriage, no? As your father, it is my duty to make your happiness my utmost priority."
Okay, no, he can't keep it up anymore. He bursts out laughing, both at his son's baffled expression and at how easily his own flesh and blood fell for the ruse.
"Oh, pick your jaw off the ground, boy," he slaps Angus II's shoulder as the latter just stands there, mouth agape, like a pillar of salt. "I'm not old enough to be deaf, I've heard your lovelorn sighing and that music number about being carried away on mighty wings. The letter contains my approval and blessing - I know that you and the Robot Prince are fond of one another, and that half of your eagerness to rush off into battle is for an opportunity to fight by his side again. So, since I know for a FACT that you two are planning to run off and elope, you might as well make yourself useful and help your old man turn it into an alliance instead of a scandal."
"Soooooo yeah," Angus II rubs the back of his neck, lips quirking upwards into a fond little smile. The shiny beads braided into his hair clink softly along with the metallic feathers adorning his pauldrons. "That's what's been happening. I still get to keep the Hammer of Glory, though, at least until III is old enough to use it. It's pretty handy against goblins."
The version of him dressed like he just fell out of a post-apocalyptic wasteland keeps staring at him in silence.
"So, how are things in timeline 38B?"
