The World is Snowblind Chapter 1, a hetalia - axis powers fanfic

The World Is Snow-blind

October 28, 1763~

I felt sick. My cheeks were red from where my hand had rubbed them. My eyes were wet from the endless tears I wept. My body shook as the cold absentness of company washed over me. I sat in the empty foyer, scared and confused. I was acting like the end of the world had come. In a way, it was the end of my world, the one I knew, the one I grew up in. That world was tearing apart and I could do nothing but cry for it to be fixed.

This all started about a month ago. After the end of the entitled French and Indian War, my papa got to come back home. He had arrived just like he did whenever he was in war, bloody, beaten, weak, normal aftermaths of fights, but when I ran to meet him at the gates of our home, all he did was hang his head and cry. I had asked him what was wrong and he told me, "J'ai juste une petite enterprise de prendre soin de."

I didn't understand what he meant at the time. Two weeks after, a man came to our home in the middle of the night and spoke with Papa in the library down in the main room. The sudden knock at the door had woken me up and I had climbed out of bed to go see what was going on. When I got down stairs, I slipped behind the workers' passageway at the back of the library and watched the remainder of their conversation silently.

"Do you understand, Francis, what we're doing?"

"…Oui…"

"Do you agree with the terms we have come to?"

"…Oui…"

"Good. Very good."

They spoke in a language I had little time to concentrate on. English. Papa had his head down and was sitting in a padded chair next to the fire that lit the room. His face was pale and sweaty. I saw his hands tremble as he gripped the arms of his chair. One of our maids was tending to a glass of wine next to him, her hands shaking just as much as Papa's as she poured the red liquid into the clear cup.

The man Papa was speaking with was turned sideways from me, his face sparked by the light from the fire. He looked tired, dark rings lingering under his green eyes, his shoulders slumped.

There was a slight moment when neither of them spoke and the maid placed the bottle down and backed out of the room. It was just them then, alone in shaded room, the feeling of anxiousness filling the air. Finally, the man spoke, though I could not understand his language. His voice was low and calm. "As you know, Francis, I am very—very tired. I would suspect you are too. And since you seem to be taking this very well in spite of everything, I think I will take my leave now."

He stood up with a slight groan and brushed off his coat. He walked over to where Papa sat and reached over him to the hooks that hung from the wall, plucking a black hat from its holder. He placed it lightly on his head and sighed. "We will have the formal signing next during November," he had stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. He dropped his hand to his side and stared down at Papa. "You know he has already forgiven you, Francis—"

"I know," Papa interrupted the other with a shaky voice. "But please tell him that I did not mean to hurt him, in ze slightest." Papa spoke into his lap, filling the other man's sentence, his hands clasped in front of him.

The other man stared down at him for a bit longer then patted him lightly on the shoulder. "Alfred does not need to be told… Good-bye, Francis," he whispered. He looked up and reached for the rim of his hat. His fingers curved around the sturdy material and tipped it down just above his eyes. "Matthew."

The rest I can remember from that night was that I had ran out from the workers door and sobbed into Papa's knee, begging him to cease his own cries. He just stared at me and whispered:

"Mathieu? Pourquoi avez-vous fait?"

I blinked as I was taken away from the memory, sniffling up the last of my hushed cries. I looked around the room and frowned. The accueil that stood stiffly by the front doors had told me to wait in here over an hour ago. He had shoved me in the room along with my neatly packed bags and dismissed any questions of, "Où est Papa?" and "Ce qui se passé?" Though, I did know what was happening. I was being taken away.

The night I had seen Papa talk with that man, was the night I found out I was to be taken away, back to where I originated from, Canada, to start a new life under the care of that man he spoke with.

I did not notice until a few days ago that I had seen that man before, many times actually. See, when I was younger, Papa would show me a very detailed painting of a man dressed in a dark red coat with high boots and draping belts that held a sharp tipped sword close to his legs. In the drawing, it was clear that, in person, the man would be quite thin and pale. He was also not that tall, reaching maybe to Papa's eyes, even with the boots, but he stood stiffly with his shoulders back, making him look bigger than he was. His features were sharp and pointed. His eyes were a dark green with a swirl of yellow that glared off to the side. They were almost hidden by his large black-stained hat and hair, a dirty yellow tangle of locks that draped across his face. Another characteristic of the man's was his particularly large eyebrows that furrowed his forehead. Papa went on to tell me that he had known the man for quite a long time, that he was a fierce competitor. I remember worrying that day, because even though he was smiling, Papa's voice cracked as he said the man's name: "Arthur Kirkland."

Though I had only seen him, heard him, I did not like Arthur Kirkland. He seemed false in a way. When he acted so calmly towards Papa that night I could still see the glitter of spite and hate in his eyes. He was playing a role he seemed to have mastered long ago. Though I did not fall for it; his trick of personalities. Arthur Kirkland was an evil man. A heartless, evil man.

"Sir jeune. Vous sont nécessaires dans la salle principale."

I looked up from the floor and over to the doorway. The accueil stood ridged with the same sour look on his face. His gloved hands were tight next to his thighs and his lips were pursed. "Vous sont nécessaires. Il est temps d'aller."

I held in another wave of tears, letting the emotions prick at the inside of my throat. I stood and grabbed my bags from the side of my chair. I struggled to lift them so decided to drag them over to the door. I gave a quick glance over my shoulder as I heard the side door opened and a worker walked in.

"Ici, Mathieu. Permettez-moi de vous aider avec qui." The worker placed his hands on mine and slipped his fingers under the bags straps. He pulled them over his shoulders with ease and walked with me to the main room, the accueil giving a distasteful sniff as we walked by.

When we entered the main room the muted chatter you could hear from the hall ceased. A group of men I have never seen looked towards me with wide eyes and opened mouths, their thin mustaches curved to match their wide lips. The worker said something to me I did not listen to and kissed my head. He placed my bags down and turned back to the hallway.

I never like attention. The sight of the young children that played in the square down by the town, bragging about their stories or falling and crying out only to get a quick look made me confused. Who would want all eyes peering at them? To me, it made a person feel small; like their whole image was being judged in other people's minds. With these men I knew I was being judged. I could tell they were describing me to their thoughts. A fragile little boy with a broken home.

"Ah, mon chéri Mathieu," Papa's voice came from the side of me.

I did not look away from the ground as Papa made his way over to me, still feeling the other men's eyes on me. I felt Papa's warm hands rest on my shoulder and he nudged me forward to the crowd of men.

"Good evening, monsieurs. Thiz iz Matthew," he turned to me and returned to hushed French. "Mathieu, dire bonjour."

I just nodded at the men and ducked my head. I felt the urge to cry bubble up inside me. The men still watched me.

Papa squeezed my shoulders and walked out in front of me. "Iz Arthur here yet or will I take him?" he spoke to one of the men in English.

"Not needed, sir. Mr. Kirkland is coming in momentarily," the man gestured towards the door and turned back to the crowd.

Papa stood still for a moment then turned back to me. He looked down at me, his gaze unmoving. He spoke something over his shoulder at the men, still watching me, and the crowd slowly walked out the main door, leaving me and Papa alone.

I stared up at him. "Papa?"

I jumped as Papa's arms flew around me and his body came to the floor. He dug his head into the crook of my neck and the fabric of my clothing became wet. The tears blocked burst out of me in a loud gasp. I gripped the back of his coat and cried into his hair, letting my heaving chest bounce back and forth against his shoulder.

"Oh Mathieu. Je suis désolé. Donc, désolé. Je vous ai manqué, mon amour," Papa breathed close to my neck and shook in my hold. "Donc désolé."

"Non, Papa, non. Vous n'avez fait. Papa, je t'aime," I cried harder and sniffed softly.

Papa shook his head and kept it down on my shoulder. I rubbed his back and kissed the side of his face. We stayed like that, hugging each other, till a dried cough hummed through the air. "Ahem…"

I looked up towards the door I had not known to be open. And there he was. Arthur Kirkland. He leaned against the doorway, his fingers picking at his gloves, his eyes down studying them. His yellow bangs hung lifeless over his thin face. He looked up slightly, locking his eyes on mine, draining me of all feeling. "Hello Matthew. Francis."

Papa turned abruptly, pushing me back a little, and stiffened as Arthur walked in. From the side I could tell Papa was trying to put on a smile. "Arthur? When did you get here? We have been waiting."

"Yes, well, here I am," Arthur gestured around the room. "Is he ready?" he looked at me and nodded. I shrunk away.

Papa looked to me then back, his bottom lip quivering. "Um…yes. Yes he iz." He stood and straightened his over shirt with a cough, his hands not leaving my shoulders. "May I ask where—where he will be staying?"

Arthur blinked at whatever Papa had said. "Well, he'll be going to England, first thing, then probably to the Americas. Any time, he'll end up back in Canada."

The swirling blonde curls from Papa's head bounced as he nodded. "That iz…reasonable," he paused to smile weakly, "though very far from Europe don't you think?"

"As if I'm going to hand you visiting hours, Francis," Arthur sneered in response.

Papa's brow furrowed as he stared at Arthur's unmoving face. He coughed into his hand—the air in the room growing devilishly cold—then continued speaking. "Give me a moment to say good-bye, Arthur, then Matthew will be ready—"

Again, Arthur's cynical tongue flashed out over Papa's words. "I have already given you that moment. You have spent that time and now it is time to go." He stopped and flicked his hand out behind him. One of the young men that was from Arthur's group responded to the signal, coming in past the doorway and walking up to my bags, grabbing them an setting on back outside. Arthur watched the man go then let his eyes travel back to mine. Holding out his hand he said, "Come, Matthew, it's time to leave."

I looked at him strangely and scooted closer to Papa's leg.

Arthur breathed in and out loudly before looking at Papa with two darkened green eyes. "Bring him, if you will." He pointed at me then turned and walked down the front stairs behind him.

I felt Papa's leg shake and backed up when he turned around. I looked up at him and felt my stomach churn again. "Mathieu," he said, "marche avec moi."

I knew what he meant when he said this. I knew that he would never actually say "Good-bye" to me, because he didn't mean it. And I wouldn't say it back, for I didn't mean it either. He let his hand fall into mine and grabbed it tightly. He took one step then waited for me to follow. For a second I couldn't, but with a slight tug from Papa's strong arm I began to match his footsteps till we reached the doorway. I tripped along the steps outside the door and my feet scraped the rocks of the front drive, but Papa held me up. I was guided through the crowd of men from earlier and halted in front of a large gray hansom. Arthur was standing there, his back turned. The man he was talking to nodded towards us and Arthur glanced back over his shoulder. He pushed aside the man and roughly opened the small door. "Matthew."

I looked behind me at Papa, a low, "Mais pourquoi?" falling from my lips before Arthur nudged me forward. I climbed the stiff wood steps up into the body of the carriage and sat down weakly.

Papa took a step closer to the carriage door and smiled through a new wave of pain that covered his eyes. His throat squeezed his words and his voice failed on him as he spoke. "Soyez courageux pour moi, Mathieu," he said. "Rappelez-vous toujours l'amour que j'ai pour vous. Toujours. Je t'aime ange."

The hurt coming up in the back of my eyes sunk to my mouth. "Je t'aime," I said, involuntarily loud.

Papa smiled and opened his mouth to say more when Arthur's body slid in between the carriage and pushed Papa back, shutting the door behind him.

It was like sitting back in the foyer again. Alone, scared. No not scared, that was to lose a word, I was terrified. Mortified even. I looked down at my hands and felt the carriage shake as someone placed, most likely, my bags on the hook on top of the roof. That is when I remembered I forgot Kumajiro; my little white stuff bear that Papa had given me the first week I had gone to live with him. The night before, I had dropped him behind my bed. I went to Papa the next morning and asked him to get him back for me. He had told me he would do it later and forgot. And with everything that was happening, I had forgotten too.

I began to cry again. I let all the sticking pain in the back of my throat come out. My eyes watery, my hands trembling, I pulled my legs up to my chest. I hated everything. The men from the front room, the worker who had helped me take my bags, the Alfred boy Papa had talked about the night all this started, Arthur and his terrible heart. But most of all, I hated myself. I had lost everything. My home, Kumajiro, Papa, everything that was my life or reminded me of it and all I did was walk away. I felt like screaming, but, again, I've never liked attention, and surely I'd get some if I did. I curled into a ball, my head resting on my knees, and sobbed into the fabric of my pants. I heard the door open and Arthur slide in into the seat across from me. I didn't look towards him; I kept crying.

"Please stop crying," Arthur said something to me in the language him and Papa used. I ignored him and carried on with my fit. "Stop crying…" again he tried to speak to me in that ugly voice. "Arrête de pleurer!"

That I understood. I sat still and held my breath, waiting for him to hit me or something someone as evil as him would do. But nothing happened.

I heard him sigh and speak back in English. "Can you only speak French?" I did not answer him. "Pouvez-vous ne parler que fançais?"

I looked over at him then turned back to my seat.

"Hah—I'll take that as a yes then," Arthur flicked at his coat and pursed his lips. "Je suis désolé, ça va. Mais vous avez besoin d'arrêter de pleuer."

I nodded and pulled in on myself tighter. Whenever I cried in front of Papa, he would sing to me or hug me or even do the same, but he would never just sit back and looked away like Arthur was doing. Never leave me to take care of it for myself. The carriage lurched and started to roll down the drive, Arthur did not speak to me through the whole ride—I doubt he even looked at me. And that is when I knew that this man would never, truly, be anything close to a father to me.

Author's note: Hello everyone! first chapter done! Here are the translations-

"J'ai juste une petite enterprise de prendre soin de." "I just have some businesses to take care of."

"Mathieu? Pourquoi avez-vous fait?" "Mathieu? Why did you do that? "

"Où est Papa?" and "Ce qui se passé?" "Where is Daddy?" And "What happened?"

"Sir jeune. Vous sont nécessaires dans la salle principale." "Young sir. You are needed in the main room. "

"Vous sont nécessaires. Il est temps d'aller." "You are needed. It's time to go. "

"Ici, Mathieu. Permettez-moi de vous aider avec qui." "Here, Mathieu. Let me help you with that. "

"Ah, mon chéri Mathieu," "Ah, dear Matthew,"

"Mathieu, dire bonjour." "Mathieu, say hello."

"Oh Mathieu. Je suis désolé. Donc, désolé. Je vous ai manqué, mon amour." "Donc désolé." "Oh Mathieu. I'm sorry. So sorry. I've missed you, my love." "So sorry."

"Non, Papa, non. Vous n'avez fait. Papa, je t'aime," "No, Daddy, no. All you did. Dad, I love you, "

"Mathieu." "Marche avec moi." "Matthew." "Walk with me."

"Mais pourquoi?" "But why?"

"Soyez courageux pour moi, Mathieu," "Be brave for me, Matthew,"

"Rappelez-vous toujours l'amour que j'ai pour vous. Toujours. Je t'aime ange." "Always remember the love I have for you. Always. I love you angel. "

"Je t'aime." "I love you."

"Arrête de pleurer!" "Stop crying!"

"Pouvez-vous ne parler que fançais?" "Can you only speak French?"

"Je suis désolé, ça va. Mais vous avez besoin d'arrêter de pleuer." "I'm sorry, okay. But you need to stop crying."

Thank you all for reading!