Full summary (because 255 character limit killed it): The end of summer nears and the city of Paris has fallen. The city trembles before the looming Reich, but Arthur does not. Neither does the double-edged cross, standing strong in a battle where guns and bombs mean nothing and all one can trust are the webs of faith, betrayal and deceit that hold the once-fair city together.
June 4th, 1940 - 10 Downing Street, London, England
I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone. At any rate, that is what we are going to try to do.
Arthur Kirkland stood at attention outside the Prime Minister's office. He had been summoned here for one thing, and one thing only. France had fallen; the Reich was now on the shores of England's silver dragon, waiting to conquer, to destroy and to own. Arthur did not want to be here, he wanted to be fighting but there was no fight left, the soldiers had returned and now the nation waited with bated breath as the grumbled voice of their new leader crackled through their radios. A broadcast of hope.
That is the resolve of His Majesty's Government-every man of them. That is the will of Parliament and the nation. The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength.
A man in a suit appeared from inside Winston's room, dabbing at his dribbling nose with a tartan kerchief, swearing to himself in a heavy Scottish accent. "Alright…" he said, stuffing the kerchief back into his coat pocket, "I have all the information you'll need in a folder in the room over." Arthur wasn't paying attention, still staring at the door.
Walking over, the man grabbed Arthur's ear, pulling him. "Dinnae dingy your brother, c'mon!" Pulling the young blond into the other room, ignoring the light punches the Brit was throwing at him, the man in the suit set him down on a chair, grinning. "Oh my…" he said, pulling out his kerchief, staring intently at Arthur's face, "You've gone an' got bogies all over yer nose…"
Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail.
Before Arthur could protest, the man was rubbing at his face with the tartan kerchief, clucking his tongue like a mother hen. Regaining some sense of pride, Arthur shoved his brother away. "Get out of it Ian!" he growled, rubbing his bright red nose violently.
Ian laughed, folding the kerchief carefully and replacing it in his jacket before sliding around the desk, sitting down in the large leather chair. "Little Artie's got bogies on his face." He teased.
The redness from Arthur's nose seemed to flood into his cheeks as he grumbled. His brother, still grinning, began searching through the piles of papers on the desk, pulling out a large yellowish folder with a small 'aha!' of triumph. The Scotsman hesitated, the folder sitting in his hand. "Arthur," the dark green eyes stared intently at the younger brother, "Are ya scared?"
Pride answering before sense, Arthur blurted out, "No. Why would I be scared, it's just a trip into occupied France."
"An then yer arse fell aff." Ian said calmly, eyebrow raised, "Yer just a lad… Mum, bless 'er heart, woulda seen us in the cundy before aff fightin' in the shadows."
"Mum isn't around anymore." Arthur said quietly, "I want to fight for my country. Let me do that…"
Ian, after a pause, passed over the folder. "Ya better not be dyin' fer it." He muttered as Arthur broke the red wax emblazoned with the throne, snapping the king in half.
Quietly reading the documents, avoiding the steady look Ian was sending him, Arthur got to his feet, slipping the papers back into the folder. "I'll show you to the door." Ian offered, following after Arthur into the entrance room.
We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender,
A storm raged outside as the older brother helped Arthur with his long trench coat, making sure the folder was safely hidden inside the dark material. The Englishman opened the door, hesitating on the landing. "Goodbye then Ian."
The Scotsman was rubbing at his eyes. "Goodbye ya little monsta… glad to be rid of you." Arthur stepped out into the rain, flipping his collar up. He only made it five steps before Ian called out to him.
"And Arthur?" he stopped, looking round at his brother, "Don't get yourself shot, alright? Miren'd make sure I'd never have any little ones ever. And give those Krauts a good dunt from me."
The Brit smiled, saluting his brother before disappearing into the shadows of the street.
And even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.