My very first FF submission. Hello! This was originally written as a response to a Role-play on FB, the big bad account killer came and stole my awesome Sky Pirate Arthur's life ;A;)9 Enjoy the sad 3
It was night once more. Arthur's room still and silent, a musky smell lingered in the air, the night was too warm, it suffocated Alfred really. Still, he didn't leave it. Nope, not since Arthur's body was removed, he stayed in that room. The smell of whiskey clung to the American's breath and clothes, the bottles of the alcohol comfort were lined neatly in a circle around him. It was his own little circle. Within that space he controlled everything. Everything was safe, he could protect what was left there, his own little circle of doubt.
People kept their distance, they knew better than to try and comfort or even speak to Alfred. He had been acting out in deranged ways. Even pulled his pistol out and pointed it at poor little Canada when the twin came to help move Alfred away from Arthur's corpse. Matthieu panicked when the gun was pointed at him, especially since Alfred was holding it. Long ago when they were just around the age of ten, Alfred had been practicing with a musket and accidentally shot his twin brother in the arm. It was an accident of course but it always caused Matthieu to fear a gun in Alfred's hands since that day.
Once left to his own devices, Alfred fell into a denial. Arthur was still there, of course he was. How silly. He was a proud nation just like America. No gun could have killed the male. Never. Alfred would think this while rocking on his tailbone and nursing a bottle of whiskey once more. Why whiskey? Well... The American had been obsessed with the song whiskey lullaby since the day that he walked in on Arthur's murder.
"Lalalalalala...lalalalalalalaaaa..." Alfred took a long swig from the bottle then set it in the circle. "The rumors flew but nobody know how much she blamed herself
For years and years... she tried to hide the whiskey on her breath
She finally drank her pain away a little at a time
But she never could get drunk enough to get him off her mind
Until the night..." He grabbed the pistol from his waist and cocked it placing it next to his temple. "She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger
And finally drank away his memory..." Dropping the gun and his hand, Alfred fell back on to the floor, staring at the ceiling. "Arthur... I didn't lie when I said I would only love you..." No tears fell, he had no more left. He looked to his side and to a brown bottle near him. No amount of alcohol could wash away the memories, the pain and horror of that day.
Arthur's death...
Alfred remembered it clear as day.
They had taken to land for supplies and so that Alfred could properly tell his employers that he could not be working for them anymore. Both Alfred and Arthur were fully aware that they had many enemies, too many in fact, so they were always cautious on land now. Like normal, Arthur had some paperwork to be done. So, Alfred left him to do that while he went out to town hall to speak with the volunteer fire rescue team about him not being able to participate anymore. Leaving Arthur to do his work, but they both warned each other to be careful of others, Alfred would be seen the most in danger since he was going to be outside. So, Arthur should have been safe inside the manor.
Never had they bought his would happen.
Glass shattered.
Cursing.
Yelling.
And then the shadow of something unknown standing over the Pirate as he laid limp on the desk.
Arthur had been sipping tea, as usual and looking over some archives that required his attention. It was quiet like he liked it, but couldn't help but to think maybe he should had gone with the whiny American, or perhaps gone up on the ship to help with the maintenance. He knew his crew could handle it but he could shake the feeling that perhaps he should not have been alone. Rubbish. He was a Pirate, could handle anything that dare to cross him. Pushing the paperwork to the side, he grabbed his book he was currently reading, Artemis Fowl. Falling into the fantasy world once more, Arthur was cut off from the world and all the things that battered his mind.
The front door the the manor swung open. A shadowy figure sauntered in unnoticed. It made way down the hall and to the study where Arthur was reading. The door to the room was slightly ajar. The shadowy figure shifted and peered a dark eye into the room, eyeing the Brit while he peacefully read. Unknowingly, Arthur started to drift, tiredness becoming a plague on his mind. Then the prowler decided to act.
As soon as Arthur's head nodded, the figure dashed into the room, clamping his hand over England's mouth and nose. Green eyes widened. His air had been cut off, but he could still... Arthur's elbow ripped back and smashed into the attacker's solar plexus causing him to crash back into the window, breaking the glass to shatter on the floor. Strange, the shadowy figure didn't bleed, but came back with full force. Was this thing not human? Arthur pulled out his short sword, pointing it at the attacker in a warning fashion. "Back off... go back to where ye came from." He warned still.
It didn't stop. Even when the blade sliced into the shadow's body, it still came forward. What was this strange creature? It didn't bleed, it didn't get hurt nor did it stop! "Alfred..." Arthur murmured in fear. Fear? No, that was not something Arthur was going to express. He would continue to fight on. The creature grabbed Arthur's wrist, fingers and nails dug in like blade to his skin. It was like burning hot blades sinking into his wrist. Pain screamed in his mind.
He gripped the sword tighter, wildly slashing at the attacker's body until the seemingly inhuman thing grabbed that arm too, ripping it to the side. Arthur's rapier flew across the desk, lodging into the bookcase just to the side. Wincing in immense pain, the Pirate knew his arm was cleanly broken. He cursed out loudly and ripped his wrists away, landing back against the desk, books and papers falling everywhere. His porcelain tea cup slid and smashed onto the floor, shards and tea spewed everywhere on the hardwood floor.
Arthur cursed again. Groping around, he pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the mysterious thing. He warned once more before pulling the trigger, the lead bullet raced through the air but seemed to fade right through the thing. Arthur's blood raced, what was this... it was immortal!
The shadowy figure laughed, the bullet seemed to turn in mid air and slice through Arthur's arm, blood spurted and soaked down his arm. His pistol fell to the ground. The Pirate lurched forward, relying on natural instinct now as he threw wild, yet calculated punches. These should have rendered the other defenseless and unable to fight back but Arthur stumbled backwards and into a book case, books falling to the ground. Pain, a burning pain radiated over his body, it only lasted a moment before the adrenaline kicked in once again.
Blood spilled down his cheek, he could feel it soak his back, his vision blurred. Was this it? He blindly raced towards the thing that wanted him dead, clawing and screaming as more cuts slashed at his skin. Skin being sliced and breaking of bones and cries of anguish all came from the Brit. Sweat poured, mixing with the hot blood that blinded his vision. Arthur panted, coughing up blood and the tea that he had been drinking earlier. No food had been in his system, he hadn't eaten since the dinner with the crew the night before. Both Arthur and Alfred planned to have a quiet dinner before they went back to the ship, Alfred should have been at the store by now.
"Alfred..." He choked, the shadow gripping Arthur's throat now. Blood trickled down his chin. His body was ragged and worn. Fully beaten and now realizing hat he was no match, Arthur knew this was the end for him. What ever this fowl being was, it had beaten him somehow. He was tired, but still Arthur fought, clawing at the shadowy figure's arms and hands, desperate for him to let go. Things grew darker, more blurry... everything was fading. He tried to cling on but... Arthur lost consciousness.
The shadow threw him down into the soft office chair, pushing it back to the desk. Arthur sat limply, head rolling back onto the soft cushion as if he was merely sleeping in the chair. A gun cocked and pressed to the back of Arthur's head. "Account disabled." The figure spoke mechanically, before laughing and pulling the trigger.
The bullet tore through Arthur's skull, ripped through his brain, smashed through the other side of his skull and skin then flew to lodge into the desk lamp, shattering the bulb. Blood spurted everywhere, soaking the desk with the red liquid of life. The Briton's head fell limply onto the desk, onto the very book he had been reading just a short while ago. Bits of broken and dislodged skull and muscle shifted forward onto the hard cover of the book.
And thus was the end of the Sky Pirate. Fully satisfied with his second assassin of the day, The shadowy figure walked calmly out of the room, stepping into the spilled tea. Soaked feet, he walked calmly out of the manor, not giving a damn if his footsteps could be seen or followed. Sure the Sky Pirate's blood was splattered on him, but so was another's. Not a care in the world, this figure had. He could not be touched, not by anyone. For in this world... he was seen as an overseer for things.
Remembering to stop at the market to pick up supplies for the air craft, Alfred strolled home without a care. He was happy, blissful even. Walking by a newsstand, he bought something a private seller had, a rope bracelet. He bought two, one blue one green. Smiling calmly, Alfred ventured on his way back to the manor only to find the doors wide open... And foot print scuffs on the porch.
Fear set in. His stomach dropped and mind flew. The groceries and papers fell on the sidewalk while he dashed inside, he glanced around. "Arthur?... Arthur answer me!" He continued to run around the manor until he noticed the footprints leaving the study. The foot prints were too large to belong to any of Arthur's footwear.
Now shaking in fear, Alfred gulped and approached the study's wooden door and knocked on it. Silence. He knocked again, "Arthur?" Still nothing. Once again the dreaded fear filled his stomach as he reached for the bronze handle of the door. His mind raced with all the bad things that could have happened.
Arthur was hurt.
Arthur was attacked in some way.
He was arrested for Pirating.
Arthur killed the intruder?
... Arthur left.
The last one was true in a way... Slowly, Alfred turned the handle of the door and pushed it open. The hinges groaned, echoing throughout the silent manor like cries of a gull down by the bay. The room was dark, perhaps the light was turned off. Alfred sighed, all worked up for nothing? Was Arthur just sleeping... Jeez. He nearly had a heart attack from worrying. Shaking his head with a soft smile, Alfred walked to where the desk was.
Something was off; he couldn't hear the soft breathing of a sleeping England... And why was he stepping on paper- was that broken glass he just stepped on? He swallowed hard once again. "I-Iggy? Come on, we should board before we're found." He reached the desk finally and placed his hand on it, warm liquid soaked his hand. "Jeez, you pass out and spill your tea again?" He joked lightly, choking back a sick feeling as he noticed the liquid was thick and kind of sticky. "D-did you change your tea or something?" His voice shook, that wasn't tea that covered his hand.
"Arthur..." The trees swayed in the sudden wind, letting the setting sun's red and orange rays light up the room like fire.
He wasn't breathing. That sandy blonde mess of hair, tamed by the blood that covered and flowed onto the hardwood desk, staining the papers and books, that the Brit was always seen with, a ruby red. Alfred's stomach lurched, turned then spilled onto the floor. He reached up to cover his mouth to stop his gagging. His bloody hand covered his mouth, copper filling his nose, washing the smell of his vomit from his senses.
Blood.
Arthur's blood...
On.. His... Face...
On his lips...
It was still... Warm...
Alfred lurched forward, upchucking on the floor once again. Sure he was a veteran and fought in many wars. Sure he played gore and horror video games, watched horror movies, loved shows like CSI and alike... But this was different. This was someone he loved. Someone he held higher than the air he breathed. Someone he swore to protect until his dying day. He couldn't stop himself from vomiting on the very floor where he sat weeks before, playing a game with the Sky Pirate... He never did tell Arthur what he had planned for winning that game and winning Arthur's life... He threw up again.
He could almost hear Arthur speaking to him, 'America, really...? Be rational.' He tried to. Lifting his head he looked at the desk, wiping the stray saliva from his lips and chin with his jacket sleeve. Now that his eyes adjusted to the dark lighting of the room he saw just how horrible it truly was. Blood splattered everywhere. Books and papers scattered all over, ink staining the area rug. Obvious signs of struggle. Arthur's rapier stuck in the bookcase, his pistol strewn across the floor towards the door.
This was fowl play, Alfred could tell that. He walked behind Arthur, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his mouth again. A single gunshot to the back of the head, assassination style. Brain matter and bones clung- Alfred couldn't stand it. He grabbed his bomber jacket, ripped it off and gently covered Arthur, hiding the murder from his eyes. Then he proceeded to attempt to throw up again, but there was nothing left in his stomach, Just some stomach enzymes and saliva tamed his nausea.
How could this happen? What happened...? Alfred was only gone for about four hours. The crew's warnings were correct. They never should have left the sky. Never. Or at least, Arthur should had stayed behind on the ship... Alfred could have brought him his papers... Alfred could have been his errand boy. Ever the stubborn Brit... He didn't want to leave Alfred alone on the land while he did his own errands.
Tears stung Alfred's now dull blue eyes. He didn't care about image. He didn't care about showing face and being manly and strong. He never felt more weak. More useless than he did at that moment. This was worse than the revolution... Much worse. Did his heart break somewhere this time? The American couldn't tell. He felt too nauseous, too angry, too sad. He couldn't speak, couldn't think. The world was blank. Who died? Arthur or Alfred? Perhaps both...
'America the beautiful' filled the empty room, too loud... The sound pounded in Alfred's ears. He had to make it stop. Taking out his phone he flipped it open, But didn't speak. Switzerland's voice rang in the study. "You guys are late! What's going on? The door is wide open you know, and dropping things on the sidewalk? Jeez America, carry your own shit." Alfred stared blankly at the darkened back of Arthur, the blood soaking the males tunic. The blonde guessed he was injured in more places than just a bullet to the head. The line was silent for just a moment before Prussia could be heard entering the room, poking fun at the Swiss man before the phone was dropped and... Gunshots. Alfred grabbed his phone and chucked out the broken window. His whole body trembled, the gunshots still rung in his head, images of Arthur falling on the desk, life fading away, ran in his mind. He didn't quite follow what happened next.
Sirens grew closer.
Hurried voices and footsteps.
Alfred was yanked to his feet and pulled out of the room, screaming and pulling to get back to Arthur.
Crime scene investigators filled the room.
Everything fell blank as Alfred passed out.
When he came to, he was laying in a paramedic's van, much like the one he would join to help out at accidents and such... well now he was in one being tended to. He ripped the IV from his flesh, ignoring the pain and blood pouring down his arm. He quickly tied a gauze around his arm and raced out of the van.
Being a nation, Arthur's body was tended to differently. They had moved him to his own bed, cleaned his wounds, bandaged them then laid him peacefully down. There was nothing human hands could do, nothing after that. Alfred knew this and headed straight there, falling to his knees at Arthur's bed side and grabbed his now icy hand.
"Arthur... Arthur...!" Gripping his lover's cold hand tightly, the American dropped his head on the bed, sobs over coming his shoulders. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I won't... I won't top you... I won't make you cry... I'll eat all the scones you make... please don't leave me..." His body trembled under his sadness, refusing to let go of his hand, "I'll never love anyone but you..." His voice shook and rang throughout the manor. The police and medics hung their heads, such pain filled Alfred's voice, it was if he was dying himself... no, he had died.
America stayed there until England's body began to fade away to be reborn. He looked up, tears staining his cheeks, eyes a hollow blue. "No... NO!" He gripped his hand tighter, his cries desperate now as he felt his heart fully shattering. "No! Don't take him away! I need him, please!" It was too late, nothing could be done now as the Brit's body began to glow. Alfred stood up and leaned forward, placing a soft kiss on the male's lips then dropped his head next to Arthur's. "I love you... more than anything. I'm sorry I failed you... I let you die... Arthur..." His body shook, sobs over taking once more. His voice was sharp, high pitched and broken. "Next time... let me marry you in the next life... I wanted to make you happy... I failed... Arthur... I failed..." His hand shifted, lacing his fingers with the Brit's like he had done so many times before when they slept to just laid next to one another. "I'll only love you, Arthur Kirkland... You are my only..." And then he couldn't. No more words could come from him. He was lost, unsure of where to go now...
CRASH.
Alfred's whiskey bottle slipped from his fingers. Tears. So he was still able to cry... Strange, they didn't feel like they were his own. "Arthur..." He murmured, reaching up and touching his cheek softly. "I wasn't strong enough..."