Somewhere Wrong

He passed by the dresser of pictures without a thought, they were familiar faces; nothing of interest to him in the early light of day. Grappling for the cane he kept leaned by the full-length mirror, he was forced to meet his reflection as he had done daily for the past ten years since he took that stumble on the slick steps of his home's entrance. His dulled eyes noted the coarse gray of his hair and the stern wrinkles that force his face into a perpetual scowl. A many man and woman would sigh at what they see, but not him. He was comfortable with age, he did not bemoan his misspent youth and wasted years; it was what it was.

Lips flicking up in a private smile, he reminded himself that age wasn't all bad. He appeared much more distinguished in his twilight than he ever had in his dawn or midday. Cane now safely in his grasp, he hobbled through his long, empty hall and down the stairs of his boyhood home to the kitchen that belongs only to him these days. He remembered a time when it was filled with the smell of good food, the warmth of a perpetually alight stove and the chatter and shouts of young boys and girls. Coming in and going to the electric tea-kettle, he took a mug down from a shelf and thought wistfully of those days. It had been a great long time ago, the house having seen the last of children nearly twenty years ago.

Sighing as he settled down with the "iPad" Peter had bought for him the Christmas previous, the old man planned to pull up the post when the backdoor's knob began to turn. Reaching for his cane, he undid the bobble on top and began to unsheathe the–

"Arthur?"

He relaxed and put the cane away. The younger man, forty to his ninety-one, frowned at him.

"Did you almost just take out your sword? I told you I was going to be by this morning."

Arthur frowned. "You did not," he growled.

The younger shook his head. "Do you ever check your texts?" He exhaled in irritation.

Crossing his arms, the older man scowled deeply. "How many times do I have to tell you the print's too small to read? And how hard is it to call me?" he argued back.

Peter brought the door closed behind him and slipped into the chair across from the old man. "I don't know, how hard it is to enlarge your text?"

Face flaring red, Arthur jabbed his finger at the forty year old. "All this newfangled shite is a waste of time to learn! Why should I when a call is just as sufficient?" Sniffing derisively as he turned his head, he finished with, "and besides, it's much more thoughtful to give your uncle a call."

The man glowered as he got up. He reached into his pocket and tossed something on the table. "If you're just going to be a jerk, don't expect me to stay around!" he snapped. "Have a happy birthday alone, Arthur."

He sat there in stunned silence as the kitchen door opened only to slam close and leave him alone once again. He'd forgotten today was his birthday. A moment later he picked up the card and opened it. Scanning it, he realized it was the crass sort of humor that Peter liked and the message was the same as it always was in the cards the younger gave him:

You aren't getting any younger old man, when are you going to recognize me as something other than a Kirkland?

He scoffed and threw the card aside. "Stupid boy," he muttered. He would never grant Peter's wish to change his name. He'd never granted it to any of his other children (even if they did ignore him in the end), Arthur was more surprised that the younger didn't just do it already. Like Alfred had, Matthew had, and all the rest had. But as he ran a finger down the card's front, the man felt kind of good about it. It meant Peter respected him, right? It was nice to know at least one of the multitude of boys and girls he'd brought through his home did.

A sense of nostalgia coming over him, Arthur's eyes darted around the kitchen. Be damned if it was morning. He needed a drink.

Hours later, the evening just over and the low rumble of thunder beginning outside, Arthur finally put down his bottle. He'd always liked thunder, rain, and lighting too. There was something magical about it. Arthur believed storms brought energy and vitality to where they strike. He can remember as a boy running out into the rain, never heading the calls of his brothers to stay inside. It was the only time he thought he could see the fae and unicorns of England; it was like the storm drew them out. With the rain pouring, it was easy for the fae and unicorns to wander without fear of being caught.

Other humans kept their heads down in the wet, avoiding the cool shiver the rain brought with contact. Not Arthur, though, he lived to jump and run and play in it. It's what kept him alive. Kept his eyes the vivid green of England foliage. He can recall once, when he'd been a small boy–not much older than five or six–he actually believed himself to be England. His imaginary friend Flying Mint Bunny hadn't helped that notion. His family had always been relieved when football paved over his childhood fancy of fairytales and pirates.

(He missed that time. Arthur wished back the day when he was one with the island beneath his feet. Most of all, his being ached for the moment when his heart beat at the rhythm of England's soul. At the rhythm of its people.)

Picking his old bones up and out of his chair, he grappled for his cane knocking down a few of his old framed photos. One was a picture of the 1936 Olympic football team, it had been a bitter thing to lose, but he had loved the feeling of knowing he had been the embodiment of his nation, his people. Another held him in uniform, his face gaunt and marred with stubble; the horrors he saw, he would still not talk about–couldn't. He lost a brother to that war, not unlike many of England and beyond. His heart had always felt that pain at a keener frequency from then on when he heard of a man losing his life, thoughts immediately going to the brother, mother, father, sister, wife, children, uncle, cousin…and so on that he left behind. Arthur had made a point of donating to charities dedicated to families of soldiers; he knew it was likely not enough (knew it wasn't), but every little bit helped and he hoped he was giving someone a little bit they needed.

And finally, he'd felled the only of the picture of him in his suit as an ambassador. Arthur had been at a pub working with a man from Germany–Gilbert Beilshmidt–but then two of the young boys he'd taken in had come by, Alfred was the one in the picture, he thought squinting at it. Then again, he and Matthew were just shy of identical, so it may have been his twin. But the funny part had been Gilbert had his gawky teen brother with him that day too.

"He wants to be a representative for Germany when he grows up! I thought this would be an awesome experience for him, you know?"

"Hmph. He better not get in the way."

Funnily enough, Arthur had forgotten he'd promised to eat lunch with the twins that day. Fate would have it that Alfred had his camera that day and the lad would be pushy enough to capture four of them in a photo. What he'd always loved best about the image was that they were proof that others from different countries and walks of life could get along. The five of them had all been such different personalities…

Yet, somehow, they'd managed to keep themselves in check and have a splendid lunch.

Smiling at the photos in his drunken haze, Arthur scooped them up and stumbled for his back door. He was pissed and he was old and he knew his twilight was setting upon him. Even with all of this in mind, he kicked off his shoes as he had done in his youth and walked himself down his steps without a cane in hand and stumbled through the thick, slick grass of his garden to the tree where he and his boyhood crush Francis had carved their names. Collapsing under the tree's canopy, he looked up at the gray clouds and smiled at the moon beam that managed to shine steadily as the lightning lived and died in its glow.

Narrowing his gaze through the steady rain, the old man thought he saw an old friend coming to join his side.

"England," Flying Mint Bunny greeted.

Arthritic fingers fumbling to pet the rabbit, Arthur marveled at how soft the creature's fur was (but that couldn't be right, Flying Mint Bunny wasn't real). "Y'came back..." he slurred.

Dark eyes bored into his own glassy green.

"It's time for you to come home, England," the rabbit told him.

Giggling along with the thunder that rumbled on like laughter, the man said, "I am home."

A tiny paw touched his heart. "Can't you hear her, England? Mother beckons you back to the earth."

Frowning, the Arthur strained his ears. What he heard did call to him. It was like the ocean waves he loved, but it also sounded like a fragment of a lullaby he'd had sung to him as a boy, and there were also the cheers and murmur of voices he'd known all his life. They were voices of England, alive, dead, famous, plebeian, unborn, ancient…

Sudden vigor possessed him. Struggling up to his feet, the old man babbled, "Yes, yes, yes, Mother calls. Mother Earth wants me home…"

Flitting beside him, flying mint bunny agreed, "That she does."

Hurrying with speed he'd thought he no longer possessed; the man pushed through the woods. The voice becoming louder and louder as he went. Sometime along the way, he lost the jacket to the low hanging branches and in a near tumble that left his back aching, his phone fell into a puddle of mud.

Finally, he saw the apparition, she hovered with arms open and lips promising what was missing as she stood above the old pond he'd always been too afraid of to ever learn to swim in. Despite his fears, Arthur took the step into the water; then another, and a third, four more and so forth. Finally, neck straining, he saw Mother Earth lower herself; she wrapped her body around him, taking him back into her. Breast smothering him, drowning him, killing him. Until she wasn't.

Arthur was no more. But somewhere right, a little boy with a bush of blond hair like barley and eyes green as the land beneath his supple toes wakes. He laughed. The land communed to him once more, the island's people fill the hole that was always wanting in his heart and he was England. Just as he always was.

Somewhere wrong, a phone chimed the chorus of "Golden Slumber" and when it finally died away, a man's tinny voice played out a message for Arthur the man.

"Hey, Arthur, sorry about ditching you like that. It wasn't right. Look, I'll make it up to you in the morning, okay? I'll take you out to your favorite pub and we can even go to a play in the evening, if you want. Happy birthday, you jerk."

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EDITED: 1/24/15