Separation
It's the dead, burrowed deep within his soul.
…
He had become tormented by the past, shuddering from the memories. He had been locked into the strange room, trapped underneath heavy blankets. His thin body shivered from agony, the death of soldiers breaking through his skin. He had been unwilling, of course, to leave Francis, but when he began to choke up blood until Arthur managed to snatch him away,
The screams of the dead deafened him slowly, a never ending serenade of the lost. He had become overpowered by them, their blood split on his soil.
He had attempted to slip away into the night, struggling in vain to escape. Arthur always materialized immediately, forcing him back into the room. And thus, Matthew began to force himself into self-destruction. He was a child, broken apart by two nations.
…
"I swear to the God above, you shall eat," Arthur swore, struggling to open Matthew's mouth, and force the hot soup down his throat. He had already wasted two hours attempting to coax the child into eating, but had come to the conclusion that unless he made the child eat, Matthew would refuse. Arthur was horrified at the depression the young child was being plagued by. He had fought several bloody long years to gain custody of this child, and was burdened with one that attempted self-destruction every second.
Blinking away tears, Matthew attempted to snap his head away, knocking the delicately balanced soup bowl over. He began yelling in French, pale skin reddening from the hot liquid. "Go away!" He screamed, struggling against Britain.
"I am not leaving you." Arthur snapped, forcing the child to stop moving. The once white bandaged that had covered his arms and chest had become pink from blood. "You are hurting yourself."
"I want France!" He forced back a sob, and allowed the hot tears to free themselves from his eyes.
…
His attempt of escaping had nearly worked, if he hadn't tripped over the string with metal cans hooked to it. It had been America's idea of a joke, not expecting the young Country to trip over it.
He had hit the ground hard, and Arthur was there, snatching his struggling form up. "I want home." He ignored the dizziness, trying to break away from the arms marked with scars. His French words were burdened with grief and misery, struggling to be heard. (The dead start to scream now, words that create a symphony of the lost.)
Sighing, the older country stood. "You are mine now. Blood has been shed for you. There is no turning away now." Matthew's breathing is ragged, his ribs broken underneath defeat.
Blood began to trail from Matthew's mouth, and Arthur grimaced.
…
Of course, stopping by France's home had been not the most intelligent idea of his.
One wine glass flung at his face, and a chair to follow, Arthur soon found himself sitting down in the other chair as the enraged Country paced before him. "You took my son, and now wish to know how to end his grief?" Angrily his words swapped from English to French at dizzying rates that the Englishman tried to keep up.
"Yes."
His answer was stated simply, because no other answer could have been given. It was the answer he had given to a grieving Father, because of the child they killed for was dying slowly away.
France laughed bitterly, and muttered, "Screw you to hell." Quickly, the French speaker than flung the wine bottle at Arthur's face.
England took his leave quickly.
…
America had noticed it first.
The blood buried deep underneath Kanada's fingernails. Blood of the innocent.
"He talks strange." He had noted dutifully to England, watching intently on the young Country.
"French. Like the prat speaks." England responded as he flipped through documents.
"He looks like France."
"He's France's son." They would have endless conversations, following the exact words every time. They would end the exact same way as well. One final comment and a never ending silence.
"He cries a lot."
…
When Matthew finally flew into a rage, Arthur finally understood. After the angry silence, the frantic pleading to return him. Everything in between became heard.
The angry words had tumbled free from his mouth, begging the dead to stop hurting him. He had clutched his ears tight and clawed at his face before Arthur stole his hands away, preventing the self-attack
He had screamed for Francis to return because after all, this Country fathered Matthew. He had created and cultivated the young child, transforming the barren North into something better. Matthew needed Francis because without him, who was he?
He pleaded with Arthur to make the dead stop whispering to him, because he can't understand them anymore.
The dead were simply fading.
…
England unlocks his room, but keeps close watch over him. Kanada wanders through the Mansion, looking at swords and guns, and traces them with his fingertips. England understands how the child knows. Kanada understands how the weapons work because they are mere instruments of death, and death has burrowed itself beneath his soil.
Occasionally Kanata's eyes drift to the doorway, but never go near. He's resigned himself to England, because he truly has no choice anymore.
He's trapped because the death binds him to England, tearing him apart from everything he knew.
…
He still doesn't eat, and no one can make him.
That was what he had thought, in the beginning.
They try, of course. They spend hours attempting to bribe him into eating, but it never works. Alfred tries to be the Victor and brings him plate after plate of food, often shoving it in Matthew's face. They cannot physically force him to, because in the end Kanata only bleeds for the death of the lost.
Though, as the time burrows into the Matthew, he is weakened by the dead's needs.
Arthur managed to slowly coax the boy into drinking hot tea, and began patiently waiting for the child to eat the hot stew he had prepared. There's an edge still, hidden away. Like a double edged sword, waiting to strike.
Matthew still cries, but they go unanswered to. The war had raged for several years, over a child who had no desire to be ripped away.
His father remains a distance away, and he's all alone.
No hot tea or stew can mend a broken heart.
…
Sometimes, they forget he exists.
He finds it simpler then.
When England frets over documents and scrambles to complete them, or when America has become a whirlwind of never stopping energy. He becomes left alone, wandering through the empty home. He has no purpose anymore, because before, there was France and new people and furs and trading and everything he was.
Now there is only the dead whispering their lives into his ears, and blocking his vision with their eyes. They watch him and he watches them, and he cries and they laugh.
When he is invisible, no one can see him when he takes the dagger from England's study and slice his arm.
…
Arthur packs the trunk with care and consideration, folding each article of clothing with love.
He can't understand the attachment the boy has for the Frog, but relents slightly. He can remember the red eyes of the Frenchman, and the bloody cuts marking the child's flesh. ("One for each of the dead," Matthew had whispered when Arthur finally caught sight of him and the dagger. "I'm just laying them to rest.")
He is unwilling to allow what is his to be given away so freely. He does however accept that he must relent for a moment in life.
Life is changing and turning, and this child and frightened and fearful.
The dead haunt his life, and the living beings create his misery.
…
France had clasped Kanata to his chest tightly, unwilling to release. They have several days together, and he is unwilling to waste a moment.
England watches sadly, still clutching the suit case silently. The boy shakes with tears, whispering 'papa' over and over again.
He will collect his child though, because in the end, France never won.
England won.
…
He's fearful, of course. Cowering behind Francis's knees and looking up with wide eyes.
Arthur means to remove him from what he knows, and the dead whisper in his ears. Matthew pretends though that he can't listen, because he shouldn't and he won't.
Perhaps now, as Arthur waits to take him home, it is time.
The dead created a never ending seal between Kanata and England. He could never escape now from the sacrifices made. The blood was shed on his land. The war and hate was buried into him. The dead had become tied to his every living moment.
He knows that once he goes, there is never any going back. So when he accepts Arthur's large hand, he understands.
The dead are burrowed into his soul, but underneath everything, there's a little bit of life flourishing in silence.
…
(end)
Twas that. To be honest, I don't understand anything I wrote. I just thought it sounded different. I was just thinking about World War One and Two, and the ties Canada still had to England, and couldn't help but wonder about the seven year war.
So I began thinking about a depressed little Canada (Kanata), big brother America attempting to cheer him up, an overwhelmed Arthur trying to understand and a really pissed off France trying to smash Arthur's face with wine.