In the beginning, they are four. Two and two, the north and the south. They don't see it as the north and south though, but go freely across the invisible line that will one day tear them apart.
They don't look alike, these two sets of brothers. The younger two, they're strange. They have white skin and hair like corn silk and eyes the color of the sea. They're don't look like anyone else in the whole world.
They have funny names too. Strange names. Foreign names.
"I'm Alfred!" the older one says with a smile. He's always smiling. His brother speaks so quietly, everyone has to lean in to hear him.
"I'm Matt…"
"How do you know?" they asked, once, back when they first met. "Who gave you these names?"
The one called Alfred laughed. "Everyone knows their own name, dummy."
"What do these names mean?"
Alfred tilted his head a bit. "I dunno…" He looked over at his brother. "Do you know, Matt?"
Matt shook his head. "No, I don't… Sorry…"
Alfred shrugged. It didn't matter to him. Here was another mystery. How could the meaning of someone's name not matter? "Well, what're your names?" Alfred had asked them.
"I am the True North," the older one said.
"I am the First South," said the younger.
"Nice to meetcha!" Alfred said with his wide smile. He smiles easier than anyone else they've ever met.
"How do you do…" Matt is soft spoken and, to the First South at least, easily forgotten. The True North doesn't forget him though. Not ever.
They play together all the time, the four of them. They eat together, they sleep together, go exploring together.
And sometimes, the pale brothers disappear. One day, they are gone a very long time and the True North starts to worry. It's usually ridiculously easy to tell where Alfred is; just follow your ears. But this… The silence is uncanny.
They find them eventually, holding hands and staring out to sea.
"What are you doing?" the First South asks.
"Waiting," Alfred says. He's quiet. Why is that? He's never this quiet.
The True North and the First South look out over the waters. The sea leads to the edge of the world, everyone knows that. There's nothing out there.
"What are you waiting for?" the True North asks.
Not even Alfred answers that. Maybe he doesn't know.
They come one day, the others. It's a warm day. The True North and Matt, they don't like the heat so much. They're playing in the shade when their brothers come running.
The First South gets there before Alfred. He's always been a better runner. "Brother! Brother! You have to see this!"
True North rises, startled. "See what?"
"Pale ones!" Alfred shouts, having finally caught up. He's panting as he turns to Matt, wild with excitement. "They look just like us!"
Matt's eyes go wide. The True North looks at his brother sharply. "Is this true?" There's no one like Alfred and Matt. They're not like anyone else anywhere.
…Are they?
The First South nods. "It's true! I think these ones are even paler!"
How can this be? How can this be? But Alfred has already grabbed Matt's hand and is dragging him away and the True North has no time to wonder because the First South is running after them, shouting "Come brother!" and the True North has no choice but to follow.
They race all the way back, anxious to catch a glimpse of these pale ones who look so much like Alfred and Matt. But the pale ones have left by the time they get there, pulling away in strange crafts that must be boats but don't look like any boats any of them have ever seen.
For days, they can talk of nothing else.
"Did they really look like us?" Matt asks in his quiet, quiet voice that most people have trouble hearing. Alfred always seems to hear it though, even if he sometimes pretends that he doesn't.
"Yeah! They had corn silk hair and snow white skin and everything!"
"And eyes like the sea!" the First South adds. "Actually," and he looks around, as though someone may by listening. "I think one of them had eyes the color of quahog shells."
"Really?" And Matt's face lights up at this, though none of them really understand why. Alfred turns to the First South and demands, "What?"
"It's true!"
"No fair! Why didn't I see him then?"
"You never see anything!" the First South retorts and, truly, he's not wrong. Alfred may be strong but half the time, he can't see his nose in front of his face.
As the days go by, they start to forget about the others, though the True North can't quite put the matter out of his mind. Pale ones like Alfred and Matt. Pale ones with hair like corn silk and eyes like quahog shells who ride in strange crafts. He picks up one of those purple shells and turns it over thoughtfully. Pale ones who come from beyond the edge of the world.
Looking out to sea, he remembers all the times he and his brother found Alfred and Matt standing in this same spot, staring out into the distance.
"What are you doing?"
"Waiting."
"What are you waiting for?"
There had been no answer then. The True North wonders if he has one now.
He feels a chill suddenly. The True North lives in a harsh land of mountains and ice and wide open spaces and harsh extremes and yet, here, at the beach, he feels cold. But it's a cold that has nothing to do with temperature.
"Arthur," Alfred says one day, much, much later, after everything's changed and yet nothing has. Nothing yet. He speaks the word like it's honey on his tongue. "That's a funny name, isn't it?" Funny like mine, he doesn't say but the True North knows he thinks it.
"I don't like him." The First South sounds bitter. "I don't trust him."
"Don't say that…" Matt pleads. He doesn't want to offend anyone. He never has. Even now, he won't stand too strongly for anything. It's what makes him so different than his brother. "He's nice…"
"I like him." The way he says it, Alfred isn't going to let anyone argue with him. He stands too strongly for everything.
"It's a pistol," Alfred says proudly. He hands it to the True North. "Arthur and Francis use them for games."
"What kind of games?" The True North turns it over in his hands before passing it to his brother. It's not for throwing, the balance is wrong.
"It's called 'war.' I dunno know what the rules are, but it looks fun."
Matt says "Francis" like the name is softer than deerskin. Says it with a special care that the True North has never heard in him. In either of them. "I like Francis," he says.
The First South doesn't have to share lands with Francis, much.
The True North does and it worries him.
"Hey," Alfred says on the day that is the beginning of the end. "Want to play a game? Arthur and Francis taught it to us."
"Okay," the First South says, happy, because the pale brothers have been spending less and less time with them lately. "What is it called?"
Alfred smiles and it's cruel and ignorant all at the same time and there's something tragic about that because Alfred knows not what he does. The True North has never seen anything more dangerous than Alfred when he doesn't understand what he's doing.
"I'm not sure, but I think it's called 'colonialism.'" The True North is cold again. "You ready?" He points the pistol at the First South and cocks it.