Albion
.x.
Acid rain pattered over the smooth yet soiled surface of the dome. The sweeping hemisphere stayed lumpy and heavy just at the top of a hill, too rugged to play-act the seat of a Court so antique and prestigious.
And yet there he was, the Queen of the kingdom itself, aimlessly erring beneath the glass dome in search of something that was long gone, maybe washed away by that poisonous drizzle that was beginning to get more and more insistent as the minutes went by.
Arthur Kirkland had lived long enough to recognize and remember that phenomenon. His reminiscences told him tales of endless fields and idyllic greenery, permeated with the gentle yet prickling odour of petrichor. It was an organic scent – pungent and rough enough to circulate through the air and steal its original perfume, yet refreshing and overwhelming, with just the right lightness to result vivid and faint at the same time.
This, however, was nothing like his memories. The ambiance was filled with the scent of rubber and chemicals, lacking a breeze that was too deadly to be even imagined.
The Queen had considered going out in the past and getting soaked in that refreshing moisture, but the simple thought of his eternally smooth and diaphanous skin dappled with yet another unknown disease had been grotesque enough to make him retract and shiver in distaste. Now, the sole thought of coming into contact with that breeze was, to put it simply, out of question.
The faint sound of rustling tore him away from his thoughts. Without striving to keep his composure, Arthur turned, raising an unimpressed eyebrow upon taking sight of the man in front of him. There stood the royal page – an unimpressive and fearful man whose name was too tedious to remember. With a natural gesture he knelt, head hung and face tight in a deferential attitude.
(Oh, how the Queen loved that gesture. It gave him the impression that, once in a while, he could be the puppeteer too).
"Your Majesty, sir," said the man, "your Highness is required in the fitting rooms."
Another raised eyebrow. "Fitting rooms?"
"Yes, sir. Do remember, sir, you are required to personally try the gas equipment before venturing in the restricted area." A pregnant pause, then, "...you do remember the monthly discourse in the seventh district, don't you, sir?"
The Queen let a sigh escape from his lips, then nodded curtly. "I do. Half past three, I believe."
When the page nodded once again, Arthur tightened the coat around him and twisted.
"I expect my carriage to be ready in half an hour. I'll meet you at the gates, don't be late."
"Yes sir. Don't worry, sir."
And with that, Arthur turned back, dragging himself past the sliding doors and entering the Palace.
x
It didn't require much intelligence to realize that the liquid falling from the sky was dangerous. All it took were the holes in the ground where the rain fell to comprehend the true face behind the bright colors. Death came in all shapes and sizes, and this acidic downpour was the most innocent looking by far.
Most people didn't notice anymore when the rain fell. What was there to take note of, anyway? Rain was a common enough phenomenon. You would wear your thickest coat and cover your head with whatever you came across and tried to make your way through the drops as quickly as possible. This was reality. There was nothing else.
Alfred, however, knew better. He had heard of a time when rain was considered a blessing, not a curse. A time when rain would help crops grow rather than kill them. Rain, hundreds of years ago, was pure and colorless a gift of life from the heavens. Or so his grandfather had told him.
Peering out the window, he narrowed his eyes at the pain it was causing those who were unfortunate to be caught outside, unprepared. As much as he felt their pain, though, Alfred knew that he couldn't let them in when they knocked on his door, begging for sanctuary. He couldn't save them. The moment they'd step into his home, he would be suffocated by the gas the acid always brought with it. Those people outside were a lost cause.
The ones inside were a different matter altogether. Their lives, Alfred hoped, he could save.
Bracing himself, he strapped his helmet on and made sure the rest of his attire was in place- the scarf covering his face, the heavy woollen coat his grandfather had left him and boots. He wasn't about to leave his health to chance, like he had before, when his life was a pointless existence of suffering, just like everyone else's. Now that he had a mission, he couldn't afford to die. Not yet.
Alfred glanced at the large clock hanging on the wall opposite him, blinking the time at him every so often. He frowned- he really ought to change the batteries. A minute of waiting rewarded him with the time: a quarter to three.
Swearing under his breath, Alfred rushed out of his house, locking the door hastily before running down the street, doing his best not to breathe in the fumes. If he didn't hurry, he'd miss the time slot he had been planning for over a week.
After all, his majesty only graced district seven with his presence once a month.
x
By the time the Queen stepped into his carriage of resin and glass, everything had already been meticulously settled. Armed guards in copper armours were following the coach in reverent silence in the guise of a funeral march, spears tightly clutched in their hands as if someone, amidst the kingdom of poor souls, would have enough strength to withstand a group of trained soldiers.
He could see it, past the armoured windows. His kingdom, risen from the ashes of ancient continents and forgotten civilisations, standing in all its glory despite the conflicts and the poison in the air. The innovative buildings he himself had moulded were decorating the withering landscape, silhouetted against a sky that was too violaceous to be pure. The first district was too artificial not to be an insult to nature, but at least people seemed to live somewhat happily.
However, the more time passed, the scrappier the scenery became. From district three on, buildings and futuristic constructions were no longer the protagonists, but just a corollary to abandoned plantations and decayed farms. It was painful to know that even mother nature gave up on those god forsaken districts, but Arthur knew that there were worse.
District five, for example, to which the carriage reached after an hour of travelling. It was the lieu of perdition, populated by lost souls who sought refuge in brothels, opium dens and mouldy taverns where they could drink and gamble until they were too consumed to move.
And then, there was district seven.
They reached it after another hour. By then, Arthur had revised his discourse at least three times, memorised it, and even adjusted his equipment whilst the guards were anchoring the carriage. A door was opened then, and he was allowed to step outside.
Beyond his visor, the Queen could clearly see how lost and unjust the situation was in that district. People were gathering – no, dragging themselves – around the newcomers, lamenting and bemoaning as if their saviour had just come to help them all in the blink of an eye. Arthur struggled to ignore them and the piles of agonising victims of the previous hour's downpour, but eventually managed to twist and climb onto the nearest high-ground, still accompanied by his armed escort.
"Dearest and loyal citizens," he began and did his best to conceal his self-disgust as he continued, pronouncing frivolous words that weren't even his.
x
Panting lightly, Alfred made it just in time for the beginning of the speech. A small crowd had already gathered in the plaza, looking tired and mildly interested in what the queen had to say. After all, what did it matter to the people of district seven what innovative ideas their queen had for them when everyone knew that all of these reforms and benefits would only be applied to the first three districts, at most? Nothing ever happened in district seven. Nobody ever cared enough to make anything happen.
Of course, if they could, the people would migrate by the thousands to the richer districts in order to make their fortunes, or at the very least live in the slums that were far healthier than the most well to do man's house in their own district. With the immigration police stopping people at every border though, traffic was limited and allowed no peasant into the wealthy districts without a pass issued by the governor.
Alfred pushed his way through the crowd, glancing up every so often at the man clad in a heavy insulated suit and a proper gas mask, standing on the small stage and lecturing the simple about progress they would never behold. Anger stained his cheeks, but he kept his goal in mind as he tore his eyes away in search of his comrades. Blue eyes met brown and with a short nod, Alfred knew what he needed to do. They were ready.
After all, if their plan succeeded, the queen wouldn't need his expensive suit every again.
It had been complicated, coming up with a foolproof plan with so many factors working against him- a heavy guard around the queen, lack of supplies and an essential lack of time, not to mention the suit the queen wore which protected him of any sort of chemical or explosion, which meant that bombs were out. Guns too.
That was why the plan wasn't to kill the queen. Oh no. They would use a smoke bomb and grab the man in the confusion and whisk him away. They would hold him ransom and demand enough money to rehabilitate district seven. Should something fail, they could always rid him of the suit and deal with him themselves.
One, two three and-
A scream, followed by a series of shouts and cries interrupted the queen's speech. A cloud of smoke surrounded the plaza. Smiling to himself, Alfred pushed through the panicked crowd towards the stage, straining to see through the thick screen of smoke. This was it- he couldn't screw this up.
"…And that is why, my loyal citizens, all we ought to do is believe–"
The speech was trailed off by a sharp, shrill cry, but when Arthur turned to identify the source of that scream and found himself surrounded by dark gas, he began squinting and desperately trying to feel for the guards around him. It was all too familiar and vivid and unwanted memories began flowing through his mind - memories of a young man, desperate and lost amidst a hell of poison and vapour, chased by faceless and deformed monsters.
All seemed to go as planned those first few minutes. Alfred had found his way to the stage amidst the havoc and climbed up, pushing a nearby guard to the ground. He knew his comrade was waiting in the queen's carriage, if he had been successful in hijacking it. They both depended on each other to do their job well, or they'd both be goners.
It wasn't hard to locate the queen once he was on the stage. All Alfred had to do was to follow the dull screech of the microphone, having no voice to magnify. His blood was pumping audibly in his ears as he circled around the queen, waiting for the right moment to jump on him from behind.
Arthur's hand reached out and managed to clutch a spear , snatching it from the hands of yet another falling guard. He could do it, he told himself. This wasn't any different from what he did all those years ago, when he was nothing but a child with great hopes and expectations. Just as he felt something sneak up behind him – hell, was he terrified – he turned around, tightening his grip on the spear and pointed the sharp blade towards whatever was in front of him while the dark gas began dissipating and his racing heart slowed down its frantic beats.
The smoke was thinning out. In a frenzy of panic, Alfred rushed forward despite the obvious disadvantage the position would put him in and reached out, stumbling to a halt once he realized that the queen was armed. Now that was something he hadn't counted on.
Fuck, he thought hurriedly, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a small dagger he had brought with him just in case. Weapons were hard to find in district seven, and a sharpened bone was nothing in comparison to an iron spear.
He met the queen's eyes, narrowing them as he noticed the fear fading in the other's gaze. It was hard to see him properly through the mask, but Alfred could feel the smirk the queen was giving him. No blade would be able to puncture through his suit.
Anger flowed through Arthur's system once he noticed what the thing in front of him was.
He had expected anything – from one of the government's officers, to one of those people from back then. But never had he imagined that an offended-looking brat would go as far as to try to take his life away as if he were one of his defenceless friends from the filth that was district seven.
Sweat ran down Alfred's spine, but before he could run or attempt an attack, somebody jumped on him from behind and pushed him down onto the ground, keeping him down with a heavy boot and something sharp grazing his back.
Perfect.
Oh, how dared he, Arthur thought- making the Queen feel such a pure and intense fear, when he was nothing but an useless boy whose parents hadn't evidently taught him manners. He was fully calm by then, a thirst for power and adrenaline filling his nerves as he pressed his boot further against the body into the ground, showing no mercy nor pity in his expression.
He knew it more than anyone else- boys like this couldn't do the smallest necessary for that forsaken kingdom, let alone turn its institutions and policy upside down just by kidnapping (Arthur did struggle not to laugh at that) the mighty Queen.
The minutes Alfred spent on his stomach were the longest in his life. He had no control over the situation, which drove him mad with anxiety. The prevailing thought in his mind repeated itself constantly- what is he waiting for?
For whatever reason, the man pushing him down did nothing further than secure him to the ground. The wait was unbearable. Why wasn't he killing him? How long will he be made to lie like this on the faded wooden stage?
Arthur waited for a few tense minutes, savoring the power he had whilst blocking his unfortunate victim to the ground before he finally let out a sharp exhale and felt that he could speak without having his voice waver or stutter in lack of breath.
"Turn," ordered the Queen, in a murmured hiss. "Turn, and kneel at your Queen."
When the command did arrive, Alfred immediately wished he would have been forced to stay on the ground longer. There was nothing anybody could do to make him pay any sort of respect to the man who singlehandedly ruined his district. He had his standards, and not even the threat of death would make him betray his ideals. He had been willing to die when he had stepped out of his home earlier that day- death wasn't a problem.
He continued to lie on the ground, refusing to even turn as the queen had commanded him to. This tyrant didn't deserve to be obeyed in any form or style.
Several more minutes passed as the patient monarch waited for a response, gradually adding more pressure against the body on the ground to urge him to reply. When he heard nothing from the other man, though, he didn't let himself lose his composure and slowly twisted his head to the crowd, his amused yet bitter smirk growing.
The microphone had been long forgotten onto the ground, spreading a dull static sound in the air as if protesting, thus Arthur had to raise his voice in order to let everyone hear what he was about to say. There was no way he'd let a disrespectful child ruin the respect he had in his (and only his) kingdom.
"This," he began, feeling his tone firm and powerful - just perfect. "This, my dear friends, is what happens whenever people like him-" He emphasized the last word with a light step over the young man's body, "- try to change the face of this country. You see, my loyal subjects, this is all a scam. Who, among you, thinks that if he succeeded this district would be a better place?" He sighed when he got no response. "Do be honest, I'm here for you."
When several bony hands raised, Arthur couldn't hold back a snicker.
"You see, I tell you nothing would've happened for this... traitor, is nothing but a leech. After he killed me, the sole creator of this glorious kingdom, he would try and take my throne.
"That's right, friends. People like him are not interested in improving your situation. They are not interested in you. All this man wants, I can assure you, is power. He wants access to the first district.
"...Are we going to let him do what he wants?"
And when a few heads shook and several people expressed their objections, Arthur knew he won.
With every denouncing word, Alfred felt his blood boil. It was once thing to die as a martyr and become a symbol for those he leaves behind, but it was another thing altogether to be executed as a power-hungry traitor, resented by his peers. The queen couldn't risk looking unpopular to even the lowliest of his people, and he would trample all over Alfred and twist his actions into something selfish in order to achieve his goals.
Well, Alfred wasn't going to lose his reputation without a fight.
"He lies!" he exclaimed as loud as he could, struggling from beneath the heavy weight on top of him. "All he wants is for you all to remain mindless slaves! He's afraid you'll rebel and create something better than his own rule! Don't let him fool you!"
He raised his head and searched the crowd with his eyes, meeting the people's gazes and doing his best to generate his conviction to them.
"Down with the monarchy!"
Arthur didn't think this man could have such an influence on his people but after the words he had spoken, it didn't take long for the Queen to realise the poor citizens of district seven would believe the stranger's words rather than his own.
But he knew - or rather, he was certain - that an act of force would just worsen the situation, and even if his army could easily subdue any revolt in the lower districts, he had no intention to harm his own people. They had already suffered enough.
Arthur allowed a few seconds of gnawing anxiety to pass, and eventually closed his eyes for a moment and sighed.
Something better than his own rule, the boy had said, and Arthur really wondered if there could be something better if he gave up his life, his throne and his power for good. Yet, he couldn't afford to look weak or even thoughtful in front of people whose consent towards him was slowly fading.
"Something better, you say?" asked Arthur, directly addressing the young man in his grasp. "And tell me, you filthy leech, does anyone here know how to manage a kingdom as great as this? Do you, young man, know anything about the world outside this district? This country would die under your rule. It would wither and fall, just like each of you.
I, however, am here to handle this. I'm here to handle you all, for this kingdom - no, this district, would be absolutely nothing without me and my rule. What I built, what I created, I can destroy."
Alfred refused to admit defeat. Had he thought that his last moments would be spent in a debate against the queen, he would have prepared a whole speech. The queen, bastard that he was, was winning over the crowd with every word. Who would they prefer to believe, after all? The winner or the soon to be executed loser?
It sickened Alfred. With a few minutes of smooth talking, the queen was able erase a lifetime of suffering. The people would feast on his words and then would return to an empty home and wonder how they were to put food on the table. How was this possible? How could they all be so gullible?
He opened his mouth, quickly trying to think up some sort of charismatic retort when he was roughly lifted to his feet and gagged by a soldier. Another guard yanked his hands behind his back and bound them together tight enough to cut off the blood flow.
"Your majesty, we apprehended this terrorist's partner who was waiting in your car," one of the men said, kneeling in front of the queen. "I'm afraid I must insist that you return now to the palace in order to secure your safety- there might be another attack at any given moment."
Alfred felt his heart pound furiously with adrenaline and worry. What had they done to Rex? Was he dead already? Oh, he never should have suggested this, much the less gone through with it. Now not only were the people openly supporting the queen- his best friend was most likely killed. This was all his fault.
The spear Arthur was pointing at the young man was slowly lowered, until he finally let his guard down and let his soldiers take care of the rest. He nodded then, and his gaze flickered on the young rebel held captive in front of him.
For the first time in hundred of years, the Queen felt sorry. He felt sorry for having crushed fresh and innovative ideals so mercilessly - but the boy needed to open his eyes, after all. There was no such thing as a utopian kingdom, at least not with the current situation. But the rebel wasn't to be blamed, and Arthur knew it - what could such a young man understand about that world? There just was nothing he or anyone else could do.
After yet another solicitation, he turned around and began making his way to his carriage, steps firm and confident as he stepped alongside one of the guards, careful not to walk too close to the prisoner.
"I'll deal with him," he told the armoured man, briefly glancing behind him. "You may free the other one, he won't do anything. This is an order."
After he was certain the man had given him a clear nod in response, Arthur walked away and climbed into his coach, gesturing for the guards to lead the prisoner inside.
Looking back, Alfred would have reproached himself for not thinking of escaping when he was being led towards the queen's carriage. There had been quite a few opportunities for kneeing or shoving his way free and running the fastest he could towards freedom. Instead, he had been caught in his relief of seeing Rex unharmed and uncuffed. At least he was alright. It never occurred to him to wonder why he was being led away while his friend was let free.
No, all of his curiosity and resentment were focused on the queen. He was to ride alongside him in a carriage. Alfred had never even been on a bike, much the less such an extravagant vehicle. Why on earth was he being allowed to join the queen in the royal carriage instead of trailing behind on foot like the criminal he was?
Frowning, he let himself be pushed into the carriage and took a seat opposite the queen, doing his best not to meet his gaze and instead looked through the window. If this was his last day in district seven, he wanted to see as much of it as possible.
It took a while for the guards to secure the entrance and make sure the air in the carriage was purified, but eventually the operations were concluded and the coach started moving. Arthur did his best to ignore the man in front of him, and very slowly began removing his heavy equipment.
Piece after piece the safety armour was removed and the Queen was finally able to rest his head against the side of the carriage - not a very aristocratic gesture, he knew, but there was no chance the prisoner would comment on that. He just felt old and tired.
Arthur didn't want to spend two hours contemplating the poverty of his country, and after a quick glance to the man in front of him, he closed his eyes.
"Keep looking out," he ordered. "I want you to see everything. Look away, and you'll be executed."
Alfred couldn't understand the reasoning behind the queen's order, but he obeyed anyway. After all, he had no intention on looking at the other man, who was a tyrannical liar (after all, he was going to be executed anyway. What did it matter if he should spare the man a glance?).
Despite himself, there were times when Alfred was tempted to look away. He could feel the anguish rising from the dead lands surrounding the road. The people who stopped what they were doing to gape in awe at the passing carriage looked threadbare and starved. This was nothing new to Alfred, but seeing it all from this new vantage point felt like the queen was adding insult to injury.
As they progressed, the scenery changed. The land took on a darker shade of green and the buildings were constructed from iron and stone rather than the wood and mud Alfred was used to seeing. The people looked happier, fuller and content. Everyone had some sort of protection surrounding them as they ventured outside. Stores glittered in the late afternoon sun and beckoned patronage for their newest gadgets and gourmet pastries when in district seven, a man would pay a fortune on the black market for a loaf of bread.
As fascinating as this all was, Alfred had to fight the urge to look away. He hated these people who had never worked for anything in their whole privileged life.
Despite his closed eyes and his lack of attention during the voyage, Arthur knew exactly what his prisoner was seeing, and could easily imagine what he was feeling.
He, himself, knew his kingdom by heart. He had visited each of the seven districts, both in official visits and undercover ones, and had felt the very same feeling of disappointment he was certain the young man was experiencing during their journey. However, during the past years he stopped torturing himself with those pointless thoughts and ideals of equality and legality and found himself wishing that those voyages were as short as possible.
He was the same as that man, after all. Forced to stay seated in a place that didn't fit him, and forced to see as the ones they loved suffered while, should they have been born someplace else, they could have had the opportunity to live happily. And the worst thing above all was that they could do nothing about it.
The carriage was still moving down the streets of district two when Arthur finally decided to crack his tired eyes open and glance at the man in front of him. Just this once, when there was no one to hear, he could afford to speak somewhat openly.
"You may look at what you wish now," said the Queen, and reluctantly shifted in his seat to reach out and untie the gag behind the back of the man's head. He would put it back just before going out.
"But... answer me. What do you feel, young man?"
Glad for a reason to avert his gaze from the window, Alfred turned his head back to the queen, starting when he saw the man's arms reaching out towards him. He stiffened in his seat as the queen untied the rag from behind his head, making sure to give the other a look of pure loathing in order to make up for any gratitude he might feel for being given the ability to speak again.
The question took him by surprise. He couldn't figure out the motive behind it. Nevertheless, he had always been compelled to voice his opinion at any opportunity, and now that he had been explicitly asked for it, who was he to protest?
"I am disgusted by the way you run this kingdom. How you choose to provide for some but neglect others for no other reason but geographical distance. I detest the way the people here live a healthy and fulfilling life while the people in my district suffer every day in order to simply live. But most of all, I can't understand why somebody with so much wealth isn't donating some of it to those who have nothing. That's what I think."
While the other spoke, Arthur had his gaze lowered and began fiddling with the rag in his hands, shuffling and folding it in an attempt to look nonchalant and uncaring to the man's words.
With a frown, he realised that the gag that had been used was part of his embroidered tapestries- but more important, he realised that the answer to his question hurt in a bitter and stinging way.
The young prisoner, after all, was perfectly right, and Arthur knew it better than anyone else. It was unjust, it was sad, it was unfair. Yet, all he could do was nod his head and take the blame, hold on until his subjects and his own mind were too weary to keep protesting and eventually their laments died down.
"And I am disgusted by how much of a simpleton you are," was the firm and derisive answer.
"Judging me and my actions when you know nothing about the world you live in. Tell me, what do you even know about this kingdom? Do you know who founded it, how they founded it, do you know about its history? Do you know about its economy, its weak and strong points? Have you even heard about its institutions and government system?" His voice grew in amusement as he asked one question after another, until he let out a slight snicker.
"You know nothing, do you? And yet here you are, judging us and our homeland."
Alfred's cheeks flushed red with anger and embarrassment. Those were hardly fair questions. "I don't care about any of that," he exclaimed, leaning forward slightly in conviction. "District seven isn't part of all of that. Or maybe we are, but instead of getting any of the benefits, we're suffering the kingdom's loss."
He shifted in his seat, flexing his fingers behind him. "Besides, how would you expect me to know about those things? You never bothered to fund a school in my town."
"I never bothered-" It was Arthur's turn to flush in anger. For a moment his mind seemed to have gone wild, ordering him to spill everything he knew, to explain to that man that he could do nothing about their suffering, to kneel down and beg for mercy because of the lives he had destroyed and crushed, the lands he'd ruined, the hope he, himself, had made sure to let wither.
The Queen took a deep breath - one, two, three, and he was calm again. He needed to keep his composure and couldn't let a complete stranger (oh, did he hate him) peer into the feelings he'd kept hidden inside him for so long.
It was then that Arthur decided that the rebel had talked too much and without thinking twice about it, he gagged him again and allowed a tight scowl to form on his face as his gloved hand landed against the man's cheek in a resounding blow.
"Stay in your place, filth," he hissed, leaning back in his seat just as the vehicle stopped.
Really, Alfred didn't expect for him to get away with his rudeness. After all, he was speaking back to the queen. Nevertheless, the slap stung and the sharp words hurt. Despite their personal enmity, the queen was still his leader. He was supposed to take care of him, not starve and insult him.
He used to believe in God, but what sort of deity placed a man such as the queen on the throne?
He sat back and waited for the door to be opened. It came as a shock when the queen stepped out into the fresh air without any sort of protection. Once he had been yanked out as well, however, Alfred looked around him and realized that there was a giant dome encompassing the entire palace grounds, most likely keeping out any sort of toxic fumes.
He took in a deep breath- the air was completely clean. Alfred had never inhaled something so pure.
Shaking his head in wonder, he almost didn't notice how he was being led into a small building adjoin to the palace. The hallway was dimly lit and held an ever-present chill within its stones. His handcuffs and gag were removed before being pushed roughly into a small metallic cell with an automatic gate that closed after him.
He was a prisoner, but he had never been in such a sleek place in his life.
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