Once upon a bed, Arthur told stories to a little boy he called Alfred It was a magical occasion for anyone who witnessed it and they were always blessed with pleasant dreams that night. No one really questioned how England came up with these wild tales with ghosts and flying bears and the mysterious places where they lived, but figured that the old country was just talented with storytelling and so they went with that.

Alfred was only three years old when a terrible thunderstorm hit across the land with winds that thrashed harshly against the mansion where he slept. He did live in a brick mansion luckily but all the same he was terrified. The trees from his bedroom window seemed to beckon for him to come outside into the dark night where streaks of lightning would crack in the sky every few minutes and then fade back behind the rainclouds. He was going to try to stay strong until a loud BANG hit his window; a tree branch had broken loose and had nearly broken the glass. That was the last straw. America whipped the covers off of himself and ran down the hall into the master bedroom where a large bed was and jumped on top of it, this was followed by a slight "oof!" as the person who was sleeping in the queen bed sat up, rubbing his head.

"Alfred, what's gotten into you?" the voice whispered with a clear hint of annoyance.

"It's-it's, the window-outside" said Alfred, very frightened and was close to tears now. "Something almost broke it" he was crying now, "I'm sorry."

"There, there" the man said in a soothing tone as he pulled the boy into his arms and wiped his eyes, "I know, the storm is very scary. You were very brave."

Alfred nodded while keeping a solid grip on the person's night shirt as he tried to overcome his crying. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried but was sure it had been some time.

"Arthur-(Alfred coughed) what can I do?" Alfred asked quietly.

Arthur returned the question by covering him with the bed's blanket over the little country's head as they laid down on the pillows, facing each other and brushed the boy's bangs out of his face.

"I have a story that might help . . . it involves some boring creatures like, dragons-

Alfred's eyes suddenly opened a bit wider.

"-wilder beasts,"

Alfred snuggled a little closer, now nearly consumed by the blankets,

"And a few other details..."

He began then with the tale. Alfred's interest grew, even managing to block out the frightening sound of thunder coming from outside and instead only focus on the tone of Arthur's voice filled with excitement and spoke breathlessly, his dark eyes focused on his younger brother's, watching them sparkle as he went on.

Arthur's story went on even after the storm had long sense deceased. He spoke in great detail of battles as though it was a memory of his own and talked long into the night. It was around midnight when the stars had come out from behind the clouds that Alfred's breathing had slowed and was now a steady rhythm, peaceful. His eyes were closed and his fists no longer tightly clenching the blankets but at ease. Arthur had reached the climax of his story only to find his brother sound asleep beside him. He paused where he was and adjusted his position on the mattress, taking in a deep breath and then letting it out as he pulled the covers up to his shoulder.

"Well, there's always another day. . ."

Then the two slept as the raindrops dripped from the roof top and onto the fresh grass below.

16 years later. .

Kiku woke up to the sound of birds coming from outside. He sat up and tried rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his long kimono and then got up to make some tea. As he drank from the warm cup, his eyes became aware of the birds chatter growing louder outside.

(To be continued?)