"What happened?"
Arthur is silent in his chair, slumped as he is and swathed in shadow. The light that illuminates the glisten of his blood and the discolouration of his bruises come from behind the intruder – from beyond that open doorway.
"Nothing you need concern yourself with."
"Brother, wait!"
His legs are small and clumsy as he chases after the elder boy who marches ahead with confident, long strides. He does not stop.
"Brother!"
His voice is breaking as he chokes on his tears, reaching out with delicate hands for that fluttering blue cloak. It escapes his grasp every time he grabs for it, but that does not stop him from trying time and time again. The grass tangles in his toes and tries to slow him. He does not let it. He does not stop.
"Please, Brother!"
He runs just a little faster, reaches just a little farther, wails just a little louder until finally his fingers curl around that tattered blue fabric and he pulls it close. His sobs are breathless and scared, his terrified quivers shaking the end of the cloak he clings to.
"Please," he cries, wiping his tears with the fabric because he knows how much the elder boy hates seeing them. "Please!"
But the youth is still and silent and ever unsympathetic, statuesque as the babe behind him sputters.
"Please," is the word the smaller boy repeats, though the squeak of his voice is muffled by the cloak he presses to his face. When he feels the fabric shift in his hands he looks up. His eyes are wide and he is filled with hope as he watches the other boy turn. It is all too late that he realizes he has overstepped an imaginary line.
It is the sting of an unforgiving slap that pushes him back behind it.
The punch sends him reeling and he falls ungracefully into the wall. He scrambles for purchase against the brick, his world spinning.
"You still can't defend yourself!" his assailant is roaring. He is approaching to strike again and Arthur does nothing to stop him. His hair is grabbed and his head is forced down into a knee. He hears something crack.
"You are still so weak!"
Arthur is staring now, staring up at the ceiling and watching with a controlled silence as it slips in and out of focus. It is a while before he finds enough stability to sit up and when he does he sees that his attacker has crumbled.
The man is on his knees, his head in his hands as he cries.
He is crying.
He is crying and Arthur can't remember ever seeing it happen before. It is as he watches the ancient man cry that he understands. He is the one who is battered and bruised, but his wounds lie on his skin – his heart too tough to share the same burdens. This man – this untouchable, immaculate man who is always so strong and so brave and so fierce – this man is the one who takes his wounds to heart.
Arthur swallows blood and crawls forward, approaching the one who wails on the floor, a stranger in place of the man he thought he knew. He is slow but steady when he reaches up to pull that man in to embrace.
The shove that pushes him away forces the air from his lungs.
"Stay away!"
The boy is heartbroken as he falls back, cradling his stinging cheek with a tiny hand.
"Don't follow me," the older boy growls and his hand is on the shortsword in his belt. Arthur does not understand. He never understands.
"W-why?"
"You can't follow me."
There is silence between them, thick and tangible, until Arthur's shock is gone and his eyes fill up with tears once more. The youth scoffs and turns, marching on ahead, leaving the boy behind to cry and cry and wish he understood.
"Don't ye dare touch me!"
He is yelling again, though he does so from the floor while Arthur stands, leaning against the wall for support. His emerald eyes are wild and tears stain the man's flesh, but his tone is as strong as it always is and the threat he poses is never truly gone.
"Not you! Anyone but you!"
It is night when the boy returns, and Arthur is not asleep. He is curled in the gnarled roots of the great tree, his siblings snoring nearby – but he is awake. His eyes are wide and he has run out of tears to cry. It is why he is silent when the fire-haired youth approaches him in the dark.
The youth is bleeding and bruised, but his expression is kind and his eyes are soft.
"Hey," he whispers. He brushes a stray lock of blonde off the child's forehead. "You should be sleeping."
"I couldn't," Arthur squeaks, his throat tight and for a moment he is almost afraid he will cry again. "I was scared."
The boy sighs a knowing sigh, and gathers the little one up in his arms. He sits down on the soft grass and leans back against the trunk of the great tree. His cloak is pulled tight around them both and Arthur is comforted by the familiar scent.
"Don't be scared," the boy scolds, "you have to be strong when I'm not here."
"But it's hard!"
The boy gives the little one a tight squeeze, burying a battered hand in those golden locks to rub soothing circles into Arthur's scalp.
"You gotta be tough," he says, "for our siblings. You gotta be tough."
"Like you?"
There is a quiet laugh, and Arthur loves the sound.
"Like me."
The two stare up through the canopy of leaves to the bright stars beyond. The little one is happy now in the arms of his favourite sibling, at peace in the quiet of the night.
"I'm sorry I hit you," says the elder brother, pulling his hand away to kiss the top of Arthur's skull, "I didn't want to, but you gotta be strong."
"I'll be strong," Arthur promises quietly.
"And when I go, you have to let me."
But Arthur does not want to promise this.
"But what if you don't come back?"
He doesn't like how long it takes for the fire-haired boy to answer. It plants a seed of uncertainty in his heart that he would never truly outgrow.
"I'll try."
Arthur is dissatisfied.
"But what if you don't come back?"
"Hey."
Arthur grunts as the other man crosses the room, unhindered by the darkness. He does not react when his lamp is clicked on and merely watches the younger nation's face as he is studied. He knows his jaw is badly bruised and that his nose and lip still bleed, but he hadn't yet rallied the will to tend to the wounds.
The blonde sits vacant as the tall man leans over his desk and squints. He lifts a hand to wipe at the blood seeping from Arthur's lip with the pad of his thumb. He looks upset.
"You can tell me," he says, and it is more of a plead than a reassurance.
Arthur studies the man and inhales slowly. He could remember when the boy was small and full of life, and despite the passage of time only the former of those two aspects had really changed about the man.
"Alfred..."
He smiles at the sound of his name, his hand lingering on the other's cheek.
"He's not coming back..."
"Why?!"
The man in blue is still on his knees, bowed at the waist to press his forehead into the ground. His voice is quiet and broken and standing above him Arthur is frozen with shock.
"What more do I have to do?!" He is pleading, and Arthur has no answer to give. "Thousands of years of fighting and this is how I go?"
"You're not going." Arthur's remark is quick and curt and commanding, but it does nothing to the elder but make him laugh. He is still bowed on the ground, but his laughter is deep and shakes his whole body. "You're not going," Arthur repeats.
The man straightens out abruptly, his laughter crazed and wild. He is on his feet in the instant after and he has the younger nation by the throat. He steers him back against the wall, but he does not squeeze. He is still, a deadly calm contrast to the wild and tearful man he'd been in the seconds before.
"Do you know why I have to leave?"
Arthur is seated with his favourite sibling again, but this time he faces the boy in the sun, a pair of fairies dancing in the small circle of flowers between them. The little one is fascinated by their frolicking, which is why he is slow to respond. When the words sink in, he is alarmed.
"You're leaving?!"
"I have to."
"No!"
But the boy is calm and composed and unaffected by the fear in Arthur's eyes.
"I asked you if you knew why."
The little one does not answer as quickly as the elder of the two would have liked. In fact, those jade eyes start to glisten with tears once more.
"Stop that," he orders, "I told you, you have to be tough."
Arthur reaches forward – over the heads of the dancing fair folk – and tries to grab onto his brother. His hand is swatted away and he sobs at the sting. The boy ignores his sniffles and repeats himself, trapping the child in his stare.
"Do you know why?"
"Who do I have to fight for you now?" The man is saying, his voice barely above a whisper. "What abuse can I do to keep me on the map?"
Arthur is quiet because he knows these questions are rhetorical.
"I spent my life fighting. For you and against you alike. What purpose do I have in this world?"
"Find a purpose."
Arthur is unsympathetic, but worried nevertheless. The man laughs.
"Were it so easy."
It is then that the younger nation finally notices. It is then that his eyes widen with understanding, and his heart begins to ache. It is then that the man's harsh stare softens and he smiles; an echo of the rare kindness he could show.
He is in the worst condition he has ever been when he returns that night. He collapses at Arthur's feet in the shadow of the great tree. There is no moon out tonight, and the forest is dark.
"Brother!"
Arthur is awake at once, hovering over the boy and shaking him desperately.
"I-I'm alright."
But there is a stutter in his voice and Arthur knows he is not alright. He is scared by the sight of his small hands when they come away bloody.
"You're bleeding!"
The boy finds something about the child's observation to be funny and he laughs, but Arthur does not like the sound. It is not happy as it should be, but cold. There is no warmth in his brother's laughter. It was wrong.
"It happens," the boy admits quietly, and Arthur touches his wounds again. They are severe and plentiful over the youth's body, and even Arthur knew that no ordinary person would survive them all.
But there he found a small glimmer of hope, for his brother was anything but ordinary.
"Were there many of them this time?" Arthur asks.
"Yes."
"Were they strong?"
"Yes."
Arthur pales, bringing his hands to his face and knowing he would cry again soon. He pays little attention to the bright red he smears on his pale flesh, but the boy notices. He notices and twists, lifting a hand so he could pat the child on the head.
"Remember what I told you."
The child stops the trembling of his lip and catches a sob in his throat. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his wrist and nods furiously. He remembers the sting of the slaps and the ache of his bruises – he remembers them and holds onto them and teaches himself to ignore them.
Because that is what his brother wants.
"I'll be tough," he promises.
"That's a good lad."
The youth pats his cheek, then falls back to the ground with a long sigh. He is still awake when Arthur curls into his side later that night and whispers a promise.
"One day, I'll be strong enough to protect you, brother."
He is fading.
He has been for a while.
But Arthur had not seen it. He had not been allowed to see it. Every time he took a moment too long to study the man he'd been smacked or insulted or mocked and he had looked away ashamed.
Now it is clear why the man had been avoiding his stare, because now he can see the result of months spent forgotten.
He is like a phantom. His right side is almost invisible while his left slowly fades away with it. Even his grip on the younger nation's throat is getting weaker as the other erodes before his eyes.
"Stop it!" Arthur demands, going to shove the disappearing man. His heart twists with pain when his hands pass through that body and he stumbles out into the middle of the hall. He spins on his heel, watching as the translucent man leans against the wall.
He produces a cigarette from his pocket and a match with which to light it.
Both items are fading with him.
But still he is smiling as he pockets the matchbook and inhales. He blows out a long stream of smoke, but even that is barely visible.
"Were it so easy," he repeats ominously.
The silence returns, hovering between the brothers for quite some time before the younger amasses the words to speak.
"Alistair," he speaks the name in hopes that it would anchor the man to their world, "what is going on?"
But the man keeps fading.
"I spent so much time fighting it. I suppose you could say I am tired. Perhaps the time has come to join the others."
When he exhales again, no smoke discolours the air and there is no lingering scent of tobacco.
"You've grown too strong, little one. We are no longer Scotland and England, brother. We have not been for years now." He pauses to think back on ancient times. He laughs and the sound is light and airy.
Arthur knows what is coming, but even so he pales and shakes his head, hoping denial would work a magic he knew it could not.
"We are the United Kingdom."
One more exhale and Arthur felt his heart break. He could no longer feel where he had been struck and he could no longer taste the blood on his tongue – just as he could no longer see the fire-haired man, whose final words were the very last part of him to leave.
"You are the United Kingdom."
"Where did he go?"
Arthur has no answer, so he does not try to give one. Alfred accepts the silence and continues to dab at the man's wounds. He tries to make light of the situation, but his forte has never been in handling such heavy emotions.
"At least he can't bully you any more."
Those green eyes flick to him momentarily, and Alfred worries he would be kicked out for his emotional insensitivity. Instead, Arthur sighs.
"It was a necessary evil," he admits, and then he lapses into silence again.
"Hey," he tugs at the boy's cloak and flinches when he spins quickly. He expects to be smacked, but the youth smiles at him instead.
"Hey."
"Did you win today?" asks the little one, trying to make sense of his brother's unusual good cheer.
"No, I did not."
Arthur made a face.
"You seem happy anyway."
Alistair laughs, and it is the kind of laugh Arthur loves to hear. He cheers when the youth lifts him off the ground and tosses him into the air, catching him in a bear hug. They spin together a moment and Arthur is happy. He giggles along with his kin, his face lit up with a smile that stretches from ear to ear. That smile is still there when he is shifted in the elder boy's arms and rested on a hip.
"Better me than you," Scotland says simply, and he kisses the child on the forehead.
"Better me than you," Arthur repeats, and Alfred gives him a funny look.
The young nation lingers only a little while longer in the dim light. He knows not what to say nor how to make this all better, so he admits defeat this once and tells the man he is going to leave.
He promises his phone will be on, and that if he needs anything he just needs to call.
Arthur manages something of a smile in thanks, but soon after he is left alone.
He turns off the lamp and shuts his eyes, slumping back in his chair, hollow. He does not want to think on his crumbling state of being – the guilt or the regret or the anger. He does not want to wish he'd done things differently, just as he does not wish to accept this was the end.
So he does not.
He sits back and breathes and shuts all else out, choosing instead to chase the memories.
I'm having kind of a sad day.
Thank you for reading, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Until next time.
Ami.