Elle Vasquez, twenty years old and abroad for the first time in her life, exited London's National Gallery with a smile. In that moment, she believed that she'd seen enough beautiful artwork to satisfy her for a lifetime. A glance at her wristwatch told her that she'd finished her tour of the Gallery earlier than expected; she didn't need to be anywhere for another two hours. Pleased to have some spare time, Elle aimed herself toward Trafalgar Square and pulled out her map of London. Perhaps there was time to visit St. Paul's Cathedral before dinner.
A sudden bump to the shoulder threw Elle off balance and caused her to drop the map. Frowning, she looked at the man who'd run into her. She expected an apology, but he didn't stop or even slow his pace. He muttered something that might've been a request for forgiveness and waved a hand vaguely in her direction, but did not turn around. Elle hadn't even seen his face. She watched him for a moment, taking in his rumpled tweed suit and disheveled blonde hair, before deciding that he had probably had a rough day at work and his behavior should be excused.
Shaking her head, Elle bent to retrieve her map. She found a rolled up newspaper labeled The International Gazette lying next to it. The paper was about a week old, if the date printed in the upper right-hand corner was to be trusted, and had clearly been read multiple times: notes had been scrawled in all available spaces and the print had been smudged where fingers had touched it. Elle realized that the newspaper probably belonged to the man who had run into her. She sighed and made a quick decision. She'd look around the Square and, if she found him, she'd return the paper. If she didn't find him, the paper would be thrown away. Satisfied, Elle stuffed the map into her purse, picked up The International Gazette, and began her search.
It didn't take long to find him. He was sitting alone on the edge of one of Trafalgar Square's two fountains, facing Nelson's Column and eating a sandwich.
"Excuse me, sir," Elle said, trying to be as polite as possible. She held the newspaper out toward him. "I think you dropped this."
For a moment, he didn't respond. His back was to her and she still hadn't seen his face, but she could tell that he was chewing his food. Apparently refined to a fault, the man swallowed and wiped his mouth before speaking.
"Sit," he said without turning to look at her.
Elle frowned in confusion, but obeyed. They were seated on a corner so that she was facing the other fountain while the man continued to look toward Nelson's Column. Elle hoped he'd accept the newspaper then, but he simply continued speaking.
"Look at all of them," the man said of the people in the Square. Some of them—obviously tourists—were taking photographs; others were sitting and soaking in the scenery. All of them were smiling, all of them were happy. The man shook his head. "They're absolutely oblivious. The world goes on around them, but they don't see it. They don't want to. They're quite happy to remain idiots."
Silence fell between them. Elle didn't know how to respond to the man's comment and he seemed to think he'd made his point. He began eating again, taking careful bites before chewing and swallowing. He did not acknowledge Elle's presence. He simply stared—or glared, she imagined—straight ahead and concentrated on his lunch.
"That, um, must be a good sandwich," she said awkwardly, trying to break the silence.
"Egg mayo," he replied after wiping his mouth. "I take my lunch here every day and it's always the same: an egg mayonnaise sandwich, some crisps, and a drink. Nothing ever changes."
"It could," Elle told him, trying to be helpful, "if you wanted it to."
"No," he said. "I couldn't possibly change now. I'm too set in my ways."
Elle looked at him, or, rather, at the back of his head. The remark made it sound as though he was an old man, but he looked like he was fairly young. There was no gray in his hair and what Elle could see of his skin—his right hand and the back of his neck—was smooth and unblemished. She looked down at The International Gazette and smoothed a hand over its pages. She knew that she could set the paper down beside the man and walk away, but something about him intrigued her. She couldn't leave, at least not until she saw his face.
"Have you ever heard of The International Gazette?" the man asked suddenly. He didn't wait for a response. "I don't expect you have. It's published by a very small group for a very select clientele."
"Wow," Elle said, looking at the paper with renewed interest. She unrolled it so that the entire cover page was visible. "Fancy."
"Hardly," her companion scoffed. He'd finished his sandwich and now sat with his hands resting on his knees. "It's more like a club newsletter than anything else. Read me the headline," he demanded. Then, seeming to recognize his rudeness, he added, "Please."
Elle studied him for a moment. His shoulders had a defeated slump to them, but the rest of his body was rigid with tension. He was plucking at a loose thread on his sleeve, his movements becoming quicker and more agitated the longer the silence stretched between them. She decided to do as he'd asked before he could become restless enough to unravel his suit entirely.
"Keeper Albrecht Bieler Dead in London," Elle read.
"Dead," the man repeated with a bitter laugh. His hands tightened slowly into white-knuckled fists. "Dead in London. He was here—he was right here—but I couldn't—" He cut himself off with a frustrated growl and shoved his hands through his hair. He breathed out slowly, trying to compose himself, before asking, "Do you know who Albrecht Bieler was?"
"No," Elle replied. "Sorry."
"I didn't expect you would. The question was rhetorical," said the man. "Albrecht Bieler was born in 1932. He was one-quarter German, one-quarter Swiss, one-eighth Hungarian, and three-eighths Austrian. He could have chosen to live in any of the nations to which he had blood ties, but he didn't. He lived here in London. He was a good man and a very good friend, and now he's dead."
Elle was slightly confused by the breakdown of Bieler's heritage, but her companion was clearly upset and an off-topic rant was not to be unexpected. She thought she understood his rumpled clothes and messy hair now; clearly he hadn't seen any point in making himself look presentable since his friend's passing. Feeling sorry for the disheveled man, Elle grabbed his right hand and squeezed it. She experienced a brief, inexplicable burst of sadness as soon as her skin touched his, but it passed so quickly that she wondered if she'd imagined it. The man suddenly—finally—spun to face her and Elle found herself looking into the most stunning green eyes she'd ever seen.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
To say that he was handsome would be a gross understatement. He had exquisitely high cheekbones, a gently-curved nose, and thin, well-shaped lips. His eyebrows, though thick and full, were trimmed nicely and beautifully arched. In its disheveled state, his blonde hair made him appear reckless and devil-may-care, but there was a definite air of aristocratic sophistication about him. Then it was back to those eyes, those big, beautiful, gemstone-like, emerald green eyes. She was losing herself in them, falling deeper and deeper into the unknown…and then suddenly she wasn't, because she knew. She knew with sudden clarity just who she was sitting with, who she was staring at, whose hand she was holding.
"Oh my God!"
Elle released his hand and scrambled away, nearly falling into the fountain in the process. She folded her arms tightly across her chest and stared at him with wide eyes. He, on the other hand, seemed to have recovered from the shock of her touch and was staring at her pensively.
"You know who I am," he said after a moment, "don't you?"
She nodded. Elle had been a huge anime fan in high school. As a college student, her love of the Japanese cartoons had fallen by the wayside, but she knew about Hetalia and she knew exactly who she was speaking to.
"Right then," he nodded. "Show me."
He pulled a scrap of paper and a pen from the briefcase at his feet and held them out toward Elle. Eyeing him warily, she took the items. This is crazy, she told herself. This is real life, not an anime. He can't really be… Elle licked her lips and carefully wrote 'Arthur Kirkland' and then, beneath it, 'England.' She handed the paper back to him.
"Well?" she prompted, hoping she hadn't just made a fool of herself.
"You're right," he said, folding the paper and sliding it into his pocket. He grabbed his briefcase and started walking away. "Come with me."
She stared at him in shock. She was right? Go with him? What? Elle snatched up her purse and the newspaper and hurried after him.
"Mr. Kirkland!" she called, jogging to catch up with him. "Slow down!"
"Arthur," he corrected. They were near the road now and he was hailing a cab. "Tell me, if you had a chance to change your life, would you take it?"
"I—I don't know," Elle replied caught off guard by the question. "My head's still spinning from that bombshell you dropped, like, two seconds ago. You're really England?"
He smiled, "Arthur, please."
A cab pulled up to the curb and he spoke with the driver briefly before opening one of the back doors. He stood with one arm on the cab's roof and a hip propped against the car itself, looking at Elle expectantly.
"Once more, I ask you," Arthur said, "if you had a chance to change your life, would you take it?"
Elle bit her lip. "Well, I guess it depends. Would it be a good change or a bad change?"
"That's for you to decide," Arthur shrugged. "Life is what you make it, after all."
"Then I guess…well, I think I'd take the chance," Elle replied. "I mean, what's life without risks, right?"
"Precisely," Arthur said with a smile. "And here is your chance. Get in this cab with me, and your life will be changed forever. Whether that change will be good or bad, I cannot say, but I can assure you that so long as you're with me, no harm will befall you."
Elle was shocked by the offer. Her eyes widened dramatically and her mouth fell open in astonishment. Was this really happening? Had a blindingly attractive man who was supposed to be fictional just asked her to get into a cab with him? Had be just promised to change her life and to protect her? It was too much to process.
"I…I don't even know you!" Elle cried. It wasn't what she'd meant to say, but it was definitely what she was thinking. "I can't just get in a cab with you and drive off to God knows where! And how can you ask me to go with you? You don't know who I am!"
Arthur raised a brow, "I don't?"
"No," Elle said emphatically. "You don't. You don't even know my name!"
"Hmm, well let's see," said Arthur, staring skyward and drumming his fingers on the roof of the cab. He looked back at Elle and locked gazes with her. "You're Gabrielle Jane Vasquez—Ellie to your family, Elle to everyone else—from Fredericksburg, Virginia in the United States of America. You're twenty years of age and, having just completed your second year at the College of William and Mary, you've come to England for a two week study abroad program with a pair of professors and a handful of peers. You're five feet, eight inches tall and have brown hair and brown eyes, but anyone could know that just by looking at you, so let's go deeper, shall we? As far as your personal life goes, you have a few close friends, but no significant other. In fact, you've never had a boyfriend, although not for lack of wanting one, and you've still not had your first kiss. Academically, you're a fine student who receives above-average marks in all classes not related to mathematics or the sciences. You're an aspiring diplomat and hope to work for the US State Department someday. Your greatest wish is to travel the world and this visit to England is your first time outside of the United States. Are you convinced or shall I go on?"
"H-how," Elle stammered, trying to force her brain to catch up with the conversation, "how did you know all that?"
"I make it my business to know who is within my borders," Arthur told her, face expressionless. "It's decision time. Get into the cab with me now and change your life, or walk away and forget this nonsense ever happened. Your life will go on as it always has; nothing will change. I must tell you that this is a one time, and one time only, offer. If you decline, you lose the opportunity for good. So, Gabrielle Vasquez, what is your choice?"
Elle just stared at him. What could she say to that? What could anyone say to that? A supposedly fictional character had just given her an ultimatum: get into a cab or walk away. How was she supposed to respond? And what if he wasn't who he said he was? What if he was just some psychopath who was trying to get her alone so that he could kill her? It was too much to take in. Still, the choice lay before her and there was a time limit on it. She made eye contact with Arthur, searching for any deception or malevolence and finding none. Sure he was a little cranky and brusque, but he was being truthful. This was the honest-to-God, real-life Arthur Kirkland—the personification of England itself—and he was making her an offer. Elle looked back at the National Gallery and the people shuffling around Trafalgar Square. In the end, her choice wasn't much of a choice at all.
"I'm in," she said, sliding past Arthur and into the cab.
He nodded and got in beside her, "I suspected you would be."
Arthur pulled the door closed and set his briefcase on the floor between his feet. Elle, who wasn't entirely sure that she hadn't just made a huge mistake, gripped her purse tightly beside him. She met the cab driver's eyes in the rearview mirror. They were warm and encouraging and she felt her nervousness ease up just a little.
"Don't you worry, miss," the cabbie said kindly. "Our Mr. Kirkland's the finest man you'll ever meet—or finest country, rather."
"You know who he is?" Elle asked, surprised.
"Of course he does," Arthur replied. "Andrew is one of my very favorite drivers. Get us home quickly and safely as you can, Mr. Davies."
"Not a problem, sir," the cabbie grinned.
The vehicle pulled away from the curb and Elle felt a sudden burst of panic in her chest. Oh my God, what did I just do? She looked sidelong at Arthur, who was loosening his tie and attempting to finger-comb his hair. He finally gave up the messy blonde mop as a lost cause and heaved a heavy sigh before retrieving a cell phone from the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He typed out a short message on the keys, sent the text, and returned the device to its original home. Elle waited for him to say something, but Arthur seemed content to stare out the window and watch as London flew by. It was Mr. Davies who broke the silence.
"I don't mean to overstep my boundaries, sir, but your new friend seems rather confused," the cabbie said. "Have you explained anything to her? Does she know why she's here?"
"Have I explained..?" Arthur muttered, furrowing his brow. Realization suddenly stole over his features. "No. No, I suppose I haven't. Ms. Vasquez—"
"Elle," she interrupted. At his bewildered look, she blushed and hurried to explain. "If you want me to call you Arthur, you have to call me Elle. It's only fair."
"Alright," Arthur agreed, nodding slowly, "My apologies. Elle, do you still have that newspaper with you?"
"Yes, it's here," she replied, unfolding it. "Why?"
"Take a look at the front page again and tell me what you see."
Elle did as he asked. "Well, there's the headline about Bieler's death and an article about it, and then there's a picture."
"Good. Read the caption."
"It says 'Albrecht Bieler, seventy-nine, on vacation in the Swiss Alps, November 2011.' That can't be right, though," Elle said, frowning. "The guy in the picture looks like he's my age. Who is he?"
"Albrecht Bieler," Arthur replied.
"But the caption said he was—"
"Seventy-nine, yes," Arthur interrupted, "And he was, but he certainly didn't look it."
"That's an understatement," Elle said, looking at the picture. Bieler was a young man with short brown hair, an athletic build, and a captivating smile. He appeared to be somewhere in his early twenties, but had apparently been almost four times as old. "How is that even possible?"
"For many years, Albrecht Bieler was The Country Keeper," Arthur told her. "He accepted the position at age twenty-one. From that point on, he did not physically age. Time had no power over him; he was immortal."
"Immortal?" Elle wondered. The story sounded farfetched, but who was she to judge? She was sitting in a cab with the personification of England. She could believe just about anything at this point. "But he's dead. How does that work?"
"As I said, time had no power over him," Arthur murmured, his eyes suddenly distant. "Man, however, did. Albrecht was murdered, shot dead in his apartment one week ago."
"That's awful," Elle said. "So he couldn't die of old age, but he could be killed in other ways."
"Yes," Arthur replied, coming back to himself. "That's correct."
"Bummer. But what does any of this have to do with me?"
For a long moment, Arthur did not respond. He steepled his fingers and held them to his lips, breathing slowly as he stared straight ahead and gathered his thoughts. Elle waited. When he turned to face her, she could see centuries of wisdom and experience in his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat as reality weighed down upon her. She wasn't just talking to a man. She was talking to a country.
"The truth," England said, "is that we—meaning the other nations and myself—aren't very good at looking after ourselves. We need someone to do it for us. That was Albrecht Bieler's job, and now it will be yours."
"What," Elle said with a nervous chuckle. Was he being serious? "no interview? You just find me in Trafalgar Square and—bam!—I'm instantly a…a Country Keeper or whatever?"
"Well, you'll have to campaign, of course," Arthur told her, "which will mean traveling to other countries and trying to win them over. It shouldn't be a challenge, though. You'll have my support, as well as America's—my brothers', too, if you play your cards right. Others will join up quickly. You'll see."
"This isn't making any sense," Elle groaned, burying her face in her hands.
England watched her curiously, "Which part?"
"All of it!" she exploded, throwing her hands outward. "You, Albrecht What's-His-Name, all that Country Keeper crap…it's crazy!"
"I see." Arthur nodded. He turned to the cab driver. "Just here, please, Mr. Davies. We're quite capable of walking the rest of the way."
"Are you sure, sir?" Andrew asked.
"Positive. The length of my drive is a perfectly manageable distance."
"Alright then."
The cab slowed and stopped. Arthur thanked and paid the cabbie before gathering up his briefcase. He nodded to Elle and exited the vehicle. Not knowing what else to do, she moved copy him.
"I know he comes off a bit harsh," the cabbie said suddenly, "but he really is a fine country, our England. Give him some time. He'll warm up to you, Miss Vasquez. I guarantee it."
"Thanks, Mr. Davies," Elle said with a grateful smile. "Have a good day."
"You too, love."
Elle climbed out of the cab and shut the door behind her. She stared after the vehicle until it had faded from sight, half-wishing that it had taken her with it. Despite the cab driver's reassurances, she was nervous. Arthur obviously wanted her for a job, but he didn't seem to like her very much. England cleared his throat behind her and she turned toward him. The look on his face was not very encouraging.
"Come on," he said, and started walking.
Elle hurried after him. They were traveling along a wide gravel path, presumably Arthur's driveway. A large house—Arthur's house—was visible in the distance and all around it lay endless, open fields. The land was very green and quite beautiful. It was dotted here and there with trees and flowering plants; horses and sheep grazed at their leisure. It was, in a word, idyllic.
"How far are we from London?" Elle asked.
"Not far," Arthur replied distractedly. He had his cell phone out again. "I've contacted your professors. They're under the impression that you met an important official at the National Gallery and have been offered an internship. They'll want to speak with you, of course, to make certain that you're alright, but I believe they'll accept what I've told them as the truth. We'll contact your parents soon and feed them the same story. Then you'll be free to campaign."
"Yeah, about that," Elle sighed. "Are you sure I'm right for this job?"
"Absolutely," Arthur told her. "Why do you ask?"
"Well…how do you know?"
"Do you remember when you grabbed my hand in Trafalgar Square?" England asked. Elle colored, embarrassed, but nodded. Of course she remembered. "As soon as your skin touched mine, I felt better than I have in weeks. My stress levels decreased, my anxiety faded…even my sadness over Albrecht's death was lessened to a degree. In that moment, I knew. You're the next Country Keeper."
"So that's what Mr. Bieler did?" Elle wondered. "He went around making sure that you and the other nations were happy?"
"That was part of his job, yes," Arthur nodded. "He talked with us and gave us advice and offered a pat on the back or a firm hug when we needed it. Albrecht was more of a Verbal Keeper; he preferred to help us by speaking to us and only touched if it was necessary. I can tell that, if elected, you'll be more Tactile and make physical contact readily."
"You looked uncomfortable when I touched your hand."
"I was surprised," he explained, "by both the contact and the fact that all of my negative feelings were draining away. You must understand, we countries have gotten used to Albrecht's style of Keeping. America and some of the other nations won't mind physical contact, but you'll have to give the rest of us some time to adjust."
"I understand," Elle said, though she really didn't. "Tell me more about the campaign. Will I be running against anyone?"
"Yes," Arthur told her. "Russia and China have already put forth a candidate, a girl from Beijing, and most of the South American countries are behind a young man from Brazil. I expect the African nations to select a candidate as well. With you in the race, there'll be four candidates. Don't worry though; you'll have a good chance of winning."
"How so?"
"Well, the South American countries will all vote together, as will the African countries. They're fairly large voting blocs, but not large enough to win the election on their own. In the end, it'll be down to you and the girl from Beijing. That's where it gets tricky. China and Russia will win votes to their side through intimidation; we'll win votes by gaining trust. That's the purpose of the campaign."
They were nearing the house—mansion, really—and Elle couldn't help admiring its grandness. It was built in the Tudor style. Stately and elegant in its architecture, but warm and welcoming with its flower-filled window boxes, the house was clearly not just a building. It was a home.
"You haven't said anything," Arthur began, sounding slightly uncomfortable, "but I recognize that I've been rather harsh with you. From the moment that I bumped into you, I was rude and callous and abrupt. I could tell you that I've been stressed beyond my limit for days on end, but that's really no excuse. I'm a gentleman and I haven't been acting like one. For that, I apologize."
Elle blinked in surprise. "Uh…don't worry about it. You weren't that bad."
"Perhaps not," Arthur conceded, "but you should really hold me accountable. I'm trying to work on my attitude. I've been told I come off as something of a prick."
"Who told you that?"
England laughed, "Just about everyone, but mostly my brothers. And speaking of my brothers, it looks as though they're all here."
He indicated a sextet of flagpoles that stood in front of his house. At the very top of the tallest pole, a Union Flag was flapping in the afternoon breeze. Four others, all shorter than the first but equal to each other in height, bore the flags of Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, and the Republic of Ireland, respectively. The sixth flagpole was bare.
"It's our signal to each other," Arthur explained. "Whenever one of us arrives home, we have our flag raised. It helps us know who's here and who's not. That way, we can avoid each other or at least prepare ourselves before seeing one another. It's helped avert many a fight between us."
"Are all of you usually here at the same time?" Elle asked.
"Not usually," Arthur replied. "We've all got our own homes in our individual capitals. I have a place in the middle of London, Scotland's got a home in Edinburgh, and so on. This is the UK House. I typically share it with Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland. The Republic comes by to visit, but he spends most of his time in Dublin. He's his own sovereign nation, so he thinks his flagpole should be as tall as the one that flies the Union Flag, but this is the UK. He's a guest here and he'll take what he's given—that's my opinion, anyway. He's lucky his flagpole isn't shorter than all the others."
Elle laughed. She might be dealing with countries, but they weren't any different from humans in their relationships. England spoke of his brothers with a sort of exasperated fondness: he clearly loved them, but they obviously got on his nerves.
When Arthur and Elle reached the house, they were greeted by a stout, matronly woman with wispy gray hair. The woman went immediately to Arthur and pulled him into a hug. She then proceeded to fuss over his messy hair and rumpled clothes.
"Oh, England, look at you!" the woman wailed, "Such a mess. Have you been sleeping well, dear? Eating enough? Never mind; I can tell you haven't. Don't you worry, though. After a few days here, you'll be right as rain."
"I highly doubt that, Mrs. Cooper," Arthur said, looking both embarrassed by and pleased with her attention. "Did you not notice? My brothers are here."
"I did notice," the woman—Mrs. Cooper—replied with a frown, "and I'll have you know that Scotland's been causing trouble left and right. He filled the front yard with hundreds of tiny Scottish flags at some point last night; the groundskeepers have only just finished picking them all up. That little stunt was inconvenient, to be sure, but he's been wreaking real havoc inside."
Arthur sighed, "If he doesn't want to be here, why doesn't he just go home to Edinburgh? No one's forcing him to stay."
"He says it's symbolic," Mrs. Cooper explained. "He can't leave the UK, so, in his mind, he can't leave the UK House. It all comes down to him wanting his independence, really."
"Oh, God," Arthur moaned, massaging his forehead, "that's right. He wants his independence. I'm sure that's all I'll be hearing about for the next few days."
"Chin up, England dear," Mrs. Cooper said, patting his arm. "It won't be as bad as all that. You'll see. Oh! Who's this?"
Elle smiled. She'd felt invisible for the past several minutes, but she didn't really mind. It was interesting to see how Arthur interacted with this woman who had taken it upon herself to be his stand-in mother.
"Mrs. Cooper, this is Gabrielle Vasquez, candidate for Country Keeper," Arthur introduced. "Elle, meet my very dear friend Mrs. Mary Cooper, Steward of the UK House."
"It's nice to meet you, ma'am," Elle said, extending a hand to shake. She wasn't surprised when her hand was ignored and she was pulled into a tight, motherly hug instead.
"American!" Mrs. Cooper gushed, "Oh, welcome, dear. Welcome! England, I didn't know you were supporting an American for the position of Keeper."
"Neither did I until earlier this afternoon," Arthur shrugged. He looked toward the house. "If you'll excuse us, Mrs. Cooper, I think I'll take Elle inside. I'd like to give her a tour and introduce her to my brothers."
"Best hold off on the tour, dear," Mrs. Cooper said, releasing Elle from her smothering embrace. "As I said, Scotland's been wreaking havoc. The workmen are just now putting the foyer back together. Don't worry; everything will be in its place by tonight. Just be patient. And go in through the back door, if you don't mind."
Arthur sighed, "I don't mind. This way, Elle."
He began leading her around the back of the house, but stopped as a thought struck him.
"Mrs. Cooper?" Arthur said, half-turning to face her, "I think it's time we let St. George's Cross fly, don't you?"
He inclined his head toward the flagpoles and the woman nodded eagerly. She disappeared into the house, but returned quickly with the flag that Arthur had requested. Mrs. Cooper went immediately to the only barren pole and raised the length of fabric to the top. Elle smiled as she watched St. George's Cross flap and billow in the breeze. The Flag of England was flying with its brothers; England was home.