Really, truly have no idea what I was doing. Ah well, read and review.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
England, ruler of the world. The mighty empire upon which the sun never sets. No one looked past the titles, the meaning of his very existence to see tired, tired green eyes, hands that trembled and legs too frail to support the weight on his shoulders. No one but another nation could even guess at the meaning behind the haunting, piercing gaze of a nation with so much blood in it's history. Not even other nations could see the weight of the world slowly crushing him to death, painfully slow. The curse of his very existence weighed on his soul, but he wouldn't escape. Couldn't when all was said and done, because all of him belonged to his people, his land. He couldn't dream of freedom. The siren call of his people's cries, their gazes and fearful eyes wouldn't let him.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
Cold blue eyes looked at him, taunting, cruel. You mean nothing to me. You never did, and you never will. You can't control me. You don't control me. He fell to his knees in a bloody battlefield, death covering him like a blanket, clogging his windpipes, twisting his stomach in knots. And yet he lived on. How could he not. England was alive.
All the King's horses and all the king's men
The King could see his illness, could see it in the thinness of his wrists, the deathly pallor and pinched expression. But he did not understand the cause. Could never understand the cause. After all, he was not cursed, not the way his country was.
Couldn't put Humpty together again
Arthur Kirkland was a persona. Meant to help him blend in when he wasn't needed. To give him a semblance of sanity in the chaos of the world. It was never meant to be permanent, never meant to become real. At least not the way it had.
He could feel eyes watching him as he went about his daily business, though he was used to it by now. They'd followed him since before he could remember. They did nothing to harm or help, and he'd grown used to it. Enough that he no longer thought about them, except on the rare occasions that he did. Such as just at that very second. But he soon forgot. Bills to pay and work to do, no time to contemplate the unimportant. If he thought about it too much, he might remember. Though he hadn't a clue what it was he'd be remembering, only that it was painful and bad and he most certainly had no inclinations to find out exactly what that meant. Tea would help, it always did.
Leaving the room, he missed the blue eyes that peered into the window. The bright, blond hair, sunny demeanor tempered by grief and regret that he wouldn't know. Would never know. Not unless he remembered. Hands shoved in pockets, nodding to a stubbled man with hair the same colour as his own, the watcher left. The end of his shift, the end of another hopelessly grey day.
He had cracked, broken under the weight of the world and the rebelliousness of one small boy who had become his world.