It was far earlier in the morning than Arthur realized when he first heard the heavy pounding on the door. It was a steady rhythm at first, which became frantic. As Arthur reached the bottom of the stairs, missing a house slipper, robe falling off his shoulder, it had gone to a quiet, cautious tapping. He wrenched open the door.

"What on God's green earth do you want?" is what he meant to say. He only got out the first word or so before Alfred tumbled inward on top of him.

"Alfred!" He screeched, throwing the younger man backwards and onto the floor of the foyer. Again, he meant to scream a lot more, a lot louder and a lot more quickly, but he was cut off by the view before him. He hadn't seen it in the flurry of falling bodies, but Alfred looked like he'd been beaten up, he looked worse than in their last big fight.

Arthur didn't want to think about that. The other man was bleeding enough leave little puddles—all over his nice, clean, shiny floorboards. But it was more the fact that he was bleeding. The navy-colored jacket he was wearing was turning a deep purple color in some places.

"What did you get yourself into now?" With a sigh of indignation, Arthur grabbed Alfred under his chest and tried to pick him up off of his knees; the younger man gave a loud yelp and pulled away. "What in the name of the Queen—"

Watering blue eyes stared up at Arthur from underneath a mess of blond hair matted with mud. He was quivering, pale. "I'm sorry, I came to say-- I had to say-- I'm really sorry," he whispered, quickly, shakily, sniffling the whole while. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"For what?" Arthur finally succeeded at getting underneath him to help him to his feet. He was too big to carry anymore.

"I know what you mean," Alfred whispered, leaning on Arthur, "I know what you mean," he didn't want to put his weight on his left foot, "I used to think you were so big and then I thought I was so big," Alfred gave a heaving sob, "and I'm not and I'm sorry."

"Are you daft, man?" Arthur sat him down in a kitchen chair. Alfred was covered in cuts, had a bruise on his jaw, and his glasses were missing, save for the little bit of glass that looked stuck in the bridge of his nose. "What did you do?"

"I seceeded," he whispered, as though he were admitting a cardinal sin. "It's happening to me and I did it to you and it feels as though my heart's being ripped in half, right in half, because that's what's happening."

Arthur caught himself before he asked the stupid obvious question, and said, "You mean, you're...?"

"The South doesn't want to be a whole anymore. They're splitting off. It's just all fighting, mean nasty fighting. Just fighting. And I'm scared. And I'm so sorry," he finished in a whisper.

Arthur furrowed his brows. He didn't know what to say, really; he didn't want to leave room for misinterpretation, and he didn't know what he could say to comfort him right now. He'd been alone when Alfred left, but he didn't want to be the type of guy who would send a former enemy to his doom by spurning him to fight back. He didn't want to be the "if you want it, fight for it" guy, that was Alfred's job. He had said it to himself when Alfred took his stand not so long ago, and that was how he'd lost him.

"I'm s-sorry," Alfred stammered between shuddering sobs.

"Me too," was all Arthur could say.