During the month-long voyage home, Arthur doesn't change clothes. He barely eats, refuses to sleep, and passes the days staring drunkenly out over the sea from his perch at the helm. At night, the crew watches him stagger around on deck, screaming curses at the stars and throwing everything in reach. They silently clean up the next morning, because even the captain knows better than to interfere.
Eventually the ship runs out of whiskey, and Arthur barricades himself in his quarters. His staff whisper that they hear metal—he is preparing for a duel. After a few days, two manservants and a maid break down his locked door and find the room in shreds, and Arthur with foil in hand. They leave quickly.
When the ship docks at the port of London, it is besieged by heralds from His Majesty demanding a full account of the events at Yorktown. The ship is searched, and Arthur is found passed out, face down in a corner of his ruined study. A doctor is rushed aboard and declares Arthur unfit to appear in Court. He is sentenced to three weeks bed rest in Bath. Arthur's butlers carry him off the ship.
When he wakes, Arthur is alone. His room is pleasant, if bare, with a window open. A light breeze filters through the linen curtains and rumples his hair, smelling faintly of sea salt. He has no idea where he is.
rain, mud, battlefield, stormclouds
a rifle pointed at his nose, bayonet glinting in the falling light
big blue eyes fixed on him...
(laughing blue, little boy blue)
now utterly unfamiliar with this detached, calculating look
the heavens open, and the rain starts to pour...
The force of Arthur rocketing to his feet is too much for his still weak stomach, and he is heaving, emptying himself of whatever food the nurses have managed to force feed him. The sounds of his retching fetch a rotund, purple-faced man who spouts medical-sounding babble until two huge guards manage to subdue Arthur. A nurse slips into the chaos with a small, steaming cup of tea. He immediately downs it, desperate for the familiar scalding down his throat to wake him up, but instead the room spins and...
"FRANCE!" Arthur howls. Somewhere, a clock strikes midnight, and Arthur stands quivering in front of an opulent French palace, sword in hand. His breath makes misshapen white puffs in front of him.
Like some blasted novel...
Candlelight plays across the inside of curtained windows, and faint strains of a gavotte are audible through the thick walls. The French are celebrating.
Arthur's stomach heaves again, but this time there is nothing to empty. Instead, stitches from one of his earlier treatments rip, and he screams again. His hand flies to his side and feels his coat moisten. The ground seems to tilt like the deck of a ship under his feet, and he imagines this is what sea-sickness feels like.
"FRANCIS BONNEYFOY, YOU BASTARD! BONNEFOY!"
A window opens, spilling warmth into the frozen courtyard. France, with each arm around the waist of a tittering lady looks absurd with his party finery and wig askew. Laughing doesn't occur to Arthur.
"Why the sword, mon ami?" Bonnefoy slurs. "Tonight we dance! Join us!"
Arthur roars, wordless, and starts forward, intending to storm the doors and drive his sword straight through Bonnefoy's heart. Instead, something in his wound catches, and it's as if a millstone has been dropped on him, and it's all he can do to stay on his feet. Around him, the world spins in a dizzying array of light and shadow. Only his sword stays constant, glowing in the candlelight spilling from the window.
Bonnefoy straightens as the ladies retreat into the arms of other suitors, shrieking.
"Excusez-moi, mes amis," Bonnefoy calls behind him, heading for the ballroom doors amidst groans and boos. "Un moment, s'il vous plaits. Je reviendrai tout-suite."
Bonnefoy hurries downstairs and pushes past some very surprised butlers, heading outside. He arrives barely in time to catch Arthur before he collapses. He gracelessly slings one of Athur's arms across his own shoulders, and half carries, half drags the semi-conscious wreck away. Arthur would stab him if his arm felt like paying a moment's notice to his brain.
At first, it seems Bonnefoy is taking him to another mansion, but its smell reveals it to only be a glorified horse stable.
Rich bastards...
Bonnefoy dismisses the gawking groomers inside with a flick of his hand, kicks out a few hay bales, lowers Arthur on to them, and relieves him of his sword. He kicks out his own hay bale, and sits where Arthur can see him, staring at him in incredulous silence.
"By Jove, what?" Arthur says weakly.
"What am I to do with you, mon cher connard*?"
"You...aren't drunk," is the only thing Arthur can think to say.
Bonnefoy tries to grin, but it comes out strained.
"Do not be so sure. Mais oui, I tend to be more...joyful than there is joy in me. It keeps me alert for situations such as these."
Arthur interrupts him with a moan and curse as another stitch rips somewhere.
"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" Bonnefoy murmurs, slowly approaching him. Arthur knowing, hating his vulnerability and the frigid winter air squeezes shut his eyes and waits as Bonnefoy removes his coat, then his blood-soaked shirt. He hears fabric tearing, and a rag daubs gently at his wound. It stings, and Arthur curses again. Bonnefoy curses right back. Eventually, his wound is dressed, and Arthur feels as if he can breathe without his organs falling out. Bonnefoy removes his own coat, throws it over Arthur's bare chest, and retreats.
"I hate you, bastard. I hate you."
Bonnefoy grunts, "Evidemment, or you would not have disturbed me tonight in this condition. I suppose you would challenge me to a duel?"
"That was the idea."
"Why? It is more shedding of blood you desire?"
"No. Revenge...and your life." Never mind that that fantasy was impossible, that a nation could not die unless its people were somehow wiped out as well...but surely a blade through the heart would cause the infernal nation some pain, something to rival Arthur's own...
Bonnefoy ignores this. "I am not the one deserving of such violence."
"No? NO? Was it not you who did not have the gentleman's decency to let alone a family matter?" Arthur's weak voice now gains strength from his building rage. "Instead, you fill Alfred's hear with delusions of grandeur and rebellion, then give him the power to make his mad dreams come true! If it weren't for you, he'd have come to his senses long ago. But no, by Jove, the kid always admired you, watched you, and you took advantage of that! You used him!"
Arthur struggles to sit up, still ranting and ignoring the faint wail of protest that escapes him. Bonnefoy is on his feet.
"I did no such thing! He came to me, pleading. Who was I to deny him, and refuse a new ally? The French are not stingy."
"You knew he wasn't ready!" Arthur bellows. "Now you'll just watch as he goes to hell, and who'll be there to pick up the pieces?"
Arthur manages to stay, swaying, and staggers towards him, his earlier rage returning. Bonnefoy meets him halfway, and tries to force him back down. Arthur won't budge.
"What," Bonnefoy says, grunting in exertion, "is this really about, Arthur?"
Cold blue eyes stare down at him crumpled on the muddy ground, humiliated for the world to see.
Come home with me, Alfred. Please. End this.
"I'm not your little brother anymore. I am my own nation now. Independent, free of your tyranny and your king. I secede ."
"YOU TOOK HIM!" Arthur screams, engulfed by the memory. "You had no right! And now, nothing will ever be the same." A sob slips out. "He hates me now, because of you and your filthy, hypocritical ideals."
Bonnefoy shoves Arthur back on to his hay, and stalks away.
"Non, Arthur. I was but a source for your young Alfred. I did not take him: he freed himself."
Arthur sniffs, and hates how pathetic he sounds.
Bonnefoy turns on him. "He came to me, saying he was too old to be living under your thumb. He had grown, and instead of allowing him to flourish, you tried to control him in the name of protection and your own selfish interests to benefit from his strength. I did not use him, Arthur. You did."
"But...he's still so young...has so much to learn..."
"Arthur, I believe is it you who has much to learn."
The humiliation of crying in front of his enemy is starting to sink in.
"Why do you care so much anyway? And don't give me 'generosity.'"
Bonnefoy paces, considering, then turns and strides over to Arthur, causing him to flinch away in alarm.
"To see if it could be done," Bonnefoy hisses, right in Arthur's face. "To see if true freedom is possible. A land without king, queen, or nobility. A government "deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed**": that is what he is planning, your Alfred. And it has taken me by storm."
Bonnefoy stays there, breathing heavily for a moment. His fiercely ardent expression lingers a second longer before he composes himself and steps away.
The look in Bonnefoy's eyes chills Arthur, and he keeps silent.
Is that all...? I wonder...he looked more than interested. Almost...mad.
"What do you want me to do with you, Kirkland? I cannot have you bleeding out here in my stables."
Bonnefoy's return to cold formality relieves him.
"I don't know. Send me back to merry old England by the post, perhaps?"
Bonnefoy's lips twitch, trying to smile. "Non. We will patch you up, and I will escort you home. That is, if you promise me my unharmed person, at least for that long."
Arthur tries to dredge up the rage that fueled him just a few minutes before, but all that if left is the emptiness that has been eating him since the start of this god-forsaken war.
"You can keep your person. Keep all your limbs too." He pauses, considering. "I'm grateful for your help, but don't think I've forgiven you. Or even like your existence, for that matter, much less you. And I know you have no love for me."
Bonnefoy smiles, sad. "I know, Arthur. I know. Mais...someday..."
"What?"
"That could change. Perhaps. Qu'est-ce que vous pensez?"
Bonnefoy leaves the stables before Arthur can respond.
"Qu'est ce que vous pensez?" Arthur mutters to himself. At his wound's insistence, he lowers himself back on to the hay, and closes his eyes.
"What do I think?"
Idiot.
A/N: A few notes: character names are mainly used in this story because I felt that the particular conflict I was describing was more personal to Arthur than encompassing the entire scope of the war. Also, Francis speaks in French on many occasions because I couldn't resist...I absolutely adore the French language, and am fortunate enough to be studying it. If you catch any errors in my French (I'd love to know!) or need a translation, please leave a comment or PM me! Finally, I know that some of the dialogue in the story may come across as politically charged. I'm not trying to convey my own views of the war or present the views discussed as historically absolutely correct, they just worked here, and added some interesting ideas to explore...I hope :)
Read & Review please.
*"Connard" is a rude expression in French used to insult someone's intelligence. A little stronger than the English "idiot," but not vulgar.
**Real quote from the Declaration of Independence.