Disclaimer: No, Tomatoes and Turtles do not own Axis Powers Hetalia or the idea of the fanfiction at all. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. The original concept was inspired by a prompt from Hetalia kink meme (though there is a major difference between that and our fanfic) and premise of the fanfic belongs to Alowl. All we did was take her idea (with permission, of course) and ran in the opposite direction. However, the prologue and the first two chapters are based scenes from her original story.


Chapter One: Revealed

A few barely knew about the existence of Prince Matthew Kirkland.

It wasn't because he was a well-guarded secret or anything of that sorts – it was just really hard not to be overshadowed by Prince Alfred, his older brother. Especially with royalty, it was only natural to pay more attention to the first-born – and that wasn't even including Alfred's personal twist to the mix. As a child, Alfred was a ball of energy, getting into trouble almost on a daily basis. The court absolutely adored that about him, and almost worshipped him at some points.

In contrast, Matthew was practically invisible. He was calm and quiet, preferring books and stuffed animals over swords and mischief. And, unlike Alfred, he just did not seem to have as much magical potential as his older brother did.

You see, fire and Alfred just seemed to go together, even when he was barely old enough to crawl. If he was placed in front of a candle, he'd have been completely absorbed in the objective of trying to touch it, much to the alarm of his father and nannies who tried to keep him at a safe distance. When they did, they'd quickly regret the decision as Alfred's wails permeated the entire castle for hours at a time. As soon as he learned to walk, he ended up wobbling to the nearest fireplace, completely unharmed – to the alarm and amazement of his father. If the prince walked just close enough to a fire, the flames would try to reach him, much like his human admirers. It was as if he and fire were made for each other.

Word quickly spread about his talents, and soon the word on the street was that Alfred was a prodigy. And as he grew, he proved the rumours to be true. He would eventually be a natural at all types of fire magic – practically bursting with magical potential. Arthur, king of the Western Kingdom (now known as Westerius after they lost property rights over the East) was a proud father and would eventually brag, as he himself was naturally inclined to fire– just not as much as Alfred was.

So when the time came that the warriors of the North demanded custody of Fire Prince in return for sparing his kingdom, Arthur found little trouble choosing his next step, even though it was a painful choice to make. As King, he had to make the best decision for his subjects, not just for his children. And royalty-wise, it was unheard of to sacrifice a first born anyway, since one would be giving up the Crown Prince. And to hammer the final nail in the coffin, it would not be wise to give away a person with an unfathomable amount of raw power, that rivalled the powerful mages of myth, to a power-hungry invading kingdom.

Almost nobody knew that there was a second prince – until he was sacrificed at the tender age of six, that is.

Alfred was one of them. He was accustomed to his younger brother's frequent disappearances and initially suspected this to be one of them. But when Matthew failed to appear after an extended amount of time, the young prince went frantic. He would desperately search for the young boy that would quietly and happily trail by his side. Alfred would search the library and palace gardens, his brother's favourite spots. He muster up courage to explore dark corners and rooms, places he feared were inhabited by ancient ghost and spirits, in hopes of finding his crybaby brother simply lost in the palace's complex labyrinth. But as his searches became more and more unfruitful, the more the boy's spirit fell and eventually broke down into tears. His father could only manage to softly comfort the child, sadly admitting the heartbreaking truth that his brother is no longer here. The boy wailed for months, desperately awaiting the return of his missing brother. While the two barely spoke to one another, Alfred felt a deep connection he knew he had lost and taken away from him. As time flew by, Alfred cries began to soften and eventually stopped as he accepted his younger brother will no longer come back.

It was four years later, once Alfred turned ten, when Arthur deemed him old enough to know the truth about his brother's disappearance.

Alfred started to call his father by his first name the very next day.

There was much more at stake than the strain that the revelation put on Arthur and Alfred. To the Fire Prince, it said more about Arthur than all his years of knowing him. If he was willing to give away his own son for insurance, then what was stopping him from doing something similar again? With that in mind, Alfred spent the next five years doing anything and everything in his power to rebel against his father – whether it was ruining dinners with important nobles or neglecting to attend his classes, as long as it made his father look bad.

On this particular day, Alfred Jones – not Kirkland, as he would correct – aimed a particularly heated glare at his father from his seat next to the throne, his grip tensing on the velvet-covered arms of his seat. Alfred was somewhat tall for his age – which would have helped give a better view of the audience chamber if he wasn't already on a chair next to the throne. He looked around the room, his bright blue eyes sweeping the chamber. His blond hair flickered in the light of the torches and a small frown expressed on his teenaged face. Despite his well-known status as an arrogant and cheerful trouble maker, the crowned prince was more sullen than he appeared. Times like this, he wouldn't even bother to hide his displeasure at the situation.

When Alfred glared up at his father, Arthur returned the heated gaze and then some. The king was all too aware of his son's disapproval, but remained firm on his decision, frequently explaining that it was for the best, which would always spark an argument between the two. The father and son ended their glaring competition when they jumped at the sound of trumpets.

Despite it being nine years after their first threats of invasion, the Northern army was just as vicious as ever. They demanded negotiation with the Western Kingdom instead of attacking, sending a messenger as they did almost a decade ago – just to mock them, in Alfred's opinion. And to the loud disapproval of the prince, the messenger was authorized safe passage to the palace. Alfred gripped the arms of the throne again as memories of his brother flowed into his mind.

"Calm down, you idiot!" Arthur snapped as he made his way to stand beside his son. He stared his son down with an icy green glare as he coldly continued, "Are you trying to start a war with the North?"

"They've already declared war on us," Alfred muttered, loathing in his tone as he scowled at the chamber doors. He moved awkwardly to find a more comfortable seat on the throne. "Making this meeting completely useless."

"You are the Crown Prince of Westerius," Arthur growled. "And as such, you must act in a manner fitting to your status! If you want to wear the crown, you wear it, and all that comes with it – meaning you have to pay attention to the slightest chance we can get through this without being dragged into a meaningless war that will get half our people killed."

"Like how you did?" Alfred felt a trace of grim satisfaction as his father flinched backwards as if he was slapped. "You'll have to excuse me, your majesty, if I think there are some things have too high a price."

Arthur's retort was interrupted by the trumpets sounding off yet again. Nobles quieted down as a messenger apprehensively came forward announcing, "All hail. My lords, allow me to present –" at the sound of the double doors swinging open, the courier immediately drew back. The only sound that could be heard was the relaxed click dark boots of a familiar dark figure.

"I can speak for myself."

Alfred watched from the corner of his eye as Arthur stiffened like a wooden plank, emerald-green eyes wide with disbelief and what he assumed was recognition. The voice was deep, a rumble of thunder as the large man made his way through the throne room. He gave a quick sarcastic bow before introducing himself, "I am the Master of the North. Lord of the Wild Hunt. Keeper, Breaker, and Beloved of Winter, greatest of the Four."

Following his words, a small group of similarly built men came behind him in a plain formation. All had similar black eyes, shooting the court with furtive glances and sword on hand although not ready at stance. They were also alike in clothing styles, preferring to dress in thick dark furs despite the blistering summer's heat. It was making Alfred uneasy, thinking about how much weapons that could be hidden under their hulky fur coats.

The Master of Winter was tall and thick with muscle, had broad features and dense dark hair. His smile did nothing to reduce the intimidation in his appearance. If anything, the casual smile on his face made it worse. "I am come as an envoy, so that we might negotiate the situation." The words were lazily said, completely ignorant of the indignant response and expression of the king.

"You were specifically told to come alone," Arthur snapped from his position beside Alfred, staring at the line of people behind the large man. He forced himself to swallow the boiling rage that was trying to emerge, which resulted in him trembling in suppressed anger.

The Master smirked before he yawned. "And I chose not to."

He gestured towards his guards behind him. "This is my personal guard. I believe I am allowed a detachment for – what do you call it? 'Self-defence.'" He raised an eyebrow. "It's only – 'civilized', isn't it?" The distaste was rather prominent in his tone.

"Then who's that?" Arthur's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he pointed forward with his chin. The Fire Prince's eyes followed his father's gaze to the unlucky person to earn Arthur's attention and his own eyes narrowed in suspicion.

In contrast to the blocks of men clothed in dark furs, the man Arthur was directing attention to was dressed in the brightest white and had a thin built. The unknown man in long bluish white robes that had a fur trimmed hood concealing his face silently made his way slightly behind the Master. The white-clad man was slightly taller than average height and held a tall staff covered in white linen in one hand, staring at the floor, avoiding any chance of seeing his face unless his hood was taken off.

"This –" And the Master reached out, settling a huge, paw-like hand on a thin shoulder. "- Is my General." The Master smiled deceivingly down at the smaller man.

"Your 'General' got a name?" Alfred spoke for the first time, face openly suspicious as he warily gazed at the intruders.

"My apologies. I haven't introduced you yet, have I?" A slow smirk crossed his features. "Lords of the West –" his voice rose as he stepped forward. "I present to you, my most trusted advisor." His smile sharpened. "The General Winter."

Alfred stared, jaw dropping open in shock. Arthur wasn't that far behind either.

Winter.

General Winter.

As fire was to Alfred, the same could told about General Winter and ice. Said to be an entity completely made of ice and merciless to anyone that stood in its path, the Ice Mage was legendary. That was, until it was apparent that it bent to the will of the Master as an undisputed advisor. Recently, the Winter General was said to have led the armies of the North as a top class warrior and a gifted assassin.

According to rumours, the only person who could surpass the level of malice and sadism he possessed was none other than the Master. At least half the dead of the last campaign could be laid at his feet alone. They say that the deaths weren't painless either, as Winter's favourite method of killing was to subject large populations to sheer coldness, leaving them to die as the blood froze solid in their veins.

"You dare…" Arthur breathed as his body trembled "-to bring that, that pestilence here!" The king was completely wrathful as he roared at the Northerners gathered at the bottom of the platform. "This is no negotiation! Get that – waste out of my throne room immediately!" He hurled a hand forward, pointing furiously towards the doorway.

The fur-lined hood shuddered, the mage turning his head to face the furious shouts; he seemed to tremble even more than he was before as the Master draped a hand across his shoulder. "But why?" At the Master's calm voice, the mage's trembling stopped quickly. "Doesn't he belong here?" His words were addressed as much as to the general as to the monarch.

"There's no place on my court for that beast!" Arthur was as livid as he could be, spittle flying out of his mouth.

"And officially consider yourselves at war with Westerius!" Alfred interrupted, voice rising at the Lord of the Wild Hunt.

"When will you ever learn to hold your tongue, Alfred? I am the King here, and this is my decision to make! You have no say in this because you know nothing! "

"Oh, I know!" Alfred roared in response. "I know that –" He shot a sudden look at the Master, face filled with quick distrust.

"Oh, don't mind me." The Master waved a hand, clearly amused at their argument. "As much as I've been enjoying this, I can't ignore the fact that I've haven't been as polite as I should have been." The smile that came across his face looked sharper than a mouthful of dragon's teeth. "Since I have failed to introduce you properly." One leather-gloved hand yanked the furred hood back, a flow of short pale blond hair following in its wake.

"Matthew?"