Notes: Sorry it took me so long to post... the last three days have been crazy for me..
Arthur had to admit that he hated the schools here. Back home, he and his siblings enjoyed the luxury of having tutors come into their home every day at their convenience to teach them everything from literature, to history, to mathematics, and sometimes even a little bit of artful recreation where they were encouraged to paint, draw, sculpt, write, dance, or whatever it is they fancied that day.
But out here in the New World, no one had the time or luxury (or knowledge) to be an adequate tutor for the Kirkland children. The captain placed his children in a public school house where they were divided by their age and levels, but all the Kirkland boys were more or less near the same level and all of them were too well-educated for the level they were settled in, all because their Latin was "imperfect."
Otherwise, Arthur and his brothers had no special skill-sets that would make them useful in the workplace and all were too young for the military quite yet.
"It's important that you all pick French as an elective," warned their father one morning over breakfast.
"Why would we want to do a stupid thing like that?" said Braith, still too young to understand the subtleties of language.
"Because when we invade the capital of New France, we will be bringing the children to Boston."
"Why?" asked Alistair, honestly curious to know the thought process behind this decision and wanting to understand.
"It's not the children's faults they're raised alongside savages," reasoned the captain. "I made a suggestion to the admiral that we capture and bring the children with us so that they can have an opportunity for a proper upbringing and education. He has graciously accepted, so long as it is done delicately."
Arthur frowned at this news. He had never met a French person, but he has heard they're pompous and air headed, and can be outrageously flamboyant with their mannerism. He often wondered how people like that could have possibly taken over their lands centuries earlier.
Although unhappy to learn yet another language, Arthur and Braith did pick up French as an elective. Alistair opted for astronomy.
When the French did join their ranks, Arthur was none the wiser. He would have never known they were French if it weren't for their horrible accents, until he was sitting in class one day and one of them, a tall boy with long blond hair walked to the front of their class and introduced himself as Francis Bonnefoy, with that strange, nasally way of pronouncing it like "Frrrawnsseess." Arthur failed to wrap his ears around the strange tongue, not until four weeks into his French classes and it all dawned on him.
From then on, he paid much closer attention to the newcomers. He wondered how he never noticed them before when he saw how isolated they were among the English kids. Everyone gawked at them, staying a clear five feet away from them in any direction when it can be helped, and when it couldn't, the English kids would lean away from them like they might catch tetanus from the oil of their skin.
Arthur quickly noticed that when Francis wasn't in class, he was always with a younger blond boy, a fragile looking thing that he kept a protective arm around. Francis always looked like he expected someone to come around the corner and slit their throats, and he seemed perfectly willing to take the blow if it meant the younger one was spared.
"Where have I seen that boy before?" Braith asked aloud one day, noticing his older brother staring at the two foreigners.
"The tall one is named Francis," provided Arthur.
"No, not that one," said Braith. "The little one with the curly hair. I think he's in my class."
"Do you remember his name?" asked Arthur, endlessly curious about the two.
"It was something Bon-ny foy," said Braith dismissively, sounding "foy" like he meant to say "foil."
"You mean Bonnefoy," sighed Arthur, realizing the two might be brothers.
"Oh, yeah! I think the teacher said his name is Matthew."
"Is Matthew a common name in France?"
Braith only replied with a shrug, running off to play with his friends and leaving Arthur alone. Now that he thought about it, he did notice some similarities between the pair. It certainly explained Francis' defensiveness regarding the younger boy. It didn't, however, explain the dark circles in his eyes and how seeing his blue eyes left an icy trail into his soul. It was the only way Arthur came to describe the look of complete hatred that Francis seemed to wear like a cloak.
Most poignantly, Arthur wonders over just how human the two look. He always assumed that if he saw a Frenchman, it would be painfully obvious and that they were as different as black and white, but Arthur was quickly learning that this wasn't the case. The only thing black and white about them was the language they spoke, and even then, thanks to his French classes, he was learning that English was a distorted, patchy shade of grey while French stood out in pristine white. The French had truly, thoroughly invaded them all those centuries ago.
It hurt to think about, so he diverted his eyes. When Alistair came out of the school house, they found Braith and finally walked back home. Arthur had no idea where Francis and Matthew went after school, but he was curious to find out and asked his father about it later that night after dinner while the boys did their homework and their father drank in the smoke room.
"We put them in a public house to be taken care of by a nanny," informed the Captain. "Why?" This question came more sharply, almost defensive.
"I only wonder where they go after school. Aren't you afraid of a mutiny from them?" asked Arthur. "What if they gang up? Surely a nanny wouldn't be able to stop them."
"That's why there are guards assigned to the house."
Arthur frowned, imagining a few dozen children in a large home with an old, matronly woman, windows barred and guards on every floor, at every door to the home.
"So it's like a prison," he said sombrely.
"Not at all," laughed his father. "If they were in prison, they would be dead by the end of the month."
Arthur frowned at the thought but didn't push the issue further.
The next day, he still found himself glancing looks at Francis in class. The bags under his eyes seemed a little less surprising now that he was a little more aware of his situation. He couldn't possibly imagine the situation he was in, and frankly, he didn't want to spare it much thought.
But Francis sure was pretty for a boy. He wasn't so bad to look at.
But one day in early winter, Francis turned and pointedly fixed a sharp gaze at Arthur, letting him know with that one, dark look that he was entirely aware of the British boy's staring and that he has had enough of it. Arthur swallowed hard at the realization and quickly looked away, not daring to even glance at him again.
But it was not meant to be. That day after school, while Arthur was waiting for Alistair to finish up, the blond walked up to him, his eyes fixed in cold aggression at him.
"C'est quoi ton problème?" he snapped, before quickly adding. "What the hell is your problem?" in his heavily accented English.
"I, uh.. Je.. That is to sa—"
"Shut up!" spat Francis. "Don't poison my language with your disgusting tongue. It's bad enough that you poison our land with your filth."
Arthur quickly bristled at his harsh words. "Isn't that uncalled for? It's not like I—"
"Uncalled for?! Your people murdered our parents in front of us and then pretend to be our saviours!" shouted Francis. "I've never hated anyone more than I hate you."
Arthur's face reddened at the fresh assault. "I never did anything to you!" he shouted. "We're not monsters, you know!"
"Really? I have never known an Englishman that wasn't rude or plainly cruel," spat Francis. "The day I never see one of your kind couldn't come soon enough."
"I'm not like that!" exclaimed Arthur, his tone almost pleading. He didn't know why he felt compelled to change Francis' opinion but he was determined to go through with it.
"Prove it," said Francis haughtily. "Although I fail to see how any of you aren't barbarians."
Arthur quickly bit back a retort about how they certainly weren't the barbarians, unlike the French that willingly bred with savages, but he didn't think that would help his cause and kept that to himself. "Then be my friend," he said instead. "I'll show you that we're not that different."
Francis looked at him thoughtfully. His eyes were still cold and glistening, but his mouth seemed to soften just subtly enough for Arthur to notice the difference. He wordlessly nodded. "Okay… You better not disappoint me, rosbif."
"I won't… whatever that means," he said, stunned at the change. "You'll see."
Just then, Alistair walked out of the school house and Francis slipped away to find his brother, disappearing into the bustling evening crowd.
