Chapter Four:
As he leveled the rifle at his target, Alfred couldn't help but marvel at how easy this had all become. There was a time before—when Arthur had first taught him how to shoot and still, even years afterward—that the gun would shake in his hands no matter how hard Alfred gripped it, but now, Alfred felt as if the weapon was just an extension of his own arm, a metal appendage that was able to link his thoughts with his actions with a kind of swift intensity.
To be honest, Alfred couldn't recall the exact date when the nervousness had stopped, when his knuckles had no longer turned white and his finger had no longer twitched in spasms on the trigger, but he would bet it was sometime at the beginning of the Revolution. When Arthur had no longer been by his side but rather was the enemy, when Arthur was no longer a protector but rather an equal, something had changed in the way the battlefield had looked as Alfred marched forward—and he was able to hold the gun steadily, aiming down at the line of seemingly never-ending redcoats in the distance with singular concentration.
Perhaps it was because Alfred, then, was truly alone, that there was no one out there to look after him, and he could no longer afford any mistakes that came out of hesitation on his part. Perhaps it was because Arthur's sharp eyes no longer watched him, judging and criticizing him with unnamed authority. Or perhaps it was because the Revolution had forced Alfred to grow up, and adults no longer paused when pulling the trigger.
He didn't know. But, at some point in his life, killing didn't seem to, well, matter as much anymore. Alfred still hated taking lives—there was still a profound sinking in his gut whenever he stilled a person's heart—but there was not as much guilt, not as much terror. There was only the weapon in his hands and the target in front of him and an indescribable calm.
So many years ago, during the French and Indian War, he had seen Arthur fight on the plains of Quebec with the forces of James Wolfe against the army of Louis-Joseph de Montcalm. He remembered being struck by both awe and fear as he saw Arthur slash his way through the enemy, spearing and gutting and shooting with such efficiency that it seemed that he was not thinking about all the people he was sending to their graves at all. Alfred remembered that he had wished that he could be like that too one day, so level-headed, so brave. Alfred also remembered that, at the same time, he had hoped that he would not ever become so detached from the grotesque horror of death and war.
Alfred shook his head slightly in an attempt to return to the task at hand. It was what it was—the simple truth of his life so far, and he couldn't help but feel that despite his earlier days of rebellion and protest, he had settled down or mellowed or even softened somewhat, because there had been a growing sense of resignation toward his own situation these days. Perhaps Johnny had stolen that old spark of eagerness when he had stolen Fort Sumter, igniting the Civil War wholly and terribly—or, even worse, perhaps that bright burning that had once defined Alfred's life as a nation had just quietly smoldered into dull embers. In any case, Alfred could now understand what it felt like to be old.
He chuckled softly to himself. Was this emptiness what Arthur had felt during the Revolution? Just this creeping apathy, numbing like ether, and also this—pity? Alfred could see Arthur's face that day in New York as clear as if it had happened yesterday, though it was almost a century ago. In the midst of the ash and smoke of a dying city, Arthur had looked down at him in the alleyway and despite his blurred vision—from blood loss or tears or maybe both—Alfred had seen the expression on his former father's face.
There had been no rage. There had been no bitterness. There hadn't even been any triumph, just this blankness, and Alfred thought that Arthur might have said to him in his eternally crisp monotone, "Do you see now? Do you see what all of your childish rebellion was worth?" if gunfire from Washington's troops hadn't interrupted them. It wouldn't be a taunt; no, it'd just be a statement of fact, and God, Alfred had the distinct feeling that if given the chance, he would tell Johnny the exact same thing.
Because, in the end, what a wretched existence this was, to be a nation! To conquer or to be conquered. To kill or to be killed. To be the victor bound by a blood-drenched throne or to be the slave bound by blood-drenched manacles. Whatever this fantasy of peace that Johnny entertained would be gained by wining the Civil War was just that—a dream. Wars never ended. Countries never slept. Alfred wouldn't chose this life for anyone, and he realized now just how resilient, how strong Arthur was for lasting so long.
Alfred sighed and returned to eyeing the rabbit, nosing around the grass. He had gone hunting today because hunting helped clear his head, helped settle his nerves, helped ease some of the strain of being a nation, but he had only managed to get more riled up. Well, at least he would get a good dinner out of this mess of emotion.
A sudden crackle of twigs to his right startled Alfred just as he pressed the trigger, and his shot flew a few inches too far to the left, the bullet imbedding itself in bark. The rabbit leaped and bounded through the underbrush, disappearing into the foliage.
Cursing, Alfred whipped his gun to where the disturbance had come from-expecting the assassins again, come to finish the task, or some new terror the Confederacy had concocted-only to find himself face-to-face with a girl, no older than seventeen, her hands thrown up in a universal gesture of surrender.
"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice quivering although Alfred could tell that she was trying to remain composed. "I—I was just—"
"No. No, it's all right." Alfred released a breath that he hadn't noticed he had been holding. "You just…surprised me."
"I really shouldn't have been watching. I normally don't snoop, but…" She trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words.
Alfred surveyed the girl in front of him. She certainly didn't seem dangerous, with her wide eyes and thin wrists, and Alfred couldn't make out any weapons, concealed or otherwise. Then again, the Confederacy was known to throw out the unexpected—sneaky bastards.
Alfred forced the edges of his mouth to jerk upward in what he hoped was a smile, not a grimace. "No, I'm sorry." When he saw her eyes flick back and forth between his face and the rifle in his hands, he lowered the gun and leaned it against a tree. To hell with it, he thought. Let what may come happen.
He gave a quick, awkward half-bow, the etiquette Arthur had drilled into him kicking in. "I'm Alfred."
"Sarah," she replied, although she looked at him strangely, as if she was looking behind him, or at the side of him, but not at him.
"Sarah," he repeated, and, trying to diffuse the tension, he said, "It's…it's nice to meet you."
As she continued to watch him with that same tilted stare, he said, though not unkindly, "What is it?"
"Oh!" She shook her head. "Nothing. I'm sorry. I'm being rude. It's just that—well, you aren't who I expected you to be."
Alfred didn't reply, inviting her to continue.
She blushed, her fingers wringing at her dress. "People have many impressions of you…Alfred."
"Impressions?" He was aware that the local townspeople knew about his existence—or at the very least, of someone's existence in the woods. Despite Wallace's best attempts to hush up the builders of house, they had still talked, and besides, the nearby farmers and villagers would have to be remarkably ignorant if they hadn't noticed the mansion sticking out in the middle of the woods like a sore thumb after sixty years.
However, Alfred had never given much thought to them and their opinions of him. Wallace had chosen this location in part because the people around weren't too curious—they minded their own business, and despite occasional pricks of eagerness, were quite complacent in just accepting facts that had been handed to them—and had left the matter at that. In fact, Alfred had never even visited the town only a few miles down the road. Sure, he had been tempted to sneak out once in a while, but otherwise, there was no need since everything was duly delivered to the house under federal instruction. Besides, he couldn't risk being taken back to Washington, back to the White House to be spied upon, just because he had been too bored to follow rules.
"Yes." She dropped her voice to a whisper, and said, almost conspiratorially, "Some say that you're related to a lost prince of England, exiled during the Revolution after he supported our side."
"Really?" Alfred raised an eyebrow in amusement—that, actually for the most part, wasn't that much of a stretch. "What else?"
"Well, a few like to think that you're the descendent of a baron from Germany. And—" She laughed slightly. "Mr. Patterson told me once that you were a vampire, although he's quite mad."
Alfred grinned. "Now that's original." Then, he said softly, "What about you? What do you think?"
"Me?" She looked down, avoiding his eyes, focusing instead on her scuffed boots. "I don't really think anything," she admitted.
"I don't believe that," Alfred said. "You must have some kind of story about me."
She pursed her lips. "No. I only thought that—well, you were a man." She looked at him, an inscrutable expression on her face. "A lonely man in the middle of the woods."
"And?" Alfred prodded. "What do you think now?"
She shrugged under some semblance of nonchalance, although she said, hesitantly, "You haven't told me anything yet."
"But, wait…" Alfred eyed her curiously. "How do you even know that I'm the person you're looking for? I could just be a hunter wandering around here."
She stared at him, confused, as if he had just asked a question with the most obvious answer in the world. "Why, Alfred, there's nobody around here but you. We were told to never go into these woods ever since sixty years ago. Ever since they built the mansion."
"But you're here now."
"I couldn't help it." She bit her lip. "Everyone in the town…they only speculate about you, but I wanted to find out the truth." She peered at him with her bright, green eyes, and Alfred was struck for the first time of how similar her eyes were to Arthur's, like the fresh leaves of spring. "Do you think you could…share with me that?"
"I can't tell you," Alfred said. "I'm sorry." He couldn't possibly answer honestly—the whole concept of being a Personification of a nation was just too complex, and besides, the last thing that Lincoln needed was to get a ransom letter on his desk: give us one million dollars in exchange for Alfred, the embodiment of your nation.
"Oh." She seemed to visibly deflate.
Noticing her disappointment, he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them, "But…listen, since you came all this way, I guess—I guess it wouldn't hurt to tell you a little bit."
She perked up instantly. "That would be amazing."
"You'd have to swear to secrecy first though," Alfred said, although he knew that swearing meant nothing these days, but he couldn't help but think that this girl, this young, innocent girl, wouldn't betray his trust in her, and—it might be nice to get a few things off of his chest.
She nodded vigorously. "I do. I won't tell anybody. I promise."
And, so, he began. He told her about Arthur, whom he painted as an Englishman of noble lineage, whose ancestors had once been pirates and conquerors before settling into the roles of governors and entrepreneurs. He told her about how close Arthur and he had been, about how when he was younger, Arthur used to take him out to the open fields to watch the sunset, about how Arthur had rocked him to sleep with sweet lullabies after horrific but unexplainable nightmares. He even mentioned Arthur's horrid cooking—which, as Alfred thought back on it, hadn't seemed so terrible at the time.
He told her about how they had fallen apart, due to differences in opinion, he put it through gritted teeth. How Alfred had started chaffing under Arthur's obsessive control, and how desperately he had yearned and needed to be free. He told her about that night when he had first declared his intention to become independent, and how, Arthur for the first and only time in Alfred's life so far, had struck him, a sudden, quick slap to his cheek, and how Alfred had made no move to stop him even though he could have, and had made no move to retaliate.
The manor, he explained, Arthur had left for him, as well as a decent sum of money that Alfred would have to make sustain him for the rest of his life. And so, then, Alfred had stayed here ever since—and he added with somewhat of a melancholy flair—waiting for Arthur to come back, to send him a letter, to do anything to say that he still cared.
By the end of the story, even Alfred wasn't sure what was true and what was not. He even had started believing in the whole thing himself, because the emotions he had felt while telling the tale were wholly true, even if the facts were not. Because, God, he did miss Arthur so, so, so damn much, and yes, there were times when he closed his eyes and thought to himself—in a few minutes, Arthur will come home…he'll knock on the door three times like he did before, turn the key in the lock, and step in and ruffle my hair…
When Alfred stopped speaking, Sarah wiped her eyes with a quick smear of her finger in an attempt to be discreet, and she said, "That was…that was very beautiful."
He laughed, although there was no humor in his voice, just sadness. "I'm glad you think so."
"Alfred—" She turned to him. "You must not lose hope. Your father…he could come back one day."
Alfred nodded, although he knew that that was just a fantasy that he should have buried long ago, but he still kept with some kind of stubborn and desperate longing.
"What about you, Sarah?" he said abruptly, trying to change the topic. "What do you do?"
"Nothing like that," she said, seeming ashamed. "My life is very typical…and already laid out for me. I'm supposed to marry, have three children, settle down and be a housewife." She eyed the toe of her shoes. "I don't want to…but what choice do I have? I can read, I can do math, but in the end, I'll just stay in that dusty town, like my mother, and her mother before." She let out a frustrated sigh. "That's what I'll do."
"Maybe…maybe it's better to have everything so sorted out," Alfred ventured cautiously. He knew that same ache for freedom, but now, as he looked back on his life, he wasn't quite sure if it was all worth it in the end.
"Do you think so?" She gave him a look caught between hopelessness and bitterness. "Maybe it's different for men."
"Maybe." He leaned back against the tree. "But—I don't know. I just want to be stable for once. To stop…thinking and just be." He turned to her. "Do you understand?"
She nodded, but then said quietly, "I don't agree though. There just something nice about being able to do whatever you want, free from rules.
Then, she added, "Alfred, I wasn't being entirely honest when I said I came here to look for you." She turned to him, her eyes burning with some unknown emotion. "I came here also because—well, I wanted to do something I cared about for a change. My whole life…I've been following other people's orders, and so, I just got so frustrated that I had to say—damn them all." She rested her head on her knees in contemplation. "It's stupid, I know."
"No…Actually…" Alfred smiled wanly. "It's admirable."
But, there, he supposed, was the difference between he and the humans around him. People, with their short lives compared to the lives of Personifications, needed to use their limited time on Earth to their fullest, and it then made sense for them to pursue freedom, because who would want to waste away in chains when there was such a little span of existence available? And, because their presence was so brief, they could afford to be independent, because they wouldn't know the full burden of their actions—they would only know the joy and relief of making choices, of being able to wander this way and that way without a care for any master, and maybe, a few times in their life, they would wonder if it was all worth it in the end, and perhaps, at some point, they might even begin to doubt their decision to live without shackles, but their doubt soon ended with their death, sealed with their tombstone.
But, Alfred and the others like him, those lofty beings called Personifications—they didn't have the luxury of a nearing end for comfort. No, their lives were unpredictably continuous, stretching for what seemed like forever into the distance, and so they would know eventually that maybe it was better when they had been ruled instead of being the rulers.
It was in these times that Alfred wished that he could be human. To know that whatever mistakes he made, there was a definitive exit in the end. Heaven or hell or limbo or reincarnation or nothing at all, but there was a way out, something drawing closer and closer with each passing day.
Alfred had once asked Arthur where Personifications went when they died or came to something that resembled death. Arthur had only wrapped him in his warm arms and said in a shaken voice that he didn't need to worry about that right now, that he shouldn't ever have to worry about that, because Arthur would be there to prevent him from dying or disappearing or whatever they did when their time came.
Is that promise still valid? Alfred thought, looking at the sky above, wondering where Arthur was now, and what he was doing, and if he still looked out of the window at night in melancholy or if he had long gotten over the loss of his son. Do you still care?
Alfred wasn't sure that he wanted to hear the answer to those questions.
Author's Note:
This has to be the longest chapter I've written so far for this story, and I hope it didn't drag on too much (although that's a definite possibility). A big change is coming up, though, for Alfred in the next chapter (that was a hint, or something along those lines). As always, leave a review if you liked the story and want to see more! :)