Arthur woke up with a start, heart racing. He blinked rapidly before his vision began to clear, showing a plain wooden ceiling above him. That's strange, Alfred's ceiling was grey. Arthur sat up and yawned, stretching out like a cat. He felt so at ease, and relaxed, as if he had a full night's sleep. He swung his legs over the bed, but, to his surprise, he couldn't reach the floor. 'What the- "the brit started before he gasped loudly.

Why was his voice so... squeaky?

The Englishman leaped from the bed and turned in a circle, taking a good look at everything in the room. Why did it all look so familiar? The brit's thoughts were interrupted by a haste knock on the door and the low creaking of it opening. Arthur whipped around in time to see the woman who had let herself in.

"Arthur love, are you awake yet? It's time for breakfast!" the woman at the door sighed. She had beautiful brown locks of hair that went down to her waist, her curls bouncing. She wore a green and silver corset that was fastened comfortably around her torso, and her large flowy dress went past her shoes. She had startling green eyes and high cheekbones, the red blush on her face artificial. Her lips that were currently manipulated into a smile were a soft pink, which mended well with her pale skin. The woman didn't look her age, rather, she looked to be as young as 25. Arthur recognized this woman, her sigh, her smile, he recognized her instantly.

"Mummy?" the Arthur asked in disbelief, tears starting to well up. What the hell is happening? "Mummy?!" he cried, running up to grab her dress. Is she real? The woman glanced down at him in confusion before getting on her knees, which in her attire was no small feat. She embraced the sobbing brit, hushing him softly.

"Arthur, what's wrong? You know, you are much too young to have suddenly bursts of anguish, save that for the adults." He giggled. Arthur chuckled too, missing his mother's cynical sense of humor. He threw his arms around his mother and calmed down, at least enough for her to understand what he was saying.

"Mummy, I thought I'd never see you again!" he sniffled, wiping his nose with his sleeves. The mother looked confused again, but she stood up, carrying the brit in her arms. She smiled warmly at her son before kissing him lightly on the cheek.

"Arthur, I would never abandon you! You kids are all I've got, I couldn't bear with the thought of leaving any of you alone for more than an hour, yet alone 'never again'." She said, bouncing lightly, calming the brit down further. "Why would I ever leave my 6-year-old fighter anyway? You're my favorite" she whispered. Arthur chuckled at this and his mother joined along. Arthur buried his head in the crook of his mother's neck as she made her way through the house. It wasn't an awfully large house, but it was one of the biggest in the village they lived in. The wooden floors creaked and the walls were splintered, but Arthur thought it looked beautiful.

They entered the dining room, which was already plated with warm biscuits and roasted duck. The smell was enchanting, and the brit felt his mouth water. When his mother set him down, he climbed up the nearest chair as fast as he could. As he got settled in his seat, he heard the front door slam open and a sudden burst of laughter. Arthur looked at his mother, who smiled fondly at him before she turned and left the room, to address the late comers.

"Uther, I swear, if you keep taking the boys out as often as you do, they'll never get to taste my delicious cooking and brag about it to everyone!" she kissed her husband on the cheek before telling the boys to wash up in the kitchen.

"I'm sorry Iggy dear, I thought we'd be back before breakfast was made. Arthur, are you awake my omega prince?" His father called out for him. The 6-year-old jumped out of his chair and hesitantly approached his father, not sure how to greet him. Does he salute him like his other siblings do? Does he just run up and hug him? As he approached the man, the young brit absorbed his father's appearance.

He had blond hair like Arthur, though his father's hair was straight, rather than the frizzy, untamable hair Arthur was cursed with. Uther had hard features; his steely blue eyes, angular jaw, and manly beard making him seem intimidating. But anyone who actually knew him, knew that he was as sweet as they came. At the corners of his eyes, the tiny wrinkles that were placed there wasn't due to age (even though the man was ageing), but instead because of his constant smiling. He was an unbelievably cheery man, and despite his tall stature, solid body, and past occupation as a soldier, he was a family man.

He decided to go with the later and practically jumped his father, ignoring the dirt smudged on his father's overalls, who laughed deeply and loud, turning in circles as they embraced. "Arthur, you must be feeling much better today, yes?" he asked, carrying Arthur back to the dining room.

"Oh, yes daddy, I'm feeling better than I have in a long time. I missed you!" he said, tightening his grip around his father's neck. Uther patted his sons head before, telling Arthur to let go, that he had a surprise for him. "Ooh, what is it?!" the English boy asked, bouncing up and down with excitement. He didn't want this day to end. The large man pulled out a delicate flower crown from his pocket, showing it off to his wife before explaining it to Arthur.

"Arthur, sweetie, this is a- "

"Flower crown?" Arthur interrupted, just wanting his father to put the crown on his head. He really wanted to wear it. His father laughed again, nodding impressed as he continued.

"Yes, my boy! Do you know what flowers these are? These are blue carnations and daisies and lilies. I tried to pick some flowers that could actually compete with how pretty you are, but Alas! It seems I have failed!" he said with a dramatic gasp, collapsing to the ground and playing dead. Arthur entered a fit of laughter as he climbed over his father to find his gift. When he found the crown, he dawned it on himself, and this time his mother spoke.

"All hail king Arthur!" she said with a whoop, clapping loudly. Arthur turned to see none of his brothers in the room, accept Peter, who munching on a biscuit happily. The he cheered alongside their mother, praising his beauty and wisdom. Arthur blushed deeply at all the commotion, but he let his guard down far too long, giving his father the opening he needed.

After 5 minutes of tickling and begging for mercy, Arthur was finally pardoned and allowed to eat breakfast in peace. He chatted with his Peter as he ate, his parents conversing in hushed tones. Occasional laughter could be heard erupting from their parents, but the kids paid them no mind.

Arthur's vision began to become hazy, and his eyelids were getting heavy. But he just woke up, how could he be tired? He felt himself losing consciousness as the cheery faces surrounding him began to melt away. "Mum!" he cried out, weakly reaching his hand out towards his parents who hadn't taken notice of his distress. "PAPA!" he tried calling for his father but he too didn't pay the brit any mind. He turned desperately towards his brother, but he was gone. When Arthur turned back to his parents, they were gone too.

What the hell was going on?! The brit was blacking out, the dark spots in his vision growing. Before he could call out again, he lost consciousness.

~~~~~~~Wounded Knight~~~~~~~

Arthur awoke with a start, yelling and screaming.

"PAPA! MAMA!" he cried blindly, looking around the pitch black room. He cried out again before he heard rushing footsteps run towards his room. The door swung open and his parents stood before him, the light of the hallway making only their outlines visible. His mother rushed to him, and his father lit a candle, causing a warm glow to fill the room.

"Arthur! Arthur calm down! Stop screaming!" his mother cried out, shaking her son as she did so. Arthur hadn't realized he was still calling out for them. His father took a seat on the bed and pulled Arthur into his chest.

"Arthur, you must relax! You shan't be screaming like that, you'll scare everyone! Now tell us, why are you crying?" he asked, placing a short kiss on the sobbing child's head. Arthur noticed his voice was deeper, but it was still high in comparison to when he was 20 years old. Arthur needed to know how old he was, he needed to know how much time he had with his family.

"How old am I?" coughed out, letting his mother's warm hands caress his blond hair. His father pulled away enough for them to have eye contact, and Arthur noted the worry in his father's eyes. He was placed gently on the backboard of his bed, where his mother instantly wrapped him in a hug.

"How does a child forget his own age, Uther? I think we may need to see the doctor." She deadpanned, hushing the soft noises the English boy made. His father said brisk words of agreement before raising himself off of the bed.

"Arthur, I will fetch you some water. Tell your mother what's wrong while I'm gone, oi?" he left quickly for the kitchen. Arthur hummed in his mother's chest before sighing.

"Mummy, how old am I?" he asked again, needing to warn his parents of imposing dangers. Well, maybe god was giving Arthur a second chance to set things right, to warn his parents about the war so they could avoid it entirely. If that were the case, Arthur needed to know how much time his family had to prepare and leave the country, if they listen to him that is. His mother looked upon him with sad eyes and smiled weakly.

"When I was your age, I always told people that being 9 years old was the new 15, not ask my mother what my age was." She chuckled dryly, her smile gone. When she was his age? He was nine at the moment, but the draft coming in from the small window in the corner told him that it was early autumn. The Americans don't arrive until the spring, leaving the Kirkland's with a few months to leave.

"Mummy, you must listen to me! There is going to be a war, a devastating war between England and America and we must leave now!" he pleaded, hopping off of the bed, rushing to his wardrobe. He took out the largest satchel he had and began throwing clothes in it.

"Arthur, what are you going on about!? Stop packing this instant!" she yelled, but Arthur wasn't going to stop until he got his point across.

"NO, Mummy listen to me! The Americans are going to come in the spring when I'm 10 years' old, if we leave now, we could be settled down and safe in Russia. If we wait until last minute, we'll be as good as dead! Now let's go, wake up the rest of the house!" he said loudly, running to the kitchen with a second satchel to pack some food. His father was walking up the stairs when Arthur almost bumped into him, nearly knocking the glasses out of his hands. Before his father could ask him where he was going, the brit answered.

"I'm going to pack some food for our trip. Ask Mum!" He continued his sprint to the kitchen, throwing the dried food stuff into the bag. After a few minutes of packing, Uther Kirkland stepped into the kitchen with Igraine Kirkland by his side, the two holding hands, faces twisted in concern. Arthur was currently reaching for something on the top shelf, and when he saw his father, he sighed, not yet noticing the look in then older man's eyes. Before Arthur could ask his father for help, his father spoke.

"Arthur, you are speaking nonsense, and your mother is fearing for you. What is causing these wild fantasies to sprout from your imagination?" he asked slowly.

"You mean the war? The war is coming! The war is coming and I'm the only one who knows about it! I can't save all of England, but I can save us, so that's all that really matters. We should leave now, and I pray that you two woke the children!" he said as he jumped, finally obtaining the jerky on the top shelf. He leapt from the table and landed safely on his feet.

"War? What war? With America? Arthur, I know the tensions between our nations are rising, but the Jones know better than to attack a nation who they are no match for. Our navy- "

"Will mean nothing when it is finally put up against the American's advanced technology." The brit deadpanned, getting tired of this conversation. He saw his father's mouth hang open, disbelief evident in his eyes.

"Arthur, you will not disrespect your father! I know nothing of what you are speaking of, but this is enough! Go to your room, and if I hear another word of this Arthur I swear to god!" his mother yelled, scolding him into silence. Arthur glanced at his dense parents before speaking, hoping the knowledge of what'll happen to them will change their minds.

"You form a resistance group with your soldier buddies and send me, mummy, and Peter to the capital. The three of us will live on the streets for two years before mummy is arrested for stealing food to feed us, leaving me and Peter to be servants of the very rich merchant named Sir Ector. You? You'll die alongside the rest of my family! The plague sweeps through the city, the Americans use canons to destroy the walls, and the people of London, meaning me and Peter, will be forced to live underground. Then we are kidnapped three years later, when I'm twenty, and we are being taken to the American fortress to work as servants. I escape, why? Because I have to save Peter from his impending death, but I fail anyway because I was side tracked with nursing the crown prince of America back to health! When I do find a lead on where Peter is, I find he was left out in the forest for days in the middle of November! Now, for some odd, unknown reason, I'm here! God has given me the chance to right the wrongs in my life and save my family!"

His parents stared at the English little boy for a moment before grabbing him by the ears and dragging him upstairs, tossing him into his room and throwing him on his bed, slamming the door as they left. That was probably not the best choice, the brit realized, in hindsight. Arthur felt his eyes get heavy again, and his vision was darkening, he knowing his chances were over. A soft sob escaped his lips as he lost consciousness, the last thing he saw being the open window and the flickering of the candle.


Alfred panicked as Arthur suddenly went limp in his arms, skin pale and eyes rolling behind his head. The brit let out one final breath as his head lolled to the side, tears staining his porcelain skin. Alfred was still for only a moment before taking action, instantly scooping his friend up and rushing out of his chambers, looking for the nearest medic.

"Guards! Healers!" the prince roared as he dashed down the hallway, being careful not to disturb his sleeping friend. If he even was sleeping, Alfred had forgotten to check his pulse. Once the thought of him carrying a dead body crossed his mind, the prince ran faster, disregarding the staring English folk that he passed by. "Healers!" he cried once more as he busted into the surgery room, to find it completely empty. What the fuck?!

"HEALERS!" he called out once more, placing his friend on the cushioned surface of the operating table. As he waited for assistance, Alfred undressed Arthur, soaking a rag with water to clean off the other's body. Alfred's father had taught him how to prep a wounded soldier for surgery, clean the body and look for wounds. However, this was different, the pale, scrawny figure in front of him didn't have any wounds, and the king wasn't present to tell his son what to do. The prince swore under his breath as he continued to wipe at the Englishman's skin, horrified at how terribly thin Arthur was.

Maybe that's why he was unconscious. Malnutrition?

Alfred doubted it, malnutrition doesn't cause people to cough up blood.

The plague did.

Alfred instantly backed away at the unconscious body on the table, terrified. What if Arthur had the fucking plague?! Alfred came in contact with various fluids of Arthur's already, Alfred could be infected. The prince swore at himself for allowing this to happen, for allowing an ... English man anywhere near him. How could he be so foolish. Alfred glanced back at Arthur's body in rage, expecting himself to lose it, let himself succumb to anger.

However, he didn't feel any of that.

He didn't feel angry once he glanced at the brit. He wasn't regretful, nor sad. He wasn't depressed, but he wasn't happy. Instead, he felt... sympathetic? Empathetic? Alfred never felt those feelings before, but he heard stories of how it could feel. He didn't like it.

He walked slowly toward his companion and placed his hand over the other's forehead, feeling his temperature. It was warm, it had cooled down from the last time had checked but it was still high. Alfred hummed as he soaked the rag again, this time placing it over the brit's forehead to help his fever come down. Alfred had no idea what he was doing. Where were the healers?

He left the room and called out again, before stopping himself. What if Arthur had the plague? He couldn't expose his people to it, he needed to care for Arthur himself. He swore under his breath as he made his way briskly to his room, locking then wooden doors and leaving a note on the front warning everyone to stay as far away as possible from the room. Arthur had been in there.

Arthur had also been in Matthew's room.

The princes heart flipped as he remembered, cursing himself for exposing his brother. Matthew was a good kid; soft, gentle, kind, innocent... he didn't deserve to be sick. But Matthew's not allowed to come into contact with anyone besides the royal family, so he wouldn't leave his room until notified to.

Alfred made his way to the infirmary, making sure no one was watching him. He closed the door and lock it behind him, he didn't want a nurse to walk in here and touch something he had touched. Arthur was still naked on the table, so the prince dug around for some clothes, some garment the brit could possibly fit into. All he managed to find was a spare woman's nurse uniform, so he dressed the brit up with a blush.

He always had a thing for nurses.

"Jesus Christ!" the prince yelled at himself, appalled of the direction his train of thought was headed. Alfred made his way to the large bookcase in the corner of the room and began to research the so-called "grey death." He had heard it was horrible, but he needed to know the symptoms of the virus so he could be sure that was what he was dealing with. Luckily, after an hour of reading, the "Grey death" was out of the running, Arthur's brain would have already seep through his ears.

Alfred was reading about this infection common among butchers. Apparently, dead bodies of animals are the main carriers of this bacteria, which can spread like wildfire from species to species. All the symptoms seemed to be there: sweating, aggression, runny nose, coughing up blood... the incubation period was 10 days and all the victim needed was lots of rest, and medicine.

He took a seat on another operating table and got comfortable. This was going to be a long 240 hours.

~~~~~~~~ Wounded Knight~~~~~~~~

The next two days went by in a blur, Alfred either read, slept, or nursed Arthur back to help. It was the least he could do for his friend, he owed him his life. Arthur was getting responsive, he would whine when his forehead got too warm, and sometimes he squeezed the prince's hands when Alfred would hold his.

Alfred didn't feel any different, not even in the slightest, but he managed to find the antibiotics needed to help treat the infection, which Alfred had renamed "Butcher's flu" because he thought it was easier to say than 'carnifices morbus'. It had taken Alfred a few hours to decipher the Latin into English, but he tweaked it a little and replaced disease with flu. Much less depressing.

Alfred would inject the antibiotics, but he was very careful, not wanting to hurt the unconscious man. He found the vein and then he was swift in administering it, hushing the Englishman as he grunted. When he was done, he usually sat back down on his operating table and read more medical journals. This was the first he had read about the grey death in detail, and Alfred felt the strange effect of sympathy washing over him again. Millions of English people died, a slow, agonizing death. There were multiple phases to this disease, making it a unique virus. The first step was fatigue and nausea, then it was trouble balancing. After a few days of that, the infected would come down with a fever, which would be so painful that the person wouldn't be able to move. After being bedridden, the victim would lose feeling in his hands and feet, and their stomachs will begin to darken in pigment.

That's because their intestines are rotting and blood stopped pumping to their extremities. The victim would stop eating, seeing that anything they ate caused them a horrendous amount of pain. More of their organs would begin to die, causing them to cough chunks up in a pool of blood. All the while the headache is baking their brain, to the point where the brain eventually caves in on itself, escaping from the skull through the ears. Alfred felt sick as he was reading, the images of people suffering were haunting. The main victims of the virus were people ranging from 10 to 23, too young in Alfred's opinion. People that age should be going to school and having fun, partying, finding themselves, not fearing the plague. Alfred didn't realize he was crying until he felt a tear land on his collarbone. He quickly wiped them off and drew his legs to his chest, hiding his face in his knees.

"I never knew the British had it so bad. I heard horror stories from the help, but they never went into detail." Alfred sniffled lightly, trying to ignore the turmoil in his stomach. Guess he had to eat again. The American got off the table and went to the balcony, making a mental note to reward the nurse who planted a full-fledged garden on the terrace. There was a ledge above the garden, so if were to snow or rain heavily, the food would be fine. Only root plants were growing, like potatoes and carrots because the November air didn't allow anything else to grow.

Alfred tore a carrot out of the ground and returned to the surgery room, washing the plant with a little bit of water. The prince was getting tired of the plain taste of vegetables, and he knew he would need to make a run to the kitchen at night to find some junk food. And something for Arthur for when he wakes up.

If he wakes up.

Alfred rolled his eyes as he chewed his carrot, wondering where his life went wrong. Don't get him wrong, he's glad he met Arthur, but Alfred wouldn't hesitate taking it all back if it meant he'd get his father back. One day, just like any other day, they set out. It was fun, he was traveling with his close friends, and they were just hanging out. It was rare for any of them to act their age, 19, because, in a land as foreign as Britain, they always had to be alert. It took numerous amounts of coaxing for the prince to actually relax that night, and he had gotten drunk. They were all wasted, and they weren't aware of the bandits closing in on them. They only realized they were surrounded once the first arrow was shot, missing Alfred's face by an inch. The Americans somehow managed to dress in their armor, but by then they were already being slaughtered by the pale attackers. Alfred fought as valiant as he could, considering he was still seeing double, but then a man who Alfred now considers the most formidable opponent he had ever been up against approached him.

He had fire red hair, chiseled features, and beautiful green eyes. What Alfred focused on the most, however, were the ginormous eyebrows the other sported. There was a blur of red before Alfred could lift his blade, the swordsman already piercing the prince. Alfred stumbled dumb founded, he was the best knight at his fort, how could this happen? His opponent saw the shock in his eyes and spoke, in mocking comfort.

'Don't feel bad, laddy! I've never lost a duel in my life! Consider yourself lucky to have met me, Alli-' before he could finish, a battered man with a tubby tummy approached with a wine bottle raised, ready to strike the red headed bandit. Alfred heard himself scream, begging for his father to retreat, but his eyes were getting heavy. He must have been wounded more than he thought. He took one step towards the criminal with gigantic eyebrows before he lost consciousness. He awoke maybe an hour later; the campsite was destroyed. He could hear the British people laughing, and he could make out the clear voice of the man that tried to kill him. He was British, but his accent was mixed in with something... Irish? Either way, Alfred knew he needed to find help, needed to find reinforcements to help him rescue his father.

He dragged himself through the forest, keeping his heavy armor on in fear of making noise. After crawling for at least a few dozen minutes, the prince pulled himself to his feet and wandered aimlessly. He never been to this part of the forest, but he didn't feel lost. Instead, he felt this kind of pull that lead him to a clearing. It was awfully hot in his armor, and he felt as if he were dying of thirst rather than blood loss. He was exhausted, he couldn't breathe, his armor feeling stuffy. He walked toward a sunny clearing, praying for death to claim him. He leaned against the trunk of a tree and blacked out.

When he came to his senses, the first thing he felt was the cool air licking his body. He felt a pair of arms touching him, but for some reason he didn't feel scared or hostile, which is extremely out of character of the lone prince. When he opened his eyes, he instantly started to thrash, suddenly fearing for his life. Those eyebrows were so familiar, too familiar... the voice the man was using also threw him off. He had a British accent, but he was speaking in such a gentle way that Alfred was left in confusion. The British usually swore at him, hissed and threw rocks his way. They never dressed his wounds willingly. The prince found himself relaxing under the boney touch, allowing his wounds to be treated.

Cough, cough, cough

"Arthur ?!"

He was instantly out of his thoughts, rushing over to his friend's side. The brit was currently wheezing and shaking, eyes fluttering like a madman. Arthur's head was banging against the table as white foam began to escape his mouth. Alfred swore out loud, cursing his luck. He had read this in the description of 'Butcher's flu': spasms of the infected with foam leaving his mouth. The book said it was a good thing, it claimed the body was rejecting the illness and were releasing the bad humors from the host. Alfred wasn't so sure, however. He could see, almost feel, the amount of pain Arthur was going through, the tears spilling from his eyes the most obvious indicator. There were also others, for example, the way his jaw clenched, the rough breathing. Alfred just wanted to hold him, but he didn't think that was a good idea, the book instructed against it. The prince couldn't stop himself from cradling his friends face with his hands. He couldn't have the brit inflict more damage, at least that's what he thought the reasoning behind his actions were.

He stayed like that until the Englishman stopped shaking, falling limp against the table. Alfred took a cloth and wiped the saliva off of his friend's cheek, briskly checking his pulse. It was weak, but he was still alive, and that was all Alfred could ask for. He returned to his table and got into a sleeping position, too tired to go on a midnight raid to the kitchen. He'll get food in the early morning. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, praying his companion would still be alive when he woke.