Retribution by Mist Over Water
Chapter Warnings
Final chapter… :(
Chapter Nine
Remember My Name
Arthur Kirkland and Alfred F. Jones stared at the metal ceiling, hoping that their daughters blue eyes were seeing a much more beautiful image. They refused to look at one another, to know that they were both upset, to know that they were both scared. They had given them time alone in order to say goodbye, but they took their time to look back on the year that had passed them. Unknowingly, the two shared the same thoughts running rampant through their minds; how stupid they were to believe that they could make a difference. How stupid they were to even listen to the Frenchman earlier in Arthur's pregnancy.
The men in the forest told them that they were arrested for a crime; an action that should not be defined as 'against the law', but instead a simple need for parents to love and to hold and to protect their children from the dangers of the world, and from the fire and brimstone her mother had experienced at the hands of a man. Maybe one day, parents would be able to birth a baby of the opposite sex, and they would be allowed to grow together. No more being forced to separate. No more being told that it was "just something that nature does"; and instead, after the torture that is childbirth, they would be handed their beautiful little girl, that looked just like Arthur and just like Alfred, being told they had a stunning baby daughter.
It was only when he felt Alfred's hand squeezing his he realised that in his reverie, he had let out a choked sob. He did not know why he was crying, just that when he looked to the blond across the tiny room, his heart dropped in his chest as he noticed that the American looked just as petrified as himself. He was blinking away the tears, smiling the best he could with shaking lips; Arthur honestly did not know whether it was his mothering instinct that had made itself known since he had reached near the end of pregnancy, but something deep within him snapped, and he forced himself to sit up. So far, nothing was keeping them down but the words barked at them to keep down and wait for officials; sitting next to the taller blonde, he pulled him close, and rested his head on his chest.
Running his hands through sunny hair, he wished he could say that everything was alright, that they would close their eyes in harmony, and when they opened, they would be at home. No pregnancy, no Francis; both still barely clinging onto their virginities as they kissed and teased and loved each other in the dullness of consciousness that was dawn. Unfortunately, the hands running over his post-birth body were very much real, not even allowing him to pretend that none of this had happened, and that life was good again. The fingers traced over the excess skin that he was never going to be given the chance to rid of; the hands running his hands down his slim sides.
The two looked at one another, their hands still feeling over whatever they could manage, and it seemed almost upon an instinct that they moved closer, pressing their lips together. They slid together, moving as one, it seemed. Arthur's tongue seeping into the cavern of Alfred's mouth; his hands moving from his hair and back of his neck, to his cheeks as he felt the jaw and the muscles working beneath the skin as they kissed. It seemed foreign to him, but something that he had been craving for the longest time; the dominance he had over the kiss was something that he adored. Although, he was brought back from his thoughts as the tears touched his hand, bringing his thumbs up to his cheekbones, he began wiping away the liquid as they touched Arthur's skin.
Alfred on the other hand was embracing the feeling of being dominated; the one aspect that he knew would give them a feel of being in a healthy relationship, just as countless other eighteen year olds around the male dominated society would be doing. He allowed his hands to slip underneath the clothing of the Briton, and did not even react when the other flinched at the harsh contrast between Alfred's cold hands and his own warm skin. They did not move, merely allowed his presence to be known all over the shorter man's body, in hope that the other would remember the feel of the pads of his fingers over the pale skin, even in death. He wished he could just see them in the future, to know whether or not he ever got tired of the wet yet rough texture of his lovers tongue against his own. Not even wrestling, nor dancing, just simply rubbing over one another as they silently said goodbye.
They pulled away, not letting the wet organs leave one another till the last moment when they could no longer reach the other, as the door opened the a small squeal, the hinges of the doors having not been lubricated for the longest of whiles. They knew what was to come, and so pushed the foreheads together, their noses practically being crushed in the progress. The men in the room enquiring if they had said their goodbyes; they ignored them and only proclaimed their love for one another a final time and pulling away, making their way to their separate beds.
They knew that "I love you" was not enough in this situation.
The authorities allowed their fingers to intertwine with each others as the men in the room prepared them for their leaving; the engagement ring that Alfred had used to promise Arthur a better life held between two clammy hands. Perspiring out of fear for their daughter, their friends, for the country and the society that they had grown used to, and whether their ultimate sacrifice would be worth it. Arthur turned his head as he felt the tonic passing through his veins, knowing that soon he would be unable to do so; a part of him wanted to watch his love pass away, just to be sure that he felt no pain, and to reassure him that this truly was going to be okay. Like the hero he always proclaimed he was.
From a society of about two hundred years ago, or so the history books tell one our faithful protagonists, a group of women once formed together to create a group: 'Feminism'; a large group of women of whom agreed the social policies subjugated women, made women worth no more than the dirt that the men owned. Every part of society from religion to the family was created for the sole purpose of keeping the fairer sex in their place. Religion would scorn them for their menstruation and pregnancy, whilst within the family; the women served very little purpose. They would stay home, supposedly happy in their expressive role. Childcare and housework, childcare and housework, day in, day out. Week after week. Month after month. Sexual gratification one of their main duties for their husbands; with only one solution.
The March of Progress promised a better life; a life without the fear of being oppressed, where every person would be equal. So long as they abided by the fact that the two sexes should not be allowed to meet then life would be good. Relationships would be equal, and there would be no subordination of any of the sexes. The social policies promised a better society. If this was the truth, if this was the case, then why is it so that our hero let out his final breath, closed his eyes, and let go of the pale hand? The perfectly plain and golden engagement band falling from his grasp and hit the ground, echoing around the room? Why was it so that Arthur Kirkland on that day was forced to lie on his side as the tonic made its way through his own veins and watch our hero leave the earth?
He tried to force his muscles to work, alas, they refused to do so. His legs refused to run to him, his arms refused to pull him into an embrace to coerce him away from the devils wearing an angel's mask, his jaw refused to move to allow his vocal chords to create a cry of his name. To make himself wake up from this nightmare, and find himself in a mixed sex society, with the little girl on his chest, and Alfred lying beside him. Where they would walk with the German and the Italian with their own child that they would have been able to create without the need of science. The sun would beat down on them all, gracing them with their warmth, and they would be the picture perfect example of a happy family.
His eyelids grew heavy, and with a silent prayer for the broken world, and for his daughter, the shining star, his hand fell, and he left on his journey with Alfred; distantly, from the back of his mind, he remembers the words told so long ago, and cannot help but tell them to himself as he began to feel lighter: "And so we go into freedom, and not into banishment".
Five Years Later
"Papa!"
The little girl ran up to Francis Bonnefoy, her blonde hair flowing with the wind that was scarcely there; he knelt down and pulled her into a tight embrace, the relief flowing through his fingertips as he caressed the blonde hair, and allowed the piece of hair that would never stay down to tickle the side of his face as he murmured words of victory; the shortened version of the story the bags under his eyes told. He wished to take her back home; to wash her of the dirt and the blood that he placed on her just by holding her in such a way.
The battle was fought; the March of Progress undone and moved forward, the governments forced to ignore what the feminists had once said after years of bloodshed. And as he looked to the women who were looking about the island nation bemused; the first time in generations the two sexes had mixed. He would not allow the small girls parents to practically sacrifice themselves in vain. With the anger of family and friends, fuelled with others who before them had talked of the revolution, they had started the violent war which tore the world apart. Never had they expected it to be friendly, to be a calm battle, but his fellow soldiers behind him returned home, never had they been so happy to see their home.
Gilbert and Matthew had been separated during the battle, and were muttering sweet nothings to one another; holding each other close and tightly as if they would cease to exist if their grip even faltered for a moment, meanwhile Ludwig and Feliciano… They looked to the Frenchman with a sad smile, his arms still crossed around the small girls back. The small girl who had stood for everything that they had fought for, that they had even killed for. The little girl that stood for freedom—for liberty —contained so much hatred within her unknowing eyes, who had taken more lives than she could count before her life had even began.
Maybe it was best that Francis was carrying out Arthur Kirkland's wishes.
Maybe one day, Liberta Kirkland-Jones would learn the truth about her heritage, and maybe one day, she would learn her own feelings toward her name.
End.
Whilst writing this, I read something that said that killing main characters was lazy writing, which made me scared to kill off Arthur and Alfred; but that had been the plan from the start (if you hadn't guessed already by the 'tragedy' genre!); I really hope you enjoyed this. I loved writing it.
Your reviews mean everything to me, and I'd love to thank every one of you. If you have any questions, feel free to ask in a review or PM me. :)
Liberta—"liberty" (I think. Don't correct me if I'm wrong).
Retribution—A sociologist once said there are two types of punishment, what we have nowadays and retribution. Retribution was in traditional, less developed societies (think Medieval), where you'd be punished harshly for stupid things (for example, having your hand cut off for stealing an apple). This is idea is where the title came from.
