Ughhhhhh, I am SO BEHIND. Hopefully I can at least get all of this story up before May is over! (Although before London Expo is another story entirely... T.T)

Thanks to: Iggy Butt, Lamashatr Two, Guest, IcarusWing, Juni, Jay1892, i Mel-chan i, Awkward Octopi, Spica-san Dee and gjlkgjlk!

Today's chapter is two dates in one!

Sunday 9th May, 1915

The car was waiting for him when he came out of church; the service had been held in remembrance of the Lusitania's sinking, with prayers offered for the victims both lost and found. Alfred had found a little bit of solace in it, to be surrounded by those who had been affected by the disaster - rather than cold-mouthed politicians who seemed to be brushing it off as simply unfortunate.

"There's someone to see you, Mr Jones," Blakely said, nodding to him as he opened the door.

"Where? At the Embassy?" Alfred paused, one foot in the car.

Blakely nodded; Alfred seized his wrist.

"Is it about Arthur?!" he asked, his stomach twisting.

"I couldn't say for certain, sir."

Alfred thought Blakely was being somewhat evasive, however; and he simply nodded and got in, shutting the door behind him. He spent the ride back to the American Embassy in tense silence, fidgeting with his folded Order of Service, which had a grainy photograph of the Lusitania printed on the front.

He scrambled from the car as it was still moving, pulling into the drive, and he ignored Blakely's shout as he righted himself and crunched across the gravel to the old house. He let himself in and was frantically checking every room in the hall when Blakely appeared behind him, panting.

"I had to abandon the damn car in the drive," Blakely gasped, grabbing Alfred by the back of his collar. "He's in the drawing room." He shook Alfred a bit when he tried to twist free. "And calm down, for heaven's sake."

"But it's about Arthur!" Alfred pulled away, stumbling down the hall to the drawing room. "I know it is!"

He all but fell into the drawing room, Blakely at his heels. The visitor, a portly man with grey hair and a handsome birch cane, stood up on his rumpled arrival, giving a small bow.

"Mr Jones," he said graciously; his accent was crisp and English. "I have been waiting, sir."

"I-is it about Arthur?!" Alfred ran to him, taking his hand. "Please, anything!"

The man looked taken aback; Blakely intervened, pulling Alfred away and forcing him into one of the plush armchairs, motioning for the visitor to do the same.

"Mr Campbell, my apologies." Blakely glared at Alfred. "He's a little bit excitable."

"That is understandable, given his ordeal," Campbell replied, propping his cane against his chair. He looked at Alfred. "It is to my understanding that you were put into a lifeboat shortly before the Lusitania foundered."

"Yes, sir - though it overturned before it hit the water." Alfred leaned forward in his seat. "B-but Arthur stayed on the ship!" He looked pleadingly at Campbell. "Please tell me you've found him!"

Campbell paused for a moment; he looked a bit uncomfortable.

"The, ah, the thing is, Mr Jones... we haven't been entirely forthcoming with you." This he said at length, steepling his fingers together, once, twice.

Alfred frowned.

"...How do you mean?"

"About Major-General Kirkland, that is - or Commodore, as the case may be," Campbell said. "The truth is that he was found on the night of the seventh, just after the last of the rescue vessels came in."

Alfred felt his heart lift in spite of himself, relief sloughing through him.

"You... you found him?" he asked weakly. "You mean... he's not stuck in the Lusitania, drowning over and over again?!"

Blakely shot him a funny look; but Campbell simply shook his head.

"No, you may rest assured that he is within our care."

"A-and he's alright? He didn't drown?"

"Ah." Again, Campbell seemed discomfited. "That's the thing, I'm afraid. He... he was killed in the sinking."

"So he did drown." Alfred shook his head. "But, I mean, that's okay. Well, it's not okay, as such, but he'll be fine. He should have revived by now, I'm sure?"

"No, that's not it." Campbell scratched at his cheek. "He isn't in terribly good shape at present, I'm afraid to say. He didn't drown, you see. He was crushed - survivors have said that they witnessed the third funnel collapsing. Does that sound right to you?"

Alfred nodded numbly.

"Well, then, that's what we've concluded; the coroner who examined him said that he was killed instantly by something of a massive weight. Given the testimony, it was probably the funnel. The lifebelt he was wearing kept his body afloat, thankfully." Campbell cleared his throat. "Well, you're funny creatures, you nations; and already his body has repaired itself immensely, though we expect it to be another day or so before he revives. He was very badly mangled when we found him."

Alfred didn't care to think of the mental image - given that he had seen the third funnel collapse and now knew that he had unwittingly been watching the exact instant Arthur had been killed. He shivered.

"Mr Jones?"

Alfred straightened, looking at Campbell.

"I'd like to see him," he said quickly. "Please." This was an afterthought.

"You may," Campbell replied, "but it will involve your travelling to London. His body was sent on immediately and arrived yesterday evening."

"You'll recall that that was the plan anyway, sir," Blakely added. "Your intended destination was London."

Alfred looked between them.

"...This means another ship," he said defeatedly.

"Only a small ferry," Blakely replied swiftly. "Two hours at most."

"I suppose I haven't got much choice," Alfred murmured, standing up. "I can't stay in Ireland forever."

"I'll be travelling back myself," Campbell said. "You can join me."

Alfred nodded wearily.

"And I can see him?" he asked. "As soon as we get to London?"

"If you wish."

"Alright." Alfred nodded; then looked at Campbell piercingly. "There's one thing, though, sir."

Campbell nodded.

"Of course." He looked a little cornered, however, as though he'd been hoping this wouldn't come up.

"You kept me in the dark; a-and I've been so worried about him for two days, thinking he'd been pulled under with Lusitania when she went down, thinking that I might never see him again-"

"Oh, Alfred, I think you're being a bit overdramatic," Blakely said coolly.

"Even so!" Alfred looked at Campbell. "If you found him the same day as the sinking, why didn't you tell me?"

"With all due respect, sir," Campbell replied, standing himself, "you represent a neutral party - and the sinking of the Lusitania was an act of war by Germany against Britain. It was of utmost importance, given that our national representative was killed in the act, that we removed his body and sent it to London to recuperate in complete secrecy. No-one was told until this morning, not even His Majesty. Frankly you have only been told because of your close personal relationship with Kirkland. As a nation, sir, it is actually none of your business."

Alfred rolled his eyes.

"I might have known it was to do with the war," he muttered darkly.

"We are a nation at war, Mr Jones," Campbell replied stiffly. "I fear that you shouldn't expect much else from us - not even from Major-General Kirkland himself."

Monday 10th May, 1915

It was a rough crossing and Alfred had felt rather seasick with it, sprawled on one of the benches below deck feeling sorry for himself; the little ferries hadn't the smoothness of the big liners. They had arrived on the mainland in the evening and driven to London through the night, Alfred half-asleep in the back of the car when they'd finally pulled up at the American Embassy. It was two in the morning and Campbell had bid him goodbye, stifling a yawn, with an invitation to come to Downing Street in the morning.

After a welcome, light meal of soup and bread, Alfred had all but fallen into bed and slept soundly, deep in his relief that Arthur was, at the very least, safe. If he had any nightmares, they did not wake him and, come morning, he did not remember them.

He woke early and dressed well, with access to fresh clothes kept here at the Embassy for his use; he had, of course, lost his belongings on the Lusitania and the Embassy in Ireland had scrambled to accomodate him, having not been expecting him.

He was taking breakfast with a few of the early-rising officials when the post came in. Having been here for less than twelve hours, Alfred hadn't been expecting any mail - and was surprised when a letter was placed beside his plate.

"Huh, I must owe somebody money," he muttered, reaching for the communal letter opener and slitting the brown envelope open to allow the contents to flutter out.

It was a telegram transcript, smudged on flimsy paper. The top sheet was minimal and read thus:

Alfred

A speech I'll be giving today, May 10th, to those who have taken the pledge. Given recent events, thought it might interest you. Glad to hear you're alright. Be safe.

W.W.

This was typical of Wilson, whom Alfred thought was quite one of the most verbose of any of his presidents. Certainly he seemed to like Alfred - which was a plus, as some of his presidents found him to be a neccessary annoyance - and he liked to engage him in more or less everything he was thinking or planning. Alfred was, in fact, usually Wilson's test audience for a speech and so to find the transcript of one, painstakingly sent by telegram from the White House, was wholly unsurprising.

He read through it quickly; it was aimed at immigrants who had decided to pledge to become Americans - and Wilson, of course, was never one to pass up the chance to wax poetic on his particular brand of Americanism, which even Alfred thought was a bit fanciful at times. Arthur was of the opinion that Wilson was a misplaced Romantic - if only he'd care to talk about castle ruins and maidens dying young instead of America's divine right, the last of which he didn't give much merit when America's national personification was stacking his dinner rolls.

So this was typical Woodrow Wilson fare, so far, and there was no mention of the Lusitania, which Alfred had been expecting. Presently, however, he came upon this:

The example of America must be a special example. The example of America must be the example not merely of peace because it will not fight, but of peace because peace is the healing and elevating influence of the world and strife is not.

There is such a thing as a man being too proud to fight. There is such a thing as a nation being so right that it does not need to convince others by force that it is right.

Of course, Wilson was a pacifist. He did not want to involve the United States in the European war - he had made that amply clear - and, until now, Alfred had more or less agreed with him. It was Europe's war, after all, and they, as a nation, were Isolationist-

But the Lusitania had been, by and large, neutral shipping; a passenger liner carrying innocents, sunk from under them in a brutal torpedo attack by the Germans. Alfred didn't know if Ludwig had personally had anything to do with it but he wasn't about to forgive it, whether it was their war or not.

But this... was Wilson saying that, in spite of the Lusitania, he still had no will to fight?

He folded the telegram and shoved it in his pocket; and more or less forgot about it when the time came, at last, to go over to 10 Downing Street. The streets of London were still very much crowded with horse-drawn vehicles and their progress was slow, stop-starting and weaving between milk floats and bread vans. Alfred could barely contain himself by the time they arrived, flinging himself from the car and racing up the steps to pound at the door of Number 10.

The door opened and Alfred was inside before the official could even ask for his name; Campbell was in the hallway, having ventured from one of the rooms at the ruckus.

"I trust you have official business, Mr Jones?" The first man closed the door again, eyeing Alfred coldly.

"I want to see Arthur." Ignoring him, Alfred fixed his eyes on Campbell. "You said I could!"

"I did," Campbell agreed; he waved the first man away. "It's alright, Andrews, I'll deal with him."

Andrews simply shot Alfred an arch look before drifting away; Campbell beckoned, starting up the staircase.

"Come along," he said calmly. "He's up in one of the spare bedrooms."

"Is he awake yet?" Alfred asked, following Campbell up through the winding staircases of the old house, running his fingertips over the coils of rich wallpaper.

"Not yet - he's not even breathing, in fact. But we expect he'll revive soon. His body is in much better condition this morning."

Alfred nodded, swallowing. It was the way of nations to be killed from time to time and then revive - but Alfred, though he knew that Arthur had died before, had never seen him lifeless and was not looking forward to it. He took a deep breath when Campbell at last stopped outside a heavy oak door and unlocked it, bracing himself as he stepped over the threshold and into the room.

It wasn't as bad as he'd been expecting; Arthur, who was carefully arranged in the middle of the large window-side bed, looked as though he was asleep, albeit uncannily still. He was completely white aside from the terrible bruising at the left side of his face, with a bluish tinge to his bottom lip.

Alfred ran straight to the bedside, pressing his knuckles to Arthur's cheek; he was cold to the touch.

"Hi, Arty," Alfred said gently, shaking his head at him. "I remember you telling me that you were going to be fine..."

He prodded more forcefully at Arthur's cheek. Standing in the doorway, Campbell cleared his throat.

"Shall I leave you?" he asked politely.

"Please." Alfred looked over his shoulder. "I'll sit with him. I want to be here when he revives."

"As you please, Mr Jones." Campbell gave a nod and stepped neatly from the room, closing the door behind him with a click.

So Alfred was left with only Arthur's corpse for company. He went to the desk and fetched the chair, dragging it back to the bedside and plonking himself into it; and, reaching out, he took one of Arthur's hands, frozen and stiff-fingered, into his own.

"Crushed by the goddamn funnel," he mused bitterly, looking up at the ceiling. "You're so stupid."

Alfred was nibbling at the end of his pen, halfway through composing a reply to Wilson regarding his speech and his stance on the war, when Arthur stirred at long last. Evening was drawing in and Alfred had been at his side all the day, his heart lifting when Arthur began to breathe sometime in the afternoon, the colour coming back into his cheeks.

Leaving his half-written letter at the desk, Alfred came back to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. He didn't get too close - although how he wanted to - for fear of crowding Arthur; he would be disorientated, naturally, and didn't need Alfred right in his face.

Arthur opened his eyes; slowly at first, blinking once or twice rather sleepily, and then they snapped open and he sharply sat up in a panic.

"Hey, hey, it's alright!" Alfred reached for him, taking his shoulder. "You're safe."

Arthur looked at him, exhaling deeply. His eyes were bright, his hair wild and sticking up at the back. He looked very confused, staring at Alfred as though he didn't know him. This was typical of nations coming back from death, however brief; they needed a few moments to acclimatise on waking, their memories settling, history falling back into place. Alfred squeezed reassuringly at Arthur's shoulder.

"Here, sit up." He leaned over, hoisting up the pillow and propping it against the headboard, pushing Arthur back against it. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you..." Arthur pressed his fingertips to his forehead. "...ah, America."

"Alfred," Alfred corrected him swiftly. "You always call me Alfred, remember?"

"Oh, of course." Arthur waved his hand vaguely at him. "My mistake. I'm sorry, I'll be alright in a minute..."

"It's fine." Alfred smiled at him. "I'm... I'm just glad you're okay."

"Hmm." Arthur closed his eyes, settling back for a moment; he exhaled deeply through his nose, his brow furrowing as though he was trying desperately to piece himself back together again. "...She sank, then?"

"Of course she did," Alfred said quietly. He almost envied Arthur, who had been spared the spectacle of her demise.

"Did you get off alright? That lifeboat looked a bit suspect to me."

"It overturned." Alfred was tired of repeating this particular piece of information parrot-fashion but Arthur was watching him now, his eyes clouded with concern. "B-but it was fine, I mean, I got pulled into another lifeboat." He paused. "The... uh, the death toll's pretty bad. Well over a thousand killed - and they're still bringing in bodies."

"Are there many Americans?"

Alfred nodded.

"It was hitting one hundred by the time I left Ireland."

Arthur sighed, looking at the ceiling.

"Germany'll have hell to pay for this," he muttered. "...Was it awful?"

"To watch?"

"Yes."

Alfred nodded.

"Horrible." He shuddered.

"Worse than Titanic?"

"...Lusitania didn't break in half, if that's what you mean."

"No, her angle was much shallower - I expect she just rolled over and sank." Arthur stretched, his shoulders popping. "Too bad I missed the fun."

Alfred shot him an irritated look over his glasses.

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Of course I'm joking. The only reason I missed the bloody foundering was because I got flattened by the blasted funnel."

"Mm." Alfred flopped across him, burying his face against Arthur's chest. "...Did it hurt?"

"I don't know." Arthur put his hand to Alfred's head, rubbing at his hair. "It was... well, I was killed instantly. I'm sure we all were."

"There were others?"

"A few other officers, passengers..." Arthur sighed. "At least it was quick, I suppose."

Alfred was quiet for a long moment, listening to Arthur's heart through his cotton pyjama shirt. He smelt overpoweringly of salt water and smoke, the scent of the sinking still clinging to every inch of him.

"...I thought I'd never see you again," he mumbled after a while. He hid his face. "I thought you'd been dragged down with the Lusitania when she sank and you were trapped and-"

"Oh, goodness, what an imagination you have." Arthur patted at his hair; although his voice was distant, wooden, because it had been a real danger and a real possibility; they both knew that.

"I was just worried," Alfred said sulkily. "What the hell's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, nothing, of course." Arthur exhaled. "And I'm glad to see you safe, besides."

Alfred huffed, closing his eyes and settling more comfortably against Arthur, feeling him breathe, listening to his pulse. Arthur played absently with his hair, pulling it through his gritty fingers. For the first time in days, Alfred felt his aching body relax properly, buckling under his relief.

Presently, however, he heard Arthur's stomach grumble beneath him; and he propped himself up, looking at Arthur, who seemed surprised by his body's demand.

"You must be starving," Alfred reasoned. "You haven't eaten for days."

"I haven't needed to." Arthur sighed and moved to push back the covers; Alfred stopped him, tucking him back in.

"Hey, no, you stay right where you are. I'll go down to the kitchen and get you something."

"Oh, please don't trouble yourself," Arthur said calmly. "Just something light; tea and a sandwich or maybe a-"

"No, no cakes!" Alfred said crossly, pausing at the door. "I'm getting you something substantial!"

Arthur paused; then shrugged in a way that seemed to say suit yourself. Alfred simply shook his head at him and pulled the door, heading back down the winding steps through the house to the kitchen. He passed a few aides and politicians on the stairs, to whom he politely nodded, smiling, and then went wordlessly on his way.

From the cook he procured some leftovers from the evening's meal: a small bowl of rice soup, a few slices of bread, a piece of baked fish and some broken ends of gingerbread. He brought tea, too, of course, and balanced it all the way back up the stairs on a silver tray. He didn't know how much Arthur would want to eat so soon after waking and hadn't brought anything too hearty, thinking it best to err on the side of caution. It wouldn't do to go making Arthur sick.

A few of the politicians, including Campbell, were clustered around Arthur's bed when Alfred got back to the bedroom, swarming him like vultures.

"Hey!" Alfred shouted at them. "Get outta here! He only just woke up." He held up the tray. "He needs to eat something. Can't you interrogate him tomorrow?"

The Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, rose from the bedside seat that Alfred had earlier occupied.

"Mr Jones, with all due respect," he said crisply, "this is not the time for you to be playing nursemaid. Leave the tray on the table and kindly see yourself out."

Alfred's hands tightened on the tray.

"No," he bit out. "I'm not going anywhere."

Campbell shook his head at him.

"Mr Jones, please, as a neutral nation-"

"Oh, no, please," Arthur interrupted tiredly, apparently seeing Alfred as a lifeline to cling to most determinedly, "I can't stomach any of this tonight, gentlemen. Leave me be. You may pick my poor brains tomorrow; tonight I will endure no company but Alfred's. Please, leave us."

Asquith looked taken aback.

"But Major-General," he began, "we simply must-"

"I said out!" Arthur flapped his hand impatiently at the lot of them, losing his temper, and they scattered. "You too, Mr Asquith. You have my word that tomorrow you may submit me to the rack, as it were."

Asquith at last lowered his head into a small bow.

"As you wish, Major-General." He shot Alfred a cold look as he left.

Alfred's reply in kind was a smug smile; he kicked the door shut behind Asquith and came, at least, to the bed with the tray.

"I would have gotten rid of them for you," he said, pouting a little.

"I know," Arthur replied, taking the tray from Alfred and setting it on his lap, "but my way was more effective. They're more likely to run for cover at one of my temper-tantrums, after all. I'm their nation. ...I'm sure the same could be said of you with Wilson?"

"Heh." Alfred rolled his eyes. "Something like that."

"How is the old Romantic?" Arthur started on his soup; he ate quickly and hungrily, the bowl close to his chin.

"Romancing me, as usual." Alfred pinched a bit of gingerbread to nibble on. "Or the notion of me, at least - even at a time like this."

"I see." Arthur raised his thick eyebrows. "Well, do invite me to the wedding."

"You're top of the guest list." Alfred crunched up his gingerbread, watching Arthur eat for a moment. "...Good?"

"Brilliant." Arthur smirked at him. "Hunger is the best sauce, as they say."

"That's true," Alfred agreed; because he remembered the Frontier. He reached for the teapot and the cups that had rattled all the way up four flights of stairs. "Tea?"

"Ah, I knew it. I haven't woken up after all." Arthur shot him a grateful smile. "I've simply gone to Heaven."

"Don't say things like that," Alfred said uneasily. He distracted himself by pouring the tea, the steam rising to hang like a gossamer veil between he and Arthur.

"Why not?" Arthur's voice was vague as he swilled his spoon around his soup. "The truth is, Alfred, that I've not got long before I have to head back out to Hell on Earth."

Once again, Blakely and Campbell are not real people; however, Herbert Henry Asquith and Woodrow Wilson are, of course!

The excerpt in the telegram is from a real speech by Wilson, entitled 'Americanism and the Foreign Born'; it was given at a citizen naturalisation ceremony held at the Philadelphia Convention Hall on 10th May, 1915. Whilst it made no specific reference to the Lusitania, it is widely conjectured that Wilson's 'too proud to fight' comment was encompassing the event, which had happened just three days earlier and taken 128 American lives.

Incidentally, Wilson's views on the concept/idea of "America" are very interesting! I actually wrote my American Studies dissertation on his WWI rhetoric, which was tied up with his notion that America had a duty to enlighten the world as a "new" and civilised nation, not like those nasty European countries that kept fighting with each other, ewwww... XD

I'm hoping just two chapters more at the most, everybody! Thanks for sticking with me this far!