Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Or Vergennes' quote: "The English buy peace rather than make it." Chap mentions: Fort Raleigh National Historic Site. Also mentions Scottish, Irish, Welsh, & English blessings. Makes references to Malaysia's tourist incident in regards to... stripping in places you shouldn't.
Warnings: Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Beware: the embarrassing nature of parents...not even nations are immune.
AN: Again, big thank you for your reviews! They've been soo encouraging, they really keep me in the creating mood. : DDDD
Also:
HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY! And God Bless America! WOOO!
Yup, that's right folks, my patriotism in its raw form is loud, proud, and slightly obnoxious...and I wouldn't have it any other way. Time for a hamburger! Let's fulfill some stereotypes! : D
Enjoy!
Chapter 10: Tugging On Your Apron Strings
Arthur smiled as he contemplated his desk. It was perfect. He blocked out the sound of Alistair and Reilley sniggering. Didn't they have a plane to catch?
"Uh" Texas rubbed the back of his neck "Umm. Don't you think you can pick some other photo of Al. I don't think he'd apprec-"
"I decorate my desk how I please" Arthur replied coldly.
As long as he was going to be in the United States, he'd figured he might as well set up his office in America's bedroom. Most of the other rooms felt too cluttered. He'd was certain he'd suffer claustrophobia if he dared set up in Alfred's own office which had skyscrapers of papers (stacks he might just organize given time and boredom). After purchasing a caddy corner bookcase, he'd cleared up the floor of the bedroom which gave him plenty of space to utilize.
He'd had his housekeeper Charles ship his desk along with its trimmings-so he could work more comfortably. He always enjoyed setting up his collection of photos. It was therapeutic to glance at his former territories; he'd feel a swell of pride when he thought of all they'd accomplished.
He'd taken more liberties with the rest of the room to make it livable. In light of recent events, he'd decided that "father did indeed know best" and that he was well within in his bounds to step in and alter what he needed to in America's home.
He'd replaced the bed with a fine cherry wood four poster he'd found in a home consignment store. Why it even had a handsome matching bedside table with drawers!
They both had a fondness for navy blue, so he decorated the room with that in mind. He purchased heavy blackout drapes, a plush duvet, Egyptian cotton bedsheets, an antique lamp for the table, and an array of comfortable pillows, along with a large rug for the floor.
He left the crucifix in its original place and despite his personal preference-did not replace the closet door. He remembered that Alfred had always been suspicious of monsters lurking in his closet during childhood. Likely, as an adult, Alfred had the epiphany that simply removing the door made it impossible for anything to hide there. Silly goose.
Still, it bothered him to think that Alfred felt unsafe in his own bedchambers, which made Arthur appreciate the plaques his brothers had brought for the younger Kirkland:
Reilley (who was chock full of sayings-Gift of Gab indeed) had sent:
May you always have
A sunbeam to warm you,
Good luck to charm you,
And a sheltering angel
So nothing can harm you,
Laughter to cheer you,
Faithful friends near you,
And whenever you pray,
Heaven to hear you.
A very satisfactory blessing to bestow...and it didn't mention alcohol even once. Arthur had been very pleased.
Scotland's gift was practical:
A Dhé, beannaich an taigh,
Bho stéidh gu stàidh,
Bho chrann gu fraigh,
Bho cheann gu saidh,
Bho dhronn gu traigh,
Bho sgonn gu sgaith,
Eadar bhonn agus bhràigh,
Bhonn agus bhràigh.
He'd put that one up immediately; a blessing for the entirety of the house was very useful. It would make the home resistent to hexing.
Wales had sent a version of the Druid's Prayer.
Duw dy nerth, ag yn nerth Dioddef;
A dioddef dros y gwir, ag yn y gwir pob goleuni;
Ag yngoleuni pob Gwynfyd, ag yngwynfyd Cariad,
Ag ynghariad Duw, ag yn Duw pob daioni.
He'd hesitated upon putting that one up. Though it celebrated strength-the line about suffering was uncomfortably similar to Calvin's valorization of pain.
But... it would've been a terrible slight to deny Wales' gift...so he put it last in the row of plaques...near the foot of the bed.
He'd already written all three thank you notes on Alfred's behalf. Scotland had made a show of not reading his and using it for his wad of used nicotine gum.
Brutish buffoon.
Arthur's own blessing he nailed closest to the headboard. That way America could face it easily each night as he drifted off to sleep:
May your joys be as bright as the morning,
your years of happiness as numerous as the stars in the heavens,
and your troubles but shadows that fade in the sunlight of love.
He blushed a bit each time he read it….it was awfully sentimental... but...well, he thought of those smudged letters tied in an old cravat...his child needed those comforting words! And he'd be damned if he was going to let the boy's uncles upstage him!
"I reeeeeeaaaally don't think he'd like being on...display like that" The Texan twisted his hat between his hands imploringly as he glanced at the photo again.
"It's precious" England snapped.
He'd had Wales (who was surprisingly tech savvy) freeze frame an image of infant America from the latest video feed.
That adorable look of wonder on his darling little face...
"Yeah," Texas whined "but Al's not a fan of these kind of photos. He'll flip if he sees this."
North struggled to keep Scotland upright, who'd doubled over as he'd started guffawing. It was clear he was struggling himself though; his freckled face was red with mirth and he'd started wheezing.
"The Queen agrees with me" Arthur countered "She liked it within minutes of me uploading it."
"You...put this on your facebook?!" Texas gasped in horror.
"Of course, I did."
Apparently, that reality was too much for his brothers to bear and they both slid to the floor in great peals of laughter.
He sniffed, "Why on Earth are you all being so dramatic? Plenty of parents show pictures of their children."
"But he's naked!" Texas argued.
"Naturally. He's just been born."
"But, but, but...can't you at least put it farther back" the American made it to move it.
"Don't you dare touch that frame" Arthur hissed.
"Eep" Texas snatched his hand back.
Arthur cleared his throat, "I think we've all wasted enough time. Now if you'll all kindly bugger off, I have plenty of work to do." He sat down at the desk, cast a fond eye on his child's photo, and then turned his attention to a report from the Embassy.
As the host, Germany was standing at the podium going over a list of acceptable behavior for tourists visiting other countries.
Canada felt himself blush a bit a bit as the incident in Malaysia was mentioned. (Sometimes it was good to be virtually invisible.)
Canada noticed that England had also gone rather red, as one of his citizen's names cropped up. He went purple went France commended her free spirit and began stripping down to "honor" her.
Germany manhandled him back into his shirt with a gruff "Dummkopf."
Canada sighed in his seat and hugged kumalo closer. He glanced over at Texas who was filling in as the substitute U.S. He had his feet propped up on the table and was fiddling with his phone.
The blatant disrespect was making Germany's eye twitch.
Canada eyed his younger brother a bit wistfully. Obviously, the last video hadn't bothered him too much.
Ever since Canada received it a few weeks ago, he couldn't quite shake off his melancholy.
It wasn't that he begrudged England his happiness over discovering his paternal bond with Alfred...but it sort of solidified biologically what Canada had observed from the start: the seldom discussed, but very obvious, favoritism the man showed Alfred.
Growing up, it wasn't that England was cruel to Canada (though he could be painfully strict with his people). There'd been numerous occasions where he'd received praise during lessons. He'd received enough "well done's" and "splendid's" to make Alfred's face turn sour. He'd gotten plenty of pats on the head and bedtime stories and toys to be considered well provided for-spoiled even.
Gentle hands had straightened his clothing when it rumpled, cleaned his knees when he scraped them, and brushed away his tears after night terrors.
But he'd never been fussed over the way Alfred was. Little Alfred catching fever was the end of the world (he'd be coddled and swaddled and carried wherever England went. Partly because it was the only way Alfred would fall asleep, but mostly because England couldn't bear him being out of sight). When Canada caught cold, he'd be nursed by servants with England checking in on him a few times during the day.
Canada could leave the house for hours at a time without England noticing his absence. He'd just continue on with his reports-completely oblivious.
An hour of silence, prompted panic. Oh where could Alfred be?!
One time, Alfred had gone and hidden himself in the forest, sulking because England had lectured him about his atrocious spelling.
It had prompted him to yell back that when he was a grown-up nation he'd spell "favour" however the hell he wanted. That earned him a mouthful of soap and three light smacks on the bottom.
Whenever Canada was insolent, he got one hard smack to the bottom with enough sting in it to make his eyes water.
If Alfred cried from a spanking, it was more because he was embarrassed than because it hurt.
Alfred had retaliated after by slipping out of the house that night after dinner.
England had torn the house apart looking for him. Had ordered all the household staff out into the woods to search for him.
Canada had been forced to stay behind with the cook, who didn't have a soft spot for him the way she did for Alfred (but Alfred praised everything she cooked-so it probably had more to do with that and the fact that Canada was the picky eater in their family). It'd been frustrating for Mathieu because they'd been at his house and he knew those woods better than either of them.
England had returned wet from fog and empty handed. The housekeeper forced him to settle down next to the fireplace. He'd huddled there with his head in his hands.
Canada had chosen a corner to cuddle with Kumajiri and watch him.
Watching his shoulders shake was probably what had made Canada determined to be everything his brother wasn't: well mannered, conscientious, kind...
A sleepy, insect bitten America toddled in after dawn-grumpy that England hadn't "found" him. He informed the man that he was a terrible Hide and Seeker.
Canada had waited for fire and brimstone and a good switching.
Instead, Arthur solemnly ordered with red rimmed eyes "that America never do that again. Was he trying to break Daddy's heart?"
That had made Alfred abashed for the moment and he'd crawled into the man's lap-eyes watery with remorse.
There'd been no punishment. Arthur had simply swept him up into his arms and gone to bed.
That was another thing. Alfred was always allowed in Arthur's room. The rest of his colonies were never to disturb him when he was in his bedchambers.
But not Alfred. He could enter while the man dressed and only get a light rebuke. He could slip into the man's bed for no reason beside being lonely. He could ransack the man's closet-choosing his best military coats and hats to play pretend in.
It'd made Barbados furious; watching him parade around in Arthur's long naval jacket-dragging it through dirt and brambles. Canada supposed it made him a little furious too. Especially since he'd run fearlessly up to Arthur, the edges of the coat filthy and hold his arms up-insistent on being carried. And when Arthur sighed over the sad state of his clothing, Alfred would giggle and answer that he was an adventurer "Like you Daddy!" and then the the man would coo over him.
Even after declaring his independence, Arthur showered Alfred with generous treatment. Canada thought bitterly about the Treaty of Washington in 1871 and the Alaska boundary dispute. The first had given America rights to fish in Canadian waters and the second had favored America without any consideration of Canada at all! He hadn't even been invited to the meeting!
England always seemed to have improving Anglo-American relations at the forefront of his mind.
As Vergennes observed: "The English buy peace rather than make it." And he used America's expansionist desires to his advantage.
Meanwhile America, who Canada was loathe to admit was more clever than many gave him credit, knew full well he was being exploited and learned to mimic the strategy.
He'd smooth Canada's ruffled feathers with cash payments and lots of beneficial trade. Having money thrown at them though, never quite erased the resentment his people felt though. It just outlined that America was valuable enough that they couldn't afford to shut him out...even when he was being a selfish, greedy jerk.
"Angleterre!"
Canada jolted upright in his seat as his former Papa came bounding up to England.
Maple! The meeting had ended!?
"Reilley told me the good news! Félicitations pour la nouvelle arrivée dans votre famille!"
Arthur blushed "He isn't new, you imbecile. Alfred's been part of my family for centuries."
"We should go out and celebrate your virility!" Francis snuggled up behind England and let his hands wander.
"Let go of me stupid Frog!"
"Mon petit lapin, growing up and spreading his seed! Hon hon! Je suis si fier de to-"
A hard elbow ended that speech...though Arthur didn't look terribly offended.
Canada had learned from Alaska that nations having children was a rare phenomena. Ancient Britannia had accomplished quite a feat by having four sons.
Apparently, only especially potent empires possessed enough power and influence to produce offspring.
Needless to say, Arthur felt rather smug about it...and was now quick to take credit for many of America's accomplishments-commenting that it was because he came from good stock. Which Mathieu couldn't rule out entirely-an empire like Britain fathering a superpower like America…
It made sense. Al had to have inherited that ruthless ambition from somewhere.
Alfred poked at a wild rose growing in the forest. He was hella bored. He longed for his phone. A game of Angry Birds or Bejeweled would've been a great stress reliever.
Osha flat out told him he was heartbroken. So much for letting him down gently. She said it was a large reason for why he felt so crummy.
That it was a sickness of spirit he was suffering from. He didn't feel joy beneath his feet, in the heart of the land. He was rejecting it and it was rejecting him. He needed to reestablish his connection and then he'd be renewed.
Heartbroken. Tch.
She acted like that was a bad thing.
As far as he was concerned, his heart broke in all the right places and it became a fearsomely sharp thing to hold. Ya know Osha, just maybe he didn't want people holding onto it.
He pulled on the flower and then released it-watching it sway and bob, no... dance. Yes, it was dancing or maybe it was headbanging like a rabid Sex Pistols fan.
Arthur's national flower was a type of rose, wasn't it?
He blinked. Yes?
He ran a hand through his hair. Lately, everything kept getting hazy when he tried to think of his old man.
It was probably because he was hungry. The clinic was totally skimpy on how much food they gave him. Tch. Portion control. Not to mention they were trying to wean him off coffee. The bastards.
It made him tired and frustrated and forgetful.
Sure Arthur burned the hell outta stuff, but he'd never be stingy. If Alfred wanted second or even third helpings, the man didn't withhold it.
He sighed and fantasized about them going out to eat at a restaurant or something.
Sure he'd make some nasty comment on America ordering three entrees for himself, but he'd never tried to intervene or limit the amount of food.
In fact, he'd gotten pretty upset? bossy? righteously indignant? when Alfred helped Francis with some charity event (can't remember what for) and the Frenchman kept him so busy, he never got a moment to rest or eat.
Which yeah, had sucked. Being stuck in fancy shoes for eight hours gave him blisters. And it was torture being feet away from a great beautiful buffet and not having a second to snag a bite.
In a surprising display of compassion, Arthur had brought him a plate laden with food. Insisting that the last thing he needed to hear, with the stage's overactive microphones (yeah, they were totally acting up-Francis should've let him handle that aspect rather than using him as a pack mule for tables and chairs) was Alfred's stomach growling.
His thoughts swam.
Aktsi'a made him ask permission to eat a single kernel of corn. Because the women did the planting, so they decided who ate and when. That power was theirs. The men hunted. But he was too young to join them, so he stayed with the women, with Aktsi'a. And though he helped them plant, he had no power and no say. Could only eat when they said he could.
And they were so methodical, they hated to waste resources so they divvied everything up just so.
Which meant if he was still hungry after, he'd have to go gather berries and roots on his own. Had to go out, because Aktsi'a was always humiliated and angry if he went around begging for scraps.
The other children called him a hungry ghost. Sometimes they pelted him with pine cones and told him to eat those. Which you can eat pine cone seeds-except a lot of them were so small it wasn't worth the effort of heating them up to find them. Yeah, he typically went after the bark of the pine trees. He was actually pretty good at boiling it-though again, he had to watch out for Big Sister. If she found him at it, she'd demand to see the tree he took it from (to make sure he hadn't girdled it-which would cause it to die).
Arthur's pantry was open to him. A blessing he never took for granted. Though the old man wouldn't let him near the cooking fire in their hearth. He could warm himself nearby, but he wasn't allowed to get near the bubbling pots or hissing pans.
Which meant he had to ask for food...which at first had been incredibly daunting. Especially, when he was asking for food in between the man's scheduled meal times. But he never said no.
Arthur would sometimes tut that he was going to give himself a stomach ache or ruin his appetite (impossible) but he'd let him touch all of their supplies without scolding him. He could run his hands all over the bushel of apples if he wanted to-Arthur wouldn't drag him away or slap his hand...though he'd quirk a great brow in bafflement.
He'd even share his slice of apple pie after Alfred finished his own.
Which was awful nice.
Even now he was allowed in Arthur's pantry, provided he didn't make a "grand mess" of his kitchen.
Abruptly, he thought of the previous month. His stomach longed for a peanut butter, jelly, and butter sandwich courtesy of his old man. And maybe a thick quilt. He was awfully cold lately, even though the sun was beating down.
He rubbed his hands along his arms trying to warm them. He was so done with all of this. He wanted to go back to his house and curl up on the couch; maybe watch Rocky with Texas and text Tony to find out how his family reunion went.
"I thought you prided yourself in trying new things. If it works, you'll return to us rested and more productive."
Except that kept circling in his head. So he couldn't just up and quit.
He just felt so, so, GAH! SOOO crummy and being out in the middle of nowhere wasn't helping. The dirt squished between his toes and he wished he had a jacket. All of his stuff seemed to be missing.
When he complained, he was rebuked by her assistant for being too materialistic.
He frowned.
"Goodness America, such a fuss" Arthur sighed-eyeing the small cut on his young colony's arm. "Canada broke his ankle and isn't being nearly as difficult as you. Why on God's green Earth you decided sledding on the stairs was a good idea, I'll never know."
He'd frowned at him sternly; his great brows furrowed while his eyes narrowed and-
Wait...
His…
Alfred blinked and sat up straighter.
Wait.
Waaait…
He felt panic bubble up in his chest. He couldn't remember the color of his eyes!
Osha sat beside him and coaxed him to lay down. Her bracelets jangled and he thought of manacles.
No! He struggled out of her hold.
His eyes! His eyes! There was no way he could've forgotten his eyes.
All the years he'd spent looking into them...They were light. He remembered that.
Bonny blue eyes…
No, Alfred's eyes were bonny blue...right? Right, yes. His eyes were blue.
He hadn't seen a mirror in ages-only catching his reflection in streams, and window panes, and bits of metal.
They did an awful lot of nature walking. His feet hurt. Arthur wouldn't have made him keep moving if he'd noticed him beginning to limp...well not unless the enemy was on them.
He'd make them stop and demand to survey the damage; make sure he wasn't getting trench foot, make sure he didn't have marching fractures. America knew he was a valuable weapon. He needed to be kept in tip top shape to be useful. England knew it too, and was attentive when it came to stuff like that.
Tony said he was a glass cannon.
Alfred hadn't liked the comparison, but couldn't really deny it. There was a reason his military went to great lengths to keep him well fed across seas during war. In peace times, yeah, he could pack on some pounds but...in high stress situations he starved really freaking easy, and once that happened...he bruised like a peach. He wondered sometimes if England had figured that out about him. He always had plenty of food on hand whenever they met for a movie night or a trade negotiation.
If he passed Arthur up on a cherry tart (Yes! he bought it from the store...ungrateful wanker) the man would stare at him incredulously and then ram a thermometer in his mouth.
Arthur's eyes...they were...not blue. They were...they were…
He cast a glance around at the rich greens of the vegetation surrounding them.
Green! Yes, his eyes were GREEN. Super green. Forest green. Emerald green. Acid green. Grass green.
It was amazing how much relief that brought him.
Osha frowned at him, her expression dark. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. Where were his shoes? He was sitting down-why couldn't he feel his wallet?
Suddenly, the great outdoors felt cramped. His lungs were too big for his chest and everything tightened.
He hadn't felt fear like this in centuries. Why was he feeling this way? He could handle whatever came his way! He was America! He was an ace pilot! He was a military veteran! He was a hero! He was...he was...so afraid.
A childish speck of his spirit that he'd never quite quashed, reared itself with reckless abandon as her dark eyes narrowed at him.
He felt small and helpless and desperate and he just wanted...
Warm, gentle hands tucked him in...
And he just...he just wanted...
"What's that now, Sweet? Did you have a bad dream? Well, that won't do."
...Green eyes smiled fondly at him...
He just needed...
Father! Father! Father! He wanted father!
Arthur ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He'd been feeling ill all morning, which was irritating. He never liked his brothers witnessing weakness in him. Two days off from the next full moon and he was clearly suffering some kind of virus. He endured a random array of symptoms that came and went sharply enough that it disrupted his routine terribly: it mainly consisted of dizziness, confusion, and nauseating fear-he'd already vomited twice.
Being the empath, Wales had noticed his distress immediately.
Wales frowned, hesitated a moment, and then settled a hand briefly on his shoulder. After a beat, he withdrew it with a look of surprise.
"Well," Wales started "It appears you've opened yourself psychically with your magic. Which is understandable, given your new awareness of your bond. You've done that once before during the Revolution."
Oh joy.
Arthur clenched the arm of the sofa, "It made me aware, last time. It didn't make me physically ill."
"You did feel pain though, after certain events" he reminded "but that was because you were tied to the land and people. You didn't have a nation on the other end last time. Which stands to reason, Alfred's only recently begun exhibiting signs of magic again."
He blinked. This had to do with Alfred?!
Wales nodded "You're feeling a sympathetic echo. I can show you some techniques to block it-"
"Wait! This is America I'm feeling?"
Wales paused a moment, "Do you...remember how...Mother always seemed to know when we were ill or injured?"
Arthur gave a slow nod. She'd been impossible to lie to. Any scrape or sniffle was immediately ferreted out.
"Our magic tied us to her. It was a side effect of our bond. Essentially...Alfred's tugging on your apron strings."
"He's in danger" he breathed.
Wales sighed "possibly, though from the behavior you're exhibiting, I think it's more likely he's feeling sick."
England's brows furrowed in concern "And he's reaching for me?"
Wales frowned and then rested a hand on his shoulder again. He closed his eyes this time. "I...don't think...he's very inexperienced...he's just sort of...flailing."
"You can sense him?"
"Distantly. I'm his uncle. I can sense him more strongly using you though."
"Can you use that to find him?"
"Mentally not physically."
England's lips thinned in disappointment. Still...
"Do it."
"W-what?"
"Find him."
"I...this'll exhaust us both. You're not experienced in this field either. I'll have to play operator to bridge you two amateurs together."
Arthur glowered.
Wales sighed, "Don't complain when the symptoms worsen during the contact."
Wales sat down and took his hand which felt awkward-neither of his brothers had done that since he was a toddler and Mother demanded it of them.
He felt a whooshing tearing sensation like his soul was being stretched.
"Aah" England nearly doubled over as the feeling of vertigo increased tenfold.
"Warned you" Wales remarked shrewdly.
England fought to compose himself as he battled against an overwhelming feeling of desperation and fear.
England felt his pulse speed up; was Alfred seeing a Wendigo?
Wales swore viciously in Welsh,"Well that's why he's opened up. I wondered how someone with no experience would suddenly be able to call across. But he's been broken open like a walnut."
England stared at him imperiously.
Wales looked almost apologetic as he answered, "She's...raking through his mind. We're dealing with someone whose magic dwells in a form of telepathy."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes. I...Damnation, un bach" Wales murmured "Use words."
They got a picture instead: Bed restraints.
Both European nations stiffened.
The feeling of vertigo and panic heightened. He needed to reach him, calm him down. He tightened his hold on Wales' hand and felt his connection become surer.
"Hush, hush it's alright pet."
More images.
The woman, Iroquois, sighed and tapped a syringe with her fingers.
Fuck. They were drugging him.
"Poppet, please stay calm."
But his words went ignored.
The anxiety continued to increase until it became hard for Arthur to breathe.
Arthur had to take a stand "Alfred Faer Kirkland. You pull yourself together young man! You are a strong nation and you can and will endure this. You-"
The White House was burning.
He was fumbling for his gas mask in a trench, but his arm was caught in barbed wire.
"No! Alfred listen!"
Patriots were hanging.
They ran from the jungle away from machine gun fire, but there were landmines waiting for them.
"We're just upsetting him more" Rhys murmured "Arthur, I need to sever the connection."
He was hiding in the corn fields holding his breath-a musket in his lap and his cross pressed against his lips. There was a British officer passing right behind him.
"NO! Give me a bloody moment. Alfred! Please!"
General Washington rested a hand on Alfred's head. There was a leather bit between Alfred's teeth. A surgeon was removing his mangled left leg from the knee down.
The right wing of his Sopwith 1½ Strutter snapped off and he was spiraling.
He was dumping armfuls of books into a trunk. The room was on fire. Another ceiling beam crashed down. The chandelier fell and its crystals scattered across the floor.
Men in labcoats were showing him clipboards: the atom bomb. A signal was given. He fell to his knees. His hand melted before his eyes-oozing into a puddle on the floor.
"Alfred, Alfred, Alfred!"
Seminole was holding him down-hacking into his chest with a tomahawk. Blood was splattering everywhere.
Arthur was reeling from the violent images. No, no, Alfred. Damnation, there had to be something he could say.
Something he could do.
"Arthur" Wales repeated "I need to-"
"No! Not yet."
"Use words..."
Maybe Alfred couldn't use words...because he was too young...too inexperienced...too afraid...did that mean he couldn't hear words either?
Arthur took a deep breath and pushed several images forward.
Them in their rocking chair, turning the pages of a worn out book of Faerie Tales.
Them cocooned in blankets on a wintry night. He pressed a kiss to the child's forehead.
Alfred on his hip as he spoke with the town baker. He handed the child a biscuit to nibble.
Alfred seated before him in the saddle. His arm around the child's middle, as their horse cantered.
A toddler Alfred in a small wooden tub. Arthur cupped his hand and gently scooped the water onto the little body. He tenderly cleaned Alfred's face with a soft washrag.
There was an electric humming stillness. Arthur couldn't help but compare it to the moment before lightning struck.
And then he received several images back.
Arthur facing a small mirror as he shaved. He noticed a young America watching and dabbed his little nose with his shaving brush.
Alfred pressing his face into Arthur's leg, his little fingers twisting into the buckles at the end of Arthur's breeches.
Them playing make believe-using sticks as swords. Except their fencing soon gave way to a battle of tickling.
Arthur smiled gently. Yes. That's right sweet. He did his best to send forward a feeling of warmth and reassurance.
And then he felt America hesitate.
He immediately tried to send more comfort.
And then America sent forward another memory...but this one stopped and started like a damaged movie reel.
It was late in the evening. Both of them were seated beneath a great oak tree, quite a few blankets had been set down to provide some protection from the snow. They were both in winter clothes. Alfred, in particular, was bundled up. Arthur had him in his lap and was whispering in his ear, occasionally pointing. Lights began hovering around them in great swirls. Alfred reached for one and it settled in the palm of his hand.
England felt his breath catch. Winter Solstice. Bless him. He was remembering. Yes, yes, yes. He sent feelings of encouragement.
An even hazier memory was sent back in reply.
A circle of tall wooden posts. Rudimentary houses were situated inside. A thin blanket of snow covered the ground.
England frowned. A fort?
A tiny America sat huddled against one of the wooden posts. He pulled the sleeves of his gown over little hands that were getting frostbitten.
England immediately felt a surge of concern.
The child curled himself into a ball-shivering pitifully.
England felt himself reaching forward-needing to be closer, needing to understand.
"Arthur be careful" Wales warned.
He lost his sense of Wales tugging his hand, the sofa beneath him, the house altogether.
Suddenly, he was just there...with America.
He felt his heart ache. Poor darling. His skin was going grey; little chapped lips were turning blue. The babe shook harder as more snowflakes began to fall.
Goddamnit, he was barefoot.
Arthur felt outrage brim over; why wasn't anyone watching over him? Where was that damned Iroquois? Where were America's settlers?
He heard the child's quivery breathing. His teeth chattering. And then the child abruptly stilled and held his breath.
Something else breathed loudly then...greats snarling puffs of air.
A shadow passed over them and then Arthur heard it: a great horrible shrieking howl.
Slap!
Arthur blearily came to just as Wales had reared his hand back for a second hit.
"Lembo," Rhys hissed "that's why I didn't want you to-"
"I heard it."
"What?"
"You didn't hear it?" Arthur demanded.
"I was a bit preoccupied trying to find you. You just vanished-"
"Wendigo. I heard it. And I saw...some place I've never been."
"What?"
"A fort. I didn't know that fort. I thought I knew every British fort on his soil. I didn't know that one. That was NOT Jamestown" he rambled.
"Arthur-"
"Where was that?"
Wales blinked-at a loss.
Arthur pushed himself up from the floor and immediately made for his laptop.
That place. That place. Where in the blazes was that place?
He made use of Mojeek's search engine-typing in Philip and fort and America. Then Philip, colony, and America. Then 1600s, Philip, colony, and America.
Damn it. That wasn't it either. It had bothered him for a while that he couldn't identify those captains.
Maybe...
Maybe Wales had been onto something...those hard "r's" as the captains spoke...
Those men...their clothing had been an older fashion...
Hesitantly, he typed in 1500s, Captain Philip, America, fort, colony.
It brought up Fort Raleigh National Historic Site.
He scanned through the website.
Sir Walter Raleigh...he remembered that man kneeling before the Queen-requesting a charter for the New World...But...
Sent two explorers...Dread settled in his stomach.
"No" he muttered.
Philip Amadas.
"Noo."
Arthur Barlowe.
"England?" Rhys inquired "England what are-"
He immediately typed in a new, more specific search this time using Google. He clicked on the images.
There it was: a circle of wooden posts with a small settlement enclosed within them.
"Oh no" he moaned and ran two fretful hands through his hair. "No, no, no, no, noo."
"Arthur. I swear, I will strike you again if-"
"My Roanoke" England choked. "America...he's...my Roanoke."
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