Notes: I apologise for this being so damned late. Stuff came up IRL and on FB, FFN derped, and then my computer broke. All through that my muses were in a slump, so... hopefully I can get stuff done now that everything's settled down a bit. I apologise in advance for the shitty quality of this chapter; I started it before everything went to hell.
But that being said – anyone who sent their registration form to me via Facebook will have to resend it, because I lost one of the files with all of the second semester registration forms. Merka, Megan, and Sara, I still have your forms. Alfred 'Cunning' Jones and Mariam, please send me your forms again.
Major Epic Disclaimer: A great section of text from the first scene comes from To Rule the Waves: How the British Navy Shaped the Modern World by Arthur Herman. I would like to acknowledge and thank him for giving me such detailed reading material. This book is an exhilarating read for any British history geek; go buy it.
Part XI
"On September 28, 1805, the British fleet off Cádiz caught their first sight of the Victory as she approached from the west, flying Admiral Nelson's flag from her foremast," read Arthur Kirkland from a book titled To Rule the Waves: How the British Navy Shaped the Modern World. His class sat before him, so quiet that some people had nearly stopped breathing for fear of making noise. "Of twenty-seven battleships and four frigates, only eight captains had ever been under Nelson's command. Only five officers had ever commanded a ship of the line in battle. Yet all of them, band of brothers or not, had total confidence in him."
He looked up. "Thus begins the Battle of Trafalgar," he said, drawing up a map on the whiteboard. "Here, the green ships represent the British navy. There, in blue and red, are France and Spain. Admiral Nelson planned the British manoeuvre as such: the British fleet would be formed into three lines, with the fastest ships kept in the first division and always windward. The rest would be in the other two lines, and the entire plan would hinge on the trust between Nelson and his fellow captains. Nelson's plan called for a pell-mell battle, where no one could control the action – but that was what he wanted. He wanted that element of surprise."
Since no one objected to his lecture (they were too busy listening to that Sexy British Accent), the Briton picked up the book and started reading again.
"In Cádiz harbour, by contrast, the mood could not have been bleaker. In contrast to Nelson's band of brothers, Villeneuve was hardly on speaking terms with most of his officers. His vice admiral, Dumanoir, was still miffed that he had been passed over when Villeneuve was appointed to command. Rear admiral Magon had been so furious when Villeneuve had refused to fight the British on July 22 that he had cursed him from his quarterdeck on the 74-gun Algésiras, and threw his telescope and even his wig, at Villeneuve's flagship. Villeneuve's Spanish allies, Admiral Gravina and his subordinates, were outwardly respectful but silently disapproving. They sensed Villeneuve had led them into a trap." There, he looked up again. "Can anyone tell me what the situation would have looked like to us Nations?"
The students jumped slightly at the question, but Hotaru answered. "Er… Francis looking pissy and pessimistic, with a poker-faced Antonio standing next to him… and across the room, a smug Arthur?"
"Seems about right," Arthur replied, looking smug indeed. "The French navy had some internal disputes – as you can tell, not everyone liked Admiral Villeneuve. The Spanish didn't want to be there in the first place. Trafalgar was pretty much a British victory from the beginning, if these attitudes are anything worth noticing." He paused. "Now back to the story."
He flipped a few more pages and began to read once more. "The mood on each side was different. On the French and Spanish ships, a sense of dread and doom. On the British, excitement and eagerness for combat. Villeneuve and his men were fighting for the sake of honour; Nelson's men were fighting to win. Nelson was not facing an enterprising opponent, and he knew his opponent's standards of gunnery: slow, inaccurate, and uncertain. The tension was mounting, as the Victory was less than three miles from the nearest enemy ship." Arthur looked up again. "And here, Nelson gives a very famous message," he said. "Can anyone guess what it is?"
"God save the Queen?" Alexandria Russell guessed.
"Good heavens, no," Arthur snapped. "England expects every man to do his duty. That is the message he sends before the battle begins. Originally, the plan was to say 'Nelson confides that every man will do his duty', but that would have taken too long to relay." He looked at the next page. "And now the battle begins."
People drifted in and out of sleep as Arthur read his book proudly, obviously reliving his glory days with every word. Jennifer and the other Anglophiles hung onto every sentence. Dammit, that Sexy British Accent was hypnotising, and coupled with a blow-by-blow account of the Battle of Trafalgar…
"At 1:35 Nelson was speaking to Hardy when he suddenly fell to his knees. 'They are done for me at last,' he whispered to his stunned friend. 'My backbone is shot through.'"
"No!" the Anglophiles gasped in unison.
"Not Nelson!" squeaked Kriss, her face pale.
"Why'd he have to die?" Jennifer breathed.
Arthur wiped away a tear. "A Frenchman shot him in the left shoulder; the bullet penetrated his chest into his spine," he replied hoarsely.
In the end, he read about Nelson's death in a voice worthy of any Shakesparean tragic actor. "The last shots of the Battle of Trafalgar were fired at around six o'clock, after nearly seven hours of continuous fighting. Two hours earlier Horatio Nelson had died in the ams of his heartbroken captain, Thomas Hardy."
There were some giggles from the gutter-minded yaoi fangirls, but Arthur glared at them before continuing. "He had lived just long enough to learn that he had won the decisive battle he yearned for: the greatest fleet battle of the age of fighting sail. In a body of water not more than a mile and a half square, sixty great men-of-war had slugged it out for control of the oceans. To those still alive, it had been worth it, despite their admiral's death. In their minds, they had smashed the enemy's fleet as a fighting force and buried any chance of Napoleon's invasion of England." Once again, Arthur paused. "But it had all been for nothing," he said quietly.
"What?" screeched the Anglophiles.
"Yes. Napoleon had already started advancing into Germany while the battle was going on. In a sense, all Trafalgar did was prove the might of the British navy. Horatio Nelson died almost needlessly, but he is still remembered today as a great hero. His funeral lasted four hours, and he laid in a sarcophagus that was originally intended for Cardinal Wolsey. English Protestantism embraced him as a secular martyr – almost as an English Christ. More than fifty streets, squares, terraces, passages, and alleyways in London are named after him – not counting Trafalgar Square's Nelson Column. Horatio Nelson became a role model for Englishmen; he symbolised the virtues that English society upheld and the greatness of the Royal Navy."
And once again, it was just another day in the 'History: Age of Empire' class with Arthur Kirkland.
"We learned about the Battle of Trafalgar today," Kriss gloated to Alexander at lunch. They were sitting side-by-side at the Asia table, Kriss leaning slightly against Alexander.
"That sounds nice," Alexander replied distractedly, eating his Valencian paella without even realising that he was eating snails and rabbits along with the rice. "We talked about the fall of the Roman Empire."
"Ooh, I remember learning that," Kriss giggled. "Did Ivan do the barbarian yell?"
"He has one?" Alexander echoed.
"Well, when we covered the fall of Rome, Alfred interrupted halfway by calling Ivan a disgusting fat little worm. Ivan replied by calling Alfred a barbarian who did nothing but yell 'GRARRRRGH!' and sack innocent Roman cities."
"Alfred wasn't even alive then."
"Yes, but I suppose Ivan was just trying to come up with a quick retort," Kriss reasoned. "It seemed pretty canned."
"Well, Alfred didn't interrupt, so I guess Ivan didn't do his barbaric yell." Alexander shrugged and ate another snail without knowing it. After all, no one expected snails in Spanish cuisine; everyone was too busy expecting snails in French cuisine.
"You guys always miss out on the cool stuff," Kriss snickered. "I heard KyAnna and Laisai talking about how lame Platonic Love class is with Pirate Arthur and Aviator Alfred. We had it awesome last semester, when normal Arthur and Alfred taught the subject."
"I heard something about Chuck Norris being in Alfred's presentations." Alexander looked as if he got the short end of the stick. "Why can't I be in your class?"
Kriss snickered and kissed his cheek. "Because you didn't write your fanfic quick enough," she replied. "Speaking of which, I keep on getting the feeling that you're not really a Hetalia fan. Why not?"
Alexander blushed slightly. "It was Jennifer's fault for even mentioning it," he replied, shrugging. "I mean, I didn't quite know where to start; she said to just watch it but I had no idea how and where. And then she kept on giggling about that England…"
Kriss suppressed her own giggles. "Then why'd you write a fanfic?" she wondered.
"Dunno. I had too much sugar."
"Do you think Jen broke up with you because you weren't a Hetalia fan?" That question threw the Briton off for a few minutes; he stared owlishly at her as he tried to come up with a response.
"Er, dunno," he said after a moment. "She had her own reasons, I suppose."
"Sorry, I shouldn't have pried," Kriss said almost immediately.
"Nah, whatever," Alexander replied with a shrug. "It's entirely possible."
True to their rivalry, Alfred and Ivan were conducting a Cold War of snowball proportions that afternoon, in the middle of Kriss and Merka's skiing lessons. Merka had missed a great deal of skiing lessons due to hockey practice, so it was no surprise that she had absolutely no idea how to get down the mountain in one piece.
"Pizza, Merk, pizza!" Jennifer hollered as she skied past the floundering fangirl on her way to the rental shop; Workbitch was waiting there with skates.
"Easy for you to say; you've already learnt this!" Merka screamed back before collapsing. "Arrrrthuuur, help me!" she whined pathetically. Said thick-browed Briton, however, was talking to Kiku at the top of the mountain.
Kriss chose that moment to appear. "Is everyone else in the class better than me at skiing or something?" Merka complained petulantly. Kriss snickered but managed to stop herself before she crashed into Merka.
"It's a possibility," Kriss suggested with a grin, extending a hand to Merka to help her stand. "Ski with me back to the dorms? You know, just in case you fall and break your jaw or something."
"You're helpful," huffed Merka, blushing nonetheless as she took Kriss's hand and got back on her skis. The two girls started heading downhill again. "How are things between you and Alexander?" Merka asked mid-turn, not even keeping the jealousy out of her voice.
Kriss shrugged. "Fine. What about yourself and Lucia?"
Merka paused before grinning. "Fine," she replied.
"That's helpful," Kriss deadpanned.
"I know."
When the two of them managed to ski down the mountain without any serious falls (other than Merka faceplanting again and Kriss crashing into a tree), they parted ways at the rental shop. Kriss had spotted Alexander near one of the snowmen still remaining (the others had been bombed into oblivion by the current snowball edition of the Cold War); Merka pointedly looked away from them to see Lucia sitting by the lake.
The mermaid was heavily bundled and watching Megan and Andrew Ho make fools of themselves on the ice. Karen Sanghieh was tentatively skating to the side, looking ready to scream and fall any second. Merka took a seat on the bench next to Lucia, her expression concerned.
"Something wrong?" she asked as Megan did a stupid-looking pirouette-like twirl and crashed into Karen Sanghieh, who predictably screamed and fell. Jennifer and Workbitch skated by to help Karen up; Merka thought Jennifer looked more graceful on skis. Considering that Jennifer could make an elephant look graceful, that was saying something.
But back to Lucia. One look at the laughing expression on her alien ex's face (Megan apparently found the entire collision hysterical, much to Karen's chagrin), the mermaid burst into tears.
"Lucia, come on, tell me what's wrong," Merka coaxed.
"Megan told me to stay away from her," Lucia replied. "She said I was too clingy and she was feeling claustrophobic."
Merka paused. "I thought you were avoiding Megan."
"I…" Lucia sniffled. "Can we talk about this somewhere else?" She blew her nose with her scarf.
"Sure," Merka sighed.
Moments later, the two of them were cloistered away in Merka and Kriss's room. Kriss was probably off Anglophiling on her boyfriend, so they were guaranteed privacy (unless Kitty hadn't removed the cameras and microphones from the wallpaper like she had promised, but Merka didn't give a damn).
"Coffee?" the USUK fangirl asked. Despite being an Anglophile, Merka was also a die-hard member of the Coalition of Coffee Drinkers. Lucia laughed bitterly.
"Lots of sugar with it, please," she said, tucking herself away in Kriss's blankets (Merka had no scruples about that; Kriss never used her own bed nowadays) and surrounding herself with a fort of tissue boxes.
"Will do," Merka replied, smiling as she left the room. She came back with two steaming mugs of coffee, freshly nicked from the cafeteria.
"How much sugar?" Lucia's muffled voice came from the blanket burrito within the tissue-box fort.
"A truckload," Merka said, causing the mermaid to perk up and take her mug. "Now, spill."
"This afternoon I approached Megan because Anita told me that she wanted to tell me something. So Megan told me that she regretted everything and thought we were better off as friends, because she takes sex and kissing very casually –"
"Never would have thought of that," Merka deadpanned, sipping her own coffee. "Go on."
"So… like I said, she takes those things really casually." Lucia paused. "Then she said that she thinks that she's straight, because while she likes the whole 'making out naked' and 'making obnoxious sex noises to troll the neighbours' thing, she thought I was getting too emotionally invested. And that I was too clingy."
"Clingy?" echoed Merka. "How so?"
"Like…" Lucia frowned, sipping her over-sweetened coffee. "I don't know. She wanted space, but she couldn't figure out how to let me know. But either way, she thinks she's incapable of falling in love with another girl, which totally sucks because –"
"You're hopelessly in love with her," Merka finished. "Sip."
Lucia took another sip of coffee. "Yeah, so now she just wants to be friends – after she gets her space issues worked out."
"Well, then give her the space she needs," reasoned Merka. "I mean, if you loved her, you would. Wouldn't you?"
"I just find it hypocritical in a way," Lucia mumbled, "that she would demand space from me while she sleeps with the rest of the school."
Merka sighed, taking a sip from her own mug. "Yeah," she said. "I… really suck at talking about personal problems."
Lucia snorted. "You're helpful," she replied sarcastically, but she smiled nonetheless. "At least you're listening."
"Kempeitai Kiku disappeared," Shinbun-kun announced at dinner, as Mr. Hugh watched Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert bet on which student group would win the food fight that night – Spamano or PortSpa. Portugal was leaning over the couch, trying to keep his bottle of beer away from Antonio and Gilbert as he watched.
"They're taking the Spy Nations?" Mr. Hugh asked, looking up from a letter. "Any new leads?"
At that moment, SatW England and Arthur entered the room with a long list. "We have the list of possible crossover pairings," Arthur replied excitedly, waving the list about. "Now the only question is… do we find the missing Staff members before we seal the plothole, or after?"
"I think it's easier to seal it before we transport everyone back," Mr. Hugh replied, holding up the Remote Activator. "We need everything stabilised before we move anyone, and we can use this to transport people even after the plothole is sealed."
"When do we begin this?" SatW England asked, gesturing to the list.
"As soon as possible," Mr. Hugh answered, turning to Ludwig. "Ludwig, your seminar is still scheduled for this weekend, right?"
"There's a blizzard predicted for Saturday evening," answered the German. "Provided that the geography does not get mutilated beyond recognition, the seminar will go on as planned."
"We'll have to put up a list of supplies for the students to bring," SatW Norway added; he had agreed to help Ludwig teach. "And no, Denmark, we're not making you come along." That last part was directed at an obviously trembling SatW Denmark, who looked deathly pale.
"Oh, good," whimpered the Dane, who then proceeded to curl into the foetal position with a bottle of beer.
Mr. Hugh laughed before leaving the room; he walked to his office with the letter still crumpled in his hand. In his office, the Course Coordinator walked to the window and looked down at the letter.
"Appointment at the Medical Ward tomorrow, to deal with the pregnancy issue," he said to no one in particular, although he knew Mr. Allen was listening somewhere in the back of his mind. "Maybe we can have it aborted."
Have you ever heard of a Mary Sue aborting her baby? Mr. Allen's voice, with its crisp American accent, rang through his head. It's unheard of.
"But Takara's technically not," reasoned Mr. Hugh, leaning his head against the windowpane. Outside, Charlie Tenterden was being chased away by a giant eraser. Eraser, spawned from a misspelling of Mr. Hugh's last name (Mr. Hugh Eraser, honestly? He was going to kill the fanstudent responsible), apparently had the ability to erase various body parts. That definitely explained Charlie's desire to put a couple of miles between him and the giant eraser.
But Charlie didn't get far. Much to Mr. Hugh's amusement, the fanboy got caught in the crossfire between Ivan and Alfred. Chuckling to himself, the Course Coordinator watched the snowball-infested carnage, wondering how long it would take for them to dig up Charlie's erased remains for a resurrection.
The letter quickly fell to the ground, forgotten for now.