A/N: I swear I'm working on Reprise. I've already got a big chunk of the next chapter finished, I just needed to blow off a little steam to get the creative juices flowing. So, enjoy some overly emotional historical angst. This was largely inspired by an unfinished piece of fan art created by sully-s on tumblr (her post no. "189837997990"). I just have a lot of feelings, okay?
He had forgotten how far away the rest of the world truly was. Since the day he'd first seen a map, he'd longed to chase the horizon, to chart for himself the ocean's vastness, to discover new lands and see the world. But today, the familiar expanse of the Atlantic made him ache in all the wrong ways. Foreign gales lambasted him as he crossed the deck, rubbing raw the most homesick corners of his heart. He hurried below.
"Steady there," said a sailor when the ship lurched and he wobbled in the cramped quarters. He caught himself on a stack of cargo and let the sailor pass by. As the navyman's steady gait echoed up to the bow and further below, he stayed where he was, hands propped up on the netted cargo.
His hands had landed on a set of worn leather luggage, nestled amongst barrels and crates bound for France. He brushed the familiar cases with his thumb, and looked over either shoulder to make sure no one was around. Carefully, he whisked the netting away and lifted the cargo atop the luggage away as if it were no heavier than a pillow. He set aside all the boxes and bags aside until he uncovered a worn suitcase embossed with a gold AFJ. He popped open the lid and brushed aside the somber black clothes to see the precious cargo that lie beneath in a nondescript glass jar. He grasped it, not moving it, just holding it.
This was why he'd come down to the hold in the first place. No real reason—it hadn't moved since he'd packed it up in New York, much less once they'd loaded it onboard. He'd just wanted to see it with his own eyes, to touch it, to remind himself that it was there, that it was home.
"It's just dirt, you silly boy," said his inner critic, which had for decades sounded exactly like Arthur. Maybe in this case Arthur was right. It was just dirt. But it was special dirt, meant for a special person. He packed it up and put it back in its place. He re-stacked the cargo, careful to make sure there was no one around to ogle his one-handed deadlift; it would have been impressive for a full grown man, much less a sixteen year old boy.
He could hear laughter echoing down from above deck. Despite the wind, it was a beautiful, sunny day. Anyone who could avail themselves was topside, using any excuse available to enjoy a bit of sun. He stayed below, in the dark and tar-stenched hold, feeling too heavy for anything else.
He fell into the inset bed at the stern afforded to him by the captain. It was a generous gesture, but he found the confines of the pinewood walls too small for his gangly limbs, which had been going through something of a growing spurt. He almost longed for one of the sailor's threadbare hammocks, so he could stretch out his arms and legs, which more and more felt confined aboard a ship.
"Mon dieu, petite frère," unbidden, the memory surfaced in his mind's eye. It had been the first time they'd seen each other in six months, just before Yorktown. When he'd spotted Alfred, his smile had split as wide as the sun was bright. "Bientôt tu seras plus grand que Général Washington."
Alfred curled in on himself to keep his feet and crown from bumping the ends of the bed, and focused on the waves rocking beneath him.
He was a young country, but he was old enough to know the turns of this somber dance. Still, there hadn't been anyone around old enough to warn him that the dance grew harder, not easier, with the passing of time.
He tried to sleep as much as he could the entire trip, so he might one day blink his eyes open and find the hole in his heart mended.
They arrived in France in the afternoon. Alfred had lost track of how long, exactly, it'd taken them to cross the ocean, and staggered down onto the dock in a daze, unsure of what time or day it was. There was already a well-trained squad of American navymen unloading cargo, mail, and passengers they'd ferried over from the New World.
"Hey, careful with that," Alfred called when they began tossing luggage down onto the dock, "that's come a long way, ya know."
Behind him, someone was tutting their tongue. "Mon ami, you mustn't speak like that," said the someone in a familiar, accented lilt, "you sound just like Angleterre."
Alfred spun on his heel, and found Francis Bonnefoy grinning at him fondly, all crisp collar and black silk, delicate crowsfeet crinkling around his ancient eyes.
"Francis!" Alfred grinned, too happy to take offense at the likening to England. He surged forward for a hug, ignoring the gaggle of uniformed, important-looking Frenchmen who surrounded them. The nation himself laughed at such American forwardness, but returned the boy's embrace in kind, happy to ignore his entourage in favor of his favorite baby brother.
"Comment tu as grandi!" He pulled away and patted the top of Alfred's head, which was just about level with Francis' nose, and Alfred grinned up at him, happy that someone else had noticed. "How have you been, Amérique?"
"Bien, très bien," Alfred replied, accent skewing slightly Quebecois despite his ambassador's earlier assurances, "seulement…" he cast a look over his shoulder, where the men continued to unload the ship. His eyes searched for his luggage, hoping it had not gotten mixed up with the others.
"Oui," said Francis, sounding sympathetic. "Je sais." He put a hand on Alfred's shoulder and steered the boy away from the docks. "Come. Let your men deal with that. You've travelled a long way; we'll draw you a hot bath, and then over dinner, you tell me all the best news, oui?"
"That… that sounds nice," Alfred had to admit, feeling suddenly exhausted.
Francis felt the younger nation's shoulder sag under his hand, and looked down at the boy. His eyes seemed dark and underslept. He's not taking this well. Francis ached for the young nation, but smiled anyway. "Excellent," he said aloud. "Viens."
The next few days were a blur. They travelled from La Havre to Paris, and the claustrophobic carriage almost made Alfred more motion sick than the ship. They went to Francis' townhome, where Alfred would be staying. He met with the new Marquis. He met George Washington—the French one, of course. He ate French food, which he'd wanted to try on French soil for almost as long as he could remember, but was so preoccupied with his own thoughts, he hardly tasted it.
"Monsieur Francois," asked an uncertain young ambassador one evening at dinner. Francis lent his ear as they awaited the third course. "I am not sure monsieur Amérique is enjoying his time here. Is there anything that can be done to make him more at home?"
"Non, I do not believe so," Francis admitted, watching Alfred carefully; he'd never seen the young nation so stoic in his life. "Unless you can raise the dead."
Days must've passed, because Alfred had to go through the fuss of dressing himself several times in the stiff and formal morning dress so popular in Paris. After some uncountable days, he awoke not to the quiet rustling of the valet whom Francis had lent him, but Francis himself. The Frenchman was standing just outside Alfred's room, peeking around the doorframe to catch the eye of his sleepy American kinsman.
"Bonjour, monsieur Jones," he said quietly, unwilling to break the new dawn by raising his voice, "we must be going soon after breakfast. The Grand Marshall is keen to meet you beforehand."
Alfred blinked. In the stupor of sleep, he'd momentarily forgotten what Francis was talking about. He remembered quickly. His shoulders slumped.
"Of course," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Merci, Francis."
The afternoon felt more like a parade than a funeral. There were important people to meet, and roles to assign, and finery, to don and fuss over. Though they would be surrounded on all sides by uniformed officers, as a diplomatic figure, Alfred was only dressed in plain clothes—fine and black to fit the occasion, but plain. At the behest of Francis himself, he wore a small ruffle of silk pinned to his lapel: thirteen stars against a tricolor field, pinned in the middle by a fleur de lis. It almost made him cry.
The ceremony itself was a grand affair, and Alfred found it impossible to feel much amid the bustle and the crowding and the speeches. Spoken French blended in his ears, and he found his fluency numbed as much as his own emotions as the afternoon trudged on.
"Alfred," Francis nudged his side, breaking his reverie. "Le sol."
Oh, right. Alfred adjusted his hands on the jar, which he'd entirely forgotten he'd been holding. Galvanized by the dozens of eyes on him, not the least of which belonged to George Washington—the French one—Alfred stepped forward and presented his gift on behalf of all Americans.
George sprinkled the dirt on top of his father's interred coffin, and Alfred could not tell if it broke his heart or mended it. They buried the casket and Alfred stayed, and stayed, and stayed. When at last he looked up, it was because Francis had come to rouse him.
"Mon ami, it is nearly nightfall," the European said quietly, out of respect for the coming night or the dead, Alfred did not know. "We ought to go."
Alfred could not but comply, and let Francis lead him to the carriage.
The ride back to Francis' townhome was made longer by the street traffic left in the wake around the cemetery. Outside, the sun was nearly set, casting pinks and oranges across the sky that stole onto the private cushioned quarters of the carriage, where two nations in mourning kept their own thoughts.
"Does it ever get any easier?" Alfred asked at length, eyes trained on his shoes, which he shuffled together in some restless emotion.
"Does what get easier?" Francis replied, mind a ways off.
Alfred's face remained a statue while his hands fiddled. He concentrated even harder on his boots, scraping imaginary mud off the toes with his heel.
"Losing them," he said quietly.
Francis could felt a crack open in his heart and begin to bleed. He turned to study the downturned face beside him, all ruddy cheeks and bright eyes and tears almost ready to fall.
Alfred had grown up fast—so ludicrously, miraculously fast. Francis had been centuries older than Alfred was now the first time he'd felt this way, with Charlemagne. Alfred was an infant by comparison. But Alfred hadn't lost one Charlemagne, he'd lost dozens. And this one was the very last one he'd had left. Francis took a deep breath, and thought of Jeanne. He shook his head.
"Non," he sighed, quiet and low. "Non, never."
Alfred's mouth trembled, and he curled a little further down. Francis said nothing more. When Alfred next breathed in, his shoulders shook through a sob.
"Oh, mon cher," Francis reached over to close the curtains over the carriage window, cloaking the small room in the privacy of darkness. He placed a hand on Alfred's trembling back. "I'm so very sorry." He rubbed kind circles between the boy's shoulder blades, heart feeling like a stone. "I shan't bear it easily, either. They call him the father of two nations, and I have never met any man more fit for the title."
"Il m'a appris le français," Alfred hiccuped, voice muffled. "Everyone thinks it was Mattie, but it wasn't. It was him."
"I know, mon cher."
"He called me by my name. No one else did, not even George. He called me petite frère. He taught me all the French names for the stars, and helped me practice my sums." Alfred sniffed. "He was the only one who would always listen to my questions, even if he didn't know the answer."
Francis hadn't known any of this. He quietly gripped Alfred's shoulder while the smaller nation came undone with his head in his arms.
"When he came back, he saw me, even though I was all the way in the back. He stopped the whole parade just to say hello. He hugged me. I know he was old, but he didn't look it, not really. I didn't know… I-I didn't know I wouldn't get to see him again, it was so fast, I couldn't even say goodbye. A-and now…" Alfred faltered. "Now…" he didn't know what happened 'now'. All of his founding fathers had envisioned what might happen to the union once they'd passed on; none of them had adequately considered what might happen to Alfred.
He took out a handkerchief and crumpled it to his face to muffle the sniffles of his crying. Watching from above, Francis gave a soft sigh and pulled the boy into a loose embrace. Alfred fell into it and buried his face in Francis' side. Francis let him cry, knowing the boy would leave tear marks on his brand new jacket. But what was a jacket in comparison to heroes, to fathers?
"You don't want it to get easier, Alfred," he spoke gently, rubbing the boy's arm. "For it to be any easier would mean that they mean nothing to us. The more important they are to us, the more it hurts to lose them. Any other country could tell you so. You are lucky to have known so many luminaries so early in your history."
Alfred hiccuped. "Lucky?" He exclaimed from behind the kerchief, "I sure as hell don't feel lucky."
"Je sais, I know," Francis assured," but one day you will. It won't be soon. Not today, or tomorrow, maybe not even in a decade or more. But one day, you'll hear your people telling stories about him, and you'll smile. Maybe you'll even tell a few stories of your own. And when there are no Americans left old enough to remember notre chère Lafayette, you will get to tell his story."
Alfred did not appear comforted by the thought. "They all die so fast," he said. "It never stops."
"Oui, they are human," Francis agreed mournfully. "But what legacies they leave with us, non? It is our job to safeguard those legacies, Alfred."
Alfred still sniffed against Francis' jacket, but he fell otherwise quiet as the carriage jostled them across the city.
"I don't know how to tell stories," Alfred admitted when they were almost home. "Not good ones, anyway."
Francis smiled. "Your people will teach you how," he said. "It is alright for now to just listen, mon frère."
Alfred was quiet for a while. Eventually, when he could sense that they were nearing their destination, he sat up, black clothes rumpled, eyes red and puffy. Everyone would know that he'd been crying, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
"Francis?" He asked.
"Oui?"
"Whose stories do you know?"
Francis looked quizzically at him. They had only minutes left of their carriage ride; this was a much longer conversation than the carriage's privacy would allow.
"It would take a very long night indeed for me to tell them all," Francis warned him.
"Would you, though?" Alfred begged, desperate for a balm for his grief. "I don't think I'll be able to sleep well tonight."
Francis' smile melted into an ancient, sad thing, framed by the invisible lay lines and wrinkles that held his many ages together. "Of course, mon cher." He opened the carriage door and let both of them out in front of his Parisian home. If the coachmen saw Alfred's puffy eyes or raw cheeks, they said nothing. "On the condition," Francis said, a gentle hand on Alfred's shoulder, "that one day you will tell me the stories of your heroes, for already, they could fill their own library."
Alfred's eyes were glassy with tears. "Yeah, they could," he choked, not sure if the feeling in his chest was one of loss, or grief, or the encroaching burden of becoming an adult. "They really could."
Translations: (my apologies if they were poor; I rely on extremely old French and Latin lessons and Google translate)
Mon dieu, petite frère — My god, little brother
Bientôt tu seras plus grand que Général Washington — Soon you will be taller than General Washington
Mon ami — My friend
Angleterre — England
Amérique — America
Comment tu as grandi! — How you've grown!
Bien, tres bien — Good, very good
Seulement — Except
Je sais — I know
Viens — Come
Le sol — The soil
Il m'a appris le français — He taught me French
Petite frère — Little brother
Mon cher — My dear