Disclaimer: I own nothing
Warning: Violence towards a child; some quotes (please feel free to correct me if there is any mistake!) and angsty bunny of a plot. And this story isn't brit-picked.
A/n: The updates are a little bit irregular, but I will work hard to make sure the chapters worth it.
Thank you for all your support and criticism! I will try my best.
2.
"What are we really are, Arthur?"
A hand smoothed the corny blond hair, calloused and slightly bandaged, as the child raised his bright cerulean hues from the fairy-tale book they were reading, head tilting to have better view of him.
"Why do you ask, love?" Arthur gazed down, fingers combing through soft hair, smiling at the pout of confusion, at the light twinkling with known instincts but lacking the understanding awareness in those two baby blue eyes. It made him thought back to the time when he was born, too faded in his mind yet so clear to the feeling. Raised from earth, forest-shadows surrounding him in green, dirt and soil clinging on his skin – tender and small, confused and utterly alone; his newly-born heart swelled and blood flowed with sudden bursts of living and knowing - breathless, warm and empty.
Arthur tightened the arm around the small child's abdomen just lightly, willing the memory to rush away, to back off with the aches and emotions. He contemplated the soft, round face of Alfred's, the pursed chubby pink lips and the creased brows that looked adorably serious at the matter at hands. Arthur saw open and endless fields soaked in sunlight and grass dancing under the high and crystal clear sky in those blue, blue eyes.
"I dunno. At first I thought I was this land. But the people, Arthur, the people that live around, I feel like they are mines, are me." Arm gestured to his little beating chest, "There are many other things, too. When my rabbit Theodore hurt, the one I found in the forest, I just wanted to hug him real' close and make the pain go 'way. I also know people's stories, like how Mrs. White lost her two front teeth," Alfred giggled, "It's kinda creepy, but it feels…"
"Feels right," Arthur provided him, inclining his chin gently and receiving an enthusiastic nod and a big smile. Oh, he could hug the kid all day. Arthur cherished the tingling feeling nibbling at his heart, making his lids flutter with overwhelming adoration, like standing under the warm glow of the sun, at attention, on focus, floating. This is his, for him, so in peace. "We are not only the land, love."
Winds curled up and stretched and merged with daylights, worming their way through slits between vaults of green leaves, just outside the window of the room. Dots of shadow and light rustled on every surface they landed. Everything was so fresh, so wide and so alive. "We stand for many things, Alfred. We are the people, the culture and knowledge and language our people own. We are the believes, also the histories. We're the national anthem, the flag.
"But we can be something small, something familiar, of home and family." Arthur's hand traced around Alfred's face, "We are meals members share under the cracking flame from the fireplace; we are the kiss from the beloved ones; we are books people read, rested under their pillows, hugged into their chests and stored on the dusty bookshelves; we are crowded roads stepped upon and rode over; we are dark valleys full of trashes and burglars; we are lies that rolled from our people's mouth, truth also, of course my dear...
"We are everything, sometime nothing that could be at all seen. But we are always this one thing formed from those all, dearest, we are what people call nations."
"I'm a nation. I'm England as my people claim me to be," Arthur pressed one of his larger, battered but smooth and gentle palms against his own breast whilst another covered Alfred's heart, so warm. "You are a nation, Alfred."
"You are America."
And when Alfred clutched at Arthur's shirt and looked up into Arthur's emerald hues, Arthur saw something big, something great resting, lurking in that child-like body, still young, still growing and powering. So out of reach, so powerful Arthur almost lost his breath. "I'm America, England. I hear their calls. Always."
(We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.)
He embraced Arthur, short arms could not cover the English nation just yet, "So do they feel it, England?" The grasp seemed to become tighter, surer. "Do they feel that I love England very much, too?"
(We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown,)
There was a spark in Arthur's chest; it burst, exploded like lights of a moment losing breaths, a moment of stunning relief and happiness and pain. He wanted to curl up, circling this precious person into himself and never letting go. But the pride, the spine of being a nation imprinted, clawed and craved deep into his immortal flesh and skin. The reason he existed, the way he existing.
Arthur rubbed the back of Alfred's – America, America – back, having an urge to close tight his eyes and weep, but he stared at that far window at the other side of the room, allowing green to melt with bright lights, as if his orbs became liquid.
(and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved)
"I don't know, America."
The blackberry glistened under her flashing working fingertips – plans, plans, schedule - papers from organizations, appointment with Prime Minister at five, sharp six thirty meeting with Belgium ambassador, dark tea and half of a biscuit today – diet's off track again, missions from Region 5 –
"Cancel all meeting for today," Said her boss and without looking up, she cancelled all appointments, giving apologies, sending paperwork, reorganizing the schedule for the day and preparing on the following day.
Dark tea and a plate of biscuits then.
"Just dark tea, no needs for Sherlock's taunts about my diet," Mr. Holmes noted, not rising his eyes from his phone. She didn't nod.
In the corner of her eyes, a child laid his sandy head on Mr. Holmes' lap, sleeping like being in a coma, deep and restless. The other hand of Mr. Holmes placed near the lithe shoulder, large enough to seem to cover a side of the child's back, fingers hovering and bending but not curling into palm, as if protecting, not touching.
Not even the Queen's children could have received this – this familiar and protective gesture.
The only time she saw something like it was when her boss' younger brother managed to drug his mind out, overdosed. Even though Mr. Holmes could walk around as a Lord, discreet and manipulative and controlling, he couldn't stop her from being able to see his dangerous edge, rigidly tearing at his lines, making his smoothly dark suit tight and heavy.
Mr. Holmes had stood there, near his brother's white bed, staring down at Sherlock Holmes' face, looming over with dark clothes and shadows of his stony straight and raged figure. The room was silent, oppressive and whirring in echoes of the chaos happening few hours earlier, as though tightened air surrounding a black dead fire.
Holmes' back faced everything else like a great wall shielding his too pale brother from the world itself, his hand holding his sibling's bony and stained one; his umbrella was tightly and surely gripped. She quietly walked out and closed the door.
Half an hour later, she arranged the guards, twice as much as last time, got the best doctors and had Sherlock Holmes in a rehab when he woke up.
So now, as the car rode on and her boss had hardly changed his posture since his departure from Mr. Kirkland's house ( - a very high-ranking government official that even she had little information about. Kirkland was a mystery; only few knew of his existence. He was like the highest x-file, a solid and irreplaceable presence. If there wasn't Mycroft, British Government failed to chaos; and if there was no Kirkland, there was no England itself. Strange belief, but all her being believed so), she kept to herself the wondering of who the child truly was.
He felt his body drifting along the darkness; vaporous images flashed through the closed eyelids like flows of memories, catching the edge of his mind and tasting deeply blank. He was floating in his own mind, in the steam of black soothing silk. His skins were caressed and tinged as the flow of silk surging beneath him, leaving his behind bare.
He felt like falling.
His fingers twitched as if wanting to reach out and holding onto anything. But there seemed to be nothing.
Your choice, England. Voices whispered, voices reminding.
There were lights seeping into the corner of his eyes, embracing his blinding hues and he buckled.
Now, now, wake up, we'll wait. Having given you your choice, now we'll see how you grant your own wish.
Still falling down the endless blackening hole, he woke.
And wake he did, but he didn't remember. Those memories like water flowing along the wrinkles of his brain, yet they were untouchable, tingling and didn't belong to him just yet. He looked down at his small hands, strangely calloused for a child. He raised his head to meet with the brown eyes of a middle-aged man (- Mycroft, his head supplied, trust him -) sitting stiffly and watching on the sofa at the far corner of the well decorated room as he laid on what seemed to be a very comfortable and large bed.
He remembered his name was Arthur.
The space under the bed was dark and safe as he hid with blanket rolled around his shoulders like a cloak minutes later after waking up. There was no hoods, but he could bear with that. He needed bow and arrows, didn't know why, yet felt the must. Never be careful enough with those evil creatures in the forests and the enemies from some far away lands.
The 'Mycroft' man was here, too, but one lone man could only do so much. Arthur must be prepared.
"Would you please come out, Kirkland?" Mycroft asked, patiently. So conspicuous was Mycroft. Didn't he have any idea how sharp the hunters were? Just a silent whisper of a careless foot would be your death. Suddenly Arthur had an urge to crawl out and tug Mycroft under here with him.
And Kirkland? Who was Kirkland?
"I don't know any Kirkland." He voiced out, trustfully confused and slightly on guard. "If you mean me, then it's Arthur, pwease." He wrapped the blanket around him tighter, hating how vulnerable and honest he had sounded.
There was a pause. And Arthur squirmed, couldn't curl up into himself enough. Waiting.
"Very well," it was like a deep sign, but not unkind, so much well-worn as if Mycroft had dealt with something like this before. Experienced warrior then, Arthur mused. "Arthur, come out now. We wouldn't like to be late for tea, would we?"
Tea, what was tea? Mycroft surely knew how to bring up questions for him. Distracting methods, of course.
"What is tea?" As soon as the question rolled out of his mouth, a surge of memories hit him, making him whimper. He clutched at his head, breathless and not noticing Mycroft skipped the floor alerted, dropping down and trying to have a look at him but carefully not reaching out. "Are you alright?" Mycroft's words felt like a demand.
"F-fine." Arthur managed, coiling and retreating from the older man's partly covered figure by the bed. "I saw an old woman drink a cup of...tea?"
Silence. Like a passing thought and thoughtful hums. "I remember how it tastes, too. Weird but - "
"Would you like to try it?" Patience again, smooth like a white wooden pillar.
"..."
Arthur felt the carpet beneath was so soft he could fall asleep. He glimpsed the feeling of wet grass and warm, fresh soil under his bare feet, and he missed them dearly. "If I'm out, will you stab me?" (Hunters grabbing, hunters sneering, swords rising-)
It was so honest and sincerely questioning he was able to taste the sorrow of its at the tip of his tongue. Mycroft was quiet, so quiet as if he was recovering from a drown or strangle.
"No. Of course not." The answer was firm and certain, a hardening truth. No doubts. No lies. It made his heart ached and burst, and he wanted to close his eyes and weep.
"Sorry, I'm sorry," Arthur breathed, like sobbing, so overwhelming and drowning.
"Come out now."
He did.
The maids of Holmes' estate professionally ignored the blanketed child seating opposite from Mycroft, wide eyes and so very shy. The unruly blond hair stuck out under the false hood created by the wrapping richly-patterned brown sheet whilst emerald hues silently looked around, perking and observing, as though the enemies would jump out from nowhere.
It ached Mycroft Holmes, more than he would ever admit even to himself.
Because something had once seemed unbreakable and untouchable, now became so small, frightened and cautious. It made him thought of Sherlock, little Sherlock who barely reached his sixth year, bracing himself against taunting words of misunderstanding and moronic mouths, against cold hands of a cold lipped mother and strong iron grips of a father. So little but had acknowledged how to act strong, how to fight under the dead, harsh grasp of life, like an instinct, innocence that had not lasted. Souls Mycroft had tried to protect but failed.
That was why he hated failing, couldn't accept failing, couldn't obtain and create failure.
And somehow now when green eyes glanced at him just a little above white tablecloths, tiny hands worming around the steaming cup like hugging and mouth opening as though it had tasted wonder; Mycroft felt like he had failed greatly again.
Arthur, he spoke English well, spelling excellently and writing more so if not seeped with the childish nature of his body. After his first cuppa, Arthur had asked for papers and written down with perfectly curled handwriting the Hamlet Play right on the table.
"To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer, The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune, or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles, and by opposing end them: to die, to sleep –," the child quoted, in perfect Tudor accent.
The staff stared and Mycroft sipped at his tea chastely, listening to the quoted masterpiece.
When she entered Mr. Holmes' office the next day carrying a tray with two cups of tea – one dark and another milky (she said her name for today was Vimerias), her boss was at his desk as usual, eyes sharply reading through documents and making plans and actions.
Like an unintentionally hearty musical changing note to the normal harmony of national and worldwide work, the child – who had nicely and shyly offered to her an "I'm Arthur, pwease to meet you Miss" behind Mycroft trouser-ed leg as more than five guards hovered after them – sat obediently on one of the chairs, coloring and spreading drawn papers every surface of the hard wooden table. A blanket was wrapped over his shoulders comfortably and protecting-y.
"Thanks, Jane," Arthur said as she placed his tea with a lot of milk down. She almost blanched at his saying her real name, but composing herself sharply, still stiff when the child raised one of his picture up for her to see. She could feel Mr. Holmes watching them both closely.
The picture was a messily drawn image of Britain and Europe by black crayon; special was that there was a part of land bridging the two regions together and dark blue color smearing, covering the part.
"That's how we'd become an island!" was the child serious, proud and sad exclaim.
When the Prime Minister had a meeting with Mr. Holmes at ten that day, the man had looked around the office with astonished eyes at the gallery of drawing hanging on the rich, dark walls. "Change your taste in art, I see."
Mr. Holmes just twitched up the corner of his lip. "An art of British history, I assure you."
She nodded curtly and politely at the Prime Minister, going straight to the table and fetched the box of crayons before leaving. Accompanying Mr. Holmes in ignoring the funny look the Minister was having.
Oh, she knew they were both enjoying it, for different reasons anyway.
"Are you wondering why you had acted quite tensely with America?"
"Being in the presence of one's own country tend to make one…defensive, I suppose."
"Ah, indeed. That's why we've always been on the front, it encourages the soldiers."
.
"It makes you uncomfortable, Mycroft. So exposed, so much, I assume. Don't do sentiment – Many Holmeses have declared."
"It's the truth."
"Oh, don't lie, I'm in your shoes. I just know, Mycroft."
.
"I don't manipulate my children. And even if I do, you will always come."
"It always tends to be dangerous, that tendency of mines, dear England. If you're anyone else or any other countries, I might have to put you down."
"But I'm not, am I? And it's a disaster if you kill your own country."
.
"It destroys you, Mycroft. I hope it not."
"It's my choice, even you're England, you have no say in it."
"If one day I'm over my mind, Mycroft, kill me, fetch the people."
.
"England."
.
"You give me no choices, don't you."
"Yes. Because I'm England; and we can't never be careful enough, my dear Holmes."
.
"Is it your wish, England?"
"No."
"My choice is for devotion of humanity."
"My wish is selfishly myself."