I meant to update this yesterday, but I'm swamped (already) with uni homework and it was my sister's thirteen birthday.

Sweat dripped down Matthew's neck, the humidity suffocating. In the distance, storm clouds as black as night gathered and threatened to open up above them at any given moment. The tree Matthew stood beneath offered little protection from the heat, and the dust of the barren field rose up with each swell of the wind, getting in his eyes and soiling his crimson uniform.

Between the sweat and the dust and the gunpowder stains, Matthew didn't know if there was even a scrap of fabric in his uniform that could be saved. His boots, once shined and polished regularly, were now scuffed and filthy, the leather wearing down around the toes and Matthew was almost certain the grove in the right one was from a stray bullet that somehow missed him.

Alasdair stood several feet to his left under the shade of the same tree. He was leaning on his musket, letting his good leg take the weight off his bandaged knee, the perfect picture of nonchalance if not for the frown that marred his face. His thick red curls were plastered to his face with sweat and his eyes were dull with exhaustion. But he watched his little brother attentively from across the field, waiting, as they all did, with bated breath to see how it would unfold.

For Arthur and Alfred were at a standstill. Their armies stood behind their respective Nations, both confused as to why they were there and yet determined to see the war to an end, one way or another.

Matthew stood with his back to the town they'd defended for three weeks. Three god-awful weeks of rationing their limited supplies and watching in growing horror as the lights from the campfires grew brighter with each cohort of reinforcements brought to aid the Americans. It had been three weeks of watching as the days grew shorter and the nights became crisper and dreading his turn on patrol because what if he had to shoot Alfred? With every pop of gunfire, Matthew wondered if his brother was out there, returning fire against the man who might have been the closest thing he had to a father, and him, the elder twin who'd promised to always be there for Alfred, to always protect him.

And now he was shooting at his brother's men.

But it didn't look as though Alfred needed his help, or even had missed him. Gilbert and François stood several paces behind the rear guard with a small gathering of their own countrymen. He'd had support from two of the most powerful empires of the time, had pitted them against their rival across the seas.

Pitted François against him.

Matthew wondered if François even knew he was there. Gilbert surely did, but Matthew had no idea how much of their meeting the Prussian had shared with the Americans and their allies. If François saw him, what would he do? Would he swoop down on Arthur in a rage for taking Matthew to war, or would he take his ire out on Matthew himself, for not siding with Alfred when he had the chance? Or would he look at Matthew with indifferent eyes, uncaring now that Matthew wasn't his problem to deal with?

Matthew didn't know which option was kinder.

Arthur charged Alfred and Matthew found himself unconsciously stepping forward a half-step before pausing. He had no obligation to Alfred beyond what family deserved, and Alfred had made it clear he didn't consider them family any longer.

The sky blackened as Alfred yelled something to Arthur that was lost in the wind, and the leaves of the tree shook with the gusts of the impending storm. Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew saw Alasdair push himself off his musket and approach the front lines and Matthew followed, eyes determinedly glued to the redcoat in front of him. He didn't want to risk his gazing slipping and connecting with François.

"You're a real bastard, you know that?" Arthur growled. For all the shouting, his musket still rested on his shoulder in parade position. "I had to sail across an entire ocean to deal with your temper tantrum, and it's been a bloody big one, too."

Alfred's face screwed up in a scowl. He held his gun loosely, the point of the barrel dipping to point at Arthur's lower belly. "It's not a temper tantrum! You had your time and you failed. I'm independent now, old man, so deal with it!"

Matthew felt more than saw Arthur's anger rise. It sent a shock wave rippling through his troops, and the redcoats shifted on their feet, unaware of the supernatural force that had caused a surge of pain and rage to wash over them but feeling the effects all the same.

With lighting fast, practiced ease, Arthur snapped the hammer stall off and pulled the hammer to full cock and pointed the musket at Alfred. Directly between the eyes - a kill shot that Matthew knew would keep their even their kind down for a few days.

The air was charged, tensed, as the Continental Army levelled their weapons and the British did the same. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the skies that had been threatening to open all day let out a few drops.

"Dammit," Arthur's voice cracked and he squeezed his eyes shut. The rain began to pour down in earnest. "I can't shoot you. Fucking naive boy."

The musket fell out of Arthur's hands as his arms lowered to rest limply by his side. He seemed defeated, in a way Matthew had never seen before, not even when he and his siblings exchanged scathing words and refrained from speaking to each other for months on end.

"I'm not naive!" Alfred's voice jumped an octave and he cleared his throat. "I've been through more than you will ever know and I'm more than ready to be my own country. You're the naive one if you can't see that being with you is suffocating, that you're selfish and greedy and looking to blame everyone but yourself! You're a shallow old empire who's outlived his usefulness and I'm glad to be rid of you!."

Arthur didn't cry. He didn't pick up his musket. He didn't yell. He didn't do anything.

Arthur's face had gone completely blank, his eyes dull and unseeing as Alfred spat vicious insults that found their intended targets deep within him. Matthew could only watch as Arthur's knees gave out and he crumpled to the wet earth beneath him.

There was no emotion but fury on Alfred's face. "I'll take that as the surrender it is."

The Continental Army surged forward to take the redcoats prisoner. Matthew couldn't do anything, helpless as he and Alasdair were pushed roughly to their knees next to Arthur's prone form. The rain plastered his bangs to his forehead, but Matthew could hardly feel its freezing embrace.

They'd surrendered. They'd lost.

Alfred wasn't going home with them.

Long white legs appeared in Matthew's vision and he looked up from the ground to see a man on horseback slow to a stop beside Alfred. The man's stern face was hidden partially by the black tricorn he wore but the stars on his epaulettes marked him as a general.

Matthew had never met General Washington. Though he had camped with the man's army, he'd always stayed clear of the man and his wife and aides-de-camp, fearing that they, of all people, would be the ones most likely to notice his uncanny similarity to Alfred. He knew, however, that Alfred held him in high esteem and had the meeting been under different circumstances, Matthew might have struck up a conversation to see what about this mortal had Alfred so enraptured.

Washington stared the three nations down, his frown deepening. His eyes drifted to Arthur and they didn't leave even as he said, "Alfred, what do you want to do with them?"

Alfred hesitated, as though he hadn't thought that far, hadn't imagined that he'd ever have to see Arthur in such a state, nor his brother and proverbial uncle kneeling in the mud, both of them glaring daggers at him.

"I leave this decision to you," Washington added, his voice low and firm, "As I know wars play out differently for your kind, but if you cannot come up with a suitable solution, I will have them taken into custody."

Alfred's face was still scrunched up in a scowl. For s moment - one long, godawful moment - Matthew thought he was going to have them executed. He did not fear death, he knew he would be revived hours or days or weeks later, perfectly healthy, but he did fear the thought of it being Alfred that killed him - that orchestrated his first death. Then something in Alfred's eyes shifted, but for better or for worse, Matthew couldn't tell. He said, "Let them go. They can't negotiate any peace treaties in a cell."

Washington clenched his jaw but nodded to the men holding Matthew and Alasdair's arms behind their backs and they were released, but Matthew noticed the soldiers didn't move from their position guarding them.

Matthew stood, his knees smarting from being forced into one position for so long. His clothes were absolutely soaked through and they were swollen and restricting, hard to move in. The damp chill seemed to have seeped into his bones. The tips of his ears were numb.

But Alfred took no notice of that. He turned his anger on Matthew, practically seething as he stared his older brother down.

"I'm your brother," Alfred said at last. "Does that mean nothing to you?"

Fury welled up in Matthew's chest. How dare Alfred talk about brotherhood and family when he was the one who left, the one who declared war, the one who invaded him.

"I'm a loyal son," Matthew spat, "And I stand with Arthur."

Alfred's eyes hardened and he reached into his uniform. For a moment, Matthew thought he was going to pull a pistol out from beneath his shirt and shoot him, but what he did was far worse.

Out of the collar of his shirt, Alfred pulled his amulet into the rain. The iron was as sparkling and polished as ever and the leather cord it hung on was long enough that it would have rested right over his heart.

"You're all wrong," Alfred said and gripped the amulet tighter. "I'll do it, I'll be better than Arthur ever was, and someday you'll regret not joining me."

"You betrayed me," Matthew could feel his eyes burning and hoped the tears were from fury. It hurt too much to think of the alternative. "Did the past seven hundred years mean nothing to you?"

Alfred said nothing. With a quick jerk of his hand, he broke the leather tie of his amulet.

The snap of the cord echoed the one in Matthew's heart.

"There's a reason our kind don't have families," Alfred said and rubbed his thumb over Modi's iron face. He looked down at the iron in his hand with something like wistfulness, but it was overshadowed by the anger in his voice. "Seven hundred years is a long time."

He let the amulet fall from his hand. It hit the ground at Matthew's feet and Alfred made no move to pick it up.

As he watched Alfred turn and leave, Matthew understood what his final gesture was.

His brother had forsaken him. For choosing the empire, Matthew had lost the last member of his family.

He'd lost Skandia a long time ago, and his mother and his siblings when he'd embraced the Europeans. François had been the one to leave him, but Matthew still feared that it was somehow his fault.

And now Alfred was gone. He'd lost his brother for more than a hundred and fifty years and barely had thirteen with him before Alfred decided that familial relations meant nothing to him.

In a daze, Matthew bent down and picked up the amulet. He barely registered Alasdair's words of "It's a lang road that's no got a turnin', wee brother. Let's get ye tae the ship," as he picked Arthur up from the mud, and he hardly noticed the redcoats parting around them as they were led away by the Americans.

The iron was still warm in his palm, his brother's touch lingering on the amulet. Matthew looked up, looking for what, he didn't know as Alfred had made his stance on their relationship abundantly clear.

But he was met with the faces of Gilbert and François, still standing at the back of the army with their men. Matthew stared them down, his violet eyes burning intensely.

François looked away first, his sodden ponytail sticking limply to his neck and his musket resting on his shoulder. He wouldn't meet Matthew's eyes even as he turned to translate the surrender to his men.

But Gilbert held Matthew's gaze, his crimson eyes boring into Matthew's violet. There was an unreadable expression on his face and Matthew couldn't tell if he was thinking about him or Arthur or the surrender in general. Then the Prussian winked at him and Matthew looked away, his own emotions too much of a maelstrom within him to even begin to untangle the meaning behind Gilbert's gesture.

Wrapping the broken ends of the leather cord around his wrist, Matthew caught up with Alasdair on the path down to the beach, where their small naval fleet waited. Arthur was unmoving in his brother's arms, his eyes staring resolutely at nothing. It made Matthew uneasy. He knew how to deal with anger and with tears but not with whatever silence had ahold of Arthur.

The idea that his brother could cause someone so much pain they just… shut down, was unnerving, to say the least.

Matthew didn't know what he was supposed to feel. Rage, at his brother's parting words? Sorrow for the loss of Alfred's presence around the estate? Was he supposed to feel excited at the prospect of filling the gap Alfred had left?

But all he could feel was a pain in his chest, an ache so deep in spread throughout his body and sunk into his bones. A weariness settled on his shoulders as he watched Alasdair limp forward with his injured leg, carrying the weight of his youngest brother in his arms. The brother Matthew wasn't sure would ever recover from Alfred's betrayal.

And as he watched the rain slip down Modi's iron face, Matthew could almost pretend the god was crying.