Years passed. Springs fell into summers that melted into falls that bled into winter far too quickly. The snow that dusted across the frozen grass melted under the mild English winter, replaced far too often by icy sleet that left everything feeling soggy and bleak. Although when he was younger, Matthew had often waited for the coldest days to bundle up and run outside in the sleet, hoping to feel the wet imitation of snow against his skin, he no longer had the desire to play in the winter rain. Instead, the damp days seemed to weigh heavily on his bones and without anyone to cavort with under the overcast sky, winter just seemed to lose its magic, even when it did snow. Matthew tried to reassure himself that he was getting too old to do so, anyway. He was sixteen and almost eight hundred - far too old to throw soggy snowballs at his friends. There were more important things to do around the estate, anyway, things better suited to a young gentleman such as himself.
Rain splattered against the window and the day outside was grey and dreary, but inside the parlour, Matthew sat warm and content, curled up on a plush settee in front of a roaring fire. A woollen blanket was draped around his shoulders and a steaming cup of tea sat on a porcelain saucer on the table beside him, left largely ignored as Matthew's attention became increasingly drawn to the book in his lap.
The Vicar of Wakefield was a wonderful novel, full of scandal and bankruptcy and forbidden love, and Matthew was enjoying it immensely, though he felt that The Life, Adventures, and Piracies of the Famous Captain Singleton was more to his tastes. Still, he'd promised Genevieve he'd read it, if only so she would leave him alone.
{No matter what, he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that he actually couldn't put it down.}
The personification of St. John's Island sat on a chair of her own by the fire, her legs crossed and her cross-stitch balanced on her knee. The two of them sat in silence, but they were far from strangers. They'd both been raised by François, albeit apart and with minimal interactions and she'd been taken into Arthur's household a handful of years before Matthew had, but Matthew had clung to her like a lifeline when he'd arrived, her and Alfred being among the few he recognized and trusted.
"Matthew?"
Both Matthew and Genevieve paused what they were doing and turned to the door the warbling voice had come from.
A mop of brown hair peeked around the doorframe, the boy it was attached to hiding in the hallway.
Matthew rose from his seat and tucked an embroidered bookmark between the pages of his book to save his place. The blanket slipped from his shoulders and he wistfully mourned its soft embrace as he left the reach of the fire's warmth.
His feet padded across the wooden floor clad only in thick woollen socks, his shoes left by the settee. He slipped out of the parlour and rounded around the side of the doorframe to where the colony waited out of sight.
Although Arthur had taken in several new colonies recently, Matthew recognized this boy immediately. He'd come with his brother a few years before, two personifications of New South Wales, and had moved into Alfred's old room.
"Is something the matter, Dylan?"
The boy's green eyes snapped to his and then dropped to his feet. His koala-spirit rested on his shoulder, given to him by Arthur, just like he'd given Matthew his bear, when he'd become a British colony. Standing no taller than a five-year-old, he was dwarfed by Matthew's height, so he crouched to put himself at Dylan's eye-level.
"Is it Tobias?"
The boy shook his head. "It's Arthur," he said and sniffed. Matthew hoped he wasn't coming down with a cold. "He's locked himself in his office again."
"Ah," Matthew scratched his nose. "Have you told Owain or Alasdair?"
"Couldn't find them," Dylan mumbled.
"Okay, well, you did well by coming to find me," Matthew said and rose from his crouch. "How long has he been in there?"
Dylan fidgeted, his koala clinging to his neck. "A few days, I think. 'M not sure."
Matthew thought about it. It was Thursday and he hadn't seen Arthur since dinner on Sunday, which meant he could have been in his office the entire time. "I bet he hasn't eaten in a while, either," Matthew said to the boy before him, "How about we go see if we can liberate some scones from Cook?"
Dylan bit his lip, but the beginnings of a smile were starting to tug at his mouth, and Matthew bent down to let him climb on his back. "Do you think we can get cakes, too?"
Matthew smiled and began walking toward the servant's entrance to the kitchen, far removed from the grand doors that opened to the dining room. "I don't see why not. What Cook doesn't know can't hurt her."
The colony's tinkling laugh echoed in Matthew's ears and Matthew shushed him with a giggle of his own as they reached the small wooden door, cracked openly slightly, the smell of dinner wafting into the hallway.
Carefully, Matthew pushed the door open, checked to make sure none of the servants were looking at him, slid Dylan off his back, then motioned for him to follow. His green eyes were sparkling with excitement as they crept around the kitchen, hiding behind the counters and slowly but surely approaching the tiered stands that held the pastries. None of the apron-clad humans bustling about over the stewing dinner gave any indication they knew he and Dylan were there.
With his hand pushed against Dylan's mouth to stifle his giggles, Matthew quickly pulled the platter of macaroons closer to the edge and let the boy grab as many as he could and stuff them in his vest. He did the same with the platter of shortbread and then the raspberry tarts.
{Matthew winced at the time the maids were going to have getting the stains out.}
"Oi! You, there! Get your 'ands off my cakes!"
With a clatter of pots and pans, Cook was storming toward them, her wooden spoon like a paddle in her hands.
They'd been caught.
"Go, Dylan!" Matthew yelled, but he was laughing. He pushed the boy to his feet. "Run! Leave me behind, I'll be alright!"
Dylan scrambled out of the kitchen, dropping crumbs as he went. He nearly crashed into a serving boy carrying a steaming pot before disappearing out the door to wherever he went to squirrel his treats away.
"Master Matthew, I should 'ave known it be you boys," Cook snarled, stopping right at Matthew's feet. Matthew had a good few inches on her, but her red face and drawn brows always made her appear far more dangerous than her short stature suggested. "Always sneakin' my food before I puts it on the table."
She rapped her spoon on the back of Matthew's hand and he winced, clutching his hand close to himself. "Sorry, Cook," he said. "We actually came to get tea and scones for Arthur."
"An' steal my cakes while you're at it," she huffed.
He smiled sheepishly.
"Good luck tryin' to get 'is Lordship to eat," she added and turned to rearrange the sweets on their platter. "All the plates we've left out for 'im 'ave returned to us without a morsel touched.
She sniffed, as though personally offended. Which, Matthew amended, was fair. She was the best out of all the cooks Arthur had employed before, and refusing her food was nothing short of a scandal.
"I know," Matthew said, "But I was hoping to try anyway."
He put on a winning smile, relieved when she rolled her eyes and barked at a kitchen maid to set a kettle of water to boil. When she turned her back to grab the platter of cranberry scones, Matthew stuffed a shortbread in his mouth.
Her head whipped back but he just gave her a tight-lipped smile, hoping there weren't any crumbs on his face.
She narrowed her eyes but returned to the scones.
Matthew snatched another biscuit.
Cook turned with a huff and all but shoved the plate of buttered scones into his hands. "Your tea is over there, Master Matthew. Please get out of my kitchen."
Thanking her, Matthew swept past her only to grab a tart and dash over to where a bemused kitchen maid was waiting with a steaming cup of black tea.
{She must have been new.}
Ignoring Cook's angry squawk of "Get your rudding 'ands off ma cakes!", Matthew slipped out of the kitchen, balancing Arthur's plate in one hand and the teacup in the other, with his raspberry tart between his teeth.
It was utterly un-gentlemanly and Arthur would have had a fit if he saw Matthew's state: dashing about the estate with no shoes on, crumbs covering his jacket, and a tart clenched between his teeth.
But Arthur hadn't been out of his office in days and Matthew doubted he would be in any state to comment on Matthew's own disheveledness. If it was like any of the other times Matthew had needed to drag him from his work, Arthur would be delirious and near-collapse, and once he was conscious, he'd have to deal with Alasdair or Owain chewing him out for being irresponsible.
{As much as they pretended to hate him, Matthew knew they cared for Arthur in their own ways.}
Reaching Arthur's wing, Matthew turned to the first door in the hall and shuffled the teacup to his other hand. With a porcelain plate and teacup balancing precariously in one hand, Matthew finally stuffed the rest of his tart in his mouth and paused, chewing a moment. Swallowing and brushing his mouth with the back of his free hand to make sure no crumbs rested on his face, Matthew rapped the door and took a step back.
There was no noise from inside, no shuffling of papers, no chair grinding against the wooden floor. Nothing to indicate the office was even occupied.
And then Arthur's voice rang from the other side of the door. "Enter."
Matthew twisted the knob and pushed the door open, transferring the teacup back to his other hand as he walked in.
The fire burned low in the hearth, as though no servants had been in to rouse the coals back to life, and the curtains were drawn across the windows, letting no light from the gloomy day inside. Arthur sat at his desk opposite the door, paying no mind to Matthew. Piles of papers were scattered across the desk's surface and the inkpot was placed dangerously close to the edge, enough so that one wrong slip of Arthur's hand would send it shattering to the ground. In the corner of the room, Arthur's large armchair sat unused, his latest embroidery project forgotten on the table beside it. Even the cup of tea placed next to the hoop was cold and stagnant. Untouched.
"I brought you something," Matthew said carefully, not wanting to startle Arthur when he was obviously so deep in thought. "Cook says you haven't been eating."
"Yes, yes," Arthur waved his hand dismissively, but he moved a stack of papers so Matthew could set the tea and scones on the desk. "I've been very busy lately."
"Too busy to take care of yourself?" Matthew asked, though he feared he knew the answer.
Arthur grumbled something under his breath, but he set the quill down and reached for the teacup, his eyes not leaving the paper he was reading. Matthew would have to count that as a win, for now.
He sipped the tea and winced at the scalding temperature, flipping the page. "You know I have much to do. But thank you for the tea, Alfred-"
All the air left Matthew's lungs.
His green eyes snapped up to meet Matthew's purple.
Arthur's nostrils flared and his eyes took on a watery quality, "Get out."
"Arthur -"
"Get out!"
Matthew scurried to the door and slammed it shut just as a teacup shattered against the wall next to him.
Matthew ran. He ran through the halls of the mansion, picking up speed, leaving behind Arthur's sobs that seemed to echo in his ears. The wood and plaster blurred together with the faces of startled servants as he passed, his sock feet pounding against the floor.
He was such a fucking idiot.
He burst through the parlour, ignoring the cries of those occupying it, and kept running. He kept running until he reached another set of doors and he threw those open too, practically launching himself outside.
He stumbled as his stockings sank in the wet earth of the moors that bordered Arthur's estate but he quickly regained his footing. Heart pumping, feet pounding, Matthew ran through the cool mists, not feeling the freezing droplets of rain that ran down his face and jacket.
He was so fucking stupid. Such an idiot.
He hardly noticed when he'd crested the hill behind the estate and came to a stop at the border of the ancient Kingswood. The trees loomed far above him, their frames skeletal and rustling with the battering winter winds.
Atop the hill, the winds seemed to pick up speed, crashing against the trees and blowing past Matthew with such intensity it felt as though he was wearing nothing but his underclothes. His jacket had become sodden and heavy, and his fingers burned with the cold. Unable to support himself any longer, his trembling legs gave out and he sat down heavily on the root of a large cedar.
Matthew let his head fall back against the trunk and let out a long sigh.
He couldn't blame Arthur. It wasn't his fault; they'd all thought he was getting better. The days where he became distant or lashed out at them had become less and less, and as the months that separated them from the Revolution had increased, he'd been healing. There were fewer days where he didn't come out of his office and fewer nights where he was found with a near-empty bottle of rum in hand, staring blankly at the fire in the hearth. He'd begun to join them for dinners again, and to those who'd never seen him before Alfred had left, he seemed to be back to normal.
{Maybe, Matthew admitted, he ignored the signs because he, too, wanted Arthur back.}
It had still taken Arthur years to be able to look Matthew in the face without seeing Alfred in his place.
But there were days when it seemed like everything had been for nought. Days, still, when he didn't eat or when he drowned his sorrows in tumbler after tumbler of rum. Days when that fire that Matthew had seen on the ship so many years ago disappeared behind a blank expression and he saw the weight of the centuries reflected in Arthur's eyes.
François had been the same, so many years ago. He'd found Matthew when he was just a child, still so innocent and unmarred by war and death, still a vast unknown in a charted world, where possibilities were endless and Matthew's love for him was just the same. He'd nurtured Matthew, allowed him to grow alongside the French Empire and be educated in the courts of kings. Matthew had been his pride and joy, and for the first time, Matthew had had a father in his life - not Skandia, the man who left him, but François, who chose him, who stayed.
But Matthew had fooled himself into thinking that their bond was eternal. Somewhere between running the ramparts of Quebec and sneaking into meetings in Versaille, Matthew had forgotten how long eternity was. Their kind could live forever, if fate allowed it, and death did not mark an easy end for them. There was no quick way out, no way to escape the sins of your past and the bitter hope for the future. They would watch mortals waste away chasing after immortality and longed to scream, it's not worth it.
Because seven hundred years was a long time, even for Nations. François had gotten bored of him after barely a hundred and fifty, had dumped him on another empire the moment he became a burden to deal with. And Matthew should have seen that coming; he'd grown up around his siblings, of course, who fought with each other just as often as they were allies. He should have known, should have seen the evidence in front of his eyes, that just because someone claimed you as family did not mean they meant it. Just like the changing of tides, Nations switched loyalties like it was an inherent part of their being.
And it was. As much as Matthew Kirkland had free will, he was also the Province of Quebec, and that demanded certain allegiances, certain bonds that must be broken for the sake of the empire and the colony he was bound to.
There were sacrifices that had to be made for the sake of his colony, even if they broke Matthew's heart in the process.
Really, François and Alfred had made it easy. They'd both been the ones to denounce their friendship, their kinship, and ally against him behind his back. François had been the one to give him up first, and even if that still hurt Matthew decades later, he refused to give the man the satisfaction of knowing how much he'd meant to Matthew, how betrayed he'd felt when François had the option to take him back and didn't.
And Alfred was his baby brother. They had been one colony together, spent seven hundred years roaming the wilderness with their mother, running through fields of wildflowers and splashing in swift streams, and they should have known it wasn't going to last forever. Matthew should have known. He should have known that loyalties didn't last forever with their kind, even between brothers. That should have been obvious from the very moment he'd sense Alasdair's silent fury toward Arthur.
But he'd foolishly believed that they were different, that no matter what, the New World would be better than the Old ever was, that they wouldn't make the same mistakes. But they had, and Matthew had chosen the empire over his brother, chosen Arthur over Alfred, and now his brother was gone, tucked away in his fledgeling nation far across the sea and Matthew was the one who had to deal with the fallout.
He wished he could march down to the Thirteen Colonies - no, the United States of America - and grab Alfred by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Remind him of the dangers of hubris and growing too big, too quickly. Remind him of Skandia and their mother and how both of them, two powerful Ancients, were gone, far too soon, far too fast. Remind him that they were Magni and Modi, Strength and Bravery, and they were the ones meant to inherit the new world, to wield the relics of kings and gods, but they couldn't do that with this rift between them - a rift Alfred had caused.
Matthew's toes squelched in the mud, freezing water seeping into his stockings and pouring over his numb toes. He would catch his death out here, he knew, even though he really couldn't die. Perhaps he'd catch chincough or consumption and slip blissfully into nothingness for a few days as his body recovered. The rain, at least, had let up into a light drizzle, though the clouds still obscured far too much of the sky for Matthew to judge with any real accuracy how long he'd been sitting beneath the ancient cedar.
There was still no snow. Matthew missed snow.
He missed home.
{He didn't know what home was, anymore.}
Footsteps squished up the hill, accompanied by muttering that was lost to the wind. Matthew looked up to find Genevieve picking her way up the hillside, carefully avoiding loose roots hidden by the decomposing layer of dead vegetation and the mud puddles that pooled over their rims and ran down the slope. She held her skirts up in one hand, dutifully making sure the hem didn't train in the mud, but wet leaves clung to the muck that splattered on her polished leather boots.
"Honestly, Matthew," she tsked, hopping over a running stream of brown water, "You could have bothered to at least put on a coat."
Her own shawl didn't seem to be doing much against the freezing rain.
"I want to be left alone," Matthew said, pulling his knees to his chest and looking away from her.
"Non, Matthieu," she said and his head snapped up, "You will come inside before we have to call on a doctor."
"Please?" Matthew begged. He couldn't stomach entering the mansion yet, not until the damp English winter froze him solid. Only the numb, shooting pains in his icy fingers and swollen toes grounded him, broke through the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind. He had no desire to leave this spot until the last dregs of guilt and shame were swept from him by the bitter winds that blew off the moors.
She tilted her head sternly and sniffed. "Come, Matthew."
With a sigh, Matthew uncurled himself and stood up. The wind, eager at the new flesh and soaking clothes available, wasted no time in trying to blow him off the hill. His shirt was plastered to his chest and his curls were frozen around his ears. He tucked his hands under his armpits, trying in vain to warm his frozen fingers.
She grabbed his elbow and led him down the hill, using his weight as a brace against the slippery slope. Together they hurried across Arthur's immense grounds in silence, hunched over against the wind. Genevieve's cheeks and nose had become rosy in the cold and Matthew was sure he was just the same, or worse.
When they stepped through the doors, the warmth of the parlour fire washed over him like a hot bath. As the warm air clashed with the cold, Matthew felt his exposed skin begin tingling and he quickly turned around to shut the doors.
Genevive placed the back of her hand against Matthew's forehead. Her face scrunched up, full of concern. "You're still far too cold, Matthew. Maybe you should go sit by the fire."
The way she phrased it made it clear that it was not a suggestion.
She dragged him over to the fire and pulled his jacket off, hanging it on the mantle to dry with her shawl. He sat on a pile of pillows in front of the hearth - undoubtedly placed there by Dylan or Tobias when they were building a fort earlier - and watched as she stoked the fire and pulled a worn, leather-bound book from the bookshelf.
The flames snapped, shooting crackling sparks up the chimney.
"Lie down," she said, sitting down and reclining her head against a pillow propped up by several others. She opened the book and began, "Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter…"
As he drifted off to the quiet lull of her voice, Matthew was resoundingly determined to not tell her he liked this one, too. No one had to know he had the same taste in books as Genevieve.
{And if he woke up later that night with Arthur laying a blanket over the two of them, eyes soft and apologetic, not making any fuss over their filthy clothes on his beautiful rug, well, no one had to know that either.}
