I posted this on ao3 the other day, but forgot to upload it here. My bad!
Matthew stared out the window of his townhouse at the distant shore. Flames danced behind his eyes, but his gaze was blank and unseeing. A crater smoked in the distance.
{It was a special kind of hell, being injured by your own citizens.}
The biting wind stung his eyes, but he couldn't close them, couldn't bear to have his mind replay the blinding explosion that had sent him flying into a pile of American bodies, that had broken his arm and signalled York's defeat. Smoke drifted in on the breeze, damp and heavy and smelling of spring snow, but the room was too small with the shutters closed, the cramped walls closing in on him with every heartbeat, the floor swaying beneath his feet if he so much as looked away.
Matthew breathed in the sharp air. It was calming, soothing in a way he couldn't explain. Perhaps it was something inherent as a Nation, perhaps he was so drugged on painkillers that nothing was making sense anymore. He didn't know and didn't particularly care.
There was a bag at his feet, stuffed to the brim with bandages. He had his civvies on, the remnants of his scarlet uniform burned in the hearth weeks ago while he slept, dead to the world.
It haunted him, the explosion. Every time he swallowed, he choked on smoke that didn't exist, on the smell of burning flesh that had long since stopped smouldering. It had smelled so much like Sunday roast, so much like simple meat cooking in the oven that it had taken Matthew one agony-filled moment to realize that it was him, that it was his flesh that was burning.
There were lots of things Matthew could forgive his brother for, but the blackened flesh over his heart was not one of them. He could not forgive Alfred for the shiny burns on his hands from where he'd torn the scraps of his tunic away from his smouldering body and watched them turn into live embers in his palms. He could not forgive Alfred for the way flakes of dead skin peeled away with the bandages and left oozing sores in their wake, for the way he'd died twice on the table as they cut away the inflection with only whiskey to dull the pain and a strap of leather between his teeth to muffle his screams.
He could not forgive Alfred for the amulet that was buried in his sock drawer, nor for the one that had been half-melted onto his chest, for the way the shallow imprint of a god's face was pressed into the fresh scars over his heart. It was unforgivable, what Alfred had done, unforgivable for so many reasons that betrayal was the least of it.
Matthew had no idea of the scale of his burn, couldn't yet bend his neck low enough to see, but he could see the way the bandages wrapped around his ribs all the way up to his chin. He could feel it in the way each breath rippled across the new skin of his chest. He could hear it in the hoarseness of his smoke-damaged throat and the rasping way his lungs gave out far too easily.
His brother had killed him for the first time, and there was nothing that could make Matthew forgive that. His brother had caused Matthew's first death, and then his second, his third and fourth following in rapid succession to each other.
Alfred had killed him and Shawátis had dragged his deadweight body up the hill until Matthew had convulsed and his limp lungs had drawn in breath. It had been like choking on the very thing that kept him alive, his heart beating irregularly and his breath fluttering shallowly around his spasming, bleeding lungs. It had been a terrifying agony that Matthew could hardly describe, fumbling for Shawátis and clutching at his throat because even though he was drawing breath, he couldn't breathe, and yet it had happened again, months later, as he burned with his capital.
{Matthew wondered if Alfred knew what he'd done to him. He wondered if he would even care.}
Matthew wanted to go home. He wasn't built for war, not like Alfred and Arthur seemed to be. He didn't enjoy the innate draw to violence his kind had. He much preferred the silent mornings, when no one was awake but the birds and he could sit out on the porch with a cup of tea and a blanket around his shoulders and watch the sunrise over the treetops. He was made for dusty libraries where he could curl up in solitude with a good book and a crackling fire, for the stillness of the night and the sparkling stars.
Perhaps that was his mother in him. Skandia had been warlike, that Matthew was certain of, but his memories of his mother were fading as time passed. He couldn't remember the shade of night her eyes were carved from, nor the way she smiled gently at him when he laughed. Matthew wondered if he even looked like her at all, or if his European heritage had won out and left him with no connection to the Nation that had died so he could live.
But Matthew remembered how all the lines in her face had smoothed out when they were alone in the wilderness, just him and Alfred and her wandering from place to place wherever they pleased. He remembered how the weight seemed to lift from her shoulders as they reached the summit of a mountain and could gaze across the endless world with nothing but blue skies in the way.
Matthew wondered if his mother found the place where their kind went when they Faded, if she found herself among the stars after all.
He wondered if she liked living forever in the night sky.
But it was foolish to think like that during a war, in a time where sentimentality would get him killed. It was foolish to think like that when his mother was dead and gone and there was nothing he could do to bring her back. He couldn't think like that when his siblings were divided and his blood was staining Alfred's hands.
No, Matthew thought as he gripped the windowsill with his good hand so tightly the wood groaned. He was going to focus on the things he could control.
Alfred was going to regret burning him to the ground.
oO0Oo
Flames once again filled Matthew's vision, but he didn't recoil in fear. No, he basked in the orange glow of the pyres that would bring a nation to its knees. Screams echoed distantly in the square, but Matthew took no mind. It was only fair, after all.
An eye for an eye.
A capital for a capital.
The torch he held aloft in his hand sputtered and jumped, sending sparks raining down on his arm. He couldn't feel it, though, lost in the throes of adrenaline and nationalism. He was drowning in it, drowning in the need for vengeance that crept up his neck and settled in the back of his mind like a constant drumbeat.
Avenge me, avenge me, avenge me.
Men hollered as they ran through the streets, their arms laden down with their bounties. A dog howled in the distant night.
Matthew breathed in the smoky air. Oh, it was so different when it wasn't him burning. His crimson uniform, shiny and new and the colour of blood, clung to his sweat-damp back, the brass buttons flickering in the torchlight.
He could have joined in on the looting, of course, as was his right as the conquering nation, but he rather liked the view here, the Capitol building spread out in all its blazing glory. Perhaps he should have been over watching the White House burn, but there was something fitting about standing in the ashes of democracy and watching it fall.
{His brother had sought to build a nation that would surpass Rome. He forgot that Rome, too, burned in but a day.}
He was waiting, listening as all Nations were wont to do, to that song-turn-drumbeat in his mind, in his heart, in his soul.
Avenge me, avenge me, avenge me.
And then, just as Matthew knew he would, he appeared. As predictable as the tides, as sure as the changing of the seasons, Matthew knew where he was a heartbeat before he moved.
He sidestepped just before the bayonet sliced through the air where he'd been standing.
"Hello Alfred," Matthew said, not moving his gaze from the burning building. "I would've thought you'd have gone with your president."
"Fuck you, Matthew," Alfred panted behind him, his breaths wheezing in the smoky air. "You didn't have to do this!"
Something sparked deep in Matthew's chest, behind the fresh scar tissue that could be called his heart. Something wrathful and deadly and howling for blood. He turned on his heel, his polished boots caked in ash and mud, and faced his brother with all the anger of eight-hundred years of existence.
"No, you didn't have to do this! You brought this upon yourself, Alfred!" Alfred took an involuntary step back at that, his eyes widening at whatever he saw in Matthew's gaze. "I didn't ask for war but I sure as hell will finish it!"
Alfred's face hardened and he set himself more firmly, his stance more grounded than it had been moments before. "You could have joined me, Matthew, you could have stayed with me forever. You chose to ignore my letters and I'm done asking nicely."
Avenge me avenge me avenge me.
"Oh, va te crosser!" Matthew couldn't stop the eyeroll that accompanied his words. "You and I both know what happens to Nations that aren't needed anymore. Mother-"
Alfred's nostrils flared, sparks flashing in his azure eyes. "Don't you dare bring her into this! And this," he threw a hand out at the ruined city. "This is all your fault!"
An explosion rocked the capital a few blocks away and Alfred's knees gave out beneath him. He gasped and tore frantically at his shirt, the cloth smouldering in his hands, and let out a pained whine as it suddenly burst into flames.
Matthew just watched as his brother shrieked and writhed on the ground, his breaths coming in choppy wheezes that produced smoke with every exhale.
Alfred was burning too. Good.
Avengemeavengemeavengeme
It beat like a wild animal, untamed and feral. The pulsing roared in his head, the voices of a thousand men screaming along with it, begging for him to take the opportunity presented to him. He was ready to go home and Alfred was the only thing standing in his way.
Matthew dropped the torch. It hissed as it fell against the cobblestones. A thick blanket of soot was already beginning to settle on the street. Something akin to hope shone in Alfred's blue eyes, the azure more like a glassy slate as pain clouded his gaze. Through the scraps of his brother's smouldering shirt, Matthew could see the blackened, charred remnants that had once been skin, the dark rusty-brown of burned blood cauterizing the gaping wounds. Had he been a better man, a more forgiving person, he might have felt sick at the sight.
He let his hand fall to the pistol at his belt and drew it out slowly, studying the polished wood and metal weapon with a disinterested eye.
"I'd say I'm sorry, Alfred," Matthew said and flicked the safety off. He ran his fingers along the smooth handle and his face hardened. "But I'm not."
Alfred's eyes only widened marginally before—
Bang!
oO0Oo
A bump on the road jolted him into consciousness. Matthew let his eyes flutter open with a quiet groan. It had been a long day, made even more so by the long years that predated it. The cool drizzle on his skin was numbing in the best way possible, but that didn't stop his knee from aching with every jostle of the carriage on the rocky dirt road.
He let his eyes fall shut and draped an arm across his face. Bon Dieu, he just wanted to sleep for a week in a bed that didn't smell like an unwashed sailor.
"We're only a few miles from the estate, sir," a voice in front of him said. "You'll be able to retire then."
Shit, he'd said that aloud, hadn't he?
"That too, sir."
Matthew carefully moved his leg off the seat and sat up. The top of the sleek carriage was removed to let the damp spring wind card its fingers through Matthew's hair, and he could see the man sitting in the driver's seat.
"Griffiths?" Matthew winced and grabbed his knee as they went over another bump. "How long was I asleep?"
"A few hours, sir," Griffiths said, keeping his eyes ahead on the road. "But, if you would let me be so bold as to say it, you clearly need more."
Matthew grimaced and gingerly let his leg extend onto the bench once again. He appreciated the fresh air and the opportunity to see the beautiful scenery on the road to the estate, but the damp chill settled into his bones and aggravated his scars. The ones that his -
No, he wasn't going down that road. Not now.
"And I believe Cook worked herself up into a frenzy the moment we heard you'd been discharged." Griffith's voice held a trace of amusement. He knew, just as Matthew did, that to deny Cook her chance to fuss over him would be nothing short of scandalous to her.
"Yes, well, I will admit that I've been looking forward to her cooking." No more hardtack or salt pork, hopefully. Matthew wasn't sure he could choke down any more of the stuff.
Griffiths clicked his tongue and the horses moved to one side to let another cart pass. "She'll say you're too thin, sir."
Matthew huffed a laugh. "She always says that."
"And I'm inclined to agree with her, sir."
Matthew let out an unbecoming squawk and spluttered. "I'm a growing boy!"
This time, Matthew could see Griffiths' smile through the back of his head. "I'm sure you are, sir."
Matthew pouted and slumped as far in his seat as his awkward position would let him. He drummed his fingers on the pommel of his cane as they rode another mile in silence.
It was good to be home, he realized. He longed for his colony and the land that made him him, but going back for the war reminded him that it was missing an essential part that made a house a home. Even if it was only for a few years, he'd missed Arthur and his aunt and uncles and the other colonies more than he ever thought he would. When he'd been given to Arthur barely fifty years ago, all he'd wanted to do was hop the next ship bound for Québec and return to that small stone house on la Rue de Meulles that he'd shared with his papa. And yet, when he'd been given the opportunity to go back decades later, it had been so devoid of life, so quiet without the sounds of children echoing through the halls.
He loved his colony and returning to Canadian soil had been like a coil unravelling in his chest that he hadn't even known was there, but he missed the people that made the world home.
He cleared his throat. "How are the others?"
"Oh," Griffiths' turned slightly in his seat to face Matthew. The lines on his forehead were deeper and his crow's feet more pronounced. His hair had greyed even more and he looked like he'd aged decades in just a few years. Matthew always forgot how fleetingly fragile mortal lives were.
"They've missed you," the servant continued, "And they were counting down the days until you and Lord Kirkland returned home. Masters Tobias and Dylan in particular were very excited. I believe they mentioned something about presents?"
Matthew rolled his eyes. "They can be rest assured that I brought only the finest selections of maple syrups and candies."
Griffiths' laughed quietly. "They'll be glad, sir. And I believe it will put His Lordship's mind at rest knowing you are well."
"Ah," Matthew grimaced. "I'll be back to normal in a few weeks, anyways."
Griffiths was quiet for a moment, then asked softly. "Might I enquire what happened, sir?"
"To my knee? Got a round wedged in it in Louisiana, and the good Sisters said it might take a while to heal." Matthew hesitated. "And - and I was burned in York. Still hurts."
A silence fell over them at that, and Griffiths' grip on the reins tightened. He understood what went unspoken.
Not for the first time, Matthew wondered how long the man had been with Arthur. He understood their secret and what they were, and never seemed surprised when they suddenly showed up for breakfast after lying on a slab in the morgue the day before - only resigned, as though he'd had the argument of work versus rest far too many times. Arthur trusted him and he'd fixed up more than one scraped knee for the colonies. He was privy to most of Arthur's work, and Matthew knew he aided him with his correspondents on more than one occasion.
When he asked, Griffiths just looked thoughtful.
"My family has been with yours for… oh, I'd say going on seven generations, now. Lord Kirkland has known me since I was but a wee lad, and I always knew I would end up in his service one day. I was born on the estate, and the Lord be willing, I will be buried on the same grounds next to my ancestors."
Matthew hummed, and turned that thought over in his head. What was it like, knowing for certainty that you would die someday, that there was a grave waiting on consecrated ground for you, and it was only a matter of time and circumstance before it was filled? Death was an eternity Matthew could scarcely imagine, like a star in the night sky he could see but never reach. If the fates allowed, he'd spend hundreds, thousands of years roaming the earth, knowing nothing for certain but the slow passage of time.
God, did their kind even leave behind bodies to be buried? Was there a graveyard of immortals somewhere Arthur had never shown them, or did their bodies simply dissolve into stardust? Were they allowed to go to Heaven, or did Nations reside in the North Star, as his mother had taught him so long ago?
"My eldest son, Elwyn, is about your age," Griffiths continued. "And he'll likely take on this position once I'm gone. It runs in the family, you see?"
Matthew snorted but something bothered him. "But you do this of your own free will, right? Arthur's not forcing you into anything?"
"Master Matthew," Griffiths said softly and turned to look him in the eyes. "There is no greater honour I can imagine than to serve my country."
Letting out a hum of agreement, Matthew let them fall into an easy silence. His gaze drifted to the rolling hills beyond, but his thoughts were far away.
oO0Oo
His amulet rested heavy on his chest when the carriage slowed to a stop on the curved laneway in front of the estate. He blinked his eyes open blearily. He hadn't noticed he'd dozed off.
"Master Matthew," Griffiths handed the reins off to a waiting stable boy. "We're home."
Matthew sat up, the muscles in his chest groaning with the effort. His knee pulsed with a dull ache, quietly demanding to be known, but he pushed that to the away in favour of grabbing his cane and rucksack and sliding out of the carriage as quickly as he could. He waved away the servant who darted forward to help him, and let his feet touch the ground.
Something pricked at the back of his eyes. It was good to be home.
Griffiths came around the side of the carriage and quietly held his hand out for Matthew's bag. "I believe it is time for the evening meal, sir," he said as they walked up the stairs to the grand doors. "The others will be in the dining room."
Matthew nodded, the pommel of his cane pressing into his hand. They entered the house, and a wave of warmth washed over him. A fire had been lit in the foyer fireplace, and Matthew paused there for a moment to slip off his damp jacket and warm his fingers. Servants had waited there in anticipation for his arrival, and one of them gently insisted on taking Matthew's bag to his room for him. Matthew let him, only half paying attention.
His vision had gone blurry, and he subtly scrubbed at the tears before they could fall. After everything, the war and the betrayals and all the death, nothing here had changed. The portraits still hung in the same places they always did, one of the maids had set a bouquet of daffodils on the console table pressed against the far wall, and rain once again began to patter at the windows, just as he remembered.
A small piece of eternity in a world that moved too fast.
He started forward in the direction of the dining room, but Griffiths cleared his throat. "Sir, you're filthy. It would be improper of you to join His Lordship in this state. Retire to your rooms for a bath, and then you may return."
"Please, Griffiths," Matthew said, not moving. "I need to - I just - can't a bath wait until after I've seen them?"
Griffiths pursed his lips and ran his eyes down Matthew's form. Without the heavy overcoat he'd been wearing, it was obvious he was painfully thin from years of rations, and he'd foregone the fine cotton clothes he'd left in for simpler woolen trousers and a worn linen shirt. Undoubtedly he smelled like a ship's hold and whatever foul things rotted away in dank corners. Matthew wasn't sure he could look less like a gentleman if he tried.
Matthew's heart sank when Griffiths opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking pained. A very long silence stretched between them "Very well, Master Matthew," Griffiths said at last. "I'll have a maid draw up a bath in anticipation of your return."
Ignoring the pointed look that accompanied that statement, Matthew nearly flew down the hallway as quickly as his knee and propriety would allow him. The tapping of his cane beat in time with the clicking of his shoes against the wooden floor and Matthew couldn't have felt lighter. Who would be there? He'd been near starved of information across the ocean, and all he knew about the war in Europe was that François' little emperor had been exiled.
In the blink of an eye, Matthew found himself around the corner from the dining room. A heart stopped in his throat. He could hear the clanking of silverware and quiet, muted conversations through the wall. He was home. After more than five years, he was home. Back once again in the land of mists and rain, where he could push the past away and just exist in that delicate balance that separated his life from mortality. His amulet hung heavy around his neck, the dull, half-melted face of Magni gleaming faintly in the candlelight.
He let out a low breath, collecting himself.
Then he walked around the corner into the dining room.
The conversation died almost immediately. Matthew fidgeted with the pommel of his cane, suddenly having a hard time looking any of them in the eyes. They were all just staring at him.
Alasdair was the only one of his uncles there, and his eyes darted between Matthew and Arthur at the head of the table, a scowl fixing itself on his face. Most of the other colonies were seated at the long table as well, some he recognized, some he didn't. A child, no older than three or four, sat between Hamish and Genèvieve - that had to be little Louise, the colony of New Brunswick, who had been half that size when he left. Dorian was frozen in his conversation with Tobias and - dear God, was that Dylan? He had to be nearly as tall as Matthew now.
Dinner was clearly well underway, but god, it smelled amazing. The hole in Matthew's stomach felt endless in the wake of the thick platters of meat and vegetables in a butter sauce and the warm smell of spiced apple cider. They never ate extravagantly at Arthur's on a regular basis, but it was always good, hearty food with plenty to fill your stomach, and there was always something nice for dessert. It was a stark contrast from his diet for the past few years.
He'd never gone hungry, per se - there were always two meals a day and he tried to make his meat rations stretch and last, and it was enough to take the sharp edge of the hunger, especially when the local flora was in season. But he was only seventeen and still growing. The years at war had made him lanky and lean, his mother's sharp cheekbones more prominent than ever beneath his skin.
{And that was to say nothing of the ship rations…}
A chair screeched across the wooden floor, and Matthew dared a glance up to see Arthur slowly rise from his seat.
"Matthew?" Arthur's emerald eyes were wide. "We weren't expecting you until later tonight."
Matthew just shifted his weight off his bad knee, gripping the cane tightly in lieu of saying something. He didn't know what to say.
"I'll have someone set you a place," Arthur said after a beat. "You look like you could use a good meal."
Alasdair nodded stiffly to one of the servants, who disappeared into a side room and returned quickly with another chair, which he placed between Alasdair and Arthur.
Matthew hesitated, then moved to the seat, the sound of his cane clicking the only noise in the silent room. His eyes darted to his friends at the table. Connall had a pinched look on his face and Genevieve looked like she wanted to get up and wrap a blanket around his shoulders. The little ones, thankfully, didn't seem to fully understand what was going on, but even Louise seemed troubled, her eyes flickering between Hamish's clenched jaw and Matthew's slow gait.
No one commented on the cane or the melted amulet and worn clothes, but that was okay with Matthew. He could stand to dance around the truth a little while longer.
Alasdair pressed a mug of steaming cider into his hand, and Matthew took a sip gratefully, the action echoing the one that had been exchanged between them years ago. "Thank you. It's good."
By the soft crinkle around Alasdair's eyes, he remembered as well.
Arthur hesitated again, at a loss for words, then sat back down without any of his usual poise. A servant set out a plate for Matthew and before he could say anything, Arthur had already slid some of the meat sauce onto his plate. It was all Matthew could do to wait patiently to be served and not devour it like a starving child. So he forced himself to pick up his fork and take careful, measured bites, pausing after every third piece to wait for a heartbeat to space out his meal, so at the very least Arthur couldn't comment on his table manners.
The table ate in silence for a long while, his arrival having broken any jovial spell that had been over them. After a long moment of studying him carefully, Arthur returned to his own meal, though now he just picked at his food. He and Alasdair exchanged a wordless conversation with deep, mournful eyes that Matthew only half paid attention to. The silent sorrow of the Nations passed between the two oldest brothers, born of centuries of loss and a lifetime of immortality. They were sitting so close to him now, Matthew wondered if they'd noticed the shiny burn that stretched up his throat.
"Did you have a nice visit?" Little Louise asked him, her head tilted curiously. The whole table froze. "Arthur said you had t'go back home 'cause people were being not nice. But Hamish says you always make things all better an' that your brother was being mean, but he's your brother so that means everything's okay."
Matthew set his fork down. He suddenly didn't have an appetite anymore. "It was okay, I guess. I brought home presents," he said, successfully distracting the children. "But you can only have then after you finish dinner."
The little ones exploded into whispered chatter, but the older colonies were still watching him carefully. There was a new scar on Dorian's face, Matthew noticed. He wondered if any of the others around the table had fought, if any of the others had died.
The thought sat heavily in his gut.
"Matthew." Arthur put a hand on Matthew's filthy arm, but didn't seem to care about the grime. He only looked at Matthew with regret in his eyes. A silent apology for the words he couldn't say. "Are you alright?"
Burning flesh and oh god he was burning his capital was burning bullets were flying everywhere the pain was unbearable oh god they were cutting open his chest the leather muffled his screams ashes and smoke and empty stomachs and his brother was on the ground and everything was burning and people were dead he was a killer he'd killed his brother with the burning and the scars and the smell—
"Yeah," he croaked after a long moment of staring blankly at the dining room hearth. He felt like he was no longer in his body but instead a mere spectator to this entire dinner. Bitter bile rose in his throat, his dinner threatening to make a reappearance. "I'm fine."
It was all he could do not to throw up.
