Remember, Remember

Arthur dreams of bells. Once he is aware of them, he understands, intrinsically, that they are here to stay: a ringing he will always hear as soon as he closes his eyes, lays down to sleep and lets his consciousness go. They are sometimes hollow, sounding a march of a war he didn't ask for, didn't want, as well as for the many hundred that he did. Sometimes they are light, a musical tinkling that lifts his heart and strikes fear in him at the same time, fae-like and dangerous.

Ships bells, church bells, wedding bells, funeral bells- they all peel incessantly, singing to him their purpose each time.

Oranges and lemons. Leave her Johnny, leave her. Bring out your dead.

Remember, remember.

Asleep, Arthur shrugs on a cloak of eternity and watches as history unfolds behind his eyes, the furl of a decade washing him backwards to be somebody else.

The bells toll for a life not yet lived, and mourn for that which has gone.

Arthur sits, and waits.

He is sat under an oak tree, the branches fat and wizened and bent heavy with age, and stacks stones.

One, two, three.

He picks one up, smooth and flat, and carefully places it atop the tower to crown it with a roof. His mother said she'd be back for him in an hour, but it already feels like it's been years.

She left him in a play park in their village, in the countryside and tucked under the roll of a hill, as she often did when she needed to run off and do something. It had a nice, wooden climbing frame and the best set of swings Arthur had as of yet found, but he always preferred to play in the trees that lined the edges, a blurry reach of the untouched to the man-made.

Arthur likes the woods. Likes the cool, damp smell of them, the way the wind rustles the leaves of tall, ancient trees and how the earth feels like it sings him stories. He feels safe tucked away in there, feels like he is larger than he actually is at seven years old. Like they are his trees and he has watched them grow. There's something deep inside of him that draws him there, pulling him deep inside glades to sit amongst ancient roots and shut his eyes, as if he could lean back into the bark and be absorbed by it.

There is a world-weary heaviness amongst the trees, a collective exhaustion born from years of watching and waiting. Arthur feels that he alone takes the time to understand them, can sense that they're trying to speak.

They are older than man, yet are shaped by them. Powerless to the advance of time, yet always watching it go.

Arthur likes to play pretend alone there, rather than play in the park with the other children. They don't play pretend like he wants to. They like pretending to be a doctor, or nurse, or like to imagine that zombies are coming or that the floor is lava. A singing contest or a space adventure. Arthur likes to pretend he is running from an enemy invasion, the bright glint of an axe flashing through a break in the trees. Likes to think about horses pounding against the knolls of the earth to break out frothing into streams. Likes to see himself as Robin Hood, slipping away into the shadows to steal from the rich and give to the poor.

Sometimes he plays the other children's games and sometimes they play his, but most of the time Arthur takes himself to the woods alone and transforms the world into one of his own making.

His mother is taking her time.

He checks the watch on his wrist, (red, his favourite colour), and sees that the big hand has gone from the top to the bottom. That means only thirty minutes have gone by. He groans. Might as well make the most of the time, then. He takes himself over the well-trodden paths through the trees and collects more stones to build more towers, shifting about the edge of the playground and leaving them as he goes- a memory of his presence. He manages to make 5 rather impressive ones by the time his mother comes back and finds him.

'Look!' he tells her, gesturing to one that is larger than himself. He was proud of this one, it is sturdy and strong and Arthur thinks to himself that he's good at this. Maybe when he grows up, he can build castles.

'Yes, very nice.' She pulls her phone out of her bag, only giving his tower a passing glance, 'Come along, time to go to Grandma.'

Arthur pouts before he can stop himself and his mother raises an eyebrow. He knows it isn't polite, and that he shouldn't feel this way about his grandma, but she's not really his grandma anymore. She's got 'dee-men-sha', and that means she forgets lots of things, like who they are or even who she is. She used to let him lay across her lap so she could draw circles into his back as if she were tracing a map across his skin. Now she stares about her confusedly, not understanding what's going on and it feels awkward. He doesn't know how to act around someone so old, especially someone so old who acts like a baby. Adults are supposed to know more than he does, they're supposed to know everything and he doesn't know what to do around her now that she knows so little.

But he knows this is naughty. He knows that Grandma being this way makes his mother sad and so he takes her hand without complaint and lets her lead him to the car.

An apprehensive car ride later, they arrive.

'She's more lucid today,' a lady in blue uniform says when they get to the 'Home'. 'A lot more with it than when you were last here.'

'Oh good,' his mother says. Today is a good day, it seems. 'Come on then Arthur, let's go. Grandma might be chattier today.'

He hopes so. She used to know a lot of faerie stories and Arthur had loved listening to her tell them to him. She used to do the voices, deep dark ones and light, regal ones for the monsters and the Faerie Queen.

Inside Grandma's room, his grandmother is sitting in a chair by the window, staring placidly at the television that's on in the corner. Arthur fights the urge to watch it rather than try to speak to her.

'Hello, Mum,' his mother drops her bag down on Grandma's bed and touches her shoulder, 'How are you today?'

'Oh, Edie love,' Grandma turns and smiles at his mother and Arthur's heart leaps. She's here today, 'Nice of you to pop by.'

'Always,' smiles his mother, mouth relaxed in relief, 'And look, I brought Arthur!' She turns to him where he's hiding by the door and beckons him over, 'Come and say hello.'

Obediently, he trots over and smiles at his grandma, 'Hello Grandma.'

'Who are you.' Her voice is sharp and cold. It shocks him, 'Who are you? I don't know you.'

'Oh no,' his mother frowns, worried, 'It's okay, Arthur, don't be scared.'

He had backed away and now, under his grandma's stony gaze, reaches out to grab hold of his mother's trousers. She stands up straight, away from his grandma, and puts her arm around his shoulders, 'This happens sometimes, maybe today is a "mixy day". Remember? Sometimes she remembers bits but not everything.'

Arthur nods, shaken but his grandma looks up at her daughter seriously, 'He is not your son,' she says, 'He is not my grandson.' She turns to him again and half rises out of her chair, bird-like arms shaky but their grip firm, 'Who ARE you, Changeling?'

'Arthur, go and wait outside,' his mother nudges him quickly back in the direction of the hallway beyond the open door, 'And go and ask for a nurse to come in, okay?' Her voice is calm and level but there's a note of panic there and Arthur knows why. He has seen his grandma have 'mixy days' and knows what it's like when she's in-between here and somewhere else. This is different, today Grandma is here, nowhere else. Her voice is clear, her eyes are sharp and they hold no love for him.

It felt like she looked into his very soul and rejected all that he was as one of her own, seeing a stranger in his place. Whoever she saw, she saw them clearly.

Arthur does not go to visit again and when she dies, he feels a relief that shames him.

Sometimes, the people in his dreams have peculiar faces, their features too sharp and elfin to be entirely human. They grin at him with cruel, blood red lips, beautiful in a savagery Arthur cannot quite comprehend, despite what he sees. His senses warn him not to trust them, but his heart pulls him closer, deeper and deeper into a dark, ancient wood that hides forgotten secrets of the land. Creatures unknown and lost to the hills peer behind circles of tall, thick stone, hungry eyes watching for any little mistake. He keens the loss of them, a depth of yearning he doesn't realise is possible outside of these moments- something familiar and foreign all at once.

He is them. They are him. He should be wary. He needs them.

His dreams glitter with their life, with their lights and their parties- fires breaking and cracking into a starless sky, treacherous teeth winking at him through gleaming smiles.

Soon he thinks they say, as they grab him by the hands, older and larger than waking life, and spin him in an endless dance. Mouth-watering food spills off grand, long tables. Soon.

He knows not to eat anything and guards a hidden name close to his chest.

Arthur watches his cousin ride his BMX down a skateboard ramp, kicking it high over the other side to land with flashy showmanship. At sixteen, his cousin is only a year older than him but it feels like there's a whole world between them, one where his cousin gained an air of confidence and character that Arthur has as of yet failed to find for himself.

She grins at him from across the wooden halfpipe and jumps on her bike again to race back to him.

'Whaddya think?' she asks him when she lands, cheeks ruddy and hair wild. Her Belfast accent is strong and Arthur wishes he could sound that interesting.

He shrugs and tries to not look too impressed, 'It's alright.'

She rolls her eyes and grins at him knowingly, 'Sure.'

Arthur and his mother are on holiday, visiting her sister and her family for a few weeks in the summer. Arthur doesn't mind. He likes his aunt and his cousins, gets along with all of them well enough and actually wishes he could be here more often. He's lonely as an only child, not that he'd ever admit it, and wishes he had some siblings to grow up with to do this sort of thing- go on adventures, get messy, and piss about in the park.

His friends at school have told him that it isn't really like that and he's not missing anything by being an only child but Arthur feels a void of a family nonetheless and looks forward to these Northern Irish trips where he can pretend to be one amongst several.

His eldest cousin had dragged him to the skatepark with her. 'To show him a good time', is what she said, but he knows that she wants to show off her new tricks and her friends to him and he doesn't mind. She's actually good on the bike and her friends are similar to her, all rough and tumble but easy-going at the same time. It's an easy folding into her life and he loves her for sharing it with him.

She has hopped on the BMX and shot off again when one of her friends approaches him, an older boy of maybe seventeen, 'Do you know Sean?'

Arthur raises his eyebrow, 'No, who's Sean?' As if his accent wasn't a clear enough of an indication that he doesn't come from around here.

The boy doesn't look phased by this, 'Sean. You know, the guy that looks like you. Skates here sometimes, about my age, ish? I don't really know, to be honest.'

Arthur blinks, 'No, sorry. Don't know him. I'm only here on holiday.'

'Huh,' says the other boy, 'Weird, you look just like him.'

Arthur is left to his own devices but then later on, just as his cousin collects him from a bundle of her friends where they had been smoking fags in the bushes, the boy from earlier returns with someone else by his side.

'Here he is,' he gestures at Arthur to the person he is with, someone gangly and auburn haired, freckles splashed across his nose visible even in the evening's deep yellow tones.

'Fuck me,' the newcomer says, looking at Arthur as if he were a prize to be won, 'Fuck me.'

'I told you,' The other boy looks between them proudly, 'You look as if you could be brothers.'

He's right. Sean does look like he could be the brother Arthur had never had. There wasn't anyone with red hair in his family, but everything about Sean: his nose, the cut of his jaw, his eyebrows, look like Arthur's. Arthur looks more like Sean than, if Arthur's being honest with himself, Arthur does his own parents. Arthur doesn't look unlike his parents, but Sean looks like he was cut from the exact same bolt of cloth, all the way down to the colour of his eyes.

'Don't we just,' Sean grins and sticks out his hand for Arthur to shake, 'Sean. And you are?'

'Arthur.'

Sean's grin widens, stretching his face. Arthur fancies he knows what he would have been like as a child with oddly confident certainty.

'Of course it is.' Sean shakes his hand enthusiastically.

'We're off now,' his cousin says to him, 'but it was nice meeting you, as weird as what's currently happening is.'

'Yeah, no worries like,' Sean digs a phone out of his pocket, 'Can I get a selfie, before you go?'

Arthur frowns, instantly wary, 'Why?'

Sean seems to realise that this is an odd thing to ask because he laughs suddenly, 'Shite, I'm being creepy, ain't I? You don't know me, after all. Nah, it's just that you really do look like my actual brother; I wanna show him when I see him next.'

It's an odd request, but if this bloke is friends with his cousin's friends, then- well. Arthur doesn't want them to think he's standoffish or aloof, 'S'alright,' he says, looking over to his cousin where she watches the exchange cautiously, 'I don't mind.'

'Grand, grand.' Sean steps closer and slings an arm around his shoulders.

'Don't go selling my picture to pedos.' Arthur tells him, only half joking.

Sean laughs in his ear. It's a nice laugh; cheerful, not cruel. Oddly familiar, 'Wouldn't dream of it. Don't worry, I'll keep it safe.'

Arthur feels his cousin jump behind them just as the photo's being taken and he smiles easily for it, distracted.

Sean's arm slides off his shoulders, 'I'll make an album for it instead,' he continues, 'and buy it a nice wee bow. Keep it on my shelf.' He winks, and then he and his friend slink off and let Arthur and his cousin return home.

He dreams of apple orchards and the smell of rain, and looking for someone whom he can never find.

Arthur slams the front door shut and feels the house acknowledge the force of it, frames shaking on the walls and knickknacks on the windowsill jumping.

'Don't slam the fucking door!' one of Arthur's housemates comes out of their tiny shared kitchen, chipped mug in hand, and scowls at him, 'Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?'

Arthur swallows back the day and tries to sound functional, 'Got let go. They didn't need as many as they hired.'

'Ah,' his housemate takes a sip of their drink, fingers drumming on the side. They can't look at him, 'That's shit.'

'Yeah,' Arthur bend down to untie his shoes, 'It is.' By the time he looks up, his housemate is already halfway up the stairs, unbothered about continuing the conversation. Or, just unsure how. Arthur didn't know whether he would have wanted to either, but he would have liked to have had the option.

The house is cramped: seven of them in what was originally a 4-bedroom family home, the old dining room and living room being converted into bedrooms, the kitchen being divided into two halves. All have their own en-suite bathroom, all have a bed. No living room anymore. No communal space. Just a house of closed doors and tucked away lives, intimate solitude shared amongst strangers.

Arthur hadn't expected adulthood to be like this. He didn't know what he had expected, really. Not as lively as uni had been certainly: parties, drinking, endless days of languid self-indulgence squashed in between stressful all-nighters, frozen dinners and one-night stands; real life on a trial shift, testing the breaks before they were forced to go on their own. Slow days that sped by.

But he'd expected something more, fuck, normal? Safe? Stable, at the very least. Arthur expected, he had assumed, that he would be given boring monotony: go to work, come home, watch TV, have dinner. Have a dog, invite friends over, have a party. To have a place to call his own. To share in the basics of life he had seen fall like bricks around him, oppressive and bland but a reliable constant nonetheless.

When had he realised that that was a lie? That it was an expectation for one generation, a living hell for another, and then a seemingly unobtainable dream for his own. Arthur's job is- was, his job was full time. Decent pay. Regular hours in an office like a good boy; smart shoes and a heavy overtime rate, hair undyed and ear piercings out before he leaves in the morning. Personality washed with a corporate brush; soul sold beige for the price of independence. But it doesn't pay enough, not nearly enough. He can afford a bed and can feed himself, can buy new clothes a few times a year, and manages to scrape up change to take him on the odd trip to the big city to see friends.

It's enough.

How fucking pathetic is that. That 'enough' is something he should be grateful for.

It was a piss take, then, that the job he'd lost today had been so hard to get: application after application, rejection after endless silence and so many fucking different versions of the same bloody cover letter that they all blurred into one. He knows he's sent the wrong one to the wrong company several times, a Retail Arthur sent to apply for a position in a publishing house that Publishing Arthur might have got, if he hadn't been so fucking stupid. It's a full-time job just to find one and his standards fell to lower levels the longer desperation licked at his insides.

All that work, all that searching, all that effort and still, he's here again. Unemployed and with no idea what he wants to do with his life. At least when he had a job, he could avoid answering that question.

Arthur wants to cry. He grips his phone in one hand and presses his fingers into his eyes, forcing the tears to stay there. What good will it do? Tucks his shoes by the door. Breathes.

He takes himself upstairs to his room, his own castle of a few square foot manned by a single door. The paint's peeling off the outside. Will that count towards his deposit?

It's bland inside- muted magnolia. He can't even decorate his fucking room. 'Fully furnished and newly decorated', which means that it must stay this way. No changes, no personality. Can somewhere be his own, if he cannot even be himself inside?

He dresses himself in comfortable clothes and lays on his bed, pulling his laptop onto his lap and opening the lid. He should look for a new job. Maybe one that isn't 'temporary with the potential of permanent'. Something that will last him.

He can't bring himself to turn it on. It's old, slow and clunky now, and probably won't last for another year. He needs a new one. That costs money. That means he needs to work.

He swallows, throat thick and chest tight. He doesn't want to do anything. Wants to do everything at once. Wants to follow his dream but doesn't know what his dream is, wants to do a job he enjoys but he doesn't even know what that means anymore. All he can think about at the moment is the hours of applications he's going to have the fill in, the CV he's going to have to update, all to keep this level of existence.

He feels like he should be more than this. He always felt growing up that he could be someone, be something. Do something- fuck knows what but something. People are supposed to do things with their lives, they have to be and go and do and make. Arthur feels like he's done nothing but wait; at school he waited to for the end and now he's here, waiting for a 'real' life to start. One that feels like it's worth living.

Outside, a car beeps a horn at something and breaks the rushing noise of the traffic. A local dog barks in response, a reedy yapping that Arthur hates and this, somehow, causes him to remember that he has leftover pizza in the fridge. He won't have to cook dinner tonight, at least. And he's already paid rent this month, if he watches his money carefully, maybe he can stretch himself for a few months without having to dip too far into his savings. Without having to call his mum for money.

It could be worse, he tells himself as he shuts the lid and slides the laptop under the bed, he does have some money saved. He at least has somewhere at the moment, he could still be living at home (but would that be so bad? He wouldn't have to worry about keeping his walls unmarked). The very worst would be if he were homeless. Or his country could be in the middle of a war on home soil. He could be ill, could be dying. Could already be dead.

Arthur could be so many existences, so many things that are considered 'worse' than his life right now, but that doesn't make his own feel any better. If anything, oddly, all of the possibilities make him feel worse.

He dreams that a lady holds out her hand.

He takes it. Bends low to kiss it, feels the cool jewels of her rings bite against his lips. Her hand shakes and he squeezes it gently before he rises, a futile attempt to reassure her.

'Don't let them see,' he wants to tell her, 'Don't let them see you're afraid. Don't let them see that you have a weakness to be used.'

He would do so, usually. To another Queen or King. Would stand behind them and whisper in their ear the oldest advice they will ever hear, first hand experiences now centuries old.

But she is not his true Queen and to show allegiance for her would be foolish at best, war at worst. She is instead just a girl, a poor, innocent girl pushed and forced to sit atop a throne that does not bleed for her the way she will certainly bleed for it. She is nothing but a puppet, all strings cut and tied to a crown that will pull her under and Arthur can do nothing for her but meet her eyes with kindness, seeing her rather than her father's ambition. Acknowledgement and empathy are things she sees far too little of, he knows, and she will get no more in the future.

Already, religion barks a hunting song in her name, a triumphant Catholic return after a sickly Protestant end approaching closer every day. It is day three. How more will she have?

Not many.

She is only seventeen.

Arthur feels sick at the thought of it. Both of the bloody political turmoil to come, and the desperation of old, greedy men which led this child to step to a tune of treason.

He steps away from her, melting back into the crowd, but her eyes linger on him as he goes, a keening, desperate wish clear for all to see in one quick flash: 'I do not want this.'

'I know,' he thinks, as she rearranges a mask of indifference on her face and settles on her next introduction, 'I know. But it will make no difference.'

'There's a call for you, Arthur.'

Arthur looks up. His site manager has come out of the building that he and the rest of the construction workers have dubbed 'The Cave' because of how dark and cold it is. It leaks too, every time it rains, and honestly Arthur would prefer to be outside and moving all day than to sit cold inside there.

'Who is it?'

She shrugs and waves the cordless phone at him, 'Dunno. Some foreign bloke.'

Arthur frowns and takes the phone from her, 'On hold?' he mouths silently.

'Yeah.'

'Good. What does he want?'

'Wants to talk to the owner about hiring us for a new building in Lisbon.'

'Oh,' This is a nice surprise. Arthur's small company has grown quite popular in the UK, but he hadn't realised their range had extended overseas. This could be a big deal, 'Thank you.'

He takes the potential client off hold and holds up his other hand to push his hardhat back off his forehead and shield his eyes from the bright light of the sun, 'Hello, this is Arthur from Continuous Constructions, how might I help you?'

There's a sharp intake of breath, 'Arthur?'

Arthur hesitates at the strange reaction, 'Yep, that's me.' He can hear breathing on the other end but no answer and the silence stretches on too long to be comfortable, 'Hello? Can I help you?'

'Ah, yes. I'm sorry,' the other person's voice turns warm and they laugh, 'I was thrown off there for a second; you sounded like an old friend of mine. I haven't heard from him in a few years.'

'Sorry, I don't think we've met before Mister…?'

'Call me Gabriel, please.'

'Alright, Gabriel,' Arthur tucks the phone under his cheek and gets out a pen and paper from his pocket, 'How can I help.'

'Yes, I'd heard about your company through one of my contacts here; he told me if I ever needed historical conservation help without too much intervention that I should give you a try.'

'You've come to the right place; we specialise in historical preservation using traditional methods. I can send you across our details- if you send some information about the job, we can set up a video call to go over it in more detail.'

'Of course. It, ah- regrettably, it will not be me who you talk to. I'm afraid I do not have much time to spare, but I will have my assistant reach out to you in my place.'

It's a little odd, considering the guy is currently on the phone with Arthur but he isn't going to complain. This would be a great addition to their portfolio, 'No worries. Well, thank you for calling. I look forward to hearing from your assistant.'

'Thank you for your willingness to discuss the work,' Gabriel's voice sounds as though he's smiling, it's warm and familiar, 'It has been a pleasure talking with you, Arthur.'

'You too,' he says, and hangs up. He doesn't hear from Gabriel again, but he hears his voice speak to him in dreams for years afterwards.

Arthur dreams that he stands in thick, dark mud, blood oozing down walls of packed earth before him to mix with the sludge below and create a rusty, fetid mess at his feet. At his eyeline, an arm dangles down from sharp wire, uniform a foreign dark grey of the enemy. A boy, only sixteen. Worried, bitten nails.

Arthur turns away.

He stands straight and presses himself flat against the wall to let men pass by, one group out of hundreds that march through this way, one after another after another- endless, but one way. Hardly any come back.

Up and over you go, lads. Dolce et decorum est.

A lie, a lie. It is not sweet and fitting at all.

He's cold. As he watches them line the walls with him, pressing themselves as flat as they can with their legs bunched on the first rung of a ladder, one turns to meet his eye. Against his muddy face, the boy's eyes are stark white and wild with terror.

Arthur nods at him. Says his goodbyes and hates himself.

The boy swallows, chin trembling, and turns to face forwards again. He presses his forehead against his hands and prays.

Arthur breathes in and shouts the order. There is nothing he can do. There is nothing he can do, so he will go with them. And he will keep going with them until they can all go home, be it whole, broken, or boxed.

Before it gets too late in the evening, Arthur shrugs on his coat and puts his keys in his pocket, 'I'm going out!' he calls into the house behind him.

'Don't stay out too late this time,' his wife comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands with a tea towel, 'I've just put dinner on.'

Arthur steps towards her and kisses her on the cheek. He wishes he was young enough to grab her by the waist and spin her up into his arms, then wishes more desperately that he'd met her when he was still young enough to try. But no matter, he's happy. He'd rather have met her in his seventies than miss her entirely. They're together now, that's what matters. It's never too late.

Life starts when you decide it does, he believes. It is something he's learnt recently, something hard to accept but true all the same. Whether you feel like you are or not, you are always living, your life continuing on regardless of whether you're enjoying it. It's best to focus on the positives, otherwise it'll always be a dismal ride.

Waving goodbye, he steps out of their little house, terraced and crooked and nestled between its identical siblings, and makes his way to the cliffs that stand just over the road, sharply dropping down into a cold, grey sea. There's a walkway guarded by a small wooden gate and Arthur pushes it open and relaxes, weather-worn wood cool and damp under his hand.

His love for the sea had only snuck up on him in recent years. Arthur never used to care for it, but now he finds himself drawn to watch the water, almost as if expecting to catch something crest over the horizon. He is aware of his smallness atop the cliffs and staring out across the water- he is nothing more than a man staring at something timeless and endless and this is comforting. He knows his place.

Arthur walks this route every day and right at the top there is a small bench he likes to rest on and watch the ships. The sun sets right over the water and he sometimes likes to time his wanderings to catch it, alone and relaxed right at the top.

But today, there is a man already there.

It is annoying, but not a problem. It's a nice view, one worthy of sharing, but Arthur hopes the man will either leave or let him enjoy the scenery in silence. He doesn't like the look of him, he looks to be the chatty type with his fancy hair and expensive scarf and Arthur has never got on with people who care too much for their appearance.

No such luck for him, it seems- the man smiles over at him as soon as Arthur nears and nods his head in greeting, 'Good evening.'

Fuck. He's French.

'Good evening.' Arthur settles as much as he can on the furthest edge of the bench without being overtly impolite.

He man grins and shuffles closer before holding out his hand, 'I'm Francis.'

Arthur stares at it before offering his own, 'Arthur.'

'Arthur,' his name in Francis' mouth is entirely too slippery and dressed up in his accent, 'It's nice to meet you.'

'Likewise.'

Arthur faces forwards, a clear enough indication that from his end that the conversation is over but Francis taps a hand upon his knee and fidgets which holds Arthur's attention, 'It's a lovely day, isn't it?'

'Yes, it's very nice.'

'Not too hot, not too cold.'

'Mm hmm.'

'The view is alright; I've seen better.'

Arthur is offended. It's a perfectly good view but he bites back a retort and settles for an unconvinced grunt.

This appears to amuse Francis, who chuckles and brings up an arm to rest his elbow on the back of the bench, 'You're not very talkative, are you?'

Arthur frowns, finally giving in to the urge and turns away from the sea to face Francis properly, 'I'm sorry, I don't want to talk. I want to sit in silence, if you don't mind.'

'I do mind, I don't think you're sorry at all.'

'Excuse me?' Arthur splutters, completely bewildered. Everything about this conversation had gone so differently to what he would expect that he isn't really sure how to react.

'You're excused.'

'No, I meant-'

'Oh, I know what you meant,' Francis waves a hand airily, 'But I don't care.'

Arthur shakes his head and stands up, 'What the bloody fuck is wrong with you?'

'Ah,' Francis leans back into the bench like a contented cat and crosses one leg over the other, 'There you are. I knew your true self wouldn't be that hard to find.'

He should be storming off but oddly, Arthur is drawn to stay. There is something about this man that is very compelling, as though he has read Arthur like a book and knows exactly which part he needs to play, 'What in God's name are you talking about?'

'Come, sit back down,' Francis pats the bench, 'I'm sorry if I offended you, truly. English isn't my first language, you understand, its clumsiness doesn't allow for the subtleties I was aiming for.'

'That's bullshit.'

Francis' eyes crease in their corners, 'Perhaps.'

Arthur doesn't move, either to sit or to leave, and Francis gives a dramatic sigh, 'Oh, I'm already regretting this. Maybe I should leave you…?' At Arthur's lack of reaction, he shrugs, 'Alas, I made a promise.'

He reaches down past his side of the bench and from behind the thick concrete leg he pulls out a briefcase.

Something old and familiar breathes in the back of Arthur's throat. He turns away sharply, heart pounding, and hears Francis set the case on his lap and drum his fingers along the lid. Arthur tries to even out his breathing, which is now sharp and shallow. He's scared. He's excited. His head is a fucking mess and Francis…

Arthur turns back. Blue eyes are watching him carefully, hard and serious like he's eyeing Arthur up for fault. He looks old all of a sudden, despite his young face; Francis sits like history formed a man and left him behind on earth as judge. Thirty going on three hundred.

More.

'I think you should sit down,' he says, and there is a friendly note in his voice that is genuine, 'We need to talk.'

Arthur sits dumbly. He can't help himself from staring at the case in Francis' lap. Has no idea why, but knows it important. It means something to him that language does not have words to describe.

Francis looks down at it, then back up at him. Gives him a soft smile and tucks it back behind the bench. Arthur watches its progress, unable to look away.

'Now that I have your attention,' Francis shifts himself to face Arthur, one knee resting on the bench itself, 'I would like to keep it for a moment. So please do listen carefully.'

He is beautiful, with an easy grace and manner that would be impossible to fake- a confidence long worn and crafted from a solid self-esteem Arthur has never possessed. Arthur knows him from somewhere, he realises, the envy coiling within him is familiar.

'I'm listening,' he manages.

'Good.' Francis reaches out and takes Arthur's hand, smooths a thumb over his knuckles and squeezes it. Arthur, dumb to something nameless, lets him, 'You do not remember what they were, but I am going to go against your wishes. Experiencing humanity is one thing, but I believe we have both had more than enough of care homes for a millennium or two.'

Nothing he is saying makes any sort of sense.

'Do you know who I am?'

Arthur nods his head, 'No.'

Francis laughs and Arthur finds himself smiling, 'You are fighting yourself. You aren't making this easy for either of us, I'd like to point out.'

He lets go of Arthur's hand to tuck some hair behind his ear. Half of it is pulled into a bun and the rest hangs loose in waves around his neck. There is a scar there, a chocker of white that ropes across his tendons and jumps when he swallows.

'I don't understand what's happening.' Arthur feels like he's been drugged, he doesn't feel like himself at all. He tries to picture his wife's face but all he can recall are the face of strangers; men women and children appearing vibrantly in his mind's eye before fading away again into a haze. Arthur can recall feelings, but nothing more- snippets of relationships and memories. They're not his. They are.

'I'm trying something different,' Francis says, 'We've not done it this way before for obvious reasons, but after last time I thought it might be better. I'm curious to see what will happen.'

Anger clears Arthur's thoughts enough for him to snap, 'What are you doing to me? Who are you?'

'I am France.'

Arthur stops cold, 'What?'

'I am France.' Francis stares out across the ocean. The day is clear, and from this height on a cloudless day land can be seen in the far distance, 'I am the land and the people of the French nation.'

Arthur doesn't know what to say, so he stays silent. This whole situation is ridiculous, yet still something compels him to listen.

'Whether you believe me or not is no matter. My purpose here is this,' he twists around to pick up the case again and turns back to Arthur, face unreadable, 'I am going to give you this briefcase- it is a new one I'm afraid. I still have not found your old one. But it should do the job nonetheless.'

He places it on Arthur's lap and sits back. It's heavy. Arthur cannot bring himself to touch it.

'I want you to open it. Look at what is inside.'

'And then?' Even to his own ears, his voice sounds as though it is coming to him from far away. From another person, almost.

'And then, I want you to come with me. I have a car down the hill.'

Arthur shakes his head, 'What if I don't want to go?'

Francis considers the question, 'Then, I shall leave you to your life. Let you get on with things, as you say. It will be easier for us both, however, if you come with me. Either that, or things will become complicated when you get older.'

Francis looks wistful, 'The British government have learnt their lesson from last time. There are certain measures in place now. Preventative ones.'

'None of that makes any fucking lick of sense.'

Francis raises an eyebrow and grins again, 'Oh well.'

They fall silent. Another walker passes them on the trail and Francis greets her cheerfully but Arthur still can't look away from the case in his lap. He shuffles his knees, testing its weight. Something shifts inside.

'Here,' Arthur looks up to find Francis offering him a small key, 'Open it.'

This is stupid. This is stupid. This whole this is fucking stupid but that doesn't stop Arthur from reaching out and taking the key to unlock the case anyway, all in one, quick movement. The hinges are stiff from lack of use and the inside still smells like new leather.

It is mostly empty- some small bundles wrapped in cloth- and what few things there are, are small. He must have made a face because he sees Francis recross his legs and dance his hands in the air before he speaks, 'After what happened to the last one, I thought it best to not put too much of value in there. You'll thank me later, I'm sure.'

Arthur looks up but realises that no elaboration will be forthcoming. Instead, Francis flicks his eyes back down at the case, prompting Arthur to keep looking.

The first thing he sees is unwrapped- an old model of phone from around seventy years ago. It is entirely unfamiliar and his attention swiftly turns to an iPod that is nearby, again from a similar year.

'No good?' Francis says. He sounds disappointed, 'I hope you're not only attached emotionally to older things. You've received some nice French gifts in recent decades.'

Like with everything Francis has said in the last few minutes, this makes absolutely no sense and Arthur goes to tell him as much but then…

Then he sees a small drawing tucked in a pocket, a careful drawing on cheap A4 paper. It's some kind of creature, a magical animal of some kind in bold colours and underneath has the scrawl 'Happy Granddad's Day'. Arthur can imagine the child who drew it- the girl who drew it: brown messy hair with paint on her clothes and a cheerful Australian accent.

Hands shaking, Arthur unwraps bundles one by one.

A wooden polar bear, handcarved and from a set, Arthur knows, somehow- a vast animal kingdom carved under sputtering candlelight, the desk of a ship rocking below his feet. For his son, he made this for his son and at the very thought faces burst clear from memories he didn't know he had- a cacophony of people and places and voices and time and Arthur has to take a breath, chest tight, to calm himself back down.

A tiny ceramic poppy, blood red and shining and wrapped in a hair ribbon.

A bulbous, large bottomed mug in garish colours that causes Francis to titter in amusement as Arthur pulls it out from a bright yellow woollen jumper it was wrapped in, thread coming loose about the collar. Stolen.

A set of what look to be house keys. From an array of different years, they range from rusted and fat to smooth and shiny. There is no keyring, no way to identify them to any one place but Arthur knows, as he runs them over in his hands, which house they belong to: standing or fallen, a ruin or removed.

Then a photo album, leatherbound and small. Wallet sized, for when those used to be a thing. All were around long before Arthur's time but he recognises this most of all, knows he has thumbed through it hundreds upon hundreds of times and doesn't need to look inside to know the contents. There will be familiar strangers in there; Francis among them. Arthur will be with him, arm curled close about his waist.

There is more but Arthur shuts the lid of the case and grips his head, 'I- I don't-'

'Keep going,' Francis urges, 'You're not ready and I know this must hurt, but keep going.'

'No, I can't.' Arthur thinks about his life, his real life. His house and his wife and their gentle, cosy contentment they have found together. Thinks about how they like to go on boat trips up the Norfolk Broads and take weekend trips to Scotland.

What is going on. What is happening. Here in his hands, he holds a life he hasn't lived, an existence that is not, was not his and yet- and yet, everything is stained by his presence. Even the phone, something he dismissed at first, he can now feel the weight of, knows he owned it, knows the password is 1066 because Francis had changed it to piss him off.

Who is he.

What is he.

What is happening?

He knows. He knows what is happening. There is a weight behind his eyes and it longs to settle back into place, longs to rest itself again on his shoulders where it belongs but it can't fit just yet. His mind is taking the place of something other that lurks within him like a shadow and watches time slip through his fingers.

A bell tolls: a call to home.

Through a dazzling haze, a mess of things which make no sense, Arthur understands something.

This is not Arthur's life. He is just borrowing it.

Somewhere deep, deep down inside his soul, he knows too that if he goes with Francis, he will never see his wife again. Knows that whatever this is he is being offered, it is a one-way trip. No going back again, no having both. Who will look after her?

He's deeply ashamed to find that he wants to go anyway. What sort of man is he? What sort of husband?

But can he go back to his wife after this, after he has realised that he doesn't know himself at all? Can he put such large, lost fragments back inside himself and bury them quietly under shopping lists and day time television?

His wife wanted to buy a new sofa suite. Arthur has watched the world burn.

'I'll go,' he says. He says this softly but Francis doesn't ask him to repeat himself.

'Good.' Francis stands and holds out his hand. Driven by something he cannot understand, Arthur takes it, 'It is boring without you.'

Arthur huffs and speaks before he thinks, 'Of course it is'.

Francis doesn't let go of Arthur's hand once he's up, instead he entwines them better together. For such a refined, elegant man, his hands are scarred and calloused, a life of hardwork and strife leaving their mark. Arthur grips the leather handle of the case with his free hand and stares out across the sea.

'Let's go,' Francis tugs him forward.

The evening hangs low in the sky and Arthur shrugs off his life to become someone new.

AN:

'Where's England's original case?'

This is a very good question. Originally, (well, not originally originally, but you know. When I started to get my shit together a bit more ahaha), I had tentative plans for a sequel, or a greater consequence from England and France's fuck up, and this was going to be explored later on. However, with the way I'm feeling now I doubt that this will ever happen and I wanted this final chapter to be from Arthur's perspective as a human, so he would be unaware both of the case's existence and what had become of it.

To prevent the story becoming too messy, I'll explain it here:

Jean sent the case onwards to someone he knows in America who likes to post a lot on conspiracy forums that Wales mentioned in Chapter BLAH. He knew keeping it in France would lead to France himself finding it and I had written Jean, by the end, to be aware that he was losing. As such, the same as with contacting the news stations, he wanted to make things as difficult for Francis and Arthur as possible, knowing that he himself could do little more with how things had ended up.

In my hazy planning, I was going to have this be a problem for France to solve while England was away, either a chapter or two of this fallout, or a sequel fic that would revolve around America, France, and potentially a few others.

Did human Arthur have a last name?

Ah yes. Silly dumb dumb me didn't think about the logistics of names and how much they'd blow a wrecking ball in things when I first started, but honestly now I don't think either England or France would have kept their human names once Reset. Either they'd be given new human names, or 'Francis Bonnefoy' would have been France's human name and he would never be known as Francis as a nation, otherwise it'd be far too obvious to find them (and doesn't really make sense). However, I didn't write the structure for this into the story and it's been far too long to change it now, so I've left it as it. But this is why Arthur isn't given the name 'Kirkland' during his human life, whereas Francis got his full canon name.

However, I think that the story is pretty nicely wrapped up and going too far into that side of things would ruin this story, or just not be interesting enough for a fic of its own, so it ended up cut out. Hopefully, the lack of it being explained in the story doesn't impact the actual enjoyment for you folks too much!

So.

I must admit, I am currently what is known as a mess. This fic was originally posted in January 2014 and it is with weird mix of relief and sadness that I can finally mark it complete in September 2021.

This has been an utterly fantastic ride guys, it really has. I've grown up through writing this fic, from the first upload in my uni bedroom as a young adult to now in my late 20's with a full-time job and an adult life. This story has taken me in directions I never expected and helped me to meet and speak with so many lovely people (you know who you are).

To anyone who is relatively new, thank you so much for reading this and making these final few chapters some of the most rewarding to write for. To anyone who has been following this story throughout the years, I cannot begin to articulate how grateful I am. Hetalia is an odd fandom, to say the least, but it is one which I find gives a great scope for imagination and has always been filled with wonderful, open-minded people and it is a joy to write for.

Thank you everyone for fuelling my hobby of writing and challenge me to complete this. I couldn't have done it without such lovely readers, and I'm so lucky to have found you all.

Love, as always,

Heroes 3