Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Warning: Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). First sewing machine. Flashbacks galore! Joke reference to Helen of Troy. Weird traditions of protecting newborn babies from fae. Drama!
Special Warning: Mention of War Crimes committed by the Japanese Imperial Army during WWII. Just a few of the many...
AN: Hey, thanks for all the reviews and well-wishes! Right now, I'm in that lull (two papers due next week) and then finals/project deadlines will come crashing down the following. So I'm pretty much in the eye of the storm, but managed to get this chapter written out. XD Hope you enjoy! : D
Chapter 6: The Book
Alfred tossed and turned against the memory as it spoiled his dreams.
Osha's high heels were against the wall—casting shadows. They made his fraying tennis shoes, which were slumping beside them, look super shabby.
Her legs were tucked under her, but if he leaned back he spied her freshly painted toe nails. They were a bright teal and challenged his view of her being serious and conservative.
She should've looked demure sitting like that, but there was something too strong in the set of her shoulders. The confidence with which she gestured her hands made him nervous.
Her bracelets rattled. "Please open the folder."
Inside the manila folder was a selection of wallet-sized photos.
All people he knew.
"Please place your photo here." She pointed to a spot where the carpet was fraying.
He obeyed.
Her lips curved in a smile, "Now sort the remaining photos in rings in accordance to the level of connection you feel."
"Whoa-what? C-connection?"
"To whom you would be most strongly inclined to confide in?"
"..."
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Think of it like a tree ring. Only rather than recording age, you are acknowledging distance. Those whom you feel closest to, please set near your photo. You will likely find family and friends inside inner rings and acquaintances further out."
America eyed all the different photos. He rotated an ankle and tried to stall.
"I..I have to do this for all of them?" He complained.
She nodded solemnly, her deep, dark eyes reminded him of fetching water from wells at night.
He set Texas' photo right near his. Hawaii, Alaska, and Molossia were much further out. He couldn't envision them actively trying to sabotage him, so they got placed down. Still...no one knew him like Tex did and vice versa. When you'd interacted with someone at their worst and still couldn't be put off them...that was a bond that would last through armageddon.
Still, he felt kinda guilty looking through the photos.
Even after much internal debate, he couldn't bring himself to set down Japan...he kept remembering WWII—the murders of American pilots at Midway, the destruction of hospital ships, the sinking of merchant ships, and then there was the cannibalism...when the Imperial Army wasn't even starving...
America had his country to think of. And the rest...the rest...he could've dumped the rest in a pile in the corner.
He flipped through them again. China, Russia, Italy, Germany, France, Canada, various staff members of his current D.C. regime.
He stared dispassionately at the headshots of the U.K. personifications and let them fall from his fingers.
It was too dangerous to speculate on them. History had ran its course.
Alfred sat up and blinked hard. He took several deep breaths and was kinda surprised and dismayed that he hadn't been shaken awake by Arthur.
Alfred frowned.
Geez, he was getting so spoiled. Still, it didn't stop him from looking around for his father. The table had crumb-filled plates and stale drinks. A tower of G-rated movies were next to the T.V.
Rhys had fallen asleep on the couch, while Alfred and Arthur were on an air mattress. His old man's back was turned toward Alfred.
They were camped out in the living room, for no other reason than that it was still kinda cold and they just...felt like it.
It was nice.
Tex and him did stuff like this all the time. Tex knew how to make a blanket fortress teepee. When he got back...when he got back...Alfred would have him make one...
His eyelids grew heavy as he fantasized his brother's return and he was about to settle back down when—
"No. Damnation..."
Oh...so the old man was preoccupied with his own bad dream.
He should...do something.
Maybe it was because Alfred was tired and his mind was vacant...that when he curled close to Arthur in a half-assed attempt to comfort him before he fell back asleep...that he tumbled straight into Arthur's dream.
It was super weird and kinda alarming; the awkward pressing feeling that he was somewhere he shouldn't be. Like when you walked down a street at night that was too quiet. No cars puttering, no crickets chirping, no breaking glass…
It usually meant you were about to be jumped.
Except there didn't seem to be anything shady going on and there was plenty of noise.
The sun was out, insects were buzzing, robins were nesting, and he wasn't sure what had Arthur in such a fit.
Maybe it was too hot for a Limey but not for a Yankee!
The absurdity of Arthur having a nightmare over temperature had Alfred laughing away his fears. He spun around in lazy circles before lying down on the soft, lumpy, wild grass.
Considering he was experiencing depressingly gloomy weather in real life—it was like a vacation!
He soaked in the dream rays and reveled in the revitalizing warmth of sun on his skin.
"So zen, it has gotten you too," Francis remarked wearily.
"Yes," Arthur replied hoarsely. "I have not heard from Alba in weeks. Latest letter from Gwalia...was written in his left hand...the other had to be...and Eire...he might as well be smoke. I have had no word of him at all."
Alfred perked up at the familiar voices and tromped over.
France coughed and then mentioned, "My king thinks we have three planets aligned and they have created a Great Pest—"
Arthur sighed, "The fear breeds faster than the disease...they're all saying it's the End of Days. They look to me for comfort and I have none to give. I know not how-"
Alfred frowned and his nose wrinkled. So serious. Stealthily, he moved closer. He maneuvered himself behind the tree Arthur was resting against and scaled it.
He glimpsed through the foliage silk ruffles and other tell-tale signs that the European nations were dressed up in funky old clothes. Still, they were speaking normal English...or...he was...understanding them in modern English. Which was good, cuz sometimes when they (or Uncle Al or Uncle Reilley) got slobbering drunk they spoke in tongues Alfred couldn't even pretend to understand.
It was after he'd perched himself on a low branch just over Arthur's head that he got a good view of the men.
Alfred gasped. Arthur's fingers were blackened by rot.
Parts of France's face were similarly discolored.
Both nations had swellings and bubas.
Alfred stared in horrified fascination at their diseased flesh.
Arthur noticed he was there then and his rashed face gave way to alarm, "No. Do not breathe our air! Get thee back! For God's sake, we're contagious!"
They were oogly alright, but they weren't contagious. Not for him.
Alfred frowned, "You're having a bad dream." He dangled a leg over the branch and carefully dropped down.
Arthur became hysterical. But Arthur's dream form was too weak to move far. His illness was in too advanced a stage.
"You can't do anything to me," Alfred repeated.
Green eyes filled with fear and anger and helplessness.
Blood trickled at the corner of Arthur's mouth as he spat, "You fool! Why can't you simply listen to me? Take heed-"
"You can't," Alfred repeated—trying to make himself understood. "Hurt me."
"Alfred-"
He finally just marched over and grasped the man's face, "Yup, this is the face that sunk a thousand ships. That armada didn't stand a chance."
"Alfred...why must you provoke Fate? Now, you'll suffer too…"
Alfred rolled his eyes. Dad was being super melodramatic.
Alfred delivered his supreme flat look. The one that usually got Texas to shut up and back down. "Tch...Dad...even if you really did have the plague. You couldn't hurt me. I'm immune."
And he pushed one of his own memories forward:
Sitting in smoke filled tents as medicine men sang in raw,
overworked voices as more suffering bodies were laid down on woven mats.
Plague and pox took down the tribespeople in droves
and it wasn't just the young, the old, or the weak…
even the strongest of the braves sickened and died.
Survival of the afflicted came at random...and with scarring.
Only Dyami was wholly unaffected. Strange Dyami
whom the pale faces allowed in their midsts without question.
It was taken as a dark omen and Dyami was driven out.
They created rules not to house him over a certain amount of days.
Shared stories of how evil tailed him and that if he stayed too long,
the cloud of it would settle over a village.
Much to Alfred's shame, he realized they weren't wrong.
He had been in close contact with European settlers
(and their many diseases) and he'd been unconsciously spreading them.
He'd been a vessel of pestilence.
The dream broke and Alfred opened his eyes. He blearily looked up to see Arthur studying him lethargically. His messy blond hair was even more chaotic than usual.
"You're immune?" Arthur murmured.
"Yeah."
Thick eyebrows scrunched up, "It took me several deaths to gain immunity. For my body to...change enough...and there were different strains..."
Alfred patted the Briton's hand gently (the way Arthur often did when others were in need of comfort)."I'm sorry, it looked really painful."
"Hmm? Oh...yes, but...you're immune?" Arthur blinked owlishly.
"Yes."
"You're immune?" Arthur questioned him seriously.
Dude, how many times were they going to go over that?
It caught Alfred off-guard when Arthur abruptly touched his face.
"D-dad?"
Arthur gently turned Alfred's head this way and that in interest.
"Uh?"
He sounded kind of choked up when he said: "I didn't get to lavish gifts on you when you were born. I didn't even get to guard your cradle with my trousers."
The heck was he going on about?!
Arthur released him and pulled the blanket up—tucking Alfred in. "But I gifted you with immunity. That part I passed on. You'll never know that illness."
Alfred blinked, "Nope."
Arthur lips trembled as they pulled into a smile, "You'll never know it."
"Never," Alfred assured.
"Never," Arthur repeated. As the elder blond drifted back to sleep, he murmured, "A good gift."
Rhys shut the burner off, grabbed a mitt, and took the kettle off as it whistled.
Arthur was in another room informing Parliament about their delay. He walked in as Rhys was pouring tea into the teapot.
"I keep warning them that there's an undercurrent of true resentment they need to address and they're not…" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh well. At least Alfred is in a good place. He's much more enthusiastic about visiting with me this time," Arthur set his phone down with an adapter so it could charge.
Rhys raised an eyebrow, "Oh?"
Arthur pushed Rhys's hands away and took up the teapot. He filled two cups. "Hmm. Last time I had to twist his arm. His magic critically low, his life hanging in the balance, and he wasn't sure he wanted to spend Yule with us. Though...considering his treatment by the UnSeelies I'm...I'm surprised he's so...optimistic this go around."
"Perhaps the hex breaking is responsible for his change in demeanor?"
Arthur's features lit up. "Yes, I think so too. He's remembering me...he's remembering...better times for us. Sometimes I look over and...it's so clear...he knows me. Really knows me and my boy is back."
Rhys nodded and tried to appear supportive, because Arthur was so delighted to have 'that boy' back.
Rhys's more sentimental side agreed. It felt good to be remembered—to have the nephew he'd doted on in the 1600s no longer cringe when he drew near.
Only…
Only 'that boy' was far more volatile than the one they'd dealt with for the past few centuries. True, he loved unrestrainedly...and Arthur could feel the difference in their bond but…
That boy was the one who'd declared two wars…fought tooth and nail against those he cherished.
He was a beloved boy, an impulsive boy, an easily frustrated, ruthless one...and Arthur was in no shape to deal with him should he...turn…on account of a fit of temper.
Arthur was mercurial enough on his own without being provoked and considering how agitated he was right now…
It opened foreboding possibilities.
Rhys took a sip from his cup before offering, "I can watch him should you need time to sort yourself out-"
"Why do you keep going on about that?!" The blond growled.
"You feel...wrong." His aura was...Rhys shuddered at the darkness stifling it.
"What? What is it?" Arthur snapped.
Like a thundercloud with lightning racing through it...
Rhys placed the kettle on the stove to cool. "You felt like this...then…"
"Good God, man. You're being too damned cryptic."
Rhys exhaled as he sat across from his brother.
"...?"
"When you burnt his capitol," Rhys finally supplied.
"..." Arthur pushed his cup of tea back at his brother.
Rhys sighed.
"How dare you…how dare you insinuate I…" He broke off as they both were alerted to an acute peak of distress.
After a mad dash through the house, they found Alfred staring at the bookcase in his room with a slack expression.
They both reached for him and—
Alfred selected another book from the rough hewn wood of Father's bookcase. He was determined to safely transfer Father's books to the new house. He wrinkled his nose at the small walls of the cabin. Soon he'd sell this dismal place and say farewell to its host of bad memories.
Samuel, his fellow lieutenant and friend, was helping him fill a trunk. The young man was reaching for an archaic green one bound by leather. It had two leather belt buckles keeping it closed.
"I would not touch that one, were I you, Samuel," Alfred murmured.
"Oh? And why is that?" The man asked as he set a hand on it.
"Sharp pages."
He'd barely finished explaining when his friend, hissed at a deep papercut.
"Warned you," Alfred replied in a singsong voice.
Samuel sucked at the injury and hissed as he looked at the damage.
It was one of Father's spellbooks and it did that to dissuade nonmagic users from taking interest in it. Quite practical.
Unfortunately, as Alfred's magic waned, it sometimes injured him too. Perhaps when Father got over his wounded vanity, they could see about addressing that. There had to be a cure.
He was loathe to reveal the aging spell he'd managed to cast in the 1770s, but...if it was aggravating his condition...then he'd have to come clean.
And then he'd have to hear a long, boring lecture about the dangers of shapeshifting. Uncle Rhys would probably join him.
No matter. After Father saw the Hall, Alfred would be sure to earn back his regard.
Then Mathieu could eat a good, hearty slice of humble pie.
Treating Alfred like he was a leper. No. Like he was the "fallen one" of their household. Humph. He'd only done what was necessary for his people's sake and to show he was a nation worthy of respect too.
Father was an Empire! He would understand. In the grand picture (whether America liked it or not and he didn't because it trivialized the noble sacrifices his people made) America's whole Revolution was tantamount to treading on England's foot. Irksome, perhaps, but nothing the man couldn't get over.
"So you're packing?" Sam muttered as he wrapped a handkerchief around his thumb.
"Aye, I'm taking them to the house."
"Ah yes, your mysterious chateau," the older teenager grinned.
"Hardly. There just isn't a road paved to it, yet. I'm still hopeful I may cut cost and pave it myself."
"So pennypinching."
"I prefer the term: spendthrift."
Samuel pushed sandy fringe out of his eyes. "Rumor has it, that it's quite a palace."
"A gross exaggeration."
"How could it not be? You spend all your off hours laboring over it. I wish to see it."
"You would be disappointed. Perhaps some other time when it's nearer to completion."
Alfred took care to set a large Bible over the spellbook and obscure it from view.
"I wondered where that book had gotten to," Arthur stated flatly as the vision ended. "So I left it behind-"
"I have to go to the house," Alfred mumbled dreamily. "I have to-"
"Nonono," Arthur argued. "Nonono pet, that can wait."
"Have to go to the house," Alfred replied inflexibly.
Arthur frowned at Rhys, "This happened when the Roanoke memories hit." He turned to Alfred and grasped him by the shoulders. "Why must you go?"
"Reminds me…" Alfred trailed off.
"Reminds you of what?" Arthur asked.
"The Book."
Arthur's eyebrows drew together. "There's no need to hurry, we can recover the book later. In Spring, we'll give the Hall a good cleaning. We can look for it then."
Alfred's cheeks puffed stubbornly. "The Book."
"Alf-"
"The Book."
Rhys looked at the window; at the steely gray sky and the snow swirling outside, "Does your son understand that this is the worst possible moment for him to want to do this?"
Arthur heaved a sigh, "This is Alfred. We can either supervise or be left behind."
Arthur grit his teeth as an icy breeze assaulted him. He tied his scarf tighter and cast a slightly irritated glance at his offspring as they crunched through snow.
If it wasn't for his tight grip on the boy's hand, America would've disappeared into the woods. And England would've had a heart attack. Scotland would've mocked him. Albion had survived countless winters as a child. Harsher than this. Supplied with less. And yet the idea of his child out wandering in the snow...alone…unsheltered...was simply repugnant.
"Alfred, stop pulling me along," he growled. "You're hurting my arm."
It had been a struggle getting him properly dressed for the journey. He'd have wandered out without a coat, if Arthur hadn't been insistent in bundling him up.
He straightened Alfred's hat over his blue earmuffs.
As the trees thinned and they stepped out into the clearing of Kirkland Hall, Arthur's jaw dropped.
Rhys looked over in alarm. "Arthur? What is it? What are you seeing?"
Rhys took hold of Alfred's other hand and shared in Alfred's enchanted vision, Kirkland Hall was restored to its former glory.
As they approached, Arthur saw how every roof tile and window shutter was accounted for.
A flourished, gleaming 'K' adorned the door knocker. The polished iron caught the light and ignited warmth through Arthur's chest.
When they pushed inside, their feet clomped over waxed wooden floors.
He even got the faintest scent of fresh paint and new furniture...like an echo...like a ghost trailing a near-forgotten perfume…
Rolls of carpeting stood waiting like sentries at the far side of the room.
Half of the windows had curtains.
Arthur spied a very old styled sewing machine; a design he recognized as Stone and Henderson's. It caught the wintry light well and was obviously well cared for...at least in that time. Another set of brocade curtains was currently in the works.
A grand chandelier was lying in a newly opened wooden crate. It's crystal ornaments were wrapped in leather and balanced at the edge.
The staircase had all its balusters and was in the process of being stained. And there were two flags keeping each other company at the bottom; One early American design with fifteen stars, the other...a now very familiar Union Jack. Then it would've been new—little more than a decade old. Adopted in 1801 with the union of Great Britain and Ireland.
Considering America and England's strained relations, it spoke volumes that America had managed to acquire one.
It would be taken up to Arthur's would-be bedroom and settled in a corner where it could catch light from the windows.
Because he'd always told the boy how proud it made him...seeing the Sun illuminate the colors of his flag.
And there it stayed in the upstairs Master Bedroom undisturbed...until the Sun faded it. And even then...it wasn't cast out.
Voice thick with emotion, he forced out, "It's beautiful. Stunning. I love it. I love you."
But the child was too distracted. "The Book...gotta...the Book."
The boy led them to the kitchen.
Arthur and Rhys both made sounds of alarm as they registered two men there. Only…
"Another memory," Rhys remarked.
The men...were teenagers...and Alfred was one of them.
An early spring sunset filtered weak pink light through the windows.
Alfred stood stock still. His blue eyes were wide, his face was pale, and a dark cape was set haphazardly on his shoulders.
In his hand, he held a small pot of evergreen holly. The sproutling was fresh and new.
Stubs of candles and incense added to the mystical atmosphere.
Feathers and beads and ornaments of both English and Iroquoian design dangled over the hearth's mantle and a great cauldron bubbled and foamed.
"You!" Samuel hissed. "All that talk! And you're one too! You speak of them as Devils. When you're no different. Worse. You're one in plain sight. In. Plain. Sight! Deceiving us all."
"I've no choice!" Alfred snapped. "All I do, I do for you! For your kind! And this is holly, you idgit! It protects-"
"Against evil and witchcraft," Arthur and Rhys answered instinctively. Their mother's lessons on which trees and shrubs were wholesome and helpful was engraved in their memories.
Samuel's gray eyes narrowed into slits. "You must be mad to think we'd suffer a witch in our midst!"
"I heard shouting," a third voice, deeper and older, remarked as he entered. The man's uniform suggested he was a colonel.
Samuel strode over to the colonel. "Lieutenant Kirkland is a witch. And should be hanged with all due haste."
The bearded colonel appraised the younger teenager, "That true, boy?"
Alfred grabbed an iron poker as a makeshift weapon. He took a step back and clutched his potted plant protectively.
The older man laughed. "Well, if that ain't confirmation."
Samuel clasped his hands behind his back and stared down his nose at his former friend.
"Weatherby."
"Sir?"
"Go tend my horse."
"Sir?! I'm not certain it's safe to leave you with-"
"Now." He dismissed the lieutenant.
The young man left, though not without giving several furtive glances behind him.
"So," the man began—tapping a white beaded string of leather and watching it swing to and fro. "Our nation's a witch. Guess those Bostonians were onto something."
America was very pale. His lips were pursed into a thin, grim line.
England felt his own heart pound with empathy and fear. He knew how awful it was to be caught. What a witch could be subjected to…how a nation could be treated to force such "evil" out...
"About damned time you were useful."
The vision faded and the dreary kitchen, in its current state of delipidation, came into view.
Alfred pulled his hands free and made for the hearth.
His foot kicked the fallen kettle and he ducked under the iron cranes.
"Sweet? What are doing?"
The child ignored him and pulled his little gloves off.
"Ack!" Arthur rescued them from the floor. "Alfie, get out from there. I don't like it." Even without any hint of flame, it reminded him of too many other tragedies. And he half-feared the aged chimney could come down on his son. "Alfred?"
The boy dug his fingers into gaps in the mortar of the brickwork.
The Kirkland Brothers both stared as their youngest family member pulled a loose brick out and let it drop.
More bricks followed.
Arthur got as near as he could and began actively tugging on the back of the boy's jacket. He didn't want to drag him out as it would knock him into the hanging rack hooks, but, "Ack, Sweetheart, watch your feet. O be careful! Be careful."
The Briton stared at the now sizable hole at the back of the chimney. Alfred gave his father an even greater scare when he boldly reached in.
"Alfred, there could be vermin!"
Alfred pulled back, frowned, removed more bricks and then reached both arms in.
He pulled out an old cobweb encrusted basket. The wicker was peeling apart in places.
Arthur and Rhys steadied the child by the elbows as he tromped back out.
Rhys gently relieved the boy of his burden.
Mission accomplished, Alfred returned to his senses...though terribly tired and fairly surly.
He had a laundry list of complaints: "I'm cold. I'm tired. My legs hurt. My feet are pinching. My fingers sting."
At least it was easy getting his gloves back on him.
Arthur unzipped several layers, picked the child up, coaxed the little arms to hold him around the neck, and zipped his outermost layer back up. He'd done that quite a bit when Alfred was small...and fussy.
It still had the desired effect. Alfred relaxed and set his head down on Arthur's shoulder.
"Memories like those take a lot out of you, don't they, Sweet?" He crooned.
There was a small nod and Arthur murmured sweet nonsense until the little body grew languid. Soft, even, warm puffs of breath breezed across his neck and Arthur rocked the child soothingly.
Rhys looked a little uncomfortable at their affectionate display.
"Is there a book in there?" Arthur asked.
"Y-yes. Several."
"Good. Let's go now, before the truck gets buried and we're stranded out here."
Once he had Kirkland hall outfitted with electricity and gas, winter could be bearable. Until then...it just wasn't conceivable. They needed to return before what little sunlight there was, faded and the temperature turned wickedly frigid.
It was hard to say who was more embarrassed when Arthur very, very carefully climbed over America's No Trespassing fence: Rhys, who had to offer a steadying hand as Arthur dismounted, or Arthur...who had to accept it.
His ankle was still delicate since its break several months earlier and he didn't dare risk Alfred's safety on account of his pride.
When both of his feet were safely on the ground, green eyes met hazel ones and there was a silent mutual vow that no one anywhere would ever learn of this moment. Ever.
Arthur frowned at a crow as it rasped at them from a snow laden branch. He longed to be back at the Virginian Brick Colonial under a nice warm quilt. He'd plug the electric heater in and let it warm the space. Maybe microwave some hot cocoa. (He usually preferred the stove top for such tasks, but he knew that if he was tired now...he'd be exhausted when they finally made it home and would lack the patience to wait several minutes when he could have something done in a handful of seconds.)
With a shivering child held tightly to his breast, it was no wonder why Arthur succumbed to modern conveniences so easily. Some of his people had been superstitiously paranoid when it came to electricity and heating. Not him. Not if it made life simpler.
Maybe it was the hopelessness of ages past—of rocking and shushing his wards when there was no comfort to be had in brutally cold winters and blisteringly hot summers that made him leap at chances to soften those realities.
Alfred whined unhappily at another sharp blast of winter air.
He adjusted the child's earmuffs once more and tugged the red winter hat more snugly over the boy's head.
Thankfully, the truck wasn't buried in snow and behind the seats there was an ice scraper, a squeegee, and a bottle of a de-icing solution. Rhys started the engine and checked the tailpipe for ice. They had to let the vehicle warm up before de-icing its windshield.
He had to hand it to his boy, he prepared for quite a lot. Which was probably why his pantry situation had distressed him so much. He liked having some sense of control when things spiraled out of certainty.
Arthur was pleased that Alfred had settled into his booster seat without a fuss though he would've liked to discuss his not-so-faithful friend Samuel.
Willing to see Alfred hanged over the most trivial applications of witchcraft. For God's sake, Alfred hadn't even been doing anything showy! He didn't even have any animal bones or fat or blood and the contents of that cauldron looked suspiciously like laundry.
He frowned as he thought of the other man's words: 'Useful.' It seemed sinister.
Arthur buckled himself in while his brother tended the truck.
He gently removed Alfred's earmuffs and hat, so the child could rest back more fully. Arthur combed his fingers through the wheat colored hair as Alfred's breaths deepened.
What he would've given to have been there. He'd have shown them what malicious sorcery was like.
He dropped a kiss to the child's forehead and, assured the boy was enjoying a restful sleep, turned his attentions to Alfred's discovery.
Arthur took the basket off the driver's seat and set it in his lap. There was a curious assortment within. He found three spellbooks that he'd long ago written off as casualties of the ages. He wondered idly how Alfred had fared with them. They weren't aimed at beginners and he hoped the boy hadn't spent too many frustrating hours trying to translate Old English.
He set the books aside and inspected the rest. There was one old toy soldier he'd carved for Alfred years ago. It still had most of its red paint but...he frowned at the clump of wax around it. There was also a bent candle holder, an old tattered spool of disintegrating yarn, and a small bundle of paper tied with a cord.
The first leaf of parchment was a note, or rather a draft of a note, with abrupt starts and stops. What piqued Arthur's interest was that it was addressed to him.
Father. Arthur. Father. England.
"Father," he murmured to the sleeping child beside him. "For your future reference, you can always head your letters with 'Dear Father.' Or 'Dearest Daddy' if you're looking to be spoiled."
The boy's hand twitched and Arthur clasped it gently. Green eyes scanned the rest of the almost-letter.
I realize our many difficulties as of late make overtures challenging, but if you could have pity on me-
Arthur's heart twinged painfully for had he not shared similar words not so long ago?
I would have us meet by our tree.
A tree long gone...now...
My government's demands are frightful and I have no means with which to gauge them. I know not what-
The Briton frowned. This was a very disorganized proto-letter and yet a very clear plea for help. They were the words of a fledgling nation floundering as he wasn't certain that what he was being asked to do was right and just. He needed an elder nation's guidance on a personal level.
It made his father's heart twist. Because America's instincts had been dead on and an unhealthy relationship between him and his government was unfolding then. And here England was, several centuries too late to intervene. Because the final draft of this letter never made it to his hands. And he had plenty of people to blame for that.
Green eyes scanned it once more and his soul ached as he read over fragment sentences—all seeking advice without naming the nature of the problem: exploitation and how to resist it. The handwriting grew messier near the end.
At the bottom was a bleak, chilling.
Forgive me.
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