Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Or Facebook?
Warning: Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Fluffy angst maybe? A new hybrid?
AN: Thank you for your reviews and your patience! Good Lord! I've already had 8 quizzes and a paper due! O_O And I've got at least three quizzes (and another paper) on the way for this coming week! With readings for all five classes and profs who think...highly of themselves, it makes for a challenging semester. Hope everyone's keeping safe as the weather does what it pleases and happy reading!
Chapter 20: Better
The victor writes history, Arthur knew that. Had seen it and the way time blurs fact into fiction with editing and splicing. And when it came to that time period, he was perfectly content to let it fade into legend and obscurity—amused by what directors and authors portrayed in their works.
The further from the truth, the better.
Morgan, Morgan Le Fay, Morgana...she'd gone by more names among mortals, goblins, fairies, and trolls until Arthur hexed her; rooted her to Morgan...and even then she'd been cunning...learnt how to corrupt it and go by pieces of it via semi-palindromes and anagrams.
Maybe his hatred of Osha tied into that; she, too, possessed so many. It made them hard to pin down.
Morgan did it on purpose.
He remembered her glinting eyes as she remarked that she did it so no one could have dominion over her. There was no early name that she could be wholly bound to with magic. So Arthur chose her favorite one instead…even with its limitations.
Mint pulled at one of her long ears nervously. "Alby, I just mean...isn't your past part of his origin, too?"
He stiffened. No. Alfred was born long after. He was far removed...safe from the follies of Arthur's early years.
Morgana…
He didn't want to think about her.
Didn't want to think of who he'd been while allies with her.
Mint looked around. "I just mean...you don't have to go into...everything. Just the flying part."
Arthur ran a hand through his hair.
He'd been so envious of her ability to fly...first when they'd been young and then...later; what a boon it was for travel, espionage, and battle…
The ruthless, artful way she executed her talents and used them in pursuit of power.
It had flattered her tremendously, being asked to take him places.
While they were bitter, hateful enemies by the end...he couldn't deny that it was she who'd helped him unlock his angel form.
Though, her hand in it...spoiled it for him on many levels and made it difficult to conjure into or sustain.
It was a powerful alternate form to shift to and increased the might of his wand work, but there was always a feeling that he was going against nature when he flew with those wings—so when he did change now...he often remained on his feet.
Alfred's flight was so different. There was something incredibly fledgling and innocent in it.
Like Olivia practicing a song for the first time, like Australia trying a new move on his surfboard, like Wy offering up a canvas for critique...
He left the house with Mint trailing behind him and Reilley calling after him that he was going to grab some shoes before coming out.
Distantly, he noted that Hide and Seek would never play out fairly for Alfred again. He followed his child's signature easily.
He saw Rhys coming from the opposite side of the house struggling through deeper drifts of snow. Arthur would get to the tree first.
He knew immediately from the pristine, unmarked snow that Alfred had flown up into its branches.
Had there been leaves, Alfred would've been hidden from view and he felt a sharp pang for little Roanoke, who'd likely used such a tactic for hiding from monsters both mortal and supernatural.
Roanoke flew away from danger...to escape, to find sanctuary, to find solace in nature…
He remembered the child grasping his hands when Arthur fell from the cliff.
But he'd fly into peril...and risk his everything for a rescue...
He spoke around the lump in his throat, "What's wrong, pet?"
Sad blue eyes peered down at him. "I'll be down in a bit."
Not satisfied with that dodge and being a veteran tree climber, Arthur scaled the trunk easily to be at eye level.
Alfred drew back in alarm. "You…" He looked down to the snow and then back to Arthur and then back and forth once more. "So fast…" And then he looked a little angry as if Arthur had breached some rule.
As Arthur swung a leg over the branch and noted belatedly that even with his tales of questing for apples and honey when he was the boy's age...that Alfred didn't know this about him made his heart twist.
Because something in their bond and Alfred's face dawned with the realization that Arthur had let him win all those tree-climbing races and other such contests when he'd been barely more than a babe.
Arthur sighed; and then Alfred had suddenly been a teenager and Arthur tried so hard to impress on him the importance of gentlemanly conduct, that there'd been no "tree adventures."
And he'd been...so...far from him through much of the 1800s that he never witnessed a chase with young Australia which usually only ended when the little fellow had been treed.
Indignation bloomed in America's face and he scowled heavily and grumbled that Arthur was "sneaky."
"That is untrue."
It wasn't that he'd lied; circumstances just intervened. If Arthur had had his way, they'd have always been together.
"Sometimes it feels like I barely know you at all," The child grumbled bitterly.
A dagger wouldn't have cut him as deeply.
"Alfred!"
It was one stupid skill. Hardly something to get dramatic about. But Alfred had set the tone and Arthur found himself getting increasingly upset in kind.
Because he wasn't a stranger. All the most important things about him were obvious. Who he was, what he stood for, and how deeply he cared...that was all that mattered in the grand scheme.
"..."
"You know me. I'm your father, Kingdom of England, what established and colonized you into being. You were with me as I became Great Britain in 1707 and you were aware when the Kingdom of Ire-"
"That's what I know, but you're more than that!" He snapped. "Aren't you? It's like I know the Dad piece and the Empire piece and that's it."
"I don't understand..." If they were pieces, they were the greatest he had. One when Alfred had loved him best and the other when Arthur had the might to shield him...even after they'd separated. "I'm your father, what else do you need to know me as?"
"Dude! You were a person before-"
"But I'm a better person now!"
The wind died down precisely at that moment to make his statement ring. His face grew hot but he would stand by that truth.
Perfect? No...never...but...better...better than he'd ever been as Cadeyrn. As Morgana had known him, what his brothers knew of him, and what Rome and the Nordics and all the wars for power on earth and for the afterlife had tempered him into.
Blue eyes watched him.
Blue eyes smiled on him and he felt disapproval that the child's white gown was growing wet where it touched the water. It'd be a nuisance carrying him home and getting soaked himself.
He moved forward to lift him out but there was a giggle and the babe went deeper into the small pond.
He'd childminded countless times before this. Was a trusted man, a respected leader, often praised for his mildness with little ones in times where men often treated them with less kindness than dogs. But he felt a sharp rebuke rise in his throat, even though he knew to let children have their fun, let them learn and take risks and find consequences, and yet…
This was different.
There was no real danger here, the water was barely knee-deep for a man, and yet...
A nervousness that England had only ever known in battle, or in imminent ambush, made him tremble.
Because if those bare little feet slipped on those stones…
It conjured visions of Ophelia in the water…
Which wasn't poetic or entertaining anymore.
Drowning while flower picking, which had been a delightful subject for painters and philosophers, was a horrible fate that could befall his poor, innocent America if he wandered.
Why couldn't he toddle back already? It was clear that he loved being held—often plucking at the elder nation's breeches to plead his case on why he absolutely must be carried, this moment, right away.
"America…"
The baby tugged at the long stems of the waterlilies, but the flora was resisting.
The Colonizer cleared his voice and stated with authority. "Yes, I see your treasures. You can leave them be. I shall admire them better from here. We both can. Come join me."
He reached a hand to help guide the child back so he wouldn't stumble.
America succeeded in pulling the flowers free and the sloppy, dirty, dripping bouquet was thrust in England's direction. "For you."
He retracted his hand and tried to smile it off, the way he'd learned to kindly turn down tastes of mud pies over the centuries.
Drip.
"Trying to bribe me, I see. What favor is to be won today, young Master America? Another apple tart? One story more, when I set you to bed?"
Water trickled from the wet petals over little hands and dampened the ruffles at his wrists.
The bairn's cheeks puffed with displeasure and he shook his head with a graveness that should've been foreign to his tender age. And it made England's insides hurt to see him thus. He was such a cheerful spirit, like dandelion seeds on the breeze, he wasn't meant to be weighed down. He deserved...he deserved...
A powerful feeling surged in his breast, but he batted it down.
Water droplets fell—some from high up on America's hands, others slithered down long winding stems for a softer fall to the pond. But they all fell.
The sound seemed to increase and the nation grew uncomfortable; in the moment, in his skin, in this coarse, raw, New World that he wanted to be his or so his rulers told him...despite its many horrors and pitfalls and...
Drip.
"No?" England forced a laugh—dimly aware that some great doom seemed to be in the air. He cast a glance to the woods. Was it instinct? Were there war parties nearby, ready to strike? He'd had plenty of foreboding dreams as of late and—
"I wuv you."
Drip.
His world ended as the child boldly gave voice to the tenderness between them.
He'd always assumed, from experience, that chapters of your life ended with battles and deaths and losses.
Usually a stroke of luck, allowed those spans to last. And if a gift of absurd value fell into your lap, you laughed at the giver's naivety and put it to use for your own ends.
You weren't supposed to marvel at it.
Weren't supposed to struggle to be worthy of it.
That afternoon he'd done all he could to make Alfred's bathwater perfect.
Alfred, because he'd long been fond of the name and the king who'd made it great. And a fellow A name would roll nicely with his: Arthur and Alfred Kirkland. Al...Al like Albion too.
Yes...he wanted to share all these things with him...things he'd carry with him no matter what happened to them.
Blue eyes were watching him. He caressed the little face and tiny chest with the washrag and earned a sleepy smile.
When his...colony? Ward? Was clean and dressed and being settled down for a nap, a small hand held tight to the center of his shirt and it may as well have been on his heart itself.
"Stay wif me...pwease?"
He slowly sank down beside Alfred, aware that he could crush him if he wasn't careful and he'd never really thought about it, let alone agonized about it, until that moment.
And hadn't he wanted a child? Longed for one? Before setting that dream into a drawer of his soul and locking it since it wasn't to be? Or so it had seemed?
How could he have never appreciated until now how frail and fragile they were? It made him nervous now.
The boy squirmed this way and that and Arthur cursed the lumpy straw bed he'd thought fit for them this morning in the rugged terrain. He'd need to see about procuring a featherbed. Would accept additional paperwork if it meant increasing his purse and earning some comfort...for Alfred...
He frowned at the sharp wooden doll Alfred brought to their bed—given by some thoughtless forest "friend." The crude thing scratched the toddler's face as he embraced it.
And the faint red line marring his Alfred's face made the toy worthy of hate.
Alfred sighed and just crawled on top of Arthur and curled up—nose buried in the side of the man's neck.
The Englishman gently pulled the toy away and set it on the floor—half hoping to crush it under his boots and have it be gone forever when he rose up from their rest.
He'd make the child a nice, new toy, a better one. Softer at any rate.
Though it probably would never be as soft as the wheat hair he was carding his fingers through.
Big blue eyes opened a crack and another adoring smile was bestowed on him before the child nuzzled him and nodded off.
Somewhere in the next hour before he fell asleep himself, Arthur accepted that he loved his child back...loved him more…loved him fully, dangerously, pitifully...even though it let fear, like he'd never suffered before, ravage him.
Arthur tried to move closer but no matter which way he leaned twigs poked him in the face.
He glared at one and watched it flex back to hit him again.
"Whoa!" He leaned back.
Gardener Magic...
"S'okay," Alfred patted the tree trunk. "That's Dad, he's okay. Huh? No, it's like...He's uh...well…my...and I'm...his..." He then cupped his hands around his mouth leaned toward the bark and whispered.
The branches moved away obligingly and he was able to slide near his child.
Alfred looked over his shoulder, "Sorry, it's just a little protective-"
"I know." Arthur gave the branch a gentle pat. "I think that's good." And then his lips quirked as he asked, "What did you tell it?"
Alfred's cheek pinked.
He couldn't help his smile now. "I simply want to know if I heard you right?"
"I had to explain it, so a tree could understand!"
Arthur wrapped an arm around him and pulled him to his side. "My...sapling."
"Hey! Don't laugh!" Alfred shouted, turning red.
"I'm not laughing. I think it's apt. Now...my tree climbing skills aside...which you find upsetting for reasons unclear...what brings you to this tree?"
"I...I'm not mad that you can...I just mean…I...it's hard cuz I'll think I have something special and then...you go and...and then it's not."
Arthur blinked. "I fear I'm not…"
"I was practicing...flying…"
"Really? In this tree?"
"Er..."Alfred ran a fretful hand through his hair. "I was...practicing over there and then...then...I...Mint..."
"I see. So why did you sto-"
"Yeah, Alfie," Mint zoomed up to before them.
Arthur frowned. "Not now, Mint."
"I just don't understand, why you flew off like that."
"Mint."
"Why are you upset? What did I say?"
"Mint!"
"It seems like you're overreacting-"
"You said I wasn't special!" Alfred snapped.
Arthur's blood boiled. "WOT?!"
Mint nearly choked. "Heyheyhey, I didn't say that! I didn't say that Albion! I swear!"
Arthur stared and then swallowed down his anger to keep his tone gentle for his child. "Of course, you're special. Of course you are! What could ever make you think otherwise?"
Which apparently was a trigger—the straw what broke his boy's emotional restraint.
What came next was a lot of blubbery half-explanations and whimsical intentions and finger pointing and hurting with loud punctuations of denial on Mint's part.
Reilley whistled as he approached, "Tha's some caterwauling there."
Arthur glared down at the Irishman, "O hush, you!"
He eventually persuaded Alfred to hold onto him as he climbed down because he was growing increasingly paranoid that Alfred would fall out of the tree in his distress.
"And it's not fair. S'not fair." Was whined into his ear. "Cuz you've already done it, and so it doesn't count-"
"Now, now, how could it not count? How could it not be special? When it'll be with you? My Darlingheart?" He fished out a handkerchief. "Now, blow. Come on. That's a good lad."
"Butbutbutbut-"
More near-gibberish escaped and Mint remarked pointblank: "I speak over ten languages and I can't understand any of what he's saying."
"Mint!" He growled.
"Come on, then Minty." Reilley plucked her out of midair. "Let's stand over here, out of swatting range."
Alfred sniffled and leaned back. "Aren't you cold?"
"Hm?"
"You've just got a sweater on."
"You're right, Dr. Alfred. I think hot cocoa is necessary, stat."
He received a wobbly smile and a nod.
"We can continue your practice session afterward," Rhys offered gently.
Alfred wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Sorry, Rhys. I know you came out here all prepared and everything."
"Nono, no sorry needed. We'll be practicing in short bouts anyway, no need to risk hypothermia."
"Kay."
Reilley kept a tight hold of Mint even as she wriggled to be set free. "And we go back in. I get all dressed for being out...and we go back in."
Alfred curled his gloved fingers into Arthur's sweater and pressed his cold nose into Arthur's neck.
"...you're lucky…"
"Hmm?"
"...I worry that I was better before...when I was 'New'...that I was...braver, truer back then…in the 1770s than...now."
Arthur stopped for a moment and then pushed on through the snow. "That's just silly."
"But the way people go on-"
"That's called national mythos darling, we all deal with that. Humans just romanticize certain eras. Smooths the rough edges we experienced. Why my whole Romantic Era! From the poets, you'd think I was out frollicking by streams and flowerbeds doing opium while daydreaming radical thoughts; in reality, my monarchy was facing well-earned criticism due to flagging leadership and ill-timed aggrandizement. I was fighting dangerous notions of French republicanism and then Napoleon! And then there was the industrial revolution, squalid urban areas, monstrous working conditions, and-and-" A burning White House. Arthur flinched but recovered. "Much, much...more."
His son nodded reluctantly.
"I imagine the Wild West and your World Wars are remembered in such a way too?"
Alfred chewed at his lip and nodded.
"Tell me, love, of those time periods...could all your troubles be neatly wrapped up in a 30-minute episode?"
"Huh?"
"You know the sort. Cowboys? Pirates? Knights or witches or officers? Plotlines where nobody ever dies and there's always laugh tracks and theme music? Has any battle of yours been like that?"
"...N-no."
"Is that so terrible?"
"...just when I'm alone…"
And he'd spent such a good deal of time alone…
"Well, it's not. And any time some voice of discontentment starts in on you here-" He tapped the child's forehead. "You tell it, Father, says it's wrong. And that you'll follow it's Hollywood Script when it cuts you a paycheck."
Small arms tightened around his neck and Alfred nodded again.
"Good. Now that we have that settled, will you be wanting marshmallows or whipped cream on your cocoa?"
Alfred perked up. "Either or, or can it be...AND?"
"Both!" He replied in mock outrage. "You'd want both? Sugar on more sugar on sugar?"
Alfred's legs kicked gently and he hugged Arthur, "Pleeeeease? I'm distraught...everybody knows sugar cures that."
"Well, I highly disapprove. And I'm certain doctors and dentists would be on my side..."
Alfred batted big blue eyes.
"But I suppose some manner of compromise can be made?"
Alfred brightened.
"An extra helping of broccoli tonight, perhaps? And flossing?"
That killed the puppy dog eyes.
"Maybe-"
"...how about I choose one, and you keep the broccoli?"
Arthur chuckled. "Aww, negotiating at its finest."
Texas shook the package experimentally before putting it under his arm. To hide the cutesy cactus stickers if nothing else—God, Papi was embarrassing.
What made it worse was imagining his father searching for that crap and telling everyone within earshot why he needed it. Because he had no sense of boundaries and what constituted private life and public life.
He'd gotten a text from Al about cocoa and was on his way to the living room, almost immediately after receiving said mail from Mr. Gray.
"What's that?" Mathieu asked sipping from a mug as he leant against a wall in the hallway.
"Dunno, yet. Feels like a book." Woohoo...not. Books just weren't his thing. That was Al's territory. He tore the brown paper off. "Yup."
He showed it to Mathieu: an English to Spanish College Level Dictionary.
"A...dictionary?" The Canadian blinked.
"Yeah. It's hella embarrassing. I can't believe they wrangled Papi into translating stuff for me." He'd received his next set of worksheets via emails through the Spaniard. If that alone wasn't enough, with its goofy letter heading: 'Papi To The Rescue!' Because NO. The digital copies were riddled with footnotes that popped up in bubbles with things like Wow, these are tough. Good thing Papi has friends at University faculties, so I ran there today and asked them for you! And then others would totally go off on tangents like what happened to him on the way to market or what kind of dogs he'd seen with joggers.
Canada nodded sympathetically. "That worksheet...was difficult. Since you read it out, I asked Rhys about them. Saw a few more."
Tex scratched at his chin. "Yeah?"
"It's...just...crazy...when your seven year old brother is...reading...like that..." The Canadian sounded depressed.
And that tickled Tex enormously. He'd figured out early on that his northern neighboring brother was a true-blue-teacher's pet...and didn't like competition.
"Huh? Oh, Al? Yeah," He smiled—partly out of fondness and mostly out of wickedness. "He's super smart. I remember in the 1840s, when I crashed one of those medical lectures he was at. He was always welcome at those. Ya know? Cuz he was real smart. None o' that putting on airs stuff. He used what he learned out on the field. All those doctors could tell. He could talk to them in their lingo and not just them! Scientists and inventors and stuff."
"That never intimidated you?" Mathieu asked in shock or awe or something.
"Huh?"
"It never bothered you?"
"Uh, well...maybe...for a little while," When they'd just been starting off and he'd gotten a little scared that a genius like Al would get annoyed by a caveman like him.
Mathieu sighed.
Tex frowned. "What? Are you the only one that's allowed to be smart?"
Violet eyes widened. "No! I mean...I just...it'd be easier if…"
"If what?" Tex demanded—squaring himself up for a fight if need be.
"...it never bothered you? That he was smart...that he didn't...need you?"
Tex's hackles rose at that. "He needs me! He needs me a lot!"
Mathieu raised an eyebrow.
"He sucks at mending fences cuz he daydreams and shoeing horses cuz he's afraid of hurting 'em. He always spends too much at the grocery store if I'm not there. He's scared ta death of ghosts. We split chores and I got his back. Always. So he won't be calling me on 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?' So what!?"
"What's with all the yelling?" Alistair asked.
"Matt's botherin' me." He brushed past the Scotsman.
Alfred waved from his spot beside Arthur on the couch and patted the cushion. His cocoa long since finished.
"Your mug's on the platter. The whipped cream is...kinda melty now. But you should be able to drink it, no prob."
He smiled. "Looks good."
"Oooh, you got a book!"
Yeah, he'd never get that gleam in his eye for reading.
He watched Al turn the pages and stumble over words in Spanish without any hint of self-consciousness. Tex and...to his surprise, Arthur, corrected certain ones. Which Al took in stride.
Maybe he ought to start trying to teach Al in earnest. He'd offered to learn...years ago...and meet him halfway…
But Tex had waved it off. He'd insisted on their household speaking English exclusively so he'd assimilate quickly. Because he was still angry at Mexico then and wanted to be different than her in every way. So he could speak in a language that would make trade and business easier in his new place in the United States.
And because he'd realized that he and Al were stuck between cultures. He'd noticed one summer spent almost entirely out under a hot sun driving cattle that Al wasn't as white as he'd thought...or as Al had led him to believe. And when he commented on it, his brother got paranoid and shut himself in or covered himself up to stop tanning.
Tex had known himself as "mestizo" from the beginning. And it was never a big deal to Spain or the policies he set in place. It wouldn't affect Tex's ability to hold property or do business or anything like that.
After changing national "hands" as it were, it was made clear that higher wages could be made if he and Al could pass themselves off as being pure "European" descendents. And that was easier if only English came out of their mouths. And even then, folks up in those snowy states looked on Tex's darker coloring with suspicion. He sure as hell couldn't pass for Dutch!
Naturally, it made him spitting mad at the beginning. That he couldn't just be what he was. And in an effort to prove to Al how messed up it all was, he'd made the mistake of taking Al to cantinas near the Rio Grande. Certain that they'd be more accepting of Al, than some of Al's people were of him.
Long story short, it was made violently clear that his "gringo" brother was not welcome there and he'd felt devastated and angry and embarrassed at them, the situation, and himself.
Al closed the book and grinned, "It's neat."
"Yeah, I guess." It probably wouldn't hurt to write a Thank You...for the professors' sakes if they asked. It'd suck if they thought he was a rude brat that didn't appreciate them taking time out of their days...and dealing with Spain.
Tex finished off his drink and set it and the book down on the coffee table. He stretched, leaned back, and draped an arm around Al.
Al looked up at him, smiled enough for his face to dimple, and said, "Taquería."
The Kirklands looked over—befuddled. The remote in Reilley's hand faltered.
They just couldn't speak 'Al' like he did.
He smiled back. "Te quiero."
Rhys shifted the basket on his arm and frowned. "No Mint, Alfred and I wish to practice without distraction." He shut the door...with her on the other side.
Alfred looked over at him. "Um, that was kinda...not nice."
"I'm being politic," Rhys replied. He straightened his nephew's hat so Alfred's ears wouldn't be frostbitten by the end of the practice, and he wouldn't be besieged by his brother's rage or his own guilt.
"...right."
"It frightened me to see you fall," He commented softly. It angered him to see him upset. He'd hurried over to where he'd sensed his nephew but Arthur arrived sooner. While he was relieved his brother was able to soothe Alfred's insecurities, and the fact that their relationship was healing and improving with every passing day—but the idea should never have even been sown in the first place!
Having known Albion for millennia, Mint was privy to many details of his life, but...that didn't mean she had any right to use them in such a manner. To make Alfred feel ignorant and inferior...especially when it was becoming clear that Alfred was very impressionable. It was cruel.
To his surprise Alfred laughed. "I'm sure it did!"
He looked at the child sharply.
"Self-preservation! I wouldn't want to fly with someone so untested either," He laughed self-deprecatingly. "Reminds me of the airplane prototypes!"
He frowned more heavily. "That is not what upset me."
"Oh...you weren't...teasing…?" Alfred looked away and then back. He eventually murmured, "I'm okay...thanks to you."
Rhys shifted a bit uncomfortably under the gratitude and gestured to his basket of supplies. "I think, we should establish a maximum height for you to fly at until we strengthen your skill. And a length, also. I've brought bright ribbons to mark off two trees for that purpose." He had spools of red, blue, and gold...he'd have used white also but...with the snow...
"Okay."
"Then, we shall do some drills. Notice the bows?" They were leftover poly ribbon bows from Christmas. The metallic shine of them would be bright against the snow even in the dimming light.
"Yes!"
"I will place these on the snow and we will have a form of Simon Says where you swoop down and lift one or more up. This will aid in coordination and-"
"Oooh! Oooh! Hey! Uncle Rhys! Can we play 'Red Light, Green Light' too?! Pleeeease?" Alfred asked—eyes bright.
He tried very hard not to be carried away by that. Made a rule to keep abreast of each year by jotting down significant occurrences, kept stacks of paper as a result to keep him oriented...but it was moments like these where the centuries dividing his memories from his present felt like grains of sand in an hourglass. And three centuries were torn away like tissue paper.
"O Uncle Wees? Cannot we take bof...um..both back?" Motioning to the roses. "For if one is good, two must be best. And Daddy's been away for two whole months! One for each! Pweeeease?"
"I do not think the gardener will be pleased to lose prized blooms like these."
"O come now!" Alfred wheedled. "Consthpire with me?"
"Conspire with you?" He echoed—unable to keep the indulgent smile from his face.
The toddler nodded in poorly restrained excitement.
"Of course," He answered softly.
Arthur's pep talk and the cocoa had done considerably well to cheer Alfred up. And if a harmless little game like Red Light Green Light could do more, Rhys would do his part.
The resulting burst of energy (from getting his way in multiple matters) made Alfred a zealous student and a somewhat naughty one too.
He sometimes scooped handfuls of snow and flung the loose bits at him. A good snowball fight might be an excellent means of training him how to dodge. But that was something to work up to later. The last thing he needed was for Scotland and Ireland to go overboard and bruise America physically or spiritually.
Rhys's watch beeped when Alfred had reached an hour. It was proof that his stamina was increasing, but his finesse noticeably lagged as his fatigue peaked.
He held the child's hand as they returned to the house so he didn't lose his way or fall into a hole camouflaged by the snowdrifts.
When he yawned several times in succession, he turned and simply lifted the child into his arms.
"Sorry. I'm just….I'm just...tired."
"No...you did well, you've earned this rest. We can practice more tomorrow."
"Am I making good progress?"
"I am very pleased."
"Do you think I could fly with Arthur before the end of this week?"
"Er." Hazel eyes widened. "Er...I...didn't realize we were working on so tight a schedule."
"It's just…" Alfred bit his lip.
Buzzing at the edge of his magic, Rhys sensed there was something bothering his nephew.
"I'd like to do it before Easter," Alfred sighed.
"Why?"
"Just want to."
Children...they could be so impatient.
"Tomorrow we can practice with some weights."
"Pump some iron! I like it. Heck, just gimme a couple hours. I'll powernap and we can start tonight and-"
"No."
"Butbut-"
"It will be dark and cold and difficult for either of us to see. What if you flew into something and were hurt and I couldn't find you?"
"...you'd find me."
"The answer is still no. There is no need to rush," He took that moment to catch Alfred's eye and give him a stern look.
The child bit his lip and glanced away.
Something…
Something wasn't...right.
Alfred sighed at the darkening sky. "I wish I could pay you back. You're helping me and I don't have anything to give you back."
They were several feet away from Arthur and judging from his aura and posture, two roses would do him well.
"Go on," Rhys encouraged the toddler.
"I dunno. Do you think this one is good?" He held it up high for inspection. "That he'll be pweased with this one?"
"I daresay he shall love both equally."
Alfred's face looked pained and he hid the second one behind his back. "I cannot give him the other one."
Rhys's head tilted to the side. After scouring rose bushes for an hour seeking the best of the best (perfect ones that met Alfred's approval) before using his pocketknife, Rhys felt mild irritation. "Why not?"
"I changed my mind."
"Oh?"
The boy nodded but looked upset.
"Why?"
He brought the second rose back into view. "This one has to be for you. You quis-questid- quested with me everywhere. It wouldn't be fair if you got nothing."
"..." He swallowed, swallowed again, and managed, "Arthur...he has been...gone two months…and you've missed him so-"
"Yes, but you've been with me two months. I wish I had four roses…Is one for you and one for him, enough?"
Rhys cleared his throat and tightened his hold. "Chwb, what makes you think I've gotten nothing?"
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