Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or FaceTime.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Cortez. 1812. Flashbacks. Fluff. Angst. Familial drama.
Special Warning: Feels. Ya know for people who have those inside.
AN: Lol. I have sooo much HW and yet...I had to get this chap written for you guys. Thank you for your reviews and continued interest. And now I get to start cramming for a huge exam this week. (On top of a million other assignments X_X) Fun Fun! Hope this is a good week for everybody! : DDD
Chapter 29: Oops-Baby-Origins
Tex blinked against the blurry darkness of the room and then frowned.
"Al?" He groggily called. "Hey, Al? You 'wake?"
"Yeah?"
He rubbed an eye and massaged the bridge of his nose. "You 'kay without the lava labp on?"
Yuck, the congestion had set in.
"...yeah."
Tch. Yeah, right.
"You can put it on, I don't bind."
"Kay."
The washcloth on his neck was readjusted. And he sighed as Al rubbed his back. It reminded him of various military and science expeditions where he'd fallen under the weather and could depend on his brother nursing him back to health.
He sighed contentedly as a particularly tight band of muscles under his right shoulder blade was kneaded. "Oh yeah. Get the other side too, won't cha? Yeah, over. Lil' bore. Up. Yeah, yup. Ah, yes. Riiight there…."
He had a slight twinge that something was a little off because usually Al was super cautious and never did any deep tissue work because he was crazy paranoid about hurting him which left him seeking Hawaii's help for tough knots but...
There was something different in the technique but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Not bad per se but...different and yet...familiar?
It had to be this stupid fever causing him to think weird stuff.
The lava lamp was plugged in and he looked up as Al was illuminated before him. They smiled at each other or at least he was sure the fuzzy blob of Al was smiling at him and Tex was smiling until...he realized...there was no possible way that Al could be over there aaaand giving him a massage.
"Uh...Al?" He shuddered.
"No, dude you're good. No ghosts or Grym, man. I just couldn't get them to leave."
Antonio chuckled tiredly and sat up and leaned over him so his blobby form was visible, "No, Toni. No el coco coming to get you. Here, I give you medicine for your fever though."
He stared as a fuzzy Antonio reached over him to grab a bottle of the dreaded Robitussin and its little measuring cup of doom.
It was filled and set in his hands.
"Uno, dos, tres."
He stared down at it.
"Uno, dos, tres," Spain repeated.
"It's been awhile since I've had to force feed a captive," Alfred announced cheerfully.
Tex downed it. "Blech."
"Aww. I really did need the practice."
Antonio ignored that to reply, "I know, not a nice taste. Here's some water. Later, I make you good meals that make you feel better too."
He took a few deep gulps and then he was encouraged to lay back down. Antonio rested with him, though he was fully dressed. When he asked why he was there and in full garb, he was earnestly informed that it was Spain's way of being prepared to drive him to the hospital at any time.
Which was...good?
"He alright?" The Brit asked groggily.
"Mi pobrecito. He is still fevering."
There was a rustling and then a more alarmed, "Alfred?"
"I'm over here."
"Gave me a fright, dearheart. Insomnia?"
"Thirsty."
"Here, let's get you some tea-"
"Hate tea-"
"Juice then. I can't give you warm milk with that congestion, pet. Spain? Can I get anything for...you or Texas?"
Tex blinked. Not sure what to make of this.
There was...something...odd about all this.
"No, I will come. I should make me some garlic tea and get a lemon slice for Tejas' water. Tejas?"
"Uh...yeah?"
"You change into your pajamas now, yes? Be comfy."
"...kay"
He threw on a super oversized t-shirt that he'd gotten for participating in a run for St. Jude's Children's Hospital and kicked off his jeans.
Al scampered back to their room and climbed up beside him while he settled his glasses back on.
"You're warm," Al commented.
"You're an ice cube," he traded back.
Seriously, he was dead fish cold and Tex was burning up.
It made sense to cuddle.
Their parents disagreed.
"Nononono," Arthur scolded. "Alfred, you could relapse. Texas, more body heat will aggravate your temperature." Arthur tried to get a hold of Al.
"Hey! No! I don't wanna go-"
Tex tightened his hold on him. If he didn't wanna, he didn't hafta.
"O, if it's going to upset them, let Alfredo stay. I'm used to lots of niños sneaking into bed with me," Antonio shrugged as he settled on the top covers. "It is no bother. And I will not roll over and squish him. I remember sometimes they'd tell each other ghost stories and scare themselves and they'd aaaaallll pile in." He got a rather goofy smile. "So cute." He yawned. "They knew Papi could fight off anything for them."
"No, Alfred's recovering. I want him over with me."
"But Daaaaaaad. But-"
"Your butt is going over there, young man. I-good lord, Texas don't hold him so tightly. You'll hurt him. Crack a rib or som-"
"I want Al."
"You have Papi," Spain announced giving him a squeeze.
"No, trade. I want Al."
"You cannot trade me. He only wants to keep Gibraltar."
"We don't know geography!" Al whined as Arthur smuggled him away to the other bed. "That means nothing to us. Noth-"
"Mijo…?"
"Yesssss?" Tex faced him, put out that this was his designated bedfellow.
"...you know where Papi is...on the map, yes?"
"...think so. But I'b gonna be real, I haven't really looked for you since the 1800s and baps have kinda changed since then and by bebory's kinda...eh. So don't play Pictionary with be and ask be to draw what you look like...cuz I...don't know where Portugal is s'posed to be in relation to you."
"...He's on the side that's better for sea exploration."
"...w-west side?"
"Good. I show you picture later today. You should recognize your uncle. He was glad about you being...alright, he wrote me so."
"Oh."
"He says he emailed you...while back. You get it?"
"..."
"It doesn't reflect well on Papi when you don't-"
"Tch. I'll check the spab folder-"
"We usually meet up for All Soul's Day, where he would console me about you. But since last year, the familia hasn't had to gather for-"
Tex wasn't in the mood for more guilt-tripping about his "death" so he fidgeted and turned on his side and complained, "I don't wanna hear about Tio right now. I'b sick. By back hurts. Papi-"
Spain immediately went back to the task of rubbing his back and shoulders.
It was immature and snotty and juvenile. But it worked.
At least until Spain got a little too comfortable thinking of him as a kid and decided it was a good time to tell the story of finding Tex, which had been something he'd enjoyed hearing when he was little, especially when he was sick or had twisted his ankle or something. Back before he realized it wasn't as happy a story as he'd thought.
Worse, Alfred had this irritating habit of being a too involved audience member.
"Then what I could never ever expect happens! That night! I hear a sound!" Antonio said, sounding so rehearsed and banal, Tex wanted to crawl under the bed and hide out of embarrassment. Especially, since Arthur looked so fiendishly amused.
"What sound?" Alfred asked eagerly.
"I listen. There it comes again. I say, 'What is this? A baby crying?' And sure enough. There, beside my tent flap is a tiny baby boy. At first, my men think it is weird trick or sign by natives. But I know better. He is of the land. He is mine. My first son on North American mainland. My little baby cactus." Spain added in an aside as he pinched Tex's cheek: "Puerto Rico and Venezuela were so excited when they met you, Toni."
From what he understood some of his other siblings, like Colombia, were less enthused. And considering Mexico was newly conquered when they met and they were thrust under one roof (with him being a squalling infant)...it kinda explained some of their issues. She'd gone from sovereign Aztec Empire to childminder of her new, hated boss.
Stupid, romanticized story. Tex really wished Al didn't feel the need to ooh and ah at all the right cues...encouraging the Spaniard.
Tex stoically sipped at a glass of water that had a slice of lemon in it. "Soo sophisti-bi-cated."
"I'm glad you like," Spain murmured, breaking from the story. "I'll make a pitcher la-"
"This story's so stupid," Tex interrupted, just wanting him to shut up. "Can't you call it quits?"
"No, it's not," Spain argued.
Al sided with Spain, exclaiming, "It's the story of you, Bro! I love it! It's cooler than ours!"
That ruffled the ol' limey fusspot. "Oi! Our meeting was every bit as special and tender-"
"I sat on a hill and you cried because you didn't think I'd come with you. And in a moment of good philanthropy and bad foresight, I made a decision-"
"Alfred!" Arthur gasped, sounding a little hurt.
Alfred gave a toothy grin, "I chose the dude who'd love me best but food poison me the worst. It's almost poetical; heart versus stomach."
"O har har. So amusing," Arthur frowned but he seemed to lighten up as Alfred gave him an impish hug around the neck and a kiss to the cheek.
Considering Al wasn't usually that affectionate, Tex was surprised. And Arthur seemed to be aware of that as well because all his feathers were instantly smoothed and he took to tucking Alfred in beside him with great care.
"Okay, okay. Now, let's go back to story. My newborn baby, he is very loud," Spain always paused there to give Tex a look but then grinned "...but cute. And I am happy. I will let my rulers and our familia know, and we shall celebrate. But then! I think, 'Oh no, there are no mothers in my camp. Babies get hungry. What can I do?'"
"Leave hib to the gators," Tex grumbled.
Spain's face twitched with annoyance and he said rather firmly, "NO. Can't do that."
"Oh no, poor baby Tex!" Al gasped. "You gotta get him help!"
"Yes! So I ride out and I ride and I ride and I ride until I meet the Caddo indians and tell them about my little one's need and in a great show of friendship, they help my Tejas. And thaaaat is why I named him Tejas. For them and how they helped us, it means 'friendship.' And Antonio, for me, because I know he will grow up to be strong." Spain smiled and chuckled as he added, "He still has a little bit more growing to do in the shoulders. But I know he is strong and will get stronger."
Tex turned back over to face the ditzy narrator, just as he concluded, "Haaaaappy ending."
"I hate this stupid story."
Spain's expression faltered. "W-what? No. This is good story. You used to love this story. You would beg me to tell it."
"Well yeah, when I was little before I realized…stuff."
His eyebrows drew together in concern. "Realized what?"
"That it's one big rant of whining decked out as a kiddie story."
"Qu-"
"Look, I know. I get it."
"I don't. What are you saying?" Spain demanded.
"I'm saying you're just goin' on about what a pain in the ass baby be was and how you didn't want be or know what to do with be."
Green eyes flashed. "I never said-"
"You didn't expect be. I was a huge surprise. You stress that. Every. Single. Time."
"I couldn't expect you. There were no settlements. Canary Islands, Puerto Rico, Colombia, they all made sense. I was there a lot for months or more, me, my people, my influence. You...there were no fixed settlements. I walked around two days, maybe, and poof! Time for you to come-"
"Just shut up about it already."
"I don't like your tone, Junior. I-"
"Well, I don't like having by oops-baby-origins shared with everybody who stops by-"
Spain's jaw worked several time before he managed, "You...you are not 'Oops.'"
"You just said I wasn't in your plan and that I-"
"You were in God's plan-"
"That's not the...I showed up. You didn't want...urgh...me...and you try to dress it up with some stupid half-assed kiddie story-"
"I have never said that. NEVER," Antonio gritted through his teeth. "And you will never say that again! You want full story? Fine. You come and I am scared. We didn't have enough goats as it was. And you couldn't keep the milk down. You had to have mother's milk. You had to. You cry for what you can't have and make me feel terrible. I am father, I am supposed to provide for you. But I just don't have what you need! Cortez leave me behind because I would not abandon my son. I ride hard for six days in every direction with you— knowing your time was ending. Knowing it's only because you are nation and you are mine that you have lasted so long. You want me to succeed. I see it in your eyes...you... depending on me. You already give me days of chances. And yet I cannot find what you need and I know if I fail you…"
Spain shook his head. "When you stopped crying, I thought I would die. Our horse died instead. Rode too hard. Too hot. Have to keep going. You barely move anymore and I don't know what I will do if you leave me. Caddo tribe sees us. Surrounds us. And I beg. Begging looks the same in every culture. I never begged for anything in my life! But it wasn't my life, it was yours! I got down on my knees and a mother there took pity on us. And then I had to leave you there." His voice broke off and he got even more emotional, "Because it was too dangerous for me to take you with me to Tenochtitlan. And I spent the months in agony worrying about you. But they did not hurt you. And when I returned, I named you 'Tejas' for the great service they did us."
"..."
"See?! It is a good story! Beautiful!"
"..."
"It didn't have to be a happy ending. It almost wasn't. But we were very fortunate. Gracias a Dios." He kissed the cross of his own rosary.
Tex fidgeted. "...guess...it does sound...kinda kickass put like that. How cobe you never share that version?"
"You were a baby!" Antonio squawked. "That story would be very scary if Papi didn't seem like he had things under control!"
"...Oh."
"Now, I told you something, you tell me something."
Tex looked over, unsure.
"Who tried to ruin our beautiful story for you?"
"W-what? No, I just...had...revelations when I was thirteen."
Spain wore a flat expression. He moved closer to scrutinize.
Tex fidgeted.
Spain sighed, "Mijo...I know you don't wish to hear this. But I think you are more like your Papi than even you know."
"Theb's fightin' words. Nuh-uh-"
"We don't get certain ideas without people giving them to us. So. Who gave you this mean one?"
Texas shifted uncomfortably. He had ideas...sometimes...
"You can tell me. Or I can ask everyone. Or we can have big awkward family FaceTime where I scold everyone for hurting your feelings. And this is why, maybe? Why you disappear and break my heart?"
Nope. No thanks. Didn't want that.
"Peru." Under the bus you go.
"Inca…" Spain sighed and then nodded in a 'I-should've-known' fashion, "Thank you for telling me...thirteen. Riiight before Peru and Mejico both started their fights for independence. They had much in common to lament over. Convenient. You wouldn't have believed Mejico but because it came from him...I'm sorry they used you, pequeñito. I wish you'd have come to me."
"..."
"Toni?"
Tex sighed. "It doesn't really change that I wasn't in the plan-"
"You...you're just silly." Spain shook his head and poked him. "Tonto."
Tex frowned and felt himself heat up. He hated it when Spain called him that.
Spain reached for a washcloth to set over Tex's forehead, muttering, "Who turns down a miracle because it wasn't in a plan?"
Alfred looked up from where he was chewing down oatmeal (eating to live rather than savoring every bite) and Tex tried to avoid his gaze.
The fact was Antonio was on the phone ordering highline ingredients to be delivered.
"Fancy groceries...and you call my dad a snob," Alfred rose an eyebrow.
Alfred had been thwarted this morning—barred from the kitchen when he wanted to make them some corn porridge.
His brother had been given "tostada con aceite y tomate" or as Al dubbed it, fancy Spain Spanish toast for breakfast, and there was a pitcher of ice water that had lemon and lime slices. Whenever Tex asked for a drink, Spain was sure to twist some juice into it and then put an additional slice on the edge of the glass or in it.
The Spaniard also knew how to dress up plates with olive oil and garnish.
In short, everything looked menu photo worthy, though earlier, England sniffed that his Old World rival was the "food poisoning capital of the world."
Spain had gotten rather testy at that and countered,"Those are scams by the U.K. trying to injure my tourist industry! My hotels won't take such lies anymore!"
England had shrugged, "I promote bottled water if you visit, lads."
Which was a good tip for Alfred and Tex...well...Tex would be fine. Where some people had a ten second rule...Tex could easily go two minutes...probably ten...but then he was already the sort where licking something did not protect a treat from him eating it.
Al had lost track of the times people had thought that would work. Tex would just shrug, "I had too many brothers…that doesn't work on me," and down the hatch it went.
He could drink from a puddle and be fine. He hadn't mentioned any kind of upset from his visit to Spain last December.
Alfred scraped another spoonful of oatmeal and wished Uncle Reilley had used more cinnamon.
He wasn't sure how to feel about last night's story time. The way Spain could turn on a dime and...get...well, "scary," was…
Was...why Tex had always labeled him "scary."
It kinda proved that...Spain hadn't changed...deep down. He'd...learned to put a lid on it but...it could still unscrew and pop off.
When they'd had a minute alone, earlier while their relatives went to work on their breakfasts, he'd straight up asked his brother how he was holding up.
"He's gettin' there," the Texan grinned and brushed sweaty hair out of his face. "Breakin' point. Next station. Woowoo!"
Alfred had stared. "Bro...you're not...upset?" Or worried about being swept up in it?
"Nah. Way I figure it, is this. I gotta make him see he's not cut out for this. Some people are Dad material, he's not. It's like cattle. He was a stud. He did his part. Bulls don't do the raising. They're too friggin' aggressive. If he totally loses his temper on me, ta da! I can throw his ass out no questions asked." He seemed almost giddy.
"O-oh," Alfred's heart sank a little. "And...how are...you gonna do that?"
"Ohhh, I'm gonna be a Grade A pain in the ass, Al. That's how. He wants me to need him?" Tex rubbed his hands together. "I'll be needy. Heheheh."
"Evil bandito laugh," Alfred pointed out.
"For the eeeevulz." And then he gave his eviler bandito laugh. "Mwahahaha!"
Texas waited for his father to finish his call and then said, "Hey Papi? I was thinking for lunch. We could do something easy, say, like chicken noodle soup?"
"Great minds! Yes. That is what I am making you for lunch."
So now Alfred wasn't allowed to make him lunch either?
Tex nodded, "Yeah, I got cans o' that the other day when you guys were goin' at it Mortal Kombat style."
"..." Spain gave a strained smile.
For a minute, Alfred thought it was because his brother had brought up Walmart but it turned out—
"...I will make you good soup, Toni. Fresh. From scratch. That will make you better. The ingredients will be here in two hours, they tell me."
Tex blinked and got up to rifle through the pantry. "Fine, but Al and I want this for dinner." He set down a Chef Boyardee can onto the counter. "Can you make it for us?"
And now Tex didn't want him to make dinner?! What the hell?
Spain's smile remained on his face but the quality turned rather plastic. "I would be happy to make you boys dinner."
"This, Papi." He nudged the can closer to him.
Spain picked it up and continued smiling. "I would make you this...if this was food" and without looking he tossed it across the room where it landed in a bag of trash the Spaniard had been collecting to take out.
"Hey, we paid for that!" Alfred cried aghast, rushing over to rescue it.
"Aww man, Al's right. You're a food snob. I mean, by your definition, we've been eating non-food for the last few decades."
"Yes! This is why you get sick. But Papi's going to make everything better," Spain assured resting his hands on Tex's shoulders and rubbing them soothingly.
There was something about the know-it-all tone that put him on edge. Arthur and the rest of the U. K. sounded like that far too often.
And while he cared about his dad a ton and he didn't like seeing him hurt...last night he'd been surprised to see how badly his old man took a little teasing about their first meeting and he'd...surprised himself by being an absolute daddy's boy.
Really...kissing Arthur's cheek like he used to when he was a tiny colony...
The affection just slipped out…
Lots of little things like that kept escaping him...
Maybe Tex had been right before. He'd gone in too fast. Did they now expect him to be docile and easily managed?
Duh...especially when he kept acting like a needy little kid...
And if that wasn't enough to get Alfred unsettled, his dad decided it was a good day to be super nosey.
After tucking Tex into a chair with a light blanket and finding a footstool for him and a neck pillow and putting in a "favorite" movie that his brother would just sleep through and assuring him that everything was fine and it was just a cold and not an incurable disease (because Tex didn't get sick all that often and got crazy paranoid when he did and that's why Alfred asked Tony to make it impossible for his brother's devices to get access to WebMD's symptom checker), Alfred just wanted to play on his DS and forget everything for an hour...which was when his brother would need another dose of medicine.
He wanted to forget that Antonio was potentially dangerous, that Tex was determined to get the horns, that various family members were poking around all of their stuff, and that Arthur was obnoxiously bossy...
"I say, Alfred." Arthur knelt down beside Alfred's bean bag chair. "Did you...did you know Texas had been...been feeling that way?"
Alfred stiffened. "What way?"
"Last night...he'd said he was…er rather he felt he was.." Arthur frowned, looked around uncomfortably before sitting down on an Ottoman beside them. He swallowed twice before murmuring, as if it was a taboo thing to say, "...unwanted?"
"..." This was not Arthur's business.
He continued playing but the tense set of his jaw gave him away.
Green eyes widened. "Alfred!" he gasped in low tones of alarm so he didn't draw attention to them and set a hand on Alfred's wrist and the distraction caused Alfred's avatar's death. "How could you not inform Antonio? Or at least me so I could tell him? No child should ever—"
"..." What Tex felt or didn't...was not his business. Not Arthur's. Not Alfred's.
"That's the very sort of miscommunication that tears families apart. Of course Spain wanted him...of course he was...very open to that. Lucky verile tosser. Of course Texas was a welcome addition. Spain's Cath-"
"Well, he didn't feel welcome."
Arthur was visibly upset by that but Alfred didn't owe him any barroom confessions…from his brother...or himself…
Because America knew damn well how it felt to be unwelcome and unwanted by a father he'd grown up ador-er-admiring. And how could he know for sure that it was just "miscommunication" and missed opportunities causing troubles for Spain and Texas? When he'd been living the consequences of his own estrangement from a parent who could barely stomach looking at him...who glared at him in open disdain and who talked down at him constantly?
When Texas had alternated between angry weeping and angrier swearing into the dingy chipped counter of a cantina certain that his father didn't even care if he succeeded or not in his quest for sovereignty...there were no soft words Al could give him. Because he didn't know the circumstances. He only knew his own. And his own were dire. It was easy to relate...to listen...to slip out a book to read when Tex slurred oaths and regrets in Spanish.
Oh how Tex hated those stupid dime novels Al loved, with their serendipitous plots and their loyal-to-the-end friends and family members. And Texas had rasped and raged at those books and snatched his from his grasp and hurled it across the room because there wasn't a soul in the world he could count on one hundred percent to save him in a scrape.
And Alfred knew how that felt...
Because he didn't have people like that either. And that made them wonderful to read about.
And after he'd said that, Tex propped himself back up and turned to look at him.
So Al smiled.
Because it felt like the thing to do as the bar blurred and the alcohol failed to burn that hurt away...when an identical glass to his own failed to confuse his companion enough to distract him from what he'd said. And he nearly fell off his stool when Tex pulled him into a hug and swore hard in his ear, "Jesus Christ, Ally. Do anything. Do anything, but don't cry. Please, don't cry. Or I'll have to throttle 'em."
And Tex wasted a whole dollar buying him new novels (because he couldn't fix the cover of the one he threw) and nearly sent the merchant into hysterics as he desperately flipped through to the endings...to only pick ones that were over-the-top happy...
Alfred turned his game off and walked off, lying that he needed a nap.
There was just a…
An unsettled swooping feeling in his stomach...making him anxious…
Like flood water rising…
First it was at his ankles...but now it was to his knees.
Like something bad was nearly upon him.
Rhys set an over-stacked crate of books on the ground. He was interested in sorting through them—seeing which were relevant, which had sentimental value, and which might be better suited in a museum or charity (with Alfred's and Tex's blessings, of course).
He planned to start now and finish after lunch and then he could see about the taxidermy. He already had a strong suspicion that Alfred didn't like the creatures, he kept turning them to walls so they wouldn't be staring at him. There could be Nature Centers and Universities that could make use of them in their curriculums.
He definitely didn't want them giving his nephew nightmares; Arthur had said Alfred had been doing quite well in that respect. Rhys didn't want him to relapse into night terrors.
It had been difficult in the early weeks of reclaiming him from Osha and hearing those screams and knowing there was very little he could do to alleviate them; their bonds were too weak then for him to do much.
Without any warmth of familiarity or affection (for he'd still thought they were coldly estranged), he feared his presence would've seemed as intrusive and imposing a force as Osha's. And he didn't want to worsen his condition by aggravating him through that unfortunate similarity.
Personally, it was part of the reason he'd been privately relieved to send Arthur to psychically soothe Alfred during the surgery. He hadn't been certain that he'd have been able to convince Alfred of anything.
And now knowing what he did of Alfred's damaged memories…
He'd have been a perfect stranger to the child in that mindscape.
He felt a burn of resentment at Alistair and Reilley...how they could have known Alfred had forgotten him and never passed that detail on?
Or his letters?
It tormented him now to think what Arthur and himself might've been able to do for the boy had they been in correspondence. Could've healed him up, realized something was amiss beyond the seeming madness the child suffered under…
A hex…
He'd been healing up under a terrible hex…
No wonder he'd recovered so haphazardly, his body was likely rejecting the foreign magic that was lacing itself into him.
So much blood...
His eye should not have taken so long to return, but it had been saturated with fearsome magic.
If he'd but known...
He also began to doubt some of the reports he'd been given.
Yes, their captive nephew had a savage tendency to bite whomever dared to feed him and he was dangerously strong and he hated the color red with a vengeance...all that was true but...
Was he ever truly aggressive?
He could be provoked into reaction but was he ever aggressive? Did Rhys ever fear for himself? Yes, his leg injury colored his feelings then. The brutality of it still shook him. But had he actually done a single thing to him then?
No.
He'd been watched with a wide unflinching feral eye from charred flesh. Alistair had the most resilience in the face of the injury. But then...he hadn't been assaulted. He also hadn't carried that child around and sang to him and made daisy chains or anything of that nature. Hadn't fed him bites of tarts with his fingers when he was so wee and liked pretending he was a baby bird; it was such a small fancy to indulge when the child was afraid of their foreign lands which were so cold and far away.
And he didn't think he could take being bit the way Alistair could.
Think Cymru...
Alfred was unsettling and feral then but was he actually maliciously aggressive?
Alistair didn't mind sharing his bedding with him and it wasn't like Rhys ever found him wandering their settlement...on the rare occasion he was outside he stayed near enough to trip the Scotsman...underfoot and—
Timid...
Rhys tensed with a sudden fury.
Good God, say they didn't falsify those reports! That Alfred did have some made violent fit and terrorized their camp and bolted off and none were brave enough to give chase—
And he knew it was a lie.
Alistair was brave enough.
He'd kept one mad bairn in his tent for weeks.
To suddenly grow fearful of him then…
Rhys grit his teeth angrily.
He'd been left. Each time the thought passed through it grew more terrible.
He'd been left. He'd been left. Taken somewhere deep into the woods. Away. And left.
"What you got there?" Alfred asked, hopping childishly from foot to foot on the terracotta tiles.
He tried to compose himself and raised a bushy eyebrow. "Books."
"Obviously," Alfred laughed, "Probably my dime novels, I loved those! I wanted to live 'em so bad you can't even know. I used to tell Tex-"
Rhys turned to better talk with him.
Alfred had seemed a little skittish that morning, hovering near his brother and trying to usurp the spot of caretaker for him…despite being unwell himself. It was good that he'd been sought out. Perhaps, they could discuss what was bothering him?
Part of him wondered if he remembered being their prisoner at all. But that was such an unhappy thing...he didn't have the heart to ask that.
Alfred coughed. It was a still a wet, concerning sound. He'd need to ask Arthur if he'd already administered some medicine.
"I was fond of ballads," Rhys offered and a smile tugged at his lips. "When I was your age I liked envisioning myself as the hero. An archer of unparalleled skill, hailed through the lands-"
"A gunslinger for me!" Alfred cut in, blue eyes brightening, "Yeah! In those, they'd-they'd have such great friends and brothers—Even when things got real bad, you knew they were on their way and there could still be a happy ending."
A young Cymru had hungered for the respect of those legendary figures...America longed for that elusive, happy ending.
He thought of those tombstones...he'd lived a lot of sad ones.
He set the crate down between them in case Alfred wanted to go through it now, together. It would be a good opportunity for bonding.
The child came beside him, letting his small body press against Rhys's leg.
Just then the grandfather clock chimed.
One book fell to the floor. He crouched and reached for it but hands dug desperately into the side of his shirt. He let the book drop again.
He knelt and steadied the child who began to shiver. "Chwb? Chwb, what's wrong?"
Alfred was transfixed in horror; esgob annwyl, another memory had descended on him.
Concerned that it could lead to what Arthur dubbed "field trips," and having chaperoned one with Arthur a few months earlier, Rhys determinedly set his hands over his shoulders.
He would not let him come to harm.
The memories were blended and chaotic.
A grandfather clock was chiming.
He dropped armfuls of books haphazardly into crates, some falling onto the floor, he was determined to save as much as he could from the library before those damned regulars—
Smoke.
People rushing down the halls in panic, carrying what they could.
Old Man Lome and a being Rhys didn't recognize in a coyote pelt were trying to persuade Alfred to leave or to go—
"Go to your Father, throw yehself on his mercy. He might be able to shield you from most of it."
Arthur...there...through a crack in the doorway dining with his men at the White House's expense.
Beg his mercy?
His plans were unravelling.
He'd had plans.
Such plans...
When he had a plan it always seemed…
1811...
Alfred was cheerfully sitting on the desk and openly admiring the shining buttons on his military coat. He'd been promoted to Lieutenant. Lieutenant Kirkland. Didn't that sound fine? Respectable? Wouldn't Father be impressed? Yes, it was a far cry below Father's own title and rank. But it was certainly something and he was well-liked in his community, a member of a great many associations, a gentleman. Well, a country gentleman. He longed to be an equal someday...to stand in front of the powers of the world and be someone great...and as it seemed that there was no chance of him mastering the sea...army it was.
"It's a big display. He likes big displays and what's bigger than a house, Samuel?"
"A castle?"
Alfred frowned and forced a laugh, "Well, I can't afford a castle. But you'll see. He shall be in raptures over the pains I've taken to create such a fine estate. He shall-"
"And you think a present will make him forgive you for your falling out?"
Alfred's face soured before clearing. "Of course not. There's nothing to forgive. Father adores me. But he'll like it. He likes grand gestures."
His White House was burning.
August 1814...
Flame and smoke and creaking boards and breaking glass…
Chandeliers crashed.
The grandfather clock chimed.
June 1814...
He was standing in the middle of Father's room...or what would've been Father's room. The smell of lacquer was strong. He thought of the half-sewn drapes downstairs and knew with a sudden terrible insight that...he'd never finish them.
There was no point.
He looked around the room again—his gaze sliding over the trimmings to the crystal chandelier to the flag by the window.
It was made of all his best things. The best his labor and his finances and his hopes could secure. And his best seemed cheap then. His best was nothing compared to villas and manors and castles an ocean away. And what an idiot he'd been to think otherwise.
Everything seemed small. Vulgar. Breakable. Arranged. Like he was standing in a crude dollhouse of his own design playing out an afternoon's whimsy.
He saw himself in the mirror by the bed—the one he'd bartered for and bought at a cheaper price but the thrill was gone.
The clothes he was wearing were the right fashion...but...cheap…
Everything about him was…
He stared down at leather shoes that were balding in places.
He was...
Deluding himself.
The ships were burning in Essex and it was like the sea was on fire…
Ash floated in the air...
April 1814…
That his favorite uncle could stand there so coldly demanding his surrender.
His surrender…
And he'd heard all those terrible captive stories from the Revolution…
But this was his uncle…surely his uncle wouldn't...
No…
NO, he wouldn't surrender.
How could he even think of?
He couldn't surrender.
There were men depending on him!
1813...
"I'm doing all that I can..."
"Are you? Are you truly?!" the human asked him, incredulously, viciously.
"What more can I...give…?"
Bertram gestured to a list of soldiers, newly dead..
"These men have given all they had and more..."
"I'm doing all that I can..." Alfred insisted. He couldn't help that he'd been delayed by a tribe desperate to adopt him.
He was slammed against the wall by the neck. "Are you? Are you truly?!"
There was no give in the hand's harsh grip. It pressed hard against his adam's apple and made him gag.
His superior's eyes narrowed and the hand's hold tightened. "You'll never best him with a sword. Can't even best a man." The teenager doubled over from a brutal punch.
But he'd never needed to before this moment. Because he'd never really thought it could come to pass.
He slid down, gasping.
Father would never raise a sword against him. That was madness. It had taken his all just to point a rifle at him.
Loved him.
"Surrender…" Hazel eyes watched him disapprovingly.
No...
There were principles he had to adhere to for all the men who died for his freedom, for all the men dying to defend him still.
"America...surrender. You've lost this battle." The Welsh nation stated coldly. "You are too late. Don't be a fool. Give yourself over."
Give yourself…
No, how much was he supposed to give? Everyone was so determined to take from him. If they all had their way what would he have left to keep?
No...this couldn't be real...
America looked behind him to a harbor full of burning ships. The lurid glow, acrid smoke, and hissing steam made it seem more nightmare than reality.
He turned back to face Rhys.
Ash and cinder fluttered down between them.
And he was horribly outnumbered…
Anxiety invaded him and his heart pounded as all the warnings he'd received that his family members were now enemy combatants rang true-
His uncle drew a knife.
Rhys winced, They were approaching the moment that had damaged him before. He should let go, let go, let go. Like he did last time. Though even last time he'd been several seconds too late and suffered psychic backlash.
And feeling his nephew's hate for him...just…
Rhys...held on this time. It would be the only way to truly understand and maybe get to the bottom of that bloody hex.
It was a dark and crackling energy shot through with violence and desperation—
Rhys shuddered as it swelled into a fury that went beyond the physical confrontation of Shipyard Burning in Essex.
How could they do this to him?!
Push him to this?
These were all supposed to be people who loved him.
Who treated him like this…
Like he was the traitor when it was them.
It was them.
How could they do this to him?!
Supposed to be people who...
The rage was brutal and explosive and...
Not…
Not directed at Rhys…though he suffered from the consequences of its violence and he saw himself through Alfred's eyes struggle against his strong, though unskilled, nephew.
And Alfred remembered his childhood. Memories of being doted on by this man. The one who stabbed him now.
You know why...a little voice at the edge of his conscience insisted.
And it made the rage worse as he thrashed against it.
At the height of it, he snapped Rhys's leg—the fabric of his trouser leg tearing in the process.
Rhys instinctively flinched in memory and the sound of his own shriek from centuries earlier.
Alfred made for the forest with the hunted desperation of an animal.
But he couldn't escape—
You...know...why...the voice sang in his ears into every chamber of his mind and echoed.
He traveled miles and miles in that haze of hate until he was safe in his freshly constructed manor.
Supposed to be people who...
Taking the knife from his chest and watching his blood drip from it in the music room because it seemed to confirm what they'd all been saying to him since the beginning.
What he never wanted to hear because he'd been so certain.
So very certain.
They cursed him for the fool he was. Warning him over and over.
Giving him that look…
...even his Founding Fathers had given him that look.
He was...so...stupid.
Deluding himself…
Like he could have what humans had so easily…
Hubris...
There were plans he had to complete.
Duties he needed to uphold.
He needed the Grand Witch's Gramarye and he needed it soon.
If being family wasn't enough…
And there was no pity anywhere to be had…
Osha would not help him. Mathieu hated him. Everyone hated…
No...
Not Father.
"Are yeh sure ya know what yer doin'?" The old man asked from the darkness. He almost sounded afraid, "What yer askin' me for?"
Alfred knew exactly what he was asking. And he knew what he desperately needed: Courage. To follow through. To do what must be done. For his nation. For his people. For himself. And for them too. He'd pay the hideous price and finally be free. They all would.
"My soul enters a Winter from which I will not escape. This, I accept. For them all, I submit. For myself, I only ask…that my Heart forgets Spring. Make me forget."
Not all of the books landed in the crates and trunks and at this point...he no longer cared.
He no longer cared.
He no longer cared.
...no longer cared because…
It was a game of power.
...nobody loved him…
...never had...
No!
He fought against it.
Father loved him.
Tricked him.
NO.
Father loved him.
The others might not. That's why they rose to fight him so eagerly. Memories of them challenging him flashed by.
But Father…
Father…never...fought him.
Father...
Who never came to visit him or returned his letters…
Who never had a kind word anymore…
Who never smiled on seeing him in any room…anywhere...
No!
Adored him.
Right?
Yes!
Father would know what to do.
Father would show him mercy.
Loved him. Loved him. Loved him. Had to love him.
Doubt began lapping at his feet of clay.
It begat a horrible creeping dread; a realization he wished never to undertake or understand. One that made the future yawn forth like a terrible chasm.
One that made his soul tremble and his heart…
His heart...which he'd always cast so much faith in…
Depended on for its steadiness and reveled in its strength…
Faltered…
As it never had before.
Loved him…
He believed that…
He had to believe that or else…
It was a revelation to drown in.
They're all laughing at you.
There...dining in your White House...and laughing...at...you…
You know why.
You believed them.
You believed them.
You believed them.
The White House was burning...
You let this happen.
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