Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). 1985 Newry Mortar Attack in Northern Ireland. The Sack of Constantinople. In times of antiquity, "Doom" meant judgment like Danelaw's Book of Dooms (the title of which really struck my fancy when I was in a Medieval England class). A yoke is a mobile pillory; it keeps the head and hands restrained while making the prisoner bear the weight on his shoulders.
AN: Thank you for your reviews and to the guest who alerted me and for the confetti. I'm stoked to be a representative of the Family General category! : D
In other RL news, yeah, I still haven't committed to a new internet plan so updates will continue being sporadic. Hope everyone's got fun Thanksgiving/Harvest plans in the works.
Chapter 43: A Frightful Shield
Reilley had that queasy feeling that something wicked was underway. It reminded him of the Newry Mortar Attack. He'd been waiting to train some new recruits and sipping a cuppa when a curious silence seemed to befall him and his neck hairs stood on end.
It was the beat before something exploded.
That same feeling had a grip on him now.
It had been several hours since the discovery of the witch-sign and they still couldn't agree on what should be done.
"They're having us on," Alistair scoffed. "Lemme take it down."
Rhys blocked him to take yet another photo of it on his phone.
"We need to make a report." Arthur crossed his arms.
"It's just some teenage hijinks. Blair witch nonsense and the like," Alistair replied.
Reilley shifted uneasily at the drippy runny lettering of the sign.
Beware the Witch of the Wood...
Saints preserve us, he twisted his fingers into his rosary. He had a bad feeling. Hopefully, a prayer to St. Christopher would help.
Alistair swatted the back of Reilley's head. "S' paint not goat's blood. Don't get yer knickers in a twist."
Reilley glared.
The sign was unsettling and consulting his rune stones only confirmed that something wasn't right. And it traced its way back to Alfred.
Alfred, who had spent that morning being carried in Arthur's arms, or riding on Tex's shoulders, or sitting in a chair, or resting on an air mattress, or reading on Rhys's lap.
Amazing, how his nephew hadn't said a word about the sign and yet his terror had been so palpable that they practically tripped over themselves to reassure him.
Reilley turned at the sound of small footsteps skidding to a stop.
"-Mathieu! Fetch your brother." Arthur gestured his arms rather desperately. "Mathieu, take your brother back into the t-Oh, Alfred, it's alright-it's-"
Alfred had gone stock still. His blue eyes were wide, fixated on the sign. Mathieu hesitated on lifting him, settling for rubbing his younger brother's shoulder and arm.
"Al...everything's going to be-"
Arthur scooped Alfred up in one arm and wrapped the other around Mathieu.
Both boys were settled in Rhys's tent before Arthur returned to where the macabre sign dangled.
His green eyes were dark as he regarded it once more.
"Alfieboy?" Reilley looked up to the branch his nephew was currently perched on.
"Hmm?"
"Wha's wrong with the ground?" the Irishman asked.
The child stared.
His "Whaddyamean?" came a beat too late.
That got his brothers' attentions and they gathered under the tree.
"You sense something?"
"Malevolent?"
"In the land, on the land, or through it?"
"…"
When Alfred shrugged, they turned to each other and began theorizing in hushed voices.
Arthur looked worried. "Is it a ley line? Trade? Astronomical? Funerary?"
Alistair picked up some dirt to roll between his fingers and then sighed, "There's a slight whiff of evil, but you get that in all remnants. There's too much history for it to all be peaches and crème."
"What kind of evil?" Arthur insisted.
Alistair looked annoyed. "I-I don't know. Rhys? Yer...yer better at..." he lifted and dropped a shoulder "...than me."
Rhys took up a handful of dirt. He frowned and concentrated. "Seems human, but I wouldn't-"
"Seems?" Reilley stressed.
Alistair wiped his hands on his trousers. "It's old, whatever it is! Stop worryin' about it."
Rhys nodded reluctantly. "Sometimes murder-negativity lingers, you know that."
Ohhh, murder. Oh aye, let's just skirt over that little bit of loveliness.
His flat expression gave him away.
"I don't know what it is and I don't care," Alistair told him bluntly. "Now, stop it. It's way off. And you don't know that this," he indicated his handful of dirt. "And that-" he indicated the sign. "Are related."
"Well, it's bothering Alfie-boy," Reilley pointed out.
"Well, he's wee. They're more sensitive-"
Reilley raised a thick eyebrow. "He won't touch the ground if he don't have to."
They observed Alfred once more. The child was sitting and swinging his legs…and ignoring them.
"Sweet?" Arthur called. "Sweetling? Is that true? Is that the reason you're avoiding the ground? You sense something wrong with it?"
The child stilled.
"O Sweetling, it's alright, we'll just leave," Arthur declared.
The child jerked in alarm. "No! No…we've…got to…to celebrate Beltane's Day!"
"Love, don't be silly now. We can celebrate it anywhere. Preferably, a place where you're comfortable-"
"Tex and I wanted to river raft! Mattie too!"
"Darlingheart, we-"
"Noooo!"
"Alfred-"
"…no…please…"
Reilley watched Arthur struggle mightily with that.
If it had been screeched or whinged, Arthur would've batted it down easily. He was usually a fair hand at managing a misbehaving brat.
It was the softness in Alfred's plea that disarmed him. There was something fragile and a bit desperate in it.
Arthur's mouth twisted into a grim line.
Did dramatic irony always have to be a butt?
Here Alfred had a good lead that witches were still in existence and rather than being delighted that there were still magical practitioners in his land…he was totally spooked.
Still, catching wind about some mysterious deep wood witch sounded less like Kiki's Delivery Service and more like Hansel and Gretel.
He just didn't want to get ate.
If his adventure last December proved anything, it was that hags were scary.
Kill-able...but scary...
And one could be waltzing around near them...
Still, if he'd been in her long, pointed shoes, why advertise?
Wouldn't it have served her purposes better to sneak about unnoticed?
Unless she was gangster-like (in the traditional 1930s sense) and wanted to intimidate them? Because they were also magic users and on her turf?
Something niggled at the back of his mind.
C'mon Salem memories help out!
Witches…
Witches…avoided confrontations when they could; there were certain things that could be done to lessen their power…so they depended on anonymity.
What things?
He racked his brain.
Things like…
Like?
He was getting frustrated at his lack of enlightenment and settled for focusing on the present.
He plucked at the stupid rafting helmet Arthur had insisted on buying him. Even without a mirror...he knew he looked like a dork in it.
But he couldn't make a big deal about it.
Not now.
After Alfred's insistence that a river rafting adventure was essential, Arthur got them set for one.
Alfred had never had his lifesaver vest checked so many times in his life. Every relative and even Spain had tugged on the straps at least twice. Arthur's final score was 26.
He stared over to where Alistair and Arthur were arguing as they dragged their raft over to the water. Reilley was following them from a safe distance with the oars.
"Allie! Ándale!" Tex snapped. "We ain't got all day."
He sighed and followed—eyes on his brother's boots.
Alfred's current Master Plan: Engine Stall was at odds with England's Master Plan: Everything and the Kitchen Sink.
If Arthur succeeded in checking off all of the boxes on Alfred's list of 'Why they couldn't possibly leave yet,' the American would have no way to dig his heels in.
Except maybe the truth...
And it was scary that the truth was cropping up as an option.
Because where was his sense of autonomy and secrecy?
Harris would be disappointed in his infantile desire to confide in his fatherland.
Alfred gasped and shook his head. Where the Hell had that come from?
He shivered.
"You ain't chickening out?" Tex demanded as he lifted Alfred and set him into their raft before climbing in himself.
Spain sighed, "Okay, so Papi gets to aweigh the anchor, huh? Rico, help me push."
Tex kept his eyes on his younger brother. "Al?"
Alfred swallowed nervously. Awww, shit.
His mouth was going dry. His hands were all clammy and everything was pressing in.
Stupid friggin' anxiety attack!
He started shivering harder because there was a glint of something in Tex's eye that promised trouble.
And a rafting adventure with an ornery Tex was gonna suck. He was going to find all kinds of opportunities to splash him with icy water.
It'd be easy to back out now, they were still on the shore of the Youghiogheny River.
NO!
He had to do it.
He stared around at his fellow rafters: Mattie, Momi, Spain, Rico.
He needed to man up.
He needed to calm down.
Dad would be following in the next raft.
It would be fine.
He stared down into the water as everyone got situated.
The roof of the gaol was leaking from the summer storm and his pitiful reflection stared up at him.
Treason…
Insubordination…
They were words that never should have been associated with him.
The stones under his bare feet were cold. The iron yoke they had fashioned for him was even colder.
'Forged from the remnant of an anchor,' his guards liked telling each other that as they stood watch.
The damnable weight of it made it impossible to stand straight and the smell of brine made him heartsick.
Alfred licked his dry lips and tried to force strength into his hoarse voice. "My father will have your head for this."
"Must we do this again? Let's not play pretend. America, you don't have a father. You never did. You. Are. A. Thing. Like a rock or a plant… A thing. You have no family."
"England-"
"Better. England. What of England?"
"He'll thrash you for-"
"He won't."
Alfred went hot with rage. Maybe the young nation wasn't much of a foe, he was too inexperienced. But his father…
His father was an admiral! A warrior! A sorcerer!
"You. Are. A. Fool to disregard his wrath," he hissed.
"His wrath? You actually think you could rouse his sympathies? You?" Harris's teeth glinted in the torchlight outside Alfred's cell. "O America, he'd think you were right where you belong. Where all traitors belong."
"...you're wrong."
But he felt less certain than he had a moment ago. And the iron got heavier as his shoulders sagged.
And the man laughed.
It was strange to be defeated that way.
No forceful blow.
He'd always known words to have curious powers over man and nation.
But to be brought down by a sound...
Alfred choked and his eyes stung.
He needed...
Needed...
"DAAADDDDY!" he screeched like he was being skinned alive.
"Ally, what the f-Oh no, we ARE going. We are definitely-"
"DAAAAAAAAAAAA-"
But Texas's efforts to launch them deep into the middle of the river were foiled when their raft lurched to a hard stop.
"-ddy," Alfred looked over his shoulder and his jaw dropped.
England was up to his chest in the water. One hand holding the root of a tree, the other...the raft.
Dude...
His dad was single handedly pulling their raft back against a strong current and heaving them closer to the shore.
Alfred scrambled over to the man.
"Al!"
He dodged Tex's swiping arm and ignored Mathieu's soft, "Are you okay?"
He climbed like a baby spider monkey out of the raft and onto Arthur's back.
Tex's face had "HELL NO" written all over it. "Don't you dare go welching you-"
Arthur gave the raft a good shove into the river as he announced, "Alfie and I are heading back to camp."
And that was that.
"S-sorry," Alfred mumbled once they were safe under the boughs of trees.
Arthur chuckled tiredly. "It's quite alright. You changed your mind."
"Y-yeah." Yeaaaah, let's call it 'changing our mind' and not 'flipping a biscuit,' Alfred thought.
"Now, you DO wish to go back, not just to ride in the second raft? Correct?"
"I don't wanna raft right now." He tried not to feel like a coward.
"Alright. Then we're on the same page. I'm not much for rafting right now, either."
Almost.
They were almost on the same one. He sighed.
"If they try to give you trouble, I'll give them trouble," Arthur declared in a hard voice.
That inspired a wave of guilt.
Alfred wished he could do something, especially since the rescue effort had hurt Arthur; he was limping again.
He tried to lighten the load for his old man by saying he was feeling better so he could be set down.
But Arthur was determined to carry him into camp.
And he warned Alfred not to lie again.
The irregular squelching footsteps and all the affection they signified coaxed him into sharing the memory.
Arthur wanted the truth from him?
Fine.
He could spare a little.
For him.
Arthur paused and breathed heavily for a few minutes before he continued moving forward.
When he did speak again, his tone was low and gruff. "Harris… was very lucky to have escaped me."
Alfred climbed up to sit on Arthur's shoulders. "You'd have humiliated him in front of the whole garrison." Arthur had always been a pro with his cutlass. "Disarmed him like an amateur."
Arthur laughed hollowly as he steadied Alfred by the legs. "Like my wrath would've been so easily satisfied with such a display."
"Yes, you probably would've killed him," he reasoned aloud.
Arthur's silence was a confirmation.
And their bond whispered that it would've been gruesomely done.
It wasn't as distressing a thought as it should've been; that his father would kill for him.
He knew that already.
To keep him…the Battle of Camden was testament to how far he'd go.
To protect him…A German that got the drop on Alfred in the trenches, got a bayonet through the face.
To support him…They'd been war allies in more campaigns than…well…than he could even accurately recall...
Daddy adored him. He'd never allow anyone to treat him so miserably.
Not even an American…
Harris…
He'd have slashed Harris to pieces.
Like Grym…
Like he'd been prepared to do to the UnSeelie king…
He thought of the dripping bag that had been in Alistair's hand. The one that shouldn't have been a surprise because—
"My father will have your head for this."
And he would gladly display it on London Bridge with other degenerates. The way he used to when Alfred was small. He remembered peeking through the shutters of the carriage for a glimpse when they-
No…that was bad…Harris was an American…someone America was duty-bound to protect even if…even if…deep down...
Even if…
He rested his cheek on the top of father's head. A dark feeling that was hard to decipher passed between them.
Arthur patted his left leg gently and that made it a little easier to accept.
Yes…
He'd almost call it a smug satisfaction.
It made him feel oddly safe.
Yes, Harris was wrong.
Father's wrath was a terrible thing.
A frightful shield…
And only the adored, like himself, could shelter under it without fear.
Arthur helped Alfred remove and store his safety vest, helmet, and wet suit.
He was pleased that the child hadn't voiced any discontent over the equipment (in putting it on or taking it off). Perhaps he was finally seeing the light, so to say? That such things were meant to safeguard him? What was fashion in comparison to safety?
Arthur would never willingly risk him if he could help it. He'd gladly weather taunts over him being a "worrywart" and "mother hen" and "wet blanket," as he had earlier while prepping their raft.
It was difficult; keeping up with conversation while also keeping Alfred in sight.
The child had the most terrible habit of wandering.
He'd circle a tree thrice, flit about, fall behind, and sprint ahead…
He'd already scolded the child twice and earned a glare from Scotland and Texas.
Yes, he knew he was being overprotective. But they'd received a threat that morning!
And even if they hadn't…this river had a dangerous undertow! Yes, they weren't rafting near it but…but…water demanded respect!
Alfred's ice incident should've driven that home, but his son was flippant when Arthur tried to explain how unforgiving water could be.
The boy had countered with, "Trees demand respect too, and that's why they claim skiers. You don't play chicken with a tree. They don't bluff."
He'd skipped off before Arthur could deliver the soft swat to the rear the child deserved for such a speech.
"Give me a night. Two. Gimme two," the Scotsman held up two large square fingers. "I'll get to the bottom of it."
Arthur adjusted his hold on the raft. "No, it would be easier if we just left for the time present. The four of us can return at a later date to resolve whatever the witch-problem is-"
"We don't even know if there's one here and I hate that term, 'witch.' Ack, a 'witch' doesn't even necessarily mean a magic user, let alone a dark one. You remember the burnings."
Yes…yes, Arthur did.
"Plenty went up which weren't witches even in the loosest sense of magic wielder. A 'witch' is just anyone yeh don't like, usually one who's odd and got no connections, and yeh'd like to see 'em gone."
"…I can't take any chances. What if it's a hag? The UnSeelies of our isle are fond of Alfred and they're still dangerous. Still malevolent, still harmful to him. Their king plucked his bloody eye and still considers himself his number one fan!? How can we be certain that ones here, like this 'witch of the wood,' won't be worse? Is it native to the soil? Is it one of ours come through the gate years ago? If it is one of ours, it hasn't had contact with the Courts in centuries. You know damn well how unruly a human colonist can get after years with laissez faire governance. I shudder to think what a fae-"
"Fine," Alistair set his end down in the water. "Say there is a witch. Pre-1812."
"1814," Arthur corrected. "That's when Alfred closed the gate."
"What then? You gonna send me off after her with your blessing? Me and Reilley, maybe? Why put off what I can just do now?"
"…" It was going to be a long raft ride.
"There was a time you'd be leading the charge with me. For curiosity, for dominion, for sport, for spite-"
"I won't leave the children unguarded."
"Yer afraid," Alistair sneered. "That's what bound that bodach to yeh. Yer freezin' up. Yeh gotta buck-"
Arthur stumbled to a stop and water lapped at his legs. "Afraid? O, I'm not afraid. I'm fucking terrified. Too much has happened this past year for me to-"
"DAAAAAAAAAADDY!"
He was moving.
He was moving without any clear thought—pure paternal instinct and fear drove him to his child. He wouldn't lose him! He wouldn't lose him! He wouldn't-
Alfred smiled sweetly up at him. His fair hair shone in the sun, the apples of his cheeks were rosy, and his eyes were bright and blue.
He was always all the colors of a clear, spring day.
Precious thing…
Arthur picked him up once more. The child nuzzled his face into Arthur's neck and it took a lot not to hold him too tightly.
He wouldn't lose him.
He aimed a kiss at the child's temple.
He wouldn't let anyone or thing harm him.
His little one grinned and giggled at the stubble that brushed against him. In the chaos of the morning, Arthur had forgotten to shave.
Since their talk in the woods, Alfred had been quite partial to him. He kept close. He was affectionate. Almost obedient.
Perhaps it was a little concerning that bloodshed was the topic that prompted the tenderness but…
Alfred remembered Arthur being his protector.
No, it was more than that.
Arthur could sense it.
It was a reality that was being embraced once more.
Arthur was his protector. Naturally, it would always be so.
But the child knew it again.
Arthur was being leaned into with a confidence, a certainty that no harm would follow.
A warmth not unlike sunshine radiated through their bond. His child's presence felt lighter…younger…more transparent; old worries and sorrows were melting free from him.
He wished he was better with aura-reading. Rhys would've been able to tell more.
His eldest brother was only mildly surprised to find they'd returned early.
"Common sense prevailed?" he'd asked dryly as he joined them in the clearing with a basketful of newly gathered kindling. "It's far too cold for…"
He had then realized Arthur was soaked to the skin and made a great fuss over it.
Arthur belatedly realized that carrying Alfred had gotten the child damp as well.
Thankfully, a change of clothes for them both and Alfred's shy explanation over what had transpired put out Rhys's ire.
The Welshman put together a light lunch (for what supplies they'd brought had largely gone into the rafters' iceboxes) and the three retired to the tent for the afternoon.
Arthur and Rhys sat down on the ends of an air mattress and passed Arthur's copy of Sir Gawain between them.
Alfred seemed beyond delighted to stretch out between them as his favorite story was read out. And it was good to put the child's mind at ease after such an upsetting memory.
There'd been something strangely familiar about the setting and the sight of that yoke had infuriated the Englishman.
Part of an anchor…
It was needlessly cruel, crueler than even Alfred knew.
Due to a convenient puddle, Alfred had read Loden stamped across the fragment.
He hadn't known what it meant though.
Arthur did.
England enjoyed personalizing the anchors of ships he was fond of or served on with their vessel's name.
That anchor had belonged to the HMS Culloden, the ship was a loss. It ran aground during the American Revolution.
While he'd never met Harris, he knew the man's type. It was no coincidence.
And it burned that something of his was used against America in such a way.
They were in the midst of the third chapter, Arthur was giving Alfred's feet a massage and Rhys was reading with more vigor than usual, when Alfred asked abruptly, "Could I have been a knight?"
Arthur stared numbly at the soft pink toes in his hold.
"No," Rhys answered.
Arthur choked.
No…
Alfred was terrible at taking orders; particularly, ones he didn't like or ones from superiors he wasn't fond of. It wouldn't be a stretch to say he was fundamentally insubordinate because he took a certain perverse joy from defiance.
But there had to be a kinder way to-
"…oh…" his child mumbled. Alfred worked hard to suppress his grief but a rush of great pain and disappointment leaked through.
Arthur clasped the small feet in his hands and searched for something to say; something that would be encouraging but honest.
That Alfred didn't need to be a knight any more than he needed to be a sailor to have Arthur's love and approval. "Alfie-"
Rhys set the book down. "I thought you wished to be a hero?"
Arthur frowned. What was he getting at? Alfred was very attached to fairy tale figures…and…well…Arthur. It was easy to see where his admiration of knighthood came from. It had to be handled delicately.
Rhys shrugged, "I knew plenty of knights. From all over our lands." He gestured around to mean his brothers' territories included. "I couldn't boast a handful that were real heroes."
Arthur got rather indignant at that but when he stood up his leg buckled so he swiftly sat back down.
Alfred stared anxiously after him, his face so genuinely distressed that Arthur immediately reached over to pat his shoulder.
"O, don't fret. It happened a long time ago-"
"Crusades," the boy replied.
"Yes."
"…what happened?"
"Now, love, I've already told you time and again, it was-"
"Yeah, but you were lying."
That caught both Arthur and his brother off-guard.
Alfred sat up and tucked his knees under his chin. "I never had anything not heal right for so long, except my eye. And that was magical. And even that just took a few years. This has lasted centuries. What happened? Who'd you tick off? What contract did you break?"
Arthur's mouth set into a grim line. "Misusing a magical artifact can earn you quite a nasty backlash."
"So, it is magic then." His young face hardened with that severe expression he got whenever he felt something unjust was at work.
Arthur felt old and sad, but he smiled, "Do calm down, sweet. It was earned."
Arthur hadn't planned on continuing with any more than that, but Alfred wouldn't let it go…and bit by bit the cause of his injury came out.
Arthur sighed. The last hour had felt like an eternity.
Rhys shifted uncomfortably in his seat by the fire as he stirred a less than hearty soup for supper. He complained again about how they hadn't picked up the necessary food supplies.
"I didn't expect us to still be here," Arthur responded plainly.
His child was being curiously inflexible and Arthur had an idea of why: fraternal loyalty. If he was right, Arthur would need to appeal to Texas to end the trip.
"You…you showed courage earlier…disclosing the…disastrous Constantinople."
"…" He stared. Rhys wasn't one to hand out compliments.
"While I too criticize your judgment at times, your bravery is-"
"And here I thought you always called it 'reckless arrogance' before?"
He could recall all too easily the numerous times his eldest brother had derided him for taking on quests and missions and going headlong into danger…often on the frontlines.
"I'm certain that it is precisely that quality which aids it," Rhys noted as his eyebrow twitched.
Arthur laughed softly and agreed, "It does indeed."
Rhys looked away and then back—surprising him by making direct eye contact rather than staring breezily about him. "It was a bad moment. A…a plague on us all if…we're to be judged only on our…worst moments…"
Arthur closed his eyes and nodded solemnly.
"But you're wiser for it, are you not?"
Arthur opened his eyes and nodded again. God, he missed the might of that blade though. And to be free of the weight of dishonor that accompanied its loss…
"It was never your courage that failed," Rhys offered.
"No, it was my mercy and decency-"
"No."
"…"
"It was your temper."
Arthur slumped and he stared at his feet. He sighed, "…always."
"Hotheaded. You and Alistair. That's why you two were constantly at one another's throat at the slightest provocation-"
"At least we had it out," Arthur grumbled as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We weren't like you and Reilley. I've read up more. 'Grief collectors' is what they call it. Grudge-holders. It's damn inconvenient, having you store up your ill will and dole out punishments whenever you fancy. At the drop of a hat, I can receive the comeuppance for something I'd done decades earlier rather than a beat after. Which is discombobulating to say the least for I'll think something is water under the bridge and suddenly-"
"I'll work on that."
That left him flummoxed.
Rhys laced his fingers. "It seems only fair that I...when you…you…you have been working on your restraint…your anger."
"Yes, 'anger management.'" He needed to check in with his counselor that night.
"…the difference is noticeable. I still hold with the other advice I gave you, but I daresay you'll be in a better position to argue why you're the most fit for guardianship."
"…"
Damnation, he was getting choked up.
"There will likely be some obstacles in the form of-"
Movement caught his eye.
"Mind that gap," Arthur leaned his head to indicate the bottom of the tent.
"What?"
"Look lower," Arthur ordered.
Rhys straightened. Sure enough, Alfred was peeking from the bottom.
"A change in topic, if you would be s-so kind? I'm...I'm not ready yet…"
Hazel eyes looked at him a little sharply.
It wasn't that he wanted secrecy.
He didn't.
The sooner he could tell Alfred the better.
He just didn't want to spring it on the boy.
No…
It was just…
"Need…r-right words…right timing…to-to…"
Rhys nodded.
He needed time to think it all through. How to best communicate the arrangement he wanted for Alfred.
For Alfred's sake.
Rhys rested a hand on Arthur's shoulder in support.
And it surprised him how much he needed it.
He held the hand there for a moment and got a squeeze before they both released each other a breath later.
Damn…
The sack of Constantinople…
It always put him off balance.
He'd never wanted to share such a tale, but he was never very good at denying his son anything.
He'd half-expected his child to besiege him with angry questions of why Arthur hadn't bothered to do this or that.
And while it would've embarrassed him, he'd have told Alfred about a fifteen-year-old who loved power, glory, swords, beer, pleasure, hunting, and horses. And in that order.
That teen could barely read and just enough to look over tithes and read dirty jokes etched onto walls.
That teen didn't know what latitude was or how illnesses spread. Didn't care about smelting processes as long as he was provided with what he wanted and was given the guarantee that it was the best out of his legion. Because he was the highest ranked of them and therefore deserving.
For years, almost from the moment he'd named his child, Arthur had tried to fortify himself. He'd known that the moment would come. That he would eventually have to confess and weather the scorn that it took him centuries to realize why King Alfred was Great and not just some strange scholar-type that liked nagging him to improve his mind with stupid lessons.
Reading and writing were monkish pastimes unbefitting of a warrior like him. It was a bore to visit places like Lindisfarne.
That king would've loved Roanoke, who'd barely left the womb of the Earth and knew instinctively as he etched a triumphant 'A' into sand and dirt that knowledge was power.
That child was hungry with curiosity. He starved for knowledge. Arthur had never been like that at his same age. He'd learned as he'd needed to; often as the result of direct experience or at the consequence of ignorance.
Alfred was the only suiting name he could give.
As Arthur explained the necessary background information for what led up to his injury, he waited nervously for an onslaught of questions.
Why wasn't he smarter then? More strategic? Why hadn't he seen the bigger picture? How his actions would affect the future? How it would affect Alfred's? Or the hypocrisy of his father's lectures about caution when his own stupidity cost them such a weapon?
How one thrust from Ex Caliber could've dispatched Grym?
How could Arthur lose something so valuable? Something that could've protected his little ones for millennia?
Why was war in the 1200s so goddamn different than battle in the 1700s and onward…
He knew Alfred wasn't a stranger to sights of brutality…
But brutality itself was never the norm for the child.
He was born to a later age; one that embraced civilization and reason; an age where brutality was a means to an end rather than a primal release.
Alfred simply sat there, without begging a single question, and heard the story with nary a passing emotion of condemnation or compassion.
He nodded after it was done and thanked him for his explanation before walking away.
1204.
The Fourth Crusade.
It was a disastrous endeavor rife with under table dealing, unscrupulous power plays, land seizures, and promised titles.
Matters only worsened once they landed in Byzantium. The Greeks were antagonistic to their fellow Latin inhabitants and downright hostile to the Crusaders...and the Crusaders were still livid over the Massacre of the Latins in 1182.
And then the empire of the Byzantines itself was unstable with constant changes in rulers and policy (sometimes admittedly the result of Crusader interference).
When Emperor Alexios V ordered Alexios IV's execution...
Conquest seemed the best course of action.
England rallied his troops along with others…
They were easy to rally...they were hard to control.
He remembered France's angry cursing as his men grew unruly and lascivious.
He remembered watching Hungary's ponytail as she raced headlong into a riot.
He remembered the outrage, the tension, the deep thrum of male voices thousands strong because wars were won with bodies.
He remembered the crackling energy that arose whenever too much testosterone was gathered in any one place.
Prussia's laughter and his own mingled as the teenagers goaded one another into more and more reckless charges.
He'd moved too strongly on self-righteous fury and zealous instinct.
Ex caliber was a sword of battle.
A kingmaker.
Duel-winner.
Smiter of evil.
It was never meant to be used on innocents and the moment it cleaved through the bones of a noncombatant…the blade rebounded hard and caught its wielder in the legs.
He and his victim shared a pool of blood.
On his return to their isle, Rhys had taken him to the Lady of the Water, concerned over Arthur's still festering wounds.
Deep as they'd been, a nation should've healed from them in weeks.
It had been half a year and Arthur had seen little to no improvement.
He needed answers! Guidance!
The Lady of the Water looked on him dispassionately. "There is no force of might or intricate incantation…No tool of man or mage what can remove this…affliction."
His fury heightened.
Yes, he'd made a mistake.
A terrible one but…how was he to protect his lands?
He glowered at her. How was he to combat Morgana's forces without his, by now, legendary blade? He had the terrible suspicion that only it, combined with his wand, would have strength enough to subdue her for all time.
She'd grown monstrously powerful from the time he'd first gathered knights to the year he'd created his Round Table.
"Tell me what I must do. How can I heal myself and regain my sword's loy-"
"There are no means at your disposal that can relieve you of this well-earned injury. You betrayed your instrument of power."
"No! They betrayed us first-"
"Reason all you like. It will not break that doom."
"…is there no hope for me then…to reclaim my strength?"
She looked thoughtful for a moment, the light glistening off and through her form. But she was always a rather pessimistic entity. "You will never again be what you were."
He'd had arrows through the chest less painful than that admission.
Remembering it laced him with shame each time.
And now he'd passed the tale on, opening himself to further chastisement. It could easily be thrown in his face in future arguments.
And the possibility gave him some dread because his son knew how to twist a dagger and this was a sword. The most sacred sword Arthur had ever possessed.
Alfred must've known the weight of what he'd learned...his silence was heavy.
He'd gone off to play his violin.
And Arthur sighed as haunting melodies filled the air.
His son either knew the clout of the information he now had at his disposal and was brooding over how best to use it in future rows.
Or…
He was disappointed in his father.
Strange, how that was almost worse.
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