Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, James Bond, or John Calvin's: "Rejoicing refers to moderation of spirit when the mind keeps itself in calmness under adversity and does not give indulgence to grief." Or Benjamin Franklin's "...in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes."
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Boxty: an Irish potato pancake, popular historically among the poor houses and work mills because it required only a few, cheap ingredients. Cold water shock can cause death. Rafting without proper equipment is VERY dangerous. Youghiogheny is a hard word to spell and to say for mortals like me. It's an Algonquian word meaning "Contrary Stream." Shakespearean fashion. RIP Greenwich Palace. British Slang "take the piss out of" someone—joke at or about someone, particularly at their expense, etc. Headcanon: America attends lots of medical innovations and operation theaters because heroes can save the day by knowing how to tend a victim or brother-in-arms. England being a history era snob. Child endangerment is a serious offense.
AN: Hey all, thank you for your awesome reviews and enthusiasm! It's been so fun reading through them all and seeing the different angles and loyalties and I hope you continue enjoying the ride. This chap kept growing so I finally had to pick a spot and split it or I would've needed even more time to finish it (and it would've been as huge as the last one). Enjoy!
Chapter 47: Gonna Kill Him
England sighed as he walked through the ornate gardens of Greenwich Palace.
The Palace of Placentia had been demolished years ago by Charles II so he knew at once he was dreaming.
There were plenty of good and bad memories he associated with the location as history had seen fit to fling moments of joy and horror haphazardly; births, stillborns, arrests...
Shakespeare had performed for them here, was performing now in this half-memory but England had left in agitation—ignoring his monarch's calls for him to stay.
The fresh air should've calmed him. The symmetry of the hedges should have soothed him. The proximity to the Thames, and therefore the great and powerful presence of water, should've relaxed him.
They didn't.
He looked about for something to distract him from his distemper and saw tiny Roanoke curled up in the shade of a great tree. The babe was watching him with large mournful blue eyes.
The white gown was worn through and dirty—its hem was snagging along the roots of the oak he was nestled between.
England rushed over and removed his waistcoat to bundle the child up.
He cradled the toddler to his breast and made to enter the castle, intent on bringing him inside to warm him by a fire and see him fed. He'd probably need to swat away over-curious aristocrats and servants, but that would be easy enough. He wasn't known as a particularly pleasant fellow. Though his child was very pretty and that alone might induce otherwise sensible humans to linger and catch a glimpse of their nation's offspring.
Roanoke clutched at Arthur's jerkin with an anxious little hand—nails sharp and overgrown from neglect. Poor thing, Arthur would have to give them a trim or the baby could cut himself on them.
He cooed softly that all would be well soon and was just on the threshold when the toddler shook his head gravely and looked away.
"I am unwelcome."
Arthur woke with a great sense of ire, psychic pain, and general soreness. Damnation! Alfred was doing that-that THING he hated—flattening their bond to a point where it felt monstrously like a death.
He felt all out of sorts and only semi-acknowledged that he was being carried by an grim-faced Scotland.
His brother set him down on the paper of a examining bed in some cheap 24-hour emergency room.
Rhys turned the lights on and mentioned something about a specialist being sent out to them as they spoke but that the staff was instructed to leave them largely to themselves. One doctor would be visiting to assess Arthur's condition and ensure he was stable until said "specialist" arrived.
"Wot?"
He didn't feel critically injured. Woozy maybe.
"Now, yeh stopped bleedin' but the doc's going to have a look at yeh," Alistair repeated solemnly.
Arthur noticed belatedly that his trousers were ragged and his legs were wrapped with towels. Was that a tourniquet?
"Gwalia and I did what we could, so yer life's not in danger but-"
Being a nation of strength and substance, his body was already regenerating, but his legs were terribly numb and he needed to know for himself the extent of his injuries.
Ignoring their cries of alarm, he broke the cord and pulled the bloodstained scraps off to reveal blood stained skin and several thin fading pink lines—where the skin had been expertly cut. The incisions had been made as minimal as possible.
But then Alfred had always been interested in amassing medical knowledge; all through the 1800s, he'd flocked to operating theaters—merry in spite of the macabre settings.
Arthur carefully traced the already sealed lines. Surgical precision. Knowledge of Langer's lines. A few careful prods revealed the muscles therein had been split rather than cut to speedup recovery and minimize damage and scarring.
It gave him a funny realization that Alfred had probably been more qualified to perform the operation he'd received last October than his relatives had been to give it.
He wasn't even going to need stitches. At this point, his body had already knitted the skin together itself.
A few rounds of healing spells would restore his energy levels and a nap or three would relax his sore muscles, and no one would know he'd suffered at all this day.
Arthur doubted he'd even have scars.
Well, physical ones.
Having his will forcibly ignored and going without any anesthetic was hardly what he'd call a jolly good morning.
"Alfred," he uttered darkly. "I think you and I need to have a discussion about what does and doesn't constitute as consent, young man."
Rhys fidgeted. "Arthur, I had no idea he would injure you. I'm sorry. He must've been bewitched some time between when we'd left the campsite and-"
"Bewitched?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. He'd been troubled, most assuredly, but not bewitched. He'd seemed to be under his own command, hadn't he? Though...he was...off… "He wasn't-"
"He did that of his own free will!?" Alistair was aghast.
Arthur bristled at the horror in their eyes.
Was it painful? Yes. Unnecessary? Definitely. Unforgivable? Hardly.
Maybe it was having a timeline full of treacheries that this event didn't merit too high on his list?
The child had remembered some magical healing technique he'd used long ago and, with the well-intentioned tyranny of a bullheaded tot, sprung it on him.
This wasn't even the first occasion; once, when Alfred had been adult-sized and their bomber was going down, the American had manhandled the Briton into a parachute and pushed him out before he could even contemplate offering another to go in his place, as he would regenerate. The whole affair had been rather dramatic and after forcing everyone off the plane, America had still managed to land it without significant damage to himself or the aircraft.
Remembering it still made Arthur angry—so much risk involved...the boy always took such reckless gambles...
"He did it so...so you wouldn't follow him?" Alistair hazarded a guess.
"Wot?" Arthur answered distractedly and scratched an ear.
His brain was quite fuzzy.
Had Alfred done this to him to slow him down? Put him out of commission?
That didn't sound right.
Pacing usually helped him think, he threw his legs over the side of the bed to stand.
"Do you think you should be at that?!"
"Barkin' mad-"
He stood staring as both brothers had a hand on him to steady him.
Unnecessary.
Completely...un...
For a moment, he simply stared at his bloodstained socks.
"It's...gone."
Having it gone almost felt like losing a piece of himself.
"Albion?"
"It's gone. The hex. Excalibur's..."
He tested himself—rotated his ankles, bent down and then straightened rapidly. No cracking of pained joints, no wincing as muscles protested around badly healing splinters of bone.
"Gone."
"He...he healed you?" All the color drained from Rhys's face.
Alistair swore.
Arthur blinked owlishly and then rubbed his nose and then stretched his arms overhead. "And this, Alfie, is why we ask permission before we spellcast over someone and we let others know our plan before we act on it, particularly with experimental magic. Others tend to misunderstand and overreact and-"
It was too quiet.
He froze and look around. "Alfred?"
He wasn't hiding in a cabinet again?
"Aye, sooo…" Alistair began. "Bout that 'misunderstanding' here. I thought, and I wasn't alone mind you, I thought he was using some dark arts there. I mean, you were a prick a lot in the past...and vengeance here and now was a possibility or he was bein' bewitched or somemat. But you are our brother so we got yeh somewhere safe. That...er...that was the reasoning...we uh..."
The Englishman looked around again. No. He frowned and blinked rapidly.
"...there was so much blood. Arthur, you don't know how it looked-"
He was remembering something more.
He rubbed his forehead.
"-cut into you and you weren't resisting or awake or-"
Why hadn't he just stopped the child from operating on him?
At first, he'd been shocked and aggrieved that his son would want to cause him pain.
Then he'd been terrified to find that there were no boundaries between them and Alfred barged into his subconscious with all the subtlety of a rampaging buffalo but…
He rubbed his brow. Why hadn't he stopped the child? He'd fought the kneejerk instinct to force him away for fear he'd not manage his strength correctly. And if he'd accidentally broken those small arms or worse...he'd have never forgiven himself.
And then?
No boundaries.
He blinked.
Yes…
There'd been no boundaries.
NO boundaries and he'd been concerned and abashed to find Alfred had no real regret for the pain he was causing.
Surely, he registered it?
The boy didn't.
Or rather, he did but it was...removed—settled in a place where it wouldn't distract him from what he was doing.
And Arthur realized in that moment that Alfred didn't have any boundaries either and he almost fell through the child even as he tried to back away (because he didn't have permission to be there).
Even in his effort to retreat back into himself, he was stupefied by that maelstrom that was his son—that blend of hopeful delight, steely determination, and ominous resignation.
He even recognized an almost casually familiar arrogance; Alfred believed his actions couldn't be wrong because HE was the one performing them.
Well, that had to be addressed (in himself and his child)
Funny how a child could act as a mirror for certain faults.
He groaned and put the heels of his hands to his eyes. Sharing that memory against his will…
God…
He'd never wanted to...
And then having Alfred shove one at him thinking all shame was equal and was better met head on with a mixture of acceptance and apathy rather than repentance and anguish.
It only caused him more pain. One, because Alfred dismissed Arthur's moral philosophies, lack of education, and nonexistent sophistication as a symptom of a bygone era and a matter of prioritization rather than a personal failing.
Two, he held them to wildly different standards, he openly mocked ignorance in himself reasoning that a representative of the Age of Enlightenment being unable to read fluently was inherently absurd and hilarious.
The fact that he'd been a very young child wasn't even acknowledged. Almost as though, and Arthur hoped he was wrong, Alfred believed he was to be judged with the same set of rules then as now. And he didn't seem to think he needed any slack in judgment...ever.
Being ruthlessly condemned for shortcomings whatever they were and whenever they happened…
Humiliation...suffering...was a cause for...
"Rejoicing refers to moderation of spirit when the mind keeps itself in calmness under adversity and does not give indulgence to grief."
And it had been a strange thing to know John Calvin's quote then...hadn't come from Arthur.
He shuddered at the emphasis the child put on "does not give indulgence to grief."
No "indulgence to grief"...
No time or room to suffer sorrow when it stung.
No pity to be had or harbored.
Like age, intelligence, and maturity barely factored into what should and shouldn't be expected of him. It seemed like America didn't think it mattered now since he went toe-to-toe with older nations and adult humans so why should it have mattered then?
Even when all the scales had been against him.
That bothered Arthur.
That strange sense that being clever invalidated his being a child. That great shrug that life was fundamentally unfair and cruel so being kicked when one was down was practically a guarantee, along with "death and taxes."
Still...
Just because something was unfair and commonplace didn't mean it was right.
And maybe he was a stickler for historical accuracy, but England would be swift to point out that Classicism was only beginning to influence Europe. The pursuit of knowledge was just gaining interest. That mattered because that memory of America's was soundly in the Jacobean era with a touch of Baroque. NOT the Age of Enlightenment where means and expectations of self-improvement abounded.
Education was hard to come by indeed for someone in the early 1600s with no connections or guardian and that Alfred had been learning what he could through various chance encounters with Puritans and traders in the far removed New World was nothing short of miraculous.
It also explained why he mastered the alphabet so easily when Arthur set out to instruct him; he'd already wanted to learn and had figured out a good portion on his own.
It also meant Arthur might've taken a bit too much credit as a brilliant tutor when his charge took to reading like a duck took to swimming.
For all his intellect and instinct though...America just...had a very weak grasp on how eras worked. Eras influenced THEM not the other way around. Though he'd only lived through a handful so that might've explained it.
England sighed and then there was the fact that his little one, again for all his brilliance, was still a child. He had an expansive vocabulary, goodness yes, he'd sensed it while floating through, but hadn't yet mastered the depths of each word in it.
Functioning off the bad advice of poor-quality thesauruses, his Alfred thought quite a few words were interchangeable, like "insolence."
He didn't understand all the nuances and shades of that word and why context mattered and that it couldn't be applied to him for all-time.
O he could act impertinent, that was for certain, but he wasn't the epitome of incivility and effrontery and he shuddered to think the child would eagerly list it as a character trait.
Alfred mistook insolence for a rude sort of stubborness...like gall...only, in truth, he veered more closely to audacity on a spectrum measuring reckless courage.
CONVICTION proved a far better word for his Alfred. And yes, it could be used for good or ill.
In fact, Alfred's conviction, that he was acting in the best interests of all he cared for, largely kept Arthur's temper in check.
Much of what he'd done was ill-founded, short-sighted, and foolish but…
Seen from his side...
Arthur could almost see why his son felt a secret mission to scope out Osha's information on the gate's location without informing anyone beyond Texas and Hawaii was necessary.
Almost.
"Alfred? Come here," he commanded. "We must talk, you and I."
No. That was a lie.
He could've almost understood it...if it had been aimed at some stranger, some distant acquaintance, or legal authority.
He had a very difficult time accepting that his child saw fit to deceive him, though he did at least appreciate the struggle that Alfred had gone through; it seemed he'd been poised to tell Arthur several times about his real intentions but always reneged at the last moment.
What he couldn't fathom was why his child was reluctant to ally himself with his family? When they had knowledge, strength, wisdom, magic, and-and-and WERE FAMILY!
He'd wondered that on his initial discovery of the deception and because there'd been no clear distinguishing line of self between father and son, there were no pretences. No smiles and sugar-coating or distracting tangents or metaphors. The child answered instantaneously and succinctly for he was callously honest with himself: fear and guilt.
Afraid he was losing his edge, taking advantage of those near him, complicating things by overreaching, pitting facets of family against one another: Iroquois versus the U.K. versus Texas and the rest of "Team USA."
Well, that answer was clean-cut enough that Arthur could address it immediately.
The harder thing to understand was the effervescent guilt that floated lazily through Alfred's subconscious. It shimmered and distorted things like a heat wave. Having one "pop" prompted an almost giddy certainty that nothing was ever quite good enough.
But Alfred always had hope that he'd manage perfection...someday. Like that moment when he was certain he could help Arthur even whilst he was hurting him first.
And that was when Arthur put his finger on it.
What troubled him most about the whole thing: the dissociation Alfred was experiencing…
Like Alfred and his thoughts and his feelings and his memories were worlds apart and Arthur was just as far away despite his obvious proximity.
And he followed their bond down, down, down into that same frigid place he'd gone once before...when the child almost...in the forest when Osha was commanding him to-to...and he almost…
Arthur found the familiar flare of his own pain spiking…along with Alfred's.
And it startled him to FEEL with absolute confidence that there was indeed a "bad thing" in the ground, full of malice and dark ambition.
Alfred couldn't distinguish those traits though. He just didn't have millenia's worth of experience with fae. Couldn't pick up on it as easily.
He knew only that it was a "bad thing." That was all he could label it as. "A bad thing." "The bad thing."
"The bad thing in the woods...in the ground...that hurt him...because it wanted something."
Alfred had gone to great lengths that no one felt it through him...had divorced the feeling from himself so neither Arthur or Rhys would pick up on it.
Even though it stretched and wound itself through the woods to reach him and claw incessantly at his magic-imbued feet like carving knives.
But that private excruciating pain didn't faze Alfred because he was going to cure his father of his hex! And no pain from surgeon or patient was going to interfere!
And all the arrogance of hope and irrepressibility of love and desperation to prove himself, crowded out doubt and sensibility and pain and pressed those feelings deeper into that compartment of self Arthur was investigating.
No, nothing mattered as long as Alfred succeeded.
Arthur blew out a breath and stared at a container of cotton balls and tongue depressors.
It had to be a leyline. A special one designed by the Witch of the Woods specifically for Alfred...to harm him. The humanistic emotions Arthur sensed were likely vestiges of the witch's feelings. Sometimes magic took on qualities from the caster like thumbprints left on an object.
Again, he felt his temper rise because Alfred had unnecessarily risked himself by staying silent on the matter. They could've left immediately. No gate (promise to the UnSeelie King be damned) was worth crossing paths with some vengeful witch while they were woefully unprepared.
"We'll give him a call or a text. How 'bout now?" Alistair hastily inquired.
Arthur stared. "Wot?"
He was too busy checking every empty corner of the room. Because…because it seemed like...the only three in the room were...himself, Rhys, and Alistair.
And that couldn't be.
No.
Nonononononononono.
He ran his hands through his hair.
"Here, I'll dial and-"
"Wot? What? WHAT?! No. No. You're both taking the piss out of me." He laughed a bit unsteadily. "No. You couldn't be so stupid. You can't be."
Scotland shrugged and made a point not to look at him. Rhys sighed and closed his eyes.
"You're the freaking favorite uncle. You are a bloody empath." He was trying not to hyperventilate. "Alfred? Alfred! Alfred! I'm alright, Alfred. Come here. Please, come here. Alfie?!" he called to the open door and hallway. No small footsteps drew near. His heart was in his throat and he felt sure if he coughed, it'd flop onto the floor.
"Come here, baby! Daddy's alright. Just come here!"
Rhys took in a deep composing breath. "He is not here, Arthur. We...we separated you when it was clear he'd...done this to you. And we feared engaging him would be injurious to us as well."
Amazing how fast his fury could skyrocket.
He doubted there was a single occupant of the facility that didn't hear him as he roared, "You abandoned my child in the FUCKING FOREST?!"
Alistair casually closed the room's door and held it as hospital staff rushed toward it and tried to force it open. "Ack, it does sound bad when you phrase it that way. Dunno if this'll make yeh feel any better...but...technically, we also abandoned Eire."
"And Canada." Rhys shook his head slowly.
"Ack, shit, he's right! Off day. I mean, I haven't had any sleep so I'm...but you, Rhys, that one's on you."
Rhys frowned. "I like to believe that Reilley is using this as an opportunity to watch over them-"
"Don't yeh dare put all o' that faith on him. He can't be trusted to water my hedge-"
Arthur walked over to the window and forced it open.
No time like the present, he thought, let's see how good a spell you did, Alfred.
He climbed through and lowered himself by the sill. He landed catlike thirty feet down—ignoring his brothers' cries of dismay from above.
God, he hadn't been able to do that in ages.
He tested his knees and smirked in spite of himself. Watch out, Frog. You thought I was a force to reckon with in the Hundred Years' War?
His brothers followed suit with Rhys depending a bit on a drain pipe for guidance.
It was a small joy to feel unlevel ground underfoot and know it couldn't harm him as he ran.
"Arthur! Wait for us!" Alistair barked. "Damn you, wait!"
It made him feel strangely young and light. Moving this way. Lacking the hex.
Alfred liked feeling weightless. There was joy for him in the air; Arthur sensed that whenever the child was in flight. Was that what Alfred had been hoping to give Arthur back?
His instinct and the time he'd spent...er...floating through the child's subconscious...said it had something to do with all of that and more...and freedom.
Alfred had a near-fatal attraction to freedom.
Arthur hopped over a bike rack more because he could than because he needed to.
It was easy to see the allure. Maybe it was because Arthur was older, he was more weary of its dangers. Though... Alfred knew from experience the pitfalls therein and loved it anyway.
The way Arthur loved the treacherous sea.
"I'm calling the embassy to clear up this debacle." Wales waved a hand at the modest hospital.
Arthur frowned and looked for the direction of the parking lot. "Call the Ranger! Alfred's in there alone. That's endangerment!"
Even if this sudden freedom worked to Alfred's advantage.
"We're heading right back," Alistair stated. "Do we really need to-"
"Call. The. Park. Rangers!"
Even if Alfred was a very capable individual of impressive talent and grit and skill.
"On it," Wales answered.
"Keys!" he ordered. Alistair tossed them to him.
Even if he prized freedom to absurd heights and would gladly take on a challenge for the bragging rights that he faced the witch of those woods alone and triumphed.
He'd settle for proving himself...for glory...and power…and all the accessories and mantels of manhood and empire.
Arthur unlocked the van and threw himself into the driver's seat.
Before the pain had grown too intense to stay focused, Arthur had asked the child pointblank what he wanted...in his heart of hearts. So Arthur could just finally fucking know what made the boy tick.
Love.
He wanted love.
He wanted to be loved...the way he loved freedom...the way he loved...with complete abandon of all things sensible. With acknowledgment and acceptance of all the stark shortcomings and brutal realities—the best and worst and all the gray between and a dismissal of them. He didn't want to be loved piecemeal.
"I want you to see me!"
'And love me…'
"You…you have this...other me
that you think I'm supposed to be in your head.
Yes, you do! You think if I did this or did that, or learned this or learned that!
If I dress or act just so...I could be him. The me, that you wish was me.
And when I fail to live up to him, you punish me!
And I'd rather have you hate me,
than say you love me
when you love him instead!"
'I want you to know me. Because then you can make an informed decision. You throw your "I love you's" so carelessly when you hardly even know me and what I can do. I want to show you. Because you can't really love me if you don't know me. And there's a real risk that knowing me...really...really knowing me will kill what you feel...but I'll always hope…and want...and wish for it.'
Arthur wished he could've held out a bit longer and just answered that back. But taking in two sources of agony proved too much and he'd blacked out.
Arthur had the car on and moving before Rhys's door shut.
He had to get back to his son and answer out loud. Maybe get Rhys to video it so the boy could have a record he couldn't twist or doubt.
Silly goose.
Like there was any uncertainty there. Like there could ever be. Ever.
And Arthur realized with a funny jolt.
He'd been talking to Spring; for whom all things were simple because he knew and remembered and understood everything—aware even despite being forced into dormancy.
That season wasn't missing or dead. He was just divorced from the other three and sleeping.
Rhys's fingers dug into the sides of his seat.
Arthur was using the windshield wipers to move the wreckage of a tollbooth gate.
"You...you...drove...through...I had change..."
Alba tapped his shoulder with a box of TUMS which he gratefully accepted. The Scotsman nodded at their brother and shrugged a shoulder. "Little Al had to get that crazy from somewhere."
"I am NOT the mad one. What POSSESSED you to just...just LEAVE him there? How could you?! God…"
"We just...made you the priority," Rhys stated.
"..."
"It's what Mum wanted, alright?" Alistair growled. "She made us promise that we'd look out for your skinny arse no matter-"
Arthur passed a car from the left side and didn't flinch as the other driver laid into their horn. "I don't give a damn what you promised or what she wanted."
Rhys stared and he was fairly certain Alistair gasped. Considering Arthur usually regarded her as a rather hallowed figure, this was...was...unprecedented.
Arthur made a hard turn to make the exit and did not slow down for speedbumps as he took a shortcut through a residential area.
"I realize you're thick. And because you are, I'm going to clear things up for you right now. You chose WRONG! But for the future, and considering our luck as of late, if it comes down to me or one of the children, let alone two of them. YOU CHOOSE THE CHILDREN! You FREAKING choose the children."
"Noted," Rhys replied.
"Write it down in your stupid, sodding little book. I know you have one on you. DO IT."
He obeyed and jotted it down.
They were quiet for a time as Arthur sped along to where their vehicle's GPS system signalled there was a Freeway exit.
Rhys shifted uncomfortably; there was an ominous circularity to Alfred's actions.
And it seemed to extend outward like a vortex that found the young American and those who loved him doomed to repeat the same misunderstandings over and over again.
He'd healed Arthur.
Healed him...not...
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Should you really be the one driving?"
"Belt up."
Rhys sighed. He dialed Mathieu twice and sent several texts. "Canada isn't answering."
Arthur's hands clenched the wheel.
Rhys blew out a slow, calming breath, and nearly dropped his phone when it rang.
"Speaker phone!" Arthur demanded.
But it wasn't Canada or America...it was Puerto Rico.
They'd exchanged numbers a while back because it was easier to collaborate grocery needs via text.
"Rico? Slow down. What-"
"W-we...we…we're doing all we c-can."
His voice was all wrong. Rhys's stomach tightened as the young man rushed to explain.
"Rafting?!" Arthur squawked. "At this time of-"
The sun was only just dawning.
Arthur was beside himself. "Good God, the water! Cold shock is almost a given—get hypothermia just from the spray!"
"We capsized. It was so sudden. The whole thing. Them...wanting to raft. And then that happening and nobody had any life preservers or anything and-"
Arthur had already been pale from blood loss, now he went gray and his driving grew erratic.
"Drive. Drive, Arthur, drive." Alistair undid his belt to throw himself half over the console to help steer.
"He's...that's why I can't feel him, isn't it? Rhys?" His youngest brother's mouth trembled.
The Welshman couldn't answer. Alfred had become dangerously adept at shielding. Some natural kind of affinity for it. Perhaps Osha had triggered it with her mental assaults or...or...something…?
It was terribly possible he'd cut them off and during the disconnection...died. It would explain why neither he nor Arthur had felt a welling of dread or pain the way they had in December.
He swallowed down the lump in his throat.
"Rhys?!"
Puerto Rico continued in the pause and it came out that no one had been wearing scuba suits and the flipline had broken. No precautions.
Arthur's breathing grew louder and shakier as grief and panic filled and overflowed.
Spain's voice came over then. "I lost them. I...lost them."
"Texas, also?" Alistair asked.
There was a sob on the other end and then Rico was back on the line. "It happened so fast. The water took them. It...it…"
Rhys gave Alistair a tap to let him know he'd assist with steering if Alistair saw to his phone.
Alistair sighed and settled back into his seat, staring glumly at the phone in his hand. "I'm sorry, Rico. Little brothers…"
Indeed.
"Albion," Rhys offered gently as he leaned as far as his seatbelt would allow to adjust Arthur's grip on the steering wheel. "If you pull to the side, we can switch. I can take over for you."
Arthur sniffled and shook his head and his command of the vehicle steadied. Rhys settled back into the passenger seat.
"Stupid idiota. S'posed to be a naval captain. Was a marine. Tha's not s'posed to happen to him. He's a good swimmer. I helped teach him I...I...she kept teasing him so I went and I helped teach him. I mean, I'm sitting here and I-I…" He went in and out of English and Rhys had trouble following. "-and Papi got the raft. He keeps going back in to try and find...he says there's an undertow...and-and I'm here with the raft and it's all flat and...and-" Quite abruptly Puerto Rico's tone changed. "Hijo de puta...Hijo...Son of a bitch! I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch. I'm gonna fucking KILL him!" A deluge of Spanish expletives followed and then the phone call ended.
Rhys struggled to make sense of it. "Grief sometimes takes on the semblance of anger-"
"Bollocks," Alistair cut in. "I know grief-rage. Tha' wasn't-" They heard a phone vibrate with an incoming call. The Scotsman extracted his own phone from his pocket and turned it to speaker phone. "There you are, yeh soulless boxty-eatin' clown. Way to get locked out of the loop-"
"-always teasin' me for keeping my phone in a plastic bag when I travel so it don't get wet. Who's the paranoid worrywart now, huh? They're expensive toys, ya follow? My bill's terrible without needing to replace the damn thing-"
"Mine's worse."
"Alistair." Rhys turned in his seat to deliver a glare.
"Sorry. Where the hell are you?"
"Ohhhhh, now yer wondering? Now, hmm? By the by, thanks for ditching me!" came a furious whisper. "I'm soakin' wet. Gonna chafe somethin' awful I tell ya-"
"Anytime. What's with you though? There's no way yeh talked yerself hoarse."
"Yeah well, I gargled a bit of the Yayagiohammy, er, the Yugiohenny? The Yugiogheny-"
"You were on the raft!?" Scotland replied.
That piqued Rhys and Alistair's attentions.
"How...How did yeh know about...I was gonna tell ya...best part. Who told?"
"Puerto Rico called about yer ship sinking there. I wondered at it fer a sec for Arthur and I both thought she was seaworthy. But now...knowin' a rotten luck Irishman was aboard. Nuthin' coulda saved her or the la-"
"-probably shoulda left Rico a note or texted or somethin'...don't have his number though. Sooo," his tone brightened, "were you all worried about me?"
"No," Alistair snickered.
"Yes." Rhys glowered at the redhead in their van, even as his face burned with guilt.
Their brother's mood soured. "Did yeh even care I was gone? Did ya even notice? Did ya even feckin' notice? I mean, I know Artie was a mushy mess and he's the wee baby but...he is alright, right?"
"Aye, he's fine," Alistair answered. "I mean, he's grievin' and weavin' on the road here on account of the laddies. But he's breathin' and he'll be fine. Where ARE you?" Alistair demanded. "Yeh near-drowned drama queen?"
"Use your GPS."
"My what? Me phone does that!?"
"Aye yer phone…'S the same as mine...bugger...hand it to Rhys. Hand it over ya eeedgit."
"Fine."
Rhys accepted both of the phones Alistair thrust at him, slipping his own back into his coat and focusing on the second.
"We did worry," Rhys insisted. "I-"
"Go to hell, yeh dragon-lovin' liar."
Rhys glowered and then turned the GPS feature on. "You're in the middle of the forest."
And for a moment he'd dared to believe Reilley had something useful to contribute.
"Aye!" was the jubilant, hushed reply.
Hazel eyes narrowed. "Why do you keep whispering? Is your throat hurt from-"
Reilley sucked in what seemed like an almost excited breath. "Espionage."
"Wha?"
"Wot?"
"What?"
"I...espionage...I-I know I'm sayin' the word right. Just cuz I ain't the James Bond type, the rest of you can't even be supportive for a half-second-"
Their Irish brother usually wasn't tasked with missions of that nature because he couldn't smother his accent. And he was too noticeable. What with his blindingly bright orange hair, the tendency to start arguments, and breaking into pub songs at the drop of a hat.
Alistair wasn't much better. Though he at least made an attempt not to engage with passersby or God forbid, ask for directions in enemy territory—drawing attention to the fact he was a foreigner.
Which was why undercover assignments were usually Arthur or Rhys's forte.
"Look. I'm following."
"Yer followin' what?" Alistair groused from the backseat. "For God's sake man, if you are bird-watchin' I'm gonna-"
"Don't get yer kilt in a bunch. The boys. I'm trackin' em."
"They're...alright?" Arthur stated faintly.
Reilley initiated Facetime and turned his phone away from himself. Rhys immediately recognized the forms of Alfred and Texas several spans away.
"They're alright," Rhys confirmed.
"Those little...creeps," Alistair seethed. A wrath very similar to Puerto Rico's was brewing in the Scotsman.
Rhys felt his own mood darken as he too deduced what was afoot.
"They're-they're…thank God," Arthur mumbled. "They're...w-why are you lot angry?"
Rhys frowned. "Arthur, they sabotaged their craft deliberately!"
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