Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or Matthew 6:14-15. Or Dante's Inferno: "I found one of you such that, for his acts, in soul he bathes already in Cocytus and up above appears alive, in body." Or John Calvin's quotes: "Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are ," "It is a cause for joy when God sets persecution before us but also bids us to rejoice…" and "you must submit to great suffering to discover the completion of joy." Or the Marvel Universe.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Super HUGE flashback sequence. Speaking ill of the dead. ANGST! Alfred-centric chap with a dash of Tex at the end.
***TRIGGER WARNING:
Contains graphic violence! Self-harm (technically, even though it's calculated into strategic vengeance?) There's racing/depressive thoughts, psychological unwellness, threats of torture, brutal manipulation, PTSD, feelings of fatalistic hopelessness, and various shades of morally gray spaces.
AN: Thank you for returning to this fic! Real Life was...punctuated by a series of tough knocks (as listed in my profile).
Again, this could be a HARSH chapter for some. The next chap will contain an in-universe, brief summary of events for thos4e that want to skip…delivered by Al, no less. (Yeah, it worked out that way.)
Life Updates: Let's see, got my last wisdom tooth out (anesthesia is rough), puked up ingested blood the way emoji's barf rainbows. Couldn't walk, couldn't think, couldn't spell for crap. Then, I realized as I continued to feel worse over the week…that my symptoms matched up with Covid. Took a test and bam. It got me. (Dunno if the surgeon/staff gave it to me or what. Yeah, cough directly into that bloody socket while I'm unconscious. Thanks.)
Then! We also had to get the A/C fixed and got the repairman-run-around and I had to stay out of my room for 2 months because it was 94 degrees in there... ):
But! It's handled! I'm all healed up now and the A/C has been replaced, me and my computer are reunited, stable FT job, and the chapter has been finished!
I know, I know. Random update, but I kinda went out abruptly, so I would return just as randomly. Like the Big Snap in the Marvel Universe. #applesnappedback
I'm also doing the groundwork for pursuing a MA (because I apparently want more stress in my life…and money…later on).
Writing Updates: Hey, check out my profile to vote for the next fic in this series! The Banyoles Monster vs. Vofa! Let me know if you're Team Spanish Famada or Team Viking Babysitter.
Thank you for your reviews, I appreciate how many of you reached out to me and/or shared how this series impacted you over the years. It made me determined to get back.
Happy reading!
Chapter 51: Even Dead…He Would Still Be A Pain In The Ass
There would be no rescue.
On his knees, with a yoke binding his head and hands, Alfred stared down into the darkness of the open grave. Lantern light cast an eerie glow on his epitaph:
"I found one of you such that, for his acts,
in soul he bathes already in Cocytus
and up above appears alive, in body."
-Dante
How special, to have this line chosen for him.
A traitor.
A hypocrite.
In more ways than one.
Bertram Harris's most loyal men stood astride him, blocking any chance of escape.
"You WILL seal the gate," Bertram ordered, "or suffer a witch's burial."
Blue eyes took in a wicked assortment of tools nearby: hammers and slats intended to hobble him along with talismans and torturous devices prescribed by the Malleus Maleficarum. The hateful book itself rested near enough for him to discern. Near enough that it was intended to intimidate.
So, Harris never meant to restore his magic. This was the endpoint: be useful or be eliminated.
The ultimatum flooded terror through him: refusal would mean endless cycles of dying and reviving in the cold, damp Earth…mutilated beyond recognition and cut off from all who might save him.
Then, there was submitting. The ultimate betrayal of magic itself and all of his fellow practitioners.
If Father struggled with Alfred's Revolution, how could he possibly forgive this trespass?
Death was the noble option. Somehow, he couldn't commit himself to it. The possibility of dying from enemy combatants or as a consequence of law and punishment wasn't the same as…
Flickering lantern light made a dull shine on several weights stationed by a great coil of rope.
Strappado…
What a lovely reminder of the 1690s?
No, surely death by battlefield or courtroom was better.
He shivered from more than cold.
The certainty…the inescapability of suffering at the hands of those that should have valued him.
Samuel's face was grim—disgust had aged the face prematurely. Alfred knew him well enough to read the feeling there.
He was repelled by the witch before him, resigned to serving a tyrant with grandiose whims, and ashamed at standing at arms with bloodthirsty men.
When had it happened?
Why hadn't Alfred noticed that Harris's inner ring was made up of men who were more mercenary than soldier? Or was this apathy for Alfred special?
That he'd lost their faith somehow…and it was something beyond merely being a witch.
Or a nation.
Something more intrinsic to him…that inspired such hatred, hardening them to a point where no mercy could be had.
"Yield," Colonel Bertram Harris ordered.
Hearing that damned word now proved worse than when Uncle Rhys spoke it last.
And he remembered how awful that was with floating embers in the air as his ships burned down below and all his tender memories caught in the blaze.
All those yesterdays went up; nursery rhymes and tales that gave way to tickling attacks by his uncles. His uncles and Father who had used mock-serious voices demanding he "yield" and then putting him to bed.
He finally comprehended the word to its fullest and was strung up between the next one: resist.
And he understood Sir Gawain's plight so acutely it brought tears to his eyes.
His life was too dear to him; his courage failed.
His magic worked better with mirrors and he had an affinity for the number 4 since he was bound to the seasons. Four were brought.
They followed his instructions to dig, though their expressions suggested unease at the design he demanded. Still, they pushed through their discomfort to produce a great pentacle.
He watched as the dolls he'd made to secure his manor were set around the clearing—holding off the few who might interfere with the colonel's schemes.
There was an impressive sort of bullheadedness to Harris's plan. Close the gate. End the magic. Dissolve the threat. That such a command spelled doom for countless beings and powers and plants meant little. Damnation, America wasn't sure even he'd survive it, should it be permanent.
Originally, Harris had presented it in his office as an off-the-cuff theory and even then only as a temporary measure: that the gate might be closed while enemy sorcerers were present. Once England and his brothers left, it might be opened once more.
He reassured the men now that their actions not only guaranteed the preservation of America for the good of the people but ensured it for future generations.
As he spoke of the White House's interest in sealing more gates throughout the continent, Alfred realized it was a permanent solution to supernatural problems.
They were fearful of tribes having access to magic. Hellfire and damnation, they didn't even want him to have it. Did they?
Alfred reflected unhappily on all the chiefs and personifications who'd watched him wearily, faces hard and unwelcoming. All the voices muttering about the doom that dogged him like a shroud…like a mist… always clinging…
He was fulfilling their worst fears.
He would ruin everything.
Betrayal. It permeated everything until there was such a sense of confusion and hopelessness that nothing had substance.
There would be no rescue.
His Americans…
Everything he'd done and fought for and sacrificed was for his Americans.
His Americans…
With their red, white, and blue uniforms…with their bronze-hilted swords at their sides…
They were a frenzy of crisp snapping linen and wool as they moved to follow orders.
They were…useless to him when patriotism didn't mean loyalty.
Harris checked his pocket watch and smiled at him.
The Witching Hour was on them. Power came up from the ground and into America…transforming him. He transcended his limits and he was less and more.
Something capable of great magic.
"What do you mean you can't read this?!" Colonel Harris spat in fury shaking the book before him. "You're a witch, it's a gramarye!"
It was written in old Welsh. He knew just enough to tell.
Wished he didn't.
Uncle Rhys's hazel eyes crinkled fondly
as he lifted a young Alfred onto his lap
so the child could better see the manuscript on his desk.
He pointed to the illuminated illustrations on the sheepskin pages and…
A hard pang of hate and loss stirred in Alfred's breast.
Bound as he was by the magic of Beltane and the stocks on his shoulders, he was freer to feel. The magic removed all sense of shame…feelings were feelings. Nothing was right or wrong.
It could be done. Translated. For a price.
His mouth moved. The magic spoke.
"What is your desire?"
Harris stared at him as if wondering if Alfred was deliberately goading him.
"Seal the gate."
There. Confirmation. See? From his own mouth. He was NOT going to replenish Alfred's magic and THEN seal the gate.
He was too selfish for that.
"At what cost?"
There were rules.
Rules that had to be followed.
This was the first warning.
"Any cost!"
The magic in him surged in giddy anticipation.
The man growled, "I expect you to do all in your power to accomplish this for the sake of our people and I expect you to give your everything to this mission."
"And you? What would you give?" There came the second warning from his lips on behalf of powers greater than both of them.
"I'm warning you, boy…"
"In exchange for your wish, you and your men would give anything?" Alfred clarified for the third and final warning.
"Damn it all, of course!"
Tree roots reached up, curled around the yoke restraining America and snapped it easily.
Alfred stood and extended a long clawed hand to shake on the agreement.
Despite what he'd just witnessed (which had frightened several soldiers back), there was no hesitance on the colonel's part.
He took Alfred's hand.
Alfred could see his own reflection in the man's pupils; his blue eyes were glowing.
"The contract is made." He grinned widely and didn't let go.
"Wha-what're you?!" The man struggled against his inhuman grip.
"Harris," Alfred mused aloud, "a surname of England, of Wales, of Ireland, of Scotland…The blood will remember the people…the languages you do not and you will help me for you would give anything."
The gramarye merged with the man in an unnatural and unholy blend of book and bone, page and sinew.
There were screams of horror from the surrounding soldiers and they scrambled to put distance between themselves and the witch.
The talismans, made of bird-bone and beads, set to chattering from their places in the trees.
And the trees moved in—dragging their great forms forward to seal any path of escape.
Harris registered the strategic move and smiled tremulously as blood began eking through his teeth.
It was…unnerving to see the man's eyes shine with a fervor of fanaticism and joy, like he could hardly believe his good luck.
Harris was…proud to be of service. And he watched it all with a gleam of awe and thrill as his blood washed over the ink and the symbols changed to English, to phrases Alfred could read and spellcast with…
The mirrors lifted into the air inciting shouts of alarm from the men—particularly when they began moving. The panes faced inward at Alfred and Bertram. All of Alfred's reflections had glowing blue eyes. They began floating in a counterclockwise motion, to circle them as Alfred continued reading. The howling of wind and trees whipped into a fever pitch.
Those mortal cries of alarm…should've given him pause. Those desperate pleas for mercy should've moved him.
But there were chains beside a coffin by a gravestone already engraved.
His "death" and burial had long been planned and all of them were willing participants.
Could he turn the other cheek?
For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly
Father will also forgive you:
But if ye forgive not men their
trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.
Matthew 6:14-15
The mirrors moved faster as he continued chanting, calling on the great gate to reveal itself.
It lit up the sky in a terrible design that was hellfire red.
Fitting…for this was a damning moment.
No.
It wasn't too late. He could substitute the trees. For all trees loved him and could always forgive and regrow.
But why should faithful trees die for feckless men?
Screams of terror punctuated the howling of elements as tree roots ripped and pierced.
Eight sacrifices. North, South, East, West, Northwest, Southwest, Northeast, Southeast to satisfy the Gate.
Temporary, the magic whispered. Life, while potent, could only render temporary closures that would rupture unevenly. Now, if the souls were offered, power over the gate could be wielded at will. Eight was a paltry number, but if fed with regularity…
Harris was intrigued. And Alfred balked at it. Somehow, being here in Alfred's casting circle—integral to the spell—meant being in his confidence.
The horror of being wholly open to him!
He tried to sever the connection but releasing Harris's hand only meant the human slumped to his knees.
The sense of him stayed.
Eight lives snuffed out.
It could not be undone.
There would be no forgiveness from Osha, from the tribes, from his family.
Alone. He would be well and truly alone. Divorced from all that mattered.
A separation from God.
Damnation.
"You truly…have feelings," Harris realized with a dazed wonder.
The mirrors settled and the Gate began to fade.
It was over. He had done it.
All that was awful in the universe began clawing him down, drowning him.
How could he have done it?!
He would be a pariah for this.
"I'm…proud of you," Harris offered between great mouthfuls of blood.
Did he even know the full extent of the treachery he'd committed?
Harris grinned. Yes. He did. "I…regret nothing…nor do you."
So the connection was still in effect.
The worst part? He was right.
The remorse Alfred felt wasn't that the actions had been done; it was pity for himself that he'd had to be the one to do them.
Alfred was exhausted, disgusted, and relieved.
All the threats to him were extinguished!
Joy blended with loathing; he was free!
He was free!
And that was what mattered most, right?!
Curse him to the depths, to the deepest frigid levels of Dante's Inferno where tears froze.
He was a traitor.
That he could've allowed this?!
He watched dully as blood-splattered roots wound up his legs affectionately and fused. With a flash of blue light…dark red boots appeared on him.
His item of power; what England had waxed on so poetically about through his childhood. How wonderful and poignant the moment would be? That it would be a turning point in his life! He gagged and heaved.
Harris laughed. "It's…an honor to be one of your founding fathers. You finally lived up to your potential."
There was a special sort of horror that dawned at that moment…
The realization that he'd been manipulated so effortlessly.
To Harris, America was weak, ineffectual, simple, and inexperienced. He was easily led and defeated.
And so Harris saw things through a prism's lens:
America could accept these truths and allow Harris to "improve" him by will or by consequence.
If America agreed to help Harris seal the Gate and prevent their enemies' use of it, that would be proof of him combating his naivety and loyalty to those who had raised him.
If America resisted, Harris would have him disciplined and educated until he saw the error of his ways in the face of war. And America would realize the value of human insight and seal the Gate.
If America resisted and did not reach an epiphany, Harris would seek more formal authority to order him to seal the Gate—proving America's dedication to his government and growing maturity since the order conflicted with his personal feelings.
If America resisted and sought enemy aid, Harris would imprison him until he sealed the Gate or was executed to prevent desertion and betrayal; knowledge of his grave and the Gate would be kept secret until the war's end.
In the former, it would be proof that America's will could be broken. In the latter, it was proof of his strong (if misguided) will, and would serve as an opportunity to re-educate him after his revival (since it proved they now had reliable methods of subduing him).
Because Harris did not think America was England's equal in strength, strategy, skill, sorcery, or sense of service.
"You'll never best him with a sword."
He didn't need to. Not when he was treacherous. No weapon or quality could compare.
America had sacrificed his own men, using their ambition, obedience, and arrogance against them. O he helped them achieve what they wanted… in the worst way possible.
In one fell swoop, he sealed the Gate, cut off the magic supply of his enemies and brutally killed his captors.
He even learned an easy way to open the Gate back up following the war. Could probably seal and then open these portals all over the continent in such a manner. Such knowledge was greater and more lethal than all the swords of the world.
Harris thought it all wondrous.
"Look what you've made of me?!" America hissed.
Death didn't dim Harris's grin.
Alfred gagged as he moved through a mess of what had once been men.
Samuel…
No.
He needed away. Away.
Away from his loyal trees who didn't understand, who couldn't understand the evil they had done. Who wouldn't chastise him for the detestable sense of relief he felt at the carnage.
How was he supposed to live with this?!
He staggered through the darkness of the woods and found the fae, Lome, by pure chance as it journeyed to a new settlement.
Shamelessly, he begged, "I need to forget! Please!"
"You said that before and I guided you to the Grand Witch for an elixir-"
Because that had been Alfred's original plan. Alfred had told Lome his wish, the fae offered the Grand Witch as a means to fulfill it and Alfred intended to negotiate for the potion. With it, he could've safeguarded the coordinates of the Gate and the nature of his geass from being discovered were he captured. The effects would've lasted a solid year; surely, more than long enough for the war's end?
"-and you killed her!" The elf spat.
He wasn't wrong.
Her death was his fault; he shouldn't have told Harris. Should've gone alone.
But he hadn't know then…what Harris intended. Was still trying then to "win" the man over.
He'd assumed the colonel would entice her with something bureaucratic. Maybe some manner of pass that excused her from any future witch trials? Or an invented job title or paperwork to make trade with towns easier for her and her coven?
That Harris would murder her for her gramarye…never crossed his mind.
He'd tried to escape, to write Arthur but…look how well that turned out?
And if he did relay to Madison, everything that had happened, what would unfold next?
Maybe…maybe back to the original plan? Forget?
"I need to forget…I need to forget…help me forget…I'll make any trade…"
That was dangerous…yes, the witching hour had ended but it was still May Day…
"Are yeh sure ya know what yer doin'?" the old man asked from the darkness. He almost sounded afraid. "What yer askin' me for?"
But why only ask to forget?
The greedy thought sprang forward after he shook the knobby hand of a fae he couldn't see but feel.
What evil times were upon him that his magic should fall so low as to leave him groping about, even with the power of Beltane's Day? How draining was Gate magic that fulfilling the terms of his geass wasn't enough to replenish him at least a little? Still, wasn't this proof that the supernatural world was not yet beyond his grasp?
What if his Sight worsened further? And more opportunities of this kind eluded him ever after?
Why only ask to forget?.
"Think o' nuthin' sides yer wish. Sides that one wish," the fae instructed him gravely.
No, Alfred. Temperance. Caution. But the warning of his conscience sounded too much like Arthur!
O, but he had to strike while the iron was hot!
Why only forget?
When he could barter for so much more?
And what wouldn't he give away to make things how they ought to be?
Yes.
His actions would benefit everyone.
They needed him to do it.
So he could be better, stronger, smarter…more practical, more useful, more cunning. The wound he'd received from Wales had healed badly under the torture and neglect he'd suffered in Harris's keep.
Damn near invincible. If he could just be...
He'd misunderstood his role in this grand play of life. He'd rectify it.
Be everything they'd wanted him to be.
Everything he should've been from the start.
The magic in him rallied even as his spirits fell..
"My soul enters a Winter from which I will not escape. This, I accept. For them, I submit. For myself, I only ask…that my Heart forgets Spring. Make me forget."
The magic burned where their hands met.
It was a hex. The old elf was hexing him…but the magic of Beltane was still enough to make it a contract…just not as binding as what he'd performed hours earlier.
The wish was too big, too desperate, too hopeless…
Fear filled Lome's eyes and he immediately apologized.
The abrupt civility from an enemy fae of his father's lands gave him a dull sort of surprise.
"You're England's…"
And something about that…about being "England's" was infuriating.
"You're England's…I didn't know…"
Especially, when his advice was that he throw himself on England's mercy. That Arthur would have knowledge enough of the occult to spare him.
Father…
Shame and dread and hope accompanied the thought of him.
Time lost meaning as he struggled his way toward Virginia through backcountry paths, half mad with grief and disgust.
And fear…
Three months passed…in that hellish vortex of uncertainty where he hardly knew himself and everything frightened him. And that gutted him because he was supposed to be brave. He was supposed to be the brave one.
Three months of Lome harassing him at windows, reporting England's whereabouts so America could rendezvous with him. But it was so hard just to stand outside.
He could've acted on that or passed it on for his military's sake…
But didn't.
He mainly stayed in the manor he'd constructed…sealing up Father's spellbooks in a hidden space within his chimney and ridding the estate of anything that might've betrayed him as a witch.
Making it safe…innocuous…to anyone else that might come witch-hunting.
When he finally mustered the nerve to return to the U.S. Capitol and report about his Beltane's Day…massacre…because…what else could he do? Where else could he go? He owed it to the dead to have them properly buried…though it couldn't be where they fell; making it hallowed ground would interfere with the gate.
He arrived to find the White House being evacuated.
Bodies brushed past him hefting furniture pieces out to waiting wagons and carriages.
"Lieutenant Kirkland!?" a superior barked while reaching out and grabbing his arm in a painfully tight grip. "Good God, man, where've you been? Look at you...were you captured?"
"...Yes…"
"Blessed be that you escaped, now escape again and you can report it all to me later. For now, lieutenant, we must evacuate!"
President Madison didn't seem particularly relieved to see him, though he scribbled the coordinates of the Gate and assured Alfred that no branch of his government had sanctioned the actions taken against him.
Alfred didn't quite believe him, but there was nowhere else to be. And the room they kept here for him felt alien and strange; he wasn't the person who'd left it. Wales's knife still rested atop of his vanity.
He was informed that Father was marching on the city; convenient vengeance for York packaged neatly in a greater plan for conquest.
Hope dared to fill his chest. Alfred had been missing for months. Mayhaps this was a personal attempt to find him couched in military strategy?
Mayhaps he could find a place and wait?
Inspiration struck.
"The library! I need to save what I can!" He wrestled himself away and charged down the hall with his heart in his throat.
"Tis a fool's errand!" Men hissed after him. "The enemy's nearly upon us!"
Books were expensive. Knowledge was invaluable.
Father wouldn't torch a library. He mourned the loss of the Library of Alexandria.
Alfred wasn't quite sure if he'd be captured or not, but a library so fledgling as the one in his Capitol building…Father wouldn't torch that for spite.
He would be safe there; he was in no condition to fight. Father would see that at once. Father would finally advise him. Father would know what to do, though he trembled at the thought of sharing everything.
But it was Father…and while Father would likely feel angry, ashamed, alarmed? At all he'd done…
Whatever else Father felt for his "rebellious" son, he loved him. Didn't he?
He had to trust in that. He had to. Father's love would spare him. Lome had seemed certain.
Alfred gathered what crates and trunks he could find, loaded them up, and passed them through an open window. A few of his people had seen his efforts and took them to their wagons; it was a relief to see his copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight be rescued.
But the boxes were stacking up now that his people had fled.
The sun was setting when he registered the braying of horses.
"Your father is here," Lome offered from the window, crouched in the shade of a nearby bush. Raccoon was there too. Somehow he'd befriended the shapeshifter and it became clearer how Lome had kept track of England through lands that weren't his own. "He and his troops are here…go to your Father, throw yehself on his mercy. He might be able to shield you from most of it."
The hex…yes...he still had magic enough that he could sense it closing in.
It was nerve-wracking, though not particularly difficult, slipping into the White House unnoticed. He knew the place so well.
He briefly stopped by his bedroom and picked up Wales's knife. He could ask Arthur to return it? Maybe? Could that work as a pretense for meeting with him?
He stared at his reflection, hardly recognizing himself and haphazardly gave his mussed, overgrown hair a brush with his ivory comb. Several strands left with the comb. He'd been so ill for so long...
With unsure fingers, he re-tucked his shirt and tried to fix his mis-buttoned clothing. He was desperate to straighten himself into something more presentable, but the dark circles under his eyes and the grayness of his skin…
There wasn't more he could do…it would have to be enough.
Had to hold his breath as he crept closer to where he could hear Father's men were gathered.
Had to be quiet if he didn't want to be discovered…
Had to time it…had to time when to approach Father and…
Peering through a crack in the door…and seeing...Father and his uncles and…Mathieu...and their men dining at the banquet table…
America's banquet table…
Father...
…Dining there in triumph…all gleaming and polished and composed…in ways Alfred felt certain he'd never be again.
Laughing and drinking and merrymaking…at his expense…
Goddamned Redcoats.
All of them.
Sitting there…
All of them.
All of them.
All of them.
Laughing at him.
How dare they?!
Blue eyes narrowed and welled up. Behold his so-called family…
He felt so tired. Heavy. Cold. Hollow as he moved through hallways.
It was difficult reigning in his temper. His ears were keen enough to hear that they planned to torch everything!
But there was little he could do about it.
Unbidden Harris's voice echoed in his ears with a dreadful certainty: "You'll never best him with a sword."
"Never…"
And he'd never needed to before this moment. Because he'd never really thought it could come to pass.
He'd been so certain.
So very certain.
What a fool...
Emotion lanced through him.
Rage…
Pain…
Fear…
Frustration...
Betrayal…
Humiliation…
Disillusionment…
Grief…
The feeling of loss was overwhelming in its intensity.
And at last it hit home; what Harris really wanted:
This.
This revelation. This damned revelation which had been rejected, ignored until now.
Father…
Never loved him.
Of course.
It wasn't because Alfred had been missing and he was being sought out.
No. His presence here was a matter of pride— Arthur's ruffled sense of dignity.
Exhaustion set in.
He was tired of…everything.
He rolled on the balls of his feet staring at the accursed boots, red as blood…red as the blood of…
Yet, he didn't dare cast them off (uncertain he had magic enough to retrieve them from the ether the way his relatives did).
So he kept them, even as they symbolically proved he was…
Ruined.
He was ruined. Wasn't he? That oil painting Washington had commissioned of him...he wasn't that anymore.
Harris was right.
His fingers tightened around the knife and he dragged it along the wall of the corridor.
Never loved him.
Never. Never. Never.
He wasn't sure when he started punctuating the thought with action, but there was something cathartic about stabbing Wales's blade into the wall. He belatedly realized he'd knifed the oil painting of himself, the one his founders had commissioned, through the eye. And didn't he deserve it? Smiling like that? Like the world wasn't awful? And that his revolution wouldn't have long standing consequences-
Like humans were trustworthy.
And families loved each other for all their days on God's green Earth.
He pressed a hard hand against the face of a grandfather clock, satisfied when the glass splintered into a spiderweb of angry lines and time stopped. There, even if they looted it now…
Alfred returned to the library, the trek between buildings lost entirely to the hot haze of rage and an icy void of apathy. That the building was now on fire mattered little.
Smoke filled the air, dark clouds of it billowed through the hallways, and glass shattered from heat.
He returned to continue emptying the shelves—not caring if the books he dropped found boxes or trunks or toppled onto the floor.
Father's green eyes looked on him tenderly. "My darling heart, I will always love y-"
Liar.
The bookshelves were catching. The crate he was filling would soon follow.
Alfred stared around at a world that didn't make sense anymore, that was cracked and falling away in fragments. "You're no one's darling…" he mumbled to himself. "You're no one's…"
A listlessness overtook him as he continued dumping armfuls of books.
Again, he was entreated to seek Arthur out.
Books fell to the floor but he no longer cared.
He no longer cared.
...no longer cared because...
"You should leave," Coyote declared, a new voice among the ones nagging him from the window. "The fire readings say you must leave now or we'll not meet again for lifetimes."
Alfred released another armful. Paradise Lost, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, and some great tome about accounting fell to the floor.
Dramatic. Like one of Arthur's plays. He felt like a backdrop, like dialog was too hard. He just wanted to stand here.
It was hard to listen to good counsel over the laughter of unwelcome diners in his hall that didn't seem to cease…no matter how far he moved away.
Coyote grew impatient and left, and Alfred dumbly took note that Raccoon was still there with Lome. Raccoon...because his name was so hard to say...
They hissed entreaties from the window—as if afraid to enter and afraid to leave. Like animals of prey caught between bad choices.
He'd set them loose.
He offered, woodenly, that it was alright; he wanted the hex to succeed. The truth of that sparked something in his breast. He closed and latched the window and it muffled their dismay.
His White House…the symbol of all of his ambitions and dreams, of finally catching up and being "great" would soon be on fire.
An offering to Adekagagwaa? Is that what Osha would see it as?
An offering!?
"What more can I give?"
"They gave their all…"
Nothing else would suffice.
Nothing else would satisfy.
Nothing else would be enough.
But that was the trick of it, wasn't it?!
To get what he wanted. His harried heartbeat was agonizing. The air was toxic.
To get all that he wanted…
If he, himself, were an offering to the Scales of Reciprocity?
Hope set his soul alight and he trembled in anticipation. Every hair stood on end as smoke choked the air.
His desire intensified and the wish was now within grasp. To be free of it all.
All the cards were laid bare; he'd feed each one to the fire.
It was an opportunity to curb these senseless passions that served no one. Really? Wanting human things when he wasn't human? These feelings were in the way. They snagged and complicated matters between himself and England and others. See, Osha? No families. He could learn.
Without them he'd be better able to maintain a sense of order and dignity. Like everyone wanted for him, nations and humans alike. And wasn't that worth any cost? To be something better? Wouldn't that serve everyone better? Him being something heroic and just and fair…?
Arthur always warned that magic would take.
Magic would cost.
And this would come at the highest price.
That was fine.
It could take. It could take all the keepsakes in his bedroom from Mat-Canada and Fa-England. It could take the library. The buildings. EVERYTHING.
It could take his...everything...
Lightning flashed in the windows and the winds began whipping. He could sense, as a nation, that hurricanes were coming.
Hurricanes he wouldn't get to see because the hex was settling.
Any time now….any time…
He clenched his hands tightly. This would be the confrontation of his lifetime! Paying the magic on its own terms…
He sucked in a fretful breath.
It had to work. It had to!
The Wheel of Fate was in motion, like gears of a clock. Speaking of which, all the clocks began chiming. All the doors along the corridor slammed shut while his was wrenched open.
Ha.
A British foot soldier with a rifle was tearing along the hall, his foray in looting gone wrong.
A foot soldier…fitting…like Alfred would merit the Admiral himself. Ha.
Supernatural flashes of light kept crackling spontaneously as the hex touched down.
Because magic would take.
Praise God! It would take. He wanted it gone. All of it!
Images flashed across his mind's eye as all the clocks kept chiming. His uncles. Mathieu. Osha. Harris. Samuel.
Figures of torment, all of them!
"Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering…"
With the blasphemy of his impending decision roaring through his soul, the shadow of the tree of scales, of the arcane powers he served, filled the room.
It was more of a hanging tree than a bearer of fruit.
"It is a cause for joy when God sets persecution before us but also bids us to rejoice…"
He moved forward towards his doom, half-tripping on Wales's knife. The toe of his boot sent it skidding comically across the floor.
And he realized with morbid amusement that said knife was the only weapon he had with him. The hateful thing…no…he wouldn't take it up…
It wasn't his knife…it was Rhys's…and it would be like asking for help.
And he didn't want any help from him anymore.
Didn't want to ask for help anymore…from anyone…anymore…
Didn't want to ask for anything…anymore…
Didn't want…anything…anymore…
And the world and the future yawned wide—a chasm before him: the thought of living as long as Father…Arthur…England...of spending millennia alone…
Knowing what he knew now.
No…no, he couldn't manage it and he wouldn't. But things would be better.
"You must submit to great suffering to discover the completion of joy."
"...I will choose liberty…"
The windows rattled as the wind shrieked.
The man audibly gasped as he registered the enemy combatant before him and trembled as he lifted his rifle.
Thunder crashed at the same time that a burning rafter nearby gave way. Flames spread across the floor.
And there was no more fear in the United States of America.
Throw himself on the British Empire's mercy?
Ha!
Never.
It was plain to see now! The truth of it. Yes! John Calvin was right.
Rejoice!
For the next America would fare better. Would be what they wanted…what he wasn't. Reforged or corrected or altogether new…with no ties to the occult and ambition great enough to intimidate all of his enemies…a leader and protector and champion…
Yes, the next America wouldn't have his flaws. He could even ensure it.
The weight in his breast lifted. To think…even to this point, some part of him had still felt determined to soldier on through desolation…
When all he had to do was…
He mouthed a thought that felt like a memory or a dream half-forgotten. 'My people...need me to do this. So I want this. So I'm not sad."
It was the right thing; like he could ever contend against forces like these?
And he remembered, a century and a half ago, offering a water lily to England; a mistake…the greatest mistake…he could finally take it back: his heart.
And burn it.
For the Scales of Reciprocity…his offering to power…
Cold seeped in, calming and soothing and dignified, as the hex gripped him.
"…choose liberty…"
The sensible choice...he congratulated himself because life and happiness were beyond reach.
Delighted and horrified, Alfred stared down the barrel of a New Land Pattern Light Infantry Musket!
He stood straighter. Because all he had to do was...
All he had to do was…
He laughed at the simplicity.
And the sound startled the rifleman.
BANG!
All he had to do was…die.
It was enough.
Sky Woman…unmake him…
Alfred breathed in and out uneasily as he awaited his brother's judgment.
"M'kay."
Alred's eyebrow twitched. That just…wasn't the reaction he'd expected. "Tex…"
"It explains stuff…I think. I mean, yeah, you were kinda batshit messed up there at the end, but they drove you to it. Sooo, my verdict is: fuck 'em."
The ghosts surrounding them glared. "Yup. You heard me. Assholes, all y'all. Yeah," he turned to sneer at one in particular, "fuck you, Samuel. Ya backstabber!"
Alfred felt somewhat aghast at that. "He never got to see his wife and child again. All of them had connections, families, friends-"
"Frickin' frenemy. Too bad, so sad, they followed Colonel Psychopath." He patted a nearby tree trunk. "Good tree. You done good."
"That's what you took away from this?" Worse, America could sense that the woods approved of Texas being his newest companion.
"Well, they didn't have hotlines back then, so it wasn't like you could phone a friend or, well, anybody. You got dealt a rough hand."
The trees felt hopeful. Perhaps, his companion could slay the monster?
Wait a minute, this wasn't existential evil? A place tarnished by foul deeds…and him? The Witch of the Woods?
The trees felt relieved by his return. The whole forest rejoiced; they just couldn't contain it anymore.
Band-aid quick. "Tex, the trees say that we'll have to fight a monster."
Tex grabbed his rosary with one hand and Alfred's hand with the other.
"Thanks for the heads up, tree-folk!"
"Is that what the bad thing is?" Alfred wondered aloud. He ran a hand through his hair in frustrated contemplation. "But all I sense now is Harris."
As if summoned by the sound of his name, the skeleton began to levitate from where the gramarye was connected to its ribs.
Texas pointed his cross at it emphatically and asked, "Al?! Aaaaaaal!?"
Alfred glared. "Yeah, that figures. Even dead…he would still be a pain in the ass."
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