Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Ghostbusters. Or Cú Chulainn.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Exploitation of Catholics in supernatural circumstances. Soap Opera level drama. Apparently, "hawk" and "hock" are both acceptable spellings in the action of forcibly spitting. Cliffhanger. Alfred sums up the previous chapters' flashback. Angst with a dash of...could this get worse? Yes. It can.
TRIGGER Warning: Supernaturally induced domestic violence…technically, which could be VERY upsetting for some. Harris being present (who kinda just deserves this label period) because he's all kinds of terrible. AGAIN, this is another chapter that could be very rough; if you need to skip, another recap will be available at the start of the next chapter.
AN: Hey readers! Thank you again for returning to this fic, I appreciate your thoughtful reviews! Read, re-read, and read them again. They get me revved up for writing. I hope this year has been better for y'all (in spite of the world's dogged determination to implode XD).
Sooo, as far my sequel plans go, The Banyoles Monster is in the lead, but the votes for Vofa keep rallying. Just when I think they are done and out, more votes appear. I'm curious to see which will win so please continue voting on my profile page.
Hope you enjoy this chapter!
***For those who've skipped the previous chapter (due to the intensity of the themes therein): the flashback has ended, culminating in Alfred fully remembering the upsetting circumstances of his closing the gate, his death, and the resulting hex/amnesia following 1812 and sharing this with Tex. Only, his evil ex-boss, Harris, isn't as dead as one would hope: Colonel Harris's skeletal remains are floating and in pursuit of Texas and America.
And now you're caught up to speed.
Chapter 52: Save Us With The Power Of Your Catholic-ness!
Damn. Tex looked right to left and back. Damn! They were in a tough spot! And all o' them ghosts were useless—standing around like interlopers at a tailgate party.
The ghastly corpse floated closer.
SNAP! And something was sneaking up from behind! Divide and conquer style!
"MIJO!"
"EEEP!"
"¡Te metiste en un lío grande, jovencito!"
"Sí!" Damn right, he was in trouble. He pointed emphatically to the supernatural phenomena four feet away.
Spain's green eyed glare made a cursory side glance. "Santa Maria!"
He crossed himself.
And brilliance struck.
"Quick, Papi!" Texas implored, grabbing his sleeve like he was five years old again and certain a Cucuy was under his bed. "Save us with the power of your Catholic-ness!"
Rico arrived then slightly out of breath. "Papi, ¿qué demonios está pasando?"
He swept his flashlight beam over the clearing and shrieked.
Spain grabbed both of his children and dragged them behind him.
"Date pris ya. Aquí, aquí, toma esto." Texas hastily removed his rosary and shoved it at him—waving the beads in his face. "Like the movies! Do it like the movies, Papi!"
"Idiota!" Puerto Rico howled. "This isn't Hollywood!"
"Has to work! Has to! I don't think my gun'll work on him!" Tex explained.
"…" Spain directed them to continue moving back, navigating around graves.
"…You're a special kind of stupid, hermano."
"Hey-"
"The gall! First, you start all this shit, give us the slip, and now expect us to clean it up!? Do I look like a Ghostbuster?!"
"It's my fault," Alfred answered quietly as he released Tex's hand, "it's all my fault."
"Is this the bruja business you've gotten my son into?" Spain demanded coldly as they cautiously retreated.
"No!" Tex intervened. "It's a bad boss, Papi! From 1812. You gotta come down like HR on his ass!"
"Oh, so do as I say or command, huh?" Rico hissed. "Why don't you handle it, big shot?!"
"I'm asking cuz…cuz I dunno…I dunno...how."
Damn. His voice broke. It hurt to say that.
Rico stared and Tex had to look away.
He usually followed Al's lead, but his little bro had a badly timed case of shell shock.
He was the one, out of them, who had the Good Book memorized. But Al, for reasons beyond Tex's understanding, somehow felt bad or responsible or something for Harris and the dead soldiers, and it was distracting him from the now.
Which meant Tex needed to pivot and buy them some time and direction until Al could take up command again.
Papi had Vatican ties—something HAD to have rubbed off.
His desperation must've been obvious because his father didn't chastise him.
The Spaniard squared his shoulders. "You boys will run. I will…deal with this."
'Somehow' was the unspoken end to that and guilt swamped Tex then.
"You…you dunno either," the Texan realized. But Spain was at least man enough to hold the line. That sobered the former Republic and steeled him for the task. "Rico's right, s'our mess. You both go on and hightail it outta-"
Spain bristled. "No! You listen to Padre! You-"
"-need to bloody 'tag' me in already!" An irate Englishman declared.
Tex's jaw dropped as the Briton appeared out of the woodwork.
"Whoa! Where the hell did you…? Wow, that's…a brave outfit. Hey, Al! Al!? Check this o-"
"He's in the hollow and can't see or hear beyond-"
Tex leaned forward. "Hey Allie!"
"Yeah?"
He leaned back. "Al!"
Nothing.
"Weird." He started to move forward again when Arthur gripped his shoulder tightly.
"Tell him to remove his talismans!"
He nodded and took a step forward and cupped a hand to his mouth to better project. "Allie! You're dad's here. Lose the dolls, er, talismans and he can help us out."
England fidgeted—shifting from foot to foot. He was going to bloody lose it!
Alfred was removing the talismans, right? Right?!
The moment that accursed ghoul moved, he'd been off like a shot—moving from the branch he'd been perched on violently enough to leave Eire squawking slurs at him.
His wings were beating in anticipation, his wand was gripped tightly, and his toes were up against the barrier which kept sending numbing little shocks through him.
He almost pitched forward at the sudden lack of resistance. He managed to correct his footing and surge across the threshold instead. That sudden joint flexibility…that was still a wonder. He still hated the lead-up, but the results…he would be spending the next few months reevaluating his athletic prowess, granted they didn't succumb to a ghoul's wrath this night.
From what he'd managed to eavesdrop from outside the barrier, the child had remembered the entirety of the War of 1812. He kept waiting to brace himself against the emotional turbulence of it, of rage and pain but…
There was just quiet grief.
No matter.
He'd help him navigate it; he simply needed to remove them to safer conditions first.
He spotted the child up high, standing on a tree branch—not holding onto anything. It didn't matter that the boy had magic that largely rendered such heights harmless, or even that the trees were unlikely to see him injured via a weak branch.
It hardly even registered that the boy HAD to be there to dismantle that talisman per Arthur's own instructions.
No.
Arthur's stomach instinctively flipped at the sight and he lurched forward with his arms out, ready to catch his child. His own power of flight forgotten.
"Alfie!"
Electric blue, magic enhanced eyes alighted on him then—glowing in the dark.
It was a strange sense of relief and sorrow to register how his child's heart leapt in joy at the sight of him before being violently quashed.
Shushed.
"Untoward" was the word that floated between them.
It was a word he'd often directed at America's various actions and behaviors through the years.
Trust it to be completely misunderstood.
He was so terribly young…
Arthur had a sudden intense intuition that his son had very shaky notions about life altogether; only the vaguest ideas about what mattered most, many ideas lifted directly from pages of literature rather than experience or epiphany.
There was so much miscommunication between them.
How could there not be? With these half-formed thoughts about what being a man, a gentleman, a nation, a monster, a thing was supposed to be about. They all bled and mixed together, boiling down to simpler ideas:
Strength was good.
Weakness was bad.
Hearts were confusing.
The emotions from Alfred's end were palpable.
Surely, feeling so strongly was "untoward" and undignified?
There was a tentative probe towards Arthur, like he expected confirmation.
Like Arthur would ever chastise him for being a child who loved his parent from the bottom of his heart.
Ah…there it was, the crux of their governments' interferences.
He knew then.
He knew…with the wholeness of his being…
America's government had seen that blatant, indomitable affection as a liability that undermined every aspect of the country and culture they hoped to cultivate.
They reached out to Parliament and the Crown for aid in severing the connection.
Mistakes had been made from the start with Roanoke. England's political landscape had been rife with dangers then, and they'd been reluctant to let him visit the colony, knowing how emotionally invested he would've become in the infant there. He would've delegated responsibilities to others and let them lead… and many may have suffered in the court and on the battlefront for his absence.
It was decided that little Roanoke would simply have to wait until his father's kingdom was more stable and then they would spring the "good news."
But the colony failed and rather than explain the blunders, which would've devastated England and estranged him from his rulers, they filed the matter away.
Then, the child personification re-emerged as America and while they encouraged England to claim the colony…they still did not inform him that the child was his.
Perhaps they had feared, as the Americans would later, that such a tender bond could prove dangerous for their future ambitions and policies.
Even in spite of the meddling, Alfred easily captured his father's heart.
And following America's independence, and England's heartbreak, they too desired a separation.
They did not want their empire distracted, his time and attention dominated by his newly sovereign colony, who wanted all of his advice.
Why create a rival? Let the "great experiment" flounder.
Seeing the opportunity to be rid of the child, and to establish a purely professional relationship between personifications, they readily acquiesced to the request.
And the messy chapter of Roanoke was finally closed.
Arthur forced in a calming breath.
Later. Later, he would rage. Maybe spar with Alba to vent? Maybe ask all of his brothers to join in? Maybe call up all of his rivals?
This epiphany was an advantage, he kept telling himself. He could use it against both governments to maneuver himself and his child into a better living situation. He'd build a case. He'd have Rhys help him build a case.
If he lost himself to this rage…this overwhelming fury, he'd lose that bargaining edge.
He couldn't allow that, not when Alfred was depending on him to secure better, safer conditions for him to be reared in.
Dear God in heaven, it was hard mastering himself when the child was intent on him joining in and labeling the tender feelings as:
Inconvenient. Distracting. Common. Vulgar. Weak.
Shouldn't Alfred know better by now?
And even beneath that shadow of cruel self-correction, that little heart remained glad…if wistful…prepared to keep distance since it would not cease the emotion.
Spring was too enduring, too tenacious to give up…
No matter what was done to sideline him.
"I'll love you in every lifetime I have"…
…Too resolute to be kept in check so easily…
Hex of the Doubting Eye…
That was what the UnSeelie King had called it.
Seeing through a hex…
Evaluating every interaction with an altered perception…
To keep that little heart…weary…fractured…unhealed…
The shadowy thing that Arthur knew sometimes wore his likeness, seemed more visible and insidious than ever before.
More than merely doubt…it was…
Malice.
That hex…it had held a touch of genuine malice in it. Malice that had not wanted to be parted from his Alfred. Ever.
A human's will, a human's spirit, was capable of terrible things.
And it knew when that trace had been extracted and was eager to reassert its hold.
Arthur's Sight was strong. Dark wispy hair-thin tendrils were trying to attach themselves to his child. Aiming for vulnerable places: ears, eyes, mouth, nose. There was a tangle of them around his feet.
How had Arthur not noticed those sooner?
They webbed and stretched back to that awful-
"Look," Tex drawled. "I know y'all are havin' a dramatic high noon standoff, which I deeply respect, but can you help Papi first?"
"Yeah," Puerto Rico joined in, "Señor Esqueleto-"
"Colonel," Alfred corrected absently.
"-Is giving Papi a run for his money!"
"Yeah," Tex agreed, "he's a nasty feller alright. Death hasn't mellowed him out one bit and-"
"S'all your fault!" Rico hissed. "If you'd have stayed on the raft, we could've talked you out of this!"
"It's my fault."
"You're seven! He's estúpido! There's a difference!"
"I will drive Papi to the ER for that tetanus shot. I need one, too."
" ¿Por qué? ¿Qué te sucedió?" Spain demanded through clenched teeth.
"I cut myself on that there mirror."
The Spaniard swore. "Tonio! You need to be more careful!"
England found that a bit hypocritical when Spain was grappling with the evil undead.
He was maneuvering the ghoul into a headlock, though Arthur wasn't sure how helpful that would be.
The skull of the corpse was angling like it intended to bite him, in spite of missing its lower mandible, and the sharp bony phalanges had scratched angry red lines across Antonio's arm.
"It's Harris," Alfred stated. "I…I did that to him."
Arthur eyed the spellbook connected to Harris's bones. "You deliberately gave a deranged human access to all the sorcery and knowledge of a gramarye?"
"What?! No! I didn't know he was going to blow the Grand Witch's head off for it!"
Arthur stared.
"I wasn't allowed to even see it 'til Beltane's. He kept it and me locked up separate. Oh wait…you mean about the ribs, I mean, yes, the magic told me his blood could translate it for me. I can't speak regular Welsh, let alone Olde Welsh. So, I asked what he was willing to bring to the table. I was being expected to sacrifice everything, it was only fair to expect them to offer up the same. But no, it attaching to him like that…that was kinda unexpected."
"…"
"It was sort of a free-for-all by that point."
"Then…it was the will of the Cosmos."
And damnation, if it didn't have a morbid sense of humor? Harris wanted to dabble in the occult? Well, welcome to it, asshat.
"Huh?! No, I-I didn't intend all this, but it wouldn't have been possible without me so I have to accept resp-"
"No, you don't." Arthur would not allow that hero complex to grant this awful human clemency.
No, Harris was the guilty party for this grand case of fuckery.
"This… isn't even the bystander effect. I was, like, involved. Dude. Integral participation-"
Arthur felt his eyebrow twitch. "Yes, that's called 'duress,' love. Your laws and mine both recognize-"
"O yes, Father. 'Twas the stairs what killed them, not the push down them? If I wasn't magical…it couldn't have happened-"
"How I missed our lively philosophical debates."
"You haven't seen, you don't know. None of it's cut-and-dry simple. It's all…messy." The child's face was solemn.
The melodrama was palpable; it wasn't hard to play along.
"You? You're the villain of this debacle?" Arthur raised a thick eyebrow. "The dreaded witch of these woods?"
The child stiffened, but held Arthur's gaze unflinchingly, awaiting judgment.
"Ha, you lack the malevolent gravitas. That's why you'll never be cast as Claudius."
The child's cheeks puffed. "I am trying to inform you of a great wrong-"
"Texas, your views? On their innocence?" He gestured a hand at the fallen unit. The ghosts haunting the area had an air of suffering about them; there was some manner of punishment being exacted there by higher forces.
Arthur didn't particularly care. Those blighters were lucky. He could easily assure that whatever had befallen them was a kinder fate than what he'd have bestowed.
If he'd come across them that fateful Beltane's…
His teeth clenched so hard…
Texas rolled his eyes. "This shitty trip will be worth it if I get to spit on all o' their graves. I just hope I can hawk up enough."
Arthur nodded. "Agreed."
He'd known for a while now that he needed to improve his relations with the former Republic. Spite seemed like a splendid opportunity for bonding.
It wasn't hard to piece together at this point that Alfred had been dragged out here and threatened with a tortuous death.
Obviously, they'd had to die for the boy to escape.
America was aghast at their kindred apathy.
Arthur scoffed, "Like I don't recognize a witch's burial. Like I can't guess who it was intended for."
Arthur couldn't quite contain the snarl.
Alfred's blue eyes bulged.
He forced another calming breath.
"Now, come down from there," Arthur insisted with beckoning fingers. "At once. Sweet, it's not safe."
In a fog of disbelief, Alfred slowly levitated down. Arthur practically snatched him out of the air.
"Thank God, you're safe. What were you thinking meddling in such dangerous-"
What was he thinking? There wasn't a real good answer for that. He'd spent the last 40-ish hours practically daydreaming.
It wasn't the straight up blackout brainwashing he'd undergone in Osha's care.
He was more in control than that, but…taking bad requests?
Like being drunk with a frenemy who kept egging him on.
This wasn't at all how he'd imagined this going down.
Then again, who could plan for undead backseat driving? It was becoming apparent that Harris had manipulated him again.
Bad thing in the ground…
Bad thing in the ground that wanted to be found and freed. And didn't want him talking about it with a bunch of Redcoats.
He'd dragged him out here. He'd influenced him into digging him back up. He'd prompted the end to his 1812 amnesia. Right? Technically?
Shit.
He wrapped his arms around Arthur's neck.
Arthur held him tighter, rubbing his back a bit harder than his norm. Still, he rested his cheek against Alfred's even as the lecture continued.
"-Affairs. Occult rituals of this magnitude are far beyond your skill level-you're barely 4 centuries old. What oaks have you seen from acorn to ruinous age?!" England demanded. "It's a miracle you survived the first time, it's reckless arrogance to make a second attempt-"
Alfred's age always seemed to be a factor in their arguments. Did he do that with all of his former colonies or just America?
Arthur swept a hand around Alfred's head like he was removing cobwebs and then repeated the action down beside his feet.
"With spotty, slapdash instruction! It's you playing with that pistol from my desk all over again. That drawer was locked for a reason! For your safety-"
It was a shock to see dark twitchy little strands leave with that hand.
He gasped.
The hell…?
"See?! You can't even tell when you're being mesmerized with dark enchantments and you wanted to go it alone? Ridiculous!"
His father muttered something in Gaelic and his palm lit up with a green glow that incinerated the wisps which bubbled and popped like hot tar as they went.
"Ewwwwwww. Is it all off o' me?"
Essence of Harris was gross.
Arthur trembled with the effort of not swearing his head off. Alfred could tell he really wanted to—his face was going a bright blotchy red.
"You…you have wings," Alfred noted distractedly and petted the soft feathers—unsure if he was pointing out the obvious to try and delay another tirade or if it was because he was genuinely fascinated by all modes of flight. "You have flown before…Mint said you had."
He wished that truth didn't hurt, but everything seemed to hurt right now.
It didn't feel like the right time to share his memories of 1812, but part of him was really wanting to. Because even with two more centuries under his belt, Harris still felt out of his league.
But Arthur would get it. He was experienced with this stuff. If he shared what he knew, Arthur could use it and take him on, right?
Was it a cop out, pushing it Arthur's way? But he kept telling him that he needed to know his limits and ask for help.
He needed help. He needed help. He needed help.
And a hug…he pressed himself deeper into his father's embrace. His father's arms came around him even more securely.
Though…
Arthur's eyebrows twitched the way they did when Alfred lost focus and went off on a tangent during a G8 meeting.
"Right! Answers!"
"Please."
Alfred tried not to shiver at the Briton's dark tone.
"Though, I wonder at what answer a witch could give that a druid would understand-"
"Don't," Arthur warned.
Alfred bit at his lip. "Right. Honesty. You deserve…honesty."
"…" Arthur's green eyes were so intense, Alfred thought of snakes.
Alfred wondered if Arthur noticed that the American's accent was shifting all over the place as if trying to account for a sudden influx of 1812 memories and dialect norms. It was kinda embarrassing, but all of this was uncomfortable.
He was off. He knew that. Harris had an uncanny affinity for throwing him off his game. But Dad would help him figure out a strategy this time.
He was here. He was here...just like Alfred had said he would be...all those years ago...because he loved him. It was easier to be brave when remembering that.
"Sooo, my most powerfully magical moment, annually speaking o'course, is the Witching Hour of Beltane's Day."
"Mhmm." A muscle ticked in his father's jaw.
"But it comes with a whole host of conditions, er, see…well, you are-I mean, regionally-you likely have knowledge regarding-cuz you know each other's stories and I still remember Uncle Reilley telling me about that one when I was little about Connla from Cú Chulainn and that's how I knew it was the same and-"
"Concise!"
"I can do, er, borrow? No, broker, great magic…at someone else's behest on Beltane's Day. Yeah. Pretty much, I broker the business of the wish. If you're a jackass and you bring bad blood into it, I…" he gestured to the mirrors. "I reflect it."
"…"
Treacherous…
Alfred faltered. That word hadn't come from him.
"I…suppose…yes… I am a bit." And that hurt to admit…
Arthur was startled by that. "No, not you…I meant the circumstances-"
Except, there was a hint of dishonesty and pain there.
Because Alfred had rebelled; in that light, he was a traitor to Arthur. Always.
Nothing could change that. No, he could never be a knightly hero in Father's eyes.
He blinked hard.
He was no Gawain.
"I don't think we shapeshifters set out to be…just sorta happens…"
He was…what he was…a witch.
"…"
He forged on. "Soo then, Harris kinda got that…out of me and contracted me for closing the gate, though that wasn't our original agreement. We were supposed to help me either restore my magic or forget about it so I couldn't give up anything if I was captured by you, though I doubt now that you'd have been half as scary, but then I got the whole ultimatum of 'close the gate' or…or...um..." He couldn't suppress the shudder.
"A witch's testing, execution, and burial," Arthur supplied.
"…Yeah. Looks like he…got that burial instead. Ironic, huh? Anyways, I closed the gate, but I sorta sacrificed these dudes to do it. I used Harris to translate the spell and the rest to serve as the fuel since that kind of magic… I just didn't have."
"…"
"I guess…" he looked down and noticed how straight Arthur was standing; not favoring either of his legs. The punishment of Excalibur had been lifted entirely!
"I did it!" Delight bubbled up in him. "It worked! The sword's curse is gone! Take that Excalibur!"
It had been hard leaving Arthur without getting to see it healed to the end, trusting in England's healing factor as a nation to finish the final leg of that race.
But he'd succeeded! Thwarted the machinations of fate! Battled a sword of legend and won!
His joy flagged at the dark expression on the man's face.
"Don't you ever subvert my free will like that again."
Alfred trembled at the coldness.
No gratitude?
He didn't understand…yes, it was painful, healing always was, but …ultimately, it was a good thing he'd done. Right? Something Arthur and his brothers couldn't. Harris hadn't wanted him to do it for his father in the first place. Harris liked how Excalibur's curse slowed the old man down and Harris didn't want him here with them.
"I…Daddy...I..."
Green eyes remained slitted in fury.
"I'm sorry..." Even if he wasn't exactly sure which part he'd messed up.
And something in his father's expression signaled that he knew that. He knew that Alfred's apology lacked understanding and that made him even angrier.
It wasn't fair. Daddy couldn't stay mad. Not when he needed him to be on his side so badly.
"May God have mercy even on monsters."
No. He hadn't said that; he didn't believe that. Daddy wasn't like them; Sarah, Samuel, Harris…
He couldn't stop shivering.
Arthur's arms tightened.
He tried to take comfort in that and explain, "But I helped you…I…dunno how to make it not hurt...but I helped you. I had to do something nice for you…"
Texas had appreciated his help. Father should too! It was pragmatism. He'd struck while the iron was hot, while he could.
To show his witch powers could be good! To prove that he could always recover from any misadventure? So they wouldn't worry that he was weak!
So Arthur could remember one good thing about him if…
"Nice for me?!" Arthur hissed. "You think clawing me open-"
"In case l never saw you again!"
That was what the awful feeling had been.
Deep down that Spring part of him had registered that Harris was here and still waiting for him.
The bad thing in the ground…Harris…
And his geas…
The 1812 fiasco wasn't over yet…that's why every memory had stayed so upsetting. To keep him away…
Because Harris wanted them apart. He realized that now.
"NO PLAN WHERE THAT IS A CHANCE IS EVER ACCEPTABLE!"
Alfred blinked dazedly as his eardrums rang. Did Arthur speak like that on the deck over cannon fire?
Alfred had never been near him during a naval battle. Never heard him roaring orders...
"EVER!"
He was terrifying.
And even then, he didn't compare to Harris, who'd always been evil in regular-ish, non-supernatural ways which was harder to explain somehow, and more enduring, though Arthur could probably articulate it. Hope flared, maybe he could make sense of it!? Explain it back like he used to during literature lessons when a concept was too big? Maybe if Alfred could understand it, he could stop being so afraid!?
Arthur's lips had curled back and he was breathing through his teeth.
If only he wasn't so angry at him…then he could ask…
But he was angry…so angry…
Underneath…
It was hard to feel safe in this embrace that kept tightening. Maybe this wasn't where he ought to be? Maybe he should get free?
"Why?" Arthur demanded, voice pained.
And that made Alfred freeze.
"Why couldn't you just be honest with me about your plan for coming here from the start?"
His hold kept tightening.
Alfred grimaced. "…Daddy…?"
"Is it always going to be like this? Secrets? Lies? Misdirections? Are we to just expect a certain level of duplicity from you at all-"
"D-da…"
He stared. There was a glowing ring of red about the irises of his father's eyes.
"How am I supposed to keep you safe when you sabotage every effort I make-"
Magic? Angry magic?
It was getting harder to breathe. He had no room.
"You're…"
Was it payback for earlier? For a painful hex extraction? For being a treacherous fuck up? For everything!?
No.
No, it had to be a mistake!
Suddenly certain in that; he saw it!
A cocoon of dark strands was swirling around them.
No, it was Harris. Damn him! That fucker knew how to ruin everything!
His ribs ached.
There were dark webby strands attaching to Arthur, but Alfred couldn't get them off of him.
Dots were starting to darken the edges of his vision.
Instinctively, the nails of his fingers lengthened to claws the way they used to when he had to defend himself or scavenge for food when he was little; he didn't want to hurt Arthur though.
It was different; before, he'd been removing a hex. That was surgery, this would be injury.
"Don't freeze, dumpkoff. What you practice, is what you'll do."
He could go for the eyes, Prussia would want him to, but…
This was Harris's fault.
Why should Arthur suffer for someone else's evil?
He rested a careful hand to his father's cheek; not letting the points of his claws make contact.
"…You're…"
"WOT? I'm what!?" Arthur growled.
Alfred couldn't see him anymore and his ribs were burning so bad.
"…h-hurting..." he choked out.
Crick.
"…me…" The word was more mouthed than spoken and his senses of the world dissolved.
Alistair stretched and cracked his neck. "Any luck?"
Rhys frowned at his phone. "Eire isn't answering. He had a lot of useful texts though. We'll have to commend him."
Scotland rolled his eyes.
"You'll have to," Rhys stated, phone to his ear, as he studied the map Osha had piecemeal mailed their nephew; Momilani left it in their care under the condition they returned Alfred to her whole and unharmed. "You know it means more coming from you than me."
"Spare us insecure Irishmen."
"You're everyone's favorite, Alba."
If he didn't know better, he might say Rhys was miffed.
"You can have Reilley, I swear. And if I knew you were going to be so offended about little Al, I'd have dragged your arse along with us to visit."
They'd managed to negotiate their release from the Hags' "rescue efforts" after Arthur's departure.
Rhys had gotten himself free with a tiny folding knife and was just making headway on Alistair's restraints, when Canada had made the valid argument that being in the cave still put them in proximity to whatever mischief America was up to and that if he showed up, he would easily have the upper hand because he was not tied up and all the trees were quick to do his bidding.
The witches had eyed the great tree roots growing through their dwelling with sudden mistrust and very reluctantly set their charges loose.
Their belongings were returned to them on the condition that they would not travel together.
They were so paranoid on that front, the coven personally escorted Hawaii and Canada to the parking lot.
"Texas isn't answering. Nor Spain or Puerto Rico. Albion should've made it there by now, especially if he went in that 'Angel' form as I suspect he has."
Alistair leaned against a tree. "That one burns a lot of magic, though…and Morgan was involved in it. I'll never trust it."
"It was crafted before their falling out," Rhys pointed out.
"Still don't trust it."
"…Neither do I." Rhys sighed and looked up.
They were both exhausted.
But at least Alistair finally felt a second wind kicking in. The smushed granola bar he'd found in a pocket had done him some good.
Alistair cracked his knuckles to try and release some tension. "You think Reilley was right? His texts? Little Al's a shapeshifter?"
"Eire deals with that sort fairly often. I trust his instinct."
"Shapeshifters are…tricky."
"So they are; he's still our nephew, Alba. I agree with Eire. America makes more sense knowing this about him."
Scotland gave a noncommittal grunt. "Morgan was a shapeshifter."
"…I know."
Rhys stiffened suddenly.
"Wha? What is it?"
Rhys's hazel eyes narrowed. "Something evil was roused. It's fully awake now."
"Great. Jus' what I wannae hear."
"How did I not sense it before now?" Rhys's eyebrows furrowed together.
"Think they opened the gate and something came tearing through?" Alistair theorized. That would be their luck.
Rhys closed his eyes in concentration.
"…No. No, the gate is still closed."
"Desecrated graves and fearsome ghosts?"
Rhys considered it and drew out his crystal ball from the ether to consult it. "I...suppose...it is human, but..."
"Callin' it. My bet is Harris."
"Noted, but it can't be…it doesn't feel…dead."
"The fuck do you mean, it don't feel dead?"
The orb glowed as Rhys concentrated harder.
"I. Don't. Know. Alba."
Alistair drew his claymore from the ether.
He was glad Matthieu and Momilani were away. This was gonna be a fankle.
Just because they'd given the two orders to call Norway and Romania as backup if they didn't return by noon…didn't mean he actually expected this to go this areaways this fast.
The basic plan had been for Alba and Gwalia to meet back up with Eire and Albion and together they'd talk America and Texas out of trying to open the gate without proper preparation.
Explain to them how something like that would require coordinating their efforts and researching a method that wouldn't drain them all.
They'd probably need some mages and trolls to help out and all the bureaucratic favors involved were going to be a pain in the arse.
Then, Scotland would've delivered the wallop America deserved for causing all this mayhem…
Texas too. And then they could've left.
But now...whatever Rhys was sensing would have to be dealt with first.
Alba noticed movement in the darkness and signaled to Rhys to stay on his guard.
Except Rhys seemed to recognize the figure and moved forward three paces.
"Arthur?" The Welshman called out.
Their brother staggered toward them.
He'd transformed back to civilian wear.
His coat was off-used as makeshift swaddling for the child he was carrying.
Something was wrong.
Arthur was breathing funny. Hyperventilating. But he couldn't be.
Arthur was too battle hardened to let his emotions run roughshod over him.
Was he injured again? Worse than before?
Alistair glowered at the bundle in his arms. If Alfred had botched this up even more so help him…
"Arthur!" Rhys called out.
As he drew near, it became apparent even in the shifting moonlight that Arthur's eyes were red rimmed and swollen; his expression was one of agony.
"Arth…ur?" Alistair mumbled uncertainly.
"Tricked me." Their little brother choked on a sob. "It tricked me."
"Arthur?"
"Brawd mawr!" He wailed. That England was speaking Welsh to appeal to his oldest brother was a very bad sign.
Albion had never much liked it. Had grumbled as a child to Alba and Eire's amusement, that it was like speaking through a mouthful of river pebbles, which always needled their eldest brother. So, when Albion did speak it now and then, it was for Gwalia's aid or sympathy.
"Brawd mawr…"
Rhys nodded and moved closer.
"I…I…" He rocked the child in his arms, who was strangely limp.
Alistair felt a sickening lump form in his throat.
"I hurt the baby."
Rhys went very still and then determinedly moved forward again.
Alistair's eyes went to the unmoving child in Arthur's arms.
"Oh no…" he muttered. "Nonono."
Arthur gave a high pitched keening before sobbing, "I hurt the baby. My...mine...and I…I…"
Alistair shook his head in disbelief. "No…"
No. Not Arthur. Arthur was too careful for that. The gentlest out of the lot of them when it came to handling bairns.
He hadn't reacted to the tot's vicious onslaught mere hours ago.
And if he hadn't acted then, what could've possibly provoked…?
"I held him too tight! I-I.. I-" he broke off into a sound of pain and horror. "...Trying...keep safe...I..."
Rhys opened his arms and Arthur rushed into them, breaking down completely.
"Brawd mawr!"
Rhys blinked hard and held onto him as he carefully guided them both to kneel on the forest floor.
"Brawd mawr…helpwych fi…"
"Yes, yes, I am here. I'll help."
Alistair turned to him as well for some kind of guidance—feeling lost. The way he had when Rome took Albion from them and he'd been left staring at the shore as the enemy's fleet sailed farther and farther away. And he could hear Eire bawling for Gwalia to do something.
Alba couldn't do anything. Didn't know how to change it. Just knew that getting loud and angry and frustrated wouldn't help. Being upset wouldn't help, so he just stood there trying to be quiet since he couldn't be calm. And hoping that would be enough. That would be room enough for Rhys to think and plan.
Rhys held Alistair's gaze as he consoled their youngest brother. "It was an accident, brawd bach. I know it was an accident. Let me see him."
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