Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Buena Vista Social Club's Candela. Or Ford. Or the proverb "live by the sword, die by the sword" which comes from the bible: Matthew 26, 26:52: "for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword."
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Curnunnos is a multifaceted Celtic God; protector of the forest, vegetation, fertility/virility, death/dying, hunting, animals, masculine energy and power. MEDEVAC is a military medical evacuation vehicle (helicopter). Miscommunication. Cricket which is a real sport...I know it's a real sport...I've read rules about it even though I've never actually seen it before so it feels a bit... (Ah well, I guess I'll have to surf the web for a video.)
TRIGGER Warning: Supernaturally induced domestic violence…technically and fallout from it. Harris (who kinda just deserves this label period). The concept of euthanasia. Nervous breakdowns.
AN: Hey readers! Thank you for your reviews! I've enjoyed reading and re-reading them! Had my birthday yesterday and finished this new chap! :D Enjoy!
Chapter 53: Bearhug of Doom
Mathieu stared at his phone, balanced atop of the dashboard of the Ford Transit they'd been instructed to wait in.
The call had ended almost 10 minutes ago and he was still in shock.
Rhys had asked to be put on speaker for Hawaii's benefit as what he had to say affected her, too.
Mathieu turned the keys.
Hawaii slowly pulled her seatbelt over herself.
Mathieu did the same.
Numbly, he watched her move his phone to a safer spot so it wouldn't slide around as the vehicle moved.
Their new instructions were to drive to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania and then call Norway and Romania for backup.
Rhys was to the point. "There was an accident. Alfred was grievously injured. Arthur and Alistair will be accompanying him to hospital. A rescue helicopter is coming-"
A critical injury!?
"Did he attack you also?" Mathieu wasn't sure what was wrong with his brother; he thought again of the hard shove he'd received and the tree that held him captive for hours.
"No."
He could hear Arthur weeping in the background and his heart clenched.
His brother was so reckless; didn't he know how much they cared about him?! How much it hurt when he spiraled and dragged them into his messes?
Though, a little voice in his head warned that if he didn't word that perfectly… Alfred would pull back and these fiascos would still happen, just without Matthieu being aware or able to help.
"What was he doing?" His tone came out sharper than he intended.
"It was an accident," Rhys repeated forcefully. "Harris is a master manipulator. Magic has only…enhanced this trait. For your safety, please go. I…I can't see you harmed, too."
Magical manipulation…
Osha had gotten him once before and forced him to battle Arthur.
Was this similar?
Had Harris influenced his brother into his actions lately? That seemed too good to be true; a means of easy absolution. His intuition said it was probably something in the middle.
Like, Alfred had a bad idea and Harris cheered it on.
But he was seven…
He was going to have bad ideas. It was, technically, good when he thought to run them by adults at all.
It was unfortunate that Harris, in whatever form he was in now, was and continued to be a terrible mentor.
"Is Arthur alright?"
"No."
Offered so readily that it was obvious he wanted Mathieu to read into it; a means of telling him without telling him.
"No…no, he's not." There was pain in the Welshman's voice.
His tones were usually so level.
Mathieu blinked hard. "What happened?"
"An accident. Please drive yourself and Hawaii to safety. Spain has the keys to the remaining vehicle should he and his find an opportunity for retreat. Scotland is texting him now. I will retrieve Reilley and do what I can to delay Harris."
There was a squawk of indignation in the background and Matthieu heard Alistair arguing, "Wha's this now?"
"I need you to travel with Albion and America and ensure they-"
"I did not agree to that! You and Eire don't have the power to confine-"
"I don't have to confine, I simply have to lead-"
"Arthur!" Matthieu called over them. "Arthur, are you alright?"
Concerned that his father figure had undergone another vicious skirmish and was covering up for his brother, Matthieu continued calling for him.
Finally, a voice came on:
"I didn't mean to" was rasped into the phone speaker. "I…I wouldn't…you know I wouldn't…I…don't know why…I can't believe I…I…"
But he had…
Matthieu felt his heart sinking.
He had done something.
"Arthur…if you…if you had to defend yourself…" from a violent America, he'd understand.
Completely.
He should've fought harder to avoid being trapped in that stupid tree.
Only Arthur sobbed in response, so roughly it reminded him of the previous century when he'd caught a glimpse of the man when Arthur thought he was alone.
A tarp covered thin little bodies, likely orphans, who'd been fending for themselves in the chaos of Blitzkrieg.
Arthur's shoulders slumped as he wept.
Arthur was protective of children; he even had a soft spot for teens and young adults, possibly since he'd first started colonizing…
Canada knew America's Revolution had been painful for England knowing his young ward was on the other side…that a bullet or cannonball could harm him at any moment.
He'd often personally check each battlefield for his rebellious colony for fear that his men would move a dead or injured America out of his reach.
Mathieu ducked out of sight when the Briton turned back around.
Last Christmas had proved that the tenderness Arthur felt for Alfred hadn't waned at all through the centuries.
Matthieu remembered the helplessness and horror in Arthur's reaction to the car crash.
So why? Why did this seem worse?
Did he feel responsible?
But he had a right to defend himself!
Suddenly, the hairs on his neck stood on end.
Unless, that…wasn't what happened.
Rhys had given him a clue.
"Master manipulator…" Mathieu thought aloud.
Magical manipulation.
Yet, he hadn't really orchestrated an encore to the Revolution or 1812, had he?
He shivered at the thought of their family reenacting segments of that war.
America was a lot stronger now…
And who knew what Texas and his family would do.
But that hadn't happened. Why?
"Can…Harris only control one person at a time?"
It made him less powerful than Osha in that regard and strangely more insidious.
Because mind control became obvious with too many puppets wandering around, but just one at a time?
Much less noticeable.
"That's…that's very possible," Rhys validated the theory. "We'll need to keep that in mind."
Arthur's distress got louder and it made more sense.
Mathieu wanted to vomit.
For Arthur's sake, he repeated back, "it was an accident."
"Yes," Rhys agreed.
"I'll drive us and then we'll call for backup."
"Merci beaucoup-" An offering of gratitude in his favorite language.
"De rien."
And it felt like nothing.
It felt like a great big nothing.
They were cutting losses.
This was damage control.
He slipped the phone into a vest pocket.
He wanted back. Back to twenty minutes ago where he could just be angry with Alfred and Tex for this spectacle de merde.
And he could return to griping with Hawaii over how all they'd really wanted was a family-bonding trip.
Retreat was the right thing, the smart thing to do. He reversed out of the parking space.
He briefly made eye contact with her before shifting to drive.
"I'm sorry," she offered first; voice level even as her eyes betrayed her sorrow. "We should've insisted he ask for help about the gate. Harris would've still been a surprise, but it might not have gone so…so…"
"Yeah." He couldn't help glaring.
She shifted uncomfortably, studying a finger whose acrylic nail had broken off earlier. "He thought he could handle…no. We thought he could handle it. We've all gotten used to that. Used to him doing it all with only Tex as his backup. I can't tell you all the times they've pulled off the impossible." A laugh and a sob mixed together.
Mathieu gritted his teeth and used his signal to join the highway.
She continued, "Wasn't fair. Tex wanted an adventure. Maybe I did, too, for bonding or tribalism or something. You've all had him to yourselves so much…ever since he got back. I don't know." She sighed. "We'll have to work something out. Something better. He's a people pleaser. He won't say 'when.'"
"…" Canada gripped the steering wheel tighter.
"He is," she stated, like she expected him to argue it. Like Mathieu's observations of Alfred's self-serving, narcissistic traits blinded him to other peoples' casual exploitation of his little brother on various levels.
It didn't.
America wanted others to see him the way he saw himself (or wanted to see himself).
The "hero" was easy to manipulate that way.
It pissed him off on Alfred's behalf and frustrated him.
The dawning realization that his brother might not be as oblivious to "the atmosphere" as he led people to believe made it all worse.
That sometimes he knew when he was being used…
And allowed it.
She was talking too much without saying anything.
His temper spiked.
Quiet and sharp he returned with, "He's not experienced enough with magic to pull something like this off. He doesn't have enough knowledge to build off of or resources to teach himself with."
It was madness to attempt, though it was seeming less like blatant arrogance and more like desperation or pressure to not disappoint.
It made Alfred seem caged within others' expectations of him.
"You're right."
He didn't want to be right; he wanted to be roasting marshmallows with his little brother while planning a rafting ride—assuring him that if any part got too scary and he wasn't having fun, all he had to do was say so. He wouldn't let Tex or anybody else tease him.
Mathieu would get him safely to shore.
Alfred could trust Mathieu.
Always.
Rhys released a breath and forced another in. Matthieu would be safe...from Harris, from this. He wouldn't have to witness this.
It was an ethical debate for the century:
To heal or to relieve?
His nephew wasn't quite dead.
And the nightmare that was this evening continued.
Apparently, Arthur had remembered himself, the consequences of his strength, and relented at the very last…too late to do Alfred any good.
And Arthur knew it. He couldn't stop trembling.
It was hard focusing on the task at hand with the awful dark vortex of emotion that was his younger brother.
Guilt and grief and horror churned endlessly.
Worse, as the shock wore off—the feelings intensified.
There was also a heavy disorienting disbelief that he could fail so completely.
Him.
All of his conquests…
All of his missions…
Centuries employed in heroic gallantry and noble ambitions…
He had lifetimes of experience; how could he have not mastered his anger with so much time on his side?
This was his fault.
The tragic endpoint of allowing a character flaw of this magnitude to reign unchecked for so long.
Because righteous anger had served Arthur well at the start…until it corrupted bit by bit by bit…until it was an indulgence and a crutch…that infiltrated nearly all of his other emotions…
To put it bluntly, the Fall of Camelot had been gentler.
Albion didn't know what to do. He was depending entirely on Rhys to make the call.
Memories kept flashing through his mind regardless if Rhys was in contact with his brother or not.
His emotions were too powerful to not send turbulent psychic waves outward.
That was how Rhys learned the manner in which it unfolded.
Poor Arthur…he'd been masterfully manipulated.
The pain was to be expected.
It was the self-loathing that Rhys found suffocating.
"It was an accident," Rhys repeated yet once more.
"…"
"Clearly, that 'angel' form… was susceptible to enchantments…" Rhys deduced.
Alba cursed Morgan le Fay.
Albion stared at him.
Their brother had a natural born talent for being impervious to glamours, persuasions, and even some fairy food.
Fae often had to befriend him as he couldn't be tricked that way.
The irony… was that friendship itself was the trick in this case.
"That bitch!" Alba hissed.
Arthur's pain deepened; he should've discovered this sooner.
Alfred had paid for his father's ignorance.
Unacceptable!
Unfair!
How could he let this happen?!
The memory flashed through again:
Of Alfred trying to alert him to what he was doing:
Arthur was so sick of it all. All the deception! All the dismissals of his care and assistance! All the complications that arose as a result!
Big blue eyes kept widening in pain and fear.
And that was infuriating, too! So bloody dramatic! Didn't he know by now that Arthur would never hurt-
And then the sound.
The sound. The most terrible sound. The most awful feeling: the slackening of small bones giving way...
No.
NO.
Nononononoooo.
Not in his arms.
Not by his arms…
Which he'd always prided himself was the safest place in the world for his little ones.
"Daddy…you're hurting me…"
Another sound of grief burst from his brother and Rhys's vision started blurring.
"Rhys…?" Alba mumbled.
He blinked hard and composed himself.
Because something needed to be done.
They all knew it.
Alfred's breathing came and went like the child's body was trying to decide: was it an injury it could mend or was a death necessary to repair the...integrity of his shape?
They were so far away from medical assistance; Rhys had already called a special emergency line but…even with air ambulances coming…there wasn't hope.
Even so…
He didn't like giving up on his nephew.
He didn't want his nephew to suffer.
He didn't know how to spare Arthur this.
"Rhys?"
He swallowed. "Yes, Alba?"
"Do…do we need to…do I need to…?"
There was a grim resignation in his steely gray eyes.
"…Alis…"
"S'alright. I can…Arthur can hate me."
Arthur started crying harder.
No, that wasn't fair.
"Arthur…Arthur, we have to make a decision," Rhys prompted.
"If I…had Excalibur…"
Rhys pet the fair hair of his youngest brother. "We don't."
That was even assuming the sword would follow any order Arthur gave.
He wrapped his arm more tightly around Arthur, pulling him into his side.
"We could try pooling our magic to heal him long enough for emergency services to arrive, but I don't know that the magic will take or that the workers will be able to…to help him."
It was what made crushing injuries so…
Alistair shook his head and sat down on Arthur's other side. "It'll draw it out…"
"This is Arthur's decision."
"Cannae bear to…hear him suffering…"
"Alba-"
"I will do it." His voice was thick. "Arthur won't have to. You won't have to."
That wasn't nearly as comforting as Alistair hoped it'd be; especially not when Rhys could sense how repulsed he was at the prospect.
He was correct that Arthur couldn't do it. And that Rhys's relationship with Alfred might deteriorate further as a result but…
Scotland stood back up and then paced.
"There's…still Harris to deal with. If we exhaust all of our magic on Alfred, I don't know how we'll fare against him. And the fact is…we could spend it all and it…still not be enough for little Al. And then what?"
"…"
"Arthur?" Rhys tried again.
Arthur dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and then dry heaved.
"Arthur?"
"Stoppit! You know he cannae answer so don't make 'im! Don't-don't…so he can…can say he…he didn't make the decision. He can say it was me. I did it."
Alistair moved with purpose toward their youngest family member.
And Rhys prayed for divine intervention.
Abruptly, tree roots sprang vertically from the ground, barring the Scotsman from moving closer.
Other roots slowly twined around Alfred's body.
They belonged to an old oak; its trunk split by a lightning strike, its boughs bending under great weight and covered in a mixture of fungi.
It began to glow, brighter and brighter until it was a form of dazzling gold-white light and then it disintegrated.
The glowing particles drifted lazily for a beat before swarming Alfred and entering him through his mouth.
Scotland moved back to where his brothers were, dumbfounded like the rest of them.
Immediately, crackling sounds like branches snapping filled the air. And they watched in morbid fascination as the child's rib cavity was reshaped and inflated to something more natural.
Arthur shook harder.
The child turned his head and retched dark liquid in the dim light.
Alfred stretched—bones and cartilage still resettling.
Blinking blearily, Alfred groped along the forest floor with his right hand until finding the root of another old-growth tree near him. He gave an affectionate pat.
His eyes were glowing blue and his voice was rough as he replied, "I know, I know. Hero has to save the forest from evil asshole boss. I'm on it, I swear."
He slumped in a way that suggested his body was still badly damaged.
But his life! His life!
"Praise Curnunnos," Rhys whispered.
"Curnunnos," his brothers repeated softly after him.
For it did seem that the God of the Forest had chosen not to sing Alfred to the Otherworld but spared him altogether, safeguarding their family.
Rhys gave Arthur's shoulder a squeeze. What a blessing?!
For what greater favor could an icon of virility and manhood give, than the preservation of a man's child?
"Five more minutes," Alfred mumbled.
Then, Alfred's cellphone rang with Buena Vista Social Club's Candela.
"Ughh."
Alfred stiffly reached and answered it. "Rico?"
"Nah, it's me," Tex's voice rang out. "I'm borrowing cuz my phone died. How 'bout you? You okay?! Something happened and Arthur ran off with you like a quarterback goin' for the final touchdown in the last-"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, you're okay? Or, yeah, something happened? Cuz if you're ok, then, get your ass back here, General. We need the cavalry, stat. You'd think bein' bony and light would-"
"No can do."
"You're hurt." Tex's tone went serious.
"Spine's fucked."
"Report."
"Left arm is tingling."
The arm in question moved spastically as he shifted on his back to try and roll over and couldn't.
Nerve damage.
Arthur's breath hitched.
"Fuck. Can't feel my left leg…but I don't think I lost bladder control, soooo to every cloud a silver lining."
"The hell happened?"
"Bearhug of DOOM."
Arthur shuddered violently.
Rhys resolved (as he flitted between stages of shock, relief, and joy) that he really ought to tell Alfred not to make jokes like that.
The "Arth" in Arthur meant "bear" in Celtic languages. The name itself was often interpreted as "bear-man" or "bear-king."
A name that denoted "bear-like" strength and ferocity and majesty.
Even as a practitioner of gallows humor, his father would never find that comment funny…especially given… this.
"So he can possess folks, I wondered; you were acting hella weird for hours. Sorry, I didn't intervene. We'll need a safe word or, like, a high altitude test thing for it in the future. Damn, but Papi and I haven't felt anything and we been wrasslin' this thing for almost w-whaddya think?"
"About an hour!" Antonio interjected.
"We're sitting on him right now. One o' those incapacitating holds. Papi knows tons of them. Learned 'em from Roman soldiers and Greeks and stuff. Cool, huh?"
"…Yeah."
"Jesus, do you think we're just too dumb to notice when we're bein' influenced? Or tricked? Or maybe we're too dumb for him to hijack period?"
"Says the NASA guy."
"That's math. This is different. I'm gonna let Rico and Reilley know that I think they're in more danger."
"Mijo, don't put yourself down-"
"I ain't. I'm just realistic."
Texas yelled the update to his compatriots.
"How long...can you hold him off?" Alfred asked. "What kind of timeframe am I...working with?" He struggled to breathe deeper. "Or can you search for me...without leading Harris over?"
"Whoa, did Arthur ditch you?"
Up to this point, Alfred's voice (though rough) had held a controlled, nearly caustic, quality, like it was more inconvenience than pain dogging him.
"I…I dunno." His voice weakened and suddenly he sounded as young and hurt as he was.
Arthur was a weak spot.
A weak spot Harris exploited to…isolate Alfred? To cut him off from support or escape?
Maybe it was the U.K. arrogance he and his brothers were accused of…
But it was difficult to entertain the idea that Harris's actions, devastating as they were, had nearly nothing to do with them.
It was discombobulating, but it seemed to fit.
Everything was about America.
Harris could've continued controlling Arthur in that weakened state; instead he'd released him immediately afterwards.
Mission completed.
Leaving Arthur to ruminate over what he'd done without even bothering to lord it over him; Arthur was…below notice once America was dealt with.
Yet, the ghoul continued to fight. If it were simply guarding the gate… why attack Texas and his family? Rico and Antonio weren't magically inclined and Texas had no ties to the colonel. How would he sense Tex's inclination to open it? Mere association with America?
No.
There was something strategic at work.
He was trying to prevent something more than the gate being reopened.
"Shit, he's getting more squirrely. I gotta call you back."
"Kay."
Alfred sighed and dialed Arthur's number.
Rhys's pocket vibrated. It was where he'd been keeping his younger brother's phone after the hags returned it.
Arthur hadn't been of sound enough mind for him to return it.
An instrumental version of Greensleeves seemed deafening in the tense atmosphere.
Alfred carefully turned his head to look their way. "Oh. Eavesdroppers."
"Tell ya what?" Alistair negotiated. "When your strength's back, you can box my ears, laddie."
Texas twisted an arm that simply rolled all the way around in its socket.
"Go for the vulnerable bits!" Reilley instructed from a safe distance.
In the chaos of a violent cadaver, they'd staggered their way out of the cemetery and met up with the Irishman. Whatever that was good for.
This uncle of Al's wasn't real hands-on or insightful.
"This is a skeleton," Antonio pointed out.
"Yeah, there aren't any 'bits.' Just bones!"
"Twist its head off?" Rico suggested.
That had merit.
Tex looked at Antonio and they shared a mutual shoulder shrug.
Why not?
Working in tandem, Antonio held the bony body still while Tex pried the skull off with his bone knife.
"Quick! Check if it can operate independently!" Texas instructed.
"You just watch oodles of scary movies. Your mind immediately went there," Reilley stated. "Robbing me o' my thunder. Didn't get to offer an ominous warning or anything-"
"Do it!" He commanded.
"I am!" Reilley withdrew his staff from the ether.
He used the top end to prod the skull experimentally.
It rolled harmlessly along the ground.
"Eh? The soul's not anchored," he observed.
"What does that mean?" Rico asked nervously as he fetched a stick as a makeshift weapon.
"Thought it was a ghoul, but perhaps it's not."
Antonio glared. "You say you are vested in the Dark Arts and yet you do not know what we are even fighting-"
"It's not a perfect science!" Reilley griped. "There's all kinds of taxonomical shenanigans where magic is involved. Cuz it's magic! Limbs and rules and traits are all…flexible! And that's the case all over the world! Magic rules in one place doesn't necessarily hold all over-"
"Kay," Tex helped Antonio pin the…whatever it was…back to the ground and pulled out Rico's phone.
"Gah! Don't use up ALL of my minutes!" Rico yelled.
"Bill me." Tex rolled his eyes and dialed Canada.
"Rico?"
"Nah, it's Tex."
"You!" For a moment it sounded like the Canadian was gonna tear him a new one, instead he stated in an arctic tone, "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Huh?"
"Did you…wait…did you not hear about Alfred?" Mathieu sounded stricken.
Tex frowned.
"Yeah, he's hurt. His back's jacked so he's kinda benched for this quarter. Look, can you swing by and let him bum a lift?"
"He…called you?"
"Nah, I called him. I was getting all kinds of weird vibes. He was dying, then he wasn't dying, and now-" he used his bone knife to pop apart one of the skeleton's arms at the elbow joint.
"…"
"Look, Matt. I'm asking for a solid assist. I can't wrassle with Harris and transport Al to the ER."
"Momilani and I are driving to Harrisburg to call for backup."
Tex blinked in confusion. "What's Stuart going to be able to do? Here, I'm puttin' you on speakerphone."
"Romania and Norway."
"Oh," Tex answered.
Antonio made a face.
"What's wrong with them?" Tex asked with genuine curiosity. Since he and Spain had teamed up, he could admit now his old man was someone to have in his corner.
And he admire-cough-no-valued that. Militarily.
And something about the physicality of a skirmish got him all pumped for battleground camaraderie.
The fact was Tex liked being on a team, provided it could pull its own weight. Case and point with Al, 99.9 percent of the time.
He also tried to tell himself he wasn't living out a secret childhood fantasy where he was finally tough enough to battle villains alongside his Papi.
No. It wasn't that.
Antonio set his knees on Harris's shoulder blades. "Nada."
"Don't gimme that. I need the intel. I trust...uh..."
Green eyes caught him.
Tch. Friggin' embarrassing. But he definitely owed him this one by now. Fine. "I trust what ya got to say, okay?"
He muttered something along the lines of "they're weird" in Spanish.
Which was something, considering Spain was friendly with Prussia and France.
"Rhys has called a helicopter for Al."
"Oh good! Good! He's handled! Y'all found him? Sounds like Arthur dumped him and ran off-"
"Pirata," Antonio sneered. "Can't be trusted…leaving his niñito…"
"That isn't-that's not-Arthur's there. He'd never abandon-he, Rhys, and Alistair-"
"AHA! I knew it! They leave me out on purpose. You're witnesses." Reilley pointed at the others. "Ya make some Viking friends during the Early Middle Ages and, aye, a few raids happen under your watch and your clan holds it against yeh, forever."
"Rhys was coming back for you after Alfred is secure-"
"Tha's a pretty yarn yer spinnin' but I-"
Tex felt the bone knife vibrate and watched as it started to glow a light violet.
Figuring, what the hell? And not feeling too conflicted about stabbing Harris in the back because…
Tch…live by the "sword, die by the sword," right?
He drove the knife into the center of the man's spine.
It sank like a hot knife in butter.
The body was briefly lit up with the same violet glow as the knife before abruptly falling to pieces.
The spellbook fell to the ground.
"We'll done, mijo!" Antonio rose to his feet and clapped Tex on the back.
He shook his head. "Too easy."
"¿Qué?"
"That wasn't easy!" Rico refuted. "You and Papi had to-"
"No sir! That was too damn easy."
He eyed the whatchamacallit? Right, Al called it a gramarye with suspicion. "It's the false horror movie lull. Like, there's the 'all-clear' and then, BAM, jump-scare."
"Do you sleep at night, hermano? Or are you up thinking about all this crap?"
"Papi can offer some movie alternatives that are calm and good-feeling and will help-"
"Quick, Reilley! Poke it with your stick!"
"This is a staff, mind you, an impressive item of power and prestig-"
"Poke it!"
"Fine!"
Tex likened it to an angry goose, the book shot up into the air. All ruffled and angry!
There was a collective gasp and then-
"Called it!" Tex crowed.
The gramarye zoomed towards Reilley who swung his staff on instinct.
CRACK!
There was a group cheer as it arced through the air and smacked hard against a tree.
"A remarkable shot, Reilley ol' boy," the Irishman congratulated himself. "That's why any cricket team is lucky to have you."
"Look at you! Finally proving yourself!" Tex declared. "I swear, I had my doubts-"
The redhead's eye twitched.
"But Al assured me you could be handy in a barroom brawl and-"
His ears perked at the sound of helicopters approaching.
That had to be for Al.
Abruptly, the book was airborne again, albeit, with a few noticeably looser pages.
Tex gave a quick glance around. Each member of his company had settled into a defensive stance, ready for the next round. Hell yeah, battle ready!
Only, it wasn't after them now.
The spellbook made to zoom over their heads towards—
The helicopters!
Shit! It, Harris, it? Had sensed Al, hadn't it?!
His gut screamed at him to move!
To fight!
To do something!
"Oh no, you don't!"
And he threw himself at it.
Alfred stared up at the sky as Rhys and an Army flight medic loaded him onto a MEDEVAC's gurney.
It sucked that, despite his uncles' insistence that they were glad to have him back, they hadn't listened to him at all.
They had wanted to do the talking.
Can you feel this? How 'bout that? Can you rate your pain? Can you take a deep breath? One more please? Good lad. You're such a good lad. Yer doing so well. Hold steady now. Such a good bairn.
Supposedly, this was all so they'd have info to tell the paramedics in case he passed out.
But there went his chance to warn them about his geas. Gram Gram was wrong…
Before awakening in the woods, Alfred had endured a strange intermittent blend of dreaming and…dying.
Mostly all sound and feeling in a deep dark place punctuated by long spaces of nothingness.
There were leaves rustling with the wind; there was the simple, earthly music of insects and birds and other animals and a man.
A man whose voice kept begging, "Nonono. No. Please. Please, no. Not the baby…please…Not my baby. God, no..." Sometimes it was in English, sometimes it wasn't.
He remembered water flowing past his calves. He was standing in a creek, the usual way he entered his field of Elysian.
His eyes were still closed.
Once he opened them…
Once he took a step forward…
Once he embraced his fate…
"Don't yeh dare."
Ugh. Gram Gram was there. She would camp out in his field…just to ruin it. That was her style.
"Not one step more, you hear me?"
Ughhhh.
"Not one more. Yer not e'en tryin' to live. One o' my line. One o' mine…"
"I heal up quicker with a death," he explained.
"You're of the land and it wants to save yeh. Let it."
"I dunno what you mean."
"Let it."
"What does that mean?" Alfred snapped.
"It means 'let it or I take it from your hide!'"
Sweet ol' Gram Gram.
She sniffed. "Think you, that I'd've turned my nose up at such gifts? I'm not saying it's leave to be wasteful and reckless, but don't you slap it away."
He concentrated and he could make out that some kind of moss or seaweed or no…roots were wrapping around him.
"Dyin' in battle I ken. There's honor in that. This is running. This is hiding."
"If I'm dead, Harris can't use me or my geas. It's safer for everyone."
"Ohhh," she snickered, "we think we're being noble, huh?"
"Do you have any idea how bad this could get if he contracts with me a second time? It's my fault, so, it's my fight."
"There yeh go again. I, my, me. Not one word of them you've left behind in the real fight."
He faltered.
She said a word he didn't understand with a vehemence that felt familiar, like when his uncles and his dad were watching soccer and didn't agree with the referee's call.
"Your kin are waiting for you, a stóirín, waiting to guard you well. Let them. Sooo. Stop. Running."
She gave him a hard flick to the forehead which was so unexpected he fell back…
Back…
Back into his body…
Which was still damaged but not nearly as bad as before.
Alfred grimaced as his Uncle Rhys checked and double-checked the straps for a fourth time. His rib cage felt like it was on fire. And there was a stupid, uncomfortable brace holding his head in place.
Earlier, it had been irritating when Uncle Alistair had stationed himself at Alfred's head for that task and wouldn't let him move around at all.
But that wasn't what put him on edge and kept him there.
No.
Arthur wouldn't look at him. Wouldn't come over.
He scrunched his fingers again to signal that he wanted help and comfort.
The stuffy smothering Dad-kind that only Arthur could deliver. Wanted his old man to come fret over him in ways he could protest were embarrassing but actually enjoyed a lot.
Because he was hurting in so many ways and some part of him couldn't help hoping that if anyone could take the edge off, it was Father.
There was no movement.
Nothing.
"Daaaaad?!" he yowled.
"Whoa!" Uncle Al leaned backward.
"Alba!" Rhys barked.
And his uncle immediately leaned back in to keep Alfred stabilized.
What was that about?
Yeah, his hands were super scary, but his uncle had already commented about them once before accepting them as part of the shapeshifter package.
No, he'd seen something new and disturbing because he was closer.
Because Alfred had spoken…
He immediately reached for his mouth and felt inside.
It was karma for all of those British teeth jokes.
He'd shapeshifted.
Mermaid teeth were scary; great for eating clams and crabs, not real photogenic.
Not to mention his mouth tasted like blood and vomit and it felt like some of it was caked on his face.
He scrubbed at his chin self-consciously—feeling bits flake away.
He could just make out in his periphery a shape that had to be Arthur. He was sitting with his arms around his knees, his head bowed.
And no matter how many times he called to him or reached with his good hand...
Arthur didn't look up. Not even once.
Deep breathing paired up with "deep staring" into his phone's selfie mode had helped him press pause on the glowy eye thing (and now they were just an unnatural creepy shade instead of mini-flashlights), but…
But he couldn't take back what his family had seen.
This…this was why so many tribespeople and settlers had hated him on sight.
Shapeshifter.
That alone made him untrustworthy to multiple tribes due to their mythologies and bad interactions with similar creatures.
Not to mention, sometimes he'd shift and had trouble shifting back.
Long claws. Wicked teeth. Weird eyes.
Little Wendigo.
Great for scaring off predators of every kind. Not so good for endearing himself.
Maybe it was a blessing in disguise? To not see him after all? Watching Father's face contort in disgust at the sight of him would've been too much.
All those hard looks and jeers in his earliest memories finally made sense again. It wasn't just his skin.
It was being seen for what he was.
He half-imagined, half-remembered the pointing fingers of villagers and their disdainful gasps of:
Witch.
All over again…
He stared at his clawed fingertips.
It was him.
He was ugly. Unnatural. Awful.
The stretcher was airborne and he was being lifted up, up, up.
He closed his eyes for a moment while his heart kept sinking.
The flight medic who pulled him into the helicopter and secured him for transport paused for a moment before professionalism got him back into a rhythm.
To look upon a witch was upsetting.
Harris had warned him that in the gaol.
No wonder Arthur wanted nothing to do with him.
Monster.
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