Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or DDR. Or McDonald's. Or the Malleus Maleficarum.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). A little Irish history. Implied: American Weather Alerts are always a bit much (ex: empty watering can tips over from breeze…O the humanity!? That's not to say we don't have weather emergencies—it's that everything's treated like one so you can't afford to shrug off any of them or you're testing your luck).
TRIGGER Warning: Prolonged violence to inanimate but aware object? I don't know, it could be uncomfortable. I thought it was uncomfortable. Fallout from supernaturally induced domestic violence…technically. Harris (who just wears this label now as button). FEELS, probably.
AN: Thank you for your reviews, your fan art, and your continued interest!
Special thanks to Ivyshadow13, LeParapluie, PeachyM00NShine, Sina1000, Wolfhope1111, Navigator101, Time Traverser, MythplacedLogic, Lixe877, Vaughn20, WhispersintheDawn, Scarletnightcrawler, and returning guests (Liv, Lyr, Marzue, ByakuyaLove) and anyone I've missed!
I appreciate that you've stayed onboard for this one!
I feel like we're heading into the finale, folks (personal estimate: within 3-5 chaps left). It's been an interesting ride! Thanks for riding shotgun!
BTW, Happy Turkey Day Eve Y'all! (And good luck to whatever controversial, melodramatic, uncomfortable, exasperating topics or situations or people the Thanksgiving holiday brings! :DDD *I'm rooting for you.
Chapter 56: The Boringest Wish
Devil's Hour.
Texas gulped. "Tch. Well, don't that just give me the warm fuzzies? Not."
He put away Rico's phone and tried to psyche himself up for Witching Hour Weirdness.
Cuz this happened sometimes—not making a decisive choice within a set amount of time could determine what path ya got…in real life and especially arcades; no DDR, that was not the song choice Tex wanted.
Reilley seemed surprisingly game for all of this though.
"So lads, we don't know how many contracts he can make, how slippery they are, and what cost they demand," Reilley rattled off.
"What is your desire?" Alfred repeated. "What would you ask of me?"
It was said so unassumingly, even as his whole eyes glowed teal.
"…" Tex was stumped. "Um, uh, I dunno…"
Apparently, that triggered a sales pitch.
"Power?" The mirror behind Tex shined briefly before dimming. In it, a vision of Texas in full tactical gear with an arsenal of weaponry surrounding him appeared. Nestled among a table brimming with artillery, the toddler-sized Al with mirror-glass cracks through all of his head sat and swung his legs back and forth cradling an armful of pine cones and hand grenades.
"Freedom?" The windshield mirror shined and Alistair appeared in a fancy three-piece suit on a balcony overlooking a crowd celebrating a referendum. While the Al with a glass shard of his face missing twirled the wheat in his hand like a conductor's stick.
Alistair shivered and then clapped his hands over his ears and started humming something.
"Restoration?" A vision of Reilley came across the next mirror. He was strolling alongside a highway, smiling tearfully as he passed a sign welcoming him to Dublin. In the somewhat drizzle-y autumn background, standing like a scarecrow, the other child-sized Alfred with the stains darkening his chest held a bushel of apples and watched him.
Reilley looked at Tex. "Aye, he's good. But, and I hate to be that rotter, but the evil genie-ness comes on a bit too strong in my humble opinion."
Alfred tried again with Texas. "Knowledge?" The fourth mirror treated them to a space station image that panned back to a room-sized large screen—preying on Tex's love of NASA.
Texas was seated with Houston mission control, software programs open, headset on, and Al…
The seven-year-old Al in homespun clothes and a flower crown spun around lazily on the computer chair next to him.
Tex frowned and looked around.
None of the Alfred's in any of these reflections matched their settings at all.
Even the ones that weren't cracked were still off and creepy.
"That's the best offer you can make?" Tex asked.
That ruffled feathers.
Abruptly, the vision rippled and then showed him and Al floating in a space station with zero gravity.
Except he and Al had already started experimenting with that and Tony had warned them that their kind wouldn't survive extended space travel—they were too dependent on land. Tex believed him.
The Texan laughed a little. All of the reflections turned to face him and their blue eyes glowed as they watched him.
"Can't offer me what I already got, huh?"
Alistair and Reilley looked at him uneasily.
He wasn't trying to goad Al, honest. Maybe.
He just wanted to prove a point to the powers that be:
"I've already received more from you than I could ever repay. You love me. I don't want for anything else."
The real Alfred's form shuddered on the gurney as if this was the worst thing to be told.
All of the reflections appealed to Alistair again, showing the man off in various settings—political, athletic, economical, musical.
Tex guffawed at the sight of Alistair playing a bagpipe to a rockstar-sized crowd…cuz that would've required magic—no if's, and's, or but's about it.
"What do you des-"
But the Scotsman wouldn't bite. "Nope. Nuthin' here. No, your dadaidh would kill me. So. No. No thank ye. No."
The reflections focused on Reilley—him at a pub, him dancing at a festival, him with his brothers and their mother at Kirkland Hall—
Alistair flinched. Reilley didn't.
"Really lads, yeh have to play ball," the Irishman scolded, "or he'll eye the med staff next." He smirked. "You know what I want?"
All the visions darkened until only Alfred's reflections remained.
There was a clever gleam in Reilley's light blue eyes. "I want to hear a recitation. Let's hear it! The Constitution of the United States of America! By you! And I want it done justice. No mad dash through the words like one o' your commercials covering their arses with legal jargon."
Tex leaned over to whisper in the Irishman's ear, "but that only takes a half n' hour."
Out of the corner of his mouth, and under his breath, Reilley replied, "Aye, and it's a whole half hour that he can't be contracted with. At least so's I think."
Snake oil salesman smart.
Tex patted the man excitedly on the back and grinned. "Well, okay then,"
Alfred replied, "Is that all-"
Reilley waggled a finger. "Don't. Please, don't rush me, boyo. Don't rush me. I'm old. I want this real nice for us. Ya know? Like the smiling HR people say, 'Why compromise when yeh can collaborate?'"
Alfred's head tilted.
"Mind that neck!" Alistair barked. "You-"
Reilley clapped a hand over his brother's mouth. "Don't mind him. That's not a contract he's aiming for!" Reilley glared at his brother. "Watch who you're aiming those imperative declarations at, yeh bollix. Commands can be contracted."
"He's right!" Tex exclaimed. "He's right! That's how Al got Harris last time!"
"All shit we coulda been phoned about before this!" Alistair groused.
Reilley looked back over at his nephew. "Bless his wee enchanted heart, he's actually pretty patient. Oi! Thanks for waiting, tryin' to get me thoughts in order. Now, I wasn't all that involved in your 1776 shenanigans, just a few regiments to help yeh—had my own needs to tend then, so we didn't really get to share a pint after you were done. So, I didn't get to hear your grand vision and the Constitutional drafts and all that. I know I'll appreciate your rendition, especially if I'm able to ask questions during the recital."
Poised with a dangerous grace, as if injury was something he could cast off at whim, Alfred slowly rose to a sitting position.
With his blue eyes glowing in the dark, Alfred repeated back, "you want a recitation of nationalistic import regarding the United States? The U.S. Constitution with its amendments and back history where applicable or asked for?"
"Yes."
"You want it immediately?"
Reilley's back straightened as if aware he hadn't stipulated that.
"Yes, yes, please!"
"You want leave to ask questions to clarify certain segments as-"
Scotland's eye twitched. "Ack-
Reilley gave Alistair a hard elbow. "Rule of three's, ya eejit. So rude. Sorry 'bout that. Er, Aye. Yes."
"…as to better understand it…as I understand it?" Alfred finished.
Reilley recognized it right off—that Al still had some power over the geas—he could nudge it by degrees. To make contracts crueler or kinder via tiny details.
"I take the evil genie-ness quip back. Artie's right; you can be such a lamb. Yes Alfred, I would much appreciate that. Getting your personal take on it."
Tex nodded approvingly; that would likely be more in depth and interesting than a textbook quote.
Alfred seemed to contemplate the desire and then answered, "…and you will respond in kind? A recitation of personal value?"
Reilley grinned from ear to ear. "Happily! O! I got a bunch! You can choose from the lot! Or maybe yeh want your uncle to tell ya some once upon time-ness with my Brehon Laws!
Scotland groaned. "He said value."
When Tex stared at him, Alistair clapped a hand to his forehead. "Ack, I swear the whole thing is a roundabout way for Eire to talk about himself. He's just willin' to let little Al talk first."
Tex mulled that over and then shrugged, "I think Reilley's onto something. Maybe Al can't take another request until the first one is over?"
Scotland's jaw dropped.
"And I can tell ya straight," Tex said, "you get what you give. That whole reciprocity thing times ten."
Alistair's thick eyebrows drew together. "So…Harris…stuck his foot in it?"
"Deep."
He scratched the red stubble on his jaw. "And he wound up a book?"
Tex rubbed the back of his neck. "I ain't got answers for that. Al neither. He banked on the colonel being stone cold dead by the time he was done."
Alistair looked mildly uneasy at that. "Right. Magic."
"Yessir, I think Reilley's right on the money for this."
Alistair's eyes bulged. "Don't ever let him hear you say that. There'll be no living with him. Yeh best hope this thing crashes-"
"He's running the clock out," Tex argued back. "Harris can't contract if Reilley hogs the whole hour!"
"The contract is made!" Alfred announced.
Tex eyed his hand of cards and stifled a yawn.
When his little brother had begun reciting, "We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice…"
His eyes glazed over.
Couldn't help it.
Tex actually knew this one pretty well and zoning out felt so natural and welcome.
Because it felt like Al was back in control of his destiny and it was such a relief—hearing him sound so certain and powerful again.
Because Allie knew those words forwards and backwards.
Because Al had always been so dependable right from the start and Tex was used to that. And even though he hated slacking off on his little brother…he was so worn out.
He relaxed to the point that he felt sleep creeping up on him until Alistair elbowed him and made a request.
Which led to him, Scotland, and the helicopter pilots playing cards.
"Three's?" Tex asked once more.
"Nah, go fish."
"Dammit."
The medic was able to tend to Alfred once Reilley's turn started.
And so, multiple rounds of their card game played out to a backdrop of political meets historical white noise that was punctuated with the occasional question.
"Why not examine the evidence and motive?" Alfred asked.
"We'll, that's just the thing. Trial by combat or Din Techtugad, as we called it, functioned under a belief that the divine powers that be wouldn't allow for the unrighteous to prevail."
"But whoever had greater combat skill had an unfair advantage," Alfred pointed out immediately.
"Aye. The system had…flaws…but I'll be damned if it wasn't more lively back then. England did it too, ya know? He ever tell you?"
"No. But I've read about it."
"Ahh."
"…Thank you."
"Hmm? Oh, you're welcome, but I got more. Interesting laws about food housed with dead animals and the fines that earns yeh! You're a harvester, I know you'll appreciate it. Or-or-oh! Cows! Cows were everything!"
Tex perked up at that. Hell yeah, cattle was everything!
"Our contract is fulfilled to the agreed upon terms," Alfred stated.
"Oh."
Reilley sounded a little disappointed, but…
Tex checked his watch—whoa.
They were well and truly past the Witching Hour by almost three hours.
Damn. Reilley knew how to milk a conversation.
Tex yawned and cracked his neck.
He blinked and then stared.
Each mirror shined brighter and brighter before flashing hard enough to make spots dance in front of his eyes before dimming.
Each reflection then showed an Al that was the same age as he was supposed to be—seven years old and no cracks spoiled any of them.
And that made him feel strangely light inside.
When he commented on it, Reilley sighed.
"Aye. I think…there was a lot of bad blood stored up. Ya know? Mean contracts." His expression grew hard at the thought.
Tex could imagine it; folks liked pressing their luck with Al. Hero-types like his little brother often gave people too much leeway and that could bring out the worst in them. A geas like this…
"So, this was a real easy wish, er, contract?" Tex theorized. "That's why you wanted to be the one making the order, huh?"
Reilley flushed. "W-well yes, I mean, that's my nephew. Course I wanted—I…" He looked a little uncomfortable as he ran a hand through his orange hair and then shrugged. "I love him."
Three reflections of Al smiled at them warmly and Tex felt that big brother part of him go gooey.
He and Reilley shared an "Awww."
Tex looked over his shoulder to the fourth reflection behind him. That Al's eyes narrowed and he made a point to scowl as their eyes met.
Yup, that seemed about right: three parts sweet to one part hard ass.
That was the tough-as-nails, deep down grit, ride or die, part of Al that got shit done.
Tex grinned. "I know you love me and I love you, too!"
Blue eyes went big as the reflection's cheeks pinked and he crossed his arms and pointedly looked away.
"Yer so cute!" Tex gushed.
And then the reflections faded from sight along with their respective mirrors altogether.
"So…?" Alistair questioned, "what now?"
There was a beat following that statement and then a brief, terrifying drop.
Klaxons went off.
Cards scattered and Tex gathered what he could before Alistair bodily hauled him back to their seat.
The pilots scrambled to their seats and strapped themselves in.
And then everything was back online and they were now able to continue on their flight path to the parking lot.
And no one dared comment for fear of jinxing their sudden good luck.
Once they touched down, Alistair started griping, "The boringest wish in the whole goddamned history of the world. You asked for nothing and you got nothing."
"I dunno 'bout that. We had a lovely time, didn't we, Alfie-boy? Very educational. 'Sides, I didn't see you volunteering, you big oafish-"
"-Didn't know you were going to waffle on all nostalgic-like about the 1100's—Yeh could've asked him to always knock before barging into a room-"
"What?! I don't want him having to knock before he can get the drop on a baddie!"
"Huh? Wha…OH!"
"See? No contracts for you, ya eedgit!"
Texas glanced over at his little brother.
Alfred looked around and then up at the medic tending to him.
"Hey," the man offered. "How…uh..how are you feeling? Your eyes aren't, um, glowy? I think med school agrees that that's a good sign."
America cringed back at that and the young man immediately warned him to be careful.
"You have extensive injuries and-" He checked him over and then again and frowned. "Impossible."
Norge thought he and Romania had made good time on the road and then hiking.
It helped that both men had a good sense of direction and were sure footed with a good stride. They also didn't find the overcast morning too off-putting.
Really quite tame. The weather alerts they'd heard on the radio and their phones were a bit…dramatic. Surely Americans weren't expecting movie-perfect sunshine days all the time? Norge could glimpse the sun behind the clouds. What could they be complaining about?
Norge took stock of the clearing, the bedraggled personifications waiting there, and the poor haphazard graveyard within it—all illuminated by a small campfire as dark clouds passed overhead.
Rhys had done all the talking up to this point and it was clearly a role he wasn't used to…or enjoyed…or particularly gifted at.
"You want us to…dig them up?" Romania clarified, looking at the ghosts surrounding them.
Rhys got flustered. "We're working on a request to have them disinterred-"
"Yes," Arthur stated flatly, not looking up from where he was seated, and sharpening the end of a stick with his knife.
Norge and Romania shared a look.
"Ja. Okay."
"Da. Okay."
Rhys choked.
Norge frowned.
Bretland didn't understand; he wouldn't. He'd always had someone he could do spellwork with—Scotland or Irland.
England had often been the odd one out in his clan, left to fend for himself.
Out of their family, only Norge and Island had the gift, and his lillebror refused to make use of it.
Romania had no one.
And so the three of them had learnt to cast aside whatever difficulties they may have had with one another economically or politically in years past to support one another in these arts.
"I somehow expected more resistance," Rhys muttered.
Norge stared at him. "They need to be laid to rest properly."
"Da, that'll fix this." Romania gestured to the ghosts. "Standard haunting. Improper burial." Excited, he hurried over to one and pointed. "Notice the grumpy expressions. They don't want to be here. We don't want them to be here. This is good. Easy work."
Norge nodded. "They'll pass over quickly."
"I think so, too."
"Might not need full burial-"
The Romanian agreed. "Might want last rites or something?"
Both stared at one another again and blurted out—
"They died suddenly!" Romania guessed.
"Violently," Norge asserted.
"Yes, on both accounts," Rhys answered.
"Deserved worse," Arthur muttered.
Norge and Romania moved toward England and the makeshift binding circle that had been constructed from woodland tree branches and tied with strips of an undershirt.
An anchor was set at one end and various tidbits were involved here and there, like toy soldiers stationed at the joints where the branches met. The wooden dolls had clumps of wax affixed to them which appeared to contain teeth and brass buttons.
"My son used them to keep people out, but the concept can be applied to keep things in as well. I heated the wax and made use of what Harris left behind."
"Precocious. That Alfred would be able to set up any kind of barrier. Quite precocious," Romania offered and gave Arthur a gentle pat on the shoulder.
It was a well-timed, well-placed remark.
They knew firsthand how Arthur had longed to instruct and include Alfred in their arts for ages. He'd been enthusiastic about his colony's potential and then hopeful about his former ward reconnecting with him through it. Then, there'd been a period of disheartened resignation that it was unlikely he'd see that wish fulfilled. And now…that desire was unfolding in ways that were…challenging.
The edges of Arthur's mouth turned up in a weak smile at the compliment and some tension left him.
"It is quite evil?" Norge asked, waiting patiently for a response.
England had the book pinned with one knee and he drove a sharpened stick through it.
"He takes pleasure in tormenting my child and fantasizes about usurping my role in his life."
"…"
"He thinks it will grant him a hold on my bairn's love even while he's doling out abuse. And that he'll be able to snap his fingers and…and Alfred will snap to the ready and serve him. I…I wondered why my Alfred had such a…a fear of me treating him like that. When I…I never thought…I'd acted in a manner to warrant such…he was remembering. He was remembering and mixing us up. I'm not… saying I've never wronged him…but not like…not until tonight I-"
"That was an accident," Rhys insisted sharply.
Rhys helped Arthur list out cruelties this Harris person had subjected the child to during his lifetime.
Rhys finished with, "at which point he gave Alfred the ultimatum to do his bidding or be given a witch's burial where he would then regenerate and die repeatedly underground until Harris chose to release him or his regenerative energy gave out."
Arthur ran a hand roughly over his eyes and began listing the offenses Harris had then committed while undead.
Now and then, Rhys would set a hand on Arthur's head or shoulder or fill in a word or phrase when Arthur faltered.
As Norge contemplated the grievous nature of Harris's offenses with a long "mmmmm" sound, Romania picked up another sharpened stick that Arthur had prepared and drove it deep into the gramarye.
Norge frowned. There wasn't another stick left. He gave Romania a poke who gave a 'you took too long' shrug.
Norge sighed and pulled out his knife to begin sharpening another stick because 9 was a better number and he said so.
And they all agreed.
"I don't think we can exorcise it right now," Romania pondered aloud. "It'll require more elaborate preparations on a day of import."
When looks of disappointment accompanied this statement, he hastily assured, "But it can be bound more tightly…it…well, I don't know what it is but it feels weird here. Like, there's thrumming? In the ground. In the air. But I reach for the magic that is here and…nothing."
"There's a gate here," Rhys stated. "It's blocked. We'd once thought the magic on this continent was simply in decline but it's the gate. Or gates? I...I begin to fear that while Alfred knew about this one, his government may have discovered others and dealt with them."
Norge and Romania looked over the graves again.
"If we can unblock this gate, we should all receive a significant power boost," the Welshman offered.
"So this was set strategically," Romania mused.
"The idea was to cut us off from the ether altogether," Arthur growled.
Norge frowned. "There's still magic here. Creatures. Energy. The trees. All of the trees here."
"Yes." Rhys sighed. "Harris was also either unaware or uncaring that particularly small portals to the ether could still be opened in this area or, as I believe, Alfred purposely didn't tell him these things so the man couldn't strategize a means of completely locking magic out."
"Alfred revealed secrets?" Such a betrayal was worthy of exile from a coven, young or not.
Arthur shook his head vehemently and released a hard breath through his nose.
"He extracted information from him, using the Malleus Maleficarum."
Norge's frown deepened.
He'd thought the initial explanations had been thorough…but it was sounding more like a summary of Harris's worst actions.
"This was? When?" Norge asked.
"1810 or 1811?" Arthur ran a rough hand through his dirty hair. "I-I don't know exactly. 1815? I don't know. I don't know how long he plotted before he made his moves. But once he did, my…my poor little…"
"He was very young," Romania offered delicately.
Green eyes flashed with fury. "Yes."
"It… understands us, doesn't it?" Romania eyed the spellbook uneasily.
"Yes," Rhys answered immediately. "He does."
Romania made a theatrically repulsed expression. "Ewww. Well, sooner we deal, sooner I enjoy this week off, da?"
They set to work with their shovels, and rotated shifts: digging up plots, giving last rites, or transporting bodies or coffins if they could withstand being handled. They'd had to create a makeshift stretcher to move them to the parking lot.
It went quicker with the arrival of Scotland and Irland who assured them repeatedly that Alfred was alright now.
Reilley had declared abruptly, "I am amazed Alfie-boy managed his geas alone this long. In fact, I dunno how he did it. Unless, it's a condition of his magic. That when his magic waned, the geas weakened? But Mattie-boy said he always observed May Day. Poles and flowers and such. But during the Witching Hour of those days…Where did he go? What did he do? What happened to the people he contracted with? Saints preserve us…you don't suppose all of his contracts were as bad as this?" He then gestured to a cheap coffin near him with concern.
By the third trip to the parking lot, three nondescript, government-issued black vans were waiting, along with Spain and… Texas…
Who'd apparently had to give some manner of update to his higher-ups before following them back to the clearing.
Texas.
One of Spain's former colonies.
He was loud and interrupted a lot, but he offered food very freely (lukewarm McDonald's breakfast menu items were distributed to all of them).
"I wish Al was here," Texas sighed around a mouthful of hashbrown. "I'll take him some later, I swear."
He wasn't the only daydreamer.
Regardless of which shift he was engaged in, Romania indulged in similarly wishful thinking.
"Oooh, maybe I go to a theme park? Aw, but Moldova's not here. Or a performance of something?"
"Wax horror museums…" Norge offered.
"Ooh!" Romania began digging faster in his excitement. "Yes! You want to go with me?!"
Norge thought it over.
Island didn't like very scary things. Danmark was too accident prone to come along. Tourists would mistake Sverige for being a part of the attraction.
The only one who might feel left out if Norge went…
He texted Finland and received his blessing to have fun with his occult friends and an order for him to take pictures!
So, twenty minutes later, Norge answered, "Ja, I would like to go."
"Great! I'll book the tickets!" Romania volunteered.
Canada was driving faster than the posted speed limit and trying not to feel guilty about it.
In the tug-of-war situation that seemed to be a metaphor for his life, he and Hawaii were now headed back to the national park. Or at least he was. He was dropping her off at the hospital, checking in on Alfred, and then driving to the park.
Hawaii was talking with Stewart who was acting as a mediator for the U.S. government.
His mind was buzzing with what Rhys had told him an hour earlier.
That while his little brother (being a plant power caster) usually relied on the seasons to cast magic: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter.
He could also call on directions.
Matthieu felt an instant kinship at that and a swell of hope. Maybe they could bond over that later?
The compass that had been involved in his brother's making likely contributed to this ability.
Maybe Matthieu's creation had included something like that as well?
He also wondered if that was some sort of failsafe of Al's. That he knew people could guess his seasonal ties, so he had directional magic as a backup.
For a moment, Matthieu heard an echo of "backup sidekick!"
Considering Al's shaky command over navigational skills over land and sea and his pride…
Matthieu could envision him putting a non-showy talent he'd have to work at on the back burner as an occasional trump card.
Cardinal and intercardinal directions: That was how the gate had been locked.
So now they needed all hands on deck, magically speaking, to unlock it.
The lineup sounded like it'd be:
North-Scotland
South-Wales
East-England
West-Ireland
Northwest-Canada
Northeast-Norway
Southwest-Texas
Southeast-Romania
Still, there was a hint of his brother's greenery powers at work, even here:
A compass…rose.
It was also unanimously agreed that if this whole lock was hinging on a 1580s compass…it could be a little…off.
Unlocking the gate…
It would allow for a greater flow of magic over their whole continent!
It was hard not to feel excited at the prospect; it was sure to revitalize what magic Canada had.
Though, it could also rejuvenate other, more malevolent entities.
He was trying hard not to be a pessimist about that though.
"Yeah, well, I think it's in the public's best interest to not have Harris run amok," Hawaii snapped back.
He kind of wished she'd put her calls on loudspeaker the way Texas did sometimes, so he could glean more insight and offer support when needed.
"Oh yeah, we're talking seriously evil undead. But that's kind of a given as in 1814, this bastard accused Al of witchcraft, made a posse, and dragged him into the woods to murder him…" she paused for dramatic effect and studied her chipped nails. "I like to think Harris did that without the government's blessing."
She flashed Matthieu a feral grin.
"Mmhmm. Yes. I think it could be a HUGE lawsuit. Well yes, because that's how it sounds to me. I mean, you're not even looking at this from England's vantage spot-No. I disagree. I don't think Alfred is a witch," she lied.
Canada got shivers at that. His government had known? They'd known this whole…?
Or…
He thought it over.
Harris had accused Al of witchcraft.
Between a headshot and a hex, America had forgotten about being a witch.
His government waited and watched.
And some of their…apathy? Began to make sense.
If America was a dangerous witch, they'd want him kept at a distance.
So they sent him to war and overseas diplomatic agreements for other personifications to deal with.
If he wasn't a witch, better safe than sorry.
If he was, the safer those back home would be…
Or maybe it'd be seen as a competitive edge?
Or both?
The basic theme was: Away.
They sent him away. He unnerved them.
Go. Manifest Destiny. Go. Spread the message of democracy to every corner of the globe. Were they hoping…he wouldn't come back?
"I think any nation would fit that criteria," Hawaii snapped. "Unnatural aging, regeneration of limbs, reviving, super strength, the list goes on, hon. Even so. No. They'd already made legislation outlawing further witch trials and exonerating those who—yes. Exactly."
Hawaii gave Canada a thumbs up sign. She had them right where she wanted them. "And then, as I understand it, there was an unlawful seizure of his and Arthur's properties? Sounds like prejudice against a national entity mixed with anti-witch rhetoric and-"
It was good to untangle things for Al. Then, and maybe it was selfish to think this, their family could support him in his quest of self-identity?
Canada was so tentatively hopeful and excited about teaming up with Norway.
He'd interacted with the man in an assortment of sporadic meetings over the centuries. The Norwegian had always been reserved but polite to him.
But this was a new level of relationship:
Another brother…an older brother.
From what he'd seen at world conferences, Norway was a good older brother to Iceland.
Iceland…Denmark…Sweden…
Maybe getting to know them better would help him find what seemed to be…missing in his life?
Maybe he was what was missing from theirs?
Hawaii finished her phone call with a cackle.
"There's gonna be a blank check settlement. I can feel it. Oh, there will probably be some non disclosure bullshit inside a million page report. But I'm sure if we let Rhys read it—" She started laughing evilly again.
It was infectious.
Matthieu started snickering, too.
Rhys would destroy them.
Alfred shifted uncomfortably under the fluorescent lighting and the strong smell of antiseptic made his already queasy stomach worse.
Traveling to the hospital in the helicopter had been something of a blur.
His uncles had stayed behind to help Rhys and Arthur.
Spain and Texas had also opted to be backup for the Kirkland Clan after they gave an update to the U.S. government.
Texas was actually a good choice for that. He wasn't great at conveying details let alone explaining things he only had a lofty grasp on. But, he was known to be generally direct and honest (and a little dense), so no one would suspect him of deception.
He only needed to give an overview of their experience: Alfred got injured on a camping trip after they ran into an evil "book-corpse-thing," as Tex had coined it.
It was either give up some info now (guided by their narrative) or let the government launch its own investigation into the situation once Alfred's hospital visit cropped up in their peripheral.
And remembering…everything…made him want to re-evaluate his circumstances and relationships and… well…everything…with everyone and his government.
Ya know…after…this…
He resisted the strong urge to yank the IV from his arm, which kept reminding him of Osha and that hellish experience.
He wished his father was here.
Only Puerto Rico had accompanied him over to the hospital and it was seeming like he'd done so more out of a sense of self preservation than heartfelt concern for Alfred. He wanted out of the range of fire for a vengeful spirit.
Which was reasonable except…Alfred could've really used more emotional support at this junction because…
Hospitals.
Alfred hated hospitals.
He hated being alone in hospitals even more.
Puerto Rico had asked to borrow his phone to go to the lobby and make a call because a stupid, Southwestern somebody still had his phone.
Before he'd left though, he'd paused, smirked, and told him: "You're throwing the staff here for a loop. You started healing even more during the MRI they were giving you."
"Are you going to give Dad and them an update?" Alfred asked.
Rico checked the battery life. "I can. Mi familia and then yours. After."
"Can you…can you tell them…I love them?"
Rico stared at him with wide, dark eyes for a beat. "Of course. But you're going to be alright, you know that? Right?"
Alfred sucked in a wavering breath and willed his voice not to crack. "And that I'm sorry?"
Because this was all his fault. All of it. Back then and now. Past-him hadn't handled it right; he'd only procrastinated and put it off for two centuries.
And it made him feel so stupid and useless realizing that.
Rico nodded. "Yes. You got it, Boss. I'll tell them. I'll be back."
And then he was gone.
America sighed at the ceiling.
He'd felt so certain in that moment, in the White House as it burned, that he was doing the right thing.
When it had accomplished nothing.
Hell, worse than nothing—it just needlessly complicated things.
It was an easy way out.
He'd tried to pass the buck and duck out of his responsibilities as a nation and a man and a family member. He'd let his emotions overwhelm him; his pride and guilt and fear and shame.
Had it all culminated in him trying to hide what went wrong? Like when he'd been a tiny colony and broke something of England's and hid it?
Childish logic?
Except when he thinks back on it…he can't make sense of what he did.
He'd wanted everything to be fixed again. Magically. Because it all hurt…worse than anything he'd experienced before and he just…copped out.
What kind of hero does that?!
He ran a hand over his face.
God, it was so creepy here.
Stupid hospital clothes.
Stupid neck brace.
Urgh! He wanted it off. He was wasting time!
Dr. Sanjay was probably already en route and that would be too much to deal with right now.
Rico was right; he was healing up at an incredible rate. There had to be something he could do. It was a shame that he wasn't up to the task of joining in on Harris's curb-stomping…which was lame of the hero but…sometimes one needed to respect differences in weight class.
Harris was this whole other level of evil that Alfred just didn't know how to deal with yet…so it was probably better to let the oldies figure it out.
But there had to be some kind of help he could give them against Harris. He knew he was probably too easy a target to manipulate for him to be physically present, but maybe they could assign him some kind of research mission or fetch quest?
A task would help. Because he needed to…stop moping over Arthur's lack of interest in him now.
Was it soul-crushing? Yes. Undoubtedly. But this was part of the shapeshifter territory and being a baby about it wasn't going to help anything.
Bootstraps!
Up by the bootstraps!
C'mon Al, move your ass!
He pushed himself up into an easy, half-slumped sitting position on the bed.
His bones were not broken anymore. Beltane's was a powerful ritual for him and the Cosmos would give him the proverbial pat-on-the-head reward (like not dying from critical damage for being a good sport), but there was still a heavy sluggishness to his every movement.
And damn, did that make it hard to motivate himself.
When all he wanted was…
He thought of warm arms and soft-worded reassurances and woolen sweaters that always smelled of the sea.
Nope! Not getting that today.
He forced himself to sit straight and his back cracked wonderfully.
Thinking back to the parking lot, Uncle Reilley had been super duper affectionate with him—hugging him gently the moment the geas's power over him ebbed, patting his hand repeatedly, and smiling at him for no real discernible reason.
When he'd finally demanded an answer for it all.
Reilley offered, "A geas is a very, very tricky thing to deal with, Alfred. I'm so glad you're alright." He looked like he wanted to say more but blinked hard and looked away. He swallowed thickly, "well, we got a whole year to think up new measures."
And Alfred felt frustrated with himself… for the self he'd been centuries ago.
"I should've just told you all," he realized with a hollow sort of resignation. So much could've been sidestepped if a younger him had just been…braver? More trusting? Better—
Reilley set a hand over his gently. "I understand why you didn't."
Which eased a teensy part of him because he wasn't sure what Father would say.
When he looked to Uncle Al for his two cents, the man shrugged.
Uncle Al.
Who always had something to tack on like "keep your stance wider next time so the kickback won't be so bad." Or "don't tangle the lines, ya idgit." Or "keep yer gob shut if ya only have half-answers. Ya might hear the rest of one if yeh listen for five goddamn minutes!"
Alistair pointed a finger at him and told him, "Now, you be a good lad. Mind the doctors. We'll be there soon. You can be sure of it. As I understand it, Texas told me during a hand, that both he and Spain still need tetanus shots? So, we'll all probably need something by the end of it. So, we'll see ya there."
And then Alistair and Reilley were off, back to the woods to support Rhys and Arthur against Harris.
No sooner were they off that Spain scrambled onboard and practically tackled Tex.
Alfred tried to make a joke about sacking the quarterback, but nobody was paying attention to him.
And that was okay. Contrary to popular opinion, America did know how to shut up and settle down.
He couldn't understand what Spain was saying, but it was obvious he was relieved. He kept pulling Tex back in for one more hug anytime it seemed like he was going to finally let go.
And Tex was soaking it in, which spoke volumes. He was happy.
Now that there was magic tying him and his brother together; he could sense how much. How it reached into long, darkened places and illuminated them.
Happy in ways Alfred could never make him, though he'd always tried through the years.
Now, since heroes were heroes and they had higher standards to hold themselves to if they expected to stay heroes…
Because he'd royally fucked up just about everything on all kinds of new levels…and his whole world had kinda imploded in on itself, destroying everything and dragging everyone into the wreckage…
And who knew if he could salvage things with his own father?
He kept quiet.
Because that didn't matter right now.
This did.
So he took a deep breath, and he held himself together, and he did everything in his power to be supportive and happy for his brother's good fortune.
Because he loved him.
He loved him with every piece of his broken heart.
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