"Your first appearance on television as you, and you hit a man in the face," Francis said with a mournful sigh over the phone that evening. "You wonder why I call you a punk."

The world was in an uproar. No one else had been as quick to reveal the appearance of their nation as the United Kingdom, and Arthur's brothers appeared on television to confirm before even America did. The same footage from a hundred angles played over and over again, the headlines ranging from Arabic to Russian to Hindi. Everyone began making their own opinions before Arthur could even appear in public again.

"If we understand them right," Said one American talk show host, "These people, these nationmen, have lived for centuries, even millennia. They've witnessed all our wars and revolutions and seen the ugly side of humanity more than any of us ever could." Arthur watched with narrowed eyes. "Even mediocre diplomats from foreign countries can get away with murder, literally. Don't you think living through the plague kind of grants you the right to punch some guy if he starts talking shit?"

"How do we know this isn't a hoax," Cried a news station, this time based in Scotland. "We've only seen a handful of their kind, all claiming to be magic and immortal. Why don't they prove it to us then? Prove they can't die or show us something lost to history. Why doesn't America show us where Tom Paine's bones are?"

"The burden of proof is on you, nations of the world. You claim you're immortal, you claim you aren't here to harm us. So prove it." The BBC reporter's blue eyes stared through the television straight at him. Arthur felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He did not however meet his queen's eyes as she turned the television off and walked towards him. While he half expected a shout, she only put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmly. "I need you to do something, Arthur," She murmured. "I need you to do for the world what you did for all those who came before me." Obedient as the lapdog that curled around his legs, he nodded.

"You'll have to make them believe. It won't be easy, but you must."

He stared at the carpet, at the corgis dotting it, at the shadows cast by the lights outside and the decorations on the window, and whispered, "It shall be done."

The day opened with a briefing, breakfast and an option. A selection of suits was chosen for him (though he was not as used to being waited on as the queen was) but in the end, when he stepped out into the hall, Arthur knew he'd made the correct decision. It was his old uniform from the second great war, well-taken care of and sheltered from the cruelty of time. And it was just a little bit tight in the belly area - not that his belt wouldn't fix that. And thus he strapped on his boots, tucked in his undershirt, and fitted a handgun (a newer model than the outfit) into the holster at his side.

The walls of the car he rode in were not bulletproof, he noted only as he stepped from the vehicle and made his way towards the back end of the breezy, outdoor stage. Humans screamed like monkeys at a zoo from beyond the thin protection of the curtains, but it was only a dull echo in the background of the hushed, hurried whispers of the security guards that littered the cramped, hidden area. A single podium stood proudly at the head of the stage, wielding a microphone, and that podium was to be his destination.

"Do as I do," Said the princess, who had agreed at her mother's request to go with him. "Just pretend they aren't there." The curtains were drawn, the sun shone as the clouds in front of it moved, and God's spotlight hit him in the face like a wave of shrapnel. Heaven knew he'd faced worse than this before, but it certainly didn't seem that way immediately.

With all the courage in the world he took that first step, and another, and somehow wound up at the podium, struggling awkwardly to adjust the microphone. Someone must have thought he would be taller than he really was. "Hello," He said into it hastily. The crowd flung itself at him, hands reaching across the front of the stage and grasping for his toes. At least the someone who set up the microphone knew to put the podium far back so that they couldn't reach him.

These people knew no reverence. They came from all over the world, flying their flags, screaming at him, because he was foolish enough to be the first of his kind out of the gate. They wanted his blood like a rabid dog would. Their thirsts would be quenched shortly.

He stopped, staring out at the hundreds of faces, all watching. Every rise and fall of his shoulders to breathe was met with scrutiny and suspicion, he watched their smiles turn to frowns, the pupils of many dilating as he stepped from behind the podium. This uniform had been with him at Normandy, wrapped tightly in his pack when he stormed the beaches with his men, he wanted to say. He wanted to tell them all he was a war hero, or at least an honest man who'd made an honest living all his life. But he wasn't. And when he saw those hundreds of faces, all watching, and remembered what the princess had said, he wasn't satisfied. He saw the hundreds of millions watching through the glassy, cold lenses of the cameras that stared him down. Heartless. Cruel. Like a lion's eye.

"My name is Arthur Kirkland," He said, formally, with a small bow. "And, unlike all of you I don't have the luxury of a birth certificate..." That earned exactly no applause. "But the first name I remember being called is Britannia. Arthur works just fine for every day usage, however." In the back, people waved his flag excitedly. A child waved from her father's shoulders. Without thinking, Arthur waved back, just slightly, as he spoke. "I've pinned my birth as being shortly before the official Roman invasion in 43 AD - which makes me about two thousand years old, now."

The crowd collectively grumbled and growled, until one loud voice spoke up: "Says who?"

"Says me," Arthur said with a small shrug. Her majesty had already given her word on the issue, but through even that he'd remained a stranger to them all. He doubted they'd take him seriously, and he was right - he hadn't even finished the second word of his two-word sentence before the people within the crowd erupted. Some people began to leave. The little girl descended from her father's shoulders. But it was probably for the best, because it was then that the indignant cries of 'prove it!' began pouring out. This moment had been well scripted.

"If you need proof, I have it - but you won't like it," He said. The crowd did not seem to have any inclination to stop their fussing, and so without hesitation he reached for his holster and drew his handgun.

They stopped. They stared. They waited.

Like lions they were polite enough to wait for their prey to move first. A few shocked onlookers shuffled and gasped and whispered in the back of the crowd. No-one touched the stage. "All of you will be getting the royal treatment today," He said into the microphone, trying to disarm the crowd with a smile. "Every new monarch who has cast doubt on my existence since the gun was invented has seen this - I ask only that you do not run."

He cocked it back, and the front row jumped in terror. The barrel went into his mouth, sitting uncomfortably on top of his tongue. Arthur closed his eyes tightly, inhaled the smell of metal and cold bitter air once and pulled the trigger.