Chapter Three! Time to get Arthur's perspective on all of this. We'll follow him from the point at which we last saw him in the previous chapter.

The rating has been raised just to be safe for this and future chapters.

After drinking his tea and leaving the kitchen, Arthur had immediately gone upstairs to his bedroom and begun preparing for his meeting with the Prime Minister. A quick shower had done wonders for him—he'd felt instantly refreshed and more aware—and putting on a new suit had sharpened and focused his mind. He'd brushed his teeth and coiffed his hair to perfection before grabbing a necktie and heading back downstairs toward his office. His journey from the kitchen to his bedroom had passed in a sort of frantic haze, but he was calmer now and quite a bit more conscious of his surroundings.

A number of picture frames hung in the hallway that led from Arthur's room to the stairs and, as he passed them, he noticed that most—if not all—of the glass covering the photographs had been damaged. The frames had been in fine condition during his last stay at the UK House, so they must have been broken at some point within the past week. If Arthur had had any doubts about who to blame for the cracked glass, they were quickly laid to rest by the little Scottish flags that had been stuck into the empty spaces between the frames. Come now, Iagan. Really, Arthur thought with a sigh. This is just obnoxious. He shook his head and pressed on, trying not to let his irritation get the best of him. It was only some damaged picture frames, after all. He had more important things to think about.

Arthur descended the stairs, eyes on his feet as he pondered his upcoming meeting. One hand clutched the necktie he had grabbed but had yet to put on while the other trailed along the banister, guiding his descent. He was in the midst of mentally cataloging issues important enough to warrant the Prime Minister's visit to the UK House when the banister abruptly stopped and his fingers were left groping at open air. Frowning, Arthur looked toward the wooden railing. His eyes widened when he saw the jagged, splintered remains of what had once been a finely-crafted piece. It looked as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, smashing it to bits and ending it four steps short of the bottom of the staircase. Bewildered, Arthur looked up and around himself. He was horrified by what he saw.

The destruction encompassed the foyer and the front sitting room. Furniture had been overturned, end tables had been chopped to pieces, and light fixtures of all kinds had been utterly destroyed. A few bookcases had been reduced to kindling and some of Arthur's favorite books had been torn to shreds; loose pages and empty bindings lay strewn across the floor. A dozen or so paintings had been heartlessly ripped from their frames and thrown aside while other objects of varying ages and degrees of importance had been broken completely. Some floor tiles and a few sections of the walls had been damaged, but the windows seemed to have suffered most. A good number of them had been shattered, carpeting the floor with oblong shards of glass.

It looked like a warzone. That in and of itself was enough to make Arthur angry, but what really incensed him was the ridiculous amount of Scottish flags that decorated the wreckage. St. Andrew's Cross had been draped over the remnants of furniture, stretched across open spaces that had once been windows, and painted—painted!—on all available surfaces. The workmen were trying their hardest to clean up and put everything back into its proper place, but a complete restoration would probably be impossible.

Arthur was now very glad that he had brought Elle in through the kitchen. The back of the house had been spared from the damage caused by his rampaging brother and had managed to create a positive first impression. If Elle had seen this… She would have turned and run and I wouldn't have blamed her, Arthur thought. His blood was pounding in his ears, his fists were clenched at his sides, and he was feeling very, very fratricidal. He hadn't been so livid—so completely and mindlessly enraged—in quite some time. He wasn't entirely sure how to rid himself of the anger, but using Scotland as a punching bag seemed like a good place to start. Arthur turned, prepared to march to his brother's room and carry out his plan, but a firm hand landed on his arm, gripping tight and holding him in place. He looked backward over his shoulder, glaring at the owner of said hand.

"Mrs. Cooper," Arthur hissed through gritted teeth, "release me at once. I have business to attend to."

"Yes, dear," she said agreeably, "in your office, not upstairs."

"I beg to differ," he retorted, gesturing to the destruction around them. "Have you not seen this? My brother is a menace and must be taught a lesson. This is not behavior befitting of a country."

"Teach him a lesson, you say?" Mrs. Cooper mused. "Just how do you intend to do that? Words have no effect, as you well know, and beating him would do nothing but inspire further rebellion. Leave him alone, England. He's recognized his mistake and locked himself away for the time being. He doesn't need you barging in and riling him up again."

Arthur grudgingly admitted that she had a point. He allowed himself to be led across the glass-strewn foyer, down a hallway, and to his office. Scotland had done some damage there, too. The workmen had replaced all of the broken furniture with new pieces and reorganized Arthur's paperwork for him, but they hadn't managed to remove the giant Flag of Scotland that had been painted across the back wall. Arthur stared at it for a moment, certain that he could feel his blood boiling within him, before calmly shaking off Mrs. Cooper's hand and aiming himself toward Scotland's room once more. Mrs. Cooper quickly caught him by the shirt collar and dragged him back to his office.

"Oh, don't be like that," she clucked. "You won't even have to look at the flag; you'll have your back to it the entire time."

"Yes," Arthur agreed, taking a seat behind his desk, "but I'll know it's there, and that does not make me very happy."

"There isn't much that does," Mrs. Cooper sighed, looking at him sadly. She noticed the necktie in his hand. "Would you like me to help you with that?"

"No, no, it's fine," Arthur assured her. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose as he reigned in his emotions. "I'm fine, Mrs. Cooper. Really."

"Are you sure, England dear?" she asked. "You certainly don't look it."

He felt a smile—unbidden and completely unwarranted—rise to his lips at her concern. As Steward of the UK House, she held quite a bit of power. She was responsible for keeping the place running properly; all other UK House employees reported either directly or indirectly to her. Despite the amount of work on her plate, the woman had taken it upon herself to mother and care for England and his brothers. It was not something that she was required to do, but it was certainly something that she wanted to do. Arthur truly appreciated her kindness. Her familiarity with the five siblings had its limits, though: she refused to call them by their human names out of sheer respect for who and what they were. Consequently, they respectfully and affectionately addressed her as Mrs. Cooper. It was a fine system and had been in place for many years.

"I'll be alright," Arthur said with the best smile he could manage.

Mrs. Cooper looked skeptical, but nodded. "I'll be on my way, then. Have a good meeting with the Prime Minister."

Arthur thanked her and she left. A quick glance at the clock on his desk told him that he still had a few minutes before his appointment with Mr. Cameron. He began to shuffle through some of the paperwork that sat before him, doing his level best to ignore the flag painted on the wall at his back. It was no use. Despite his best efforts, his mind kept returning to the havoc that Scotland had wrought upon the UK House. What little information Arthur did manage to read and internalize from the reports on his desk only increased his frustration. Can nothing be simple anymore? he wondered, frowning at an account of recent foreign affairs. Has the world gone mad? There was a knock on his office door. He looked up with a sigh, knowing well what that meant. It was time.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened to reveal not the Prime Minister but Wales. England frowned at his brother.

"You're not Mr. Cameron," he said.

"Keenly observed, brawd," Gareth smirked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind himself. At Arthur's frown, he held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Calm down. I just want to speak with you for a moment. The Prime Minister is waiting outside in the hall, but he assured me that he's in no hurry. You'll have your meeting soon enough, Arthur. I'm only asking for a little of your time."

Still frowning, England dissected his brother's statement. Gareth had called him brawd—Welsh for 'brother'—which was usually a good sign. The word was sometimes used to tease or scold, but it was always used with affection. Gareth had also addressed him as 'Arthur' rather than 'England.' Among the siblings, human names were regarded as terms of endearment and using them in anger was considered unacceptable. In light of that, Arthur decided that whatever Gareth had to say was probably innocent in nature and would be fine to hear.

"Have a seat, then," England said, gesturing to a chair. He scowled as a thought occurred to him. "If you're here to defend Scotland, you might as well leave. There's no excuse for what he's done."

"You shouldn't be so hard on him," Wales sighed, taking a seat opposite his brother. "He's trying his best."

"Oh, yes, I can tell," said Arthur, sarcasm dripping from every word. He pointed at the wall behind him and gestured toward the door, indicating the destruction that lay beyond it. "And I agree with you completely, if by 'trying his best' you mean 'trying his best to make me absolutely furious.' He tore up the house!"

"Yes, and you know why he did it just as well as I do," Gareth replied. "Iagan's always been the most uninhibitedly passionate among the five of us and he's always been more inclined to act on his people's desires. You know how it is: he hears them talking and feels what they're feeling, but he knows he can't give them what they want so he just bottles everything up until things like this happen."

"Yes, I do know how it is," Arthur retorted hotly. "I'm a country as well, in case you've forgotten. I feel my people's wants and needs just as keenly as Scotland feels the wants and needs of his own people. The difference is that I don't let myself get out of hand. I control myself."

"I'm sorry to tell you this, Arthur, but Iagan isn't you," said Gareth.

"Clearly," England huffed.

"We've all been on edge without a Country Keeper, but Scotland's fared the worst," Wales reminded. "Try to be a bit more understanding. Having said that, let's move on to what I actually came here to discuss: Elle. You really didn't tell her anything, did you?"

Arthur stiffened. "What did you say to her?"

In truth, he really hadn't told her anything—or, to be fair, he hadn't told her much. The information he'd given her had barely scratched the surface of all she would eventually need to know if she became the Country Keeper. The worst part—and he recognized it as the worst part—was that he'd done so on purpose. He had intentionally kept things from her and crammed what should have been a month-long selection process into less than an hour.

"Things that I thought she needed to know," Gareth replied. He looked steadily at Arthur, holding his gaze. "I informed her that you were in the wrong. I told her that you'd completely skipped over the interview process and ignored rules that have been in place for centuries. Most importantly, I told her that nothing is certain and that she might not be the next Country Keeper."

"Oh? And how did that go?" Arthur asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. She promised she wouldn't think any less of me or run away, no matter what happened. She promised! "How did she react?"

Gareth shrugged. "I thought she took it rather well. She was disappointed, I think, in you and in herself for believing you, but she took everything in stride. She's a good choice for Keeper, even if you didn't go about selecting her in the usual way. I worry for her, though. She got into a cab with you even though she barely knew you. She's far too trusting."

"She's living out a fantasy," England refuted. "That's the only reason she's here. She's seen that ridiculous cartoon and she thinks that we're all like the characters in it. She got in the cab because she thinks she knows me. She obviously doesn't."

"You should have told her that," Wales scolded. "Allowing Elle to believe that this is some sort of dream or fairy tale is cruel, Arthur. This is reality, and I'm not sure she fully understands that. You took advantage of her."

"I had to," Arthur muttered. He slapped a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. Stupid, stupid! "I mean…"

"England," his brother growled, face darkening. "The truth. Now."

Arthur nodded. Wales was giving him The Look; it would be best to obey before things got ugly. England explained how, in the week since Albrecht's funeral, he'd traveled to every major city within his borders in search of the next Country Keeper. He'd used the 'dropped newspaper' technique at each stop. A total of fifty different Good Samaritans had made an effort to return the paper to him. Of that fifty, only twenty had stayed long enough to hear his 'change your life' proposition and of that twenty, only one had taken the challenge.

"Every time I tried to explain who I was and what their job would be, they walked away," Arthur said.

"With good reason," Gareth told him. "They probably thought you were insane. You aren't supposed to mention any of that until they've gotten to know you!"

"You think I don't know that?" Arthur hissed. "I don't have time to be conducting interviews, Wales—we don't have time! No less than three candidates have already been put forth; they've gotten a head start. We have to begin campaigning soon, or we'll lose the election for certain. If you think back, you'll recall that I was placed in charge of finding the European candidate, but not before I begged and pleaded for the opportunity. The other nations look down upon me now, and with good reason. Albrecht Bieler was killed within my borders—mine! It's my fault he's dead! I should have known it was going to happen; I should have been able to stop it. I failed, don't you understand? I failed and I have to redeem myself. This is the only way to do that."

He was breathing hard and suppressing tears, caught up in a maelstrom of emotions. On the one hand, he was dealing with the death of a very dear friend. It was a death that he blamed himself for, a death he believed that he could have prevented. On the other hand, he was feeling pressured and judged by the other countries. They hadn't said anything directly to him, but he'd heard the whispers of disapproval and blame that had been aimed his way. As if that wasn't enough, he was also dealing with Scotland's rebellious behavior and heading the search for the European candidate for Country Keeper. It was so much—too much—to handle. He was just barely holding himself together.

"Oh, Arthur," Gareth said sadly. He abandoned his seat and circled the desk so that he stood at his brother's side. "Is that what you really think? You couldn't have prevented Albrecht's death—no one could have—and no one blames you for it. Please believe me."

Arthur kept his head down, but glanced up at his brother through his fringe. "I can't change how I feel."

"No, I suppose you can't," Gareth sighed. He tugged at the necktie that Arthur held tightly in one fist and gently pulled it free. "Let's get this on you. I'm glad you told me how you're feeling, brawd, but you must understand that these thoughts and emotions do not excuse the way you've treated Elle. She deserves to know everything so that she can make an informed decision about whether or not the life of a Country Keeper is right for her. If you hurt her or deceive her again, there will be consequences."

"Oh?" Arthur queried, lifting his chin to give Wales better access to his neck. He had no idea why he was allowing his brother to tie his necktie for him, but he was. "And what would those be?"

"Well, you know that I like her," Gareth said, looping the necktie around his brother's neck and beginning a Windsor Knot. "Finnian and Eirnin seem to have taken a liking to her, too."

"Are you surprised?" Arthur asked, raising a brow. "She's a living, breathing human female. She's just their type."

"Be fair, Arthur," Gareth admonished. "She's a nice girl and she's very pretty."

"Very plain, you mean," England muttered.

Wales frowned but continued, "I'm certain Iagan will like her."

"Conveniently, female and breathing is his type as well," England smirked.

"The point is," Gareth said forcefully, "that by bringing Elle here, you've given her four new protectors. Any future dishonesty from you will result in punishment from us. Harm her in another way, and you will be subjected to the same." He tightened the tie, sliding the knot just close enough to the base of Arthur's throat that it restricted his breathing. He took England's face in his hands, forcing eye contact. "Do you understand me?"

England's eyes widened, but he nodded and the tie was instantly loosened. His face, still caught between Gareth's palms, was turned gently from side to side while his brother hummed speculatively. Finally, Wales seemed to reach a conclusion.

"You claim to be in such great control of yourself, but you're really not much better off than Iagan is. You need help, brawd. It's okay to ask for it." Gareth said softly. He patted Arthur's cheek and released him. "I'll send you some tea and biscuits."

Then he was out the door. Arthur stared after his brother, absently loosening his tie. Gareth's behavior had been unexpected, but not unusual. He was always like that: harsh but gentle, demanding but lenient, domineering but incredibly compassionate. And he calls me contradictory, Arthur snorted, recalling his brother's oft-stated complaint. Above all else, Gareth was protective, so it wasn't surprising that he'd taken it upon himself to look after Elle in the same way he looked after his brothers. I'll have to be more careful from now on, England decided. Gareth's threat was not an empty one; Arthur knew he'd receive the promised thrashing if he put even one toe out of line. He shook himself from his thoughts and put on a politician's smile as the door opened once more.

"Ah, Mr. Cameron," Arthur said, infusing his voice with warmth and cheer. "So good to see you."

The meeting commenced. About halfway through, Mrs. Cooper entered the office bearing a tray laden with hot tea and warm biscuits. Her eyes shone as she informed England and the Prime Minister that the biscuits were fresh from the oven and had been 'made with love.' Arthur popped one into his mouth and asked her to pass both his compliments and his thanks on to Gareth. By the end of the appointment, Arthur and the Prime Minister had discussed everything from the economy to foreign relations. They'd also talked about The Dilemma, otherwise known as Scotland's bid for independence, and they were in agreement: Scotland would not be allowed to leave the UK. Period. Feeling accomplished, England led Mr. Cameron to the front door and bade the man a fond farewell.

The foyer had been cleaned up quite a bit since Arthur had last seen it. The broken glass had been cleared away and new windows were in the process of being installed. The sitting room, too, had been much improved. All damaged items had been removed and replaced; it looked quite similar to the way it had prior to Scotland's rampage. The flags that had been painted on the walls were still there, but Arthur expected that they'd be gone by the following morning. The workmen were making great progress.

"I have to say I'm a little offended," said a voice from behind Arthur. "You've been home for a few hours, but you haven't said 'hello' to your favorite brother? Shame on you, England. Where are your manners?" There was a pause in which he could practically feel the other's sly smirk. "You must have forgotten them when you saw the redecorating. Tell me, do you like what I've done with the place?"

Arthur's hands curled into fists at his sides. "Scotland."

He turned to find his brother standing on the staircase, leaning casually against what remained of the banister. As expected, Scotland was sporting a smug expression that tilted his thin lips into a smirk and drew his bushy brows low over his bright green eyes. His square jaw was lined with stubble, accentuating the sharpness of his already angular features, and the mop of chestnut hair that sat atop his head was in complete disarray. He'd forgone clothing—a bold, though not unusual, choice for him—but had wrapped a sheet around his waist for modesty. One hand was pressed against the sheet, keeping it in place, while the other held a tumbler of Scotch. He raised the glass toward Arthur in mock salute before taking a swig of the alcohol.

"Do you even remember what it's like to be sober?" Arthur queried, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"Oh, you don't want me sober," said Scotland, twirling his hand and watching the little whirlpools that appeared in his glass. "I'd be really clever then. Everything I've done so far—ruining furniture, breaking windows, and so on—I've thought of with my brain running at half speed. Imagine the trouble I'd cause at full capacity. Scary, isn't it? So don't scold me for drinking, England. I'm doing it for you."

"Are you expecting me to thank you?" Arthur asked incredulously. He folded his arms across his chest, frowning at his brother. "Alright then. Thank you, Scotland, so very much for destroying the UK House while absolutely smashed. Your drunkenness is certainly a blessing to us all."

"It certainly is," Iagan agreed, ignoring the fact that England's comment had been bitingly sarcastic. He downed the rest of his Scotch and lobbed the empty glass at his brother. "And don't you forget that."

The tumbler landed a few inches to England's right and shattered as soon as it made contact with the floor, spraying shards of glass in every direction. Arthur frowned at the mess, realizing that it had been a demonstration. Even with alcohol in his system, Iagan had excellent aim; he could have hit Arthur if he'd wanted to. Scotland wasn't completely drunk at the moment, but he wasn't entirely sober, either. He'd taken himself to that delicate stage where everything was dull and hazy, but he still had almost full control over his actions. England knew that stage well. He'd taken himself there many times before in order to drown out the influencing voices of his people and buy himself a moment of peace. Strange as it seemed, Iagan was being responsible by keeping himself from sobering up completely. It was the only way he could keep himself in check in the absence of a Keeper.

"Fine. Stay drunk then. I don't care," Arthur said. He frowned at his brother's state—or, rather, lack—of attire. "But please put some clothes on. We have a guest.

Iagan raised a brow.

"A female guest."

"Really, now?" Scotland asked. A slow, sly grin curled his lips upward. "That's my very favorite kind."

"Don't get any ideas," England warned. "She's my chosen candidate for Country Keeper. She deserves your respect."

"And she'll have it," Iagan said, turning to go back upstairs. "I'm not a monster, England. I know how to treat a woman."

Arthur nodded. "Yes, at least you know that much. I expect to see you in a nice shirt and pants come suppertime."

"No," Iagan shook his head. "No pants. A kilt." He looked over his shoulder, tossing a devious grin in his brother's direction. "Much sexier."

England rolled his eyes, but said nothing. If Scotland felt inclined to look 'sexy' for a dinner with a guest list that included his four brothers and a girl he'd never met, that was his prerogative. The reminder of food made Arthur's stomach rumble with hunger. He pulled a face and rested a hand over his loudly-complaining belly. To the kitchen, he decided. He didn't plan to ruin his appetite by snacking, but it wouldn't hurt to see what would be served for the evening meal. He entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Cooper and two other UK House employees slicing vegetables and seasoning meat. Gareth was with them as well, making polite conversation and helping with the preparations.

"England dear!" Mrs. Cooper said, smiling when she saw him. "How was your meeting with the Prime Minister?"

Arthur was about to reply when his mobile phone began buzzing in his pocket. He smiled apologetically and removed himself to the living room to conduct his conversation in private.

"Hello?" he said, pressing the phone to his ear.

"England!" Arthur winced at the volume of the other's voice. "Dude, I just got your text! You picked one of my people? Man, that's awesome!"

"America," Arthur said wearily. "I sent you that text hours ago."

"I know. Sorry, dude, I was in a meeting. I'm out now, though, and—oh man, I can't believe it! One of my people as Country Keeper! That hasn't happened since, like, right after the Civil War!"

With good reason, thought Arthur. "Look, I understand your excitement, but could you please stop shouting? If you keep it up, I may lose my hearing."

"Yeah, sure, no problem," America said, obviously making a conscious effort to lower the volume of his voice. "So tell me more about your pick for Country Keeper. Your text just said 'Found the new Keeper. She's one of yours.' Who is she?"

"Her name is Gabrielle Jane Vasquez. She's from Fredericksburg, Vir—"

"Elle? Oh my God, she's awesome!" America interrupted, returning to his shouting. "I knew she was visiting you, but, man, what are the odds, huh? It's pretty hilarious, you picking one of my people. Weren't you supposed to pick a European candidate? I know I'm bad at geography, but last time I checked, I wasn't part of Europe, dude."

"And you still aren't," said Arthur, "but it's my responsibility to pick whomever I believe is most qualified to be the next Country Keeper. Elle just so happens to be that person. She's within my borders, so she's a valid choice."

"Okay. Cool. Can I talk to her?"

"She's outside with Ireland at the moment," England replied. He was standing near a window and could see Elle and his brothers near the rose garden. "It looks like Eirnin is telling her a story and I think Finnian is braiding her hair."

"Story-swapping? Hair-braiding? Dude, are you guys having a slumber party?"

"No!" Arthur exclaimed. "Of course not! We—"

"You totally are!" America crowed. "And I'm definitely coming over. I'll fly one of my military jets—those things are fast!—and be at your place in a few hours. How does that sound?"

"Alfred, I don't think—"

"Great! See you soon!"

"Wait!" But the call had already been disconnected. Arthur sighed and pocketed his mobile. "Idiot."

He reentered the kitchen to find that preparations for dinner were progressing nicely. He also noticed that there was someone new in the room. The newcomer had silver-gray hair and a well-trimmed beard of the same color. Arthur knew the man was just over eighty years old, but others might peg him as up to twenty years younger; a lifetime of exercise and proper diet had kept him healthy and strong. The man turned toward England, his blue eyes twinkling with familiar warmth.

"Arthur!" he said. "There you are. Good to see you."

"Mr. Robert Hall," Arthur grinned, shaking his old friend's hand. "It's been too long."

They'd first met some years ago, when the position of Country Keeper had last been open. Arthur had been impressed by the young Robert Hall's ambition, cleverness, and tenacity. After several meetings and interviews, Arthur had revealed the truth to Hall and offered him a chance to run for the position of Keeper. Hall had eagerly accepted. Unfortunately, Austria and Hungary had jointly put forth another candidate—Albrecht Bieler—before England could publicize his own nomination. There had only been room for one European candidate, and Hall had simply not made the cut. Arthur had maintained a friendship with Robert Hall, however, and even now considered the man to be one of his closest friends.

"I heard about what happened to Albrecht," Robert said, shaking his head sadly. "Such a tragedy. I imagine you'll be looking for a new Keeper now. Am I in the running for that?

"No. Sorry," said England with an apologetic smile. "Unfortunately, the job is meant for someone a bit younger than you."

"A lot younger, you mean," Robert chuckled. "It's alright, Arthur. You can say it: I'm getting old. That doesn't mean I can't help you, though. I'm always ready to serve my country."

"I appreciate that," Arthur smiled. "Your patriotism is very admirable."

"Mr. Hall came by a few times this past week," Mrs. Cooper said from where she stood across the room. "He wanted to check on you, make sure you were alright. I didn't know where you'd gone, so I let him poke around your office a bit to see if he could find an itinerary or something like that. Needless to say, he never found anything."

"Sorry," Arthur apologized. "I was out looking for the next Keeper."

"Did you find one?" Robert asked.

"Yes," Arthur replied. "Would you like to stay for dinner? You could meet her then."

Robert grinned. "I'd be delighted."

A few hours later, Arthur found himself regretting both that invitation and his decision to bring Elle to the UK House. The trouble began with what England could confidently dub The Worst Seating Arrangement in History; with Iagan on his left and Gareth on his right, there was simply no other name for it. The round dining room table, originally selected to promote conversation and prevent the brothers from arguing over who should sit at the table's head, was the source of the problem. Everyone sat down without thinking: Arthur, then Gareth, then Robert, then Elle, then Finnian, then Eirnin, and, finally, Iagan. England immediately saw the potential volatility of their positioning, but ultimately—stupidly, he told himself—decided not to bring it up.

The meal got off to a pleasant start. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits and the food was absolutely delicious. Even Scotland was behaving himself, though that was mostly thanks to Elle. After staring at Iagan in silence for a long moment, she had commented that he was by far the 'manliest' of the five brothers. Amidst loud protests from Finnian and Eirnin and disapproving looks from Arthur and Gareth, Elle had blushed and revised her statement, calling Iagan the 'most rugged' brother instead. That had placated the four offended countries and left Scotland smug and preening.

Things continued to progress quite nicely. Upon request, Robert and Elle each recounted the circumstances under which they had met Arthur. Both stories held their audience's attention and inspired many questions and polite inquiries. Arthur was pleasantly surprised by the cordiality and restraint his brothers were displaying. He should have known it couldn't last, but he would never have expected the catalyst for chaos to be an entirely innocent comment from his candidate for Keeper.

"This is really fun," Elle grinned, gesturing to her companions and the room at large. "It's like we're the Knights of the Round Table or something. We even have our own King Arthur."

"Yes, Elle, but don't confuse the two," Iagan said, fixing her with a serious look. "The King Arthur of legend is a great man with many admirable qualities. Ours is a despotic tyrant who enjoys repressing others and keeping them in bondage."

"Shut up, Scotland," Arthur hissed. "Behave yourself."

"You see what I mean?" Iagan said, directing the comment at Elle. He reached for his glass and calmly looked at England. "You want me to behave? Make me. You're so very good at it, King Arthur."

Arthur growled and tensed, prepared to attack his brother if the idiot said even one more word. A hand landed on the back of his neck, pressing him down into his seat and keeping him still.

"Let it go, Arthur," Gareth warned. "And Iagan? Really, please shut up." Smiling, Wales turned to his other two brothers. "Finnian, Eirnin, you may speak if you'd like."

They grinned. Of course they wanted to speak!

"Well, Finnian's been talking to me a lot recently—" Eirnin began.

"And he's actually been listening!" Finnian added excitedly.

"—and the things he's said have actually made a lot of sense! For once," Eirnin added, elbowing his brother teasingly. "He's been talking about us living together again!"

Arthur swore he could feel the blood draining from his face. "L-living together? You mean..?"

"As a united Ireland!" Finnian confirmed, slinging an arm around Eirnin's shoulders. He grinned when the gesture was returned. "Doesn't that sound like great craic?"

England was shocked. Northern Ireland wants to leave the UK? He'd come to count Eirnin as one of his greatest supporters and was deeply hurt by the thought of losing such loyalty. If both he and Scotland go, what am I left with? Wales? Arthur glanced at Gareth, who was shaking his head and looking as though he deeply regretted giving Finnian and Eirnin permission to speak. He's always stood by me, but can I count on him to do so in the future? Arthur wasn't sure what to think.

Scotland laughed heartily, amused by the turn of events. "Aye, Finn, that does sound like fun! A united Ireland, an independent Scotland, and an independent Wales—just imagine!

"I'm sorry," said Arthur, his expression darkening even as his heart was breaking. "Did you say an independent Wales?"

"Oh," Iagan smirked. "He didn't tell you? Well, shame on me for ruining the surprise!"

"Arthur, listen to me," Gareth insisted. "It's my people who want independence—I can't help that. Try not to worry; only about ten percent of the population is clamoring to be free from the UK. That's not so bad. And I promise they won't make a move until after they see what happens with Scotland. So you see? I'm not leaving."

"I don't want to hear it," Arthur growled. He turned back to Eirnin. "How do your people feel about leaving the UK?"

"Oh," Northern Ireland said, his face falling at the question. "They don't like that idea very much—at least, not the majority of them."

England nodded, his expression smug. "And why would they? Your people aren't stupid; they know they're better off where they are. They won't allow themselves to be dragged into the financial ruin that unification would cause."

Finnian's smile suddenly evaporated. He removed his arm from around Eirnin's shoulders and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at Arthur. England stared back, unperturbed by the murderous look in his brother's eyes. It's about time someone wiped that stupid grin off your face, Arthur thought. He felt no remorse for breaking up his Irish brothers' camaraderie. If making Finnian look like an idiot won Eirnin back to his side, Arthur would do so time and again.

"If you're trying to say something, come out and say it," the Republic of Ireland challenged with a glare.

"You know exactly what I'm saying," Arthur said evenly. He leaned forward a bit, grinning nastily. "Oh, perhaps you don't. I only meant that your economic crisis demonstrates what a spectacular failure you are in matters that concern money. I had assumed that you were intelligent enough to understand, but that was my mistake. Your intellect must be even less developed than I thought it was."

He smirked as he watched his brother's face grow red with rage. The Irish financial crisis was an extremely sore subject that England ordinarily wouldn't have touched with a ten foot pole. At the moment, though, it seemed like perfect ammunition. Finnian gave a sudden yell and leaped from his chair, attempting to scramble across the table to get at Arthur. Eirnin caught him by the shoulders before he could get very far.

"Finn, calm down!" Northern Ireland commanded. "He's just—"

"Stop defending him!" Finnian screamed, delivering a powerful right hook to his brother's jaw. "You always defend him! I'm tired of it!"

Freed from Eirnin's grasp, he made a successful leap across the table and wrapped his hands around Arthur's throat. Eyes wide, Arthur fought back. He clawed at his brother's hands and, when that didn't work, delivered a few solid blows to Finnian's abdomen. The pain was enough to distract the Republic of Ireland and cause him to loosen his grip. Arthur shoved his brother roughly, dislodging the fingers that were wrapped around his neck and sending Finnian sprawling. The sound of his brother's skull striking the table was almost—almost—enough to make Arthur feel remorseful. He concentrated on taking measured breaths and massaging his sore throat even as he watched Eirnin drag Finnian across the table by his ankles. The Republic of Ireland was pulled right off the table and dropped unceremoniously to the floor. Then, just as he seemed to be regaining his bearings, Northern Ireland leapt at him and attacked. The two quickly became a snarling, cursing jumble of limbs. They traded blows and screamed at each other in Irish Gaelic, completely oblivious to everyone else in the room.

"And so ends all hope for the unification of Ireland," Iagan sighed, sipping unaffectedly at his Scotch. "Such a shame. If it goes on like this, Eirnin will never be free of you."

"Neither will you, Scotland," Arthur said. "Ever. You won't have your independence; I won't give it to you. And if you try any more stupid stunts, I will crush you."

Iagan raised a brow, "Is that a threat?"

"No," England shook his head, frowning seriously. "It's a promise."

"Hmm," Iagan mused. He downed the rest of his Scotch and rolled his shoulders back to loosen them. "Well alright then."

He leaped from his chair, tackling Arthur to the ground. They fell in a tangle of limbs, kicking and biting and punching and clawing as they fought for dominance. They hit the ground hard and rolled for a moment before stopping. Arthur then found himself in a very vulnerable position: lying flat on his back while Scotland towered above him, smirking and cracking his knuckles. Scotland drew back a fist, preparing to deliver a punch; England involuntarily squeezed his eyes shut. The first blow drove Arthur's head back against the floor so hard that he saw stars behind his closed eyelids. The second caught the side of his face, causing his teeth to cut across the inside of his cheek. The third, fourth, and fifth blurred together as his mouth filled with blood.

Arthur forced his eyes open. The pain made everything a bit hazy, but he could clearly see Scotland's malicious grin. The idiot was enjoying himself. Enough of this, Arthur growled inwardly. He kicked out suddenly and sharply, surprising Iagan and dislodging him. Looking shocked and disoriented, Scotland fell to the side. He was given no time to collect his thoughts. England was on him in the next moment, sitting on his chest to hold him in place and letting punches fly with reckless abandon. After everything that had happened, it felt rather therapeutic to dole out punishment and cause a little pain… at least until an angry tirade of Welsh got through to him. Arthur froze mid-punch, blinking down at Scotland's bloodied face while Gareth's rant continued. He mentally translated what he could, wincing at the harshness and vulgarity of the words that his normally docile brother was shouting. Wales was positively livid.

"Bloody irresponsible…damned foolish…imbecilic…moronic..!" Gareth bellowed, switching to stilted English as his fury slowly cooled. He grabbed Arthur and flung him to the side, off of and away from Iagan. "No control…can't believe…stupidity…disown you…idiotic bastards!"

Wales continued to seethe and fume for several more minutes. Arthur stayed as still as possible so as not to become the sole target of his brother's wrath. He allowed only his eyes to wander and quietly took stock of the room. The table was a mess of food and overturned dishes, evidence of the dinner that had gone horribly wrong. A few chairs had been toppled during the scuffles, but they seemed to be undamaged. The same could not be said of the combatants. Finnian had been dragged off to one corner of the room and was being guarded by no less than four men. His face was smeared with red, his shirt was torn and bloodied, and bruises were forming over almost every inch of visible skin. He was glaring at Eirnin, who was glaring right back. Eirnin, too, was bloodied and bruised; his left eye was black and swollen shut. He was in another corner and was also being guarded by a quartet of workmen. Elle, Robert, and Mrs. Cooper occupied a third corner of the room. They all wore very different expressions: Mrs. Cooper was frowning disapprovingly, Robert appeared quite bewildered, and Elle looked like she was terrified. Arthur curled in on himself, feeling suddenly guilty and ashamed.

"Alright," Gareth said, finally calm enough to speak coherently in English. He glared at his brothers. "How badly are you all hurt? In other words, is your stupidity going to affect your people? Any potentially fatal wounds need to be reported now. Scotland?"

"I'm fine. Just a broken nose," Iagan said, wincing at both the pain and the noise as he shoved it back into place, "and some cuts and bruises, nothing serious. My people will be fine."

Gareth nodded and turned. "England?"

"Oh, um," Arthur muttered, taking quick stock of his own injuries. "Same for me, nothing serious. I've got a split lip and a cut on the inside of my mouth that's bleeding pretty nicely, but that's the worst of it. It's mostly just bruises and scrapes."

Finnian and Eirnin replied similarly: they were bruised and bleeding, but they definitely weren't dying. Satisfied that his brothers hadn't managed to mortally wound themselves or each other, Gareth nodded. He looked back at Arthur, expression flat and serious.

"I've called a car around for Mr. Hall," Wales said. "You should see him to the door."

Arthur nodded and forced himself to his feet. Walking was rather painful. He started off with a sort of hop-shuffle until he managed to achieve a somewhat steady rhythm. He felt exhausted and ancient; it seemed to take an eternity to reach the corner in which Robert, Elle, and Mrs. Cooper were standing. He noticed that Elle still looked frightened. Arthur tried to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she shook her head and jerked away from him. His heart sank. She wasn't just scared, she was scared of him.

"I…I'm so sorry," England said sincerely. "What just happened shouldn't have…well, it shouldn't have happened. It was immature and uncalled for. I'm sorry you had to see it. If you want to leave, I'll completely understand. And I won't be angry, I promise. Just say the word and I'll take you wherever you want to go. You can return to your old life and forget that any of this ever happened."

He waited for a response, but Elle gave none. She stared at him in silence, fear and uncertainty in her wide brown eyes. Mrs. Cooper put a motherly arm around the girl's shoulders.

"Give her some time to think it over," Mrs. Cooper suggested. "She's had a difficult day."

Arthur nodded and turned to Robert. "I believe there's a car waiting for you out front."

"Indeed," Robert agreed. He turned to Elle and squeezed her arm gently. "It was wonderful to meet you, my dear. I hope you decide to stay."

Then he turned and followed England out of the room. Arthur's mind was awhirl with hundreds of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He'd already accepted Elle as his Keeper. If she left now, he'd have no choice but to sever that connection. Elle would be perfectly fine and would experience no adverse affects, but England would be subjected to excruciating pain. And you'd deserve it, too, he told himself. What were you thinking, rushing into choosing a Keeper like that? Didn't you learn anything the last time? He winced, recalling how much severing his connection with Robert had hurt those many years ago. He couldn't force Elle to stay, not after seeing how terrified she was, but he hoped she'd choose to do so on her own. Then there was the matter of his brothers. The mention of a united Ireland, an independent Scotland, and an independent Wales had shaken Arthur badly. Did they all really hate him so much? Were they all so desperate to leave him?

"You're worried about something," Robert said. They were in the foyer now. "What is it?"

"My brothers," England replied.

"I could have guessed that," said Robert with a gentle, sympathetic smile. "What, specifically, about your brothers is bothering you?"

"They're all talking about independence and I'm afraid," England admitted candidly. "What if they really do leave? I'll be left alone and I've never wanted that, not ever. I've survived abandonment in the past, but to be deserted by my own brothers would break me. I need them, Robert, and they need me. Why don't they understand that? Suppose they do gain independence. What then? I won't be able to protect them anymore, and that terrifies me. I don't want to watch them be destroyed by an enemy or be terrorized by financial ruin—I won't! How can I make them see that?"

"You can't," Robert said sadly. They had migrated to the front steps and he could see the car that would take him home. "They'll have to come to that realization on their own. And they will, Arthur—I know they will. They'll come to see how much you do for them, how much they need you. Give it time."

It wasn't what Arthur wanted to hear, but he accepted the advice with a nod. He embraced his old friend and thanked him for visiting. When Arthur attempted to apologize for the dinner debacle, Robert shushed him and said there was no need. Mr. Hall then climbed into the car that had been brought for him and waved goodbye, promising to visit again in the near future. As soon as Robert's car pulled away, another drove up to take its place. Arthur frowned. He really couldn't handle any more visitors right now. One of the vehicle's back doors opened and a tall blonde man carrying a red, white, and blue duffel bag climbed out. Before Arthur could process what was happening, the man was standing directly in front of him, arms spread wide as though he was expecting a hug.

"England!" America grinned, shouting in his customary fashion. He blinked and lowered his arms, frowning as he took in Arthur's injuries. "Dude, what happened?"

Arthur sighed, not really wanting to explain.

"Dinner," he said simply.

Back to Elle's POV next chapter.