Hello everyone!
Wow, it's been a long time since I last updated! This chapter was actually a pain to write (and rewrite...and edit...and write again). The stars of this fic, lovely as they are, kept talking and bringing up new problems that I just couldn't ignore. This thing is long. I hope that at least partially makes up for it being so late.
Enjoy!
What am I doing here, what am I doing here, oh my God what am I doing here!
The thought recycled itself in an endless loop, increasing her anxiety and pushing her toward hyperventilation. What am I doing here? It was a good question—a damn good one—but she didn't know how to answer it, and it only led to more. How could she have thought for even one second that getting into a cab with someone she barely knew was a good idea? How could she have thought that it would lead to something pleasant? How could she have been so stupid? Did it really only take a pair of green eyes, a handsome face, and a promise to change her life to banish her intelligence and convince her to throw caution to the wind? She'd ignored every warning about 'stranger danger' and tip on study abroad safety that she'd ever received. Her parents would kill her when they found out…assuming that the psychos that surrounded her didn't do the deed first.
Elle licked her lips and forced herself to steady her breathing. If they'd wanted to kill you, they would have done it already. That was what characters in movies always said, right? She'd be fine. She just had to get out of the house and back to her hotel. Then she could forget that any of this ever happened. She could forget Arthur the Personification of England—who, logically, shouldn't exist—and his wild story about Country Keepers. She could forget about his brothers, who were apparently as violent as they were attractive. She could forget the elegant civility, the gentle smiles, the raucous laughter, the boundless energy, and the quick-witted comments. She could pass it all off as a dream or hallucination. Elle nodded to herself. Yeah, that could work.
"Are you alright now, dear?" Mrs. Cooper asked. The kind woman was still at Elle's side, smiling encouragingly and rubbing gentle circles across her back. "I know that must have been terribly frightening for you."
That's the understatement of the century, Elle thought. She offered Mrs. Cooper a weak smile, trying to show that, yes, she was alright. The older woman frowned.
"No lying, dear," Mrs. Cooper admonished softly. She pulled Elle into a warm, motherly embrace. "Of course you're not alright. After that, how could you be? Oh, you probably thought the boys were completely harmless. They are, for the most part, and you must believe me when I say that they would never, ever hurt you. They really are quite gentle. They just…don't always get along with each other."
No, wait, that is the understatement of the century. Arthur and his brothers clearly had issues. They couldn't even get through dinner without trying to murder each other. And if they couldn't get along with each other—if they were so violent that they could mindlessly cause their own brothers pain—what chance did she have? In Elle's mind, anyone who would beat a family member bloody was too dangerous to be around. She could easily see the brothers harming her in a fit of violence, no matter what Mrs. Cooper said.
"You can't really blame them for it," the Steward of the UK House continued. She was holding Elle at arm's length now. "There's so much history between them, so many years of anger and hurt, that it's a miracle they get along as well as they do."
"You call this getting along?" Elle snorted, finally feeling compelled to say something. She pointed to Iagan, who was gingerly holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, and Eirnin, who was wincing as he touched his bruised jaw and blackened eye with diagnostic fingers, and Finnian, who was too busy glaring at Northern Ireland to bother with stopping the blood that was flowing from the gash above his right eyebrow. "That doesn't look like getting along to me."
"Well, you'll just have to trust me, then, dear," Mrs. Cooper said distractedly. She took on a serious expression. "Will you be alright if I leave you here for a few minutes?"
Elle felt a burst of panic at the thought of losing the company and protection of the only other true human being in the room, but she forced it down and, swallowing hard, nodded.
"Good," Mrs. Cooper smiled. She then turned and bellowed, "Ireland!'
Two pairs of panicked green eyes immediately flicked toward her.
"The Republic of," Mrs. Cooper specified, striding straight past Eirnin. He slumped against the wall and let out a sigh of relief as the Steward of the UK House barreled on toward his brother. "Stop bleeding on my clean floor!"
She frowned at Finnian and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. He meekly accepted it and pressed it to his forehead, flinching as the fabric touched the open wound. His eyes never strayed from Mrs. Cooper's and Elle noted that, for the first time all evening, there was real fear in them. It wasn't fear of being struck or harmed—the idea of Mrs. Cooper lashing out physically was laughable—and he didn't appear to be overly concerned with the fact that he'd bloodied the rug. Rather, it seemed that he was afraid that he'd greatly disappointed Mrs. Cooper. Elle could almost imagine those big, sad green eyes in the face of a young child staring up at his mother after misbehaving. She watched as Finnian dropped his gaze to the floor and fidgeted uncomfortably. A small, tentative smile rose to her lips. Maybe Mrs. Cooper was right. Maybe the brothers really were as sweet as Elle had first thought them to be.
"Elle?"
She shrieked and scrambled backward, slamming herself against the wall and pressing a hand to her pounding heart. She looked at Gareth with wide eyes, once again struggling to get her breathing under control. He stared back at her, eyes equally wide.
"Sorry! Sorry," he apologized, stumbling away until his back was pressed against the opposite wall. He slid down it until he was seated on the floor. "I just—I'm sorry."
He licked his lips anxiously and looked as though he wanted to say more, but, after a few tense seconds, he merely shook his head and dropped his face into his hands. Feeling less threatened with some distance between them, Elle decided to sit as well. She slid down and made herself comfortable, leaning against the wall and hugging her knees to her chest. Once she was situated, Gareth peeked at her through his fingers and offered another apology. She sighed.
"It's okay," Elle told him. It really wasn't—this situation was not okay and she was back to being scared out of her mind—but she didn't like seeing him upset. "Just don't sneak up on me, alright? You gave me a heart attack."
He pulled his hands away from his face and sat up straighter. "I'm sorry."
"I know. You said that already."
"No, no," Gareth said. He sighed and licked his lips again. Maybe it was a nervous habit. "I'm sorry for scaring you, for yelling, for ruining everything."
Elle frowned. "Okay, now I'm sorry. I don't follow."
"You were alright earlier," Gareth explained. "The fighting had started and my brothers were throwing punches and screaming at each other, but you were alright. I removed you and Robert from the chaos and called for Mrs. Cooper to keep an eye on you. You looked nervous, but you didn't seem to be afraid. Then I…I started yelling, first in Welsh and then in English. When I recovered my senses and looked back at you, you were terrified. I can't help thinking that it's my fault."
"Oh."
It was true: she hadn't been afraid when the fighting had broken out, not at first. She had two older brothers and was familiar with how fraternal relationships worked. A little roughhousing was to be expected, especially in a family of five boys. She hadn't worried when Gareth had calmly taken her and Mr. Hall aside; she'd still felt perfectly safe. Then Wales, who she'd viewed as the sweetest and gentlest of the brothers, had started yelling. She hadn't understood what he was saying and that had only made it worse. She'd started to panic then, but the terror hadn't really set in until she'd seen all the blood. What kind of person was okay with beating his brother bloody? Elle closed her eyes, feeling slightly nauseous. She really had to get out of here.
"It is my fault, isn't it?"Gareth asked.
Elle wanted to comfort him, to lay his fears to rest, to say 'of course not, Gareth' because, despite everything that had happened, she knew he was a nice guy. She liked him, and that was why she couldn't lie to him.
"Not completely," she told him, looking up and forcing a smile.
Elle hugged her legs closer to her chest and let out a long, slow sigh. She could do this. She just had to wait for Arthur to get back. When he did, she'd tell him she wanted to leave. He'd promised to let her go, hadn't he? He'd promised to take her anywhere she wanted. What if he was lying? a small, terrified inner voice questioned. She chewed her lower lip nervously. Dishonesty was always a possibility, but Arthur seemed like such a gentleman. He wouldn't betray her like that…would he?
The sound of approaching voices had Elle on her feet in a matter of seconds. One was obviously Arthur, but the other—thank God!—was American. An American, a countryman, a kindred spirit in a world gone mad…Elle could hardly contain her excitement. She wondered briefly at the divergence from her norm. Ordinarily, she'd have given anything to sit down and talk with an Irishman, a Scotsman, an Englishman or a Welshman. Their accents were charming, entrancing, and beautiful; they could have been reading straight from a dictionary and she'd have been riveted. Now, though, she wanted nothing more than to latch onto her countryman and beg him to take her home. She'd had quite enough of being abroad, thank you very much, and would be more than happy to return to America, land of the free and home of the sane. She said 'sane' because, in America, people were rational and things made sense. In America, people were people and countries were countries. There was no intermixing or combining the two, except in the realm of fiction. She mentally prepared to explain to her countryman why leaving the UK House immediately was of the utmost importance; she thought 'we're standing in a room with a bunch of personified countries' ought to do the trick. However, when Arthur and the American finally entered the room, Elle found herself recoiling rather than rushing forward. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped because the American wasn't just an American. He was America, the nation personified.
He was several inches taller than Arthur and quite a bit larger; his broad shoulders and muscular build made the other personified nations that Elle had met seem almost scrawny in comparison. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and, over that, the brown leather bomber jacket that she recognized from Hetalia. A pair of jeans hugged his narrow waist and hips and a rather large pair of Nikes covered his feet. He was laughing, causing his sky-blue eyes to crinkle at the corners and stretching his lips into a wide, toothy grin. A pair of silver-rimmed glasses—Texas, Elle thought—rested on the bridge of his aquiline nose and a stubborn little cowlick—Nantucket—had separated itself from the rest of his golden-blonde hair. He was incredibly handsome—she was beginning to believe that all countries were—and could easily have been the star of any Hollywood film.
"Wow, you guys really did a number on this place," America observed. He stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, taking in the destruction. "And on each other. Why?"
"I don't know, Alfred," Arthur muttered from his place at America's side. He sounded tired. "For the usual reasons, I suppose."
Alfred nodded sagely, "Because you're a control freak and everyone else got fed up with it."
"I am not a control freak!" Arthur bristled, reddening with irritation.
"Yes you are!" Iagan grinned. "Isn't that right, lads?"
Eirnin nodded and said something that was probably a 'yes' before wincing and cradling his jaw.
"Absolutely!" Finnian laughed. He smiled at America. "Hello, Al! It's good to see you!"
"Finn, bro, what's up?" Alfred returned, grinning and holding his arms wide for a hug.
Finnian moved to embrace and properly greet his friend and adopted brother, but he was blocked by his four guards and a still-frowning Mrs. Cooper. He smiled apologetically and shrugged. Alfred returned the smile and started to drop his arms to his sides. He raised them again a moment later, turning toward Northern Ireland and calling his name with a grin. Eirnin's answering smile was weak and tentative, as though he wasn't quite sure if he could smile. Then he said something…or, rather, he tried to. It sounded like he was speaking English, but the words were so mixed and garbled that Elle couldn't make sense of them. Apparently, neither could Alfred.
"Eir, we've been over this," America said. "You have to speak really clearly for me, okay? Sometimes your accent makes it sound like you're just saying a bunch of mumbo-jumbo. Finn remembered. Talk just like he did."
Eirnin scowled and spoke again. It was just as incomprehensible as his first attempt.
"Dude, seriously, what are you saying?" Alfred tilted his head and raised a brow, clearly lost.
This time, Eirnin yelled. It didn't make him any more intelligible and ended with him curled forward with his hands cupping his jaw.
"Do you know what he said?" Alfred questioned, appealing to the other nations for help.
Gareth, Iagan, and Arthur were just as confused as Alfred and it quickly became clear that only one person in the room had a chance of understanding Eirnin's distorted speech. All eyes turned to Finnian. He gazed back at them steadily, silently refusing their requests for him to translate. Apparently, he was still too angry with Eirnin to be doing him any favors. Elle watched curiously, wondering how it would all play out. After another minute, Finnian rolled his eyes and relented.
"Alright, first he said 'Hello, Alfred. When did you get here?' Then it was 'I am speaking clearly, you idiot! Clean your ears out.' That last bit…well, I'd rather not explain it, not with ladies present."
"Oh! That's what he said?" Alfred grinned. He turned to Eirnin. "Hey, Eir! I just got here a few minutes ago. Why are you talking so weird today?"
Eirnin slapped a hand over his eyes and shook his head, not even attempting a verbal reply.
"I think that's probably my fault," Finnian shrugged. "I hit his jaw pretty hard earlier. It might be broken or dislocated or just really sore."
"Well, whatever the case may be, you'll have to translate for him until it heals," Arthur said.
Finnian started to protest, but one look from Mrs. Cooper silenced him. He sighed and nodded, reluctantly accepting his appointed task. The greetings continued. Alfred received a semi-cheerful hello from Wales, a bear hug from Scotland, and a peck on the cheek from Mrs. Cooper. Elle waited quietly through it all. Somewhere between America's entrance and his attempt to sweep Mrs. Cooper off her feet and carry her bridal-style, she realized that she wouldn't be leaving the UK House any time soon. The thought caused her chest to tighten with panic, but she forced herself to remain calm. No one seems to be in the mood for fighting anymore. How bad could this be?
"And, last but not least, Elle!" Alfred said, turning toward her. He had his arms spread wide—damn, he really likes hugs—and was walking in her direction. "You thought I forgot about you, huh? How could I? I came all this way just for you!"
How bad could this be?Answer: very bad. Elle sympathized with Alfred's desire to embrace everyone—she was normally a pretty huggy person herself—but the thought of touching anyone was currently twisting her stomach into knots. She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head emphatically, trying to clearly convey that she did not want a hug. She would have said something as well, but she was so frightened that her throat had tightened and her voice was refusing to work. The thought of running crossed her mind, but her knees had locked up and refused to move. It was pointless, anyway. America was heading straight for her. There was no time to go anywhere.
"Alfred, stop it. You're scaring her," Arthur said. Elle shot him a grateful look.
"Quiet, dude. I know what I'm doing."
"What? You most certainly do not! Look at her. She's completely terrified!"
Alfred might have given a very witty reply—Elle would never know. What she would know, what she would remember for the rest of her life, was the weight of his large hands as they gently landed on her shoulders and pulled her forward. She was pressed tenderly to his chest and encircled by his arms; half a second later, he rested his cheek on top of her head. He held her carefully, like she was precious and in danger of shattering, but firmly, like she was cared for and wanted. Elle initially struggled against him, but she quickly found herself melting into the embrace. As soon as she relaxed in his arms, she felt a deep, aching fatigue, then a fierce desire to protect the world and everyone in it, then a burst of self-doubt. A few thoughts followed the third sensation. Am I still the strongest? Am I still loved? Can I still be the hero? Do they still want me to be the hero? A swell of confidence suddenly eradicated the negativity and she was once again certain that she could save everyone in every nation on Earth. Alfred squeezed her tightly and kissed the top of her head. Elle felt the final surge of confidence fade and, as Alfred released her, another pleasant feeling rose to take its place. She felt happy, really and truly happy, and extremely safe. America backed up a few steps and she smiled at him, completely forgetting that she was supposed to be afraid.
"See, dude? Problem solved," Alfred said, turning to Arthur. "She's not freaking out anymore. If you're going to help people, sometimes you need to ignore everything they're saying and doing and just help. That's what being the hero is all about!"
Arthur snorted, "Yes, well, I suppose I've learned something valuable today: American foreign policy—i.e. ignoring what others say and determinedly 'helping'—can be applied in cases concerning distraught young women. I'll have to try it in the future."
"Really?" Alfred asked, clearly excited by the thought that Arthur might take advice from him.
"What do you think?" Arthur frowned. It couldn't be mistaken for anything but a 'no.'
Alfred shrugged and turned back to Elle. "Are you feeling better?"
"Yeah, much. Thanks," she replied. She wasn't scared or even nervous, just curious. "What did you do?"
"Hugged you," Alfred replied as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "And, by the way, that's what it feels like to be the Country Keeper. Arthur mentioned that you touched his hand at some point, but you only felt what he was feeling, am I right? That's because he's accepted you as his Keeper, but your relationship is pretty new. I, on the other hand, have known you your whole life. You're one of my people, so we already had a strong bond when I accepted you as my Keeper. That bond just needed acceptance from you to work like a fully-developed Country-to-Keeper connection. It's like a give-and-take sort of thing. You feel what I'm feeling, I feel what you're feeling, all the bad stuff goes away, and we're both pretty happy in the end."
Elle blinked, not fully understanding. "A give-and-take? I thought the Country Keeper was just supposed to take care of you."
"And get nothing back?" Alfred asked. At Elle's shrug, he looked at Arthur. "Dude, you suck at explaining things!"
"I—I haven't had time to properly explain!" Arthur protested.
"Whatever," Alfred muttered, waving him off. He turned back to Elle. "Yeah, you take care of us, but we take care of you, too. We feed you and buy you things and give you lots of awesome places to live. Plus, after you help us work through our issues by giving us hugs or talking to us or whatever, you feel just as good as we do. Country Keeping's a pretty cool job. You have, like, magical powers to help us get rid of stress and stuff. And when you get really good at it, you can do Jedi mind tricks!"
Elle stared at him bewilderedly.
"You can project thoughts and emotions," Arthur explained, shooting a glare in Alfred's direction. "For example, if I was upset about something, you could think calming or happy thoughts—yes, I know it sounds cliché—and send them in my direction to alter my mood. It's a sort of telepathy, I suppose. Albrecht used it quite frequently."
"See?" Alfred beamed. "Jedi mind tricks!"
The explanation half-answered one question and raised about a thousand more, but Elle felt that now was not the time to ask them. Still on a weird high from hugging Alfred, she turned to Arthur.
"I need to talk to you," Elle said.
He frowned, but nodded his understanding. He had just opened his mouth, presumably to begin the conversation, when Mrs. Cooper bustled over.
"Wait just a minute, please," the woman said, patting Arthur's shoulder. She turned to Elle. "It's wonderful to see you smiling again, dear. I wonder, would you mind if we got the boys cleaned up before you have your little chat?"
Elle shook her head, "No, that'd be fine."
"Oh, good," Mrs. Cooper smiled. "America dear, you can take care of England, can't you?"
"Of course!" Alfred grinned. Arthur scowled and glared daggers at him.
Mrs. Cooper shepherded everyone into the kitchen. Elle was taken aside by one of the UK House employees and directed toward the breakfast nook where a steaming mug of hot chocolate sat waiting for her. When she asked the employee about it, the man explained that America had instructed him to prepare the hot drink. Elle looked at her country. He was standing near the sink and tending to Arthur's wounds, smiling all the while. He winked at Elle when he caught her staring and tilted his head toward her mug, indicating that she should take a drink. She smirked and did as he'd silently suggested. It was perfect. She took another sip, quietly observing the other occupants of the room.
Mrs. Cooper had taken it upon herself to care for Scotland. His nose was swollen and purple-black now, as was the skin around both of his eyes. The bleeding had mostly stopped and the handkerchief had been cast aside, freeing Iagan to hold an ice pack to his nose while Mrs. Cooper wiped drying tracks of red from his face. He sat stoically through her ministrations, barely flinching as the washcloth swiped across bruised and tender skin. With everyone else otherwise engaged, the task of caring for Ireland had fallen to Wales. Gareth had managed to get his brothers to sit side by side on the countertop and, so far, they hadn't tried to kill each other. He'd quickly but gently run his hands along Eirnin's jaw—it had been ruled badly bruised, not dislocated or broken—before turning to Finnian and concerning himself with the gash on the Republic's forehead. It still hadn't stopped bleeding.
As she watched all of the activity, Elle found herself wondering if she could really forget the UK House and the countries that inhabited it. Earlier, she'd been so scared that leaving had seemed the only rational thing to do, but she was calmer now and she found herself reconsidering. If she said no to being the Country Keeper, what did she have to go back to? Her family, sure, and all of her friends, but beyond that? Not much. She'd have two more years of college, then a job—if she could find one in the current economy—and then a mediocre life based on order, structure, and routine. She'd be just another face in the crowd, an Average Jane in a sea of hundreds of thousands of other nameless, faceless people. She'd be a nobody. It was kind of depressing to think about, but it didn't have to be. What she had here—what Arthur had practically handed to her—was the opportunity of a lifetime. It was exciting, it was new. Things like this never happened to her.
But that was the problem, wasn't it? Elle was as ordinary as ordinary could be. She'd lived in the same house on the same street in the same city all her life. She'd had an average childhood and a typical adolescence, nothing odd or unusual at all. How was she supposed to react in this situation? What was she supposed to do with the knowledge that countries were people—very, very attractive people—who lived and loved and dreamed and fought just like everyone else on the planet? To think that these people—these countries—wanted her, needed her…it was too much. How was she supposed to help them? She didn't know anything about being a Country Keeper. She didn't even fully understand what the title meant.
You can learn, a small, quiet inner voice asserted. Elle considered it. She had always been a fast learner, but in order to learn, she needed to be provided with information. Arthur had already kept several things from her and although Gareth had tried to fill her in, she got the feeling that she wouldn't understand everything for quite some time. Could she live with that? Could she continue blindly down this path she'd chosen on a whim just a few hours earlier in Trafalgar Square? Don't be an idiot, she told herself. Think it through. It wasn't all that difficult. What she should do was obvious enough. She should get the hell out of this place and return to her professors and peers. They'd be heading back to the States in a couple of days and, if she had any hope of things ever getting back to normal, she had damned well better be on that plane. There was a difference between what she should do and what she would do, however, and, ridiculous as it was, Elle didn't believe that she would be on that D.C.-bound flight in two days time. Instead, she imagined that she'd be right where she currently was: still confused, still uncertain, and still in the UK House.
It made sense, really, in a what-am-I-doing, holy-hell-I'm-totally-crazy sort of way. She had always been jealous of the heroes and heroines in movies and books; she'd always envied their epic voyages and the excitement they'd experienced. Why can't my life be like that? she'd often wondered. The sensible answer was that epic quests and grand adventures only happened in works of fiction, but Elle didn't have to be sensible anymore. She was in a room with six personified countries. Sensibility had gone right out the window.
"Screw it," Elle muttered, downing the rest of her hot chocolate like a shot of tequila.
She could stay where she was and mentally debate the issue forever, but the fact remained that she was simply too curious to turn back now. She couldn't just leave and spend the rest of her life not knowing what might have been. Besides, if things didn't work out, she could always go back to the life she had known. 'Normal' would always be there waiting for her. Decision (more or less) made, Elle abandoned the breakfast nook and looked for a way to make herself useful.
Her opportunity lay across the kitchen with Gareth, who was prepping a needle and thread, and his two Irish brothers. Gareth was squinting and frowning and biting his lower lip, completely focused on his task. Finnian and Eirnin, meanwhile, were each doing their best to pretend the other didn't exist. They were glaring off in separate directions and wearing frowns that were dangerously close to pouts. They're like children, Elle thought. And they were clearly a handful. Wales would probably welcome her assistance.
"Can I help?" Elle asked, tamping down the fear that was attempting to reassert itself.
"You want to?" Gareth asked, looking at her with wide eyes and raised brows. He sounded surprised and a little skeptical, but, at Elle's nod, he tilted his head toward Eirnin. "Clean him up and get some ice for his jaw and his eye. I suppose he could have done it himself, but I don't like letting any of my brothers wander around after a fight. I never know what mischief they might get up to."
Elle nodded, accepting responsibility for Northern Ireland. As long as she thought of him as the cheerful young man who'd told her hilarious stories and not as the maniac who'd dragged his brother backward across a table, everything would be just fine. She looked at Finnian, who was still holding a bloodstained cloth to his forehead.
"Does he need stitches?" Elle wondered.
"Unfortunately," Gareth confirmed. He moved Finnian's hand aside and pulled back the bloodied handkerchief so that he could inspect his brother's injury. "Just a few, though. I should be finished fairly quickly."
Elle shuddered. She'd never had stitches before, but the thought of a needle and thread pulling through skin unnerved her. Determined to ignore the process, she shifted her focus to Eirnin. He gave her a lopsided smile—still a charmer, even when injured, Elle thought—and sat patiently while she gave him a quick once-over. Thanks to Finnian's undoubtedly powerful right hooks, the damage was mostly concentrated to the left half of Eirnin's face: his left eye was purple-black and swollen shut and the left side of his jaw featured mottled bruising in every color of the rainbow. There was random damage, too—scattered scrapes and bruises littered practically every visible inch of Eirnin's fair, freckled skin—but it ranked lower than the facial injuries on Elle's mental checklist. So, ice packs and something to clean the blood with, she thought. Easy. A quick search and some direction from Gareth got Elle the supplies she needed.
"Here," Elle said, handing Eirnin a towel filled with ice. "Hold this to your eye while I get the blood off your face. Then we'll get some ice on your jaw, too."
Eirnin nodded agreeably and pressed the ice pack to the blue-black skin around his eye. Then, using a basin of water and a washcloth, Elle began to clean the blood away. There really wasn't much of it: a few streaks here and there from shallow cuts caused by clawing fingernails, a tiny stream from a bitten lower lip, and half a dozen drying red splatters that really belonged to Finnian.
"You have a scar," Elle observed as she wiped a smear of blood from Eirnin's cheek. It was thin and faint and white—just a few shades lighter than his skin—and slanted from his cheekbone down to the corner of his lips. "I didn't notice it earlier. How did you get it?"
A light little chuckle burbled in his throat as he gave her another lopsided smile. He opened his mouth slightly, but did not attempt to reply. Instead, he showed her his bitten, swollen tongue and gestured apologetically to his bruised jaw.
"Oh, right. You can't speak," Elle said, feeling her face redden. "Never mind. It was a stupid question."
Eirnin shook his head and patted her shoulder. He gestured to the scar and then to his partially-open mouth, miming the expulsion of something. Elle took that to mean that he'd tell her the story another day. She smiled and turned back to her work.
The last of the blood was one long, thin line that had slid down Eirnin's neck and dried along his collarbone. It came off easily enough and Elle found her attention drifting. She could hear Arthur speaking, saying that he had been taken care of and was now 'just fine, thank you'. Fine enough, apparently, to return to the 'mountains of paperwork' that awaited him in his office. It didn't sound as though Alfred liked that idea at all. He started listing reasons why Arthur just couldn't leave—'We have to eat popcorn and watch a movie and swap scary stories. It's sleepover tradition, man!'—but England hardly seemed convinced. Elle smiled and shook her head. She had no idea what her country was talking about.
As Elle gently scrubbed the remaining blood from Eirnin's collarbone and shoulder, her fingers brushed against something odd. Her mind suddenly snapped back to her task and, frowning, she pushed the collar of Eirnin's shirt down. She immediately clamped down on her lower lip to keep from shrieking in disgust. What the hell is that! A few seconds passed before her mind was able to process that she was looking at another scar. This one was much bigger and uglier than the one on Eirnin's cheek. Jagged, raised, and knotted, it started on his left shoulder and disappeared under his shirt. Elle found herself wondering just how much of his chest it covered. She dragged her eyes up to meet Eirnin's. He was shaking his head and silently begging her to forget what she'd just seen. She couldn't.
"What is that? How did you get it?" Elle asked—no, demanded. She wondered with sudden horror if one of his brothers had done it to him. "How did you get that scar?"
"What scar?" Iagan asked, smoothly inserting himself into the conversation.
Elle looked at him. Despite his black eyes and the gauze and medical tape surrounding his nose, he was grinning. With a laugh and a good-natured slap to Eirnin's thigh, Iagan hopped up onto the counter and sat beside his brother. He looked at Elle expectantly.
"Well?" Scotland prompted, raising his brows. "What scar?"
"This one," Elle said, pointing to the monstrosity she'd uncovered. It made her sick to imagine what it must have looked like as a fresh wound. "How did he get it? Who did it to him?"
Iagan's expression shifted at her tone. "Hang on. Are you accusing me of something?"
Elle's eyes widened and she swallowed hard. She had been, actually. In her mind, she'd been accusing each of Eirnin's brothers of giving him that terrible scar. The thunderous look on Scotland's face had her abandoning that line of thinking.
"Are you suggesting that I did it?" Iagan demanded. He growled furiously and shoved his hands through his hair. "And if not me, then one of my brothers? Do you honestly think that any of us would do that to him? That wound was opened and reopened without thought for Eirnin's comfort or sanity. It bled for years—he bled for years—and it was agony, torture! How…how dare you accuse me of putting him through that?"
"I-I'm sorry," Elle stammered. She was beginning to feel panicked again, but Alfred's hand suddenly curled around her shoulder and her nerves settled. She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"You didn't know," Iagan scoffed. "Predictable. Alfred, teach your people some history, would you?"
"What do you mean?" Elle asked. She looked at Alfred. "What does he mean?"
"Have you ever heard of the Troubles?" America asked. It wasn't a direct answer, but Elle knew what her nation was talking about and, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she guessed where his explanation was heading. "Eirnin's brothers didn't give him that scar. His people did."
"Just about tore him apart," Iagan growled, a dangerous, murderous gleam in his eyes.
"It was awful," Gareth said softly. He finished taping gauze over the freshly-stitched wound on Finnian's forehead and glanced at Arthur, who was standing at Alfred's side. "It's not something that any of us recall with any sort of fondness."
"Only because the wrong side came out on top," Finnian muttered.
The comment was barely audible and had probably not been meant for the others to hear, but they had heard, and the reaction was immediate. The air seemed to go out of the room and, as the others stood mentally digesting the statement, Arthur rushed forward, twisted his hands in Finnian's shirtfront, and slammed his brother's head against the cabinets behind him.
"Listen to me, you horrible brat," Arthur hissed. "You can talk all you like about your little plans for a unified Ireland—that's fine, I don't mind a little fantasy. What I do mind is you talking about a piece of our history like it was some sort of game. There was no winner, no one 'came out on top.' The conflict simply—mostly—ended. Don't be so disrespectful. It's disgusting."
"You're disgusting," Finnian spat, wincing as the volume of his own voice shoved a spike of pain through his skull. "Pushing me around like I'm nothing, calling me names, controlling Eir like he's some sort of puppet. I hate it! I hate you! I don't even know why I come here."
"To visit Eirnin, I'd imagine," Arthur returned. He grinned wickedly at his brother. "After all, he did choose me in the end."
Finnian roared angrily and reached out to wrap his hands around Arthur's throat, but Eirnin grabbed him and held him back. At the same moment, Gareth grabbed Arthur and pulled him away while Alfred grabbed Iagan, who'd been about to leap into the fight.
"Alright, that's enough!" Gareth shouted. His face was red with anger; he had no patience left to spare. "You," he said to Arthur, shoving the blonde toward the hallway. "Get out of here. Take a walk, do some work—I don't care. And you," he said, turning to Scotland, "go to your room. No arguing! And you," he spun toward Finnian, "Don't. Say. Anything. Not another word, understand? And don't move! Any more trouble out of you and I'll be shipping you back home. Tonight."
While Wales dealt with his brothers, Alfred led Elle into the living room. She was less shaken by the fighting this time, and she figured that was a good thing. It seemed that the brothers simply couldn't get along with each other. If that was the case, she'd have to be prepared for much more of this in the future. Still, something was nagging at her conscience.
"I think it's my fault," she confided.
"What is?" Alfred asked. He was digging through a duffle bag that had been left in a corner of the room.
"The fighting," Elle replied with a shrug. "I said something at dinner that set them off, and then I brought up the scar."
"Well, they probably would have found something to fight about even if you hadn't said anything," Alfred told her, "but I think you're right: you did get them started. Don't look so guilty! I've done it lots of times, too. That's why I have this."
"A book?" Elle asked, taking the proffered object. It was a simple black, leather-bound journal. She flipped through it quickly. "What's it for?"
"To remind me of all the stuff that sets them off," America said, jerking his thumb toward the kitchen. "I hate coming over here and accidentally stirring up fights, so I made myself write down everything that I've said in the past to make them angry. That way, I don't repeat the same mistake twice."
"That's useful," Elle said, handing the book back to Alfred. He shook his head.
"Nah, you keep it. I've got all that stuff stored in my noggin now," Alfred told her, tapping his forehead. "Study that, and you won't be causing any more fights between them any time soon."
"Thanks," Elle smiled. She rocked back on her heels and looked around the room. "So, what now?"
"We'll wait an hour or so, just to give the guys some time to cool off," Alfred said, flopping down on one of the sofas. "Then we'll call them in here so we can all watch a movie! This is a slumber party. We should be having fun and celebrating the fact that you're going to be our new Keeper!"
"You don't have to...wait," Elle said, leveling America with a skeptical look. "Last anyone heard, I was planning on leaving. How did you know I decided to stay?"
"Well, you haven't decided to stay," Alfred said with a small frown. "Not really, anyway. You haven't one hundred percent, totally for sure, absolutely, definitely, no doubts, no questions decided. But you'll stay. You will. I know you will."
"How can you be so sure?" Elle asked. She wasn't even entirely sure what she would decide, in the end.
Alfred shrugged. "The same way I knew that hot chocolate is your go-to comfort drink. I'm your country, Elle. I know you."
"Yeah," Elle chuckled, plopping down beside him, "that's going to take some getting used to."
They spent the next forty-five minutes in pleasant conversation, undisturbed by anyone but Mrs. Cooper, who brought them snacks at the twenty minute mark. In between bites, Alfred asked all sorts of questions. Was Elle enjoying England? Had her visit been made more or less enjoyable when she'd met Arthur, the nation personified? How much had she been told about Keeping? Elle answered each question to the best of her ability, but some were more difficult than others. She didn't know how to quantify what little she had been told about becoming the Country Keeper—she still wasn't entirely sure that she understood what the term actually meant—and as for the question about Arthur…well, that was complicated. He was handsome and gracious and she could see in his eyes that he was capable of great friendliness and warmth, but there was a wall between Open and Amicable Arthur and the rest of the world. She wondered why it was there. Was he naturally standoffish or had his reserved tendencies developed over time, perhaps as the result of bad relationships and betrayals? She'd noticed that he hadn't directly asked if she planned to stay on as Keeper. Maybe he was afraid of the answer.
Alfred was a foil to Arthur, a contrast so stark and vivid it made Elle's head spin. Alfred was as loud as he was friendly. He smiled readily, laughed often, and gesticulated grandly when he spoke. He was physically affectionate and unafraid to hug others, even people he barely knew. He had poor table manners, as Elle discovered when he asked questions with his mouth full of food, but he was so happy and enthusiastic that it was difficult to fault him for it. Alfred was lovable—there was simply no other word for it—in an undeniable, exuberant, and endearingly oafish way. While Arthur was a person Elle would have to get to know before reaching a decisive verdict, Alfred was someone she instinctively liked and implicitly trusted. She wondered if those feelings were a result of his magnetic personality or the fact that he was her home nation.
When Alfred ruled that enough time had passed, he and Elle set about gathering the Dysfunctional Brothers of Great Britain and Ireland—she giggled at the term Alfred provided—for a movie. Arthur, who had 'far too much work to do', refused to leave his office, but his brothers were convinced with relative ease. They gathered in the living room, bowls of popcorn in hand, and tried to figure out a decent seating arrangement. As guests, Elle and Alfred were given one of the sofas to share. They tried to protest, knowing that such a concession made a peaceful arrangement infinitely more difficult to achieve, but the other nations were insistent. In the end, Gareth and Iagan took the other sofa while Finnian and Eirnin sprawled out on the floor with a wall of pillows between them. Elle hoped the meager barrier would be enough to keep them from fighting.
The movie passed without incident. Elle nodded off once or twice; she recalled jerking awake to onscreen explosions and machine gun fire. When she opened her eyes to a catchy song and rolling end credits, Elle yawned and sat up, trying to remember exactly where she was. That was easy enough: she was still in the UK House, seated on one of the living room sofas with a snoring Alfred beside her. Finnian and Eirnin were asleep as well. They'd both rolled closer to the wall of pillows and had pressed themselves right up against it so that the cushions were the only things keeping them apart. A drowsy Gareth was tending to his brothers, nudging them until they shifted into less painful-looking positions and tucking blankets around them and smoothing the hair from their foreheads with a soft smile.
"Hellions by day, angels by night," Gareth murmured, glancing at Elle.
She grinned tiredly, agreeing. They did look rather angelic.
"Are they sleeping here tonight?" Elle asked quietly.
Gareth smiled. "Yes. Waking them is never a good idea unless you don't mind losing a limb, and I refuse to carry them up to their beds. They can sleep on the floor for one night."
"What about Alfred?"
"He'll stay here, too," Gareth said. "It'll be just like that slumber party he kept going on about. I'll see if I can get him to lie down and stretch out, but I won't try to get him upstairs."
Elle nodded. Alfred was sleeping solidly and looked dead to the world. He wasn't going anywhere.
"Where do I sleep?" Elle wondered, finally coming to the question that had been weighing most heavily on her mind.
"In one of the guest rooms," Gareth replied. He straightened, wincing as his back cracked loudly. "Find Iagan. He'll show you."
Iagan. The name made Elle stomach flip. He'd been so angry earlier, so furious that she'd accused him of giving Eirnin that horrible scar. She didn't want to see that look on his face ever again, but if she did see it, she hoped that it would at least not be directed at her. Scotland—witty, handsome, rugged-as-hell Scotland—had looked positively murderous; if not for the solid strength of Alfred at her back, Elle would have burst into tears. She swallowed nervously, wanting Gareth to show her to her room but unwilling to say so aloud.
"Okay," she finally said, getting to her feet. "Goodnight."
Gareth returned the sentiment as Elle walked away. She passed through the darkened kitchen and wandered down the dimly-lit hallway, one hand on the wall as a guide. She soon found herself in a large foyer. Elle stood for a moment in wide-eyed wonder, staring at the crystal chandelier that hung above the pristine marble floor and wondering why Arthur hadn't shown her this place earlier. The hushed rumblings of a male voice pulled her from her gawking and, realizing that the voice belonged to Iagan, Elle followed it into the next room.
A single lamp provided the weak light by which she was able to distinguish Iagan, face bruised and swollen and half-hidden in shadows, standing in front of a couch and staring down at it. What's he doing? she wondered, trying to get a good look at his expression. She spied a tuft of blonde hair—Arthur?—peeking around the edge of the sofa and an oddly-shaped bundle—pillow, maybe—in Iagan's arms. Elle's mind immediately leapt to an awful conclusion: perhaps Scotland intended to smother his brother to death. They really hadn't been getting along earlier, but was Iagan actually prepared to commit fratricide? It was a horrifying thought.
"Iagan?" Elle whispered.
His gaze snapped up to meet hers and his posture suddenly stiffened; he looked, for all intents and purposes, like a criminal caught in the act. Frowning, Elle walked farther into the room. She could now see that Arthur was lying on the couch. He was flat on his back with his hands folded neatly across his abdomen, looking very dignified indeed if one could ignore his partially-open mouth and the line of drool leaking from it. His tie had been removed and laid out nearby; the top buttons of his dress shirt had been undone so that sleep would be more comfortable. Elle looked at Iagan, who was shaking out his bundle—a blanket, she realized with a relieved smile—and glancing between her and his sleeping brother.
"I know I'm supposed to be mad at him, but I couldn't just…" Iagan sighed quietly, looking embarrassed. "Don't say anything, alright?"
Elle hid her grin and nodded. Iagan wasn't trying to murder his brother, he was simply caring for him. She immediately felt guilty for her mistake. She watched as Iagan laid the blanket atop his brother and carefully tucked it around him. Arthur mumbled something and shifted, looking as though he might wake. It was a problem quickly remedied by Scotland's gentle shushing and quietly murmured words.
"He always looks so unhappy," Iagan said, rubbing the frown lines from Arthur's forehead with a careful thumb. "Even when he's asleep. I think that, lately, it's been mostly my fault and I'm sorry for it." He looked at Elle, eyes serious. "Don't tell him I said that."
"Your secret's safe with me," she promised.
He smiled and stepped away from the sofa. "Did you need something?"
"Oh, um, yeah," Elle said. She blushed, realizing that she hadn't given any explanation for barging in. "Gareth sent me. He said you'd take me to my room."
"And so I will," Iagan nodded. He skirted around a coffee table and hoisted a suitcase onto his shoulder. "This is yours, isn't it?"
Elle gaped at the polka-dotted bag. "Yes, but—"
"And the carryon as well?" Scotland asked, picking up a smaller bag made of the same fabric.
"Yeah," she nodded. "How—?"
"I imagine Mr. Workaholic," Iagan tilted his head to indicate his sleeping brother, "sent for them. He must have collected them at the door when they arrived, brought them in here, decided to lie down—'just for a moment', no doubt—and fallen asleep." He readjusted his grip on her luggage. "I'll carry them upstairs for you."
He walked past her, bearing her rather heavy suitcase and carryon as though they were nothing. Elle followed him.
"I want to apologize for shouting at you earlier," Iagan said as they crossed the foyer. "You didn't know how Eirnin got that scar—how could you have?—and it was wrong of me to react the way I did. I'm sorry."
"Oh," Elle said, feeling even guiltier. Iagan wasn't cruel or frightening, he'd simply been upset. "It's okay."
"You have to understand what that scar means," Iagan insisted. They were on the stairs now. "I won't tell you the whole story tonight; it's enough to know that the situation was a bad one. There was so much violence that it sometimes spilled right over Eirnin's borders and into Finnian's and Arthur's. You can imagine how it affected them. Eirnin's our brother so, naturally, we all wanted to help him, but Arthur and Finnian were especially dedicated. They came to see the conflict as a situation in which something could be lost or gained."
"Something or someone?" Elle asked.
"You're on to something with that," Iagan told her. He didn't elaborate, however.
When they reached the top of the stairs, there were two options: go left or go right. To the right, Iagan explained, lay the five bedrooms that he and his brothers occupied. If Elle needed anything during the night, she was to knock on either Gareth's or Iagan's door, which would be identified by the Welsh Flag and the Scottish Flag, respectively. To the left lay the guest bedrooms, and it was in that direction that Iagan directed her.
"Some of these have been claimed already," Iagan said, pointing out the miniature flags that had been affixed to certain doors. "That's America's room, there's India's room, this one is France's room, over there is Spain's room…there are a few others. They're all regulars here at the UK House. This room is free, though. It can be yours."
He opened the door and led her into a pleasant little room with a rug-covered wood floor and floral wallpaper. It contained a double bed with a light pink duvet, a dresser with a matching mirror, and a small writing desk. There were two partially open doors in the room. One led to a little closet while the other led to an en-suite bathroom. Elle looked around and smiled. It was cute, homey, and smelled of roses. She liked it immediately.
"Will this suit you?" Iagan asked, setting her luggage down near the desk.
"Yeah," Elle grinned. "It's perfect."
"That's good to hear," Iagan smiled.
She expected him to leave then, but he surprised her by sitting down on the bed and folding his hands in his lap. He looked like a sinner preparing to confess.
"I…I don't hate him, you know," Iagan began, staring at his interlaced fingers. "Arthur, that is. I know it must seem like I do, but I don't. None of us hate him—not even Finn, no matter what he says. Arthur can be annoying and controlling—even outright cruel, if he chooses—but he's our brother and we love him." He shook his head and looked at her with a helpless smile. "God help us, but we love him."
It was good to hear. After seeing the brothers argue and fight as they had, Elle had half-believed that they didn't care about each other. She was relieved to be proven wrong.
"He doesn't see it," Iagan continued. He sounded frustrated. "I know he doesn't. It's why he acts the way he does, why he wants to control us so badly. He's afraid we'll leave him." Iagan snorted and shook his head. "Would you listen to me, talking like this when I'm actually trying to leave him? And I'm not saying I don't want to do it—my people want it, so I want it, simple as that—but I wish I wasn't being so…belligerent about it. I try not to be, but holding it back just makes everything worse. Arthur doesn't understand that I'm trying—I really am trying—but I can't stay in control. It would all be so much easier with a Keeper."
Elle stiffened. This conversation was heading into dangerous territory.
"Elle, how sure are you that you're going to stay with us?" Iagan asked, looking at her with serious eyes. "Don't worry about the election. If you run, you'll win. I guarantee it. Just…how sure are you that, when all's said and done, you'll stay here as the Country Keeper?"
She shifted uncomfortably. "Um, pretty sure?"
"Not good enough," Iagan frowned.
"Really pretty sure?" Elle tried.
"No!" Iagan shouted, shooting to his feet. He began pacing, pulling at his hair in frustration. "No, you have to be absolutely certain! Decide, now, please!" He was desperate, close to sobbing. "Please! I can't do this anymore—I can't fight it, can't control it. They're winning, Elle. I think I'm losing my mind! I love my people—you've no idea how much I love them—but they're always there, whispering to me. I can hear them talking, I know what they want, and it pushes and pushes and pushes me until I do something about it, until I hurl something down the stairs or break something apart or land a few solid punches on England's smug little face! I need you to be the Keeper. I need you to decide right now. I'll accept you right here, right this very moment, and it'll be over. My people will still speak, but they won't be in control. Please. I'm not sure how much longer I can take this."
"I…" Elle looked at him with wide eyes, completely taken aback. Iagan sounded desperate. He was falling to pieces in front of her and she didn't know what to do. She wanted to comply with his wishes, to say 'sure, no problem, I'll be the Country Keeper', but that would be lying, because it was a problem. She really wasn't sure if she would stick around forever, and the fact that Iagan needed her to promise that she would was a little unnerving. Arthur and Alfred had accepted her without a problem—no promises needed, no strings attached. She wondered why they had done it so easily while Iagan was clearly struggling. "Iagan, I…I can't. I can't make a promise like that because I just don't know. I don't know if I'll be the Country Keeper; I don't know if I want to. I'm sorry."
"D-don't be," Iagan forced out through gritted teeth. He was shaking. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't…shouldn't have done that, pushed you, made you feel like you have to do it. Y-you don't, obviously. It's your choice. I just…I can't accept you as my Keeper if you're planning on leaving. I wouldn't survive the detachment process—not mentally, anyway." He tapped his forehead and smiled at her. He suddenly seemed to have gotten himself back under control. "I'll leave you to get settled in."
"Okay, thanks," Elle said, watching him carefully. He seemed perfectly fine. It was surreal. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Iagan returned easily. So weird, Elle thought. "Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning."
Then he left, closing the door behind himself. Elle stood where she was for a few moments, puzzling over what had happened. Detachment process? What does he mean 'detachment process?' She had so many questions and absolutely no answers. As usual. Deciding to label Iagan's behavior a big, crazy mood swing, Elle abandoned her attempts to psychoanalyze him and turned instead to her suitcase. She unzipped the bag and dug through layers of shirts and pants and dresses until she found a little purple book. She then sat down at the desk and grabbed a pen.
Dear Diary, she wrote, you'll never believe what happened to me today…
So there you have it! We're moving right along.
Next Chapter: Ace Reporter Francis Bonnefoy of The International Gazette arrives at the UK House to interview the newest candidate for Country Keeper.