Once Again

"Sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!"

– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "The Building of the Ship"

JULY 1941

Hardly anything made Alfred Jones nervous. He was a man of intuition and courage, and he couldn't afford to be anxious in the face of conflict; that made his people, soldier and civilian alike, anxious in turn, and they needed a figure of hope while the nation healed from the Depression and battled with overseas morals. Even hidden, Alfred had always been that figure, situated proudly alongside the Stars & Stripes and the Statue of Liberty as a withstanding symbol of uninhibited freedom.

But in the few moments he waited outside the Oval Office, he wasn't sure when the last time he had been so nervous was.

Wait—the signing of the Treaty of Paris, 1783. That's right.

Roosevelt had sent for him, claiming he had some news to share. The possibilities were limitless, and yet one stuck out in his mind as the one to fear the most:

Had the President finally declared war?

The very prospect of joining another Great War within living existence of another sent a shudder down his spine, but he put on his most charming smile as the door opened to one of the Secret Servicemen and stepped inside.

"Thank you."

Chief Serviceman Mike Reilly nodded with a familiar half-grin and shut the door before resuming his still position, leaving Alfred to address the man seated behind the desk in the back of the circular room, absorbed in papers and letters from all corners of the country.

"Mr. President."

The thirty-second President of the United States looked up, saw Alfred, and smiled wanly.

"Good morning, Mr. America. Please, sit down." He gestured with an open palm towards one of the two plush upholstered seats in front of his desk. Alfred trekked around the Presidential Seal on the floor and sat hesitantly in the proffered seat, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.

Roosevelt took a minute—an achingly long minute—to arrange the papers on his desk before clasping his hands together in front of him, staring at Alfred through small, tired eyes.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, although Alfred received the impression that he already knew the answer.

"No, but when do any of us these days?" He attempted to lighten the comment with a smile, but the effect was lost on Roosevelt. Clearing his throat, Alfred added, "Er—what was the news you had—for me—sir…?"

"Yes, that," said Roosevelt, as though just remembering, and pulled from one of the two stacks on his desk a purposefully folded letter, which he handed to Alfred. "Prime Minister Churchill and I have arranged to meet in Newfoundland on August ninth. It's all a great big secret, and I would prefer to keep it that way. Even my wife isn't aware of this little escapade. She's been made to believe that I'm going on a fishing trip in Maine."

"Oh," said Alfred, staring at the telegram from the British leader. As per his norm, the writing was full of passion and flow that Alfred had never been able to properly invoke.

This was news indeed. It was the next big step to forming a relationship with Britain—and, by extension, coming into the war.

"I assume the press is the primary reason you're keeping this quiet?" he inquired, sliding the wire back across the desk.

"My critics, the isolationists, more specifically. I would prefer not to give them another reason to pick me apart just yet." Roosevelt replaced the letter and fixed Alfred with a firm look. "The intent of this meeting is simple, nothing more than a diplomatic engagement to discuss Mr. Churchill's pressing problem of defeating Germany. However, I would feel more assured of its success if you accompanied me."

Alfred nearly let out a sigh of relief. It wasn't terrible news—it wasn't even bad news—but it would have an effect, he knew that much. Still, it was just a trip, and Churchill wasn't unbearable; on the contrary, Alfred found him to be an insightful and entertaining guest. Not to mention that a trip to Canada would give him an opportunity to spend some time with his brother, a luxury he hadn't indulged in two years—since the war began.

"You can count me in, sir," he said, beaming as he rose from the chair. "Was that all?"

"Prime Minister Churchill is bringing his country's representation."

The smile froze on Alfred's face.

"P – pardon?" But he had heard it. It was only when Roosevelt repeated his words that they became real, and Alfred couldn't do anything but stare for several moments. When he finally found his voice, he said, "Are—are you sure you need me there, then? England's a hell of a lot smarter than me, and—"

"America," said the President, stern-faced. Above him, the portrait of George Washington glowered at Alfred, too.

He shut his mouth, slowly dropping back into the seat. His knees began to pop up and down without his realizing.

"I understand you two have a history together—" Roosevelt began.

"And it didn't end well," Alfred blurted, indicating the portrait of America's first president.

"It didn't," Roosevelt conceded, "but we have enemies that would seek to draw us into this conflict with the complete intention of casting the United States as you and I know it into the waves. These are the same enemies which now relentlessly batter Britain and test the fortitude of her strengths, as they have been for two long years.

"Should we enter this war, we would be creating the second worldwide conflict in the twentieth century. Should we enter it—" Roosevelt paused, ascertaining Alfred's eyes were fixed on his before continuing, "it is necessary for you to cooperate with Britain. It's time to put those bitter feelings aside. We can't afford to have them interfere with your insight on preparations for warfare. You're more intelligent than you think, Mr. America, and a hell of a good military man. I should say Mr. Churchill would be pleased to hear insight from you on this trip."

Feeling ashamed, Alfred bowed his head, stopped his jangling knee.

"You don't have to speak with him, but Mr. Churchill and I both expect you to respect each other. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Alfred muttered, picking at a hangnail on his thumb, agreeing even as the worst parts of him imagined breaking alliances with England, as he had over 160 years ago, but that was a childish thought. It was 160 years ago. He had grown and matured since then.

He could do this.

Confidence returned, Alfred lifted his head, met Roosevelt's waiting gaze, and smiled.

"When do we leave?"

-/-/-

"Good morning, sir. I have this morning's reports for you," said Arthur, managing a calm grin, though he felt anything but. The bombs dropped the night before had been the first to break the relentless silence since early June. In that time, his body had apparently come to a resolution to hope quietly (as the rest of his industrial heart's populace was) that the worst was over. But the aches that sprang like hot machinery sparks from his veins and coursed through his muscles were a sore reminder that hope was for fools—fools far less experienced than he.

"Cheers," grunted the Prime Minister as Arthur handed him the files and Hansard reports. He was propped in bed, a cigar jutting from his mouth as he dictated—in bursts of impassioned prose—a memorandum to his grey-eyed, resilient secretary. Between verses, he added, "Clementine's brought a spot of tea from the kitchen."

"Heaven knows I need it." Arthur cast a polite nod to Miss Layton and her rapid fingers, moving to the ancient, wooden round table stationed below a steel-shuttered window that was usually reserved for the ministers and their secretaries during early morning meetings. For the moment, however, it was home to a silver tray of steeping, precious tea.

Earl Grey, Arthur realized with infinitesimal relief as vibrant bergamot wafted upward from the hot drink dipping into his cup. Clementine had indulged her husband this morning. Arthur cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, peering through the fringe of his unruly blond hair, but the Prime Minister was dictating—with gestures and booming roars to boot—as if he hadn't tasted the difference.

Pouring a fresh cup for Miss Layton—heavens knew she needed it, too; she'd likely been up working through the night—Arthur lowered himself with a grimace into the nearest chair, only just managing to avoid singeing his tongue by taking a very tiny sip. Warmth and solace flowed in response. Precious, indeed.

"I haven't yet received reports of the situation out there," said Churchill, and Arthur opened his eyes to find Miss Layton preparing to cover her typewriter, her handiwork stacked neatly beside it on her desk. His gaze darted back to the Prime Minister as he continued, "although I fully intend to inspect the damage myself when they give the clear. That'll be before we leave, of course."

Arthur missed a beat while he recalled what they were leaving for. "Right—the meeting in Newfoundland, with the American president." He did his best not to grimace over the final two words, though it was nearly always instinct when the Americans were involved. Arthur lifted the teacup to mask it.

"And the American personification," added Churchill lowly.

The cup froze halfway to Arthur's lips.

Slowly, he replaced it on the tray. The ensuing clink that echoed sedately through the heavy wood and pastel-patterned chamber was unaware of the acute attention with which Churchill now watched his representative, but Arthur was. The Prime Minister wasn't aware of the full history between Arthur and the boy he'd christened and raised, but he knew they hadn't spoken since 1781, after Alfred snuck into the British encampment outside New York City and repudiated any further relation to him. Becoming Alfred Jones, no longer Alfred Kirkland.

Those words, old though they were, rang as clearly in his head now as they had 160 years ago: Your blood doesn't run through my veins—

Arthur recollected himself, clearing his throat and taking another fortifying sip of tea. This news certainly explained why Churchill had chosen such a scarcely available tea this morning—oddly considerate of the man, unless Clementine had taken the initiative. "Are you certain you absolutely need me on this trip, then?" he managed to spit out, ignoring the increasingly puzzled brow of Miss Layton in his periphery. "I could remain here and keep an eye on things."

" 'Things' is a vague word, Lord Britain. What is it exactly that you would do while I'm away?" Churchill prodded, giving him a steely look over the rims of his reading glasses.

"Oh, you know, sign reforms, military authorizations and—and…"

"Sulk?" said Churchill.

Pressing his lips together, Arthur looked away. He cursed the steel shutters over the window, blocking his ability to evade.

"Britain, we're in the middle of a bloody war. Stiff upper lip," said Churchill firmly, unconsciously reminding Arthur of the countless times he had told Alfred that. "We need you at this meeting."

"Why, if you don't mind the inquiry?" he all but demanded, trying not to speak through gritted teeth. Losing his temper wouldn't do anyone any good at all, even if the urge resided closer to the edge these days.

"Reinforcement, as well as insight. This is the first time I'll have met President Roosevelt."

"But you're quite capable of conducting yourself in these situations, regardless of what your political adversaries think. You've stated your views about American neutrality quite clearly these last several months—"

"As I said, reinforcement," said Churchill simply, and sipped from his cup.

"How am I—"Arthur bit back his attitude and looked at the polished tabletop, a sense of both dread and fear rising in his chest. The thought of meeting Alfred again set his nerves aflame. There were so many questions they had left unanswered at the end of his rebellion, so much bitterness left to simmer and rot. Until that day, Arthur had never imagined that Alfred was capable of fury—anger, yes, yet never so much—but he'd been wrong, and the thought of experiencing the boy's wrath again terrified him.

It terrified him so much he couldn't breathe.

"I need air," he gasped, and before Churchill could stop him, he darted from the office, bolting down the servant's stairs and through the kitchens, passing the startled maids and the new butler whose name he didn't know, the stolid portraits on the walls. His feet carried him of their own desperate accord, and when he reached the front door he shoved his shoulder against it, pushing against the heavy oak despite the groaning of his bones. It gave, and he slipped through—into open air.

Arthur took deep, gulping breaths despite the ashen tinge, seeking out the early morning briskness. He shut his eyes against the dark surrounding him as he took breath in and kept them closed as he released it. Thrice he did this before looking up from the glass-strewn ground.

And was met with a horrifying, if all-too-familiar sight.

There were no fires this time, only blackened craters. Arthur took several tentative steps forward, rubble crunching beneath his shoes. Had he driven here rather than slept overnight in the Annexe, he would have seen it all earlier, but now he could only survey the finished scene around him, following the battered pavement to the Bridge, where the spires of Westminster Abbey, silhouetted against the clouded sky, distracted from the chunk missing in its flank—lost during a terrible raid last November. Several dockmen were crowded on the Embankment behind Arthur, hauling a floating shell from the filth-ridden river. The buildings across were largely untouched, but, facing away—

Arthur's mouth fell open. The Houses of Parliament were spared, but the pavement spread before it tore away in pieces. Heavy chunks from the old palace lay like discarded drudgery on the ground, and glass from shattered windows sparkled in the first struggling rays of dawn, broken by the shells' reverberations. Civil volunteers clambered everywhere, barking orders at one another to do this and that, working by hand until it was light enough for the machinery. Arthur's eyes burned with a belligerent wetness he wasn't quite willing to call tears, and his bare hands clenched uselessly.

What would Alfred think if he saw him like this: pale and ghostly, a shadow of the strength he'd once embodied so comfortably? Would he simply laugh? How much had he changed since they last spoke?

Arthur dropped to his knees, glass and jagged edges of chipped cobblestone cutting smoothly through his ill-fitting trousers, and wiped his eyes against his sleeve. He would be the first to declare that fighting on his own was an easy, familiar sensation—desired even, so often had he achieved success unaccompanied. But he had to admit that he couldn't go on alone like this for much longer. The type of war Germany was waging wasn't the kind of battle he had the wherewithal to fight by himself anymore. It was drawing to a point where America must enter the war if his way of life and all it affected stood a chance of surviving, though it brought a bitter taste to Arthur's mouth to acknowledge it. Sure, he had the Soviet Union on his side now, but Stalin was as much a tyrant as Hitler—even Ivan knew that—and America had essentially chosen a side when President Roosevelt agreed to loan his fiscally-broke nation weapons and old aircraft carriers simply because they could. Even in depression, it seemed, America was still more powerful than any of them. Only because you've ignored the rest of the world for the last twenty years, Arthur thought acidly, but nonetheless…

America truly was the only option.

A bell chimed in agreement.

Arthur's head whipped up. A bell was chiming. The clock tower still stood—had always stood, miraculously, through all the raids, all the damage and discouragement.

Both the men on the docks and round the Houses paused in their toils, listening to Big Ben sing.

Something snapped in Arthur, swelling him with a pride and satisfaction he hadn't felt in decades.

"There'll always be an England," he murmured, singing with the chimes.

America was the only option, but Britain was not lost. Her spirit was not lost, nor broken. Although it may have yellowed, waned and wearied, it lived on still, ablaze in the hearts of each and every Briton.

And Arthur needed as much of it as he could get if he wanted to make it through this trip unscathed.

-/-/-

AUGUST 1941

The HMS Prince of Wales gleamed in the Canadian sun, the soft, quiet seas of Placentia Bay reflected against her armored plates. Alfred and his president had arrived second aboard the USS Augusta, and, after a brief interval for Roosevelt to dress for the occasion, the time had come for the two leaders to meet. Roosevelt never looked nervous, and this morning was no exception to the rule; even leaning on his son Elliott's arm, his pleasant expression bore no mark of the needle-sharp pains he must feel with every pitch of the ship. Alfred tried mimicking him, but all through the national anthems he kept tugging on his tight shirt collar and wiping the wrinkles from his sleeves.

Near the end of "God Save the King", Roosevelt sighed.

Alfred stopped in the middle of shaking out the creases in his trousers. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't be. I just hope you don't plan to court Mr. Britain." He returned Alfred's appalled expression with a wry grin. On Alfred's other side, his brother chuckled.

"Shut up," Alfred grumbled.

"Sorry," murmured Matthieu Williams, who had been summoned (along with two of Roosevelt's boys who were in the area) to keep the other two personifications in line. "Roosevelt just has a good sense of humor."

"And an excellent memory…"

A horn sounded from somewhere between the ships, and the British vessel's landing dock dropped slowly onto the American ship, allowing the small gathering on the other side access to the Augusta's deck.

The first of them Alfred saw was Churchill, dressed in navy blue uniform and every other inch clad with rosy vim for the President. The second and so on were several aides and men of other occupation, a couple of them Americans returning from diplomatic business overseas, and then, filing in from the back—

Alfred jerked away, catching his brother's eye with abrupt panic. "I can't do this," he whispered under his breath. He had told himself again and again in the days leading up to this that he could, but now that the moment was here, he thought he would have a seizure before he could say hello to the Prime Minister. It was a little kept secret that Arthur could hold grudges for long periods of time; his relationship with France was a prime example.

As for him, he no longer wanted to know if that was still true.

"Yes, you can," Matthieu replied, his eyes following an approaching figure, undoubtedly Arthur. "And he's headed this way, so stiff upper lip."

Before Alfred could remark caustically on how many times Arthur had told him that, a familiar yet foreign voice cut through the air.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President."

Dammit, Alfred thought. Matthieu flashed him a smile, silently indicating that he should, too. "Don't embarrass your president," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"Mr. America?" Roosevelt said, with an underlying tone of inquiry.

Alfred shot Matthew a look, but his brother merely shrugged and moved out of reach to greet the Prime Minister. Alfred hated how right he could be sometimes. It was infuriating, but he wasn't making this meeting any easier by refusing to acknowledge that it was happening. It was childish, and he knew it. So, he took a deep, stabilizing breath and turned back with his most charming smile plastered on his face.

Arthur looked worse than he expected. He stood as far away from Alfred as he could without being rude to the President, eyes averted and posture rigid, but the glimpses that Alfred received of him displayed an ill-looking pallor and hollow cheeks. His fair hair was as unruly as ever, sticking up at informal angles and mussing in the salted breeze. He looked up when Matthieu greeted him, lips curling into a small, humorless smile. As they clasped hands, his eyes flicked over Matthieu's shoulder, finding Alfred in a heartbeat.

Alfred looked away, leaning around Roosevelt to take the Prime Minister's pudgy hand in his own. "An honor, sir."

"Not a misfortune, I would hope," said Churchill cheekily, eyes glittering as bright as the sea. Leaning close, he added in a hoarse stage-whisper, "Make sure Mr. President reads the letter I gave him, will you?"

Letter? What letter? Alfred masked his confusion, but his gaze slipped briefly to Roosevelt's hand. There, between his fingers, rested an envelope with a royal seal.

Now that was just ironic.

"Of course, sir." Alfred smiled.

"Jolly good, boy," Churchill growled, with a friendly pat on his shoulder.

From there, the leaders slipped into conversation, leaving the personifications to their own devices. After making sure his brother was all right with Arthur (the smile on his face was plenty of confirmation), Alfred slipped away from the group and headed for the bow. There he braced his arms on the railing, subtly stretching the muscles and ligaments and curling his fingers around the cool metal. His meeting Arthur again hadn't gone at all like he anticipated, but it went better than he feared it would. Arthur hadn't said a word, but he hadn't ignored him—same as Alfred.

It was only the beginning. There was still plenty of time for things to go wrong.

He sighed, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. He wondered if Arthur was pleased to see him wearing a suit after Alfred had utterly refused to wear them while still a colony. They were as uncomfortable today as they had been in the eighteenth century, but he wore them often. He had to.

As Arthur had declared a long, long time ago, dressing appropriately was only polite to the guests you were meeting.

-/-/-

Arthur kept sneaking surreptitious glances over Matthieu's shoulder, watching Alfred wander over to the bow. He knew he was being rude doing so while Matthieu was talking—about what, he wasn't paying enough attention to know—but he couldn't help it.

Alfred had grown up, far more than he expected.

He supposed it made sense, given all the western expansion and petty wars Arthur had read of in the papers—not to mention his exceedingly enormous economy—but it still amazed him that he had grown up so much.

"Why don't you talk to him?" said Matthieu abruptly, drawing his attention back.

"You know very well why I can't," Arthur snapped.

Matthieu chuckled. "Just making sure I had at least some of your attention."

Arthur harrumphed, snuck another glance at Alfred. "Since when has he needed glasses?"

"Annexation of Texas, eighteen forty-five," said Matthieu matter-of-factly. "From what he's told me, he just woke up blind one day." Glancing over his shoulder, he stared at Alfred's back for a moment before adding, "Believe it or not, it's better that you meet him now than thirty years ago."

Arthur frowned. "How do you mean?"

"He wasn't always like this. Before the Depression, he was a little…well, arrogant."

"Isn't he always?" Arthur blurted, earning a chastising look.

"I'm talking about a careless arrogance. The kind that doesn't matter how bad his economy or government is. The kind that only cares about himself and doesn't take responsibility for his actions. For a long time after his civil war, that's how he was. I don't know if it was his people doing it to him, or the boom in industry or, hell, even the imperialistic kick he had back in the nineties, but be glad you weren't meeting him then. Russia's told you about the Alaska Exchange, hasn't he?"

"We don't talk much at all, actually," said Arthur, admittedly a little dumbfounded. If he thought about it, he supposed the praise he received for his evolutionary military tactics could have gone to his head, but it certainly wouldn't have been a result of his civil war. Not if Arthur's murky, pain- and blood-ridden memories of his own had anything to say for it.

Matthieu gave a little snort that he attempted to hide behind a cough, fighting a smile. "Let's just say Al got a little cheeky and said something he shouldn't have. The fight was hilarious to watch, but Al lost miserably. He still has a scar on his nose from where Russia punched him and broke it."

"I'm sure that was a blow to his confidence," Arthur muttered.

"Definitely, but my point is that he's different now. The Depression humbled him."

"And how does any of that have to do with me?" Arthur deadpanned.

Matthieu hesitated. "He won't say it, but I think he just wants your acceptance." His expression faded somber, studious, and, unable to resist, his subject glanced at the bow. Alfred hadn't moved from the spot, not even to check on his president. No longer was he the lanky boy who fidgeted uncomfortably in breeches and came home covered in mud and filth from the woods: he had filled out, amassing the same strength and power that Arthur had known once, before the wars.

By now, Alfred must understand loss and hardship the same way he did. Undoubtedly, he had made mistakes and learnt from them, repeated them at times. Hated that they had happened at all.

For Alfred, who was steadily growing into the status of an empire, where mistakes were made to a scale of far greater effect, it was only the beginning.

How could Arthur not warn him?

He looked back at Matthieu, waiting patiently for a response, and felt something harden within him: Empathy. After all the pain Alfred had given him before, during, and after the rebellion, an ineluctable part of him wanted Alfred to suffer. It didn't matter that he had already. Arthur wanted to know about it.

Sticking up his chin, he hissed, "Don't expect me to talk to him. This is purely a business meeting. Nothing more." And before Matthieu could formulate a response, he stormed off to his quarters on the other ship. Away from the leaders, away from the alliance forming between them, away from Matthieu and Alfred…. Away from forgiveness.

Footnotes:

1. Meeting in Newfoundland: Roosevelt actually did keep this meeting secret from his wife. Eleanor had a tendency to tell the press about what he was up to, and Franklin didn't always appreciate that, especially when the country was so ardently neutral at this time.
Source: Franklin and Winston: An Intimate Portrait of an Epic Friendship, by Jon Meacham

2. Elizabeth Layton was Churchill's private secretary from late May 1941 until the end of the war.
Source: "Obituaries: Elizabeth Nel" – The Telegraph, 16 November 2007

3. First section with Arthur: In 1940, once the bombings began, Churchill and his wife Clementine moved to the Annexe above the War Rooms (today the site of the Imperial War Museum) on King Charles Street. All their furniture and valuables were removed, and only the Garden Rooms, Cabinet Room and Private Secretaries' office remained in use at the Prime Minister's residence at No.10 Downing Street. However, Churchill disliked the Annexe and continued to use the residence for dining and sleep despite the risk of being bombed - hence the steel shutters. Churchill also habitually worked in bed, dictating memos, letters and speeches to Elizabeth Layton in the wee hours of the morning.
Source: "History: 10 Downing Street: Number 10 at War" – UK government website

4. Precious Earl Grey: Tea was rationed in Britain from 1940 – 1952. Because Earl Grey is made with the rind of a bergamot—a type of orange with lemon and grapefruit hints often grown in Italy and France—this black tea variety may have been quite difficult to procure during the war years.
Source: "3 October: 1952: Tea rationing to end" – BBC's "On this Day" article series

4. "Pain- and blood-riddled memories of [Arthur's] own" refers to both the English Wars of the Roses in the late 15th-16th centuries and the British Civil Wars of the 17th century.

Additional Sources:
1. London at War, by Philip Ziegler

Quote Source: Franklin and Winston

Hello and welcome, lovely readers (or welcome back, if you've read this story before)! Before we begin this journey, I want to offer advance warning / notes on a couple of things:

- There will be sections of this story that detail scenes of battle, gore and physical abuse. I will place a warning either at the beginning of each chapter this affects or with the footnotes at the end of the previous chapter. This story is rated T at this time (as of 16 April 2022) since the chapters currently available do not detail an excessive amount of violence or disturbance. However, once a certain point in the plot is ready for publication, I will change the rating to M.

- I endeavor towards accuracy and respectfulness to the history, peoples, and cultures represented in this story. Any errors or lapses in fair treatment (beyond those that are intentionally included in order to serve the setting of the story) are my own, and constructive feedback is always welcome.

- On that note, too, footnotes will be getting longer... Sources, excepting Wikipedia use, will also be cited each chapter for transparency.

- Lastly, as of the previously notated date, this story is in the process of having chapters revised and re-uploaded prior to moving forward with Chapter Sixteen. The most up-to-date information on postings can be found on my profile. This will not change the overall plot as is currently published; it is primarily to firm up the history included, because I got to a point where the inaccuracies I'd spotted were driving me nuts and I wanted to review the entire thing. :) So, if you see anything weird or contradictory in the footnotes in later chapters, this would be why.

Thank you all for reading!