There was a dinky little tower in the countryside which stood a couple of miles away from the water well, a few hundred yards away from Sir Ulric's castle, and only inches away from a patch of red roses that encircled the tower's perimeter. The roses were so beautiful that one would not hesitate to pick one to bring home to his sweetheart, or for the more morally intact, his mother, if it weren't for the jagged, fang-like thorns.
"Get the hell off my property before I bite your hand off, you bloody wanker!" quoth the crazy plants.
The inside of the tower was not any more tolerant of guests. As one walked in, he wouldn't be greeted by a welcome mat nor a hearth aflame, but by silence and dust. A lot of dust. It wasn't that the homeowner lacked the monetary means to hire a maid. No, he just didn't want anyone stepping foot into his home, if that point had not been previously made clear.
No furniture dressed the living room, nor were there any windows that allowed enough light in order for the visitor to discern the aforementioned fact. Even though the room was empty, it felt as if there was someone watching the visitor's every move. But, of course, that was just silly paranoia.
As one went up the winding, creaking stairs while praying that they wouldn't collapse, one would see that no paintings decorated the hallway. An old door was waiting at the end of the struggle, and if the dear visitor valued his life, he would think twice before opening it.
The morning breeze, entwined with soft, fuzzy rain, rolled into attic through an open window. It also brought along the aroma of fresh soil and blue English grass, and perhaps, a new outlook on life. The threadbare curtains still danced with the wind, despite having frayed against the grain of time.
Beside the window was a desk, on which stood some rather peculiar objects. There was a rack of glass tubes containing liquids of various colours, and a larger flask that held a stock of this clear liquid that was probably not advisable to drink. A grimoire with yellowing pages had been laid open, and beside it was a quill and a full bottle of ink. Half a dozen mythical creatures were floating about the room, though most of them were staring expectantly into a cauldron which hung above a roaring flame. A boy, the sole occupant of this house, was sitting in front of the desk, intently observing the bubbles that were oozing out of the test tube he held in his hand. He squinted and wrinkled his nose at the putrid scent before he set it down on the rack and scribbled something into his book.
"Yes, I am almost done, Minty, stop rushing me!" Arthur said to the Flying Mint Bunny, who was flying in circles above his head, urging him to finish his work sooner so they could frolic outside like he had promised.
Carefully taking out the tube containing a bright green solution, he stood up and walked over to the big black cauldron which could very well serve as a bathtub for a filthy little tyke like him. He poured the contents into the steaming, rumbling concoction, looking away as he did. Running over to his pantry of potion ingredients, he grabbed two tails, a tongue, as well as a skein of dried herbs, and dumped them all into the cauldron. Huffing and puffing from his efforts, he stood back and watched the dark depths devour its peace offering. When the stertor eventually died down, Arthur returned to observe. Though, there was no doubt that the experiment had been done correctly. Arthur Kirkland didn't make mistakes.
A whirlpool had formed in the innermost core of his concoction, and, due to bad judgment, he reached a hand slowly into the swirling orifice. What felt like another hand immediately grabbed his wrist, and began to pull him in. Arthur shrieked and pulled back as hard as he could. Minty also tried to help, grabbing onto his cape and flapping its wings furiously. Their combined effort eventually succeeded, and Arthur toppled back and hit his head against the wall.
Rubbing his bruised skull, he grumbled, "Never try that again, eh?" Minty nodded earnestly in agreement.
Ever since Arthur Kirkland's birth, people had told him that he was... special, that he wasn't human. He, along with his father, siblings, and all of their ancestors were nations, wrought from the very soil that the martyrs had fought for. Patriotic blood ran in their veins, and their hearts were eternally connected to the lands they were destined to embody. Arthur relished in England's joy and felt England's pain, because he was, England.
Though this might sound really impressive to any other person, his life was really not all that fine and dandy. Ever since the dawn of civilization, every aspect of a nations life had been controlled by his boss, and in Arthur's case, by the King. Arthur had no freedom, and hadn't twopence worth of say in the passing of those absolutely ridiculous laws that did nothing but oppress his people. His bloody majesty did whatever he very well pleased, while his people, and Arthur, were left to suffer.
Which was why, no one could blame Arthur for running away and locking himself up in this tower for so long. He wanted nothing to do with his goddamned boss. He was through with having to witness all the atrocities that those snot-nosed elites afflicted upon his people, while being completely powerless to help them. He hated that he couldn't do anything for his own country; the only purpose to his existence was to have his face carved into every copper coin. Glorious, wasn't it?
Now that Arthur had finally found his happy place, God forbid his wretched boss from ever stepping foot into his flat, lest he be turned into a toad!
For as long as he could remember, Arthur had been curious about the biology behind his immortality. And, having a young, vibrant mind, Arthur much preferred researching and reading into this issue to wasting his life away in that opulent hellhole.
So, Arthur had travelled to faraway lands and studied under numerous wise men. He consulted scrolls and tomes which stacked up to his own height, and developed extensive proficiency in fields spanning from alchemy to divination, from metaphysics to astronomy.
He knew that his research was all empty knowledge, things for which he had no use in real life. Though, for Arthur, studying about himself had proven to be a viable distraction from having to accept who he really was.
But, the more Arthur knew, the more he hated himself. No matter how many star charts he drew, or how many potions he made, he was eventually forced to accept that he probably was going to spend the rest of eternity alone. He had always been the black sheep among his siblings, and ever since the "incident" happened, they all hated him. He couldn't bring himself to befriend humans either, as his friends' inevitable deaths would probably be too much for him to handle. Which was why, for the past few decades, he had abandoned his research to embark upon a new project.
And now, I must ask the reader to bear with me and to accept the fact that Arthur Kirkland was by no means insane.
It had been told to him that the vitality of immortals, the very thing that kept them alive, rested in the vitality of all that pertained to the nation itself. The movement of feet walking to and fro, the sounds of peoples' voices, the rolling of carts and carriages down the cobblestone streets in London. Those were what kept his heart beating.
But Arthur believed that there must be a way in which he could harness this energy, and use it to break himself out of this immortal prison. This, in essence, was what he had always wanted.
He wanted to be human.
He would much rather have a finite life and be happy and free, than have to live like this forever.
Of course, he wasn't going to become human immediately after he finished his project. Instead, Arthur had decided to give this "life as a nation" thing a bit more patience. After all, he had forever to decide when it was going to happen, and maybe his life was going to get better in the coming decades, centuries, or millenniums. But, he supposed that this work in progress was more to serve a comforting purpose than anything else. He could go about his life with birds and bees, if he knew that there was always a way out...
It was one of the few summer days where the sun was not so rude to be burning everything under it, nor too lazy to not appear at all. On days like this, Francis Bonnefoy often enjoyed a lonely but cheerful picnic outside, while sitting on a damp rock and dipping his tired feet into the Seine river.
All it took were a few crafty minutes for him to finish the wreath of flowers that he had been making for his hair. Giving it a kiss, he rested it gently upon his blond head and stared into his reflection in the water. And, of course, He liked what he saw. Francis had always thought, no, knew that he was going to become a handsome man when he grew up.
He giggled. What a sinful, sinful thing to admit, even to himself!
His friends thought that he was a little too queer for their tastes, too "prissy", they called it? But, no matter— he was gorgeous, and they were jealous...
He recalled hearing a story of this man in ancient Greece who, like him, was so beautiful that he couldn't stop staring at his own reflection, and the poor soul eventually died because of it.
Francis snorted ungracefully at the thought. Such idiocy! To think that a mere mortal would even dare to believe that he could attain true beauty! They age, for goodness' sake. Their hair would fall out, and their eyes would lose their shine. How could any human be truly beautiful, when afflicted with Father Time's not-so-fabulous curse?
He smiled pleasantly to himself. At least that wasn't in his worries...
Well, I apologize if this chapter is a little dry. It is kind of important information, and I figured I might as well present it a little earlier on in the story, rather than slapping it on in the last minute. Thanks for reading, and, if you believe I deserve it, please please please please pleasepleaseplease give me some feedback!
Midterms are coming up, but I will try to update as punctually as possible. But I PROMISE that Yao and Ivan will meet soon, as soon as I finish the next chapter, which will be that last of the introductions. Cheers!