In the late winter, when harsh winds bit at passer-bys and icicles started to melt, Arthur received the most curious message at his door step. His home was small, but elegant and gothic in its texture and designs, stationed just outside of London in the more rural areas of the country. Inevitably, a man with such power could only have a home to match it.
The message came in the form of a letter, stamped, and sealed tightly. Arthur adjusted his trench coat around himself, he had planned to head out just as the letter arrived.
"Curious…" he muttered, feeling the soft insides. He ripped the packaging open, noting that it was addressed to "Arthur (England) Kirkland".
There was no note or written words, but the message came through quite clearly. In his palm, the soft, golden flower with blood-red insides, fluttered in the wind.
Grunting, Arthur tucked it in his pocket and locked the door behind him. Freshly laden snow crunched under his boots. The smell was fresh and cool, turning the tip of Arthur's nose red.
In several minutes he reached a coach and took that for roughly half an hour to his destination. A meeting between the nations was set to take place, but Arthur's mind couldn't have been farther from it. He took the flower from his pocket and rubbed the soft petals.
"Is that a flower for some sweetheart of yours?" The cabby piped up, his round face turning briefly to eye the flower in Arthur's hands.
"Oh, no, goodness no, I wouldn't wish to send this sort of message to any sweetheart of mine." He chuckled, exposing his faintly yellowed teeth. Returning the flower to its place in his pocket, he looked out the window, watching the world flit by.
"I haven't the faintest idea who could have sent me this. Do you know?" Arthur said tensely, holding the flower out to the Frenchman. They had never been on decent terms, but in this case Arthur was willing to go to any lengths to solve the mystery at hand.
Francis gingerly examined the petals with a sullen expression.
"A marigold? Why would someone want to send you a message of 'cruelty'?" He asked.
"That's exactly what I'm asking you."
Francis started walking to the meeting room, still trying to decipher the message. His blonde hair was tied back with a black ribbon. Everyone in the room seemed to wear black. Alfred's suite was black, for a change.
Arthur sat down in his seat by Francis and the well-dressed Feliciano, who seemed to be the only one not infatuated with a need to dress in the morose color. His white suit, studded with gems and pastel-pink flowers was a sight for sore eyes.
The meeting passed without much success. Arthur and Francis murmured under the din of the other's debating.
"Did it have a return address?" Francis asked, returning the flower.
"Yes, but it was only a number and a street, without a city or country for that matter." Arthur whispered back.
Francis's wore a purple dress-shirt and dark pants. Arthur couldn't help but notice that. Kiku Honda seemed to as well, his pale lips smiling. For him, the color meant something entirely different than what it meant for Arthur. For him it was the color of soil and earth: life-giving. For Arthur it was of plague and death. He felt uneasy.
"Do you think someone's out to get you?" Francis brought Arthur's attention back.
"Why would someone want to kill me? Have I done something—perhaps I have done many things for people to want to slice off my head. Do you think it's someone here?" Arthur gazed around the room. No dark expressions or ominous glances were chanced his way. It seemed highly unlikely.
"Hear me out, Arthur, but I think that it's not one of us, nor is it a human."
"Oh?" Arthur felt his heart skip a beat.
"I remember you used to have that old butler around. How you got rid of him, I don't know, but could it be him?" Francis referred to Arthur's own personal demon, who he named Dante, of all names.
Arthur thought back to the quiet and obedient man and his promise to him.
"No," Arthur said slowly, "No, not at all. I think he could help, but I have no way of reaching him. Although he is still tied to me by an oath, he cannot come at my every whim because of obvious reasons, namely that I lack a soul edible to them."
Francis nodded. The information was no new news to him. In times of peace Arthur was usually amiable with the Frenchman. He liked those days more than any other.
The meeting was called to a halt by Alfred, who was still young and impressionable, but still worthy of being listened to at some point. He left first with his young brother. The others, mumbling and muttering amongst themselves, left shortly after until Arthur was left alone. Francis had business to do, or so he said.
Eventually Arthur was ushered out by a dusty old man who had a meeting to conduct with professors of the nearby college. He tipped his hat but hastily told Arthur to get out.
Pulling on his trench coat—black—Arthur went down the clean steps and into the frigid outdoor air. First, Arthur would find out who was behind the charade, and then he would find an old friend and tell him to uncover Dante from his hiding spot. The last event would happen in a month's time.