Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or FaceTime. Or the Jerry Springer Show (R.I.P. Jerry Springer, he was a pop culture legend). Or Salvation Army. Or These Boots were Made for Walking by Nancy Sinatra. Or "Cartref yw cartref, er tloted y bo" = Welsh saying meaning approximately = "home is home, however poor it is" (Bonus: cartref means "Kin" plus "home.")
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Name drop of Outremer the doomed Crusader State. Different kinds of trees/wood. Arthurian legend-ish. Faerie Courts. Mental health awareness.
**Trigger Warning: Disturbing imagery. Depiction of nervous breakdown, racing/depressive thoughts, psychological unwellness, brutal manipulation, PTSD, feelings of hopelessness and disillusionment, and various shades of morally gray spaces. Realization of past gaslighting.
AN: Can. You. Believe. It?! Last chap! Wow. Emotions. We've all been through a lot in RL from the time this fic started until now.
Some of you have shared parts of your journeys in the comments—it's been really cool reading about your accomplishments!
Also, super flattered to hear how this fic/series has made a positive impact on multiple readers.
Hey Lixe877, congrats and good luck to you however you choose to navigate the waters of early adulthood—that goes for any other readers in that boat, too! You've made it! The adventure continues, training wheels come off, you're the captain of your decisions now! :D
Thank you to all the readers who came back to finish this!
Hope you all enjoy this chapter!
Chapter 59: Hot Damn, Too Bad We Couldn't Have Live-streamed This
It wasn't a secret that Fate chose favorites but…
As the sunlight shone off of Excalibur…
As Arthur, clad in a blend of leather and metal armor, held it high to rally his troops… seemingly fulfilling many fairytale storylines where the youngest sibling was the bravest and most prosperous…
Rhys felt…he wouldn't quite call it envy, but perhaps a smidge overawed.
He would never be that showy. Much of Arthur's life had been rather dramatic between his capture by Rome, the rise of Londinium, his clashes with and subsequent absorption of vikings into his culture, the rise and fall of Camelot and then his part in the creation of the Faerie Courts, all of the crusades, his wars with various European nations, being conquered and then shaking off fetters and becoming a conqueror in his own right—binding his brothers one by one that…
It was easy to fall into the belief that Arthur got what Arthur wanted without the amount of effort it would've taken his brothers…that the stars aligned for him. That things fell into his lap.
Their youngest brother always "won."
Such were the complaints that Alistair and Reilley made.
Rhys might've even agreed to some extent, except he remembered being present at a debriefing regarding the New World.
His brother, who'd always been awfully proud, had waited until the bearers of bad news were gone before he slumped in his chair.
He'd remarked tonelessly that there was still no colony nation.
"Thank God!" Rhys had remarked before he could think better of it.
Bereft of food and supplies, starving Jamestown colonists had resorted to digging up the freshly dead.
Cannibalism and desecration in one fell swoop.
Rhys regretted the outburst.
Arthur didn't agree and he didn't argue, but a tear made its way down his face before he roughly brushed it with his hand.
He fled the room before Rhys could apologize.
Still no news…
It dawned that this wasn't a matter of pride.
He truly desired a colony…a child.
And he'd always served his people, his lands, the arcane… loyally…
To the utmost of his abilities.
Arthur was a leader, a protector, a hero whose ambitions and good, if unpolished, nature… had still failed Camelot…and lost the right to wield Excalibur.
A younger Arthur had been adamant in bringing light to all of his people's lives.
He'd been the optimistic sort who believed in progress, glory, honor, justice, courage…magic…
He'd worked tirelessly for centuries trying to better his lands, culture, people…beings of all the worlds and where they overlapped.
Had lost and sacrificed much in the process…
And on growing tired and jaded and sad, he'd finally wanted respite…
And had a very tender and personal desire for himself.
And the arcane heard and took pity…
…and Roanoke didn't die.
The toddler nation was in a deep sleep. The firelight glinted on his hair turning it red-gold.
Rhys and his youngest brother were warming themselves before a fireplace—sitting on furs, rather rustically.
Because America liked fur. And he liked to be warm. And Arthur liked providing for him all the things he enjoyed.
It was fortunate the child didn't mind being jostled because Arthur was moving him entirely too much and Rhys had half a mind to scold him.
Arthur planted a happy kiss on the child's forehead. The child's response was to grip Arthur's shirt more tightly and nuzzle closer.
"He is perfect, he is precious, he is mine."
Rhys was the first Arthur had dared show him to.
It was part trust and part bragging, except his delight was catching and Rhys felt his mood lightening in spite of himself as he looked down at the bairn.
Arthur guessed his thoughts.
"I know," Arthur half-breathed, half-spoke the words so as not to disturb the child in his arms. "He's too beautiful to be wholly mine."
Rhys fidgeted because, yes, he was.
He was clearly related though.
Much closer than the tragic Outremer had been.
Though, he wondered once more how personally his brother had taken the loss and how it was impacting him in this.
"But he calls me Father…well, Daddy."
"'Papa' is more refined and fashionable or so I'm told."
Arthur wrinkled his nose. "Too French. Daddy will do."
"…Daddy…" The toddler murmured sleepily.
"Yes, yes, sweetling. I'm right here. Right here." He kissed little fingers.
Rhys smiled. "I'm happy for you, brawd bach."
Arthur beamed.
It was awful to have that soft memory contrasted with the nightmare scenario hours ago: Arthur staggering towards him with his injured child in his arms.
So utterly destroyed…
"Took pity on you…"
…On that crushing loneliness that Rhys had only ever half-guessed was there.
And Rhys had been there, arrow poised, to hear Morgana's cryptic, dying words to his brother:
"I'll tear that little heart you love... to shreds...while you watch."
With no Excalibur and a cursed body…
And an enemy whose death was a mere obstacle to their malice…
Fate did take pity.
Omniscient and omnipotent, those powers knew that Morgana would try to kill the child and they bestowed certain "gifts" to ensure the bairn's survival.
Though with great cost.
While this was definitely "favor," Rhys wouldn't call it "luck."
Roanoke probably shouldn't have been born.
Or been short-lived if he'd drawn breath at all? Or been unable to survive the rampaging Wendigo? Or crumbled to dust on losing all of his colonists, or a number of other harsh conditions and disastrous obstacles?
Some other amalgamation of cultures should've become America or perhaps Texas's claim on the name should've barred Alfred from using the title.
Amerrigo, the Italian explorer, had been part of a Spanish venture before going to aid Portugal…
England's personal forays in the world, where he actually stepped foot himself, would come some 80 years afterwards.
Rhys could look around and sense, if not see, the qualities the Arcane had bestowed on each of them.
Wales was an advisor.
Scotland was a warrior.
England was a leader.
Ireland was a bard.
America was…
A haphazard collection of colonies, many of them doomed by clashes with more established societies. He and they endured run-ins with powerful creatures of the Arcane. He had weathered multiple highs and lows nationally, personally, and magically.
A survivor.
That gave him goose flesh because that was a morally gray title.
He kept watching the sky as Alfred's locking spell gave way.
The red slowly ebbed to a piercing shade of starlight and then disintegrated and the gate yawned back open—revealing a great dark chasm into the ether.
The ground briefly shone in a mirrored, muted pattern similar to the sky before fading.
And fae fell from the portal along with a myriad of early 1800s battle equipment.
Arthur took in the chaos with a hard eye as his brothers hustled him and Canada to safety.
He knew his artillery—made a point to be aware of makes and models and survey inventories, made his fury known when weapons went missing…
Though they were often dismissed as undertable dealings.
That the fae could be stealing…hadn't occurred to him.
But then, he remembered that macabre shrine the UnSeelies had built for Alfred.
Of course, they had been…
A Brown Bess musket landed near his feet.
Reilley swore and yanked him closer to a great sturdy tree trunk to try and shelter them better.
They watched as Spain and Romania pulled Texas away from where a great brass 24-pounder cannon was crashing down through the canopy of the trees.
Another oak split badly from two of them landing on it.
It was an oak just like the one that had saved his Alfred.
Trees were cracking and groaning and two Hemlocks slowly gave in and fell.
The ground shook.
There was a lump in his throat and he flinched as the old growth forest that had aided, protected, and sacrificed itself for his child took another round of abuse for…their...
Witch…witchling of the woods…
His witchling…
There were other impacts as round shots landed and he prayed no magic lit the fuses of any shells or canisters or cases.
God, the last thing he needed was for them to be dodging grapeshot, and from his own stores no less.
There were also bodies—some still alive, mostly dead.
There were many various stages of death.
There were fairy bones scattered throughout, empty armor, and scraps of more "modern" nineteenth century wear.
One goblin was nearly mummified, from being long dead but well-preserved.
There was also putrid dead, not expired long enough for the stench to end and they splattered on hitting the ground or separated messily as they struck tree boughs.
Beings whose magic was stronger were still weathered…withered…from being stuck at the gate. Time was an unpredictable vortex there. And the tolls of magic were equally tempestuous.
While appetite could largely be suppressed by magical beings and some types were more supernatural than others in what their spirits needed, he had no doubt horrors had unfolded while they'd been trapped there.
Several larger fairies, who were obviously diminished in their capabilities as their brittle wings beat weakly, used levitation spells to descend with care before England.
Weakly, they took a knee.
"Cadeyrn Artorius" was the dry, beseeching murmur they made. "Was it…a victory?"
"Why are you here?" Arthur demanded. "I gave…no request for aid."
"Message to the New World, sir," one croaked. "From both…Courts."
"That…little…upstart…Brenhin the Betrayer."
"Betrayer" was the soft chorus that followed.
"Locked the gates."
Rage built in his breast—searing, hateful—
"You will be silent as your Cadeyrn speaks if you are half as loyal as you claim!" England hissed.
There was hurt in their eyes at such a reproach after so much suffering done in his name.
He couldn't feel sympathy.
Green eyes blazed.
"Arthur," Rhys advised softly. "We can hold a witan at some future date…when everyone is in better shape and spirits."
That human! Curse that human! He'd been right!? That a magical assault had been forming and intended to add yet another theater of war in his conflict with America, while he was already distracted with the Napoleonic wars.
Too bloody distracted!
And both his government and America's were orchestrating a fallout between them, separate from this conflict, that would last two centuries.
But the Fae Courts?
The Courts knew better than to meddle like this, didn't they!? The Fall of Camelot and the Ruin of Avalon were price enough for mixed-realm wars!
It violated multiple treaties. It was cruelly exploiting Alfred while his magic was weak.
"Brenhin… My Brenhin was captured during this war by an evil mortal and tortured with the Witch Hammer until he gave up this gate and was made to seal it. This gate and no other. If the others are sealed, it wasn't my Alfred that did it. He was nearly killed. He lost his magic and all of his memories associated with magic."
That caused a shocked silence—for many would prefer death over that.
"It has been two centuries since you were trapped that fateful night."
He could see their dismay and horror over that. They'd known time had passed, but not by that amount.
"My Alfred's magic rekindled last Hallows' Eve and I was finally made aware of his missing memories. Near Yule, the UnSeelie King shared that the gate was locked and that Alfred was the one responsible. My son promised to see it rectified. It is Beltane's now. And you are free. Not even half a year passed before he acted good on his word with our aid." He gestured to the others and himself. "His promise is fulfilled. His magic and his memories are not even fully restored-"
"Uh, actually! He remembers it all now. Being in the graveyard jogged his memory!" Tex interjected.
Arthur felt a shiver through him at that.
All restored. All restored? All restored? The best and worst of everything returned to him with all the height and breadth and depth and—
Crick…
"But you won't come home to me!"
"I tried! You weren't there!"
Crick….
Bile started to rise in his throat once more as it became more awful.
He hadn't caught the child wholly by surprise and disbelief made him hesitate and endure—
Instead…
Alfred had tried to reason with him.
Failed.
And let Arthur…
No.
He'd been entirely himself again and had chosen not to fight back—ending his side of their conflict.
Nononono.
"Where is he then? We're supposed to be grateful, I take it?" A terribly thin elf scoffed.
Arthur froze and trembled at the question.
Where was his baby? Why wasn't he here?
Where is he, Arthur?
What have you done?
Crick…
"He was gravely injured while dealing with that." Rhys pointed to the gramarye, which was flapping weakly around where Alistair's claymore had pierced it through and was holding it down.
Good man. He'd kept his eyes on the enemy even as everything went arseways.
Damnation. Why hadn't Arthur thought to do that?
Rhys moved forward to stand at Arthur's side. "Though the human died, he did not leave and now possesses that spellbook in an attempt to stay with Brenhin forever."
"And we had to wrassle that thing for hours!" Texas threw in. "Dying just made him ornery-er." Spain nodded in agreement.
Alistair and Reilley spoke. Norway and Romania were next.
Arthur's head was swimming. It was hard to concentrate.
Canada was at his elbow. When? When did he get there?
"Arthur? Do you need to rest? Rhys, can we-"
"Yes, head that way until you-"
To get him away.
Yes, he needed to get away.
There was a puddle of putrescence.
Canada maneuvered them around.
He was terribly aware that Canada was bearing most of his weight as his strength and his spirit gave out.
"Cadeyrn," an old faerie shuffled forward on his knees from behind a tree. Arthur did a double take. Was that? A crest with a thorny blue rose. He racked his brain. "Sir…Luft?"
The fairy's smile trembled with happiness. "My…liege lord."
It was…disorienting. Everything was disorienting.
There was too much of his past and present crashing together.
Here, he'd thought nearly all of Camelot's former citizenry were long dead—the fairy folk had agreed to enter a Court. Sir Luft had been counted among the Seelies. And he was still alive?
"I…I vowed to," Sir Luft wheezed.
A sinking feeling settled in Arthur's breast; he wasn't long for this world.
"Yes?" He offered kindly.
"To guard it, until you had need."
Clearly, he'd been using this vow to will himself to keep living. Arthur was almost sad to rob him of it. But an old subject deserved peace if he could grant it.
He tried to pull himself into something more dignified and kingly. A challenge when all he wanted was to leave this foul place and return to his poor, injured son. And get the child helping him, he eyed Canada apologetically, away from this grisly scene.
It felt like he was always dragging Mathieu through settings like this.
The fairy extracted a long narrow box the size of a woman's forearm and almost twice as wide. It was a lacquered casket almost like the ones—
Green eyes went wide.
No.
No. No, it couldn't be.
"Arthur?" Mathieu asked in concern.
"No."
Nonono. He'd had them all destroyed. The one order he'd commanded through all the courts and all the lands and had his brothers order in kind throughout theirs before he stepped down from active kingship.
Every last one.
Every. Last. One.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
There it was…inscribed across the top in a circle around a carving of a daffodil:
For deorlingheorte
On the side of the trinket box was a Tree of Life and when it opened the image there would split—breaking the symbol of eternity.
The box was crafted from English Oak and the daffodil affixed to the top was of Rowan wood.
Oak and Rowan.
No.
Rowan and Oak.
Rowan Oak.
Roanoke.
It was a…casket…
A four-sided box meant for trinkets or treasures…to hold or transport family jewels…
Casket…
And in American English, that word would become a euphemism for coffin…by the 1800s…
It was small and yet…large enough…to have held a newborn Roanoke…
He could scarcely breathe.
Was it mercy? Or a miscarriage of justice that the fairy died before his rage and horror erupted?
"One day Cadeyrn...One day...you will love...and by the powers of my hate...I…heh heh heh...one day you'll be caaaarelessssss…" she finished in a sing-song tone. She grinned and reached a claw to his face, caressing his cheek so sharply it bled. In a hushed voice of dying glee, she whispered, "...and I'll tear that little heart you love... to shreds...while you watch."
Her boxes always killed their recipients or hexed them in a way worse than death.
Had this been delivered during the war while England was distracted and oblivious…
"WHO KNEW HE HELD THIS?!" He roared. "This thrice-damned-WHO KNEW?!" He spat on the ground. "Fie on the Seelie Court! Oath-breakers!"
There was a collective gasp from the fae, his brothers, Norway, and Romania.
"Oath-breakers! Oath-breakers!" He hissed.
Canada did his best to support his former guardian's trembling frame.
"I do hope this outburst is the result of alcoholic overindulgence," an unimpressed female voice announced.
It was undeniable proof that the Gate really was unlocked if the Seelie Queen could materialize through it with ease.
Canada gasped at the sight of her.
The unmoving expression of the pearlescent full mask she wore at all times turned to study him.
The extravagant strands of pearls and gems on her being clacked with the movement.
"All of Morganna's crafts were to be destroyed!" England hissed.
She stood tall and the golden veils that covered her hair swayed as she faced him once more. "As I understand it, the UnSeelies had a mirror."
He pointed a condemning finger. "Your kingdom swore an oath! Sir Luft was your subject."
"He…" She glanced down at the body. "Was. But I cannot presume to know each and every goings on of my people. Would hardly endear me."
"Swear on your blood, your magic, your crown, the children of your realm—that you knew naught of this? And I will believe you."
She'd already broken two vows in her reign. Would she dare a third? And succumb fully to the flesh-eating curse that was on her?
"Knew is a strong-"
Arthur snarled. "You suspected or you didn't…"
"…"
"Oathbreaker," he breathed—unyielding hatred in every syllable.
She extended a golden, gauntleted hand. "I will make amends."
Arthur bared his teeth. "You'd better."
"Tell me what course of-"
"Destroy it."
"…Are you… certain? You would lose the advantage over-"
"It will be destroyed or the peace between us will be broken!"
He wasn't an empath, like Rhys, but he was certain there was astonishment that he'd risk so much for this.
But Alfred would not live under the shadow of Morganna's threats.
He would not allow it.
He couldn't.
He'd failed at too much already. He couldn't botch this.
Morganna was too cunning and determined to underestimate.
She'd found a way.
This was proof.
She'd found a way to kill a nation.
And rather than direct her malice at him—
The UnSeelie Queen considered that with cold calculation. "Walpurgisnacht and Beltane's has passed. Another day of power will be needed-"
"Great, another thing we can't destroy right now," Alistair groused.
She saw the opportunity and pounced. "Another item in need of safekeeping?"
"Oh right, because we want these objects of doom to be shelved together," Reilley scoffed.
"I…will sacrifice my dignity to restore your trust," she purred.
"…"
"Which object will you give me to safeguard? And which shall I ask the UnSeelie Kingdom to guard?" She asked.
That she'd be willing to ally with her, now, enemy court to appease Arthur…
She dipped into a deep curtsy that spread her white skirts into a fanning pool of fabric. "Tell me and it will be done."
While Arthur considered his options, Texas let loose a whistle.
"Hot damn, too bad we couldn't have livestreamed all this for Al."
Waiting sucked. It always sucked.
And this was the worst kind of waiting. Worse than helpless because he was a burden. Any request for news would just distract from the mission because he had nothing to offer.
America's fingers wove more stems together. This flower crown, these daisy chains would be all he had to show for this fiasco.
Prince of the fields…
These blooms were pauper delights which would be fine this day and fade on the morrow.
His eyes and his teeth had all shifted back to normal.
Small victories.
His nails were still long.
Dr. Sanjay was sitting a few spans away writing on his notepad. He occasionally snapped photos of Alfred.
He tried to push down the resentment. He'd often been the subject of photographers and artists before, a doctor should be no different.
It still struck a chord of unease.
Before, he remembered it as the anxiety of being an object of lust or a target for mugging. Now, he realized it was 'the knowing.'
Different. Eye catching. Unnatural.
Witch.
Nation.
Sharp humans could feel it—the offness.
Nations that weren't witches blended more easily so long as they didn't perform some impossible feat.
Part of him hated the new weight the past gave him. It pulled him down.
But, if he stepped on the ground more heavily, it didn't begrudge him.
No, everywhere he stepped, the soil and flora reverberated with a song of:
There you are!
You've been missed!
And wasn't that worth some of the heartache?
His land had never shied from him for being a shapeshifter…a trickster…
Canada had insisted Father wasn't angry with him.
But, dammit, it was hard to dislodge the fear.
Hadn't looked at him once.
After his brother left to go support their family in fixing America's mess, he'd followed up with Puerto Rico and Hawaii.
Father really wasn't angry with him? They were sure? Everyone was sure?
He wished Hawaii was here to assure him one more time, but she and Rico were gathering food supplies for when the rest of their company would meet up with them at the hotel.
He was too injured to go with them.
He was too useless to help with the gate.
Father wasn't angry. Everyone said so.
He wasn't rejected.
He wasn't rejected.
He wasn't rejected.
Chanting things in threes was supposed to help. Wasn't that something his family had told him when he was small?
Alfred gasped lightly.
When his magic was hale, he'd always know, within certain distances, when—
Father…
He was here! For him. Had to be.
He couldn't help the smile.
The irony wasn't wasted on him that centuries later he'd be before him once more with nothing to give but the flowers in his hands…and his heart.
But he was here!
Father!
Arthur was riding shotgun because Alistair wouldn't allow him to drive.
Rhys, Reilley, and Canada were in the backseat.
Norway and Romania had volunteered to stay behind to cooperate with the fae and the witch coven to remove the bodies.
"Talk about a dead zone," Tex had chuckled darkly. "We just can't keep this spot clean."
That had given Rhys and Alistair pause. If too much death and rot accumulated in one place, darker energy could root there.
But that was a worry for another time.
Texas and Spain had also remained behind to alert Stuart that a myriad of old weaponry had been "discovered" and any live shells would need to be recovered for the safety of the park goers.
In the meanwhile, the Gramarye would be guarded by the Seelies.
Morganna's box would be guarded by the UnSeelies.
Until they could be destroyed.
See?
Sorted. Tidied up. It could be managed.
The fact that Arthur's wrath was guaranteed if the Courts failed…
"Perhaps, we ought to make a stop. Clean up a bit?" Rhys suggested.
Arthur's jaw tightened. "No."
"Get something to eat and take a quick rest? We can call-"
"No."
"Arth-"
"I'm seeing my baby." He'd waited and he could wait no more.
"Let's be reasonable. We're filthy. Wretchedly so-"
"I'm seeing him." He swallowed. Then swallowed again.
"We could FaceTime him?" Reilley offered.
"No! I need-I need-"
"He needs to see him," Scotland cut across. "So, he'll see him. You two belt up already."
Arthur kept reflexively pulling out his portrait miniature. I'm coming, sweet. Daddy will be there soon. Protect you from the lot of them. You hold on. Hold on.
He lost track of how many times he repeated that. And couldn't recall if he was thinking or saying it aloud.
So many enemies. They had so many enemies.
He couldn't focus on anything else.
He let his brothers bother with the details.
The hours slipped away from him as his thoughts and fears circled and no one could entice him to eat or rest.
They didn't understand what was waiting for him if he closed his eyes.
He had to see his child first. Had to know he was alright.
Still, when their Ford Transit pulled up to a community park instead of a hospital—
"Wot?"
They shrugged. "Hawaii says he's here. They have to be out for a bit to give housekeeping time to tidy their room. She and Rico are grocery shopping."
"Wot!?" They would leave him, at the height of vulnerability, unprotected?
"…careless…"
His heart began pounding.
"He wasn't doing well at the hospital," Mathieu explained. "I told you that before. A while back. Dr. Sanjay should be here supervising."
He stared blankly.
"He's scared of hospitals. I feared he'd hurt himself trying to escape and I don't trust his government hovering near when he's…like this," Mathieu finished.
"So, he's outside?" Arthur said. "On hard ground?"
"Apparently, he wanted to be out of doors. Maybe the boyo is feeling better?" Reilley tried.
"Ack! Whoa, lemme slow down first, Arthur, wait-"
"Steady on, man-"
But he wasn't steady. He didn't bother closing the auto's door behind him or registering the cries of dismay. He stumbled, but he didn't fall as he ran across the pavement, over the curb, to the green space.
He dodged a jogger and a bicyclist.
There were quacking ducks, and children laughing, and parents calling out, and his heartbeat was deafening.
Everything was too loud.
Where was his—?
There…sitting on the grass, faced the other way…
And he tried not to think of nightmares he'd had before where something terrible would be revealed with the boy turning.
He could tell when Alfred sensed him approaching. The boy stood swiftly, and for half a second he dared to hope the child had healed miraculously.
But on pivoting…he was graceless and jerky in movement.
Arthur's heart sank.
Hurt. He was still very hurt.
The child beamed and he reached with open arms. A painful step was taken towards him.
No.
He waved his arms "no" as he raced forward. He would come over.
It was enough.
Just smiling like that for him after everything.
More than enough.
"Father!" His son greeted him with all the joy that had been lost for centuries, with eyes that shined with the brilliance of stars.
It caught him like an arrow through the breast during a charge toward the castle's outer wall.
Arthur choked and sank to his knees before him.
"You used to be so…great…"
You used to deserve this…
Crick...
Or did you ever?
So happy to see him.
Too happy…
"I-I'm so sorry!" His grief burst forth and his mouth trembled.
Alfred's head tilted to the side. "He tricked you. He does that. Did you get him?"
It came out in a rush. "He's to be held in the Seelie Kingdom until we have strength enough to destroy him forever."
Alfred straightened and his blue eyes glittered. "I knew you'd defeat him. I told him so. I knew it. You'd save me. I knew you would. I told him you'd save me from the start!"
But he hadn't. Back then…or now…
Had damn near ruined everything.
He'd…he'd hurt him…
Alfred kept talking. But when he moved it was slow and spastic. Injured…
It was discordant with how beatifically happy he was.
And he was a vision, standing there with his bright blue eyes and the sunset's colors glinting off his golden hair beneath a flower crown.
There was a pagan grace in how flower crowns and daisy chains suited him.
Princely…
The fae had known his kinship immediately…
The humans had guessed it…
How didn't you know, Arthur?
A prickling sense of being watched came over him.
Park goers saw it, even if they couldn't decipher what it meant. He could feel their eyes now.
He'd always nursed a healthy paranoia for Alfred, who was a pretty, charming, wandering thing. Had known in his bones that this baby would be the one that got snatched away from him if he wasn't careful.
Even grown, Arthur had felt anxiety over his safety.
Because he was beautiful even when he was hurting.
The world darkened as it brimmed with Bertram Harris's—who would covet, capture, or crush beauty whenever they encountered it.
England had always calmed himself with arguments that America was so strong he could fend off—
He was aghast at his own complicity.
"Daddy?"
There was an almost overwhelming scent of fresh flowers.
But it couldn't mask it.
Alfred had likely bathed and brushed his teeth and done all that he could. But the near-death smell lingered.
And for Alfred it was the damp rotting of flora.
Arthur's stomach turned.
It had been so strong in the woods when he'd been carrying him.
Blood and rotting flowers…
"Daddy!" The child moved carefully to pick something up from the grass and held it behind his back with a secretive grin.
He froze—half in terror that Morganna's box had found its way here regardless of his attempts to stop it.
Alfred was silent for a beat before laughing and showing off another flower crown, more elaborate than what he was wearing. "For you!"
No.
The flowers rested on his brow with the weight of millennia.
Thousands of festivals…
No.
Pagan courts…
Cadeyrn…Brenhin…king…prince….rivals? Never…except they had been…
Even when floral crowns of the past had signified authority—they had never weighed as heavy as this.
Alfred clapped with delight that the wreath fit, like it was the 1600s and Arthur was still the center of his world.
Like his little heart had no room for doubt…
And that was why he'd been hexed in the eye…
He shivered.
He didn't deserve—
The child wound his small arms around his neck, but there was a spasm in the movement.
His poor injured back…
Arthur was so afraid to hold him.
"Alfie…?"
There was laughter and forgiveness and love.
There was the complete dismissal of pain and consequence and atonement.
And it wasn't a wonder anymore how the child had broken Excalibur's curse.
No punishment could hold against mercy like this.
The child rested his cheek against his father's—he could feel eyelashes move.
There was the shallow breathing of small fractured ribs, but when Alfred spoke, he was fearless: "I love you."
Crick.
The child drew back slightly when it wasn't echoed back,
Arthur's breath hitched.
Crick.
This…was why the hex of forgetting had been a boon…
Why Blue had been draconian…
"Daddy…you're…hurting… me…"
Crick…
Blue eyes looked at him in concern.
Where was the rage? The skepticism? The instinctive flinch from betrayal?
Blue, where are you? He thought. Red and White weren't up to the task.
Summer…Autumn…Winter…Spring…
And now he knew—
Of them, Spring was the strongest—able to overrule all objections.
The one with the most to give…
Most adored…
Most exploited because…
Generosity became excess and folly…because…
Small, gentle hands brushed at his tears.
He was given a small, wistful smile.
"It's alright. You don't have to say it back."
Boundless love could subject itself to cruelty…and keep giving…
Horror rose in him at how the scales of reciprocity could be abused when minimal standards of decency could be returned with kindness tenfold.
With a geas that magnified it annually…
"To love like a dog…"
A loyal dog's faithful love for a vicious master.
This.
This was what Colonel Bertram Harris was after.
"He…wants… to be in your spot!"
"That monster wants your Alfred to love him, the way he loves you!"
What he'd seen in their interactions as Empire and former colony…
What treatment the boy would take and keep taking from someone he loved…
England was the British Empire and he set an example. He set an example. Was proud to set an example and have others follow in his stead.
From fellow nations to governments to people…
Dizzy, heartsick, his soul and his sanity unraveling, he carefully grasped his child's face in both hands.
"I love you, my darlingheart. Never doubt it again."
It was a faint tingle, but he sensed through their bond right then, traces of Beltane's Day.
Dear God, had he just made a contract?!
Alfred snickered. "More like an addendum."
"W-wot?" What harm had he wreaked now? "S-sorry, wot?!"
His hands trembled and started to fall to his sides.
Could he only do harm?
Alfred caught and held them.
"I remember everything now. Roanoke, pre-1812 or 1815, I guess, everything after. Well, mostly. I mean, deaths just mess with you cognitively speaking so there are still some gaps, though I believe that …damnation, have I lost the ability to summarize?" He laughed a little, in that forced, self-deprecating way he used to in the 1770s, when he didn't want Arthur to tease him from getting excitable, but he was aware he wasn't performing well. And everything was strained, but he didn't want a fight.
Arthur stared. All of those fractured pieces hadn't quite sealed together yet, had they?
"Daddy?"
He waited.
"You contracted with me ages ago."
Alarm blazed through him. "What?! When?!"
"I approached you. I don't do that anymore. Not sure I even can, now. Not until it breaks. I learned. I learned a lot from that one. I never specified by how much or how little or what kind or quality or what the terms would be and how it'd be measured. Because it could be so specific or situational or shallow or conditional. And you didn't either. So, it's kinda…" He made a face.
"And I agreed to it?" He could feel all the blood draining from his face.
Alfred flushed and nodded. "You probably don't really remember. It was forever ago."
"…"
"If you don't want to know-"
"Tell me."
Alfred pursed his lips for a moment and took a deep breath through his nose.
Then, he began with, "I dragged you out of the house to our tree. It was early morning. A few hours out from the Witching Hour.
I…I wasn't quite brave enough to contract with you then. But it's still a powerful one. It's because we're nations and it's…the quality of the…so indistinct and expansive."
Arthur swallowed nervously.
"I…I used to be able to check on contracts I'd made. Ongoing ones. When my magic started failing, I…I couldn't anymore. And I doubted you. Or that you meant what I wanted you to mean. The same words to two people can mean different things, have different weight."
He wanted Arthur to nod in agreement.
He didn't.
He waited instead.
There was a soft glow of light and a strong chord of blue magic stretched between them.
Arthur immediately moved in to block it from passersby who might've had the Sight.
It disappeared directly into the center of Arthur's chest.
He noticed belatedly that the other end went through Alfred's.
Big magic.
Good God, what had he asked for? What had Arthur agreed to?
"You…have to love me…forever."
"…"
Alfred laughed again, nervously. "It was so long ago, but you said—"
"I'll love you for all of my days on this green Earth."
Love.
Back then…
Roanoke…young America had been chasing it for eighty years. A lengthy, bitter wait for an infant nation wandering a desolate shoreline.
For love.
And even on finding his longed for water-father—
You thought you'd have to contract with me to have it.
To have mine.
"I just thought you didn't love me anymore."
And you never expected me to keep up my end or care as deeply…
The child gasped in breathless delight, eyes watery and overbright.
He threw his arms around Arthur's neck.
"You remember!"
And to Alfred, that alone was enough.
CRICK.
Arthur's heart broke. Everything in him did.
One month later…
Rhys chewed an antacid. They were nearly a dietary supplement at this point. He'd been living in an unending spiral of anxiety for weeks.
But he had to stay together when he could hear Alfred's nerves in the way the child kept clicking and unclicking a ballpoint pen as he stared at the wall.
He almost dropped the pen when Rhys spoke.
"It's alright to be nervous."
His nephew glanced his way.
It was incredible how he'd forgotten how fey those eyes could be.
Without magic and memory, they'd been dulled.
Having both restored—they were sharp, wild, unpredictable.
Darkly wondrous indeed.
Little witchling, he thought fondly.
That was a new nickname that had come about since Beltane's.
It fit him.
Rhys and his brothers thought so and had taken to using it.
His nephew enjoyed going dancing in the moonlight once more and was becoming a real favorite of the local fae.
Though, sometimes on dancing nights, there'd be a hard whoosh of wind.
When he'd commented on it, America shrugged.
"Tah-tah-kle'-ah. She checks in on me sometimes. She owes me a favor."
He didn't elaborate. Rhys didn't ask. Not yet. He needed to build up more trust first.
This Alfred was more mysterious. More in touch with his powers and land and the occult. More the angry force that had raged and snapped his leg and wreaked dangerous contracts with no real sense of the devastation—
Small arms wrapped around his legs. "I'm scared."
More of the loved one that Rhys had tried to file away when love became painful.
And he now felt awful learning that Alfred had tried to do the same…with himself…
Aware that this bright, thorny, "Spring" part of himself would always be "overmuch" and "exhausting" in a lot of ways.
So, Spring had been forcefully submerged into a deathlike slumber…as close to killing him as America could manage…while he embraced the mantle of "United States" and focused on the worldly pursuits that motivated his fellow nations, like conquest.
Rhys picked the child up and settled him on his hip.
The child leaned in to rest against him.
"I have something of yours," Alfred mumbled.
"Oh?"
"I couldn't find a good moment to give it back."
He noticed an object left on a table near where his nephew had been sitting.
It was wrapped in a handkerchief (an article of clothing Alfred had abruptly reincorporated into his daily effects once more).
"It's broken."
"Oh," he replied a bit flatter and then chastised himself. He was back on the frontlines of childminding—there would be casualties of course.
He rested his head against Alfred's. "Thank you for telling me."
"I found it again."
Curious, Rhys investigated.
His knife.
The metal was spotted, though it was clear someone had been trying to clean it. The engraving of his name and a Welsh spell of defense were still legible.
The handle had warped beyond repair.
It had been through a fire. He knew which one.
"I dropped it. It wasn't on me when Uncle Al got me out. They must've found it after and lumped it in with my other things."
Rhys could guess now that they'd dumped these odds and ends in that coffin with Harris, which would explain the faint sheen of evil that had imprinted on it.
"You stay away from that for now. I'll need to cleanse it. Some of Harris's essence persists on it still."
Which might have been contributing to Alfred's somber mood.
"Yes, Uncle."
He held the child tighter and muttered three quick spells of protection which largely doused the spark in that knife and asked a brownie that was spying on them from under a coffee table if she might return that blade to his cottage?
At this point, it was easier to make use of the fae that kept spying on his nephew than to try banishing each one. And they were useful for tasks like this.
Honestly, he never wanted to see the blade again. But Alfred clearly saw it as a physical means of mending their relationship.
It didn't occur to the child that his affections bridged much of the gap.
While, they'd definitely been reconciling; it wasn't what they'd had before.
Even this, currently, was something of a hot and cold blend. Though, they were both trying.
He gave the little one a tighter squeeze.
His phone rang with a timer which he quickly silenced.
Alfred clutched at him. His dread was sharp.
"Shhh. It's alright, chwb. I'll be right here with you. All of us will."
He moved them into the hallway and began heading over.
When they stood before the room's entry door with the laminated sign reading private session: 2:00pm-6:00pm, Alfred got cold feet. No sooner had he set the child down to enter the room under his own power, he bolted.
He and Texas tried to stall the counselor before realizing they didn't need to. He was an elderly fellow from Swansea, handpicked by Dr. Hargreaves for this. He was a retired psychologist who couldn't stay retired and went into counseling.
Conveniently, he already knew about personifications as several of his ancestors had penned down interactions throughout the centuries.
The man was very cognizant that their nephew had an adult nation's cares and responsibilities and a child's emotional capacity for dealing with it.
Texas and Canada checked the building over while Rhys headed outside.
He came in time to hear:
"I've got a motorbike. We can go. If that's what you really want. What do you want, laddie?"
Rhys sighed and stared off into the grassy hills. Perhaps a video call session was better? Or over the phone?
"I want-I want-"
"Aye?"
"To… be brave."
Rhys's pulse was loud in his ears and he swallowed down the lump in his throat.
"…Let's be brave, then." Alistair held their nephew's hand and guided him back.
The Scotsman didn't flush as their eyes met.
There was nothing unmanly about caring for their nephew while their youngest brother couldn't.
Rhys took Alfred's other hand and gave it a gentle squeeze as they walked together.
It wasn't a surprise that everything stacking up as it had…had caused Arthur to buckle.
But this counseling session wasn't about him.
It was a second try at the intervention Alfred had been scheduled for the previous year with a good many changes once Rhys was involved.
Set in Wales, instead of Virginia, in a cozy, well-used building staffed by friendly citizens who Rhys knew and trusted. Only family could be present and the counselor.
It was still overwhelming for their nephew.
Counselor Howells introduced himself and set out goals and guidelines. On an old chalkboard, he wrote out rules and boundaries and announced:
"This is mediation. No winners. No losers. Just understanding in a safe space of discussion. Let us begin. There were many paths and forks what brought us here, let's hear them out?"
Alfred was visibly trembling and Texas put a waste bin near him in case he spewed.
In a decisive move, Alistair dragged it to rest at his feet and pulled Alfred over to sit on his lap.
He then stated, loud and clear, "While Rome was invading, we were in a bad way. Me mam and brothers and me. Rhys was out fighting the enemy. Reilley had to go with fae, the old kingdoms, to live on their charity.
Mam ordered me out to hunt during a snowstorm. We were running out of food, yea? Wasn't enough for three mouths. The task killed me. And I wisnae sure if that was the point. I could revive. Arthur probably couldn't, he was too wee and unestablished. Mam knew by then she wouldn't revive. And I understand it, tactically, but I don't like it. Can't forgive it. I don't think I ever will."
Alfred stared up at him in open-mouthed shock and horrified sympathy.
Alistair tapped the boy's jaw lightly. "Mind your gob 'fore the flies get in."
The Scotsman then looked around the room. "Top that, if yeh can."
"Easy done!" Reilly volleyed. "I was born and it began!"
"So, we're going the Jerry Springer route?" Alfred asked flatly.
"Hell yeah!" Texas cheered and slapped his knee. "I'm gonna win big at this!"
"This is supposed to be for Alfred," Mathieu pointed out.
"Allie," Tex entreated, "you know I love you and I'll stand with you through everything. We'll be playing cards in hell when the nuclear holocaust torches the world down."
That raised eyebrows.
"But, Little Brother, I'll speak plain. Your Victorian soap opera drama got nothing on Conquistador Catholic Crazy. I'm so gonna win this."
"Texas!" Mathieu chided him, giving him a light elbowing.
"It's math! I got more traumatizing siblings than you and Catholics? Catholics gotta meet up for everything Catholic-y. They don't care y'all can't stand each other. Paco's gettin' baptized. Good luck, everybody. Better cross yourselves. You don't stack that much crazy together and think you're not tempting a lightning strike. No, sir."
Rhys smothered a soft laugh.
Alistair wasn't particularly clever in a lineup comparison with his brothers, but sometimes he was fantastically brilliant.
He'd changed the atmosphere.
He looked away when Rhys smiled at him.
They were all still tired. The lot of them were still trying to find a course to navigate by. It was a day-to-day struggle to make it work as best they could. And sometimes, it didn't work well at all.
But… "cartref yw cartref, er tloted y bo" was one of the phrases he'd been teaching Alfred.
They'd weather the storm. They'd manage. They'd hold the line until Arthur was well and home again.
Rhys still had a million worries, but…
There was one less as Alfred piped up and started really talking with his kin again.
And they listened.
If you or someone you know is unwell and needs help, please make use of the hotlines in your nation.
*Cue mood whiplash*
Pack up your bags,
grab your life-vests and snorkel.
Here we go, folks!
To the shore…for the Four-quel!
COMING SOON:
Winner of the Vote by ONE! (Thank you to the 49 participants!)
Banyoles Monster:
Spain Side:
Spain is determined to strengthen the bonds of his familia, within his borders for a change, even if it means playing host to a bunch of UK Celts. Time for food, family, and fiestas! Spain will show them how to have a good, safe holiday. What are the odds America and Texas could find a dragon in his land? One hasn't been spotted in centuries, right?
UK Side:
America's tag-along trip with Texas to visit Spain seems like good timing for the UK brothers as they integrate England back into a routine. But England resents the kiddie-gloves approach and can parent his own child thank you very much.
The friction heightens when America suffers culture shock and needs them to crash Spain's hacienda. No one expects a Spanish dragon to appear—that's so 7th Century.
Rated T for Language and Violence
Family/Drama/Supernatural
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PREVIEW:
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America thought the waves looked picturesque under the moon. Before he could struggle with his phone's settings to try and snap a semi-decent night pic, Tex spoke:
"So, it kinda happened the first time a month ago at home, but then I couldn't repeat it. Then, it happened again last week and I realized these last two days… I can draw it near at will. But…but I can't…"
He stood up and reached a hand up toward the sky.
Wind picked up with violence.
His own private little cyclone was forming.
"Quick, c'mere." He reached a hand to Al and pulled him into the "eye of his storm."
Alfred clung to his leg.
He looked up to see a tear in the ether and Texas was struggling to pull something from it.
Alfred squinted.
It almost looked like a pole.
Was he going to get a flag?! As his magical conduit?
Well, that was freaking cool!
Rhys kept assuring him that his...magic footwear...was just as impressive as any other item and that they were going to help him find them…but his uncles kept teasing him. They kept dropping refrains from nursery rhymes and humming These Boots were Made for Walking. Or that they were going to recover them from a Salvation Army or a flea market stall!
"And when we find them, I'll spare ya the sixpence you'll need," Uncle Alistair had promised and chuckled.
Here Tex had barely started training and he was already getting his item of power. And it was cooler?! No, bad form, Alfred. Don't be bitter. This was your favoritest brother, right? He could be bitter if Canada got something neater.
"See?" Tex huffed. "It's resisting. Why is it resisting?"
"…" Alfred's head cocked to the side. Now, that WAS weird.
"And you just wanna ask me? Kay…I dunno. Hmm, Uncle Rhys would know, but he's not your fav. Uncle Al is just cool and I'm okay with him crashing this if you are. But I'm not gonna lie, he'll just tell you to put your back into it. That frustrates me sometimes."
Tex sighed and started to release it back into the ether.
"Hey! HEY! Don't give up! You're a wrangler! Wrangle it, damn it!"
Thank you again for reading. Good luck with 2023! See you in the Forquel! : D