I lied, this isn't a real chapter. But I felt really bad for not uploading anything in forever, so I've spent a good portion of the 4th of July writing an omake to make myself feel less guilty.
I got back from China less than a week ago, but a little more than 24 hours after that, I was on another plane, so my base of operations has moved from San Francisco to Buffalo. Which, I might add, is exactly a 12 hour time difference from China. Adjusting is still in progress, and sucks, but China was amazing, so it's all worth it. (^_^)
Reviewer thank-yous will be on the next official chapter, which should be published in a few days, hopefully by the end of the week. Sorry again!
I disclaim, and own nothing.
Birthday Omake!
Alfred sat peacefully on a park bench in Boston, his newspaper on his lap. It was summer, still his favorite time of year, despite the stifling heat and sudden increase in the insect population. The sky was blue, with nary a cloud, and the shade of the old maple he sat beneath was pleasantly cool.
The park was also one of his favorite places to be. From the vantage point of a cleverly oriented park bench, one could see almost the entirety of the park mapped out before him, and more importantly, the people coming and going. Little girls with daisy chains, boys flying kites, young couples holding hands and families toting picnic baskets, all of them made their way by in a veritable symphony of life, carefully orchestrated and beautifully executed.
Alfred loved his people.
He still wasn't sure when they'd become "his," but as the silent observer of their lives so much shorter than his own, it almost felt like a right.
This particular day, though, was even more special. Even more people visited the park than was normal, but their smiles were also brighter, their laughter clearer, and their demeanor so much more relaxed. There also were only three colors, represented on kites, blankets, streamers, and children's jumpers: the ever-so-patriotic red, white, and blue.
July 4th, Alfred decided, was indeed a good day to have a birthday.
He leaned back for a moment, and thought back to the many birthdays he remembered.
_V~-~-~V_
The village was a bustling place, as it always was, especially around the Time of Harvest. The men and women both worked in the fields, coming home in the evenings laden with food. Some was preserved, but a lot was eaten, because it wasn't for no reason that the Time of Harvest was also (unofficially) known as the Time of Great Feasting.
At the sight of the men and women returning for the day, the village children stopped in their play, rushing to greet their parents. Among the sea of little brown bodies, there was a single blond streak.
"Nek!"
One of the many women basket-carrying women dropped her burden to pick up a new one. Bright blue eyes met deep brown, and little arms clasped around her neck. The Algonquin people of the village had long since gotten used to the Mother of the People's little blond charge, and only smiled at the sight.
"How was your day, Mukki? Did you play nice with the other young ones?"
"Yep! I made friends with a deer too, but Matunaaga scared it off."
"Oh, too bad. I'm sure you'll find him again, if you look hard enough." The woman picked up her bundle again, balancing it on one hip with the blond child on the other. Together, they entered the hut where the pair of them slept. Another woman came and collected Nek's basket, taking the food to the communal storage grounds.
"Why do you go out every day, Nek?"
She smiled, the skin around her dark eyes crinkling ever so slightly. "My only purpose on this earth is to help my people. And if aiding them, whenever and however I can, means working alongside them in the fields, I would be happy to do so every day of the year."
"Even in the snow?"
"Even in the snow."
"But there aren't any plants to pick then, Nek."
"Then I would prepare the ground for planting season."
The blond boy fell silent, imagining his mother, wearing her winter furs, waist-deep in snow in the middle of a planting field, still smiling as brightly as ever. Movement brought him out of his imagination.
"Today is a special day, Mukki. Do you know why?"
The little boy's face screwed up in concentration, but he came up empty. "No. Why?"
"It's what we call a 'birthday'. Every year, with the passing of all the seasons, you get older. It's a very special day indeed, because you can count all the years you have been alive using the number of birthdays that have passed." The pair of blue eyes widened.
"When is your birthday, Nek? How old are you?"
The woman laughed, a musical sound. "I've long since lost count, but I'm as old as the People."
"That's almost as old as the earth," the boy said, speaking almost reverently. She laughed again.
"No, not quite that old. But on birthdays, it's customary to give presents, celebrating another year of life and hoping for many more to come. Since it has been a year since I found you, today you get a present." From the folds of her dress, the woman pulled out a small wooden pendant, dangling from a leather strap. Standing up, she placed it ceremoniously around the small boy's neck.
"Congratulations, Mukki, on passing another year of life. May you always remember what you have accomplished, and live to accomplish much more."
In awe, the little boy fingered the moon-and-star pattern engraved on the pendant. Suddenly, he let it fall, and wrapped his arms around his mother, burying his face in her shoulder.
"Thank you, Nek."
"You're very welcome, Mukki."
"I hope I can stay with you for all my birthdays."
"As many as you want."
The little boy yawned sleepily, shifting from a hug to be curled up in the warmth of her lap. As he drifted off, he whispered,
"Kuwumaras, Nek."
The ageless Native American woman smiled down at her young charge, one whom she'd come to consider her son just as much as she did her many other children.
"I love you too, Mukki."
_V~-~-~V_
"Alfie!"
Alfred blinked, groggy from sleep. Something rather heavy was bouncing on his bed.
"Al~fie," the something whined, "wake up! It's your birthday!"
Alfred blinked again, remembering that yesterday had been November 14th, which meant today was November 15th, the day that, for lack of any other, had become his birthday.
"Alfie!"
The something moved to his stomach and bounced again, thoroughly knocking the wind out of him. "I'm awake, Em, I'm awake!"
"Yay! Now get up, get up, it's your birthday! That means no chores and playtime and presents and cake!" The little blonde girl, still wearing her bedclothes, was practically drooling at the thought.
"You just want cake, don't you."
"Cake is yummy," she whined, "and we only get it on birthdays!"
"And Christmas, Easter, and New Year's," Alfred reminded her, switching his night shirt for his trousers and a button-down that Sarah was particularly fond of. She always dressed them up anyway on their birthdays, so he figured he might as well try to get out of the inevitable by looking nice from the get-go.
Glancing toward his window, Alfred was vaguely surprised at how dark it still was. Sure, it was November, but had the days really gotten that shorter without his noticing?
Emeline, meanwhile, was still bouncing. "Are you sure you haven't already eaten the cake?" Alfred asked.
"Don't be silly Alfie," she said, her pout lip making itself known. "Mama hasn't even made it yet. We would have smelled it already." That was true. The smell of Sarah's baking always pervaded the whole house, and it was fantastic.
"Has your Pa gone to work yet?" Alfred asked, opting to change the subject instead of allowing Emeline's mind to dwell any longer on cake.
Emeline giggled. "Of course not. It's not even 6 o'clock yet!"
"What?"
"I didn't want you to miss your birthday, so I got you up extra early!"
"Emeline!"
_V~-~-~V_
Peter nearly dropped the stack of papers he was carrying.
"It's your birthday on the 4th of July?"
Alfred raised an eyebrow. In all the years since he'd let Ben choose his birthday for him, he'd never gotten quite that reaction. "What, is it really that strange? I can't hardly help it, you know." That was a lie, but Peter didn't know that.
"That is so… so wonderful!"
"I still fail to see what's so amazing about having a birthday."
"It's on our country's Independence Day, which just happens to be celebrated almost nationwide. And you work for the President, which has to be the most patriotic job there is. Is that not a bizarre coincidence?"
Alfred shrugged. "It's still mere coincidence, even if it is bizarre." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "When is your birthday? I've never asked…"
"Mine," Peter said derisively, "is on March 23rd. There's nothing special about March 23rd."
"That's not a bad thing," Alfred said. "It means you've got the day all to yourself. You don't have to worry about another holiday interfering. Imagine being born on Christmas, or some other major religious holiday. That would be something to complain about."
Peter scrunched up his eyebrows, something he did whenever he felt conflicted. "I suppose that you're right… but everyone remembers your birthday if it's on the 4th of July! I never have my birthday remembered."
"You just need to comment on it more. Then people will remember you as the man who's incessantly complaining about his March 23rd birthday, thus remembering the date," Alfred suggested, smirking. Peter was not appreciative of this advice, and Alfred soon found himself ducking from a flying folder.
"That is not helpful, Alfred F Jones!"
_V~-~-~V_
The year 1826 was the first birthday that Alfred didn't celebrate.
The day began with a mild headache that sustained itself despite his attempts to stop it. Two painful twinges (Alfred wouldn't really call them twinges, probably something a bit more violent) made themselves known a few hours apart. His heart was not in the Independence Day celebrations that year. Instead, he found his mind wandering to his old boss, following a strong sense of foreboding.
Two days later, Alfred learned of the deaths of both John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, both former Presidents of the United States, who passed away mere hours apart, one in Quincy, and one in Charlottesville. It was that year that he attended funerals instead of parties.
He'd suspected Jefferson's death for about as long as Jefferson himself had. In 1818, he'd first begun complaining of his rheumatism. Alfred had laughed at the time and called him old, which he certainly was at 75 ("Three quarters of a century, man! You're ancient!"). But he got steadily worse, eventually staying in bed for most of his days. Though he continued to write, the letters he sent to Alfred got progressively shorter and sloppier, until they ceased altogether.
Alfred saved every last one, tied together with an old bootlace, stored in the bottom of his traveling trunk. It would be years before he could bring himself to read them again.
He'd visited Jefferson for the last time the May before he died. The former President was confined to his sofa at Monticello, barely able to walk comfortably from place to place.
"This is the first time I've gone very long without my daily horseback rides about the grounds. I'm rather missing them," Jefferson had said mildly.
"Withdrawal?" Alfred asked jokingly, though he couldn't find much of a heart to tease the elderly man when said man could barely move.
"Did you go through this at 83, Alfred? Because I can't imagine you bedridden for long. However did you put up with it?"
"I'm not breaking down, unlike you," Alfred replied. "And I've never been 83."
"I seem to recall you being, most likely, older than me, seeing as you've hardly changed since I was a sprightly young 30-year-old."
"You've got Ben's twinkle in your eye again," was Alfred's only response. "I think it's catching."
"That's quite possibly true." Jefferson paused. In their nearly 50 years of working together, Alfred had learned to differentiate his long pauses from his end-of-conversations quite well. This just happened to be a particularly long pause.
"When I'm gone—"
"You're not going anywhere," Alfred interrupted, glaring at Jefferson for having such a thought. Jefferson merely smiled sadly.
"Regardless of what you may think, a man can tell when he's dying, Alfred. So when my time comes, our friend Mr. Adams will have to do everything himself. I do hope he's up to it. I don't trust his son nearly as much."
Alfred made a noise of agreement. "I wonder sometimes how he became the President. His son, not Adams."
"Well, we have to be diplomatic about things. Hopefully, John can pass on some fatherly wisdom from our era, and polish his son to where he should be."
"Nobody will ever be as good as your era at running this country," Alfred said, certainty weighing his every word.
"Don't go making dire predictions on me, Alfred. As long as someone remembers what America stands for…" he shot Alfred a pointed, twinkly glance, "this country has hope."
_V~-~-~V_
Alfred was woken from his daydreaming by a very British voice, very close by.
"I say, the weather is really rather beastly here."
Glancing around, he caught sight of a blond man wearing a neatly pressed suit at hat that looked a little formal for a stroll in the park. At the same moment, it seemed, the blond man caught sight of him.
Alfred could focus only on his eyebrows. They were caterpillar-thick, but also bothered him immensely. Who had he met with caterpillar eyebrows before?
It didn't really matter at the moment, seeing as the man made his way over right then, his intention clearly to commandeer the empty spot on the bench beside Alfred.
"Excuse me, my good man, but would you mind if I joined you?"
Alfred shook his head, scooting over and re-folding his newspaper while shooting the man his most winning smile. "Please feel free."
The British man sat down, smiling gratefully as he did so. "Thank you kindly." After a moment's pause, he continued, "It's really quite warm here, in these eastern states of yours."
"I've never been to England so I can't say I agree," Alfred replied. "Who're you meeting?"
"Meeting?"
"You know, the stiff suit you got there. That's definitely why you're so hot, so surely you'd be wearing something else unless you had something important to do."
The British man sniffed. "This is my everyday attire, thank you. I am not meeting anybody specific."
"Well, you just met me, yeah?" Alfred grinned. The other rolled his eyes. Alfred noticed that they were bright green. Why were they bothering him so much? "Anyway, what's a British guy like you doing over here on the 4th of July? That's got to be more than a bit strange for you."
He snorted. "More than you can imagine…" he muttered.
"What's that?"
"Nothing of importance. Yes, it is a tad odd, but no more than if you'd shown up in Ireland on St Patrick's Day having no idea that it was of such importance."
"As in, very odd?"
"Precisely."
The pair sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the crowd go by, a celebration in full swing. One relished in the people, one in the peace of their park bench corner.
"Would you like to go somewhere? Get a drink or something?" Alfred asked.
The British man raised one huge eyebrow. "Considering that our first encounter was minutes ago, I'd say that that would be a strange thing to do."
"Oh, humor me. It's my birthday, and I need some company."
"Your birthday?" the other echoed, his eyebrows going even higher. Then he sighed. "Well, I guess I can't deny someone a drink on their birthday. But first, your name?" Alfred grinned broadly.
"I'm Alfred F Jones, pleased to make your acquaintance!"
The British man gave a noticeable start. "My name is Arthur Kirkland. Likewise, charmed."
That was where he was familiar from. Alfred's mind flashed back to a Boston dock years ago, where he'd been approached by a strange pirate-delegate with equally strange eyebrows, and the same name. Perhaps this man was a descendant of his, one with a very strong resemblance… or it was just coincidence. Either way, he was company, and this was shaping up to be an interesting birthday.
"Let's get going then, Artie!"
"Do not call me that!"
V/~-~-~\V
So, despite the fact that this was an omake, it wound up having a few plot points. Yay!
The last scene is set a bit into the future from where the story's currently at, in case you were wondering. But Jefferson dying doesn't play a main part in the story itself, so I had to put that in there. Also, omakes are just MADE for cameos!
Also, history!
Nek, as I'm sure you remember, means "mother" in Algonquin. Mukki is a name that actually means something like "child". Matunaaga means "fights," so I envision an aggressive child here, scaring off poor little Alfred's deer.
On July 4th, 1826, both Jefferson and Adams died. John Quincy Adams was President at the time. Jefferson actually sent a letter shortly before his death (already knowing he was on his way out) to Adams, explaining that everything was in his hands now, but Adams died before he received it.
I figure Alfred (and any Nation, really) likes to people-watch. I would, if I were him.
Also, I love writing England. He's just that lovely combination of gentlemanly and snarky that's so fun to mess with.
See you in a few days with a real chapter!