Morning arrived and once again, Alfred found himself outside Cathal's bedroom door. Only this time, he was accompanied by Medwyn, who had assured the boy that whilst the apology he issued to the brothers was accepted, it was Cathal he needed to apologise to. America felt anxiety draw knots in his stomach, pondering if he would be forgiven or not. Would Ireland shout at him? Would he refuse to talk to him? All manner of possibilities fed the boy's imagination until he felt a gentle nudge from behind. He looked up to see Medwyn gesturing for him to knock on the door. 'Here goes' Alfred thought to himself, knocking on the door.
America and Wales entered the room, Wales perching himself on the edge of Ireland's bed whilst America took a seat beside the man's bedside. Unlike last time, this time Cathal didn't need to be woken up as the country was sat upright in bed, slumped against the bed frame to support his posture. Prior to their entrance, Medwyn had spoken with Cathal about Alfred's mishaps so he was fully aware of what Alfred wished to apologise for. Unsurprisingly, even in his decrepit condition, Ireland found amusement in hearing about Alfred's wild theories about him being a vampire.
"Uncle Cathal, I'm sorry I made you that awful drink that made you sick. I thought you might have been a vampire and was trying to see if you were by putting garlic in the drink. I know it was wrong to do that now so I hope you'll forgive me." Alfred had help writing his apology from Medwyn, the boy holding up the crinkled piece of paper to ensure he said everything he wished to say. After he'd finished apologising to Cathal, Alfred braced himself for further chatisement from the Irishman. "It's quite alright Alfred, though next time I'd appreciate it if you talked to someone about your worries rather than acting on them as you did. I can assure you I'm not a vampire, lad" Cathal winked at Alfred, opening his mouth to show Alfred his teeth; not a single fang in sight. The Irishman gestured for an embrace to which, though initially hesitant, America complied and wrapped his arms delicately around the man's fragile frame. "Be good for the others, they do mean well. I know you'll grow to be a big, strong country one day Alfred. Don't stop chasing your dreams" Cathal whispered in Alfred's ear, releasing his grip on the boy and cupping in cheeks in both hands. Alfred nodded, puffing his chest out to give the appearance that he was bigger than he actually was. "Of course I will uncle, and you'll be there to see it when you're all better!" America beamed up at the elder, taking Medwyn's hand and exiting the room to allow Cathal to rest. Yet as they left, Wales avoided eye contact with Alfred and didn't so much as make a sound. This confused the boy as he felt the entire exchange between him and Cathal had been positive. Then he saw a tear scroll down Medwyn's face.
"Uncle Medwyn, are you ok?"
"Yes Alfred, you know how emotional I can be at times. I found it very sweet that conversation you and Cathal had is all. No need to worry."
Ireland fell back into what little comfort his pillow brought, the man's stomach weakly crying out, begging for any morsel of sustenance to relieve the agony that gripped the country's body like a rain-soaked garnment. Cathal closed his eyes, hoping that the temporary release that sleep brought would somehow speed up what felt to be an inevitable outcome. As the auburn haired man sought the comfort of the past to lull him into a state of rest, the slow creaking of his bedroom door disturbed him. Ireland presumed it was Medwyn, given he'd just been in the room, or perhaps Alistair. Unfortunately, upon forcibly opening his eyes, Cathal's vision adjusted to a picture of Arthur glaring directly at him. The very sight of the blond struck fear into the Irishman's core, causing his heart to palpitate and his breathing to quicken.
"Morning Cathal, rise and shine" the Englishman sung in a mocking tone, ripping the duvet from his elder sibling's frail body and kneeling onto the bed so that he was partially topping the Irishman, with their noses mere inches from touching. Cathal narrowed his hazel eyes, feeling a mixture of rage and disdain at Arthur's behaviour towards himself and his people. Arthur then gently brushed Cathal's fringe aside, studying the man's facial features. The feeling of England caressing his face, coupled with the fact the touch was tender, caught Ireland off-guard. That was until, something switched in Arthur and the nation proceeded to wrap both hands around the Irishman's neck.
Immediately, flight or fight kicked in for Cathal, his survival instincts taking over as he weakly attempted to free himself from Arthur's grasp, aiming kicks and punches with all the strength he was able to muster in the heat of the moment. However, he was much too incapacitated to adequately defend himself, let alone push Arthur off. Black spots began to invade Cathal's vision as Arthur continued to choke him. Ireland tried to call out for help in the hopes someone in the home would disturb the pair, but nothing came out of his mouth but anguished gasps but for air. England leant down, hands still placed on the country's throat, to whisper into his ear, "I thought I told you not to interact with Alfred, this is what happens when you disobey me." Ireland struggled for air, the world around him becoming more distorted the longer he was deprived of oxygen. 'This is it' the Irishman thought to himself, certain that in that very moment he would meet his end.
Suddenly, Arthur released his grip on his brother, shifting from his position atop Ireland to one where he stood at his bedside. The preciptious flow of air that was able to freely fill Cathal's lungs made the man cough and gag, bolting upright in bed as he tried to steady his breathing. England smirked, evidently amused by his elder sibling's struggle, for the younger offered no comfort or aid as Ireland continued to fight for breath. Just then, Alistair joined the scene. The brunette was carrying a small tray with a plethora of supplies on to nurse Cathal: some tea, a thermometer and a bowl of cold water and fresh rag. In that moment, Alistair did the mental mathematics, seeing Arthur standing over Cathal with a smug expression written all over his face and Cathal coughing so hard blood trickled through the gaps between his fingers and dappled the mattress.
"Christ!" Alistair threw the tray he'd been carrying onto a nearby cabinet, shoving past Arthur to Cathal's aid, where he proceeded to rub the man's back and offer a handkerchief for his mouth. England, having said all he desired to say, silently slithered out of the room. Alistair brought a cup of tea to Cathal's lips, the Irishman's breathing having improved and the latest bout of coughing subsided. Scotland didn't need to ask what had happened between the pair, for he noticed the red handprints marked on his brother's neck and glimpsed the terror that was prevalent in his eyes. Once Cathal had settled down, Alistair picked up the crumpled duvet from the floor, his eyes glued to the floor in shame for his indisposed role in his brother's ordeal.
"Alistair..." Cathal murmured, shuddering at the cold, wet cloth that had been laid across his forehead. The Scotsman then looked to his brother, unable to avoid the stare of his sibling as he called for his attention. In looking at Cathal, Alistair was forced to acknowledge just how dire the situation was for the country. He looked more like a skeleton, his bones almost penetrating his skin, his face worn and sunken. Yet, his eyes still held some life to them. Perhaps it was hope to live for his people, spite to survive against Arthur's cruelty, or a mixture of the two. "I-I'm so sorry-" Alistair scarcely showcased emotion, wearing a relatively stoic expression most of the time. But seeing the condition Ireland was in and knowing he was at death's door became too much for his heart to take, the guilt and self-loathing running rampant in his mind. Alistair practically ran out of the room, shutting himself in his own abode where he muffled the sound of his sobs with a pillow.
Alfred didn't know exactly what was wrong with his uncle, only that it concerned his economy and that he needed to be left alone to rest so that he could recover. If the boy asked any questions or made any remarks regarding Cathal, it was brushed under the rug, no direct answers were given and the conversation would automatically shift to another topic. But America figured this was because Arthur and his brother were saddened by their fellow sibling's condition. So, when he saw Wales cry as they left Ireland's bedroom, he knew things were bleak but kept his thoughts to himself. Medwyn led the child into the study for Alfred to finish his book report for his tutor, promising to bring some lunch to him in a short while. Alfred resumed where he had left off and by the time Medwyn returned as promised, the American had completed his report. This achievement made lunch taste better, as did the fact that the bread that formed the sandwich Alfred was eating was baked by Alistair- who was arguably the best cook out of the brothers. All the while, the image that America had been trying to push to the back of his mind of his sickly uncle repeatedly cast itself to the forefront of the child's mind. When would his uncle get well? Would he get better? "This is quite the book report Alfred, I'm sure your tutor will be pleased!" Medwyn's praise for his work called Alfred back down to earth, a sense of pride welling in his chest. It was nice to be praised and complimented, especially after the past few days had been filled with reprimands and disappointment. But Alfred couldn't help it, it was like he was a magent for mischief and trouble followed wherever he went.
Residing in his office, Arthur occupied himself with paperwork and was elbow deep in trade documentation when someone entered his workspace unannounced. The Englishman didn't look up from his desk, sensing that it was Alistair's presence that he'd been graced with. "Why? Why can't you leave him alone? Isn't it enough he's at death's door?" Alistair clenched his fists until they shone white, his eyes holding a reddish tint to them from crying. "I thought I told you to remember your place. I was simply reminding Cathal of his" Arthur remarked coldly while the sound of pen against paper filled the space.
Enough was enough.
"He's your brother! You're seriously going to kill your own brother? And strangulation, really? You're torturing him too?!"
"Oh Alistair, we have been over and over this. Cathal is doing this to himself, he needs to sort out his own affairs."
"Oh and a blight that affected the crops was his doing was it?"
"Alistair, you know what I'm talking about."
"No I don't! People are dying, people are fleeing, he's literally wasting away and you could care less. It's like you WANT him to perish!"
"Spare me. This is merely a small bump in the road. The crops will recover and people will return. In time, he'll recover. We have sent aid in the form of money and other resources, don't act like I've stood aside."
"What about the ones who died from starvation and sickness? They can't come back! And you might as well have done so, what you've put in place isn't nearly enough and you know it, you're doing less than the bare minimum."
"I'm tired of indulging in the same conversation with you again and again. This setback for Cathal is evidently a sign that he needs to work harder, as does his people. Ignorance has consequences, perhaps he and those people of his will learn a lesson from this experience"
"Are you JOKING?! You're still exploiting him, his land and what little can be exported! You can still stop this, stop this madness before we lose him for good! I'm begging you Arthur!"
"Don't you DARE tell me what to do. Everything I'm doing, all the hours I spend locked away at work, is ALL for the benefit of this empire. You should be GRATEFUL, as should he, if I had really wanted I'd have let him die long ago but I DIDN'T because I organised aid. How DARE you say my work isn't enough, how DARE you disrespect me!"
In a rage, Arthur picked up a nearby hourglass and chucked it at Alistair. The ornament hit the Scotsman squarely between the eyes, breaking into pieces with the glass shattering to smithereens upon impact with the floor. Alistair placed a hand to the affected area, feeling a bump form and seeing blood coating his finger tips when he withdrew. There was no getting through to Arthur. "One day, I'll leave this house, you'll see..." Scotland growled, spinning on his heel to leave. The brunette felt foolish to think Arthur would show mercy, or even compassion, to anyone other than himself.
"Until then you will submit to your leader. Now off you go, I'm very busy" Arthur merely responded as Alistair closed the door to the office firmly behind him. As soon as Alistair disappeared, Arthur let out a deep sigh and reached for a flask of whiskey he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.
Alistair assessed the nick that centered itself between it's eyes; though small, it was deep and oozed a generous amount of blood for its size. Scotland washed his face at the bathroom sink, reaching for the first aid box to conceal the wound from sight and halt the bleeding. The man felt dumfounded, sick to his stomach by Arthur's lack of humanity, his head pounding from the injury he sustained. Now, he felt more hopeless than ever. The reality of losing Cathal became more real than before. Everything felt too much and it drove Alistair to the toilet to bring up his breakfast, with Arthur's words echoing menacingly in his ears.