Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically).
AN: Hey! : D
Thank you for reading! My finals are done for this semester! Celebrate! Woo!
OctaviaWorks—Yeah, Al and Arthur are heading into a healthier dynamic. Though…there will be snags. Your Tex commentary makes me LOL. Yes, he's got legit grievances. C'mon Spain, step up! (I'm actually working on the next chap of Sirena. I gotta decide—I keep wavering. Do I finish it out? Or do I do some time skips with other Tex-centric adventures detailing him and Al coming together? I already have another plot bunny for when he's a Republic. I'm open to feedback there.)
Thanks for reading! Good vibes your way for your new job! :D
Scarletnightcrawler—Hey! Welcome back! Thank you! The Spanish Famada—they're just fun. "Rhys might be the next one in a facility at this rate." Yeah, he needs to figure himself out. Awww—thank you! It was nice to hear that. I just finished finals for this semester tonight. And I'm so drained/relieved? But determined to update!
Lillian—Hey you! Thanks for commenting! I'm glad you've enjoyed my writing over the years. Congrats on uni! Good luck with your finals!
Vaughn20–Thank you! In RL, I try very hard to understand different people's perspectives before I formulate an opinion. Or if I have a strong opinion, I deliberately go looking for its foil because there won't be balance until I hear the counter argument. And I'm okay with different people having different truths at the same time. Or the possibility that no one's perfectly right or wrong. Or that timing complicates things, too. (It sometimes annoys my fam and friends cuz I'm always a "I need more info" or "I can think of several exceptions to that" or "what if this happens?" Sort of person. And they just want you to agree or move on or condemn a thing. And my jury is out still…pondering it. I think it works in their favor; I give a lot of slack before I think badly about others' motives…but I also keep score and at a certain point my BS meter goes off like a fire alarm.) I appreciate that you appreciate this quirk cropping up in my writing XD. Good luck with your exams! :DDD
Time Traverser—Good, enjoy that fluff!
Good catch with Tex, Al, and Arthur. Generosity. There's so much "faux" generosity that it can jade people, but "REAL" generosity is pretty darn inspiring when you experience it/understand it unfolding. And you take it with you. And it never quite goes out.
MythplacedLogic— THIS. Rhys needs more confidence. "Learning how to behave in different situations is part of growing up but Alfred missed out on that. Even adults struggle!" YES. (You don't get out of learning it…it just happens later for some people. But when the switch flips, I would argue that it comes with a tsunami of empathy.) Yes. Spain deserves more credit. He's picking up on stuff that England hasn't.
Chapter 15: CAMELOT!
"I think these ribbons will work for our purposes."
Arthur had quite a collection of remnants so it was easy sparing them for harmless misadventures like these.
"Ribbons? Not tags?" Alfred asked. He was finishing up a gentle torso stretch to help with his back.
Arthur had to keep up on the boy to remember the stretches. It was a relief that Alfred didn't interpret his reminders as nagging. The child honestly seemed to forget.
Arthur had a fairly high threshold for pain.
Alfred had clearly inherited it along with a fiercer disregard. A bit of stiffness and aching wasn't being respected as the pain it was. It was easily forgotten when Alfred's curiosity was engaged by something new and interesting.
It did worry Arthur.
He remembered Modor and Rhys chastising him for always reaching for things as a child.
Being curious and covetous by turns had earned him all sorts of cuts, scrapes, bruises, and burns.
Cause-and-effect…
A child exploring his world…
Alfred's case wasn't quite the same.
Sturdy and resilient as his form was, his inner self was stronger. His body couldn't quite live up to his spirit's
demands.
Arthur didn't know how to fix that.
It made him afraid—that Alfred could just drag himself through an adventure to follow through on a lofty ideal.
"Father?"
"Hmm?"
"I don't want to spoil the ribbons if-"
"Nonsense. Trees need a little decoration now and then. And what good are ribbons if they're never put to use?" They'd gone a very long time with no appreciation. The trees…the ribbons…
Lots of things here had gone…
"Alright!" Alfred surprised him by abruptly stealing a bright red one for himself and tying it beneath his collar.
Red…
He stared for a moment like he'd seen a ghost (in a way he was) before recovering himself and reaching over to pinch Alfred's cheek. He lightly teased him about getting so dressed up.
Alfred was decked in a vest and jacket beneath the cloak Arthur had made him last Yule.
He was even wearing his Christmas boots.
It was entirely too formal for this jaunt, but Arthur only had himself to blame since he'd brought the clothing.
And he could easily make an exception when his poor Alfred had been left ambling about in rags under his brothers' supervision.
Arthur's insides had boiled on viewing the contents of his child's knapsack.
The remaining clothing was so thin and threadbare…it offered little warmth or protection.
The garments were clean. Viciously clean. Alfred had worked hard to keep them unsoiled and had damaged the fibers because clothing wasn't as sturdy as it used to be.
A colonial homesteader's laundering regime wasn't nearly as gentle as a modern washing machine.
And yet, Arthur was equally certain that Alfred would have employed greater care if he'd been washing anyone else's things.
It was because the clothing was his own.
Arthur remembered his son's stark, harsh bedroom before he remodeled it. The same style of prioritization went into his packing.
"So little," Arthur remarked as the knapsack was emptied.
Alfred looked proud of himself. "Uncle Al said to only bring what was most important."
Which to Alfred was the bundle of letters, an emergency tracfone, two notebooks, Hop, an antique comb, a roll of Duct-tape, a wrinkly Ziploc bag with a traveling sewing repair kit, embroidery tools, carving tools (that should've been better insulated for safety), and a handful of rolled up clothes and whatever small rubbish he could carry in his pockets: a paperclip, a vivid green marble, and a small screwdriver with one interchangeable tip.
No wonder the child had been so delighted at all Arthur had brought him.
By the time all of Alfred's things were amassed, it looked like a pile of tribute that a Viking king might have accepted.
He would not call it a mess because Alfred had been so touched and had handled every item with care.
It still needed to be dealt with though. Arthur's tower was a cluttered space to begin with no matter how often Alfred insisted it was nice and that he liked it.
But that was a matter for later.
He could almost hear the clinic's counselors scolding him to be more present.
He had a tendency to veer off into his thoughts and concerns.
And Alfred clearly needed him to model what self-care looked like beyond clean clothes and clean floors.
He took a deep breath.
In the wane morning light, Arthur tied a bright yellow ribbon on a blackberry bush.
As he stepped back to appreciate the sight, a small hand slipped into his.
With his child skipping happily beside him and giggling whenever Arthur swung their arms or joined in to skip as well, he knew he needed to be present.
Deserved it.
This was what he'd fought for.
To return to…
And it was a return in so many ways…
It had been so long since he could skip.
He'd usually preserved his leg-strength for battlefronts and ballrooms and couldn't indulge very often in vigorous games let alone romping about like this.
He made a point to indulge now.
Perhaps as an apology to his younger self for trying to grow up too fast.
Mostly as a means to get his child more active.
Alfred needed the exercise. His stamina had suffered from being shut in.
It also came with the amusing bonus that any particularly boisterous behavior on Arthur's part shocked Alfred.
He wasn't used to a more energetic parent who could tromp around and catch him easily in a game of chase. It was terribly good fun.
And there was healing in it all.
His land…his…it wasn't quite wilderness…but it was unkempt plant life… was being appreciated in all its rustic charm.
His child loved him. Loved the land as a result. And the land knew it and reciprocated.
It seemed like every passing hour there was more greenery, even across great gouges or over rough patches of earth.
Violent magic could leave scars. Overfarmed areas could turn barren as well.
There was the spot where Merlin's scepter had struck the ground in fury at Arthur's growing arrogance and dwindling interest in helping others gain power. And that was still a good while yet before Camelot fell.
"Ye plant nothing! Ye reap nothing!"
It was a bleak, bald spot that had not grown anything for a millennia. It always made him somber—
Weak blades of grass erupted where Alfred tread across it.
Arthur's jaw dropped.
On noticing the spot had Arthur's attention, and that it wasn't blooming with the same zest every place else had when encountering him, Alfred pouted. He knelt. He removed his gloves and dug his hands into the soil.
Arthur flinched. "Er, sweet, don't-"
Because Merlin's magic was nothing to challenge, let alone flagrantly!
Alfred's eyes and the ground flashed with blue light.
White roses burst from the spot and spread outward.
Alfred carefully moved out of the way of the sprawling vines and held his arms in a "ta da!" fashion.
"For you!" The child beamed.
White roses…
Purity…
Innocence…
Loyalty…
And Merlin's censure was gone— swallowed by a display of…
Alfred came closer.
"For you" was repeated. Little fingers pointed to the flowers and more buds opened in dazzling blooms of pristine white.
"…" He was speechless.
"For you, Daddy." The voice wobbled.
That jolted him back out. "Thank you, sweetling. It's wonderful."
And the little one was satisfied though they needed to take a small break for him to rest.
Alfred yawned. "Roses are tricky. I think it's because they're beautiful. You feel bad if you mess up something like that."
Arthur settled on the grass and pulled the child onto his lap. He helped the child clean his hands with a moist wipe and set his gloves back on.
It was overwhelming to see the spot restored. It was possibly a bit over done, but that was just America's way.
Not that he could ever complain about it when… white roses meant "eternal love."
No.
No…Merlin's magic couldn't compete with that.
And he began to think that the curse of Excalibur hadn't been able to withstand it either.
The episode still upset him and he wanted it addressed but…he was able to think about it more calmly now…more critically…
It wasn't just that claws were an unusual surgical device…it was the motivation.
It was interesting to think of love as an unyielding force; something a sword couldn't cut…
Whimsical and rare and precious and yet…
No one denied that love could survive death…so what fear could it have of a sword's punishment?
It was almost insolence.
The word flagged more introspection because his child had assigned that word to himself.
Love…and…insolence….
Could love be insolent?
There was something there.
Something that had to do with spring.
Big blue eyes stared up at him. The child gave him a yawn and a sleepy smile.
Arthur cradled him closer.
Nearby, wildflowers bloomed into a sea of colors.
This.
Colonel Bertram Harris had coveted this.
To have the love of Spring…
He remembered back…back…back to being small in his mother's arms when seasons were still wild, mysterious things.
What spring had meant…
Merry chases and lofty butterflies and the bell-like laughter of pixies…
Light and hope and chances…
It could overlap with summer a bit—a slow goodbye…
But by winter…all traces…were gone.
As an adult…spring was…part of a scientific cycle of nature and planetary axes that tied into agriculture.
If he was poetic…
Spring was bright and over generous and extravagant and frivolous because… it was short-lived.
That put ice in Arthur's veins and a lump of grief in his throat and he held his child closer.
Deep blue eyes opened again with a serene expression.
Summer, Fall, Winter all slowly destroyed the efforts of Spring.
Yet, Spring remained bold. Fierce. Unapologetic. Dauntless. Resilient. Powerful enough to die every year and emerge untarnished—ready to renew the land once more in a burst of light and life.
Yes.
Harris had coveted that power.
Had already been scheming on how to use it.
Only…no part of Alfred had loved that treacherous human.
So nothing short of a contract on Beltane's might've moved the boy.
Arthur recalled Rhys's warning at the peak of the crisis and shuddered at the thought of Harris forcing Alfred to love him as a father.
He had to destroy that gramarye. The minute he was able, he had to.
"What's wrong? Would you have preferred something else? I thought you liked roses." Alfred's cheeks puffed in displeasure.
"Wot? No. I adore it. Roses were prized in medieval times."
Alfred looked pleased with himself once more. "It was a little stubborn. The land."
"Oh?"
"But I got it to change. It helps that there used to be lots of roses there."
Yes. There had been. That was what had made Merlin's actions so upsetting. All the roses had withered immediately into a pestilent, bubbling sludge.
How it had hissed and fouled the air.
Over the centuries the grass had slowly grown back except for where the scepter had hit the ground.
Any attempt to tamper or sow new seeds caused the scar on the land to grow.
"How? How…did you get it to change?" Arthur asked, genuinely curious.
Alfred stretched. "I asked."
"What did you say?"
"What do you mean? You say the same thing that you say to anything you plant."
"…I don't understand."
The child shrugged. "Please grow."
"That sounds so simple."
"That doesn't mean it's easy," Alfred tutted.
"Sorry. I suppose not."
"Asking it to change…sometimes, that's really hard to do…"
"Yes," Arthur immediately agreed with the metaphor. "It most certainly is. But often it's worth it."
"Exactly! It's happier like that. Did you…did you know? It hasn't—the land—that spot right there hasn't grown anything in years!?"
"Oho?"
"Maybe…maybe even longer than I've been alive!"
"Hmmm." He petted the child's hair gently.
"It's…hard to get my head around that sometimes."
England braced himself for a joke at his expense.
"It makes me feel…small." America reached his hands up at the sky. "I…don't like that."
Or not. They were going to talk philosophically instead.
"What's wrong with being small?" He asked, even as 'You used to be so big…great…' rang painfully through his ears.
"How will I protect those that matter to me?" the child wondered, staring at his hands.
Ever the hero…
"You will manage."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I am." Arthur grasped the small hands in his own; they fit easily in his hold.
"I don't understand."
"Sometimes you can…tower so very high that you lose sight of everything that once mattered to you. You trick yourself into thinking that you've outgrown those things. You haven't. And being made small…being humbled back down has brought what you love back into view."
Alfred looked at him shrewdly. "Are we talking about me or you? Cuz I am literally smaller and lots of stuff is harder now. I am not the primary user size of lots of things and I'm not imagining it!"
Arthur laughed and gave the little hands a squeeze before releasing them. "Me then. We're talking about me."
Alfred pouted and crossed his arms. "You're talking about both of us. But I never lost sight of what mattered to me most," Alfred insisted. "I just lost hope of succeeding. Had to let go. Couldn't deal. Tried to forget. Everything got worse. Soldiered on."
His heart hurt to hear that. "What about now?"
"W-well, yeah. S-so far so good." He flushed pink. "Kay, I'm rested! You ready to go?"
"…Very well."
With one basket of ribbons in Alfred's hand and another larger basket in Arthur's hold for gathering fruit, they scoured the land for delights.
Arthur's basket wasn't getting very full though because blackberries and blueberries were delicious.
There were never a lot of berries now that the land wasn't being actively tended but enough to serve as a nice treat.
And there were still some fruit trees to visit; those could fill up the basket nicely.
"How strong do you want them to be?" Alfred asked, his mouth was getting increasingly stained from indulging in berries.
Arthur smiled, only half listening. "Hmm?"
The blue eyes were dark with a certain wildness and his feet danced impishly.
He wanted to perform more magic.
"You don't need to cast anything more for me, love."
Alfred was disappointed by this and decided to painstakingly hunt down 40 strawberries instead.
To celebrate his triumph, America pulled on his father's arm and begged to be swung.
He'd been so terribly stifled. To think it had taken nearly a week for Arthur to thaw through that cold reserve.
And now Alfred was nostalgic and yearning for certain pieces of their past.
Only…
Arthur wasn't the same man he'd been in the 1650s.
He knew more now from his other wards and advancing medicine how swinging a child by the arms could cause injury.
He gestured for them to set their baskets down.
He compromised.
He picked his child up and spun them around faster and faster until the landscape blurred.
The joy was the same; like it was the 1680s and they'd survived a particularly stuffy sermon and Arthur felt like scandalizing a few Puritans by being carefree and happy.
Alfred's laughter rang against the stone walls nearby.
Arthur's laughter soon joined it.
Rolling thunderstorms kept them in all of the next day.
Arthur read through a batch of his son's letters to him.
The penmanship was very fine. The anecdotes were rather rambling and non sequitur.
The lackadaisical style reminded him powerfully of the early 1800s.
When it wasn't business-related…when it was a son writing to his father…Alfred was very long-winded.
Amazing, how this used to annoy him as a sign of immaturity.
And now he could easily hear his seven-year-old's voice in the run-on sentences.
There was an endearing amount of grammatical mistakes. Alfie didn't have a firm grasp on where to put commas; it was feast or famine.
Alfred also didn't realize when his sentences possessed ambiguity.
Arthur's favorite instance came in a depiction of an argument between Alba and Eire:
After lunch today, Uncle Al threw up a hand to stop Reilley in his tracks and scolded him before he could skip out.
Which would have been a sight to behold and couldn't be blamed on Arthur's cooking.
But then the following line came:
Uncle Al made him pay me back so you don't have to worry.
And he was reminded of his Irish brother being a greedy prat and taking money away from his baby.
A harsh pulse of deep resentment rang through him.
He usually celebrated the thought of his child being seen as an extension of himself…but if Reilley saw Alfred as a proxy for Arthur and an acceptable target to bully…
His fist clenched.
Temper…temper, Arthur…
Positives…
He was very pleased that Alfred was confiding in him rather than sweeping the whole matter under the rug.
He glanced over at his progeny.
His son had discovered another valet box.
Arthur took no issue in letting him play with its contents.
He was highly amused by the absurd amount of rings Alfred put on.
He listened in on the imaginative play-acting.
Apparently, the child was a magical sky pirate captain on a quest to keep his stuffed animal friends and Gyflym from falling off the edge of the world with yarn ladders.
Gyflym was back to his glory—his copper form was bright and shining and smooth. A jeweled bracelet had been set as a neck wreath for the horse.
When Alfred noticed Arthur watching, the Briton remarked, "As long as they don't wind up in a snowman's face, you may play."
Alfred put his hands on his hips. "You left that stuff! What you leave behind becomes fair game when-"
"Pish posh! Solid silver cufflinks. And my portrait-miniature. I can't believe you didn't return it!" He touched his breast pocket where said piece resided.
Sensing defeat, Alfred changed the subject somewhat. "…Thank you for letting me touch your stuff here."
"You're welcome."
"I mean it! The others didn't really…can't touch Uncle Reilley's laptop. There was hardly anything at Uncle Al's except motorcycle magazines, period. And-and Uncle Rhys has everything locked down! Baby-locks and stuff! It's insulting!"
Arthur hummed sympathetically.
"You don't treat me that way," Alfred grumbled. He examined a pearl adorned snuff box ring without seeming to recognize what it was. He stared into the compartment with innocent curiosity.
That gave Arthur pause.
America grew tobacco. Surely, he was aware of the different uses and effects and fashion trends that arose as a result?
The boy set his green marble into the compartment and listened to the rattling sound it could make.
Or maybe he was only familiar with cigarettes and cigars and pipes?
As a strapping lad, he had smoked in gentlemen's clubs, though it was usually more for commercial promotion than personal enjoyment.
He'd sport a lackluster expression when he thought no one was watching. Arthur always tried to have lots of sweet pastries waiting for the lad on his return from such ventures.
The sound of metal clinking brought him back to the present.
He watched as Alfred began playing with several Victorian pillboxes. The child was very surprised to discover they opened and took to filling them with earrings and cufflinks.
Arthur said nothing and just observed.
In addition to not reading the room, it appeared that his America was oblivious to a good many developments. And pure luck and his tendency towards isolation had steered him away from some of history's dangers and vices.
Ha.
Ah well, so it goes.
There was plenty of time to grow up. Arthur would shelter what innocence remained a while longer.
Alfred didn't know it, but there was a trapdoor located under the bed that led to a smaller room where Arthur kept his more dangerous items.
Because one should never seriously spellcast in the same space one ate and slept.
It worked out beautifully.
He watched his baby explore their shared living quarters and felt no fear.
There was an electric feeling in the air. Staticky.
It had lasted all day and into the night. His brothers were getting antsy that a tornado could be whipping up.
It wasn't the season for it. Most of his tornadoes were in spring: April and May. Usually.
When he pointed that out, Colombia muttered, "Remind me to never visit then."
His father was all invitations. "If it's uncomfortable for you, come stay with Papi. Day of Madrid. Parades and fun. You'll like it."
He did like parades. He didn't even remember telling Papi that and when he pointed that out his father gave him a perplexed look.
"Tonito, you always liked parades. Holy Weeks and weddings and anniversary."
"Toni, you even liked funerals," Colombia added.
"Huh?"
"Anything where the horses got dressed up," Venezuela remarked.
"Do you even remember? What you said to Señora Flores? Her husband had passed and you…" Colombia trailed off, caught Venezuela's eye and they both started laughing.
"'Why cry when your horses are very beautiful today?'" Argentina finished.
"Enough," Spain intervened.
Tex flushed. "Papi? Did…I?"
Spain shrugged. "You were a bebé, you didn't know what was happening. You liked Señor Flores. He let you ride with him. You didn't understand the sermon. Sleep. Death. Ascension. You were a bebé. You thought he needed to sleep in the coffin for a night and a day. And then he would rise. Lazarus did. Why not him? You were just a bebé."
"That poor lady." Tex grimaced.
"No Tonito, she needed that laugh."
"Papi went so red with embarrassment." Argentina grinned.
"Were you angry?" Tex asked.
Antonio's eyes widened in surprise. "No, Toni. Why would I be? It was my fault. I brought you and I didn't explain it all. And then, she didn't let me. She actually took you from me to keep me from explaining it. You two went to see the horses. She let you pet their plaited hair and the flowers. She needed the break. I understand it now. Needing the break…"
Texas stared up at the dark cloudy sky.
"Needed the break…" he repeated.
From grief…
Was that why Tex had left?
Yes. No. Maybe?
There'd been freedom in it, too.
Letting it all go.
Letting Tejas die…
He honestly hadn't thought deeply enough about the ripples it would make.
He'd laughed off his state's inquiries through the years about if he wanted a headstone?
He hadn't examined why they were asking him that.
His answer had been something along the lines of "as if anyone would visit it."
Earlier that evening he asked Stuart to follow up on it.
It was like Stuart had been expecting it.
There were…a lot of letters on file.
He selected a few from different spots on the timeline.
Stains and splotches marked the earliest ones.
The point of the message was always the same.
His father had been pleading with them to establish a grave for him—he'd even pay for it.
In the early 1850s, he sent multiple letters. Some of them got very, very angry—going so far as to curse them and vengefully desire the same cruelty to be visited on them for denying his requests. Which…wasn't very Christian of him…
Though it made him seem very…real…
Those ones had warnings on file to keep an eye on Spain for possible retaliation.
That made it feel more real, too.
He'd scrolled through the hyperlinks with a sense of dread and awe.
Through the Civil War…
Through the Spanish American War…
All the Frontier Wars…
Hell…he stared at the dates… and confirmed with the powers of the internet that the Spaniard had sent mail even during his own Civil War.
His father gradually backed off to sending one letter at the start of every year.
Tex felt like an ass to see that the last one had been a digital one received in the late hours of December 31, 2014 and…maybe he was looking too deeply into the time signature… but for Spain it must've been the early hours of January 1, 2015 and…that…maybe meant…he started every year missing him.
Once more, I write with hope that this year will be the one where you agree to my request.
I will cover all of the expenses. Both initial fees and ongoing maintenance have been factored in. It will cost you nothing. I will sign whatever contract is necessary. You only need to grant me this permission.
Please, my son deserves a place to be remembered and celebrated by his family.
I will not rest until he gets to do so, with peace and dignity…
"Aw hell…"
It gave him such complicated feelings.
He wondered if Al knew.
They were all about freedom back then. Devil may care never-do-wells…
Would those letters have changed things?
Would he have wanted them to?
He was so proud of their past. Everything he and Al had made and accomplished together were the highlights of his life.
But this made things…messy…
To know his father hadn't been exaggerating as he'd expected.
That his father's mourning had actually lasted centuries.
He had wanted to laugh it off whenever Spain brought it up because it didn't seem possible that someone could carry something like that, especially someone like him.
There was usually a certain point where one just got over things.
His brothers had seemed to shoulder his "death" alright. Kinda how they could accept his "life" now.
Easy come, easy go.
The wind picked up.
How was he supposed to make sense of this?
Now?
The wind grew stronger.
The urge to raise his hand and feel those gales batter him grew.
But…
Could Tex just get over Al's death? If the worst finally happened?
No.
He wanted to argue that it was different.
That their brotherhood was special.
They were special.
Spain wasn't allowed to feel that way.
It made him feel awful to think that though.
Al would've granted that freedom.
Couldn't Tex allow for it if Al could?
But Al was a hero…
Tex never knew for sure what he was…
He reached his hand out.
There was the touch of something solid.
He blinked and saw his hand was reaching into a pitch black darkness—a rift in the fabric of time-space.
Al's Uncle Snobby called it the ether, right?
Damn, it was cold.
"Toni?!"
Papi…
"Where are you? Toni?"
He pulled his hand back and the rift sealed.
"Uh…."
"Tonio?!"
"Y-yeah?! I'm…I'm over here!"
Antonio approached with his arms crossed in front of his chest. "It is late. Why are you out here?"
"Uh…Umm…"
"¿Qué pasa?"
"Huh?" His head tilted. "Uh.."
"Are you upset?"
"No?"
"Toni?"
"…" He did not feel ready to even try to explain what had just happened.
"Por favor…mijo…talk to me."
His tone was sad and heavy.
"I asked Stuart to find stuff and Stuart found stuff and that stuff is making me feel kinda bad," Tex blurted out.
"What kind of stuff?"
"…Your stuff."
"Mis cosas?"
"Letters…you wrote 'bout stuff."
His father went very pale.
He knew exactly what Tex was alluding to. "I made that request every year."
"Y-yeah."
His voice was hard. "It shocked me how they could be so cruel for so long."
"…"
"But you were not dead. Perhaps that was the clue—their refusal. I'm not clever that way," he sounded bitter. "My pain was too much for me to consider it being a trick."
"Uh…umm."
The man sighed. "It's late, Toni. Let's go in."
He took a few uncertain steps forward. "Papi…They…wanted me to get a headstone. I…I never asked why."
"…"
"I guess I assumed there was some bureaucratic reason behind it and I didn't want to make things simple for them. I never considered that you were the one making the request."
"They didn't tell you?"
"I didn't ask."
Spain's jaw tightened. "They didn't tell you, I was…I had…You had to go looking."
"They might've tried to broach it before, I just couldn't…"
"…" Even in semi-darkness with astigmatism, his father's face was clearly grim.
"I couldn't deal then. I…I know…I probably seem like such a hothead now but, Papi, I was so much worse."
"It's very late, mijo. It's very windy. Come inside now."
He let himself be ushered in. Then, his father locked the door and turned the patio light off.
He then got escorted to his room as if Spain was worried that he'd double back and wander out into the night.
"Hey, um, I'm sorr-"
"I'm glad you know," Antonio interrupted. "You have proof now, yes? When you stop and you ask yourself, was Papi thinking about me all those years? Yes, he was. I was. We can stop arguing about that."
"…Kay." Guess that was one way of looking at it.
He was embraced tightly. "Felices y dulces sueños."
He flushed a little at the sappy send off.
"Que duermas bien, Papi."
It was a blissfully lazy day.
While they'd been a bit at the mercy of the pantry, Arthur and Alfred had managed to scrape ingredients for scones.
The 40-strawberry jam was surprisingly tasty.
Goodness. Tea, scones, jam…a happy America sitting across from him who didn't wrinkle his nose while partaking in a tea party because he got to have hot cider.
They talked about poets and philosophers. Alfred's knowledge was largely concentrated in the classics. That was understandable. Whilst trying to balance his responsibilities and expenses both personally and professionally as he served in his government, served in his military, and ran his farm…he'd likely had to choose literature that was cheap and readily available.
Rhys had mentioned finding a lot of dime store novels as well as they'd gone through Alfred's and Texas's storage spaces.
The spread of literature seemed to be the distant past, the mass produced, and the highly popular.
Now that the hex had been lifted, he was curious if Alfred could withstand libraries or if it would continue to trigger a traumatic response.
Still, he hadn't reacted poorly to Arthur's bookshelves here. It made him hopeful. Each of his residences boasted a high-volume collection of books.
Knowing the boy was a reader inspired all kinds of possible adventures: they could go to all of Arthur's favorite libraries and bookstores! They could attend all sorts of literary events!
He could take his baby to a Shakespeare festival or a Renaissance madrigal!
Most of his wards were gravitating towards digital books if they were reading at all.
The world was shifting to more immediate, immersive, electronic entertainment.
But if his Alfred still enjoyed print and paper publications, which he seemed to…
Oh, he could draft some lists! And gather them up and-
Oh! He could make a special reading nook!
Alfred liked the idea.
"What do you want the nook to look like?" Alfie asked as he capped a marker.
The late afternoon found them stretched out before the fire.
"Well, it will be your corner space, dear."
"It has to be big enough that you can be there, too."
His heart warmed at that. "Alright."
"Good. I'll have to think about it."
Arthur nodded. "Very well."
He was flipping through the books Alfred had selected to see which were best for recreational pursuit, magical studies, and bedtime reading.
Alfred was drawing a picture of how they'd foraged for berries the previous day.
There was something relieving in seeing them rendered as parent and child.
Alfred no longer drew himself in an adult form. He was accepting himself as he was.
Progress.
And that the two of them were depicted together, hand in hand, with smiles.
Most definitely progress.
Alfred brandished the page at him. "What do you think?"
"Brilliant."
It was an honor to take a pin and tack it where it could be admired. He'd be sure to take it with him when they traveled back to London.
He was probably getting ahead of himself, but he could envision a refrigerator covered in such pictures and then filing them under the year in a shadow box for safekeeping. He needed to buy magnets.
Alfred was already working on another picture where a game of chase was unfolding against a backdrop of laundry when he asked, "Dad, do you ever want to renovate the tower, too? Make it electric and everything?"
Arthur considered it. "I fear there are limits. Castles are a bit more rigid in reworking their design."
"I could do it. If it mattered enough to you. It's just…whether you'd want to run all the cables from the outside in or if you wanted to remain off the grid."
"I'll keep that in mind, sweet. Hmm, a modernized castle up to your standards. Well, I guess it is a bit much to still call this a castle," he admitted, a bit self-deprecatingly.
Alfred listened intently and stopped drawing to look at him.
Arthur gave him a small smile. "O but it was a castle. A very fine castle once. O darlingheart, I wish I could show you Camelot in her prime."
"Camelot?" The marker fell out of his son's hand and rolled.
"Err." Had he not said so?
Blue eyes went almost comically wide.
He hadn't, had he?
Oh dear. It must've slipped his mind.
"This is…Camelot?!" Alfred stared around at everything.
Arthur winced. It wasn't her at her most extravagant.
It hurt suddenly to think the kingdom was a letdown for his boy.
Alfred dashed to the other side of the tower.
"Alfie?"
The child threw the doors to the balcony open.
Arthur gasped. Hard stormy gales of wind whipped through the space.
He wasn't actually going to go out into—
Yes, he was.
"Alfie?! Alfred!" Arthur tripped in his haste to stand up.
"CAMELOT!" The child cried in excitement. He was trying to peer through the balustrades.
"Alfred, it is storming! You'll be drenched."
Alfred bounced on his feet which were—
"You-gah! You're barefoot! Come back inside—at once!"
Lightning flashed.
Arthur felt an almost instinctive alarm at the danger such weather could present.
The child didn't react with any fear. He was too young. Some of his past military mistakes made awful sense...
A chill went down his spine and Arthur was moving.
"Good lord, there's lightning! Alfred Faer Kirkland-Jones! You-"
Arthur bumped into a trunk in his haste to get out there. He cursed.
"Alfie, it's a hurly burly-!"
He gasped in horror as Alfred levitated himself up to stand on the balcony's railing for a better look.
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