Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Or Disney's Dumbo. Or Arthurian legends. Or Paganini's Caprice No. 5.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Some symptoms of PTSD? References of child neglect. Details of unhealthy thinking/past interactions.
AN: Hey! : D I hope you have a Happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate!
Thank you for reading!
Byakuyalove, Vaughn20, Lapis Bapis, Scarletnightcrawler, Chrysanthium13, Amerikia, Time Traverser, MythPlacedLogic, waterdragon and guests! Thank you for reading! I wanted something for you for the holiday! But now I'm too antsy to wait for tomorrow and I thought, well, some of you might be traveling right now sooo...
ENJOY! :DDD
Chapter 7: The Best and Most Brilliant Plan
Alfred looked around the cozy, pale yellow room. It had an assortment of toys and games for a multitude of ages in its slightly chipped, built-in cubby shelves. There was a large worn chest at the foot of the bed that held puzzles and word search booklets and magnets that went to an easel board in the corner.
He was even allowed to play with everything.
The party yesterday had surprised him.
"I'm the special guest?!" His jaw dropped and he half-imagined Arthur scolding him for it.
"But of course you are. Now, what would you like to do first?"
"…How did you… know that I like this stuff?" Alfred asked.
Mrs. Gray smiled. "Sherwin said you liked 'Dumbo.'"
He looked over at the man, who smiled gently at him with the air of someone who'd nearly burst at having to hold in a secret.
Those small details had gone down in the man's memory…and been shared? Like it was something important?
"I used to work in a circus," Alfred confided.
"How did that happen?"
"The military wouldn't reenlist me while I was still missing an eye and some fingers after 1812. Plus, my right leg was kinda messed up."
She nodded. "I see. What did you do there?"
He became aware that Mr. Gray was also paying him very close attention.
"I worked as a clown while I healed up and eventually took my act up to the highwire."
No one wanted to see him tightrope walk now though. Mr. Gray went rather green at the thought and warned him abruptly not to play on their roof.
Granted, Alfred would've been rusty as hell, but being able to fly now? He could totally cheat. And their house was only two stories, with or without powers it was unlikely a fall would kill him unless he landed terribly.
But saying that got him scolded by everyone not to be anywhere too high up.
Mrs. Gray mentioned she had sparklers then.
He hadn't gotten to have sparklers at his fake birthday party.
Saying that outloud made Rhys cringe and Mrs. Gray's eyebrows rose. "Fake birthday party?"
After explaining the details and giving a thumbs-up cuz it wasn't all bad—the pics turned out great—Mrs. Gray asked if that was what he wanted to do first.
It totally was.
That woman understood him.
There was something special about waving sparklers around a backyard.
Patriotic and magical…
Seeing Mrs. Gray standing nearby with a sparkler in hand because she wasn't too old to know fun, Alfred mumbled, "…You're kinda like a fairy godmother…"
"Oh?"
Damn. Her hearing aid was turned up.
She was a stranger who'd whirlwind-swirled into his life and made it better for no real reason except that he was the hero. And he wasn't even hero-ing right now.
"How else could I…already be special to you? You haven't known me long enough to care—"
"Hmph, I know you well enough to decide for myself and I'm an excellent judge of character. I don't usually indulge pure whimsy. But, if you're set on thinking of me in that light. I'll just resign myself to it. What's your next wish, then?"
He felt kind of spoiled. He'd been on the receiving end of a lot of get-togethers and kindly thought out gestures and presents lately.
There was a soft knock at the door.
"Come in! Come in!" He called—looking forward to more company.
"Are you having another good day, Al?" Mathieu asked as he came over to sit on the simple, quilt-covered bed.
"Yeah!" He answered immediately, bounding up to his brother and clambering up to sit beside him to show off the cool, wooden train he'd found.
Mathieu took note of the locomotive's intricately carved designs and the moving sets of wheels and spun a wheel. "I'm glad. The Grays are trustworthy. We can rely on them."
There was something nostalgic and bittersweet wrapped up in that.
In humans that were…good…
"Y-yeah…I…usually keep my distance when I can, ever since…they first started telling me not to show up for things… for funerals. Later…after 1812…the distance increased because I…the way I…looked…still looked…made people uncomfortable. Even some of my last founding fathers were…So, you start walking yourself back. You stay back. You become accustomed to it. And you don't just do it physically." Alfred turned the toy over in his hands. "It infiltrates your conversations and your thoughts. You start holding back all the time. And it makes sense when all the humans that are nice are fleeting, like Davy. Or are cruel like Harris or they're apathetic and sneaky and power-hungry and greedy. Or they're good, but that means they're better off far away. Safer. Before you know it, you're not just treating humans like that. It's everyone."
Mathieu sighed. "My counselor…says it's hard breaking out of patterns of thinking, especially ones that seem to help in the short term. I'm thinking…you didn't have to deal with betrayal because no one was trusted."
His brother was eerily insightful.
Alfred shrugged. "It was simple. It was…so simple but…lonely, too. I almost forgot how nice it could be. John was nice like this, like them. The Grays. Part of me is still...The funerals are so hard and I hated having to stand so far away. I'm probably not making much sense-"
"No. You are, Al. It's a hard thing. Grief. Trust. Family. Friendship. Community. Identity. Those are really hard things to lose."
"Yeah, but…" Did he lose them or did he give them away? There'd been a cutthroat, deliberateness to his actions. A decision that he wasn't going to keep dealing with the same hurt over and over so he started severing bonds.
Freedom…
Though, it came with costs…
The emptiness of crowded assemblies as strangers applauded his achievements. The willingness to be sent off into the wilderness because there would never be anyone waiting for him. The cold conviction that this was neat, and tidy, and for the best.
And the admiration he roused in his wake as he moved through—shining and untouchable with a million impossible feats he had to somehow accomplish…because he was the hero.
"It's a good thing," Mathieu stated with quiet certainty. "Fostering more friendships and familial ties—"
Blue eyes narrowed. "If it's a good thing, why does it make me feel so small?"
Violet eyes blazed. "Because these are really big things. Everyone's small when it comes to them. Even heroes."
Alfred sighed and flopped backwards on the bed to stare up at the ceiling. He held the train to his chest. "Seems complicated."
"Nets are complicated."
"Huh?"
"Lots of lines carefully knotted together. But that's how safety nets catch people. It takes effort to make a net. It takes effort to care and be cared about by others. But, when you have lots of people who care about you…you have lots of people ready to catch you."
"Oh…"
"I'm one of those people, Al."
Alfred stared hard at a shelf that had an electric train model on it and smiled—sleeker and more expensive than the train toy he was holding. "...I'm glad for you, that must be nice."
"Huh? N-no, Al, I'm saying that I'm one of those people looking out for you!"
Tex gave a cursory glance at the votive candles that had been gathered and lit, half-surprised that he'd had those.
Though, Spain had helped him decorate the place the last time he was here and probably had a good mental inventory of his belongings. Maybe better since Tex had been sick when they'd unloaded his storage units.
Julio and Erin had finally returned to work (though Erin was still a little oozy) and Tina was due back late that night, so he (and his relations) were able to leave for his actual hacienda to rest.
Damn, having to introduce his employees to his family members…
The shame!
Colombia and Venezuela looked biker-gang tough, and acted like meatheads, and suddenly found every excuse to lose their shirts while working!
Thankfully, Erin laughed it off. Honestly, she was happily engaged!
Idiotas.
Argentina was easier to deal with on a lot of fronts, except his brother kept complaining that he wanted tartas, which South Italy fully endorsed.
Tch. Quiche? Who the hell ever really wanted quiche? That was what a man ate at snobby vegetarian-hosted weddings because he was starving half to death.
And why Tex made a new rule last January to only attend the wedding segments of those and he'd pick Al up from the reception later…and then they'd go by McDonald's.
"Tejas!"
"Yeah. So, I did some grocery shopping cuz…somehow none of you like spicy food." He gave them a flat look and shook his head. "Which is a sin so y'all better throw in some Ave Maria's while you're at whatever this is—"
"Shut up!" Colombia hissed.
That ruffled him.
"Don't you tell me to shut up in my own house. Only Al gets to do that. And that usually means something poisonous is near my feet." He checked. "Nope—"
"Shut up!" Venezuela seconded.
"Look around you," Argentina advised and used his hands to demonstrate.
That was more reasonable. Bible. Candles. Photos.
He swallowed a curse.
It was a Catholic remembrance.
There was a human with watery, bloodshot eyes on the television screen that his family was Skyping with. There were even a multitude of other video boxes, he squinted, with people who seemed somewhat familiar?
Shit! Those were his other siblings!
He shuffled back near Argentina to ask a quick, "What's going on?"
"You'd know if you came here on time!" Colombia hissed.
"I was gettin' you the weird ass not-bananas!" He opened the grocery bag to show the unnatural, slightly unsettling—
"Plantanas!" was the soft cheer from two of his older brothers.
"And stuff for your quiche," he growled at Argentina.
He got pats on the back and information:
"That's Señor Garcia."
"He works with Papá in his government—"
"He lost his little boy, Gabriel, um-"
"Twelve years old. Playing fútbol-"
"And Papá would be there in person except—"
"Some stupid Americano needed him to drop everything and wrangle his saintly other sons and rush over-"
"Oh." Tex fidgeted.
They took the groceries from him.
"Go. Introduce yourself."
"Um."
"En espanol first. Be polite." Argentina whisked his hat off. "And then you can Spanglish to your heart's content."
"Hey-"
He was given a light shove forward.
"H-hola. Me llamo…Antonio Geraldo Jones Fernández Carriedo."
"You…you are Tejas," the man realized.
He perked up. "Yeah, I'm Tejas!"
Did his father really talk about him? He'd kinda assumed it was one of those white lies parents told kids—I'm always thinking about you, Junior. Wink.
Señor Garcia gave a sad laugh. "Antonio…"
"Sí?" They both answered.
Tex flushed. "Er…right, he…he means you-"
Spain wrapped an arm around him.
"I'm glad you…you've been reunited," the man choked out. He looked at Texas and took in a shuddering breath. "Your Papá was so…happy to find you, again."
There was something loaded in that statement—simple yet cryptic.
His father wept.
It caught him off guard.
"Tejas!" His brothers prompted him, except he didn't know what to do.
Shit!
Al was better at spelling out or pantomiming instructions for him.
He stared at them. He stared harder, willing them to get it.
Argentina figured it out. "Brasser!" He stated in a loud whisper.
Awkward back pat it was.
"Tonto, you hugged him before! We saw you!" Venezuela pointed at him.
"Do that! What you did then. Now!" Colombia instructed.
"Uh, ummm." But there was a non-family member and his other estranged family—God, there were some he hadn't even met yet, watching. "But-"
"But what?!"
"But-"
"What, Toni?"
Damn, did they all forget?
He knew it by heart and recited it flawlessly: 'Weakness is a luxury best met with privacy.'
He got that one all the time as a kid for being such a crybaby.
He wasn't exactly sure what he expected…but not this.
They all sorta froze on hearing it: his brothers, his father…
Romano laughed darkly from a seat nearby. "You earned that, España."
Spain was very quiet before he stated in a low voice, "I was wrong. It was wrong. To teach that. I am sorry, Tejas."
Tex stared. "I...I don't…understand…no comprendo-"
"Tienes que desaprender-"
"¿Por que?" Texas's head tilted to the side.
It wasn't wrong all the time. Vulnerability depended a lot on the circumstances.
Was this human someone his father really trusted?
"I keep forgetting you…have everything from before and not after. It should be obvious but…I keep forgetting," Colombia muttered.
"Huh?"
His other brothers came closer to comfort their parent.
He shuffled off to the side.
He'd failed at whatever this was, whatever it was he was supposed to be doing, like usual.
He sighed.
He needed to put those groceries away.
He could do that.
Still, he hadn't moved another full step away before he was pulled back into the thick of it.
"No, Tejas, por favor-"
His father's tone…
Okay, maybe there was a little guilt sinking in now?
Maybe he'd said the wrong thing?
Maybe cutting off all contact wasn't the best and most brilliant plan after all? Like it had seemed years ago.
But he had been freshly sixteen and angry; spite seemed like a good fix for being hurt.
His father held him tighter and begged him not to go.
And maybe some of that hurt was still down there because he wasn't quite willing to own up that it was stupid and self-serving…let alone apologize.
Though, damn, if it didn't make him uncomfortable.
It had never done that before.
On finishing up "Caprice No. 5," Alfred lowered his violin and walked with the instrument and bow over to the chair where Mrs. Gray was knitting a blue pair of mittens.
"Quite lovely, thank you," she said while her needles worked.
She was not overly impressed with his rendition but not ungrateful either.
There was something reassuring and aggravating in that.
"Sometimes, you remind me of Dad. So measured in everything."
"Measured?"
"Deliberate. Certain."
She chuckled. "Ah, arrogant-"
"No. Certain," he repeated louder—not wanting to be misunderstood.
She paused in her work. "Sorry, love. My hearing aid must've malfunctioned. Say it again, now."
"Certain. He's certain about things. It makes him safe. Usually, the only certainties life provides is Death and Taxes, or so Ben says. Said. Usually, if someone or thing is predictable, it's bad. Unless it's the sun, I'm always relieved when the sun…I'm not… saying this well. I'm not saying this in a good way where the analogy matches up. I should've thought it over more before I opened my mouth. I haven't said anything of use."
"I wouldn't go so far as that. You didn't say anything profound, true enough. But you said I'm like your father? And you meant it as a compliment, correct? That's how you intended it?"
"Yes."
"Then, thank you, Alfred."
"I miss him. I'm seeing him in everything and everyone on account of missing him so much." He blinked hard.
She put aside her craft and made room for him to squeeze into the chair beside her.
He carefully wiped down his instrument with a cloth, loosened the bow's hair, set the violin and bow back into their hard case, and then sat beside her.
"I miss him."
"I know."
"He gave me this violin."
"Oh?"
"In the 1700s."
"And you kept it in tiptop condition. Bravo."
His cheeks puffed. "You make it sound like that's the more impressive part. Paganini's stuff is always very technically difficult, I'll have you know."
"You're seven. And I can see with my own eyes that you take excellent care of that violin. And you're telling me that you've done so…for centuries. My nine year old granddaughter has lost three retainers to the trash because she wraps it in a napkin at mealtimes and she forgets. She's only had retainers for two years. So, yes, I do know the more impressive feat when I see it."
Rhys knelt down to talk more easily with his nephew.
He would be leaving very early in the morning to fetch Arthur.
Alfred yawned and fiddled with the sleeve ends of his heavy flannel pajamas.
Rhys nodded approvingly. By securing warm sleepwear for his nephew he'd been able to return Mathieu's hoodies.
Mathieu had been surprised to have the garments back. "I don't mind Al using these."
"I've bought him some sweaters. I washed that jacket of Arthur's that he's warmed up to as well. It was becoming filthy."
Mathieu looked troubled. "You know why he's wearing it, right?"
Yes. He was sentimental. But Rhys didn't want him catching something because of a lapse of good hygiene.
Rhys carefully picked Alfred up to return him to bed. "Repeat back the rules, please."
The child's cheeks puffed a bit in displeasure but acquiesced, "No answering the door or the phone. No interacting with fae. No dares. No wandering on the roof or outside. No juggling. No flying. No spellcasting. Ummm…"
"No logging in on websites or accounts."
"Right and-and pretty much don't cause any trouble."
"Very good."
Then, Alfred remembered some extra ones from their hosts.
"Oh! The rule of bagsy. The last cookie or sweet is automatically mine. They said so. Oh, and the Grays forbid me from performing repair work on their behalf."
"Reilley and Alistair were working you? What were you repairing?" He growled.
"I need to contribute to the household or else I'm just taking—"
"No, chwb. You're contributing. You're very good and helpful without doing that."
"Uncle Rhys?"
"Mmhmm?"
The child gripped the lapels of Rhys's jacket with sudden fierceness. "You're…you're absolutely sure he wants to see me, right?"
The Welshman paused in the hallway surrounded by family photos of the Grays. Alfred gazed out at the frames with a wistful expression.
Rhys felt a chill and wondered now what his nephew had thought of Kirkland Manor and all of their homes and hiding spots that hadn't boasted a single picture of him.
"Alfred, believe me. Your father most definitely wants to see you. He has inquired after you constantly."
His nephew released a heavy breath and swallowed, "O-okay."
His grip loosened.
"It may be late when we get in. There are some tasks to accomplish and I want Arthur to go by his London flat for himself and for you to get things the two of you will need while we wait for your passport to be finalized."
"Do you need stuff from your place?"
"Don't worry about me, chwb, I've enough to last me a stint."
Alfred nodded.
He set the child back into bed and pulled the covers up and ruffled the blond hair. "Any requests?"
He hovered unsurely—telling himself that if a "goodbye kiss" was directly asked of him that he'd step up.
Except…
Alfred assured him with a forced smile, "I don't need anything. I appreciate all that you've done already."
Such a hollow feeling…that left in him….
Because far too little had been done for a very long time…and this wasn't much at all…
"Chwb…"
The smile faltered. "I just want…want him here."
"I'll tell him to make haste," he promised.
A thoroughly agitated Rhys turned to Reilley as they approached the doors.
The Irishman had at first requested to be picked up and then canceled and then decided on taking an Uber and had only just arrived, twenty minutes late.
Rhys's eyebrows twitched in vexation.
"What now?" His younger brother complained. "Aye, aye, I'm late, get over it."
Hazel eyes narrowed. "You're going to be delightful company today or so help me—"
Arthur abruptly appeared as the doors opened with a look of grim determination and a small knapsack.
"Clinician discharged me."
They both stammered a hello and a shaky congratulations.
He gave a stiff nod and moved outside.
Over a Full English Breakfast at a local cafe, Rhys shared pictures of Alfred.
Arthur's mood immediately lightened, though he noted, "These are the same ones from months ago before he went into hiding. Have you nothing more recent?"
"Err…" The sound of uncertainty was a miscalculation.
Piercing green eyes stared at him much as they had in the few times they'd had to joust against each other during a tournament. It was usually a relief when Alistair took him out early on to prevent it.
"I…do."
Arthur nodded, pleased. "Don't keep me in suspense, then."
"Right."
On seeing pictures from the tea party, the Englishman frowned. "These are all so far away."
Yes. They were glimpses. Some of them were slightly blurry.
Closer pictures would've shown Alfred's declining health.
Even still—
Arthur's frown deepened as he magnified the images as much as he could.
"Alfie looks awfully pale. You haven't strictly kept him indoors, have you? My sweet needs sunlight and fresh air and nature. You can't let him be stifled. Has he been eating? He looks thin. Has he been ill? You would tell me if he's been ill? Has he-"
"He hasn't been ill!" Reilley insisted through a full mouth of eggs.
Arthur wrinkled his nose. "I don't just mean viruses and bacteria. If he's heartsick—"
"Arthur-"
"—for too long without a change of attitude, then he'll fall into—"
"He's missed you terribly," Rhys stated.
Arthur's eyebrows drew together. "He isn't well, is he?"
Rhys sighed and showed more photos of the child.
Ones that were close up.
He was very pale.
His hair was dull and limp and, now Rhys realized from the comparison of earlier images, overgrown and scraggly.
There were deep violet circles around his eyes. Even though he was trying to smile for the picture…he looked…a bit… miserable.
"Fatigue?" Arthur asked urgently.
Reilley scoffed, "Don't know how he can be. He sleeps all the time-"
"Oversleeping can cause that, too. What other behaviors are at work? Changes in appetite? He looks thin." Arthur wanted answers.
They reluctantly nodded.
"Low mood? Anxious? Stress? Fear? Bouts of crying?" He demanded.
"Boyo's been a fountain of unhappiness."
Arthur made a sound of distress and pulled the phone out of Rhys's hand to better scan the picture for details. "It sounds like situational depression. I've had nothing to do but read pamphlets. Look, if it's not lessening, he'll need psychotherapy before it worsens into clinical depression."
Rhys felt his insides squirm; he should've kept the child with him.
"Let's call him. I tried earlier and he didn't answer his phone." Arthur moved to Rhys's phone's address book.
"He only has an emergency phone, right now. I don't have it listed there."
"Tell me the number."
"Arthur, you will wait. We will get your prescriptions from the pharmacy, check in with Parliament, go to your flat, pack what you need along with anything you want for Alfred, and then continue on."
Arthur looked mutinous. "Tell. Me."
"It is 9 hours or so. Less if you're efficient, more if you are not. I'm sorry, Arthur, I won't compromise Alfred's safety here at the end as a salve for your impatience."
Though, he was deeply sorry he couldn't do more.
"…Sorry. Now, finish your breakfast, brawd bach."
The tension was thick.
Reilley changed the station again to have something to do while Rhys had the vehicle's wheel in a white-knuckle deathgrip.
Arthur rode in the backseat in angry silence.
He was frigid to the pharmacist. He was hostile to Parliament when he checked in. He was curt to their lunch servers.
He didn't relax, even once they were inside his London flat.
His cat was a little standoffish himself after being left to the housekeeper's care.
But some catnip and a scratch behind the ears went a long way to mending the bond and turning him sociable once more.
The friction between brothers wasn't so easy to soothe.
"All of his things are here," Arthur observed.
He was seated on his child's bed—as it had been left, with a mess of items gathered to be packed and then weren't.
His hands were gentle as they handled small coats and braces and shoes.
"He loves these. Why wouldn't you let him have these?" Arthur picked up the trainers—lights began flashing on them.
"I believe the aim was not to pack anything too flashy," Rhys replied stiffly from the doorway.
Arthur set the shoes down on the floor.
"You said he's been cold. All of his long sleeved shirts are here! His sweaters and his coats—"
"An oversight. I have bought him some clothing to-"
"His toys, Pilot and Scales." He reached for the eagle plush. "I understand not taking the bigger ones." He gestured to the game stations. "B-but…none of his practice books, or coloring things, or anything? What did you allow him besides Hop!?"
"Easy now," Reilley stepped in to deflect some of the vitriol away from Rhys. "The other children brought him some things. And I let him carve designs in the bed posts and make tile designs. See?"
He showed pictures on his phone. He'd been saving them to calm his brother down.
"You had him labor on your home projects?" He hissed.
It did sound bad phrased like that.
"Uh…he asked to?"
Arthur snatched the phone away from him.
"Oi!"
He swiped through images.
"Oi!" He blushed hard. "I have some pics that are priv-"
"You allowed a small child to wield knives. Good God man, were you at least supervising!?"
And then it sounded worse.
He squirmed. "Boyo knew what he was doing."
Arthur flung the phone back at him and then held the eagle toy tightly to his chest.
He was furious.
No, worse, he was upset.
"Go get the tissue box, Eire," Rhys requested tiredly.
As he left, he overheard Albion hissing:
"You have grudges. You have anger. At me. Fine! That's fine. That's earned. But you vent it at me—"
"Arthur, that's not-"
His voice got louder and more distraught. "How could you take so much away? I don't care if you think I spoil him! I don't care if you think it's too much. You don't get to decide what I'm allowed to give him! You don't get to strip him of it! Alfie is my baby and these are his things."
"Arthur, please-"
"No! Whatever excuse you have isn't good enough!"
"I'm sorry."
"That's NOT good enough!"
Rhys had a migraine that was slicing through his eye like an ice pick.
Reilley was taking a smoke break.
The smell of ash irritated him even more.
"Go see what's taking Arthur," Rhys ordered.
Reilley seemed ready to sneer a refusal when Rhys's stomach growled loudly.
"Should I order us some takeout to be delivered here and then we'll continue on?" Reilley asked as he put out the cigarette on Arthur's kitchen counter..
"Yes. See if you can get Arthur to agree on it."
"Oh aye, our history suggests I'll be able to do that."
"Please."
"I'll try."
So much for Rhys's plans. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Sorry, Alfred.
He grabbed a napkin to clean the cigarette mess up.
He couldn't even promise they'd make it there before dawn.
When Reilley returned without their brother in tow, he felt his head begin pounding even worse. "What now? Where is he?"
Reilley shrugged his shoulders. "Dunno. Can't find him. Not here."
"WOT?!"
"I said he's not here, Rhys. I can't sense him. Can you?"
Cachu hwch!
Alfred was devastated.
He obsessively checked the window again.
The sun had set; there were no headlights approaching.
Were they even coming tonight?
They were supposed to have a late dinner. That was how Alfred had understood it.
When 9 o'clock had come and went, the foil on plates came off and the food was reheated in the microwave.
He could barely eat anything.
Something had happened.
Something had changed Arthur's mind about coming.
Mathieu kept saying that would never happen and it was just a little delay. And he let him borrow his luckiest sweatshirt to wear over his pajamas and under Arthur's jacket.
Mr. Gray tucked him into bed after reading a story that Alfred could recall nothing about.
"He didn't call," Alfred mumbled.
The man paused and sighed.
"He's not coming," the American whispered.
The man gave him a stern look. "There must be traffic and it's raining quite hard right now. We want them to drive safely. Therefore, they are driving more slowly."
"I want to be awake when they—"
"Very well. Rest now so you can be up and about later. Though, we're having a feast of pancakes in the morning, so you may want to rest so you'll be ready for it."
He barely remembered blandly agreeing and the light going out and plunging into unconsciousness.
He came to with a rough shake.
"Iggy?"
Dad hadn't been like that since the trenches in WWI and imminent danger—
"Up. Get yeh up."
"Uncle Al?" He asked groggily half-certain he'd hear an air raid.
"Shh. C'mon. Pack a knapsack—only bring what you need most. Don't be loud about it. Quick now."
There was something urgent in his uncle's tone.
He threw his shoes on and scrambled to heed the instructions.
"My toiletries are in the—"
"Don't bother," Alistair growled.
Ewww.
He made a face. "Kay."
He was going to have to demand mouthwash at least at the next hideout.
"We're going out into that." Alistair pointed to the open window and lightning flashed.
Alfred pulled a pair of jeans over his pajama bottoms for an extra layer of warmth and zipped up his father's jacket over Mattie's sweatshirt—hoping Mattie wouldn't mind if he took it. He needed some extra good luck.
He didn't have any rainproof clothes.
Oh well.
His uncle carefully picked him up.
"Hold on tight to me." And Alistair climbed down the lattice to the garden where a horse was waiting.
Since it wasn't a boat, Alfred had no complaints.
It was a cold rain, though; he wished that he could've taken a blanket, too. But there were a lot of things he wished for and he was used to not getting them.
He shivered and tried to burrow backwards into his uncle.
"Stop that. I can't hold you. I have to mind the reins."
Alfred leaned forward and curled his fingers into the wet mane of the horse and tried to take some warmth from the animal's skin.
The discomfort reminded him of the plains. Though, at least there was coverage with trees here.
But that made everything darker and he could feel that the place was crawling with fae.
He shivered harder and tried to separate his thoughts from his feelings.
He had to deal with this. He had to. He'd dealt with worse.
Since Alistair was in no mood to talk, Alfred focused his everything into the rolling motion of the horse's gait and it gradually lulled him into a fitful sleep.
He awoke when it was clear he was being moved. Rain splattered more violently against his face through a gap in overhead foliage and he spluttered.
There was very little light, but he could see just enough to know he was being passed to another rider. This one was dressed in black with a dark hooded cloak.
It was not Reilley.
It was not Rhys.
His anxiety ramped into high gear.
"Noo. Uncle Al?" He whined and grasped at the man's forearms.
"Stop that."
"Don't leave me," Alfred begged.
He was set down on the saddle of a…unicorn?
"Laddie? Look up," Alistair instructed gruffly.
He did. But he couldn't see much—the hood hid the man's eyes and darkness and fatigue made the rest ominous. And his track record for luck was terrible at this point; he tried not to whimper.
"Hullo, sweet."
Arthur was certain he'd endured battles less stressful than this.
When enemy arrows flew and there was an eternity of uncertainty before they landed as they may…
His child had gone perfectly and terribly still. His face was so white and his eyes were so wide, it made doubt crash through England.
As if the weather hadn't been enough to give him pause about this course of action, the child's petrified expression…
It was too fast. Too sudden. What was he thinking?! The baby wasn't ready for him to just come gallivanting back in after—
CRICK.
He fought a shudder.
"D-daa-!"
"Sh!" Alistair clamped a hand over the child's mouth—cutting off the cry.
There was a muffled sob.
Arthur's heart wrenched at the sound and he roughly swatted his brother's hands away.
The child immediately tried to turn around.
"Stop! No, sit down!" Alistair commanded.
"It's fine!" Arthur intervened.
Arthur helped the child to turn around completely.
Small arms twined around his neck.
There was a low wail against his chest.
Whatever terror, whatever uncertainty, whatever weakness Arthur was still afflicted with—love overcame fear.
"I love you. Loveyouloveyouloveyou," he assured as he kissed the little brows, both cheeks, the crown of his head, and each temple before nuzzling their noses. "It will be alright."
The child was ice cold. His hair was wet. He was shivering violently.
He noted offhandedly that the little one was wearing a jacket of his. If there hadn't already been a lump in his throat…
"Y-you're here. You're back. You're here," the child babbled breathlessly, trying to keep his voice quiet.
Arthur realized with a shock, "You didn't tell him to expect me!?"
Alistair shook his head.
"Did you m-m-miss me, D-d-daad-?"
"Without end, sweetling. I love you so much. You've been so very good. Thank you, Alfie. Such a good lad. My sweet, sweet darlingheart."
The word still sent a little chill through him.
Darlingheart.
For deorlingheorte…
He pressed another fierce kiss to the child's temple.
The child curled into him for equal parts warmth and affection.
He gathered the child close and turned to his brother. "You oaf! He's soaked and half-frozen! You hold this umbrella for us while I help him!"
He maneuvered the child to sit side saddle while he moved a bag nearer.
He pulled out a dry pair of trousers for the child.
Luckily, a pair of thick, woolen, winter pajamas had provided a barrier so the wet hadn't seeped all the way through Alfred's clothes.
Well done, Rhys, he thought begrudgingly. That was a good purchase.
All knackered out and with fingers numb from cold, Alfred needed help getting the fresh clothes on.
Arthur helped him pull on a pair of rain resistant trousers over the jimjams, so he wouldn't sacrifice more body heat…or fall off the equine. Poor dear had lost weight and the task was easily done.
He peeled off the coat which had done little to guard his child from the elements.
He stared a beat at the maple leaf hoodie underneath.
"Mattie says…says this one's l-lucky."
It was probably this garment that had saved Alfie from suffering hypothermia. It had kept his core just warm enough. But it was soggy and needed to be changed out.
"How kind of him? We'll have to do something nice in return."
Alfred nodded solemnly.
Arthur guided small arms first into a dry jumper and then into a nice, sapphire Mackintosh that he'd purchased after that horrid accident in December.
"There, that's better."
He set the pocket warmers he'd opened earlier, in anticipation of Alfred's arrival, into the pockets of the garment.
"And here you go."
He then swapped Alfred's socks for a dry, woolen pair and changed his current shoes for a set of wellies that matched his new coat and put the sopping wet trainers in a plastic bag and tied it to the saddle.
"Yes, that will do nicely."
"…"
"You're very quiet, love."
He was getting worried.
"Are you tired, Alfie?"
There was another nod mixed with a shrug.
"What's wrong?" Arthur asked urgently. "Tell me."
"…I'm…n-not s'posed to talk too much or too l-loud while I'm outside, while I'm supposed to be incognito. My accent gives me away."
Thick eyebrows furrowed. "You are welcome to talk."
"…Uncle Al and Uncle Rhys and Uncle Reilley say—"
"I am your father and I say it is alright."
Alfred leaned back into him.
He gave the child an affectionate squeeze. "I'm here. It's alright. Everything will be alright."
Alfred's stomach growled.
Arthur busied himself with another bag and pulled out a thermos of bone broth. Once more he was grateful for his own foresight; he'd begun stocking cartons of it in his pantry following Yule.
He hadn't cared a whit earlier, packing up food items while Reilley stared.
This was what he'd been planning for.
He did a quick temperature check with a careful sip through the straw.
Perfect. Not too hot. Pleasantly warm and hearty.
"Here, love. You have this."
He also pulled out a small carton of Finz. "And these, if you're peckish. Once you're done, we'll get your mittens on."
"The hell is this?" Alistair hissed from where he was leaning precariously from his own mount to keep them sheltered beneath the umbrella; the horse beneath him was moving a bit restlessly. "Have you forgotten? Tha's a unicorn. Majestic creature and that one's an actual warhorse—and you put it in a saddle?! Sacrilege! Mam would have your hide! And as if that weren't enough, used like…like a sedan for—You going to set up a telly, too?"
"Thank you. I knew I was forgetting something," Arthur offered blandly and then dug in his pocket for an MP3 player and set the earbuds in the child's ears.
"How's that, Alfred? I tried to pick some relaxing music in case you wanted to sleep." Nice New Age instrumentals meant lots of harps and strings and meditative chords. The point was to soothe.
"…What madness is this!? We did not plan such—"
"Mettlebryht knew what he was signing up for. Otherwise, Swiftglen was going to have the privilege," he barked back.
"Privilege!?"
"Yes," he answered distractedly while he moved the bag back. "Guarding and transporting Brenhin. He'll have a king's favor and a father's gratitude."
Once settled, he planted another kiss on the top of his child's head before pulling up the hood on the child's blue raincoat.
He took his umbrella back from his brother, closed it, and hooked it back on the saddle.
The Scotsman scoffed, "I packed some supplies for you two, not that you likely need them with all that you've got there."
"Thank you."
"I'll escort you to the barrier and wait to make sure little Al doesn't have a reaction."
"We appreciate that." Arthur arranged his cloak so that Alfred could be covered by it; he'd chosen this one because it was a voluminous full-circle pattern; so, even though it had arm slits, it wouldn't let in much cold.
His son was eating and he seemed fond of the music. Sometimes, he'd bounce a foot in time with the beat.
Then, Alfred abruptly handed the thermos and snack carton back.
The thermos sloshed. Only half of it had been eaten.
He gently removed one earbud from Alfred's left ear.
"Are you certain? You've hardly had any."
There was a nod.
"Alfred?"
"I'm tired now."
"Alright." Arthur packed the food away for later.
He pulled the child to rest securely against him. "You still want music?"
Another nod and Alfred set the loose earbud back in and accepted the pair of mittens Arthur handed him.
Arthur adjusted the cloak to cover the little one even more from the rain. Alfred's weight soon grew languid.
It was peaceful. It was outwardly peaceful.
Rain fell and trees swayed and the soft gait of hooves on soggy ground continued.
His child had been returned to him. He was alive. He was relieved to see Arthur.
All critical things.
A muscle in Arthur's jaw ticked.
But he was also cold, miserable, and in poor health.
And he hadn't smiled at any point during this reunion.
He'd been overjoyed to see Arthur. He could sense it. But there'd been no smiles. Not even a fake one.
Which, he supposed, at least meant he no longer saw Arthur as someone he needed to pretend and perform for. That was progress. Even though it hurt to see his son so grievously unhappy.
The initial gratitude he'd felt for his brothers taking over his responsibilities in this area was dissipating.
He mentally worked through a whole litany of anger management exercises to try and curb the maelstrom swirling in him.
After an hour passed, Alistair sighed from where he was and looked over his shoulder at Arthur. "Do you…need me to lead? I know you don't go there much anymore. And it's dark and late and stormy and you're on meds now."
Arthur's eyebrows twitched.
Bloody hell.
Arthur had been traveling at an easy pace for Alfred's sake.
Arthur didn't want to lose any supplies by going too fast.
Arthur was keen to avoid a competition because Alistair was a major pillock who liked being first in a company and Arthur had more important things to bloody worry about right now!
Arthur's eyes flashed at the same time as the lightning. He urged Mettlebryht to pass his brother's steed and spat loud enough to be heard over a boom of thunder:
"OF COURSE I STILL KNOW THE WAY TO CAMELOT!"
Read & Review Please :DDD