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
Guests! I am okay! Happy New Year! We still have some chaps before Tex and Al reunite! As far as Al aging…where is the fun in answering that? ^_^
Scarletnightcrawler: Happy Reading! I'll also have to do a re-read soon and make sure I'm tending my garden well. XD.
Amerikia: Well then, this is the fic for you because there will be hurt/comfort and family bonding abounding in this. I figured there was a need to show emotional development at this point, so I guess this story will have a lot of relationship drama as well? Again, offstage reconciliation (which a lot of fics/movie/media does) seemed like a copout even as I briefly considered it. I was like, "C'mon, dude. No one shows this in fantasy/action. Doooo it." Spoiler: when Al discovers it's Camelot…he'll be EXTRA! And yes, Tex and his fam…dysfunction junction! XDDD Happy 2024!
Liv: Happy New Year! We made it!
OctaviaWorks: Hey brave bingereader! I hope the loss of sleep was worth it! Thank you for your review! I'm stoked that I've revived your interest in writing. I am a logophile and I'm glad you appreciate my wordsmithing; I often reflect deeply on which word to use when I'm crafting passages. Guilty as charged: I experiment with dialog tags. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. Too many can clutter the movement/emotional tone of a passage (advice from my prof) but too little can be vague so I'll keep it in mind. (Though, I'll also reveal that sometimes I do it on purpose when I want all the comments to seem like you're being bombarded by an Eldritch Abomination or internal strife/the past or you are Texas and he can't always differentiate which one of his brothers is talking and they meld into this brother-blob XD). I hope you continue enjoying the adventure!
Ginkgoleafed: Ha! Keeping you in! One of us! Yeah, the fandom has dwindled. I think the pandemic and world events (cough, multiple wars going on which would involve main cast characters) makes it difficult to create comics about it. Thank you! I love getting into characters and exploring them and their motivations. I'm relieved you enjoy the additions: UK bros, Tex, and co. Thank you for reading! I'm glad it's reached you so deeply! (*Takes it as a gold star for self*)
superwholock12345: Yeah, I know about it. *double-shoulder-shrug* It's NOT part of this series. Don't stress. For others reading and wondering: DO NOT harass them, okay? Okay. Thanks for reading! :D
MythplacedLogic: Your grandma sounds awesome! ^_^ Mine left toddler!me alone in a dark room with Wheel of Fortune…I'm great at spelling BTW. XD I'm rooting for England and Spain. They're stepping up. And yes! They'll need bro time! Your reviews are always fun. Thanks for reading and reviewing!
LeParapluie: Isn't the internet amazing?! I can't even quantify how many rabbit holes I go down per day. XD Ha! Don't worry I'm not joshing you! What I shared on glassmaking is part of [dramatic pause/inner squeal] medieval alchemy! Eeeeee! XDDD Happy 2024!
Time Traverser: "Cuddly and angsty-a combination you've always had a talent for…" and then "Alfred plays his cards so very close to his chest and it almost makes me anxious on the adults' behalf!" THIS! All of this! You need to be the person who does the blurbs for me. XD Time Traverser knows what this series is all about. Aaah! Oh. I will SO take you up on this. I've teased the idea very lightly in my previous fics but America, Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, and Lithuania did an undercover circus mission during WW2. I'd love to do some flashbacks in a future piece. I always look forward to your reviews, Time! They're great! Thanks for sticking with this series!
Happy 2024! Second semester of my Master's Degree has commenced! O_O (And I have to do homework after I post this chap :P Them's the breaks.)
I hope you enjoy! This chapter got so long I had to split it in half! Happy reading!
Chapter 10: How Could He Have Ever Wanted This?
"Kelso," Rhys murmured quietly and set a white pin. "If you could prepare to ask again?"
Rhys was triangulating maps with Mathieu's help.
Mathieu nodded and held out the pendulum. Rhys watched as the young man took a deep breath, cleared his mind, and opened himself to supernatural guidance once more.
Rhys traced his fingers across settlements in the map and began reading out town names.
"Melrose? Er…River Tweed?"
The crystal began spinning faster.
"Galashiels?"
It slowed. He set another white pin.
"Peebles?"
It began spinning faster.
"Damn it all. Hadrian's Wall?"
It spun faster.
None of his contacts had anything more to add beyond a short clip of footage showing Arthur storming into a petrol station near Carlisle demanding to use the microwave to heat up some bone broth, and then gathering up cartons of Finz, a small pack of birthday cake candles, and a pocket lighter for purchase.
He had the video of that paused on his laptop.
"He seemed like he was in control of his faculties," Mathieu noted, gesturing to the screen.
Rhys's eyebrows came down in disapproval. "He was wearing a cloak."
The Canadian shrugged. "It's Arthur…he's…flamboyant."
"True."
"Papa could be that way, too. Over the top." He gave a sad smile.
Rhys could feel the young man's melancholy bleeding into the room.
He knew the lad longed for Arthur and Francis to show the same dogged determination in pursuing a familial relationship with him.
Doubtless, many of Arthur's former colonies felt similarly…
But there were fragile places in Alfred's heart that only a steadfast and dauntless love could strengthen and Rhys was hesitant to distract Arthur with admonishments that he ought to pay the same attention to others when his nephew obviously needed healing right now.
Rhys was also hesitant to assert himself as someone who could fill that role without coming off as a consolation prize.
He wasn't France. He wasn't England.
He wasn't quite father figure material for Mathieu…or Alfred.
He was just present.
"Are there places between England and Scotland that they'd consider neutral? Now? Or in the past?" Mathieu considered.
Rhys gave a dark chuckle. "They had quite a lot of conflicts for a very long time, Mathieu."
"I've seen things, Rhys. In my own lands. You don't need to sanitize it for me."
"You have. But you're young, Mathieu. I know you don't register that since you're older than your brothers on the continent."
"And most of the colonial efforts in South America, too," Mathieu added, sounding bitter.
Rhys decided to be blunt and put an end to a chance for self-pity before it could start. "And you're not very welcome among the remaining indigenous personifications of your land, who are older. Either."
"More welcome than Alfred is among his-"
"Who's more welcome than Tex, I imagine? We can keep playing this game."
Mathieu sighed. "I'm young compared to you. Make your point."
"You've seen brutality. But you haven't experienced the volume we have. You just haven't. I know you want to argue. I know Alfred has seen brutality, too. Less than you, possibly."
Mathieu leveled an incredulous stare.
"I am not being flippant. He has suffered a great deal of firsthand tragedy and war," Rhys acknowledged. "He still hasn't endured as much. I'll offer now that my brothers and I cannot compete against Yao. He's seen more than us. He simply has. He's existed longer."
"The point?" Mathieu's tone was flat.
Rhys sighed. "There are no neutral spaces. My brothers and I have lived too long and fought too much for there to be any space that's unexplored and doesn't have a whiff of violent conflict."
"Troubling."
"You'll understand better in a moment. You remember when we had to go searching to find a place connected to Alfred? So we could hold séances?"
The lad nodded.
"He's so young," Rhys explained. "He hasn't been over his nation very long in any sense. He's been to every state. I can tell you now, he hasn't been to every city, town, and geographic formation. He focuses on his coasts because he hasn't memorized his rivers. He gets lost. He gets lost in his own borders. He has to read up on his own nation's history and consult maps because he doesn't know things. That could change as he gets older as a nation; some knowledge will be absorbed osmotically if he can avoid taking too many deaths."
Rhys sighed again while glancing down at the map. "During that Wendigo fiasco, the indigenous personifications who arrived knew the lay of the land better than him even after having been forced away for years." He paused. "If me or my brothers were taken, a séance could've been held anywhere in our respective lands."
Mathieu frowned. "So, where do you think Scotland led them? Assuming he knows what you know to some extent?"
"I have a suspicion but…I struggle to believe it. Scotland hates it there. He'd never be able to stay. He could only be nearby. But I can't believe he'd agree to be at Arthur's beck and call. Please, let's ask it again."
Mathieu held the pendulum back out.
"Cumbria?" Rhys asked. It spun clockwise and then counterclockwise.
He nodded and set two red pins. "Yes…I think Arthur and Alfred are in there. Alistair will probably be on his side, as near…no, he'll be on the water." He put more red pins down.
The Canadian was growing frustrated. "Where are they?"
"Camelot."
"…What did you say?"
Rhys spoke quickly, "You have to understand that he was a nomadic king at the beginning. So, lots of places have been Camelot. But I think he's at one of the last fortresses. I use the term generously."
"You're angry," Mathieu observed.
He was.
"It's no place for a child! It hasn't any modern conveniences. How will Alfred be well-cared for in such poor conditions?"
Idiots.
Arthur clamped down on his anger by counting down from ten three times in a row.
They hadn't been doing rehabilitative exercises with Alfred; that much was obvious in how he was moving right now.
Damn it.
"Alfie, can I…can I check your back?"
"…I'm just a little sore. I'll feel better in a few days."
Arthur wasn't mollified. "I'm worried that your spine is still-"
The American tried to assure him. "I'm healed up! I am, so…you don't have to…feel bad."
"…"
Alfred sighed and lifted the back of his clothing. "See? All healed."
Arthur checked with careful fingers.
No breaks. No bruising. But good God, there were so many knots.
The child probably had trouble twisting his spine. No wonder he was so subdued. It still hurt him to move! The ride! The trek! The tower's staircase!
And he hadn't complained at all!
Arthur frowned. "I'm going to get you a pain-reliever, alright?"
"…Alright."
Alfred seemed very grateful for medicine which suggested he hadn't had much access.
And he asked if it could be set next to Arthur's medication (which of course it could).
The child returned to sit on the bed which… was the softest piece of furniture for him to rest on.
And this small action was really the only concession he'd make to how much he was still hurting.
It was a little disorienting. It was so eerily similar to handling a toddler America and realizing that the bare bones cabin (which was good enough for Arthur) wasn't good enough for his child.
This tower was all…
Hard, rough, cold stone…
And flat, stiff, carpets and curtains…
Sharp jewels and ornate pieces…
More museum-like than homestead…
Alfie had a talent for alerting him to things like this.
He abruptly remembered one party in the 1800s where America, Barbados, and Jamaica had been sharing a settee. Jamaica, seated between them, would use her fan sometimes on one companion and then on the other.
Arthur went over to investigate when he realized he hadn't seen Alfred dance a single set or laugh obnoxiously the whole night.
Alfred had stared blankly at him, like an amnesiac, instead of standing to greet him as was proper, and Olivia wobbled unsteadily and gasped when Arthur had demanded an explanation for their lethargy which didn't seem to be an aftereffect of too much wine.
Their glasses were untouched.
Jamaica had sighed and stated that both of them were stupidly fashionable and had been tight-laced.
He'd directed Jamaica to help Barbados in a powder room while he hauled America off to a private gentleman's parlor.
The boy fainted before Arthur could free him.
Alfred had been trying to hide bulky bandages from a war wound and thought tight-lacing would do the trick.
It did.
He'd achieved the smooth lines of the fashion trends of the era and terrified Arthur something awful as he undid the corset and blood stained his gloves.
Foolish, vain thing…
No…
The withdrawn and mistrustful thing he was…he hadn't simply told Arthur he was hurt.
Because…he hadn't been certain… Arthur would care…
He looked down at his child.
Poor thing…
Poor little thing…
How terrifying the world must have been to him?
A world where Father's love had seemed to…end…
Where nothing…no one…could be depended on?
And he'd struggled through it mainly with spite and bravado until he'd acquired more members for Team U.S.A.
Arthur had made rules for his wards following that incident to guard against dangerous fashion trends and to never conceal injuries from him. No party or business deal was worth it.
These rules made life safer and improved communication for those in his care.
But it didn't help Alfred who, despite inspiring the changes, remained out of reach.
So many lost opportunities…
He should've just been forthright with the boy and spelled out his concerns the moment he regained consciousness.
But fear had turned instinctively to anger and he'd botched the moment.
He remembered with painful clarity how blue eyes slid to rest on the bedside table and blandly apologized.
That loss of eye contact and lack of sincerity had infuriated him—Arthur was speaking!
But now he could look back and wonder: What had been there?
What had the child been staring at?
He tried to recall the scene with more detail.
Arthur had set something there.
He concentrated harder.
It had been a frenzy of activity arranging the room to—
His gloves.
His soiled gloves had been there. On the bedside table.
That was what the child had focused on.
"I apologize for the inconvenience," Alfred said tonelessly.
He connected Arthur with all things materialistic and had worried more about the price of those gloves than his health.
Like Arthur gave a damn about them.
"Well, you should!" Arthur had snapped, unaware.
Unaware.
Unaware.
Unaware.
Of what was really at stake and crashed through the conversation like an imbecile.
"What a spectacle?!" Arthur hissed. "I do say, whenever you appear, you cause such scenes! And nothing I plan can ever quite be prepared for it. You outdo yourself every time! Bravo! It's such a nuisance."
Alfred turned back to face him and smiled. "Yes…that sounds like me."
Nuisance.
Not the situation.
Himself.
Arthur, who'd only been half-listening then, had assumed it was insolent banter.
How many signs had he missed?
Arthur's breath went uneven.
No.
Now.
He needed to focus on the moment.
He couldn't fix what had happened back then. But he had now.
"If you're…comfortable with the idea, I would help you," Arthur said as he came to perch on the bed as well. "Your muscles are knotted. I take it you have limited flexibility?"
"…"
Arthur felt his confidence slip. "I completely understand if you're not comfortable. I can offer some self-massage and self-stretching techniques. I've…I've had injuries like this. Boulders. Trolls."
"Not fair…"
Arthur felt his heart twist. "…"
There was something troublingly adult in the bleak expression Alfred made as he stared off. He was very reserved…deep down at his heart of hearts. "You're finally better and I'm not. And you're out and the first thing you have to do is take care of me." The child didn't smile. "It's not fair. You can't catch a break."
…That was also where he was hurt. Deep. Down. And he was so used to it by now that he didn't seem aware that it could be healed. So he simply bore it as best he could.
Only stony stoicism didn't suit Alfred the way it did Arthur when he was facing trials. Arthur looked more professional, sturdy, and dependable when he wore that attitude.
Alfred looked young and brittle and tragic.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Humph. You leave the worrying to me. That's my job. I'm a professional. I swear, you Yanks think you can outdo us at everything. Been in the game longer, dear boy."
Alfred's expression softened. "…If you think you can help, I'll take it. I've broken my back before. I'm worried that the first time is complicating this time."
Arthur's brows furrowed in concern. "How did the first time happen?"
"Thrown from my horse. Landed in a ditch. Laid there for a few days before I could crawl out."
"Good God, Alfie! When was this!? Did you see a physician?!" Arthur squawked.
"…Ages ago and, no, I didn't."
"Alfred!"
The boy's expression soured. "I was independent. We were having arguments. You'd have sneered that I was reckless."
"Were you reckless?" Arthur asked quietly.
Alfred scowled. "…Yes."
"I am upset to hear that," Arthur confessed.
One slender blond eyebrow rose. "That I was reckless? That I deliberately didn't tell you? Or that I thought you'd sneer?"
"All of it, I suppose," Arthur replied warily.
The fight went out of the child's voice when Arthur didn't accept an invitation for a row. "…I…thought it healed up, but after this one. I'm sore. I feel the echoes of both."
"I know the one…where was the other?"
Alfred blew out a frustrated breath. "Just under it."
Arthur nodded. "Did you try to move too soon?"
"Which time?"
"Both?"
Alfred's cheeks puffed and a few beats later admitted, "…Yeah. Both times."
"We'll have a specialist look at it. Make sure it's healing right."
Alfred shook his head. "The x-rays say it's fine."
"The bones could well be fine, but the muscles may be having an issue. I don't want you hurting. In the meanwhile, I'll see what I can do to ease the discomfort."
"It could just be stiffness?" Alfred theorized hopefully.
He didn't want to go to hospital.
Arthur couldn't promise him that.
"We'll know more soon," the Englishman murmured.
Massage helped. There was a gradual release of tension the more Arthur worked.
"So?" Arthur pressed the muscles with care. "Did the doctor give you exercises and stretches?"
"Yes."
He very gently rubbed circles with the heels of his palms. "Have you been doing them?"
"No."
Alright then.
"Thank you for answering me truthfully. After we're finished, could you show me the movements?"
"Kay."
Breakthrough.
"Thank you," Arthur said softly while inwardly congratulating himself with a well-deserved 'Well done, Arthur, ol' sport!'
Not only was he proving to himself that he could handle the child with care, he was showing that he wouldn't lose his temper at the slightest thing.
He wanted truth. Truth would help them through.
Alfred's counseling had clearly been helping him to identify circumstances on when to disclose information.
And hopefully with whom.
He was still a little taken aback at how Alfred showed no hesitation in dealing with him. No grudges. No instinctive flinch or pause.
He blinked hard.
"I also want to say…thank you for trusting me," he murmured softly.
The child turned his head to look at him blankly.
He didn't comprehend the enormity of his forgiveness.
Instead, he looked up with suddenly sparkling big blue eyes. "Since I feel better now, can we…can we look at the box some more? There were still things inside."
Because that was what mattered to a seven year old. And, oddly enough, that lightened his heart.
He laughed. "Of course. Right after you show me those movements the doctor wanted you to do."
"Deal!"
Texas was washing dishes in the sink. The dishwasher was already packed and running.
He didn't want ants or cockroaches feeling like there was an invitation in play; Al hated finding them.
His little brother could better handle a zombie creeping out of the gutter than insects spoiling the pantry.
It was easier to do things if he pretended he was doing them for Al.
Things were straightening out for him.
Interviews had been set. Tasks were getting handled. He was still a little behind in calls and emails, but he could see light at the end of the tunnel.
"I'll dry," Luis volunteered.
"You want to help me?" Tex mumbled in disbelief.
"No. But Papá is worried that we don't interact enough."
"Oh." He returned to scrubbing a plate.
The awkwardness of lackluster conversational topics petered off within a few minutes.
Tex sighed. "There's just nothing here, is there?"
Colombia looked a little uncomfortable, though he didn't deny it. "We're familia. That's enough."
"Is it?"
Colombia looked alarmed.
Tex grimaced. "I'm not ungrateful. You helped me in a rough time. I appreciate that, but…I don't know if we're wasting our energy investing more into this."
"Do you want it to work? Or have you already made up your mind? You keep avoiding us." He pointed out. "And we're here. Your country. Your state. Your house. You're hiding."
"…"
"We see your workers more than you, Tejas," Colombia muttered as he took the plate
"…Al's my brother."
"Fine. But I'm your hermano, too. We're familia, too, Tejas."
Tex picked a turquoise colored glass to clean. "…Al's my family."
Columbia nodded slowly. "You have lots of pictures of him."
He did. "Yeah."
"He's nice to you?"
"Yeah." He rinsed the glass off.
"But is he good to you?"
That riled Tex up. "Always."
"Hm…" Luis considered this for a while and then asked, "Is Papá your family?"
Tex's face and his heart twisted and he wasn't sure if he was supposed to deny it or agree or something else altogether.
"O…Kay. Yeah, I think that face helps me understand," Luis deadpanned.
Tex looked over at him a bit helplessly. But, surprisingly, his older brother wasn't looking at him meanly.
"You are…all messed up," Luis stated quietly as he plucked the turquoise glass from Tex's hand and dried it.
He could practically hear 'delicate' in that assessment.
That annoyed him. "Look, I can't just snap my fingers and make everything suddenly work."
He wasn't as dynamic and adaptable and forgiving as Al.
"No. You can't. But you won't have to either. Papá will never give up on you, Toni. Not now when he knows you're back." He sounded a little bitter. "You don't have to rush things."
They continued washing and drying dishes in silence.
To his surprise, despite handling a bunch of glassware, nothing was broken.
"I see a new interest in rings," Arthur remarked as he stretched out on a rug that needed to have the dust beaten out of it in the worst way.
"You wore neat ones to your concert," Alfred replied.
He'd fixated on that. Being stalked by fae and a vicious bodoach was but a detail when Arthur's punk outfit was obviously the highlight of that night.
The child studied a silver ring with a repeating pattern. "I want to look cool."
Cool? Was that a stealth compliment?
Old stuffy Arthur had looked cool?
He'd said something to that effect that night, too. That he had been dressed for fun and he didn't dress that way for visits or meetings?
Recognizing an opportunity here to encourage playing, Arthur went to pull out his cloak and the child's Yule cloak.
There was a sharp gasp and a youthful buzzing of energy.
Small hands immediately made grabby fingers.
His son started to smile and then faltered.
"Oh dear. What unhappy thought crossed you?" Arthur tenderly cupped the child's cheek.
"I'm interrupting you from all the stuff you planned." He looked over at the mop, and the baskets of washing, and a tub of dishware.
Ha! Like those held similar appeal…
He gave the boy's cheek a soft pinch before releasing it. "Nonsense. I…I… That's just work, dear. Work can wait. It can wait. It can wait because I have missed you so much." He set the child's cloak on and then his own, which had thankfully dried from being near the fire.
The child watched him with wide, bright eyes.
Arthur's breath caught.
How very familiar this was…
In truth, it wasn't a friendly expression; it was extreme curiosity. It was interest of a ravenous intensity that Arthur had once arrogantly assumed was always admiration in his early days of colonizing.
Sometimes, it was.
Sometimes, it wasn't.
He was older now. More mature. He understood it better.
Humans would flinch under it.
They always did at that which was inhuman by nature.
It was the hard stare of a child nation—fierce, fey, and refreshingly honest.
Arthur had done something just now to merit it.
He hadn't merited it for a very long time.
Over the years, he'd alternated between grief and self-assurance at losing such attention. He'd delighted in being the center of his son's world. Then, when his own strategies and strengths were employed against him…he shrugged that it was better not to teach the boy everything he knew.
But he could never hold to that and then found that he couldn't perform any feat that kept the child interested.
Had to arrange for the brightest minds to meet with the boy…
And even then…they never received this look.
And now it was back.
What was England doing to deserve it?
He'd…
"Work can wait…because I have missed you so much…"
Green eyes widened.
He'd demonstrated how to reorder one's priorities.
Work, the unofficial God of America's life, had been told to wait.
Emotions had been prioritized over work.
Of course it was.
This wasn't a matter of boredom or sloth or external crises intervening.
This was about demonstrating affection to another by making the moment theirs.
By sharing it together.
By showing the other held importance.
Of course his child was more important than mopping the floor right this minute.
He fastened the chain onto his cloak and then removed it so little fingers could work out how it was done.
His child was almost smiling.
It was a sweet, earnest look that used to bother him centuries ago.
Arthur ruffled soft, wheat-colored hair. "O won't you smile, sweetling?"
The toddler gave a shy one.
He tickled the babe and the happy giggles brought out a dimpled grin.
"I knew it! What a fine, no, wonderful smile you have! You shouldn't hide it."
"Twuly?"
"O come now. You must know how beautiful a child you are."
"You…think so?" His blue-eyed gaze was very intense.
Arthur laughed. "Coy thing. You want me to shower you with compliments, then? They shall blame me, you know, when you become vain?"
The child continued staring as he waited for an answer.
Arthur dared not disappoint and offered kindly, "Yes, darlingheart. I think you're very beautiful. With lands so great as these, how could you not be? It was obvious from the first stroke of your design on God's canvas as you came into being."
The babe went quiet and turned a deep pink and was content for days. Though, by the week's end, he badly wanted Arthur to say it all again.
His smiles, his looks, how wonderful he and his lands were…
Somehow, those compliments corrupted…
No.
Arthur gradually grew tired of paying them.
The same ones over and over.
Osha never paid them; he realized that now—that Alfred had hoped Arthur could make up for the deficit. He failed.
Matters only grew more complicated when Arthur started using tender endearments and the same flattering observations for other colonies.
In rare form, a very young Alfred had raged, "I'm your dearheart! Your sweetling! I'm your darlingheart! I'm wonderful! Why are you calling them-"
"They are my darlings! Alfred Faer Kirkland, those are not your endearments alone!"
The toddler threw himself down on the floor and started bawling at the top of his lungs.
Arthur had no patience for it. "For goodness sake, boy, they are just words!"
And he stepped over him to signal a nursemaid to take the child away.
Arthur had reacted with anger and punishment and little empathy for a toddler's feelings of displacement and sudden rivalry.
Two days later, his child served him back with a cunning display of malice that he should've taken better note of.
Arthur had just finished a trade meeting to find an impatient Rhys waiting for him to relay that Alfred was telling maids and manservants he "loved" them after they completed tasks.
On witnessing it, a flustered Arthur hurried over to explain that "No, no, no. Alfie, certain words are very special. 'Love' is not to be used lightly. It should only be said to a precious few who-"
"Words are just words," the child reasoned.
An agitated Arthur knelt down and pulled the child closer. "'I love you' is a phrase of great import."
"Noun, verb, noun?" The toddler guessed from the previous day's lesson on grammar.
"Pronouns, love. They are pronouns. Er, that's not-No, Alfie, you're misunderstanding me."
No, he wasn't. He was making a point. He'd deliver the felling blow that night.
After ignoring England in favor of playing with Scotland after their evening meal, which for a while was a welcome reprieve when the English nation had his arms full with Barbados, Jamaica, Saint Kitts, Nevis, and Anguilla, it happened:
Alfred called Alistair…
"Daddy!"
Arthur looked over, bewildered at the sudden call. Was Alistair being too rough?
Green eyes narrowed and a reproachful warning was on his tongue.
His older brother laughed heartily. "No." He tickled the child. "Try again."
"Daddy!" Alfred insisted.
Rhys, seated nearby, dropped the book he was reading onto the floor.
"Wrong!" The Scotsman grabbed the boy and tickled him harder.
"Daddy!"
"Ah! I see! Are yeh callin' fer him? To come rescue yeh from me? Is that so?" The redhead cackled.
"…"
Scotland faltered then because another cry should've been made as the cue for England to sweep in as the hero.
"…Maybe yer eyes are bad? I think Spain has one whose eyes are bad," Alistair announced with a flat affectation.
Alfred giggled and shook his head. He wrapped his small arms around Alistair's neck. "Daddy!"
Alistair's smile faded. "I…I cannae be your dadaidh, wean. Yours is right-"
"Sword fight," the child suggested.
"Eire would appreciate your sense for the dramatic," Rhys scoffed as he retrieved his book and set a cord to hold his page's place.
"You would win?" The child asked his uncle hopefully. He pulled the red bow at the neck of his child's gown free and waved it.
Alfie loved tales and games with knights and tournaments.
This was how he imagined offering a token of good luck to a knight was done.
Arthur usually made a grand flourish whenever he accepted it—giving the silken fabric a kiss.
Alistair's mouth twitched because it was usually a lady that would offer a ribbon as a favour-not realizing that it was the child's most cherished possession...
He chuckled, oblivious to the treasure being waved before his face.
To the honor he was being offered...
It was the first time Alfred had ever requested someone else to be his champion. And for the hallowed title of "Father" as the prize...
Arthur made a point to have more individualized endearments for each child in addition to standard ones, but the damage was done. Alfred used to instinctively look or tilt his head to acknowledge every pet name Arthur bestowed on him with a look of affection; he never returned to that.
"Sweet?"
The child didn't react.
So many small hurts.
CRICK...
It took a large one to alert him to them all. And he couldn't stop seeing them now.
Arthur painstakingly selected a fine brooch with bright sapphires for Alfred's cloak that would complement the enamel pin already there. "How about this, Alfie?"
Alfred nodded eagerly and traced the jewels. He enjoyed this. It was obvious in his gem bright eyes.
It was fun for Arthur, too, to bedeck his child this way.
Barbados and New Zealand usually humored his talk of the Dark and Middle Ages. They hadn't delighted in it.
Mathieu was polite and academically interested.
A young Australia hadn't seen the point of a lot of the oaths and quests of the Round Table. He scoffed at how each woman encountered was "the most beautiful woman" in the land and that England wasn't the largest country. Were the women all related? Was it the same woman going about her day?
Even now, he still joked like the knights were all questing in one parking lot. "'No! THIS is the most beautiful one.' 'You're wrong, Lancelot. This one, here!' 'You're BOTH wrong, I have found—"
And he put on the most obnoxiously affected British accent he could manage when he did that to annoy Arthur even more.
It was his Alfred who'd looked longingly to him for such tales—wanting a claim to that grand and mystical world until…they grew estranged.
He gazed down at the child.
"How very handsome!" He complimented.
He happily straightened the little cloak and smoothed his son's hair.
Songs would've been crafted if his kingdom could've seen his little one. He'd have been adored by all.
And he said as much—eagerly telling the child how celebrated he'd have been by Arthur's knights.
"And you've always been such a good rider. Your horsemanship would've impressed them. They'd have taken you everywhere, if I gave them half the chance."
His son also would have been in constant danger. What with all of Arthur's enemies that had spanned over the centuries: Morganna, the establishment of the Fairy Courts, human battles and politics, and invaders…
There were also plagues, beasts, food shortages, foul water…
God…all the bogs that had yet to be drained…
And then there was King Arthur, himself, who had been something of a git even on a good day and chased adventure with teenage zeal.
If stars had aligned…very differently, would his fifteen-year-old self have brought his newborn baby to a raucous tournament?
'Bedwyr, hold this tiny miracle while I compete in my favorite games!'
He privately fumed at the thought.
A teenaged Arthur would have enjoyed the thrill of killing Wendigo and loved talking about it even more because a father defending his child sounded more gallant than a bored king looking for sport.
Would he have been a worse father then? Largely illiterate, drunk on his own power and his favorite mead? Or would Roanoke's sad eyes and suffering wails sobered him sooner into someone respectable?
Arthur procured the small hand mirror from the washing station's vanity set and set it into Alfred's hands. "See? Perfectly charming."
But Alfred didn't smile at his reflection.
"Sweetling?" He tucked a strand of hair behind the child's ear. He needed a haircut. Arthur would give him one this week.
Even so, what cause could there be for dissatisfaction? He was so fair and bright.
Thunder rolled and rain battered the windows of the tower.
"Sweetling?" He repeated fondly, willing the endearment to be heard and fully embraced once more.
The small mouth trembled and the child slowly sank to his knees.
Crushed…defeated…
Brought down…crying as rain poured…
There it was; another of Arthur's selfish, stupid wishes granted in the cruelest fashion possible…
It was a heavy handed rebuke from the Cosmos:
How could he have ever wanted this?
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Goodbye 2023 and helloooo 2024!
It's gonna be exciting…I can FEEL it! Here's your dose of ANGST to start the year out right. :DDD