Many years later, if one were to ask him, Arthur would say he never expected to meet his reckoning on a clear summer's day in the violet eyes of a child.
He never thought that he'd realize his days were numbered in a single moment.
Dry grass crunched under his boots as he followed a little-used hunting path in the woods just outside of Quebec City. It was blisteringly hot and humid. Sweat dripped down his neck and soaked into the collar of his shirt. It was in such a stark contrast to the bitter, biting cold he'd felt on the handful of occasions he'd campaigned on this continent in the winter that it made him lightheaded.
Or perhaps it was just the heat.
He swore and slapped at a mosquito that decided to take advantage of his bare forearms, exposed by his rolled-up sleeves. It was an utterly unbecoming look for a gentleman such as himself, but the unexpected heat of the early August afternoon had demanded it. He'd hoped the temperatures would have dropped once he was in the shadows of the forest, but the trees brought with them the swarms of bugs that buzzed irritatingly in his ears and tried to take chunks out of his exposed flesh.
"Bloody carnivores," he grumbled as he swatted the air in front of him.
Not for the first time, he wondered if he was walking in circles. The trees loomed overhead, crowding him in. This forest seemed ancient and… not malicious, per se, but definitely not accepting of his presence.
It teemed with magic, just like the forests that had once covered his land before the humans began clearing them in pursuit of their own ambitions. Arthur wondered if this new Nation, the one Francis had surrendered to him in Paris, felt the magic as he did, if they'd be able to utilize it as Arthur could.
It would be interesting to have a colony that could manipulate the magicks of the earth the way Arthur and his family could.
He pushed back an evergreen branch and stopped dead in his tracks.
Before him was a small clearing, a little man-made glen. Stumps from cut trees were still rooted in the ground and there was an old cabin in the centre, leaning precariously to one side, the timbers weathered and rotting, but for the most part the structure seemed intact enough.
There was a pull in his sternum, a tugging in his chest that urged him towards this shack. The Nation he was seeking must be inside it. The evergreen needles that crunched under his feet as he approached sounded deafening in the silent air.
The windows had no glass, just cracked wooden shutters that hung limply on the leather thongs that served as backcountry hinges. There were gaps in the roof where shingles had been blown off by wind or rotted away, and Arthur figured that though it wouldn't bother the Nation in the summer, it would be a bloody nuisance in the winter.
He stepped onto the stoop and knocked firmly on the door.
Nothing. No sound from inside.
The door ground against the floor as he pushed it open and stepped into the little cabin.
It was only a single room with a hearth of dying embers smoldering in the fireplace on the wall to his right. The cabin had clearly been ransacked for anything useful when it had been abandoned, but the Nation seemed to be making do alright. A pile of furs and woven blankets was tucked into a corner, presumably as a bed, and several roughly-hewn planks of wood had been dragged in and propped up on two stumps to make a surface for cooking and eating. A small bundle of kindling and firewood had been dumped near the fireplace, and some sort of aromatic stew was simmering in a dented cast iron pot over the bright coals.
Impressive, for what was surely a small child who had never lived without the luxuries of Versailles at his beck and call.
But the Nation wasn't in the cabin, despite the tug in his sternum that told him that his newest colony was here.
Huffing quietly, Arthur left the cabin and walked around the other side and stumbled, quite literally, into the boy he was looking for.
Arthur cursed, as did the boy before him, and the child in question dropped the armload of vegetables he'd been carrying from the small garden just visible around the back of the house.
The boy bent down to pick up the small green squash and bundle of yellow beans that had fallen from his arms, but Arthur was frozen in place and could only stare at him in utter shock and disbelief.
He was dressed in the rags of what must have once been a very elegant suit. The jacket was missing – but it was too warm for it, anyways – and the navy pants were now closer to the muddy brown of a riverbank and far too short. His white shirt was in a similar state of filth, the golden thread embroidered on the cuffs unravelling with wear. He wasn't wearing shoes, letting his bare feet sink into the warm earth, but judging by the rest of his outfit, Arthur guessed that he'd probably long since outgrown them as well.
But that wasn't what had his breath caught in his throat.
Arthur couldn't tell if the boy was just filthy from working in the garden or if, much like Alfred to the south, he had some Indian blood in him. They had the same tan complexion, the same golden hair that lightened to the colour of corn silk after too long in the sun. This boy's face was haggard from the stress of war but they shared the same high cheekbones and proud nose.
In fact, they looked remarkably similar.
If this boy cut his hair and slicked back that errant curl that fell over his forehead, if his eyes were blue instead of purple, he and Alfred would almost look like brothers.
Brothers… or twins.
Later, he would blame his shock for not noticing the boy move. It was only the quiet click of the hammer locking into place that alerted him to the impending danger.
The boy had dropped his bundle of vegetables once again and had a pistol pointed right at Arthur. Where in hell had he gotten a bloody gun from?
Slowly, Arthur raised his hands, now more aware than ever of the redcoat he had slung over his shoulder and the officer's tricorn hat on his head. Perhaps it hadn't been a good idea to wear his uniform to this meeting.
"Va-t'en!" The boy shouted, flintlock trembling in his hands. "Vous n'êtes pas bienvenu ici!"
Now, Arthur could speak French – the modern kingdom of England had been founded by the Norman invaders, after all – but he did not appreciate being reminded of his defeat by Lascius Bonnefoy, of all people, especially after he'd just resoundly beaten the bastard's little brother and obtained nearly all his territories. Nor did he like being forced to struggle to decipher a language he deliberately hadn't spoken in centuries when he knew the brat before him could speak Common.
"I'm not going anywhere," Arthur said, keeping his hands in view and his eyes locked on the pistol in the boy's hands. "The Province of Québec is mine now."
The boy snarled at him and spat out a filthy insult that had Arthur raising an eyebrow. Really, had Francis let sailors raise his son?
"I'm Arthur Kirkland, Nation of England and the representative for the British Empire."
There was a pause as the boy considered the words. Finally, he said, "Je suis Matthieu Bonnefoy, la Nouvelle France."
But Arthur shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Your father lost the war and surrendered his North American territories to me."
Disbelief, denial, anger, then sadness flickered across his face. The young Nation's lower lip trembled as he quietly asked, "Même moi?"
The gun in his hands dipped slightly.
"Even you," Arthur said, not unkindly but not sympathetically either. Such was the way of their kind, being passed around and forced to adapt at the whims of humans. The sooner this boy learned that, the better. "And your name is now Matthew Kirkland."
"Non!"
"Yes!" Arthur snapped, taking a step forward. "Francis abandoned you for a sugar colony. You're now a member of my household and therefore will be titled as such."
Matthew's eyes watered. "Papa m'a abandonné? Pour une – pour une colonie de sucre?"
"Guadeloupe and Martinique," Arthur said, taking another step forward as a tear traced its way through the dirt on Matthew's face.
It was a mistake.
Already tense and on edge, Matthew pulled the trigger instinctively as Arthur moved for him. The gun, which had been held in trembling hands, was reliable and steady in its purpose as a round shot from the barrel and buried itself high in the meat of Arthur's right shoulder.
Pain exploded through his chest and he stumbled, falling to his knees with a groan. He pressed his hand to his shoulder and it came back shining red. He could feel the blood soaking into his shirt, staining the white fabric as crimson as his coat.
The boy's eyes were wide as he dropped the still-smoking gun, panic and fear written all over his face. "Désolé – je suis tellement désolé, Monsieur Kirkland, je ne voulais pas te tirer dessus!"
Arthur's eyes fluttered, the world spinning in and out of focus as his legs gave out and he slumped sideways to the ground, feeling his lifeblood soaking into the dirt beneath.
The last thing he saw was Matthew hovering over him, hands outstretched and utter horror in his eyes. Arthur wished he could have told the boy that it was alright, that he knew it was an accident but he should mind where he pointed the gun next time—
His eyes rolled up in his head and he slipped into darkness.