Arthur woke slowly to the gentle press of a damp cloth on his forehead.
The air was hot and sticky, but less overwhelming than it had been earlier. Perhaps evening had fallen. Perhaps it was a different day all together – there was no way of knowing how long he'd been unconscious as his body regenerated itself.
He peeled his eyes open with great effort and took in his surroundings. Furs prickled at his back, there was a blanket draped across his legs, and he was naked from the waist up. He couldn't see either his jacket or his shirt from where he was lying, but when he glanced down he caught a glimpse of white bandages wrapped around his shoulder and chest. They smelled overwhelmingly of spruce and herbs that clashed against his nostrils and made his eyes water.
He wiggled his toes and found he was also missing his boots. Bollocks. How long had he been here?
Soft footsteps padded over to his sickbed and someone sat on the floor beside him. Turning his head slightly, he saw the boy – Matthew, his fuzzy mind remembered – wringing out a damp cloth and placing it on his forehead. The boy sat back, the pinched, puzzled expression on his face so damningly familiar.
God, he and Alfred were even the same age.
"I'll m'avait abandonné ici quand la guerre a commencé," Matthew said quietly, speaking to his semiconscious form like he'd been doing so for some time. "Je croyais qu'il m'aimait. Que j'étais spécial. Il avait dit qu'il reviendrait pour moi quand nous serons victorieux et que nous retournerons à Versailles en famille."
Arthur's mouth was so dry he couldn't speak, could hardly bear to open his mouth to form words. He had no idea if the boy even realized he was awake, and his eyes fluttered shut in momentary relief as the coolness of the damp cloth soothed the heat radiating from his skin. An infection, perhaps? With all the filth caked onto his skin from hiking through the woods for the better part of a day, he wouldn't be surprised if that's what happened.
Damn, the garrison men who'd given him directions to this place were correct in calling the boy a feral child and a half-mad gremlin. The unwavering resolve and stubborn attitude coupled with those big purple eyes and soft cheeks… this boy could get away with murder if he so chose.
Arthur just hoped it wasn't his murder.
Granted, Matthew had already shot him, so perhaps it was a lost cause.
Arthur's dry tongue darted out to lick his cracked lips. "How…" he croaked, voice hoarse. "How long…"
Matthew startled, dropping the cloth into the bucket with a small splash. Colour stained his cheeks as he looked over at Arthur and realized he'd been awake to hear that last bit. "Seulement un jour," he said, not meeting Arthur's eyes. "Je suis… je suis tellement désolé, monsieur Kirkland."
"Arthur," he rasped. "You may call me Arthur. Now, would you mind getting me some water?"
The boy scrambled to his feet and fetched a ladle, which he dipped into the pot bubbling over the fire and carefully carried it over to Arthur, mindful not to spill a drop. Arthur groaned as he pushed himself onto his elbows and carefully sipped the offered broth. It was strange, a gamey taste bolstered with the sharpness of wild onions and seasoned with some herbs he couldn't identify. It wasn't quite a good English beef tea, but he supposed it would do.
"It's good," Arthur said when he'd drained the ladle and Matthew had returned to the pot to get more. "I'm surprised you were taught to cook in Versaille. What is it? Pork? Venison?"
Matthew stilled momentarily. There was a moment's pause, then he said, "Moose."
Arthur frowned. He'd given it a name not in French or Common, but rather something like what the local Indians spoke. "Moose?" He was pretty sure he'd heard of it, a large beast somewhat like a buck but as big as an elephant. He thought Alfred had mentioned it once or twice, but he'd never had the occasion to see such an animal, much less taste one.
"Moose," Matthew agreed firmly and returned to him with another ladle of broth. Arthur drank, a little more slowly this time, and watched the boy as he carefully helped him hold the ladle, a frown of concentration on his face.
When he'd drunk all there was in the ladle, Matthew got up again but Arthur stopped him with a shake of his head. "That's enough, lad. Save the rest for yourself."
It had not escaped his notice that the cauldron was quite small, the perfect size for a child to carry in his arms, and he would not starve the boy. Not when he was trying to make a good impression so he wouldn't be shot again.
Matthew nodded, face serious, and replaced the ladle in the cauldron over the fire. He returned to Arthur's bedside and sat down, shifting into a cross-legged position that had the short, filthy hems of his pants shifting further up his legs, exposing the skin below the knees. He reached over Arthur's shoulder and began untying the bandages, but Arthur's attention was focused on his legs.
Pink scars snaked up his shins and calves, stretching the new skin around it in a morbid tapestry of melted sinew and charred flesh.
The broth turned over in his stomach. "What happened?"
Matthew paused. "Quoi?"
"Your legs," Arthur said, nodding at the injuries visible below his pants cuffs. "What happened to them?"
Matthew gave him a look that was equal parts irritated and disgusted. "Tu devrais savoir, salaud. Tu es celui qui m'a brûlé, après tout."
Something in his chest seized and Arthur could only gape wordlessly at the boy, who'd gone back to changing his bandages. "What?" he asked quietly.
Matthew huffed and set down the roll of cloth, twisting to face him fully. "Vous avez brûlé les seigneuries le long du fleuve, n'est-ce pas? Ca c'est le résultat," he said, gesturing to his legs. "Je n'avais pas une grande population au départ et vous en avez tué tellement. Il n'est pas surprenant que cela m'ait autant affecté."
Arthur swallowed past the cotton mouth that weighed heavily on his tongue. The boy was so loyal to Francis, so blind to it all. He kept his mouth shut about the rumours that abounded in Europe, about his reluctance to make Quebec a formal colony and the debates about abandoning it that started long before the war.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know it would…"
The words died on his tongue. Matthew gave him another one of those disgusted looks, like he had judged him and found him unworthy of excuses.
Something like shame curled in Arthur's gut. It had been so easy to justify it, anything to get back at Francis and knock the arrogant prick down a peg or two. He'd considered the young colony under his charge, but only briefly and had dismissed it as a necessary casualty of war.
Now though, faced with the evidence of what he'd done, the pain his actions had caused the young Nation before him… Matthew would carry those scars forever. He'd never be able to escape the reminders of what Arthur had put him through.
"Are you going to kill me again for it?" Arthur asked. "An eye for an eye and everything?"
Matthew shrugged. "Peut-être. Cela dépendra de la façon dont vous agissez à partir d'ici."
Arthur honestly couldn't tell if he was joking or not. Matthew's solemn face betrayed nothing.
"Alright," he said, after a charged silence passed between them. He stood up with a groan, cradling his shoulder as he did so, and offered his free hand to help pull Matthew up. "We've dallied long enough. Time to return home and get you acquainted with proper English society." He paused, then added generously, "Anything here you want to take with you?"
Matthew surveyed the little cabin, taking in the weathered walls and the smoldering hearth. It would probably burn out soon enough, but just to be safe, Arthur kicked a nearby bucket of water over the coals.
At last Matthew shook his head. "Non," he said. "Rien du tout." He slipped his hand into Arthur's, a gesture which surprised him, and met his gaze with an expression of wariness and pain — and perhaps a hint of buried anger. It reminded Arthur of a tempest, a volatile mixture of hot and cold that could change in an instant and you could never be sure what might be next.
Arthur looked into Matthew's eyes, purple to his brother's blue, the colours so much like the sky before a hurricane, and wondered if he would survive the storm that was coming.