Hetalia fanfic - Parting is All We Know (Ch. II) - Canada, France, England
Title: Parting is All We Know
Author/Artist: Red
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Mainly Canada, France, and England, but featuring ALMOST EVERYBODY | America/England, Lithuania/Poland, China/Russia, one-sided Belarus->Russia, Germany/N. Italy, Austria/Hungary, Spain/S. Italy, Finland/Sweden, France/Prussia (kind of!) and probably a whole bunch of others if you wear the right goggles.
Rating: R
Warnings: ANGST, violence, character death overall. No chapter-specific warnings this time ‘round.
Summary: After one of their number kills another in the midst of a psychotic breakdown, and the countries involved seem to remain unaffected, the Nation-tans are forced to question their mortality and the very nature of their existence. The strain of loss and the weight of the questions threatens to tear their delicate community apart at the seams.
***
Chapter II: And the Dead Leaves Lie
“And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'”
--Robert Frost, “Reluctance”
July 2nd, 2009
Arthur woke the next morning as the sun struck his eyes and ignited a chorus of aching within his body. His hands shot immediately to clutch his throbbing head and he groaned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hangover this bad; it was practically deafening. He couldn’t even bear to open his eyes, chose instead to search his mind for bearings. What the Hell had happened last night?
“So, you’re awake,” said a familiar old voice, softly, from across the room.
It took the entirety of Arthur’s energy just to get his elbows underneath him and prop himself up. He cracked his eyes open, blinking rapidly to get his eyes accustomed to the daylight.
When the world came into focus, he saw Francis sitting at the far end of the room, across from the foot of the bed. The light which fell from the windows did not seem to reach him, but by far the darkest thing in the room was the look he fixed on Arthur. It was so cold it numbed the aching in all of Arthur’s muscles. They’d been fighting each other so often for so long, and yet it had been ages since he had seen such hatred in Francis’ eyes. The last time he could clearly recall it was when he took full custody of Matthew…
Oh.
“Oh God,” said Arthur, pawing at his bleary eyes. “I made an arse of myself at the party, didn’t I?”
One of Francis’ brows drifted upward. “You don’t remember.” It wasn’t a question.
Arthur buried his face in his hands. “How bad was it? Tell me.” He’d need to make it up to the boy today. If he’d even speak to him, that was.
But Francis told him nothing, only shifted in his seat and looked away. Arthur swore he saw him wince, but no words came to betray the Frenchman’s thoughts.
Scowling, Arthur turned away from him. The bastard was never any help. Instead, he surveyed the room and the windows, scraping around the void of his mind. This… this was Alfred’s room. This was Alfred’s bed, and Alfred’s nightstand, and these were Alfred’s family photos. Portraits of Alfred’s presidents and a map of his country hung along the wall. What was he doing here?
“I didn’t go to Matthew’s party at all, did I?” Arthur said even as it occurred to him. No, no, as much as he remembered nothing, he could not recall even a snapshot of being at Matthew’s last night.
“No.”
Damn. Well, it was better than some of the alternatives. Still, as Arthur tilted his head back and cracked his neck, he couldn’t fathom what had possessed him to be drinking so much on his younger boy’s birthday. Unless he’d just forgotten, which he had done before, especially considering the date which followed fast on Canada Day’s heels. Yes, Alfred. It all came back to Alfred. Alfred was certainly the reason he’d gotten so drunk, he was sure now. Well, why was he here? Why was Francis here, for that matter? Well, Francis was about useless, so Arthur reasoned he’d just have to force his weary old body out of bed and ask the boy himself.
When he threw the covers back, Arthur faltered.
He was still fully dressed; he’d expected as much. What he hadn’t expected was to find himself all covered in patches of maroon. The sight of it brought images to his mind that flickered by too fast to quite register, his subconscious suppressing them for his protection. But he felt as though something were strangling his heart. And echoing inside him he heard Alfred’s voice screaming.
“Arthur, please! Stop!”
Arthur pressed his fingertips to his lips. “Francis,” he whispered. “What… did I do?” He gulped, tried to center himself and still the escalating trembling. “Where is Alfred?”
And still not quite looking at him, Francis replied, “Why don’t I show you?”
***
Alfred could afford, if he wanted to, to live in great splendor. He could construct an opulent mansion in any one of his states, but he could never choose. He was instead far more content to live simply in comfortably with one house in every state. Every month he switched off to the next one. And while he could not choose a favorite amongst his states, in every state he had a favorite place.
And there was a hill along the Charles River in Massachusetts. It had a beautiful view of the Boston skyline. Alfred always adored Boston, it was the place he first stood up for himself.
Matthew thought it was perfect.
And he lay curled up on the freshly turned earth, fast asleep. He thought he’d never sleep, but spending the whole night digging a grave had worn him down. When the first fingers of light reached up from the horizon, Matthew had finished. He smoothed out the soil with his shovel, crafted a crude little cross from two pieces of scrap wood. The instant he pitched that cross at the head of Alfred’s resting place, he collapsed. Desperately he wished he could’ve done better for him; it looked like the grave marker of a family pet, not family. But Matthew was so short on resources and so very tired it was all he could do for him.
He was glad, at least, to sleep. Sleep meant precious time away from the painful truth. But it didn’t last long.
“You slept out here, cheri?" He heard Francis’ voice, thin with worry, break his rest. “I thought I heard you come back inside last night.”
Matthew refused to open his eyes just yet. He felt as though as long as he could keep his eyes shut, he could hide from reality. “I came back for a hammer,” he said, and found his voice was hoarse. “Took all night…”
“Mon pauvre petit…” Francis whispered. His hand settled upon Matthew’s shoulder. “Come now, get up.”
There was no escaping it then. Matthew brushed Francis’ hand aside and pushed himself up, sitting groggy at the graveside. He vigorously rubbed his tired eyes. Then his gaze settled upon the shadow cast long across the hilltop from the little makeshift cross. The world blurred.
Alfred. Alfred was gone. Alfred was gone, and it didn’t mean anything. What the hell were they there for, if their countries didn’t need them? Nobody in this country, this country that Alfred was supposed to be, had any idea that anything was wrong. Alfred had felt, intimately, every pain of his people. When his economy fell apart, he fell ill. When some wicked, hateful men destroyed his towers, he bled. So why, when he bled and he hurt, did his country feel nothing?
If Matthew died tomorrow, would Canada miss him at all?
“Can you stand?” Francis asked, fracturing Matthew’s existential crisis. “Do you need help?”
Matthew sniffled and wiped his face, leaving a smear of dirt across his cheeks. “No,” he said. “I’ll do it myself.” He wouldn’t allow himself to be destroyed by this, no. Alfred would expect better from him. So he got his feet under himself and stood, a bit wobbly at first for lack of sleep and heaviness of heart, but soon steadied.
And there, at the bottom of the hill, stood Arthur, staring up at that little wooden cross. His face was blank, and there was still dry blood all over his clothes.
There was blood on his clothes.
Alfred’s blood.
He shed Alfred’s blood.
From Matthew’s gut a scream came which rent his throat, echoed in his ears, and shook his whole body. It erupted from a primal place inside him, the part of him that was still animal, and still worked on fight or flight. And his mind was on fight. When he saw Arthur now, the only thing he could see was blood. Arthur had turned on their family, hurt them and taken from Matthew one of the dearest things in his world. And Matthew was off running down the hillside before he’d even reached his conclusion.
He had to make it even. Alfred’s loss would not be completely meaningless.
He threw Arthur down with the full force of his whole body. Matthew’s knees landed upon Arthur’s chest, and before he could take in another breath, Matthew wrapped his hands around his throat. “Murdering bastard!” he screeched, digging his thumbs into Arthur’s windpipe, doing his best to make it count. “You killed him! How could you!?”
Matthew noticed, in passing, that Arthur made absolutely no effort to defend himself; this realization came a split second before Francis seized him up by the collar.
“Mon dieu!” Francis cried. “I will not be in a family of murderers!”
He was right. Matthew fell back to catch his breath, and instead began once again to wail aloud. He couldn’t do this, this wasn’t like him at all.
He couldn’t even seek justice for his brother.
When Arthur sat up once more he did not look at Matthew or Francis. His eyes were distant, still fixed upon the top of that hill. There was pallor in his face, white like death itself. “I…” he said, but the rest of his sentence got lost in his throat. “I…” he tried again, and once again failed to put words to what was in his head.
“You see now?” Francis asked him, stepping before Matthew. “Do you understand what it is you have done?”
In Arthur’s lap, his fists were clenched and shaking. “No,” Arthur whispered. “I didn’t. I couldn’t have. I wouldn’t.”
“You did,” Matthew spat.
Arthur flinched, and Matthew did not feel sorry.
“You nearly took dear Matthew from us, too,” Francis said, weaving his fingers into his boy’s hair.
“Oh god,” Arthur choked, and laid eyes for the first time on Matthew. He leaned forward, reaching out a hand. “I’m sorry, Matthew. I’m so sorry.”
An icy wave swept through Matthew’s chest and he nearly choked on the very air he breathed. When he saw that reaching hand, he could only see a knife in it. Before that tainted hand could rest upon him, Matthew swept it away. “Don’t touch me.”
Recoiling, Arthur shut his eyes tight. “I am… sorry.”
Matthew gritted his teeth at the very sound of it. All his misery was fading into outrage. “Sorry?” he said. “You’re sorry? You killed my brother and, oh, you’re sorry?” No, he couldn’t take this absurdity. He sprung to his feet, stood over Arthur such that he fell entirely into his shadow. “Sorry doesn’t mean anything! Not after this! Don’t you just sit here saying sorry, sorry, sorry and expect anything from me!”
“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” Arthur said at the ground.
“Good!” Matthew snapped. “Because you’re not getting it.”
“Boys,” Francis said, and dropped down to his knees between them. “We need to figure out how we’re to deal with this. As a family.”
Matthew leaned down and leveled his gaze with Arthur’s, to ensure he felt this. “Arthur is no family of mine.”
Arthur responded only by wrapping his arms about himself and turning away.
In the middle of the animosity, Francis sighed and focused his attention on Matthew. “Well we,” he said, “at least, have to let everyone know what has happened.”
Slumping, Matthew nodded. He knew this was coming. This would be the hardest part. He hoped, at least, that they would only have to call a few and the rest would spread it around. He didn’t know how many times he could handle letting people know his brother was dead.
“Don’t,” Arthur said.
Francis and Matthew returned their attentions to the back of Arthur’s head. “Don’t what?” Francis asked.
“Don’t… tell everyone. Not yet, at least.”
“And what?” Matthew said, straightening up. “Why?”
“America still stands, right?”
Francis nodded. “Oui. Not a sign of trouble.”
Arthur hunched over further and dug his fingers into his hair, like a snail trying to retreat into its shell. “Can you imagine,” he said, “what will happen when everyone finds out… that we can die… and nothing will happen? We’ve always believed ourselves to be so integral. If everyone finds out our actions, our very lives, are all for naught…” He glanced back over his shoulder at them, red-eyed and helpless. “It will be chaos.”
“So what do you propose we do?” Matthew demanded. He already knew there would be problems; he himself was already struggling with these overpowering ideas. But there was no getting around it. “Everyone’s going to find out anyway. We can’t just hide it.”
“Well,” Arthur said, “maybe…” He stood, legs quaking very slightly, and stepped forward. He approached Matthew like one might approach a snarling dog-hesitant, and not quite making eye contact. “Maybe, Matthew, if you helped me. If maybe, for a while…” He faltered, stepped back once, then stepped forward once more. “Just until I think of something better, I mean. Maybe, just for a bit, you could…” He paused for one deep breath. “You could pose as your brother.”
“What?” Matthew stood and staggered back all in one motion.
In defense, Arthur put up his hands before him. “Just for a little while, as I said.” He reached forward, trying to call Matthew to his line of thinking. “It’ll be for the good of the rest of the world. Everyone is always confusing you two…”
But Matthew would not allow him to finish with this madness. Arthur hit the ground hard. Unused to striking anyone, Matthew’s knuckles all stung. He shook out his hand and turned away, couldn’t even look at the man anymore. Behind him, he heard Arthur scramble up onto his knees. Matthew could see now, from a couple spots on his fingers, that he’d drawn blood. There was that, at least. “I need to make some calls,” he said, then walked away before he found himself wanting to put his hands around that man’s neck again. Francis followed swiftly after him.
The two of them left Arthur behind to think about what he’d done.
Author/Artist: Red
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Mainly Canada, France, and England, but featuring ALMOST EVERYBODY | America/England, Lithuania/Poland, China/Russia, one-sided Belarus->Russia, Germany/N. Italy, Austria/Hungary, Spain/S. Italy, Finland/Sweden, France/Prussia (kind of!) and probably a whole bunch of others if you wear the right goggles.
Rating: R
Warnings: ANGST, violence, character death overall. No chapter-specific warnings this time ‘round.
Summary: After one of their number kills another in the midst of a psychotic breakdown, and the countries involved seem to remain unaffected, the Nation-tans are forced to question their mortality and the very nature of their existence. The strain of loss and the weight of the questions threatens to tear their delicate community apart at the seams.
***
Chapter II: And the Dead Leaves Lie
“And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'”
--Robert Frost, “Reluctance”
July 2nd, 2009
Arthur woke the next morning as the sun struck his eyes and ignited a chorus of aching within his body. His hands shot immediately to clutch his throbbing head and he groaned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hangover this bad; it was practically deafening. He couldn’t even bear to open his eyes, chose instead to search his mind for bearings. What the Hell had happened last night?
“So, you’re awake,” said a familiar old voice, softly, from across the room.
It took the entirety of Arthur’s energy just to get his elbows underneath him and prop himself up. He cracked his eyes open, blinking rapidly to get his eyes accustomed to the daylight.
When the world came into focus, he saw Francis sitting at the far end of the room, across from the foot of the bed. The light which fell from the windows did not seem to reach him, but by far the darkest thing in the room was the look he fixed on Arthur. It was so cold it numbed the aching in all of Arthur’s muscles. They’d been fighting each other so often for so long, and yet it had been ages since he had seen such hatred in Francis’ eyes. The last time he could clearly recall it was when he took full custody of Matthew…
Oh.
“Oh God,” said Arthur, pawing at his bleary eyes. “I made an arse of myself at the party, didn’t I?”
One of Francis’ brows drifted upward. “You don’t remember.” It wasn’t a question.
Arthur buried his face in his hands. “How bad was it? Tell me.” He’d need to make it up to the boy today. If he’d even speak to him, that was.
But Francis told him nothing, only shifted in his seat and looked away. Arthur swore he saw him wince, but no words came to betray the Frenchman’s thoughts.
Scowling, Arthur turned away from him. The bastard was never any help. Instead, he surveyed the room and the windows, scraping around the void of his mind. This… this was Alfred’s room. This was Alfred’s bed, and Alfred’s nightstand, and these were Alfred’s family photos. Portraits of Alfred’s presidents and a map of his country hung along the wall. What was he doing here?
“I didn’t go to Matthew’s party at all, did I?” Arthur said even as it occurred to him. No, no, as much as he remembered nothing, he could not recall even a snapshot of being at Matthew’s last night.
“No.”
Damn. Well, it was better than some of the alternatives. Still, as Arthur tilted his head back and cracked his neck, he couldn’t fathom what had possessed him to be drinking so much on his younger boy’s birthday. Unless he’d just forgotten, which he had done before, especially considering the date which followed fast on Canada Day’s heels. Yes, Alfred. It all came back to Alfred. Alfred was certainly the reason he’d gotten so drunk, he was sure now. Well, why was he here? Why was Francis here, for that matter? Well, Francis was about useless, so Arthur reasoned he’d just have to force his weary old body out of bed and ask the boy himself.
When he threw the covers back, Arthur faltered.
He was still fully dressed; he’d expected as much. What he hadn’t expected was to find himself all covered in patches of maroon. The sight of it brought images to his mind that flickered by too fast to quite register, his subconscious suppressing them for his protection. But he felt as though something were strangling his heart. And echoing inside him he heard Alfred’s voice screaming.
“Arthur, please! Stop!”
Arthur pressed his fingertips to his lips. “Francis,” he whispered. “What… did I do?” He gulped, tried to center himself and still the escalating trembling. “Where is Alfred?”
And still not quite looking at him, Francis replied, “Why don’t I show you?”
***
Alfred could afford, if he wanted to, to live in great splendor. He could construct an opulent mansion in any one of his states, but he could never choose. He was instead far more content to live simply in comfortably with one house in every state. Every month he switched off to the next one. And while he could not choose a favorite amongst his states, in every state he had a favorite place.
And there was a hill along the Charles River in Massachusetts. It had a beautiful view of the Boston skyline. Alfred always adored Boston, it was the place he first stood up for himself.
Matthew thought it was perfect.
And he lay curled up on the freshly turned earth, fast asleep. He thought he’d never sleep, but spending the whole night digging a grave had worn him down. When the first fingers of light reached up from the horizon, Matthew had finished. He smoothed out the soil with his shovel, crafted a crude little cross from two pieces of scrap wood. The instant he pitched that cross at the head of Alfred’s resting place, he collapsed. Desperately he wished he could’ve done better for him; it looked like the grave marker of a family pet, not family. But Matthew was so short on resources and so very tired it was all he could do for him.
He was glad, at least, to sleep. Sleep meant precious time away from the painful truth. But it didn’t last long.
“You slept out here, cheri?" He heard Francis’ voice, thin with worry, break his rest. “I thought I heard you come back inside last night.”
Matthew refused to open his eyes just yet. He felt as though as long as he could keep his eyes shut, he could hide from reality. “I came back for a hammer,” he said, and found his voice was hoarse. “Took all night…”
“Mon pauvre petit…” Francis whispered. His hand settled upon Matthew’s shoulder. “Come now, get up.”
There was no escaping it then. Matthew brushed Francis’ hand aside and pushed himself up, sitting groggy at the graveside. He vigorously rubbed his tired eyes. Then his gaze settled upon the shadow cast long across the hilltop from the little makeshift cross. The world blurred.
Alfred. Alfred was gone. Alfred was gone, and it didn’t mean anything. What the hell were they there for, if their countries didn’t need them? Nobody in this country, this country that Alfred was supposed to be, had any idea that anything was wrong. Alfred had felt, intimately, every pain of his people. When his economy fell apart, he fell ill. When some wicked, hateful men destroyed his towers, he bled. So why, when he bled and he hurt, did his country feel nothing?
If Matthew died tomorrow, would Canada miss him at all?
“Can you stand?” Francis asked, fracturing Matthew’s existential crisis. “Do you need help?”
Matthew sniffled and wiped his face, leaving a smear of dirt across his cheeks. “No,” he said. “I’ll do it myself.” He wouldn’t allow himself to be destroyed by this, no. Alfred would expect better from him. So he got his feet under himself and stood, a bit wobbly at first for lack of sleep and heaviness of heart, but soon steadied.
And there, at the bottom of the hill, stood Arthur, staring up at that little wooden cross. His face was blank, and there was still dry blood all over his clothes.
There was blood on his clothes.
Alfred’s blood.
He shed Alfred’s blood.
From Matthew’s gut a scream came which rent his throat, echoed in his ears, and shook his whole body. It erupted from a primal place inside him, the part of him that was still animal, and still worked on fight or flight. And his mind was on fight. When he saw Arthur now, the only thing he could see was blood. Arthur had turned on their family, hurt them and taken from Matthew one of the dearest things in his world. And Matthew was off running down the hillside before he’d even reached his conclusion.
He had to make it even. Alfred’s loss would not be completely meaningless.
He threw Arthur down with the full force of his whole body. Matthew’s knees landed upon Arthur’s chest, and before he could take in another breath, Matthew wrapped his hands around his throat. “Murdering bastard!” he screeched, digging his thumbs into Arthur’s windpipe, doing his best to make it count. “You killed him! How could you!?”
Matthew noticed, in passing, that Arthur made absolutely no effort to defend himself; this realization came a split second before Francis seized him up by the collar.
“Mon dieu!” Francis cried. “I will not be in a family of murderers!”
He was right. Matthew fell back to catch his breath, and instead began once again to wail aloud. He couldn’t do this, this wasn’t like him at all.
He couldn’t even seek justice for his brother.
When Arthur sat up once more he did not look at Matthew or Francis. His eyes were distant, still fixed upon the top of that hill. There was pallor in his face, white like death itself. “I…” he said, but the rest of his sentence got lost in his throat. “I…” he tried again, and once again failed to put words to what was in his head.
“You see now?” Francis asked him, stepping before Matthew. “Do you understand what it is you have done?”
In Arthur’s lap, his fists were clenched and shaking. “No,” Arthur whispered. “I didn’t. I couldn’t have. I wouldn’t.”
“You did,” Matthew spat.
Arthur flinched, and Matthew did not feel sorry.
“You nearly took dear Matthew from us, too,” Francis said, weaving his fingers into his boy’s hair.
“Oh god,” Arthur choked, and laid eyes for the first time on Matthew. He leaned forward, reaching out a hand. “I’m sorry, Matthew. I’m so sorry.”
An icy wave swept through Matthew’s chest and he nearly choked on the very air he breathed. When he saw that reaching hand, he could only see a knife in it. Before that tainted hand could rest upon him, Matthew swept it away. “Don’t touch me.”
Recoiling, Arthur shut his eyes tight. “I am… sorry.”
Matthew gritted his teeth at the very sound of it. All his misery was fading into outrage. “Sorry?” he said. “You’re sorry? You killed my brother and, oh, you’re sorry?” No, he couldn’t take this absurdity. He sprung to his feet, stood over Arthur such that he fell entirely into his shadow. “Sorry doesn’t mean anything! Not after this! Don’t you just sit here saying sorry, sorry, sorry and expect anything from me!”
“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” Arthur said at the ground.
“Good!” Matthew snapped. “Because you’re not getting it.”
“Boys,” Francis said, and dropped down to his knees between them. “We need to figure out how we’re to deal with this. As a family.”
Matthew leaned down and leveled his gaze with Arthur’s, to ensure he felt this. “Arthur is no family of mine.”
Arthur responded only by wrapping his arms about himself and turning away.
In the middle of the animosity, Francis sighed and focused his attention on Matthew. “Well we,” he said, “at least, have to let everyone know what has happened.”
Slumping, Matthew nodded. He knew this was coming. This would be the hardest part. He hoped, at least, that they would only have to call a few and the rest would spread it around. He didn’t know how many times he could handle letting people know his brother was dead.
“Don’t,” Arthur said.
Francis and Matthew returned their attentions to the back of Arthur’s head. “Don’t what?” Francis asked.
“Don’t… tell everyone. Not yet, at least.”
“And what?” Matthew said, straightening up. “Why?”
“America still stands, right?”
Francis nodded. “Oui. Not a sign of trouble.”
Arthur hunched over further and dug his fingers into his hair, like a snail trying to retreat into its shell. “Can you imagine,” he said, “what will happen when everyone finds out… that we can die… and nothing will happen? We’ve always believed ourselves to be so integral. If everyone finds out our actions, our very lives, are all for naught…” He glanced back over his shoulder at them, red-eyed and helpless. “It will be chaos.”
“So what do you propose we do?” Matthew demanded. He already knew there would be problems; he himself was already struggling with these overpowering ideas. But there was no getting around it. “Everyone’s going to find out anyway. We can’t just hide it.”
“Well,” Arthur said, “maybe…” He stood, legs quaking very slightly, and stepped forward. He approached Matthew like one might approach a snarling dog-hesitant, and not quite making eye contact. “Maybe, Matthew, if you helped me. If maybe, for a while…” He faltered, stepped back once, then stepped forward once more. “Just until I think of something better, I mean. Maybe, just for a bit, you could…” He paused for one deep breath. “You could pose as your brother.”
“What?” Matthew stood and staggered back all in one motion.
In defense, Arthur put up his hands before him. “Just for a little while, as I said.” He reached forward, trying to call Matthew to his line of thinking. “It’ll be for the good of the rest of the world. Everyone is always confusing you two…”
But Matthew would not allow him to finish with this madness. Arthur hit the ground hard. Unused to striking anyone, Matthew’s knuckles all stung. He shook out his hand and turned away, couldn’t even look at the man anymore. Behind him, he heard Arthur scramble up onto his knees. Matthew could see now, from a couple spots on his fingers, that he’d drawn blood. There was that, at least. “I need to make some calls,” he said, then walked away before he found himself wanting to put his hands around that man’s neck again. Francis followed swiftly after him.
The two of them left Arthur behind to think about what he’d done.