[fanfiction] Fallen Knight - Act ii: Fork
Act 2: Fork
Six months ago, when Arthur would walk the streets of London on his increasingly rare trips away from the front lines, he could meet anyone’s eye and see the fight they held within them, even under the duress of a constant losing streak. They were English, proud and true, whether a long-time resident or a recent refugee, each held that small flame, and kept it safe.
Now the eyes were dull, his people lost within the Reich’s growing shadow. His economy was failing, his woman were quiet, subdued and his men were either too broken to fight or far away from him, isolated, slowly having their spirits broken down as the world slowly fell out of the war and into a hesitant and dubious peace. Arthur knew his people were defeated, that the flame had been doused and he did his best to ignore that overwhelming feeling of failure.
When his government had first signed the documents of the unconditional surrender, he had spent days locked in his quarters, drinking his way through his now-rationed whiskey, crying, yelling, screaming, doing anything to keep himself from going mad as the cage of German influence closed around him.
A letter had slipped under his door two days into his isolation had informed him that the United States of America and Canada had both signed ceasefires with The Second Reich and the German Empire and would be pulling their men back and sending all prisoners of war back to their respected nations. The fact that Alfred and Matthew, both so sure of victory, had pulled out had been the final push Arthur needed.
As the fourth day dawned and he woke from yet another long, drink-induced stupor, his mind slowly came to a conclusion that made his skin feel unlike his own. He knew he couldn’t fight anymore. The scars on his back had doubled since the war had started and even after the ceasefire he could still feel the skin ache as his villages and cities were pulled back together, half-formed among the rubble. He knew he would have to give in.
It had been hard at first, much harder than he would’ve liked to share, but eventually he had dragged himself out of his room and met Ludwig and his new boss, giving them both a low bow, resigning himself to them. It was the worst moment in his history and still burned fresh and hard in his mind.
In order to try and forget this terrible memory (and since booze was now rationed and couldn’t simply be bought whenever he felt like nipping down to the shop or pub) Arthur often found himself in Hyde Park, walking the Rose Garden, wishing that the flowers would blossom again. The park had been dull and lifeless for a year now. Reaching out a careful hand, he pushed a few thorned branches aside, seeing a hint of colour.
A red rose shined up at him, petals wilted and black at the edges but at its very core, beautiful and crimson. He fingered the silky flower for a moment, closing his eyes. After a moment - shoving his hands in his pockets, taking a petal with his trembling fingers - Arthur hurried out of the park, wishing that the roses didn’t remind him of better times.
The few people brave enough to walk the streets of occupied London were either skittish and clung to their SS-issued passes as it was a life raft in a raging sea, or out-of-their minds, walking and talking to people that weren’t there. Arthur envied these people; they were still living in old London.
The SS-London Headquarters had been set up in the Parliament Buildings, large red flags hanging outside while any hint of the rose had been chipped out, replaced with the Reich’s crest. As Arthur walked into the compound - the entire area had been cordoned off as the main German base - the solders began to mutter among themselves, giving him a wide birth. Despite being defeated, Arthur reputation for a sharp mouth and fast hand preceded him. The troops had a name for him, one only whispered at night during watch, because if caught using the title they would be punished harshly.
Blutroter Löwe
A few men come to attention as he entered the main hall, sliding off his jacket handing it to the soldiers. He adjusted his collar, fingers ignoring the urge to rip the cross from his neck and started down one of the long hallway. Soldiers in pressed and perfect uniforms lined the corridor, guns held proud and chins prouder. Arthur scowled at everyone.
Reaching the end of the hall, he took one last comforting breath and pushed the double doors open, feeling the carved stories there for a moment. The banquet hall is simple and elegant, most of the space taken up by a large dark oak table, laden with silver and glass. Waiters pour wine as England took his seat at Germany’s right hand, stuck between the two Germanic brothers and across from Russia. He muttered a small apology for his lateness, waving off the wine and asking for scotch instead.
He loathed being at Germany’s side, scrutinized and caged at all times. When the blue eyes were not over-looking the rest of the Reich, they were boring into Arthur. He can’t help but wonder why someone so young managed to best him.
Sighing, he took the scotch, relishing the slightly wild and unrefined taste compared to the wines and high-class liquors he had been forced to drink. It reminded him of his brothers and with an unsettling lurch of his stomach, he wondered if they were okay. They were still free, hidden deep within their forests, continuing to fight for Arthur’s freedom. His heart longed for the company of someone he didn’t want to choke and his current companions held no one who met that requirement.
Beside him, Gilbert’s long fingers crept onto his shoulder, pulling him closer on the pretence of sniffing the drink, but Arthur heard the words whispered into his hear, more breath than coherency. “I have a gift for you my little Löwe. You will join me after dinner, understand?”
Only once England gave the smallest of nods - he had learnt to play Gilbert’s games - the grip around his shoulder relaxed. He ignored the way the Prussian’s boot presses against his, instead turning his attention to Japan, who sits beside Russia, dwarfed beside the huge nation. “How is your Chinese Front going Honda?” He asked.
The table went silent, all conversation coming to a halt. It had almost become tradition whenever there was a dinner. England took it upon himself to find the cracks in each nation’s armour and drive a knife into it. Prussia leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, watching with benign interest.
“As I said before England-san,” Japan said, lifting a hand to brush his bangs away, “Please call me Kiku or Japan. As for my front, it is going very well. We are gaining ground every day.” The round paused as the waiter announces that the first course is ready.
The soup is hot, mixed with spices taken from Ilavarasi’s most sacred and deepest gardens - Arthur only knows this because they were his spices at a time. “Oh really?” He said, picking up his spoon, still looking directly at Kiku, “I was under the impression you weren’t faring so well.”
Japan carefully gripped his utensil, the only sign of his irritation in the slight twitch of his eye. “I do not understand.” He answered calmly, meeting Arthur’s sneer with a cool stare, “As I said, my troops are doing quite well.” There is the tiniest quiver in his voice and Arthur can only grin. The years spent studying the Japanese man during their alliance were finally proving useful.
Grinning, Arthur dipped his spoon into the crimson soup; pulling it out and watching the liquid drip thickly back into the bowl. “Is that so? I heard the Russian rebels groups were giving you quite a few problems. I believe you lost Yong Soo and his brother to their attacks?”
The spoon clattered into the bowl. Kiku’s dark eyes were hard, cold and far from the distant look they usually had. “I will not discuss Yong Soo with a surrendered and captured nation.” He said, gently picking up his spoon and continuing to eat without another word.
Not another sentence is uttered until they are halfway through the third course. Roderich turned to Arthur, carefully wiping the corners of his mouth free of glazed pheasant coucal. “How is Churchill doing?” The Austrian smiled slightly at England, full of the condescending smugness he usually saved for a few choice people.
Eyes swivelled to the Englishman and again the table seems suspended. “Still in a coma. I believe he’s at a Nazi hospital, isn’t that right Ludwig?” He looked up from his plate, brow furrowed slightly. It had been a long time since the connection to his leader had been severed and even longer since he had even seen Churchill in person.
“Correct.” The German said, not having touched any of his food. He didn’t need to eat. “Once he has recovered, he will be tried for crimes against the Reich.” Arthur flinched slightly, eyes lowering. There had been a small group of rebels that had fought against Nazi control, led by Churchill. New Britannia had flared into life briefly, it’s nation called James, a proud East Ender. Two days later, at a final stand off in Trafalgar Square, James lay dead, Churchill unconscious and the last ditch effort for England’s freedom fell with them.
Arthur had been forced to watch from Germany’s side and it was the first time in centuries that he had felt truly helpless. “And here I thought you’d keep him alive just to play with him…” England muttered, meeting the hard blue eyes for the first time. He wondered vaguely if his eyes glinted with power like that when he was an empire.
“It’s quite cold here.” All conversation stopped. Hungary had finally spoken, her light voice cracking across the low grumble of the men’s voices. “Isn’t it Roderich?” She was smiling sweetly and her hand was intertwined with Austria’s on the table but lines around her eyes had formed and she was watching each of the other nations carefully.
“Yes,” Arthur spoke up, his tone pleasant, watching everyone off-guard almost as much as Elizaveta’s sudden words. “London seems to have a wee nip in the air, doesn’t it?”
There was a sudden shift around the table, but Prussia stood up before everyone else. “England,” He said, looking down at the small island nation with something close to amusement, “I have something I want to show you. Come with me.”
Deciding it would be better to follow the order than stay around in the bristling room, Arthur got to his feet, bowing his head to everyone in the room, especially to Kiku, whom he gave an arrogant smirk.
Closing the door behind them as they walked out, Gilbert sighed, letting out a small chuckle. “You enjoy making things as tense as they can be, don’t you?” He adjusted one of his gloves, starting to head down the hallway, “Little Löwe. Getting too brave.”
“Quite.” Arthur replied curtly, clasping his hands behind his back as he strode beside the Prussian nation. He never gave long answers to Gilbert.
Still laughing, Gilbert stopped at a set of double-doors. “You never cease to amaze.” He said, opening the doors and revealing a candle-lit room. “I have a present for you.” Walking in first, Prussia waited calmly for the Englishman.
Cautiously, Arthur took a step into the room, eyes nervously flickering all over the dark room. “Why?”
Prussia closed the doors behind them, grinning widely at Arthur, who was sure to keep his back facing away from the albino. “Because I like you England,” Gilbert said, placing a hand on his hip, offering his other one, “And I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
The emerald eyes watched the proffered hand. “The wrong foot being you bombing my cities, killing my people and occupying me?” He questioned, flicking his gaze up to Prussia’s, keeping his hands folded tightly against his chest.
“Exactly!” The hand was pulled back so casually Arthur would’ve have noticed if he hadn’t been watching the nation so carefully, “You and I are on the same page.” Gilbert took a step towards Arthur and as the English nation took a step back and felt his legs hit the edge of the bed.
“I don’t want a gift.” Arthur said pointedly, stepping around Prussia, surprised that he wasn’t stopped. His hand touched the doorknob before the Machiavellian voice spoke again.
“Oh, I’m sure this is a gift you’ll want.”
Act 3: Pseudo-Sacrifice>>