Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
Thanks to anon's suggestions we are now enforcing a past-part fills post
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With a start of surprise, Arthur hefted his gun aside, gasping with horror. Alfred however, made not made the faintest peep as his body slid forwards, and only a stomach churning slosh was audible as the American's face met with the muddy earth.
England immediately threw himself to his knees at Alfred's side, rolling the boy over with as much haste as was possible to muster. The bullet had shredded its was right through the coat, leaving a gaping, pulsing wound open on the boy's chest. Every strained breath sending a new stream of red down his chest.
Gunpowder stung at Arthur's eyes, it tried to blot out what very well could be the last time he'd see his boy alive. He could feel Alfred, feel the boy shaking uncontrollably like a rabbit in the talons of a hawk. Blinking away the own stinging in his eyes, Arthur could even see that his boy was crying.
Arthur could count on one hand how many times he had seen Alfred cry in his entire life.
Wiping the mud from Alfred's face, Arthur tried to get any response out of him he could. Time passed at an unbearably slow pace, so slow were the long and labored gaps between seconds that it seemed time could very well be going in reverse. England pressed a hand to the pulsing injury, cringing every time he felt a fresh leak of life escaping his boy.
"F-Father." Alfred's gasping of the word caused the blood to seep more freely "Where is it?"
England stared mutely at the bullet wound. Could he really not feel the burning lead so snugly nestled within his chest? Or perhaps he could feel it, but didn't want to accept it. Or the most stomach churning explanation, Alfred had been so weakened & wounded from the war already it could be that his entire body was in constant, fiery pain.
Receiving no response from his Father figure, Alfred wearily groped at his own uniform. Prodding & squeezing here and there, attempting to find the entrance wound of the bullet. His hand moved steadily upwards, growing ever closer not only to his chest, but to the truth.
"It only grazed your shoulder, you'll be fine." Arthur's voice was unwavering as he deftly moved the traveling hand back to the boy's side. "Will you ever forgive me? Are you really going to leave me!?"
England's last words had more than a hint of hysteria in them, giving away the seriousness of the injury if America had been at all fooled. Alfred squeezed his hands into balled up fists a few times, seemingly unsure of what to say at this point .
"Father." there was a long pause, America's eyelids seemed to be fluttering with less strength as he gathered his thoughts "I-I apologize for doing this to you, to Mattie, to everyone..." another gasp for air, this one audibly wet. "Will you grant me a single favor?"
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Author's Notes: Have some musical notes so you don't feel too sad. IT GETS HAPPIER I PROMISE. ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫
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I hope it gets happier. Alfred...Arthur... T_T
The music notes did help...♥
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I just... I don't even know. I like the way you write, author!anon. Your... metaphors. Yes. Nice.
*too sad to think*
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Also yeah, this piece isn't exactly a feel good story so far. I'm tempted to just post a handful of parts tomorrow to get past the BAAAW part and onto lighter stuff.
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Also sorry for the lack of update these past two days, haven't been able to access a computer for more than a few minutes. If I can I'll update tonight or at least by tomorrow.
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Alfred moved a hand to rest it against Arthur's cheek, but only managed to graze the older man's collar before his hand fell back to the wet earth with a thud. England thought he felt his son laugh as well by how his chest heaved- and how the blood flowed through his fingers- but the only noise he could make out was something akin to a carriage making its way down a gravel road.
"You're avoiding-" Alfred's body spasmed violently for a moment before stilling slightly. "that favor." his words came out with a grating tone, and Arthur realized where the rickety noise had been coming from.
Except it wasn't so much that Arthur had only just now grasped the idea of liquid filling his son's lungs with every struggling breath. As a seasoned fighter he knew these injuries could happen to any man, woman or child. He just didn't want to accept that it could happen to his son.
"I'll do it! I'll do any favor you want and more- just don't leave me!" sobs wracked Arthur's own chest as he leaned over his son, still trying to keep even pressure on the bullet wound. "You can't leave. You can't leave! Not me, not anyone!" the last words came out as horrific shrieks, like the noise ones soul must emit when their world is burning in front of their own eyes.
Burning by their own hand.
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Author's Notes: I apologize profusely for not only the delay in posting this part, but also for the shortness of it. Decided early this morning to rewrite a bit of what happens after this part of the story, but without much computer access right now I don't want to rush it. ):
Tonight I'm going to be sleeping at my Step-Sister's home to babysit my nephew, and she doesn't have a lick of internet connection over there. More updates will [hopefully] be posted tomorrow night.
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I'm sorry, but I simply must share this captcha. "10,060 floozie"
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Burning by their own hand.
Niiiiiice.
This is powerful stuff, anon. T_T
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"S-son?" England's voice cracked as he lowered his head to the boy's chest, once strong rivulets of blood had lightened along with the rise and fall of Alfred's chest.
With his ear carefully positioned to avoid any warm red fluid, Arthur closed his eyes to concentrate on the flutter of his son's heart. It was there, soft but gloriously consistent. Coupled with the sound of blood rushing about the injured body, the noises reminded the listening man of the rolling waves which so long ago had put sent him off to sweet sleep.
Arthur would never again be able to associate the ocean with fond memories of plundering & general tomfoolery. Now open waters would remind him only of the last beats of a boy's heart, the salty scent in the misty breeze replaced with the smothering stench of innocent blood being so unjustly shed.
Alfred shifted slightly under his Father's touch, reassuring him there was still life left in his body- just not for very long.
"Favor." A slight trickle of blood now escaped from the side of Alfred's mouth, only to be joined by blooming streams from his eyes, nose, and ears.
Pupils dilating by the second, America's body was in its last throws of life, shuddering halfheartedly at intermittent moments. His pale pink lips moved softly, wordlessly, telling the world all his hopes & dreams he would now never live to carry out. Telling them so that someone knew, knew what he could have grown and aspired to be, instead of becoming one of the many casualties of war.
Needing to hear those last words, or at least feel them, Arthur moved his head up from Alfred's chest, to those trembling lips. He feels them graze the outer shell of his ear like the touch of a butterfly's wings, the soft outward breath like those of the whispering fairies Alfred never did believe in.
As if waiting for Arthur to make that connection, Alfred spoke audibly once more.
"I can see them now, you know." His voice was calm, soothing not only for himself but for his Father.
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Author's Notes:
Longest death scene ever, amirite?
Also, everyone & anyone feel free to knock me upside the head for such erratic updates. Going to be spending another night with the nephew and all that jazz. Sorry for being such so bad about consistent updates, I feel like such a floozie. Well, more like 10k+ floozies.
Thank you readers for sticking through this wait, though, <3
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As long as you eventually update, inconsistency is fine. Real life takes precedence over the Internet ;)
And I have no amusing catpcha this time :(
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Tomorrow is the day I'll finally be returning home (this week I was in between my Pop's house and Step-Sister's home) which means I'll finally have my own room and privacy back. I think it's safe to say once I get back in my room the first thing I'll do is get to typing. xD
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In a moment of clarity, Arthur pulled his son upwards slightly, so that he could remain propped up in Arthur's own lap, his head helplessly lolling to the side. Stifling an appalled gasp, England relinquished any hold he had over the wound now, and started to stroke the tangled, soppy hair of the colony fading in his arms.
"Take..." A thick flow of what looked like blood, but was much too dark to be- strangled Alfred's speech as the fluid made its own bid for freedom.
Stricken with a numbness & fear that he had never known before, Arthur could do nothing but reel inwardly at the nightmarish scene unfolding. Pulling the trigger hadn't been a sign of strength, it had been the ultimate demonstration of weakness. A strong nation wasn't one that could be goaded by the words of a rebel as England had been, only a fearful one would react with such a show of over the top violence.
It was only that Arthur's senses reminded him that America wanted him to take something, that there a favor- a last gesture which needed to be performed.
"What do you want me to take?" Arthur's tone had a sickening calm to it, almost in a detached sort of way.
"Me," Every word from Alfred's mouth sounded like it was being filtered through the deepest, darkest depths of the ocean. "H-home."
There was that word again, home. Alfred really did consider England his home still! Had he more faith in England than Arthur himself? Did he believe Arthur wouldn't be spurred on by petty words into shooting him?
Similarly agonizing realizations ravaged Arthur's consciousness as he clutched the boy tighter and tighter, promising that yes, of course he would take him home. He'd take him home and everything would be okay. Alfred could sleep every night in Arthur's own bed, never have to taste another drop of tea if he didn't see it fit.
Animalistic heaves wrenched Arthur back to the situation at hand. Alfred's eyes had grown to an impossibly huge size, like those of child facing death. Which really, was exactly the case.
"Hush now! Breathe slowly, Alfred." Arthur shakily stroked the boy, unsure if he was doing more damage than good.
The gasps came more quickly as blue eyes became increasingly cloudy. Blood had once again started to froth from all imaginable sources, and the only recognizable expression was one of an unimaginable terror.
It all became unbearable, the scene was just too much for Arthur to take in, he felt his mind splintering apart, unable to even begin to process what he was witnessing. This was how animals died, gasping helplessly in an attempt to get much needed oxygen to their brain amidst the growing dimness that settled over their vision, not how Alfred would die.
Alfred, so headstrong, so bright, but still only a child.
Only madmen kill children.
What felt like a blanket of ice suddenly collided with the back of Arthur's head. With a start of surprise, England's mind was snapped from its mourning stupor. Had the murder finally be noticed by another? Could this numbing pain along his neck be shrapnel?
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Author's Notes:
I have ascertained while writing this fic that Alfred is not unlike a cockroach. They both seem simply unable to die, or at least in a timely fashion, even in the worst of situations.
Also I apologize for anyone disturbed by Alfred gasping for air, but it just wouldn't be very Alfred-like (in my opinion, that is) if he hit the dirt and passed on. Do not go gentle into that good night, Alfred! >:o
He's too much a fighter to lay down and simply be done with it. :B
IS THIS THE END?
Psh.
No.
Written five more pages beyond this part, but I haven't proof read any of it yet.
Last but not least, sick of having abiword tell me that judgement was most assuredly spelled 'judgment', I looked it up and judgement is fine. Thusly the title has been changed to Lenient Judgement. Something about judgment looks stunningly awkward.
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I'm glad this isn't the end. Your writing is gorgeous and I can't wait for more, sad as it is.
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