Lost Time - [9b/?]
anonymous
January 5 2011, 00:51:59 UTC
“Neither Gilbert nor I are mages, Kirkland.” France states flatly. “Matthieu cannot aid you, either.”
“How hard would it be to get me across the Atlantic?” The realization that crosses France’s face as he connects the dots is quickly replaced by horrified fury and disgust.
“Are you serious? You wish to seek the help of that butcher?!”
“Do you have a better idea?” England retorts. “If you do, I would love to hear it. No? Brilliant. Then kindly shut your trap or answer my bloody question.”
France says nothing; Arthur nearly gives up to go ask Prussia instead. “It could be arranged.” He concedes, grudgingly. “But first tell me this. Why go to him?”
“Because his magic is the same as mine, and even if he doesn’t have to books, his input will increase our odds significantly.” Arthur meets and matches France’s gaze. “I can’t do this on my own, Francis. Not in time. Please.”
France starts when England uses his human name, but he doesn’t speak when Arthur is finished; he holds the Brit’s gaze, green on blue, and Arthur swears to himself that this is one point he will not let slip past. The intensity of France’s gaze does not lessen, but it shifts from something ugly to something approaching respect.
“Very well. I shall make the arrangements.” Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Respect isn’t trust, not even close, but neither is it hatred, and even grudging respect is something. = =
It’s Prussia’s turn on unofficial guard detail, monitoring the uninvited visitor when the fae return at sundown. They come in a horde, dozens of them coming in through the nooks and crannies of Matthew’s house and swarming around England. To Gilbert’s partial Sight the individual twinkles merge into ribbons of light that twine continually around the Englishman until he pleads with them to stay still and take turns speaking, as their continuous chittering is giving him a headache. The glowing ribbons disperse and form a nebula of little coloured lights hanging in the air with Kirkland at the center. Three familiar points of light separate from the cloud and settle on England’s outstretched hands. Colombia appears at the door, magical bear clinging to his shoulder, murmuring in his ear. England meets Colombia’s eyes.
“He has them. The books.”
“And you want to go to Great Britain.” Says Colombia. His voice is flat, utterly devoid of emotion. “I don’t know if I should let you.” Matthew’s eyes were burning with the fury of a thousand suns when Francis had explained to him what England wanted, but now they are twin pools of violet ice.
Prussia knows from observation and experience that when it comes to Colombia, his cold fury is much worse than his outright explosive rage. Kirkland stiffens.
“Do you understand why I require his aid specifically?”
The cold wall of fury Colombia had built around himself abruptly crumbles to dust, and suddenly his rage is gone and he’s simply a man whose brother is dying and has no idea what to do.
“Maybe I can trust you. You seem to actually care what happens to him. But… But he… He killed Al once before. How can I just assume he won’t try to do it again?”
Prussia can see in the set of his shoulders and the way he is no longer holding the fae, but rather clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides that England is barely resisting the urge to move to Colombia’s side to comfort him, and as that would be a rather bad idea, Gilbert does it for him. Ignoring how awkward he feels showing affection in front of a mostly-stranger, Gilbert pulls Matthew into a one-armed hug, much like he used to when Ludwig was young and upset by half remembered dreams.
“Common, kiddo.” He says softly, ruffling Matthew’s hair with his free hand. “This guy here-“ he points to England through the cloud of fae around him. “-is only suggesting what he is out of necessity.” Colombia opens his mouth to interject, possibly to protest. Prussia doesn’t give him the chance. “I don’t like it either. In fact, I strongly dislike it. But he’s right. Short of a miracle, this is the only chance Alfred has. There’s just not enough time.”
Lost Time - [9c/?]
anonymous
January 5 2011, 00:53:44 UTC
“I know.” Matthew whispers brokenly. “There never is. I couldn’t save him then and I can’t save him now. There’s nothing I can do~” Slowly, Colombia sinks to the floor. Prussia crouches down beside him.
“You can be there for him.” England seems so very small, standing alone in the middle of the cloud of faerie lights. “Even if he’s not quite the Alfred you knew, you still know him better than anyone here. Even me.”
“And Francis’ll be going with him, so it’s not like they’ll be unsupervised or anything.”
Matthew takes a shaky breath. “Just… You have to get him home. It can’t happen agai-“ His eyes blow wide and he turns very pale. “Oh God, he’s waking up. I- I can’t… I-“ Colombia stands and moves out of the room so quickly that his bear is left behind on the floor with pieces of his shirt in its claws. The front door opens and closes with a crash.
The white fuzz ball makes an irritated sound, then looks Prussia in the eye before pointedly jerking his head in the direction of the front door.
Gilbert gets the message and hurriedly follows Matthew outside. = =
Arthur is there when Alfred wakes up. Colombia’s bear had to start growing before France would leave the two other-worlders alone, but leave he did.
Alfred wakes up slowly. He spends some time rolling back and forth in Colombia’s bed, as if he’s having a nightmare, or is having trouble getting comfortable. When he does open his eyes, he doesn’t look at anything; he stares blankly at the ceiling. His breathing becomes more and more laboured, and his eyes glaze over, slowly starting to fill with tears.
“Alfred?” Arthur inquires cautiously, unsure what Alfred is reacting to. “Alfred, tell me what’s wrong. I can’t help you if I don’t know what the problem is.”
“Hurts...” The superpower moans, rolling his head from side to side, causing a single tear to escape.
“What hurts, love?” Arthur presses, slipping into old parental patterns as he sits beside Alfred on the bed.
“My head. Where my people should be. It hurts.”
Arthur feels his heart constrict in that specific way that means he’ll either drink himself into oblivion later or lock himself in a washroom and cry.
“Oh, Alfred...”
Alfred, who makes being oblivious an art, catches the tone in Arthur’s voice. His gaze, unfocused without Texas, finds Arthur’s. Fear starts to creep into America’s eyes.
“Iggy..? Why’re you looking at me like that..?” He struggles upright, grasping weakly at England’s arm. England knows America expects him to rage at the nickname, but he can’t bring himself to fall into those old routines, not right now.
“I’m sorry.” Not the best choice of words, Arthur muses as Alfred gulps and pulls his hand away.
“Cut it out, Iggy. You’re scaring me.” Alfred gives a shaky laugh, misty blue eyes brimming with anxiety. “Seriously, you okay? You’re not sick or hurt or something?”
“I’m... alright. Listen, Alfred...” Arthur pauses, unsure how best to word what he has to say. “I’m going across the Atlantic, so I can work with this world’s me, to get us home as soon as possible. You’ll be staying here, with Matthew and Gilbert.”
“Uh... Okay. When?” America is obviously confused, as he only has half the story. Not even that, really.
“If all goes well, tomorrow morning. The sooner the better.”
“I... don’t understand. Why such a hurry? It’s not like our bosses can’t cope without us for a while.”
And there it is. The awful truth that Alfred is doomed without the citizens of the U.S.A. behind him. And Arthur is going to have to tell him. He takes a deep breath.
“Do you know what happens to us when we lose our people?”
Lost Time - [9d/?]
anonymous
January 5 2011, 00:54:55 UTC
Character limits. HATE. SO MUCH. >:(
“Well, yes. Our citizens... are our very existence. I have an equivalent here, so I’ll be weaker, but I’m not cut off... Being cut off is...” And oh, America is scared, his hands shaking and his eyes wide. England suspects that on a deep, subconscious level America knows what’s happening to him. “Being totally without the support of human citizens... It’s like having terminal cancer for us. It’s lethal.”
“What?” Alfred gasps. “No. I- You can’t... mean that I’m...”
“I’m sorry, Alfred. I’m so sorry.” Alfred shakes his head, and Arthur lays a hand against his cheek. Alfred shakes, his breathing ragged.
The bedroom door opens slowly, and Colombia slips into the room. He joins England, taking hold of America’s hand. He doesn’t seem capable of speech. Alfred looks between his alternate twin and his former guardian, looks down at the blankets of Colombia’s bed and quietly says five words that shatter Arthur’s heart into millions of razor-sharp shards.
“I don’t want to die.” = =
Does this count as a cliffhanger? I don’t even know. I don’t... really have anything to say here. *hides in emo corner*
Notes: Immédiatement - In case it isn’t obvious, this means immediately.
Re: Lost Time - [9d/?]
anonymous
January 5 2011, 01:58:07 UTC
Oh gosh you updated!!
The ending to this part doesn't feel very cliffhanger-like, but it sure is gut-wrenching. Heck, reading about EVERYONE is gut-wrenching. England, Colombia and America for obvious reasons, but France and Prussia, too. Everyone's so tense! AAAARRRGH.
I can't wait to see how Colombia would react when/if England and America manages to go back, though. Gosh I hope the boy gets some closure. :'(
“How hard would it be to get me across the Atlantic?” The realization that crosses France’s face as he connects the dots is quickly replaced by horrified fury and disgust.
“Are you serious? You wish to seek the help of that butcher?!”
“Do you have a better idea?” England retorts. “If you do, I would love to hear it. No? Brilliant. Then kindly shut your trap or answer my bloody question.”
France says nothing; Arthur nearly gives up to go ask Prussia instead. “It could be arranged.” He concedes, grudgingly. “But first tell me this. Why go to him?”
“Because his magic is the same as mine, and even if he doesn’t have to books, his input will increase our odds significantly.” Arthur meets and matches France’s gaze. “I can’t do this on my own, Francis. Not in time. Please.”
France starts when England uses his human name, but he doesn’t speak when Arthur is finished; he holds the Brit’s gaze, green on blue, and Arthur swears to himself that this is one point he will not let slip past. The intensity of France’s gaze does not lessen, but it shifts from something ugly to something approaching respect.
“Very well. I shall make the arrangements.” Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Respect isn’t trust, not even close, but neither is it hatred, and even grudging respect is something.
= =
It’s Prussia’s turn on unofficial guard detail, monitoring the uninvited visitor when the fae return at sundown. They come in a horde, dozens of them coming in through the nooks and crannies of Matthew’s house and swarming around England. To Gilbert’s partial Sight the individual twinkles merge into ribbons of light that twine continually around the Englishman until he pleads with them to stay still and take turns speaking, as their continuous chittering is giving him a headache. The glowing ribbons disperse and form a nebula of little coloured lights hanging in the air with Kirkland at the center. Three familiar points of light separate from the cloud and settle on England’s outstretched hands. Colombia appears at the door, magical bear clinging to his shoulder, murmuring in his ear. England meets Colombia’s eyes.
“He has them. The books.”
“And you want to go to Great Britain.” Says Colombia. His voice is flat, utterly devoid of emotion. “I don’t know if I should let you.” Matthew’s eyes were burning with the fury of a thousand suns when Francis had explained to him what England wanted, but now they are twin pools of violet ice.
Prussia knows from observation and experience that when it comes to Colombia, his cold fury is much worse than his outright explosive rage. Kirkland stiffens.
“Do you understand why I require his aid specifically?”
The cold wall of fury Colombia had built around himself abruptly crumbles to dust, and suddenly his rage is gone and he’s simply a man whose brother is dying and has no idea what to do.
“Maybe I can trust you. You seem to actually care what happens to him. But… But he… He killed Al once before. How can I just assume he won’t try to do it again?”
Prussia can see in the set of his shoulders and the way he is no longer holding the fae, but rather clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides that England is barely resisting the urge to move to Colombia’s side to comfort him, and as that would be a rather bad idea, Gilbert does it for him. Ignoring how awkward he feels showing affection in front of a mostly-stranger, Gilbert pulls Matthew into a one-armed hug, much like he used to when Ludwig was young and upset by half remembered dreams.
“Common, kiddo.” He says softly, ruffling Matthew’s hair with his free hand. “This guy here-“ he points to England through the cloud of fae around him. “-is only suggesting what he is out of necessity.” Colombia opens his mouth to interject, possibly to protest. Prussia doesn’t give him the chance. “I don’t like it either. In fact, I strongly dislike it. But he’s right. Short of a miracle, this is the only chance Alfred has. There’s just not enough time.”
Captcha gave me Danish letters. WTF.
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“You can be there for him.” England seems so very small, standing alone in the middle of the cloud of faerie lights. “Even if he’s not quite the Alfred you knew, you still know him better than anyone here. Even me.”
“And Francis’ll be going with him, so it’s not like they’ll be unsupervised or anything.”
Matthew takes a shaky breath. “Just… You have to get him home. It can’t happen agai-“ His eyes blow wide and he turns very pale. “Oh God, he’s waking up. I- I can’t… I-“ Colombia stands and moves out of the room so quickly that his bear is left behind on the floor with pieces of his shirt in its claws. The front door opens and closes with a crash.
The white fuzz ball makes an irritated sound, then looks Prussia in the eye before pointedly jerking his head in the direction of the front door.
Gilbert gets the message and hurriedly follows Matthew outside.
= =
Arthur is there when Alfred wakes up. Colombia’s bear had to start growing before France would leave the two other-worlders alone, but leave he did.
Alfred wakes up slowly. He spends some time rolling back and forth in Colombia’s bed, as if he’s having a nightmare, or is having trouble getting comfortable. When he does open his eyes, he doesn’t look at anything; he stares blankly at the ceiling. His breathing becomes more and more laboured, and his eyes glaze over, slowly starting to fill with tears.
“Alfred?” Arthur inquires cautiously, unsure what Alfred is reacting to. “Alfred, tell me what’s wrong. I can’t help you if I don’t know what the problem is.”
“Hurts...” The superpower moans, rolling his head from side to side, causing a single tear to escape.
“What hurts, love?” Arthur presses, slipping into old parental patterns as he sits beside Alfred on the bed.
“My head. Where my people should be. It hurts.”
Arthur feels his heart constrict in that specific way that means he’ll either drink himself into oblivion later or lock himself in a washroom and cry.
“Oh, Alfred...”
Alfred, who makes being oblivious an art, catches the tone in Arthur’s voice. His gaze, unfocused without Texas, finds Arthur’s. Fear starts to creep into America’s eyes.
“Iggy..? Why’re you looking at me like that..?” He struggles upright, grasping weakly at England’s arm. England knows America expects him to rage at the nickname, but he can’t bring himself to fall into those old routines, not right now.
“I’m sorry.” Not the best choice of words, Arthur muses as Alfred gulps and pulls his hand away.
“Cut it out, Iggy. You’re scaring me.” Alfred gives a shaky laugh, misty blue eyes brimming with anxiety. “Seriously, you okay? You’re not sick or hurt or something?”
“I’m... alright. Listen, Alfred...” Arthur pauses, unsure how best to word what he has to say. “I’m going across the Atlantic, so I can work with this world’s me, to get us home as soon as possible. You’ll be staying here, with Matthew and Gilbert.”
“Uh... Okay. When?” America is obviously confused, as he only has half the story. Not even that, really.
“If all goes well, tomorrow morning. The sooner the better.”
“I... don’t understand. Why such a hurry? It’s not like our bosses can’t cope without us for a while.”
And there it is. The awful truth that Alfred is doomed without the citizens of the U.S.A. behind him. And Arthur is going to have to tell him. He takes a deep breath.
“Do you know what happens to us when we lose our people?”
“Uh... We get weaker and feel crappy?”
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“Well, yes. Our citizens... are our very existence. I have an equivalent here, so I’ll be weaker, but I’m not cut off... Being cut off is...” And oh, America is scared, his hands shaking and his eyes wide. England suspects that on a deep, subconscious level America knows what’s happening to him. “Being totally without the support of human citizens... It’s like having terminal cancer for us. It’s lethal.”
“What?” Alfred gasps. “No. I- You can’t... mean that I’m...”
“I’m sorry, Alfred. I’m so sorry.” Alfred shakes his head, and Arthur lays a hand against his cheek. Alfred shakes, his breathing ragged.
The bedroom door opens slowly, and Colombia slips into the room. He joins England, taking hold of America’s hand. He doesn’t seem capable of speech. Alfred looks between his alternate twin and his former guardian, looks down at the blankets of Colombia’s bed and quietly says five words that shatter Arthur’s heart into millions of razor-sharp shards.
“I don’t want to die.”
= =
Does this count as a cliffhanger? I don’t even know. I don’t... really have anything to say here. *hides in emo corner*
Notes:
Immédiatement - In case it isn’t obvious, this means immediately.
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<3
I love you, Anon. :D
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The ending to this part doesn't feel very cliffhanger-like, but it sure is gut-wrenching. Heck, reading about EVERYONE is gut-wrenching. England, Colombia and America for obvious reasons, but France and Prussia, too. Everyone's so tense! AAAARRRGH.
I can't wait to see how Colombia would react when/if England and America manages to go back, though. Gosh I hope the boy gets some closure. :'(
Keep up the awesome!
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*pulls Author!anon out of emo corner*
*hands AA a cookie*
You are amazing. :]
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Oh man I can't wait for the next chapter. Great Britains reaction... And Yay! France and Norway to the rescue!
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I have no words. The end bit, with America admitting that he doesn't want to die, totally broke my heart. Into about a bazillion pieces.
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