Weep, Little Lion Man 1a/?
anonymous
December 13 2010, 18:32:38 UTC
“Oh Artie it’s my birthday next week and of course all people must attend the Hero’s birthday next week you know that right?”
“I’d have preferred a more warm greeting over the phone than random babble.”
“Yeah, yeah, old man, but you totally can’t resist coming this year right because they’ll be awesome cake and awesome fireworks and you’ll be such a loser to miss all that right?”
“Promising me with ‘fireworks’ and ‘cake’ is not going to make me feel anymore obliged to go.”
“.. So are you coming?”
“No.”
“But Ar-“
“DO NOT try and whine at me again. I’ve never even attended any of your blasted birthday parties; what makes you think I’m going to start now?”
“--There’s no reason for you not to come! Why are you always such an ass about this? It was years ago!”
“I’m not talking about this anymore.”
“… Arthur? … England? … You goddamn moron of a limey bastard don’t hang up on me!-“
-----
He didn’t need him. No siree.
Alfred could manage just fine on his birthday without that weirdo of a Brit, anyway. He would have plenty of fun with all the other nations that would be there. There would be fireworks and cake and colour and music and he would just overall have a great time! He deserved it, one hundred percent. America had had a hard year. His preparations had started as soon as he got home the day before and everything was of course, going as awesomely as usual under the Hero’s care. Nothing was going to stop him from enjoying his birthday, no doubt. He’d get down to work, no matter what certain limeys insisted to try and ruin his day.
He was fine.
Alfred found himself staring through a mirror.
Today was 4th of July in the year 2010. He would be turning 224 as an official country. That was two hundred and twenty years of him being an adult.
It was two hundred and twenty four times without him turning up.
Alfred used to understand this act. He was across an ocean; it was rather a far way to travel for just a birthday party, especially when there were a lot of things going on.
But as the years passed, Alfred couldn’t understand why Arthur couldn’t so much as send a present or even a card over, just to wish him such. And as time went by and travelling became a lot easier - it took, what, seven hours to fly over now? It built up on the American like algae being washed up on a dismal beach. But times were changing, maybe Arthur honestly was just that busy?...
This year, however, just threw it over the line. Arthur was in America on the day of his birthday. There had been a meeting just the day before, Arthur having attended it and he wasn’t due to head back home till the next weekend. It was perfect; he could’ve just dropped by, given a present, and heck, he didn’t even have to hang around that long if he didn’t want to.
But after the phone call yesterday, it looked like he was going to skip out on this too.
Why was he still so hung up about this? Why hadn’t he got over it already? Sure, he probably hurt him really bad throwing all that on him and fighting for his freedom but it was a necessity - and it was certainly no reason to still be sulking over it.
Alfred blinked suddenly, before looking down at his hand. His glasses had bent themselves in half as he’d clenched his fist.
This was the last straw.
Twisting them quickly back into shape, Alfred threw a frown at his reflection before he stormed downstairs, leaving the door unlocked for all the countries that would be flooding in any minute now. He usually left them to their own thing.
Alfred was about to bring his own invitee to his party whether he liked it or not.
Re: Weep, Little Lion Man 1b/?
anonymous
December 13 2010, 18:37:16 UTC
Whenever there was some sort of international convention, the majority of nations visiting remained at one hotel together. It probably wasn’t the best idea in terms of world relations, but it had to do in these times of recession and price cuts, even if they were the nations.
Relaying back with no answer to a phone call made from the reception desk, Alfred grumbled and made his way up to the room. Spain nudged past him on the way, blinking for a moment.
“Amigo, why are you not at your own fiesta?”
Alfred didn’t even turn around.
“Someone to fetch.”
Antionio’s eyes widened slightly at the gruff response, unseen by the other. The Spaniard then blinked, shaking his head.
“I will be seeing you later then.”
He turned around and continued walking, leaving Alfred to disappear down the hallway and make his way up the stairs. Eyes were downcast, lips tightened in morbid determination. He was planning to barge in, grab that stupid limey by the arm and drag him out of this hotel and to his party so not only could Alfred have a good day but so he could for once.
He reached door number 74, staring at the wood panelling for a moment. It was closed.
The American reached out to the door handle to open it, before grunting.
It was locked.
Rattling it, Alfred growled before kicking against the wood, hammering the door with his knuckles.
“Hey, Arthur! Open this door!”
Silence.
Oh, this was not funny. Alfred knew he was in there - the concierge had claimed that no one had come out of that door all day, so there was no other explanation - but he was ignoring him? He could be in the shower or such, but by now Alfred would have heard some sort of frustrated yell rebound out from the other side of the door.
“Come on, old man! You can’t be that deaf!”
Nothing.
He should have had a raging Brit ripping his jugular out by now. Alfred rattled the door knob harder.
“Come on, you can’t be ignoring me! It’s my /birthday/!-“
A large clunk, and Alfred looked down. The handle had come loose in his hand.
He stared at it, before noticing that the door was now opening of its own accord, swinging loose and leading into a dark room.
Alfred’s expression fell blank at what was inside.
”…England…?”
---
Hi I'm a random filler don't mind me. -The title is from Little Lion Man by Mumford & Sons which I find awfully appropiate to this prompt and are thus listening to it while writing. -I made Alfred's official age as an 'official country' from when he declared himself as an independent country aka 1776. because come on it's alfred. -I hope alfred's dialogue is good because I am not American and thus are not familiar, I guess, to a lot of american dialect and idioms. oh well. -more sooon
Awesome!!
anonymous
December 13 2010, 20:39:52 UTC
This idea intrigued me, but the way you wrote it was just.. uwaaa~! -fangirls- Too awesome for words! Anon, this is something that I hope you update very quickly!! :'3
Al? Try to use stuff like.. hmm.... I don't take America as being too improper, so use things like contractions in his speech; Americans have a fondness for shortening words and the such. He's very blunt, and not all too proper.. Don't worry, though! Your America is really good for a non-native! (This advice was useless.. But keep up the awesome work, anon!) (~ = ω=)~
Weep, Little Lion Man 2a/?
anonymous
December 16 2010, 19:13:33 UTC
------
”… England…?”
Young fingers grasped at the edge of the table. Bright, unblighted eyes looked upwards, a mouth posing half open. His expression furrowed as he gently reached forward and clung gently to the fabric of the man sat in front of him. There was a light tug.
The other male, his back a bit more rigid than usual, had his arm laid out in front of him, resting over a bowl. A bundle of cloth was pressed over part of his skin, green eyes wincing as he dabbed at it.
The tugging came again, a little more urgent. Blue eyes wavered.
“…England…!”
His arm was showing red. Why was he turned away? Why did he seem so fragile? Alfred didn’t realise he noticed these things, but all he knew was that England wasn’t right and that really quite made him uncomfortable. He knew he’d just come back and there were some different people about - what had happened?
The taller figure finally looked up sharply, a second before his expression quickly relaxed into something more soft; a façade. He managed a small smile.
“Ah, America. How are you?”
The child frowned, and pointed almost accusingly.
“.. Your arm…!”
Arthur glanced down at the accused limb. He seemed to give it the expression as though he’d only just realised it was there.
“… Ah, yes. Quite a nasty cut.”
America frowned, unimpressed.
“But.. but hoooow?...”
The arm was moved so it rest on the Briton’s knee; it had stopped bleeding by now but by looking at the cloth, he’d had to have it on for quite some time. Arthur turned around to face the other, leaning down so he was on relative level with the colony.
“Some horrible people do not like us living here. They were trying to attack you.”
As though in response, Alfred held out his arms at the same time Arthur went to pick him up, setting him on his lap. He patted him.
“But I fought them off. Its okay, they’re gone now. They got a bad cut on me, but I’m alright. See?” He ruffled the other’s hair with the same arm, but faltered when he saw that the other looked more annoyed than overjoyed to be safe.
“W-Why did you have to save me and and get hurt, England! T-That’s not fair! I should.. I should be able to look after me, after-after you!” the other suddenly exclaimed, showing his anger by promptly shoving the other in the chest, which the other winced at again. He looked down at the child, blinking.
He suddenly smiled.
Pushing the bowl back on the table, he placed the other on it, looking at him. There was a sort of soft aura about him. Safe. He held eye contact with the other, firm but understanding.
“America, you’re my brother, alright? I am going to protect you. I made that promise when you became my family.” He petted the other’s hair again, this time absentmindedly rubbing a bit of a smudge off the other’s cheek with his thumb. “I want you to promise me you’ll trust me. You are my brother.
Weep, Little Lion Man 2b/?
anonymous
December 16 2010, 19:19:31 UTC
“…A-Arthur…!?”
The room was dark. Curtains were drawn, thrown tightly shut. Clothes were scattered carelessly on the floor, highly unusual for someone as pristine as Arthur. A mug was left, the tea gone cold, on the bedside table.
In the middle of the room was a bed.
The covers were rolled up on in themselves, a mound in the middle of the mattress.
There was a body.
Alfred’s eyes widened.
“…A-Arthur!”
He rushed into the room, stumbling over his own feet. The figure lay there, curled up upon himself. His hair was mussed, as though he’d been tossing and turning, and his skin was pale. It glistened slightly, as though he was breaking out in a cold sweat.
America didn’t know what to do. As soon as his eyes had rest on the lump all sense of responsibility and maturity had left him. Something was wrong with Arthur.
An overwhelming urge to run to him and cry struck the teen.
He quickly snapped himself out of it as he heard a small gasp coming from the bed. His eyes quickly widened and he lurched towards the middle of the room, practically toppling onto the bed itself.
The bed-ridden lump’s eyes were closed tight. Lips, open just slightly, eventually seemed to twitch in just the slightest form of words.
Alfred, whose glasses were practically hanging off his face, felt his throat go dry.
Something was so wrong.
“…A-Arthur? Can.. can you hear me?”
There was a grunt.
Alfred hid at the edge of the bed a little, before tentatively reaching out and gently touching the top of his shoulder. He was trembling.
“..A-Arthur, oh g-gosh, Arthur… England!”
Desperately, he nudged the shoulder in an attempt to rouse him. Big mistake.
A scream shot out from between those lips, before choking followed it. Alfred had fallen back in surprise before he could see the other’s eyes finally flitting open, muted in his own pain.
What was happening?...
Alfred recovered a little, but took a while for him to realise that his heavy breathing was not alone. Blinking, he looked up.
The covers were shifting, slowly. A voice rasped. The American couldn’t understand it.
Slowly, slowly, the covers rose up and slowly slid off.
Arthur and Alfred stared at each other.
They both shook.
Arthur’s expression was pale. His eyes were flat, the gleam of the emerald having reduced to a dull stare. They were circled by a slight redness, smudges smeared under his eyes upon closer inspection. His shirt hung off him, drenched in sweat.
The Briton’s knuckles went white as he clutched the covers, tightly. He winced. A tear rolled against his cheek in response, indifferent.
Eyebrows furrowed, deeply. Arthur’s lips quivered. His voice hung in the silence.
“get out.”
It was barely a murmur.
Alfred looked up, his muscles barely being able to contract and swallow due to just how stunned he was. He managed out a small squeak in response.
“…W-wha-“
“get out.”
“…N-No, A-arthur, What-“
“get out.”
Arthur’s expression had gone dark. Slowly, slowly, his legs shifted to the edge of the bed, but it seemed quite an effort to keep himself upright.
Weep, Little Lion Man 2c/?
anonymous
December 16 2010, 19:20:46 UTC
“..W-what? N-No, Arthur, there’s something so wrong with you and I can’t leave-“ He was up onto his feet by now, having to take some effort from his knees shaking. There was something stopping him from moving closer to the Briton in question. “-And I need to help and-“
“move or i’ll do it myself.”
Alfred didn’t move.
Arthur’s expression grew dangerous. With a small, small whimper which he desperately held back against his throat, England staggered onto his feet. He was slow, his footsteps swinging almost in clockwork till he reached the other.
Alfred remained frozen.
“Arthur-“
“go.”
The smaller nation kept his head low, silently, successfully, pushing the other towards the door. It was meant to be forceful yet he doubted he could lift a book with that strength. However, it managed to work Alfred and nudge him back towards the door due to being simply too astounded and scared to do anything. His eyes were wide, his mouth gaped open, pupils shook, and he was unable to simply comprehend what he was seeing; He did notice, though, that Arthur was limping a little. He was also only using one arm to push him towards the door - the other hung almost loosely by his side, clenched almost in an agonising fist.
That still didn’t explain what had happened to his brother.
“A-Arthur, no-“
“go.”
England’s teeth gritted, fighting down another cry; his shoulders heavily trembled.
“don’t come back.”
With one weak push, Arthur managed to make Alfred trip back out of the door. It gently swung closed. A moment later, and a large thud was heard, a deep sob accompanying the shock that echoed across his mind.
Re: Weep, Little Lion Man 2c/?
anonymous
December 17 2010, 01:04:38 UTC
Oh, God, limping and with a bad arm? America hurt England a lot, didn't he? This is going wonderfully and I'm really interested to see how you are going to make the story unravel.
Weep, Little Lion Man 3a/?
anonymous
January 4 2011, 21:33:29 UTC
It was dusk. The sun was sinking slowly below the horizon, shadows casting longingly across the street corners. Houses were lit up in anticipation of the day, crowds gathered in each house. Laughter spilled out from the doorways, smiles and joy radiating through the buildings.
Outside, it was silent. Except for the panting of a lone individual, speeding through the streets as though he was running away from an imponderable doom. His jacket, undone in the summer night, flapped a little behind him as his steps hit the pavement. Alfred could barely see clearly through his glasses, which were sliding down his nose in his haste.
He hadn’t been aware of what he’d done after that door had closed on him. He’d felt he stood there for the longest time, staring as though he expected Arthur to open the door and appear completely fine, and start laughing in his face that he fell for it.
But he didn’t, and it wasn’t till he heard another sob did he react.
He ran.
Coward.
Shaking his head free, he blindly turned a corner, heading back to the one place he didn’t want to be. Home.
Arthur couldn’t have been in the pain that he seemed to be, could he? It made no sense whatsoever what he just saw. Why would he even be like that? On his birthday, no less?....
Was this … his fault?...
He was probably over thinking things. Alfred tended to avoid doing that, for this very reason. What was the use?
Well, seeing Arthur like that was more than enough, he supposed.
He flurried around a corner, a car driving by in silent wonder at the abruptness of this lone individual.
The house at the end of the street was lit up; light flooding out into the street. There was the hustle and soft beat of music playing from it. It was full of inhabitants, no doubt causing amazing havoc with drinking games and raiding the fridge. Alfred suddenly felt sick at the thought of confronting them all. Why did this have to happen to him on today of all days? All he wanted to do was burst into the room, hurl himself up to his bedroom and hide under his bed covers and pretend that all he had seen hadn’t ever happened and continue his life on as normal, because while Alfred could act superbly well…
When something shocked him beyond belief, it showed.
The gate was kicked open with a harsh creek, the sounds and laughter getting louder as his scuffed trainers approached the door. Every year, the nations gathered round to Alfred’s and had a party, mainly because he invited just about everyone. As much as most countries disagreed with other or ganged up against one another most of the time, the truth was that if there was a gathering and it had alcohol and music and others were going to be there, you could guarantee there’d be a party.
The door slammed loudly in the kitchen with a loud bang, and the countries gathered in there exclaimed a roar of laughter.
It shattered with the same punch.
The whole room fell silent in an echo. The rest of the room seem to shimmer in the same way, the nations crawling through to see what had caused the break in mood.
Alfred stood there, his pants heavy with the strain. While everyone stared at him in shock, it wasn't the door that had rooted everyone in place.
It was his expression. A permanent plaster of fear fed his face, his lip quivering. His glasses were slid halfway down his nose, but he made no motion to move them back into place. But the worst thing, Matthew found himself noting, was his eyes. He’d lost that dazzling confidence they usually held, something that he hadn’t seen happen in about ten years.
His hand trembled, and the door was thrust shut again. Alfred stared, towards particular nations.
“... Arthur...”
He stumbled forward, eyes still wide, and sunk into a chair. Francis, with a resigned sigh, placed his drink down and approached the nation, kneeling to his level.
Weep, Little Lion Man 3b/?
anonymous
January 4 2011, 21:44:06 UTC
He found himself staring at the Frenchman, incredulous. Surely he must know?! Surely he would know that something as bad happened to the Briton!
Pulling in a breath, he looked incredulously at the other. “...A-Arthur-H-Hotel-h-he was l-limping and and c-crying and what happened--“ His panic bubbled into fury, his fists clenching and leaning forward towards the other, fire in his eyes.
“Something happened t-to Arthur and holy shit y-you must know what’s wrong otherwise I’ll-I-I’ll---” The words disappeared in his mouth, the chair having knocked back as he’d stood up almost as soon as he’d sat down.
Francis blinked.
“Ah.”
Nervous murmurs struck up amongst some of the others. While they all knew he was young, none of them had ever really seen Alfred look so vulnerable. It was something, they were coming to realise, that he hid very well.
Francis remained calm, even as the other loomed over him. He stood up, pressed his hands to America's shoulders and led him out of the kitchen into the living room, where he gently pushed him down onto the sofa. Like a swarm, the others crowded at the door. This was really not planning to be the party they would usually expect to see.
“Now, tell me.” Francis remarked, setting himself beside the American. “You went to Arthur’s room, oui?”
“Y-Yeah a-and it was d-dark and he was in b-bed a-and he-“
“Calm down, garcon. He was in bed, and what happened?”
“H-he s-shouted but not he was in so much pain oh god Francis what the hell happened he got me out a-and I....I-c-came here---”
A finger pressed to his lips to silence him. Francis looked at him, earnestly.
“Amerique, I do not know what you think happened, but I am rather surprised. Has... it never been told to you?”
A confused, slow, shake of the head. He sighed. “Just as Angleterre to keep it to himself, then. I suppose I might as well tell you-“ He looked up to the others, studying for a moment. His sigh grew.
“Are you not aware what happens to ex-empires? I suppose not, Amerique. You were never truly an Empire. Ah, but in the words of my own philosophers, let us just say:
Un empire fondé par la guerre doit se maintenir par la guerre, even if it is with himself.”
---- - This would have been longer and I'd have added more to it, but I didn't have chance to work on it much and I just wanted to post something up. More might be added to this part/chapter itself.
- The French, at the end, translates as 'An empire founded by war has to maintain itself by war', and was said by Charles de Montesquieu, a french philosopher.
Weep, Little Lion Man 4a/?
anonymous
January 22 2011, 22:46:11 UTC
"War is like a game of Chess, Alfred.
You've never really come across it before, but it's not an obvious play of events, it's not something you charge into and win by force. No, war is so much more than that: it takes time, it takes skill and most of all it takes practice. You have to be careful. You can't attack everyone at once and expect to win just because you have the most weapons. To play war successfully, thought needs to be put into it.
It can also be done in many different forms, just like there are many different ways to play chess. As an Empire in war, you'll be most similar with this strategy.
New pieces can be gained and added to your own collection. Either they are ambushed from the enemy, or as a loose end. Sometimes, the piece to be gained is heavily defended by other pieces, and is all but impossible to gain.
Well, usually impossible.
Either way, winning is about methods and tactics. You might have all the pieces in your hands, but you could lose everything without knowing what had happened. Alternatively, you may think it's all over, that you're down to your last pieces; yet place it carefully, put enough hope into yourself, and you could win a game with just one remaining piece.
A War is made to claim territory and build pieces, Alfred, even it is at the cost of your own. It can mean a lot of things. War can mean claims of territory, much like that one had just been, or it could be to fight for something else, something more personal. Sometimes, you have to fight for your freedom. You have to fight for your rights. You have to fight to be on top.
You have to play for the rest of them.”
-----
“War was never a game, Amerique. Sacrifices have to be made in War, especially for what you may gain for what you lose. The Empire, as is said, is built on war - how else would you gain land? Except for the most barren of places, there is life to a land. It is how it is. If they succeed, they gain a colony.
But it is not how the colony is created and how the culture is elaborated and how the journey rolls into that land becoming it's own; non, it is the aftermath that is the most essential. All Forces have an equal and opposite reaction, yes? So what would occur once a nation becomes free from it's coloniser? The newly free nation claims freedom and a permanent break from pain and isolation - ah, but what happens to the former Empire itself?
Every nation's independence day is a reason to celebrate. It is more important to some than others, but the message is always the same; I am free
How does the original coloniser act? Why, claiming colonies instated greed. Greed was always a sin, mon cher, and so they must take the consequences. A day in agony to pay for the sin of greed they committed at the time. Some nations can fare some days better than others, but it depends on how well the nation in question has moved on. If he is still affected deeply, emotionally by the loss of a colony he will feel it the most. So, to conclude my explanation, mon americain, is that our dear Arthur is in pain right now because of you, and the fight you made. And that is that.”
Weep, Little Lion Man 4b/?
anonymous
January 22 2011, 22:47:47 UTC
He didn’t understand.
They all looked stunned. Some of the more sullen countries such as Japan and Spain looked down to the ground at the announcement, rather densely silent. Suddenly, frowns were pulled as the realisation started to sink in, lips curled back into a scowl, in shock. Voices struck suddenly harsher, raising in tense volume. Frequencies strongly read of guilt, of disgrace; of anger.
The trepidation snapped with one sentence.
“Hey, I suppose ya can’t say he didn’t deserve it, mate.”
Alfred lurched onto his feet.
His fists were clenched, and as he turned his head, his expression was burrowed downwards. His voice barely came out as a whisper, but it struck the others more than the silence that had just returned.
“Don’t say that.”
Everyone looked at each other, before India suddenly elbowed the others away and fought her way to the front, before Alfred. Some couldn’t quite believe that she would even try to face America when he was clearly so distressed.
“Why not, America? You can’t say he didn’t deserve it. He treated my people harshly, he even did things to people that he never colonised or never could.”
China looked away, but didn't speak.
“It was his own fault; a lot of resources wouldn’t have been ruined if it wasn’t for him and the countries that he took over by force. There was no consideration, for the people living there, for the future, and especially for any of the nations that he stole from so cruelly in the first place!” At that point, Alfred snapped his head up and gave the impression he was about to charge her, before a hand placed on his arm. He blinked, and looked down to Francis.
Francis held steady, looking at America for a few moments with a patient expression. The teen faltered.
He looked back to the group, and he sighed.
“Of course, this applies to any former Empire and whether they feel for their former colonies or not. Some are worse than others, oui…” He briefly glanced at a corner, almost longingly, for a moment. “However; the point is that Arthur still seems to take quite badly to your claim of independence all those years ago. Have you never noticed that he avoids contact with these people on these days like the plague?”
“B-But there's no way--”
“Amerique, for someone who is claimed to be close with the Englishman, you appear to underestimate or do not understand his feelings very well. Maybe you should ask him yourself--”
France never got to finish his speech, for voices violently rose again at that point, of protests of how nations should be left to suffer on their own, or how this was one large hoax the ex-empiric nations had decided to pull, or how they couldn't believe that such a thing had been hidden from them, the fear, the horror, the disgruntlement clear in a muddle of their faces, all one extravagant palette of emotions building into an abomination of anger and shock in the middle of the lounge. No one could quite let it settle.
Alfred stood amongst the chaos, his expression the single lull of turmoil in the room.
Just as slowly, his arm reached up to rub at his eyes. The rest of them were ignored until he spoke.
He couldn't stand it any more.
“Party's over. A-All of you, get out. Now...”
Canada, from a corner of the room, looked at a photo on the mantelpiece.
“I’d have preferred a more warm greeting over the phone than random babble.”
“Yeah, yeah, old man, but you totally can’t resist coming this year right because they’ll be awesome cake and awesome fireworks and you’ll be such a loser to miss all that right?”
“Promising me with ‘fireworks’ and ‘cake’ is not going to make me feel anymore obliged to go.”
“.. So are you coming?”
“No.”
“But Ar-“
“DO NOT try and whine at me again. I’ve never even attended any of your blasted birthday parties; what makes you think I’m going to start now?”
“--There’s no reason for you not to come! Why are you always such an ass about this? It was years ago!”
“I’m not talking about this anymore.”
“… Arthur? … England? … You goddamn moron of a limey bastard don’t hang up on me!-“
-----
He didn’t need him. No siree.
Alfred could manage just fine on his birthday without that weirdo of a Brit, anyway. He would have plenty of fun with all the other nations that would be there. There would be fireworks and cake and colour and music and he would just overall have a great time! He deserved it, one hundred percent. America had had a hard year. His preparations had started as soon as he got home the day before and everything was of course, going as awesomely as usual under the Hero’s care. Nothing was going to stop him from enjoying his birthday, no doubt. He’d get down to work, no matter what certain limeys insisted to try and ruin his day.
He was fine.
Alfred found himself staring through a mirror.
Today was 4th of July in the year 2010. He would be turning 224 as an official country. That was two hundred and twenty years of him being an adult.
It was two hundred and twenty four times without him turning up.
Alfred used to understand this act. He was across an ocean; it was rather a far way to travel for just a birthday party, especially when there were a lot of things going on.
But as the years passed, Alfred couldn’t understand why Arthur couldn’t so much as send a present or even a card over, just to wish him such. And as time went by and travelling became a lot easier - it took, what, seven hours to fly over now? It built up on the American like algae being washed up on a dismal beach. But times were changing, maybe Arthur honestly was just that busy?...
This year, however, just threw it over the line. Arthur was in America on the day of his birthday. There had been a meeting just the day before, Arthur having attended it and he wasn’t due to head back home till the next weekend. It was perfect; he could’ve just dropped by, given a present, and heck, he didn’t even have to hang around that long if he didn’t want to.
But after the phone call yesterday, it looked like he was going to skip out on this too.
Why was he still so hung up about this? Why hadn’t he got over it already? Sure, he probably hurt him really bad throwing all that on him and fighting for his freedom but it was a necessity - and it was certainly no reason to still be sulking over it.
Alfred blinked suddenly, before looking down at his hand. His glasses had bent themselves in half as he’d clenched his fist.
This was the last straw.
Twisting them quickly back into shape, Alfred threw a frown at his reflection before he stormed downstairs, leaving the door unlocked for all the countries that would be flooding in any minute now. He usually left them to their own thing.
Alfred was about to bring his own invitee to his party whether he liked it or not.
-----
Reply
Relaying back with no answer to a phone call made from the reception desk, Alfred grumbled and made his way up to the room. Spain nudged past him on the way, blinking for a moment.
“Amigo, why are you not at your own fiesta?”
Alfred didn’t even turn around.
“Someone to fetch.”
Antionio’s eyes widened slightly at the gruff response, unseen by the other. The Spaniard then blinked, shaking his head.
“I will be seeing you later then.”
He turned around and continued walking, leaving Alfred to disappear down the hallway and make his way up the stairs. Eyes were downcast, lips tightened in morbid determination. He was planning to barge in, grab that stupid limey by the arm and drag him out of this hotel and to his party so not only could Alfred have a good day but so he could for once.
He reached door number 74, staring at the wood panelling for a moment. It was closed.
The American reached out to the door handle to open it, before grunting.
It was locked.
Rattling it, Alfred growled before kicking against the wood, hammering the door with his knuckles.
“Hey, Arthur! Open this door!”
Silence.
Oh, this was not funny. Alfred knew he was in there - the concierge had claimed that no one had come out of that door all day, so there was no other explanation - but he was ignoring him? He could be in the shower or such, but by now Alfred would have heard some sort of frustrated yell rebound out from the other side of the door.
“Come on, old man! You can’t be that deaf!”
Nothing.
He should have had a raging Brit ripping his jugular out by now. Alfred rattled the door knob harder.
“Come on, you can’t be ignoring me! It’s my /birthday/!-“
A large clunk, and Alfred looked down. The handle had come loose in his hand.
He stared at it, before noticing that the door was now opening of its own accord, swinging loose and leading into a dark room.
Alfred’s expression fell blank at what was inside.
”…England…?”
---
Hi I'm a random filler don't mind me.
-The title is from Little Lion Man by Mumford & Sons which I find awfully appropiate to this prompt and are thus listening to it while writing.
-I made Alfred's official age as an 'official country' from when he declared himself as an independent country aka 1776. because come on it's alfred.
-I hope alfred's dialogue is good because I am not American and thus are not familiar, I guess, to a lot of american dialect and idioms. oh well.
-more sooon
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Al? Try to use stuff like.. hmm.... I don't take America as being too improper, so use things like contractions in his speech; Americans have a fondness for shortening words and the such. He's very blunt, and not all too proper.. Don't worry, though! Your America is really good for a non-native!
(This advice was useless.. But keep up the awesome work, anon!)
(~ = ω=)~
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”… England…?”
Young fingers grasped at the edge of the table. Bright, unblighted eyes looked upwards, a mouth posing half open. His expression furrowed as he gently reached forward and clung gently to the fabric of the man sat in front of him. There was a light tug.
The other male, his back a bit more rigid than usual, had his arm laid out in front of him, resting over a bowl. A bundle of cloth was pressed over part of his skin, green eyes wincing as he dabbed at it.
The tugging came again, a little more urgent. Blue eyes wavered.
“…England…!”
His arm was showing red. Why was he turned away? Why did he seem so fragile? Alfred didn’t realise he noticed these things, but all he knew was that England wasn’t right and that really quite made him uncomfortable. He knew he’d just come back and there were some different people about - what had happened?
The taller figure finally looked up sharply, a second before his expression quickly relaxed into something more soft; a façade. He managed a small smile.
“Ah, America. How are you?”
The child frowned, and pointed almost accusingly.
“.. Your arm…!”
Arthur glanced down at the accused limb. He seemed to give it the expression as though he’d only just realised it was there.
“… Ah, yes. Quite a nasty cut.”
America frowned, unimpressed.
“But.. but hoooow?...”
The arm was moved so it rest on the Briton’s knee; it had stopped bleeding by now but by looking at the cloth, he’d had to have it on for quite some time. Arthur turned around to face the other, leaning down so he was on relative level with the colony.
“Some horrible people do not like us living here. They were trying to attack you.”
As though in response, Alfred held out his arms at the same time Arthur went to pick him up, setting him on his lap. He patted him.
“But I fought them off. Its okay, they’re gone now. They got a bad cut on me, but I’m alright. See?” He ruffled the other’s hair with the same arm, but faltered when he saw that the other looked more annoyed than overjoyed to be safe.
“W-Why did you have to save me and and get hurt, England! T-That’s not fair! I should.. I should be able to look after me, after-after you!” the other suddenly exclaimed, showing his anger by promptly shoving the other in the chest, which the other winced at again. He looked down at the child, blinking.
He suddenly smiled.
Pushing the bowl back on the table, he placed the other on it, looking at him. There was a sort of soft aura about him. Safe. He held eye contact with the other, firm but understanding.
“America, you’re my brother, alright? I am going to protect you. I made that promise when you became my family.” He petted the other’s hair again, this time absentmindedly rubbing a bit of a smudge off the other’s cheek with his thumb. “I want you to promise me you’ll trust me. You are my brother.
‘I’ll take the pain for you.’"
-----
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The room was dark. Curtains were drawn, thrown tightly shut. Clothes were scattered carelessly on the floor, highly unusual for someone as pristine as Arthur. A mug was left, the tea gone cold, on the bedside table.
In the middle of the room was a bed.
The covers were rolled up on in themselves, a mound in the middle of the mattress.
There was a body.
Alfred’s eyes widened.
“…A-Arthur!”
He rushed into the room, stumbling over his own feet. The figure lay there, curled up upon himself. His hair was mussed, as though he’d been tossing and turning, and his skin was pale. It glistened slightly, as though he was breaking out in a cold sweat.
America didn’t know what to do. As soon as his eyes had rest on the lump all sense of responsibility and maturity had left him. Something was wrong with Arthur.
An overwhelming urge to run to him and cry struck the teen.
He quickly snapped himself out of it as he heard a small gasp coming from the bed. His eyes quickly widened and he lurched towards the middle of the room, practically toppling onto the bed itself.
The bed-ridden lump’s eyes were closed tight. Lips, open just slightly, eventually seemed to twitch in just the slightest form of words.
Alfred, whose glasses were practically hanging off his face, felt his throat go dry.
Something was so wrong.
“…A-Arthur? Can.. can you hear me?”
There was a grunt.
Alfred hid at the edge of the bed a little, before tentatively reaching out and gently touching the top of his shoulder. He was trembling.
“..A-Arthur, oh g-gosh, Arthur… England!”
Desperately, he nudged the shoulder in an attempt to rouse him. Big mistake.
A scream shot out from between those lips, before choking followed it. Alfred had fallen back in surprise before he could see the other’s eyes finally flitting open, muted in his own pain.
What was happening?...
Alfred recovered a little, but took a while for him to realise that his heavy breathing was not alone. Blinking, he looked up.
The covers were shifting, slowly. A voice rasped. The American couldn’t understand it.
Slowly, slowly, the covers rose up and slowly slid off.
Arthur and Alfred stared at each other.
They both shook.
Arthur’s expression was pale. His eyes were flat, the gleam of the emerald having reduced to a dull stare. They were circled by a slight redness, smudges smeared under his eyes upon closer inspection. His shirt hung off him, drenched in sweat.
The Briton’s knuckles went white as he clutched the covers, tightly. He winced. A tear rolled against his cheek in response, indifferent.
Eyebrows furrowed, deeply. Arthur’s lips quivered. His voice hung in the silence.
“get out.”
It was barely a murmur.
Alfred looked up, his muscles barely being able to contract and swallow due to just how stunned he was. He managed out a small squeak in response.
“…W-wha-“
“get out.”
“…N-No, A-arthur, What-“
“get out.”
Arthur’s expression had gone dark. Slowly, slowly, his legs shifted to the edge of the bed, but it seemed quite an effort to keep himself upright.
“move.”
America could barely believe he was hearing this.
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“move or i’ll do it myself.”
Alfred didn’t move.
Arthur’s expression grew dangerous. With a small, small whimper which he desperately held back against his throat, England staggered onto his feet. He was slow, his footsteps swinging almost in clockwork till he reached the other.
Alfred remained frozen.
“Arthur-“
“go.”
The smaller nation kept his head low, silently, successfully, pushing the other towards the door. It was meant to be forceful yet he doubted he could lift a book with that strength. However, it managed to work Alfred and nudge him back towards the door due to being simply too astounded and scared to do anything. His eyes were wide, his mouth gaped open, pupils shook, and he was unable to simply comprehend what he was seeing; He did notice, though, that Arthur was limping a little. He was also only using one arm to push him towards the door - the other hung almost loosely by his side, clenched almost in an agonising fist.
That still didn’t explain what had happened to his brother.
“A-Arthur, no-“
“go.”
England’s teeth gritted, fighting down another cry; his shoulders heavily trembled.
“don’t come back.”
With one weak push, Arthur managed to make Alfred trip back out of the door. It gently swung closed. A moment later, and a large thud was heard, a deep sob accompanying the shock that echoed across his mind.
Alfred stood there, numb.
England…
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Great job, A!A
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Outside, it was silent. Except for the panting of a lone individual, speeding through the streets as though he was running away from an imponderable doom. His jacket, undone in the summer night, flapped a little behind him as his steps hit the pavement. Alfred could barely see clearly through his glasses, which were sliding down his nose in his haste.
He hadn’t been aware of what he’d done after that door had closed on him. He’d felt he stood there for the longest time, staring as though he expected Arthur to open the door and appear completely fine, and start laughing in his face that he fell for it.
But he didn’t, and it wasn’t till he heard another sob did he react.
He ran.
Coward.
Shaking his head free, he blindly turned a corner, heading back to the one place he didn’t want to be. Home.
Arthur couldn’t have been in the pain that he seemed to be, could he? It made no sense whatsoever what he just saw. Why would he even be like that? On his birthday, no less?....
Was this … his fault?...
He was probably over thinking things. Alfred tended to avoid doing that, for this very reason. What was the use?
Well, seeing Arthur like that was more than enough, he supposed.
He flurried around a corner, a car driving by in silent wonder at the abruptness of this lone individual.
The house at the end of the street was lit up; light flooding out into the street. There was the hustle and soft beat of music playing from it. It was full of inhabitants, no doubt causing amazing havoc with drinking games and raiding the fridge. Alfred suddenly felt sick at the thought of confronting them all. Why did this have to happen to him on today of all days? All he wanted to do was burst into the room, hurl himself up to his bedroom and hide under his bed covers and pretend that all he had seen hadn’t ever happened and continue his life on as normal, because while Alfred could act superbly well…
When something shocked him beyond belief, it showed.
The gate was kicked open with a harsh creek, the sounds and laughter getting louder as his scuffed trainers approached the door. Every year, the nations gathered round to Alfred’s and had a party, mainly because he invited just about everyone. As much as most countries disagreed with other or ganged up against one another most of the time, the truth was that if there was a gathering and it had alcohol and music and others were going to be there, you could guarantee there’d be a party.
The door slammed loudly in the kitchen with a loud bang, and the countries gathered in there exclaimed a roar of laughter.
It shattered with the same punch.
The whole room fell silent in an echo. The rest of the room seem to shimmer in the same way, the nations crawling through to see what had caused the break in mood.
Alfred stood there, his pants heavy with the strain. While everyone stared at him in shock, it wasn't the door that had rooted everyone in place.
It was his expression. A permanent plaster of fear fed his face, his lip quivering. His glasses were slid halfway down his nose, but he made no motion to move them back into place. But the worst thing, Matthew found himself noting, was his eyes. He’d lost that dazzling confidence they usually held, something that he hadn’t seen happen in about ten years.
His hand trembled, and the door was thrust shut again. Alfred stared, towards particular nations.
“... Arthur...”
He stumbled forward, eyes still wide, and sunk into a chair. Francis, with a resigned sigh, placed his drink down and approached the nation, kneeling to his level.
“America, what is it?”
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Pulling in a breath, he looked incredulously at the other. “...A-Arthur-H-Hotel-h-he was l-limping and and c-crying and what happened--“ His panic bubbled into fury, his fists clenching and leaning forward towards the other, fire in his eyes.
“Something happened t-to Arthur and holy shit y-you must know what’s wrong otherwise I’ll-I-I’ll---” The words disappeared in his mouth, the chair having knocked back as he’d stood up almost as soon as he’d sat down.
Francis blinked.
“Ah.”
Nervous murmurs struck up amongst some of the others. While they all knew he was young, none of them had ever really seen Alfred look so vulnerable. It was something, they were coming to realise, that he hid very well.
Francis remained calm, even as the other loomed over him. He stood up, pressed his hands to America's shoulders and led him out of the kitchen into the living room, where he gently pushed him down onto the sofa. Like a swarm, the others crowded at the door. This was really not planning to be the party they would usually expect to see.
“Now, tell me.” Francis remarked, setting himself beside the American. “You went to Arthur’s room, oui?”
“Y-Yeah a-and it was d-dark and he was in b-bed a-and he-“
“Calm down, garcon. He was in bed, and what happened?”
“H-he s-shouted but not he was in so much pain oh god Francis what the hell happened he got me out a-and I....I-c-came here---”
A finger pressed to his lips to silence him. Francis looked at him, earnestly.
“Amerique, I do not know what you think happened, but I am rather surprised. Has... it never been told to you?”
A confused, slow, shake of the head. He sighed. “Just as Angleterre to keep it to himself, then. I suppose I might as well tell you-“ He looked up to the others, studying for a moment. His sigh grew.
“Are you not aware what happens to ex-empires? I suppose not, Amerique. You were never truly an Empire. Ah, but in the words of my own philosophers, let us just say:
Un empire fondé par la guerre doit se maintenir par la guerre, even if it is with himself.”
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- This would have been longer and I'd have added more to it, but I didn't have chance to work on it much and I just wanted to post something up. More might be added to this part/chapter itself.
- The French, at the end, translates as 'An empire founded by war has to maintain itself by war', and was said by Charles de Montesquieu, a french philosopher.
-Hope you had a nice holiday, etc~
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This is beautiful
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You've never really come across it before, but it's not an obvious play of events, it's not something you charge into and win by force. No, war is so much more than that: it takes time, it takes skill and most of all it takes practice. You have to be careful. You can't attack everyone at once and expect to win just because you have the most weapons. To play war successfully, thought needs to be put into it.
It can also be done in many different forms, just like there are many different ways to play chess. As an Empire in war, you'll be most similar with this strategy.
New pieces can be gained and added to your own collection. Either they are ambushed from the enemy, or as a loose end. Sometimes, the piece to be gained is heavily defended by other pieces, and is all but impossible to gain.
Well, usually impossible.
Either way, winning is about methods and tactics. You might have all the pieces in your hands, but you could lose everything without knowing what had happened. Alternatively, you may think it's all over, that you're down to your last pieces; yet place it carefully, put enough hope into yourself, and you could win a game with just one remaining piece.
A War is made to claim territory and build pieces, Alfred, even it is at the cost of your own. It can mean a lot of things. War can mean claims of territory, much like that one had just been, or it could be to fight for something else, something more personal. Sometimes, you have to fight for your freedom. You have to fight for your rights. You have to fight to be on top.
You have to play for the rest of them.”
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“War was never a game, Amerique. Sacrifices have to be made in War, especially for what you may gain for what you lose. The Empire, as is said, is built on war - how else would you gain land? Except for the most barren of places, there is life to a land. It is how it is. If they succeed, they gain a colony.
But it is not how the colony is created and how the culture is elaborated and how the journey rolls into that land becoming it's own; non, it is the aftermath that is the most essential. All Forces have an equal and opposite reaction, yes? So what would occur once a nation becomes free from it's coloniser? The newly free nation claims freedom and a permanent break from pain and isolation - ah, but what happens to the former Empire itself?
Every nation's independence day is a reason to celebrate. It is more important to some than others, but the message is always the same; I am free
How does the original coloniser act? Why, claiming colonies instated greed. Greed was always a sin, mon cher, and so they must take the consequences. A day in agony to pay for the sin of greed they committed at the time. Some nations can fare some days better than others, but it depends on how well the nation in question has moved on. If he is still affected deeply, emotionally by the loss of a colony he will feel it the most. So, to conclude my explanation, mon americain, is that our dear Arthur is in pain right now because of you, and the fight you made. And that is that.”
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They all looked stunned. Some of the more sullen countries such as Japan and Spain looked down to the ground at the announcement, rather densely silent. Suddenly, frowns were pulled as the realisation started to sink in, lips curled back into a scowl, in shock. Voices struck suddenly harsher, raising in tense volume. Frequencies strongly read of guilt, of disgrace; of anger.
The trepidation snapped with one sentence.
“Hey, I suppose ya can’t say he didn’t deserve it, mate.”
Alfred lurched onto his feet.
His fists were clenched, and as he turned his head, his expression was burrowed downwards. His voice barely came out as a whisper, but it struck the others more than the silence that had just returned.
“Don’t say that.”
Everyone looked at each other, before India suddenly elbowed the others away and fought her way to the front, before Alfred. Some couldn’t quite believe that she would even try to face America when he was clearly so distressed.
“Why not, America? You can’t say he didn’t deserve it. He treated my people harshly, he even did things to people that he never colonised or never could.”
China looked away, but didn't speak.
“It was his own fault; a lot of resources wouldn’t have been ruined if it wasn’t for him and the countries that he took over by force. There was no consideration, for the people living there, for the future, and especially for any of the nations that he stole from so cruelly in the first place!” At that point, Alfred snapped his head up and gave the impression he was about to charge her, before a hand placed on his arm. He blinked, and looked down to Francis.
Francis held steady, looking at America for a few moments with a patient expression. The teen faltered.
He looked back to the group, and he sighed.
“Of course, this applies to any former Empire and whether they feel for their former colonies or not. Some are worse than others, oui…” He briefly glanced at a corner, almost longingly, for a moment. “However; the point is that Arthur still seems to take quite badly to your claim of independence all those years ago. Have you never noticed that he avoids contact with these people on these days like the plague?”
“B-But there's no way--”
“Amerique, for someone who is claimed to be close with the Englishman, you appear to underestimate or do not understand his feelings very well. Maybe you should ask him yourself--”
France never got to finish his speech, for voices violently rose again at that point, of protests of how nations should be left to suffer on their own, or how this was one large hoax the ex-empiric nations had decided to pull, or how they couldn't believe that such a thing had been hidden from them, the fear, the horror, the disgruntlement clear in a muddle of their faces, all one extravagant palette of emotions building into an abomination of anger and shock in the middle of the lounge. No one could quite let it settle.
Alfred stood amongst the chaos, his expression the single lull of turmoil in the room.
Just as slowly, his arm reached up to rub at his eyes. The rest of them were ignored until he spoke.
He couldn't stand it any more.
“Party's over. A-All of you, get out. Now...”
Canada, from a corner of the room, looked at a photo on the mantelpiece.
Nothing ever quite changed with these two, eh...
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