Alfred and Arthur meet regularly and frequently write each other letters.
Arthur, Alfred writes, don’t laugh, but I think it was destiny for me and Antonio (or is it Antonio and I? I can never remember, it’s your damn language) to fight. Whites and blacks were fighting right beside each other, supporting each other, and they were fighting something fierce. I’m so proud of all of them. And, northerners and southerners were fighting together, not against each other. I think for the first time in years they had a common goal, and it’s brought us all back together. I could cry over it, I really could. Even the scars on my wrists are starting to fade. I ain’t a poet or anything but many of the soldiers were children of the veterans, so it’s like a new beginning, isn’t it? And for you and me, too, I think (you and I?). You were the only one who was on my side during this whole thing, so thank you. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. See? I told you my people were warming up to you. They’re not that fond of Ludwig anymore (he was a complete ass at Manila Bay, but I showed him what’s what), which is a shame because my people and his share some blood between them.
Alfred, Arthur writes, it was difficult to support you when my neighbors on the Continent were all supporting that Spanish fellow, but with your victory I feel amply justified. Though perhaps it would be wise not to blow this out of proportion: I did nothing that would merit such profuse gratitude from you. Coal, ships, and communication lines are of little consequence, I fear, and whatever my personal feelings on the subject, my government too dearly loves its Cuban trade to let it slide completely beyond their reach. (Perhaps you can return the favor someday, but I digress.) You are still planning to let Cuba have his independence, correct? Your future actions need not be scrutinized by me, but it would be a lie to say I’m not the slightest bit curious. With your new territories, it would surprise no one should you wish to create an American Empire - and I pride myself on knowing something about that. PS - Surely your people and mine share more blood between them?
The funny thing, Arthur remembers one blessedly silent night in 1940, is that he sort of likes Ludwig. He realized this on another blessedly silent night in 1914.
When bosses declare war it can be hard to separate the government from the personification, but sometimes, in the heat of it all, nations find they have no desire to. Resentment, after all, recedes quicker when technicalities like birthday soirées and shared hair ribbons are involved. Arthur wonders exactly how complicit Ludwig - so quiet, so serious, always so determined to keep his thoughts to himself - has been in everything these past five years or so. It would not surprise Arthur in the least to find this Great War is merely another case of Ludwig putting honor before reason, for Ludwig is an honorable man.
Best put these thoughts out of mind, old boy, Arthur thinks around a slight haze of alcohol. Don’t want to slip up around the enemy. Christmas is no excuse to get chummy. Set a man to watch all night, watch all night.
At first he and his men could see the Germans lighting candles, then they could hear carols being sung, and Arthur isn’t sure who made to move across No Man’s Land first but now he finds himself in possession of a bottle of whiskey and feeling good for the first time in months - if not good, then at least better. The whiskey makes him feel bold, makes him feel as seductive as a villain. Last night, on Christmas Eve, he was Edmund; tonight he is honest, honest Iago - but not too honest, now, old boy. Tomorrow he will soberly go back to being Arthur Kirkland; his hands will speak for him, soberly killing Ludwig’s men.
Re: Part V/? cont.
anonymous
October 23 2011, 05:20:16 UTC
He and Ludwig are sitting cross-legged, watching a group of men kick around a football. Arthur throws up his arms and cheers, exhilarated, whenever someone does something, regardless if it’s a goal or a foul, an Englishman or a German. The game is holding Ludwig’s interest on a far more dignified (so quiet, so serious) level.
“My dopey king,” Arthur says amiably, “keeps blubbering on and on about changing his surname to something more English sounding, as if that’s the only thing he has to contribute to this damned war. As if anything so silly would give any sort of morale to anyone at this point.”
Ludwig grunts. “It was a joke to assume this war would be over by Christmas. It was shameful to think so.”
“Pah!” Arthur takes a drink from the bottle. He is not drunk, but he has had enough to loosen his vocal chords. “Blast all, Victoria!” he suddenly cries, shaking a noble fist at the sky. “Your grandchildren are royally fucking everything up!” He turns to Ludwig. “What if all this is simply some stupid family melodrama that originated from…hanged if I know, actually. Something ridiculous from their childhood - a dirty nappy or a nice kick in the shins, or some such. ‘Mamma! Willy stole my pony!’”
“Families will always fight, especially the privileged. They are used to getting what they want.”
“But here’s the brilliant thing,” Arthur leans in and whispers, like a conspirator. “All of us could just up and walk on home right this instant. What better day to leave it all behind than on Christmas, eh? Every fucking shred of it. And we all want to, and we all have the opportunity, but the thing is, no one is going to. And do you know why, old chap?”
Ludwig stares ahead, unblinking, though his eyes are not fixed on the football.
Arthur sneers. “It’s because those boys out there love us. You and me - the lush limey and the sorrows of young Ludwig.” He takes another drink. “Think back and lie of England, why don’t they. Then they’ll really love me.”
Lugwig reaches for the whiskey.
(The funny thing is, they’re very much alike.)
The hardest part of saying farewell is not knowing what the future holds. With the end of the Great War, Francis can no longer prattle on about his Belle Époque, Alfred’s Gilded Age has tarnished, and Arthur’s prim and perfect Victorian Era is over. But they find themselves - these choice and master spirits of the age - in a position to firmly decide what the future holds, and not just for themselves, but for everyone. No matter what they decide to do with the future, however, they will all of them call it by the same name: They have become a generation lost.
The beginning of the Paris Peace Conference is anything but (not that much conferencing and not at all peaceful, Arthur thinks, though we are in the suburbs of Paris, so there is that). They cannot quite come to terms over Ludwig’s fate, but everyone agrees: nothing sounds as nice, as dark as velvet, coming from his lips as I am guilty, je suis coupable, Ich bin schuldig.
In the fragile Hall of Mirrors in Versailles, every action is dreadfully magnified: Francis’ fists banging on the table, Arthur’s peevish sighs. Everyone’s nerves are wrecked - except, notably, Alfred’s. He looks like he’s had the sleep of his life. He looks like he could fight another war all by himself. (He looks like he wants to.)
“Francis,” Arthur warns, “you’re behaving like a child.” He rubs his eyes and leans back in his chair. “If you cannot cease your sputtering,” he says around a heavy sigh, “we will kindly ask you and the entire French delegation to vacate the premises.”
Re: Part V/? cont.
anonymous
October 23 2011, 05:22:56 UTC
“Over my dead body!” Francis snarls. “Who put you in charge, Angleterre? This is my palace, my city, my country - ”
“That can be arranged, you know.” Arthur crosses his legs, laces his fingers together. “Your dead body, I mean.”
Swift and precise, Francis comes around the table and hurls Arthur out of his chair.
Alfred comes between them, his fingers digging into Francis’ shoulders, dragging him away from Arthur. “Shit, you two,” he breathes, eyeing them both up and down. “Shit.”
According to Francis, the enormity of Ludwig’s crimes will render his reparation period only the rest of his existence; the terms the others are suggesting are not a peace so much as they are merely an armistice for twenty years. Francis is demanding of them, will not beg them, but he cannot completely hide the anxiety in his voice - on such a full sea are we now afloat, mes amis, and we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures. He pounds his fists on the table for emphasis. Angleterre and Amérique are only being so lenient to that reaper, that gasman, because the war did not come to their soil; they cannot at all fathom what his people have suffered.
A curious, dull ache blossoms at Arthur’s shoulder, as though from a phantom limb - curious because the phantom limb in question never actually belonged to him. It belonged to Jack, an eighteen-year-old army lieutenant. Jack died in his sleep at Loos, resting against Arthur; Arthur, senselessly tossed and retossed in stale mutilation, didn’t move for two hours.
“You are beyond selfish,” he whispers, but there is force, there is bite behind it.
Francis makes an appeal to Alfred - surely, surely dear Amérique has more sense, he is an honorable man - but all Alfred says is: “I agree with Arthur.”
Francis and Arthur look at him, one absolutely aghast, the other surprised.
“Et tu, Brute? So you two are finally in bed together now, is that it?”
“That is most certainly not - ” Arthur growls, his face red. “Damn it, you fucking frog, there’s making him pay for what he did (“Happy Christmas, Herr Fritz!” “A good Stille Nacht to you, Mr. Tommy!”) and then there’s revenge.”
Finally and completely at a loss for words, Francis storms out of the hall. At first writing Francis off as merely dramatic (the role art plays in life), Arthur, an honorable man who never used to do anything by halves, watches him leave and suddenly feels sick.
Alfred walks up to him and lightly touches his hand, but Arthur brushes him off. “Don’t,” he says, and turns to leave.
And so cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war - Arthur detests giving Francis satisfaction of any kind, but at least it’s easier to spit out “You were right” twenty years and three months later over the telephone than it is in person. For once, Francis has the grace not to say “I told you so.”
So many of the others have fallen, and now it is his turn; Ludwig is beating Arthur and his people to the pit. Every night his kingdom is haunted by the spectral bombs, a bleak promise humming in the shivering aftermath: This is but the beginning, as it was the beginning of the end for them.
He has traveled with the king and queen in their attempts to hearten the East End, for when that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept. “No, no, I am glad the palace was bombed, dear,” the queen once told him, gently patting his cheek. “It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face.”
STAY PUT, the Ministry of Information is telling the people, THINK BEFORE YOU ACT, BUT THINK ALWAYS OF YOUR COUNTRY BEFORE YOU THINK OF YOURSELF, but their country loathes himself (London Bridge is falling down, falling down). His people are suffering and he cannot do anything to alleviate their burden - nor, he agonizes, did he do enough to prevent it. He was inexcusably weak. He was cowardly. It was a grievous fault, and grievously hath Caesar answered it - he cannot forgive himself, and wholly refuses to.
Yond Ludwig has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous. The weight of what may or may not be Ludwig’s complicity these past thirty years insolently idles on his shoulders, burrows down deep into the knots in his muscles.
Re: Part V/? cont.
anonymous
October 23 2011, 05:26:17 UTC
He stands brooding before the window of one of his secret London offices, the lamps extinguished, the heavy black curtains thrown aside. Every ghost of illumination has been exorcised; the only light in the city is the faint, pearly kiss of the moon. The longing and the want within him - he yearns for the tolling of the church bells, aches to see the slumbering Big Ben awaken. Put out the light, and then put out the light; the rest is silence. This is not his city, he laments; this is not his heart.
The door opens behind him but he doesn’t turn around; he knows it can only be one person.
“What’s all this, then, Nation?” Churchill asks, amused but wary. “Not turning nocturnal on me, are you? Like a bloody cat you look.” He lays his hat, gloves, and cane on the desk amongst all the papers. “I am fond of pigs, myself. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.”
Arthur turns to face him. “You know I would never look down on you.”
“I am glad to hear it, as you and I are the same height. Delusions of grandeur are ill-becoming.”
Arthur smiles but it does not reach his eyes.
“You are not usually lacking for words, Nation.”
Why does he try to fool this man? “I - ” he starts. “It - ” he tries. He sinks into a nearby chair, his head in his hands. “I - ” He is absolutely still.
He hears Churchill shuffle toward him. “I will never forgive you if you start to despair. You have my word.”
“I do not despair,” Arthur spits - the word itself disgusts him. “I only...I only wish things were different. So very many things.”
“As do we all. I’d like to meet the man living today who doesn’t wish they were different. I’d also like to have my pistol on me when I meet him.”
“I’m sorry, but I have little to no capacity for laughter at the moment.”
Churchill considers this. “A joke is a very serious thing.”
Arthur lifts his head from the cradle of his hands, straightens in the creaky chair. The mood in the room changes as swiftly as his posture. “How are the people holding up?”
“Much the same as before.”
“And the royal family? Do they still refuse to leave?”
Churchill nods. He makes to light a cigar.
It comes out as a whisper: “Idiots.”
“Yes.”
The only sound in the room is Churchill sorting through the papers on the desk. But something else, another noise, is slinking into the room. Arthur concentrates, plays along. There’s no way it could possibly be music, of all things - but yet - and yet - he thinks he hears a trumpet, faintly, and then, can that be strings? He throws the window open, leans out into darkness, the ghostly nothingness.
Somewhere, somehow, a gramophone is playing. The song ends, but a hand returns the needle, and the song starts over. Arthur listens to the familiar melody, savors it, when, to his fascination, the song starts over yet again - not only this, but somewhere, somehow, a voice rises up to sing - I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above, entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love - and Arthur feels fire in his chest. Not the fire of blood-red hate, or the burnt orange of churning anger - the love that asks no question, the love that stands the test, that lays upon the altar the dearest and the best - nor the suffocating indigo of deep misery, but the glorious gold of righteousness, the blinding yellow of courage - the love that never falters, the love that pays the price, the love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice - the grey steel of unbending, unconquerable resolve. Arthur, an honorable man, vows to give all his people a reason to continue singing until the day their isles sink back into the sea from which they rose.
Yes, this is still his city, after all. (It will stand for evermore, evermore.) This is still his heart.
Arthur pulls his creaky chair as close to the window as he can manage and sits, transfixed. Churchill comes to stand beside him. He listens, grins. “A little off key, sounds like.”
Arthur’s own grin is lopsided. “Perhaps you should get your hearing checked, old friend.”
Re: Part V/? cont.
anonymous
October 23 2011, 05:28:18 UTC
They continue listening, and Churchill places a large, steady hand on Arthur’s head. Arthur closes his eyes and simply feels the beauty of this earnest moment.
“Bring me my bow of burning gold,” Churchill grumbles suddenly, moving to gather his things from the desk, “Britons never shall be slaves, and so on and so forth, unto your etcetera, forthwith.” He holds up a large, thick envelope. “I have what I came for, Nation, and so bid you adieu.” He searches Arthur’s face. “Victory?”
Arthur nods. “Victory.”
Later, Arthur is still listening - the record plays continuously though the singer, after a few rounds, has retired for the night. The papers on his desk shall remain woefully neglected as he can’t bear to pull himself away from the music. The door opens behind him. He knows it must be Churchill again, so he continues to focus on the music until the gramophone’s owner finally rests the needle for the night. Arthur can feel the hand in his hair again; he closes his eyes and leans into the touch.
“I don’t appreciate Mr. Churchill saying that Americans only do the right thing after we’ve tried everything else.”
Arthur’s eyes snap open and he all but leaps out of his chair.
“Alfred!” he shrieks. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?!”
“That’s no way to greet a hero,” Alfred says, sulking. “Geez, even the Joker and Lex Luthor know how to be polite!”
“Do not sneak up on me like that, and I’ve no idea who this Joker or Lex Lutheran even are.”
“Maybe if you’re nice to me I’ll tell you one day.” Alfred glances around the room. “Say, why are you sitting in the dark? And why is the window open?”
“Never you mind,” Arthur says, hastily moving to shut the window, draw the heavy curtains, turn on a lamp. For a few moments he and Alfred are lost to each other in the darkness, and if either one of them is blushing, neither will be the wiser. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Alfred thrusts his hands into his pockets, rocks back and forth on his feet. “Oh, abou’ wot the bloody ’ell I’m doin’ ’ere?” It comes out staccato and without the letter H - his best impression of a Cockney accent.
Arthur frowns. “Yes, that one.”
Alfred moves to sit in a chair and rests his feet atop the desk, hands behind his head. “I’m here to help, naturally.” He grins.
“What the devil are you going on about? I really don’t have time for your games. And kindly remove your feet from my desk.”
Alfred lifts his legs but keeps them elevated above the desk, grin firmly in place. Arthur bats his feet away, and they fall heavily to the floor.
Alfred watches as Arthur goes about tidying up the papers. When he speaks his voice is soft: “It’s not a game, actually, and I am here to help, honest.” He drops his hands to his lap and leans forward. “But it’s a secret. You have to promise you won’t tell nobody. Because…well, I know things aren’t that great for you right now - ”
“Who told you that?” Arthur snaps, as defensive as he is fierce. “And what do you care what’s happening in Europe? You, safe and cozy on the other side of the world, far away enough to pretend that if you can’t see the bad things happening, they aren’t real? I’m not stupid, Alfred, and neither are you. We both know what Murrow has been reporting back to the Americans, and at the very least you’ve all surely seen that Chaplin film. You cannot claim to be a major power of the world and yet sit idly by while the rest of us - ”
“But I do care! You don’t know how much I care!”
“Don’t, Alfred, just don’t.” Arthur screws his eyes shut and waves a hand, putting a halt to this ridiculous charade. He looks at Alfred - I will rip that simpering smirk clean off - but is disappointed to find no smirk, only a red welt on his cheek. “What is wrong with you face?”
Re: Part V/? cont.
anonymous
October 23 2011, 05:30:30 UTC
“Now that’s just cruel,” Alfred pouts. “But, uh...Mr. Churchill gave it to me.”
“He what?”
“Yeah. I saw him when I first got here. I wanted to come see you first thing but didn’t know where you were, so I had to ask around. Boy howdy, he was surprised to see me, too! And when I told him why I was here he kinda…whacked me in the face with his cane. Hard.” Alfred winces at the memory. “And then he told me it was about damn time I showed up.”
Arthur narrows his eyes at Alfred for a moment, but then moves to rummage through the tiny office. After finding a bit of cloth, he grabs the pitcher of cold water sitting on a tray by the shelves. Coming back to the desk, he soaks the rag, rings it out, and places it on Alfred’s cheek. Alfred grits his teeth and hisses, but thanks him. He takes the rag, his fingers twining momentarily with Arthur’s.
“Go on.” Arthur crosses his arms and leans against the desk.
“Well, anyway, don’t be so angry at me. My boss wants to do what’s best for my people, but I keep tellin’ him that we need to get involved for real.”
“Really.”
“Well, yeah, of course! Say, did you know that Roosevelt and Mr. Dowding - ”
“That’s Air Marshal Dowding to you.”
“Whatever. They were born in the same year! It was the year you came over to see me with Mr. Wilde. Do you think it’s destiny? ’Cause I do.”
Arthur is unsure if Alfred is talking about Dowding and Roosevelt, their meeting during Wilde’s tour, or possibly both. “Just so you are aware, I did not come to see you specifically that time with Wilde. It was just a happy accident, that’s all.”
Alfred tilts his head to the side and grins. “Well, I know you had fun, I could tell - I can always tell. You might can fool other people with your stiff upper lip but not me. But, anyway, most of my people are on your side, even if the government hasn’t officially done anything yet. Remember when you helped me out against ’Tonio? And you said that I could pay you back someday? Well, I’m trying to get Roosevelt on board with a program that could at least give y’all some supplies.”
Arthur sighs and runs a hand over his tired eyes. “For how much?”
“For free.”
Arthur drops his hand and stares keenly at Alfred. Flustered, Alfred hastily continues: “Well, I mean, they’d probably put some kind of condition on it - like, they’d expect everything back when you’re done using it - that might be the only way it gets passed, but still. See? I get to help you but my president doesn’t have to officially declare war.”
“That’s dangerous, Alfred. Ludwig’s boss is sure to find out about it and take action.”
“Aw, like I care about that quack, anyway. Besides, Mr. Churchill says it’s good to have enemies because it means you’ve stood up for something.”
Arthur chuckles and takes the rag, rewetting it. “Are you a fan of his specifically or epigrams in general? And it’s the Right Honourable Churchill to you, git. But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.” Their fingers twine again.
“Well, remember how I told you to keep it a secret? It’s because some of my boys came here to help you fight, all on their own.” Alfred smiles proudly. “They’re being trained and they’re - well, excited’s a bad word for it, ain’t it? But they’re ready and they’re here.”
“Alfred…your government is officially neutral. What will they do when they find out their nation himself is condoning this group’s fighting the Germans in British planes?”
“Roosevelt can take care of things back home - I have complete faith in him, love that guy, I really do - but somebody’s gotta look out for the stowaways. If they’re found out they could lose their citizenship or be put in prison, so I’m here to watch over ’em. Just...just don’t tell anyone, alright? I couldn't care less if everyone knows I’m here, but I don’t want those boys getting in trouble.”
“That’s noble of you. Stupid, but noble.”
Alfred shrugs. “Nah, not really. I’m here for personal reasons, too.” Alfred drops his gaze and toys with the rag. “I needed to know you were okay.”
“I daresay I am more than capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much.”
Re: Part V/? cont.
anonymous
October 23 2011, 05:32:12 UTC
“Yeah, I know. But...you’re important to me.” Alfred rolls his eyes at Arthur’s surprised expression. “You always have been and you always will be, so just get used to it, alright?”
“No more jokes, Alfred, I’m not in the mood.”
But Alfred isn’t laughing. He stands and wraps his arms around Arthur, holds him close, and Arthur remembers: A joke is a very serious thing.
“Yes, yes,” he says, patting Alfred’s arms, “very good, you’ve had your moment - ”
“Nope, not done yet.” Alfred’s arms tighten around him.
Arthur sighs. “Hurry up and be done with it, then.”
After Alfred releases him, Arthur readjusts his shirt cuffs, checks his tie, smiles tepidly. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
Alfred claps him on the shoulder and smiles, easy and cheeky and so like the Americans in the movies. “That’s not the last hug you’ll ever get from me. Just consider it another thing you need to get used to. I can see it now,” he says, dramatically throwing out an arm and looking around the room, “all the hugs of our future: bear hugs, quick hugs, victory hugs, secret hugs - ”
Casually, and before he can stop himself, Arthur blurts out: “Why on earth would we ever embrace in secret?” And, too late, he realizes there’s something in that - an embrace is so much more than a hug. And perhaps there is something in his even asking this aloud, but - no, certainly not. He is just tired. (Though his cheeks continue to burn long after he firmly decides I’m just tired, this room is just hot, he’s just trying to rile me up, this is all his fault, that wanker.)
Alfred smiles and shrugs, thrusting his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet. He wants very badly to quote Mr. Churchill again; he truly admires the man but he also knows how it irks his dear, one-and-only Arthur. This time, however, he shamelessly winks and keeps Arthur’s own once-upon-a-time words to himself: Sometimes it’s best to hold your hand.
Re: Part V/? notes
anonymous
October 23 2011, 05:37:53 UTC
HOLY SHIT THIS PART WAS REALLY, REALLY LONG.
Preview for Part VI: ...pretty sure this is the chapter where the (first) love declaration is gonna show up. \(*v*)/
A huge, huge thank you again to everyone who’s read this story and stuck with it, and especially to those who have reviewed. A special thank you to the kind soul who recommended my silly little story in the USUK LJ community! And, just…everyone. You all have such nice things to say and I’m awed. Thank you again!
*And now a dramatic rendering of the Spanish-American War, April - August 1898. Spain: *treats his Cuban colonists badly* America: Hey, turd face! STOP THAT! That’s not cool, bro! YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT COLONIES. Spain: Okay, okay, geez. Calm yo tits. How about I let the Cubans have limited self-rule? America: INDEPENDENCE OR BUST, AMIGO! *throws in a dash of the Monroe Doctrine* War: *is declared* Europe: Yeahhh…we’re siding with Spain on this one. GET SOME, SPAIN. (*<*)/ Those Droll Brits: Hmm. I kinda still have a thing against Spain, but more than that, I really, really like trading with Cuba. If Cuba becomes independent I can trade with him as much as I want without that Spanish fellow getting all up in my face about it, and besides - the Americans are kinda like my country bumpkin cousins, right? Tally ho. Shit: *gets real* America: *kicks Dat Ass and gains possession of Guam, the Philippines, and Puerto Rico, as well as temporary control of Cuba* Spain: *cries in a corner, but his economy is booming and he decides now is a good time to start a cultural renaissance, so things could’ve gone worse* Those Droll Brits: Uh, hey, America? You’re still gonna let Cuba have his independence, right? Cuz I herd you leik independence, but also, that’s the major reason I decided to help you in the first place. America: Sure bro, just gimme four years and I’ll independence the fuck outta Cuba - YO, CUBA, just don’t sign any alliances with other countries, and I’ll come and intervene in your business whenever I feel like it, ’kay? Though they weren’t involved militarily, Britain sold us coal and ships and let us use their undersea telegraph lines, which was pretty sweet. The Spanish-American War helped America finally move on after the Civil War and Britain’s involvement lead to us all being friendly again. It was also the start of America being a major world player, though we were officially still isolationist at this point.
*Why Germany Was a Dick at Manila Bay: German ships intentionally got in the path of American ships, they were landing supplies for the Spanish, and they refused to salute the American flag at sea (an old naval tradition of respect). The Germans (who were never officially at war) were basically trolololing the Americans (whereas Britain wasn’t officially involved either but they kept their support defensive, not offensive) but they eventually cooled their jets when we called their bluff.
*Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther highly influenced the English Romantics.
*Edmund is the villain of King Lear, though he repents at the very end. Honest, honest Iago is the villain of Othello, but he remains deliciously evil and unrepentant until the end. Speaking of the endlessly, beautifully quotable Shakespeare: -Put out the light, and then put out the light (Othello) -The rest is silence (Hamlet) -an honorable man (I swear, this is, like, only the most ironic line in ALL OF LITERATURE) (Julius Caesar) -Speak, hands, for me! (said just before the conspirators stab Caesar) (JC) -These choice and master spirits of the age (JC) -On such a full sea are we now afloat, and we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures (JC) -Et tu, Brute? (JC) -Cry, “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war (JC) -Our enemies have beat us to the pit (ie, “they have beaten us to the edge of our graves”) (JC) -When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept (JC) -If it were so, it was a grievous fault, and grievously hath Caesar answered it (JC) -Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous (JC)
Re: Part V/? notes
anonymous
October 23 2011, 05:39:25 UTC
*In 1917 King George V changed the name of the British royal house from Saxe-Coburg and Gotha to Windsor due to high anti-German sentiment throughout the kingdom. Most of the reigning royals in Europe at this time were all related, mostly through Queen Victoria; George V (the UK), Nicholas II (Russia) and Wilhelm II (Germany) were all first cousins. I’m pretty close to my first cousin and can’t imagine what fighting him in a war would be like. : \
*“Not peace but an armistice for twenty years” was said by WW1 Supreme Allied Commander Ferdinand Foch - the French delegation thought the Treaty of Versailles was actually too lenient toward the Germans, though the harshness of the Treaty is today considered one of the major causes of WW2. All the separate treaties deciding the fates of the individual Central Powers combined make up the Paris Peace Conference. Germany’s took the longest to hammer out. Also, the implication in the story is not only did they not do enough at the Treaty of Versailles, but also at the Munich Appeasement. (But hindsight is, as always, 20/20.)
*Jack here is English author Rudyard Kipling’s only child, who died at the Battle of Loos. “To be senselessly tossed and retossed in stale mutilation” is a line from his haunting poem “The Children,” and his poem “My Boy Jack” is…just…8’(
*”I am fond of pigs…”, “A joke is a very serious thing” and every quote Alfred attributes to him are actual Churchill quotes. And now that I think on it, he probably could have got in trouble for lighting a cigar during the blackout, but hey. It’s Churchill. I bet they let him do whatever he wanted. Badassery has its perks.
*Imagine my surprise this week upon realizing that the melody from one of my favorite songs, Holst’s Jupiter, is used as the melody for I Vow to Thee, My Country, a famous British patriotic song! I was floored, you guys. “Bring me my bow of burning gold” is from the lovely Jerusalem and “Britons never shall be slaves” is, of course, from Rule, Britannia!
*The Joker and Lex Luthor first appeared as enemies of Superman and Batman in the late 1930s.
*Edward R. Murrow is the journalistic example of excellence and one of my personal heroes. A truly inspiring man, he had real integrity and never let his feelings or biases (or fear of others’ feelings or biases) get in the way of reporting the truth. The Chaplin film is The Great Dictator, Charlie Chaplin’s satire of Hitler - though Chaplin later stated that if he’d been aware of the true horrors of what the Nazis were doing at the time (the death camps, the Holocaust), he never would have made the movie.
Re: Part V/? notes
anonymous
October 23 2011, 09:54:22 UTC
I was so happy to see the update of this on the fill list, you've no idea, author!anon! ^_^
This story is simply delightful to read - full of history and references to literature... I love it.
Also, this made me LOL: 'the sorrows of young Ludwig'... it's just so cracky. (To be honest I really don't like "The sorrows of young Werther", it's soooo boooring! And I don't really feel guilty about thinking that, because I heard that Goethe himself didn't like this work in his later life...^^')
Re: Part V/? notes
anonymous
October 23 2011, 12:03:53 UTC
Love the story, love the notes. Your characterisation is just perfect: I can´t think of anything thatmfeels wrong or out of place. Incredible story. Sorry for the short comment, writing in miý phone is hard D:
Re: Part V/? notes
anonymous
October 23 2011, 17:30:36 UTC
I so loved this update, so full of epic moments! Lex Lutheran is surely among my favourites XD And then the letters between America and England (sooo sweet ^^) and Churchill! I so admire the guy, I've always considered him an hero and I'm not even English. It's very good to find him so well portrayed in a fic, wish sadly, doesn't happen very often. But still, hem, poor Alfred, being whacked with his cane sounds painful. At least this is what ignited a cute moment between him and Arthur.
As many anons, I too am in love with your notes. The one about the Spanish-America war is totally made of win :D
Re: Part V/? notes
anonymous
October 24 2011, 02:13:49 UTC
Okay first off, the research and effort that goes into each one of these chapters just stuns me. That you manage to incorporate references seamlessly and artfully into your writing makes me absolutely incoherent. I feel like your long chapter deserves a list of my favorite moments.
Arthur sneers. “It’s because those boys out there love us. You and me - the lush limey and the sorrows of young Ludwig.” He takes another drink. “Think back and lie of England, why don’t they. Then they’ll really love me.”
I love the clever wordplay and the whole flow of the lines makes them seem almost poetic.
Yond Ludwig has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous.
My ultimate favorite Shakespeare quote. No joke. I think I'm a little in love with you authoranon.
But Alfred isn’t laughing. He stands and wraps his arms around Arthur, holds him close, and Arthur remembers: A joke is a very serious thing.
AGH this was just so sweet and painful at the same time.
Also I love your Alfred: irreverant, enthusiastic, and affectionate. Also CHURCHILL who is the BA of all BAs. I still cannot get enough of this story.
Author anon here
anonymous
October 24 2011, 04:00:47 UTC
Oh, wow. I'm blushing here, anon. Thank you very much for all your compliments and for taking the time to write, you really are too kind and more than I deserve. Hug? *hugs*
I'm so relieved you guys seem to like my Alfred...I was more than a little worried about writing him because I had absolutely no Alfred muse. I have an Arthur muse who likes to take over my life I don't complain though 'cause I like it a lot and I also have a very active Babymerica muse. But for grown-up Alfred? Eeeee...! I think I'm starting to figure out what to do with him, though. : )
Have a great day/night, and I'll be seeing you soon! <3
Alfred and Arthur meet regularly and frequently write each other letters.
Arthur, Alfred writes, don’t laugh, but I think it was destiny for me and Antonio (or is it Antonio and I? I can never remember, it’s your damn language) to fight. Whites and blacks were fighting right beside each other, supporting each other, and they were fighting something fierce. I’m so proud of all of them. And, northerners and southerners were fighting together, not against each other. I think for the first time in years they had a common goal, and it’s brought us all back together. I could cry over it, I really could. Even the scars on my wrists are starting to fade. I ain’t a poet or anything but many of the soldiers were children of the veterans, so it’s like a new beginning, isn’t it? And for you and me, too, I think (you and I?). You were the only one who was on my side during this whole thing, so thank you. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. See? I told you my people were warming up to you. They’re not that fond of Ludwig anymore (he was a complete ass at Manila Bay, but I showed him what’s what), which is a shame because my people and his share some blood between them.
Alfred, Arthur writes, it was difficult to support you when my neighbors on the Continent were all supporting that Spanish fellow, but with your victory I feel amply justified. Though perhaps it would be wise not to blow this out of proportion: I did nothing that would merit such profuse gratitude from you. Coal, ships, and communication lines are of little consequence, I fear, and whatever my personal feelings on the subject, my government too dearly loves its Cuban trade to let it slide completely beyond their reach. (Perhaps you can return the favor someday, but I digress.) You are still planning to let Cuba have his independence, correct? Your future actions need not be scrutinized by me, but it would be a lie to say I’m not the slightest bit curious. With your new territories, it would surprise no one should you wish to create an American Empire - and I pride myself on knowing something about that. PS - Surely your people and mine share more blood between them?
The funny thing, Arthur remembers one blessedly silent night in 1940, is that he sort of likes Ludwig. He realized this on another blessedly silent night in 1914.
When bosses declare war it can be hard to separate the government from the personification, but sometimes, in the heat of it all, nations find they have no desire to. Resentment, after all, recedes quicker when technicalities like birthday soirées and shared hair ribbons are involved. Arthur wonders exactly how complicit Ludwig - so quiet, so serious, always so determined to keep his thoughts to himself - has been in everything these past five years or so. It would not surprise Arthur in the least to find this Great War is merely another case of Ludwig putting honor before reason, for Ludwig is an honorable man.
Best put these thoughts out of mind, old boy, Arthur thinks around a slight haze of alcohol. Don’t want to slip up around the enemy. Christmas is no excuse to get chummy. Set a man to watch all night, watch all night.
At first he and his men could see the Germans lighting candles, then they could hear carols being sung, and Arthur isn’t sure who made to move across No Man’s Land first but now he finds himself in possession of a bottle of whiskey and feeling good for the first time in months - if not good, then at least better. The whiskey makes him feel bold, makes him feel as seductive as a villain. Last night, on Christmas Eve, he was Edmund; tonight he is honest, honest Iago - but not too honest, now, old boy. Tomorrow he will soberly go back to being Arthur Kirkland; his hands will speak for him, soberly killing Ludwig’s men.
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“My dopey king,” Arthur says amiably, “keeps blubbering on and on about changing his surname to something more English sounding, as if that’s the only thing he has to contribute to this damned war. As if anything so silly would give any sort of morale to anyone at this point.”
Ludwig grunts. “It was a joke to assume this war would be over by Christmas. It was shameful to think so.”
“Pah!” Arthur takes a drink from the bottle. He is not drunk, but he has had enough to loosen his vocal chords. “Blast all, Victoria!” he suddenly cries, shaking a noble fist at the sky. “Your grandchildren are royally fucking everything up!” He turns to Ludwig. “What if all this is simply some stupid family melodrama that originated from…hanged if I know, actually. Something ridiculous from their childhood - a dirty nappy or a nice kick in the shins, or some such. ‘Mamma! Willy stole my pony!’”
“Families will always fight, especially the privileged. They are used to getting what they want.”
“But here’s the brilliant thing,” Arthur leans in and whispers, like a conspirator. “All of us could just up and walk on home right this instant. What better day to leave it all behind than on Christmas, eh? Every fucking shred of it. And we all want to, and we all have the opportunity, but the thing is, no one is going to. And do you know why, old chap?”
Ludwig stares ahead, unblinking, though his eyes are not fixed on the football.
Arthur sneers. “It’s because those boys out there love us. You and me - the lush limey and the sorrows of young Ludwig.” He takes another drink. “Think back and lie of England, why don’t they. Then they’ll really love me.”
Lugwig reaches for the whiskey.
(The funny thing is, they’re very much alike.)
The hardest part of saying farewell is not knowing what the future holds. With the end of the Great War, Francis can no longer prattle on about his Belle Époque, Alfred’s Gilded Age has tarnished, and Arthur’s prim and perfect Victorian Era is over. But they find themselves - these choice and master spirits of the age - in a position to firmly decide what the future holds, and not just for themselves, but for everyone. No matter what they decide to do with the future, however, they will all of them call it by the same name: They have become a generation lost.
The beginning of the Paris Peace Conference is anything but (not that much conferencing and not at all peaceful, Arthur thinks, though we are in the suburbs of Paris, so there is that). They cannot quite come to terms over Ludwig’s fate, but everyone agrees: nothing sounds as nice, as dark as velvet, coming from his lips as I am guilty, je suis coupable, Ich bin schuldig.
In the fragile Hall of Mirrors in Versailles, every action is dreadfully magnified: Francis’ fists banging on the table, Arthur’s peevish sighs. Everyone’s nerves are wrecked - except, notably, Alfred’s. He looks like he’s had the sleep of his life. He looks like he could fight another war all by himself. (He looks like he wants to.)
“Francis,” Arthur warns, “you’re behaving like a child.” He rubs his eyes and leans back in his chair. “If you cannot cease your sputtering,” he says around a heavy sigh, “we will kindly ask you and the entire French delegation to vacate the premises.”
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“That can be arranged, you know.” Arthur crosses his legs, laces his fingers together. “Your dead body, I mean.”
Swift and precise, Francis comes around the table and hurls Arthur out of his chair.
Alfred comes between them, his fingers digging into Francis’ shoulders, dragging him away from Arthur. “Shit, you two,” he breathes, eyeing them both up and down. “Shit.”
According to Francis, the enormity of Ludwig’s crimes will render his reparation period only the rest of his existence; the terms the others are suggesting are not a peace so much as they are merely an armistice for twenty years. Francis is demanding of them, will not beg them, but he cannot completely hide the anxiety in his voice - on such a full sea are we now afloat, mes amis, and we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures. He pounds his fists on the table for emphasis. Angleterre and Amérique are only being so lenient to that reaper, that gasman, because the war did not come to their soil; they cannot at all fathom what his people have suffered.
A curious, dull ache blossoms at Arthur’s shoulder, as though from a phantom limb - curious because the phantom limb in question never actually belonged to him. It belonged to Jack, an eighteen-year-old army lieutenant. Jack died in his sleep at Loos, resting against Arthur; Arthur, senselessly tossed and retossed in stale mutilation, didn’t move for two hours.
“You are beyond selfish,” he whispers, but there is force, there is bite behind it.
Francis makes an appeal to Alfred - surely, surely dear Amérique has more sense, he is an honorable man - but all Alfred says is: “I agree with Arthur.”
Francis and Arthur look at him, one absolutely aghast, the other surprised.
“Et tu, Brute? So you two are finally in bed together now, is that it?”
“That is most certainly not - ” Arthur growls, his face red. “Damn it, you fucking frog, there’s making him pay for what he did (“Happy Christmas, Herr Fritz!” “A good Stille Nacht to you, Mr. Tommy!”) and then there’s revenge.”
Finally and completely at a loss for words, Francis storms out of the hall. At first writing Francis off as merely dramatic (the role art plays in life), Arthur, an honorable man who never used to do anything by halves, watches him leave and suddenly feels sick.
Alfred walks up to him and lightly touches his hand, but Arthur brushes him off. “Don’t,” he says, and turns to leave.
And so cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war - Arthur detests giving Francis satisfaction of any kind, but at least it’s easier to spit out “You were right” twenty years and three months later over the telephone than it is in person. For once, Francis has the grace not to say “I told you so.”
So many of the others have fallen, and now it is his turn; Ludwig is beating Arthur and his people to the pit. Every night his kingdom is haunted by the spectral bombs, a bleak promise humming in the shivering aftermath: This is but the beginning, as it was the beginning of the end for them.
He has traveled with the king and queen in their attempts to hearten the East End, for when that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept. “No, no, I am glad the palace was bombed, dear,” the queen once told him, gently patting his cheek. “It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face.”
STAY PUT, the Ministry of Information is telling the people, THINK BEFORE YOU ACT, BUT THINK ALWAYS OF YOUR COUNTRY BEFORE YOU THINK OF YOURSELF, but their country loathes himself (London Bridge is falling down, falling down). His people are suffering and he cannot do anything to alleviate their burden - nor, he agonizes, did he do enough to prevent it. He was inexcusably weak. He was cowardly. It was a grievous fault, and grievously hath Caesar answered it - he cannot forgive himself, and wholly refuses to.
Yond Ludwig has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous. The weight of what may or may not be Ludwig’s complicity these past thirty years insolently idles on his shoulders, burrows down deep into the knots in his muscles.
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The door opens behind him but he doesn’t turn around; he knows it can only be one person.
“What’s all this, then, Nation?” Churchill asks, amused but wary. “Not turning nocturnal on me, are you? Like a bloody cat you look.” He lays his hat, gloves, and cane on the desk amongst all the papers. “I am fond of pigs, myself. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.”
Arthur turns to face him. “You know I would never look down on you.”
“I am glad to hear it, as you and I are the same height. Delusions of grandeur are ill-becoming.”
Arthur smiles but it does not reach his eyes.
“You are not usually lacking for words, Nation.”
Why does he try to fool this man? “I - ” he starts. “It - ” he tries. He sinks into a nearby chair, his head in his hands. “I - ” He is absolutely still.
He hears Churchill shuffle toward him. “I will never forgive you if you start to despair. You have my word.”
“I do not despair,” Arthur spits - the word itself disgusts him. “I only...I only wish things were different. So very many things.”
“As do we all. I’d like to meet the man living today who doesn’t wish they were different. I’d also like to have my pistol on me when I meet him.”
“I’m sorry, but I have little to no capacity for laughter at the moment.”
Churchill considers this. “A joke is a very serious thing.”
Arthur lifts his head from the cradle of his hands, straightens in the creaky chair. The mood in the room changes as swiftly as his posture. “How are the people holding up?”
“Much the same as before.”
“And the royal family? Do they still refuse to leave?”
Churchill nods. He makes to light a cigar.
It comes out as a whisper: “Idiots.”
“Yes.”
The only sound in the room is Churchill sorting through the papers on the desk. But something else, another noise, is slinking into the room. Arthur concentrates, plays along. There’s no way it could possibly be music, of all things - but yet - and yet - he thinks he hears a trumpet, faintly, and then, can that be strings? He throws the window open, leans out into darkness, the ghostly nothingness.
Somewhere, somehow, a gramophone is playing. The song ends, but a hand returns the needle, and the song starts over. Arthur listens to the familiar melody, savors it, when, to his fascination, the song starts over yet again - not only this, but somewhere, somehow, a voice rises up to sing - I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above, entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love - and Arthur feels fire in his chest. Not the fire of blood-red hate, or the burnt orange of churning anger - the love that asks no question, the love that stands the test, that lays upon the altar the dearest and the best - nor the suffocating indigo of deep misery, but the glorious gold of righteousness, the blinding yellow of courage - the love that never falters, the love that pays the price, the love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice - the grey steel of unbending, unconquerable resolve. Arthur, an honorable man, vows to give all his people a reason to continue singing until the day their isles sink back into the sea from which they rose.
Yes, this is still his city, after all. (It will stand for evermore, evermore.) This is still his heart.
Arthur pulls his creaky chair as close to the window as he can manage and sits, transfixed. Churchill comes to stand beside him. He listens, grins. “A little off key, sounds like.”
Arthur’s own grin is lopsided. “Perhaps you should get your hearing checked, old friend.”
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“Bring me my bow of burning gold,” Churchill grumbles suddenly, moving to gather his things from the desk, “Britons never shall be slaves, and so on and so forth, unto your etcetera, forthwith.” He holds up a large, thick envelope. “I have what I came for, Nation, and so bid you adieu.” He searches Arthur’s face. “Victory?”
Arthur nods. “Victory.”
Later, Arthur is still listening - the record plays continuously though the singer, after a few rounds, has retired for the night. The papers on his desk shall remain woefully neglected as he can’t bear to pull himself away from the music. The door opens behind him. He knows it must be Churchill again, so he continues to focus on the music until the gramophone’s owner finally rests the needle for the night. Arthur can feel the hand in his hair again; he closes his eyes and leans into the touch.
“I don’t appreciate Mr. Churchill saying that Americans only do the right thing after we’ve tried everything else.”
Arthur’s eyes snap open and he all but leaps out of his chair.
“Alfred!” he shrieks. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?!”
“That’s no way to greet a hero,” Alfred says, sulking. “Geez, even the Joker and Lex Luthor know how to be polite!”
“Do not sneak up on me like that, and I’ve no idea who this Joker or Lex Lutheran even are.”
“Maybe if you’re nice to me I’ll tell you one day.” Alfred glances around the room. “Say, why are you sitting in the dark? And why is the window open?”
“Never you mind,” Arthur says, hastily moving to shut the window, draw the heavy curtains, turn on a lamp. For a few moments he and Alfred are lost to each other in the darkness, and if either one of them is blushing, neither will be the wiser. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Alfred thrusts his hands into his pockets, rocks back and forth on his feet. “Oh, abou’ wot the bloody ’ell I’m doin’ ’ere?” It comes out staccato and without the letter H - his best impression of a Cockney accent.
Arthur frowns. “Yes, that one.”
Alfred moves to sit in a chair and rests his feet atop the desk, hands behind his head. “I’m here to help, naturally.” He grins.
“What the devil are you going on about? I really don’t have time for your games. And kindly remove your feet from my desk.”
Alfred lifts his legs but keeps them elevated above the desk, grin firmly in place. Arthur bats his feet away, and they fall heavily to the floor.
Alfred watches as Arthur goes about tidying up the papers. When he speaks his voice is soft: “It’s not a game, actually, and I am here to help, honest.” He drops his hands to his lap and leans forward. “But it’s a secret. You have to promise you won’t tell nobody. Because…well, I know things aren’t that great for you right now - ”
“Who told you that?” Arthur snaps, as defensive as he is fierce. “And what do you care what’s happening in Europe? You, safe and cozy on the other side of the world, far away enough to pretend that if you can’t see the bad things happening, they aren’t real? I’m not stupid, Alfred, and neither are you. We both know what Murrow has been reporting back to the Americans, and at the very least you’ve all surely seen that Chaplin film. You cannot claim to be a major power of the world and yet sit idly by while the rest of us - ”
“But I do care! You don’t know how much I care!”
“Don’t, Alfred, just don’t.” Arthur screws his eyes shut and waves a hand, putting a halt to this ridiculous charade. He looks at Alfred - I will rip that simpering smirk clean off - but is disappointed to find no smirk, only a red welt on his cheek. “What is wrong with you face?”
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“He what?”
“Yeah. I saw him when I first got here. I wanted to come see you first thing but didn’t know where you were, so I had to ask around. Boy howdy, he was surprised to see me, too! And when I told him why I was here he kinda…whacked me in the face with his cane. Hard.” Alfred winces at the memory. “And then he told me it was about damn time I showed up.”
Arthur narrows his eyes at Alfred for a moment, but then moves to rummage through the tiny office. After finding a bit of cloth, he grabs the pitcher of cold water sitting on a tray by the shelves. Coming back to the desk, he soaks the rag, rings it out, and places it on Alfred’s cheek. Alfred grits his teeth and hisses, but thanks him. He takes the rag, his fingers twining momentarily with Arthur’s.
“Go on.” Arthur crosses his arms and leans against the desk.
“Well, anyway, don’t be so angry at me. My boss wants to do what’s best for my people, but I keep tellin’ him that we need to get involved for real.”
“Really.”
“Well, yeah, of course! Say, did you know that Roosevelt and Mr. Dowding - ”
“That’s Air Marshal Dowding to you.”
“Whatever. They were born in the same year! It was the year you came over to see me with Mr. Wilde. Do you think it’s destiny? ’Cause I do.”
Arthur is unsure if Alfred is talking about Dowding and Roosevelt, their meeting during Wilde’s tour, or possibly both. “Just so you are aware, I did not come to see you specifically that time with Wilde. It was just a happy accident, that’s all.”
Alfred tilts his head to the side and grins. “Well, I know you had fun, I could tell - I can always tell. You might can fool other people with your stiff upper lip but not me. But, anyway, most of my people are on your side, even if the government hasn’t officially done anything yet. Remember when you helped me out against ’Tonio? And you said that I could pay you back someday? Well, I’m trying to get Roosevelt on board with a program that could at least give y’all some supplies.”
Arthur sighs and runs a hand over his tired eyes. “For how much?”
“For free.”
Arthur drops his hand and stares keenly at Alfred. Flustered, Alfred hastily continues: “Well, I mean, they’d probably put some kind of condition on it - like, they’d expect everything back when you’re done using it - that might be the only way it gets passed, but still. See? I get to help you but my president doesn’t have to officially declare war.”
“That’s dangerous, Alfred. Ludwig’s boss is sure to find out about it and take action.”
“Aw, like I care about that quack, anyway. Besides, Mr. Churchill says it’s good to have enemies because it means you’ve stood up for something.”
Arthur chuckles and takes the rag, rewetting it. “Are you a fan of his specifically or epigrams in general? And it’s the Right Honourable Churchill to you, git. But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.” Their fingers twine again.
“Well, remember how I told you to keep it a secret? It’s because some of my boys came here to help you fight, all on their own.” Alfred smiles proudly. “They’re being trained and they’re - well, excited’s a bad word for it, ain’t it? But they’re ready and they’re here.”
“Alfred…your government is officially neutral. What will they do when they find out their nation himself is condoning this group’s fighting the Germans in British planes?”
“Roosevelt can take care of things back home - I have complete faith in him, love that guy, I really do - but somebody’s gotta look out for the stowaways. If they’re found out they could lose their citizenship or be put in prison, so I’m here to watch over ’em. Just...just don’t tell anyone, alright? I couldn't care less if everyone knows I’m here, but I don’t want those boys getting in trouble.”
“That’s noble of you. Stupid, but noble.”
Alfred shrugs. “Nah, not really. I’m here for personal reasons, too.” Alfred drops his gaze and toys with the rag. “I needed to know you were okay.”
“I daresay I am more than capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much.”
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“No more jokes, Alfred, I’m not in the mood.”
But Alfred isn’t laughing. He stands and wraps his arms around Arthur, holds him close, and Arthur remembers: A joke is a very serious thing.
“Yes, yes,” he says, patting Alfred’s arms, “very good, you’ve had your moment - ”
“Nope, not done yet.” Alfred’s arms tighten around him.
Arthur sighs. “Hurry up and be done with it, then.”
After Alfred releases him, Arthur readjusts his shirt cuffs, checks his tie, smiles tepidly. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
Alfred claps him on the shoulder and smiles, easy and cheeky and so like the Americans in the movies. “That’s not the last hug you’ll ever get from me. Just consider it another thing you need to get used to. I can see it now,” he says, dramatically throwing out an arm and looking around the room, “all the hugs of our future: bear hugs, quick hugs, victory hugs, secret hugs - ”
Casually, and before he can stop himself, Arthur blurts out: “Why on earth would we ever embrace in secret?” And, too late, he realizes there’s something in that - an embrace is so much more than a hug. And perhaps there is something in his even asking this aloud, but - no, certainly not. He is just tired. (Though his cheeks continue to burn long after he firmly decides I’m just tired, this room is just hot, he’s just trying to rile me up, this is all his fault, that wanker.)
Alfred smiles and shrugs, thrusting his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet. He wants very badly to quote Mr. Churchill again; he truly admires the man but he also knows how it irks his dear, one-and-only Arthur. This time, however, he shamelessly winks and keeps Arthur’s own once-upon-a-time words to himself: Sometimes it’s best to hold your hand.
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Preview for Part VI: ...pretty sure this is the chapter where the (first) love declaration is gonna show up. \(*v*)/
A huge, huge thank you again to everyone who’s read this story and stuck with it, and especially to those who have reviewed. A special thank you to the kind soul who recommended my silly little story in the USUK LJ community! And, just…everyone. You all have such nice things to say and I’m awed. Thank you again!
*And now a dramatic rendering of the Spanish-American War, April - August 1898.
Spain: *treats his Cuban colonists badly*
America: Hey, turd face! STOP THAT! That’s not cool, bro! YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT COLONIES.
Spain: Okay, okay, geez. Calm yo tits. How about I let the Cubans have limited self-rule?
America: INDEPENDENCE OR BUST, AMIGO! *throws in a dash of the Monroe Doctrine*
War: *is declared*
Europe: Yeahhh…we’re siding with Spain on this one. GET SOME, SPAIN. (*<*)/
Those Droll Brits: Hmm. I kinda still have a thing against Spain, but more than that, I really, really like trading with Cuba. If Cuba becomes independent I can trade with him as much as I want without that Spanish fellow getting all up in my face about it, and besides - the Americans are kinda like my country bumpkin cousins, right? Tally ho.
Shit: *gets real*
America: *kicks Dat Ass and gains possession of Guam, the Philippines, and Puerto Rico, as well as temporary control of Cuba*
Spain: *cries in a corner, but his economy is booming and he decides now is a good time to start a cultural renaissance, so things could’ve gone worse*
Those Droll Brits: Uh, hey, America? You’re still gonna let Cuba have his independence, right? Cuz I herd you leik independence, but also, that’s the major reason I decided to help you in the first place.
America: Sure bro, just gimme four years and I’ll independence the fuck outta Cuba - YO, CUBA, just don’t sign any alliances with other countries, and I’ll come and intervene in your business whenever I feel like it, ’kay?
Though they weren’t involved militarily, Britain sold us coal and ships and let us use their undersea telegraph lines, which was pretty sweet. The Spanish-American War helped America finally move on after the Civil War and Britain’s involvement lead to us all being friendly again. It was also the start of America being a major world player, though we were officially still isolationist at this point.
*Why Germany Was a Dick at Manila Bay: German ships intentionally got in the path of American ships, they were landing supplies for the Spanish, and they refused to salute the American flag at sea (an old naval tradition of respect). The Germans (who were never officially at war) were basically trolololing the Americans (whereas Britain wasn’t officially involved either but they kept their support defensive, not offensive) but they eventually cooled their jets when we called their bluff.
*Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther highly influenced the English Romantics.
*Edmund is the villain of King Lear, though he repents at the very end. Honest, honest Iago is the villain of Othello, but he remains deliciously evil and unrepentant until the end. Speaking of the endlessly, beautifully quotable Shakespeare:
-Put out the light, and then put out the light (Othello)
-The rest is silence (Hamlet)
-an honorable man (I swear, this is, like, only the most ironic line in ALL OF LITERATURE) (Julius Caesar)
-Speak, hands, for me! (said just before the conspirators stab Caesar) (JC)
-These choice and master spirits of the age (JC)
-On such a full sea are we now afloat, and we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures (JC)
-Et tu, Brute? (JC)
-Cry, “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war (JC)
-Our enemies have beat us to the pit (ie, “they have beaten us to the edge of our graves”) (JC)
-When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept (JC)
-If it were so, it was a grievous fault, and grievously hath Caesar answered it (JC)
-Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous (JC)
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*“Not peace but an armistice for twenty years” was said by WW1 Supreme Allied Commander Ferdinand Foch - the French delegation thought the Treaty of Versailles was actually too lenient toward the Germans, though the harshness of the Treaty is today considered one of the major causes of WW2. All the separate treaties deciding the fates of the individual Central Powers combined make up the Paris Peace Conference. Germany’s took the longest to hammer out. Also, the implication in the story is not only did they not do enough at the Treaty of Versailles, but also at the Munich Appeasement. (But hindsight is, as always, 20/20.)
*Jack here is English author Rudyard Kipling’s only child, who died at the Battle of Loos. “To be senselessly tossed and retossed in stale mutilation” is a line from his haunting poem “The Children,” and his poem “My Boy Jack” is…just…8’(
*The Christmas Truce, though I think most Hetalians know this story? : ) (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_truce)
*The East End is a historically very poor and crowded neighborhood of London. The quote in the story is an actual quote from the Queen Mother. Pretty cool lady, actually. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_the_Queen_Mother#World_War_II)
*The blackout (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blackout_%28wartime%29) and STAY PUT and THINK BEFORE YOU ACT (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_anti-invasion_preparations_of_World_War_II#Other_defensive_measures)
*”I am fond of pigs…”, “A joke is a very serious thing” and every quote Alfred attributes to him are actual Churchill quotes. And now that I think on it, he probably could have got in trouble for lighting a cigar during the blackout, but hey. It’s Churchill. I bet they let him do whatever he wanted. Badassery has its perks.
*Imagine my surprise this week upon realizing that the melody from one of my favorite songs, Holst’s Jupiter, is used as the melody for I Vow to Thee, My Country, a famous British patriotic song! I was floored, you guys. “Bring me my bow of burning gold” is from the lovely Jerusalem and “Britons never shall be slaves” is, of course, from Rule, Britannia!
*The Joker and Lex Luthor first appeared as enemies of Superman and Batman in the late 1930s.
*Edward R. Murrow is the journalistic example of excellence and one of my personal heroes. A truly inspiring man, he had real integrity and never let his feelings or biases (or fear of others’ feelings or biases) get in the way of reporting the truth. The Chaplin film is The Great Dictator, Charlie Chaplin’s satire of Hitler - though Chaplin later stated that if he’d been aware of the true horrors of what the Nazis were doing at the time (the death camps, the Holocaust), he never would have made the movie.
*For being such a large part of the USUK fandom (well, it appears that way to me, anyway), only 7 Americans are actually on record as helping out during the Battle of Britain (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Non-British_personnel_in_the_RAF_during_the_Battle_of_Britain#United_States_contribution). Also, I feel like a TOTAL cliché for using this (and the American Revolution) as part of the plot. B( I promise to be more original in future chapters!
What the crap, even the notes were long! *iz ded* Until next time, dear friends! Love ya!
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Can I just say, that I think I'm reading the story for the plot as well as the a!notes at the end
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This story is simply delightful to read - full of history and references to literature... I love it.
Also, this made me LOL: 'the sorrows of young Ludwig'... it's just so cracky. (To be honest I really don't like "The sorrows of young Werther", it's soooo boooring! And I don't really feel guilty about thinking that, because I heard that Goethe himself didn't like this work in his later life...^^')
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As many anons, I too am in love with your notes. The one about the Spanish-America war is totally made of win :D
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Arthur sneers. “It’s because those boys out there love us. You and me - the lush limey and the sorrows of young Ludwig.” He takes another drink. “Think back and lie of England, why don’t they. Then they’ll really love me.”
I love the clever wordplay and the whole flow of the lines makes them seem almost poetic.
Yond Ludwig has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous.
My ultimate favorite Shakespeare quote. No joke. I think I'm a little in love with you authoranon.
But Alfred isn’t laughing. He stands and wraps his arms around Arthur, holds him close, and Arthur remembers: A joke is a very serious thing.
AGH this was just so sweet and painful at the same time.
Also I love your Alfred: irreverant, enthusiastic, and affectionate. Also CHURCHILL who is the BA of all BAs. I still cannot get enough of this story.
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I'm so relieved you guys seem to like my Alfred...I was more than a little worried about writing him because I had absolutely no Alfred muse. I have an Arthur muse who likes to take over my life I don't complain though 'cause I like it a lot and I also have a very active Babymerica muse. But for grown-up Alfred? Eeeee...! I think I'm starting to figure out what to do with him, though. : )
Have a great day/night, and I'll be seeing you soon! <3
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