knickknack [3a/?]
anonymous
January 16 2012, 00:35:16 UTC
There are ten wooden soldiers in the set, and one of them is bewitched.
Alfred doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream as planned.
What’s fealty? What’s a liege? Is this Green-Eyes?
Though he tries to get his head around it, he doesn’t understand what’s happening. His thoughts are racing around in his mind and crashing in to one another, rendering him unable to logically think out how to deal with the situation -- but then again, being truly logical was never his strong point in the face of panic.
After a pause, all he can manage is squeaking out a query of, “Who are you?”
“My name,” the man says, staring up at Alfred with a hurt expression, “is Captain Kirkland of the British Army. I thought you knew that.”
He gets to his feet and stands quite still. Alfred stares at him, sees the typical ‘Green-Eyes’ scowl brought to life across his face, and feels more at ease in his presence -- this man isn’t such a stranger, after all. As Alfred muses, Kirkland tilts his head and catches his reflection in the full-length mirror adjacent to Alfred’s wardrobe, his mouth hanging open as he studies himself.
“Excuse me, Sir?” Kirkland says, once he’s sure Alfred isn’t going to say anything any time soon. “If I may be so bold as to ask a question, why, exactly, am I wearing this?”
“I don’t know,” Alfred admits. “That’s just how you were painted, I guess…”
(Maybe this isn’t actually happening, that’s always a possibility. Maybe Alfred’s dreaming and he’ll wake up soon enough.)
Seemingly horrified, Kirkland spins around and glares. “I look like a Coldstream Guard. I’m trained for the military, not the monarchy.”
“But you look so awesome and-” Alfred begins, trailing off when Kirkland’s glare intensifies. “Hey, will you stop that, for just a sec?”
Expression softening, Kirkland looks down at the boy before him with wonder, waiting for an explanation or a follow-up to the demand. He doesn’t receive either of those, instead receiving a hand to the head as Alfred gets onto his tip-toes and places his palm flat across Kirkland’s face.
“I’m sorry?” Kirkland says, muffled behind Alfred‘s fingers. “What are you doing?”
“Seeing if you’re real,” Alfred replies. “You seem like it. You pass the test.”
He tweaks Kirkland’s nose before pulling back, sensing that Kirkland isn’t going to be able to hurt him -- the familiar scowl has returned; yes, it has to be Green-Eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alfred says. “That you could talk? That you were, y’know, human?”
“I tried, Sir,” Kirkland says, “but it was… difficult. I’d been asleep for quite some time and it took me a while to work out. I must’ve been woken, hm, three months ago?”
That’s about the time Alfred’s grandfather would have sent someone into the attic to retrieve the toy soldiers. Alfred wonders who it was that held the box before Alfred did, had Green-Eyes alive in their hands before Alfred ever reached him. It’s too surreal to contemplate.
knickknack [3b/?]
anonymous
January 16 2012, 00:36:42 UTC
Clearly oblivious to Alfred‘s thoughts, Kirkland continues, “And after that, it took me an awful long time to gain control of my body once again. I tried walking to clear my head -- as you’re aware, I suppose, given the amount of times you retrieved me -- but I made sure to defend your fortress at all times, Sir.”
Alfred is confused, because isn‘t this the Green-Eyes that silently plotted his downfall every single day? He ponders aloud, stating, “Defend?”
“I never went far,” Kirkland says. “It’s true, Sir, I didn’t ever leave the upper level. Can’t have the Germans finding my men without me there to assist them -- I‘m their Captain, after all.”
Even more bewildered than before, Alfred reiterates, “Finding your men?”
“Are you a parrot, Sir?” Kirkland snaps. He points back at the shelf. “My men. My sub-unit. There seems to be no Major so I‘ve been taking on the leading role. Must say I‘m doing quite well at it, too -- haven‘t they served you well, even in my absence?”
Shocked and somewhat excited, Alfred stares at the remaining nine soldiers above his bed. “Are those really people too?”
“Whatever they are, they’re not very co-operative,” Kirkland says with a grimace. “But they’ve been of use to you on your missions, have they not? That’s down to me because I’m gallant Sir; though I don’t wish to sound conceited--”
“Okay, I’m not a parrot,” Alfred interrupts, “but… missions? Do you mean… all the times I took them down to play with them?”
Kirkland runs his fist over his lips and coughs to clear his throat. “Well, if you wish to put it like that, then I suppose the answer is ‘yes’. But! I made sure to keep vigilant on guard whenever the Matthews were away for training and combat, as you should recall. They couldn’t have managed it, stupid blighters; they‘re not exactly the most outstanding bunch. Not that I‘m conceited, obviously.”
Alfred’s bottom lip quivers. It’s like listening to puzzle pieces fall, gravitating together and dancing in the air before they collapse and -- click -- everything makes perfect sense while perspective becomes flipped. Alfred stares at Kirkland’s earnest expression and thinks about the implication of Kirkland’s discourse, and it makes him feel like he’s done something seriously bad.
He feels bad; he supposes that’s justified, what with how he’s treated the man currently standing before him.
And then he’s crying.
“S-sir?” Kirkland says, alarmed, as Alfred blocks the Captain out by hiding his face behind his hands -- collecting his tears in his palms as he wails, long and loud. “Sir, what’s the matter?”
“I thought,” Alfred says, letting out wet sobs and taking in deep inhales between each word, “that you hated me! I didn’t know you were trying to protect me! And then I never played with you--!”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Kirkland says. “I was under the impression I was your most trusted.”
Alfred drops his hands and leaps forward, clinging to Kirkland as tightly as he can. It takes the Captain by surprise and he lets out a yelp of shock, arms uselessly thrashing -- Alfred simply holds on tighter. Kirkland’s heart is beating erratically and it’s all the proof Alfred needs to confirm that Green-Eyes really, truly is alive.
“I’m sorry,” Alfred says -- and he means it, but he can only hope Kirkland believes him. “Really, I’m sorry!”
“There, there,” Kirkland replies, voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I’m sure this is all just some unimportant misunderstanding. If you’d allow me to get back to work, then--”
“You’re my favourite now,” Alfred promises. “You are.”
Kirkland snorts indignantly, not quite understanding what Alfred is trying to tell him. “Of course I am, the others are spineless.”
Alfred looks up, eyes watery and wide. He catches Kirkland‘s gaze and says, “It’s because they’re toys. That’s why they’re not very good. But you’re real.”
knickknack [3c/?]
anonymous
January 16 2012, 00:37:33 UTC
Awkwardly placing a hand atop Alfred‘s head in an attempt to be comforting, Kirkland replies, “I suppose that’s one problem with the set-up, yes. Now, be a good little boy and kindly detach yourself from my person, Sir.”
As Alfred steps back, he hears a heavy sigh escape Kirkland’s mouth. It’s not a sigh of relief at liberation from Alfred’s grip; it’s a noise of irritation.
“What’s up?” Alfred says. “Don’t you like me?”
“That’s not the problem,” Kirkland replies. “The problem is, you’re a child. It‘s somewhat humiliating to go from serving the British military to serving an American youngster -- I assume you‘re American; I‘m judging purely by the accent.”
“Yep,” Alfred says proudly. “But I’ve got British great-great-grandparents.”
Kirkland‘s face lights up. “English?”
“Finnish.”
Kirkland’s eye twitches. “That’s not British.”
Mulling the issue over, Alfred places a thumb on his bottom lip and looks up at the ceiling. “Uh… Yeah, sorry, I meant ‘European’.” Sensing an argument on the horizon if he doesn’t do something fast, he adds, “How come you haven’t been, y’know, real this whole time?”
“I don’t know,” Kirkland confesses. “It hadn’t ever occurred to me before that I could change back. But when you brought me this” -- he reaches back to pat the dolls’ house -- “I felt the need to thank you properly, and I can’t talk for very long when I’m made out of wood.”
“Why are you a figurine?” Alfred demands, pressing for more information. With every question Kirkland answers, a thousand more to ask pop into Alfred’s head -- he’s intrigued by the possibilities, the inherent promise of a story far more fascinating than those in his picture-books. “Were you fake first and real second?”
“I…” Kirkland’s brow furrows and he appears to be lost in concentration, triggered by Alfred’s scrutiny. “I can‘t remember…”
Deciding he should probably start smaller, Alfred says, “Do you have a first name?”
Even though it should be relatively easy to answer, Kirkland freezes as if he‘s just been asked the meaning of life. “Honestly, I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
There are muffled footsteps from outside the door and a voice soon follows, calling, “Alfred? Who are you talking to?”
Horrified, Kirkland and Alfred turn their attention to the door, watching uselessly as it opens, both catching sight of the dark material that belongs to the maid’s uniform in the household -- curse the ‘don’t-need-to-knock’ rule, Alfred should really change that. He braces himself for the maid to scream at the sight of an unfamiliar Guard in the room, or a scolding due to letting strangers into the household--
But the scream doesn’t come and the scolding never happens. The maid simply stands there in the doorway and frowns, basket of laundry under one arm. “Honestly, Master Alfred, you shouldn’t talk to yourself; you worried me there.”
“I’m… sorry?” Alfred says, utterly baffled. He looks back from the door to stare at the Guard in front of him, but -- Kirkland’s gone.
“Don’t worry about it, dear,” the maid says with a smile, and she closes the door behind her as she walks away.
When Alfred can no longer hear her footsteps, he drops to his knees and picks Kirkland up from where he’s landed on the floor, small and compact once again. The figurine stares into Alfred’s eyes with those painted greens of his for a second before winking, a small smile appearing on his thinly-daubed lips.
Alfred supposes he has to keep Kirkland’s identity a secret, but he wasn‘t in any doubt of that before.
knickknack [3d/?]
anonymous
January 16 2012, 00:38:21 UTC
The study is a large room, furnished with leather chairs and towering bookcases. They’re utterly terrifying and rather quite daunting, filled with dusty tomes and scientific publications -- things Alfred’s grandfather likes to read, when he’s bored and there’s nothing else to do.
The study is also the room in which Alfred receives his lessons, a blackboard set up on the west wall near the large window that stretches from floor to ceiling. Light pours through that glass in Summer -- light can’t pour because it isn’t liquid, Alfred’s been taught that by his tutor before, but there’s no other word for it -- and the sheer amount of it always gives Alfred a headache by the end of the day.
“Did you complete the page on pi?” his tutor demands.
Alfred feebly nods, hands trembling as he raises the piece of paper in question. His tutor, though intelligent, is a terrifying man from Texas with a penchant for slamming his hands against walls and tables to gain Alfred’s attention if he doesn’t listen. That’s why Alfred lives in both awe and fear of him, and on the whole loathes his education -- he prefers it when he’s with Emma, because she teaches him interesting things about giraffes.
“Good,” his tutor says gruffly, snatching the document and marching over to his own designated desk. It’s littered with textbooks and writing utensils that Alfred isn’t ever allowed to touch, lest he be reported to his grandparents for disobedience. “Start the questions on page fourteen and I’ll mark these ones.”
Alfred nods again, hunching over his desk before settling down to work. He isn’t quite sure how much time passes before he hears another voice -- the tick of the clock is annoying and the sound of his tutor’s wheezy breathing is worse -- but he looks up when he does.
It’s his grandmother, entering the room with flair as she asks, “Alfred! Why are there girl’s toys in your room?”
Alfred’s tutor snickers under his breath as Alfred sits up like a shot, eyes widening with horror. “Ah, uh -- what?”
“There’s a dolls’ house,” she snaps. “You shouldn’t be playing with those kinds of things, Alfred.”
“It’s not mine,” Alfred insists. “I-I’m fixing it. For a friend. For…” He thinks of all the girls he knows that aren’t his mother and his grandmother and the crazy Angelique girl from school; he can only think of one and says, “For Emma.”
“The housekeeper?”
“Y-yeah, she broke some of the little furniture, so I’m fixing them for her,” Alfred lies -- but he knows Emma will back him up if she’s asked about it. “Because I’m…” (what did Kirkland say he was the other day…?) “…because I’m gallant.”
There’s a moment of silence, and Alfred’s tutor exchanges a small smile with Alfred’s grandmother. He hopes he hasn’t just used that word stupidly; he has no idea what it means, but it sounds good.
“Your first infatuation,” his grandmother says with an overly-dramatic sigh, and Alfred reddens at the very suggestion. “This is so sweet, Alfred. I simply have to tell Harold.”
Alfred‘s mind wipes itself clean. He doesn’t like Emma in that way, but he doesn’t want to talk back and expose his falsehoods, so he stays quiet.
His grandmother waves a polite goodbye to Alfred’s tutor and departs from the room, her gown enveloping her as she slips from the room, door gently clicking shut behind her. Unsure as to what exactly just happened, Alfred stares dead ahead, frozen in thought and painfully aware of the flush spreading across his face.
“Are you done with page fourteen yet, boy?” his tutor snaps, drawing him back into reality.
“No, Sir,” Alfred mutters quickly, picking up his pen to resume writing.
knickknack [3e/?]
anonymous
January 16 2012, 00:39:33 UTC
The week passes in a blur.
His grandfather buys a new car, his father visits him on Wednesday to engage in an awkward “so-how-are-you” conversation, and thanks to his tutor Alfred learns more about circles than he ever wanted to.
Truth be told, Alfred has lost interest in everything that isn’t Kirkland. There’s a mystery waiting to be solved on the shelf; Alfred knows exactly what the matter is and he intends to solve it. It’s something called am-knees-ya. He’s heard his grandfather speak of it before, in relation to someone he once knew; Alfred wasn’t interested at the time, but he’s been asking his grandfather questions in the hope he’ll be able to tell Alfred how to restore Kirkland’s memory.
But, since that time on Monday morning, Kirkland hasn’t taken human form. He hasn’t gone walking around the landing, either, but he’s been moving around the dolls’ house -- he fits perfectly and he’s been rearranging the furniture, making himself quite at home. Alfred’s glad of that, because if he’s in the dolls’ house then he’s at least not causing trouble upstairs.
A chance discovery is made on Thursday evening, but it isn’t anything to do with Green-Eyes. Alfred walks downstairs to fetch a glass of milk before bed from the pantry rooms, but he pauses when he sees Francis, the French boy from the village, seated on the third step from the bottom, swinging his legs and humming a tune Alfred doesn’t recognise.
“What are you doing here?”
Not at all surprised by Alfred’s sudden appearance, Francis smirks. “I’m here for my father.”
Alfred frowns. “What do you mean?”
As if on cue, the butler Bonnefoy steps out from one of the doors adjoining the hallway. Now that the two are in the same room, Alfred can see the resemblance between his friend and the new butler -- Bonnefoy hasn’t been employed long, and Alfred genuinely had no idea that he’d been friends with the butler’s son for years.
“Let‘s go, Francis--”
“What’s going on?” Alfred asks, confused.
“I don’t understand,” Francis says, getting to his feet. “Alfred, are you okay?”
“Why is your father working here?” Alfred demands. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew,” Francis replies, tilting his head. “My father was the butler here before he left for the War. He’s back now. The other was merely temporary.”
Bonnefoy smirks, and his smirk looks like that of his son’s perfectly. The family resemblance is shocking. “Ah, Master Alfred will not remember me; he was young when I first left.”
This is a shock to the system. Is the entire house filled with secrets? Granted, this isn’t a very magical one, Alfred supposes -- but then again, he was probably supposed to know all this already.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Francis says, looking over his shoulder to Alfred as his father takes his hand. “Can I visit earlier to play?”
Alfred frowns. “Uh, sure.”
He watches them depart and waves goodbye from the window, their figures disappearing into the darkness on the hill. He continues waving anyway in the hope that they’ll be able to see his figure illuminated in the electric beam of the house’s bulbs.
(It’s only when they’re gone that Alfred thinks, what War?)TBC
Re: knickknack [3e/?]
anonymous
January 16 2012, 02:52:19 UTC
The interaction between the two of them was just too adorable. I was smiling through the whole thing. Arthur is so adorably formal. Alfred’s fail at Geography, very America there. I loved that little detail. Such a mystery, can’t wait to find out more.
Sorry for not commenting on the last chapter! I missed the update. OTL
D'aww, Cap Kirkland didn't realize Alfred was unnerved by him. Poor thing. His smug attitude combined with his cluelessness and snippiness is oddly adorable. He's just so certain that he was Al's favorite and that he's been protecting the bedroom the whole time. On the otherhand, Al's tutor made my skin crawl because he reminded of some very unpleasant teachers I once had myself.
Kirkland's amnesia along with Francis' father just adds to the mystery of everything. I really enjoyed this chapter and can't wait to read more. Thank you for all your hard work, a!a.
Re: knickknack [3e/?]
anonymous
January 16 2012, 18:29:41 UTC
Just read through all the chapters so far today writer anon, and I just had to tell you how much I'm loving this fill so far!
Alfred is just so adorable here and his meeting Captain Kirkland was wonderfully written. You even made the story into a mystery! I can't wait for the next part!:D
Re: knickknack [3e/?]
anonymous
January 16 2012, 19:02:16 UTC
This is getting more and more mysterious.
Arthur's lines about him not being conceited made me laugh and so did this "Now, be a good little boy and kindly detach yourself from my person, Sir.” I actually laughed.
This is a great story, anon, you should feel proud.
Alfred doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream as planned.
What’s fealty? What’s a liege? Is this Green-Eyes?
Though he tries to get his head around it, he doesn’t understand what’s happening. His thoughts are racing around in his mind and crashing in to one another, rendering him unable to logically think out how to deal with the situation -- but then again, being truly logical was never his strong point in the face of panic.
After a pause, all he can manage is squeaking out a query of, “Who are you?”
“My name,” the man says, staring up at Alfred with a hurt expression, “is Captain Kirkland of the British Army. I thought you knew that.”
He gets to his feet and stands quite still. Alfred stares at him, sees the typical ‘Green-Eyes’ scowl brought to life across his face, and feels more at ease in his presence -- this man isn’t such a stranger, after all. As Alfred muses, Kirkland tilts his head and catches his reflection in the full-length mirror adjacent to Alfred’s wardrobe, his mouth hanging open as he studies himself.
“Excuse me, Sir?” Kirkland says, once he’s sure Alfred isn’t going to say anything any time soon. “If I may be so bold as to ask a question, why, exactly, am I wearing this?”
“I don’t know,” Alfred admits. “That’s just how you were painted, I guess…”
(Maybe this isn’t actually happening, that’s always a possibility. Maybe Alfred’s dreaming and he’ll wake up soon enough.)
Seemingly horrified, Kirkland spins around and glares. “I look like a Coldstream Guard. I’m trained for the military, not the monarchy.”
“But you look so awesome and-” Alfred begins, trailing off when Kirkland’s glare intensifies. “Hey, will you stop that, for just a sec?”
Expression softening, Kirkland looks down at the boy before him with wonder, waiting for an explanation or a follow-up to the demand. He doesn’t receive either of those, instead receiving a hand to the head as Alfred gets onto his tip-toes and places his palm flat across Kirkland’s face.
“I’m sorry?” Kirkland says, muffled behind Alfred‘s fingers. “What are you doing?”
“Seeing if you’re real,” Alfred replies. “You seem like it. You pass the test.”
He tweaks Kirkland’s nose before pulling back, sensing that Kirkland isn’t going to be able to hurt him -- the familiar scowl has returned; yes, it has to be Green-Eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alfred says. “That you could talk? That you were, y’know, human?”
“I tried, Sir,” Kirkland says, “but it was… difficult. I’d been asleep for quite some time and it took me a while to work out. I must’ve been woken, hm, three months ago?”
That’s about the time Alfred’s grandfather would have sent someone into the attic to retrieve the toy soldiers. Alfred wonders who it was that held the box before Alfred did, had Green-Eyes alive in their hands before Alfred ever reached him. It’s too surreal to contemplate.
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Alfred is confused, because isn‘t this the Green-Eyes that silently plotted his downfall every single day? He ponders aloud, stating, “Defend?”
“I never went far,” Kirkland says. “It’s true, Sir, I didn’t ever leave the upper level. Can’t have the Germans finding my men without me there to assist them -- I‘m their Captain, after all.”
Even more bewildered than before, Alfred reiterates, “Finding your men?”
“Are you a parrot, Sir?” Kirkland snaps. He points back at the shelf. “My men. My sub-unit. There seems to be no Major so I‘ve been taking on the leading role. Must say I‘m doing quite well at it, too -- haven‘t they served you well, even in my absence?”
Shocked and somewhat excited, Alfred stares at the remaining nine soldiers above his bed. “Are those really people too?”
“Whatever they are, they’re not very co-operative,” Kirkland says with a grimace. “But they’ve been of use to you on your missions, have they not? That’s down to me because I’m gallant Sir; though I don’t wish to sound conceited--”
“Okay, I’m not a parrot,” Alfred interrupts, “but… missions? Do you mean… all the times I took them down to play with them?”
Kirkland runs his fist over his lips and coughs to clear his throat. “Well, if you wish to put it like that, then I suppose the answer is ‘yes’. But! I made sure to keep vigilant on guard whenever the Matthews were away for training and combat, as you should recall. They couldn’t have managed it, stupid blighters; they‘re not exactly the most outstanding bunch. Not that I‘m conceited, obviously.”
Alfred’s bottom lip quivers. It’s like listening to puzzle pieces fall, gravitating together and dancing in the air before they collapse and -- click -- everything makes perfect sense while perspective becomes flipped. Alfred stares at Kirkland’s earnest expression and thinks about the implication of Kirkland’s discourse, and it makes him feel like he’s done something seriously bad.
He feels bad; he supposes that’s justified, what with how he’s treated the man currently standing before him.
And then he’s crying.
“S-sir?” Kirkland says, alarmed, as Alfred blocks the Captain out by hiding his face behind his hands -- collecting his tears in his palms as he wails, long and loud. “Sir, what’s the matter?”
“I thought,” Alfred says, letting out wet sobs and taking in deep inhales between each word, “that you hated me! I didn’t know you were trying to protect me! And then I never played with you--!”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Kirkland says. “I was under the impression I was your most trusted.”
Alfred drops his hands and leaps forward, clinging to Kirkland as tightly as he can. It takes the Captain by surprise and he lets out a yelp of shock, arms uselessly thrashing -- Alfred simply holds on tighter. Kirkland’s heart is beating erratically and it’s all the proof Alfred needs to confirm that Green-Eyes really, truly is alive.
“I’m sorry,” Alfred says -- and he means it, but he can only hope Kirkland believes him. “Really, I’m sorry!”
“There, there,” Kirkland replies, voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I’m sure this is all just some unimportant misunderstanding. If you’d allow me to get back to work, then--”
“You’re my favourite now,” Alfred promises. “You are.”
Kirkland snorts indignantly, not quite understanding what Alfred is trying to tell him. “Of course I am, the others are spineless.”
Alfred looks up, eyes watery and wide. He catches Kirkland‘s gaze and says, “It’s because they’re toys. That’s why they’re not very good. But you’re real.”
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As Alfred steps back, he hears a heavy sigh escape Kirkland’s mouth. It’s not a sigh of relief at liberation from Alfred’s grip; it’s a noise of irritation.
“What’s up?” Alfred says. “Don’t you like me?”
“That’s not the problem,” Kirkland replies. “The problem is, you’re a child. It‘s somewhat humiliating to go from serving the British military to serving an American youngster -- I assume you‘re American; I‘m judging purely by the accent.”
“Yep,” Alfred says proudly. “But I’ve got British great-great-grandparents.”
Kirkland‘s face lights up. “English?”
“Finnish.”
Kirkland’s eye twitches. “That’s not British.”
Mulling the issue over, Alfred places a thumb on his bottom lip and looks up at the ceiling. “Uh… Yeah, sorry, I meant ‘European’.” Sensing an argument on the horizon if he doesn’t do something fast, he adds, “How come you haven’t been, y’know, real this whole time?”
“I don’t know,” Kirkland confesses. “It hadn’t ever occurred to me before that I could change back. But when you brought me this” -- he reaches back to pat the dolls’ house -- “I felt the need to thank you properly, and I can’t talk for very long when I’m made out of wood.”
“Why are you a figurine?” Alfred demands, pressing for more information. With every question Kirkland answers, a thousand more to ask pop into Alfred’s head -- he’s intrigued by the possibilities, the inherent promise of a story far more fascinating than those in his picture-books. “Were you fake first and real second?”
“I…” Kirkland’s brow furrows and he appears to be lost in concentration, triggered by Alfred’s scrutiny. “I can‘t remember…”
Deciding he should probably start smaller, Alfred says, “Do you have a first name?”
Even though it should be relatively easy to answer, Kirkland freezes as if he‘s just been asked the meaning of life. “Honestly, I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
There are muffled footsteps from outside the door and a voice soon follows, calling, “Alfred? Who are you talking to?”
Horrified, Kirkland and Alfred turn their attention to the door, watching uselessly as it opens, both catching sight of the dark material that belongs to the maid’s uniform in the household -- curse the ‘don’t-need-to-knock’ rule, Alfred should really change that. He braces himself for the maid to scream at the sight of an unfamiliar Guard in the room, or a scolding due to letting strangers into the household--
But the scream doesn’t come and the scolding never happens. The maid simply stands there in the doorway and frowns, basket of laundry under one arm. “Honestly, Master Alfred, you shouldn’t talk to yourself; you worried me there.”
“I’m… sorry?” Alfred says, utterly baffled. He looks back from the door to stare at the Guard in front of him, but -- Kirkland’s gone.
“Don’t worry about it, dear,” the maid says with a smile, and she closes the door behind her as she walks away.
When Alfred can no longer hear her footsteps, he drops to his knees and picks Kirkland up from where he’s landed on the floor, small and compact once again. The figurine stares into Alfred’s eyes with those painted greens of his for a second before winking, a small smile appearing on his thinly-daubed lips.
Alfred supposes he has to keep Kirkland’s identity a secret, but he wasn‘t in any doubt of that before.
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The study is also the room in which Alfred receives his lessons, a blackboard set up on the west wall near the large window that stretches from floor to ceiling. Light pours through that glass in Summer -- light can’t pour because it isn’t liquid, Alfred’s been taught that by his tutor before, but there’s no other word for it -- and the sheer amount of it always gives Alfred a headache by the end of the day.
“Did you complete the page on pi?” his tutor demands.
Alfred feebly nods, hands trembling as he raises the piece of paper in question. His tutor, though intelligent, is a terrifying man from Texas with a penchant for slamming his hands against walls and tables to gain Alfred’s attention if he doesn’t listen. That’s why Alfred lives in both awe and fear of him, and on the whole loathes his education -- he prefers it when he’s with Emma, because she teaches him interesting things about giraffes.
“Good,” his tutor says gruffly, snatching the document and marching over to his own designated desk. It’s littered with textbooks and writing utensils that Alfred isn’t ever allowed to touch, lest he be reported to his grandparents for disobedience. “Start the questions on page fourteen and I’ll mark these ones.”
Alfred nods again, hunching over his desk before settling down to work. He isn’t quite sure how much time passes before he hears another voice -- the tick of the clock is annoying and the sound of his tutor’s wheezy breathing is worse -- but he looks up when he does.
It’s his grandmother, entering the room with flair as she asks, “Alfred! Why are there girl’s toys in your room?”
Alfred’s tutor snickers under his breath as Alfred sits up like a shot, eyes widening with horror. “Ah, uh -- what?”
“There’s a dolls’ house,” she snaps. “You shouldn’t be playing with those kinds of things, Alfred.”
“It’s not mine,” Alfred insists. “I-I’m fixing it. For a friend. For…” He thinks of all the girls he knows that aren’t his mother and his grandmother and the crazy Angelique girl from school; he can only think of one and says, “For Emma.”
“The housekeeper?”
“Y-yeah, she broke some of the little furniture, so I’m fixing them for her,” Alfred lies -- but he knows Emma will back him up if she’s asked about it. “Because I’m…” (what did Kirkland say he was the other day…?) “…because I’m gallant.”
There’s a moment of silence, and Alfred’s tutor exchanges a small smile with Alfred’s grandmother. He hopes he hasn’t just used that word stupidly; he has no idea what it means, but it sounds good.
“Your first infatuation,” his grandmother says with an overly-dramatic sigh, and Alfred reddens at the very suggestion. “This is so sweet, Alfred. I simply have to tell Harold.”
Alfred‘s mind wipes itself clean. He doesn’t like Emma in that way, but he doesn’t want to talk back and expose his falsehoods, so he stays quiet.
His grandmother waves a polite goodbye to Alfred’s tutor and departs from the room, her gown enveloping her as she slips from the room, door gently clicking shut behind her. Unsure as to what exactly just happened, Alfred stares dead ahead, frozen in thought and painfully aware of the flush spreading across his face.
“Are you done with page fourteen yet, boy?” his tutor snaps, drawing him back into reality.
“No, Sir,” Alfred mutters quickly, picking up his pen to resume writing.
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His grandfather buys a new car, his father visits him on Wednesday to engage in an awkward “so-how-are-you” conversation, and thanks to his tutor Alfred learns more about circles than he ever wanted to.
Truth be told, Alfred has lost interest in everything that isn’t Kirkland. There’s a mystery waiting to be solved on the shelf; Alfred knows exactly what the matter is and he intends to solve it. It’s something called am-knees-ya. He’s heard his grandfather speak of it before, in relation to someone he once knew; Alfred wasn’t interested at the time, but he’s been asking his grandfather questions in the hope he’ll be able to tell Alfred how to restore Kirkland’s memory.
But, since that time on Monday morning, Kirkland hasn’t taken human form. He hasn’t gone walking around the landing, either, but he’s been moving around the dolls’ house -- he fits perfectly and he’s been rearranging the furniture, making himself quite at home. Alfred’s glad of that, because if he’s in the dolls’ house then he’s at least not causing trouble upstairs.
A chance discovery is made on Thursday evening, but it isn’t anything to do with Green-Eyes. Alfred walks downstairs to fetch a glass of milk before bed from the pantry rooms, but he pauses when he sees Francis, the French boy from the village, seated on the third step from the bottom, swinging his legs and humming a tune Alfred doesn’t recognise.
“What are you doing here?”
Not at all surprised by Alfred’s sudden appearance, Francis smirks. “I’m here for my father.”
Alfred frowns. “What do you mean?”
As if on cue, the butler Bonnefoy steps out from one of the doors adjoining the hallway. Now that the two are in the same room, Alfred can see the resemblance between his friend and the new butler -- Bonnefoy hasn’t been employed long, and Alfred genuinely had no idea that he’d been friends with the butler’s son for years.
“Let‘s go, Francis--”
“What’s going on?” Alfred asks, confused.
“I don’t understand,” Francis says, getting to his feet. “Alfred, are you okay?”
“Why is your father working here?” Alfred demands. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew,” Francis replies, tilting his head. “My father was the butler here before he left for the War. He’s back now. The other was merely temporary.”
Bonnefoy smirks, and his smirk looks like that of his son’s perfectly. The family resemblance is shocking. “Ah, Master Alfred will not remember me; he was young when I first left.”
This is a shock to the system. Is the entire house filled with secrets? Granted, this isn’t a very magical one, Alfred supposes -- but then again, he was probably supposed to know all this already.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Francis says, looking over his shoulder to Alfred as his father takes his hand. “Can I visit earlier to play?”
Alfred frowns. “Uh, sure.”
He watches them depart and waves goodbye from the window, their figures disappearing into the darkness on the hill. He continues waving anyway in the hope that they’ll be able to see his figure illuminated in the electric beam of the house’s bulbs.
(It’s only when they’re gone that Alfred thinks, what War?)TBC
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D'aww, Cap Kirkland didn't realize Alfred was unnerved by him. Poor thing. His smug attitude combined with his cluelessness and snippiness is oddly adorable. He's just so certain that he was Al's favorite and that he's been protecting the bedroom the whole time. On the otherhand, Al's tutor made my skin crawl because he reminded of some very unpleasant teachers I once had myself.
Kirkland's amnesia along with Francis' father just adds to the mystery of everything. I really enjoyed this chapter and can't wait to read more. Thank you for all your hard work, a!a.
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Alfred is just so adorable here and his meeting Captain Kirkland was wonderfully written. You even made the story into a mystery! I can't wait for the next part!:D
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Arthur's lines about him not being conceited made me laugh and so did this "Now, be a good little boy and kindly detach yourself from my person, Sir.” I actually laughed.
This is a great story, anon, you should feel proud.
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