Chapter Text
A dull, decent people, cherishing and fortifying their dullness behind a quarter of a million bayonets. – George Orwell, Burmese Days
Steam billowed, filling the hall as the train readied itself for departure from the heart of London to the long journey to Bristol. It was at that moment that a surprisingly young man strode through the deserted platform and covered his ears when the vehicle emitted a loud noise just as he walked beside it.
Finally reaching the door, he whipped out his ticket and shoved it towards the conductor as he stepped aboard. The worker gave the newcomer an astounded look and gave the documents a quick glance.
Everything was in order but that didn’t soothe the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that the stranger evoked – it was strange, a sense of familiarity that rationality simply couldn’t vanquish.
He studied the young gent in front of him, who was already fidgeting with impatience in search of any clues of why he was so unsettled. Not that he found any when he examined the sharp features before him, taking in the pale complexion that contrasted with the thick, dark eyebrows and striking green irises. The high cheekbones made him seem ghostlike.
Nothing but familiarity haunted him, persistently vexing him. Having been able to glean very little, he concluded that his mind must be playing tricks on him and stepped aside to let him in with the reminder:
“You were lucky this time, lad. We were about to leave without you. I’m making an exception for you here so be sure not to be late next time.”
In hindsight the ageing man guessed he shouldn’t have said that, but at the moment he couldn’t help himself. The proud youth with his silk top-hat and leather gloves and air of self-righteousness deserved to be informed, at the end of the day, that his ego didn’t make him exceptional.
A curt nod was his answer along with a few grumbled words that the conductor was glad he didn’t understand. Anger simmered underneath the surface of Arthur Kirkland, instances before bubbling to the surface yet he still kept it tethered. There were many things he could afford and a scene in public caused by his own pettiness wasn’t one of them, at least not now.
Over the years he had begun to improve himself and tediously he had learned the art of controlling himself, his emotions. As of recently he fancied himself having perfected it.
The last few years have brought significant change. Even France had noticed (of course he did, enemies observe each other closely), daring to remark: “Angleterre, what has happened to you? You have become more… civilised.”
Of course, Francis Bonnefoy didn’t just stop there because a compliment always had to be succeeded by an insult that would make any and all kind words invalid.
His long-time foes had been so smug when he had then quipped: “See, I was right when I said you were a barbarian. Now, you might have laid off your more brutish ways but that doesn’t mean you don’t still have the most insufferable character. As always so uncultured, callous and unrefined. You should be ashamed that you can never completely lay off excessive violence.”
“And you are still an over perfumed peacock whose vanity will one day get him killed”, he snapped back, easily falling back into their century old game of tossing insults at one another.
At least England could sleep soundly at night with the knowledge that while France wouldn’t recognize honour and dignity if it stood in front of him, those were virtues that he could always claim gave him the high ground over his foe.
Naturally, never in his life would he deign himself to admit that the first few words that had come over those accursed lips were the truth. As the century trudged on he reformed, discarding old ways to replace them by progress, thus gaining the well-cut proposition of a gentleman.
The transition had been painful in the beginning, admitting that he had been so very flawed and difficult. It had been a tad humiliating to then commit an introspection in order to cut out the rot and decay that had festered in his soul. Mistakes are never easy to acknowledge.
So, because he had gained insight and wasn’t as foolish as he had been a mere century ago, he didn’t crudely lash out as he once would have. Arthur even managed to grant the mortal a very stiff smile as he brushed past.
Swiftly he rounded the corner and marched down the narrow corridor of the compartment, his suitcase bumping against the thin wall all too often. Finding his assigned seat, he slipped into the empty compartment. Thank goodness there was nobody else there to bug him.
Laying his luggage on the seat opposite him and then settled down and turned to stare out of the window in contemplation.
Over the course of the day he’d suffered enough from humans and their far-fetched ideas. The usual blend of pompous aristocrats that insisted that their excess of undeserved cash gave them exclusive rights as well as haughty politicians that would come to him for advice to only through it in the wind whittled at his nerves.
Such idiotic dreams and naivety left him queasy. But could he really blame them? They were all far too young, captured by their narrow-minded ways and some sorry sods were even enamoured with their mental feebleness. Even the most brilliant amongst their number weren’t invulnerable to failure, letting themselves be clouded by arrogance. In youth they were naïve and in old age they were senile and their bodies would grow feeble and break as time touched them. However, that didn’t stop them from carrying out idiocies by the dozens. Long ago he had given up lecturing them, as in more cases than not it was fruitless.
Especially today when another hopeless case had turned up at his doorstep.
The jabbering just hadn’t ceased, resulting in his nerves being more fried than usual.
The whistled sounded again, the sound dampened by the waggon walls and the glass pane. Once again, the station filled with steam as the train slowly started to move and accelerated out into the open. It crawled forward like a cumbersome creature of another world.
After overcoming the scepticism, he had harboured for the invention in the beginning he had become completely enchanted by it. A masterpiece of fire and metal that was the hallmark of a revolution, the beginning of shredding off all vestiges of a bygone era. With it being far faster than any horse and far more reliable than an animal, it was a boon. Gone was the time when one had to worry about highwaymen and other road-side perils.
The city scape melted to a blur as the train sped on
It was one of the may marvellous inventions that came over the past few decades, each more fascinating than the last. In these years full of wonder and prosperity, change was the only norm and he found delight watching what was outdated wither away and turn to dust. As trains replaced carriages and factories usurped small manufacturies, he found himself restless when faced with the question of what to do next.
Like the Ancient Greeks, who had thought that philosophy had bit a dead end and there were no more questions to be answered once Aristoteles and was confident that he had all of life’s biggest mysteries solved.
Or there was simply a fixed limit he could ascend before he’d plunge in the depths. Icarus could also only soar so high before the sun melted his waxen wings.
On the other hand, why should he even concern himself with such condemning thoughts? Vitality vibrated through his veins and sung in his very essence. The blessed land under the Almighty’s watchful gaze. Splendour marked his future; it was woven in his present as the pioneer of the Industrial Revolution.
England was Prometheus, the one to bring the fire of the gods to chase away the darkness (yet, if that were the case; then what would his punishment be?). As such Arthur felt immense satisfaction that he was the one to make the other nations tremble in veneration to him and all his divine power.
His influence spread further across the globe; some remarked it was like a dreadful miasma. One day he would hold the whole world in the palm of his hand with a potency that would eclipse his father’s late might.
Power was a thing his kind naturally craved for like mortals do the manna of the heavens, the thing they would fight tooth and nail to keep. Because giving up such control was weakness and in a world of otherworldly predators such as them, relinquishing power was a mistake that wouldn’t go unpunished.
They rip each other to uplift themselves. So had he, time and time again until through all his cupidity and amoral he held half the world in a stranglehold. Arthur Kirkland ruled with an iron fist, and yet he was generous, not as brutish and cruel as others of his nature – not as many of his subjects.
A benevolent dictator is best, as Plato himself had once said, and as such Britain strove to bring the light of civilization to those backward barbarians across the sea. While the natural order dictated that those lost cases – India and China and South Africa and many more – could never be rescued and would have to settle with being second-class at best, vermin at worst, he was determined to give them charity.
World domination was his end game and he would savour every moment of the journey, just like the power he now held. It tasted like honey and was as mind-numbing as opium and he cherished how it burned deep inside him (one day he would just have the cinders to contemplate on and that was if it didn’t reduce him to ashes).
As an empire and didn’t even consider that he would one day die; no, he was an empire on which the sun would never set. Meanwhile, he nursed the sweet dreams of hegemony, of having everything and everyone under the yoke of his control.
He marvelled those that had brought him so far.
Victoria was young, but with a steel-like ambition and yet of feminine sentimentality; still, with her determination and investment in the welfare of England, she somehow reminded the age-old nation of Queen Bess.
His Elizabeth had vowed to make him a major player on the world stage, and she had. By the cutlass and the cannon, by unleashing him on his enemies like a wild beast and aiding him in bringing them down on their knees.
What she had begun Victoria would fulfil.
She was somebody that could stand toe to toe with the other world leaders and teach them their place with all the calmness of a woman.
Women, the weaker sex, the part of the human race that belonged in the home, out of sight - caring, nurturing, in complete accordance with their nature. And yet despite the inferiority bestowed on her upon birth, she dictated the pace, officially. She served her nation, she served him as a ruler and was just a servant of the highest order. The queen was the mother of her people in his eyes, stern and still kind, insightful mother.
Despite all reasoning, it was something the Continentals would use to make fun of him. A woman as head of state, scandalous!
May they talk, their envy was a testimony to his grandeur. Too bad that the Europeans wouldn’t settle for being left behind and that they would use slander and other unjust means if it got them where they wanted to be.
Germany, that young upstart, was proving to be far more aggressive than suited such a tender age. He was similar in his ambition to another youngster that Arthur knew, even dangerous. England could live with an evident threat; better to know where potential enemies were than to be caught by surprise.
At night he still wondered how Prussia had accomplished such a feat, to resurrect a nation devoid of memory. Somehow Germany was Holy Rome in every way and then again, he has a completely different person. Devil’s work, there was no other explanation to this hearsay than a perverse twisting of nature.
The boy still had Prussia’s backing, or was it rather that he was on the tight lease of the older personification?
Either way, it was oddly touching to see the military power go soft for his younger “brother”.
Then there was that infernal frog, constantly flirting with the ideas of being republic, of being a democracy to only turn his back on those ideals. Presently France was an empire. Personally, Arthur was weary – if the emperor was anything like his conquering uncle then there was reason for alarm. So far there was still that pointed to the contrary.
Francis was still a hot-bed for Revolution and constantly disrupted the world order established through the Viennese Congress.
Even Austria had been infected by anarchy, not being wise enough to implement reforms, as he, Britain, had. Indeed, he pitied the European empire and simultaneously he was amused that Chancellor Metternich had been foolish enough to erect a police-state.
Spain wasn’t a noteworthy threat at the moment, since he had his own problems.
But Russia remained a persistent thorn in his side. Ivan had long been lethal, and he had especially become a menace upon his Westernisation. Now he was contesting England’s right to Asia. Blood coloured the earth and water by the Crimea.
Arthur asked himself how long he’d have to play this game, how he’d have to watch every move of the older nation.
Sighing, Kirkland pulled an etui out of his coat pocket and took out a cigar, placing it between his thin lips as he lit it. Soon, puffs of smoke curled in the stale air of the compartment and faded in the dim light. At the moment he wanted to take his mind off international affairs and any potential agitation he’d get from it. He harboured no wish to waste anymore thought on his irritating neighbours or venture to his even more irritating family in his musing.
Outside, the buildings grew shorter and more run-down as they approached the outskirts, the slums. A dreary place, full of filth and overcrowding, fallen women and violent men and dirty little critters called children.
Arthur could feel the poverty of the nation as a dull ache in his bones – the stain of children towing waggons in the bowels of the earth, the hunger gnawing at the elderly, the dying moments of those depleted by cholera.
Unwittingly he is reminded of the visitor he had received earlier. The never-ending pleas and babbling of a certain John Snow grated at him.
The nation wasn’t quite sure which buffoon had directed the “scientist” to him but he’d be sure to strangle him once he discovered the name of the person who had directed a fool to his doorstep.
Even in his supposed moment of peace he could still hear the voice of the insolent doctor:
“Believe me, my lord, the disease comes from the bad water in the Soho district. It is no miasma that is transported with bad smells. Indeed, it is something much to serve!”
Ashes fell to the carpeted floor as his hands shook with fury.
Of course, he had read into the reports and Snow had been correct with pointing out where the highest concentration of infections was. That didn’t completely prove his point. The nation had shaken his head and countered:
“Codswallop! You know that such poison can only be transmitted through the air. The miasma theory has proven to be valid over the centuries.”
Naturally the scientist had bristled, doing his best to persuade the nation. Snow didn’t know of course who he was really dealing with and assumed that Kirkland was some politician or an influential Lord. If he knew, would he stop pestering him?
Surely a meagre mortal would know better than to talk back against their nation, an entity that had accumulated wisdom and knowledge over the ages and was cemented in purpose.
Then again, he would never relieve his secret to that … He had humoured him in the beginning, and it had become more than irritating.
Because of that Arthur Kirkland was grateful to be away from his capital and for the train that took him further away from all his problems, away from the political arena, away from rebellious brothers and subordinates and out into the countryside. There always had been a serene sort of beauty to the sight of rolling green hills and lush forests after a rain shower. It was a boon and England intended to enjoy his vacation to the fullest extent.