Chapter Text
Geneva, 1863
The conference hall was colder than it should have been.
The high ceilings, polished columns, and red-draped windows were all made to impress, but it was the silence between the words that truly held power here. The silence of nations calculating what they stood to gain. What they stood to lose.
Alfred stepped through the tall, carved doors and immediately felt every eye turn toward him, even if none dared linger for long. The stares were the same ones he’d earned years ago at world meetings—curious, watchful, skeptical. But now, there was something else. A crack in their confidence in him.
His coat was too wrinkled, his boots scuffed from travel. His face bore signs of wear—not physical scars, but the exhaustion that came with fighting a war you could feel in your bones. The civil war was dragging on, bloody and vicious. He’d come here hoping to prevent another front from opening—not on his soil, but in diplomacy. His enemies didn’t just wear gray; some wore gold braid and spoke in European tongues.
And then he saw him.
Arthur.
Standing near the center of the room, encircled by silent attention, he might as well have been the sun around which the others orbited. Arthur didn't speak loudly—he never had to. His voice was calm, clipped, and deliberate. Every word out of his mouth hung with weight.
He wore a deep navy coat lined in silk, the stitching at the sleeves a fine pattern unmistakably Indian in design. At his collar: Egyptian cotton. At his breast: a pin of Canadian silver. His boots were polished and sharp, and a sash of red silk from China was knotted neatly at his side.
He looked like a man who could call half the world his own.
And judging by the way France and Prussia stood beside him, watching with careful interest, perhaps he could.
Alfred hovered at the edge, jaw set. It wasn’t anger that rose in his chest—it was something bitterer, something quieter. He hadn’t spoken to Arthur in decades, not really. Their last words had been sharp, raw things. And now Arthur stood in the center of this diplomatic theater, wrapped in the power of his ever-expanding empire, and Alfred… Alfred felt as if the room had forgotten him.
Arthur glanced his way only once. A flicker of recognition, so brief it might have been imagined.
But Alfred knew better.
He stepped forward, voice low but firm. “I need a word.”
Arthur paused mid-conversation. There was no surprise in his eyes. Only the faintest hint of consideration. Then, with a nod to those around him, he stepped away and gestured toward a smaller alcove just off the main hall.
The walk was short. The silence between them was long.
They stopped beneath a tall, arched window laced with frost. Light poured through it, catching the soft lines in Arthur’s coat, the sheen of his empire on full display.
Alfred didn’t bother softening his voice.
“I’m here to make sure no one—no one—recognizes the Confederacy. I don’t care what they’re promising behind closed doors. You and I both know what kind of precedent that would set.”
Arthur’s eyes didn’t flicker. “You’re late to that request. I’ve already spoken with most of them.”
Alfred tensed. “And what did you tell them?”
Arthur turned his gaze to the window, watching the faint snowfall. “That the Union remains… structurally unsound. And that we should all proceed with caution.”
Alfred’s teeth clenched. “You call that neutrality?”
Arthur finally looked at him, cool and composed. “I call it truth.”
Silence fell again. Alfred’s heart thundered in his chest, rage rising, but beneath it—hurt. Not for the first time, not even in this century.
“You could’ve backed me,” Alfred said quietly. “Even if you didn’t believe in me. You’ve done it before.”
Arthur didn’t look away. “And what would I gain by backing a divided house?” His voice didn’t carry cruelty, but it didn’t carry kindness, either. “You’ve made a spectacle of yourself, and the world is watching. The last thing I need is for my empire to get entangled in your fight for legitimacy.”
Alfred’s mouth twisted. “So that’s all it is to you? Legitimacy?”
Arthur didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer to the window, his voice quieter now. “Civil wars never end cleanly, Alfred. They rot the foundation, whether you win or not.”
Alfred stood still. The words weren’t new. They were words spoken from experience.
Arthur continued, softer this time, but no less distant. “I’ve seen enough of them—within myself, and without. I’ve torn apart kingdoms, and I’ve watched my people tear each other to pieces. You learn to wait, to let the blood dry before you start counting what you still have left.”
Alfred hated the way his chest twisted. “So that’s what this is? Pity?”
“No,” Arthur said, and for the first time, there was something real in his voice. “It’s warning.”
They stood there a long time, watching the snow fall in silence. Neither moved.
Finally, Arthur said, “I hope you win. Not because you’re right. But because I’d hate to see what becomes of you if you don’t.”
Then he turned, cloak brushing the floor, and stepped back into the hall, back into the warmth of nations who wanted to stand beside him.
Alfred remained at the window, breath fogging the glass.
He didn’t need Arthur’s pity.
But part of him still wanted Arthur’s attention.
And even more than that—he wanted his respect.