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“Have you heard anything from North America?” France whispered softly to Arthur.
England’s face was twisted with subdued grief; bangs swayed in front of red eyes as he slowly shook his head. “The entire continent’s sealed off. No one’s come in or out; there’s total radio silence, and they’ve somehow managed to shut off the satellite and internet systems. They won’t even let anyone come close; the last boat to get within sight of New York had a torpedo explode directly in front of the bow.” He smiled grimly. “Warning shot.”
“Merde.” Francis sucked in a breath between his teeth. “What the hell is going on over there?”
“God alone knows.” England rested his elbow on the table, cradling his head in his hands. “It’s been quiet ever since – the broadcast.”
France fell silent.
There was no need to specify which broadcast; the scene had been telecast live to every Nation in the world with sufficient technology capability and reception capacity. Those who had lacked the proper had quickly been alerted by word of mouth and hurried to watch the endless, terrible repeats constantly replaying across the screen.
The tall blonde in the pilot’s jacket… Not kneeling, no, never kneeling, not even with a gun aimed directly at his forehead. Those eyes, those bright blue eyes, peering over the rim of his glasses as he looked directly into the camera lens. He didn’t beg or plead. Just looked right at the camera, as if he was looking directly at the viewers, and smiled. Smiled! A soft, sweet smile, as if to reassure them, as if to tell them that it would all be okay, that everything was going to be all right… as if he were genuinely, heartbreakingly happy…
And then the shot.
Arthur’s face was curiously numb. “Matthew hasn’t responded to a single one of my calls. He hasn’t – god, Francis, can you think what that boy must be going through? He and Alfred – they grew up together, he’s always idolized his big brother…”
“He ‘as not responded to me either, mon ami.” France’s features were grim, stripped of their usual frivolity.
“Russia.” England snarled, hands curling into fists. “I swear to god, I will kill him for this.” His face was deadly serious.
France grinned. “I’ll help.” He abruptly sobered. “But think, my friend – what can we do? Much as we hate to admit it, there is little we can do against our ‘comrade.’” He spit out the word like something foul, darting a poisonous glance towards the tall nation who sat in the corner of the room, smiling cheerfully at the assembly. “Not alone. And ze others – they will not be so quick to go against him, now that ‘e has displayed his true colors. And that - ” he hesitated. “And that he ‘as killed the strongest among us.”
“I don’t care.” Arthur’s voice was quiet. “I’ll find a way.”
France paid him no mind, attention suddenly fixed on the blonde nation in the scarf. “England.” His voice abruptly shifted in tone. “Look at ‘im.”
“What?”
“I zaid look at him!” France’s eyes were intent as he surveyed the taller Nation. “He’s – upset.” England’s head jerked up. Both nations scrutinized their former ally. A slow, almost predatory grin began to spread across France’s face. “This isn’t his doing. He doesn’t know what’s happening over there either!”
The two men stared at each other. “What the hell does this mean?”
There was a sudden uproar from the front of the room, as first one, then many voices rose in sudden shock; the two nations jerked upright, turning towards the noise of the commotion -
A ghost had walked through the door.
Alfred.
But Alfred as they’d never seen him before. The taller nation was dressed in an unfamiliar, but obviously military, outfit; something resembling formal dress edged in dull red. A long black duster completed the ensemble, taking the place of his beloved bomber’s jacket; he’d lost weight, and the outfit draped loosely about his frame. He looked worn and tired, a long mane of scraggly, overgrown hair brushing over his eyes as he gazed listlessly around the room, the bruises beneath his eyes plainly visible.
A roar of babble broke out as various nations abandoned their chairs, surging forwards to crowd around the ghost. Alfred glanced about himself, something close to panic growing in his eyes as he beat back the countless hands pawing at him, mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he fended off the shouted questions. England was on his feet, France on his heels as the two shoved their way through the sudden crowd. “Make way, coming through!”
Blue eyes looked up in worn surprise as England threw his arms around his former colony. “We thought we’d lost you, boy.” The older Nation’s voice was half-choked with emotion as he buried his face in the blonde’s shoulder. Slowly, hesitantly, Alfred’s arms came up in response; he closed his eyes, tears slipping down his own cheeks as he hugged the other nation tightly. France wrapped himself around them, holding the small tripartite together as Alfred gradually relaxed into their embrace.
“Mon fils – “ France’s voice was hoarse. “I am so very, very glad to see you.” England made an inarticulate sound of agreement, nodding his head vigorously. He pulled back his head to glare at the younger nation through red eyes, visibly struggling to pull together the scraps of his composure.
“Don’t you ever, ever do that again!” Arthur snapped. “Do you have any idea how worried we were? We thought you were dead, you idiot! How in the world did you manage to survive?”
Alfred opened his mouth. “It – it wasn’t me.” His voice was rough. Abruptly, he began to struggle in their arms; surprised, France and England promptly released him. The taller nation stumbled backwards. “Not me.” Alfred shook his head slowly, bangs brushing against his face as he stared at the floor.
France understood first, face filling with horror. There was only one nation that could pass as America’s body double. “Then – “ He glanced around frantically, eyes darting across the crowd as he searched for a mop of blonde hair and a shy smile beneath soft eyes.
“Not me.” Alfred choked out. A slow, terrible certainty was beginning to grow in England’s eyes.
“Matthew.”
Alfred nodded his head dumbly. France closed his eyes in pain, fresh grief spreading across England’s face, etching new lines of pain and sorrow. One child lost, another regained – only not the one he had expected.
The smile. That soft, sweet smile, as if he were genuinely happy, genuinely relieved – because he was. Weren’t you, Canada? You would do anything for your brother, anything at all – and you were happy because he was out there. Because if you were there – then he wasn’t. He was free.
“He died for me.” Alfred’s voice was small and far away as he gazed into the distance. “He – he came into my room, and told me that they were coming – he’d cut his hair short, and he told me to give him my jacket, told me to run, to get away – told me to stay free, to keep flying, and he – he smiled at me, and told me he loved me. Why?” The nation looked up at the closest thing he had ever had to parents, eyes lost. “He sacrificed himself for me. I – I don’t – I don’t understand…”
“America – “ England approached Alfred’s hunched form warily, placing a cautious hand on his shoulder.
“That’s not my name any more.” Alfred’s features were twisted with grief.
A voice split the sudden silence. “Then what is it, comrade?” Ivan smiled pleasantly, toying with the end of his scarf. “So it WAS little Matthew, yes? Taking your place - such a charming boy, your brother. I had wondered. He didn’t fight back, didn’t raise a hand in his own defense - he was smiling, do you know? As if he was so very terribly happy – ah. I see why. Because he knew that he was taking your death, that you could be free and profit from his demise…”
Alfred roared, face jolting back to life in a sudden contortion of rage and pain as he threw himself headlong at the other nation. France and England tackled him, pinning the blonde to the floor. The tall Nation snapped and writhed like a mad thing, hands hooked like claws as he strained against their grip, reaching out towards Russia. Abruptly, he went limp in their arms, staring at Ivan with poorly contained hatred.
“Ever read Kipling, Russia?” Alfred hissed. “Ever read ‘The Grave of the Hundred Head?’” England reared backward as if struck, releasing Alfred and staring at the younger nation with horrified realization. Alfred ignored him, all his attention focused directly on the Russian. “’For I have said/That my brother’s head/Must be paid for with heads five-score.’” He threw his head back and laughed, terrible, manic laughter.
“My brother left me everything. Everything, do you understand? I’m the United Continent of North America. I control the largest single landmass on the planet.” His eyes were fixed unerringly on Russia’s suddenly still face as he scrambled to his feet.
“Cher, I do not thi’k - ” France’s voice was worried as he stared at the other nation with unabashed concern.
“France. Shut up.” Alfred didn’t even raise his voice; that note of grim, almost sovereign authority brought the other nation up short. All eyes fixed on the tall blonde in the black jacket as he stalked forward.
“England raised me. France fostered me. But you – you, Russia, have taught me how to hate.” Alfred’s features were twisted in utter loathing, an expression utterly dissimilar to his normal optimistic smile. None of the other Nations had ever seen him like that before, face dark and menacing.
“You took my brother from me.” Alfred snarled, madness born of rage and sorrow dancing in his eyes. At that moment, his face was startlingly similar to Ivan’s. He slammed a paper down on the table, eyes fixed on Ivan’s slack face. “You wanted a war, comrade, you’ve got one. As of eight hundred hours this morning, the UCNA is officially at war with United Russia.” His lips curled, baring his teeth as he grinned madly at the Russian. “Maybe I’ll take your sisters from you, see how much you like it?” The inferno danced in his eyes, atomic fire unfolding in slow blossoms of terrible, deadly promise. Grim-faced soldiers marching in legions through the snow, ashes dancing in their wake; blood and bullets and the death that brought no end to pain.
He turned, glaring at the rest of the UN. “As for the rest of you – do whatever the hell you like, but stay out of my way.” Tears glimmered behind his glasses. “Or I will fucking end you, you understand?” He turned, stalking towards the door.
“Alfred F. Jones!” Arthur roared. “Much as I appreciate your sudden appreciation of proper literature, think about just what the hell you’re doing!”
“My name – “ The younger nation snarled, whirling to face his progenitor. ”- is Alfred Matthews.”
He left.
France and England stared at each other for a moment. Then they turned, and followed in his wake.