A Slow Paced Envy (12/15)
Monday, July 17th, 2023 21:44![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fumblingmusingsA study of a potential Female England characterisation. Snapshots through the years showing how and where her attempts at parenthood and romance run dissonant to the reality of being the motherland of the world's largest empire. There's a lot of people in her head who don't belong there, and it soon becomes everyone else's problem.
Also available on Ao3.
Chapter Twelve: 1917-1919, or World War One
Canterbury, England
1637
England watched as the little French colony rolled around on his stomach in the cottage's drawing room. The sound of the river running outside, miraculously clear and unpolluted, provided a comforting sound in the background. The little American colony was perched on the wooden bench, peering out the window and watching the world go by.
Matthew was a cloud of white lace, puffing and squeaking as he tried to get upright. He managed as far as elevating his rear, arms in such a position as if he were about to attempt a headstand. He could not walk yet, but seemed everyday to grow stronger in his spine and legs. When he kicked, rocking himself forward, Evelyn giggled.
“Ah-ah,” she cautioned, getting down on the floor with the little boy and wrapping her arms around his torso. “Careful, darling, head up.”
He laughed as she flipped him over, head whipping up with his soft blond hair frizzing like a halo.
“Mama, when did I learn to walk?” Alfred asked, pushing his way into the circle of his mother’s arms, plopping himself on her lap and kicking his small legs.
Evelyn pinched his belly, stealing a laugh from him.
“About twenty years ago, little love. You learned in Jamestown, obviously.”
Matthew seemed determined to stand, so wriggled out of her grip, slapping his hands once more on the floor, little bum up, trying to get himself upright.
“Come here, give me your hands. Matthew, donne tes mains à maman.”
“Argh, please don’t use that term,” complained Francis from his corner of the room.
Mathew, meanwhile, understood her, flopping back and reaching up for her with a quiet whine. Evelyn took his little hands, then stood up. Alfred slid off her lap, smiling broadly.
“Ah! Up we go! There darling,” Evelyn cooed.
Matthew squealed, overjoyed to be upright. His legs caved out from underneath him from time to time, but England held him steady. Shuffling her skirts, she poked her feet out from underneath the wool and linen, raising the little colony up until his own small feet were resting on hers. She then began to walk, no more than a shuffle for herself, but huge long strides for Matthew, who laughed so loudly it was infectious. Alfred followed, clinging to his mother’s skirts. Evelyn was pleased that Alfred seemed just as happy for Matthew’s joy as he was to be the centre of attention himself. That was good, she wanted them to love each other.
Francis, who was in the corner of the room, watching the trio not so subtly as he read through pamphlets, fought to suppress a smile.
“He will not learn how to walk if you hold him the whole way.”
“Oh hush. This is practising the movement. One… two….one….two…”
Matthew laughed once more.
England smiled, asking Francis, “How did you manage to make something so perfect?”
“You cannot have him.”
“Pssht. Say you. Up, up!” she hoisted the baby into her arms, holding Matthew tight as she spun in a circle. Kisses accompanied the movement, then Evelyn began to jump up and down, still spinning in a circle as she did so. The floor creaked and groaned with the movement, her tiny but solid form literally making the old room shake. Matthew’s giggles became shrill and incessant, the sound of a truly happy baby.
Francis groaned, unable to read with the vibration distracting him, and pouted.
“You behave worse than the children.”
“What kind of parent are you?” she complained, coming to a stop with a stumble and a laugh. Matthew wriggled in her arms, calling out in gibberish to pat and stroke Evelyn’s face. She kissed the tip of his round nose. The pair were fascinated with each other, Matthew looking at her like she was the first woman he had ever seen.
“Older brother, please. Not a father.”
Evelyn snorted. “ Alfred is his brother.”
“I'm his brother!” Alfred pronounced loudly, copying his mother.
Evelyn nodded proudly, insisting, “Not you. He will call you papa. Just as he will call me maman. Right?”
She spun once more, falling into the soft seat nearby. Matthew pulled at the pearls in her hair, wanting to suck on them. Alfred clambered up, not wanting to be left out. Evelyn bounced her knees, ensuring Matthew made funny noises from the juddering. “Matthew? I wonder what his first word will be? Mama, please. Oh, darling, can you say mama?”
Matthew blew a raspberry, clumsily crawling over Evelyn to get to her jewellery. He gave up when they would not dislodge from their pins, and instead decided he wanted to burrow his face into her chest. The fashions were for low cut dresses, it was true, but England still gasped at the baby hunting for something she could not give. Instinctively it seemed, even nations wanted a mother to feed them. He whined, mood changeable, and began to whimper, threatening to cry.
“Silly baby.” England twisted him around so she could hold him across both her arms, standing once more.
“He is hungry again?” Alfred asked.
She sniggered. “Yes. Babies tend to be so. I have a silver pab boat in the kitchen, I will feed him.”
“Suit yourself,” Francis muttered, and with that dismissal, returned to his reading.
“I want to come!”
“Then come come!” she held out a hand for Alfred to take. His grip was unnaturally strong, but she held tight as if he were going to run off without her. Alfred stumbled a little when he walked from time to time, still not entirely smooth on his own two feet. As they walked, Evelyn pulled upwards. Alfred grasped her arm with both hands as she did so, giggling at the small flight.
England merrily skipped along with the two boys, distracting Matthew as best she could from his hungry whines. He buried his head in the crook of her neck, tugging at her curls.
“Maman’s here,” Evelyn muttered, kissing his temple. “Always will be, precious darling.”
*****
Ruins of Vlamertinge village, Belgium
“What happened?”
“What has taken you so long ?”
“He just collapsed.”
“How?”
“ He fell.”
“He got through this entire campaign without anything more than a splinter and then just collapses?”
“You cannot say such a thing! That isn’t true and you know it!”
The cacophony of voices was overwhelming, only made worse by the series of bombardments which had been on and off the entire day. Alfred would have appreciated some thanks for him navigating explosions and hellfire but instead was met by a collapsed Matthew and a frantic Evelyn and Francis. England was on the dank ground, her dress covered in filth and her hands were dirtier than he had ever seen before, with dried mud and muck seemingly baked into her skin.. Francis was no better, up to his thighs were completely brown, the evidence of him having spent a morning trying to dig up whatever remains of soldiers he could get his hands on.
Alfred had arrived a few weeks ago. England had been bemoaning that the troops were arriving too slowly. It was Alfred’s understanding that she had been complaining, even discounting his supposed delayed declaration of war, that Alfred himself had not rushed to her side. He had fully intended today’s meeting to be a chide, but Matthew’s sudden affliction took priority.
Not that Alfred could help, his mother (not his mother, he reminded himself) was curling over Matthew like a dragon protecting its gold hoard.
When Francis moved to inspect the unconscious Matthew on the floor, Evelyn screeched, “Don't touch him!” and lost what little composure she had.
The shriek was deafening, and the force with which she pushed Francis away was enough to toss him back against the stone wall with a thunderous crack. Alfred started, in awe at the strength she showed. Francis was less impressed, giving her such a look of disappointment that she felt a small child under it. She moved closer around Matthew, one hand cradling his cheek, the other around his shoulders, keeping him elevated. She had not let him go since he first fell.
“If he is in pain here but no physical harm has been done, something is wrong back home,” Francis explained, scrambling back to standing. He looked terrible, tired and dull and everything France was not supposed to be.
Evelyn growled, knowing this fact quite well. “I cannot move him until we know what has happened. The hospital retreated back from the front last month after the nurse died, but the communication lines are ruined. The whole area is…”
Alfred cut in, “You cannot stay in this church. The Canadians did well but there may still be Germans -”
“Where were you?!” England cried, glaring at Alfred, who had turned rather pale in the small and dank room. “You were fucking late! The reason everything went to tits was because I was waiting for you! I thought you would come to us!”
Alfred's paleness turned into bright red. Arguing with Evelyn was more familiar territory.
“Bullshit! I'm early if anything, don't blame me for your mistakes. I'm not here to plug gaps in your army.”
“Then why are you here? You will turn the tide and win a war single handedly? Brave hero? You did not give a shit about the Lusitania and the people that drowned, nor for me or your brother, only the idea that your land might be stolen. Alfred, why are you here?!”
Her eyes were wide and wet, seeming to almost glow green in the darkening afternoon light.
The distant sound of shelling seemed to be creeping closer and growing louder. Alfred chose to focus on that.
“We cannot stay in the church.”
Evelyn did not seem to be listening. Curling over Matthew, the distinct sound of weeping came.
“What happened?” she begged. “Darling I cannot carry you. Wake up. I can’t fix it if you don’t wake up and tell me.”
Alfred tried to get close this time, sensing that he would not be pushed away the way Francis was.
“I can carry him.”
She shook her head, face still hidden pressed against Matthew’s neck. The bombs were getting louder, but it was the silence that followed that worried everyone. Soldiers would be coming. This area had been abandoned after the field hospital was hit in August. One of England’s nurses had her back torn open, right through to her heart.
Alfred tried again. “What’s the nearest hospital?”
“Remy Sidings,” was her muffled reply.
“It’s not far,” Francis explained. “A few kilometres.”
“Through shellfire and mud?” England protested.
“Let me carry him?” Alfred asked again. When England did not budge, he grew angry. “I can rip him out of your arms, you know I can.”
The bombs fell further away once more. The group remained still, listening as they became quieter and less frequent, until finally, they fell silent. More minutes passed, and Matthew did not move from his limp form on the floor.
Suddenly, England gasped, looking up.
“Francis,” she whispered. “You have a pistol?”
“I am not giving you a gun.”
“A knife then. Hurry up.”
Francis did as requested, unstrapping one in its sheath and tossing it over. She caught it readily, twisting the straps of the sheath around her belt and ties of her apron.
Alfred frowned, puzzled that her tears had dried so quickly. Tone flat and serious, she said, “You both can take him? I will not be able to keep pace in this dress.”
“You’re not coming?” Alfred asked.
Evelyn moved away, still cradling Matthew carefully. She waved Alfred over with one hand, then showed him where and how to hold his unconscious brother.
“Of course I am. You two need to be able to move quickly. I can’t. Even if I could keep pace, travelling with two soldiers, I’d half expect to become a second Edith Cavell if they find you.”
Alfred had heard about her. The nurse who was shot for helping smuggling soldiers across the Lowlands. Surely a nurse on her own so close to No-Man’s Land would appear no better.
“But-”
“Shht!” France hissed. “I can hear…” Francis peered out the window, then ducked away, swearing. Germans , he mouthed.
Give me a gun, England repeated, mouthing the query in French very clearly. Francis sneered a no, as if she were very foolish to ask for a thing. As if a nurse's mere presence would stop any violence, and that giving her a pistol would confirm that she was as capable of being shot as she was doing to the shooting.
Alfred moved, his own rifle now pointing down at the hard floor, but ready to be raised if required, next to Francis to also carefully peer out the window. Even Evelyn could hear the voices now. Quiet, staccato, cautious, but still audible. Young boys.
She felt Matthew's chest tremble, his breathing altering, then gaped in horror as he let out a particularly loud and emphatic Fuck .
Evelyn slapped her hand over his mouth instinctively, as if he were five years old again. This only served to further alarm the man, who gasped and began to writhe on the ground. Evelyn leaned in close, barely whispering above silent.
“Shush, darling you're alright. Just me.”
Matthew opened his eyes, deeply frowning but stilling himself. His eyes showed that he was still in a lot of pain, but he kept quiet when Evelyn mouthed German to him. She moved her hand away, returning to petting his ratted mess of hair (how had it been allowed to grow so long? He would be infested with lice if he wasn't careful) with a nervous energy.
Matthew squinted around the damp and hollowed out church. His brother was anxiously flitting his gaze between Matthew on the floor and the door to the church. All of the pews and seating had long been stolen or removed, the windows blown in. The sound of mud being trodden upon outside grew louder, then quieter following some hushed orders. Francis rolled his eyes, silently muttering something about children and stupid and hurry up so I can shoot them already.
What none of them were quite expecting was a grenade to be thrown through one of the shattered windows.
Alfred groaned.
“Aw fu-”
The explosion threw open a stone pillar, shattering rocks across the aisle. England flung herself back over Canada, attempting to protect his head from the heat and tumbling stone. She received a wallop to the head that she felt instantly split her skull open, and her skin and dress singed. She did her job though, and Matthew was protected from the worst of the explosion. He grunted, twitching violently on the ground, but Evelyn kept him pinned.
“Don’t move,” she openly begged.
Yelling ensued, England barely understanding that the boys had burst through the broken wooden door. Alfred had been tossed back in the explosion but was soon enough on his feet, yelling for them to stop, not to fight or kill with the nurse in the room. He was shot at twice, one managing to pierce his right shoulder, ripping through the muscle and causing him to drop his gun with another loud and furious curse. He ripped out a pistol - some kind of Colt gun - with his left hand, and shot one of the boys in the head. The German fell to the floor, quite dead and ruining the floor. Evelyn stared at Alfred and the boy's rifles, both lying neatly on the floor.
When she looked up, there was no paleness to Alfred, no dawning horror of having shot a boy too young to be in war. There was no regret, no compassion, just a frustration at the injury in his arm so early into his time in the war. Of course, he had fought many times before now, in equally messy situations no doubt, but still, as she did for her boy that she was cradling, a feeling of mourning was prevalent, for what mother wanted to see her sons fight in wars? Even if they both seemed far too at home in conflict, knee deep in blood and mud and whatever human remains they trod over that stood in their path. The sight was wrong. Fresh blood ran down Alfred's arm, but he merely grimaced, more in pain than fright.
Evelyn jolted, as if to go and put pressure on the wound, but Matthew gasped beneath her so she stayed still for the moment, unable to leave one for the other.
England supposed this was all her fault. Partially. Francis’ too, if she thought about it.
Speaking of, the man adored war. Always had. Was far more happy to leave and fight than she had ever been. In Spain, in Italy, in India, in the Americas, on boats and on land and recently taking to the sky, Francis loved a good scuffle. Loved being a busy body and butting in where he wasn't wanted. Evelyn had heard it of the French that they only understood great love and great hate, with nothing in between. Perhaps once that may have been true, but Evelyn had always thought that apathy was missing from that dichotomy. Nothing hurt more than Francis’ inattention. It was somehow worse to be ignored at his hands than to be hated.
Watching him strangle the young German, however, called that into question. For however tired the Frenchman was, adrenaline was keeping him going. Adrenaline, and an unabashed righteous hatred. It seemed doubtful, Evelyn supposed, that his historic love of war would continue unaltered following this war. How could it? She had seen him after Verdun. One hundred and forty thousand dead. What love could spring from that?
Blood dripped down, staining England’s hair, perpetually falling out of its pins, and dripped down onto a barely conscious Matthew.
There were five boys - three now that Alfred had put one of them down and Francis was strangling another - and that was enough to lose track of who was where, and for England, disorientated from the impact to her skull, to not notice that one of the boys had his arms around her neck, and was pulling her off Matthew. The fifth soldier had his rifled raised, quite ready to shoot Matthew in the head.
Where was the sixth?
Evelyn shrieked, grappling for the knife Francis has tossed to her, yanking it out and throwing it with such force and accuracy that it embedded itself in the fifth boy's neck. She threw her head back, cracking her head against her captor, using his gasp and disorientation to wrestle herself free. The pain blinded her and she fell forward, scrambling to her feet to slam into the other soldier. She heard, rather than saw, Alfred punch the boy who had held her hard enough for bones to crack. Disregarding how on earth America had the ability to seemingly shrug off bullets in a way England never had (she was always too fragile, too small, too sick) her thoughts became fixated on getting the boy with a knife in his throat to die.
Evelyn leapt on the soldier, pulling out the knife only to embed it in the right eye socket. She dragged it down, grating against bone and teeth, until the boy fell, dead.
She then turned around, pulling the boy Alfred was fighting away from her eldest. With a force she rarely exhibited, face blank and without expression, England thrust her knife down into the junction of the boy's neck and shoulder, the angle and power doing enough for him to die almost immediately. Not that it stopped Evelyn from still going to cut off the head; a difficult task considering the knife was not really that sharp, nor was it long enough to effectively cut through anything as thick as a human neck, but she was determined to see it through.
“Evie!” cried out Alfred.
She turned to her left, dropping the body, to have a bullet wizz past her head. A sick thunk sounded, and Evelyn was greeted with the sight of the last German soldier, so incredibly young, coughing and falling to the floor. A red flower bloomed across his chest. Someone had hit him directly in the heart. Following the path the bullet could have taken, she twisted her torso.
Matthew, still on the ground, had crawled over to Alfred's dropped rifle, and fired the shot. Behind her, Evelyn barely registered Alfred approaching the last soldier to ensure he was actually dead, firing one final bullet to put the kid out of his misery.
Matthew's breathing was laboured, pupils blown wide and dark, and he did not seem quite aware that he was still pointing the gun up at Evelyn.
“Why are you covered in blood?” he asked in a small voice.
“It's nothing,” she replied.
Francis kicked a limp soldier. “Et nous disons qu'une vie honorable est une vie éternelle,” he spat, positively hateful. At himself and the soldiers.
To live honourably is to live eternally.
Evelyn had to stumble over a dead body to return to Matthew. Alfred fell back against the wall, adrenaline fading and the pain catching up with him. His face had turned very pale.
“What honor?” he gasped, anger apparent and growing. “What the hell was that?! Francis what the fuck? Evelyn!”
Evelyn ignored him, choosing to instead brush Matthew's hair off his face. “What happened? Can you tell? Darling what happened?”
Matthew peered at her, confused. “Your head…”
She wiped at the blood falling from her hairline, underestimating how much head wounds could bleed, and smeared it across her face. It pooled in her hand, and she gawped, appalled at the damage.
“Never mind that,” she muttered, hiding the tremble in her tone. “What has happened in Canada?”
He frowned, still disorientated. “What?”
“Darling -”
Matthew was dragged from Evelyn, Alfred displaying his inhuman strength as he picked up his brother, slinging him across his back like they were piggybacking wandering across the seaside. He held Matthew's hands around his neck with his left hand, the right hanging uselessly by his side. His brown uniform was a dark dark red down the sleeves. Instinctively, feeling safe with his brother, Matthew wrapped his legs around Alfred’s waist, allowing the pair to start walking out the church. Evelyn went to follow, but tripped. Over what, she did not want to look. She stumbled back to her feet, Francis looking at the carnage with something of regret on his features. The adrenaline was settling down, and no-one wanted to look at what they had done.
“We can't stay here,” he explained.
Evelyn nodded, blinking the blood out of her eyes. “They won't be the last…”
Francis was at her side, pulling her hair out of the way to see the damage the flying stone had caused. “That's not going to stop bleeding any time soon.”
“I'll live.”
“By getting you to the hospital, yes you will. Allez.”
He swung his arms under her legs and back, causing her to squawk like an alarmed chicken.
“I can walk!”
France sounded very jovial as he stepped over dead children. Aggressively so. “Of course, of course. But seeing an injured nurse will push us to the front of the queue.”
Alfred bent in half, keeping Matthew stable, using his broad back as a platform to hold his younger brother in as much of one position as he could. Evelyn could see he was struggling though, even with all that strength, he had been shot, and was still bleeding.
“You carry Matthew,” she insisted to Francis. “You said you could do it.”
He simply shook his head, then very quietly replied, “No. I do not think I should. Neither would accept that.”
“It’s our fault - we should help.”
Francis sighed, muttering about her being naive, then simply continued to sludge through the wasteland. England moaned, the pain catching her off guard just for a moment, then wrapped one arm around his neck.
“We would not have done this together one hundred years ago.”
He snorted. “Nor twenty.”
“...What about a thousand?”
Francis blinked. “Who could we possibly have been fighting together back then?”
“I know not. I just… When else have you carried me through mud?”
He smiled charmingly. “Ah, so it was one thousand years ago that I last did this. A descendant of Charlemagne marrying the granddaughter of Alfred the Great. All that rain.”
“Do you ever struggle to remember?”
Francis did not reply, instead focusing very hard on not losing his footing. Evelyn continued to watch her two boys, Alfred powering on forwards with little care of his elders behind him.
“I really wanted to love him,” Evelyn murmured.
Francis immediately caught on to whom she was speaking. “So I have heard. Have you seen him at all these past three years?”
“Earlier this year. I was working near Vimy Ridge with Matthew during the Battle of Arras. I saw him. I was angry about the Somme, about Gallipoli too I suppose, all of it. I stole Matthew's rifle and shot across the wasteland. I got him right in the neck. I was so fucking angry when Alasdair said they'd played football a few years ago. Just about strangled him when he told me.”
“Why Ludwig, why did you even want to try back then?” Francis asked, genuinely curious. “And why the easy switch to Japan?”
The question confused her, even more so considering her lack of blood. Most of it had surely dripped out her body by now.
“I thought we were the same. And we are, in all the wrong ways. Japan is the same. In all the right.”
Francis pondered her unhelpful answer, not sure if he agreed. Evelyn could not stand the silence for long, as it allowed her damaged mind to drift back to the church and the bodies within.
“They are so young,” she pronounced with no preamble. “All of them. Those poor boys. We should have at least - ”
“They would not have died had they not thrown the grenade. It was the Germans moving first. Always was.”
“...Yes. I suppose so.” Evelyn felt her neck struggle to hold her head up, and blinked rapidly. “Oh. Francis?”
“Hmm?”
“Going to lose consciousness in a moment.”
He actually laughed. “Go ahead. I won’t drop you.”
“Thank you.”
She kept her eyes on her two boys until darkness took hold.
*****
Versailles, France
Alfred had left following a screaming match with Francis. Jack had kicked up a fuss being denied colonies that were to become League of Nation mandates, even more so upon learning which ones where under Japanese care. Kiku’s face had closed off at the denial of a racial equality clause. Francis and Belle had complained that it was not enough. Evelyn thought it was too much.
“What was the point?” asked Matthew. He was not the first to do so, nor the last. Evelyn ran her fingers through his hair, grown out and curling at the ends.
He allowed her to pet him, closing his eyes and feeling her thumb rubbing against his cheek. His own hand moved until it grabbed the string of pearls that she wore over her blouse. Once looped forming a choker around her neck, the second long and falling to her waist. It was one of her oldest sets, she had had this string as long as Matthew could remember. He wrapped his fingers around, twisting and unfurling in a repetitive motion, the action failing to calm him down.
“Everyone will curse this treaty,” England agreed.
“Jack hates you right now.”
She looked down, feeling the tugging motion tightening the pearls around her neck. She let Matthew repeat the motion, then wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders.
They both thought back to when she had first held Jack, soothing the crying, and how she had sworn that she would not be good for him, that all she would do was disappoint him. Seemed it had finally come to pass.
“Yes, I did not do enough to protect you.”
“He'll get over it,” Matthew said dismissively. Coldly.
“...And you?”
Matthew sighed. “I think I've kept my promise to you.”
I will look after you until it is your turn to look after me, England recalled.
“A thousand times over. I wish I were better. You all…”
“It is not all your fault.”
His resignation sounded very rehearsed. Her throat tightened in response.
“I wish I could know what is right. I cannot see the path. And it feels as though everyone else is in the clear, and I am lost in the woods, calling you all back to the dark.”
Matthew's hands loosened around her necklace. He did not know what to say. To describe his temperament as exhausted seemed an understatement, as did his anger. Not at Evelyn necessarily, he had seen her face at the reading of the treaty, the paling figure who realised that her dead boys were worth nothing. The sickly girl who was gaining more territory that no one particularly wanted or was interested in. The mother who had to turn around to look at the Dominions and justify the unjustifiable.
Matthew pitied her, sometimes.
“You have to listen to us.”
“I do,” she said.
“In all things.”
“I try.”
“Not good enough anymore.”
Evelyn pushed her cheek against Matthew’s shoulder, pouting like a child.
Alfred slammed the door open, loud as a gunshot, making both the room's occupants jump a mile.
His face was deathly pale, furious. Evelyn blinked, completely unaware of what on earth she had done to be on the receiving end of such a look.
“I will kill Francis one day,” Alfred growled.
Oh. He wasn’t angry at her.
“And you,” he spat out, immediately correcting Evelyn’s thoughts, “You…”
He trailed off, as if there were no words on earth for how disgusted or angry or mystified he was foe the tiny lady in front of him.
Evelyn put her foot in it. “I thought you would be happy about the League of Nations! David and I tried really hard to -”
“It’s not good enough!”
“It’s something! Why must it always be great strides perfected on the first try with you?” she yelled. Alfred immediately gave up and left the room.
Baffled, both Matthew and Evelyn yelled after him, chasing down the corridor.
“Alfred!” Matthew yelled, “You can’t just run off like that!”
“Yes I can!” he spat back, kicking some priceless vase of Francis’ in the golden corridor. It shattered, and Evelyn gave a huff of disappointment. A child throwing a tantrum. Alfred growled, and turned back around. “You have just made a mess of it!”
“Me?” Evelyn gaped. She grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a placemat on a long table, and flung it at Alfred, who flinched and batted it away across the room. Matthew stared, not used to seeing his mother lose her rag like this. She was fighting back, and it was somehow a delightful fire to see. “I am trying. I don’t have the option now to turn my back on everyone. Splendid isolation will no longer work. And you - ”
“You didn’t like it anyway.”
“Yes I did,” she lied, face a bright red. “Fucking loved it. Nobody bothered me.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you were right and none of you are worth the trouble.”
Evelyn sighed as deeply as Matthew groaned.
“Alfred you don’t mean that,” Canada complained.
“Yes I do! You’re all… you!”
Again, words escaped him. He kicked one of the chairs at the table, buckling the leg and making it crack sideways. Evelyn’s exasperation reached a peak.
“God. Stop breaking things!”
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
Pulling at her necklace, the action acting as a centring sensation, Evelyn tried again.
“It doesn’t work without you. None of it. You are too important. We are waiting for you to step up and take your place at the head of the table. Please don’t leave.”
“I can’t stay here.”
“Why?” Matthew asked. “I thought we…”
“...Were getting along?” Alfred suggested after silence fell. “That we were moving back to what could have been? Being a family? You have never had my best interests at heart, why should I care about yours? You are all… greedy.”
Evelyn winced, hearing the derision. “What we want is not that dissimilar. Please. You need not parrot your Senate.”
Alfred grew even more pink in the face. “I’m not you! I know how to think for myself, I know that my thoughts are mine and not just lies to make my life less painful.”
That old argument. Evelyn fell silent, and Matthew stared at his brother, frustrated and mournful.
“Both Jack and I think it would be the breaking point if you did not join. The League won't function without you.”
“You would say that, wouldn’t you? You just parrot everything her government vomits out,” Alfred said, dismissing and degrading recent Canadian and Australian efforts to reach out.
“That isn't true.”
“Alfred,” Evelyn begged, “Please stay.”
“No.” He shook his head, looking lost and alone and like he had had the rug pulled out from under his feet. One last great betrayal, only neither party could tell who was the perpetrator. “No. None of you deserve it. None of you. And you -” he turned and got uncomfortably close, though Evelyn did not back away, only continuing to watch him with a wariness and sadness, like he was some sick and confused animal about to tumble off a cliff, and she was failing to call him back to her.
“As long as you support Kiku, I will never trust -” Alfred cut himself off, held up his hands, and gave one very damning look to Matthew. His brother paled, causing Alfred to scoff.
“Love,” Evelyn said as she went to take his hand. She could not make sense of his words, only able to understand his frantic and pained body language.
But America snatched it back, looking increasingly like a cornered animal.
“Forget it. Forget it. You never understand.”
He turned and left, leaving behind his mother and brother in the grand hall, throwing doors shut loud enough to make them flinch.
Each slam a gunshot echoed in their heads, a re-occurring blast making the pair unwilling recall recent months or a hundred and more years past.
*****
History Notes:
- Canterbury has a famous section of houses along the river known as the Huguenot Weavers cottages - protestant refugees from France who excelled at silk weaving settled in the city following the French Wars of Religion. By the 17th century over a third of Canterbury's population was in fact French! Coincidentally for this fic's purpose, the lease for the Mayflower ship was negotiated at Canterbury.
- Edward the Elder was Alfred the Great's son. Of his daughters, one married the King of the West Franks; another the Duke of the Franks; another the King of the East Franks. Their brother was Athelstan, the first King of England.
- The Battle of Passchendaele or Third Battle of Ypres was fought from July to November 1917. The Canadians, having a reputation by this point of being both incredibly successfully and incredibly aggressive, managed to capture Passchendaele where the French or British had failed. It was a controversial campaign (as they all were) as neither the British PM, Lloyd George, or the Supreme Allied Commander, Foch were quite okay with going ahead with it. Conversations abound regarding whether or not to wait for the Americans, who were trickling over by the summer of 1917. J'attends les chars et les Américains as one Frenchman put it (maybe… don’t look up which Frenchman…). There were about 400,000 casualties in total, and we all very much hate General Haig for it.
- References to Vimy Ridge, the Battle of Arras, Verdun, the Somme, and Gallipoli are mentioned. All disasters one way or another.
- Shortly after the Passchendaele ended, two French and Norwegian ships collided in the bay of Halifax, Nova Scotia. The French ship was full of explosives, and it became, at the time, the largest man made explosion ever. 1,700+ people died and up to 1km surrounding the explosion was flattened. Boston sent a lot of aid, and they still send a Christmas tree each year as tradition.
- Nurses during WWI had some interesting stories to tell. During Passchendaele, a nurse called Nellie Spindler was killed following the bombings. The station she operated at specialised in abdominal wounds so was closer to the front than many of the sites that women typically worked at. Edith Cavell was tried for treason by Germany and executed by a firing squad. When an American diplomat wrote of this, he stated that the German he spoke to said, “he would rather see Miss Cavell shot than have harm come to the humblest German soldier, and his only regret was that they had not “three or four old English women to shoot.””
- The Treaty of Versailles was horrifically complicated to get in place and no-one left happy with the end result. America never ratified it, Britain hated it and immediately started to do things to undermine it, the Dominions left with a real shaken relationship to the UK, Japan benefitted quite merrily, but was unable to get racial equality implemented into the new League of Nations which was partially Britain caving to the Dominions demands, and France was petrified and (maybe not so) paranoid to the point of being unreasonable.
- David, in case it is not clear, is a potential name for South Africa. Jan Smuts, Robert Cecil, and Woodrow Wilson are three names that pop up a lot regarding the formation of the League of Nations. Britain was very frightened of the Americans backing out from the League and didn't really want to be the ones leading it all but… womp womp. I love the cartoons from this era - the struggle was real.
Link to Chapter Thirteen.
Also available on Ao3.
Chapter Twelve: 1917-1919, or World War One
Canterbury, England
1637
England watched as the little French colony rolled around on his stomach in the cottage's drawing room. The sound of the river running outside, miraculously clear and unpolluted, provided a comforting sound in the background. The little American colony was perched on the wooden bench, peering out the window and watching the world go by.
Matthew was a cloud of white lace, puffing and squeaking as he tried to get upright. He managed as far as elevating his rear, arms in such a position as if he were about to attempt a headstand. He could not walk yet, but seemed everyday to grow stronger in his spine and legs. When he kicked, rocking himself forward, Evelyn giggled.
“Ah-ah,” she cautioned, getting down on the floor with the little boy and wrapping her arms around his torso. “Careful, darling, head up.”
He laughed as she flipped him over, head whipping up with his soft blond hair frizzing like a halo.
“Mama, when did I learn to walk?” Alfred asked, pushing his way into the circle of his mother’s arms, plopping himself on her lap and kicking his small legs.
Evelyn pinched his belly, stealing a laugh from him.
“About twenty years ago, little love. You learned in Jamestown, obviously.”
Matthew seemed determined to stand, so wriggled out of her grip, slapping his hands once more on the floor, little bum up, trying to get himself upright.
“Come here, give me your hands. Matthew, donne tes mains à maman.”
“Argh, please don’t use that term,” complained Francis from his corner of the room.
Mathew, meanwhile, understood her, flopping back and reaching up for her with a quiet whine. Evelyn took his little hands, then stood up. Alfred slid off her lap, smiling broadly.
“Ah! Up we go! There darling,” Evelyn cooed.
Matthew squealed, overjoyed to be upright. His legs caved out from underneath him from time to time, but England held him steady. Shuffling her skirts, she poked her feet out from underneath the wool and linen, raising the little colony up until his own small feet were resting on hers. She then began to walk, no more than a shuffle for herself, but huge long strides for Matthew, who laughed so loudly it was infectious. Alfred followed, clinging to his mother’s skirts. Evelyn was pleased that Alfred seemed just as happy for Matthew’s joy as he was to be the centre of attention himself. That was good, she wanted them to love each other.
Francis, who was in the corner of the room, watching the trio not so subtly as he read through pamphlets, fought to suppress a smile.
“He will not learn how to walk if you hold him the whole way.”
“Oh hush. This is practising the movement. One… two….one….two…”
Matthew laughed once more.
England smiled, asking Francis, “How did you manage to make something so perfect?”
“You cannot have him.”
“Pssht. Say you. Up, up!” she hoisted the baby into her arms, holding Matthew tight as she spun in a circle. Kisses accompanied the movement, then Evelyn began to jump up and down, still spinning in a circle as she did so. The floor creaked and groaned with the movement, her tiny but solid form literally making the old room shake. Matthew’s giggles became shrill and incessant, the sound of a truly happy baby.
Francis groaned, unable to read with the vibration distracting him, and pouted.
“You behave worse than the children.”
“What kind of parent are you?” she complained, coming to a stop with a stumble and a laugh. Matthew wriggled in her arms, calling out in gibberish to pat and stroke Evelyn’s face. She kissed the tip of his round nose. The pair were fascinated with each other, Matthew looking at her like she was the first woman he had ever seen.
“Older brother, please. Not a father.”
Evelyn snorted. “ Alfred is his brother.”
“I'm his brother!” Alfred pronounced loudly, copying his mother.
Evelyn nodded proudly, insisting, “Not you. He will call you papa. Just as he will call me maman. Right?”
She spun once more, falling into the soft seat nearby. Matthew pulled at the pearls in her hair, wanting to suck on them. Alfred clambered up, not wanting to be left out. Evelyn bounced her knees, ensuring Matthew made funny noises from the juddering. “Matthew? I wonder what his first word will be? Mama, please. Oh, darling, can you say mama?”
Matthew blew a raspberry, clumsily crawling over Evelyn to get to her jewellery. He gave up when they would not dislodge from their pins, and instead decided he wanted to burrow his face into her chest. The fashions were for low cut dresses, it was true, but England still gasped at the baby hunting for something she could not give. Instinctively it seemed, even nations wanted a mother to feed them. He whined, mood changeable, and began to whimper, threatening to cry.
“Silly baby.” England twisted him around so she could hold him across both her arms, standing once more.
“He is hungry again?” Alfred asked.
She sniggered. “Yes. Babies tend to be so. I have a silver pab boat in the kitchen, I will feed him.”
“Suit yourself,” Francis muttered, and with that dismissal, returned to his reading.
“I want to come!”
“Then come come!” she held out a hand for Alfred to take. His grip was unnaturally strong, but she held tight as if he were going to run off without her. Alfred stumbled a little when he walked from time to time, still not entirely smooth on his own two feet. As they walked, Evelyn pulled upwards. Alfred grasped her arm with both hands as she did so, giggling at the small flight.
England merrily skipped along with the two boys, distracting Matthew as best she could from his hungry whines. He buried his head in the crook of her neck, tugging at her curls.
“Maman’s here,” Evelyn muttered, kissing his temple. “Always will be, precious darling.”
*****
Ruins of Vlamertinge village, Belgium
“What happened?”
“What has taken you so long ?”
“He just collapsed.”
“How?”
“ He fell.”
“He got through this entire campaign without anything more than a splinter and then just collapses?”
“You cannot say such a thing! That isn’t true and you know it!”
The cacophony of voices was overwhelming, only made worse by the series of bombardments which had been on and off the entire day. Alfred would have appreciated some thanks for him navigating explosions and hellfire but instead was met by a collapsed Matthew and a frantic Evelyn and Francis. England was on the dank ground, her dress covered in filth and her hands were dirtier than he had ever seen before, with dried mud and muck seemingly baked into her skin.. Francis was no better, up to his thighs were completely brown, the evidence of him having spent a morning trying to dig up whatever remains of soldiers he could get his hands on.
Alfred had arrived a few weeks ago. England had been bemoaning that the troops were arriving too slowly. It was Alfred’s understanding that she had been complaining, even discounting his supposed delayed declaration of war, that Alfred himself had not rushed to her side. He had fully intended today’s meeting to be a chide, but Matthew’s sudden affliction took priority.
Not that Alfred could help, his mother (not his mother, he reminded himself) was curling over Matthew like a dragon protecting its gold hoard.
When Francis moved to inspect the unconscious Matthew on the floor, Evelyn screeched, “Don't touch him!” and lost what little composure she had.
The shriek was deafening, and the force with which she pushed Francis away was enough to toss him back against the stone wall with a thunderous crack. Alfred started, in awe at the strength she showed. Francis was less impressed, giving her such a look of disappointment that she felt a small child under it. She moved closer around Matthew, one hand cradling his cheek, the other around his shoulders, keeping him elevated. She had not let him go since he first fell.
“If he is in pain here but no physical harm has been done, something is wrong back home,” Francis explained, scrambling back to standing. He looked terrible, tired and dull and everything France was not supposed to be.
Evelyn growled, knowing this fact quite well. “I cannot move him until we know what has happened. The hospital retreated back from the front last month after the nurse died, but the communication lines are ruined. The whole area is…”
Alfred cut in, “You cannot stay in this church. The Canadians did well but there may still be Germans -”
“Where were you?!” England cried, glaring at Alfred, who had turned rather pale in the small and dank room. “You were fucking late! The reason everything went to tits was because I was waiting for you! I thought you would come to us!”
Alfred's paleness turned into bright red. Arguing with Evelyn was more familiar territory.
“Bullshit! I'm early if anything, don't blame me for your mistakes. I'm not here to plug gaps in your army.”
“Then why are you here? You will turn the tide and win a war single handedly? Brave hero? You did not give a shit about the Lusitania and the people that drowned, nor for me or your brother, only the idea that your land might be stolen. Alfred, why are you here?!”
Her eyes were wide and wet, seeming to almost glow green in the darkening afternoon light.
The distant sound of shelling seemed to be creeping closer and growing louder. Alfred chose to focus on that.
“We cannot stay in the church.”
Evelyn did not seem to be listening. Curling over Matthew, the distinct sound of weeping came.
“What happened?” she begged. “Darling I cannot carry you. Wake up. I can’t fix it if you don’t wake up and tell me.”
Alfred tried to get close this time, sensing that he would not be pushed away the way Francis was.
“I can carry him.”
She shook her head, face still hidden pressed against Matthew’s neck. The bombs were getting louder, but it was the silence that followed that worried everyone. Soldiers would be coming. This area had been abandoned after the field hospital was hit in August. One of England’s nurses had her back torn open, right through to her heart.
Alfred tried again. “What’s the nearest hospital?”
“Remy Sidings,” was her muffled reply.
“It’s not far,” Francis explained. “A few kilometres.”
“Through shellfire and mud?” England protested.
“Let me carry him?” Alfred asked again. When England did not budge, he grew angry. “I can rip him out of your arms, you know I can.”
The bombs fell further away once more. The group remained still, listening as they became quieter and less frequent, until finally, they fell silent. More minutes passed, and Matthew did not move from his limp form on the floor.
Suddenly, England gasped, looking up.
“Francis,” she whispered. “You have a pistol?”
“I am not giving you a gun.”
“A knife then. Hurry up.”
Francis did as requested, unstrapping one in its sheath and tossing it over. She caught it readily, twisting the straps of the sheath around her belt and ties of her apron.
Alfred frowned, puzzled that her tears had dried so quickly. Tone flat and serious, she said, “You both can take him? I will not be able to keep pace in this dress.”
“You’re not coming?” Alfred asked.
Evelyn moved away, still cradling Matthew carefully. She waved Alfred over with one hand, then showed him where and how to hold his unconscious brother.
“Of course I am. You two need to be able to move quickly. I can’t. Even if I could keep pace, travelling with two soldiers, I’d half expect to become a second Edith Cavell if they find you.”
Alfred had heard about her. The nurse who was shot for helping smuggling soldiers across the Lowlands. Surely a nurse on her own so close to No-Man’s Land would appear no better.
“But-”
“Shht!” France hissed. “I can hear…” Francis peered out the window, then ducked away, swearing. Germans , he mouthed.
Give me a gun, England repeated, mouthing the query in French very clearly. Francis sneered a no, as if she were very foolish to ask for a thing. As if a nurse's mere presence would stop any violence, and that giving her a pistol would confirm that she was as capable of being shot as she was doing to the shooting.
Alfred moved, his own rifle now pointing down at the hard floor, but ready to be raised if required, next to Francis to also carefully peer out the window. Even Evelyn could hear the voices now. Quiet, staccato, cautious, but still audible. Young boys.
She felt Matthew's chest tremble, his breathing altering, then gaped in horror as he let out a particularly loud and emphatic Fuck .
Evelyn slapped her hand over his mouth instinctively, as if he were five years old again. This only served to further alarm the man, who gasped and began to writhe on the ground. Evelyn leaned in close, barely whispering above silent.
“Shush, darling you're alright. Just me.”
Matthew opened his eyes, deeply frowning but stilling himself. His eyes showed that he was still in a lot of pain, but he kept quiet when Evelyn mouthed German to him. She moved her hand away, returning to petting his ratted mess of hair (how had it been allowed to grow so long? He would be infested with lice if he wasn't careful) with a nervous energy.
Matthew squinted around the damp and hollowed out church. His brother was anxiously flitting his gaze between Matthew on the floor and the door to the church. All of the pews and seating had long been stolen or removed, the windows blown in. The sound of mud being trodden upon outside grew louder, then quieter following some hushed orders. Francis rolled his eyes, silently muttering something about children and stupid and hurry up so I can shoot them already.
What none of them were quite expecting was a grenade to be thrown through one of the shattered windows.
Alfred groaned.
“Aw fu-”
The explosion threw open a stone pillar, shattering rocks across the aisle. England flung herself back over Canada, attempting to protect his head from the heat and tumbling stone. She received a wallop to the head that she felt instantly split her skull open, and her skin and dress singed. She did her job though, and Matthew was protected from the worst of the explosion. He grunted, twitching violently on the ground, but Evelyn kept him pinned.
“Don’t move,” she openly begged.
Yelling ensued, England barely understanding that the boys had burst through the broken wooden door. Alfred had been tossed back in the explosion but was soon enough on his feet, yelling for them to stop, not to fight or kill with the nurse in the room. He was shot at twice, one managing to pierce his right shoulder, ripping through the muscle and causing him to drop his gun with another loud and furious curse. He ripped out a pistol - some kind of Colt gun - with his left hand, and shot one of the boys in the head. The German fell to the floor, quite dead and ruining the floor. Evelyn stared at Alfred and the boy's rifles, both lying neatly on the floor.
When she looked up, there was no paleness to Alfred, no dawning horror of having shot a boy too young to be in war. There was no regret, no compassion, just a frustration at the injury in his arm so early into his time in the war. Of course, he had fought many times before now, in equally messy situations no doubt, but still, as she did for her boy that she was cradling, a feeling of mourning was prevalent, for what mother wanted to see her sons fight in wars? Even if they both seemed far too at home in conflict, knee deep in blood and mud and whatever human remains they trod over that stood in their path. The sight was wrong. Fresh blood ran down Alfred's arm, but he merely grimaced, more in pain than fright.
Evelyn jolted, as if to go and put pressure on the wound, but Matthew gasped beneath her so she stayed still for the moment, unable to leave one for the other.
England supposed this was all her fault. Partially. Francis’ too, if she thought about it.
Speaking of, the man adored war. Always had. Was far more happy to leave and fight than she had ever been. In Spain, in Italy, in India, in the Americas, on boats and on land and recently taking to the sky, Francis loved a good scuffle. Loved being a busy body and butting in where he wasn't wanted. Evelyn had heard it of the French that they only understood great love and great hate, with nothing in between. Perhaps once that may have been true, but Evelyn had always thought that apathy was missing from that dichotomy. Nothing hurt more than Francis’ inattention. It was somehow worse to be ignored at his hands than to be hated.
Watching him strangle the young German, however, called that into question. For however tired the Frenchman was, adrenaline was keeping him going. Adrenaline, and an unabashed righteous hatred. It seemed doubtful, Evelyn supposed, that his historic love of war would continue unaltered following this war. How could it? She had seen him after Verdun. One hundred and forty thousand dead. What love could spring from that?
Blood dripped down, staining England’s hair, perpetually falling out of its pins, and dripped down onto a barely conscious Matthew.
There were five boys - three now that Alfred had put one of them down and Francis was strangling another - and that was enough to lose track of who was where, and for England, disorientated from the impact to her skull, to not notice that one of the boys had his arms around her neck, and was pulling her off Matthew. The fifth soldier had his rifled raised, quite ready to shoot Matthew in the head.
Where was the sixth?
Evelyn shrieked, grappling for the knife Francis has tossed to her, yanking it out and throwing it with such force and accuracy that it embedded itself in the fifth boy's neck. She threw her head back, cracking her head against her captor, using his gasp and disorientation to wrestle herself free. The pain blinded her and she fell forward, scrambling to her feet to slam into the other soldier. She heard, rather than saw, Alfred punch the boy who had held her hard enough for bones to crack. Disregarding how on earth America had the ability to seemingly shrug off bullets in a way England never had (she was always too fragile, too small, too sick) her thoughts became fixated on getting the boy with a knife in his throat to die.
Evelyn leapt on the soldier, pulling out the knife only to embed it in the right eye socket. She dragged it down, grating against bone and teeth, until the boy fell, dead.
She then turned around, pulling the boy Alfred was fighting away from her eldest. With a force she rarely exhibited, face blank and without expression, England thrust her knife down into the junction of the boy's neck and shoulder, the angle and power doing enough for him to die almost immediately. Not that it stopped Evelyn from still going to cut off the head; a difficult task considering the knife was not really that sharp, nor was it long enough to effectively cut through anything as thick as a human neck, but she was determined to see it through.
“Evie!” cried out Alfred.
She turned to her left, dropping the body, to have a bullet wizz past her head. A sick thunk sounded, and Evelyn was greeted with the sight of the last German soldier, so incredibly young, coughing and falling to the floor. A red flower bloomed across his chest. Someone had hit him directly in the heart. Following the path the bullet could have taken, she twisted her torso.
Matthew, still on the ground, had crawled over to Alfred's dropped rifle, and fired the shot. Behind her, Evelyn barely registered Alfred approaching the last soldier to ensure he was actually dead, firing one final bullet to put the kid out of his misery.
Matthew's breathing was laboured, pupils blown wide and dark, and he did not seem quite aware that he was still pointing the gun up at Evelyn.
“Why are you covered in blood?” he asked in a small voice.
“It's nothing,” she replied.
Francis kicked a limp soldier. “Et nous disons qu'une vie honorable est une vie éternelle,” he spat, positively hateful. At himself and the soldiers.
To live honourably is to live eternally.
Evelyn had to stumble over a dead body to return to Matthew. Alfred fell back against the wall, adrenaline fading and the pain catching up with him. His face had turned very pale.
“What honor?” he gasped, anger apparent and growing. “What the hell was that?! Francis what the fuck? Evelyn!”
Evelyn ignored him, choosing to instead brush Matthew's hair off his face. “What happened? Can you tell? Darling what happened?”
Matthew peered at her, confused. “Your head…”
She wiped at the blood falling from her hairline, underestimating how much head wounds could bleed, and smeared it across her face. It pooled in her hand, and she gawped, appalled at the damage.
“Never mind that,” she muttered, hiding the tremble in her tone. “What has happened in Canada?”
He frowned, still disorientated. “What?”
“Darling -”
Matthew was dragged from Evelyn, Alfred displaying his inhuman strength as he picked up his brother, slinging him across his back like they were piggybacking wandering across the seaside. He held Matthew's hands around his neck with his left hand, the right hanging uselessly by his side. His brown uniform was a dark dark red down the sleeves. Instinctively, feeling safe with his brother, Matthew wrapped his legs around Alfred’s waist, allowing the pair to start walking out the church. Evelyn went to follow, but tripped. Over what, she did not want to look. She stumbled back to her feet, Francis looking at the carnage with something of regret on his features. The adrenaline was settling down, and no-one wanted to look at what they had done.
“We can't stay here,” he explained.
Evelyn nodded, blinking the blood out of her eyes. “They won't be the last…”
Francis was at her side, pulling her hair out of the way to see the damage the flying stone had caused. “That's not going to stop bleeding any time soon.”
“I'll live.”
“By getting you to the hospital, yes you will. Allez.”
He swung his arms under her legs and back, causing her to squawk like an alarmed chicken.
“I can walk!”
France sounded very jovial as he stepped over dead children. Aggressively so. “Of course, of course. But seeing an injured nurse will push us to the front of the queue.”
Alfred bent in half, keeping Matthew stable, using his broad back as a platform to hold his younger brother in as much of one position as he could. Evelyn could see he was struggling though, even with all that strength, he had been shot, and was still bleeding.
“You carry Matthew,” she insisted to Francis. “You said you could do it.”
He simply shook his head, then very quietly replied, “No. I do not think I should. Neither would accept that.”
“It’s our fault - we should help.”
Francis sighed, muttering about her being naive, then simply continued to sludge through the wasteland. England moaned, the pain catching her off guard just for a moment, then wrapped one arm around his neck.
“We would not have done this together one hundred years ago.”
He snorted. “Nor twenty.”
“...What about a thousand?”
Francis blinked. “Who could we possibly have been fighting together back then?”
“I know not. I just… When else have you carried me through mud?”
He smiled charmingly. “Ah, so it was one thousand years ago that I last did this. A descendant of Charlemagne marrying the granddaughter of Alfred the Great. All that rain.”
“Do you ever struggle to remember?”
Francis did not reply, instead focusing very hard on not losing his footing. Evelyn continued to watch her two boys, Alfred powering on forwards with little care of his elders behind him.
“I really wanted to love him,” Evelyn murmured.
Francis immediately caught on to whom she was speaking. “So I have heard. Have you seen him at all these past three years?”
“Earlier this year. I was working near Vimy Ridge with Matthew during the Battle of Arras. I saw him. I was angry about the Somme, about Gallipoli too I suppose, all of it. I stole Matthew's rifle and shot across the wasteland. I got him right in the neck. I was so fucking angry when Alasdair said they'd played football a few years ago. Just about strangled him when he told me.”
“Why Ludwig, why did you even want to try back then?” Francis asked, genuinely curious. “And why the easy switch to Japan?”
The question confused her, even more so considering her lack of blood. Most of it had surely dripped out her body by now.
“I thought we were the same. And we are, in all the wrong ways. Japan is the same. In all the right.”
Francis pondered her unhelpful answer, not sure if he agreed. Evelyn could not stand the silence for long, as it allowed her damaged mind to drift back to the church and the bodies within.
“They are so young,” she pronounced with no preamble. “All of them. Those poor boys. We should have at least - ”
“They would not have died had they not thrown the grenade. It was the Germans moving first. Always was.”
“...Yes. I suppose so.” Evelyn felt her neck struggle to hold her head up, and blinked rapidly. “Oh. Francis?”
“Hmm?”
“Going to lose consciousness in a moment.”
He actually laughed. “Go ahead. I won’t drop you.”
“Thank you.”
She kept her eyes on her two boys until darkness took hold.
*****
Versailles, France
Alfred had left following a screaming match with Francis. Jack had kicked up a fuss being denied colonies that were to become League of Nation mandates, even more so upon learning which ones where under Japanese care. Kiku’s face had closed off at the denial of a racial equality clause. Francis and Belle had complained that it was not enough. Evelyn thought it was too much.
“What was the point?” asked Matthew. He was not the first to do so, nor the last. Evelyn ran her fingers through his hair, grown out and curling at the ends.
He allowed her to pet him, closing his eyes and feeling her thumb rubbing against his cheek. His own hand moved until it grabbed the string of pearls that she wore over her blouse. Once looped forming a choker around her neck, the second long and falling to her waist. It was one of her oldest sets, she had had this string as long as Matthew could remember. He wrapped his fingers around, twisting and unfurling in a repetitive motion, the action failing to calm him down.
“Everyone will curse this treaty,” England agreed.
“Jack hates you right now.”
She looked down, feeling the tugging motion tightening the pearls around her neck. She let Matthew repeat the motion, then wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders.
They both thought back to when she had first held Jack, soothing the crying, and how she had sworn that she would not be good for him, that all she would do was disappoint him. Seemed it had finally come to pass.
“Yes, I did not do enough to protect you.”
“He'll get over it,” Matthew said dismissively. Coldly.
“...And you?”
Matthew sighed. “I think I've kept my promise to you.”
I will look after you until it is your turn to look after me, England recalled.
“A thousand times over. I wish I were better. You all…”
“It is not all your fault.”
His resignation sounded very rehearsed. Her throat tightened in response.
“I wish I could know what is right. I cannot see the path. And it feels as though everyone else is in the clear, and I am lost in the woods, calling you all back to the dark.”
Matthew's hands loosened around her necklace. He did not know what to say. To describe his temperament as exhausted seemed an understatement, as did his anger. Not at Evelyn necessarily, he had seen her face at the reading of the treaty, the paling figure who realised that her dead boys were worth nothing. The sickly girl who was gaining more territory that no one particularly wanted or was interested in. The mother who had to turn around to look at the Dominions and justify the unjustifiable.
Matthew pitied her, sometimes.
“You have to listen to us.”
“I do,” she said.
“In all things.”
“I try.”
“Not good enough anymore.”
Evelyn pushed her cheek against Matthew’s shoulder, pouting like a child.
Alfred slammed the door open, loud as a gunshot, making both the room's occupants jump a mile.
His face was deathly pale, furious. Evelyn blinked, completely unaware of what on earth she had done to be on the receiving end of such a look.
“I will kill Francis one day,” Alfred growled.
Oh. He wasn’t angry at her.
“And you,” he spat out, immediately correcting Evelyn’s thoughts, “You…”
He trailed off, as if there were no words on earth for how disgusted or angry or mystified he was foe the tiny lady in front of him.
Evelyn put her foot in it. “I thought you would be happy about the League of Nations! David and I tried really hard to -”
“It’s not good enough!”
“It’s something! Why must it always be great strides perfected on the first try with you?” she yelled. Alfred immediately gave up and left the room.
Baffled, both Matthew and Evelyn yelled after him, chasing down the corridor.
“Alfred!” Matthew yelled, “You can’t just run off like that!”
“Yes I can!” he spat back, kicking some priceless vase of Francis’ in the golden corridor. It shattered, and Evelyn gave a huff of disappointment. A child throwing a tantrum. Alfred growled, and turned back around. “You have just made a mess of it!”
“Me?” Evelyn gaped. She grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a placemat on a long table, and flung it at Alfred, who flinched and batted it away across the room. Matthew stared, not used to seeing his mother lose her rag like this. She was fighting back, and it was somehow a delightful fire to see. “I am trying. I don’t have the option now to turn my back on everyone. Splendid isolation will no longer work. And you - ”
“You didn’t like it anyway.”
“Yes I did,” she lied, face a bright red. “Fucking loved it. Nobody bothered me.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you were right and none of you are worth the trouble.”
Evelyn sighed as deeply as Matthew groaned.
“Alfred you don’t mean that,” Canada complained.
“Yes I do! You’re all… you!”
Again, words escaped him. He kicked one of the chairs at the table, buckling the leg and making it crack sideways. Evelyn’s exasperation reached a peak.
“God. Stop breaking things!”
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
Pulling at her necklace, the action acting as a centring sensation, Evelyn tried again.
“It doesn’t work without you. None of it. You are too important. We are waiting for you to step up and take your place at the head of the table. Please don’t leave.”
“I can’t stay here.”
“Why?” Matthew asked. “I thought we…”
“...Were getting along?” Alfred suggested after silence fell. “That we were moving back to what could have been? Being a family? You have never had my best interests at heart, why should I care about yours? You are all… greedy.”
Evelyn winced, hearing the derision. “What we want is not that dissimilar. Please. You need not parrot your Senate.”
Alfred grew even more pink in the face. “I’m not you! I know how to think for myself, I know that my thoughts are mine and not just lies to make my life less painful.”
That old argument. Evelyn fell silent, and Matthew stared at his brother, frustrated and mournful.
“Both Jack and I think it would be the breaking point if you did not join. The League won't function without you.”
“You would say that, wouldn’t you? You just parrot everything her government vomits out,” Alfred said, dismissing and degrading recent Canadian and Australian efforts to reach out.
“That isn't true.”
“Alfred,” Evelyn begged, “Please stay.”
“No.” He shook his head, looking lost and alone and like he had had the rug pulled out from under his feet. One last great betrayal, only neither party could tell who was the perpetrator. “No. None of you deserve it. None of you. And you -” he turned and got uncomfortably close, though Evelyn did not back away, only continuing to watch him with a wariness and sadness, like he was some sick and confused animal about to tumble off a cliff, and she was failing to call him back to her.
“As long as you support Kiku, I will never trust -” Alfred cut himself off, held up his hands, and gave one very damning look to Matthew. His brother paled, causing Alfred to scoff.
“Love,” Evelyn said as she went to take his hand. She could not make sense of his words, only able to understand his frantic and pained body language.
But America snatched it back, looking increasingly like a cornered animal.
“Forget it. Forget it. You never understand.”
He turned and left, leaving behind his mother and brother in the grand hall, throwing doors shut loud enough to make them flinch.
Each slam a gunshot echoed in their heads, a re-occurring blast making the pair unwilling recall recent months or a hundred and more years past.
*****
History Notes:
- Canterbury has a famous section of houses along the river known as the Huguenot Weavers cottages - protestant refugees from France who excelled at silk weaving settled in the city following the French Wars of Religion. By the 17th century over a third of Canterbury's population was in fact French! Coincidentally for this fic's purpose, the lease for the Mayflower ship was negotiated at Canterbury.
- Edward the Elder was Alfred the Great's son. Of his daughters, one married the King of the West Franks; another the Duke of the Franks; another the King of the East Franks. Their brother was Athelstan, the first King of England.
- The Battle of Passchendaele or Third Battle of Ypres was fought from July to November 1917. The Canadians, having a reputation by this point of being both incredibly successfully and incredibly aggressive, managed to capture Passchendaele where the French or British had failed. It was a controversial campaign (as they all were) as neither the British PM, Lloyd George, or the Supreme Allied Commander, Foch were quite okay with going ahead with it. Conversations abound regarding whether or not to wait for the Americans, who were trickling over by the summer of 1917. J'attends les chars et les Américains as one Frenchman put it (maybe… don’t look up which Frenchman…). There were about 400,000 casualties in total, and we all very much hate General Haig for it.
- References to Vimy Ridge, the Battle of Arras, Verdun, the Somme, and Gallipoli are mentioned. All disasters one way or another.
- Shortly after the Passchendaele ended, two French and Norwegian ships collided in the bay of Halifax, Nova Scotia. The French ship was full of explosives, and it became, at the time, the largest man made explosion ever. 1,700+ people died and up to 1km surrounding the explosion was flattened. Boston sent a lot of aid, and they still send a Christmas tree each year as tradition.
- Nurses during WWI had some interesting stories to tell. During Passchendaele, a nurse called Nellie Spindler was killed following the bombings. The station she operated at specialised in abdominal wounds so was closer to the front than many of the sites that women typically worked at. Edith Cavell was tried for treason by Germany and executed by a firing squad. When an American diplomat wrote of this, he stated that the German he spoke to said, “he would rather see Miss Cavell shot than have harm come to the humblest German soldier, and his only regret was that they had not “three or four old English women to shoot.””
- The Treaty of Versailles was horrifically complicated to get in place and no-one left happy with the end result. America never ratified it, Britain hated it and immediately started to do things to undermine it, the Dominions left with a real shaken relationship to the UK, Japan benefitted quite merrily, but was unable to get racial equality implemented into the new League of Nations which was partially Britain caving to the Dominions demands, and France was petrified and (maybe not so) paranoid to the point of being unreasonable.
- David, in case it is not clear, is a potential name for South Africa. Jan Smuts, Robert Cecil, and Woodrow Wilson are three names that pop up a lot regarding the formation of the League of Nations. Britain was very frightened of the Americans backing out from the League and didn't really want to be the ones leading it all but… womp womp. I love the cartoons from this era - the struggle was real.
Link to Chapter Thirteen.
