Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Fidelity /fĭ-dĕl′ĭ-tē, fī-/

noun

1. Faithfulness to obligations, duties, or observances.

2. Adherence to a person or party to which one is bound; loyalty.

New York City, New York

British America (in active rebellion)

November 22, 1776

The cell that he’d been thrown into is cold and damp. As soon as he had identified himself to the redcoats, he had been separated from the rest of the army and taken away. He’d gone almost limp in their grasp, completely at a loss. The army had been slaughtered, with the few who remained, including General Washington, being captured. Perhaps he should not have given himself away so easily, but the toll of American life lost has ruined him.

For the first time in months, Alfred Kirkland feels helpless once again.

He understands well that his next actions are very important. The United States of America is no more—that much is obvious. From his few months with the General, he knows well enough that there is no coming back from this. America will be punished for the rebellion, and Alfred is the spokesperson for it as the embodiment of the land. The Crown will want answers, and so will his father. The way he sees it, he has two options.

He could double down. Continue to try to fight for the freedom of his people. This would no doubt make things worse for himself and his country- his colonies, rather, because that is all he is again. They don’t even really belong to him—not the way they belong to his father, or the way he belongs to his father. If he digs in his heels, America will truly be subject to a worse punishment. He’s the embodiment of the people, and it would not be a good look if he refused to recognize that their attempt at freedom had failed.

On the other hand, he could let it go. It might not be correct, or right, or virtuous, but… if Alfred were able to paint himself as just another victim of the violence…

It’s not that he’s a coward, only trying to save face for himself so that he can return to his father’s good graces. It is for the good of America that Alfred so seriously considers rolling back over for the Crown. If he is able to convince his father that he truly had nothing to do with it, and that he is a trusted loyalist, then there is a possibility that Alfred could remain as an advisor for the colonies. Doubling down would definitely take that from him, but this way, he at least has a chance to remedy the situation. For two days, he sits in his cell thinking about this. Whether he will be able to live the rest of his life as a lie for the sake of being the closest thing America has to a representative in Parliament. He’d get to go sit in with his father on occasion, and he’d never get a say, but they do ask him questions sometimes. His answers never mattered much, but perhaps he could use this as a way to change that…

No matter what choice he makes, he’s a traitor and a double-crosser.

He only has one advantage in this situation, and it is the fact that he has not replied to a single one of his father’s letters since he left Boston. His father has no idea that Alfred ran away to the army when news of their declaration of independence reached him. Arthur Kirkland had been away at the time, a poorly-timed trip to Canada to discuss with the governors there the rebellion he was witnessing in America, and to ensure the same could not be said about the northern colonies. It’s just that war broke out while he was gone, giving Alfred the perfect chance to slip away. He’d wanted Alfred to come with him, but he refused, giving some excuse about how the pull of his divided nation did not want him to leave. He remembers his father saying that it was an issue during civil wars, so it was believable enough to claim it here.

Arthur doesn’t know that Alfred had left willingly, and Alfred has days in his cell to think of the most important lie he’ll ever tell.

It’s all for America. They have already lost. If he gives their superiors a hard time, he’ll never be allowed into any important rooms ever again, and America will have no representative. The only thing that gives him pause is all the momentum that seemed to be behind their rebellion. Even if they’ve completely spent the army, could the rest of their people…?

The numbers are not in their favor. Not every colonist had been in favor of their independence, and tens of thousands of British soldiers are now occupying New England, with more on the way each day. Trekking across the wilderness of North America, his father is on his way as well. That’s who Alfred is waiting on.

So no, he’s not sure that their civilian revolutionaries could keep this going much longer given these circumstances. On top of it all, as the representative of the people, Alfred feels… his heart isn’t much in it anymore. Not after all of this death. They should have tried to resolve this through peaceful means-

But they had, and it was ignored-

Still, it had been treason to even entertain the idea of rebelling-

Father would not listen-!

What is going to happen now?

On the third day, he takes off his coat belonging to the Continental Army. He finds that his head hurts terribly, and he resigns himself to the dark and damp. The American Revolution dies here in this room when Alfred decides that this form of self-preservation is the only way for America to continue at all. To beg for forgiveness and to give himself over completely to king and country. Independence had been a silly dream. They are so few compared to the power of the world’s greatest empire.

Still, as Alfred lies in the dark, he thinks of the flag they had adopted. Those stripes of red and white and the ring of stars on a blue field. He’d felt good the first time he saw it waving. Much better than he ever felt at the sight of the British American flag—simply the Union Jack in the corner of a bloody red expanse. The same blood red as the redcoats. The same as the blood staining the streets of New York City today, and the snow of Boston at the very beginning of this. It will continue to stain this land tomorrow and each day after as the traitors are treated in the way that traitors usually are.

Not Alfred, though. He’s made his decision. Maybe that makes him a triple-crosser.

On the fourth day, he feels the presence of his father as he steps foot in the limits of New York City. The ability to feel each other on the same land had always been a comfort before. It always made him feel good to share that connection with him. Even today, it warms his cold heart. But it makes him nervous to know that he’ll soon have to face the facts of this situation rather than just wallowing in his own pity. He’ll also have to be a good actor to convince his father of his plot, but that is not so much of a concern. There is a reason that the General had been considering him for the spy ring, should they have made it out of New York. Perhaps he still could be of some use for the rebels-

No.

Alfred doesn’t know whose side he’s on anymore.

As he feels his father’s presence grow closer, Alfred begins to scrub at his face to redden it. Anything to make him look more sympathetic, and to make his series of lies seem more correct. He commits himself to looking absolutely dreadful, smearing the dirt from the cell onto his clothes, and even going so far as to rip one of the cuffs of his shirt. It’s pathetic, he realizes, but that is what he decides to do. Anything to not implicate himself in this mess so that he does not lose access to the important rooms of Great Britain.

His last action before truly giving up is to rip one of the buttons from his army jacket, just as a keepsake before he kicks it back into the corner. Once he’s sure he’s done all he could do, he sits and waits to be collected.

There is a little window in his cell, and it is dark out by the time his father arrives. He hears the frantic footsteps and chattering down the hall, followed by lamplight peeking under the door as the key rattles in the lock. Once the door has opened, everything happens very quickly. Alfred springs up and calls out to the man, quick to wrap his arms around him tightly.

Arthur stands stiffly in his grip. Alfred will have to try a bit harder, it seems.

“Where have you been?” Arthur asks neutrally, a bit cold, and pulls away from him the best he can. Once his father gets a look at how disheveled he is, his eyes turn a bit more sympathetic. “I have not heard from you in months during all of this, and now you are found with those rebels. Explain yourself.”

“You must have been so worried for me,” Alfred whines, still clutching at Arthur despite his father trying to get away. “I was stolen, Father. I wanted nothing more than to get a message to you, but-”

“Stolen?” Arthur asks, scandalized by the notion. “You were captured by the rebels?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, with little tears pricking at his eyes. It’s all a lie. All of it is a complete farce, but his tears are real. They come from betraying the notion of their freedom that he had fallen in love with over the summer. “You know those- those rebels had taken control of Boston, and I got caught up in it. I am so sorry, Father. You were right—it was not a safe place to live.”

“Why would they have reason to take you?” Arthur asks. With every word that passes Alfred’s lips, his father becomes more relaxed in his presence. He’s doing a good job of convincing him thus far.

“They knew what I was,” Alfred tells him, trying once again to be accepted into his father’s arms. It works this time, and Arthur returns the gesture, stroking him lightly on his back. It’s working. “They’d- you know, they were sending those diplomats to France. That must be how they knew. Or maybe a spy overheard something from one of our officers. They thought if they had control over me, they’d be able to-”

He cannot complete the thought. As he stands in his father’s arms, he starts to shake with all the unshed tears he’s been holding in. He’s giving all of this up in the hopes that this will be better for them than continued fighting, but he doesn’t know. He won’t ever know because this is the path he’s decided to take. But all of his crying at least endears him to Arthur, who holds on a bit tighter than he had before.

“Did they harm you?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head into the crook of Arthur’s shoulder. “They would not hurt their Nation, even if they were… rebels.”

“Oh, thank God,” Arthur breathes, running a hand through Alfred’s dirtied hair. The motion only makes him more upset. “I should not have ever believed you would turn against me, Poppet. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Thinking correctly, that’s what he’d been doing. Alfred does not have a good response to that, so he keeps his mouth shut. His father pulls back to look at him again, cupping his raw face with his hands. Alfred just shuts his eyes so as not to give away his deception. Little tears leak out.

Well, he does feel truly dreadful at this moment, just not for the reasons he’s saying.

“I will take care of you, Alfred,” his father says softly. “I will rid this land of its snakes, and you will be clean again.”

Alfred doesn’t think he’ll be clean again for the rest of his life. He lets out another useless cry at the thought. Arthur wipes the tears away easily with his thumbs.

“You do not belong in here with these traitors,” he says. “Let us go home.”

Alfred nods, and he takes his father’s hand as he is led out. He does belong with the other traitors, he thinks, and for more reasons than just his involvement with General Washington’s patriots.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

British America (feeling quite guilty about how this has turned out)

December 25, 1776

Father thought it appropriate that it should end where it all began.

He also thought Alfred might like to see traitors hang for Christmas.

Alfred thinks that he belongs up on those gallows more than anyone else in the city. He’s in red again, just like his father. Just like a redcoat.

One month since the capture of New York, and Alfred feels more uncertain about his decision each day. There isn’t anything to do about that, as he cements his position further with each moment that passes. They’d found a home to stay at in New York, heavily guarded by redcoats for their protection, and Father began the business of dealing with the rebels. Lesser officers of the Continental Army were offered lessened punishments (meaning, they would get to live) if they helped to hunt down the few who had escaped the city. To their credit, many refused. If they did, they were killed on the spot unless it was believed they had more information to give. Then they were killed.

It did no use, though. After a month, all of the major players of the rebellion had been captured. The few who remained would be found eventually, and after today’s display, it is unlikely they will have the power to try anything new. Alfred thinks that the ones who died during the fighting in New York were the ones who got off the best, as they had at least died thinking that a free America was still a real possibility.

As an important figure in the British army, Arthur has a clear view of today’s festivities. Alfred is standing right next to him, numb from both the cold and the sight before him. Little snowflakes have started to float about the gallows, the biting wind causing nooses to sway back and forth. The platform is quite long. There are many spots to fill.

Alfred doesn’t want to think about it any longer, so he questions his father about the future while they wait. “We are to go home after this?”

Arthur looks to him, “To London?” Alfred nods. “Yes, there is business to attend to there. You’ll have to give a statement to His Majesty and Parliament.”

Alfred gulps, “A statement?”

“Just on your involvement,” his father says casually. “You’ll only need to tell them what you’ve told me about how you ended up in New York, and the overall feeling of the Nation.”

“Ah, alright,” he says, feigning that it does not matter. It is one thing to lie to his father, but the king of England is an entirely separate matter. But perhaps it will be fine, as the longer he’s lived in the lie, the easier it becomes to engross himself in it. He’s just got to be sure not to contradict himself, but he’s managed to avoid that by simply not giving many details. He’d been stolen from Boston and traveled with the army for a short time before ending up in New York. He really should have gotten out of Massachusetts Bay as soon as that first shot was fired in Lexington, but he hadn’t wanted to leave so suddenly without telling his father where he’d be going. That’s what he’s telling people, anyway. You could easily poke holes in it if you thought hard enough about it.

Truly, Alfred exited Boston of his own volition when he’d heard a group of patriot volunteers would be leaving to join with the army.

Arthur bumps their shoulders together lightly. “Don’t worry about it, my dear. They will be pleased to hear of your loyalty. It is truly commendable. A lesser colony—a lesser Nation, even—would have struggled against the impure thoughts of the rebels influencing your people. You are strong, though, and that is because you are mine.”

“I do feel their thoughts, though,” Alfred admits. “They are Americans all the same. The division gives me migraines.”

“I know, your poor head,” Arthur pouts at him. “But you have not given in to those thoughts—that is what matters. You are able to tell the difference between their treasonous rhetoric and the true feelings of your heart.”

Right.

“You will be better soon,” Arthur says, certainty in his voice. “We’re weeding out the snakes, and today we shall be rid of the most venomous of the lot.”

Speaking of, there is a commotion as an important redcoat comes out to address the crowd. Alfred knows that he is important because he’d actually visited their New York home a few times before they left for Pennsylvania. Alfred always listened from the top of the stairs, eavesdropping on their plans for the rebel army and all the places that the British would be stationed to curb further rebellion. Philadelphia today is as red as Boston had been a few years ago, the capital of the resistance being one of the first places they set their sights on.

Alfred cannot bear to see it, so he’s actually somewhat glad that he’ll be going to London. That’s where his brother is at the moment, or at least he is on his way, and there is no central government in America for Alfred to appeal to. It is wrong, he thinks, that all the decisions about this land are made thousands of kilometers away across the sea. But that is the game that they are playing, so Alfred must play along.

He hadn’t really been listening to what the redcoat was saying from atop the platform, so his heart begins to race when a line of rebels are brought out. Each has their hands shackled behind their backs, being led to their final positions by other redcoats, one assigned to each of them. Alfred feels helpless as he recognizes many of them as being part of the campaign in New York, and-

It’s the General. General Washington, whom Alfred has condemned-

No, he hasn’t. They lost either way, and Washington would be up there anyway, even if Alfred hadn’t betrayed him. But Alfred might have been up there with him, which is likely what he deserves. He did not think that it would turn out like this. He doesn’t know what he thought would happen, as this was the only possible outcome, but he feels sick at the sight of it. He actually wavers just slightly, and his father reaches out to put a comforting hand on his back. But it burns. The uniform of the British army on his shoulders burns. He should not be here on this side of it, but he is. Those men up there had pledged themselves to the idea that he could be something better, that America could be a fairer place, but he is the one who will live another day, while they will not.

Worst of all, Alfred is standing in the front with his father, and some of the men look at him as they go by. Up on the platform, Washington reaches his final spot and faces the crowd, every bit the commanding figure he had been in New York before they realized the inevitable. Almost supernaturally, as if by his loyalty to his Nation alone, Washington’s eyes find him. Alfred stands there in his traitor’s colors (or not, because they had been the original he swore allegiance to), unable to breathe while under his scrutiny. But Washington does not look at him as if he feels betrayed. If anything, he looks upon Alfred with pity.

Alfred gives his father a quick glance and finds that the man is still watching that important redcoat speak, not paying attention to Alfred or Washington. Taking this moment as his last chance to ever say something to this man who believed in him, Alfred mouths, “I’m sorry.”

Washington just gives him a curt little nod. He really shouldn’t be all that surprised that Alfred has ended up in red. He’d been considering him for the spy ring, so he must have known that Alfred had it in him. He wishes that he could tell him many things—that he’s doing this because he thinks it’s the only way America will be able to continue without things getting much worse. That he had truly believed in the revolution, and none of what he’d said or done with the army had been a farce.

But he can’t do any of that, and then a bag is placed over Washington’s head so that Alfred’s face is the last he’ll ever see. The sight of the United States-

The sight of British America as another redcoat in the crowd.

The next events happen in both a slow and a quick manner. Slow because Alfred cannot help but notice every detail in how the men are given their necklaces, but quickly because he feels so far away from it. So helpless to what is happening before him, because he truly is. There is nothing he could do in this moment that would result in these men getting to live another day. He has no weapon, nor the resolve to do anything with it. It would only end with him dead on the pavement, and America doomed.

The event in itself really is quite plain. The important redcoat reads out a list of the crimes that these rebels have committed against king and country. Somewhere in there, he hears the term kidnapping be thrown out. That truly is his fault, Alfred knows, unless the Continental army really had been stealing people under his nose. This false kidnapping is really the least of all the crimes listed, so at least Alfred’s lie isn't getting anyone killed. That was going to happen anyway.

One by one, it is announced who each man is and the position he held in the army, and then he is unceremoniously killed. Alfred fixes his gaze on the pavement and watches as the flurries accumulate there. Perhaps he should watch, but he would not be able to stop himself from having a physical reaction to the murder. Even now, he flinches when he hears the trapdoors give way. The crowd is completely silent, so it is twice as loud when the General’s name is called out. It is all Alfred can do to keep himself from crying. The door gives way, and straying from tradition, the crowd gives a little gasp at witnessing the father of the revolution meet his fate. That is almost worse than the noise of the door and the rope.

They’d saved the best for last, of course, and it is over at that. Alfred refuses to look up at the sight. The crowd’s murmuring gets louder, and he turns to look at them instead—as does his father. What’s going on? It seems there is some altercation being had, some person pushing their way to the front-

A man appears, completely ordinary in every way. He fixes his angry gaze on the spot where Alfred stands with the other redcoats, and he shouts, “GIVE ME LIBERTY, OR GIVE ME DEATH!”

And then one of the redcoats standing guard shoots him on the spot.

Alfred watches these events unfold, completely horrified at what he’s seeing. The man drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes, and his blood stains what little precipitation has started to accumulate on the cobblestones. The crowd erupts into a frenzy, of course, with most of them scrambling to get away. They are screaming, he realizes. More redcoats close in as a force begins to tug Alfred away from the chaos. It’s his father, he knows, quickly dragging him away from the danger.

But Alfred can only see the man dead in the street; he can only hear liberty dying here in Philadelphia. Americans who dared to hope that Alfred could be something more than…

Whatever it is that he’s decided to be now.

Port of London, River Thames

Great Britain (a pathetic homecoming of sorts)

February 17, 1777

The trip to England is a respite from the politics of America. To be on a ship is to be in a bubble, protected from all the hurts of the world. Alfred had always liked to be on a ship, as his father was also a big fan of the sea, and Alfred liked to be with him. Perhaps a frigate of the British Navy was not the safest place for a child, but that’s often where he’d ended up in those days. The Atlantic between the colonies and the motherland felt comforting in a way, as it was an in-between place. Not quite English or American. That is how Alfred feels today.

He’d spent a lot of time with his father growing up until Arthur felt that he was old enough to understand being left alone. Not truly alone, as there was always a chef or housemaid around, but humans don’t last very long. That is not to say that he never lived with his father anymore—they’d been together just last year before all of this started. They are together more often than not in the time since they gained Canada. But Alfred finds himself feeling squashed by the man’s presence, and that is a sensation that has followed him for a little over a decade. It’s the colonies, he knows. His father is England, and there is something oppressive about that. Alfred still loves him because that’s his father, but it is a complicated situation. He’s often left feeling frustrated by the man, as they occasionally get into little political spats, and it just seems that this could have been avoided years ago.

Arthur has always been kind to him, though, so Alfred does try to give him some slack. He’s provided for him for nearly two hundred years. It isn’t necessarily Arthur’s fault that England treats the colonies the way that they do, the same as how Alfred had not been the person to fire the first shot of the rebellion. But he’d worked for the rebels gladly, and knows that his father does the same for the Crown. That’s all there is to say about that. There’s always been an edge with him—the sense that there was a boundary that Alfred should not push. The rebellion would have been it if he’d let loose the secret of his involvement.

As dreary old England becomes visible on the horizon, Alfred grows more anxious. This truly is enemy territory-

No, this is home-

Home of the redcoats, more like-

But you are a redcoat.

Anyway, there truly will be no friendly faces here save for his father, whom he is actively telling a massive lie to, and his brother. Matthew is another problem altogether, because Alfred had very stupidly shown him that more rebellious side of himself in letters or rare late-night conversations on the occasions where they saw eye to eye, probably only because Matthew has these bouts of loneliness where he decides Alfred is tolerable in all his British-ness. He doesn’t know that Alfred had truly been a patriot—he didn’t tell anyone about that—but he at least knows that Alfred is critical of England. Matthew always seemed more agreeable when the conversation was critical of the place or the man. Alfred is critical. Or, he had been.

No, he still is. That’s what he’s here for. To be critical of England. American representation in important rooms.

Alfred doesn’t know how long Matthew has been in London. He was still in York with Arthur when Alfred left his home in Boston. Father also figures that Matthew is old enough to understand the necessity of loneliness, so he’s been living in Canada off and on since Father decided that he understood enough what it meant to be English. Arthur would go back and forth between the two, hardly allowing Alfred and his new brother to exist together. It’s a shame, as Alfred has never really gotten the chance to know Matthew. They’ve known each other for about fifteen years, but have honestly only spent maybe two months together combined.

Matthew used to be French. Arthur says that they’d won him in the last war, and that it was the best prize he could ever wish for. That and the embodiment of France groveling at his feet in an attempt not to have his son stolen. Alfred had been there, and it was a truly pitiful sight. That was the only time Alfred had ever visited a place outside of North America or the British Isles, as his father had wanted him to be there to see his American colonies be united. That was the day he met Matthew, who had been just as distraught as his father. Except they aren’t supposed to refer to the Frenchman as Matthew’s father anymore.

“What are you giving such thought, Poppet?”

Alfred startles easily and turns to face his father. “Matthew,” he says quickly. “I am excited to see him. When did he get here?”

They are in the docks, now, waiting for the ship to reach its final destination. It’s always a pain to have to wait for everything to be tied up to leave.

His father looks extra patriotic today, all decked out in his military uniform for his triumphant return to England. He comes to stand next to Alfred, resting his arms over the railing of the ship. “Once I learned of the first battle between our men and the rebels, I arranged for him to come here. I was worried he might get caught up in something. I worried for you, as well, but…” he trails off, “I was too late.”

Alfred hums in response, unsure of what to say. Instead, he watches the people on the docks, who are all so far away from the war in his head. They’ve all got little lives of their own. Alfred would like to fancy himself as having a little life, but he knows that is not the case.

He finds himself frowning as a small troop of redcoats marches onto the docks, heading their way. “What do you suppose that is about?”

His father follows his line of sight, but he doesn’t seem too concerned about it. “A welcome party, maybe. I’m not sure.” He doesn’t pay them any more mind and continues on with the previous topic of discussion. “I actually have not heard from Matthew—you know how hard it is to coordinate correspondence when traveling. I’m sure he’ll be very pleased to see you as well.”

Just as long as Matthew doesn’t accidentally implicate him in anything. But his brother does not know, nor will he ever, so Alfred hopes that wit ill not be too large a problem.

Those redcoats plant themselves on the dock next to where their ship will be, and they do not move. They just watch as the boat is maneuvered into its final spot. Alfred stays there watching them while his father talks to him about… things Alfred should probably honestly be listening to, but the sight of the soldiers and their muskets makes him tune everything else out.

Arthur is antsy to get down to the ship door once the ship has been anchored. Alfred dutifully follows behind him, and no one objects as the great Lord Kirkland demands to be let out first. But that leads them directly to the docks where those redcoats are, so Alfred ducks behind his father, standing right behind him. He feels safer there, even though he should not feel unsafe at all. He’s in red, as well. They’re all red.

The head of these men salutes his father, and Arthur does the same in return. He says the man’s name—Captain Turner—so they must know each other. He says, “I did not realize it was you, watching from up there. What can I do for you?”

Apologetically, Captain Turner says, “We are under orders for your boy, I’m afraid.”

Alfred’s heart stops. It’s as if his entire body goes numb.

Arthur actually leans back slightly, brushing against Alfred’s front. “Whatever for? He’s done nothing wrong.”

“Well, you know, being what you are,” Turner says, stumbling over his embarrassed words. Alfred has found that most of the government and high-ranking officers know about their true nature, at least those in England. “The colony is in an active state of rebellion, so we are to place the colony under arrest until the matter is settled. Those were our orders.”

“From whom?” Father asks, scandalized. Alfred is so afraid in this moment that he actually reaches out to grab the man’s arm. “He has withstood those rebels—my colony is a good boy.”

“His Majesty, sir,” Turner tells them.

“God save the king,” Alfred utters quietly.

Arthur huffs, “See?”

Alfred wonders if there will be a point at which his pretending turns to honesty.

Once again, Turner repeats himself. “Those are the orders, my Lord. The incarceration will only be as long as it takes to settle the matter.”

“Do you mean clearing his name?” Arthur asks. “Or ending the war?”

Turner’s patience must be running thin, as his words become much shorter. “I am not privy to all of the details.”

Alfred takes a shaky breath. He knows what he must do. If he turns himself over, that will look even better for the narrative he is currently spinning. If he is pleasant to these men even while in their custody, that would be a good thing for his cause.

To his father, he whispers, “If that is the will of His Majesty…”

Arthur turns to look at him over his shoulder, “It is not right, Alfred. You are not a criminal.”

“There are many things which are not right,” he replies. The taxes minus representation come to mind. “And yet we do them anyway.”

Arthur huffs, looking at him a moment longer. Alfred can see a beautiful want for disobedience in the eyes of his father, a want to tell the king that he has no right to demand the things that he does. Alfred would stand right there next to him should that hypothetical ever come true, but he knows that it will not. He’s going to have to be smarter than just heated words spoken in haste if he’s going to do this right.

To Turner, his father says, “Where will you be taking him?”

“The Tower, sir.”

Alfred could honestly faint.

“The Tower!” His father exclaims. It’s not really a tower, but a fortress and castle in the city. The actual tower is only part of it. But that’s where they’d kept the likes of Guy Fawkes and other similar criminals. People who weren’t even criminals, like the wives of Henry VIII.

Arthur asks, “Is that really necessary?”

“Those are the orders,” Turner says for the umpteenth time. He motions for one of his men, and that redcoat begins to unclasp the shackles hanging from his belt. “There will be no more negotiating, Lord Kirkland.”

That other redcoat steps forward, and while no muskets are trained on them, the rest of the troop tightens the grip on their weapons. There are three others, five in total. Humans always seem trigger-happy around Nations. They know that no matter what, a Nation will always get back up.

His father sputters at this, but he does not stop it when the redcoat reaches out to grab Alfred. Alfred allows himself to be pulled away, though he desperately does not want it, and lets his arms be pinned behind his back. Honestly, he might even deserve it after all the lying he’s done. It’s the least he deserves after the executions.

“You will not harm a hair on his head,” Arthur insists, looking all the more enraged by the sight of Alfred in iron bonds. “I will speak with the king, Poppet, and we will sort it out. I will see you tonight- I will be able to see him, right?” Alfred doesn’t quite catch the answer as he is steered away toward land, but his father raises his voice once again. “I will bring your brother, Alfred! I will see you tonight!”

Alfred looks back at him. The man suddenly appears small, alone on the edge of the dock. Helpless to the will of his king. He’s worried, which is obvious. He’s been worried for him quite unnecessarily ever since he learned of Alfred’s fraudulent capture in Boston. And yet here is Alfred being captured for real, but he does not fight the tooth and bloody nail, as he had promised he would if he had been there in Boston. He only watches, as he cannot disobey the command of his sovereign ruler. Alfred can, and that’s one of the many reasons why he knows that he is not truly an Englishman.

Still, he calls out to his father, “I love you!” Arthur only appears more frazzled at this, so he tacks on, “Bring something sweet for me!”

And then he’s taken back to land, into a carriage, and towards the greatest defenses of the city.

The Tower of London

Great Britain

It is still February 17, 1777, but now it is the evening.

If Alfred had known he would end up in the Tower of London in February, he’d have been sure to wear a warmer coat before he was arrested. To the credit of the redcoats, they put him in a cell with a cot and a thin blanket. It seems they have taken his father’s threats seriously, should anything about Alfred appear out of place once he gets out of here. If he does. He’s going to. His father wouldn’t allow any other outcome. Not while the man still thinks that his son is perfectly obedient.

So Alfred does more of what he’s been doing a lot of lately, which is sitting on the closest approximation of a bed he has at any given time (cell cots, ship hammocks, and only occasionally real beds), staring at the wall, and thinking really hard about what he’s going to do next. He’s got meetings lined up, which seem more and more like they will be interrogations, and he’s got to make sure that his story stays straight. They could very well ask Arthur for a statement, and if they give differing stories, it would be over for him.

He wants very badly for this to be over, but it never will. He’s just got to tell this story enough times that the truth seems more bizarre than what he’s claiming actually happened.

He hugs the threadbare blanket around his shoulders and scowls at the floor. He deserves to be here, of course. To receive even an ounce of the trouble that his patriots- the rebels went through after their capture. To be strung up for the double or triple treason he has committed. But no, he will continue on living. Alfred must remember the reason why he’s doing this in the first place, and that is a good reason. It is a virtuous thing to want to serve America like this, even if that means doing it under the authority of the Crown. They should not have wanted anything else. They did not at the beginning. It was only after the pleas for a peaceful resolution were ignored that fighting broke out, and even though they have lost, they can be ignored no longer.

They should not have wanted anything else.

They should not have wanted anything else.

He should not have wanted anything else.

He hears a heavy door opening down the hall, and then the voice of his father chattering angrily with someone. Oh, thank the heavens. Alfred rises quickly, blanket be damned, and approaches the iron bars separating him from freedom. There, being led this way by a redcoat with a lantern, is his father and brother.

“Thank you,” his father says to their guide, not sounding very grateful at all, “you are dismissed.” He’s got a basket in the crook of his arm. The lantern is hung up, the man disappears from whence he came, and then Alfred is immediately grappling through the bars for his father. Arthur takes his hand in kind, and Alfred rests his head against the bars. All of this happens very quickly in a sort of fashion, similar to a dehydrated person receiving water. Alfred would do anything for a familiar face right now—just a bit of comfort in this terrible place, even if his cell is on the nicer side. He’s anxious about what is to come.

“Oh, Poppet,” Arthur says, stroking his hand through the bars. “Look where they’ve put you.”

Matthew stands to the side awkwardly. How long has it been? Too long. Alfred might not have known Matthew for very long, at least in terms of how Nations measure things, but they do share a connection different from Alfred’s with his father. They are the same land, almost. The same people. Except Matthew isn’t a dirty traitor, so he’s got that going for him.

Anyway, his father continues. “Have they treated you well? I am sorry we’ve come so late. I’ve waited all day to get an audience with His Majesty, but I’m afraid it’s gotten me nowhere. I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. He’s a busy man.”

Alfred ignores the question for a moment, focusing on the feeling of his father softly petting his hand through the bars. Matthew hasn’t said a word yet. Alfred is not surprised, as he does not often have much to say anyway.

“I’ve been treated just fine, save for my being here at all,” Alfred says to his father. “They only want my statement, as you have said. Once I prove myself, they say I will be let go.”

“And that will be tomorrow,” Arthur assures him. He does look a bit tired, but maybe that is just the lighting. One does not often look well when they are being lit from above by a lantern. “I will be back in the morning, and I will wait here all day if I must for you to be freed. You are mine—they should not think they have the right to keep you here.”

Alfred just hums in response, glancing at his fearful brother. Or perhaps Alfred is the one who is fearful, as Matthew is a mirror of himself. Matthew watches them with uncertain eyes.

Arthur’s voice gets lower as he speaks dangerous words, and his grip on Alfred becomes tighter. “The humans ought to remember who is serving whom here. I am the land, and you are my colony. But you can’t remind them of that, or they’ll go chopping heads off. They are only mortal, but there are more of them than there are of us. Despite our power, we are forced to be men.”

Alfred, literally in prison at the moment, doesn’t feel very powerful.

“Well, I’ve brought you a treat for the trouble,” Arthur says, and Alfred perks up a little. He lets go of him and goes reaching into that basket he’d brought, pulling out a bundle of cloth and passing it through the bars. “Ham from dinner,” he says.

Alfred’s mouth is immediately salivating at the thought of real meat and not the canned stuff from the boat. The redcoats had given him a bit of bread earlier, but that was it. But Arthur isn’t done, and he takes out something else. “And a muffin from breakfast. Blueberry.”

“Oh, thank you,” Alfred says, taking the muffin.

Arthur peers into the cell, looking displeased. “I’m going to go harass someone for a better blanket. I’ll be back.”

Alfred stands there, nibbling on the ham, and watches as Arthur retreats. Matthew does the same. Neither says a word until they hear the echoes of a door swinging shut down the hall. Then, simultaneously,

“How have you been?”

“What have you done?”

Alfred frowns, “What have I done? Not a thing!”

His brother still nervously watches the end of the hall, hesitating before making any move. Only once he’s certain they’ll have no visitors does Matthew look to him, and he speaks lowly. “Truly? England said you were captured.”

“Truly,” Alfred says, and lying to Matthew feels even more difficult than it had been with Arthur. He doesn’t know how to appeal to Matthew, as he is practically a stranger. He’s munching on this food, though, so he hopes that will help him seem more casual and honest. Maybe he can use the fact that they haven’t known each other for long to his advantage. “I so sorely wish that I had gone up to York to see you instead, and then you wouldn’t have had to come here alone. I wouldn’t have been taken by the rebel army. I should have listened to Father when he asked for my company, but the pull of America was too strong to let me go. Have you felt that before?”

Matthew shifts uncomfortably, still glancing at the door. “Yes.”

“Yes, you understand,” Alfred says, nodding to him. “I’ll be happy to get out of here so that we can enjoy each other’s company.”

“Hm,” Matthew says, his face all creased as he thinks about Alfred’s words. He’s still squinting down that damn hall. “But you are here now.”

Alfred freezes and swallows hard, “Huh?”

His brother turns his gaze to Alfred, and- there is suspicion there! Suspicion! From Matthew! The Canadian says, “The pull is not too much now? I heard you were happy to come here.”

Shit.

Think quickly.

“The rebel leaders were killed,” he says, stuffing the muffin into his mouth. His words are muffled by the pastry. “I have been of a clearer mind since then.”

“I suppose,” Matthew says neutrally.

“And if I happened to say something untoward to you, I apologize,” Alfred continues. “I was having sinful thoughts. We’ve cleared out most of the snakes by now. You must know how that feels, given that period when all the French officials were replaced with British ones. The air is a bit easier to breathe, isn’t it?”

Matthew’s eyes turn sad, as they do whenever the subject of the French is brought up. That’s why Alfred doesn’t usually mention that topic, and precisely why he says something about it now. For the record, he thinks that his father had been very ugly in how he handled that situation. To see Francis Bonnefoy, one of the most formidable Nations of Europe, tearfully begging on his hands and knees was a sight Alfred has not been able to shake. To watch as his father reveled in it as Mr. Bonnefoy had been dragged away, and Matthew held in place so that he would not run. It was an awful, awful sight. Alfred cannot imagine being in that position. Matthew still struggles with it; that much is obvious. He’s a quiet person. Alfred had not known him before, but he could only imagine that someone raised by the French Empire wouldn’t be that silent.

Through his sadness, Matthew shoots him a dirty look. Alfred is a villain in his story as well, despite all he’d done to try to help his new brother adjust to his kidnapping. Alfred doesn’t blame him, as he’s been feeling very villainous as of late anyway. They may tolerate each other, and Matthew may take comfort that Alfred is a friendli-er face, but Alfred had still done nothing as he was separated from the Frenchman.

The door opens and shuts again down the hall, and Matthew jumps at the noise. He whispers something in French, which is very much not allowed, and Alfred doesn’t know what it means. He watches as his brother straightens his back and composes his features.

Hm. They’re both liars.

His father returns from where he’d gone, and Alfred is so pleased to see that he has a much more agreeable blanket. “Oh, thank you so much,” he says immediately as Arthur begins to thread it through the bars. This one may not be plush like what he can expect once he’s home, but the blanket is much more robust than the one he’d been given originally. Say what you want about his methods and the fact that he’s a true-blue redcoat, but Arthur has always provided for him. Maybe England has not provided for America, but Arthur will take care of him so long as Alfred stays right where he’s supposed to.

The love is conditional.

But that’s just how these things go.

The Tower of London (in a different room this time)

Great Britain

February 18, 1777

“State your name.”

“Alfred F. Kirkland.”

An annoyed sigh. Alfred has gotten his own name wrong. First question, and he’s failed. “State the name of the territory you represent.”

This is part of why Alfred had been excited to be the United States. It’s a long name. He answers, “His Majesty’s Thirteen Colonies of British America.”

It’s time for his interrogation. He’d been brought to a good-sized room, one which he believes must have been used as a throne room back when this fortress was used as a castle. This much is obvious because, upon entering the room, Alfred had been presented to King George III himself. He’d not been aware that it would be happening this way, and Alfred tries very hard not to feel overly nervous about it. He’s still shackled, of course, but he’d bowed to the king all the same. They’ve met before, but never without Arthur present. The man doesn’t say a word, only flicking his wrist once he’s ready for them to move on. Alfred is placed in a chair at a table in the center of the room, thank God. He wouldn’t be able to do this if he were standing the whole time. He’d fidget too much.

The king and interrogator are not the only ones here to witness this, of course. There are some men from Parliament lining the room, but not all of them. There wouldn’t be enough room for that, he knows. On top of that, there are armed guards around the exits. There are some men who are not mere guards, but not Parliament either. Based on their manner of dress, Alfred figures them to be high-ranking officers. He wonders if they saw combat in America.

He’s seated at this table, and the interrogator sits across from him with some notes and blank parchment to make more. Alfred is asked his name, and he gets it wrong. He gets it right on his second try.

“What does the F stand for?”

Alfred suppresses a groan. Now they want to know his true name? “Fidelity,” he says. “It’s a long story.” It was a Puritan practice to give children odd names to manifest certain traits in them. His father had picked it. Ironic, he knows.

“Lord Kirkland reported that he asked you to go to York with him, but you refused.”

Not a question. “That’s true.”

“Why did you refuse?”

He’s said this enough times by now that it comes easily. “The pull of the nation would not allow me to leave. My captivity began before I was stolen, sir. We just did not know it at the time.”

His interrogator scrawls something down with his pen. “This is a product of your inhuman nature?”

“Yes. You could ask my father about it,” he suggests bravely. “He always explained it best. The nation is your real body, so when your body is being threatened, you do not like to leave it. It is a survival instinct.”

The man hums, taking note of this. Alfred keeps his eyes on the paper rather than any of the others in the room. He can hear muttering among them. He wants to go home and be in his bed and stop thinking about this until it blows over, and he can really get to work helping America.

“Give us the details of your capture.”

“It was just after Lexington,” he says easily. That’s really the only easy part. “I’m not sure how the rebels found our home, but they did. They broke in at night while the house staff was away. There were three young men who carried it out, but they were larger than I, and I was alone, so it was easy for me to be overcome. I had been sleeping.”

“How did they get you to the rebel army?”

“I was hit over the head,” Alfred says, making a show of touching his temple where the hurt would have happened. “I woke among them, already some distance from Boston. They were a group from Lexington tasked with doing it, I believe, and we met with the true force of the Continental Army near the border of New York.”

“You were with these men for a few days before meeting the leaders of the army,” the man states.

“Yes, it took a few days to get there. We don’t have the greatest roadways.”

His little aside about the roads is ignored. “How were you kept subdued until reaching command?”

“The same as I am now,” he says, and gives a little rattle of his chains.

“I have been told that you possess great strength for a Nation of your age,” the man says, and it makes Alfred nervous. “How is it that you did not escape?”

He does not like this question one bit.

“To be a Nation is a complicated matter,” he says.

With no room for alternative, the man says, “Explain it.”

“It is true that I am strong,” he says carefully. His father had not questioned him about not being able to escape. “But America was weak at the time because of the fighting and the stress associated with it. It still is. I am not at my best right now.”

This is all a complete lie—Alfred could break his bonds in an instant if he wanted to, but he does not because it would do him no good. He especially would have been able to back then, during his alleged capture, as the rebel activity made him feel invigorated.

“I hope that, with your help, we can make America strong again,” he adds as the man takes his notes. “We are meant to be united under one banner.”

He hears more muttering from the audience. He only hopes that, if they do question his father about this, the man agrees with the idea that America has become so weakened that Alfred would not be able to escape. And by the time he was with the rebel army, it would have been too dangerous to try. He would have been completely surrounded, and they’d have him shot down should he ever try.

There. He’s already thinking about it like it happened.

“Tell me about your meeting with the rebel leader George Washington,” the man says.

Alfred suppresses a sigh.

Westminster, London

Great Britain

February 19, 1777 (the middle of the night)

It is not until after midnight that he is released into his father’s custody—because that is what this is. After Alfred’s interrogation, he was sent back to his cell so that the king could discuss the matter with his father. That had been a very long talk, nearly as long as the interrogation itself. He’s thinking that he’ll be made to stay the night in the Tower for longer until his father comes to retrieve him, and Alfred is allowed to walk free. Once he is home, the freedom will end again. Alfred is, essentially, on probation. There are conditions he must meet to stay out of the Tower until the rebellion in America is completely squashed, and he proves that he is trustworthy again.

“It’s not that they think you personally cannot be trusted,” Arthur explains to him during the ride to the house. “America cannot be trusted, and you are America. Do you understand?”

Sure.

The conditions are these. Alfred is to stay in Westminster indefinitely. He is not allowed out alone, as there may be American sympathizers in the city he could run into. Should he be caught out or doing anything that might imply rebellious thoughts, Arthur is to report it immediately. Alfred doesn’t doubt that he would.

Arthur meets with the king and Prime Minister regularly while living in London—this is normal. But Alfred is to accompany him as well, so that an eye may be kept on him. Alfred feels exhausted from thinking of how this is a charade that must be kept up with for the rest of his life. He’ll be pretending for as long as he lives. The lines are already blurring.

They’re traveling with an armed guard.

The house is dark when they arrive, of course. Matthew is asleep. The guard follows them to the door and stops outside. Will there always be someone watching for his escape? That certainly makes him feel good.

Arthur takes him by the hand and leads him up the stairs to his old room—one that he has not stayed in long-term since his father had him living in America full-time. It’s almost comforting to be here, as things were easier back then. The comfort stops there.

“We will get things sorted in the morning,” his father says once they arrive at their destination. “I’ll let you sleep in, as you’ve had a long day.”

“Thank you,” Alfred whispers, matching his tone.

There is a conviction in his father’s eyes, lit only by candlelight. “I would not leave that place without you, Poppet. You belong here with me.”

“I do,” Alfred says quickly.

“There is much to discuss,” Arthur tells him. “You will like it. I will tell you and Matthew both once you are settled in.”

That makes him feel anxious. “I look forward to it.”

Arthur smiles at him, a wide and toothy thing. He gives him a sort of half-hug, careful to hold his burning chamber stick away from Alfred’s back. “Goodnight, my dear. I do love you very much. You’re my favorite, you know.”

Alfred winces, trying his hardest not to stiffen at that. “I know.” Poor Matthew. But he never did have a chance.

Arthur gives him a final squeeze before pulling away. “Would you like me to give you some of my light?”

“No, that’s alright,” Alfred says, shaking his head. “I am going straight to bed, and the moon is bright enough.”

“Good boy,” Arthur says, grinning at him. “I am so happy that you are here with me.”

Alfred is happy that he’ll finally be getting something of a break from all the travel and questions. He can only hope that his father will also be happy to put this ordeal behind them, at least for a little while, and that Matthew will accept Alfred’s version of the truth.

Once he’s left alone in the dark, Alfred feels sick to think of all that he has done. All of the dishonesty rests impurely against his soul. It will never, ever end.

He’s stuck like this forever.

Westminster, London (this won’t be changing for some time)

Great Britain

February 28, 1777

A little over a week into the rest of his life, Arthur sits Alfred and Matthew down to discuss how this is all supposed to work from now on. Alfred can tell that Matthew does not like to be in this house. He wants to be back in Canada. He’s quiet as always, but when he does say something of substance, it has to do with that. Matthew is probably hoping to get the news that he’ll get to go home, but that is not what happens.

“It was wrong of me to keep you two apart,” Arthur admits, a rare thing for him to do. “I thought it best for you to live in your own lands, to grow strong with them, but that was not the right way to go about it. We are all British, so we ought to act united.”

Next to him on the sofa of their sitting room, Matthew clenches a fist.

“You will stay here with me. That was a given for you, Alfred, but you will stay as well, Matthew. You will help to hold each other accountable.”

Alfred quirks a brow at his father, “How do you mean?”

Very simply, Arthur says, “If you see something strange going on, tell me.”

Ah. Arthur wants them to tattle on each other.

“Sir?” Matthew asks, his voice small. “When will I be allowed to return home?”

“This is home, Matthew,” Arthur says evenly.

“Canada, I mean,” he corrects himself. “That is where I belong.”

“You belong to me.”

There is no room for any argument on that front. Matthew smooths his hands out on his lap, and he says, “Alright.”

“Keep an eye on each other, that is all I ask,” Arthur smiles, standing up. “I still have work to catch up on after being away, but I will see you boys at dinner. I hear something good will be made tonight.”

He leaves in the direction of his study, and Alfred and his brother watch him go. Once he’s gone, Alfred turns to Matthew, who squints at him.

“I know it is not ideal for you,” he says, trying for diplomacy. “But I will be glad to spend more time getting to know you.”

Matthew takes a breath. “I do not understand why I must be punished for something you did.”

Something he did? Alfred is torn between two replies, one being refuting the notion that he’d done anything wrong, and the other being inquiring about this so-called punishment. That one bothers him more.

“Is it a punishment for me to be your brother?” Alfred asks, genuinely saddened by the idea. What he’d said was true—he does want to use the time to get to know him better. He gets the feeling that they could get along, and they’ve done it in the past on some brief occasions. But Matthew is agitated by this situation, which Alfred thinks is understandable. He’d been forced away from his home unexpectedly because of fighting in America, and now he’s been told there is no date planned for when he will get to return.

Matthew does appear to feel a little remorseful about his implication. Quietly, he says, “You must know how I feel. Put yourself into my shoes and imagine it.”

Having to be part of a war, and then you yourself being the trophy in the conflict. Being ripped away from your father for some new man. The removal of French officers in Canada. The taxes and parliamentary acts, and then the person who is supposed to be your brother goes and makes it worse by running away to join the rebels. Not that he knows that part.

“I am sorry we ruined your life,” Alfred says, and he means it. This is a rare instance of him telling the truth these days. “I do still hope that we can be friends.”

Matthew doesn’t have anything to say about that.

Alfred won’t tell his father about what they talked about.

Westminster, London

Great Britain

July 4, 1777 (he should be somewhere else)

The fourth brings strange dreams with it. Alfred would think that was a coincidence, but he hasn’t dreamed of the fighting since he got off the ship back in February. It’s not that Alfred feels apathetic, because that is the opposite of true, but he’s so tired. He’s so stressed trying to keep up appearances, and Matthew doesn’t do him any favors with all of his staring. The pressure is killing him, but he’s really got to get over it because this is how he’s supposed to live the rest of his life.

Well, maybe not the rest of his life. Just the foreseeable future, as he plans to actually advocate for America once he’s in the position to. But he doesn’t know when that time will come, and being in this purgatory is crushing. Alfred simply has to hold onto hope that once this is over, and he is in that place where he can help America by being here in London, that he’ll be able to start being honest with himself again.

Back to the dreams.

Dreams are almost always confusing. They’re unsettling even when you can’t pinpoint why, and that makes them worse. He’s had his fair share of jolting awake from unpleasant happenings during the night. Never before, until the night of the first anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, does Alfred shout himself awake from pure terror.

He’s left panting, sitting up in his bed with sweat on his brow. What was that? It comes back to view slowly—New York being captured, Alfred not hiding that he’d been aligned with the rebels. His father finding him in his cell and abandoning him to rot there. The redcoats questioning and torturing him for information, and Alfred ending up on the gallows anyway. It all happens so quickly, all in strange and murky ways. From the platform in Philadelphia, he watched as the man in the crowd made his display of liberty, except the man was him, and he watched as the redcoats gunned him down. The one who fired the shot was him as well.

Dreams often get more confusing the longer they go on.

They also fade quickly, and Alfred is left with the feeling that he’s just lived an entire lifetime without actually remembering much of it. He’s got the sensation that he was just somewhere else, somewhere in danger, and his heart races as if it were real. He feels as though he has died three times over.

There is a thumping down the hall, one Alfred barely acknowledges until it is at his door. His father appears in his dressing gown, chamberstick in hand. The clouds obscure the moon tonight, so it is well and truly dark save for the tiny light.

Arthur rushes in, setting the candle down on his dresser and then immediately going for the bed. “What has happened?” He asks.

“Nothing,” Alfred pants, scooting away from the man as he comes closer, sitting on the edge. “It was only a dream—go back to sleep, I’m fine.”

His father cannot be deterred. He plants himself right on the side of Alfred’s bed, and Alfred must stop himself from flinching away when Arthur grabs at his face to inspect him. For what, Alfred doesn’t know. A sign of guilt on his face, maybe.

“I’m alright,” he says, pulling away from him and scooting back so that his back is parallel with the headboard. “I’m alright, it’s fine, let’s go back to sleep.”

“You shouted!” Arthur whispers harshly, squinting at him through the dark. “What was it about?”

Alfred will tell a partial truth. He’s so desperate to say or do one single thing that is honest. “It was New York, alright? What if-” time to lie again- “What if the rebels had taken the city, and this still continued? That is all. But that is not what happened.”

He feels weepy to say that. That is not what happened.

“That is not what happened, you are right,” Arthur says. “Do not be afraid of them. They cannot get you here.”

Alfred nods quickly up and down, up and down. “I know it.”

There is no one to save him from this.

They are both quiet as Alfred catches his breath. Thank the Lord for the dark, or maybe Arthur would be able to see his unfaithfulness. These last few months have been excessively draining—all the pretending that he must do in front of his father, his brother, the Prime Minister, the literal king of England, against whom Alfred committed treason. It is all one big act, and when he thinks about how he’ll be acting until he dies, he feels miserable. He’ll never die, he’s not a person like that, and there will be no getting out of this. Well, his father would kill him if he knew the truth. There’s Alfred’s only escape plan. His father would make sure he stayed dead.

Quietly, his father says, “I dream about it as well, you know. If New York had gone wrong. All the things they must have done to you.”

That almost comes as a surprise. They have different definitions of what New York going wrong would be.

“Truly?” He asks.

Arthur nods and looks at him so earnestly. “I love you so dearly, Alfred. More than anything else in this world. If something happened to you, I would never forgive it. But you must know that I would never let something like that happen, and you will always be my boy. Right?”

Alfred swallows hard. “Right. I’m your boy, always.”

Always.

Always, always, always.

Westminster, London

Great Britain (what’s so great about it?)

November 8, 1777

Life in London is grey. The pavement is grey, the buildings are dull, and the sky remains a dark wash. It rains a lot, and it is chilly. England is, as a whole, the dreariest place in the world. There is no place worse, Alfred thinks. What he wouldn’t give to be in a golden plain against a blue sky right now. Instead, he lies in his bed and counts the droplets of precipitation landing against his window. It’s too late to be lying in bed right now, but Alfred doesn’t care. His father is away on some diplomatic mission to the Netherlands to discuss their debts with their bankers, and has been gone already for some days. There is a guard who drops by the house to check on them—it’s that Captain Turner again, a friend of Arthur’s, happy to help out. Alfred doesn’t like him.

It’s been nearly a year since the American experiment failed. He gets updates on the situation all the time, as that is often a topic of discussion when he goes with his father to meet the king and the Prime Minister. There are still little groups of revolutionaries, but they don’t achieve much before they are killed. The British still have their spies lurking around, and they remain two steps ahead of the frazzled continentals. Many of the papers that pledged their allegiance to the revolution have been shut down, and the men working them are lucky if they are not hanged for their efforts. Some have been given the opportunity to live if they release their presses to loyalist organizations, and many of them do. If they don’t, the British take them anyway, and you’re killed.

Because of the heavy focus on loyalist media in America, it is hard for the rebels to organize in any meaningful way.

The house is stifling without his father around. He doesn’t like Captain Turner, the man who arrested him. He doesn’t like the maid trying to get into his room to clean. He doesn’t like the food that the staff makes, all of it tasting poor in his mouth. On top of it all, Matthew still isn’t a big fan of him. Alfred can’t even blame him for that. His brother hates redcoats and the English in general, for what they did to New France. Alfred has been trying very hard to seem like the perfect loyalist, so it really is no wonder that they don’t get along very well. And Matthew is seemingly afraid of Arthur, or at least afraid to make him angry, but he’s not so scared to turn his ire onto Alfred. Not that there is a lot of it, as he’s a mild person, but Alfred is on the receiving end of many glares that he figures are meant for his father.

Whatever, if Matthew doesn’t like him. Alfred doesn’t like himself, either. Every day, he wonders if he made the right choice by doing all of this. Every day, he must remind himself that things would somehow be worse if he hadn’t.

He wonders if there is something that he did wrong to make things go this way. If there was some small action they could have taken in New York to keep the army from being captured. There is no way to know it now, as there is no way to go back and relive what happened. Alfred isn’t sure that he’d be able to figure out the correct combination of events even if he had one hundred chances.

His father does love him. It was wrong to try to be away from him, even if his methods are sometimes questionable. The Crown knows that something must be done about America, or else things will turn sour again, and they are finally doing something about it. That’s why Father is in the Netherlands at the moment. Good things will come with time, Alfred will be completely trustworthy again, and then he’ll get to be a good representative of British America. He’d never been allowed to do that before, and he’s really only hoping that dream will come true, but something must change. America cannot go on as it has, or people will start killing each other, and everyone knows it.

He watches the droplets on his window pane drip down, his arms folded tight against his chest. Alfred doesn’t even know what time it is, and he doesn’t care.

There’s a knock on the door, but he doesn’t answer it. It’s probably the maid again.

Knock, knock.

He shuts his eyes.

Knock, knock, knock.

The door finally opens, and Alfred cannot help but make a groaning noise as he checks to see who it is and what they want. But he’s left a little shocked by it, because it’s Matthew. Matthew, with a little plate in his hands, the fire in his eyes extinguished for now.

Alfred falls back onto his pillows, watching as Matthew softly shuts the door behind him. He then says, “You have not eaten.”

“I am not hungry,” Alfred replies. Lying is his natural state these days.

“That cannot be true, because you’ve missed dinner, breakfast, and now lunch.”

Alfred turns over with a huff, pulling his quilt to his chin. He’s acting like a child, he knows, but he doesn’t want to deal with any of it right now. Matthew comes into view, placing the plate onto his nightstand, and then he actually takes Alfred’s desk chair and pulls it aside to sit.

Today’s lunch was a minced meat pie. Matthew has even brought him a fork.

“Are you alright?” Matthew asks him.

Alfred grimaces, “Why do you care?”

“Your father is gone.”

“He’s your father, too.”

“No, he isn’t.”

Alfred stares at a spot of wallpaper near the baseboard where it has started to peel up. “I should tell him you said that, but I won’t.”

Matthew crosses his arms. “I know what is wrong with you.”

He sighs, “That is wonderful, Matthew. What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re exhausted,” Matthew says plainly. “Your father is gone for the first time in months, and you are tired of pretending for him.”

Alfred feels afraid.

“No, I’m not,” he says numbly, clutching his blanket closer. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

He’d been so careful! How the hell had Matthew figured him out? Does that mean Arthur has as well? No, it can’t be—Arthur has been treating him as normal this entire time. He would not have left if he knew something. Alfred’s meetings with the Crown have all gone perfectly—they would not waste all that time making him think that they were unaware. They must truly not know.

But Matthew knows something.

“I understand how you feel,” Matthew says softly.

Alfred hides, covering his face. “I thought you hated me! You don’t know a thing you’re talking about, you’re only trying to get me into trouble because you don’t like me-”

“I did hate you,” Matthew tells him, completely honest. “I thought you were a loyalist.”

“I am a loyalist!” Alfred insists. Dear God, he’s going to start crying over it. He doesn’t know what to do. His life is ruined. “I am a loyalist, God save the king, God save Great Britain. I am a loyalist.”

He can’t bear to look at Matthew. He’s not sure that there is anything he could do to fix this situation. Matthew will ruin him the same way Arthur stole happiness from the Canadian for kidnapping him. No good will ever come to America ever again.

The bed depresses next to him, and Alfred peeks out with red eyes. Matthew is watching out the window, which Alfred is very grateful for. He could not handle being scrutinized right now. He feels like he’s going to die.

“We’re both hostages,” Matthew tells him. “I-”

“No, I’m not,” Alfred insists. “I am right where I want to be. You don’t know me—you don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know anything.”

“I won’t tell anyone, much less your father,” his brother says, finishing his thought.

“There is nothing to tell,” Alfred insists, becoming more heated, more frustrated with the situation. “There is nothing to tell, Matthew, and if you go spewing lies about me to my father, then I’ll do the same about you. I’ll ruin your life.”

“Alright,” Matthew agrees easily. “You are a loyalist, and so am I. God save the king.”

“Right, good, I knew you could be sensible,” Alfred says, feeling hysterical. “God save the king.”

Matthew stands and points to the plate, “Eat your lunch.”

“I feel sick—you’ve made me sick,” Alfred bemoans.

His brother actually smiles at him—a sight that Alfred isn’t sure he’s ever seen. “I’ve made you sick from my lies?”

“Yes.”

“Let me tell you a bit of truth, then,” Matthew says, fully grinning now. It is a beautiful sight. “I do hate you, Alfred, because you are a loyalist. A very good one.”

Matthew is lying through his teeth. Alfred feels like a bear caught in a trap, huffing and puffing, all upset. He feels like a fool to have been caught so quickly. But perhaps Matthew could be trusted, as to implicate Alfred would implicate himself. Maybe. Maybe there is one person who could know, but that is a dangerous thought.

“Why would you protect me?” He asks, out of breath from all of his fretting.

Matthew shrugs. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“I am not- I do love my father. Do not get that twisted,” Alfred stresses to him, forcing himself up. “I may not like all that he does—don’t tell him that—but I do love him. That is the truth. That is serious.”

His brother’s smile falters, just slightly. “Still,” he says. “I dislike you. We have found ourselves in similar situations.”

“I dislike you, too, so I’m glad we are in agreement,” Alfred says. “I look forward to disliking you further.”

“As do I,” Matthew laughs. Alfred’s never heard him laugh before. “I hope you never feel better!”

Alfred snorts, a smile finding its way onto his face. Is he still horrified? Yes, absolutely. A secret held by two is twice as dangerous to keep, and if Matthew could figure him out, then others could as well. They’ll need to find the time to discuss it again.

For now, Alfred is hungry.

Westminster, London

Great Britain (Matthew’s prison cell)

November 9, 1777

Alfred panics very quietly, and with great fervor. Finally, on the following night, he works up the courage to speak to Matthew. He’s never even been to his brother’s room, so as not to disrespect his one place of comfort, and he finds himself adrift in an unfamiliar sea at the door despite it being just down the hall. Captain Turner has made his daily visit for dinner, and the staff have all returned to their quarters. Up here on the third floor of their home, Alfred feels safe that they will not be heard. If they whisper.

He knocks very quietly on Matthew’s door. He can tell by the light underneath it that he’s not waking the Canadian up. They have not spoken privately since Matthew figured him out. Alfred’s heart hammers in his chest as his brother answers, and they stare at each other. They really do look so similar. It is jarring.

Matthew doesn’t say anything, only motioning for Alfred to enter. Even with only the light of his fireplace, Alfred can tell this room is more barren of personality than his. The furniture is less ornate. There are no paintings decorating the walls of North America like the ones Arthur had sourced for Alfred’s room.

“You want to talk about it now?” Matthew asks him quietly. He sits on the edge of his bed, and he motions for Alfred to take the desk chair. With great trepidation, Alfred does.

He shrugs. “I don’t know how to say it. You cannot tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” Matthew says.

“How do I know that you won’t?”

Alfred isn’t outright asking for blackmail material, but he would like some assurance that Matthew won’t say anything that will get him literally executed. Matthew, for his part, sighs and looks to the side. He must know that this is serious enough that Alfred needs insurance.

“Alright,” Matthew says evenly. He sounds a little afraid. Nervous. “If I tell you this, you can’t say anything about it. If you do, I’ll tell your father whatever it is you want to tell me.”

“I don’t necessarily want to tell you anything,” Alfred admits. Matthew gives him a look. It’s a little funny. “But I’m afraid I’ll die if I don’t have some help. I won’t share your secret if you don’t share mine.”

It takes Matthew a moment to muster up the courage to say what he wants to. Then, he leans over and reaches underneath his mattress for something. He pulls out two envelopes with broken wax seals. They’re blue. He says, “I have been in communication with my father.”

Alfred’s heart speeds up tenfold. That is so dangerous. Alfred feels that it is almost as dangerous as the revolution, but something else scares him. “You have not told him about me, have you?” This worry is so strong that Alfred cannot address any other elephant in the room.

Matthew shakes his head. “No. The last he heard, you’re the perfect picture of your father. He hates you both, for the record.”

“Let it stay that way—he cannot know about me. No one can,” Alfred says quickly. “I won’t tell anyone of your treason so long as you keep mine safe as well.”

Matthew quickly puts the letters away, but he is careful with them. They are probably the only pieces of comfort he has in all of England. He asks, “And you are treasonous? To what end? You are not so horrible as you project?”

“Do I at least do a good job of projecting it?” Alfred asks sheepishly.

“Well…” Matthew trails off, grimacing. “The fervor is there, but perhaps not the confidence to go with it. That is easily excused for now, as it is understandable for you to be a nervous wreck, but it cannot continue. What did you do?”

That’s just great. He’s a few months from being found out unless he gets a better grip on it.

Alfred sighs, “I won’t tell you the details.”

“Why not?” Matthew asks, his eyes boring into Alfred. He sounds a little disappointed.

“Because the fewer people who know, the better. But I will admit to you the truth, and that is that I was not captured from Boston. I left willingly.”

“To join the rebels?” Matthew asks, a slow grin forming on his face. “You are a rebel?”

“True rebels are few and far between these days, what with all the killing,” Alfred says, and Matthew puts a stop to his smiling in an instant. “The way I saw it, I could allow myself to be rounded up with the rest of them, or I could spin this web of lies that I am now stuck in. I thought that if I did that, at least, there would be the opportunity for me to continue representing America down the road. If they knew I was a rebel, I would never get the chance.”

Matthew chews on that for a moment. “It must have been a hard decision to make.”

Alfred nods. “Every day, I question it.”

He wonders if whatever physical pain he would have been put through for his treason would hurt less than what he’s doing now.

“It was a good thing,” Matthew decides for him. “You do what you can to stay afloat. Had you turned yourself in, you would not have the ear of the king. And your father. Those are good things, even if the road to achieving them has been less than morally correct. The alternative would get you nowhere. At least now, you are in the room.”

“That was my thinking,” Alfred says quietly. “I simply must wait, and one day, I’ll be able to… I don’t know. Do some good, finally.”

Matthew nods slowly. He looks grim. He’s been suffering this alone, save for secretive letters to his true father, for years. That must be why he wants to go home so badly. It is not so hard to hide there. That and he genuinely hates Arthur, which is understandable, and he wants to be away from him. But neither of them are ever going to get away. They’re stuck here forever unless France is able to save them, but there is no reason for that.

“England would fight another centuries-long war to keep us in our places,” Alfred says slowly. “They have proven that they are stronger than us. The only way out is through, I’m afraid.”

“We’ll have to be smart about it,” Matthew says, the inklings of hope on his tongue.

“And I do love my father,” Alfred reiterates, because that is something Matthew will have to accept if they are to be partners in crime. “You don’t have to love him. I understand that what he’s done to you is unforgivable. But you must put on a good mood for him. We must both pretend, and I will love him enough for both of us, but you have to be agreeable with him if it will work.”

Matthew doesn’t disagree immediately, but he asks, “Why do you love him? After all that he’s done?”

It is complicated.

“He is kind to me,” Alfred says. “He loves me.”

Dryly, Matthew says, “He would smother you given the chance. Surely, you must see that. You aren’t so blind.”

“That is what he thinks love is.” Alfred frowns. It’s upsetting. Every little comment his father makes about owning him, about belonging to him, makes his skin crawl. But his father had fought tooth and nail to get him out of the Tower after his interrogation, had brought him something good to eat, has told him time and time again about how Alfred is the best thing in his life. The thing that makes his life even worth living. Alfred cannot help but wonder how he’d gotten by for the centuries before they had each other. It is as if his father is drug-addicted. To Alfred, or power, or love, he doesn’t know.

“You still love him after he had the first generation of true-blooded Americans killed?” Matthew asks. “Knowing that he would do the same to you if he knew?”

“Perhaps love is not the right word for it,” Alfred dares to say. It feels sacrilegious. He cannot put into words what the relationship truly is. Just that Alfred does feel warmed by the affection, and safe behind the man’s back, but also that he’d be away from him and his piercing gaze if it were allowed.

Matthew huffs. “Perhaps not. Fine, if you continue on that way. I will try to be more amiable. He will think that we bonded in his absence. It will be a long wait until something will be able to get done, but at least it will not be so lonely.”

“I agree,” Alfred nods.

“And I am sorry for being so cold to you. You really did have me fooled.”

“How did you find me out?” He asks. He’ll need to know so that the behavior doesn’t get him into trouble again.

“It was a lucky guess, really,” Matthew says softly. “You’ve been down while your father has been gone. I was annoyed by it at first, but then I wondered if you’d truly be that upset to have a break from his breathing down your neck. And then I remembered how I felt when I was finally left alone in Canada. It is tiring to pretend for so long.” He snorts, a happy little sound Alfred has not yet heard from him. “And you have not complained to him about my poor attitude, so far as I can tell, so thank you for that.”

“I don’t want to make your life any harder,” Alfred says. Even while Matthew was cold towards him, he would not cause needless harm because of it.

“I think both of our lives might get a little easier,” Matthew replies. He’s relieved.

Impossibly, Alfred feels relieved as well.

Westminster, London

Great Britain (always)

November 15, 1777

The day that Arthur returns, Alfred is sitting in the parlor with his brother. It feels better to call Matthew that now. Perhaps Matthew doesn’t quite feel that way yet, as he was the one who’d been stolen, but they’ve been getting along much better since the truth has come out. There are awkward moments, and it will remain that way for a long time, but the house does not feel as oppressive as it had before.

“Merde,” Matthew says lazily. They are sitting across from each other, and his brother is slouched on his sofa in a very impolite way. The staff are away to the market. It is pretty outside, and Alfred wishes to feel the rare sun on his skin, but he is afraid to be caught where he isn’t supposed to be.

He asks, “What does that one mean?”

Matthew has been teaching him some French this morning, which is very not allowed. “Shit,” he answers casually. Alfred smiles.

The front door opens in the vestibule, and both of them jump to sit up straight. Alfred jumps up completely when he hears the familiar voice of his father call out, “Poppet! Where are you, dear?”

Alfred cannot help but shoot Matthew a nervous glance, but his brother appears confident. He gives a little nod. It is time to pretend again, in his eyes, but Alfred doesn’t know where the pretending starts and stops when it concerns his father. He loves him. Arthur certainly loves Alfred in his own way. But then why does he feel so… scared… when he hears his father’s voice?

Despite that, when his father turns the corner, relieved adoration on his face, Alfred does feel loved. He does feel happy that there is someone to look upon him so kindly, even if that kindness would go away if Arthur truly knew him.

Alfred meant it all those times that he said he hoped that the problems between Great Britain and America could be solved peacefully. He felt it in his heart as the colonists begged for equality, stressing time and time again that they did not want to be separated from the motherland. He did not want to be separated from his father, but then everything happened as it did, which necessitated that, and Alfred ran away at the first chance he got. It was not an easy thing to do, but he did it.

Alfred likes to think he did it out of love. Whatever that word means.

“Hello, Father,” he grins, going to hug him in the doorway. Arthur grips him tightly, so much so that Alfred feels he can hardly breathe.

“It is so good to be back with you,” Arthur says, and Alfred feels that he truly means it. Alfred is let go, but Arthur keeps his hands on his shoulders. “I worried, you know. I am glad to be back where I can see you.”

Alfred doesn’t know what to say, so he just smiles.

Behind them, so quietly that it could be mistaken for a mouse, Matthew creeps up and says, “Hello. Father.”

It’s fake. Alfred knows that it is fake, but it is a step in the correct direction. Arthur does not know that it is fake, as evidenced by how happy he appears to hear that one little word from the son of France. Matthew allows himself to slip under the boot of Great Britain, but Alfred has found that it is a safe place to be. He can’t see you when you’re hiding under there. He doesn’t suspect a thing so long as you love him.

Alfred does love him. That’s another safe thing to do, because as long as you do it, he will love you right back. In his own way. In the only way he knows how, which is transactional and suffocating. In a way where you give and give with little in return.

Like taxes.

Alfred snorts.

Arthur had moved to speak with Matthew, and he turns back to give Alfred a puzzled look. “What was that, dear?”

“Nothing,” Alfred smiles, shaking his head. “I am just glad you are back.”

Yes. His love is very much like taxes, indeed.