Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or the Malleus Maleficarum. Or the following quotes: "No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy" and "For it is no easy undertaking, I say, to describe the bottom of the Universe; nor is it for tongues that only babble child's play" from Dante's Inferno. Or Leviticus 20:27: "A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death."

Warning: Profanity! Violence! Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). PART ONE of a MASSIVE flashback that took me forever to chronologically weave together!

Special Warning: Somewhat graphic violence alluded to and, more to the point, emotional abuse, abuses of power, and cruelty to witches.

AN: Hey everybody! Thank you for your patience. RL has been…chaos. And I didn't want to rush this. And now!

Chapter 50: The Strangest and Most Blasphemous Wish

It was a strange and terrible sadness to feel one's world end twice.

It would almost be darkly wondrous if wasn't so bloody horrifying.

That anything could be just as awful the second time around as it had been the first…

Alfred tried to focus on breathing, as if the right measure of air could tourniquet his spirit.

Texas moved toward him. "Allie, talk to me. Whatever it is. We'll deal."

It was so…naïve…

It took enormous willpower to face him. "I'm…"

Come on, America…it was too late for regret.

"I'm…"

He swallowed. He'd asked for this. For it all. From start to finish to now. "I'm the bad guy."

There. It was done.

"Yeah?" Tex raised a dark eyebrow.

He nodded determinedly. "I…" He nodded to the surrounding graves. "I-I did this. I'm the bad guy."

"Prove it."

He almost tripped against a root. "Wha?"

Tex tilted his chin up stubbornly. "I didn't stutter, cowpoke. PROVE it."

"…"

"Tell me."

Except…words always seemed to fail him when he needed them most.

But there was a tingling of energy between them now that hadn't been there before.

And it was Texas. Texas. Tejas.

Who'd always seen him with the sharpest, meanest eyes.

The ones he couldn't trick.

And because they could never be tricked, they always saw him as he was and never as more. And so they could never be disappointed.

There was no point in lying.

He reached for his brother's hand.

"Dearest Father and Bro-" Alfred Faer Kirkland hastily scribbled the line out as he leaned against the trunk of his and Arthur's favorite tree.

His cheeks puffed with frustration and he frowned at his latest draft. If only words graced him the way they did Arthur…

And Alfred fancied himself a poet! Why was letter writing so difficult?

Much harder than verses…

And here he had a missive of such import! News so wonderful it leapt about in his chest like a wild, caged thing, it should've sprung from his quill at the earliest opportunity.

Instead, the message lingered almost like dread and was more demanding than hunger. No quaint sentence would do.

A lieutenant. Him! He longed to share it but…

Part of him knew Father could take too much excitement on his part as a sign of ill breeding. Gentlemen, like them, were supposed to pride themselves on their ability to remain cool and level headed. O it would be wonderfully subtle and sophisticated if he only made mention of it in the signing of his name, but he was too overjoyed for his promotion to partake in such games.

And while he could've filled the body of the composition with his passion for agriculture, he doubted Arthur would read to the bottom and then it would be missed entirely!

Surely, enough time had passed? His family would be proud of his achievement and eager to attend the ceremony? That wasn't so much, was it?

Though they hadn't accepted any of his invitations to prior birthdays celebrating his independence…

Patience, Alfred! He had desperate need of patience.

Though, performing a charm or two wouldn't hurt. Osha would say such things were a waste of magic when Raweno was the ultimate decider of things but…

Alfred fidgeted and yes…he might well be squandering what magic was still his to command…but…

He sighed.

If Father would just come already…they could figure out what was wrong with his magic and their family and-and EVERYTHING. Everything could be set to rights if Father would just swallow his pride already!

He sniffed. One would think after having participated in so many wars, theirs would be nearly beneath notice for the older nation!

Ultimately, it would take three tries but he wrote out the letter to satisfaction and for luck, and a pinch of sentimentality, pressed a flower from his homestead into the parchment and sealed the envelope.

Father loved getting such things from him—proofs of his care.

888888

Alfred selected another book from the roughhewn wood of Father's bookcase. He was determined to safely transfer Father's books to the new house. He wrinkled his nose at the small walls of the cabin. Soon he'd sell this dismal place and say farewell to its host of bad memories.

Samuel, his fellow lieutenant and friend, was helping him fill a trunk. The young man was reaching for an archaic green one bound by leather. It had two leather belt buckles keeping it closed.

"I would not touch that one, were I you, Samuel," Alfred murmured.

"Oh? And why is that?" the man asked as he set a hand on it.

"Sharp pages."

He'd barely finished explaining when his friend, hissed at a deep papercut.

"Warned you," Alfred replied in a singsong voice.

Samuel sucked at the injury and hissed as he looked at the damage.

It was one of Father's spellbooks and it did that to dissuade nonmagic users from taking interest in it. Quite practical.

Unfortunately, as Alfred's magic waned, it sometimes injured him too. Perhaps when Father got over his wounded vanity, they could see about addressing that. There had to be a cure.

He was loathe to reveal the aging spell he'd managed to cast in the 1770s, but...if it was aggravating his condition...then he'd have to come clean.

And then he'd have to hear a long, boring lecture about the dangers of shapeshifting and being unready for the horrors of the battlefield and how age and maturity were things to be earned and a few more years without the glamour of fancy ballroom food and dancing would hardly harm him and all that tripe. Uncle Rhys would probably join him.

No matter. After Father saw the Hall, Alfred would be sure to earn back his regard.

Then Mathieu could eat a good, hearty slice of humble pie.

Treating Alfred like he was a leper. No. Like he was the "fallen one" of their household. Humph. He'd only done what was necessary for his people's sake and to show he was a nation worthy of respect too.

Father was an Empire! He would understand. In the grand picture (whether America liked it or not and he didn't because it trivialized the noble sacrifices his people made), America's whole Revolution was tantamount to treading on England's foot. Irksome, perhaps, but nothing the man couldn't get over.

"So you're packing?" Sam muttered as he wrapped a handkerchief around his thumb.

"Aye, I'm taking them to the house."

"Ah yes, your mysterious chateau," the older teenager grinned.

"Hardly. There just isn't a road paved to it, yet. I'm still hopeful I may cut cost and pave it myself."

"So pennypinching."

"I prefer the term: spendthrift."

Samuel pushed sandy fringe out of his eyes. "Rumor has it, that it's quite a palace."

"A gross exaggeration."

"How could it not be? You spend all your off hours laboring over it. I wish to see it."

"You would be disappointed. Perhaps some other time when it's nearer to completion."

Alfred took care to set a large Bible over the spellbook and obscure it from view.

He had to have Father over first.

Father would help him outfit the house in such a way that items like these wouldn't arouse suspicion. Ever since Salem, Father had been rather protective of him in matters like these. And to think, he hadn't even told the man he'd been caught before.

He wasn't entirely sure why he persisted to wait. Perhaps, it was instinctively strategic? It was a story certain to win Arthur's sympathies. He had a strong suspicion Arthur might've experienced one of those awful witch burnings.

Mayhaps, it was a bit manipulative. But it'd be wise to save that one for the midst of a row and then spring it.

Delighted at the prospect of winning, or perhaps stagnating, a future argument, Alfred invited Samuel for a friendly race—surely, their horses and them would enjoy the exercise?

They'd been shut in all morning and he longed for some fresh air.

Plus, Father had always been proud of Alfred's horsemanship; it wouldn't do to neglect such a skill before he finally deigned to visit.

Lieutenant wasn't that grand a title; he scolded himself once more as he washed his face in the basin.

Not to someone like Arthur who'd been in more battles than Alfred could hope to count. Were there even words for numbers that went so high?

He was an admiral.

Alfred buttoned his uniform and eyed the lack of decorations adorning it.

It was actually rather childish to think he would have taken a several week journey across the Atlantic for so low a rank. (Though it hurt more than he thought it would for Mathieu to ignore him as well. Alfred had always sent his congratulations for his brother's promotions whenever he was made aware of them. Would've gone if he'd ever been invited…)

Yes, it had been absurd to think Father would come for such a thing, he mused later as he reported to his commanding officer.

An insult, probably.

He was waiting for something grander.

He needed to be impressed. Genuinely.

And then he could return.

Otherwise, it would seem like he had a soft spot for America and that would cast him in a bad light.

Father was terribly conscious of how others viewed him.

Alfred had to show he was worthy.

The young men snapped to attention with a salute and Alfred realized belatedly that he'd tuned out of the better part of an introduction. Who was he saluting?

"That's Colonel Bertram Harris," Samuel informed him out of the corner of his mouth—guessing his source of anxiety and sounding a bit more amused than the moment merited.

Alfred held in a sigh; his face always gave him away.

He tried harder to be respectable and upright.

The man moved, perhaps not with grace, but surety.

There was something admirable in the hard lines of his form, the crispness of his uniform, the set of his fiery eyes and stony jaw.

They looked nothing alike. But there was something in the disciplined footfall and movement that reminded him of Arthur. And quite suddenly, he was desperate to prove himself to the colonel.

"Was that your best, Lieutenant?" Colonel Harris asked in the gleam of dawn.

It took great will for his shoulders not to slump. He thought he'd done quite well. Only two other riflemen had outshot him.

"Yessir."

"I would hope our nation would have the discipline necessary to exceed at all that is expected of him."

"Yessir."

The man was right.

Efficiency. Precision. He led by example.

Could outshoot Alfred easily.

And the blonde stood by and stared as it was done.

But Alfred F. Kirkland was determined to win the colonel's respect. He just needed time. Time always abetted him. During the Revolution, plenty of men had doubted his capabilities. Time wore them down or opened them up.

He'd lost count of all the men that had remarked upon first meeting him that he wasn't special.

He wasn't.

Not in the usual sense.

The only thing that let him stand apart was his determination.

Anyone else would have let constant failure dissuade them.

Not him.

And bit by bit he'd improve at whatever it was; from violin to musket to anything really.

It was a belligerent quality that ultimately endeared him to most humans...just not right away.

Colonel Harris would learn to regard him as an asset. Would learn that his determination was limitless.

Didn't Alfred want that? To be known for that?

Men like Alistair and Arthur made it a point to always hone their skills. Why Rhys still kept up at archery while it was obvious that guns were the pinnacle of sophisticated warfare!

If he ever hoped to be near them, he couldn't allow for any slack!

"I think you are in need of practice, lieutenant. Continue until I relieve you."

"Yessir."

It was nightfall when Samuel convinced a Brigadier General to override the order and send Alfred home to rest.

Alfred hung the painting in Father's room. It took him a few attempts to center it correctly upon the wall. He eyed the chandelier hanging in the Master Bedroom. Why, with some lavish drapes, he may yet reach the level of opulence the Empire was growing so accustomed to.

Just imagining his father's delight that he managed it, made him smile. He'd deliver the key when next they met. Maybe over tea, though Alfred hadn't really enjoyed it since the infamous "Party." Still, while the beverage no longer pleased him, he could easily endure…for it was the company he truly wanted. Such a scene would bring to mind a wealth of other happy afternoons and they could reminisce.

His smile faltered.

Harris often complained that if he remained too sentimental, he'd value everything and nothing and no one would appoint leadership roles to him. Because he couldn't prioritize.

And if he couldn't prioritize, he couldn't be trusted.

Didn't he want to be shaped into something great and worthy? Someone of importance?

He was certain Harris only wanted what was best for him...for everyone's sake.

Alfred stared at the painting—eyes lingering on Arthur's hand atop his double's shoulder. When they'd posed for it, he'd received such a gentle squeeze and a compliment on his poise and patience. There'd been such warmth in his voice when he'd said:

"You're being so good and grownup, Sweet…I'm proud-"

Harris just didn't understand how nations operated!

They had time on their side. This was a meaningful relationship that would outlast all who governed them!

Harris was a man who didn't yield.

Father would say he was beastly and his eyebrows would look like angry thunderclouds as he growled it.

Daydreams of that sort made Alfred smile.

He fancied he could see how it would all unfold.

Alfred would arrive for tea and the man would ask him how he fared. And he'd tell. O he'd tell it all.

And Father's indignation on his behalf would be a balm to his still sore and smarting frame.

From the training he was receiving from Harris, he'd swiftly realized with humiliation that Alistair, and even Prussia, often went easy on him.

Still…

Pain, humiliation, fatigue…these were all things he could manage.

It was the terrible things he had to say about Father that hurt him deeper.

True, he'd heard them time and again during the Revolution, but it seemed so personal…to be in the middle of fighting someone and having them spit malicious facts unprovoked.

Too often Harris tallied the lives lost in various battles.

Too gladly he gave details about the floating prisons England had made for captured rebels…

To think…when America had been very small, he'd thought ships were Water-Father's gifts to him…proofs of love and not symbols of the other's power...

If ships had made him uncomfortable before…now…

And all the cruel truths always caught him off-guard and the man exploited it.

"Your heart is a liability," he'd sneer as he loomed over Alfred's fallen form.

It had circled through his head endlessly on his voyage over to the United Kingdom and it rocked him worse than the waves.

The sea just made him ill, the possibility of those words being true made him feel poisoned.

Father had always insisted Alfred's heart was one of his best qualities.

But Father had been wrong before.

The Revolution was proof of that.

Acknowledging that was like having a leak spring in his heart.

And only the tenderest of memories could seal it up.

Father loved him.

They would prove Harris wrong.

America would handle the matter of impressment; he'd make it known how injured it made him.

Yes; he would soon win back Father with diplomacy and generosity and once their personal bonds were mended, it only stood to reason that their governments' relationship would follow.

His efforts with the house would be more than enough.

The key weighing down his pocket would unlock all the troubles fencing them in.

"So you have a Mrs. Weatherby, now. That's wonderful, Samuel. It's probably the first bit of good news I've heard upon my return," Alfred replied with real cheer. And wasn't it good to feel a bit of real gladness?

The young man smiled bashfully and readjusted the modest wedding ring on his finger. "I've a modest salary but a promotion or two should see us living comfortably."

Alfred raised his tankard to that and Samuel clinked them together.

Each took a deep sip of ale. It was cheap and a tad bitter, and it was a small annoyance for he could've afforded better what with his own salary and the generous sum Father had left him (or he thought Father had left him, the man never returned for it...so Father must've intended him to have it. If it was his to use while he'd been a colony, it was his to use as a nation), but he was trying very hard to be considerate of Samuel.

He'd make a point to create a charm for his friend and his household. His father and uncles would probably be better at it, but he'd do what he could to ensure good luck and prosperity for his friend and his new bride. The trick was blending the design into something innocuous.

Given the man's almost fervent devotion to church service, Alfred was more than a little leery of confessing his leanings towards witchcraft...lest another Salem-like spectacle break out.

And perhaps he was also fearful of a demand for a demonstration, given his weakening ties to the craft.

Arthur had promised to help him restore his Sight. But considering the tension between them following the Revolution and now the overture of what seemed very much like another war...it was becoming increasingly likely that England would be glad to see him depowered.

He'd be less of a threat.

It sent a chill down his spine...thinking like that...thinking of the hexes his family could send his way. He'd be at their mercy.

No!

No...Father wouldn't allow it...would he?

He stared down into his ale.

Arthur had always seemed so genuinely happy at the prospect of instructing him personally in the occult. As a result, Alfred had dawdled quite a bit (waiting for him to return) and only delved in fairly mild spellcasting. Though...self-preservation also had a hand in it; when he overexerted himself, he found his Sight and, well, even his hearing to be affected.

The tankard in hand was cheap and the tin was slightly misshapen from his gripping it too hard.

Father would say it was 'Poor craftsmanship' and likely wouldn't handle it at all.

It was why he had to go to such lengths to ensure high quality.

Another chandelier for the estate would be arriving the next week; he'd made the order ages ago. He liked to think that if he could just have a moment alone with Arthur, they could reconcile. He could take him to the house and…

And…

He blew out a frustrated breath; Father's ire couldn't possibly win out against the painstaking care he'd taken in designing the manor.

His reflection rippled as he set the tankard down.

His ire couldn't hold...Father adored him.

He remembered meadows and flower crowns and smiling green eyes...

Declarations and actions that proved the man's affections...

Yes.

Father adored him.

Could barely level a musket at his chest even with all of America's men (traitors no doubt in England's eyes) watching...expecting the seasoned soldier not to bend.

And he sunk to his knees in the mud, overcome with emotion.

Couldn't do it.

Could never do it.

Would never harm him...because...

Father adored him.

Yes, he hadn't gotten the reception needed to deliver the key...but he could mail it if need be. Though it would rob him of seeing the other's response.

He'd also lose the chance to address the uncivil treatment he'd been receiving. Father would probably be angry that Mathieu and his uncles were treating him so roughly. Alistair had elbowed him hard enough during a trade meeting to still have bruises.

He ought to write Father about that, he mused petulantly.

He thought of the portrait he'd hung in Father's room; just because their countries were separated didn't mean their bonds needed to be fully torn asunder.

His first war made sense; he had to claim his independence. This one, though. This one was so hard for him to understand. He knew he was being insulted and he had to act to assert himself...his sovereignty...but…

It was difficult to dedicate himself to service. His heart just wasn't quite in it. He just wanted Father to see him...as the upright, capable nation he was. And maybe get Canada to join him.

Surely, his brother uniting with him was the best possible case. The sort of liberty America was promoting could only make his brother's lands a better place. And it wasn't like there wasn't a precedent for such actions. England was united with his brothers in an alliance. America would do the same. They'd be a North American empire!

O think of that!

And he'd let Mathieu choose which bedroom he wanted in the manor; one facing the north or maybe he'd prefer the one further down—he sometimes complained at the volume of noise Alfred could make as he paced his room for ideas. Yes, he just needed his brother on his side. The Canadian was better with words anyway and once they were together, they'd be able to negotiate with the United Kingdom.

He straightened the cufflinks on his uniform. He looked the part, didn't he? Upright? Capable? Composed?

His uniform was always pressed, his boots polished to a high shine.

He loved catching his reflection in all things that gleamed.

Father should be proud to claim him under his legacy.

He wasn't…

The best sportsman…

Had never been…

Particularly graceful at losing.

Worse.

It seemed to be a trend he couldn't shake free of.

Issuing another statement of war during a meeting of nations…

England and his brothers took it unflinchingly.

Like America was no one to them.

The key he kept carrying in his pocket for every time they'd meet up felt like an anchor eager to drown him.

But taking it out and leaving it at home in his desk would mean surrendering to the reality that his future with them would be over.

He wasn't good at giving up.

Even when he'd lost so blatantly.

Kept losing…even when he won…

At the ruins of York, having finally broken free from the Mississaugas with Osha's intervention on his behalf (that America couldn't be adopted because he was already on her fireside), he arrived in time to find chaos.

He hadn't expected to find a battle raging or the heartrending horror of seeing Mathieu (personally) attacking his Americans.

He'd charged in.

He'd learn later…after…that his Americans had fought first but…

In their next battles…

He just…

He couldn't see past the fact that they'd gang up on him on the battlefield.

His uncles and brother…

The first time he'd been more than shocked; he'd stared for half a beat hopefully at Reilley who seemed to regret the moment.

And the redhead shook his head slowly…

And then they'd tried to fight him into submission; he'd been forced to flee into the woods. Woods always sheltered him.

And there under their cover grief started to eat at him like lye.

But he still had Rhys and Father.

They would understand. Had to. They had to be enough.

To keep his fractured heart together.

Everything kept falling away from him until he was a have-nothing-no-name once more.

"Again? You choose him again? You're just like Canada! Why?" His voice cracked and he sank to his knees. "Why do you all side with him? Why? Why do you all want to see me fall?"

"Dyami, in our every deliberation, we must consider the impact of our decisions on the next seven generations. I am bound to my land and to my people, I cannot forsake my duties even for y-"

Osha and her people. Never Osha and Alfred and their people.

"Never," he vowed—catching her eye as he looked up at her from his spot—kneeling before her.

She frowned.

"You will never see me thus, again."

It was more than a promise. Deeper than blood and bone. It was more like a comment from the Cosmos itself and he was just a mouthpiece.

He rose and left. To Hell with ceremony and respect he was expected to give and never receive.

The fear and the anger and the sadness he could take. It was the darker something that began to lap at his feet.

And it sizzled and hissed whenever he reflected that…

Mathieu chose Arthur over him.

His uncles chose Arthur over him.

Tejas…

Tejas, who America just had an inexplicably good feeling about, was willing to trade with him but didn't seem overly interested in having yet another brother.

Apparently, he had many and his expression suggested that it was a matter of supply and demand.

When you were surrounded by them, they didn't feel so dear and valuable.

Truly, he said their crowding presence bothered him.

It was like Tejas had never felt lonely in his life.

What America would give for such a thing…

For a crushing grief was on him and he longed to be free. Of it all.

For he was tired in ways he'd never been before.

Mathieu wouldn't see him.

Alistair and Reilley were set against him.

And even Rhys…

Blue eyes narrowed and the flickering light of flames in the harbor cast dark shadows on the youth's face. "You came for me."

Wales was to the point. "Yes."

He'd then drawn his knife and demanded Alfred's unconditional surrender.

It had been bitter work—pressing the bit of bloodied trouser he'd torn from his uncle's leg when they fought into the wax covering the blond toy soldier.

He set the dolls around the house so he'd have some degree of safety from his enemies breaking in on him unawares.

It made his skin crawl to need charms like these.

They were supposed to be family. To be welcome in his home. Always.

"Home" seemed like a shallow word now. One he thought he knew the definition of and now knew better.

His newly constructed house would be the first to be haunted with what would never happen in it.

There would be no gatherings in its freshly painted walls. No balls or galas on its polished floors…

Alfred stared dully at Father's room. He had done so much to make it comfortable. He looked over the ornate furnishings, at the overpriced rug, at the waxed floor. He briefly rested a hand against his bandaged chest. Even two weeks later, he could scarcely believe…

The wound throbbed.

He understood when they fought to repel him from invading Canada's lands but…

On his own soil...and when he'd been so outnumbered…

Had it truly been necessary for Uncle Rhys to…

No.

Wales.

His name was Wales.

He touched the healing spot again. Harder this time, as if rebuking the weakened area.

He thought of harp melodies and moonlit dances and whimsical stories and palm reading and soothing walks through forests and fields...all amounting to nothing.

Wales was an enemy.

Blood stained the tips of his white gloved fingers.

If being family wasn't enough…

He looked around the room again—his gaze sliding over the trimmings to the crystal chandelier to the flag by the window.

His best things. The best his labor and his finances and his hopes could secure. And his best seemed cheap then. His best was nothing compared to villas and manors and castles an ocean away. And what an idiot he'd been to think otherwise.

Everything seemed small. Vulgar. Breakable. Arranged. Like he was standing in a crude dollhouse of his own design playing out an afternoon's whimsy.

Deluding himself.

If being family wasn't enough...

It begat a horrible creeping dread; a realization he wished never to undertake or understand. One that made the future yawn forth like a terrible chasm.

One that made his soul tremble and his heart…

His heart...which he'd always cast so much faith in…

Depended on for its steadiness and reveled in its strength…

Faltered…

As it never had before.

When he'd first pulled Rhys's knife from his shoulder…

While he sat on the floor of the music room, he'd been part outraged, part vindicated, morbidly fascinated, and wholly horrified at his own circumstances. Helpless. Hopeless...as all his worst fears came true. And he understood now...Dante's Inferno...he understood now...

"For it is no easy undertaking, I say,

to describe the bottom of the Universe;

nor is it for tongues that only babble child's play."

His stomach kept flopping as the feeling of falling never ceased. He focused on his breathing to achieve a false, enforced sense of calm as what little magic he had at his disposal was employed to knit the muscle, fractured collar bone, and skin.

There would be no happy endings here.

His family was turning on him.

There were no safe places anymore.

Nothing was sacred.

Harris was right.

Sorrow drove him to the pub and he sank through memories and ale and got the brilliant idea to trot over to the Library of Congress and grab a good book. The best book. He'd lent them his copy of Sir Gawain and tonight he had need of it.

Because it was probably the only story he could depend on where good intentions were acknowledged and failure just made someone more honorable rather than less.

He hadn't known Harris had been watching him all night and was disgusted by what he'd seen. How cowed…how beaten down by his experiences America was.

"I'm doing all I can," he protested weakly.

He was slammed against the wall by the neck. "Are you? Are you truly?!"

There was no give in the hand's harsh grip. It pressed hard against his Adam's apple and made him gag.

"Pathetic. You'll never best him with a sword. Never…"

That was unfair; he'd never needed to before this moment. Because he'd never really thought it could come to pass.

He'd been so certain.

So very certain.

They cursed him for the fool he was.

And there was no pity anywhere to be had.

"I'm doing all that I can..." he mumbled. "What more can I...give…?"

"These men have given all they had and more..."

Harris's eyes narrowed and the hand's hold tightened. "You'll never best him with a sword. Can't even best a man." The teenager doubled over at the brutal punch, the man delivered.

What more could he give?

What more could be taken?

He sank deeper into the feeling he couldn't name.

An early spring sunset filtered weak pink light through the windows.

Alfred stood stock still. His blue eyes were wide, his face was pale, and a dark cape was set haphazardly on his shoulders.

In his hand, he held a small pot of evergreen holly. The sproutling was fresh and new.

Stubs of candles and incense added to the mystical atmosphere.

Feathers and beads and ornaments of both English and Iroquoian design dangled over the hearth's mantle and a great cauldron bubbled and foamed.

"You!" Samuel hissed. "All that talk! And you're one too! You speak of them as Devils. When you're no different. Worse. You're one in plain sight. In. Plain. Sight! Deceiving us all."

"I've no choice!" Alfred snapped. "All I do, I do for you! For your kind! And this is holly, you idgit! It protects-"

Samuel's gray eyes narrowed into slits. "You must be mad to think we'd suffer a witch in our midst!"

"I heard shouting," Colonel Harris remarked as he entered.

Samuel strode over to the colonel. "Lieutenant Kirkland is a witch. And should be hanged with all due haste."

The bearded colonel appraised the younger teenager. "That true, boy?"

Alfred grabbed an iron poker as a makeshift weapon. He took a step back and clutched his potted plant protectively.

The older man laughed. "Well, if that ain't confirmation?"

Samuel clasped his hands behind his back and stared down his nose at his former friend.

"Weatherby."

"Sir?"

"Go tend my horse."

"Sir?! I'm not certain it's safe to leave you with-"

"Now." He dismissed the lieutenant.

The young man left, though not without giving several furtive glances behind him.

"So," the man began—tapping a white beaded string of leather and watching it swing to and fro. "Our nation's a witch. Guess those Bostonians were onto something."

America's lips pursed into a thin, grim line and to his shock Harris grinned.

"About damned time you were useful."

He wasn't a bad witch. No white witch to be certain.

But he wasn't overly malevolent.

He didn't go casting night terrors and spoiling milk; he didn't terrorize children now that he understood them and what frightened them better.

He followed the rules as best he could.

Lived in the hinterlands. Always. In the cabin. In the new house. And he always took care to surround himself with signs even the non-supernaturally sensible could pick up on; birds, cats, hares, goats, and the like.

One had to go out of their way to find him.

And he only ever disturbed those who wronged him first, like King George III. And maybe Alfred's ill will had given more misfortune than he intended but…

He'd gone and soured things between him and Arthur…maybe forever…

Was America really supposed to just accept that?

Was it fair to accept he was always to be the outcast?

First with Osha and the other tribes, then with Arthur and Europe, and now?

Alfred looked around the room; officers and clerks glanced back with suspicion—conversations stopped mid-word.

Samuel and his expecting wife avoided him.

Even the deists seemed weary of him.

Doing business with tradesmen in town became more difficult—purchases were harder to make, goods got damaged, poorer cuts of meat were given.

They didn't understand. Ill will directed at him, rained back tenfold, typically agriculturally and so food shortages abounded.

Magic demanded balance.

He wasn't good at containing a blight and Osha's old advice to find barren rocky or sandy places, where he couldn't cause significant damage, wasn't possible.

He couldn't just abandon his post for days at a time; his diligence to his duty was one of the last things he had left!

But O how he grew afraid for them and himself.

His contact with humans lessened to such a degree that it came to pass that Colonel Harris was the only one who regularly communicated to him without fear.

He had no place in society, wasn't even welcome on the fringes of it anymore.

Even Alfred's president was hesitant to grant him audiences.

He wasn't just…inhuman…he was a witch…

So…there was no one.

There was no one!

There was only Colonel Harris who didn't mind.

The fireplace was experiencing a bad downdraft but he didn't want to embarrass himself by coughing in such a tense atmosphere.

"Witch. Nation. Monster. I don't give a damn what you are, Lieutenant. But you're going to be loyal to us," Colonel Harris growled, a gleam in his eyes that put a chill and a tremble in the young nation. "You're going to be loyal or so help me I'll sink you in a grave so deep, you'll never trouble us again."

Gooseflesh rose on his arms.

But Bertram Harris was a fierce man. An inferno and he had a way of blazing through all around him.

The instinct was to run but the world closed in.

There was nowhere to go and America had to learn how to live in the cramped space.

The feeling he couldn't name climbed until it was chest high and flooded his lungs with weight.

Colonel Harris was fascinating in that he was totally enthralled and repulsed by magic.

There was too much beauty and terror to behold in it.

And he was obsessed about the Gate which Alfred only knew so much about.

And maybe it was because he was stupid and lonely and Father wasn't answering his letters and the silence was eating through him that he chattered endlessly and told the man entirely too much about magic and about himself.

Because he was there.

He was there.

He was there.

And sometimes he called him, "Son."

And that was a stupid reason to do anything.

Let alone to go chasing shadows.

But he'd never been wise.

And he didn't really think they'd succeed.

But the Heavens had a way of making things happen for America even when they shouldn't…

The woods were dark and the sky was threatening as he raced along with a scared and swearing Samuel behind him. Alfred looked ahead to where Colonel Harris was pulling ahead.

It was hard to gauge the time. Would they make it? Would they be too late?

Did he want them to? What did he really want?

Perhaps it was the absurdity of his plan.

The ever lingering desperation that dogged his steps.

Perhaps it was the apathy growing in his breast which seemed every bit as poisonous as the bouts of fury which kept eating at him at inopportune moments.

He wouldn't be able to keep up a charade of adulthood if he succumbed to tantrums. God, it was difficult.

Part of him kept wanting to storm Canada's border again and demand a family meeting, force an apology, get answers, ask them how they could take advantage of him like this?

To...to trick him into thinking that they...that they really...when they didn't…

Manipulated.

But he didn't think he could take it if they started laughing at him.

And he didn't want to weep like a child.

Like a pitiful child. Like the weak child he was…

Children didn't win wars.

And winning was paramount.

Even when it made him want to vomit.

Harris calmly reloaded his rifle and looked over the mess that had once been the Grand Witch of a coven of harmless White Witches dwelling in Pennsylvania. "So much for magic and its advantages."

She'd known what Alfred was the moment she set her sights on him and hesitated.

It was the hesitation that undid the poor crone. He wasn't the one she ought to have been watching.

Her followers had fled in terror at the unprecedented violence.

"Kirkland," Harris ordered. "Fetch the book."

Alfred nodded, swallowed, and carefully pried the now wet Gramarye from the Grand Witch's hold—trying his best to block out the sounds of Samuel being sick nearby.

"Sir," he acknowledged as his sleeves grew damp and he tried not to tremble.

Harris would say it was stupid and impractical to fear for them who were obviously set against him.

This coven had done nothing to hurt him, true. But nothing to help either. That made them enemies too.

Apathy was dangerous.

Lots of things were.

And it gave him such fear.

He lived with a now constant terror that Harris would hurt his family members.

Because magic couldn't stop bullets and gunpowder.

That much was proven now.

And he felt a great urge to apologize.

For what he'd told thus far.

What he'd done.

What might be coming.

And maybe he could beg guidance from Father on what to do next.

Because he was lost.

He was lost and tired and afraid and he just wanted to gain this human's trust...so it could all just stop…

It felt like the Salem Witch Trials all over again. Only instead of being accused for witchery he was being questioned for his loyalties.

The flames in the office's fireplace looked absolutely wicked.

And he wondered with a dull sort of dread how much worse burning a witch was rather than hanging one.

"How?! How can I or any officer… ANY citizen depend on you, when you wear THIS around your neck!" He grabbed the locket and pulled so hard the chain snapped.

His neck stung. Contrary, to whatever humans seemed to think. Nations very much felt the same twinges of pain they did. He clamped a hand on the spot and winced at the rapidly forming bruise.

"I did not say 'at ease,' Lieutenant. Return to attention-"

Alfred glared. He didn't care! And said so and received a vicious backhand and a curse of "blatant insubordination." Another officer wrote the offense down.

Ridiculous. How dare he be treated thus!? Anger wore away fear and caution.

"Tell me why you wear this? Now! Speak!"

It was a locket with portraits of Arthur and Mathieu.

"They are my family," he spat. Incredulous that he was even being subjected to this. "Mathieu, my brother, and...my father."

He was the embodiment of the nation! That his loyalties could even be questioned was the pinnacle of absurdity.

"Delusions," the man muttered and shook his head contemptuously. "Lieutenant. All delusions. Lies that you tell yourself to give an illusion of normalcy which you, by the essence of your existence, have no right to shelter in. Come now, United States, accept this. For your own sake. For ours."

Alfred bristled. So it was this again. He gritted his teeth and hissed, "My name is Alfred-"

"You're the United States of America. You don't have a family. You don't have a real name. What you have...is a responsibility." He paced in front of Alfred, a hard military clip in the sound of the footfalls. "And by Heaven or Hell, I will see that you live up to it. Now, tell me why you have betrayed us?" He shook the locket.

"I haven't the slightest idea of what you're going on about."

"No? What about this then?" Harris pulled out an envelope from a folder on a desk behind him. "Well, Lieutenant?"

Alfred's mouth went dry as he looked on an opened envelope penned in his own hand from himself to his father.

"Well?"

"..."

"Shall I read a line or two to refresh your memory? Yes, I think I will. 'My dearest, first, and foremost founding Father.'" Harris then broke off in an aside, "Quite a mouthful, Lieutenant." He took in another breath and read off in an affected voice, "'I write to you in desperation. If you can no longer look on me with affection or pity, than I must depend on your sense of honor. I beseech you, hear me out. Meet me in the meadow where first we-'"

"I remember all too well," Alfred forced out. "There's no need for this spectacle."

The man gave him a sneering smile. "A shame. It deserves an audience. You might've made a fair playwright, Lieutenant. You have a gift for grandiosity and farce. I was most entertained."

"..."

"I think you'll find it far easier to confess before me than a jury, Lieutenant. I don't think a jury would be near as compassionate of your crimes, fraternizing with the enemy during wartime. Directly. To England himself no doubt."

Alfred watched despondently as his letter, his only real hope of guidance out of this...this mess, was tossed into the fire.

His "treason" landed him in the gaol and earned him weeks of deplorable conditions and the ever constant threat of hearing passages of Malleus Maleficarum and the Bible. Harris delighted in reading them to him.

An ashen faced Alfred peered through the iron grate of the public gaol. His hands jangled with heavy manacles as he made to grab the bars.

"Mercy," the American demanded hoarsely. He had a spitty, rattling cough and weight in his lungs.

"A French word," Harris commented as he turned a page. "Bit unpatriotic, I think. Trying to annoy me, are we?"

The roof of the gaol was leaking from the summer storm and his pitiful reflection stared up at him.

Treason…

Insubordination…

They were words that never should have been associated with him.

The stones under his bare feet were cold. The iron yoke they had fashioned for him was even colder.

'Forged from the remnant of an anchor,' his guards liked telling each other that as they stood watch.

The damnable weight of it made it impossible to stand straight and the smell of brine made him heartsick.

Alfred licked his dry lips and tried to force strength into his hoarse voice. "My father will have your head for this."

"Must we do this again? Let's not play pretend. America, you don't have a father. You never did. You. Are. A. Thing. Like a rock or a plant… A thing. You have no family."

"England-"

"Better. England. What of England?"

"He'll thrash you for-"

"He won't."

Alfred went hot with rage. Maybe the young nation wasn't much of a foe, he was too inexperienced, but his father…

His father was an admiral! A warrior! A sorcerer!

"You. Are. A. Fool to disregard his wrath," he hissed.

"His wrath? You actually think you could rouse his sympathies? You?" Harris's teeth glinted in the torchlight outside Alfred's cell. "O America, he'd think you were right where you belong. Where all traitors belong."

"...You're wrong."

But he felt less certain than he had a moment ago. And the iron got heavier as his shoulders sagged.

And the man laughed.

It was strange to be defeated that way.

No forceful blow.

He'd always known words to have curious powers over man and nation.

But to be brought down by a sound...

"United States of America…"

The iron yoke was engraved with every name he'd ever held and it was so heavy and worse…it burned and blistered everywhere it met flesh.

"Thirteen Colonies of British America…"

Alfred hissed as each colony and state was read out.

He had to commend him; Harris was thorough in his readings of the Hammer of the Witches and other materials meant for witch hunting. Alfred was subdued—the stones of his cell were cold under his cheek and he was so…tired…

He wondered idly if anyone had bothered to feed the animals at his homestead.

Americat, he knew, would survive.

Always.

He sighed as sermons circled and bounced about his skull: "A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death."

The world grew more intangible by the hour as illness ravaged him and the harsh smell of salt drew out delusions of other scents like the homey smells of linen and wool and cologne.

He fell into different memories of softness and warmth that seemed as ethereal now as ballads of Avalon…where he ran through tall meadow grasses, green and dewy underfoot, his heart bursting with gladness…

He pushed through flowering patches with a squeal as his name was called again.

But the dearest one would always be…"Alfred…"

His eyebrow twitched as it was said by the wrong voice and his body jerked as he was commanded by laws from planes of the arcane. "Faer…"

His chest burned as breath couldn't come quick enough.

Because having a name was beautiful. And this one was chosen special. Just for him.

And he didn't want it ruined.

"…Kirkland…"

Flowers could have lots of names, but there was a Swedish man, whom Father had mentioned, that created special names for organisms. A name that would be THE name of whatever something was to whomever was beholding it, wherever in the world they happened to be.

"…Popham…Sagadahoc…"

Having a human name was kind of like that.

Because he'd never had one before.

"Dyami…"

Or at least not one that humans used.

Osha could never get her tribespeople to call him Dyami…and so it never seemed quite right…even when other tribe nations deigned to call him by it. Because they were doing it out of deference to her…and not him.

"Tell...me…Alfred…"

He rushed into a pair of open arms that swung him high in the air before pulling him in close. Even as the warning echoed relentlessly: "No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy…"

And that sadness was a vulnerability.

The joy and hope was worse.

"Tell…me…"

And it was the strangest and most blasphemous wish to half-hope this measly village would be conquered just so he'd see green eyes again.

The weakness of the desire cost him.

"…Roanoke."

And it slipped.

The time his magic was most powerful: May Day.

And if Bertram Harris contracted with him then…during the Witching Hour…of May Day.

They could replenish Alfred's failing magic...with a single wish.

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