~*oOo*~

Accompanied by segments of the poem 'The Garden of Prosperine,' by Algernon Charles Swinburne. His time was a little after the American Revolution, but it was painfully suitable for this story. Very cliched, overdramatic, I get it. I was just having a rough week and wanted to get my feelings out.

I know I promised happy fluff, but it IS coming soon. :) Never fear.

You guys might wonder at these recurring themes in my stories—kidnapping, obsessive love, etc. Long story short: The family I grew up with was kind of screwed up.

I own neither Hetalia nor TGOP.

~*oOo*~

Here, where the world is quiet;

Here, where all trouble seems

It's gotten so stuffy in here. Why in the world did he have a maid light a bloody fire in his study hearth, today of all beautiful days?

Frowning, Arthur leans back in his chair and wipes his brow, wondering if getting up to enjoy a fresh breeze is worth the trouble of stopping his work. He's waited to do this for a long time now, but now beads of sweat are starting to roll down his neck and it won't be long before his garments are soaked through, plastered to his skin like an itchy, sticky extra layer. It's becoming nearly unbearable, actually—his flesh is crawling underneath the fabric of his formal wear as if ants are marching on it.

But all these documents need his signature and stamp of approval, preferably by tomorrow morning so that they can make that day's post. He looks at the enormous stack of parchment on his desk and sighs wearily, pressing his hot fingertips against his glistening forehead. Oh, is his hand going to ache by the end of tonight.

Cheer up, old sport, he tells himself wryly as he rings a tinny bell contraption near his desk, a signal for a servant to come and bring him a glass of scotch. It's not like you won't get some enjoyment out of this come three months….

In just a few weeks' time, back home in England, there would be a glorious day of celebration, full of music and dancing. Perhaps his ward would even be feeling well enough to attend….but England dismisses the thought almost as quickly as it comes. No. Too many men rowdy with drink would be there, too much noise, ill language, and whores plying their trade. Much too inappropriate for a small boy like Alfred, who would, no doubt, be overwhelmed by the entire spectacle. Best to just let him alone in the stillness, where he could be calm….

Dead winds' and spent waves' riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams;

Sometimes, England envies America, able to enjoy such an uneventful, peaceful life among the daisies, not bound by office or by obligation to attend event after event, read towerloads of documents and sign so bloody many of them. It's certainly not an easy thing to be an Empire, and England only very rarely gets a decent vacation every couple of years.

He reaches for another document and scans it briefly, his viridian eyes glazing over the elegant script. He signs and stamps it. Someone knocks at the door and a bowing servant presents him with a glass of honey-colored liquor, which he gulps down without really tasting, feeling it burn his throat all the way down before it settles in his stomach like a glowing coal. He dismisses the servant and picks up another piece of paper. Brief read, signature of approval and stamp. Another one. After initially reading over it with careless disdain, a name captures Arthur's attention and the man's eyes slow in their processing over the document, scanning it carefully.

An amused smirk appears on his face, and the country cheerfully dips his stamping ring into the inkwell before pressing it very clearly and deliberately against the paper. He withdraws it to see his personal coat of arms shining perfectly on the paper, and for good measure England puts the seal on it again—dips it into the inkwell and does it again, again, again. When he signs it, his signature is much larger and much more flamboyant than usual.

England holds the document up and smiles faintly, leaning his chin against his hand.

"Well, what do you think of it, John Hancock?" he asks, flicking the paper with a finger. "Will you see that clearly enough when you're walking up the gallow steps?"

Laughing, he puts the paper aside so that it can dry and picks up another one.

Signature—dead.

Signature—dead.

Signature, dead, dead, dead, dead.

This is really too much fun. But after an hour or so of this, Arthur is practically baking and his hand is cramping just a little, so he decides an hour's or so repose won't really hurt. Standing and stretching, he picks up a very long piece of paper hiding underneath the many documents and death sentences littering his desk.

His green eyes narrow, and a surge of hatred unlike anything he's ever felt before roars inside of him like an angry tidal wave, crashing down with a boulder-slicing vindication:

When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

Now he remembers why he told the woman to light the fire.

It burns marvelously, fluttering against the hungry yellow flames, words of treason painfully prominent before the fire catches at the edges, turning parchment into dust as the Declaration curls in on itself, burning, burning away until it's nothing but a memory. A memory and ashes.

~*oOo*~

I watch the green field growing

For reaping folk and sowing,

For harvest-time and mowing,

The colonies could certainly get wretchedly cold, but today the weather is quite lovely.

Basket over his arm and in decidedly more comfortable attire, Arthur pulls on the reins of his horse and inhales deeply as the breeze plays with the trees overhead, making the dark green leaves tremble and sparkle in the late spring zephyr. Arthur can only hope that the weather will be so fair in London in a few weeks time. What better sign for the world that England's victory over the traitors was a just and holy crusade than God himself smiling down upon them?

The corners of his mouth twitch into a smirk.

Well, besides the image of several screaming heretics writhing in flames or hanging like limp dolls from ropes, that is. Burning or hanging, burning or hanging, it's always so difficult to decide. A shame Parliament banned the notion of tearing people's bodies into sections for public executions, but he supposes hanging is still the best way of doing things. Flames are nice and delightfully gruesome, but hanging is swift. Decisive. Justice. A moment the guilty breathe and another they do not. The world drops out from underneath the wicked and the invisible hand of Mother Britannia strangles her enemies before taking back her children.

Arthur reaches for an apple from a nearby tree and bites into it, almost immediately making a face. Not yet ripe enough. He drops it on the ground and lets his horse finish off the rest of it, patting his ears as the old mare happily crunched the treat. These creatures live for such a short span—often shorter even than a human's—but they're loyal, trustworthy souls when trained well enough.

It was on this horse, fittingly named Might that he'd rescued his poor, mad little brother back from the infidels and savages that had polluted his mind.

A bloody, ashen sky. Smoke and gunpowder on the wind. Red, blue, white everywhere, scattered. A torn flag rippling in the gale that stirred the bellows of the mad world unfolding below.

He'd had to tie the poor boy down after he'd been wounded by a bayonet, and carried the struggling America onto Might before slinging a boot over Might's back, tugging on the reins. Might had sped off with all the speed he could muster, while Alfred kicked and writhed and squirmed like a lunatic, shrieking his head off. The American rebels that still fought uselessly in this massacre were being blocked from retrieving their captain, stern-faced English soldiers firing into their ranks again and again and again.

"Let go of me!" Alfred had roared, fighting like a wildcat against the ropes that held him fast, tearing at Arthur's hands. Might continued to gallop away from the bloodshed, from the sound of exploding bayonets and the screams and cries of wounded, dying men. He ripped his head around to face Arthur, teeth bared ferociously, the fierce lapis lazuli stones on his face reflecting the firelight.

"Arthur, let go of me, goddamnit! I'M LEAVING BECAUSE I WANT TO LEAVE!

ENGLAND, LET ME THE FUCK GO!"

Arthur sorrowfully shakes his head at the memory, and notices Might. "Now, now, no more of that," he says reprovingly to Might, who is still nibbling the green apple core thoughtfully. "You'll get yourself sick." The horse nickers softly.

The breeze picks up again; Arthur rolls his eyes. He knows too much fresh air wasn't good for one's constitution, but Alfred does seem to thrive on it. If England let him have his way, the boy would very likely sleep under the stars. Chuckling, he flicks the reins again and the horse takes off to the enchanted place.

A sleepy world of streams.

~*oOo*~

I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep

The handpicked soldiers all stationed at the checkpoint salute and lift their guns respectfully as Arthur's horse gallops past them. Arthur gratefully grants them a nod—these are loyal, steadfast soldiers who helped take back what was stolen and guard the perimeter quite well. It's amazing so much as a bird is able to escape their sharp eyes, or their bullets. They're changed every hour, by the hour, so that England can always be certain of maximum security.

That Paradise can always be certain of its inhabitant's safety.

After checking in at a few more checkpoints, Might trots until they're under a den of trees, where an absolutely enormous stone and iron gate is waiting, several medieval and positively gruesome-looking spikes hulking on the top. England shakes his head at them as his fingers gloss over the sun-baked, slippery stone. Even if by some miracle an intruder managed to climb the wall, they'd immediately be cut through by the many invisible traps and snares that dogged the walls.

Pulling a gold key out of his pocket, England dismounts, ties Might up and slaps him affectionately before finally passing through the gate, carefully closing it shut behind him, locking it. He inhales, drinking in a light, clean scent that seems to be the embodiment of springtime. Somehow, honeysuckle has managed to grow around the vicious spikes atop the lovely gate, and while he supposes the vine will have to be cut down it makes him smile, because it somehow reminds him of Alfred.

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap

He passes a great fountain, bubbling cheerfully under the warm sunlight, silver water sparkling. A few goldfish—such a favorite with his boy—shimmer as they swim in the marble pool. He passes countless patches of flowers bobbing obligingly in the breeze, their hues extending from snappy reds to dark, rich purples. He has to stand still a moment; the many fragrances in this garden are hitting him all at once, making him dizzy.

I am weary of days and hours,

Blown buds of barren flowers,

On his path, there are several fruit trees and berry bushes, and he helps himself to a few ripe strawberries blushing amongst well-tended plants, popping them in his mouth.

They were sweeter to England than they might be to a normal person, considering that they and this paradise were all made with the scarce treasury of the would-be United States of America.

A laugh, good and hearty as England watches jewel-like hummingbirds zip past flowers, drunk with joy.

Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.

~*oOo*~Here life has death for neighbour,

And far from eye or ear

Though one were strong as seven,

He too with death shall dwell,Though one were strong as seven,

He too with death shall dwell,

No growth of moor or coppice,

No heather-flower or vine,

No growth of moor or coppice,

No heather-flower or vine,

He comes to a small, modest little cottage in the middle of the walled garden, sheltered underneath many tall and strong trees, peeking out like a child amongst soldiers. Directly outside the charming little pathway dotted with flowers sits a thin young man sitting next to a small sea of tulip bulbs. Wordlessly, he drops a small bulb inside the hollow that is waiting for it, begins to knead the dirt back over it. Scoops up another bulb, working diligently. His pale cheekbones are being made rosy again by the sunshine smiling down at him, clean and brightly colored hair gleaming like grain.

His youthish, boyish face is furrowed deep in concentration, as if what he's doing is of the utmost importance.

Nor wake with wings in heaven,

Nor weep for pains in hell;

Arthur smiles at this sight and carefully approaches the young man, clearing his throat to capture his attention. He knows by now that it's a bad idea to startle him, especially while he's working.

Though one were fair as roses,

His beauty clouds and closes;

And well though love reposes,

If America hears England, it doesn't deter him from his work. The calloused hands carefully scoop up a small bulb from the pile next to him and place it into the next small hollow, carefully spaced away from the first. England watches those hands, covered with dirt and grime and the fingernails black. Arthur frowns.

"Alfred."

Alfred looks up at the sound. Looks away. Goes back to planting his bulb, covering it up with dark, rich soil before patting the ground affectionately. Picks up a new bulb, and begins to dig a new hole. England sighs wearily and buries his face in his hand.

In the end it is not well.

"Come now, lad," England tsks as he walks over to America, wraps his hands in a handkerchief, and pulls Alfred to his feet. America isn't looking at him, staring back at the remaining bulbs as if he expects them to start leaping into the ground and begin planting themselves.

"You've been planting all morning. Come now—have some lunch."

America just stands and stares as a humming England spreads a blanket on the ground, gestures for the blond to join him. After a moment, Alfred obediently kneels, and allows England to wash off his dirty hands with scented oil with no argument.

Smiling, England opens up his basket and hands Alfred a blackberry scone he made. "Eat."

Alfred plays with it for a moment. Turns it over in his hand. Smells it. Tries to hand it back to Arthur, who only frowns at him.

"Don't be daft, boy. You need to eat."

Resignation flickers in Alfred's dull, nearly senseless eyes, and the boy takes the scone back and takes a bite. And then another. And another. England watches on approvingly like a pleased mother, cooing as Alfred finishes a little under half of the food and puts it to the side. He doesn't look at it, even when Arthur tries to nudge it back into his hands.

There go the loves that wither,

The old loves with wearier wingsFrom too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free,

We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be

That no life lives for ever;

That dead men rise up never;

That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

England lets out a sad, shuddering sigh. "Oh, my dear boy, what have those beasts done to you?" he asks, tucking a piece of hair behind Alfred's ear, green eyes glittering with tears. A moment later, Arthur has swallowed it away and smiling assuredly. "Your appetite will come back one day, Alfred. I'll see to it." He pulls the young man's limp hands in his own, squeezes them.

And all dead years draw thither,

And all disastrous things;

"But if you don't want scones, Rosa made you some of the soup you like so much." He opens the basket again and unhooks the top off a tiny pot, which is steaming slightly. Alfred's cornflower eyes wander to the steam drifting off into the air, and he sniffs, looking curious for the first time.

Encouraged, hope sparks to life inside of him, and for a moment England is pleased and self-assured, until Alfred reaches to touch the soup with his bare hands.

"Spoon," Arthur corrects, handing him one. Alfred looks at him. Begins to dig into the black earth again, reaching for a nearby bulb.

"No, no, no, no!" England exclaims, ripping it away from him. "This isn't a trowel, Alfred. Surely you recognize this?"

There's a pretty orange butterfly circling behind Arthur, perching on a patch of white roses before it gracefully floats away. Transfixed, Alfred gazes at it as Arthur lectures him on the importance of etiquette. When he sees that Alfred's not paying attention, the frustrated man immediately raises his hand up high, and the colony understands that gesture. Alfred clutches his bulb to his chest and cowers.

Dead dreams of days forsaken,

Blind buds that snows have shaken,

The irritation in England's green eyes quickly evaporates like mist before a strong wind, and the country shamefacedly lowers his hand. After awhile, Alfred dares to look up at him again, eyes impossibly large, with many dark circles beneath them. The colony makes no attempt to ever fall asleep—has long ago forgotten to. He sleeps only when his heavy eyelids shut of their own volition, after Arthur locks him in his bedroom and he gets tired of pacing.

"Oh, Alfred, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be short with you. Here—" Arthur reaches for another utensil and scoops up a spoonful of the onion soup before extending it out hopefully towards Alfred; a peace offering.

Alfred dares look at him again. Looks away. Puts down the bulb and hugs his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth. His face is caught up in a silent whimper, and he looks beyond confused.

Wild leaves that winds have taken,

Red strays of ruined springs.

"You don't have to be afraid of me, Alfred," England coaxes, pulling Alfred onto his lap and caressing his face, cupping it so that it's facing him. After a moment, America looks into his eyes most unwillingly. "I would never hurt you."

His fingers dance downwards onto the American's neck, and England can see peeking out under Alfred's shirt five pinpricks, scabbed over wounds. Mementos from a night in Boston when Arthur's world had come crashing down, rebuilt again when he realized that Alfred wasn't rebelling so much as he was being poisoned.

And England had to rescue him. The man unbuttons two or three buttons on his own shirt, showing Alfred the nearly identical marks on his left shoulder. "I have them too, dearest." He presses his and Alfred's foreheads together, inhaling his scent. "I can't tell you how much misery that wretched night caused me…but never mind the past. Now you're home safe, and no one will ever pervert you again."

Alfred is humming slightly to himself again. In the vague, disturbed snatches of thought he sometimes has, he wonders if he ever heard the melody before, or if he's making them up. Arthur runs his fingers through America's hair, feeling a bitter sense of anguish when empty eyes whirl past him again, so devoid of the infectious light and warmth that had given everyone a bit of cheer.

His hands wander to Alfred's forearms, and Arthur clutches him close, a dear sort of madness in his eyes. He has him now. Arthyr can't lose Alfred. He won't. Alfred is like his son, his precious boy, the only one who ever loved him unconditionally.

Until those awful, awful men came along, that was, and attempted to contaminate him. They hurt him. They turned him against the country that adored him and made him fight when there was no just cause to do so. Forget hanging. Arthur would petition the king for the very worst and gruesome bits of torture—their families included.

"They'll all be done away with, darling boy." Arthur says softly, pressing a kiss against Alfred's brow. "Gone away, like a bad dream. Won't that be nice?"

Alfred's eyes seem overbright as he picks up a stick and starts to play with it. Arthur stands up and stares appreciatively at the flora around them, worthy of the Garden of Eve, albeit without the wild animals. "You're safe here. Isn't this place pretty? Lord knows much of the world would give anything to be in such a nice garden."

Alfred looks up at him, and to England's awful disappointment, a look of sorrow and frantic dismay steals over the boy's features for a moment, as if he is not a young man but a creature locked inside a cage, surrounded by gawkers. The image of a bird batting itself against the bars until it falls down dead briefly appears in England's thoughts, but he quickly hurdles the nastiness away.

The bird would sing again in its heaven, its beautiful place. Alfred just needed some time to heal was all. England's heart twisted in sympathy for him as he sank back down next to his colony, pulling him into a swift embrace. He was so young. A child in an adult's body. England clears his throat again, this time more gruffly.

"Alfred, I love you."

The boy curiously turns his blue eyes from the sky to England and back again. England takes his hands, and Alfred glances at the intertwined pair, his expression impassive.

"I want you with me forever."

From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free,

America still does nothing, even when England leans forward and starts lathering his body with kisses. When England starts to pull off his clothes, a hint of lucidity enters his eyes and America looks confused, almost fearful. His hands fly to Arthur's shoulders and tentatively push, but he's been zapped of most of his old strength and so Arthur is easily able to push him back onto the pillowlike moss and eagerly begin stripping Alfred of his clothes.

We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be

"It's okay, Alfred," he cooed when Alfred shifted underneath him, looking away. "It's alright, it's your Arthur. I'm going to make you feel so good."

Alfred twists and turns, his hands digging into the grass as his colonizer's hands start dancing up and down his body, heat and wings beating wildly inside of his stomach until his heart starts to ache. Every nerve of him is waking up, ultrasensitive as England massages them, tries to soothe his rigid posture and make Alfred relax into him.

But he says nothing, even as England's head buries itself between his legs and Alfred's whimpers fill up the air. After a moment, England pulls back, starts struggling with his own clothes and swearing as his shaking fingers fail to undo the snaps. At last Arthur just rips them off, and eagerly lunges back for Alfred like a bird of prey, sinking his teeth into Alfred's sweaty, shaking shoulder before sliding one, two, three fingers into Alfred's quivering and hot body, stretching it out.

That no life lives forever

It isn't long before England is pushing himself into America, groaning loudly and gritting his teeth, sweat trickling down his flushed face as he gasps for breath, staring down at the boy below and grabbing his face to make him look at England. "Don't you dare look away from me, boy."

Alfred blankly obliges, even when England hits something inside of him and he starts screaming.

That dead men rise up never

When it's over he stares at the sky again as England holds him close. After some time passes Arthur pulls him to his feet and leads him inside the little house, drawing up a hot bath for the two to wash up in. It's only another excuse for him to touch Alfred, who bears it with no complaint.

Deciding that Alfred really has had enough fresh air for the day, England tenderly tucks America into bed and kisses him goodnight, though the sun is only now just beginning to set. Alfred watches it with wide eyes before England pulls the drapes closed over the window, leaving the two in a musty darkness.

A hand touches his cheek. A kiss on the forehead. "Goodnight, love. Sleep well. I'll be back in the morning, don't you fret."

And, after locking the door behind him, Arthur is gone.

Alfred stares up at the ceiling for what seems like hours before he stiffly rises from his bed, and walks over to the window. Tries to open it. But the glass will not budge.

As if he'd been planning this for days, Alfred walks to the only other bit of furniture across the room—a chair—picks it up with some difficulty, and hurls it at the window.

The glass smashes to pieces and Alfred slowly crawls out, not minding the many cuts that litter his knees when he kneels on broken glass, slicing into his skin.

Suddenly exhausted, he crawls over to his patch of bulbs and plants one. Another one. Another one. Another.

Jefferson, Franklin, Washington…another bulb planted for the lost, the horrible, throbbing loss in Alfred's heart that would never, ever again be refilled. Hope had withered and died, and so he tried to make substitute, in his brief moments of sanity, some compensation for the sheer emptiness.

So many lives all about to be lost forever. Alfred sighs, and a tear steals down his cheek.

That even the weariest river

He plants every single last flower, including one for himself. Then, he takes the sharp edge of the trowel—Arthur would never let him within range of a weapon, but he'd seemed to have forgotten Alfred's one solace—and places it over his wrists, grabbing a stone to hammer it into one. And then the other.

The hot rush of life. Bleeding, bleeding, bleeding everywhere. Alfred lets it go for a moment and listens to the night, listens to the sounds of the garden rustling. As lovely a place this is, he thinks he can see why Adam and Eve left.

Rebirth.

With the first smile in ages, Alfred lets the heaviness growing in his head pull him to the ground, so much more gentle and kind than Arthur. The warmth of his own life seeping over his body, keeping him warm from the night.

His vision is growing fuzzy now, and he can hear the gate jingling frantically—no doubt someone heard the window smash and alerted Arthur. But something inside Alfred tells him it's going to be alright.

Goodnight, Alfred mouths, though he knows not to whom, and the wind rushing past the leaves is his lullaby, used to blot out the piercing screams of horror rising through the air.

Someone is screaming, screaming, screaming, like a mother who just found her baby dead in its bed.

Alfred sleeps.

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

....yeah. *Sighs* I DID borrow that last line about a mother from someone...you probably can guess who. I'm really sorry; it was stupid and unoriginal of me, but I thought that was just such a horrific and amazing line.

Cute and happy stuff will come, folks. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow. Halloween's comin' up soon...*Plot bunnies musing*