Mini Cardverse-y thing in two parts for Arthur Kirkland's birthday, 23rd April - which is, of course, St George's Day, the patron saint of England. Apparently nobody but Google and the Hetalia fandom celebrate. XD

Brave New

Alfred is coming home today.

Arthur has his last letter under his pillow, worn soft beneath restless cotton. The ink is almost tattooed beneath his fingertips because sometimes he sleeps with his hand on the date: April 23rd. Oddly specific – for Alfred, at least, who tends to be wishy-washy about these sorts of things. 'In a month or so,' he'll say, or 'As soon as I can'. Arthur understands. It's difficult for him to get away, what with so much weight resting on those shoulders. The war won't win itself, after all.

Still, he wonders at the date: so precise, so deliberate, most unlike his scatterbrained king. He hopes he remembers, in fact – it wouldn't be the first time. Lucky that his head is firmly attached and so forth. How he manages without Arthur is a mystery.

Still, today – as long as he remembers – he won't have to manage. He'll come home and they'll be together and their tiny perfect kingdom will be complete.

Arthur lies on the grass amongst the ravens. There are thirty-six in total, although they come and go, and today no less than fifteen bask in his company. They like him, these glossy hunched brutes, and he them. He likes their oily shuffling, the hard creak of their throats. Bad luck, old boy, he thinks whenever one opens its wings and spirals away over the walls.

(Wait for me, he also thinks – sometimes, fleeting, quickly crushed. Foolish, selfish, tantamount to treason. He knows he cannot leave. If he does, the kingdom will fall.)

An official in hard blue wool approaches. He's a young man, dark-haired, with a neat moustache and a sheen of sweat. It's much too warm for wool but how can he argue when they all have those gold-thread spades embroidered proudly over their hearts?

"Your Majesty." A bow. "His Highness the King of Spades is approaching Traitor's Gate. Will you come to meet him or shall I inform him that you are on the green?"

"I will come." Arthur rises, unsettling the ravens skulking close by. He smoothes down his coat, straightens out the silk bow at his collar, not that it matters much. They'll be rumpled again soon enough.

"We must look into renaming that gate," he muses, clicking along next to the official. "It seems so unfitting to welcome the king through a gate intended for traitors, don't you think?"

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"I'd ask why it's called such a thing," Arthur goes on, "but I suppose that's a silly question." A pause. "I mean, I don't suppose you'd know."

"Of course not, Your Majesty."

Arthur looks up at the clear blue sky stretching over the walls. A raven circles overhead, gleaming in the sun. A fine way to run a kingdom, this: names and dates and eyes scratched out.

They join a scattering of other officials at the jagged stone stairwell descending to the waterline. The guards are well-practiced in opening the ancient gate by now and the warped old wood begins its glimmering ascent, lifting out of the water to admit the boat. A few ravens croak curiously over the noise, flapping away when the nose of the boat hits the bottom step with a thick thud. Alfred, in his familiar sky-blue, stands up as the officials flock to moor it, stepping neatly through them. He makes his way up the stairs, his eyes focused only on Arthur, who awaits him at the top.

"My queen." He takes Arthur's hands into his, bringing them to his lips. "How I've missed you."

"My king." Arthur smiles, dips his head. "As have I."

What hangs between them is how I wish I could go with you beyond these walls; but Alfred never offers and Arthur never asks.

Arthur takes his hand and pulls at him, hauling him away from the boat and the stairs and the gate. The sun blazes over the crumbling towers and lush greens of their small kingdom, dappling through the twisted boughs of ancient trees. The ravens cluster in the shade of them, watching.

"I confess I was worried that you would forget," Arthur says, only half-playful. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"I know." Alfred grins, unapologetic. "But how could I forget today?"

"What's today?"

"Your birthday, of course!"

Arthur turns to him, surprised. "...Is it?"

"Sure is." Alfred laughs. "Old age catching up with you? Imagine forgetting your own birthday!"

Now Arthur laughs too, though it's a touch uneasier. "I thought it seemed very specific," he says. "For you. And... a little familiar, also, I'll admit."

Alfred gathers him in, holding him close. "Whatever am I going to do with you?" he hums next to Arthur's ear.

"I don't know." Arthur rests his cheek on Alfred's shoulder, breathing him in. He has the familiar scent of leather and something bitter, unplaceable. "I suppose I wouldn't be much good to you anyway, even if I could leave the kingdom."

"Not if you go forgetting your own birthday," Alfred agrees. "But it's alright. I have enough soldiers. Having you to come home to is worth more to me."

Arthur squeezes him. "If only those wretched Clubs knew what was good for them."

"It's fine, I'll sort 'em out," Alfred trills. "Told those Hearts where to get off, didn't I?"

"You certainly did." Arthur pulls away from him. "Would you come to the chapel with me?"

"Anything, as it's your birthday."

"Idiot." Arthur smiles affectionately. "You'd do anything for me any time."

Alfred wraps an arm about his queen's waist. "Of course I would. Anything to keep you happy, Arthur – anything at all."

The chapel is barely that; it used to be, before it was gutted by the fire that nobody recalls. All of the tombs within are defaced, the names and years scratched out with venom, the finely-chiselled death masks smashed. Nature has begun to reclaim the windows and floor, bursting green and floral through the cracks. Arthur pulls away from Alfred, picking his careful way down the aisle.

"Is this where we were married?" he asks.

"I don't know," Alfred replies. "I don't remember."

"Neither do I." Arthur bends near the remains of the altar, lifting up a straight piece of wood with another, shorter bar coming off at a right angle. The remains of a thin, carved figure swing from a rusted nail at the bottom. "It seems a shame, don't you think?" he says, turning the object this way and that. "That nobody remembers what tragedy has befallen us or the reason I cannot go beyond these walls."

"Yes," Alfred agrees quietly. "To destroy all traces of our history... it does seem a waste."

"Hmm." Arthur drops the broken object without ceremony. "Still, I suppose it doesn't matter. When you win the war, I'll be able to leave and see the world outside once more. I... can't even remember what it looks like."

"It's not very beautiful," Alfred says. "Not at the moment. But it will be, Arthur. When I've won, it will be rebuilt as a utopia. I won't be ashamed to show it to you then."

"Fool." Arthur comes back to him, catching up his hands. "You don't have be ashamed of anything."

He kisses him, allowing him to take the lead. Alfred is a clumsy and demanding kisser, dominating, desperate. He kisses like he's sorry for every word he says.

"No," Arthur whispers, pulling back, resting their foreheads together, "not in front of me."

The ravens gather at the blue windows in the dusk. Alfred has a birthday present for him but it stays nestled in his pocket, worn and creased. This year, same as always, he can't bring himself to hand it over.

Instead he makes a gift of his skin and sweat. They've been apart so long that that's all Arthur really wants, to climb over him with nails and teeth. The truth is that Alfred does remember the fire. He remembers how yellow Arthur's hair was that night, how green his eyes. That was creation; if he cannot love his as a queen then he must worship him as a deity. He kisses over every heaving bone in his body, I love you, forgive me, please forgive me.

He wails his name, too, into his shoulder, caught up in the hangings – sticky, glimmering, Arthur, the name of a king, not a queen–

But really, really, he wants to cry God for England.

(Who is Shakespeare? It's not worth the risk.)

Also it's Shakespeare's birthday. And deathday. Obligatory mention, title and all.

Second half soon! :3