Chapter Text
July 2nd 1776
Since the beginning of his existence, Alfred had always looked to the sky for comfort. More so, he looked to the stars for company, for a smile when those who would usually give him one were not near. Now, however, he looked up at a cloudless, bright sky, lying flat on his back as if he’d fallen, with no recollection of why nor how. But nevertheless he smiled. Philosophy was being etched on the inside of his flesh, across his heart, where he’d keep it safe for his people as long as they gave definition to each other. He had helped draft sections of the declaration and knew without a doubt that the vote had carried from the congress convened in Philadelphia. With each word written and signed off on, that philosophy was emblazoning itself on his eyelids as they slipped closed. There was such irony in the fact that they were in the midst of something which seemed so rudimentary but was actually a piece of written flesh for their new nation–a sort of first breath into Alfred’s new status.
Now someone was screaming his name, several someones, rather, and it was only then that he realized the sounds were distressed. In the same instant, his brain, in its rosy, practically euphoric state had no knowledge of when his eyesight came back into focus, but once it did, two dirtied faces crowded his vision, dragging him upright and supporting his full weight between them. The faces were so familiar but he could not place them at the moment, blurring between so many other faces that he was recalling—almost like a very strange dream with a very sentimental feeling. Alfred’s skin warmed where his people—now officially so, touched him. He wondered if the striking phenomenon would give his men an edge in the battles to come or any currently raging. After further thought, he hoped his men did not feel as he did, as he felt exceedingly feverish, like a bubble was forming in his head which rendered him unable to form a coherent thought. While the two young men fretted about, Alfred felt his back fall against a cot, back in one of the tents in the continental army camp, and smiled. He wondered briefly if he would die with the way his skin burned and his heart beat much faster than normal, definitely not normal for humans. But he could not be concerned with the prospect of death—not when he was, for the first time in his 169 years, truly alive.
July 9th, 1776
The Common, New York City
After his incident from the vote and subsequent signing of the declaration of Independence two days later, it had taken General Washington half a week to release Alfred from some sort of surveillance. Though, he was pleased to know of the news ahead of the letters sent to him by Mr. John Hancock. Alfred thought it was amusing how much belief Washington had in the tie between Alfred’s well-being and the well-being of the nation they were all collectively laying the foundation of. Nevertheless, he was certain that this belief was not the only reason he watched over Alfred–the general had come to like the young nation as many of the other men emerging as leaders had. Mr. Jefferson had taken up the mantle of his education, ensuring he had the knowledge and skill and wits necessary to act as a vessel for the principles that could so easily be lost to time or something even more fragile—the human conscience. He would act as a living document just as the Declaration itself would, now being read aloud to the troops at Washington’s order. He tapped into the hearts of his people surrounding him in the square: Alfred could feel the words reverberating through them, and he thought this must be very much what love felt like. He’d spent so many years reading and writing about such an emotion, desperately willing it to translate into his own heart, regardless of what immortal hearts were made of–England had done his best to make it strikingly clear that that substance was not love. But now Alfred did not have to believe him as the sensation enveloping him gave off an indomitable sense of pride, and he’d be lying if he excluded power from his emotional inventory. Suddenly, a pair of hands grasped his shoulders followed by a giddy voice in his ear,
“Did anything you wrote make it into the Declaration?” Alfred turned to see his friend, another young aide called Henry Burcham, awaiting his response eagerly.
“Keep silent!” He hissed, though not without a grin.
“Ah. You are proud…your grin reveals it. Something you wrote did make it in,” he laughed. Alfred shot him a glare.
“Mr. Jefferson did not go against Congress’s Committee of Five order for you to announce it to everyone,” he laughed. His people could be so bothersome with how they tried him–but how he loved the sensation of being bothered!
“Perhaps if you did not have such a loose tongue, I would not know at all,” Henry quipped, blinking mischievous brown eyes at him. Alfred groaned and turned back to the man reading from the head of their formation. He sincerely hoped his “loose tongue” was the first thing he grew out of as he took his first steps to become a real nation. How would he conduct international affairs or better yet, espionage, if he did not? Henry seemed to tire of his thoughtful silence and returned to prodding him.
“You never explained what placed you in such a shoddy state earlier this week. Everyone’s heard by now, and they come flocking to me as if I would know,” he said. Alfred simply shrugged and picked a statement from Henry’s plentiful bunch. While he wasn’t always the most thoughtful in the words he chose, he certainly only dignified the responses he wished to.
“Revel in the attention while you have it then. Or better yet, turn it to listening as you are meant to. The man is almost through reading the document–have you even listened a bit?”
“I am dedicated to my country, Al. Whatever the document says, I’m certain my soul knows already,” he said, suddenly taking on a gravity that Alfred greatly admired. He wondered if it had anything to do with him standing beside Henry. If somehow his human heart recognized his immortal one in some beautiful way only a mortal’s could.
“What a way to say you have not listened. That is against orders from General Washington, I’m sure you’re aware,” Alfred teased against the sudden bliss taking hold of his heart.
“You have surely broken more than me. I’ve a load of curiosity for how you manage to get away with it,” Henry said with an infectious laugh. Alfred caught a couple disapproving glares at their volume and leaned closer to Henry.
“Let us not break orders further while the General is so near,” he said. Henry had other ideas though, utterly unfazed.
“Surely you have heard the talk of tearing down that atrocity of a statue of the tyrant?”
“The one just across the way from One Broadway? At Bowling Green?” Alfred asked, recalling the indeed very frivolous equestrian display reminiscent of Marcus Aurelius, all of which the king was entirely unworthy.
“The very one. Does it not irk the general to see it across from his headquarters every day?”
“Perhaps he sees it as motivation. A reminder of what we fight for,” Alfred shrugged.
“The reminder should stir up the vengeance that he must hold within like the rest of us. We all store it somewhere, and that statue disturbs it, do you not agree?”
Alfred actually detested thinking about the statue altogether–it did not lead his mind to a favorable place. He could feel that the statue was a source of anger for many of his people, like a tributary in their larger river of hatred he felt in his veins, but to Alfred, the statue was a breach of the wall of his heart which held the myth of accepting the mortality his people crafted for him. The kind that let him feel without condition as he’d been able to in his earliest days before he even knew that the promise of the New World did not apply to him.
This led him to feel that the statue was evidence of a cruel disconnect between him and his citizens by nature of what he was. For, it was not king George he saw when he looked upon the statue. Nor was it British soldiers he saw when he gazed upon the very manifestation of their shared enemy. He saw uncanny, unstable, unforgiving, undying green depths which he would love to treat as his own personal Tartarus–trapping all his worst fears there.
So Alfred cut off this line of thought to look back into a pair of eyes that encapsulated the very opposite of all of those things.
“I would quite like to see it fall,” he admitted to Henry's great delight. He tipped up his hat as if to smile at Alfred better.
“Fortune favors your boldness then. I heard the Sons of Liberty will lead soldiers and civilians alike there after the document is read for that very purpose,” Henry said. Alfred could hear Washington’s chide as if it were happening then–contain your influence on our people or explain it. The General was greatly annoyed with Alfred’s repeated dancing around the topic in conversation and even more so with the way he wrapped it up in silky words as if it were his own mythology. In reality, Alfred's explanations only got murky when there were other nations involved, namely that of his former father figure, who was almost always involved in their current situation.
“You cannot truly be thinking so thoroughly about this. Do you not recall what General Washington said before the reading started? How he implored every officer and soldier “to act with Fidelity and Courage”?” Henry interrupted again. Alfred crossed his arms with a huff.
“Now I truly know you cannot comprehend what you hear, even if you do listen," Alfred chuckled at his friends selective hearing, "General Washington will condemn bringing the statue down and you know it. What sort of fidelity would I be showing by attending this event with that in mind?” He posed, not losing a sly smile of his own.
“Fidelity to yourself, perhaps?” Henry asked with grin that had Alfred questioning who had the greater effect on the other once more.
The topic of fidelity, of loyalty to oneself, rather, had been especially good at eluding Alfred as he navigated his immortal identity. He had first learned fidelity through the bitter taste of submission, which stripped his tongue clean of any shade of loyalty that was not to his mother country, the man who he’d let himself call father. However, that moment was bitter only in proximity to his recent war torn memories. Instead, he had seen his upbringing alongside Arthur in the early years of his life as the purest form of love imaginable. And somewhere in his heart he knew it had been genuine. It was only the series of decades after he began to live primarily among humans that his connection to Arthur all but dried up into superficial senses and visits. Alfred soon found that human love somehow stayed sweet for so much longer a time while a nation’s love soured in one's stomach like milk.
But here and now he did not need such sentiments. He had a bright smile beaming into his face telling him to be loyal to himself in the human sense he’d started allowing himself to become more familiar with. Alfred very much thought that this was something he could do, at least for an afternoon. He chose to ignore the twisted path through his conscience it had taken for him to agree in favor of clapping his friend’s shoulder, heart filled with gratitude for this gift his people had given him.
***
It did not take long for the statue to come tumbling down, incensed Americans at the end of the ropes. Alfred felt their fervor and relished the moment–he could hardly tell where their anger began and his ended, only where they overlapped. The leaden statue acted as the centerpiece of years of anger for those gathered in the park, and for Alfred, he was pleased to feel as if that barrier between him and them had crumbled the moment the statue did. There were shouts and cheers erupting around him as the king’s decapitated head was recovered and put on a spike with the rest of the statue earning the fate of being chopped up into even more pieces. Alfred watched as the lead fragments were collected to be sent off to Connecticut and be recast into musket balls for the Continental Army.
He’d lost Henry somewhere in the frenzy of it all, but enjoyed the opportunity to experience his newfound familiarity to his people in a form both parties could process. No longer was Alfred dwelling on the green eyes that plagued him every time he thought of the English foe, and he would not have to dwell on them for a while longer–at least not until the morning. For now, he was able to think of the English threat that would soon meet them in New York as the spark for this moment rather than an open flame waiting to be dropped over their heads. At least, he was able to until a whip of a voice lashed into his back.
“Colonel Jones.” Alfred whirled to see who had stopped behind him–Colonel William Grayson, assistant secretary to the General. Alfred immediately moved to salute, but was instead dragged away from all the bustle. Alfred was almost more surprised by this gesture than his overall presence–though the two were friends as was common in Washington’s “military family”--they never made such informal displays in public settings.
“You were meant to report back to One Broadway after the reading,” was all the Colonel said when he released him.
“How did he know where I was?” Alfred asked as he mounted the horse Grayson had brought for him. He did not like how shaky his voice sounded.
“He seems to have a very special eye for you. Why, I can never be sure. I fear he’s simply so very used to you causing trouble for him, he automatically assumes the greatest mouth of trouble is where you’ve gone when you’re unaccounted for,” his superior jabbed. Alfred felt his cheeks burn the way they typically only could under Washington’s disappointment. He both loved and hated how human it all made him feel. And perhaps how familiar it felt to a much deeper hole in his chest.
“It did wonders for morale,” Alfred muttered, the remnants of the feeling still hanging over his heart, keeping him grounded. He could allow the fleeting feeling of human belonging for a short while longer, couldn’t he?
“Is that true or was that mostly the Declaration’s effect? You have no way to know the nature of morale in every man’s heart. And you’re still just a lad, but I think you are very far from learning the nature of your own,” he snapped. Alfred was pinned under the weight of the statement, so cruel around the edges. Colonel Grayson could not know the waters he was treading into with such words, nor how deep they truly went. That was something Alfred rarely admitted he shared with mortals–the phantom pain that accompanied not knowing oneself.
“Who are you to make any assumptions about my heart?” Alfred snapped venomously before he even realized the words had woven themselves together straight from the pits of the heart he sought to defend. He slammed his mouth shut, teeth knocking together in a way that felt like it rattled his brain. Perhaps it would rattle his conscience back to being whatever sort of dutiful he had been before he decided to be so careless.
“You think you have found purpose here, camaraderie, but you hardly hold up your own end. I regret to say that you have proven yourself to be incurably selfish today,” Grayson answered quite unceremoniously for the weight the statements carried. Selfish. That was the word Alfred dreaded being applied to him. It pulled him out of whatever was left of his stupor and straight into the memory of his brother’s uncharacteristically violent utterance of that same word the year before in the Continental Army’s failed conquest of Quebec.
The memory replicated itself in his head, pulling proof of vices which he couldn’t quite feel complete guilt for–there was always a pocket in such feelings where a level of indifference, cold power, pressed in. Yet another disconnect that proved what he was, he knew, but one that could not tumble as easily as the statue had. How deeply he wished to be all human or all nation in such moments! The overlap always ended up bombarding him at one point or another with such a complex array of his own psyche, which he always felt so far from unraveling. It made him a horrible, walking contradiction, and there was nothing like the events of the day crawling in a slow procession through his mind while night closed in to make him see just how true that was. The rest of the ride to One Broadway was silent save for the chatter of the town and their horses’ hooves.
***
Alfred did not know why he expected General Washington to be waiting on the steps outside their New York military headquarters. He chose not to play with the unreliability of his own thoughts. Somewhere, in some avenue of his mind which he decided against turning into, he did know where the false expectation seeped from. But he was tired of thinking about that. He kicked a stone along his path, having dismounted his horse and instead savored the view of the stars until all he saw above him was the ceiling. A part of him itched to see how long he could ride or run or walk without seeing ceiling above him. His obsession with the heavens had made him a startlingly good navigator early on–enough to startle the humans he was living with at the time. The only one who never showed a morsel of doubt was Arthur. He had even provided his own guiding hand at the start…there had been something in the sea breeze and night sky that drew out some shared passion within them. It had spoiled his young heart rotten, and the organ had still not gone back to beating the same way since the exhilaration of the last time they sailed together.
He knew the way to Washington’s office and could see the candlelight flickering from the doorway as he approached. He did not knock, instead pausing in the doorway. Washington looked up with a furrow in his brow.
“America. Take a seat, young man,” he said. Alfred obliged, sitting on his hands. He opened his mouth to speak a few times before blurting,
“You often refer to me as ‘America’ and ‘young man’ in the same sentence.” Washington spared him a glance but nothing more. It was enough permission for Alfred to elaborate,
“I never know which I am more of for longer than a short moment. I am not a young man. I am not a man at all,” Alfred muttered.
“You are thinking of England again,” Washington answered. Alfred instantly knew he was not speaking of the coming battle.
“He told me nothing,” Alfred cried, leaning forward to place his palms on the edge of Washington's desk. It wasn’t technically true, but it did release some of the pressure on his heart. When he saw the way the man’s jaw slackened he immediately straightened his position. Damn. If Washington took pity on him as he so often had in Alfred’s occasional petulant outbursts, he’d only be backed further against the dam of memories he couldn’t afford to think of while the war went on.
“You know the reality of our situation extremely well, Alfred. So speaking of the…English…” He paused, and Alfred winced as he caught Washington's shift. It seemed to be far more surface level but now Washington knew what silent distress had gone through Alfred’s mind at the mention of his father. He had not yet told his leader that was how he’d referred to England from the day he’d come for him in 1611 until the day he had confronted maddened green eyes that seemed to look right through him. That confrontation had only been a few years before, but Alfred felt like he’d watched several human lifetimes pass in that span.
“America, it is high time we spoke about your tendency to always let yourself fall to the mortal shots of a mortal enemy before you seem to ever think about shooting back yourself,” Washington shifted further. Alfred knit his brows, sure he’d simply missed some questions.
“Your excellency–” Alfred began, stunned that this was what he’d chosen to start their talk off with. Washington waved him off.
“I am aware that this is not what caused your most recent death in the slightest. We can actually take relief in the true cause,” he said, eyes tracking down to the copy of the declaration sitting on the desk beneath his elbow.
“But sir, I was under the impression–”
“We will come to your…excursion later, America. You have evaded adequate answers for long enough so we will start where I see fit,”
“Of course, your excellency,”
“You told us a great deal about bonds between nation and human. I understand that having the declaration in existence has done that bond a great deal of strength. So tell me…do you feel this sort of bond for the men on the English side? Is that why you do not fire upon them?”
“Of course not. But sir, I am an aide, my job–” Washington did not have to speak to effectively cut Alfred off. His lips remained in a hard, unimpressed line. Alfred’s heart sank—usually he could draw some sort of emotion from the man’s face. Speaking was often painful to the man, making smiling a rarity since Alfred knew his stoic leader was in fact self-conscious of his teeth, but with Alfred, all of that often seemed to be forgotten. He enjoyed being shown glimpses of what he meant to his people. Deep down, he acknowledged how they gave him a sort of honesty that he could never fully return to them.
“Alright. It is not so much a bond…not akin to what exists in my heart for our own people. However, there is familiarity,” Alfred said, already so deep into the lie he did not care if Washington saw through him tonight. He felt very little for the English people. Even for loyalists that were technically his. Their hearts did not rest with him, after all, so there was no bond other than their livelihoods coming from the soil he encompassed.
“Of what nature?” Washington asked.
“They are English. I was an English colony. The ties are severed but those of a mother country still lie there within me nonetheless.”
“I see. Does this prevent you from killing them the same way you are prevented from harming our own people?” He asked. Now Alfred had to decide if the man already knew the answer, or if he was truly unsure and asking to deepen his understanding of his nation. He despised that he knew the answer, and that none of Mr. Jefferson’s lessons in rhetoric would get him out when faced with this stare.
“It does not prevent me from harming them."
“I suspected as much. Have you ever killed a human?” Washington asked. Here Alfred paused, having completely misread the question Washington was getting at. This was a line of conversation he could take to save himself from having to speak any more about Arthur, and so he took it gladly.
“Not directly. Harming humans does not make me a version of myself I enjoy. But, I have gotten plenty killed by nature of what I am. They fight for me in hopes that there is something I can give to them,” he answered.
“Alfred. Do humans have no free will?” Washington asked. Alfred perked up–he loved sharing his knowledge of humans and the momentary balance it struck in him.
“Of course they do! Several documents outline it, and many of the religious texts of the world—”
“That is answer enough, Alfred. Do nation personifications have free will?” He asked. Alfred deflated a little at being denied his tangent.
“That…is a much more complex question…though I believe I do. That is what my people want and therefore it is a great gift they have given me which I hope to return. We have ties that cannot be easily explained which cast the images of what we believe in a very similar light. However, humans may interpret my influence however they wish,” Alfred explained.
“And you? How do you interpret your influence?” He asked. Here it was–the question for which his answer changed each time he phrased it. He did not exactly mean to seem so unreliable, but attempting a half true explanation did not have such a bitter taste as admitting he did not know.
“I…my influence is like a seed. It begins in me when I feel something strongly. I would like to imagine that the seed is already in each of my people but takes root in them of their own accord, leading to their own actions,” he said.
“From what you have divulged in the past…I was under the impression that the representations of other nations also have influence over one another,” Washington pointed out.
“Yes, that is true. But it’s very different,” Alfred confirmed, eager to show that he had not lied.
“You seem unsettled, Alfred. Is this your way of telling me I would not understand because I am not a nation myself?”
“The influence nations have on each other is…I have only experienced it for myself a few times: twice by England and once for myself,” Alfred replied.
“On which nation did you inflict this?”
“Thhe Province of Quebec, your excellency,” he said, hating the pause and way his voice wavered before he added, “My brother.” Washington’s eyes widened for a moment.
“I see. I had assumed that you were experiencing guilt for extending influence over our people. Now I see that the guilt was placed elsewhere,” Washington said. Alfred curled his hands into fists. He wished that were the case–that the direction Washington’s very human reasoning went was parallel to his own. In reality there was no guilt in his heart that came from lashing out at his younger brother in the worst of ways. The guilt that now resided in him came from the absence of that guilt.
“With or without my influence over Colonel Montgomery and General Arnold it was a severe blow and waste of so many good men,” Alfred lamented, mouth dry. But in reality he knew little of it, only the pangs of men falling in his heart. For, he did not march with his men on that perilous, wintry trek through Maine which had earned then Colonel Benedict Arnold the title of “American Hannibal” and later the title of Brigadier General. His battle had been far more personal, and it had not yet ended–Matthew had not spoken or written to him since the 1775 invasion of Quebec. Alfred had written to him several times to explain himself, but he was fairly certain his reasoning changed with each edition of his apology. His memories were sparse, his morals even more so. It all stemmed from the fact that he was essentially trying to fabricate an explanation that soothed his own heart as well. Especially one that soothed his own heart. Selfish, Matthew had snapped, and he'd been right. But there were a whole slew of things Alfred could snap back to him and be every inch as justified.
“I have lost you again. What sort of influence does one nation exert over another?” Washington drew him back in.
“It is a magnitude. We all have it, and it grows or ebbs with our own power. All of us can feel it–it’s how we know when another nation has crossed our borders, and if the nation is powerful enough it is how we know they are near,” Alfred said. He left out the part about his remaining bond with England that, despite Alfred’s comparatively small magnitude, the empire had always been able to follow. Even when ties were shorn. It didn’t seem to matter when the British had set their eyes on New York anyway, though perhaps it would become a problem in the future.
“I see. How did you use it against your brother?” Washington asked warily, as if he was unsettled by the notion completely.
“I was angry that he did not join me against England. That he chose to stay with that bastard over me. He made the wrong choice so I wanted to choose for him, I suppose. I have little memory of actually confronting him, but I can imagine what happened well enough,” Alfred said, turning his gaze fully to his boots. Washington’s voice was soft when he ventured,
“How did England use it against you, Alfred? If you can answer comfortably, that is,” Of course, the question was really, what did England do to you to so vividly make you imagine what your brother experienced?
“He killed me,” Alfred said, looking up to catch the horror in Washington’s expression, “It felt like being shot with tenfold the agony. It ripped through me and sent me to the ground. My head pounded and I could not think any longer. I suppose some would take that as a mercy,” Alfred said with a smile to lighten the mood. However, the mood was unaffected, blanketing just as uncomfortably thick as it had been when he’d revealed the truth. Though, there was one more truth that would be the crowning glory of it all:
“But I should tell you–it killed him too.”
Alfred did not want to imagine the grin that spread across his face when he said the words. Washington was frowning deeply, sinking further into his chair. It clipped something in Alfred’s heart to see it. He’d never expected Washington to look at him like the colonists at Jamestown had when he was nothing more than a mysteriously begotten babe. He actually mourned that fact, he always came on too strong at one point or another. He couldn’t help wondering if Washington would refrain from referring to him as “young man” for a time. Perhaps he would even cease use of his human name in private.
“America,” Washington said firmly.
“Forgive me. I truly didn’t mean to–” Washington held up a hand. Now that Alfred’s voice was rising in desperation and youth once more instead of something unhuman and powerful, he seemed more at ease.
“It is alright, America. You are right, much was lost in the pursuit of Quebec. Far too much given it also included a quarrel between immortal brothers. Forgive my last question…you may go after this: does your brother exhibit the same influence over you?”
“He has not before. But I do not think he shares the same sort of…” Alfred paused when he realized what word came next. Washington’s face looked as if he were finally satisfied with the route their conversation had taken. It was in fact, no longer a conversation, Alfred sensed, but a lesson.
“Power,” Washington finished, pronouncing the word slowly and with utter distaste. Then he picked back up, “Listen to me, America…you must keep this aspect of your being to yourself. You have opened my eyes to possible…holes in the history we know. Or in some cases explanations, perhaps. I regret to think what some men would do if they knew of your influence and I fear even more how they would devise to wield it or help you wield it,” he warned.
“Sir…I know my…outburst has likely tainted your opinion of me and I understand well the treacherous path that often accompanies the existence of power, but…it is not one I want to wield. That power…it has seemingly blocked me from feeling adequate guilt for what I inflicted upon my brother,” Alfred admitted. One of Washington’s fingers twitched as if he wanted to cover Alfred’s hand with his own, and after another moment he did.
“My opinion of you is not tainted. There is nothing you can do to help what you are, nor what your past may be. Though, I do wish I could help you, Alfred,” Washington said. Alfred preened under the use of his name, a small assurance that Washington still cared for him.
“I see that it is a difficult, complex existence you lead and somehow I still look upon you and think of a young man in my circle. I apologize if that confuses you further,” He finished. Alfred took the initiative to rest his own hand over Washington’s. The gesture always seemed to reassure his citizens, and it was only fair with all the work Washington had done to assure Alfred he did not think he was a maddened demon. So, with a soft, true smile which he felt to the core of his being, Alfred vowed,
“I will not abuse my power, sir. I will do my very best to ensure no man does as long as we remain a nation. My love and loyalty will be as eternal as my heart.”