Metal Birds

Chapter 21: London Thunder

London, England, September 3rd, 1939

Rain pounded bitterly against the windows of the parliament, and Arthur found himself seated dejectedly inside, staring at the floor. He had flown directly from Francis' house the following morning, harboring fear and dread.

The official declaration had been made about an hour ago. He had sent a telegram to Dylan, since Dylan was the only one he could easily contact. He couldn't go to Seamus, and he doubted Alastair would ever stay in the same spot for too long.

That left Arthur alone, sitting on a small wooden bench as he fiddled with his feathers. There was a lot to be done. Troops to be gathered and sent to France, announcements to make, and many, many other things to settle. Like most of the middle aged men who shuffled by quickly, nervousness was something that plagued him. It was a tiny rush of adrenaline that morphed hastily into anxiety; and it was something he quickly realized he despised. He was aware of every small thing, the squeaks of the doors, of one's shoes on the tile, of each droplet of rain that dragged itself across the windows.

This was normal, Arthur chided himself, but even then he could feel his confidence waning. It had only been so long since he had reintroduced himself to the world, and he was already throwing himself into drastic conflict. As he ran his fingers through his feathers, he reminded himself of what Marie and Francis had said.

If he wasn't to have faith in himself, then where would everyone else be?

It was a quiet sentence, a silent way of telling him that he was responsible for a lot, even if it was mostly moral.

Arthur and Francis had been seated on the stairs of that third floor landing, staring down the stairwell as the intensity of the situation set in. Arthur had declared war. Sharply, obviously and solemnly. And that meant Europe was at war. For a long time, the two of them had been silent, serious, unsure in what words to gather in order to reassure each other. There wasn't much to say.

There wasn't anything at all, but the overwhelming and unfitting silence.

Arthur knew that when Nations declared war -when the words left their lips- they became hyperactive and hypersensitive. Many things he hadn't noticed before stood out. The color of the walls, stark and old and bleak; the paintings, the details on the faces of those that passed him by with a sideways glance. The tiniest things in his feathers. How odd the wood of the bench felt beneath his rapidly drumming fingers.

The odd urge to do something. Anything. An nonconsensual feeling of hostility, the urgent need to have a weapon in his hands. Perhaps it was the willingness and stubbornness of his people. Boys were lined up around the blocks to have their names put on the list, and girls had set their minds on the hospitals to learn all they could on how to keep their boys safe. He knew fully well that a million decisions to do something about the conflict would affect him, even if it was something small.

He chuckled bitterly to himself. What he really wanted to do was stand up and scream 'God-dammit!' for everyone to hear, and then curl up into a little ball and pretend that there wasn't anything to worry about.

But that was stupid. Childish.

He glanced up as Chamberlain stepped out, quickly standing.

"What's the word?" Arthur spoke quietly.

The man looked old, momentarily averting his eyes from the Nation and to the window, his shoulders looking heavy for a split second as he rubbed his temple and looked up. There was a look there that Arthur couldn't exactly place. Disdain, maybe. Or worry.

"We'll have troops on French ground within the next few days. The Generals aren't sure if we should assist the French military in charging in, or if we should wait."

Neville Chamberlain was a smart man, Arthur knew. He was the Prime Minister after all, even though he had technically never wanted the job. Arthur's earlier arrival had sparked a flurry of surprise and concern about the parliament, and word had even gone up to the king, though Arthur and King George VI had decided that time to meet would be a hard thing to scrounge up with everything that was happening.

Arthur waited a moment, testing his thoughts before letting them slip out. When he did, Chamberlain turned to him in a blatant surprise.

"I want to fight."

There was a long silence, and the two stared at each other in their own contemplations.

"Why is that?"

"Instinct, mostly." Arthur admitted. "But... I want to be out there. To help. To give people hope."

Chamberlain's tired eyes became thankful for a moment, and he glanced over at Arthur.

"What if you were to die?"

Arthur paused, unsure of how to explain it. "...I can't die... not really, not as long as the majority of the people are okay."

Chamberlain sighed.

"It's not like I could stop you."

"...no. Maybe."

"We'll need you back every so often."

"I can try."

There was another pause, and Arthur spoke.

"...I might need to learn how to shoot those newer guns."

An odd feeling of amusement settled between them, and Arthur turned to glance out the window.

"I can have some of the Guard show you."

"No... no... what about the boot camp? The one in Scotland?"

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Look... look, I'm really nothing special. I'm nothing more than a messenger. If it weren't for these wings, I'd be practically normal."

That was a lie.

"I don't want to be treated like something high and mighty. It doesn't feel right."

The long pause that followed was aggravatingly heavy.

"As you wish. And please... be careful."

"I will." 

Well whoop-dee-doo we're finally going places! I hope you've enjoyed the last few chapters, my dear readers! I apologize for the shortness of this chapter... I've got a lot of places to be. :D I just wanted to say 'hooray' because we've got readers from all over the world now! Yay!