☆Highest Rating: #103 in HF!☆
A Retelling of WWII... with a twist.
Principalities. Winged beings who have been bound to a people, a place, a culture and country from the moment their eyes opened to this earth, and doomed to fall with...
Many things had happened in the following months. By December, Alfred had gone. A pang in his arms had traveled to his chest one evening, and later that day, the radioman spoke of the attack on Pearl Harbor. A Hawaiian military base. A place where many had perished, having drowned trapped inside the boats.
And that left Arthur with only Matthew and Francis, and the occasional arrival of Dylan.
The raids continued.
His words with the women in the church, now down to merely three, were limited but meaningful. Little Hugh was out in the countryside with his cousins, and Joshua had left to join the armed forces not long after Arthur had left that first Christmas. They couldn't help but notice how strained his every word and movement were, and they could sense his change.
He had changed.
But that did not stop them. Everything they did for him, with him, and around him was nothing less than overflowing with love and concern. He couldn't handle it, for a while. He wasn't sure why he couldn't give them what they gave him, the love and concern. The care. Even though he had been caring the whole time, he found he merely couldn't put it into words.
Instead, it dwindled from him as he meandered in that church every moment he could, with soft 'hello's and 'good morning's and 'how do you do's, and it was more than enough for him.
Arthur spoke of what had happened in Egypt. The repeating phrase of 'what will you do?' that strung through his nerves in each waking moment spilled out into words around a worn and ancient dining room table meant for twelve. Josie's gaze never faltered, and Teresa never moved, and Elizabeth looked as if she wanted nothing more than to just pick him up and hold him in the great heap of a ball he wanted so badly to curl into. They didn't mind the scar just under his eye that wouldn't fade, fat and filled with small circles like he had been boiling. They didn't mind that sometimes he needed to stand outside the kitchen door alone, in the quiet. They didn't mind that sometimes his presence was silent.
And they cared.
This care was received from Francis and Matthew as well. Every waking moment, and he knew every sleeping moment, he had at least one pair of eyes watching him.
And sometimes, only sometimes, he felt as if Marie were there. Humming cheerily. Holding his face, or his hand, saying firmly like she had; "-We've all done our part making sure the path is clear for you. You must take the opportunity to make this more than just a story. When you even show your face, all of Britain will have faith."
He was admittedly afraid of that. He didn't want to show his face, to be a martyr. He had already been a martyr for far too long.
Winston did his best to stay Arthur's worry. The two spoke over lunch, in the parliament, both weary in their own ways. The climb into Italy had started. Matthew left more often. He came back and forth, for a week each month, while Francis began to work himself, both in pen, and in body. It was something Arthur looked unto, which he couldn't help but feel proud of, and motivated by.
They would wake, and run themselves silly through the ruins of London -which, ever so slowly were drawing themselves back together, even with the stray German planes overhead- and find themselves at the cathedral by late morning. They would stay for whatever lunch could be scrounged for them, which was sometimes nothing. This never bothered them. Then, they would fly back around to the parliament, and circle for some time, just looking at the horizon.
And finally, they came to rest on the ground in the farthest back courtyard. Arthur would find himself speaking to Winston, either in the hallway before their usual meeting in the evening, or at the meeting itself. He was a busy man, a funny man, who fought hard for the peace they all needed. And even if it was with mere words, he used his words well.
Arthur, when doing none of these, venting or working or talking to others, or being just alone on the roof, wrote. He wrote until his hand became sore. Letters came, to and fro from Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, Italy, America and Russia.
Words of success, of triumph, of fronts pushing back in the favor of the Allies, to words of worry, words of help, and words of denial and little to no agreement on what to do with Germany in the end. If there was one.
These thoughts were the thoughts that continued to cause his stomach to turn. They made him nervous, they made him want to stand and pace, or bite at his nails, or tug at his feathers. He didn't focus on the time, or how much had passed since he had last set foot in a combat zone. He counted to nights where spare planes became spare parts overhead. He counted each feather he pulled loose. He counted the times he prayed, and the times he heard a piano, and each step he took in the snow. He counted the times he needed to close his eyes. The times Francis put out his cigarette, and the times he said; "You'll be alright, cher." He counted each of the letters he received and filed them away. He counted each time he turned the dial on the radio, and each time the announcer said; "Things are looking up."
And he lived.
Arthur lived each moment by to be something past, and he looked ahead to each moment, and he did his best to forget what he could allow himself to.
It was December of 1934 when Winston proposed the idea of a public appearance.
Arthur, at first, did not like it. He hated the idea of it. The words were like a nightmare to him. To speak? To have to pose for a photograph -even if it would be awkwardly standing there. To see all those eyes, all those faces.
All those hopes.
And then, Francis spoke to him in a hushed tone. "You should. It would be good for all of us... I've been going to gatherings. It wouldn't be terrible if you started."
A month of nagging got him there, standing there so nervously his feathers puffed out behind him. The door to the conference room stood just barely ajar. He could hear the chatter. It was more of a place to stand and announce what was happening.
And what was happening was a plan. Idling in the backs of the minds of the leaders.
He would not speak of it. Not yet.
He could see Winston out there. Speaking so cleverly and frivolously. He could see out the crack of the door, nervous. Standing there. And then, the man cast out a hand. Arthur could hardly hear his name being said, not his real one. The one in the legends.
"-the Angel of Britain."
He paused, but he couldn't let himself to that for long. Arthur took a breath, and pushed himself through the door, and wondered if Francis knew what he was saying.
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Hello my dear readers! I'm finally back from Canada and man was it wonderful! I really wish I could've brought all of you there with me -and chilled with my Canadian readers, you guys rock- but I was smack dab in the middle of nowhere. It was a nice escape to think about how to continue the story.
I'm going to update as much as I can! Again, please let me know if you spot any spelling or grammar errors!
