The Toy Solider

1. Would you be so kind

"Would you be so kind" - dodie

America - Alfred F. Jones

England - Arthur Kirkland

Finland - Tino Väinämöinen

Sweden - Berwald Oxenstierna

Sealand - Peter Kirkland

~~~~~~

Night had fallen upon the dirty city hours ago. Few remaining lights were left on by those who could spare the electricity, leaving the rest of the city to rely on old musty street lamps which flickered every minute. Beneath the dim light flowed a small trickle of red liquid, oozing through the cracked pavement, staining any growing weeds. From the shining trail lay the barely conscious body of Alfred F. Jones, former American slave and current escapee.

His head, though no permanent damage done, was sporting a large gash. His nose was broken and his ankle was twisted. His usually bright eyes struggled to stay open and his once soft golden hair was now tinged with red and brown. His 'clothes' were ripped and a section was torn from his back, revealing a web of pink lines and welts. To put it plainly, he was not in good shape.

Amidst the darkest street corners walked a young man in his early twenties. Alongside him pranced a small white Maltese, tugging on its lead, desperate to get home. The young man casually strolled down the dirtied street, humming a peaceful tune.

His hair, a mop of light blonde, blew gently in the cool night breeze. His eyes, a rare violet, glimmered despite the dingy lighting. His soft whistling stopped suddenly when a pained grunt reached his ears.

A man, no more than nineteen, sat against a lamppost. His wounds illuminated by the orange light. His breathing was shallow and his eyes fluttered open and closed. The small Maltese started barking, quickly being shushed by her owner, the violet eyed man, as he cautiously approached the injured male.

"Sir?" His voice was soft yet concerned. His hand gently brushed any obscuring hair away from the victim's face.

"Hey mister!" A small boy, no older than 12, jogged up to the two, "I don't know who you are but you need to leave my friend alone!"

The boy was short for his age. He had bright blue determined eyes and a small puddle of water cupped in his hands.

"Huh? I'm sorry, I did not know that this man is your friend." Said the concerned man, stepping back from the body.

"Yeah, neither does he," The boy shrugged, making his way to where Tino previously stood, "My name is Peter by the way. I would say my surname, but I don't really have one. What's yours?" Peter didn't seem to be to disheartened by this fact, instead busying himself with cleaning Alfred's wounds with the small amount of water that hadn't dropped through his fingers.

"Tino, Tino Väinämöinen."

Tino watched as the last of the dirt and dried blood was wiped clean from the injured man and Peter turned to him gesturing for help lifting the man. With a bit of struggle the two had him unevenly balanced with his arms wrapped around both of their shoulders. The wounded man's feet dragged along the rough pavement as, slowly but surely, Tino and Peter made their way back to 'The Wood Cart'. Neither Peter nor their unconscious accomplice had a home, so Tino thought that it would be best to invite the two to the only place he considered home.

The trio weaved through the cramped smoky streets until they reached a tall brick building. The building in general stuck out like a sore thumb, the others surrounding it were made of brown and faded red bricks, all the same. Each window was dark, many of them boarded up to avoid paying the ridiculous window taxes. Tino's home though was painted blue and white. It was narrow and long but had three floors, all housing different sections of both the woodwork shop and living quarters. The front door was elegantly painted with swirls and stars of a deep blue, mimicking the reflection of a night sky on the ocean water.

Tino gently nudged the door open, flicking on the light as he entered. Peter stood in the doorway, staring at the ceiling on awe. The starry design from the door had continued into the building. All across the ceiling were little white specks floating in a sea of blues. Someone had taken the time to paint each delicate brush stroke and cover what would have been a grimy ceiling with a beautiful masterpiece.

Tino watched, slightly weighed down by the man he was carrying, as Peter twirled around the room taking it all in as it was. Rows and rows of shelves lined the walls, each holding a uniquely handcrafted toy, all painted in bright colours. Along the floor stood several different furniture items, those too were hand carved.

"My husband makes them, him and his friend," Tino explained, readjusting the man on his shoulder. "They own this shop."

Peter, still awestruck, nodded along to Tino's words, temporarily forgetting about his injured friend. His large blue eyes were still transfixed on the painted ceiling, admiring it until his trance was broken by two new voices.

"I don't know Berwald, we might not have enough money."

"But with the extra help we would make more and sell more."

"But what if we don't?"

"What if we do, Arthur? We can't keep continuing like this."

The two new men who entered the room were both blond. One was tall, of a muscular build, and had light aqua eyes. The other was more of Tino's height, roughly 5"9, with gem green eyes. Their conversation quickly drowned down to silence as they realised that tonight Tino hadn't come home alone. Tino gave them both a sheepish smile and once again readjusted his wounded companion. Berwald was the first to respond, rushing to his lover's side to pick up said injured man and carry him off an adjoining room, leaving Arthur alone with the small boy.

*

The past few months had taken their toll on Alfred F. Jones, leaving him bruised, bleeding and scarred. Both mentally and physically. A once proud and courageous young man with high hopes of 'saving the world' had his soul and heart crushed (along with a few other bones). He lay, confused and bandaged, in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar house, in an unfamiliar city. His head throbbed and his vision blurred. His nose felt stiff and his ankle sent splintering pains up his body whenever he moved it.

Alfred took deep breaths in an attempt to stabilize his conscious. Surrounding him was a small room, lit only by the rising sunlight streaming in from the large square window. The view was nothing compared to rolling green hills and quaint countryside villages he was used to back home. Instead his seemingly worse eyesight settled on the faded dirty brown bricks of the tall narrow building opposite him. Below on the street walked people in top hats and long skirts, going about their business completely unaware of the new arrival to the city. Alfred turned back to the room in which he lay in, composing of simply made wooden furniture. A bed, desk and chair and small dresser. There were no decorations or lavish items. It was just plain and wooden.

Much to Alfred's surprise, the door slowly opened and head of floppy blonde hair popped in. It was soon followed by the rest of the small boy, Peter. In his hands he held a tray with a small bowl of what looked to be porridge, a glass of water and a few bandages and clothes.

"Morning!" He yelled excitedly, setting down the tray with a proud smile on his face that he managed to not drop it.

Alfred looked at him confused. Normally he would respond with the same amount of enthusiasm (sometimes even more), but right now, this boy made his head hurt worse. He continued anyway.

"My name is Peter! We're best friends, you probably don't remember because you were kind of unconscious when we met, but I'm sure you'll like me!"

Alfred nodded along, focusing more on the porridge than his 'friend'. He could not remember the last time that he ate a proper meal.

Wolfing down his breakfast, Alfred nodded along to Peter's words, not really taking any of them in. It was only when another person, a man with emerald eyes this time, entered the room did Alfred's focus sharpen. A resting scowl sat upon his stunning softly heart-shaped face that was partially being covered by messy strands of sunshine blonde hair. This man, this stranger, was in possession of beauty that Alfred has only dreamed about. The new arrival though did not seem too pleased about Alfred's presence, instead opting to order Peter to leave him alone so he could get some rest. Alfred wanted so desperately to tell him that with him around, he had all the energy in the world. But the words would not form, and so he sank into his bed and watched the door closed, wondering when he would see this beautiful stranger again.