The Fog of the North End of the World

 Mid-June 1993, Cadboro Bay, British Columbia, Canada

“I thought you checked the weather reports before we came out here.”

“And I did.”

“And you didn’t think it was important to tell me fog was in the forecast?”

“I didn’t think it would be this bad!”

Matt groaned and the only reason Alfred could see his brother throw his head back, face buried in his hands, was because their kayaks were pressed together, some rope keeping Matthew from drifting away. The fog had rolled in quick, thick as cotton, and completely blanketed the harbor. They were in Matt’s waters and his deck compass said they were facing west, but the harbor was full of other vessels much larger than them. Going back to shore in these conditions would be a long, tedious task even with six flares and proper navigation tools.

Alfred yawned and stretched his arms back. “You know Mattie, I’m starting to believe this so-called ‘Caddy’ doesn’t exist, or if it does, it’s long swum out to sea by now anyway.”

“Well, it won’t be the first time we’ve come out here for nothing,” said Matthew agreeably. “There were just so many reports recently. A baby was released in the San Juan Islands not that long ago and I’m thinking that’s what people are spotting up here.”

“Since when did you care about this kind of stuff? You sound like the old man,” he snarked. Then, as if reciting from a script, he continued. “There have been a number of sightings of an unknown creature off the shores of Vancouver Island, large bones spotted on the beaches, a few alarming and terrifying photographs have been submitted to us- enticing the like of cryptozoologists across the country.”

Matt had always been able to see the creatures lurking past the thin veil of the supernatural. It hardly affected his day-to-day life, not nearly giving them the same time of day as Arthur would. Alfred had all but blocked that ability since he was still unbreeched. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not taking any of this seriously?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

Deep

Matthew had sworn off going to galas or any other event that required him to dress up the same as he would back in the day of living under Sir Lord Father's English roof.

But then, Johan had invited him to attend the opening of an exclusive art gallery hosted by some old rich family Johan had known for ages.

The art was alright at best.

But Jan, in his perfectly tailored suit, was the reason Matthew stuck around as long as he did.

Many times before, Matt had seen Jan in a suit. A practical, standard business suit worn for meetings and official government affairs. But the one he wore that night? The way his pants fit his legs was divine and Matthew yearned for the long coat he wore to swish aside more often so that he could get a better look at just how finely-tailed Jan had requested those trousers to be.

It felt like a time since past when Matthew had first spotted the man at one of his father's balls- dressed to show every bit of wealth he possessed and the power he held in the world.

It made Matthew weak in the knees then as a young man and it still, very much, had the same effect on him now.

Late Autumn of 1862, Suffolk, England

Arthur's hands shouldn't have been trembling.

His nerves should not have gotten the better of him but his frustration at not being able to keep his tools steady caused him to toss his reading glasses down onto the desk.

The hour was incredibly late and he doubted anyone else in the house was awake at whatever ungodly hour his pocket watch mocked him with. The flickering of the gas lamps was starting to irritate him.

He let out an aggravated sigh and pressed the side of his thumb into one throbbing eye.

Matthew had arrived back in England that morning after a nine-day journey across the Atlantic and after an exchange of a few brief words, retired to his bed chambers, likely eager to get into whatever bottle would greet him warmer than his father had.

Arthur had a whole lecture prepared, resentment boiling like it had been left on the stove a moment too long. He had never struck any of his children before but his hand trembled as he marched to his disobedient, loyal son.

"Alfred was dead for three days."

Bridge Over Anxious Coffee Cups

May 25th: Living Together/ Domestic

September of 1980, Appingedam, Netherlands

Johan liked sticking to a routine, planned things in advance and kept his word on being exactly where he said he would be on any given day. His body naturally rose around the same time each morning; it never mattered if it was for work or if he was on holiday or what hour he stayed up to the night before. It was always around the time the first bit of sunlight would trickle patterns in through the lace curtains that he would begin to stir. It was harder to rise when Matthew was there, but he would somehow ease his way out of his embrace; promises were kissed on Matt’s shoulders and stubbly cheeks only for them to be met with a grumble and slight shift of the mattress.

Matthew’s mornings were slow and lazy, wrapped in soft linen and hoping for warm limbs for hours on end. He was never an early riser and if he managed to get up at a decent hour, he would never be up for long. The kisses would always pull at his heart but they weren’t always strong enough to rouse him from bed. He hated how early Jan got up, even with the knowledge he would come back if Matt hadn’t moved for a set amount of time.

Still.

When Matthew was finally done hiding his face in Jan’s still warm pillow and complaining about the lack of warmth to nobody, he’d pull himself up from the bed with rumpled sheets wrapped around himself and shuffle his way to the kitchen.

A hot cup of coffee in his favorite overseas mug always waited for him. 

Perfectly sweet.

Perfectly capable of clearing the fog of his sleep-hazed mind.

That wasn’t the case every day.

Come Ashore for Rack and Ruin

Late Summer of 1916, North-Central Somme, France

It felt like it didn’t even have to rain for the thick wool of Alistair’s kilt to be absolutely soaked and weigh an extra ton against his reddened, numbed thighs. The mud did a good enough job as well as the rain from days long gone still lingering deeply in the fibers.

It was a rare, silent evening and those were the ones that put Alistair on edge the most. Silent, apart from the moans of the plethora of wounded men, many of whom, Alistair would say have copped a blighty and should be on their way home. Gunfire had been shot earlier that day and the entirety of his Majesty’s empire of scattered corpses stretched across no man’s land and a thick fog was the only grave they were getting for the time being. He peered over the top of the trench, but it was as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat. No one was certain what the Germans had in mind yet but men needed to be retrieved if any survivors had a chance at being saved. 

Matthew was out there somewhere.

The lad was lucky that he hadn’t been found by Gilbert or his brat of a brother.

Dreams of Philadelphia (Chapter 3)

“Which of you lot was going to inform me of this?”

Matthew shifted a tad uncomfortably, moving his weight from foot to foot as he tried to keep his gaze forward, trying not to focus on any particular thing in the room. Father was staring him and his siblings down, all of them dressed in full uniforms. They were soldiers, not children, but Arthur had lined them up in Alfred’s tent to scold them like one of them had left the remains of one of his broken teacups on the kitchen floor. Similar to that, his attention was primarily set on Jack.

But it was Matthew, of all people in the room, who had seen Alfred brought down by fever and illness on several occasions. But had he seen him this bad? He had to think back on that. It felt like every time he saw him in the 19th century, Alfred was in a constant state of ill health and barely holding himself together. Of course, Matthew had spent the majority of his time overseas and didn’t always care if his brother had contracted some deadly disease.

They had been ill together as children, that was certain enough, but the first time Matthew could remember Alfred suffering from a major outbreak was not so long after his separation from the Empire.

The 1793 Philadelphia Yellow Fever Epidemic was Alfred’s first real scare of a major outbreak in his newly birthed land of opportunity and idealism. Matthew wasn’t exactly on good terms with him at that time; there was heavy bitterness on both sides and neither had really spoken to the other since the war had ended. The whole affair had left him with all the bitterness of the Revolution, a healthy serving of lost causes and tawdry ideas of society. Matthew was even more of a child than Alfred was as he stayed close to Arthur’s side, against the ideology of self-reliant freedom alongside man.

And yet, Alfred had reached out to him. Matthew could picture his room in the brick rowhouse, seated at the same desk he had used to write pamphlets for The Pennsylvania Gazette, now seated to quill out his worries and fears to his be loathed traitor of a brother.

I See, I See, What You Do Not See

May 24th: Historical

Late Fall, Amsterdam, Netherlands, 2014

“How long are you going to stare at this painting for? You know there are over eight thousand other things we can look at. Two thousand of them are from my Golden Era alone. Eighty rooms, eight hundred years of history to look at.”

“I told you, I’m trying to see how many paintings I can find you in. There’re so many people here and it’s a harbor so, of course, you have to be here somewhere.”

“Is this what you do when you visit your own museums? Ik zie, ik zie, wat jij niet ziet?”

Matthew let out a dry laugh. “Please, any paintings that were done of me were from Father’s commission and those are all looming in the English countryside gathering dust.”

“And you think there would be hundreds of artists who would find me a perfect muse?”

“More you than me.”

Sudden Burst of Springtime

May 23rd: Tulips/Flowers

Late Spring, Ottawa, Canada 1953

Matthew had been staring at himself in the mirror for twenty minutes now. He had switched out his sweater three times, took a blazer off and on, did away with both and tried a sleeveless pullover only to toss that back on the bed to leave him in just his button up. His hair was ruffled up from the constant wardrobe changes and he wondered how in the hell others could just seamlessly get ready without a second thought. He shouldn’t be making a big deal about this. He really shouldn’t he told himself as he picked the brush up and tried to calm the frizz of his curls back. 

Jan was coming today. He was coming from the airport this afternoon and was going to stay at Matt’s home for the full week the first held tulip festival was going to take place. This wasn’t the first time Jan had come to Canada, he just stayed at hotels or the embassy. Never Matthew’s home. Never that intimate of an insight of how he actually lived. 

He had spent the past week cleaning the place and trying to keep everything neat and tidy. All the laundry was finished, dishes washed and put away, the random assortment of stuff being shoved into the back of a closet or under the bed or all in the spare room that Alfred always stayed in every time he visited.

Maybe he should wear the vest. It was May after all and the weather had been decent the past few days. A striped shirt with a plain vest looked good right? 

He picked up one of his knitted wares. Mary Maxim certainly captured his love for his wildlife and warm sweaters. Fish weren’t romantic were they? Would he be expected to wear something that really reflected his home? Hell, would Jan even care? As long as his clothes were clean and he looked put together, Matthew shouldn’t have to worry about things like if he looked better in a turtleneck or if the sweater had a zipper or buttons. He didn’t mull this much over when he visited father who always fussed over him being well groomed when growing up.

He had even been switching back and forth on the two pairs of glasses he owned. At one point, he considered wearing his contact lenses. Jan knew he wore glasses and had poor eyesight. What would be trying to prove by doing that?

Rosa Centifolia, Chapter 1

Arthur paced the upstairs corridors endlessly, hands held in a firm grip behind his back. He’d been offered a seat at least a dozen times, a cup of tea nearly twice that. He politely declined each time with a wave of his hand. He hadn’t a clue how collected he looked to the servants, clearly not as much as he hoped if they all still hovered a little too closely. He brushed his fringe from his eyes for the umpteenth time. It was nearing sundown as he made his way onto the balcony that overlooked the sea. Taking in a deep breath of the salt air, he tried to relax his shoulders and put his mind at ease. He closed his eyes and listened to the waves crashing upon the rocks, the steady ebb and flow clearing his mind of worry. He only reopened his eyes when he heard a faint tapping on the glass paned door.

“Your Majesty.”

Francis, in all his frills, gave a flourished bow to which Arthur met with a nod of simple acknowledgment. 

“Please, tell me the news is good.”

The man stood upright and pressed his forefinger to his bottom lip. Arthur waited impatiently for an answer, the slight hesitation was enough for him to know that all was not well. Something had gone amiss and Francis was mulling over the prettiest words he could use to describe whatever tragedy was likely upon them.

“I begin with the Queen is well. Her health is good, you needn’t worry about her a moment longer,” Francis’s voice was smooth as it always was. It was the kind of voice that sounded as if a portrait could speak. It set Arthur’s mind partially at ease.

milk inside a bag of milk outside a bag of milk

The light of the refrigerator burned his eyes.

It was late.

Very late in fact.

He should be in bed.

But he wasn’t.

Bed didn’t feel right.

His house didn’t feel right.

The refrigerator screamed at him to shut the door.

But the cold air felt nice on his face.

He almost forgot what a blessing they were.

He closed the door.

The refrigerator hummed peacefully.

The door was lighter than he remembered so he opened it again.

Ah.

Yes.

He was out of milk.

The Sparrow’s Song

Day 1 (21.02): B.C. – 500 // Memories

“I ask, once more, which bird sang when you found the second child?”

“No, none of that, keep your voice down. I’m not going to have you read a prophecy for another child and frighten him for his entire existence.”

“My dear Brit, I don’t understand your lack of concern. It’s a blessing the Romans have left but where did it leave us all? Not long after, kingdoms emerge in your west and a child was found wandering among them calling itself Cymru. I asked you about the clouds and crows and you gave me your answer then.” The man paused, pinching the bridge of his nose that was shadowed by the hood of his cloak. “Now these Anglo-Saxons have come to settle in your lands and this new child appears and you show absolutely no qualms?” 

The woman sighed. He had always been hard to talk to but recent years have made it even harder. The hallowed cheeks and harsh lines on his face were still unsettling. Hibernia had recovered from his Dark Age of starvation and poor harvests but he would never truly recover. He would never admit out loud the Romans were partially to thank for his home’s recovery, mainly because it was also Rome’s fault to begin with. Other things at work were slowly killing them all. They were all healing slower now. She knew she should be more concerned but what was the point? These four children were here and nothing was to be done or changed. Death was always certain no matter how long the three of them had lived and what injuries they recovered from in the past. They rose from Death, frightening their people into thinking them Gods or worse. She didn’t think the same could be done again; the next time she would meet with Death it will surely be the last time.

The three-wick candle that cast her stone house in strange shadows only hosted two flames.

Caledonia was never returning.

A Hole in his Chest

Father lay still in the mud with a hole in his chest.

Matthew could see even from a distance Arthur was dead.

Up close was just more evident.

His usual pale skin was deathly and as grey as the weather. The previously mentioned hole was most likely the result of a bullet that had shattered his sternum and made shattered bone and metal shred his flesh and organs. Lead was wedged somewhere in the newly created mess and Matthew knew he was going to have to be the one to get it out.

Arthur smelt of decay and brine.

Rules: Write the latest line a chunk from a wip and tag as many people as there are words. (WIPS are chunky so I share a blurb) 

Thank you for the tag @oumaheroes <3 Here is another Arthur and the Fae fic I’ve been tossing around in my head

Tagging: @winterwrites23 and @chessna2 because so many people have already been tagged 

Christmas Tea with Bourbon and a Side of Expectations

Suffolk, England, A Week Before Christmas Eve, 1864

The halls glimmered with gold and silver tinsel with servants bustling about to make sure every detail was perfect. Every gingerbread man had each of his three buttons and stood upright, the evergreen garland hanging along the banister must be even, and of course, the tree had to have decorations that were evenly spaced all the way around it. 

Matthew picked up another box from the stack of things that he had helped one of the maids bring down from the attic that morning. This was his job for the day, not that he minded. With a fire crackling not far away and the smells of ginger, pine, and cinnamon filling the house, everything helped put him in a festive spirit. It was almost distracting him enough from how the evening was to go. Distracting even from everything that had been going on this year.

He was surprised by how grand the parties were each winter. His father never seemed the holiday-loving type (or even people-loving), but he never failed to host a fantastic party. For the last few years, Arthur made sure his home was absolutely perfect for the holidays. Matthew, Jack, and Charlie had been under his direct care for most of the century, and though he loved them and raised them with care, it was not without his sternness and obsessive need for detail. Matthew loved his father regardless and would always be grateful for how much he’d done for him.

He sighed as he opened the box, carefully folding back the tissue paper to reveal a handful of various, doll-like ornaments. With great care, he picked up one of the porcelain figures, pinching the string of the ornament between two fingers. He loved these ones the most. They were so carefully and beautifully crafted, almost human-like in their faces. The ballerina woman that now hung from a branch, forever frozen in a dance of her own, was one that Matthew treasured. Arthur had spoiled them one Christmas and took the three to a ballet at the Theatre Royal. Matthew could remember the slight disappointment in that they weren’t seeing Pantomime but he wouldn’t dare voice being dismayed. He could hardly recall what the dance was about, it was French like most of the romantic ballets coming out but the setting was German. A woman had died of heartache and the man responsible had to deal with ghosts and hauntings of the like and that was as much as he could recollect. What he could remember better was his father promising the lot that they could each choose an ornament they were selling there for being well behaved (Jack and Charlie had been particularly fussy from sitting still for that long but had managed well enough). Unfortunately, by the time the four had arrived back in the main lobby, the majority of wares had already been sold. His siblings, of course, he allowed to pick the best of what remained while he selected the misfit dancer with a faded expression. To his surprise Christmas morning, his father had presented the ornament to him in pristine condition. Her cheeks were blushed a soft pink, eyes closed with lashes resting below like a delicate kiss, and even the costume she wore had a new skirt.

Frozen Hope

The Sierra Nevada Mountains along the California Trail, December of 1848

Alfred stared at the flurry of snow raining from above as he slowly let out a harsh, warm breath. He wasn’t sure how many of those were left in him. Winter had come early and his party had fallen behind by tragedy after tragedy. The snow kept falling as November passed. The oxen either died of starvation or were eaten from desperation. He and a few other men had volunteered to go look for help on makeshift snowshoes and whatever little supplies they could spare. 

He had been on this trail before. He had been in these mountains before, but these weren’t his, not yet at least. He couldn’t hear them other than the distant calls of the Pacific Ocean miles and miles away. Sea to shining sea he would utter to himself. His body was still recovering from his war with Maria earlier this year and he wanted nothing more than to be a part of the new group of people expanding to the West. 

His leg was broken.

Alfred had tried to remember Matthew’s lecture on using snowshoes properly but it didn’t matter when his body was already so weak. He was so desperate to keep moving forward, to lead the brave men through narrow trails and crevices to the gradual declining slope that would lead to new lands. A wrong step and twist of his leg and the snow had beat him. The blood from the injury was frozen to the inside of his underclothes.