From Fire to Flame [2/?]
May. 8th, 2010 09:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blood_wingedTitle: From Fire to Flame
Genre: Drama/Angst
Pairing/s: (in this chapter) USxUK.
Characters: (in this chapter) UK, US, Russia
Rating/Warnings: None. PG.
Summary: I just want you all to know that I blame you for this. The sequel to At the End of All Things. Ivan is on the road to recovery, leading a normal life with Alfred and Arthur, when his world is turned upside-down after a simple question leads to a chain of horrifying discoveries. Can the young nation cope with the knowledge of what he once was, or is history destined to repeat itself?
The following day, Arthur found Ivan flushed and feverish and recognised the now familiar signs of the boy falling ill. If somebody had told him two hundred years previously that he would be sitting at Russia’s bedside, dabbing his forehead with a cool cloth and murmuring quiet words of comfort to him, he would have called them crazy without a second thought. Arthur sighed softly, and stroked his free hand over Ivan’s hair, several strands falling loose to be brushed away carefully. The boy made a soft, slightly pained sound and his breathing stuttered as he turned to the older man’s touch, his fingers clenching fretfully to the bed sheets. He was, for the most part, such a lively, cheerful youngster but he became sick so easily, and when that happened, it was as if all his energy just disappeared. Though it had taken time, Ivan had become part of the family, and Arthur hated to see him suffer.
Arthur hummed soothingly, an old tune to which he no longer remembered the words, and the boy seemed to settle, though his breathing was still uneasy. The Englishman could still remember the day that the young Russian had been brought to their home, thin and pale and holding tight to Matthew’s shirt, a shadow of his former self. He hadn’t even known his own name when he was found.
Of course, there was uproar. Fear and lingering hatred led to demands that the child be left out to die, to experience the kind of pain that they had all been forced to go through under his hands, but the new UN structure had held strong and Ivan had been taken under the protection of the United Nations of America and Great Britain. Arthur had never thought he’d see the day when Russia would become a protectorate, and Francis had congratulated him on achieving what he had never been able to do. Ivan’s sisters had made no claim upon him. Natalia was busy trying to keep all her affairs in order, and Yekaterina was, by her own admission, still too frightened of what her little brother could be capable of.
So, Ivan had been adopted into the household, and he had soon settled to life there. Arthur saw much of Alfred’s playful personality in him as he matured, yet in a quieter, sweeter way that was completely his own. It hadn’t taken them long to realise that he wasn’t able to remember anything of the time before his reappearance, and they told him very little, only where his country was and that he couldn’t go back because it would be too hard for him to live on his own. Alfred knew, and his theory was confirmed each time he caught his husband singing the boy to sleep or reading him a story, that Arthur loved acting like a parent. He found that he quite enjoyed it too.
“Arthur?” The Englishman glanced over his shoulder, and held out his free hand to beckon Alfred into the room. “He’s getting sick again, huh...”
“Mm...” Arthur pressed the backs of his fingers gently to Ivan’s forehead, frowning at the temperature. He smoothed the bed sheets absently, leaning his head lightly against Alfred’s arm, and he glanced up, finding a concerned, thoughtful frown on the American’s face. He still had to get used to seeing that expression. “I don’t like it, Alfred... it seems as if he gets sicker and sicker every time.”
“You know he doesn’t, babe,” Alfred told him, moving to wrap his arm around Arthur and pulling the smaller man gently against his side. “I told you not to get so attached to the kid.”
“How could I not? Look at him...”
“I know, I know. I’m pretty fond of him, too.” The American sighed and moved away, walking around the bed and sitting down on the opposite side.
“I’ll see if I can fix up something he might eat,” Arthur said then, giving the small boy’s hand a light squeeze and standing. Alfred quirked one eyebrow at him.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked, and despite his efforts to stop it, a grin worked its way slowly onto his face. Arthur glared at him, and Alfred managed to hold back his grinning until the man had left the room. Despite Arthur’s improvements in cooking ability over the years, he still had the habit of producing culinary abominations.
Alfred sat quietly for a while, listening to the faint sounds of Arthur moving around downstairs and the chatter drifting in from the street below the window. He had matured greatly over the past few hundred years, though he still retained that playful spark that he was known for. Absently, he took his glasses off and held them up to the light, a faint crack in the top right corner of one lens the object of intense scrutiny for some moments before he slid them back on. Beside him, Ivan coughed weakly, and he shifted to tug the quilt a little higher. Ivan stilled, then slowly, his eyes opened, the usually bright violet turned dull and pale, though still focused as they drifted up to meet Alfred’s gaze. A ghost of a smile flitted across his features, and Alfred helped him take a sip of water, brushing his fever-dampened hair from his forehead.
“Prosti...” Ivan mumbled. The American shook his head.
“None of that, I’ll not have your ‘sorry’s. It’s not your fault you’re sick.”
“I had a funny dream...” The boy frowned, and shut his eyes. “An angel was trying to kill me... only... it looked like Arthur.”
“Like Arthur..?”
“Mm… He was saying funny things… then something wrapped around my chest and I couldn’t breathe… then I woke up.”
Alfred felt the colour drain from his face. He still hadn’t forgotten that day – in fact he was quite sure that it would be emblazoned on his mind for the rest of his existence, but he had been certain that Ivan remembered nothing. It was worrying, but now was not the time to think about it. Arthur came back, with a bowl of something that at least smelled edible, and once Ivan had eaten some of it and been settled back comfortably against the pillows, Alfred took Arthur’s arm and led him from the room, keeping his silence until they were both downstairs.
“What’s the matter?”
“Ivan’s remembering things.”
Arthur paled. “What things?”
“He remembered what happened back then, when you fought.” The American sat down, dropping his head against one hand. “He thinks it was just a dream.”
“Bloody hell…” The Englishman sat down abruptly, pushing one hand through his hair. Silence hung between them, interrupted by the faint noise filtering in from outside, then Arthur made a low ‘hm’ sound in the back of his throat and leaned back. “You know we have to tell the others. We agreed.”
Alfred started, looking up sharply. “Aw, come on, Arthur!” he protested. “He’s just a kid having bad dreams. We don’t know that it means anything.”
“We agreed, Alfred. We agreed when we took him in that if anything should happen that could mean the slightest threat to our existence, we wouldn’t keep it a secret.” He sighed and sat up, beckoning Alfred closer. The American hesitated, then moved to kneel beside him, and Arthur took his hands. “We both love Ivan… more than I ever thought possible after what he did… but… we can’t forget what he was. He was like that because of his past… and if he remembers it…”
“I know.”
The other nations had done their own share of pushing when Arthur and Alfred had claimed guardianship over Ivan. The boy had no idea of the number of restrictions placed upon him, and upon those caring for him, and for now, they thought, it was better that he didn’t know. One of those restrictions was now coming into play – if the boy ever showed signs of recalling his past, an immediate UN meeting had to be called to discuss their options. Arthur was reluctant – he knew where that could lead – but while his heart told him one thing his mind firmly stated that it wasn’t worth losing the fragile stability of the UN to keep this from everybody.
“I still think this is pretty dumb, Artie,” Alfred mumbled, resting his chin on Arthur’s knee. “He’s just a kid. What harm could he do?”
“Weren’t you the one who warned me about getting too attached?”
“’S not like I meant it.”
“Mm…” He squeezed his husband’s fingers gently. “Perhaps to us he’s ‘just a kid’… but to so many others he is still ‘Russia’, still dangerous. We can’t just forget what he di-”
“Arthur! Come on!”
“Ssh!” Arthur cast a sharp glance upwards, knowing that the boy was unsettled when they argued, and then he rubbed his face and closed his eyes. “We can’t just forget what he did. You know we can’t.”
Alfred made a disgruntled sound, as close to an agreement as Arthur was going to get and the Englishman leaned down to kiss his forehead, before he reached over to pick up the telephone. Settling the heavy contraption in his lap he dialled, hearing the series of clicks as he was connected, and then the slightly distorted voice on the other end of the line.
“’Allô?”
“Francis?”
“Oui?”
“It’s Arthur.” He stroked his fingers through Alfred’s hair, watching the American’s eyes slowly close in contentment. “I have some bad news. It’s Ivan, he’s… well, we think his memory is starting to come back.”
“I understand. We shall all be coming to you, correct?”
Briefly, Arthur held the phone away from himself and frowned at it. Had Francis been expecting this..? Had something been happening in Europe that he didn’t know about? Now was not the time for such questions – Francis could lie very elegantly but he had certain tells that Arthur would not fail to identify in person.
“Yes, but I don’t know if there’s enough room…”
“Do not worry about that, Arthur. After centuries in a bunker I think we can survive sharing rooms for a few nights.” Francis sounded amused, and Arthur made a mental note to make sure that the Frenchman was in a room by himself… even if that room was the airing cupboard. He pinched the bridge of his nose and thought hard. Even with six or seven to a room he would be hard pressed to accommodate everybody…
He hadn’t thought this through. Hotels were something that just didn’t exist in any great capacity anymore and while there were a couple of public houses in the now quite sizeable town where they lived, Arthur didn’t know how they’d cope with the influx of around two hundred people.
“Some of them will have to go to the towns nearby,” Alfred murmured by his knee. “It ain’t that much of a problem.”
“Ah, you’re right, of course…” The Englishman ruffled his hair gently and relayed the information to Francis, speaking to him for a few minutes longer before he hung up, setting the telephone to one side and slumping down a little. Alfred looked at him for several long moments, then shifted up onto his knees and held his arms out, drawing the smaller man close.
“Do you think I did the right thing?” he asked quietly. Alfred didn’t reply, but the warmth of his body was still comforting. “I hope they can be sensible about this… After all… how long can people hold a grudge?”
--------------
Hurr indeed Arthur how long CAN people hold a grudge? *cough*HundredYearsWar*cough*
I'm sorry I've taken so long with this! DX
--------------
<| Chapter One | Chapter Three |>
Genre: Drama/Angst
Pairing/s: (in this chapter) USxUK.
Characters: (in this chapter) UK, US, Russia
Rating/Warnings: None. PG.
Summary: I just want you all to know that I blame you for this. The sequel to At the End of All Things. Ivan is on the road to recovery, leading a normal life with Alfred and Arthur, when his world is turned upside-down after a simple question leads to a chain of horrifying discoveries. Can the young nation cope with the knowledge of what he once was, or is history destined to repeat itself?
~ Forgiveness is the fragrance of the violet which still clings fast to the heel that crushed it. ~
*****
The following day, Arthur found Ivan flushed and feverish and recognised the now familiar signs of the boy falling ill. If somebody had told him two hundred years previously that he would be sitting at Russia’s bedside, dabbing his forehead with a cool cloth and murmuring quiet words of comfort to him, he would have called them crazy without a second thought. Arthur sighed softly, and stroked his free hand over Ivan’s hair, several strands falling loose to be brushed away carefully. The boy made a soft, slightly pained sound and his breathing stuttered as he turned to the older man’s touch, his fingers clenching fretfully to the bed sheets. He was, for the most part, such a lively, cheerful youngster but he became sick so easily, and when that happened, it was as if all his energy just disappeared. Though it had taken time, Ivan had become part of the family, and Arthur hated to see him suffer.
Arthur hummed soothingly, an old tune to which he no longer remembered the words, and the boy seemed to settle, though his breathing was still uneasy. The Englishman could still remember the day that the young Russian had been brought to their home, thin and pale and holding tight to Matthew’s shirt, a shadow of his former self. He hadn’t even known his own name when he was found.
Of course, there was uproar. Fear and lingering hatred led to demands that the child be left out to die, to experience the kind of pain that they had all been forced to go through under his hands, but the new UN structure had held strong and Ivan had been taken under the protection of the United Nations of America and Great Britain. Arthur had never thought he’d see the day when Russia would become a protectorate, and Francis had congratulated him on achieving what he had never been able to do. Ivan’s sisters had made no claim upon him. Natalia was busy trying to keep all her affairs in order, and Yekaterina was, by her own admission, still too frightened of what her little brother could be capable of.
So, Ivan had been adopted into the household, and he had soon settled to life there. Arthur saw much of Alfred’s playful personality in him as he matured, yet in a quieter, sweeter way that was completely his own. It hadn’t taken them long to realise that he wasn’t able to remember anything of the time before his reappearance, and they told him very little, only where his country was and that he couldn’t go back because it would be too hard for him to live on his own. Alfred knew, and his theory was confirmed each time he caught his husband singing the boy to sleep or reading him a story, that Arthur loved acting like a parent. He found that he quite enjoyed it too.
“Arthur?” The Englishman glanced over his shoulder, and held out his free hand to beckon Alfred into the room. “He’s getting sick again, huh...”
“Mm...” Arthur pressed the backs of his fingers gently to Ivan’s forehead, frowning at the temperature. He smoothed the bed sheets absently, leaning his head lightly against Alfred’s arm, and he glanced up, finding a concerned, thoughtful frown on the American’s face. He still had to get used to seeing that expression. “I don’t like it, Alfred... it seems as if he gets sicker and sicker every time.”
“You know he doesn’t, babe,” Alfred told him, moving to wrap his arm around Arthur and pulling the smaller man gently against his side. “I told you not to get so attached to the kid.”
“How could I not? Look at him...”
“I know, I know. I’m pretty fond of him, too.” The American sighed and moved away, walking around the bed and sitting down on the opposite side.
“I’ll see if I can fix up something he might eat,” Arthur said then, giving the small boy’s hand a light squeeze and standing. Alfred quirked one eyebrow at him.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked, and despite his efforts to stop it, a grin worked its way slowly onto his face. Arthur glared at him, and Alfred managed to hold back his grinning until the man had left the room. Despite Arthur’s improvements in cooking ability over the years, he still had the habit of producing culinary abominations.
Alfred sat quietly for a while, listening to the faint sounds of Arthur moving around downstairs and the chatter drifting in from the street below the window. He had matured greatly over the past few hundred years, though he still retained that playful spark that he was known for. Absently, he took his glasses off and held them up to the light, a faint crack in the top right corner of one lens the object of intense scrutiny for some moments before he slid them back on. Beside him, Ivan coughed weakly, and he shifted to tug the quilt a little higher. Ivan stilled, then slowly, his eyes opened, the usually bright violet turned dull and pale, though still focused as they drifted up to meet Alfred’s gaze. A ghost of a smile flitted across his features, and Alfred helped him take a sip of water, brushing his fever-dampened hair from his forehead.
“Prosti...” Ivan mumbled. The American shook his head.
“None of that, I’ll not have your ‘sorry’s. It’s not your fault you’re sick.”
“I had a funny dream...” The boy frowned, and shut his eyes. “An angel was trying to kill me... only... it looked like Arthur.”
“Like Arthur..?”
“Mm… He was saying funny things… then something wrapped around my chest and I couldn’t breathe… then I woke up.”
Alfred felt the colour drain from his face. He still hadn’t forgotten that day – in fact he was quite sure that it would be emblazoned on his mind for the rest of his existence, but he had been certain that Ivan remembered nothing. It was worrying, but now was not the time to think about it. Arthur came back, with a bowl of something that at least smelled edible, and once Ivan had eaten some of it and been settled back comfortably against the pillows, Alfred took Arthur’s arm and led him from the room, keeping his silence until they were both downstairs.
“What’s the matter?”
“Ivan’s remembering things.”
Arthur paled. “What things?”
“He remembered what happened back then, when you fought.” The American sat down, dropping his head against one hand. “He thinks it was just a dream.”
“Bloody hell…” The Englishman sat down abruptly, pushing one hand through his hair. Silence hung between them, interrupted by the faint noise filtering in from outside, then Arthur made a low ‘hm’ sound in the back of his throat and leaned back. “You know we have to tell the others. We agreed.”
Alfred started, looking up sharply. “Aw, come on, Arthur!” he protested. “He’s just a kid having bad dreams. We don’t know that it means anything.”
“We agreed, Alfred. We agreed when we took him in that if anything should happen that could mean the slightest threat to our existence, we wouldn’t keep it a secret.” He sighed and sat up, beckoning Alfred closer. The American hesitated, then moved to kneel beside him, and Arthur took his hands. “We both love Ivan… more than I ever thought possible after what he did… but… we can’t forget what he was. He was like that because of his past… and if he remembers it…”
“I know.”
The other nations had done their own share of pushing when Arthur and Alfred had claimed guardianship over Ivan. The boy had no idea of the number of restrictions placed upon him, and upon those caring for him, and for now, they thought, it was better that he didn’t know. One of those restrictions was now coming into play – if the boy ever showed signs of recalling his past, an immediate UN meeting had to be called to discuss their options. Arthur was reluctant – he knew where that could lead – but while his heart told him one thing his mind firmly stated that it wasn’t worth losing the fragile stability of the UN to keep this from everybody.
“I still think this is pretty dumb, Artie,” Alfred mumbled, resting his chin on Arthur’s knee. “He’s just a kid. What harm could he do?”
“Weren’t you the one who warned me about getting too attached?”
“’S not like I meant it.”
“Mm…” He squeezed his husband’s fingers gently. “Perhaps to us he’s ‘just a kid’… but to so many others he is still ‘Russia’, still dangerous. We can’t just forget what he di-”
“Arthur! Come on!”
“Ssh!” Arthur cast a sharp glance upwards, knowing that the boy was unsettled when they argued, and then he rubbed his face and closed his eyes. “We can’t just forget what he did. You know we can’t.”
Alfred made a disgruntled sound, as close to an agreement as Arthur was going to get and the Englishman leaned down to kiss his forehead, before he reached over to pick up the telephone. Settling the heavy contraption in his lap he dialled, hearing the series of clicks as he was connected, and then the slightly distorted voice on the other end of the line.
“’Allô?”
“Francis?”
“Oui?”
“It’s Arthur.” He stroked his fingers through Alfred’s hair, watching the American’s eyes slowly close in contentment. “I have some bad news. It’s Ivan, he’s… well, we think his memory is starting to come back.”
“I understand. We shall all be coming to you, correct?”
Briefly, Arthur held the phone away from himself and frowned at it. Had Francis been expecting this..? Had something been happening in Europe that he didn’t know about? Now was not the time for such questions – Francis could lie very elegantly but he had certain tells that Arthur would not fail to identify in person.
“Yes, but I don’t know if there’s enough room…”
“Do not worry about that, Arthur. After centuries in a bunker I think we can survive sharing rooms for a few nights.” Francis sounded amused, and Arthur made a mental note to make sure that the Frenchman was in a room by himself… even if that room was the airing cupboard. He pinched the bridge of his nose and thought hard. Even with six or seven to a room he would be hard pressed to accommodate everybody…
He hadn’t thought this through. Hotels were something that just didn’t exist in any great capacity anymore and while there were a couple of public houses in the now quite sizeable town where they lived, Arthur didn’t know how they’d cope with the influx of around two hundred people.
“Some of them will have to go to the towns nearby,” Alfred murmured by his knee. “It ain’t that much of a problem.”
“Ah, you’re right, of course…” The Englishman ruffled his hair gently and relayed the information to Francis, speaking to him for a few minutes longer before he hung up, setting the telephone to one side and slumping down a little. Alfred looked at him for several long moments, then shifted up onto his knees and held his arms out, drawing the smaller man close.
“Do you think I did the right thing?” he asked quietly. Alfred didn’t reply, but the warmth of his body was still comforting. “I hope they can be sensible about this… After all… how long can people hold a grudge?”
--------------
Hurr indeed Arthur how long CAN people hold a grudge? *cough*HundredYearsWar*cough*
I'm sorry I've taken so long with this! DX
--------------
<| Chapter One | Chapter Three |>
