Hetalia: You Were So Small I

-You Were So Small-

                                                   "You...used to be...so great, once..."

Late December in port town of Yorktown, Virginia was damp and cold. Further inland, light patches of frost littered the ground as evidence of a blessedly mild winter, but here in the settled area the cobblestone streets were only slushed with the after effects of a less than noticeable snow. Buildings and windows were dusted with white flakes, soft flurries fell lazily in the cool breezeless eve, and other than the silver moon only a few lamp burning street lights illuminated the way down the midnight path.

Everything was so quiet and deserted...it hadn't been that way just a few months ago.

The soft tapping of boot heels against the cobble stones echoed the rhythmic tempo of the town's sleeping heartbeat. A man dressed in high black boots, thick white leggings that peered beneath a heavy wool overcoat, walked silently down the street. His hands were hidden in his pockets, the stiff high collar of the coat protected his neck, but his unruly blond hair remained bear to the elements. Sky blue eyes were dulled with a weariness and heaviness willingly born to give peace to his surroundings, such was the burden of a nation's avatar.

After five long years of war, his people deserved this moment of peace regardless of the fact that he had had none since long before telling his mentor, benefactor, his protector...his safe haven and greatest scorn that he was declaring his independence.

The first shot had been fired over five years ago in Concord, Massachucetts...the last had been on that battlefield near here in Yorktown, Virginia...That final bullet had almost come from a British musket, and Alfred was here to figure out why it hadn't.

It was well past midnight when Alfred reached the end of the road, bearing witness to the port still under repair after the conflict not long ago. French ships had sailed in to crush British vessels set on rescuing the last great battalion of troops fighting the ground war on American soil. By that point, the Philadelphia Campaign had reached is zenith, proving victorious for the Colonial and French alliance and leaving the British and Hessen forces over stressed for resources and moral. All that was left was the Southern Front, and that was the front Alfred had been most concerned with confronting...why?

Because Arthur was there, and he had been claiming victories left and right.

The memory brought the echoes of blaring pain to his chest. The young man winced and swallowed thickly, slowly removing a gloved hand from his coat as he rubbed an old ache. When England had taken down Savannah, America had crumbled to his knees, doubling over in pain as the inferno of agony consumed his abdomen from the inside out. Much to America's dismay, England had found an incredible amount of supporters in the south...Loyalist who, to Alfred, represented his own inner conflict that begged him to throw down his arms and plea for England's forgiveness. Disobedience was not something tolerated under British rule, the crown was the indisputable governor of all and his mentor had raised him to believe as such. But...that other side of him, the side that demanded equality, freedom, and some god damn respect roared louder than the gentleman's demands for silence. He still remembered the day he begun to rebel, first with little things like neglecting house hold duties, ignoring dress code, and even reading forbidden material written by men who he now sided with in this revolution. He knew England saw what was brewing, America hadn't been the first colony to misbehave or entertain thoughts of breaking away, but alongside the denial and the anger he also saw the hurt. That hurt had been what took him so long to finally raise a gun to England's face and tell him he was done taking orders, it was his turn to give them.

First being...England, go home.

Alfred hadn't seen a smile, nor heard a kind word from his mentor since that day. The backlash hadn't been hard and fast as he had been expecting, in fact, the older nation seemed like he was in too much shock to do anything for a time...but when he did act, he acted with a wrath the likes of which Alfred had never seen...He began tearing British America apart one town, one city, one colony at a time with an expression America could only describe as pure stone...

Cold, detached...dead.

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"Breathe Amérique, you have to control your breathing."

'Can't...can't breathe... GOD! Pain! No, too much pain!'

Hands grabbed him as he writhed, thrashing and trying so hard not to scream. Fingers clawed the ground, dirt and blood caking under his nails as the earth gave way to his torment. His spine arched of its own will, contorting his body into an unnatural shape as he struggled to seize the scream in his throat. Capillaries in his lungs collapsed after so much oxygen depravation, and the only thing keeping his limbs from flailing were the strong hands pinning him down.

"Amérique! Amérique-! ALFRED! Cher Dieu, you're too strong for me to keep this up!"

A million stabbing pains were attacking his midsection, white hot spears were plunging into his guts and scrambling his innards about before wrenching them out like discardable meat. His skin was on fire, his back felt like it was going to snap in two, and his pelvis was cracking--he swore it was caving in under some incredible weight! There was a magnetism in the center of the pain, sucking everything into the vortex of pure agony that made him feel like someone had opened a black hole in his intestines. Someone was reaching in and trying to rip his organs out through a metaphysical tear in his body!

'Oh God, make it STOP!'

"Surrender it, mon ami," His French ally pleaded as gently as he could while still trying to maintain arresting the young nation's incredible strength. "Surrender it and the pain will end. Let him take it, Amérique, and live to reclaim it another day."

So hot, so much pain! He could feel blood spilling out from a rupture within himself, he could see in his mind the blood staining him beneath the skin, spreading out like a black and purple sea while crimson flooded his insides. England had broken through. Oh God, he broke through!

Muscles locking, body shaking, straining to keep itself together while being attacked from hundreds of miles away, Alfred gripped the cold earth of New Jersey's soil tighter as New York hemorrhaged within him. "N-no...No!" He sobbed, still choking on his lack of proper oxygen, fighting too hard elsewhere to care about the needs here. "He...he can't-"

His French companion's hat was gone, his forehead placed against his unofficial ally's as he made his own pained pleas and tried to counter Alfred's stubborn resistance that would lead to his own demise. "Surrender it, Alfred. Pour le bien de Dieu, please do not die tonight because you could not accept one sacrifice."

Suddenly, the sound of a gun shot filled his brain, drowning out the sounds of his ally trying to reason above him, the fires and war raging around him, and the ear splitting scream erupting out of him.

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The descent into the fort's prison reminded America just how cold that night had been. The Englishman who raised him had landed in Manhattan with the intention of standing before a lone and trembling colony ready to give up his 'nonsense' and beg the forgiveness of his superiors. Redcoats had swept into New York and annihilated what resistance stood before them. Unprepared and not expecting the attack, the colonial defenders had been torn between fleeing or putting up what stand they could...those who planted their feet in and met British arms with American were brought down hard or captured. Those who fled were driven out of the heart of the city. General Washington, America's commander, had nearly been taken during that battle, but managed to elude enemy hands...

One of America's most important vital regions, however, had not been so fortunate.

The northern campaigns were the longest and the hardest fought; New England had been taken by storm and reclaimed slowly by bloody tooth and nail. It had taken years to recover his northern colonies, New York being the last, but once he had it gave him the strength to turn southward where his main adversary had gone...though why his mentor had suddenly left the north in his subordinates' hands to take up the fight in the south was beyond him.

He would have to ask him that too.

The slick stone walls ended at an intersection, the corridor branching off in a 'T' shape as Alfred turned down the right hall. Cells lined each side of the low ceilinged prison, all empty on this level because of the one soul housed here. While Redcoat soldiers filled the upper prison floor, making it rather stifling, crowded, and unpleasant in every way, this level felt more like a crypt. The silence was deafening, the temperature was freezing and the only light came from torches placed in holders spaced along the walls every now and then. There were no windows down here, the only ventilation being at the north and south ends of the halls where no cells made contact, and no natural light or sound penetrated the thick garrison stones. It might have been free of the madness above...but Alfred found himself preferring the soldier's level to this.

It hadn't been his decision to put his old mentor down here...but his advisor, Francis Bonnefoy, had made a solid point that mortal men would have to guard the immortal avatar of the British Empire. The fear and anxiety of the task was already high enough without having to worry about him rioting and escaping the much more accommodating officer's holding quarters. Though this mentor had not spoken so much as a word since being here, Alfred's people had still sided with Francis's appeal and insisted upon keeping their high profile prisoner some place more secure...and much further from the world above.

Alfred had begrudgingly agreed to it on the conditions that no one else was to be on the same block, the prisoner would not have to be chained up in his cell, and more than just bread and water be brought to him. To those terms, it had been the men's turn to begrudgingly agree.

Though, much to Alfred's dismay, those terms had not been fully obeyed until after the third day of his mentor's imprisonment. It hadn't been until Alfred returned from his conference in the north and unleashed his outrage about the older nation's maltreatment that he had righted the wrongs by taking over wardenship of the prisoner himself.

The blond stopped at the last cell on the right, the only one with a thick steel barrier and a closed window portal. He withdrew the large skeleton key from his pocket and unlocked the heavy door before pushing the creaking mass open.

Inside the stone walled cell, the floor dipped down a bit to accommodate more headroom than allowed outside in the hall. The floor was littered with sporadic bits of straw over the surprisingly wide area. This was one of the largest cells in the prison, meant for keeping the most dangerous groups of prisoners who usually killed each other when left without supervision for to long. Five or six people would be thrown in here at one time, and by lunch the jailor was cleaning out half or all of the prisoners' bodies. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but the room had been selected to accommodate just one person for now.

Someone far more dangerous than a dozen or more mortal sociopaths combined.

Silence hung thick as Alfred took a step away from the door, letting the light flood the room a little more to better look at its sole occupant. While there was a small shelf that protruded from the wall, supposedly a bed, fitted with a pillow and blanket, the man dressed in the long red coat sat against the back wall opposite the door. The man's head was hung, one leg extended before him, and the other bent with an arm resting upon it. There was no reaction upon Alfred's entrance, and the silence held in the air between them for a long time.

Alfred kept his sigh to himself...it was clear Arthur Kirkland had no desire to see him...just like last time.

"...Word came from your king...there will be no more military offensives against us, and he's withdrawing British troops from...my land," America began, trying to break the silence but finding the words difficult to say. His people were celebrating victory, he could feel the intense longing for freedom abating inside of him - the dream really in his grasp for the first time in his life. Thirteen united colonies had just defeated the greatest empire in the world...they had made the impossible, possible.

Yet, the heaviness inside of him was mirrored only by the taciturnity of his current companion. Arthur gave no response. He said and did nothing.

The American held his tongue for a moment, waiting, praying England would say something, but nothing came. "...A ship...is scheduled to come into port tomorrow from Britain. We're allowing it in to release you and your men to return with it. Now that the king has called off all attacks, I...we...have no reason to detain you any longer."

The man in red's shoulders tensed a bit, Alfred's eyes latching onto him as he watched Arthur's breaths cease for a moment. The young...nation, yes, he would be a nation now, once his leaders got together and finalized the last of the treaties he would be a nation! ...Like...like England...Like Arthur, who he so desperately wanted to speak, his mentor who hadn't said a word nor so much as looked at him since the day he fell at his feet and wept, unable to shoot the boy he'd raised for over a hundred and seventy-five years. In all that time Alfred had never once seen his guardian cry, never once shed a tear or showed pain (even though he had returned to visit America time and time again wrapped in bandages and sporting new scars). But that day the greatest empire had had the chance to end everything, bring the war to an end with a British victory with only a single shot...and he didn't.

Alfred so desperately wanted to know why.

He had asked him before, hell he had been so frustrated after being turned away for the umpteenth time he had practically screamed in the Englishman's face and shoved him against the wall demanding answers. But Arthur had stubbornly maintained his silence, not even giving Alfred an answer with his eyes as he kept the stone mask upon his face. Alfred had been so furious he had stormed out and not returned...until now...

Over a month later.

Even though the slight shoulder movement had been more than he had gotten since his men had shackled and brought Arthur here from the battlefield outside of Yorktown, the avatar still held his silence and never once looked up...his tongue not even being loosened by the thought of going home. Alfred had hoped that would finally do it, that the promise of home would somehow break through the shell his former protector had put around himself, but it seemed his hopes were in vain.

Arthur said nothing.

"...Canada...Matthew, asked about you. He wanted to make sure you were okay and being treated well," Alfred opened up on the next subject on his twin brother who had sided with Britain instead of him. While he had been furious with Canada and Matthew at the time, Alfred could hardly blame his twin for making the obviously wiser choice. At the time, Canada had been just as much a colony as America, but without the intense drive for independence his southern neighbor harbored. America was going to war with the most powerful navy and army on the planet with little to no money, men, or supplies--to top it off, he also lacked a defined military and leadership of his own. France, Spain, and the Dutch had taken a chance on the American underdog because of their intense hatred for England, but Matthew had remained with his surrogate father out of devotion, obedience, and plain common sense.

Alfred could hardly fault him for that, now could he.

"...I'm not taking any kind of action against Canada, and I told Matthew you were...as well as could be expected, and sent a message about your return to England after I found out this morning. I..." Alfred paused, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "I wanted to come then and tell you right away, but I was called away to handle a few things with my leaders before I rode as fast as I could to get here...hence why I'm so late...I'm sorry..."

"...You're sorry..."

Alfred blinked. His entire body froze as his mind registered that Arthur actually spoke.

"...That's the first time you've said that since you declared war on me."

His head tilting up, Alfred looked over at Arthur who still hadn't moved from his place against the wall, still in the same position as when he arrived.

"..."

Slowly, and deprived of the smoothness held by someone who hadn't been hunched in such a position for so long, Arthur lifted his head, dulled blond hair sliding away from near lifeless green eyes, and the avatar of the Great British Empire looked back at the American for the first time since letting the musket that would have brought his nation victory, fall because he'd been unable...to shoot an idiot.

"...Arthur..."

"...When this fantasy is over...you'll wish I had pulled the trigger."

Alfred's eyes widened; Arthur's words were nothing compared to the tone behind them. As a child, Alfred could only ever remember his master's voice being gentle, soothing, and every now and then, playfully chiding. As he grew up, Arthur laughed more, he smiled and, while a little stricter, he was prouder of his charge too. Alfred could think of no better thing in the world than Arthur Kirkland looking down at him, a smile across his face, an approving nod while giving him word of praise or encouragement. He had only seen him get angry when France was mentioned or a poor critique was given of his cooking. Arthur had never raised a hand to him or hurt him in any way; but as his colony continued to grow into adulthood, he began to impose harsher rules and restrictions. His words changed from endearing and light, to criticizing and always addressing Alfred's every flaw instead of what he did right. Nothing Alfred did could please him; nothing he said, wore, or tried was enough to satisfy Arthur and prove that he was indeed a well rounded, astute, and polished young man. He worked tirelessly to do all he could to meet his mentor's expectations, but at some point Alfred got tired of bending to the will of another, meeting someone else's standards instead of his own.

That's when he heard that tone for the first time. It was the voice of God, condemning him for choosing to break free of his ignorance with poison fruit rather than live in blind obedience and paradise.

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Blood poured down from the gash at Alfred's hairline. A crimson streak flowed down his face and nearly blinded him in his left eye. The stream dripped down his skin onto his blue coat, splattering the navy wool with red. While he thought Arthur probably thought it fitting just how red the rest of his attire was after the fighting, no pleasure showed on the British man's face as he stared the American down with unwavering green eyes. The man didn't even so much as acknowledge the 'frog prince' of France standing next to his rebellious colony, his most hated nemesis and still all of his attention was on Alfred.

Francis had admitted later that that had truly shocked him.

"Those are your choices, Alfred, you either surrender now or you'll lose another colony," England stated, calling Alfred by his human name rather than his country name...adding that he refused to recognize his colony as anything but a subordinate. "Judging by the state of things, after the loss of New York and New Jersey...loosing Pennsylvania will be the end of you."

The loss of New York had ruptured his spleen and all but destroyed everything below the stomach. He had finally surrendered his colony to England and was barely recovering when the merciless assault continued after the failed attempt by England to conclude the Staten Island Peace Conference. England had wanted an American surrender, but all it received were the charred remains of a burned British flag and the words 'freedom or death' thrown in its face. The empire had wasted no time in invading and taking over New Jersey, sending Alfred into respiratory failure before a hasty retreat by Colonial forces to Pennsylvania yielded the loss of yet another colony...but the move spared Alfred's life by cutting off another invaded part of himself.

Now, barely able to stand on his own, internal organs and lungs still repairing as the colonies tried to recollect themselves after loosing two vital regions, Alfred stood bloody, ragged, and with labored breathing before his father country. This was his mentor's last attempt to reason with Alfred after having given him a taste of just what war was really like...what he was really up against.

The consequences of what he had done.

Arthur showed nothing as he watched emotionlessly while the young avatar strained to remain on his feet, struggled to keep breathing and covered in the blood and grime of war as Arthur had been covered countless times before. But Francis knew his old nemesis was in just as much, if not more pain, than his dear ward at that moment.

The tightness at the corners of those green eyes, his locked jaw, tightened fists -- the way his shoulder shook slightly every time the boy's lungs spasmed and blood freckled his hand with each cough...Oh yes, Angleterre was suffering far more than any sword or bullet wound could do. France had yet to officially enter the war yet, but its leaders had sent their avatar to gather information before America's Benjamin Franklin traveled there to try and rally their support in the fight against England.

Francis was beginning to see...the best way to make Arthur Kirkland hurt...was to rip him apart with America's suffering.

"You...had your answer...on S-Staten...Island..." America replied in between labored breaths. He tried to stand a little straighter, meeting Arthur's silent glare of frustration with his own glare of determination.

Arthur had never made a more perfect creation of himself.

"...So be it."

That night, as the British had prepared to cross into Pennsylvania and take the northern front of the Colonial forces once and for all, George Washington made a daring crossing of the Delaware and surprised the British troops from behind. New Jersey had been reclaimed upon driving the British back to New York, the move helping Alfred to breathe easier but not fully recover as New York was still under British control.
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"...Is that what you've been waiting for all this time? An apology?" Alfred finally replied, his own tone becoming low and listless. He met Arthur's stare now with one of blankness he had learned to develop over these long five years of war.

Arthur said nothing for a time and his expression never changed as he looked back at his former charge, "That, Alfred...is not how the game is played. Victors never apologize for anything...but like most things about war, I don't expect you to be an expert...or even a rudimentary novice."

There was bite to his words, but Alfred didn't let it hurt him as he was finally getting somewhere with his former mentor. Yes, the man was still about as amiable in conversation as an aged and very pissed off mountain lion, but he was talking...which was more than Alfred had gotten out of him in months.

"You didn't teach me much about it. What I learned I had to pick up from France, Spain, the Netherlands, and what came naturally...so if you're sore about me not conducting a proper British war, then you've only yourself to blame for not teaching me how," Alfred replied, crossing his arms and leaning back against the side wall, still a respectable distance from the Englishman.

"...Hmph...another reason your mess of united colonies won't last -- you've been trained by frogs, Spaniards, and the Dutch. Perhaps it was my failing for not teaching you, for if I had, you would have known to surrender long before-..." Arthur's voice, still low and thick with its arrogance and chastisement, slowly trailed off and faded along with his gaze. His eyes returned to the floor, but he refused to hang his head any longer.

"...Before? Before what? Before I drove you out of Boston? Or reclaimed New Jersey? Held Philadelphia, retook New York and even stopped you from getting the naval advantage again here in Virginia?" America returned, expression tightening with a bit of anger at not knowing what Arthur had been trying to say, and the fact that the man wasn't even acknowledging that despite everything...Alfred had actually done a good job for once. He had succeeded in the impossible, finished what he had set out to do, and Arthur was being a damn sore looser about it!

Arthur didn't reply as he had lapsed into silence again while something played out in his mind. Alfred was left frustrated and in the dark; what was going through Arthur's head?

"...What time will the ship be arriving?"

Alfred blinked, a bit taken aback by the change in subject, but the former colony sighed and decided to comply, "Sometime in the morning. We've promised provisions to restock the ship with what we can...and will be sending an official request for a formal treaty signing with your king to finalize Britain's surrender over rights to the colonies...it also includes an official acknowledgement that this new nation is the United States of America."

He was a nation now, and real nation like England, and he was damn well going to be recognized as one.

A short scuffing sound came from the Englishman, the empire almost cracked a smile, "Is that what you're calling yourself now, Alfred?"

The avatar's eyes narrowed slightly, "Yes. My colonies will be recognized as individual states, and united we are a country. While some areas were promised to my allies for their help in the war, I'm maintaining the thirteen original colonies and they'll be more than enough to sustain me for now."

Arthur finally looked back at his former colony since turning away, "Sustain you? I took just two of your colonies and you nearly died. Had I taken a third, I would be having this one-sided conversation over your grave." Stiffly, and hesitantly, Arthur slowly pushed himself to his feet, hiding his discomfort as his worn and sore body finally stood erect and defiant against the man who had ordered his confinement here. Eyes that had been vastly dead since his defeat were now fiery and burning with intense anger, and all of it was focused on Alfred. "You think you have what it takes to sustain yourself with just your thirteen states? Do you have any idea what you have been spared because my influence, my name, and my damn power up until this point? Your ships haven't been guarding the seas or your ports from pirates and invaders, no one trembles at the name 'America' and certainly not this United States bullocks. Your borders haven't been manned by your motley crew of farmers, blacksmiths, and page boys and certainly not your army of frogs, Spaniards, and Dutchmen!"

The indignation and rage boiling off of the Englishman was more intense than anything Alfred had ever witnessed. His mouth was slightly open, ready to protest but finding no chance nor words with which to speak. As a child the thought of England protecting him had always brought him comfort, and though he would never tell him, Alfred knew some of those injuries Arthur always returned to him with were gotten in defense of him. Arthur had sacrificed greatly for him with time, resources, money, and man power... his mentor had spared little expense when it came to raising him. It wasn't until Alfred had gotten older and became more self sustaining that Arthur coddled him less and less to the point the young man nearly broke his back just to get an utterance of praise from him. Alfred had been expected by then to return on the crown's 'investment', and the thought had hurt Alfred deeply thinking that Arthur had only taken care of him for so long simply to reap the benefits of an obedient servant later.

Yet...regardless of everything--the arguments, the rebellion, his leader's opinions, his people's opinions and even the opinions of his allies...Alfred could never honestly make himself believe that Arthur never cared. There was a selflessness in Arthur's rearing of him that could not be denied, and when the nightmares came and his mentor just sighed and let him crawl under the blankets next to him at night it was never clearer that the older avatar had felt something other than the need to care for an investment.

There was no interest to be had in abating a child's fears by letting him sleep soundly in the comfort of protecting arms, keeping all the nightmares away.

But as time passed those arms had become smothering and the nightmares began to star the man behind them as a monster. Everyone had to grow up, Alfred had just started his greatest growth spurt in the bloodiest way possible.

He had to learn to protect himself now, and he would do just that to keep the freedom he had fought so hard to obtain.

Alfred's expression sobered as he looked back at Arthur's rage. Beneath the anger, Alfred saw the hurt for the first time since the Englishman had originally tried to talk him out of revolution in Boston...it was the second time in his life he had raised a gun to Arthur's face and returned with his own ultimatum of 'release me or draw your arms'. He'd never forget his mentor's expression then...so much different from the raw fury he saw now.

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"Alfred! Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"I know exactly what I'm doing," He growled back, the pistol not wavering as the barrel remained level with his manster's head. "I'm taking my freedom since you won't give it to me."

"AND WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH IT?" Arthur suddenly demanded, the scream uncontrollable as his demeanor cracked in his furious desperation to get Alfred to see reason. "Do you have any idea what you're asking for? A dream? The high that satisfies a feeling you have? Its a delusional need that requires more responsibility than you have maturity to handle. Now stop this nonsense OR ELSE!"

The American had heard these arguments before; he heard them in his sleep from the voices of the Loyalists and the child within him that was as frightened by the thought of freedom as he was by the thought of being this master's enemy. It was a struggle to keep himself from not shaking as he held the weapon, to keep his grip strong when invisible hands were fighting to pry his fingers from the trigger. Sweat dripped down from his brow as his expression tightened, desperation from the stronger rebellious side holding his arm firmly and his resolve indomitable.

He could do this. He was meant to do this. He was America, and he WOULD have his freedom!

"...I'm not afraid of you, Arthur. I've never been afraid of you," He said in a low voice, slowly pulling the hammer back on the pistol. "But before this is done...you will learn to be afraid of me."

The sound of the firing mechanism clicking into place made Arthur's eyebrows go up; even more shocking than the boy's actions was Alfred's use of his human name...a name Arthur had not even shared with several older and far more powerful countries in this world. It was a name he shared with America, his Alfred, because he truly loved him, trusted him, and felt that he would never say it in scorn as all others had. When Alfred had said his name before this moment he had spoken it with pride, happiness, pure innocence and joy. There was a tenderness to it that made the Englishman love his name for the first time since it had been given to him. He would never have believed the boy he had raised could ever twist his name to sound so...vile, so hated as it did now. Never, not his America, not his Alfred...

He had been wrong...so terribly wrong...and only the second time in his life had he felt the bite of a dagger sinking into his heart. America...had made England bleed for the first time.

"..." Arthur was silent for a while as slowly his expression recomposed itself to what it would look like for the rest of the war. For five long years his face was a stone mask of cold indifference as he sealed his bleeding heart in the tomb of his body. He had never given Alfred a reason to fear him, in fact he had once boasted that Alfred did not have the capacity for fear beyond his own imagination...Now he was going to give Alfred something real, something truly awful and terrible to fear...

Him.

"As you wish...Consider the shield of the British Empire removed," He said, his deathly calm tone making Alfred's arm shake slightly. "Welcome to the real world, Alfred. There is no one standing between you and the monsters out here."

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