Post by England on Feb 5, 2013 6:30:46 GMT -6
Out of all the potential nations to throw his lot with, Arthur had taken the likes of Prussia under his wing. It had not been his intent to do so. The Englishman's foray outside the Manor was for gathering herbs and foraging for plants that could be utilized in eating or first aid. He was trying to scavenge resources. Enough to fill his designated sanctuary to exist comfortably for however long he needed to. There was a mystery to the Manor, yes, and Arthur was powerfully intrigued by it. Putting his life at risk to seek answers wasn't currently on the agenda. That would come in time once he'd gained enough information.
For now, Arthur was content maintaining a low profile. Others, like a certain American host he knew, were probably blundering through this place. Turning it into a grand adventure. Or stumbling through this macabre complex to further breach the depths of its horrors. Not Arthur. He firmly believed that there was a time to charge valiantly ahead and more often a time to wait, with patient observance, until the conditions were prime. This time his efforts of reconaissance had left him with the unexpected addition of a formal rival turned ally turned rival tur-- well. Arthur surmised that if he measured everyone in that method then he'd be short of friends and riddled with complications.
Gilbert wasn't proving much in the way of companionship. The Prussian had not uttered one word since Arthur had dragged the albino back to his sanctuary. It had been surprisingly easy; he couldn't recall when he'd ever seen the Prussian so compliant. His knowledge of Gilbert was that the other was just as stubborn as himself. Obstinate men with little ability to see eye to eye on any issue. Except for when it came to the decision of going down to pub for a night. In Arthur's opinion, Gilbert's better qualities emerged when he was drunk. Or, perhaps it was more that when he was tipsy, the Prussian didn't seem such an intolerable blight upon the globe. They were both stone sober right now. However, the lack of talking from Gilbert made him oddly pleasant to have around.
He gave the man an examination once they were barricaded back into the safety of Arthur's little base. The runes he'd put up everywhere to ward off evil energies had so far proven effective at staving off any unwanted visitors. Ghosts and spirits still roamed freely through, without even the courtesy to knock or wail or rattle chains before entering. Arthur often wondered if the dead lost all notion of manners when they passed. It would definitely explain the stories of doors opening and closing, walls bleeding, along with all the typical activity associated with 'hauntings'. Were he ever to become a ghost, Arthur decided, he'd make sure to not be so disruptive to the poor people that made the place their home. Cohabitation seemed a more feasible compromise for all involved in that imaginary scenario.
Prussia seemed in poor condition. Not only was the albino apparently in a state of catatonia, he was suffering the ill effects of exposure. Arthur had seen it countless times on the battlefield, when soldiers did not protect themselves well enough against the elements. Gilbert had that same feverish, weathered look on him from being at the mercy of an unforgiving Mother Nature. So the Englishman did what he could to provide the other man comfort. He peeled off the damp hoodie stained with blood and dirt equally to place it aside, then wrapped Gilbert up in the blankets that he'd managed to gather from the nearby bedrooms. They were dry and would restore some of the warmth that Prussia sorely needed if he were going to recover. Arthur left the albino propped against the corner of the wall and turned his attention to the secondary task of getting both of them fed.
Since Gilbert didn't seem likely to rouse enough for something solid, Arthur had to settle for making a stew. This required him starting a small fire upon the pit of stones that he'd gathered from outside. The aged wood of the furnishings in here burnt quickly. Arthur didn't dare risk making the tiny blaze big enough to offer them much warmth. Even this small amount of fire cast shadows upon the walls that danced in a sinister way, making the Englishman uncomfortable. There was no telling what could step out of them if he wasn't diligent. Like any quality Brit that had lived through two World Wars, Arthur managed to heat himself up a large bowl of water. Heated for the purpose of burning out the possible impurities and also because tea tasted better warm than cold. Once he had steeped some of those plants enough, he shifted around to grip hold of Gilbert's face and force the albino to ingest some of that brew.
"Some people would try to imply that this is torture, what I'm doing to you right now," Arthur murmured with a sardonic edge to his tone, "but I don't hear any complaints out of you, Herr Beilschmidt. Gourmet tastes clearly approve. That, or you are too far gone to even care."
He tried not to force too much of the weak broth into the Prussian. There was no telling how long the man had been like this. And if Arthur wasn't careful, Gilbert might end up vomiting. The idea of having to clean up after that particular mess didn't sound like a great time at all. He turned the bowl around to consume his own portion of the stew. It was nothing spectacular. Bland. Tasteless, aside from an earthy hint of fresh earth. When he got out of this place, Arthur vowed to brave the traffic of the Chunnel just to sneak in something buttery, full-flavoured, and French. His guilty pleasure that he would take with him to his grave. Or, if he could somehow manipulate circumstances without making it seem like he actually wanted it to happen, Arthur figured that he might even get Francis over to his house to cook for him.
Unbidden, his thoughts turned towards those others he'd lost somewhere in the Manor. How were they faring? Arthur had tried hard not to get caught up in worry for them, even if it was in his nature to fret. Francis was practically useless without the Englishman there to watch his back. He wouldn't be surprised if the Frenchman were cowering in a corner somewhere, sobbing out buckets to the point where his face got really ugly. No doubted he'd be wishing that he'd stuck close when he had the chance, since Arthur was clearly the superior survivalist of the two. And how grateful he'd be when the Englishman finally came upon him like a valiant knight out of a fairytale, rescuing the dumb blonde damsel in distress from certain doom. Or had some monster already made quick work of France? Arthur's eyes dropped to the small fire, darkening as his mind was flooded with images of the Frenchman being overtaken by some vicious beast. How the man would shriek when teeth closed around him to rend apart flesh, spraying the walls with blood the colour of deep, red wine--
No. Arthur lowered his gaze further to where his gloved hands had clenched into fists. He felt anger burning through him as dim as the flames in front of him. No one and nothing else is permitted to do such a thing. The Englishman thought to himself, a bitter twist to his mouth to accompany the sliver of jealousy at the idea of a monster murdering Francis. The only one with allowance to shed that bastard's blood or render him incapacitated to the point of death is me. Anything else would be intolerable -- had not been tolerated for centuries -- considering how often Arthur had made it a point to intervene in the event that anyone else had the audacity to try crossing blades with his rival. That spot was filled by England, and would be until they both finally killed each other. Not a Lover's Pact, no. A Gentleman's Agreement. It just was what it was, and Arthur refused to consider that some sodding beastie might render their arrangement invalidated.
And of course there was the fact that Alfred and Matthew were lost in here somewhere as well. He had no right to feel concerned for them as if they were helpless children. Matthew was resourceful, just like Arthur, and would probably be too cunning to go stumbling into danger. He anticipated that the Canadian could get through this unscathed if Matthew kept his wits intact. Plus, Matthew also had a habit of disappearing into the environment; so perhaps the creatures in this place might overlook him. Hopefully this wasn't the trigger that caused the Canadian to suddenly be the center of attention. Arthur wanted to believe that Matthew's chances were good. That he could see this through to the end and find a means to escape. Matthew would be fine. Clever little Matthew, who had never really needed Arthur's help and probably never would.
Then there was the matter of Alfred. The only comfort that Arthur took right now was the fact that he had not heard any explosions. There was nothing more American than explosive noises all around. Having an absence of them meant that Alfred had not yet announced his presence to the entire Manor. There was still hope that the American summoned common sense for this situation to keep himself out of trouble. Or else Arthur should have been concerned about the lack of noise. He couldn't reconcile the possibility that Alfred might die here. America was invulnerable. Carried himself with the arrogance of someone that knew the reality of their invincibility. Answered to nothing and no one -- in fact, rarely answered his cellphone, even when rung up at a sensible hour, much to the Englishman's displeasure. Alfred was going to go through this until the end. Not fall here, in this hellhole, where the stars were hidden by fog and the only stripes to speak of were the ones on the wallpaper throughout the rooms.
What of his siblings? Were they faring well? Wandering as he was, amongst these layers of spirits both old and new. A patchwork of death through time, stretching back across the decades, perhaps even the centuries? Ewan, Howell, Aoife. He needed to find them. Even if it ended up just in chaos of them bickering, Arthur itched to set eyes on them, or at least just one. They were his anchor to home here in this foreign territory. Being in isolation this way was far from new; as a child he had run from trees, to bushes, to boulders to scurry to them and away from them. Got caught in patches of thistle, forced to cry embarrassingly until Ewan at last took mercy on him -- or left him there, depending on the Scotsman's whims. Throwing rocks at Howell when he'd run out of arrows just to get the Welshman to stop taking his things when the winter months grew too harsh for him to forage fruit from the withered trees and bushes. Those times when Howell would lure him out of wild undergrowth, dirty to the point of being unrecognizable as a human creature, and push him in rivers. Pulling Aoife's red hair until she sat on him and pushed his face into the dirt--
On second thought, Arthur interjected into his own track of memories, I might just be better off going solo than dealing with those sodding wankers. Getting discouraged to the point of distraction needed to be avoided. "They'll be fine. All of them. I have to believe it. I must believe it."
He willed his fingers to relax out of their clenched state, so that the tension slowly bled out of them, the lengths straightening out to rest upon his thighs since Arthur had settled back to sit on his heels. His gaze sharpened into the present, upon the man seated in silence there in front of him. Gilbert, still propped up where he'd been put, having not made a motion at all during Arthur's internal struggle. Even with the presence of the Prussian, Arthur still felt loneliness stirring within him inconveniently. Naturally he channeled his frustration out at the other. "You're only slightly more tolerable when you're silent. I mean, I can't think of a more annoying voice than yours. Along with that stupid bloody laugh of yours. 'Kesese' -- what the hell is that kind of a sound anyway, hm?"
His insults seemed to fall on deaf ears. Arthur huffed, pushed to his feet, and began to pace. Anxiety over his thoughts had made the Englishman restless. He required a means to work it out of his system. As his feet trekked over the floorboards, his hands twitched at his sides, fingers shaking the lingering tension out as if it were water droplets. What he needed was a distraction. To kill this silence. To fill his head with thoughts other than concern for those he considered important in his limited social circle. A puzzle to twist around in his mind. He paused to reflect upon Gilbert's face briefly, then nodded. "Fine. I'll just use you as a sounding board, then. Better than talking to myself. You just sit there, listen, and I'll start spewing words until all of this makes more sense. Or less sense. Either way, once it's out of my head and into the air then the pieces might line into place."
The Englishman twisted, gloved hand rising for him to tap upon his index finger, casting his shadow across the far wall despite the fire burning low. "Fact. Time is linear. One day, following the next. Twenty-four hours per day, sixty minutes per hour, sixty seconds per minute. Marching ahead to dutifully tick away. We arrived here at this house at America's request upon the Thirty-First of October, Halloween. I remember checking the digital clock within my rental car before grabbing the last items of my costume. It was at Nineteen Hundred Hours precisely -- a punctual 7:00 PM arrival as I'd intended. Normally, I'd have grabbed a pocketwatch, or worn one on my wrist. For whatever reason, I left both out in the car. Deliberately took my wristwatch off to stow in the glovebox. Why? And now, the probabilities:"
He stopped mid-stride, to whirl around, hands spreading out to either side as he continued his verbal theories. "I had done it myself, without thinking. Did I decide that it wouldn't work with the costume? Did I not want to risk it getting damaged? The motivation behind the action escapes me. Or... An influence from the Manor motivated me to leave my watch behind. It could reach me the precise moment that I crossed the property line. If it is capable of influencing me in such a way, then it can control us all to some degree. Bend us to its whim. Or... The energies of this location have no such power. I acted of my own volition, making the error in taking off the watch entirely on my own. I was the daft git that went and left his watch behind."
"Second Probabilities: Time is not linear here. The rules of Time are bent worse than a Moffett plot. Yesterday is today is tomorrow. Time is operating backwards, sideways, or has stopped completely. We are not moving forward in time. It has abandoned us within these walls." Arthur snapped his fingers, pointing to Gilbert. He was on a real tangent here now with his logic. "That's the reason why the dead come from all those different periods in time. It has piled upon itself, again and again, to create the ultimate Time weave. A sandwich of Time." His stomach growled. Better not to think about food when he was surviving on stew and plants. He cleared his throat.
"I am sure that I'd be missed by now back home. My secretary knows that I follow a regular routine. He schedules my meetings for me, makes certain that I am in the right places at the correct times. We spoke about my visit here to America's party before I left to catch my aeroplane. I was adamant about intending to return before the end of the weekend. I told him that I'd be back in time for evening tea on Sunday and fresh for the office on Monday. It feels like my time here has stretched beyond a weekend. It must not be so dissimilar for the others. People missing them, yes. A Nation doesn't vanish off the radar, even if they are prone to taking random holidays. Not me. I don't 'holiday'. Ever. So it would make sense that Time is wonky here. Wibbly-wobbly, if you follow my drift."
"If this is the case, then there are only a handful of possible explanations." He listed on his fingers, ticking off each one to accompany his statement. "One, we're in a temporal loop. The rules of Time are suspended. Two, we're in an alternate dimension of reality. A Time vortex. Three, this place is so full of energies that it has succeeded in manifesting its own set of rules, and God help us all. Four, we're in some type of Purgatory that is partway between reality and another plane of existence. Five," Arthur hesitated, tapping more reluctantly at his thumb, "we're all dead. What we perceive as our reality is no longer real because we are no longer amongst the living."
That was a morbid line of thought. Not that he was able to dismiss such a probability. No matter how farfetched, no matter how improbable, whatever was not confirmed still landed in the realm of the possible. Arthur reached to pinch at the back of his wrist just to feel the stimulus of life in him. Even if it were merely illusion the pain gave him a satisfying jolt. He continued ahead in his words. "If it's a temporal loop, or an alternate dimenson, then we must navigate our way out. Whatever path we took to arrive here has a reverse one, so long as we discover the correct direction to travel. If it's a Purgatory, then some entity put us here on purpose. We have to locate this Entity, determine its intention, then proceed to either negotiate with it or thwart it to gain our freedom. And if we're dead already -- that means that we're not going to be getting out of here without finding a radical means to restore our lives. A Nation does not remain dead for long, if there are people that still belong to it. You're a fitting example, Gilbert. I'm too stubborn to stay dead. I believe that nothing is permanent -- not even death. Not for us."
"If we are dead, is this a form of Hell? Is that why there are creatures here that defy explanation? Monstrosities do not exist in a natural world of logic. Either these things were created by the energy that surrounds us, twisted from normalcy into monstrosity, or else they were born here just as they appear now. To consider either possibility, we have to suspend all consideration of operating in a 'normal' reality. It becomes less slim that we're merely inside a building that just happens to be haunted, containing monsters, while still existing in our world. Things are askew. We have fallen off-kilter from the radar of normalcy. Or..."
He squinted. Gripped his chin with a hand. "I ate bad food at the party. It poisoned me so badly that I am currently in a form of coma. This is all a product of my mind. Wouldn't this be the sort of thing I'd think up in my head? The morbidity of everything seems like a cross of several books I've read, films I've watched. Populating it with people that I know makes perfect sense. If I have to suffer, then why shouldn't they? And the ones that aren't bringing me flowers to my bedside, reading to me for comfort, or taking the time to visit me while I'm lying there in my unresponsive condition are the ones suffering the most here. I am torturing the projections of other Nations in my mind because they're too rude to pay their respects to me while I am bedridden. At any second, the doctors will declare that I am clinically dead, someone will want to 'pull the plug' -- ah, Alfred most likely. He'd be the most keen on plug pulling. -- and at the last second my hands will begin to twitch at my sides while a pretty nurse dramatically declares that the food did not kill my brain after all."
Okay. So he was getting carried away with his musings. None of that was likely even if he were trying to think outside of the box. He needed to get it under control again to prevent his mind from going off on a serious tangent. Next thing it would be Wonderland. Discworld. Gallifrey. At least, in that last instance, he'd be able to read the language. The Englishman decided to try and take his logical processes down a few notches.
Arthur finally stopped his pacing. He crouched in front of Gilbert to peer closely at the albino's face. "You are the illusion. This place is an illusion. I am, in fact, not here at all. Rather, this is a twisted dream that I am experiencing. Or a collective of minds sharing the same nightmare. I never left London to travel here. In fact, I am sleeping comfortably in my bed at home right now. Or else I managed to fall asleep over my desk yet again. The vivid nature of this nightmare is fueled by our collective psychic energies. So when I decide that I am completely through with this rubbish, I'll wake myself up just in time for breakfast. This will all be put behind me as an odd sort of event that I shall recollect now and then."
"Should this be merely a dream, I am now an Aware Dreamer. With that knowledge I now may take control of it, to begin lucid dreaming. Whatever powerlessness I have felt thus far within the dream is going to crumble and I will turn the balance in my favour." He folded his hands up beneath his chin, watching the Prussian thoughtfully. "You are now a busty blonde woman, with long legs and a pretty smile. The first thing that you're going to do is get up from the floor and go make me a delicious sandwich. After I've eaten, we'll drive off in my automobile to a charming hotel."
Hopefully, he waited for a transformation to occur. It wasn't like he asked for much out of his potential dream world. If he were really in control of the world around him, then this was minor in comparison to the true things he could demand in his egomania. Arthur lowered his hands from his chin to arch an eyebrow when the Prussian in front of him twitched. Was this the signal that he'd hit the nail on the head? The Englishman's eyes widened in surprise as he leaned forward slightly, to tilt his head down to better view the albino's chest. "Are you really growing breasts right no--gah!"
A pale fist launching into his face was the last thing that Arthur was expecting. He caught it square between the eyebrows when it landed, sending him tumbling backwards upon the floor with its force. His hat fell off the top of his head to go spinning off across the floor. Arthur pressed the heel of his gloved palm upon that currently sore location, squinting around the shadow of it in irritation as he curled up enough to cast a withering stare at the Prussian. "Why, out of everything that I just said, did the mention of breasts catch your attention enough to lure you out of your stupor? Blasted albino!"
[4117 words. Swim in the deluge. 8'D]
For now, Arthur was content maintaining a low profile. Others, like a certain American host he knew, were probably blundering through this place. Turning it into a grand adventure. Or stumbling through this macabre complex to further breach the depths of its horrors. Not Arthur. He firmly believed that there was a time to charge valiantly ahead and more often a time to wait, with patient observance, until the conditions were prime. This time his efforts of reconaissance had left him with the unexpected addition of a formal rival turned ally turned rival tur-- well. Arthur surmised that if he measured everyone in that method then he'd be short of friends and riddled with complications.
Gilbert wasn't proving much in the way of companionship. The Prussian had not uttered one word since Arthur had dragged the albino back to his sanctuary. It had been surprisingly easy; he couldn't recall when he'd ever seen the Prussian so compliant. His knowledge of Gilbert was that the other was just as stubborn as himself. Obstinate men with little ability to see eye to eye on any issue. Except for when it came to the decision of going down to pub for a night. In Arthur's opinion, Gilbert's better qualities emerged when he was drunk. Or, perhaps it was more that when he was tipsy, the Prussian didn't seem such an intolerable blight upon the globe. They were both stone sober right now. However, the lack of talking from Gilbert made him oddly pleasant to have around.
He gave the man an examination once they were barricaded back into the safety of Arthur's little base. The runes he'd put up everywhere to ward off evil energies had so far proven effective at staving off any unwanted visitors. Ghosts and spirits still roamed freely through, without even the courtesy to knock or wail or rattle chains before entering. Arthur often wondered if the dead lost all notion of manners when they passed. It would definitely explain the stories of doors opening and closing, walls bleeding, along with all the typical activity associated with 'hauntings'. Were he ever to become a ghost, Arthur decided, he'd make sure to not be so disruptive to the poor people that made the place their home. Cohabitation seemed a more feasible compromise for all involved in that imaginary scenario.
Prussia seemed in poor condition. Not only was the albino apparently in a state of catatonia, he was suffering the ill effects of exposure. Arthur had seen it countless times on the battlefield, when soldiers did not protect themselves well enough against the elements. Gilbert had that same feverish, weathered look on him from being at the mercy of an unforgiving Mother Nature. So the Englishman did what he could to provide the other man comfort. He peeled off the damp hoodie stained with blood and dirt equally to place it aside, then wrapped Gilbert up in the blankets that he'd managed to gather from the nearby bedrooms. They were dry and would restore some of the warmth that Prussia sorely needed if he were going to recover. Arthur left the albino propped against the corner of the wall and turned his attention to the secondary task of getting both of them fed.
Since Gilbert didn't seem likely to rouse enough for something solid, Arthur had to settle for making a stew. This required him starting a small fire upon the pit of stones that he'd gathered from outside. The aged wood of the furnishings in here burnt quickly. Arthur didn't dare risk making the tiny blaze big enough to offer them much warmth. Even this small amount of fire cast shadows upon the walls that danced in a sinister way, making the Englishman uncomfortable. There was no telling what could step out of them if he wasn't diligent. Like any quality Brit that had lived through two World Wars, Arthur managed to heat himself up a large bowl of water. Heated for the purpose of burning out the possible impurities and also because tea tasted better warm than cold. Once he had steeped some of those plants enough, he shifted around to grip hold of Gilbert's face and force the albino to ingest some of that brew.
"Some people would try to imply that this is torture, what I'm doing to you right now," Arthur murmured with a sardonic edge to his tone, "but I don't hear any complaints out of you, Herr Beilschmidt. Gourmet tastes clearly approve. That, or you are too far gone to even care."
He tried not to force too much of the weak broth into the Prussian. There was no telling how long the man had been like this. And if Arthur wasn't careful, Gilbert might end up vomiting. The idea of having to clean up after that particular mess didn't sound like a great time at all. He turned the bowl around to consume his own portion of the stew. It was nothing spectacular. Bland. Tasteless, aside from an earthy hint of fresh earth. When he got out of this place, Arthur vowed to brave the traffic of the Chunnel just to sneak in something buttery, full-flavoured, and French. His guilty pleasure that he would take with him to his grave. Or, if he could somehow manipulate circumstances without making it seem like he actually wanted it to happen, Arthur figured that he might even get Francis over to his house to cook for him.
Unbidden, his thoughts turned towards those others he'd lost somewhere in the Manor. How were they faring? Arthur had tried hard not to get caught up in worry for them, even if it was in his nature to fret. Francis was practically useless without the Englishman there to watch his back. He wouldn't be surprised if the Frenchman were cowering in a corner somewhere, sobbing out buckets to the point where his face got really ugly. No doubted he'd be wishing that he'd stuck close when he had the chance, since Arthur was clearly the superior survivalist of the two. And how grateful he'd be when the Englishman finally came upon him like a valiant knight out of a fairytale, rescuing the dumb blonde damsel in distress from certain doom. Or had some monster already made quick work of France? Arthur's eyes dropped to the small fire, darkening as his mind was flooded with images of the Frenchman being overtaken by some vicious beast. How the man would shriek when teeth closed around him to rend apart flesh, spraying the walls with blood the colour of deep, red wine--
No. Arthur lowered his gaze further to where his gloved hands had clenched into fists. He felt anger burning through him as dim as the flames in front of him. No one and nothing else is permitted to do such a thing. The Englishman thought to himself, a bitter twist to his mouth to accompany the sliver of jealousy at the idea of a monster murdering Francis. The only one with allowance to shed that bastard's blood or render him incapacitated to the point of death is me. Anything else would be intolerable -- had not been tolerated for centuries -- considering how often Arthur had made it a point to intervene in the event that anyone else had the audacity to try crossing blades with his rival. That spot was filled by England, and would be until they both finally killed each other. Not a Lover's Pact, no. A Gentleman's Agreement. It just was what it was, and Arthur refused to consider that some sodding beastie might render their arrangement invalidated.
And of course there was the fact that Alfred and Matthew were lost in here somewhere as well. He had no right to feel concerned for them as if they were helpless children. Matthew was resourceful, just like Arthur, and would probably be too cunning to go stumbling into danger. He anticipated that the Canadian could get through this unscathed if Matthew kept his wits intact. Plus, Matthew also had a habit of disappearing into the environment; so perhaps the creatures in this place might overlook him. Hopefully this wasn't the trigger that caused the Canadian to suddenly be the center of attention. Arthur wanted to believe that Matthew's chances were good. That he could see this through to the end and find a means to escape. Matthew would be fine. Clever little Matthew, who had never really needed Arthur's help and probably never would.
Then there was the matter of Alfred. The only comfort that Arthur took right now was the fact that he had not heard any explosions. There was nothing more American than explosive noises all around. Having an absence of them meant that Alfred had not yet announced his presence to the entire Manor. There was still hope that the American summoned common sense for this situation to keep himself out of trouble. Or else Arthur should have been concerned about the lack of noise. He couldn't reconcile the possibility that Alfred might die here. America was invulnerable. Carried himself with the arrogance of someone that knew the reality of their invincibility. Answered to nothing and no one -- in fact, rarely answered his cellphone, even when rung up at a sensible hour, much to the Englishman's displeasure. Alfred was going to go through this until the end. Not fall here, in this hellhole, where the stars were hidden by fog and the only stripes to speak of were the ones on the wallpaper throughout the rooms.
What of his siblings? Were they faring well? Wandering as he was, amongst these layers of spirits both old and new. A patchwork of death through time, stretching back across the decades, perhaps even the centuries? Ewan, Howell, Aoife. He needed to find them. Even if it ended up just in chaos of them bickering, Arthur itched to set eyes on them, or at least just one. They were his anchor to home here in this foreign territory. Being in isolation this way was far from new; as a child he had run from trees, to bushes, to boulders to scurry to them and away from them. Got caught in patches of thistle, forced to cry embarrassingly until Ewan at last took mercy on him -- or left him there, depending on the Scotsman's whims. Throwing rocks at Howell when he'd run out of arrows just to get the Welshman to stop taking his things when the winter months grew too harsh for him to forage fruit from the withered trees and bushes. Those times when Howell would lure him out of wild undergrowth, dirty to the point of being unrecognizable as a human creature, and push him in rivers. Pulling Aoife's red hair until she sat on him and pushed his face into the dirt--
On second thought, Arthur interjected into his own track of memories, I might just be better off going solo than dealing with those sodding wankers. Getting discouraged to the point of distraction needed to be avoided. "They'll be fine. All of them. I have to believe it. I must believe it."
He willed his fingers to relax out of their clenched state, so that the tension slowly bled out of them, the lengths straightening out to rest upon his thighs since Arthur had settled back to sit on his heels. His gaze sharpened into the present, upon the man seated in silence there in front of him. Gilbert, still propped up where he'd been put, having not made a motion at all during Arthur's internal struggle. Even with the presence of the Prussian, Arthur still felt loneliness stirring within him inconveniently. Naturally he channeled his frustration out at the other. "You're only slightly more tolerable when you're silent. I mean, I can't think of a more annoying voice than yours. Along with that stupid bloody laugh of yours. 'Kesese' -- what the hell is that kind of a sound anyway, hm?"
His insults seemed to fall on deaf ears. Arthur huffed, pushed to his feet, and began to pace. Anxiety over his thoughts had made the Englishman restless. He required a means to work it out of his system. As his feet trekked over the floorboards, his hands twitched at his sides, fingers shaking the lingering tension out as if it were water droplets. What he needed was a distraction. To kill this silence. To fill his head with thoughts other than concern for those he considered important in his limited social circle. A puzzle to twist around in his mind. He paused to reflect upon Gilbert's face briefly, then nodded. "Fine. I'll just use you as a sounding board, then. Better than talking to myself. You just sit there, listen, and I'll start spewing words until all of this makes more sense. Or less sense. Either way, once it's out of my head and into the air then the pieces might line into place."
The Englishman twisted, gloved hand rising for him to tap upon his index finger, casting his shadow across the far wall despite the fire burning low. "Fact. Time is linear. One day, following the next. Twenty-four hours per day, sixty minutes per hour, sixty seconds per minute. Marching ahead to dutifully tick away. We arrived here at this house at America's request upon the Thirty-First of October, Halloween. I remember checking the digital clock within my rental car before grabbing the last items of my costume. It was at Nineteen Hundred Hours precisely -- a punctual 7:00 PM arrival as I'd intended. Normally, I'd have grabbed a pocketwatch, or worn one on my wrist. For whatever reason, I left both out in the car. Deliberately took my wristwatch off to stow in the glovebox. Why? And now, the probabilities:"
He stopped mid-stride, to whirl around, hands spreading out to either side as he continued his verbal theories. "I had done it myself, without thinking. Did I decide that it wouldn't work with the costume? Did I not want to risk it getting damaged? The motivation behind the action escapes me. Or... An influence from the Manor motivated me to leave my watch behind. It could reach me the precise moment that I crossed the property line. If it is capable of influencing me in such a way, then it can control us all to some degree. Bend us to its whim. Or... The energies of this location have no such power. I acted of my own volition, making the error in taking off the watch entirely on my own. I was the daft git that went and left his watch behind."
"Second Probabilities: Time is not linear here. The rules of Time are bent worse than a Moffett plot. Yesterday is today is tomorrow. Time is operating backwards, sideways, or has stopped completely. We are not moving forward in time. It has abandoned us within these walls." Arthur snapped his fingers, pointing to Gilbert. He was on a real tangent here now with his logic. "That's the reason why the dead come from all those different periods in time. It has piled upon itself, again and again, to create the ultimate Time weave. A sandwich of Time." His stomach growled. Better not to think about food when he was surviving on stew and plants. He cleared his throat.
"I am sure that I'd be missed by now back home. My secretary knows that I follow a regular routine. He schedules my meetings for me, makes certain that I am in the right places at the correct times. We spoke about my visit here to America's party before I left to catch my aeroplane. I was adamant about intending to return before the end of the weekend. I told him that I'd be back in time for evening tea on Sunday and fresh for the office on Monday. It feels like my time here has stretched beyond a weekend. It must not be so dissimilar for the others. People missing them, yes. A Nation doesn't vanish off the radar, even if they are prone to taking random holidays. Not me. I don't 'holiday'. Ever. So it would make sense that Time is wonky here. Wibbly-wobbly, if you follow my drift."
"If this is the case, then there are only a handful of possible explanations." He listed on his fingers, ticking off each one to accompany his statement. "One, we're in a temporal loop. The rules of Time are suspended. Two, we're in an alternate dimension of reality. A Time vortex. Three, this place is so full of energies that it has succeeded in manifesting its own set of rules, and God help us all. Four, we're in some type of Purgatory that is partway between reality and another plane of existence. Five," Arthur hesitated, tapping more reluctantly at his thumb, "we're all dead. What we perceive as our reality is no longer real because we are no longer amongst the living."
That was a morbid line of thought. Not that he was able to dismiss such a probability. No matter how farfetched, no matter how improbable, whatever was not confirmed still landed in the realm of the possible. Arthur reached to pinch at the back of his wrist just to feel the stimulus of life in him. Even if it were merely illusion the pain gave him a satisfying jolt. He continued ahead in his words. "If it's a temporal loop, or an alternate dimenson, then we must navigate our way out. Whatever path we took to arrive here has a reverse one, so long as we discover the correct direction to travel. If it's a Purgatory, then some entity put us here on purpose. We have to locate this Entity, determine its intention, then proceed to either negotiate with it or thwart it to gain our freedom. And if we're dead already -- that means that we're not going to be getting out of here without finding a radical means to restore our lives. A Nation does not remain dead for long, if there are people that still belong to it. You're a fitting example, Gilbert. I'm too stubborn to stay dead. I believe that nothing is permanent -- not even death. Not for us."
"If we are dead, is this a form of Hell? Is that why there are creatures here that defy explanation? Monstrosities do not exist in a natural world of logic. Either these things were created by the energy that surrounds us, twisted from normalcy into monstrosity, or else they were born here just as they appear now. To consider either possibility, we have to suspend all consideration of operating in a 'normal' reality. It becomes less slim that we're merely inside a building that just happens to be haunted, containing monsters, while still existing in our world. Things are askew. We have fallen off-kilter from the radar of normalcy. Or..."
He squinted. Gripped his chin with a hand. "I ate bad food at the party. It poisoned me so badly that I am currently in a form of coma. This is all a product of my mind. Wouldn't this be the sort of thing I'd think up in my head? The morbidity of everything seems like a cross of several books I've read, films I've watched. Populating it with people that I know makes perfect sense. If I have to suffer, then why shouldn't they? And the ones that aren't bringing me flowers to my bedside, reading to me for comfort, or taking the time to visit me while I'm lying there in my unresponsive condition are the ones suffering the most here. I am torturing the projections of other Nations in my mind because they're too rude to pay their respects to me while I am bedridden. At any second, the doctors will declare that I am clinically dead, someone will want to 'pull the plug' -- ah, Alfred most likely. He'd be the most keen on plug pulling. -- and at the last second my hands will begin to twitch at my sides while a pretty nurse dramatically declares that the food did not kill my brain after all."
Okay. So he was getting carried away with his musings. None of that was likely even if he were trying to think outside of the box. He needed to get it under control again to prevent his mind from going off on a serious tangent. Next thing it would be Wonderland. Discworld. Gallifrey. At least, in that last instance, he'd be able to read the language. The Englishman decided to try and take his logical processes down a few notches.
Arthur finally stopped his pacing. He crouched in front of Gilbert to peer closely at the albino's face. "You are the illusion. This place is an illusion. I am, in fact, not here at all. Rather, this is a twisted dream that I am experiencing. Or a collective of minds sharing the same nightmare. I never left London to travel here. In fact, I am sleeping comfortably in my bed at home right now. Or else I managed to fall asleep over my desk yet again. The vivid nature of this nightmare is fueled by our collective psychic energies. So when I decide that I am completely through with this rubbish, I'll wake myself up just in time for breakfast. This will all be put behind me as an odd sort of event that I shall recollect now and then."
"Should this be merely a dream, I am now an Aware Dreamer. With that knowledge I now may take control of it, to begin lucid dreaming. Whatever powerlessness I have felt thus far within the dream is going to crumble and I will turn the balance in my favour." He folded his hands up beneath his chin, watching the Prussian thoughtfully. "You are now a busty blonde woman, with long legs and a pretty smile. The first thing that you're going to do is get up from the floor and go make me a delicious sandwich. After I've eaten, we'll drive off in my automobile to a charming hotel."
Hopefully, he waited for a transformation to occur. It wasn't like he asked for much out of his potential dream world. If he were really in control of the world around him, then this was minor in comparison to the true things he could demand in his egomania. Arthur lowered his hands from his chin to arch an eyebrow when the Prussian in front of him twitched. Was this the signal that he'd hit the nail on the head? The Englishman's eyes widened in surprise as he leaned forward slightly, to tilt his head down to better view the albino's chest. "Are you really growing breasts right no--gah!"
A pale fist launching into his face was the last thing that Arthur was expecting. He caught it square between the eyebrows when it landed, sending him tumbling backwards upon the floor with its force. His hat fell off the top of his head to go spinning off across the floor. Arthur pressed the heel of his gloved palm upon that currently sore location, squinting around the shadow of it in irritation as he curled up enough to cast a withering stare at the Prussian. "Why, out of everything that I just said, did the mention of breasts catch your attention enough to lure you out of your stupor? Blasted albino!"
[4117 words. Swim in the deluge. 8'D]