Chapter Text
Matthew faltered mid-stride, almost stumbling into Arthur. Something in his chest tugged and pulsed, almost like…
No. Not possible. He couldn’t be here.
Quickly, he scanned the camp, looking for any sign of him. Nothing except a sea of tan and olive uniforms, dotted with the occasional glimpse of red flags and colourful armbands.
“Get a move on, Matthew!” Arthur called back, not pausing as he ducked into the tent. “We haven’t got all day.”
Matthew gave the surrounding crowd one last look, then shook it off. He was stressed and exhausted, as they all were, and that was surely the cause for it. Nothing more.
Without a word, he followed Arthur through the canvas flaps and pushed all thoughts of the incident out of his mind.
oO0Oo
The air in the command tent was tense. They were all staring down at the map on the table and the pieces scattered upon it.
Matthew was both the youngest and lowest-ranking man in the tent — if speaking of physical ages, of course — but the others didn’t even bat an eye at his presence. After four years of war, most of high command had been trusted with the secret of the Nations and understood who Matthew was.
Technically speaking, he could have attained the rank of general long ago, as Arthur and François had, but he didn’t want it. He served in every war his country did and he’d climbed the ranks dozens of times, but after the ceasefire he always retired from his position. He refused to keep any military title before his name in the foolish hope that it would be the last time he’d ever have to hold it again.
Arthur and François, of course, had been generals for centuries and were addressed as either Lord or General by most who encountered them, depending on if they were military or civilian, but Matthew could never bring himself to make that part of him permanent. Because if he accepted the title, if he promoted himself to that rank and held it with him, he’d be giving up a part of himself to do so.
Arthur and François might have been born for war, but he wasn’t.
He’d fight. Of course he’d fight. And he understood the painful necessity of taking up arms in defense of King and Country, knew that he had a clever mind and thrived in war, but that didn’t mean he liked it. If he had his way, no one would ever be forced to endure the same suffering he’d gone through — that they were all going through in this war.
If he had his way, he’d walk away from war forever and never look back.
But that was nothing more than a fleeting dream.
Matthew scrubbed a hand down his face and refocused his attention on the map.
“ —ridge in Arras,” Commander Byng was saying.
“Sorry,” Matthew interrupted. “Could you repeat that?”
“The escarpment here,” Arthur said, pointing to a ridge of high ground at the western edge of the plain. “It’s a strategic high point in the landscape and hopefully, the assault there will distract the Germans from the one here.” He pointed to another spot on the map.
“And you want the Canadians to lead it.” It wasn’t really a question. Both François and Arthur had tried and failed to take the ridge and the toll the war was taking was painfully visible on their bodies.
Arthur was seated in a wheelchair, a blanket thrown over his bandaged legs. He’d stepped on a mine during his last campaign and blown his legs clean off. They’d managed to find and reattach them, but it would still take time for the muscles to knit themselves back together and heal completely. He’d likely be chair-bound for another few days at least.
François held his left arm close to his chest in a sling and his head was bound in bandages. Even without those, he would have looked terrible. Sunken cheeks and waxy skin, dark circles under his eyes and wounds that refused to heal. Command had made the executive to bench him until further notice, likely until the bulk of the fighting moved on from his land and he could begin to regenerate.
So it fell to Matthew to attempt the assault.
“There will be a contingent of British soldiers fighting as well,” Byng assured him. “But yes, the majority of the combatants will be drawn from Canadian companies.”
Currie, Byng’s second-in-command, nodded thoughtfully as he traced invisible battle formations onto the map with his finger. “We’ve already begun rebuilding the terrain in front of the ridge in preparation for the assault, and if we could learn from the mistakes of the French…” He trailed off and shot François an apologetic look. The Nation just shrugged and winced slightly.
“We can learn from Verdun, as well,” Currie continued, “and make adjustments to the plan as needed, but—”
There it was again, that tugging in his chest. Matthew tuned his commanders out as something inside him whispered go to him, find him, he’s here.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, sirs, I believe I need to take a walk,” Matthew said and saluted, leaving without another word. Arthur would surely chew him out later for leaving before he was formally dismissed, but the thought hardly registered.
All he knew was that someone was here who wasn’t supposed to be — a very familiar someone — and he had a sinking feeling he knew who it was.
oO0Oo
Matthew found him leaning against a tent pole a few blocks from command, swirling his tea ration in his tin mug.
“Wesley Daniel Williams!” Matthew snarled. “What in God’s name are you doing here?! You’d better have a very good explanation for this!”
The boy fumbled his mug and spilled tea all down his uniform, but it was immediately forgotten when he looked up and saw Matthew storming towards him. His face paled almost comically, but Matthew wasn’t laughing.
“Dad! Uh, I mean sir!” The province of Alberta straightened abruptly and gave a clumsy salute. God, he was almost drowning in his uniform, the fabric hanging loosely off his frame. Even if he was broad-shouldered and strong from working on the fields of the farm he lived at in his province, he was still round-cheeked with youth and a good few inches shorter than most of the men here, and his inexperience was painfully obvious in his eyes.
Matthew stopped in front of his son and scowled. “This isn’t funny, Wesley! How the hell did you get this far?” His son opened his mouth to answer but Matthew cut him off. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know. What I do is what you’re thinking! Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Wesley set his jaw in that stubborn way Matthew knew he also did. “Everyone else gets to fight, why can’t I?”
“Because you’re thirteen,” Matthew hissed, dropping his voice so they wouldn’t be overheard. “Where’s Jonah? And Lucy? She’s supposed to be looking after you, making sure you didn’t do exactly this!”
Something in Wesley’s eyes flickered. “Jonah… He got found out and sent home two months ago.”
“Two months—”
“And Lucy doesn’t know we’re here. Well, I suppose she does now, but she was too busy with the potato harvest to notice when we left.”
Matthew took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. “And you went right to the recruitment office.” It wasn’t a question.
Wesley kicked at the dirt. His silence was answer enough.
Matthew exhaled slowly, feeling his temper rise and struggling to keep it contained.
“And it’s not like we did something wrong, we just wanted to have a bit of fun—”
Matthew’s hand shot out and grabbed Wesley’s arm. With his grip like iron on his elbow, Matthew stormed through the camp, the boy barely managing to keep up with his strides. Fuming, he snapped, “War isn’t a game, Wes. I lost good men in these campaigns, I’ve been losing them for years to the mud and gas. I lost a brother at the Somme and I won’t ever get him back. He’s gone, Wesley. Gone forever.” A lump formed in his throat and he said, a bit softer, “I don’t want to have to go through that with you.”
Wesley scowled as Matthew dragged him in front of the command tent and made to enter, but was stopped by one of the military police stationed outside.
“I can’t let you pass,” the man said.
“I’m Corporal Matthew Williams. I have special clearance.”
“I know, sir,” he said, then jerked his chin at Wesley. “But he doesn’t.”
“Let us pass, soldier,” Matthew snapped, temper holding on by a fraying thread. “Now.”
Surprisingly, the man did. Perhaps it was because of the command in Matthew’s voice, perhaps because he could sense the otherworldliness that clung to Wesley as well, but whatever it was, Matthew didn’t dwell on it. He pushed through the tent flaps and yanked Wesley inside — a bit harshly, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel much remorse for it.
He was beyond pissed.
All the men in the tent paused their conversation as a strange boy stumbled to a stop before them, followed by a familiar Nation who was scowling like all hell had come. It took the humans a few moments to realize what they were seeing, but Arthur and François, with all the unnatural instincts of Nations, caught on immediately.
Matthew knew the exact moment the two Nations realized who was standing before them, why the boy had the same gangly build Matthew had at thirteen, why the high cheekbones and full lips looked so similar. Why this boy, with his tan skin, dark eyes, and short black hair, looked so familiar even if they’d never seen him before.
“Joseph Louis Matthieu Jacques François Bonnefoy! Mais bon sang, qu’est-ce qui se passe?!”