Archive of Our Own ^beta

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?!”

Chapter Text

Silence reigned in the tent after François’ outburst. 

Matthew’s eyes snapped to Currie and Byng. “Out,” he snarled. Then, as an after-thought, he added, “Please.”

Neither man moved. Byng’s brows furrowed, his hand drifting down to the revolver at his belt. “What’s this? An Ottoman spy?”

Wesley reared back in offense. “Do I look like a fucking Turk—”

“Sit down and shut your mouth,” Matthew told him, then turned to the humans. “I may be your subordinate in the military, but I am still a Nation and I technically outrank you. I might not be able to order you around, Byng, but I have the authority to issue commands to Currie.” He turned to the man in question, who was gaping at them. “Leave us. My fathers and I need to have a chat with this young man here.”

Arthur nodded curtly. “You as well, Byng. Go make yourself a cuppa; this should only take a moment.”

Wesley slid into a seat opposite Arthur and eyed the man cautiously. Without looking away, he reached out and poked at the figures dotting the maps laid across the table. Matthew smacked his hand away.

François barely waited for the two mortal officers to vacate the tent before turning on Matthew. “I reiterate, mon petit.” Oh, the glint in his eyes there was dangerous. Everyone was always surprised when Matthew showed his hand, the temper he usually kept on a tight leash escaping its bonds, but they always forgot which two empires raised him. “What the hell is going on here?”

Matthew opened and closed his mouth a few times, struggling to begin an explanation that was fifty years overdue.

Apparently, he wasn’t answering quickly enough, because Arthur scowled. “Matthew Kirkland! Answer the damn question!”

“I’m not a Kirkland anymore,” he said before he could stop himself. Arthur drew back, eyes flashing murderously, but Matthew cut him off. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. He turned to François. “And I’m not a Bonnefoy, either. I haven’t been in a century and a half. I’m Matthew Williams and I’m my own man, and it’s about time you both started treating me as such.”

He stepped next to Wesley’s chair but didn’t make a move to sit. This was a conversation best had standing.

“Fine,” Arthur waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever you wish you call yourself.” He then pointed accusingly at Wesley. “But who is this?”

“I—” Matthew began, then paused. “I honestly have no idea how to explain.”

“From the beginning would be nice,” Arthur said, crossing his arms and settling back in his wheelchair. 

Matthew took a deep breath and then, before he could change his mind, blurted out the secret he’d been hiding for the better part of fifty years.

“When Hamish and Louise died in the Confederation, they were sort of reborn as young Nations representing the new provinces and now they’re kind of my kids?”

François choked. “Pardon?”

“Well, they’re—they’re not really the dominions and colonies reborn,” Matthew said hastily, “because they’re not the same, but they’re their heirs, of a sort? I have one for each province and territory but that—that’s more than the Nations who died joining my country, so it can’t—it can’t be an exact reincarnation?”

Arthur buried his face in his hands. The room was blanketed in tense silence for a count of ten before he looked up. His face was sickly pale, his eyes dull, like the news had shaved several decades off his life. “Clearly I needed to clarify. Start from the beginning, lad, this time without the stuttering.”

So Matthew told them the abridged version, how he’d woken up on the first Dominion Day to a splitting headache and shrill baby cries, how he’d raised the first four from infancy and then the others when they followed several years later, until he had eleven children between the ages of eighteen to thirteen who saw him as their father figure.

“More like a bother figure,” Wesley grumbled. “You don’t let us do anything fun.”

Matthew’s nostrils flared. “Need I remind you that war is not a game?! You could be killed!”

“I’m a Nation,” he said dismissively. “I’ll just regenerate.”

The air became heavy with sorrow. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Matthew swallowed thickly, staring at the map of France spread out on the table, his gaze falling on an inconspicuous stretch of land marked by a little figurine and labeled as la Somme. 

“Not always,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s never a guarantee.”  

Wesley looked down at his hands, but didn’t refute Matthew’s words.

François cleared his throat. “So you are one of Matthieu’s children, then? That makes me ton grandpère.”

“Papa,” Matthew said sharply. “You know it doesn’t work like that — and any privilege you might have had with my family was surrendered when you abandoned me for a sugar colony! You can’t even say it was because of Arthur because I’ve been free of him for fifty years and you never once visited or even sent me a letter!”

“I–” François floundered, taken aback, but Matthew wasn’t finished.

“But yes, he’s my son. Wesley Daniel Williams, the province of Alberta, which is also where he should be, safe on his farm and far from the front!”

Wesley scowled at him. “Dad—”

“Nope! You don’t get a say in this!” Matthew snapped. “You disobeyed not only my explicit order to stay away, you also broke the law in coming here, and frankly, I have no idea how I’m going to explain this to Prime Minister Borden when we get back. You should be thankful I’m not taking you over my knee and tanning your backside, like my fathers would have done if I’d pulled a stunt like this!” He jabbed a finger at François and Arthur, both of whom were grim-faced as they watched him scold his son.

Wesley ducked his head. “I… I’m sorry. I just— Kenneth and Jack got to go and they said it would be real fun to visit Europe and come home heroes.”

“I’m not happy they’re here either,” Matthew said, taking a deep breath to calm his rising temper. “But they’re adults and can make their own decisions. You are not. And do you know how many times I’ve gotten a telegram saying they’re either dead or missing in action? Too many damn times for my heart to handle!”

He slumped down in a seat beside Wesley and rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t go through that with you too. I’ve lost so many already, Wes. All the colonies and dominions, Connall, your brothers… I couldn’t stand it if I knew you’d died before your time.”

“I’m sorry,” Wesley whispered, voice breaking on a sob. “I didn’t mean to — I didn’t think…”

“I know.” Matthew looked up then and took Wesley’s hands in his own. “But there are consequences for your actions, consequences that burden all of us, not just you.”

Without warning, Wesley launched himself forward and into Matthew’s arms, shaking as he fell apart, tears soaking into the rough fabric of his father’s uniform. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whimpered. 

Matthew tucked him close and rested his chin on Wesley’s head, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, François and Arthur were staring at him.

“What?” he asked.

Arthur looked at him like he’d gone insane. “Sorry, I just found out I have grandchildren, excuse me for taking a moment to process that!”

“I’m not calling you grandpa,” came a tear-thick, muffled voice from Matthew’s shirt.

“You don’t have to,” Matthew assured him. “I’m not sure I want to call either of them family right now.”

Colour stained Arthur’s cheek with rage. “What happened at the Somme—”

“It’s not just about the Somme!” Matthew snapped. “You’re forgetting about three other centuries there!”

François made a placating noise, raising his unbandaged hand in surrender. “Matthieu, this really isn’t the time.” 

“It really isn’t,” Arthur agreed.

“And I sent Gilbert with a message,” François continued, ignoring Arthur. “The last time I saw him, I asked him to look out for you. Well,” he amended. “I warned him to stay away, but knowing Gilbert, he took that as a challenge.”

The tips of Matthew’s ears flushed pink. He cleared his throat. “They’re not them,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.

“What?”

“My kids,” he clarified. “They’re not the Nations who came before them, just like neither of you are Gaul or Rome or Brittania. Wesley may have been born from Dorian’s death, but he’s not Dorian. He’s my son, my Wesley, so I won’t have you treating him like a ghost come back to life.”

Wesley made a quiet noise in Matthew’s embrace, but he couldn’t tell whether it was disgruntled or admiring. 

Arthur eyed the boy, exhausted from crying and half-asleep in his father's arms. Wesley might have been born from the annexation of Rupert’s Land into Canada, but it was very clear that he was not the colony Arthur had raised. 

Dorian had been pale, quiet, and serious, with a head full of brown curls, brilliant green eyes, and a smile that came rarely but lit up the whole room when it did. He’d been a man content in silence, who often preferred to disappear into the forests and hillsides for days at a time without warning, who never engaged in anything worse than a fistfight. 

Even knowing this boy all of fifteen minutes, Arthur could tell he and Dorian were two very different people.

“What of the others?” François asked quietly. “Geneviève? Édelaire’s people? And what of you?”

“Genviève Faded because of Confederation, as you know,” Matthew said with equal quiet. “St. John’s Island became the province of Prince Edward Island; her name is Lucy. Arthur killed Édelaire and deported her people—” He ignored Arthur’s flinch. “—But Acadian culture has flourished again in the Maritimes, so Kenneth and Estelle, Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, carry on her legacy in a way. As for me, I still exist, but I’m no longer representing only Ontario and Québec, so they were personified too: Jack and Antoine.” He snorted. “They’re both far more like you two than either of them would want to admit.”

Wesley’s muffled voice came from Matthew’s shirt. “They really are.”

“There’s the others, of course,” Matthew said. “British Columbia, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, the Northwest Territories and the Yukon — Beth, Jonah, Liv, George, and Leona. Maybe,” he hesitated, “maybe after this is all over, you can come over and meet them? I think they’d like that… I’d like that,” he admitted.

“Perhaps,” François said. His voice was a little wistful, a little sad. “Even if they are not them… I’d like to meet them, to apologize.”

Matthew nodded stiffly. 

“But I think,” François focused on him and his eyes softened. “That the first apology should belong to you. Je regrette mes actions qui t'ont fait mal. Tu étais, et tu es toujours, ma fierté et ma joie, et j’aurais aimé être un meilleur père pour toi. Tu est mon petit, mon Matthieu, mon ciel étoilé, et je t’aime plus que tout.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Matthew let out a shuddering breath. “Papa…”

Whatever he was going to say, he had no idea, but he was interrupted by Wesley. “What did he say?”

Matthew frowned. “You know, you’d understand if you learned French like I wanted you to.”

Wesley extracted himself from Matthew’s arms and sat back in his chair properly. “No one ‘cept Antoine speaks it. I’m not going to if I don’t have to.”

“Estelle is bilingual as well,” Matthew chided gently. “And most of the others can speak it at least semi-fluently.”

Wesley rolled his eyes. “I already speak six other languages aside from English. I don’t need to add French to the mix too.” 

Matthew sighed and glanced at Arthur. “Must be your genes.”

Arthur stared at the boy half-leaning off his seat. “... I suppose.”

“But back to the matter at hand.” Matthew straightened his uniform. He ignored the damp patches where tears had soaked the khaki, though Wesley’s ears flushed red. “Arthur, if you’ll have him, I’d like to assign Wes as your aide-de-camp.”

Both Nations began protesting, but Matthew held a hand up, indicating that he wasn’t finished. “Arthur, I know you’re too stubborn to accept help, but I need someone to keep an eye on Wesley and since he’s technically part of the Canadian armed forces,” his voice sharpened slightly, “against my wishes, I have the authority to approve a lateral transfer within reason, but he still needs to be acting in a military capacity. Being your assistant would fulfill the requirements but keep him away from the front lines.”

Arthur grunted. “Fine. I’ll have him handle my correspondants and paperwork during meetings. Don’t worry lad, I’ll keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t step out of line.” He tapped the cane leaning on the wheelchair.

Matthew grimaced. “Please don’t hit him. I’m mad at him, and definitely disappointed, but I won’t have you raise a hand against my son. Give him extra paperwork or make him run laps or whatever, but you aren’t to harm him in any way.”

Wesley protested, but Matthew just raised an eyebrow and he quieted.

“You’re too soft on him,” Arthur scoffed. “But very well, I agree not to strike the lad.”

“You’ll help François too,” Matthew said to Wesley. “Maybe your French will improve.”

Wesley looked like he’d much rather be hit than speak with François in his native language, but he held his tongue.  

Matthew sighed quietly and stood, smoothing his rumpled jacket. “Arthur, François, we’re not done with this conversation, but I think we should put it off until later. I’ll explain everything better, I promise, but I want explanations from you two as well.”

“Later,” François promised. He rolled his bad shoulder slightly and winced. “After the war.”

“After the war,” Matthew agreed. He then turned to Wesley and pulled him up into a fierce hug. “I’m upset with you,” he whispered in his ear, “and I hope you understand why. But don’t you ever think that that means that I don’t love you. From the moment I first held you in my arms, I knew I would do anything to keep you safe, and it hurts to know that despite it all, you ended up here, where I can’t protect you.” He pressed a kiss to Wesley’s temple. “I love you, don’t you ever doubt that. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Wesley said, eyes a little watery. 

He pulled away and nodded to Arthur. “Keep him safe.”

“I will.”

With that, Matthew grabbed his helmet off the table and left the tent without looking back.