Wine Woods

19. The Birth of a Murderer and a Diary Addict.

Alfred hissed under his breath, trying to grab more, fell more of his lover, Ivan bit down on his lip, muttering sweet nothings under his breath. He was in Russia, only for a few days, and of course, like love-sick teenagers, they got it on.

He clawed down his back, feeling the teeth digging into his lip go for his neck, forcing him to be submissive. A warning. He whined and spread his legs more, feeling Russia dip down, biting his thighs without remorse, smirking each time he got a squeal or a pant or a moan. 

Alfred spread his legs more, feeling himself get caged in. He leaned up, running kisses down his lovers neck and backing off when he growled, covering his face with his arms before he felt his defense get ripped away, and a gentle kiss get planted against his lips. He knew what that meant.

He whined and keened and panted through the night before it ended, before it began again, and ended. Again and again it ended.

He was gone the next day, flying east over millions of tons of snow. He was cold at first, up in the sky, but soon it just faded into numbness. He was fairly sure that was a bad thing, but he was too busy pitying himself to focus on that. 

Why was it him that had to go through things like this? Why was it him that had to abandon his lover in the icy tundra? For what? A silly war started by one of his allies? They shouldn't be on opposite sides, he never wanted them to be on opposite sides...

Then he remembered what the tsar had said. Because he had long since cut off his supplies to France, because he had betrayed his ally, there would be no problems. No breaking of a betrothal. 

He sighed, going over the strait to the Russian territory, which he was fairly sure was called 'Alaska', or something of the sort, and over Russia's claimed territory before making an almost straight left when he got to where the Spanish territory and Russian territory met. He followed along the English border, over his land, eventually getting to the river and following it down south, to where it split to the Ohio, and then he was near the valley, and then he was in it, flying down before he landed in the cavern above the mansion, walking down the stairs that had been dug down into the earth.

He hurt, after flying so long. Goldie was tired. He guessed he was tired too.

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Ivan crept slowly through the land. He knew he was in an odd place. He'd cut off a message from England a while ago, a threat. Not from the personification, from the ruler. It made his blood boil.

'Never come near the American personification again, Sweden and Swedish territory.'

It seemed like an empty, nothing threat. But Ivan knew better. England was going to go mind blank, and he was going to make dangerous decisions. So, Ivan did the smart thing. Or really, the smartest thing he could manage. He grabbed his pistol in one hand, gripping it tightly as he came to where Sweden and Finland were waiting for him. 

He was going to capture Finland. Make a duchy he owned.

There was a reason. It wasn't for naught, of course. He was going to capture Finland for a reason. If Finland belonged to him, England would back off. Sweden and Finland would stay married under the duchy, and that meant that Sweden could come to where Finland was staying, and vice versa, just because he wanted too, and that Russia couldn't stop him if he tried.

It also meant another thing. Because Denmark was Sweden's brother, Denmark could stay where ever Sweden was, without any government being able to throw a fit over it unless there was war or internal conflict. The only problem was it didn't extend to betrothed's or to territories of the siblings. Norway would have to stay away... unless Sweden took back his son. Then, he would be part of Sweden, who was married to Finland, who could go where ever Finland could.

He came upon the encampment, and saw Tino jump up to face him, before Berwald put a hand on his shoulder and made him sit back down. 

They spoke in quick Russian and Swedish, back and forth, again and again. It almost looked like they were trying to speak over each other, but that was hardly the case. They were sharing now, until Ivan dropped his bomb and Berwald pulled his sword before he could defend his reasoning, before he could show the letter, there was a hole in his stomach, going through to his back.

He didn't look amused, the snow coming alive under him, the power coming through.

War was pointless, yet he couldn't say he never enjoyed it.

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Alfred muttered curses under his breath, his hands shaking as he held the letter in his hands. A short one, from Ivan, telling him that Russia and Sweden had gone to war. No, he never wanted to believe it, even though it was written out in front of him. 

His hand moved on it's own, and he touched his stomach. Once again it was growing. Again, and again, things would happen. Life would try it's hardest to make him week, so he pushed through. He could hardly feel it in his stomach anymore, hardly sense the growing life in him. Why would he need too, what was the point? Why bother?

"Mama? Mama, what's going on?" little Connecticut asked, tilting his head before walking over and grabbing onto his arm. He smiled, and Alfred felt just the slightest bit better. It was hard though. Hard because he was holding back tears because he knew.

He knew that his family wouldn't be the same, not anytime soon.

So, he picked up little Connecticut and put him on his lap, the candlelight glowing off of the papers in front of him.

"Do you want to write a letter to papa?" he asked, his voice light. It cracked, but he didn't know if Connecticut noticed.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, grabbing the quill and a piece of paper as Alfred helped him write, the moonlight coming through the window.

Month's later, he held the babies in his arms. Twins, again. Darling little things. Wisconsin Madison Jones, and Michigan Lansing Jones.

"Power in numbers, power in numbers," Alfred repeated to himself, holding the two. He was crying again, each of the little girls squirming in his grasp. They would much rather eat then listen to him, and he couldn't blame them.

He gave up, and sighed, and kissed them both on the forehead.