Chapter Text
"There are years that ask questions and years that answer." - Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God
August 15th, 1747.
The opulent hall was filled with flurrying diplomats, scattered scrolls, and the occasional irritated leader attempting to make themself heard over the commotion. Powdered wigs bobbed between ink-stained sleeves. Near the doorway, a clerk dropped an entire stack of correspondence and watched in horror as the papers skidded across the floor in every direction. Nobody stopped to help him.
God, Alfred loved this place.
He had never been to Saint Petersburg, or anywhere in Russia at all, before today. It rained on the Neva often, which he had noticed during the carriage ride over, and his father had not stopped complaining about it since their arrival, muttering darkly about the many ways northern weather seemed specifically designed to make people miserable.
Alfred found this a little rich considering they literally lived in England, but he kept that observation to himself.
Today was important, though. More important than the city, the conference, or the treaty everyone seemed so eager to argue about.
For the first time in his life, he would be meeting others of his kind.
Not diplomats. Not advisors. Not an endless procession of leaders. No, he would be meeting real Nations.
His heart was behaving in a manner he found deeply embarrassing. He had pressed his coat three separate times that morning, rehearsed introductions in the mirror, and spent far longer than any reasonable person should trying to flatten a curl that had immediately returned to its original position. Given his upbringing, Alfred suspected vanity probably counted as a sin. At the moment, however, he found himself quite unconcerned with the state of his soul.
He found his father standing outside the final courtroom.
Arthur Kirkland wore an expression that he generally reserved for occasions that mattered. Alfred had always been able to tell when Arthur was tense, even when Arthur himself seemed convinced he was concealing it brilliantly.
Alfred greeted his father as Arthur's eyes swept over him from collar to boots. He reached forward, adjusted something on his shoulder with two fingers, and stepped back again without saying anything.
Before Alfred could decide whether to be offended or flattered by it, the gold-patterned doors swung open.
The chamber beyond was quieter than the hallway outside, though only just by comparison. British, Dutch, and Russian diplomats crowded around the central table speaking over one another with admirable commitment, apparently operating under the belief that volume and persuasion were interchangeable concepts. Their voices bounced off the vaulted ceilings, only amplifying the chaos present in the room. A handful of Alfred's own men stood near the wall looking as though they had been instructed very specifically not to touch anything, which, to their credit, they hadn't.
Britain had brought them, allowed them to be present, as observers. Observers, Alfred had discovered, usually meant stand over there and pretend not to exist. He was still considering this when his attention wandered elsewhere.
Arthur was already crossing the room toward two figures standing near the far corner. Alfred followed at what he hoped was a casual distance, though the amount of effort required to appear casual probably defeated the purpose.
The woman Arthur greeted first stood near Alfred's own height, which did not mean she was particularly tall, since he was barely sixteen. Blonde curls framed her face beneath a lace cap, and her accent matched the Dutch diplomats he had heard arguing in the corridor earlier.
Belgica van Rijn, the personification of The Dutch Republic herself.
Not wanting to stare, Alfred deliberately looked away. This turned out to be a terrible decision.
The man standing beside her was tall enough to seemingly alter the proportions of the room. His hair was pale, almost silver beneath the candlelight, his skin rivalling the porcelain that adorned the tables.
Alfred stared, fully aware that he was staring, aware too that he ought to stop, and yet continuing to do it anyway, because the man's features were genuinely... angelic. Yes, that was an unfortunately fitting word. Then the man looked at him, and that made everything considerably worse, because his eyes were purple.
Not vaguely purple or technically purple if one exercised a generous imagination. They were genuinely, undeniably purple, the sort of colour that sounded ridiculous when described aloud. Alfred had always been told that the eyes of Nations were brighter than ordinary people's. Looking at the stranger now, he felt vindicated. The colour reminded him of the stars he spent too much time looking at before bed.
Alfred immediately wished he hadn't thought that. Unfortunately, it was still true.
The stranger continued looking at him, and Alfred continued looking back.
The resulting staring contest lasted significantly longer than politeness allowed, though Alfred seemed to be the only participant troubled by this fact. The man regarded him with the calm patience of someone far more assured in himself, and with glimmers of curiosity in his gaze.
This had to be Russia, he suddenly realised. Alfred didn't know his human name, but discovered quite suddenly that he wanted to.
The situation was interrupted by Arthur stepping into his line of sight. Alfred inhaled sharply, only then realising he had more or less forgotten to breathe. He watched his father exchange greetings with the Russian Empire, watched Russia smile at something Arthur said, watched Arthur immediately scowl in response, and decided whatever had just happened was probably important.
Then Arthur turned to face him. "Thirteen. Staring is quite rude, as I'm sure you are aware."
Alfred agreed that it was in a voice definitely weaker than he would have liked.
His father's expression softened, which for Arthur Kirkland was practically an emotional breakdown.
"Now. You are present today as a spectator, as per your own request, as well as Mr. Braginsky's personal invitation." He looked at the man suspiciously before continuing, "For that, we thank you, Russia, as well as the accommodation you've provided us both."
Alfred's brain stalled. Mr. Braginsky, that was his name, and more importantly, Mr. Braginsky had invited him, specifically him. Alfred, who was sixteen years old, and not yet recognised as a nation. He glanced toward Russia again and found, to his growing distress, that Russia was already looking at him.
There was nothing particularly unusual about being looked at. Alfred had spent his entire life being observed by diplomats, advisors, tutors, generals, and occasionally complete strangers. Yet somehow Mr. Braginsky's attention felt less like scrutiny and more like… recognition.
Alfred cleared his throat and calmed himself. "May I introduce myself, Father?"
Arthur still looked faintly tense. Alfred half expected him to refuse outright, but after a brief pause he merely nodded and tilted his head toward Belgica.
She greeted him with a musical laugh. Her eyes were amber, bright and curious, and she regarded Alfred with straightforward interest.
"What an obedient colony you've raised, Arthur. Aangenaam kennis te maken, Thirteen Colonies." Alfred smiled politely and shook her hand.
Arthur looked mildly pleased, and Belgica laughed.
"Enjoy it while it lasts."
"What on Earth is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing at all."
She turned her attention back to Alfred, who did not completely understand what had just transpired. They exchanged a few pleasantries about the journey from London and the weather, which seemed to be a universally accepted topic among Europeans who had nothing else to say to one another.
He asked a question about The Hague that he'd been saving for weeks, she answered it kindly, and shortly afterwards excused herself to deal with her leader, who appeared to have created some new inconvenience.
The moment she disappeared, Alfred found himself turning back toward Russia almost involuntarily.
His father noticed immediately. Arthur glanced between the two of them with the attitude of a man who had deliberately arranged a situation and was no longer entirely convinced it had been a good idea.
"Gentlemen," he said carefully, "I hope you will become acquainted. I must ensure the negotiations continue progressing as they ought."
He looked directly at Alfred. "Thirteen. Do not bother or delay our generous host any further than he pleases. If I turn around and find you've started an international incident, I shall be very disappointed."
The warning was unnecessary, since Alfred was already far too busy trying not to embarrass himself.
Arthur offered Russia a curt smile and made haste toward King George II.
The silence that followed wasn't particularly long, but Alfred became aware of every second of it.
"Thirteen Colonies."
Mr. Braginsky's voice was lower than Alfred expected, softened by his thick accent.
"It is good to finally meet you. British North America has fascinated many of us for quite some time." The way he said it made Alfred wonder whether he was talking about the colonies or Alfred specifically. He suspected asking for clarification would only make things worse.
Alfred was still recovering from hearing him speak, and could not respond before he continued,
"It is a shame you are British."
A laugh escaped Alfred's lips before he could stop it.
He probably should have felt intimidated. Mr. Braginsky was taller than him by at least half a foot and carried himself with the sort of effortless aura that usually belonged to people who commanded armies. Instead, Alfred mostly felt curious.
"Thank you, sir," he said, gathering what remained of his dignity. "For the invitation, I mean. And for welcoming my diplomats."
"You are welcome."
Alfred hesitated only briefly before continuing. "This is actually the first time I've met another Nation."
Something shifted in Russia's expression.
"Really."
The single word carried enough interest to make Alfred feel oddly self-conscious. Alfred had the uncomfortable feeling that Mr. Braginsky had already reached some conclusion about him and simply wasn't sharing it.
"Father has always been..." Alfred searched for a diplomatic term. "Protective."
That was kinder than overbearing, and therefore the version Arthur would receive if he ever heard about this conversation.
Russia hummed softly.
"I believe your father should have introduced you to more… permanent figures long ago. Nations spend much of our lives surrounded by people, yet very few of them truly remain. Humans do not mean to distance themselves from us, but eventually they always do."
He listened very carefully.
Nobody had ever explained it like that before… Then again, nobody had really explained much of anything.
His father had always treated Nationhood the way Puritans treated dancing, which was to say he acknowledged its existence while acting as though discussing it for too long might somehow invite disaster.
Mr. Braginsky looked back at him.
"I would be happy to become one of those permanent figures, if you would allow it."
Alfred felt warmth rush into his face and immediately hated that it was probably visible.
"I would like that very much," he said, his answer coming out faster than intended.
Mr. Braginsky smiled again.
"Though," he added quickly, because his dignity was already hanging by a thread, "I don't think my father would approve. He barely wants some of my own diplomats knowing my human name."
That earned a genuine laugh, which Alfred quickly decided he would like to hear again.
"And what is your human name?" Mr. Braginsky asked.
Alfred blinked. Nobody ever asked that, at least nobody outside his own household.
"My name?"
"If you do not mind."
Alfred shifted his weight. "I don't mind."
For reasons he couldn't explain, saying it suddenly felt important.
"Alfred. Alfred Kirkland."
Mr. Braginsky repeated it softly.
"Alfred."
The accent changed it somehow.
The name sounded foreign coming from him, and Alfred was sure he would never forget how it sounded.
"And yours?" Alfred asked before he could stop himself. "Your human name, I mean."
For a second Mr. Braginsky simply looked at him. Then he smiled.
"That," he said, "is something you will discover through our future correspondence."
Alfred stared at him.
"Our future correspondence?"
"Of course. You will write to me often, yes?"
The ridiculous thing was that he said it as though it were already decided. As though there existed absolutely no version of reality in which Alfred would not write to him. Unfortunately, Alfred found that he agreed.
"Yes," he said, because apparently all higher reasoning had abandoned him entirely.
Mr. Braginsky's smile widened slightly. Alfred felt as though he had just agreed to something important without understanding any of the terms.
They were eventually pulled out of the conversation by Arthur's voice.
"Mr. Braginsky! The treaty has been finalised. Kindly review the terms your men have agreed to."
Russia straightened. Before leaving, however, he glanced toward Alfred one last time, his expression as unreadable as ever, and reached out to brush a stray curl away from Alfred's eyes with two fingers. The gesture was so brief that Alfred almost convinced himself it hadn't happened at all.
Almost.
Russia smiled, then turned and crossed the room toward Arthur at the same unhurried pace he seemed to do everything else. Alfred remained exactly where he was for several seconds before
leaning back against the marble wall and closing his eyes.
Good Lord.
This was becoming a problem. A very recent problem, admittedly, but a problem nonetheless.
After allowing himself a moment to recover what remained of his dignity, Alfred pushed himself upright and made his way over to his diplomats, reminding himself firmly that he had not travelled
across Europe to stare at Russia. He was here to observe a treaty negotiation. A diplomatic military agreement. An important political event. That was why he was here.
The fact that Russia happened to be present was entirely incidental.
Arthur was currently arguing with two Russian advisors about money, which surprised nobody. Alfred had spent months listening to increasingly dramatic pacing monologues about troop numbers, equipment, naval commitments, supply routes, costs, and France's general determination to make everyone's life more difficult. He had not paid attention to every detail, but he understood the broad outline. Russia was supplying troops and military support to Britain and the Dutch Republic to help prevent a French invasion of Holland, and every conversation thereafter seemed to involve somebody objecting to the number written beside a currency symbol.
Across the table, the Russian delegation reviewed the treaty with expressionless faces. At the head of the room sat Empress Elizabeth herself. Alfred knew her mostly through descriptions and second-hand complaints from diplomats, but she looked exactly as imposing as everyone had claimed. She watched the proceedings with the detached patience of someone who had attended far too many negotiations to find this particular one especially exciting.
Russia, standing nearby, looked equally unreadable. Alfred was beginning to suspect that was simply how his face worked.
The agreement itself had taken months to reach this point. Letters had crossed oceans Alfred had never sailed. Diplomats had negotiated through intermediaries. Men who had never met one another had spent entire seasons arguing through parchment. Watching all of that finally narrow into a single document resting on a table felt strangely significant, as though he was watching history condense itself into something small enough to sign.
Eventually Arthur pressed one final point, received whatever concession he had been demanding, and visibly relaxed. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but Alfred did.
Arthur straightened his coat, glanced down at the treaty, and signed with the sort of decisiveness that suggested he had been waiting months to put pen to paper.
King George II signed shortly afterwards and shook Empress Elizabeth's hand.
Arthur turned almost immediately and found Alfred across the room.
To Alfred's considerable surprise, his father looked happy. Genuinely happy.
Arthur crossed the room in quick strides and clapped him on the shoulder, steering him toward the door whilst talking rapidly about treaty clauses, troop commitments, concessions, and several sections he already intended to revisit in future negotiations. Months of stress seemed to be evaporating from him in real time. The terms were not perfect, the costs had been higher than he'd wanted, and there were still matters left unresolved, but the alliance existed, Holland was protected, and for the first time in quite a while Arthur sounded optimistic.
They were being seated in the carriages before Alfred fully realised they were leaving.
He never did get the chance to properly say goodbye to Russia.
Alfred rested his head against the window and began mentally composing letters.
He needed to write to France and politely request that she stop provoking Arthur into week-long strategic spirals, though admittedly the odds of success there were negligible.
He needed to introduce himself to several neighbouring nations without sounding hopelessly sixteen, which would be difficult. He needed to write to Belgica van Rijn and thank her for her kindness.
Most of all, however, he needed to write to Mr. Braginsky. To the Russian Empire.
This thought arrived with remarkable certainty. Alfred suspected he would write that letter the moment they returned home.
Judging by how often his thoughts had drifted back to Russia during the journey, he suspected he would spend quite some time thinking about how to begin it.