Britain x Dead! Reader - Mumma is Okay

Arthur clung to the frayed picture of you, his knees bunched against his sore chest. He whispered to you, of really what remained of you, praying to someone – something – an unknown deity at that point, begging for your return. He could feel the damage of the smoke to his lungs as he breathed, each breath coming out more and more shallow than the last.

“Oh, __________ ,” Silent tears sprung in his eyes, but he wiped them away, remembering how you always liked to see him happy. Even when he failed at cooking, fought with Francis, or accidentally swore himself into a fight with you, you had always longed to see the innocent irises of the Brit green with jubilance, and not with unneeded spite. You were aware of how easily he was angered and you were saddened by this. “Will you forgive me?” He spoke quietly, subconsciously afraid of disturbing the others around him.

What a silly notion, he thought absentmindedly. Afraid of waking the deceased? I’m a strange bugger.

His mouth twisted a bit at the fond memories of you and him as they flooded forth, causing an unwanted twinge in his heart to instigate a war in his intestines. He had been sick so much for the past sixteen days. Vomiting, coughing up pollutant-darkened blood, the works. Arthur couldn’t help imagining your moribund corpse as it crackled in the fire that had consumed your house two weeks prior.

The only remnant that remained from the fire – thankfully, and comfortingly to the poor man – was your daughter. Her name was Rose, and she looked like a very mixture of both you and Arthur. She had your eyes, but Arthur’s huffy but oddly pleasant personality. She had your skin tone, but Arthur’s bone structure. She had your accent, but Arthur’s musical talent. It was a case of co-dominance; the way she looked at you made you love her even more, all because of the emotions swimming within her (e/c) pools, the solidity of how much she reminded you of Arthur. The way she delicately played the piano at night just before her bedtime, how she would beg for you and your husband to let her play more.

“Daddy,” Rose stepped forward, worrying about her father’s tears that she had seen too much of in the days beforehand. “Is Mumma okay?”

Arthur’s watery, tunnel-vision gaze ripped from your headstone and up to your daughter. Her (e/c) eyes made the Brit hurt, despite how much gladness bounded in his tummy just at the sight of her. He pulled her close, hugging her to his crouched form, and gently brought her to sit in front of him.

She stared innocently up at her father, hearing his strained whimpers ceasing a bit. He sighed, rubbed his face of tears, and lifted his head to the setting sun just below the horizon in the distance. The English sun just didn’t seem as sweet when it was only shared by himself. The pinks, carmines, pastels, and finally deep purples didn’t seem to have that heartwarming effect as they had when he spent these evenings with you.

The thought of your scorched house resting on a green hillside made Arthur angry almost, wishing death upon all fire that dared to plan their intentions in disfavor of his family ever again. Again, he looked at the last part of you, her gleaming (e/c) lakes, a delicate clover chain clasping her tiny wrist, her slight smile as she noticed a grin pulling at Arthur’s cracked lips.

“I know,” She took her father’s hand in hers, surprising him. “Mumma’s okay, because if she wasn’t, you’d be doing everything you could to make sure she was. Like on the night of the fire, you were holding me but you were screaming for Mumma, only paying mind to her because you didn’t know if she was okay. I was okay. I was with you. I know it wasn’t your fault, Daddy, but,” A tear introduced itself to her creamy cheek, sliding in a single stream to drip off her chin. Arthur wiped it away, on the cusp of marveling at his daughter’s words. “Are you sure she’s okay? You haven’t stopped crying and I saw blood on the counter this morning. I want you to be okay too. Not just me. I don’t matter as much as you.”

“Hush, Rose, you matter so much more than me!” Arthur whispered to her and forced her into a tight, limb-crushing hug. “I hate to admit this and I hope you understand what I mean by it.” He rubbed her shoulder blades sympathetically, holding back tears for her. “Mumma is okay. She isn’t in constant fear anymore. There is no more pain for Mumma, do you know?” He acknowledged the fire-orange setting sun again. He cringed. “Love, there is something I want to tell you.”

She squeaked, his embrace becoming a little too much to handle. He released her and allowed her to breathe, but grasped her tiny shoulders in his hands. Rose nodded, eager to hear what Arthur had to say. “No matter what you may think, no matter how much I may cry or how horrible the effects of the smoke were on my body, those things do not matter, what matters is that you’re okay. I loved your mother, I loved her almost as much as I love you. And now, without all those hurtful things on her body, without all the fear in her heart, she can truly live again.”

Rose took this notion into account, confused yet mystified by her father’s words. “So, Mumma is okay? Will I ever see her again?”

Arthur was dismayed by the second portion of her question, but did not let his facial features show cognizance of this. He sighed, gingerly pulled his daughter into a hug once more, this time much gentler, and whispered, “Yes,” He realized he hadn’t let go of the burnt photograph of you; your hair was just as vibrant, your eyes just as empathetic under the sepia of the moment captured in time. He smiled and buried his face in her hair. “Mumma is okay.”