The Weight of Unwritten Treati

The Atlantic churns like a restive giant beneath the overcast sky, salt spray stinging the cheeks of Arthur Kirkland as he stands on the deck of the HMS Victory, moored in Portsmouth Harbor. The year is 1946—six months after the end of World War II—and the air smells of coal dust, salt, and the faint, lingering smoke of distant factories. His uniform is crisp, his shoulders squared, but there’s a weariness in his eyes that no amount of military bearing can disguise. He’s spent centuries carrying the weight of an empire, but never has it felt so heavy as in these days of crumbling colonies and shifting alliances.

A soft tread on the wooden planks behind him makes him turn. Alfred F. Jones stands there, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, the American flag patch on his sleeve bright against the dark fabric. He’s taller than Arthur now, broader in the shoulders, a product of a nation that’s grown from a scrappy collection of colonies to a global superpower in the span of a lifetime. His grin is easy, almost irreverent, but there’s a seriousness in his blue eyes that mirrors Arthur’s own.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Alfred says, stepping closer to lean against the rail. The ocean wind ruffled his blonde hair, and he squints out at the horizon as if trying to see across the thousands of miles that separate their homelands. “You’ve been hiding out on this rust bucket for three days. Churchill’s practically sending out search parties.”

Arthur snorts, turning back to gaze at the ship’s masts, their rigging cutting sharp lines against the gray sky. “It’s not a rust bucket. She’s a legend.” He pauses, his voice softening. “And I’m not hiding. I’m thinking.”

“About what?” Alfred asks, his tone gentler now. “The war? The treaties? Or how you’re going to hold onto India when half the country’s screaming for independence?”

Arthur’s jaw tightens. He hates how easily Alfred sees through him—how the young nation he once raised, once fought to keep, now stands beside him as an equal, if not a superior. “All of the above,” he admits, his voice low. “We won the war, Alfred. But I’m not sure we won anything else. The empire’s falling apart, the economy’s in shambles, and everyone’s looking to America to fix it all. You must be loving that.”

Alfred’s grin fades. “Loving it? Are you kidding? I’ve got troops in Europe, in Asia, in places I’d never even heard of ten years ago. My people are tired. They want to go home, not play policeman to the world.” He pauses, glancing at Arthur. “And don’t think I don’t know what this feels like. You built an empire on blood and sweat and hope. I’m just starting to understand how fragile that hope is.”

For a long moment, they stand in silence, the only sounds the lapping of the waves against the hull and the creak of the ship’s timbers. Arthur thinks of the first time he met Alfred—small, scrawny, with dirt on his face and fire in his eyes, declaring that he’d be free one day. He thinks of the Revolutionary War, of the bloodshed, of the betrayal that cut deeper than any sword. He thinks of World War I, of Alfred coming to his aid when all seemed lost, of the bond they’d forged in the trenches. He thinks of World War II, of fighting side by side again, of the moments when he’d looked at Alfred and seen not just a former colony, but a brother-in-arms.

“We’ve never been good at being equals, have we?” Arthur says finally, his voice almost wistful. “First I was the master, you were the student. Then you were the rebel, I was the tyrant. Now… now we’re supposed to be partners. But I’m not sure either of us knows how to do that.”

Alfred nods, his gaze fixed on the ocean. “We’ve got a lot of history, Arthur. A lot of scars. But maybe that’s the point. We’ve fought together, fought against each other, but we’ve always come back to each other. Because when the world’s falling apart, who else are we going to trust?” He turns to look at Arthur, his blue eyes earnest. “You think I wanted this? To be the one holding the strings? I’d rather be back home, building rockets or watching baseball. But someone’s got to step up. And I think… I think we’re better at this together.”

Arthur studies him for a long moment, taking in the earnestness in his face, the way he stands tall even when he’s tired, the quiet strength that’s always been there, hidden beneath the bravado. He thinks of the treaties they’ll sign in the coming months—the United Nations, the Marshall Plan, the alliances that will shape the world for decades to come. He thinks of the arguments they’ll have, the compromises they’ll make, the moments when they’ll want to strangle each other. But he also thinks of the times they’ll stand side by side, facing down threats that no single nation can defeat.

“You’re right, you know,” Arthur says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’ve never been good at being equals. But maybe we can learn.” He holds out his hand, calloused from years of holding swords and pens alike. “Partners?”

Alfred’s grin returns, bright and unyielding. He takes Arthur’s hand, his grip firm and warm. “Partners,” he agrees. “Even if you are a stubborn old git.”

Arthur laughs, a genuine sound that echoes across the deck. “And you’re a loud-mouthed upstart. But I suppose we’ll have to make do.”

They stand there for a while longer, watching the sun break through the clouds, casting golden light over the harbor. The Atlantic still churns beneath them, a reminder of the distance between their homelands, but in that moment, it feels smaller—like a bridge rather than a barrier. They know the road ahead will be long, filled with challenges and disagreements, but they also know that they’ll face it together.

As they turn to leave the deck, Alfred claps Arthur on the shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “Churchill’s waiting. And I hear there’s tea. The good stuff, not that swill you usually drink.”

Arthur snorts, but there’s no bite to it. “You wouldn’t know good tea if it hit you in the face, Jones.”

“Maybe not,” Alfred says, grinning. “But I’m willing to learn. Just like you.”

They walk off the deck together, their footsteps echoing in the quiet, the weight of the world still on their shoulders—but lighter now, knowing they don’t have to carry it alone. The future is uncertain, but for the first time in a long while, Arthur Kirkland allows himself to hope. Hope that the bonds forged in fire and blood will endure, hope that two nations with such a complicated past can build a better future, hope that the weight of unwritten treaties—of loyalty, of trust, of brotherhood—will be enough to see them through.

The HMS Victory stands tall in the harbor, a symbol of a bygone era, but as Arthur and Alfred walk away, they carry with them the promise of something new. Something fragile, something precious, something worth fighting for. Together.