"Un-deux-trois, un-deux-trois, un-deux-trois..."

His first memory is of this sound. His parents had never gotten along, his father had told him, and they hadn't for centuries. So though he was daily under the care of his father there were times when his mother was allowed into his life. And the moment he could walk, she insisted he learn how to dance.

The room is filled with nothing but words in French, a language he is entirely unfamiliar with, mumbled in rapid succession as he toddles around, clutching her hands tightly. The confusion at the words is the bit that stuck with him most. Are they a chant? A prayer to dance to? Does his father, with all his wisdom, understand them? His sister (who spends her days with their mother and is occasionally allowed to see his father) is fast asleep in her chair, her little feet twitching to the rhythm. She has probably already completed all of her lessons.

And when little America grows tired and his face scrunches up with a frown, his mother drops to her knees, dirtying her beautiful gown, and speaks more French to him. And he doesn't understand it really, but he knows she means she loves him. And as she says it he crawls happily into her arms and falls fast asleep.

It would be a long time before he completed his lessons as his sister had. And by that time Madeline would be the property of his father England, and he himself would be on the path to freedom. It would be evening again, and he would be just as tired as he was then, his feet sore from practicing marching and shooting, his head throbbing from listening to shouted orders all day. Conceiving a revolution was the easiest thing he'd ever done, but now that it was here it took all he had to keep it going. And when he mentioned this to her, irritated and pulling on his nightclothes, she simply laughed. "It is the same with all things," She said with a shrug, "But most of all with children."

That seemed to put both their minds back in the same place, and within a moment she was ushering him to his (bare) feet and dragging him to the biggest space in his small tent for a dance. He was taller than she now, but worst of all, now that he was no longer prepubescent he was expected to lead it.

And though she was his mother and much much smaller than him, there was something irrevocably intimidating about her. Every man in camp desired her, all his officers could hardly stop staring at her long enough to give a respectful bow when she arrived, and he knew this. And he, as an adult (who grew up hardly knowing her) knew he should probably feel the same. But the part of him that longed for the warm affection of an absent mother was still there, and he found himself only longing for her as she was; a mother. So, the rebel boy that had destroyed his father's precious cargo and declared himself independent from all who would govern him unjustly just months before quietly listened and obeyed without question.

Alfred always learned fast. The spins, the steps, the position of his hands all came to him within instants of being told, and soon he really was leading her, stepping perfectly in time with an orchestra that was not there, meeting the gazes of onlookers that did not exist. As the crescendo came and went and they both stood there shimmering with the slight sheen of sweat, he put his head on her shoulder and rested it there, all the weight of the world falling off his own back for but a moment. "Do you ever find..." he murmured against the lace of her collar, "That you miss people? I mean, surely you do, right? Even though -"

"Even though I know I shouldn't," She starts, ever gracious, ever insisting on the most carefully chosen words, "I do."

And he slept just a little bit better that night, knowing that perhaps not being perfect didn't mean he wasn't an adult.