APH: For There Is Nothing Lost [1/?]
Title: For There Is Nothing Lost
Characters/Pairings: England/Portugal(OC), various Summer Court faeries (in this part)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Established relationship dere? Haha, really, there's nothing so far.
Summary: When a faerie wants something, they steal it. When a faerie Queen wants something, they will go out of their way to keep it. Kidnapping a nation however, was easier said than done, because England was not going to give Portugal up without a fight.
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"For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought."
- Edmund Spenser [The Faerie Queene]
England shuffled from foot to foot as he waited at the airport. It was crowded, so he had to stand by the outside doors, watching the gate for whenever the person he was waiting for would walk out. He hoped it would be soon; his fingers were frozen already and he couldn’t seem to warm them up. Then again, it was mid-December and he’d had to scrape frost off his car this morning with his credit card because he couldn’t find the scraper (apparently Scotland had borrowed and then lost it again), so there wasn’t much to be done.
Finally the first few weary travellers walked out on to British soil, lugging heavy suitcases with them. Brown hair and olive skin came into view, and England raised his voice.
“Gab! Gabriel, over here!”
Portugal had been keeping his head down, wrapped up in a thick coat, because despite the fact that the heating was on, he knew he would only have to take one step outside before his nose or ears would feel like they would freeze over. Funny how there were things worthy enough to brave the ghastly British weather for, really.
He raised his eyes at the sound of his name, scanning the vast crowds for the familiar face that had accompanied the equally familiar voice, a vague smile on his lips that only grew in warmth and intensity when his gaze settled on England. He raised his hand and began weaving his way through the throng. England stepped forward to meet him, glad to get away from the doors and the draft.
“Was the flight okay?” England greeted, with a welcoming smile. “I hope the clouds didn’t give you too much turbulence.”
“I still stand by my previous preferences,” Portugal quipped, setting his bag down carefully so that it did not tip over, “I would rather steer a ship through a storm than have to go through that again.” Truly, he had nothing against planes, but he was happiest on solid ground. He straightened his coat and the smile became a grin, crooking a little more at one corner in a display of gentle amusement. “More importantly, do I get my kiss now?”
“I, er- I..!”
Of course, rather than waiting for a reply, or any sort of spluttering that would no doubt turn heads in their direction, he wrapped his arms around England’s shoulders briefly and kissed him on both cheeks. His smile broadened. “It is good to see you looking so well, meu amor.”
England flushed red, glancing away and around at the crowd. “Good to see you too, Port.” he mumbled, embarrassed and flustered. Silently, he took the other nation’s hand as well as the handle of his luggage from him, and pulled him towards the doors. “Come on, the parking is charged by the hour and it’s expensive...”
“Your hand is like ice!” Portugal exclaimed softly, clucking his tongue in disapproval. He squeezed England’s fingers, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles as though that would spread some warmth back into them. “I told you, you didn’t have to come all this way. I could have hailed a taxi. It would have been far more convenient for everyone.”
“It’s fine, really. And I don’t really trust taxis since the recent rise in fakes around airports and all that rot.” he grumbled, muffled by his scarf as the cold air bit at his cheeks. Portugal’s hand was warm in his, but everything about Portugal was warm. Warm smiles, warm hands, warm weather. “... not that I don’t think you’d notice the difference but... Just in case.” The ramp up to the car park was slightly slick with ice. It would snow soon, said the forecast, but since when did anyone trust that these days. He was so often irritated with the unpredictability of his weather that it had swung right back round to a sort of twisted pride.
No matter how often Portugal visited over the years, the bite of the winter cold here never failed to bring a slight jolt to his system. He shivered and hunched down further into his coat, upturning the collar with his free hand and sliding his fingers free of England’s so that he could hook his arm through his. At least like this they were shoulder to shoulder and while England wasn’t known for his warmth, at the very least he acted as a buffer against the wind. Portugal cradled his arm close and tilted his head.
“Thank you,” he said honestly, though a moment later he was grinning again. “It would really put a dampener on this trip if I had to phone you from a side street because a rogue taxi driver had made off with my luggage and mugged me in a back alley.” He started to laugh at the fate he had conjured for himself, but stopped halfway with a small exclamation of surprise as his leg slid out from under him. He stumbled and sidestepped into England, his arm tight through his to keep himself upright. He always forgot his footing on days like this. More likely than not because he didn’t really have days like this back home.
At the very least, he hadn’t fallen into a oily puddle of water this time around, so he considered it a vast improvement.
“Careful!” England pulled Portugal past the black ice and onto firmer ground. “I’m beginning to wonder if it would have been the taxi or the ice that got to you first.” It’s half a joke, and the twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement, but he did so find it funny when Portugal showed his complete ineptitude around ice. They reached the car without any broken limbs, however, and England loaded the suitcase into the back, getting in as fast as possible so he didn’t have to stand in the wind much longer.
The engine shuddered to life after a few false starts because of the cold, and he started driving out. He turned on the heating system to full blast, but carefully avoided fogging up the windows.
“It’s just us two today, but Wales will be back from Cardiff tomorrow,” the blonde explained.
Portugal sagged a little in his seat, more than grateful to be out of the cold and to be lacking the broken nose he was more than certain he would have got had he taken another tumble over the wet road. He rubbed his hands together in front of the heating before tucking them back in his pockets, raising an eyebrow in England’s direction.
“Well that’s convenient for our first night together isn’t it,” he said with some amusement, shrugging his shoulders and settling back to get more comfortable, “you must remind me to thank your brother when he gets in.”
Clearly Portugal had some kind of agenda to make him blush so much he’d faint from blood rush to the head. This was somewhat dangerous when one was driving. “Quite,” he said, only raising his eyebrows with a slight glance sideways at his lover. Could he be blamed if he smirked a little? “I’m sure he’d appreciate it. He’s been getting awfully shirty recently about how nobody appreciates him anymore. I think it might just be the seasons changing that has him cranky. Too much chaos.” Acknowledging his own hypocrisy was unfortunately not one of England’s habits.
“You do seem to have dramatic changes in the weather,” Portugal remarked, turning his head from where he had been tracing patterns through the condensation on the passenger window, creating loops and spirals and tiny hearts. He added a smiling face unconcernedly to his ‘canvas’ and glanced at England. “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to thank him profusely for letting me have you all to myself. I only hope the neighbours won't complain should things get, ah... out of hand," he added candidly, with his most winning smile.
“We’re going to the cottage this time. No neighbours to worry about.” England smirked slightly back at Portugal. The look lasted for a lingering moment before England had to turn his attention back to the road like the safe driver he was meant to be.
“Did you have any plans for tonight then?” Portugal asked, drawing the words out slowly through the comfortable silence that had settled between them.
“Beyond picking you up, I’m free all day.” Green eyes caught the traffic lights changing to amber and he slowed to a stop, waiting for the people to cross over. “So. How about we drop your stuff at the cottage and decide what we’re doing for the evening over a cuppa?” England could think of several things he’d very much like to do with Portugal this evening... Ah, the light was green. He drove on again.
“A cup of tea sounds lovely,” Portugal sighed wistfully, “Almost as much as a warm shower, and I really think I could go for both right about now.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes, tucking the wayward curls behind his ear. He leaned forward and rested his palm over England’s knee, “And since you’re so free we could go for a walk if the weather clears, or maybe have a nice, quiet dinner...” He patted his thigh in a brisk manner before deciding it was still too cold out and returned his hand to his pocket. Behind him, his condensation drawings began to melt, dripping rivulets of water down the inside of the window.
“It’ll probably rain or sleet later, so let’s go have dinner somewhere nice instead. There’s this one Indian restaurant I know, does it as well as India herself.” And god only knew how long he’d spent searching for such a place only to find it a few miles from his cottage house. The roads became less packed the further they drove from the airport, until there were only a few houses and villages to pass through, empty frosted fields taking over the view. They sky was patchy grey and white, and shone a dull light on everything, dimming colour into sleepy monotone. The bushes that usually protected England’s cottage and gave it privacy had long since fallen off in Autumn, leaving bare twigs surrounding the old house with its thatched roof and slightly overgrown grass. The gravel driveway crunched under the tires as he pulled up in front of the house. England spared the outside a reproachful look before resigning himself to the cold, and opened the door.
It was even colder in the country than by the airport, but the wind had died down a little at least.
Portugal gave him a look that clearly said he would be more than content to stay in the car if the only option was to step outside into the freezing winter air again. He did however, look curious at the mention of the restaurant. “A dinner date, Inglaterra?” he asked, lips curving upwards, “Really? I was going to suggest staying in, because I could have cooked, but I must have done something wonderful to deserve that.” He laughed good naturedly.
“I must admit you have my attention now. Surely a woman who cooks as well as India would have her restaurant fully booked for the night.” He cast one last longing look at the interior of the car before getting out and stretching his legs. He folded his arms tightly across his chest not a moment later to conserve what little heat he managed to retain from the car itself. He looked fondly upon the cottage all the same; a palace it was not, but it was quaint, quiet and there were only so many places where they could both be together and have time to themselves.
“You shouldn’t have to cook on your first day here, that just wouldn’t be right, Port.” England grunted as he pulled Portugal’s suitcase from the back of the car. “You’re a guest and I wouldn’t make you do that.” His cold fingers made it all the more difficult to find the right key on his keychain, but eventually he got it right and opened up the door to the blissfully warm house. “I’m rather well known at the restaurant so they often have a table for me anyway.” He smiled. They might also be catching on to his secret, but they didn’t seem in a rush to tell anyone so he didn’t mind.
“I don’t recall the last time you ever ‘made’ me cook for you,” Portugal said affectionately, “You know I would be more than happy to. It’s the least I could do seeing how you took the time out of your schedule to spend time with me before the big meeting, I...” There was a sudden, faint ringing in his ear. Portugal paused; he cupped his hand to the side of his head and twisted around to look behind him. The road was deserted; no bicycles or bells in sight. Huh. He shrugged it off. His ears were probably still feeling stuffy from the air pressure during the flight. With one last cursory glance behind him he followed England into the house, and the moment he did he spread his arms out to the warmth and sighed in contentment.
He smiled at England and rubbed his nose, which was already starting to turn pink and flush across his cheeks now that he had some warmth back in them. “If you can get reservations that easily, then I would be more than happy to go out to dinner with you,” he said readily and started to take off his coat. “I trust your judgement when it comes to India’s food. I only wish I could say that for everything else you eat.” He smirked.
England frowned and did not pout, but rather roughly dropped the suitcase in the hall to make a point, closing the door behind them and switching on a few lights as the hallway became dimmer. Again a little tinkle, and it seemed a faerie had got shut in. England blinked at it, but it didn’t seem to want to leave, so he didn’t open the door again for it. It would fly up the chimney if it really wanted to go out. Oddly it was glowing a warm reddish-brown, not something one would usually see this time of year. But if it had gotten lost, it was welcome to keep warm in his home for a bit. Poor thing was probably freezing as much as Port was.
Ah, speaking of which. “Shall I go put the kettle on then?” he offered, already half way to the kitchen. “I shan't torture you with anything I would eat though. Just a biscuit or two.” he added pointedly. It’s not that he was really insulted, it was just that self-deprecation was a thing of his.
“Please,” Portugal said earnestly, taking the time to straighten his suitcase and drag it further inside from where England had abandoned it in the doorway. “I promise there is nothing so bad about your biscuits, so you needn’t fret about that. I doubt they could beat what they serve you on flight.” He watched England disappear into the kitchen and crouched down by his bag, double checking the locks and zips before straightening and seeking out somewhere to sit down. He collapsed on the couch, to the faint sound of bells in his ear again. It was probably nothing; England might have kept wind chimes for all he knew.
Of course, that was before he took note of the tiny creature that landed on the coffee table across from him. Huh, Portugal thought again. It rested on the edge and did not fly away in alarm when he crossed his legs idly. “I didn’t realize you still had fireflies in winter,” he called out towards the kitchen, not taking his eyes off the little bug that seemed to have passed two seasons too many.
“What? I don’t have fireflies at all.” England called back from the kitchen. “They don’t survive in the cold and wet here.” He paused in his clattering with mugs. Portugal always saw faeries as little lights, which was more than England could ever hope for outside of his family and a select few others. Maybe because Portugal had hung about with him for long enough, but there was always that faint hope that England carried, that one day his lover would see the fae properly, with all eyes open.
For now, he resigned himself to “fireflies” instead. “Don’t poke it or anything. It might bite. Er. Sting.” It’s a lie, but it’s too early in the day for Portugal to be looking at him like he’d lost his mind.
“Well it had to have got into the house from somewhere,” Portugal replied absently, his eyes fixed on the little glowing bug as it flickered, hopping along the table and over the tip of his shoe. He flicked his foot out and it abandoned him as its perch long enough to hover before disappearing back out into the hall. Portugal watched it go with a bemused expression before he bent over to take off his shoes and put them aside. He curled his feet up under him. “Not that they’re known for their sting.” He paused thoughtfully. “Unless it was a radioactive moth, in which case there’ll be no salvaging the contents of your wardrobe after this.”
He smiled to himself. Really, and people said England’s sense of humour left something to be desired. Granted the way he said things sometimes, even Portugal, who had known him longer than most, had no way of telling whether he was joking or not.
“My wardrobe is functional and practical, if not fashionable.” England said stuffily, tapping the stirring spoon on the edge of the mug to get the tea off it. “It suits me just fine even if it’s a little outdated sometimes...” he didn’t bother to go shopping unless his clothes were actually getting holes that a little needle and thread couldn’t fix. Much to France’s bemused despair. And the longer France was in despair the longer England could be smug about putting him there. He opened the fridge to get the milk out...
“Ah.” he mumbled. It was pretty much empty. There was a tiny amount of milk left in one of the bottles but it wasn’t really milk any more. It was more like cheese by now. When was the last time he’d cooked for himself? I couldn’t have been more than a few weeks ago... “Port, we’re out of milk. I think I’d better run down to the shops before they shut and we’re buggered for the evening.” He closed the fridge door and stuck his head around the corner to actually look at the man on his couch. The faerie had left. Good. “You can take a shower or whatever you like while I’m gone. Get settled in, my house is your house and all that.”
Portugal turned his head. As far as he was concerned the lack of milk in the house wasn’t too much to be worried about considering they would be going out for dinner, but he knew how England would get without his cup of tea, so he just shook his head and smiled. “Well if you’re sure it can’t wait until tomorrow,” he said, and shifted on the couch so he was facing England. “Are you sure you’d rather not join me? See that I find everything alright? I recall the shower is big enough for two.” He winked and set his feet back down on the floor, stretching out. “But you’re probably right. Best to unpack now before your not-fireflies invade the drawers and make off with my socks. I’ll need to find something to wear to dinner as well.”
He propped his face in his hand and gave his lover a lazy smile. “Now, which room was mine again?”
England paused on his way to the door, hands going still where he was pulling on his coat. Slowly, a smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “Why, the same as mine, of course.” he said, nearly purred, raising his eyebrows slightly. Then, with a teasingly long look, he opened the front door, and casually stepped out of it like nothing had happened.
Portugal watched him for a moment, then got to his feet and padded out into the hall after him. He caught a brief flicker of light out of the corner of his eye, near the stairs, but rather than turn around to look he touched the edge of the door before England could close it properly and gave him a wry smile. “Don’t be too long,” he told him, and leaned out into the cold to give him a brief, but firm kiss on the lips. The smile became a grin. “I’ve wanted to do that since I got here.”
England blinked, and grinned back. Then, he quickly leaned in for a kiss of his own. “I’ll be quick, I promise. Don’t answer the door for strangers while I’m gone or anything.” he joked mildly, then tugged his coat on tighter as the wind picked up. “I’ll only be about 20 minutes!” he added as he went to the car, opened the door and got inside. The engine hummed to life, and with a little wave, he drove off down the path and onto the road.
“Bye,” Portugal murmured. He closed the door behind him as the car disappeared down the road and leaned against it. He sighed and went to go collect his luggage, dragging it to the foot of the staircase. He looked at his bags, back to the stairs, then at his bags again. Well, he thought, at least he only had to do it once. With this in mind, he positioned himself on the first step and started to slowly drag the luggage up one or two steps at a time. Every now and again the stairs would creak ominously under his feet, and for a wild moment he thought the entire stretch would splinter under his feet should he force his weight too much, so it was relieving when he made it to the landing in one piece. With the worst over, he trudged down the cold and empty hall, dragging his bags behind him and looking from door to door, trying to recall which one was England’s without having to resort to opening all of them.
The last door on the left was slightly ajar, so Portugal took the opportunity to peek inside. It was quite neat, double bed made up nicely and drawers all dusted and polished so the old wood shone. Several pictures sat on the tops of them, mainly of other nations at various gatherings, family, and one large, black and white photo containing the entirety of the old empire, lined up as though for a school photo, all very grim faced as pictures were then. The room was England’s, without a doubt. It had an adjoining en suite bathroom, and the top window in there was open just slightly, giving the room a mild draft.
Portugal had to smile, brushing his fingers over the old wood as he passed the set of drawers and sat down on the bed. He smoothed the creases in the sheets out with his palm, feeling somewhat obligated to do so despite the fact that they were bound to stay wrinkled regardless. He had never been as partial to neatness as England had, though he found it one of his more endearing traits. He set his luggage down at the foot of the bed and bent over it, unlocking the zips and opening the bags up so he could rummage through its contents. He started to place his folded shirts in a pile behind him, pausing halfway to glance at the photographs scattered across the various surfaces, picking one up at random and smiling over it. England always looked so serious in those pictures, from the way he set his jaw to the lines of his face, far more revealing than the paintings of the past ever did justice. He shook his head over it and allowed himself a small chuckle.
Quietly, a tinkle, like a bell sounded. At first its source was invisible, but then it came again, and again. It seemed to be coming from the bathroom. Odd, what a strange place to keep wind chimes. Maybe England had left his phone in there, and it was his ring tone?
He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, trying to determine the source from sound alone, but as before, he was entirely unable to tell what it was. Leaving the photograph face down on the bed, he reached into his bag and pushed himself off the bed. He might as well set his things up in the bathroom while he was investigating. Listening carefully, he moved, eyes darting left and right as though to catch a glimpse of that strange, if not persistent sound. He turned the bathroom doorknob slowly, pushing the door further open. After a moment’s hesitation, wondering what he might find, he flicked on the light.
Nothing. The bathroom was empty. No wind chimes, no phone going off, just a sink, a shower, a toilet and a cabinet full of toothbrushes and the like. The wind whistling through the half-open window was nothing like the sound of bells he heard earlier.
But while he was looking up at the window, a small light floated in, spinning in circles before settling on the side of the sink. The jingling sound returned with it.
It appeared that England’s not-fireflies hadn’t left after all. Portugal stared at it. Considering it looked pretty harmless and the most he would probably be able to do to it would be to crush it with various toiletries, he settled for putting them on the cabinet next to the sink, a careful distance away from the tiny bug. “I must be more tired than I thought,” he muttered, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He ran his hand over his face with a sigh, and looked down at the little not-firefly. “Either my ears are ringing or you’re some kind of cricket-firefly-insect hybrid.” He stopped. “...which I’m now talking to, great. Fantastic.” He rubbed at his eyes, frowning.
The tinkling wasn’t constant. If anything, it seemed to stop whenever he was talking, and then start in bursts. If it was indeed the little bug making the noise, it could have been trying to communicate for all he knew. It didn’t seem agitated, so it wasn’t a warning sound. But then, it suddenly launched off the sink, and came to a stop about an inch from Portugal’s nose.
He took an involuntary step back in alarm, momentarily staring cross-eyed at it; what had England said? Don’t touch it because they had a tendency to bite? If that was the case then Portugal wasn’t going to take any chances, lest he ended up with a nasty mark on the tip of his nose before the world meeting. He batted it away from him with a small wave of his hand. “I’m going to have a shower,” he announced pointedly, as the little bug swerved out of the way. “Clear my head... I expect you’ll find something else to do by then.” He turned his back on it and shook himself, because what on earth was he doing, having a conversation with an insect? Albeit one that made strange noises and seemed to have a fascination for him in particular... but it was just an insect in the end and the last thing he wanted was to make people think he was going mad.
He set his jacket aside and started to pull off his shirt, glancing back over his shoulder before leaning into the shower to turn on the water. He waited for the water to steam up, before dropping his jeans and stepping under the spray. He turned his face up into the water, warmed by the heat and feeling any tension that had gathered in his shoulders since his arrival slowly melting away. He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and peered through the foggy glass. The telltale light seemed to have vanished. Maybe it had finally decided he wasn’t worth its time and had gone to invade England’s wardrobe instead.
But the sound of bells hadn’t vanished. Now, it seemed to be coming from above him...
Portugal looked up, shampoo suds running down his curls. The frowned turned into a scowl. “You’ve got to be joking...” he muttered, and stared at the little bug, which was now perched above his direct line of sight on the shower head. It was making that tinkling sound again, though the noise was drowned out the moment he ducked under the water again. He was tempted to stay there too, with nothing but the dull roar of warm water in his ears, but he knew he couldn’t do it forever, and no doubt England would have given him a funny look had he come home and found Portugal had not moved from the same spot since he left him. “I don’t know what you want,” he said aloud, rinsing his hair and flicking it back out of his eyes, “but I think it’s safe to say you’re not the average household pest. So I’m going to be blunt.” He shut the water off and looked at it shrewdly. “Who sent you?”
Amongst the nations, it wasn’t uncommon to have pets; various animals seemed drawn to certain countries in particular, or had been trained over the generations for various tasks. His brother had that bull of his; whereas France and Prussia seemed to prefer birds. Some nations even had dogs; Portugal had one himself. But this was the first he had ever heard of someone using insects to relay messages...
The little bells tinkled again, and the little light flew over the top of the shower to bounce about excitedly on the other side. It span back and forth through the room, seeming to want Portugal to follow it. The jingling bells were getting higher pitched, more urgent and energetic than before.
He stepped out of the shower, steam rising. He grabbed a towel off the rack and wiped his face with it. “Now what?” he wondered, drying himself off. Water dripped across the tiles where he sidestepped the little not-firefly, and hurried back out into the bedroom. The wind that blew in from the slightly open window was awful enough to leave goose bumps on his skin, so Portugal walked over and snapped it shut. He wandered back to his half-unpacked bags and dug around for something to wear. Nothing too formal just yet, because England had yet to return and he had forgotten to ask if this restaurant had a dress code as well. As he started to get dressed he only hoped that England would forgive him for tracking wet footprints all across his bedroom floor.
“What do you want?”
The little light flew around him in circles, chattering at him in that little bell-like voice. It waited until he had a few more clothes on before landing on his hand, little hands (legs?) pulling at his finger. It was surprisingly strong for a little thing, tugging his hand towards the door.
Definitely radioactive, Portugal thought somewhere in the back of his mind, even though he still didn’t quite believe it. It tingled where the light touched his finger, and he took a moment to grasp at his crucifix with his other hand, taking a deep breath, before slowly rising to his feet. He hadn’t even had the time to find another pair of shoes, and his hair was starting to curl from the damp. He grabbed his jacket. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, and let himself be dragged, although he was doing most of the walking under his own power. He had to admit that he was curious to find out what this was all about; it was a natural habit of his.
“Does Inglaterra know why you’re here?” He wasn’t really expecting an answer. For all he knew, the little creature was just responding in kind to the vibrations in his voice.
The little bug only pulled on his hand harder, towards the door. It might have replied something in its little tinkling voice, but it wasn’t very clear over the wind outside, which was quickly picking up to a howl as it rushed through the bare trees outside. Tiny snowflakes were blown along with it; the first snowfall of the year was coming.
Curious or not, it was miserable outside, and Portugal dug his heels in at the door, hanging on to the frame. “I’m not going out in that,” he said firmly, and took another step backwards towards the bedroom. “It’s freezing out.” His damp hair was already whipping around his face, blown back by the wind, catching cold against his cheeks. He shuddered and flicked his hand, trying to dislodge his guide from his fingertips. He should have shut the windows properly. “Whatever it is you’re after, you can wait until the weather clears up, surely.”
The little bug gave an irritable squeaking sound, but then hid behind Portugal’s hand to shelter from the wind. Its little body shook, but it still tugged at his hand feebly. It wanted to go out, desperately, but whenever it flew up, the wind would send it back into hiding. Did it want Portugal’s help to brave the weather and return to its master?
“It can’t be that urgent,” Portugal continued, and turned back towards the window. It was old, and he had to jiggle it a bit before it shut firmly enough that the wind died down, although the glass still rattled as though it would blow open again at any minute. “There’s no one else around here for miles. At least no one that I know...” He retrieved his coat from the couch, slipping it on as he came out. “But you’re welcome to leave if you want. I’ll open the front door for you, at least.” He wrapped his coat tighter around him and wandered back out into the hall.
The light stayed in his hand, a little warm flicker, like holding a still-warm coal. It wriggled in his hand a little, but showed no signs of biting or stinging him as England had said it might. In fact, one could mistake the high-pitched humming sound it was making for a purr. But as they neared the door, it paused, becoming more alert. The door opened, and it floated up off Portugal’s hand, the jingling of bells returning louder than before. From between the snowflakes, three more lights appeared, spinning around the first one and jangling louder than a set of keys. It was quite a pleasant sound, but still odd to see little orange, yellow and red lights flying in acrobatic ways around each other. It was hard to look away from the shapes and patterns they achieved, diving and twirling through the air.
“Oh,” the nation said vaguely, his eyebrows going up in some surprise, “I wasn’t expecting... I didn’t think you’d brought friends.” He stepped out beyond the landing and shut the door behind him so the beginnings of snow would not blow into England’s house. “Well then, I trust you’ll find your way back with no trouble.” He slipped his hands deep into his pockets, trying to retain some semblance of warmth. All the same he had to admit that for insects or...whatever they were, the little creatures were fascinating to watch in all their flair and colours, especially on such a dreary day.
The lights spun faster and brighter, sometimes seeming to merge into a ring or a figure eight, trails of light left glowing in the air in their wake. Their chattering became in sync, melodious, more like they were singing than talking. The world seemed grey and dull in comparison to the beautiful light show going on in the door way, dancing further and further out of reach, protecting each other from the cold.
‘Come...!’ whispered something that was not the wind.
A part of Portugal was tempted to just sit down, right there at the front door, to watch them. It was beautiful, magnificent even. If only England had stayed long enough to see it! It must be a full moon tonight, he thought idly, even though he did not look up to check because the clouds obscured the view regardless. One read all sorts of things about the phases of the moon causing animals to act in strange, often unheard of ways. He was more than certain by this stage that this would definitely qualify as such. He subconsciously took a step forward, the stone icy cold beneath his bare feet. “What some people wouldn’t give to see this,” he said quietly, almost to himself, as though raising his voice any louder would cause the creatures to disperse and cease their beautiful dance.
They edged ever further out of reach, tempting him out of the house, around towards the trees. Their dances were complex, fascinating to follow and getting more intricate by the minute. They seemed in no rush, darting backwards and forwards and leading Portugal along, through the light snowfall that was just starting to settle, though no snowflake ever interrupted them, melting from the warmth they produced. They gave off heat equivalent to a small fireplace, comforting and homely.
Portugal hesitated; he glanced back at the front door. England hadn’t left him a key...but then again he probably hadn’t expected Portugal would leave the house at all. He pursed his lips and glanced back at the circling lights, which had already danced halfway across the road and were heading out into the green hills and trees beyond. He knew that whatever they were up to would plague him for the rest of the day if he didn’t at least get a look for himself. He drew his hand off the doorknob slowly; it wasn’t as if he was going very far anyway. Just across the road...he’d still be able to see the house from there. Besides, if nothing else, this was probably a once in a lifetime opportunity. He did not usually see such oddities around England’s house. His not-fireflies, sure... but that was nothing in comparison to his occasional blathering about ghosts, or unicorns or some such supernatural, pagan nonsense that Portugal had learned to take into stride; France had told him in the past that he personally just chalked it up to an eccentricity in the family, and to just leave it be.
He took a breath. He wasn’t going to be long; so with a quick glance back at the cottage he ventured out past the doorstep, walking quickly because the ground was wet and the cold was sharp like needles under his feet. He hurried across the road, glanced back one more time, and focused his attention on the light show he was being given the privilege of viewing.
The wind lessened as the cover of the trees broke its strength. Before long the little lights had lead him far enough from the house that he could only barely see the still-open door between the trees. The insects abruptly stopped moving away, settling into a ring and spinning around a spot on the ground. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a ring of mushrooms, though how they’d survived this far into winter was a little confusing. But still they were, lightly dusted with snow which quickly melted in the presence of the dancing lights.
‘Come! Further in!’ again the invisible voice sang, high and childlike and yet numerous.
Portugal looked around. There was no one there. He shook his head. “Hearing things....” he said derisively to himself and frowned, turning away. Then he paused, “Seeing things too apparently,” he added, because you could tell him anything was possible and he would at least take the idea into account, because his own experiences had taught him that it was far better to not judge the unknown. He crouched down on his knees in the frosty grass and stared openly. “It’s far too late in the year for mushrooms,” he remarked, and reached out with his hand to touch one. “Where did they...”
The single lights had begun spinning so fast they created a ring directly above the circle of mushrooms, looking much like a halo. Faster and faster they span, tinkling bells sounding more and more like voices, singing a song without words but somehow still with meaning.
Something like a gateway opened, fluctuating between shapes but always wide enough for a person to crawl through, to fall through. A sweet smell drifted out, a warm summer breeze.
Portugal reached out into the circle, ice dripping from his fingers. The air was rising here, rippling and hot and carrying the scent of wildflowers. A wintry gale blew over the top of his head, chilling the back of his neck and freezing his legs where he knelt on the damp ground. Eyebrows drawn together, he began to pat the curiously warm, dry earth with his hands, rubbing the soil between his fingertips. Perhaps there were pipes underground, a heating system running through the entire hillside like a generator. He wondered, and the ground beneath his palms thrummed, vibrating with a near constant hum that echoed in his ears.
The iron crucifix burned against his chest as he breathed in the air, lifted himself up slightly and put one foot in the ring. Portugal ignored the burn. It was dull, like metal left too long in the sun, but not long enough. He was too focused on the comforting scents of summer; the warmth. Something older inside him had risen up, just under the surface of his consciousness, ancient in memory and buried deep in the past like a miasma. Portugal pushed through that fog undaunted, coloured light catching on his skin and in his hair like a sun shower; too long had it been since he had last discovered the unknown, and he was not going to let this chance slip through his grasp. Not again. This in mind, he drew his other foot into the circle and crossed his legs under him.
Come, further in!
Then he closed his eyes and let himself fall back into the sun.
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[Previous - Next]
A/N:
candesceres Cande's tl;dr Intro:
Well I for one am absolutely thrilled that we've finally got around to writing this, even if it was spawned purely from random IM conversations. Since then I have put a lot of my free time into researching the faee, which is a lot harder than it sounds. Not to mention I've ended up reading Twilight-esque books to get a feel of the Courts... because orz, no one else has written fiction about them that I can skim through on my schedule.
The title was based on a line from Edmund Spenser's epic poem The Faerie Queen, which parallels a lot with this story in many different ways that we only just discovered today, but you'll see how awesome it is as we go along. It's like a self-fulfilling prophecy in so many ways, I'm not even kidding.
Anyway, I feel that it should probably be noted that Portugal, for all that he thinks the fae are nonsense and based on old pagan beliefs these days, at some point during his early childhood he was actually raised Celtic, like much of the British Isles. So you know, he has all the recognition they do, just...buried a lot deeper. Far deeper, under years of Roman and Islamic rule and Catholic faith orz. Which is why I imagine that he and Spain see faeries as little firefly-like lights. Of course this is mostly around England, because he seems to radiate that sort of power like a beacon; even FRANCE has seen his little "imaginary friends" around and about. Sadly, curiosity is a big trait amongst the Iberian bros, because how else would they have made the discoveries? Although... in this case it turned out for the worse, because following the pretty lights got him kidnapped orz.
As always, for those out of the know, England and Portugal are about as old as a married couple can get amongst their kind. Admittedly things got bumpy during the 20th century and they're not as close as they used to be...but you know, 700+ years of love don't just disappear into thin air. They're working things out as best they can. |D
Edit: BECAUSE I ALWAYS FORGET. Okay, so this is Portugal. The name I have for him so far is "Afonso Gabriel Fernandes de Alcântara Henriques dos Anjos".
A mouthful isn't it? Which is always changing mind you because I'm always picky about him and his various names. TL;DR, he has only had the name "Afonso" since becoming an independent kingdom in the 1100s; it is the name of his first king. Prior to that he was known as "Jibril" during his days as a part of Islamic Al-Andalus, so it's only been his name for about 700 years. So really, anyone who has known him since before the 1100/1200s knows him better as "Gabriel", which is the Judeo-Christian version of Jibril.
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hellzabeth Pidge’s Notes:
- First things first; in English faerie myth, there are two courts, the Winter and the Summer courts. They derive their power from the seasons they’re named for, and in the old days were blamed for the changing of seasons. The two Courts are always at war, with each side gaining the upper hand and briefly ruling during their season. In theory, the two courts are in perfect balance, swinging back and forth forever between victory and defeat. In theory.
- The two Queens; Of the Summer Court, you have Titania, a character you will all have heard about if you have seen Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. She is often described to be beautiful and very *ahem* fertile, with flowing reddish-brown hair and clothes made of flowers and spiders webs. Inversely, we also have the less heard of Queen Mab of the Winter Court. In stories, Mab’s hair is either midnight black or snow white, and her skin is always pale. Her favourite colour is red and she will be sure to wear it whenever she can. A much more stiff, prim and proper Queen than Titania, she will host grand winter balls at her palace and is said to be the most beautiful dancer in the whole kingdom.
- About faeries; it’s easy to label fae or fair folk as evil, but they have no such inclination. It’s less that they’re evil and more that they have a very twisted and odd sense of logic that doesn’t seem to make any sense to us humans. If you went into it, you would see how they arrived at the conclusion they did, but it would still be a pretty weird thought process. So rather than black and white morality, it’s more like... orange and blue morality.
- “Come further in”; this is traditionally what faeries would chant to entrance people closer and kidnap them. It means, more specifically, to come deeper into the faerie realms, deeper into the magic, because the deeper you go the harder it is to get out. Which they don’t want you to do.
- Changelings; in a war, there are going to be losses. That’s why they frequently stole children, leaving behind a faerie child in it’s place, in order to build up their armies faster, as human children grow to adults much faster than faeries. Faerie children are notoriously disobedient and unruly, but the parent won’t be able to tell the difference by sight. And that, my friends, is a changeling.
- The faerie ring; sometimes mushrooms will naturally form a ring on the ground. These rings are actually all one organism underground, but are often believed to be caused by faeries dancing to open a gateway to the faerie realm. Stepping into one of these is like standing with a neon sign over your head saying “kidnap me!”
Characters/Pairings: England/Portugal(OC), various Summer Court faeries (in this part)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Established relationship dere? Haha, really, there's nothing so far.
Summary: When a faerie wants something, they steal it. When a faerie Queen wants something, they will go out of their way to keep it. Kidnapping a nation however, was easier said than done, because England was not going to give Portugal up without a fight.
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"For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought."
- Edmund Spenser [The Faerie Queene]
England shuffled from foot to foot as he waited at the airport. It was crowded, so he had to stand by the outside doors, watching the gate for whenever the person he was waiting for would walk out. He hoped it would be soon; his fingers were frozen already and he couldn’t seem to warm them up. Then again, it was mid-December and he’d had to scrape frost off his car this morning with his credit card because he couldn’t find the scraper (apparently Scotland had borrowed and then lost it again), so there wasn’t much to be done.
Finally the first few weary travellers walked out on to British soil, lugging heavy suitcases with them. Brown hair and olive skin came into view, and England raised his voice.
“Gab! Gabriel, over here!”
Portugal had been keeping his head down, wrapped up in a thick coat, because despite the fact that the heating was on, he knew he would only have to take one step outside before his nose or ears would feel like they would freeze over. Funny how there were things worthy enough to brave the ghastly British weather for, really.
He raised his eyes at the sound of his name, scanning the vast crowds for the familiar face that had accompanied the equally familiar voice, a vague smile on his lips that only grew in warmth and intensity when his gaze settled on England. He raised his hand and began weaving his way through the throng. England stepped forward to meet him, glad to get away from the doors and the draft.
“Was the flight okay?” England greeted, with a welcoming smile. “I hope the clouds didn’t give you too much turbulence.”
“I still stand by my previous preferences,” Portugal quipped, setting his bag down carefully so that it did not tip over, “I would rather steer a ship through a storm than have to go through that again.” Truly, he had nothing against planes, but he was happiest on solid ground. He straightened his coat and the smile became a grin, crooking a little more at one corner in a display of gentle amusement. “More importantly, do I get my kiss now?”
“I, er- I..!”
Of course, rather than waiting for a reply, or any sort of spluttering that would no doubt turn heads in their direction, he wrapped his arms around England’s shoulders briefly and kissed him on both cheeks. His smile broadened. “It is good to see you looking so well, meu amor.”
England flushed red, glancing away and around at the crowd. “Good to see you too, Port.” he mumbled, embarrassed and flustered. Silently, he took the other nation’s hand as well as the handle of his luggage from him, and pulled him towards the doors. “Come on, the parking is charged by the hour and it’s expensive...”
“Your hand is like ice!” Portugal exclaimed softly, clucking his tongue in disapproval. He squeezed England’s fingers, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles as though that would spread some warmth back into them. “I told you, you didn’t have to come all this way. I could have hailed a taxi. It would have been far more convenient for everyone.”
“It’s fine, really. And I don’t really trust taxis since the recent rise in fakes around airports and all that rot.” he grumbled, muffled by his scarf as the cold air bit at his cheeks. Portugal’s hand was warm in his, but everything about Portugal was warm. Warm smiles, warm hands, warm weather. “... not that I don’t think you’d notice the difference but... Just in case.” The ramp up to the car park was slightly slick with ice. It would snow soon, said the forecast, but since when did anyone trust that these days. He was so often irritated with the unpredictability of his weather that it had swung right back round to a sort of twisted pride.
No matter how often Portugal visited over the years, the bite of the winter cold here never failed to bring a slight jolt to his system. He shivered and hunched down further into his coat, upturning the collar with his free hand and sliding his fingers free of England’s so that he could hook his arm through his. At least like this they were shoulder to shoulder and while England wasn’t known for his warmth, at the very least he acted as a buffer against the wind. Portugal cradled his arm close and tilted his head.
“Thank you,” he said honestly, though a moment later he was grinning again. “It would really put a dampener on this trip if I had to phone you from a side street because a rogue taxi driver had made off with my luggage and mugged me in a back alley.” He started to laugh at the fate he had conjured for himself, but stopped halfway with a small exclamation of surprise as his leg slid out from under him. He stumbled and sidestepped into England, his arm tight through his to keep himself upright. He always forgot his footing on days like this. More likely than not because he didn’t really have days like this back home.
At the very least, he hadn’t fallen into a oily puddle of water this time around, so he considered it a vast improvement.
“Careful!” England pulled Portugal past the black ice and onto firmer ground. “I’m beginning to wonder if it would have been the taxi or the ice that got to you first.” It’s half a joke, and the twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement, but he did so find it funny when Portugal showed his complete ineptitude around ice. They reached the car without any broken limbs, however, and England loaded the suitcase into the back, getting in as fast as possible so he didn’t have to stand in the wind much longer.
The engine shuddered to life after a few false starts because of the cold, and he started driving out. He turned on the heating system to full blast, but carefully avoided fogging up the windows.
“It’s just us two today, but Wales will be back from Cardiff tomorrow,” the blonde explained.
Portugal sagged a little in his seat, more than grateful to be out of the cold and to be lacking the broken nose he was more than certain he would have got had he taken another tumble over the wet road. He rubbed his hands together in front of the heating before tucking them back in his pockets, raising an eyebrow in England’s direction.
“Well that’s convenient for our first night together isn’t it,” he said with some amusement, shrugging his shoulders and settling back to get more comfortable, “you must remind me to thank your brother when he gets in.”
Clearly Portugal had some kind of agenda to make him blush so much he’d faint from blood rush to the head. This was somewhat dangerous when one was driving. “Quite,” he said, only raising his eyebrows with a slight glance sideways at his lover. Could he be blamed if he smirked a little? “I’m sure he’d appreciate it. He’s been getting awfully shirty recently about how nobody appreciates him anymore. I think it might just be the seasons changing that has him cranky. Too much chaos.” Acknowledging his own hypocrisy was unfortunately not one of England’s habits.
“You do seem to have dramatic changes in the weather,” Portugal remarked, turning his head from where he had been tracing patterns through the condensation on the passenger window, creating loops and spirals and tiny hearts. He added a smiling face unconcernedly to his ‘canvas’ and glanced at England. “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to thank him profusely for letting me have you all to myself. I only hope the neighbours won't complain should things get, ah... out of hand," he added candidly, with his most winning smile.
“We’re going to the cottage this time. No neighbours to worry about.” England smirked slightly back at Portugal. The look lasted for a lingering moment before England had to turn his attention back to the road like the safe driver he was meant to be.
“Did you have any plans for tonight then?” Portugal asked, drawing the words out slowly through the comfortable silence that had settled between them.
“Beyond picking you up, I’m free all day.” Green eyes caught the traffic lights changing to amber and he slowed to a stop, waiting for the people to cross over. “So. How about we drop your stuff at the cottage and decide what we’re doing for the evening over a cuppa?” England could think of several things he’d very much like to do with Portugal this evening... Ah, the light was green. He drove on again.
“A cup of tea sounds lovely,” Portugal sighed wistfully, “Almost as much as a warm shower, and I really think I could go for both right about now.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes, tucking the wayward curls behind his ear. He leaned forward and rested his palm over England’s knee, “And since you’re so free we could go for a walk if the weather clears, or maybe have a nice, quiet dinner...” He patted his thigh in a brisk manner before deciding it was still too cold out and returned his hand to his pocket. Behind him, his condensation drawings began to melt, dripping rivulets of water down the inside of the window.
“It’ll probably rain or sleet later, so let’s go have dinner somewhere nice instead. There’s this one Indian restaurant I know, does it as well as India herself.” And god only knew how long he’d spent searching for such a place only to find it a few miles from his cottage house. The roads became less packed the further they drove from the airport, until there were only a few houses and villages to pass through, empty frosted fields taking over the view. They sky was patchy grey and white, and shone a dull light on everything, dimming colour into sleepy monotone. The bushes that usually protected England’s cottage and gave it privacy had long since fallen off in Autumn, leaving bare twigs surrounding the old house with its thatched roof and slightly overgrown grass. The gravel driveway crunched under the tires as he pulled up in front of the house. England spared the outside a reproachful look before resigning himself to the cold, and opened the door.
It was even colder in the country than by the airport, but the wind had died down a little at least.
Portugal gave him a look that clearly said he would be more than content to stay in the car if the only option was to step outside into the freezing winter air again. He did however, look curious at the mention of the restaurant. “A dinner date, Inglaterra?” he asked, lips curving upwards, “Really? I was going to suggest staying in, because I could have cooked, but I must have done something wonderful to deserve that.” He laughed good naturedly.
“I must admit you have my attention now. Surely a woman who cooks as well as India would have her restaurant fully booked for the night.” He cast one last longing look at the interior of the car before getting out and stretching his legs. He folded his arms tightly across his chest not a moment later to conserve what little heat he managed to retain from the car itself. He looked fondly upon the cottage all the same; a palace it was not, but it was quaint, quiet and there were only so many places where they could both be together and have time to themselves.
“You shouldn’t have to cook on your first day here, that just wouldn’t be right, Port.” England grunted as he pulled Portugal’s suitcase from the back of the car. “You’re a guest and I wouldn’t make you do that.” His cold fingers made it all the more difficult to find the right key on his keychain, but eventually he got it right and opened up the door to the blissfully warm house. “I’m rather well known at the restaurant so they often have a table for me anyway.” He smiled. They might also be catching on to his secret, but they didn’t seem in a rush to tell anyone so he didn’t mind.
“I don’t recall the last time you ever ‘made’ me cook for you,” Portugal said affectionately, “You know I would be more than happy to. It’s the least I could do seeing how you took the time out of your schedule to spend time with me before the big meeting, I...” There was a sudden, faint ringing in his ear. Portugal paused; he cupped his hand to the side of his head and twisted around to look behind him. The road was deserted; no bicycles or bells in sight. Huh. He shrugged it off. His ears were probably still feeling stuffy from the air pressure during the flight. With one last cursory glance behind him he followed England into the house, and the moment he did he spread his arms out to the warmth and sighed in contentment.
He smiled at England and rubbed his nose, which was already starting to turn pink and flush across his cheeks now that he had some warmth back in them. “If you can get reservations that easily, then I would be more than happy to go out to dinner with you,” he said readily and started to take off his coat. “I trust your judgement when it comes to India’s food. I only wish I could say that for everything else you eat.” He smirked.
England frowned and did not pout, but rather roughly dropped the suitcase in the hall to make a point, closing the door behind them and switching on a few lights as the hallway became dimmer. Again a little tinkle, and it seemed a faerie had got shut in. England blinked at it, but it didn’t seem to want to leave, so he didn’t open the door again for it. It would fly up the chimney if it really wanted to go out. Oddly it was glowing a warm reddish-brown, not something one would usually see this time of year. But if it had gotten lost, it was welcome to keep warm in his home for a bit. Poor thing was probably freezing as much as Port was.
Ah, speaking of which. “Shall I go put the kettle on then?” he offered, already half way to the kitchen. “I shan't torture you with anything I would eat though. Just a biscuit or two.” he added pointedly. It’s not that he was really insulted, it was just that self-deprecation was a thing of his.
“Please,” Portugal said earnestly, taking the time to straighten his suitcase and drag it further inside from where England had abandoned it in the doorway. “I promise there is nothing so bad about your biscuits, so you needn’t fret about that. I doubt they could beat what they serve you on flight.” He watched England disappear into the kitchen and crouched down by his bag, double checking the locks and zips before straightening and seeking out somewhere to sit down. He collapsed on the couch, to the faint sound of bells in his ear again. It was probably nothing; England might have kept wind chimes for all he knew.
Of course, that was before he took note of the tiny creature that landed on the coffee table across from him. Huh, Portugal thought again. It rested on the edge and did not fly away in alarm when he crossed his legs idly. “I didn’t realize you still had fireflies in winter,” he called out towards the kitchen, not taking his eyes off the little bug that seemed to have passed two seasons too many.
“What? I don’t have fireflies at all.” England called back from the kitchen. “They don’t survive in the cold and wet here.” He paused in his clattering with mugs. Portugal always saw faeries as little lights, which was more than England could ever hope for outside of his family and a select few others. Maybe because Portugal had hung about with him for long enough, but there was always that faint hope that England carried, that one day his lover would see the fae properly, with all eyes open.
For now, he resigned himself to “fireflies” instead. “Don’t poke it or anything. It might bite. Er. Sting.” It’s a lie, but it’s too early in the day for Portugal to be looking at him like he’d lost his mind.
“Well it had to have got into the house from somewhere,” Portugal replied absently, his eyes fixed on the little glowing bug as it flickered, hopping along the table and over the tip of his shoe. He flicked his foot out and it abandoned him as its perch long enough to hover before disappearing back out into the hall. Portugal watched it go with a bemused expression before he bent over to take off his shoes and put them aside. He curled his feet up under him. “Not that they’re known for their sting.” He paused thoughtfully. “Unless it was a radioactive moth, in which case there’ll be no salvaging the contents of your wardrobe after this.”
He smiled to himself. Really, and people said England’s sense of humour left something to be desired. Granted the way he said things sometimes, even Portugal, who had known him longer than most, had no way of telling whether he was joking or not.
“My wardrobe is functional and practical, if not fashionable.” England said stuffily, tapping the stirring spoon on the edge of the mug to get the tea off it. “It suits me just fine even if it’s a little outdated sometimes...” he didn’t bother to go shopping unless his clothes were actually getting holes that a little needle and thread couldn’t fix. Much to France’s bemused despair. And the longer France was in despair the longer England could be smug about putting him there. He opened the fridge to get the milk out...
“Ah.” he mumbled. It was pretty much empty. There was a tiny amount of milk left in one of the bottles but it wasn’t really milk any more. It was more like cheese by now. When was the last time he’d cooked for himself? I couldn’t have been more than a few weeks ago... “Port, we’re out of milk. I think I’d better run down to the shops before they shut and we’re buggered for the evening.” He closed the fridge door and stuck his head around the corner to actually look at the man on his couch. The faerie had left. Good. “You can take a shower or whatever you like while I’m gone. Get settled in, my house is your house and all that.”
Portugal turned his head. As far as he was concerned the lack of milk in the house wasn’t too much to be worried about considering they would be going out for dinner, but he knew how England would get without his cup of tea, so he just shook his head and smiled. “Well if you’re sure it can’t wait until tomorrow,” he said, and shifted on the couch so he was facing England. “Are you sure you’d rather not join me? See that I find everything alright? I recall the shower is big enough for two.” He winked and set his feet back down on the floor, stretching out. “But you’re probably right. Best to unpack now before your not-fireflies invade the drawers and make off with my socks. I’ll need to find something to wear to dinner as well.”
He propped his face in his hand and gave his lover a lazy smile. “Now, which room was mine again?”
England paused on his way to the door, hands going still where he was pulling on his coat. Slowly, a smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “Why, the same as mine, of course.” he said, nearly purred, raising his eyebrows slightly. Then, with a teasingly long look, he opened the front door, and casually stepped out of it like nothing had happened.
Portugal watched him for a moment, then got to his feet and padded out into the hall after him. He caught a brief flicker of light out of the corner of his eye, near the stairs, but rather than turn around to look he touched the edge of the door before England could close it properly and gave him a wry smile. “Don’t be too long,” he told him, and leaned out into the cold to give him a brief, but firm kiss on the lips. The smile became a grin. “I’ve wanted to do that since I got here.”
England blinked, and grinned back. Then, he quickly leaned in for a kiss of his own. “I’ll be quick, I promise. Don’t answer the door for strangers while I’m gone or anything.” he joked mildly, then tugged his coat on tighter as the wind picked up. “I’ll only be about 20 minutes!” he added as he went to the car, opened the door and got inside. The engine hummed to life, and with a little wave, he drove off down the path and onto the road.
“Bye,” Portugal murmured. He closed the door behind him as the car disappeared down the road and leaned against it. He sighed and went to go collect his luggage, dragging it to the foot of the staircase. He looked at his bags, back to the stairs, then at his bags again. Well, he thought, at least he only had to do it once. With this in mind, he positioned himself on the first step and started to slowly drag the luggage up one or two steps at a time. Every now and again the stairs would creak ominously under his feet, and for a wild moment he thought the entire stretch would splinter under his feet should he force his weight too much, so it was relieving when he made it to the landing in one piece. With the worst over, he trudged down the cold and empty hall, dragging his bags behind him and looking from door to door, trying to recall which one was England’s without having to resort to opening all of them.
The last door on the left was slightly ajar, so Portugal took the opportunity to peek inside. It was quite neat, double bed made up nicely and drawers all dusted and polished so the old wood shone. Several pictures sat on the tops of them, mainly of other nations at various gatherings, family, and one large, black and white photo containing the entirety of the old empire, lined up as though for a school photo, all very grim faced as pictures were then. The room was England’s, without a doubt. It had an adjoining en suite bathroom, and the top window in there was open just slightly, giving the room a mild draft.
Portugal had to smile, brushing his fingers over the old wood as he passed the set of drawers and sat down on the bed. He smoothed the creases in the sheets out with his palm, feeling somewhat obligated to do so despite the fact that they were bound to stay wrinkled regardless. He had never been as partial to neatness as England had, though he found it one of his more endearing traits. He set his luggage down at the foot of the bed and bent over it, unlocking the zips and opening the bags up so he could rummage through its contents. He started to place his folded shirts in a pile behind him, pausing halfway to glance at the photographs scattered across the various surfaces, picking one up at random and smiling over it. England always looked so serious in those pictures, from the way he set his jaw to the lines of his face, far more revealing than the paintings of the past ever did justice. He shook his head over it and allowed himself a small chuckle.
Quietly, a tinkle, like a bell sounded. At first its source was invisible, but then it came again, and again. It seemed to be coming from the bathroom. Odd, what a strange place to keep wind chimes. Maybe England had left his phone in there, and it was his ring tone?
He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, trying to determine the source from sound alone, but as before, he was entirely unable to tell what it was. Leaving the photograph face down on the bed, he reached into his bag and pushed himself off the bed. He might as well set his things up in the bathroom while he was investigating. Listening carefully, he moved, eyes darting left and right as though to catch a glimpse of that strange, if not persistent sound. He turned the bathroom doorknob slowly, pushing the door further open. After a moment’s hesitation, wondering what he might find, he flicked on the light.
Nothing. The bathroom was empty. No wind chimes, no phone going off, just a sink, a shower, a toilet and a cabinet full of toothbrushes and the like. The wind whistling through the half-open window was nothing like the sound of bells he heard earlier.
But while he was looking up at the window, a small light floated in, spinning in circles before settling on the side of the sink. The jingling sound returned with it.
It appeared that England’s not-fireflies hadn’t left after all. Portugal stared at it. Considering it looked pretty harmless and the most he would probably be able to do to it would be to crush it with various toiletries, he settled for putting them on the cabinet next to the sink, a careful distance away from the tiny bug. “I must be more tired than I thought,” he muttered, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He ran his hand over his face with a sigh, and looked down at the little not-firefly. “Either my ears are ringing or you’re some kind of cricket-firefly-insect hybrid.” He stopped. “...which I’m now talking to, great. Fantastic.” He rubbed at his eyes, frowning.
The tinkling wasn’t constant. If anything, it seemed to stop whenever he was talking, and then start in bursts. If it was indeed the little bug making the noise, it could have been trying to communicate for all he knew. It didn’t seem agitated, so it wasn’t a warning sound. But then, it suddenly launched off the sink, and came to a stop about an inch from Portugal’s nose.
He took an involuntary step back in alarm, momentarily staring cross-eyed at it; what had England said? Don’t touch it because they had a tendency to bite? If that was the case then Portugal wasn’t going to take any chances, lest he ended up with a nasty mark on the tip of his nose before the world meeting. He batted it away from him with a small wave of his hand. “I’m going to have a shower,” he announced pointedly, as the little bug swerved out of the way. “Clear my head... I expect you’ll find something else to do by then.” He turned his back on it and shook himself, because what on earth was he doing, having a conversation with an insect? Albeit one that made strange noises and seemed to have a fascination for him in particular... but it was just an insect in the end and the last thing he wanted was to make people think he was going mad.
He set his jacket aside and started to pull off his shirt, glancing back over his shoulder before leaning into the shower to turn on the water. He waited for the water to steam up, before dropping his jeans and stepping under the spray. He turned his face up into the water, warmed by the heat and feeling any tension that had gathered in his shoulders since his arrival slowly melting away. He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and peered through the foggy glass. The telltale light seemed to have vanished. Maybe it had finally decided he wasn’t worth its time and had gone to invade England’s wardrobe instead.
But the sound of bells hadn’t vanished. Now, it seemed to be coming from above him...
Portugal looked up, shampoo suds running down his curls. The frowned turned into a scowl. “You’ve got to be joking...” he muttered, and stared at the little bug, which was now perched above his direct line of sight on the shower head. It was making that tinkling sound again, though the noise was drowned out the moment he ducked under the water again. He was tempted to stay there too, with nothing but the dull roar of warm water in his ears, but he knew he couldn’t do it forever, and no doubt England would have given him a funny look had he come home and found Portugal had not moved from the same spot since he left him. “I don’t know what you want,” he said aloud, rinsing his hair and flicking it back out of his eyes, “but I think it’s safe to say you’re not the average household pest. So I’m going to be blunt.” He shut the water off and looked at it shrewdly. “Who sent you?”
Amongst the nations, it wasn’t uncommon to have pets; various animals seemed drawn to certain countries in particular, or had been trained over the generations for various tasks. His brother had that bull of his; whereas France and Prussia seemed to prefer birds. Some nations even had dogs; Portugal had one himself. But this was the first he had ever heard of someone using insects to relay messages...
The little bells tinkled again, and the little light flew over the top of the shower to bounce about excitedly on the other side. It span back and forth through the room, seeming to want Portugal to follow it. The jingling bells were getting higher pitched, more urgent and energetic than before.
He stepped out of the shower, steam rising. He grabbed a towel off the rack and wiped his face with it. “Now what?” he wondered, drying himself off. Water dripped across the tiles where he sidestepped the little not-firefly, and hurried back out into the bedroom. The wind that blew in from the slightly open window was awful enough to leave goose bumps on his skin, so Portugal walked over and snapped it shut. He wandered back to his half-unpacked bags and dug around for something to wear. Nothing too formal just yet, because England had yet to return and he had forgotten to ask if this restaurant had a dress code as well. As he started to get dressed he only hoped that England would forgive him for tracking wet footprints all across his bedroom floor.
“What do you want?”
The little light flew around him in circles, chattering at him in that little bell-like voice. It waited until he had a few more clothes on before landing on his hand, little hands (legs?) pulling at his finger. It was surprisingly strong for a little thing, tugging his hand towards the door.
Definitely radioactive, Portugal thought somewhere in the back of his mind, even though he still didn’t quite believe it. It tingled where the light touched his finger, and he took a moment to grasp at his crucifix with his other hand, taking a deep breath, before slowly rising to his feet. He hadn’t even had the time to find another pair of shoes, and his hair was starting to curl from the damp. He grabbed his jacket. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, and let himself be dragged, although he was doing most of the walking under his own power. He had to admit that he was curious to find out what this was all about; it was a natural habit of his.
“Does Inglaterra know why you’re here?” He wasn’t really expecting an answer. For all he knew, the little creature was just responding in kind to the vibrations in his voice.
The little bug only pulled on his hand harder, towards the door. It might have replied something in its little tinkling voice, but it wasn’t very clear over the wind outside, which was quickly picking up to a howl as it rushed through the bare trees outside. Tiny snowflakes were blown along with it; the first snowfall of the year was coming.
Curious or not, it was miserable outside, and Portugal dug his heels in at the door, hanging on to the frame. “I’m not going out in that,” he said firmly, and took another step backwards towards the bedroom. “It’s freezing out.” His damp hair was already whipping around his face, blown back by the wind, catching cold against his cheeks. He shuddered and flicked his hand, trying to dislodge his guide from his fingertips. He should have shut the windows properly. “Whatever it is you’re after, you can wait until the weather clears up, surely.”
The little bug gave an irritable squeaking sound, but then hid behind Portugal’s hand to shelter from the wind. Its little body shook, but it still tugged at his hand feebly. It wanted to go out, desperately, but whenever it flew up, the wind would send it back into hiding. Did it want Portugal’s help to brave the weather and return to its master?
“It can’t be that urgent,” Portugal continued, and turned back towards the window. It was old, and he had to jiggle it a bit before it shut firmly enough that the wind died down, although the glass still rattled as though it would blow open again at any minute. “There’s no one else around here for miles. At least no one that I know...” He retrieved his coat from the couch, slipping it on as he came out. “But you’re welcome to leave if you want. I’ll open the front door for you, at least.” He wrapped his coat tighter around him and wandered back out into the hall.
The light stayed in his hand, a little warm flicker, like holding a still-warm coal. It wriggled in his hand a little, but showed no signs of biting or stinging him as England had said it might. In fact, one could mistake the high-pitched humming sound it was making for a purr. But as they neared the door, it paused, becoming more alert. The door opened, and it floated up off Portugal’s hand, the jingling of bells returning louder than before. From between the snowflakes, three more lights appeared, spinning around the first one and jangling louder than a set of keys. It was quite a pleasant sound, but still odd to see little orange, yellow and red lights flying in acrobatic ways around each other. It was hard to look away from the shapes and patterns they achieved, diving and twirling through the air.
“Oh,” the nation said vaguely, his eyebrows going up in some surprise, “I wasn’t expecting... I didn’t think you’d brought friends.” He stepped out beyond the landing and shut the door behind him so the beginnings of snow would not blow into England’s house. “Well then, I trust you’ll find your way back with no trouble.” He slipped his hands deep into his pockets, trying to retain some semblance of warmth. All the same he had to admit that for insects or...whatever they were, the little creatures were fascinating to watch in all their flair and colours, especially on such a dreary day.
The lights spun faster and brighter, sometimes seeming to merge into a ring or a figure eight, trails of light left glowing in the air in their wake. Their chattering became in sync, melodious, more like they were singing than talking. The world seemed grey and dull in comparison to the beautiful light show going on in the door way, dancing further and further out of reach, protecting each other from the cold.
‘Come...!’ whispered something that was not the wind.
A part of Portugal was tempted to just sit down, right there at the front door, to watch them. It was beautiful, magnificent even. If only England had stayed long enough to see it! It must be a full moon tonight, he thought idly, even though he did not look up to check because the clouds obscured the view regardless. One read all sorts of things about the phases of the moon causing animals to act in strange, often unheard of ways. He was more than certain by this stage that this would definitely qualify as such. He subconsciously took a step forward, the stone icy cold beneath his bare feet. “What some people wouldn’t give to see this,” he said quietly, almost to himself, as though raising his voice any louder would cause the creatures to disperse and cease their beautiful dance.
They edged ever further out of reach, tempting him out of the house, around towards the trees. Their dances were complex, fascinating to follow and getting more intricate by the minute. They seemed in no rush, darting backwards and forwards and leading Portugal along, through the light snowfall that was just starting to settle, though no snowflake ever interrupted them, melting from the warmth they produced. They gave off heat equivalent to a small fireplace, comforting and homely.
Portugal hesitated; he glanced back at the front door. England hadn’t left him a key...but then again he probably hadn’t expected Portugal would leave the house at all. He pursed his lips and glanced back at the circling lights, which had already danced halfway across the road and were heading out into the green hills and trees beyond. He knew that whatever they were up to would plague him for the rest of the day if he didn’t at least get a look for himself. He drew his hand off the doorknob slowly; it wasn’t as if he was going very far anyway. Just across the road...he’d still be able to see the house from there. Besides, if nothing else, this was probably a once in a lifetime opportunity. He did not usually see such oddities around England’s house. His not-fireflies, sure... but that was nothing in comparison to his occasional blathering about ghosts, or unicorns or some such supernatural, pagan nonsense that Portugal had learned to take into stride; France had told him in the past that he personally just chalked it up to an eccentricity in the family, and to just leave it be.
He took a breath. He wasn’t going to be long; so with a quick glance back at the cottage he ventured out past the doorstep, walking quickly because the ground was wet and the cold was sharp like needles under his feet. He hurried across the road, glanced back one more time, and focused his attention on the light show he was being given the privilege of viewing.
The wind lessened as the cover of the trees broke its strength. Before long the little lights had lead him far enough from the house that he could only barely see the still-open door between the trees. The insects abruptly stopped moving away, settling into a ring and spinning around a spot on the ground. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a ring of mushrooms, though how they’d survived this far into winter was a little confusing. But still they were, lightly dusted with snow which quickly melted in the presence of the dancing lights.
‘Come! Further in!’ again the invisible voice sang, high and childlike and yet numerous.
Portugal looked around. There was no one there. He shook his head. “Hearing things....” he said derisively to himself and frowned, turning away. Then he paused, “Seeing things too apparently,” he added, because you could tell him anything was possible and he would at least take the idea into account, because his own experiences had taught him that it was far better to not judge the unknown. He crouched down on his knees in the frosty grass and stared openly. “It’s far too late in the year for mushrooms,” he remarked, and reached out with his hand to touch one. “Where did they...”
The single lights had begun spinning so fast they created a ring directly above the circle of mushrooms, looking much like a halo. Faster and faster they span, tinkling bells sounding more and more like voices, singing a song without words but somehow still with meaning.
Something like a gateway opened, fluctuating between shapes but always wide enough for a person to crawl through, to fall through. A sweet smell drifted out, a warm summer breeze.
Portugal reached out into the circle, ice dripping from his fingers. The air was rising here, rippling and hot and carrying the scent of wildflowers. A wintry gale blew over the top of his head, chilling the back of his neck and freezing his legs where he knelt on the damp ground. Eyebrows drawn together, he began to pat the curiously warm, dry earth with his hands, rubbing the soil between his fingertips. Perhaps there were pipes underground, a heating system running through the entire hillside like a generator. He wondered, and the ground beneath his palms thrummed, vibrating with a near constant hum that echoed in his ears.
The iron crucifix burned against his chest as he breathed in the air, lifted himself up slightly and put one foot in the ring. Portugal ignored the burn. It was dull, like metal left too long in the sun, but not long enough. He was too focused on the comforting scents of summer; the warmth. Something older inside him had risen up, just under the surface of his consciousness, ancient in memory and buried deep in the past like a miasma. Portugal pushed through that fog undaunted, coloured light catching on his skin and in his hair like a sun shower; too long had it been since he had last discovered the unknown, and he was not going to let this chance slip through his grasp. Not again. This in mind, he drew his other foot into the circle and crossed his legs under him.
Come, further in!
Then he closed his eyes and let himself fall back into the sun.
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A/N:
candesceres Cande's tl;dr Intro:
Well I for one am absolutely thrilled that we've finally got around to writing this, even if it was spawned purely from random IM conversations. Since then I have put a lot of my free time into researching the faee, which is a lot harder than it sounds. Not to mention I've ended up reading Twilight-esque books to get a feel of the Courts... because orz, no one else has written fiction about them that I can skim through on my schedule.
The title was based on a line from Edmund Spenser's epic poem The Faerie Queen, which parallels a lot with this story in many different ways that we only just discovered today, but you'll see how awesome it is as we go along. It's like a self-fulfilling prophecy in so many ways, I'm not even kidding.
Anyway, I feel that it should probably be noted that Portugal, for all that he thinks the fae are nonsense and based on old pagan beliefs these days, at some point during his early childhood he was actually raised Celtic, like much of the British Isles. So you know, he has all the recognition they do, just...buried a lot deeper. Far deeper, under years of Roman and Islamic rule and Catholic faith orz. Which is why I imagine that he and Spain see faeries as little firefly-like lights. Of course this is mostly around England, because he seems to radiate that sort of power like a beacon; even FRANCE has seen his little "imaginary friends" around and about. Sadly, curiosity is a big trait amongst the Iberian bros, because how else would they have made the discoveries? Although... in this case it turned out for the worse, because following the pretty lights got him kidnapped orz.
As always, for those out of the know, England and Portugal are about as old as a married couple can get amongst their kind. Admittedly things got bumpy during the 20th century and they're not as close as they used to be...but you know, 700+ years of love don't just disappear into thin air. They're working things out as best they can. |D
Edit: BECAUSE I ALWAYS FORGET. Okay, so this is Portugal. The name I have for him so far is "Afonso Gabriel Fernandes de Alcântara Henriques dos Anjos".
A mouthful isn't it? Which is always changing mind you because I'm always picky about him and his various names. TL;DR, he has only had the name "Afonso" since becoming an independent kingdom in the 1100s; it is the name of his first king. Prior to that he was known as "Jibril" during his days as a part of Islamic Al-Andalus, so it's only been his name for about 700 years. So really, anyone who has known him since before the 1100/1200s knows him better as "Gabriel", which is the Judeo-Christian version of Jibril.
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hellzabeth Pidge’s Notes:
- First things first; in English faerie myth, there are two courts, the Winter and the Summer courts. They derive their power from the seasons they’re named for, and in the old days were blamed for the changing of seasons. The two Courts are always at war, with each side gaining the upper hand and briefly ruling during their season. In theory, the two courts are in perfect balance, swinging back and forth forever between victory and defeat. In theory.
- The two Queens; Of the Summer Court, you have Titania, a character you will all have heard about if you have seen Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. She is often described to be beautiful and very *ahem* fertile, with flowing reddish-brown hair and clothes made of flowers and spiders webs. Inversely, we also have the less heard of Queen Mab of the Winter Court. In stories, Mab’s hair is either midnight black or snow white, and her skin is always pale. Her favourite colour is red and she will be sure to wear it whenever she can. A much more stiff, prim and proper Queen than Titania, she will host grand winter balls at her palace and is said to be the most beautiful dancer in the whole kingdom.
- About faeries; it’s easy to label fae or fair folk as evil, but they have no such inclination. It’s less that they’re evil and more that they have a very twisted and odd sense of logic that doesn’t seem to make any sense to us humans. If you went into it, you would see how they arrived at the conclusion they did, but it would still be a pretty weird thought process. So rather than black and white morality, it’s more like... orange and blue morality.
- “Come further in”; this is traditionally what faeries would chant to entrance people closer and kidnap them. It means, more specifically, to come deeper into the faerie realms, deeper into the magic, because the deeper you go the harder it is to get out. Which they don’t want you to do.
- Changelings; in a war, there are going to be losses. That’s why they frequently stole children, leaving behind a faerie child in it’s place, in order to build up their armies faster, as human children grow to adults much faster than faeries. Faerie children are notoriously disobedient and unruly, but the parent won’t be able to tell the difference by sight. And that, my friends, is a changeling.
- The faerie ring; sometimes mushrooms will naturally form a ring on the ground. These rings are actually all one organism underground, but are often believed to be caused by faeries dancing to open a gateway to the faerie realm. Stepping into one of these is like standing with a neon sign over your head saying “kidnap me!”