APH: For There Is Nothing Lost [2/?]
Title: For There Is Nothing Lost
Characters/Pairings: England/Portugal(OC), Wales (OC), various Summer/Winter Court fae, Queen Titania and Queen Mab (in this part)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mild language
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 really hated driving in snow. Sure, it wasn’t thick, but he wanted to get places fast. That was the whole point of inventing the car. And at the rate he was going, he wasn’t going to get home before New Years.
He glared grumpily at the slow-moving lorry in front of him. Whose bright idea was it to have sat-nav direct massive trucks like this down little country roads where they could barely turn the corner? And even before the bloody snow and the bloody truck had delayed him, the shop he usually went to was shut because the owner had come down with something awful, so he’d had to drive to the other bloody town over just to get a bit of milk. While he was there, at least, he’d bought a few other essentials.
Just as he was wondering if he should turn back and get some aspirin for a headache, his driveway came into view. “Finally,” he muttered, turning rather viciously into the gravel path, welcome resistance in the stones compared to the icy road. It wasn’t until he pulled up next to the garage door that he noticed something.
The front door was wide open.
The previously present frown on his face doubled in intensity. He’d left Port in the house, so he probably didn’t have to worry about thieves, but his lover surely knew how to shut the door. Maybe he’d only half shut it, and the wind blew it open? Warily, he got out of the car, leaving the shopping inside for a little while. The milk wouldn’t spoil when it was this cold.
“Port?” He called as he stuck his head inside. He closed the door behind him for a moment. “Hello? You in?” Nothing. The wind howling outside and down the chimneys was his only answer. This was concerning. “Portugal!” he yelled louder, wondering if the other nation was in the shower and couldn’t hear him...
Maybe he’d slipped in the shower and knocked himself out...?
England shook that thought from his head. What kind of paranoid nonsense was that? Portugal was too sensible for such things.
... just in case. Just in case, he went upstairs, and straight to his bedroom. Well, it seemed that Portugal had been half-way done unpacking, wherever he went. Looking into the bathroom, the mirrors were still steamed up and the shower still wet. How odd. It was like Portugal had just disappeared from the spot. Like he’d...
Like...
For the first time since coming home, England opened his eyes. Really opened them, in a way few can. He pulled open every sense to the fullest and concentrated. He looked for the world beyond the world, the light beyond light, and what he saw made him curse loudly and colourfully.
There was magic everywhere.
The tang on his tongue was not like any of his sibling’s magicks. Nor was it Norway’s, or anyone else he could think of that had the ability. It came from somewhere further, wilder and different than this.
It was warm.
Oh that goddamn faerie. He had wondered why a summer court fae had been wandering around in the middle of winter. He should have known they were up to something! They were always up to something!
“Bugger,” he snarled to himself, turning on his heel and stalking towards the front door, following the trail of fresh magic, out through the front garden, completely bypassing the car, into the woods. His shoes crunched on brittle twigs and thin snowfall, his teeth grit against the chill wind. He came upon the faerie ring and wrinkled his nose. The warm air around the place had melted a ring in the snow.
And Portugal was nowhere to be found.
“Fuck,” the blonde growled. “Fuck, this is bad.” He looked around for any sign of faerie life, but nothing moved in the forest except for him. “Oi! Come out here, I know you can hear me! I’m not best pleased with you!”
A disembodied giggle was the reply.
“Listen you lot, you’ve had your laugh, very funny. Give him back.” England demanded. The giggles only intensified.
‘We don’t want to! You were losing interest anyway!’ they said, singular and plural. ‘He’s ours now.’
“He bloody well is not!”
Their giggles echoed into silence once more. Goddamn it. If they were going to be stubborn like this, he wouldn’t be able to get into the faerie realm. They had to open the door, and they weren’t nearly so careless as to just leave one open somewhere these days.
Grinding his teeth, England turned on his heel and stomped back towards the house, fists clenched and a determined frown. If they wouldn’t let him in, maybe judicious application of magicks of his own making would.
Portugal opened his eyes to a seemingly endless sky and long grass waving above his head. The earth was warm beneath his back and the sun beat down with an intensity he rarely encountered at England’s house, if he was lucky to encounter it at all. He felt unusually lightheaded as he sat up, dusting grass seeds from his person, and all around him flowers poked out in patches from the vast sea of greenery, rippling like great colourful waves every time the wind blew. That too was warm, and when he looked down at his hands and feet he saw that they were dry, to the point that the muddy earth was already flaking off his fingers and soles if he wiggled them even slightly.
A dream, he thought, in the subconscious way that people could sometimes detect when something was off, despite being caught up in the dreamworld themselves. Unconcerned, he lay back down and closed his eyes. He must have fallen asleep on the bed back at the cottage, somewhere between seeing England off and dragging his luggage upstairs. It wasn’t all that surprising; he had been rather tired from the flight.
His mind’s eye had no doubt been playing tricks on him; conjuring up such nonsense as magical fireflies with cricket-like properties that made sounds like hundreds of tiny, jangling bells and were intelligent enough to understand human speech. Ridiculous, really... and at the same time, mildly disappointing. He had been so sure about his encounter with the unknown, but alas, it seemed that dwelling on the past would do that to you. An idle mind was a dangerous thing.
Portugal covered his eyes with his forearm to block out the glare of the sun. He sighed. It was comfortable here; soothing. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge in this dream a little longer, he thought lazily. England would rouse him from his nap should the need arise.
Something rustled in the grass next to his ear. Someone hushed another. The rustling moved, around behind him and over to the other side. Giggles, like a small child’s, were heard.
“He’s awake?”
“Shhhh!”
Portugal kept perfectly still, unmoving from his spot. His breathing was even. Maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought. He didn’t often dream of his colonies these days, but every now and again he would find himself “waking” to a small African girl with beads in her thick, braided hair, or a native boy with feathers around his head and warpaint across his chubby cheeks. Sometimes they would grin at him, and sometimes they would bleed, but either way their presence always left a thick knot in Portugal’s stomach. And seeing how he was enjoying the sunshine, he didn’t want to have to look up and see that potentially ruining image. So he kept his eyes closed and let the “children” circle him, paying no mind to their chatter and laughter.
The rustling stopped above his head, and suddenly the light was blocked by something. The child was leaning over Portugal’s head, trying to get a good look at his face. Someone else giggled by his feet, and then started tickling his bare feet.
He sat bolt upright in surprise, drawing his knees up and closer to him. He rubbed a hand down his face and took a breath; his heart was beating alarmingly fast. He hadn’t been expecting that at all. The children in his dreams rarely touched him at all, and when they did... He shook his head, pushing those thoughts from his mind. He ran his fingers through his hair and frowned warily, looking around for his assailant.
The children who had darted back into the grass peered out experimentally, startlingly bright eyes and nearly-glowing tanned skin. They were slight, faces pointed despite their young age, but with round cheeks and bright smiles. Their hair, one child with dark and another with light brown, was threaded with flowers and vines, daisy chains around their necks.
And aside from these decorations they had barely a scrap of clothing on them.
Portugal stared at them openly. He did not think his eyebrows could have gone any higher even if he had tried. Well, he thought slowly, this was new. He had never seen these children in his life for one thing, and for that matter they seemed to have a penchant to want to run around completely, or very nearly, nude. He had seen some strange humans in the past; especially during the constant wars of the last century. It was hard to forget such things really; the ones who seemed to want to return to nature on some level or another, had a tendency to prance around in odd clothes or none at all, and smoked things far stronger than Portugal ever had. He pursed his lips together.
“Olá...?” he ventured, not quite sure how he should address them, or in what language. This was his dream after all.
“Olá?” The first child mimicked him, before giggling with its friend. “Talk again! Your language is fun!”
“Talk, talk!” the other child bounced on its toes - on reflection neither of them seemed to have an obvious gender, with the usual indicators still hidden in the waist-high grass.
“Hello.” English then. That was new too. Portugal cocked his head and regarded them shrewdly. “Er...” he began, and shook his head, cutting himself off. “Do I know you?” he asked instead, speaking slowly, trying to figure out where the dream would take him from there. He should have known he would have strange dreams in England’s house. Much of what happened there was the very definition of strange.
“Not yet.” said one of the children, smiling mischievously. “But we know you.”
Portugal drew his legs up towards his chest and frowned deeper at that. “I don’t understand,” he admitted. “What do you know? We’ve never met.” But then things so rarely made sense in dreams, and if indeed that’s what this was, then by extension he supposed they would know him, because they were figments of his own imagination and that - ... that was getting a little too complicated for him to comprehend when a part of him just wanted to lie back in the grass and go back to sleep.
“We know lots. We were watching you for ages and ages.” the child with lighter hair said, moving forward and crouching down to Portugal’s height, looking straight into his eyes. “Back when Albion first brought you home. She wanted to see you for herself, but Albion wouldn’t let us bring you here. But he didn’t notice this time so it’s fine!” It tugged on Portugal’s hand, bouncing excitedly. “Come on! You have to meet her!”
“She...?” Portugal repeated dubiously, and allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. The earth felt even warmer when he was standing up, soft grass underfoot. He didn’t make mention that none of this was striking any chords in him, though the word ‘Albion’ was enough to pique his interest. “Who is ‘she’? Are you friends of Arthur’s?” Odd friends, certainly not the kind Portugal had ever imagined England having, but even stranger, they seemed to know what he was, his true name, albeit one of the oldest ones. Curiouser and curiouser.
“Arthur is, England is, Albion is not a friend or a foe.” sing-songed the other child, grabbing his other hand and pulling him forward. “He’s is just him. But you’re you, and that’s different. So that’s why we’re taking you to see the Queen!”
“The Queen?” Portugal exclaimed, stumbling over own feet before he managed to right himself; they were rather strong for children of their size. “But that’s not... I’m - what Queen?” Portugal didn’t have a queen, and hadn’t for decades now, but England did, and he had never mentioned it to Portugal so recently that he would have started dreaming about it as well. Not for the first time, he was starting to seriously feel as though he had fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole.
“Our queen, our Queen!” chimed the children together. “Queen Titania!”
Wales happened upon a rather interesting sight upon arriving home the next day.
England was up to his neck in books, most of them half open or otherwise dog-eared and bookmarked, stacked up all around him. For some reason he was sitting in the front room, rather than using the basement he’d specifically installed downstairs for this kind of thing. There were drawings of magic circles everywhere, and England himself didn’t look like he’d slept last night.
“Er,” said Wales, watching his younger brother jump half a foot in the air and fall to the floor with a crash. “What are you doing, Artie?”
England sat up immediately from where he was, eyes zeroing in on the intruder. “Wales! Thank god!” He was on his feet in seconds, shoving a pile of books into the older nation’s hands before he could say another word. “Read through these and highlight all mentions of the faerie realms and how to get into them, specifically the summer court and Titania.” He paused. “Then go fix me a cuppa because I’m gasping for one and haven’t had a second to get one myself.”
Wales stared. “Why?”
“Portugal got faerie-napped and--”
“He what?! How the hell did you manage that!?”
“I only went out to get the milk and when I came back he was gone! Also while I’m on that topic can you go to the car and get the milk out, I left it in there with some other stuff-- don’t look in that bag--”
“Arthur!” Darren covered his younger brother’s mouth with his hand, stopping his endlessly jabbering mouth. “Did you use a Wide-Awake potion on yourself?”
Arthur nodded mutely.
“How much?”
He measured an inch with his fingers.
“Be honest.”
After a pause, the inch doubled, then tripled in size.
“Oh Christ.”
England pushed Wales’ hand off his face. “But you have to help me get Portugal back! He can’t just be kidnapped like this, he’s a nation! He’s important! Moreover he’s mine and she can’t have him, damnit!”
Wales resisted the urge to smother himself with a leather bound copy of The Faerie Queene. Barely. “Alright, I’ll help you, but you owe me. More than usual.”
England nodded rapidly. “Good! I knew you would, now, let’s get to work!”
“Who...?” Portugal said vaguely, looking not so much in awe as completely blank. For all he knew it sounded vaguely Shakespearean, but he hadn’t paid England’s literature with the same interest as he had in the 19th century, and only then because there had been love notes and sonnets scribbled on every available surface that could sustain written words, and it had been touching, if not amusing to watch. “Titania?”
“Queen Titania!” cried the children, and that was all the explanation they gave.
He pondered this. Dreamscape aside, he didn’t think he was exactly dressed to be meeting with royalty, even if they only existed inside his own head.
“What could she possibly want from me?”
“She doesn’t want anything from you.” said one of the children, seeming amused by Portugal’s utter confusion about the situation. “She just wants you.”
The children lead him from the field into a woods, light filled and green, flourishing in the warm air. Flowers of all kinds bloomed at their bases, a rainbow of colour and life. The smells mingled in the air, creating a sweet perfume that women would die for. The grass was soft on their bare feet, giving easily to their steps, fulfilling its purpose as nature’s carpet.
“Oh,” Portugal replied thoughtfully, even though he didn’t grasp what exactly that meant. “That’s, er... I’m flattered I suppose,” he told them, while craning his neck around to stare at the plants bursting into bloom all around him, filling the air with a sweet, soothing scent. His toes curled in the grass, plush under his feet as they walked, going deeper into the woods. He turned his head left and right, trying to pinpoint where exactly he had seen a place like this before, for the image to appear so clearly in his mind. “But Alb -... I mean, Arthur and I... I’m already in a relationship,” he said with some finality, hoping that was what they had meant. He couldn’t imagine why they were very nearly frogmarching him along to meet their monarch otherwise.
The children looked at each other, and then burst into giggles, trying to quiet their laughter a little but eventually failing. “But Albion’s not here, so it’s okay!” one managed after calming down a little. The trees started to thin out, and before long they were back in the bright sunshine in a wide clearing.
It was beautiful, a meadow of flowers and trees twisting up at the sides, bearing fruits unknown from before. People milled around the edges, laughing and talking, all similarly decorated with flowers and bodies barely covered with little modesty. As the newcomers stepped into the clearing a few heads turned, and the chatter only became more excited.
“He’s here!”
“They brought him!”
“She’ll be so pleased!”
Portugal frowned, and opened his mouth to protest, but soon found himself surrounded by more grinning, pointed faces and... and a part of him wished that one of his hands was also free so he could use it to cover his eyes. He gaped and stared at the crowd of faces, feeling something of a chill creep down his spine. They had been waiting for him. But for what...?
“Give him room!” called an authoritative voice, and the crowd stepped back, still buzzing with discussion. One of the children let go of his hand and ran forward with a gleeful shout. The other kept hold and dragged him along, out of the crowd.
The first child ran until it was picked up by a woman. Her reddish-brown hair was long and wavy, woven with flowers brighter than the rest of the court, a wreath of them circling the top of her head. She wore more clothes than the others if only because she wanted more decoration, and they hid little about the shape of her figure, womanly curves in all the right places. Her smile was wide and honest, and her amber eyes sparked with delight as she swung the little child around, making it squeal in delight. And yet while she indulged in this, she retained an aura of dignity and pride, standing as a royal would.
Portugal folded his hands together, unsure what to do with them now that they were actually free. He smoothed the corners of his shirt down and wiped the dirt off on his jeans. He didn’t feel half as presentable as he possibly could have been, and while this so-called queen before him wasn’t decked out in gold and gemstones galore, he could not deny that she still held herself like royalty; and Portugal knew royalty. A hundred years without one did not make up for centuries of monarchy.
He inclined his head stiffly, caught between bowing and just standing stock still. She was very beautiful; he could at least appreciate that, all other commitments aside.
“Well done, well done!” She cooed to the child, planting a quick kiss on its forehead before letting it down to run off. She turned her attention to Portugal, sweeping towards him gracefully. She looked him up and down, head to toe and back again, and smiled all the wider. “Welcome to my Court, Portugal!” she cried, spreading her hands wide. The courtiers around them clapped and cheered. She gestured for quiet after a moment, then leaned forward and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks. “Come in, come further in. You’re my honoured guest.”
She was very tall up close, practically the same height as him although her presence alone was so great it made her seem even taller. Portugal couldn’t help but feel exposed under her gaze, and he self-consciously reached back to run his fingers through his hair again. His cheeks burned where she had kissed him, not out of any apparent shyness, but because she was radiating heat that seemed to wrap around his very person. In a way, she reminded him a lot of Ireland, but it had been many years since Portugal had found himself attracted to the vivacious redhead, so a part of him was feeling somewhat awkward.
He cleared his throat. “So...you’re the person who was waiting for me?” She certainly seemed to know who he was at any rate, strange as that seemed.
“Certainly. I sent these children to find you.” She beamed at him, standing to the side and gesturing for him to walk with her. As they moved to the other end of the glade, two trees suddenly sprung from the ground, wood groaning as it grew rapidly, twisting up and exploding with green as the leaves came out all at once. They had bent in an odd way so as to have perfectly shaped seats in them, at just the right height. The oddest thing was that they were Yew trees, such old plants that suddenly appeared from nowhere. It was an odd sight to say the least. “Come and sit with me.”
Portugal took an involuntary step backwards in alarm, but as the initial shock wore off he reached out to touch the seat, fingers grazing over the old wood that had come forth from the earth not even a few seconds ago. He wrapped his hand around one of the wooden knots and clung to it, as though the tree itself would anchor him to his senses. He did not sit, but rather stood next to the “arm” of the chair, still frowning in contemplation as he regarded her in much the same way she had him, only without so much knowing. And he didn’t fancy not knowing things.
“How is it that you know me?” he asked her.
“Oh, that’s easy. Albion told me all about you!” she explained, clasping her hands in front of her. She sat in her chair as a monarch would on their throne, and yet gave an air of casual relaxation, fully in her element. “You can sit down, you know, it won’t bite you.”
So she did know England. Portugal cautiously came around the other side of the chair and laid both of his hands on it. He still seemed to be deep in thought, halfway between sitting and standing. “And what sort of things did he say?” It was a loaded question at best; he could only guess at what England would say about him, considering that he rarely seemed to speak about Portugal at all in public, whether to his own people or other nations.
She chuckled at him, light and airy. “It’s nothing bad, I assure you. In fact he spoke so highly of you that I simply had to meet you!” She smiled secretively at him. “You seem to doubt that he’d talk about you, hm? But he tells me and my consorts things he wouldn’t confide in others, if only because we won’t spread it around. We’re honest folk, to be truthful.” A wistful sigh came forth. “Ahh, he talked all about your adventures on the high seas, your hot foods full of spice, your handsome looks...” Her eyes travelled all over him once again. “And it seems he wasn’t lying either.”
Portugal raised his eyebrows at that and lowered himself carefully into his seat. It was surprisingly comfortable. “Oh,” he said, and felt a little lost, if not a little flattered at the same time. “Oh, well... thank you, I suppose.” He crossed one leg over the other and leaned backwards. “Though I’m afraid your sources must be a little outdated. That was a long time ago.” He propped his face in his hand. “A lot has changed since those days, so if that is the reason why you wanted to meet with me so badly, I’m sad to say you’ll likely be disappointed.”
The Queen leaned towards him. “No no, I don’t mind. In fact, if I had interrupted your adventures I’m sure I would have regretted it. Now you have more free time, don’t you?” she didn’t wait for an answer, conjuring up two goblets full of red wine, offering the sweet smelling beverage to Portugal. “Here, have a drink.”
“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” Portugal admitted, and took one of the goblets from her with murmured thanks. He kept his eyes on her, old habit making him wary. She still hadn’t told him what she wanted, apart from having been apparently charmed by England’s stories of the past. “Well,” he said at last, “here I am, for better or worse. Though what you could want from me is something I’ve yet to figure out for myself.” He gave her an appraising look, cupping the goblet between his hands.
“Why, only your company. Do you think I would have some other motive?” she smiled over the rim of her goblet, sipping at the wine and sighing contentedly. “I should love to hear your stories, and you can stay here without worry. I won’t make you leave.” She eyed his goblet and pouted slightly. “It’s rude not to drink when the Queen does. It’s not poisoned.”
“Not a motive per se,” Portugal murmured, half to himself, “and you are very kind for offering, but if what you say is true, then you should already know that I’ve already committed myself to another relationship.” He met her eyes steadily, before looking down at the goblet of wine again. He swirled the contents idly. Truth be told he wasn’t exactly thirsty, as inviting and richly red as the drink seemed to be. He brought it to his lips and feigned taking a sip all the same. Some of the wine splashed against his lips, but he licked them without a thought, catching sweetness on his tongue.
A mildly unimpressed look flittered across the Queen’s face, gone as quick as it came. “Yes, but he’s not been a very good husband as of late, has he?” She sipped another bit of her drink. “Leaving you all alone like that. Running off after that other boy, who was it... Merica, I think his name was. How mean.” She placed a hand on top of his, patting it sympathetically. “I don’t know why he would. You’re clearly superior.” And she meant every word of that. “Silly Albion forgets what he already has to go after something out of reach.”
At that, Portugal’s expression darkened slightly; he narrowed his eyes. Then he shook his head and the darkness dissipated. He traced the rim of the goblet with his thumb. “He...does have his moments,” he said quietly, “but I suppose that’s to be expected. The world is a very different place these days, and I play no significant part in it. America’s...” he stopped short, before turning on the woman seated next to him. “How do you know that?” he demanded, trying to ignore the trickle of warmth that shot down his hand when she touched it. It left pins and needles along his arm.
“As I said, Albion tells me many things.” She paused, and giggled. “Particularly when he’s drunk. Then he cries about it. Shouldn’t get so worked up over such things.” Her expression became gentler. Long fingers reach down by the side of her throne, and she plucked a brightly coloured flower from there. It was rare in beauty, undiscovered in the world before, red and gold. She quickly placed it in Portugal’s hair, before sitting back to admire her work. “Perfect! You know, I still think you’re very significant. I don’t understand why nobody else sees it.”
“He wouldn’t have to if he didn’t keep it all bottled up so often,” Portugal muttered, giving the goblet a fierce look and taking a proper sip this time; the liquid burned warmly all the way down his throat. He looked at his feet, thinking how this dream had taken a turn for the worst as he had predicted it might, and wished desperately that he would wake up back in England’s bed, so he could stop over-thinking, stop questioning; because if he stopped wondering about it, the idea of his lover having something with America while having Portugal on the side didn’t sting so much. A lot had happened over the last century.
He glanced up at the flower she had placed in his hair. He couldn’t see it, but it felt...different. Unlike anything he had ever witnessed before. Holding the goblet in one hand, he reached out with his other to brush the flower petals. He couldn’t help it, he scoffed a little at her comment. “I have nothing left to offer anyone,” he said bluntly, and rubbed the flower petals gently between his fingers , taking care not to bruise them. “What is there to see...?”
“I see a lot of things.” the Queen smiled indulgently at him. “I see bravery, a strong body, a quick mind, a sharp wit. I see hands used to rough work, eyes that have seen what nobody else has, feet that have walked all corners of the earth. A warm heart, tired but beating true. Warm like your lands.” Long eyelashes fluttered as she blinked at him. “The world must be blind to your brilliance.”
“You flatter me,” Portugal replied shortly, “but it has been many years since anyone has ever looked at me and called me brilliant. The world on a whole has a short-term memory; it’s what makes mortal lives so interesting. People will remember only what pertains to them. They look to nations who built things and made them last. Not the ones who discovered those things and had them stolen. The young always have their dreams.” He stared contemplatively at his wine, as though it held all the world’s answers in its depths. “Dreams don’t last forever.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
“I’ve settled down now; trying to get used to the quiet life again, but you probably already knew that.” He took another long sip. It was self-depreciation at its finest. She wasn’t telling him anything that he didn’t already know and seemed intent on bringing up aspects of his past that he’d rather forget. And why shouldn’t she? She was in his head, after all.
“Wouldn’t you like to have the excitement again, though?” she asked in hushed tones, like it was a coveted secret. “To ride into battle with the cries of your men behind you, emerging gloriously victorious to indulge in the spoils of war? To hear them chant your name, proud to stand with you, for you?” She held out a long fingered hand. “I can give you that, if you want it.”
Portugal considered this. “Your offer is very tempting...” he mused, settling back in his seat and looking up at the canopy of branches that obscured the sky, casting light and shadows down on them like the mottled pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. “If not hard to believe, if you don’t mind my saying. Who are you, to be able to grant me such a deal?”
And at what price...?
Titania raised one eyebrow, as though this was a silly question. “Why, I’m the Queen of the Summer Court. I can do as I please. I could give you the throne next to mine, and have you ride into battle with me against the wretched Winter Court.” The name was nearly snarled out, and a couple of the courtiers hissed. Titania regained her composure quickly, however. “It won’t be too much trouble at all. What could it hurt?”
He gave her a funny look. “The Summer Court,” he repeated blandly, and looked around him. “And I, as King of the Faeries?” His tone was mildly sarcastic. “You’re joking, surely.” Because this was even stranger than what he was used to, as far as dreams went. He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and frowned a little to himself. “It’s a far cry from ruling all Hispania, I’ll give you that...”
He had to admit that she made a good point though, all misgivings aside. What could it hurt? It would all vanish in the blink of an eye the moment he woke up. Was it better to rule a fairytale kingdom out of a child’s storybook, if only for a moment, or have no kingdom at all? He cleared his throat.
“...but I suppose I could,” he began slowly, “There’s no harm. While it lasts.” Which probably wouldn’t be for much longer anyway. He shrugged.
Titania’s smile got wider, and wider, and she laughed delightedly and clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Simply wonderful! Oh, we must prepare! Set to making you armour and weapons befitting of your position.” she cried excitedly, before turning on her court. “My friends and consorts, today we have a reason to celebrate! Our new ally Portugal will aid us in our battle against Winter! Blacksmiths, tailors, to your shops! Everyone else...” she paused thoughtfully, “... bring the wine!”
A cheer rose up from the crowd, shouts of adoration for the queen and her new ally.
Portugal watched the proceedings with bemusement, feeling both a little out of place, and at the same time, warmed by the enthusiasm these people seemed to show to their queen, their country. He touched the centre of his crucifix, under his shirt, brushing his fingers over the gilded edges with a sense of longing. “Winter is already here,” he told the woman next to him, “There’s not much you can do against the changing of the seasons. Better to let it run its course than fight against it, don’t you think?”
Titania sniffed, shaking her head, “Hm. Their victory is only temporary. If we didn’t fight, the seasons wouldn’t change at all.” she shuddered. “Can you imagine? Eternal winter. How horrible.” Her amber eyes followed his hand. “What’s that?”
Portugal paused. He pushed back the collar of his shirt and wound his fingers around a fine chain, tugging upwards until an elaborately carved iron cross came into view. It was rugged, and had lost much of its shine over the centuries, but perhaps out of habit more than anything else, he found himself gripping it until the corners dug into his palm whenever he found himself in trouble. Thinking about it, it was probably the oldest thing he owned and had kept continuously since childhood.
“A keepsake,” he said somewhat fondly, completely disregarding the idea of an eternal winter. He couldn’t begin to imagine it; especially if it turned out to be anything like staying at England’s house the entire year round. He’d gone to live with him for a few years during the 1600s in order to be closer to his young queen, and was determined to never relive the experience ever again.
Titania eyed it suspiciously. “May I see it? I’ve never seen such a thing before...” she held out her hand for it, eyes curious and asking.
Portugal raised his eyebrows at that, completely surprised. “Well... I don’t see why not,” he replied, if only because he was amazed that she had never come across one before. What an odd thing to say. Carefully, he pulled the chain up over his head, feeling strangely naked without the familiar weight against his chest. He held it out on his palm for her. “It’s really not that grand... there are much showier ones, made of gold and precious stones...” he trailed off and brushed his thumb over the top of the cross nostalgically.
Careful fingers reached out and hovered over it, before drawing back. She seemed afraid. “Its iron, isn’t it?” she said more than asked, watching it like it might leap up and attack her. “Iron is poisonous to our kind. You had best keep it away from anyone here, in your pocket and not around your neck.”
“It’s very old,” Portugal replied, his tone more than suggesting the sentimental value behind the old piece of jewellery. Whatever properties the iron had when it was fresh, he had no doubts that they had long since vanished, but he slipped the crucifix into his pocket like she asked. He didn’t mind, so long as she wasn’t asking him to leave it behind or dispose of it or anything, in which case she would probably have had to pry it from his fingers. He shook his head, the air suddenly feeling too warm and thick. It must have been the wine.
The queen looked relived as soon as it was out of sight. “Thank you.” she said, and rose from her chair, offering her hand to Portugal. “Right then, shall we go get you fitted in your armour?”
She seemed steady in comparison to him; Portugal hadn’t thought he’d drank that much. He straightened himself out, and this time when he took her invitation, he did so without hesitation.
Portugal pulled himself together, rose to his feet and grasped her hand in his own gratefully.
A dream was only a dream until you had both eyes open.
The cottage was quiet, save for the occasional turning of a page and the crackling of the log fire as it slowly turned to embers without anyone looking to tend to it. Wales hadn’t read this many books in one go since he’d got that library of Welsh-language books opened in Cardiff. And even then, they hadn’t been nearly as mind boggling as some of these books that he’d been reading for nearly a month were. They ranged from close to the truth to completely outlandish guesses. He began to wonder why England even had them.
It was then he noticed that England’s page turning had stopped for quite a while. Looking over the edge of his book and pushing his reading glasses up his nose, he peered around a towering stack of books to look for his brother.
The smaller blonde was slumped forward on his desk, face pinched into a frown and one hand still clutching a pen. His breathing was even, slow and steady.
Ah, the potion had worn off then.
Wales sighed wearily, standing from his arm chair and stretching, feeling joints click into place. He shrugged off his jacket and placed it over England shoulders, pinching the pen out of his hand before he accidentally stabbed himself in the eye with it while asleep.
“Useless without someone to keep an eye on you,” he muttered, shaking his head and ascending the stairs. “We’d better get him back quick.” But that could wait until morning. Or, he decided as he passed the window and spotted the sun coming up; it could wait until the afternoon.
Arthur was dreaming.
Or rather, he was in that half-awake state between dreaming and sleep, aware he was at his desk with a piece of paper stuck to his cheek and no doubt the ink printed on his face, but also seeing something that was not his sitting room. There was a field, expansive and empty, dark clouds above it casting shadows on the frosted grass. There were no trees in sight, just emptiness and the lingering feeling of anxious dread.
Then, on the horizon, something moved. A mass of something or other came closer and closer, and the sound of people reached his ears. He walked towards it, to meet it in the middle, and the closer he got the more worried he became. The ground shook with the force of thousands of feet marching forwards. He wanted to turn around and run, but didn’t dare. For the first time in the dream, he looked to the side, and realised he was walking next to an army too. Decked out in royal blues and splashes of scarlet, their weapons seemed to all be made out of ice; spears made of icicles, swords of broken sheet ice, and shields of compacted snow. Their ranks were rigidly kept, perfect formation and marching in perfect beat to the regulated sound of a war drum.
The beat stopped, and the army did too. But the approaching mass did not. As they came closer, it became clear that it too was an army, of a much different sort. They were not marching but running, full pelt and with nothing to lose, yelling and chanting and wild and frankly terrifying. Some of them were riding the backs of animals, from rats and squirrels to sparrows. Looking behind him, he could see the winter army had enlisted the help of moles, owls, hedgehogs and foxes. And still the other army charged forth, spears at the ready, one or two even with flaming arrows lit and ready to be fired. He wondered if they were going to stop, though they gave no indication of doing so.
On wordless command, the winter army raised their weapons readily.
Summer and Winter clashed with an almighty roar and striking of weapons, arrows of ice and fire flying every which way. Steam rose from the middle, creating a fog which he had to fight his way to see through, never mind the battle going on all around him.
Out of the mist came a knight of the court, dressed as the rest of the attacking army were, dark hair threaded with flowers and vines, riding on the back of a massive adder and swinging his sword to bat away enemies with ruthless precision and ease that could only come from hundreds of years of practice and skill. His face was obscured by a mask carved out of one half of a walnut shell, sanded smooth and tapering to a point like a beak. All of a sudden he seemed to pause, rounding on England with a silence that was almost heart-stopping in comparison to the chaos around him. The dark impenetrable eyeholes stared, sizing him up. Then slowly, very slowly, the knight grasped the edges of his mask and pushed it back off his face.
It was a face that England had known for a very long time.
Yet it seemed as though recognition was far from mutual, for the knight only grinned at him from atop his mount, lifting his sword above his head and pointing it straight at England. His hazel eyes were as dark and merciless as the harsh summer sun.
“Die.”
England finally found words half a second later as the edge of the sword plunged down, and when he did he shouted, as loud as he could-
“Portugal!”
His answer was his silent front room, in the wee hours of the morning. He’d sat up suddenly when he’d shouted, hand reaching in the air at nothing. England blinked twice, trying to clear the vision from his head. It was freezing in here; he could see his breath. He gave a shuddering sigh and stood up to get a blanket.
He nearly bumped into something small and blue.
“Ahh!” he jumped back, easily startled after such a dream. The little blue light hovering before his eyes quickly came into focus as a very small woman with dark hair and a decidedly unimpressed expression on her face. She folded her arms haughtily, white dress sparkling in the dim morning light.
“That is no way to greet a lady.” she said in her high, chime-like voice. England tried to slow down his heart to a normal pace.
“Good morning Mab,” he breathed. The faerie sniffed.
“And too informal as well,” she added, flying closer and smacking him on the nose. It stung like he’d just held an ice cube there for too long. He rubbed it. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
“It’s too early in the day for this, Mab,” England sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I was informal, now can I go get a cup of tea?”
“Not that!” she raised her voice a little, her usually calm facade cracking slightly. “What I just showed you in that dream! What do you have to say about that?”
Suddenly information came rushing back to him. Portugal missing, kidnapped by faeries, the Summer Court...
“Oh bugger me,” he swore, facepalming hard. “Are you trying to tell me that’s what you saw on the battlefield recently? Portugal...Gabriel was there?”
“Is that his name then?” Mab asked sharply. “Titania seems very fond of him, if what the scouts say is true. Always Gabriel this, and Gabriel that.” She waved a dainty hand idly, as though trying to brush the thought from her mind. “Not that she isn’t always fond of her new ‘favourites’, but to flaunt it on the battlefield!” Her pale cheeks took on a red tinge momentarily, betraying her anger for all of a second before her features smoothed out again, cold as ice. “Then again, I suppose it is not often she manages to sink her claws so thoroughly into one of your kind.” She gave England a withering look that could have dropped leaves off a tree.
“And this is somehow my fault?” He gestured at her, frustrated. “The Summer Court were the ones that kidnapped him!”
“Well you were negligent! You shouldn’t have let them near the house! The fact they were able to come out during my months of reign is a sign of lax security,” she exclaimed haughtily. She sighed lowly in what could have only been frustration and looked at England in a way that clearly said that she thought it was high time he redeemed himself for this outrage. “Well, damage done, now what are you going to do about it? He shouldn’t be on her side like that, it’s not fair.”
“That’s it!” It was like someone had finally turned a light bulb on in a dank corridor, making sense where all the books he had painstakingly slogged through had failed. England rounded on her. “Now that you’re here, you can let me into the faerie realms!”
Mab scoffed. “Albion, you mistake me for someone who is foolish enough to grant favours without expecting anything in return.” England was about to argue that she was the one who wanted him to get Portugal away from Titania, but then he realised that arguing with a faerie was about as fruitful as arguing with an immovable wall.
“Alright. What do you want?” he asked wearily, folding his arms and tucking his hands away from the cold air Mab brought with her wherever she went. The faerie queen clicked her tongue at him.
“An equaliser of course.” she said matter-of-factly.
“I’m not giving you a changeling- oh.” he stopped, went still, narrowed his eyes at her. “Me?”
The queen raised her tiny eyebrows, expression only visible because she was so close. “Or another of your kind suited to my court. That nice Canada boy, someone like that.”
“No no.” he shook his head. “I’m not getting anyone else involved in this; it’s a mess as it is.” He drew breath in through his nose, the cold stinging slightly. “I’ll go.”
Mab was silent for a long moment. “You would break your neutrality between the courts for just this one man?”
“I’d break a good deal of things for him.”
Faerie and nation held the silence for a little while longer before Mab inclined her head. “Very well. I’ll give you an hour to gather your wits. And tell your brother upstairs. I’ll be outside.” And without a word more, she fluttered out of the room, becoming a little silvery blue light outside. Once she was out of sight, England turned to face the wall, and let his head land very hard against it.
Damn it. This was going to suck.
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A/N:
candesceres Cande's tl;dr:
Another chapter again! \o/ And so quickly too. Haha well we'll probably continue on that vein, seeing how we're quite a few chapters ahead already, just posting them fairly slowly to avoid spamming (or at least that's my excuse). |D
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.
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
Portugal: Afonso Gabriel Fernandes de Alcântara Henriques dos Anjos
TL;DR, he has only had the name "Afonso" since becoming an independent kingdom in the 1100s; he adopted it to honour 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.
Wales: Darren Kirkland
Proto-Canada, I mean. Wales' is England's older brother and the middle child of the family: Ireland, Scotland, Wales, England, Northern Ireland. /o/
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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!”
- Port's Iron cross; there are two things that can weaken and even kill fae; religious symbols and iron. Iron is the real clincher here; put a faerie in an iron cage and it'll die within moments. Even being near the stuff makes them uncomfortable, and touching it burns and poisons them. Fae are also unable to enter religious buildings that do not accept them; it's a place of non-belief, as far as they're concerned. They thrive on belief, and going into such places would harm if not kill them. Port wearing an iron cross makes it much harder for them to work their magic on him, and is probably one of his few defences against fae. Once it's off, however...
Characters/Pairings: England/Portugal(OC), Wales (OC), various Summer/Winter Court fae, Queen Titania and Queen Mab (in this part)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mild language
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 really hated driving in snow. Sure, it wasn’t thick, but he wanted to get places fast. That was the whole point of inventing the car. And at the rate he was going, he wasn’t going to get home before New Years.
He glared grumpily at the slow-moving lorry in front of him. Whose bright idea was it to have sat-nav direct massive trucks like this down little country roads where they could barely turn the corner? And even before the bloody snow and the bloody truck had delayed him, the shop he usually went to was shut because the owner had come down with something awful, so he’d had to drive to the other bloody town over just to get a bit of milk. While he was there, at least, he’d bought a few other essentials.
Just as he was wondering if he should turn back and get some aspirin for a headache, his driveway came into view. “Finally,” he muttered, turning rather viciously into the gravel path, welcome resistance in the stones compared to the icy road. It wasn’t until he pulled up next to the garage door that he noticed something.
The front door was wide open.
The previously present frown on his face doubled in intensity. He’d left Port in the house, so he probably didn’t have to worry about thieves, but his lover surely knew how to shut the door. Maybe he’d only half shut it, and the wind blew it open? Warily, he got out of the car, leaving the shopping inside for a little while. The milk wouldn’t spoil when it was this cold.
“Port?” He called as he stuck his head inside. He closed the door behind him for a moment. “Hello? You in?” Nothing. The wind howling outside and down the chimneys was his only answer. This was concerning. “Portugal!” he yelled louder, wondering if the other nation was in the shower and couldn’t hear him...
Maybe he’d slipped in the shower and knocked himself out...?
England shook that thought from his head. What kind of paranoid nonsense was that? Portugal was too sensible for such things.
... just in case. Just in case, he went upstairs, and straight to his bedroom. Well, it seemed that Portugal had been half-way done unpacking, wherever he went. Looking into the bathroom, the mirrors were still steamed up and the shower still wet. How odd. It was like Portugal had just disappeared from the spot. Like he’d...
Like...
For the first time since coming home, England opened his eyes. Really opened them, in a way few can. He pulled open every sense to the fullest and concentrated. He looked for the world beyond the world, the light beyond light, and what he saw made him curse loudly and colourfully.
There was magic everywhere.
The tang on his tongue was not like any of his sibling’s magicks. Nor was it Norway’s, or anyone else he could think of that had the ability. It came from somewhere further, wilder and different than this.
It was warm.
Oh that goddamn faerie. He had wondered why a summer court fae had been wandering around in the middle of winter. He should have known they were up to something! They were always up to something!
“Bugger,” he snarled to himself, turning on his heel and stalking towards the front door, following the trail of fresh magic, out through the front garden, completely bypassing the car, into the woods. His shoes crunched on brittle twigs and thin snowfall, his teeth grit against the chill wind. He came upon the faerie ring and wrinkled his nose. The warm air around the place had melted a ring in the snow.
And Portugal was nowhere to be found.
“Fuck,” the blonde growled. “Fuck, this is bad.” He looked around for any sign of faerie life, but nothing moved in the forest except for him. “Oi! Come out here, I know you can hear me! I’m not best pleased with you!”
A disembodied giggle was the reply.
“Listen you lot, you’ve had your laugh, very funny. Give him back.” England demanded. The giggles only intensified.
‘We don’t want to! You were losing interest anyway!’ they said, singular and plural. ‘He’s ours now.’
“He bloody well is not!”
Their giggles echoed into silence once more. Goddamn it. If they were going to be stubborn like this, he wouldn’t be able to get into the faerie realm. They had to open the door, and they weren’t nearly so careless as to just leave one open somewhere these days.
Grinding his teeth, England turned on his heel and stomped back towards the house, fists clenched and a determined frown. If they wouldn’t let him in, maybe judicious application of magicks of his own making would.
Portugal opened his eyes to a seemingly endless sky and long grass waving above his head. The earth was warm beneath his back and the sun beat down with an intensity he rarely encountered at England’s house, if he was lucky to encounter it at all. He felt unusually lightheaded as he sat up, dusting grass seeds from his person, and all around him flowers poked out in patches from the vast sea of greenery, rippling like great colourful waves every time the wind blew. That too was warm, and when he looked down at his hands and feet he saw that they were dry, to the point that the muddy earth was already flaking off his fingers and soles if he wiggled them even slightly.
A dream, he thought, in the subconscious way that people could sometimes detect when something was off, despite being caught up in the dreamworld themselves. Unconcerned, he lay back down and closed his eyes. He must have fallen asleep on the bed back at the cottage, somewhere between seeing England off and dragging his luggage upstairs. It wasn’t all that surprising; he had been rather tired from the flight.
His mind’s eye had no doubt been playing tricks on him; conjuring up such nonsense as magical fireflies with cricket-like properties that made sounds like hundreds of tiny, jangling bells and were intelligent enough to understand human speech. Ridiculous, really... and at the same time, mildly disappointing. He had been so sure about his encounter with the unknown, but alas, it seemed that dwelling on the past would do that to you. An idle mind was a dangerous thing.
Portugal covered his eyes with his forearm to block out the glare of the sun. He sighed. It was comfortable here; soothing. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge in this dream a little longer, he thought lazily. England would rouse him from his nap should the need arise.
Something rustled in the grass next to his ear. Someone hushed another. The rustling moved, around behind him and over to the other side. Giggles, like a small child’s, were heard.
“He’s awake?”
“Shhhh!”
Portugal kept perfectly still, unmoving from his spot. His breathing was even. Maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought. He didn’t often dream of his colonies these days, but every now and again he would find himself “waking” to a small African girl with beads in her thick, braided hair, or a native boy with feathers around his head and warpaint across his chubby cheeks. Sometimes they would grin at him, and sometimes they would bleed, but either way their presence always left a thick knot in Portugal’s stomach. And seeing how he was enjoying the sunshine, he didn’t want to have to look up and see that potentially ruining image. So he kept his eyes closed and let the “children” circle him, paying no mind to their chatter and laughter.
The rustling stopped above his head, and suddenly the light was blocked by something. The child was leaning over Portugal’s head, trying to get a good look at his face. Someone else giggled by his feet, and then started tickling his bare feet.
He sat bolt upright in surprise, drawing his knees up and closer to him. He rubbed a hand down his face and took a breath; his heart was beating alarmingly fast. He hadn’t been expecting that at all. The children in his dreams rarely touched him at all, and when they did... He shook his head, pushing those thoughts from his mind. He ran his fingers through his hair and frowned warily, looking around for his assailant.
The children who had darted back into the grass peered out experimentally, startlingly bright eyes and nearly-glowing tanned skin. They were slight, faces pointed despite their young age, but with round cheeks and bright smiles. Their hair, one child with dark and another with light brown, was threaded with flowers and vines, daisy chains around their necks.
And aside from these decorations they had barely a scrap of clothing on them.
Portugal stared at them openly. He did not think his eyebrows could have gone any higher even if he had tried. Well, he thought slowly, this was new. He had never seen these children in his life for one thing, and for that matter they seemed to have a penchant to want to run around completely, or very nearly, nude. He had seen some strange humans in the past; especially during the constant wars of the last century. It was hard to forget such things really; the ones who seemed to want to return to nature on some level or another, had a tendency to prance around in odd clothes or none at all, and smoked things far stronger than Portugal ever had. He pursed his lips together.
“Olá...?” he ventured, not quite sure how he should address them, or in what language. This was his dream after all.
“Olá?” The first child mimicked him, before giggling with its friend. “Talk again! Your language is fun!”
“Talk, talk!” the other child bounced on its toes - on reflection neither of them seemed to have an obvious gender, with the usual indicators still hidden in the waist-high grass.
“Hello.” English then. That was new too. Portugal cocked his head and regarded them shrewdly. “Er...” he began, and shook his head, cutting himself off. “Do I know you?” he asked instead, speaking slowly, trying to figure out where the dream would take him from there. He should have known he would have strange dreams in England’s house. Much of what happened there was the very definition of strange.
“Not yet.” said one of the children, smiling mischievously. “But we know you.”
Portugal drew his legs up towards his chest and frowned deeper at that. “I don’t understand,” he admitted. “What do you know? We’ve never met.” But then things so rarely made sense in dreams, and if indeed that’s what this was, then by extension he supposed they would know him, because they were figments of his own imagination and that - ... that was getting a little too complicated for him to comprehend when a part of him just wanted to lie back in the grass and go back to sleep.
“We know lots. We were watching you for ages and ages.” the child with lighter hair said, moving forward and crouching down to Portugal’s height, looking straight into his eyes. “Back when Albion first brought you home. She wanted to see you for herself, but Albion wouldn’t let us bring you here. But he didn’t notice this time so it’s fine!” It tugged on Portugal’s hand, bouncing excitedly. “Come on! You have to meet her!”
“She...?” Portugal repeated dubiously, and allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. The earth felt even warmer when he was standing up, soft grass underfoot. He didn’t make mention that none of this was striking any chords in him, though the word ‘Albion’ was enough to pique his interest. “Who is ‘she’? Are you friends of Arthur’s?” Odd friends, certainly not the kind Portugal had ever imagined England having, but even stranger, they seemed to know what he was, his true name, albeit one of the oldest ones. Curiouser and curiouser.
“Arthur is, England is, Albion is not a friend or a foe.” sing-songed the other child, grabbing his other hand and pulling him forward. “He’s is just him. But you’re you, and that’s different. So that’s why we’re taking you to see the Queen!”
“The Queen?” Portugal exclaimed, stumbling over own feet before he managed to right himself; they were rather strong for children of their size. “But that’s not... I’m - what Queen?” Portugal didn’t have a queen, and hadn’t for decades now, but England did, and he had never mentioned it to Portugal so recently that he would have started dreaming about it as well. Not for the first time, he was starting to seriously feel as though he had fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole.
“Our queen, our Queen!” chimed the children together. “Queen Titania!”
Wales happened upon a rather interesting sight upon arriving home the next day.
England was up to his neck in books, most of them half open or otherwise dog-eared and bookmarked, stacked up all around him. For some reason he was sitting in the front room, rather than using the basement he’d specifically installed downstairs for this kind of thing. There were drawings of magic circles everywhere, and England himself didn’t look like he’d slept last night.
“Er,” said Wales, watching his younger brother jump half a foot in the air and fall to the floor with a crash. “What are you doing, Artie?”
England sat up immediately from where he was, eyes zeroing in on the intruder. “Wales! Thank god!” He was on his feet in seconds, shoving a pile of books into the older nation’s hands before he could say another word. “Read through these and highlight all mentions of the faerie realms and how to get into them, specifically the summer court and Titania.” He paused. “Then go fix me a cuppa because I’m gasping for one and haven’t had a second to get one myself.”
Wales stared. “Why?”
“Portugal got faerie-napped and--”
“He what?! How the hell did you manage that!?”
“I only went out to get the milk and when I came back he was gone! Also while I’m on that topic can you go to the car and get the milk out, I left it in there with some other stuff-- don’t look in that bag--”
“Arthur!” Darren covered his younger brother’s mouth with his hand, stopping his endlessly jabbering mouth. “Did you use a Wide-Awake potion on yourself?”
Arthur nodded mutely.
“How much?”
He measured an inch with his fingers.
“Be honest.”
After a pause, the inch doubled, then tripled in size.
“Oh Christ.”
England pushed Wales’ hand off his face. “But you have to help me get Portugal back! He can’t just be kidnapped like this, he’s a nation! He’s important! Moreover he’s mine and she can’t have him, damnit!”
Wales resisted the urge to smother himself with a leather bound copy of The Faerie Queene. Barely. “Alright, I’ll help you, but you owe me. More than usual.”
England nodded rapidly. “Good! I knew you would, now, let’s get to work!”
“Who...?” Portugal said vaguely, looking not so much in awe as completely blank. For all he knew it sounded vaguely Shakespearean, but he hadn’t paid England’s literature with the same interest as he had in the 19th century, and only then because there had been love notes and sonnets scribbled on every available surface that could sustain written words, and it had been touching, if not amusing to watch. “Titania?”
“Queen Titania!” cried the children, and that was all the explanation they gave.
He pondered this. Dreamscape aside, he didn’t think he was exactly dressed to be meeting with royalty, even if they only existed inside his own head.
“What could she possibly want from me?”
“She doesn’t want anything from you.” said one of the children, seeming amused by Portugal’s utter confusion about the situation. “She just wants you.”
The children lead him from the field into a woods, light filled and green, flourishing in the warm air. Flowers of all kinds bloomed at their bases, a rainbow of colour and life. The smells mingled in the air, creating a sweet perfume that women would die for. The grass was soft on their bare feet, giving easily to their steps, fulfilling its purpose as nature’s carpet.
“Oh,” Portugal replied thoughtfully, even though he didn’t grasp what exactly that meant. “That’s, er... I’m flattered I suppose,” he told them, while craning his neck around to stare at the plants bursting into bloom all around him, filling the air with a sweet, soothing scent. His toes curled in the grass, plush under his feet as they walked, going deeper into the woods. He turned his head left and right, trying to pinpoint where exactly he had seen a place like this before, for the image to appear so clearly in his mind. “But Alb -... I mean, Arthur and I... I’m already in a relationship,” he said with some finality, hoping that was what they had meant. He couldn’t imagine why they were very nearly frogmarching him along to meet their monarch otherwise.
The children looked at each other, and then burst into giggles, trying to quiet their laughter a little but eventually failing. “But Albion’s not here, so it’s okay!” one managed after calming down a little. The trees started to thin out, and before long they were back in the bright sunshine in a wide clearing.
It was beautiful, a meadow of flowers and trees twisting up at the sides, bearing fruits unknown from before. People milled around the edges, laughing and talking, all similarly decorated with flowers and bodies barely covered with little modesty. As the newcomers stepped into the clearing a few heads turned, and the chatter only became more excited.
“He’s here!”
“They brought him!”
“She’ll be so pleased!”
Portugal frowned, and opened his mouth to protest, but soon found himself surrounded by more grinning, pointed faces and... and a part of him wished that one of his hands was also free so he could use it to cover his eyes. He gaped and stared at the crowd of faces, feeling something of a chill creep down his spine. They had been waiting for him. But for what...?
“Give him room!” called an authoritative voice, and the crowd stepped back, still buzzing with discussion. One of the children let go of his hand and ran forward with a gleeful shout. The other kept hold and dragged him along, out of the crowd.
The first child ran until it was picked up by a woman. Her reddish-brown hair was long and wavy, woven with flowers brighter than the rest of the court, a wreath of them circling the top of her head. She wore more clothes than the others if only because she wanted more decoration, and they hid little about the shape of her figure, womanly curves in all the right places. Her smile was wide and honest, and her amber eyes sparked with delight as she swung the little child around, making it squeal in delight. And yet while she indulged in this, she retained an aura of dignity and pride, standing as a royal would.
Portugal folded his hands together, unsure what to do with them now that they were actually free. He smoothed the corners of his shirt down and wiped the dirt off on his jeans. He didn’t feel half as presentable as he possibly could have been, and while this so-called queen before him wasn’t decked out in gold and gemstones galore, he could not deny that she still held herself like royalty; and Portugal knew royalty. A hundred years without one did not make up for centuries of monarchy.
He inclined his head stiffly, caught between bowing and just standing stock still. She was very beautiful; he could at least appreciate that, all other commitments aside.
“Well done, well done!” She cooed to the child, planting a quick kiss on its forehead before letting it down to run off. She turned her attention to Portugal, sweeping towards him gracefully. She looked him up and down, head to toe and back again, and smiled all the wider. “Welcome to my Court, Portugal!” she cried, spreading her hands wide. The courtiers around them clapped and cheered. She gestured for quiet after a moment, then leaned forward and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks. “Come in, come further in. You’re my honoured guest.”
She was very tall up close, practically the same height as him although her presence alone was so great it made her seem even taller. Portugal couldn’t help but feel exposed under her gaze, and he self-consciously reached back to run his fingers through his hair again. His cheeks burned where she had kissed him, not out of any apparent shyness, but because she was radiating heat that seemed to wrap around his very person. In a way, she reminded him a lot of Ireland, but it had been many years since Portugal had found himself attracted to the vivacious redhead, so a part of him was feeling somewhat awkward.
He cleared his throat. “So...you’re the person who was waiting for me?” She certainly seemed to know who he was at any rate, strange as that seemed.
“Certainly. I sent these children to find you.” She beamed at him, standing to the side and gesturing for him to walk with her. As they moved to the other end of the glade, two trees suddenly sprung from the ground, wood groaning as it grew rapidly, twisting up and exploding with green as the leaves came out all at once. They had bent in an odd way so as to have perfectly shaped seats in them, at just the right height. The oddest thing was that they were Yew trees, such old plants that suddenly appeared from nowhere. It was an odd sight to say the least. “Come and sit with me.”
Portugal took an involuntary step backwards in alarm, but as the initial shock wore off he reached out to touch the seat, fingers grazing over the old wood that had come forth from the earth not even a few seconds ago. He wrapped his hand around one of the wooden knots and clung to it, as though the tree itself would anchor him to his senses. He did not sit, but rather stood next to the “arm” of the chair, still frowning in contemplation as he regarded her in much the same way she had him, only without so much knowing. And he didn’t fancy not knowing things.
“How is it that you know me?” he asked her.
“Oh, that’s easy. Albion told me all about you!” she explained, clasping her hands in front of her. She sat in her chair as a monarch would on their throne, and yet gave an air of casual relaxation, fully in her element. “You can sit down, you know, it won’t bite you.”
So she did know England. Portugal cautiously came around the other side of the chair and laid both of his hands on it. He still seemed to be deep in thought, halfway between sitting and standing. “And what sort of things did he say?” It was a loaded question at best; he could only guess at what England would say about him, considering that he rarely seemed to speak about Portugal at all in public, whether to his own people or other nations.
She chuckled at him, light and airy. “It’s nothing bad, I assure you. In fact he spoke so highly of you that I simply had to meet you!” She smiled secretively at him. “You seem to doubt that he’d talk about you, hm? But he tells me and my consorts things he wouldn’t confide in others, if only because we won’t spread it around. We’re honest folk, to be truthful.” A wistful sigh came forth. “Ahh, he talked all about your adventures on the high seas, your hot foods full of spice, your handsome looks...” Her eyes travelled all over him once again. “And it seems he wasn’t lying either.”
Portugal raised his eyebrows at that and lowered himself carefully into his seat. It was surprisingly comfortable. “Oh,” he said, and felt a little lost, if not a little flattered at the same time. “Oh, well... thank you, I suppose.” He crossed one leg over the other and leaned backwards. “Though I’m afraid your sources must be a little outdated. That was a long time ago.” He propped his face in his hand. “A lot has changed since those days, so if that is the reason why you wanted to meet with me so badly, I’m sad to say you’ll likely be disappointed.”
The Queen leaned towards him. “No no, I don’t mind. In fact, if I had interrupted your adventures I’m sure I would have regretted it. Now you have more free time, don’t you?” she didn’t wait for an answer, conjuring up two goblets full of red wine, offering the sweet smelling beverage to Portugal. “Here, have a drink.”
“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” Portugal admitted, and took one of the goblets from her with murmured thanks. He kept his eyes on her, old habit making him wary. She still hadn’t told him what she wanted, apart from having been apparently charmed by England’s stories of the past. “Well,” he said at last, “here I am, for better or worse. Though what you could want from me is something I’ve yet to figure out for myself.” He gave her an appraising look, cupping the goblet between his hands.
“Why, only your company. Do you think I would have some other motive?” she smiled over the rim of her goblet, sipping at the wine and sighing contentedly. “I should love to hear your stories, and you can stay here without worry. I won’t make you leave.” She eyed his goblet and pouted slightly. “It’s rude not to drink when the Queen does. It’s not poisoned.”
“Not a motive per se,” Portugal murmured, half to himself, “and you are very kind for offering, but if what you say is true, then you should already know that I’ve already committed myself to another relationship.” He met her eyes steadily, before looking down at the goblet of wine again. He swirled the contents idly. Truth be told he wasn’t exactly thirsty, as inviting and richly red as the drink seemed to be. He brought it to his lips and feigned taking a sip all the same. Some of the wine splashed against his lips, but he licked them without a thought, catching sweetness on his tongue.
A mildly unimpressed look flittered across the Queen’s face, gone as quick as it came. “Yes, but he’s not been a very good husband as of late, has he?” She sipped another bit of her drink. “Leaving you all alone like that. Running off after that other boy, who was it... Merica, I think his name was. How mean.” She placed a hand on top of his, patting it sympathetically. “I don’t know why he would. You’re clearly superior.” And she meant every word of that. “Silly Albion forgets what he already has to go after something out of reach.”
At that, Portugal’s expression darkened slightly; he narrowed his eyes. Then he shook his head and the darkness dissipated. He traced the rim of the goblet with his thumb. “He...does have his moments,” he said quietly, “but I suppose that’s to be expected. The world is a very different place these days, and I play no significant part in it. America’s...” he stopped short, before turning on the woman seated next to him. “How do you know that?” he demanded, trying to ignore the trickle of warmth that shot down his hand when she touched it. It left pins and needles along his arm.
“As I said, Albion tells me many things.” She paused, and giggled. “Particularly when he’s drunk. Then he cries about it. Shouldn’t get so worked up over such things.” Her expression became gentler. Long fingers reach down by the side of her throne, and she plucked a brightly coloured flower from there. It was rare in beauty, undiscovered in the world before, red and gold. She quickly placed it in Portugal’s hair, before sitting back to admire her work. “Perfect! You know, I still think you’re very significant. I don’t understand why nobody else sees it.”
“He wouldn’t have to if he didn’t keep it all bottled up so often,” Portugal muttered, giving the goblet a fierce look and taking a proper sip this time; the liquid burned warmly all the way down his throat. He looked at his feet, thinking how this dream had taken a turn for the worst as he had predicted it might, and wished desperately that he would wake up back in England’s bed, so he could stop over-thinking, stop questioning; because if he stopped wondering about it, the idea of his lover having something with America while having Portugal on the side didn’t sting so much. A lot had happened over the last century.
He glanced up at the flower she had placed in his hair. He couldn’t see it, but it felt...different. Unlike anything he had ever witnessed before. Holding the goblet in one hand, he reached out with his other to brush the flower petals. He couldn’t help it, he scoffed a little at her comment. “I have nothing left to offer anyone,” he said bluntly, and rubbed the flower petals gently between his fingers , taking care not to bruise them. “What is there to see...?”
“I see a lot of things.” the Queen smiled indulgently at him. “I see bravery, a strong body, a quick mind, a sharp wit. I see hands used to rough work, eyes that have seen what nobody else has, feet that have walked all corners of the earth. A warm heart, tired but beating true. Warm like your lands.” Long eyelashes fluttered as she blinked at him. “The world must be blind to your brilliance.”
“You flatter me,” Portugal replied shortly, “but it has been many years since anyone has ever looked at me and called me brilliant. The world on a whole has a short-term memory; it’s what makes mortal lives so interesting. People will remember only what pertains to them. They look to nations who built things and made them last. Not the ones who discovered those things and had them stolen. The young always have their dreams.” He stared contemplatively at his wine, as though it held all the world’s answers in its depths. “Dreams don’t last forever.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
“I’ve settled down now; trying to get used to the quiet life again, but you probably already knew that.” He took another long sip. It was self-depreciation at its finest. She wasn’t telling him anything that he didn’t already know and seemed intent on bringing up aspects of his past that he’d rather forget. And why shouldn’t she? She was in his head, after all.
“Wouldn’t you like to have the excitement again, though?” she asked in hushed tones, like it was a coveted secret. “To ride into battle with the cries of your men behind you, emerging gloriously victorious to indulge in the spoils of war? To hear them chant your name, proud to stand with you, for you?” She held out a long fingered hand. “I can give you that, if you want it.”
Portugal considered this. “Your offer is very tempting...” he mused, settling back in his seat and looking up at the canopy of branches that obscured the sky, casting light and shadows down on them like the mottled pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. “If not hard to believe, if you don’t mind my saying. Who are you, to be able to grant me such a deal?”
And at what price...?
Titania raised one eyebrow, as though this was a silly question. “Why, I’m the Queen of the Summer Court. I can do as I please. I could give you the throne next to mine, and have you ride into battle with me against the wretched Winter Court.” The name was nearly snarled out, and a couple of the courtiers hissed. Titania regained her composure quickly, however. “It won’t be too much trouble at all. What could it hurt?”
He gave her a funny look. “The Summer Court,” he repeated blandly, and looked around him. “And I, as King of the Faeries?” His tone was mildly sarcastic. “You’re joking, surely.” Because this was even stranger than what he was used to, as far as dreams went. He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and frowned a little to himself. “It’s a far cry from ruling all Hispania, I’ll give you that...”
He had to admit that she made a good point though, all misgivings aside. What could it hurt? It would all vanish in the blink of an eye the moment he woke up. Was it better to rule a fairytale kingdom out of a child’s storybook, if only for a moment, or have no kingdom at all? He cleared his throat.
“...but I suppose I could,” he began slowly, “There’s no harm. While it lasts.” Which probably wouldn’t be for much longer anyway. He shrugged.
Titania’s smile got wider, and wider, and she laughed delightedly and clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Simply wonderful! Oh, we must prepare! Set to making you armour and weapons befitting of your position.” she cried excitedly, before turning on her court. “My friends and consorts, today we have a reason to celebrate! Our new ally Portugal will aid us in our battle against Winter! Blacksmiths, tailors, to your shops! Everyone else...” she paused thoughtfully, “... bring the wine!”
A cheer rose up from the crowd, shouts of adoration for the queen and her new ally.
Portugal watched the proceedings with bemusement, feeling both a little out of place, and at the same time, warmed by the enthusiasm these people seemed to show to their queen, their country. He touched the centre of his crucifix, under his shirt, brushing his fingers over the gilded edges with a sense of longing. “Winter is already here,” he told the woman next to him, “There’s not much you can do against the changing of the seasons. Better to let it run its course than fight against it, don’t you think?”
Titania sniffed, shaking her head, “Hm. Their victory is only temporary. If we didn’t fight, the seasons wouldn’t change at all.” she shuddered. “Can you imagine? Eternal winter. How horrible.” Her amber eyes followed his hand. “What’s that?”
Portugal paused. He pushed back the collar of his shirt and wound his fingers around a fine chain, tugging upwards until an elaborately carved iron cross came into view. It was rugged, and had lost much of its shine over the centuries, but perhaps out of habit more than anything else, he found himself gripping it until the corners dug into his palm whenever he found himself in trouble. Thinking about it, it was probably the oldest thing he owned and had kept continuously since childhood.
“A keepsake,” he said somewhat fondly, completely disregarding the idea of an eternal winter. He couldn’t begin to imagine it; especially if it turned out to be anything like staying at England’s house the entire year round. He’d gone to live with him for a few years during the 1600s in order to be closer to his young queen, and was determined to never relive the experience ever again.
Titania eyed it suspiciously. “May I see it? I’ve never seen such a thing before...” she held out her hand for it, eyes curious and asking.
Portugal raised his eyebrows at that, completely surprised. “Well... I don’t see why not,” he replied, if only because he was amazed that she had never come across one before. What an odd thing to say. Carefully, he pulled the chain up over his head, feeling strangely naked without the familiar weight against his chest. He held it out on his palm for her. “It’s really not that grand... there are much showier ones, made of gold and precious stones...” he trailed off and brushed his thumb over the top of the cross nostalgically.
Careful fingers reached out and hovered over it, before drawing back. She seemed afraid. “Its iron, isn’t it?” she said more than asked, watching it like it might leap up and attack her. “Iron is poisonous to our kind. You had best keep it away from anyone here, in your pocket and not around your neck.”
“It’s very old,” Portugal replied, his tone more than suggesting the sentimental value behind the old piece of jewellery. Whatever properties the iron had when it was fresh, he had no doubts that they had long since vanished, but he slipped the crucifix into his pocket like she asked. He didn’t mind, so long as she wasn’t asking him to leave it behind or dispose of it or anything, in which case she would probably have had to pry it from his fingers. He shook his head, the air suddenly feeling too warm and thick. It must have been the wine.
The queen looked relived as soon as it was out of sight. “Thank you.” she said, and rose from her chair, offering her hand to Portugal. “Right then, shall we go get you fitted in your armour?”
She seemed steady in comparison to him; Portugal hadn’t thought he’d drank that much. He straightened himself out, and this time when he took her invitation, he did so without hesitation.
Portugal pulled himself together, rose to his feet and grasped her hand in his own gratefully.
A dream was only a dream until you had both eyes open.
The cottage was quiet, save for the occasional turning of a page and the crackling of the log fire as it slowly turned to embers without anyone looking to tend to it. Wales hadn’t read this many books in one go since he’d got that library of Welsh-language books opened in Cardiff. And even then, they hadn’t been nearly as mind boggling as some of these books that he’d been reading for nearly a month were. They ranged from close to the truth to completely outlandish guesses. He began to wonder why England even had them.
It was then he noticed that England’s page turning had stopped for quite a while. Looking over the edge of his book and pushing his reading glasses up his nose, he peered around a towering stack of books to look for his brother.
The smaller blonde was slumped forward on his desk, face pinched into a frown and one hand still clutching a pen. His breathing was even, slow and steady.
Ah, the potion had worn off then.
Wales sighed wearily, standing from his arm chair and stretching, feeling joints click into place. He shrugged off his jacket and placed it over England shoulders, pinching the pen out of his hand before he accidentally stabbed himself in the eye with it while asleep.
“Useless without someone to keep an eye on you,” he muttered, shaking his head and ascending the stairs. “We’d better get him back quick.” But that could wait until morning. Or, he decided as he passed the window and spotted the sun coming up; it could wait until the afternoon.
Arthur was dreaming.
Or rather, he was in that half-awake state between dreaming and sleep, aware he was at his desk with a piece of paper stuck to his cheek and no doubt the ink printed on his face, but also seeing something that was not his sitting room. There was a field, expansive and empty, dark clouds above it casting shadows on the frosted grass. There were no trees in sight, just emptiness and the lingering feeling of anxious dread.
Then, on the horizon, something moved. A mass of something or other came closer and closer, and the sound of people reached his ears. He walked towards it, to meet it in the middle, and the closer he got the more worried he became. The ground shook with the force of thousands of feet marching forwards. He wanted to turn around and run, but didn’t dare. For the first time in the dream, he looked to the side, and realised he was walking next to an army too. Decked out in royal blues and splashes of scarlet, their weapons seemed to all be made out of ice; spears made of icicles, swords of broken sheet ice, and shields of compacted snow. Their ranks were rigidly kept, perfect formation and marching in perfect beat to the regulated sound of a war drum.
The beat stopped, and the army did too. But the approaching mass did not. As they came closer, it became clear that it too was an army, of a much different sort. They were not marching but running, full pelt and with nothing to lose, yelling and chanting and wild and frankly terrifying. Some of them were riding the backs of animals, from rats and squirrels to sparrows. Looking behind him, he could see the winter army had enlisted the help of moles, owls, hedgehogs and foxes. And still the other army charged forth, spears at the ready, one or two even with flaming arrows lit and ready to be fired. He wondered if they were going to stop, though they gave no indication of doing so.
On wordless command, the winter army raised their weapons readily.
Summer and Winter clashed with an almighty roar and striking of weapons, arrows of ice and fire flying every which way. Steam rose from the middle, creating a fog which he had to fight his way to see through, never mind the battle going on all around him.
Out of the mist came a knight of the court, dressed as the rest of the attacking army were, dark hair threaded with flowers and vines, riding on the back of a massive adder and swinging his sword to bat away enemies with ruthless precision and ease that could only come from hundreds of years of practice and skill. His face was obscured by a mask carved out of one half of a walnut shell, sanded smooth and tapering to a point like a beak. All of a sudden he seemed to pause, rounding on England with a silence that was almost heart-stopping in comparison to the chaos around him. The dark impenetrable eyeholes stared, sizing him up. Then slowly, very slowly, the knight grasped the edges of his mask and pushed it back off his face.
It was a face that England had known for a very long time.
Yet it seemed as though recognition was far from mutual, for the knight only grinned at him from atop his mount, lifting his sword above his head and pointing it straight at England. His hazel eyes were as dark and merciless as the harsh summer sun.
“Die.”
England finally found words half a second later as the edge of the sword plunged down, and when he did he shouted, as loud as he could-
“Portugal!”
His answer was his silent front room, in the wee hours of the morning. He’d sat up suddenly when he’d shouted, hand reaching in the air at nothing. England blinked twice, trying to clear the vision from his head. It was freezing in here; he could see his breath. He gave a shuddering sigh and stood up to get a blanket.
He nearly bumped into something small and blue.
“Ahh!” he jumped back, easily startled after such a dream. The little blue light hovering before his eyes quickly came into focus as a very small woman with dark hair and a decidedly unimpressed expression on her face. She folded her arms haughtily, white dress sparkling in the dim morning light.
“That is no way to greet a lady.” she said in her high, chime-like voice. England tried to slow down his heart to a normal pace.
“Good morning Mab,” he breathed. The faerie sniffed.
“And too informal as well,” she added, flying closer and smacking him on the nose. It stung like he’d just held an ice cube there for too long. He rubbed it. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
“It’s too early in the day for this, Mab,” England sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I was informal, now can I go get a cup of tea?”
“Not that!” she raised her voice a little, her usually calm facade cracking slightly. “What I just showed you in that dream! What do you have to say about that?”
Suddenly information came rushing back to him. Portugal missing, kidnapped by faeries, the Summer Court...
“Oh bugger me,” he swore, facepalming hard. “Are you trying to tell me that’s what you saw on the battlefield recently? Portugal...Gabriel was there?”
“Is that his name then?” Mab asked sharply. “Titania seems very fond of him, if what the scouts say is true. Always Gabriel this, and Gabriel that.” She waved a dainty hand idly, as though trying to brush the thought from her mind. “Not that she isn’t always fond of her new ‘favourites’, but to flaunt it on the battlefield!” Her pale cheeks took on a red tinge momentarily, betraying her anger for all of a second before her features smoothed out again, cold as ice. “Then again, I suppose it is not often she manages to sink her claws so thoroughly into one of your kind.” She gave England a withering look that could have dropped leaves off a tree.
“And this is somehow my fault?” He gestured at her, frustrated. “The Summer Court were the ones that kidnapped him!”
“Well you were negligent! You shouldn’t have let them near the house! The fact they were able to come out during my months of reign is a sign of lax security,” she exclaimed haughtily. She sighed lowly in what could have only been frustration and looked at England in a way that clearly said that she thought it was high time he redeemed himself for this outrage. “Well, damage done, now what are you going to do about it? He shouldn’t be on her side like that, it’s not fair.”
“That’s it!” It was like someone had finally turned a light bulb on in a dank corridor, making sense where all the books he had painstakingly slogged through had failed. England rounded on her. “Now that you’re here, you can let me into the faerie realms!”
Mab scoffed. “Albion, you mistake me for someone who is foolish enough to grant favours without expecting anything in return.” England was about to argue that she was the one who wanted him to get Portugal away from Titania, but then he realised that arguing with a faerie was about as fruitful as arguing with an immovable wall.
“Alright. What do you want?” he asked wearily, folding his arms and tucking his hands away from the cold air Mab brought with her wherever she went. The faerie queen clicked her tongue at him.
“An equaliser of course.” she said matter-of-factly.
“I’m not giving you a changeling- oh.” he stopped, went still, narrowed his eyes at her. “Me?”
The queen raised her tiny eyebrows, expression only visible because she was so close. “Or another of your kind suited to my court. That nice Canada boy, someone like that.”
“No no.” he shook his head. “I’m not getting anyone else involved in this; it’s a mess as it is.” He drew breath in through his nose, the cold stinging slightly. “I’ll go.”
Mab was silent for a long moment. “You would break your neutrality between the courts for just this one man?”
“I’d break a good deal of things for him.”
Faerie and nation held the silence for a little while longer before Mab inclined her head. “Very well. I’ll give you an hour to gather your wits. And tell your brother upstairs. I’ll be outside.” And without a word more, she fluttered out of the room, becoming a little silvery blue light outside. Once she was out of sight, England turned to face the wall, and let his head land very hard against it.
Damn it. This was going to suck.
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A/N:
candesceres Cande's tl;dr:
Another chapter again! \o/ And so quickly too. Haha well we'll probably continue on that vein, seeing how we're quite a few chapters ahead already, just posting them fairly slowly to avoid spamming (or at least that's my excuse). |D
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.
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
Portugal: Afonso Gabriel Fernandes de Alcântara Henriques dos Anjos
TL;DR, he has only had the name "Afonso" since becoming an independent kingdom in the 1100s; he adopted it to honour 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.
Wales: Darren Kirkland
Proto-Canada, I mean. Wales' is England's older brother and the middle child of the family: Ireland, Scotland, Wales, England, Northern Ireland. /o/
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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!”
- Port's Iron cross; there are two things that can weaken and even kill fae; religious symbols and iron. Iron is the real clincher here; put a faerie in an iron cage and it'll die within moments. Even being near the stuff makes them uncomfortable, and touching it burns and poisons them. Fae are also unable to enter religious buildings that do not accept them; it's a place of non-belief, as far as they're concerned. They thrive on belief, and going into such places would harm if not kill them. Port wearing an iron cross makes it much harder for them to work their magic on him, and is probably one of his few defences against fae. Once it's off, however...