Ficlet: The Baptism of Poland (Good Omens/Hetalia, G)
For lindensphinx, who wanted to see Aziraphale and Crowley meeting Poland.
Title: The Baptism of Poland
Rating: G
Fandoms: Good Omens/Hetalia
Warnings: none
Summary: On a spring morning in Poznań in 966, Aziraphale and Crowley decide the important business at hand is having a drink.
Note: Thank you to puddingcat for beta-reading!
Aziraphale wandered through the crowd, amiably smiling at people who seemed nervous, and shaking his head at those who were smugly talking loudly about how they always knew these pagans would see the light. Really, he thought, as long as people are reasonably happy and just want to get on with their lives without bothering others. There's no need to make them feel bad about things -
"So you think this is bad for these people? Duly noted," a voice hissed behind him.
Aziraphale didn't jump. After the first millennium Crowley had quite lost the power to surprise him.
"Don't be silly. And don't read my mind."
"Don't be an open book, then," Crowley said and laughed at his own wit. "A book, get it? Because you're always reading."
"Eventually there'll be a profession known as stand up comedian," Aziraphale said in a language no one yet spoke. "And when there is, you'll still be rubbish." He smiled as Crowley's face fell; it was good to get one's thwarting in early in the day whilst one was still fresh.
"No! I don't wanna!" a young boy yelled, evading his two pursuers and heading straight for them. "Coming through!" He ran between Aziraphale and Crowley, ducking behind them as his well-dressed pursuers grabbed at him.
"Duke Mieszko wants you with him!" one man said. "You have to obey!"
"Him, yeah. You? Not so much," the boy said, doing a quick circuit of Aziraphale and Crowley, who stared at him in bemusement.
"There'll be sweets afterwards," the other man said in desperation.
"After I've been tossed in the Warta, ruined my new clothes and caught a cold? There aren't enough sweets in all of Europe, dude."
Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other again. The boy looked a perfectly normal albeit clearly spoilt child of eleven or twelve, and yet - He dashed between them again and they each grabbed an arm.
"Let go! Why'd you have to get in the freaking way - oh, you're not Polish," the boy said in tones that indicated he didn't think much of people who weren't Polish.
"Pardon me for saying this -" Aziraphale started.
" - but you're not human," Crowley finished.
"Pffft," the boy said, looking them up and down. "It, like, takes one to know one." He raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale, adding archly, "Is that a toga? Even Rome knows they've totally been out of style for centuries, and he's dead."
"Thank you," the men chorused, grabbing the child from them and towing him away.
"I hate children," Aziraphale mused as he and Crowley strolled a little way off to a vantage point from where they could watch the proceedings without being swept away by the brisk spring wind. "And togas are dignified."
"You hate everything. You're a very bad angel."
"Takes one to know one," Aziraphale muttered, watching the duke humbly walk into the Warta, the boy's hand held firmly in his. The bishop made the sign of the cross and lowered the duke under the water as the child struggled to get free.
"Definitely not human," Crowley said, nodding towards the river drawing back from the boy as he flailed around in Mieszko's grasp, protesting that he already had a name and didn't freaking need another one. The protests stopped as the newly baptised duke swung him round by the scruff of his neck, shook him until the water rushed back around them, and grimly submerged him. Scant moments later the boy spluttered his way to the surface and stormed ashore, rage clear in his childish face.
"I should say not," Aziraphale agreed.
"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy," Crowley said, smugly examining his fingernails.
"Oh, there are not! I'm very open minded. And stop quoting things that haven't been written yet."
As they squabbled, the boy squelched past them, hair plastered down and water weed adorning his brightly embroidered tunic. "Felix," he muttered. "What sort of name is Fey-licks? Liet's totally gonna pee himself laughing."
"Now that you're a Christian you really should take Latin lessons," Aziraphale said helpfully. "You could aspire to the sunny disposition of your new name."
"Whatever. I'm off to sacrifice to the gods in case they feel left out." The boy looked behind him and took off, running.
"Good idea!" Crowley called after him, stepping out of the way of the tired and long-suffering gentlemen attendants who sprinted past in pursuit. "Keep your options open! Right, Aziraphale?"
"Whatever," Aziraphale said. "Let's find a glass of wine and get out of this wind."
"Rightio," Crowley said cheerfully. "They're more into beer in this part of the world, though." He grinned at the look of despair that crossed Aziraphale's face before Aziraphale remembered that despair was classified as a sin and therefore should not also be classified as angels, for the public use of.
"Has distilling made it here yet?" Aziraphale asked hopefully.
"Sorry. It's pencilled in for the coming centuries, though, isn't it?"
"Can't come soon enough," Aziraphale said, and led the way towards the wagons piled high with warm blankets and snacks, feeling he really needed to keep his strength up for the short journey back to the fortress and the celebratory feast.
* * * * * * * * *
Notes: In the spring of 966, Duke Mieszko I was baptised as one of the steps in transforming the tribal state of the Polans into the (eventual) Kingdom of Poland. The "baptism of Poland" may have taken place in Poznań, one of Mieszko's strongholds. In Hetalia Poland's human name, Feliks, is derived from "Felix", a Latin name meaning "happy."
Title: The Baptism of Poland
Rating: G
Fandoms: Good Omens/Hetalia
Warnings: none
Summary: On a spring morning in Poznań in 966, Aziraphale and Crowley decide the important business at hand is having a drink.
Note: Thank you to puddingcat for beta-reading!
Aziraphale wandered through the crowd, amiably smiling at people who seemed nervous, and shaking his head at those who were smugly talking loudly about how they always knew these pagans would see the light. Really, he thought, as long as people are reasonably happy and just want to get on with their lives without bothering others. There's no need to make them feel bad about things -
"So you think this is bad for these people? Duly noted," a voice hissed behind him.
Aziraphale didn't jump. After the first millennium Crowley had quite lost the power to surprise him.
"Don't be silly. And don't read my mind."
"Don't be an open book, then," Crowley said and laughed at his own wit. "A book, get it? Because you're always reading."
"Eventually there'll be a profession known as stand up comedian," Aziraphale said in a language no one yet spoke. "And when there is, you'll still be rubbish." He smiled as Crowley's face fell; it was good to get one's thwarting in early in the day whilst one was still fresh.
"No! I don't wanna!" a young boy yelled, evading his two pursuers and heading straight for them. "Coming through!" He ran between Aziraphale and Crowley, ducking behind them as his well-dressed pursuers grabbed at him.
"Duke Mieszko wants you with him!" one man said. "You have to obey!"
"Him, yeah. You? Not so much," the boy said, doing a quick circuit of Aziraphale and Crowley, who stared at him in bemusement.
"There'll be sweets afterwards," the other man said in desperation.
"After I've been tossed in the Warta, ruined my new clothes and caught a cold? There aren't enough sweets in all of Europe, dude."
Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other again. The boy looked a perfectly normal albeit clearly spoilt child of eleven or twelve, and yet - He dashed between them again and they each grabbed an arm.
"Let go! Why'd you have to get in the freaking way - oh, you're not Polish," the boy said in tones that indicated he didn't think much of people who weren't Polish.
"Pardon me for saying this -" Aziraphale started.
" - but you're not human," Crowley finished.
"Pffft," the boy said, looking them up and down. "It, like, takes one to know one." He raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale, adding archly, "Is that a toga? Even Rome knows they've totally been out of style for centuries, and he's dead."
"Thank you," the men chorused, grabbing the child from them and towing him away.
"I hate children," Aziraphale mused as he and Crowley strolled a little way off to a vantage point from where they could watch the proceedings without being swept away by the brisk spring wind. "And togas are dignified."
"You hate everything. You're a very bad angel."
"Takes one to know one," Aziraphale muttered, watching the duke humbly walk into the Warta, the boy's hand held firmly in his. The bishop made the sign of the cross and lowered the duke under the water as the child struggled to get free.
"Definitely not human," Crowley said, nodding towards the river drawing back from the boy as he flailed around in Mieszko's grasp, protesting that he already had a name and didn't freaking need another one. The protests stopped as the newly baptised duke swung him round by the scruff of his neck, shook him until the water rushed back around them, and grimly submerged him. Scant moments later the boy spluttered his way to the surface and stormed ashore, rage clear in his childish face.
"I should say not," Aziraphale agreed.
"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy," Crowley said, smugly examining his fingernails.
"Oh, there are not! I'm very open minded. And stop quoting things that haven't been written yet."
As they squabbled, the boy squelched past them, hair plastered down and water weed adorning his brightly embroidered tunic. "Felix," he muttered. "What sort of name is Fey-licks? Liet's totally gonna pee himself laughing."
"Now that you're a Christian you really should take Latin lessons," Aziraphale said helpfully. "You could aspire to the sunny disposition of your new name."
"Whatever. I'm off to sacrifice to the gods in case they feel left out." The boy looked behind him and took off, running.
"Good idea!" Crowley called after him, stepping out of the way of the tired and long-suffering gentlemen attendants who sprinted past in pursuit. "Keep your options open! Right, Aziraphale?"
"Whatever," Aziraphale said. "Let's find a glass of wine and get out of this wind."
"Rightio," Crowley said cheerfully. "They're more into beer in this part of the world, though." He grinned at the look of despair that crossed Aziraphale's face before Aziraphale remembered that despair was classified as a sin and therefore should not also be classified as angels, for the public use of.
"Has distilling made it here yet?" Aziraphale asked hopefully.
"Sorry. It's pencilled in for the coming centuries, though, isn't it?"
"Can't come soon enough," Aziraphale said, and led the way towards the wagons piled high with warm blankets and snacks, feeling he really needed to keep his strength up for the short journey back to the fortress and the celebratory feast.
* * * * * * * * *
Notes: In the spring of 966, Duke Mieszko I was baptised as one of the steps in transforming the tribal state of the Polans into the (eventual) Kingdom of Poland. The "baptism of Poland" may have taken place in Poznań, one of Mieszko's strongholds. In Hetalia Poland's human name, Feliks, is derived from "Felix", a Latin name meaning "happy."