Ripples (1/2)
anonymous
March 8 2010, 07:54:45 UTC
This is a sidestory to the above fill, Vanilla Twilight, written with the author's blessing
When Avalon became again, he knew who he was before he opened his eyes. What he didn’t know was what he would be.
He stood away from the roots of the tree he had been nestled against, his ankles brushed by the simple white covering that he faintly remembered from the first time he was small.
A fae fluttered close, hovering in front of his face. It touched a hand to his cheek, questioning, its glow a round, soft red.
Avalon smiled and held out a hand for it to settle into. He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue twisted around words that weren’t familiar to him. “How long was I away?”
It was still his land here, he could feel it solid underneath his feet, saw the forest and hills and could hear it in the chatter of the people that this place was still his his his.
The fae replied that it had been such a long time, that he had left them alone -it seemed rather put out about that-and that they were ever so glad he was back.
The unnamed Avalon thanked the creature and dropped his hand. It landed on his shoulder, clutching its hands into his garment determinably, as if trying to prevent him from leaving again. He should have known better than to ask one of them, the fae had no real concept of time.
As he strode through the forest (more like scurried, his legs were far too short), he refused to fret. It would be silly to fret, what could he do now about those people, what would Atlantis think of him worrying himself when he knew in his bones that he could not leave these islands for a while, his people weren’t up to it. And Atlantis was strong himself, he would-will, he will-laugh once he gets a look at Avalon now.
Avalon knew that his cheeks were chubby. And that his legs were short. And all the gods what were those things over his eyes? He just knew they hadn’t been there before. Of course not. He caught a glimpse of himself in a pond that he passed, the murky water only giving the vaguest reflection.
Dark blond hair, scraggly as it ever was. He felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d wanted to be ginger.
He had just started to not-worry again when he reached the end of the forest and met his people.
---
It was years later when control over his land was seized by a tall man with a shiny shield and a stupid little curl that he was able to ask the question that was not bothering him.
So one night, when the newly-christened England stood sulking in the corner, he asked Rome about Atlantis.
The large man had looked at him, still eating the round red apples that England wanted to dash from his hands, and brushed off his hands before waving England forward. England came slowly.
As soon as he was in range, Rome grabbed his arm and hauled England up to his lap.
His mouth on England’s ear, his hand on England’s knee, he told of earthquakes and floods. How the land of Atlantis had overreached itself. It failed to escape the doom of the gods and had sunk beneath the waves over the course of a day and a night.
England’s heart had clenched, his mind insisting that he didn’t care, he didn’t, and he hadn’t thought Atlantis was still alive, anyway, he would have heard something if that idiot had still been alive. He told himself this long after Rome had dismissed him for the night, and he fell asleep under an apple tree, leaves crunching as they settled under his body.
The tree’s dryad was there when he woke, running her hands over his hair and catching the strands in her bark-like skin. In her hands was a crisp, perfect apple, and England thanked her, holding it close to his chest, knowing without being told that it came from the very top of the tree.
Ripples (2a/2)
anonymous
March 8 2010, 07:58:16 UTC
It was centuries later, when he was still bleeding from his last war with that bastard who didn’t deserve to be named, that England again turned his eyes to the west.
He left his ruler without a word, his purse filled with stolen gold, and bribed a particularly adventurous and greedy fisherman to take him out far into the Atlantic.
It was weeks later, when the brave fisherman was babbling about low supplies, that England turned away from the stars and allowed the man to go back.
He offered no reason for his absence, but his ruler seemed more concerned with his reticence than where he had been.
England spent a cold night out in the courtyard, his back pressed against the skinny tree in the courtyard, its branches just beginning to bud.
---
He accepted the fact that Atlantis was gone. It was no real difficulty, there was no way that Atlantis had survived. He had nursed the hopes of Atlantis’ rebirth longer than he cared to admit, even more when he again saw the tall form of Thule and the violet-eyed Kvenland. He had met many nations, so many nations, and none of them remembered, none of them were him.
England had set his eyes elsewhere, and when the news came of a land across the sea, he most certainly didn’t storm in on his ruler and demand a ship immediately.
When he looked and found nothing he only had himself to blame, not that he’d believed anything could come of that venture, not even so much as a hard coin.
So when he traveled home, he made a quick stop in a southern port and took a few trinkets, along with some supplies to last them the journey. England obviously wanted the gold more than Spain, who hadn’t put up near enough of a fight.
As he relaxed into his hammock, England mused that while it wasn’t his first choice, hard cider eventually did the trick.
Ripples (2b/2)
anonymous
March 8 2010, 08:00:13 UTC
He hadn’t known what to do the first time he’d seen those blue eyes peering through the tall grasses. His breath had seized, his heart plunging into his stomach, his mouth opening without so much as a gasp.
They had vanished, and England had stumbled after, his eyes wide and his arms outstretched.
He hadn’t caught him, the child had vanished into the forest, but his heart continued to pound in his chest, vision blurred by the light of the rose-colored sun as it drifted downward.
---
By the time he saw the boy again, he knew that the child wasn’t Atlantis. He looked similar, had the same golden hair and blue eyes and open demeanor, but he wasn’t Atlantis. He only looked like Atlantis, as did his brother in the north.
When England claimed the boy on his own, he vowed that he would not treat this child as someone long dead. He deserved to live the life of his choosing, and England was there to care for him. He named the boy America, for the hapless Italian who had mapped him, and settled in to be a caretaker.
He stayed with America frequently, not because he was hoping to see something of Atlantis, but because the boy needed him. The boy needed him, and England wasn’t going to let the visage of a long-dead lover scare him from his brother.
When he came to visit after a time away, balancing a large crate of tea in his arms, he nearly dropped it onto his foot.
There-there!-was Atlantis, his broad shoulders and his bright eyes and his insufferably assured grin, looking down on him from his new height.
Before he could gather himself to speak, to say anything at all, the crate was taken from his arms, balanced easily in one hand as America used the other to open the door, babbling happily about how the harvest had been going.
England spent the rest of the night in a numb shock, fluctuating between a strong desire to tell America (Atlantis!) everything and a pull toward normalcy, familiarity, the desire not to thrust upon his colony a past that he did not remember and that he likely would not believe.
The latter won. England consumed the apple tart, something America had apparently learned from the Netherlands, in near-complete silence before departing the next day, much to the protests of his colony.
---
He found himself visiting America less and less. He kept his visits short, clipped, always leaving with the tide.
When he found that America was pressing westward, he felt a thrill of fear and reacted swiftly, forbidding America from moving beyond the mountains, confiscating those farms that lay beyond.
America had reacted poorly, but it was all for his own benefit. England further restricted him, clasping the boy to his sides, ensuring that their welfare was tied together as firmly as he could make it. Atlantis had fallen, grasping for what couldn’t be, stretching for the sky and falling to the sea. He wouldn’t let America do the same.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t see America’s pain as he hamstrung the foolish, idiotic, beautiful boy, kept him dependent on England’s trade and hampered America’s own.
When England sunk to the ground, unable to shoot Atlantis (America), he realized his mistake.
His brilliant coat, as red as the last apples of autumn, was soaking up the water from the dirty puddles, his boot and trousers were coated with the churned-up, blood-tinged mud of battle. He pressed a hand to his face, hiding his tears in the downpour.
As he sobbed out his question, he already knew. He had been fighting for something that didn’t exist, had been fighting to protect America from a destiny that was not his. Had never been his.
America-America who was himself and always had been, was not who Avalon had been fighting for.
Avalon looked up at America, his eyes blinking from the rainwater dripping from his hair. He looked at America, saw America, and when he let his head fall he was crying for Atlantis.
Thank you to the first writer for letting me do this, and as a note to the readers this will probably conflict with what's coming in the original piece, I did not consult the author for plot information.
Re: Ripples (2b/2)
anonymous
March 8 2010, 08:29:39 UTC
This is marvelous, and ties in so well with the main story. Thank you for the side story, anon!
Now I have even less patience for the next chapter of the main story. Gawd, this thing has suddenly become one of my favorite fills on the meme and I can't wait for more - whether it be the main story or side shoots.
Re: Ripples (2b/2)
anonymous
March 8 2010, 12:55:40 UTC
Ahh, this was a lovely companion piece anon! You captured the mood perfectly! (And I love, love, LOVE the Dr. Who reference. I'm a ginger! XD I want the 12th Doctor to be one...) Really though, this was just lovely. I am loving both the main fill and this one!
Re: Ripples (2b/2)
anonymous
March 8 2010, 16:30:18 UTC
Other author!anon of Vanilla Twilight here! This fill was incredible. I love that you went through England's beginning all the way to the revolution and the little things he notices that makes America and Atlantis different. So many tiny things made my heart flutter, like the dryad getting apples from the top and the reference to Thule and Kvenland.
Well, I could go on all day, but long story short; absolutely loved this fill!
Re: Ripples (2b/2)
anonymous
March 8 2010, 17:04:21 UTC
OP here. I just wanted to say - this is so poignant, so pure, that I keep having to bite back sobs. It's absolutely beautiful. Makes me wonder what went on in Iggy's head when he realized America was starting to *remember...* It must have struck him like a lightning bolt, all hesitation and desperate hope and need...
Plus, the knowledge that Atlantis was killed - that hubris wasn't his downfall - would knock his socks off.
God, now I can't wait for the next chapter of the fill...
Re: Ripples (2b/2)
anonymous
March 9 2010, 02:15:18 UTC
I'm glad you enjoyed it, OP! It was such an interesting concept to work with, and I can never truly pass up a chance at angst.
I can't speak for the original filler, but I would think that England would be very torn about America remembering--it was so painful for him to realize that America wasn't Atlantis, and then to face the possibility that America could remember... As well as the interesting sort of dilemma with how to reconcile their pasts with their presents.
"You always forgot to bank the fire!" "That was last life! You're not allowed to bring that up anymore!"
England finding out would be a bit of a shock. To think he lost America not only to a destiny that wasn't his, but wasn't Atlantis' either...good thing at this point that they've already made up or the angst would be irresistible terrible.
When Avalon became again, he knew who he was before he opened his eyes. What he didn’t know was what he would be.
He stood away from the roots of the tree he had been nestled against, his ankles brushed by the simple white covering that he faintly remembered from the first time he was small.
A fae fluttered close, hovering in front of his face. It touched a hand to his cheek, questioning, its glow a round, soft red.
Avalon smiled and held out a hand for it to settle into. He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue twisted around words that weren’t familiar to him. “How long was I away?”
It was still his land here, he could feel it solid underneath his feet, saw the forest and hills and could hear it in the chatter of the people that this place was still his his his.
The fae replied that it had been such a long time, that he had left them alone -it seemed rather put out about that-and that they were ever so glad he was back.
The unnamed Avalon thanked the creature and dropped his hand. It landed on his shoulder, clutching its hands into his garment determinably, as if trying to prevent him from leaving again. He should have known better than to ask one of them, the fae had no real concept of time.
As he strode through the forest (more like scurried, his legs were far too short), he refused to fret. It would be silly to fret, what could he do now about those people, what would Atlantis think of him worrying himself when he knew in his bones that he could not leave these islands for a while, his people weren’t up to it. And Atlantis was strong himself, he would-will, he will-laugh once he gets a look at Avalon now.
Avalon knew that his cheeks were chubby. And that his legs were short. And all the gods what were those things over his eyes? He just knew they hadn’t been there before. Of course not. He caught a glimpse of himself in a pond that he passed, the murky water only giving the vaguest reflection.
Dark blond hair, scraggly as it ever was. He felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d wanted to be ginger.
He had just started to not-worry again when he reached the end of the forest and met his people.
---
It was years later when control over his land was seized by a tall man with a shiny shield and a stupid little curl that he was able to ask the question that was not bothering him.
So one night, when the newly-christened England stood sulking in the corner, he asked Rome about Atlantis.
The large man had looked at him, still eating the round red apples that England wanted to dash from his hands, and brushed off his hands before waving England forward. England came slowly.
As soon as he was in range, Rome grabbed his arm and hauled England up to his lap.
His mouth on England’s ear, his hand on England’s knee, he told of earthquakes and floods. How the land of Atlantis had overreached itself. It failed to escape the doom of the gods and had sunk beneath the waves over the course of a day and a night.
England’s heart had clenched, his mind insisting that he didn’t care, he didn’t, and he hadn’t thought Atlantis was still alive, anyway, he would have heard something if that idiot had still been alive. He told himself this long after Rome had dismissed him for the night, and he fell asleep under an apple tree, leaves crunching as they settled under his body.
The tree’s dryad was there when he woke, running her hands over his hair and catching the strands in her bark-like skin. In her hands was a crisp, perfect apple, and England thanked her, holding it close to his chest, knowing without being told that it came from the very top of the tree.
---
Reply
He left his ruler without a word, his purse filled with stolen gold, and bribed a particularly adventurous and greedy fisherman to take him out far into the Atlantic.
It was weeks later, when the brave fisherman was babbling about low supplies, that England turned away from the stars and allowed the man to go back.
He offered no reason for his absence, but his ruler seemed more concerned with his reticence than where he had been.
England spent a cold night out in the courtyard, his back pressed against the skinny tree in the courtyard, its branches just beginning to bud.
---
He accepted the fact that Atlantis was gone. It was no real difficulty, there was no way that Atlantis had survived. He had nursed the hopes of Atlantis’ rebirth longer than he cared to admit, even more when he again saw the tall form of Thule and the violet-eyed Kvenland. He had met many nations, so many nations, and none of them remembered, none of them were him.
England had set his eyes elsewhere, and when the news came of a land across the sea, he most certainly didn’t storm in on his ruler and demand a ship immediately.
When he looked and found nothing he only had himself to blame, not that he’d believed anything could come of that venture, not even so much as a hard coin.
So when he traveled home, he made a quick stop in a southern port and took a few trinkets, along with some supplies to last them the journey. England obviously wanted the gold more than Spain, who hadn’t put up near enough of a fight.
As he relaxed into his hammock, England mused that while it wasn’t his first choice, hard cider eventually did the trick.
---
Reply
They had vanished, and England had stumbled after, his eyes wide and his arms outstretched.
He hadn’t caught him, the child had vanished into the forest, but his heart continued to pound in his chest, vision blurred by the light of the rose-colored sun as it drifted downward.
---
By the time he saw the boy again, he knew that the child wasn’t Atlantis. He looked similar, had the same golden hair and blue eyes and open demeanor, but he wasn’t Atlantis. He only looked like Atlantis, as did his brother in the north.
When England claimed the boy on his own, he vowed that he would not treat this child as someone long dead. He deserved to live the life of his choosing, and England was there to care for him. He named the boy America, for the hapless Italian who had mapped him, and settled in to be a caretaker.
He stayed with America frequently, not because he was hoping to see something of Atlantis, but because the boy needed him. The boy needed him, and England wasn’t going to let the visage of a long-dead lover scare him from his brother.
When he came to visit after a time away, balancing a large crate of tea in his arms, he nearly dropped it onto his foot.
There-there!-was Atlantis, his broad shoulders and his bright eyes and his insufferably assured grin, looking down on him from his new height.
Before he could gather himself to speak, to say anything at all, the crate was taken from his arms, balanced easily in one hand as America used the other to open the door, babbling happily about how the harvest had been going.
England spent the rest of the night in a numb shock, fluctuating between a strong desire to tell America (Atlantis!) everything and a pull toward normalcy, familiarity, the desire not to thrust upon his colony a past that he did not remember and that he likely would not believe.
The latter won. England consumed the apple tart, something America had apparently learned from the Netherlands, in near-complete silence before departing the next day, much to the protests of his colony.
---
He found himself visiting America less and less. He kept his visits short, clipped, always leaving with the tide.
When he found that America was pressing westward, he felt a thrill of fear and reacted swiftly, forbidding America from moving beyond the mountains, confiscating those farms that lay beyond.
America had reacted poorly, but it was all for his own benefit. England further restricted him, clasping the boy to his sides, ensuring that their welfare was tied together as firmly as he could make it. Atlantis had fallen, grasping for what couldn’t be, stretching for the sky and falling to the sea. He wouldn’t let America do the same.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t see America’s pain as he hamstrung the foolish, idiotic, beautiful boy, kept him dependent on England’s trade and hampered America’s own.
When England sunk to the ground, unable to shoot Atlantis (America), he realized his mistake.
His brilliant coat, as red as the last apples of autumn, was soaking up the water from the dirty puddles, his boot and trousers were coated with the churned-up, blood-tinged mud of battle. He pressed a hand to his face, hiding his tears in the downpour.
As he sobbed out his question, he already knew. He had been fighting for something that didn’t exist, had been fighting to protect America from a destiny that was not his. Had never been his.
America-America who was himself and always had been, was not who Avalon had been fighting for.
Avalon looked up at America, his eyes blinking from the rainwater dripping from his hair. He looked at America, saw America, and when he let his head fall he was crying for Atlantis.
Thank you to the first writer for letting me do this, and as a note to the readers this will probably conflict with what's coming in the original piece, I did not consult the author for plot information.
Hope you enjoyed, anyway!
Reply
Now I have even less patience for the next chapter of the main story. Gawd, this thing has suddenly become one of my favorite fills on the meme and I can't wait for more - whether it be the main story or side shoots.
^-^/
Reply
Reply
Reply
I'm glad you liked it!
Reply
Reply
Thank you for reading!
Reply
Well, I could go on all day, but long story short; absolutely loved this fill!
Reply
Haha, I liked referencing back to the apples, it makes for excellent imagery.
Thank you for reading, I'm glad you enjoyed it! Thanks for letting me write it!
Reply
Plus, the knowledge that Atlantis was killed - that hubris wasn't his downfall - would knock his socks off.
God, now I can't wait for the next chapter of the fill...
Reply
I can't speak for the original filler, but I would think that England would be very torn about America remembering--it was so painful for him to realize that America wasn't Atlantis, and then to face the possibility that America could remember... As well as the interesting sort of dilemma with how to reconcile their pasts with their presents.
"You always forgot to bank the fire!"
"That was last life! You're not allowed to bring that up anymore!"
England finding out would be a bit of a shock. To think he lost America not only to a destiny that wasn't his, but wasn't Atlantis' either...good thing at this point that they've already made up or the angst would be irresistible terrible.
Reply
Leave a comment