(APH Fic) The Curious and Terrible Tale of General Winter 2/7
Pairing: USUK
Rating: It's probably fine for everyone. (Look away from Romano's dirty mouth...)
Summary: Hans Christian Anderson's The Snow Queen retold. When Alfred vanishes into a cold storm of snow, Arthur begins a journey that will last his whole childhood in order to bring his best friend home. USUK Secret Santa gift for eat_my_shoes661Many thanks to my wonderful beta-reader yaoishadow66613
Warnings: Language, butchery of a beautiful fairy tale.
Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia, nor do I claim to. I do not own The Snow Queen either. The following is a work of fiction. No harm intended.
Part the First
Part the Second: Two Young Boys
In a small town, some distance away from where Ice dropped his mirror, there lived two boys in houses that were side-by-side to one another, with square matching windows which they could climb through and into each other’s homes during the summer, when there was no ice freezing up the frames, and each house had a small matching garden filled with brightly-coloured flowers, and these two boys were the best of friends.
The taller, louder boy, with hair bright like the sun, and sky-blue eyes, and flashing spectacles was called Alfred; and the shorter one, with big eyebrows, and green eyes, and messy hair, and no spectacles was named Arthur. Alfred lived with his grandparents, and Arthur lived with his three older brothers, and between their two houses there was always a lot of laughter and chatter; and the two young boys liked it very much indeed.
One cold winter, the winter before Ice’s wicked attempt to reach the heavens and laugh at the gods, Alfred and Arthur sat together next to the large window at the front of Alfred’s house. His grandmother, who everyone in their little town called Grandmano, even if they were not related by blood, sat in the big, squashy armchair beside the fire, clicking a pair of knitting needles together and scowling in the direction of the flurry of snowflakes outside.
“Bastard snowflakes,” Grandmano said irritably. “Like horrid white bees. Antonio,” and this was the name of Alfred’s grandfather, “Where the fuck are my fucking slippers? My feet are fucking cold.”
Antonio hurried in, holding Grandmano’s favourite fluffy slippers out. “Ay, Lovi,” he said, anxiously. “You shouldn’t talk like that in front of the niños!” And he smiled, and waved cheerfully at Alfred and Arthur, who were snuggled up against each other across the room.
“Don’t you speak to me in that tone of voice,” said Grandmano; then, laying the knitting down, called across the room in the direction of the children: “Alfred! Alfred, come try on this sweater Nonna made for you.”
“Sure!” said Alfred cheerfully, sliding away from Arthur and hurrying across the room. “Nonna, do the white bees have a queen like regular bees do?”
“What’s that?”
“The white bees, Nonna! The snowflakes! Do they have a queen?”
“Mio dio. Are you as stupid as you look, Alfred? Of course they don’t! They’re fucking snowflakes. They have a general. Antonio, what are they teaching in schools these days? Bah.”
“I have no idea, mi amor.”
“Where is he, then?” asked Alfred, for he was a most curious child, “The General. Is he one of the snowflakes outside?” He struggled with the sweater Grandmano was wrestling over his head.
Grandmano’s eyes rolled back. “Of course not, idiota! You think he would bother coming to this shitty little town? He flies in the air and freezes the cities and forests he passes over with a flick of his wrist. Antonio, fetch me my shawl, I’m fucking cold.”
“Yes, yes, mi amor.” Antonio hurried to find it, for he loved Grandmano very much.
“If he did come,” said Alfred, “I’d be a hero! I’d grab him, and put him on the stove and melt him before he could freeze you, or Abuelito, or Arthur.”
“Don’t be daft, Alfred,” said Arthur from the other side of the room, wrinkling his nose and hunching his little knees up to his chest.
Alfred tugged at his new sweater and returned to the window, where he sat down beside his friend and laid an arm around his shoulders. Arthur’s cheeks turned pink, and he looked down at his feet. Alfred gazed up into the sky, through the swirling, weaving snowflakes, until he felt dizzy; and then, just as his eyelids began to drop, he caught sight of something very strange.
One of the dancing white flakes of snow, at least three times as large as the others, was hovering a little way above the snow-carpeted garden; not falling, not rising, just sitting there in mid-air, quite still. It glittered and gleamed brighter than all the others, and it seemed to grow, and stretch, and glow - more and more and more, growing bigger and bigger - until, at last, it resembled a strong, stern-looking man.
He wore a long coat that sparkled with sharp points of ice, and a scarf made up of thousands upon thousands of bright, tiny snowflakes, each one perfect and different. His eyes were pale, almost transparent, like icicles, and his skin and lips and hair were all as white as fresh new snow.
Alfred gasped and pressed closer to the cold window, peering out at the man, bewitched. At his side, Arthur had fallen asleep, his head nodding against Alfred’s shoulder.
The man outside the window raised one hand, then held it out towards Alfred, beckoning him forwards.
Alfred’s blue eyes widened, and he gasped and ducked down, waking Arthur up.
“Ow! Alfred, stop being silly -”
Alfred raised his head cautiously, tuning out Arthur’s irritated chastisements. But the general was gone.
The year drew on and the snow melted away, and once again Alfred and Arthur could climb through their windows and play in their gardens. The roses in Arthur’s garden were bright red and blooming, and they reminded him of a song he had heard - though where, he could not remember.
“The rose is red, the violet’s blue,” he recited.
“Hey, Arthur,” said Alfred, “are you singing?”
Arthur blushed as red as the roses. “No!” he said, and turned even redder when Alfred took his hand and swung it back and forth between them.
“You know,” he said, “these roses remind me of you, Arthur.”
“That’s funny,” said Arthur, and he tried very hard not to smile, “the roses remind me of you.”
It was the loveliest, warmest of days, and both children looked up at the sky together, smiling as the sun’s rays, and the hot summer breeze played over their faces.
“Ouch!” said Alfred, quite suddenly.
Arthur turned to him, worriedly. “What is it?” he asked, anxiously. “Alfred, what’s wrong?”
“N-nothing,” said Alfred; but he was lying. The tiniest shard of Ice’s Magic Mirror had blown into his eye, and was lodged there, firmly, and would not be removed, though he rubbed and rubbed at it. “It’s fine,” he said, and blinked, turning to look at Arthur. “Urgh!” he said, cruelly, “What are those things on your face? You look like you have great furry caterpillars creeping above your eyes, how ugly!” And he pushed poor Arthur away, then turned back towards his house, pausing to kick the roses, hard.
“Alfred!” cried Arthur, and he was frightened. “What are you doing, you fool?”
But Alfred just laughed and reached down, and scooped up some dirt from the flowerbeds and threw it at Arthur, then ran, scrambling in through his own window.
From then on, Alfred was no longer the kind, happy boy he had been before. Now, he was mean-spirited and rude, and he pulled up the rest of the roses in Arthur’s little garden, and then Antonio’s beloved tomato plants in his own, and he stuck his tongue out in Grandmano’s face, and hid around corners and tripped people up, and then pointed and laughed loudly, and mocked them. But worst of all, he refused to be friends with Arthur, and he teased and bullied him so much that poor Arthur would often run home in tears.
This went on for one whole year, and by the following winter, his behaviour had not improved. The only thing he found beautiful any more were the soft stars of snow that, as the air grew cold and sharp once again, began to float down from the heavens and scattered across the roofs of the houses, and across the gardens, and on the dark fabric of Alfred’s coat.
After one whole week of non-stop snow, when it was very deep and bright and thick on the ground, Alfred took his sledge and went into the town square. There, the children would tie their sledges to the back of passing carriages and whizz along at top speed, and have a most wonderful time. Arthur watched from his house; he only liked sledging when he went with Alfred, and Alfred didn’t talk to him anymore, except when he wanted to laugh at him, and insult him. He wrapped his arms around himself and watched, until Alfred’s small, dark figure disappeared into the distance.
Part the Third
Rating: It's probably fine for everyone. (Look away from Romano's dirty mouth...)
Summary: Hans Christian Anderson's The Snow Queen retold. When Alfred vanishes into a cold storm of snow, Arthur begins a journey that will last his whole childhood in order to bring his best friend home. USUK Secret Santa gift for eat_my_shoes661Many thanks to my wonderful beta-reader yaoishadow66613
Warnings: Language, butchery of a beautiful fairy tale.
Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia, nor do I claim to. I do not own The Snow Queen either. The following is a work of fiction. No harm intended.
Part the First
Part the Second: Two Young Boys
In a small town, some distance away from where Ice dropped his mirror, there lived two boys in houses that were side-by-side to one another, with square matching windows which they could climb through and into each other’s homes during the summer, when there was no ice freezing up the frames, and each house had a small matching garden filled with brightly-coloured flowers, and these two boys were the best of friends.
The taller, louder boy, with hair bright like the sun, and sky-blue eyes, and flashing spectacles was called Alfred; and the shorter one, with big eyebrows, and green eyes, and messy hair, and no spectacles was named Arthur. Alfred lived with his grandparents, and Arthur lived with his three older brothers, and between their two houses there was always a lot of laughter and chatter; and the two young boys liked it very much indeed.
One cold winter, the winter before Ice’s wicked attempt to reach the heavens and laugh at the gods, Alfred and Arthur sat together next to the large window at the front of Alfred’s house. His grandmother, who everyone in their little town called Grandmano, even if they were not related by blood, sat in the big, squashy armchair beside the fire, clicking a pair of knitting needles together and scowling in the direction of the flurry of snowflakes outside.
“Bastard snowflakes,” Grandmano said irritably. “Like horrid white bees. Antonio,” and this was the name of Alfred’s grandfather, “Where the fuck are my fucking slippers? My feet are fucking cold.”
Antonio hurried in, holding Grandmano’s favourite fluffy slippers out. “Ay, Lovi,” he said, anxiously. “You shouldn’t talk like that in front of the niños!” And he smiled, and waved cheerfully at Alfred and Arthur, who were snuggled up against each other across the room.
“Don’t you speak to me in that tone of voice,” said Grandmano; then, laying the knitting down, called across the room in the direction of the children: “Alfred! Alfred, come try on this sweater Nonna made for you.”
“Sure!” said Alfred cheerfully, sliding away from Arthur and hurrying across the room. “Nonna, do the white bees have a queen like regular bees do?”
“What’s that?”
“The white bees, Nonna! The snowflakes! Do they have a queen?”
“Mio dio. Are you as stupid as you look, Alfred? Of course they don’t! They’re fucking snowflakes. They have a general. Antonio, what are they teaching in schools these days? Bah.”
“I have no idea, mi amor.”
“Where is he, then?” asked Alfred, for he was a most curious child, “The General. Is he one of the snowflakes outside?” He struggled with the sweater Grandmano was wrestling over his head.
Grandmano’s eyes rolled back. “Of course not, idiota! You think he would bother coming to this shitty little town? He flies in the air and freezes the cities and forests he passes over with a flick of his wrist. Antonio, fetch me my shawl, I’m fucking cold.”
“Yes, yes, mi amor.” Antonio hurried to find it, for he loved Grandmano very much.
“If he did come,” said Alfred, “I’d be a hero! I’d grab him, and put him on the stove and melt him before he could freeze you, or Abuelito, or Arthur.”
“Don’t be daft, Alfred,” said Arthur from the other side of the room, wrinkling his nose and hunching his little knees up to his chest.
Alfred tugged at his new sweater and returned to the window, where he sat down beside his friend and laid an arm around his shoulders. Arthur’s cheeks turned pink, and he looked down at his feet. Alfred gazed up into the sky, through the swirling, weaving snowflakes, until he felt dizzy; and then, just as his eyelids began to drop, he caught sight of something very strange.
One of the dancing white flakes of snow, at least three times as large as the others, was hovering a little way above the snow-carpeted garden; not falling, not rising, just sitting there in mid-air, quite still. It glittered and gleamed brighter than all the others, and it seemed to grow, and stretch, and glow - more and more and more, growing bigger and bigger - until, at last, it resembled a strong, stern-looking man.
He wore a long coat that sparkled with sharp points of ice, and a scarf made up of thousands upon thousands of bright, tiny snowflakes, each one perfect and different. His eyes were pale, almost transparent, like icicles, and his skin and lips and hair were all as white as fresh new snow.
Alfred gasped and pressed closer to the cold window, peering out at the man, bewitched. At his side, Arthur had fallen asleep, his head nodding against Alfred’s shoulder.
The man outside the window raised one hand, then held it out towards Alfred, beckoning him forwards.
Alfred’s blue eyes widened, and he gasped and ducked down, waking Arthur up.
“Ow! Alfred, stop being silly -”
Alfred raised his head cautiously, tuning out Arthur’s irritated chastisements. But the general was gone.
The year drew on and the snow melted away, and once again Alfred and Arthur could climb through their windows and play in their gardens. The roses in Arthur’s garden were bright red and blooming, and they reminded him of a song he had heard - though where, he could not remember.
“The rose is red, the violet’s blue,” he recited.
“Hey, Arthur,” said Alfred, “are you singing?”
Arthur blushed as red as the roses. “No!” he said, and turned even redder when Alfred took his hand and swung it back and forth between them.
“You know,” he said, “these roses remind me of you, Arthur.”
“That’s funny,” said Arthur, and he tried very hard not to smile, “the roses remind me of you.”
It was the loveliest, warmest of days, and both children looked up at the sky together, smiling as the sun’s rays, and the hot summer breeze played over their faces.
“Ouch!” said Alfred, quite suddenly.
Arthur turned to him, worriedly. “What is it?” he asked, anxiously. “Alfred, what’s wrong?”
“N-nothing,” said Alfred; but he was lying. The tiniest shard of Ice’s Magic Mirror had blown into his eye, and was lodged there, firmly, and would not be removed, though he rubbed and rubbed at it. “It’s fine,” he said, and blinked, turning to look at Arthur. “Urgh!” he said, cruelly, “What are those things on your face? You look like you have great furry caterpillars creeping above your eyes, how ugly!” And he pushed poor Arthur away, then turned back towards his house, pausing to kick the roses, hard.
“Alfred!” cried Arthur, and he was frightened. “What are you doing, you fool?”
But Alfred just laughed and reached down, and scooped up some dirt from the flowerbeds and threw it at Arthur, then ran, scrambling in through his own window.
From then on, Alfred was no longer the kind, happy boy he had been before. Now, he was mean-spirited and rude, and he pulled up the rest of the roses in Arthur’s little garden, and then Antonio’s beloved tomato plants in his own, and he stuck his tongue out in Grandmano’s face, and hid around corners and tripped people up, and then pointed and laughed loudly, and mocked them. But worst of all, he refused to be friends with Arthur, and he teased and bullied him so much that poor Arthur would often run home in tears.
This went on for one whole year, and by the following winter, his behaviour had not improved. The only thing he found beautiful any more were the soft stars of snow that, as the air grew cold and sharp once again, began to float down from the heavens and scattered across the roofs of the houses, and across the gardens, and on the dark fabric of Alfred’s coat.
After one whole week of non-stop snow, when it was very deep and bright and thick on the ground, Alfred took his sledge and went into the town square. There, the children would tie their sledges to the back of passing carriages and whizz along at top speed, and have a most wonderful time. Arthur watched from his house; he only liked sledging when he went with Alfred, and Alfred didn’t talk to him anymore, except when he wanted to laugh at him, and insult him. He wrapped his arms around himself and watched, until Alfred’s small, dark figure disappeared into the distance.
Part the Third