(APH Fic) The Curious and Terrible Tale of General Winter 7/7
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
Part the Third
Part the Fourth
Part the Fifth
Part the Sixth
Part the Seventh: At the Palace of General Winter; and What Happened Next
The following day, Berwald, Tino, and Hana led Arthur across the blankets of snow surrounding their little home, up towards a great icy waste where there was no plants, no rivers, no sign of life at all - just a great, thick wall of snowflakes, whirling and driving into them. And here they stopped.
“We can go no further than here,” Tino said, when Arthur turned back to look at him questioningly.
“Got t’ go the rest ‘f the way alone,” Berwald added, pointing into the snow storm which lay before them.
“B-but I -”
“Hana’ll help ya.”
The small white dog yipped and trotted forwards to stand beside Arthur’s ankles.
The snowflakes seemed to descend even more quickly upon them, and as Arthur looked away from Hana and back towards the other men, he saw that they had grown very faint, as though they were melting away in the wind.
“Good luck, Arthur!” Tino cried, waving a hand. “Know you can...” and here his voice faded for a moment. “...you love hi-” and his voice faded once more, and Arthur blinked, and then they were gone.
The fierce swirl of snow was wrapped around him already; and he turned, fighting against the vicious winds to push in the direction Berwald had pointed out. But it seemed that for every step he took forwards, the snowflakes shoved him two steps back, and he could almost feel arms closing around him, and hard hands pushing against his chest.
“G-get off!” he shouted. “Need - need to get - Alfred - Alfred!”
The snowflakes whirled faster and faster and faster, and suddenly they were no longer strong arms and hands, but a great, fierce wolf, sparkling and bristling. Arthur gasped, hesitating, and then Hana growled, and launched her tiny body towards the creature. Arthur cried out in shock, but neither the snow-wolf nor the dog, who were snarling and snapping and biting and scratching, seemed to notice, and so he turned away, and ran, and ran, and he did not look back.
He ran, and he ran, and he ran, as fast as his legs could carry him. He ran until his breath stopped in his chest and in his throat; he ran until his feet and his sides cramped; and he ran until his vision blurred and his bright, white surroundings turned black. And when he thought he could run no more, and that he would surely die there, in the cold, alone, without ever seeing his beloved Alfred again - he stopped.
He was in a large room, it seemed: a great chamber sculpted from ice, with high ceilings, and walls on every side, and narrow passageways leading far away into the distance. The ice shone pink and blue and pale yellow, and the light was dim, and at the opposite end of the room, there was a high-backed chair, a throne, that looked to be carved from crystals but, Arthur was certain, was in fact just another part of the palace made from cold, hard ice.
Arthur looked at the throne, and at the couple of steps leading up to it. And then he looked again, and his heart tightened, and pounded, and his stomach leapt and exploded with butterflies. For there, on the frozen ground at the bottom of the steps, down on his knees and examining something Arthur could not see, and did not care about, was Alfred F. Jones.
His entire attention was focused solely upon a number of flat, sharp pieces of ice - for long ago, when General Winter had brought him to his palace, he had told him that he could not leave until he could shape the ice into something that would last forever. General Winter had left then, leaving Alfred imprisoned, struggling with the pieces of ice which melted between his fingertips, or shattered, and he would be forced to scratch new icicles from the ceiling or the walls with his fingernails, which hurt a great deal; and still, he could not make something eternal. And so he remained in the ice chamber for years upon years, struggling alone, numb.
His skin was blue with cold, and so were his lips, and his eyes were hard and icy - but he did not care, for the splinters of that wicked Magic Mirror were still firmly lodged inside his eye and his heart.
Arthur still thought he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“Alfred!” he shouted, and he flew across the slippery ground, arms outstretched, and flung himself upon him. “Alfred, Alfred, Alfred...”
But Alfred just looked dully back at him, glassy-eyed and emotionless. He was taller now, older, so handsome, and Arthur supposed that they both were grown-ups now, or nearly, at least. And he felt so very sad that Alfred did not care for him, and that he was so very cold and dead inside that his lip began to tremble, and though he had not cried in a long, long time, it was so very difficult not to now...
For he had Alfred in his arms at long last - but Alfred did not care, and it was so, so terribly, terribly cruel...
Tears began to stream down his face, and he pressed his cheek against Alfred’s temple. He was so cold, so very cold, and he kissed his hair, and because he simply did not know what else he could do, he began to sing, softly, “The rose is red, the violet’s blue, the honey’s sweet, and so are you...”
And here, a most curious thing happened. One of Arthur’s warm, salty tears slid down over his cheek, and onto Alfred’s brow, then slipped into his eye, the one with the shard of glass in it. Alfred blinked slowly, and the tear leaked back out, and the glass with it. He blinked again, and then again, and he saw Arthur close beside him, his arms about his neck and his eyes wet and half-closed. And he cried out in shock, and then in joy:
“Arthur! Oh, Arthur, it’s you! It’s really you! Arthur!” And he threw his arms around his friend’s waist, and pulled him close, and together they laughed and sobbed, and Arthur kissed him on the left cheek, then the right, on the tip of his nose, on his forehead, his chin, he kissed every finger, and the palms of his hands, and then, finally, he kissed him on the mouth - just quickly - and at last the blue tinge faded from his skin, and his body and his heart were warm again; for at Arthur’s kisses, the sliver of glass that was lodged there had vanished entirely.
Alfred leapt to his feet, dragging Arthur up with him, and picked him up and whirled him around and around and around, laughing even louder and more joyfully when Arthur squealed, “Put me down! Put me down you great buffoon!”
When at last he did, letting Arthur slip down to the ground gently, their hands met and their fingers entwined, and they did not let go, but kissed one another softly, sweetly, before turning back in the direction Arthur had come from, and running, running together away from the palace of ice, across the snowy wasteland towards the sun.
The shards of ice Alfred had spent so long struggling to shape into something permanent lay still upon the floor of the now empty chamber, formed into a heart shape. And no matter how fiercely General Winter fought to eradicate them when he returned to find his captive gone, they did not melt, or shift; and even to this day, they still lie there, peaceful and undisturbed; and they will do so for all of eternity.
Outside, the snowstorm had ended and the great snow wolf was nowhere to be seen, but Hana stood waiting for them, her little tail wagging away happily, her mouth covered with melting snowflakes. They followed her away from the ice, back towards where Arthur had left Berwald and Tino, who were overjoyed to see them safe, and embraced them both - Berwald a little more awkwardly than his wife - and they returned together to their house, where they ate and slept for a night and a day, and then another night.
When their strength was recovered, Berwald leant Alfred some of his warm clothes, and Tino gave Arthur some of his, and Hana led the two of them away from the cold land of snow, southwards, back towards the woods and the forests, where they came upon two other men, whom Arthur knew.
It was Den and Norge, riding the white horses they had taken from Arthur, the horses gifted to him by Matthew and Francis.
“Well, hello there!” Den shouted, and kicked his mount forwards, pulling it to a halt beside Arthur and Alfred.
“Uh,” said Alfred, “hello.” He leant down towards Arthur, whispering in his ear and making him blush: “D’you know this man? He’s a bit odd, isn’t he?”
“Heehee, Norge, look at this!” he gestured down towards the pair’s hands, which were still joined and had been since their flight from General Winter’s palace. “Aw!”
“How perfectly sickening,” Norge replied, rolling his eyes.
“I see you didn’t return the horses,” said Arthur, sniffing. “So I can assume you kept the carriage, too. How disgraceful.”
“The two princes who gave them to you are gone abroad,” said Norge, his nose in the air. “So really, there was no way for us to do that.”
“You live a long way from here, don’t you?” Den enquired suddenly. “Hey, angel, why don’t we take them home in the carriage?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Norge said, irritably. “Why don’t I cut your head off and tie these two to a tree, and leave you all for the wolves?”
Den looked at him blankly. Alfred just threw his head back and laughed. Norge looked rather shocked.
“Ha!” Alfred exclaimed. “You’re alright! Norge, is it?”
In the end, Norge did agree to take Arthur and Alfred home, but he sat up at the front with Den and refused to sit in the carriage with them and talk, which was most agreeable for all concerned. Alfred rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur gazed out at the world slipping by; at the trees and flowers and bushes, and the deer and rabbits who went hop-hop-hopping over large rocks and fallen branches. At one point, Alfred’s arm, larger and heavier and stronger than Arthur remembered it, slid into his lap, and their fingers curled together. And they sat like that, silent and happy, warm and comfortable, for the remainder of the journey.
When at last they arrived in the little town where Arthur and Alfred had been children - the town they had not seen for so very long - Den and Norge slowed and stopped the horses and they said their goodbyes.
“Bye,” said Norge, shortly, and nothing else.
Den beamed and slapped them both on their backs, and said to Alfred, “This is a very fine fellow, you hear me? He came further for you than you can ever imagine.”
“I know,” said Alfred, and he smiled at Arthur. “And I’d run from one end of the world to the other for him.”
“Good!” said Den, climbing back onto the front of the carriage with Norge. “Send us an invitation to the wedding!”
Arthur spluttered and Alfred laughed, and took his beloved’s hand as the two men drove off out of town and over the horizon.
“Let’s go home,” Alfred said, when they were out of sight.
Arthur smiled. “Gladly.”
They walked back along the road, past all the little houses they remembered so well; back towards their own. The sky was a brilliant blue, like Alfred’s eyes, and the sun was yellow and high and hot, and all the plants were flourishing. It was summertime, they realised, and it felt so strange, and yet so wonderful.
The roses were blooming, as always, in Arthur’s little garden, and suddenly Arthur remembered and took from his pocket the old, fading embroidery he’d carried with him for so very long, but very nearly forgotten about, and gave it to Alfred.
“This is for me?” Alfred said.
“Yes.”
And Alfred smiled. “You stitched it yourself.”
“Y-yes.”
There was a sudden great commotion, as doors up and down the street were flung wide open, and Grandmano and Antonio appeared in the doorway of Alfred’s house, and Arthur’s brothers appeared at the doorway of his own, and all of a sudden they were there, embracing them, and Grandmano was slapping Alfred on his arm, and calling him a bastard, and Antonio was laughing and singing, and Arthur’s brothers were yelling, all at once. And then Grandmano wanted to pinch their cheeks, and Antonio was sent back home to make supper...
And at some point, late in the evening, when the sun was half-spilt across the sky and the birds were settling down to roost, and insects buzzed sleepily, and Grandmano had fallen asleep in the old armchair after telling the pair of them, yet again, that they’d grown so much... Alfred wrapped an arm around Arthur’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Sing me a song, Arthur.”
And Arthur, turning his face so the other would not see his red cheeks, began to sing:
"The rose is red, the violet's blue,
The honey's sweet, and so are you.
Thou are my love and I am thine;
I drew thee to my Valentine:
The lot was cast and then I drew,
And fortune said it shou'd be you."
The End
Thank you so much to everyone who has commented - and thanks again to my beta, and to my recipient!
I'd also like to add at this point that the above poem which is alluded to throughout is not my own; it comes from a 1784 collection of English nursery rhymes called Gammer Gurton's Garland.
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
Part the Third
Part the Fourth
Part the Fifth
Part the Sixth
Part the Seventh: At the Palace of General Winter; and What Happened Next
The following day, Berwald, Tino, and Hana led Arthur across the blankets of snow surrounding their little home, up towards a great icy waste where there was no plants, no rivers, no sign of life at all - just a great, thick wall of snowflakes, whirling and driving into them. And here they stopped.
“We can go no further than here,” Tino said, when Arthur turned back to look at him questioningly.
“Got t’ go the rest ‘f the way alone,” Berwald added, pointing into the snow storm which lay before them.
“B-but I -”
“Hana’ll help ya.”
The small white dog yipped and trotted forwards to stand beside Arthur’s ankles.
The snowflakes seemed to descend even more quickly upon them, and as Arthur looked away from Hana and back towards the other men, he saw that they had grown very faint, as though they were melting away in the wind.
“Good luck, Arthur!” Tino cried, waving a hand. “Know you can...” and here his voice faded for a moment. “...you love hi-” and his voice faded once more, and Arthur blinked, and then they were gone.
The fierce swirl of snow was wrapped around him already; and he turned, fighting against the vicious winds to push in the direction Berwald had pointed out. But it seemed that for every step he took forwards, the snowflakes shoved him two steps back, and he could almost feel arms closing around him, and hard hands pushing against his chest.
“G-get off!” he shouted. “Need - need to get - Alfred - Alfred!”
The snowflakes whirled faster and faster and faster, and suddenly they were no longer strong arms and hands, but a great, fierce wolf, sparkling and bristling. Arthur gasped, hesitating, and then Hana growled, and launched her tiny body towards the creature. Arthur cried out in shock, but neither the snow-wolf nor the dog, who were snarling and snapping and biting and scratching, seemed to notice, and so he turned away, and ran, and ran, and he did not look back.
He ran, and he ran, and he ran, as fast as his legs could carry him. He ran until his breath stopped in his chest and in his throat; he ran until his feet and his sides cramped; and he ran until his vision blurred and his bright, white surroundings turned black. And when he thought he could run no more, and that he would surely die there, in the cold, alone, without ever seeing his beloved Alfred again - he stopped.
He was in a large room, it seemed: a great chamber sculpted from ice, with high ceilings, and walls on every side, and narrow passageways leading far away into the distance. The ice shone pink and blue and pale yellow, and the light was dim, and at the opposite end of the room, there was a high-backed chair, a throne, that looked to be carved from crystals but, Arthur was certain, was in fact just another part of the palace made from cold, hard ice.
Arthur looked at the throne, and at the couple of steps leading up to it. And then he looked again, and his heart tightened, and pounded, and his stomach leapt and exploded with butterflies. For there, on the frozen ground at the bottom of the steps, down on his knees and examining something Arthur could not see, and did not care about, was Alfred F. Jones.
His entire attention was focused solely upon a number of flat, sharp pieces of ice - for long ago, when General Winter had brought him to his palace, he had told him that he could not leave until he could shape the ice into something that would last forever. General Winter had left then, leaving Alfred imprisoned, struggling with the pieces of ice which melted between his fingertips, or shattered, and he would be forced to scratch new icicles from the ceiling or the walls with his fingernails, which hurt a great deal; and still, he could not make something eternal. And so he remained in the ice chamber for years upon years, struggling alone, numb.
His skin was blue with cold, and so were his lips, and his eyes were hard and icy - but he did not care, for the splinters of that wicked Magic Mirror were still firmly lodged inside his eye and his heart.
Arthur still thought he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“Alfred!” he shouted, and he flew across the slippery ground, arms outstretched, and flung himself upon him. “Alfred, Alfred, Alfred...”
But Alfred just looked dully back at him, glassy-eyed and emotionless. He was taller now, older, so handsome, and Arthur supposed that they both were grown-ups now, or nearly, at least. And he felt so very sad that Alfred did not care for him, and that he was so very cold and dead inside that his lip began to tremble, and though he had not cried in a long, long time, it was so very difficult not to now...
For he had Alfred in his arms at long last - but Alfred did not care, and it was so, so terribly, terribly cruel...
Tears began to stream down his face, and he pressed his cheek against Alfred’s temple. He was so cold, so very cold, and he kissed his hair, and because he simply did not know what else he could do, he began to sing, softly, “The rose is red, the violet’s blue, the honey’s sweet, and so are you...”
And here, a most curious thing happened. One of Arthur’s warm, salty tears slid down over his cheek, and onto Alfred’s brow, then slipped into his eye, the one with the shard of glass in it. Alfred blinked slowly, and the tear leaked back out, and the glass with it. He blinked again, and then again, and he saw Arthur close beside him, his arms about his neck and his eyes wet and half-closed. And he cried out in shock, and then in joy:
“Arthur! Oh, Arthur, it’s you! It’s really you! Arthur!” And he threw his arms around his friend’s waist, and pulled him close, and together they laughed and sobbed, and Arthur kissed him on the left cheek, then the right, on the tip of his nose, on his forehead, his chin, he kissed every finger, and the palms of his hands, and then, finally, he kissed him on the mouth - just quickly - and at last the blue tinge faded from his skin, and his body and his heart were warm again; for at Arthur’s kisses, the sliver of glass that was lodged there had vanished entirely.
Alfred leapt to his feet, dragging Arthur up with him, and picked him up and whirled him around and around and around, laughing even louder and more joyfully when Arthur squealed, “Put me down! Put me down you great buffoon!”
When at last he did, letting Arthur slip down to the ground gently, their hands met and their fingers entwined, and they did not let go, but kissed one another softly, sweetly, before turning back in the direction Arthur had come from, and running, running together away from the palace of ice, across the snowy wasteland towards the sun.
The shards of ice Alfred had spent so long struggling to shape into something permanent lay still upon the floor of the now empty chamber, formed into a heart shape. And no matter how fiercely General Winter fought to eradicate them when he returned to find his captive gone, they did not melt, or shift; and even to this day, they still lie there, peaceful and undisturbed; and they will do so for all of eternity.
Outside, the snowstorm had ended and the great snow wolf was nowhere to be seen, but Hana stood waiting for them, her little tail wagging away happily, her mouth covered with melting snowflakes. They followed her away from the ice, back towards where Arthur had left Berwald and Tino, who were overjoyed to see them safe, and embraced them both - Berwald a little more awkwardly than his wife - and they returned together to their house, where they ate and slept for a night and a day, and then another night.
When their strength was recovered, Berwald leant Alfred some of his warm clothes, and Tino gave Arthur some of his, and Hana led the two of them away from the cold land of snow, southwards, back towards the woods and the forests, where they came upon two other men, whom Arthur knew.
It was Den and Norge, riding the white horses they had taken from Arthur, the horses gifted to him by Matthew and Francis.
“Well, hello there!” Den shouted, and kicked his mount forwards, pulling it to a halt beside Arthur and Alfred.
“Uh,” said Alfred, “hello.” He leant down towards Arthur, whispering in his ear and making him blush: “D’you know this man? He’s a bit odd, isn’t he?”
“Heehee, Norge, look at this!” he gestured down towards the pair’s hands, which were still joined and had been since their flight from General Winter’s palace. “Aw!”
“How perfectly sickening,” Norge replied, rolling his eyes.
“I see you didn’t return the horses,” said Arthur, sniffing. “So I can assume you kept the carriage, too. How disgraceful.”
“The two princes who gave them to you are gone abroad,” said Norge, his nose in the air. “So really, there was no way for us to do that.”
“You live a long way from here, don’t you?” Den enquired suddenly. “Hey, angel, why don’t we take them home in the carriage?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Norge said, irritably. “Why don’t I cut your head off and tie these two to a tree, and leave you all for the wolves?”
Den looked at him blankly. Alfred just threw his head back and laughed. Norge looked rather shocked.
“Ha!” Alfred exclaimed. “You’re alright! Norge, is it?”
In the end, Norge did agree to take Arthur and Alfred home, but he sat up at the front with Den and refused to sit in the carriage with them and talk, which was most agreeable for all concerned. Alfred rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur gazed out at the world slipping by; at the trees and flowers and bushes, and the deer and rabbits who went hop-hop-hopping over large rocks and fallen branches. At one point, Alfred’s arm, larger and heavier and stronger than Arthur remembered it, slid into his lap, and their fingers curled together. And they sat like that, silent and happy, warm and comfortable, for the remainder of the journey.
When at last they arrived in the little town where Arthur and Alfred had been children - the town they had not seen for so very long - Den and Norge slowed and stopped the horses and they said their goodbyes.
“Bye,” said Norge, shortly, and nothing else.
Den beamed and slapped them both on their backs, and said to Alfred, “This is a very fine fellow, you hear me? He came further for you than you can ever imagine.”
“I know,” said Alfred, and he smiled at Arthur. “And I’d run from one end of the world to the other for him.”
“Good!” said Den, climbing back onto the front of the carriage with Norge. “Send us an invitation to the wedding!”
Arthur spluttered and Alfred laughed, and took his beloved’s hand as the two men drove off out of town and over the horizon.
“Let’s go home,” Alfred said, when they were out of sight.
Arthur smiled. “Gladly.”
They walked back along the road, past all the little houses they remembered so well; back towards their own. The sky was a brilliant blue, like Alfred’s eyes, and the sun was yellow and high and hot, and all the plants were flourishing. It was summertime, they realised, and it felt so strange, and yet so wonderful.
The roses were blooming, as always, in Arthur’s little garden, and suddenly Arthur remembered and took from his pocket the old, fading embroidery he’d carried with him for so very long, but very nearly forgotten about, and gave it to Alfred.
“This is for me?” Alfred said.
“Yes.”
And Alfred smiled. “You stitched it yourself.”
“Y-yes.”
There was a sudden great commotion, as doors up and down the street were flung wide open, and Grandmano and Antonio appeared in the doorway of Alfred’s house, and Arthur’s brothers appeared at the doorway of his own, and all of a sudden they were there, embracing them, and Grandmano was slapping Alfred on his arm, and calling him a bastard, and Antonio was laughing and singing, and Arthur’s brothers were yelling, all at once. And then Grandmano wanted to pinch their cheeks, and Antonio was sent back home to make supper...
And at some point, late in the evening, when the sun was half-spilt across the sky and the birds were settling down to roost, and insects buzzed sleepily, and Grandmano had fallen asleep in the old armchair after telling the pair of them, yet again, that they’d grown so much... Alfred wrapped an arm around Arthur’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Sing me a song, Arthur.”
And Arthur, turning his face so the other would not see his red cheeks, began to sing:
"The rose is red, the violet's blue,
The honey's sweet, and so are you.
Thou are my love and I am thine;
I drew thee to my Valentine:
The lot was cast and then I drew,
And fortune said it shou'd be you."
The End
Thank you so much to everyone who has commented - and thanks again to my beta, and to my recipient!
I'd also like to add at this point that the above poem which is alluded to throughout is not my own; it comes from a 1784 collection of English nursery rhymes called Gammer Gurton's Garland.