Fragments (1/5)
Title: Fragments (1/5)
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): England, France, Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales
Pairing(s): None
Warning(s): None
Date: August, 2011; London, England
Word Count: 2210
Summary: England discovers that no magical misdeed goes unpunished. (Sequel to Precautionary Tales.)
Author's Note: Other stories set in this universe are here.
_________________________________________________________________________________
August, 2011; London, England
As he spends so many nights tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable spot in which to sleep in strange beds with mattresses that are always either too soft or too hard, so many days drinking tea that never tastes right because it hasn't been made with water that had been filtered through the kidneys of seven other Londoners before him, and so many hours shuttling between cities and countries and continents that he sometimes feels a moment of existential terror that he's forgotten exactly where and even who he is, England finds more comfort in the routine of his home life than just about anything else.
He wakes at six fifty-nine precisely, which gives him just enough time to blink open his eyes and stretch the sleep-ache out of his arms and legs before his alarm starts to blare at seven. He rises promptly, opens his curtains to contemplate the sky - yesterday's weather forecast had promised a fine day, but the few clouds drifting overhead are a particularly ominous sort of grey; England rearranges his internal schedule accordingly, and resolves to mow his lawn sooner rather than later - and thereafter retreats to his bathroom.
He showers, shaves and brushes his teeth with wonderfully familiar, chalky London water, then allows himself a moment to study his reflection in the mirror above the sink once the steam has cleared from it. There are some fine lines gathered at the corners of his eyes that weren't there yesterday and likely won't be there tomorrow. England has found over the course of his long life that his is a mutable immortality; that his body alters and grows, though it does not, as yet, decay. These signs of ageing - a grey hair here, a wrinkle there - are both trivial and transitory, and on the whole, he looks no older than when he fought in the Second World War, or even the Boer.
Nevertheless, the changes are oddly comforting, as they reassure him that his country is still changing, too, still evolving and maturing.
If they ever linger for more than a week or so, then he will start to worry.
He dresses in his lazy day uniform of shirt, cardigan, and shabby corduroys that were deliberately bought one size too large so they fall with a comfortable looseness around his hips, and breakfasts at seven thirty on a bowl of cornflakes and two slices of brown toast, washed down with a glass of orange juice. The juice leaves a horrible metallic aftertaste in his mouth and he promises himself for the umpteenth time that he'll start brushing his teeth after he's eaten instead of before, even though, realistically, he knows he'll do the exact same thing tomorrow. Habits are so very hard to break.
After he's cleared away his plate and glass, he indulges himself by preparing a pot of tea rather than just chucking a teabag and boiling water in a mug and calling it done. Given the delicate blends of expensive loose leaf tea he has been gifted for countless Christmases, his colleagues and extended family clearly consider him a connoisseur of the stuff, but he is not. Ideally, he has simple English Breakfast, brewed so long that it's almost black, with a splash of milk and as many sugars as he can stand without it feeling as though it's rotting through his teeth whilst he drinks it. 'Builder's tea,' Scotland calls it, and he always sounds unfathomably proud when he does so.
As he is free of the imposition and intrusion of company for the time being, England also indulges himself by taking his tea in the parlour, his refuge of the past three centuries and more. Even more than his corduroys, it's been worn into such a smooth fit for him over the years that he finds it relaxing to do nothing more than simply exist in it. Each piece of furniture has been wisely selected and lovingly restored, the chairs padded to just the right firmness that they neither make his tailbone sore even if he were to idle away the entire morning upon one, nor unwittingly lull him into sleep like the voluminous sofas in his living room do.
And he does so enjoy to idle here, sometimes with a good book and a glass of brandy, sometimes with Radio 4 and hot chocolate, and sometimes with no distractions other than his own thoughts and memories. His brothers often, repeatedly, and irritatingly, disparage his choice of artwork for the parlour, but England can think of no better subject to surround himself than the oil-paint renditions of cows, pigs and sheep that hang there.
Admittedly, he had only been 'playing' at being a farmer in the nineteenth century, just as Scotland had accused him of, picking delicately through the mud and cow shit in an attempt not to dirty either his frock-coat or spit-shined shoes, so he could go and gaze with proprietary pride at his livestock and land. That hobby farm had been as much of a refuge as the parlour, though. Somewhere he could retreat to in order to escape Scotland, Wales and Ireland - who were never quiet and never easy and never still; his house had felt more like a battleground than a home, then - and pretend for a while that he had no worries more pressing than field drainage, feed stores, and the price of meat.
He casts his eye over them affectionately as he sips his tea, and contentment wells up and through him, even more warm and reassuring than the cheerfully crackling fire he has set in the grate.
He has no meetings today, no-one to make any demands on him save for the fae, whose needs are refreshingly simple, and he intends to thoroughly waste his time from now until he retires to bed. Beyond the mowing and a few other routine gardening chores, there's very few productive things that he needs to do that can't be put off until tomorrow.
He had spent the majority of his week in Paris, being simpered to, pawed at, and patronised by the Frog in the name of diplomacy. He likes to think that he weathered the ordeal with as much aplomb as could be reasonably be expected of him, but his teeth have been gritted through so many false smiles lately that he can feel the sting in his jaw even now.
Sometimes, he misses the days when he and France could officially claim each other as enemies, because he could at least knee the bastard between the legs whenever he deserved it back then - every second sentence he spoke, as a rule - and still expect to be lauded for it by his bosses, instead of being subjected to yet another lecture about 'unwarranted attacks on our allies'.
The unwelcome Gallic turn of his thoughts rather sours his appreciation of his second cup of tea, and he gulps it down solely to avoid waste, begrudging every drop.
He finds he can't settle afterwards: his thoughts chase themselves in endless, agitated circles, his chair suddenly feels too narrow and confining, and his hands are afflicted with a nervous twitch, seemingly determined to form fists of their own accord.
Cursing France and his ability to ruin a man's leisure and peace of mind even when his smug, aggravating face is over two hundred miles away, England lurches to his feet and resolves to distract himself with the one non-horticultural task he feels he cannot postpone.
Mrs Patel from number 5 always comes in to water England's plants and turn his downstairs lights off and on in a burglar-baffling pattern whilst he's away on business, a favour he returns by feeding her cat whenever she and her husband are out of town. She also gathers up his post as another crime prevention measure, and leaves it in a stack on the shelf by England's front door.
England had noticed that it was quite a sizeable one when he returned home late last night, but he hadn't had either the energy or mental fortitude to tackle it then. It had niggled at him, though, even in sleep, and his dreams had been filled with envelopes that were as big as whales and trying to swallow him whole.
He really does hate to get behind on his paperwork.
The stack has been rendered even taller this morning by the addition of one of his fae, who is sleeping curled up on top of it. From the red hat upon its tiny head, England can tell even from a distance that its George; a gnome with the temperament of an already angry cat stuffed unwillingly into a very small bag. Consequently, England is very careful as he eases the letters out from beneath it.
Despite his caution, George awakens to the accompaniment of a shrill chittering noise that Northern Ireland has described in the past as 'pins being pushed slowly through your eardrums', but usually puts England in mind of grasshoppers stridulating in the Spring sunshine.
Today, however, he can see where Northern Ireland is coming from, especially when George yawns and its hinged jaw swings down low enough that each and every one of its sharp, predator's teeth is put on show.
"I was just getting these," England says, holding up his letters in demonstration.
George's jet black eyes shine like an oil spill.
"I thought I'd sort through them in the dining room," England continues as he gingerly starts to walk away from the gnome, avoiding any sudden, alarming movements. "This sort of thing's easier with a big, flat surface to work on."
He doesn't know why he bothers to explain anything to his fae, who cannot hope to understand him, but it too is a habit many centuries in the making. It's nice to have someone to talk to, even if they can't talk back.
Besides, they seem to find the sound of his voice soothing. George is no exception, and England soon hears the soft pitter patter of its little feet following along the hallway behind him. Frequently, it will choose to travel around by means of embedding its claws into England's thigh and thereby hitching a lift on the back of his leg, so the sound is something of a relief.
When England reaches the dining room, George jumps up onto the table, hunkers down into a crouch, and then proceeds to excavate one of its nostrils with a great deal of focus and attention. As its nails are half as long again as its fingers, and wickedly pointed at the end, England has often wondered how it manages such a feat without doing itself a grievous injury.
"Now, I'll make three piles," England says as he takes his own seat at the table. "One for bills, one for junk mail, and one for personal correspondence."
Halfway through the stack, he still only has two piles.
"It's such a shame that letter writing is going the way of the dodo," England tells George. "I mean, emails and so on do have their place, and I wouldn't be without them now, but there's nothing that can quite compare to getting a letter."
George appears to have no opinion on the matter.
"I used to receive so many that I hardly had time in the day to reply to them all," England continues, undeterred by the gnome's disinterest, "but nowadays I... Oh!"
Lurking beneath England's latest electricity statement is an envelope with far more promise. The paper it's constructed from is thick and creamy, obviously expensive, and his name and address are written upon it in beautiful, even copperplate. No pedestrian begging for his custom, this.
"I wonder who it's from?" England asks the indifferent gnome as he peers down at the stamp. It's a regular first class one with no distinguishing features, and the postmark is so smudged as to be unrecognisable.
"No better way to find out than to open it, right?"
England takes the gnome's silence as agreement, and runs the blade of his letter opener with a fastidious hand beneath the envelope's flap so that it opens as neatly as possible.
There are three sheets of paper inside, of equally high quality as the envelope.
On the first, England reads:
Dear Mr Kirkland,
I am writing to inform you that
There's nothing more on that page, nor the second. At the top of the third page, written in a much bolder, sloppier hand is:
YOU ARE A WANKER
"How odd," England muses aloud as he turns this last sheet over to see if there's any sort of explanation to be found on the reverse of it.
There are no words, however, only a spiral of runes that flare a bright, searing red as his gaze touches them.
England screws his eyes closed immediately, and hurls the paper to the floor, even though he already knows it's too late for him. Words have a power that even he cannot hope to contain, and the runes represent words in their most primal, potent form. Because he's seen them, recognised them, the spell they contain twists through his mind like a thicket of brambles, prickling at the inside of his skull.
The nauseating stink of burning sulphur begins to fill the air.
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): England, France, Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales
Pairing(s): None
Warning(s): None
Date: August, 2011; London, England
Word Count: 2210
Summary: England discovers that no magical misdeed goes unpunished. (Sequel to Precautionary Tales.)
Author's Note: Other stories set in this universe are here.
_________________________________________________________________________________
August, 2011; London, England
As he spends so many nights tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable spot in which to sleep in strange beds with mattresses that are always either too soft or too hard, so many days drinking tea that never tastes right because it hasn't been made with water that had been filtered through the kidneys of seven other Londoners before him, and so many hours shuttling between cities and countries and continents that he sometimes feels a moment of existential terror that he's forgotten exactly where and even who he is, England finds more comfort in the routine of his home life than just about anything else.
He wakes at six fifty-nine precisely, which gives him just enough time to blink open his eyes and stretch the sleep-ache out of his arms and legs before his alarm starts to blare at seven. He rises promptly, opens his curtains to contemplate the sky - yesterday's weather forecast had promised a fine day, but the few clouds drifting overhead are a particularly ominous sort of grey; England rearranges his internal schedule accordingly, and resolves to mow his lawn sooner rather than later - and thereafter retreats to his bathroom.
He showers, shaves and brushes his teeth with wonderfully familiar, chalky London water, then allows himself a moment to study his reflection in the mirror above the sink once the steam has cleared from it. There are some fine lines gathered at the corners of his eyes that weren't there yesterday and likely won't be there tomorrow. England has found over the course of his long life that his is a mutable immortality; that his body alters and grows, though it does not, as yet, decay. These signs of ageing - a grey hair here, a wrinkle there - are both trivial and transitory, and on the whole, he looks no older than when he fought in the Second World War, or even the Boer.
Nevertheless, the changes are oddly comforting, as they reassure him that his country is still changing, too, still evolving and maturing.
If they ever linger for more than a week or so, then he will start to worry.
He dresses in his lazy day uniform of shirt, cardigan, and shabby corduroys that were deliberately bought one size too large so they fall with a comfortable looseness around his hips, and breakfasts at seven thirty on a bowl of cornflakes and two slices of brown toast, washed down with a glass of orange juice. The juice leaves a horrible metallic aftertaste in his mouth and he promises himself for the umpteenth time that he'll start brushing his teeth after he's eaten instead of before, even though, realistically, he knows he'll do the exact same thing tomorrow. Habits are so very hard to break.
After he's cleared away his plate and glass, he indulges himself by preparing a pot of tea rather than just chucking a teabag and boiling water in a mug and calling it done. Given the delicate blends of expensive loose leaf tea he has been gifted for countless Christmases, his colleagues and extended family clearly consider him a connoisseur of the stuff, but he is not. Ideally, he has simple English Breakfast, brewed so long that it's almost black, with a splash of milk and as many sugars as he can stand without it feeling as though it's rotting through his teeth whilst he drinks it. 'Builder's tea,' Scotland calls it, and he always sounds unfathomably proud when he does so.
As he is free of the imposition and intrusion of company for the time being, England also indulges himself by taking his tea in the parlour, his refuge of the past three centuries and more. Even more than his corduroys, it's been worn into such a smooth fit for him over the years that he finds it relaxing to do nothing more than simply exist in it. Each piece of furniture has been wisely selected and lovingly restored, the chairs padded to just the right firmness that they neither make his tailbone sore even if he were to idle away the entire morning upon one, nor unwittingly lull him into sleep like the voluminous sofas in his living room do.
And he does so enjoy to idle here, sometimes with a good book and a glass of brandy, sometimes with Radio 4 and hot chocolate, and sometimes with no distractions other than his own thoughts and memories. His brothers often, repeatedly, and irritatingly, disparage his choice of artwork for the parlour, but England can think of no better subject to surround himself than the oil-paint renditions of cows, pigs and sheep that hang there.
Admittedly, he had only been 'playing' at being a farmer in the nineteenth century, just as Scotland had accused him of, picking delicately through the mud and cow shit in an attempt not to dirty either his frock-coat or spit-shined shoes, so he could go and gaze with proprietary pride at his livestock and land. That hobby farm had been as much of a refuge as the parlour, though. Somewhere he could retreat to in order to escape Scotland, Wales and Ireland - who were never quiet and never easy and never still; his house had felt more like a battleground than a home, then - and pretend for a while that he had no worries more pressing than field drainage, feed stores, and the price of meat.
He casts his eye over them affectionately as he sips his tea, and contentment wells up and through him, even more warm and reassuring than the cheerfully crackling fire he has set in the grate.
He has no meetings today, no-one to make any demands on him save for the fae, whose needs are refreshingly simple, and he intends to thoroughly waste his time from now until he retires to bed. Beyond the mowing and a few other routine gardening chores, there's very few productive things that he needs to do that can't be put off until tomorrow.
He had spent the majority of his week in Paris, being simpered to, pawed at, and patronised by the Frog in the name of diplomacy. He likes to think that he weathered the ordeal with as much aplomb as could be reasonably be expected of him, but his teeth have been gritted through so many false smiles lately that he can feel the sting in his jaw even now.
Sometimes, he misses the days when he and France could officially claim each other as enemies, because he could at least knee the bastard between the legs whenever he deserved it back then - every second sentence he spoke, as a rule - and still expect to be lauded for it by his bosses, instead of being subjected to yet another lecture about 'unwarranted attacks on our allies'.
The unwelcome Gallic turn of his thoughts rather sours his appreciation of his second cup of tea, and he gulps it down solely to avoid waste, begrudging every drop.
He finds he can't settle afterwards: his thoughts chase themselves in endless, agitated circles, his chair suddenly feels too narrow and confining, and his hands are afflicted with a nervous twitch, seemingly determined to form fists of their own accord.
Cursing France and his ability to ruin a man's leisure and peace of mind even when his smug, aggravating face is over two hundred miles away, England lurches to his feet and resolves to distract himself with the one non-horticultural task he feels he cannot postpone.
Mrs Patel from number 5 always comes in to water England's plants and turn his downstairs lights off and on in a burglar-baffling pattern whilst he's away on business, a favour he returns by feeding her cat whenever she and her husband are out of town. She also gathers up his post as another crime prevention measure, and leaves it in a stack on the shelf by England's front door.
England had noticed that it was quite a sizeable one when he returned home late last night, but he hadn't had either the energy or mental fortitude to tackle it then. It had niggled at him, though, even in sleep, and his dreams had been filled with envelopes that were as big as whales and trying to swallow him whole.
He really does hate to get behind on his paperwork.
The stack has been rendered even taller this morning by the addition of one of his fae, who is sleeping curled up on top of it. From the red hat upon its tiny head, England can tell even from a distance that its George; a gnome with the temperament of an already angry cat stuffed unwillingly into a very small bag. Consequently, England is very careful as he eases the letters out from beneath it.
Despite his caution, George awakens to the accompaniment of a shrill chittering noise that Northern Ireland has described in the past as 'pins being pushed slowly through your eardrums', but usually puts England in mind of grasshoppers stridulating in the Spring sunshine.
Today, however, he can see where Northern Ireland is coming from, especially when George yawns and its hinged jaw swings down low enough that each and every one of its sharp, predator's teeth is put on show.
"I was just getting these," England says, holding up his letters in demonstration.
George's jet black eyes shine like an oil spill.
"I thought I'd sort through them in the dining room," England continues as he gingerly starts to walk away from the gnome, avoiding any sudden, alarming movements. "This sort of thing's easier with a big, flat surface to work on."
He doesn't know why he bothers to explain anything to his fae, who cannot hope to understand him, but it too is a habit many centuries in the making. It's nice to have someone to talk to, even if they can't talk back.
Besides, they seem to find the sound of his voice soothing. George is no exception, and England soon hears the soft pitter patter of its little feet following along the hallway behind him. Frequently, it will choose to travel around by means of embedding its claws into England's thigh and thereby hitching a lift on the back of his leg, so the sound is something of a relief.
When England reaches the dining room, George jumps up onto the table, hunkers down into a crouch, and then proceeds to excavate one of its nostrils with a great deal of focus and attention. As its nails are half as long again as its fingers, and wickedly pointed at the end, England has often wondered how it manages such a feat without doing itself a grievous injury.
"Now, I'll make three piles," England says as he takes his own seat at the table. "One for bills, one for junk mail, and one for personal correspondence."
Halfway through the stack, he still only has two piles.
"It's such a shame that letter writing is going the way of the dodo," England tells George. "I mean, emails and so on do have their place, and I wouldn't be without them now, but there's nothing that can quite compare to getting a letter."
George appears to have no opinion on the matter.
"I used to receive so many that I hardly had time in the day to reply to them all," England continues, undeterred by the gnome's disinterest, "but nowadays I... Oh!"
Lurking beneath England's latest electricity statement is an envelope with far more promise. The paper it's constructed from is thick and creamy, obviously expensive, and his name and address are written upon it in beautiful, even copperplate. No pedestrian begging for his custom, this.
"I wonder who it's from?" England asks the indifferent gnome as he peers down at the stamp. It's a regular first class one with no distinguishing features, and the postmark is so smudged as to be unrecognisable.
"No better way to find out than to open it, right?"
England takes the gnome's silence as agreement, and runs the blade of his letter opener with a fastidious hand beneath the envelope's flap so that it opens as neatly as possible.
There are three sheets of paper inside, of equally high quality as the envelope.
On the first, England reads:
Dear Mr Kirkland,
I am writing to inform you that
There's nothing more on that page, nor the second. At the top of the third page, written in a much bolder, sloppier hand is:
YOU ARE A WANKER
"How odd," England muses aloud as he turns this last sheet over to see if there's any sort of explanation to be found on the reverse of it.
There are no words, however, only a spiral of runes that flare a bright, searing red as his gaze touches them.
England screws his eyes closed immediately, and hurls the paper to the floor, even though he already knows it's too late for him. Words have a power that even he cannot hope to contain, and the runes represent words in their most primal, potent form. Because he's seen them, recognised them, the spell they contain twists through his mind like a thicket of brambles, prickling at the inside of his skull.
The nauseating stink of burning sulphur begins to fill the air.