The Worldsmith [Chapter Six] [Axis Powers Hetalia, England, America, others]
I said it'd be here tomorrow, and I kept my word. *grins* Now have fun.
Title: The Worldsmith [Chapter Six: Tis Now the Very Witching Time of Night]
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England, America; William Shakespeare, Elizabeth I, Robert Devereaux, and assorted other actors, playmakers, peers, gentry, scoundrels, spies, and thieves.
Rating: PG-13, for fights and rather unpleasant magic.
Summary: Sent back in time to deal with a mysterious threat to England's nationhood, England and America contend with witchcraft, the undead, the power of language, and their own clashing personalities.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six: In which our heroes make an art of breaking and entering, a fight breaks out in a church, and America hogs the bed (much to England's discomfort).
Notes: This is also known as the "time travel and Shakespeare and zombies" fic. You'll see why.
"So basically either Cecil is really, really smart, or Essex is really, really dumb."
"Or both. Do keep your voice down," England chides as the bookseller peers over his ledger to stare at them both. England makes a show of studying the shelves.
"What, did someone follow us here?" America asks.
"Damned if I know, but I'm not taking any chances." He looks about. The shop's not large enough for anyone to lurk out-of-sight, but people flow in and out the door, pausing to leaf through the books on display or haggle with the shopkeeper.
America runs his thumb over the topmost row of books. "Paranoid much?"
"Cautious," England corrects, "and with good reason. I've arranged for us all to move rooms-"
"Move rooms?"
He smiles mirthlessly. "If whoever's behind this has a mind to attack us again, I won't make it easy for them."
"You, my friend, have suspicion down to an art form," America says. "Oh, hey. W. Shakspere, The Passionate Pilgrim. Will didn't say he had a book out."
"Yes, well, I doubt he authorized it." England decides not to explain Elizabethan copyright laws (or the lack thereof, rather); they've got enough to be getting on with.
"Gimme a shilling? I'm going to buy it."
He hands over the money; the tips of his fingers brush America's palm, and America's fingers close over his own for a moment before he snatches the coins away and rolls them around in his hand.
"And hey, if he didn't know he was getting published, it'll be a surprise present," America says.
England nods, his thoughts elsewhere. With effort, he reins them in. America was drunk, England disconsolate, and there were wights. It doesn't bear thinking on.
"We'll pay both Cecil and Essex visits," he says instead, "and see what we uncover."
***
"England!"
"America, keep your voice down, for the love of Christ." England wouldn't be surprised if Cecil built these servants' staircases to amplify whispers and channel them straight to his rooms.
"Then come closer," America says, "I can't see you-"
England scoffs and taps the shoulder in front of him.
"'Sblood!"
"Ah. My apologies, Will."
"They are accepted," Will says, "but I would thou couldst warn me of such things."
"I thought you were America-never mind." England sighs. They'd best be quick about this; Burbage and the Lord Chamberlain's Men may have lured some of Cecil's servants away, but the back rooms won't remain empty forever, and god knows who Cecil's set to stand watch over his estate.
"Wish we had a flashlight," America mutters.
"Give it a few centuries."
"Fine. A torch."
The corner of England's mouth twitches. "It's the same thing."
"Huh?"
He sidesteps the question. "Light would draw too much attention to us," he explains instead. "And I've been up and down these blasted stairs enough through the years, I ought to know the way-"
"Doesn't mean you do."
"When did you last walk them?" Will asks.
"Oh," England says, groping at the wall for the moulding over the door, "several centuries ago. Or several days ago, depending on how you reckon the time."
"Ay," Will says; England can hear the puzzled frown in his voice. He ignores it for now, starts counting. Cecil's chambers aren't at the top of the steps, they're two landings down and on the right, and even Cecil's locks yield to a whispered spell or two. England shakes his head. He could have sworn he mentioned the importance of a few well-placed wards over one's doors, but the man's enough of a Puritan to balk at it, potential breach of security or no. Were he Catholic he wouldn't slight on such matters, but never mind that now, it does make the present task easier.
Cecil's rooms are deserted. Burbage should keep him plied with food and drink for another hour or so. Strange to enter through the door and not the window, but England has done stranger and will continue to do so, no doubt.
"So what does the Ealdspell look like, even?" America whispers, his breath in England's ear.
England nearly swats him out of reflex, but stays his hand in time. "When did you learn to be quiet?"
"When you started spacing out. So. Big old book?"
"That narrows our search little, I fear," Will says, eying the wall of bookshelves opposite Cecil's desk.
"He won't have it out in the open. Or perhaps he will, but made to look like something else." England chews his thumbnail. "Even if the Ealdspell isn't here, there ought to be something-fuck, I ought've asked Dee more about the wretched thing-"
"If it's supposed to be Will's, maybe he can-I don't know, sense it? Like a metal detector. But for books."
England wonders if he has anything on hand to stick in America's mouth to keep him from putting his foot in it, and doesn't that invite a certain sort of image, made more disturbing by England remembering how, as a child, America used to do just that.
"It may make itself known to me," Will says, as though he still doesn't quite believe the whole thing, "but I know not how."
"Well, metal detectors beep."
"They beep, didst say?"
England cuts in before America can explain. "Don't demonstrate." He drops to his knees to root under Cecil's desk. "And try to replace everything where you found it when you're done looking."
He looks up to see America mock-salute. "Aye aye, Captain."
Cecil's desk yields nothing. England skims his correspondences, but there's nothing in them, either, nor in the chest at the foot of his bed. America checks under it, but emerges shaking his head, and though Will is spending an inordinate amount of time perusing Cecil's bookshelves, England suspects that's professional interest more than an actual lead.
"So you really think he'd hide the book here?" America asks after shaking down Cecil's pillows.
"Put those back where you found them. And yes, or if not the book then something, damn it-"
"I expect to see thee steal through the window," Cecil says, his voice clipped, "but truly I know not now what thou hast stolen."
Bugger. England straightens slowly, palms out. America drops the stack of books in his arms, and Will knocks his elbow into the bookshelf. Fuck, he could have planned this better.
"What mean you by this?" Cecil asks.
"Yea verily, a most excellent question!" America says. "We. Uh. They don't have bombs yet, do they?" he asks England in an undertone.
England groans.
"Right, not a bomb squad. No, we are sent to rid your, uh, chambers of all dangerous items! Classified compounds! Will, help me," he adds in a whisper.
"Diseased specimens," Will says, tries to smile.
"In keeping with ye olde health and safety regulations-"
"We haven't got any of those. It's all right, America, leave off it." England sighs, and if there's anything diseased in the room it's that sound, drawn and rattling as it is. "You can guess at our purpose, Cecil."
"Ay, I can, but know not how I have roused your suspicions."
"You held Spenser's correspondences-"
Cecil's mouth twists, a parody of the distortion in his back. "I made that known to you days ago."
"No, I had it from you that they were copies, and that the true letters were sent on. But you kept the originals, did you not?"
Cecil closes his eyes; the flame in his hand winks lower, casts his face into shadow.
"Zounds, man! Did any of Spenser's letters reach their target?"
"Ay." Cecil lets his hand fall to his side, as though the weight of the candle's too great for his arm to bear. "His missive to Master Shakespeare. 'Twas his first such request, and I knew not why he made it."
"Then you knew I was sent for," Will says. He sets the book he was thumbing through down quietly. His voice, when he speaks again, is barely louder. "As did the one sent there to murder me upon my arrival."
"That," Cecil says, "I did not know."
"Just like you didn't know about the zombies, I bet," America mutters.
"What?"
"Wights," England says through gritted teeth. "A sodding platoon of them attacked us not a mile out from Richmond. You hadn't heard that, either?"
"No." Cecil doesn't elaborate. The wind rustling outside his window has more to say than he does. Even the sputtering hiss of the tallow's more evocative than this-this fucking Puritan austerity.
"For god's sake, Cecil, what mean you by this silence?" England snatches the candle from his hand and holds it between their faces, its heat charging the air between them until whatever substance there is seems to sizzle. "Have you nothing to offer in your defense?" I trusted you, he wants to shout, but that's dripping through every word as it is.
Cecil meets his eyes, but England cannot see himself mirrored in them. They're black, blacker than anything else in the room, black as pitch. "What can I say?" he asks, sweeps his gaze towards America and Will and challenges them to speak if they can. "Innocence cannot be proven, only guilt. But know ye this: would you stand in Essex's chambers as you have in mine, and relate your suspicions to him?"
***
"Do you believe him?" America asks once they've reached the inn again. They journeyed back in near silence; America cracked a joke or two, but gave up the effort when neither England nor Will laughed.
England rubs his temples, which does little to mitigate the ache building in them. "Damned if I know. I hate when plots and counter-plots collide."
"And they do so often," Will murmurs. He sits, stretches his legs out and winces, rubs it to loosen a cramp.
"No kidding." America props his boots on the table. "So do we get a look at Essex's place now or what?"
"Boots off the table. And I suppose we'd best, inelegant of a plan as it is."
"We could talk to the servants first, see if they've seen anything-"
"No," Will says, sharply enough that England looks up.
America blinks. "No?"
Will's hand curls into a fist in his lap, trembles. "Pay them enough and they shall swear the sun sinks in the east. No," he says again, looking down; the shudder travels up his arm and is trapped in his throat. "We cannot trust them."
England sees the question take shape on America's lips and rests his hand on America's arm, as if to say leave it be. "And we can't trust them not to report back to Essex if he pays them enough."
Slowly, America nods. "Why get paid once when you can get paid twice, huh?"
"Precisely. Will can tell us if he picks up anything from that blasted book." You'd think the damn thing would make it easier for its rightful owner to find it, but England has no way of knowing.
"I will try-"
America sits up, his feet skidding off the table, and snaps his fingers. "The book! I almost forgot. Hang on a sec."
England and Will look at each other. England shrugs.
America thunders back down the stairs, book held aloft. "Here you go! I found it in this bookshop-England said you might not have authorized the publication-" He presses the book into Will's hands. "But apparently it's doing pretty well, so hey, you're a hit."
Will flips to the title page, frowning. "The Passionate Pilgrim? No, I have not heard of this." He pages through the book, mouth thinning at first, then smiles. "I'faith, this is more homunculus than book: a piece from my sonnets, scraps from Love's Labours Lost-"
"That one looks pretty good," America says, cranes his head over Will's shoulder. England strains to see, too. "'Come live with me and be my love-'"
"And we will all the pleasures prove," Will says, his finger slipping from the page. Oh dear. "That hills and valleys, dale and field,," he continues, and his voice, like his finger, trails downwards. "And all the craggy mountains yield-ay, a beautiful work, but not mine."
"Kit's," England says. Will nods.
"Kit?" America frowns. "Christopher Marlowe?"
Will nods again, and sets the book down as though he can bear to touch it no longer.
"I thank thee for thy kindness, America," he says quietly. "Forgive me; this is a poor sort of thanks, but I-" He swallows, closes his eyes. "I have seen it before, aye, how could I not? 'Tis strange to remember him writing this. Kit was never a man for pastorals, and I challenged him-" He smiles at something very far away. "I told him, 'Kit, then there is no better man for it, for thou wilt strip away all ornament and mawkish sentiment and leave the truth of the matter plain.'
'As befits a shepherd, ay,' he said, 'but to speak so plain invites response, and what love can bear-'"
Will stops, covers his hand with his mouth briefly.
"'What love can bear such scrutiny, when it has no artifice to hide behind? What you seek is a fragile thing, and fearful.'
'Who fears?' I asked him then. 'Thy passionate shepherd, or thee?'" He smiles again, but there's no lightness in it.
"Oh," America says, then, eyes widening: "Oh."
England can think of nothing to say at all.
"Is it strange," Will asks, "that a man be dead these past six years but not gone?"
England shakes his head. The knot in his throat won't permit him to speak.
"Gone, ay, and words are all that remain." He rises; the joints in his bad leg crack. "I should retire, I think; today has been long. But before I do I would cry thy pardon, America: I have shown thee ingratitude most rank to treat thy gift thus, America."
"Nah, it's okay," America says. "Forget about it, all right?"
***
Their new room has, of course, only one bed.
"Dibs," America says, then clears his throat. "Uh."
"Neither of us is sleeping on the floor at these temperatures, don't be ridiculous," England says.
"So we're sharing?"
"So it would seem." England coughs. "It's common practice, you know. Hardly out of the ordinary. Men share beds with one another for the warmth."
America looks as if he's about to say that's gay but refrains. England almost commends him for it, but that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it. "Being cold all the time blows," he says instead. "Makes you miss global warming."
England rolls his eyes. "Then shut up and get under the covers." Idiot, he nearly adds, but America's complying for once in his life, wriggling under the blankets and shucking most of his undergarments from under there. How many centuries has it been since America slept in a shift? Well, before this adventure, at any rate. He wonders how the shift falls on America now; he doubts America swims in it as he once did.
He sprawls as he once did, though, England discovers. It wasn't such a bother when he was a child, but now that he's grown he seems to cover all the space available and encroach on what isn't his, his knee nudging England's calf, his forehead solid against England's shoulder.
For all he spoke of being cold, he's warm. Fuck, he's warm.
England keeps his arms rigid at his sides. America sighs and shifts again, and now his hair is brushing England's collarbone and the corner of his mouth is pressed to England's shift and really, this is intolerable.
"America," he begins.
Nothing. The lummox likely still sleeps like a log.
"America, if I'm to break into Essex's apartments tomorrow I really ought to be well-rested for it, and I damned well won't be if you keep this up."
America sighs, turns his mouth to England's neck. That's not at all helpful.
"It is not your manifest destiny to spread to every corner of this bed, do you hear me?"
Apparently not.
"Oh, shove off-" He grabs America by the shoulders and attempts to heave him to the side, but America is solid and unyielding as ever and seems to think England is inviting him to snuggle closer because he drapes his arm over England's chest, pins him in place.
"You have no understanding of boundaries," he grits. "None whatsoever. Never have, you wanker." He rummages through his store of insults to find an appropriate one, and he'd expect two thousand years of linguistic experience to give him some word for this Nation beside him, but he comes up short. Fuck, he always comes up short with America.
America's chest rumbles, and England's halfway to scratching him behind the ear before he realises what he's doing. He stops, stares back up at the vast blackness of the ceiling.
"I never know what to do with you," he says. "I suppose I never have."
"-gland?"
Every fiber of England's being grows cold. "America?" he whispers. The sound's fragile, barely more than a sigh; he daren't break the silence more than that.
America lifts his head to regard him with a bleary eye. "Mmph."
And now England finds the wherewithal to shove America over-if he's been listening this entire time and feigning sleep England will throttle him, make no mistake-
"Wha?"
"You," England says, doesn't bother to keep his voice down, "need to stay on your own side of the fucking bed."
"Huh?"
"For god's sake-here." He flings his leg over America's thigh, throws his arm over his chest, pillows his head in the crook of America's shoulder and turns to glare at him. "This is how you were sleeping."
He expects some witty retort from America, but America says nothing, and England is acutely, painfully aware of the solid flesh under him, the slow rise and fall of America's chest, the slackness in America's lips. England clenches his jaw, and even if America were to speak now England doubts he could hear over the rush of his own blood.
"It isn't appropriate," England says at last, and doesn't know whether to pat himself on the back or kick himself in the groin.
"Ha," America says, but there's no laughter in his voice, only a thick sort of weariness. "Uh. No. Right. Sorry, it's just-kinda cold."
"Sodding freezing."
He yawns. "You want me to build a pillow barrier or something?"
"We're both too old for that," England says. "Stay on your side."
"Both too old?" America asks, and England can see him smile even if he can't, well, see him.
"Yes. Whelp," he adds, because there's a comfort to it. "Go back to sleep. We've a long day ahead of us."
"Yeah, yeah. Night."
He rolls over, puts his back to-well. All that. America may well keep to his side of the bed for the remainder of the night, but England still doubts he'll sleep a wink. He makes an effort of it, though, squeezes his eyes shut and forces his breathing to steady, deepen, slow.
"England?"
Keep breathing, he steels himself.
America's fingertips brush his forehead more lightly than England thought possible, and England's breath stops. And then America is gone again, settling back onto his side as the bed groans beneath him.
England curls in on himself, strokes that spot on his skin until he falls asleep to the rhythm of it.
***
"How many bedrooms?"
"Forty-two," England says, crouches by the outhouse and blows in his hands to warm them. The reek's awful, but the wind is worse, and at least he has some shelter from it here, some way to slow the chill leaking into his bones. "Forty-two bedrooms, a picture gallery, kitchens, a banqueting suite, and a chapel. And the outhouses, of course."
"Yeah, I noticed those." America wrinkles his nose.
"And we must search them all?" Will asks.
"I hope not. Let's see what intelligence we can gather."
The best way to spy, England has discovered, is not to skulk about in fear but to act as if you're doing nothing out of the ordinary, and to walk with purpose. If you look like you know where you're going, people generally assume you do. He therefore strides towards the kitchens with a sack of potatoes he lifted from the larder. "Here," America says, "I got it," and plucks the sack from England's arms as though it weighs nothing at all.
At least that'll prevent him from sticking his hands in his pockets and whistling to appear inconspicuous. England stifles a groan. He's asked America to be subtle, hasn't he. Oh, he deserves whatever comes of this.
The blaze of the kitchens is welcome after the bitter wind, and England is almost tempted to sink onto one of the benches and bask in the heat. America dumps the potatoes into a basin; he appears to have struck up a conversation with one of the boys, and England tries to listen through the haze of noise and smoke. He starts to assemble a tray and avoids looking up from his task, lest anyone meet his eyes and ask what he's doing.
"Richard Stockton!" someone shouts in his ear. He nearly drops the tray.
A woman, her arms thick and red as slabs of beef, grabs his shoulder and spins him about. "Richard, if I catch thy fingers in the pudding again-cry your pardon, sir, methought you was that knockabout."
"Not I," England says, but she's already released him. She strides towards a slender boy with wheat-colored hair, shouting, "Richard Stockton!"
"Richard Stockton?" Will asks, suddenly at England's shoulder, and England nearly drops the tray again.
"There is such a thing, Will," he says, "as being too good at entrances."
"Ay," Will concedes, looking at the boy. "And I must make another shortly."
Before them, the woman boxes Richard's ear soundly and sends him up the stairs with a stinging slap to his backside.
America sidles over to England's side, as well, and polishes off the last of a meat bun. "So! What next?"
"We follow Will's lead," England says, "but count to ten before you follow me out, all right?"
America gives England a thumbs-up. "One Mississippi."
England does the same before following Will into the grounds beyond. Someone's nailed a horseshoe to the kitchen door; apparently Essex's servants do know how to keep the fae out, which quashes any hope he had of asking their aid. The blast of cold once he's left nearly sends him reeling, but Will grabs his arm and steadies him.
"I would request Essex's seal of thee, or a glamour of it," he says.
"A glamour is easy enough." England's hands sketch the shape of an envelope and draw the seal in the center; the air glows, hums faintly, and when the light fades the illusion holds steady. Will takes it.
"What of that, America?"
"Sleight-of-hand," America says, rubs his eyes as though to clear the glow from them. "And-flash powder? Something like that."
England rolls his eyes.
They follow several paces behind Will and flatten themselves behind an arch when Will comes upon the boy again. "Richard!" he says, his voice an urgent rasp. "Richard Stockton!"
Richard starts. "Who calls?"
Will steps out from behind the kitchen wall, the hood of his cloak throwing his face into shadow. England bites his fist to keep from laughing. "I call, Richard Stockton." He produces the illusory letter with sleight-of-hand almost good enough to mistake for magic, and lets Essex's seal flash for just long enough. "Thy master has especial need of thee."
"What does my master want?" Richard whispers, near-slackjawed.
"Thou'rt to deliver this to the room," Will says, the last two words almost too low to be heard.
"Which-which room, milord?"
"Thou knowst it, boy. The one forbidden to all his servants-save thee."
Richard's eyes are as big as goose eggs. "And I-I am-" he begins, voice cracking.
"Thy master asked for thee and no other." Will draws himself up to an even greater height. "He told me thy name, and thy countenance, so I might find thee. Go quickly, for 'tis a matter most grave. But take care, Master Stockton: speak of this to no one, for not all within these walls can be trusted."
"Ay, sir, so I shall." Richard nearly trips over his tongue. "I shall, by my life-"
Will's equally adept at making an exit, for he's managed to tuck himself out of sight again. Richard crosses himself and sets off at a slight jog for the manor, his eyes darting all about.
"Okay, that was awesome," America says.
"Yes," England agrees. "I could kiss him for that."
"Ha, yeah. -wait, what?"
***
The chapel sits nestled among the outbuildings clustered near the back wall, its peaked roof breaching the sky. Richard draws his cloak tighter; behind him, England does the same. The boy looks 'round and behind and darts to the door in back, fiddles with the knob. When it won't give, he slips the illusory letter under the door and bolts towards the safety of the kitchens.
"He's hoodooing it up in a church?" America whistles. "That's some bad mojo, man."
"Mojo," England repeats, smirking.
America scowls. "Not like actual magic. It's like karma. You know. Inviting ironic cosmic payback and stuff."
England won't waste his time arguing the particulars when he's got a lock to magic open. He presses his hands to the door and feels for the shape of the wards overlaying it-there are wards here, and well-laid ones. He reaches out with his mind, tugs at the threads of power until he finds one that trembles and brings the force of his will to bear on that, pulls it until it snaps and unravels the rest of the wards. So there is something to hide here. Charming the lock open is a simple matter after dismantling the wards; the door almost wants to give.
"Will? You okay?"
Will's cheeks have a greenish tinge to them. He frowns, coughs, says, "Sooth, but this is strange. There is a tightness in my chest-" He coughs again, stares at his hand. "I reject the air I breathe, as though it carries an unseen taint."
"There, America," England says. "Your metal detector."
"Or bad juju detector," America says, and England lets that one go. Perhaps he'll come around more quickly if he doesn't feel the need to defend himself.
"Once more into the breach," England says, pushes the door open.
Will murmurs, "I like that phrase."
"Then have it."
Will doesn't respond; he's too busy gagging.
The dusty light filtering in through the sole window reveals little; the room seems almost determined to veil itself. Heavy cloths half-hide a bookshelf, table, and desk. England runs his finger over the fabric, and it comes away clean, with no trace of dust. "Whatever this is, it hasn't been abandoned."
He pulls the cloth off the desk, and Will doubles over.
"Will!"
"Keep your voice down," England tells America. "What is it?" he asks.
Will staggers closer to the desk, traces a rough rectangle on its surface. "It lay here," he says. "Traces of it malinger still-ay, something was wrought here, something 'gainst all nature."
That settles the question of who has the damned thing, at least. England looks at the lengthening shadows and wishes the thought gave him any comfort.
"What's in here?" America asks, taps the drawer under the desk. "Looks like it's locked."
England begins to charm it open, but America yanks the handle, rips the lock out of the wood. So much for subtlety, England thinks, and glares, though America misses it in the gloom. America rummages around in the drawer and produces a stack of letters, unfolds the top one and whistles. "Check it out, guys."
He and Will crowd closer to read, squinting to make out the script in what light remains.
My lord,
The situation in Ireland grows more desperate; you will have heard of the rout at Yellow Ford, and of the dire defeat of our men there. Men, I call them, though they are barely that, but plague-ridden and pox-eaten as their souls are, they are still the souls of Englishmen, and I would weigh ten of them against that of the heartiest Irish heathen. And yet I do fear for such souls, meager as they are, should we pluck them from their rest and bind them to our service-but I think, also, of how many more bodies are needed to turn this tide, and there is some thrift to re-using what has already been used, that we need not use more than we must.
But what I speak of, and dare name only in this sneaking equivocating fashion, may yet place our own souls in danger most grave. I entreat you, speak to Her Majesty of this our plan; her blessing, an it be had, will wash my heart clean of all cowardice.
America breaks the silence after. "So what does it mean?"
"It means," England says, "that someone's been raising himself an army of wights."
"Zombies."
"Oh, for fuck's sake-"
The door creaks, and England barely has time to look up before the man is upon him.
He shouts-the man's arm wraps around his windpipe, and England slams his head back as hard as he can. Pain flares at the back of his skull, but the man stumbles, his arm slackening, and England drives his elbow into where he thinks the man's midsection is to wrest himself free. He dashes to the other side of the table, places it between himself and the man.
The man draws his sword, a thin grey blade. It's the most distinct thing about him; he's clad head-to-toe in black otherwise. A hood hides the top half of his face, and a cloth covers the rest.
"England, you didn't tell me there were ninjas in the Renaissance!"
"Don't be daft, he's not a ninja-"
The man vaults on top of the table, and England starts to wonder. Not for long, though; he turns to the side before that blade can skewer him. America gathers up one of the cloths and hurls it at the man. It catches him full in the face and spreads, and England shouts, "Run!" and motions for the others to follow before the man can work himself free.
America seizes the sword he unearthed earlier in one hand and the back of Will's collar in the other and dashes through the open door, England following. The door opens into the chapel proper, and England barely has time to slam it shut before it flies open again, as though blown by a great wind. The man in black stands in the door, gestures to America, and though the words he speaks are no language England knows his very bones resound with them, fill his head until he hears nothing but their echo-
"No!" he shouts, and sends raw power shuttling towards the man, no shape or thought to it other than get away from him. The man's knocked sideways into the altar, and England staggers to one knee, breathing hard. What did he tap to do that? Likely something he couldn't afford to. He tries to stand but his muscles stubbornly refuse. They've locked tight, and the rest of him follows suit; even his lungs won't budge. Shit.
Will hauls him to his feet, and England's vision swims. "America," he gasps.
America runs towards the dais but the man shouts some sort of command, knocks him back. He scrambles to his feet again, his sword ready. The man's blade clashes against his-America grits his teeth and brings his weight to bear as their hilts tangle and lock, pushes the man to his knees.
"Don't-don't let that sword touch you," England manages, "I don't like how it looks."
"Wasn't-ugh-planning on it-"
The man breaks free and lunges for America's knee, and England is running to America's side, running as fast as his still-stiff legs can manage. America loses his balance but does avoid the sword, brings his own up to slice at the muscle near the man's groin. The man buckles but that ought to have crippled him, and at a pass of his hand and more words that make England's head spin, the rip begins to knit itself together again.
"What the hell language is that?" America asks, hoisting himself to his feet.
"The Ealdsprǽc, I'd wager." England wipes his mouth, his hands still jerkier than he'd like. "It's like being beaten about the head with a brick."
"These are not subtle words," Will agrees, steps in front of them both.
"Will, what the blazing fuck-"
England's head roars when Will speaks; dimly, he recognises the word, it's the same one the man shouted at America earlier. It sends him crashing into the bench, at any rate, a shower of splinters marking his fall.
"Well done," England manages to say. He thinks. The man in black is already on his feet, chanting, and the splinters in the air arrange themselves like needles, all pointing to Will. Before England can weave a shield, the splinters fly-several sink in before Will shouts that word again and blasts them back, scatters them all over the chapel.
"Ay," Will says, his breathing ragged, "so unsubtle as to be artless, and yet."
America charges forward, his sword forgotten and his arms outstretched-he seizes the man's cloak but the cloak lifts itself from the man's shoulders and wraps itself around America instead, smothering him.
England weaves spells for breaking and dissolving as fast as he can, but the threads of his magic tangle and slip, and the spells slide off the cloak. The charms he's learnt are shadows against this power, whatever it is.
Fine, then. Time to go deeper.
He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, spits on the cloak, and says, "My blood is the tide, and the tide breaks all."
The cloak unravels, and the thread falls softly to the ground around America's feet. Oh good, England thinks, and sways in place.
The man in black, of course, is gone.
"Well shit," America says. "Essex has ninjas working for him, too?"
"Ninja sorcerers," England says dryly.
"Okay, now you're just being ridiculous."
---
--
Dialect notes REDUX!
Obviously, I’m not writing this thing in full-out Elizabethan, because I’m not that footnote-crazy, and quite frankly I don’t trust myself to. I’ve tried to keep in a few elements of Elizabethan speech for flavor, though, and I’ll explain those here.
First, the pronouns! Elizabethan pronouns are pretty similar to ours, except they had an informal “you” pronoun, thou. (It’s like the tu/Usted distinction in Spanish.) You use “thou” for inferiors and people you’re close to in informal contexts, and it’s a bit rude to thou people you aren’t familiar with-so when the guards switch over to using thou with America, they’re trying to put him in his place. Thou is declined like so:
Subject: thou. (Thou liest, shag-eared villain!)
Direct/indirect object: thee. (I give thee thanks, or Let me clutch thee.)
Possessive: thy (thy face), or thine before a vowel. (thine eye).
They also had ye for the second-person plural, though there’s increasing usage of “you” for both singular AND plural second-person.
Verb endings are mostly the same, except for second- and third-person singular. Let’s look at the verb to have:
I have
Thou hast/You have
He hath
We had
You/Ye had
They had
I’m mostly omitting the -eth/th ending on the third person singular in this fic, because it reads weird to modern eyes, but it might crop up with a few words.
There really was a book called The Passionate Pilgrim published in 1599, purportedly by Shakespeare but containing a lot of poems that weren't his, including The Passionate Shepherd to His Love. 1599 was also the year when Shakespeare wrote As You Like It, which contains a tribute to "the dead shepherd" -- Kit Marlowe -- and I will stop now before I get tinhatty on y'all but SHAKESPEARE/MARLOWE OTP.
The Battle of the Yellow Ford.
.
Title: The Worldsmith [Chapter Six: Tis Now the Very Witching Time of Night]
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England, America; William Shakespeare, Elizabeth I, Robert Devereaux, and assorted other actors, playmakers, peers, gentry, scoundrels, spies, and thieves.
Rating: PG-13, for fights and rather unpleasant magic.
Summary: Sent back in time to deal with a mysterious threat to England's nationhood, England and America contend with witchcraft, the undead, the power of language, and their own clashing personalities.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six: In which our heroes make an art of breaking and entering, a fight breaks out in a church, and America hogs the bed (much to England's discomfort).
Notes: This is also known as the "time travel and Shakespeare and zombies" fic. You'll see why.
"So basically either Cecil is really, really smart, or Essex is really, really dumb."
"Or both. Do keep your voice down," England chides as the bookseller peers over his ledger to stare at them both. England makes a show of studying the shelves.
"What, did someone follow us here?" America asks.
"Damned if I know, but I'm not taking any chances." He looks about. The shop's not large enough for anyone to lurk out-of-sight, but people flow in and out the door, pausing to leaf through the books on display or haggle with the shopkeeper.
America runs his thumb over the topmost row of books. "Paranoid much?"
"Cautious," England corrects, "and with good reason. I've arranged for us all to move rooms-"
"Move rooms?"
He smiles mirthlessly. "If whoever's behind this has a mind to attack us again, I won't make it easy for them."
"You, my friend, have suspicion down to an art form," America says. "Oh, hey. W. Shakspere, The Passionate Pilgrim. Will didn't say he had a book out."
"Yes, well, I doubt he authorized it." England decides not to explain Elizabethan copyright laws (or the lack thereof, rather); they've got enough to be getting on with.
"Gimme a shilling? I'm going to buy it."
He hands over the money; the tips of his fingers brush America's palm, and America's fingers close over his own for a moment before he snatches the coins away and rolls them around in his hand.
"And hey, if he didn't know he was getting published, it'll be a surprise present," America says.
England nods, his thoughts elsewhere. With effort, he reins them in. America was drunk, England disconsolate, and there were wights. It doesn't bear thinking on.
"We'll pay both Cecil and Essex visits," he says instead, "and see what we uncover."
***
"England!"
"America, keep your voice down, for the love of Christ." England wouldn't be surprised if Cecil built these servants' staircases to amplify whispers and channel them straight to his rooms.
"Then come closer," America says, "I can't see you-"
England scoffs and taps the shoulder in front of him.
"'Sblood!"
"Ah. My apologies, Will."
"They are accepted," Will says, "but I would thou couldst warn me of such things."
"I thought you were America-never mind." England sighs. They'd best be quick about this; Burbage and the Lord Chamberlain's Men may have lured some of Cecil's servants away, but the back rooms won't remain empty forever, and god knows who Cecil's set to stand watch over his estate.
"Wish we had a flashlight," America mutters.
"Give it a few centuries."
"Fine. A torch."
The corner of England's mouth twitches. "It's the same thing."
"Huh?"
He sidesteps the question. "Light would draw too much attention to us," he explains instead. "And I've been up and down these blasted stairs enough through the years, I ought to know the way-"
"Doesn't mean you do."
"When did you last walk them?" Will asks.
"Oh," England says, groping at the wall for the moulding over the door, "several centuries ago. Or several days ago, depending on how you reckon the time."
"Ay," Will says; England can hear the puzzled frown in his voice. He ignores it for now, starts counting. Cecil's chambers aren't at the top of the steps, they're two landings down and on the right, and even Cecil's locks yield to a whispered spell or two. England shakes his head. He could have sworn he mentioned the importance of a few well-placed wards over one's doors, but the man's enough of a Puritan to balk at it, potential breach of security or no. Were he Catholic he wouldn't slight on such matters, but never mind that now, it does make the present task easier.
Cecil's rooms are deserted. Burbage should keep him plied with food and drink for another hour or so. Strange to enter through the door and not the window, but England has done stranger and will continue to do so, no doubt.
"So what does the Ealdspell look like, even?" America whispers, his breath in England's ear.
England nearly swats him out of reflex, but stays his hand in time. "When did you learn to be quiet?"
"When you started spacing out. So. Big old book?"
"That narrows our search little, I fear," Will says, eying the wall of bookshelves opposite Cecil's desk.
"He won't have it out in the open. Or perhaps he will, but made to look like something else." England chews his thumbnail. "Even if the Ealdspell isn't here, there ought to be something-fuck, I ought've asked Dee more about the wretched thing-"
"If it's supposed to be Will's, maybe he can-I don't know, sense it? Like a metal detector. But for books."
England wonders if he has anything on hand to stick in America's mouth to keep him from putting his foot in it, and doesn't that invite a certain sort of image, made more disturbing by England remembering how, as a child, America used to do just that.
"It may make itself known to me," Will says, as though he still doesn't quite believe the whole thing, "but I know not how."
"Well, metal detectors beep."
"They beep, didst say?"
England cuts in before America can explain. "Don't demonstrate." He drops to his knees to root under Cecil's desk. "And try to replace everything where you found it when you're done looking."
He looks up to see America mock-salute. "Aye aye, Captain."
Cecil's desk yields nothing. England skims his correspondences, but there's nothing in them, either, nor in the chest at the foot of his bed. America checks under it, but emerges shaking his head, and though Will is spending an inordinate amount of time perusing Cecil's bookshelves, England suspects that's professional interest more than an actual lead.
"So you really think he'd hide the book here?" America asks after shaking down Cecil's pillows.
"Put those back where you found them. And yes, or if not the book then something, damn it-"
"I expect to see thee steal through the window," Cecil says, his voice clipped, "but truly I know not now what thou hast stolen."
Bugger. England straightens slowly, palms out. America drops the stack of books in his arms, and Will knocks his elbow into the bookshelf. Fuck, he could have planned this better.
"What mean you by this?" Cecil asks.
"Yea verily, a most excellent question!" America says. "We. Uh. They don't have bombs yet, do they?" he asks England in an undertone.
England groans.
"Right, not a bomb squad. No, we are sent to rid your, uh, chambers of all dangerous items! Classified compounds! Will, help me," he adds in a whisper.
"Diseased specimens," Will says, tries to smile.
"In keeping with ye olde health and safety regulations-"
"We haven't got any of those. It's all right, America, leave off it." England sighs, and if there's anything diseased in the room it's that sound, drawn and rattling as it is. "You can guess at our purpose, Cecil."
"Ay, I can, but know not how I have roused your suspicions."
"You held Spenser's correspondences-"
Cecil's mouth twists, a parody of the distortion in his back. "I made that known to you days ago."
"No, I had it from you that they were copies, and that the true letters were sent on. But you kept the originals, did you not?"
Cecil closes his eyes; the flame in his hand winks lower, casts his face into shadow.
"Zounds, man! Did any of Spenser's letters reach their target?"
"Ay." Cecil lets his hand fall to his side, as though the weight of the candle's too great for his arm to bear. "His missive to Master Shakespeare. 'Twas his first such request, and I knew not why he made it."
"Then you knew I was sent for," Will says. He sets the book he was thumbing through down quietly. His voice, when he speaks again, is barely louder. "As did the one sent there to murder me upon my arrival."
"That," Cecil says, "I did not know."
"Just like you didn't know about the zombies, I bet," America mutters.
"What?"
"Wights," England says through gritted teeth. "A sodding platoon of them attacked us not a mile out from Richmond. You hadn't heard that, either?"
"No." Cecil doesn't elaborate. The wind rustling outside his window has more to say than he does. Even the sputtering hiss of the tallow's more evocative than this-this fucking Puritan austerity.
"For god's sake, Cecil, what mean you by this silence?" England snatches the candle from his hand and holds it between their faces, its heat charging the air between them until whatever substance there is seems to sizzle. "Have you nothing to offer in your defense?" I trusted you, he wants to shout, but that's dripping through every word as it is.
Cecil meets his eyes, but England cannot see himself mirrored in them. They're black, blacker than anything else in the room, black as pitch. "What can I say?" he asks, sweeps his gaze towards America and Will and challenges them to speak if they can. "Innocence cannot be proven, only guilt. But know ye this: would you stand in Essex's chambers as you have in mine, and relate your suspicions to him?"
***
"Do you believe him?" America asks once they've reached the inn again. They journeyed back in near silence; America cracked a joke or two, but gave up the effort when neither England nor Will laughed.
England rubs his temples, which does little to mitigate the ache building in them. "Damned if I know. I hate when plots and counter-plots collide."
"And they do so often," Will murmurs. He sits, stretches his legs out and winces, rubs it to loosen a cramp.
"No kidding." America props his boots on the table. "So do we get a look at Essex's place now or what?"
"Boots off the table. And I suppose we'd best, inelegant of a plan as it is."
"We could talk to the servants first, see if they've seen anything-"
"No," Will says, sharply enough that England looks up.
America blinks. "No?"
Will's hand curls into a fist in his lap, trembles. "Pay them enough and they shall swear the sun sinks in the east. No," he says again, looking down; the shudder travels up his arm and is trapped in his throat. "We cannot trust them."
England sees the question take shape on America's lips and rests his hand on America's arm, as if to say leave it be. "And we can't trust them not to report back to Essex if he pays them enough."
Slowly, America nods. "Why get paid once when you can get paid twice, huh?"
"Precisely. Will can tell us if he picks up anything from that blasted book." You'd think the damn thing would make it easier for its rightful owner to find it, but England has no way of knowing.
"I will try-"
America sits up, his feet skidding off the table, and snaps his fingers. "The book! I almost forgot. Hang on a sec."
England and Will look at each other. England shrugs.
America thunders back down the stairs, book held aloft. "Here you go! I found it in this bookshop-England said you might not have authorized the publication-" He presses the book into Will's hands. "But apparently it's doing pretty well, so hey, you're a hit."
Will flips to the title page, frowning. "The Passionate Pilgrim? No, I have not heard of this." He pages through the book, mouth thinning at first, then smiles. "I'faith, this is more homunculus than book: a piece from my sonnets, scraps from Love's Labours Lost-"
"That one looks pretty good," America says, cranes his head over Will's shoulder. England strains to see, too. "'Come live with me and be my love-'"
"And we will all the pleasures prove," Will says, his finger slipping from the page. Oh dear. "That hills and valleys, dale and field,," he continues, and his voice, like his finger, trails downwards. "And all the craggy mountains yield-ay, a beautiful work, but not mine."
"Kit's," England says. Will nods.
"Kit?" America frowns. "Christopher Marlowe?"
Will nods again, and sets the book down as though he can bear to touch it no longer.
"I thank thee for thy kindness, America," he says quietly. "Forgive me; this is a poor sort of thanks, but I-" He swallows, closes his eyes. "I have seen it before, aye, how could I not? 'Tis strange to remember him writing this. Kit was never a man for pastorals, and I challenged him-" He smiles at something very far away. "I told him, 'Kit, then there is no better man for it, for thou wilt strip away all ornament and mawkish sentiment and leave the truth of the matter plain.'
'As befits a shepherd, ay,' he said, 'but to speak so plain invites response, and what love can bear-'"
Will stops, covers his hand with his mouth briefly.
"'What love can bear such scrutiny, when it has no artifice to hide behind? What you seek is a fragile thing, and fearful.'
'Who fears?' I asked him then. 'Thy passionate shepherd, or thee?'" He smiles again, but there's no lightness in it.
"Oh," America says, then, eyes widening: "Oh."
England can think of nothing to say at all.
"Is it strange," Will asks, "that a man be dead these past six years but not gone?"
England shakes his head. The knot in his throat won't permit him to speak.
"Gone, ay, and words are all that remain." He rises; the joints in his bad leg crack. "I should retire, I think; today has been long. But before I do I would cry thy pardon, America: I have shown thee ingratitude most rank to treat thy gift thus, America."
"Nah, it's okay," America says. "Forget about it, all right?"
***
Their new room has, of course, only one bed.
"Dibs," America says, then clears his throat. "Uh."
"Neither of us is sleeping on the floor at these temperatures, don't be ridiculous," England says.
"So we're sharing?"
"So it would seem." England coughs. "It's common practice, you know. Hardly out of the ordinary. Men share beds with one another for the warmth."
America looks as if he's about to say that's gay but refrains. England almost commends him for it, but that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it. "Being cold all the time blows," he says instead. "Makes you miss global warming."
England rolls his eyes. "Then shut up and get under the covers." Idiot, he nearly adds, but America's complying for once in his life, wriggling under the blankets and shucking most of his undergarments from under there. How many centuries has it been since America slept in a shift? Well, before this adventure, at any rate. He wonders how the shift falls on America now; he doubts America swims in it as he once did.
He sprawls as he once did, though, England discovers. It wasn't such a bother when he was a child, but now that he's grown he seems to cover all the space available and encroach on what isn't his, his knee nudging England's calf, his forehead solid against England's shoulder.
For all he spoke of being cold, he's warm. Fuck, he's warm.
England keeps his arms rigid at his sides. America sighs and shifts again, and now his hair is brushing England's collarbone and the corner of his mouth is pressed to England's shift and really, this is intolerable.
"America," he begins.
Nothing. The lummox likely still sleeps like a log.
"America, if I'm to break into Essex's apartments tomorrow I really ought to be well-rested for it, and I damned well won't be if you keep this up."
America sighs, turns his mouth to England's neck. That's not at all helpful.
"It is not your manifest destiny to spread to every corner of this bed, do you hear me?"
Apparently not.
"Oh, shove off-" He grabs America by the shoulders and attempts to heave him to the side, but America is solid and unyielding as ever and seems to think England is inviting him to snuggle closer because he drapes his arm over England's chest, pins him in place.
"You have no understanding of boundaries," he grits. "None whatsoever. Never have, you wanker." He rummages through his store of insults to find an appropriate one, and he'd expect two thousand years of linguistic experience to give him some word for this Nation beside him, but he comes up short. Fuck, he always comes up short with America.
America's chest rumbles, and England's halfway to scratching him behind the ear before he realises what he's doing. He stops, stares back up at the vast blackness of the ceiling.
"I never know what to do with you," he says. "I suppose I never have."
"-gland?"
Every fiber of England's being grows cold. "America?" he whispers. The sound's fragile, barely more than a sigh; he daren't break the silence more than that.
America lifts his head to regard him with a bleary eye. "Mmph."
And now England finds the wherewithal to shove America over-if he's been listening this entire time and feigning sleep England will throttle him, make no mistake-
"Wha?"
"You," England says, doesn't bother to keep his voice down, "need to stay on your own side of the fucking bed."
"Huh?"
"For god's sake-here." He flings his leg over America's thigh, throws his arm over his chest, pillows his head in the crook of America's shoulder and turns to glare at him. "This is how you were sleeping."
He expects some witty retort from America, but America says nothing, and England is acutely, painfully aware of the solid flesh under him, the slow rise and fall of America's chest, the slackness in America's lips. England clenches his jaw, and even if America were to speak now England doubts he could hear over the rush of his own blood.
"It isn't appropriate," England says at last, and doesn't know whether to pat himself on the back or kick himself in the groin.
"Ha," America says, but there's no laughter in his voice, only a thick sort of weariness. "Uh. No. Right. Sorry, it's just-kinda cold."
"Sodding freezing."
He yawns. "You want me to build a pillow barrier or something?"
"We're both too old for that," England says. "Stay on your side."
"Both too old?" America asks, and England can see him smile even if he can't, well, see him.
"Yes. Whelp," he adds, because there's a comfort to it. "Go back to sleep. We've a long day ahead of us."
"Yeah, yeah. Night."
He rolls over, puts his back to-well. All that. America may well keep to his side of the bed for the remainder of the night, but England still doubts he'll sleep a wink. He makes an effort of it, though, squeezes his eyes shut and forces his breathing to steady, deepen, slow.
"England?"
Keep breathing, he steels himself.
America's fingertips brush his forehead more lightly than England thought possible, and England's breath stops. And then America is gone again, settling back onto his side as the bed groans beneath him.
England curls in on himself, strokes that spot on his skin until he falls asleep to the rhythm of it.
***
"How many bedrooms?"
"Forty-two," England says, crouches by the outhouse and blows in his hands to warm them. The reek's awful, but the wind is worse, and at least he has some shelter from it here, some way to slow the chill leaking into his bones. "Forty-two bedrooms, a picture gallery, kitchens, a banqueting suite, and a chapel. And the outhouses, of course."
"Yeah, I noticed those." America wrinkles his nose.
"And we must search them all?" Will asks.
"I hope not. Let's see what intelligence we can gather."
The best way to spy, England has discovered, is not to skulk about in fear but to act as if you're doing nothing out of the ordinary, and to walk with purpose. If you look like you know where you're going, people generally assume you do. He therefore strides towards the kitchens with a sack of potatoes he lifted from the larder. "Here," America says, "I got it," and plucks the sack from England's arms as though it weighs nothing at all.
At least that'll prevent him from sticking his hands in his pockets and whistling to appear inconspicuous. England stifles a groan. He's asked America to be subtle, hasn't he. Oh, he deserves whatever comes of this.
The blaze of the kitchens is welcome after the bitter wind, and England is almost tempted to sink onto one of the benches and bask in the heat. America dumps the potatoes into a basin; he appears to have struck up a conversation with one of the boys, and England tries to listen through the haze of noise and smoke. He starts to assemble a tray and avoids looking up from his task, lest anyone meet his eyes and ask what he's doing.
"Richard Stockton!" someone shouts in his ear. He nearly drops the tray.
A woman, her arms thick and red as slabs of beef, grabs his shoulder and spins him about. "Richard, if I catch thy fingers in the pudding again-cry your pardon, sir, methought you was that knockabout."
"Not I," England says, but she's already released him. She strides towards a slender boy with wheat-colored hair, shouting, "Richard Stockton!"
"Richard Stockton?" Will asks, suddenly at England's shoulder, and England nearly drops the tray again.
"There is such a thing, Will," he says, "as being too good at entrances."
"Ay," Will concedes, looking at the boy. "And I must make another shortly."
Before them, the woman boxes Richard's ear soundly and sends him up the stairs with a stinging slap to his backside.
America sidles over to England's side, as well, and polishes off the last of a meat bun. "So! What next?"
"We follow Will's lead," England says, "but count to ten before you follow me out, all right?"
America gives England a thumbs-up. "One Mississippi."
England does the same before following Will into the grounds beyond. Someone's nailed a horseshoe to the kitchen door; apparently Essex's servants do know how to keep the fae out, which quashes any hope he had of asking their aid. The blast of cold once he's left nearly sends him reeling, but Will grabs his arm and steadies him.
"I would request Essex's seal of thee, or a glamour of it," he says.
"A glamour is easy enough." England's hands sketch the shape of an envelope and draw the seal in the center; the air glows, hums faintly, and when the light fades the illusion holds steady. Will takes it.
"What of that, America?"
"Sleight-of-hand," America says, rubs his eyes as though to clear the glow from them. "And-flash powder? Something like that."
England rolls his eyes.
They follow several paces behind Will and flatten themselves behind an arch when Will comes upon the boy again. "Richard!" he says, his voice an urgent rasp. "Richard Stockton!"
Richard starts. "Who calls?"
Will steps out from behind the kitchen wall, the hood of his cloak throwing his face into shadow. England bites his fist to keep from laughing. "I call, Richard Stockton." He produces the illusory letter with sleight-of-hand almost good enough to mistake for magic, and lets Essex's seal flash for just long enough. "Thy master has especial need of thee."
"What does my master want?" Richard whispers, near-slackjawed.
"Thou'rt to deliver this to the room," Will says, the last two words almost too low to be heard.
"Which-which room, milord?"
"Thou knowst it, boy. The one forbidden to all his servants-save thee."
Richard's eyes are as big as goose eggs. "And I-I am-" he begins, voice cracking.
"Thy master asked for thee and no other." Will draws himself up to an even greater height. "He told me thy name, and thy countenance, so I might find thee. Go quickly, for 'tis a matter most grave. But take care, Master Stockton: speak of this to no one, for not all within these walls can be trusted."
"Ay, sir, so I shall." Richard nearly trips over his tongue. "I shall, by my life-"
Will's equally adept at making an exit, for he's managed to tuck himself out of sight again. Richard crosses himself and sets off at a slight jog for the manor, his eyes darting all about.
"Okay, that was awesome," America says.
"Yes," England agrees. "I could kiss him for that."
"Ha, yeah. -wait, what?"
***
The chapel sits nestled among the outbuildings clustered near the back wall, its peaked roof breaching the sky. Richard draws his cloak tighter; behind him, England does the same. The boy looks 'round and behind and darts to the door in back, fiddles with the knob. When it won't give, he slips the illusory letter under the door and bolts towards the safety of the kitchens.
"He's hoodooing it up in a church?" America whistles. "That's some bad mojo, man."
"Mojo," England repeats, smirking.
America scowls. "Not like actual magic. It's like karma. You know. Inviting ironic cosmic payback and stuff."
England won't waste his time arguing the particulars when he's got a lock to magic open. He presses his hands to the door and feels for the shape of the wards overlaying it-there are wards here, and well-laid ones. He reaches out with his mind, tugs at the threads of power until he finds one that trembles and brings the force of his will to bear on that, pulls it until it snaps and unravels the rest of the wards. So there is something to hide here. Charming the lock open is a simple matter after dismantling the wards; the door almost wants to give.
"Will? You okay?"
Will's cheeks have a greenish tinge to them. He frowns, coughs, says, "Sooth, but this is strange. There is a tightness in my chest-" He coughs again, stares at his hand. "I reject the air I breathe, as though it carries an unseen taint."
"There, America," England says. "Your metal detector."
"Or bad juju detector," America says, and England lets that one go. Perhaps he'll come around more quickly if he doesn't feel the need to defend himself.
"Once more into the breach," England says, pushes the door open.
Will murmurs, "I like that phrase."
"Then have it."
Will doesn't respond; he's too busy gagging.
The dusty light filtering in through the sole window reveals little; the room seems almost determined to veil itself. Heavy cloths half-hide a bookshelf, table, and desk. England runs his finger over the fabric, and it comes away clean, with no trace of dust. "Whatever this is, it hasn't been abandoned."
He pulls the cloth off the desk, and Will doubles over.
"Will!"
"Keep your voice down," England tells America. "What is it?" he asks.
Will staggers closer to the desk, traces a rough rectangle on its surface. "It lay here," he says. "Traces of it malinger still-ay, something was wrought here, something 'gainst all nature."
That settles the question of who has the damned thing, at least. England looks at the lengthening shadows and wishes the thought gave him any comfort.
"What's in here?" America asks, taps the drawer under the desk. "Looks like it's locked."
England begins to charm it open, but America yanks the handle, rips the lock out of the wood. So much for subtlety, England thinks, and glares, though America misses it in the gloom. America rummages around in the drawer and produces a stack of letters, unfolds the top one and whistles. "Check it out, guys."
He and Will crowd closer to read, squinting to make out the script in what light remains.
My lord,
The situation in Ireland grows more desperate; you will have heard of the rout at Yellow Ford, and of the dire defeat of our men there. Men, I call them, though they are barely that, but plague-ridden and pox-eaten as their souls are, they are still the souls of Englishmen, and I would weigh ten of them against that of the heartiest Irish heathen. And yet I do fear for such souls, meager as they are, should we pluck them from their rest and bind them to our service-but I think, also, of how many more bodies are needed to turn this tide, and there is some thrift to re-using what has already been used, that we need not use more than we must.
But what I speak of, and dare name only in this sneaking equivocating fashion, may yet place our own souls in danger most grave. I entreat you, speak to Her Majesty of this our plan; her blessing, an it be had, will wash my heart clean of all cowardice.
America breaks the silence after. "So what does it mean?"
"It means," England says, "that someone's been raising himself an army of wights."
"Zombies."
"Oh, for fuck's sake-"
The door creaks, and England barely has time to look up before the man is upon him.
He shouts-the man's arm wraps around his windpipe, and England slams his head back as hard as he can. Pain flares at the back of his skull, but the man stumbles, his arm slackening, and England drives his elbow into where he thinks the man's midsection is to wrest himself free. He dashes to the other side of the table, places it between himself and the man.
The man draws his sword, a thin grey blade. It's the most distinct thing about him; he's clad head-to-toe in black otherwise. A hood hides the top half of his face, and a cloth covers the rest.
"England, you didn't tell me there were ninjas in the Renaissance!"
"Don't be daft, he's not a ninja-"
The man vaults on top of the table, and England starts to wonder. Not for long, though; he turns to the side before that blade can skewer him. America gathers up one of the cloths and hurls it at the man. It catches him full in the face and spreads, and England shouts, "Run!" and motions for the others to follow before the man can work himself free.
America seizes the sword he unearthed earlier in one hand and the back of Will's collar in the other and dashes through the open door, England following. The door opens into the chapel proper, and England barely has time to slam it shut before it flies open again, as though blown by a great wind. The man in black stands in the door, gestures to America, and though the words he speaks are no language England knows his very bones resound with them, fill his head until he hears nothing but their echo-
"No!" he shouts, and sends raw power shuttling towards the man, no shape or thought to it other than get away from him. The man's knocked sideways into the altar, and England staggers to one knee, breathing hard. What did he tap to do that? Likely something he couldn't afford to. He tries to stand but his muscles stubbornly refuse. They've locked tight, and the rest of him follows suit; even his lungs won't budge. Shit.
Will hauls him to his feet, and England's vision swims. "America," he gasps.
America runs towards the dais but the man shouts some sort of command, knocks him back. He scrambles to his feet again, his sword ready. The man's blade clashes against his-America grits his teeth and brings his weight to bear as their hilts tangle and lock, pushes the man to his knees.
"Don't-don't let that sword touch you," England manages, "I don't like how it looks."
"Wasn't-ugh-planning on it-"
The man breaks free and lunges for America's knee, and England is running to America's side, running as fast as his still-stiff legs can manage. America loses his balance but does avoid the sword, brings his own up to slice at the muscle near the man's groin. The man buckles but that ought to have crippled him, and at a pass of his hand and more words that make England's head spin, the rip begins to knit itself together again.
"What the hell language is that?" America asks, hoisting himself to his feet.
"The Ealdsprǽc, I'd wager." England wipes his mouth, his hands still jerkier than he'd like. "It's like being beaten about the head with a brick."
"These are not subtle words," Will agrees, steps in front of them both.
"Will, what the blazing fuck-"
England's head roars when Will speaks; dimly, he recognises the word, it's the same one the man shouted at America earlier. It sends him crashing into the bench, at any rate, a shower of splinters marking his fall.
"Well done," England manages to say. He thinks. The man in black is already on his feet, chanting, and the splinters in the air arrange themselves like needles, all pointing to Will. Before England can weave a shield, the splinters fly-several sink in before Will shouts that word again and blasts them back, scatters them all over the chapel.
"Ay," Will says, his breathing ragged, "so unsubtle as to be artless, and yet."
America charges forward, his sword forgotten and his arms outstretched-he seizes the man's cloak but the cloak lifts itself from the man's shoulders and wraps itself around America instead, smothering him.
England weaves spells for breaking and dissolving as fast as he can, but the threads of his magic tangle and slip, and the spells slide off the cloak. The charms he's learnt are shadows against this power, whatever it is.
Fine, then. Time to go deeper.
He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, spits on the cloak, and says, "My blood is the tide, and the tide breaks all."
The cloak unravels, and the thread falls softly to the ground around America's feet. Oh good, England thinks, and sways in place.
The man in black, of course, is gone.
"Well shit," America says. "Essex has ninjas working for him, too?"
"Ninja sorcerers," England says dryly.
"Okay, now you're just being ridiculous."
---
--
Dialect notes REDUX!
Obviously, I’m not writing this thing in full-out Elizabethan, because I’m not that footnote-crazy, and quite frankly I don’t trust myself to. I’ve tried to keep in a few elements of Elizabethan speech for flavor, though, and I’ll explain those here.
First, the pronouns! Elizabethan pronouns are pretty similar to ours, except they had an informal “you” pronoun, thou. (It’s like the tu/Usted distinction in Spanish.) You use “thou” for inferiors and people you’re close to in informal contexts, and it’s a bit rude to thou people you aren’t familiar with-so when the guards switch over to using thou with America, they’re trying to put him in his place. Thou is declined like so:
Subject: thou. (Thou liest, shag-eared villain!)
Direct/indirect object: thee. (I give thee thanks, or Let me clutch thee.)
Possessive: thy (thy face), or thine before a vowel. (thine eye).
They also had ye for the second-person plural, though there’s increasing usage of “you” for both singular AND plural second-person.
Verb endings are mostly the same, except for second- and third-person singular. Let’s look at the verb to have:
I have
Thou hast/You have
He hath
We had
You/Ye had
They had
I’m mostly omitting the -eth/th ending on the third person singular in this fic, because it reads weird to modern eyes, but it might crop up with a few words.
There really was a book called The Passionate Pilgrim published in 1599, purportedly by Shakespeare but containing a lot of poems that weren't his, including The Passionate Shepherd to His Love. 1599 was also the year when Shakespeare wrote As You Like It, which contains a tribute to "the dead shepherd" -- Kit Marlowe -- and I will stop now before I get tinhatty on y'all but SHAKESPEARE/MARLOWE OTP.
The Battle of the Yellow Ford.
.