Salem
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters copyright of: Hidekaz Himaruya
Rating: PG-13 (language and mentions of violence)
Wordcount: ~4800
Written in one sitting (with several bathroom breaks and lots of tea). First fanfic ever. Self-beta (read: probably littered with typos and grammatical errors). Comments welcomed.
*****
He was cold. And hungry. And alone.
He has never really been alone before. Sure, there were times when his brother had gone hunting with the bear cub, leaving him to forage for edible plants with his bunnies, but they had always met up by the bend of the river and shared the spoils (even if the bunnies did seem to avoid him for some time afterwards until the scent disappeared).
And of course he had been bruised and bloodied before. Actually, considering the fact that it didn’t feel like any of his bones were broken, his injuries were much lighter than they usually were after a hunt. Which is exactly why he didn’t care for hunting. Because when you are barely taller than the bunny you spend the night with, one move usually determined if you were atop of the buffalo’s carcass or crushed under its hoof. And without his brother and his bear serving as distractions, the move he chose seemed to always be the latter.
But there was no meat. And there was no brother. Even the bear was gone. Only an unfamiliar bunny and fawn, licking away the crimson streaks that laced his skin.
What happened? He wordlessly queried.
The licking stopped. The fawn wrapped itself around his waist and flicked its ears, punctuating the silence with a brush of soft fur against his arm. A firm paw against his other drew his attention to the drooped ears and lowered gaze that spoke for both.
Sorry. We couldn't save him.
The sobs that racked through his injuries only made him miss his brother more.
~~~~
The frog had captured the continent. Or so said the parchment in a floating French script. If only the wino had said it in only so many words, instead of drawing out, in great detail, how he did it. What did he care if he had “accidentally” stumbled upon the blond toddler as he was exploring the bay? Or if he had been viciously attacked by a bear “whiter than snow” as he had carried the toddler away? Or how he had clubbed the bear into submission with the butt of his musket, only to be moved by the “the grace of God” and drag both back to his ship? Or…
The young lord’s hand slammed the tissue-thin parchment onto the roughly hewn slab before him. “Safekeeping” my arse, I was here first! he thought as he reached for his mug.
Dijon wrote, said the corner of the parchment. Actually, it was Mustardseed that said it, but as his vision was blurry from the mead and vitriol, and “corner of the parchment” was a good enough assessment of the situation at the moment.
His eyebrows knitted together. Dijon had never been partial to written communication, though he was certainly a formidable and solid ally. But as the fae on the other side of the channel had always been partial to the language of the Gauls and refused to write in English (Old, Middle, or Modern), they usually only wrote in times of great urgency. The last time Dijon wrote, he and Mustardseed spent half the night deciphering three lines of the accursed runes, though the loss of a few candles and a spilled bottle of ink was certainly worth it for the capture of “Jeanne d’Arc.”
“How much?” the young lord slurred. He was certainly capable of speaking properly despite the unfinished brew in hand, and under normal circumstances he would have simply gone back to his quarters to finish the conversation with Mustardseed. But the tavern was warm, his room was not, and he was quite content to let it remain that way if he could help it.
Mustardseed took a short hop, actually something more like a large leap for a fairy so small, a quarter way down the sheet.
The young lord groaned audibly as his stool scraped against the floor.
~~~~
Whenever there was no food to gather and no food to hunt, the boy and his brother had always resorted to begging. The locals were usually willing to share food with “the children of the sun” in exchange for seashells, shiny rocks, or furs.
But lately, the locals had driven him and his brother away. “Water walkers” and “Fire drinkers” they had been called as they fled back into the forest, leaving behind a pile of shells that he and his brother had braved a week at the freezing shoreline for. And while he certainly loved the ocean, there was simply not enough meat in those shells to justify the expedition if more meat and time by a roaring fire wasn’t going to be part of it.
But his brother is no longer here. And there is still no food. And he lost his fur pelt in the mad escape a few days back. And it’s starting to snow.
He fingered the fawn’s ear. He didn’t want to leave his brother, but even with his obscene strength there was no way he was going to win against that man. That man who was easily three times his height and who took down his brother and his bear singlehandedly. Victory was even less assured when he considered the man’s companions that he had glimpsed as he was dragged away.
I want to go back. To the shore. To the sun. To fire.
The fawn cocked its head in thought. The boy, desperate for warmth, pressed himself closer to the rise and fall of its chest. The rabbit turned.
Come, it motioned. The boy clung onto the fawn’s back as it sprang away into the woods.
Where are we going? he wanted to ask, as the snowflakes began to fall.
~~~~
The young lord rubbed his temples. He had picked his eyebrows ragged over the course of the night, as was his habit, in the process of deciphering Dijon’s work, scrawled hastily in what seemed to be a mix of blood and tar between the glossy lines of French. But Dijon had been correct to write. He would probably have to repay Dijon with a handsome gift to the Duke of Burgundy, but his simple request to have Dijon tail that French louse had certainly paid off dividends beyond his reckoning.
The frog did not lie in his letter. Exaggerated some aspects, omitted others, but he did not lie outright. A blonde toddler representing the American continent had been captured, as had a white bear cub. The cub had been saved from assured death by, of all things, a rabbit, who died from the blow that had been intended for the cub. At which point the bear had gotten a hold of the toddler, and, as such, the man had no choice but to take both into custody.
In the ensuing ruckus, however, the Frenchman had missed the cry from the woods. The cry had drawn Dijon’s attention just in time to glimpse a second toddler being forcibly dragged into the woods by a fawn. As hastily conjured spell from Dijon had knocked the escaping toddler unconscious.
Which meant, if Dijon was correct, there were two representatives of the American continent. And one had escaped the Frenchman’s grasp.
The young lord raised his mug to his quill, then emptied the cold contents down his throat. Mustardseed yawned sleepily as it watched the young lord make his way towards the bed, and decided to take some rest where it lay. It could not have asked for a more comfortable feather bed after a long night’s work.
~~~~
He could smell the ocean. And the smoke, so there was definitely fire. And judging from the fact that his fingers were only cold and not numb there was definitely more sun here.
But it was still snowing, and he still hadn’t had anything to eat since at least the day before, if not longer. He fingered the fawn’s coat, head heavy with thought. As much as he didn’t want to starve, he was even less eager to be seen by the inhabitants. Inhabitants that looked too much like that man. Inhabitants, he realized as his stomach growled, that looked too much like himself.
~~~~
The young lord woke, unpleasantly, to a knock at his door.
“M’lord! Are you attending service this morn’?”
I’d rather rot in the bowels of hell, he thought to himself as he dismissed the help. But his citizenry were devout, and he had the King’s authority to think of. He sneezed in fits as he stuffed his golden hair beneath the wig.
~~~~
They had refused to follow him. He had begged and pleaded with them, but to no avail. The fawn and the rabbit refused to step out of the shadows. It’s too dangerous for us. You will fare better if you are alone. Find us by the shore.
And so he was here. It was a very strange village. A village of boxes. He could easily hide in the smallest of them. The largest of them would likely rival the height of a tree. And yet their makers were nowhere to be found. His quest to find food and fire yielded similar results, and he grew increasingly frustrated at the illusory food and fire whose alluring smell permeated the village.
Exhausted, he snuck into one of the larger boxes to escape the snow. And, after a half-hearted loop around the box, tucked himself into a pile of hay.
~~~~
No words initially came to mind to the young lord. He had begged off going to the magistrate’s for dinner, eager to avoid latter’s attempt to supplement the meagerness of his table with the dreariness of his conversation.
And so, on the pretext of going off for a hunt, he carried his musket and hunting bags towards the barn adjacent to his lodgings. He was just about to saddle a horse when he heard a rustle from the direction of the hay.
He wasn’t from the village, he was sure of that. Nor from any other civilized location, if his dirty, shirtless form was to be trusted. And yet his skin and hair was too fair to be that of a native.
That must be the brother, cooed Mustardseed. I know Dijon’s handiwork when I see it.
And, indeed, on the boy’s head, a golden curl of hair stood apart from the rest of his matted and dirty neighbors. If there was one thing he had learned about Dijon, his spells always made hair grow abundantly (almost luxuriously) from the point of contact. The young lord rubbed the spot where Dijon’s angry spell had grazed his own countenance, grudgingly noting that they had grown back already despite the damage suffered at his hands the night before.
He couldn’t go back to his quarters, at least not without arousing suspicion from the fawning magistrate. And he couldn’t exactly make do like the Frenchman, sling the poor child over his shoulder, and take him in for “safekeeping” (the young lord shuddered and reflexively crossed himself on behalf of the sleeping child’s brother). The Puritans would whisper at best, hang him at worst.
And yet, his pride as a nation and his pride as a God-fearing Christian meant he couldn’t leave him be.
Sweeping away the hay, he kicked himself for not bringing a stick of lead with him.
~~~~
Clearly the hunger was getting to him. The scent of food was even stronger than before, even though he knew for a fact that there was no food in the hay.
He turned over to grab another armful of hay close to him when his arm knocked into something solid. His eyes fluttered open.
An apple. A slab of cooked meat. A mug, steam slowly rising from its brim.
He bolted upright, ignoring the crusts of salt and sleep that clung onto his eyes and lashes. He had to be dreaming. He had to.
In his eagerness, he failed to notice the figure some distance away from him, carelessly grooming a horse. Only the slightest curve of the mouth suggested at the man’s quiet satisfaction.
~~~~
The young lord swore under his breath. He knew the plan was haphazard at best, but this was absurd. He had managed to draw both a holding barrier and an illusory barrier with nothing but some mud and spit for the runes. He had also managed to sneak food from his own meals into the barn, surreptitiously placing the food next to the sleeping child so that it would be “discovered” and greedily consumed while he was awake. He had even managed to construct a makeshift nightgown and bloomers for the child from an old, woolen blanket. Mustardseed had vociferously complained after pilfering a needle and thread many times its size from the magistrate’s home as an unexpected guest was eagerly received for dinner.
He had expected the child to cry. To throw hay in every which way. Maybe pound the barn wall with his tiny fists.
He had not expected the child to reduce the wall into splinters.
Mustardseed sped away as the young lord hurriedly scuffed out the runes with the bottom of his shoe. The Duke of Burgundy was going to get a slightly less handsome gift for Dijon’s omission of the boy’s ridiculous strength.
~~~~
Of course it had been too perfect. He had been warm, fed, even found clothes that fit him perfectly. He could play in the hay all he wanted and no one would notice him. There was even one time when he got careless and didn’t notice that two grown men had been speaking loudly some five paces away. And yet the more well-fed man didn’t pay him any attention even as he walked past him. He had been sure the taller man noticed him, and yet he too had simply saddled a horse and left. It was like he was invisible.
It was only when he tried to leave the comfort of the haystack that his delight turned to panic. He had been trapped. Trapped by those men. By those same men that took his brother. He was going to die. The image of the bear, bloodied and battered, flashed before his eyes.
The villagers would later say that they had seen a spirit, white as a sheet, tear down the village’s main road and into the forest with a cry like that of a terrified child.
~~~~
It was by sheer luck that Mustardseed found him. It was nothing short of an act of God that Mustardseed had managed to convince the child to come near the vicinity of the village again. Especially considering that the child seemed unable to communicate with Mustardseed directly. He silently vowed to never take long-eared, non-magical rodents lightly ever again.
He had been worried, he would admit, when Mustardseed had disappeared for nearly a week. He had been on the verge of panic when Mustardseed finally reappeared with its precious wings in such a tattered state that it had been obliged to ride a rabbit back to the edge of the village and make the rest of the trip to his quarters on foot.
The young lord desperately fought against the rising agitation in his voice as he asked the help for some extra sundries to take on his hunt today.
~~~~
The boy hid in the undergrowth. He wasn’t exactly sure how he had been convinced into this. One moment he was looking for shells on the seashore (little food was better than none, after all), the next the bunny was telling him to listen.
When he replied that all he heard was the bunny and the sea, the bunny began to tell him that a butterfly, no, a fairy, was trying to talk to him.
Maybe this is what the natives felt like when they danced and spoke to their gods through their medicine men. Like speaking to a bunny that kept talking about What the fairy said. Which made no sense because there was no fairy, and there was no one else talking.
Or maybe he was just crazy from hunger. Again.
He wasn’t sure what to believe when the bunny appeared in the clearing, followed by a man who smelled of fire and food. He nearly fled in the opposite direction when the man tossed a bag into the middle of the clearing. But when the man made no move to retrieve the bag even as a piece of bread tumbled out, his body acted of its own accord.
~~~~
Admittedly, his newfound love of the hunt was drawing a few curious glances from the villagers, but one of the privileges of having a royal backing was the ability to silence wagging tongues with a withering glance. The results of Dijon’s near miss certainly helped. The magistrate’s approval did as well, and the young lord had, at first, been obliged suffer through these jaunts with the honor of the portly man’s company. These joint excursions grew fewer and farther in-between, however, as the man of learning quickly noted the sport’s taxing nature.
Other than himself and Mustardseed, the only other being privy to the existence of the boy was Tituba. She had not seen the child herself, but the young lord’s unusually hearty appetite two days a week, where he would pack for both an excursion out and then settle for a full supper upon his return, was impossible not to notice. As the young lord had treated her fairly despite her color and his position, she was more than happy to slip in a few extra vittles for him on his jaunts.
He had settled into something of a routine. The boy never drew close enough for him to touch, but would eat greedily just outside of arm's reach. The young lord would meanwhile prop himself up against a tree, conversing with Mustardseed and the bunny about everything and nothing at all. Given Dijon’s warning that the boy’s brother did not seem to know any language beyond those of the natives, the young lord figured any exposure to the King’s English was better than none.
After a short rest for the boy, the young lord would saddle his horse again and proceed to partake in an actual hunt. He soon took to deliberately missing most of his shots. Between the boy’s scouting skills and his own sharpshooting, they could have easily deprived the woods of most of its inhabitants.
~~~~
The boy understood. Despite the fact that he often pretended that he was too absorbed in the food to notice, he was actually paying close attention to the conversations the man had with his imaginary friend and the bunny.
So it took all of his effort not to choke on his food when the man sat down one day and proceeded to inform the bunny of his departure the day after next.
He knew that the man was a good man, even if his eyebrows always made him look angry. Even if the natives hated him. Even if he vaguely looked like the man who had took his brother (the food caught itself in his throat at the thought).
Don’t leave, he thought. You’re nice, you tell stories, you give me food, you…
He swallowed his last thought. You can save my brother.
He fought back the welling tears with another bite of food.
~~~~
The Glorious Revolution was over. William was king. And he was back in the Old World, fighting the frog and his “Sun King.” That ostentatious, overcompensating, ornery excuse of a royal.
As he lay in his tent, body too busy anticipating the forthcoming battle to sleep, his mind would drift back to his colonies, and the boy that resided among them. He must be safe. The colonies were doing well for themselves, though troubles still cropped up here and there. The boy was safer there than on the battlefield, at any rate.
Tituba had been given explicit instructions to leave food twice a week under the box by the barn, and generously compensated for her troubles. He had impressed upon the boy’s guardian to only let the boy near the village at dead of night, and to keep out of sight of all the settlers at all costs.
Still, bunnies did not live long, and Tituba was in no position to properly care for the child. He would have to remedy that as soon as returned to the New World.
His body tossed restlessly under the covers.
~~~~
England. America. England. America.
The boy repeated the sounds to himself over and over. He had asked the bunny what he should call the man. What his name was. The bunny had shaken its head. There was no way it could sign the sounds.
He was busy tracking down waterfowl when he heard the man’s raised voice in the brush. “Of course my name is England, how long have you known me for and you’re still asking my name! Wha… you cannot be serious. Of course America is mine! Oh… Oh bugger all, thanks to you I’ve lost my quarry. Now what am I supposed to present as a parting gift?!”
The boy had smiled broadly as the bunny nodded towards him. England. England is the man’s name. And his own name is America. America.
He had, against the bunny’s advice, followed England all the way down to the shore, where a large wooden boat (ships, they were called ships) was waiting for him. He had been determined not to cry when he left, that he was better without him there. He was a big boy, and he didn’t need him. Need England.
And yet he couldn’t help himself as he watched the ship pull away from the dock. There, lazily hanging over the rail, was the man who had cared for him, green eyes gazing over the New World for one last time.
The boy soon found himself sprinting barefoot over the rough planks, screaming the man’s name until he grew hoarse.
Once again, he found himself swept off his feet, being dragged back into the woods. He couldn’t tell if the man had heard him before his world faded to black.
~~~~
England was exhausted. As was usually the case for a day spent in hand-to-hand combat with that frog. Though he had long heard rumors that parts of that Frenchman has long since succumbed to the diseases found in his pleasure quarters, his swordplay certainly had not. Judging from his armor, however, his sense of style might have.
As per custom, Mustardseed had largely been ignored throughout the battle. Instead, it and Dijon had been busy keeping track of the battle at hand and exchanging the news between them. In fact, it was difficult to communicate with Dijon unless he wasn’t within speaking distance of the Frenchman, due to Dijon’s stubborn refusal to write or read anything that wasn’t in the language of the Gauls.
You need to leave the front and return to the New World.
Now is not the time he wanted to yell at the fae. Can’t you see that war’s afoot?
There is a witch hunt underway in Massachusetts. Around Boston. According to Dijon, at least four have been hanged so far. One was a person of color.
The cavalry’s second in command wasn’t sure what was more surprising, his sudden promotion or his commander’s alarmingly blanched complexion.
~~~~
Tituba was dead. He knew that England had told her to feed him, but nearly ten summers had passed since he had run after England at the docks. Still, even after all these years, she had always given him food. Sometimes, when it was cold, she would even put in a bottle with the last dregs of firewater (whiskey, they called it whiskey) for him.
But she was always treated badly. She was always getting yelled at. And always getting hit. Always huddling in the kitchen for warmth.
There wasn’t much America could do. Despite the passage of time, America remained as he was, a child that looked no more than the age of three that still fit in the nightgown and bloomers that England had made for him so many years ago. And the bunny, or more like the bunny’s children, made sure that he stayed out of sight. But he sometimes snuck her the spoils of a good hunt. He had gotten pretty good at it over the years.
He had picked flowers for her. He had gotten the idea after seeing some girls by the shore (Boston, they called it Boston) wear flowers in their bonnets. So he had gone into the woods, picked a small cluster, and placed it outside the kitchen door. He clapped his hands together when he saw her place them in the pocket of her apron.
Tituba had been surrounded by some girls. They had called her names and pulled at her dress. Tituba had turned to run, but fell instead.
Suddenly, the girls had found themselves on the ground. Tituba was disappearing around the corner, following what seemed to be a flash of gold.
The next day, Tituba had been bound and led away by men in dark coats. “For the practice of witchcraft,” they said. The girls shrieked hysterically in front of the villagers at Tituba’s trial. “Stop! The bird! You’re hurting it! The poor, yellow bird!”
Tituba had been hanged in the town square, with three others.
No one in the village knew who left a small cluster of flowers on her shallow grave. There was only one logical conclusion; there were more witches in the village.
~~~~
England had left the Old World in such haste that he nearly forgot to beg leave of his King. There had been no time to rush back to the Isles to properly explain himself. He hoped a hastily penned letter would mitigate the charges of treason.
Witch hunt. The mere sound of those words arose a deep-seated fear in him and those of his kind. Unaffected by the passage of time, he and his fellow nations had taken to an elaborate charade, maintaining multiple identities and multiple residences.
Feign ignorance if a neighbor from two or three decades past approaches you. He was my uncle. Why yes, people have remarked that I am a splitting image of him. I’m sorry I never met him.
But that child. That child, who had cried his name so desperately on the dock. The child that Mustardseed cloaked with a hurried spell. He would not know. He had been foolhardy enough to run screaming onto the dock in broad daylight to see him off. He would not know the dangers. He wouldn’t think to invent a name for himself, one that didn’t proclaim his status as the embodiment of the New World.
The child had been entrusted to Tituba. A colored woman in Salem.
Let him be safe was all he could think as the trampled the snowflakes into the freezing planks.
~~~~
He was cold. And hungry. And alone.
He had taken to hiding in the woods ever since Tituba’s death. Those men would kill him if they found him. He was sure of it. They killed Tituba for less reason. Surely they were after him next. After the child who never aged. The friend of the witch.
He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t save his brother, and he couldn’t save her.
A hoarse sob escaped his lips. America’s pounded in his ears as a loud rustle drew his attention.
A figure broke into the clearing. The scent hinted at the man’s exertion. He whirled frantically , eyes wide, desperate in their hunt.
“America,” he gasped, as his knees gave out from under him. “Please, please be safe.”
From behind England’s coat, Mustardseed saw that the spell it had cast had permanently trimmed Dijon’s long curl into an upright tuft of hair.
~~~~
America was sniffing into his vest, crushing his ribs. England would have thought a long sea voyage would have been enough time to heal a cracked rib from an enraged Frenchman.
“I couldn’t save her, England!” he bawled. “I was scared! I couldn’t save her! I couldn’t…”
England pulled in his young charge. The boy was warm, even against his own frame trembling from exhaustion.
“Someday. Someday you will. Someday you will be able to rival even Alfred the Great, and save every damsel in distress.”
He smoothed the matted head of hair under his chin, taking note of a stubborn tuft of hair where the curl used to be. Alfred. It wasn’t a bad namesake for the child to aspire to. If he’s Alfred, then I must be Arthur. England smiled.
“Arthur and Alfred it is then,” he murmured into the boy’s golden crown.
**fin**
**notes**
In case it wasn't obvious, I'm bending Hetalia cannon a bit from the "Battle of the Americas" arc (because that's not exactly how it happened, though it is much funnier than my version and accurate enough for general knowledge).
Burgundy (located in France) was allied with England in the Hundred Years' War. The Burgundians sold Joan of Arc (French: Jeanne d'Arc) to the English, where she was tried and executed for heresy.
Canada (and Kumajiro) were captured in what is now known as Hudson Bay.
Tituba was one of the first victims of the Salem witch trials.
The war being fought between England and France towards the end is known by many names, but it is commonly known stateside as "King William's War."
As for the tastes of King Louis XIV of France (the "Sun King"), he built Versailles (go Google it). I rest my case.
I'm sure I'm missing something.
I apologize profusely for my failure at writing a decent conclusion.
Characters copyright of: Hidekaz Himaruya
Rating: PG-13 (language and mentions of violence)
Wordcount: ~4800
Written in one sitting (with several bathroom breaks and lots of tea). First fanfic ever. Self-beta (read: probably littered with typos and grammatical errors). Comments welcomed.
*****
He was cold. And hungry. And alone.
He has never really been alone before. Sure, there were times when his brother had gone hunting with the bear cub, leaving him to forage for edible plants with his bunnies, but they had always met up by the bend of the river and shared the spoils (even if the bunnies did seem to avoid him for some time afterwards until the scent disappeared).
And of course he had been bruised and bloodied before. Actually, considering the fact that it didn’t feel like any of his bones were broken, his injuries were much lighter than they usually were after a hunt. Which is exactly why he didn’t care for hunting. Because when you are barely taller than the bunny you spend the night with, one move usually determined if you were atop of the buffalo’s carcass or crushed under its hoof. And without his brother and his bear serving as distractions, the move he chose seemed to always be the latter.
But there was no meat. And there was no brother. Even the bear was gone. Only an unfamiliar bunny and fawn, licking away the crimson streaks that laced his skin.
What happened? He wordlessly queried.
The licking stopped. The fawn wrapped itself around his waist and flicked its ears, punctuating the silence with a brush of soft fur against his arm. A firm paw against his other drew his attention to the drooped ears and lowered gaze that spoke for both.
Sorry. We couldn't save him.
The sobs that racked through his injuries only made him miss his brother more.
~~~~
The frog had captured the continent. Or so said the parchment in a floating French script. If only the wino had said it in only so many words, instead of drawing out, in great detail, how he did it. What did he care if he had “accidentally” stumbled upon the blond toddler as he was exploring the bay? Or if he had been viciously attacked by a bear “whiter than snow” as he had carried the toddler away? Or how he had clubbed the bear into submission with the butt of his musket, only to be moved by the “the grace of God” and drag both back to his ship? Or…
The young lord’s hand slammed the tissue-thin parchment onto the roughly hewn slab before him. “Safekeeping” my arse, I was here first! he thought as he reached for his mug.
Dijon wrote, said the corner of the parchment. Actually, it was Mustardseed that said it, but as his vision was blurry from the mead and vitriol, and “corner of the parchment” was a good enough assessment of the situation at the moment.
His eyebrows knitted together. Dijon had never been partial to written communication, though he was certainly a formidable and solid ally. But as the fae on the other side of the channel had always been partial to the language of the Gauls and refused to write in English (Old, Middle, or Modern), they usually only wrote in times of great urgency. The last time Dijon wrote, he and Mustardseed spent half the night deciphering three lines of the accursed runes, though the loss of a few candles and a spilled bottle of ink was certainly worth it for the capture of “Jeanne d’Arc.”
“How much?” the young lord slurred. He was certainly capable of speaking properly despite the unfinished brew in hand, and under normal circumstances he would have simply gone back to his quarters to finish the conversation with Mustardseed. But the tavern was warm, his room was not, and he was quite content to let it remain that way if he could help it.
Mustardseed took a short hop, actually something more like a large leap for a fairy so small, a quarter way down the sheet.
The young lord groaned audibly as his stool scraped against the floor.
~~~~
Whenever there was no food to gather and no food to hunt, the boy and his brother had always resorted to begging. The locals were usually willing to share food with “the children of the sun” in exchange for seashells, shiny rocks, or furs.
But lately, the locals had driven him and his brother away. “Water walkers” and “Fire drinkers” they had been called as they fled back into the forest, leaving behind a pile of shells that he and his brother had braved a week at the freezing shoreline for. And while he certainly loved the ocean, there was simply not enough meat in those shells to justify the expedition if more meat and time by a roaring fire wasn’t going to be part of it.
But his brother is no longer here. And there is still no food. And he lost his fur pelt in the mad escape a few days back. And it’s starting to snow.
He fingered the fawn’s ear. He didn’t want to leave his brother, but even with his obscene strength there was no way he was going to win against that man. That man who was easily three times his height and who took down his brother and his bear singlehandedly. Victory was even less assured when he considered the man’s companions that he had glimpsed as he was dragged away.
I want to go back. To the shore. To the sun. To fire.
The fawn cocked its head in thought. The boy, desperate for warmth, pressed himself closer to the rise and fall of its chest. The rabbit turned.
Come, it motioned. The boy clung onto the fawn’s back as it sprang away into the woods.
Where are we going? he wanted to ask, as the snowflakes began to fall.
~~~~
The young lord rubbed his temples. He had picked his eyebrows ragged over the course of the night, as was his habit, in the process of deciphering Dijon’s work, scrawled hastily in what seemed to be a mix of blood and tar between the glossy lines of French. But Dijon had been correct to write. He would probably have to repay Dijon with a handsome gift to the Duke of Burgundy, but his simple request to have Dijon tail that French louse had certainly paid off dividends beyond his reckoning.
The frog did not lie in his letter. Exaggerated some aspects, omitted others, but he did not lie outright. A blonde toddler representing the American continent had been captured, as had a white bear cub. The cub had been saved from assured death by, of all things, a rabbit, who died from the blow that had been intended for the cub. At which point the bear had gotten a hold of the toddler, and, as such, the man had no choice but to take both into custody.
In the ensuing ruckus, however, the Frenchman had missed the cry from the woods. The cry had drawn Dijon’s attention just in time to glimpse a second toddler being forcibly dragged into the woods by a fawn. As hastily conjured spell from Dijon had knocked the escaping toddler unconscious.
Which meant, if Dijon was correct, there were two representatives of the American continent. And one had escaped the Frenchman’s grasp.
The young lord raised his mug to his quill, then emptied the cold contents down his throat. Mustardseed yawned sleepily as it watched the young lord make his way towards the bed, and decided to take some rest where it lay. It could not have asked for a more comfortable feather bed after a long night’s work.
~~~~
He could smell the ocean. And the smoke, so there was definitely fire. And judging from the fact that his fingers were only cold and not numb there was definitely more sun here.
But it was still snowing, and he still hadn’t had anything to eat since at least the day before, if not longer. He fingered the fawn’s coat, head heavy with thought. As much as he didn’t want to starve, he was even less eager to be seen by the inhabitants. Inhabitants that looked too much like that man. Inhabitants, he realized as his stomach growled, that looked too much like himself.
~~~~
The young lord woke, unpleasantly, to a knock at his door.
“M’lord! Are you attending service this morn’?”
I’d rather rot in the bowels of hell, he thought to himself as he dismissed the help. But his citizenry were devout, and he had the King’s authority to think of. He sneezed in fits as he stuffed his golden hair beneath the wig.
~~~~
They had refused to follow him. He had begged and pleaded with them, but to no avail. The fawn and the rabbit refused to step out of the shadows. It’s too dangerous for us. You will fare better if you are alone. Find us by the shore.
And so he was here. It was a very strange village. A village of boxes. He could easily hide in the smallest of them. The largest of them would likely rival the height of a tree. And yet their makers were nowhere to be found. His quest to find food and fire yielded similar results, and he grew increasingly frustrated at the illusory food and fire whose alluring smell permeated the village.
Exhausted, he snuck into one of the larger boxes to escape the snow. And, after a half-hearted loop around the box, tucked himself into a pile of hay.
~~~~
No words initially came to mind to the young lord. He had begged off going to the magistrate’s for dinner, eager to avoid latter’s attempt to supplement the meagerness of his table with the dreariness of his conversation.
And so, on the pretext of going off for a hunt, he carried his musket and hunting bags towards the barn adjacent to his lodgings. He was just about to saddle a horse when he heard a rustle from the direction of the hay.
He wasn’t from the village, he was sure of that. Nor from any other civilized location, if his dirty, shirtless form was to be trusted. And yet his skin and hair was too fair to be that of a native.
That must be the brother, cooed Mustardseed. I know Dijon’s handiwork when I see it.
And, indeed, on the boy’s head, a golden curl of hair stood apart from the rest of his matted and dirty neighbors. If there was one thing he had learned about Dijon, his spells always made hair grow abundantly (almost luxuriously) from the point of contact. The young lord rubbed the spot where Dijon’s angry spell had grazed his own countenance, grudgingly noting that they had grown back already despite the damage suffered at his hands the night before.
He couldn’t go back to his quarters, at least not without arousing suspicion from the fawning magistrate. And he couldn’t exactly make do like the Frenchman, sling the poor child over his shoulder, and take him in for “safekeeping” (the young lord shuddered and reflexively crossed himself on behalf of the sleeping child’s brother). The Puritans would whisper at best, hang him at worst.
And yet, his pride as a nation and his pride as a God-fearing Christian meant he couldn’t leave him be.
Sweeping away the hay, he kicked himself for not bringing a stick of lead with him.
~~~~
Clearly the hunger was getting to him. The scent of food was even stronger than before, even though he knew for a fact that there was no food in the hay.
He turned over to grab another armful of hay close to him when his arm knocked into something solid. His eyes fluttered open.
An apple. A slab of cooked meat. A mug, steam slowly rising from its brim.
He bolted upright, ignoring the crusts of salt and sleep that clung onto his eyes and lashes. He had to be dreaming. He had to.
In his eagerness, he failed to notice the figure some distance away from him, carelessly grooming a horse. Only the slightest curve of the mouth suggested at the man’s quiet satisfaction.
~~~~
The young lord swore under his breath. He knew the plan was haphazard at best, but this was absurd. He had managed to draw both a holding barrier and an illusory barrier with nothing but some mud and spit for the runes. He had also managed to sneak food from his own meals into the barn, surreptitiously placing the food next to the sleeping child so that it would be “discovered” and greedily consumed while he was awake. He had even managed to construct a makeshift nightgown and bloomers for the child from an old, woolen blanket. Mustardseed had vociferously complained after pilfering a needle and thread many times its size from the magistrate’s home as an unexpected guest was eagerly received for dinner.
He had expected the child to cry. To throw hay in every which way. Maybe pound the barn wall with his tiny fists.
He had not expected the child to reduce the wall into splinters.
Mustardseed sped away as the young lord hurriedly scuffed out the runes with the bottom of his shoe. The Duke of Burgundy was going to get a slightly less handsome gift for Dijon’s omission of the boy’s ridiculous strength.
~~~~
Of course it had been too perfect. He had been warm, fed, even found clothes that fit him perfectly. He could play in the hay all he wanted and no one would notice him. There was even one time when he got careless and didn’t notice that two grown men had been speaking loudly some five paces away. And yet the more well-fed man didn’t pay him any attention even as he walked past him. He had been sure the taller man noticed him, and yet he too had simply saddled a horse and left. It was like he was invisible.
It was only when he tried to leave the comfort of the haystack that his delight turned to panic. He had been trapped. Trapped by those men. By those same men that took his brother. He was going to die. The image of the bear, bloodied and battered, flashed before his eyes.
The villagers would later say that they had seen a spirit, white as a sheet, tear down the village’s main road and into the forest with a cry like that of a terrified child.
~~~~
It was by sheer luck that Mustardseed found him. It was nothing short of an act of God that Mustardseed had managed to convince the child to come near the vicinity of the village again. Especially considering that the child seemed unable to communicate with Mustardseed directly. He silently vowed to never take long-eared, non-magical rodents lightly ever again.
He had been worried, he would admit, when Mustardseed had disappeared for nearly a week. He had been on the verge of panic when Mustardseed finally reappeared with its precious wings in such a tattered state that it had been obliged to ride a rabbit back to the edge of the village and make the rest of the trip to his quarters on foot.
The young lord desperately fought against the rising agitation in his voice as he asked the help for some extra sundries to take on his hunt today.
~~~~
The boy hid in the undergrowth. He wasn’t exactly sure how he had been convinced into this. One moment he was looking for shells on the seashore (little food was better than none, after all), the next the bunny was telling him to listen.
When he replied that all he heard was the bunny and the sea, the bunny began to tell him that a butterfly, no, a fairy, was trying to talk to him.
Maybe this is what the natives felt like when they danced and spoke to their gods through their medicine men. Like speaking to a bunny that kept talking about What the fairy said. Which made no sense because there was no fairy, and there was no one else talking.
Or maybe he was just crazy from hunger. Again.
He wasn’t sure what to believe when the bunny appeared in the clearing, followed by a man who smelled of fire and food. He nearly fled in the opposite direction when the man tossed a bag into the middle of the clearing. But when the man made no move to retrieve the bag even as a piece of bread tumbled out, his body acted of its own accord.
~~~~
Admittedly, his newfound love of the hunt was drawing a few curious glances from the villagers, but one of the privileges of having a royal backing was the ability to silence wagging tongues with a withering glance. The results of Dijon’s near miss certainly helped. The magistrate’s approval did as well, and the young lord had, at first, been obliged suffer through these jaunts with the honor of the portly man’s company. These joint excursions grew fewer and farther in-between, however, as the man of learning quickly noted the sport’s taxing nature.
Other than himself and Mustardseed, the only other being privy to the existence of the boy was Tituba. She had not seen the child herself, but the young lord’s unusually hearty appetite two days a week, where he would pack for both an excursion out and then settle for a full supper upon his return, was impossible not to notice. As the young lord had treated her fairly despite her color and his position, she was more than happy to slip in a few extra vittles for him on his jaunts.
He had settled into something of a routine. The boy never drew close enough for him to touch, but would eat greedily just outside of arm's reach. The young lord would meanwhile prop himself up against a tree, conversing with Mustardseed and the bunny about everything and nothing at all. Given Dijon’s warning that the boy’s brother did not seem to know any language beyond those of the natives, the young lord figured any exposure to the King’s English was better than none.
After a short rest for the boy, the young lord would saddle his horse again and proceed to partake in an actual hunt. He soon took to deliberately missing most of his shots. Between the boy’s scouting skills and his own sharpshooting, they could have easily deprived the woods of most of its inhabitants.
~~~~
The boy understood. Despite the fact that he often pretended that he was too absorbed in the food to notice, he was actually paying close attention to the conversations the man had with his imaginary friend and the bunny.
So it took all of his effort not to choke on his food when the man sat down one day and proceeded to inform the bunny of his departure the day after next.
He knew that the man was a good man, even if his eyebrows always made him look angry. Even if the natives hated him. Even if he vaguely looked like the man who had took his brother (the food caught itself in his throat at the thought).
Don’t leave, he thought. You’re nice, you tell stories, you give me food, you…
He swallowed his last thought. You can save my brother.
He fought back the welling tears with another bite of food.
~~~~
The Glorious Revolution was over. William was king. And he was back in the Old World, fighting the frog and his “Sun King.” That ostentatious, overcompensating, ornery excuse of a royal.
As he lay in his tent, body too busy anticipating the forthcoming battle to sleep, his mind would drift back to his colonies, and the boy that resided among them. He must be safe. The colonies were doing well for themselves, though troubles still cropped up here and there. The boy was safer there than on the battlefield, at any rate.
Tituba had been given explicit instructions to leave food twice a week under the box by the barn, and generously compensated for her troubles. He had impressed upon the boy’s guardian to only let the boy near the village at dead of night, and to keep out of sight of all the settlers at all costs.
Still, bunnies did not live long, and Tituba was in no position to properly care for the child. He would have to remedy that as soon as returned to the New World.
His body tossed restlessly under the covers.
~~~~
England. America. England. America.
The boy repeated the sounds to himself over and over. He had asked the bunny what he should call the man. What his name was. The bunny had shaken its head. There was no way it could sign the sounds.
He was busy tracking down waterfowl when he heard the man’s raised voice in the brush. “Of course my name is England, how long have you known me for and you’re still asking my name! Wha… you cannot be serious. Of course America is mine! Oh… Oh bugger all, thanks to you I’ve lost my quarry. Now what am I supposed to present as a parting gift?!”
The boy had smiled broadly as the bunny nodded towards him. England. England is the man’s name. And his own name is America. America.
He had, against the bunny’s advice, followed England all the way down to the shore, where a large wooden boat (ships, they were called ships) was waiting for him. He had been determined not to cry when he left, that he was better without him there. He was a big boy, and he didn’t need him. Need England.
And yet he couldn’t help himself as he watched the ship pull away from the dock. There, lazily hanging over the rail, was the man who had cared for him, green eyes gazing over the New World for one last time.
The boy soon found himself sprinting barefoot over the rough planks, screaming the man’s name until he grew hoarse.
Once again, he found himself swept off his feet, being dragged back into the woods. He couldn’t tell if the man had heard him before his world faded to black.
~~~~
England was exhausted. As was usually the case for a day spent in hand-to-hand combat with that frog. Though he had long heard rumors that parts of that Frenchman has long since succumbed to the diseases found in his pleasure quarters, his swordplay certainly had not. Judging from his armor, however, his sense of style might have.
As per custom, Mustardseed had largely been ignored throughout the battle. Instead, it and Dijon had been busy keeping track of the battle at hand and exchanging the news between them. In fact, it was difficult to communicate with Dijon unless he wasn’t within speaking distance of the Frenchman, due to Dijon’s stubborn refusal to write or read anything that wasn’t in the language of the Gauls.
You need to leave the front and return to the New World.
Now is not the time he wanted to yell at the fae. Can’t you see that war’s afoot?
There is a witch hunt underway in Massachusetts. Around Boston. According to Dijon, at least four have been hanged so far. One was a person of color.
The cavalry’s second in command wasn’t sure what was more surprising, his sudden promotion or his commander’s alarmingly blanched complexion.
~~~~
Tituba was dead. He knew that England had told her to feed him, but nearly ten summers had passed since he had run after England at the docks. Still, even after all these years, she had always given him food. Sometimes, when it was cold, she would even put in a bottle with the last dregs of firewater (whiskey, they called it whiskey) for him.
But she was always treated badly. She was always getting yelled at. And always getting hit. Always huddling in the kitchen for warmth.
There wasn’t much America could do. Despite the passage of time, America remained as he was, a child that looked no more than the age of three that still fit in the nightgown and bloomers that England had made for him so many years ago. And the bunny, or more like the bunny’s children, made sure that he stayed out of sight. But he sometimes snuck her the spoils of a good hunt. He had gotten pretty good at it over the years.
He had picked flowers for her. He had gotten the idea after seeing some girls by the shore (Boston, they called it Boston) wear flowers in their bonnets. So he had gone into the woods, picked a small cluster, and placed it outside the kitchen door. He clapped his hands together when he saw her place them in the pocket of her apron.
Tituba had been surrounded by some girls. They had called her names and pulled at her dress. Tituba had turned to run, but fell instead.
Suddenly, the girls had found themselves on the ground. Tituba was disappearing around the corner, following what seemed to be a flash of gold.
The next day, Tituba had been bound and led away by men in dark coats. “For the practice of witchcraft,” they said. The girls shrieked hysterically in front of the villagers at Tituba’s trial. “Stop! The bird! You’re hurting it! The poor, yellow bird!”
Tituba had been hanged in the town square, with three others.
No one in the village knew who left a small cluster of flowers on her shallow grave. There was only one logical conclusion; there were more witches in the village.
~~~~
England had left the Old World in such haste that he nearly forgot to beg leave of his King. There had been no time to rush back to the Isles to properly explain himself. He hoped a hastily penned letter would mitigate the charges of treason.
Witch hunt. The mere sound of those words arose a deep-seated fear in him and those of his kind. Unaffected by the passage of time, he and his fellow nations had taken to an elaborate charade, maintaining multiple identities and multiple residences.
Feign ignorance if a neighbor from two or three decades past approaches you. He was my uncle. Why yes, people have remarked that I am a splitting image of him. I’m sorry I never met him.
But that child. That child, who had cried his name so desperately on the dock. The child that Mustardseed cloaked with a hurried spell. He would not know. He had been foolhardy enough to run screaming onto the dock in broad daylight to see him off. He would not know the dangers. He wouldn’t think to invent a name for himself, one that didn’t proclaim his status as the embodiment of the New World.
The child had been entrusted to Tituba. A colored woman in Salem.
Let him be safe was all he could think as the trampled the snowflakes into the freezing planks.
~~~~
He was cold. And hungry. And alone.
He had taken to hiding in the woods ever since Tituba’s death. Those men would kill him if they found him. He was sure of it. They killed Tituba for less reason. Surely they were after him next. After the child who never aged. The friend of the witch.
He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t save his brother, and he couldn’t save her.
A hoarse sob escaped his lips. America’s pounded in his ears as a loud rustle drew his attention.
A figure broke into the clearing. The scent hinted at the man’s exertion. He whirled frantically , eyes wide, desperate in their hunt.
“America,” he gasped, as his knees gave out from under him. “Please, please be safe.”
From behind England’s coat, Mustardseed saw that the spell it had cast had permanently trimmed Dijon’s long curl into an upright tuft of hair.
~~~~
America was sniffing into his vest, crushing his ribs. England would have thought a long sea voyage would have been enough time to heal a cracked rib from an enraged Frenchman.
“I couldn’t save her, England!” he bawled. “I was scared! I couldn’t save her! I couldn’t…”
England pulled in his young charge. The boy was warm, even against his own frame trembling from exhaustion.
“Someday. Someday you will. Someday you will be able to rival even Alfred the Great, and save every damsel in distress.”
He smoothed the matted head of hair under his chin, taking note of a stubborn tuft of hair where the curl used to be. Alfred. It wasn’t a bad namesake for the child to aspire to. If he’s Alfred, then I must be Arthur. England smiled.
“Arthur and Alfred it is then,” he murmured into the boy’s golden crown.
**fin**
**notes**
In case it wasn't obvious, I'm bending Hetalia cannon a bit from the "Battle of the Americas" arc (because that's not exactly how it happened, though it is much funnier than my version and accurate enough for general knowledge).
Burgundy (located in France) was allied with England in the Hundred Years' War. The Burgundians sold Joan of Arc (French: Jeanne d'Arc) to the English, where she was tried and executed for heresy.
Canada (and Kumajiro) were captured in what is now known as Hudson Bay.
Tituba was one of the first victims of the Salem witch trials.
The war being fought between England and France towards the end is known by many names, but it is commonly known stateside as "King William's War."
As for the tastes of King Louis XIV of France (the "Sun King"), he built Versailles (go Google it). I rest my case.
I'm sure I'm missing something.
I apologize profusely for my failure at writing a decent conclusion.