Fanmix - How Could It Be Any Better Than This? Part One
Title: How Could It Be Any Better Than This? - An Ireland/Saint Patrick fanmix
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: R
Summary: A 22 song fanmix + fics dedicated to a Welsh slave that would become a saint, an Irish lass who wasn't quite a lass, and the love that still lasts to this day.
Timeframe: 403 AD to present day
Word Count: Total: 10,568. This part: 5,620
Notes/Warnings: Bad accents (Ireland's pre-1937 accent), OCs, use of a Saint, vague but obvious sex... possible blasphemy, my very limited understanding of Catholicism, a blink and you miss appearance by... well, you can guess when you get there. Oh and DEATH. Hope that wasn't too shocking for you, that Saint Patrick's kinda dead.
Front cover art credit: lylith_st. Font cover lettering credit: raspberrybeanie, who I hasten to point out, may be in Japan but is safe and alive and fine. Back cover recolor credit: raspberrybeanie. Back cover filtering and lettering credit: later_days. Without these three wonderful, wonderful, lovely ladies, this would not look near as nice as it does. Thank you guys, so very much. <3
22 songs and cover art found right here!
How Could It Be Any Better Than This -- An Ireland/Saint Patrick FST
In Fields Where We Lay -- B*Witched
How we laughed and carved our names
And declared our love forever
On that old oak tree we found
In the fields where once we did lay
In the fields where once we did lay
There's a green hill far away
In a land I know so well
And the sun it shone so bright
In the fields where once we did lay
In the fields where once we did lay
It was a bright, sunny day, rare in this land, that a young slave lad, captured from the nearby lands, met the lass that would forever change his life.
Maewyn had no idea that this was going to happen, of course. Outside of the bright sunlight it was an ordinary day near the foot of Slemish Mountain. He was minding his master’s cattle, looking out at the vast landscape laid out before him, marveling at the sheer beauty of this amazingly green land, and thanking the Lord Above for it. But suddenly, in the midst of the black, white, and tan of the herd, he caught a flash of long red hair. Frowning, he stood and made his way towards it, catching only glimpses of it, sometimes catching a snatch of that strange language the natives used in a bright clear voice with a giggle coloring it. Finally he saw her in full, a small young woman, barely as tall as the cattle she was walking among, speaking to, with hair the color of blood and skin as pale as snow. He reached out and caught her wrist, forcing her to end her one way conversation and look at him, and he was suddenly struck by how green her eyes were, a green that perfectly matched the landscape around them.
The sun passed over them, neither of them speaking for long moments, only staring at each other. She couldn’t have been much older than he himself was, just a young, unearthly beautiful lass who clearly had not a care in the world and all the time to spend playing amongst cows. It was she who broke the silence, smiling brightly at him. “Dia duit.” A greeting then, in the native language. “Hello,” she repeated, confirming his suspicions. “Ye’d be th’new lad Niall was bringin’ o’er, aye?”
He stared at her a moment longer, lost for a moment in her voice. It was like the sound of a river flowing through the land they stood upon, the green of her eyes, and through him. There was something… so different about her, different from the other lasses he had met in this lad. He nodded numbly, before remembering his manners. “I am that, aye. Ye’re knowing him, then?”
She shrugged, making a small noise in the back of her throat. “Knowin’ o’th’lad, aye. Ne’er had it much in me mind t’be knowin’ him ‘yond that, nay.” She patted one of the cows on the shoulder, not moving the arm he realized -- belatedly -- he still had in his grasp. “Brighid Éireann Aine Ó Domhnaill,” she said suddenly, looking back at him with a smile as he dropped her arm as though it was a hot poker. At the confusion on his face, she laughed again -- And oh, Maewyn thought he could listen to that laugh forever and he could never grow tired of it -- and shook her head. “’Tis me name. Ye could also be callin’ me Iwernia or Hibernia, ‘tis what Rome’s callin’ me.”
He had heard of these guardian spirits before, having heard whispers of a young man in his homeland. No one was certain he existed, unlike here. Here everyone spoke of a young lady as though she was their very best friend, their mother, their sister, and their liege lady all in one person. He bowed, taking her hand in his, as he realized that this was the lady they had spoken of. “’Tis an honor, me lady, to be meetin’ ye,” he murmured, kissing the knuckles of her hand. He looked up as she suddenly tugged her hand away from his, biting her lower lip in uncertainty -- and he was suddenly struck by the urge to bite it for her -- before looking back at the cattle around them.
“Nay, nay. Please, don’ be callin’ me such. Me name, please.”
He cleared his throat, feeling slightly awkward now. “Me apologies then, Aine.” He saw her eyes widen, surprise he assumed, but she didn’t protest his use of her third name over the others. “Me own would be… Patricius.” It was a name he had been turning over in his head for quite some time, since being brought to this land of beauty, and somehow felt it fitting that his first use of the name would be to the lass who, in a human form, represented all that beauty.
“Pádraig,” she repeated, turning the name into her own language, rolling it around in her mouth to see how it felt. She smiled broadly then, and he realized she was a lass who smiled a great deal, and he jumped when she took his hand. “Then Pádraig, are ye mindin’ if I’m visitin’ ye and ye cattle? ‘Tis fond o’animals I am, nay seein’ me brother’s sheep as oft as I’m likin’; cattle are a fine second.”
He nodded, mouth dry. “Aye, ye’re welcome as oft as ye’d like, ‘tis a beautiful view here, ‘tis lonely with only the cattle to share it with.”
She laughed and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and it was in that moment that Maewyn -- Patricius, Pádraig, Patrick -- realized he would do anything for that laugh, those eyes, that lass.
Out of My League -- Stephen Speaks
Cause I love her with all that I am
And my voice shakes along with my hands
Cause it's frightening to be swimming in this strange sea
But I'd rather be here than on land
Yes she's all that I see and she's all that I need
And I'm out of my league once again
This must be what first love felt like, Patrick thought, as he listened to her speak in that rolling accent she had, reminding him of the hills and mountains of her land. Her eyes would twinkle like her lakes when she smiled and laughed, he found her movements distracting, caught between watching the cattle and watching the ragged hem of her skirt move around her legs. It was strange, it was confusing, and he felt lost. But never would he say he would want to be found if this was what being lost was like.
He never allowed her to prevent him from doing his job, however, never allowed her to distract him from his prayers to God, even though she watched him curiously, questioned what he did simply out of a desire to know more rather than derision. He would tell her the stories, of Jesus on the cross, of David and the giant, of Adam and Eve. In return she would tell him her stories, though hers were quite obviously false at worst, confused at best. Still, he humored her, and they made entertaining stories besides so long as he never took them seriously. And it gave him an excuse to lay back in his field and listen to her speak, to drown in her voice.
But suddenly she stopped, looking up at the sky, frowning slightly. It was the pout that stole his attention, he rarely saw her frown, even when sudden injury appeared on her body -- from clan battles, she would explain each time as she ripped the hem of her skirt to bind them -- and he looked up as well. “Aine?”
“’Tis ‘bout t’be stormin’,” she murmured, standing quickly. “Badly, at that. We should be gettin’ th’cattle and ourselves t’a safer place.”
He stood as well, knowing well after three years that the weather in Hibernia could change without warning, and it was quite common in his native Cambria besides. “Aye, we should.”
It was done quickly enough between the two of them, herding them back to his master’s home, but they were caught by the very beginning of the downpour, soaking them both through just before reaching shelter. They rushed into the barn, neither of them willing to spend the extra minutes it would take to get to the house proper and become further soaked.
Her laugh echoed through the structure, wringing out her skirt and tunic. “Aye, perhaps ‘twas a wee bit late I was on th’warnin’, but th’cattle are safe, ‘tis what’s important.”
Patrick didn’t say anything, only watched as she ran her fingers through her hair, working out any tangles that had developed in the mass of waves before squeezing the water out of it. He shivered, unsure if it was the chill of his waterlogged clothes or simply from watching her.
“Pádraig?” she said suddenly, looking at him with concern clear on her face, that beautiful face that suddenly seemed much closer, and he realized that he had closed the distance between them, looking down at her. He reached up to take her face in his hand, very aware of the height difference that had developed over the past years. She watched him, formidable eyebrows raised.
“Me Aine,” he whispered, tilting her jaw up to take her lips in a kiss. It was awkward on both their parts, Hibernia seemingly unsure where to put her hands, and he unsure how far to take this, or what to do with his nose. She never pushed him away, in fact she finally reached up to rest her hands on his shoulders, so he obviously wasn’t doing anything unwelcome or improper.
Her lips were soft, he dimly noted, and she fit against him perfectly, as though they were made to come together in this way. He slanted his mouth one way over hers, and suddenly it was perfect.
It was only when it occurred to him that they both might need to breathe did he pull back, smiling awkwardly down at her, chuckling slightly when he saw her eyes cloudy. She had to laugh as well, pressing herself closer to him.
“Me Pádraig,” she replied, and in those two words he knew what he felt for her was returned just as strongly.
Everything -- Lifehouse
You are the strength, that keeps me walking.
You are the hope, that keeps me trusting.
You are the light to my soul.
You are my purpose...you're everything.
How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?
Would you tell me how could it be any better than this?
“Heaven,” he told her once, “is a land of peace, of joy. Nay one can die, nay one suffers, ye can be seein’ family long ago passed, and ye are forever under the light of the Lord.”
She’d nodded at him, head tilted to the side, thinking his words over. “’Tis a similar place t’Tir na nÓg,” she murmured. “A land o’light and joy, where hundred years ‘tis but a day. And if ‘tis lucky we are, we can be seein’ our old gods, hidden as they are since we arrived.”
He shook his head and took one of her hands in his, rolling over to face her. “Me Aine,” he started, a frown on his face, “’tis only me own God. Yer gods, ‘tis only old kings and queens that have become like gods to yer eyes.” She laughed and twinned her fingers with his; it was an old argument of theirs, over the past five years.
“Oh aye, if ye’re sayin’ so, me Pádraig.” She smiled and curled up tighter, bringing herself closer to him at the same time. “Still, I’m havin’ t’be disagreein’ with ye, aye I am.”
He raised an eyebrow and absently rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand, unfamiliar with this particular turn. “Disagreeing ‘bout what, me Aine?”
“Ye have t’be dyin’ t’be gettin’ t’Heaven, aye?” He nodded. “And ye have t’be dyin’ t’be gettin’ t’Tir na nÓg. But… I’m lyin’ here, with ye, alive as e’er. And t’me, me Pádraig, ‘tis Heaven.”
He chuckled and leaned over, lightly brushing his lips against hers. “’Tis blasphemy, ‘tis me Aine, to be comparing us to something so sacred as Heaven.”
“Aye, perhaps. But t’me, ye’re e’erythin’ I could e’er be askin’ God t’be givin’ me, e’erythin’ I’m e’er needin’.”
Making Memories of Us -- Keith Urban
And I'm gonna make you this promise
If there's life after this
I'm gonna be there to meet you with a warm, wet kiss
Yes I am
And I'm gonna love you like nobody loves you
And I'll earn your trust makin' memories of us
Six years after he’d been brought to Hibernia’s lands unwillingly, six years after he’d met his beautiful pagan goddess of love, his heart, he found himself being roughly shaken awake and her hissing in his ear.
“C’mon, me Pádraig, hurry!” He stared blearily at her, watching as she frantically packed tunics and pants and food into a large bag. “’Tis a boat ready t’be sailin’ back t’me brother’s lands soon--” Back to Cambria? “--but we’re havin’ t’be quick like if ye’re t’be there in time, aye.”
“Me Aine, slow it down!” His mind suddenly cleared, scrambling up from his straw bed and into clothing fit for traveling. “’Tis going on?”
“Ye ne’er wanted t’be here, aye, I’m knowin’ that. And I’m nay wantin’ ye here if ye’re nay wantin’.” She shoved the bag into his hands, eyes wide and tears -- wait, tears? His Aine never cried, or at least not in front of him -- ringing the edges. “I’m wantin’ ye willin’ly or nay ‘tall, me Pádraig. If ye start walkin’ East now, ye can make the coast in a week’s time. Be tellin’ them Th’Lady is sendin’ ye, they should be lettin’ ye on.”
“Come with me then,” he insisted, grabbing her shoulder. “Ye’ve been the brightest part of the past six years, what made the years worth it. Ye hold me heart, me Aine, and I’m knowing I hold yers. Come with me.”
She shook her head furiously, sending blood red curls into the air and over her face. “Nay, nay I cannae. ‘Tis me land, cannae leave for long. And I can be stallin’ them, when they’re findin’ out ye’ve scurried off. They cannae punish me, but they’d be killin’ ye if they found ye.”
She was right, he knew it, knew that she couldn’t come with him no matter how much they both wanted her to. “I’ll be coming back,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. “I’ll be back for ye, for yer people, as soon as I’m able. Until then, I’ll be keeping the memories close to me heart, the memories of yer eyes, yer hair, yer voice.”
She clung to him, squishing the bag between them. “Me Pádraig, me light, me noble man,” she whispered. “I’ll be callin’ ye when ‘tis safe. And I’ll be waitin’, aye I will.”
He leaned over and kissed her harshly, taking the chance to memorize the feel of her body against his, the taste of her lips, that ocean smell of hers. She dug her fingers into his hair, fisting it tightly, the nails of her other hand digging into his shoulders. “Me Aine, me pagan goddess of love, me heart. Never will I forget ye.”
And with one last kiss, he bolted, leaving the land of his captivity and the guardian spirit that would forever remain his reason to return of his own will.
What Makes You Different (Makes You Beautiful) -- Backstreet Boys
In your eyes I see, all the love I'll ever need
You're all I need, oh girl
What makes you different, makes you beautiful to me
She was as good as her word, a few years after he had escaped -- and made a priest of the Church -- she called for his return. It wasn’t even just her, the whole of the island wanted him to return, needed for him to return. The first time she called he wasn’t certain if it was her or if it was just one in his hundreds of dreams of her, but the second time…
The second time was clear as the sky above them the day they met all those years ago. A multitude of voices, calling out to him, to save them from their pagan ways, and her, standing there wearing her ever present smile. “Return t’me,” she said, holding out a pale hand, “Return t’me, walk with me people, ye’ve been o’me own since ye first came.”
And so it was that he went to his bishop and requested that he be the one sent to minister to the people of Hibernia, and so it was that he, now a bishop in his own right, boarded the craft that would take him back to those green lands, those green eyes and blood red hair. It was a peaceful journey, even over waters that were traditionally stormy and rough, and he attributed it to God assuring him he would return safely and without delay.
One day, one bright glorious day, the lad in the crow’s nest spied land, the land he had so wanted to see again. As soon as they’d set the mooring line, almost too fast for them to lower the gangplank, he dashed ashore, sweeping the waiting lass into his arms, the two of them laughing brightly, spinning around with the world a blur around them.
“I’m home,” he murmured as he sat her back down, pressing his forehead against hers, drinking in her eyes.
“Aye, that ye are, me light,” she replied in a whisper, taking his lips with hers.
Come What May -- Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman
Listen to my heart, can you hear it sings
Telling me to give you everything
Seasons may change, winter to spring
But I love you until the end of time
Come what may
Come what may
I will love you until my dying day
…
Sing out this song I'll be there by your side
Storm clouds may gather
And stars may collide
But I love you until the end of time
“Me Aine?” At the curious and sleepy noise that came from the direction of his chest, Patrick continued, “This is not just ‘first love’, is it?”
“What are ye meanin’?” she asked, looking up though her lashes from her position on his chest, quite clearly struggling to stay awake. He smiled softly, running his hand over her hair.
“What we’re having ‘tween us, ‘tisn’t the infatuation of children or the baseness of lust, aye?” She shook her head, making another noise that sounded like agreement. “This is…”
She sighed and pushed herself off his chest. “Was I e’er tellin’ ye th’story of Cu Chulainn and his wife Emer?” she asked, looking up at the night sky rather than him. At the sound of disagreement, she sighed. “Cu Chulainn was a hero o’Ulaidh long ago,” she started, settling comfortably into her storytelling voice. “And he was a beautiful lad, aye he was, and all th’men o’th region, they were afraid he would be stealin’ their wives and sisters and daughters from them, so they searched all o’er me lands, tryin’ t’find th’lad a wife. But Cu Chulainn, he would be havin’ none but th’lass Emer, daughter o’Forgall. And Forgall, he wasnae havin’ that, and sent th’lad t’th’lands o’me twin Caledonia for trainin’, hopin’ he would be killed. In th’meantime, th’lass’s father, he was offerin’ her hand t’another, who, once he was hearin’ Cu Chulainn was wantin’ her and she was wantin’ him in her turn, was turnin’ it down.”
“They were in love then,” Patrick murmured, running his hand gently down Hibernia’s arm.
“Oh aye, that they were. T’be makin’ th’long story a short one, th’lad was nay killed, he returned for his lass, killed her father who had sent his men after him, and were wed.” She curled up and turned to face Patrick, her eyes meeting his. “Together they were ‘til Cu Chulainn was killed in battle, aye they were. ‘Twas a love that lasted forever, so I’m thinkin’.” She slowly slid her hand into his, entwining their fingers. “And… I’m thinkin’… I’m thinkin’ we’re th’same, aye I am.”
Patrick chuckled and pulled her back into place, her head resting against his chest and his arm wrapped snuggly around her waist, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Aye, ‘course we are, me Aine. I would be doing anything for ye, ye’ve changed me life in more ways than I’m knowing. ‘Tis God’s gift to me ye are, and I’m not turning anything He sends me away, especially one as beautiful as ye.” He could feel her smile against him, hear her laugh.
“Nay, me Pádraig. ‘Tis ye who are th’gift from God, Heaven handed t’me in yer form, and t’be without ye would be bein’ cast int’damnation.”
Come On, Get Higher -- Matt Nathanson
If I could walk on water
If I could tell you what's next
Make you believe
Make you forget
So come on, get higher, loosen my lips
Faith and desire and the swing of your hips
Just pull me down hard and drown me in love
It was raining. Not that rain was anything new, it rained more than it was sunny there anyway, but the fact that they’d come across a friendly clan leader -- who had already converted, fancy that -- that offered to put the two up for the night, was something quite new. A few of her people had become somewhat suspicious of her, taking up with someone who quite clearly wanted to drive out their druids, but… that wasn’t what would happen, of course not. There was a way for both, her druids and Patrick’s Christianity, to rest side by side.
Not that they were quite resting at this point, no not at all. They should though, as the clan leader had provided them with the best bed in his holdings, a mattress stuffed with bird down and fine woven blankets, a welcome change from the rough hewn blankets and straw. She’d laid herself down and held her hand out to him, pulling him down on top of her when he took it, free hands lightly, hesitantly tracing the contours of each other’s faces as though it was the first time either of them had ever seen it.
His hands shook even as he eased them into her hair, gently kissing her, first those enormous eyebrows of hers, then each eyelid, followed quickly by each cheek with a final, lingering kiss on her lips. He pulled back, brown eyes searching her green ones. “Ye know what we’re doing?” he whispered hesitantly.
She nodded, eyes wide. “Th’basics, aye. Ne’er… ne’er done this with… with someone ‘twas actually matterin’. Jus’… jus’ a few priests durin’ th’Beltain celebrations.” He nodded, lips against her neck. “Ye?”
“Lass… back in Cambria… long before ye.” He hovered over the frantic pulse in her neck for a moment before gently kissing it as well, giving it the slightest nip and laughing at her sharp inhale. “So… I’d be saying we’re ‘round equals in this.”
Hibernia laughed, draping her arms around his shoulders, playing with the ends of his hair. “Oh aye, for once.”
There was a long, pregnant pause as they stared at each other, the candles that were still lit flickering in the occasional draft. Finally, as one candle flickered furiously before it winked out of life, he leaned down and kissed her, fumbling fingers removing tunic and skirt even as her own were doing the same to him.
It was slow, the two of them taking their time. Patrick discovered a faint scar on Hibernia’s upper arm -- from the Romans, she’d whispered frantically -- that sent shudders through her body when he grazed it first with his thumb, then lips, as Hibernia found that she could force a deep, rumbling groan from him by lightly nibbling at his earlobe.
It seemed hours, wonderful, sensual, blissful hours before he finally slid into her, his thrusts starting out gentle with her legs wrapped around his waist, but turning stronger with each gasp he pulled from her, each roll of her hips to meet his. And when completion came, it came like gentle fire, burning its way through them from their toes to the ends of their hair, liquid heat rushing to their minds, the two of them seeing only white light, hearing only each other, feeling only each other. When their minds cleared and their bones re-solidified, they gazed at each other before smiling brightly and laughing breathlessly, curling together like a perfect Celtic knot.
“Mo Aine, mo bandia comparáid idir álainn an ghrá, mo chroí. I love ye.”
“Mo Pádraig, mo solas, mo fhear uasal. I love ye.”
The last of the candles burned out, leaving them in darkness.
Runaway -- The Coors
Close the door, lay down upon the floor
And by candlelight, make love to me through the night
Cause I have runaway
I have runaway, yeah
I have runaway, runaway
I have runaway with you
She jumped only a little when she suddenly felt something drape around her shoulders, something heavy come to rest between her breasts. She blinked, looking down in confusion to find a silver cross with a circle connecting the crossbars. She looked up and behind her, smiling widely when her eyes alit on Patrick standing there, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.
“Aye, ‘tis th’occasion?” she asked, fingers absently tracing the silver, quickly learning every bump and dip in the hammered metal. He chuckled and sat down next to her, running a finger along the leather thong around her neck.
“I cannae be giving me beautiful lass a present without needing a reason?” he asked teasingly, pressing a kiss to the spot behind her ear. She curled up next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. “But… aye, ‘tis a bit of a reason. A lass of God should have a cross to be showing her devotion, and I’m knowing ye cannae touch iron without it causing ye pain.”
She brushed her fingers over it again, tracing the circle. “’Tis beautiful,” she murmured. “’Tis also somethin’ I’ve ne’er seen ‘fore. Similar t’me own sun cross, but nay it.”
“’Twas me own idea,” he said awkwardly, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Thought yer people, they’d be more comfortable with something they were familiar with.” He tapped her nose with a grin. “’Tis the first one ye’re wearing. Also…” he coughed, glancing around even though there weren’t even fae to be seen nearby, “’tis… ‘tis the anniversary of the day I was first meeting ye.”
“Oh aye, is it then?” Hibernia asked, lying back and pulling him down with her. “Well, then I should be thankin’ ye and celebratin’ properly, aye?”
Patrick smiled and ran a hand through her hair. “Havin’ ye, ‘tis all the thanks I’m needing.”
Who Wants To Live Forever? -- Queen
But touch my tears with your lips
Touch my world with your fingertips
And we can have forever
And we can love forever
Forever is our today
Who wants to live forever
Who wants to live forever?
Forever is our today
Who waits forever anyway?
“C’mon me Pádraig, Rath Celtair, ‘tis just o’er these last few hills, aye!” Not hearing the heavy footsteps she had long ago grown used to hearing beside and just slightly behind her, Hibernia turned, the smile on her face fading slightly as she found Patrick, leaning heavily on his shepherd’s staff, several feet behind her. “Me Pádraig?”
There was a laugh, raspy with age and dry of humor. “Slower, me Aine. I’m not as fast as ye, remember?”
She pouted, scurrying down from her perch on a clump of rocks to wrap his free arm over her shoulders, letting him lean his weight on her. “Aye, ‘course. D’ye need t’be sittin’ down then?” He chuckled again, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“Wouldnae be saying nay to that, me Aine.” Once they were settled on the nearest flat bit of rock, he sighed deeply, the sort of sigh borne of long years. “I think we should be returning to Ard Mhacha after this visit, aye. I cannae be runnin’ ‘round yer lands as ye can, not anymore.”
She pouted again, making a small noise of disagreement. “Oh, I’m thinkin’ ye’ve a few pilgrimages left in ye, aye ye do.” He stared at her a long moment, sighing again and shaking his head.
“Me Aine, ‘tis getting old I am. And don’t be interrupting me,” he cut her off before she could say anything, “ye know ‘tis true. ‘Tis in me eighties I am, far too old to be doing this as ye do.”
“Nay, nay ye’re nay old, me Pádraig!” Hibernia insisted, grabbing at his hands -- old man’s hands, leathery, wrinkled, and tough, though she tried to ignore it -- and staring into his eyes, old as they always had been -- and they had been, he had always been wiser than his years would allow -- refusing to see how the skin around those eyes was wrinkled from years of smiling at her, laughing with her. “Ye’re nay old,” she insisted again, squeezing his hands tightly. He smiled, making the lines around his eyes stand out even more, removing one hand from her grasp to cup her cheek with it.
“Me Aine,” he said softly, wistfully. “Ye cannae be denying it, I’m not so long lived as ye are. I age…” Here he brushed the smooth skin of the back of her hand with his thumb. “And I will die.” She shook her head frantically, reaching up to hold the hand against her face tightly. It was a sad smile that touched his lips before he brushed them against her other cheek. “Over half a century and ye look not a day older,” he whispered.
“But I’m lovin’ ye jus’ as much, aye,” she whimpered, closing her eyes. “Ne’er could I be lovin’ ye less.” She forced back a sob -- even all these years later she couldn’t cry around him -- and tightened her hand around his. “C’n we be stayin’? Jus’ a wee bit longer?”
He only nodded, pulling her close against him and resting his head on hers, the two of them clinging to each other in silence.
Into The West -- Annie Lennox
Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see
All of your fears will pass away
Safe in my arms
You're only sleeping
“I smell… smoke.”
“’Tis only th’fire, me Pádraig.”
“Oh aye, night has fallen.” Hibernia took his hand gently as she watched the nun who had been tending the fire walk away. “Brigid, she has gone, aye?”
She nodded, lying down next to him, knowing that his eyesight was far better for things close to him as of late. “Aye, she has. Though she’ll come runnin’ at th’first sign o’anythin’, aye she will.”
Patrick chuckled before breaking into weak coughs that Hibernia tried to soothe with her other hand rubbing up and down his back. “Aye, she’s a good lass. She’ll be doing great things some day.”
She laughed, squeezing his hand. “She’s infatuated with ye, aye she is.”
He smiled softly, weak, shaking fingers tracing her eyebrows, cheekbone, lips. “Just like the lady she’s named for.” She kissed his fingers, her free hand mirroring his. “Ye’ll be lookin’ after the young ones, aye? Brigid, Finian and his lot?”
“Aye, aye I will.”
“And those we converted, ye’ll be looking after them?”
“Aye, aye ‘course I will, ‘tis me own people they are.”
He pressed his forehead against hers, smiling as she curled up tight against him. “Aye, I do love ye, me Aine.” She bit her lip, forcing back tears. “Always have, aye.”
“I love ye too, so so much.”
“Forgive me,” he whispered, brushing away a tear that managed to escape with a thumb. “I never wanted to leave ye to damnation. Never wanted to hurt ye like this.” He kissed her forehead gently. “Perhaps I shall be seein’ ye again someday.”
“’Tis mortal ye are, what else could ye be doin’? ‘Tisn’t yer fault, me Pádraig. But ye… ye could be doomed t’Hell. I could o’lead ye there meself, simply by lovin’ ye.”
“Ye are worth risking the suffering of Hell, me dear Aine; never doubt that I knew full well where loving ye could lead me, and I went willingly.” He said it firmly, squeezing her hand tightly as he could. “And I would not be changing anything if I were asked to. Not one of the ninety years we had.”
“Years we’re havin’, ye’re nay dead yet,” she protested weakly, still needing that hope, foolish as it was.
“Me Aine…” he sighed, stroking her cheek with a thumb. “Beautiful, beautiful pagan goddess Aine. Lovely as the day we met, sun bright in the sky, and ye took me heart. Fitting, almost, that we should be parting under starry skies.”
“Ye brought me light,” she whimpered. “Light and love and fore’er. Ye’re th’best man t’e’re walk this land, aye.” She curled up tighter against him, clinging to him as though through sheer will alone she could keep him alive, with her.
“Ye’ll be staying with me?” he whispered, voice growing weaker. She nodded franticly, forcing back a sob.
“Aye, aye I’ll be stayin’ with ye. Ne’er e’er be leavin’ ye, I’m swearin’ it.”
“A smile, me Aine? Smile for me?” Hibernia lifted her head and forced a smile, real though watery and barely held together, and he closed his eyes and sighed happily, his hands squeezing hers once more. “Aye, I go from yer arms to the arms of God,” he whispered, barely audible over the cracking of the fire. “I am content.”
For a long time after, the only sounds to be heard from where Brigid of Kildare stood were the dying of the fire and the near silent sobs of a Nation bereft of her greatest treasure.
Famous Last Words -- My Chemical Romance
So many bright lights to cast a shadow, but can I speak?
Well, is it hard understanding I'm incomplete?
A life that's so demanding, I get so weak
A love that's so demanding, I can't speak
I am not afraid to keep on living
I am not afraid to walk this world alone
Honey if you stay, I'll be forgiven
Nothing you could say can stop me going home
“I ne’er said ye could be havin’ him!” she screamed, rain pouring down onto her, soaked to the bone. “He was me own! Me own, ye hearin’ me?! I was havin’ him first!” A loud sob escaped her, wracking her body. “Give him back t’me!”
Her only reply was thunder, rumbling far in the distance out over the ocean.
“I said be givin’ him back! Ye dinae take things withou’askin! I’m nay carin’ who ye are! I’m needin’ him!” She sobbed again, falling to her knees and drawing her knife. “Give him back or I’ll be comin’ after ye me own self!” She plunged her knife into the ground and was silent for a long moment, collapsed on the ground, still as a stone.
“How could ye be needin’ him more than me?”
Forever Yours -- Nightwish
No love left in me
No eyes to see the heaven beside me
My time is yet to come
So I'll be forever yours
Whatever walks in my heart will walk alone
It was cold, colder than she could remember it being in recent years. It felt like there was ice under her feet, ice that hadn’t been there for hundreds of years.
She’d made these trips for years, going back and forth between an Mhí, Dún Lethglaise, and Ard Mhacha, spreading the Word and checking on those Patrick had tasked her with, and every time she made it alone, always only walking and turning away all offers of horses. She used to make the journey with him, and she would have no other, not even family.
Hibernia didn’t mourn, not as others. She grieved, refusing to forget the pain of loosing him, for fear it would mean forgetting him completely. Oh true, she smiled for her people, for her brothers, with only Cambria and Lusitania calling her on those smiles, clearly false to their eyes… and they were quite right. But when she was alone, with no one there to be strong for or to pretend around, oh she would sob and sob and sob, until her eyes ran dry.
One trip, however, she was accompanied by a leannán sí, a faerie woman. One didn’t tell the fae where they could be, after all, you respected them and they would do no harm to you. It simply walked with her, never speaking, never even inspiring her as they were wont to do. Eventually Hibernia forgot she was there, settling down under a tree -- a tree that felt as coated in ice as the ground, the chill seeping into her back even though the wool of her tunic. A few hours later she glanced up, tear tracks on her face, to find the leannán sí looking at her curiously, silently. The words tumbled out before she had mindfulness to check them.
“I dinnae if I can be doin’ it ‘gain, bein’ in love.”
Find part two here.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: R
Summary: A 22 song fanmix + fics dedicated to a Welsh slave that would become a saint, an Irish lass who wasn't quite a lass, and the love that still lasts to this day.
Timeframe: 403 AD to present day
Word Count: Total: 10,568. This part: 5,620
Notes/Warnings: Bad accents (Ireland's pre-1937 accent), OCs, use of a Saint, vague but obvious sex... possible blasphemy, my very limited understanding of Catholicism, a blink and you miss appearance by... well, you can guess when you get there. Oh and DEATH. Hope that wasn't too shocking for you, that Saint Patrick's kinda dead.
Front cover art credit: lylith_st. Font cover lettering credit: raspberrybeanie, who I hasten to point out, may be in Japan but is safe and alive and fine. Back cover recolor credit: raspberrybeanie. Back cover filtering and lettering credit: later_days. Without these three wonderful, wonderful, lovely ladies, this would not look near as nice as it does. Thank you guys, so very much. <3
22 songs and cover art found right here!
How Could It Be Any Better Than This -- An Ireland/Saint Patrick FST
In Fields Where We Lay -- B*Witched
How we laughed and carved our names
And declared our love forever
On that old oak tree we found
In the fields where once we did lay
In the fields where once we did lay
There's a green hill far away
In a land I know so well
And the sun it shone so bright
In the fields where once we did lay
In the fields where once we did lay
It was a bright, sunny day, rare in this land, that a young slave lad, captured from the nearby lands, met the lass that would forever change his life.
Maewyn had no idea that this was going to happen, of course. Outside of the bright sunlight it was an ordinary day near the foot of Slemish Mountain. He was minding his master’s cattle, looking out at the vast landscape laid out before him, marveling at the sheer beauty of this amazingly green land, and thanking the Lord Above for it. But suddenly, in the midst of the black, white, and tan of the herd, he caught a flash of long red hair. Frowning, he stood and made his way towards it, catching only glimpses of it, sometimes catching a snatch of that strange language the natives used in a bright clear voice with a giggle coloring it. Finally he saw her in full, a small young woman, barely as tall as the cattle she was walking among, speaking to, with hair the color of blood and skin as pale as snow. He reached out and caught her wrist, forcing her to end her one way conversation and look at him, and he was suddenly struck by how green her eyes were, a green that perfectly matched the landscape around them.
The sun passed over them, neither of them speaking for long moments, only staring at each other. She couldn’t have been much older than he himself was, just a young, unearthly beautiful lass who clearly had not a care in the world and all the time to spend playing amongst cows. It was she who broke the silence, smiling brightly at him. “Dia duit.” A greeting then, in the native language. “Hello,” she repeated, confirming his suspicions. “Ye’d be th’new lad Niall was bringin’ o’er, aye?”
He stared at her a moment longer, lost for a moment in her voice. It was like the sound of a river flowing through the land they stood upon, the green of her eyes, and through him. There was something… so different about her, different from the other lasses he had met in this lad. He nodded numbly, before remembering his manners. “I am that, aye. Ye’re knowing him, then?”
She shrugged, making a small noise in the back of her throat. “Knowin’ o’th’lad, aye. Ne’er had it much in me mind t’be knowin’ him ‘yond that, nay.” She patted one of the cows on the shoulder, not moving the arm he realized -- belatedly -- he still had in his grasp. “Brighid Éireann Aine Ó Domhnaill,” she said suddenly, looking back at him with a smile as he dropped her arm as though it was a hot poker. At the confusion on his face, she laughed again -- And oh, Maewyn thought he could listen to that laugh forever and he could never grow tired of it -- and shook her head. “’Tis me name. Ye could also be callin’ me Iwernia or Hibernia, ‘tis what Rome’s callin’ me.”
He had heard of these guardian spirits before, having heard whispers of a young man in his homeland. No one was certain he existed, unlike here. Here everyone spoke of a young lady as though she was their very best friend, their mother, their sister, and their liege lady all in one person. He bowed, taking her hand in his, as he realized that this was the lady they had spoken of. “’Tis an honor, me lady, to be meetin’ ye,” he murmured, kissing the knuckles of her hand. He looked up as she suddenly tugged her hand away from his, biting her lower lip in uncertainty -- and he was suddenly struck by the urge to bite it for her -- before looking back at the cattle around them.
“Nay, nay. Please, don’ be callin’ me such. Me name, please.”
He cleared his throat, feeling slightly awkward now. “Me apologies then, Aine.” He saw her eyes widen, surprise he assumed, but she didn’t protest his use of her third name over the others. “Me own would be… Patricius.” It was a name he had been turning over in his head for quite some time, since being brought to this land of beauty, and somehow felt it fitting that his first use of the name would be to the lass who, in a human form, represented all that beauty.
“Pádraig,” she repeated, turning the name into her own language, rolling it around in her mouth to see how it felt. She smiled broadly then, and he realized she was a lass who smiled a great deal, and he jumped when she took his hand. “Then Pádraig, are ye mindin’ if I’m visitin’ ye and ye cattle? ‘Tis fond o’animals I am, nay seein’ me brother’s sheep as oft as I’m likin’; cattle are a fine second.”
He nodded, mouth dry. “Aye, ye’re welcome as oft as ye’d like, ‘tis a beautiful view here, ‘tis lonely with only the cattle to share it with.”
She laughed and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and it was in that moment that Maewyn -- Patricius, Pádraig, Patrick -- realized he would do anything for that laugh, those eyes, that lass.
Out of My League -- Stephen Speaks
Cause I love her with all that I am
And my voice shakes along with my hands
Cause it's frightening to be swimming in this strange sea
But I'd rather be here than on land
Yes she's all that I see and she's all that I need
And I'm out of my league once again
This must be what first love felt like, Patrick thought, as he listened to her speak in that rolling accent she had, reminding him of the hills and mountains of her land. Her eyes would twinkle like her lakes when she smiled and laughed, he found her movements distracting, caught between watching the cattle and watching the ragged hem of her skirt move around her legs. It was strange, it was confusing, and he felt lost. But never would he say he would want to be found if this was what being lost was like.
He never allowed her to prevent him from doing his job, however, never allowed her to distract him from his prayers to God, even though she watched him curiously, questioned what he did simply out of a desire to know more rather than derision. He would tell her the stories, of Jesus on the cross, of David and the giant, of Adam and Eve. In return she would tell him her stories, though hers were quite obviously false at worst, confused at best. Still, he humored her, and they made entertaining stories besides so long as he never took them seriously. And it gave him an excuse to lay back in his field and listen to her speak, to drown in her voice.
But suddenly she stopped, looking up at the sky, frowning slightly. It was the pout that stole his attention, he rarely saw her frown, even when sudden injury appeared on her body -- from clan battles, she would explain each time as she ripped the hem of her skirt to bind them -- and he looked up as well. “Aine?”
“’Tis ‘bout t’be stormin’,” she murmured, standing quickly. “Badly, at that. We should be gettin’ th’cattle and ourselves t’a safer place.”
He stood as well, knowing well after three years that the weather in Hibernia could change without warning, and it was quite common in his native Cambria besides. “Aye, we should.”
It was done quickly enough between the two of them, herding them back to his master’s home, but they were caught by the very beginning of the downpour, soaking them both through just before reaching shelter. They rushed into the barn, neither of them willing to spend the extra minutes it would take to get to the house proper and become further soaked.
Her laugh echoed through the structure, wringing out her skirt and tunic. “Aye, perhaps ‘twas a wee bit late I was on th’warnin’, but th’cattle are safe, ‘tis what’s important.”
Patrick didn’t say anything, only watched as she ran her fingers through her hair, working out any tangles that had developed in the mass of waves before squeezing the water out of it. He shivered, unsure if it was the chill of his waterlogged clothes or simply from watching her.
“Pádraig?” she said suddenly, looking at him with concern clear on her face, that beautiful face that suddenly seemed much closer, and he realized that he had closed the distance between them, looking down at her. He reached up to take her face in his hand, very aware of the height difference that had developed over the past years. She watched him, formidable eyebrows raised.
“Me Aine,” he whispered, tilting her jaw up to take her lips in a kiss. It was awkward on both their parts, Hibernia seemingly unsure where to put her hands, and he unsure how far to take this, or what to do with his nose. She never pushed him away, in fact she finally reached up to rest her hands on his shoulders, so he obviously wasn’t doing anything unwelcome or improper.
Her lips were soft, he dimly noted, and she fit against him perfectly, as though they were made to come together in this way. He slanted his mouth one way over hers, and suddenly it was perfect.
It was only when it occurred to him that they both might need to breathe did he pull back, smiling awkwardly down at her, chuckling slightly when he saw her eyes cloudy. She had to laugh as well, pressing herself closer to him.
“Me Pádraig,” she replied, and in those two words he knew what he felt for her was returned just as strongly.
Everything -- Lifehouse
You are the strength, that keeps me walking.
You are the hope, that keeps me trusting.
You are the light to my soul.
You are my purpose...you're everything.
How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?
Would you tell me how could it be any better than this?
“Heaven,” he told her once, “is a land of peace, of joy. Nay one can die, nay one suffers, ye can be seein’ family long ago passed, and ye are forever under the light of the Lord.”
She’d nodded at him, head tilted to the side, thinking his words over. “’Tis a similar place t’Tir na nÓg,” she murmured. “A land o’light and joy, where hundred years ‘tis but a day. And if ‘tis lucky we are, we can be seein’ our old gods, hidden as they are since we arrived.”
He shook his head and took one of her hands in his, rolling over to face her. “Me Aine,” he started, a frown on his face, “’tis only me own God. Yer gods, ‘tis only old kings and queens that have become like gods to yer eyes.” She laughed and twinned her fingers with his; it was an old argument of theirs, over the past five years.
“Oh aye, if ye’re sayin’ so, me Pádraig.” She smiled and curled up tighter, bringing herself closer to him at the same time. “Still, I’m havin’ t’be disagreein’ with ye, aye I am.”
He raised an eyebrow and absently rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand, unfamiliar with this particular turn. “Disagreeing ‘bout what, me Aine?”
“Ye have t’be dyin’ t’be gettin’ t’Heaven, aye?” He nodded. “And ye have t’be dyin’ t’be gettin’ t’Tir na nÓg. But… I’m lyin’ here, with ye, alive as e’er. And t’me, me Pádraig, ‘tis Heaven.”
He chuckled and leaned over, lightly brushing his lips against hers. “’Tis blasphemy, ‘tis me Aine, to be comparing us to something so sacred as Heaven.”
“Aye, perhaps. But t’me, ye’re e’erythin’ I could e’er be askin’ God t’be givin’ me, e’erythin’ I’m e’er needin’.”
Making Memories of Us -- Keith Urban
And I'm gonna make you this promise
If there's life after this
I'm gonna be there to meet you with a warm, wet kiss
Yes I am
And I'm gonna love you like nobody loves you
And I'll earn your trust makin' memories of us
Six years after he’d been brought to Hibernia’s lands unwillingly, six years after he’d met his beautiful pagan goddess of love, his heart, he found himself being roughly shaken awake and her hissing in his ear.
“C’mon, me Pádraig, hurry!” He stared blearily at her, watching as she frantically packed tunics and pants and food into a large bag. “’Tis a boat ready t’be sailin’ back t’me brother’s lands soon--” Back to Cambria? “--but we’re havin’ t’be quick like if ye’re t’be there in time, aye.”
“Me Aine, slow it down!” His mind suddenly cleared, scrambling up from his straw bed and into clothing fit for traveling. “’Tis going on?”
“Ye ne’er wanted t’be here, aye, I’m knowin’ that. And I’m nay wantin’ ye here if ye’re nay wantin’.” She shoved the bag into his hands, eyes wide and tears -- wait, tears? His Aine never cried, or at least not in front of him -- ringing the edges. “I’m wantin’ ye willin’ly or nay ‘tall, me Pádraig. If ye start walkin’ East now, ye can make the coast in a week’s time. Be tellin’ them Th’Lady is sendin’ ye, they should be lettin’ ye on.”
“Come with me then,” he insisted, grabbing her shoulder. “Ye’ve been the brightest part of the past six years, what made the years worth it. Ye hold me heart, me Aine, and I’m knowing I hold yers. Come with me.”
She shook her head furiously, sending blood red curls into the air and over her face. “Nay, nay I cannae. ‘Tis me land, cannae leave for long. And I can be stallin’ them, when they’re findin’ out ye’ve scurried off. They cannae punish me, but they’d be killin’ ye if they found ye.”
She was right, he knew it, knew that she couldn’t come with him no matter how much they both wanted her to. “I’ll be coming back,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. “I’ll be back for ye, for yer people, as soon as I’m able. Until then, I’ll be keeping the memories close to me heart, the memories of yer eyes, yer hair, yer voice.”
She clung to him, squishing the bag between them. “Me Pádraig, me light, me noble man,” she whispered. “I’ll be callin’ ye when ‘tis safe. And I’ll be waitin’, aye I will.”
He leaned over and kissed her harshly, taking the chance to memorize the feel of her body against his, the taste of her lips, that ocean smell of hers. She dug her fingers into his hair, fisting it tightly, the nails of her other hand digging into his shoulders. “Me Aine, me pagan goddess of love, me heart. Never will I forget ye.”
And with one last kiss, he bolted, leaving the land of his captivity and the guardian spirit that would forever remain his reason to return of his own will.
What Makes You Different (Makes You Beautiful) -- Backstreet Boys
In your eyes I see, all the love I'll ever need
You're all I need, oh girl
What makes you different, makes you beautiful to me
She was as good as her word, a few years after he had escaped -- and made a priest of the Church -- she called for his return. It wasn’t even just her, the whole of the island wanted him to return, needed for him to return. The first time she called he wasn’t certain if it was her or if it was just one in his hundreds of dreams of her, but the second time…
The second time was clear as the sky above them the day they met all those years ago. A multitude of voices, calling out to him, to save them from their pagan ways, and her, standing there wearing her ever present smile. “Return t’me,” she said, holding out a pale hand, “Return t’me, walk with me people, ye’ve been o’me own since ye first came.”
And so it was that he went to his bishop and requested that he be the one sent to minister to the people of Hibernia, and so it was that he, now a bishop in his own right, boarded the craft that would take him back to those green lands, those green eyes and blood red hair. It was a peaceful journey, even over waters that were traditionally stormy and rough, and he attributed it to God assuring him he would return safely and without delay.
One day, one bright glorious day, the lad in the crow’s nest spied land, the land he had so wanted to see again. As soon as they’d set the mooring line, almost too fast for them to lower the gangplank, he dashed ashore, sweeping the waiting lass into his arms, the two of them laughing brightly, spinning around with the world a blur around them.
“I’m home,” he murmured as he sat her back down, pressing his forehead against hers, drinking in her eyes.
“Aye, that ye are, me light,” she replied in a whisper, taking his lips with hers.
Come What May -- Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman
Listen to my heart, can you hear it sings
Telling me to give you everything
Seasons may change, winter to spring
But I love you until the end of time
Come what may
Come what may
I will love you until my dying day
…
Sing out this song I'll be there by your side
Storm clouds may gather
And stars may collide
But I love you until the end of time
“Me Aine?” At the curious and sleepy noise that came from the direction of his chest, Patrick continued, “This is not just ‘first love’, is it?”
“What are ye meanin’?” she asked, looking up though her lashes from her position on his chest, quite clearly struggling to stay awake. He smiled softly, running his hand over her hair.
“What we’re having ‘tween us, ‘tisn’t the infatuation of children or the baseness of lust, aye?” She shook her head, making another noise that sounded like agreement. “This is…”
She sighed and pushed herself off his chest. “Was I e’er tellin’ ye th’story of Cu Chulainn and his wife Emer?” she asked, looking up at the night sky rather than him. At the sound of disagreement, she sighed. “Cu Chulainn was a hero o’Ulaidh long ago,” she started, settling comfortably into her storytelling voice. “And he was a beautiful lad, aye he was, and all th’men o’th region, they were afraid he would be stealin’ their wives and sisters and daughters from them, so they searched all o’er me lands, tryin’ t’find th’lad a wife. But Cu Chulainn, he would be havin’ none but th’lass Emer, daughter o’Forgall. And Forgall, he wasnae havin’ that, and sent th’lad t’th’lands o’me twin Caledonia for trainin’, hopin’ he would be killed. In th’meantime, th’lass’s father, he was offerin’ her hand t’another, who, once he was hearin’ Cu Chulainn was wantin’ her and she was wantin’ him in her turn, was turnin’ it down.”
“They were in love then,” Patrick murmured, running his hand gently down Hibernia’s arm.
“Oh aye, that they were. T’be makin’ th’long story a short one, th’lad was nay killed, he returned for his lass, killed her father who had sent his men after him, and were wed.” She curled up and turned to face Patrick, her eyes meeting his. “Together they were ‘til Cu Chulainn was killed in battle, aye they were. ‘Twas a love that lasted forever, so I’m thinkin’.” She slowly slid her hand into his, entwining their fingers. “And… I’m thinkin’… I’m thinkin’ we’re th’same, aye I am.”
Patrick chuckled and pulled her back into place, her head resting against his chest and his arm wrapped snuggly around her waist, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Aye, ‘course we are, me Aine. I would be doing anything for ye, ye’ve changed me life in more ways than I’m knowing. ‘Tis God’s gift to me ye are, and I’m not turning anything He sends me away, especially one as beautiful as ye.” He could feel her smile against him, hear her laugh.
“Nay, me Pádraig. ‘Tis ye who are th’gift from God, Heaven handed t’me in yer form, and t’be without ye would be bein’ cast int’damnation.”
Come On, Get Higher -- Matt Nathanson
If I could walk on water
If I could tell you what's next
Make you believe
Make you forget
So come on, get higher, loosen my lips
Faith and desire and the swing of your hips
Just pull me down hard and drown me in love
It was raining. Not that rain was anything new, it rained more than it was sunny there anyway, but the fact that they’d come across a friendly clan leader -- who had already converted, fancy that -- that offered to put the two up for the night, was something quite new. A few of her people had become somewhat suspicious of her, taking up with someone who quite clearly wanted to drive out their druids, but… that wasn’t what would happen, of course not. There was a way for both, her druids and Patrick’s Christianity, to rest side by side.
Not that they were quite resting at this point, no not at all. They should though, as the clan leader had provided them with the best bed in his holdings, a mattress stuffed with bird down and fine woven blankets, a welcome change from the rough hewn blankets and straw. She’d laid herself down and held her hand out to him, pulling him down on top of her when he took it, free hands lightly, hesitantly tracing the contours of each other’s faces as though it was the first time either of them had ever seen it.
His hands shook even as he eased them into her hair, gently kissing her, first those enormous eyebrows of hers, then each eyelid, followed quickly by each cheek with a final, lingering kiss on her lips. He pulled back, brown eyes searching her green ones. “Ye know what we’re doing?” he whispered hesitantly.
She nodded, eyes wide. “Th’basics, aye. Ne’er… ne’er done this with… with someone ‘twas actually matterin’. Jus’… jus’ a few priests durin’ th’Beltain celebrations.” He nodded, lips against her neck. “Ye?”
“Lass… back in Cambria… long before ye.” He hovered over the frantic pulse in her neck for a moment before gently kissing it as well, giving it the slightest nip and laughing at her sharp inhale. “So… I’d be saying we’re ‘round equals in this.”
Hibernia laughed, draping her arms around his shoulders, playing with the ends of his hair. “Oh aye, for once.”
There was a long, pregnant pause as they stared at each other, the candles that were still lit flickering in the occasional draft. Finally, as one candle flickered furiously before it winked out of life, he leaned down and kissed her, fumbling fingers removing tunic and skirt even as her own were doing the same to him.
It was slow, the two of them taking their time. Patrick discovered a faint scar on Hibernia’s upper arm -- from the Romans, she’d whispered frantically -- that sent shudders through her body when he grazed it first with his thumb, then lips, as Hibernia found that she could force a deep, rumbling groan from him by lightly nibbling at his earlobe.
It seemed hours, wonderful, sensual, blissful hours before he finally slid into her, his thrusts starting out gentle with her legs wrapped around his waist, but turning stronger with each gasp he pulled from her, each roll of her hips to meet his. And when completion came, it came like gentle fire, burning its way through them from their toes to the ends of their hair, liquid heat rushing to their minds, the two of them seeing only white light, hearing only each other, feeling only each other. When their minds cleared and their bones re-solidified, they gazed at each other before smiling brightly and laughing breathlessly, curling together like a perfect Celtic knot.
“Mo Aine, mo bandia comparáid idir álainn an ghrá, mo chroí. I love ye.”
“Mo Pádraig, mo solas, mo fhear uasal. I love ye.”
The last of the candles burned out, leaving them in darkness.
Runaway -- The Coors
Close the door, lay down upon the floor
And by candlelight, make love to me through the night
Cause I have runaway
I have runaway, yeah
I have runaway, runaway
I have runaway with you
She jumped only a little when she suddenly felt something drape around her shoulders, something heavy come to rest between her breasts. She blinked, looking down in confusion to find a silver cross with a circle connecting the crossbars. She looked up and behind her, smiling widely when her eyes alit on Patrick standing there, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.
“Aye, ‘tis th’occasion?” she asked, fingers absently tracing the silver, quickly learning every bump and dip in the hammered metal. He chuckled and sat down next to her, running a finger along the leather thong around her neck.
“I cannae be giving me beautiful lass a present without needing a reason?” he asked teasingly, pressing a kiss to the spot behind her ear. She curled up next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. “But… aye, ‘tis a bit of a reason. A lass of God should have a cross to be showing her devotion, and I’m knowing ye cannae touch iron without it causing ye pain.”
She brushed her fingers over it again, tracing the circle. “’Tis beautiful,” she murmured. “’Tis also somethin’ I’ve ne’er seen ‘fore. Similar t’me own sun cross, but nay it.”
“’Twas me own idea,” he said awkwardly, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Thought yer people, they’d be more comfortable with something they were familiar with.” He tapped her nose with a grin. “’Tis the first one ye’re wearing. Also…” he coughed, glancing around even though there weren’t even fae to be seen nearby, “’tis… ‘tis the anniversary of the day I was first meeting ye.”
“Oh aye, is it then?” Hibernia asked, lying back and pulling him down with her. “Well, then I should be thankin’ ye and celebratin’ properly, aye?”
Patrick smiled and ran a hand through her hair. “Havin’ ye, ‘tis all the thanks I’m needing.”
Who Wants To Live Forever? -- Queen
But touch my tears with your lips
Touch my world with your fingertips
And we can have forever
And we can love forever
Forever is our today
Who wants to live forever
Who wants to live forever?
Forever is our today
Who waits forever anyway?
“C’mon me Pádraig, Rath Celtair, ‘tis just o’er these last few hills, aye!” Not hearing the heavy footsteps she had long ago grown used to hearing beside and just slightly behind her, Hibernia turned, the smile on her face fading slightly as she found Patrick, leaning heavily on his shepherd’s staff, several feet behind her. “Me Pádraig?”
There was a laugh, raspy with age and dry of humor. “Slower, me Aine. I’m not as fast as ye, remember?”
She pouted, scurrying down from her perch on a clump of rocks to wrap his free arm over her shoulders, letting him lean his weight on her. “Aye, ‘course. D’ye need t’be sittin’ down then?” He chuckled again, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“Wouldnae be saying nay to that, me Aine.” Once they were settled on the nearest flat bit of rock, he sighed deeply, the sort of sigh borne of long years. “I think we should be returning to Ard Mhacha after this visit, aye. I cannae be runnin’ ‘round yer lands as ye can, not anymore.”
She pouted again, making a small noise of disagreement. “Oh, I’m thinkin’ ye’ve a few pilgrimages left in ye, aye ye do.” He stared at her a long moment, sighing again and shaking his head.
“Me Aine, ‘tis getting old I am. And don’t be interrupting me,” he cut her off before she could say anything, “ye know ‘tis true. ‘Tis in me eighties I am, far too old to be doing this as ye do.”
“Nay, nay ye’re nay old, me Pádraig!” Hibernia insisted, grabbing at his hands -- old man’s hands, leathery, wrinkled, and tough, though she tried to ignore it -- and staring into his eyes, old as they always had been -- and they had been, he had always been wiser than his years would allow -- refusing to see how the skin around those eyes was wrinkled from years of smiling at her, laughing with her. “Ye’re nay old,” she insisted again, squeezing his hands tightly. He smiled, making the lines around his eyes stand out even more, removing one hand from her grasp to cup her cheek with it.
“Me Aine,” he said softly, wistfully. “Ye cannae be denying it, I’m not so long lived as ye are. I age…” Here he brushed the smooth skin of the back of her hand with his thumb. “And I will die.” She shook her head frantically, reaching up to hold the hand against her face tightly. It was a sad smile that touched his lips before he brushed them against her other cheek. “Over half a century and ye look not a day older,” he whispered.
“But I’m lovin’ ye jus’ as much, aye,” she whimpered, closing her eyes. “Ne’er could I be lovin’ ye less.” She forced back a sob -- even all these years later she couldn’t cry around him -- and tightened her hand around his. “C’n we be stayin’? Jus’ a wee bit longer?”
He only nodded, pulling her close against him and resting his head on hers, the two of them clinging to each other in silence.
Into The West -- Annie Lennox
Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see
All of your fears will pass away
Safe in my arms
You're only sleeping
“I smell… smoke.”
“’Tis only th’fire, me Pádraig.”
“Oh aye, night has fallen.” Hibernia took his hand gently as she watched the nun who had been tending the fire walk away. “Brigid, she has gone, aye?”
She nodded, lying down next to him, knowing that his eyesight was far better for things close to him as of late. “Aye, she has. Though she’ll come runnin’ at th’first sign o’anythin’, aye she will.”
Patrick chuckled before breaking into weak coughs that Hibernia tried to soothe with her other hand rubbing up and down his back. “Aye, she’s a good lass. She’ll be doing great things some day.”
She laughed, squeezing his hand. “She’s infatuated with ye, aye she is.”
He smiled softly, weak, shaking fingers tracing her eyebrows, cheekbone, lips. “Just like the lady she’s named for.” She kissed his fingers, her free hand mirroring his. “Ye’ll be lookin’ after the young ones, aye? Brigid, Finian and his lot?”
“Aye, aye I will.”
“And those we converted, ye’ll be looking after them?”
“Aye, aye ‘course I will, ‘tis me own people they are.”
He pressed his forehead against hers, smiling as she curled up tight against him. “Aye, I do love ye, me Aine.” She bit her lip, forcing back tears. “Always have, aye.”
“I love ye too, so so much.”
“Forgive me,” he whispered, brushing away a tear that managed to escape with a thumb. “I never wanted to leave ye to damnation. Never wanted to hurt ye like this.” He kissed her forehead gently. “Perhaps I shall be seein’ ye again someday.”
“’Tis mortal ye are, what else could ye be doin’? ‘Tisn’t yer fault, me Pádraig. But ye… ye could be doomed t’Hell. I could o’lead ye there meself, simply by lovin’ ye.”
“Ye are worth risking the suffering of Hell, me dear Aine; never doubt that I knew full well where loving ye could lead me, and I went willingly.” He said it firmly, squeezing her hand tightly as he could. “And I would not be changing anything if I were asked to. Not one of the ninety years we had.”
“Years we’re havin’, ye’re nay dead yet,” she protested weakly, still needing that hope, foolish as it was.
“Me Aine…” he sighed, stroking her cheek with a thumb. “Beautiful, beautiful pagan goddess Aine. Lovely as the day we met, sun bright in the sky, and ye took me heart. Fitting, almost, that we should be parting under starry skies.”
“Ye brought me light,” she whimpered. “Light and love and fore’er. Ye’re th’best man t’e’re walk this land, aye.” She curled up tighter against him, clinging to him as though through sheer will alone she could keep him alive, with her.
“Ye’ll be staying with me?” he whispered, voice growing weaker. She nodded franticly, forcing back a sob.
“Aye, aye I’ll be stayin’ with ye. Ne’er e’er be leavin’ ye, I’m swearin’ it.”
“A smile, me Aine? Smile for me?” Hibernia lifted her head and forced a smile, real though watery and barely held together, and he closed his eyes and sighed happily, his hands squeezing hers once more. “Aye, I go from yer arms to the arms of God,” he whispered, barely audible over the cracking of the fire. “I am content.”
For a long time after, the only sounds to be heard from where Brigid of Kildare stood were the dying of the fire and the near silent sobs of a Nation bereft of her greatest treasure.
Famous Last Words -- My Chemical Romance
So many bright lights to cast a shadow, but can I speak?
Well, is it hard understanding I'm incomplete?
A life that's so demanding, I get so weak
A love that's so demanding, I can't speak
I am not afraid to keep on living
I am not afraid to walk this world alone
Honey if you stay, I'll be forgiven
Nothing you could say can stop me going home
“I ne’er said ye could be havin’ him!” she screamed, rain pouring down onto her, soaked to the bone. “He was me own! Me own, ye hearin’ me?! I was havin’ him first!” A loud sob escaped her, wracking her body. “Give him back t’me!”
Her only reply was thunder, rumbling far in the distance out over the ocean.
“I said be givin’ him back! Ye dinae take things withou’askin! I’m nay carin’ who ye are! I’m needin’ him!” She sobbed again, falling to her knees and drawing her knife. “Give him back or I’ll be comin’ after ye me own self!” She plunged her knife into the ground and was silent for a long moment, collapsed on the ground, still as a stone.
“How could ye be needin’ him more than me?”
Forever Yours -- Nightwish
No love left in me
No eyes to see the heaven beside me
My time is yet to come
So I'll be forever yours
Whatever walks in my heart will walk alone
It was cold, colder than she could remember it being in recent years. It felt like there was ice under her feet, ice that hadn’t been there for hundreds of years.
She’d made these trips for years, going back and forth between an Mhí, Dún Lethglaise, and Ard Mhacha, spreading the Word and checking on those Patrick had tasked her with, and every time she made it alone, always only walking and turning away all offers of horses. She used to make the journey with him, and she would have no other, not even family.
Hibernia didn’t mourn, not as others. She grieved, refusing to forget the pain of loosing him, for fear it would mean forgetting him completely. Oh true, she smiled for her people, for her brothers, with only Cambria and Lusitania calling her on those smiles, clearly false to their eyes… and they were quite right. But when she was alone, with no one there to be strong for or to pretend around, oh she would sob and sob and sob, until her eyes ran dry.
One trip, however, she was accompanied by a leannán sí, a faerie woman. One didn’t tell the fae where they could be, after all, you respected them and they would do no harm to you. It simply walked with her, never speaking, never even inspiring her as they were wont to do. Eventually Hibernia forgot she was there, settling down under a tree -- a tree that felt as coated in ice as the ground, the chill seeping into her back even though the wool of her tunic. A few hours later she glanced up, tear tracks on her face, to find the leannán sí looking at her curiously, silently. The words tumbled out before she had mindfulness to check them.
“I dinnae if I can be doin’ it ‘gain, bein’ in love.”
Find part two here.