Fanmix - How Could It Be Any Better Than This? Part Two and Footnotes
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: 4,948, including footnotes
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!
The Crow & The Butterfly -- Shinedown
I painted your room at midnight
So I'd know yesterday was over
I put all your books on the top shelf
Even the one with the four leaf clover
Man, I'm getting older
I took all your pictures off the wall
And wrapped them in a newspaper blanket
I haven't slept in what seems like a century
And now I can barely breathe
…
I never thought you'd slip away
I guess I was just a little too late
“Here.”
Hibernia slowly looked up to find a cup in front of her face, steam slowly rising from it. She followed the hand holding the cup up the arm to rest on the face of her elder brother. She blinked at him slowly, as though wondering where he had come from and why he was there. He sighed and closed Hibernia’s hands around it. “Thank ye,” she murmured distractedly, taking a small sip.
He sat down next to her, pulling a blanket around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, chwaer,” he whispered, rubbing her back.
She continued to stare into the distance, not really registering much at all around her. After a long time, long after the drink in her hand had cooled, she finally spoke. “’Tis… strange,” she said quietly. Cambria only raised an eyebrow, one as large as hers. “Th’world… ‘tis empty, quiet… so very lonely withou’ him. Dinnae realize… jus’ how ‘twas ‘fore I was knowin’ him.”
“That’s how it is,” he whispered, letting her lean her head on his shoulder. “They’re here, we love them as long as we can, and we stay with them when they die.”
“I dinnae… I dinnae think I’ve been sleepin’ since then. Nay anythin’ resemblin’ real sleep. And breathin’…” She hid her face in his shoulder. “Breathin’ feels like suffocatin’. Like I’m dyin’ but me body willnae be lettin’ me.”
“I know,” he whispered, taking her drink away from her and setting it aside before settling her in his lap. She curled into him, as she once did when she and Caledonia were as tiny as Albion, the youngest. “I know, chwaer.”
“Deartháir mór, how are ye doin’ it? Goin’ on when ye’ve lost Dewi? With Dewi meanin’ as much t’ye as me Pádraig is meanin’ t’me?”
He was quiet a long moment, still rubbing his little sister’s back, trying to comfort her as he always did. “‘Gwnewch y pethau bychain mewn bywyd,’” he finally said, smiling when Hibernia looked up at him in confusion. “‘Do the little things in life,’ just as he told us all to do when he passed.”
“’Tis helpin’?”
“…Enough, ie.”
Ghost Love Score -- Nightwish
My fall will be for you
My love will be in you
If you be the one to cut me
I’ll bleed forever
…
My fall will be for you
My love will be in you
You were the one to cut me
So I'll bleed forever
Alba dropped down heavily on the ground next to his twin, who was already covered in a light dusting of snow, staring out over the waters of the Moray Firth. She didn’t react to him, even as he brushed the snow off of her shoulders. He sighed, knowing at this point he would get nothing from her, and watched the water as well, simply waiting.
Of course, Alba never was one to wait patiently. “He ruined ye,” he said loudly, but he only got a twitch and a shedding of a layer of snow from Eire. Still, a twitch was a reaction and he pressed on. “Knew he would, aye. Ye fell too hard ye did, gave him too much o’ye, lettin’ him in too far. Yer own fault, dinnae why yer lettin’ yerself sulk like thi--”
“Said he would be goin’ t’Hell for me,” she said suddenly, still looking out over the water, still non-reactive to the snow that was steadily piling up on and around her. “That I was his e’erythin’. Has Gallia e’er been sayin’ that t’ye? Anythin’ like that?” She was quiet, no heat or venom in her voice, and that, more that than anything else, was what unnerved her brother. He sat there, moving only to brush the rest of the snow off her shoulders, unclasp his cloak and drape it around her shoulders. “I dinnae if I’m still here, Scoti. Dinnae if I’m still livin’, like I’ve bled and bled and bled, bled dry with nae wound t’be found, t’be closin’ up.”
“Scotia…”
“Dinnae why I’m still here, sometimes. Nay be seein’ him ‘gain, nay here.”
“Yer still here cause I’m nay givin’ up me twin, that’s why,” he said gruffly, not looking at her. “Nay is Cyrmu nor Albion.” He shook himself slightly, to rid himself of his own snowy layers. “’Sides, get better with time, aye. Like with Mum.”
Eire’s hand slowly, shaking either with cold or exhaustion -- Alba would have put money on exhaustion at this point, uncertain if she could even feel temperatures at all -- came up to pull the cloak tighter around her, finally looking at her twin, her eyes taking on that fuzzy look that signified when her Sight had taken over.
“Will ye still be sayin’ that, I’m wonderin’, when ye’ve lost yer human, when she’s standin’ ’fore the executioner, when her own family is callin’ for her blood? When she’s lookin’ at ye, wishin’ she knew ’twas she’d done so wrong, all for yer sake?” She blinked and her eyes were clear again. “Will ye be sayin’ th’same when yer heart is broken at yer feet, when yer as broken as I?”
He huffed, suddenly standing and hauling her to her feet as well, ignoring that squirming in his stomach that always turned up when his sister made her unsettlingly accurate predictions. “Talkin’ ’bout that shite, tryin’ t’make me as depressed as ye, aye? Havin’ nay o’that now. C’mon, Niseag, th’monster in one’o’me lochs, th’one Calum Cille was dealin’ with once? She’s been askin’ ’bout ye, misses ye she does.”
Eire sighed, making a token effort to brush off her clothing. “Aye, let’s be seein’ yer beasties then.”
Remember Me -- Josh Groban
Remember, I will still be here
As long as you hold me
In your own memory
Remember me
I am that warm voice
In the cold wind that whispers
And if you listen
You'll hear me call across the sky
As long as
I still can reach out
And touch you
That I will never die
It was a bit surprising, to wake up one day and find it bright and cheerful and sunny. Still, she was never one to look at a gift far too closely, and instead decided to take her newest little brother out for a bit of a walk -- walk meaning he toddled along beside her for a half hour and then made large, watery green eyes up at her and holding his arms out to be carried. Which was something she never minded, finding the weight of him tucked against her chest, warm and with her.
“Oh now, ‘tis this?” she murmured, suddenly coming to a stop. Conchobhar blinked and looked up from where he… had probably been thinking simple child things and broke into a wide smile upon seeing the bit of untouched land they’d come across, covered completely in clover. “Perhaps we could be stopin’ here for a wee bit, aye?”
She needn’t have asked, as Conchobhar was already starting to squirm around in her arms, struggling to be put down. Laughing brightly she did so, watching him run around the field, grass coming up to his knees and running after butterflies. As for herself, she settled down in a relatively bare patch and started stringing clover flowers together to make a decently long chain.
“Deirfiúr mhór!” She looked up from slitting the last clover stem with one of her nails to find Conchobhar running towards her, fist clenched around something.
“Aye, be careful now, runnin’ too fast, ye’ll be trippin’!” He did stumble a few times, but never fully tripped before he was back by her side, shoving his hand in her face.
“I was bringin’ ye this, aye!” he chirped happily, all but climbing into her lap in his excitement.
“Oh ye were then? Well,” she said as she slipped the first stem of the chain into the last, making a flower crown and settling it on the younger Ireland’s head, “Let’s be seein’ it then.”
Conchobhar giggled and unclenched his hand, revealing a -- slightly mistreated and crushed -- shamrock. “Thought ye’d like it, Deirfiúr mhór, aye I did!”
Ireland smiled sadly, gently taking it from him and spinning it around slowly between her fingers. “Aye, ye’d be right ‘bout that.” She pulled him into her lap, he settling easily against her chest and playing with a nearby clover. “I e’er tell ye th’story o’Naomh Pádraig and th’seamróg?” she asked, playing with his hair. He looked up at her, eyes wide and sparkling.
“Nay, ye haven’t! Tell me th’story?!” He was practically bouncing up and down in her lap, stopping only when the crown slipped down to rest on his nose.
She laughed and pushed it back up to rest properly. “Aye, well, one day, me Pádraig, he was tryin’ t’explain t’me how God could be existin’ as three people and yet one person all at once. And he looked down, findin’ a seamróg at his feet. So he was pickin’ it up, thinkin’ he would be usin’ th’leaves. Ye know what I was sayin’, though?” When Conchobhar shook his head, she continued. “I was sayin’ that I wasnae needin’ that, I’ve had me own three fold goddess for centuries, aye I have. Oh aye, he was surprised!” She chuckled, nuzzled his hair, and tickled his sides, sending him off into his own giggle fit. “Still though, I ne’er forgot him tryin’, and I’ve kept that very seamróg somewhere very safe for th’past thousand years.”
“Can I be seein’ it?! Please?!” She laughed again, resting her check on the crown of his head, breathing in that clover smell.
“Aye, someday. ‘Tis a very special thing for me, aye ‘tis.” She sighed, smile taking on a sad edge. “Aye, very special.”
Blame It On the Weatherman (Orchestral) -- B*Witched
Standing on the shore
Calling out your name
I was here before
I could see your face
Only clouds will see
Tears are in my eyes
Empty like my heart
Why do ya say goodbye?
“I’ve heard,” England started, looking around the bit of land that called itself an island, “that your saint was here once, with a goat of all things. And while he was off running errands, some of your idiotic people decided it would be a fine idea to steal the goat of a holy man and eat it.” He turned around to look at his sister, who, he had to admit very privately, looked quite at home on the shore, looking out at the water and all but ignoring him. He humped and turned back to the water himself. “He found out and cursed them to bray like goats themselves until they died. Never heard if that nonsense was true or not.”
“Nay nonsense, and nay ‘til they died.” He looked at her out the corner of his eye, but she was standing still as one of the statues in his museums. “’Twas ‘til they admitted t’what they’d been doin’. And ‘twasn’t this island, ‘twas Red Island. Still has his footprint, aye it does.” He heard her words catch in her throat, just for a moment. “Aye but he had a temper, one t… t’be matchin’ me own.”
He sighed in a loud huff, turning properly towards her, pointedly ignoring the tear rolling down her face. “Oi, you’re… you’re not crying are you? Not that I care or anything, but if Llwelleyn heard he’d have my head and all that.”
She shook her head. “Nay, ‘course nay me wee brother. ‘Tis only ocean spray.”
They both knew it was a lie, but it satisfied them both.
Mo Ghile Mear -- Celtic Woman
'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear
'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear
Suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin
Ó chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear
(He is my hero, my dashing darling
He is my Caesar, dashing darling
Rest or pleasure I did not get
Since he went far away, my darling)
Now the time has come to leave
Keep the flame and still believe
Know that love will shine through darkness
One bright star to light the wave
“It’s not just because you want me with Inglaterra, is it Irlanda?”
“…Say ‘gain, me brother?”
Portugal sat up, dry grass caught in his brown curls, and looked down at Ireland. “Even had we tried, there would have been no way for us to work.” He reached over and poked her in the shoulder. “Because of him.”
She raised an eyebrow at him, slowly sitting up. “I was wantin’ ye with me brother because ye’re meant for him, Knew it ages ago I did. Patrick… he’s havin’ naythin’ t’be doin’ with me relationships.”
Portugal gave her a flat look. “Now, maybe. But back then? Frankly it’s a miracle that Prússia even stood a chance. You’ve never gotten over him, I don’t think.”
“Aye, and why should I be gettin’ o’er him?! Who’s gettin’ o’er ninety years?!” She glared at him, giving him a good shove. “’Twas the best thing in me life, he was! Dinnae ye e’er be sayin’ I should!”
To his credit, she didn’t manage to knock him over, and he just continued with that flat look. “I never, ever said you should get over him. But, irmã, I do think you could be best served to let go of him just a little. He wouldn’t want you sad for him forever.” She was quiet, looking out over the field they’d found themselves in. “I’m not telling you, no matter what else Inglaterra would say, to get over him.”
“’Tis doin’ better I am, aye. Can be gettin’ through th’day now, after all.” Her hand drifted down, brushing the spot of her sweater under which her cross, the exact one Patrick had given her centuries ago, sat.
Portugal sighed and draped an arm around her shoulders. “I trust you, I trust that you know what you’re doing, but I’m still effectively one of your brothers, and I worry.”
She chuckled and leaned her head on his shoulder, smiling. “Aye, I’m knowin’. Really, doin’ better I am, I’m promisin’ ye.”
Are You a Ghost? -- B*Witched
Cool wind is blowing
Fingers through hair
Standing in an empty room, alone
It feels like you're there
Ooh alone
I know that you're there
Are you a ghost?
Or are you alive?
Would you be here for me
Be here for me now
Imagination
Or are you for real?
Just give me a sign
Long, long ago, so many lifetimes and yet not even one, she swore she would never leave him. And every year, every March Seventeenth even as her people passed the evening in pubs singing rebel songs, singing of poor auld Erin’s isle, Ireland herself would make her journey to Connor’s lands to spend her time beside her saint’s grave. Most years she would eventually have a brother -- either Wales or Scotland, never Connor or England -- come and fetch her before sun rise, or she would sleep there the whole night, awaking the next day and having a pleasant cup of tea with the head priest of the Downpatrick Cathedral.
One night though, after she’d been fetched, she’d left her hair ribbon behind, a bit of a tribute to him, and she’d felt… something… go through her hair. She paused midstep, turning half around, hand shielding her eyes from her windblown hair, looking back at the large stone that marked his grave. It’d felt… almost like fingers going through the ends of her hair, getting caught in fingernails.
“Gorgeous?”
She blinked, shaking her head slightly and turned back around, hastening her step to catch back up to her companion. “Aye, aye, comin’ ‘long. ‘Tisn’t me own fault I’m shorter than you and slower.”
As she faded into the distance, the wind blew again, sounding suspiciously like a gentle laugh.
Like The Sun -- RyanDan
Whenever you’re close to me, you’re like the sun
You feel like the sun
And everyday you telling me
I am the one
I am the one who makes you shine
…
When I'm holding you
The world can stop it's turning
You’re always gonna pull me through
And I won't be returning
The switch from the rush and noise of the Dublin city to the quiet and peace of inside the cathedral, sometimes with quiet organ music in the background, was something she always found soothing. And with the economy and political upheavals going on in both her own lands and the rest of the world, peace and quiet were things she was strongly lacking.
There was a small group -- tourists, come to see the cathedral, she guessed -- clustered near one of the columns, and she smiled fondly at the on duty priest she passed on her way to where the prayer candles were set aside. Pushing her hair back out of the way of any flames, she reached out for one of the tapers and lit one of the unused candles. Bowing her head, she crossed herself and prayed silently, letting the time and tourists pass her by.
Eventually though she crossed herself again and deposited a couple of half Euro coins into the box set aside for donations, smiling again at the priest, as well as the tourists as she left.
Later that day, the metaphorical fur was flying in the Dail, Lenihan and some of the more reasonable members of the Fine Gael party in yet another argument of how to deal with the economic crisis. Ireland herself was squirreled away in a back corner, focused more on the kilt hose she was finally turning the heel on than any of the yelling; honestly, not as though it would be helping anyone. That’s what a knife or a particularly pointy double pointed knitting needle was for. The fact that they were making decisions for her without respect to her thoughts on the matter didn’t exactly make her a willing participant in any policy conversation these days.
Suddenly one of the younger TDs looked at her, raising an eyebrow at her knitting. “You’re not worried at all, my lady?” he asked, his accent quickly identifying him as a Limerick lad. She pursed her lips slightly, then shook her head as she kept an eye on her stitches. “Pardon me for asking, but how can you not?”
She waited until she got to the end of the round, slipping her marker and knitting the next stitch to keep it secure, then looked up at the TD with a smile. “’Cause I’m knowin’ ’twill all be workin’ out. There’s a lad I’m knowin’, and I’ve me faith in him, as I always have.”
The TD rolled his shoulders and straightened the cuffs of his dress shirt. “I don’t think your nephew will pull us out of this, my lady.”
“Mm, nay any of me nephews, a lad long since gone he is.” She took a deep breath, suddenly coughing on the exhale. “Jesus Christ and all the saints above, Lenihan! Someone be throwin’ him some mints, I can be smellin’ the garlic from here!”
The Cliffs of Moher -- Bruce Huron
Instrumental
She stood a few feet from the edge of the cliffs; the land might be hers, but she knew full well that the wind blew strong and that chances didn’t need to be taken. The Cliffs of Moher, they’d only made it there together once, when he was much younger.
She could remember it as clear as the view out on the water, all the way down the cliff faces to Galway Bay. He’d stood there, slack jawed and wide eyed, stunned into perfect silence for several very long moments. “’Tis beautiful,” he’d said at last, a touch of awe in his voice and in his smile, and she’d laughed brightly, endlessly amused.
“Oh aye, ’tis. And if ye’re lookin’ south now,” she took his arm and pointed down the way of the cliff, “’Tis Ceann Caillí, th’Hag’s Head, named for one o’me old goddesses, th’Cailleach.”
He didn’t even spare a look at her, completely enraptured by the mists rising upwards, slightly obscuring the view of the southernmost tip of the cliffs. “A queen, ye’re meaning, me Aine. Aye, ’tis absolutely breathtaking. Ye’ve a natural wonder here, me Aine. Almost a shame ’tis that Rome never touched yer shores, this should be on the list of things to be seeing.”
She made a thoughtful sounding noise, leaning her head against him. “Aye, he is missin’ somethin’ wonderful, but ’tis happier I am sharin’ this with th’one I’m in love with, keepin’ it to me people and family.”
Aye, she could still see that day, cuddled up against him, ignoring the chill seeping into her from the wind and the mist for his sake, letting him drink his fill of the view. And now, instead of drawing tears from her eyes, it drew smiles and laughter.
Evergreen -- Barbra Streisand
Time we've learned to sail above
Time won't change the meaning of one love
ageless and ever evergreen
“And then ya know what the bastard said?!”
“Mm, nay Sadiq, what did he say?”
“Nothin‘!” Sadiq pounded his fist on the table, shaking the glasses on it. “That Greek bastard just fell asleep! Right in the middle of our fight! Should have expected somethin’ out of that dikmek, but pullin’ that kind of shit?! Fuckin’ low, even for him!”
“Oh aye, ‘tis.” Ireland simply kept her eye on her knitting, trying not to lose count of her stitches and yarn overs. These were common enough, Greece doing something (Real or imagined), Turkey getting offended (usually overly so), and he gripping at her whenever he had the chance. She’d learned to tune most of it out, waiting for lulls so she could put in the appropriate comment at the appropriate time. It usually worked well.
“And he sheds almost as much as those damn cats of his! It’s a wonder we don’t all have allergies thanks to that! Hell, I bet most of it is his cats!”
“Supposin’ so.”
“It’s not like with Orangey. With him, ya know what he’s doin’, what ta expect out of him. Not with this olive bastard and his sneakin’ around.”
“Exactly so.”
Turkey’s eyes narrowed behind his mask, frowning slightly. “And then the narcoleptic said I could keep Kuzey Kıbrıs.”
“Oh my.”
An eyebrow started twitching. “Yer brother’s said he’ll give Conner back to ya.”
“A right tragedy, ‘tis.”
“İrlanda, run away with me, I’ll treat ya like a queen.”
“You’ve every right to be pissed.”
Well, that just proved it, didn’t it? So he stood and walked over to her side of the table, propping himself up on her head. “Alright Shorty, what’s so important to yer that yer pullin’ that old trick again?”
“I’m not short,” she shot back automatically, not moving under his weight, then blinked. “…Were you askin’ me to run away with you?”
“Yup, ya weren’t listenin’. So what’s the stringy thing today?”
“Altar runner for Downpatrick Cathedral, they’re needin’ a new one and I was offerin’. Found a clover lace pattern few weeks ago, was lookin’ for an excuse to be usin’ it, aye I was. Patrick, he always liked clovers.” She didn’t move, but glared up at him. “And if you’re not movin’ by the time I’m done with this row I’m gettin’ me knives out.”
He only laughed, leaning more weight on her. “Looks like shite, ya sure yer wanting to give something like that to one of yer husband’s biggest churches?”
“’Twas not me husband, Sadiq. And ‘tis only needin’ a good severe blockin’, ‘twill look perfect after that.”
“The way ya mourned for the guy, might as well have married him. Orangey said ya were actin’ like a damned widow.”
“Thinkin’ I missed when you were allowed to be judgin’ someone on their romantic lives. Five more stitches, you chancer.”
“Call it as I see it, and I see that even if it never happened, ya were married to that saint of yers.”
“Two more.”
“Stab me and ya won’t get to see Kuzey Kıbrıs next week.”
Ireland sighed, finished the row, and pushed Turkey off of her, turning to face him. “Aye, and by seein’ him you’re meanin’ baby sit the lad while you’re off fightin’ Greece, or whatever ‘tis you’re doin’ with him.”
“Hey, ya like kids!”
“Likin’ them better when their guardians aren’t droppin’ them on me without so much as a hello.”
“Whatever ya say, Dul Patrick.”
Someday, Ireland thought as she chased him around the room with a knife drawn, he’d learn that he shouldn’t toll her with certain things.
Though if those certain things ended in the same way this one did, she also mused before conscious thought was wiped away by the way he fisted his hand in her hair as he kissed her harshly, well, she couldn’t complain over much.
Remembering You -- Steven Curtis Chapman
From the first moment when I heard your name
Something in my heart came alive
You showed me love and no words could explain
A love with the power to
Open the door
To a world I was made for
And I watch as the cold winter melts into spring
And I'll be remembering you
Oh and I'll smell the flowers and hear the birds sing
and I'll be remembering you, I'll be remembering you
“Hey Auntie!” Her head perked up, quickly landing on her twin nephews coming her way -- Well, America all excited and smiles and running while dragging a less enthusiastic but still smiling Canada behind him -- and tucking the Pennsylvania themed socks into her knitting bag, pulling out just a generic pair. She smiled up at them, laughing slightly as America felt the need to catch his breath before speaking. “Hey Auntie!” he said again, still brightness and smiles.
“Hello me Ailill, Maitiú.” Canada grinned and wrenched his hand out of America’s, settling down next to her. “You’re all excited ’bout somethin’, aye you are.”
America looked like he was about to bounce right out of his clothing, while Canada simply rolled his eyes and started studying the cuff of the sock. “Sure am! My Saint Patrick’s Day celebration in Chicago is coming up in a few days!”
“Green river and green beer then?” she asked fondly, shaking her head. “Never know why you’ve got to be dyin’ everythin’ green, honestly.”
America tilted his head, smile still there but confusion in his eyes. “Green’s your color Auntie, it’s your holiday.”
“Her holiday is religious, Al,” Canada murmured, making America visibly deflate, then looked up at his aunt. “How are you doing the heel flap?”
“Thinkin’ eye of the partridge for this one,” she replied, then reached out and pulled America down to sit on her other side. “Oh come now me dear,” she said, pulling him to rest against her, “’tisn’t a bad thing, ’tisn’t. If your Irish are wantin’ to party, then by all rights they should be partyin’. Wishnin’ a wee bit we were usin’ blue instead of green, and I’m wishin’ I knew why you’d be dyin’ perfectly good beer green, but you, you’re young you are. As long as you’re rememberin’ the saint behind it, you can be doin’ as you like.”
“Will you come this year?” he asked, putting on his perfect puppy eye expression. “You never come you know, not to any of the celebrations of any of the… the… Dia…spora Nations. Just come to the one in Chicago, that’s all I want.” Canada glared at his brother, though of course it went unnoticed. “I know your new boss is coming over the week of, but that’s to DC and it’s the Chicago parade that’s the best.”
She sighed and ran her fingers through his hair, frowning in thought. “You never do leave unless it’s a state thing, Auntie,” Canada murmured. “I know you don’t really like to, but… well, Newfoundland made it a provincial holiday and… I’d really like to see you come by too.”
She sighed again, smiling softly. “Well, if both me darlin’ lads are askin’, how can I be turnin’ them both down?” She set the sock down in her lap and put her arms around the North American twins and squeezed them tight, pressing a kiss first to Canada’s temple, then to America’s. “You know, Patrick would be so proud of you two, celebratin’ him like this.”
America smiled, a small one, but no less happy than his others. “I think that’s the best praise you could give any of us, Auntie.”
Footnotes, the short version:
In Fields Where We Lay:
Maewyn - Patrick's childhood name
Niall - Of the Nine Hostages, the fellow who kidnapped Patrick to start with.
Brighid Éireann Aine Ó Domhnaill - Irish version of Brigid Erin Aine O'Donnell, Ireland's human name.
Iwenia - Early Celtic name of the island, Hibernia the Roman, spelled very much like Iberia, (the peninsula that contains Portugal and Spain).
Out of My League:
Cambria - Roman name of Wales
Everything:
Cu Chulainn and Emer
Come On Get Higher:
Beltain - Old Irish for Beltaine, a fertility holiday in May
Mo Aine, mo bandia comparáid idir álainn an ghrá, mo chroí - My Aine, my beautiful pagan goddess of love, my heart, Irish
Mo Pádraig, mo solas, mo fhear uasal - My Patrick, my light, my noble man
Runaway:
Celtic cross, claimed to be invented by Patrick
Iron - Headcanon is the older four Isles Siblings are half-fae from different dads, thus the iron issue
Who Wants to Live Forever?:
Raith Celtair - Early name for Downpatrick
Ard Mhacha - Early name of Armgah, seat of early Celtic Christian church
Into the West:
Brigid of Kildare - One of three patron saints of Ireland, follower of Patrick, may have been converted by him, named after/might be the goddess Brigid.
Finian - Founder of church in Meath, teacher of the Twelve Apostles of Ireland
Forever Yours:
Mhí - Early name of Meath
Dún Lethglaise - Another early name of Downpatrick
Lusitania - Roman name of Portugal
Leannán sí
The Crow & Th Butterfly:
chwaer - sister, Welsh
Caledonia - Classical name of Scotland
Albion - Classical name of England
Dwei - Saint David of Wales, Patron Saint of Wales
Deartháir mór - Big brother, Irish
ie - yes, Welsh
Ghost Love Score:
Alba - Scotish Gaelic for Scotland
Moray Firth
Gallia - Early name for France
Cyrmu - Welsh name for Wales
Scotland's human - Mary, Queen of Scots
Niseag: Nessi, said to be first spotted by Saint Colmba one of three patron saints of Ireland, a patron saint of Scotland, and one of the Twelve Apostles of Ireland
Remember Me:
Conchobhar - Irish form of Connor, Northern Ireland
Deirfiúr mhór - Big sister, Irish
Naomh - Saint, Irish. Patrick was made a saint in the 1600s, before standard canonization was started.
The story - How it probably really went if the story is true.
Blame It On The Weatherman:
Patrick's goat"
Mo Ghile Mear:
Inglaterra, Irlanda, irmã - England, Ireland, and sister, Portuguese
Are You a Ghost?:
"Poor auld Erin's Isle" - Rocky Road to Dublin, I like the version by the High Kings best.
Downpatrick, Patrick's burial place, alongside Saints Brigid of Kildare and Columba.
Like the Sun:
Saint Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin - Has visitors, is Church of Ireland (Think Whiskey or Death instead of Cake or Death)
Dáil - Lower house of Irish legislature
Fine Gael - leading party since 25 February
Lenihan - Minister of Finance, said to be worst finance minister in Europe two years running, chews raw garlic for health, has pancreatic cancer.
Kilt hose
Cliffs of Moher:
Cliffs of Moher
The Cailleach
Seven Wonders of the World - Greek (and probably Roman) tour book
Evergreen:
dikmek, Kuzey Kıbrıs, İrlanda, dul - Prick, North Cyprus (The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus), Ireland, and widow, Turkish
Orangey - Portugal
Turkish-Irish relations "are flourishing in every respect."
Remembering You:
Ailill, Maitiú - Elf, Matthew, Irish, Ireland's nicknames for them
Irish Diaspora
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: 4,948, including footnotes
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!
The Crow & The Butterfly -- Shinedown
I painted your room at midnight
So I'd know yesterday was over
I put all your books on the top shelf
Even the one with the four leaf clover
Man, I'm getting older
I took all your pictures off the wall
And wrapped them in a newspaper blanket
I haven't slept in what seems like a century
And now I can barely breathe
…
I never thought you'd slip away
I guess I was just a little too late
“Here.”
Hibernia slowly looked up to find a cup in front of her face, steam slowly rising from it. She followed the hand holding the cup up the arm to rest on the face of her elder brother. She blinked at him slowly, as though wondering where he had come from and why he was there. He sighed and closed Hibernia’s hands around it. “Thank ye,” she murmured distractedly, taking a small sip.
He sat down next to her, pulling a blanket around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, chwaer,” he whispered, rubbing her back.
She continued to stare into the distance, not really registering much at all around her. After a long time, long after the drink in her hand had cooled, she finally spoke. “’Tis… strange,” she said quietly. Cambria only raised an eyebrow, one as large as hers. “Th’world… ‘tis empty, quiet… so very lonely withou’ him. Dinnae realize… jus’ how ‘twas ‘fore I was knowin’ him.”
“That’s how it is,” he whispered, letting her lean her head on his shoulder. “They’re here, we love them as long as we can, and we stay with them when they die.”
“I dinnae… I dinnae think I’ve been sleepin’ since then. Nay anythin’ resemblin’ real sleep. And breathin’…” She hid her face in his shoulder. “Breathin’ feels like suffocatin’. Like I’m dyin’ but me body willnae be lettin’ me.”
“I know,” he whispered, taking her drink away from her and setting it aside before settling her in his lap. She curled into him, as she once did when she and Caledonia were as tiny as Albion, the youngest. “I know, chwaer.”
“Deartháir mór, how are ye doin’ it? Goin’ on when ye’ve lost Dewi? With Dewi meanin’ as much t’ye as me Pádraig is meanin’ t’me?”
He was quiet a long moment, still rubbing his little sister’s back, trying to comfort her as he always did. “‘Gwnewch y pethau bychain mewn bywyd,’” he finally said, smiling when Hibernia looked up at him in confusion. “‘Do the little things in life,’ just as he told us all to do when he passed.”
“’Tis helpin’?”
“…Enough, ie.”
Ghost Love Score -- Nightwish
My fall will be for you
My love will be in you
If you be the one to cut me
I’ll bleed forever
…
My fall will be for you
My love will be in you
You were the one to cut me
So I'll bleed forever
Alba dropped down heavily on the ground next to his twin, who was already covered in a light dusting of snow, staring out over the waters of the Moray Firth. She didn’t react to him, even as he brushed the snow off of her shoulders. He sighed, knowing at this point he would get nothing from her, and watched the water as well, simply waiting.
Of course, Alba never was one to wait patiently. “He ruined ye,” he said loudly, but he only got a twitch and a shedding of a layer of snow from Eire. Still, a twitch was a reaction and he pressed on. “Knew he would, aye. Ye fell too hard ye did, gave him too much o’ye, lettin’ him in too far. Yer own fault, dinnae why yer lettin’ yerself sulk like thi--”
“Said he would be goin’ t’Hell for me,” she said suddenly, still looking out over the water, still non-reactive to the snow that was steadily piling up on and around her. “That I was his e’erythin’. Has Gallia e’er been sayin’ that t’ye? Anythin’ like that?” She was quiet, no heat or venom in her voice, and that, more that than anything else, was what unnerved her brother. He sat there, moving only to brush the rest of the snow off her shoulders, unclasp his cloak and drape it around her shoulders. “I dinnae if I’m still here, Scoti. Dinnae if I’m still livin’, like I’ve bled and bled and bled, bled dry with nae wound t’be found, t’be closin’ up.”
“Scotia…”
“Dinnae why I’m still here, sometimes. Nay be seein’ him ‘gain, nay here.”
“Yer still here cause I’m nay givin’ up me twin, that’s why,” he said gruffly, not looking at her. “Nay is Cyrmu nor Albion.” He shook himself slightly, to rid himself of his own snowy layers. “’Sides, get better with time, aye. Like with Mum.”
Eire’s hand slowly, shaking either with cold or exhaustion -- Alba would have put money on exhaustion at this point, uncertain if she could even feel temperatures at all -- came up to pull the cloak tighter around her, finally looking at her twin, her eyes taking on that fuzzy look that signified when her Sight had taken over.
“Will ye still be sayin’ that, I’m wonderin’, when ye’ve lost yer human, when she’s standin’ ’fore the executioner, when her own family is callin’ for her blood? When she’s lookin’ at ye, wishin’ she knew ’twas she’d done so wrong, all for yer sake?” She blinked and her eyes were clear again. “Will ye be sayin’ th’same when yer heart is broken at yer feet, when yer as broken as I?”
He huffed, suddenly standing and hauling her to her feet as well, ignoring that squirming in his stomach that always turned up when his sister made her unsettlingly accurate predictions. “Talkin’ ’bout that shite, tryin’ t’make me as depressed as ye, aye? Havin’ nay o’that now. C’mon, Niseag, th’monster in one’o’me lochs, th’one Calum Cille was dealin’ with once? She’s been askin’ ’bout ye, misses ye she does.”
Eire sighed, making a token effort to brush off her clothing. “Aye, let’s be seein’ yer beasties then.”
Remember Me -- Josh Groban
Remember, I will still be here
As long as you hold me
In your own memory
Remember me
I am that warm voice
In the cold wind that whispers
And if you listen
You'll hear me call across the sky
As long as
I still can reach out
And touch you
That I will never die
It was a bit surprising, to wake up one day and find it bright and cheerful and sunny. Still, she was never one to look at a gift far too closely, and instead decided to take her newest little brother out for a bit of a walk -- walk meaning he toddled along beside her for a half hour and then made large, watery green eyes up at her and holding his arms out to be carried. Which was something she never minded, finding the weight of him tucked against her chest, warm and with her.
“Oh now, ‘tis this?” she murmured, suddenly coming to a stop. Conchobhar blinked and looked up from where he… had probably been thinking simple child things and broke into a wide smile upon seeing the bit of untouched land they’d come across, covered completely in clover. “Perhaps we could be stopin’ here for a wee bit, aye?”
She needn’t have asked, as Conchobhar was already starting to squirm around in her arms, struggling to be put down. Laughing brightly she did so, watching him run around the field, grass coming up to his knees and running after butterflies. As for herself, she settled down in a relatively bare patch and started stringing clover flowers together to make a decently long chain.
“Deirfiúr mhór!” She looked up from slitting the last clover stem with one of her nails to find Conchobhar running towards her, fist clenched around something.
“Aye, be careful now, runnin’ too fast, ye’ll be trippin’!” He did stumble a few times, but never fully tripped before he was back by her side, shoving his hand in her face.
“I was bringin’ ye this, aye!” he chirped happily, all but climbing into her lap in his excitement.
“Oh ye were then? Well,” she said as she slipped the first stem of the chain into the last, making a flower crown and settling it on the younger Ireland’s head, “Let’s be seein’ it then.”
Conchobhar giggled and unclenched his hand, revealing a -- slightly mistreated and crushed -- shamrock. “Thought ye’d like it, Deirfiúr mhór, aye I did!”
Ireland smiled sadly, gently taking it from him and spinning it around slowly between her fingers. “Aye, ye’d be right ‘bout that.” She pulled him into her lap, he settling easily against her chest and playing with a nearby clover. “I e’er tell ye th’story o’Naomh Pádraig and th’seamróg?” she asked, playing with his hair. He looked up at her, eyes wide and sparkling.
“Nay, ye haven’t! Tell me th’story?!” He was practically bouncing up and down in her lap, stopping only when the crown slipped down to rest on his nose.
She laughed and pushed it back up to rest properly. “Aye, well, one day, me Pádraig, he was tryin’ t’explain t’me how God could be existin’ as three people and yet one person all at once. And he looked down, findin’ a seamróg at his feet. So he was pickin’ it up, thinkin’ he would be usin’ th’leaves. Ye know what I was sayin’, though?” When Conchobhar shook his head, she continued. “I was sayin’ that I wasnae needin’ that, I’ve had me own three fold goddess for centuries, aye I have. Oh aye, he was surprised!” She chuckled, nuzzled his hair, and tickled his sides, sending him off into his own giggle fit. “Still though, I ne’er forgot him tryin’, and I’ve kept that very seamróg somewhere very safe for th’past thousand years.”
“Can I be seein’ it?! Please?!” She laughed again, resting her check on the crown of his head, breathing in that clover smell.
“Aye, someday. ‘Tis a very special thing for me, aye ‘tis.” She sighed, smile taking on a sad edge. “Aye, very special.”
Blame It On the Weatherman (Orchestral) -- B*Witched
Standing on the shore
Calling out your name
I was here before
I could see your face
Only clouds will see
Tears are in my eyes
Empty like my heart
Why do ya say goodbye?
“I’ve heard,” England started, looking around the bit of land that called itself an island, “that your saint was here once, with a goat of all things. And while he was off running errands, some of your idiotic people decided it would be a fine idea to steal the goat of a holy man and eat it.” He turned around to look at his sister, who, he had to admit very privately, looked quite at home on the shore, looking out at the water and all but ignoring him. He humped and turned back to the water himself. “He found out and cursed them to bray like goats themselves until they died. Never heard if that nonsense was true or not.”
“Nay nonsense, and nay ‘til they died.” He looked at her out the corner of his eye, but she was standing still as one of the statues in his museums. “’Twas ‘til they admitted t’what they’d been doin’. And ‘twasn’t this island, ‘twas Red Island. Still has his footprint, aye it does.” He heard her words catch in her throat, just for a moment. “Aye but he had a temper, one t… t’be matchin’ me own.”
He sighed in a loud huff, turning properly towards her, pointedly ignoring the tear rolling down her face. “Oi, you’re… you’re not crying are you? Not that I care or anything, but if Llwelleyn heard he’d have my head and all that.”
She shook her head. “Nay, ‘course nay me wee brother. ‘Tis only ocean spray.”
They both knew it was a lie, but it satisfied them both.
Mo Ghile Mear -- Celtic Woman
'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear
'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear
Suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin
Ó chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear
(He is my hero, my dashing darling
He is my Caesar, dashing darling
Rest or pleasure I did not get
Since he went far away, my darling)
Now the time has come to leave
Keep the flame and still believe
Know that love will shine through darkness
One bright star to light the wave
“It’s not just because you want me with Inglaterra, is it Irlanda?”
“…Say ‘gain, me brother?”
Portugal sat up, dry grass caught in his brown curls, and looked down at Ireland. “Even had we tried, there would have been no way for us to work.” He reached over and poked her in the shoulder. “Because of him.”
She raised an eyebrow at him, slowly sitting up. “I was wantin’ ye with me brother because ye’re meant for him, Knew it ages ago I did. Patrick… he’s havin’ naythin’ t’be doin’ with me relationships.”
Portugal gave her a flat look. “Now, maybe. But back then? Frankly it’s a miracle that Prússia even stood a chance. You’ve never gotten over him, I don’t think.”
“Aye, and why should I be gettin’ o’er him?! Who’s gettin’ o’er ninety years?!” She glared at him, giving him a good shove. “’Twas the best thing in me life, he was! Dinnae ye e’er be sayin’ I should!”
To his credit, she didn’t manage to knock him over, and he just continued with that flat look. “I never, ever said you should get over him. But, irmã, I do think you could be best served to let go of him just a little. He wouldn’t want you sad for him forever.” She was quiet, looking out over the field they’d found themselves in. “I’m not telling you, no matter what else Inglaterra would say, to get over him.”
“’Tis doin’ better I am, aye. Can be gettin’ through th’day now, after all.” Her hand drifted down, brushing the spot of her sweater under which her cross, the exact one Patrick had given her centuries ago, sat.
Portugal sighed and draped an arm around her shoulders. “I trust you, I trust that you know what you’re doing, but I’m still effectively one of your brothers, and I worry.”
She chuckled and leaned her head on his shoulder, smiling. “Aye, I’m knowin’. Really, doin’ better I am, I’m promisin’ ye.”
Are You a Ghost? -- B*Witched
Cool wind is blowing
Fingers through hair
Standing in an empty room, alone
It feels like you're there
Ooh alone
I know that you're there
Are you a ghost?
Or are you alive?
Would you be here for me
Be here for me now
Imagination
Or are you for real?
Just give me a sign
Long, long ago, so many lifetimes and yet not even one, she swore she would never leave him. And every year, every March Seventeenth even as her people passed the evening in pubs singing rebel songs, singing of poor auld Erin’s isle, Ireland herself would make her journey to Connor’s lands to spend her time beside her saint’s grave. Most years she would eventually have a brother -- either Wales or Scotland, never Connor or England -- come and fetch her before sun rise, or she would sleep there the whole night, awaking the next day and having a pleasant cup of tea with the head priest of the Downpatrick Cathedral.
One night though, after she’d been fetched, she’d left her hair ribbon behind, a bit of a tribute to him, and she’d felt… something… go through her hair. She paused midstep, turning half around, hand shielding her eyes from her windblown hair, looking back at the large stone that marked his grave. It’d felt… almost like fingers going through the ends of her hair, getting caught in fingernails.
“Gorgeous?”
She blinked, shaking her head slightly and turned back around, hastening her step to catch back up to her companion. “Aye, aye, comin’ ‘long. ‘Tisn’t me own fault I’m shorter than you and slower.”
As she faded into the distance, the wind blew again, sounding suspiciously like a gentle laugh.
Like The Sun -- RyanDan
Whenever you’re close to me, you’re like the sun
You feel like the sun
And everyday you telling me
I am the one
I am the one who makes you shine
…
When I'm holding you
The world can stop it's turning
You’re always gonna pull me through
And I won't be returning
The switch from the rush and noise of the Dublin city to the quiet and peace of inside the cathedral, sometimes with quiet organ music in the background, was something she always found soothing. And with the economy and political upheavals going on in both her own lands and the rest of the world, peace and quiet were things she was strongly lacking.
There was a small group -- tourists, come to see the cathedral, she guessed -- clustered near one of the columns, and she smiled fondly at the on duty priest she passed on her way to where the prayer candles were set aside. Pushing her hair back out of the way of any flames, she reached out for one of the tapers and lit one of the unused candles. Bowing her head, she crossed herself and prayed silently, letting the time and tourists pass her by.
Eventually though she crossed herself again and deposited a couple of half Euro coins into the box set aside for donations, smiling again at the priest, as well as the tourists as she left.
Later that day, the metaphorical fur was flying in the Dail, Lenihan and some of the more reasonable members of the Fine Gael party in yet another argument of how to deal with the economic crisis. Ireland herself was squirreled away in a back corner, focused more on the kilt hose she was finally turning the heel on than any of the yelling; honestly, not as though it would be helping anyone. That’s what a knife or a particularly pointy double pointed knitting needle was for. The fact that they were making decisions for her without respect to her thoughts on the matter didn’t exactly make her a willing participant in any policy conversation these days.
Suddenly one of the younger TDs looked at her, raising an eyebrow at her knitting. “You’re not worried at all, my lady?” he asked, his accent quickly identifying him as a Limerick lad. She pursed her lips slightly, then shook her head as she kept an eye on her stitches. “Pardon me for asking, but how can you not?”
She waited until she got to the end of the round, slipping her marker and knitting the next stitch to keep it secure, then looked up at the TD with a smile. “’Cause I’m knowin’ ’twill all be workin’ out. There’s a lad I’m knowin’, and I’ve me faith in him, as I always have.”
The TD rolled his shoulders and straightened the cuffs of his dress shirt. “I don’t think your nephew will pull us out of this, my lady.”
“Mm, nay any of me nephews, a lad long since gone he is.” She took a deep breath, suddenly coughing on the exhale. “Jesus Christ and all the saints above, Lenihan! Someone be throwin’ him some mints, I can be smellin’ the garlic from here!”
The Cliffs of Moher -- Bruce Huron
Instrumental
She stood a few feet from the edge of the cliffs; the land might be hers, but she knew full well that the wind blew strong and that chances didn’t need to be taken. The Cliffs of Moher, they’d only made it there together once, when he was much younger.
She could remember it as clear as the view out on the water, all the way down the cliff faces to Galway Bay. He’d stood there, slack jawed and wide eyed, stunned into perfect silence for several very long moments. “’Tis beautiful,” he’d said at last, a touch of awe in his voice and in his smile, and she’d laughed brightly, endlessly amused.
“Oh aye, ’tis. And if ye’re lookin’ south now,” she took his arm and pointed down the way of the cliff, “’Tis Ceann Caillí, th’Hag’s Head, named for one o’me old goddesses, th’Cailleach.”
He didn’t even spare a look at her, completely enraptured by the mists rising upwards, slightly obscuring the view of the southernmost tip of the cliffs. “A queen, ye’re meaning, me Aine. Aye, ’tis absolutely breathtaking. Ye’ve a natural wonder here, me Aine. Almost a shame ’tis that Rome never touched yer shores, this should be on the list of things to be seeing.”
She made a thoughtful sounding noise, leaning her head against him. “Aye, he is missin’ somethin’ wonderful, but ’tis happier I am sharin’ this with th’one I’m in love with, keepin’ it to me people and family.”
Aye, she could still see that day, cuddled up against him, ignoring the chill seeping into her from the wind and the mist for his sake, letting him drink his fill of the view. And now, instead of drawing tears from her eyes, it drew smiles and laughter.
Evergreen -- Barbra Streisand
Time we've learned to sail above
Time won't change the meaning of one love
ageless and ever evergreen
“And then ya know what the bastard said?!”
“Mm, nay Sadiq, what did he say?”
“Nothin‘!” Sadiq pounded his fist on the table, shaking the glasses on it. “That Greek bastard just fell asleep! Right in the middle of our fight! Should have expected somethin’ out of that dikmek, but pullin’ that kind of shit?! Fuckin’ low, even for him!”
“Oh aye, ‘tis.” Ireland simply kept her eye on her knitting, trying not to lose count of her stitches and yarn overs. These were common enough, Greece doing something (Real or imagined), Turkey getting offended (usually overly so), and he gripping at her whenever he had the chance. She’d learned to tune most of it out, waiting for lulls so she could put in the appropriate comment at the appropriate time. It usually worked well.
“And he sheds almost as much as those damn cats of his! It’s a wonder we don’t all have allergies thanks to that! Hell, I bet most of it is his cats!”
“Supposin’ so.”
“It’s not like with Orangey. With him, ya know what he’s doin’, what ta expect out of him. Not with this olive bastard and his sneakin’ around.”
“Exactly so.”
Turkey’s eyes narrowed behind his mask, frowning slightly. “And then the narcoleptic said I could keep Kuzey Kıbrıs.”
“Oh my.”
An eyebrow started twitching. “Yer brother’s said he’ll give Conner back to ya.”
“A right tragedy, ‘tis.”
“İrlanda, run away with me, I’ll treat ya like a queen.”
“You’ve every right to be pissed.”
Well, that just proved it, didn’t it? So he stood and walked over to her side of the table, propping himself up on her head. “Alright Shorty, what’s so important to yer that yer pullin’ that old trick again?”
“I’m not short,” she shot back automatically, not moving under his weight, then blinked. “…Were you askin’ me to run away with you?”
“Yup, ya weren’t listenin’. So what’s the stringy thing today?”
“Altar runner for Downpatrick Cathedral, they’re needin’ a new one and I was offerin’. Found a clover lace pattern few weeks ago, was lookin’ for an excuse to be usin’ it, aye I was. Patrick, he always liked clovers.” She didn’t move, but glared up at him. “And if you’re not movin’ by the time I’m done with this row I’m gettin’ me knives out.”
He only laughed, leaning more weight on her. “Looks like shite, ya sure yer wanting to give something like that to one of yer husband’s biggest churches?”
“’Twas not me husband, Sadiq. And ‘tis only needin’ a good severe blockin’, ‘twill look perfect after that.”
“The way ya mourned for the guy, might as well have married him. Orangey said ya were actin’ like a damned widow.”
“Thinkin’ I missed when you were allowed to be judgin’ someone on their romantic lives. Five more stitches, you chancer.”
“Call it as I see it, and I see that even if it never happened, ya were married to that saint of yers.”
“Two more.”
“Stab me and ya won’t get to see Kuzey Kıbrıs next week.”
Ireland sighed, finished the row, and pushed Turkey off of her, turning to face him. “Aye, and by seein’ him you’re meanin’ baby sit the lad while you’re off fightin’ Greece, or whatever ‘tis you’re doin’ with him.”
“Hey, ya like kids!”
“Likin’ them better when their guardians aren’t droppin’ them on me without so much as a hello.”
“Whatever ya say, Dul Patrick.”
Someday, Ireland thought as she chased him around the room with a knife drawn, he’d learn that he shouldn’t toll her with certain things.
Though if those certain things ended in the same way this one did, she also mused before conscious thought was wiped away by the way he fisted his hand in her hair as he kissed her harshly, well, she couldn’t complain over much.
Remembering You -- Steven Curtis Chapman
From the first moment when I heard your name
Something in my heart came alive
You showed me love and no words could explain
A love with the power to
Open the door
To a world I was made for
And I watch as the cold winter melts into spring
And I'll be remembering you
Oh and I'll smell the flowers and hear the birds sing
and I'll be remembering you, I'll be remembering you
“Hey Auntie!” Her head perked up, quickly landing on her twin nephews coming her way -- Well, America all excited and smiles and running while dragging a less enthusiastic but still smiling Canada behind him -- and tucking the Pennsylvania themed socks into her knitting bag, pulling out just a generic pair. She smiled up at them, laughing slightly as America felt the need to catch his breath before speaking. “Hey Auntie!” he said again, still brightness and smiles.
“Hello me Ailill, Maitiú.” Canada grinned and wrenched his hand out of America’s, settling down next to her. “You’re all excited ’bout somethin’, aye you are.”
America looked like he was about to bounce right out of his clothing, while Canada simply rolled his eyes and started studying the cuff of the sock. “Sure am! My Saint Patrick’s Day celebration in Chicago is coming up in a few days!”
“Green river and green beer then?” she asked fondly, shaking her head. “Never know why you’ve got to be dyin’ everythin’ green, honestly.”
America tilted his head, smile still there but confusion in his eyes. “Green’s your color Auntie, it’s your holiday.”
“Her holiday is religious, Al,” Canada murmured, making America visibly deflate, then looked up at his aunt. “How are you doing the heel flap?”
“Thinkin’ eye of the partridge for this one,” she replied, then reached out and pulled America down to sit on her other side. “Oh come now me dear,” she said, pulling him to rest against her, “’tisn’t a bad thing, ’tisn’t. If your Irish are wantin’ to party, then by all rights they should be partyin’. Wishnin’ a wee bit we were usin’ blue instead of green, and I’m wishin’ I knew why you’d be dyin’ perfectly good beer green, but you, you’re young you are. As long as you’re rememberin’ the saint behind it, you can be doin’ as you like.”
“Will you come this year?” he asked, putting on his perfect puppy eye expression. “You never come you know, not to any of the celebrations of any of the… the… Dia…spora Nations. Just come to the one in Chicago, that’s all I want.” Canada glared at his brother, though of course it went unnoticed. “I know your new boss is coming over the week of, but that’s to DC and it’s the Chicago parade that’s the best.”
She sighed and ran her fingers through his hair, frowning in thought. “You never do leave unless it’s a state thing, Auntie,” Canada murmured. “I know you don’t really like to, but… well, Newfoundland made it a provincial holiday and… I’d really like to see you come by too.”
She sighed again, smiling softly. “Well, if both me darlin’ lads are askin’, how can I be turnin’ them both down?” She set the sock down in her lap and put her arms around the North American twins and squeezed them tight, pressing a kiss first to Canada’s temple, then to America’s. “You know, Patrick would be so proud of you two, celebratin’ him like this.”
America smiled, a small one, but no less happy than his others. “I think that’s the best praise you could give any of us, Auntie.”
Footnotes, the short version:
In Fields Where We Lay:
Maewyn - Patrick's childhood name
Niall - Of the Nine Hostages, the fellow who kidnapped Patrick to start with.
Brighid Éireann Aine Ó Domhnaill - Irish version of Brigid Erin Aine O'Donnell, Ireland's human name.
Iwenia - Early Celtic name of the island, Hibernia the Roman, spelled very much like Iberia, (the peninsula that contains Portugal and Spain).
Out of My League:
Cambria - Roman name of Wales
Everything:
Cu Chulainn and Emer
Come On Get Higher:
Beltain - Old Irish for Beltaine, a fertility holiday in May
Mo Aine, mo bandia comparáid idir álainn an ghrá, mo chroí - My Aine, my beautiful pagan goddess of love, my heart, Irish
Mo Pádraig, mo solas, mo fhear uasal - My Patrick, my light, my noble man
Runaway:
Celtic cross, claimed to be invented by Patrick
Iron - Headcanon is the older four Isles Siblings are half-fae from different dads, thus the iron issue
Who Wants to Live Forever?:
Raith Celtair - Early name for Downpatrick
Ard Mhacha - Early name of Armgah, seat of early Celtic Christian church
Into the West:
Brigid of Kildare - One of three patron saints of Ireland, follower of Patrick, may have been converted by him, named after/might be the goddess Brigid.
Finian - Founder of church in Meath, teacher of the Twelve Apostles of Ireland
Forever Yours:
Mhí - Early name of Meath
Dún Lethglaise - Another early name of Downpatrick
Lusitania - Roman name of Portugal
Leannán sí
The Crow & Th Butterfly:
chwaer - sister, Welsh
Caledonia - Classical name of Scotland
Albion - Classical name of England
Dwei - Saint David of Wales, Patron Saint of Wales
Deartháir mór - Big brother, Irish
ie - yes, Welsh
Ghost Love Score:
Alba - Scotish Gaelic for Scotland
Moray Firth
Gallia - Early name for France
Cyrmu - Welsh name for Wales
Scotland's human - Mary, Queen of Scots
Niseag: Nessi, said to be first spotted by Saint Colmba one of three patron saints of Ireland, a patron saint of Scotland, and one of the Twelve Apostles of Ireland
Remember Me:
Conchobhar - Irish form of Connor, Northern Ireland
Deirfiúr mhór - Big sister, Irish
Naomh - Saint, Irish. Patrick was made a saint in the 1600s, before standard canonization was started.
The story - How it probably really went if the story is true.
Blame It On The Weatherman:
Patrick's goat"
Mo Ghile Mear:
Inglaterra, Irlanda, irmã - England, Ireland, and sister, Portuguese
Are You a Ghost?:
"Poor auld Erin's Isle" - Rocky Road to Dublin, I like the version by the High Kings best.
Downpatrick, Patrick's burial place, alongside Saints Brigid of Kildare and Columba.
Like the Sun:
Saint Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin - Has visitors, is Church of Ireland (Think Whiskey or Death instead of Cake or Death)
Dáil - Lower house of Irish legislature
Fine Gael - leading party since 25 February
Lenihan - Minister of Finance, said to be worst finance minister in Europe two years running, chews raw garlic for health, has pancreatic cancer.
Kilt hose
Cliffs of Moher:
Cliffs of Moher
The Cailleach
Seven Wonders of the World - Greek (and probably Roman) tour book
Evergreen:
dikmek, Kuzey Kıbrıs, İrlanda, dul - Prick, North Cyprus (The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus), Ireland, and widow, Turkish
Orangey - Portugal
Turkish-Irish relations "are flourishing in every respect."
Remembering You:
Ailill, Maitiú - Elf, Matthew, Irish, Ireland's nicknames for them
Irish Diaspora