All Me Joy
Title: All Me Joy
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PG
Summary: Ireland and Canada first meet and they are adorable.
Timeframe: Late 1500s.
Word Count: 2153, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: Bad accents all 'round, abuse of French, OCs by the basketload. And god I am so sorry for getting this up so late, my power cord melted (AGAIN) on June 30 and I wasn't able to get a new one (despite one day shipping!) until July 5. I... have no excuse for not having it finished and up July 6.
Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you well and long,
Delighting in your company.
It was the sound of skittering feet that caught her attention, almost before the tingle down her spine. She stopped mid-stride, looking around for whoever it was. It took another scuffling noise before she found the source: a tiny form hiding behind an archway. Ireland smiled and knelt down, frowning a little when the child hid further from her. “Ah, beag amhaín, ye’re nay needin’ t’be ‘fraid o’me.”
The figure moved again, but not away from her. More like hesitant steps forward, and that made Ireland smile again, settling into her place. “Aye, ‘tis more like it, ‘tis. Now, who might you be, aye?”
There was a snuffling sound, not unlike a child clearing a stuffy nose before a tiny voice said “Nouvelle-France.”
New France? “Well, me beag amhaín, ‘tis Ireland I am, and ‘tis a pleasure t’be meetin’ ye.” Ireland held her hand out with a smile. “Guessin’ ye’re one o’France’s colonies?”
He nodded, making that snuffling noise again, still mostly hidden. “Papa Écosse’s soeur?”
Ireland frowned; the child obviously understood English, why was he only speaking French? But then again… the child also could tell the difference between herself and her twin, something very few Nations seemed capable of. “Aye, he’s me twin brother he is.” She smiled broadly, still holding out her hand. “Supposin’ ‘tis makin’ me yer aunt, aye?” The way Scotland and France were, and the fact that New France called him Papa, certainly indicated it, at least.
There was a pause, a very long pause, before the little boy finally came out from behind the arch, shockingly purple eyes looking warily up at her. “Ma Tante Irlande?” He cocked his head to the side, long loop of blond hair landing in his eyes.
Ireland chuckled as New France pushed his hair out of his face. “Auntie will be doin’ jus’ fine, beag amhaín. Or aintín, ‘tis me Gaelic.”
He stared at her before smiling and taking her hand, and Ireland knew instantly that there was little in her world more important than seeing that wee lad smile again. “Tatie!”
She chuckled and pulled him into her arms, hugging him tightly. “Aye, close ‘nough.”
I have been ready at your hand,
To grant whatever you would crave,
I have both wagered life and land,
Your love and good-will for to have.
France came down the gangplank, holding New France close to his chest and playing the part of perfect father perfectly. New France was giggling and tucked quite happily into his French papa’s arms, when he glanced over and broke into a wide smile, pointing. “Papa! Papa, Papa Écosse!”
France looked up from where he was smiling down at his colony and broke into a wider grin when he caught sight of the Scotsman. “Oui,” he said, shifting New France in his arms so he could hug his lover tightly. “Bonjour, Écosse,” he said brightly, kissing both his cheeks before pressing a lingering one to his lips. New France simply looked bored, deciding that the intricate stitch work of France’s clothing was far more interesting.
“And hallo t’ye too, Francis.” France sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind Scotland’s ear.
“Must we speak Anglais, Écosse? Bad enough that New France understands it, there’s no need to be encouraging him to speak such an unrefined language.”
“Ar mhaith leat áit liom labhairt na Gaeilge?”
France just stared at Scotland, New France’s head perking up at his other papa’s words. “I’ve no idea what you just said.”
Scotland grinned mischievously and tilted France’s face up towards him. “Ye weren’t carin’ ’bout that last time,” he whispered.
New France sighed, having already learned that any time Scotland was nearby his father would promptly forget about him. So he started squirming around until France absently set him down. So freed, he ran towards the other redhead standing on the docks. “Tatie!”
“Beag amhaín!”
New France suddenly stopped, staring up at Ireland and the unknown Nation she held in her arms. “Tatie?” he asked quietly, voice hesitant and sad.
She knelt down, smile that New France had come to know and think was only for him on her face. “New France, ‘tis yer uncle, Conchobhar. Conchobhar, ‘tis yer nephew, New France.” The baby, not much older than him, stared at him with large green eyes nearly identical to his aunt’s. Ireland made a tsking noise and gathered New France in her arms as well. “Ye weren’t thinkin’ I was after forgettin’ ye, aye?” she asked, nuzzling his hair.
New France giggled brightly and snuggled into Ireland’s chest while Conchobhar continued staring at him, eyes narrow. “Je t’aime, Tatie!”
Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,
but still thou hadst it readily.
Thy music still to play and sing;
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
Sometimes she felt like how a mother duck must, with her littlest brother and nephew trailing behind her, or at least until Conchobhar insisted on being carried. Then she would carry them both so as not to favor one over the other.
She did favor New France, if she was to be honest with herself. Someone had to, France practically forgot the child existed any time Scotland was near and it seemed like she was the only one who even saw him sometimes. So of course she doted on him when he was around, it was likely the only attention the lad got. Conchobhar got plenty the rest of the time, he could deal with sharing for a few weeks.
It was also one of her favorite things, setting the two of them down to do something and feeling them both instantly clench their little hands into her skirts, refusing to let go, moving when she did, both waiting for her to pick them back up. She would look down, finding bright eyes, deep green and still shocking purple, staring back up at her, excited little smiles on baby faces.
Suddenly though she felt a pair of hands leave her skirt and turned around just in time to see New France fall to the floor, trying valiantly not to cry. Conchobhar looked smug and tightened his hands in her skirt, not caring in the slightest. “Aye and what’s happenin’ here?” she asked, kneeling down and brushing hair out of New France’s face, frowning deeply at the red spot on his cheek.
“Oncle m’a frappé,” he whimpered, reaching out for Ireland’s sleeve, sniffling once he had hold of it.
“He was doin’ what?” Ireland asked sharply, glaring at Conchobhar who tried his best to look perfectly innocent. “Be answerin’ me question, Conchobhar Finn Ó Domhnaill,” she bit out, collecting New France into her arms. “Did ye hit yer nephew?”
That was when he looked away, shuffling his feet. “Nay…” he said slowly, still not looking at his sister. “’Twas a leith bhrogan.”
She frowned deeper, tucking the other boy into her chest. “Lyin’s gettin’ ye in more trouble, Conchobhar. Ye’re nay supposed t’be hittin’ yer nephew what’s ne’er done a thing t’ye!” She rose, still keeping New France in her arms and rubbing his back gently. “Be ‘pologizin’ t’him!”
Conchobhar pouted and looked up at them out he corner of his eye, New France doing the same to him, tears ringing the edges. “Sorry,” the older boy said mulishly, looking back down at the floor.
The other boy sniffled and awkwardly wiped his eyes. “Merci,” he said quietly, almost too quiet to be heard. Brigid pressed a kiss to his head, resting her check on it for a moment before looking back to Conchobhar.
“I’ll be thinkin’ up a proper punishment, aye I will.”
That night passed without punishment served, Conchobhar sleeping on his usual place on his sister’s chest and New France curled up on her stomach.
“Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,
T’God I pray t’prosper thee,
For I am still thy auntie true,
Come once ‘gain and love me.”
Ireland twirled around as she walked down the docks, New France tucked tightly into her arms, he giggling brightly and her singing softly to him.
It was time for both France and her dear lad to go, and deep in her heart Ireland didn’t want them to. Well, truth be told France could go straight back to the Continent and she would have no complaints, but not this dear lad. No, New France was to stay right here, with her and Scotland.
But… well, she was still just the Lordship of Ireland, England was still breathing down her neck for her lands, and France himself was still an Empire, even if Scotland did have something resembling pull with him. That didn’t mean she couldn’t take her time getting down to the ship though, and God knew that France wouldn’t notice her absence, caught up in wishing her twin farewell.
“Ye’ll be behavin’, aye? D’what yer papa’s tellin’ ye?” New France nodded, grin starting to fall. “Nay sad faces now,” she murmured, tilting his chin up to look her in the eyes. “Ye’ll be seein’ me ‘gain, aye ye will. Ye and Conchobhar, ye’re me wee lads, and I’ll always be lovin’ ye, aye?” New France sniffled and nodded, broad but watery smile. “Aye, ‘tis me beag amhaín.”
They’d reached the end of the dock, thankfully having missed something if the bright red marks on France and Scotland’s necks were any indication. “Papa!”
France smiled widely, all but snatching New France out of Ireland’s hands to fawn over him, back in perfect father mode. Ireland stepped back, watching the both of them fuss over the wee lad, Scotland murmuring softly to him in that variant of their language he had, ignoring France’s eye roll and exasperated sigh.
Finally though, they had to set sail or risk the storm on the horizon. “Aideu, Écosse, Irlande!” he called over his shoulder as he walked up the gangplank. He murmured something in New France’s ear, causing the lad to pop up.
“Good bye Papa Alba, Aintín!”
France’s look of shock at the mix of English and Gaelic sent Scotland into loud peals of laughter and brought a light ring of tears to Ireland’s eyes as she felt her heart swell to bursting. “Good bye me beag amhaín!” she called back, the slightest of catches in her throat on the last word.
“By Jeanne!” France only half-jokingly wailed, “He’s speaking as the barbarians!”
“Ye knew he would onea these days, ya bampot!” Scotland called back, the four of them waving as the ship left the dock. They stood there until it faded from sight, the smiles on both twins’ faces fading as it did.
Suddenly Scotland tugged on a lock of Ireland’s hair, forcing her to look up at him, green eyes meeting. “Missin’ th’lad already, aye?” he asked quietly, settling into their Gaelic easily.
Ireland nodded, glancing back out to sea, wishing that she could take her pirate ship out of its mooring in one of her many coves and chase after them that instant. “Aye, I am. Ye’ve a sweet lad with Francis, Dubhghlas. Need t’be treasurin’ it.”
Scotland chuckled, tugging on her hair again. “When ye’ve not scurried ‘way with him, aye, I do.”
She laughed as well, standing on her toes to reach up and tug on Scotland’s hair in return, a habit shared solely between them. “’Tis pleasin’ me. Treasure him fore’er, me brother.” The rest of the sentence, Ye might nay always be havin’ him hung in the air, unsaid but loud enough to be heard, both twins thinking of their mother, long since passed.
“He’ll be back,” Scotland finally said gruffly, wrapping his arm around his sister’s shoulders and half dragging her back towards the other end of the dock. “Nay sad faces.”
From either of us? Ireland thought, smiling sadly up at the tight lines around Scotland’s mouth. “Aye, nay sad faces.”
Footnotes:
I hope the French is clear from context. But just in case, some of the more obscure words:
Écosse, soeur, ma tante, tatie, Anglais: Scotland, sister, aunt, auntie, and English.
Oncle m’a frappé: Uncle hit me, also in French.
beag amhain, Dubhghlas, leith bhrogan: Little one, Douglas, and leprechaun, all Irish.
Ar mhaith leat áit liom labhairt na Gaeilge?: Would you prefer I speak Gaelic?, also Irish because Scots is stupid hard to find.
Bampot: Scottish slang for idiot.
Ireland and Scotland have had just as much an impact on Canada and Canadian culture as France and England have, to the point that there exists Canadian Gaelic, a branch of Gaelic more closely related to Scottish Gaelic than Irish. In fact, CG was banned from being spoken in some places during World War 2 due to perceived Irish leanings towards Germany (When in fact Ireland was just simply neutral). France, being France of course, would greatly lament this development.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PG
Summary: Ireland and Canada first meet and they are adorable.
Timeframe: Late 1500s.
Word Count: 2153, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: Bad accents all 'round, abuse of French, OCs by the basketload. And god I am so sorry for getting this up so late, my power cord melted (AGAIN) on June 30 and I wasn't able to get a new one (despite one day shipping!) until July 5. I... have no excuse for not having it finished and up July 6.
Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you well and long,
Delighting in your company.
It was the sound of skittering feet that caught her attention, almost before the tingle down her spine. She stopped mid-stride, looking around for whoever it was. It took another scuffling noise before she found the source: a tiny form hiding behind an archway. Ireland smiled and knelt down, frowning a little when the child hid further from her. “Ah, beag amhaín, ye’re nay needin’ t’be ‘fraid o’me.”
The figure moved again, but not away from her. More like hesitant steps forward, and that made Ireland smile again, settling into her place. “Aye, ‘tis more like it, ‘tis. Now, who might you be, aye?”
There was a snuffling sound, not unlike a child clearing a stuffy nose before a tiny voice said “Nouvelle-France.”
New France? “Well, me beag amhaín, ‘tis Ireland I am, and ‘tis a pleasure t’be meetin’ ye.” Ireland held her hand out with a smile. “Guessin’ ye’re one o’France’s colonies?”
He nodded, making that snuffling noise again, still mostly hidden. “Papa Écosse’s soeur?”
Ireland frowned; the child obviously understood English, why was he only speaking French? But then again… the child also could tell the difference between herself and her twin, something very few Nations seemed capable of. “Aye, he’s me twin brother he is.” She smiled broadly, still holding out her hand. “Supposin’ ‘tis makin’ me yer aunt, aye?” The way Scotland and France were, and the fact that New France called him Papa, certainly indicated it, at least.
There was a pause, a very long pause, before the little boy finally came out from behind the arch, shockingly purple eyes looking warily up at her. “Ma Tante Irlande?” He cocked his head to the side, long loop of blond hair landing in his eyes.
Ireland chuckled as New France pushed his hair out of his face. “Auntie will be doin’ jus’ fine, beag amhaín. Or aintín, ‘tis me Gaelic.”
He stared at her before smiling and taking her hand, and Ireland knew instantly that there was little in her world more important than seeing that wee lad smile again. “Tatie!”
She chuckled and pulled him into her arms, hugging him tightly. “Aye, close ‘nough.”
I have been ready at your hand,
To grant whatever you would crave,
I have both wagered life and land,
Your love and good-will for to have.
France came down the gangplank, holding New France close to his chest and playing the part of perfect father perfectly. New France was giggling and tucked quite happily into his French papa’s arms, when he glanced over and broke into a wide smile, pointing. “Papa! Papa, Papa Écosse!”
France looked up from where he was smiling down at his colony and broke into a wider grin when he caught sight of the Scotsman. “Oui,” he said, shifting New France in his arms so he could hug his lover tightly. “Bonjour, Écosse,” he said brightly, kissing both his cheeks before pressing a lingering one to his lips. New France simply looked bored, deciding that the intricate stitch work of France’s clothing was far more interesting.
“And hallo t’ye too, Francis.” France sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind Scotland’s ear.
“Must we speak Anglais, Écosse? Bad enough that New France understands it, there’s no need to be encouraging him to speak such an unrefined language.”
“Ar mhaith leat áit liom labhairt na Gaeilge?”
France just stared at Scotland, New France’s head perking up at his other papa’s words. “I’ve no idea what you just said.”
Scotland grinned mischievously and tilted France’s face up towards him. “Ye weren’t carin’ ’bout that last time,” he whispered.
New France sighed, having already learned that any time Scotland was nearby his father would promptly forget about him. So he started squirming around until France absently set him down. So freed, he ran towards the other redhead standing on the docks. “Tatie!”
“Beag amhaín!”
New France suddenly stopped, staring up at Ireland and the unknown Nation she held in her arms. “Tatie?” he asked quietly, voice hesitant and sad.
She knelt down, smile that New France had come to know and think was only for him on her face. “New France, ‘tis yer uncle, Conchobhar. Conchobhar, ‘tis yer nephew, New France.” The baby, not much older than him, stared at him with large green eyes nearly identical to his aunt’s. Ireland made a tsking noise and gathered New France in her arms as well. “Ye weren’t thinkin’ I was after forgettin’ ye, aye?” she asked, nuzzling his hair.
New France giggled brightly and snuggled into Ireland’s chest while Conchobhar continued staring at him, eyes narrow. “Je t’aime, Tatie!”
Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,
but still thou hadst it readily.
Thy music still to play and sing;
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
Sometimes she felt like how a mother duck must, with her littlest brother and nephew trailing behind her, or at least until Conchobhar insisted on being carried. Then she would carry them both so as not to favor one over the other.
She did favor New France, if she was to be honest with herself. Someone had to, France practically forgot the child existed any time Scotland was near and it seemed like she was the only one who even saw him sometimes. So of course she doted on him when he was around, it was likely the only attention the lad got. Conchobhar got plenty the rest of the time, he could deal with sharing for a few weeks.
It was also one of her favorite things, setting the two of them down to do something and feeling them both instantly clench their little hands into her skirts, refusing to let go, moving when she did, both waiting for her to pick them back up. She would look down, finding bright eyes, deep green and still shocking purple, staring back up at her, excited little smiles on baby faces.
Suddenly though she felt a pair of hands leave her skirt and turned around just in time to see New France fall to the floor, trying valiantly not to cry. Conchobhar looked smug and tightened his hands in her skirt, not caring in the slightest. “Aye and what’s happenin’ here?” she asked, kneeling down and brushing hair out of New France’s face, frowning deeply at the red spot on his cheek.
“Oncle m’a frappé,” he whimpered, reaching out for Ireland’s sleeve, sniffling once he had hold of it.
“He was doin’ what?” Ireland asked sharply, glaring at Conchobhar who tried his best to look perfectly innocent. “Be answerin’ me question, Conchobhar Finn Ó Domhnaill,” she bit out, collecting New France into her arms. “Did ye hit yer nephew?”
That was when he looked away, shuffling his feet. “Nay…” he said slowly, still not looking at his sister. “’Twas a leith bhrogan.”
She frowned deeper, tucking the other boy into her chest. “Lyin’s gettin’ ye in more trouble, Conchobhar. Ye’re nay supposed t’be hittin’ yer nephew what’s ne’er done a thing t’ye!” She rose, still keeping New France in her arms and rubbing his back gently. “Be ‘pologizin’ t’him!”
Conchobhar pouted and looked up at them out he corner of his eye, New France doing the same to him, tears ringing the edges. “Sorry,” the older boy said mulishly, looking back down at the floor.
The other boy sniffled and awkwardly wiped his eyes. “Merci,” he said quietly, almost too quiet to be heard. Brigid pressed a kiss to his head, resting her check on it for a moment before looking back to Conchobhar.
“I’ll be thinkin’ up a proper punishment, aye I will.”
That night passed without punishment served, Conchobhar sleeping on his usual place on his sister’s chest and New France curled up on her stomach.
“Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,
T’God I pray t’prosper thee,
For I am still thy auntie true,
Come once ‘gain and love me.”
Ireland twirled around as she walked down the docks, New France tucked tightly into her arms, he giggling brightly and her singing softly to him.
It was time for both France and her dear lad to go, and deep in her heart Ireland didn’t want them to. Well, truth be told France could go straight back to the Continent and she would have no complaints, but not this dear lad. No, New France was to stay right here, with her and Scotland.
But… well, she was still just the Lordship of Ireland, England was still breathing down her neck for her lands, and France himself was still an Empire, even if Scotland did have something resembling pull with him. That didn’t mean she couldn’t take her time getting down to the ship though, and God knew that France wouldn’t notice her absence, caught up in wishing her twin farewell.
“Ye’ll be behavin’, aye? D’what yer papa’s tellin’ ye?” New France nodded, grin starting to fall. “Nay sad faces now,” she murmured, tilting his chin up to look her in the eyes. “Ye’ll be seein’ me ‘gain, aye ye will. Ye and Conchobhar, ye’re me wee lads, and I’ll always be lovin’ ye, aye?” New France sniffled and nodded, broad but watery smile. “Aye, ‘tis me beag amhaín.”
They’d reached the end of the dock, thankfully having missed something if the bright red marks on France and Scotland’s necks were any indication. “Papa!”
France smiled widely, all but snatching New France out of Ireland’s hands to fawn over him, back in perfect father mode. Ireland stepped back, watching the both of them fuss over the wee lad, Scotland murmuring softly to him in that variant of their language he had, ignoring France’s eye roll and exasperated sigh.
Finally though, they had to set sail or risk the storm on the horizon. “Aideu, Écosse, Irlande!” he called over his shoulder as he walked up the gangplank. He murmured something in New France’s ear, causing the lad to pop up.
“Good bye Papa Alba, Aintín!”
France’s look of shock at the mix of English and Gaelic sent Scotland into loud peals of laughter and brought a light ring of tears to Ireland’s eyes as she felt her heart swell to bursting. “Good bye me beag amhaín!” she called back, the slightest of catches in her throat on the last word.
“By Jeanne!” France only half-jokingly wailed, “He’s speaking as the barbarians!”
“Ye knew he would onea these days, ya bampot!” Scotland called back, the four of them waving as the ship left the dock. They stood there until it faded from sight, the smiles on both twins’ faces fading as it did.
Suddenly Scotland tugged on a lock of Ireland’s hair, forcing her to look up at him, green eyes meeting. “Missin’ th’lad already, aye?” he asked quietly, settling into their Gaelic easily.
Ireland nodded, glancing back out to sea, wishing that she could take her pirate ship out of its mooring in one of her many coves and chase after them that instant. “Aye, I am. Ye’ve a sweet lad with Francis, Dubhghlas. Need t’be treasurin’ it.”
Scotland chuckled, tugging on her hair again. “When ye’ve not scurried ‘way with him, aye, I do.”
She laughed as well, standing on her toes to reach up and tug on Scotland’s hair in return, a habit shared solely between them. “’Tis pleasin’ me. Treasure him fore’er, me brother.” The rest of the sentence, Ye might nay always be havin’ him hung in the air, unsaid but loud enough to be heard, both twins thinking of their mother, long since passed.
“He’ll be back,” Scotland finally said gruffly, wrapping his arm around his sister’s shoulders and half dragging her back towards the other end of the dock. “Nay sad faces.”
From either of us? Ireland thought, smiling sadly up at the tight lines around Scotland’s mouth. “Aye, nay sad faces.”
Footnotes:
I hope the French is clear from context. But just in case, some of the more obscure words:
Écosse, soeur, ma tante, tatie, Anglais: Scotland, sister, aunt, auntie, and English.
Oncle m’a frappé: Uncle hit me, also in French.
beag amhain, Dubhghlas, leith bhrogan: Little one, Douglas, and leprechaun, all Irish.
Ar mhaith leat áit liom labhairt na Gaeilge?: Would you prefer I speak Gaelic?, also Irish because Scots is stupid hard to find.
Bampot: Scottish slang for idiot.
Ireland and Scotland have had just as much an impact on Canada and Canadian culture as France and England have, to the point that there exists Canadian Gaelic, a branch of Gaelic more closely related to Scottish Gaelic than Irish. In fact, CG was banned from being spoken in some places during World War 2 due to perceived Irish leanings towards Germany (When in fact Ireland was just simply neutral). France, being France of course, would greatly lament this development.