Faith's Conflict

[starsandauras]

Title: Faith's Conflict
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia/Torchwood
Rating: PG
Summary: The Vatican has heard about Ireland's pregnancy and has ordered her to come to Saint Peter's Basilica. This goes about as well as expected. Kid!canon
Timeframe: Fourth week in June, 2011
Word Count: 7654, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: OCs, bad accents, probable blasphemy, my limited understanding of Catholicism, a little futzing around with the geography of Vatican City.


She’d known this confrontation was coming. Once word got out -- and goodness but it’d gotten out like a horse out of a barn fire -- that she was pregnant she knew that there was a certain Nation that would have quite a few words to say on the matter. Especially when certain details started filtering down the pipeline.

That was not to say of course that when he snapped his fingers she ran to his heels like a dog would for her master. She danced to no one’s tune, jumped at no one’s call. Well, not anyone’s call that she didn’t choose to at least. And certainly not his. No, she might have gotten his summons -- he never requested, no, he was far too self-important and self absorbed to request anything -- over a month ago back in late April, but she held out, deciding to go on her schedule, at her whim. Still though, she hadn’t been able to put it off too long. And that’s why it was late June before she honored him with her presence. Well, the fires in Donegal and up into Northern Ireland had had something to do with it, but it did make a handy excuse at the start.

So there she stood among a great mass of people just before the effective entrance to Saint Peter’s Square, looking at Saint Peter’s Basilica. Of course Vatican would want words with her, he’d been harping on her nearly as long as he’d existed. Never liked how she didn’t answer to him, not in a way he was used to. Never liked that she dared to practice a more Celtic branch of the faith. And of course she had to admit, she enjoyed needling him now. Even so… she hadn’t wanted to deal with him over this, wasn’t something she wanted to have to deal with period. But she was Ireland and she never backed down from a challenge, real or imagined. She walked forward, steps sure and purposeful, into the square, casting a sour glance at the Obelisk. Phallic symbolism at it’s finest, and of course the original builder had been Rome. Why the Pope at the time had seen fit to keep it she would never know. It was pretentious and so… Roman. Not to mention the field day Austria would likely have over it if provoked. She walked past it, glad to have Rome’s declaration of his… abilities… at her back. If she took a deep breath before walking in the door of the Basilica, well, it wasn’t because she was nervous. Only because the walk had been swift and she needed to catch her breath.

She smiled and nodded at the clergy she walked past, even as she cast her eyes about the marble and gilding, the slightest frown touching the corners of her mouth. It was cold, unfeeling to her eyes, not what one of the most important locations of all Christianity should feel like. It was why she disliked coming here, the chill, the feeling of a distant and uncaring God. It was also one of the key things she and Vatican were at odds with each other over, to put it mildly. She liked to imagine God as a caring father figure, someone who would listen, and if the answer was no, well, it was said with warmth. When she’d been younger and new to Christianity, sometimes she’d pictured God to be like Wales, and it brought a real smile to her face to remember that. She stopped suddenly, glancing off to her right. The Chapel of the Pietà stood there, the sculpture clearly visible through the entrance. Well, she decided, Vatican could wait just a little longer, as she walked inside.

She crossed herself, as it seemed proper to do in front of Jesus and the Holy Madonna, before coming closer and pressing a kiss to the palm of her hand, laying it lightly upon the sculpted foot of Christ. She pressed another to her hand, this time laying her hand gently upon the restored hand of the Virgin. She stood there a moment, a small prayer for her help and guidance running through her head -- who better to ask for advice on being a mother after all? -- before crossing herself again and backing away, only turning when she was a few feet from the door.

It wasn’t that she was really dreading this conversation, she wasn’t. It was just a bother she didn’t really want to deal with, didn’t exactly have the time for, so she dragged her feet, continuing to put it off as long as she could. It was a bonus really that it showed her lack of respect for the man and his time. She wasn’t his to call as he pleased, after all.

Still… she had to reach him eventually, and there, standing outside the entrance to the Chapel of the Presentation of the Virgin, he stood. It was said that he was a tall man in his youth, but he’d aged swifter than any of the others -- from his vinegar and piss attitude, as America would say in one of his more Southern moods -- and he now stood barely four feet, bowed over his walking stick, and suddenly she was struck by the vague image of one of those movie characters America was so fond of. Small, green… was his name Yoda? She thought it was. And adding onto that nickname some had given the current Pope, one that she wished she understood, she had to smile, and smiled more, adding an evil twist to it when he frowned deeply. Probably thought she was being disrespectful. Well, he wasn’t completely far off the mark.

“Hibernia,” he said, voice deep and raspy with age and ripe with condescension. Ireland would wager that she could hear a few centuries in his voice, and they did not wear well.

“Cathair na Vatacáine,” she replied, smile still fixed on her face. He hmphed and gestured with his staff for her to follow him into the chapel. “Aye, seein’ you’re still well ‘quainted with the phrase ‘subtlety’,” she said cheery as ever.

“Vis bene discere parte Hiberniae. Tu autem in loco sancto…”

Of course, Vatican only had a few languages he deemed worthy of being spoken in, and he always defaulted to Latin when speaking to her, knowing how shoddy her Latin had always been -- and how shoddy it was said her saint’s Latin was -- and that it gave him a sense of superiority over her. It was like looking at a child sometimes, and given that she was his elder in chronological years, it was actually quite fitting a metaphor. “Ah, Cathair na Vatacáine,” she started, knowing how much *he* hated it when she used her Gaelic. “Me Latin, ‘tis still quite spotty in places, could you be lowerin’ yourself to be speakin’ English instead?”

“Hmph,” he muttered as they paused in front of the altar and the great painting that stood behind it. Was it an oil painting? Ireland thought it had to be, there weren’t all that many options once upon a time. “Thou wouldst do well to learn respect, Hibernia. Thou art in a holy place, thou shouldst not laugh in such a place.” His old and yet still clear eyes -- and Ireland had to wonder yet again how he wasn’t half-blind and half-deaf yet -- raked scornfully up and down the length of her body. “Thou art making a spectacle of thy self.”

She blinked at him, the picture of perfect innocence, before gazing down at herself. She was fully covered save for her hands and face, not an inch of flesh showing where it shouldn’t. No exposed shoulders or knees, as they were forbidden in Vatican City. She was even wearing her Celtic Cross out in the open, something she rarely did outside of Saint Patrick’s Day. True her dress was a little tight and displayed the swell of her belly quite well, but it was hardly indecent. “I’m apologizin’, Cathair na Vatacáine,” she said, though it was clear she was anything but apologetic. “’Tis been quite the busy twenty six weeks, ‘twas the most appropriate thing I was havin’ on hand ‘twas still fittin’.”

He hmphed at her again, giving her one more scornful look before looking away. “Thou art lying, I expect thou to make Confession before thou leaveth.” She nodded her agreement, and it would be a minor thing, hardly worth worrying about. And of course he would use this English on her. Always when he spoke English he refused to use the more modern variant, instead sticking to what was preserved in the Bible. “It has been said,” he continued, leaning on his stick, “and I see it with mine own eyes, that thou art with child.”

Well congratulations to you, would you like your promotion to General Obvious now or would you prefer to stay Captain? was the response her more sarcastic side leapt to, but she bit her tongue. “Aye, ‘tis twins.”

“And thou refuseth to wed the father.” The way it was said wasn’t a question.

Ireland smiled and answered anyway. “Nay, I’ve nay plans to, and he’s agreein’ with me. ‘Tis neither of us suited to it, and I’ve nay interest in repeatin’ the experience.” She grinned at him, enjoying the way his brow furrowed at how she’d managed to eventually get out of her unwilling marriage to England nearly forty years ago.

“And thou art proud then, to bear a pair of bastard children conceived out of holy wedlock. Conceived by unholy fornication.”

“Aye, in adultery,” she agreed easily, still smiling.

“That is a sin, Hibernia,” Vatican said sharply, turning his head to glare at her. “Thou shouldst be shamed.”

“Nay shame in love, Cathair na Vatacáine. You’ll be learnin’ that someday, or your followers will be forcin’ you to.” Her voice was quiet, but the clear threat in her eyes was the only thing needed to keep it defiant. “And I’ll nay be findin’ shame in a gift, be it unexpectedly given or nay.”

“It is sin,” he retorted, continuing to glare. “God hast told us the physical act of knowing someone is only permissible in the confines of holy wedlock. Those who profess against have strayed from the Path and must be corrected.” He pointed at her, long and gnarled finger, kinked by arthritis and age but steady. “Thou art a harlot,” he declared, fixing his glare on her belly. “Thou art a harlot, dishonoring the holy body God has blessed thou with by lying with any man that thy flesh gives thou weakness to. Thou art mistaking His punishment for thy shameful, whoring ways as a gift.”

“Well then do be forgivin’ me, as I was thinkin’ ‘twas impossible for me to be havin’ children and for not wantin’ to be one of your nuns, quiet and docile at your hand,” she spat, barely resisting the urge to either slap his hand away or stab it. “And do be forgivin’ me for thinkin’ ‘twas a kind of miracle that I was havin’ them after so many thousands of years.” She fixed him with her own glare. “I have been ‘knowin’’ people for longer than you’ve existed, Cathair na Vatacáine.”

“Thou art a sinner,” he insisted, voice taking on a growl. “And thou art proud of it. Pride is a sin. Lust is a sin. Thine anger is a sin. Thy children are not miracles, thou art not worthy of one.” His finger pointed towards the painting. “She was worthy, she was not a sinner as thou art.”

Ireland looked at the painting a long moment. The Virgin Mary as a young girl, not much younger than one of Ireland’s nieces, going to the temple to be consecrated to God. Some gospels said she was left there to be prepared for her role as the Mother of Christ. Smiling, she shook her head and looked back to Vatican. “Aye, but there are none of us born as she was, immaculately conceived. To be attemptin’ to live up to her is an exercise in defeat, in failure. Never considered meself worth a miracle, to be addin’ to that, just thankful one’s come me way.”

“They are punishment,” he grumbled, lowering his hand. “And yet, they art innocent of thy sins.” He hobbled along, leaning on his staff. Ireland just watched him, seeing no need to move from her place next to the altar. “Thou will raise them within the Church.”

It wasn’t a question this time either, but of course that didn’t stop Ireland. “’Tis remainin’ to be seein’.”

He stopped, looking over his shoulder with a new glare. “Explain thyself.”

She sighed, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose to stop the oncoming headache. “We’ve not discussed it, the father and I.” The last time she’d seen Jack there hadn’t been much discussion at all if she was going to be completely honest. “We’ve been quite busy, only been managin’ to talk ‘bout a few things.”

“Hmph. You do not need to discuss such a matter. Thy children will of course be Catholic.”

“I’m thinkin’ ‘tis a matter that shouldnae be decided by one person,” she started, finger tapping her chin. “I would be likin’ if they were, nay sense in lyin’ ‘bout that.” And it was true, of course. She was already looking for proper christening gowns for the both of them, just in case. “But I’m havin’ to be takin’ his thoughts into ‘count, dinnae what his are on the matter.”

His eyes narrowed, and Ireland was quite glad he didn’t put any stock into the Evil Eye because she was quite sure he would have been giving her quite the expert one right now if he did. “Thou wouldst lie with a Protestant,” he grumbled. “Thou dost lie regularly with the heathen Muslim, after all.”

Ireland paused a moment. “Not thinkin’ he’s Protestant, bein’ honest…” It was one of those times, she realized, when she remembered that she knew very little about Jack’s history, that she didn’t know anything he didn’t offer up first. And that in the meantime, he knew nearly everything about her or could go on that Wikipedia place to find out. Occupational hazard of being a Nation, she knew, but sometimes it rubbed her wrongly, and this was one of those times.

“Godless pagan then,” Vatican said, his voice flat. “I should not be surprised, a harlot like thou art wouldst lie with anyone.”

She bit the inside of her lip, willing herself not to spill blood in the Basilica. It would be wrong to do that, it would be dishonorable, blasphemous to spill the representation of the Vatican City’s blood in a House of the Lord. A sin she could not in all good conscience commit. She could handle him blithely calling her a harlot, she was sure he thought far worse than that of her, was hoping to shame her. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of it. “Not thinkin’ he’s a religious sort ‘tall,” she said, a touch of defiance in her voice. And oh, wasn’t it a wonderful thing to watch the blood vessel in his forehead appear in sharp relief to the rest of his head -- almost like the reliefs in the nave and chapels of the Basilica, actually -- and start pulsing in time to the slight twitch he’d promptly developed over an eye. Spilling blood was one thing, but inducing a coronary? Well now that was a completely different matter.

“Then he is simply Godless. Thou dost not surprise me, thou hast raised a Godless bastard son of pagans, a drunken heathen he is, and thou hast raised a Godless heathen, heretical witch, follower of the red-headed whore. Thou taught him well, to follow one red-haired harlot before following another. And he couldst not be contented with following her on his own, he felt he must pull his brothers into damnation as well, thy twin who hast given into his lust for the whoring French man, thine elder brother who knows his livestock. God hast given thou punishment, the harlot who raised such sinners, lying with a Godless man and carrying his bastard children. Thou deserve what He hast given thou.” He hobbled back over, ignoring the murderous expression clouding Ireland’s face. “This is what thou shall do. Thou shall Confess and repent thou whoring ways, thou shall marry the Godless one, and thou shall raise thy children within the Church. Do this and thou shall earn forgiveness.”

She growled, a hand twitching, wishing desperately to go for a knife and to plunge it into Vatican’s neck. His chest. His forehead. An eye. His stomach. Somewhere vulnerable, somewhere where the blood would spill and spill and spill, covering her hands, splattering onto her clothes, splashing into her own eyes and giving her reason for the red haze that was quickly covering her vision. Wanted to give into her temper. And so she did, but not by giving into her bloodlust, the desire to feel his warm life slip over her fingers, but by growling again, clenching her teeth together. “You’ll be understandin’ this, Cathair na Vatacáine. You can be insultin’ me all you’re wantin’, I’m nay carin’. But you’ll not be insultin’ me brothers. You’ll not be insultin’ a man I’m in love with. And you most certainly will not be insultin’ me own children! I’ll be standin’ for what you’re sayin’ ‘bout me, ‘tisn’t anything’ I’ve nay heard from your hateful lips ‘fore and I’ll nay give you neither the pleasure nor the shame you’re so wantin’ out of me. I’ve done nothin’ I’m shamed of, done nothin’ I’m needin’ to be forgiven for. I’ve been livin’ me life in me own way, a way ‘tis right with me, I’ve been lovin’ those I’ve freely chosen, aye I’ve even been knowin’ them physically if I’m choosin’ to. I’ve made me peace with that long ‘go. But insultin’ me brothers, even England and ‘specially Llewellyn? I’ll nay be standin’ for it.

“’Tis sick and tired I am of everyone makin’ jokes ‘bout me brother’s supposed relationship with his sheep, and clearly I was thinkin’ too highly of you to be thinkin’ you’d not say such a thing. He’s nay knowin’ his sheep in that manner and you should be bein’ shamed for your thoughts strayin’ in such a way. Me twin? I’ll not say anythin’ ‘gainst where his heart has lead him, even if I’ve a decided dislike for ‘the whorin’ Frenchman. ‘Tis love, ‘tis as family they have, sweet children who are loved and lovin’ their parents in turn. Elizabeth was never a whore, and you’re a horrible, bitter man for blamin’ the woman for the actions of her horrid father. ‘Tis amazed I am that you’re not layin’ charges of incest at his feet, or have you decided to be forgettin’ the marriage neither of us were agreein’ to and you were draggin’ your feet on annulin’ for a hundred and sixty years? We’ve our differences, me and me brother, but I’ll never be sayin’ such hateful things ‘bout him. Conchobhar? He is a good lad, a fine, sweet lad who’s made a misstep or two, as we all have ‘less someone’s so pompous and prideful to never be admitin’ to it. I’ll be takin’ blame for how he was turnin’ out, but only to a point. ‘Tisn’t his fault his people and England were doin’ such things to him, spinnin’ his mind in such a way. ‘Tis faith I’m havin’ in him to be comin’ back, faith I’m havin’ in him to cease bein’ rebellious someday and be comin’ back to his sister!” She took several deep breaths, glad that Vatican looked too pole axed to do more than just stare at her, and continued on.

“To be addin’ to that, you’ll nay be speakin’ ‘gainst one of the lads I’m in love with without his bein’ here to be defendin’ himself! ‘Tis a good man, me Captaen is, better than most and you should be bein’ down on your blasted knees thankin’ him for savin’ your wrinkled arse more times than you’ve ever been knowin’! And so what if ‘tis Godless he is? ‘Tis nay me business nor yours! He seems to be doin’ quite well for it, ‘tis good ‘nough for me!” She stepped forward, hand twitching, wanting desperately to reach forward and grab him by his robes, pull him up to her level, smugly enjoy finally getting to be taller than someone, and force him to look her in the eye, feel the vibrations of her voice, make well certain that he knew exactly what she was saying. “And let me be makin’ somethin’ perfectly clear,” she growled, bending instead to his level even as her back screamed protests against it. “Me children? They’re not bastards. They’ll be knowin’ their father, he’s repeatedly assured me he’s bein’ involved, they’ll be havin’ his name even without some outdated marriage ‘quirment. Repeatin’ it so ‘twill be sinkin’ into your hateful, hypocritical, closed tighter than a nun’s legs mind: Me children are not bastards, and if you’re sayin’ such a thing in front of me a third time, I’m swearin’ to the Virgin Mother herself, I’ll be doin’ me right best to be killin’ you the very first moment you’re steppin’ outside the confines of Vatican City, as nay matter how angry you’re makin’ me -- and I’ll be sayin’ that a volcanic ‘ruption is havin’ naythin’ on how angry I’m feelin’ right now -- I’ll nay be spillin’ anyone’s blood within the confines of Saint Peter’s Basilica, as ‘tis more sin than I’m willin’ to be commitin’. ‘Tis that clear, or am I havin’ to be translatin’ that into Latin for you?”

Vatican stared at her, no longer looking quite so broadsided, eyes starting to narrow. Ireland only leaned back, one hand going for her back and the other for her belly, rubbing it in circles where the twins had decided to voice their agreement by kicking furiously… and one punching her in the lung, it felt like. “Do not say, ‘I'll pay thou back for this wrong!’ Wait for the Lord, and He will deliver thou,” He started, gnarled finger pointing again. “The acts of the sinful nature art obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions.”

“Oh aye, you can quote the Book as you’re likin’,” Ireland retorted. “Proverbs Twenty Twenty Two and Galatians Five Nineteen through Twenty. I’m knowin’ them too. And all I’ve to be sayin’? ‘And the Lord's servant must not quarrel; instead, he must be kind to everyone, able to teach, not resentful,’ and you’re doin’ terrible on that front, so don’t be lecturin’ me ‘bout not holdin’ to Scripture when you’re nay doin’ it yourself.” At the glare she received, she sighed. “Second Timothy Two Twenty Four, I’m knowin’ me Bible same as you.”

“Then thou knowst thou art a sinner and a harlot and thou should repent. If not for thyself, then for thy children. The Lord doth visit punishment upon the children for the sins of the parents unto the third and fourth generation.”

“Don’t be pretendin’ to be carin’ ‘bout children not five minutes ‘go you were callin’ bastards and punishment,” she snapped, this time slapping his hand away, wondering how she didn’t break it as weak and delicate the skin and bones felt. “Never been believin’ that, God punishin’ innocents. ‘Tisn’t the God me Patrick was tellin’ me.” It was a dare, for Vatican to say something against the one person that she would throw all vows to the wind for, the one person she would spill blood in a sacred place for, and she knew that he was well aware of that fact.

He was a wise man, didn’t raise to her bait. He only lowered his hand and huffed, shaking his head. “I will not profess against the words of a Saint,” he muttered, turning and walking away again, which Ireland thought was another wise moment out of the representation. That legendary temper of hers was never one to be trifled with, and even he knew it. “A fool shows his annoyance at once, but a prudent man overlooks an insult,” he advised, glaring up at her.

Ireland sighed, this time giving in to the headache, pressing the heel of her hand against her temple, continuing to rub her belly, trying to calm the twins down. “Aren’t you havin’ a single original thought in your head?” she asked tiredly. “Callin’ me harlot left and right, quotin’ Scripture… be sayin’ somethin’ on your own ‘least once in this conversation.”

His glare grew sharper, his frown deeper. “I requested thou to cometh here in the time of Spring, it is now Summer. When next I request thou, I expect thou to cometh in haste.”

Ah ha, she’d been wondering when she would get this part of the lecture. “Oh aye, so you did,” she agreed, almost easily but for the tenseness still in her voice. “’Tisn’t your hound I am, to be leapin’ in joy when you decide to be payin’ me your time, I’ve matters of state that are takin’ priority over your pettiness. And then I was havin’ that fire back at the start of May, was havin’ to be recoverin’ from that, ‘twas quite badly burned.” She tilted her head, returning to her look of faked innocence. “You were hearin’ ‘bout that, aye? ‘Bout the fires up in Donegal and up into parts of Northern Ireland? Was puttin’ us both in hospital for a time, ‘twas that bad.”

“Punishment,” he declared, and Ireland didn’t need her Sight to know he was going to pull out that tired chestnut. “Punishment for thy ways and thy brother’s ways, for straying from the Path.” Ireland considered it something approaching a miracle that he didn’t call her a harlot again. “Return and thou shall be forgiven.”

“Oh aye, God was punishin’ me people and his people for our ways, people who’ve naythin’ to be doin’ with our conduct or are bein’ utterly blameless in this matter. Wouldnae it be makin’ more sense if He was affectin’ us specifically?”

“The Lord doth work His wonders and fears in mysterious ways.”

“Aye, I’m rather discoverin’ that meself right now.” She patted her belly, smiling widely when Vatican frowned again, disapproval for her current situation clear in his judgmental eyes. “Though I should be thinkin’ God would be bein’ a bit more… direct in His punishments, not actin’ like His power’s a shotgun to be blastin’ where He can and hopin’ He’s hittin’ us.”

“Do not blaspheme, do not question His methods, for they art not for thou to know.” His finger was pointing again, this time well out of range of her hand. “Not for us, mere subjects of His Divine Grace, even if we knew we would not understand.”

“Aye, ‘course not.” Ireland sighed, shifting her feet slightly. “I’m hatin’ to be askin’, honest and true I am, but are you approachin’ done with the lecture? Supposed to be bein’ off me feet as much as possible, and me back’s achin’ like a bad tooth. Me bosses are also ‘pectin’ me to be seein’ to some matters in Rome proper, so I’ve not much time left to be spendin’ with you.” She smiled, lying through her teeth. They were worthwhile lies to her mind, at least the ones that were lies, so she was perfectly content with the idea of confessing them when she returned home. Her back was indeed throbbing something fierce, and she did have a few things to see to in greater Rome, but she wasn’t having to be off her feet all that much, just a few minutes if she felt tired. And while she was incredibly tired of dealing with Vatican, she was very sure that wasn’t the sort of tired her doctors were meaning. And he knew she was lying, she could tell from the way his mouth pulled down, and she had to wonder if his face was going to stay that way if he didn’t change it very soon.

“I expect thou to confess those falsehoods before you leave,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I hereby grant thou permission to go forth,” he continued solemnly, raising his hand to perform the sign of the Cross, Ireland lowering her head as he did. “Go in peace. Ipse Pater et Filius et Spiritus sanctus tecum, benedicta tu et filii tui, ut sint liberati a peccato.”

Latin again. Well, at least he wasn’t calling her slanderous names anymore. And thankfully she knew some of those words, mostly from Mass, so she managed to figure he wasn’t just saying something behind her back, she caught Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and peace. “Aye, thank you Cathair na Vatacáine, may God be blessin’ you, may the Devil nay plague you in your days.” She turned to the painting of the Virgin, crossed herself and bowed her head. “And I’ll be ‘pologizin’ to you, Holy Mother, for me language and me explodin’ at the one who represents the city.” It was an apology that, while wholly meant, was pointedly not to Vatican. She crossed herself again and tilted her head towards Vatican in a gesture of farewell and strode out of the chapel.

She made it back to the Chapel of the Pieta before ducking just inside the doorway and leaning against the wall, taking a deep breath and rubbing the small of her back. “Aye but I cannae stand that man sometimes,” she muttered to herself, sighing deeply. She took another deep breath before continuing on her way out.

She was out the door and had to stop, just a moment, to enjoy the feeling of sunlight and wind on her face, feeling the oppressiveness of the Basilica drain away. She always forgot just how… heavy and dreary and solemn the place was when she hadn’t been in a great deal of time. It wasn’t that she was unused to churches and holy places, far from it. After all, she’d spent every Sunday morning and every feast day in a church since they were established. There was just something about the Basilica that wasn’t there in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral or Notre Dame or even the Sistine Chapel. Something… not dark, but not bright. Almost like a spiritual version of humidity, that just hung in the air and was inescapable, unavoidable. It was why she avoided the place as much as possible, put off visits as long as she could. A part of her suspected it was Vatican’s fault, that his mournful approach to faith choked the air until there was nothing left but his dismal and superior feelings.

It was a liberation to step outside the doors, a rebirth almost to feel sunlight on her face and feel the weight of Vatican’s words fall off her shoulders. So she stood there, smiling and breathing fresh, clear of incense and depression, air for a long moment, thanking God that not everyone or everything was oppressive and heavy. In a much cheerier mood than she was just a few hours before, she hummed happily, testing out songs for the twins’ lullabies in her head, tucking a few away to consider further later and disregarding a few completely as she walked through Saint Peter’s Square out onto the sidewalks and streets of Vatican City itself, doing a bit of window shopping along the way, only ducking into a couple to buy a few balls of yarn -- because when you’re effectively in Italy, even if you’re a spinner, you can’t pass up a few balls of fine merino wool, and what better way to forget being called a harlot so many times than to indulge in a little retail therapy, as Poland would call it? -- and maybe pausing a moment to sigh over rosaries specifically designed for infants.

Still though, she did eventually have to reach the borders and leave Vatican City. And it wasn’t soon enough to her mind, even though she was dawdling a bit, that she saw Romano, looking very pissed off, standing next to a car. “Took you long enough,” he grumbled, glowering at her as she walked up.

“Aye, well, you’re knowin’ how Cathair na Vatacáine’s likin’ to be dronin’ on, specially when he can be givin’ me the fire and brimstone speech,” she said on a sigh, reaching for the door handle, hand pausing when Romano beat her to it. “…You’re nay havin’ to be openin’ doors for me, you’re knowin,” she said suspiciously. “Or drivin’ me ‘round ‘tall.”

Romano jumped a little at that, looking up at her from where he was bent down to open the door, turning as red as the tomatoes he and Spain loved so much. “Ah…” he started, mind clearly racing to try and figure out what to say that wouldn’t end with him bleeding out from the throat on the road. “Si, well…” He paused, coughing slightly to clear his throat. “I’m… I’m j-just being polite,” he stuttered out, looking to the side. “You’re supposed to. Be polite to pregnant women, I mean. Don’t… don’t read anything into it!”

She would have been angry, but watching Romano deny that he was being sweet to her instead made her smile. So she bent down and kissed his cheek. “’Tis as red as a tomato you are Lovino,” she teased gently, giggling as he turned even redder, attempting to slide into the seat. As much as she hated to admit it, she was glad when Romano’s hand awkwardly reached out to help her in. “Aye, thank you,” she murmured, settling in as best she could as Romano shut her door, running a hand over her belly again, one of the twins still kicking furiously, clicking the seatbelt and adjusting it before reaching into the footboard to pull her knitting bag into what was left of her lap.

“Should have waited until I got in here,” Romano grumbled, sliding into his own seat behind the wheel. “I would have gotten that for you.”

“Oh aye,” she agreed, pulling a bit of knitting out of the bag, something on three needles that looked needlessly spiky to Romano’s eyes. “But you’re doin’ far more than you’re needin’ already.” She tried not to flinch as Romano started the car and pulled out onto the streets. Romano did not drive as bad as Feliciano, she knew this, no one drove as bad as the younger Italy… except maybe Germany when no one could see him on the Autobahn and America when he got in racing mood, but it was still instinct, to flinch when in the car with an Italy.

“Pretty sure if I didn’t America would kill me,” Romano muttered, half under his breath. He sighed, shaking his head. “How do you do it?” he asked, glancing at her out the corner of his eye. “How do you put up with Stato Della Citta del Vaticano?”

Ireland sighed, fingers never stopping on her yarn and needles. “You’re guess ‘tis as good as me own,” she grumbled. “’Tis a bitter old man he is, nay life outside his static marble halls and his statues and Scripture, thinkin’ if he’s not ‘lowed fun, nayone else should.” She glanced out the window, watching Rome pass by. “Thinkin’ I’m pityin’ him more than I’m actively dislikin’ him sometimes. ‘Tis helpin’, doin’ that.”

Romano snorted, making Ireland laugh. “Bitter old man is putting it mildly,” he said, glancing down for a moment to his speedometer. He’d heard enough about traffic accidents in Ireland, he knew Brigid was twitchy about cars, especially if himself or his brother were the ones driving them. Deciding it was fine, he shrugged. “How many times did he call you a prostituta?” he asked, glad that she did smile, even if it was bitter.

“Oh, a good handful. Thinkin’ he was holdin’ back a wee bit this time, I wasnae bein’ compared to the Whore of Babylon this time.” Romano snorted again. “Can you be imaginin’ it? Me bein’ a bringer of the Apocalypse?”

“Must be a very bright, loving, knitwear covered, family-centered Apocalypse then,” he decided, smirking just a little.

“Oh goodness, ‘tis a horror!” she gasped in mock terror. She went on, waving a hand carelessly. “Said I was needin’ to be repentin’ for me whorin’ ways for the sake of me twins, which I should be pointin’ out he was callin’ bastards and punishment from God Himself not five minutes ‘fore.”

Romano blinked at Ireland a long moment, making Ireland very glad they were at a stoplight at the time. “He called your babies bastardi,” he said slowly, as though the words were needing time to seep into his brain. “He called them that, and you didn’t kill him?”

“Well, ‘twas the Basilica and he was lecturin’ me in the Chapel of the Presentation of the Virgin…”

Romano chuckled bitterly. “Subtle.”

“Aye, so I was thinkin’.” Ireland returned to what Romano guessed was a hat, since it was a circle too big to count for a sock or a sleeve. “’Twas thinking’ ‘twasn’t worth it. Course, ‘tisn’t protectin’ him if he’s doin’ it a third time anywhere else.”

“Explains why you left the knitting. Thought it was strange.” They drove on again, Ireland smiling slightly when she could see the capitol building in the distance, it meaning her visit to the Italies was nearly over.

“Aye, the knives themselves ‘twere too much temptation as ‘twas.” She shrugged, glancing down quickly to gauge the length on the hat. “And ‘course the usual slings and arrows were flung at me brothers, you’re knowin’ how he’s feelin’ bout them.”

“Same as he feels about the idiot and me?”

“Oh aye, just ‘bout. Probably involvin’ less sheep for the two of you.” Romano gagged, shaking his head violently. “Aye, so I was feelin’ ‘bout it.”

“At least you’re done with the bastardo. The paperwork your bosses wanted you to pick up should be done by the time we get in so all you have to deal with is that and then I can get you to the airport and back to Ireland.”

“…Actually, your brother was wantin’ me to stay a wee bit, makin’ me a lunch to be takin’ on the plane with me. And I’m needin’ to be callin’ the pilot and tellin’ him we’ve a change in destination, Cardiff ‘stead of Dublin,” she said slowly, mulling over the second part as if it had just occurred to her.

Romano pulled into the parking lot, eyebrow raised as he did so. “Going to see your brother?”

“Well, aye, ‘ventually. Got someone else to be seein’ ‘fore that.”

Footnotes:

Fires in Donegal: Back in early May, there were wild gorse and heather fires coursing through the Border Counties and up into some Northern Irish Counties. The affected counties were Donegal, Sligo, Offaly, Louth, Galway, Mayo (Republic), Antrim, Tyrone, and even into County Down (Northern Ireland). In the Republic at least the worst affected were Donegal, Galway, and Mayo. At least one fire in Tyrone was set deliberately and two young boys were arrested. It is believed the good weather and dry spring were partially at fault. Basically imagine the California wildfires they get every summer it seems and you’ve got a pretty good idea of what happened. In headcanon, I ascribe the Western Counties to Ireland’s left side, affecting her back, over onto her chest, along her left arm, and a little up into her neck. Tophie puts the Northern Irish counties... along Connor’s arse and legs. These burns would be enough to put them in the hospital for a time, especially Ireland in the kid!canon.

I... may have played around a little with the geography of Vatican City, but not enough I think that would really affect anything. Just thought that Saint Peter’s Basilica and Saint Peter’s Square were a little further back than they actually are. The layout of the Basilica and the Square are however accurate.

The obelisk: Originally part of Nero’s Circus, where the Basilica and the Square were built. Rome nicked it off of the Egyptians (Probably, at least in Hetalia, because of the phallic symbolism involved, yay masculine bravado), and it stood in the Circus where Peter was crucified (Upside down it is said, because Christ died right side up and Peter thought himself unworthy of dying in the same way). Pope Sixtus the Fifth had it kept in place as it is thought to have “witnessed” the death of Peter. It is now known as “The Witness.”

Ireland’s view of God also happens to be my view of Him. Being from the Southern United States you can see how that doesn’t really jive with everyone else’s view and why I’m not Christian. I don’t like Angry God and I can’t see why anyone would worship something they’re scared shitless of. But that’s my opinion, I’ll give you a grain of salt to take it with.

The Peità: Probably the only reason I’d ever visit Vatican City other than the Sistine Chapel. A statue of Michelangelo’s, it depicts the crucified Christ cradled in Mary’s lap, with the effects of the Crucifixion (thankfully in my opinion) downplayed. It was unusual at the time of sculpting that it depicted Mary as a young woman instead of the 50 year old woman that she would have been at the time. It has been restored twice in its lifetime, the first when the fingers on Mary’s left hand were broken in a move were restored in the mid Seventeen Hundreds, and the second in Nineteen Seventy Two when a mentally disturbed geologist took a hammer to the sculpture while screaming “I am Jesus Christ!” Why exactly Jesus would take a hammer to his mom I have no idea. Bits of the statue were taken by onlookers, some were returned, but Mary’s nose had to be restored using some of the stone from her back. Obviously I have again taken liberties by having Ireland able to touch it but... hell, it’s technically an AU, I can do that.

Cathair na Vatacáine: Irish for Vatican City

All Latin is taken from Google Translate, I make no guarantees that I got any of it outside of a few words right.

I can however say that I attempted to get the Biblical/Early Modern English as correct as possible, and that the TV Tropes Ye Olde Butcherede English page was very helpful and provided links to a few sites that explained the correct way to use the -est and -eth endings, and where thou/thee/thy/thine were supposed to be used. That said, I will probably never write Vatican again because this gag just isn’t worth it. It’s a great gag I think, but so not worth the morning spent trying to find a Modern English to Biblical English translator online because I thought *of course* the internet has everything! It has Rule 34, of course it’ll have this! Yeah, not so much.

Yoda: I haven’t the slightest clue why, but I keep picturing the Vatican looking like Yoda in my head. It was too amusing to pass up, and the fact that Pope Benedict is called Pope Palpatine by his more nerd-inclined detractors... it’s like Russia and LiveJournal jokes, my Mystery Science Theater mocking heritage demanded it! And if you don’t get why Pope Benedict is called Pope Palpatine... go google image them, you’ll see.

Vatican dress code: Probably one of the few things Angels and Demons got right, Vatican City does indeed have a dress code. No exposed shoulders or knees, nothing “inappropriate” for Church, but jeans are allowed.

Ireland and England’s unwilling marriage: The Act of Union of Eighteen Hundred One reappears here. What little canon information we have of Vatican sates that he and the Italies don’t get on very well, and given how different Irish Catholicism is from Roman Catholic, I don’t think he’d like Ireland very much either. As for the rest of her brothers... Go wikipedia Henry the Eighth. I don’t think he’d like the British Isles very much at all.

Ireland is a terrible Catholic. I’m not even going to try to defend her, she’s an awful Catholic. She’s cool with it though, and considering she technically as an “In” with God in the form of Patrick, she probably doesn’t need to worry much.

Immaculate Conception: I’ve heard this is a common misconception (see what I did thar?) that Jesus is the Immaculate Conception, but really this is Mary as she was conceived without the taint of Original Sin, which is what made her worthy to carry the Son of God. The confusion is highly understandable though.

I’ll take this time to apologize to all readers of faiths not Christian. Vatican is a repressed, hateful, hypocritical dick. You know, like any zealot of any faith.

Also I’ll thank Tophie and Fel for giving me the insults Vatican uses here for the brothers. Thanks bunches, guys!

All Bible quotes come from here. No, I really have no idea what version they come from.

“A fool shows his annoyance at once, but a prudent man overlooks an insult”: From Proverbs Twelve Sixteen.

“Ipse Pater et Filius et Spiritus sanctus tecum, benedicta tu et filii tui, ut sint liberati a peccato”: “May the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit go with you, may you and your children be blessed, may they be free from sin” ...If I remember correctly.

Stato Della Citta del Vaticano: Italian for State of the City of the Vatican.

prostituta: Italian for prostitute

bastardi: The plural of bastardo, meaning bastards/bastard in Italian.