[Fanfic] Believing
Title: Believing
Author/Artist: Me
Character(s) or Pairing(s): UK
Rating: G. Unless mentioning drugs and drink is bad.
Warnings: Drugs and drink. Completely unbeta'd drabblefic.
Summary: UK believes, he always has done...
Words: 596
UK believes. He believes in the fairies that inhabit his world, the magic of seeing something that no one else sees and the beauty of everything. He sees things behind rose tinted glasses at first, the rosy outlook going on forever. But then… Then he starts to see the doom and gloom.
The rain which once made his land lush and green, a beautiful sight to see, it now falls upon concrete blocks. He no longer sees much of the pretty stone churches in the country, or the rolling hills. He only sees those when he travels. His favourite route has always been the one that is furthest out of the way- but the tunnels that are blasted through the hills just let him see the darkness there. He likes to travel in Wales. Wales, where they haven’t really built tunnels except on main routes. And even with the tunnels, UK still doesn’t see the darkness like he does elsewhere. He feels the thrum of the wilderness, the ‘bleak’ landscape that he knows to be thriving, green and beautiful, just waiting for the sun to come through the clouds.
Ireland is where the fairies are around him most. There is something entirely magical about Ireland, though, technically, the Republic of Ireland does not belong to him. It belongs to the magic, to some other nation. Northern Ireland does. That is plenty magical enough for him. Though he wishes he could feel the pure, unadulterated magic of the southern Ireland hills, meadows and lakes, feel the magic of the coast and the Giant’s Causeway.
The snow falls heavily in Scotland, especially in the winter. He makes a point of spending at least some time in Scotland whenever winter falls fast around them. He spends time in the outer isles over summer- there is no other real time that he can get there, the sea is too rough during winter, and he will only use a boat. It is a small nod to the past. The past where the fearsome Norsemen only attempted to cross the treacherous seas in summer, for fear of the waves and the storms.
But where UK feels most at home is where he can feel the people. London is alive with the magic of people. They are all around him, strong and vibrant, like nothing the fairies could show him. They are there, they are real. England is his original home- he battled his way for control of the land that surrounds him. Granted, for as long as most people remember (the historians with an accurate grasp of the facts are few and far between), he has been UK. But in his heart, he is England. The small, pagan child, who spoke with the fairies, conversed with the mythical creatures of old and celebrated nature.
Some days, when the rain sleets down in blankets, and people run down the main shopping streets with nothing but multi-coloured umbrellas reflecting sickly colours on their skin, UK wishes that he could go back to that. Instead of this consumer-driven world, shaped by other nations, he wishes he could dance with the fairies by moonlight. He wishes, but his wishes don’t often come true. Except on the summer and winter solstices, when the pagans in his nation (he celebrates a multi-cultural society) gather at Stonehenge. It is a humbling experience, every time. Some of them see the fairies. Others don’t. Some are too drunk or high to see them, or see them and assume they are drunk or high.
The believers see them. Arthur always sees them.
Author/Artist: Me
Character(s) or Pairing(s): UK
Rating: G. Unless mentioning drugs and drink is bad.
Warnings: Drugs and drink. Completely unbeta'd drabblefic.
Summary: UK believes, he always has done...
Words: 596
UK believes. He believes in the fairies that inhabit his world, the magic of seeing something that no one else sees and the beauty of everything. He sees things behind rose tinted glasses at first, the rosy outlook going on forever. But then… Then he starts to see the doom and gloom.
The rain which once made his land lush and green, a beautiful sight to see, it now falls upon concrete blocks. He no longer sees much of the pretty stone churches in the country, or the rolling hills. He only sees those when he travels. His favourite route has always been the one that is furthest out of the way- but the tunnels that are blasted through the hills just let him see the darkness there. He likes to travel in Wales. Wales, where they haven’t really built tunnels except on main routes. And even with the tunnels, UK still doesn’t see the darkness like he does elsewhere. He feels the thrum of the wilderness, the ‘bleak’ landscape that he knows to be thriving, green and beautiful, just waiting for the sun to come through the clouds.
Ireland is where the fairies are around him most. There is something entirely magical about Ireland, though, technically, the Republic of Ireland does not belong to him. It belongs to the magic, to some other nation. Northern Ireland does. That is plenty magical enough for him. Though he wishes he could feel the pure, unadulterated magic of the southern Ireland hills, meadows and lakes, feel the magic of the coast and the Giant’s Causeway.
The snow falls heavily in Scotland, especially in the winter. He makes a point of spending at least some time in Scotland whenever winter falls fast around them. He spends time in the outer isles over summer- there is no other real time that he can get there, the sea is too rough during winter, and he will only use a boat. It is a small nod to the past. The past where the fearsome Norsemen only attempted to cross the treacherous seas in summer, for fear of the waves and the storms.
But where UK feels most at home is where he can feel the people. London is alive with the magic of people. They are all around him, strong and vibrant, like nothing the fairies could show him. They are there, they are real. England is his original home- he battled his way for control of the land that surrounds him. Granted, for as long as most people remember (the historians with an accurate grasp of the facts are few and far between), he has been UK. But in his heart, he is England. The small, pagan child, who spoke with the fairies, conversed with the mythical creatures of old and celebrated nature.
Some days, when the rain sleets down in blankets, and people run down the main shopping streets with nothing but multi-coloured umbrellas reflecting sickly colours on their skin, UK wishes that he could go back to that. Instead of this consumer-driven world, shaped by other nations, he wishes he could dance with the fairies by moonlight. He wishes, but his wishes don’t often come true. Except on the summer and winter solstices, when the pagans in his nation (he celebrates a multi-cultural society) gather at Stonehenge. It is a humbling experience, every time. Some of them see the fairies. Others don’t. Some are too drunk or high to see them, or see them and assume they are drunk or high.
The believers see them. Arthur always sees them.