Family Ties [Part 10]
Title: Family Ties
Characters (in this chapter): Wales, England, Scotland, France, Russia, the Fae.
Rating: 15
Warnings: Sympathy for Wales increases, and Russia wrestles the plot from me and uses it for his own devious whims.
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone.
Life continued as usual, albeit a little more tense and paranoid, until a few months later. As these things tended to do, it started at breakfast. Or rather, just after. October was being merciful this year, the rains light, not flooding the northern regions like usual. That always left England under the weather, literally, with a hacking cough. He carried his umbrella with him anyway, even on this particularly sunny morning.
“I’m going to go grab the papers.” The Nation called, standing in the doorway of their shared home and pulling on his coat and scarf. “Any requests?”
“We’re out of sugar!” Wales replied, clearing away the breakfast stuff. England made a mock-horrified gasp.
“Heaven forbid! I’ll hurry off then.”
“And hurry back too, I want a cuppa and I’m not using that cheep replacement sugar that America sent us.”
The door slammed shut, and Wales went back to tidying up. Having only two people in the house did at least make that a quicker job done. Pulling off the plastic gloves, he wondered at the sunlight, peeking it’s way through the light mist on the ground and the browning tree tops. A faerie zipped past the window and danced gleefully in the sunlight, tapping on the glass when it spotted Darren watching it. He shook his head, smiling at her.
“Can’t do that, Tink. Arthur will have a fit if you mess up the house. I’ll go outside for a walk with you later.” He heard the following pout more than saw it, as she flew off in a huff. No doubt it had been her who stole the sugar last time he’d let her in.
An hour later, Wales was beginning to wonder what was taking England so long.
Two hours later, he called his mobile. The ringing carried on for three minutes, before the call was refused.
“What the…” he murmured to himself, about to try again. The front door opened, and he made to walk into the hallway, calling “Hey, Arthur! What happened to you-”
“Stay right there, Wales, and don’t move.” Darren stilled at the command. Command. England hadn’t commanded him since the Empire fell.
Something was wrong.
“England-” he tried, watching his brother stalk past the door, expression carefully calm. A mask of indifference.
“Staying quiet would help your case too.” He could hear rustling from the next room, papers being grabbed, stuffed into a briefcase. He didn’t move to follow. Couldn’t.
What did he mean by “help your case’?
The former-empire stormed about the house, grabbing the essentials of what Wales recognised to be the usual supplies for a trip to the government buildings. England was back to standing in the hallway in a matter of minutes, eyes narrowed and acid green. Wales abruptly realised he knew that expression, knew it well. It was there when the news of America’s rebellion reach them first, it was there when India had peacefully protested and there wasn’t a damn thing England could do about it, it was there when-
-when there was suspected insubordination in the Empire.
The autumn sun did nothing to prevent the chill that swept through the house as England opened the door. Finally released from whatever had been holding him, Wales dashed forward, after his brother, only to have the door slammed in his face. Frowning, he tried to turn the handle.
Locked.
“Arthur!” he called, banging on the old wood. “Arthur, what’s going on?!” He had to leap back from a blinding rush of magic that leapt up around the oak frame. Experimentally, he tried to touch the door, and got an electric shock for his trouble. An electric shock, from a wooden door. He ran to the back of the house, tried the back door, got a similar result. The windows, too, did not take kindly to being opened.
Arthur had sealed the house.
“Arthur!” yelling, now, because he can’t have left already. Why would he do this? What brought this on? “England, what the bloody hell-”
“You are not going to leave me too, Wales.” The voice came from everywhere, the enchanted house being spoken through by its master. “Not when you’re the last one I have left.”
“I’m not going to leave you-” Wales tried to reason, tried to understand.
“Turn on the television and tell me what you see. I’m going to London, and you had better be here when I get back, or so help me God-” his voice almost broke on the last word, and then the sound cut out.
The only noise left was the TV Newsreader.
“The Welsh Independence League has launched an attack on the east end of London. This is following reports of bombs discovered in a truck heading into the city, bound for the House of Commons-”
Wales sat down heavily on the sofa.
Oh bugger.
-------------------
“Ye gave them bombs?!” Scotland slammed his hand on the table, while Russia leaned back in his chair, completely undisturbed by the outburst. He blinked, expression innocent.
“Da, how else are they going to get independence without weapons?” a tilt of the head, and it was all France could do to hold the Scotsman back so he couldn’t make a noose of that scarf.
“I wanted to break them up, not kill them!” he continued, struggling in his ally’s hold.
“Angleterre has survived worse than a few bombs, James-”
“I bloody well know that!” having a bright red face really did not go well with bright orange hair, France mused. After a few more minutes of one-sided glaring, James let out a long sigh, slumping back into his seat once Francis let him go. Ivan smiled.
“All better?” he chirped, playing with an empty vodka bottle.
“Hmph. I want this t’ stop.”
“I’m afraid, Scotland, that it can’t.” shrugged France, earning himself a poisonous green glare. “You see, until someone else discovers the supply line, this is out of our hands.” Scotland growled quietly.
“I don’t know why I trusted you two.”
“Because you have made enemies of your family?” Russia replied, smiling all the wider. “Do not worry, I can relate.” The room dropped in temperature again, and the other two Nations were reminded they had made a very dangerous, but very powerful ally. France, in particular, had been rather against this idea in the first place. It might have had something to do with that old defeat that still lingered bitterly like the last frosts of winter in the back of his mind.
But Scotland was used to the cold. He wrapped his scarf tighter, shoving his hands in his pockets. “If there’s retaliation, I expect aid.”
“And you will get it, my friend.” Replied Russia, smile as frozen and inhospitable as Siberia itself, lacing his fingers together in his lap. “I have not had a good game in such a very long time.”
--------------------
Darren paced.
Back and forth, throughout the house, up and down the hallway and staring at the door as though he could break the charms on it himself. But he couldn’t, his magic wasn’t as strong as Arthur’s was. It had been, once, long ago, but that was a different time indeed. He paced and wandered until he sunk back onto the sofa with a resigned sigh.
Faeries circled the house, looking for ways in, to get to Wales. They chattered angrily, concernedly, disapprovingly, saying Albion why did you do this we love both of you why would you trap him in this cage we could kill the enemies for you we know who they are! in their tiny, bell like voices. Cruelty, like that only children could manage, they plotted on those who had done this, who would frame Wales.
The cold one, they hissed to each other, the north one and the one from the land across the ocean they stink of hate and metal and iron and we could curse them and kill them and drag them under if you would only tell us to Cymru!
“No.” a war with magic wouldn’t go over well these days. Nobody feared the fae any more, and if anything they might be captured or wiped out. They grew less every day, as more children uttered their disbelief. Best to let people forget their existence than to deny them entirely. “Do nothing. He will let me out eventually.”
Dark settled, and the light from the sprites through the windows would have sufficed to read by, but he turned on a lamplight anyway.
Shall we go to him Cymru we could tell Albion your true heart because we see it we are it we love it
“Calm yourselves.” He murmured, turning a page of Tolkien.
He comes he comes! They cried, sounds rising to fever pitch. Albion Albion why do you do this to your kin surging and swarming forward, dancing just out of reach of England’s aura. The Nation ignored them, stepping through the spells and the front door, his own magic yielding to him easily.
“Wales.” He called, taking off his coat and dusting the excess pixie dust off it, coating the floor with gold and green and red. Darren appeared in the hallway, and the two stared at each other, tense and prepared for anything.
“You are hereby bound to this house and the surrounding land, until I can be sure that this is not going to threaten the union.” Sometimes people forgot that, despite being the youngest of all the brothers, England always held the power over his siblings. Outside, the fae screeched in anger. “Silence yourselves! I know your Names, every one!” England whirled on them, the door still open but his magic denying them entry. Hisses and snarls, ethereal pitch and impossibly small, sharp teeth and flaring lights like fireflies.
Albion you will make enemies of us do not force our hand
“England.” Fae did not forgive, once a grudge was made. It was a pact in blood and magic. He had to prevent that. Had to stop him saying the words. “Don’t blame them, they’re only concerned. You’re angry at me, not them.” The quiet stretched on, the fluttering of wings breaking the night.
“Fine. We’ll talk.” England said eventually, turning his back on the magical creatures hovering in the door. “Alone.”
Notes:
- Fae are not nice. No matter what modern culture and the Romantic (with a capital R) period of the Arts did to them, in the stories they like tricks and have the cruelty of children, and will sooner lead you astray at night than lead you home, just for laughs. But by knowing their Names, one can control them. To Name a fae is to hold complete power over it. The Brit siblings know it's an extremely cruel thing to restrict the freedom of a Fae like this, and try to avoid it.
- Iron is deadly to all English fae. Keep a faerie in a cage of iron, it will wither away. Put a pixie in shackles and it will die. Unicorns never wear horse shoes.
- This links into "the one from across the sea". This is in fact France (the Cold One being Russia and the North one being Scotland), not America like some would guess. They especially hate on him because the Norman invasion brought with it advances in ironwork, and thus the Fae's weakness. Also England hates him so. :|
- Screw your punctuation laws, they're magical faerie creatures. >|
Part 11
Characters (in this chapter): Wales, England, Scotland, France, Russia, the Fae.
Rating: 15
Warnings: Sympathy for Wales increases, and Russia wrestles the plot from me and uses it for his own devious whims.
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone.
Life continued as usual, albeit a little more tense and paranoid, until a few months later. As these things tended to do, it started at breakfast. Or rather, just after. October was being merciful this year, the rains light, not flooding the northern regions like usual. That always left England under the weather, literally, with a hacking cough. He carried his umbrella with him anyway, even on this particularly sunny morning.
“I’m going to go grab the papers.” The Nation called, standing in the doorway of their shared home and pulling on his coat and scarf. “Any requests?”
“We’re out of sugar!” Wales replied, clearing away the breakfast stuff. England made a mock-horrified gasp.
“Heaven forbid! I’ll hurry off then.”
“And hurry back too, I want a cuppa and I’m not using that cheep replacement sugar that America sent us.”
The door slammed shut, and Wales went back to tidying up. Having only two people in the house did at least make that a quicker job done. Pulling off the plastic gloves, he wondered at the sunlight, peeking it’s way through the light mist on the ground and the browning tree tops. A faerie zipped past the window and danced gleefully in the sunlight, tapping on the glass when it spotted Darren watching it. He shook his head, smiling at her.
“Can’t do that, Tink. Arthur will have a fit if you mess up the house. I’ll go outside for a walk with you later.” He heard the following pout more than saw it, as she flew off in a huff. No doubt it had been her who stole the sugar last time he’d let her in.
An hour later, Wales was beginning to wonder what was taking England so long.
Two hours later, he called his mobile. The ringing carried on for three minutes, before the call was refused.
“What the…” he murmured to himself, about to try again. The front door opened, and he made to walk into the hallway, calling “Hey, Arthur! What happened to you-”
“Stay right there, Wales, and don’t move.” Darren stilled at the command. Command. England hadn’t commanded him since the Empire fell.
Something was wrong.
“England-” he tried, watching his brother stalk past the door, expression carefully calm. A mask of indifference.
“Staying quiet would help your case too.” He could hear rustling from the next room, papers being grabbed, stuffed into a briefcase. He didn’t move to follow. Couldn’t.
What did he mean by “help your case’?
The former-empire stormed about the house, grabbing the essentials of what Wales recognised to be the usual supplies for a trip to the government buildings. England was back to standing in the hallway in a matter of minutes, eyes narrowed and acid green. Wales abruptly realised he knew that expression, knew it well. It was there when the news of America’s rebellion reach them first, it was there when India had peacefully protested and there wasn’t a damn thing England could do about it, it was there when-
-when there was suspected insubordination in the Empire.
The autumn sun did nothing to prevent the chill that swept through the house as England opened the door. Finally released from whatever had been holding him, Wales dashed forward, after his brother, only to have the door slammed in his face. Frowning, he tried to turn the handle.
Locked.
“Arthur!” he called, banging on the old wood. “Arthur, what’s going on?!” He had to leap back from a blinding rush of magic that leapt up around the oak frame. Experimentally, he tried to touch the door, and got an electric shock for his trouble. An electric shock, from a wooden door. He ran to the back of the house, tried the back door, got a similar result. The windows, too, did not take kindly to being opened.
Arthur had sealed the house.
“Arthur!” yelling, now, because he can’t have left already. Why would he do this? What brought this on? “England, what the bloody hell-”
“You are not going to leave me too, Wales.” The voice came from everywhere, the enchanted house being spoken through by its master. “Not when you’re the last one I have left.”
“I’m not going to leave you-” Wales tried to reason, tried to understand.
“Turn on the television and tell me what you see. I’m going to London, and you had better be here when I get back, or so help me God-” his voice almost broke on the last word, and then the sound cut out.
The only noise left was the TV Newsreader.
“The Welsh Independence League has launched an attack on the east end of London. This is following reports of bombs discovered in a truck heading into the city, bound for the House of Commons-”
Wales sat down heavily on the sofa.
Oh bugger.
-------------------
“Ye gave them bombs?!” Scotland slammed his hand on the table, while Russia leaned back in his chair, completely undisturbed by the outburst. He blinked, expression innocent.
“Da, how else are they going to get independence without weapons?” a tilt of the head, and it was all France could do to hold the Scotsman back so he couldn’t make a noose of that scarf.
“I wanted to break them up, not kill them!” he continued, struggling in his ally’s hold.
“Angleterre has survived worse than a few bombs, James-”
“I bloody well know that!” having a bright red face really did not go well with bright orange hair, France mused. After a few more minutes of one-sided glaring, James let out a long sigh, slumping back into his seat once Francis let him go. Ivan smiled.
“All better?” he chirped, playing with an empty vodka bottle.
“Hmph. I want this t’ stop.”
“I’m afraid, Scotland, that it can’t.” shrugged France, earning himself a poisonous green glare. “You see, until someone else discovers the supply line, this is out of our hands.” Scotland growled quietly.
“I don’t know why I trusted you two.”
“Because you have made enemies of your family?” Russia replied, smiling all the wider. “Do not worry, I can relate.” The room dropped in temperature again, and the other two Nations were reminded they had made a very dangerous, but very powerful ally. France, in particular, had been rather against this idea in the first place. It might have had something to do with that old defeat that still lingered bitterly like the last frosts of winter in the back of his mind.
But Scotland was used to the cold. He wrapped his scarf tighter, shoving his hands in his pockets. “If there’s retaliation, I expect aid.”
“And you will get it, my friend.” Replied Russia, smile as frozen and inhospitable as Siberia itself, lacing his fingers together in his lap. “I have not had a good game in such a very long time.”
--------------------
Darren paced.
Back and forth, throughout the house, up and down the hallway and staring at the door as though he could break the charms on it himself. But he couldn’t, his magic wasn’t as strong as Arthur’s was. It had been, once, long ago, but that was a different time indeed. He paced and wandered until he sunk back onto the sofa with a resigned sigh.
Faeries circled the house, looking for ways in, to get to Wales. They chattered angrily, concernedly, disapprovingly, saying Albion why did you do this we love both of you why would you trap him in this cage we could kill the enemies for you we know who they are! in their tiny, bell like voices. Cruelty, like that only children could manage, they plotted on those who had done this, who would frame Wales.
The cold one, they hissed to each other, the north one and the one from the land across the ocean they stink of hate and metal and iron and we could curse them and kill them and drag them under if you would only tell us to Cymru!
“No.” a war with magic wouldn’t go over well these days. Nobody feared the fae any more, and if anything they might be captured or wiped out. They grew less every day, as more children uttered their disbelief. Best to let people forget their existence than to deny them entirely. “Do nothing. He will let me out eventually.”
Dark settled, and the light from the sprites through the windows would have sufficed to read by, but he turned on a lamplight anyway.
Shall we go to him Cymru we could tell Albion your true heart because we see it we are it we love it
“Calm yourselves.” He murmured, turning a page of Tolkien.
He comes he comes! They cried, sounds rising to fever pitch. Albion Albion why do you do this to your kin surging and swarming forward, dancing just out of reach of England’s aura. The Nation ignored them, stepping through the spells and the front door, his own magic yielding to him easily.
“Wales.” He called, taking off his coat and dusting the excess pixie dust off it, coating the floor with gold and green and red. Darren appeared in the hallway, and the two stared at each other, tense and prepared for anything.
“You are hereby bound to this house and the surrounding land, until I can be sure that this is not going to threaten the union.” Sometimes people forgot that, despite being the youngest of all the brothers, England always held the power over his siblings. Outside, the fae screeched in anger. “Silence yourselves! I know your Names, every one!” England whirled on them, the door still open but his magic denying them entry. Hisses and snarls, ethereal pitch and impossibly small, sharp teeth and flaring lights like fireflies.
Albion you will make enemies of us do not force our hand
“England.” Fae did not forgive, once a grudge was made. It was a pact in blood and magic. He had to prevent that. Had to stop him saying the words. “Don’t blame them, they’re only concerned. You’re angry at me, not them.” The quiet stretched on, the fluttering of wings breaking the night.
“Fine. We’ll talk.” England said eventually, turning his back on the magical creatures hovering in the door. “Alone.”
Notes:
- Fae are not nice. No matter what modern culture and the Romantic (with a capital R) period of the Arts did to them, in the stories they like tricks and have the cruelty of children, and will sooner lead you astray at night than lead you home, just for laughs. But by knowing their Names, one can control them. To Name a fae is to hold complete power over it. The Brit siblings know it's an extremely cruel thing to restrict the freedom of a Fae like this, and try to avoid it.
- Iron is deadly to all English fae. Keep a faerie in a cage of iron, it will wither away. Put a pixie in shackles and it will die. Unicorns never wear horse shoes.
- This links into "the one from across the sea". This is in fact France (the Cold One being Russia and the North one being Scotland), not America like some would guess. They especially hate on him because the Norman invasion brought with it advances in ironwork, and thus the Fae's weakness. Also England hates him so. :|
- Screw your punctuation laws, they're magical faerie creatures. >|
Part 11