The Waters And The Wild
The Waters And The Wild - England, Edwin of Northumbria, and some fairies.
England's boyhood conversion to Christianity was peaceful (on the whole), but that doesn't mean he's happy about it; and the fairies who had given him so much want to know what he's going to do for them.
Genre: Cute/Creepy.
624 CE. PG.
---
England huffed into the mist and ice of February morning, and tugged his cloak tighter around his narrow shoulders, and waited for the engineers to finish burying his king. Everything was quiet across the bluffs overlooking the Deben River; dark shapes collected in rows, heads bowed, hands still and clasped before them, and they listened in stillness and silence as the ship mast creaked in its grave; as the priest from Kent murmured on and on in some language England could barely comprehend, a Latin susurration which could, if he concentrated, be displaced by the rushing water down below.
England wore a cross around his neck, beneath his cloak; it was strange and new, and England did not like it. But his king had asked him so kindly to wear it, at least to his funeral; and to tolerate the Roman priest. So England tolerated. At least Raedwald would be buried in a ship, on a mound, on a hill, and not in some skinny grave like he had seen the men in Kent doing; it was not ideal, but at least the priest looked as put-out about the ritual as England did himself, and so England reckoned that they were even.
A hand rested on his shoulder; England looked up.
"Stop fidgeting, child," Edwin murmured.
England supposed that Edwin was his next king, but he scowled anyway and replied, "I am not fidgeting." He shrugged out from beneath his hand.
Edwin allowed him to escape, and folded his hands at his waist again. "You don't care for the Christians?"
"They're fine." England reached beneath his cloak and twitched his cross. It hung on a delicate bit of chain, which chafed.
"You…seem displeased."
England heard that a lot, about nearly everything. He shrugged. "I like my way better. The Romans are dull. Although Augustine is dead, at least. I didn't like him at all."
"Child!" Soft and horrified.
England glared up at Edwin. "He told me I was a heathen and that my fairies were rubbish." He watched Edwin sigh and rub the bridge of his nose, and England's eyebrows drew together. "Don't sigh at me. I wore the stupid cross, didn't I?"
"But you still object to the burial. It was Raedwald's decision; you should abide by it."
"He should have been returned to the sea," England groused. "That's how I would like to be buried."
Edwin patted England's messy shock of hair in a vaguely paternal fashion, and England grimaced. "Ship-burning is a pagan rite, lad. You will adjust to all of this, in time."
"I don't want to adjust," England insisted. "I like ship burials, and I like my fairies. Why can't I keep them and be Christian?"
Edwin just sighed again and didn't say anything. The priest droned on.
England sniffed and rubbed his nose after a time. "I still want to be put to sea when I die, whatever they say."
Raedwald's burial mound was half filled-in, now; the ship mast swayed, half-sunk into the dirt. "You are a kingdom, child. Your kind doesn't die."
"You're wrong," England informed him. "And when I die, it will be in fire, and then I'll go back to the sea. The fairies told me."
"Enough about your fairies," Edwin murmured, and turned his shoulder up against England.
---
It was true, though. That was what the fairies had told him, and they only lied when they thought they could make someone afraid; and England had not been afraid, so it was very likely true.
That night he went to his room, and he took off the chain and put the cross back on the altar in the corner, and knelt before it like the Roman priests had told him to. He said the Pater Noster, even though he was quite sure he hadn't got a father; and he sat and tried to think good thoughts about people for a whole quarter of an hour, because the priests told him he didn't do enough of that, but he gave up after eight minutes, because it was boring and he didn't really mean most of it.
He put his cloak back on and went outside, and hiked for a long time up through the hills and into the forest. Amber lights came out from between the trees to guide his way.
He sat down in the dirt outside a mushroom circle. Outside, never inside; the last time he had made that mistake he'd lost his king. While he waited, he braided a crown out of twigs and grass blades. Then, since it seemed he ought to do something with it, he dropped it on his head.
The fairies came in twos and threes; they sat on the mushroom caps, and the low tree branches, and their wings winked at him like light on the water. England felt himself sitting up straighter, felt himself smiling; the fairies liked him, they always had. Eventually his favorite one showed up, the white one with the red hat, and that was how England knew it was all right to begin.
"It's no use," he said without preamble; "Edwin doesn't believe in you either. …I shouldn't mind the Christians so much if they weren't all so dead set against you."
A wave of disappointment dulled the fairy wings. The red capped fairy turned in a loop, then alighted on England's shoulder. She whispered in his ear.
"No, we certainly shall not kill them," England replied crossly. "Or the new king. That won't solve anything."
Another wave.
"Well I'm sorry, but you shall just have to think of something else."
The red capped fairy hopped off his shoulder, twirled around his head, then resettled; she whispered again. England listened. His eyes widened.
"Of course I will always believe in you! You--you will always have a home here, I promise!"
Fairy whispers ticked his ear; and afterwards, he could never remember exactly what words were used. He waited until he was sure his favorite fairy had finished.
"Oh, please don't be sad," he said weakly. He swallowed. "It's…it's all right, really…you'll see, I don't have to make a choice. The king kept saying I did, but the queen said I didn't, and, and anyway, I don't see how anyone can make me believe anything if I don't care to believe in it; if I want to be a Christian and still be a home to all of you, then nobody can tell me differently. You'll see."
There was an uncertain flicker from the blanket of fairies spread out before him; and then, uneasily, they settled back; unsettled, a few of them winked out, having heard at least a part of what they came to hear.
The red capped fairy tugged his earlobe again, and England wet his lips. His crown of twigs slipped forward on his forehead. "I won't let you starve," he said, quiet. "I…I am sure I will have many wars to fight, and…and all of you may come with me. If you like."
A brightening, like fire finding kindling; the fairies seemed to like that very much.
Another tug, some more whispers, and England's eyes widened and he felt his smile return; he said with gentle longing, "Oh, will you?"
The fairies left, in twos and threes, vanishing or flitting back between the trees, just as they came; but his favorite fairy stayed on, her bare feet on his shoulder, her fingers on his ear, and she told him about empires and shades and kings; about his brothers and his sister, and his neighbor across the sea. She told him about his children, and she told him about his fall; and she told him about the fire, and how he'd be one with the sea.
+++
--In 597, St. Augustine arrived in Canterbury in the hopes of converting the British to Christianity. Roman Catholic bishops were established in London and Rochester by 604.
--King Raedwald converted to Christianity, but his wife did not. The story opens at his funeral at Sutton Hoo in 624.
--Edwin, his successor, converted to Christianity in 627.
--Most of England's native fairies are actually kind of horrible.
+++
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fic here!
England's boyhood conversion to Christianity was peaceful (on the whole), but that doesn't mean he's happy about it; and the fairies who had given him so much want to know what he's going to do for them.
Genre: Cute/Creepy.
624 CE. PG.
---
England huffed into the mist and ice of February morning, and tugged his cloak tighter around his narrow shoulders, and waited for the engineers to finish burying his king. Everything was quiet across the bluffs overlooking the Deben River; dark shapes collected in rows, heads bowed, hands still and clasped before them, and they listened in stillness and silence as the ship mast creaked in its grave; as the priest from Kent murmured on and on in some language England could barely comprehend, a Latin susurration which could, if he concentrated, be displaced by the rushing water down below.
England wore a cross around his neck, beneath his cloak; it was strange and new, and England did not like it. But his king had asked him so kindly to wear it, at least to his funeral; and to tolerate the Roman priest. So England tolerated. At least Raedwald would be buried in a ship, on a mound, on a hill, and not in some skinny grave like he had seen the men in Kent doing; it was not ideal, but at least the priest looked as put-out about the ritual as England did himself, and so England reckoned that they were even.
A hand rested on his shoulder; England looked up.
"Stop fidgeting, child," Edwin murmured.
England supposed that Edwin was his next king, but he scowled anyway and replied, "I am not fidgeting." He shrugged out from beneath his hand.
Edwin allowed him to escape, and folded his hands at his waist again. "You don't care for the Christians?"
"They're fine." England reached beneath his cloak and twitched his cross. It hung on a delicate bit of chain, which chafed.
"You…seem displeased."
England heard that a lot, about nearly everything. He shrugged. "I like my way better. The Romans are dull. Although Augustine is dead, at least. I didn't like him at all."
"Child!" Soft and horrified.
England glared up at Edwin. "He told me I was a heathen and that my fairies were rubbish." He watched Edwin sigh and rub the bridge of his nose, and England's eyebrows drew together. "Don't sigh at me. I wore the stupid cross, didn't I?"
"But you still object to the burial. It was Raedwald's decision; you should abide by it."
"He should have been returned to the sea," England groused. "That's how I would like to be buried."
Edwin patted England's messy shock of hair in a vaguely paternal fashion, and England grimaced. "Ship-burning is a pagan rite, lad. You will adjust to all of this, in time."
"I don't want to adjust," England insisted. "I like ship burials, and I like my fairies. Why can't I keep them and be Christian?"
Edwin just sighed again and didn't say anything. The priest droned on.
England sniffed and rubbed his nose after a time. "I still want to be put to sea when I die, whatever they say."
Raedwald's burial mound was half filled-in, now; the ship mast swayed, half-sunk into the dirt. "You are a kingdom, child. Your kind doesn't die."
"You're wrong," England informed him. "And when I die, it will be in fire, and then I'll go back to the sea. The fairies told me."
"Enough about your fairies," Edwin murmured, and turned his shoulder up against England.
---
It was true, though. That was what the fairies had told him, and they only lied when they thought they could make someone afraid; and England had not been afraid, so it was very likely true.
That night he went to his room, and he took off the chain and put the cross back on the altar in the corner, and knelt before it like the Roman priests had told him to. He said the Pater Noster, even though he was quite sure he hadn't got a father; and he sat and tried to think good thoughts about people for a whole quarter of an hour, because the priests told him he didn't do enough of that, but he gave up after eight minutes, because it was boring and he didn't really mean most of it.
He put his cloak back on and went outside, and hiked for a long time up through the hills and into the forest. Amber lights came out from between the trees to guide his way.
He sat down in the dirt outside a mushroom circle. Outside, never inside; the last time he had made that mistake he'd lost his king. While he waited, he braided a crown out of twigs and grass blades. Then, since it seemed he ought to do something with it, he dropped it on his head.
The fairies came in twos and threes; they sat on the mushroom caps, and the low tree branches, and their wings winked at him like light on the water. England felt himself sitting up straighter, felt himself smiling; the fairies liked him, they always had. Eventually his favorite one showed up, the white one with the red hat, and that was how England knew it was all right to begin.
"It's no use," he said without preamble; "Edwin doesn't believe in you either. …I shouldn't mind the Christians so much if they weren't all so dead set against you."
A wave of disappointment dulled the fairy wings. The red capped fairy turned in a loop, then alighted on England's shoulder. She whispered in his ear.
"No, we certainly shall not kill them," England replied crossly. "Or the new king. That won't solve anything."
Another wave.
"Well I'm sorry, but you shall just have to think of something else."
The red capped fairy hopped off his shoulder, twirled around his head, then resettled; she whispered again. England listened. His eyes widened.
"Of course I will always believe in you! You--you will always have a home here, I promise!"
Fairy whispers ticked his ear; and afterwards, he could never remember exactly what words were used. He waited until he was sure his favorite fairy had finished.
"Oh, please don't be sad," he said weakly. He swallowed. "It's…it's all right, really…you'll see, I don't have to make a choice. The king kept saying I did, but the queen said I didn't, and, and anyway, I don't see how anyone can make me believe anything if I don't care to believe in it; if I want to be a Christian and still be a home to all of you, then nobody can tell me differently. You'll see."
There was an uncertain flicker from the blanket of fairies spread out before him; and then, uneasily, they settled back; unsettled, a few of them winked out, having heard at least a part of what they came to hear.
The red capped fairy tugged his earlobe again, and England wet his lips. His crown of twigs slipped forward on his forehead. "I won't let you starve," he said, quiet. "I…I am sure I will have many wars to fight, and…and all of you may come with me. If you like."
A brightening, like fire finding kindling; the fairies seemed to like that very much.
Another tug, some more whispers, and England's eyes widened and he felt his smile return; he said with gentle longing, "Oh, will you?"
The fairies left, in twos and threes, vanishing or flitting back between the trees, just as they came; but his favorite fairy stayed on, her bare feet on his shoulder, her fingers on his ear, and she told him about empires and shades and kings; about his brothers and his sister, and his neighbor across the sea. She told him about his children, and she told him about his fall; and she told him about the fire, and how he'd be one with the sea.
+++
--In 597, St. Augustine arrived in Canterbury in the hopes of converting the British to Christianity. Roman Catholic bishops were established in London and Rochester by 604.
--King Raedwald converted to Christianity, but his wife did not. The story opens at his funeral at Sutton Hoo in 624.
--Edwin, his successor, converted to Christianity in 627.
--Most of England's native fairies are actually kind of horrible.
+++
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fic here!