Air a ghoid air falbh
Feb. 25th, 2024 12:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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hetalia_town_squareI don't know why I wrote this. It seemed fun at the time.
wc: 1,406
There once was a kid, a country, a non-human creature of a long-lived species, under the care of a an Empire. That kid got stolen. The rest was history.
Or: the one-shot quick AU in which Canada is a Changling
Back in the day, The Fae wanted nothing more than pretty children, neglected babies they could slip easily off in the wind, or a boy who'd ventured his imagination too far from home so they could play for all eternity. Then the fae would leave behind a wheezing, weaker child of their own whom they didn't think would ever amount to anything.
This selfishly solved an age long problem: Fae society wanted life to be an independent game of fun, and they didn't want their own child if it got in the way of their goals.
The deplorables, leftovers, unwanteds who took three or four more minutes of attention than the typical independent welps got shuffled off in exchange for a human to toy with. A human child gave them good fun, and they could lock them up when the fun was over.
Back in the day, the Fae didn't much mind if the fae child lived or died, but if the Fae child lived long enough, one day they'd vanish into the wood no matter how loved or unloved they were.
Fae fate wasn't kind, England knew. England lived and witnessed and travelled into Fae business often in their mirror-like jolly unkind world ever since he could walk. He'd organized many treaties, trades, and wars over stolen people. He'd seen how they treated reclaimed Changelings... outsiders of two worlds... the fae were strange and often coldly indifferent creatures.
That was why he checked the cradle twice every night, nailed horseshoes to the door, could switch an infant's coat inside-out under ten seconds flat, and kept all their eggshells untossed.
And that was why, now, England stood dead stiff.
Magic could invert the world. Beings beyond the laws of nature knew it could. A dark, terrible trick or a light twist were all it took. He could feel it. Liquid magic oozing into the lungs when he breathed the poisoned air and clung a tight unease into the heart... it filled the hollows between each bone, sending dread shivers swimming into the blood.
The smell of Lady Slippers and Foxgloves permeated the air, sweet and seasick.
England had turned his collar inside out while stepping closer and he discovered, looking down onto the bed, leaning over the new cut wood, facing the small, soft, quiet fingers curled over the rim like silent little white worms, that his world had been inverted.
Those little fingers curled, pale, slowly over the crib.
England's head started to throb. His gaze strayed from focus, dizzy, sliding off the child as the cotton fog of dew-dropped spiderwebs stuffed his thoughts, threatening to cloud his rationality.
England shook his head but the sickly sweet fog didn't drift. He muttered a few prayers and then a spell fell under his breath, but he knew those where poor provisions.
The hair of this child was curled, gold, lighter, too perfect in the dim light... his face was expressionlessly soft. Hints of purple glinted where purple shouldn't glint, there wasn't constant blabbling sound were it should be... no expression at all.
England's head started to hurt worse. The child's golden hair blended into a paint pool of memories, fuzzing his mind as the purple, waiting eyes desperately faded blue, soft, keep me—
England shook his head again. "Ug... stop. You're not him."
Spider webs were getting sewn into his brain. Focusing became difficult when the magic permeated the whole room, thick, he couldn't forget. This child fell further hidden with an instinctive cloak of faerie magic.
The shirt over the bed frame laid untouched, useless. Across the room the window was still open... the latch should've been iron and nothing should've touched it.
"Where did you come from?" England asked. Like it could answer. Like it was a responsible adult. Like England didn't plan to kill whatever had crawled through the window and flipped two children's lives over.
England reached down, putting his hands under its armpits and lifting the thing from Alfred's bed. The child's small hands reached up, curling for grasp onto his shoulders.
The child remained deathly quiet.
"I need Alfred," England told him, plainly.
The child held tighter.
England ignored that and took it to the cabin's ashy fireplace, where he sat down with determined finality, keeping the child prisoner in his lap... not that the child was trying to leave. The child laid, perfectly still, clutching tight as possible. The crackling flame should've sent a fae fleeing... it should've kept the room light, so much should have... this child wasn't meant to be here.
The iron poker felt like ice against England's palms when he picked it up. He shivered at the soft, purple eyes looking at him.
"... This will be short, alright? It'll be over before you think. Then everyone will be back where they belong, and you won't even remember this."
With one hand, England took the child's limpish arm. He kept a firm, solid grip. His other hand gently tapped the cold poker onto the child's skin.
The thing gasped and huddled closer, wide-eyed and breath caught.
"Hold on..." England cringed at the sizzling sound weakly starting to crisp the contact between skin and cold iron. The child squirmed but refused to sob.
Instead it began a steady sound of breath-held sniffling. Muffling stifled, quiet gasps.
Fae children didn't cry often... crying was a sign that they'd be too much maintenance for a parent. But Fae children did have other powers.
A sharp throb suddenly spiked behind England's eyes— England cringed. A heavy, woolen faerie cotton suddenly packed pressure into his brain with bitter vengeance, England grit his teeth as it spiked, like acid touching his brain. Blending, blurring, paint-like and red. Nauseatingly scrambling at his head, dripping—Alfred flashed into his mind help me, help me, hurts—
The iron dropped from from his fingers onto the floor with a clang.
England clutched the child close.
The child didn't resist his grasp. The thing had such weak survival senses, clutching close to England, who'd hurt him.
England's own magic aura immediately wrapped around the child.
It was so, so quiet.
Not like Alfred, at all.
"Sorry..." he muttered.
Where Alfred would wail for attention, this child made no sound, as if afraid that if noticed, England would toss him outside and lock the door.
"You can't be him... I'm sorry... you're not Alfred," England said. "You're different. You can't be Alfred, stop trying to be him."
He took the boy to a basin of water in the kitchen. He kept all the magic and herbs required for his usual work... he took marigold for the iron burn, washing and cleaning the ugly wound. The child still made no sound, only clenching his eyes shut. The skin puffed red with an ugly stick and shine as he dabbed flower's pulp onto the pitiful boy.
England knew when his simple magic worked.
Iron on a hidden Changling broke the curse.
The room got colder and a tap scratched at his door. England's attention shifted to the sound.
He picked the boy up again, approached, but stayed safely hesitant. Two more muttered prayers and another spell... and then... then he opened the door.
A woman stood on his porch.
Well... not a woman.
Everything about her was the shape and form of an average woman, but when England looked at her, saw the small unnatural movements of her mouth, the mildly unsettled proportions of her limbs, he knew she couldn't be a woman. He knew what she was. He expected what she was.
Especially when she lifted the cloth she held, revealing a dazed, sleepy Alfred in her arms.
England tensed.
"I will give you what is yours," she said. Her form didn't care to keep, she knew England knew what she was. Her pupils morphed large, owl-like, like the yellow saucers of a deep sea fish. Her face contorted until a beak overgrew her nose.
Alfred got shoved into his arms. He could barely grab onto Alfred's heavy and floppy-dazed deadweight with one arm before she abandoned Alfred to gravity.
"Return what belongs to who owns," she said.
Both boys were balanced awkwardly in England's arms... one clutched England's coat, the other sleeping dazed.
He stared intently at Alfred.
England's grip adjusted tighter.
"No."
"No?"
"You... you gave your child away, you've released your rights to him."
"I own that child, it is mine" she raised her silvery gaze and slim finger to point at the boy in his arms.
The quiet child held tighter to his coat. His face quickly hid, pressed into England's shoulder.
"I've already named him." England defended.
The faerie shrieked.
"You put hurt on it—"
"And you did the same before abandoning him. This child is mine."
England flinched behind the horsehoe nailed overhead and slammed the door on her. She snapped forward too late, shrieking.
The wind rattled the house like a flock of wild wings beating, slamming into the windows.
England put extra cold iron on each cill, and didn't sleep that night.
wc: 1,406
There once was a kid, a country, a non-human creature of a long-lived species, under the care of a an Empire. That kid got stolen. The rest was history.
Or: the one-shot quick AU in which Canada is a Changling
Back in the day, The Fae wanted nothing more than pretty children, neglected babies they could slip easily off in the wind, or a boy who'd ventured his imagination too far from home so they could play for all eternity. Then the fae would leave behind a wheezing, weaker child of their own whom they didn't think would ever amount to anything.
This selfishly solved an age long problem: Fae society wanted life to be an independent game of fun, and they didn't want their own child if it got in the way of their goals.
The deplorables, leftovers, unwanteds who took three or four more minutes of attention than the typical independent welps got shuffled off in exchange for a human to toy with. A human child gave them good fun, and they could lock them up when the fun was over.
Back in the day, the Fae didn't much mind if the fae child lived or died, but if the Fae child lived long enough, one day they'd vanish into the wood no matter how loved or unloved they were.
Fae fate wasn't kind, England knew. England lived and witnessed and travelled into Fae business often in their mirror-like jolly unkind world ever since he could walk. He'd organized many treaties, trades, and wars over stolen people. He'd seen how they treated reclaimed Changelings... outsiders of two worlds... the fae were strange and often coldly indifferent creatures.
That was why he checked the cradle twice every night, nailed horseshoes to the door, could switch an infant's coat inside-out under ten seconds flat, and kept all their eggshells untossed.
And that was why, now, England stood dead stiff.
Magic could invert the world. Beings beyond the laws of nature knew it could. A dark, terrible trick or a light twist were all it took. He could feel it. Liquid magic oozing into the lungs when he breathed the poisoned air and clung a tight unease into the heart... it filled the hollows between each bone, sending dread shivers swimming into the blood.
The smell of Lady Slippers and Foxgloves permeated the air, sweet and seasick.
England had turned his collar inside out while stepping closer and he discovered, looking down onto the bed, leaning over the new cut wood, facing the small, soft, quiet fingers curled over the rim like silent little white worms, that his world had been inverted.
Those little fingers curled, pale, slowly over the crib.
England's head started to throb. His gaze strayed from focus, dizzy, sliding off the child as the cotton fog of dew-dropped spiderwebs stuffed his thoughts, threatening to cloud his rationality.
England shook his head but the sickly sweet fog didn't drift. He muttered a few prayers and then a spell fell under his breath, but he knew those where poor provisions.
The hair of this child was curled, gold, lighter, too perfect in the dim light... his face was expressionlessly soft. Hints of purple glinted where purple shouldn't glint, there wasn't constant blabbling sound were it should be... no expression at all.
England's head started to hurt worse. The child's golden hair blended into a paint pool of memories, fuzzing his mind as the purple, waiting eyes desperately faded blue, soft, keep me—
England shook his head again. "Ug... stop. You're not him."
Spider webs were getting sewn into his brain. Focusing became difficult when the magic permeated the whole room, thick, he couldn't forget. This child fell further hidden with an instinctive cloak of faerie magic.
The shirt over the bed frame laid untouched, useless. Across the room the window was still open... the latch should've been iron and nothing should've touched it.
"Where did you come from?" England asked. Like it could answer. Like it was a responsible adult. Like England didn't plan to kill whatever had crawled through the window and flipped two children's lives over.
England reached down, putting his hands under its armpits and lifting the thing from Alfred's bed. The child's small hands reached up, curling for grasp onto his shoulders.
The child remained deathly quiet.
"I need Alfred," England told him, plainly.
The child held tighter.
England ignored that and took it to the cabin's ashy fireplace, where he sat down with determined finality, keeping the child prisoner in his lap... not that the child was trying to leave. The child laid, perfectly still, clutching tight as possible. The crackling flame should've sent a fae fleeing... it should've kept the room light, so much should have... this child wasn't meant to be here.
The iron poker felt like ice against England's palms when he picked it up. He shivered at the soft, purple eyes looking at him.
"... This will be short, alright? It'll be over before you think. Then everyone will be back where they belong, and you won't even remember this."
With one hand, England took the child's limpish arm. He kept a firm, solid grip. His other hand gently tapped the cold poker onto the child's skin.
The thing gasped and huddled closer, wide-eyed and breath caught.
"Hold on..." England cringed at the sizzling sound weakly starting to crisp the contact between skin and cold iron. The child squirmed but refused to sob.
Instead it began a steady sound of breath-held sniffling. Muffling stifled, quiet gasps.
Fae children didn't cry often... crying was a sign that they'd be too much maintenance for a parent. But Fae children did have other powers.
A sharp throb suddenly spiked behind England's eyes— England cringed. A heavy, woolen faerie cotton suddenly packed pressure into his brain with bitter vengeance, England grit his teeth as it spiked, like acid touching his brain. Blending, blurring, paint-like and red. Nauseatingly scrambling at his head, dripping—Alfred flashed into his mind help me, help me, hurts—
The iron dropped from from his fingers onto the floor with a clang.
England clutched the child close.
The child didn't resist his grasp. The thing had such weak survival senses, clutching close to England, who'd hurt him.
England's own magic aura immediately wrapped around the child.
It was so, so quiet.
Not like Alfred, at all.
"Sorry..." he muttered.
Where Alfred would wail for attention, this child made no sound, as if afraid that if noticed, England would toss him outside and lock the door.
"You can't be him... I'm sorry... you're not Alfred," England said. "You're different. You can't be Alfred, stop trying to be him."
He took the boy to a basin of water in the kitchen. He kept all the magic and herbs required for his usual work... he took marigold for the iron burn, washing and cleaning the ugly wound. The child still made no sound, only clenching his eyes shut. The skin puffed red with an ugly stick and shine as he dabbed flower's pulp onto the pitiful boy.
England knew when his simple magic worked.
Iron on a hidden Changling broke the curse.
The room got colder and a tap scratched at his door. England's attention shifted to the sound.
He picked the boy up again, approached, but stayed safely hesitant. Two more muttered prayers and another spell... and then... then he opened the door.
A woman stood on his porch.
Well... not a woman.
Everything about her was the shape and form of an average woman, but when England looked at her, saw the small unnatural movements of her mouth, the mildly unsettled proportions of her limbs, he knew she couldn't be a woman. He knew what she was. He expected what she was.
Especially when she lifted the cloth she held, revealing a dazed, sleepy Alfred in her arms.
England tensed.
"I will give you what is yours," she said. Her form didn't care to keep, she knew England knew what she was. Her pupils morphed large, owl-like, like the yellow saucers of a deep sea fish. Her face contorted until a beak overgrew her nose.
Alfred got shoved into his arms. He could barely grab onto Alfred's heavy and floppy-dazed deadweight with one arm before she abandoned Alfred to gravity.
"Return what belongs to who owns," she said.
Both boys were balanced awkwardly in England's arms... one clutched England's coat, the other sleeping dazed.
He stared intently at Alfred.
England's grip adjusted tighter.
"No."
"No?"
"You... you gave your child away, you've released your rights to him."
"I own that child, it is mine" she raised her silvery gaze and slim finger to point at the boy in his arms.
The quiet child held tighter to his coat. His face quickly hid, pressed into England's shoulder.
"I've already named him." England defended.
The faerie shrieked.
"You put hurt on it—"
"And you did the same before abandoning him. This child is mine."
England flinched behind the horsehoe nailed overhead and slammed the door on her. She snapped forward too late, shrieking.
The wind rattled the house like a flock of wild wings beating, slamming into the windows.
England put extra cold iron on each cill, and didn't sleep that night.
