Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
A/N: So I wanted to write a fantasy story. This will probably be a very interesting undertaking since I've read only a handful of fantasy books in my entire life.
Prologue
Arthur took another swig of the flask and returned it hastily to the inner pocket of his robes. He had been waiting in the cold for an indeterminable amount of time, but it felt like eternity.
Robes! Of course he was wearing robes. He was a Weaver after all: a man able to conjure up "magic" from his very fingertips and weave it into different forms. It was something that would make one very jealous. Arthur knew it. So of course he would be wearing the damned stuffy garment. Not to mention he was actually one of the higher-ups as far as Weavers went, not that anyone kept track. Or at least, he had been.
Arthur gulped another drop and hid the bottle back again. He wasn't so sure why he was intent on hiding his drinking. All the Weavers in the Valis Sanctuary knew. But apparently Valis was suppose to be a haven for their kind, so like most sanctuaries it had banned all the things that made life worth living in the pursuit of studying magic.
Arthur shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He was on the docks of the island and could hear the pleasant rhythm of the sea lapping under the wood. For some reason it made him nostalgic, but he quickly credited that feeling to the alcohol.
He was waiting for someone.
Another nostalgic feeling swam to the surface, only to be pushed down again with another drink.
He wasn't so sure why it had to be him that greeted the newcomer. There were plenty of other Valis priests more pleasant than him-he had made sure of it. And he wasn't sure why it was taking so long in the first place. Passage to the tiny Valis island from the mainland usually didn't take an irritatingly long amount of time.
To pass that time, Arthur tried to remember what he knew about the newcomer. It was a kid really, apparently from a city-state somewhere in that country over there (Arthur wasn't particularly apologetic about his geography). The kid had just discovered the powers of weaving and had been promptly sent to Valis Sanctuary. But there was something else that Arthur felt like he was forgetting. He credited that feeling to the alcohol too.
Just then he saw lights in the distance and the diminutive boat made its way into the small harbor. Arthur stood at attention, or as much as attention he could muster, or cared to muster. The boat pulled in sooner or later and Arthur caught his first glimpse of the new Weaver. The face was obscured by a hood, but he made out a smooth chin and a hesitant expression.
Yes. He was starting to remember. Something about this kid wasn't normal, even for a Weaver.
The youngster was escorted out of the boat and Arthur caught his first good look at the younger one from the lantern's light. He'd never seen a more pitiful thing in his life. The eyes were downcast and demure, unsure of even the steps he walked. In fact, there was even something womanly in the movements, as if the person had been brought up as a female.
And that's when Arthur remembered. The brown eyes that looked up at him, in fear, in relief, in hope, were those of a Thender, the rarest and most powerful of Weavers and also the most misunderstood.
Arthur cradled the flask in his hand. He'd need a whole lot more before the night was through.