Thunderbird (Hetalia)
Author: Ashynarr
Summary: There was a time where spirits ruled the world, but they all eventually died away as human faith in them faded. A few of the warier ones, however, managed to find their own ways around the issue...
Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine.
Warning: Lots of mythological references, vaguely OOC characters
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There was a time, before humans started to take control of the world around them, where nature ruled all. Men and women and children alike would quiver at the howling wind in the night, pay cautious heed to the world outside their closed in villages and fires. The unknown was to be feared and respected, given sacrifices of blood and food and faith in order to keep their homes and families safe and healthy.
They believed in spirits, beings borne of the forces that commanded the world around them.
In that sense, they were right.
But faith is a fickle thing. Enlightenment came to humans, and with it the darkness, the unknown, the magic of the world was shoved away, buried, forgotten - and the spirits with them. New forces ruled the world now - electricity, science, nations, innovation, networking - and there was no place for the old ways in the new world order.
That didn't stop some from finding a way.
~0~0~
For nearly his entire life, Alfred had dreamed of the sky.
For a young Nation, this wasn't new - almost all Nations had had dreams of manned flight in one form of another, and some had even succeeded in limited form. France had bragged for ages about his hot air balloons, carrying men and women up thousands of feet into the sky and returning them safely to the Earth.
Alfred's were a bit different.
For one, he had wings. Grand, beautiful brown and white speckled wings that crackled with wild electricity, each wingbeat a muted drum of thunder. He could soar through the fiercest of storms - could almost be the storms - and fly so high he could see the earth curve away from him, the ocean glimmering with reflected sunlight.
It was gorgeous to behold, and so real that the young Nation would ache with the loss when he woke up in the morning, trapped under sheets in his wide, empty house. Some days, it drove him out and up one of the old trees behind his house, a brief chance to be closer to the open sky above.
(Arthur had caught him outside during a thunderstorm once, eyes closed as his face tilted up towards the clouds. He'd quickly been dragged inside, the older Nation chastising him while drying him off and bundling him as warmly as could be managed, eventually being settled next to the fireplace to ward off the last chance of chilling.
Alfred never mentioned how he'd almost felt at home out there, drenched in cold water and surrounded by the sounds of rumbling thunder.)
Many a time he'd caught himself staring west, drawn to the lands beyond his own. Arthur would refuse all requests to let him explore, even when the colony pleaded.
"I just want to see what's out there! I swear this isn't about expanding!"
"Do you really think I'd fall for that? I've heard your people grumbling about the treaties keeping them to this side of the mountains; one trip is going to become more, each longer than the last, and of course you're going to build shelter and bring friends if you're out there for so long, and before one knows it there's a new town in place, and we're dealing with hostile Indians all over again."
Alfred shook his head. "I wouldn't do that."
Arthur sighed. "Wouldn't you, though? Trust me, Alfred, it's safer if your people just stick to the treaties. You already have plenty of room along the coast - perhaps you could build a few new settlements further south?"
The colony would always give a mumbled reply, ducking his head to mask his frustration. He hadn't been lying about his intentions, but how could he explain the feelings drawing him towards the setting sun? Something out there was calling to him, almost like the sirens the older Nation would whisper about in his stories of life on the sea.
(He wasn't sure whether that was a good sign or not, but in his heart he desperately wanted to believe it was an answer waiting for him out there and not a death trap.)
(Once, he'd thought to ask one of Arthur's faerie friends if they had an idea what it might be. All they'd done was warn him about the lower path and the wrong magics before disappearing again.
They'd never really taken to him, had they? To be fair, he'd always been leery of them as well, no matter how much Arthur trusted them. They were just… off, in a way he couldn't describe.)
Then came the times where he had to put all thoughts of flight and the western expanses in favor of fighting for his survival, for his right to rule himself. It was long, bloody, and miserable, the first time America and Alfred had been in conflict with each other even as they'd run and begged for help and stood their ground against the mightiest empire in the world.
And won.
(And lost his entire family along the way.)
With nothing else to do after establishing his independence twice,
(The second time had hurt more, but not because of the Fire.)
he looked west again, this time with nothing shackling him to his coastline. His people drove him onward (or was it the other way around?), and though his heart ached in muted sympathy at what the price for that western movement was, he simply couldn't stop what was already in motion, allowing himself to be led towards that distant ocean… and towards Mexico.
Whatever was drawing him was somewhere in her heartlands. And Texas was so eager to be free of her influence…
Well, needs must. Quite a few of his people wanted claims on the Pacific anyways; the rest would come around eventually.
(So why did it feel like betrayal?)
~0~0~
September in Mexico's lands felt more like July back east. Alfred could feel sweat dripping down his back, sinking into the fabric of his itchy uniform and leaving him feeling sticky, like he'd just been to visit New Orleans. Considering it was even further south, it wasn't entirely a surprise, but it was still taking time to get used to.
He made his way through the streets, instincts leading him towards Mexico and towards the ever-present feelings that had dragged him west from his birth lands. It was stronger now, almost like a rope tied around his heart, leading him effortlessly towards her house while his men and hers fought a one-sided battle for dominance and territory.
(She hadn't even been able to maintain a steady government presence; she may have won independence like him, but she had never had a Washington or Jefferson to hold things together in the aftermath.
This wasn't a war. It was a slaughter.)
Alfred hesitated briefly before her door - an older building, one he could imagine her growing up in on her own while Spain was at home or with his other territories - before stepping inside, the cool relief from direct sunlight welcome. She already knew he was coming, so she didn't even try to feign surprise when he stepped into her dining room.
"I see you finally decided to show up yourself."
Alfred leaned back against the wall with a shrug. "Well, you kept refusing all my offers to buy up the land, and pretty rudely at that, too."
"Because it is my land, and your people do not deserve to be on it." Mexico hissed, turning her glare on him.
"You sure weren't saying that when we actually bothered to settle and farm the land where you wouldn't. When was the last time you spoke with Texas? How about Alta California?"
Mexico remained silent, lips pressed together thinly while she continued to glower.
Alfred grinned sharply. "You see? It's better for everyone involved if I just take them both off your hands. I might even let you visit occasionally if they want you to."
"You've become no better than the very people we broke away from," She whispered, tone accusatory. "What happened to your talk of freedom and peaceful resolutions?"
"You shot first, if I remember right."
"You keep telling yourself that."
"Do you surrender?"
Silence from her.
"I said, do you surrender, or do I have to conquer the rest of your land first?"
"Damnit all, yes, I do." Her face was of one who'd swallowed something bitter, but her eyes still gleamed with the fire of the fight.
"I'm glad we could come to this agreement. I'll make sure you get the money for the land later, but for now, I think you should go talk to your boss about the treaty."
Mexico scowled but complied, holding her head high even in defeat as she strode past him and out the door, her presence making its way towards the government buildings in the distance.
Alfred allowed himself to slump, closing his eyes as he felt for that presence that was now nearly a hum, constantly demanding his attention. Whatever it was was in this house, and this was his one chance to finally answer one of the questions that had always bothered him since he'd realized it wasn't normal to feel drawn to places that weren't one's own.
It took ten minutes to find the staircase down, hidden behind an Indian tapestry depicting the flight of a massive bird passing over the tribes below. It was dark, requiring him to press his hand to the wall to keep his balance even as he descended into the dark.
At the bottom was more darkness and a single gas lamp hanging from a hook on the wall. After some fumbling to light it, he held it up to see what was inside, and forgot how to breathe.
Brown wings with white speckles like stars reached from wall to wall, part of a massive bird posed for the flight he was nearly convinced it would take at any second. He knew those wings - had dreamed of them for over two hundred years -
-how had they shown up here, on the other side of the continent from his Virginia home?
(And why were they real?)
The cloak - for that was what he realized it was - was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, possibly the labor of years by some Indians he would never know. Even the finest art produced by Europe would be hard pressed to make anything close to the simple majesty of it, and it was just hidden away in the dark like some old unwanted clothing.
One thing was certain - this cloak was his, and if Mexico complained, it was in his right to demand payment as the winner of their conflict.
He set the lamp down to the side, reverently pulling the cloak from its resting place until it was settled in his arms, the hum dimming back down to almost nothing, though the satisfaction remained.
(Trap or not, this was just too fine a prize to leave in the cellars of some non-power to waste away in darkness.)
~0~0~
He was standing before it again. Twenty years after bringing it home and hanging it up in his dining room (the only place he'd found with enough space to handle the massive wingspan), and he hadn't actually done anything with it besides turn it into a display.
(His states rarely stopped by these days, busy as they were with reparations after the War between them. Russia had stopped by once, before heading home to his icy lands. His bosses rarely felt the need to bother him out here, instead sending messages when he was needed in the capitol.)
Now that the need had mostly passed, he'd actually had to stop and think of why such a thing would be so important to him. He was European-born, and nowhere close to endeared with the peoples who'd lived here before him, so why would one of their artifacts demand his attention so much?
He feared the answer. But he simply had to know.
(The dreams hadn't gotten any more or less intense. They had, however, become more varied, with visions of places and people he'd never known but could sometimes name even in his waking hours.)
The cloak was designed to be worn over clothes, or perhaps just for someone a bit taller, a bit older than him. It was also older than himself or Mexico, implying the sort of magics Art- England had always warned him of.
("Age gives things power," The older Nation had told him once. "Always be cautious of things that last far beyond their normal lifespan."
"Like us?" Alfred had asked.
Arthur's lips had pressed together. "Especially like us.")
His fingers reached up, brushing along the feathers on the same arcs he could imagine lightning taking before pulling back, frowning.
If it was some sort of trap for him, why leave it with Mexico? He'd only started seriously expanding in the last few decades, before that fairly content with his coastal claims. If they wanted to hurt him with this, wouldn't they have snuck it into his lands for him to stumble across?
No, Mexico had been scared and angry when he'd found it, not smug, so she was trying to keep it safe from something, or for someone-
Alfred paused, stepped back, and retread that thought.
It'd been hidden in the dark, underground and far from where anyone could marvel at it or even realize its existence. It had never been intended to be found, but he'd known where to find it without issue. Was he what she was trying to keep it from? And if so, why?
(Why had it called to some child of the white people from so far away?)
He had no one to ask; even his dreams shed no light on the issue.
A cloak was meant to be worn, and he couldn't imagine this one was different, magical or not. The question was simply whether it was worth the risk to try it.
(Thunder with each wingbeat, lightning at his beck and call. Ruler of storms, ruler of the skies, ruler of his own freedom. A view of the earth no mortal had ever borne witness to.
A cry that pierced through the loudest storms, unlike any other raptor he'd ever heard.)
(The sky outside was bright blue, warm and inviting in the afternoon sunlight.)
(He'd taken greater risks and pulled through, so what was one more?)
The cloak settled into his arms as easily as always, feathers soft between his fingers as he carried it outside, the clearing behind his house enough space for his needs. He carefully slid his arms through the straps on the wings, the entire cloak settling across his back as if it'd been designed with him in mind.
He pulled his glasses off, tucking them into his shirt, before experimentally moving his arms and thus the wings. They made almost no sound, the only effect the movement had on them at all, nothing like he'd imagined.
It was sort of a letdown after all the worrying he'd done.
The head of the cloak rested on the back of his shoulders. With a bit of shuffling to let the wings fold right, he pulled it up and onto his own head before, with some hesitation, pulling it all the way over his face, blocking his vision entirely.
His eyes shut, and everything changed.
(Arms melted into wings, feet into talons, dull eyes flashing to life before they slid shut. Muscle and tissue and sinew twisted and broke and shifted, all painful but for the complete lack of pain, like it was clay being remolded instead of living flesh.)
The next time the eyes opened, it wasn't entirely America or Alfred behind them anymore.
The Thunderbird had finally been reborn.
~0~0~
Long ago, a great bird ruled the winds above the Earth. He was known by many names in many tongues - Kw-Uhnx-Wa, Wakija, binesi - and was revered by all the People wherever he went. There were many such beings of wind and lightning that soared through the skies and lived among the People, but this one was king of them all, immortal and unimaginably strong.
His wingspan was that of four men lying end to end, with the power to create thunder and lightning with each beat. He could even draw forth the clouds that brought rain, watering the crops and quenching the thirst of the game and the People so that they could farm and hunt. He was believed to be the messenger of the Great Spirit, delivering word of good and bad deeds to him and delivering back the rewards or punishments decreed.
It was even said that he, like his mortal kin, could remove his feathers and walk among the People as a man. His presence was still obvious to those who knew how to look; his eyes held the wisdom of a hundred elders, his arms the strength of a hundred bears, his wrath a hundred of the fiercest storms.
No one believed he could be killed.
Then the Moon Children came in their strange canoes, bringing death and destruction with them.
None were certain what happened to him, only that one day he flew far south to defend the tribes under attack from the foreigners. He never returned to the skies, even after the passing of many moons. The People mourned, praying his spirit delivered to the Great Spirit to serve as faithfully in death as he had in life.
A small number believed he had not passed on, but simply let himself be reborn, waiting for his chance to return. Several of that number came to that belief when they spied a white child, young and energetic, with the strength to swing a bison, a knowledge beyond his age, and a deep love for the open skies...
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AN: Right, so this is the OFFICIAL VERSION -tm- of the Thunderbird AU I've been drabbling about on and off for a while. As you can see, there are a ton more details than before, and a nicer flow and explanation and feel for everything. I've also decided on a final set of characters that'll be focused on for this AU:
America, China, Poland, Finland, Cameroon, Kenya, Uganda. Yes, I'm using three minor African characters, because damnit they have interesting lore too and no one ever touches them and I feel they deserve better.
Sooooooooo yeah, anyways, all the other short drabbles I've written will eventually be remastered and tossed up here, but feel free to ask about other characters or for certain events or whatever, and I'll do my best to indulge. At the least, I will have the tales of all the main characters I listed and how they escaped, along with some modern day things and some other mythological spirits perhaps.
(And if you need to ask, yes, ALL the Nations are technically Spirits (just of their people and not other forces), but ONLY the ones I mentioned managed to work their way around the mass deaths of the Old Ways in order to take places in the new world forming around them. It's... a bit tricky to explain, but I hope I can manage it in future chapters.)