White Rose
England/Arthur, America/Alfred, OC Scotland/ Tam, OC Whales/Owain
'To leave behind… or to be left behind. I wonder what hurts more?'
Arthur hated leaving. Probably almost as much as Alfred hated him leaving. But he knew the ways of this world, and nothing, NOTHING, that he had yet encountered in it could prevent his return to his little Alfred, his America. Nothing.
Getting away in the first place, however… Well, that was another matter entirely.
"EEENNGLAAANND!"
Arthur staggered as the tiny figure of his charge Alfred., the embodiment of Colonial North America, blurred into the room and attached itself to his ankle with a startlingly strong grip. Even as he attempted to prise him off, the Colony turned tear-filled sky-blue eyes on him and wailed determinedly.
"England, England, dun go 'way again! You pwomised you wouldn't leave this time!"
England groaned. "Alfred… I merely said that I could stay longer this time. And I have done. A gentleman never goes back on his word, as I've told you before, so do not put words in– "
"But you pwomised, Bro Artie–" Alfred cut himself off here and backtracked sharply from England's glare at the nickname. "Sowwy, Arfur, but–"
"No, Alfred." Arthur stated firmly. "You know I have to go to look after my home. I promise I'll come back. I always do. You know that."
America nodded and sniffled slightly. "Yeah. Cos you're a gennelman." He loosened his grip on Arthur's kneecap and slid to the floor. "But… why can't I come with you? I… I wanna see your home, wi' all the oak trees an' the roses an' the white cliffs… I wanna sail on your ships an' see the mermaids an' play with the faeries you tell me about…I've never seen 'em yet!… England…?"
Arthur had suddenly stiffened, frozen in the act of turning towards the door. He suddenly seemed so deep in thought that he did not respond to America's questions, nor to the young Colony's tugs on his trouser leg. At least, not until said Colony hit him on the kneecap to get his attention back.
"OW! What… Oh. Yes… F-faeries" He muttered, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. As his face turned, America suddenly caught sight of what seemed to be a glint of light on Arthur's cheek.
Liquid light…
"Arfur… are you…?" Alfred reached up, but England gently caught his wrist before it reached his face, blinking rapidly.
"Alfred… Look, why don't I tell you a story before I leave?"
America promptly bolted for his room, leaving skid-marks on the polished hall floor.
"Yeeaaah! Can it have Heroes in it? Those fancy silver shiny ones you told me 'bout? The ones who work for Kings an' Queens an' Princes an' Princesses? What are they called again…?" His voice faded as he vanished over the landing.
"Knights, Alfred." Arthur chuckled softly as he followed up the stairs, using the distraction to wipe his eyes surreptitiously on his sleeve, foregoing a handkerchief for once.
As they settled down to the tales of the Round Table, which Alfred insisted on virtually telling all himself in the end to prove to England he had learned them ("'Cos the King's called Arfur an' he's from England, and you're called Arfur an' you are England, an you're my favourite, so he's my favourite, see?") Arthur Kirkland sadly let his mind drift back to his homeland… For the story of another people had ended there…
In old time of the King Artour,
Of which that Bretons speken great honour,
All was this land fulfilled of faerie;
The Elf queen, with her joly company,
Danced full oft in many a grene mead.
I'll tell you a tale of when time had no meaning,
When legend and history walked hand in hand,
When the swords of the mighty had bested the Dragon,
But the Elven still walked in the land.
White rose: queen of the summer…
England recalls time of his land that is immemorial to humans. Before so many invaders rendered him a cannibal tongue of French and Germanic and Latin, before they labelled him with their claims of a home – before the 'Anglandn' of the Angles, the Saxons and the Vikings and their gods of the high, cold mountains and harsh snows, before the 'Britannia' of the Romans who changed from many gods in penitence for one man and yet were ever as hypocritical in their savage civilisation… Before them, 'Albion' still lingers, the fair, white-earthed land beloved of the dragons.
Draig…
The sun and the moon were fixed in the heavens.
The whole world grew weary as summer stood still.
A queen of great courage and the heart of the Dragon
Set her throne above the Elf Hill.
White rose: queen of the fall…
England always bites back a bitter laugh on April 24th. A pathetic memorial to a man not of his land, whose task was not even a true one, for there is yet one last Dragon left in those islands ever swept by the chill wind and rain… 'Y Draig Goch', sleeping under the mountain of snow, proudly and jealously guarded by his brother Cymru. How ironic that both that red dragon and St George should have each killed a white one, when it was the Romans who made way for Britain's enemies to invade. Did Merlin not warn them so?
It was not only dragons who would linger under the uneven terrain. All of them remember the timeless dances of the wild night under the oldest barrows, the shine of glamour and stolen death-gold.
The queen on her throne called the Elven before her,
And said: look around you; time should march on.
I ask you to bow and make history the victor –
The day of the legends is gone.
White rose: the new guard will follow…
The people of the other sides have never been particularly good with time. What is a lifespan to an immortal? What is history and memory to those who do not acknowledge what displease them? Why should the grief of a stolen human, their plaything, matter anymore than the pain of flies does to the boys who pull off their wings? Ever-youthful, the Fay are the children of Fate itself, ever gay and innocent and heartless.
The people approached her to offer their blessings,
And each brought red roses to lay at her feet.
But the Elven came forward to lay their last flowers:
White as the summer's defeat.
White rose: the old guard will fall…
The Fay are what they are. The oldest companions of the world, those who led England through his childhood, laughing in the wind, dancing in the rivers, riding the storms. And through each rise and fall, every corruption of holy cold iron, they have stayed, commemorating each novelty with the land. The roses are painted red with the blood that France shed of him by William, are crimson flower blooming in the last King's eye. White lilies recall the stark joylessness of Cromwell, a filthy purity, an insane devotion. And England could only live as he had learned, striving to rise to power, abusing the siblings he had once suffered alongside, unwittingly imitating Ancient Rome as he bound their forbidden tongues into books and silenced the wilderness of his own people.
The cycles of time weave the world in their circles,
And the flower-crowned queen is among us again.
While the Elves have their place in the verses of legend
But not in the history of Man.
England and Scotland stand on the border wall before dawn, their hands bound by a strip of cloth, crossed in red, white and blue. England flinches at the colours, flinches despite being the one who has demanded this Union, and whispers to his sibling. "How ironic that united, we share the colours of the last one who put us ever further apart." Scotland glares at him over their clasped hands and hisses bitterly. "Ye've ever been a weak whore fer the invaders, Sasanach. Why should France have been any different?" England's eyes blaze as he snarls into Scotland's face. "Ha! Rich, considering you allied with so many of said invaders. Sasanach! You utter hypocrite! I might not have borne that name had your own Picts not supported Mordred! And don't even mention the Auld Alliance! With that slimy frog, of all–" Scotland cuts him off with a sneer. "Well, if that ol' 'once an' future king' o' yers hadn' been such a feckless eejit–" At this point Wales – Owain – steps in before they send themelves toppling off the wall.
"Tam… Arthur… Please. It's bad enough as it is. Let's not dredge up the past. This is for our people." He holds out the Union document to them, his True Name scrawled in letters softly spiked like tongues of fire. Cymru…
England's hands shake as he signs the paper, ink smearing, running down the paper as the word Albion slowly sinks into the fibres. White, fair. Befitting. His complexion is so much paler than his brothers' native autumn reds and browns thanks to the white-gold of Germania's children.
Scotland's, finally. Alba. Truer than his modern name, brought over to him by the people of Northern Ireland ere that distinguishment even existed.
Wales takes back the completed document and stares at it thoughtfully. "My brothers… do you remember those times? When we used those names freely, when we had never even heard of any invader to beware of?" He glances up at them, emerald eyes identical to theirs glinting through his long, thick fringe. "Only the Ellyyllon call me so now."
Arthur twitches suddenly and Tam stiffens. Owain – raises a brow. Slowly, Arthur shakes his head and murmurs. "The People of the Hills… Cymru… You said this was for our people?" He smiles sadly. "My people are no longer truly mine. They never were. And… for all the gods and Fair Folk they brought, they have forgotten." His voice cracks finally. "Now no man can see no elves more."
Wales stares at him, then jerks his head towards Scotland. Tam's lip curls back over his teeth and his fists clench as he grits out his words.
"Mine saw 'em. Saw 'em leave. An' e'en on sight… they didna know' em fer wha' they were." He grinds his teeth. "A wee lad an' lass saw 'em ride out in broad daylight. Th' lad axed one o' 'em… He axed 'What are ye, little mannie? And where are ye going?' An'…"
Suddenly, Tam laughs bitterly. "Seems tha' Christ ya le' ol' Rome bring th' talk of over really works, eh, Sasanach? E'en the Wee Folk know it!" His chest heaved. "They answered… 'Not of the race of Adam.'
Whales lays a hand on England's shoulder as he shudders, recalling the burning times. With a soft sigh, Arthur mutters. "Humans… they made the Fay small by calling them so. And they make themselves the creations of a god by believing themselves so."
Tam nods jerkily. "An… They said…" His nails dig into his palms sharply. "…The People of Peace shall never more be seen in Scotland."
The siblings stare at the ground sombrely.
Arthur knows what it is to be left behind, and he hates it. So each time that he must Alfred goodbye, he also tells him that he will return.
"You will never be alone. I promise."
Who could have predicted that it would one day be America who left England behind for good?
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Author's Notes:
Please excuse all the obscure references, the babbling and absoloutly no sign of any timeline whatsoever.
This turned out WAAAAY longer than I intended, and the storyline really veered off-course. I couldn't help it.
The song 'White Rose' is by Heather Dale. Not me.
The old fashioned poem in the first section and quoted later by England is by Chaucer. Not me.
The story of the Wee Folk leaving Scotland is an old document, truly recorded. Not mine.
Aglandn - Old form of the word 'England' - named after the Angles who settled here.
Brittania - Roman name for the island composed of England, Wales and Scotland.
Albion - Oldest name for England - In Celtic languages, links to the word 'elfdd', meaning 'earth'. In Latin, links to 'Albus', meaing 'white' or 'fair'.
Alba - (Oldest?) Scottish-Gaelic word for Scotland. Links to Indo-European root word for 'white'.
Cymru - Welsh word for Wales.
Sasanach - Scottish-Gaelic term for an English person, as Saxons.
Tam - Reference to the character Tam Lin of an old Scottish ballade.
Owain - First name of the last native Prince of Wales; lead a revolt aginst England.
Scotland and Northern Ireland - Scotland bears the name it does due to the invasion of the Scoti people from the North of Ireland (Scotia), who overran the native Picts (Cruitne)
The issues mentioned by England and Scotland are quirks in history than really dig at me. I always found it ironic that the colours of the Union Jack were the same as the French flag, considering that William of Normandy was the last successful invader of Britain. His was an entry least welcomed by the Fay, as the Normans brought great advancements in ironwork. There is a treaty known as the 'Auld Alliance' between France and Scotland - So again, an alliance between the Scottish inhabitants and invaders of Britain.
I also find it ironic that the figure of King Arthur (the Roman-Celtic Dux Bellorum of England and Whales was supposedly killed by his incestuous bastard son Mordred who lead an army which included Picts, Scoti and Saxons, yet the Saxons were invaders of Britain.
The Red Dragon (Y Draig Goch) of Whales is the red one of the battling two released from under a mountain by the child Merlin. The red represented the people of Britain - the white of the pair, the enemies and invaders of Britain. In the story, the white has the upper hand in the fight at first, before the red gains triumph and kills the white. The invaders of Britain at the time were the Saxons (and the Angles and the Jutes... Germanic tribes, in general), who were taking over the (largely Romanised and Christianised) Celts of Britain, particularly England. The Red Dragon is said to still sleep under Mount Snowdon, and is shown on the Welsh flag. St George was of Roman descent, but was essentially 'heroed' and Sainted by the converted Anglo-Saxons for killing what was supposedly the last dragon in Britain (or England at least). This was not Y Draig Goch, to anyone's knowledge. Celtic Britain was not a dragon-slaying culture, but the invaders after were. No colour was neccessarily given of the slain dragon, but I thought the irony if it was also a white one would be great.