Inspired by Russian mythology, Neil Gaiman's Nevermore, Ekaterina Sedia's The Secret History of Moscow, and Catherynne M Valente's Deathless. If you're familiar with any or all of these, you might have an idea of what's coming.
-o-
England was not having a particularly good day.
He lost half of it on the flight to Moscow, which had been delayed at departure and then redirected due to inclement weather to St. Petersburg, so he was stuck taking a three hour train ride to the Russian capital. By the time he'd arrived he was exhausted and short-tempered and that's when Russia called to inform him that they would not be able to meet tonight, something about another meeting and conflicting schedules, he apologized, but the meeting had been rescheduled for ten tomorrow morning if he had nothing else planned…?
Of course he had nothing else planned, he had come only for the meeting, why else would he set foot in this god-forsaken ice box? But he gritted his teeth and smiled and told him that ten tomorrow was fine, no he wasn't upset, these things happened sometimes, he understood. Then they said goodbye and England snapped his phone shut, stalking off to find his hotel room and a stiff drink. And just as he settled both of those things, his cell went off again and he swore to god if it was Russia saying that they could have their meeting tonight after all he was going to tell the arctic nation to piss off. But the caller ID read 'Turn the Volume Down', so he sighed and picked it up against his better judgment: America, loud and exuberant, so I heard you were in town, me too, you wanna go out for drinks? England nearly said no, should have said no, but there was something rather depressing about drinking alone in one's room, not to mention pathetic, and he figured he had nothing better to do. (Which was likely a lie. Given time, he could probably think of something. Like reviewing the notes for his meeting tomorrow. Or double checking how the Euro was holding. Or listing all the reasons France had ever given for him hate him, and some he hadn't.)
He scribbled down the address on a scrap of hotel stationary and flagged down a cab, and shortly found himself in what had to be the worst part of Moscow, at a bar that barely amounted to a hole in the wall. Going in he quickly spotted America—not difficult, given that the blonde was seated at the bar demanding to know why they didn't have any good beers, in English no less. England ordered a whiskey, thus accidentally attracting America's attention prematurely and getting himself loudly introduced as a friend. He abruptly decided that he wanted a scotch too, please, yes thank you, and one for America as well, and fairly dragged the younger nation over to a deserted booth. Within five minutes he learned that America had already been drinking that night, earlier, with Russia—and that stung a bit, like he wasn't important enough, and he promptly drowned that thought with his whiskey and ordered another. America chased his scotch with a beer and they got to talking, about the disarmament treaty America just signed with Russia, the economy, immigration, until America finished his third beer and declared himself through with politics for the night, grabbing England's arm to announce that they were going clubbing instead and that if he said another word about elections or allies or nukes he'd get a nice punch in the face. All of this very loud, the whole damn bar was looking at them, and through his embarrassment England realized that America was drunk before him for once.
His vicious sense of triumph was quickly obliterated after racing America through three shots of tequila at some equally dingy club that played a bizarre mix of pop and metal, all American, and America was laughing, dancing, singing at the top of his lungs in direct competition with the speakers, all gold and sparkling blue eyes like the clearest sky, a smile so bright it practically hurt to look at.
They followed the crowd out at closing, three am, and fuck if it wasn't snowing in late October. They couldn't seem to catch a cab—America hollered at the last one that glided past them for another little group, shouting something about anti-American bias, the fuck is this, the Cold War?! So they staggered down a block or two to try for a cab there, England recounting a time when he had kicked France's ass again and America laughed in all the right places. That was when the beam of the cop's flashlight had cut across them like a knife, and it was scowls and papers and 'you both will come with us' and America decked one, England heard the man's jaw crack even over the blonde's "Fuck you, Imma 'merican citizen!" and he might have socked the other one, he wasn't sure, but his hand hurt so probably. They took off running before the officers recovered, stumbling through back alleys trying to avoid the fading shouts.
Then America tripped over a stray cat and went sprawling into the snow and muck and that's where England was currently, trying to stifle his laughter while America growled obscenities.
"Mangy fleabag," he finished as the offending feline bolted from sight. England giggled and then winced at how undignified he sounded.
America paused, listening intently. "I think we lost 'em." He grinned. "Well, that was fun."
England scoffed disdainfully, hoping he'd be able to recover the damage from the giggles. Maybe America hadn't noticed. "Yes, well, I think we've lost us."
"That doesn't make sense," America laughed, like crystal wind chimes and England's stomach twisted. He ignored it, turning to peer up at the walls of the surrounding buildings.
"No really, America, where are we?" he said, moving to read the street sign. Which was blank. Helpful.
"Dunno. In Moscow somewhere." America shrugged. "Let's get back to the main street, snag a cab."
Except they couldn't seem to find the main street, or anything else apart from the side alleys. They tramped around in the snow for what felt like a good half hour, growing steadily colder until finally America caved and said he'd ask the next person they saw.
The next person they saw didn't look like he wanted to be seen.
"Hey!" America called out, spotting the figure seated on the low wooden crate.
Said figure jumped, then shrank back into the shadow of the building, his dark clothes blending neatly, obscuring his form.
"Wait, don't—fuck, zhditye! U menya est' vopros vam!" America shouted, pace quickening, the Russian words sounding strange off his lips. England hurried as well, but America reached the figure first, practically caging them against the wall. Under the tangle of unkempt brown hair peered a pair of nervous grey eyes; England saw them shift, calculating the distance to the next ally.
"I wouldn't, if I were you," he warned the man—he was fairly certain it was a man—making certain to pronounce the Russian properly. "We only want to know—"
"My god, you can see me," the stranger whispered abruptly, so quietly England almost missed it.
"Pardon me—?"
"You can actually- heh, oh god, you can see me," he repeated, louder and with a slightly hysterical note to it, as if he was surprised by the revelation. England blinked at him, not entirely sure what to make of the reaction. Was he on drugs?
"Of course I can see you, why wouldn't I?" America answered with a slightly confused smile. "Hey, listen, do you know how to get outta here?"
The man sidled over a few inches, half out of the shadows and England noticed that his attire was absolutely horrid: battered dress pants patched with colorful squares of cloth, scuffed beyond belief leather shoes, and no less than three coats, one which looked vaguely military, one that seemed to be comprised of entirely of pockets, and the third that looked almost Japanese, light and tattered and fraying over all the others. "Outta here?" the man repeated cautiously.
"Yeah, you know." America gestured vaguely at their surroundings. "Outta here."
England frowned, because surely that was far too imprecise an answer to be of any use, but before he could open his mouth with a more helpful response, the man gave America a calculating look before wondering, "And what would you trade me for it?"
"Trade you…?" England elbowed America in the side and whispered to him in English, "He's after a bribe, you git."
"Oh! Yeah, okay, hold on." America dug through his pockets and pulled out a fist-full of things, mostly crumpled up rubles and a few dollars and—
"That," the man pronounced, indicating at a small enamel pin of the American flag, completely ignoring the wrinkled bills.
"What? But—okay, whatever, sure." The pin exchanged hands and the man tacked it onto one of his coats with dirt-encrusted fingers, admiring it happily for a moment before turning his wary gaze back to America.
"Follow this alley down, there, past the fire escape," he said, pointing it out to them. England wasn't sure if he meant the first or second one. "Turn right, go past two alleys, first on the left. Should say Churaevka on the street sign. Stop just before the last sheet of light, turn three times clockwise and then step through. Got it?"
"Got it," England repeated faintly, trying to sort out the instructions in his head, the odd buzzing sensation making it difficult. Next to him, America frowned, gaze towards the snowy ground. "Wait, the hell is that supposed to mean?"
The man was gone, vanished from the ally. Both nations stared for a moment, baffled, before America shrugged. "You think he wouldn't have gotten caught the first time, if he could move like that," he said conversationally, shifting back into English. He turned and started down the alley; England stared.
"Where are you going?" he demanded.
"Back to the main road, like the guy said," America called over his shoulder.
England glanced about, swore, and caught up, rubbing his arms in the cold. Now that the thrill had worn off… "But he didn't say anything about a main road. You did. He said, uh…" There was something incredibly important in what the man had just said too, but hell if he could think of it.
"Well, he couldn't have meant anything else," America replied, with such certainty that England believed him, long enough that he followed the blonde in silence, trying to figure out the important part of what the man said because it was right there, on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't…
"He said Churaevka, right?" America asked, studying the wooden board tacked to the side of the building, blue and gold letters peeling under the light dusting of snow.
"Yeah…" England came to stand by the sign as well, thoughts still on the man's words as America walked further down the street and cursed. Distracted, England turned to look at him.
"It's a dead end, the little bastard gave me wrong directions," the American scowled, crossing his arms and glaring at the brick wall that stood there definitely.
England glanced back to the sign. He sensed another one of the child's temper tantrum coming on. "You haven't finished the directions yet, America," he remarked off-handedly, and heard a bright 'oh yeah!' from behind him. Churaevka… Why did that sound so faintly familiar? Like a name gone over once before, one he was told to remember but never had a reason to. He could hear America mumbling in the background, 'the hell's a sheet of light, all I see is—oh, maybe he meant sheet of ice, pretty big-sized puddle—'
He was going to fuck up the whole riddle, England reflected, watching America return to just in front of the frozen puddle, light from a streetlamp fracturing across the ice's surface, filling it up and—
England froze, felt his breath catch in his lungs, little shards of icy night air. Riddle. The directions were—
"He said three times, right?"
"Wait, America, don't—!"
He lunged, grabbing America's arm in a desperate attempt to stop him, but America's strength had been too much for him ever since that bloody rebellion and the former colony dragged him all the way through the three turns. He lost his balance on the last one, too much too sharp with that much alcohol sloshing through his veins and he staggered, still clutching America's arm, and stepped on the frozen puddle.
Which promptly shattered and there was space beneath the ice; he shouted, tried to right himself using America and succeeded in pulling them both down.
And they fell through perfect darkness.
-o-
England shifted, blinked once, twice, and then sat up sharply, hand flying up to first his eyes—holy shit, it was dark, he couldn't see—then to his head because the sudden movement reminded him of roughly how much alcohol he consumed and he thought for a moment that he was going to throw up. He gulped down the chilly damp air and managed to calm his stomach, somewhat, and wondered if America's hangover was just as bad—
"America!" he hissed, groping through the black. The younger nation had fallen with him, what if he was hurt? Actually, why wasn't he hurt, they had fallen for what felt like quite a ways… His hand fell on something smooth and cool to the touch and England jerked his hand back like he'd been bitten, hissing more urgently, "America! America, are you—"
A groan, from somewhere in front of him, slightly to the right. "Ugh, Christ, what the fuck…" America grumbled. England heard him shift, then a panicked shout, "Holy fuck, I'm blind!"
England almost laughed. "It's just dark, America—"
"No shit Sherlock, but where's Texas?"
Scowling, England fumbled blindly for the glasses, avoiding whatever he had touched earlier, and found America's hand in the darkness, flinching away as he mumbled an apology. He received no response, but America's triumphant sound told him that the glasses had been rediscovered and donned, albeit somewhat dangerously if the 'fuck, nearly put my eye out, shit' was any indication.
There was a scrapping sound and light flared to life, blinding him. He threw up an arm to shield himself, head screaming protests at the change. "Fuck, America, give a man a warning before you put light directly into his hangover!"
"Sorry."
Eyes watering, he blinked back tears for a few moments, vision adjusting to the new light level. Now that he could see, he discovered that the smooth, cool thing he had touched earlier was a bone. One of many, the pile had been just out of range.
"Hell…" he breathed, inching backwards, recognizing the bones as human.
"What—shit!" America jumped and the light vanished; England felt a twinge of fear and his heart rate kicked up. Next to him America fumbled and brought the light back; the Brit glanced over to see that it was a lighter.
"What the hell is that?" the blonde demanded, the anger in his voice almost drowning out the tremor of fear.
"Proof that someone died," England answered dryly. "A couple of someones, by the looks of it." He climbed to his feet, felt his head blur like a window smear, and offered the blonde a hand. America took it and together they stood staring at the bone pile, no less than eight spines, Christ.
"Where are we?" America's question broke the silence as he turned away, holding the lighter above his head.
"I don't know," England lied. He had a suspicion, but he had been drunk last night and could be misremembering, stranger things had happened. This time, he didn't want to be right… "Why do you have a lighter?"
"What? Illegal to carry lighters in your country?" America countered. England saw the guilt just before he buried it.
"You've been smoking again!"
"So what?" America shot back.
"It's a disgusting habit."
"Dude, not like I'm going to get lung cancer. And don't even give me this, you used to smoke." America couldn't be bothered to look at him as he spoke. He walked away cautiously, grit crunching under the sole of his sneakers as he explored the edges of the darkness, finding an arching brick wall and running his hand along it.
"America, you will look at me when you speak to me," England dictated. "And I quit," he added petulantly.
"Maybe I like smoking," the other nation taunted, accidentally kicking another bone and flinching back a step.
England knew America was trying to get a rise out of him, he was above this sort of thing. "Next you'll tell me you like drinking heavily and smoking po—" He broke off abruptly, ears straining. What… was that noise?
"Smoking's not a gateway drug—"
"Hush!" he snapped, gesturing sharply. America, miraculously, quieted, something in the tone of his voice perhaps hinting that this was serious. Silence, and then… no, that wasn't growling. That would be too creepy.
"What the hell is that?" America asked quietly, that tremor again.
The sound intensified, unmistakable growling, and England had a realization, reaching America in three quick strides to look at his face. "Are you still afraid of the dark?" he demanded.
America flushed. "I am not afraid of the dark!"
The growling was steady now, not fading in and out, but a low roar that echoed through where ever they were. "Answer me, America, this is important," England insisted.
"I'm not afraid of the dark," he repeated stubbornly. Hesitated, and mumbled, "It's what's in the dark that freaks me sometimes…"
A snarl, loud and right there; America's eyes went wide, he grabbed England by the wrist and bolted. The lighter couldn't take it and flicked out—"FUCK!"—and they ran blindly, England couldn't wrench his hand free, the taller country practically dragging him down the tunnel, it sounded like a tunnel.
"Stop it, America, you're making it worse!" he shouted over the growls and snarls and ear-splitting howls. "You can't run away, it'll only chase you!" But America was too panicked to hear him and even as England yelled he felt fear curling in his own stomach, the horror of being hunted, of being chased by something big, with teeth and claws and glowing red eyes and damn it! He shook his head, tried to think of something else, and jaws snapped close, just behind him, he could feel the puff of air tug at his pants, and he shrieked, finding a burst of speed to bring him up even with America.
But there! Light at the end of the fucking tunnel! And England swore, and threw his weight into America, heard him scream in terror as they both crashed sideways, through the wall that wasn't really there; the howling cut off abruptly and they tumbled into snow.
For a moment neither of them moved, England lying half on top of America, his head against the younger nation's chest. He could hear his heart pounding…
America sat up, spilling England off of him. "What the fuck was that?!" he yelled, clambering to his feet, snow clinging to his clothes. "You fucking knocked me to the ground—that thing was chasing us!"
England looked up at him, saw his face flush, wild blue eyes, and thought of the so-called Boston Massacre, the helpless fury that covered America's face like a cloak. He shivered, snow soaking into his clothes. "Yes," he managed evenly, getting shakily to his feet. "And we were running towards the light at the end of the tunnel."
"No shit, that was the way out—!"
"No, it wasn't," England cut him off. "And I would appreciate it if you would stop yelling."
"You could've gotten us killed!"
"Possibly, but at least I wasn't running straight at death!" he retorted, hands tight in fists.
America paused. "What do you mean?"
Thank god he wasn't shouting at least. England wasn't sure his headache could take it. "We were running toward the light at the end of the tunnel," he repeated, trying to regain his composure. "What do they say? Don't go towards the light."
America glared at him. "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"
England massaged his temples. This would be fun. "America, we're in Faerie."
"What?" England repeated himself and America got that incredulous look on his face. "Ugh, seriously England? Give me a fucking break—"
"I am completely serious, America."
"Dude, I don't even believe in your fairy shit—"
"This isn't my 'faerie shit', it's probably Russia's, and quite frankly, America, Faerie doesn't care if you believe in it or not. Faerie doesn't believe in you, and will fuck you up anyway," he said firmly.
The blonde stared at him for a few moments. "How much did you have to drink last night?"
England threw his hands in the air, turning away in disgust. "Fine! I am not responsible for Faerie fucking you up."
"Whoa, hey, England, chill." America's hand on his shoulder turned him back gently, his voice relenting. England refused to meet his eyes, scowling at the ground past his shoulder. "I didn't mean to piss you off, it's just," he let out a shaky breath before continuing. "It's pretty hard to believe, you know? Well, maybe you don't know, but I'm mean, Fairy? Sounds pretty wild."
England kept his gaze fixed at a distance. "I don't know how much you remember from last night, considering you were more pissed than I was—"
"I wasn't pissed, I was having a good time."
"Drunk, America, you were more drunk than I was—"
"Bullshit!"
"Listen!" England cut him off before they could descend into an argument again. "We fell through a sheet of icefollowing three clockwise turns, in an alley named after a famous Russian mythical village, after trading a pin that symbolizes your country for directions 'outta here' from a rag-tag stranger that was surprised we could see him!" His voice had been steadily rising, until he was shouting at the top of his lungs. "How does that not scream 'faerietale' at you?!"
He broke off, jerking free of America's hand and stalking off a few feet, taking deep shuddering breaths. God, America was so clueless! Idiotic, half-brained ass too caught up in his own damn head to see what was right in front of him!
Or what was in front of him. England blinked, spotting the rusted sword that stuck up awkwardly out of the snow. He glanced around and felt his stomach sinking; decrepit swords and broken standards and arrow shafts littered the open field, buried under snow and time. And the large misshapen lumps scattered throughout the open space…
America had noticed as well. "Is this… a battlefield?"
England swallowed. "Was a battlefield, I think." Farther off, across the desolate plain, was a handful of buildings, tiny things that stood out sharply against the white backdrop. Sparing a look behind him, England saw more of the same field—the tunnel was nowhere to be seen but that sort of thing happened in faerietales, sometimes—and off in the distance a strand of trees, the start of a woods. Well, then, that made it pretty clear which direction they were going. He started off towards civilization.
"Where are you going?" America called.
He gestured, "Towards the houses." At least he presumed they were houses. They might not be. But he wanted to avoid the woods as long as possible. He had little doubt they would have to go through them at some point, one almost always had to go through the woods in this sort of situation, but given America's reaction to whatever had been after them in the dark, he would like for the other nation to adjust to the idea of Faerie first before he had to deal with the Woods and What Lives There.
Snow crunched as America bounded up next to him, dodging weaponry. "So you really think we're, uh, in Fairyland?"
England sighed, picking his way around a disturbingly person-shaped form under the blanket of white. "Yes, America, I really do think we're in Faerie." He didn't bother to correct him on the name.
"So, what does that mean, then?"
Being humored was one of England's least favourite things, but he opted to make use of it. "It means that we are very unsafe and likely to get fucked over at least once before we get out of here."
"What do you mean, 'fucked over'?"
Maybe if he scared him badly enough America would take this seriously. "Faerie messes with people. We don't live here; we don't know the rules—"
"You seem to have a pretty good idea of 'em," the blonde interjected.
"I have an idea, America, it's not the same as knowing. And anyways, this is… probably Russia's Faerie, I—"
"Russia's Faerie? You've gotta be kidding; Russia doesn't believe in—"
"I doubt he'd say anything, given how the rest of the world treats mie for it," England scowled. "But the fact is that we entered Faerie in Russia and while things never match up exactly, we're still probably in Russia—"
Screams, shrieks of dying agony, horses thundering around them, swords flashing in the sunlight, melee raging on every side- England stumbled back into America, gasping, his hand scrambling reflexively for the sword he knew wasn't hanging at his waist anymore. "Jesus Christ—" he found America's hand blindly and plunged forward, ducking under blades, an arrow whizzing past them, the din of the battle deafening, America was shouting but he couldn't hear him, only screams and death and his heart, hammering against his ribcage—
And they stumbled forward, staggering in the blinding snowlight; England lost his footing and collapsed to the ground retching, dull liquid pink splattering the pristine white and he looked and heaved again. He could hear America shouting, "What the fuck was that?! What the hell just happened?!" and he squeezed his eyes shut against the sound and light and sat back on his heels, listening to his frantic heart until it slowed somewhat.
America grabbed his shoulder, roughly drawing him out of his reprieve. "What the fuck just happened?" he demanded, all anger and confusion and in his face. England shoved him, hard, sending him sprawling to the ground.
"That," he growled, getting to his feet unsteadily. "is Faerie."
"That was a fucking nightmare!" America shouted, jumping to his feet. England frowned; where was his hangover?
"Exactly! Faerie isn't all sunshine and rainbows and unicorns!" Though it could be, if you went about it the right way, carefully. "It's dangerous, America! Please, for once in your fucking life, listen to me when I'm talking to you! We aren't safe! We could be killed—"
"We can't die," America replied crossly, but he had stopped shouting, thank god.
"Shut up, America, you really don't want people knowing that, and there are worse things than dying in Faerie."
That caught his attention. "Worse things?"
He sighed. "Yes, worse things. Like falling forever or getting trapped here forever or becoming one of Them or getting the life sucked right out of you—"
America cut him off, repeating, "We can't die—"
"So you're a never-ending food source, even better!" England yelled. "If you're going to argue every little point on a subject you know nothing about, then shut the fuck up and stop asking!"
America fell silent, sulking. God, England was too old for this; he hadn't done this since, what, Avalon? And that was centuries ago… He took a moment to get a hold of himself, pinching the bridge of his nose before continuing, "Listen, I'm sorry I yelled at you, but Faerie is dangerous and I don't think you quite understand—"
"Let's just get to the fucking houses," America snapped, turning on his heel and stalking off. England opened his mouth to tell him off and stopped himself, biting his lip, blowing out a harsh breath before he followed.
Damn idiot was going to get himself killed.
-o-
Far and away, something shifted, caught its attention and sparked its curiosity. After a moment, it began to move.