This is my first Hetalia fanfiction, and I'm pretty happy with how it turned out!
I warn you, it's probably full of historical inaccuracies as I know NOTHING about the time period of Old Britain and whatnot. Honestly, all my knowledge comes from the movie 'King Arthur' and a fictional book on King Arthur that I read. And I only read half of it. Still, the idea for this fic hit and it just wouldn't let up so....
*Disclaimer
I don't own Hetalia or the personifications it created. Just one personification that I created for this story. KK?
This Magic of Ours
The thing that England always remembered about his Mother, was how free she was. How all of her movements were loose and unrestricting, how when she walked it was like watching an elegant river flowing, and how her wild spirit burst forth at unexpected times to dazzle those around her. Her appearance was that of a woman with long, flowing blonde hair, curling into red-gold curls towards the middle. Large, luminescent green eyes, full of age old knowledge and wisdom and a deep mystery that no one would ever be able to fully understand. Her dress was that of a Druid priestess, flowing, mystical garments that wrapped about her body. Her beauty, her strength, her wisdom, her somewhat in concerting taste for bloodshed, and her unyielding will, all made her a nation to remember.
England was born in a time of turmoil for his Mother. Her various nations were warring, fighting each other, and she was in turmoil, with the vast Roman Empire constantly battling for her affections, sprinkling his beliefs upon her people and undermining her authority.
It was during such trysts that England was born.
A small child, born of the mystic druid beliefs of his Mother and the small but ever-increasing influence of his illegitimate Catholic father. A small child, torn by conflict, living in a nation of war.
Little Britain.
The new nation was brought up strictly by his Mother, in a world that was nothing but wondrous to a child. A world of magic and spirits and magnificent creatures unknown to the rest of the world. Britain grew up in a world of wonder. The spirits of the wild were his caretakers, the Faerie Folk his playmates, and the Unicorns, the griffins, and even the fierce dragons were his ever faithful guardians.
And the spells!
Magic was everywhere, and Little Britain's Mother was a priestess of the highest calibre. The spells and enchantments that surrounded the little nation's youth would have turned even the most experienced spellcaster's head.
Britain's world was a world of magic, a world of beauty.
A child's dream...
Little Britain, for awhile, knew nothing of the internal turmoil suffered by his Mother, or the conflict that his mere existence brought her. He was a new nation, born within her, but not completely of her beliefs and teachings, with Catholic values seeded deep within him. While his days consisted of mysticism and Fair Folk, his dreams were filled with rosaries and crosses.
"Mama," asked Little Britain, walking beside his mother in a lush forest, his Unicorn friend walking beside him. "Mama, why do I always hear screaming? Why are our people upset?"
The great Celtic nation, Gwendolyn, winced at her son's words.
"Little one, our people are just confused right now. They don't know what to believe in. Mama will fix it, don't worry," she cooed, ruffling her son's hair. However, Little Britain's eyes continued to fill with tears. "Mama, it hurts...it hurts inside..." he whispered, clutching his chest and ignoring the Unicorn nuzzling at his side. Gwendolyn felt a pang of pain go stab at her chest, feeling her child's discomfort in her own bosom. She spread her arms wide and gathered Little Britain to her, clutching him to her chest and muttering soothing words into his ears.
"Hush my child," she whispered, stroking his long blonde hair softly, "Peace will come soon."
But even as she spoke the words, Gwendolyn could feel her stomach curdle at the lie in them.
Her land was in utter turmoil, her culture was dying, and battle lines were being drawn everywhere. The Celtic were dying out, and as that cursed Roman bastard spread his influence, her people were being labelled falsely as savages, subject to cruelty at the hands of the 'mighty, noble, Catholics,' and with their religion and beliefs constantly being undermined.
It was a trying time for the woman, and with each passing minute, she could feel the strength leaving her bones, the conflict tearing at her tissue, and the hate, the fear, the stench of never-ending battle, bringing forth a constant flow of tears from her eyes.
But she hid this from her child.
"Hush child," she said again, "Mama will protect you, and we'll all be safe."
////////////////////////////////////////__________
"Child! What are you doing!"
Britain turned around, holding the knife rebelliously and glaring at Gwendolyn.
"I'm cutting my hair Mama, it's too long," said the boy seriously, but looking very unsure as he held the knife close to his long, blonde ponytail. Gwendolyn was stunned, speechless.
"But why?"
Little Britain swallowed, turning away from his mother.
"Father....Father sais that men shouldn't wear their hair this long. Only women wear their hair like this," he muttered.
A chill ran through Gwendolyn and her vision went red.
That damned, accursed, Catholic SWINE! May the Goddesses curse his vile nation a thousand times over. The bastard was tainting her beloved son, Artair. How she longed to have that Roman bastard's head on a pike on her wall!
"Child," said Gwendolyn slowly, trying to quell her rising temper, "That man is not your 'Father'. You should not listen to what that bas- to what he sais. It is not right."
Artair whirled around. "Says who!" he said angrily. "Alot of what he sais makes a lot of sense! I mean, have you even bothered to read the Bible or go to any of the churches that he has set up? Mother, if you look, God is everywhere, and we should recognize him or we'll go to Hell...,"
Gwendolyn did not hear the rest of her beloved son's rant. She had closed her eyes, and her ears. She did not wish to hear, not wish to see, her beloved son being taken over by that Roman bastard. She did not wish to see her beliefs and practises being undermined even in the country of her son.
And so, Little Britain finished his rant, cut his hair, and walked away.
Leaving his steadily weakening mother to cry alone.
////////////////////////////////////////////////
Artair stood in the woodlands, staring curiously into the gloom.
He was confused.
In recent years, he'd become very enamoured with the teachings of the Roman Empire and the Catholic church. It was all so interesting, so profound, tales of sacrifice and repentance, and punishment for sin. It made his previous beliefs, that of little fairy creatures and magic so childish.
And yet....
Artair watched as a cautious faerie flitted out of the gloom, hiding behind trees and staring at the youth with anxious eyes.
"It's okay," he said softly, "You can come." Just when had the Fair Folk become afraid of him?
The faerie immediately zoomed towards Little Britain, followed by a dozen of its kin. Artair regarded the folk warily, feeling conflicted about their arrival, torn between missing his old friends, and the new beliefs that he had familiarized himself with.
Artair...whispered one of the Faerie. It has been too long little one.
Where have you been? Said another.
It has been scary, the people no longer believe in us...said a third sadly.
A twinge of guilt went through Artair, and he bit his lip, stiffening under the feather light touches of the Faerie, his companions since the day he had been born.
Artair...? inquired a Faeire worriedly.
With a scowl, Little Britain waved his hands about wildly, causing the Faerie to scatter.
"Go away!" he spat. "You...you aren't...this isn't logical! You don't make sense! God didn't create 'Fairy folk'. You're not real!" The young nation spun away from the stunned creatures, stalking away through the previously serene woodlands. Inner turmoil and conflict boiling through him. Just what was right? Who was he? What did he believe in?
Little Britain dragged his sleeve across his eyes, surprised and ashamed by the wetness leaking from them.
True men didn't cry.
True men didn't believe in Fairies.
"And my name isn't Artair anymore. It's Arthur!"
//////////////////////////////////////////////
Arthur had not been to see his Mother in a long time.
In truth, it was probably unusual for a nation of his age to be so separate from his mother country. In terms of age, Arthur was probably only twelve, very young, to be so separate from his founder.
But then again, he had been spending much of his time with his other parent figure, the Roman Empire and more specifically, his subordinate, the Catholic Church.
Arthur adjusted his clothing, the outfit of a young English nobleman; he had long since abandoned the flowing, Celtic robes of his youth. Slowly, he opened the door to his Mother's house, unnerved by the utter silence within.
"Mother?" he said.
Silence.
"Mother?" he tried again, taking a step inside the house. The floor creaked horribly under his foot, and a cloud of dust rose up, causing the nation to sneeze and cough. As Arthur rubbed the dust from his eyes, he became aware of how, neglected his Mother's house looked. The paint was peeling the roof sagged, water damage was everywhere and holes in all the walls allowed a constant flow of wind to pass through the house.
"Mother..." whispered Arthur, his steps quickening as he ran to his Mother's room. The young nation opened the door quickly. He drew in a sharp breath at what he saw.
His Mother, the great, wild, free-spirited and sometimes bloodthirsty nation Gwendolyn, lay on her bed, pale, listless, with once red-gold hair silver and brittle, and skin dry and stretched tight across her prominent bones. She opened her eyes slowly at Arthur's voice, green eyes blurry, unfocused, lifeless.
"Artair?" she croaked, her voice weak and raspy. "My child, is that you?"
"It's Arth-," The young nation stopped himself, swallowing and replying, "Yes Mother, it's me." Something flickered in Gwendolyn's eyes and she sighed.
"My little Artair...no, it is not. Arthur, you call yourself, right?"
Arthur started, surprised that his Mother knew of his other alias. "Yes...yes I do. It is more-,"
"Roman, I presume," said the weakened woman dryly.
"No," said Arthur, shaking his head, "It's more British."
Gwendolyn lifted her head weakly, staring at her little nation curiously. "British?" she inquired.
"Yes Mother," said Arthur, pride lighting up in his green eyes. "I have been working hard, I am trying to unite all of our lands into one kingdom; Great Britain. If we all stand as one, there will be no more war! It is like you said, peace will come soon, and I'll be at the head of it...Mother?"
Arthur rushed to his Mother's side; Gwendolyn had fallen back against the pillows of her bed, eyes closed and entire body deflated.
"Mother?!" exclaimed Arthur in horror.
"My...child....," gasped Gwendolyn, lifting a shaking hand to stroke her son's cheek. "So big....so fast. You will...make a fine, strong nation. But please...I must...I have things to ask of you, before I-,"
"Mother, why are you talking like that?" said Arthur, panicked.
"Shush child, I'm talking. I ask that you, my little Artair-Arthur, remain, as you say, British, and do not let that goddamn Roman bastard taint and dictate you. Stay strong, alright, my little boy?" said the Gwendolyn with a smile. Arthur nodded frantically. "Yes Mother I will, but-,"
"And secondly...Artair, don't ever refer to me as 'Mother' again. It hurts like you would not believe. I am your Mama, and always will be."
Arthur took hold of his Mother's hand. "Yes Mama," he whispered, the word that he had not uttered in so long tasting like honey on his tongue and bringing back countless memories of simpler, happier times.
"And lastly,"
Gwendolyn sat up in her bed, eyes glowing with a luminescent green light that hadn't shone for decades. She clutched Arthur's hand tightly with her own withered one.
"Artair, Arthur, soon to be Great Britain, under no circumstances shall you forget those from whence you came. Under no circumstances shall you forget those who were with you from the beginning. You must never forget the Fair Folk, or the Unicorns, or the spirits, or the dragons. You must never forget the magic that surrounded you in your youth. The magic, and the creatures, were with you from the beginning and they are with you always."
Arthur swallowed, remembering his treatment of the Faerie he had met in the forest, so long ago. Remembering how he had distanced himself from the magic, ashamed of his involvement in it. A deep pang of guilt went through the nation, as well as a feeling of emptiness and loneliness at the friends he had lost. At the loss of that feeling he had had in his youth, of being one with everything, of the flow of energy between all living things.
The magic, he had lost.
"Yes Mama, I understand," he said softly.
Gwendolyn smiled and sank back down.
"Good boy," she whispered, before closing her eyes one final time.
///////////////////////////////////////
Britain, or England as he now referred to himself, for simplicity sake, looked around the empty prairie area, somewhat in awe of this vast land, still untouched by civilization and war.
The New World.
England took a deep breath, relishing the clean, pure air that entered his lungs. The smell of nature and the free spirit of the wild prevalent, with no human taint to spoil the scent. The flow of energy was still going strong, from the swaying trees and plants, to the small woodland creatures, to the larger mammals that preyed upon them. The circle of life was going strong, and the magic and energy with it.
Arthur hadn't felt like this since the days with his Mother.
The great nation looked down at the little boy by his side, the young one that both he and France had espied in the lonely field. This little boy, he knew, was the representation of this young land. This young land who was still filled with magic and wonder. The second he saw him, England knew that he had to make him his, that he had to take this little boy under his wing. That he had to make sure...that this little boy...kept his magic...
Arthur smiled down at the child, whom he had named America, little Alfred, and took the boy's hand. The boy smiled up at England, a wide, blue-eyed smile with a thousand dreams and wishes trapped within its gaze.
Yes, England would keep this boy, and make sure that America never betrayed his lands, his belief, and his founder like Arthur had done to his Mother. He'd make sure that the Magic stayed with Alfred forever.
That they would be together forever.
//////////////////////////////////////////////
"Hey....England...I want freedom after all," said America, staring at his 'big brother; with smouldering blue eyes. "I'm not a child anymore, nor your little brother. Now I am seceding from you!"
Agony pierced the British nation, staring in horror at Alfred, his little brother, whom he had tried so hard to protect....
"I won't allow it!" he cried, charging at America. His vision blurred, and he barely noticed as his bayonet sent America's rifle flying. It was only with the gasp from Alfred's troops, did he realised that he now had his bayonet point directly at his former little brother's forehead, poised to strike.
England stared admonishingly at the young man. "You're incompetence is outstanding, you twat," he muttered, hands shaking as he held the weapon. England faintly heard a command being issued at the troops behind Alfred, but his eyes were only for the young nation before him. The young nation who was staring at him with disbelief, uncertainty, sadness, and still, that blue eyed gaze with a thousand dreams and wishes and hopes.
That damn magic that America had always had.
England lowered the weapon.
"There's no way I can fire....fool...." he muttered, gritting his teeth. Another pang of agony tore threw him and he dropped his weapon, falling to the ground.
"Dammit! Why! Shit!" sobbed Arthur, covering his face with his hand as tears ran from his eyes. Why? He had only wanted to protect him, to make sure that America wouldn't turn out like he had, wouldn't turn his back on where he had come from....
And now, Alfred was leaving him. Just like that.
Was this how his Mother had felt?
"England..." he heard America whisper from above him, "You used to be so big..."
Yes, England used to be so big. He used to have dreams just as big as Alfred's, but they were gone now. His last dream had been to raise a loyal, strong America that respected his roots and didn't succumb to grandeur and power. Now that dream was gone.
No...England was no longer as big as he once had been.
///////////////////////////////////////////
Yet another World Summit.
England sat in his seat, staring with contempt at the bickering nations. Always fighting, it was so childish! Of course, he wasn't one to talk, as he was always fighting with France, and more recently, America.
Ah, Alfred.
England turned to look at the young but powerful nation, talking animatedly with Japan while simultaneously eating a very unhealthy looking hamburger. Arthur smiled wryly.
Yes, America had left England and severed all ties, but he still had that magic, that drive of dreams and hopes that burned in his eyes and caused others to look up to him. It wasn't the same magic Arthur grew up with, but it was a magic that he was proud to see grow and prosper in his adopted little brother.
The magic of his youth, how he missed it.
England rose stiffly from his seat, excusing himself from the meeting (it wasn't going anywhere anyways) and walked out into the hallway.
Arthur leaned against the wall, green eyes closing as he sighed. He was so tired, the recession, among other things, was giving him many problems, and he had no shortage of other issues breathing down his neck. That damn Prime Minister wasn't doing anything to help, and since when had the Queen done anything to help the country? Not anytime in modern times. It was all bloody aggravating, and it was times like these that England truly felt the weight of his age.
Artair....
Arthur jumped in surprise as he heard a soft voice whispering a rather unused name.
Little Artair....
Arthur blinked, rubbing his eyes as the air in front of him shimmered.
So big now, eh Artair?
Arthur's eyes widened as a Faerie appeared in front of his eyes, then another, and another.
The Fair Folk....he thought with a smile, feeling them flit about his head and land on his shoulders.
Arthur jumped slightly as he felt something nudge against his side, and he looked down to see his old Unicorn friend nuzzling him. Arthur smiled and ran his hand through his mane.
His friends, these magical creatures, that had never truly left him, that still reappeared from time to time, and that he still clung to as a reminder of his past.
Because, even though he was old, had been modernized, and lived in a world that dismissed Magic as nonsense, England would never forget where he came from and he would never again dismiss the land of spirits and mystics as fable. He still socialized with his magical friends, and he frequently practised the spells that his Mother had taught him so long ago.
Because though the years would pass, this magic, this deep, ancient magic, would never die.
And so, deep within Arthur, Artair still lives.
Hm....I think the ending was a bit rushed, but all in all, I like how this turned out.
This fic was inspired by a picture that I saw in a youtube video. It was a drawing of young England leading a unicorn through a forest and it made me really sad for some reason. I had no idea why, until I realized that England was probably England back in the time of Arthur and the Druids and stuff, and he had lost all that magic as he grew older. I also realized that this was probably where those magical creatures that only he sees come from, and why he has a habit of practising dark magic. This plot bunny to explore more of this side of him hit me, and I was like 'Well, what the hey.'
I would really like some reviews for this, but don't kill me for historical inaccuracies! I have no idea what actually went on during that time period!
Please review! Or Arthur will send that cursed chair to you!
xoxo, natcat5 ;p