Fae Child

Plucking roasted meat from a bone, a young redhead plops a bite in his mouth. As he begins to pull another piece from the bone, a pudgy hand tries to snatch it from his fingers. Jerking his meal away from said hand, the redhead glowers at the toddler attached to the hand. "No, this is mine, Wales. I fed ye already," the redhead growls.

"Gimmie!" the toddler, Wales, whines, trying for a second time to grab a morsel from his elder brother.

A second boy, who pokes at the fire, turns his head and frowns at the redhead. "Give him some, Ireland, we have more than enough."

The redhead, Ireland, huffs and glares at the two before tugging off a scrap to give to Wales. "Here," he grumbles.

In response, Wales squeals happily and then, promptly stuffs the meat into his smiling maw.

Shifting away from the fire, another stick of meat in his hand, the boy grins at Ireland and Wales. "See there, that didn't kill ya, did it?" he teases.

Ireland takes a vicious bite from his meat and scowls at the other. "Hush up, Scotland!" he snaps.

Scotland only grins. "Here," he says, handing Ireland the latest stick of meat as he takes a seat next to him. Suddenly, the boys' dinner is interrupted by gurgling sounds from the back of the room.

"England's up," Ireland mumbles.

Scotland sighs and forces himself to his feet once more. "At least he's not crying," he replies ruefully.

"Mh-hmm," Ireland hums around his meal. As Scotland adjusts the last stick of meet pivoted by the fire, Ireland decides to take a look at England. He swivels his head around and is shocked to see several glowing orbs hovering over England's pallet. A half-eaten morsel falling out of his mouth due to his shock, Ireland doesn't dare to break his gaze as he reaches over and tugs on Scotland's tunic.

Scotland ignores him in favor of finding something that will preoccupy Wales and keep him away from the fire while he tends to England. When he does twist around at another insistent tug, Scotland scowls at the sight of Ireland's partially opened mouth. "Oi! You ain't a dog! Keep yer mouth closed," he orders.

Ireland's clover-green eyes finally rip away from the sight of England and the orbs. "What? Oh, sorry. But look!" he demands, pointing back to where their youngest brother lies.

Scotland lifts his head to see the shining balls hanging around England. "Oi!" Scotland yells, running at them. "Get 'way from my brother! He ain't yers!" he snarls as he bats away the tiny lights and lifts his baby brother into his arms. The creatures titter and approach again. "No!" Scotland shouts, waving his free arm at them while he struggles to hold the bairn in the other.

Suddenly, Ireland is racing towards Scotland and England. "Ye can't have him!" he cries, coming to chase away the fae as Scotland curls protectively around England. When they are gone, Ireland turns back to Scotland. "We need iron," he says.

Rocking the now frightened England, Scotland nods. "'Till then, ya are never ta leave 'im alone, understand?"

"Aye," Ireland says.

Relaxing, Scotland leans against the wall, a breathless laugh leaving his lips. Staring into his youngest brother's emerald-green eyes, he whispers, "Ain't ya just a special one?"

Now calm, England reaches out with one small hand to brush his brother's cheek, cooing all the while. Cooing as if everything was the same as always and he hadn't been a moment away from being abducted by the woodland fae that lived outside their home.

Keeping a firm grip on his brother's wrist, Ireland doesn't stop at all when England stumbles; it's not until they reach their little home that he begins to slow. "Wales!" Ireland shouts as they near the doorway. The boy pokes his head out and, when he sees them, his eyes grow drastically before he scrambles to meet them outside. When he's within reach, Ireland grabs Wales by the arm and hisses, "I thought I told ye ta watch him!"

Wales's lip trembles for a moment before his face turns red and he yanks his arm back. "You and Scotland never do! Why should I?" he demands.

Ireland lets go of England's wrist, but, before he can stray, he quickly grasps the back of the child's neck. "We don't–" he starts indignantly, only to stop before he can truly get into a tirade. Eying Wales menacingly, he leans in very close to the boy's face and snarls, "Who the hell do ye think watches 'im when ye two a' sleeping?"

Wales flushes and stares at his feet. "I thought–"

Butting in, Ireland hisses, "Ye didn't think, that's what."

Wales jerks his head up and stares at Ireland in astounded silence for all of a second before his faces bleeds scarlet. "I HATE you!" he shrieks before running away.

Ireland gapes. He spins around and makes a grab for his brother. "Wales!" he shouts, but the boy is gone. Ireland sighs. Shoulders slumping as he desperately scans the horizon, Ireland hopes Wales doesn't get himself into any trouble. However, a soft sniveling soon interrupts his worry-wrought thoughts. Ireland only has to glance to his side to realize its England. Kneeling down in front of his brother, Ireland asks in a whisper, "What's wrong?"

Scrubbing at his eyes England hiccups. "'S my fault!"

"What?" Ireland gasps.

Sniffling, England stutters, "I-If I-I hadn't-t gone w-with the fae y-you an' Wales wouldn't be f-fightin'!"

Ireland swears and brings England into his arms. "No, it's not yer fault," he says.

Struggling to escape Ireland's arms by shoving at his chest to break the hug Ireland has him trapped in, England wails, "It is!"

Letting go of England just long enough for the boy to take a step back, Ireland takes his brother's face in his hands. "Look at me England," he demands.

A pair of emerald-green eyes meets his clover-green. "I want ye ta pay attention now, I'm only going ta say this once and never 'gain," he says. After receiving a nod from England, he tells his brother, "Whatever happens, nay matter how bad things get, nay matter what goes down 'tween us, this, this interest the fae have in ya is never your fault. Do you understand?"

England swipes away the last of his tears and murmurs, "Uh-huh."

Ireland grins and scoops England into his arms with ease.

"Great, now how 'bout we make some dinner fer when Scotland an' Wales comeback?" Ireland asks, tickling the little boy's stomach.

England squirms and giggles. "Yeah!" he agrees.

"Scotland!" England shouts.

The teenager lifts his head to see his sprouting brother hanging from a tree with several glowing orbs hovering around him. Scotland grunts. He then debates about whether he should shoot an arrow at England or not. It would serve him right, he thinks; sitting in the tree like a bird. England huffs and whispers something to the creatures hanging around him. Scotland's fingers itch, he knows he has no right to order his wee brother around anymore, but he really wishes the boy had made friends with anything else. Hell, a bloody pansy unicorn would have been better than those devils up there.

"Ya know, they tried ta steal ya 'way when ya were a bairn," Scotland says.

"What?" England frowns. Before Scotland can say more, the fae are whispering furiously to his brother. The child's eyes go large and he brings a hand to his mouth. Suddenly, he's glaring at Scotland. "You're just jealous I made friends with them and none of you lot ever did!" he accuses.

Scotland gapes for all of a moment before he lets loose a hysterical laugh. "Gonna believe those conniving devils over ya own flesh an' blood? I may be a lot o' things, but a liar ain't one o' them," he counters.

For a moment, England looks uncertain and Scotland almost believes the boy will see the truth, but then one of those things says something to him and the child's eyes go hard as he whispers something new under his breath. "Go away! You bastard!" England screams, hot sparks shooting from his fingertip.

A few manage to hit him and Scotland can't help but yelp as his shirt lights on fire. Batting away the magic flames, Scotland makes a hasty retreat from the clearing his brother and the fae occupy. When far away from his wee brother and the little devils, he silently curses the fae. They've taught England magic.

Without a word, France advances on England. Grabbing him by his collar, France howls, "What 'ave you done with mon cher Mathieu!"

England struggles against the older nation's hold. "What are you talking about!" he yells back. Jerking the nation around so he can see over his shoulder, England's gaze meets the violet-eyed gaze of a little boy. The child is remarkably similar to Canada, but a few things are off, such as his eyes. They are violet, not the icy-blue that England is familiar with. The texture of the child's hair is off too. It's wavy, like France's, instead of straight, like America's. What's most noticeable, however, is the aurora of the boy. It's forgettable. So unlike that of Canada's, which demanded everyone to look at him, that it's almost worth laughing at – if only because the thought that someone believed they wouldn't notice is so preposterous it's amusing.

"Who's that, France?" he asks.

"Don't you dare lie to me!" France hisses, bringing his face so close to England's that he can see the faintest of crows feet beginning at the corner of the other nations' blue eyes… "I saw your – your demons with mon ange the other day!"

"My–" But, before England finish his incredulous reply, he stops abruptly. Demons, France said. England's body goes cold. Demons, devils, monsters, those are all names his fae have been called over the years. Face red from the embarrassment of knowing his friends were to blame, England babbles, "I-I don't know what you're talking about."

France's eyes flare with fury as he searches England's own, but slowly they turn to heartbreak when they see the horror and shame in England's gaze.

"You don't know anything at all?" he asks.

England shakes his head. "The fae don't tell me all their secrets, he whispers. Sometimes… Sometimes, though, I've found the mortals' tales of them to have truth. Especially the ones that come to blond little boys."

France's expression only crumbles even more. "I see," he whispers letting go of England.

England does sympathize with France, he can't imagine what he would do if the fae take Alfred. Yet, he knows, always has, that stealing children is what the fae do. On top of that, England understands he has no control over this or what they do with the children they steal.

"Papa?" Canada, who's not Canada, England reminds himself, whispers.

France turns, putting a smile on his face for the child. "Oui, mon cher?"

The child bites his lip. "Is-Is something wrong?"

France's eyes are a sorrowful blue as he goes and lifts the little child into his arms. "Non, non, everything is fine, mon petit." Giving the boy's pale cheek a kiss, he murmurs, "You are fine."

England knows, though, Canada is not. The real one has been stolen, only to be replaced with a stranger. France has lost a child and gained another in the process. Hopefully, England prays, this one will not disappear.

One evening, situated around the fireplace with his three older brothers and his little brother sound asleep in his lap, England says, "Canada is a changeling child."

Scotland is the first to respond. "I always thought something was off about the boy."

England nods his head in agreement, but he doubts his brother ever noticed.

Ireland hums thoughtfully as he downs a swig of the whiskey Scotland has brought with him to share and tells England, "Ye were almost one. A changeling, I mean."

England blinks and looks between his older brothers, but he spots no deception. It dawns on him that Scotland hadn't been lying that time, for a moment England feels guilty; he brushes the feeling away seconds later in order to pursue the topic. "Really?" he says.

"Aye, 's why we kept such a close eye on ya those early years," Scotland explains.

"Oh, why didn't they ever take me once I was older?" England frowns.

Ireland grins at his brother. "Ye were a fair wee bairn, by far the fairest of us all. The fae like adorable, fair-haired children, but a half-grown one? Not as much, not nearly as cute," he teases.

England flushes and looks down in his lap, his eyes soften as he traces Northern Ireland's face. "I guess… Thanks for not letting them take me. I can't imagine what they did with poor Matthew," he murmurs.

Wales reaches around Scotland to clap a hand on England's shoulder. "It was no trouble, you are our brother after all," he says and Ireland and Scotland chime in their agreement, causing England to flush.

"You lot really aren't half-bad for brothers," England compliments, a tiny smile on his lips.

England's older brothers laugh and grin back at him, passing the whiskey to him for a swig.

A couple of notes: in ancient/medieval times people thought faeries abducted babies and young children. Boys and blonds especially (little England and Canada being both), so people had to watch their little kids really well also they thought having iron with you would ward off would be abductor faeries. If anything else needs to be clarified you can PM me or leave your question in a review.

Thank you for reading!

EDITED: 2/15/17