Hello everyone, Caz here! Some of you may have seen this before and that is because this is one of the pieces I did from the kink anon. This was originally in my 'Cupid's Quiver' section, but I decided to move it, as I felt it wasn't getting enough exposure there. Anyway, nothing has been changed, so if you find errors, please do not hesitate to inform me, but be aware, this is an old story and one of the only ones I actually completed that wasn't a one-shot. So with that, enjoy~
It had been a stupid idea. Looking back on those foggy memories, it had been stupid to think that the laws of magic would bend to any Earth law, even those of physics, and still work properly.
One day, he didn't exactly remember the date, he had been in his lair – no, I didn't say this wrong – just off the coast of Plymouth. Now, let me make something clear, this lair isn't like the ones you see in cartoon or movies. It isn't a tall, shadowy and decrepit castle with threatening cathedral spires that seem to stab into the night sky and has an ever-so-convenient-and-ever-so-clique clap of thunder and lightning every time someone said it didn't look that bad.
England's lair was a lot more humble and practical than that (seriously, could you imagine how much willpower it would take to not renovate that kind of castle?).
His lair was actually pretty homey in appearance, looking like a one floor bungalow with an expertly-tiled roof, a light cream colour scheme on the outside walls, five small windows which were dotted around the walls of the house and a tasteful oak door – not too grand, not too plain. It was something England would have bragged about- and he did, though he tended to umbrella it to all building made by the builders and craftsmen of his country – but it also had a darker interior.
Inside the above-ground floor it looked as homely as the outside, but once you got to a spiral staircase, which leads down, you started to see the true nature of the otherwise normal house. There were three or so underground rooms, all pitch black except for a few lonely candles which surround a magic circle painted on the floor in white paints, giving off an eerie glow due to the candle-light. Inside the circle are various strange symbols, some close to animals and other disfigured runic letters. Each room was like this, the only difference being the runic symbols which only someone taught in the magical arts could understand and differentiate from either being black or white magic… and the large amount of mirrors which covered the walls of one of the rooms.
Why are there mirrors on the walls? I hear you ask. Well, this is part of an experiment. To simplify things this room is the White (magic) room where the magic circle inside could be used to conduct spells of healing, good fortune or, in this case, wealth.
England had been in recession for around four years now and, with all the political dealings seeming to become increasingly useless, the British personification had stooped to desperate measures. He had come here, dressing in his precious warlock robes, to his semi-hidden air which no other country knew about, even the perverted frog, to cast a spell of wealth onto his people and get them out of recession. He knew a good spell for that, but the problem was that a wealth spell only worked on one target at a time, meaning that if England wanted his people out of recession he would have to put the spell on every single one of them, which wouldn't be possible.
In the end he had come up with a plan,
If I hit myself with the wealth spell all my people will be affected at one time and I won't waste as much energy! That's brilliant me!
Of course, the self-complimenting had gone on a tad bit longer than that but I'll cut that out for you. Anyway, this is why so many mirrors, which had been bought from a warehouse, now covered the walls. It would be the easiest way as wealth spells could not be inflicted on one self, so is the curse of these spells.
And now, with everything prepared, the magic book with the spells, the robes on and the magic circle checked for any flaws, of which there weren't any, England started reciting the spell, which had been written in Gaelic,
"Sultuilt piseag, sultuilt piseag, beir troimham fad bhur maoin, sultuit piseag, sultuilt piseag, beir troimham fad bhur tìr, beir troimham fad bhur gràdh, sultuit piseag, sultuilt piseag, beir dhomh fad!"
To save you looking through a translation here is a rough one:
Fat cat, fat cat, give through me all of your wealth, fat cat, fat cat, give through me all of your land, give through me all of your love, fat cat, fat, give it all to me!
While England had been reciting this spell the magic circle around him had started to glow even more, eventually turning an electric blue with off shoots of fiery orange surrounding England, whose robes flapped up as well as his undershirt and his short dirty-blond hair growing even more scruffy as it was pushed and pulled up down and around by the sheer amount of energy surrounding him. His emerald eyes were alight with hidden power and when he said the last syllable the energy released itself, firing out from the magic circle and instead of hitting a wall where it would seep out and choose a target it hit the reflective surface of one of the mirrors and came back, the energy fireball coming back and England having just enough time to turn to it before it hit him full on in the face and he fell backwards, his mind clouding and his vision growing dark before he had time to register any pain from the fall or the shock from how much the concentrated magic ball had knocked him down.
The world grew black and silent and the room as well, the candles having blown out from the spell. It stayed like this for a few seconds more and then there was the sound of heavy feet tromping down the spiral staircase and a loud, slightly obnoxious American accent which anyone could recognize coming from behind the closed door of the white room and then a loud slamming noise as the door was opened and hit the wall to the side of it because too much force had been used.
America, standing there in all his glory, with scruffy blond hair with a gravity-defying curl, sky blue eyes and that bomber jacket he had loved so much from WW2 on, shouted into the room with no concern as to how loud he was being in such a powerful place.
"Hey England, dude, you in here? I couldn't find you at your house so I thought you came to your witch's lair or something."
Oh yeah, I might have forgotten to mention that America had come over for a visit, despite the fact that England was busy and had protested, and had been looking for him for a little while now, coming to this place he had found by accident as a child. There was no response though and America was about to give up when he heard a strange noise.
Was it… a purring sound? The larger yet younger nation looked around the pitch black room again, seeing nothing and deciding to take the small handheld torch he kept on his person in situations like these, turning it on and the small, almost blue light, sending light into the room and onto the seemingly discarded warlock's robes. There seemed to be nobody in them but as America guided the light down slowly he saw there was a lump in the robes where something was balled up. He walked over slowly, feeling like Indiana Jones in his first movie, and knelt down to the robes, ignoring the magic circle as one of England's stupid magic things and slowly, ever so slowly, lifted a corner of the robes to reveal-
