WARNING-WARNING-WARNING-TEA-WARNING-WARNING-WARNING

My stories are usually based primarily around yaoi pairings, which means boy-boy, homosexual pairings. If you don't like it, don't read it- it's that simple. Please don't complain or flame, as you have been warned.

Hetalia Axis Powers/Hetalia World Powers is the property of Hidekaz Himaruya, Studio Deen, and Funimation. All stories are purely for entertainment purposes, and I am so not worth suing.

WARNING-WARNING-WARNING-SCONES-WARNING-WARNING-WARNING

Excerpt from Chapter Two of The Government of the Kingdom of Spades, a primer for students of Spades Kingdom entering Dagda Academy in the capitol city of Merica.

The duties of the King, though more limited in scope than those of the Jack or the Queen, carry with them a far greater power. He (for never in the history of Hoyle has there been a female King) is High Commander of the armed forces of his kingdom, and quite often its ultimate warrior. The Kings of Spades are particularly known for their prowess in the arts of war and tactics. He also serves as final arbitrator in the Courts of the land, and Judge in those cases involving the vital functions or safety of the kingdom. Finally, the King of each Suit holds final approval power over all domestic legislation, international treaties, and dealings with Hierophant City.

In Spades Kingdom, the King is also the High Priest of Death. This patron god has kept a closer relationship with his mortal children than those of other kingdoms, and has been known to grant extraordinary powers upon favored rulers. He has even, to the dismay of the officials in Hierophant City, been known to act as an advisor of sorts to some few of his chosen Kings including Rane the Great. No King has been thus blessed in two thousand years, and the wide variety of personalities amongst Death's Chosen leave no clue as to what sort of criteria the God uses when selecting his favorites.

Perhaps most intriguing of the powers of the Kings of Hoyle is the one that they do not possess- the power to wield the Ace of their Suit. The Ace is the mystical weapon given to each of the First Kings by the Gods themselves, said to have melded with their very souls. Though each of the four Aces remains in the Throne Room of the Suits, no King since those first has been able to unlock their secrets. The Ace of Spades is a three-bladed trident known as "Trishula", with each blade representing one aspect of Death: destruction, creation, and balance. Rane the Great was said to have been truly a force of nature when fighting with Trishula and rumors suggest that he was able to access the ultimate aspect of the powers of Death- time- by channeling his spirit through the blades. Many have speculated that these weapons will lay dormant until such time as the Grand Royal Flush of prophecy comes to pass in Hoyle, but this is thus far simply superstition.

The Last Day of the Month of Dumannios, Year 4350 Kingdom Era

Capitol City of Merica, Spades Kingdom

Three shrouded figures stood in the stinging wind at the foot of Mount Badon, gazing past the massive wrought-iron gates framing the entrance to Merica. The shortest of the trio pulled his indigo mourning cloak tighter around his throat, muttering dire curses at the last vestiges of freezing rain that was quickly turning to ice on every surface. The other two paid no mind, their eyes locked on the glittering city cut into the mountain itself, tiered ramps leading up hundreds of feet to the looming presence of the Royal Palace. Torches lit every inch of the winding pathways, the whole of the city in the streets to witness the procession of their King from the Temple of the Winds at the apex of the citadel to the catacombs cut deep into the earth below. One of the men, broad-shouldered and imposing, turned to his companion with a wry grin.

"So this is Merica. You ready for this?"

"No," replied the other evenly. "You?"

A biting laugh. "Not even a little bit."

"Well tough luck, idiots," grated the third, disgruntled. "For this is the day and this is the hour, for destiny to fulfill its course. Or some shit."

The grin on the first man grew even wider, if a bit manic. "Well, you heard the man. Let's get moving."

As one, the figures blended into the crowd entering the gates.

.

.

Arthur Kirkland, Queen of Spades, stood over the shallow pit containing the body of his King with a great sense of unease. Still, he maintained his icy façade as he and his Jack Wang Yao carefully laid nightshade, wolfsbane, and falcon feathers over the indigo-dyed shroud of Dylan Bruce. His trembling hands were easily hidden in his sweeping formal cloak of heavy blue velvet, lined with white ermine and clasped about his throat with a beaten-silver filigree spade pin; they were the one thing about his person that could betray his inner turmoil. Arthur clenched and unclenched his gloved fingers repeatedly as the priests laid the heavy stones over the pit to make the cairn, laying the cured pine logs overtop. Taking a deep breath, he raised his hands and chanted the spell to light them in a high, clear voice that echoed from the Temple to the city below. Green flame sprang obediently to life, the magical inferno burning a thousand times hotter than a natural blaze and reducing the body to ash in just twenty minutes, rather than hours. He was mesmerized for a moment by the dancing emerald sparks and the long shadows thrown on the cold stone beneath, until Yao cleared his throat meaningfully beside him. Flushing, Arthur turned to the assemblage in the sunken Temple Courtyard- the High Council, the Palace Guard, the clergy of the Temple of the Winds, and the most important of Merica's noble families. Fortunately, their funeral rituals in Spades required enough speed that the Royals from the other Kingdoms would not be in attendance, but rather gather in Merica in a week's time for a reception. Death willing, they would have a new King by then. It would keep him from having to see Bonnefoy twice, at any rate.

"Dylan Bruce, King of Spades. We remember him," Arthur began, taking up the King's duty as High Priest and reciting the funeral prayer. "At the rising of the sun and at its set, we remember him. At the blowing of the wind and the chill of winter, we remember him. At the opening of the buds and the rebirth of spring, we remember him. At the blueness of the sky and the warmth of summer, we remember him. At the rustling of the leaves and the beauty of autumn, we remember him. Today, at the ending of the year and the beginning of a new, we remember him. As long as we live, he too will live, for he is a part of us and we remember him. When we are weary and in need of his strength, we remember him. When we have decisions that are difficult to make, we remember him. When we have achievements that are built on his, we remember him."

"As long as we live, he too will live, for his is a part of us and we remember him," the crowd solemnly intoned.

"We remember him," Arthur repeated, spreading his hands apart, palms down, and dousing the mystical flames. Taking a silver and blue enameled urn from Yao's hands, he then spoke the spell to raise the King's ashes from his pyre and bring them to his final resting place. Capping it tightly, he placed the container onto a specially built palanquin for the procession down the mountain to the catacombs. The Royal party and the priests went first with the King's remains, so no one was in earshot to hear Arthur's exasperated sighs. Well, except…

"That is extremely inappropriate, aru," Yao warned, his East-coast verbal tick irritating Arthur even further. "We are conducting a funeral Arthur. For the love of the Gods, can you not show some respect?"

"I am showing all he deserved, the stupid arse," Arthur muttered. "And I've been perfectly stone-faced until now." He let his eyes slide sideways to the Jack, noting that his face was also smooth and composed, despite his clear ire. "Don't fret so, Yao. I will conduct myself in a manner befitting my station. I'm simply worried about Spadille."

Yao's eyebrows furrowed, though he kept his solemn gaze facing forward as they passed the Temple gates and into the palace grounds to begin the long, convoluted walk through the city. "I do not understand it either. A single tick, when no one was present but the two of us? Unprecedented, and worrying. Perhaps it is malfunctioning?"

"It's an instrument of the Gods; I don't think it can malfunction. And Chrona's still sort of…humming…in its presence, as always." Both men glanced down at the Queen's Clock, now belted at Arthur's waist. Chrona was able to change sizes with Arthur's will, from the breadth of a small table when he performed his magic rituals to the size of a dinner plate when he needed portability. It swung gently at his side on a golden chain attached to a sword-belt, the metal warm to the touch despite the frigid temperature. Chrona had always given him a sense of mental discord when near Spadille before Dylan's death, perhaps a comment on how its owner felt towards his young Queen. However, the last two days that Spadille had been in his own possession had seen the implements resonating strongly with one another, almost as though they were both Arthur's own tools. Spadille, for the procession, was dangling from Arthur's right wrist, the chain wrapped around his leather glove tightly. Traditionally, the Queen must have the King's Watch not only on his person but visible during the interim period before a new royal was chosen, in case the correct candidate should appear. Quite frankly, it was a pain in Arthur's ass.

"Spadille has never chosen a new King so shortly after the death of the previous. The soonest on record was two weeks, the longest seventy years. I do not know what to make of its seeming activation," the elder mused. Arthur sighed again.

"I don't think we should make anything of it. We probably imagined it, and the sound came from somewhere else," he replied. As if to mock him, Spadille began to swing like a scrying crystal, flaring out in a prominent arc whenever it faced the base of the mountain. "Yao…do you see..?"

"Yes, I see it, aru," Yao whispered, fascinated.

"Well what the hell do I do?" Arthur sniped, getting frustrated with his companion's distinct lack of the wisdom for which he was famed. Yao shrugged philosophically.

"We're going that way anyway," he quipped, returning his gaze to the crowds lining the streets as they exited the palace grounds. Arthur gritted his teeth and glared at the spinning watch under his palm.

"You're an ass."

.

.

The trip to the catacombs seemed interminable. Miles of twisting streets winding their way down the mountainside and a large, formal entourage meant that it took nearly four hours for the journey to Mount Badon's base. Moreover, Arthur's arms were aching from the cold and the strenuous task of reining in Spadille's movements. He hadn't received any more specific directions that those at the beginning- a general nudge "down there" to the throng of citizens gathered in the Festival Square near the city gates. By the time he reached the dais of thrones at the head of the Square, Arthur couldn't have cared less if the new king was his stable boy if Spadille would just calm down. He was already in a foul mood, wrung out from his earlier reminiscing and the drain on his magic that the funeral rites had involved.

"Whoever designed this blasted city to be cut into the bloody mountain should be resurrected just so I can kill his stupid arse."

"Be quiet, Arthur," Yao whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "I have to give the public eulogy, and I can't do it with you sitting here glaring like a gargoyle. At least pretend you are civilized, aru."

"At least try to pretend you're civilized, you little savage," Arthur remarked fondly, ruffling Alfred's hair as he tore into a thick slice of chocolate cake the elder boy had snuck from the kitchens. Alfred simply gave him a mischievous grin and a nip to his ear. "I am a savage. And if ya ain't careful, I might eat ya instead of the cake!"

"Damn it," Arthur murmured. "Why am I dwelling so much on him today?"

"What?"

"Nothing, Yao. It's just the blasted cold; I'll be fine."

Yao favored him with a skeptical look, but climbed the stairs to the podium anyway, Aeterna's hilt peeking out from his state robes as he did so. It too, seemed strangely vibrant today- Arthur swore he could hear a faint ringing sound every time he came near the Jack's implement. Everything was just off; Arthur could taste strange magic in the air, swirling thick as syrup around himself and Yao in particular.

Don't worry my pretty wizard. All is as it should be.

Arthur went still, numb fingers grasping blind for the ring about his neck to find the metal so hot it nearly burned. "What the hell is that? Am I hearing things now too?"

He's come home at last- my Chosen. And you will be the beacon to guide him to his path, the catalyst to unlock his full potential. It is why I chose you.

"Chose me?" Arthur thought, his mind wild and flying apart at the seams. "Your Chosen? Oh, Sweet Death I'm hallucinating now." Straining to keep his face clear and reverent as Yao delivered his prepared speech to the citizens of Merica, Arthur was nonetheless certain that he heard a damned chuckle in his own head.

Flattery will get you everywhere, dear child. Now pay attention- it's time.

"Time for what?" Arthur scarcely had time to form those internal words before Spadille leaped in his hands, the chain drawing taut as the implement levitated before him. A hazy azure nimbus surrounded the Watch now, a glow matched by Chrona and Aeterna. Yao's litany cut off as he gasped and an excited murmur began among the people.

"Aeterna?" Yao sounded both incredulous and distraught, drawing his blade from its sheath and holding the silvered blade in front of his gaze. The aura caught with a bright flare and the implement began to emit a soft singing sound, like the tone of the crystal goblet rims Arthur sometimes played to irritate Dylan at dinner parties. Chrona likewise raised its voice from his hip, disconnecting itself from its own tethers with an audible "click" and hovering, full-grown, an inch above the ground as though waiting for Arthur to mount it. The quiet whispers of the citizenry had grown to a dull roar, and there was a common phrase on each set of lips- "The King". Arthur's own magic welled up inside of him like a font, the lifespring burning his veins as it surged within his spirit, searching for an outlet. Dimly, he was aware that he had stepped onto Chrona's surface and Spadille was leading him by inches towards something (someone?) hidden in the shadows of the sacred trees framing the city gates- the Elder Birch and Elder Rowan. Arthur's breath caught in his throat; rowan for new life, birch for driving out the spirits of the old year. The word "prophecy" hung heavily on the back of the stinging wind, stealing the breath from Arthur's lungs and setting his very core to reeling. Could it be?

The people drew back in awed piety at the power rolling off their Queen in waves, sinking into the very stones and the earth and permeating the air. Drew back they did, parting with bowed heads to clear his path to the Elders and as he approached Spadille gave a final, massive lurch and ripped itself from his right hand. Arthur released a cry of dismay that was stolen by the chill of the night as the King's Watch flew through the ether to land with a resounding smack in the outstretched palm of a tall, dark-cloaked figure emerging from the shelter of the Rowan's branches. The crowd fell silent and knelt before him, even as the radiant glimmer of the implement's aura enveloped the man himself and the song of Chrona and Aeterna reached a crescendo near-painful to the soul.

It is done!

The dark voice was a triumphant echo in the vaults of Arthur's mind, though the sorcerer himself was sent to his knees by the force of the magical backlash that was Spadille's incorporation with the stranger's spirit. For a long moment, Arthur's eyes were hot and blind, his ears ringing with the remnants of Chrona's song. On the edges of his consciousness he was aware of the silence of the Square, how the people waited with bated breath for the announcement that was sure to come. Shaking his head to clear it, Arthur was surprised to see a hand appear before his eyes, the palm outstretched in a clear gesture to aid him to his feet. The digits proffered to him were long and blunt, callused at the tips and encased in fingerless gloves of worn brown leather. Dark gauntlets of the same material covered muscular forearms, a sliver of golden skin visible above them where the inky folds of the mourning cloak had fallen away. Arthur blinked; Spadille's chain was coiled thrice around that wrist, the implement humming contentedly a few inches below.

"Allow me, my Queen."

The voice above his head was a soothing tenor, genuine concern palpable in its tone but with a clear undernote of cheeky mischief that made Arthur wish suddenly to beat the man senseless. Mustering the grace for which he was known, he slid his hand into the stranger's and allowed himself to be drawn up to his full height- an entire head shorter than his would-be rescuer's. As he gazed up into the eyes of his new King (who was still holding his hand, the rude git), Arthur's heart skipped and stuttered in his chest. Short strands of wheat-gold hair framed a face saved from utter loveliness only by the masculine shape of its square jaw, fallen across a pair of eyes the color of a summer sky. A devil-may-care smirk played about a generous mouth, and were it not for the small unruly cowlick above the man's right temple he would swear that he had been absurdly prophetic and that this creature was Rane the Great come back to life. As it was, he knew that ridiculous piece of hair as well as his own and had seen those eyes in his dreams for near on to a decade.

"Alfred?" he whispered. The smile on those full lips went from playful to wistful in a moment, as the blonde dipped to one knee to press a kiss to the back of Arthur's still-captured hand.

"Alfred Jones, at your service my Queen."

Notes:

Nightshade is associated with death and rebirth, wolfsbane with balance. These three aspects are in many cultures considered the three main aspects of death itself. The falcon as a totem of air symbolizes war, power, aspiration, and determination. Rowan and birch are both trees associated with the element of air, the former as a symbol of life used in many magical charms of protection and the latter for shielding, warding, or cleansing.

The "trishula" is the three-bladed trident wielded by Lord Shiva in Hindu myths, whose blades do indeed represent all three of his aspects- destruction, creation, and balance. Bladed as opposed to pointed tridents are actually pretty rare and an appropriate weapon for the ultimate King of Swords and Chosen of Death.

Dylan Bruce, former King of Spades, bears a good old British Isles name. "Bruce" is a very old noble surname in Scotland, particularly known for "Robert the Bruce", former King of Scotland and a national hero. "Dylan" is a Welsh name meaning "great sea" or "child of the sea". I meant it to be ironic, since he was an air elemental, and perhaps as a play on his incompatibility with the throne.

It was a common practice among Celts from 1600BCE-700CE to perform burials like the one described here, minus the magic of course. The flames dehydrated the body enough to remove smell and disease, and then it could be buried or sunk in waters (pretty common) without worry of contamination. The prayer Arthur recites is adapted from an old Irish funeral prayer.