Name: Never tell

Pairing: UsUk

Genre: Romance, Fantasy (this part is not poetry though there is a rimming spell)

Warnings: Uhm… Blisters, and magic… very, very much magic

Disclaimer: I don't own England… or America… but the magic is mine so please if you want to use the spell (which I doubt anyone will) please ask.

Summary: I will never tell you - You will never know - I will never mouth it against your warm skin - You will never fell it on my lips - I will never tell - You will never know - But still… - I love you

Notes: Thanks really much too the reviewer who asked for another part, otherwise I wouldn't have written this. Thousand of thanks to my friend Bitou who I have managed to get in contact with again and said she liked this story. This is now somewhat short, but there will be more soon… and faster this time


England looked down at the paper as it lay before him, white and unmarred by the black color of ink.

He knew that he really, really shouldn't do what he was about to. How many times had he not told Alfred never ever to whisper secrets because someone would always overhear. There was always spirits, or creatures beyond what you saw, and they always whispered and whispered the secrets entrusted to them. And he had warned and warned those close to him because he knew that the woods and the rivers and the four winds could never keep a secret.

But he could not help it. He had to. The need was tearing on his mind until he could no longer stand it. Too keep it inside would surely kill him. Or at least that was what it felt like.

The old fashioned feather quill sank into the black inside of the ink pot, scraped against the edge to get rid of extra ink. The tip raised above the paper, shuddering for a few precious seconds while England's heart quivered. Then it descended with the weight of a decision finally made.

Word flowed over the formerly white paper, printed onto the surface to last until the end of time. These words would be true as long as England existed and even after that.

I Love You

He looked at the paper, nibbling his lip, unsure. Then he reached out with pale fingers and flipped the paper over.

Alfred

There, he was done. He had finally done it, and his heart already felt a little lighter. Now he would only need to burn the paper and scatter the ashes, and he would be safe. The pressure gone from his mind, and the secret safe, no one would now, and he would never blurt it out by mistake to someone who shouldn't know.

Relived, he whipped his pen and put it down. Resealed the ink pot, and putting away everything, locking his desk after taking the paper. He rose from his comfortable wooden chair, shut the table lamp that had been his only light, and left the room with the paper clutched to his chest.

The journey from his study on the first floor to the living room and the hearth on the ground floor through the homey wooden corridor made him nervous. He felt like someone would jump out from a corner and expose his secret, even though the idea was ridiculous. He was anyway relived when he reached the room illuminated by the warming fire that he had lit earlier.

He fell to his knees on the hearth stone, for a moment laying the paper at his side, and fed the fire as it had been dwindling. Then he reached for the paper again and, with a final lingering look on the black letters, threw it into the fire.

He stared at it, as it slowly fluttered down, settling a long way away from the fires centre and not really catching fire, but slowly started growing smaller as a red edge ate away at the paper. It had been a rather large paper, and the area his words occupied had been rater small, though they to him had seen immense, occupying his whole heart, and the fire took time to reach his words. The paper had settled with America's name facing up, and England's eye trailed over it again and again.

But as he sat there watching the fire grow closer to the name of his beloved, his heart was ceased by uncertainty. Would anything really change by burning up that paper? Wouldn't the secret just return to his heart then? He could almost fell the weight return to him as the fire took centimeter after centimeter of the paper and turned it to black ash.

He felt uneasy as the name of the one he loved came closer to being destroyed by each second. Like it was America's precious heart that was burning in the fire and not his secret longings and hopes. England felt an illogical panic take hold of him, and when the fire was dangerously close to the black ink he yelped, jumped up and reached for the fire iron, and desperately fumbled to get it out. It fell out onto the floor still smoldering in the edges, and desperate England reached out with bare hands to stifle the fire. He cared not for the blisters which formed on his hands as he managed to put out the fires, holding the precious slip of paper close to his heart.

xXx

Later on, when he had applied healing balm to his hands and wrapped them in white gauze, England sat in a comfortable chair in his living room with a cup of his favorite tea held delicately in his hands and that little slip of whit paper lying on the table beside him. He did not know what to do anymore.

He could no longer burn away his secret words; neither could he ever trust the security of any hiding place in his house. Though it was big and larger on the inside than the outside with more rooms and secret passages than any of his fellow nations knew, his house was always full of different magical creatures that had made it their haven. They would surely find it and when the spirits of magic got hold of a secret, you never knew what would happen with it.

The only reason they weren't here right now, was because it was the night of a full moon early and spring, and all were away, dancing in their sacred grooves and hidden places, celebrating the rebirth of he world.

He would need to hide it somewhere else, outside of his house, but still in his area of influence. Perhaps…

Yes, a spell would hide it from all of those who looked with their minds and souls instead of their eyes, but all those who looked with their eyes and not their souls would see it clear as a day. But what if he buried it? Yes that might work, bespell it first and then burry it, but not all too close to the house. No, he spent too much of his time in the gardens, taking care of his plants at the same time as he entertained guests for it to be safe. Especially as he grew roses, the flower of love, that in his garden often took on magical properties. They sought out the touch of love, and would twine around the paper that had soaked in his hidden feelings, and would betray his secret too anyone who asked, for it was in their nature too share love.

So where could he bury it? Not in the forest, for there the trees had spirits extra wakeful and alert. Not close to the road, for there humans travelled regularly. Not on the plains north of his house, for the mist formed strange shapes, telling stories of what had transpired…

He took a sip of his tea, allowing the warm liquid travel down his throat and sooth his mind. Quietly he stirred his tea with a silver spoon, before gently taping it against the brim and laying it down on the saucer. He watched the warm golden liquid swirl around, thoughts straying, when it hit him.

The riverside! There he could bury it. The river wasn't clear enough to suit the taste of the various water spirits who lived in his country. All who wanted stay close to him lived in the creek that crossed trough his forest. He could find a place where the ground was softer and bury the slip of paper there!

He almost felt like jumping up and getting to work at once, but leaving his tea to grow cold, or alternatively, to gulp it down in a few mouthfuls was so totally against his ways that he held himself back. Instead he sat back, sipping his tea carefully and planning exactly what spells and charms he would use to hide the note.

When he had emptied his cup he got up and took it to the kitchen, forcing himself to clean it carefully, before drying it and putting it away in the cabin he had reserved specially for his tea set. Only then did he hurry back to the living room, picked up the paper and left for his special magic ritual room.

xXx

He drew a circle with a seven-pointed star in the middle in coal. Then slowly backed around the circle marking it with water and salt also, while he slowly sang a spell. When he was done he stepped into its middle, bowed once to the north, once to the east once to south and once to the west. Then he carefully laid down the slip of paper in the middle and stepped out of the circle, clapping his hands together and uttering a word in the language of magic. He had not completed the creation of his magic circle.

This was only the beginning, but one of the most vital parts to all magic which originated from the fair folks art. It made sure the magic would only affect the things inside his circle.

By one of the wall was a large wooden cupboard, in this there was a drawer which contained many different rods. From there he removed a rod of hawthorn wood, about the length of his forearm and as thick as his ring finger.

Then he turned to the large bookcase that covered almost a whole wall. These were the books where he had written down spells he had created earlier so that he might use them again. Now he searched for a fitting concealment spell or charm. Finally he picked down a large tome from one of the lower shelves. It was hick and the pages had grown yellower with age, but it was neither dusty nor frail, as he had taken great care of all his books.

He leafed through it, looking for a certain spell that had come to mind. When he found it, he began mentally going over it, before deciding how to tweak it a little to fit his purpose better. Not too much, since there was a special power in spells that had originally been though up by the creator, and when changing an already existing spell you lost part of that power.

He put the book down on a book stand, leaving it open. Then he took a few steps back down onto the ritual floor, and traced a circle around himself with the hawthorn rod. He taped the rod against the ground outside the circle in the north direction twice, and then the once in the east direction. After that he faced north again, laying the rod in front of him so it pointed to the east. And then he recited, with a voice that betrayed nothing of his nervousness.

"Come calling, Come searching, Trough valley and hill

Words and emotions, are hidden by will

Eyes in the deep soul and eyes of the mind

Let no spirit find it, neither cruel nor the kind"

A small flash of muted light pulsated from the larger circle in which the slip of paper lay. The spell was completed.

xXx

A figure clad in a dark cape hurried out from the Kirkland mansion in the direction of the nearby river. The figure didn't stumble or hesitate on his way, even though it was in the late in the night, and the full moon hung low on the sky, partially covered from the figures view by the tree tops. But the path was a well known one and the figure sure on his foot.

He reached the riverside and then followed the river downstream for at least half a kilometer, now and then stopping and crouching down, digging experimentally in the soil. Then he reached a place where the earth seemed to reach his expectations. The hooded head swung around before seemingly deciding on a place, closer to the water line, where he hurriedly dug a hole with his bare hands.

The figure reached inside his cape, and removed something held in a tight fist. Slowly he loosened he cramped grip, and look down on the white paper, eyes wondering, before closing his fist around it, kissing it and then depositing it in the whole. He covered it again, patting the soil flat hurriedly, then stood up and left.

Had he stayed longer, or had he returned next day when the sun was once again making her way over the sky, he would have seen what keen eyes had missed in the dark. In the water, just under the place where the secret was hidden, grew the first sprouts of reed after the winter…

xXx

As England lay in his bed, trying to catch a little sleep before work called again, he thought about the thing he had done. It was foolish indeed, he berated himself, but oh, if he did not feel at least a little lighter in his heart now.

But all the happiness did not in the least diminish the risk he had taken. A word said, is a word someone can hear, and a word written is a word someone can feel, but a word hidden…

A word that was hidden almost called out to be reviled, and though he had found a safe place, there might have been something he missed, something he overlooked. The feeling kept niggling in the back of his head, and when he finally fell asleep his dreams were strange and filled with an old legend about a king with donkey ears and secrets that were whispered when the wind passed through the reed.


A/N:

Hello. Sorry this took so long time and ended up so short. There is a continuation coming, and it will probably take less time. The storyline that started out rather simple and uncomplicated took on a life of its own and this came out. I blame partially my fascinations with strange English words that quickly changed the mood of the story from what I first had planned, and partially my love of fairy tales and magic.

The magic in this comes from many sources. Partially my own imagination, partially from all I know of different mythologies. The ritual is one I came up with on my own but there are elements in it from other places. First, the magic circle, I choose to make the star seven-pointed because the number seven was considered one of the luckiest numbers by sailors, and had many connections with the seas, and so I thought it fitting for England to use. He drew the circle with coal instead of chalk because coal has a connection to fire. When he later traced the circle with water and salt, he added more symbols for water, and symbols for earth which is where salt sometimes comes from. Salt is also traditionally used to protect things. Bowing to all four directions is a part of many pagan religions.

The Hawthorn rod was not a wand, but was rather used as an ingredient in the ritual. I imagine England as an experienced magician has many components that are used for rituals saved for when he needs them. Wooden rods were often used in rituals, and the type of wood could really influence the magic. According to the information I found Hawthorn often represents the element wind and the direction north and east. It was used by fairies for protection and strengthens fairy magic, it is also good for protection, and is the only wood that is actually of any help when it comes to concealing magic. At the bottom is the link to a really helpful website I found.

Then last there was the spell he chanted. I came up with the words myself, but gained much inspiration about spell creation from many different Wicca articles and forums.

Now, do you want more of England's p.o.v. or maybe next chapter from America's p.o.v.?

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