I own Hetalia. I won it in the school raffle. So there, corporate bitches.
Or for the lawyery people who cannot handle sarcasm: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. PINKY SWEAR.

In other news, I hate disclaimers.

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In the Heart of the Woods

Pairings:FrEng, RomaniEng, ScotEng (sort of), AmeriCana and PruDen/DenPru eventually, possibly Past!ScotFr

Genre: Fantasy/Drama, really. There will be fae. Of course, there will be romance chucked in, because what would be the point otherwise?

Universe: Canon!Verse with a twist

WARNINGS: From here on out, it will get very fantastical. So if you're not into fantasy, then this isn't for you. At all. Language, possibly non/dub-con in later chapters, and also possibly lemon if I ever get the ability to write it

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It began at Arthur's house. Ten PM. Matthias, Gilbert and Alfred under Francis's direction set up numerous cameras (from Francis's scarily large personal collection) in trees, on walls (they were extremely high-def so they could be place quite far from the house and still have good quality picture of the windows) and on windowsills the night after the Summer solstice meeting – one more day and night and then the Solstice was upon them. Francis at first was incredibly cautious, in the evening when it was still light, but it became increasingly apparent as it got later that Arthur was either asleep or occupied. Although Francis did notice the odd flash of green appearing at the window of what he knew was the bedroom (sadly not for the reason he hoped – he had walked in there by accident once. And promptly chased Arthur in there for a laugh at any opportunity. He was hardly going to ignore that little piece of information.) Francis whispered for the others to duck and cover the first couple of times but later just ignored it.

In a rare stroke of genius, Alfred proposed they put tracking devices on all his vehicles (Arthur had several fifties/sixties Triumph motorbikes as well as a vintage Jag, an old Mini Cooper, and a more recent Aston Martin.) It meant Francis had to text Matthew to find them in his stash of 'equipment' and bring them over, but that was no bother for him. Or no-one cared if it was. Either. The garage was locked, but Francis just rolled his eyes and went to the side door. He reached for the top of the door frame, and sure enough a spare key was in his hand a second later. "Oh, petit lapin, so predictable."

Matthew handed out the tracking devices, keeping two for himself. The now five-strong group set to work on putting them on the various vehicles. They were just about done when Gilbert called out "Hey, I think we're two short! Who did the nearest Triumph and the Jag?" America replied "Aw, man, Canasia must have forgotten two!"

Matthew looked exasperated and yelled (as much as he could, anyway) "I did them! I didn't forget! I'm still here!" Francis heard a sort of whisper from the far side of the group, and did a double take as he noticed Matthew. "Mon petit! You are still here? You should have said! Did you do the last two trackers?" Matthews annoyance increase a bit more, not helped by Matthias practically jumping out of his skin at the nation that seemed to have materialised in front of him and yelling "America! There are two of you? Not fair, if anyone should have a clone it should be me, so I can spread the awesomeness!" and America yelling "MATTIE! Dude! When did you join the partay?! Hey, you wouldn't happen to have two spare trackers, would you?" Matthew's face was tinged pink, and he snapped,

"IT'S CANADA! CA-NA-DA! I'VE BEEN HERE SINCE I BROUGHT THE TRACKERS! AND, NO, WE'RE NOT TWO SHORT, I BROUGHT THEM!" There was a moment's pause as everyone fully registered the semi-invisible nation.

Francis and Alfred immediately looked apologetic, although Francis gave Alfred an odd look when he went and put an arm around Matthew and said "Sorry, Mattie, I was just playing around. You know that right?" before pulling him into an awkward hug that went on just slightly too long. Matthew's face was now red for an entirely different reason. Matthias and Gilbert looked nothing short of terrified, if also vaguely impressed, at the ghost nation who could seemingly disappear at will, yet had just had a shouting fit that knocked several tools off the wall. Gilbert excitedly yelled "So awesome! You can just disappear and reappear like whenever! You have to teach the awesome me how to do it!" Denmark quickly agreed,
"You must awesomely teach me as well! Think of all the beer I could steal!" Matthew looked a little flustered at all the sudden (loud) attention, but then crestfallen as he realised he was back to being ignored when the conversation quickly descended into nonsensical bickering. As usual. "And we could break into all the women's changing rooms in the gyms, kesesese!" Matthias grinned tauntingly,
"Better not let your brother hear you say that, Gil, or he'll lock you in the basement. Oh, no, I forgot, you already live there!" Gilbert frowned for a sec, thinking of an argument.
"Ha! Well at least I don't have to tidy up! And no paperwork! The Awesome me has no time for paperwork!"
Matthias smirked a smirky smirk. "Oh, yeah, your days are packed. Between Call of Duty and masturbation fests you couldn't possibly fit anything else in! Just admit that I am more Awesome than you and be done with it!" Gilbert looked absolutely horrified at the last part.
"Never! At least I don't have stupid spiky hair, hedgehog head!"

"My hair is awesome! I bet you have wet dreams about my awesome hair, snow cone! At least my little brother doesn't lock me in my room!" Gilbert secretly wished Arthur was there to make some dry comment about the plausibility of having a wet dream about spiky hair.

France's mind had been in another place entirely throughout most of the ridiculous argument. He had noticed that while they had been making enough noise to wake a whole neighbourhood, not a single person had come to check it out. He knew Arthur was in, that flash of green was definitely a person – the right size and shape – and besides, none of his cars or bikes were missing, and they'd been there since this evening and not seen anyone leave the house (by then it was about three in the morning). Furthermore, though there were no neighbours for a mile, Arthur normally had a maid and a butler at the least, and the chef (which Francis insisted he get because left to his own devices Arthur would either starve or die in a house fire, which Francis thought would have been a rather anticlimactic end to an eventful life. It wasn't because he cared, heaven forbid. He just wanted to prevent a pointless death) would normally have been in for a couple of hours while they were there. Something very strange is going on with Arthur.

He was brought back to earth by the increasing volume of the argument the two were having. So wearisome. Looks like I'll have to intervene. Again.

"Tais-toi, the pair of you. Doux Jésus, you two could start an argument with a box that had 'I am more awesome than you' written on it – and lose! We will attract attention, so please be quiet." This was said in a resigned and somewhat weary voice, but it shut everyone up. In all honesty, he highly doubted there was any attention to attract, but if it kept them quiet he would maintain the illusion. They were too busy stupidly bickering, fantasising about hamburgers or imagining all the ways to kill someone with a hockey stick to notice the lack of people anyway. He carried on, "I am sorry for forgetting you, Mathieu, that was poor form." ("C'est bien, Papa.") "We are done now, mes chers. Felicitatións, and let us now make our way quietly to the van." They all left, Matthew pointlessly asking, "I'll take my own car, shall I? Oh, maple, what's the point."

On the way out, Gilbert decided he needed to win the argument. He whispered "Oi, hedgehog head, you shouldn't be sarcastic or you'll turn into Artie. Tomorrow you'll be drinking tea by the pint and knitting embroidered elf cosies or something."

Matthias just looked bemused and whispered back "What's an elf cosy?"

Gilbert put on a wise face and said knowingly, "A cosy for elves." Matthias pretended to suddenly remember what an elf cosy was, not wanting to look stupid, and added, "Oh, yeah, right. Of course."

Francis overheard the whole conversation. He shook his head and muttered to himself, "Dieu, it's like a convention for idiots."

He earned himself a loud 'Shush!' from everyone else.

On the day of the Solstice, the group was arranged thus: Dmitri, Lukas and Francis were in a bush in Arthur's expansive driveway, with their van parked invisibly on the other side of an easily scalable wall a few metres away. Matthew and Alfred were in Francis' living room monitoring the cameras and updating Francis on the situation in the house, and Gilbert and Matthias were in Francis' bedroom looking for sex toys and trying to prove or disprove Matthias's theory that Francis wore ladies' knickers. Although that wasn't exactly part of the plan.

Very little happened for much of the day, and Francis thanked god he hadn't brought Gil and Matthias or his day would've been hellish; they had the attention span of three year olds on cocaine and he honestly didn't think he could have been bothered to entertain them. Or last the day without killing them. He could handle Gilbert by himself, but combined with Matthias he turned into one half of a human hurricane. He had much more respect for Arthur considering he dealt with their tag-team idiocy on a monthly if not weekly basis. Although I imagine they're a lot more entertaining when you're paralytic. Dmitri and Lukas on the other hand sat absolutely frozen, cross-legged and staring at their house intently, for the entire experience. Francis swiftly gave up on small talk after the first slightly awkward non-exchange ("So… Roumanie. How do you know Angleterre?" "…" "Norvége? How about yourself?" "…" "Not ones for small talk, are you?" "…" "…"). Frankly he wondered they didn't get cramp.

In a way he was glad because it meant absolutely no effort on his part, but it was a little awkward. The only sound was hourly updates by text from Alfred. For the first four hours (they had been there since two. Francis was staying nearby so would go over if anything went wrong, say a vehicle left or if Arthur went out before they arrived, he could get over fairly quickly. The plan was that he, Dmitri and Lukas would go over at two and see if anything happened. If nothing did, they would approach the house at eight and confront Arthur. Or break in) the updates read nothing but 'No sign of A. Nothing going on here. Hero :3' with the occasional text from Gilbert reading something along the lines of 'Fran, you have some weird shit under your bed. :/'

But then, at half-four they got about seven urgent texts from Matthew and Alfred both, to all their mobiles reading 'Scotland at gates, be careful' from Matthew and 'EVIL kILT GY ALErT LOOK OUT :O' from Alfred. Dmitri and Lukas, almost as one, stood up and silently moved behind a bush. They had been weirdly in sync all day and it was starting to freak Francis out. I will never get used to that. They certainly don't do it in meetings, whatever 'it' is. Francis moved next to them with almost as much grace however stuck his head above the bush with binoculars trained on the driveway. Just seconds later a head of fierce red hair underscored by thick brows of the same colour came into view as Scotland sauntered up the driveway, sneer in place as ever. Francis had grown to loathe that smirk.

Francis's eyes followed his progress all the way up the driveway. Scotland knocked on the door and leant against the frame lazily, one leg crossed over the other. A cigarette lolled at the side of his mouth. Alasdair would occasionally blow clouds of smoke out through his nose. A sliding panel suddenly opened in the door, and Arthur's distinctive green eyes appeared at the hole in the door. Francis grinned, triumphant and texted 'A home' to Alfred without looking away from the scene. It was strange – the hallway was clearly darkened, Arthur's eyes being the only thing visible. The strange thing was, they weren't shadowed but so clear as to look luminous. They seemed to have a pinprick of light in each pupil, and the way the irises shone was nothing short of unearthly. The thought occurred to Francis that he might be a little out of his depth.

Dmitri could sense his companion's discomfort as he watched the exchange between Arthur and Scotland with his usual blank expression. However inside his mind was racing. Something this exciting hadn't happened in years. He already had an idea of what might be going on with Arthur, but he needed to confirm his suspicions. And as soon as he saw Arthur's eyes, he knew he was right. Furthermore, Arthur's superficially snappy but subtly deferential way with Scotland (never lashing out, never raising his voice even to insult him, never even looking him in the face, eyes narrowed in not just hatred or anger but to hide fear) meant Arthur's problem could be even more fascinating than he had hoped. This certainly alleviated the boredom that had consumed his life of late. Paperwork, the economy, what did it matter? It was beneath his interest. Whereas this…

Dmitri had an eye for the interesting. He loved to observe people, gauge their body language and tone of voice until he could read them like a book. He spent most meetings doing this. It did keep him entertained, however it made him terribly bored at the same time. People lost their mystery when he could read them like that, their lies and desires painfully obvious, their idea of clever deceit pathetically unsubtle. He found most people both boring and faintly repulsive in their transparency. For example, the two Axis members who clearly were attracted to each other – Ludwig and Feliciano – once amused him with the way they danced around each other. Now they annoyed him, neither of them having the guts to just confess, their attempts at flirting with the other gawky and patent.

So when someone like Arthur – wonderful, complicated, enigmatic Arthur – comes along, who is Dmitri to ignore him? Admittedly, at first he paid the Englishman little notice, assuming he was your standard 'the more he appears to hate you the more he likes you,' faux-grumpy-old-man type. However, when you spend most of your time observing, apparently minor discrepancies such as a missed meeting or two become fascinating patterns and mysteries to be unravelled if you notice the pattern. Arthur's clockwork absences had attracted his attention roughly the fifth year they happened.

Eager to find out the reason, Dmitri began observing him more and more. He was disappointed at the lack of progress, undoubtedly. However… The pleasure he got from just observing Arthur almost made up for that. He cursed himself retrospectively for dismissing Arthur as merely grumpy. So much of this was faked, a disguise for deeper emotions. He remembered how Arthur was feared as a pirate and an empire both. Eyewitness accounts remembered sadism bordering on psychopathy, and a dangerous self-confidence. It was there in the punk years as well, that cocky arrogance, cynicism and general ennui with the universe he so cleverly disguised as grumpy. He knew there was more to England than met the eye. He knew that England was both wilder and more complicated than he made himself out to be. To have the world in the palm of your hand, or to experience the rush of adrenaline that comes with rebellion against the system… No-one would want to give that up, especially not Arthur. His grumpiness masked his frustration at having to conform.

Arthur wouldn't just leave those days behind. Therefore he must be releasing his innate anger some other way.

The question was: Which way?

There were some things he sighed at, yes. Arthur's repeated claims of hatred for Francis were so clearly bullshit, and vice versa for Francis, that it was tiresome. Dmitri was amazed that the self-proclaimed country of love was still blind to the feelings for Arthur he obviously had. The fact that their mutual friendship, if you could call it that, (he had to admit their relationship's complexity held his fascination at times) made him uncomfortable was something that he didn't quite want to dissect. Observing oneself is always most difficult, after all.

Arthur had so many levels and tones and shades of false anger and causticity that at first Dmitri could hardly tell what he was thinking. Even after sixty-odd years of solid observation (and several near-misses where Arthur sensed someone staring, thankfully only to blame it on Russia, to whom he was eternally grateful for his ostentatious creepiness – it hid his own more subtle brand rather well) it was only twenty years ago he began to get to grips with the subtleties of Arthur's angry mask. He began to be able to tell when he was hurt, joking, sarcastic, properly angry – although this was easy as he tended to go very quiet and pale, hiss something venomous and walk off – happy – again, if he was happy he would tend to be just jokingly grumpy, and even smile, so, easy – or bored shitless. He also began to tell what Arthur felt about people. The amount of contempt he held for surprising people was incredible.

For instance, Germany. On the surface it would appear that Arthur quite respected Germany. He was meticulously polite and did what he said, most of the time. He was so polite it was suspicious. Dmitri soon pegged his 'yes, sir, no, sir, if you please, sir' courtesy as a mockery. He loathed Germany, loathed the stick in his arse, loathed that people thought they were so similar. His politeness was a parody of Germany's sincerity and his need to follow the rules was mocked by Arthur's refusal to do anything but, yet still not quite believe in them.

Arthur was an anarchist, Dmitri decided. Germany's conformity pained him.

He noticed that particular types of anger went with particular people. He observed Arthur's relationship with America and came to understand it more than either of them ever would. Arthur's anger or grumpiness with America was always either put on and indulgent, or genuine and hurt. When he first started observing Arthur the emotions in his eyes when faced with the louder nation became painfully obvious no matter how frozen the rest of his face. Dmitri had of course heard the story of the American independence ordeal, so he wasn't surprised to find a deep hurt and longing still embossed in Arthur's eyes. But there was more to it than that. At some point between 1776 and the nineteen-sixties Arthur's feelings for America had clearly mutated into something more than brotherly. Dmitri wanted to laugh at all the others who hadn't noticed – Elizabeta would have killed to know – but his face always remained an impassive mask. Arthur would seem more nervous and, for want of a better word, blush-y around America. For God's sake, he was fidgeting like a school-girl with a crush when he gave the blue-eyed nation Valentine's chocolate.

Dmitri would have been disappointed in Arthur had it gone somewhere, or had he shown some emotion towards the nation. Well, he called it disappointment but at times it felt more like anger for reasons Dmitri just couldn't quite face. Curiously, Arthur continued to hide his feelings like a pro, and by the mid-seventies, the signs had just gone, although the deeper pain of abandonment still nested in his eyes. Dmitri almost incredulously placed an 'ex-' in front of 'one-sided love: England to America' in his mental relationship graph.

He cursed himself for mixing up a crush with love; his observation skills had let him down. England had a crush on the blonde nation, but clearly moved on. America and England's pasts were at once too close and too far apart, and the former too ignorant, for someone as self-effacing as England to consider making a move.

Reserved for France was a teasing and smug, triumphant anger, a friendly, joking grumpiness, or a weary yet loud and indignant horror (the latter mostly as a result of some moronically flirtatious or perverted comment from France; Dmitri slightly despised France because his front was at once too effective and annoying – he masked emotions by adopting a pansexual 'I want to get in your pants' attitude that Romania found nothing short of mind-numbing). Dmitri defined their relationship as akin to a really old jumper: ridiculously comfortable, but not to be inspected too closely – you might not like what you find. Dmitri had once tried to compare the relationship to a normal human one and the best he could come up with was 'old married couple'. He was again assaulted by the deeply uncomfortable feeling he got on seeing England with France.

A side note – Francis's open terror of him was one of the most hilarious things he'd ever seen. Normally he was lighter hearted, but when he saw how strongly France reacted to his glares, he began overdoing it to a massive extent. He was beginning to think he was laying it on a bit thick.

Oh well. France's scared face was worth it. Facile dullard of a man deserved a shock now and again.

England, however, never ceased to amaze him – boring old England, turning up to a meeting in the early seventies with fifteen piercings, a guitar tattoo beneath his collarbone and red Doc Martens? England dabbling with Dark magyk? (badly, but Dmitri could see that this was because White Magyk ran thick in his veins, and Dark and White magyk is less oil and water than dynamite and a lit fuse when combined.) England clearly hating his brother with a purity usually reserved for rapists and mother-murderers? Dmitri added the last observation on the spot, noting Arthur's reaction to his own brother with interest. They had a brief conversation at the door, England's eyes either narrowed in hate or widened in fear the whole time, Scotland with a self-satisfied grin sharpening his features. Abruptly Scotland turned and left, causing Francis to duck behind the bush hurriedly and Dmitri to roll his eyes at the obviousness. In case our lovely reader hasn't guessed, if there was one thing Dmitri hated more than boring people it was obviousness.

Scotland had ostensibly come to deliver some information, although possibly to annoy Arthur. Probably both. Arthur's submissiveness to the older man cemented in his mind the idea of some power held over England. He was more glad than ever that he had talked Lukas into joining him on this probable fool's errand, although it hadn't been hard: mentioning the words 'probably involving magyk' to Norway was like dangling a burger just slightly out of America's reach – he was bound to jump.

When Francis got the group together, had Dmitri been the sort he would have jumped up and down with glee. He could finally find out what was going on with Arthur (although he had his own pet theory concerning magyk and the solstice) and Scotland, and hopefully scare Francis away from Arthur at the same time. He reasoned that he was annoyed at the two's closeness because he knew people in love were much more frivolous with their emotions, thus denying him the enigma that was Arthur. (He might have respected Francis more were he to know that Francis loved mysteries as much as he did. It would certainly explain their mutual fascination – admittedly a slightly euphemistic term for 'obsession' – with Arthur.)

Though he felt a strange disappointment that he couldn't keep both the mystery and the answer to himself. He supposed someone else would notice eventually – England only had a few friends and relatives, but he kept them close. It just had to be France, though, didn't it?

Now, though… Something was happening tonight, and Dmitri intended to be there. Arthur was hiding something, Scotland knew what it was, and he would find out if it killed him.

The exchange between the owner of the house whose driveway they were illicitly occupying and his much detested brother took less than a minute and a half. Alasdair knocked on the door twice lazily before leaning against the doorframe languidly. Arthur opened a slot in the door and peered out, his expression souring as he clocked his brother. Alasdair spoke first, his face indifferent and blank. Arthur's eyes scowled, a bitten-out acidic reply probably drifting through the hole in the door. Alasdair smiled his Cheshire-cat grin and uttered a very short remark which seemed to infuriate Arthur more than he could bear. He slammed the slot shut, which was considerably less dramatic than slamming a door. Alasdair laughed from in front of the door, blew a kiss at it (Francis and Dmitri both could practically picture Arthur's scowl), and loped back up the drive, narrowly missing seeing the small group of Arthur-stalkers.

Francis sent a quick text to Alfred reporting what happened and that Alasdair had left. Francis balked as Dmitri and Lukas as one moved slightly to the left of the bush and proceeded to once again be perfectly still for the next four-and-a-half hours. (He missed the look and half-smirk they shared before doing it). Alfred's hourly updates became half-hourly as they realised Arthur was indeed in and now moving visibly through the house, although they still read either 'A in kitchen wearing weird cape. Boooorrrrrreeed.' Or 'A in library looking at ooolllddd books. Like, older than him and that's ooollld. Still wearing weird cape' (to which Francis replied, 'Alfred, I am older than him. :|') or 'A invisible.' Dmitri and Lukas exchanged a(nother) look at the mention of old books. Dmitri looked very smug; it was kind of hard to tell with Norge.

Francis was beginning to give up. Which was reasonable: his only entertainment since Scotland's visit had been Gilbert's "cryptic" texts at 8.13, 8.15 and 8.24 reading respectively, 'did u no køhler is rlly good kissing :O', 'can I use ur bed? P.s. u o me 1 4 hiding u from west when u groped Italy pps I will clean sheets', and 'dammit u have 2 much lube 2 choose from an I rlly never thought Id say that.' Normally he wouldn't hesitate to tease Gil, (in fact he was saving it for later) but he was a man on a mission. His best friend and his long time UST buddy's sexual escapades were currently of no importance and no matter how much he longed to make a comment along the lines of 'about damn time' (although phrased more pervily and with lots of mentions of the Dane's apparent 'unawesomeness', of course), this was spying, and he and Arthur both took that very seriously. It was in fact one of the few things they had in common.

Apart from both being perverts and having hot tempers and alcohol issues, although try getting either to admit to that.

At half-nine, he got an urgent phone call from Matthew.

"Mathieu, mon chou, quelle-est la problemme?" (Matthew, what is the problem?) Matthew sounded a little flustered and was switching between French and English (as he was wont to do when stressed.)

"Papa, Maman… Arthur is packing a bag and looks like he is going somewhere! Je ne sais pas oú!" (I do not know where!) Matthew sounded panicked, and Francis glanced up to see a form heading for the front door. Dmitri and Lukas were already behind a bush.

"Mon petit, calmez-vous. Je sais ce que je fais. Nous le suivons, non?" (Calm down. I know what I am doing. We follow him maintenant, no?) He hung up as Arthur's motorbike revving was heard from the garage, grabbing his binoculars and phone and vaulting the wall easily (being a nation did have its perks, as Francis and indeed Arthur never ceased to remind Gilbert), Lukas and Dmitri following, or synchronised-gliding, behind him. By now Francis just ignored it.

He clambered into the driving seat; Dmitri sat beside him and Lukas in the back. They watched Arthur's motorbike zoom out of sight before they began to give chase. Francis noted with some interest and more than a little nostalgia that Arthur was wearing a green cape he hadn't seen for some time. He focused himself before he could get lost in memories of times past.

Lukas had full access to the tracking devices they had placed and was silently watching the point moving across the screen. "He is headed for the woods a few miles away." He said abruptly. Francis gave him a mystified look. "How do you know?"

"It is the only place he could be headed." Lukas refused to elaborate more than that and apparently so did his usually more verbose companion – Dmitri's lips remained sealed also. Francis set forth for the woods, keeping Arthur half a mile away at all times.

The van pulled up the narrow country lane only to get stuck. Francis backed up. "Are you sure he went this way, Norvége?" Norway just fixed him with a cold, slightly imperious look and said,

"His motorbike is at the top of that field. I highly doubt it got there of its own accord." Francis withered a little at the sharp put-down, but ignored it. Somehow he felt arguing with Lukas wouldn't be nearly as fun as with Arthur. "Allons-y, alors?" Francis climbed out of the driver's seat and onto the last paved road for a while, not giving a damn about the glare burning into his back. If Dmitri couldn't stand French he was just going to have to suck it.

They walked up the lane and up said field, indeed passing Arthur's motorbike near the top. Francis was almost shaking with nervous anticipation; the mystery of where exactly Arthur went was about to be solved for good. Dmitri was feeling similar, however mingled with a sense of smugness and also disappointment. He was certain he was right, however after this that would be it. Arthur: solved. No more mysteries for Dmitri, only petty little social issues and tissue paper masks to catch his interest. He sighed. Francis didn't bother to question why.

Lukas seemed to be taking little interest. There was a slight glow in his eyes, however, and inwardly he was very excited. He could practically taste the power in the area. He always knew Arthur was hiding something about his magical ability – to fail that badly at Dark Magyk is beyond having little to no magical power. That is clearly the result of an intensely powerful White Magycian, or Fey, trying to pervert his own power for curses or similar. And failing.

Francis had a camera set to night vision – it was ten o'clock and even on the Solstice they only had about twenty minutes of sunlight left. And it would be dark in the woods anyway.

He noticed a scrap of green material at the edge of the wood, caught on a bramble. Arthur had been this way recently.

Francis suddenly gasped "Merde!" and took a few steps backwards. About a kilometre away a beam of golden light exploded from the forest roof and shot up towards the sky, flowing and dissolving into the air a little before the cloud bank. It looked like wave after wave of concentrated sunlight. It turned blue, white, silver and the same green as Arthur's eyes and the surrounding forest before settling on gold. A pillar of golden light that could possibly be seen for miles penetrated the horizon. Francis now knew why Arthur came here: the nearest human dwelling was a farm miles away, the second the same but further. Francis was willing to bet Arthur just paid them a hefty sum not to ask questions.

Francis didn't even notice that neither of his two companions had so much as flinched. A small smile – more of a slight upturn of one corner of the lips – rested on Lukas's lips, and Dmitri was full on grinning. It looked quite unnatural on him.

Francis and Dmitri in sync whispered "Arthur." Francis turned surprised at being part of a chorus. Perhaps whatever they have is catching… He wasn't exactly sure how he knew it was Arthur, but he knew that light wasn't manmade, and he knew he needed to find out why and how it was there. He turned to the other two and said, "I am going in. You two stay here and watch for Alasdair – I mean Ecosse." He forgot neither of them knew Scotland's real name.

He sprinted off in the direction of the light, finding there was a distinct path in the right direction. Later he would wonder why he didn't notice the glowing, pale blue orbs of light that seemed to be lighting the way; it should have been pitch black yet their glow permeated the darkness, revealing a tunnel leading exactly where the light was.

Francis took a deep breath before sprinting off into the forest.

As Francis's back retreated into the darkness Lukas and Dmitri shared a look. "He does not actually think we are going to obey him does he?" Lukas's tone held no sarcasm, just a mild curiosity.

"The man is an idiot. I understand now why dear Arthur feels the need to punch him every ten minutes. I admire his restraint." Lukas doesn't make a remark about 'dear Arthur', but contents himself with turning away and rolling his eyes imperceptibly. They both turn to leave but Dmitri puts a hand on Lukas's chest. "You are staying here. I will follow the idiot, you will look for Scoţia" Lukas looked ready to interrupt but Dmitri just continued, "Move from this spot and I will burn your magyk books and curse your troll so it goes insane," Lukas's eyes narrowed slightly before he returned to his normal bored-looking appearance. Dmitri added as a last thought, "Do not contact the others, they won't understand. It is bad enough that Francis," said with a slightly odd tone, as though the name itself tasted bad, "has to know, let alone the whole world." Lukas just nodded. As if I would tell those idiots anyway.

Romania knew what was going on from when the pillar of light appeared – his theory involved much research into Old English and Celtic folklore, and thus was able to tell what it was – and also knew it would go on for a while, so maintained a more leisurely pace through the forest. He pulled off a pure silver Celtic knot bangle he had brought just in case and tossed it over his shoulder as an offering to the Fey, sprites and Will-O'-Wisps that resided there. He hoped it would make up for the complete ignorance of the other man, who could have potentially angered the inhabitants of the forest by just running through without a thought. Francis is really making a liability of himself.

Francis's faster pace led him to the clearing where the beam of light was coming from and he stood at the edge. He gasped for the second time at what he saw there.

The clearing was bordered by oaks and sycamores, and they all seemed to glow vibrantly with light, even in the twilight. It was covered in grass and clovers except in the middle. This more than the strange ethereal glow was what caught Francis's attention.

For in the middle of the clearing, a knife stood upright. A knife of silver and pure diamond. It had obviously been used to carve the five-pointed star-within a circle that was engraved in the ground with the knife at its centre, flecked with dirt. The pentagram was on fire – how Francis couldn't work out – and from it the pillar of light was emitting continuously, a low hum resonating from it.

But even these Francis did not notice immediately. There was something more conspicuous holding his attention.

Arthur.

His cape was dumped a metre from where Francis was standing. He wore a green tunic and brown leggings, bare feet and a belt with an intricate sheath attached.

But even his odd attire was not the focus. Arthur was suspended, shadowless, in the light, which seemed to flow around him like an uphill waterfall interrupted. Arthur was murmuring soft words constantly. Arthur was glowing. His eyes were luminous, the pupils slits and pure light, white-gold rather than black. Arthur's ears were pointed and pierced, his eyes were lined and his temples tattooed with black spiral and knot designs. He looked overall otherworldly. However these were just details.

Arthur had translucent green butterfly wings about a foot taller than his body extending from his shoulder blades. The wings were the texture of stretched silk and transparent enough to see the trees of the other side. They were outlined in black and had gold Celtic knots, and strange spirals and triskellion designs in gold just inside the outline. From the centre of the wings, beginning at his shoulder blades, tendrils of gold smoke-like patterns were diffused across the surface.

Arthur is…

Arthur is a…

His brain backfired a couple of times before supplying him with that word.

Faerie.

..:.:.:.{III}.:.:.:..