A/N: Just a little something I came up with after figuring out that a juicy tidbit on the internet just so happened to be true ;). Enjoy ;D
"Angleterre? Just what do you hope to accomplish with… this?"
France had never witnessed something so ridiculously… satanic in his life. Yet here he was, his flamboyant ensemble concealed within an ebony hooded cloak, watching England draw a God-forsaken pentagram on the stone flooring they were situated on. Really, he didn't think that when England approached him during the World Meeting and whispered in his ear earlier "I'm going to demonstrate a very interesting ritual to you, France", he meant "I'm going to summon le diable putain onto the face of the earth and make you watch".
"Listen you bloody frog. You're only here as a witness to back me up when I announce to the whole world that Russia is the embodiment of Lucifer himself." England said, painting the finishing strokes of his pentagon with his ratty paintbrush. His fingertips were drenched in blood from where he had corrected the numerous mistakes he had made with the ruby substance. He raised himself up from his crouching position, stretching his locked up limbs and cracking his back a bit before walking to the crude metal sink hidden in the shadows of the dungeon-like room.
"Now now, mon cher, Russia may be quite twisted from the disturbing events he witnessed in war, but he is not, by any means, related to the devil in any way." France chastised, slowly circling England's hemic handiwork as the sound of a squeaky faucet and trickling water filled his ears. He tried not to think too much about where England could have possibly gotten the blood from…
"I beg to differ," England retorted, shutting off the faucet and wiping his hands dry on a ragged towel before walking over to a small, circular table, where lied an ancient leather-bound book whose cover was so faded that not even England himself could decipher the crumbly golden writing. "Every time I try to summon any sort of evil, destructive magical creature to set loose on that bloody wanker America, Russia ends up rising from the center of the spell ground." France assumed that the "spell ground" England was referring to was the pentagram. He hummed in response, letting England continue. "Every bloody time, it's always Russia. This has been going on since we constructed the Allied Forces back in World War II, and that was over seventy years ago!" England further proved his point by slamming his palm on the small table, making it creak and groan in protest.
"Well now, that does seem interesting…" France drawled, making sure his skepticism was explicitly apparent.
"Look frog, you don't even have to lift a single prissy finger of yours, okay? Just watch and see that I told you so." England said with smug finality. France grunted, taking his place by leaning against the grimy walls of the pub's basement, thankful for the first time that night that the cloak covered his expensive clothing.
England, at last locating the chant needed to perform his now dubbed "Russia Summoning", strode towards the pentagon, his own onyx cloak billowing at his feet with each stride. Halting in front of the pentagon, he dramatically raised his hand, palm facing outward. France watched in mild amusement as England began to take slow, purposeful steps around the outside of the pentagon and began to sing:
Meramera to, moyaki tsukuse
Sumi kara sumi made sono gouka de
Atokata mo nokoranu you ni
Tamashii made mo yaki tsukuse…
As his wavering, discordant singing continued, England's outstretched hand began to glow a menacing red, matching the equally menacing light emitting from the pentagon. Glancing up briefly to check on France, he saw that the Parisian's mouth was agape, akin to a guppy gasping for water, as his eyes followed England in his steady march. Chuckling inwardly, England continued:
Meramera to, moyaki tsukuse
Ware no yobikake ni, kotae ima
Orokanaru monodomo wo
Guren no honoo de yaki tsukuse…
Before England could begin the proper incantation, he was interrupted by barking laughter, coming from none other than France himself. The man was clutching his sides, his face contorted into a wide grin that suggested that the laughter was almost painful. Fuming that his spell had been halted, England turned back forlornly at the dimming glow of the pentagon as the magic wore off. He spun around on his heel, marched right up to the wheezing Parisian, and grabbed a fistful of his cloak, bringing him no more than an inch from his face.
"What's so funny, Francy-pants?" England ground out through his teeth, voice low and foreboding.
France calmed himself, but just barely, for his voice was strained with dammed up laughter as he choked out his answer.
"Angleterre, I thought you detested everything that came from my country, even my music."
"Of course I do, you git! What the hell does that have to do with interrupting my spell?! I was here for two bloody hours painting that spell ground!"
"Heh… Heheh… Your chant, mon cher, goes to the same tune as 'l'Arlesienne Suite Number Two: Farandole', composed by Georges Bizet. A French composer." France elaborated, a smug grin plastered onto his face as he watched England's face transform from irritable confusion to realization, to angry horror. His grip on France's cloak slackened, causing the Frenchman to slide slowly down the slimy walls and to the floor.
"…Are you serious?" England whispered. France began to feel a bit uneasy.
"Oui. Um… Angleterre? Vous sentez-vous bien? Your face is the most curious shade of purple-"
"YOU BLOODY FUCKING WANKER! YOU DARE TAINT MY SPELLS WITH YOUR DISGUSTING DRABBLE THAT YOU DARE CALL CLASSICAL MUSIC?! I WILL GELD YOU, YOU TWAT!"
"What on earth are you blaming me for?! I didn't do anything! You were the one who didn't know it was French! I only pointed it out to you because it was ironique!" France exclaimed, backpedaling a couple of feet before turning tail at England's demonic anger. He tripped over his own cloak as he dashed rather clumsily out the door and up the stairs to the pub above, nearly having his head chopped off as England began materializing weapons out of thin air, bellowing out curses towards France, his whole country, his culture, his… non-existent mother?
France should really learn to hold his tongue.
A/N: Some of the more difficult translations:
-Le diable putain- the fucking devil
-Part one of incantation- "Flare up and burn intensely/ and turn it into crisp from corner to corner/ don't even leave a single trace/ and burn the souls to crisp…"
-Part two of incantation- "Flare up and burn intensely/ heed and answer to my calls, now/ burn down those foolish mortals now/ with the flaring crimson flame…"
-Vous sentez-vous bien?- Are you feeling well?
The others should be simple enough :3
Reviews are lovely~