Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Richard II, the Shakespearean historical play.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, *linguistically, and grammatically). Tex still doesn't get the phrase "divide and conquer." *AKA me attempting various languages I am NOT fluent in which is like trying to catch a brick… with your face. X'D (Should it be cringe-inducing, I can take corrections on conjugations, accents, etc. Just don't be vicious. Standard US keyboards lack a lot of specialized characters and flipping auto-correct likes to lurk and undermine me.)
TRIGGER Warning: Prolonged violence to an inanimate but self-aware object? I don't know, it could be uncomfortable. Fallout from supernaturally induced domestic violence…technically. Harris (who just wears this label now as button). Continued depiction of emotional breakdown.
AN: I agree with one of the commenters; the reviewers here are GREAT! They make astute observations, hilarious summaries/reactions, and generally are respectful to each other and to me. ^_^ (I'm grateful for that here and for those of you that have visited/welcomed me over at A03. Thank you, it helps set the tone in the comment threads.)
Soooo, thanks! Know that when you take a minute/or more! to review, I really appreciate your comments and feedback and actively think about them as I construct character/story arcs! :DDD
So, yeah, I had kinda planned on saving this chap and releasing it on Halloween, but then went, WTH? I'll release it early. :DDD Hope you enjoy! And that your October is going well! Go do fun things! ^_^
Chapter 55: A Bunch of Weirdos in a Forest
"Miiiine."
Rhys felt instant relief at that soft slow hiss.
Through Arthur's gnashed teeth, he repeated, "Mine."
He was still trembling though.
It was probably a mistake. It was probably overplaying his hand. It was probably exploitation to share some of that graphic, awful imagery he'd endured from Harris with Arthur while he was in such a sorry, fragile state but—
Rhys did.
Arthur went stock still.
Rhys waited eagerly for a roar of justified righteous anger and an impressive profanity laced rant, but something very dark was roused instead.
And he sensed in the subconscious of Arthur's mind a quiet concession that maybe he didn't deserve his child's unwavering love…
Rhys flinched and moved forward. "Arthur…no…"
Arthur's fists clenched and he snarled.
But it was his. That love was his. It was his and no one else could dare lay claim to it. He'd tear them apart.
Rhys carefully moved back as Arthur withdrew his wand from the ether.
Because something possessive and vengeful and vicious had rallied in his brother and it wasn't very discriminating.
Rhys hastily whipped his cellphone back out and speed dialed.
"Ack, I told you not to-"
"Don't interrupt your brawd mawr! Arthur's aiming for the book! Get Tex inside! NOW!"
He got a rather meek, "Aye, right. Right. Fine!" back in response.
Rhys hardly breathed.
Alistair had barely, barely, gotten the young Texan secured in the air ambulance when a jet of dark magic streaked past. It crackled aggressively as it raced through the air.
Usually, Arthur wasn't very good at hexing. As a man of action, he'd lose focus midway through and decide he'd rather physically fight his foe by sword or by fist than by pure magic.
It was why, despite him knowing how to set up occult rituals for curses and the like, he was rather…ineffectual. It was common knowledge he did poorly at such spellwork and it had been established early on as a source of easy teasing for his brothers.
Darker spell casting often required there being no spiritual or moral conflict.
There was no clash here: malice was meeting malice.
And Arthur had brilliant aim.
Centuries ago, before environmental scarcities and social concerns took root, Arthur had been a very capable hunter.
He'd been fair with a bow and arrow and sling and spear (nothing that could challenge Rhys though). He'd been reliable with tracking and trapping and nets and knives (though Alistair had greater talent there). And while middling with his ability to identify bird calls (Reilley had always been the best out of them for that), more often than not he could bag the bird he wanted.
It was the combination of having command over all of those skills that had allowed him to steadily improve until he was collecting all manner of trophies and prestige—rousing his brothers' senses of rivalry.
And then, the gun was created. And he was unmatched.
Rhys had sometimes mused that as Arthur's gunmanship excelled and food became easier for him to secure via trade, that his enjoyment for the sport had waned.
He'd seemed relieved when clay pigeons became the norm.
Or maybe it had something to do with America?
Who, with an ease and speed no one anticipated, surpassed him?
Rhys could recall his brother standing on a grassy expanse that was set up as a firing range and him staring over at the lad.
It was the intensity in the American's blue eyes—like nothing beyond him and his rifle and his target existed.
And soon Arthur didn't offer "friendly" competitions and Alistair had to take up entertaining the American with hunting expeditions.
Maybe it was having had to point a musket at Alfred? That had soured it all for Arthur?
No…
The joy had already left years prior—he'd been very reluctant to instruct any of his wards on the skill even before America's rebellion.
He'd always been such a good shot…he'd wondered why he hadn't wanted to hand it down…
Another jet of dark magic struck the book viciously.
A very good hit.
Pages and scraps of paper fluttered down.
When the gramarye tried to flap back up to the helicopter, Arthur struck it once more.
More pages came free as it fell.
With a hunter's eye, Arthur immediately began stalking towards it.
Rhys followed three steps behind gathering what he could for a temporary binding. It just had to hold until Norway and Romania could arrive.
Texas gulped. He was as wobbly as a Freshman's first-time table in a high school woodshop class since Reilley had squeezed most of the feeling out of his legs.
It was kinda scary thinking that Alistair's arm was the only thing keeping him from making a fatal swan dive down into Ohiopyle National Park.
Oddly enough, it abruptly reminded him of Spain giving him the "mom-arm" when he tried to cross a street in Madrid at the wrong time.
Alistair carefully pulled him further in and the medic offered a makeshift harness to keep him a little safer (it was still more secure than one of 'Nam's monkey belts so he couldn't complain).
But they were over-capacity. He could hear the pilots remarking that there were too many people onboard and that they'd need to try an emergency landing in the parking lot to "shed" their surprise passengers and then head on over to the hospital for Alfred. But they could send another vehicle to transport them if necessary.
They were moving now in that wide swooping way where centrifugal force increased.
The hard thrum behind his back as he shared half-a-seat with Alistair and waited was familiar since he regularly signed up for coast guard work along the Gulf. He was used to, if not comfortable, with the feeling.
Plus, the marines made it a staple of their training regimes.
He didn't get joy out of heights though, not like Al. In different circumstances, Al would've loved hitching a ride on Harris or even this helicopter ride.
Except everything had kinda gone to shit.
And a lot of it was Tex's fault. He'd pushed for all of this. Had wanted to prove to himself? To Al? That he could weather any kind of misadventure. Even magical ones.
He looked over at his brother and the monitors hooked up to him.
Except he couldn't.
Not alone.
Shit!
He pulled out Rico's phone and winced. The screen had cracked
"I'll get ya a new one," he promised and then dialed Spain.
He clapped a hand over his unoccupied ear to better hear.
"¡Mijo! ¡¿Dónde estás ahora?! ¿Estás herido?"
"¡LOCO! ¡Tú estás loco!" Rico interjected. "¿Que eres-"
"¿Mijo? ¿Estás herido?"
"Nah, I-I-esta bien. I'm in the helicopter with Al. El pirata tiene el libro." He probably did by now. That had been a hell of a hit! Nah, hits! Reminded him of how he and Al would shoot at tin cans in the air for fun!
"Bueno."
"Who jumps on a flying book that's evil? That you know is evil!? ¡TU NO ERES NORMAL!" Rico shouted.
"Yeah." He probably wasn't. A "normal" person would've spilled their guts and hugged it all out before letting it spiral into this.
He sighed and stared out at the tops of trees and his father asked him again if he was sure that he was alright.
"No, it's okay. I'm not hu-"
"¿Estás herido?" Spain asked yet again, like he wasn't believing him.
He wasn't sure why being asked that repeatedly choked him up. Maybe it was the added stress of Al getting hurt as a direct result of his actions? And even though he'd known to expect critical injuries…
"N-no. I-I'm okay."
He was. He'd actually skated through this pretty unscathed. Maybe that was why the guilt gutted him worse?
"Tejas."
His eyes were all blurry cuz he was tired, right?
"I'm sorry…this all…it's my fault. I shouldn't have-"
"Don't listen to him, Papi! He's sucking up! He knows you freeze when he gets feelings and you're scared of hurting them!"
"Huh?" What?!
"Don't play innocent! Papi and I deserve to be mad at you and you being upset isn't going to soften us up for more manipulative jackassery schem-"
"I ain't crying!" He argued back immediately.
"That's not…what I…are you?" Rico asked.
Shit.
"NO, I ain't." He wiped his nose on his sleeve, suddenly grateful for all of the background noise to cover his sniffling. Alistair pointedly looked away to give him some privacy.
Yup; that one was his favorite among Al's relatives. Could he adopt an uncle? Having only met him, like twice, he'd trade Portugal in a heartbeat.
"Well, don't cry about it, tonto! We-"
His father cut in, repeating multiple times how relieved he was that Texas was alright, but where should they meet up?
The parking lot was in sight! They were starting their descent.
Once they touched down, Tex could ask who wanted a piece of Harris? And who felt up for Witching Hour Weirdness riding with Al?
"Um, I think we're gonna split up. So, it'll depend on which group makes more sense for me to stay with."
Either one of those things was gonna be a handful so splitting up to divide and conquer made sense.
Arthur had had the right idea for the Gram, uh, grammery? Rye? Whatever. Book. Clay pigeon style or maybe they could make it a piñata affair?!
He and Spain had done pretty good fighting Harris when he'd been in skeleton mode, right?
"Papi, um…do you…want to be on…my team? Or…" It cost a lot to ask, but his decision-making hadn't been top notch this whole trip and now he was tired and unsure and guilt-ridden. "Or maybe… I could be on yours-"
His phone call cut out.
So did the radio.
Then, all the windows shined brightly and no one could see a goddamned thing!
The equipment began malfunctioning— weirdly beeping and blaring until abruptly going silent.
He wouldn't say the staffing of this unit panicked cuz they didn't but…
There was that tone of finality when a unit was cornered or you could just feel that a tank missile had your name slapped on it.
Because the windshield changed? Transformed?
The bright light decreased as the windshield became a... mirror?
Texas shivered and the hair on his neck stood on end.
The same mirror that had been at the clearing. He looked around.
They were all here.
The one that was across the windshield was sideways. Two others were right side up but blocking the openings of the vehicle.
And one, he carefully looked over his shoulder.
Eep.
That one…
That was the one that he'd duct taped back together…and it was right behind them.
North, South, East, and West.
Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter.
And all of them were sporting a creepy reflection of Al.
Scotland looked around, nodded to himself, and swore something in Gaelic.
"Aye, that's a showstopper alright," Reilley admitted softly.
And the fact that he heard that…
The sounds of the helicopter's propellers had gone silent. He could still feel the vibrations though.
The pilots immediately tried radioing for help and using the radar, but it was all bunk.
"It's alright. It's alright. I've landed in a brown out before," the pilot stated with a calming tone—possibly aware that he was the "oldest" one present, in his mid-forties, and leaning hard into a "Dad's got this, kids" approach. "We'll set her down easy."
"Are you seeing this?!" the copilot exclaimed, running a nervous hand across his buzz cut hair.
"Yeah," the pilot replied lightly.
So, they did have Americans with some Sight after all!
"I don't see anything," the male medic next to Al replied. "What're you talking about?"
The pilot and copilot shared a look and then immediately beckoned him over. "Come here, help guide us down-"
Abruptly, the controls jerked out of their hands and the propellers stopped.
But they didn't plummet.
"What the-?" The copilot leaned forward and tapped a gauge.
The pilot was checking the battery. "Impossible."
The medic shook his head. "How the…we're just in the air without…"
"Powerful magic." Reilley let out a whistle.
They turned to stare at the Irishman.
And Tex deduced that these were and weren't the mirrors from the clearing.
Creepy hallucinatory magic. Nice. Real nice. The night just kept getting better.
He stared down at Rico's phone—dead zone. Well, didn't that give him good feelings?
"What is your desire?" Alfred asked.
The medic, a young man in his twenties, edged away as much as the small space and his leash to the winch would allow.
"Oh, right. He, uh, he makes contracts?" Texas offered.
Reilley seemed surprised. "He told you?"
"Showed me."
"Contract. Not a wish. A contract. There will be a trick to it," Reilley stated knowingly.
Tex nodded emphatically. "Yeah, don't be a prick."
Both redheads stared at him for a beat and then glanced at each other and shrugged ruefully.
"Easier said than done, laddie."
Reilley hmmmed at that. "Oooh me." He glanced down at his watch. "Oh boyo, ya know, there are multiple witching hours? Midnight, hour after midnight, sunset to sunrise…but the fact that Alfie-boy's witching hour is 3 am on the dot-"
"Devil's Hour," Alistair muttered sourly. His gray eyes narrowed. "It's known as the Devil's Hour."
Arthur knew the smell of ink and was talented at celestial navigation. He possessed a millennia of experience tracking beasts and men.
And he'd dealt with rabid animals before.
He flourished his wand with a hard wrist flick, idly wondering now why he'd ever found this difficult.
Another beam of dark magic left his wand effortlessly.
Part of the reason why he'd depended so heavily on Excalibur in the past was that he hadn't mastered this manner of spellcasting via his magical item of power.
He'd lacked the proper temperament.
Supposedly.
He came upon the gramarye like a cornered animal with it snapping its covers.
More hexes flew and it bled ink with every hit.
It tried to fly hard into him, scheming perhaps that a surprise attack and sheer audacity would successfully knock him down and let it escape but—
Arthur caught it in his free hand.
Dark tendrils, like a flurry of spidery threads, tried to find purchase in him and failed.
This form didn't have that vulnerability.
He set his wand into his belt so he could make use of both of his hands.
He wrenched the gramarye open and began rolling it up from the bottom to the top—the worst of wrong ways to handle a book—breaking its spine.
More ink splattered onto the forest floor.
Now and then, he'd slacken his hold to tear pages out at his leisure.
Rhys didn't interrupt his activity. He didn't participate either and remained three good paces away.
"I think the hallowed ground of that graveyard was weakening it," Rhys suggested. "We ought to take it back to that makeshift cemetery for now, until Norway and Romania come."
Arthur nodded mutely and carried the book easily, even as it struggled to free itself.
"There's still enough starlight to find our way back," his brother stated.
There was. He let Rhys lead the way while he cracked and re-cracked the spine as they traveled.
It was something he could do—here, now; he was far too late for so many other things.
A feminine, ringed hand tapped impatiently on the table.
He understood her reluctance to participate in such discussions as a husband or heir would threaten her reign.
They were open enough with one another to speak bluntly, viciously on matters of power.
But they weren't talking about her.
They were talking about him.
"'Tis a matter of pride. There is a certain accomplishment in…well…" He disliked being coarse, but, "spreading one's seed-"
"To better boast amongst his rivals and peers?" She asked archly.
"A man's potency is…important." His face heated. "Spain has colonies!" He pointed out.
"Art thou jealous?" She teased.
"Aye."
"…"
He blinked hard. So jealous he could hardly pass an hour without stewing on it. He wanted a colony badly.
Every baby's giggle or child's lisping rhymes set him ablaze with envy for their fathers and mothers.
He had wealth, prestige, culture, resources, explorers and settlers so why?!
He swallowed—trying to reign in the intensity of his feelings.
"My son-"
"So certain?"
"…Or daughter," he amended reluctantly.
At her unimpressed stare, he elaborated his private fear that a daughter would suffer for inheriting his countenance in ways a boy wouldn't.
She laughed. "You are not unhandsome."
He frowned. "Nor am I handsome either."
She did not argue that.
He could wear the right trappings to be impressive—a flash of gold, fur, velvet, silk, and a well-crafted sword did much. He was certain his son would fare similarly.
"See, my son-"
"…"
"For it is my fantasy!" He defended. "My bairn…"
"Would he be a swordsman? A seafarer?"
"Naturally. With a good sense for horseflesh." The idea of taking him along on adventures set a glow in him.
"You in portrait miniature, then?"
He faltered at that. Would such an arrangement work? Arthur knew he was headstrong…if the child was his equal in wrath...their tempers could clash.
"Would he be loathed, should he fail to ascend and embody these ideals?" Her eyes blazed with real interest then.
Loathed? Was this some manner of seeing herself in this situation? Like her thoughts on that Richard II play?
"Loathe him?" he mumbled blankly.
"Mayhap, he was weak? Small? A stranger to greatness?" There was a morbid excitement there.
He almost heard "worthless" and something in him shuddered violently at that.
"An he be a detriment to your legacy, wouldst thou hold fast to him?"
He had the strangest sense he was being tested.
"Sickly?" She continued, "Marked to die in a few short seasons? Would it not be better-"
"Stop."
"Would it not serve us better to forgo-"
"STOP!" Because he could not suppress the shiver in his soul.
He took a breath and then another before stating, "My son…my son shall be hale and strong… though…aye…he may need to…grow into his strength, he may do so 'neath the shade of mine!" He felt content in that answer and rather liked the imagery it evoked. For he would provide shelter, gladly.
If his child was not strong, he'd nurse him up until he was. Yes. It could be done. He'd seen sickly heirs recover before.
Her face was hard. Disappointed. But why?
He gazed into his reflection in a glass vessel.
What if he got that son? That deeply wanted son and he was not what Arthur expected?
He shifted his head—letting his reflection distort more.
If the child was unusual…sickly…in need of constant aid…
"Even so…would still be mine." His heart hurt at the thought…that others would think his babe dispensable.
"An this child was…beautiful and delicate and doomed?"
"Dramatic." He raised an eyebrow.
"A walking tragedy what could only slow and ensnare you?"
"That was beautiful?" Arthur deadpanned skeptically. "How could that be so?"
"…A siren."
He chuckled. "As a water power, in troth, I would think me unmoved."
Something like satisfaction softened her expression momentarily. Then, she hardened. "What if you were?"
He stilled—heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears.
"Have you…had news?" Wild hope crashed over him. "A daughter!?" She would want for nothing! He would lavish her with all he could!
His ruler's earlier sallies were meant to prepare him! But there was no danger! No need to fear his reaction!
A blessing! A gift!
A lovely little girl! O how he would adore her! No daughter would be more cherished than his precious, sweetling—
"No, Arthur. No daughter—"
"A son?!" A thrill of joy went through him—
"Forgive me."
—and then was doused.
"There is no child. The colony, Roanoke, failed. I…they are gone. The colonists. Vanished."
"…"
"There will be other settlements," she assured.
Breathing hurt. In. Out. In. This fell news was a dagger he could not dislodge.
He swallowed back his bitter disappointment which tasted so much fouler because he'd sampled hope and now—
His breath caught and he choked on the grief, but…
But…
He had to ask…to know…
Even as his heart shattered at the prospect…
"Was there…? Roanoke?" The chamber blurred. "Was he…beautiful?" His voice cracked.
"No. There is no child there. Do not be heartsick, there will be other expeditions."
"…"
"Forgive me."
Uncertain now on whether this child was mere speculation or…or... he choked on a sob.
"You truly…want this…" she realized. "Forgive me."
Hard green eyes watched the pages flutter to the ground and then levitate back up trying to return to the gramarye, sealing themselves back to the binding before he tore them out again.
There had been a Roanoke. His little Roanoke whose changing circumstances changed his name, perhaps as a signpost to the heavens to change his fate…
Though…
"You pwotect me...you will pwotect me fwom monsters…" A very small Alfred declared happily, repeating back his colonizer's assurances.
Except when…
Crick…
He didn't.
Please, please, come home to me, Arthur had wished fervently over and over through the centuries. And the thought slipped through to Alfred and-
"I tried! You weren't there!"
There in Harris's memories, an overeager Alfred had been waiting for Arthur with a key to Kirkland Hall in his pocket, so direct in his affections that his government set out to punish him for them. And the only idiot it wasn't obvious to was—
"You weren't there!"
The horror on his young face as he was surrounded by cruel humans who his father would have disbatched if he'd had even the slightest premonition.
But he'd been preoccupied with France and Napoleon.
"Daddy, you weren't there!"
And he went unrescued…
Unrescued…
Unrescued…until it was so damningly familiar a fate that…
Disbelief…
Because what else could he call it?
Nearly one year ago, when Arthur arrived at that awful cabin—
"Fa…ther…"
There'd been disbelief on his face as Arthur caught and supported his meager frame.
"…missed you—"
And he had. He had missed his father, who'd been as good as gone from his life for two centuries.
"How could you leave me?!"
The despair…that not even a forgetting hex could completely erase.
"I just thought you didn't love me anymore."
Crick…
Daddy…
It had been hard—upbraiding the younger man for abusing his rank (even if he knew deep down, the lad was trying to grant him a kindness during the war by letting him spend time with Kaoru). And the anger and shame he felt having to correct that impulse because there were too many lives depending on them for such special allowances.
And he didn't know yet…that the boy already knew too well about such sacrifices.
Having already given up almost everything…except Arthur. Wasn't that what Blue had said? That Red just couldn't let him go?
You're…
"Jesus…" Alfred muttered. "Here I am creeped out...and you can't even pretend to care for one freaking second…"
It hurt worse every time he remembered that.
"I die when you don't."
No.
"No one looks out for me when you can't be bothered to."
No. Alfred had never said any of that.
But he couldn't stop trembling because he might as well have.
Wasn't that what all those morbid foam graves had spelled out?
Hurting…
Bandaged up to his throat and smiling at a meeting like his hand hadn't melted into a puddle during a testing and Arthur had been too tired and bitter to ask why he kept that hand in his lap—assuming it was injured when really…really…it had been gone.
But they needed power and the boy was strong enough to handle the nuclear testing. Yes, that was the lie he'd kept telling himself.
Me…
Big blue eyes kept widening in pain and fear. And that was infuriating, too! So bloody dramatic! Didn't he know by now that Arthur would never hurt-
Crick…
Morgan le Fey chuckled as blood, ill will, and a spotty Breton dialect dribbled from her lips...
"One day Cadeyrn...One day...you will love...and by the powers of my hate...I…heh heh heh...one day you'll be caaaarelessssss…"
Careless.
What a word to describe it? The vehicle of his ruination: carelessness.
It was apt and devastating and he'd never forgive himself.
For centuries, he'd thought Excalibur's hex a harsh, if deserved, lesson for his arrogance.
Carelessness was worse.
And he could well imagine her laughter continuing on as she descended into hell because he'd been a fool then, originally thinking she'd meant romantic love when…
It was clear now as he'd started fearing last winter; she'd had some manner of vision centuries before his desire for fatherhood had even taken root and plotted against them.
"...and I'll tear that little heart you love... to shreds...while you watch."
And he did. Watch. Watched as his own hands destroyed someone he loved.
Such a fool…he'd never thought she could make him the instrument of her vengeance…
Never thought her hatred could be so deep and expansive that it could radiate beyond him…that she would set him against his own babe…
A growl left his throat and he viciously ripped the back cover of the gramarye off.
And this monster…
He eyed the broken gramarye in his hands. His fury at present too great to even formulate thoughts.
He growled again and tried to rip it apart into as many small pieces as he could manage.
When they returned to the makeshift graveyard, the spellbook noticeably lost some of its zest. Though, whether it was because Rhys was correct in his theory or because Harris sensed Arthur's wrath ran so deep it would never abate so escape wasn't going to happen with him on guard…was difficult to tell.
Arthur checked his watch. "The hour's nearly past."
"Y-yes. When the hour ends, I'll contact them," Rhys assured. "I just don't want to risk establishing any mode of connection while..." He looked at the gramarye.
"Right." Arthur calmly took out his folding knife and began cleaving whole sections of the book away and letting them litter the cemetery floor where they'd twitch and start floating back to the book to try and repair itself.
"Arthur, it can't be destroyed that way," Rhys stated quietly.
He cleaved another section and ink stained the blade and the ground below as another section fell.
"I know."
The simple Scandinavian clock read 6:18 am.
Norge swallowed his last bite of buttered rye bread with cheese.
He needed to leave now to catch his flight to Amerika.
"You're really going?" Island muttered from the small kitchen table where he'd looked up with bleary eyes from his bowl of hafragrautur to watch his brother pick up his carryon bag and check his passport.
He nodded. It was understood between spellcasters that if Ragnarok was unfolding in one's backyard the courteous thing was to inform the friendly casters of one's social network.
And on his side, if something highly disastrous and beyond one coven's scope to contain was afoot, it was polite to offer aid.
There was only this one planet for them, so better to not destroy it, if possible.
And it was good to be owed a favor when troll mischief became overwhelming or nøkkane were causing issues; England was good with sentient magical creatures.
As he understood it, from Canada's shaky explanations and the UK brothers' sporadic updates, was that this evil spirit broke free, conveniently, just after Walpurgisnacht's end and at the start of Beltane's Day.
Island's spoon scraped along the bottom of his bowl and Norge moved to the stove to get him a second helping.
"Why do you have to go?"
He could almost hear 'storebror' in that whine and that made his heart warm.
"Do you want to come?" He asked point blank as he poured more oatmeal for him.
"Do I want to hang out with a bunch of weirdos in a forest?"
"Ja?" The outdoors would be healthy for his lillebror. His current, nationally motivated, interest in writing and reading and publishing worried him a bit.
He was proud, of course, but concerned; he didn't want Emil to become a shut-in.
"NO!"
"Amerika is young," he offered. "And…he is relearning his magic. It…could be good for you. To see it."
Emil stared at him blankly. "I'm not like you. I don't do magic."
Anymore… Norge thought sadly.
He tried to hold in the sigh as he put the empty pot in the sink.
It was also a good time to check up on Mathieu who was related to them, even if he wasn't quite family yet. Though there was an opportunity there…maybe.
Though it came with a sense of trepidation because if Mathieu was truly Vinland it meant that they shared Ancient Scandinavia as a father. Mathieu seemed sentimentally invested in that. Proud of it.
No one who'd actually known him would be.
Sverige had already made his concerns known when they met up a few months ago.
"Maybe I shoulda lied?" The blond man considered it seriously as he took a solemn drink of kaffe.
"Nah!" Danmark refuted cheerfully. "Then, you'd be the deadbeat dad instead of being his secret estranged brother, like the rest of us! Don't cover for Scandy. We just have someone else to complain about him with. Ja?"
Naturally, Norge had felt deeply uncomfortable about it. Something in Matthieu's voice suggested a resistance to really discussing the ancient nation as he'd been.
Danmark summed it up best with a toast of "Vinland, you lucky bastard!" And they'd all followed suit.
He hadn't been a good father to any of them who'd known him.
"Norge?"
Just thinking about him—his hands clenched.
"Norge?"
"…"
If Matthieu did try to defend their father's memory…out of misguideded filial emotion...
"Hallo?"
Would Lukas be able to manage his temper?
"…"
"Sto-"
His head whipped to the side to face his brother. "Ja?"
"N-nothing! I said nothing!"
"…?"
"Y-your phone."
It was pinging with a notification that his taxi had arrived.
"Ah."
"Are they paying you?" Island demanded.
"…"
"Comping your travel expenses?"
"…"
"You and Sví are such old men." Emil set his spoon down and crossed his arms. "Oh, I'll do this for honor. And the possibility of a favor centuries later…ya know, if anybody remembers or cares to fulfill it-"
Lukas walked over and ruffled his brother's hair much to his embarrassment.
He set his hand on the top of Island's chair. "Maybe this year we practice driving? And see if your government will make an adjustment on your identification papers?"
He'd learned through the troubles with America's disappearance and downsizing (and a drunk England, in the throes of grief and anxiety, who had probably called everyone in his phone directory) that, initially, America had managed to obtain an "older" driver's license.
Very clever.
Getting Iceland's identification to move from 16 to 17 would greatly expand his opportunities to engage with the world meaningfully.
"Then, you can drive me yourself."
"You must have a death wish!" scoffed Island's puffin from his perch on top of a kitchen cabinet.
Island flipped the bird off half-heartedly.
Norge was still a little annoyed that his brother had succumbed to tourist-driven Anglicization and had renamed Herr Lundi, "Mr. Puffin," to make it easier for others.
"I'll send flowers," the bird quipped.
The fact was…that the puffin could speak; some familiars could. And Island never denied hearing him.
Usually, only magic users could hear such things (barring incredibly powerful familiars…which were the ones that typically inspired various legends and myths).
Ja, this lundefugl was a strong one. But he knew Emil still had Sight, he never sat down on a nisse and had a habit of staring down magical creatures to try and get them to move or settle down whenever he thought Norge wasn't watching.
It made it all…frustrating. Norge felt he'd been very patient with him. He understood. He did. He sympathized. He would never forgive Scandinavia. Never.
And if time spells weren't such risky magic, he might have chanced changing it all. But the possibility of things going worse…always stayed his hand.
Still…a millennia was a long time.
Amerika was relearning, Texas was learning, and Canada was curious. It was a perfect opportunity for Island to master his magic and make friends his age.
He'd be the eldest one there by just a little bit. He was less than two centuries older than Matthieu. Seven-ish for Texas and Alfred.
And they were all teens…mostly.
Lukas always worried that if Emil had a falling out with Hongkong and Taiwan, he'd have no friends.
"Wait," his brother remarked suddenly.
Norge obliged.
"Before you go."
It was probably foolish, given that neither of their cultures were particularly known for displays of affection, but he still half-hoped for a hug farewell.
Instead…
Norge grimaced through a spoonful of Lýsi and chased it down with a hard gulp of orange juice.
Since the 1930s, his brother fiercely believed in cod liver's medicinal value.
"Mange takk," he managed and then ruffled his brother's fair hair once more, even as the teenager complained he was too old for such things.
The ride to the airport, the wait for the plane, the flight were all quiet.
But Norge was a patient man and used to long expeditions, as well as solitary living and traveling.
He had his thoughts for company; and there were so many, he'd almost call his mind cluttered.
In the Pittsburgh International Airport, (because luck had been on their side in that they'd both been able to schedule flights so close to the State Park), he met up with Romania.
Romania was rather excited at the circumstances.
"I haven't been here personally since the Halloween Competitions! Feels like a vacation already!" Romania gushed. "And there's an evil book! Neat, right? I can't wait to tell Moldova."
Norge stared for a moment and then considered it. It was an unusual supernatural occurrence. Humans typically manifested as ghosts or occasionally as undead remnants.
Again, he wished Emil had accompanied him. It would be educational because this wasn't a haunted object but a possessed object.
This Harris must've been a pretty potent spirit to do that.
"You think I should call this in as a favor? So there's another Halloween celebration?" Romania asked. He'd called Norge a lot the previous October—having depended on Amerika hosting the party annually (even after Alfred had been missing for several months and him miraculously showing up on the 31st would be unlikely). Though mostly he called because he was missing Moldova…who could usually get permission to attend that party and they could meet up there…he knew Norge would understand that.
He did.
The Nordic Five enjoyed festive things, too. They were wonderfully distracting.
He shrugged. "Ja. Maybe…ask for it…but…"
Romania already knew where he was heading and hastily agreed,"Yes, but for next year, since this year will be the anniversary of the whole wendigo…thing. I wish I could have been there though. Wendigo! Always wanted to see one."
Norge agreed with that, too.
Maybe after this crisis ended, Norge could ask for more information on their behalf? He tried to keep his occult information updated; but it was difficult when some supernatural entities were so continent-specific.
They visited a local store to buy some hiking gear and casting equipment. He checked in on Island, since he was still feeling melancholy that he'd had to cut his trip to Reykjavik short.
Island could be so quiet and self-contained. That he'd invited Norge over to show off some tourist attractions he felt confident about…it was clear he'd wanted for them to spend time together.
They risked a call to Rhys who sounded exhausted and grateful for their arrival, which was sign enough of how needed they were. Bretland was usually as expressive as a side table lamp.
Using the rental car's navigation system, they made their way to the coordinates they'd been sent, along with the shovels they'd been instructed to buy in the trunk.
Rhys was certain they'd need them.
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