Sorry I took so long to update, everyone! I've had a lot of shizz going on in my personal life and I'm trying to write a dissertation too so I've not had much time to write. I'm hoping to get a lot done before Christmas though! Sorry this chapter got a bit long though, I got carried away! :P Thanks to everyone who faved and followed this story! It means a lot to me and it's helped to keep me focused during tough personal times, so seriously, thanks guys! For anyone who didn't see it, I uploaded the first chapter of a new story yesterday too - And The Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead. Its a ScotEng/ScotFran, so if that's your thing, check it out! Its pirate England~! Also, I'm working on a single chapter fic, about little England meeting Britannia for the first time, hopefully it'll be done by sunday. Hope you enjoy this chapter guys!
ps, Tylwyth Teg is middle welsh for "Fair Family" - its the welsh equivalent to Aos Si. Its the same thing as Fae or Fairies. Also, although I called her England's date, it's more like a "plus one" sorta thing. she's not romantically involved with England.
Chapter 2 - England Brought A Date?! The Tylwyth Teg of Autumn
She stood at the top of the staircase, clad in a pale blue cloak that reached to her ankles, the deep hood, rimmed with what looked to be wolf fur, hid her face and all that could be seen of her was a small hand that held the banister lightly.
While it was not uncommon for countries to bring human dates to such formal (and sometimes informal) gatherings held outside of country related business, most chose not to; bringing human dates to such gatherings often brought up awkward questions, seeing as almost none of the country personifications interacted with humans outside of those they absolutely had to, so many preferred to take other country personifications as their dates to such events. However, every now and again, some countries would be genuinely dating a human, so they'd bring their girlfriend or boyfriend with them and no other country would question it. It wasn't unusual for bosses of certain countries to order their personification to "show off" a trending celebrity at such gatherings though, so normally film stars, singers, famous novelists, sports stars, any celebrity really, could be found accompanying some of the personifications – Canada was once forced to bring Justin Bieber. In spite of all that, England was notorious for not bringing a human date that wasn't a celebrity he'd been forced to show off. In fact, as Norway scoured his brain, he realised Arthur Kirkland had never brought an ordinary human date to a country gathering before!
England smiled nervously at the bottom of the stairs. His date had arrived early after all, just as he'd hoped she would, though really he shouldn't have been surprised, she'd always been a punctual woman. He watched her as she descended, never taking his eyes from her figure for even a moment – with each step closer to him she took, his smile grew less and less nervous, more relaxed and happy. When she finally stood before him, their height difference was astounding to the other countries in the room. England's human date was tall, though that in itself was an understatement; she had to be just under a whole foot taller than England, who himself was five foot, nine inches tall. For a woman, presumably from England though most assuredly from Britain, she was gigantic.
Suddenly, England began to move. The band stopped playing. The lights flickered three times before settling once more. All conversation ended immediately as all turned their eyes on England and his tall date. The green eyed blond had bent his body forward, bowing deeply at the waist, one arm across his midsection, the other still at his side, eyes lowered as he held the bow for several moments, far longer than anyone had ever seen him do before, except for maybe his own Queen. The woman placed a hand under his chin, silently urging him to stand, and so he righted himself, standing tall as he rolled his shoulders, he nodded at her once, before tilting his head to the side, and because his back was to the rest of the room, they did not see his smile, so pure, genuine and sweet that it would've melted many a young maidens heart.
Then the woman moved. In one swift and elegant movement, her arms reached for her hood and uncovered her face, letting the hood fall behind her. She lowered herself slowly, reverently, to her knees before England, and had the atmosphere in the ballroom been less tense and peculiar, a few of the countries might have made crass remarks about the position and what it looked like from where they were currently standing. She placed her hands on the cold marble before her, then lowered her head slowly to the ground, until her forehead met with marble, prostrating herself before the young Englishman. She held the position for a few heartbeats, no more than five at the very most. The gesture had everyone in the room boggled and England stuttering and twitchy, uncomfortable once again but not out of embarrassment, more out of unsureness. She then rose slightly, lifting her head and hands, before elevating herself to kneel before him on one leg, her left arm crossed over her body while the left hand, clenched into a fist, rested against her right collar bone, her head bowed slightly, while the palm of her right hand helped her to keep her balance for a moment, steadying herself, before she used it to slowly bring England's right hand to her face. She kissed the fingernail of England's middle finger; a silent oath of undying loyalty, of fealty, of allegiance, dating back to the Dark Ages and the Medieval days of old. The Englishman was visibly shaken, but she continued to hold his hand softly as she lifted her head, her eyes meeting his for an instant and a warm and gentle smile broke out on her face. He could not bring himself to do anything less than smile back and he gently took her by the wrists, helping his date to her feet, as they continued to smile at one another. Once she had released his hand, and he let go of her wrists, she ruffled his hair playfully, grinning toothily when England yelped out of protest, though in his heart he did not object to the obvious sign of affection. Once finished with its' ruffling, her hand cupped his cheek softly. England kisses the palm of her hand and they both chuckled softly, privately, as though they were the only ones in the room and when she removed her cloak, held shut by a heavy bronze broach shaped like a stag's head, neck and antlers, the country personifications in the room suddenly found their voices once more and the frantic whispering began.
"England brought a date?!" Belgium whispered excitedly to her older brother, Netherlands.
"Did you know England was seeing someone?" Denmark turned to Norway, who shook his head.
"Vell, zis is…unusual…" Germany frowned, a pint of beer in his hand.
"Veh~! She's so…! Veh~!" Italy sighed dreamily, standing next to Germany.
"Did you know about zees?!" France whirled around to glare at Spain.
"Why would I?! I don't talk to him!" Spain protested.
"Vell, Portugal is your bruder…" Prussia pointed out.
"Who I barely talk to!" Spain snapped back in his own defence, though he made a mental note to go all inquisitor on his brother's ass and interrogate him most thoroughly when he returned home.
With her cloak gone, the true height of the woman came to light. She stood an impressive six foot, seven inches (and a half) tall but her height was far from the only distinguishing feature that made her stand out from the crowd. Clothing wise, she looked unusual; a dress of pastel pink gossamer covered her body, falling to her ankles. While the dress contained no fancy or pretty artwork stitched upon it, a fur pelt was wound around her natural waistline, accompanied by an identical pelt that ran the length of the neck area on her dress. The front of the dress was cut open widely, ending at the lowest point of her breastplate and were it not for the slender strips of hide – no wider than a woman's pinkie finger – that loosely laced up the front of the dress, there was no doubt a "wardrobe malfunction" involving showing nipples would have occurred. Her feet were adorned with leather sandals, not the type based off Roman or Grecian design, just a simple piece of leather, moulded to the soles of her feet and kept in place by fine leather straps that wound their way up her legs, finishing three quarters of the way up her calf. Her hair caught the eye of more than one country personification in the room.
If France had to describe her hair colour, he'd burst into some long winded poetry that could not possibly do the colour any justice, for though she was undoubtedly a shade of gingered red, she was like all natural red heads, with multiple strands of her hair being ever so slightly different shades of red from the other strands; deep hues, with vivid reds and light oranges with just a dash of a hint of blond, the kind of natural red hair that changed colour depending what season it was and how the light caught it. France felt as though every shade of Autumn, every scrap of colour from the sunset and every warmth and heat from a bonfire had been woven together to create her hair, such was the depth of its colour. Tonight, her hair was braided loosely and fell to her waist. Though a large strand hung over her face, which she seemed to puff at, trying to blow it out of her eyes.
She had pale skin, not creamy like the paler Europeans, not snow-like as the Nordic nations were, but a certain white, pasty colour, charming, in its own way. But then she was a creature of great beauty, though none could tell you why, for she had a bizarre beauty, a sort of look that should not be beautiful, yet it was. The former empires in the room gazed openly at her and felt stirrings of a challenge; something they wanted to possess, to own, to break, yet their heads urged caution, for her body posture was not that of a timid woman, but openly proud, defiant and confident – she seemed to say "challenge me if you dare, but you shall not win". The less dominant countries in the room went to great lengths to avoid her eyes and dipped their heads slightly, becoming instinctively submissive.
Denmark could have sworn he knew her from somewhere, that annoying mental itch you get when something's just on the tip of your tongue…! But no, he couldn't place her, even if she did remind him of a mermaid, albeit a strange one – the kind that would drag a sailor to his death. Norway had much the same opinion, though he felt she was more akin to a fairy, the nasty ones that carried sharp, pointy objects and played deadly jokes on humans for sport. Indeed, she was an unearthly beauty of sorts. She certainly had no care for anyone else's thoughts, as her bared arms and cleavage revealed many scars of various sizes up and down the whole length of them, her neck had a few nicks to it and even her face had a small scar along her jawline on the right hand side – scars were far from unusual on nations, but no matter how much they disliked one another in the heat of battle, they never struck the face, for injuries dealt by one nation to another always left a scar; an unwritten rule between nations existed; never attack the face. Most countries went to great lengths to hide their scars, especially the women, but England's date showed them off, seemingly proud of them! Then there was her athletic build, slightly bulky for a woman, but not to the extent of being unattractive, not to mention the blue tattoos…
England chuckled. "You made quite the entrance my dear. Everyone is no doubt whispering about you, too taken with you to mind their manners."
The red head sneered. "Tis the hair or my height that provokes their gazing, nothing more."
"Heh, you are much too humble. Why not admit you are the most beautiful creature in the room?" England shook his head, then slid his suit jacket off, handing it and the woman's cloak to an attendant, before he loosened his tie and unbuttoned two of his shirt buttons.
"That's better." The woman smirked at England.
"I agree." England shot back, his confidence fully reinstated.
An hour later, the room was still buzzing with excitement and gossip, though no one had approached England and his date, who was noticeably older than him. She was supposed to be in her early fifties, but clearly someone forgot to tell her face and body that because she seemed to have stopped aging at her thirties…
England suddenly felt a tremor up his spine. "Please excuse me for a brief moment poppet, I'll be with you again soon."
His date watched him leave as he made his way casually – he didn't want his date to panic – to the men's' toilets.
Meanwhile, the red haired woman caught the tail end of a conversation going on between France and Spain and she felt her hackles rise. Stalking over to the pair, she found them to be in the middle of a game of pool, though what a pool table was doing in the corner of a ball room was beyond her, even if it did make her mind wonder as to where a dart board might be located in the room…
"I advise you to rethink that last remark." The woman spoke firmly, directly to France.
"Oh...uh…" France had been caught off guard, and more importantly, caught bitching about England.
"Be you deaf or dumb boy?" The woman frowned. "I bid you to retract your statement."
"Non…?" France had answered instinctively, but nervously.
The woman seemed to regard the Frenchman for a few moments, before smirking. She had good teeth, France noted, but her canines were unusual, not narrow and sharp like a vampire, instead they were slightly wider than a normal human's, slightly longer too and from a small cut on her bottom lip France gathered the teeth must catch her lip every now and again. They looked a bit like the canines of a dog, or as close as a human's tooth could get to it.
"Permit me to make a challenge for you then." She pressed France.
"Of course, madam."
"I wager I can best you at that." She waved a hand towards the pool table. "Should I be victorious; you will apologise – publicly – to Arthur."
"And if I win…?" France tipped his head to the side, a lewd smile tugging at his lips – France always was a sucker for a woman. Any woman.
"What would you wish for, should you win?" She replied, blankly.
The Frenchman pondered this for but a moment. "A dance with you, my lady."
"…A dance? Tis a wonder to me that you should choose so simple a thing, but I shall concede to it."
And so the game began; in no time at all, several countries had caught wind of the wager and had gathered around the pool table, curious to see the outcome. They were all boggled by her when she rubbed the blue chalk (normally reserved for the tip of the que) into the palms of her hands before she took up a que and twirled it, testing its weight. Short, she thought to herself, but it will have to do.
Naturally, the audience questioned the woman at every opportunity, but they received only vague answers that often revealed very little and by the time the match was half way through, they still did not know her name or where she was from or how she'd met England. But France was obviously winning.
"Come now madam," France was feeling generous, if not cocky. "Clearly zee one with zee upper hand here is Moi. But I am not a cruel man, so why don't we just call zees a draw and end it there, no?"
The red head took great offence to that. "Never! Once I have challenged a man, I see it through to the end, even if I am faring poorly." Then she sneered suddenly. "That said, I would not object to a…change…in our little wager."
Her voice was strange too, a bit low in pitch for a woman, but still retaining a feminine lilt to it. She spoke good English but spoke in an old fashioned sort of way that threw people off and she didn't seem to have just one accent for it seemed to change repeatedly and it wasn't any English or any other British accent France could place.
"As you wish." France bowed slightly. "Ladies first."
"Should I be the one to clasp victory, you will not only apologize to Arthur but you shall also serve him for the duration of this evening. Fetch his drinks and wait on him, hand and foot."
France's smile faltered then. "Those are 'arsh terms…But I accept." The audience stirred and twittered at that. "Then, should I win, you shall not only dance with moi, but also attend an evening meal in Paris with me. Furthermore, Arthur shall be my slave for zee evening."
"I best start taking this seriously then." The woman smirked, but she seemed visibly shaken by the word "slave" …
France quickly lost his swagger when she began to beat him, starting to look more and more like a kicked dog. By the end of the game, she'd won and France fell to his knees, distraught because now he had to serve England all night. God must hate me because I'm beautiful, France inwardly wept.
"You must care deeply for Arthur to play so seriously." Belgium pointed out.
"I love him more than anything. He is my heart's delight." The red head smiled fondly, green eyes soft and sweet. "That being said…He has yet to return…"
"He's still in the toilets?" Belgium gasped. "I'd go get him for you but…girls can't go in there! It's scary! Who knows what's in men's toilets!" She shivered.
"…If you don't know what's in there…how can you be afraid of it?" The red head replied, before sighing. "I shall fetch him myself then."
The women personifications admired the woman's bravery, but advised her strongly against it; Lichtenstein had once been told firmly by Switzerland that under no circumstances was she to ever step foot into the men's' toilets, lest she come across trouser snakes – and though Lichtenstein (in all her naivety and innocence) had no idea what such a thing was, she was adamant about not wanting to meet such a…creature. She'd lived a rather sheltered life, bless her. Eventually, Luxembourg stepped forward and volunteered himself for the task.
"You have my thanks, young man." England's date nodded.
Back in the men's toilets, England splashed his face with cold water one more time, hoping it would help. He could feel his enchantment slipping and the last thing he wanted was for his date – or anyone else, really – to see him without it. Taking a gamble, England dropped the enchantment altogether and stared at his reflection, critically. The spell he'd used was complicated, but it had been going well for the past few weeks – with the spell gone, he watched as his picture perfect complexion fell away to reveal dark bags around his blood-shot eyes, skin slightly grey and his face noticeably thinner than was the norm. His hand shook as he turned the cold tap off. He sighed and placed his head against the glass mirror, cooling his temple blissfully. After a moment, he recast the enchantment and his fair looks returned. It was getting harder to keep the spell going, he knew. Eventually, everyone would start to notice…
While Luxembourg was away fetching England (which took a while, because there were more than one set of toilets), the red head played a few more rounds of pool, thrashing Spain, soundly defeating Prussia (which was, by his own admission, not awesome!) and smashing Denmark to pieces. Yet she worried about England and it showed.
"Have you known him long, then?" Denmark asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Longer than any other." Came her reply.
"You may think so, madam," France cut in, "but I assure you, I have known Anglais for longer."
"No," she replied. "you haven't."
By the time she'd just finished besting Sweden at pool - after the Swede had put up a pretty good fight - Luxembourg had found England and was leading him back to his date. Every country in the room had gathered around the pool table by this point. Someone clapped their hands behind her, so the red head turned and came face to face with a blond man, who was a few inches taller than her.
"Well met." The blond man spoke.
The red head smirked, placing the butt of the que on the ground. "A warm welcome to you, Germania."
"I am pleased with that welcome. Though I see my nephew France has caused some offence…?" Germania scowled at France, who was the son of Gaul which made him Germania's nephew.
"Ahh…so this is Gaul and Rome's whelp. I thought as much. Alas, he and I have already discussed the offence and settled it, private like."
"As you wish. I will say I am glad you see you here, though I had not heard of your return." Germania sported what was a rare smile for him.
"Likewise, Germania. I had not heard you were around either."
The two smiled at one another, confusing all the younger nations greatly, before Germania and the woman seemed to move at the same time, reacting to some silent signal. They used their right hand to grab the other's right wrist, before bowing their heads together, their foreheads resting lightly against one another. A warm welcome between two warriors.
"Truly, it brings me great joy to see you once more, friend." The red head mumbled.
"And I, you." He pulled away from her, chuckling. "You defeated my son Prussia soundly enough."
"Well, you know me." The red head chuckled in turn. "If it has a shaft, I can work it with practiced ease."
Prussia had been about to make a crass joke out of that, but Germania caught him half way and cuffed the albino around the back of his head, roughly.
Germania rolled his eyes. "I'd expect no less from you, Britannia."