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blackswaneuroparedux · 10 months

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‘Pimpernel of the Hellenes’, ‘Major Paddy’, ‘Enchanted maniac’: Will the real Paddy Leigh Fermor please stand up?

Paradox reconciles all contradictions. - Patrick Leigh Fermor

So one evening I was baby sitting my nephews and nieces here in our family chalet in Verbier, high up in the Swiss Alps. It was my turn to baby sit as the rest of my family enjoyed the fantastic classical music concerts and events showcased at the two week long Verbier 30th Festival. The little scamps had gone to bed and my father and I watched an old British war movie on DVD, ‘Ill Met By Moonlight’ (1957). It was filmed by the legendary team of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger based on the 1950 book ‘Ill Met by Moonlight: The Abduction of General Kreipe’ by W. Stanley Moss.

I’ve seen the film a couple of times before, but until now never really paid attention to where the title came from. My father said it was from Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream’ And so it was. In the play, Oberon, the king of the fairies and the Queen are having a fairly bitter drawn-out fight over custody of a changeling Indian child, and this is how the pissed off king greets the queen when they run into each other, “Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania”. Oberon is basically saying "Oh Lord, it's you..." and Titania's response is basically a flippant middle finger. One of the best modern reasons to read Shakespeare: to throw playful erudite shade at others.

Anyway, the historical background of the film is the German invasion of Crete in May 1941. After an intense ten-day battle, Allied troops were driven back across the island, and many were evacuated from beaches along the southern coast. Some Cretans and British officers took to the mountains to organise resistance against the occupying forces. The German occupation that followed was especially brutal. Dreadful reprisals followed every act of resistance. The German commander, General Müller, insisted on taking 50 Cretan lives for every German soldier killed; he became known as ‘The Butcher of Crete’.

As a Classicist side note, there had been a close association between Britain and Crete since the early 20th century, when archaeologist Sir Arthur Evans had uncovered the sensational remains of a Minoan palace at Knossos. The headquarters of the British archaeological school in Crete was a large villa alongside the site, known as Villa Ariadne. Several archaeologists, who knew the island and its people well, went underground after the German occupation to aid the Cretan resistance. Continuing in this tradition, scholar and travel-writer Patrick Leigh Fermor, who had got to know Greece in the 1930s, joined the Special Operations Executive (SOE).

During the German occupation, Major Paddy Leigh Fermor travelled to Crete three times to help organise local resistance against the hated German occupation. On the third occasion, in February 1944, he was parachuted in with a specific mission to kidnap German commander General Müller, to boost morale on Crete along with his erstwhile SOE comrade Capt. W. Stanley Moss MC (aka Billy Moss) of the Coldstream Guards. However, just after they parachute in, General Müller was replaced by General Heinrich Kreipe, who transferred from the Russian Front. Thinking that capturing one general was as good as another, Fermor merrily go ahead with the daring kidnap operation.

It’s at this point that the narrative of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s ‘Ill Met by Moonlight’ (1957) picks up. Dirk Bogarde plays Paddy Leigh Fermor, David Oxley plays Moss, and Marius Goring plays the taciturn German paratroop general. Blink and you’ll miss the late great Christopher Lee making a cameo appearance as a German officer in the dentist’s room scene.

The film naturally takes some liberty with the facts but it’s a cracking yarn of high adventure and drama. Xan Fielding, a close friend of Leigh Fermor from the SOE in Cairo, was taken on as technical adviser. The fact the film was shot in in the Alpes-Maritimes in France and Italy, and on the Côte d'Azur in France, far away from the craggy valleys and mountains of Crete itself. The director Michael Powell spent some time walking in Crete to get to know the island, but decided that, with the confused and volatile state of Greek politics, it was not suitable to film there.

Looking back years after he had directed it Powell didn’t think much of his own film. By contrast, Paddy Leigh Fermor, who was on set throughout the film shoot, was very happy with Bogarde’s portrayal of him with Byronic glamour. Watching the movie again ‘Ill Met by Moonlight’ remains a classic and stands out from many British war films of the 1950s because of its realism. The British SOE men and the Cretan guerrillas look absolutely right for their parts. It is dramatic and full of suspense while filled with much boyish humour.

I was disappointed with one notable omission in the film that did happen in real life. According to Patrick Leigh Fermor, at dawn one day during the journey across the mountains, General Kreipe was looking at the mist rising from Mount Ida and began to recite, in Latin, the opening lines of Horace’s ninth ode:

Vides ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte nec iam sustineant onus silvae laborantes geluque flumina constiterint acuto?

Behold yon Mountains hoary height, Made higher with new Mounts of Snow; Again behold the Winters weight Oppress the lab’ring Woods below: And Streams, with Icy fetters bound, Benum’d and crampt to solid Ground

(John Dryden 1685)

Leigh Fermor picked up on the General, and recited the remaining stanzas of the Ode. ‘Ach so, Herr Major,’ said Kreipe when Leigh Fermor had finished. Both men were amazed to realise they shared a classical education and a love of ancient Latin poetry.

Leigh Fermor later wrote that it was as though the war had ceased to exist for a moment, as ‘We had both drunk from the same fountains before.’ It brought captor and captive together with a strange bond. The scene was not reproduced in the film, as Powell and Pressburger probably thought it would make the men sound too academic for a popular cinema audience.

Leigh Fermor and Kreipe met again in the early 1970s, on a Greek television show, and got on famously together. The General said Leigh Fermor had treated him chivalrously as a captive. They remained friends until Kreipe’s death.

After sharing a late night drink with my father after the film, I began to muse on the figure of Paddy Leigh Fermor, a family friend and someone I met along with his wife, Joan, as a little girl. My grandparents, and especially my grandmother, knew Paddy briefly from their days during and after the Second World War.

My father shared a few stories about him when he and my mother visited his beautiful home in Greece, where even at his advanced age he remained the most generous of hosts and the most outrageous flirt.

One of my memories was getting into his battered old Peugeot in the drive way and trying to drive it when my feet could barely touch the pedals. It wouldn’t have mattered in any case as the brakes didn’t work as he cheerfully said later as we careened around a dirt road to go around the mountains for a drive.

Many years later in April 2022, I tried to visit the home of the late Patrick and Joan Leigh Fermor - a sort of pristine shrine to their memory that one can also stay in any of the rooms as a vacation rental - in the coastal fishing village of Kadarmyli in the Peloponnese, as part of a hiking and mountaineering sojourn around Greece with ex-Army friends. We couldn’t stay there as it was already rented out to other guests, and so we stayed higher up the mountain in a villa, but we swam in front of the Fermor’s home which was on the water’s edge.

You could never put your finger on Paddy Leigh Fermor. He hid behind his gift for telling yarns, and pulling Ancient Greek verses out of the thin air, as well as boisterously singing local Greek songs with a drink in his hand.

Even after his death in 2011, the question keeps nagging as to who was Paddy Leigh Fermor?

The Dirk Bogarde film too seems to ask, who exactly is the ‘real’ Patrick Leigh Fermor - or the real anyone? Taking its title from a Shakespearian play concerned with dreams and disguises, magic and power, ‘Ill Met By Moonlight’ is all about questions of identity.

Under the film credits, we see Dirk Bogarde in uniform; then, unexpectedly, we see him in the flamboyant outfit of a Cretan hill-bandit. A title informs us that Major Leigh Fermor was also known by the Greek code-name “Philidem.” In other words, there are two of him (at least), and on one level the adventure the film is about to unfold reflects a conflict in his personality. It’s a conflict shared, unknowingly, by his Nazi opposite number, the fierce, arrogant General Kreipe (an unlikely “proud Titania,” but it’s true that he “with a monster is in love” – the monster of Nazism). Kreipe’s human side is so rigorously repressed by the demands of war and “glory” that he is genuinely unaware of it; ironically, this humanness, which constitutes the true manhood of this Teuton warrior, is revealed by a boy (equivalent to Shakespeare’s Indian Prince?) - who, in turn, is the most grown up person in the movie.

If “Philidem” appears under the credits, caped and open-shirted, a romantic dream-figure out of an operetta or a storybook, he is first seen in the film proper as a coarser, more down-to-earth version of the same thing – an ordinary Cretan peasant in a shabby suit, waiting for a bus. When he makes contact with the Resistance, his personality fragments further.

To some, he is the mystical Philidem, Pimpernel of the Hellenes and righter of wrongs. To others he is “Major Paddy,” the happy-go-lucky Englishman of popular movie myth conducting war as if it were a branch of amateur theatricals, a gentleman adventurer relying on breeding to get him through and making fun of the whole business. To Bill Moss (David Oxley), the newly arrived junior officer sent to assist him, he is the cool, fast-thinking professional soldier. And to himself? In his quietly passionate defence of Cretan life and culture, he seems someone else again: a scholar and aesthete outraged by the barbarism and folly of war, and by the moronic arrogance shown by his captive toward the Cretan people.

Whatever his persona, Leigh Fermor is a chameleon who never seems to change very radically in himself. Perhaps because he has this quality of seeming all things to all men – and being those things - he remains unfazed by the monolithic might of the German military machine. Fluent in Greek, he can also speak German like a German and is easily able to assume another disguise, that of a faceless Nazi officer. Although he and Moss make fun of themselves - “If only I had a monocle!” muses Moss when Leigh Fermor tells him he “looks like an Englishman dressed like a German, leaning against the Ritz bar” - they are able to effect the kidnapping with an ease that seems appropriately Puckish. General Kreipe is ignominiously thrust onto the floor of his own limousine, gagged, and sat upon by a couple of the peasants he so despises. Kreipe’s rage is compounded by his firm conviction that he has been snatched by “amateurs” - a belief Leigh Fermor and Moss slyly make no objection to, knowing how it will gnaw at his already shaky Master Race self-confidence.

Patrick Leigh Fermor, aka Major Paddy, aka Philidem, in the film’s closing moments, is far from being self-assured intellectual or dashing amateur adventurer or legendary outlaw of the hills. He’s just a tired man who wants to go home and rest up. “How do you feel?” asks Moss. “Flat” is the reply. “You look flat!” says Moss. “I know how I’d like to look …” murmurs Leigh-Fermor wistfully. Moss knows what he’s going to say, and joins in the litany: “Like an Englishman dressed like an Englishman – and leaning against the Ritz bar!” It’s easy to imagine them ordering drinks at that renowned watering-hole with all the suavity required by this little fantasy.

Still, the film’s last images of Crete receding in the distance, until all we can see is the sea, suggests that maybe Major Paddy’s heart is really back in those hills in the “fair and fertile” land that has become as much a Powellian landscape of the mind for us as the studio-built Himalayan convent of ‘Black Narcissus’ or the monochrome Heaven of ‘A Matter of Life and Death’. And, as the film POV closing shots departs both Crete and this film, I began to think that being “dressed like an Englishman and leaning against the Ritz bar” would, for Patrick Leigh Fermor constitute yet another disguise. After all, he said he was of Irish aristocratic stock.

Traveller and writer Paddy Leigh Fermor is best known for two events. He’s known for leading the commando group in occupied Crete to kidnap General Kreipe. But he is also known for the boy who, at a mere 18 years old, set off with little money and a lot of nerve in 1933 to walk from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople.

Patrick Leigh Fermor was, in the words of one of his obituaries, a cross between Indiana Jones, James Bond and Graham Greene. Self-reliance and derring-do were lessons learnt from the cradle. When Fermor’s geologist father was posted to India, he and his wife left the infant with family in Northamptonshire and did not return until his fourth birthday. In retrospect, he took great delight in being sent to a school for difficult children and getting himself expelled from the King’s School, Canterbury, when he was caught holding hands with a greengrocer’s daughter eight years his senior. His school report infamously judged him ‘a dangerous mix of sophistication and recklessness’.

Sharing a flat in Shepherd’s Market, one of Mayfair’s seedier corners, Leigh Fermor schooled himself in literature, history, Latin and Greek.

He honed his character with the company of extraordinary people and the words of great writers - he had a prodigious memory for prose as well as poetry. He befriended literary lions such as Sacheverell Sitwell, Evelyn Waugh and Nancy Mitford. His travels began aged ‘eighteen-and-three-quarters’ when he rejected Sandhurst Royal Military College in order to walk the length of Europe from Hook of Holland to Constantinople. He took with him Horace’s Odes and the Oxford Book of Verse though Leigh Fermor could recite Shakespeare soliloquies, Marlowe speeches, Keats’s Odes and as he modestly put it ‘the usual pieces of Tennyson, Browning and Coleridge’ from memory.

Leigh Fermor was then a self-made man in the most literal sense.

Setting off from England in 1933, Fermor resolved to traverse Europe living like a hermit; sleeping in bars and begging for food. But his manly charms and boyish good looks found him being passed like a favourite godson from Schloss to palace by European nobility and he developed a lifelong penchant for aristocratic company. I his own words, ‘In Hungary, I borrowed a horse, then plunged into Transylvania; from Romania on into Bulgaria’. Having reached Constantinople in January 1935, Fermor continued to explore Greece where he fought on the royalist side in Macedonia quelling a republican revolution. In Athens Leigh Fermor met Balasha Cantacuzene, a Romanian countess with whom he fell in love. They were living together in a Moldovan castle when World War Two was declared.

Fluent in Greek, Leigh Fermor was posted as a liaison officer in Albania. Recruited as a Special Operations Executive (SOE), he was shipped from Cairo to German-occupied Crete where he lived disguised as a shepherd in the mountains for two years. On his third expedition to Crete in 1944, Leigh Fermor was parachuted alone onto the island and made connections in the Cretan resistance movement. While waiting for his compatriot Captain Bill Stanley Moss to land by water from Cairo, Leigh Fermor hatched a plot to kidnap German Commander General Heinrich Krieple. He liaised comfortably with Cretan partisans and bandits to pull off one of the war’s greatest coups de théâtre.

Disguised as German soldiers, Leigh Fermor and Moss stopped Krieple’s car at an improvised check point en route back to Nazi HQ in Knossos. Abandoning the General’s car after a two-hour drive, Leigh Fermor left a note indicating that the kidnappers were British so that there wouldn’t be reprisals against Cretan nationals. When the abduction of the unpopular commander was discovered, a German officer in Heraklion allegedly said ‘well, gentlemen, I think this calls for champagne’. It turns out that General Kreipe was despised by his own soldiers because, amongst other things, he objected to the stopping of his own vehicle for checking in compliance with his commands concerning approved travel orders. It’s why for instance the German troops, both in the film and in real life, dare not stop the General’s car as it drove through the check points at Heraklion.

Krieple was evacuated and taken to Cairo and Leigh Fermor entered the annals of World War Two’s most devil-may-care heroes. With characteristic panache, when he was demobbed Leigh Fermor moved into an attic room at the Ritz paying half a guinea a night. But his first travel book, ‘The Traveller’s Tree’, was not about the European odyssey or the Cretan escapades and centred on Leigh Fermor’s adventures in the Carribbean. Published in 1950, ‘The Traveller’s Tree’ was an inspiration for Ian Fleming’s second James Bond novel ‘Live and Let Die’ (1954).

As a host and house guest, Paddy Leigh Fermor was much sought-after. At one of his parties in Cairo, he counted nine crowned heads. He was a confirmed two-gin-and-tonics before lunch man and smoked eighty to 100 cigarettes a day. His party pieces included singing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ in Hindustani and reciting ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter’ backwards. In Cyprus while staying with Laurence Durrell, Leigh Fermor apparently stunned crowds in Bella Pais into silence by singing folk songs in perfect Cretan dialect. As Durrell wrote in ‘Bitter Lemons’ (1957), ‘it is as if they want to embrace Paddy wherever he goes’.

He struck up a partiuclar friendship with the famous Mitford sisters, especially Deborah Mitford, later ‘Debo’, the Duchess of Devonshire. It was at the Devonshires’ Irish estate Lismore Castle that ‘Darling Debo’ and ‘Darling Pad’ met and began to correspond. A characteristic letter from the Duchess in 1962 reads ‘The dear old President (JFK) phoned the other day. First question was ‘Who’ve you got with you, Paddy?” He’s got you on the brain’ to which Fermor replies of a broken wrist ‘Balinese dancing’s out, for a start; so, should I ever succeed to a throne, is holding an orb. The other drawbacks will surface with time’.

After the war he travelled widely but was always drawn back to Greece. He built a house on the Mani peninsula - which had been, significantly, the only part of Magna Graecia to resist Ottoman colonisation since the fall of Constantinople in 1453. Before his death in 2011 at the age of 96, he wrote some of the most acclaimed travel books of the 20th century.

His books contain some of the finest prose writing of the past century and disprove Wilde's maxim that "it is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating".

Charm, self-taught knowledge and enthusiasm made up for the lack of a university degree or a private income. His teenage walk across Europe and subsequent romantic sojourn in Baleni, Romania, with Princess Balasha Cantacuzene are proof enough of that. But the difficulty of capturing such an unconventional and glamorous life is made harder by the certainty that Fermor was an unreliable narrator.

He was also an infuriatingly slow writer. Driven by a life-long passion for words yet hampered by anxiety about his abilities, Leigh Fermor published eight books over 41 years.

‘The Traveller's Tree’ describes his postwar journey through the Caribbean; ‘Mani‘ and ‘Roumeli’ (1958 and 1966) draw on his experiences in Greece, where he would live for much of the latter part of his life. But it is the books that came out of his trans-Europe walk that reveal both the brilliance and the flaws. ‘A Time of Gifts’ was published in 1977, 44 years after he set out on the journey. ‘Between the Woods and the Water’ appeared nine years later. Both describe a world of privilege and poverty, communism and the rising tide of Nazism, and end with the unequivocal words, "To be continued". Yet the third volume hung like an albatross around the author's neck. As the years passed, Fermor found it impossible to shape the last part of his story in the way he wanted.

Leigh Fermor was that rarest of men: a man determined to live on his own terms, if not his own means, and who mostly - and mostly magnificently - succeeded. Always popping off on a journey when he should have been writing about the last one, always ready to party, he was forever chasing beautiful, fascinating or powerful women, even when with his wife, Joan Raynor. She was the great facilitator who funded his passion for travel and writing, as well as women, from her trust fund. His love affairs were discreet but legendary.

Leigh Fermor was happiest among the rogues. Over a lifetime on the road, he sought them, and in turn they responded to his charm, nose for adventure, and his famous wit. He was a keenly-anticipated dinner guest - once outshining Richard Burton at a London society soirée, who he cut-off midway through a recital of ‘Hamlet’. As Richard Burton stormed out, the pleading society hostess said, “But Paddy’s a war hero!” to which Burton grouchily replied, “I don’t give a damn who he is!”

His partnership with and then marriage to Joan Raynor was an open relationship, at least on Leigh Fermor’s side. Paddy saw in Joan his kindred spirit. Like him, she spent much of her youth travelling to where she pleased; largely in France, where the photographer and literary critic Cyril Connolly became besotted by her. Joan was the daughter of Sir Bolton and Lady Eyres Monsell of Dumbleton Hall, Worcestershire. She was not only stunningly pretty but also 'a beautiful ideal, with the perfect bathing dress, the most lovely face, the most elaborate evening dress', as the Eton educated Connolly described her. Joan also stood out from the upper-class beauties of her day in that she supplemented her mean rich father's allowance by earning her living as a decent photographer.

In 1946, she met Leigh Fermor in Athens, while he was deputy director of the British Institute. Joan met him at a time when he was then in a relationship with a French woman called Denise, who was pregnant with his child, which she aborted. The pair would travel to the Caribbean together under the invitation of Greek photographer Costas, falling madly in love.

She was the only woman that - after decades of sexual scandals - matched his own erratic behaviour. Stories of how they dined fully-clothed in the Mediterranean, dragging a table into the sea, as well as their myriad cats and olive groves, paint a restless couple, who, when not out articulating the peoples of their adopted homeland, kept themselves very busy.

The attraction between Paddy and Joan was instant. So many love affairs that Paddy indulged in seemed about as brief as the flame from a burning envelope and you expected this one with Joan to be too. But somehow, miraculously, it lasts.

The two were apart a great deal, but in their case, absence did make the heart grow fonder. While Paddy was staying in a monastery in Normandy, supposed to be thinking monk-like thoughts that he would eventually put into his masterpiece A Time To Keep Silence, he was also writing sexy letters to Joan: 'At this distance you seem about as nearly perfect a human being as can be, my darling little wretch, so it's about time I was brought to my senses.' And: 'Don't run away with anyone or I'll come and cut your bloody throat.'

She tantalised him with descriptions of Cyril Connolly making passes at her; but she, like Denise, sounded a rather desperate note when she wrote: 'I got the curse so late this month I began to hope I was having a baby and that you would have to make it a legitimate little Fermor. All hopes ruined this morning.'

Fiercely independent - a trait that must have enamoured Paddy - they were best imagined as two pillars of a Greek temple, beside one-another but capable of holding up the roof of the world that they had built for themselves through the lens of ancient history and Hellenic culture. Indeed, it was said that they had a special ‘pact of liberty’. It is this unconquerable aura that led poet laureate John Betjeman to declare his love for her (he called her ‘Dotty’ and remarked that her eyes were as large as tennis balls). For Cyril Connolly, the photographer she shadowed, and with whom she had a scandalised affair during her first marriage, she was a “lovely boy-girl” and Laurence Durrell named her the ‘Corn Goddess’ because of her slender figure and short hair. But of all of these worthy candidates, it was the warrior-poet Patrick Leigh Fermor who finally won her heart.

To Joan, who described herself as a ‘lifelong loner’ in her diaries, her companionship with the uncomplicated Paddy was a relief. They had no children, nor did they want any - or so Paddy claimed. But those who knew Joan suspected she did want children but it never came to pass; and so she became a devoted aunt or dotted on other friends’ children. For both of them their dozens of cats gave them the next best thing to paternal satisfaction. Still, her morbid fascination with photographing cemeteries painted a much darker side.

Joan Raynor’s inheritance subsidised his peripatetic life at least until the enormous success of ‘A Time of Gifts’ in the late 1970s, which in turn created a new market for his previous volumes about Greece, ‘Mani’ and ‘Roumeli’.

With Joan’s tacit consent, Paddy enjoyed amorous flings, discrete sexual affairs with high society women and sampled the low delights of the brothel. This activity rarely made it into his private letters, but the exceptions could be piquant. Writing in 1958 from Cameroon, where he was on the set of a John Huston movie, he told a (male) friend: “ Errol Flynn and I . . . sally forth into dark lanes of the town together on guilty excursions that remind me rather of old Greek days with you.” In a 1961 letter to the film director John Huston’s wife, Ricki, with whom Leigh Fermor had been having sex with (and would die in a car crash in 1969). “I say,” the passage begins, “what gloomy tidings about the CRABS! Could it be me?” Riffing on pubic lice and their crafty ways, he conjectures that, during a recent romp with an “old pal” in Paris, a force “must have landed” on him “and then lain up, seeing me merely as a stepping stone or a springboard to better things” - to Mrs. Huston, that is. As comic apologies for venereal infection go, the passage is surely a classic.

Like most high flying lives, it was far from blameless. Wounded women were littered in his wake. Some British visitors to Athens were less than impressed by this Englishman who posed as “more Greek than the Greeks”.

Some Greeks shared their disdain. Revisionist historians criticised his role in wartime Crete, and warned their fellow Hellenes that for all his fluency and charm, Leigh Fermor was no latter day Byron. His unoccupied car was blown up outside his Mani house, probably by members of the Greek Communist Party which he had vocally opposed. The accidental fatal shooting of a partisan in Crete led to a long blood feud which made it difficult for Leigh Fermor to re-enter the island until the 1970s, and possibly explains why he chose to settle in the Peloponnese rather than among the hills and harbours of his dreams.

His own books had already eclipsed those incidents, not only among readers of English but also in Greece, where in 2007 the government of his adopted land made him a Commander of the Order of the Phoenix for services to literature.

Travel writers such as the great Jan Morris have described Leigh Fermor as the master of their trade and its greatest exponent in the 20th century.

When ‘A Time of Gifts’ was published in 1977, Frederick Raphael wrote: “One feels he could not cross Oxford Street in less than two volumes; but then what volumes they would be!”

They are not for everyone. Leigh Fermor wrote that written English is a language whose Latinates need pegging down with simple Anglo-Saxonisms, and some feel that he personally could have made more and better use of the mallet. His exuberance is either captivating or florid. It is certainly unique among English prose styles.

Artemis Cooper, his patient and careful biographer wrote that “Paddy had found a way of writing that could deploy a lifetime’s reading and experience, while never losing sight of his ebullient, well-meaning and occasionally clumsy 18-year-old self … this was a wonderful way of disarming his readers, who would then be willing to follow him into the wildest fantasies and digressions”.

Those fantasies and digressions took decades to express. ‘A Time of Gifts’ had arguably been 40 years in the making when it was published in 1977. Its sequel, ‘Between the Woods and the Water’, did not appear until 1986. The third and final volume has been awaited ever since. Following Leigh Fermor’s death, a foot-high manuscript was apparently found on his desk.

Once he knuckled down to it, Leigh Fermor loved playing around with words. He was one of our greatest stylists and he was devoted to producing un-improvable books. But writing did not come easily to him, at least partly because it was something of a distraction from the main event, which was living an un-improvable life of unrepentant gaiety and fun.

For forty odd years, a legion of friends and admirers would beat a path to Paddy and Joan’s door. Artists, poets, royalty and writers came, all taking inspiration from their erudite hosts. A visit was an act of communion, a sharing of ideas and stories.

Leigh Fermor influenced a generation of British travel writers, including Bruce Chatwin, Colin Thubron, Philip Marsden, Nicholas Crane, Rory Stewart, and William Dalrymple. Indeed when Bruce Chatwin died, it was Paddy who scattered Chatwin’s ashes near a church in the mountains in Kardamyli.

When I was there in April 2022, I went to that same church to pay my respects.

But some of Paddy’s life energy was sucked out of him when Joan died in Kardamyli in June 2003, aged 91. It was related that Joan said to her friend Olivia Stewart, who was visiting: 'I really would like to die but who'd look after Paddy?' Olivia said that she would. A few minutes later, Joan fell, hit her head - and died instantly of a brain haemorrhage. Joan had often quoted Rilke: 'The good marriage is one in which each appoints the other as guardian of his solitude.' Now Paddy Leigh Fermor was all alone.

Leigh Fermor was knighted in 2004, the day of his birthday which he delighted in like a giggling schoolboy. But he missed Joan terribly.

For the last few months of his life Leigh Fermor suffered from a cancerous tumour, and in early June 2011 he underwent a tracheotomy in Greece. As death was close, according to local Greek friends, he expressed a wish to visit England to bid goodbye to his friends, and then return to die in Kardamyli, though it is also stated that he actually wished to die in England and be buried next to his wife, Joan, in Dumbleton, Gloucestershire. He stayed on at Kardamyli until the 9th June 2011, when he left Greece for the last time. He died in England the following day, 10th June 2011, aged 96. It was reported that he had dined in full black tie on the evening of his death. Paddy had style even unto the end.

A Guard of Honour was formed by the Intelligence Corps and a bugler from his former regiment, the Irish Guards, delivered the ‘Last Post’ at Paddy’s funeral. As had been his wish, he was buried beside Joan. On his gravestone in Dumbleton cemetery is an inscription in Greek, a quote from Constantine Cavafy: “In addition, he was that best of all things, Hellenic.”

Although Joan had passed away at the age of ninety-one, after suffering a fall in the Mani. Her body was repatriated to Dumbleton, the place of her birth - ironic that her dream was to be as far as she could possibly go from the rolling humdrum Worcestershire hills. But perhaps she intended to return all along. When Paddy was buried beside her it seemed that the ‘pact of liberty’ that these two lonely souls had forged themselves could be tested in the great elsewhere. Joan was more than his muse (as many of her obituaries were at pains to declare) but his greatest adventure.

To come around full circle from the movie ‘Ill Met By Moonlight’ (1957) that I saw that night in Verbier, my father told me that rather poignantly, General Kreipe, the German commander Leigh Fermor had captured - once an enemy, and later a friend - left behind notes and photographs from across his life. On one of those notes, it was discovered, the following was scribbled from a brief visit to Greece: “Somewhere, amidst all the disarray, was the story of Joan and Paddy, and” it concluded, “…of their lives together.”

His life with Joan and all that she meant to him was one part of the mosaic of who Paddy Leigh Fermor was. But it’s incomplete.

Paddy didn’t like the idea of a biography, and neither did Joan when she was alive. But friends had persuaded them that unless Paddy appointed someone to write his life, he might find himself the subject of a book whether he liked it or not. In Artemis Cooper they couldn’t have chosen a better writer to chronicle Paddy’s life as a man of action and letters. Cooper, was the daughter of another accomplished diplomat and historian, John Julius Norwich, and grand-daughter of Duff and Diana Cooper. As the wife of the historian Antony Beevor, she became a trusted friend of the Leigh Fermors. Cooper was too good of a historian to let her friendship lead her astray from being a faithful but serious biographer. Knowing this, she was told she could go ahead, but she had to promise not to publish anything until after they were both dead.

Paddy did not like being interviewed, and would keep her questions at bay with a torrent of dazzling conversation. He was the master at deflecting discussions away from himself.

He was also very unwilling to let Cooper see many of his papers, though the refusal always couched in excuses. ‘Oh dear, the Diary…’ It was the only surviving one from his great walk across Europe, and I was aching to read it. ‘Well it’s in constant use, you see, as I plug away at Vol III,’ he would say. Or, ‘My mother’s letters? Ah yes, why not. But it’s too awful, I simply cannot remember where they’ve got to…’ It was quite obvious that he and Joan, while being unfailingly generous, welcoming and hospitable, were determined to reveal as little as possible of their private lives.

While they were more than happy to talk about books, travels, friends, Crete, Greece, the war, anything - they would not tell her any more than they would have told the average journalist. But she persisted and got closer than most. He showed particularly gallantry in not talking about his romantic entanglements. But she soon twigged that anytime he described a woman as ‘an old pal’ it was a sure bet that he had an affair with her.

Intriguingly, Paddy liked to claim he was descended from Counts of the Holy Roman Empire, who came to Austria from Sligo. Paddy could recite ‘The Dead at Clomacnoise’ (in translation) and perhaps did so during a handful of flying visits to Ireland in the 1950s and 1960s, partying hard at Luggala House or Lismore Castle, or making friends with Patrick Kavanagh and Sean O’Faolain in Dublin pubs. He once provoked a massive brawl at the Kildare Hunt Ball, and was rescued from a true pounding by Ricki Huston, a beautiful Italian-American dancer, John Huston’s fourth wife and Paddy’s lover not long afterwards.

And yet, a note of caution about Paddy’s Irish roots is sounded by his biographer, Artemis Cooper, who also co-edited ‘The Broken Road’, the final, posthumously published instalment of the trilogy. “I’m not a great believer in his Irish roots,” she said of Leigh Fermor in an interview, “His mother, who was a compulsive fantasist, liked to think that her family was related to the Viscount Taaffes, of Ballymote. Her father was apparently born in County Cork. But she was never what you might call a reliable witness. She was an extraordinary person, though. Imaginative, impulsive, impossible - just the way the Irish are supposed to be, come to think of it. She was also one of those sad women, who grew up at the turn of the last century, who never found an outlet for their talents and energies, nor the right man, come to that. All she had was Paddy, and she didn’t get much of him.”

And I think that’s the point, no one really got much of Paddy Leigh Fermor even as he only gave a crumb of himself to others but still most felt grateful that it was enough to fill one’s belly and still feel overfed by him.

Paddy never tried to get to the bottom of his Irish ancestry, afraid, no doubt, of disturbing the bloom that had grown on history and his past, a recurring trait. “His memory was extraordinary,” Artemis Cooper noted, “but it lay dangerously close to his imagination and it was a very porous border.”

Within the Greek imagination many Greeks saw in Paddy Leigh Fermor as the second coming of Lord Byron. It’s not a bad comparison.

Lord Byron claimed that swimming the Hellespont was his greatest achievement. 174 years or so later, another English writer, Patrick Leigh Fermor - also, like Byron, revered by many Greeks for his part in a war of liberation - repeated the feat. Leigh Fermor, however, was 69 when he did it and continued to do it into his 80s. Byron was a mere 22 years old lad. The Hellespont swim, with its mix of literature, adventure, travel, bravery, eccentricity and romance, is an apt metaphor for Leigh Fermor’s life. Paddy Leigh Fermor was the Byron of his time. Both men had an idealised vision of Greece, were scholars and men of action, could endure harsh conditions, fought for Greek freedom, were recklessly courageous, liked to dress up and displayed a panache that impressed their Greek comrades. Like a good magician it was also a way to misdirect and conceal one’s true self.

What or who was the true Paddy Leigh Fermor?

Like Byron, Leigh Fermor appeared as a charismatic and assured figure. He was a sightseer, consuming travel, culture, and history for pleasure. He was an aristocrat moving in the social circles of his time. He was a gifted amateur scholar, speculating on literary and historical sources. Leigh Fermor, Byron’s own identity, is subject to textual distortion; it emerges from a piece of occasional prose in his books and is shaped by the claims of correspondence on a peculiarly fluid consciousness.

There is no hard and fast distinction to be drawn here between real and imagined, only a continuity of relative fictions that lie between memory and imagination as his biographer asserted. If there is a will to assert identity here, to disentangle fact and fiction, to give things as they really are and nail down the real Leigh Fermor then it is somewhere between the two. This is where we will find Paddy.

For many his death marked the passing of an extraordinary man: soldier, writer, adventurer, a charmer, a gallant romantic. As a writer he discovered a knack for drawing people out and for stringing history, language, and observation into narrative, and his timing was perfect. Paddy often indulged in florid displays of classical erudition. His learned digressions and serpentine style, his mannered mandarin gestures, even baroque prose, which Lawrence Durrell called truffled and dense with plumage, were influenced by the work of Charles Doughty and T.E. Lawrence. But one can’t compare him. I agree with the acclaimed writer Colin Thurbon who said, “There is, in the end, nobody like him. A famous raconteur and polymath. Generous, life-loving and good-hearted to a fault. Enormously good company, but touched by well-camouflaged insecurities. I would rank him very highly. ‘The finest travel writer of his generation’ is a fair assessment.”

As a child I didn’t really know who Paddy Leigh Fermor was other than this very cheerful and charismatic old man was kind, attentive, and took a boyish delight in everything you were doing. Only later on in adulthood was it clear to that Paddy was not only among the outstanding writers of his time but one of its most remarkable characters, a perfect hybrid of the man of action and the man of letters. Equally comfortable with princes and peasants, in caves or châteaux, he had amassed an enviable rich experience of places and people. “Quite the most enchanting maniac I’ve ever met,” pronounced Lawrence Durrell, and nearly everyone who’d crossed paths with him had, it seemed, come away similarly dazzled.

I am equally dazzled - more smitten in retrospect - for alas they don’t make men like Paddy any more. But every time I dip back into his books I think I discover a little bit more of who Paddy Leigh Fermor was because I find him some where between my memory and my imagination.

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oldstarangel · 22 days

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folightening · 3 months

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Force a divine blessing...

Hetalia - Engport "Calypso & Davy Jones" AU that isn't actually based off anything but vibes Warning for slight gore? It isn't graphic or much, warning just in case Arthur learns that when you force a blessing out of divinity, you get more than you were asking for.

Waterfalls that rose rather than fell surrounded the hidden palace. Plants the likes of which he had never seen on the surface covered the ground around the shining pathway, gently swaying as if underwater. Where all the light was coming from so far under both ground and sea, Arthur didn't know.

"Stay here and await my return."

The business he had in that palace would be best taken care of without his crew.

Arthur walked across the shining courtyard. The magic in the air tugged at his hair, swirled around his legs, and seeped into him. It was a friendly magic he didn't doubt could turn volatile in a heartbeat like the waters it came from.

Arthur pushed open the doors and strode into the glistening hall. Something was in the hall with him. Arthur could feel it's presence the moment he stepped in. Where it was hiding he wasn't certain. Or maybe it wasn't hiding at all; he was in it's domain, deep under the sea. A creature such as this could very well be in everything around him.

"I am Captain Arthur Kirkland. I come seeking a blessing."

Legend stated if you found the palace, the Lord of the Sea would grant you a blessing. Or you could force one out of it with the orb safely tucked in his pocket.

"I don't grant blessings to mortals so easily."

Of course not.

"I risked everything to find this place. I am not leaving until you give me the power I need to stop Carriedo."

"I care not for the petty squabbles between mortals."

That did not deter him.

"Carriedo dares call himself the Master of the Seas." With that so-called invincible armada. "It would be in your best interests as well."

"So that you might call yourself master of my waters instead?" A loud laugh echoed around. "You mortals are all the same. Power hungry, desperate to claim and control everything you touch. Yet you know pathetically little. I hold no concern over any human claiming to command me."

Arthur knew he had no argument. For all he boasted, Carriedo could never truly be master of the seas. This creature was the seas and had no master.

"What do you ask for payment?"

"Are you truly so desperate?"

"Determined."

There was silence and Arthur worried the creature had deemed their conversation finished. Then a roaring vortex of water and sea foam formed in front of him. Arthur stood his ground and waited. This was a test. Creatures such as this enjoyed testing mortals. He couldn't play his hand too soon.

Unexpectedly when the vortex died a man stood in its place. He was beautiful, but when these creatures took a human form it usually was.

Arthur held his ground as the man strode up to him, steeling himself for whatever test was about to be inflicted on him. Cool fingers gripped his chin and he met the man's gaze. Wild magic danced around and through him, Arthur saw the wild untamable sea in the man's eyes, and was nearly overcome with urge to tame him. Those eyes narrowed, continuing to stare into Arthur. Finally he released him with a sneer.

"I refuse to grant you anything. Leave."

The hard way then. Arthur sighed and reached into his pocket. Ancient magic was not something to be trifled with. He truly had hoped it wouldn't come to it but alas, some things needed doing.

"So be it."

Arthur dropped the orb, loudly proclaiming the creature's name - it's true name, the ancient address unknown to most - over the shattering crystal.

"You will grant me what I desire," Arthur commanded.

The scream was inhuman; the constant form shifting dizzying. Arthur kept his focus on the magic before him. Any lapse in focus could ruin everything. Translucent, rippling chains burst from the creature and pierced into Arthur. For a brief, glorious moment he felt tremendous power surge in him. The chains fell heavy into place before dissolving into more water on the floor.

In front of him the creature was slumped on the floor, gasping for breath. The human form almost dragged sympathy from Arthur, but he shoved it away.

"You refused to negotiate. But I now have what I came for."

The creature snarled and within moments Arthur was surrounded by water. Suspended, trapped, and not drowning. But no matter how he tried he couldn't make a sound.

"You come into my home... You dare..." He hissed, eyes glowing an unsettling green as he stood. "Fine then, have my power."

Arthur swallowed and tried to move, mounting terror and dread drowning him how the water should have been. He was angry; Arthur should have found something for protection. He should have anticipated this outcome. The orb's magic prevented the creature from killing him but that didn't mean it couldn't hurt him.

"I'll take something in return," he purred.

His fingers stroked Arthur's cheek: sharp nails leaving a tingling path over his jaw, down the side of his throat, and to his chest. Arthur's heart beat loud in his ears, his eyes widening.

"As you have bound my soul with yours, I claim what makes you human. My power and freedom for your humanity."

Arthur stared dumbfounded at the bloody beating heart in the creature's hand. Was that- His...

"You have no need of this. A fitting trade for one such as yourself."

Arthur dropped to the floor with a gasp. Intense pain he'd never felt before hit him all at once and he could do no more than stare at the ceiling. He could feel his chest fixing itself: bones painfully arranging themselves back to their proper location, muscle and skin stretching to return to normal.

Even so the pain overwhelmed him and as he lost consciousness he heard the creature address him again:

"Enjoy your command of the sea, Master."

#hetalia #engport #aph england #aph portugal #hws england #hws portugal #Arthur should've been careful with his wording now he's stuck with him #is blessing the word I'm looking for here? because I'm having second thoughts and searching was unhelpful #fol stuff

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bitsandbobsofwriting · 2 years

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3 times Merlin saves a patient...

+1 time he can’t, despite his best efforts, and Arthur is there for him.

TW: Gore/sickness/injuries/general medical stuff. Death. Will be bits and pieces of tense-ness and fluff, there are post death descriptions but no one dies in writing.

The hunting party, consisting mostly of Nobles with the odd squire they’d brought along, ride into the courtyard much earlier than anyone had been expecting them, yelling for a physician and generally causing a ruckus.

They are met by servants and guards, rushing forward with no idea of the issue; the yelling seems desperate enough to warrant a full castle lock down, but the looks on the faces of those to the back of the group are nothing more than annoyed, inconvenienced, bored. Merlin is thankfully coming down the steps of the castle with his arms full of The King’s armour when they ride in; he drops all the metal plates at the bottom of the steps to stop them from rolling all over the place before rushing forward to a horse in the middle of the pack, having immediately spotted the problem.

Sir Elyan, who’d been on guard duty as punishment for... something of unimportance, absent-mindedly marvels at the servant’s quick feet and serious expression as he pulls a limp body down gently from where it had been slumped up the neck of Lord Dresden’s horse. It’s a squire by the looks of things, and the arrow poking out from his stomach is buried deep. Elyan, who’d been only a step behind Merlin, falls to his knees opposite the servant and asks, his voice rushed, but not panicked:

“Merlin, what do I do?”

Merlin doesn’t even look up as he grabs the knight’s hands, pulling them forward quickly, but then slowly, carefully, pressing them against the wound, around the arrow:

“Lots of pressure, but don’t move the arrow. Where’s your knife?”

Elyan gulps but nods, confident in both his and Merlin’s abilities:

“Back of my left hip.”

Merlin reaches behind Elyan carefully, pulling the knife from it’s holster on the knight’s belt and carefully cutting away the squire’s tunic. He’s not unconscious, not quite yet, but he’s pale and groaning, unable to move; whether it’s the pain, the shock, or the lack of blood, Elyan isn’t quite sure. Merlin gently moves one of Elyan’s hands to the side, and the knight goes with him easily, even when blood oozes worryingly fast down the boy’s already stained red torso. Merlin huffs worriedly and moves the hand back, muttering to the other man:

“I can’t do anything here. He might live, but I need him on a bed, I need equipment, sterilisation.-”

He looks up, meeting Elyan’s eyes for the first time since it had all begun, and he speaks with such authority that the knight finds himself trusting and following Merlin’s orders without hesitation:

“-Get him to my chambers, quickly. You carry, I’ll keep the pressure, warn me if I’m about to run into anything.”

Elyan quickly scoops the boy up, only allowing half a second for Merlin to stand in front of him, keeping pressure around the squire’s wound, before he begins a quick jog towards the castle. Merlin runs backwards, in a display of trust that Elyan both holds dear to his heart, and understands is just professional because a life is at stake. He glances over the servant... the physician’s shoulder:

“Castle steps... now.-”

Merlin immediately alters his steps so he’s going upwards, barely stumbling on the first step before he finds his rhythm, counting under his breath until he gets to the top. After a decade of working in the castle, Elyan figures that Merlin knows exactly how many steps are in every staircase in the building:

“-The door is being held open, turn the corner to my left... now.”

They make it to Merlin and Gaius’ shared chambers in no time. But no time, it appears, is still not quick enough. The squire, whose name Elyan feels guilty about not knowing despite his recognisable face, has fallen unconscious, dangling like a ragdoll from his arms before the knight places him gently on the cot Merlin had nodded at. Gaius is absent, but Elyan takes over from Merlin seamlessly, pushing his hands down around the arrow again as Merlin bustles around the room, quickly gathering cleaning cloths, needles, thread, sterilising alcohol, and several sorts of tinctures, before rushing back to the bedside. He dumps everything haphazardly on the table next to him before he runs to open curtains and light candles. Far quicker, Elyan thinks, but does not voice, far quicker than any normal man.

He comes back, nudging Elyan’s hands in a sign for him to move away before he pulls the arrow from the wound, and gets to work, drowning the injury in alcohol, checking to see what sort of internal damage there is, and sewing everything up, all whilst monitoring the boy’s breathing and pulse.

He lives in the end, of course, and Elyan learns that his name is Edmund, and he never allows himself to forget it. He insistently gives Merlin’s name to anyone who congratulates him on saving Edmund’s life, despite Merlin’s protests, and quietly wonders how no one had noticed the fact that Merlin does more physician-ing than Gaius, nowadays.

The very next time Merlin’s skills are required, within the public eye at least, it’s a little more personal to him and his closest friends.

It’s the end of the council meeting, thankfully, so there aren’t tens of people to crowd around and make a fuss and get in the way, only The King, a guard or two, Merlin, and a few straggling councilmen. Gaius had woken with a headache bad enough to complain about that morning, and considering the old Physician’s seeming inability to get sick at all, and his determination to not let it show on those rare occasions he does get sick, Merlin had immediately been worried. His request of Gaius to stay in bed and rest had, of course, been waved off with a scoff, but the young Warlock had become increasingly aware, in recent years, of Gaius’ advancing age, though it’s something he rarely allows himself to think about, and never allows himself to verbalise.

Arthur, as oblivious as he can be in certain situations, is smart enough to not question it when Merlin stands to attention behind the older man, rather than himself. During the meeting, Gaius contributes little, and only when prompted; the hand rubbing his temple and his deepening breaths have Merlin take a subtle step closer to the table, his worry going undisguised but thankfully largely unnoticed on his face. It’s when Gaius stands up, when the room is empty of everyone bar the previously mentioned few, that the older man collapses, legs going out under him like they’d never held any weight before and never would again.

Merlin is close, close enough to dart forward with a gasp and catch the physician before he hits the ground, with Percival not far behind him, and Arthur immediately calling for the remaining guards to run for a stretcher before kneeling beside where his servant had gently laid Gaius’ head on his lap:

“Merlin? What’s wrong with him?-”

Merlin just hums lowly, not replying and not looking up as he strokes Gaius’ hair back from his face, but Arthur’s brain is in an adrenaline fuelled hyper-focus, and he notices the clench in Merlin’s jaw and the darkness on his eyes:

“-Merlin, I said what’s-”

Merlin still doesn’t look up, but he does huff out a monotone reply as he rests his fingers softly against the side of Gaius’ neck:

“I don’t know, Arthur, give me a minute.-”

Percival had rather cleverly asked the room’s remaining people to vacate, so it’s up to him and Arthur to hold the door open when two guards walk in with a stretcher. Merlin is quick to continue when they place it down by his side, and the four men, without even a nod from The king, follow his instructions immediately:

“-Someone grab his ankles, carefully. One, two, three. Take him to our chambers, be quick but don’t jostle him. Arthur, hold open the doors, Banes, run ahead—clear one of the cots and get the fire going, quick as you can.”

The named guard is only a step ahead of Arthur as he runs to the door, throwing it open in The King’s face and not looking back to check if he’d caught it as he sprints down the corridor. Percival and the remaining guard pick the stretcher up carefully, and don’t bother thanking The King as he repeatedly rushes ahead of them to open doors.

The journey is slower than Merlin would’ve liked—it’s noon after all, a busy time in the castle—but Gaius doesn’t seem to be getting worse, so the young Warlock does his best to temper his panic, and his various companions follow his lead. When they finally reach the physician’s chambers, Banes is pacing up and down, keeping one eye on the fire, just getting going, and the other on the door; he quickly jumps out of the way when the entourage arrives, and is even quicker to shut the door behind them as Gaius is set down. Merlin immediately leans over him, pushing his own sleeves up and carefully beginning his examination.

Arthur hovers fretfully, as is his wont—no matter how much he’d deny it if confronted—but it isn’t long before Merlin huffs and looks up:

“Stop. Stop muttering, stop pacing, stop staring over my shoulder, stop breathing so loud. Just... go sit down.-”

Percival raises an eyebrow but otherwise remains still, as do the two guards, but Arthur bristles slightly and straightens his back, frowning down at his servant; he’s quickly interrupted before he can even say anything:

“-Arthur, Gaius is currently unconscious, and I don’t know why. I can not concentrate with you freaking out two feet from my face, so please, just... sit down.-”

Arthur instantly deflates and takes a few sulking steps back before collapsing onto the bench; if Percival weren’t so worried, he’d think it was funny, the way Merlin had The King wrapped around his little finger. Once more, however, Merlin is quick to continue, his voice stony and cold but his face pale and frightened:

“-On second thought,-”

Percival glances down to where Merlin’s hand hovers over an odd looking rash on Gaius’ collarbone, his eyes narrowing in confused worry:

“-go into my room and shut the door. Everyone, now, in my room.”

Arthur just stands up and scowls:

“Merlin come on, I sat down, we’re not disturbi-”

Merlin rushes over to the corner of the room, grabbing a clean cloth and dousing it in a mysterious clear liquid from a half empty vial. He covers his mouth with it and takes a deep breath as he jogs back over, holding the fabric over the lower half of his face as he interrupts:

“Now, Arthur, I’m being serious. We can’t fucking deal with an outbreak of this, so in my room, now.-”

He doesn’t wait for a reply as he heads to the door leading into the corridor, leaning his head out; Percival hears, as he shoos The King and two guards into the small room:

“Call for Sir Lancelot and everyone who was on the medical patrol last week, have them take the last of their dose and then gather everyone who was in the Council Room this morning and quarantine them. Tell Lance that Gaius has caught it somehow. I want the castle on lockdown, no one leaves their room.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply from the guards, either, re-entering the room and giving Percival one last grim look before the knight shuts the door in front of him.

After Merlin’s overheard demands, it hadn’t taken long for the group in the young physician’s bedroom to figure out that Gaius had brought back whatever it was he (and the armed guards he’d taken with him) had gone to a border village to treat the previous week.

It had been touch and go for a while, with two other councilmen and one guard having also caught the illness, but Merlin, the quick teacher that he is, has a full patrol of guards and knights brewing up and distributing the prevention potions within a few hours. The cure, however, is a little harder, and three weeks of treating four extremely sick, virtually unconscious, adults takes it’s toll on the young man.

They all live in the end, of course, and even The King is willing to give Merlin a little slack in the days that follow everyone’s recovery. He, as usual, is rather quick to forget Merlin’s heroics and medical know-how, but Percival, quiet and observant as he is, stores the memories in his head for the future, feeling distinctly safer in the servant’s hands when out and about.

It’s almost midnight, when they finally find the lost patrol.

Thankfully, the search party is large; they’d brought two other physicians with them, and every man and horse is carrying medical equipment, should the travellers’ horrified descriptions be accurate. And they are, oh, they really are.

The patrol lies scattered, knights and squires and horses, across a moonlit clearing in the woods, close enough to the Valley of Fallen Kings that Merlin isn’t really that surprised.

They’re dead, he thinks, all of them. And we don’t even know what happened, we just know that they didn’t come home.

Arthur calls for everyone to spread out and search for survivors; they can figure out how this happened later, but for now, if even one soul can be saved... they need to check. One by one the bodies are covered, either with their own cloaks or with the blankets and sheets everyone had packed in their bedrolls. No one will mind sleeping cold tonight. Not that they’ll sleep that much anyway, these people, these corpses... they’re friends, colleagues, drinking buddies. Leon spies the man who trained him, the oldest in the clearing and the most respected, even amongst The King and his closest, and with a painful gulp he swaps positions with Gwaine, who had been stood over the body of a young squire whose studies he’d been helping with.

Merlin is covering his sixth corpse when someone—Mordred, his mind supplies him in the aftermath—yells from just behind him:

“I’ve got a pulse! And breathing!”

Another physician had knelt at a knight’s side a quarter candle-mark ago; he’d had a pulse at the time, but he looked like he’d been given an hour left to live three days ago, and he was gone before the others could even turn around to help. Merlin drops the sheet he’s holding with no thought but a brief, mental apology to the remains he’d abandoned, rushing to Mordred’s side. He’s the first physician there, and though the others approach, in case he needs any help, they hang back, so as not to be in the way.

Arthur, and a few of the knights, had begun a quick paced journey back to Camelot soon after the check had started. The King had been reluctant, but Sir Leon had insisted that the council needed to be told, and the citizens needed to be warned, and Arthur had, rather huffily, agreed with him. Leon, not unused to finding himself in charge in The King’s absence, orders everyone else to keep looking; they can’t afford to abandon other potential survivors by placing all their hope and concentration on one, one who may not even make it.

The first thing Merlin notes is how young he is, barely even Mordred’s age, and he flinches at the thought before pushing it from his mind; hopefully his youth and fitness will help save him. He works diligently, the other physicians loitering close by but leaving him to it as Mordred supplies a spare set of hands, and Leon glances infrequently over his shoulder. His fingers ache from all the tense, precise, tiny movements, and his knees, from where they’re pressing into roots and stones, and his back, from where he’s hunched over, and the space in his skull just behind his eye sockets, from where he’s been squinting, but after an hour, two, three, of steadying the sluggish flow of blood, monitoring the boy’s pulse, breathing, temperature, Merlin finally sighs and leans back.

Leon rushes over immediately from where he’d been instructing half the patrol to head to Camelot and come back as soon as they can with carts for the dead, and the other half to find a clearing somewhere upwind where they can set camp up. His face has fallen before he even gets there, the older knight clearly expecting the worst, but Mordred looks up with a tired smile as he collapses back onto his rear, his knees undoubtedly hurting just as much as Merlin’s. Said young servant also looks up, wiping a sleeve across his exhausted, sweaty brow:

“Infection is still a possibility, but if we can keep him warm and clean, and get him back to Camelot before dusk tomorrow, he should pull through. He’s young, strong. I’ve seen people die from less but... I’ve also seen people survive from worse.”

Leon seems to sag a little with the relief, and as he marvels at Merlin’s medical skills and stamina and confidence, Merlin in turn marvels at Leon’s ability to keep things running smoothly whilst holding back panic in his own mind:

“Well done, Merlin, and thank you. Explain his injuries to Maura and Ban, they’ve already offered to take over his watch for the night so you can get some rest.”

Merlin nods as he stretches his arms absent-mindedly, and Leon tries his best to hide the roll of his eyes, knowing that his lack of answer means he’s going to be staying up by his patient’s side for as long as it takes for him to pull through. Or die.

He doesn’t die.

He begins drifting in and out of consciousness soon after they bring him back to Camelot and settle him in Gaius’ chambers, and though Arthur still demands Merlin’s attention every second of the day, the servant takes every opportunity he can to rush back to the boy’s bedside to help change bandages and administer medicine.

In the end, Gaius, and the other two physicians who’d been there, are more than happy to step aside and allow their much younger counterpart to take the credit for the knight’s recovery, though he rarely does. Merlin is perfectly happy that the kingdom knows he was saved, it doesn’t really matter to him how, or by who.

Leon stops considering Merlin their servant friend, and starts considering him their physician friend.

Merlin had been pulled away by an almost hysterical sounding servant early the previous evening.

Though Arthur can be quietly (though obviously) possessive of his manservant, and a little vindictive to those who pull Merlin’s attention away from him, he is a King and a good man before he is those things, so when the hushed words between the two other men had sparked Merlin into a panic driven sprint from the room, without even a glance back, Arthur lets it go. He can allow Merlin his personal life, especially when it obviously means so much to him, especially when he is so obviously needed someplace.

The resigned allowance, however, quickly turns to annoyance hidden worry when he never reappears later in the evening, and sends another servant in his stead the next morning. Arthur continues to allow it though, for another few hours at least, until almost eighteen candle marks have passed since his initial hurried exit. The King’s worry mixes in an almost unstable manner with his possessiveness, and an hour or so before noon, he strips himself of the morning’s training armour, replacing it with a casual ensemble that always ruins the councilmens’ moods, and ambles purposefully down to the physician’s chambers.

He smirks to himself when he hears, from around the corner, Merlin’s unmistakable gait exiting his Uncle’s rooms and shutting the door behind him. Something, the drag of his feet along the stone, a muted sigh, something, stops Arthur from walking around into the next corridor, and a moment later, he overhears a guard speak:

“She didn’t make it?”

Arthur frowns, not only at the words themselves, but at the overwhelming lack of hope in the man’s voice; it seems to be more of a statement than a question. He presses himself to the wall as Merlin replies:

“I lost her.”

His voice cracks and crumbles, but he clears his throat at the end of it, as Arthur’s own throat tightens at his sudden realisation; Merlin had been pulled away to treat someone. Someone who still hadn’t survived after over half a day’s worth of help. There’s another sigh, louder this time, pitying but in a soft, comforting sort of way:

“Do you want me to head off? I can... check the perimeter, give you ten minutes.”

Arthur can picture perfectly the way Merlin will shake his head, and he can hear it in his mind, almost before Merlin says it, the denial:

“No, it’s fine. Gaius is in there and I can’t leave him. I just... just needed to get out of the room for a moment.”

His voice is quiet and broken in a way that Arthur has only heard once or twice before, in all the years he’s known him, and The King resolves himself to never being the cause of it. The guard, thankfully, is thinking along the same lines, and continues his sympathetic attempts to cheer Merlin up:

“It’s not your fault, Merls, some people... they just can’t be saved. I’m sure you did everything you could.”

Merlin scoffs slightly, and Arthur figures the sound of fabric scraping against stone is him sliding down the wall to sit on the floor:

“Yeah, well it obviously wasn’t enough.”

Another sigh:

“They say you can’t be a good physician if you take every loss personally, they say you’d fall apart at the seams, but I’ve been stationed here, on and off, for ten years. I’ve seen you lose patients, Merlin, and I’ve never seen you not grieve them like you would your own family. I’ve seen that make you a better physician, and I’ve seen it make you a better man. Grieve, learn, move on, save the next one.”

The next stretch of silence is the longest yet, and Arthur waits for baited breath, to see if Merlin has allowed himself to be comforted by what The King must admit are very comforting words:

“I’d rather not lose any of them, if I’m being honest.”

Of course not. Merlin has always been far too selfless and, though he tries to hide it, self-deprecating, for his own good:

“Yeah, well, we’d all rather that, wouldn’t we? But sometimes shit happens, and you’ve just got to just... deal. You’re doing great, Merlin, especially since, and don’t tell anyone I said this, how much of a hardass The King can be to you sometimes.-”

There’s a low snort of amusement, and though it’s at his expense, Arthur manages to be pleased by it:

“-You carry a hefty weight, Merlin, in ways I don’t think anyone in this Godforsaken castle really understands, but you somehow manage to handle it relatively gracefully.-”

There’s a hum, one that Arthur can’t quite figure out is a dismissal or an agreement, and then another, smaller, snort of laughter:

“-I’ll take a walk anyway, give you ten minutes.”

Arthur panics for a moment, glancing around desperately for some sort of corner to turn or cupboard to hide in, but he quickly calms as the guard’s footsteps head in the opposite direction. He lets out a breath, deciding to turn around and head back to his chambers as he hears Merlin slowly stand from the floor, but quickly freezes when the servant yells, his voice loud and pain-filled:

“FUCK!”

Arthur flinches at the noise, but flinches even further when a crash rings out, echoing down the corridor as an empty bucket comes flying down the corridor. It smashes into the wall in front of him, almost-but-not-quite splintering before falling to the floor and rolling towards him, out of Merlin’s sight. Arthur bends over slowly, picking it up in hesitant hands as he hears Merlin take in a shaky breath. He can’t. He can’t just... leave, not like this. He takes his own deep breath, to steel his nerves, and walks slowly around the corner.

Merlin is crouched down, elbows on his knees with one hand dangling toward the floor, and one hand covering his eyes. He’s breathing deeply, slowly, obviously trying to stop the tears; Arthur figures he must not lose patients often, because he’s never seen him react like this. He must have stepped too loud, or breathed too hitchingly, or stared too hard, because Merlin’s head whips up to look at him; The King’s step falters at the shock turned scathing in his servant’s eyes:

“Not now, Arthur. If you’re really that desperate, go bother George, I’m sure he’s hovering somewhere.”

Arthur looks away briefly as his ears turn slightly red, but is quick to answer:

“I actually don’t want anything, I just wanted to... come... say hi.”

Merlin doesn’t move in any way that isn’t raising an eyebrow, in a scary impression of Gaius, and Arthur huffs and waves the broken bucket in the other man’s vague direction:

“Fine. I was getting hungry for lunch, and was wondering where you’d rushed off to yesterday, but then I heard you and the guard, and then... this,-”

He waves the bucket again before a brief expression of confusion crosses his face, and he slowly places it on the floor, by the wall:

“-so I... just wanted to check on you. And let you know you can have today and... and however long you need off. If you want it.-”

At Merlin’s small, but endearingly exasperated smile, Arthur steps towards him and sits down on the floor, his back leaning against the cold stone. As he continues, Merlin collapses back onto the floor as well, so he’s sat properly, groaning as he turns his ankles until they click. He sits cross-legged, his and Arthur’s knees pressed together:

“-I guess I forget that you’re an actual physician sometimes. Like a proper one.”

Merlin’s smile turns as fond as Arthur’s voice is meek, but neither of them call the other out on it, content to stare at each other with a softness they’ve never quite managed before. Merlin still looks weary, tense, ready for an argument or insult at any moment, and Arthur seems unsure and nervous, but still, they continue smiling gently. The moment doesn’t last long however, and Merlin flinches and look away, tears gathering in his eyes again, as a newborn’s shriek echoes from the room behind them.

Arthur stiffens as his blood runs cold, and where Merlin’s breath deepens to stave off the tears, Arthur’s deepens to stave of a panic:

“Is... is that...? Was she...?”

He can’t finish his questions, but he doesn’t have to, and Merlin answers in a mumble without looking up from his lap:

“Her husband died a few months ago and I... I promised she’d be ok. I’ve known her for years, she... she was my friend, and I promised her she’d be ok, that I’d look after her. Now she’s dead, and there’s a baby girl in the next room with no where to go.”

Arthur goes even impossibly paler, but he reckons, in his recently growing emotional maturity, that perhaps his own baggage shouldn’t be what takes precedence here. He takes a deep breath, to calm the adrenaline fuelled anxiety in his chest, and then reaches out to take Merlin’s hand, only allowing their skin to meet once he’s sure his own hand has stopped shaking:

“Are... are there no relatives? Siblings, cousins, aunts or uncles?”

Merlin just shakes his head and looks up, accepting Arthur’s hand easily and holding it tight:

“No. A couple of the maids are a few weeks post partum so I’m hopeful they’ll be able to help with feeding for a while. Gaius and I can keep her for the first few weeks, but if no one in the servants’ quarters wants to adopt her... she’ll have to go the orphanage downtown.-”

He looks away again, his voice quiet:

“-She likely won’t survive that, the newborns rarely do.”

Arthur replies quickly, huffily, though his anger obviously isn’t aimed at Merlin, and The King’s words actually bring a brief smile to his face:

“Bloody coun- I try. I try to fund that place, but all the stupid council want is a fancy new Ballroom and a pay rise.”

Merlin’s words, quiet, whispered, are the last said in a long while:

“I know, Arthur. I know.”

He has to go back in eventually, when they hear the guard’s footsteps down the hall, returning from his spontaneous patrol. Arthur is the first to get up, pulling Merlin with him by their still joined hands before letting go and brushing invisible lint off his servant’s shoulders. He runs his hands through Merlin’s hair as the younger man stands with a small grin on his face and an eyebrow raised. He spies the guard coming around the corner and double-glancing before stepping back out of sight again, but doesn’t draw attention to him as Arthur freezes, blushing with the realisation of what he’d been doing before clearing his throat and moving back.

Merlin just rolls his eyes and shakes his head, laughing slightly before tucking his hands into his pockets and stepping back himself:

“Thank you, I... you didn’t have to stay.”

Arthur’s blush practically melts away as he rolls his own eyes:

“Of course I did, idiot. I meant it earlier, just... take your time, and I’ll see you whenever.-”

He pats Merlin on the shoulder; it’s softer than normal, and his hand lingers just a moment longer than perhaps acceptable between a King and his Servant, but there’s no one there to see, as far as Arthur is concerned at least, and after an extra second or two he clears his throat again and heads back the way he’d come from. He turns at the last second, pointing at Merlin with a grin:

“-Don’t take the piss though.”

He’s gone, disappeared around the corner before Merlin can scoff out a laugh and reply, but similarly, Merlin disappears into the physician’s chambers, the door locked behind him, before the guard can turn into the corridor again. That, is a teasing conversation that he’s ill-prepared for and still desperately running away from.

Marion, Merlin names her, in the end. Marion, after her mother. It’s a name that normally suits soft younger women, with golden smiles for their equally-as-sweet suitor, and flowers growing between cracks and children on the street and the sun and rain alike. It is also suited, he thinks, to elderly matrons; women with grandchildren and great-grandchildren even. Women who have so many stories, with many of them spilling over with tragedy and warning and loss, and yet still have a lesson to teach alongside each and every one of them, and a grace in her words that always means the ending of the fable never seems as heart-wrenching as perhaps it should do.

When he goes back into that dark, bloody room, his friend under a sheet, her husband—also Merlin’s friend—six feet under six miles away, Gaius hands him a clean, wriggling bundle. The baby has been gently wiped down and wrapped in soft, white cotton; he, with a sigh and a surge of anger that he knows he can’t let fester—he insists that Arthur isn’t at fault for his mother’s death, he will not force his grief upon an orphaned child—he pulls the corner of the sheet down, uncovering the baby’s face.

He very quickly sits down.

This, this moment here, is when Merlin decides that the baby’s name was never anything other than Marion. She’d been Marion before he’d even looked at her, he thinks.

Gaius spares him a mournful glance, but he doesn’t worry, not really, Merlin has lost before and moved on, and he’s delivered enough babies to know what he’s doing.

She has wisps of bright yellow hair, thicker than on most newborns, and Merlin can tell that, just like her mother, she’ll have waist length curls, golden in the summer and a more muted blonde in the winter, by the time she hits her tenth year. And she will, she will make it. Merlin doesn’t care what he has to do. Marion will make it, and even further: she’ll soar. He finishes that thought, and continues gazing down at her, at the button nose that all babies have but he knows will grow to be strong and straight like her father’s. He sees her cupid’s bow, a shared gift from both her parents, her only-just-discernible widow’s peak, something he knows Marion’s mother had had, and her green eyes, a rarity that her father had been bestowed with from his own parents.

Merlin decides, as he looks down at this child who is a perfect mix of puzzle pieces from the past, whose future he can see stretched out in front of him, alongside Arthur’s, Camelot’s, his own, like an endless carpeted corridor, that Marion is also a fine name for golden-haired, button-nosed, green-eyed baby.

He hadn’t been willing to leave Gaius in the room alone for more than a few minutes, not after the death of a patient, of a friend, but Merlin is selfishly willing to rock little Marion to sleep for perhaps longer than is really necessary, as Gaius silently tidies and cleans around him.

He returns to work the day after next, unsurprisingly. Arthur had expected Merlin to push down all his emotions and come back to his duties as soon as possible, like he normally does, what he hadn’t expected, however, is Merlin to push his chamber door open so very slowly and to shut it so carefully. Though it’s the reason, he supposes, that is surprising, not the action in itself. Because Merlin appears to have a tiny baby strapped to his chest.

Arthur doesn’t move from his place at the table, breakfast in front of him—brought by George—as Merlin no more than frowns at the mess in the room (George had been allowed to serve, not hover), when normally such a catastrophe would have him cursing Arthur out for hours. The King figures at last, when Merlin glances down to the still babe wrapped in fabric, that he must not want to wake it (it?) up.

Arthur makes sure to speak quietly when he finally persuades himself to speak:

“How’s it doing?”

Merlin shoots him a short, displeased frown before immediately heading to the bed, making it up absentmindedly as he responds:

“She is doing just fine. The maids I spoke about were more than willing to help out, so she’s eating enough. Speaking of, I’ll have to disappear every once in a while so they can feed her.”

Arthur nods, pleased, and asks his next questions, a lilt of confusion lacing itself through his second query:

“What’s her name? And can’t you just leave her with the maids during the day, surely that would be easier?”

Merlin freezes for barely a moment before carrying on, as if Arthur wouldn’t notice the fact that something he said struck him emotionally, somehow:

“Marion, after her mother.”

His voice is quieter than even before, just above a whisper now. Arthur doesn’t chase an answer for his second question, allowing Merlin his privacy as he himself thinks: “Merlin will never let this child go. Will he?”

A few hours later, after Marion and Merlin have returned from a small food break, Merlin grumbles under his breath about his back hurting, and Arthur, without considering Merlin’s general deviousness, asks Merlin a very silly question:

“Why don’t you put her down for a bit? The bed is big enough, I’m sure you can... make a nest or something, so she doesn’t fall off. Probably.”

Merlin looks up to The King with a sly grin, and Arthur frowns, taking an automatic step back even though he’s not even close to guessing what’s on his servant’s mind. Said servant supports Marion’s weight with one hand, slowly walking towards Arthur as he unwinds the wide strips of cloth holding her to his chest. Arthur gulps and shakes his head:

“No. Absolutely not. Merlin no, I... I really can’t, Merlin, I don’t want to hurt.... Merlin!”

Merlin had made the final part of the approach quickly, and Arthur, so scared of dropping little Marion, holds his arms out ready as she’s passed to him, despite his loud pleading. His arms wrap around her stiffly, and he takes a deep breath in when Merlin steps back, crossing his arms and staring at him in appraisal. Arthur doesn’t look down, but instead stares at his servant with a panicked expression as the other man raises an eyebrow and smirks:

“You should probably keep breathing. You know, if you don’t want to pass out and drop her.”

Arthur’s never let a breath out so fast before in his life. Merlin rolls his eyes fondly and steps forward again, gently touching his fingers to the back of Arthur’s hand; his voice is quiet but confident and Arthur follows his instructions perfectly as Marion wriggles:

“Move this hand up, just a bit, and relax your fingers or she’ll just roll out of your arms.-”

Arthur still hasn’t looked down, and Merlin laughs gently at the way he clenches his jaw when Marion babbles to herself, just for a moment:

“-And would you please look at her? You won’t turn to stone, Arthur.”

Arthur glares at him briefly before slowly looking down. He, like Merlin had those couple of days prior, loses all emotion except a sense of wonder:

“She... uh... bright eyes.”

Though he would usually tease Arthur for his lack of eloquence, Merlin’s smile just grows softer as he too looks down at her:

“Yeah, her father’s. The nose too. Hair is her mother’s though.”

The more they talk, baby Marion gently joining in with her quiet babbling, the more Arthur relaxes into the hold, and when he glances up to see Merlin gazing down at her with an adoring smile and eyes brighter than he’s seen on his friend in what seems like years, his own smile grows even further. It drops however, when the other man frowns and steps back suddenly, his jaw clenching tightly before he speaks, unable to look away from her, seemingly unhappy about that. When Arthur mutters his name, a questioning lilt to his quiet tone once more, a few moments pass before Merlin responds:

“None of the servants can take her, Gaius is going to the orphanage this afternoon to speak to them about taking her on in a couple of weeks.”

Arthur sighs and looks down again, and neither of them move as he mulls over his words. he glances between them, sees the attachment in Merlin’s eyes, sees the way his hands twitch even when he’s trying to pretend he trusts Arthur not to drop her, sees the way Marion’s wide-eyed gaze lingers on Merlin a little longer than it lingers on anything else, as far-fetched as that seems:

“Hmm. She looks like her parents, they’ll always be her parents, and I hope that, wherever they are, they can watch over her, but... she’s yours, I think. Little Marion is very much yours. I’ll give you the time, Merlin, the space, the pay, if you... if you want me to. You don’t even have to ask, I’ll do it anyway.”

Merlin gulps, but doesn’t look to The King as he takes a deep breath. It only takes him a moment to make up his mind, and Arthur smiles as the young physician steps back forward and lifts a calloused finger for Marion’s waving hand to grab a hold of:

“I’ll... speak to Gaius when he gets back, though I think he probably already knows.”

His tone is dry, and Arthur huffs out a gentle laugh:

“I’ll come with you.”

Merlin looks up, wide-eyed and almost panicked as he rushes out a response, not quite forgetting to keep his voice down:

“No, you don’t need... I don’t...-”

He pauses, takes a breath, and thinks, eyes naturally falling back down to Marion. Merlin’s voice is quiet, hopeful, easy, when he continues:

“-Yes, I... ok. Thank you.”

THE END!!!

The wee babby Marion is the most cared for child in the whole damn Kingdom, and it’s all very soft and cute. Her first word was “Dad”, and because no one was looking at her when she said it, Merlin and Arthur have recurring arguments over who she was talking to literally their entire lives.

Let me know your thoughts, gang!!

367 notes · View notes

danicadenniss · 4 months

Text

DreamWorks Trolls

Branch: Troll Of Wildglade

Chapter 2: A Father's Bravery

This is Trolls Brotherhood AU, Warning: this chapter may have some gore, strong and sad scene near the end that make you cry.

That's stormy night, Alder have to warn Thorn and the other trolls about the attack in the village during the meeting and Talons Bounty Troll Hunters will strike on the forest. Ivy is stay in their pod with her mother, to protect her sons. Ivy held Branch, she asked Rosiepuff to take care of their sons.

Alder: Is there something wrong, Thorn?

Thorn: Alder, I sense danger.

Alder: Now that you've mentioned it, do I,

Female Light Purple Troll: They are going to kill us by destroying our pods. We kept hidden from those monsters!

Male Ivory Troll: Monsters?

Alder: We must to prepare for battle against the treacherous bounty hunters with spears, bows, arrows and daggers. This is our fights and we have to survive before the bounty hunters will kill us all with guns and knives. I'll prepare the elders. We should be ready for anything.

Meanwhile, outside of the forest, the troll hunters were going to strike the village. They usually have to trapped the trolls by to destroy the village. The bounty troll hunters are putting on their black masks that covered their faces. They putting on black paints their faces. Hernan walked in the tent, they are ready to hunt down the trolls. They spied on the trolls, and then glanced at Thorn who to prepare for battle from his hill.

Bounty Troll Hunters #1: There they are, we have the power, the forever Talons!

Hernan Reyes: We got them, we reached the top, but they won't getting away so easy. We will hunt them tonight. I have the power to do this thing.

Bounty Troll Hunters #2: Shall we get them?

Teenage Dante Reye: Father, you and I make a description, we see that creatures with guns and swords.

Young William Afton: My lord, who grabs the creatures?

Hernan Reyes: Maybe, William. They'll be the last to suffer. We'll teach them to keep us getting back our home!

Teenage Arthur Slugworth walked over, but he got gold bullets and wearing his black suit, with dark brown straps on his upper back. The Trolls Bounty Troll Hunters are ready to hunt down the trolls by to destroy the village during the night. Out target is their hearts. Our family passed by our ancestors. And we'll start with something small.

Hernan Reyes: Good!

Young William Afton: I hope you got butterflie nets, my lord.

Meanwhile, Clay swam around peacefully, that is until Spruce bursts out of the water and spit out water onto John Dory's face.

Young Spruce: (laughing, Clay spit out water onto his face.) Hey! Clay?

Young John Dory: Clay! Stop spit out water onto our face.

Young Clay: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Umm, sorry John? Sorry Spruce?

Young Floyd: I thought that you three were...

Young John Dory, Spruce and Clay: Floyd?

Young Floyd: Yes, I know. Mommy and Daddy tell us, to take care of our baby brother, Branch and come on.

Young Clay: Let's go!

The three of them swam ahead until they came across a big rock. Floyd ran to the pod, Ivy walked around and looked at the danger out in the woods. She grabbed Branch gently and he cooed it.

Ivy: (gasped) John, Spruce, Clay, Floyd! Oh no, this can't be happening to the woods. It's too dangerous, boys!

Young Floyd: I'm right here, Mommy, I'm scared! (Branch cooed and scared)

They climb up to the rock, they jumped into the water with a big splash.

Young John Dory, Spruce and Clay: CANNONBALL!

A huge splash was heard and drenched the young trolls. They shook themselves from the water as they bursts out of the water, laughing at their state.

Young John Dory: Got ya! Bros!

Young Spruce: John! You little sneak!

Young John Dory: (laughing) You should have seen your faces when I splashed you!

Young Clay: You mean like this (Viva arrived then splashed John Dory, Spruce and Clay wetting their hairs.)

Young Spruce: Hey, no fair, Clay!

Young John Dory: Yeah! You keep splitting us with water out your mouth.

Young Clay: It's not my fault, it's a pink troll, who meet me in the pond.

Young John Dory and Spruce: Who's?

Young Viva: (bursts out of the water) I am! What's the taste of your own medicine? (Smiled as she swam to him and then poked his nose.) Tag, you're it! Viva then swam away from the three, laughing on the way.

Young Clay: Viva, this isn't funny! I'm surprised glad to see you again. But all they laughing as they follow her to get out of the water and ran ahead. The bounty troll hunters walked in the forest as they searched for the trolls by hunting them down. The sky was becoming darker as gray clouds began forming around the moon.

Bounty Troll Hunters #4: We must to have our weapons. This is the paw prints for our target, boss.

Hernan Reyes walked into the forest, he stomp on the rocks and he slipped into the water. He got out of water, he see the four trollings.

Hernan Reyes: (laughing wickedly) We almost got them, but I got slipped by a rock. I almost fall!

Bounty Troll Hunters #7: It's nice to see that you slip into the water and it's not funny, my lord, I hope you are going to be alright.

Hernan Reyes: We're going to hunt down those little monsters and keep terrorized us all day long. Come on, follow me. (crackling maniacally)

John Dory, Spruce and Clay running and laughing echoing around. They didn't see the pink trolling anywhere as that goes by.

Young Viva: BOO! (appeared out of nowhere, scaring the brothers.)

Young John Dory, Spruce and Clay: AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Young Clay: Aw, you scared us!

Young Spruce: What are we going to do next?

Young Viva: I can't believe you guys almost fell for that!

Young John Dory: Who's are you, what the hell are you?

Young Viva: My name is Viva, I'm a princess from other tribe called Aqua Heart, ruled by my mommy and daddy, I have a baby sister her name is Poppy.

Young John Dory: Oh f*ck, you know her!

Young Spruce: Don't be such scaredy trolls! There's nothing scary here. What are you afraid of?

Young Clay: Viva, there are my brothers, Jonathan Dory, Spruce, where's Floyd?

Young Spruce: He is scared to go with us, he stayed with mama, papa and granny. I have a baby brother named Branch, he was six months ago and he was carried by mama. We should head back.

Young Clay: John Dory, Spruce, this is Viva, she's a princess from another clan.

Young Viva: It's nice to meet you guys.

Hernan Reyes: (echoing) Oh, you should be. Especially when we're hunting the creatures down.

The children suddenly turned and gasped in fear when they saw Hernan Reyes and the Bounty Troll Hunters coming down under the tree walking towards them.

Hernan Reyes: Well, well, well. What have we got here? A group of little trollings away from their mommies and daddies. Isn't right, boys? (The dogs barking at the trollings, crackling and the bounty troll hunters use the butterflies butterflies nets, axes, guns are ready to load and the knives are out.) Where's is my ax?

Young Viva: My mommy and daddy said I shouldn't talk to strangers. (They huddled together)

Bounty Troll Hunters #4: My lord, we're not strangers, we're hunters.

Hernan Reyes: My, however silly of me. My power, so I have a power to hunt down creatures, and I am.

Teenage Dante Reyes: Father, we have strong bags with vulnerable to hunt down creatures.

Young Clay: (whispered) They're lying. They are not our friends.

Young Viva: (whispered) On my signal, run back to the clan then mommy and daddy.

Hernan Reyes: Okay, boys, where are we going to chopped down the tree? One of the bounty troll hunter walk with it knife, John Dory, Spruce, Clay and Viva used their hairs and swept dust and sand right down into the bounty troll hunters' faces blinding them.

Young Spruce: RUN! (At Viva's signal, the trollings sprinted into a run.

Hernan Reyes: After them! The bounty troll hunters chased after them.

John Dory, Spruce and Clay: Help! Mom, Dad, HELP! The children ran as they hid inside a thorn barrier, hoping to have given the hunters silp.

Abacus Chunch walked into the forest and beg him to stop hunting and destroying the tree.

Young Abacus Chunch: STOP! HERNAN! I want you and your hunters to stop hunting!

Hernan Reyes: Out of my way, pastor and I'm a hunter, but I want you to stay out of here or else!

Bounty Troll Hunters #1: You, bet ya, boss!

Young Abacus Chunch: Please stop all the madness!

Hernan Reyes: I will never be able to stop hunting for the creatures. I got my sweet golden bullets with me. (Kiss his gun and loaded)

By the lake, Ivy saw the clouds. By the looks of it, there might be rain on the way. She went to find John Dory, Spruce and Clay, Floyd held Branch gently as he crying but she didn't see them on the banks or in the water.

Ivy: John, Spruce, Clay! (called out, but no answer came.) Boys!

They then ran back to Thorn.

Young Floyd: Daddy? I'm so scared of the clouds gets very dark. John, Spruce and Clay are out there and we're worried about them.

Thorn: Floyd, Ivy, what's wrong?

Young Floyd: Mommy? Branch is crying, it's going to be okay.

Ivy: It's the boys, I can't find him anywhere.

Young Floyd: Me either,I...

Alder: The hunters must be down here. They couldn't have gotten far. (looked down at the hunters use their knives are out.)

Bounty Troll Hunters #3: (echoing) Oh, good lord, we'll find our axes to chopped down the tree one and for all!

Alder: (gasped) No, this can't be! Suddenly, they heard bird cries from the forest and even heard John, Spruce and Clay's echoes, though barely.) Thorn (came to him, panting heavily.) There's trouble! One of the scouts discovered bounty troll hunters and bring their dogs under the trees.

Thorn: What! How many? (Branch crying)

Ivy: (whispered) Shhh, don't cry Branch.

Alder: About five or six. But we need to evaluate to safety.

Thorn: Rosiepuff, you and Alder, warn our clan to leave and head for home and take care of Floyd. I'll go with Ivy in search for our sons! Go! Now! The trolls ran to the clan and alerted them of the danger. Everyone, round up the children! Head for cover! Quickly!

Rosiepuff: Right! Be careful, my son in law! They got up from their and stopped their fun to run away. She held Branch, he cooed and crying, the parents quickly gathered their children, who are obviously to the sudden danger they might be in. They were snatched by their mothers and fathers as they escaped the lake. The children panted quietly as they heard the enemy heading toward them.

Hernan Reyes: Come out, come out, come out, where ever you are? (grabbed Clay and Viva in his hand to put a small bag) I got it! HAHAHAHAHAHA! (John Dory and Spruce saw their brother and his new friend were captured by him.) I got two of them.

Young Spruce: MOM! DAD! HELP! They arrived, he used his hair and whipped on him as he dropped Clay and Viva scream mumbling in the bush.

Thorn: Hand off of my sons!

Young John Dory: Mommy! Daddy! Baby Branch!

Ivy: (gasped and Branch crying as she ran to get help, Thorn groan) Thorn!

Young John Dory: Daddy!

Young Spruce: Papa! No!

The fire on the trees, a bench fell on stabbed Hernan's back as he screamed in echoing.

Teenage Dante Reyes: DAD! (Run to him, he groaning)

Thunder crackling, it felt down, it's surrounded by fire and Ivy is frightening in her eyes.

Ivy: Thorn! No! I won't leave you!

Branch crying and she see of her husband's sacrifice himself to save her and her sons. Clay and Viva got out of the bag, they run to get out of the bush, which he see his father's sacrifice himself to save his lives, she grabbed him to escape from the burning woods.

Ivy: Our sons are the heirs, the clan needs you. (Branch crying)

Thorn: Take care of our sons, to be the new leaders. Ivy, I know you're over here. (Hernan Reyes got up and screaming, he used his knife.) I love you! He running and jumped down on the ground.

Young Spruce: DAD! NO!

Infant Branch: Dada! (Crying)

Young John Dory: What the hell, is he doing?

Ivy: He is protecting us by sacrifice himself to stop the hunters.

Thorn: (growled at the dogs barking, Hernan got an emergency small blade from his pocket.) I won't let you and the others harm my family!

The sky completely dark, Floyd gasping, he see his father's sacrifice to his family. The hunters must to retreat, Dante asked him.

Teenage Dante Reyes: DAD! We got to go!

Hernan Reyes: No! I want to be a new leader of Talons. Just go!

Dante Reyes run out of the forest burning down, Thorn growled at him in his battle cry and he used his dagger.

Thorn: This is my bravery, this is my home! (Hernan stabbed on his chest and groaning,Thunder thudding and lighting flashed though the clouds the Glade Clan could see. The rain started to fall heavily and thunder clapped into the sky.) No one lays a hand on my family! I won't hesitate to give my life for my wife or my sons!

Ivy: THORN! (Branch crying)

Young John Dory: DADDY! NO!

Young Spruce: Daddy, no!

Thorn punch dog's stomach and grabbed his dagger which Dante stabbed his upper back, with knife.

Hernan Reyes: Son, what are you doing?

Teenage Dante Reyes: Dad, I won't let you die from the fire.

Hernan Reyes: Just go! (Dante escape from the forest, head back to the jeep.)

Thorn: NO! (coughing blood leaking from his mouth. The fire cause explosion toward on them,) I'm brave. I'm being bravest troll I've ever known! (Hernan Reyes screaming of his defeat) This is my home. This was my father's land. This is my land and my son will rule it when his time comes! And his children will for generations to come! We'll protect it and our family with our very lives! Never...Come...Back! (They ran to her husband who is injured) Ivy, boys! It's going to be alright.

Ivy: Where's Clay? Did he disappear?

She carried her in her arms and they walked and back to the clan in the hard rain. Alder gently held as they returned to the clan. There were many shocked gasps and worried whispers coming from the other trolls as they softly gathered around Thorn and Ivy. Floyd sobbing to his brother, Spruce and John Dory are sad, Branch crying and his tears came out from his eyes. She sat on her knees as she gently laid her down in her lap.

Thorn: (whispered) You can't leave us. (coughing weakly) Ivy? (Struggled to speak as she was getting weaker.) I need you, John, Spruce, Floyd and Branch need you, Clay need you.

Ivy: Look out for our sons. Alder teach them to be a great leader like you and everything know.

Thorn: I...I will, I love you, my love.

Ivy: I love you too with all my heart. (shared a final kiss with him, he exhaled his very last breath. His hand went limp and fell to the grass.

Young Floyd: Mommy? (sobbing)

Ivy started to cry and mourning to her husband's sacrifice himself to save her and her sons, since Clay disappearance, Branch crying lose his father.

Young Spruce: No! You can't die! We won't leave you!

Young John Dory: Daddy!

Young Spruce: NOOOOOOOOOOOO! (pulled his body closer and started sobbing. Everyone else started to let their tears fall as the rain continued to fall on them.

They build a wooden tombstone made from juniper wood with words on it which read Thorn, a great leader, beloved husband, loving father, a brave warrior and a loyal friend. May she live forever in our hearts. Alder then stood in front of everyone where he prepared his speech. He cleared his throat as he began. Alder: We gathered here, today, we honored Thorn lived her life as he died for his sacrifice himself to save us all, a brave warrior, a great leader, beloved husband and father, and a member of the family. This is a blue necklace given to his son until he will grow up to be a leader someday, he is in our hearts. At the pod she came to their sides. Rosiepuff comfort them, Ivy lost her husband and she held Branch and comfort her.

Days had gone, at the Village's hospital, a little black girl walked wearing a hospital clothes, her mother applied Abacus Chunch's right leg.

Black girl's mother: Elena? What are you doing?

Young Elena Wallace: Mommy, what's happened to the trolls' leader?

Elena's mother: The trolls are called the Wildglade, their leader for he sacrifice himself to save his mate and his trollings and he died from injury, after the fire.

Young Elena Wallace: This is horrible, the fires and thunderstorm are scary. But a female troll taking care her baby trolling along with three trollings and one is gone missing with a pink trolling.

Elena's mother: Elena, time for school, your father take you to there.

At the church, the hunters mourning to their leader's death in the fires, after they failed to hunt down the trolls. A corrupt priest walked in stood.

Woman: Father Julius, we need a talk about Reyes got killed by the fires in the woods. His son, will be taking over as the new leader of Talons Bounty Troll Hunters.

Young Father Julius: Victoria, the challengers is the matches between the teen hunters will train to hunt down creatures.

Young Victoria Kord: I will make Abacus pay for stopping hunting for the little creatures. It's leader died for It's sacrifice itself to its mate and those trollings and including a baby. (Indian man walked into the church. She smiled evilly at him.)

Indian man: My name is Ignacio Carapax, I will join you to hunt down creatures with my blade. We're the hunters and bring our grasp. When Hernan Reyes died from the fiercely death in the forest after the clouds became dark and the heavy rain dropped on the big oak tree.

Victoria Kord's sister: (gasped, held her baby daughter Jennifer Kord as she wailing,) What did you mean?

Young William Afton: My lord is dead, in the fires in the woods. We always to hunt down creatures. It's leader died for It's sacrifice itself to its mate and those trollings and including a baby. I gonna to poison all the lands around every nature.

The villagers: No!

Bounty Troll Hunters #4: We will find those monsters soon.

Young Ignacio Carapax: We all agree with y'all! (smiled evilly)

The bounty troll hunters crackling wickedly and then the villagers gasped and back in the forest. All the children laughed as they quickly swam to them. Rosiepuff and Ivy comfort them, Branch crawling towards Floyd by giving a hug.

Baby Branch: Hug! (Hug Floyd and he looked down, giggled)

Young Floyd: Branch, you can spoke about give me a hug.

Young Spruce: Not now, Branch.

Baby Branch: John, Spwuce, Floyd, huggie! (hug John and Spruce for their comfort.)

Young Spruce: (felt happy) Thanks, Branch, we're here for you anything

Young John Dory: My baby brother can talk.

Ivy and Rosiepuff saw the miracle, Branch can talk, until he gets older.

Ivy: They are happy, I raise them on my own. I'll be there to help and also Thorn may he rest his soul, will be forever watching them and us from above. He'll do great things for our clan.

Next chapter is coming up, during Trolls Brotherhood AU.

Protect the nature and all wildlife.

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oumaheroes · 2 years

Note

Hii I was intrigued by your headcanon that Cromwell burnt Arthur I'd be interested to know more of your thoughts on this (like why that happened)

Reeeaaalllly not happy with this one but I'm running out of time, I'll circle back to this again, Anon!

Trigger warnings for detail of gore

‘It’s been a long day’

Day 20 of Whumptober

Going into shock/ Foetal position/ Prisoner trade

Characters: England

Day 19

------

Witches are not usually burnt in England. That death is reserved for heretics, or only for the worst of witches with another crime to their name.

'Yours are too many to list,' Arthur was told, thick iron chains clamped tight around chaffed wrists as the Lord Protector of his realm paced before him in anxious lines, 'A demon in human form sent to tempt me with pretty lies; witchcraft and curses to lead me astray.'

Men feared what they did not understand. Some men did not understand that which challenged them, that which disproved a core belief or morality that guided them through this messy fucking life. The teachings of the church and Arthur's mere existence going head to head in the minds of those with too much fear and not enough heart to make sense of the unsensable.

Irrefutable. Impossible. True.

Nonetheless, against all possibility and probability, true.

In the eyes of men, Albion had seen his reflection change across history. He is not known to them now, not for who he really is, unless he blesses them with that knowledge. And then- then they see him again. See who he is, what he is for. Can speak his true name, understand the full meaning of his words and use him as he is meant to be used. He sees, he remembers, and he shares and they know.

Times change and opinions change with it Arthur knows, but never before has he been betrayed by one of his own like this.

He was granted a private death. It could be seen as kind but Arthur knows that it is not. Cromwell doesn’t want him to be watched lest what Arthur had told him is proven true- that people will fight, will rise up in his name to hear him. Will push to cut him free, will carry him away without really knowing why they feel so deeply for this stranger with the ancient eyes.

So behind the stone walls of the tower he is locked, cold and alone and waiting until his time comes. Bound and tied as the kindling at his feet is stacked higher higher higher, forcing himself not to search or pray for rain that could grant him a precious extra day. Waits silently as his sentence is read, his sins proclaimed to a waiting bland priest who tuts and shakes his head solemnly to hear the severity of his crimes.

The wood is stacked under his feet. His mouth is gagged. He cannot protest and tries not to. Tries to go with dignity, although his soul is broken by this betrayal. This man knows him, and yet-

The fire catches. Arthur’s head is free to move and he can’t help it, he looks down to watch. It creeps slowly at first, jumping to the hay pressed between larger logs, fat and oil glittering along the sides but then the flame is swallowed, goes deeper. Warmth begins at his toes and smoke fills his nose as wood begins to snap.

He shuts his eyes and tries to be logical. If he breathes in deeply, the smoke will kill him faster than the fire will. Maybe if he breathes in enough, he will fall unconscious before there is too much damage.

He tries it. Tries to take big lungfuls of smoke but breaks of choking. Panic sets in as it grows hotter and he struggles against his bindings, all sense gone as the flames find him, a man of earth and clay amongst the fallen tress of his felled woods. He fancies he catches sight of Wales’ face at a tower window, watching behind thick glass. He’s not seen his brother in years, doesn’t even know where he is and before Arthur is even sure it is him he is gone, nothing but dark windows that watch as he throws back his head and screams himself hoarse.

He feels his skin bubble, smells the scent of himself cook amongst the wood- hair and fat and blood. He feels far far too much for far too long before blessed shock finally sets in and he is free, mind numbing as his body shuts down from the agony. Death approaches as his lungs grow too tight to inhale and he knows that this death will be deeper, will be longer than usual. The times have changed, too much too soon, and to learn the wicked ways of the world he embodies he must walk amongst it for a time.

He is glad. The last thing that he thinks as himself for a lifetime, is that he is glad he won’t have to think any more.

-----

For a wonderful wonderful look into Cromwell and England, I highly recommend reading @needcake 's In This Universal River

Day 21

Full Masterlist

#aph england #hws england #arthur kirkland #historical hetalia #aph #hws #whumptober #hetalia #whumptober 2022 #whumptalia #heroes writes #heroes answers

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the-heaminator · 10 months

Note

go on then, let's have some horror. i'll give you a choice between prompt 8 or 22 - and why not have it include the uk bros? :)

[ 8 ] "you're insane!"

[ 22 ] "wake up!"

Ao3 Link here

They're so bloody fucking insane so much of the time, and a good half of the time they don't realise it, the rest of the time it is gloriously premeditated, I'm not frankly sure which one is worse. Have what essentially became a very shitty character study 2012 ff.net edge lord style. I am SO sorry Helia. Tw animal abuse, general gore and just like, flesh, all the bullshit of the past Cannibalism, Torture, death, mentions of insanity, gore, non-consensual drugging, Hansel and Gretel bullshit, not in that order, burning, just, bullshit.

Look do not expand this unless you want to kill your dash. its like 15k. so be warned

Alisdair knew that nations tended to have a considerably looser grip on their sanity after major conflicts, hell even he was feeling the effects of The War, he often found himself standing on the edges of cliff faces with no idea of how he got there, he moved in from the coast after these instances happened one too many times, drowning was not a pretty way to die after all, though it kept happening even in the city, finding himself next to blitzed roads and in the woods with not a clue of how he got there.

He needed to stop doing this, he needed to stop drinking so much before bed.

___________________________________________

He also knew that his brothers never had a particularly sturdy grip on what would be considered sanity ever since he had known them, it was a little more subdued when they were younger, but that was a long, long time ago, and even then he could viscerally remember how...transfixed Rhys was with flames even back then, a tree burned because of lightning and Rhys would stare at it for hours afterwards, not entirely present in this world as he did so, he watched the little creatures skitter away from the inferno, not making any attempt to help them.

It was odd the first time, he never seemed to be the type to enjoy others suffering, not then at least, gentle and stout he was, it was odd to see him take so much pleasure out of burning as he did, Alisdair thought nothing of it then, perhaps found it a little strange, but as long as he wasn't hurting anybody nor himself...it couldn't be too bad.

He found Cymru burning a rather large rat.

Albion was there too, all bones and teeth yet, could just about walk and talk, though half the time he gabbled to himself in a tongue that nobody else understood. This was one of those times, smiling and clapping, he prodded the flaming mouse with a stick more than once yelling "Fire! Fire!" over and over again, though not in an urgent way, he seemed to be enjoying it

Cymru had squatted next to him, he was barely moving, scarcely breathing as he watched it screech and scream as it went up in flames, he almost looked like an owl, it was in a little clumsily dug pit, just about big enough for it to not be able to scale its walls, he could smell tallow, this was pre-meditated, he felt sick.

He stood there frozen, Albion noticed he was there first, and picked himself up with some difficulty, he must've been in that position for a while for him to be so stiff, he didn't know how long it took to burn a rat, it was still alive, though its screams were dimming slowly as it was charred, Ma had told them about how nations could bend each other to their own wills, he had never experienced it before, he didn't think he could be swayed so easily, especially by those two, Cymru was kind, not like this, and Arthur was small enough that he still tended to crawl around because it was faster that way.

But he found Albion's chubby little hand in his, gently tugging him to the fire, he couldn't even bring up a shred of resistance, he felt sick, he felt overjoyed, he couldn't take his eyes off it, he found himself laughing.

He didn't know he was laughing, everything in his field of vision was going odd, the rat had finally silenced but its screams were still echoing through his ears three-way, his mind, Albion's and Cymru's, he could hear all of it, he could feel all of it, he could see all of it, Cymru hadn't seemingly noticed him there until now, he had been here a while, how hadn't he?

He sounded giddy, he could just about register him screaming at him, his mind felt a rush of fear which turned to anger as soon as Cymru noticed him being there, he was not like this, he was mild-mannered almost to a fault, Albion was positively howling in joy, his head spun, he vomited anything he had eaten earlier today out, Cymru was near a head shorter than him yet those eyes, usually full of joy or love or just something that wasn't this, he couldn't even name what this was, it was dangerous, like splintered wood almost, glinting like iron in a furnace, he couldn't name it, but he knew he didn't like it.

He ran back to Ma, things didn't scare him much, he was strong, but everything about this had shaken him to his core, both she and Éire looked scared for him, he didn't usually rush in like a storm and immediately cling to Éire's side, she thought he looked clammy and ill, she called Ma, she gently asked whether he had gotten a fright, he didn't have fever, but his eyes were darting around almost mad, his head felt full, it was a wonder he didn't have a fever.

Albion and Cymru walked in not long after, the sun was starting to set and they were always in before it grew dark, Ma wouldn't have it any other way, it was dangerous after dark, as soon as they walked in however, Ma stared at them, something was off about them, both smelled strongly of smoke and tallow, Cymru never looked so owlish, she could feel him lightly prodding her mind, she could feel Albion sleepily draping himself all over it, he was tired, but it was unusual to feel his presence as strongly as she did now, she looked at Alba, staring at the two like they had two heads a piece, Éire bit her lip, she could feel them trying to get into her mind, Cymru felt like a bludgeon of sorts, there was something wrong about him, he smelled like smoke, his mind always grew a little more active after he saw something burn, but never with the fevered intensity of this.

The room started to spin, he could feel Albion getting into her head, different to Cymru, worming its way into the cracks that Cymru had created, his felt less threatening, more docile, but he felt muffling, her head felt full of wool.

She clung to Ma, this was not normal, she understood why Alba was acting the way he was, both were so small, why did they feel like that.

Ma opened her arms to hug them, Alba felt warm and vomited again, he could feel Cymru's mind brush against his, too close for comfort, he could feel Albion worm his way in.

She didn't let them in, that would not be a good idea, even if they were small they could do plenty of damage, though she underestimated how strong it was, Cymru buried himself into her arms, she could smell burning on him, Alba blubbering something about tallow and a rat seemed to have its merit, she could smell a very strong smell of it on the both of them, Albion was tired, usually when tired he grew cranky, not as he was right now, bright-eyed and still laughing, though she could feel on his presence that he was tiring.

Cymru looked at Éire oddly, he did not understand why she was acting so strange, neither why Alba was, he understood a little of Alba, but not why he looked so ill, not why he was staring at him and Albion like they were the fae, what was wrong with him.

He opened his mouth, his voice was a little hoarse from disuse, he sounded childishly concerned "Alba, Éire what happened?" Albion was trying to curl up in the blanket with him after he got out of Ma's arms, he was cold to the touch.

He had stopped his prodding though Alba knew that it wasn't out of mercy, he was simply too tired, it was unlikely that he realised he was doing in the first place, he did still smell something terrible, he curled up in his arms and fell asleep oddly quickly, she told Éire to look after the two, and herself, she needed to go talk to Cymru.

Alba didn't hear the conversation, but Cymru came back looking odd, not scared exactly, but close enough, Albion and Éire had fallen asleep a good while ago, he could almost forget the whole thing had happened but as soon as Cymru came back he could hear, see and smell the rat like it was right in front of him, though it smelled sweeter, burned brighter and sounded louder than he swore it actually did.

He felt sick again and retched though now there was nothing left and drifted into a fitful sleep. Albion small and warm in his legs.

__________________________________

Ma passed and the Romans came, he and Éire were safe, too far up in the mountains to be of much use, practically ignored.

He hadn't seen either Albion or Cymru in a long time, he had no idea what was happening to them, there were occasionally incursions to his land, but even then he could always feel the pressure of the empire on the edge of his mind, though after a while that dimmed, there were no more attempts to take over his territory, it finally was gone, replaced by a different pressure, barely present, sluggish and disorganized.

The Romans must've left, he wanted to see his brothers again, he hadn't seen them in centuries, the journey was oddly quiet, met with next to no resistance, he could feel the presences of more than one, it explained why it felt so disconnected from where he was, it took some time, he was travelling alone after all.

It took some difficulty to find him, he could feel a dull tug towards him, sluggish but present, but he did eventually. Not where he wished to find him, but he found him nonetheless, he was free to roam as he pleased, not tied down by a household or any particular occupation just yet, he still had to earn his bread but even that was not too difficult, he could find or grow it himself more often than not.

Albion was tied firmly to both a house and a job.

When he first saw him he expected less, he himself had certainly had gotten taller since they last saw each other, but he did not expect Albion to age so much over the few hundred years, he was still shorter than him but he was catching up, he was met with fear, he may have looked a little wild, that must be it, Albion had his hair cut short, he was fidgety, when he offered help to cook he refused vehemently, more out of fear than of anything else, he looked ready to bite if he didn’t back down, with a type of fevered intensity that made Alba believe that he would actually do it.

He could not be older than maybe 8 or 9, yet he was living alone, not good enough, he spoke oddly, what he used to speak felt wrong out of his mouth, the syllables slid together oddly, softer than they should sound, he muttered to himself more than he used to, the gabbling he used to do became words, though not in any tongue Alba understood much of, he knew a lick of Latin, but most of what he was muttering was borderline unintelligible, he sounded deranged, he was too young to be going mad wasn’t he?

He didn’t have the bluish film over is eyes that spoke of a weakening mind, they were bright as ever, sure they were a little yellow, yet he was worried, he could be worried for his brother, no? But Albion didn’t let him, he forced him to sit down, the home wasn’t even that, a place behind the stables of the King he had stew, stashed away somewhere cool, it wouldn’t spoil anyways with how the weather was, but it wasn’t particularly much, there wasn’t much to sleep on save for a manky and scratchy wool blanket, it was frankly a little sad, he looked ill, pale and gaunt, still just bones and teeth, he had gotten taller, but hadn’t filled out whatsoever.

He gave what he thought was a lot to Alba, he was stingy with his food, it wasn’t nearly enough to fill him up, but he didn’t ask for more, the stew was watery with barely anything to it, he got half a nibble of something that resembled meat, but that was it. He seemed to have heard something, immediately forced Alba to hide somewhere, there wasn’t too much room, he didn’t see Albion’s face, but it mustn't have looked too good.

Somebody walked in and barked something Alba couldn’t understand, he seemed to respond to Edmund now, he left the place without even half a look at where he had stashed the other, he waited a long time, Albion must’ve hidden him for a reason, so coming out was a bad idea. He finally returned, sweaty despite how cold it was, grimy and shaking ever so slightly, Alba could see he was tired, he looked wrong, sort of scared, he must be sick to be acting like so, he was shaking so much he forced his hands into his cloth to stop it being so visible.

Albion's eyes narrowed seeing him "Why are you still here?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You wanted to make sure I was alive, as you said, I am alive, and it is not safe for you here. So, leave."

That was blunt, but not incorrect "You are not well Albion, let me take you with me."

"I'll be fine, I swear, it is not safe for you here. Leave."

He wouldn't stop moving, Alba wondered how he had enough energy to move so much on so little, it was a little dizzying "Sit first, then we can discuss. Do you have any bread?"

"No, we just ate, didn't we?" He didn't even seem worried, he didn't continue with that, this was awkward, Albion had sat next to him, folded with his head on his knees, how would he even go about this, they hadn't spoken in an age, Albion seemed too tired to care "So you answer to Edmund now?"

"I needed a name, and it was popular enough that I wouldn't stand out, do you not have a human name?"

"No, why would I need one."

"Do you not need to communicate with your..." he stumbled for the word, said it in Latin, and mumbled "Job person, or the people?"

"I do not need to do not often enough to need a name. No. I assume you do."

"Yes."

Conversation died of quickly after that, he wanted to ask how Rome was, he really did, but Albion had fallen into that state just adjacent to sleep while sitting, he hoped the other would relax a little in sleep, too much tension in sleep made the shoulders hurt. He did not in fact relax, not even slightly, tight as a coil of rope, the night was cold and while both their clothes were thick (his rather thicker than Albion's) it still wasn't enough to keep them warm, he knew for a fact that the other probably wrapped himself up tight in the blanket and hoped for the best.

He couldn't sleep like this, not at all, Albion wasn't even leaning on him but he could hear and feel him shivering, he needed to wrap the blanket around him or he was genuinely convinced he would freeze to death, he was still awfully thin, no insulation to speak of on him, he moved, small, slow and quiet, he knew what he was doing, nearly silent, yet Albion woke up and looked around wildly, like he half expected someone to come at him with a knife, he saw no-one, only Alba and convinced himself that it was a figure of his imagination and went back to sleep, this time laying down and covering himself as much as he could without taking all the potential blanket that Alba would take, he was larger than him so he would need more blanket.

Under the pale light of the moon he could see that Albion was feverish, shivering under the blanket, though that could just be because of the cold, he hoped so at least, he wouldn’t interfere, with how skitterish he was, it was unlikely that it would go down particularly well, he wasn’t even meant to be here, he would leave in the morning, he swore.

He still wasn’t the most sure why he made this trip in the first place, it was long and by no means was it easy, it was early spring, the days could be very cold and the nights even worse, frosting over still sometimes, as well as wet, he wasn’t sure what compelled him to do this, yet he did, he knew at least one of them was alive, though the conditions were admittedly not as good as they should've been, not nearly, but he was alive and it was something.

Albion always slept deep, now he woke with the slightest sound, he tried to be quiet moving about, Albion hadn’t moved an inch since he laid down, he could still hear breathing, so he was at least alive, he was in bad enough condition that Alba would easily believe that he could just pass then and there, and even now he knew dying hurt, he had died a few times, drowning, infection, drowning, injury.

He slept with this thought on his mind, not ideal, but he slept nonetheless, he was tired, he had walked a lot, he slept deep once he did.

He was surprised that Albion was up before he was, pale and clammy, afraid looking, but awake “Och, you look like you’ve seen a ghost, what happened?”

“Nothing that concerns you, no.”

“What is it.”

“Nothing.”

“It is something or you wouldn’t look like that.”

“Look, I have church in half an hour, I need you to go, I cannot be seen with a Pict, I would be hanged, as would you, it does not feel very good. So go, please.”

“Eh? You’ve been hanged before.” Alba swore church wasn’t today.

“You haven’t?”

“Why on earth would I be hanged?”

“Robbery, plotting, stealing food, the like.” His eyes were darting about almost violently as he was saying all of this, his voice took a crack he tried his hardest to hide, he started to fidget uncontrollably again, before nothing, everything seemed blanketed, gone all of a sudden, he took in a deep breath “Just go, it is the safest, for the both of us, go a little after I would.”

He nodded, he couldn’t really say or do anything about it anymore, Albion wouldn’t have it, he wondered a little detached why he was taking orders from his younger brother, but he seemed so vehement about all of them that he believed them “Will you not eat anything?”

“No, as I said, church, bread and wine, and on Sunday the household gives me provisions, I will be fine, you can finish the rest of the stew if you wish to.”

He was dressed in particularly grimy clothes though, things didn’t add up, but he didn’t want to call him out on it.

Now he waited, he took up Albion’s offer for the stew, he didn’t finish all of it though, goodness knows Albion could use it better than he. It took a while to make sure everything was clear, he headed out, heard shouting, and hurried back in, this was something he could understand only a little bit of, he heard Albion’s name, what sounded like lashes, a scream, silence, more screams, sobbing, he heard angry shouting, later soft words, and Albion came staggering back.

In his arms lay the remains of a few long dead rabbits, mostly bone with the smallest amount of meat left on them, the meat may have been Albion’s himself, he was bleeding, and badly, chunks of flesh hanging off his face and arms, a finger or three was missing, enough that Alba most certainly would be dead, he seemed not to notice the other, perhaps because of his vision blacking out, or he refused to acknowledge him. He panted, put the rabbits somewhere mostly clean, sat on the floor with a pot of sorts, and started putting his blood into it, his eyes were closed, but he was still very much alive, just about, he kept slumping down, head lolling on his shoulder like a corpse, but he jolted himself back to wakefulness each time that happened.

Scared of death he supposed, his flesh was knitting itself back together as he sat, where his fingers were missing soon grew bone, muscle, on wept as his skin grew back, unblemished and fresh, salty tears making the pain only worse, dripping into the bloodied pot. Least his stew will have salt, he couldn’t afford it normally

How had he the energy to fix himself to such a degree, gaping wounds on his arms slowly stitching itself back together with sinew and whatnot. Not a pretty sight, Alba felt beyond ill, and Albion seemed resigned to this, he could not care less.

Alba didn’t expect to feel him attacking his mind so strongly, he likely couldn’t muster it physically, the jabs were sharp and rapid, but not well aimed, all Alba could feel was fear, what he could feel from Albion was similar, mixed with resignation, almost pleading him to leave, the pot was half full of blood, he knew they could fix themselves if it wasn’t too serious, but whatever this was looked serious, yet the bloodflow was slowing and drying to the clothes, Alba simply stood in the corner, he was too scared to leave, he didn’t want whatever happened to Albion to happen to him, and he wated to make sure that he was all right. He certainly didn’t look it.

Albion managed to croak out, barely “Alba, leave. Please.”

He didn’t reply, how was he still fine after this, what was even going on?

“Leave, Alba.”

The bloodflow stopped, Albion forced himself up off the ground, sloppy and unfocused, he stumbled his way to Alba, he looked worse now, ashen grey, dried blood clotted all over him, hair matted with it and mud, a large chunk of his flesh was simply hanging off his cheek, going blue as his skin stitched itself together as Alba watched in horror, going blue then black, and falling off, dead onto the ground, Albion eyed it, contemplating whether to pick it up, he chose not to, it was filthy now anyway.

Some small colour returned to his cheeks, eyes yellowed and sunken, “Leave, Alba.”

He didn’t want to, he really didn’t, he wanted to hold him, tell him everything was all right, like Ma did, this wasn’t the same Albion, not the one that curled up in his lap when cold and tired, not the one that screwed around in shallow water with stones, gabbled to himself happily as he stared at birds doing their own businesses, he had seen Éire die, she was different after she did, she seemed not to realise it, he had changed too as he died and came back, but this was dramatic, had he died enough times to near become a whole new person, Albion hadn’t realised it himself if that was indeed the case.

He knew he should leave, he pulled Albion into a hug, he could feel all his ribs and his backbone, sharp and with no give, he reeked something demonic, but he was still his younger brother, a small child at that, still just brittle bones and chipped teeth, he sounded so much older than his years “I can still take you.”

Choked, nearly sobbing “N-no, it is not worth it, it will be better soon, this King just hates me, as do his goons, usually I am fine, I swear, he is getting old now, I know he will die soon, his son likes me, I take care of his horses well, he will treat me well.”

Alba didn’t know who he was lying to exactly, himself or to him, but he kept holding him until heavy breathing became slowed to near the point of suffocation, before bursting into painful sobs, Alba could feel him trying to curl into himself, embarrassed maybe? He was not like this normally by any chance, but he was so tired, he shouldn’t do this in front of Alba, he hadn’t seen him in centuries yet he did, he knew he shouldn’t have, yet he did, he hadn’t been held in a long time, and Alba was warm, he was getting blood all over him, he should apologize, he would, he would, once he could bring himself to words that is, he hadn’t missed Ma this hard in a long time.

He couldn’t remember too much before Alba was gone, he was sitting on his blanket, clean and in fresh clothes, but with no idea how he got there, strangely full, where had he gotten so much food from, was that a fever dream, it certainly felt like one, he had ended up places with no idea how he got there, this felt like one of those times.

The pot of blood was stored in a cold dark place, it was growing dark now anyways, he was so tired, always was after he had to fix himself, and he was asleep without a second thought,

Alba was worried, Albion, Edmund, he wouldn’t call him that until his life depended on it, it felt wrong, everything about that felt wrong, sick, frail, and afraid, he felt ill after seeing that, he never wanted to see him with chunks of flesh hanging off him.

_______________________

Alisdair knew that was a lie, Alba didn't

_______________________

Raiders were at his shores, he could feel them, he could feel them stealing, burning and looting from outlying islands, he was old enough to fight now, he had grown accustomed to it after a while, a burning on his peripherals that he couldn't stop, but managed to ignore, he had caught sight of their personification once, he could feel him at all times otherwise, cold, calculating.

His entire arm seized up once, luckily his non dominant one, he couldn't move it for all the pain, what even were these people, what did they want, he was not tied to a house per se, more as the guard to the monarch, not a formal part of the millitary, but he was allowed incursions, the monarch knew of his strange set of circumstances, he knew he couldn't die, not in any way that mattered and acted accordingly, through these incursions he learned a lot about this odd personification, he was younger than he was, by a good couple centuries, shorter than he was, though that might've been just because he was tall, his beard was coming in now, and he was quite proud of that fact, magical in the same way he and Ma were, he didn’t know any more of the type existed, pale hair, almost like snow in the light, braided, eyes that looked like the depths of the sea, he was a good fighter too, for all his lack of physical strength, he made up for it with mind-numbing agility, they had singled each other out on the battlefield more than once, an unspoken agreement that whenever they encountered, they would only fight each other, they were the only ones fit to go against another, they knew they could not die.

So why waste their expertise on people they know could, more fun that way really, and it was good to know the enemy anyways.

The burning dulled when it was in his blood, the burning was doused and extinguished only in his blood, he looked like ice and his blood acted the same, never mind that if fresh it was warm like it, or as any other humans, should be, though over time they settled onto the islands on the vestiges of his mind, they soon stopped being is, they were the Northmen’s now, he could do nothing to stop it, it was calm for a while, the Northmen had stopped trying to take over them, content with their island holdings.

________________________________

Norway, not the best first impression, Alisdair thought, turned out far better than he could’ve conceived then.

________________________________

Edmund was doing worse, far worse than Alba, he wasn’t sure if he had a human name now or not, he was not sure if he needed one yet, currently that didn’t matter, simply musings to keep the mind busy, he had been brought in front of the personification of the Northmen, he could scarcely breathe with how much he ached now, fire, all down his back, he had cramped so hard that his lungs wouldn’t inflate correctly, let alone be able to stand and walk with some sense of dignity.

Yet he did, he forced himself up, he forced his breath to slow, he forced himself to ignore the searing pain, the numbing dizziness, he had to adapt, or he would die, simple as, the personification of the Northmen was so much younger than he was, though a good head taller, if not more, steely sky blue eyes, far better fed too, fighting him would be worthless, he wouldn’t survive no matter what he did, he would get snapped like a dry twig.

A guard came, and he presented himself, not only to the personification but also to the highest-ranking warrior on this expedition, still no official governmental body, the personification stared at him, nearly dumbfounded, he had never gotten a good look at this wild island child before, only seen glimpses of green eyes and sneering teeth, he looked so small, starved too, he thought Noreg was small, this, this was still a child.

The Jarl thought the same, not exactly the highest-ranking warrior, but yet the most senior there, he spoke, the tongue unfamiliar, yet just about understandable to Edmund, English, not Norse, just about “You are the personification of this land?”

“Yes, I am, this area of it, there are more, further out, my brothers and sister.”

“How old are you, child?” He sounded gentle, why did he sound so gentle, they were not supposed to be gentle with him. He didn’t know how old he was.

“I do not know, I have seen the Romans, and a time before them too”

The Jarl was more than a little shocked, this tiny, fragile looking thing had weathered at least 800 years, perhaps more, the personification more so, more visibly so, he spoke up, his voice had started to drop, Edmund’s hadn’t, yet that boy was over twice his age, he could see it only in his gaze, the way he held himself was odd, stiff, as if he was in pain, the same way men injured after falling onto their backs during harvest held themselves, the Jarl kept talking, he kept replying, answers short, snappy and growing increasingly pained and panicked.

“Jarl, I do not think he is well.” Said in a manner that the boy could not understand, pure Norse, old fashioned to be at that.

“I can see that, yes, he is not healthy, could you take care of him for the time being?”

He blanched, he had only ever taken care of Noreg, for short periods of time, he was an invader, this boy would not go quietly, “I-I, look after him? Yes Jarl, I shall try my best.”

He turned back to the boy “Child, what is your name?”

“Edmund.”

“Edmund, this is Magnus, you shall go with him.”

Edmund squashed the blind panic that came with that announcement, that would not help him here, he would have to get out smart, he couldn’t do this by fighting, his face flickered for but a second, fear, panic, resignation all in one, then it was gone, replaced by a dull look undertone by pain, Magnus left, all he could do was follow.

Walking was hard, Magnus walked fast, his legs were longer and he was healthier, he could scarcely breathe enough to walk slowly, his legs barely obeying his orders, let alone fast enough to keep up with this pace, he tried, forced his legs forward, forward, forward, follow, follow, follow, Magnus was far ahead not even after a few minutes, practically panting he tried to run, that didn’t work.

Magnus had sharp hearing, he could hear the uneven footsteps getting farther and farther, and the breathing becoming louder and more laboured, occasionally interspersed by a cough, when he finally looked behind him he could see the personification, Edmund was it, quite far away, stumbling, he was scarcely walking now, held up mostly by the wall and by what he could feel was fear, when he stopped to wait for him, the mild feeling of fear at the edge of his mind spiked violently, his mind registered deathly fear, Edmund was getting into his skull and twisting things inside of his head, Noreg did this sometimes, but it was always far duller, this was sharp, searing, and it was gone.

Edmund had put his head to the cold of a stone, it was the height of summer now, he was sweating both from exertion more than his body could support and from the heat, all that was gone, leaving Magnus disconcerted in his own mind, the boy looked dizzy, far beyond that, he needed to rest or he would fall any second now.

“Edmund, rest, you look like you will fall over

"I…shall be fine, continue, I will follow." An obvious idea to run, but he couldn't of anything better now, he felt like he was to collapse at a moment's notice, he couldn't, the personification could do anything to him while he was down, he couldn't.

Magnus didn't even consider escape, he was too frail to pull it off even if he tried, practically only bone and skin, he waited for Edmund to gather himself, he had been given orders to look after him for the time being, and that was what he would do, Edmund vomited, nothing much, bile, water, and stale bread, the bread wasn't even too bad, a waste of it really.

He couldn't fall.

He wouldn't.

Though he practically did, leaning on a tree for support more than he should do, his stomach was cramping now too, hunger, fear, pain, anxiety, nothing good, he retched again, nothing came out, again and the smallest bit bread, something his guts had seemingly held onto, came spilling out.

White spots dancing around his vision, this wasn't so bad, he was floating, free, somebody was holding him, he was no longer flying, a bottle pressed to his lips, "Drink."

Even now he could come up with a reason not to trust it, slurred, near delirious "Mmm. Could be poisoned."

Magnus could've hit him right there and then, but he looked in bad enough shape that it could finish him off for good, he didn't want a dead personification on his hands, he could deal with people, their existence was fleeting anyways, not a nation, and not somebody whose health had been entrusted to him "It isn't, see." He took a swig, and very resolutely stayed stable, "I swear it is not poisoned, and why would I waste it on you if it was, you would die without it anyways."

He had a point, he could come back though, and it would be terribly embarrassing to go of sickness, he would rather go by poison.

He took a swig, then a gulp, not of his own volition, Magnus held the bottle to his lips, and he was limp enough to let it in, not sure if that was his body conspiring against him or he actually wanted to, he couldn't think, wool for brains bastard he was.

This would be gotten him killed in Rome, he couldn't trust any of those bastards, any food not made by his hand was poisoned, he always saw the jeering faces of Rome's grandsons as he faded from life, he couldn't remember their names anymore, maybe he did, it didn't matter either way now.

All he had to do was wait, wait until his body either have out or had enough strength to properly stand.

It frustratingly did neither, closer to the latter than to the former, he gingerly pulled himself up, Magnus had sat in a nearby rock, eyeing him with what was either concern or distaste, they were very separate but the face could meld together well, maybe his vision was just swimming, he stood up, the lack of blood to his head made him fall down, hit his head hard on the tree, and then nothing once more.

He awoke to Magnus fretting quite like Éire did directly over his face, worried, a stream of obscenities "Fuck, fuck, fuck, wake up, wake up!"

He was awake now, his body wasn't responding, he hadn't died, but had come close, slowly he managed to open his eyes, a harder task never performed.

Immediately he got crushed, he took what he thought was his last breath, it was not, it was a hug, this man barely knew him, a rival personification, yet he was hugging him, he was warm, still had some puppy fat that refused to melt away, he hadn't been hugged in centuries.

It felt nice, warm, he felt real, his lungs struggled painfully, but he didn't pull back, not sure if he had the strength to do so, Magnus put his ear on his chest, the heart was beating, slowly, it should be more panicked, even Edmund knew that, but again he couldn't muster the energy for string fear, he had run out of fear to run on, he was starved, and exhausted, he hadn't slept proper in days, it all was catching up to him at once, the pain of the invasion, he wasn't old enough, at least physically for his joints to be acting up like so.

Magnus was still holding him, not even a hug at this point, simply a grasp, to make sure he wouldn't dissolve in his arms, like honey in warm water.

He finally eased him down after he made sure he wouldn't just die then and there, he pushed himself up, Magnus pushed him down, roughly, but not enough to hurt "No, you rest, I will not travel with somebody as weak as you are without making sure you are healthy enough to walk."

Weakly, lying through his teeth, he was normally too timid to lie, his voice wavered when he did so, his voice wavered now enough as it was, it wouldn't be noticed "I-I shall survive, continue, I shall he following as closely as I am able to."

"That is not very close, we would make faster pace if I carried you, you seem very light, I probably could."

This was mortifying, he couldn't stand being carried, he wasn't so weak he had to be "No, no, I shall be fine in a few moments, do hold.”

Magnus was now having nothing more of it, he was smaller and much lighter than Noreg, and he could carry the other like he would do to a child, Edmund weighed about as much as a lamb, a small one at that, he lifted him, as gently as he could, he could feel his heart rate spiking, all of a sudden he could feel it inside him, before banishing it, he would not be influenced right now, he squirmed to the best of his ability, but failed to go anywhere particularly well, he could no longer swallow down his panic, nor could he keep down much of the water, he tasted bile, he couldn’t vomit it out now, that would be disgusting, not on top of Magnus, he swallowed it, sour and viscous, it was nearly funny how much smaller he was compared to Magnus, he passed into sleep, or sickness, currently the line was blurred.

He healed quickly, he always did, it was a little frightening to see how just a little food and drink, none of which were particularly rich, allowed himself to fix himself up from the inside, at least for now, he could stand straight, though even then he held himself with an injured back, his pride, black and pulsing, often where it had no place to be doing so, only occasionally did it turn on its heel for a burst of yellow cowardice.

Magnus found Edmund to be a better warrior than he could have ever hoped, completely subservient, while frail looking, he was stronger than he looked, in hand to hand combat he was still miles away from even getting close to Magnus, but he healed frightfully fast, and the subservience was borne, he hoped so at least, more out of obedience than fear, fear could very quickly become burning hot anger; Edmund was too timid for anger, it was not easily found within his constitution to be angry, he could try, but that only made him scared, so he stopped trying, it only made things worse when he did, clouded his senses and made him behave odd, imperative to stay focused or he would get thrown around like a rag doll.

He was good at picking himself up and licking his wounds after training, he usually had the element of surprise, no matter what was told to them, mortals did not understand that Edmund had been fighting for enough of his life that he was good at him, he had been running for even longer, he was quick to run and quick to strike, not good in a battle, but enough to keep himself safe, he hoped so at least, it would be murder if it wasn’t.

______________________________

He survived the Vikings because he was adaptable, he adopted their cultures as his own, he hated to say that he grew accustomed to them, but he did.

_____________________________

Rhys worshipped the earth for longer than his siblings had, few looked upon the ground, the leaves in the trees like he did anymore, at least what few were left were rebellious, but even then he was growing weaker, disconnect with ones people tended to do that, he did not wish to convert, he really didn't, but clinging onto the vestiges of a dying population had its effects on him, constantly tired, weak, not something that appealed to the royalty.

He was short and stout by nature, but recently he couldn't keep much food down, and it showed, he was still quite young, his voice had dropped but he hadn't grown a beard, he wasn't even close to adulthood, and he was ageing slower now, Edmund had started to catch up, all limbs, teeth and hurrying.

He was forced under the Normans, rather he gave himself in, he was too weak to continue running for too much longer, he was taken into the household, much as Edmund had been, converted, he felt empty afterwards, but he felt healthier, he put up more resistance.

He never thought he could bring himself to hate Edmund, yet he did, he did as he was told by these Frenchmen without questioning, he said it was because he lacked free will, as nations, personification, they lacked it, they were not human without free will, they were not human without the ability to die stay dead, rejoin with the Lord afterwards, they were not bound by law, nor by morals, for they had none, they had no genuine thought, only a combination of others.

He thought himself immune to human follies, though it was very visible that he wasn’t, he saw how he acted around food, one moment it was there, the next it was gone, he ate with fervour, like somebody would take it if he didn’t eat it as fast as possible, he had seen him falling asleep for seconds while standing, he rarely slept otherwise, his back was horribly burned, healing slowly, but still there from the Harrying, yet he followed around the very same people who did it to him like a well behaved dog.

Rhys didn’t understand why he didn’t even try to fight back, taking what he was given and never asking for any more, quiet and skitterish, he disliked how Edmund looked at him blankly sometimes, nothing in his gaze, no joy, no fear, no contempt, no distaste, it was not known to him how he could empty his gaze so wholly, nothing behind his eyes when he carried out orders, blank, methodical. Most of the time, the rest he saw was fear and anger, he wasn’t sure which one he preferred, though he relished in the mild look of fear he could see in Edmund’s eyes whenever he did something visibly that he was not supposed to, even something small.

Edmund was still small, though now the same height as Rhys was, he believed himself simultaneously above and below humans, above many, below only the lords and the monarch, but he could see Edmund was envious of them, envious of their life, rather, envious of their death, and recently he could feel him fraying, he had been so composed the entire time, but now he was fraying, it wasn’t visible, not just yet at least, but William was getting old, his son was not popular in England, that’s what Albion had become, nor was he very popular in Cymry, he hadn’t changed much.

They carried on doing as they did, mostly separate, he could feel discontent brewing in his own lands, dull and ever present, but not the type that he could see in Edmund, he started to do his orders wrong on accident, harried and stretched like vellum, nearly thin enough to be see through, he waited after every mild misstep like he would be executed, it hadn’t come, not just yet, though that seemed to only make it worse, the blankness he had perfected started to slip more often now, Rhys decided he liked the anger more than the fear.

With the fear he still looked like a child, his younger brother no less, not the leashed dog of the Normans that he had become, talking to nobody in particular during stress, he knew he wasn’t talking to the fey folk, he had been prohibited to do so, and the fey confirmed he hadn’t communicated in a long time, genuinely talking to nobody but his own mind, the king continued to deteriorate, now more rapidly, an accident with the saddle, he had burst his bowels, least that was what the physician said, and now he had to wait to die.

It took longer than it was supposed, 5 weeks, before he succumbed finally to his injuries, Edmund had taken to disappearing for periods of time when he was not needed, the fey informed him that he was in the woods not too far from here, always on one specific tree stump, staring at nothing in particular.

Rhys sought him out once, he knew he felt next to none of the brotherly pull Rhys had to him, if he did it was incredibly fragile and dull, Rhys had made the slightest sound, twigs cracking underfoot, Edmund leapt up from where he had curled up, tried saying in his most authoritarian voice possible, first in English, then in French “Who are you, show yourself, Coward.”

“It is not wise to insult your enemy when you do not know who it is Albion.” Only Rhys still called him that, why was he here.

Rhys didn’t miss the overwhelming look of relief on his face before it was quickly masked “Rhys, what are you doing here?”

“Seeing what you do when you go to rot in the woods, apparently nothing.”

“Yes, nothing, it is quiet here.”

Quiet wasn’t the exact word he would choose, the animals were loud, as was the wind, but it was peaceful, “Do you not speak with the fey anymore? You loved them as a child.”

Edmund stiffened “I was ordered not to; besides I do not wish to be mistaken for a changeling any longer, they already think I’m mad.”

“You do act it sometimes.”

“I do not!”

“You do speak to yourself often enough though.”

“You can hear that?”

“You think I cannot?”

He crawled back to the position he was sitting in, cloak over his eyes as he curled back up, Rhys sat next to him, he lightly poked his side, pinched it while he was at it, he was a little surprised he could grab anything at all, Edmund yelped and curled into himself further, Rhys gave a light little laugh, like the tinkling of bells “You’ve been eating well recently, you’ve filled out a little.”

He looked embarrassed for some reason “I’ve been eating too much you mean, ‘ve been stuffing myself at every chance I'm given.” He sounded mortified “I never eat this much, not a good idea to eat so much, but I'm so hungry all the time.” he pulled out the last syllable, he was whining.

“Nonsense, you are too thin still, don’t you freeze in winter?”

“A little, but if I am working, then I am warm, and the cold has no reason to bother me.”

“You are strange."

"As are you."

They sat in silence for a while, Edmund heaved himself up, hissed slightly as the material brushed his burned and blistered back, muttered to himself something foul "I need salve again."

He said louder "We should head back, lest our presence, or lack thereof is missed.”

He did have a point, neither particularly wanted to leave, yet they had to.

The king died the day afterwards, at least that was when the news came to reach them, William Rufus was crowned, both braced for the inevitable revolts, they came as expected, though Edmund noted that these revolts were less from the people, more from the nobility and clergy, William Rufus was not popular it seemed.

Only under Henry where they put to proper use. They were immortal, at least functionally, they were stronger than other boys their age, neither had yet become men, and since they could not die, their souls, if they had them, could not be judged once and if they died, nor at the Biblical judgement day, they could not suffer after death, they could do their dirty work.

They were good at it too, they understood what they were meant to do, and considering how young they looked, very few of those being tortured expected much from them, especially with the Welshman, he had soft eyes and a soft face, they expected nothing much from him, they expected more of Edmund, he had grown to be older than Rhys by this point, taller too, barely, he seemed much like a fox, eyes darting around wildly until fixed upon a victim, but he still looked frail, he could not do much.

That was often the worst thing they could make themselves believe, they showed no mercy, none at all, and the worst thing, the worst thing was having them force their eyes into yours, it could drive a mortal man insane in moments if they wished to, often they were saved just moments before their minds were shattered, information extricated from the husks of their minds, before being driven to insanity anyways, Rhys tended to drive people to inanity, the type that made them seem possessed, animalistic, crying and screaming until he finished them off slowly, he never rushed these things, slowly cutting bits and pieces of flesh off of them, never enough to kill them in one go, he had been seen tasting the flesh too, others had seen the glee on his face as he did so, it was wrong, but he couldn’t go to hell when he died anyways, they didn't have souls, they were not human, not alive precisely either.

Edmund was less surgical, he could drive people to death simply by allowing himself to feel the cracks in one's mind, finding even the smallest fissure and pulling it apart with such fervour that the mind and body collapsed unto itself, he only did that sometimes he preferred to get his hands dirty, he had perfected opening a man up through the middle, deep enough that he could see the entrails within, without killing him immediately, elbow deep in entrails, pulling open the ribs with his bare hands, the sounds of bones cracking was just lovely, he searched about the cavity, the prisoner usually died after this, some lasted longer, if they did he found their heart, lifeforce of their body, either stilled or pumping with fervour, and pulled it out, still warm, discarding it onto the floor, occasionally he took an ill-fated bite, the bites became more common, he started going for the liver too, if it wasn’t diseased he tended to eat the whole thing, raw too, there was nothing behind his eyes save for contentment after he did that.

They were both going mad, their behaviour had changed over the decades leading to the crusades, so much so that occasionally they seemed like entirely different people. Gone was a timid Edmund and a mild-mannered Rhys, the monarchy praised them, and they lived for that praise, they lived for the death of others, and they seemed perfectly fine with it, they had no morals, they never needed any, selfish and self-centred, obedient to a fault, Rhys occasionally acted up, Edmund was sent to deal with him when this happened, brutal force, and it worked well on him.

They had gone mad, no question of it, and there was nothing to be done about it now, you can lose your sanity easily, it is far more difficult to find it once it is gone, they would say it was freeing, getting rid of the shackles of sanity and normalcy of the mind, they were free, only shackled to orders and scarcely anything or anybody else, it was an interesting existence frankly, terrifying to an outside observer, but great in its own way.

_______________________

They grew to love the thrill of the kill, it was exhilarating, a feeling impossible to recreate, they loved it enough that they sought it out later, the start of a delicious spiral.

______________________

The Anarchy was terrible, everyone suffered as his people, rather his nobility turning on itself, he had felt stretched out before, obviously, but this was something else entirely, he felt not like a person, he was in places and didn’t remember how he got there, he had to support the king, it was his job, but of the found himself sabotaging his own tasks, it was frustrating, but even that passed.

The war with France went badly, he felt ill constantly, he had been sent off to fight, Rhys remained in the country, he had jobs to carry out and the like, he came back wrong, the insanity had rooted itself deeply in his mind, poisoning it and festering, it practically fed on his rational mind until scarcely anything was left, he had been sent to fight for a long time, he had seen a lot of deaths, he had caused plenty, experienced many more, had been tortured, did the torturing.

He came back berilligent and with a fondness for alcohol that bordered on illness, his hands shook if he was properly sober for too long, Rhys hadn’t been doing well either, he had picked up both of their duties, there were more incursions and invasions into his lands, trying to fully cement control over Wales, he vented out his frustrations when he was assigned to torture, he went all out then, it felt good, they were above the natural moral law “Thou shalt not kill.” that only applied to creatures favoured by the Lord, they were not, why would He create them if He wished for them not to return to His arms.

It was bullshit frankly, but he darent to say that out loud, he did as he was told, only occasionally misstepping on purpose, his people were angry too, as were the people of England, he could feel their malcontent without even being their personification, Edmund returned, Arthur now, Edmund was growing rather too old fashioned now, Arthur returned, bruised, battered and angry, and then not long after, the wars of the roses broke out.

Those finished too, Arthur often had to be wrestled, solely by Rhys into a state in which he was somewhat complacent, often he had to be filled with alcohol or he would at like a caged feral creature, Rhys had half a mind to join him, he was detached enough as it was, a little push and he would be reduced to the same as Arthur.

Arthur wasn’t the type to cry, he was too proud to do it, yet as he slept, on the off chance he did, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep, too scared that he wouldn’t wake up, he envied mortals because they could die, yet feared true death, odd, he wept in his sleep, this was worse than the Vikings, worse than the Anarchy, it lasted so much longer, so much more bloody, too many monarchs, he was exorcized a few times, it didn’t work, the priest died as soon as he entered the room, Arthur knew he shouldn’t have done that to a man of the Lord, he forced himself not to as he was bound and crossed, these servants didn’t deserve to be driven to insanity and then death.

His resolve did not hold up, the priest died, and luckily nobody, at least not for a good while, tried to kill him for witchcraft or possession or to exorcize him.

This cleared up eventually too, Henry Tudor coming out victorious, they returned to sanity, the best they could, Arthur now had more official duties, he was taught how to read and write again, he was a smart child, he had the potential for great things, taught in a monastery he fared badly, he was not cut out for the cloistered life of a monk, he was too wild for it, Rhys fared better, he could force himself to be more quiet, Arthur barely could, Rhys stayed in the monastery for longer, as soon as Arthur could read and write he was pulled out, put into official duties.

Rhys liked it, it was quiet, empty, beautiful in a queer way, stone was still, the air was slow, he could pray to the lord, whether he was up there or not.

He stayed there for a long time, came the dissolution of the monasteries, Arthur had grown, he had been forced to adapt to the court, stiff backed with a bland face, again like a glorified pet, he had gotten relatively plump, he ate all he was given, he never dared to reject any, the food was often too rich for him, he ended up vomiting a lot of it out afterwards, Rhys found it easy to tease him now, morseo than usual at least, but harder to get a rise out of him, his face was bland, his eyes held pleading, the country forcibly converted to another church, neither could do anything about it, the dissent surged again.

The ebb and flow they should have gotten used to, but they never managed to.

The new boy-king came in, he died in a blink of an eye, he was fond of Arthur and Rhys, apparently the only ones not trying to push him around, he liked discussing theology with them, looked more than a little scared when the boys of not much older than he was talked about death so casually, spoke of their contempt of the Lord, spoke about war and torture, he knew they were old, but how old always astounded him, he was nothing but a blip in their time.

Then Elizabeth, she also had a soft spot for them, Arthur had reverted back to barely restrained ferality, he was chosen to be a deckhand on Drake's rendezvous to the new world, he was more than an able seaman, he knew what he was doing, even then Rhys was worried for him, drowning was amongst the worst ways to die, especially out at open sea where he would die, come back to life, die, come back and so and so until he contacted land.

He came back with sun bleached hair that had some parts bordering on white, skin darkened by the sun and a filthier mouth than he left with, Rhys was of the more tame sort, at least relatively speaking, he was kept for the court, and he was frankly rather good at it, charming when he wanted to be, calculating at others, he was bitter, of course he was, but he had scarcely any other choice, so he played along, and frankly this wasn't as bad as it could be.

When Arthur came back the first thing Rhys did to him was fuss over him like a mother would, making sure he was indeed alright, most of Drake's crew had died after all, he admitted he had died once, not of drowning, rather of illness, which was fair, it was a small cramped place with a lot of men, it made sense, he was thinner now too, stronger though it didn't look it.

The Queen never married, never sired an heir, Arthur braced himself for a civil wat that never came, simply the monarch of Scotland, it was Scotland now, became the monarch, James I.

_______________

It was a delicate connection, but it stood the test of time more than anyone thought it would do.

_______________

Alisdair hadn't seen either of them properly in centuries, their queen died, they needed his king to be their monarch, it was an odd arrangement, but likely the only thing saving them from all out civil war, James the first of England and Wales, the Sixth of Scotland.

He didn’t know precisely what to expect when he did see them, somehow fate had separated them, and through some divine intervention surely, they would be back together as one, he could just about remember their faces, at least from when they were young, the details escaped him, but all of it was shattered when he ended up seeming them again for the first time, Albion practically looked wicked, Cymru was not too far behind, though he seemed a little more mild, Albion was scanning the crowd, but as soon as he made contact with him, Alisdair could feel the prodding of his mind against his, it felt different than it used to, less like honey, thick and cloying, but still generally benevolent, now it felt less suffocating, but stronger, now like that new laudanum that seemed to be gaining popularity medicinally, he had it once, too much really. It was overpowering and controlling but ecstatic in the maddest way possible, that is what Albion felt like right now.

Cymru seemed not to be trying, his gaze watchful and more searching than he was particularly used to, both of them were unnerving, he had had to have fought the English a lot before, but neither personification seemingly cared enough to write or communicate, they had caught glimpses at battles, but that was all, he hadn’t seen Cymru in nearly a thousand years, they were getting quite old frankly.

He forcibly broke eye contact, they would have to talk later, the crowns were unified, they were now all under one house, they met politely, Scotland’s English was bad, he managed to introduce himself as Alisdair though, they reverted to Latin, all were fluent in the language, it was the best they could do right now, they had all but forgotten the tongue they used to speak with each other, so they had to adopt another.

They finished introducing themselves, Albion was Arthur now, Cymru was Rhys and Alba was Alisdair, they all felt wrong to Alisdair, something in Rhys’ gaze was mad, he had no idea why or how, but he didn’t want to be at his mercy, more so with Arthur, his hair was still bleached for God knows what reason, he must’ve spent a lot of time at sea for it to be that way.

They were all colder to each other than they should have been, a thousand years was a long time though, all were dressed in their finest clothes, yet it felt like things were being mashed together that shouldn’t have been, very little discussion occurred on that day.

_____________________

Alisdair wasn’t sure if that was the best or worst thing to have ever happened to him.

_____________________

Alisdair thought fatherhood suited Arthur, he didn’t expect him to come back from the new world with anything, much less a child, rosy-cheeked, plump and happy even after months of being fed on nothing more than dampened ships biscuits, Arthur had already named him, Alfred, it suited him, he was the type of child that always felt heavier when you carried him no matter what you prepare yourself, like a cannonball of a baby, he had broken Rhys’ nose once, simply because he was moving too much and had hit him.

Happy in the way that he crawled about on all fours chasing insects and occasionally chasing the fae, the fae chased him back sometimes, he always had a cast iron bracelet toward them off, happy and simply all the best thing about the human constitution, Rhys missed seeing one of their kind so carefree, he was so young, still very much a babe in arms, he loved to be carried, Arthur had the arms strength to do so, Alisdair did, Rhys not so much, it always felt like his arms were being removed from their sockets.

The kid was strong that was for sure, but he was still a child, a fragile one at that, Rhys had never seen Arthur care about anything as much as he cared for this child, he cared for himself less than he did for this child, he was never scared for his own life no matter what was happening than he was when Alfred was sick, he got fevers that spiked so high he would start moving like a possessed thing, Rhys hadn’t seen Arthur pray in earnest for centuries, he found him crying over his cradle once after a particularly bad episode, praying to whoever would listen, he never believed in a benevolent God, yet he was still trying, and he hadn’t the heart to interrupt him.

He was a happy child, burned hot as the sun.

Their stance as personifications had faded into myth at this point, only the monarch knew what they were, no longer were they part of the royal household, there was suspicion that they were witches, they aged slowly, 3 men and a child living alone, they all did have their jobs, Arthur was in the navy, Rhys had an apprenticeship as a baker and Alisdair in the masons Alfred, once he was old enough, was left home often, Rhys stayed with him the longest, Arthur was out at sea more often than not and Alisdair was busy.

One day he was just gone, no trace of him, Rhys usually heard childish noises of delight when he came home, usually because he brought bread, and he was always hungry, Arthur had come only yesterday from his latest voyage, immediately fell asleep, he wasn’t even drunk, just bone dead exhausted, he didn’t find Arthur in his bed.

Rhys understandably panicked, he checked the orchards, he checked wherever he had found Alfred before, but he wasn’t there, Arthur could be anywhere, maybe he had Alfred, something told him that was not the case.

Burning was perhaps the most painful way to die, save for drowning, especially their kind, their flesh burned but it regenerated, constantly, constantly, until the fire grew hot enough that they couldn’t keep up.

Alisdair had gone to see what all the kerfuffle was about, he saw Alfred tied to a stake, Arthur next to him, the former was crying, of course he was, dying for the first time could never be rivalled in how much it hurt, Arthur had burned before, he wasn’t worried about himself, he couldn’t see Alfred crying, the ropes were thick ropes, the type used for rigging in ships, this was not the normal rope they used, blessed, Arthur could feel it burning against his skin, while he wasn’t fae, cast iron still burned them, his penance for being so far from God he supposed.

The fire was lit, Alfred screamed and screamed and screamed, Arthur resigned to his fate, it wasn’t as bad if he didn’t struggle, as the fire caught hold of them, Rhys showed up, Alisdair was watching in shocked silence “DO SOMETHING ALISDAIR!”

Alisdair sounded numb “What can we do. We will be burned alongside.”

It took longer for both to die than expected, Alred wailed and cried even as his throat practically was full of flame, he spat them out and screamed, Arthur barely moved, he had done this before, he could feel his flesh burning off and being replaced anew, an odd feeling, he screamed near the need, he knew he couldn’t keep this up longer, someone went mad as he screamed, jumped into the flames themself, Alfred had passed now, he was close to, Rhys held his head in his hands, Arthur was practically flaying his mind right now, another went mad, started attacking the crowd with her teeth and fists, eyes leaking black blood and teeth falling out as Arthur controlled her, she died too, Arthur collapsed on the fire, one last push, telling Alisdair and Rhys to run, and they did.

Rhys loved fire, even now he was enraptured, he just wanted to stare, it might’ve been his brother, but it was just so pretty, Alisdair grabbed his arm and pulled him out of his reverie, he wanted to stay, watch, Alfred’s screams were in his ears but he couldn’t care less, it was beautiful, it was fire!

He died, there was no doubt that they were witches now, Rhys and Alisdair ran, they would be burned next if they stayed.

__________________

Alfred barely remembered this, he was so small, he had blocked it from memory, he didn’t remember hiding in forests and finding another town, he didn’t remember how scared he was if he wasn’t in somebody's arms, and he would have like to keep it that way

_________________

The revolution hit Arthur harder than any of them thought it should have done, Rhys bore the brunt of it, Arthur was now the oldest out of them, Rhys the youngest, Alasdair was more focused on the French bastard child that Arthur had acquired, the child was small and scared, obedient to a fault, Matthieu, it reminded him painfully of when Arthur was small, and while now he was beriligent, often drunk and angry, or quiet and focused to a painful degree, the quiet obedience scared him, he didn’t want Matthew to turn out like that.

Matthew was clingy if given the chance, Arthur eyed him with an odd mix of contempt and...guilt, that was very clearly guilt, he was physically at least not more than 10 years younger than Rhys, he was old enough to look after himself, in theory, he was the type to silently sit in a corner with a crust of bread and not speak even if a dog was ripping his leg to shreds, more than once had shown up and fallen asleep on Alisdair’s or Rhys’ bed with them, or sitting in Arthurs study in silence just to make sure someone else was indeed there, Arthur usually knew when he was there, told him to go to bed, these were some of the few times he didn’t listen.

Arthur put him to bed himself in such instances, they were rare, but they did happen, he usually wanted to hurt Francis, but this was something else, why was his child like this, what did he do to him, he mustn't be too good of a parent if Alfred fought to leave, but he was, at least relatively, he was normal, not with the fear of the Lord that Matthew had.

He liked Alisdair the most, called him uncle Alisdair, which felt like it aged him a decade, fuck he wasn’t that old, Matthew liked sitting with Alisdair when he was in the family house, they had taken the family name of Kirkland, no one could remember their original family name, it was an age ago really, the kid didn’t know how to read, barely knew his letters at the age of what must be 7 or 8, that was bad, the combination of the three taught him his letters, they couldn’t afford a governess at this time, the revolutionary war, and the 7 years' war before that had been quite the drain on their coffers, and they preferred not to have staff over, save for a washerwoman twice a week and a cook

They barely had any reading materials for his age, Alisdair had a lot of books about plants and mechanics that he barely understood, the best they could do was the Catechism, but he learnt his letters eventually, he learned when he had to hide from each of them, he knew to hide from father when he smelled like sweet smoke, liquor and a whorehouse, Uncle Alisdair when he smelt of cheap gin and damp, Uncle Rhys when he smelled like wood smoke and blood, he had to learn, he picked up on their painfully suppressed tics and behaviours, a particular look in Arthurs eyes could spell the difference between a harsh shutdown and a soft cuddle, even if that look was barely different from any other.

A particular way in the way Uncle Rhys held himself, lax or stiff, spelt the way that he might not be welcome in his bed that night, the way that Uncle Alisdair’s voice sometimes went dangerously soft that showed that finding blood on the floorboards the next day should not be surprising, and finding Father deathly pale on the settee should be expected, little details, the little things kept Matthew safe, and warm, curling up in the library near the anaemic fire that they kept in there to stop the books moulding when he was shooed away from the roaring kitchen fire. He treaded on eggshells, but he was noticed as a person, the lesser of a couple evils.

Like Arthur as he grew it was clear he was mostly arm and leg, he was taller than Rhys and the same height as Arthur by 1820, Alfred had tried to invade a couple years prior, he understood why Rhys loved watching fire burn, untamed and wild, powerful, Matthew wished he could be like that, he was closer to the snow that coated his country, fragile, pretty and cold, cold can kill too, he liked Alfred, normally he did, but it was nice to have him get what was coming to him, older than Matthew, taller and certainly sturdier, it was nice to see him missing a limb or three, Arthur wasn’t even disgusted, he had done the same to so many, he had done it to Alisdair at some point, he had done it to practically half of Europe by this point, he was proud.

Alfred didn’t want to be so hardy; he didn’t want to be alive to see his brother dismembering him, it hurt, fuck, it hurt, he looked mad, “Y-you're insane!” It fell on deaf ears, he heard little twittering voices sometimes, this sounded like one of them, he paid no mind to it, father had told him not to listen to the voices, and it made sense, so he didn’t.

Fire, blood, he understood why Rhys liked it so much, it was a bit of an odd thing to realise, but he did understand.

The rest of the 1810s had gone in a haze, Father was practically never available, Jack was clingy and practically impossible to control, Eleanor was still too small to be much of a problem, Aunt Brighid stayed as far away from the rest of them as she could, for good reason, Matthew was pretty sure father hadn’t even noticed, too busy, rushing around, twitchy and most certainly going through cocaine like a snowplough, busy, busy, busy, Alisdair too, always busy, practically never home, always somewhere in Glasgow or Edinburgh, maybe abroad, personally Matthew didn’t mind too much, there was always someone at odds when all were at home at once.

Rhys was home the most often, but even that was rare enough, Eleanor and Jack both had a governess, father was of the opinion that she must be taught the same as Jack, that “She must receive a prime education for a young woman in the contemporary era, she will not be taken seriously otherwise.” and to her credit, despite being younger, she was a fast learner, faster than Jack by any account, and he was a bright boy, just with an incapability to sit still.

She was scary in an odd way, she gave Alisdair heart attacks in the same way that Matthew used to, sitting in the rafters with a book with large eyes staring down at him like an odd owl, one pair blue, nearly purple, and one pair grass green, Matthew liked her, as did Jack, that boy was practically sunshine personified, his memory was utter shit and he had moments of manic disobedient violence, but generally he was practically the sweetest child the world had seen. He practically channelled the sun when he smiled, gap toothed and ruddy, he didn’t deserve to be in such a family, he liked being hugged, the only one who would hug him was Eleanor and even that wasn’t a given. He didn’t deserve this, he deserved so much better, what cruel trick was the Lord playing to make him one of them, immortal, he would slowly be worn done and Matthew did not want to see that.

It should be said that Alasdair never wanted to see Matthew as worn as he had gotten, but it was par for the course for them, they scarcely had a choice in this matter.

Napoleon defeated for the second time returned some semblance of normalcy, Father had started coming back sober and normal-looking, less likely to shout or immediately retire to his study for the foreseeable future, not very often, but more often than before, Eleanor regarded him coldly, which even he didn’t seem to mind very much, it was fair, nothing more could be said about it, but she did eventually warm up a little to him, Alisdair took the piss out of him often, he had apparently started to grey, Matthew thought it pretty par for the course, he was nearly 2000 by this point, he was unaware that Father was the youngest by quite a good margin, Rhys was a good century older than him, Alisdair even more so, yet oddly enough, physically speaking father looked significantly older than Rhys, frown lines, crows feet and grey hairs, and frankly speaking Alisdair wasn’t that far behind, he was dependant on his spectacles to read.

More nations added under the belt of the mother nation, the glorious British Athena was certainly a better personification, one that people could die for, than who it actually was, mechanical and without freedom of thought, starting to age and practically empty without orders, an echo chamber if you would.

When he had no orders, Father often would barely do anything, he usually did have orders, but on the off chance that he didn’t, he seemed not to know what to do with himself, nearly to a frightening degree, Alisdair and Rhys were only marginally better, how long had they been under orders to have completely lost freedom of thought. How long did it take to no longer have a sense of self strong enough to know what to do with oneself if not told what to do. A frightening concept, Matthew didn’t want the same to happen to him over the centuries, he was mostly obedient, yes, but he did know what he could do if he chose to disobey, he doubted they did. How long did it take, he feared it happening to him at some point.

The unification of the many German states sent shockwaves throughout the continent; Matthew wouldn’t have given half a flying fuck if it wasn’t for how paranoid father had been growing. Odd, but questioning it would always be worse.

Jack and Eleanor were old enough to go to a boarding school, Jack came back frightened and beaten, Eleanor came back much better off, shrewd as usual, bitter that she was not allowed to get a proper degree, but oddly lonely, Matthew recognised that look, she had gotten attached to a human, and then the human likely died,, they had all experienced it, they had been warned, but they never learned did they. Jack was quiet, his schooling seemed to not have gone very well, father frankly seemed not to care that he was beaten and belittled, he got a good education and practically it made sense, at least to him, sticks and stones could break bones, but they could heal that without much hassle.

Matthew didn’t oft see red, anger, hot anger especially wasn’t his forte, yet if feelings could kill Arthur would commit mass murder through sheer apathy alone, he did not frankly care, he practically tore his throat out shouting, for a moment he saw fear, half a second if that, fear quickly bred anger, Jack and Eleanor had hidden somewhere, or out in the grounds, they never wanted to hear the fight, Jack hated that it was happening because of him.

It simmered for a good long while afterwards, Matthew could hold a grudge, Arthur still did not honestly understand the problem, but he left it, he had better things to be doing than dealing with whatever this was, he was not used to being challenged anymore, the first and foremost empire of the world now, he was rarely challenged, let alone by his own children, Matthew was simply being odd, had gotten too big for his britches so to speak, he would deal with that later, he had orders to complete right about now.

_________________

Matthew regretted he had a lot of regrets for his relatively short life. One of the things he regretted the most was not killing father at least once during peacetime, he knew he would face the consequences, but occasionally patricide was the best course of action.

_________________

There was a lot to be said about the first world war, and the Second, too much, so I shan’t, what you need to know is that a nation's mind tends to grow a little befuddled over long periods of conflict, and by far were these the deadliest conflicts anyone had seen, this wasn’t a dull ache, it wasn’t a slow poison for the mind, sharp, quick and angry, easily drove mortal men to madness, to a nation it was worse, the youngers had never experienced very much of war, this being a first experience was not particularly good, the nascent personification of Germany had never fought any war before, before being thrust into the two most deadly wars of history in practically everyone's living memory. It frayed them, stretched a couple to madness, Matthew being one of the latter, though relatively speaking, his thread was a lot thinner than most his age was, why that was the case was mostly the fault of Arthur and Francis.

For older ones, it snapped what little thread was holding their humanity, their sanity, their rationality, and their body together, they all did odd things after the war, America and Russia, started another war, cold, not direct, the old empires were fading, all clutched to their power with a white knuckle grip, they had gotten used to having power, unused to being challenged, Arthur didn’t want to be upstaged by his own progeny, but he as a person was too practically unstable to do very much about it, cities were still bombed out, he was missing people, running out of money, colonies were vying for independence, all rational thinking shut down, too much happening for the logic that frankly had only started to come about in the last 2 centuries to remain, reverting to a more animalistic existence, at least for now, until he mind stabilized.

Alisdair was considered the safest right now, the child Northern Ireland was sent to stay with him, Connor, he didn’t know exactly why he couldn’t see Arthur or Rhys right now, whenever he asked all he was met with was a stare that went through him instead of on him “You do not want to know Connor, you really do not.”

Alisdair did not know exactly what he was doing, he did find himself far from home on occasion, but he generally stayed in the vicinity, he would normally wander farther, but held by what must have only been duty towards Connor, had he never wandered too far in his empty minded, tipsy hazes, he could have gone far, he was known to wander.

He needed to stop doing this, he needed to stop drinking so much before bed.

He counted himself lucky that he hadn’t found himself elbow deep in entrails yet, he had done that before, it was never a pretty experience to have to go and hide the body afterwards, nor was it particularly quick either, he counted himself lucky that he was mostly sane right about now.

Arthur and Rhys were not, Arthur couldn’t remember a lot of the year after the second world war, not much at all, Rhys could, and he relished in it, they rarely did this, but their thirst for blood had to be quenched before it got any worse, the lesser of a couple evils, no one would miss just one person, especially now, so many had lost family members that stealing a person off the street could not have been reported as anything, good, dead of night. Rhys looked far less suspicious than Arthur, younger and still with a soft baby-faced look that spoke nothing of his intentions, a crowbar to the head, and he was out.

The man, who fucking knew who he was, they certainly didn’t and didn’t particularly care either, he just had to fulfil their needs and nothing else, he couldn’t remember who he was by the end of it either, woozy as if drunk, tied down to...something seemed to be a bed, he couldn’t remember any faces, only the smallest snippets of voices, he remembered a lot of food, too much food, more food than he had eaten in his life prior, sickly sweet puddings and food too rich for him, he wasn’t allowed to vomit it up, when he tried there was always a punishment, or he was forced to swallow it, where did they have so much money for so much food, the bonds started to cut into his sagging flesh, he couldn’t move, he had been tied up for too long, how long had it been?

Occasionally he could feel himself going mad when one of them entered the room, he could tell there were two of them, at least, they had different voices, one was higher and painfully sickly, the other was terrifying, he didn’t want to do what they told him, he couldn’t remember how they told him, they were in his mind, his body wasn’t his own at times like these, he felt both wonderful and terrible after they left, so empty, he could be used for anything and h wouldn’t mind, mind blank and empty, slow as molasses, he liked molasses, and honey, sweet was it, going mad was a strong word for it he decided, going mad was a bad thing, all he felt when they came was obedience, not even borne out of fear, completely obedient, he didn’t want to think for himself eve if he could, Rhys lowered the amount of drugs given to him dramatically, to see how he was like when on his own mind, he was practically the same, Arthur had done a very good job of breaking into his mind, filling it with sweet nothings, blind obedience, lack of feeling connected to the physical body, Arthur was good at this, he gave no mind to the complicated little scenario Rhys was doing right now, he was getting impatient, but even Athur could be bribed quite easily if you knew how, and Rhys certainly did, Rhys was more interested in before the death, Arthur more interested in during, the man had a soft spot for the human body, he liked to see what was inside it, cadavers could only do so much, yellowed and mummified practically, not how the human body truthfully worked, or rather stopped.

“Patience is a virture Arthur.”

“Rhys we wouldn’t know what a virture was if it bit us in the ass, how much longer are you going to take?”

“Not much longer, he is scarcely human, we need to wait for the rest of it to go, then we can, I swear.”

Arthur had a lot more to do than Rhys, he still had to deal with increasingly finicky international relations, he often came back stressed to the point of violence, their victim bore the brunt of it, Arthur afterwards made sure none of the lacerations would get infected, that would simply just be a waste of good meat, no one would eat infected meat, bullshit, the man scarcely noticed that he was being bled, he couldn’t think straight, or at all frankly, he hadn't noticed his eyes were no longer in their sockets, he could scarcely see before always.

Gone.

No one would miss him, slow cooked was best for such fatty meat, though first Rhys let Arthur play around a bit with the corpse, there was a lot of flesh to get through, and the organs frankly were all shrivelled due to deficiency, the food was rich but not particularly nutritious, the min was physically mush, there was no shape to it, the way he was killed perhaps had something to do with it, Arthur had not been prior aware that it actually liquidized the brain, frankly it was interesting, but he would not look into it too closely right about now, this was not the time, he tasted good when cooked and seasoned correctly.

Alisdair could only wish he didn’t know what was happening, he vaguely knew, he wanted to know no deeper, why were they like this, Alfred had stumbled in Lord Father's footsteps now enough that Alisdair was seeing the similarities and he hated it, he hated this all, Matthew had disappeared off into the woods for too long before he came back little of his well-formed humanity intact, Brighid had distanced herself, she was independent now so she had all reason to, he was left with Connor, he would have easily gone mad as everyone else had had it not been for him.

“Connor, go to sleep.”

“’M cold.”

“Come here.” He climbed onto his lap, he was still small, only about 5 or 6, he was the thing keeping Alisdair sane right now, and he would like to keep it that way, he had fallen asleep not 2 minutes after he lay down on Alisdair, who fell asleep on the armchair not too much longer after that. This was nice, good.

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