[Fanfic] Black Magic: Pt. 1/2 [Fanfic]
Feb. 16th, 2010 05:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blood_wingedTitle: Black Magic.
Genre: General.
Characters: England, Little!America, 'Gaho', 'Nidawi'.
Rating: U
Warnings: Blood, magic, dark and scary things.
Summary: Alfred has always been told not to go into the basement, but when a thunderstorm drives him to seek Arthur out, he sees something which will change his life forever.
Arthur knew why Alfred didn’t believe in magic. His reason wasn’t the same as others – it wasn’t because he was ignorant, or out of some kind of spite, it was because of one incident, when he was still a tiny nation barely up to Arthur’s waist.
Alfred wasn’t allowed in the basement. Arthur had never told him why, but he had warned him to never open the door and to never, ever go down there, and because Alfred respected and loved Arthur, he did as he asked. It was a night in the middle of August when Alfred was woken by the rolling thunder of a summer storm. He squeaked, and buried his head under the sheets, hugging his toy rabbit – a gift from Arthur – close to his chest, but at the second booming rumble was already half-way down the hall towards Arthur’s bedroom. When he reached the older man’s room, however, the door was open and there was nobody inside, the candle missing from the small table beside the bed. Alfred thought, briefly, about climbing into the bed and waiting for Arthur’s return, and then a quiet creak from downstairs caught his attention.
“Engwand?” he called uncertainly, his voice sounding small in the darkness. He knew that he’d be in trouble if Arthur caught him out of bed at this hour, but his natural curiosity took over, and he crept to the top of the stairs, hearing that same creaking sound again. “Arfur?” Clutching his toy he made his way slowly down the stairs, the hairs rising on the back of his neck as he tried to shake off his discomfort. Alfred wasn’t afraid of the dark, he just didn’t like it very much, and the threat of thunder from outside made it all the more disturbing. He rubbed his nose, smelling a strange, almost metallic smell and following it to the kitchen.
“Arfur..?” he said again, jumping and yelping as lightning flashed. He whimpered, about to give up and flee back up the stairs to Arthur’s bed when he spied a dim light coming from beneath the basement door. Was that where Arthur was? Something creaked, and he shuffled closer to the door, pressing his ear against it and listening hard. He heard Arthur’s voice, and looked up at the door handle. Arthur had never minded being disturbed when Alfred was frightened. Thunder boomed once more and the small nation’s mind was made up. He reached for the handle and pulled, the heavy wooden door groaning as it opened. A hazy, orange light spilled out into the kitchen, along with a warmth and that same thick, metallic smell.
Alfred slipped inside, making sure to leave the door a little way open behind him, and found himself at the top of a steep stone staircase. Carefully, he moved down the first few steps, listening to the voice that he was now sure was Arthur’s. It sounded like he was singing, or chanting, and every now and then there would be a soft hiss or the sound of a small explosion. He reached the bottom of the stairs, and found light spilling from an open doorway. With his best innocent look on his face he poked his head around the door, Arthur’s name dying on his lips as his blue eyes widened.
It was Arthur, but this was not the Arthur that he knew. The man was stripped to the waist, strange symbols drawn onto his skin in charcoal, a knife in his hand as he sliced a cut across his palm, not pausing for a moment in his chanting. Before him was a... a thing, all smoke and spitting flames, which watched him greedily as he clenched his fist and spilled his blood over a sigil drawn on the floor. Beside him, on a low stone table, lay a young girl, her chest covered in blood, dark eyes wide and blank, dead, staring straight at Alfred as he stood transfixed with horror.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there before the thing in front of Arthur looked at him, and he screamed, and Arthur span ‘round. He shouted Alfred’s name and the boy screamed again, abandoning his toy and running as fast as his legs could carry him, up the stairs, through the house, out of the front door and away from the dead girl and the demon and that terrible person who looked like Arthur but couldn’t be, because his Arthur was sweet and kind and would never do anything like that.
He ran and ran, until he could no longer hear Arthur’s voice calling out for him, until the rain soaked through to his skin and flattened his hair to his scalp, and he slipped and fell, scuffing his knees and crying for Arthur though he knew he wouldn’t come. Alfred sat on the muddy ground, covered his head with his hands and sobbed, trying to understand what he had seen and why Arthur would do such an awful thing. It all made sense now, why he had never been allowed in the basement and why Arthur would never tell him what he did down there. Leaning against a tree, he shut his eyes and let exhaustion take him, not waking when somebody approached and picked him up, carrying him deeper into the trees.
Back at the house, Arthur paced the kitchen, a bandage wrapped tightly around his left hand. He was soaked, but that hardly bothered him, far more important thoughts occupying his mind such as the expression on America’s face before he’d turned and fled. If Arthur had not had to remain for some minutes to halt the spell and banish the spirit he had summoned, he would have been able to catch him and explain, but it was too late for that now. He smacked his palm to his forehead and cursed, dropping into a chair near the fire and leaning forwards, gazing into the embers.
“I must find him,” he murmured, picking up the iron poker and drawing idle patterns in the ashes. “But where would he have gone..?”
Genre: General.
Characters: England, Little!America, 'Gaho', 'Nidawi'.
Rating: U
Warnings: Blood, magic, dark and scary things.
Summary: Alfred has always been told not to go into the basement, but when a thunderstorm drives him to seek Arthur out, he sees something which will change his life forever.
***
Arthur knew why Alfred didn’t believe in magic. His reason wasn’t the same as others – it wasn’t because he was ignorant, or out of some kind of spite, it was because of one incident, when he was still a tiny nation barely up to Arthur’s waist.
Alfred wasn’t allowed in the basement. Arthur had never told him why, but he had warned him to never open the door and to never, ever go down there, and because Alfred respected and loved Arthur, he did as he asked. It was a night in the middle of August when Alfred was woken by the rolling thunder of a summer storm. He squeaked, and buried his head under the sheets, hugging his toy rabbit – a gift from Arthur – close to his chest, but at the second booming rumble was already half-way down the hall towards Arthur’s bedroom. When he reached the older man’s room, however, the door was open and there was nobody inside, the candle missing from the small table beside the bed. Alfred thought, briefly, about climbing into the bed and waiting for Arthur’s return, and then a quiet creak from downstairs caught his attention.
“Engwand?” he called uncertainly, his voice sounding small in the darkness. He knew that he’d be in trouble if Arthur caught him out of bed at this hour, but his natural curiosity took over, and he crept to the top of the stairs, hearing that same creaking sound again. “Arfur?” Clutching his toy he made his way slowly down the stairs, the hairs rising on the back of his neck as he tried to shake off his discomfort. Alfred wasn’t afraid of the dark, he just didn’t like it very much, and the threat of thunder from outside made it all the more disturbing. He rubbed his nose, smelling a strange, almost metallic smell and following it to the kitchen.
“Arfur..?” he said again, jumping and yelping as lightning flashed. He whimpered, about to give up and flee back up the stairs to Arthur’s bed when he spied a dim light coming from beneath the basement door. Was that where Arthur was? Something creaked, and he shuffled closer to the door, pressing his ear against it and listening hard. He heard Arthur’s voice, and looked up at the door handle. Arthur had never minded being disturbed when Alfred was frightened. Thunder boomed once more and the small nation’s mind was made up. He reached for the handle and pulled, the heavy wooden door groaning as it opened. A hazy, orange light spilled out into the kitchen, along with a warmth and that same thick, metallic smell.
Alfred slipped inside, making sure to leave the door a little way open behind him, and found himself at the top of a steep stone staircase. Carefully, he moved down the first few steps, listening to the voice that he was now sure was Arthur’s. It sounded like he was singing, or chanting, and every now and then there would be a soft hiss or the sound of a small explosion. He reached the bottom of the stairs, and found light spilling from an open doorway. With his best innocent look on his face he poked his head around the door, Arthur’s name dying on his lips as his blue eyes widened.
It was Arthur, but this was not the Arthur that he knew. The man was stripped to the waist, strange symbols drawn onto his skin in charcoal, a knife in his hand as he sliced a cut across his palm, not pausing for a moment in his chanting. Before him was a... a thing, all smoke and spitting flames, which watched him greedily as he clenched his fist and spilled his blood over a sigil drawn on the floor. Beside him, on a low stone table, lay a young girl, her chest covered in blood, dark eyes wide and blank, dead, staring straight at Alfred as he stood transfixed with horror.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there before the thing in front of Arthur looked at him, and he screamed, and Arthur span ‘round. He shouted Alfred’s name and the boy screamed again, abandoning his toy and running as fast as his legs could carry him, up the stairs, through the house, out of the front door and away from the dead girl and the demon and that terrible person who looked like Arthur but couldn’t be, because his Arthur was sweet and kind and would never do anything like that.
He ran and ran, until he could no longer hear Arthur’s voice calling out for him, until the rain soaked through to his skin and flattened his hair to his scalp, and he slipped and fell, scuffing his knees and crying for Arthur though he knew he wouldn’t come. Alfred sat on the muddy ground, covered his head with his hands and sobbed, trying to understand what he had seen and why Arthur would do such an awful thing. It all made sense now, why he had never been allowed in the basement and why Arthur would never tell him what he did down there. Leaning against a tree, he shut his eyes and let exhaustion take him, not waking when somebody approached and picked him up, carrying him deeper into the trees.
Back at the house, Arthur paced the kitchen, a bandage wrapped tightly around his left hand. He was soaked, but that hardly bothered him, far more important thoughts occupying his mind such as the expression on America’s face before he’d turned and fled. If Arthur had not had to remain for some minutes to halt the spell and banish the spirit he had summoned, he would have been able to catch him and explain, but it was too late for that now. He smacked his palm to his forehead and cursed, dropping into a chair near the fire and leaning forwards, gazing into the embers.
“I must find him,” he murmured, picking up the iron poker and drawing idle patterns in the ashes. “But where would he have gone..?”
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Date: 2010-02-16 02:07 pm (UTC)