They looked all over in the woods where the woman had cast the curse on them. They had been playing at a game of sticks, using them as swords and chopping at each other while France pretended at being an important person and England tried to thwack his backside. France had spotted a cat and decided it made a fine enough target; England had yelled at him, and an woman had tried to stop them and France had--
well, it had become a mess, and they could not find her again.
Learning the extent of the curse took maddening trial and error. Magic did not come with a set of instructions, and they only had England's poorly remembered recollection of what exactly she had said. They discovered that distance, over time, turned them old; and not in a gradual way, exactly. They did not grow slowly like the mortals did, seguing from youth to adulthood, to middle age, to age, and then white haired and wheezing.
It was something they could feel, like the onset of winter. In a matter of days they would simply be old, old men with aching limbs and people calling them witches instead.
But the worse terms they separated on, the longer they could remain young.
So they learned. They learned how to hurt each other, which was a natural thing for countries considering the way their borders flexed and shifted with every passing mortal generation, but they learned how to do it by degrees. As the years passed they turned it into an art form, France better at it than he was; the exact level of vitriol for a month or a year, or longer.
But they always had to come together again, before the curse could take deep hold of them. After all, the mortals had enough problems with the concept of their existence, let alone seeing so obviously some strange change in their bodies.
"We can't stay in the same room forever, England," said France early on, when they'd realize nothing changed as long as they stayed together. England was taller than before; he sat in a simple cotton shirt and trousers by the fire near France's feet, while the other man sat on a stool and measured sticks into the flames.
"I'm not saying we should," he's said, irritable.
"I refuse to be reliant on something as ridiculous as keeping you close," said France sharply, and it hurt something in England. The longer it went on, the more outrageously sharp-tongued France became. England wrapped his arms around his knees, mouth set into a line, and refused to look at him.
"I'm not telling you to," said England into his arms.
"Then stop pouting, England. We have affairs to attend to. You cannot stay."
"You're the one who dragged me here int he first place," he muttered at last. "Don't make this my fault."
"It is your fault. You--you believe in things, and that is what made the curse real. If you had just ignored it from the start--"
"Oh, so you believe it's a curse now? You believe me?" England spat, turning to look at him with a hand on the floor for balance. "And it's my fault? That's not how magic works, France!"
"You don't know how it works, stop pretending you do," said France, his voice rising, and before England could not remember ever yelling so much at each other. It was as if, with the sudden pressure to yell at each other--to yell anything--it had opened a floodgate of bitterness that both of them had stored.
"Then stop telling me what I can and cannot do," said France, standing. He threw the sticks to the ground.
"Then don't tell me what I should or should not do!" yelled England, scrambling to his feet.
They stared at each other.
"Then go," said France thinly, but he smiled with dark victory; England hissed through his teeth, heart beating too fast. A perfect argument to leave with, to leave on.
"Drown in a river," England tossed at him, stomping out the door.
It was pride. It was always pride, and over time, they could simply not stand each other in turns until the sense of winter crawled inside their bones and for, a moment, it was a relief to see the other man's face.
But it didn't last; it never lasted.
And centuries later, England found he was becoming tired of it.
By Magic Bound 2/?
well, it had become a mess, and they could not find her again.
Learning the extent of the curse took maddening trial and error. Magic did not come with a set of instructions, and they only had England's poorly remembered recollection of what exactly she had said. They discovered that distance, over time, turned them old; and not in a gradual way, exactly. They did not grow slowly like the mortals did, seguing from youth to adulthood, to middle age, to age, and then white haired and wheezing.
It was something they could feel, like the onset of winter. In a matter of days they would simply be old, old men with aching limbs and people calling them witches instead.
But the worse terms they separated on, the longer they could remain young.
So they learned. They learned how to hurt each other, which was a natural thing for countries considering the way their borders flexed and shifted with every passing mortal generation, but they learned how to do it by degrees. As the years passed they turned it into an art form, France better at it than he was; the exact level of vitriol for a month or a year, or longer.
But they always had to come together again, before the curse could take deep hold of them. After all, the mortals had enough problems with the concept of their existence, let alone seeing so obviously some strange change in their bodies.
"We can't stay in the same room forever, England," said France early on, when they'd realize nothing changed as long as they stayed together. England was taller than before; he sat in a simple cotton shirt and trousers by the fire near France's feet, while the other man sat on a stool and measured sticks into the flames.
"I'm not saying we should," he's said, irritable.
"I refuse to be reliant on something as ridiculous as keeping you close," said France sharply, and it hurt something in England. The longer it went on, the more outrageously sharp-tongued France became. England wrapped his arms around his knees, mouth set into a line, and refused to look at him.
"I'm not telling you to," said England into his arms.
"Then stop pouting, England. We have affairs to attend to. You cannot stay."
"You're the one who dragged me here int he first place," he muttered at last. "Don't make this my fault."
"It is your fault. You--you believe in things, and that is what made the curse real. If you had just ignored it from the start--"
"Oh, so you believe it's a curse now? You believe me?" England spat, turning to look at him with a hand on the floor for balance. "And it's my fault? That's not how magic works, France!"
"You don't know how it works, stop pretending you do," said France, his voice rising, and before England could not remember ever yelling so much at each other. It was as if, with the sudden pressure to yell at each other--to yell anything--it had opened a floodgate of bitterness that both of them had stored.
"Then stop telling me what I can and cannot do," said France, standing. He threw the sticks to the ground.
"Then don't tell me what I should or should not do!" yelled England, scrambling to his feet.
They stared at each other.
"Then go," said France thinly, but he smiled with dark victory; England hissed through his teeth, heart beating too fast. A perfect argument to leave with, to leave on.
"Drown in a river," England tossed at him, stomping out the door.
It was pride. It was always pride, and over time, they could simply not stand each other in turns until the sense of winter crawled inside their bones and for, a moment, it was a relief to see the other man's face.
But it didn't last; it never lasted.
And centuries later, England found he was becoming tired of it.