10. Werewolves, Portugal/England/France, 1000 words
They bicker somewhat amicably about classic monsters of horror: amicably, because they are all on the decidedly drunker side of tipsy, and bickering, because England and France cannot help themselves, even several bottles of wine down and England nothing but a hopeless heap atop Portugal’s hopeless heap on France’s very chic - and thus uncomfortable - velvet couch. Portugal’s last glass of wine is already empty, he can feel the velvet pressing creased imprints into his ass, but somehow everything is still warm and wonderful. Nothing truly matters at the moment except none of them have to get up and do anything any time soon.
“No,” England insists from his seat straddled on Portugal’s hips, gesticulating wildly with his wineglass but somehow avoiding dumping the wine remaining inside of it on any of their inebriated company, “the requirement of moonlight for transformation was a late addition. The- um,” he glances back over his shoulder at France, the other Nation perched somewhere around Portugal’s ankles and raising his eyebrows inquiringly, “you remember the lais, right?”
“Mon chou,” says France, “you will ‘ave to be more specific.”
“The lais,” says England, as though this makes his explanation any clearer. France continues to look at him with perfectly unconcerned blankness. “There were lots of lais!”
“Ouais,” France drawls, slithering a bit further along the couch when Portugal stretches out his foot to prod the other Nation in the thigh with his socked toes, “there were lots of lais. Which are you referring to?”
“The lais about the werewolves,” says England, and sighs heavily when there is no immediate spark of recognition from either of his companions. “Okay.” He knocks back his drink - a long line of throat that Portugal idly contemplates sitting up to put his mouth to and two quick glugs that have France making an aghast noise that sounds like a breathed païen. “So. There was a knight called Melion.”
Portugal frowns. Distracted and a little confounded by the alcohol thickening all of their accents. “...Whose lion?”
“Melion. A knight of King Arthur's Court.”
“Of course ’e was,” says France, and Portugal stretches out to kick at him again, friction from the ass-burning velvet couch be damned.
The kicking motion, unfortunately, causes England to wobble and Portugal to grab for the other man before England topples straight off his seat atop Portugal and meets death by misadventure with the nearby coffee table. England, however, admirably (irritatingly?) handles the sudden lurch-swoop-and-restoration well, setting down his empty wineglass on the coffee table and resuming his story with all the dubious grace of one well-acquainted with drunken ballet.
“Melion vows that he will never marry a woman who has loved another man -”
“Oh, he is a bad knight?” Portugal asks, lifting his head from the couch cushions a little in genuine interest.
England frowns at him. “No, he’s a wonderful knight.”
“This story is very dated,” France observes, nursing the last dregs of his own wine with a decidedly put-upon air.
“Shut up, France,” says England, and purses his lips at both France and Portugal when Portugal vibrates with laughter underneath him. “I could stop.”
“No, no,” Portugal protests, tangling his fingers in the belt-loops of England’s jeans so the other Nation cannot just slide away from him and the story in a huff. “Por favor?”
England eyes him, but does oblige. “Melion struggles to find a wife -”
“Understandably,” says France.
“- but eventually,” England says, louder than before, “he meets a daughter of the King of Ireland, who tells him she has never loved another man except him.”
“...So quickly?” asks Portugal.
“‘E was probably very good-looking,” France informs him over England’s shoulder, draining the last of his wine. Rainbows shine through the curve of the glass as he holds it idly up to the light.
The pretty colours do nothing for the increasingly pouty twist of England’s lips, the nails of his splayed hands just beginning to bite through the material covering the chest of Portugal’s jumper. “One day, some years after they’ve married and had kids together, Melion, his wife and his squire are out hunting. They come across a beautiful stag that proves almost impossible to catch, and the wife declares she will die if she doesn’t have the flesh of that particular stag to eat. So Melion promises his wife he will bring her the meat if she helps him transform into a wolf using a magical ring he has.”
“What,” France taunts, clearly searching for a reaction by the gleam in his eyes and getting it, “just lying around?”
Portugal kicks at him again, pouting along with England when France snares his ankle between a cage of fingers and thumbs. “França, I am listening to the story.”
“So listen,” France says rather grandly, thumbs hard on Portugal’s Achilles’ tendon. “The wife puts on the ring, turns ’er ‘usband into a wolf, then elopes with Melion’s ring, clothes and squire when ‘er wolf-knight disappears into the woods to fetch ‘er the stag, because she’s ‘aving an affair with the squire and wishes to go back to Ireland.”
England twists around to glower at France so quickly he almost topples off the couch again, pulled back only by Portugal’s sigh and grip on his belt-loops. “You do know this lai, you bastard.”
“Or per’aps the story is just that predictable?” France suggests, far too airily for that to be true. “They all end the same way: King Arthur, very noble, very wise, rides in and saves the day; the knight is cured; the wicked are punished. Vraiment, is it any wonder that you gave America a ‘ero complex by filling his ‘ead with tales such as these when ‘e was small?”
“Oh, because I’m wholly responsible for the Arthurian mythos, of course -”
“If you will insist upon propagating it, werewolves and all -”
“If you are both going to squabble,” Portugal says loudly, cutting over both of his companions before their row can grow too heated, “violently, would you let me sit up first?”
* There are a decent handful of mediaeval tales about werewolf knights in the court of King Arthur. England tells half of the lai of one here, Melion, but there is also Bisclavret, Biclarel, and Sir Marrok in Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur. Who needs the moon to make a werewolf knight when you’ve got a magic ring?
