“In [1776] England lost her [his] American colonies. Last week the Beatles took them back.” — Life magazine, early 1964
Thus begins the reawakening of America’s obsession with England and everything he does.
The story:
I don’t know anything about the Beatles but from what I gleaned from the Wikipedia page, it goes like this.
In 1963, Americans mostly looked on in amusement at the Beatlemania hitting the UK, seeing as none of their singles had been released in the US, and rock and roll was a bygone genre. On November 22, 1963, CBS ran a short feature on Beatlemania in the UK, but it was not shown again in the evening as scheduled due to the assassination of President John F. Kennedy on the same day.
Later, on December 10, 1963, CBS aired the story again, looking for something positive to report. Upon seeing the segment, 15-year-old Marsha Albert wrote to her local Maryland radio station asking, “Why can’t we have music like that here in America?” The disc jockey of that radio station, Carroll James Jr., pulled some strings and managed to get a copy of “I Want To Hold Your Hand,” which was then introduced to America for the first time on December 17.
Soon, the Washington, D.C. area was electrified with this single, and people began asking for a record which was not in stock anywhere in the US. The record was sent to other disc jockeys in America, and a similar response rose there as well. Thus, on December 26, Capitol Records released the record ahead of schedule, selling a million copies and becoming a number-one hit by mid-January. Beatlemania in America and later the rest of the British Invasion was now underway.
Summary: Alfred's freedom hinges on his ability to guess a magical creature's name. He doesn't take the task very seriously.
Notes: Written for @usukweek Day 1 - Fairy Tale AU. Because I was late to starting, this fic is current unedited - I'll post it on AO3 once I've cleaned it up.
***
“So… do you know what my name is, darling?” England asks, his expression is mild as if he were out on a midday stroll, as opposed to fucking his hips in and out of Alfred’s willing body.
In contrast, Alfred lies beneath him gasping out his pleasure. His nails are clawing at England’s back, desperately trying to pull him closer. His heaving gasps are England’s only answer.
England has asked him this same question every day for a hundred years; Alfred hasn’t bothered answering in fifty.
***
There is a story about a beautiful maiden who made a deal with a Creature. Her first born child for all the riches in the world. The beautiful maiden had no plans to marry or have children and believed she was tricking the creature, but it wasn’t even two years later that she fell in love and became pregnant. Eventually, she gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.
The story goes that when the creature came for her son, the woman was prepared. Cunning in her own way, and unwilling to let the creature get the upper hand again, she convinced the creature to make a bet. I bet you that I can guess your name, creature, she crowed.
The creature disagreed, and was so sure she would never know his name that he agreed that if she was able guess it, he would renege his claim on her son and let him stay with her.
What the creature hadn’t realised was that the woman had known his name all along, though at first she had pretended to guess a variety of incorrect names. Is it Frederick? Or John? Blake? Bud? Bowser?
Eventually, though, she said, I think I know your name, Creature and said his secret name, and the creature wailed and screamed but had no choice but to leave the woman and her baby alone.
And of course, the woman lived happily ever after, and her son grew up healthy and strong, and they never saw the creature again.
Or so the story goes.
***
Alfred is newly eighteen when England comes for him. He is walking home from work - a small school with only eight students where he teaches basic reading and arithmetic - when he notices a horse drawn carriage beside him. It’s odd, because he’s pretty sure that the carriage wasn’t there a second ago. I must be really tired, he thinks.
A man steps out of the carriage, and the first thing Alfred notices is that the man is exceptionally handsome, with messy light blonde hair, striking green eyes, and even more striking eyebrows.
The second thing he notices is that the man must also be exceptionally wealthy. He’s dressed in the way of aristocracy, wearing a dark suit and white gloves that would surely be stained in any other occupation than ‘sitting around and being rich’.
Alfred instinctively smiles at him, even though his mother had always warned him about doing such a thing. The man smiles back and says, hello, Alfred.
Which -
“How do you know my name?” he asks. He is suddenly alert, because his mother has spent years warning him of many things, to the point that Alfred doesn’t quite remember what all the warnings were, only that strangers knowing his name must be one of them.
The man keeps smiling, and steps closer. Alfred tries to step back, but finds that he can’t.
“I know your name because you’re mine,” the man says.
And then Alfred’s world goes black.
***
Alfred is England’s because the stories are wrong, and the creature - call me England, creature gets a bit tiring, don’t you think? - and the fair maiden never made a deal for riches, and she never knew his real name.
Instead, the true story is still about a beautiful maiden, but this one gets pregnant out of wedlock. The father is a noble already engaged, who would never leave his comfortable life for a kitchen maid. The maiden was fine with this, and fine with raising her child on her own, because she had loved them as soon as she knew they existed.
Everything was going perfectly fine, until the day she started bleeding and bleeding, and she knew that if it didn’t stop, she and her baby would both die.
This is when England comes in. He doesn’t know how she knew about him - only that one day a woman summons him in order to bargain for the life of her child.
I have a sister who will care for them, and so I can die. But please, let my child live.
Young maiden, you are not destined to die today, England had said. Only your child.
The young maiden was not happy with his answer.
Let me die instead, she begged.
That’s not the way it works. No single life is the same, and so no life can be traded for another. He paused. But I can make you a deal. It comes with a guarantee - eighteen years with your child. - a son, by the way. If you win, you get his full life. If you lose, he will be mine after his eighteenth birthday. I will treat him like one of my Court, and he will be safe, but you will never see him again.
Desperate, the maiden agreed readily, though she made him repeat his promise to take care of her son - a son, she was having a son.
If you figure out my name, maiden, he is yours. If you do not, he is mine.
***
Alfred’s mother had been obsessed with names when he was younger, he remembers. She had pieces of paper all around their little cottage, filled with names from books and stolen from travellers who passed through. Jeremiah and Josiah. Kallen and Maurice.
A real name, though, is made of more than one name, but of multiple stuck together. One does not guess anyone’s true name.
His mother’s obsession had petered out when he'd turned seven or so. Instead, she had made herself fully available for Alfred. They weren’t wealthy, but she was a doting, loving mother. She taught him to cook, and bake, and clean. Most importantly, she taught him to read and write - a luxury not afforded to many in their village.
He knows now that the disappearance of her interest had come with the realisation that one cannot guess a name. Instead, she had decided to make every second with her son count.
England offers Alfred the same deal. Of course, if you figure out my name, you can leave and go back to your mother and your job and your small life. Until then, you are mine.
***
Is your name Dylan Parkinson?
No, Alfred. That is not my name.
***
England’s aristocracy is a facade. He dresses well, and the one room they stay in inside the giant castle he takes him to is furnished well enough, but when Alfred explores the rest of the castle, he finds it dilapidated and dirty, empty of anything that makes it a home.
The one livable room has a giant, four-poster bed shoved in one corner, with a cot laid out at the foot of it meant for Alfred. The cot isn’t nice, especially not compared to England’s bed, but to Alfred, it;s better than the scratchy collection of hay and linen he was used to back home.
England doesn’t seem to actually want to do anything with him. Mostly he sits around while the man goes through paperwork. Paperwork for what, he doesn’t know. Was there some kind of Creature bureaucracy?
Alfred tries to escape a total of one time, wherein he twitched slightly with intention and England said don’t even think about it, then put him to sleep for an hour. It doesn’t seem worth it to try again.
“What am I even here for if I’m just gonna sit here and watch you stare at pieces of paper?” he complains.
“Look,” England sighs. “Unfortunately I don’t actually have a use for you yet. Maybe a spell will require a human sacrifice at some point, then you’d be handy, but as of right now just. Sit still.”
Alfred carefully ignores the mention of human sacrific and stands up, hands on his hips. “How about I clean your house and like, cook for you and stuff? You eat, right? Sitting still is impossible for me - my mum used to say I needed to be walked like a dog.”
England waves him off. “Yes, do that, if you want. Just remember that I’ll know if you try to escape and that I can’t be poisoned.”
Alfred, who had never even considered poisoning another huma - err, living being, balks at the statement. “What the - I don’t posion food! That’s sacrilege! And just you watch, this castle is going to look amazing!”
He doesn’t think England really cares what he does as long as he’s not constantly hovering and bothering him, so Alfred decides it’s perfectly alright for him to make all the decisions regarding what to do with the rest of the non-England occupied castle.
He needs to take whatever freedom he can get, after all.
***
Is your name Aaron Baker?
No, Alfred, my name is not Aaron Baker.
***
Alfred knows he’s a good cook. His mama was a kitchen maid for royals, and she’d taught him everything she knew. Still, the awed look on England’s face when he tries Alfred’s stew is worth more than every compliment the villagers had given him over the years. This is a being of magic, and yet he still looked at something Alfred created as if it was out of this world.
“Maybe I won’t use you for human sacrifice,” England says, two bowls later. Alfred takes it for the compliment it is, and grins back at him.
***
He doesn’t know when or how it starts, but Alfred starts eating with England. Then, he starts talking with him. He asks questions about what England does when he’s not making deals with desperate women, and finds out that there is Creature bureaucracy, and that England somehow leads it.
“Wait, you’re the King? Why are you living in an abandoned castle?”
“Our royalty do not work in the same way yours does. I must always be alone, except for my intended and my Court. The Court is made up of … well, individuals that I own. Since I prefer not to do that whole ownership thing - well, before your blasted mother wrangled a deal out of me - here we are.”
“And what, you don’t have enough juice to spruce up the castle by yourself?” Alfred asks, incredulous. A castle didn’t seem like much compared to bringing a dying unborn baby back to life.
“There are … rules. Strange hospitality rules. It’s very stupid and not worth explaining. That is to say, I can not use magic on a home, even if it’s mine.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Quite.”
***
Is your name Rumpelstiltskin?
Rumpel - what? What kind of name is that? No, that’s not my name!
I saw it in a book and thought it’d be good to try it!
***
It takes three years for Alfred to complete the castle renovation to his exacting standards. Every day, England asks him if he’s figured out his name, and Alfred takes a guess. A lot of the time, they’re names of people he once knew, though sometimes they’re names he reads from books in the large library he’d found on the fifth floor (of eight, which is honestly just excessive, no one can blame Alfred for taking three years to finish everything). Mostly Alfred doesn’t put as much effort into it as he should. If his mother couldn’t do it, there’s no way he can.
The day he finishes, he barges into his and England’s shared room to demand he see the fruits of Alfred’s labour, since he knows England would never see any of it otherwise. When he needs to leave, England just pops out of existence and to where he needs to be, no need to take the door. He hasn’t seen a lick of the work Alfred’s been doing.
Honestly, Alfred expects England to hum and feign disinterest. Well, you’ve certainly kept yourself occupied, he’ll say. Now we need to find you another hobby so you don’t bother me while I’m trying to work
That’s not what happens. England sees the clean floors and walls and the furniture Alfred had either built himself or bought from the nearby village (with money from the part-time teaching job he’d gotten himself, because England truly did not care what he did as long as he came back at the end of the day), and whispers you’ve built me a home, then turns around and shoves him against the nearest wall in order to kiss him senseless.
***
Apparently those dumb ‘can’t use your magic to build your own home’ rules are due to courtship rituals. Alfred still has no idea what exactly those rituals are, because how exactly is he supposed to remember anything when England is biting at the junction between his neck and shoulder just enough for it to hurt so good?
***
“Uh, Beef Stew.”
“You think my name is Beef Stew?”
“What? No, I’m thinking about what to make for dinner.”
***
Five years after the day England ravished him against the wall of their newly renovated castle, Alfred realises he hasn’t aged.
“My darling, I despair for you,” England admonishes. “How could you not notice you haven’t aged? It’s been eight years!”
“Wh - I’ve been busy!” I’ve been getting fucked silly every night, I’ll have you know, he carefully doesn’t say. England is too smug already.
“Well,” England begins. “Technically, I own you, so you’re tied to my life force. And because I’m immortal, well… I’m sure you can extrapolate.”
“Oh.” Alfred takes a moment to think. “So if you didn’t own me, I’d be mortal again.”
“Yes, you wouldn’t be part of the Court, then.”
And then England would be alone again, doing magical paperwork in the same room. He wonders if the castle would fall into disrepair again, without Alfred around to clean or to repair anything that breaks?
“Huh.”
***
Alfred finds England’s name by accident.
The fifth floor library is one of his favourite places, and often he takes a few books to the school to read to the children. Quite a few of the villagers stop by to listen to the stories alongside the children, and there’s been talk of doing night classes for any of the older folks who want to learn to read themselves.
One day he finds a book that looks a lot older than the others. It’s made of brown, aged leather , and has a strange, gold symbol embedded on it that somehow looks like an infinite amount of intertwining circles. When he opens it, the first page proclaims it to be the property of Prince Arthur James Kirkland. It’s a child’s diary, though the contents are confusing, as if the child was writing about fantasies as opposed to any real places or events. Maybe Prince Arthur was never actually a prince, but a boy with a vivid imagination?
He decides to take the book to the school to show one of the other teachers, a woman by the name of Agnes who loves all things fantasy. Except when he tries to show her, she only looks confused and asks Alfred why he’s trying to show her an empty book.
He realises later what it means, and who the book must belong to. A magical book, in a castle owned by the King of Creatures, who must have once been a prince, a long time ago.
This is England’s, whose name is Arthur. This diary was a record of his childhood, before he was an all powerful king.
Alfred has found out England’s name, but finds he’s more interested in reading stories of what he was like as a precocious child, running away from nannies and scaring mortals against his mother’s orders.
***
When England - Arthur James Kirkland - asks him to guess his name that night, Alfred says, “Cinnamon Buns.”
***
England’s wrung all the pleasure from Alfred’s body that it can handle, and then some. Their last round had started with England on top, but eventually he’d maneuvered Alfred on top of his cock and made him ride him until he’d cried, cock unable to come with England’s magic wrapped tightly around it. Eventually, England had sat up and licked into Alfred’s mouth so he could swallow his lover’s cries as he undid the spell and finally, finally let Alfred finish.
Now, Alfred’s arms are wrapped loosely around his neck, Alfred’s head laying on his shoulder. England lays him on the bed like a child, kissing his eyes, his nose, his lax mouth.
When Alfred is comfortable, England slides in beside him, chuckling when the other man immediately scoots closer in order to rest his head on his chest. Alfred’s clinginess after sex is a given; routine in the same way The Question is.
The thought makes England frown. He looks down at Alfred’s blonde head, and asks a question he’s been wanting to ask for ninety years.
“Are you ever going to answer with my real name?”
He feels Alfred tense against him. “What are you talking about?”
“About ninety years ago, I left my journal in the library for you to find,” England admits. “I wanted to give you the chance to go back to your village, see your mother again. But that night, when I asked you, you gave me a joke answer. And every day for the next forty years you never once gave the correct one - then eventually stopped even bothering to answer. I have to admit, I - I don’t understand.”
Alfred turns to look up at him, and to his surprise, he’s grinning. “Have I managed to stump The King of The Fae? Why, I think I should be proud of myself for such a feat.”
Alfred presses a kiss to England’s chin. “It’s simple, really, and you’d think that after what we’d just done you’d get it.”
His voice lowers to a whisper. “I’d already decided by then that I quite liked being owned by you.”
