Sta.sh
His hands were shaking, moving the fork closer to his mouth. England had called this dish 'Cottage Pie'. But this didn't look like pie! It was potatoes. There were no potatoes in pie, were there? Well, there was only one way to find out.
"England? I think you're confused. This isn't a pie. See," the all-knowing child held up his plate quickly, in an attempt to illustrate his findings. "See, England? Pies don't have potatoes."
The British man sighed from his place by the fire and looked over to the young boy. Upon seeing this 'discovery' Alfred was fretting over, he laughed and walked over to the table. The boy could be so funny sometimes. Then again, it was a bit sad. The light left the older man's eyes for a split second as he thought on all the future times he would be forced to leave his little colony just to answer to the Parliament and go back to his home. All of those months Alfred would have to fend for himself, cook alone, learn alone, grow up alone. He choked down the bile rising to his throat and smiled mindlessly.
"Alfred, dear, do you know what a pie is?" Watching his charge shake his head frantically, Arthur took the fork and plate from the little boy's hands and peeled off part of the potato layer from the pie.
"You see there…right there is meat and vegetables and a pie, if I remember correctly," and he did, "is a baked dish involving fruit, meat, or vegetables, held in or covered in a pastry-like substance. Both potatoes and normal pie coverings taste similar, do they not?"
England took in the delight forming on Alfred's face as the utensil was snatched from his hands. The bouncing blonde stretched his hands up, grabbing the air in attempts to tell Arthur he wanted the plate of Cottage Pie set down in front of him again. The man complied and soon his colony was chewing large fork-fulls of his dinner.
Arthur's hand found its way on to the boy's head, slowing petting his hair down with exception of one small strand that was always happy to spring back up. There was no way to describe the moment other than blissful. The boy who had chose him was now enjoying his cooking. They were a family. Sure, there was no mother or father but…brothers would do just fine. Brothers had the strongest bonds. They were blood even if they did not come from the same womb.
"I'm done!" Alfred's smile beamed at his caretaker as he held the empty plate above his head in satisfaction.
"Can I have seconds please? Oh, England, can I? That was so delicious and I'm so hungry and I've missed your cooking so much. Please?"
He had never bothered learning how to cook like Francis. His brothers had taught him all he knew of culinary matters, passing down recipes from their mother who had had the misfortune of passing away before Arthur had been old enough to remember her. But that was okay. She lived on in him, in his culture, in his customs. He was so proud to cook his mother's food.
"Actually, Alfred, I have a special surprise for you today."
The boy nearly jumped out of his chair in excitement, practically shaking with joy.
"Really? Oh what is it, England? Is it more food? Can I have that too? Oh, am I allowed?" His voice gave way to his thoughts faster than either nation in the room could actually process the words. England smiled, walking toward the windowsill and plucking a cooled pastry from the tray resting there.
He handed the pastry to America with a smile. The doughy treat was placed in Alfred's hands. It was fluffy and smelled of honey.
"Now, I know I don't make sweets often. However, I suppose I wanted to treat you to something different. These are called…um…white fritters. Yes. Well, my mum called them frytour blaunched but I suppose a change in name will do them good; it will be easier for you to remember."
There was a moment of silence, where England's heart almost stopped when he saw how elated his little brother's expression had turned. He could have died happily right there.
"This looks so amazing, England! How can I ever thank you? You're amazing!" America made a move to hug the older man's torso. When he stood from his chair, though, something had went horribly wrong. Arthur could see the tray of pastries sitting on the windowsill and above them were fey.
Evil fey! Their smiles gleamed at the corners where sharp teeth could be seen. The eyes of the creatures were lined in shadows. These were very unlike the fairies from England's house; they were not happy to talk to humans, they were not playful, they were not bright, they were from the Unseelie Court.
What were they doing atop the pastries? They were sprinkling a white powder over them. They were ruining his mother's cooking! How dare such vile beings tamper with his work? Then, another realization hit. Breaking away from the embrace, Arthur snatched away the treat that was clasped tightly in Alfred's hands. Ignoring the cry of confusing coming from his charge, the British man examined the sweet.
Sure enough, there was the white powder. If Alfred had eaten that pastry, he would have consumed food from a Court of the fey. He would never be able to eat human cooking again! If he was a normal human being, he would be done for. Arthur was sure there was some way he could use the magic his brothers had taught him to reverse the curse of fairy food, but the less hassle the better. Anything involving fey would be hard enough to explain anyway due to the boy's lack of Sight.
"Alfred," England's stern voice flooded the room, startling the fey on the windowsill, "Wash your hands right now. Do not put them near your face. Rinse them with water and do it twice. Do you understand?"
Heartbreaking. The expression that drained all happiness from the boy's face had the power to strike England down from where he stood, but he did not waver. Instead he cleared his throat and said,
"Please, Alfred. If you love me, you will listen. You can have a second helping of Cottage Pie when you return. Just rush to the well and wash your hands immediately."
The small boy nodded and ran out the door, fists clenched tightly at his sides. England could tell that he was upset, but that was trivial at the moment. The country turned to face the small creatures atop his pastries and he growled.
"You all. Yes, you lot. Leave here at once. This is no place for you. This home is guarded by a Knight of the Seelie Court. Now leave before I cast you off!"
Some of the creatures snickered, their purple skin stretching horribly across bony smiles. One flew and stood on Arthur's nose, forcing him to cross his eyes.
"You make me laugh. You protect this home? A human? We will leave, but not because you told us to. We can smell the Seelie stench on your clothes and in your hair. It makes us sick. But the younger one, we will return for him when you turn your back."
With that, the small monstrosities flew away on skeleton wings, taking their cackles with them.
England frantically looked around the room. He would have to heighten his magic by the end of his stay. The house required a barrier. Alfred would require a protective spell and personal protection from the Court. This would take time. This was an issue. This was disaster. Why couldn't the fey in the New World be as welcoming as his own?
Arthur would need to find a way to tell Alfred that he could not eat the fritters anymore. In fact, not even the pie was safe, was it?
There was anger rising in the man's body. Iron killed fey. Iron. That was it! He would add iron into the food, then the fey wouldn't dare touch it. But…how…?
In his stay in the New World, Arthur would later find that adding both wheat and barley would add iron into his food. Surely, this would keep the creatures at bay; however, the creations Arthur was doomed to make in kitchens from then on would taste unsettling due to the out-of-place ingredient and they would also (because of fiber--unbeknownst to Arthur himself) cause whomever eats his creations to rush to the bathroom upon digestion.
The most unsettling part of the altered recipes would be their transformation from his mother's cooking into this new iron-filled creation which would be the epitome of England-centric jokes from then on. It would all be okay, though. Arthur would become flustered, defend his cooking, deny anything wrong with it all, and move on. If anyone knew, they would call him a superstitious and insane old man. But England knew. He knew if he ever made another culinary work without adding iron, the fey would steal his Alfred away from him. He would never risk Alfred.
Years later, upon America's introduction to powdered sugar, Alfred F. Jones had an epiphany. He spent whole months attempting to perfect a recipe for white fritters. He had asked the other nations, asked citizens, asked men shipped to his lands from England; and when he thought they looked good enough, he sprinkled a small amount of powdered on the pastries and bit into it.
Even after the Revolutionary War, possibly due to nostalgia and it reminding him of Arthur, Alfred had baked fritters whenever he was feeling sad. He always remembered the small detail of powdered sugar dusting the top of the treat, but it never looked right. It never tasted right. He had never even gotten a chance to eat England's white fritters, yet America knew that every bite he took into his own baking was nothing like what his old caretaker had made that day.
Alfred is still too scared to ask Arthur to bake him a batch of the pastries. He would rather make his own and be disgusted than ask Arthur and be rejected.
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