#aph uk bros

[forsoobado137]

Do you have England nation revealed headcanons too? My tsundere babe needs love

I do. I think England is a bit more reclusive with his fame. He just wants to live a normal life, so he's not accepting deals or interviews left and right. He only really appears in documentaries or serious interviews, but he'll go on a casual talk show like once or twice a year at most.

I'd say his public reputation is fairly good. A lot of the older generations hold him in high regard and see him as an absolute gentleman. But I think the younger generations are more aware of his messier side. He always conceals his feelings with a mask of stoicism and politeness. He wants to keep his reputation in tact, but sometimes he slips up. Whether it be a moment of drunkenness or a negative remark about a public figure, Legacy media always makes a big deal out of any mistake he's made. People on social media don't really care about that, and they're a bit tired of all the manufactured drama.

England isn't really on social media all the time. He usually only uses it to either post things for tourism or to critique and react to stuff. Like half of his posts across all accounts are him talking about some shitty movie/show/book. He also likes to comment on all the crazy shit America does. A lot of his Instagram is just him taking pictures of America and being like "guys wtf". He's gotten into quite a few petty internet arguments on twitter (especially with a certain Frenchman). His internet beef with France is infamous, but a bit one sided. France sees it as playful banter while England is genuinely annoyed.

He gets followed around a lot by paparazzi, especially due to his relationship with the crown. It's died down a little, but it used to be way worse before they days of social media. But there are still a lot of stalkers who search for every detail about him, including his personal records. His own staff have gathered information to sell it off.

Tabloids love to stir up drama about him, especially with his brothers. Modern day, their relationship with each other is fine/neutral, but they love to milk every argument and interview the brothers like "oh, what are you going to do after he said this?" and stuff to drive a wedge in between them. England has personal beef with the Daily Mail that goes back a century, and he'll clock them at every turn.

[senditothemoonn]

My headcanon is that the bros are prone to a rather intense board game night

[emperoryumemomo]

no asks but you get this

[oumaheroes]

My soul cries out for Scotland and England being siblings; I love those two and their stormy sense of brotherhood. I may or may not be biased cos my favourite period is medieval, which is ripe for England and Scotland conflict and shenanigans.

Congratulations on 1000 followers! You deserve it!

Thank you so much, Ballad!! And to you too Nonny, that's a high compliment indeed <3

I got a few requests for UK bros and England and Scotland as a pair, so there will be more than just this. I hope this quick little story fits the bill in the meantime!

----------

Currency

Alba nodded in satisfaction as he tilted the horse's face slightly to the side, its rubbery lips soft and warm against his bare palm.

'Teeth seem fine.'

'Let me see.'

Alba bent to hold Albion up to the animal, settling his weight against his hip.

'Careful.' He warned as his brother reached out for the horse's nose, 'Slowly. Or she'll bite.'

'I know.' Albion said sharply, but paused his hands in mid air before lowering them carefully down on the short fur, 'I'm not stupid.'

'Sure.'

'So what do you think.' The horse's owner, a traveller from Gaul unusual this far up north, peered at them with lowered brows. His accent was thick, more used to the Brythonic dialects of the south than the midland ones now quick on Alba's tongue. 'You take her? She's strong; good for distance.'

'She seems healthy.' Alba agreed, 'Perfect for the winter.'

'That what you need her for?'

Alba didn't reply.

The stranger raised his hands, conceding, 'Well, she is yours if you want. She can't have more foal so she no good to me, and no war mount either.' He patted his other horse on its thick neck, the creature a good few hands taller than the smaller female they were discussing. They were tied together with a long rope, the smaller horse further tethered to a loaded wooden wagon.

Alba ignored this comment too. 'What do you want for her?' He asked, switching to what he hoped was the man's native tongue, a language from Northern Gaul he had picked up from some sailors a few years ago. It was useful to know the closest ones from the mainland and he was rewarded for his rusty troubles with a wry smile.

‘125 denarii’, The Gaul said smoothly, ‘Or equivalent, if you have other currency.’

'Coins?' Alba shifted Albion's weight, his brother slipping from his grip in his attempt to lean closer to the horse, too interested in stroking her to pay any attention to the conversation. 'What about in trade?'

'I trade in coin for horses.'

'We don't use coin here.' (1)

'Then you don't trade with me.'

Alba silently cursed. They did not need a horse, not in the way they needed food or shelter, but it would certainly be useful. Winter was tightening its grip on the land and a horse would make tracking across snow and icy terrain between clans much easier. Alba and Ériu could cross the distances fine enough, but their brothers were too young to make as many long treks without either numerous breaks in between or long stops in settlements. Summer, with its days of generous light and warm weather, made the amount of travelling Alba wanted to do easier, but as soon as the days grew short it became more and more difficult to move safely at any decent speed. Mama always had them more settled at this time of year, but even Albion could feel a new restlessness in the air that hadn't been there in her time.

A mare would help.

Alba placed Albion down and felt discreetly for the pouch of assorted coins against his leg. 'Why do you want coin?'

The Gaul shrugged, 'Much of the mainland uses coin. It's common.'

'Not here.'

'Here is not the main land.'

'Why for horses?'

The man spread an arm in an arc over his wagon, the thick waterproof cover high over whatever was piled underneath, 'Everything else, I'll trade for in these parts. But horses are worth their weight in gold, here as much as anywhere else. The value is not tradeable.'

Albion tugged at Alba's trousers, 'Let me back up.'

'We have quality things to trade.' Sticking to the stranger's language, Alba kept the Gaul's gaze. Albion tugged at him again and Alba gripped the shoulder of his cloak to hold him still, fingers digging down firm. 'Cloth, dyed. Jewellery, skins, meat-'

'I only trade horses in coin.'

The man spoke politely enough but Alba could hear the note of finality in his words.

'Adair-'

'Shh!' Alba pushed Albion away towards the horse, noting that she was still patient and calm despite the child by her feet. 'Go away.'

From his inner pocket, he lifted out the pouch which held their meagre collection of coins. They were all different: various sizes and colours, with different pictures on their sides. They found them along their travels by the sides of worn and well walked roads, usually in the south around port settlements and trade points. Albion and Ériu had a keen eye for them in the mud and grass and they had amassed a fair few.Alba selected the biggest one and held it out.

The man blinked at him.

'For the horse.' Alba said.

The man laughed loudly. Alba felt his cheeks flush and brought his hand back down, feeling wrong-footed. 'What?'

'You are serious?' The man shook his head and grinned, 'One coin?'

Alba frowned. 'You said you wanted coin. One horse, one coin.'

'By the Gods.' The man ran a hand through his hair and laughed again, 'If I didn't know you were serious, boy, I'd beat you for the cheek of it. One horse, one coin; my my.'

He huffed in amusement and gestured for the pouch, 'Show me those.'

He took the collection and tipped the contents into Alba's palm, moving the coins around with a thick index finger. 'You see the different faces and sizes? They all have different worth.'

Alba stared at them.

'They're not like pots, or furs, where the value is unique to what you’re trading.' The man continued, flipping over one of the coins, 'If one if shiny or newer, it doesn't change value. So long as it is the same weight. And the different sized coins represent different value, as well as what they’re made of.'

‘But some are gold.’

The man patted Alba hard on the shoulder, 'You need to learn money, boy, if you want to do proper trade.'

Alba forced his face to stay expressionless, 'Is it enough. For the mare.'

'No.'

Alba scoffed and tipped the money back into the pouch. 'Then this has been a waste of both our time.'

The Gaul sucked at his top lip behind his moustache and jerked his head over Alba's shoulder, 'They all yours?'

Ériu and Cymru were further away behind them on the muddy track, kicking a small rock back and forth between them. Ériu caught the rock between Crymu's feet and kicked it free with a shout of victory, dashing away to gain a clear advantage.

'Yes.' Alba said, watching them.

‘Parents? Clan?’

‘No.’

The man nodded. 'That's a lot of you. You’re all young to be alone as you are.'

Alba didn't reply.

‘Tell you what.’ Before Alba could react, too quick even to register exactly what happened, the man hunkered down and gripped a hand around Albion’s upper arm. He tugged him closer, hard enough so that Albion tripped over his feet, ‘I’ll take this one as payment. We’ll do it your way and make it a trade.’

He cupped a hand around Albion’s head to stare into his eyes, critical and cool as if assessing an animal, ‘He seems strong enough to grow into something worthwhile.’

‘Get off him!’ Alba’s voice cracked, surprise rendering him younger, and stepped forwards, one hand going to the dagger by his side.

The man put up a hand, eyes still on Albion, ‘Calm down. I’m only looking.’

‘He’s not for sale.’

‘You want to trade rather than pay? This is at least a fair exchange.’

Albion, the shock of being tugged about by a stranger finally having worn off, twisted sharply and bit down hard on the man’s wrist. The Gaul reacted in kind and stood with a yelp, sending Albion flying back with a wet thud into the muddy ground.

‘Vermin!’ He kicked out at Albion where he lay sprawled, catching him in the stomach.

Over Albion’s cry of pain, Alba heard Ériu shout something from behind him, then the sound of running.

The man returned his attention to Alba and cradled his wrist, his eyes flashing, ‘It was a true offer, made in kind faith. He would have had a better life with me and you’d know it, if you weren’t so damn foolish. Food, shelter; not this.’ He gestured to Alba’s worn clothes, travel stained and haphazardly repaired.

‘We don’t want the kindness, sir.’

‘Then by your own death be it.’ The Gaul shook out his hand and swung himself up onto his horse. Clicking his tongue, he kicked at its flank and moved them off without a look back.

Alba lunged forwards and quickly dragged Albion out of the way of the wheels before they could clip him, hoisting him into his arms.

‘You’re alright.’ He told him, more to make it true than anything else, ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

‘What happened?’ Ériu came panting beside him, looking from Alba to Albion and then at the retreating caravan, ‘Did he-‘

‘Leave it.’

Ériu reached for his dagger as Cymru came breathless and horrified by his side, ‘Who does he thi-‘

‘Leave it.’ Alba, grabbed his arm. ‘It’s not worth it.’

He felt Albion press his face into his shoulder, arms tight about his neck, and swallowed back something hot and bitter, ‘He’s not one of ours.’

Ériu’s expression soured into disgust, ‘I don’t think that should change anything.’

‘Doesn’t matter what you think.’ Alba turned away so that Ériu couldn’t see the shame and anger on his face, ‘It fucking does.’

--------------------

‘Adair.’

Alba opened his eyes and stared at the dark ceiling of their makeshift shelter. The campfire Ériu was guarding outside made the shadows jump, the outlines of the branches supporting the skins above their heads jumping and lengthening into nothingness.

‘Ad-‘

‘What, Arthur.’ Alba turned his head to find Albion, wide-eyed and watchful between him and Cymru.

‘What that man said earlier-‘

Alba turned away. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘Is that how people see us now?’

Albion’s voice was quiet, smaller beyond trying not to wake Cymru fast asleep on his back. Alba rolled back to face him, ‘See us like what.’

Albion shrugged, a small movement under heavy furs, ‘Alone.’

More than simply alone, Alba knew he meant. ‘Alone’ as something bad, something less than. Something to be pitied. He cracked the knuckles of one hand with his thumb under the covers as he thought of what to say, ‘We are alone.’

‘Mama was alone.’ Albion said quietly, ‘She used to say so, before we were here. But-’

‘Mama was grown.’

‘She wasn’t always.’

‘Before then, there were more. Mama was the last one of her family before we came along.’

‘It wasn’t a bad thing then, though. For her to be alone.’

‘Were you born?’ Alba raised an eyebrow even though Albion likely couldn’t see it, ‘How do you know.’

Albion stayed silent. Alba thought of his belly, the purple bruises they had found bloomed into his pale skin from the boot that caught him earlier, and reached for his brother to gently pull him closer, ‘We are alone. That’s our fate now. Believing it to be good or bad won’t change it. It just is.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Nothing wrong with being alone, anyway.’ Alba tucked Albion’s head under his chin, his hair cool from the chilly air, and closed his eyes, ‘We’re alright on our own.’

‘We need to get better at it.’

‘I’ll take your advice when you can stay awake through a watch.’

‘...That was one time.’

‘The only time we let you try.’

Albion huffed and shifted closer. ‘I don’t want to go on watch anyway.’

‘Then I don’t want your advice.’

Albion fell silent, and Alba listened through Cymru’s snores as his breathing slowed and deepened. Every experience had something to learn, Mama had always said, and the day’s teaching was a valuable one, as hard as it was to take. The world beyond their lands was unknown, and something they’d need to learn to read and understand if they wanted to work with it successfully.

The next day, Alba spread the illegible coins of foreign kings onto the ground and began to learn.

--------

AN:

(1) Celts and trade. Celtic peoples used a bartering system of trading goods, rather than using money. Coins were used to store or show wealth but were also just as often used in jewellery. Celtic nations on the European mainland did eventually start minting their own currencies, followed by the British Celts much later, but it was a system quite late to take compared to their contemporaries

You can read more about it here, though as always please do your own research!

[pvffinsdaisies]

I bet each one of the UK bros gets horrible road rage every time they drive somewhere

[kayanote]

UK Brothers!

[derehono]

This is not my regular format, but I was too inspired when saw this picture

[ask-welland-and-the-uk-bros]

how does England feel about Hamilton: the Musical?

[olympeline]

You know, I like the idea that one of the first real bonding moments Alasdair and Arthur ever had was in the wreckage of 1776. That widely held headcanon that Arthur hit the bottle reeeally hard and was a rum soaked mess for a good few years after Alfred left. And of course Alasdair would have been around to witness it since their joining in 1707

And it’s quite the uncomfortable surprise, too. Arthur was always such a ferocious little shit - such a thorn in Scottie’s side - that in the end he had to propose a union before they tore each other to bits and sunk Britain’s bright future with their endless wars. Much as he hated to admit it, Arthur was tough. Arthur was strong. But now Arthur’s first born son first colony has up and left, and Arthur isn’t the fire breathing vengeance machine Alasdair expected. Instead of coming up with plots to use their growing empire’s might to beat Alfred to a pulp and drag him back kicking and screaming, Arthur has spiralled into a depressive funk, is going through three bottles a day, and would have already killed himself with alcohol poisoning if he were human. Or maybe he did a few times and just regenerated, idk. Either way it seems Alasdair didn’t know Arthur half so well as he thought he did. He never predicted a reaction like this

Alasdair watches Arthur’s collapse with confusion, followed by disbelief, then open disgust. He tries to ignore it, not wanting to deal with his sibling’s antics. Even when the king and officials beg Alasdair to step in and do something, he brusquely brushes them off. He’s not Arthur’s fucking nursemaid for God’s sake! Until one day they’re due to sail together on the kingdom’s flagship and his little brother holds them up. Alasdair gets the message that the former terror of the waves is once again too shitfaced to stand up, let alone captain a ship. Now the important voyage will have to be delayed

And Scot has just hAD ENOUGH of Arthur embarrassing and inconveniencing them all like this. He swears his brother was less trouble as a mortal enemy! Alasdair storms into Arthur’s room to drag the addlepated sot out of bed and talk some sense into him. With his fists if necessary. Not that it comes to that with Arthur as drunk as he is. Alasdair has to drag him up then hold him up to yell at him. And when Arthur tries to punch him, he would have gone down like a sack of spuds without big bro’s bruising grip. It’s awkward for all involved when Arthur’s pathetic attempts at a scuffle and Alasdair shaking and yelling at him, end with Arthur suddenly crumbling and sobbing on his shoulder. Shocking Alasdair again. He doesn’t know what to do, so he just holds Arthur and haltingly rubs his back, muttering soothing nonsense. Most mortifying moment of Alasdair’s millenia+ life.

He doesn’t push Arthur away as he clings to him, though. As much as Arthur drives him insane like no one else, he’s still Scot’s little brother. So he let’s him cry and just keeps supporting him. Listening in silence as Arthur rants and sobs about Alfred: alternating between professing deepest loathing for the “traitor,” and weeping about how much he misses him and how there’s still time to fix everything and they have to try and get him back, etc. etc. It’s a fool’s hope, but Alasdair always knew Arthur was a fool

But what can he say? A smug, confrontational, fiery, normal Arthur makes Alasdair long for their old days of striking swords and border wars. A pathetic, drunk, weeping, vulnerable Arthur brings out Alasdair’s long dormant brotherly instinct. A feeling usually reserved for Wales and the Ireland twins. But, for the first time since he was a wee bairn, the instinct comes out for Arthur. It’s been so long since he saw him cry, he’d almost forgotten Arthur was capable of it

Alasdair lets Arthur cry himself to exhaustion, then helps him back into bed. Takes off Arthur’s coat, pulls off his boots, drags the blankets up over him. Arthur catches his arm, hands trembling, when Alasdair goes to straighten up and begs him not to leave him too. Alasdair rolls his eyes, cuffs Arthur - gently - and tells him to sleep it off. Then promises gruffly to be there when he wakes up, so stop being a drunk fool and go to sleep

Arthur obeys and Alasdair he keeps his word. Wales and Ireland fill in sailing duty and Alasdair stays with Arthur: king and parliament’s ranting be damned. Planning to help his little brother get himself back on track once he wakes up, starting with getting him off the booze. Or at least getting it back down to royal navy functional alcoholic levels. They can worry about everything else later

Thankfully for both their sanities, Arthur remembers very little of this when he wakes up lol. Alasdair makes sure to thank God extra hard that week at church for big mercies

[coralcatsea]

Time for Nyo Wales! Here's what I think she'd look like based on the canon design.

Nyo Northern Ireland

Nyo Ireland

Nyo Scotland

[theherdofturtles]

Fandom: Hetalia Prompt: Depression Rating: T Word Count: 4,560 Follows a headcanon of mine that England struggled with substance abuse after the invention of Laudanum during the Victorian era. Especially in the Navy addiction was rampant. In my headcanon timeline, during the Cold War England had a brief relapse. Contains drug abuse and suicidal ideation @badthingshappenbingo

Arthur knew he was high because he was puking his guts out and it felt great.

He was head half-down a garbage bin in more ways than one. Couldn't even count with the bliss frying his nerves, fuzzing warm waves of euphoria through his whole body. He knew it was more than one. He couldn't think clearly.

The sensation shivering through his spine, radiating security he'd never known, warmth of an all-encompassing universe. It was too good. The warmth pooled in his fingers, hands, arms, toes, feet, legs, limbs, gaining weight and gently adjusting to lean against the wall, slide from the garbage bin, then coze onto the floor… it was all fake comfort. He didn't care.

Arthur was smart. The dose looked pretty strong on his mates when they'd shot up right before him. He'd had the self-control to half his intake. He didn't take too much of the liquified, sticky, impure brown… it was too difficult to tell the strength of this batch. Every batch had a different potency. No two measures of heroin were ever the same, but Arthur liked to think he was smart. He wasn't fading a drift from consciousness this time, head slid full down a tube too gray and blue and detailed to turn reality into anything out of a distant dream. Hazy, but present. Not dripping off into sleep yet.

Those were usually the times he died. He could always tell right at the start if he'd done too much.

Arthur had twelve minutes of absolute heaven beyond comprehension, if he was lucky, until the mask fell and he realised this was actually Satan's kiss. He'd have to pay back his bliss later.

The highs never lasted long enough.

Arthur thumbed the street, feeling the man-made earth below his body that fuzzed too well into his chemical-flooded brain. 

The texture was strange, lumped and scattered and giving him a soft hot-white itch. His warm and blissful brain settled as the rest of the world was cocooning him though. He'd never felt this good before—he always thought that. Nothing else in the world could compare to the perverse euphoria of destroying himself. 

Look at this heaven they'd made for themselves. With streets and dopamine and needles, kings and cars rushing by. The whole world sluggishly inched a perfect pace for twelve minutes. His chest might breathe too much air, bursting his lungs on life. He'd stop breathing altogether, he'd never care.

Nothing mattered and nothing could harm him. The world was safe, fixed, and all was well. 

He wanted to feel like this for the rest of his life. He wanted to die like this.

In the pink and blue light from a step outside the empty club, voices thumbed under the concrete as he lost himself. The voices sounded too close and familiar. He thought he was supposed to be mostly alone. Sighing, Arthur gave a contented look up the wall. 

There were humans around. He knew their shapes, didn't care.

Some murmuring and mumbles. Arthur was tired. He didn't care anymore. He thought one of them was familiar, but he turned his head a little to one side and closed his eyes before he saw.

When Arthur first woke he didn't realise anything was amiss. Opium dreams did that… they brushed the world gently free from anxieties. His eyes were dull and tireless, not yet aware enough to be bewildered. Then the opium dreams began to evaporate… the uncomfortable disappointment of reaching reality started to hug his tired bones. The third time he woke, he felt disjointed and cold. 

He wondered if the high was worth living every other second waiting for the next.

His eyes adjusted. The colours and shapes around him weren't the ones he'd expected to see. Memories tightened around him, but after these phases, his brain was worth as much as morning dewdrops, sick on too much honey. He didn't want to remember what had happened outside of the bliss. Nothing else was as important, his brain should throw the rest away.

"Do you know where you are?" 

"I don't know," Arthur managed to mumble. He was waking, and the sickly sweet sedative dreams were melting away. They dribbled warm from his head, leaving a rocking throb behind.

"You're home." 

Some fingers threaded through his hair, weakly ruffling his messy, oily head. It was so gentle. So whole… the opposite feeling from the slight shaking tremor starting to shiver cold in his body.

Arthur blearily blinked at the window and wall in front of him. The faint vision of a tree grew between the blinds, he could see and hear clearer and duller.

There was a bowl beside him, one for him to throw up inside.

"Are you okay?"

"No…" he groaned. 

He could hear the other exhale. They sounded unwell, too. Shuddering, just like him, only in bigger, deeper, and more sparse tremors. Arthur could feel them beside him, trying to be quiet. Exhaustion kept Arthur from rolling over to see who it was… he knew who it was.

"I'm not okay either," they whispered. 

There was an itch on his arms, so Arthur lifted his arms. The arms that moved when he moved and lifted for his eyes to see when he tried to see them, but didn't feel like they belonged to his body. White gauze wrapped these arms, and he didn't remember patching himself. The smell of blood and antiseptic tickled his nose.

"What happened?" He spoke slowly. He decided to turn over, but his movement struggled against the dream. Nothing felt real enough, even when he managed to face the outline of the other country. 

Like a curtain had been jerked, light spilled and he squinted.

He looked up at the light. Emrys sat by Arthur's side, solidly in front of a lemon-orange coloured lamplight, and his pained, restless face stared back at Arthur. 

"Why did I believe you…" Emrys said. He spoke softly, aghast. Faint. 

Arthur struggled against closing his eyes. He released himself, letting his body lay heavy in the bed, unmoving, wanting Wales to be disgusted with him but not wanting to see it for himself. 

"You said your car broke… why did I believe that? I found you by pure luck. I saw your car. Do you know how it feels to see that? On the side of the road and think I had the luck to help? To find…" he trailed off.

Arthur said nothing.

"When?" Emrys put his head in his hands. "When did this happen?Again. How'd I not notice… why was I so stupid?"

"My healing makes me more immune. I'm not a junker."

"How many times."

"This month…" Arthur mumbled. "That's all." He could feel the admission burning his skin, lying, cutting three layers off his body, trying to make it better, failing. Arthur had drugged himself each day for a time closer to four months now.

He thought he should be proud… some couldn't go as long as he could without shooting themselves full of cotton. This was a testament to how his biology suffered immortal healing, and in part for his willpower. A willpower he'd thrown out the window four months ago.

He'd made a choice.

Emrys should know that. 

The world was crumbling, their family splitting with riots and wars, Russia and America racing to kill humanity, Arthur knew the world was going to end. He felt nothing about the incoming end… Arthur wouldn't survive a cold war turned blazing. If Arthur would choose to destroy himself, today was a good day to pick. He wanted to feel again. He didn't care about anything else and spent most of these days thinking about his next twelve minutes free from care.

"Why?" Emrys asked. He sounded so broken, and asked so simply. As if any reason wasn't obvious.

Arthur couldn't tell him. He couldn't say that he'd wanted to feel anything at all, wanted to escape himself. That he couldn't live comfortably and pleasantly anymore: inactive, finding hardship in the simplest living tasks, trying desperately to save himself from nothing through his own cleverness.

"Please-" I want to be free. I hate this pain, I hate it, I can't do it again. This fake pleasure wouldn't ever free him, but each time he failed to escape the prisons real life gave him he thought screw it. The world would be too engulfed in torment and fast and painful for him without the high anyway. Nothing else in life was as exciting anymore. He was trapped, chained to twelve minutes a day. He couldn't go anywhere without thinking about his twelve minutes every day. "Please don't…"

"I'm going to use the spell." Emrys said. "You could die again."

"That's never the problem," Arthur felt the words hiss and wail through his teeth. "I'm going to live. Forever. I can't die, I can't ever die. I want to escape it all. Why can't you let me get away from it all for one month?"  

The lie burned again, but Arthur had decided to passionately believe in his lie. This lie was easier and more attractive than the truth. He couldn't let Emrys know how far he'd fallen: from hell and back and back into hell again. He barely lived in this state. All he wanted was to turn back the clock and have everything un-slipping through his fingers. Emrys shouldn't need to suffer worse because Arthur chose an addiction digging him into a grave instead of a nuclear holocaust.

Abandoning this type of high, he'd done it before. It felt like ice scraping his brain, every muscle strung to snap. He'd be willing to do anything to escape that. He just wanted to feel normal and safe and okay and he couldn't do it anymore without a drug. He'd give anything up except heroin.

"Going back isn't possible. I can't live without it—Cym please let me fall."

"You lived without it for sixty years," Emrys pleaded back. "You were doing so well."

Arthur rolled over, leaving his back to Emrys.

Several hundred years ago, the million-sterling cure of tomorrow had been discovered, and the ingredient became the miracle medication for everything under the sun. Arthur remembered the first time he'd ever been cured of everything on earth. 

It had been perfect.

One hundred years into decaying, the panicked authorities had tried to clean the military up.

The doctors didn't wait around… they boiled opium into morphine. Then they refined it again, and by the first world war they'd created heroin as the 'safer' alternative to morphine, which had been the safer alternative to laudanum, which had been the safer alternative to smoking opium straight.

Everyone who cured themselves had to admit, at one point, that they were rotting from the inside-out. They were getting worse. But most of them weren't meant to last longer than a war, and the rest simply accepted the cost of doing what they loved.

"I chose this."

"No, you didn't," Emrys tried to lie to him.

"Nobody did this to me," Arthur hissed, "I had options. All they gave me were the means, but I was fine for sixty years. I did this. I. Did. Everything. I crafted each fetter, each chain, linked them together and gave the leash strangling my neck to the hands that would crush me. I am the one who devoured myself don't you dare pretend anything else. I'm okay with this."

"Every time you say that it's destroying this family," Emrys said in a small voice.

Arthur curled hands closer to himself and held his breath. He laid still where he was, close to Emrys, and listened to the bed creak where his brother sat and shook and cried softly to himself thinking Arthur couldn't hear. 

He wanted to say something. His slow brain stirred the sounds an inch from reach. In that moment, he found he couldn't stop holding his breath. He couldn't say anything. His heart beat more and more slowly, his hands became more numb, as if he were drugged again. But with none of the pleasure. The Devil's Share was getting into his chest and, tightly, tightly, beginning to crush and indent the surface.

Arthur tried to breath and made a choked gasp. 

"I-I'm sorry…" Emrys shifted beside him on the bed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean- you're my brother, Arthur. I… I can't let myself care about what you did… I want to care about what you'll do next. I'll be with you the whole time. Please don't say that."

Sobering felt like rotting into the earth. Death inside a trapped, fighting corpse. There was no wind, time, nothing. The world was isolated, and every second perished.

Emrys was going to force him again. He hated Emrys in that moment for being the only one who'd never left no matter how badly Emrys needed to save himself.

"Let me fall," he mumbled.

"I can't—I can't do that. I'm going with you."

The glass was cracking. It was slow. How he couldn't breathe. Water was welling up around his tongue, wet and messy like the small imaginary, invisible traces of pain escaping from the dark hidden places under his heart that he wanted to forget. All the filth bubbling up from underneath, hopeless enough to be ferocious through his body, replacing every previous rush. He suddenly had glass in his eyes, broken and gross, ugly as everything he'd done. "I wish I'd never gone across the channel," he whispered. Never left home… never experienced something he couldn't return from. "I wish I'd not survived eighteen eighty-one… I wish I'd died then."

The glass cracked.

It was a quiet crack. Nobody would know except Arthur, how terrible and broken and easy letting go was… no longer waiting to spill.

The first tear fell, he sniffed.

"Don't tell the others," he said. He sounded as quiet as he felt, ungrounded from his body.

"Scotland is already on his way."

He closed his eyes, clenched. He hated that his first impulse was to make the pain go away with another needle.

"And Ireland?" He bit.

"Not in contact." 

His oldest brother hadn't been seen in months. There was a possibility that Arthur's own military had finally caught and vanished him and Arthur had been too high lately to notice. He'd not cared to check. Every activity of his life had become a motion or obstacle he had to live through, climb over, exist in, all on his way to achieve those next twelve minutes of pure comfort. He'd not spared a second thought to imagine his oldest brother locked into the dark corners of the earth where crimes could be committed without cost.

Nothing he wanted he could satisfy now. Nothing satisfying existed to gain—Arthur had refused to have the world as it was, and so he felt nothing. All other good thoughts and feelings would be locked tightly away. He often wondered what would finally destroy the lock, turn him into a real person, one who felt and cried and laughed and mixed the joy and sadness of the world into one bottle to sip.

Looking back at everything he'd ever felt, he wished he weren't a living being.

"Help is wasted on me," he choked out.

"I'm never going to stop trying," Emrys promised. Arthur didn't want to believe him. He'd shot himself and everyone else who got too close; Emrys didn't deserve this betrayal; Emrys would realise that soon.

The room was much colder now. His face much hotter, uglier and watery, noiseless, just the way he intended to hide. This emotion escaping through from the depths of his mind was not welcomed or wanted. It was the kind he liked to feel. Nothing else made him want to run more than being seen this way, and then be reminded how little he had left.

It was the screw it, the know-now that there wasn't anything worth saving. He might as well die in the coze he couldn't stop craving, because giving in was so much easier than fighting for scraps.

Emrys turned and crouched to his knees, sinking awkwardly on the bed next to him. The daylight from between the blinds striped over him as he crouched over Arthur and pressed his lips into a worried line. 

"I'll stay the whole time," he said.

Arthur barely had time to realise his brother's plan before both of Emrys's hands pressed to his head. Thumb over brow, fingers threaded around his skull.

Arthur jerked backwards. Violently. He slapped Emrys off, thrashing through a shivering headache. "No, don't!" 

Don't do it, don't take it from me, not this.

Emrys pressed down, re-gaining grasp until Arthur was against the headboard and couldn't get further.

"This is what works, I'll be here with you. You've done it before," he reasoned.

It was because he'd done it before that Arthur never wanted to do it again.

Even as he shook his head, Emrys managed his fingers in roughly the right position and muttered a spell quickly.

The magic fizzed quickly down his spine.

Arthur chose to feel cotton around his body, then. His legs were stiff and sore. Nothing of him wanted to move because he wouldn't have a reason anymore to move, and his stiff body didn't help motivate him to fix anything. Moving would dispel the stiffness, but the desire to dispel it, too, had been lost from him.

"I hate you," Arthur cried. 

Emrys gently ruffled his his messy hair, again. Arthur didn't want to be touched.

The spell was a cruel and effective one. Emrys had copied the idea from the inhibitors, the three-legged chemists making another medication to fix the last medication gone wrong. The spell blocked his nervous system from getting any bliss from any substance and made it so he couldn't escape anymore. The cruel cravings and withdraw pains were spared but none of the relief was left.

Everything was empty, and Arthur was finished. 

Arthur heard and felt the bed creak as Emrys left him. The lamp clicked dark, and the door softly shut.

He laid there for several hours lost in his own lack of will. His mind was an echoed desert cavern that sleep had sunk away from and the sun hadn't yet sunken into. Arthur was too tired. He didn't want to think, but he didn't want anything, not really, not anymore.

Every so often Emrys came to take his hand and move his fingers, to draw on them and check on him, but stretched cold over the bed quilt, Arthur didn't think or feel much of anything aside from a hopeless, rose-lensed grief for his missing habit.

Things finally changed when the light clicked again and Arthur flinched from the sting.

"Alistair's here," Emrys whispered quickly, "I'm going to do something stupid, okay? Let me do this. I can't take everything but I can help."

Arthur noticed how Emrys took his hand this time. 

The way he laid the palm flat, the way he brushed gentle patterns over the top. The manner wasn't simple hand-holding… Emrys's fingers traced Arthur precisely, as if preparing a written spell. 

Arthur blinked and groaned, festering restlessness spreading through his body. He looked to see black lines drawn onto his fingers, wrinkled and curled in Celtic knots with Cymraeg between the lines.

Arthur had never seen these shapes before, but Arthur didn't understand Celtic magic as well as his older siblings. 

"Hold on." Arthur noticed that Emrys's other hand was equally covered in markings when he took Arthur's and the lines connected. He felt the whirl and spark sharp as a pin-prick. Arthur's palm flickered a cinder burn. He hissed a breath from his nose and tried to pull back, but Cymru held tightly. 

The magic faded through bone straight into his heart, shot through his hand into Emrys's. The drum-beat of their blood pumped off tune, dizzily rising his anxiety.

Immediately the exhaustion began to sap. Arthur watched with waking alertness as Emrys began to droop.

"What? Cym, hey-" Arthur jerked his hand back, easily sliding free this time. His older brother's fingers had loosened and the lines smudged as they slipped free. "What is this?!"

Emrys laughed with a glow leaving in his eye, skin paling.

"Up," Emrys said. He pushed Arthur to stand, and Arthur was well enough to do so even without a will. The blood pooled in his legs, the wave of nausea tapered easily off. 

Emrys looked like he was about to stumble. 

"Sit over there." Emrys pointed to a chair by the cold pellet stove. Arthur listened, and curled his chin over his knees.

Then his brother leaned against the headboard with a determined frown on his face.

Something had happened… Arthur was feeling better. Emrys, worse. He had an active intellect; the magic was working. He didn't know this magic but had an idea as to what stupid thing Emrys had done.

Still he said nothing. 

Arthur was selfish… and avoiding consequences was easier than ever facing them. This was the part of himself he hated the most.

Alistair's footsteps approached soon after. This brother came into the room with a quick grimaced glance in Arthur's direction, and in his hands he held a casual cup of tea. He quickly found, went to Emrys's side, and there placed the cuppa by the nightstand.

"Thanks, Alistair," Emrys said. He sounded less lax, more tense. An illusion of shivers nearly flowed down his body, but Arthur didn't think that could've been real.

"How is the bastard?" Alistair asked, lowly. The light glowed over the hair of his head, but the rest of him faced the shadow. From there, the studious anchor couldn't be seen, the silent fury, dislodged. From there, pretending to be taking the situation lightly, Emrys easily hid his marked hand in the tangle of covers.

"Better."

Alistair raised his brows. "Give him four more hours."

During the days following the Enlightenment, after the age of sophisters, economists and calculators came to rise, Alistair, too, had lost everything, only sooner than Arthur. He would know the timeline Arthur was about to embark on. Culloden marked a buried crown and the Old Pretender had drowned to alcohol shortly after the new world devoured the last scraps of wealth in the royal's pockets. Alistair was set to lose himself. When Arthur saw the opportunity for the Act of Union, his older brother hadn't been able to string together a coherent sentence to negotiate. There was a man who thought there was nothing left to lose.

The military had killed him too quickly. Taken the last piece. Pushed him fully through the ranks until spent with the other dead boys kept for fodder. Arthur had scoffed at Alistair, at first, when he fell so fast. And then laughing, disgusted, only to follow the exact path. Alistair, only sooner than Arthur, had regained his feet under him. An invisible grudge seemed to exist wedging them further apart for that small victory. Alistair never made it to heroin. 

Stooping over Arthur, Alistair touched his chin and pushed his face upwards to get a better look. This was for his own assessment, because though Alistair's own judgment did his brother accept anything, and Alistair confirmed what Emrys had said to be true. The sudden improvement of health wouldn't make sense to a man who knew what to look for, so Arthur let his eyes drift to naturally lay half-mast. He pretended that the spell had been more effective in keeping him down than it hadn't. It was easier to pretend than to guess how he might authentically react. 

Alistair hummed to himself.

"Did you give him anything?"

"No," Emrys nervously fingered the cover.

His eye caught Arthur's marked and curled hand.

"What is this?" Alistair grabbed him and Arthur tensed. 

This was the wrong thing to do.

Encouraged by Arthur's resistance his grip strengthened. His back straightened and he narrowed his burning eyes like a hound finding a trail. 

"Cymru, What is this?"

"Tidy," Emrys shrugged, wearing a sheepish smile. "holding the family together?"

"You'll get killed holding this family together!" Alistair growled.

"Dramatic much." Emrys shook his head. "If you two helped me from time to time, I might find a longer lasting career."

"Use a spell! Use a spell, numb it off!" He stormed to Emrys and grabbed and shook his shoulder, which Emrys let him do, but Arthur could see the nervous worry and anger all spun wildly together into Alistair's action.

Emrys shivered, thinking. He clearly wasn't used to this sensation, how Alistar and Arthur were, and the grimace on his face almost looked like a smile.

"Trying to remove pain got us into this situation, so, might think it's time for someone to take the pain. Pain's not a bad sense. I can do this."

Alistair cursed and kicked the carpet. A wild growl came from his throat, ugly and caged. He whirled to glare at Arthur, and Arthur nervously let his eyes lazily stay glazed, half-lidded, falsely pretending to be less aware of the issues he was causing than he really was.

"You should be going through hell, not him." Alistair jabbed a finger at Arthur, burning him with a glare.

Neither of Arthur's eyes cracked further open or closed, and his approximation of delirium feigned on. 

He confirmed to himself that he was too selfish to make things right.

All good that is not grafted to a morally good character is nothing but illusion and glistering misery. All Arthur's success until now meant nothing. The drive inside never left. He never felt human enough. Arthur couldn't carry his feet for any cause.

"The effects should be decently split," Emrys said, "Between us, I picked all the symptoms I could carry. I thought this would be safer than going full-cold."

Alistair shook his head, teeth grit. And something made the wrath boil off from his shoulders, like steam from a pot, dissipating slowly from the body into the air. His lip set and he looked across at Emrys. "You're not afraid?"

"That's not what I said, but I'm glad, though, that I can help."

Alistair somehow understood. He didn't approve. The wrath flickering through his body wasn't for Emrys. Arthur wished for it—he craved that fire to burn as much as he craved the mindless haze, to beat the brain dead before he cared again, crushing crippled fingers with a hammer into white-numbness, wanting to peel the stomach free to kill the stomach ache. Committing suicide from a fear of death.

He loved himself so tenderly to wish for any way to avoid pain. He would do anything.

Anything to escape.

The first thing the next morning, Alistair had soup, Emrys had shivers, and Arthur had more feeling than he'd eaten in weeks. He despised every second of unwishing his will as he fought against the ability to feel the world in the way he didn't want.

[houseofkirklands]

Ireland headcanons cause I'm bored

P.D: Mention of mental health problems (depression, anxiety....)

1. He took the role of oldest brother even though he is aware there might be a possibility Wales could be older than him but since they don't know, the brothers just decided to go in a certain order

2. Ireland influenced a lot in Scotland, his younger brother used to look up for him a lot when they were only the two of them and the parents figures they had dissapeared. Ireland tried to teach him everything he knee from basic survival tips to how to shot arrows, personal development and culturally influenced as well. However, Ireland hasn't forgotten Scotland for what he did to him during the plantation of Ulster.

Ireland just though that Scotland among all the brothers, he could be the one who could listen and understand Ireland then to realize Scotland agreed with some things England did

3. He has every reason and right to hate England. He is aware England isn't like it was before, that he has changed, their relationship is quote good comapred with the past and he knows many things England couldn't really control them but he can't forget neither forgive, the few things England had in his control, he didn't do anything to help Ireland

4. There was a time he hated all his brothers, all of them, even North at some point. He just felt..left out...lfor him it was clear none of his brothers wanted him just tk follow England shake

5. The last 200 years have been very difficult for him, very, very difficult, starting from the famine, where he just wanted to dissapear, it was too late when the brothers helped him, consequence of that and the fact the population of Ireland hasn't recovered yet. He really struggles with food...it causes him so much anxiety, there were times he just couldn't even eat....The brothers noticed this...how little he ate, how he would suddenly have panic attacks, even thought his people are doing well nowadays but the trauma and the PSTD still lingers in him and he really struggles with it. Sometimes he could eat without any problem but when his thoughts go back in the past....

He just thinks, the less he ates, the more his people could be feed, his brothers specially Scotland and Wales try to talk with him and assure him, the famine has ended now and his people nowadays live in good conditions overall, that he deserves too eat but for Ireland it's difficult, it's very difficult...is still there and it still haunts him...

When he is in the UK house visiting the brothers, he would really try to think "it's okay, I should eat" but he sees the amount of food that are in the table and he just can't help it.... England knows that he can't talk to him when Ireland suddenly get so anxious cause it would make the things worse, given he fact Ireland in that moment, thinks he is still in 1847 not in the 21st century, and if he looks at England, he will see the Empire, not modern England.

He has really tried not to be like this, not in front of the brothers and specially not in front of North, he knew North knew about the famine but he didn't know the details of what Ireland went through both physically and mentally during that time. It didn't help to Ireland when North was a young child and he would be very picky with the food. Scotland would get very angry at him telling him that if he wasn't angry, then don't eat but the food wasn't going to go on waste and North with time learned the lesson and stopped being picky. Even England sometimes would tell North to shut up and eat knowing thay if Ireland was there, the fact England told North those words made some impact of Ireland

6. He likes to be alone but he hates feel alone, he knows he has been alone most of the time, nobody listened, nobody cared, he felt like he wasn't important, not even in his family but with time he has noticed he is important and he is loved

7. He is best friends with Spain, Belgium and France, specially Spain and Belgium, Spain was both Catholic and hated England and Belgium was Catholic and understands Ireland even it comes the division of brothers between religious beliefs (Belgium being catholic and The Netherlands being protestant)

8. Despite of his Catholic belief, he is still pagan and hasn't forgotten about his Paganims beliefs when he was very young

9. Wales and Scotland agreed back then when Ireland was just not okay to call him once per week to ask him how was he doing and if he was doing alright? Sometimes Ireland will try to dismiss his own feelings but they will encourage him to open up and that it was okay, he deep inside appreciates this gesture from both of them and thanks to them, he is accepting a side of him, he has always refused to acknowledge

10. Related with the previous one, Wales and Scotland agreed also that becasue of all the damage mentally and physically England has caused to him, as a "punishment" and to make Ireland get better, England was and still is forced to pay for all the medications Ireland needs, Engkand wasn't aware on how much badly Ireland was until he went to the pharmacy and bought all the aspirins Ireland needed cause yeah he needed quite a lot but like Scotland said "If you really feel bad and wanna help him, pay for those medications he needs cause most of them he needs to take them because of your actions"

11. Despite of everything, Ireland and England are now on good terms, there are times when Ireland would be very hesitant with him but they actually have learned to not to be at each other throats for more than 5 minutes

12. Despite of living separately, Ireland has been a huge influence when it comes to North raising. He had always tried to be there on special occasions when it was important to North like a performance in school or when he celebrates his birthday and North wanted him to be there or even when North couldn't stand the other brothers and called Ireland to some comfort and talking. Also he has helped him financially,since North lives with England in London, Ireland send money to England just for the raise of North such as basic needs he needs like clothes, school books or anything related to his education, another activities like swimming and ofc when Christmas arrives and he knows North waits for that moment every year, he always tries to be there

There have been sometimes when Ireland couldn't attend a special day for North and he had always sent him a little present, might be a book or a toy he wanted and apologise for not being there but wishing him the best and always reminding North that he was very proud of him.

13. He and Scotland talk to each other in Irish/Scottish gaelic always because both of them are scared to wake up one day and completely forget their native language due to the lack of people they have nowadays speaking it.

They kinda envy Wales because Wales has managed to save Welsh but due to the fact North was to learn and speak the language, both are very happy he wants to learn it, England doesn't like it but he also understands why North woukd want to learn it

14. For me as the oldest brother, he is the one who has more knowledge of magic and spells but due to the fact magic requires so much concentration and strength, Ireland for a very long time couldn't use most of the magic he knew since he was constantly feeling ill and tired enough for not even trying

15. Sometimes he keeps wondering what would have happened if he had stayed in the UK instead of going for independence? The question of maybe North wouldn't even be alive its very disturbing for him, he loves that boy so much

16. North many times call him a boomer but its his boomer

17. Despite of everything, Ireland and North are very close, there are some conversations they prefer to avoid (and know they need to be talked about) but North time to time is understanding so much better Ireland and his positions, his own past and is trying to be more fairer with him. Ireland always tries to reassure him that he understands he is not easy to deal with but he doesn't want to cause any harm to him and that North can trust him with anything, Ireland won't force him to speak up if North doesn't want to but if he ever needs someone...he is there, he is always there for him.

18. He plays Hurling and Gaelic football, sometimes the rest of the brothers join him specially Scotland and North

19. He speaks French and Spanish to some degree and has very basic knowledge of Danish and Norwegian

20. Wales might be the less closer brother to Ireland but is the only one who has always listened to him to some degree. Wales has always shown him so much respect and have tried to speak with England and make him considerate his choices when it came to Ireland or when something about North is around. He has always hated the way England treated Ireland, Wales couldn't do more than he actually did but he regrets not have pressured England way more to make him relaxing Ireland was in a very bad condition

21. Despite of their history, Ireland would never change his brothers for nothing, nowadays they are fine, even though there is still so much going on but they have never been more in peace than they are nowadays and that's everything he has ever wanted

[emperoryumemomo]

I'm so normal about them

[oumaheroes]

Do Not Go Gentle

Ériu

Albion

Alba

Warnings for death

--------

Cymru first dies crowded.

He is no stranger to death. It is all around him, every day- something as unavoidable and normal as children being born, or the weather changing in the sky. Lambs die. Birds die. Plants die- the earth turns over and around and things fall forever into the night, whether you understand why or not.

Their humans talk about death like an ending, an inevitable event that comes for them as though life is a rope forever pulling them forwards to a final stop, and Cymru watches from his safe distance as the years pass by hardly touching him. Although one day there will be an end for him, it is so long into the future, longer than any mortal lifespan, that it does not register with the same impact as it must do for them.

 But Mama says that their people are right, and that he should listen more carefully.

‘Here.’ She calls him over to her one day, crouched low by a pond, hands cupped and close to her chest. She opens them as he approaches to reveal a small bird within. He cannot tell what kind it is- colours mutes and shape disguised by what he notices first and foremost.

It does not move.

‘Oh,’ He says, saddened. ‘Is it..?’

Mama gestures for him to hold out his hands. He does so, reluctantly, and she gently places the body within. The bird is young, almost old enough to leave the nest but not yet- downy feathers cover the few full, strong adult ones and circle around its neck like a torc. Its eyes are closed and bulging, its bones too loose when he shifts his hands underneath it.

Cymru wants to let go, but doesn’t. Knows he shouldn’t.

‘It was where it shouldn’t have been,’ Mama says. She picks up the bird between forefinger and thumb and turns it over by the head in Cymru’s hands, quick and rough, as if the bird is nothing more to her than a seed or a stone. The movement of it, the dead weight and wide angles, is wrong. She taps the downy feathers which are more numerous on the other side, ‘See here? These feathers are waterlogged. They collected the water and pulled it under, so that it couldn’t swim back up.’

Cymru feels sick. The bird feels dirty, unnatural in the way it lay in his palms, and he longs to throw it away and wipe his hands clean. But Mama is there, watching, and Cymru knows that his brothers would be as unaffected by it as she is.

‘Even if it could have swum to safety, it might have instead died in the fall. Or been caught by a larger bird, or animal. Might have died from sickness before it fell, or abandoned and starved by its parents.’ Mama’s voice is soft but she holds one hand under Cymru’s two, forcing him to look at what he holds. The bird’s head is too big, its beak too wide and closed eyes too round. He swallows back the whine in his throat, and the jerk of revulsion he wants to let out.

‘To live is to be lucky.’ Mama lifts up one of the small wings by the tip, almost adult feathers fanning like fingers, ‘There is no boundary we can cross to pass into safety, and no time limit to survive in order to avoid it. Death can happen at any time, for anything, and everything that lives today is luckier than it knows. One chance amongst thousands.’

Just as Cymru can handle holding the bird no longer, Mama takes it from him and lays it back in the shallows of the pond. It sits there, half submerged and glistening as Mama takes his hands and washes them, before drying them on her tunic.

‘Do not think, as all young things do, that your chances will never run out.’ She meets his eye, catching him by the chin and regarding him seriously, ‘It is just as easy for us to lose the piece of luck we have as the people we watch over. The only difference between us and them, is that we have a few guaranteed half chances to remind ourselves of how precious life is.’

There are fine lines around her eyes, strands of silver in her flame red hair, but her grip is tight, muscles of her arms strong. Cymru nods, and she softens.

-----------------

‘There are so many people.’

On Alba’s shoulders, Cymru grips the wooden posts to keep them both steady. ‘I didn’t know there could even be so many.’

‘There will be more than this in a few days.’ Mama says.

On her knees, she finishes wrapping Albion to her back and glances up at Cymru and Alba where they stand atop the woodstore, peering over the mound’s defences. In the early morning light, shapes and activity emerge from the retreating shadows like a slow retreating tide. Down the hill, all around the base of the settlement, people are erecting temporary shelters and pitching their animals. Winter solstice is here, with its darkest and coldest of nights, but this year it is apparently a particularly special one.

Cymru doesn’t really understand why. Something about the stars, or the years. Or where the sun hits the ancient stones nearby as it rises and falls- a tradition older than even Mama, passed down from the people before her who stood the circles of stones so tall all over their islands. All Cymru knows is that it is busy, with more people than he has ever seen before going to and fro and glancing his way whenever he goes near them. When Cymru and his family had arrived to stay for the winter a few months ago, this mound had been nothing more than home to one clan. Now, the mound and the lands around it was home to people from at least seven.

Cymru’s eyes pass over all of them, stretched out to the lake on the horizon, his breath clouding in front of him like smoke.

Mama stands with a grunt, testing the weight and position of the wraps keeping Albion -still sleeping- securely in place, and clicks at them with her tongue to come down. ‘There is to be another King and his people arriving today.’ She licks her thumb and rubs a dark smudge of something off Alba’s cheek, ‘I have to meet him properly.’

This means that she will be gone for hours down in the new camp, learning and sharing whatever news this new group of people have to bring. Her children will need to stay away and represent their family on their own. Alba straightens, turning to seriously observe the longhouses and storage buildings as if searching for fault.

‘Ah, a keen guardsman I see before me.’ Mama strokes back Alba’s hair fondly, ‘Today, you can be off duty.’

Alba reddens and scowls, hunching his shoulders, ‘I didn’t do anything.’

Mama laughs through her nose, ‘Good, because we don’t need guards people up here. But we do need ambassadors down there.’ She takes Alba by the shoulders and steers him through the village to the open wooden gates leading to the descent. Their people move aside for them as they pass, Cymru trailing just behind her watching Albion’s fair head against her back.

They stop at the gate- thrown open wide- and move off to the side to let a hunter and his pelts go by: foxes, badgers, and deer.

‘You see those trees and lake?’ A sharp and dramatic turn of Alba to the right, Mama’s hands still about his shoulders.

He laughs, staggering on his feet, ‘Yes.’

‘Oh? What about that field?’ A sharp, wide twist to the left.

He laughs again, stumbling to right himself, ‘I see it.’

‘Good. Well, there are a lot of different children milling about now and they don’t all speak the same tongue. I need some very important people to mix them together and act as a bridge between everyone, in that such field or those such trees. Maybe a game that everyone can play; make them feel comfortable and united.’

‘You want us to play?’ Alba sounds offended, laughter vanishing immediately.

Mama inclines her head, ‘I want you to negotiate amity.’

Alba looks to the swarms of shelters and people, then back up at Mama, ‘…What?’

‘It’s important that everyone here feels part of the same thing.’ Mama says. She drums her fingers like spider legs, fluttering them onto the scarf around Alba’s neck, ‘That’s hard to do when you don’t speak the same language and you’re in a strange place. Not everyone travels like we do. For most, this will be their first time outside of everything that they know.’

Alba doesn’t say anything. He looks back down at the sprawling camp, his face away from Mama so only Cymru can see that he’s dissatisfied. Cymru feels guilty for some reason, although he doesn’t know why. There is something he is missing that Alba understands, and he wishes he were older to figure it out.

‘It is an important job,’ Mama tells them, ‘It is what we need to do. It is what I am doing with the Kings and Queens and priests; their sons and daughters are just as important. I cannot do all at once, but all should be done.’

Alba doesn’t reply. Mama eyes the crown of his head, then winks at Cymru. She lifts her hands from Alba’s shoulders to shift Albion higher, ‘Never mind. There are a lot of them, thinking about it properly. Too many, I think; maybe it’s best I do it.’

‘I can do it.’ Alba says instantly, ‘There aren’t that many.’

Mama pulls a face, conflicted, ‘I’m not sure, it will be difficult. I was wrong to ask you, it will take patience and good communica-‘

‘We can do that.’ Alba grabs Cymru’s hand and Cymru feels panicked. ‘I can take some and Cymru can take some others. We’ll find Ériu and get him to help too. We’ll do a different language each and get together that way.’

Mama tilts her head from side to side. ‘Perhaps that will work.’

‘It will.’

‘And what will you do if they don’t want to play the same thing?’

‘We can play different things between us.’

Cymru looks up at Mama, helplessly. He does not share Alba’s confidence; there are indeed so many people, so many children. How would he talk to them? What would he say?

‘And what if there are arguments?’

Alba frowns, considering his answer, ‘I’ll listen and try to fix it.’

‘How about if some children do not wish to play?’

Alba doesn’t know the answer to that one.

‘They don’t have to.’ Cymru suggests, ‘They can watch, if they want. Or join in later. I could look after those ones.’

He does not know what games or activities Alba is thinking of offering, but none that Cymru can imagine will be things he is good at. He cannot run very fast, nor throw as far as his brothers can. He cannot climb to the tallest branches, or hunt on his own. The idea of embarrassing his family, of damaging the way they are seen by their people, is more than he can bear.

Cymru worries that Mama will see through his selfish suggestion but she smiles at them both. ‘Wonderful ideas,’ she says. She bends to brush down Cymru’s front and slides her fingers under his scarf to the fat, gold torc at his neck, ‘What clever ambassadors I have.’

-----------------

It works out better than Cymru expected.

Alba does the talking, as Cymru thought that he would. He moves amongst the groups, collecting children as he goes and directing them all to the field away from the campsites as Cymru follows at his side. Most they ask choose to join in, eager to be away from the tedium of moving and the tense atmosphere of being somewhere unfamiliar. Some have been walking all night but still want to come.

It is awkward, at first. Cymru does not know what to do with himself, does not know how to begin when people know who he is but don’t know him at all. But then he speaks to one girl on his own, hands shaking, then another. Then a boy, taller than he is, who grins down at him and follows where Cymru points him without question. Alba finds an empty pig’s bladder and blows it up, and before too long there is shrieking and running and Cymru forgets himself amongst it all.

Ériu runs over to join them with some older children not long later, fresh from hunting and eager to take part.

‘What else?’

A good while later, the poor pig’s bladder lays between their feet, finally deflated after numerous games kicked about the open field.

‘I’ll find another bladder. I’m sure there are lots going spare.’

Ériu shakes his head, ‘No, it’s getting boring.’

‘Chase, then? “It”, or something.’

Ériu makes a face, ‘I don’t want to do any more running.’ Cymru heartily agrees. ‘What about stories?’

Alba snorts, ‘How will that work if they can’t all understand it.’

‘We can translate.’

‘That’s just stupid.’

‘You’re stupid.’

‘How about the lake.’ Cymru cuts in quickly. The human children are close by, some running about on their own and others beginning to drift and talk in clumps. ‘We can slide on the ice and have races. Less running and we can use a rock instead of a bladder.’

Ériu looks at Alba, who avoids his eye to look down at Cymru. He then turns to observe the lake behind him. It is a cloudy day and the lake’s surface is dark, swallowing the reflections of the hills behind it so that it seems bottomless.

After a moment, Alba turns back, ‘Not a bad idea. Men were out there yesterday and it’s still cold today. Ice should be solid but we’ll need to get someone to check before we tell the others to follow us. One of the taller hunters; if he says it’s safe, we go.’

Ériu doesn’t seem convinced. ‘With all of us at the same time though? It might crack.’

‘There were deer on it the other day.’

‘That was the other day. It was sunny yesterday and what if the sun comes out again?’

Alba tuts and throws his hands up. Cymru knows that Alba will not take them on to the lake unless he was sure it will hold them, and also knows that Ériu will worry regardless of what Alba tries.

‘Hide and seek in the trees.’ He offers, ‘No one has to run, or talk to each other, and even the smaller ones can join in. And the hunts have already happened today,’ he adds for Ériu, ‘So the forest should be clear of anything dangerous.’

Cymru is satisfied when Ériu relaxes and Alba grins, impressed, ‘Yeah. That’ll do.’

A mad dash for the trees, Alba counting loudly at the edge in a mixture of languages,  1 2 3 in one and 4 5 6 in another.

With the field, campsite, and lake working as their designated hiding area, Cymru watches children scatter as Alba’s counting begins, his back to them. Cymru waits for them to clear and settle, keeping an ear on Alba’s voice, and searches for somewhere unique.

He knows not to stray too far. Mama has told them many stories of children who have become turned around forever by ancient trees, too confused and lost in the press of their trunks to ever find their way home again. The fae live within and they are tricky, fickle things- eager and hungry for wayward travellers. Everything can look the same if you’re not careful, Mama says, fae or not, so always find somewhere high above the treeline and keep it in sight when you walk somewhere new.

Luckily, there is a lot here to choose from- lake, hills. Cymru chooses the largest hill that crests over the trees to be his marker and begins.

The woods breathe. Whispered wind in the empty boughs of trees follow him above the high laughter of children, the hollow thumps of their feet on the forest’s earthen floor.

There is too much to choose from, yet also not much at all. Cymru is proud of himself when he finds a shallow cave, the top most rocks mossy and topped with a small, wizened tree, but several pairs of eyes already blink out at him from the mouth and so moves on quietly. The slope of a small hill has several bushes, but others have got to them first. Feet dangle overhead from branches he cannot reach, and some lay as half hidden shapes under old leaves, laying themselves down flat and still in the earth. One Cymru finds in the hollow of a fallen tree, and the tall girl presses a finger to her lips with eyes that plead with him to leave her there alone.

Far away, Alba stops counting and Cymru runs.

He jumps down a slope but at the bottom the hill with which he is marking his direction falls out of his sight so he scrabbles back up. He is tempted to press himself into its bank like some other children he’s seen, but he knows that Alba- keen, observant eyes- will find him. He wants to not be found first, wants to be good at the game he’s suggested- wants to win.

He hears running, hears footsteps come closer, and a mix of frustration and shame brings tears to his eyes.

Then, as he stands frozen and unsure, his mind blank, he spots a burrow. It is narrow, a stretched oval under the roots of an old tree which cover the entrance. Small and dark, it looks like a squeeze even for him but the leaves around it are undisturbed and a cobweb spans the top corner, from one root to the base of some nettles. Noone else has found it yet. Cymru sprints to it with relief.

He goes head first, arms brushing away more cobwebs that wait inside. The dirt floor of the burrow, damp at the entrance, dries the further he goes in and the air is cool and still. He is in to his chest when he catches it- the smell of animals, musky and heavy. He cannot tell how old this burrow is; it hasn’t been used long enough for the cobwebs to form, at least. 

Cymru hesitates.

Then, he hears the shouts of Alba’s first victim, a cry of wounded glee, and he makes up his mind. It’s tight. He has to wiggle on his belly to go in further, the space too tight for him to crawl on hands and knees. He can feel his feet sticking out, kicking freely as he shifts, but he finds purchase on a root and, with one last firm kick, he is fully inside.

The earth holds him still. He breathes in, slowly, carefully, and feels the walls around him push back on all sides. His heartbeat slows as he relaxes and then all he can hear is himself, the outside world muffled and removed and distant. Inside the burrow it is silent, with no breeze or movement apart from himself.

It is a comforting feeling, to be contained so completely. He wonders if this is how babies feel, inside their mothers as they grow. Wonders if he had ever felt this way before, when he was wherever he had come from. Maybe he’d come from a burrow such as this, pushed up from the earth once fully grown and ready to be found by Mama. He cannot see how far ahead the burrow continues but when he stretches his arms out ahead, he meets nothing but air. Satisfied, he lays his head on his outstretched arms and closes his eyes.

Time passes. Then more.

Cymru can sometimes hear children, shouting and screeching as they’re found and Alba gives chase. He hears Ériu once, cackling and stomping somewhere nearby. Someone comes near enough to Cymru’s tree that he can feel them, the earth vibrating gently with each footfall as the muted sound reverberates through the ground. But no one finds him, and slowly but surely the sounds of the other children in this area of the forest soften, before disappearing altogether.

‘Ris!’

Then he jolts, hitting his head in the dark.

It is later. He knows this because he needs to relieve himself, and because his arm is numb underneath his head. One or both must have woken him.

He stretches as much as he can, and yawns, wiggling his fingers to relieve the needles that spike through. He wonders what is for dinner tonight, for surely it must be time for something to eat. From outside, there are voices.

At first, he doesn’t know what they are saying. They’re faint, far away. Then-

‘Ris!’

He thinks he hears Alba.

Then again-

‘Ris! Come out!’

Ériu.

If Cymru strains he can hear several more voices, all calling for him. The game must be over. Far from feeling elated though, he feels panic.

The children- he can hear them now, louder- call for him as ‘Cymru’, his true name. But his brothers call for him by the name which Mama gave him. It is a name that no one but family knows, a name that is just for himself, not for who he is, and his brothers using it means that something is wrong.

The thud of someone running, then Ériu is closer. He screams Cymru’s name, breathless as though he is running, and there’s a sharp edge of fear to his voice that Cymru has never heard before.

Cymru’s stomach goes cold. Ériu‘s fear flows into him and his mind works fast. How long has he been gone? How long have his brothers been looking? Mama is going to be so angry; he hopes that his brothers haven’t gone to her yet.

His brother’s voice grows quieter, he is moving away. The wrong way.

‘Ériu! Wait!’

Quickly, Cymru tries to push himself backwards. His hands slip on the walls, dirt crumbling into his eyes, his mouth, and he coughs. He tries again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, his hands slip. They cannot hold the force his arms need to move his body backwards. He tries, the floor, the ceiling. Tries with his feet, toes digging into the earth and smacking against the sides. Knees to floor, elbows to walls and hands everywhere at once but nothing gives. He is stuck. The more he wiggles, the more he can feel himself slip further inside, and mounting terror soon overwhelms him to leave him sobbing.

‘Alba! Alba, I’m here!’

His heart pounds like a drum in his hearts, blood rushing to his face, his neck. He wants to get out. He doesn’t care that Mama will know; he wants her to find him. Even if she drags him out in front of everyone he doesn’t care, he wants to go home. The walls around him grow tighter, the darkness blacker, and Cymru fights for breath and he chokes against tightening lungs.

‘ADAIR! PADARN! Help!’

As he struggles, he hears movement from within the dark. Something soft at first, a rustle under his crying, but then there’s a growl- warm breath on his knuckles, something wet dripping onto his split skin.

He is where he doesn’t belong, Cymru realises the moment before pain hits. He is a creature that is not where it should be, and what is going to learn the truth of what comes next.

He closes his eyes, crosses his arms across his face, and screams.

-----------------

He wakes to white hot fire.

It is all over him- his chest, his neck, his arms. A burning, searing agony that rips a cry from him as he twists, the darkness swimming and churning.

‘Shhhh, shhh my love.’

Cymru hears Mama. He feels her touch him, gentle and light on his shoulder but his skin shreds itself anew at the pressure and he arches away. He cannot see, cannot think- the pain is too great. Life has returned to a body that is not ready, a soul to a house it cannot call home. Cymru pushes his head back against whatever lies underneath it as the walls of his mind close in, biting down on a life too new to taste.

-----------------

When he awakes next, the shapes can move.

The agony is duller, arms stiff and wooden when he moves them.

‘Don’t.’ Ériu says. He sounds scared, nervous. In front of something he doesn’t understand, ‘Don’t touch it.’

Fingers on his chest, something cool laid over his eyes. Albion laughs in the background at the bray of a goat, and Cymru slips away.

When he returns to himself fully, confused and tired, he finds that it is Spring.

-----------------

Cymru does not consider himself a cautious man.

He is wary, as any living thing is, but not foolishly so. Life and death come together, he understands, and the possibility of death will not keep him from living. He has suffered many worse deaths than his first, and more of the same. Burning, beheading, quartering- so many terrible ways that man imagine death for themselves, on top of all the organic riches that nature provides.

He does not fear the ground, nor the dark. Not like Alba and the endless deep, nor Ériu and his complicated feelings. Still, Cymru knows himself to be changed.

Sometimes, when the voices around him are too loud, or the tensions in the air too high, Cymru feels the edges of his mind grow dark. Invisible earthen walls press closer on all sides, his breathing tightens, his heart races, and he finds himself walking- up up up. Up into the sky, up to the tallest thing he can see, where the world can swing freely under his feet and the ground cannot swallow him. Back where he should be and where he is safe, above the earth with nothing but the airy sky around him.

There are times when he does not even know what he is doing until he is up there- the sun sinking lower in the sky when before it had been morning. Sometimes, he takes himself before he needs to go, knowing what will come if he doesn’t. The world changes, humans move in with their cement and brick, but there are always places left for him to go. Untouched hikes, lonely crags of his northern mountains where humans fear to walk lest they become lost and topple off the sharp, unseen edge. Cymru knows his lands like he knows his people, knows them more than he knows himself, and knows that his land will always hold some places hidden, just for him.

Perched on the edge of perilous drops, his feet far above the floor below, Cymru feels more himself than he does anywhere else. For this, he knows he is luckier than most.

-----------------

AN:

This came from a very old headcanon explored in Wind Walk, Afterlife, and even chapter 2 of this fic. I hope my Wales makes more sense to you now!

For anyone who had questions about Wales from Ériu’s chapter, you’ll just have to wait for the next update to see if you can unpick things 😉

As for their names: ‘Adair, Padarn, Ris’- the names I usually use for the British Isles siblings are actually newer than the time period I am writing this fic in. But, I wanted the affect of their human names to be used and so chose the closest approximations I could for them to still be recognisable.

Thanks for reading!

[pvffinsdaisies]

My favourite part of nations being public knowledge AUs is that I just know that just like “celebrity specials” versions of TV shows there’s “nation specials”, like imagine putting on the chase and the UK bros are on there

[sunnysssol]

UK bros! 🐉🦄🦁🦌 ( commissions open | do not repost )