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rebelsandtherest · 4 years ago

Text

Engla Londe

Summary: Takes place in the 9th century of the Common Era. England suffers under the onslaught of the Viking Army as he feels himself fracture into pieces. While hiding away in marsh alongside an unlikely leader, he dares to hope for a better future. Written for the Historical Hetalia Week 2021.

Word count: 3,538

CONTENT WARNINGS:

Vulgar language

Blood

Death

Violence

Semi-graphic descriptions of violence typical of the Viking era

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Anno Domini 793

He'd been on the road when the pain first began.

Emrys had told him long ago that such pain was possible, that he would be cursed to feel it as he grew older, as his people spread out and acquired more land, encountered more enemies, but he'd had no way to prepare himself for the feeling. One moment he was walking down the forest road and the next he was facedown in the dirt and panting for breath, clutching at his chest because he thought he'd been shot.

A fortnight later when he learned that there'd been an attack on the monastery at Lindisfarne, he hadn't considered that the two had been connected. After the pain subsided, it lingered in his joints, an unnatural arthritis that no child his size should expect to endure. The following year, the profound pain, the dolore magna, as Emrys had told him it was properly known, returned. This time, when he heard of the tragedy at Monwearmouth-Jarrow, he knew that it could not be a coincidence.

The Vikings had come to ravage his people, and his body was paying the price.

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Anno Domini 865—871

For the next several decades, he learned to endure the pain and fevers through determination alone. He continued to travel around the seven kingdoms of his peoples each in their turn, whether they wished it or not. To some kings he was a friend, to others, a ghost story. He'd left East Anglia and Mercia behind most recently, and was travelling up to Northumbria, where they'd recently crowned a new king. As had become his custom, Arthur intended to introduce himself.

Once in Northumbria, he was happy to find that the king was an agreeable man, who regarded Arthur as something of a good luck charm, and did everything he could to make the boy comfortable and cared for. Still suffering daily pain, Arthur was more than happy to accept such coddling.

Then, the news from East Anglia arrived. The Danes had sent an army. The Anglian King had paid them to leave his lands in peace, and they were headed north, to York. Arthur's pain sunk into his bones.

In future centuries, Arthur would never be able to recall the ensuing years with great clarity. He would remember the pain in his body, the terror of his people, the shouts of the Danes in the maddened craze of battle. He would remember being there, at the battle of York when the king's chest was split open and left for carrion. He would remember Ecgberht's coronation. He would remember the look on the king's face when, before his lords and great men, he banished Arthur from the kingdom on suspicion that he was a demon.

He travelled south, hoping to outrun the Danes' army on their way to Nottingham so he might warn the Mercian King Burgred of their advance. He relied on the fae for help and directions, and would have died if not for their attentive presence. When he arrived at Nottingham covered in mud, half-starved, wild-eyed and raving mad about the disaster at York, it took some time before anyone recognized him and brought him before the king. There, he heard that Burgred had already made an appeal to the King of Wessex to help fight off the Danes. At this, Arthur's heart had soared.

But then, Burgred had decided to pay the Danes for peace, and they had left for York once more. The dolore magna burned hotter than ever.

Arthur was waylaid in Nottingham for some time—how long, he could not have said—suffering from the sickness no king could purge. The Danes are doing this to me, was the only thought of his sickbed. The Danes will be the death of me. Sometimes, as he fell asleep,he would think: I've never even met the one they call Denmark.

In 871, Wessex crowned a new king, and so Arthur mustered his strength and travelled down to meet him. The Danes, perhaps sniffing an opportunity from clear across the island, followed him.

The new king, he'd been told, was called Ælfred.

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Pain, pain, so much pain. He'd passed out on the road, or perhaps had been killed, he could not remember. Waking up felt the same, and he shivered and grasped at the dirt, trying to tell up from down as he clawed his way back to life.

"Well, well, well," said someone above him, in a lilting accent he knew and despised. "I was wondering when I'd finally get to meet you, you Saxon devil. You looked a pretty thing lying there with my axe in your back. Red is a good color for you, you know, you should bleed out more often."

So he had died, after all, and come back, which seemed to bother this man not at all. Warily, Arthur turned his shaking head over his shoulder to examine his back, but there was no axe. There was, however, a great monster of a man peering down at him, head shaved at the sides and braided vainly on top. He held a short axe in his right hand, its blade still tinged red. He grinned down at Arthur.

"I didn't realize you were still so fucking small." Something heavy—a foot?—came to rest on the small of Arthur's back, and he yowled, his recently-fatal injury still tender and swollen. "No wonder it's so easy. Now that you're awake, you can make it a little easier." The Dane pressed hard into Arthur's injury before removing his foot and kicking him in the side. "You're going to take me to whichever king of yours can pay the highest ransom for his house's heads."

Arthur was still shaking all over from the shock of resurrection, but he knew he had to get away from this man, and quickly, while he might have the advantage of surprise. His back would make it difficult, but he'd learned to endure pain for decades. What was a little more? To buy time, he asked,

"Who are you?" though he suspected the answer. The man seemed to relish the question. He crouched by Arthur's face, smile fading into something more threatening.

"I have many names, little Saxe, but the one you will want to know is Danmark."

The adrenaline Arthur felt from hearing the truth was the strength he needed to spit directly into Denmark's eyes, press himself up off the ground, and run.

"You little shit!" Denmark wheeled backwards, but Arthur did not stay to see. He barreled away at full tilt, fighting to keep the world upright as his back screamed and his body trembled. "Running is useless, you know!" Denmark called after him, and Arthur felt tears in his eyes because there was nothing nearby, no cover, no village, no people, just empty space and open road. His heart was beating battle-drum fast as he continued to run, hoping, praying, that maybe, just maybe, if he ran far enough fast enough, the Dane wouldn't be able to reach him.

He heard the axe whistling through the air, and then the crack of the blade in his spine.

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Anno Domini 878

Arthur woke up to the echoes of his own screams, and in his terror was unable to stop as more shouts barrelled out of him. He stared at the rafters above his bed and clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the sounds as he came down from the nightmare. The screams became whimpers, and they in turn became silent sobs. He turned his face into his pillow and shook.

Phantom pains danced along his spine. He would not be able to return to sleep anytime soon, so he rose from bed and unlatched the door, shuffling out of his room and out of the great house into the crisp night air. After making a full circuit of the house and visually checking the burh's walls for holes—an absurdity that only nightmares made him fear—he sat in the grass beside the house and lay fat on his back, staring up at the stars. He wished more than ever that he could join the constellations in their predictable paths, marked along the heavens in patterns secured by their creator. The stars of Easter had rotated along to make way for those of summer, and Arthur imagined the farmers all across his land who may be looking up at the same sky to plan the year's harvest.

At length, he grew cold in his tunic and returned indoors. As he shut the door behind him, he saw that there was a lamp burning down the hall. Curious, he tip-toed past his own room and the servants' quarters to an open door. He peeked in, and when he did, the door creaked.

Ælfred looked up at him, and Arthur was shocked to see him awake at such an hour. He felt immediately guilty for interrupting.

"My king," Arthur apologized, voice hoarse, "I'm so sorry, I did not know-"

"Come in, Arthur, please. I should appreciate the company." The king returned to the work he had spread out on the table, and picked up a quill with practiced ease. Feeling awkward because of his nightdress, Arthur climbed into a seat at the table where he could see that Ælfred was copying something out of a book—the Bible, or so it seemed.

"Here," Ælfred said, and pushed a glass of something over to Arthur. It was a glass of warm, diluted ale. Arthur took a sip, and realized there was not a second glass.

"I cannot take this from you, my king."

"You need it more than I," said the king softly. "Nightmares are nasty things, and I shan't try to imagine those that plague you. You sounded quite distressed." Arthur darted his gaze suddenly to the table in embarrassment.

"My king, I am so sorry—I did not mean to—"

"I am no stranger to war, my friend. Do not apologize for your memories." Arthur sat in silence a moment, before he resumed drinking the ale. It was warm and felt nice on his throat, and the hint of alcohol began to make him feel warm from his belly to his cheeks.

"It will not always be like this," Ælfred broke the silence at length, not looking up from his work, "we will deliver you from the Danish grip, Arthur. I will see to it."

It was something Ælfred had said more than once, to his lords and to his armies to rile up their courage, but he'd never before said it when it was only he and Arthur. Arthur would have expected the king's conviction to wane in the private uncertainty of nighttime, but spoken at little more than a whisper, the king sounded as sure as ever.

"I want to believe it," Arthur confided, not looking at him, "...but... it hurts so badly," his voice cracked as it said it. He heard Ælfred set aside his quill and felt his gentle stare. Ælfred had several young children whom he loved, and Arthur knew he looked upon Arthur with a similar eye from time to time. Were he healthier, Arthur would have bristled under the treatment, but was at the present too spent to tend to his own pride.

"Do you know the Psalms?" Ælfred asked him. Arthur looked up, jarred by the question.

"Some of them," he half-lied. It had been eons since he last attended mass. "I have never been adept at Latin," he confessed, and it made Ælfred smile.

"You needn't be. Here," He said, and handed Arthur a sheet of paper. The boy took it and pulled a candle closer to see the script.

"This is… this is my language," Arthur stared at Alfred in open surprise, but the king only smiled. "Is this a Psalm?"

"The twenty-third."

"But it's in Anglo-Saxon," Arthur gripped the paper with both hands and pressed his face closer to see the text.

"We must not be only a people of war, Arthur, we must also be a people of learning. Our language may yet be the key to unlock the arts of the world. See here," Ælfred indicated a line on the page. "I want you to read this," he said. Arthur blinked, and began.

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the–" Arthur found his throat constrict. "–in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever." He looked up at the king, who took the paper from his hands and leaned forward to better see Arthur in the lamplight. He laid a warm hand on the boy's arm.

"Death and enemies, they are passing things. You will endure them, and live in goodness and peace when we overcome the present days. I have every faith in that. I ask that you do, too."

The dolore magna had been in his bones so long, he no longer remembered what it was like, before. Tears pricked at his eyes. Feeling childish, he asked through a whisper,

"Do you promise?" Ælfred looked at him, and said nothing for a moment. Then, he took Arthur's hands in both of his, and gripped them firmly.

"Engla londe," he said levelly, eyes not leaving Arthur's face, "land of my forefathers, land of my children and all their descendants, land that I love. Yes, I promise."

Arthur's face crumpled and he ducked his head, sucking in a sob even as Ælfred still held his hands. The king's chair scraped against the floor and suddenly, still sitting, Arthur's tiny frame was encompassed in the warmth of the king's embrace. Arthur cried quietly into the man's chest while a warm hand brushed circles into the back of his tunic. As the sobs subsided, Arthur relaxed further into the embrace and Ælfred made no move to shift him, and actually began to rock back and forth, like he would with his own young son.

"One day, I would see all the peoples of this land united together under one crown, held together by ties stronger than all the Danes in Denmark," the king told his young friend. "Would that God give me the chance, I should like to see it so in my lifetime, but it would suffice me to know that you will live to enjoy such a future."

"I should like to see it so alongside you," Arthur said into the king's chest. He heard the man's beard crinkle as he smiled.

The king allowed Arthur to remain close, shifting so that they sat side by side, Arthur tucked against the older man's arm. He watched the king weave patterns of ink into letters and verses, whole Psalms at a time, spinning the Latin invisibly into the tongues of home. The scratch of the quill against the paper tickled at his ears and lulled him towards sleep.

Slowly, Arthur's eyelids grew heavy and his head kanted forward, but before he could fall completely, something caught him and lifted him up. He woke up only barely to feel himself deposited in his bed once more. He watched the silhouette of his king move from his side and close the door softly behind him as he left.

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Anno Domini 924

Arthur rolled his shoulders, willing himself to release the tension he'd held there for the last several months. Æthelstan had endured no small amount of grief to arrive here today, but at last he was safe here by the Thames, whole, in one piece, and ready to receive his scepter and crown. Arthur huffed a sigh of both relief and anxiety, and re-adjusted his tunic for the upteenth time that day.

"Does it fit quite well?" Asked the woman beside him, one of Æthelstan's sisters-in-law. She'd helped Arthur secure a new outfit for the coronation after it became clear his recent growing-spurt had rendered his past outfits unsuitable.

"Yes, thank you, my lady," Arthur gave a polite bow, which made her smile. As soon as she turned away, he began fretting again, anxious and ready to see the day done.

The day passed by at a sluggish pace, but then all at once, with a flash and a prayer, Æthelstan was king, and Arthur was no longer what he'd been two heartbeats ago. Now, he was England, and England was him. Clapping alongside the assembled crowd, he felt something bubble up from deep inside of him, something light and profound, and it made him smile wider than he had in years.

He met with his king later that day. Æthelstan had known Arthur since he himself was a babe, and knew what he was. However, Arthur had never spoken to him as he did now, as a king. They were alone in the church, and Arthur's words echoed off the walls in a way he hoped would burn into Æthelstan's memory for all time.

"In ten centuries and more, I shall not perish from this earth. When your successors ask me for my account of the ages, I shall always say that England began with Ælfred, for Ælfred is the king who made me. But when they ask me how I survived the centuries, how England became one of the great lands of this earth, I shall forever begin my account, for prosperity or ruin, with your name, Æthelstan son of Edward, first King of England. I was your grandfather's vision, but I am yours to keep. Do you understand?"

Where no else would ever see, the king bowed his head in deference to the green-eyed fae child in front of him.

"By God and all his saints," he swore, "England will endure."

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BONUS: Epilogue

May 2, 1945

London, England

He grumbled as he extricated himself from the pub, drunken shouts and jibes following after him.

"Oh, come off it, all of you!" He shouted back, though he was still half-smiling. "Damn Aussies." He shook his head and marched out into the sunny spring day, shoving his hands inside his jacket pockets and setting off down the road, cobbles pressing up through the soles of his shoes. After a short walk, he found the familiar overlook and the familiar figure hunched by the railing, nursing a familiar brand of cigarette.

"You're missing all the fun," He smiled, earning a glance and a soft shake of the head.

"There'll be time for fun once they sign the papers," Arthur grumbled, sucking in a lungful of smoke and letting it puff out in clouds. "I expected you to be drunk well into tonight, what scared you away?"

"Jack," he said, and Arthur seemed to understand. "Those Australians are a hoot, but give 'em gin and, by God but they turn to madmen. Jack's been spreadin' bad stories about me for fun, sounds like." Arthur smiled.

"Well, he's got to keep his men's morale up somehow, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, well, he doesn't have to do it at my expense."

"What's he done now?"

"He's convinced that the entire platoon that my honest-to-god name is Alfie." Arthur snorted over his cigarette. "I tried to explain, but it only egged 'em on more, of course. It's Alfred, I said, AL-FRED. Not Alfie, not Fred, not Freddie, Alfred."

"What about Al?" Arthur asked.

"Only Mattie gets to call me that," Alfred answered immediately, and huffed. He kicked a pebble over the edge and into the river. "Honestly wish my name didn't have so many goddamn awful nicknames."

"You don't like your name?" Arthur asked, peering over at his companion with a curious expression.

"I like it just fine, I just like it best when people don't go changing it on me without asking."

"So dramatic," Arthur accused.

"Is that so, Artie?"

"Stop it," Arthur snapped, which made Alfred chuckle. They settled into the railing next to each other, looking out over the brown waters of the Thames as barges floated to and fro. After a while, Alfred leaned over to bump his shoulder against Arthur's.

"Why'd you name me Alfred, anyway?" Alfred asked him. He'd long known that it was Arthur who'd had him baptized. "I was the only Alfred I knew, you know. Back in the day. Should've given me some good Quaker name, Will or James or Fly-From-Fornication," Arthur couldn't hide his smile at that. "Why Alfred?"

"Oh, I don't know," Arthur tapped his cigarette ash over the railing, and turned to look back at the centuries-old buildings behind them before returning his gaze to the river. The town where Æthelstan had been crowned all those years ago was unrecognizable today, but the view over the Thames was just the same.

"I suppose I thought it was a good name—it was always one of my favorites," Arthur told him. "It still is."

"Well shucks," Alfred feigned bashfulness. "Thank you kindly, Artie." Arthur stomped on his toes.

"Stop it."

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Historical Notes:

1. Lindisfarne was the first Anglo-Saxon monastery attacked by the vikings, a raid that took place in 793.

2. If my latin translation skills aren't too rusty, dolore magna translates to "great pain" or "powerful pain".

3. About one year after Lindisfarne, the Abbey at Monkwearmouth-Jarrow was raided as well. At this point, vikings had raided many locations in Britain and were making everyone's lives quite difficult, but the monasteries were some of the biggest targets.

5. There were seven kingdoms of the Anglo-Saxons during this period, collectively referred to as the Heptarchy. Roughly north to south, they were Northumbria, Mercia, East Anglia, Essex, Kent, Sussex, and Wessex. These kingdoms were not unified at this time, and fought with each other frequently, but culturally they were very similar and unified and thus I interpret Arthur as representing all of them. It is worth noting that at the time this story is set, Kent and Sussex were controlled by Wessex.

6. The new king referred to here is Ælla of Northumbria, who was crowned king sometime around 862 or 863, though the exact dates are unreliable. What we do know is that he was responsible for the death of Ragnar Lothbrok, which compelled the Great Heathen (Viking) Army to retaliate and invade York in 867-868. He died in reportedly gruesome fashion during one of the battles of this invasion. Ælla's death is one example of a death associated with the likely-fictitious ritual of the "blood eagle", which I do not recommend googling unless you have a strong stomach for gore. The reality was in all likelihood far less theatrical.

7. The Great Viking Army, more often referred to as the Great Heathen Army, landed in East Anglia in 865. And yes, the king of East Anglia really did give them horses and supplies in return for their promise to leave East Anglia alone. This was a common tactic among Anglo-Saxon kings when dealing with vikings.

8. Ecgberht I of Northumbria was the successor to Ælla. He was actually expelled about six years after he took the throne, so I figure he seems like the kind of jerk who'd think Arthur was a demon.

9. Burgred was the king of Mercia at this time.

10. A burh is an Anglo Saxon fortified settlement, employed widely by Alfred in his campaign against the vikings. It is unlike a medieval castle; it consists of a large wall, usually more or less circular in design, which protects a village of homes, churches, etc. The great house, the main house of the burh, would be wear the lord/leader would live.

11. Before we had calendars, we had stars! Even peasants and especially farmers would have been well-versed in astronomic patterns and various stars. Keeping track of the movements of constellations allowed normal people to know when holidays and holy days approached, when it was time to harvest their crops, etc.

12. Alfred and Arthur in the burh are hanging out in Athelney in Somerset, where Alfred is essentially hiding after fighting a succession of difficult battles with the Danish army, who at this point in time are back in London wreaking havoc.

13. Alfred was a huge proponent of the arts! One of his really big administrative pushes was to educate the Anglo-Saxon population, particularly through the translation of Latin texts into their native language. Learning in England at this time had stalled because so few monks still spoke Latin—and many who did were killed by vikings—and later in his reign Alfred made massive pushes to translate latin texts into Anglo-Saxon (Old English) so that monks and the masses might better learn about the world through books and, hopefully, one day, re-learn Latin. Alfred himself personally translated a number of texts, including 50 Psalms, from Latin into Old English.

14. "Engla londe" is the original form of what eventually became "England". In Old English, it literally means "Land of the Angles", the Angles being a Germanic tribe that migrated to, conquered, and settled what is now England.

15. I will not even begin to try to summarize the drama that surrounded the coronation of Æthelstan as king. Google it. It puts Game of Throne to shame, honestly. Suffice to say, his life was in danger, like, a lot.

16. Taking the throne following his conquest of the Kingdom of York (which was at that time a Danish Kingdom in what used to be Northumbria) Æthelstan, grandson of Alfred, was the first king to be crowned King of a land called England. This was the first time in history that England was properly united as a single country under a single crown. However, while Æthelstan is the first monarch to be formally crowned King of England, historians generally agree that it was his grandfather Alfred, now called Alfred the Great, who ought to grace the history books as the true first King of England.

17. Regarding the epilogue, Jack is my name for Australia, a headcanon which I've borrowed from @draw-a-circle-thats-the-foxhole. Also, sharp-eyed readers will note that this takes place a few days before VE Day, which is why the boys can kick back and relax in London. Jack and Alfred can't relax too hard though, because they're going to be shipped back to the Pacific, soon!

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