averyblair

[averyblair]

England in the Keroppi fit I obtained illicitly (I can’t get ahold of the amiibo cards).

#hetalia #acnh #aph england #hws england #sanrio

[averyblair]

I removed or orphaned all of my non-Hetalia fanfictions the other day (4 SP fics, 2 Cats fics) both because I have drifted far from those fandoms and because the fics felt rushed and bad. On the flip side I'm looking at all of the Hetalia fanfics I discontinued and deleted over the years, and I'm considering re-writing and publishing some (there are seven I have access to, one that's been lost entirely, and one I posted anonymously on the kink meme that I'm considering reclaiming, fixing up and publishing on AO3).

#i know i have a lot of older awful hetalia fanfictions still published but it feels different when im still actively in the fandom #if i ever did leave hetalia and wanted to cut ties id orphan my fics anyway so theyre all safe from deletion #i'm not really actively writing rn cause i lost my rabbit a couple of days ago and im pretty torn up but im at least looking through things

[averyblair]

Hetalia WIPs* (updated 15/03/2024)

(*Multi-chaptered fanfictions only, I have too many half written one-shots to possibly record).

Ongoing on AO3:

Instead, I Live - FrUK. Canonverse England develops depression. Chapters 5/6 posted.

A Spell on You - USUK. Arthur is a clumsy mage; Alfred is the knight who keeps coming to his aid. Chapters 6/? posted.

Stations of the Sun and Stars - USUK. Arthur is the captive of a vampire, but falls in love with the werewolf who wants to free him. Chapters 4/? posted. Being re-written.

A Better Place - Arthur is dead. Alfred sees ghosts. Includes FrUK, AusHun and GerIta but ships are not the focus. Chapters 4/? posted.

Whore of the Worlds (NSFW) - WorldxEngland pwp fic. Chapters 7/10 posted.

Wide-Eyed Fears - USUK. Omegaverse AU. Arthur is a pregnant maid on the run. He bumps into Alfred in the woods. Chapters 3/? posted.

Ongoing and unreleased:

Meteor Impact - USUK. Science fantasy/apocalypse AU where Alfred falls in love with an Arthur from the wrong universe.

Castles in the Air - USUK. Hero Alfred and villain Arthur team up to take down a more dangerous threat.

Screaming Red - Human AU where the characters are tributes in a Hunger Games. Contains AusHun and FrUK but ships are not the focus.

Over the Sun - Eleven young men have been held captive since childhood for reasons they don't yet know.

Fire Inside - USUK. Fantasy AU where mages are enslaved and Alfred gradually realises he should do something about that.

Good Out Here - FrUK omegaverse/apocalypse AU where humanity lives in a series of self-governing (and usually corrupt) safety domes.

My Hour at Last - USUK. Arthur betrays his found family of freedom fighters - or so it is thought, until Alfred finds his journal and unravels the mystery.

Devour - USUK. Futuristic omegaverse AU where Alfred is a crime lord and Arthur is the furious omega he has purchased.

Exceptional Things - FrUK. Omegaverse romance, where Francis and Arthur both have troubled pasts and will eventually realise that they are each others path to healing.

Beyond the Pages - USUK. Fantasy AU, where Alfred has been put in charge of ensuring a prophecy is fulfilled.

#i cant tag everything mentioned here but ill tag the recurring themes for filtering purposes: #hetalia #usuk #fruk #aph england #aph america

[averyblair]

End-of-Year Reading List, 2023:

Below is a full list of the 64 books I read this year.

I was indiscriminate in what I counted towards this total. The only requirement was that it was a published book (self or traditional), and I finished it. There are 100 page novellas and 1000 page titans. Several were consumed as audiobooks. Some are fact and some are fiction. Each developed my own style and ability, and that is their relevance to this blog.

This list is alphabetical by author surname, and where an author has multiple books on the list, by release date.

An asterisk (*) indicates I re-read the book in 2023, but read it for the first time one or more years ago.

—

Flatland: a Romance of Many Dimensions - Edwin A. Abbott

The Amityville Horror - Jay Anson

Verona - Benedict Ashforth

The Silence of the Girls - Pat Barker

The Marriage Lie - Kimberly Belle

Hekla’s Children - James Brogden

The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett

Tell No One - Harlan Coben

The Hunger Games* - Suzanne Collins

Catching Fire* - Suzanne Collins

Mockingjay* - Suzanne Collins

The Girl You Lost - Kathryn Croft

Great Expectations - Charles Dickens

The Wonder - Emma Donoghue

Sometimes Amazing Things Happen - Elizabeth Ford, MD

Gone* - Michael Grant

Hunger* - Michael Grant

Lies* - Michael Grant

Plague* - Michael Grant

Fear* - Michael Grant

Light - Michael Grant

The Torment of Rachel Ames - Jeff Gunhus

The Appeal - Janice Hallett

The Twyford Code - Janice Hallett

A Foxcub Named Freedom* - Brenda Jobling

The Grand Hotel - Scott Kenemore

Misery - Stephen King

Under the Dome - Stephen King

Fairy Tale - Stephen King

Yellowface - Rebecca F. Kuang

The Wall - John Lanchester

The Beekeeper of Aleppo - Christy Lefteri

Songbirds - Christy Lefteri

The Haunted - Bentley Little

The Handyman - Bentley Little

Lessons - Ian McEwan

Soon - Lois Murphy

Hamnet - Maggie O'Farrell

Eight Detectives - Alex Pavesi

3:00 a.m. - Nick Pirog

Tell Me Lies - J. P. Pomare

One Across, Two Down - Ruth Rendell

The Killing Doll - Ruth Rendell

The Water’s Lovely - Ruth Rendell

Liar’s Bench - Kim Michele Richardson

The Cove - L. J. Ross

The Creek - L. J. Ross

Elektra - Jennifer Saint

Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

Unnatural Causes - Dr Richard Shepherd

All the Murmuring Bones - A. G. Slatter

Dracula* - Bram Stoker

Spare - Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex

The Game You Played - Anni Taylor

The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien

The Tale of Halcyon Crane - Wendy Webb

The Time Machine - H. G. Wells

The War of the Worlds - H. G. Wells

Foul Play Suspected - John Wyndham

The Day of the Triffids* - John Wyndham

The Chrysalids - John Wyndham

The Midwich Cuckoos - John Wyndham

Chocky* - John Wyndham

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow - Gabrielle Zevin

#long post

[averyblair]

Author's Note

Links

- Reblog blog: @avieary

- AO3: archiveofourown.org/users/AveryBlair/

- Twitter (nsfw): twitter.com/AveryBlairFics

About this blog

This is my main blog! If you have followed me at @avieary then any follow back will come from here.

This blog is for my original posts (which are mostly Hetalia related), including:

- Headcanons.

- Extra details for my fics (maps, mock-ups, etc.).

- The occasional crossposted fanfic (visit my AO3 to see all of my publicly available writing).

- Ask replies.

And I sometimes talk about the things I’m reading (other people’s fanfictions and published works) too.

About me

My name is Avie and I use it/he/they pronouns. I’m an adult (over 20) and I’m from Scotland.

I’m a Hetalia fic writer. I ship WorldxEngland, though FrUK and USUK are my main pairings.

TERFS, racists, nazis, zionists, homophobes, ableists and all other bigots are not welcome to engage with me.

About my writing

Although this blog is safe for work, my writing ranges from fluff to extreme kink. This is not the place for you if you have a moral issue with darkfic, or fictional depictions of various other terrible things.

#new blog intro

[averyblair]

Thank you so much for all your recent fics, I'm sorry they strained you! I hope you have a nice break ;)

Thank you for the kind ask! And you're welcome, I hope they've been enjoyed. If I'm careful it will hopefully be a quick recovery! <3

#asks

[averyblair]

To the Heart of Heaven

Fandom: Hetalia

Characters: France, England

Relationship: FrancexEngland

Tags and warnings: Nightmares, implied torture and execution, insomnia, witch hunts (literal), trauma, hurt/comfort.

Word count: 827

"He didn’t want to be back here, in the bad times and under the law of hysteria, when differences and oddities were examined and scrutinised and collected as evidence. Northwards, strangled bodies were strung to wood and burned. Southwards was a spectacle of dragging and flogging and snapped necks hanging from gallows."

Read below the cut or >here< on AO3.

---

This is a work of fiction, in which real historical events are recounted with only loose accuracy.

The ‘traumatic nightmare’ concept may be cliché, but it allowed me to make this a hurt/comfort story. I’d say it was worth it.

---

England knew this was a dream. He remembered falling asleep in a modern bed, next to an electric clock, under an artificial light. And all of this was old. Old cloth tunic, old flame torches, old familiar trees he knew to be long felled.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t frightened. Real or not, he was trapped in sleep. He was hurt. He was hunted. His body was reacting appropriately. He felt sick, heart burning in his chest, lungs squeezed for air, branches cutting his arms as he flew through trees and bushes and brambles.

He didn’t want to be back here, in the bad times. Under the law of hysteria, differences and oddities were examined and scrutinised and collected as evidence. Northwards, strangled bodies were strung to wood and burned. Southwards was a spectacle of dragging and flogging and snapped necks hanging from gallows. He was caught somewhere in between, and at the time, had not known what he faced. But this was a memory as much as it was a dream, and in his unique position as the soon-to-be victim of an atrocity committed long ago, he knew with immense trepidation that he was too far down the isles for his imminent death to be quick, bureaucratic or dignified.

The humans were closing in on him now. They’d catch him soon. Not for the first time in his life he cursed his vivid imagination. Only because it was so strong could he conjure everything so clearly - every root that tripped him, every angry yell, every rock and stone that stung his fleeing back.

If he had been as strong in the body as he was in the mind, maybe it would have all come to nothing. Maybe he could have fought away their hands - hands that had him already and were ripping his clothes and pulling him to the ground. He remembered what happened next, and thrashed wildly, fruitlessly, as thick rope looped around his wrists and pulled them together so tightly that his skin bled.

He was surrounded by his own. Every frenzied scowl, every furiously spitting tongue, every strike of a fist - it was all him, too. These humans were born of him. He was born of these humans. As they closed in on him, their steadfast conviction cut through his autonomous consciousness. Between terror and agony, his want for freedom wavered. Yes, it's fine. Drag me away. I am inhuman. I am ungodly. I am the blight you fear. Shall you hang me or burn me? It's your right to choose. If it's what you want, it's what I want. I am unclean. These lands are unclean. Purify me. I’m so afraid. Let me go. Don’t hurt me. I love you all. Why don’t you love me? I live for you. I am you.

With a sick jolt, he opened his eyes to a different reality. He blinked twice in the darkness and noted the familiar terrain of his present-day bedroom.

The relief was overwhelming. He would not have to relive the whole of it. Not tonight. He would not experience the tests, the trials. The humiliations he had been subjected to, the execution. Something, blessedly, had awoken him.

No, someone had. He was not alone. The rest of his senses came returned all at once, and he noticed he was held in a tight, warm grip. His face was pressed into a neck that smelled wonderfully familiar, and a gentle tune was being hummed into his hair.

“Good morning, my love.” England cast a glance to the right, where blinking, red digits told him it was a little past three. “Do you want to talk about it?”

England relaxed. “No. I’m sorry I woke you again.”

And he was sorry. Most nations had nightmares, but the way England’s mind could conjure sensation from memory made his another matter entirely. In the throes of a dream he could be exceptionally disruptive. If France were annoyed or distressed, as had been most of England's bedmates over the years, he would be within his rights.

But he was not. He never was. As usual he was calm, if not bleary-eyed, and he shook his head with a sad smile. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Oh,” England gently threaded his fingers through France’s hair, realising his eyes were not so much bleary as they were haunted. Often, the horrors of their past  - the kind that plagued England in his sleep - did not allow France to sleep at all. “Do you want to talk about it?”

France nodded. “But in the real morning. Over breakfast. I’d like it if you’d share too.”

“In the real morning, over breakfast,” England agreed sleepily, the adrenaline crash heavying his eyelids. “Thank you for being here. I love you.”

“And you,” France pressed a kiss to his forehead, and England knew that for now, even if not forever, he was safe. Rocked gently in loving arms, he fell back asleep.

#this is the promised last fic before i rest my hand #hws england #hws france #fruk #francexengland #hetalia #hetalia fanfiction #to the heart of heaven

[averyblair]

Adrift

Fandom: Hetalia

Characters: Scotland, England

Tags and warnings: Blood, injury, immortality, temporary death of a child.

Word count: 453

“Allie? How did I do?”

“Stop talking, Arthur.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re dying.”

Author's Note:

I wanted to write something that portrayed Scotland and England’s early relationship in a more positive light. Maybe one day I can also do that without hurting them, but for now, this is what I have to offer.

Read below the cut or >here< on AO3.

---

(This is not an AU, despite the use of human names).

---

“How did I do?”

Silence.

“Allie? How did I do?”

“Stop talking, Arthur.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re dying.”

“Oh.” Arthur had wondered why he was so wet and heavy. “I see.”

“Do you? Do you see?”

“Yes. But it’s okay. It doesn’t hurt.”

Alasdair’s eyes glared down at him, first hard and disapproving, then furious. “Fuck,” he snarled suddenly, making Arthur wince. “You should have stayed hidden”. Strips of cloth were clenched in the older boy’s fists, and he trembled for a moment before balling them up and throwing them away. They had been for Arthur’s stomach, but they both knew it was pointless to tend a fatal injury. “It wasn’t your fight.”

“You're angry with me. Why?” Arthur asked quietly. He might not have felt his body anymore - even his fingers and toes were growing unresponsive - but he could certainly feel Alasdair's disappointment in him. He had been brave. He had killed an enemy. Was his brother not proud? “I was helping.”

“Because I’m hurting.”

“You’re hurt?”

“No, I’m hurting. On the inside.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because my little brother walked into my fight on my lands and is now bleeding to death in my care.”

“But I’ll come back. We always come back.”

Alasdair sighed heavily, tension leaving him as he flopped onto the ground. For a moment, he seemed to consider Arthur’s prone form. Then he lay down next to him in the mosses and pulled him into his chest, holding him tight like he did when they slept. Arthur was glad for the contact, because his vision was blurring around the edges and sounds were growing muffled. With his brother wrapped around him, he knew he was not alone.

“You’re too young to understand guilt,” Alasdair’s voice was far away. “And too… dependent. It’ll be different one day, when you have someone to look after. You’ll look back on this moment and you’ll understand why I'm crying.”

“You’re crying?” Arthur whispered, because it was all he could manage.

“Yes, I’m crying. Don’t you cry when you’re hurt?”

Arthur wanted to say that yes, he did. That he understood now. That he regretted his carelessness. But he couldn’t. Must need blood in your tongue to talk, he supposed. Mine’s all over the ground.

It was his last thought. Alasdair was saying something in his ear, but he couldn’t hear it now. It was a hum, a vibration against his skull, and that was all. The forest around him was a pinprick of green in a wide, black field. His abdomen grew hot and sore. He did not know what any of it meant. He did not know anything at all.

His tiny body shuddered once, twice, and then all was blessedly still.

#hws scotland #hws england #hetalia #hetalia fanfiction #blood #injury #Adrift

[averyblair]

Physical appearance headcanons for England (i.e., a manifestation of the angry little man I see in my head as I write and read Hetalia fanfiction all day every day).

(Note - I’m not trying to propose facts or rules or absolutes. HWS England is a drawing who can be interpreted to look like nearly anything at all).

- Similar to canon in several ways - large olive-green eyes, pinched button nose, round cheeks and a sharp chin, warm undertones and a face that is perpetually flushed.

- His eyes are deep set and slightly upturned.

- His hair is fluffier than canon - almost curly, but not quite. It makes his head look big. It’s also lighter (more of a warm-vanilla that his canon honey-gold).

- His eyebrows are a defining feature, but they’re not comically large. They stand out because they’re black against blond hair and are a bit thicker than average. They’re messy in texture (ruffled, individual hairs that are long and grow in all directions).

- His eyelashes are similarly dark and thick, and because of this they stand out, even though they are an average length.

- He can’t grow facial hair elsewhere, but he hasn’t told anyone this and pretends he simply shaves religiously.

- His lips are nondescript. Peach, downturned and lower-lip heavy.

- His ears are slightly protruding.

- His features are set slightly too low in his face (meaning a small chin, but a larger forehead under all that hair). It’s not particularly noticeable.

- In my AUs he freckles and tans easily. In canonverse (in line with my wider headcanons on the genetic makeup of nations and the way external factors interact with their bodies) he is permanently smooth bisque.

- Body-wise, his overall frame/bone structure is small. He has prominent calf muscles and slight biceps but no visible muscle elsewhere.

- Limbs and torso are in average proportion to one-another.

- I headcanon him to be 5’5” at the most, and sometimes shorter.

I should note that I headcanon all of the nations to be extremely conventionally attractive, for absolutely no good reason other than that they are superior, immortal beings (could you call it Twilight-vampire logic?).

I also think that England would not find his appearance favourable, even if he is attractive to others. He would try not to get too caught up in physical insecurities (he certainly has more to be down about than his face or body) but he definitely indulges in the occasional self-pity session, wishing he had France’s chiselled cheeks or America’s tall nose or Germany’s square jaw. But overall he’s pretty neutral on it, having not lived a life where appearance restricts or impedes or defines what he can achieve the way it might for a human.

#hws england #hetalia #headcanons #aph england #arthur kirkland #picturing faces is my weakest point as a reader/writer so i don’t know if i could describe any other characters in this much detail #france i probably could #maybe prussia

[averyblair]

(Lambert, George. The Maid. 1915.)

The entire reason I’m writing Wide-Eyed Fears is to portray Arthur in this exact maid dress (that is an exaggeration I just wanted to write an adventure-romance a/b/o fic with high stakes but the traditional maid dress is a huge bonus he looks sooooooo good in this in my head I wish I could draw it so everyone could SEE❤️❤️❤️).

#wide-eyed fears #hws england #americaxengland

[averyblair]

Halcyon

Fandom: Hetalia

Characters: England, America

Ship: AmericaxEngland

Tags and warnings: Human AU, post-apocalyptic, minor injury mention, minor infection

Word count: 1030

"Though Arthur had the fever, it was Alfred who was feverish, paranoia fuelling a frantic dash around the room."

In a ruined world, Alfred and Arthur take shelter in a motel.

Read below the cut or >here< on AO3.

(I really want to write a proper USUK apocalypse AU one day (I think high stakes are good for their dynamic) but I have too many other fics to complete, so this is just one little scene.)

---

Before the motel door had even shut behind them, he had found the bed - stiff old sheets in a hideous beige, a lumpy spring mattress, and a splintering frame that creaked dangerously, threatening to collapse under the shock of his sudden appearance.

It was the most comfortable Arthur had been in months and he felt his body loosen, the burden of the chase lifting as he relaxed into the dusty comforter, closing his eyes to crumbling plaster and black mould.

Still, when no-one joined him after several minutes, he cracked an eye open and propped himself up on his elbow.

“Al?”

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Artie. Just rest up for a bit.”

Though Arthur had the fever, it was Alfred who was feverish, paranoia fuelling a frantic dash around the room. Whilst Arthur had lounged, he had rearranged the furniture, chairs and cabinets now barricading the door, the latch apparently not trusted to hold steady.

“Calm down love, we lost them miles back.”

“Yeah, but there’s always others. New place just means new problems,” Alfred muttered distractedly, closing the thin curtains and examining them thoroughly, checking for any gaps or tears that might expose their occupancy. “All good! All right, let’s see what we’ve got for you.”

He was at Arthur’s side in an instant, ready to tip out the small leather satchel that held their most essential supplies. Arthur stopped him with a hand on his arm, sparing him the effort.

“Tylenol, love. Expired Tylenol. That’s all we’ve got.”

“Shit. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I was taking stock last night.”

“Okay. Fuck… okay. Well you should take some anyway. It might help the fever. Fuck. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m fine, Al. I’m on the mend, see,” Arthur held out his leg, trousers rolled to his knee. “We’ve come back from worse.”

Alfred, squeamish in a way that Arthur found endearing, took a reluctant glance at the wound. A deep stab from an attacker’s worn screwdriver, it had been gnarly in the first days, quickly infecting and leaving Arthur weak. Now it was still a little red, and perhaps too warm to the touch, but it was healing. Miraculous, when all they’d had to treat it was soap, water and time.

“Yeah, okay. That’s not so bad. It’s looking better.”

“Told you,” Arthur leant up for a kiss, but he stilled upon hearing a distant clatter, hand frozen around Alfred’s neck as he glanced back at the door.

After a moment of silence, he was about to laugh off his nerves, ready to accuse a passing animal or some loose trimming in the wind, when there was another bang. A loud crack followed, then, a little closer, violent rattling.

“Someone’s checking the doors,” he hissed to a startled Alfred.

“Looking for us?” Alfred whispered back.

Arthur shook his head.

“No. I don’t think so. We were careful. No-one could have seen us.”

The assailant grew closer. Arthur could hear their footsteps now, and there was a loud crack as a near-by door was forced open. Somewhere close enough that they could hear drawers opening and the magnetic click of a bathroom cabinet. Still at the bedside, Alfred ducked, and Arthur slipped off the mattress to join him.

“Under the bed,” Alfred gave his shoulder an urgent push, forcing him low onto the carpet. As Arthur sucked in his stomach and squeezed beneath the low bed frame, he distantly remembered a version of himself that would have been disgusted by the crusty fibres beneath his fingertips. 

It was too tight a fit for Alfred, who was taller, and somehow still muscular despite his meagre diet.

“Bathroom,” Arthur whispered to him, “behind the shower curtain.”

“No. I need to be here if they get in. You’re not in fighting condition.”

Arthur grunted in frustration, ready to argue, but the spirit left him when he heard a clatter to his right.

It was their door now. From the ground, he could see the wooden base trembling as someone gave it a few solid shoves, and then something heavier, perhaps a large boot or some makeshift battering ram. Arthur flinched at every crash, but the door held. 

The assailant moved along, to the next door, and then the next. Probably a rogue scavenger. Probably alone. Probably hoping to get lucky and find a room that hadn’t been pillaged yet. Toothpaste, shampoo, detergent. It was all valuable now.

Still, the noises were several doors away before Arthur could relax, and he squeezed out from under the bed, letting Alfred help him back onto the mattress.

“Okay. It was nothing. We’re okay.”

Arthur was not sure if Alfred was trying to console him, or if he was talking to himself. He smiled anyway, and took Alfred’s hand.

“Of course we are.”

“You should get some sleep. I’ll stay awake for a bit and keep an ear out for more trouble.”

Arthur felt like he’d been doing an awful lot of the sleeping lately, but chose not to disagree whilst the other was on edge. Alfred could be a hard man to argue with when he was feeling paranoid.

“Alright, but you’d better wake me if you get tired.”

“Right. Sure.”

“I mean it. We need to find food tomorrow. It’ll be dangerous if you’re walking around half asleep.”

“Yeah, okay. You’re right. I’ll wake you up in a few hours and we can switch.”

“Good,” Arthur pressed a kiss to Alfred’s cheek, settling himself under the covers. It had been a long time now since he had slept under a blanket that could be considered clean - perhaps stale from lack of attention, but not grimy and unwashed - and he enjoyed the way it felt across his shoulders. Under real sheets and in a real bed, he could almost pretend he was in the past, when life was normal and his biggest worries were college assignments and job interviews.

A hand pressed itself to his forehead - not so hot today as it was yesterday - and then began threading itself through his hair. Arthur closed his eyes, settled into the pillow, and let the peace of the night pull him under.

#usuk #americaxengland #HWS England #HWS America #Hetalia #Hetalia Fanfiction #fanfiction #Halcyon #i finally wrote another fic this year #even though it's sort of just one scene from a bigger AU i'll never write #i'm feeling nice enough to actually make them both good guys #but not nice enough to let live in peace #so i've put them in another apocalypse

[averyblair]

i’m making sims worlds for my au instead of writing more chapters because i’m out of energy

#this is for a spell on you ik they’re not together in the fic yet but my sims version is way ahead #hws america #hws england #americaxengland #usuk #aph england #A Spell on You #image

[averyblair]

The Lake of Fire

Fandom: Hetalia

Characters: England, France

Ship: N/A (they're a little too young for romance here)

Tags and warnings: Canonverse, temporary character death/temporary child death, graphic description of injury, hurt/comfort. A short exploration of immortality.

Word count: 653

“That’s ridiculous. We’re at war. You have other things to worry about.”

“And yet here I am, worrying about you.”

Read below the cut or >here< on AO3.

Note:

The time period is vague, but they are both physically children - England around 9, France around 14. I've added some of my own thoughts on nations and death below the story if anyone is interested.

---

“Can’t you just rip it out?”

“I don’t know. I think your ribs have healed around it.”

“So? Just pull it.”

“It will hurt. A lot.”

“I don’t care.”

“You do, or you would have done it yourself.”

At that, England was silent - eyes averted, fiddling with the corners of a torn tunic. It was stuck to him - pinned by the dagger, glued by dried blood.

“When did this happen?”

“I don’t know. Five days ago, maybe six.”

“Idiot. You should have come sooner.”

France grabbed the dagger where it protruded from skin, and the hilt was warm. Body heat, fresh blood. England grimaced at his touch, but for a boy usually so fiery, he was oddly subdued.

“This is war. You’re not exactly flaunting your position.”

It must have been the pain. France knew how days of agony wore you away to nothing, and it angered him to see England this way. He surely went somewhere he shouldn’t have, meddled too directly in affairs - but still, for an adult to take a dagger and lance a child…

… Human cruelty. It was frequently beyond France’s understanding.

“You could have found me if you wanted to. These are your lands.”

“Can you get it out or not?”

Surrounding ruined metal was an angry mess of pulverised red flesh, where the blade had cut and nicked anew with every step, every movement, every twitch of a muscle. Inside was rotten black and venomous yellow - fat and muscle and pus, too, where infection was setting in.

It felt unfair. This was the enemy, but this was a child. This was a rival, but this was a friend. This was war, where everyone suffered, but at least there was an end to the suffering of mortals.

There was only one way this could go, and he’d known it, deep down, from the moment England had appeared in his tent with silver protruding from his core.

“Did you die when you first got this?”

“Yes.”

“How did you feel?”

“You know how death feels.”

“But how did you feel?”

“I’ll die again if you pull it out, won’t I?”

Now, France was silent. Only for a moment. England deserved his response.

“Yes. But if you tell me all the worst parts, I can try and make it not so bad.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I don’t fear death.”

A lie. France did not push the matter. It wasn’t the time, and he could guess, anyway, at what most frightened a proud child like England.

“If you say so. I’ll stay anyway. I’ll protect your body until you wake, however long that takes. No-one will touch you, or move you, or take you. I’ll keep you safe.”

“That’s ridiculous. We’re at war. You have other things to worry about.”

“And yet here I am, worrying about you.”

“You’re a rubbish enemy,” England was embarrassed. He turned away, pouting at a canvas wall. France saw an opportunity. “My king would hang me if I got as soft as y-”

With all his strength, knowing he could not afford for the blade to stick on bone, he pulled.

For a moment, England looked betrayed. Frightened. His eyes said it all, even if his mouth could not for the blood filling his throat.

“I’m sorry. I had to get it over with. Anticipation would have made it worse.”

The apology, presumably, was accepted, because when England collapsed it was into France’s open arms. He caught the boy easily, cradling him like an infant and muttering gentle reassurances.

“Hush, you’re safe. I’m here. No-one is going to hurt you.”

A cough, a wet gargle. A twitch, a shudder.

Not fair. He was just a child.

“There’s no air, I know. It’s okay. You’ll come back, remember? And I’ll still be here. I’ll watch over you. That’s a promise. I never break a promise.”

And at last, as life left him, England was still.

---

Note:

I imagine the nations don’t die very often as children. There are some executions, some tragic accidents, some incidents where they get mixed up in something they shouldn’t. Some are luckier than others - born in stable times and on peaceful lands. But they all know death, they’ve all experienced it, and it’s scary and unpleasant and a Very Big Deal.

As soon as they’re physically old enough to fight on the battlefield, they start dying frequently. Hundreds of times in a war (they are so very aware that they can come back and their warriors cannot, so they take dangerous positions and sacrifice themselves frequently), and sometimes multiple times in a battle (when one lasts long enough to allow it). Death starts to mean nothing. They begin worrying about each other little, and about themselves even less. 

(I’m generalising, of course, and there are outliers at both ends - those whose childhoods were particularly difficult - struggling to adulthood and dying all the way, those whose skill lies off the battlefield, those who are just particularly good at staying alive, those who are overly protected by their leaders or the nations closest to them, those who have reached adulthood and not faced major war, etc.).

#hws england #hws france #hetalia #fanfiction #The Lake of Fire #blood #violence