#hws british isles

[senditothemoonn]

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

#my art #alasdair kirkland #hws scotland #hws england #arthur kirkland #aph scotland #aph england #hws ireland #hws wales #hws northern ireland #hws britain #british isles #hws british isles #hws uk bros #aph uk bros #hetalia #hetalia england #hetalia scotland

[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!

#aph england #hws england #hws scotland #aph scotland #hws #hetalia #historical hetalia #aph brit bros #aph uk bros #hws british isles #aph #heroes writes #longbow anon

[apersonwholikeslotus]

Denmark: can we have Norway back?

Ireland, Scotland, Wales, England, Northern Ireland, all clinging to him: NO

#Norway is v nonchalant about this yknow #they’re stealing Iceland and Faroe next if Denmark isn’t careful #hws denmark #hws norway #hws British isles #Hetalia #hetalia incorrect quotes #not tagging them all individually sorry

[sunnixsunshine]

Various art shit, you’re welcome babes ❤️

1) Im a sucker for demon Vene rather than angel Vene, also obvious good omens inspired lmao

2) I looooooove the idea of Germany having a mini schnauzer! I did a poll on my other blog and the name Pretzel won! I based her personality on the mini schnauzer I had, Sir Lewis. Talkative, very loyal, a massive cuddler, abandonment and anxiety issues. I think Germany adopted her from a (verified) show dog breeder for the purpose of going on different kinds of hunts with him and Prussia, but in the long run it didn’t work out because Germany may have neglected to train her properly and spoiled her far more than he meant to. So her job is exactly like the other three dogs; a cuddly lap dog.

3) Not many notes here. Just transmasc Romano and I think Romano got a perm in the past as an attempt to bring back his once VERY curly hair because he honestly missed it. He gave up in the 90s lol

4) Redrew the old line up for the British Isles family! Very slight redesigns too! I think the canon uk bros designs are nice but also idc, I’ll draw these uk bros all the time instead 👀

#hetalia #hetalia fanart #hetalia ocs #hetalia headcanons #hws romano #hws south italy #hws veneziano #hws north italy #hws germany #hws england #hws british isles #hws ancient britons #hws ireland #hws northern ireland #hws cornwall #hws wales #hws scotland #hws isle of man #hws sealand

[jormvngandrr]

can’t stop thinking abt scott being so goddamn heavy and slamming so hard on the ground when he’s drunk and tumbling… Arthur’s jelly legs are funny as hell and they always have to carry him bc if not he will just fall into bushes like a boneless meat lump, but alistair?? When he falls they just collet his valuables and leave him they can’t carry himmmm

#hws scotland #hws england #hws wales #hws northern ireland #hws ireland #uk bros #hws british isles #toni talks #hcs

[trealamh]

#scoteng #hws england #hws scotland #aph england #aph scotland #hetalia #my writing #scoteng week 2023 #implied fruk #hws british isles

[a-luran]

Ok but the image of Ireland forcefully made mute with blood dripping out of his mouth is hurting me. Unable to speak, sing, whistle, or even eat food properly. That sounds like hell on earth for him and I'm going to go before I make myself sob.

that's exactly what i was aiming for! (here is the og post for reference)

I think that, in many ways, Sean out of all the Isles has a deep love for simple pleasures in a world that has punished him for every kind indulgence he was allowed himself.

When I started actively working on each of their character profiles (the Isles, I mean, with the caveat that I fine tune them I bit when I'm writing different AUs) I think one of the axis that I started to flesh out most was what shaped and continues to affect their relationship to guilt, their basic needs, and pleasure. I could go on ages for each of them but for Sean-- since it's his scars we are talking about here!-- it goes as follows:

I think I have called boldly resilient before, and i stand by it, but I would make the addition that his endurance is not hateful or destructive. It build things; gives life to things. He is the kind of man to sing and whistle from behind iron bars and on his way to the gallows. The kind to smile bloody. Quick to laugh, witty to a fault. Generous and appreciative of generosity to the edge of heartfelt reverence. He is not too proud to take help when it is offered and he is not soon to forget it either. That is a kind of strength worthy of boasting about. I started writing him as a doctor (of many kinds!) across history in part because there is a foundation of folk tradition to every kind of medicine that I think suits his characters (as in his personality) but also because I think he is pragmatic and knowledgeable about what the body needs to survive beyond just bread and water. It is company, laughter, belief, music. To rob him of those things and his sense of community would be the greatest injury; isolation and silence the foulest punishment. He speaks loudly and brashly and cleverly, and so I think that it is what people trying to hurt him would take away first. They would take his hands or his ability to use them second, for all his skills.

Historically speaking i also think that people forget the history of Ireland as it related to early transnational conflict so I think that Sean as a mercenary is not explored often enough. I also don't think it is at odds with any other characteristic I've listed before. They have lived long lives and history seldom allows for peace.

#hws ireland #aph ireland #hws british isles #Sean O'Cleary #or O Cleirigh for the besties #freagradh

[winterwrites23]

I really enjoy your flirting headcanons. I can just say, thats exactly how i would see them as well. (Wales 😂) But now a question came to my naughty little mind: Which one of the brothers would more likely have "the Talk" with Norn and how would they do? Let's say puberty hits him hard, he is completely confused and in a technical (nerdy) way he knows how to do "the do".But now he is completely overwhelmed by his now constantly kinda sabotaging body. (Imagine that over decades ... dear lord...)

The brothers actually talked about it when North looked around early teens and argued on who was going to give the Talk. Mostly because they wanted to avoid that conversation with a 10 foot pole but also because it has been centuries since they went through that phase themselves. So like mature adults, they did rock-paper-scissor and wished good luck to the 'winner'.

I can't decide which one gave North the Talk because each scenarios sound hilarious so I'll let you decide which is the best:

Ireland: Have you ever watched that Irish sex education video from the 80s??? That's it, that's basically how it went but add a lot more of awkward pauses because Ireland kept stumbling over his words and even had to grab a drink in the middle if it to calm his nerves. Both parties almost died from mortification on that day and North couldn't look him in the eyes for over a month (neither could Ireland lol).

Scotland: That man has no shame at all. Despite being a part-time paramedic and knowing all the medical terms, he uses a lot of slangs and crass words. With a deadpan delivery, he would explain the gist of it like a grocery list before slapping a box of condoms on the table, say: good luck! and leave the room. To say North was more confused and grossed out than before was an understatement. 

Wales: Basically prepares a whole seminar with diagrams and pictures. He would show great sympathy for North and reassures him that there’s no shame in it. North would have appreciated the more friendly approach if it wasn't for Wales going off topic by oversharing his own experiences in excruciating details. North may now understand the whole thing, but at the price of knowing his brother's sex life? Not worth it.

England: One would think that having lots of colonies for a time made you great at giving the Talk, but that's a complete lie. He would be flustered the whole time, but would eventually push through it. Similar to Wales, he would talk a bit of his own experiences that can only be sums up as ‘don’t do anything I would do and definitely don’t do anything I wouldn’t do’. Then, with a pat on North’s shoulder, he would make himself a cuppa (with a dash of whisky).

As painfully awkward as it was, North would, after recovering from such a mortifying ordeal, appreciate the efforts his brothers put in. If he has questions, he would first do his own research but if it comes empty then he would probably ask Wales. But not before making Wales promise to not tell him any more stories of his love life.

#hetalia #hws uk bros #hws british isles #hws northern ireland #hws scotland #hws ireland #hws england #hws wales #and when North would be thrown to highschool so he could socialize like a normal teen #he would get even more confused when he realizes everybody keeps talking about boys/girls but he would just be like #I'm supposed to be interested???? #but that's another story for another day lol #thanks for the ask!

[bigein]

You've mentioned being fond of the isles as a polycule a few times, and I was wondering about your thoughts on exactly how that dynamic works

hello! I feel like I should make a more thorough post on my main about how I see them working overall and how i see their dynamic straddling conventional platonic relationships and more intimate ones but since this is the spicy blog where I write filth that would be out of place here so please have some of the aforementioned filth instead:

(caveat: I actually headcanon Wales as various shades of ace which is relevant contextually.)

For Sean it is very much a case of physical attraction and camaraderie with Alasdair, at least. He has a thing for strong, rugged men and the kinship between them reaches so far back between them that the sex probably starts in the way of sharing a tent for the night and “maybe if I’m quiet enough he won’t notice that I’m tugging one out next to him”. They are familiar with each other and comfortable sharing partners or lending a hand but I do not necessarily see them as traditionally romantic. Intimate though, yes, and comfortable without question. Sharing cots and blankets on cold nights, sharing space under the cold water spout before they had hot running water. When it comes to sharing partners especially… hohohoho.

Before getting to that though, dear Wales. Daffyd (I know in naming conventions these days people are leaning towards Dylan or Rhys but I’m still fond of Dai). Out of all of them he is easily the most affectionate; demonstrative and comfortable with touch, he is the kind of man who’ll slip himself onto one of the other’s laps. If he is in the mood it will lead to sex but most often than not he’ll make himself comfortable and nuzzle into the crook between jaw and shoulder for the joy of it. Not a fan of wet kissing or oral but skilled with his hands and a steady fuck.He drags it out mercilessly, do not be fooled. He is cruel (in the best of ways), he can be capricious. He likes things a certain way and he will have anything and everything exactly on his terms. Arthur might think he is the best informed in kink; he is wrong. Daffyd just has one of those sweet dispositions that trick you into a false sense of security. He has at least one large chest of toys and equipment, and half library’s worth of smut. He’d like orchestrating scenes and sitting back to watch them develop before his eyes; would love winding the others up and enjoying himself. His fantasies would be the most elaborate by virtue of all of the above and his approach to sex is probably the lightest in character. He enjoys it and is very good at regulating his emotions around it. He has the clearest boundaries and communicates them the clearest, setting expectations out from the start. 

Individually both Sean and Alasdair know less about the background to kink; I went on more thoroughly on Alasdair’s preferences in that other post but for Sean i actually see him being the most vanilla out of all of them (lately i see vanilla equated with ‘boring’ is very much not the case but that's a subject for another post). Him and Dai do not often have sex outright but they’re very comfortable with Dai’s brand of seeking affection, same as Arthur and Dai. Dai would probably be the most platonic with Alasdair. By contrast, Sean and Arthur clash with each other so much that the sex is more a battle of wits and wills in a very different way than the power struggle between Alasdair and Arthur. I have an old wip I should wip (hehe) up where Arthur is lusting after Sean’s skillfull hands and I think that encapsulates the way I see their relationship best. They love each other but they are not affectionate during sex. Afterwards, well, aye. Sex can soften them, tired and sweaty and stinking of each other. 

I can go on about Arthur and Alasdair until the cows come home so I'll spare you on this occasion.

#hws british isles #this was a very general answer because the question was a bit open #and i ended up focusing mostly on wales ksksks #i have other things to say but they would be out of place in the wfsn blog

[who-parties-on-a-tuesday]

I like the idea that Arthur is an impossible combination of gentleman and feral wild child.

His brothers used to just leave him in woods for hours if he was starting to piss them off (which was often).

He would come back home, covered in dirt with some dead bird in his mouth. Wales used to muzzle him after he tried to bite someone.

After many years, they thought he grew out of it. But on rare occasions, if Francis can push all the right buttons, Arthur will attempt to maul him.

#hetalia #hetalia headcanons #hws england #hetalia uk bros #hetalia british isle bros #it took years to train him #'this is my youngest brother carful he bites' #'just leave him in the woods let nature do it's work' #hws wales #he stopped biting after scotland bit back

[senditothemoonn]

Got a few requests for Ireland and Wales so I thought I’d throw in 4 for the price of 2 and draw some regency boys ✨

#my art #i was trying to do something fun and quirky and sofia Coppola esque with the costumes #idk if it worked tbh #and i thought a lil sgt peppers reference would be fum #fun #hws england #hws wales #hws scotland #hws ireland #alasdair kirkland #aph scotland #aph wales #aph england #uk bros #hws uk bros #hetalia fanart #hetalia #hetalia world stars #hws british isles

[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!

#aph wales #hws wales #hetalia #hws #aph scotland #aph ireland #hws scotland #hws ireland #aph brit bros #aph uk bros #hws british isles #historical hetalia #heroes writes #aph england

[apersonwholikeslotus]

England: If I die, you can have what little I own.

Wales: Wait. What do you mean 'if' you die?

England: My unending existence is fueled by pure spite, that of which the painful experiences of my life have rendered me full.

Wales:

Wales, sighs: Let me call your therapist again.

#aph england #hws england #aph wales #hws wales #hetalia #hetalia incorrect quotes #aph British isles #hws british isles #uk bros

[hetagrammy]

Based on this post

The Tudor Conquest was not the first nor the last time Arthur tempted Molly to commit fratricide

Molly's reaction under the cut

#hetalia #my art #historical hetalia #hetalia shitpost #hws england #hws ireland #nyo!ireland #british isles siblings #he can't even let her have peace during mass #it makes his religious switch within the next few years a little less surprising in hindsight #he's supposed to be a 14-15 year old here so he's especially a little shit

[jormvngandrr]

The British Isles brothers doing the Three Peaks challenge

#hws england #hws scotland #hws wales #hws ireland #hws northern ireland #hws british isles #british isles bros #uk bros #hws #aph

[trealamh]

an excerpt from Border Wars (wip)

- - -

Alasdair rolls them over with a growl, narrowly avoiding an elbow to the face. He throws Arthur down hard, enough that he can hear the air leave his body in a rush. It’s easier to pin him down while he’s too busy trying to catch his breath again. Arthur gets in one last kick before Alasdair presses his knees into his thighs to keep him still.

“I trusted you!” Arthur’s voice is wet and raw. His words nailing his heart with the same accuracy as the punch Arthur aims to the bundle of nerves under his arm.

It sends him pitching forward and he uses the inertia to catch one of Arthur’s flaying arms and hold it fast. “Enough!”

“Bastard!”The sting of Arthur’s nails digging into the scar on his side makes him grunt in pain and he lets go. He digs his right knee harder into Arthur’s left right leg in retaliation.

“Damn you, that’s enough!”

They are both raw and spitting mad; blindly lashing out and aiming low. Hurting themselves as much as the other with every blow. And Alasdair can barely bare it. He is done with the pain, he is done with the anger. He is done with the tension between them, and the softness of a man he should not love. Who has been the only constant to chase after to chafe against, lifetime after lifetime. A breath away, burning with half repressed desire and the guiltless yearning for human closeness. Centuries spent reaching for each other and slashing at each other. These are the hands that held you as you grew; these are the arms that held you as you went cold and still, and quiet in this deafening world. If I lied it is because I love you and I cannot bear to see you go again. If I aim the sharpness of my sorrow at your chest it is only because I hate that I cannot hate you.

Enough, Alasdair pleads with the weight of his guilt.

...and freezes, his hand hovering over Arthur’s throat.

The pale slash of skin where his throat was cut stands out, stark and pale. This morning Alasdair had come close to pressing his lips against it to feel Arthur’s pulse.

Arthur is looking up at him with the glaring heat of heartbroken regret, angry tears running down the sides of his face. Alasdair drops his hand to rest gentle and firm over his sternum, and eases of some of his weight off him.

The lad’s jaw quivers. “I trusted you.”

Alasdair bows his head. “I know.”

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting his head fall until he can rest his forehead on the ground, suddenly exhausted.

#scoteng #historical hetalia #hws england #hws scotland #aph england #aph scotland #hws british isles