#interesting fact the name arthur dates back to the 9th century

[a-luran]

please talk about scoteng toño my crops are dying and my tea grows cold

Astro noo ;A; yer tea!!! your crops... I am sorry it has been so long. Please take some historical thoughts with my contrition:

---

After the Battle of Otterburn, 1388 AD

-

It is worth less than its waning weight in gold; a waxing sun held in the palm of Alasdair's hand.

"Here," he says and means go. Go south, go home.

Arthur does not move to take it, hands lying limp between his thighs, shoulders splintered under the weight of his coat. He is ash-stained and ashen, the beds of his nails torn and packed with dirt. His knuckles are bruised and split, the wheat-gold of his hair lying limp and muddy, weighed down with sweat and another man's blood. Alasdair is not bearing up much better but at least he is on his feet.

The stench of shit and fear is so thick in the air he'll smell it with every step he takes from here to Stirling.

Arthur stands slowly, like it costs him. For a moment Alasdair thinks his left knee might give, bring him low again, but it holds. He forgets, sometimes, how young Arthur is in the eyes of men. He wonders what they might see in him; if it is anything like the child Alasdair knew before the compulsion to the wills of others made them cruel.

Arthur takes a step, finds his footing, and spits blood on the ground between his feet. Alasdair thinks he might have been aiming for his hand but he can't be sure. Arthur's eyes are dim and slow and it might figure that some of the blood dripping down from his temple is his.

He tries to knock past Alasdair and trips over his own feet when their shoulders meet. Alasdair grabs him by the arm to right him and shoves him forward before Arthur can shake him off. Arthur catches himself against a the ruins of a wall and Alasdair does not know what is worse, the tang of iron in the air or the pit in his chest.

Arthur is sick against the stones, shoulders heaving with the effort, and Alasdair fights the surge of pity in his gut. Arthur pants, coughs, spits again. Alasdair waits it out before reaching for him again, fisting Arthur's cloak with one hand thumping the other against his chest.

Arthur's chin drops to his sternum, an unreadable look on his face. Alasdair hates him, and loves him, and wants to see him gone from this place.

"Arthur." His voice is ragged, hoarse, and barely above a whisper. Speaking Arthur's name is the closest he will ever come to pleading.

He will never know what chit he bargains against Arthur's pride that day but finally, awkwardly, Arthur reaches up to brush his fingers against the back of the fist on his sternum.

Alasdair palms him he coin with halting fingers, hands brushing skin-warm and coarse, and only lets go of Arthur's shoulder when he is sure that he's tucked it away safely. Then he steps away.

Arthur goes without a word, heading south and away. Alasdair lingers, looks west, chasing after the sun and away from the embers that still burn to the east.

It is only long after Arthur has gone and he turns north that he thinks he would have liked to hear the sound of his voice.

#hws england #hws scotland #historical hetalia #;;;;;;;;;;; #i thought i posted this way back but i found it in my drafts so i edited it a little bit #I'M SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG #this is from when i was DEEP in historical coinage and was thinking of interning with numismatics #interesting fact the name arthur dates back to the 9th century #if you know a bit about historical coinage you caught that bit at the beginning about the waning coin hehe #scoteng