1707; London, England

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"What do you think he said then?"

As England and Scotland had been pitching their argument back and forth between each other with such volume and violence that it had sent the servants scattering for cover and set all the neighbourhood dogs to barking, Wales' closed chamber door had provided no protection against hearing each and every word of it.

Nevertheless, he knows that answer will not please his brother. Scotland would rather he pretend ignorance, because conversation is not the reason he sought out Wales' company.

Wales, therefore, simply shakes his head.

"He said I couldn't possibly understand the 'complexities of the situation'." Scotland recounts England's words in the tones of a querulous child, which, although a little unkind, is not entirely divorced from the truth as Wales heard it. "Might as well have called me a fucking simpleton."

The fact that he didn't had actually been a demonstration of remarkable restraint on England's part, Wales thinks, given that Scotland had been goading him to say exactly that at the time.

He knows that any praise of England's virtues, no matter how faint, will be met with stony silence at best and angry accusations of unthinking sycophancy at worst, so he merely offers Scotland a sympathetic wince.

Scotland accepts it with a curt nod of his head, and then begins pacing the length of Wales' bedchamber again. He has never been a graceful man without the limbering influence of a blade in his hand, but his clumping seems to be especially exaggerated now, perhaps because Wales' room is situated directly above the parlour, to which England has doubtless retreated in order to lick at his wounds.

Each step Scotland takes is flat-footed and unnecessarily heavy, and the impact seems to reverberate along the full length of the floorboards. Through Wales, too: juddering up his spine and spreading out from the base of his skull in pulsing waves.

He has a headache more often than not these days.

His brother makes three turns before pausing, hands balled into fists, and growling out, "And then he told me that I'd 'disgraced myself' at court this afternoon. Said I looked like a 'tatterdemalion beggar'."

As Wales suspects that Scotland has not changed his dress since his return from the palace, he feels as though he must agree with England.

Scotland's stockings have been darned many times, his coat repeatedly patched, and his breeches are thinning at the seat. Wales can only hope that Scotland discarded his wig immediately upon his return to the house, as is his habit, and had not compounded injury with insult and visited the king bareheaded.

For reasons he refuses to divulge even in the face of England's most scathing censure, Scotland refuses to wear any of the clothing that England had – at great personal expense – provided to replace the threadbare wardrobe Scotland had brought with him when he joined their household.

Were he ever invited to join his brothers in their official duties, Wales suspects that he too might be a little shamed by the poor state of Scotland's dress. As he cannot rightfully claim those feelings, though, he does not voice them.

Scotland neither berates nor questions his silence, but then Wales has come to believe that his brother would conduct himself in just the same way if there naught but a wooden puppet in Wales' place to listen to him talk. Truth be told, Scotland might prefer such a thing, as a puppet could be trusted to never hold any opinions of its own and yet made to nod in all the right places, besides.

"Tell me again why I shouldn't kill him, Wales."

The mention of his name, however, signals a change in Scotland's expectations. It is not simply permission to speak; it's a demand.

"You would find yourself in a great deal of trouble. Also, it's impossible."

It hasn't even been six months, but Wales has already lost count of how many times he's repeated the same advice. Scotland laughs in exactly the same way each time: breathlessly gasping as though he has been shocked anew upon hearing it.

He laughs thus for so long that it must make him lightheaded, for his face pales and he starts to sway a little on his feet. Before he can fall, he sits down heavily on Wales' bed, and then clutches his head in his hands.

The first time this happened, Wales had felt quite proud of himself as Scotland had not often found any humour in his jests before. Now, he finds it nothing short of horrifying, as it's become clear that there's no amusement in Scotland's laughter, only desperation bordering on hysteria.

Observing his brother's hunched shoulders, Wales wants to lay a hand to them in the hope that it might help ease some of the tension that is so obviously knotting the muscles there. Scotland's reaction to his touch on his first day at the Buckinghamshire estate had taught him, however, that it was no more welcome now than it had ever been when they were boys together.

In order to distract himself from his disagreeable impulses, Wales returns to his desk and picks up the quill he had dropped when Scotland first burst into his room. He dips it in his inkwell, holds it poised above his thin sheaf of paper, but, try as he might, cannot regrasp the thread of inspiration that had woven its way through the first two verses he had written there.

He had been so glad of it earlier, no matter how brittle and slight it had proven to be, because it had been many weeks since he was last inspired to create anything. Where once his mind had teemed with so many words that he scarce had enough hours in the day to record them, there is now only the voiceless aching.

He follows Scotland's example; props his elbows on the desk top and lowers his head into the palms of his hands.

It's difficult now for him to remember why he ever thought there would be any prospect of happiness in his older brother joining their household. The change did not seem so jarring whilst they remained at Buckinghamshire, with its many acres of grounds and scores of rooms, but in the close confines of England's London home, it's difficult for Scotland and England to put as much distance between themselves as they seem to require.

Wales had grown used to – if not precisely content with – his life with England before Scotland's arrival. He had very little to fill his days other than his quiet pursuits and pastimes, had little company other than his own, but he'd learnt long ago to find that state of affairs peaceful rather than tedious and lonely.

In a few short weeks, Scotland had shattered that peace – Scotland with his loud feet, loud voice, and his damnable need to never allow England to have the last word – and Wales fears that he will never be able to regain it whilst they're all forced to live under the same roof.

He has begun to wish that he'd never advised Scotland to direct his scathing comments towards England instead of punching him.

Punching, he thinks, would at least have been quieter.
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1715; Buckinghamshire, England

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Scotland relentlessly prowls the limits of his confinement like a caged animal; claws unsheathed and snarling.

The servants all avoid crossing his path, and the guards set at the front door and the end of the formal gardens are all scrupulously polite and deferential towards him whenever they have to bar his way.

But, even so, they never step aside, even when Scotland growls threats at them in frustration. He has yet to lash out at them, nevertheless, and not because all of his weapons have been confiscated and locked away out of his reach. He stays his hand because they are human and simply acting under orders.

As the King and his advisers do not comprehend the nature of their kind, they do not trust Scotland to keep his word. England has done nothing to correct their misapprehensions.

Wales too takes care to keep from attracting his brother's attention, scurrying from one end of the house to the other whenever he hears Scotland's tread growing near.

He has always managed to stay one step ahead before, and he curses the beauty of England's roses now, because he's certain that if their leaves hadn't been quite so lush and well-tended he wouldn't have become so distracted that he didn't hear Scotland's approach until it was too late.

Without pausing to give so much as a 'good morning', Scotland says, "I should be there with my people. For or against, I don't fucking care, but I should be there."

Wales knows that Scotland's head and guts must feel to be tearing themselves in two, as always happens when the loyalties of one's people are divided, and he understands full well the need to be amongst them. That never fades, no matter how many years pass or laws are written.

He understands, but he can give Scotland nothing more than his empathy, and his brother has never met that with anything but scorn. There is no material aid he can offer, and he can no more countermand the King's wishes than Scotland can himself.

For the first time in years, his lack of a response obviously angers Scotland. His teeth bare in a sneer.

"I don't know why I thought it would be any use coming to you," he says. "You don't care that we're in a fucking prison, do you? I don't suppose you've ever even thought about trying to escape, have you?"

By the time Wales joined England's house, there had been no legal distinction between his own country and England's, and so he had already begun the slow process of accepting that he would likely wither and decay like some useless appendage of his brother's. He had neither the will nor the presence of mind to resist the limitations on his movements put in place in those early years. By the time his strength returned, his compliance had ensured him the privilege of visiting his country unaccompanied from time to time, as he was trusted to return without the need of force.

And he always did return, because although his people might survive and his lands might be intact, they were no longer truly his, and the absence of that tie hurt his heart just as much as his exile ever had.

He feels as though he no longer has a home anymore, and it makes no odds to him where his body resides. It is easier – both politically and personally – to remain with England, however, so he does.

Scotland snorts derisively. "You've always been far too soft, Wales," he says, "but you used to have a little bit of fire in you. There were few who could match you in a fight when you were backed into a corner, if I recall."

"That was a long time ago, Scotland." Long enough that Scotland's memories have become a little muddled, it seems. "And I'm a different person than I was then."

"Aye, you are, and more's the pity."

Given the way he spits the words, and the fierceness of his glare, Scotland clearly intends for his observation to wound. Once, it might have, but that was also a long time ago.

If living with England has taught Wales nothing else, at least he now knows how to let harsh words wash over him without letting himself feel their sting. Besides, even as a child he'd known that Scotland had little love for him and even less respect.

It comes as no surprise that those convictions must have strengthened over the years; been tempered by his belief that Wales had meekly submitted to his current position without either complaint or regret. Nor has Wales ever allowed himself to think that Scotland ever came to him nowadays for any reason other than his obvious need to have a ready ear to listen to him talk from time to time.

Thus his only regret when Scotland storms back towards the house – without a word of farewell – is that, even in performing this role, he had still been unable to ease his brother's mind at all.
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Notes:

- In 1715, the Jacobite rising began. This was the attempt by James Stuart to regain the British throne for the exiled House of Stuart.