Circa 1200; England

Cymru's entire body was covered in a patchwork of bruises, scrapes and cuts; a deep-muscle ache shot through with darts of acuter pain. Their barbs dragged against his skin as he struggled to his feet, and something which wasn't supposed to move shifted sickeningly in his chest, sharp and grating. Cymru swallowed hard, forcing down the rising gorge which was burning the back of his tongue.

"Never raise your hand to me again." England's voice was an acidic sliver of anger slicing cruelly through the otherwise silent air.

Alba didn't answer. He couldn't. Not with the flat of England's blade bearing down on his throat, his chest constricted on either side by the press of England's bony knees. When he opened his mouth, all that emerged was a froth of bloody spittle, borne forth on a rattling wheeze of a sigh.

Cymru had known this day was coming, had warned Alba time and again that England was growing stronger, but his brother would not listen. His brothers would not listen; always needling each other, pushing ever harder when they should be stepping back.

And Cymru should have stepped forward long since to drag them apart, but every movement stretched his raw skin taut, tugging at his wounds, and his breath sat cold and heavy in his breast, like a stone wedged beneath his ribs that he could not shift. The thin trickle of air he managed to force past his lips lay stagnant and copper-tinged in his mouth.

"What was that?" England asked, tilting his head so his ear was closer to Alba's mouth. The stream of blood flowing from his broken nose shifted, following an erratic new course across his smooth, rounded cheek. "I didn't quite hear you, Scotland."

One of Alba's eyes was swollen shut, but the other was still bright and focused, shining with what Cymru recognised as his usual stubborn defiance, but there was also a hint of pride there, and also in the small, incongruous smile softening the line of his mouth. And that pride was directed towards England.

That knowledge cut Cymru more keenly than England's sword had. Although Alba would have doubtless preferred that England always remain subordinate, he was still proud that he had fought back; fought back and won this time. The feeling would probably not last, because England had been vicious enough before, and would likely be outright dangerous after this victory, but in that moment, Alba was impressed with the brother he had always dismissed as a snivelling runt before.

England released the pressure on his sword slightly, obviously realising that its weight was preventing his brother from voicing the words he wanted to hear. Alba gasped when it lifted, and his fingers curled up into claws, catching the edge of England's tunic.

He didn't try and grab England again, nor did he speak. He just laughed, harsh and loud, his face contorting as though the sound was being physically ripped from his body against his will. The world seemed to change with the sound somehow, as though it had suddenly swerved away from its normal path, and Cymru, for no real reason he could name, felt chilled.