Rated for violence and Wales' filthy mouth. I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia. If I did you can be sure that Wales-tan would have appeared by now. And the Holy Roman Empire/Germany question would have resolved itself already. Being a story of Wales, there will be Welsh used. Translations will appear at the end.
At quick note before starting, Wales' human name, Gwydion, is pronounced GWID-yon.
December, 1282
The severed head had been sent to London from Anglesey and brought across his territory, both old and new, preserved in a cask of brandy. Now Arthur watched them bring it down from the pillory, still with the crown of ivy wrapped around its forehead.
"See?" he says to the nation standing next to him, "A Welshman was crowned in London, after all."
Gwydion stirred listlessly. His eyes, the same colour as Arthur's, were glassy and his pale skin was flushed. He'd been getting steadily worse as they'd left his house behind and England wondered whether it was leaving his native land that was causing it. Or was it the English soldiers that were even now taking the last of the Welsh land?
"Dw i ddim yn gallu siarad Saesneg," said the dark-haired nation. Arthur frowned, seizing Gwydion by the shoulder and forcing the other nation to look at him,
"Look here, Gwydion-"
"Peidiwch â enw defnyddio! Rwyt ti wedi ddim braint!" snapped the Welshman with some of his old fire.
"Wales, then," growled Arthur, "You saw what happened to your precious prince didn't you? What gives you the right to stand here like this in my home after that?"
It had been raining for hours and with the sun slowly sinking below the horizon it was only getting harder to see. No matter. The battle was long since over and the last dregs of the Welsh army had been cut down or had fled.
Mortimer was more concerned about Llywelyn, no one had seen the prince at all, either amongst the dead or the tiny groups of fleeing Welshman, and he had sent his men out into the wilds to track him down. For his part Arthur Kirkland was wondering where his older brother was. Gwydion ap Bledri with his savage war-paint, green eyes cold among the loops and whorls of blue and black as their eyes met.
England gritted his teeth, drawing his cloak tighter against the freezing winter rain. Gwydion had been riding beside Llywelyn. Where the prince was the nation would not be far behind.
"England," a soldier had approached, bowing to his country, "we've found them."
"Celwyddwr. Y bastad. Corris. Twll dîn pob sais!"
Arthur slapped Gwydion across the face, the red mark he made almost invisible against that sickly flush,
"I don't want to hear another word of that. It's English from now on – not this phlegmy excuse you call a language."
In retaliation Wales spat in England's face.
Llywelyn had become separated from his army. He and his retainers had been heading for the mountains when English soldiers had ambushed them and driven them into the forest. They would have gone for Llywelyn first, thought Arthur and as he drew closer he saw that he was right.
Llywelyn, prince of Gwynedd, ruler of Wales, lay in the mud, one hand clamped against his side. The other hand was being gripped by a lone retainer. Arthur thought he knew who it was. A pale face, surround by long curls damped down by the rain, turned to face him. The nation of Wales, still adorned with war paint, snarled at his younger brother,
"Cnycha bant, y bastad sais!"
Arthur inclined his head mockingly,
"Wales."
"Fy enw i yw Cymru!" the older nation went to rise to his feet and several soldiers went for their swords before Llywelyn held his country back, jabbering at him in their barbarian tongue.
"The nation of England I presume?" said the fallen human in serviceable English.
"This could have all been different. You could have been in an estate in my house, without this senseless loss of life, if only you'd accepted my king's terms."
"I could not abandon my people. As I told your king, my ancestors have protected them since the days of Kamber, son of Brutus," he shook his head sadly, "I am sure you can understand such a thing, England."
"As I'm sure you can understand what I must do," England gestured to two soldiers who each took one of Wales' arms and dragged him back. The dark-haired nation made to resist but a few soothing words of Welsh from Llywelyn made Gwydion obedient.
Arthur moved to Wales' side as Llywelyn was pulled to a kneeling position, the blood that must be pouring from his wounds lost in the dark and the rain.
"Llyw? Llywelyn?"
As the edge of the sword was pressed to Llywelyn's neck England was ready, grabbing the other nation before he could return to his leader. A heart-rending scream tore its way from Gwydion's throat, mingling with his repeated denials, his hands reaching for his fallen monarch.
The deed was done and Wales fell limp in England's arms. Believing the fight to be gone from the other country Arthur loosened his grip. He did not expect Gwydion's head to snap backwards, catching the blond nation full in the face and making him stagger back. He got hit a few more times before the soldiers pulled Wales away.
"Pam? Rwyt ti wedi cymryd Powys. Rwyt ti wedi cymryd Cerdigion ac Gwent. Pam Gwynedd hefyd? Dw I ddim yn deall! Pam?" shrieked the Welshman, struggling even against the grip of three soldiers.
England shrugged off his cloak, discarding the soaking material,
"It is no concern of yours."
His mailed fist drove itself into Gwydion's stomach. Winded and released from the soldier's grasp the older nation fell forward to the ground. Next there came a heavy boot in the ribs. Another in the hip. As the kicks rained down, the dark-haired Welshman tried to scramble to safety. Mud plastered his long hair to his back and cloak and smeared across his face like another layer of war paint. It even mingled with the spilt blood of Wales' last prince.
Fever burnt deep within him and his body shook like that of a palsied old man. The fighting and the beatings had taken their toil on Wales' body. The physical side of things at least. Equally broken was his heart, by the death of his prince and by the all-consuming hiraeth.
This was not Gwydion's home.
He wanted to run back home but he was so weak now. He didn't even have the strength to rage at England or even snap his teeth at him when he mopped his brow and forced water past his lips. England sat with him, speaking with him of all his plans for him.
"You'll have to cut your hair of course," Arthur touched the long, dark strands as he spoke, making a face at how soaked with sweat it was, "and don't think I've forgotten about the language. Everything has to be in English now, that's the only way we'll be united."
United, that was a laugh. That thought must have shown on Wales' face because England had leant closer and was whispering urgently to him,
"It's true. Once I bring the others around to the idea we'll be one country, one strong country instead of lots of weaker ones. Then no one will take advantage of us. No one."
Arthur smiled when he finished this. Wales did not notice. England had said others. And that could only mean…
To the north, the red-headed man, clever and cunning, just at home amid the wild mountains as Wales. To the west, a land of poetry and another flame-haired nation.
His little brothers.
"Iwerddon… Yr Alban…"
"You mean Ireland and Scotland, of course," said England, a smile on his face, "No talking now, you need your rest."
Wales closed his eyes, not because he wanted to obey his conqueror but to conceal the tears that threaten to spill from his eyes.
Translation Notes:
Dw i ddim yn gallu siarad Saesneg – I don't speak English
Peidiwch â enw defnyddio! Rwyt ti wedi ddim braint! – Don't use that name! You have no right!
Celwyddwr. Y bastad. Corris. Twll dîn pob sais! – Liar. Bastard. Cunt. An arsehole every Englishman!
Cnycha bant, y bastad sais! – Fuck off, English bastard!
Fy enw i yw Cymru! – My name is Cymru! (Cymru being the Welsh for Wales.)
Pam? Rwyt ti wedi cymryd Powys. Rwyt ti wedi cymryd Cerdigion ac Gwent. Pam Gwynedd hefyd? Dw i ddim yn deall! Pam? – Why? You took Powys. You took Ceredigion and Gwent. Why Gwynedd also? I don't understand! Why?
Hiraeth – There's no one-word equivalent in the English language. Hiraeth is the longing for home, a more serious version of home-sickness.
Historical Notes:
In 1282 the English took the kingdom of Gwynedd, the last of the Welsh land not under English control. To this day Wales is known as England's first colony. Llywelyn the Last was indeed offered a substantial estate in England if he gave up his lands to the English. He refused using the exact words above. It is recorded that he was invited to speak with the English generals before the battle when the English army attacked. Llywelyn was then either cut down by a single horseman or separated from his army and killed later. His head was brought to London and after being taken down from the pillory was displayed on the gate of the Tower of London for fifteen years.
I hope that you have enjoyed my first Hetalia fan fiction and have learnt a little something about my country. Please let me know if you have any criticism or suggestions.