Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia. Wish I owned England though. (:
Arthur was his first love.
England (Albion) still remembers his first king (how could he forget?) out of the clouded mists of time.
He remembers a sideways grin, a glimpse of blue, freckle-dappled cheeks.
He remembers two scrawny youths, weighted down by ill-fitted, bulky armor, laughing as they clashed with long sticks in the long grasses of the moor.
He remembers fumbled fingers, a brush of hardened calluses across his back, a soft fluttering kiss behind his ear.
He remembers the burning, bitter jealousy clawing at his throat and chest as he watched Arthur (his Arthur) lift Guinevere's hand to his lips and the softness in those eyes (that was for him, only him). He didn't speak to his king for a while. He's still not sure whether he ever forgave him.
He remembers the guilty, bubbling, warm (it shouldn't have been) feeling that pooled in his stomach when he glimpsed Guinevere (not his queen, never his queen) in the orchard, long raven locks entangled with blonde– a straw-hued shade that was certainly not Arthur's.
He remembers the blank, numb feeling as he watched Mordred's sword plunge into his king. He remembers that stark color on his hands, deep deep red against his skin. For all his empire and power, he's still not entirely comfortable with the sight of blood.
He remembers the twisted, hopeful, despairing knot in his heart as he clasped Arthur's hand (for the last time) as he lay in the barge on the lake with Nimue quietly by his side.
"My Albion," Arthur murmured, running a finger down his cheek.
"You will return (you must), will you not?" He whispered hoarsely, teeth clenched.
"He shall return in your time of greatest need," Nimue said as she sheathed Excalibur.
"You will." He asked, turning a question into a request.
"Yes," Arthur smiled faintly.
"I bind you to that, Arthur," he leaned forward and stroked his king's forehead. "I give you my name to keep and I in turn, shall hold yours until the day you return to claim it," he murmured, lips against skin.
When he faces Scotland across the battlefield one thousand years later, he is unfazed.
"Albion!"
His eyes gleam as his sword thrusts into his brother's side and the (lovely) sound of ripping flesh and fractured bone.
His grin is all teeth as he leans over his brother's confused (fearful) face and whispers,
"Cruithintuait."
When he captures Ireland one hundred years later, he laughs.
"Albion!" His brother spits in his face, expectantly.
"Iouernia," He replies pleasantly.
Arthur relishes his brother's expression (you think they'd have learned) as he allows the fae to take the prisoner away. He has won.
A/N: First time ever writing a Hetalia fic. Love the series and fandom to death but never had the guts to try. Personally, this chapter felt rather clunky and I'm not terribly happy with it.
Historical Notes:
The historical basis of King Arthur is widely debated. For my part, I'm taking the old legends and myths, specifically Y Gryddon and setting him somewhere in the 6th century. He is supposed to return in England's "darkest hour."
Albion is an archaic name for England, meaning "white."
Cruithintuait is an archaic name for Scotland.
Iouernia (or Irwenia) is an archaic name for Ireland, used by Ptolemy in his Geography.
The Kingdom of Britain and the Kingdom of Scotland were officially joined in 1707 to form the United Kingdom of Great Britain, but for my purposes I'm taking the date 1603, when James I took both the English and Scottish throne after Elizabeth I's death, thus personally unifying the two kingdoms.
The Kingdom of Ireland was joined with the United Kingdom in 1801 by an Act of Union.