Stumbling through the streets of Edinburgh, trying to find his way home, the ground decided to jump up at him and he found himself embracing it with his face. Was it the massive amount of alcohol he'd consumed at the bar or the little something extra his neighbourly bar-mate decided to slip into his drink? By the time that foreign man had shown up, he'd been too drunk to care what that man had slipped into his Scotch. He was a country, what did he care? It wasn't as if he could die.
All he really knew right now was that his head was so full of fog that he couldn't stop the random memories from surfacing. Things that had happened so long ago were overwhelming his semi-conscious mind, coating his heart in icy, gut-wrenching guilt and sending waves of debilitating ghost-pains throughout his body. It was funny in a sick sort of way. People drank to forget their past. This was the very reason he drank as well, but when he drank, his past had a tendency to assault him. So why did he continue to drink? Was it some masochistic sense of remembrance, or divine punishment?
There were hands on his arm, tugging. He wasn't sure if they were real or if they were just illusions of his mind. As he closed his eyes, he saw a young boy with a head topped in bright blonde hair. Brilliant green eyes were smiling back at him as the small figure tugged on his arm. The boy was speaking, but he couldn't hear the words. Suddenly, the tugging on his arm was no longer from the boy. The boy was moving away, giggling, but someone was pulling him back, preventing him from following the child. He tried to call out to the retreating boy, but the words were choked off. As he struggled, he watched the child grow up before his eyes to a young teen. The teenage child was dressed in basic browns and greens, covered in light armour. The look in the child's eyes was one of hurt and betrayal. A wound blossomed along his abdomen, drenching his clothing in blood before the boy collapsed to the ground.
Bright green eyes darted around frantically. He recognized the scene around him. Bodies everywhere, the young boy lying there—bleeding out on the cold unforgiving ground. This was the Battle of Bannockburn. When he'd defeated England and left him lying on the battlefield. He'd been so angry with his brother for betraying him…
The Scotsman knew he shouldn't have blamed England for the actions of his boss. When it all boiled down to it, what were countries but pawns to their own governments? Even knowing this, he still had the capacity to blame England since the boss that had caused all of it was long gone, yet here he was, still under his brother's rule, and he hated himself for that.
Something cold hit his face and he just knew he was drowning. He spluttered and snapped his eyes open, jerking about as if trying to swim. Slowly the blinding light in the room subsided and he realized that he was lying in what looked like his living room back in present-day Edinburgh. His face and chest were soaked with cool water, meaning someone was here with him. Quickly, he sat up and looked around to see the back of a retreating person closing the front door as they left without a word. Blonde hair and green uniform.
"Thenk ye, bro'er." He muttered, though he knew the Englishman couldn't hear him and that was how he preferred it. Neither of them would really admit this moment even happened. This one or the many others before this and the many more that would happen in the future.