Good morning, good afternoon or whatever time you will read this.
My native language is not English, so please excuse my poor grammar or use of words.
Pairing: Scotland x France
Rating: M
Genre: Fantasy
Disclaimer: France and Scotland belong to Europe, Francis Bonnefoy belongs to Himaruya and Alasdair Iain Kirkland (Scotland) belongs to a user in pixiv. I'll name him this way in this story… Everyone gives him another name.. *le shrug*
The sound of metal smashing against metal was audible all the way. The mercenaries that called themselves the 'Celtic Spirit' fought against a group of lower knights. They had been given the quest by another, higher up knight, who wanted to do some clean up during springtime.
The mercenaries sure had a hard time since their armoury was rather thin and not complete around their bodies. On the other hand, these lower knights had been lazy for training, had become weak, and so had their fortress. The construction was about to fall apart. A few stone walls were still standing tough, but the wood works among there would only work as fire wood.
Their fighting had started in the morning with a tactical move on the side of the mercenaries.
The mercenaries were a group of random people which were led by the 'red fox' Alasdair Iain Kirkland, born from the Highlands in the northern region. That man was a real beast on the battlefield. His sword was about 2 Metres (6 feet) long and weighted a few kilograms (pounds). One stroke and it would cut through steel like a hot knife through butter. Also it was rumoured that he didn't have a soul. Then again he was a good strategist.
Then, after him came the other commanders, the youngest of them being also the youngest brother of the leader who was told to be a bastard. Yet, Arthur Kirkland tried everything to come through. He was a tough working one, who also spent a lot of time on the defensive system of the group of mercenaries. He was a swift and professional archer.
For Alasdair, the battle was definitely taking too long. He didn't want to retreat, but they had to change the situation to their favour soon. The longer a battle took, the more certain it was that they would lose it. He looked around him nervously as he had sliced down another of the knights' henchmen and tried to make another plan quickly. Then he saw someone entering the battle field that clearly didn't belong there.
A man with long blond flowing hair held in a tight ponytail and white silvery clothes rode onto the battle field, past the other fighters like he didn't care at all. The man drew his sword and sliced those that were not the mercenaries of Alasdair's group.
The man's sword cut through the armour of the mercenaries enemies like it was nothing. It didn't even seem to be the work of the sword but the movements of the blonde man seemed completely effortless.
Finally, the siege was in fortune of Alasdair's mercenaries.
The redhead rode towards the man he had been observing for a while. He saw the other stepping from his horse just now and their eyes met. Alasdair swore that these were the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen.
The moment they just looked at each other seemed to last forever – but was harshly interrupted by an arrow that dug itself into the flesh of the mysterious helper.
"Yay, yay! That asshole! We won!", cheered Arthur and hopped next to his elder brother, who in turn just stared in disbelief.
A hard fist collided with Arthur's face. "Ye eejit! Ye dinnae hae tae shoot him! haven't ye seen that he haes helped us!? he seemed tae be oan oor side. …Tsk!"
The redhead was angry. Sometimes he really hated his younger brother. He was still so reckless…The other blonde whose name he didn't know yet seemed to be not too serious injured – Lucky! Because Arthur was quite a good archer. Usually each of his shots were deadly…
Slowly, he opened his eyes…to an unfamiliar ceiling of a tent. He slowly sat up and found himself partly naked and wearing bandages around his torso. His shoulder felt numb.
"Ah, you're finally awake."
The blonde turned his head and saw a man with wild red hair and thick eyebrows looking into the tent. The blonde draped the blanket closer around his shoulders.
"Shhh, It's a'richt. …do ye ken whit a'm saying?"
"…Y-you were one of the mercenaries yesterday."
"Yesterday? ye mean lest week …"
The blonde flinched and looked at the redhead with anger, like it was his fault that a week had passed by without him knowing.
"Aye, it's bin a week sin you're bin wi' us. Mah wee brother shot an arrow intae yer shoulder. It seems that ye won't be able tae wield yer sword fur a lang time. Sorry aboot that."
It was the right shoulder and unfortunately, the man rather wielded his sword with the right hand…
"goddammnit…"
" What's yer name? "
„C'moan, ye kin tell me. A'm Alasdair."
„…Francis."
Alasdair still couldn't help himself but find a strange beauty in those strong indigo blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through him. It made him blush!
"C-c'moan, A'm needin' tae chaynge yer bandages. Ye shuid be braw soon. We an' a' hud tae gie ye some painkillers."
If it had been for the redhead, he'd have someone else changing the bandages. Touching the other – and that was acquired – was something rather uncomfortable. It was awkward, embarrassing… still, the redhead felt himself responsible for the other.
Francis held still during the whole procedure and tried to ignore the small stings of pain that had been hidden behind the numbing and secured feeling of the bandages. The hands of the other had been cool at first but soon warmed up.
For now he simply took the time to look through the tent within his limited movement. He could see his clothes, his bit of armour and his sword. It didn't look like something has been taken away from him.
"… We dinnae steal. Wur mercenaries.", Alasdair said, as he had obviously guessed where his guest had been looking at. "…Weil, efter th' siege haes bin won, we carried oan a bawherr. Ah hud tellt arthur tae tak' care o` yer horse. Arthur is ma wee brother 'n' th' yin wha shot ye. He seems tae be a little…angry whiles. Bit don't worry, he is guid tae animals. He loues thaim."
Then the redhead asked, where Francis was from… if that was not too private.
"I… I have no memory of that. I just woke up some day… with a large hole in my mind and life."
"You are… pretty good with the sword. Why don't you just join us for the moment? Or do you have other plans?"
"No. …Actually… But I won't be able to do anything. You know?"
"Until you're fully recovered I'd like you to be my guest. It's what we owe you, since my little brother has been the one…And you helped us back then. I have heard that you killed a good bunch of these."
"Mmmhm. Why did you fight with them still?"
"…We wantae become knights ourselves someday. 'n' mibbie more… lik' becoming nobles. Maist o' us wur orphans wha knew th' hardships o' living oan th' wynd, sae how come nae pat ourselves th'gither 'n' wirk tae achieve something in lee? …we juist wantae bide in gear some day in th' future. Bein' auld, pie-eater 'n' wealthy, richt?"
"Seems like a good plan."
Alasdair blushed and was rather confused. Why was he talking so much…especially with that stranger here that didn't seem to have a past. Or didn't want to talk about it….? However, the redhead hardly ever spoke that much with his little brother.
The redhead eventually left and Francis quickly got dressed. Once being dressed, he could also go outside… he found himself inside a camp of a huge variety of people. Some seemed like drunkards, other like beggars. There were men of each age; from the 14 year old recruit up to the 70 year old veteran that possibly looked older than he really was. And they were also doing all sorts of things. Some were gathered around a campfire, chatting, telling stories, or just caring about what they had on the fire for dinnertime; others were doing household chores like repairing their clothes or tent since there didn't seem to be any women here… All in all it was a very relaxed atmosphere. Those mercenaries appeared like a very large family instead of an organised war troop.
Out of that chaos came a figure straight towards Francis. It was a young male with short blonde hair and thick eyebrows just like those of Alasdair…and he looked mad and stopped in front of the other.
"L-look… I am sorry, okay? Okay!", came the rude apology.
"Eh…?", Francis just looked confused at the other male.
"I just apologised, alright? Memorise that for in case my blood brother asks."
"…You're a weirdo."
"Not more than you are. What's your name, bloke?"
"…Francis."
"…Francis, conceal that please.", Arthur motioned for Francis to cover his upper body that was still naked save for the bandage around the shoulder.
"I seriously don't know what your problem is. Why are you so rude?", Francis asked.
"…", Arthur looked at the other and tried to calm down… it didn't work. "I …my brother is now constantly around you. It's always all about you. Do you know how annoying that is?"
"Are you jealous? I don't know how it usually is between you two, but now obviously it's your own fault because you were the one who injured me like this. I can't fight how things are."
The young blonde just made an annoyed sound and turned his heel. "Just that this is clear… as soon as you're good, you'll leave us!"
"…We'll see about that."
Francis figured out by talking to the other members of the 'Celtic Spirits' that Alasdair was the leader and had far more to say than the little brother. Which was good.
Now, they slowly packed together and went back onto the battle field, following new missions. Francis would watch guard on the side along with the veterans. These veterans told him a lot on how it all started.
Before Alasdair became the chief of the mercenaries, his father had this role. Alasdair and Arthur were half-orphans now since their father had died in battle. But this was still pretty rare among the mercenary group here. Every now and then they would return home to the north, seeing their mother and the two other siblings that waited there, especially during winter. The rest of the mercenaries would then somewhat cluster around the villages in the north. The villagers didn't mind; they were prepared to have more mouths to feed. In turn, the majority of the mercenaries helped out with their power, fixing things and such.
Some of the veterans then also stayed in the north and would not return to the battlefields. It was then just better for everyone.
It took about three weeks, then Francis started to train his right arm again. He was standing on a hill beside the camp, hidden from view by some trees. He was actually more or less slashing the air with a stick. If that worked out right, he would use the sword that was heavier due to the material.
Suddenly, Arthur appeared.
"I'm here to challenge you. I'm curious what you are able to do in your weak state."
"…I thought you were an archer."
"I also know how to use a sword. Did you think my brother would allow me to only this weapon?", the younger blonde chuckled and drew his sword. It had about the same size as Francis', but didn't look as fine worked. The sword of Francis was a more refined one. The blade was somewhat thinner and the piece between the handle and the blade had ornaments in there.
The metal of their blades collided as soon as Francis had unsheathed his sword. The older blonde didn't know what he had done to the other, but it certainly won't stop until one of them had lost the battle. It was obviously a small fight for domination. Francis found that very silly and uncivilised. Like Stone Age men they had to go about this. Really now…
"At least defend yourself!", demanded the blonde with the thick eyebrows.
Francis noticed that his shoulder still hurt a lot and that he actually was not ready yet to face a battle. Instead he just gritted his teeth and tried to dodge the attacks of the other the best he could. He recognised that Arthur was obviously in his best condition…