Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia in any way shape or form. I only claim the OC representations. Can this first disclaimer just extend to any other chapters I upload after this? Please?
000
The Child is one of Rome's.
He does not trust the Child, if only because the Child is one of Rome's.
He remembers Rome, far too well. He remembers fruitlessly attacking the plate armor only to be thrown against a tree; remembered his mother screeching obscenities and laid curses and swore oaths as the knife was pressed to his neck and she leapt upon Rome like a wolf.
He heard a rumor that Rome was raised by wolves. He speaks and acts as they do, but alone and fearful, plotting and fidgety. No wolf can kill Rome.
But he does not trust the Child-belonging-to-Rome, he does not want the Child on his land and he does not wish to ever see another Child of his own kind, barring, perhaps, his brothers to the west and south. He hadn't seen Áed in what felt like forever, and Lugubelenus has been missing since Arth first ran to Mother, sobbing, bleeding, and sending each of them into a panic.
Arth had been there that day, watching; Arth safe, steps away while he was struggling and biting and pressed against the tree with a knife held to his neck while Rome grinned so wickedly and their mother took the bait. He'd slipped from the tree, taken Arth's hand and run, run as his mother freed him and lunged and bit and tore and screamed and held the army back single-handed.
A month later, he had returned to the site of the battle, with Arth by his side, and stared up at The Tree.
Arth went willingly to the man who murdered Mother, but heswears he will never forgive any of Rome or Rome's offspring, or the ones Rome takes under his wing.
The Child-taken-by-Rome has no place in his lands.
He has a right mind to attack him where the Child stands on the other side of the bushes, petting the speckled horse the Child rides and resting for the night.
He would attack the Child where he sits, but he merely watches, instead.
The Child is looking for him. That much is obvious.
A part of him wants the boy out of his lands. Another wants nothing to do with a messenger of Rome. A third part of him wants to speak, to ask after Arth.
He hasn't seen any of his brothers in a very long time.
So he watches the Child-from-Rome. He watches the Child for a week, stalking about the brush and moving through the trees as silently as the old owl flies. He paints himself to let all know that he does not wish to be disturbed, not to be invited to any villages and not to be troubled by any problems. His present problem is very near and clear, and he is still working out how to deal with it.
He watches the Child for two weeks. The speckled horse is lost— tripping downhill in a ravine and breaking a leg with the Child crushed under it. He watches as the Child kills the horse, cooks and eats its flesh and before continuing on, searching.
For three weeks, he watches the Child.
In the middle of the fourth, the he forgets to account for wet leaves, stumbles and slips on the muddy slope down to one knee, and freezes.
"Hello?" the Child calls. He stiffens where he hides in the bushes. Long moments pass as thoughts race through his mind, debating with the many sides of himself what to do—what should be done— is this safe—
Slowly, very slowly, he emerges from his hiding place, bow strung and arrow in place, string taut. He is as ready as he will ever be when he faces the Child and says the question that's been slowly gnawing away at his insides as he stalked the Child through his lands:
"Who are you?"
And the child answers him, "I am Gallia."
"You are one of Rome's," he says, "Did he send you?"
"No."
"Then why are you here?" He does not lower his bow.
"Britannia told me to send a message to his brothers," Gallia says.
He lowers his bow.
"Cymru is closer," he says, though he hasn't seen Lugubelenus in years and isn't even sure if Rome has conquered him or not, to add to the collection of Children.
"I don't know Cymru," Gallia says. If nothing else, it soothes his worries to know that Lugubelenus is apparently still free.
"Cymru cares more," he says.
"I don't know Cymru," Gallia says.
"Who are you?"
"Gallia," Gallia says once more. "You are Caledonia?"
He pauses.
That's quite the question, though he's not sure if Gallia even realizes it.
Caledonia is one of his names, though he's not too fond of it. It's the name Rome whispered in his ear while taunting Mother with a knife to his neck, the name Arth now probably calls him as in the presence of Rome. It's a name he had no say in.
Some call him The North of Albion, some simply The North. To some they refer to him through his tribes. Some say Pictland, still, though he isn't quite sure if he's that. Dál Riata, if he's actually younger than Áed, though they still aren't so sure of that, either. Or his human names, of which he has hundreds— some used by his mother, others his people call him. Cináed, Ewan, Ailpein.
There is a name that he has that is not for humans, though he feels some time in the future it may be important—it's a name Áed's used for him and Arth, but Arth is Albion, and so he must be:
"I am Alba," he says, "And I am also not one who helps those who stab my back before begging to be saved."
Gallia watches him and for a moment cocks his head to one side and seems to be somewhere farther away than the forest. His hair flops partly over his face. His eyes squint. They're very blue eyes. Alba will never lend voice to the thought that they're a rather nice shade.
"You're a lovely person," Gallia says quite suddenly, falling back to the world so suddenly Alba isn't sure he was ever gone. "Do you try very hard?"
"No, and I don't wish to be lovely," Alba says, a frown fixing over his features. There is something wrong with Gallia, he's sure. Perhaps it's just the smile and easy posture that remind him of Rome, but with the sweet voice of a woman and a flightiness that seems very familiar. He remembers the last time he'd seen flightiness. He'd seen it nailed to a tree and gutted, left to wither and die anonymously and uncelebrated. "I wish to be left alone."
"But I like you," Gallia says, "and I think you're a lovely person."
Alba says nothing.
"I do. I only think really lovely things are lovely, so when I say you're lovely, I mean it."
"Albion ran and built a wall to keep me away," Alba says. "I could not help him if I wanted to. I could sneak into Rome's house, but I won't risk myself. I have children to remember. And Rome will not spare them. I heard about Boudicca. I saw what he did to my mother. I am not Albion— or Brittania, if you prefer, and I do not fool myself by saying how nice Rome will be."
Like Arth did. Like Arth didn't see their mother, nailed to the tree. The image flashes on the back of his eyelids as he blinks, appears as his mother calls out for him when he sleeps at night. It's been years since he saw his family.
Gallia smiles. "I like you better now," he says.
Alba's scowl deepens. "What was Albion's message?" he asks. He does not say he is eager. He does not say he is worried. He simply stands with his arms ready and scowl fixed on his face to let Gallia know not to play with him, though Gallia does not seem to understand that part. Perhaps it's something to do with living alongside Rome; it's not hard to imagine Rome as something diseased enough to be catching.
"'Save me, Rome said he'd be nicer and I miss mummy,'" Gallia says, his voice turning high and squeaky in imitation of Arth's. He rolls back onto the balls of his feet.
Alba feels something black and ugly curl and lodge in his chest. His hands clench into fists and his teeth bar in his mouth. They bar so tightly he has to take deep breaths in through his nose instead before he can release the tension and anger and hate in his arms as his mind screams, I TOLD HIM SO I TOLD HIM SO.
Alba has a temper.
He breathes in, out, and lets it go.
And for the moment his temper is still under his own control. He very slowly tries to unclench his fists, and fails.
"Go back and tell him what I've told you," he says, taking another deep breath and closing his eyes. Perhaps, if he doesn't see Gallia's face, he won't see Rome behind them. He won't see his littlest brother in Rome's clutches. He won't feel the need to grab Arth by the shoulders and shout I told you so, I told you so, you stupid, stupid little leech!, "I can't help him. Nor do I want to, anymore. I could have, but he chose Rome instead of me, and it was his own choice to be a slave."
He might have helped, if Rome hadn't cooed as he lifted Arth up and held him tightly in those powerful arms.
"I didn't choose to be a slave," Gallia says.
"If you don't have another message, leave," Alba says.
"I can't find my way back. It was hard enough finding you in the first place. Can't I stay a while? What do you eat?"
"Romans," Alba says, only slightly lying. Frankly he very much prefers venison, but there's something satisfying about seeing Gallia grind to a halt and stare at him for a good minute before appearing to brush it all off.
"Well, while I'm here I'll cook you food as thanks. How about that? I'm sure you'll like it, I'm told I'm very good at making things taste nice."
Alba rolls his eyes.
Gallia smiles, "What can I call you? Besides Alba. Or Caledonia, since you don't like it. Do you have a name?"
Alba decides then and there that Gallia must simply like difficult questions.
Alba's not sure of that name either, and even if he were, he wouldn't Name himself. There are some names that he's fond of. Some that he allows himself to be called by the people who don't Recognize who he is, or who grow uncomfortable, or what he could call himself around children whom he doesn't particularly want to trouble with such things.
It's still a difficult question, though. A rude and dangerous one.
"I have many names, and names have power here," Alba says, feeling the need to make sure Gallia knows names are usually something to be offered, not begged. Then, he considers his names, and which he is most comfortable going by, before settling on one he's most familiar with. "…but with my children, I am Beithe."
Gallia sticks out his lips and seems to be mulling the letter over mutely, sounding it out and translating it to his own language. "Like the tree?"
Beithe nods. "I was born beneath one," The beithe trees are all around them in the forest. Birch trees. Tall and enduring, shining white in the darkness. He's fond of them.
He waits for Gallia to offer his other name.
Gallia does not, and has apparently not understood the order of things— which isn't particularly surprising, considering who's likely been tutoring him— and so Beithe decides it's all right to nudge him along. "And you? Do you have another name? Or has Rome taken it from you?"
Gallia's blue eyes brighten and he puts a finger to his lips as they curve into a brilliant smile, "You can't tell anyone," he says, "because Rome might hear and then he'd get mad at me."
Gallia began to creep towards Beithe, suddenly leaning in beside him— and Beithe realizes with a surge of lightning down through his gut that Gallia is taller than him.
The golden Child leans down until his breath just brushes Beithe's ear.
"Franciscus," Gallia says, "Because my father will reclaim me when Rome falls."
There is no more Beithe can say to that.
So he says nothing.
He slings his bow over his shoulder, slips his arrow back into its holder, turns, and walks south slowly, allowing Gallia to follow him into the woods.
000
So.
No one really paid much attention to spirals except for two fantastic nice sweet kind anons who I wish I could speak with but can't. I wrote this anyway, because I do love this pairing and really want to spread the love a bit more.
So this is a companion to spirals, sort of, written from Scotland's POV that's going to be in chapters this time! (I bet anyone who even glanced at spirals is going to be really glad that I'm not doing that "cram errythang into one chapter" thing again) As you can tell it starts off as a retelling of France and Scotland's first meeting, but will split off to something else next chapter. This is a little short, I'm not sure what the average chapter length will be, but probably a good few will be a bit longer than this, especially once we hit details.
This is probably going to be non-linear, but I will put any specific dates and times involved in the chapter titles and try to make it apparent in the context itself.
This one will have less France and more other-countries interacting with Scotland for a large chunk of the time, because, well… France and Scotland honestly are kept apart a lot, and I can use Ireland in this one. IRELAND! God, that history is going to be hell to look through. Does anything good ever happen to Ireland besides modern day? At all?
Notes:
Áed – possibly an ancient Irish word/name meaning "fire." Eventually evolves into the name Aiden/Aidan/Aodhàn
Lugubelenus – old Welsh name, possibly evolves into "Llywelyn," which possibly mean 'leader' or 'lion'
Scotland's Many names – the kingdom of Alba didn't actually come around until 900, before then, the only names we have to go on are Caledonia (which is Roman, which Bar doesn't like Roman names) and the tribe's individual names, which we don't even have many of those that we know, but collectively Scotland might have been referred to as "The North" or some variants. Alba started out as a word the Irish called the Scottish, and was later adopted by Scotland when it became the Kingdom of Alba, so we can assume Scotland was at least a bit more fond of the name than of Caledonia att. Basically, Scotland exists at this point, but he doesn't have a concrete name I can use. So we're just going with Alba atm.
(also, I made a mistake in spirals. Barclay would have referred to himself as Alba up until 1200 and just before the Scottish Wars of Independence. I had him stop calling himself Alba a bit early)
England's surrender to Rome – called Britannia by the Romans at the time, the dominant tribes of what is now modern-day England surrendered to Rome after seeing what the Romans did to their enemies (mostly in Gaul though) and joined the empire. Mama Britannia represents all the people who didn't like this plan, and rose up. Rome was good at taking care of rebellions, and England was assimilated much more smoothly than Gaul and the rest of the island.
Boudicca's Revolt – Boudicca (aka Boadicea) was the Queen of one of the dominant tribes of Britannia after Rome's invasion. She was whipped and her daughters were raped by Roman soldiers. So she decided to not take that shit and started her famous revolt. It didn't work (obviously) and Boudicca committed suicide rather than being captured.
Cannibalism in Scotland - only some tribes, only occasionally. And usually doesn't taste as nice as venison.
000
If I made any mistakes, feel free to correct me, but please don't beat my head open.
This story is likely going to be rather non-linear, like I said, so if anyone wants to see any certain events played out, drop a review and let me know about it so I can start working on it!
(and don't worry. I have plenty of 1707 - onward drama all planned out)
