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Author's Note: De-anon from Kinkmeme. Sorry I've been away guys D:
Either way, prompt was nation being raised by their national animal and I always found lion&england a bit odd… so I usually associate England with wildcats. Either way here we go. Best to read this after Morrigan though.
Variations.
Rome speaks often of lions; the long tail, the ragged mane, the strong jaw, the paws that can soothe claws through gazelle. England was too young at the time to even ask what a gazelle was, certain it was something terrifying, unique, bold and glorious. Ever watchful of Rome's technique (armoured boxes, and stabs, jabs not strokes of blade) England duplicates the fighting stance, but his is coloured awkwardly with a feral grace. Rome pushes at England's arms, poking the limbs in here and there, pulling the spine straight here and there, pushing his head level because one day this little protegee will not fight people taller than him.
(Eventually, England will laugh at that notion, because he grows up shorter than most of his enemies, and still juts his head slightly upwards when he fights. Exposing his arteries and veins because he must keep his eye on the opponent. Fearlessness in the single curve of a neck, and green eyes daring them to take advantage as he grips whatever weapon he clings to now.)
Rome does not ask him where he learnt his technique, which is tailored to spring and bite and worry at a foe. Instead, Rome pushes little England towards the wall, and England punches it until his knuckles bleed. That night, Rome calls England an angel, though his wrecked fists are only full of angles, and the innate sense that he has completely betrayed his brother Scotland. The shame coils in his gut for centuries, and he finds the best way to deal with it, is to simply avoid it. Most nights, he can't even remember her face, but he does remember that he is not much of an angel - even with her magic pouring through his veins. She promised, green eyes and red curling hair, that she would teach him to defend himself, even when he didn't understand why. Claimed she'd be there forever.
(He doesn't mention her by name; he's not sure he remembers. It would be worse to be wrong.)
She was bound strongly to the corvines, especially the ravens, but also the crows, the magpies, the rooks and reaves. England remembers black feathers - inky like fingers - being twined through his hair. England, on the other hand, attracted the wildcats. They came from the North, and the East, and the everywhere, never more than one at a time, sometimes to leave a little mouse by his feet and sometimes just to curl against him as he slept like a breathing, gently fire.
(Sometimes he eats the mice, because Rome might have; England is eager to impress.)
It is they, with their nail-like claws, and deceptively small stature, arced ears that flick back, and twitching, tabby tails, that teach England how to fight. How to fight, he picks the wildcat up by the scruff, and calls it Lion, because surely this creature is glorious, unique and bold with limpet-like eyes. How to fight, and it feels like it's torn his skin right off. How to fight? Give no quarter. Seize and rip and burn and destroy as hard as you can. His stance is prepared to spring, merciless in approach, and full of jutting bones like a squirming feline, yet equipped with the same grace.
(They say when a human child is confronted with danger, it turns instinctively for assistance, and when a puppy is confronted with danger, it automatically submits to the force, keening for mercy, but when a kitten is confronted with danger, it simply braces its tiny body for impact.)
England braced himself as Rome gutted him with the butt of the spear, and his eyes water; you cannot rebel. England knows that he, with his tiny wildcat claws, and woad-dipped feral anger, had almost dragged Nero to his knees. Later, he crawls to sit at Boudicca's poisoned feet, and asks God to save, please save the Queen.
He's curled up there, like a tiny kitten, and Rome eventually touches him on the head, winning his trust back again. This, however, is not the first time England has crouched by a dead woman, struck by a sudden loss that he's not sure he can hold. Instead, England twisted, this time too weak not to force himself to cling to Rome. They croon at each other in Latin. And the wildcats slowly recede from the British Isles, retreating to isolated pockets. Rome calls England a little lion.
(Years later, England tall, but never as tall as Rome would have hoped, but still an Empire as Rome hoped in drilled Latin and the criss-cross scar of roads, poisoned Queens, stands overlooking Africa. He has claimed a long stroke down Mother Africa's front, pulling her children into an untidy line. The grass is long, and England watches the black, almost brown eyes of the lion in front of him.
It blinks slowly at him.
Glorious, but that was a given. This lion has come to represent England. Yet, when he crouches defensively by the beast, his pose is all jutted clawing limbs, head jutted upwards, and he will find like a small creature. Deceptively weak creature. He will give no quarter, and in a sharp hiss and spit of words, sworn, expletive, England is not a tufted tail, but a tabby one. England is not curved ears, but arching, flattened pointed ones. England is not a tawny pelt, but coloured like loam and brindle and mud after rain. England is not a thick, defensive mane, but a ripple of puffed fur, just daring, daring anybody to take advantage of him.
The lion blinks again, but perhaps it is not a real lion - not a human lion, but a nation lion - for it merely twitches its tail patiently and walks away from England.
England is frozen, aware of the message. Aware, but wishing desperately he wasn't;
You must make peace with your battles.)
Eventually, dragged to the floor by the war machine - twice through the ringer - and loathing, deep loathing from what he gave to Germany - his friends, his fellows, Europe, what France pays for in everything Germany hopes to do to him - and the scarring bombs that sink into him, like rain. For all of this, he is pulled to the floor, by the scruff of his dignity, and the wildcat is all but beaten out of him until he is crying shrilly from economic ruin, and deep rivets in his cities. The Empire is lost, and the influences of Rome are removed, painfully so, until he speaks only corrupted languages, and only builds square houses. The guilt in his gut bubbles and broths.
The lion, that he stood armed by, has taken over a single aspect of him; it has made him tired. He is too tired to clutch his Empire. Instead, he economically collapses against the little chick that defied him once and now peacefully holds him up and stays for once. England has no choice but to trust.
The wildcats have taught England to battle as none can, to defend his island at any cost - in beaches and fields and skies and ashen, burnt-out cities that smell of horror - and the lions have taught England that he must pick his battles, he must find some peace. He must. Or it shall destroy him.
The rain patters, meekly, weakly; England merely grips his umbrella tighter, and pulls his raincoat around him, hurrying to and fro amongst his work and his people.
More than a thousand years ago, two thousand years ago, too long ago, the rain patters just as meekly, just as weakly, steady and thrumming like a heartbeat, or the twist of emotion in England's gut. The little child shakes and shivers, and his forehead burns up, unsheltered from the rain, whimpering.
A single wildcat steps from the shadows of the trees, eyes a bulbous, luminescence, yellow and critical. Angular even. England is full of angles. The feline is full of angles. All fluidly, rain-licked together.
It steps, circling England as best it can, and purrs a warmth into England, and tells him to fight and live through another night, live to another day, and then fight on and on and on.
Nowadays, however, England lazily strokes his pet cat, socks left across the boiler pipes of his cloakroom, and a fresh cardigan nuzzling him in warmth. He sits and reflects on survival, peace, lions, wildcats, Empires, and screaming young children who would do anything to bite an Empire's heart out.
Quietly, he murmurs, that god, please, god save the Queen please. He's not been a Christian in years, really. The cat growls, friendly-like, a single purr knitted straight into England's bones, and England shuts his eyes, at peace, almost serene, angelic really, and strokes the soft fur rhythmically.
He is still a cat, left as a variation on a single fluid theme.
May your quills be ever sharp.