He could still remember the tears.
So many tears fell from those bright green eyes. He remembered how his own childish hands – albeit calloused and dirty – tried to wipe them away as he soothed the boy with now forgotten stories and lullabies.
Those faint whimpers of pain whenever the child had accidentally scratched up his knees or when he clumsily bumped his messy haired head against a tree or a rock, he remembered still. He remembered being there ready to reach out. Offering mild jeers (a supposed form of comfort) as the whimpering subsided to a fiery pout when the smaller boy finally sprouted litanies of responses to counter them while their lips curled into a pair of cheery smiles.
Those were the days.
The memories were visible still despite the many years that had passed.
Lingering within the recesses of his mind.
But only barely.
Those are his memories.
Memories of a stranger.
A child.
He could recall the warmth, the comfort and security those smiles gave him – as well as the unexplainable strength to push on.
To fight.
To protect.
Innocent. Carefree. Like sunshine on a cloudy day.
He would die for that smile.
Yet, now, in his times of dark savagery, they screamed to him.
Weak.
Naive.
An easy conquest.
Oh yes, he remembered those callings well.
Far too well.
"Alba?"
He remembered how those wide eyes looked at him with such uncertainty for the first time. A part of him wanted to do nothing but reassure the child.
Fear not. You are safe little one. You can trust me.
But he had said nothing. Such foolish thoughts were trampled upon and muddled by the ever-growing nation within him.
He stepped closer to the wary child – his action mimicked the movements of a hunting beast.
Slow yet precise.
Ready to sprint just in case his prey decided to bolt for safety.
Was he always this diminutive?
This pathetic?
He could briefly recall such musings as he took in the difference between them only to realize that he had grown up.
No longer short or scrawny.
He was stronger now.
Bigger.
Better.
I could protect you now.
A part of him wanted to say but could not. For some reason, an even bigger, stronger, more dominant part of him relished in this discovery, relished on the fact that he could easily overpower such a weak and small being.
A conquest.
He remembered the dark desire and ambition that coiled in his chest as he felt his face split into a grin.
Wild.
Drunk with power.
The child ran – sprinting across the field like a spooked rabbit.
He was all too happy to chase after him as his sturdy legs bolted him through the grass faster than he was ever capable of before.
It was addicting.
The thrill of the hunt.
It consumed him from the inside as he felt his grin widen with dark glee when the once trusting eyes brighten with tears as he realized he was cornered.
Fear.
Realization of the horrors to come.
The little boy frantically searched for a possible escape route.
He found one – an old forgotten trail just by the riverbed where happy memories once laid rest.
And he did nothing but laugh at sight of the running child– it was a sick twisted laugh – because he knew how easy it was to catch up to him once more.
Ready or not, here I come.
He remembered the rush that vibrated through him.
Memories of a conqueror.
Never the conquered.
How his movements once awkward and fumbling became smooth and instinctual. How the once stubby fingers can now grip a dagger with such ease and agility.
I was born for this.
Over the course of the passing ages, soft youth began to chip away from his features, sharpening his chin and hardening his eyes.
Warfare.
Chaos.
He had seen them all and more.
Yet somehow, despite all the glory, he felt a nagging within himself. An insisting absence of something that was supposed to be there but it is not.
Am I forgetting something?
It was a nagging that echoed within him, growing fainter and fainter with every life he had taken.
It faded and faded until there was nothing to remember, even his heart forgot – he was left with nothing but a dark echo of forgotten memories.
He remembered the blood.
Never had his hands felt so warm.
The crimson stains of life were almost scalding – like liquid fire spilling upon his clenched hand.
So this is how a nation bleeds...
It was merely a passing thought. An inconsequential observation.
He barely flinches at the sight of the crying child slumped against him with his dagger lodged deep within the tiny chest. He child was gasping, screaming in pain, for the first time within his long existence, he was actually injured.
Hurt beyond measure.
On the brink of true death.
Their eyes met. Truly meet for the first time in what seemed ages ago. A clash between emeralds, one chillingly cold and dark while the other was bright and alighted with fire and betrayal.
The child's lips move, an old language thought dead and gone.
It was barely a whisper, grabbled by his gasps while he choked on his own blood but somehow, the words were enough to make even his cold sleeping heart bleed.
"I hate you."
And then... he remembered waking up, screaming his lungs out as his bolted up from the furs on which he had slept.
"Albion."
His voice was rough. His throat felt dry and scratchy.
Tears blinded him, choked him as the dreaded memory resurfaced.
His hands burned with his blood.
The burning pair of emeralds that glared and screamed of treachery were seared within his consciousness.
I have hurt him.
He felt sick. The bile rose against his parched throat as his stomach emptied itself while the horrible memories continue to flood him.
No.
Please, no more.
Scotland stared at him. Brief flashes of long buried memories – a small child tripping and bumbling upon pebbles and vines as he tried to catch rabbits and frogs – flew through his mind.
"Albion," he acknowledged, wondering what had happened over the years to make such bright eyes turn dark.
"Angleland. I am Angleland," the boy's eyes narrowed with poison as he edged his sword nearer down his throat.
Cold eyes. Dark and emotionless.
"What happened to you?" he voiced before he could stop himself for this was not the child he knew, this was not the little brother he cared and raised.
This is –
"Albion is dead." The words were spoken in a finality that he did not want tocomprehend.
Dead, he says. Then who is this child standing before him, holding a sword against his neck with such steady hands. Who is this golden haired green eyed imposter that dared to threaten him of all people.
He could feel the familiar rage in him bubble and boil. A growl escaped his throat, savagery in its darkest.
"Put that bloody blade down before I run it through you!" he bellowed.
Nothing but a flicker of emotion dared to mar those emerald depths.
Amusement.
"It that so..."
"Albion, I swear if you do not –"
He was barely even able to finish when he was given a solid kick to the chest, knocking the wind out of him.
Since when did he get so strong?
"Are you daft or deaf? Your Albion is dead. You killed him remember?" The words were heavier, louder through the hacking coughs.
He froze, gritting his teeth as the painful memories dared to haunt him once more.
No! I did not!
You are alive. You are right here talking to me.
How can you be dead?
Denial and frustration threatened to spill from him as he struggled to get up only to be held down by the very ground itself.
Magic, he observed, cursing how he fell for such obvious trickery.
"Hiding behind the fae's tricks are you now! I see you are still nothing but a weakling, Albion!"
It was a punch to the face this time as his gaze met hauntingly familiar orbs of green burning with animosity and distrust.
"Say those words again and I'll make sure that when I cut out your tongue it would not never grow back," Albion, no, Angleland said as he crouched in closer, nicking the Scot's throat with his sword which made the man hiss.
"Albion! What the bloody hell are you doing?"
The boy quirked his bushy brows at the question. A family trait, really.
"Doing what comes natural for us of course."
"What are you yammering about? Since when did being at the mercy of your blade, natural?"
It was technically true. Usually, it was the other way around.
"Is it not natural for us to hunt each other down? I know we have not played this little game for a while but when I was smaller...
Weaker.
"All you dear brothers of mine, simply adored making me as your prime target," the boy sneered, sarcasm thick and dripping from his child-like lips. Despite the years that had added on him, he was still a boy – edging on the years of ten or older but still far too slight to be considered a man, unlike him who looked to be nearing the end of puberty.
"That was just for fun! We never dared to actually hit you," he pathetically reasoned as he tried to ignore the mounting taunts within him.
Liar! You relished it. His tears brought you pleasure.
You are a stronger nation than he is. You are the conqueror and he is your prize.
And how the wheels of Fate had changed.
"Hm...why do I not believe that? Cymru threw stones, Eire shot arrows, there was even the time you three tried to drown me. And let us not forget the time you ran me threw with that bloody dagger of yours." His now dark eyes narrowed at the memories.
Is it all that was left of him?
Twisted images of cruelty and spite.
Did he not remember that it was not all tears for him?
"I was not in the right frame of mind at that time. You should have known better than to seek me out," he argued, only to receive sharp words tipped with finality as its poison.
"Well, I apologize for my foolishness and naivety. Worry not, for I will never make the same mistake of trusting you ever again. I hate you. All of you.
"Now where were we? Oh yes, I was about to cut out your tongue and slit your throat. Besides, we both know you will not die in actuality right? After that, there is Cymru... or perhaps Eire..." Angleland smiled – a false bitter imitation of the past. It was clear – the smile he had once vowed to protect was gone.
Do not do this. You will also hurt as well. Don't!
"Albion. Do not – "
"Your Albion is not here right now. You did a good job in making sure that any trace of that child disappears," he sighed, obviously annoyed by the way he continued to address him.
"Then what? Are you another nation instead? Were you born to take his place?" he growled in anger and fear.
Was it possible that I really did kill him that day?
He could feel the bile rising at the thought of it.
"No. I am he. But in a sense, I am not he. You could say, he became me or I became a part of him. Just as you became him."
It was then he understood.
What drove him to hurt Albion.
No, not only he, but Cymru and Eire as well.
They were nations, their emotions, their acts are not completely theirs, they are influenced by their people and how they felt and wanted. And back then, Albion was nothing more than a land to be conquered.
This was not Albion.
No. Not right now.
This is a nation ruled by the will and desires of his people.
Their actions.
Their ambitions.
They are not his.
"Any last words?" His features scowled with impatience and something else entirely (he did not know what it was but it gave him a flicker of hope).
"Make it quick brat. We do not have all night." He had the audacity to grin, wide and almost feral. There was flicker of hesitation in those green eyes only to disappear when he felt the cold metal run through him.
"I shall see you around, brat," he gasped, he knew this was not their last battle, many more will come. The darkness began to cloud his vision, yet despite the pain and the creeping coldness he felt, all he could think about was that tiny spark within those green depths.
It was a small spark.
Barely there.
But it was enough.
It was enough that Albion still lives.
Still lingering within cruel Angleland's heart.
That knowledge gave him hope, a hope that when everything is over and their people's wishes had finally been abated, they will call themselves brothers once more. A time will come where Albion can look at not only him, but at them with trust once more, unmarred and cleared of that dark hate they had planted. And maybe, as he dared to hope and wish, he will have the chance see that smile once more.
-END-
A/N: Hello, this is actually my first hetalia story, so I hope you readers like it. I apologize for the overlooked grammar errors and the possible OCness of characters. I have absolutely no idea how to do accents so I apologize for the lack of it. I claim no historical events or reference here... feel free to imagine which part of history these little scenes took place. Reviews would be lovely as always. :)
P.S. I don't own Hetalia, if I did, it would have been a lot more angst-filled and serious. Possibly even brutally tragic.