Circa 790
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Nowadays, Francia remembers very little of Albion's brothers, especially those to the north. They remain as nothing more than vague impressions of a coarse voice hurling harsh words towards him over Rome's wall.
The sea voyage is long, however, and Francia's men help pass the time by sharing tales they have heard of those men in the north, hoping to help him patch up the holes time has torn through his threadbare memories.
As the howling wind snaps through the sails overhead and the ship's deck creaks obstreperously below, they tell of wild heathens who prefer to cover their nakedness with paint rather than clothes; who fight more like beasts than men.
They talk of illiterate butchers and barbarians, an unstoppable horde, who strike fear into all who might be unfortunate enough to attract their notice.
Francia does recall that Rome himself seemed reluctant to cross swords with the one he called Caledonia, commending him for his ferocity and bravery even as he cursed the stubborn will that had always checked his emperors' desires to hold Britannia entire.
Their stories do inspire fear in Francia, but it is not the kind that horrifies him. It's a fear that makes him shiver with delicious anticipation and fills his nights with dreams of a man with wild eyes and an even wilder temperament; a darkly handsome man, strong in both body and conviction.
When he finally does get to set eyes on him, however, Alba disappoints every one of Francia's hopeful imaginings.
He appears no older than Francia himself, little more than a boy, and though his eyes and hair are both dark, they're also dull and coarse. If he is handsome, Francia has not had chance to notice, for Alba keeps his head perpetually bowed as he dashes hither and thither about his king's hall, forever one step ahead of Francia, and either too busy or too ignorant to extend so much as a greeting.
His impressions are not greatly improved even when he has the chance to make deeper acquaintance with the other nation. Alba fumbles the most basic niceties, and the few words they share with one another reveal only that Alba's Latin is rough and he has no talent at conversation, just as the jagged lump of wood he thrusts into Francia's hands as they talk shows he has no talent at whittling, either.
Jagged or not, Alba appeared eager that Francia should take that poorly hewn wood as a gift when he leaves again for his own country. The offer, however, tempted Francia so little that it had entirely slipped his mind by the time he does depart Alba's land.
As Alba had proved himself only slightly more interesting than his ham-fisted attempts at carving, he too is quick to fade.
Francia does not think of him again for many years.
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24th September, 2009; London, England
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There is little that makes Wales feel as insignificant as interacting with nations who are unrelated to him.
Once the EU meeting finally finishes – over half an hour later than he had been lead to believe it would – and its participants start trickling out of the conference room, he is subjected to a seemingly endless stream of suspicious or just plain puzzled glances as they pass him in the corridor outside.
Part of Wales wants to scream at them that he has just as much right to be there as any of them; that he would in fact have been in that very meeting having his will to live slowly sapped away by Germany's endless speeches right alongside them if only England wasn't such an unconscionable arse.
But the majority of Wales is reasonable, and so understands that most of the nations looking at him as though he's some strange interloper into their circle can't be expected to remember him as they've probably only met him once or twice in their entire lives before, and the rest of him is always scrupulously polite, so he just nods, smiles, and sends the odd 'Hello,' or 'Good afternoon' their way.
Eventually, only France and England remain in the room by Wales' count, and indeed if he strains his ears, he can faintly hear the gunfire clip of England's voice, clearly annoyed, given the rapid tempo of his words, but muted still, likely due to some small measure of embarrassment about being drawn into an argument in a public place, where there's a chance of him being heard by the hotel's staff.
That embarrassment, however, is doomed to be of short duration, Wales fears; a feeling that only escalates exponentially when he catches enough of France's response to notice the languid way he drawls out 'Angleterre,' at the end of it.
It sounds scornful and dismissive even to Wales' ears – which are infinitely less biased than England's – and liable to get France punched if England is left to his own devices.
Wales hurries to the conference room door and pokes his head around it just in time to see England shifting his body into a fighting stance. "Lloegr," he barks out, startling his brother into dropping the hand he was in the process of raising. "Are you ready to go?"
England blinks at him slowly, seeming puzzled. "Go where?"
"To lunch? You said we should meet up here after I finished my meeting with the PM? We talked about it on the phone? Yesterday?" Wales clarifies, hoping it's simply adrenaline and fury clouding his brother's brain, because the alternative is…
That his own brother has forgotten about him, too, which, to his embarrassment and irritation, does indeed seem to be the case, given the way England flushes, and squirms, and splutters something almost unintelligible about making plans with Prussia.
Before Wales has chance to give voice to any of his displeasure about being passed over in favour of someone that England himself admits he only spends time with out of force of habit, France pushes himself away from the table England had backed him against and slides over to Wales' side.
"You go and keep your date with Prusse, Angleterre," he says with a smirk, slowly but firmly linking his arm with Wales'. "I'd be more than happy to take care of Pays de Galles for you myself."
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Circa 850, Scotland
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Francia has found that Alba doesn't impress on longer acquaintance, either.
He had heard tell that Alba is an expert fighter, but having wasted most of an afternoon watching him swing his sword, Francia's beginning to suspect that his supposed prowess might well be a fanciful invention of his people; an exaggeration born from nothing but love and loyalty.
Alba's opponent is his brother Cymru, and an unworthy one, it seems, for even this feeble display of swordsmanship.
Francia has seen Cymru hit targets little more than a hairsbreadth thick with his arrows, but he seems clumsy without a bow in his hands; his every step stripped of all grace as he lumbers around the small woodland clearing Alba had chosen for their practice site.
He swings his sword so slowly that Alba barely has to move to dodge it or lift his own sword to parry it. Francia would think that Alba was simply toying with Cymru was it not for the deep look of concentration that sits heavy on his brow, narrowing his eyes to mere slits, suggesting that winning the fight is demanding a great deal of thought on his part, despite appearances.
Nevertheless, he does manage to land Cymru on his back for a third time, with nothing more than a languidly hooked leg and glancing blow to the shoulder, holding him there with the point of his blade, pressed against the hollow of Cymru's throat.
Cymru struggles slightly against the pressure – his arms and legs both twitching feebly – but he seems unable to gather the energy to push it away.
"I yield," he says, his plain, round face as red and shiny as an apple with the effort of panting out the words.
"Yield?" Alba repeats derisively. "Already? We've hardly even started."
"But I can't…" Cymru closes his eyes and swallows noisily. "I can't…"
"'I can't' won't get you very far on a fucking battlefield," Alba sneers. "You won't always have the advantage of higher ground, you know. You're going to be cut to ribbons one of these days."
"I do know, brawd, and I'm sorry. I'll try harder next time, I promise," Cymru says, sounding contrite, and then he offers his brother a feeble smile. "Maybe Francia could give you a better fight now?"
Francia would gladly take up Cymru's dropped sword, but Alba dismisses the suggestion in an instant, claiming exhaustion; an unconvincing excuse given there doesn't appear to be so much as a single bead of sweat besmirching him.
The more plausible explanation, Francia suspects, is that he is afraid that a more accomplished sparring partner will throw his own deficiencies into yet starker relief, and thus embarrass him in front of his brother, who obviously holds his meagre skills in more regard than they deserve.
It is a disappointment, too, in its way, but Francia has discovered that each time they meet simply serves to pile fresh disappointments on top of the old, their number apparently unending, and so it comes as no great surprise, unfortunate though that might be.
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Notes:
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- All of the unpleasant descriptions of the Picts are taken from various biased Roman sources and the like.
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- This fic will give a France focus on most of my Scotland/France fics set pre-Love is a Verb (with some other time periods scattered in and amongst) as well as the time frame of that fic. This part covers the first couple of sections of How to Build.