England: Arthur; 1536 – present
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Scotland was wrong. It's nothing like a wedding.
There is no ceremony, no vows exchanged, none of the pomp and circumstance that Cymru had half expected. Instead, there are simply two pieces of parchment which England brings back from the Palace of Whitehall a sennight after their houses were joined together.
"The King wants me to sign these?" Cymru asks.
"His chancery do. The King –" England swallows hard, his throat clicking dryly. "I was not admitted into the King's presence today."
"I see," Cymru says flatly as he unfolds the creamy sheets upon his narrow desk and then smoothes them with the back of his hand.
Strictly speaking, this is little more than a formality, and he's only confirming in ink that which has been true in spirit for over two hundred years, but it still stings that the loss of his freedom will be marked by nothing more than a few scratches of his quill.
Cymru slowly picks his way through the first document, sounding out the more unfamiliar words repeatedly until he's sure he has the full sense of them. English still does not come fluently to him, especially the reading of it, but it's a skill he has reluctantly admitted he must perforce learn, and quickly. There will be other documents in the future, other royal decrees, and he does not want to be beholden to England's own translation of them. He would like to trust his brother, but experience has taught him that that's a naïve hope, at best.
"Sign here," England says when Cymru has finished his reading, pointing to a small blank space at the bottom of the page.
Cymru's fingers tremble slightly as he reaches for his quill, and the sharpened tip rattles against the side of the inkpot when he dips it. The words he is putting his name to are nothing more or less than those he has already agreed to, the promises he has already made to their King, but there is ancient magic invoked in names and the writing of them. Ancient and binding.
He puts quill to parchment because he can't not, but England knocks his hand aside before he can finish forming the 'C'. "Not that one," he growls.
It's something of a relief, no matter how much that other name grates on his every nerve and sinew, a nagging itch in his mind, because it is not his. He does not own it, will not accept it, and consequently it can have no power over him. He signs 'Wales' easily, then, finishing with a flourish.
England smiles faintly, and slides the second piece of parchment across the desk. "It's the same as the other, but you're to sign it with your human name," he explains when Cymru's face falls, dreading the prospect of struggling his way through yet more cramped and needlessly complicated English. "For the public record."
England's name is already inscribed there: Arthur Kirkland. Cymru has to read it three times just to ensure his eyes aren't playing tricks on him. The letters remain resolutely the same.
He doesn't realise that his hands have formed fists until England touches his arm lightly, drawing his attention to how tightly the muscles there have clenched. "Wales, I –"
"I can understand wanting to change your name," Cymru grinds out through teeth which have involuntarily set just as firm, "but why that one, out of all that you could choose?"
England looks almost chastened, but it's only for a moment, and then he draws himself up haughtily, arms crossed over his chest like a shield. "Why shouldn't I?" he asks.
It has been a long time since Cymru last struck his brother in naught but anger, but he is more sorely tempted to do so than he has been for many years. He takes a long, deep breath in a, mostly unsuccessful, attempt to centre himself, and hisses, "Because he was mine, not yours."
England refuses to meet his eyes, presenting Cymru with the stubborn line of his jaw as he turns his head towards the window instead. "He's ours, Wales. It seemed fitting, given our new situation."
"Ours," Cymru repeats hollowly, wondering how much of what was his will now become theirs. His mind recoils from the natural conclusion to that line of thought – that what is theirs might in time become simply England's – as it has wandered down that road far too many times of late, and it leads to nothing but sleepless nights and a dull terror he does not know how to quell.
"It's only a name," England says, his tone dismissive. "I doubt I shall use it for very long, anyway."
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Wales: Dylan; 1954 – present
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Wales has a beautiful singing voice. Usually. When he's drunk, however, it becomes flat and droning. Dirge-like. Or that could simply be his choice of songs. Whichever it is, Scotland doesn't want to hear it. He sits up for just long enough to launch one of his shoes at his brother's head.
The shoe glances off Wales' forehead, but he barely even reacts to the contact, save for a faint twitch of his fingers. The tumbler of whiskey held loosely between them rocks, but not so much so that it threatens to overturn.
"Don't you know any cheerful songs, for fuck's sake?" Scotland asks as he slumps back down to the floor again.
The silence that meets Scotland's words suggests that Wales doesn't, or, at least, doesn't remember any of them at this moment in time. Scotland sighs heavily. Drinking with Wales always ends up one of two ways: either Wales will pass out suddenly and without warning, sometimes mid-sentence, or there will be wobbly-eyed renditions of gloomy Welsh songs and then, more often than not, tears.
He's like England in that regard, if nothing else; many a night has ended with the two of them bawling into their pints, albeit typically over completely different things. Scotland doesn't really understand it – alcohol just makes him want to hit the world or hug it, or hit the world and then hug it – and generally just abandons them to make a spectacle of themselves on their own by that point in the proceedings. But he's heavy-limbed and comfortable, unwilling to move, and he's damn well not going to let Wales chase him out of their own living room.
"I think," Wales says, voice hitching and quivering in a way that suggests its imminent collapse, "I'm sick of David."
Scotland's brow furrows as he tries to make sense of the sudden interjection. "Who?"
"Me," Wales says, tone mildly incredulous. "I'm David. I have been for centuries. Fucking hell, Scotland." He shakes his head, his fine hair snagging against the rough weave of the carpet.
Alcohol has rendered Scotland's mouth several seconds out of synch with his brain, and it asks, "So you're sick of yourself, then?" before his better judgement catches up with it. He cringes afterward, because that type of question is one he knows better than to ask, normally. The type that leads nowhere but confessions he has no wish to hear, and messy emotional reactions that completely poleaxe him.
"No, I'm just –" Wales snorts. "I'm sick of him."
Which makes no sense whatsoever. Comfortable or no, Scotland clearly doesn't have the faculties at present to be following what passes for Wales' logic, and it's probably best if he remove himself from it entirely. He struggles up to a sitting position, and says, "Well, change the fucking name then. It's not like it's important, is it? I mean, how many people actually ever call you that?"
And that is meant to be his last word on the matter, but Wales makes a strange, choked noise that's half groan and half strained chuckle, the suddenness of which freezes Scotland in place involuntarily. "A few people," Wales says, "if I'm lucky."
Scotland's confusion dissipates abruptly into the horrible clarity of realisation that he's unwittingly started a conversation about Wales' love life. A subject which heretofore he, and England, have cultivated a carefully-constructed ignorance about. He had been vaguely aware that there was someone – a young woman, briefly glimpsed at their garden gate once or twice when he didn't look away fast enough; slim, tall and impeccably dressed – and even more vaguely aware that Wales' recent wan look and unnatural quietness meant that the relationship had not ended well, but he has no desire to know more.
Scotland had been James, the human name he'd used for the longest to date, for hundreds of years, but he never felt much connection to it, all the same. It was necessary, useful, but easily discarded when he grew tired of it and fancied a change. He supposed it might be different if it was used by a lover, tenderly or with passion, and –
"Change it or don't change it, I really don't give a shit," he says, forcibly interrupting that train of thought, and hopes that his voice carries a strong enough note of finality that Wales, no matter how pissed, will recognise just how little he wants to talk about it.
"What do you think about Dylan?" Wales asks, seemingly either too pissed to notice, or else pig-headedly determined to continue, come what may.
"Yeah, fine. Sounds great," Scotland says, getting to his feet in a sudden rush that almost tips him straight back on to his arse again. "Well, I'm knackered, so –"
He's partway to the living room door and freedom when Wales speaks again, low and soft, but steady all the same. "Thought it'd be a good tribute. You know, like you did for Aly. After the war."
Scotland pauses, his breath catching hard beneath his ribs like he's just been punched in the stomach. He's never told Wales about that, never told anyone, trusting that his propensity toward changing his human name on a whim, with no rhyme or reason given for the choice, would render that particular one unremarkable. England certainly hasn't noticed, falling time and again with equal irritation for the names Scotland makes up on the spur of the moment with just that end in mind.
"Wales," he begins, with no real idea of what he wants to say next. He feels oddly as though he's been caught in some lie he had never knowingly constructed.
"I never thanked you for that," Wales continues as though he hadn't been interrupted. "So, thank you."
"He was a good man," Scotland says without thinking, and then flushes hot with embarrassment.
He had been, and good for Wales, too, and sometimes Scotland thinks that thirty-odd years have done nothing to ease the sting of his loss for his brother. It's an observation which he has not, and never will, share as it crosses so many of the invisible lines that they've all drawn around each other, and the small gesture of the name was the only one he felt able to give in the face of Wales' grief, unspoken though it had remained until now.
"He was," Wales agrees quietly, and then clears his throat. "And Dylan's a good name."
There's still a vague hint of a question there, and so Scotland forces himself to smile and nod, thankful nevertheless for Wales' willingness not to push for more. "It is. Knock yourself out, Wales."
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Scotland: Alasdair; 1918 – present
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Notes:
- The Dylan Wales named himself for was the Welsh poet and writer, Dylan Thomas, who died in 1953.