I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia. I wish I did, though. Rated for lanuage.
Wales and Scotland will appear in the story and Ireland is mentioned. Their human names are: Wales – Gwydion ap Bledri (pronounced GWID-yon); Scotland – Alistair McMillan and Ireland – Dara Fitzgerald.
There are a lot of different languages used (what have I gotten myself into?): translations are at the end.
Much thanks to Tensai-chan for correcting my abysmal Welsh! Diolch yn fawr! XD
Please enjoy.
Crécy, France
26th August, 1346
Arthur Kirkland scanned the approaching French army as if he would spot the wine-bastard among his citizens. He couldn't suppress a small qualm of worry at the sheer size of Francis' side though he knew English soldiers to be the finest in the civilised world. The scouts said that they were vastly outnumbered. The English army numbered only sixteen-thousand, even with the additional knights sent along by Denmark and the Holy Roman Empire. No one was certain how many soldiers the French side had brought to battle. Even the most optimistic estimate brought before King Edward put the number of French troops at twice as many as the English. It most likely was more.
England nudged his horse into motion. He had to believe that the King knew what he was doing – these tactics had worked in the fights against Scotland. And the King was risking his own flesh and blood – Prince Edward, only sixteen years of age, was commanding a division today.
Three divisions of men, all on foot for this battle, resting and waiting. The ditches and pits and other defences were finished and waiting was all that was left, watching the larger army approach.
"Rhwyn wrth dy wregys gleddyf gwyn dy dad."
England frowned. The singing floated over the hillside and more than a few soldiers were looking round, searching for the source. That smooth, lovely voice, contrasting so heavily with that barbarian tongue, could only belong to one person.
"Atynt fy machgen dros wlad!"
Arthur found Gwydion leaning against one of the new cannons brought with them for the battle. The dark-haired nation was calmly stringing his longbow, a formidable weapon that was taller than he was. England had personally experienced Welsh archery first-hand – chasing after his older brother's armies only to have them strike from their hiding places with devastating effect.
"Mwg y pentrefydd gyfyd gyda'r gwynt," absorbed in his song, Gwydion didn't notice Arthur's approach, "Draw dy gymrodyr ânt yn gynt."
England remembered this song. Wales and his people had sung it in one of their rebellions. He shook the other nation by the shoulder. Green eyes met his own and hardened,
"Lloegr,"
"I don't recall asking you to come with me, Wales. In fact I ordered you to stay at home," Wales' counties were his and the conquered nation lived in his house but he didn't trust his older brother. The feeling was mutual.
"Aros yn Llundain? Ti'so pobl Cymreig i dy fyddinoedd? Ti'fo fi hyfed, ti'mod."
"As soon as my back is turned you'd be stabbing a knife into it. That's just what your kind is like."
Gwydion snarled wordlessly, his hand going to the sword at his hip.
"Admit it. None of you are fighting for me."
"Na' 'dyn. Ry ni'n ymladd fel fyddwn ni 'im yn newynu."
Wales' green eyes blazed in his pale face. He was always so angry, rejecting England's attempts to civilise him. He'd thought that the Celtic nation would have calmed under his influence. Gwydion pushed past Arthur, stalking off to where the rest of the archers were positioned. England watched him leave.
A cool wind ruffled Wales' hair and sent a shiver down his spine as it brushed over the exposed nape of his neck. No matter how many years past by Gwydion always missed the heavy weight of his curls. England had cut his hair after the conquered nation arrived in his house; clipped the long curls short, shorter even than a woman's tresses. As he'd done so many times before he cursed the English bastard and spat.
The French army was drawing closer and closer to the hill. Around him, the other archers, both English and Welsh were staking arrows into the ground in front of them so that they'd be quicker in battle. The order to begin firing would come soon.
"Sych dy ddagrau, ar dy gyfrwy naid," Gwydion drew an arrow from the earth and began to sing, beginning where England had interrupted him, "Gwrando'r saethau'n suo fel seirff dibaid," oh, yes, he would show Arthur. The Welsh people could still fight, "Wrth dy fwa, hyn wna'th fraich yn gref," other voices were joining in, the triumphant war song mingling with the creak of bows, grunts of effort and the sounds of the approaching army, "Cofia am dy dad, fel bu farw ef!"
The command was given and a cloud of arrows flew into the sky.
Volleys of arrows had devastated the French ranks. The longbowmen had done their work well, Genoese mercenaries, French men-at-arms and even nobility had fallen before them. Only those with the very best in plate and mail had come through unscathed, if they survived their horses dying beneath them.
And that had been only the first bit of luck Arthur Kirkland had had that day. The wine-bastard must have lost his horse because his elaborate and decorated armour was splattered with mud from head-to-toe. England hoped that France had been made to crawl through the same filth as the rest of his army.
"Francis!" England drew his sword, slashing out at the other nation. The blade thudded into France's shield, scarring the coat-of-arms.
"Mon cher," replied France, a grin spreading across his face.
The two nations exchanged blows and it soon became clear that France could not win this. He was a good swordsman but he was tired from struggling through fields and mud whereas England was rested and fresh. But still the blue-eyed nation would not stop grinning.
"Wanker!"
"Fils a puitan!"
"Fucking Frog!"
"Va te faire foutre, enculé!"
"Goddamn it! Wipe that smirk off your face, wine-bastard!"
"Ah, but Arthur," said Francis, "I'm just happy to have you all to myself."
England would have dismissed that comment as France just being France. However…
They were all alone – isolated and cut off from both armies.
A blood-curdling howl was the only warning Arthur got. He dodged but only just, a massive sword biting into the earth before him. Snarling, Scotland whirled; swinging that wicked blade he called a claidheamh da laimh like it weighed nothing. Arthur ducked under the blade, smashing Alistair back with his shield. The red-haired nation staggered but he recovered and the mad smile on his face returned.
"You see, I have friends too, Angleterre. Friends like L'Ecosse. Now, return my vital regions to me!"
"Fuck off!"
Alistair swung his sword again. England could keep avoiding the Scotsman's blows but he could see France circling round. An attack from both sides could finish him.
"Yr Alban! Peida!"
Gwydion had appeared out of nowhere. His sword was drawn and bloody but he'd stuck it point-down into the earth. Instead he had an arrow aimed at France. At this range a longbow couldn't miss. But Wales' eyes were fixed on his brother,
"Plïs, Alistair! Cer, os gwelwch yn dda!"
Scotland took a step towards Wales, readying his sword. Gwydion was trembling and not just from the effort needed to keep his bow drawn.
Seeing his chance Arthur threw his sword down, seizing a handful of red hair and pulling his head back. Before either Francis or Alistair could react he'd drawn his knife and laid it against the redhead's throat.
"You've lost this battle, Francis. Retreat while you still can."
The Frenchman glowered,
"I will return, Angleterre. The English will not rule in France," he began to stalk off but stopped to bow to Gwydion, "Le Pays de Galles," he waved, "Ken a vo gwelet!"
Gwydion lowered his bow in surprise,
"Hwyl fawr," he managed to mutter in reply.
Once France had vanished, England let Scotland go. His hand immediately went to his sword, just in case but all that Alistair did was follow his ally.
"Brawd!" Gwydion called after the redhead but even that failed to get a reaction.
"Your people fought bravely, Gwydion," England was shifting through reports of the battle with ever increasing glee. The blonde-haired country smiled in the older nation's direction though Wales thought it was directed more to the longbow he had in his hands than to himself.
"Maen nhw'n Gymry," said the older nation simply.
"I'm rewarding them, you know. Each of them is getting an acre of land back home, a personal gift from the King."
Gwydion's hands curled into fists. That was Welsh land. It should have been theirs already! His beautiful Cymru was not England's to parcel out…
Except to say this would mean that his people would not receive the land and their families would have to keep suffering under English landowners. Swallowing his pride Wales muttered,
"Diolch yn fawr."
All that could console Gwydion that night was that his people would be a little better off. It did not diminish his anger towards his younger brother.
Translations
Unless noted, all these are translated from Welsh.
Rhwyn wrth dy wregys gleddyf gwyn dy dad,
Atynt fy machgen! dros wlad!
Mwg y pentrefydd gyfyd gyda'r gwynt,
Draw dy gymrodyr ânt yn gynt.
Fast to thy girdle fix thy father's brand
Forth then his slayers to withstand!
Hamlets are smoking in their evil path,
Rise, Cymru's champions, in your wrath!
(This is from the Welsh war song Rhyflel Capten Morgan – or Captain Morgan's March. This is the first half of the first verse – the other half is below. There are many different English versions of the song. I just chose the one that fitted best with the story.)
Lloegr – England
Aros yn Llundain? Ti'so pobl Cymreig i dy fyddinoedd? Ti'fo fi hyfed, ti'mod. – Stay in London? You want Welsh people for your armies? You've got me too, you know.
Na' 'dyn. Ry ni'n ymladd fel fyddwn ni 'im yn newynu. – No we are not. We are fighting so that we won't starve.
Sych dy ddagrau, ar dy gyfrwy naid,
Gwrando'r saethau'n suo fel seirff dibaid,
Wrth dy fwa, hyn wna'th fraich yn gref,
Cofia am dy dad, fel bu farw ef!
No more weeping! To the saddle spring!
O hark the rising arrows like serpents sing!
Now remember, as you bend your bow,
Your sire within his chamber cold and low.
Fils a puitan! – (French) Son of a whore!
Va te faire foutre, enculé! – (French) Fuck you, bastard!
Claidheamh da laimh – (Scottish Gallic) A two-handed sword known in English as a claymore.
Angleterre – (French) England
L'Ecosse – (French) Scotland
Yr Alban! Peida! – Scotland! Don't!
Plïs, Alistair! Cer, os gwelwch yn dda! – Please, Alistair! Go away, please!
Le Pays de Galles – (French) Wales
Ken a vo gwelet – (Breton) Good bye
Hwyl fawr – Good bye
Brawd! – Brother!
Maen nhw'n Gymry – They are Welshmen
Cymru – Wales
Diolch yn fawr – Thank you very much
Historical Notes
The Battle of Crécy was part of the Hundred Years War and it was a decisive victory for the English thanks to their superior position and longbowmen – many of whom were Welsh. Even after they'd run out of arrows the archers would join in the fight alongside the men-at-arms using swords and mauls (hammers). When the Welsh soldiery returned home they were indeed given an acre of land each for their bravery.
In the same year the English fought the allies of France, the Scottish, in the Battle of Neville's Cross. It turned out much the same. (There were no actual Scottish troops at the Battle of Crécy but consider it artistic license on my part. Not to mention battles seem to work that way in Hetalia.)
France uses the Breton language in this chapter – which is one of the Celtic languages. It is very similar to Cornish and Welsh and if you speak one it said that you can understand the others. It'll return later on it the story.
Wales refers to his hair being 'shorter than a woman's'. In medieval Wales long hair was thought to be used by women to tempt in men. Women had their hair cut short as a result but like other Celtic cultures men grew their hair long.
Gwydion sings very well. Wales is known as 'the Land of Song' and many famous singers have come from Wales. We have an ancient bardic tradition.
Ah, this may be the most fact-filled thing I have ever done! Next chapter is the beginning of the rebellion!