Here is chapter two.
Hope you guys enjoy it and Hannaadi88 and I would like to say a big thank you to everyone who reviewed/favourited this story :)
Warnings: blood, gore(?), language, sort-of-incest
Disclaimer: Neither I nor Hannaadi88 own Hetalia . . . as much as we'd like to W
~Enjoy~
The crack when Alasdair snapped should have been audible. It was bad enough that he was dependent on England, but to hear out loud that he was, by connection, dependant on the idiot America made his blood boil.
He was generous, was he? Arthur enjoyed their meetings did he? Well, Alasdair would make sure that everyone knew whom Arthur really belonged to.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his Sgian Dubh, the dagger he kept on him at all times.
The British heart skipped a beat as his eyes caught sight of the silver blade. All color seemed to drain out of Arthur's face, leaving him with a sickly-pale complexion.
It never ever got to this. To weapons.
What was the Scotsman going to do with it, exactly? He wasn't going to... use it, right? He couldn't! "I-I'm sorry, Alasdair." His voice shook, "just t-think about it.."
Alasdair shook the dagger out of its sheath, sending it clattering across the room, and ran his tongue along it.
"Sorry ne'er did quite cut it." He said in a slightly hoarse voice. Then he pulled Arthur's tie off the Englishman, his own being lost somewhere, and, once again, tied his hands in front of him.
He then flipped Arthur onto his front, exposing his back. He lifted the green jacket and white shirt, revealing a long expanse of creamy, white skin, just waiting to be ruined.
He leaned down and placed a kiss between Arthur's shoulder blades.
Arthur was starting to get tired of being treated like a rag doll. Really- he was the United Kingdom! One would think that he had enough strength and will power to simply fend off a subordinate nation.
But, for all his wanting, there wasn't much actual doing. He was allowing Alasdair to do basically whatever he wished with his body. Sure, the Brit could put up a fight and probably be able to gain the upper hand if he wished for it. But then what? He didn't want to be in that awkward position of dominating his elder brother. It just wasn't right.
So he may as well play along and try to avoid being killed. Good plan.
As he was flipped and stripped of his shirt, the Englishman shuddered. He never was comfortable with his body around others (though if he was completely honest with himself, he did look quite good), and it was the first time Alasdair had seen any sort of skin that garments usually hid.
All they had ever shared before were kisses and simple hugs. Arthur hoped the other wasn't craving anything else for the time. Mainly, him.
A dark smirk pulled at Alasdair's mouth as he sat back up. He knew how to make Arthur, truly his. He held the knife tip so it gently sat on Arthur's perfect, flawless skin. Skin Alasdair wanted to see colored in red, like those fecking, precious roses of his.
All it took was a little push, and a single bead of perfect ruby red blood blossomed. Clinging onto Arthur's back before it slipped down, leaving a wine red trail as it did, fracturing the flawlessness.
He dragged the Sgian Dubh across Arthur's skin, pushing deeper, causing more and more of the sticky, slippery, sclaret blood to cover the snow-white skin. 'Alba' he carved, smirking as he did. He grabbed the bottle of whisky and took a gulp, a single drop splashing onto the English nation's open wounds.
A strangled cry passed Arthur's lips as the sharp metal first pierced his skin. The touch was almost unfelt by the Englishman at first. But as the blade was pushed in deeper, the Brit gasped and cried out, once again.
"Stop! Please! I-it hurts... Stop!"
He shut his eyes tightly, teeth tearing the delicate skin of his lips. His hands, bounded once more underneath him, curled into fists, nails digging into the skin. Anything to divert himself from the immense pain he was experiencing. He was being carved.
The tears ran freely, chocked sobs and mewls of pain evading his lips ever so often. But suddenly, the pain stopped. Had the other given up? He was about to breath out in relief when he felt a liquid substance fall on his back.
And then he burned. Like hell.
Arthur threw his head back, eyes widening in surprise horror. All he could see was white, a blinding heat coursing through his body.
"Oops" Alasdair said, not meaning it at all. Arthur was going to learn whom he belonged to, and he was going to learn the hard way. He put the bottle down and leaned over the fresh wounds. He ran his tongue through the bloody mess, kissing the letters. His lips and tongue stained with English blood.
Then he took the Sgian Dubh and began to carve again.
When he finished he tilted his head to look at his 'handiwork'. Then he frowned. All the glorious, beautiful, crimson blood was obscuring the most beautiful language he'd written in. He grabbed the whisky bottle again and took a last gulp before upending it over the bloody cuts.
The alcohol washed the blood away, leaving the swollen, irritated wounds clean. "Alba Gu Braith" He spoke in his own language, reading the words carved into Arthur's back.
"'Scotland Forever', noo they'll aw ken, fa ye pure belang tae" He muttered, leaning down and whispering it in Arthur's ear.
Hissing, Arthur trembled. The alcohol poured carelessly on his back continued to burn, sending pain waves coursing through his body. He was panting, voice hoarse with screaming and cries that fell on deaf ears. Eyes swollen and red from the endless stream of tears.
"W-what?"
The Englishman didn't understand. What had his brother done to him? What relevance did it have to those strange words, spoken in ancient times? Dread knotted through his stomach.
"Alasdair, what did you do?" He whispered fearfully.
"I've gart sure, a' fowk will ken fa ye belang tae" The Scotsman murmured. Then he took a handful of Arthur's hair again and hauled him to his feet. He dragged the English Nation across the room to the large mirror hanging on the wall.
He made Arthur turn his back to it then turn his head to see his back, where the bloody words, 'Alba Gu Braith', were carved.
"Coz pure, whaur woods ye be if it werenae fur us? Whaur woods 'Great Britain' be if it werenae fur Weels, fur wee Northern Irelain, fur me? Yoo'd be a body ay th' smallest, most insignificant coontries oan th' planit. Yer beloved America wooldnae swatch twice at ye, France woods hae ye servin' heem wi' a silver platter, Germany'd hae ye oan bended knee. Nae Arthur, yoo're only safe, cheers tae us, tae me." He part hissed part growled beside Arthur's ear, watching him in the mirror.
The Englishman's eyes grew wide as he stared at his reflection, gazing numbly at his bloody back. He could make out the words carved ruthlessly into his skin, the sight of them making the pain come back full force.
The other's words didn't help either.
"Y-you are mental! Sick! I do not belong to anyone, much less you!" Arthur spat, shivering in both anger and fatigue. "And the only reason I have the lot of you joined with me is since I captured you, remember? You, and half of the world!"
He pulled away, back to the mirror, refusing to acknowledge his scars.
Alasdair let go of Arthur and took a few steps away from him. "An' 'en ye lohst half th' warld, ye e'en lohst yer beloved Irelain. He cooldnae bide tae be rid ay ye." He said, his voice oddly detached, like he was speaking from miles away.
His expression was deadpan, blood dripped from his fingers and, when he ran a hand through his hair, he left a trail of blood across his forehead and in his flame red locks. He didn't seem to notice.
That was an under the belt blow, as long as Arthur was concerned. He never was fond of being reminded how he lost most of his colonies, being reduced from empire to kingdom. The mentioning of another of his brothers hurt as well.
Had they hated him so? They had every right to.
"At least I did own most of them at some point." The Englishman stated, voice quivering. He wrapped his arms around his chest unselfconsciously. "More than you have ever done. You never owned a thing. Not for long, in any case."
"Oh an' we ahl ken who put paed tae tha', dorn't we?" Alasdair said, bending at the waist and bowing elegantly and mockingly at Arthur.
"But ye only hae yerself tae blam fur it, mah laird," He added, straightening up, his voice bitter and mocking as he looked down on Arthur. "Ye tried tae be bigger than ye pure waur."
He tilted his head to one side as he looked at Arthur; it was a cold, calculating look, no warmth and no caring.
As cold and harsh as the Highlands.
The Englishman bit his lip, the truth of it stinging.
"What did you want me to do?" He questioned the other, glaring and backing slowly. "Be satisfied on my little Island? Stay subjected to torture by my elder siblings, who's first reaction to my existence was an urge to kill me?"
"But instead of letting you do that, I fought. I lived. Is that so wrong, Alasdair? You can't stand my being here, but you can't equally stand my socializing with others! What, in the name of god, is it you want me to do?" He repeated the initial question, throat burning.
Alasdair knew the words were true, he knew that, had he been in the Englishman's position, he would have done the same things.
"I . . ." He started, but before he could continue the door creaked open and a small figure poked his head around the wooden thing.
"Father?" A little child inquired in a soft Irish accent, Northern Irish to be exact. His wide, green eyes looked from Arthur, to Alasdair and back again. His mop of red-gold curls hung in his eyes and a dusting of pale orange freckles covered his nose and cheekbones. His features were thin, elfin almost, with a clearly defined jaw line.
His gaze was sharp as he tilted his head enquiringly at his 'father'. Alasdair could have groaned aloud. The wee boy just would walk in now, wouldn't he?