This personally isn't my favorite chapter, but the next is better.

That One Guest: thank you so much for that wonderful review! That was probably the best review I've had in ages, I loved reading it. I will try my best to explain the relationship between these brothers in a logical, (hopefully) historically correct way.

*Warning: this chapter contains quite a lot of swearing. Don't mean anything by it, but... well, it's Ireland. What could you expect...?*

I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

I do not own Hetalia


Ireland didn't know too well where to look for the people involved in the arms-matter. He knew he could rule out Ulster, for they even hated the idea of Home Rule there and prefered to stay a part of the Empire as it was now. Damn fools, he'd always thought, those guys up north. Did they not see England was ruining Ireland, or did they not care one bit? Whatever it was, the Ulster Loyalists would never defy the English law like this. When he got to thinking, it wasn't too hard to guess where they had come from: the trouble had begun in the early morning, probably when the weapons arrived on the Irish shore. Sometime in the afternoon, they had been apprehended, and marched into Dublin. Even if they had been walking for hours, it couldn't have been too far away from the capital. And to pick the safest harbour near enough to Dublin, he could only come up with Howth. But that was where the arms would have been brought into the country. Surely the masterminds behind this, who managed to keep it a secret even from their nation himself, weren't so stupid as to still be there? But he figured he could always go there and ask around, gather information on this Figgis, who was supposedly the mastermind (he did not believe a word of it) and just search.

And eventually, he found them. They called themselves the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the IRB. The brains behind it all was, so he had heard, a man called Thomas Clarke. He was amazed at how this Brotherhood had existed for so long without him knowing, and he found he respected his people even more because of it. But most of all the name got to him: Irish Republic. It sounded wonderful. But it was a far-off dream, as England would never let him go. The only way he could leave was by force. But that, he had tried before, and he had failed miserably.

His major concern now was wether to tell England about this or not. If he did, he would surely restore some of his brother's trust in him, which would eventually make his life and that of his people a lot easier. But if he didn't... Irish Republic. His heart skipped a beat and his pulse quickened. It was just perfect. And as impossible as it might sound now, he knew that it might one day actually be possible. The IRB was huge, with branches all over the world -even going as far as establishing itself in the heart of the Empire, London- and each and every member was fighting the battle to make Ireland a free, independent Republic. He admired them for their courage and wits. Oposing the British wasn't a laughing matter, nor was it easy to remain a secret organisation for so long. And so, Ireland made up his mind in a matter of minutes: the secret brotherhood would remain a secret for a while yet. Not a word of this would be told.


The weeks went by: Ireland couldn't be completely sure, but for all he knew, England didn't suspect a thing. The ginger-haired man reported to him small and trivial things, such as Figgis not being the real mastermind behind everything, but that he still hadn't found the man they needed. Scotland had left for his own country again, which was both a relief and a disappointment for the Irishman. The two had never gotten the chance to get that whiskey they had promised eachother, after all. They hadn't even gotten over their fight yet. Ireland simply couldn't forgive him for what had happened that fateful day, not yet at least. He still got a little light-headed from time to time because of the incident, though things were finally looking up again. But things in Europe were starting to get tense, and he heard rumors about an upcoming war with Germany increasingly often. While the Brits worried to no end about it, he noticed some of his own people seeming rather excited about a war. Not for themselves, no, but one in which England was involved. He heard whispers saying "England's war, Ireland's oppertunity" in the streets of Dublin and on the roads in the countryside. But Ireland himself couldn't share their excitement. It seemed to him that they forgot he was still part of the Empire, and a war for England was a war for him. They would all partcipate in it, and most likely, the Irish would be used as bait for the enemies so that the English could finish the job and return home as heroes.

Peace never lasted long, it seemed. Because on August 4 that year, the British Empire declared war on Germany after the Germans had attacked Belgium, a neutral and allied nation, to get to France, who was also an ally of Great Britain.

On that day, Ireland had yet another meeting with his brothers and His Majesty the King, George V and his military advisors. Wales looked nervous, fidgeting a little. Ireland knew very well how much his younger brother hated fighting, as he'd only ever had bad experiences from previous wars. Scotland appeared to be very careful about the matter and remained quiet for most of the meeting, only speaking up to voice his opinion on certain things every now and then. England, on the other hand, though nervous as well, looked eager and determined, and when he got the chance, he didn't hesitate before saying, "I will go with our soldiers to France. Of all the English soldiers, there's no doubt I am the most experienced after all." The King nodded. It was hard to disagree with something as plain as a fact: if you've been fighting wars since your early childhood, which was almost a thousand years ago, there was no question you were the most experienced soldier in the entire nation, after all. "With all our new technology," England went on, his emerald eyes fixed on his King, "we should be able to deal with this rather quickly. Not to mention there'll be two fronts: our front at the West, and at the East, Russia's. We'll have the Germans surrounded completely. And if you recall the last meeting with him, Germany is still barely more than a child. Established in 1871, he's still no older than fourty-three, with the physique of a teenager. His older brother, Prussia, on the other hand, is more of a problem. Though physically also young -about twenty, I'd say- he's centuries old. Just a few younger than I am, in fact, and he's fought at least as many wars." He took a deep breath now and recalled old memories of the nation. "I remember facing him during the War of Austrian Succession, in the eighteenth century. He is a ruthless and intimidating man, and though you wouldn't say so because of his attitude, he's also very intelligent and a great military strategist. Having someone at the front who has dealt with him and his tactics before would give us an advantage." As the blond nation concluded this, the King nodded and thought for a moment before answering. "Very true, Arthur, my boy," he said with a calm voice. "But you shall stay here and guard the British shores." England opened his mouth, about to protest, but closed it again quickly, not wanting to argue with His Majesty. "Now, Allistair," The Scotsman straightened his back when his name was said, and he listened closely to what the King had to say. "You shall accompany the soldiers to France and serve as a General in the army, understood?" Scotland nodded politely and without hesitation. "Ofcourse, Your Majesty." The King then turned to Wales, who tried his best not to flinch before he was even spoken to. "Dylan, you will be in charge of defending the Empire from ashore, while Arthur will have control over the Naval Defense. Having an ex-pirate on our ships will be of great help, I'm sure." Wales nodded almost reluctantly, while England agreed as willing as his brother did, though he had to admit that his experience in battles on the open seas was indeed an advantage. But his past as a pirate was, everytime it was brought up, something he'd rather not discuss and wasn't too proud of. It had been, as he called it, his 'rebellious phase' of when he was a teenager, after all, and he couldn't imagine anyone being proud of their actions during that phase.

Ireland wasn't too satisfied with the plans either, and asked, "Then, Your Majesty, what about-?" He wasn't even given the chance to finish his question as the King answered, "You will be in charge only of defending your own land, should it be necessary. Ofcourse, Irish soldiers will be send to France along with the British, but you will remain home. And on the matter of Home Rule," Ireland's pulse quickened expectantly, and he leaned in just a little closer, wanting to hear every syllable the King had to say on the matter. The answer sunk his heart though. "Any further discussion on it will be delayed until after this war is over. That is all."

Delayed.

Ofcourse. Wasn't that practically the same as cancelling it at this point? Of-fucking-course! He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath to control the rage that was building and fought the urge to storm out of the room in a rather childlike fit, breaking and tearing objects apart on his way home, which he would make screaming loudly about how fucking unfair the world could be and how he wanted to be independent so fucking goddamned bad. But he controlled himself. He always controlled himself. He folded his hands, which were on his lap under the table, into tight fists, gripping them so hard his knuckles turned white. And like that, he ignored everything around him as to not explode in anger before the King spoke that final word he so longed for at the moment.

"Dismissed."


The start of WW1... has to be adressed as well, right? It plays a rather major part in the Irish Rising and Revolution, after all.

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