Crossover—Hetalia: Axis Powers & John Flanagan's Ranger's Apprentice

Araluen

He had been alone for a long time, always blending into the background. His cloak was mottled, his throwing and saxe knives sharp. His bow was strong and his arrows straight and true. His blade was bright, unsullied by time.

He embodied all that his land was—the Diplomatic Service, the Scribes, the Knights, the Ranger Corp., the children and the farmers. His eyes were dark green, like the forests that grew lushly on his land. He was aware of every one of his fiefs, and a fierce fighter; no one, except maybe the Temujai, was better with a bow and arrow than him and his people.

His skin was pale, his hair a rich brown. His people were strong and hardy, well acclimated to the life offered by his land, and despite the recent threats to them, they stood strong. And they would continue to do so.

But now, he had friends. Rough, down and dirty friends who gave him purpose and companionship; his loneliness was now but a distant thought, a bare whispering of memory. It had started with Celtica, and now he had so many friends who would stand at his side…he honestly hoped that everything could just stay this way, even if it would never happen.

Skandia

His muscles were burly, and like his people, he was built like a bear. He wielded his axe with ease, taking pleasure in the fight, in letting the berserker rage flood his veins. His lands were harsh and snow-covered, but his people thrived in them. Their wolfships were the terrors of the seas, their raids brought them wealth. The recent treaties with other countries had brought them wealth also, this time by hiring out their services to protect the waters of other lands from freelance pirates.

And so, he and his people prospered. Perhaps not like the Arridi, or the Temujai—damn invaders—but they were hardy and fearsome in single combat. They had had their fair share of losses and traitors, but they had pulled through by heading at the problem the same way they did with most problems: charging it head on and hoping pure tenacity and berserker rage would pull them through.

That may have changed with international problems, but it was ingrained in who they were. Fearsome warriors, terrifying seafarers. No matter what, Skandians would pull through. They always had, after all.

Celtica

His lands were plain, his people mostly simple miners. They didn't care much for international matters, simply toiling away in the mines. However, he did have one person he had a treaty with—Araluen. Despite his weakness, he would do his best to aid the person who had promised so very long ago to help him.

After all, the Celts, despite their lack of an army, were—for the most part—deeply loyal. As long as Araluen wished it, Celtica would stay by his friend's side. They would support each other. Many of his people, despite their indifference, felt the same. If Araluen called for their help, they would come; just like Araluen had promised to do so very long ago.

Gallica

She was weak, she knew that. But, in her mind, the rest of the world could keep to themselves. She just wished to be left alone, to weather out her civil wars alone. Maybe, one day, her people would truly unite under one leader, but that day was far off. She could only hope. In the meanwhile, she would grit her teeth, stand firm, and weather the pain that so often racked her body and her lands.

Clonmel

He was strong, deeply so. Not in the kind of way that Araluen or Skandia was—the warrior kind of way—but in the way he simply took all that came at him. He weathered every storm that attempted to shake him to his roots, quietly took the pain when a weak cowardly King or a bloodthirsty, foolish and arrogant King took power. His lands, much like Gallica's, sometimes split, though Gallica's seemed to be almost permanent.

His people were easily swayed at times, occasionally called bumpkins by foreigners. But what did that matter to him? He was old, he had stood—and would continue to stand—against the challenge that was time. He simply continued to weather it out, knowing that one day, he would have the opportunity. The opportunity to take power. And when that opportunity came, he would grasp it, nourish it, and from it would grow a powerful kingdom. His kingdom.

Nihon-Ja

He was isolated, for the most part. His language was strange to foreigners, his traditions and formalities awkward. But his warriors—his empire—were fiercely strong. He would never bow down to anyone; he would stand tall beside his Emperor and fight. His pride was almost unequaled by any other country, his deep love of traditions unknown by most other countries.

He was a puzzle to those who had met him. One moment he would be stoic, and the next he could be glaring at someone for a perceived insult. His Emperors rarely dissuaded him from these ways, but a few had quietly scolded him after the deed was done. They were the laid-back Emperors, the ones he felt lucky to have. After all, what use was pride without humility to temper it? What use was ferocity without honor to curb it?

Unlike the other countries, he remained to himself, even if he did appreciate Araluen quietly giving him a hand when the most recent uprising came. At times he wondered: if it came down to it, who would win? Him or Araluen? After all, he had his shinobi and samurai, and Araluen had his Rangers and Knights. Both very similar, yet very different. It was at these times that he would look to the sky and be both reassured by the red colors, and unsettled. Red was the color of fortune—but for whom?

Teutlandt

Like her neighbor Gallica, she was weak. However, Gallica had many different, strong warlords that could at any point in time—if they fought and planned well—unite her country. Teutlandt didn't. Her government system was terrible, unable to do anything. The ruling class was basically useless.

Oft times, Teutlandt would wonder what would happen should her land simply…dissolve. She had been annexed before, by the Temujai, but to her that was rather common, even if she disliked it—no, loathed it—with a passion.

Arridi

His people were many and varied. His skin was dark, the color of kafay, the rich coffee of his lands. He was strong, able to bear the hot sun easily. He knew the ways of the desert, how to survive the sandstorms that so often ravaged his lands and how to find the oases that made survival possible.

The recent alliances with Toscana, Araluen, and Skandia had helped him, providing the trade that would help his people prosper. The soft, thin cloth that kept the skin from burning and the sand out was what he traded with Toscana, and in return he sent kafay to the exuberant country. Both Arridi and Toscana had contacted Skandia with hopes that he would be able to help with the raiding of the rogue pirates. Araluen was the go-between for this, helping Toscana, Arridi, and Skandia reach a satisfactory consensus for all three.

At times, Arridi wondered whether the stress of it was worth having such friends—Toscana's exuberant militarism; Skandia's rough jokes, numerous swears, and rib-crushing bear-hugs; Araluen's dry, witty humor and sarcasm—and always, despite the doubts, knew that he would never, ever, go back.

Toscana

Toscana knew that he was strong—his military was well drilled and unlike most others. He knew that he was at times overly exuberant, but that was his way! His pride was fierce, though, and much of what Araluen and his people would joke about would get him and his people up in arms from fury. Araluen confused Toscana at times. The island country was willing to lend a hand—usually because some of his friends were in danger—but he rarely held anything against someone else.

If anything, Toscana felt that Araluen was an enigma, a riddle that always had new lines being added. In a way though, he also felt pity for the country; Araluen had been alone for a long time until his people found a way to build ships—even with his friendship with Celtica (which hadn't started until long, long after the two were founded and born) couldn't have truly assuaged the pain of being alone.

After all, Toscana mused, being so seemingly singular was a truly horrific type of loneliness; the type that gnawed away at the mind, and pushed a country to the edge of insanity.

Skandia and Arridi were simple to figure out, for Toscana. They too had felt the pain of seemingly being the only one of their kind in the world, much like Toscana himself had at one time.

So Toscana let his exuberance shine through, lifting them up. Showing them that they were not alone.

Because, honestly, who wanted insane partial-immortals running rife through the world?