Good morning, good afternoon or whatever time you will read this.
My native language is not English, so please excuse my poor grammar or use of words.
Pairing: Scotland x France
Rating: M
Genre: Fantasy
Disclaimer: France and Scotland belong to Europe, Francis Bonnefoy belongs to Himaruya and Alasdair Iain Kirkland (Scotland) belongs to a user in pixiv. I'll name him this way in this story… Everyone gives him another name.. *le shrug*
_
Most of the houses in town were now damaged. The mercenaries either used their tents to repair and somewhat cover rooms that were halfway okay to sleep in or they put up their tents like usually. Alasdair insisted that Francis and him got a proper room to sleep in. Either he was fed up himself sleeping in the cold – it took a rather long while to heat up a tent – or he wanted to treat his lover just so well.
"…I don't know… I have a bit of a bad conscience … about this. The others have so many hardships."
The redhead looked over to him. "I am going to explain this only one time, Francis, so listen well.", he paused a little. He would have liked to snap at Francis, but the blonde wasn't his subordinate. He had to be treated like he was on the same level, he concluded. It had not slipped past him that he had treated Francis rather rough the past days.
"Ah admire that yer as noble as tae lower yersel' oan thair level. Ah wid too… bit th' point is that we hae tae save oor energy 'n' everything fur th' better. Ah ken we ur soldiers juist lik' thaim. We shuid be side by side wi' them… you're gey richt. Bit we wull ne'er be lik' thaim, even whin among thaim. Destiny hud it that made us thair gaffers. Amurnay th' ainlie leader, you're mah seicont in command. Whin amurnay thare, ye hae tae tak' care o' a' o' thaim. Alas…we hae tae sort oot hings wi' th' nobles, we hae tae deal wi' th' upper class society. Sae we hae tae hae a hing tae that. We hae tae git tae thair level tae enable th' wey fur oor 'lower class' mukkers. 'n' hawp me, oor fellow mercenaries wid be ower uncomfortable tae be among thaim. Ye cuid say that's fur they're nae used tae it. Bit it's enough fur thaim whin we dram wi' them…do ye git whit a'm waantin' tae say?"
"Mmh… Oui, I think so. We are something like a staircase between sky and earth?"
Alasdair grinned. "Whiles ye pure amaze me.", Francis made it sound so simple!
They soon went to bed. It was still night and they were still exhausted from the battle. However, Francis was lying awake for a long time still, thinking about this and that. He came to the conclusion that he couldn't keep hiding himself behind the excuse 'I don't know who I am'. He wanted to define a new self. He was Francis and he was someone. He could make a difference.
In the next morning, Francis proposed the idea to Alasdair that they should have more steps in the staircase. "We should have … people that are our subordinates but …eh… they stand over the rest of them. Administration should be getting faster, then. Let's part our mercenaries into four or five units. How many are they anyway? We should get things more fixed and efficient. Especially once we get to the king. We are mercenaries but we don't want to appear like fresh from the gutter, right?"
The redhead furrowed his eyebrows and stared somewhat past Francis, clouded himself in thought. The idea wasn't so bad.
"I also think that we should reduce the number of veterans. I find that there are too many. Maybe it is honourable to die in battle and maybe helpful that they care about our wounded… but still, they're no help when it comes to serious shit and they need also food and armoury and whatnot. Like I said, let's make it all more efficient. You possibly started out with a lot less people, but they're too many now."
Alasdair nodded slowly. "Howfur dae we git stairted? howfur did ye jalouse ye wid pick these… four or five … whit dae ye ca' thaim anyway?"
"I had hoped you'd give me some input.", Francis looked crestfallen. "Don't you have any military knowledge? …Let's make a list. …Generals is something too high up, non? That would be us. … or me, you're the leader. Makes me General, the next thing… how about 'Colonel'?"
"That soonds guid."
"And how we find out who they are… we just form five groups and let they battle one on one until the strongest remains."
"Then let's dae that."
"Ah, but at first we shall help the town rebuild at least their city wall. No town should be without defence. And they'll be grateful."
The wall was quickly fixed with everyone helping to rebuild it. The houses would take more time, but at least their place was determined.
The town people's attention was however drawn towards the front of their town where five smaller arenas were set up. Around each arena people gathered to watch men fight with each other. They fought only with their bare hands. Each arena was given a neutral person to watch for fairness.
The battles took the whole day. On the next day, the results were set.
Each of the five group consisted of at least 30 men in their best years. Strong men willed to fight to the bitter end. That also meant that the mercenaries had at least 150 people, plus Francis and Alasdair.
The individual 'Battalions' as these five portions were called from now on were led by the winners of the spontaneous tournament. They were as followed…
Matthias Vintersen, a Danish fighter who was very skilled with his large Axe. He was a rather tall blonde man with wild spiky hair and sparkling blue eyes.
Berwald Oxenstierna, a tall Swedish man with rather short blonde hair. He wore something called 'glasses' before his eyes. It was said that he was sometimes bickering with Matthias. That was rather weird because he hardly talked to anyone. His weapon of choice was a heavy club.
Lukas Bonevik, a blonde man coming from Norway. He is not as tall as the first two Colonels, but he should not be underestimated. He has a calm gaze most of the time and wears a mystical curl. He is always surrounded by some green mist. His weapon of choice is a 'normal' two-edge sword.
Emil Steilsson, comes from Iceland and has silver-blonde hair. It is rumoured that he is the little brother of Lukas, but how comes that they don't share their last name? However, Steilsson is despite his rather short height a serious opponent. He chose to use throwing knives as a weapon.
Last but not least Tino Väinämöinen, a blonde man from Finland. His last name is rather difficult to pronounce. He has a friendly attitude. His weapon is a cane.
"How come such skilled warriors are among us and we have not noticed them before?", Francis asked upon seeing the five winners. Then he got up and spoke to them. "I am sorry but we cannot yet give you more than the rank and position... the command over 30 people. But surely, by time it will grow, and we will also grow in wealth. Please be patient with us. – of course with the position come certain privileges. When it is possible you will get to sleep in real beds in real houses, not tents."
But now it was time to carry on. One large group travelled further towards the king's place. A smaller group with all the elderly people had to go back home where they would join their family and try to help with farming and similar things. It would not be easy finding back into a society their turned their back to long ago.
As for the remaining 'Celtic Spirits', they wanted to find news about the king, the king's enemies in particular. Moreover they wanted to know what were those random animals that they met. It was most likely that the 'goat' had not been the last.
Their journey continued through the lands. Autumn was there and with autumn came a strange fierce wind that almost blew them away. Regret soon came up that they had left the secure walls of the town.
"It's just a typical autumn, nothing to get lost about it.", Francis said, forcing his horse forward. When he saw a smaller tree flying by, he altered his opinion.
Alasdair cried some command for the soldiers to join together and form a circle. They had to use shields and armoury to secure their little makeshift fortress. At first they were sure it was just something to wait until it was over. By nightfall it would be over. But by nightfall, the storm had increased and only thanks to rainfall with heavy lightning they saw the real catastrophe rolling by. A large hurricane that wiped just about everything out on its way was arriving to their place.
"Ah heard rumours that th' centur o' a hurricane… is wi' na win` at a'..", Alasdair remarked, seeing the thing coming towards them. When he looked at the thing he felt paralyzed. It crunched a hill and a larger variety of trees.
"Do you really want to find out? Then go ahead…fool.", Francis murmured. But he also saw that there would hardly be a way to avoid that.
The lot of them hopped back onto their horses and tried to ride away from the hurricane. It was a rather thick tornado at that, coming with several kilometres/miles per hour at them. This time the mercenaries rode rather undisciplined, more like a swarm to avoid the hurricane. But it was in vain. The hurricane altered its direction, moving almost a 90 degree angle and rushed towards them.
The horses with their burdens on their back were now galloping for their lives and those of their owners. It was nearly impossible to escape the hurricane, no joke. The left rear of the swarm was already grabbed and torn into the air in an endless ride in a circle. What really hurt or even killed those poor souls caught in the hurricane was when they collided with solid items.
The difficulty apart from the terrifying experience of escaping a very large wind swirl was losing sight by the pounding rain. Some of the horses tumbled over obstacles; other horses fell over those horses. In the end, everyone was trapped in that hurricane.
There was no possibility of communication; the roaring wind was just too much.
Francis felt isolated inside of it. He didn't know where he was. Neither did he know where was 'up' and where was 'down'. It was a miracle that he had not been crushed by something yet or that he had not puked yet. He looked around him, saw terrified faces… but in the middle of the storm, he saw a golden-red horse.
The horse seemed to have the fun of its life. It was rolling round and round that it seemed almost comical. The blonde Frenchman knew that if he'd kill that one, the hurricane would stop its deadly dance.
Francis unsheathed his sword and tried to get a hold of himself, control where his body went and where it didn't. He had to get to the lower centre of the storm. From the angle he saw suddenly something large coming towards him. It was Alasdair's horse. The blonde had to quickly sheathe his sword again and slapped the horse off. It was a whole lot heavier than he had thought. Or it was just that the magic of the sword was gone when it was out of its sheath.
Francis however waddled quickly towards his destination, dodging obstacles as they flew hazardously towards him. The weird horse down there didn't seem to notice him. Good for Francis, bad for the horse.
A loud shriek tore the air apart, the wind subsided and one by one the people, the horses and pieces of the environment such as rocks and branches fell to the ground.
The horse didn't bleed when the blade had hit it; instead it was dissolving into dark purple smoke. Francis almost felt pity. The horse had been so pretty he surely would have liked to own such a thing. "Rest in peace…", he softly said and patted its neck.
After sorting each other out, they found out that just a small group was injured. And that was all. Maybe thanks to their good condition, because now that the mercenaries had been more organised, the training was also more intense. Everyone had become stronger and became stronger day by day. Some of the men even argued that those that had gotten injured had slept during their training.
"Are ye a'richt, Francis?", Alasdair said, coming towards his prodigy after glancing at his horse.
"Oui, I'm fine. …It was such a beautiful horse."
"H-hae ye lost yer horse?", the redhead gasped. Horses were one of his hobbies. He liked horses really much. Their attitude, the way they moved, their incredible way of usage…It was pretty much the perfect animal.
"Non, don't worry. …The thing that created this hurricane had been a horse. It was gold and red in colour. I think it's one of those strange animals that seem to love attacking us now."
"At least you're a'richt.", Alasdair pulled Francis close and kissed his forehead and cheek.
The Frenchman just felt happy for the attention he received from Alasdair.
Very soon by time, the air turned colder now even as they travelled more south.
"It's sae cauld, ah think mah **** froze aff."
"Alasdair~", Francis had to giggle at the thought. "I could warm you up, but … not here and now. You need to learn to put off that silly Kilt."
"Bit it's mah pride."
"Then wear something beneath."
"That'd be a pity."
"It's only temporarily. Come on, it's going to be better for you. Or do I have to force you?"
"…Nae.", Alasdair made a face. After their next stop it was the first time that Francis saw his lover in pants instead of a Kilt. He just wore the fabric of the Kilt wrapped around his tall figure several times.
What Francis liked most about the winter was when Alasdair got a red nose, tips of his ears and red cheeks. The Frenchman himself wasn't possibly in a better shape, but all he saw from himself was his arms, his nose maybe, but most of all the fog escaping his mouth. He found it almost mystical when the men sat on the campfires at night with their breaths comings out so visibly. He found himself drawn to another world.
He was holding two cups with some hot drink in his hands and sat down on the campfire next to the redhead. He handed him a cup.
"If it continues to snow like this we have to make a winter break. It's no good for the horses to be exposed to the weather like this.", Tino, the Finn, said.
There was an overall agreement, the horses were their most precious belonging. It would be a great shame if something happened to them.
"Tae th' neist toon we aye need tae cross this ben. Thare is na ither wey.", Alasdair said, taking out a map and unfolding it. He took care that the map didn't get soaked with the snow even though the parchment seemed to have seen worse.
"What sort of mountain is that?", Francis asked. "If it's too rocky, too many horses might go crippled…"
"Th'n w' j'st t'k' th'm 'n th' l''sh…", the Swedish man said. He hardly spoke.
"Wha…?"
"We need to take them on a leash, he said." Tino translated. "I also hope we don't need more than one or two days to cross this mountain."
"There's a path.", Alasdair explained, pointing to a small line on the map. "Th' map isn't ferr … up tae date, bit it shuid aye be thare."
"I'd recommend we have a few people going beforehand and securing the way. When we give them spades they could also free the way from snow.", Francis suggested. "They'll grow tired, so we need to have the men take turns. Everyone will get a shift."
