Tomorrow Will Be Kinder (I Promise)
He wakes feeling more content than when he fell asleep. Soon, England becomes aware of the sensation of a hand working its way through his hair, gently undoing the tangles in it. Still breathing slow and deep, England makes conscious decision to keep doing so as he lifts his eyelids a centimeter. In the end, his surprise ruins the peacefulness. He catches a glimpse of his sister's face, it's soft and sweet as she looks down at him, her fingers still weaving through his hair. He gasps and her fingers fist into his hair so hard it hurts.
"Scotland?" England whimpers.
The woman's hand detangles from his once again knotted locks. Guiltily, she pulls away from him, her face returning to it's usual cool state of reserve. "England," she says, slowly turning her body away from him.
England panics, not again, anything but this. "Don't!" he starts, reaching out and snagging her wrist. She turns rigid and shoots a sharp look on England, yanking away from him, she bares her teeth.
"Don't ya dare touch me," she hisses.
England drops his hand back to the bed and moves his stare to the opposite wall. "Why do you hate me, Scotland?"
He hears her breath hitch. "What?" she says.
England doesn't dare look at her, he just can't. "You always have," he murmurs, "just like everyone else–"
"Where the bloody hell did ya get that idea?" she splutters.
Feeling more than angry with his far too confusing sister, England cries, "How do you think? You insult me, you try and hex me and when I was little, used to pelt rocks at me! Then, on more than one occasion, you've brushed me off or out right told me to fuck off!"
Scotland stares at England in horror. She didn't hate him–couldn't if she tried. Breath hitching wildly, she scrambles to find the right thing to say to her brother. She can't lose him, not the one brother her mother promised her to do right by. "I-" she begins, eyes wide and on England, who, at the moment, refuses to look her in the eye. Sighing, she looks down at her hands and imagines them smaller, even smaller than they were weeks before; barely big enough to hold a dagger, let alone a baby. She had held both, though, she had held both in each hand at the same time.
"I remember when ya were born," Scotland whispers. "It had been a hard labor, harder than Wales's. I remember that one too. She was dying even then…" Glancing up, she sees England still refuses to look at her face, but she's encouraged by the way his shoulder almost face towards her. "Ya were born bloody and screaming, but Mum took ya in her arms an' she laughed an' cried as she sang ta ya. Then, ya quieted so fast, I thought she was spellin' ya silent." Bowing her head, Scotland continues, "She called us all over then, an' she showed us yer wee face." She barks a laughs. "I thought ya were ugly, but Mum just said ya were just new."
Flickering her eyes up, she sees England's gazing uncomprehending at her. The slightest tremor coming to her voice, she pushes herself to tell England the most important part about his birth. "Mum had been sick a good while," she whispers, "so long that I'd gotten used ta bein' the one ta take care o' things…but no one wants their mother ta die."
England's looking at her now.
Taking in a deep breath, Scotland says, "She been coughin', coughin' so hard… I went to her an' helped her up. Blood was all over her hands an' I–ya know what she said? She told me ta do right by ya, told me ta take her dagger an' keep ya all alive." Tears slipping down her cheeks for the first time in years for her mother, Scotland says, "She died by mornin' an' I've kept my promise since."
Voice gruff, England growls, "Kept your promise did you?"
Scotland sees he's angry, but can't bring herself to feel upset about it. "Ya come ta France when things get bad, don't ya? Ya aren't dead, are ya?" she asks. Fingers clenching, she tells him, "I did my part, kept ya from the man who killed our mother an' made sure ya never had ta go through any of what I did."
"That doesn't explain why you are so cruel," her brother bites.
Scotland laughs. "Yer practically Mum's spittin' image. I couldn't stand it then and, sometimes, even now I can't."
England looks unimpressed (not that she expected much else).
Licking her lips, Scotland holds out a single beseeching hand to her brother. "I-I don't hate ya, I do love ya. I do…" She feels completely silly and ineffectual, but her brother's eyes widen and his mouth parts.
He runs a hand through his hair. "God…Why do you always let things get so out of hand, Wilma?" he asks shakily.
Scotland can only shrug. "I wouldn't be me, if I didn't, now would I?" she says, cracking a bit of a smile.
Arthur grins back. "No I suppose you wouldn't be," he agrees. A nervous edge returning to his features, he implores one last time, "You don't hate me?"
"Never," Scotland says firmly.
Shyly, England offers, "I know you probably won't like to talk about him, and the things he did, but if you, I don't know, need someone ever, I could-could be there if you want."
Scotland takes her brother into a rare hug. "A good lad ya are," she whispers. "C'mon, France is downstairs cookin' us a meal." Hooking his arm to hers, she guides him towards the stairs. Their arms stay linked until they are forced to let go just outside the kitchen, lest France catch them. Though, if the way the Frenchman smiles throughout the meal is anything to go by, he probably glimpsed them at some point.
Hola! I'm back from Spain everyone! And here we are at the end of this story; we'll see about an epilogue, that, though could be a while out. Thanks for all of your reviews, favorites, follows and views guys; you'll never know how much I appreciate it.
As always thank you for reading and I hope to hear from you all! :)
EDITED: 2/9/16