Last chapter was short, this one is a little long... whoops.

I was planning to update yesterday, but my birthday came in the way ("No, sis! You can't hide away in your room all day on your own sweet sixteen!" as my little sister put it...) so I couldn't find the time to finish the chapter. And when I did today, I might have gone a little overboard with the length...

Anyway, school's over so I'll probably update more regularly. And also, of course, Crossfire and Karano! Thanks for the reviews once again!

I don't own Hetalia.

It was a little crowded in Scotland's house in Edinburgh when Germany and Prussia were there. While the Prussian actually seemed to get along with Scotland quite well, Germany mostly sat close by in silence, not really doing anything. It was still a bit awkward to suddenly pay a 'fiendly visit' to the nations that had been his enemies until only a year before. England and Wales also hardly talked to them, and any conversation amongst themselves was also a bit more awkward whenever one of the Germans was within earshot. It just seemed so strange to have them here. At least in the late evening and early morning, they were gone, spending the night in their hotelroom.

The effects of the war and the debt to France were best visible on Germany, who was nearly as pale as his albino brother by now. They both seemed exhausted, and Prussia had already told them how he and his little brother were made to work day and night in order to earn some money to pay off the debt, along with millions of others. "It's really tough," the albino had told the British brothers. "Beside the usual governmental vork, ve also have to vork on other jobs during the night, like voodcrafting in Ludwig's case. I have been turned into an overnight-blacksmith. Any money ve make goes to the government so ve can pay off the debt, and ve're allowed to keep just about enough to live off. Being a German isn't easy these days." England and Wales gave eachother a stare at this explanation, the same message in their green eyes. And here we thought our economy was bad. But Prussia then laughed, adding to brighten his story a bit, "But, I must say, because of my new job, I finally had an idea for a surname! Beilschmidt. Doesn't sound too bad, does it? Gilbert und Ludwig Beilschmidt!"

At this, Germany had protested, "I never agreed on taking on that name, Bruder, don't make it sound like I did." But Prussia didn't seem to agree with his little brother's decision, reasoning, "But you're mein kleiner Bruder! Of course you have the same name I do!" Germany shrugged, mumbling, "I'm also Saxony's brother, and Hessen's and Bayern's... even if they're dead. Do they have the name Beilschmidt? I don't think so. End of the story." Prussia faked a pout, muttering someting at Germany in German with a thick Prussian accent, so neither of the English-speaking countries really understood him. Perhaps they should learn German as well one day, beside English, Welsh, Irish Gaelic and Scottish Gaelic. Well, and England spoke Latin and a little French, of course, and Scotland still spoke French from the time he'd had an alliance with France. But now that the world was getting more 'international' with the year, it might be a good idea to learn more languages.

"But you must have a hard time as vell, right?" Prussia then asked the Brits, catching their attention again. "I mean, plummeting right into another var like that, against your brother, no less. I could never imagine fighting Ludwig! It must be hard." Germany nodded, glancing at his brother for a moment, and for once his pale blue eyes weren't cold as ice. Wales shrugged and didn't really say anything about it, so England just nodded. "Well, while this war hasn't been much of a burden physically yet, you're right... It's a little harder emotionally. We're at war with eachother, I know, but Ireland's still our brother. We haven't fought eachother physically yet, and so far, the war's been pretty controlled. There haven't been many deaths yet, compared to previous wars, thankfully. I think we'll manage to keep it under control just fine." Prussia hummed, not seeming convinced at all, but didn't speak about it anymore after that. He recognised a sensitive subject when he saw one, at least.

"I'll just get the beer now," Scotland said, smirking as het got up from where he'd been sitting in silence for a while now. "An' no more depressing tales now, aye? How 'bout we compare German beer with Scottish beer, hm?" Prussia barked out a laugh at this, and called after him, "You'll never beat true German beer, Skirt!" Even Germany smirked, apparently agreeing with this.

"Yeah, we'll see 'bout that, Gil!" Scotland called back, adding quickly, "An' it's called a KILT, for Heaven's sake!" Even England and Wales laughed at that, as Scotland's habit of wearing kilts every now and then was quite the laughing matter even within the family. Then came the drinking, something both families appeared to enjoy as much as the other did. England prefered good old ale, he had to admit, but the German stuff the two visitors had brought with them wasn't bad, either. At the end of the evening, when Prussia and Germany were about to leave for their small hotel again, the Prussian albino pulled England along into the hallway for a minute, being stared after by the three other nations and also by England himself, who was getting a little nervous at that point. Who knows what a drunken Prussia would do? Because if one thing was clear, it was that the albino nation was very drunk. But who could blame him after perhaps nine or ten bottles of beer. No one had really been keeping track until they found every bottle in the house was empty. The younger nation pushed England with his back against the wall, pinning him there, staring him straight in his emerald eyes with his own crimson ones. "England, for Gott's sake," he hissed at him from inbetween clenched jaws, his expression deadly serious. "Vhatever you do, do not underestimate the var you're in. If there's one thing I've learned in the centuries I've lived, it's that every single var, vithout fail, vill get out of hand." England only blinked, confused. This was most definitely not what he'd been expecting. Drunk Prussia was a reasonable Prussia, apparently. "Don't underestimate it. You vill have to fight your brother, England, and one of you vill get hurt. It always happens, it always does, and this var von't be an exception. If you vant to get out of this unscathed, then you first have to accept the fact that you cannot get out of this unscathed. Understand?"

England could only nod slowly, silently.

How right the Prussian had been was almost uncanny, as barely six months later, the violence escalated. In October 1920, several Irish prisoners died while on hunger strike, one of which was the Lord Mayor of county Cork, Terence MacSwiney, and short after him two IRA members who at that moment had been locked up in Cork Jail.

Now it was 21 October, and earlier that morning, and IRA squad led by Michael Collins had attacked British Army officers and policemen in Dublin in an attempt to rid the city of British Intelligence operatives. England had been with some of his soldiers in Dublin that day, and though he hadn't been there when the attack happened, he heard it almost immediately. "14 killed and 5 wounded is what I heard, sir," one of his soldiers reported to him. "Amongst which civilians. The wounded are being tended to as we speak, sir." England nodded, sighing. "Good, good," he mumbled. "We don't want any more deaths today. You said civilians were killed as well. How many?"

The soldier shook his head, apologising. "I do not know, sir." England gave another absent-minded nod, wondering what to do next. This had obviously been a well-planned attack, not one of the random outbursts of violence that occured regularly these days. He had told the truth when he said he didn't want anymore deaths that day, but not responding to this attack at all would send the wrong message to the IRA. They couldn't be too passive, for that would make them look weak. Too much agressiveness, however... He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, feeling another headache welling up already, frowning. "Dammit," he muttered. "Damn it all. I have to directly discuss this with others." Turning to some men in his squad, the nation quickly explained the situation. "But I don't want to see any violence. We are simply on our way to another squad so I can discuss the course of action from here on. Unless it is absolutely necessary, I do not want any of those guns you have to fire even a single bullet. Understood?" The men nodded, saluting. "Yes sir!"

"Good," England muttered, mood grim. Then he turned around, saying, "We're heading out, men." But immediately after he'd said that, an eerily familiar voice suddenly sounded somewhere nearby. "No, yer not, dearthair." Then, barely a second later, he saw something coming his way at great speed. It went through the air like a flash of dark, and when it hit him, elicited a short scream of pain from the nation's lips. He had his eyes shut tight as he clenched his jaws. The sudden pain in his right arm was overwhelming, and for a moment, he had trouble breathing. But, though the pain remained, this effect passed almost as quicly as it came, and he opened is eyes to look at whatever had caused this pain. He was both amazed and horrified to see an arrow, of all things, going through his arm, going in one end and coming out again at the back. It had gone straight through the bone as well, he noticed, shattering it. Calming himself, he looked up, following the path the arrow had followed, and he was not at all surprised when he saw the archer.

Ireland sat crouched on the rooftop of a small building across the street, looking down at his little brother and his squad. In his left hand he held the old-fashioned hunting bow that had been a piece of decoration on his bedroom wall until only a short while before. The weapon had been gathering dust from the time Ireland had still been a teenager, when every other week he'd go hunting deer, fox and any other edible prey for him and, on occassion, his little brothers as well. Somehow, seeing this caused England to burst into sudden laughter, despite the pain it caused in his shoulder and arm. "What's wrong, Cearul?" he called to his older brother when the laughter subsided a bit. "Is a gun too modern for your old brain to comprehend?"

Ireland just shrugged. "No," he answered flatly. "But this hurts more." In a short moment of silence, England gestured to his soldiers not to attack Ireland. Not yet, at least. "I hardly think so, brother," he answered, shrugging, though only with his good arm. His right upper arm was almost entirely bloodstained by now, and he knew that, once the arrow was out, it would start pouring like a tidal wave, and then he'd have to work quickly in order to not lose too much blood. "Really now?" Ireland asked, and England thought he could see him smirking in the distance. "Just wait 'til ye pull 't out, lad. Then ye won't be so confident anymore. I hit the bone, didn't I? Not that hard, with yer skinny arms, but that means it's broken. Can ye imagine, lil' brother? Having to pull out that arrow, the wood sliding through yer flesh, pulling along tiny shards o'bone into muscle tissue, which of course will have to be pulled out one by one... Not to mention the shaft o'the arrow scrapin' against yer bone, which 'as been chipped like a porcelain cup..." In truth, the mere thought of it made England light-headed, and he felt his stomach do a somersault as Ireland's words made memories of his youth surface in his mind. If there's one thing he'd learned about arrows, it was that perhaps they weren't as effecient as bullets nowadays were, but they hurt. They hurt very, very bad. England decided to switch the topic quickly before he'd realise again in how much pain he was at that moment, for that would be nothing short of a disaster. "That attack this morning," he asked his brother fiercely, the anger obvious in his voice. "Were you there?"

"O'course not!" Ireland protested. "I dun'kill, Artie. I'm not you!"

"No, I can see that, dammit!" England yelled back, losing his calm as the pain slithered back into his consciousness like a snake. He quickly gave his arm a sidewards glance, noticing how the bloodstain now covered not only his upper arm, but also a part of the lower arm and shoulder. He was losing too much blood. He had to finish this quickly. "Don't be such a coward and come down here!" he yelled at his older brother. Ireland huffed, yelling back, "Not as easy as't looks, laddie. Why? I'm not the only one with long-range weapons! It's not like ye can't fight me when I'm up here. An' I'm alone, I can assure ye o'that. So why not attack me, Artie, hm?" That was a good question, England thought, but something stopped him from attacking Ireland. That one annoying thing that had ruined his wars before, had prevented him from hurting anyone and winning the battle. That one inconvenient emotion he cursed now. Love.

And he knew Ireland wasn't here to kill him. If he had come with that intention, he'd have shot England directly in his head or heart. Ireland was an excelent marksman, and the distance wasn't that great. He could've easily done it, but he hadn't. Distracted now, he was once again fully aware of the agonising pain in his right arm, and instinctively, he reached for it with his good arm. Bad idea. At the slightest touch, a tidal wave of pain went through his arm as the broken bone shifted. He let out a hiss of agony, out of breath instantly, and black blotches appeared in his vision. "See?" he heard Ireland call. "Hurts, dunnit?" One of the British soldiers was beside England in a second, placing one hand between his shoulders to keep him balanced, the other holding him by the arm, so low that he was almost gripping his wrist. "S-sir, please, let me help-" But, well intended as it was, the motion didn't help at all. On the contrary even, the sudden pain it sent through the nation's arm was so strong, he blacked out for a moment. It lasted for only two seconds or even less, but next thing he knew, he was on the ground on his side. He'd collapsed, he realised, closing his eyes again as he was tortured by the arrow in his arm. Next he heard a loud gunshot right next to him, followed by a short exclamation and then a loud thump. Then the pain and bloodloss became too much, and he passed out.

When Ireland woke up, the first things he felt were the stabbing pain in his hip and the throbbing in his head. The world was spinning before his eyes, and he closed them with a groan. He felt awful. When he slowly blinked open his eyes again a few seconds later, he saw a British soldier standing a few feet away, looking at the nation in slight disgust. Ireland only glared at him, wanting to assure the man that, no matter the state he was in, a nation would always be a million times stronger than any human. Superior to all of them. He didn't have to take this from a human, and especially not from a Brit. The human eventually gave up the apparent staring contest, turning around and walking away. "I'll go fetch your brother," he said, and judging by his accent, he was a Welshman. Though Ireland did pick up something remotely English about his accent as well, so he probably lived near the border between the two nations. Ireland just huffed, closing his eyes again for a moment. By the time England arrived, he felt absolutely sick, and his headache had become worse with the minute.

England seemed everything but pleased to see his older brother, even less so to approach him. He then sat down beside Ireland, who only then noticed he was lying on a bed. For a moment, there was only silence, until Ireland said, "They fixed ye up nicely, didn't they?", gesturing to England's right arm, which was bandaged all the way down to his wrist. The younger nation glanced at it for a moment, then sighed. "Yeah, well, it will take about a month to heal anyway." With a huff, he added, "Had it been a human who did this, it would've been a week at most." Ireland nodded, making the headache and dizziness ten times worse with that simple motion, and England quickly told him, "Careful there, Cearul! You fell from a three-story building when they shot you. Honestly, you're lucky it was only a few broken ribs and a concussion. And that crack in your hip. And the bruises, which somehow haven't healed yet... I think the fractures have priority."

"Yeah, probably," Ireland rasped, then noticing the glass of water standing close by. He stared at it, then glanced at England, who understood the message instantly. "All right, then," he huffed, reaching for the glass and handing it to his brother. "But only because I need you to be able to answer my questions." Ireland didn't care for what reason he was given water, so long as he could get his throat wet again. Moist would be enough, even, if only it wasn't the sandpaper it was now. As he was drinking, England asked, "You didn't come to kill me, did you?"

"No! No, dammit, I wouldn't kill my little brothers for anything," the Irishman answered, getting angry at England for even thinking that. Wasn't it clear enough yet? England just nodded quickly, gesturing to him to take it easy. The concussion really wasn't a mild one. "Good, I... I just needed to hear that. I didn't think you did, but..." He then shook his head. "If you didn't come to kill me, and anything else would only end up... well, like this for you, then why the hell did you come? Honestly?" Ireland just shrugged, closing his eyes again and sighing softly. "To shoot ye with an arrow, obviously."

"Why?"

"So you couldn't fight...? Hell, Artie, I don't know! I just felt like it!" Ireland said, raising his voice now, though not much. He couldn't raise it much with a throat as dry as his. England narrowed his eyes at him and only stared for a moment before telling him, "I think you do. And I think it's exactly what you just said. You don't want me to fight. But... why?"

"Can ye stop with the stupid questions, lad?" Ireland sighed, getting angry. "Ye know the answer, dammit! Figure it out." And indeed, England didn't have to think long at all before he stated, "You don't want me to fight... because you don't want to fight me." Ireland's silence after his little brother had come to this conclusion was in fact the best answer England could get, because now at least he knew for sure he'd been right. He only nodded and remained silent for a moment. He noticed of course how uncomfortable his older brother was, both physically and emotionally. But England couldn't help that he'd been stupid enough to get onto a roof, or that he no wasn't in any condition to leave. But Ireland was still better off than England was: the concussion and cracked bones would take a week to heal at most, of which two days had passed already. The arm, being damaged directly by a nation, would take a month or longer, not to mention he'd been on painkillers for the past two days and would be for the next week at least. It clouded his mind like a fog, not too much to be a problem but enough to be a nuisance. Ireland had done his job well if his aim had truly been to stop his younger brother from fighting. And somehow, he understood. And he just couldn't be angry.

"I don't really want to fight you, either," he mumbled eventually, looking away, scanning the room. "But this is war, Cearul. At one point we'll have to. And it will involve more than arrows and harsh words. You know this, so please... stop postponing it. I won't either. The sooner this is over with, the better. I don't know what the outcome will be, and I don't want to know. What I do want to know, is that at least you know and accept the fact that you're my brother, and I care about you. That will never change, no matter what." Ireland was silent for a moment, then sighed. "I tried not to care, and I succeeded. Or so I thought for a long time..." he said, turning to look at England, who'd also returned his stare to his brother by now. "Seeing ye hurt -even if it was my own doing- makes me realise how wrong I was. But that does not mean I'll stop fighting this war. We're brothers, Arthur, but England... we're enemies. One of us will get hurt an' it will be more than a mere fracture or a concussion. This war won't be over until ye let me go or one of us is near death. It's that simple." England gave a short nod, knowing very well that what the older nation said was true. With an expression between a smirk and a grimace, Ireland added, "And don't underestimate the price I'm willing to pay to win. It's greater than ye could imagine. Greater even than I can comprehend quite yet."

A new silence fell, and England eventually got up and went over to the door. Before leaving the room, however, he looked over his shoulder and said, "Some of my men were talking about keeping you here as a hostage. Leverage to help us win the war. But I can't do that. I've asked Allistair to come over here tomorrow. He'll get you home to Ballinhassig -saftey reasons- and has promised to stay for a little while if you need him to because of the concussion." Ireland nodded, mumbled a thanks and then drifted into a deep sleep once more. His head just really needed it right now.

The day after, Scotland had just brought Ireland home, who went to the couch instantly and promptly fell asleep again. His healing was a lot more exhausting than any of the brothers had thought, but neither really considered it a problem. No, what Scotland thought was the problem here, was how he and his older brother had barely talked on the way here. They barely had over the past year, even. Ever since that one day...

But looking at Ireland now, he got the exact same feeling he always did when being near him. That feeling he'd had ever since he'd been a small, young child and Ireland had still towered over him, being nearly twice as tall. That tiny little voice in the very back of his conscience, telling him 'Here, I am safe. Here, I am with my big brother. And big brother will protect me from anything and everything.' He smiled at this. He knew of course that it wasn't true, not entirely, but that childhood feeling of security warmed his heart and soul every single time. Closing his eyes, he placed his head against Ireland's shoulder like he'd done countless times, taking in his scent and the warmth of his body and the movement of his chest and shoulders as he breathed. Over the many centuries that had passed, somehow, Ireland still had the same scent he did back when they spent their days in the woods. He'd always kept that fresh, natural scent over him, whereas Scotland's own had long been overshadowed by cigarette smoke, though it was beginning to fade now that he'd stopped smoking after the Great War. And as he lay there, he tried to imagine what life would be like without him, without his Ireland, his very own big brother, the only person left on the entire world that could still make him feel as secure as a young child with his older sibling. Thinking of a life without Ireland only brought to mind all the time he'd spend alone with him, no Wales and no England and no other countries. Only them and their mother. And then he realised that, to him, life without Ireland just didn't exist. It wouldn't be life at all.

Voices. Warm voices softly speaking to eachother, hushed and quickly, but calm. Then came again that annoying ticklish feeling in his nose, and he sneezed. The voices were gone until he stopped sniffling to get the itch away. Then they spoke for a short moment longer, and they fell silent again. The leaves that covered the forest floor rustled a bit as a pair of feet stepped on them, and then a last crackish sound as a small, lithe body sat down close to him. With a yawn, he opened his eyes, seeing only his older brother sitting next to him. "Eire...?" he mumbled softly. "Where's mom...?"

Ireland turned around, smiling at his little brother. Scotland could hardly see him in the darkness of the night. "She's gone hunting. She'll be back soon, Alba, dun'worry now." Scotland nodded, getting up from the fox pelt that served as his bed. "Again?" he complained, surpressing another yawn. "She went only three days ago! And why does she always go at night?" Ireland pulled his little brother, only three, maybe four years old, onto his lap and looked at him. "Because you'd never let her go if you were awake, that's why." Scotland shook his head. No, indeed, he wouldn't. Why couldn't his mom stay for more than five days in a row? Why did she have to leave every few days and stay away for a few, even? He didn't like it. "Because we were running out of food, Alba, that's why," the older child explained, as if he could read his little brother's mind. "Like every year, now that it's getting colder, there isn't enough fruit and nuts to live off, so she has to hunt for meat more often. Once you're a little older, we'll come with her on these trips. We'll all go together, alright? But until your legs have grown just a little taller, you'll have to stay here, and I'll stay to take care of you." When Scotland yawned again, the older brother added with a chuckle, "And also when you don't get tired as fast anymore. Go to sleep, Alba, you need it." Little Scotland nodded, snuggling up to Ireland and closing his eyes, ready to sleep again. But then came a second sneeze, and he complained, "I don't like this..." Ireland only laughed softly and began stroking his little brother's firey red hair. It was getting so long, he might have to start wearing it in a short ponytail like Ireland did until it was long enough to cut off again. "I think you're getting your very first cold, little brother," he told the tiny Scot. "It will pass in a few days, but your nose and throat will stay ticklish like this for a little while. You might also get a little stinging in your throat, and breathing can be a bit harder... It's nothing to worrry about. It is mostly a nuisance, not a problem." Scotland huffed and put his arms around his brother's waist, hugging him gently while trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. "I still don't like it..." he muttered. But at the same time, he was once again amazed at how much Ireland knew. His big brother knew everything there was, told the best stories in the world and always took the time to play with Scotland, and taught him some basic hunting techniques while doing so. "You're the best big brother ever..." he mumbled, drifting off a little already. Ireland laughed a little, then began to sing very softly. "Éiníní, éiníní, codalaígí codalaígí. Éiníní, éiníní, codalaígí codalaígí. Codalaígí, codalaígí, cois an chlaí amuigh, cois an chlaí amuigh..." Scotland didn't hear any more than that, as he was already asleep again, smiling as he was.

As this memory and so many more like it began to flood his mind, Scotland leaned against Ireland completely, as gently as he could to not wake him up. He realised once again how much his older brother meant to him, and just how much he missed him already.

So, the reason for Prussia choosing his surname because of his job as a blacksmith: if I'm not mistaken, (and I hardly think I am, as this sounds almost like the Dutch version "Bijl Smid") "Beilschmidt" directly translates to "Axe Smith" or something like it.

And that's it! Thanks a lot for reading, and I hope you liked this chapter!