11th May, 1745; near Tournai, Austrian Netherlands

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France heard something break when Scotland knocked him from his horse – a cracking clear snap of sound like the report of a gun firing. It was most likely a rib; maybe two. There's little pain yet, just a dull, bruising ache in his side stretching from hip to shoulder, but he can't quite take a deep enough breath to keep his head from spinning and his spit has turned thick and tastes coppery-sharp.

His musket, too, was broken by his fall. So damaged that it jammed when France aimed it at Scotland's head, square between his eyes, and pulled the trigger. Useless, he cast it aside to sink into the same soupy, battle-churned mud that's soaked through his trousers in great, spreading blotches, staining the once bright red fabric almost black.

Acting on a reflex aeons in the honing, France reaches for the sword hanging at his hip, even though he knows there is no chance he'd be able to unsheathe it before Scotland fired. He is defenceless – completely at the mercy of Scotland and the musket he has trained, unerringly, at France's heart.

Scotland doesn't so much as flinch when France rests his hand against the sword's pommel. His gaze is as unwavering as his gun, and his slow, steady breaths barely swell his barrel chest. He looks untouched by both the fighting raging around them and the position they have found themselves in, with France's defeat but a twitch of Scotland's finger away.

But that twitch never comes. Scotland remains so silent, so still, that he puts France in mind of a child's toy soldier, carved from wood. Stiff; inert; practically pristine. There is no sweat marring his brow; no mud splattered dark across his uniform. The one incongruity is his tricorne hat, which has been knocked slightly askew, allowing a tuft of his coarse, russet hair to escape from beneath. It clashes dreadfully with his red coat.

As France had suspected they would, England's colours suit his brother very ill indeed. The last of his fear drains away with the observation. Only anger remains.

"Do you intend on firing soon, Écosse?" he asks. "I'm growing tired of staring down your gun." He moves a little closer, the mud lapping around his ankles. "Your shoulder must be growing tired, too."

"Not that I've noticed," Scotland says, and it certainly seems to be the truth as his arms do not shake and his aim holds true.

Scotland always used to burn at his brightest on the battlefield, filled with a sort of primal hunger and passion that he never displayed anywhere else. Certainly not when he and France shared a bed, and certainly not here and now.

Here and now he is wood. He is stone. As blank-eyed and expressionless as he has ever been these past few, disappointing centuries even when they're face to face and close enough to touch, whether it be in tenderness or violence.

Here and now, they are enemies, standing on opposite sides of this war. Scotland should hate him, or at the very least want to hurt him, bring him to heel in the name of his king. If England were in his brother's place, he would have fired long ago – torn out France's jugular with his teeth and nails if he had to – but Scotland remains there unmoving, as if France is of no consequence at all.

France should be glad of that – is almost certain that, if he were to turn aside now, Scotland would allow him to retreat and rejoin his own forces. Whether that clemency would be offered in deference to their old alliance or as the result of simple apathy shouldn't matter.

"I remember that you once gutted me like a fish," France says, because somehow it does matter. "Cut me from navel to sternum and covered yourself in so much of my blood that it soaked you through to the skin. This will be far less messy, I imagine."

"You asked me to do that," Scotland says, sounding slightly defensive, as though he believes France is accusing him of some misdeed. "Said that you wanted to see how strong I really was, because I always held myself back when we fought."

And until that day, he had. He held himself back when they fought, when they talked, when they touched; kept the fire that France knew must burn inside him so deeply hidden that barely a glimmer of it ever escaped save in the heat of battle.

France had caught a glimpse of it that day when they sparred, in the bright, bloodied instant after Scotland drove a sword into his stomach, and then once more in Stirling Castle, stuttering like the candlelight that illuminated Scotland's bedchamber.

He wants to see it again, to know that the long years they'd spent together had meant something to Scotland. It might not be love – it will never be love – but hatred is the same passion turned to opposite ends. He'll take that if he has to, and be glad of it.

"I was right then, wasn't I? And apparently, you still do, even when you're making war on me in your brother's name."

But even the mention of England, the reminder of the union that France knows Scotland must resent, fails to stir him to any measure of anger.

"Our name," he says placidly.

"Of course." France steps forward again until the muzzle of Scotland's musket presses against his breastbone. The broken ends of his shattered ribs grind together beneath the metal, sending a sharp stab of pain lancing down through his belly. "Just think of the good you could do for your men's morale by defeating me. You might turn the tide of this battle."

"I doubt that." Scotland shrugs – the slight rise and fall of his shoulders the greatest animation he's shown since he first pointed his gun towards France. "Besides, I unhorsed you, disarmed you, and now I have you at my mercy. You're already defeated, An Fhraing. Dragging your broken body in front of my soldiers won't make that any truer."

He slips his finger away from the musket's trigger and France barks laughter, disbelieving. "You're a ridiculous man, Écosse," he says. "You always have been."

Scotland doesn't remonstrate, doesn't claim offense, or hurl back his own insult in retaliation for France's. He just turns his back on France and starts to walk away, as though France had never spoken at all.

France's own hatred is searing, implacable, and every other thought in his head is overwhelmed by it. He is made mindless by it, and on unthinking impulse, he picks up his discarded musket, aims the butt of it at the base of Scotland's skull, and draws back his arm.
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1745: The Battle of Fontenoy was a major engagement of the War of the Austrian Succession. It was also the first time Scotland and France met on the battlefield after the United Kingdom of Great Britain was formed.