DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
THE CALL OF THE WILD
RENEGADES
ONE
THE ISLES
JUNE
Pup-of-a-bitch!" he cursed. The coarse fabric stretched taut over his swollen abdomen, but the buttons refused to meet. It was an ugly olive-green tunic that Arthur had stitched with fibre-spun thread, intending the garment for house-labour, not as a fashion statement. He had already let both sides out, expanding the narrow waist; otherwise he would never have gotten it on over the boxy smock he wore underneath, which was little more than a recycled sack with sleeves. He tried again, falling onto his back on the low bed as he shimmied from left-to-right, grunting as he strained the thin fabric. If he couldn't even get the buttons fastened, then he would never get his belt on. But if he didn't, Scott would ask questions. It wasn't as if Arthur had a large cache of clothes to choose from, after all, and Scott hated waste.
As if on-cue, Scott's brogue shouted in warning:
"If you're not fucking ready in five fucking minutes, I'm dragging you out by your ears, Art! Damned Omega," he sighed irritably. His voice was loud and penetrated the oak walls. He was talking to Owen in the main room. "You'd think he was actually something pretty to look at the way he's been fussing over himself lately," he complained loudly. "He never used to care."
"He's fifteen now, Scott. That's just how Omegas are," said Owen sagely, though he was an Alpha like Scott. "He's technically an adult by clan-law, which makes him eligible to mate. Omegas come-of-age younger than Alphas, you know that. Alphas have their skills; Omegas have their faces. It's his looks that'll impress an Alpha at the Stones."
"Aye, well"—Scott intentionally raised his voice—"he's not impressing anyone here acting like a bloody clan-whelp!"
(Clan-whelp was a very derogatory term used to describe the privileged pups of the Clan Leader, who, purely through nepotism, were granted the best of everything, and were therefore held in contempt by those born to a lower station in the clan hierarchy.)
"Face it, Art! No amount of fussing can magic-off freckles!" He barked in laughter. "Forget it. Your best hope is to find an Alpha who prefers mating from behind, that way he won't have to look at you—"
"Scott!" Owen chastised. But Arthur was barely listening.
He didn't want to think about Alphas. It was an Alpha who had gotten him into this state, after all.
He finally managed to fasten a single button, but his victory was short-lived. The instant he straightened and stood, it snapped. "Oh, bloody-hell!" he hissed in frustration.
He had always been a skinny Omega, but the ragged hand-me-down tunic, which had always been too big for him before, had been the last article of his clothing with a chance at fitting; at hiding his steadily growing mistake. In defeat, he sat on the bed and rubbed habitually at his swollen abdomen. The unborn pup inside was restless. Again. It had prevented him from getting a decent night's sleep for at least a month. And it was hungry. It was always hungry. Arthur would have eaten a stag to himself if allowed. Unfortunately, because of the pack's annual migration, food was being rationed to sustain them all for the journey south. The pack he and his brothers belonged to was a big one; one of the biggest in the whole clan. The pack's hunters—Scott and Owen were both hunters—had combed their territory for a fortnight seeking prey to feed them all. Despite that knowledge, Arthur's stomach growled.
"I'm sorry," he whispered as he stroked his abdomen. "I can't feed you, not now."
He felt a kick, as if in protest.
Feeling annoyed, Arthur struggled to his feet. His body felt heavy, as if he was carrying the weight of rocks instead of a pup. It was a strong, active pup. And it's big, he thought, not for the first time. How else could the size of his abdomen be explained? He had seen pregnant Omegas before, but few had developed as quickly as Arthur had. If someone had questioned his unfashionable choice of attire, his state would have been obvious. Except for his perfectly round belly, the rest of him still looked worryingly underfed. Briefly, he panicked about having to give birth to such a large pup, but he quickly buried the thought. The night-terrors he suffered were bad enough without scaring himself into a panic-attack. It had been six months since his last episode, and for his pup's sake he wanted to stretch it for as long as possible. He had promised to keep himself healthy for the duration of his pregnancy, regardless of the strange looks his brothers gave him for changing his lifestyle. It had been over eight months now, and it hadn't been easy. His brothers were suspicious of his behaviour, he knew, but fortunately they blamed it on his coming-of-age. It was lucky that none of them would ever expect their introverted, law-abiding Omega-brother of getting himself pregnant before he was pair-bonded. It was illegal by clan-law, the punishment for which was exile.
It was why Arthur couldn't risk his brothers finding out, no matter what. Owen might be sympathetic, but Scott would be furious. (The twins, Liam and Patrick, being only ten-years-old, wouldn't care.) If Arthur's secret was found out, not only would it effect him, but it would hurt his family's reputation. They wouldn't be exiled, like Arthur, but any hope Scott had harboured of climbing the ranks would vanish. No one would trust the ability of an Alpha who couldn't even protect his brother, and that included the clan's other Omegas. If the pack discovered that Arthur was illegally pregnant, then Scott would take the blame and his chance of finding an Omega-mate would all but disappear. Because if Scott couldn't protect his own Omega-brother, how on earth could he be trusted to protect a mate and pups? Scott might have been an inconsiderate dick to Arthur most of the time, but he was still the head of their family, and, technically, the only parent that Arthur had ever known. The last thing he wanted was for his brothers to suffer for his mistake.
"Art!" Scott hollered impatiently. He banged on the bedchamber wall.
"I'm coming! Just give me a minute!" Arthur replied; half-annoyed, half-frantic.
Defeated, he discarded the tunic and grabbed an old tartan instead, twisting it over his smock and knotting it at his pelvis to hide his abdomen. It hung in sun-bleached folds from his skinny frame, but it was the best he could do on short-notice. Quickly, he packed his few belongings into a satchel, taking especial care of an apothecary box with a false bottom. He had acquired it eight months ago from a hedgewitch in the valley, along with the knowledge of how to brew several potions that would aid him in hiding and soothing his pregnancy. There was a sleeping draught, an antidote for nausea, and an opioid for pain relief, but the most vital potion numbed his scent. It was important that he took it twice daily, because otherwise his brothers would be able to smell the obvious change in his hormones.
(As an evolutionary necessity, Alphas had incredibly sensitive noses for tracking and hunting; Omegas had sensitive ears for defense and the benefit of their crying pups.)
Arthur still thought it was a miracle that his brothers hadn't smelled the Alpha on him when he had returned from his Heat on the night he had conceived, though a bath in scalding saltwater had thoroughly cleansed him. On the outside, at least. But he couldn't spend nine uncomfortable months submerged in saltwater, which is why the potion was needed. Before he packed his supply of it into the false bottom of the box, he took a dose just to be safe. He didn't know when he would be able to sneak another as long as they were travelling. In retrospect, it was a good thing that he was forced to wear Scott's old tartan, because the Alpha's pungent scent coated Arthur's skin, curtailing suspicion.
He locked the apothecary box and stuffed it into his satchel just as Scott's shadow proceeded him.
Their home was humble—a shelter of stone and thatch, with old timber supports sunk into the earth—but, though his Alpha-brothers had to share a room, Arthur had a sleeping space to himself since he was the only Omega. It was small, but Scott's presence made it feel even smaller. He stood just across the threshold with his muscular arms crossed over a wide chest. He looked like a hunter, a warrior. He was tall and broad with long, strong limbs, and he possessed a physical prowess that emanated self-confidence. Few of the pack's hunters were as successful as he was, and few of their fighters were more revered. There was something in Scott's Celtic features that he and Arthur shared, but otherwise they were opposites. The only trait that the brothers had all inherited from their Omega-mother was the shape and colour of their eyes, which was a fierce Lincoln-green. Those luminous eyes pierced Arthur now with a good deal of impatience as Scott stared. Arthur felt his heartbeat pound as he waited for his eldest brother to speak, fearing, as he had for over eight months, that today would be the unlucky day Scott found out.
In Omega-like—but un-Arthur-like—submission, he bowed his head.
"That's what we've been waiting for?" Scott looked at his old tartan anticlimactically. Then he rolled his eyes. "Come on, freckle-face, it's time to go."
This tastes like pish," Scott complained. Despite that, he took another bite. "It's burnt fucking black!"
Arthur scowled. "I like it this way," he lied in self-defense.
It was late. The pack had been walking across-country all day, steadily growing in numbers as other packs in the vicinity joined the migration south. In a few days, every clan on the Isles would meet at the Standing Stones to celebrate the Summer Solstice. It was a big festival, wherein alliances were formed; wherein pack-members would swear fealty to their Clan Leaders; wherein un-bonded Alphas and Omegas who had come-of-age in the past year would be allowed to find mates. Inter-clan breeding was encouraged because it strengthened bloodlines and family alliances, but, even so, most members still preferred to mate within their own clan. It had been twenty-five years since the last clan feud ended, but one generation was not long enough to forget the pain, deceit, and suspicion. It was not long enough to forgive the Hunts, when rival clans had deliberately hunted and murdered the pups of their enemies. It had been a very dark time, one Arthur was glad to have missed. It had finally ended when one of the Clan Leader's Alpha-pups had abducted his rival's Omega-pup and committed suicide after raping and killing him. He had only been fifteen-years-old; the Omega had been thirteen. The clans had come to an uneasy peace after that, and began the trend of inter-clan mating in an attempt to mend past wounds and prevent future ones. But the packs were weary of change. Arthur's Omega-mother had been the first in his genealogy to mate outside of her clan. In fact, she had gone even further and mated an Alpha from the Mainland, which was rare. If Arthur's Alpha-father had been a weak Alpha, the couple might have been ostracized, but he had distinguished himself quickly. He had been strong, a good hunter and a ruthless warrior, and the clan had revered him for it in much the same way they revered Scott now.
"I can't eat this," Scott said, making no effort to stop. He talked with a full mouth. "You're so fucking useless, Art. I pity the poor blighter who takes you home. Your cooking is shite; your sewing is shoddy; and you couldn't catch a fucking coney to save your life."
Arthur felt himself tense in self-defense. Deliberately, he swallowed too big a mouthful of meat, to prove that he liked it, and started choking. He needed Owen to pound him on the back before he spit it out, to which Scott rolled his eyes, no doubt irritated at Arthur's waste of food.
"Oh, aye. You're a right fierce one, you are, freckle-face," he said condescendingly. "Forget your mate; I pity your poor pups."
The secretly pregnant Omega clutched his midsection protectively and glared at Scott. The Alpha's offhand comment angered him, probably because it seconded Arthur's biggest fear: that he would be a horrible Omega-father to his pup, unable to provide for it. He didn't need Scott to remind him, as if the self-degrading thought didn't already haunt him.
Scott was sitting across the campfire, leaning against a gnarled tree, and sucking the marrow from a bone. The twins flanked him, both asleep on his lap. The three of them looked so alike, with definable red hair and pale skin. The twins have way more freckles than I do, Arthur thought of Liam and Patrick, annoyed at Scott's preference for them. (Scott never tried to hide the fact that the twins were his favourite brothers. He had raised them from infancy.) A few feet away, Owen was tuning a stringed instrument to avoid getting involved in Scott and Arthur's argument. To an outsider, Owen might have looked adopted. He was significantly darker than his brothers, with smooth olive-toned skin and dark brown curls, but even he had inherited their Omega-mother's green eyes. He was strong, though there was a subtle elegance in his figure and movements that his brothers lacked. Arthur might have inherited that same grace if he wasn't so clumsy. He was the only blonde in the family, like his Alpha-father had been. But that's where the similarities between he and the Mainlander ended. Arthur had a delicate, faerie-like body. As a pup it had been cute, but adolescence had not changed his looks as much as he had hoped. His reedy body had not grown into soft, healthy curves, nor had his features defined. He remained skinny, like an underdeveloped pup. He wasn't tall, or strong, or buxom; instead, Owen had once called him fawn, seeing his little brother in the rangy, big-eyed—and spotted—fawns that hopped inelegantly over the moors in springtime.
I hope you inherit your papa's genes, not mine, he thought to his unborn pup. I hope you're robust like him, like your uncles. I hope you're tall, strong, and healthy. I hope you get those pretty blue eyes.
"Oi, freckle-face!" Scott snapped. "Did you hear me?"
Arthur blinked. He was absently rubbing his abdomen. "What—?"
"Fuck, you're useless," Scott repeated. He pointed to the river. "Go fetch some water."
Arthur glanced between his four Alpha-brothers, two of whom were sleeping, and one who was avoiding eye-contact. "Why me?" he challenged.
"Because you're the one who's been shirking-off all day, you bloody clan-whelp."
It wasn't a lie; not from Scott's perspective. The Omega had had a hard time keeping up with his brothers all day, which meant that the family had fallen behind the whole pack. But he couldn't defend himself with the truth, so he was forced to suffer his brothers' complaints. He couldn't explain why he was moving so slowly, or why his entire body ached, or why he felt exhausted and lightheaded. Eventually, Scott had taken Arthur's satchel and added it to his own load, growling at Arthur for being weak. The twins had poked fun at him, jogging circles around him like gnats. After that, Arthur had been left alone. They hadn't asked him to do anything except to keep walking. He hadn't been asked to help scout a place to camp, or fetch firewood, or unpack their rations. The only thing they had decided he was capable of was cooking—because none of them liked to—which Arthur had done less than satisfactorily, if Scott was to be believed.
"Are you ill?" Owen asked as Arthur struggled to his feet. "You look pale, Art. And you're all sweaty," he said, feeling Arthur's forehead. "You're not going into Heat, are you?"
It was a legitimate concern, since there was nowhere to retreat to while traveling. If Arthur went into Heat on the road, the family would have to leave the migration and find somewhere to lock him for five days, which would make them late to the gathering. It would be unavoidable, but his Alpha-brothers would not thank him for it. It had happened once before, two years ago, when Arthur was thirteen. At least, he consoled himself, that's impossible now. The absence of Heats was the only benefit of being pregnant in Arthur's opinion, not that he hadn't had to fake it since last December.
I'll be so glad when this is all over, he thought. But he knew it was untrue. When this is over—he hugged his middle—I'll have a pup to provide for, and I won't have my brothers to help me.
To avoid further trouble, Arthur would have to leave the pack as soon as his pup was born.
"I'm going," he growled at Scott, taking a waterskin.
In a show of displeasure, he clenched his fists and marched indignantly to the riverside. There, however, his anger dissolved and he sunk to his knees. The water was cold, but the night was hot. He reached beneath the surface, letting the waterskin fill. He stayed there for a long time, until his submerged hands were stiff with cold. Safely out of sight of the campsite, he hung his head and cried.
By the time Arthur returned to the campsite, his brothers had unpacked several sleeping-rolls and were stretched out across them, taking up so much space that there was hardly room left for Arthur. It wasn't as comfortable a bed as his at home, which was a wood-and-bone frame covered in tanned hides and piled high with furs, but it was preferable to sleeping on the ground. Not that the Alphas seemed bothered. Scott and Owen were each lying on their sides, Scott facing east, Owen facing west, with the twins squeezed safely between them. The redheaded pups slept like rocks and probably hadn't even flinched when moved. Patrick's paper-soft snores were muted against Liam's back, his red head pillowed on his arms; Liam snuggled close to Owen, drooling on him. Scott looked like he was asleep, but he grunted in acknowledgement when Arthur laid down, keeping space between them. It meant lying on the edge of the sleeping-roll, but he didn't want to be too close to Scott lest the Alpha discover his changed shape. As a precaution, he didn't undress to his underclothes either; he kept everything on, including the tartan. The fire had burnt down to embers, and he watched the soft red glow as he settled down, trying to find a position to sleep in that didn't agitate his unborn pup. His pup was restless, as always. It kicked as Arthur shifted, but eventually he gave up.
Go to sleep, he begged it, feeling the day's long journey gnaw at his energy reserve. He felt completely spent. All he wanted to do was sleep, and he wished more than anything that his pup would let him. Please, my wee darling. I know that you're still hungry, but please just give me a few hours of rest.
"Art—?" Scott's voice was gruff, sleep-heavy. "Are you cold, little brother?"
Arthur stopped moving and closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He didn't want to talk to Scott, afraid of an argument. He stiffened as Scott leant close enough to study the Omega; Arthur could feel his body-heat. No doubt, he wondered why Arthur had chosen not to undress, but Omegas didn't produce as much body-heat as Alphas did, so he probably did believe Arthur was cold. He almost flinched when Scott's callused hand tentatively felt his forehead, testing his temperature. He thinks I'm asleep, he knew. Scott rarely touched him so tenderly. It reminded Arthur of his childhood, when Scott and Owen had tried to soothe him by touch whenever he was sad, or sick, or scared.
Suddenly, he recalled a time long ago when he had fallen through some thin ice and caught the cold-death, which was often fatal, especially for young pups. Arthur had been six-years-old. The pack's healer had come and gone and pronounced the skinny Omega-pup a goner. "There's no hope for him, he's too small and weak," he had reported to Scott. But he and Owen had been determined to prove him wrong; to keep Arthur alive. They had stayed up all night, taking turns holding Arthur and force-feeding him warm milk. Scott had stoked the fire while Owen had paced, rubbing Arthur's back as he repeated: "Don't fall asleep, Art. You can't fall asleep." Then, when it was his turn, Scott had wrapped his arms around Arthur and held him close to his body. The Alpha had only been thirteen-years-old, but even then he had been a survivor. And he expected Arthur to be one, too.
"You're alright, Art. Don't be scared, little brother, you're going to be fine," he told his only Omega-brother. "You're a Kirkland, aye? You're a fighter just like the rest of us. We don't lie down for anyone, not even for the Reaper. You're strong, Art, I know you are. I know it because you're my blood. Are you cold, little brother? I'll keep you warm," he had promised, blanketing Arthur in his cloak. The scent had soothed Arthur then, as it did now.
Arthur was surprised to find that same cloak, the one Scott had been wearing all day, draped over him now like a blanket. It was heavy, but soft. And best of all, it was familiar. It smelled like his brother and of home. He didn't want Scott to know he was awake, but he couldn't help burying his nose in the weathered fabric, which had been like a security-blanket for him throughout his childhood. Inadvertently, tears pricked his eyes.
Thank-you, he thought, relaxing under the old cloak's weight. It felt nice to be surrounded, even if he was too hot, and even if the fabric did smell of sweat. It made him feel safe. His pup might have agreed, or it might have been instinctively responding to Arthur's calmed heartbeat. Either way, it settled, and the exhausted Omega drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Arthur dreamt of the storehouse and of the blue-eyed Alpha who had taken his virginity; who had given him what he had needed, what he had begged for; who had made him feel wanted, precious even, for the first time in his life. Then, who had left him unexpectedly and unwittingly pregnant, never to be seen again.
Arthur yelped when Scott shook him awake.
"Get up, we're leaving," he said bluntly.
As Arthur pushed himself up, he realized that their campsite had already been packed and his brothers were ready to go. In the distance, he could see the other campsites already dowsed and cold, their occupants long gone, and realized that his brothers had waited, letting Arthur sleep for as long as possible. The sunrise was blinding, like liquid-gold rising from the depths of the damp, foggy moors. He accepted Owen's hand, which hauled him gracelessly to his feet, and blinked sleep from his eyes. He was still wearing Scott's cloak. "Here, Art," said Patrick, tossing him an over-baked scone for breakfast. Arthur ate it slowly as he walked. More than once Scott barked at him to hurry up and threatened to carry him if he fell behind, but Arthur noticed that their pace was much slower than yesterday.
By midday, they caught up to the packs and shared in a communal dinner of tea, fish, and potatoes; someone had even baked oatcakes. Arthur watched the packs' pups running and playing, excited for the festival. They laughed and tackled each other, sharing their treats and other treasures. They really are cute. Arthur smiled at two wrestling brunettes. The boys' Omega-father yelled at them to stop it, which they ignored. Then they whined playfully as their Alpha-father scooped them into his arms, fighting their childish protests, and pretended to "gobble them up!" They shrieked and giggled as he kissed them, drawing an indulgent smile from the Omega, who watched his family fondly.
"Art?"
Arthur flinched. Owen cocked his head and then knelt. "Are you okay? You've been really quiet, and I don't just mean today," he said. His tone was kind, but concern and curiosity lurked under the surface. Owen was subtle, he always had been, but he was dangerously unyielding. He would not stop until his curiosity was sated. So when Arthur merely shrugged, failing to reply, he followed the Omega's line-of-sight and found the happy family.
"You'll get your chance to be an Omega-father, Art," he said gently, misreading the Omega's interest. "You're fifteen now, old enough to be pair-bonded. Maybe you'll find a mate at the Stones, yeah? Don't worry, you'll have pups soon."
Owen smiled, but Arthur couldn't meet his eyes.
In a small voice, he said: "I know."
