DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

B.C.E.

BEFORE COMMANDING EMPIRES

TWO

BRITISH ISLES

Scotland— wait!" England cried, breathing hard. He was running as fast as he could, trying to catch his brother, but Scotland was faster, bigger, stronger, and determined to escape the Roman's pursuit. England could hear horses' hooves pounding the earth, racing them; big, powerful beasts carrying Roman soldiers. His young heart pounded simultaneously, fueled by exertion and blatant terror. He followed Scotland into the North, as the distance between them grew. He could just see his older brother's fiery-red hair shining in the pale sunlight, his tartan waving like a banner as he ran. "Scotland!" England screamed, jumping the rocks; racing across the moors. An eerie fog had descended, protecting the lowlands from intruders. England blinked, but he could no longer see Scotland.

"There! I've found him!" someone shouted in Latin.

England panicked. He whipped his head from left-to-right, searching for shelter. It was then that he spotted his brother, who had taken up a defensive position behind a long stonewall. Scotland's green eyes pierced England, wide and fearful. He reached out his hand, urging him: "England! C'mon, little brother— run!"

England ran, but the Roman's horses galloped faster. A soldier grabbed his hood, yanking him backwards. England screamed: "Scotland, help!" But Scotland shook his head in apology. As the Romans approached the wall, Scotland—claymore strapped to his strong, teenage back—took off into the highlands, where his Celtic tribesmen had the advantage. England watched him go, tears in his forest-green eyes; feeling abandoned. He struggled, kicking and punching at the Romans, but they held him tightly; shackling his wrists.

"Hybrid brat," they insulted him. "You're coming back to Rome with us."

"No! Let go— you bloody-fucking wankers! You fucking cocksuckers!" England raged, thrashing for freedom. The soldiers laughed at him, admiring his fighting spirit and his foul-tongued threats. However, when England sunk his teeth into his captor's skin, drawing blood, the soldier cursed loudly and released the boy in reflex. England could hear his fellows yelling angrily as he ran West, shackles jangling. "Wales, brother!" he yelled, approaching the rocky boarder. "Let me in, please!"

Wales' fair, yet defensive face appeared behind an arrow-loop; a fortress built into the mountain. "Stop right there, don't come any closer," he warned, leveling a loaded longbow at England. "You've brought the Romans here, England, you fool! Go away! Go away, or I swear I'll put an arrow through your skull!"

"Wales, please—"

A Roman soldier tackled England, crushing the skinny boy. In anger he lifted his sword and brought the hilt down hard against England's head. England momentarily blacked-out. When he blinked, he felt dizzy and disoriented. His senses felt numb; vaguely, he could see people yelling and gesturing—he saw several Romans stuck with Welsh arrows—but he heard nothing. Distracted, he felt a soldier lift him onto a horse; he felt the beast's fast-paced gait in retreat. He watched the landscape, his home, spinning by as his vision blurred. They're taking me to Rome, he thought, feeling sad. I've been... conquered. Bound and injured, head numbing, he passed-out.

ROME'S HOUSE

England met Rome in a big, lavish hall. He was sitting upon a dais, limbs sprawled-out languidly; a happy, half-drunk smile on his handsome face. "Welcome to Rome, little England. You've been a particularly troublesome conquest, did you know that? I applaud your fighting spirit," he said condescendingly, clapping his hands. He stood and approached the boy; England recoiled, glaring angrily. His head throbbed; he felt sick. "It's alright," Rome leaned toward him. "I don't want to hurt you; I want to help you. I'm going to civilize your homeland, you'll be the most northern stretch of my Empire. You're young and afraid, but I'll take good care of you."

"Sod-off, you liar!" England snapped. "I hate mainlanders! I won't become your pet!"

"Oh dear," said Rome, standing tall. He sighed. "You're rather unruly, aren't you? You've been left to your own devices for too long; you've learned too much from those wild Celts, a beastly sort," he added in disapproval. "It'll be very good for you to spend some time in the South. You'll enjoy it, life is much less toilsome here. The sun shines so warmly, and the food is wonderful; we have art, literature, and the true religion. And I'll teach you to—"

England spit at Rome's feet. "Send me home," he said defiantly. "I don't want anything you have."

England received another blow to the head, this time from behind. He tripped and fell forward, face-planting on the flagstone floor. His whole body shook; whether in rage or injury, he couldn't tell. Rome berated his soldiers for the abuse, but passively so. The big, strong-looking man studied England, frowning. England pushed himself onto his knees; as long as he could stand, he would. But as soon as he tried his stomach lurched and he vomited, gagging bile. He felt Rome's big, tender hand on his head, stroking in sympathy. Don't touch me! England thought, eyes watering. I don't want your help— I don't need anyone's help! Just leave me alone!

BRITISH ISLES

After extensive debate and compromise, Rome agreed to let England return to the British Isles. He sent the boy home in a caravan, along with several hundred Roman soldiers, and an officially-appointed Governor. England, as Rome's satellite territory, would thereby be the stronghold from which the Romans would attack the Celts and Welsh to bring them into submission. England felt like a traitor as he returned to his island-home, guiding the Romans—letting them build fortresses and settlements; letting them implement Roman law—but his two brothers had already betrayed him; rejected him. Why should I care what happens to them now? They abandoned me.

They had been a family once: Scotland, the Irish twins, England, and Wales. Five brothers left alone by their Celtic parentage; left to grow-up independent and strong.

"Is that what you think?" Rome had asked him, not unkindly. "Do you really believe your blood is fully Celtic, young England? Don't you wonder why they call you a hybrid? Don't you know who your father is?"

England had chose to ignore Rome's bait, talking him into a false sense of security. He had long ago decided not to believe anything that Rome said, not even if it was about his own foggy heritage. It wouldn't make a difference; whether he was a bastard-born, or a younger half-brother to the others, his story was the same as theirs: their parents had left shortly after Wales' birth. England had been too young to remember, but Scotland and the Irish twins vaguely remembered their Celtic mother, who had been a beautiful red-haired warrior, unparalleled in battle. But, despite her kindness and love for her sons, she had disappeared. England would have liked to meet her; he loved the stories that Scotland told him. There was a time, as a small child, when England had been captivated by everything that Scotland had to say. He, as the eldest brother, had seemed so mature and wise; so knowledgeable. It was Scotland who had told England bedtime stories about redcaps and hobgoblins; Scotland who had taught England about the faeries and how dangerous they were. "But don't worry, little brother. I'll teach you how to live in harmony with the fair folk." Soon, having inherited his brothers' superstitions, young England was leaving milk for the brownies, and tossing salt over his shoulder to ward off malevolent spirits; walking in circles three times while chanting; and ever-careful not to insult the faeries, who dwelt in the wilderness. He became wary of witches, while secretly fascinated by the concept of magick. If I could wield such power then nobody would bully me, he had often thought, envious.

But despite the harsh climate—grey skies and rocky shores—England had had a relatively happy childhood, isolated from the mainland. Scotland had warned he and Wales about the mainlanders, how greedy and ruthless they were; he warned them not to trust anyone who wasn't family. "We're bound by blood, little brothers. That means we'll always take care of each other. Blood feuds are dangerous things, but let's promise to always unite against outsiders."

England had felt proud. Willingly he let Scotland cut his palm and then clasped hands with his four brothers. He had felt safe amongst them, as if—together united—they could defeat any enemy, repel any threat.

But they had been young and naive—especially England. As they grew-up, maturing into teenagers, they began to bicker and bully each other; they began to fight. They spit insults at each other, feeling slighted; feeling cheated. They fought over petty offenses, over land and livestock; over government; over rights and privileges. They squabbled over boarders, which had never separated them before. One day, Scotland, England, and Wales sat down and drew-up a map: complaining, yelling, and fighting—throwing insults, fists, and rocks at each other—until three separate boarders had been established. England had always thought that he had got the best piece of the island, until he realized just how difficult it was to defend. Scotland to the North; Wales to the West; mainland Europe to the East. England was completely surrounded—and defenseless. When the Romans had invaded his brothers had scattered, leaving him to fend for himself.

Now England stood amidst a Roman stronghold, a captive on his own soil. He watched from this vantage as the Romans tried—and failed—to conquer Scotland; Scotland, who fought like a devil. Fiercely, he painted his face in blue and wielded his claymore like the warriors of legend. England had never met a more stubborn nation; he refused to be defeated. As did Wales. England's younger brother fought strategically, using the mountains of his homeland to his advantage; ambushing Romans, and fighting on his own terms, never letting himself be drawn into open battle. It was a long time before word reached the British Isles of the Fall of Rome. Only then—goaded by threats and chased off the island—did the Romans finally abandon the prospect of civilizing such "a damnable place!" and they left.

One day England met a tall, pale warrior with ice-blue eyes. He was standing on the coast, overlooking the North Sea. Suspicious of strangers—especially those carrying weapons—he approached the stoic man. "Who are you?" England asked, trying to keep his voice calm; drawing himself up, trying to look taller and more intimidating.

The warrior looked down at him, face expressionless. His long, pale-blonde hair blew gently in the wind, like a sail. In a deep voice, he said: "Your hands are shaking, young one. Are you afraid?"

England swallowed. Ever since Rome's soldiers had hit him in the head, he often got the shakes; sometimes it was so bad that he couldn't even hold a quill. He resented Rome for this, and for everything else those soldiers had done. "No, I'm not," he lied. "Who are you— what do you want?"

"Germania," he said, walking forward. Inadvertently, England stepped back. The tall warrior looked capable; the coldness in his eyes was unnerving, unreadable. He reached down and gently placed his big-knuckled hand on England's wheat-blonde head. "You've grown-up a lot since I last saw you," he said. England's heart skipped a beat; he felt suddenly connected to this man, but he didn't know why. He waited for Germania to elaborate, but he didn't. Instead, he said: "You're weak; it's embarrassing. If you want to survive then you need to get stronger. I'll help you. I'll give you mercenaries; I'll teach you how to win a fight. Your childhood is over, England. It's time to grow-up."

Scotland tackled England, pushing his face into a mire. He straddled his younger brother's back, pressing down with his weight; pulling England's hair. England flailed. Scotland had relieved him of his broadsword, but he still had his dirk. Aggressively he stuck it between Scotland's ribs and listened to his brother howl in pain. Scotland rolled off of England, teeth clenched in anger. Collecting his broadsword, England crawled to his feet and took up a defensive position; legs spread, back arched, eyes alight with fury. "Go home!" he yelled, pointing North with his sword.

Scotland spit blood and stood, holding his ribs. One-handed, he pointed his claymore at England. "I know you have supplies; I need them," he said, gaunt-faced in hunger. His harvest had been blighted, leaving his population to starve. "I'm not leaving without food."

England clenched his sword's hilt—malnourished and pale-faced. He shook his head; his stomach growled. "No, I need it." He needed every potato, every sprig of grain, every runt of a lamb; otherwise his clansmen would have nothing to eat for the winter. "Why can't you just eat fish?" he asked. "The North is plentiful—"

"Because those fucking Northmen are fishing the waters empty!" Scotland snapped impatiently. He rarely felt intimidated, but England could see the anxiety in his brother's eyes when he spoke of the Northmen; the Vikings who pillaged his lands. England was afraid of them too. They were ruthless fighters, they seemed to enjoy it. They— "Fuck!" Scotland cursed. In an instant, he fled to higher-ground.

England turned around and saw them: Denmark and Norway. "Bollocks!" he said, and followed Scotland. "Just this once, let's fight together." England really didn't want to get beat-up again; the Vikings were merciless in their punishment. "Please, Scotland—" But his plea fell on deaf ears. Scotland wasn't listening; he was busy defending against the Northmen's attack. England dodged Denmark's grab for him, but his blows were too weak to complete. The Danish warrior was too practised—he even laughed, enjoying the adrenalin rush. England leapt down in escape and crashed into: "Prussia!" Prussia grinned in greeting—and then punched England in the face. His nose gushed blood, mixing with the drying mud. Fuck— get off! he cursed, swatting at Prussia. It was then that Scotland grabbed him from behind, throwing him down; he hit the ground hard. His hands started shaking, so violently that he couldn't hold his broadsword and it fell. The others laughed at him, pitching insults at his weakness, his filthy appearance, the babyish tears that flooded his eyes. Red-faced in anger, England wiped his face; feeling helpless.

"Shut up!" he screamed, clenching his fists. "Just shut up! You're all fucking dicks!" England found himself on the ground beneath Denmark's boot; a stone cut his cheek. His body ached; beaten bloody. He should've just taken the abuse quietly; that would've been wise. But he didn't. He had had enough of their bullying. He said: "Someday I'll be the strongest! I'll be bigger than all of you combined!"

Scotland rolled his eyes, thinking him overdramatic. Denmark laughed. Prussia cocked a silver-white eyebrow, and said: "You'll be the biggest?" Even Norway's lip curled into the ghost of a grin. "You hallucinating again or what, England?" Prussia poked. "This kid's fucking cracked."

Like a kicked dog, England growled. He was tired of feeling undermined; tired of their condescension, just because he was the smallest. Someday I'll be big enough that they wouldn't dare hit me, he thought. They laughed at him now—he expected them to—but someday they wouldn't. England was underdeveloped and under-populated. He was young, weak without Rome's protection, and still less experienced than his brothers, housemates, and neighbours at warfare. They don't see me as a threat, they think I'm too small and helpless. But I won't be small forever. "I'll be the biggest Empire in the whole world someday!" he vowed, determined. "Even bigger than Rome!"

Bloody and bruised, England knelt down on the channel's shore and splashed cold water up his skinny arms, washing his face clean of mud and blood; scrubbing his filthy hands. His clothes were threadbare and needed laundering, but, lifting the hem of his tunic, he stopped. He felt uneasy, as if someone was watching him. The last thing he wanted was to be ambushed while stark-naked. Subtly he looked from left-to-right, but didn't see anyone. Then, in accident, he looked across the channel. A boy was standing there, only a few centuries older than he. He was—in all honestly—a gorgeous boy, with pretty long hair and a lean figure; blue eyes like precious stones watched him curiously. Then his lips curled into a lovely smile, and he called out: "Bonjour!"

What a stupid-sounding accent, England thought critically. He stood up slowly and drew his trusty dirk. He was about to reply—to warn the boy off—but was interrupted:

"I'm France," said the boy, deceptively innocent. "Who are you?"

"None of your fucking business," England muttered. Louder, he said: "I don't talk to mainlanders. Don't talk to me. I-I don't like strangers," he said, hating his stutter; trying to quell his shaking hands. I'm not afraid, he lied to himself. But he flinched as France crossed the channel and held up his dirk in defense. "What're you doing? I said—"

"I heard you," said France arrogantly; surrendering his hands in good-faith. "I'm not here to fight."

England almost laughed. "Do you think I believe that?" he spat, thinking the boy a complete idiot. "I wasn't born yesterday. Rome's already tried to—"

"Do I look Roman?" he interrupted, slightly perturbed. England looked at him, scanning him from head to toe; he was unarmed—stupid—and well-spoken, as if he had been given formal education. And he was clean. England was skeptical of strangers, of course, but curious as well; he hadn't met anyone who hadn't tried to attack him. France, however, looked weak. His hands were long-fingered and clean, not hands that toiled in the fields or fisheries, nor the type that spent hours training for combat. He's not my blood, England thought, feeling loyal to the concept of blood, despite his brothers' antagonism. But there was something about this long-haired boy that made England pause and reconsider him. France looked lonely, and, though his body was well-preserved, there was sadness in his blue eyes that spoke of abuse. If nothing else, England trusted this fact; that he and the Frenchman shared something nobody else understood. So when France asked him: "What's your name?" England said: "England."

"Enchanté," France replied. "May I sit with you for a while?"

England lowered his dirk. He nodded: "Yes."