Hey guys!
Welcome to Chapter Two! In it, we'll meet three of England's four brothers. I've seen some great fanon designs, but nothing canon, so I decided to come up with my own descriptions of them. Hopefully I did these great countries justice! Having said that, this chapter is mostly exposition. It introduces some of the story's major characters as well as things that will be important to the plot later on. Everything in here is important, I promise!
Enjoy!
"I'm sorry about this," Arthur said as he led Elle around the back of the house. His expression twisted into a scowl. "I can't believe Scotland tore the house up. If he's broken anything valuable, I swear I'll murder him."
Anger was radiating off of him in waves; Elle could practically feel it. She looked at him, noticing the tic in his tightly clenched jaw and the corded tension in his neck and shoulders. She wasn't sure if England was actually capable of committing fratricide, but he seemed to be seriously contemplating it. Elle recalled what Arthur had told her in the cab: physical, skin-on-skin contact had the power to relieve his stress and make him feel instantly better. Grabbing his hand in Trafalgar Square had been impulsive, though. Doing so now, especially after so much premeditation, would feel awkward and strange. Arthur had said that she would someday be a Tactile Country Keeper, but she wasn't ready for that role yet and she was certain that, at the moment, England wouldn't be comfortable with her trying to fill it. With physical contact ruled out as a possibility, she opted for verbal comfort.
"Arthur, relax," Elle soothed. "I really don't mind going around this way—I promise. And didn't Mrs. Cooper say that the workmen would have everything back in place by tonight? I'm sure you have nothing to worry about."
"You're probably right," Arthur conceded with a sigh. An ivy-covered stone wall a short distance from the house caught his attention. With a reluctant smile, he pointed it out to Elle. "That's my rose garden. I'll take you to see it later, if you'd like."
"Sure," she nodded, happy to encourage his brightening disposition. "That sounds great."
For the time being, however, their destination was still the house. Arthur led Elle up to the backdoor, but paused before opening it. He looked at her with serious green eyes, one hand wrapped apprehensively around the doorknob.
"I don't know what the house looks like right now, how my brothers might act toward you, or where they are at this moment," England said. "Promise you won't think any less of me because of their words or actions and please don't run away, no matter what happens."
"Arthur, they can't be that bad," Elle told him, rolling her eyes.
He raised a brow.
"I have brothers, too, you know," she said, unimpressed by his dramatics.
England snorted, "Not like mine. Now promise."
"What, that I won't run away? Where would I run to, exactly?" Elle smirked. Arthur continued to stare at her, waiting. She sighed. "Fine, sure. I promise. Can we go inside now?"
He waited a moment more, gauging her honesty, before nodding and opening the door. Elle preceded him into the house and found herself standing in a quaint but spacious kitchen. There was a rather large refrigerator, presumably stocked with enough food to satisfy the five countries that occupied the UK House, along the back wall. It was surrounded on both sides by countertops and cabinetry. There was a cozy little breakfast nook in the far left corner of the room and a cooking area populated by two ovens and a stove in the far right.
Having taken all of this in, Elle allowed herself to focus on the room's only other occupant. He was standing at the sink with his shirtsleeves pushed up past his elbows, washing dishes. The task was being performed absently but efficiently; he appeared preoccupied with staring out the small window before him. His hair was neat, dark, and wavy—probably curly if he let it grow a bit longer—and contrasted nicely with his fair skin. Viewing him in profile, Elle could see that his nose was very similar to Arthur's, but with a slight upturn at the end. His cheekbones resembled Arthur's as well, though they were perhaps even more defined. A strong jaw and full lips rounded out the man's appearance. Another handsome country, Elle thought, assuming that the man was one of England's brothers. Which one, though? As she pondered the question, Arthur appeared at her side. The man at the sink looked up then. His eyes—bright and sharp and emerald green—went first to Elle, then to Arthur, and then back to the window.
"You look bloody awful," he said.
Elle frowned, but the comment hadn't been meant for her.
"You haven't seen me for a week," said Arthur, sounding offended, "and that's how you choose to greet me?"
"Well, I was going to say that you look like death warmed over, but I thought that that might be insensitive in light of Albrecht's recent passing," the man replied. He stepped away from the sink, wiping his hands on his trousers to dry them. "You do look awful, though. Probably haven't slept in, what, two or three days now? That isn't healthy, brawd."
"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much," Arthur said, standing up taller and correcting his posture as though that somehow proved his point.
"You think you are," the man sighed. "That's the problem."
He walked forward and moved to grab England's arm, but Arthur pulled away, scowling.
"Stop that," he growled. He inclined his head to indicate Elle. "We have a guest."
The dark-haired man looked unimpressed. "Who is she?"
"Gabrielle Vasquez, our new Keeper," Arthur replied. He glanced toward her. "Elle, this is my brother, Wales."
"Gareth," Wales insisted, using his human name. He shook Elle's proffered hand distractedly. "It's a pleasure." He then turned back to his brother. "Don't try to change the subject, Arthur. You may be able to fool everyone else, but you can't fool me. You're exhausted. You need to sit down before you fall down."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Arthur said stubbornly. "I'm fine."
"That's what you always say," his brother muttered, heaving a long-suffering sigh.
Having said this, Wales—Gareth, Elle reminded herself—grabbed England by the shoulders and steered him toward the breakfast nook. Elle followed, trying not to laugh at the pleading looks Arthur was casting in her direction. He was protesting loudly and causing a fuss, but he could not break free of his brother's hold. He was eventually forced to take a seat at the table. Elle slid into a chair across from him. Arthur was—dare she think it—pouting, arms folded tightly across his chest and lower lip jutting out just slightly as he glared up at his brother. Gareth, for his part, was completely unfazed.
"You need tea," Wales decided. "Lucky for you I've got some freshly made." He turned to their guest. "Gabrielle, would you like a cup as well?"
"Elle, please," she corrected with a smile. "And no, thank you."
"Something else, then? Water, maybe? I could fix some coffee, if you'd like."
"Water's fine, thanks," Elle grinned.
"Alright, water," Gareth nodded, grinning back. "And tea for Mr. I'm-Not-the-Least-Bit-Tired."
"I never said that!" Arthur protested.
Wales ignored the comment and went to fetch the drinks.
"I don't know what you were so worried about," Elle whispered once the dark-haired country was out of earshot. "I like him. He's really sweet."
"Sweet?" Arthur snorted quietly. "He's a nightmare!"
"He's just trying to take care of you," Elle pointed out.
"I know, but he isn't meant to," England muttered. "I'm supposed to look after him."
Elle started at him, certain that she'd just learned something significant. Did Arthur feel that way about all of his brothers? Did he think that he was supposed to take care of them constantly? Did he believe that their attempts at reciprocation were unnecessary, perhaps insulting? Her thoughts were interrupted by Gareth's return. He placed a glass of water before her and gave Arthur a steaming cup of tea. Elle reached for her glass and glanced sidelong at Wales, who had taken a seat beside her. His eyes were fixed on England, who was staring disdainfully at the tea.
"There's something wrong with it," Arthur said after a long moment. "Is it poisoned?"
"It's tea, Arthur," Gareth assured. "I fixed it just the way you like it."
England still looked skeptical. "Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"The color is wrong."
"Really, Arthur. Shut your mouth and drink your tea."
England smirked, "I can't do both."
"Don't test my patience," Gareth warned. "Drink. Your. Tea."
"Yes, Mummy," his brother shot back with an impertinent little grin.
Elle hid a smile as Arthur picked up the cup with slow, deliberate movements. He brought it to his lips, watching his brother over the rim as he drank. Gareth stared back, unperturbed.
"How is it?" Wales asked conversationally.
"Fine. Very good, actually," Arthur commented. He looked at Elle, "Not poisoned, in case you were wondering."
She had just taken a sip of water and nearly choked as she swallowed it wrong. He was joking with her. She really hadn't expected that. She wondered at the cause of his sudden levity. Was he simply happy to be home, or was the presence of one of his brothers—whom he'd complained and warned her about repeatedly—secretly pleasing to him? Regardless, she was happy to see that he was in a better mood.
"That's great," Elle laughed. "I was so worried."
"Your sarcasm is not appreciated," England informed her, though his wry grin said otherwise.
He took another sip of tea before setting the cup down. He really did look much better. His eyes were clearer and he held himself less stiffly, as though the tension he'd been feeling earlier had simply bled out of him. In his relaxed state, Arthur had let his guard down. Elle could now see what Wales had known all along: England truly was exhausted. He had sunk down in his chair, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep.
"Feeling better?" Gareth asked.
"Yeah," Arthur replied, sounding drowsy.
"Less stress? Looser muscles?"
Arthur nodded and yawned. "Yes to both."
"Good, because David Cameron is here to see you."
England's eyes shot open. So much for that, Elle thought as all traces of fatigue fled Arthur's body. He sat up and slammed his hands down on the table, nearly spilling what remained of his tea in the process. His jaw was tightly clenched and the tic that Elle had noticed earlier was active again, jumping spasmodically beneath his skin.
"David Cameron, as in Prime Minister of the United Kingdom David Cameron?" Arthur growled. He didn't wait for a response. "Why on earth didn't you say something sooner!"
"I told you," Gareth said. "You looked awful when you walked through the door. You think I was going to let you talk to the Prime Minister in that condition? And you're still not ready to see him. You need to at least try to look presentable. Think, Arthur. You claim to be so good at it."
"Okay," Arthur said, exhaling slowly. Elle could tell that he was just barely holding himself in check. "You're right, it's fine. I did need some time to pull myself together. That's the reason I didn't go to the meeting we had scheduled for this morning. I'll put on a new suit, run a comb though my hair, and have a chat with the Prime Minister. If he went to the trouble of coming here, whatever he has to say must be important. Where is he now?"
"In the rose garden with Ireland."
Arthur stiffened. "And by Ireland, you mean..?"
"All of it," Wales replied, looking uncomfortable. "Both of them. Ordinarily I would have objected, but they've been together since Albrecht's funeral. They haven't been spending any time apart, and you know what that does to them."
"Oh, God," Arthur moaned, dropping his head into his hands. "They're speaking in tandem?"
"Yes," Wales said guiltily. "It's almost constant. You can't separate them when they get like that—it would be cruel. I wanted to send one of the workmen out with the Prime Minister, but they're all busy cleaning house. Scotland would have been my next choice, but he's not capable of being around government officials at the moment. Ireland was the only option."
"Why didn't you stay with the Prime Minister?" England demanded.
"Because someone had to be here to look after you," Gareth told him. "Mr. Davies called before he picked you up at Trafalgar Square. He said you looked ill. I wanted to make sure that you were at least somewhat presentable for your meeting with Mr. Cameron."
Arthur contemplated that for a moment before nodding, "It wasn't a bad plan. You had limited resources and very few options. You did your best."
"Oh, you're too kind," Gareth deadpanned. He rapped his knuckles against the table. "Now finish your tea and go fix yourself up. I'm sending the Prime Minister to your office in twenty minutes."
Arthur nodded and picked up his cup. He paused before taking a drink, looking at the tea with wide eyes and raised brows.
"You drugged me?" England asked, meeting his brother's gaze.
"Just a little," Wales replied. "Enough to calm you and get you thinking clearly."
"Hmm," Arthur hummed thoughtfully, downing the rest of the tea. "Thanks for that."
"Any time. Now go."
"Alright, I'm—oh!" England said, a sudden thought occurring to him. He looked at Elle as though he'd forgotten she was there. He probably had. "I'm sorry, Elle. I really do have to do this. You can wait outside my office, if you'd like. Or perhaps you'd prefer to stay here with Gareth?"
He voiced the question apprehensively, clearly wondering if his brother and the American girl—who had only just met—would be comfortable being alone together. Elle appreciated his concern, but found it rather odd. She'd only known Gareth for a few minutes, true, but she hadn't known Arthur for much longer than that. So far, Wales had been nothing but friendly, warm, and inviting; being alone with him wouldn't bother her in the slightest. She informed Arthur that, yes, she would prefer to stay with Gareth. Wales voiced no objections. With a nod and a speedy farewell, Arthur left the table and hurried away to prepare for his meeting. Almost immediately after his brother's departure, Gareth excused himself and went to inform the Prime Minister that he would soon have his audience with England.
Elle remained at the breakfast nook for a minute or two, sliding her empty glass from one hand to the other and looking around the kitchen, before deciding to do a bit of exploring. After all, no one had told her she couldn't. There were three ways out of the kitchen: one that led to the backyard, one that led to the hallway that Arthur had disappeared down, and one that led to an adjacent room. After a moment of deliberation, Elle chose the third option. She passed through the doorway and found herself in a cozy and charming living room. A pair of plush sofas occupied a good portion of the floor space. They were perfectly positioned to both promote conversation and provide a clear view of the television. A fireplace took up much of the wall that was closest to the sitting area; built-in bookshelves filled with novels and tomes of various ages flanked it on either side.
The room was also home to a number of photographs. Some were older and some were more recent, but all featured the same five young men. The pictures, candid rather than posed, showed Arthur, Gareth, and their brothers in a number of situations: some displayed the quintet laughing together, others seemed to have been snapped mid-argument, and still others presented intimate family moments the siblings had shared. Elle took a moment to observe the photos before moving on to a large painting that sat between two windows on a nearby wall. The painting was entitled A Map of the British Isles and was…exactly what it said it was. Great Britain, Ireland, and the surrounding smaller islands had been immortalized on the canvas in a way that would do any cartographer proud. However, human names rather than country names had been written over the landmasses. 'Arthur' had been carefully inscribed over England, 'Gareth' had been printed neatly over Wales, and names that Elle was unfamiliar with covered Scotland, the Republic of Ireland, and Northern Ireland. It was very unique and rather fascinating.
"Would you believe that in all our years together, that's the only family portrait we've managed to have done?" Elle turned to find Gareth standing in the doorway. He smiled and crossed the room, taking up position beside her as he, too, observed the painting. "All of the portrait sittings we've ever been to have ended in disaster; my brothers and I inevitably find ourselves arguing over something. Sometimes we even come to blows. This portrait was something that Scotland suggested one night when we were all together at a pub. We were all drunk, so we thought it was a great idea. We commissioned the portrait that same night and, by the time we sobered up, the artist had already started it. We decided to let him finish and ended up with this. Well, not exactly this—we added our signatures later—but we were very, very pleased. It ended up being our Christmas gift to each other that year."
"I like it. It's really cool," Elle told him. She grinned. "And it'll help me keep track of all of you. I just have to look at this painting and I can say, 'oh, Wales likes to be called Gareth' or 'that's right, England asked me to call him Arthur' or 'hey, Scotland's human name is I…I-ah-guin?'" She looked sheepishly at her companion. "Sorry, I'm not sure how to say it."
"That's alright. You're close," Gareth reassured her. "It's Iagan, pronounced more EE-uk-an."
"And Northern Ireland is..?"
"Eirnin," Wales explained. "So the E-I-R is 'air' and the N-I-N is 'nin,' as you could probably guess."
"Yeah, I could at least get that much," Elle chuckled. She studied the painting. "Well, that just leaves the Republic of Ireland, and I guess he's Finnian." At Gareth's amused look, she shrugged. "What? I can figure that one out."
"Yes, it seems you can," Wales smiled. "Wait here for a moment. There's something I want to show you."
He walked the short distance to the area where the framed photographs were displayed and plucked one from its place. Holding it against his chest, he returned to Elle's side. He looked at her, asking with a single raised brow if she was ready. At her nod, he held the picture frame next to the portrait.
"Oh, wow!" Elle laughed. "It's like a human map!"
"An accidental one, but, yes, that's what it is," Gareth replied. He handed her the picture so that she could see it better. "It was taken a few years ago when we were visiting America at his beach house in Pensacola, Florida. Alfred suggested a 'chicken fight' and my brothers, being as naturally competitive as they are, thought it was a great idea. On the left, you can see Eirnin sitting on Finnian's shoulders; that's Iagan on Arthur's shoulders to the right."
Elle grinned, fully appreciating the hilarity of the photograph. In it, Finnian and Arthur were knee-deep in blue-green water, stances wide and sturdy. Their teeth were bared and they were glaring at each other, but there was a definite playfulness in their eyes. Eirnin and Iagan, seated upon their brothers' shoulders, wore similar expressions. The photographer had caught the pair mid-tussle: their hands were locked together as they each attempted to throw the other off balance and into the water. Gareth was in the picture as well, though he didn't appear to be taking part in the fight.
"What happened to you?" Elle asked.
"I had been trying to get out of their way, but a wave knocked me down," Gareth explained self-consciously. "The undertow started pulling at me, so I grabbed the closest thing I could find…which just so happened to be Arthur's leg. The picture was taken right before he lost his balance and fell into the water, dragging everyone else down with him." He tapped the frame, smiling and shaking his head. "It's actually a very embarrassing photo of me, but it's my favorite of us all together."
After returning the picture to its rightful place, Gareth invited Elle to have a seat on one of the sofas. He then began asking questions. Was she enjoying being abroad? What had been the most interesting thing she'd seen so far? How had she and Arthur met? She answered the first two quickly and received nothing but smiles in response. As she began to explain what had happened in Trafalgar Square, however, Gareth's expression flattened. She told him about the dropped newspaper, her attempt to return it, Arthur's initial refusal to show his face and his strange request that she read the newspaper's headline.
"After I read it, he seemed so upset that I just…grabbed his hand," Elle said with a shrug. "I wasn't really thinking. I just did it and, for a second, I got this weird feeling, almost like I could feel what he was going through. It was over really quickly, so at the time I wasn't sure if it was real or not, but Arthur told me that a Country Keeper can get rid of a nation's negative feelings through touch. I guess I did it without realizing what I was doing."
Gareth was frowning and chewing his lower lip. He looked pensive.
"What did my brother tell you about the process of becoming a Keeper?" he asked, drumming his fingers on his knee.
"Um, not much," Elle said, trying to remember. "He told me that there would be a campaign or something. I don't really remember."
"There's also supposed to be an interview process," Wales explained. "It can sometimes go on for days. Before telling you anything about who he is, before even mentioning the term Country Keeper, he should have sat down with you—in a café or restaurant, not the middle of Trafalgar Square—and gotten to know you."
"I asked him about an interview. I was mostly joking, but it didn't really matter. He seemed to know a lot about me already," said Elle, wondering why Gareth seemed so agitated. "And I already knew who he was. I…I've seen Hetalia."
"A Japanese cartoon? You think that provides an accurate depiction of who England is?" Wales scoffed. "Not likely. My brother is not a one-dimensional character, he's a country. And as a country, he knows the process of Keeper selection. Even if he'd thought you recognized him, he could have easily played it off. He didn't, though, did he? He probably launched right into his speech about changing your life. Whatever he knew about you—things about your home, your family, your friends—was information he could access because you are within his borders. He knows facts about you, but he doesn't know you. That's what the interview process is for: to gain insight into your character, your morals and your values. I'll bet I've learned more about those things in the time I've been with you than Arthur has all afternoon."
Elle mulled that over for a moment. "Maybe Arthur thought he didn't need to interview me after what happened when I touched his hand. Doesn't that prove that I'm the next Country Keeper?"
"No," Gareth shook his head. "All it proves is that my brother has accepted you as his Keeper. Anyone can be a Country Keeper, Elle; it's not some pre-destined, supernatural thing. Most nations are cautious when searching for a new Keeper. Only after a candidate has been properly interviewed and proven worthy is he or she informed of what is happening. Even then, nothing is guaranteed. As you said, there is a campaign and an election process. Countries may promise their votes to a candidate, but will not accept him or her as the Keeper until everything is made official. If England led you to believe that you are definitely going to be the next Country Keeper, he misinformed you."
"So," Elle said, exhaling slowly and just a bit shakily, "you're saying that if I grab your hand right now, nothing will happen?"
Gareth nodded. "I do like you, Elle, but I haven't accepted you as the Country Keeper. Not yet."
"Do…do you mind if I try anyway?"
He held out his hand. "Please."
She took his hand and clasped it tightly. Gareth gripped back, his palm rough and calloused where it touched hers. Definite skin-on-skin contact. She looked up at him, noting the weariness, sadness, and pity in his expressive green eyes. The physical contact was not relieving him of those negative emotions. Elle focused her thoughts, trying to consciously rid Wales of the negativity, but that did nothing, either. Finally, she sighed and released his hand.
"You're right," Elle said. "I didn't feel anything. So what does that mean, then? Is Arthur just playing with me? Does he want me to be the Country Keeper or not?"
Gareth hesitated. "I believe he does, but he isn't thinking clearly. He and the former Keeper, Albrecht Bieler, were very close. England is grieving, but he won't admit it. He could have latched onto you for any number of reasons."
"Okay, but why didn't he tell me any of the stuff you just did?" Elle asked. She sighed, leaning her head back against the sofa cushions. "I don't understand him."
"Welcome to the club," Gareth chuckled humorlessly. "My brother is a study in contradictions. He wants to take care of us, but complains that doing so is a strain on his economy. He wants others to accept his help, but thinks that accepting aid for himself is a sign of weakness. He wants to keep our family together, but controls us to the point that all we want to do is leave him. The worst part is that he won't acknowledge his contradictory nature, no matter how often we point it out to him. His constant insistence that everything is 'just fine' doesn't make the problems go away, but he never realizes that until it's too late."
"What do you mean by that?" Elle asked. Wales looked uncomfortable with the question. "Never mind; I guess it's not important. Tell me more about how this whole 'physical embodiment of countries' thing works. What's it like?"
Gareth seemed happy with the change of subject. "Well, we're mostly what we appear to be: people. We have physical needs for things like food, shelter, warmth, and sleep, and we also have emotional needs, which are satisfied by our friendships and familial ties. Like humans, we can become fatigued, sick, or injured. However, we do not age and we cannot die. If any of us is ever dealt a fatal blow—say, to the head or heart—it is reflected within our borders as a catastrophic event with a massive death toll. We can't die, but our people can. We avoid putting them through that at all costs. It works in reverse as well: if a catastrophic event takes place within our borders, we feel our people's pain. For example, America was badly injured after the attack on the World Trade Center on the eleventh of September 2001. He was in hospital for days.
"It's more than that, though. Being the physical embodiments of countries, as you said, means that we are connected to our people on the deepest of levels. Their wants, needs, and fears very often become our own. That's what's wrong with Scotland; that's why he's wrecking the house and putting his flag on every available surface. A fair percentage of his people want independence and he's going mad because he's not able to give it to them. Normally, the franticness he's feeling would be counteracted by the Country Keeper. Since we don't have one at the moment, Iagan's on his own…and that isn't a very pleasant place to be."
"Do you think the lack of Country Keeper explains the way Arthur's acting, too?" Elle wondered.
"I do," Wales nodded. "It's also the reason Finnian and Eirnin are staying so close to each other. They're more stable—at least emotionally—together than they are apart."
At that moment, they heard the kitchen door open. A pair of boisterous voices lifted in song floated into the living room. Elle raised a brow. Gareth grinned and gestured in the direction the noise was coming from, conveying the words 'see? I told you' with nothing but his expression.
"That must be the end of the twenty minutes," Wales said, getting to his feet. He offered a hand to Elle. "Come on. Let's go rescue the Prime Minister."
She took the proffered hand uncertainly, recalling the conversation that Gareth and Arthur had had about their Irish brothers. Wales noticed her apprehension.
"Arthur and I were a bit hard on them earlier," he said. "There's nothing wrong with them; they're really very nice. It's just that they're loud and talkative and very high energy. Our main concern was that they'd talk or dance the Prime Minister to death, but they controlled themselves as much as possible. I'd like you to meet them."
Elle nodded and followed Gareth into the kitchen. They found the Prime Minister standing at the center of the room, smiling patiently at the two younger—at least physically—men who flanked him on either side. Upon seeing Gareth, the Prime Minister's smile turned to one of relief. When his companions stopped talking and spun to see what he was looking at, their own smiles transformed into radiant grins.
"Gareth!" they chorused, greeting him as though they hadn't seen him in days. Then the one Elle recognized as Finnian looked at her and asked, "Who's she?"
"Boys, this is Elle. Arthur wants her to be the next Country Keeper," said Wales. "Elle, these are my brothers—"
"Ireland!" they interrupted. They'd crossed the kitchen quickly and now stood directly before Elle.
"Northern—" said one, grinning as he tapped two fingers against his forehead in salute.
"—and the Republic of," said the other, dropping into a playful bow.
They definitely resembled Arthur and Gareth—high cheekbones, strong jaw lines, and brilliant green eyes were apparently family traits—and they were practically identical to each other. Both had round faces, thin lips, and high foreheads; their fair, freckled skin was another shared trait. Their charming snub noses were slightly different—Northern Ireland's was turned up at the end while the Republic's was not—and although they both had ears that stuck out a bit, it was less noticeable on the Republic of Ireland because of the length of his hair. In fact, their hair was the most obvious difference between them. Northern Ireland's was considerably shorter and quite a bit darker, a russet red so deep that it was almost brown. It complimented the Republic of Ireland's coppery auburn mop—which looked like it hadn't seen a hairbrush in days—rather nicely. They were, in a word, handsome, though Elle's mind supplied 'adorable' as well.
"Hi. Finnian, right?" Elle said, shaking hands with the grinning Republic. She looked at the other, "And Eirnin?"
The two seemed genuinely flattered that she knew their names and immediately began asking her questions. Elle kept up with their vigorous inquisitions as best she could; Finnian and Eirnin were both talking a mile a minute in their eagerness to learn all they could about her. She noticed Gareth leaving the room, presumably to escort the Prime Minister to England's office, and tried to catch his attention. He cast a smile in her direction, mouthing 'I'll be right back' as he walked away. Elle sighed and, in the next moment, found herself being led out the back door with Northern Ireland on one arm and the Republic of Ireland on the other. She turned her attention back to what they were saying.
The questions kept coming. Did she like music? They did, and they often played duets! Would she like to hear one now? Their fiddle and tin whistle were still in the rose garden; they could easily fetch the instruments! What about singing? Did she like singing? They loved singing and would be happy to teach her a few of their favorite songs! Could she dance? No? Well, their dances weren't so difficult! She just had to let them show her a few steps!
It went on like that until Elle found herself helpless to do anything but grin right along with them. As Gareth had said, they were very talkative and extremely high energy. She was exhausted just from listening to them. All of their sentences seemed to end in question marks and exclamation points, never periods. Periods implied full stops, which Finnian and Eirnin seemed incapable of. They were constantly in motion, trying to be excellent hosts and keep her entertained. They made good on their offers to play music for her and sing to her and teach her how to dance. When Elle was too tired to keep up with them any longer, they sat her down and regaled her with stories about their family.
The anecdotes—which were all very amusing—got her thinking about the one brother she had yet to meet: Scotland. Where was he? What was he really like? She'd heard him portrayed as both Scotland the Horribly Rebellious Nation and Iagan the Rowdy but Lovable Brother and she wondered which was the truth. Perhaps it was neither, perhaps it was both. She wouldn't know until she saw him in person and got a chance to speak with him. For now, she was content to lie in the grass and listen as Eirnin told her a story entitled 'The Day Arthur Misplaced His Very Favorite Tea Cosy.'
"It's a tale of love, loss, and second chances," Finnian whispered. "I think you'll like it!"
Elle laughed so hard she nearly forgot to breathe.
Next chapter will be England's POV.