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The British Isles	By : Darbracken Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 2204 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own England, Scotland or Wales nor hetalia. I have not and will not make any profit from this fic.

Chapter List
- 1-The British Isles
- 2-The Price Of Love
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To everyone who has reviewed any of my Hetalia fanfiction so far.. thank you so much! o/ I love reviews, generally it gives me warm fuzzies and inspires me to keep writing and uploading. This may be updated in the future as I write more about England's past. Hugh and Dilan are Scotland and Wales OCs and have been kidnapped for the purposes of this fic. If you want to follow the trials and tribulations of England I roleplay him at theenglisharecoming [dot] tumblr [dot] com. Also if you just want to harass me via asks to write stuff.. come and join us! That and you get first read of most of the Hetalia stuff I write.

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In his London apartment Arthur watched speckles of water trail down glass. If he watched long enough he could entertain himself with picking a droplet and betting on it as it rolled down to the sill. Often he lost these ‘bets’ but it passed the time. In truth he hated it here; that was why outside of business he stayed at the residence as little as possible.

Still beggars couldn’t be choosers and his home in the Oxfordshire countryside was naught but a pile of ash. Tomorrow he’d visit Dilan and see if he could get his assistance in starting the renovation process. There was no one other than himself that knew the house better; after all they had both lived in it together for so many years.

Of course at this time of year Dilan would be elbow deep in sheep… well he didn’t want to imagine it. Whilst he had experience of his brothers’ labouring he had immured himself in the city, politics and banks. Numbers held a fascination for him, so long as it meant money was not far behind. It was just like… back then, but now he plundered other’s stocks and sold their homes from under their feet rather than held a flintlock to their face as he commandeered their vessel.

It was still and ugly business though.

It’d be nice to visit his brother’s home.

Pushing out of the sofa – minimalistic and barely comfortable – he paced down the whitewashed wall. Then back again. Really there was nothing to do here, the flat stripped back to the very barest of basics. It was ‘modern chic’ and he detested it. Some of his visitors adored it though, he could never figure out why.

At length he threw himself onto the bed, flat on his stomach and clothed only in his union jack boxers. It had been a long day, his boss had lectured him at length about the troubles of the economy, about how the people would never be happy but decisions had to be made with the frugal finances they had. All of it made him long for a time he could have just gone and kicked that stupid Spaniard in the face and took a few of his galleons.

Life had been easier then…

As unconsciousness took him strange colours began to merge, swirling until they formed an endless swaying field of grass. The sun was visible for once, warm rays bathing him and he felt relaxed. Then from the pit of his stomach fear began to uncurl as in the distance crimson swarmed into his vision.

Turning he fled but he found he could not run fast on such short legs, his cloak getting caught behind him and tugging him back. Still the legions inexorably marched on, catching him slowly but surely. Feeling like his chest might explode and that he might vomit he kept running, he didn’t understand, who were these people and what did they want?

Off in the distance his brothers stood watching… if only he could get to them.

With a look of fierce determination Scotland launched a rock at the advancing hordes, drawing a dagger with a guttural growl.

“Git off aur land ye pricks!”

Vision blurred as he finally reached them, Dilan protectively pulling him behind his legs. Warily the Romans came to a halt, staring at the three young nations.

“Britannia!”

A fearful chant rattled shields that gleamed in the sun nearly blinding him. Other words he did not understand so he buried himself in Wales’s cloak.

“Did ye nae ken..? Fuck off!”

Launching himself at the soldiers the red head brandished the blade threateningly. Slashing at the first few he caught unaware. Soon he was overwhelmed though, he was but a teenager against an army of trained and hardened warriors. With a coarse laugh they pulled him away, separating him from the livid Wales and terrified England.

“Hugh!”

Almost a shriek, he tried to fight through Dilan’s legs to get at his eldest brother and somehow protect him.

“Dinae let him! Protect him fer me!”

Fingers wound about his cloak, hauling him back as the Welshman fought him for ground. Another mutter of laughter rippled through the Roman army before dark shapes began to flit through the trees. Druids. Clouds began to fill the sky, a chill rising as the tang of magic occupied the air. Alarm and misgivings were whispered before a man stepped forth, tanned and imperious.

Whatever he muttered was not a language that he could understand but the intonation was clear. ‘We’ll be back.”

Tears swelled and spilled down his cheeks as he saw Hugh being dragged away.

Later they would build a wall and name it after their Emperor. They would lock Hugh away behind it out of fear or convenience.

Fiercely Wales had glared at them until he was sure they had left, before taking his little brother in his arms to comfort him.

Bed drenched with sweat he awoke abruptly. Well that was, unusual. In his nightmares it was usually the final battles of the American Revolution or the terror of the Blitz that he relieved. It had been a very long time since he’d been visited by that scene. After all in the end England had come to like the Roman Empire, the roads it had taught him how to build, the technology. That day though he had been terrified and had only wanted to stay with his brothers.

Shakily he showered and dressed, finding after a cup of breakfast tea he felt much better. Well none of that mattered anymore; he was off to see modern day Wales who would smell like sheep, the countryside and a hard day’s graft. Who would probably curse at him, speak an infuriating language and make him forget there had ever been a time he had cried himself to sleep at the thought of losing him as well as Scotland to the invading armies.

Still he was glad to get out of London.

Hours later he was a little sore and perhaps not so glad but the view from the castle was spectacular, he had to admit. Often he found that he would talk to fill Dilan’s quietness. Many times he had expected his older brother to rage and disown him when he had pulled him into battle after battle; Dilan had just quietly agreed. Often he felt he didn’t understand him very well at all…

It seemed that today was one of those days as the cushion was shoved into his hands.

For once he was speechless. It was very rare for them to exchange gifts. If he was feeling especially nice he’d sent Dilan a bouquet of daffodils on St David’s day and of course for Christmas but this was new. Heat reached his cheeks as his brother strode away, pausing for a moment before he tried to run after him to thank him.

Perhaps some things never changed…

--

Beneath the boughs of mighty oak trees wooden swords clattered. In the distance Dilan watched almost sleepily.

“One day I’ll beat you Hugh!”

Almost violently England surged forwards, lifting the sword up above his head as he valiantly charged down the eldest of his brothers.

“Ach looket ye Artie, yer so open I ked swing a needle and still hit ye.”

With an amused smile the Scotsman swung down, jarring short limbs in a way intended to be painful. If it didn’t hurt a little Arthur would never learn. Dropping the sword the blonde retracted, rubbing at sore wrists, a few tears springing into his vision.

“Dilan…”

With a wail he threw himself upon the Welshman’s frame, loud sobs making words inaudible. England was still only a child and sometimes Scotland was too rough. Green eyes met over the blonde head, fingers threaded through rough strands as Wales merely shook his head as Hugh approached. Fingers were pulled away at the protective expression rapidly appearing on his Dilan’s face.

It was always Dilan Arthur ran to, a sour expression offered for a second before a smile returned. Wales had begun to sing to quieten the weeping child and even Scotland had to admit the soft tones were one of the most beautiful things he had heard. Sweaty and hot he dropped down into the shade to relax with his brothers. One day Arthur would run to him, he was sure and he’d lift him up high above his shoulders until he squealed with fright and laughter.

From the moment England had first burst into their life they had secretly sworn to raise and protect him as best they could.

Then the Romans had come.

And Scotland had been locked behind the wall.

Wales for his part had fought bravely and terrorised the legions for long years until he too had been captured.

Weeks had passed, pale and puffy eyed he appraised the wall again.

Hugh was on the other side all he wanted to do was to get through it.

England had taken his first life, despite the warlike nature of his reputation his hands had not been stained with the blood of a human. Then he had killed the first, war raging along the borders as he trembled in terror, stained with the crimson fluid that rained down upon him.

“LET HIM OUT!”

Screams went unchecked as nails dug into hewn stone, trying to tear the barrier between himself and Hugh away. Yet he could remove the wall just as easily as he could defeat his brother. Tiny hands did not hold the strength and instead he clawed until blood smeared in long rakes down the surface.

All alone, he was all alone.

Why were they not coming to help him? To comfort him?

Slow years passed. With no other choice Arthur had begun to learn from his captors, to understand their language and society. Even as a representative it would have taken a hard man to ignore the injured screams of a terrified child and so Salonius had taken him in and shown him texts of law and society.

Deprived of his brother’s guiding hands and so very innocent when Salonius had told him Hugh was a bad, vile barbarian who had been locked away for his safety Arthur had believed it. At first he had denied it, violently tried to tear away from the Roman’s influence but still he whispered the vile words. Hugh never loved him, Hugh wished he didn’t exist. Hugh and his people were little more than animals.

The Roman had thrown up his hands and had indicated to everything that now surrounded Arthur, the stone architecture, the literacy, the culture. How could a man so learned tell him such lies?

So together they had travelled north, through the wall to find Hugh. Clad in the armour of the Roman legion Arthur had grown, he was no longer resembled a boy of 6 but now was on the verge of spilling into teenaged awkwardness.

Through the moors and heather they crossed the land, the people wild, painted humans that hissed at them and cursed them. Scared Arthur had pressed closer to his mentor. Then they had found him.

Years had changed Scotland too, not quite a man but no longer a child either, wildness in emerald eyes making Arthur hold his breath.

Perhaps the Roman had been right…

Then Hugh had attacked them, seeming half crazed, violent. Slamming him into the ground again and again until breath had left his body and blood tainted pale lips. Unconscious had swallowed him as blows continued to fall.

Bloodied hands had pulled away the helmet to look upon the defeated invader, vomit swelling into Hugh’s mouth as pale blonde strands spilled from under metal. Arthur. The precious little brother he was training so hard for. One day he’d rescue him and Dilan both, he’d sworn it upon his life.

Yet what was the meaning of this?

Arthur, he was one of them now? It was a mistake, a horrible, horrible mistake and weeping openly he held the small, frail body to himself.

“What’re ye doing ye fool... ye... stupid fuck...”

Rocking the broken frame panic seized him, what if Arthur never woke up? What if he’d broken him permanently? Hauling the body up onto his shoulders he trudged back the way they’d come. Progress was slow and silent; several times he had to stop legs trembling. Eventually the hated wall came into view. Still it was for the best, he could not heal Arthur’s wounds and if his younger brother really had sided with the Romans what more could he do?

“Here ye fucks have him back!”

Dropping the small body before the wall he ran, conflicting emotions of jealousy and anger warring with self-pity and disgust. How could the boy he and Dilan had raised so tenderly give his soul to Rome? Why had England never tried to break down the wall? Why had England never escaped into his arms?

No England was the one at fault here, not Scotland.

So why did that little voice in his head keep blaming him?
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The British Isles