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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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- 2
I wasn’t sure whether this ought to be a standalone story or a second chapter. In the end I’d made it a second chapter as it is British Trio related, despite heavily leaning into the relationship of England and France. To yoong I can confirm that I have intentions to add drabbles with both Ireland and Northern Ireland’s representatives when I come across them. I’ve actually missed out a fairly large chunk of British history where Norway settled in Northern England and Scotland and Germanic tribes invaded Southern England. I might go back and clear those up along with the Auld Alliance (Scotland x France) which is alluded to but not specifically mentioned. As always reviews make my muses happy... and thank you to everyone who favourite and followed this fic. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Well… sort of enjoy!

~+~

Huddled close to flames fingers crafted to wage war had combed through straggly golden locks. In the brief moments of peace Norway had spoken of a vast, icy wilderness that no one could penetrate. Sometimes he had spoken of magical creatures and old legends. Occasionally, rarely he had spoken of his family. England had found himself quite content, happy even. Across the fire from them lay a silent form, his eldest brother. Whether he listened to Norway’s words was unclear but his mere presence elated Arthur.

Hugh was back, that was all that mattered.

Arthur adored him, revered him almost.

So as their eyes met across the field of battle he felt as though he had been plunged into the unforgiving wilderness of childhood fairy tales. Ice swallowed his throat, working its way up until it engulfed his head. The implications, the betrayal; Hugh was fraternising with -the enemy-. Plunged into silent shock he could feel the roar of emotion clawing at his throat, threatening to be released as a scream. Yet lips did not part.

Heat gathered along blonde lashes, fists forming and then shaking with the force of emotions swirling through his body.

No, this couldn’t be happening.

Then he appeared.

France.

Everything could be traced directly back to that man. Every woe, every hurt, everything. Where love had once flourished bitter hatred had begun to take hold. How small the divide between such powerful emotions. One to cherish, the other to destroy. Just as tears threatened to spill over lashes he saw another figure. A woman, no, she was little more than a girl. A single, insignificant human, stood between the men who he most idolised in the world.

Artistic fingers touched her shoulder, a gesture he recognised as Francis leant in to smooth short hair behind her ear. Moves he had been subject to when he had caught the Frenchman’s eye. France would smile and it would seem as though she were the only person alive worth smiling at. For a while it wouldn’t matter, it was easy to lose oneself in the sweet worlds and gentle touches.

Francis loved, he just loved too much.

Agonising sorrow overturned to bubbling resentment, jealousy burning a hot path to his core. Who was this mere woman who could bring such light to his lover’s eyes? For Arthur had yet to accept that Francis was not his. Whoever she was he would not tolerate her presence. That smile, those eyes, they could only belong to him.

Capturing her had been difficult; she had proven to be a worthy foe and a fierce warrior. It was something almost worth respecting, had he been capable of feeling anything other than overwhelming resentment towards her. Countries were not meant to love humans and every time he imagined Frances’s hands caressing her he felt queasy and raw. What did this woman have that he did not? Why did France love her and not him?

Humans were weak, easy to control. All it took was enough wealth and one could purchase treason.

The right words, the right people, the right price. Arthur had found them all. Men weak enough to turn against their beloved country; men greedy enough to sell her life away.

Everyone had their price.

Even imprisoned she had defied them, leaping from the tower to earn her freedom. Some things were inevitable though and as money changed hands she had become his captive.

The one time he had visited her she had been clad as though a man. Wild, beautiful and dangerous. Just a human, a single, insignificant human. It was her eyes though; they called to him, stirring doubt from deep within.

“Sir, is it a crime to love one’s country?”

England found he had no answer; none had loved him as fervently as she loved France.

As fervently, blindly and madly as he loved France.

~+~

Blood splattered in tiny flecks across the stone courtyard, the small frame wildly rearing back as his strong hands grasped at his collar and throttled him. Fingers lashed up tearing at his face as England’s shoulder blades slammed against the wall. Breath wheezed out, rattling, angry thrusts driving the body into the unrelenting surface.

“She’s jist a bairn! A little girl! Wit are ye doing?!”

Hugh was frantic, angry – after all the girl he had promised to protect with his life lay in England’s hands. Dark laughter bubbled up from within, bloodied hands wrapping around his throat, murderous intent evident in England’s eyes.

“You speak to me as though you’re not parting your thighs to the enemy.”

Emotions tumbled through Hugh’s eyes, guilt, anger and sorrow. When had his beloved little brother become so twisted? The Arthur he had known would not consider such actions as justified. The Arthur he had known had been a naïve and innocent little boy that had run to Dilan crying when he’d been bruised.

“How could you be so close to that man who has done such things to me? To your own brother!”

Words were hissed venomously, though blonde lashes glistened with the threat of tears. Fingers lost their strength and lofted, taking hold of his cheeks. England was his little brother still, scared, alone and hurting. Perhaps he could avert the disaster; perhaps if he appealed gently Arthur would change his course.

“Arthur if ye go ahed wit this plan ye’ll be nae brother of mine.”

Heat and agony bloomed from his abdomen, barely daring to look down; still he felt the knife twist. Crazed emerald eyes watched dispassionately as his hands covered the wound, pressing tight to staunch the flow of blood. Arthur was gone, there was no saving him and no saving her. Hugh could have wept but for the agony that froze all of his emotions. How had everything become so distorted? Was this what love did? All it had to offer was insanity and depravity? As he sunk into his knees he felt slick fingers tight in his hair, wrenching his head back.

“Any man who would stand by his side is no brother of mine.”

Then he was flung to meet the stonework, vision blurring as his brother stepped over him and left him to whatever the fates had in store.

~+~

“I don’t care what you charge her with, I want her dead. Do you understand? Ceased. No longer living. Slaughtered. DEAD.”

Swift steps brought Dilan closer to his irate brother, reaching out to seize his wrist. Digging in his heels the momentum swung them together, face to face.

“Please Arthur, please don’t do this.”

A hand lifted, a soft touch tracing the dark shadow of a bruise upon his little brother’s cheek. Hugh and Arthur had fought in the past but he’d never known the violence escalate to the point that a blade had been drawn. It worried him; Hugh had been almost inconsolable as he had propped him up and led him away from the blood stained cobbles.

“I’m asking you, please don’t do this. I’ll talk to Hugh, we’ll protect you, we’ll stand with you.”

For a moment Dilan had thought he could see Arthur’s resolve waiver. After all he was still their little brother, he still needed them. Teeth met a cut lip, worrying it, emerald eyes full of pain lifting to greet him. Dilan wanted to take him in his arms once more, comfort him and whisper that everything would be alright.

Except it wouldn’t. The hunger for acceptance and love faded in Arthur’s eyes as he watched. Arthur didn’t trust him, he didn’t trust anyone. The hurt went too deep for him to soothe away as he had in years gone by, when he could calm the sobbing child with soft singing.

“Oh Arthur...”

What could he do? Dilan had no choice but to stand by him, even when all others had abandoned England he found he could not, even when his little brother was about to commit so heinous a crime.

~+~

They had condemned her, branded her a heretic and on 30 May 1431 at the Vieux-Marché in Rouen they had burnt her, trice, to make sure naught of her remained.

Over the flames green eyes met blue.

Whatever he had expected the haunted expression that dulled Francis’s eyes had shocked him. Always so full of light and love he looked defeated, lost and distraught. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Something, anything would have been better. Some sign that he was significant in the Frenchman’s eyes, yet there was nothing and he felt hollow and nauseous. Hugh stood silently shoulder to shoulder with his lover and when tears began to trail down pale features Hugh had led him away.

Everything was over.

~+~

“I’m sorry!”

Raw screams went unanswered, the weight of murder crushing down onto his shoulders. Hugh and Dilan had tried to warn him, such sacrifices were not lightly made. Driven by hatred he had been deaf, arrogant, weighing human life as worthless and a commodity to trifle with.

Wrong, he’d been utterly wrong.

~+~

The next time they had met France had lashed out at him, desperately trying to rip his throat out. The hatred within blue eyes echoed the scorn he felt for himself. Still he could not deny the spark of excitement. Francis finally saw him again, even hatred was better than nonchalance. Hatred was a powerful emotion that they could share and indulge in, lose themselves in.

Hatred was better than nothing.
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The British Isles