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100promptsTitle: In Vino
Fandom: Hetalia
Prompt: #010 for Table 4: Stranger
Character/Pairing: England, Scotland, Wales
Rating: T
Word Count: 1099
Summary: Circa 420: Caledonia meets with his brothers for the first time since the Roman withdrawal from Britain.
Authors Notes/Disclaimer: As Wales did not exist as a distinct entity during the Roman period, I have had to use an anachronistic name for him here: Cambria (a Latinised form of Cymru, which wasn't used until the medieval period).
Circa 420, Caledonia
Cambria weeps when he lays eyes on Caledonia again, though that signifies very little, as he weeps over sunsets, songs, rabbit kits at play, and all manner of trifling nonsense.
At his side, Britannia remains unmoved. "I don’t know why you insisted we trek all the way up here," he says. "You must know that Roma has abandoned the island; there's no need to keep hiding behind your wall anymore. You could have travelled south, to us."
"And you could have stayed home, if you wished." The message Caledonia had sent with his fae was an invitation, not a summons. "No-one forced you to come."
"Well, I, for one, am glad we did." Cambria raises his arms outstretched as though to embrace Caledonia, but instead wraps them around his own ample middle. "It's good to be here, frater."
"That remains to be seen," Caledonia says. Britannia seems to be spoiling for a fight; has been spoiling for a fight this past century or more. All that time, Caledonia had known that this first meeting between them was apt to end in violence, but their island is small and they would not have been able to avoid one another forever. He has delayed it for too long already, and though he'd much rather send Britannia on his way until his mood improves, he forces himself to say, "Follow me."
He leads his brothers to a nearby roundhouse, abandoned years before by the farmers who once lived there. Half of its roof has caved in, letting in enough water whenever it rains that the hard-packed dirt floor has turned to mud in places.
Britannia hitches his toga higher up his legs as he crosses it, and takes dainty little steps, as though afeared of getting his sandals dirty.
Caledonia despairs of him. "You're used to far finer things now, I suppose," he says. "Fancy villas and the like. Your time with Roma has spoiled you. You've gone soft."
"I have not." Britannia draws himself up to his full, diminutive height, his spine as stiff as a spear shaft. "You have no idea what life was like under Roma's rule. You shouldn't talk about things you don't understand." He laughs, harsh and brittle. "Though that would leave you with very little to say."
His sly smile is practically begging to be knocked from his face, and the angry jut of his chin provides a very tempting target, but as soon as Caledonia clenches his hands into fists, Cambria cries out, "I have dried fruit in my pack, and a jar of wine."
The promise of wine is even more tempting, and Caledonia doubts Cambria would be inclined to share if he were to break Britannia's nose. He's always been quick to take their little brother's side, even when that side is indefensible.
"I caught some rabbits earlier," Caledonia tells him, "I’d be happy to share them, too, if you're willing to help me skin them and build a fire."
Cambria sets to both tasks with the same cheerful industry that Caledonia remembers him possessing when they were weans together, but Britannia stands sullenly apart, and doesn't lift a finger.
Nonetheless, he still huddles close to the fire once it's roaring, and doesn't demur when Caledonia reluctantly offers him a bite of rabbit, even though he hasn't done a thing to deserve such hospitality.
He and Cambria talk idly of the food as they eat, but when the rabbits' bones are picked clean, they lapse into silence. Back when it was just the three of them, after their mother died but before Roma invaded, words flowed as freely between them as any mountain stream, but now Caledonia cannot think of anything to say that would not sadden Cambria or anger Britannia further.
Britannia stares at the fire, and Cambria pokes at its embers with a stick, rummages through his pack, stands, stretches, and then finally cracks open his jar of wine.
He takes a sip from it, and then hands it to Caledonia. The scent alone is potent enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he drinks deep. It burns his throat, and pools, hot and heavy, in the pit of his stomach. When he holds the jar out for Britannia to take, his arm scarcely feels like it's part of his own body: wobbling and unsteady, as though it has come unmoored from his shoulder and is almost beyond his control.
He means to tell Britannia to be cautious, but before he has chance to speak, Britannia snatches the jar from him and takes a long draught from it. He coughs and splutters, and practically throws the jar back to Cambria.
By the time the wine has completed its second pass around their circle, Caledonia's legs are as numb as his arms, Britannia's face is ruddy, and Cambria is smiling so widely that Caledonia's own cheeks ache just to look at him.
After the third, Cambria begins to talk. About anything and everything that springs to mind, seemingly – magic, his people, the weather – without pause to take breath or allow for an interjection. It's an ancient habit of his, one he's indulged in ever since he learnt how to speak, and, when they were younger, it annoyed Caledonia. Now, he finds it comforting. In this, at least, Cambria has not changed, though he may feel like a stranger in so many ways otherwise.
He talks on uninterrupted through the fourth pass, and by the fifth, Britannia is loose-limbed and sufficiently relaxed that he slumps against Caledonia's side, his head coming to rest against Caledonia's shoulder as it used to when the hour grew late and he was losing his struggle to stay awake.
He's so close to sleep, so sotted, that Caledonia judges it safe to ask the question has wanted him to answer for decades. Come morning, he likely won't remember having been compliant enough to reply.
"Who's that girl I've seen you with?"
"Wha' girl?" Britannia says.
"The girl who used to come up to the wall with you. The girl with the long, golden hair, who danced, and—"
Britannia's laughter this time sounds genuine, and richly amused. "That was no girl, Caledonia. His name is Gallia, and he's… he's an insufferable nuisance. And a viper." Britannia presses his thumb up against his fingers, hand mimicking a snake's head, and then jabs it against Caledonia's wrist, breath hissing through his teeth all the while. "Liable to strike at you the moment your back's turned. You'd be best off steering clear of him entirely, believe me."
Fandom: Hetalia
Prompt: #010 for Table 4: Stranger
Character/Pairing: England, Scotland, Wales
Rating: T
Word Count: 1099
Summary: Circa 420: Caledonia meets with his brothers for the first time since the Roman withdrawal from Britain.
Authors Notes/Disclaimer: As Wales did not exist as a distinct entity during the Roman period, I have had to use an anachronistic name for him here: Cambria (a Latinised form of Cymru, which wasn't used until the medieval period).
Circa 420, Caledonia
Cambria weeps when he lays eyes on Caledonia again, though that signifies very little, as he weeps over sunsets, songs, rabbit kits at play, and all manner of trifling nonsense.
At his side, Britannia remains unmoved. "I don’t know why you insisted we trek all the way up here," he says. "You must know that Roma has abandoned the island; there's no need to keep hiding behind your wall anymore. You could have travelled south, to us."
"And you could have stayed home, if you wished." The message Caledonia had sent with his fae was an invitation, not a summons. "No-one forced you to come."
"Well, I, for one, am glad we did." Cambria raises his arms outstretched as though to embrace Caledonia, but instead wraps them around his own ample middle. "It's good to be here, frater."
"That remains to be seen," Caledonia says. Britannia seems to be spoiling for a fight; has been spoiling for a fight this past century or more. All that time, Caledonia had known that this first meeting between them was apt to end in violence, but their island is small and they would not have been able to avoid one another forever. He has delayed it for too long already, and though he'd much rather send Britannia on his way until his mood improves, he forces himself to say, "Follow me."
He leads his brothers to a nearby roundhouse, abandoned years before by the farmers who once lived there. Half of its roof has caved in, letting in enough water whenever it rains that the hard-packed dirt floor has turned to mud in places.
Britannia hitches his toga higher up his legs as he crosses it, and takes dainty little steps, as though afeared of getting his sandals dirty.
Caledonia despairs of him. "You're used to far finer things now, I suppose," he says. "Fancy villas and the like. Your time with Roma has spoiled you. You've gone soft."
"I have not." Britannia draws himself up to his full, diminutive height, his spine as stiff as a spear shaft. "You have no idea what life was like under Roma's rule. You shouldn't talk about things you don't understand." He laughs, harsh and brittle. "Though that would leave you with very little to say."
His sly smile is practically begging to be knocked from his face, and the angry jut of his chin provides a very tempting target, but as soon as Caledonia clenches his hands into fists, Cambria cries out, "I have dried fruit in my pack, and a jar of wine."
The promise of wine is even more tempting, and Caledonia doubts Cambria would be inclined to share if he were to break Britannia's nose. He's always been quick to take their little brother's side, even when that side is indefensible.
"I caught some rabbits earlier," Caledonia tells him, "I’d be happy to share them, too, if you're willing to help me skin them and build a fire."
Cambria sets to both tasks with the same cheerful industry that Caledonia remembers him possessing when they were weans together, but Britannia stands sullenly apart, and doesn't lift a finger.
Nonetheless, he still huddles close to the fire once it's roaring, and doesn't demur when Caledonia reluctantly offers him a bite of rabbit, even though he hasn't done a thing to deserve such hospitality.
He and Cambria talk idly of the food as they eat, but when the rabbits' bones are picked clean, they lapse into silence. Back when it was just the three of them, after their mother died but before Roma invaded, words flowed as freely between them as any mountain stream, but now Caledonia cannot think of anything to say that would not sadden Cambria or anger Britannia further.
Britannia stares at the fire, and Cambria pokes at its embers with a stick, rummages through his pack, stands, stretches, and then finally cracks open his jar of wine.
He takes a sip from it, and then hands it to Caledonia. The scent alone is potent enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he drinks deep. It burns his throat, and pools, hot and heavy, in the pit of his stomach. When he holds the jar out for Britannia to take, his arm scarcely feels like it's part of his own body: wobbling and unsteady, as though it has come unmoored from his shoulder and is almost beyond his control.
He means to tell Britannia to be cautious, but before he has chance to speak, Britannia snatches the jar from him and takes a long draught from it. He coughs and splutters, and practically throws the jar back to Cambria.
By the time the wine has completed its second pass around their circle, Caledonia's legs are as numb as his arms, Britannia's face is ruddy, and Cambria is smiling so widely that Caledonia's own cheeks ache just to look at him.
After the third, Cambria begins to talk. About anything and everything that springs to mind, seemingly – magic, his people, the weather – without pause to take breath or allow for an interjection. It's an ancient habit of his, one he's indulged in ever since he learnt how to speak, and, when they were younger, it annoyed Caledonia. Now, he finds it comforting. In this, at least, Cambria has not changed, though he may feel like a stranger in so many ways otherwise.
He talks on uninterrupted through the fourth pass, and by the fifth, Britannia is loose-limbed and sufficiently relaxed that he slumps against Caledonia's side, his head coming to rest against Caledonia's shoulder as it used to when the hour grew late and he was losing his struggle to stay awake.
He's so close to sleep, so sotted, that Caledonia judges it safe to ask the question has wanted him to answer for decades. Come morning, he likely won't remember having been compliant enough to reply.
"Who's that girl I've seen you with?"
"Wha' girl?" Britannia says.
"The girl who used to come up to the wall with you. The girl with the long, golden hair, who danced, and—"
Britannia's laughter this time sounds genuine, and richly amused. "That was no girl, Caledonia. His name is Gallia, and he's… he's an insufferable nuisance. And a viper." Britannia presses his thumb up against his fingers, hand mimicking a snake's head, and then jabs it against Caledonia's wrist, breath hissing through his teeth all the while. "Liable to strike at you the moment your back's turned. You'd be best off steering clear of him entirely, believe me."
