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100promptsTitle: The Pledge
Fandom: Hetalia
Prompt: #001: First Kiss
Character/Pairing: Scotland/France
Rating: T
Word Count: 1180
Summary: December, 1295: France and Scotland seal their new alliance.
Authors Notes/Disclaimer: Other fics written for this prompt table are collected in chronological order on AO3.
December, 1295; Stirling Castle, Kingdom of Scotland
The document that France has just put his name to is nothing but a sham. In truth, the alliance between his kingdom and Scotland's had been sealed over a month ago in Paris, the treaty ratified by Scotland's Council and France's king.
Scotland's king had requested that France make the bitterly cold journey north in this unforgiving season in order to stand at Scotland's right hand in a draughty great hall, dressed in his court finery, and sign his name beside Scotland's on a useless piece of parchment. It's a mummer's play meant for the benefit of Scotland's people, so they can witness him bow to their kingdom, shake his hand, and hear him promise, in his own words and his own voice, to aid their efforts in thwarting the ambitions of England's king.
They are a fine, appreciative audience, who lustily cheer this declaration, shout his name out loud and jubilant, and toast him again and again and again, first with ale and then, when they have drained those barrels dry, with the wine France had brought with him to mark the occasion.
And, given the occasion, it seems churlish to refuse any of the brimming tankards that are pressed upon him by grateful hands. France drinks deep from them – far deeper than is his wont – and before the night has even grown long, he is cup-shotten, his head so muddled that his thoughts scarcely seem like his own. He talks too brashly, laughs far too readily, the borrowed joy coursing through his body effervescent and even more intoxicating than the wine.
He wants to share the heady feeling with Scotland but has not seen him for an hour or more. No-one has apparently – not his courtiers or even his king – and France's enquiries after his whereabouts go unsatisfied until a passing maid happens to mention that she had witnessed him leaving the castle a short while ago.
Which is infuriatingly typical of him, spurning company in favour of tromping around the wilderness for no good reason. France has no intentions of chasing after him – he's unsteady enough on his feet that it would likely be a fool's errand – but does poke his head out of doors, just on the off-chance that he hasn't gone far.
To his surprise, Scotland is sprawled out flat on his back in the grass only a handful of ells beyond the castle walls.
"I've been looking for you," France calls out to him.
Scotland hurriedly scrabbles up into a sitting position and rubs at his eyes with the knuckles of a clenched fist. His expression is difficult to read in the wan moonlight, which wreathes more of his features in shadow than it illuminates, but France suspects he is scowling, annoyed at having his repose disturbed.
By the time France takes a seat on the ground by his side, however, that hypothetical scowl has disappeared, and his face has smoothed into blankness.
"I needed some air," he says. "Too much wine, I think."
"That's a shame," France says, holding out his tankard, "because I brought more."
Despite his grumbling, Scotland accepts it eagerly and drains a good half before passing it back. France takes a more conservative sip, then wraps his hands around the tankard and rests it atop his updrawn knees.
As ever, Scotland seems disinclined to speak, and he tips his head back to stare at the stars. France follows his lead, but the scant attraction of watching the twinkling lights being swallowed up by the clouds scudding across the sky quickly palls.
The night is much colder than it had appeared when he first stepped out into it – well-insulated by his over-indulgence – and its chill is insidious, slowly creeping up France's body from the icy sod below.
His teeth chatter and his bones ache from it, and acting on pure, animal instinct, he moves towards the nearest source of warmth: Scotland, whose body always radiates heat like a roaring hearth fire even when everything else is frozen through.
And Scotland does not shift away as he usually would, allowing France to press in close against his side without complaint. Then, for a wonder, he wraps an arm around France's back and holds him closer still.
France rests his temple against the curve of Scotland's shoulder, breathes deep, and listens to the sound of Scotland's breathing: steady at first, but gradually growing quick and shallow.
For once, France would have been glad for him to keep quiet, to hold his peace, but he stays silent for no more than a moment after.
"I imagine we will be testing the terms of our treaty soon enough," he says, his fingers digging into France's biceps.
France hums in answer, offering agreement, but, he hopes, no encouragement to pursue the subject further. He is in no mood for politics tonight.
Unfortunately, Scotland pays him no heed. "England's king has been wanting to bring us to heel for a long while now. He will likely invade afore long."
And under the terms of their treaty, Scotland's kingdom will be bound to bear the costs of such a war with him, no matter how great, with no expectation of any aid from France. For the most part, France is glad of that, as his kingdom's safety and prosperity are paramount in his thoughts, but he still fears what the personal cost may be for Scotland himself. Knowing England, he will do his best to ensure it is vast.
"Your brother will be ruthless," he says.
"Aye, no doubt," Scotland says. "But I don't care."
France looks at him askance. "You can't mean that."
"For my people's sake, of course I hope it never comes to that, but for my own? I do not care what he does to me. Not if… Not if it helps to keep you safe." Scotland's grip on France's arm tightens yet further, and his gaze is so intense, so heated, that his eyes almost seem to glow from within. "I will fight for you. I will take every blow for you if I have to. I will die for you."
"But you cannot die, Écosse," France says, because he can think of nothing else to say, stunned near-witless by Scotland's words.
"I would, though," Scotland insists, his voice low and ragged. "If you needed that of me, I would."
It's a ridiculous pledge. Impossible, for reasons far greater than the indestructibility of Scotland's body. France could understand Scotland being willing to lay down his life for his people, for his king and his lands, but for another of their kind? For him? It should be unthinkable.
But Scotland sounds nothing but sincere, and his expression is so ardent that France cannot look away from it. No-one has ever promised him so much of themselves before, and though, rationally, he knows he should refuse what Scotland is offering, he cannot find it within himself to do so.
Instead, he turns within the circle of Scotland's arm, leans up, and accepts it all with a kiss.
Fandom: Hetalia
Prompt: #001: First Kiss
Character/Pairing: Scotland/France
Rating: T
Word Count: 1180
Summary: December, 1295: France and Scotland seal their new alliance.
Authors Notes/Disclaimer: Other fics written for this prompt table are collected in chronological order on AO3.
December, 1295; Stirling Castle, Kingdom of Scotland
The document that France has just put his name to is nothing but a sham. In truth, the alliance between his kingdom and Scotland's had been sealed over a month ago in Paris, the treaty ratified by Scotland's Council and France's king.
Scotland's king had requested that France make the bitterly cold journey north in this unforgiving season in order to stand at Scotland's right hand in a draughty great hall, dressed in his court finery, and sign his name beside Scotland's on a useless piece of parchment. It's a mummer's play meant for the benefit of Scotland's people, so they can witness him bow to their kingdom, shake his hand, and hear him promise, in his own words and his own voice, to aid their efforts in thwarting the ambitions of England's king.
They are a fine, appreciative audience, who lustily cheer this declaration, shout his name out loud and jubilant, and toast him again and again and again, first with ale and then, when they have drained those barrels dry, with the wine France had brought with him to mark the occasion.
And, given the occasion, it seems churlish to refuse any of the brimming tankards that are pressed upon him by grateful hands. France drinks deep from them – far deeper than is his wont – and before the night has even grown long, he is cup-shotten, his head so muddled that his thoughts scarcely seem like his own. He talks too brashly, laughs far too readily, the borrowed joy coursing through his body effervescent and even more intoxicating than the wine.
He wants to share the heady feeling with Scotland but has not seen him for an hour or more. No-one has apparently – not his courtiers or even his king – and France's enquiries after his whereabouts go unsatisfied until a passing maid happens to mention that she had witnessed him leaving the castle a short while ago.
Which is infuriatingly typical of him, spurning company in favour of tromping around the wilderness for no good reason. France has no intentions of chasing after him – he's unsteady enough on his feet that it would likely be a fool's errand – but does poke his head out of doors, just on the off-chance that he hasn't gone far.
To his surprise, Scotland is sprawled out flat on his back in the grass only a handful of ells beyond the castle walls.
"I've been looking for you," France calls out to him.
Scotland hurriedly scrabbles up into a sitting position and rubs at his eyes with the knuckles of a clenched fist. His expression is difficult to read in the wan moonlight, which wreathes more of his features in shadow than it illuminates, but France suspects he is scowling, annoyed at having his repose disturbed.
By the time France takes a seat on the ground by his side, however, that hypothetical scowl has disappeared, and his face has smoothed into blankness.
"I needed some air," he says. "Too much wine, I think."
"That's a shame," France says, holding out his tankard, "because I brought more."
Despite his grumbling, Scotland accepts it eagerly and drains a good half before passing it back. France takes a more conservative sip, then wraps his hands around the tankard and rests it atop his updrawn knees.
As ever, Scotland seems disinclined to speak, and he tips his head back to stare at the stars. France follows his lead, but the scant attraction of watching the twinkling lights being swallowed up by the clouds scudding across the sky quickly palls.
The night is much colder than it had appeared when he first stepped out into it – well-insulated by his over-indulgence – and its chill is insidious, slowly creeping up France's body from the icy sod below.
His teeth chatter and his bones ache from it, and acting on pure, animal instinct, he moves towards the nearest source of warmth: Scotland, whose body always radiates heat like a roaring hearth fire even when everything else is frozen through.
And Scotland does not shift away as he usually would, allowing France to press in close against his side without complaint. Then, for a wonder, he wraps an arm around France's back and holds him closer still.
France rests his temple against the curve of Scotland's shoulder, breathes deep, and listens to the sound of Scotland's breathing: steady at first, but gradually growing quick and shallow.
For once, France would have been glad for him to keep quiet, to hold his peace, but he stays silent for no more than a moment after.
"I imagine we will be testing the terms of our treaty soon enough," he says, his fingers digging into France's biceps.
France hums in answer, offering agreement, but, he hopes, no encouragement to pursue the subject further. He is in no mood for politics tonight.
Unfortunately, Scotland pays him no heed. "England's king has been wanting to bring us to heel for a long while now. He will likely invade afore long."
And under the terms of their treaty, Scotland's kingdom will be bound to bear the costs of such a war with him, no matter how great, with no expectation of any aid from France. For the most part, France is glad of that, as his kingdom's safety and prosperity are paramount in his thoughts, but he still fears what the personal cost may be for Scotland himself. Knowing England, he will do his best to ensure it is vast.
"Your brother will be ruthless," he says.
"Aye, no doubt," Scotland says. "But I don't care."
France looks at him askance. "You can't mean that."
"For my people's sake, of course I hope it never comes to that, but for my own? I do not care what he does to me. Not if… Not if it helps to keep you safe." Scotland's grip on France's arm tightens yet further, and his gaze is so intense, so heated, that his eyes almost seem to glow from within. "I will fight for you. I will take every blow for you if I have to. I will die for you."
"But you cannot die, Écosse," France says, because he can think of nothing else to say, stunned near-witless by Scotland's words.
"I would, though," Scotland insists, his voice low and ragged. "If you needed that of me, I would."
It's a ridiculous pledge. Impossible, for reasons far greater than the indestructibility of Scotland's body. France could understand Scotland being willing to lay down his life for his people, for his king and his lands, but for another of their kind? For him? It should be unthinkable.
But Scotland sounds nothing but sincere, and his expression is so ardent that France cannot look away from it. No-one has ever promised him so much of themselves before, and though, rationally, he knows he should refuse what Scotland is offering, he cannot find it within himself to do so.
Instead, he turns within the circle of Scotland's arm, leans up, and accepts it all with a kiss.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Author's Note:
- On the 23rd of October, 1295, the Treaty of Paris was signed, formalising the alliance between Scotland and France against England. It marked the start of the Auld Alliance.
