[Fanfic] Vincere II
Mar. 28th, 2010 02:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hellzabethTitle: Vincere II
Characters: Albion, Rome, Alba, Cymru, Gallia, Gaul, Iberia, Mama!Greece and Mama!Egypt.
Rating: 18. Hard R.
Warnings: Implications of child abuse and molestation, gore, Rome pimping the shit out of Western Europe and the Mediterranean, Stockholm syndrome.
Summary: What are you meant to do if even your family can't keep a promise to save you?
There is nothing beautiful about Rome’s people.
Their hair and skin are darker than Albion’s, like they are always covered in a layer of dirt and mud. Their eyes are black or brown too, and always watch him with a cold contempt, even as he walks the streets (his streets) at the side of his supposed new guardian. Noses like the beaks of crows, ready to pick and tear at dead flesh until there is nothing left. Ready to tear at him.
Rome doesn’t see their ugliness. Maybe this is because they’re his people, who can do no wrong in his eyes. Or maybe it was because he looked like them.
The town is settled quite neatly in the middle of the Iceni territory. Or, where the Iceni had once been, before the soldiers had killed the men and taken the women and burned the villages to the ground. Albion wants to burn this imposing ‘civilisation’, grind it into the ground and dance on top of the ashes and the ground would cry out in satisfaction that the blood of Boudica had been repaid in ten fold.
But he can’t do it.
Because he’s so small, and so terribly, terribly alone.
“Britannia?” Rome called, noticing that the boy has stopped in the road and is glaring at the ground. Albion is pointedly not looking at him even when, after several failed calls, Rome comes over and crouches down to the little Nation’s height. “Are you angry with me right now?”
After a moment of sulking, Albion nods.
“Do you want to go back to the villa?”
Another pause, then a shake of the head. Rome smiles. “Alright. Are you going to keep up? I don’t want to lose you.”
Albion wishes that he would lose him, and that Rome would leave and things could go back to how they were.
Wishing wouldn’t bring mother back.
------
Before Albion knows it, three months have passed, and his siblings still haven’t come for him.
------
It’s a year now, and Rome has started separating the days into two categories. Sometimes it’s an “angry” day, and sometimes it’s a “clingy” day.
Albion’s not sure of what to think of these categories. Rome loves lists and organisation and things in neat lines, from his words to his buildings to his armies. Albion is used to being able to do things in the moment, run free and wild and dance with the fae whenever he wants. On the days when he hates Rome, he hates the categories too, feels like they’re restricting and choking him like an iron collar. On the days when he’s terrified that Rome will leave, he craves the order and the safety that routine brings.
He’s having a “clingy” day when Rome announces that he’s going back to Italy for a while to gather things together. Apparently Germania’s causing trouble again as well, whoever that is.
Albion does not let go of Rome’s tunic at the docks, even when the larger Nation tries to pry his hands off and get on the boat. “Britannia, let go, I need to-”
“Please don’t!” Albion cries, his Latin pronunciation still not having improved to Rome’s standards. There’s no logical reason why he’s so desperate, but there’s something cold that claws at his stomach when he thinks of being alone. “Can’t I come with you?” he makes his best pleading face, which is not hard at all considering that his big green eyes were already filling up with tears.
Rome watches that face, and then finally his resolve crumbles. “Oh, fine.” he sighs, fondly patting his little colony’s head. “You’ve got a manipulative streak a league wide, you know that?” Albion doesn’t smile, just clings close to Rome’s leg until the Empire picks him up and walks onto the boat.
----
It takes approximately 4 seconds for Gallia and Albion to start disliking each other.
“What’s wrong with your eyebrows.” The little blonde boy says to him, his perfect curls bouncing next to his perfect chin and his perfectly blue eyes sparkling in amusement. Albion hates everything about him immediately.
“They’re magical.” He snips back, holding on to the side of the cart they’re travelling to Rome’s house in as it goes over a bump. “If I frown hard enough at you I could turn you into a frog.”
Gallia makes a face. “But frogs are ugly and for eating.”
Albion makes an even more grossed out face back. “Ew, you don’t eat frogs.”
“Do so. Maman does.”
Ah, and that’s another thing Albion hates about him. In the front of the cart, with Rome, rides a woman with long blonde hair that curls just slightly, like Gallia’s. Her eyes are darker blue, but her nose is exactly like her son’s. Or is that the other way around? Either way, Gaul is beautiful and a mother and, what’s more, alive.
Why did Gallia get to have a mother when Albion didn’t?
“That’s a stupid reason.” Albion grumbles. “My brother eats sheep guts stuffed inside more sheep guts, and I don’t.”
Rather like grossing him out like Albion had hoped, this made Gallia’s eyes light up with interest. “Really? That’s really weird, can I meet him?”
Albion glares. “No. Rome hasn’t caught him.”
Gallia makes an awed noise. “Wooow, he really is cool.”
Albion kicks him off the cart.
“Don’t make me come back there, you two!” Rome calls. “I will turn this cart around!”
------
Rome’s city is possibly the biggest, smelliest, most confusing place Albion has ever been, and since he seems to have been stuck in “Clingy” mode since he left home, he loves it.
Everything is carved from white stone and sits draped with colours and banners. There are people everywhere; he’s never seen so many in one place without it being a battlefield. Sculptures and art seem to be everywhere. Both Albion and Gallia stand there with their mouths open as Rome and Gaul ascend the steps to one of the great palaces.
“Huge…” gasps Gallia, craning his neck back to see to the top.
“Yeah…” Albion agrees without thinking before catching himself. “I mean- ah, they’re going inside!”
Both little Nations run up the stairs, nearly tripping on their smart tunics that they had to wear for the occasion. The inside is almost as impressive as the outside, the front room holding a little shrine made of stone with a waterfall and a skylight. Albion can’t remember which god is meant to guard the home, but that was probably the one on the shrine.
“Ve, look brother, look! Savages!” came a voice from the left. Both blondes turn to stare at a little boy, possibly 5 years old, peeking round the corner of a doorway. Another boy appears behind him, arms folded and a grumpy set to his face. He seems a little older. Both gave off Nation vibes.
“Who’re you?” Gallia asks. The older brother sniffs.
“We’re Italy.” He sounds snooty about it. “I’m South, he’s North.”
“Hello!” the littler one greets, bounding over to them. “Wow, this is the first time I’ve met real savages before!”
Despite how endearingly idiotic the boy is, Albion frowns. “We’re not savages. Rome brought us here.”
This seems to confuse North Italy. “Ve, but you’ve got blonde hair and your Latin’s all weird.” Gallia snorts and Albion kicks him. “That’s fine though. I like you! Come on, let’s go find Grandpa!”
It is probably a good thing they had the Italies with them, because the house is a maze. Room after room, they find nothing but servants and slaves and dining rooms and meeting rooms and bedrooms. They are about to give up and go to the kitchen to get some food when all four of the children hear a familiar laugh.
“Grandpa!” North Italy cries, running towards the noise with the rest of the children following him.
South Italy is much faster, and gets to the doorway first. As soon as he does, he turns bright red and runs back the other way, stopping the rest of the children and grabbing North by the wrist.
“W-we can go see him later, he’s busy.” He mumbles, stalking off with his brother in hand, who is making confused “ve?” noises.
The two “savages” share a look, before peeking round the corner to see what made South so red faced.
Rome reclines on a mound of pillows, barely a shred of clothing on him, surrounded by no less than four beautiful women. One is dark skinned, adorned with gold and had painted her eyes to elongate past her temples, giving her a catlike appearance. Another is paler, similar to Rome’s complexion, with her hair piled into an ornate set on top of her head, studded with pearls. Gaul is there, her barbarian clothing discarded somewhere and her golden hair falling in curtains over her chest. Lastly, there is another tanned lady with dark hair and a wide smile. A flash of green eyes makes Albion’s heart leap in his chest, but he squashes it. It’s the wrong kind of green; they are more olivey than his mother’s.
“Mm, Roma.” The lady with the green eyes says with a smile.
“Yes, Iberia?”
“I think we have some voyeurs.”
All attention is drawn to the little Nations. The woman with ornate hair gains a predatory look.
“Oh, such cute little boys!”
“No you don’t, Greece, one of them is my son.” Warns Gaul playfully. The others laugh.
“Ah, but who is the other one?” asks the last, un-named woman, playing with her gold bracelet.
“Egypt, it’s unlike you to be so curious.” Greece pokes, playful.
“Well, it’s only that he has eyes like Iberia’s.” Egypt’s own eyes are yellow-brown like honey, catlike in their piercing quality.
Rome makes an interested noise. “You know, I’d never thought about it, but you’re right.” He muses. “I wonder if he would get on with your sons, my Iberia?”
“He looks too quiet, they’d walk all over him.” Iberia smiles, then hits Rome lightly on the shoulder. “And I told you not to call me that.”
“Ah, then Greece, Egypt, your sons are quiet and well behaved.” The Empire rubs his stinging ‘injury’.
“Perhaps, but can he debate properly?” Greece wonders aloud, with no malice, just a question.
Now even Gallia is scrutinising him, and Albion feels the pressure building until he suddenly bolts.
Everyone has a mother but him.
----
He’s growing.
Not Rome, Rome might be as big as he can get. Albion has lived through three more winters, and doesn’t look like a six year old any more. He’s starting to lose the baby fat around his face, his legs are getting longer and thinner, and he’s improving his Latin pronunciation, though he may never get the grammar quite right.
On the Angry days, this bothers him a lot. He didn’t grow at all when he was with his siblings, or when mother was around. On the Clingy days, he’s sure that Rome must be the cause, and so stays as close as possible to him in order to grow even more. How is he supposed to look after his people if he stays a child forever?
Rome says it’s because Nations grow faster if they’re more culturally advanced. When something new is discovered, they mature a little more into adults.
Albion is slowly forgetting what mother’s voice sounded like, but he thinks she said once that Nations age when they are getting closer to when they need to die; everyone has a time on the earth and a time to be a spirit. If a Nation grows old, it just means that time is ticking forwards and that they will die soon.
Rome looks nearly 30.
Mother couldn’t have been older than 25 in appearance.
He decides on who is right depending on what kind of day he’s having.
---
Winter in Albion’s lands is often more rainy than snowy, though tonight there is a crisp tang to the air and a clear sky that shines moonlight into the villa. He and Rome are curled up in a bed together, if only for the body warmth, when Albion snaps awake.
Somebody is in the house.
Trying to keep his breathing calm, he feels for the dagger under the bed. Clutching it tightly to himself as protection under the sheets, he waits to decipher the intruder’s intent.
A shadow enters the room. From the size, it couldn’t be more than a boy, though the dim light hides any features from him. The shadow comes closer to the bed, and Albion holds his breath when it pauses, like it’s surprised, then sends a hand to it’s side.
Metal reflects light from the moon, and Albion pounces.
It’s a good blow, straight in the gut. He twists the knife viciously, trying to cut upwards and kill, but he doesn’t have the arm strength. It’s a tangle of legs and grunts and swearing and for some reason he knows that voice and those words aren’t in Latin.
Only when he smells crisp mountain air and wood-smoke does Albion drop the knife and scramble back.
Alba yanks the blade out of his stomach, blood pouring from the wound and creating clouds of heat in the frozen air. Albion’s breath comes in sharp, quick gasps, eyes wide and hands shaking. The blood cools, and Alba rises, fully healed.
But he is angry.
“You defend him.” He growls in Gaelic. It’s like a cold splash of water to the face to hear that language again. All of the little blonde Nation’s words are stuck in his throat, and his tongue refuses to shape any language but Latin.
“Oh, now that’s interesting.” Rome sits up like he was never asleep at all. Maybe he wasn’t. “How do you heal so fast?” It’s in Latin, but Alba snarls back anyway.
“Go fuck yourself, old man.” His eyes don’t leave Albion, who staggers back until he hits the side of the bed. He still can’t breathe. Or he’s breathing too much. No, no, what has he done? Sure, Alba picked on him and they used to fight but- but this was too far. He could feel the blood on his hands, thick and running in rivets to stain his tunic.
Alba’s been growing too. He’s still taller than Albion.
“Traitor.” He hisses.
Something inside snaps, and the lock on his mouth breaks.
“Oh, that you can call me traitor!” he snaps back in vicious Gaelic, much more verbose than his Latin. “Where were you all these years, when I have been here with him? When you promised to come back and get me in ten days, it’s been ten years!” He can feel Rome watching him with interest, and wonders idly if the Empire still remembers how to understand savage languages. “I was so sure, so sure you’d come back for me, but you didn’t! You never did!”
His brother looks like he’s going to say something, but Albion cuts over him. “No! No excuses! I don’t want to hear your lies!” he snatches up the knife again, dripping crimson and points it at his brother. “Get out. I don’t need you any more.”
There’s a tense silence in which Alba stares disbelievingly at his brother. Slowly, Rome swings his legs out of bed, places a hand on Albion’s shoulder, and smiles at the red headed boy.
“How about I give you another head start, hm?” he says. Albion keeps his eyes forward and his knife aimed. “So you can go and tell all your little friends and siblings. You have one minute to start running, and ten days to tell everyone before I invade.” Alba takes a step back as Rome leans forward, propping his chin up on his hand like he was watching some sort of interesting show. “Starting now.”
Alba looks from Rome, to Albion, and back again, before his face fills with rage and he spits in the Empire’s face. “You’ve ruined him! You’ve ruined everything!” he shouts, just before he whirls on his little brother, teeth bared. “And you! You’re nothing but his slut now, aren’t you? Then fine! I hope you die.”
It’s the second time Albion’s watched that head of orange hair disappear into the darkness, and it won’t be the last.
------
It’s summer three years later when Rome captures Cymru.
His older brother has grown as well, only not fast enough. They are both matched in age now; ten years old to human eyes.
Cymru’s gaze is cold as he’s lead in shackles down the country road to the camp to be presented to Rome. Albion had only been going to get water when their eyes met. He very nearly drops the jug.
It’s suddenly an Angry day.
“No!” he shouts, running forward and hitting the guard’s legs hard enough to knock him to the ground. He smashes the ceramic on top of his head to knock him out. Cymru’s mouth hangs open as Albion whirls on him, whipping out his knife. It sobers him.
“Going to kill me?” he asks solemnly. Albion ignores it, brings his knife down on the weak point of the shackles. He’s going to ruin the blade, but he doesn’t care. Cymru’s gone back to being shocked. “What are you-”
“Run.” Albion hisses, glancing back at the camp. “Run and keep running until you reach the mountains. You know they can’t get you there.” The guard groans. The little Nation pushes his brother the other way from the camp, desperation in his eyes. “Run!”
All the Angry bits of him want to run with his brother. All the Clingy bits want to go admit to Rome what he’s done. Torn, he just stands in the road until the guard wakes up and takes him back by force.
----
From that day on, things change.
Rome seems keen, now, to let Albion know whom he belongs to. The little Nation is rarely out of Rome’s sight, so much that the Fae have begun to keep their distance, which only makes the loneliness worse and the need to cling to Rome greater. And Rome doesn’t seem to mind the clinging either. Rather, more recently he’s started to touch Albion more often; a ruffle of the hair or picking him up and carrying him for little reason.
He’s allowed at the main table now, and eats and drinks with the officers. He shines Rome’s armour until he can see his face in the breastplate and washes the Empire’s back for him in the baths, curiously tracing the countless scars and listening to Rome tell stories of amazing battles with people on the backs of giant monsters he calls elephants, or attempted assassinations that he fought off, or sometimes just of home and his grandchildren.
Sometimes in the baths Rome turns around and starts washing Albion instead, commenting that the little Nation doesn’t have many scars at all, that he’s so pale and white and clean.
Albion doesn’t think he’s clean. Not any more.
Not when he can feel the roads that criss-cross his entire body, not when he can feel his native people burning in their homes or killing the fae with iron just so they can leave behind what they are and become “Honourary Roman”.
And not when Rome starts touching him like that.
It’s not like he doesn’t understand. He’s old enough to have seen that kind of thing that adults do. At the Equinox his people used to light bonfires and dance and sing and do that with whoever they so wished until the sun rose. He hadn’t been allowed to join in. He hadn’t really wanted to.
But Rome said he was a big boy now. He had to do big boy things, even if he didn’t like them.
So, two years later, when he can still taste bitterness in his mouth and his legs and back hurt, he’s surprised that Cymru has shown up again to rescue him like he’s a little child.
From the flush on his brother’s cheeks he can tell he’s been running. He’s got red rings around his wrists and the Fae hover an uncertain distance away from him, a pixie holding her nose as she dares to fly in a little closer. Albion stares at his brother, and slowly realises that he doesn’t have Angry days anymore, just Angry hours.
“What are you doing here?!” he asks, only half aware of how dead his tone sounds. Cymru’s expression is wide eyed, pained and almost pitying.
“Alb-”
“Don’t!” a yelp, a burst of emotion, and Albion wraps his arms around himself, drawing his cloak on closer. “Don’t… don’t call me that in here. He can’t… have that too. I’m Britannia now.” Cymru makes a noise like he’s going to cry, or maybe like he’s going to kill something. “Just leave.”
“Not without you.” And there’s that determined set to his jaw that he always gets when he is absolutely not going to budge. Despite being the most patient of Albion’s siblings, he is also the most stubborn.
Albion’s about to protest somehow, but he is cut over by a voice that makes him freeze in place. “Well, what have you found here, Britannia?”
Cymru straightens his back defiantly, glaring green hate at the Empire. Inside Albion’s head, the Angry him and the Clingy him fight for who responds. As Rome draws closer, Clingy wins out.
“My brother, sir.” He replies, hands still wrapped around himself. Rome tilts his head, frowning until realisation dawns.
“Oh, the little fire-breather!” he’s beaming like the sun. Albion shifts out of his way, not wanting to be burnt. Rome strides forward and crouches down to Cymru’s height. The little savage stares calmly back. “I wonder if you could teach me how to do that? It’d certainly be impressive.”
Cymru takes a moment to consider this. “No.”
“I-I’ll teach you, sir.” Albion jumps in. Cymru gives him wide eyes as Rome looks curious. “I… I know how too, I just don’t use it.” Not around you. Rome gets up and walks back to Albion, placing a hand on his head and ruffling it.
“I told you, you can call me Rome.” He smiles, and then keeps walking. “Bring him to the tents and dress him properly. He’ll eat with us tonight.”
Cymru waits until the Empire is out of earshot. “Why did you tell him that?!” he half-shouts. “He can’t learn magic, that’s our magic! How could you give him-”
“Because if you don’t give him something, he’ll take everything!” Albion shouts back, stunning his brother into silence. They stand there a while, Albion holding back tears that have sprung from nowhere until Cymru tries to put a hand on his shoulder and he jerks away. “Don’t. Don’t touch me. You’re… I’m not… I’m dirty, brother.”
Cymru takes his hand back. “I know.”
Notes (will add links tomorrow):
- This fic starts in 62AD, after the destruction of the Iceni uprising, lead by legendary Queen Boudica.
- Iberia's character design and personality shamelessly nicked from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
candesceres because I'm a) in love with her headcanon and b) lazy.
- In 72AD, Rome completed his conquest of Wales, though resistance was much more frequent in the highlands there than in the rest of conquered Britain.
- Stockholm Syndrome - where a captive falls in love with their captor. Sometimes seen as a psychological defense attempt to adapt to new circumstances, or as a confusion of non-violence for kindness.
Chapter III
Characters: Albion, Rome, Alba, Cymru, Gallia, Gaul, Iberia, Mama!Greece and Mama!Egypt.
Rating: 18. Hard R.
Warnings: Implications of child abuse and molestation, gore, Rome pimping the shit out of Western Europe and the Mediterranean, Stockholm syndrome.
Summary: What are you meant to do if even your family can't keep a promise to save you?
There is nothing beautiful about Rome’s people.
Their hair and skin are darker than Albion’s, like they are always covered in a layer of dirt and mud. Their eyes are black or brown too, and always watch him with a cold contempt, even as he walks the streets (his streets) at the side of his supposed new guardian. Noses like the beaks of crows, ready to pick and tear at dead flesh until there is nothing left. Ready to tear at him.
Rome doesn’t see their ugliness. Maybe this is because they’re his people, who can do no wrong in his eyes. Or maybe it was because he looked like them.
The town is settled quite neatly in the middle of the Iceni territory. Or, where the Iceni had once been, before the soldiers had killed the men and taken the women and burned the villages to the ground. Albion wants to burn this imposing ‘civilisation’, grind it into the ground and dance on top of the ashes and the ground would cry out in satisfaction that the blood of Boudica had been repaid in ten fold.
But he can’t do it.
Because he’s so small, and so terribly, terribly alone.
“Britannia?” Rome called, noticing that the boy has stopped in the road and is glaring at the ground. Albion is pointedly not looking at him even when, after several failed calls, Rome comes over and crouches down to the little Nation’s height. “Are you angry with me right now?”
After a moment of sulking, Albion nods.
“Do you want to go back to the villa?”
Another pause, then a shake of the head. Rome smiles. “Alright. Are you going to keep up? I don’t want to lose you.”
Albion wishes that he would lose him, and that Rome would leave and things could go back to how they were.
Wishing wouldn’t bring mother back.
------
Before Albion knows it, three months have passed, and his siblings still haven’t come for him.
------
It’s a year now, and Rome has started separating the days into two categories. Sometimes it’s an “angry” day, and sometimes it’s a “clingy” day.
Albion’s not sure of what to think of these categories. Rome loves lists and organisation and things in neat lines, from his words to his buildings to his armies. Albion is used to being able to do things in the moment, run free and wild and dance with the fae whenever he wants. On the days when he hates Rome, he hates the categories too, feels like they’re restricting and choking him like an iron collar. On the days when he’s terrified that Rome will leave, he craves the order and the safety that routine brings.
He’s having a “clingy” day when Rome announces that he’s going back to Italy for a while to gather things together. Apparently Germania’s causing trouble again as well, whoever that is.
Albion does not let go of Rome’s tunic at the docks, even when the larger Nation tries to pry his hands off and get on the boat. “Britannia, let go, I need to-”
“Please don’t!” Albion cries, his Latin pronunciation still not having improved to Rome’s standards. There’s no logical reason why he’s so desperate, but there’s something cold that claws at his stomach when he thinks of being alone. “Can’t I come with you?” he makes his best pleading face, which is not hard at all considering that his big green eyes were already filling up with tears.
Rome watches that face, and then finally his resolve crumbles. “Oh, fine.” he sighs, fondly patting his little colony’s head. “You’ve got a manipulative streak a league wide, you know that?” Albion doesn’t smile, just clings close to Rome’s leg until the Empire picks him up and walks onto the boat.
----
It takes approximately 4 seconds for Gallia and Albion to start disliking each other.
“What’s wrong with your eyebrows.” The little blonde boy says to him, his perfect curls bouncing next to his perfect chin and his perfectly blue eyes sparkling in amusement. Albion hates everything about him immediately.
“They’re magical.” He snips back, holding on to the side of the cart they’re travelling to Rome’s house in as it goes over a bump. “If I frown hard enough at you I could turn you into a frog.”
Gallia makes a face. “But frogs are ugly and for eating.”
Albion makes an even more grossed out face back. “Ew, you don’t eat frogs.”
“Do so. Maman does.”
Ah, and that’s another thing Albion hates about him. In the front of the cart, with Rome, rides a woman with long blonde hair that curls just slightly, like Gallia’s. Her eyes are darker blue, but her nose is exactly like her son’s. Or is that the other way around? Either way, Gaul is beautiful and a mother and, what’s more, alive.
Why did Gallia get to have a mother when Albion didn’t?
“That’s a stupid reason.” Albion grumbles. “My brother eats sheep guts stuffed inside more sheep guts, and I don’t.”
Rather like grossing him out like Albion had hoped, this made Gallia’s eyes light up with interest. “Really? That’s really weird, can I meet him?”
Albion glares. “No. Rome hasn’t caught him.”
Gallia makes an awed noise. “Wooow, he really is cool.”
Albion kicks him off the cart.
“Don’t make me come back there, you two!” Rome calls. “I will turn this cart around!”
------
Rome’s city is possibly the biggest, smelliest, most confusing place Albion has ever been, and since he seems to have been stuck in “Clingy” mode since he left home, he loves it.
Everything is carved from white stone and sits draped with colours and banners. There are people everywhere; he’s never seen so many in one place without it being a battlefield. Sculptures and art seem to be everywhere. Both Albion and Gallia stand there with their mouths open as Rome and Gaul ascend the steps to one of the great palaces.
“Huge…” gasps Gallia, craning his neck back to see to the top.
“Yeah…” Albion agrees without thinking before catching himself. “I mean- ah, they’re going inside!”
Both little Nations run up the stairs, nearly tripping on their smart tunics that they had to wear for the occasion. The inside is almost as impressive as the outside, the front room holding a little shrine made of stone with a waterfall and a skylight. Albion can’t remember which god is meant to guard the home, but that was probably the one on the shrine.
“Ve, look brother, look! Savages!” came a voice from the left. Both blondes turn to stare at a little boy, possibly 5 years old, peeking round the corner of a doorway. Another boy appears behind him, arms folded and a grumpy set to his face. He seems a little older. Both gave off Nation vibes.
“Who’re you?” Gallia asks. The older brother sniffs.
“We’re Italy.” He sounds snooty about it. “I’m South, he’s North.”
“Hello!” the littler one greets, bounding over to them. “Wow, this is the first time I’ve met real savages before!”
Despite how endearingly idiotic the boy is, Albion frowns. “We’re not savages. Rome brought us here.”
This seems to confuse North Italy. “Ve, but you’ve got blonde hair and your Latin’s all weird.” Gallia snorts and Albion kicks him. “That’s fine though. I like you! Come on, let’s go find Grandpa!”
It is probably a good thing they had the Italies with them, because the house is a maze. Room after room, they find nothing but servants and slaves and dining rooms and meeting rooms and bedrooms. They are about to give up and go to the kitchen to get some food when all four of the children hear a familiar laugh.
“Grandpa!” North Italy cries, running towards the noise with the rest of the children following him.
South Italy is much faster, and gets to the doorway first. As soon as he does, he turns bright red and runs back the other way, stopping the rest of the children and grabbing North by the wrist.
“W-we can go see him later, he’s busy.” He mumbles, stalking off with his brother in hand, who is making confused “ve?” noises.
The two “savages” share a look, before peeking round the corner to see what made South so red faced.
Rome reclines on a mound of pillows, barely a shred of clothing on him, surrounded by no less than four beautiful women. One is dark skinned, adorned with gold and had painted her eyes to elongate past her temples, giving her a catlike appearance. Another is paler, similar to Rome’s complexion, with her hair piled into an ornate set on top of her head, studded with pearls. Gaul is there, her barbarian clothing discarded somewhere and her golden hair falling in curtains over her chest. Lastly, there is another tanned lady with dark hair and a wide smile. A flash of green eyes makes Albion’s heart leap in his chest, but he squashes it. It’s the wrong kind of green; they are more olivey than his mother’s.
“Mm, Roma.” The lady with the green eyes says with a smile.
“Yes, Iberia?”
“I think we have some voyeurs.”
All attention is drawn to the little Nations. The woman with ornate hair gains a predatory look.
“Oh, such cute little boys!”
“No you don’t, Greece, one of them is my son.” Warns Gaul playfully. The others laugh.
“Ah, but who is the other one?” asks the last, un-named woman, playing with her gold bracelet.
“Egypt, it’s unlike you to be so curious.” Greece pokes, playful.
“Well, it’s only that he has eyes like Iberia’s.” Egypt’s own eyes are yellow-brown like honey, catlike in their piercing quality.
Rome makes an interested noise. “You know, I’d never thought about it, but you’re right.” He muses. “I wonder if he would get on with your sons, my Iberia?”
“He looks too quiet, they’d walk all over him.” Iberia smiles, then hits Rome lightly on the shoulder. “And I told you not to call me that.”
“Ah, then Greece, Egypt, your sons are quiet and well behaved.” The Empire rubs his stinging ‘injury’.
“Perhaps, but can he debate properly?” Greece wonders aloud, with no malice, just a question.
Now even Gallia is scrutinising him, and Albion feels the pressure building until he suddenly bolts.
Everyone has a mother but him.
----
He’s growing.
Not Rome, Rome might be as big as he can get. Albion has lived through three more winters, and doesn’t look like a six year old any more. He’s starting to lose the baby fat around his face, his legs are getting longer and thinner, and he’s improving his Latin pronunciation, though he may never get the grammar quite right.
On the Angry days, this bothers him a lot. He didn’t grow at all when he was with his siblings, or when mother was around. On the Clingy days, he’s sure that Rome must be the cause, and so stays as close as possible to him in order to grow even more. How is he supposed to look after his people if he stays a child forever?
Rome says it’s because Nations grow faster if they’re more culturally advanced. When something new is discovered, they mature a little more into adults.
Albion is slowly forgetting what mother’s voice sounded like, but he thinks she said once that Nations age when they are getting closer to when they need to die; everyone has a time on the earth and a time to be a spirit. If a Nation grows old, it just means that time is ticking forwards and that they will die soon.
Rome looks nearly 30.
Mother couldn’t have been older than 25 in appearance.
He decides on who is right depending on what kind of day he’s having.
---
Winter in Albion’s lands is often more rainy than snowy, though tonight there is a crisp tang to the air and a clear sky that shines moonlight into the villa. He and Rome are curled up in a bed together, if only for the body warmth, when Albion snaps awake.
Somebody is in the house.
Trying to keep his breathing calm, he feels for the dagger under the bed. Clutching it tightly to himself as protection under the sheets, he waits to decipher the intruder’s intent.
A shadow enters the room. From the size, it couldn’t be more than a boy, though the dim light hides any features from him. The shadow comes closer to the bed, and Albion holds his breath when it pauses, like it’s surprised, then sends a hand to it’s side.
Metal reflects light from the moon, and Albion pounces.
It’s a good blow, straight in the gut. He twists the knife viciously, trying to cut upwards and kill, but he doesn’t have the arm strength. It’s a tangle of legs and grunts and swearing and for some reason he knows that voice and those words aren’t in Latin.
Only when he smells crisp mountain air and wood-smoke does Albion drop the knife and scramble back.
Alba yanks the blade out of his stomach, blood pouring from the wound and creating clouds of heat in the frozen air. Albion’s breath comes in sharp, quick gasps, eyes wide and hands shaking. The blood cools, and Alba rises, fully healed.
But he is angry.
“You defend him.” He growls in Gaelic. It’s like a cold splash of water to the face to hear that language again. All of the little blonde Nation’s words are stuck in his throat, and his tongue refuses to shape any language but Latin.
“Oh, now that’s interesting.” Rome sits up like he was never asleep at all. Maybe he wasn’t. “How do you heal so fast?” It’s in Latin, but Alba snarls back anyway.
“Go fuck yourself, old man.” His eyes don’t leave Albion, who staggers back until he hits the side of the bed. He still can’t breathe. Or he’s breathing too much. No, no, what has he done? Sure, Alba picked on him and they used to fight but- but this was too far. He could feel the blood on his hands, thick and running in rivets to stain his tunic.
Alba’s been growing too. He’s still taller than Albion.
“Traitor.” He hisses.
Something inside snaps, and the lock on his mouth breaks.
“Oh, that you can call me traitor!” he snaps back in vicious Gaelic, much more verbose than his Latin. “Where were you all these years, when I have been here with him? When you promised to come back and get me in ten days, it’s been ten years!” He can feel Rome watching him with interest, and wonders idly if the Empire still remembers how to understand savage languages. “I was so sure, so sure you’d come back for me, but you didn’t! You never did!”
His brother looks like he’s going to say something, but Albion cuts over him. “No! No excuses! I don’t want to hear your lies!” he snatches up the knife again, dripping crimson and points it at his brother. “Get out. I don’t need you any more.”
There’s a tense silence in which Alba stares disbelievingly at his brother. Slowly, Rome swings his legs out of bed, places a hand on Albion’s shoulder, and smiles at the red headed boy.
“How about I give you another head start, hm?” he says. Albion keeps his eyes forward and his knife aimed. “So you can go and tell all your little friends and siblings. You have one minute to start running, and ten days to tell everyone before I invade.” Alba takes a step back as Rome leans forward, propping his chin up on his hand like he was watching some sort of interesting show. “Starting now.”
Alba looks from Rome, to Albion, and back again, before his face fills with rage and he spits in the Empire’s face. “You’ve ruined him! You’ve ruined everything!” he shouts, just before he whirls on his little brother, teeth bared. “And you! You’re nothing but his slut now, aren’t you? Then fine! I hope you die.”
It’s the second time Albion’s watched that head of orange hair disappear into the darkness, and it won’t be the last.
------
It’s summer three years later when Rome captures Cymru.
His older brother has grown as well, only not fast enough. They are both matched in age now; ten years old to human eyes.
Cymru’s gaze is cold as he’s lead in shackles down the country road to the camp to be presented to Rome. Albion had only been going to get water when their eyes met. He very nearly drops the jug.
It’s suddenly an Angry day.
“No!” he shouts, running forward and hitting the guard’s legs hard enough to knock him to the ground. He smashes the ceramic on top of his head to knock him out. Cymru’s mouth hangs open as Albion whirls on him, whipping out his knife. It sobers him.
“Going to kill me?” he asks solemnly. Albion ignores it, brings his knife down on the weak point of the shackles. He’s going to ruin the blade, but he doesn’t care. Cymru’s gone back to being shocked. “What are you-”
“Run.” Albion hisses, glancing back at the camp. “Run and keep running until you reach the mountains. You know they can’t get you there.” The guard groans. The little Nation pushes his brother the other way from the camp, desperation in his eyes. “Run!”
All the Angry bits of him want to run with his brother. All the Clingy bits want to go admit to Rome what he’s done. Torn, he just stands in the road until the guard wakes up and takes him back by force.
----
From that day on, things change.
Rome seems keen, now, to let Albion know whom he belongs to. The little Nation is rarely out of Rome’s sight, so much that the Fae have begun to keep their distance, which only makes the loneliness worse and the need to cling to Rome greater. And Rome doesn’t seem to mind the clinging either. Rather, more recently he’s started to touch Albion more often; a ruffle of the hair or picking him up and carrying him for little reason.
He’s allowed at the main table now, and eats and drinks with the officers. He shines Rome’s armour until he can see his face in the breastplate and washes the Empire’s back for him in the baths, curiously tracing the countless scars and listening to Rome tell stories of amazing battles with people on the backs of giant monsters he calls elephants, or attempted assassinations that he fought off, or sometimes just of home and his grandchildren.
Sometimes in the baths Rome turns around and starts washing Albion instead, commenting that the little Nation doesn’t have many scars at all, that he’s so pale and white and clean.
Albion doesn’t think he’s clean. Not any more.
Not when he can feel the roads that criss-cross his entire body, not when he can feel his native people burning in their homes or killing the fae with iron just so they can leave behind what they are and become “Honourary Roman”.
And not when Rome starts touching him like that.
It’s not like he doesn’t understand. He’s old enough to have seen that kind of thing that adults do. At the Equinox his people used to light bonfires and dance and sing and do that with whoever they so wished until the sun rose. He hadn’t been allowed to join in. He hadn’t really wanted to.
But Rome said he was a big boy now. He had to do big boy things, even if he didn’t like them.
So, two years later, when he can still taste bitterness in his mouth and his legs and back hurt, he’s surprised that Cymru has shown up again to rescue him like he’s a little child.
From the flush on his brother’s cheeks he can tell he’s been running. He’s got red rings around his wrists and the Fae hover an uncertain distance away from him, a pixie holding her nose as she dares to fly in a little closer. Albion stares at his brother, and slowly realises that he doesn’t have Angry days anymore, just Angry hours.
“What are you doing here?!” he asks, only half aware of how dead his tone sounds. Cymru’s expression is wide eyed, pained and almost pitying.
“Alb-”
“Don’t!” a yelp, a burst of emotion, and Albion wraps his arms around himself, drawing his cloak on closer. “Don’t… don’t call me that in here. He can’t… have that too. I’m Britannia now.” Cymru makes a noise like he’s going to cry, or maybe like he’s going to kill something. “Just leave.”
“Not without you.” And there’s that determined set to his jaw that he always gets when he is absolutely not going to budge. Despite being the most patient of Albion’s siblings, he is also the most stubborn.
Albion’s about to protest somehow, but he is cut over by a voice that makes him freeze in place. “Well, what have you found here, Britannia?”
Cymru straightens his back defiantly, glaring green hate at the Empire. Inside Albion’s head, the Angry him and the Clingy him fight for who responds. As Rome draws closer, Clingy wins out.
“My brother, sir.” He replies, hands still wrapped around himself. Rome tilts his head, frowning until realisation dawns.
“Oh, the little fire-breather!” he’s beaming like the sun. Albion shifts out of his way, not wanting to be burnt. Rome strides forward and crouches down to Cymru’s height. The little savage stares calmly back. “I wonder if you could teach me how to do that? It’d certainly be impressive.”
Cymru takes a moment to consider this. “No.”
“I-I’ll teach you, sir.” Albion jumps in. Cymru gives him wide eyes as Rome looks curious. “I… I know how too, I just don’t use it.” Not around you. Rome gets up and walks back to Albion, placing a hand on his head and ruffling it.
“I told you, you can call me Rome.” He smiles, and then keeps walking. “Bring him to the tents and dress him properly. He’ll eat with us tonight.”
Cymru waits until the Empire is out of earshot. “Why did you tell him that?!” he half-shouts. “He can’t learn magic, that’s our magic! How could you give him-”
“Because if you don’t give him something, he’ll take everything!” Albion shouts back, stunning his brother into silence. They stand there a while, Albion holding back tears that have sprung from nowhere until Cymru tries to put a hand on his shoulder and he jerks away. “Don’t. Don’t touch me. You’re… I’m not… I’m dirty, brother.”
Cymru takes his hand back. “I know.”
Notes (will add links tomorrow):
- This fic starts in 62AD, after the destruction of the Iceni uprising, lead by legendary Queen Boudica.
- Iberia's character design and personality shamelessly nicked from
candesceres because I'm a) in love with her headcanon and b) lazy.- In 72AD, Rome completed his conquest of Wales, though resistance was much more frequent in the highlands there than in the rest of conquered Britain.
- Stockholm Syndrome - where a captive falls in love with their captor. Sometimes seen as a psychological defense attempt to adapt to new circumstances, or as a confusion of non-violence for kindness.
Chapter III
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no subject
Date: 2010-03-28 12:52 pm (UTC)I blame you for making me ship FraScot btw. Blaaaaaaaaaame. It was just going to be casual-ness but then you did that art and my brain went BOOM MUST SHIP IT.
orz wooooork I don't wanna go. There are so many pairings I wanna write now though idk if I'll do Port justice or what ;o;
Admit it. Go on. It'll be good for you. Then we can burn in hell together. 8D
*UH I'M ACTUALLY ALREADY WORKING ON A FIC LIKE THAT STOP READING MY MIND
I second this motion, Iggy has a pretty crying face.*no subject
Date: 2010-03-28 01:11 pm (UTC)ffff I'm ready and willing to take full responsibility of that. I'M NOT SORRY. <3 They're so perfect and aaaaaah it's history so let us all band together and ship it! AULD ALLIANCE FTW. \o/
bawwww I know the feeling sob. bawww don't worry, I'm never sure if I'll do him justice either, and that's on a good day. ;3;
But then I remember how much he's deredere over England and it INSPIRES me /shotNEVER, I'D RATHER - well, which level of hell precisely? B|a
*I'M PSYCHIC WHAT CAN I SAY, PLUS THAT KIND OF FIC IS A GIVEN WITH AUSTRIA
T-This is true. He's so beautiful when he wibbles and bawwws and sob, I'm a horrible person FFFF.*