The brothers of Great Britain weren’t...exactly what could be considered “close”. At first, it had been just Alba, Eire, and Cymry. Then, amid distressing news of hordes of Angles and Saxons, the faeries had brought England: then just a babe in swaddling clothes. Alba had proposed they expose the babe to die: otherwise, the invading Germanics would win, he reasoned, but Cymry had a weakness for children, and little England’s baby-curls had been soft and springy like sheep’s wool.
So the babe grew up, and Germania took their land (mostly Cymry’s) and took their brother and even after Germania was gone, they attacked young little England seeking reparation for Germania’s crimes. The rest was history. And now Arthur, the youngest of them, had come a long way since he was just a baby of a Nation and his brothers hated him because he was founded on land that had been stolen from them.
He had earned their grudging respect by uniting them under his crown, and in exchange he had given them the autonomy to still be unique countries: all together, they were the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (Northern Ireland was actually just land: Eire, poor bloke, was always just torn apart by all of the in-fighting). They were more brothers, now, than enemies. And, like all brothers, they had their moments.
One of those “moments” happened to be their youngest brother screaming his head off about France (nothing unusual) in tones varying from profound aggression (again, nothing off) to something that sounded like utterly abject suffering (now there was something strange). It eventually got bad enough that Wyn decided he’d better go see what France had done this time.
Apparently, he mused, when he saw his eldest brother Rory studying the open windows and doors of their brother’s house, their little England was pitching up enough of a caterwaul to reach Scotland as well.
“Oi!” Wyn greeted. Rory turned. “What’re you doing here?”
“Oh fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Shit!” Their brother’s swearing trailed off in an almost defeated-sounding groan. Wyn wordlessly pointed to Arthur’s window in a silent question. Rory nodded.
“The wee Sassenach’s gone daffie,” he growled. “And leaving his door standing wide?” He was afraid to admit that he might be a bit worried for his brother. Wyn stepped inside the house, listening to see if there was anyone there. Rory followed. They went up the stairs to their brother’s bedroom.
“Art?” Wyn called. Nothing could have prepared them for the sight of their brother, though. Arthur was sprawled out on his bed, comforter soaked through with something that smelled like saltwater and blood, chest heaving and making the enormous swell of his very obviously pregnant stomach rise and fall. The air smelled faintly of sex, too. And roses, a little, like a few-hours-old spritz of perfume in the air. The brothers stopped dead in their tracks. Arthur noticed them, and a flash of mortification, relief, and irritation crossed his wearied expression. They stared. He stared. No one said a word.
“Ach, that’ll about do it fer me,” Rory remarked, after a long stretch of silence, turning to walk right back out.
Long Due [5/?]
So the babe grew up, and Germania took their land (mostly Cymry’s) and took their brother and even after Germania was gone, they attacked young little England seeking reparation for Germania’s crimes. The rest was history. And now Arthur, the youngest of them, had come a long way since he was just a baby of a Nation and his brothers hated him because he was founded on land that had been stolen from them.
He had earned their grudging respect by uniting them under his crown, and in exchange he had given them the autonomy to still be unique countries: all together, they were the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (Northern Ireland was actually just land: Eire, poor bloke, was always just torn apart by all of the in-fighting). They were more brothers, now, than enemies. And, like all brothers, they had their moments.
One of those “moments” happened to be their youngest brother screaming his head off about France (nothing unusual) in tones varying from profound aggression (again, nothing off) to something that sounded like utterly abject suffering (now there was something strange). It eventually got bad enough that Wyn decided he’d better go see what France had done this time.
Apparently, he mused, when he saw his eldest brother Rory studying the open windows and doors of their brother’s house, their little England was pitching up enough of a caterwaul to reach Scotland as well.
“Oi!” Wyn greeted. Rory turned. “What’re you doing here?”
“Oh fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Shit!” Their brother’s swearing trailed off in an almost defeated-sounding groan. Wyn wordlessly pointed to Arthur’s window in a silent question. Rory nodded.
“The wee Sassenach’s gone daffie,” he growled. “And leaving his door standing wide?” He was afraid to admit that he might be a bit worried for his brother. Wyn stepped inside the house, listening to see if there was anyone there. Rory followed. They went up the stairs to their brother’s bedroom.
“Art?” Wyn called. Nothing could have prepared them for the sight of their brother, though. Arthur was sprawled out on his bed, comforter soaked through with something that smelled like saltwater and blood, chest heaving and making the enormous swell of his very obviously pregnant stomach rise and fall. The air smelled faintly of sex, too. And roses, a little, like a few-hours-old spritz of perfume in the air. The brothers stopped dead in their tracks. Arthur noticed them, and a flash of mortification, relief, and irritation crossed his wearied expression. They stared. He stared. No one said a word.
“Ach, that’ll about do it fer me,” Rory remarked, after a long stretch of silence, turning to walk right back out.