Top Posts Tagged with #ballad writes

A Brief Respite

Seagulls wheeled ahead, their noisy cries filling the air as the three padded their way down a narrow path; It wound through tumbling gorse and over tufts of heath, some vestige of footsteps trodden over centuries upon centuries.

England paused briefly to regard the white cliffs, now reduced to a bright trail along the horizon before they tumbled into the North Sea; For many years, England had stood here and felt anxiety claw at his rib-cage. For many years, this was the wall between him and danger - perhaps it still was, England worrying his lip with his teeth as Scotland sauntered past him with a loud groan (A sword to the back; Splintering vertebrae as his brother collapsed at England’s feet. Northumbria would remain his for now). With the Sun shining on his face however, and a quickly melting ice-cream in his hand, England sank onto the bench alongside his siblings. He readily leaned back, overcome with the realisation that he was with them for the first time in…days, weeks, months? Perhaps it was years, and nothing had brought the three together; Aside from their own desires, pulling them together no matter how far apart they’d become. England almost wanted to ask Scotland and Wales what had brought them here. But, he dared not disturb their peace - England sighed with the satisfaction of their presence, of their shadows stretching over the dusty path together. Swinging one leg over the other, he leaned back against the bench’s headrest; A lonely ice-cream van had been their respite, and England was glad for it. ‘’...This is nice, eh?’’ He mumbled to no-one in particular, watching the sea quietly. ‘’Mhm.’’ Scotland hummed lightly, prodding his ice-cream with a spoon. He knew his brother was proud of his countryside; Of the South Downs and the Lake District, England could get very sentimental about it - and although Scotland was liable to wax poetic about his own countryside, he also knew that his ice cream was rapidly melting in the summer heat. ‘’Aye, it is.’’ Scotland drew in a deep breath (salt lined his lungs; bringing forth some tangle of memories, half-drowned and half-forgotten). He took a spoonful of his ice-cream, casting a ponderous glance towards England’s half-licked ice-cream before it flickered towards Wales’ portion (mint choc-chip, or as Scotland had teased on their way down towards the cliffs; Toothpaste flavour, to which Wales rebuked whether Scotland had ever brushed his teeth - an argument, that for a change, was mostly just silly claims over each other’s dental hygiene). ‘’Say England, do ye ken what that bird is there?’’ A black figure stood on the cliffs, stark against the pale chalk. ‘’I told you about it once.’’

#hws england #hws scotland #hws wales #ballad writes #brit bros #aph england #aph scotland #aph wales

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Beowulf

One of the earliest mentions of Sweden in old English literature comes in the form of the epic poem of Beowulf

It was an old story, but England remembered every word (brimming with valour and courage, the mead-hall just as alive in his memory as it had been hundreds of years ago). ‘’You know, I used to think you were really cool.’’ He murmured softly, as they walked through the woods - the walk had been insisted upon, Sweden resolute as he shouldered his coat and strode through the doors; It was an early morning, with the birds still rousing - and ordinarily, England would have just have scoffed at the notion of an early hike before skulking back to his bedroom. Yet, when Sweden’s eyes caught his across the floor of the lobby, England found himself inexplicably drawn towards - and then out the door with Sweden, despite the sleepiness in his limbs.

(Sweden had told him not to smoke, and although pride implored that he didn’t need anyone to mother him, England felt a little warmer for the other’s blunt kindness; And he stamped his cigarette out beneath his boot with a half-hearted grumble about how the other worried too often). Half-listening, Sweden arched an eyebrow ponderously. ‘’You used to find me cool?’’ He replied with a soft grunt as he strode over a mossy log; He turned on his heel to stare England down, a rare smile (as fleeting as the flash of scales, beneath the briny sea). ‘’I don’t think that’s how you make friends, England.’’ He retorted softly, as they ambled beneath the dawn-painted trees. ‘’...Is there something that you wanted to talk about?’’ Something thorny bristled inside him, itching beneath his skin as Sweden’s jaw tensed (He hadn’t noticed anything wrong between himself and England - and yet, he knew England could be frustratingly evasive at the best of times).

‘’You know Beowulf?’’ Sweden frowned, brows knitting together in bemusement. ‘’It’s an old story, what about it?’’ (England clung to the fuzzy gorse of the hill, trembling like a hunted rabbit; They had come at dawn when the skies were still vermillion. The village burned on the horizon, an ugly plume of smoke marking the spot; A scar on the Earth, a wound upon England’s pride as he pursed his lips in a seething anger. Two figures walked steadily along the dirt track at the hill’s foot, and he watched them in a stony silence. Only the night before, England had been in one of the houses as one of the older men recounted the tale of a Geatish hero who had defeated three monsters.

Sweden slowly walked up the hill, breath heavy as he strode through swaying throngs of plantain and grass. Sweat clung to his brow - and Sweden longed to kneel, to catch his breath while Denmark and Norway were still occupied; As he crested the hill, Sweden caught sight of a shape lying prone in the grass, hands clasped tightly together. It was a boy, praying in the grass with a face scrunched in fitful concentration - and no doubt one of the villagers, judging by his clothes.

He was wondering what to do, hand drifting to his axe - when the boy’s eyes snapped open.

‘’Beowulf.’’ Breathed England - quickly staggering to his feet. ‘’Y-you’re Beowulf. The brooches.’’

Perplexed, Sweden could only nod. ‘’Uh-...Geatish.’’ He mumbled. ‘’They’re from the Geats.’’ The confirmation of the Geats was enough for England, who rose to his feet (knees stained with grass and buttercup; Sweden almost wanted to brush his hose clean). Blood pounded in his ears as he stared up at the taller man, awe leaving him transfixed; Leaving England harrowed, a tremor in his limbs as he grasped Sweden’s sleeve. ‘’Beowulf-’’ He pointed towards the figures at the base of the hill, heart heavy - tongue heavier - as he stared in anguish. ‘’-Rip his arm off, like you did with Grendel.’’ The command was easy to give, England’s voice trembling with hope. ‘’D-denmark?’’ Sweden echoed, raising an eyebrow. ‘’You want me to-’’ He shook his head, frowning solemnly as England turned his face towards him; This was no boy, Sweden could tell. ‘’-Kill him.’’

A lump rose in Sweden’s throat, as England’s eyes began to well-up; At the base of the hill, Denmark had frozen and turned to peer towards the crest, and Sweden knew what he would do. He might have done the same, had England not spotted him. ‘’Run. Lay low, let…let Beowulf deal with this.’’ Sweden cleared his throat solemnly, guiding the boy towards a small deer-track that ran down the other face of the hill. ‘’I’ll take care of…of Grendel for you.’’ Sweden knew that he would do no such thing - At most, he could buy England a few days of freedom; He could offer him one more chance, it didn’t feel right to strike the boy down when he looked at him like that.)

‘’You were Beowulf to me, once.’’ England scoffed, cheeks flushed. ‘’It was-’’ He trailed off, shoving his hand in his pocket as sheepishness lapped at the pit of his belly; Childhood fantasies, made to cope with the realisation that his existence was going to be a long and painful one. Denmark’s bossing around tempered by the notion that somewhere, out-there was a hero who would save him in the end; Once he’d realised those were just tales, England had sought out to become stronger. Less dependent, although he never quite shook that sentimentality. Sweden smiled gently, snorting with amusement as he nodded in understanding. ‘’It was silly.’’ It was just a story; All of it was just a story, the kind that Sweden would read to his own children at bedtime. ‘’So-’’ He cleared his throat, frowning quizzically. ‘’-What’s made you bring it up now?’’ In the grand-scheme of things, the tale of Beowulf was a small thing - a manuscript with no name, no author; England had many more tales like Beowulf, as did Sweden. But then, he knew England could be vastly more sentimental about these things than he was - and he wondered what his friend saw in the tale, that would bring him to remind Sweden about the tale of the hero. ‘’I dunno.’’ Ah, of course.

Sweden shoved down his irritation at the vague response, sighing. There had to be a reason that England might bring it up; Some attempt at digging beneath his skin, an irritation that had come to a head and this was his way of hinting that Sweden had fallen short in some way? Discomfort lodged itself in his throat, Sweden rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as they ambled beneath the trees. The pause felt suffocating. He was a man at sea - and he felt horribly inept about the situation, frowning as he cast his gaze skyward (ducking away from catching England’s eyes, Sweden clung to the sanctuary of the branches; Admiring the way the sun slowly filtered through the leaves). ‘’Is that it?’’ He scoffed, unable to help rolling his eyes. ‘’Sure?’’ ‘’Ah-’’ England huffed quietly, recognition flickering in his eyes. ‘’-Don’t take it personally, Sweden. I used to think you were Beowulf.’’ It was an old story, and sheepishness lapped in the pit of his belly (he’d whispered it to himself as he’d watched Sweden walk away - and ran off, certain that his new friend would fix all of his problems for him). ‘’And well, I eventually learned you weren’t.’’ ‘’When was that?’’ England sighed, watching the thoughts racing behind Sweden’s eyes (a storm - rolling over the mountain peaks - quiet, yet thunderous all the same; A less familiar man might have walked away, but he had seen this sort of ruminating air about Sweden all the time). ‘’Hey-’’ He smiled, a cheerful burr in every syllable. ‘’-I like Sweden.’’ Sure, his friend was no dragon-slayer of yore; Yet England still felt compelled to walk by his side as a friend (just as Wiglaf, perhaps, had padded after Beowulf into that final lair; His most faithful ally, a comparison - England felt, with a pang of guilt deep in his bones - that might be far too grand for the likes of him). ‘’Who could resist you?’’

‘’You just like me because I bring pastries.’’ Quipped Sweden, with a smile like sunlight breaking through the grey clouds. Slowly, the pair were beginning to loop back around to the hotel. ‘’Hm?’’ England scoffed with amusement. ‘’Not true-’’ He rolled his eyes. ‘’-You’re thoughtful.’’ ‘’Thoughtful?’’ ‘’Did you know that nobody knows who wrote Beowulf?’’ England murmured. ‘’Or when?’’ Sweden crossed his arms, and frowned ponderously;

‘’Tell me more about Beowulf.’’ England smiled, and obliged gladly.

(Sweden inspired by + belongs to @nordickies, thanks for letting me borrow him :D)

#hws england #hws sweden #ballad writes

Frater Meus

Stirling Bridge

Stirling, in the words of Stuart Reid, was "traditionally regarded as the key to Scotland."

‘’He’s offering you a choice.’’ Scotland stared his brother down, eyes narrowing as England approached (palms raised to the sky, like a preacher offering forgiveness - except Scotland wasn’t sure what he was meant to be forgiven for). ‘’Between rolling over like a dog, or telling your king to sod off?’’ He squeezed the hilt of his sword tightly, knuckles white. ‘’No. William already gave you his answer, England. Go.’’ Scotland breathed out, his face shifting somewhere between stone and fire - frustration coiling in the darks of his eyes as England stepped closer. ‘’You’re not going to change my mind, England. Either run with your tail between your legs, or fight me.’’

Scotland swatted England’s hand away sharply. ‘’You didn’t seem to have any reservations fighting me last time.’’ It wasn’t hard for Scotland to stare England down, to meet his brother’s furious gaze (England looked away first, casting a seething look at his feet). ‘’I said no, England.’’ He felt his jaw tense, teeth grinding into one another as he watched his brother. A heavy silence hung over their heads, leaden across Scotland’s shoulders and for a moment, the world slowed on its axis. ‘’...Are you listening to me?’’ He growled softly, staring. ‘’Oh, I heard you.’’ England snarled, wheeling around on his heels as he turned pointedly to leave - skulking off towards the English camp, south of the river (flowing thickly and slowly through the mud, dark and murderous). ‘’You’re only throwing a couple hundred lives away, mhmm?’’ His eyes flashed as he turned around to hurtle his brother one last glare (full of loathing, dark and coarse like a shaggy dog); England would rip each one away, with each personal intent as he stared Scotland down. If that was what it took to teach his brother a lesson, then so be it. ‘’I don’t particularly want to, but if that’s what it takes to teach you that-’’ ‘’That you’ll be a good brother? That you’ll magically protect me and Wales? Protect Ireland?’’ Scotland scoffed, crossing his arms as he bit back the urge to laugh. His brother was out of his mind, and Scotland didn’t know what there was to say anymore; All he wanted was for England to leave him alone. ‘’You’re talking out of your arse, the only danger here is you.’’ All he wanted, in this exact moment, was for England to hurt, and to hurt badly. Scotland loomed over England (the mountain-peaks rising high above the lows of the valleys, disseminating judgement with just a cool, stony-faced stare), shaking his head gravely. ‘’Sometimes I think I should’ve just left you in the river, you know?’’

‘’Don’t run-!’’ His brother shouted, grabbing at fleeting men; Scotland swore that he heard desperation in his sibling’s voice. ‘’-Don’t run!’’ England spoke of heady promises of honour and nobility, but all Scotland saw was the blood in the water, polluting his waters. All he saw was England stumbling in the mud, hands soiled and stained; A drowning dog, to be put out of its misery by Scotland’s blessed hand. ‘’...Scotland.’’ His brother’s voice was small, and Scotland leered at him as England hesitated (He was not worried about chasing his brother down; He knew him well - and he was far too stubborn to ever run away). ‘’Scotland. You m-’’ Scotland didn’t give him time to finish his sentence, grabbing England as his brother stumbled in the muddy waters (they grasped at his sibling; Sucking at his legs as though wanting to claim him for themselves - the very land wanted to devour England, and the thought made Scotland grin madly for a brief second). ‘’-You bastard.’’ He didn’t have his brother’s tongue - that penchant for manipulation, whatever hysteria that England thought up. And so, Scotland opted for the simplest way to make his point known; He slammed his brother against the wet grass, grunting as they rolled on the slippery riverbank (the deer had the wolf down - antler against teeth, hoof against ribs). Hand around his brother’s throat, feeling the pulse of England’s heartbeat, Scotland grabbed his brother’s sword; Hilt still warm with blood and sweat, (still warm like his brother’s hand in his when they were both only little). England shrieked as Scotland rose up - and slammed the point of his sword down his throat, jerking a foot in Scotland’s gut as he did so. Scotland grunted at the impact, trembling (fury, pain, exhaustion?) as he bore down the blade into England’s throat, listening to his brother’s voice drown in his own blood. ‘’You bastard-you bastard!’’ Spat Scotland, voice thundering in his own ears. God had blessed him at this moment, England’s hands flying up to his face in desperate swipes (nails biting against his skin, chain-mail scraping his cheeks raw). ‘’You think-!’’ He laughed hollowly, a hoarse sound as Scotland bent over England - head lowered, his brother’s last rites a joke upon his tongue. ‘’-You think God loves you!? He chose me, H-!’’ A harsh cough interrupted Scotland’s words, a scraping wheeze that set goosebumps along Scotland’s arms. England’s face was pale and his lips were blue, blood carving along his throat - spooling along the wet grass; New flowers would soon bud and bloom, and Scotland would regard them with great appreciation. ‘’He chose me. He chose me.’’ Madness lit a fire in his eyes - and Scotland grasped England’s throat, pad of his thumb close to his heartbeat. Slowly, it waned to nothing - and Scotland felt a sense of triumph rise in the gorge of his throat (dizzying, like lightning struck through the sky). His dagger pulled out of his sheath, and pressed close to England’s pale skin; God demanded something, a price to be paid for his luck - for England’s shortsightedness, the river burbled hungrily at its banks and Scotland would not be deaf to its demands. ‘’Thank God-’’ Some rational part of his mind knew better than to cast his victories beneath some distant banner - his men had bled and died for him, and Scotland’s own sword had been a truer friend to him than any Messiah. ‘’-Thank God you’re dead.’’ A cut was made - and then a slice, skin peeling from sinew and muscle, pulled. He slowly rose to his feet, something black sitting heavy in his chest, England’s skin in hand.

#hws england #hws scotland #ballad writes

Weekly Rituals

After Scotland is swept out to sea, England is taken by some kindly villagers to the sea every week; It is equal parts to grieve, as much as it is to ensure that he does not fear the sea.

‘’It’ll be okay, lad.’’ Sighed the sea, as it lapped patiently against the boat, in his brother’s voice.

The sky was drawn across the horizon like a woollen shawl, and the wind ran icy-fingers through his hair. The wood creaked beneath the white of his knuckles - England’s eyes drawn and as miserable as oysters; watery, grey and dire. The miserable soul huddled at the end of the boat simply looking wretchedly towards the waning land - as they were both slowly swallowed up by the sea and sky (two halves of a jaw closing around them). Gulls wheeled overhead, lazy and lofty as they skimmed the bobbing waves with raucous cries, England propping his chin in the palm of his hand as they continued to sail through this world of blue, grey and white. A net strewn out from the side of the boat, lazily gathering reams of silvery fish that moved in sinuous, almost-hypnotising motion; The rivers had been dwindling lately, and England’s taste of fish was beginning to become increasingly confined to midday daydreams of carp and trout. ‘’Ælfric…’’ He whined plaintively, swaying from side-to-side as the boat rocked in the sea’s drifting motion, salt clinging to his cheeks. ‘’...I want to…I need to go back. Please.’’ They had been hunting for oysters and mussels and whelks, for samphire. And now…

The fisherman looked on solemnly, as the cliffs slipped further and further away. ‘’It’ll be okay. Just…’’ He sucked in a draw of air between his crooked teeth, as his passenger whined from the bow, a weariness set deep into the furrows of his face. ‘’...Just keep looking at the sea, Edmund.’’ It had only been a few weeks since the boy’s brother had been lost, swallowed in the night by pitch-dark waters. They weren’t farmers, not since the fields had been burned. ‘’Isn’t it beautiful, lad? Keep looking, it’s important.’’ A pale-white sun pierced the clouds, lifting the early morning drizzle from the surface of the waters, revealing a mosaic of greens and blues. ‘’Keep-’’

England squeezed his eyes shut, trembling. ‘’Take me back, Ælfric’’ Puffs of sea-spray tousled his hair, and the boat slowly took on a more brotherly motion (perched on Scotland’s shoulders, as they walked by the river - swaying lightly from side to side, the sunlight golden on their cheeks). ‘’Please.’’ England clenched his fists, nails digging into the soft palms of his hands, as the sea continued to roll the boat gently from side to side (his brother - walking again, telling him about the lines upon lines of neatly arranged soldiers he had faced down; Silver swords and brassy confidence) Most likely a story, some fib Scotland had told him to make him seem cooler - but, England missed those right now, with a stone-heavy ache in his ribs. ‘’I need to go back-!’’

An unexpected sob caught England in the chest, like knuckles meeting his heart.

‘’You can’t hide away from the sea forever-’’ Ælfric began with a grave frown, the keel of the boat cutting through the waves like a knife through butter, a silvery trail unspooling from behind them both. ‘’-Come on, Edmund.’’ The fisherman tutted, watching the young boy’s face shift from weariness to a bitter frustration as the sea sighed around them. ‘’It’s always going to be a part of your life, you’ve got to be able to face it.’’ Salt clung to peppery hair as the fisherman adjusted the rudder, turning the boat in a slow, lazy arc towards the pale, northern sun as it drifted by. ‘’Edm-’’

England’s eyes flashed like a burning field, embers sparking in the green of his iris. ‘’I’m not hiding.’’ He hissed sharply, teeth bared in a snarl. His sister had told him, clutching the back of his shirt as she squeezed him tight, that they weren’t like other people. England had asked her what she had meant, but the woman had simply gone very quiet (a dragon, retreating to its lonely cave with a hiss of red scales). He hoped that it was something good - something that would keep the breath in his brother’s lungs a little longer. ‘’I need to find him!’’ He spat, nose wrinkled with fury.

The fisherman regarded him with sad, grey eyes. ‘’He’s not there anymore, lad. He’s dead.’’ The sea burbled in agreement, dark swirls of malevolent green and white sending the boat drifting across the choppy waves. ‘’He’s dead.’’ The man repeated once more, frustrated strain making his words creak like age-old wood. ‘’Stop shouting at me. You’ll rock the boat.’’ Ælfric drew in a weary, impatient breath as Edmund’s expression contorted into anguish, then into anger. ‘’Calm down.’’ A strain crept into his voice, impatient (a sudden swell of wind that pulled the air from beneath a bird’s wings; England froze, transfixed and trembling with ire). ‘’Sit down. Calm down.’’ Look at the sea.

#hws england #hws scotland #ballad writes

Rocky Roads

Context: Set during WW1, a very old GerEng fic that I started long before I even had this blog or was part of the Hetalia fandom. It's a very old piece of writing that I had no intention of finishing so I've pruned it from 11 pages to 5 pages into something approaching okay. I do think England is a bit OOC for how I usually write him these days, but otherwise I think it's okay. I mostly just want it out of my drafts.

Nobody had ever said it was easy to keep friends, Germany mused ruefully - and when one's life was fettered with the troubles of treaties and politics, it was twice as hard. Squinting across the rubble of Niemandsland, Germany fought back the rise of bile in the back of his throat, and doubled down. The days of the Hanseatic League were long-gone, the days of him and others (Not kin, but others like him, the dozens of German states as they were known, but not kin) walking side by side with the likes of England and Scotland. The days where he’d once, briefly, thought England the sun - blinding and great, as precious and gold as coin. In turn, England had valued him too, but nothing good belonged to the likes of them. He knew better these days, of course. But Germany would not ignore that once he loved England and England had loved him back. It was not just the gold, he told himself quietly, fist bunching around his bayonet. Smoke trailed wrathfully across the upturned earth, tangles of wire, men and horse obscuring his vision. Throat tightening, Germany (and his thousand states, all part of him now, the ones that didn’t make it) stood up slowly and narrowed his eyes. It had been four months since the start of the war, and there was a lull that set every nerve in his body on fire. The Napoleonic Wars weren’t this dull. Germany mused to himself, at least France knew how to put on a show. Enough of a show that it England on the hunt for allies, gold coin exchanged palm over palm - staring knowingly at him, the same infuriating smirk on his face as ever. Not much convincing was needed, England had teased as he did Germany’s shirt up for him. He’d responded it was out of a mutual dislike, a frustration with France more than anything - but England was oddly perceptive, for a brute - or perhaps I’m just that obvious? (‘’Why so dour?’’ The German Empire looked up with a jolt, a sheepish flush across cheeks that otherwise remained as if stone. England did not look away, and Germany found himself trapped in his stare. If things were simpler, perhaps Germany could’ve found a better answer, could’ve taken hold of England’s hand and kissed them sweetly. As it stood, nothing was ever simple for them and the Empire let out a wearisome snort, as if England did not know. ‘’The Naval race, everything. You know the answer, you’ve still got eyes, you know…’’

#hws england #hws germany #gereng #ballad writes

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Old Memories

It was a shock of a blue sky, and the wind carried the promise of a sharp frost and sharper winds. With it, England knew that a cold winter was coming soon and cold winters brought famine, a familiar ache in the pit of his belly even though it had not known hunger in a terribly long time. ‘’Chilly, isn’t it?’’ He spoke in a plaintive voice, mundanity pricking the corners of his mouth into a smile that it just about remembered how to do. Scarf drawn tight, England glanced sheepishly at Wales (muttering something about remembering to pack a hat next time they went up to Scotland’s place - and gloves too), his cheeks flush with embarrassment. ‘’Don’t you ever get tired of it, Scotty?’’ Heavens knew that England would - he practically lived beside his radiator these days, and the cold that closed around him was edged with steel; Something wicked this way came, and his heart thudded in his ears. They were in the middle of a valley, cradled on-all sides by hills that seemed - to England - insurmountable, fringed with grey clouds that suddenly felt like bulwarks that bore down upon the three of them with silent prejudice. It was…unfriendly.

Scotland grunted, shrugging as he held up a pair of binoculars to his chest. A bird was flying overhead - a silhouette that belied the promise of being a raptor of some kind, majestic all the way up so high. ‘’There’s no such thing as bad weather though,’’ He jabbed a finger pointedly towards England, heavy brows furrowed as he stared ruefully at his brother’s shabby coat. ‘’Just bad clothing.’’ He scolded, though Scotland’s voice remained light (fraternal even, in-spite of the growing distance between himself and his brother, England). ‘’What on Earth is this-?’’ Polyester; A dreadful material, in Scotland’s opinion, and he turned up his nose in thinly-veiled disgust. ‘’It’s so thin…no wonder the wind’s fucking cutting through you.’’ Scotland scoffed, the corner of his lips twitching into a vague smirk (He certainly wasn’t cold - having dressed appropriately for it). ‘’We’re cold because it is fucking cold.’’ Chimed in Wales, rolling her eyes as she buried her red-knuckled hands into her pockets; Nothing could be felt anymore, not her ears, nose or toes. It was as though piece by piece, the frost was consuming her slowly. ‘’Aren’t you?’’ She asked incredulously, brows knitting in disbelief. Beside her, England shivered and drew his coat tight around himself - thin-lipped with the cold, Wales casting a sympathetic glance at her youngest brother. ‘’Oh come off it, you’re just bragging.’’ She hissed, head snapping back to Scotland as she prodded him in the side. ‘’Give me your hands-!’’ A grasp, pulling at his gloves. ‘’-You used to get really cold when you were little! Don’t give me that look, Scot-!’’ A scuffle - distracted at the moment, Wales and Scotland scarcely noticed England slowly drifting off to the side. His eyes turned upward to the horizon, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end; The air crackled with a strange energy (Figures could come pouring down the hillsides; Thick rivers of steel and men, this was a perfect spot for an ambush) and England felt something heavy bearing down upon him. ‘’Guys…’’ Whispered a strained voice, his tongue as thick as lead (as thick as blood, pouring into the grass in ropes - from a gash on near the top of his thigh; He couldn’t run as fast now, couldn’t hope to manoeuvre in-time to avoid the axeblow that was coming soon). ‘’I-’’ England’s eyes snapped to the grass in confusion. ‘’I’m not bleeding, am I?’’

#hws england #hws scotland #hws wales #ballad writes

Feverish Delirium: Wales & England

‘’You shouldn’t be here.’’ England swayed on his feet, a deep-throated growl rising from his fettered lungs as he stared down the hazy figure at the end of the corridor. Portraits rose high on the walls and grew two heads as England tried to put a form to the figure that approached him at a clipped pace. ‘’I don’t know who you think you are…’’ He groused, hands trembling as they reached towards a suit of armour (the knight’s eyes followed him and England longed to strike him down) and grasped tightly around the hilt of a heavy morning star. ‘’...But I am *motherfucking England!*’’

#hws england #hws wales #ballad writes

Some Tenderness Is Deserved

"Verily, the Scots are well-known as an antidote to the English."

He hurt. He hurt. He hurt. He hurt all over, face up to the sky and back slick with mud; spread-eagled, France lay - eyes screwed shut, pain exploding behind the dark of his eyelids as his hands grasped a shattered blade, shaking as he sat up slowly. ‘’Nonononono-’’ France mumbled, hissing sharply as he arched his neck, golden hair flush in the dirt, the sword still cutting into his hauberk, cutting into his skin. With a shaky breath, France rose again - the palms of his hands turned red as he grasped the blade, the knuckles as white as snow. Some small part of him struggled to see how this was worth it, how all the pain and bloodshed and violence was worth it - a small part quickly swept away, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as France grit his teeth, shaking his head furiously. No, no, no…a halo of concerned faces loomed over him, a wolfish grin as France bit back a pained whine. ‘’I-I’m fine-’’ He was, he was - he had to show them, he had to show them all. After all those defeats…no, he wouldn’t let Burgundy or England get the better of him. ‘’I’m fine.’’ Their hands reached for him, pulling him up from the mud - from the grave - and patting his weary shoulders. Dimly, their praises reached his ears and France sighed, his limbs slack against the earth. ‘’O-of course, I’m at your-ngh-service.’’ France hissed between grit teeth, shaking as he rose to his feet and staggered forward (their camp was somewhere, just beyond the horizon, just a little longer, France told himself - as his abdomen exploded with pain). His vision blacked, a startling red behind his eyelids as he all-but dragged his weary legs, his weary soul back towards camp.

He swayed, the earth rocking beneath his feet as he lurched forward, tumbling loosely into a pair of arms. ‘’Merde-’’ A hand took him gently by the waist, and France groaned, his spine tensing as he felt himself cling to the firm neck - a sailor adrift at sea, this rock his only salvation, his last stand…non, non, non, this wasn’t happening. ‘’I’m fine-’’ France felt his insides coil, bile burning at the back of his throat. ‘’I’m-’’ ‘’Not fine.’’ Scotland replied gravely, wincing as he knelt and pulled France up into his arms. Any complaint from the figure, strewn against him, was ignored as Scotland began the slow and steady march back to camp. He could hardly hear France’s voice over the tram of mud underneath his feet, but he knew what the question was all the same…it was always the same one. ‘’...Yes, we won this fight.’’ Scotland remarked gently, clearing his throat as he set France down on a cot - hand drifting gently to his hair; Dirty, he’d have to wash it for France later. ‘’But, that doesn’t mean you can just stumble around. You’ve got a sword sticking out of you, for crying out-loud.’’ France moaned wearily as Scotland searched around for some cloths and bandages, eyes glazed as they followed his every move. ‘’...I’m sorry, France.’’ ‘’Why?’’ France croaked softly, raising a slender brow. ‘’Why are you sorry…?’’ His heart hammered against his chest, a pressure rising in his head as he frowned. No, no - this wasn’t happening, his friend was not apologising. Fists curled and in-spite of the sword piercing his abdomen, France sat up slowly (furiously blinking tears away). ‘’Don’t tell me you’re leaving.’’ He swallowed, heart welling up behind his rib-cage, fit to burst out. ‘’I can be-’’

What? Better? Stronger? What did Scotland want? Smarter? He could try, but France was afraid that he could not promise. He couldn’t promise, not when everything seemed determined to tear him down - and he hoped that Scotland wasn’t having second thoughts…

‘’Be safe?’’ Scotland with a voice too tender for what France thought he deserved. He gently padded across the small hut, kneeling by France’s bedside as he grasped the sword quietly. In his other hand, was a small bottle of vinegar (Scotland recalled once France scolding him for upturning a jug of wine over his wounds, something about it being expensive and hard to get these days). ‘’I-....fuck, I’m sorry I wasn’t there in time.’’ Scotland’s palm tightened around the blade, lips pursed together in prayer. ‘’And uh-...’’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘’Sorry about this.’’ ‘’What-’’ France almost bucked as Scotland removed the blade, cursing loudly - palm shoved into his cheek as he arced in pain. Teeth grit, vinegar stinging as Scotland pressed the cool cloth against his wound, hauberk gingerly removed with a practised haste (how many times had his friend done this again? Poor Scotland, who acted more like a nurse more times than France could count on one hand). ‘’Merde-!’’ He clenched his eyes shut, hissing through his teeth as Scotland bound his wound, stemming the flow. ‘’...Shit, it needs to be cauterised.’’ Scotland simply nodded mutely, his face angular in the shadows and light of the tent - with an expression that tore France’s heart in two. ‘’...why are you sorry about not being there? You were there, I-...I don’t know what you mean, Scotland.’’

Scotland sighed, pushing his palm against the wound as he barked at someone to fetch the physician. ‘’France, isn’t it obvious?’’ He bound the wound shut with the cloth, a ragged bandage that he hoped would at least save off any blood-loss until the physician arrived. ‘’I-I…you got stabbed by my brother and-’’ Scotland shook his head furiously, staring at France as he stemmed the flow of blood, his fingers (for the moment now anyway, Scotland not wanting to risk - not even for a moment - that his friend’s life might slip between his fingers) steady as he pressed against France’s wound. ‘’I’m sorry.’’ He knew his brother’s pride would give no reprieve, nor would the squabbles of royals and lords and dukes (their names blended into one, a dull, furious buzz in the back of Scotland’s head). ‘’Fuck-’’ Why did everything have to be so complicated? Why (good grief) did France and England make everything so complicated?

‘’Scotland…’’

He shook his head, leaning forward to gently hold France close - or as close as his friend’s wound would allow him, heart hammering against his chest. Scotland wasn’t stupid, he understood just as well as anyone else the complexities of heirs, of kings and thrones, of land and titles. His brother was relentless, and of course, like any good ally, France had stepped in to fight England when he felt he was getting too rowdy. ‘’I just-’’ His brother had hurt France, over and over. His brother had hurt him, yet he could still recall that soft face, those round cheeks - the tracks that his tears had left behind, England trembling in his arms, a small boy too long separated from his older brother. ‘’-Why is my family so…complicated?’’

France licked his lips (tangy, the taste of iron flooding his mouth) as he squirmed beneath Scotland, shaking his head. ‘’I-I don’t know,’’ France reached out towards Scotland, clinging onto his forearm, squeezing gently - as if to drag Scotland back here, back into the tent, back with him, where he was safe.

‘’Ugh.’’ Scotland groaned wearily, slumping by France’s side - awkwardly cradled close to France on the narrow cot, burying his face in the tangle of golden hair, eyes squeezing shut as he wrapped his arms around France. ‘’You’re just about the only uncomplicated thing in my life.’’ He mumbled, voice husky as he kissed the back of France’s head, taking a deep breath - as if it was just the one that he needed to keep going. Their bodies were warm as they huddled together, Scotland trembling as he gently combed through France’s hair, threading the hair gingerly between his fingers. ‘’I’ll fight twice as hard, no, thrice as hard for you next time.’’ He swallowed a lump in his throat, shaking his head. ‘’Just…just don’t throw yourself away, France.’’ He’d seen his friend’s crumpled, broken body in the mud; Had seen that familiar defiance break like glass, a stained glass splintering in the sunlight, a saint martyred - hung, gutted and quartered, brow fractured and broken, France bearing pain like it were a halo.

‘’...Scotland, it’s what I am.’’ A flag. A banner. Something for humans to rally around, France was not going to falter over being afraid of getting hurt. He curled up, wincing as his wound smarted, a stifled hiss between grit teeth. ‘’The people love me.’’ France blinked furiously, nose curling in disgust (frustration, he’d thought he’d given up crying a long time ago). ‘’They love me as long as I succeed.’’ The final syllable was practically snarled out, France shaking his head grimly. ‘’No offence, but your brother - your brother - is ruining everything for me.’’ Burgundy had joined his side, insistent that his throne could become England’s too, and his kingdom felt like it was fracturing, splintering - burning, and everyone’s expectations were on him. ‘’Why else am I here, Scotland?’’ France tried not to sob, his body rattling - too lean, too starved, too weak - as he gripped Scotland’s forearms. ‘’They won’t love me otherwise.’’ Scotland’s heart broke, and he sat up - pulling France up with him. ‘’That’s bullshit, I’m sorry-’’ He cleared his throat, a hand drifting to ghost along France’s jawline as he took a deep breath. Between the two of them, France always had the knack of talking - had always been one of the most charming (and quick) people that he’d known, and Scotland had never especially been much of a talker; He just hoped France appreciated the directness of his tone, Scotland leaning forward to kiss his friend on the forehead, humming tenderly. ‘’-I never thought you could talk so much shit for someone with a pretty face.’’ ‘’I-...’’ ‘’France, I love you. I love you so, so much.’’ Scotland’s eyes widened as he stared at his friend, taking France’s hand gently. ‘’You’re here because you’re here. I-I don’t buy into this grand purpose, I think you’re here because you’re wanted. People care about you, France.’’ He smiled tenderly, leaning forward to kiss France on the tip of his nose. ‘’I love you. I love your stories, your hair, your laugh.’’ He brushed France’s hair behind his ear, before gently wiping his tears away. ‘’I don’t love you because you…beat up my brother whenever he’s getting rowdy on my side of the border-’’ Scotland snorted. ‘’I love you because you’re my friend. Remember when we stole a boat and sailed across the North Sea? You stole some wine from that merchant…’’

France chuckled, a rosy blush spreading across his face as he nodded wearily. ‘’I remember, yeah.’’ They’d been so stupid, and France knew it had been reckless - concern furrowing his brow as he wondered just how they had not been caught - or had the boat scuttled against rocks, but then he looked at Scotland’s face (so open, honest and warm), and his heart swelled with affection. ‘’...How?’’ He croaked softly. ‘’How and why, are you so lovely?’’ ‘’Dunno, suppose I just love you that much.’’ Scotland shrugged, smiling at France. ‘’Just remember you’re so much more than just…just being a fucking beast on the battlefield. Just promise me that you’ll remember that you deserve so much more.’’ He breathed out, in a whisper so reverent, that briefly France thought he were divine; A saint’s altar, gently plucked from the mud and tenderly tucked into the sunlight, and the way Scotland looked at him… Well, France would be lying if he claimed his heart didn’t skip a beat. ‘’I-I promise.’’

I promise. Anything for you, Scotland.

(Hi, yes. I was the anon that sent an ask to Senditothemoon about fighting off the urge to write a Scotfra fic set in the 100 years war in like...November, and now I've finally done it. This fic healed my soul).

#hws scotland #hws france #aph france #aph scotland #scotfra #frascot #ballad writes

A Brief Respite

#hws england #hws scotland #hws wales #ballad writes #brit bros #aph england #aph scotland #aph wales

•18+ Adults Only

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Beowulf

One of the earliest mentions of Sweden in old English literature comes in the form of the epic poem of Beowulf

He was wondering what to do, hand drifting to his axe - when the boy’s eyes snapped open.

‘’Beowulf.’’ Breathed England - quickly staggering to his feet. ‘’Y-you’re Beowulf. The brooches.’’

‘’Tell me more about Beowulf.’’ England smiled, and obliged gladly.

(Sweden inspired by + belongs to @nordickies, thanks for letting me borrow him :D)

#hws england #hws sweden #ballad writes

Frater Meus

Stirling Bridge

Stirling, in the words of Stuart Reid, was "traditionally regarded as the key to Scotland."

#hws england #hws scotland #ballad writes

Weekly Rituals

After Scotland is swept out to sea, England is taken by some kindly villagers to the sea every week; It is equal parts to grieve, as much as it is to ensure that he does not fear the sea.

‘’It’ll be okay, lad.’’ Sighed the sea, as it lapped patiently against the boat, in his brother’s voice.

An unexpected sob caught England in the chest, like knuckles meeting his heart.

#hws england #hws scotland #ballad writes

Rocky Roads

#hws england #hws germany #gereng #ballad writes

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Old Memories