APH: An Antidote to the English
Title: An Antidote to the English [1/?]
Characters/Pairings: Scotland/France (with slight FrUK), England, Ireland
Rating: PG-13
Warning: None yet; France being himself.
Summary: In which a not-quite-perfect union is formed out of the mutual agenda to kick some English arse.
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1. Once upon a time
England was an adorable child, he had decided, despite the boy’s insistence on speaking in that rough heathen tongue and his refusal to be educated in more refined cultures. He was at that stage of adolescence in his life where tempers and hormones ran high and in all honesty, he had found it rather amusing and sweet.
Though why the little brat had lobbed a handful of disgusting, foul-smelling muck at his face after initiating one of the messiest, sloppy kisses France had ever had the displeasure to take part in was beyond him. It was not as though he had been expecting it after all.
On the other hand, commenting that he’d come across mules who had kissed better might have had something to do with it.
It ended in a pursuance across the English countryside, coming to a halt only when France occasionally dropped down to hurl whatever debris he could pick up in his hands at the younger nation, all while England himself continued to scramble up hills and through bramble hedges, red all the way to his ears and snarling insults that he could not make heads or tails of, only that the second face full of mud was quite possibly worse than the first.
He was quite certain now that it was going to stain beyond salvaging and flung the mess away from his eyes with his fingertips. “Angleterre, you little imp!” he snarled as England stopped to smirk despite himself at the sight, before sticking his tongue out and disappearing over a rocky outcrop. France raked the hair out of his eyes and took off after him, more than ready to wring the boy’s adorable little neck. “Get back here!”
“Stop following me you bloody frog!” England snapped back, by now more than three quarters of the way down the hill and still going, his green cloak billowing around his gangly preteen body as he turned again, this time with a cloth sling in hand, whirling the rock nestled inside it helter-skelter around his head in a wide arc. France had been hit more than once by the pebble projectiles to know they would bruise, but Rome’s ancient border was drawing closer ahead of them and soon England would have no where left to run.
“Come now, mon petit chou,” he said languorously, continuing his descent after the boy. “I’m not going to hurt you. What’s a little kiss between friends, non?”
“I am never kissing any frogs again so you can just as well forget it,” England replied shortly, not backing up any closer to Hadrian’s Wall than he had to, but his brows had drawn together and his lips had flattened into a thin line so that he looked very much like a disgruntled piglet of some description. “So back the fuck off or I’ll hit you square between those bulbous, toady eyes of yours.”
France put his hand to his chest with an unashamed sigh. “Such harsh words,” he said, stalking closer and watching with pleasure as England’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. “But sourcils, how shall you ever find your prince if you do not first kiss a few frogs -” he started to say, but stopped almost immediately when England’s slingshot was knocked clean out of his hand, both rock and cloth whistling over both their heads and landing with a clean ‘thunk’ into the soft, muddy ground a good thirty feet away, the plain goose fletching of a crudely carved arrow rocking in a pendulous motion in its wake.
They both stared after it, and then England shot him a dirty look as if to say, ‘look what you’ve bloody done now’ but he had neither the voice nor thought to retort, as the sudden war cry that followed left him temporarily disorientated and to some extent deafened. Then all of a sudden a great hulking barbarian was towering over the opposite end of the wall - blue-faced, baring his teeth and waving his longbow around like he was looking to lop both their heads clean off with it.
“Oi, runt!” he boomed in a deep, baritone brogue that seemed to carry over the fields and valleys with nothing short of pure force, “the fuck have I told you about stayin’ on yer side of the line, eh?”
England scowled at him. “Oh piss off James, you great twat,” he said scathingly. “I haven’t even put a toe over that blasted wall so I would appreciate it if you stop sticking your nose into my private business.”
“Oh aye, is that what yer callin’it?” the older man remarked and completely contradicted himself by resting his forearms on the partition between them and leering over the side. “I knew you played dirty, but pickin’ on poor, defenceless lass ain’t going to get you laid anytime soon, you know. Just sayin’,” he added when it seemed as though England had choked on his own air, as he was now spluttering furiously.
“Are you daft?” he exclaimed and whirled on France, who just blinked coolly back in his face. England turned back to face the other man. “I get that he looks like a complete and utter ponce in that dress but good lord, you can’t honestly believe that -”
It was then that France chose to cut him off in a unerringly high falsetto, “Do not listen to that pervert, monsieur!” as he flung himself against the wall as though in a fainting spell, eyelashes fluttering coquettishly. Or at least they would have been, had his face not been caked over with dirt. “S'il vous plait, my poor maiden’s heart can’t take his abuse any longer. Why I feel faint at the very thought of it.”
England’s eyebrows had climbed up into his hairline by this stage, and his mouth opened and closed wordlessly at the sheer idiocy of the display as he managed to choke out “Your -” Which in itself made his opinion of the chance France had of being as pure as the driven snow quite clear; in fact he was rather more convinced of finding a snake in Ireland’s house than believing such a bald-faced lie.
The man over the wall seemed unconcerned that France was making quite a show of arching himself lasciviously over the stone in all his drama in favour of narrowing his green eyes curiously upon England. “There now love, don’t fuss,” he said askance, “you’ve got nothin’ to fear with this one. Everyone knows Albion loves takin’ it up the arse.”
England’s face immediately went from pale to a deep, ugly puce. “I swear Caledonia,” he hissed, darkening immeasurably, “if you don’t shut your bleeding trap I’ll...”
“Alba,” the elder nation shot back almost venomously before he collected himself and replied, “And you’ll what, Britannia? Set yer runty little Britons after me? Hah!” His laugh was like a sharp, deep bark. “I’d like to see you try. Run back to Denmark, little brother,” he said and waved England off with his longbow. “Maybe he’ll let you kiss his arse before he takes yours.”
France sat up immediately at this, a wicked light suddenly gleaming in his blue eyes, all maidenly virtues forgotten. “C'est vrai?” he exclaimed. “Oh Angleterre, Danemark? I had no idea you were into all that pillaging and plundering.”
“Aye, he especially enjoys the plundering part,” the blue-faced warrior taunted and reared back with surprising grace as England leapt at him. He brought the end of his longbow down on the younger nation’s hand with a crack, pinning it and the dagger that he had pulled from his pocket against the rock between them. England let out an involuntary cry of pain as he did so, stretched halfway over the wall. He scowled into the man’s face.
“I ain’t going to tell you again runt,” he said, dangerously low, and ground the butt of the weapon in harder for emphasis. “Get yer scrawny arse out of my sight or I’ll break yer arm again and then some.”
England gritted his teeth and flexed his fingers, knuckles turning white as he all but snarled, “Why the hell are you defending him -” He howled again when the bow was brought down even harder than before and the man on the other side leaned right over the partition and bellowed in a voice that carried like thunder,
“I said fuck off you traitorous, buggering little brat!”
He pushed England’s hand off with the end of his longbow in brutal finality and turned away when the younger nation nearly toppled over himself in the wet grass, his face contorted with pain and fury. He tucked his quickly bruising hand closer to his body and scrambled to his feet off and to the side. Far away, France was pleased to notice, from Hadrian’s Wall as he could get.
“Mark me James,” he growled, “You are going to get what’s coming to you, and I am going to have a jolly good time saying I told you so.” The man just made a rude gesture with his fingers over his shoulder and didn’t reply, so England turned to glare at France, red-faced and with the same green fire in his eyes as the brute across from him. “And you...” he said, and all proper words failing him, turned his head and spat at the older nation’s feet.
“Good bloody luck controlling him. You two deserve one another.”
And before France could make so much as a witty remark he had turned on his heel and stalked away, muttering black curses with surprising ferocity under his breath.
“Charmant,” he drawled and leaned bodily along the old Roman wall once again so that he could look sideways at his remaining companion. “Has he always been so?”
“Oh aye, a right adorable pain up yer fuckin’ arse,” the other man replied sarcastically with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t know why we just haven’t tossed ‘im into the sea he’s such a little ray o’ sunshine. What the hell do ye want, Francis?”
France clucked his tongue. “What makes you think I want something, mon grand?” he said. “How cruel. I merely wish to compliment you on your fine skills with a bow and arrow, it was rather impressive. Have you always been so good with your hands?” He made a move to touch the man’s bicep, half-hidden under a cloak of worn tartan, his arms as thick and corded with muscle as England’s were thin and wiry.
His hand was swatted away without preamble as the man turned on his side to face him. “Your Charlemagne certainly seemed to think so.” His whole body moved sinuously, and there was something wild and untamed in the green of his eyes, hardly suppressed like England’s were, or carefully calculating like Ireland’s, even disturbingly observant as Wales’ tended to be.
France closed his own eyes for a moment, and willed himself calm before opening them again and putting on what he hoped was his most winning smile. “Indeed he did. It’s been a while, Écosse.”
Scotland gave him a long look. Then he snorted. “Couple o’ decades at the most, eh? But who’s countin’ anyway.” He paused and lifted an eyebrow. “...Yer lookin’ a right pansy, as always; one that fell over face first into cow muck at any rate. Almost thought you’d lost yer balls for a minute there when you pulled that damsel-in-distress act.”
“Ah,” France said shortly, and tried vainly to push his lank, muddy hair from his face with as natural an air as possible. “Oui, well... I suppose you have your dear frérot to thank for that. But you have to admit I wear it rather better than he does, non?” he added and postured himself over Hadrian’s Wall in what he thought was a rather attractive come-on for all the mess he was looking. Scotland stared at him with largely the same look of acute bafflement that England favoured when dealing with questionably sane Frenchmen. Then he laughed that deep belly-laugh that sent all sorts of indecent, decidedly un-maidenly shivers down France’s spine, barbarian or no.
“Aye,” he agreed once his chuckles had subsided, “it suits you.”
It was here that France tried to stroke his arm again, a grin growing on his face as he leapt on the chance and said rather forwardly, “Then since we are in agreement, mon grand - ” only to receive a faceful of the plaid that had been draping over Scotland’s shoulder.
“On the other hand stinkin’ like rainwater and dung does not,” the older nation continued in the same tone of amusement, and started to wipe the residue off in great, downward strokes that made France feel as though his nose was going to come loose off his face at any given moment. He would have commented that someone who smelled like horses, wet grass and sweat at the best of times had no room to talk, but Scotland would have been undeterred in laughing it off and that only seemed to add to his wildness.
“Get off me, you great brute,” he pushed the snickering nation away and moved to dust the excess off himself, and if his cheeks were anywhere near flushed he hoped that was only because he had rubbed too hard. Scotland watched him a moment longer.
“Och, yer as pretty as a spring day Francis,” he said with a scoff and with a firm slap on the back that made France’s knees buckle, moved to secure his longbow back in place between his shoulder blades. “There’s no use in primpin ’and preenin’ as much as you do out here, you know that right? The nearest bonnie lass won’t be less than a couple o’ miles away at best if yer headin’ for the nearest village. I can give you a ride on big Angus if yer interested.”
France gave him a vague, appraising look. “Pardonnez-moi...?” Somehow he did not think that the Scotsman was inviting him to have thoroughly engaging outdoor sex of the Highland variety, though in the off chance that he was he did not seem like the kind of fellow who would throw nicknames around when implying the size of his vital regions. He thought it prudent to clarify anyway.
“Angus,” Scotland repeated a little impatiently. “Bugger’s gettin’ a little slow and dim-witted in his old age but he’s still one o’ the finest draught horses you’ll find ‘round these parts. ‘Course,” he added, twiddling with the tangle of knotted braids near his temple, “if you’d rather turn tail the other way and deal with the runt and his pubescent angst all over again yer more than welcome to. Just don’t expect me to play hero to yer frilly, flowery arse again when he catches you.”
France thought he’d have rather much preferred the sex to be honest, but on the risk of being at the receiving end of the Scotsman’s surprising talent for marksmanship he kept his mouth shut on the matter.
“Oh, well when you put it like that, mon cher,” he said with a sigh just a little too disappointed to be put-upon. “Très bien. I am yours entirely.”
Scotland seemed to consider this. His mouth curved wickedly at both corners. And then he said, just as calm as you please, “in that case, yer ridin’ bitch.”
In hindsight the grin France was rewarded with at that point was just depraved enough to be worrying, for Angus it turned out, was not so much big as he was massive, a great beast with a shrewd eye that looked rather more of a war horse than a beast of burden. “You might want to hold on to yer skirts a little,” Scotland said in that agonizing drawl somewhere between mocking and naturally good cheer. “He doesn’t take too kindly to you delicate types.” He held his hand out to France, who was in the process of bunching the ends of his tunic together in order to better clamber over Hadrian’s Wall and who now looked up, affronted.
“Delicate -” he began indignantly, only to squawk in a rather unmanly fashion when Scotland once again lost interest in his dawdling and lifted him up under the arms like a particularly lean sapling before dropping him unceremoniously side-saddle up on the stallion’s back. Angus whickered a little and tossed his head, pawing at the earth and shifting stubbornly. He turned his beady eyes upon France as though nothing would please him more than to buck the nation off. He warily eyed it back. He was not like Spain or Portugal and had no great love or affinity for equines.
“Behave yerself, you old bastard,” Scotland said sharply; he petted the beast’s flank tenderly before hoisting himself up and over into the saddle. “Right then. Let’s get a move on.” He flicked the reins and uttered another loud, resonating cry that left France’s ears ringing and his fingers white upon the leather saddle as Angus reared and took off at a surprisingly fast gait for a horse his age. He took the opportunity to shift closer to Scotland, raked him over with his eyes as the wind tore past them; eyes greener than the hills, his chest swelled with exhilaration from the ride, that strong, stubborn jaw and that temperament. Ah, but he was so much like his brother. England was not prone to complying either.
They were a fierce lot, the brothers of the Isles. There was no love lost between them. He wondered briefly at the pros and cons of pitting them against each other. There was certainly something lustful in a power struggle; he felt hot all over just thinking about it. It sent his stomach into leaps; though that could have also been attributed to the fact that Angus had just cleared a log with a powerful leap of his own. Scotland’s arm was firm about his waist, his lips chapped as he breathed against France’s ear, “Easy,” and oh, it would be so simple to be just that, to seduce the North with nary but a word, a touch, a kiss.
Calling it an attraction was something he was not quite prepared to come to terms with. It was merely an interest, if not a mutual one at that. There was still time, France thought to himself. Scotland was simple, but he was not without intelligence. It would take time to win him over. He pressed his cheek thoughtfully against the other nation’s collarbone, thought he heard his breath hitch, but he couldn’t have been sure. He smiled.
“Now about those archers of yours, mon cher...”
Though whether it was an attraction or not, that’s not to say he had any qualms about acting upon it regardless.
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Scottish warriors were believed to have fought for Charlemagne and later in the Armies of Charles the Simple in 882. It was not however, until 1295 and the agreements that would become known as the Auld Alliance, that there was much documentary evidence of French soldiery in Scotland or Scottish soldiery in France. The Scottish Archers is one of the oldest regiments in Europe, and was first formed under the French in the 1400s, as the Scots were well-known as mercernaries, who would fight for France so long as it meant getting to beat up the English.
Charlemagne - King of the Franks from 768 until his death. Today he is regarded not only as the founding father of both French and German monarchies, but also as the father of Europe, as his empire united most of Western Europe for the first time since the Romans.
2. Mind games
He had decided by the end of the first week that it was not so much medieval as it was inexorably Spartan; the ground was uneven and caked with mud, with only a thin film of morning frost separating the stench of the soil from the already stifling fog. And France, who was more disposed by this stage to fancy chamber pots than Mother Nature herself, was in a right state. His men did not seem to be faring any better and could be heard muttering amongst themselves that the Dauphin had to be out of his mind sending them here, to the backward hovels of the Scottish Highlands, when war could always have been waged at England from across the Channel, and in suitably better hygiene.
Ireland watched with interest as the normally primp and preening nation stalked out of the woods, his golden hair hanging limp and curling at the ends. The beginnings of a scraggly beard were beginning to show; he had not shaved or bathed in days. Though that, in all honesty, was the bastard’s own fault. Hot water and lavish tubs, let alone scented oils and a fresh change of clothes were not exactly average comeuppances in the country, and if he had thought that Scotland would have cared a whit for those sorts of things to have provided them then he had been sadly misinformed.
“Lovely mornin’ eh, Francis?” he called out with a wicked grin, unable to help himself, and was handsomely rewarded when France shot him a surly glare over his shoulder. It seemed so out of place on the usually flippant nation that Ireland had to cough a couple of times to hide his snickers, bent low over the block of wood he was whittling at aimlessly. “I probably should’a warned you, but the midden’s in a bit o’ a sorry state. Suppose it’s time to fill ‘er in and dig up a new one.”
The look he had received upon the first time saying that had been priceless; now France just coloured a very unflattering shade of red and started abusing him in colourful, colloquial French that had him in stitches within seconds. And then, to add icing to the cake, Scotland had returned fresh from battle, up to his ears in blood (most likely someone else’s), grinning and stinking to high heaven of the commute, the beasts of the cavalry and various other body fluids. He greeted his younger brother loudly, to which Ireland had responded cheerfully in turn, but upon moving to acknowledge France, and brace himself for the onslaught of gropes he usually insisted upon, was immediately rebuffed.
“If we ever get out of this ditch Écosse, I will kill you,” the other nation had said waspishly and moved away with his nose in the air, about as discreetly as he could undertake without actually pinching his fingers over his own nose. Scotland watched him go.
“Aye, will ye now?” he called back, still in remarkably good spirits. “Suppose I oughta be on my best behaviour then!”
“Oui, that will be the day,” France replied, once he was a good couple of feet away from the stench. “Perhaps when pigs fly, cher.”
Scotland cocked his head thoughtfully. “That could be arranged,” he said and waggled his eyebrows. Ireland snorted at the idea of his brother caber tossing a hog; flowers and poetry it was not. “I saw a fine specimen down in the village not too long ago if yer lookin’ to eat yer words.”
France exhaled heavily, blowing back his lank hair from his forehead. “Mon grand,” he began, clear misery making him more prone to impatience, “I am going to make myself perfectly clear...”
“I hear mud’s good for the skin,” Ireland broke in, bolstering his brother’s pathetic excuse for wooing while continuing to look uninterested with the piece of wood in his hands. He made an incision with his knife. “Keeps it smooth and supple, or somethin’ like. At least that’s what any young lass will tell you.”
Scotland wrinkled his nose a little. “What bollocks,” he muttered, but scratched at the flaking dirt on his forearm regardless. “No decent man would have themselves as smooth as the backside o’ a bairn. I’d rather the runt catch me dead.” Frowning, he turned his head. “Oi, Francis.”
France, who had been in the calculative process of assessing the texture of his own skin under the muck and grime, looked up with a start. Scotland folded his arms across his chest uncomfortably.
“How do ye feel about headin’ down to the loch?”
It was a body of water, and to a reeking, dirt-ridden Frenchman there could have been nothing more inviting. “You drive a hard bargain monsieur,” he said politely, though his eyes had lit up almost immediately; completely contrary to the sulk he had been in for days. “But I suppose we must. A hard man such as yourself has an image to maintain after all.”
Scotland pressed his lips together, clearly not too eager with the notion as he was by no means vain in any way, shape or form. He grunted. “Image. Right. I suppose so. But maybe if you, I dunno, come across some free time later, would ye -”
“Cher, I would see a flying cow before then,” France replied, though there was a curious, challenging twinkle in his eye that hadn’t been there before. “Providing I do not first freeze to death.” He rapped his knuckles against Scotland’s barrel chest as he passed, more like his usual self now that hope for a chance to make himself presentable had been restored. “You make that happen and I’ll kiss you.”
Ireland rolled his eyes, though not unkindly. “He’ll be askin’ ye for the moon and stars next,” he quipped, before the other nation had barely been out of earshot. “And that’ll be just gettin’ into his pants. Enterprisin’ son o’ a bitch,” he added, without any real venom. He watched his brother watching after France and shook his head.
“For fuck’s sake Jim, you can’t be serious,” he remarked. “It’d be just like havin’ a steady girlfriend.” Scotland just grinned.
“Aye,” he said fondly; and did not seem to mind in the least. “That’s the beauty o’ it.”
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The Hundred Years' War - In May 1385, some 2000 French soldiers landed at Leith, under the command of Jean de Vienne, Comte de Valentinois and Admiral of France. This was to date the largest party of Frenchmen ever to set foot in Scotland. Trouble began almost at once. There was simply nowhere to billet such a large body of men with their attendants and equipment. They had to be split up and sent to widely scattered locations. Scotland's backwardness and poverty were a shock to the French, used to much greater comfort than the country could provide.
OCs (you can see what they look like at this art post here):
Scotland - James Lennox
Ireland - Liam O'Callaghan
I spent whatever time I had online during the holidays researching the Auld Alliance between France and Scotland, and I can honestly say I'm blown away by how much material there is to work with. I suppose it all came about from France's constant scuffling with England (and England more often than not, winning) but man. The personal bodyguards of the French Kings were Scottish, a good quarter of Jeanne d'Arc's army was Scottish, and during WWII de Gaulle made a speech about just how great the 'oldest alliance in the world' was. Though the Alliance was unnofficially broken in 1560. And then properly in 1904. Regardless they celebrated their 700th anniversary in 1995 and there's a town in France that still celebrates the Alliance every day on Bastille Day. Oh and Nova Scotia? Yeah Scotland is totally Canada's step-dad in my headcanon now fff lololol
......Sometimes I wonder about you, nii-chan. |D
This was just practice to get a feel of Scotland, I suppose. I'll probably continue it if anyone is interested. X)
Characters/Pairings: Scotland/France (with slight FrUK), England, Ireland
Rating: PG-13
Warning: None yet; France being himself.
Summary: In which a not-quite-perfect union is formed out of the mutual agenda to kick some English arse.
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1. Once upon a time
England was an adorable child, he had decided, despite the boy’s insistence on speaking in that rough heathen tongue and his refusal to be educated in more refined cultures. He was at that stage of adolescence in his life where tempers and hormones ran high and in all honesty, he had found it rather amusing and sweet.
Though why the little brat had lobbed a handful of disgusting, foul-smelling muck at his face after initiating one of the messiest, sloppy kisses France had ever had the displeasure to take part in was beyond him. It was not as though he had been expecting it after all.
On the other hand, commenting that he’d come across mules who had kissed better might have had something to do with it.
It ended in a pursuance across the English countryside, coming to a halt only when France occasionally dropped down to hurl whatever debris he could pick up in his hands at the younger nation, all while England himself continued to scramble up hills and through bramble hedges, red all the way to his ears and snarling insults that he could not make heads or tails of, only that the second face full of mud was quite possibly worse than the first.
He was quite certain now that it was going to stain beyond salvaging and flung the mess away from his eyes with his fingertips. “Angleterre, you little imp!” he snarled as England stopped to smirk despite himself at the sight, before sticking his tongue out and disappearing over a rocky outcrop. France raked the hair out of his eyes and took off after him, more than ready to wring the boy’s adorable little neck. “Get back here!”
“Stop following me you bloody frog!” England snapped back, by now more than three quarters of the way down the hill and still going, his green cloak billowing around his gangly preteen body as he turned again, this time with a cloth sling in hand, whirling the rock nestled inside it helter-skelter around his head in a wide arc. France had been hit more than once by the pebble projectiles to know they would bruise, but Rome’s ancient border was drawing closer ahead of them and soon England would have no where left to run.
“Come now, mon petit chou,” he said languorously, continuing his descent after the boy. “I’m not going to hurt you. What’s a little kiss between friends, non?”
“I am never kissing any frogs again so you can just as well forget it,” England replied shortly, not backing up any closer to Hadrian’s Wall than he had to, but his brows had drawn together and his lips had flattened into a thin line so that he looked very much like a disgruntled piglet of some description. “So back the fuck off or I’ll hit you square between those bulbous, toady eyes of yours.”
France put his hand to his chest with an unashamed sigh. “Such harsh words,” he said, stalking closer and watching with pleasure as England’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. “But sourcils, how shall you ever find your prince if you do not first kiss a few frogs -” he started to say, but stopped almost immediately when England’s slingshot was knocked clean out of his hand, both rock and cloth whistling over both their heads and landing with a clean ‘thunk’ into the soft, muddy ground a good thirty feet away, the plain goose fletching of a crudely carved arrow rocking in a pendulous motion in its wake.
They both stared after it, and then England shot him a dirty look as if to say, ‘look what you’ve bloody done now’ but he had neither the voice nor thought to retort, as the sudden war cry that followed left him temporarily disorientated and to some extent deafened. Then all of a sudden a great hulking barbarian was towering over the opposite end of the wall - blue-faced, baring his teeth and waving his longbow around like he was looking to lop both their heads clean off with it.
“Oi, runt!” he boomed in a deep, baritone brogue that seemed to carry over the fields and valleys with nothing short of pure force, “the fuck have I told you about stayin’ on yer side of the line, eh?”
England scowled at him. “Oh piss off James, you great twat,” he said scathingly. “I haven’t even put a toe over that blasted wall so I would appreciate it if you stop sticking your nose into my private business.”
“Oh aye, is that what yer callin’it?” the older man remarked and completely contradicted himself by resting his forearms on the partition between them and leering over the side. “I knew you played dirty, but pickin’ on poor, defenceless lass ain’t going to get you laid anytime soon, you know. Just sayin’,” he added when it seemed as though England had choked on his own air, as he was now spluttering furiously.
“Are you daft?” he exclaimed and whirled on France, who just blinked coolly back in his face. England turned back to face the other man. “I get that he looks like a complete and utter ponce in that dress but good lord, you can’t honestly believe that -”
It was then that France chose to cut him off in a unerringly high falsetto, “Do not listen to that pervert, monsieur!” as he flung himself against the wall as though in a fainting spell, eyelashes fluttering coquettishly. Or at least they would have been, had his face not been caked over with dirt. “S'il vous plait, my poor maiden’s heart can’t take his abuse any longer. Why I feel faint at the very thought of it.”
England’s eyebrows had climbed up into his hairline by this stage, and his mouth opened and closed wordlessly at the sheer idiocy of the display as he managed to choke out “Your -” Which in itself made his opinion of the chance France had of being as pure as the driven snow quite clear; in fact he was rather more convinced of finding a snake in Ireland’s house than believing such a bald-faced lie.
The man over the wall seemed unconcerned that France was making quite a show of arching himself lasciviously over the stone in all his drama in favour of narrowing his green eyes curiously upon England. “There now love, don’t fuss,” he said askance, “you’ve got nothin’ to fear with this one. Everyone knows Albion loves takin’ it up the arse.”
England’s face immediately went from pale to a deep, ugly puce. “I swear Caledonia,” he hissed, darkening immeasurably, “if you don’t shut your bleeding trap I’ll...”
“Alba,” the elder nation shot back almost venomously before he collected himself and replied, “And you’ll what, Britannia? Set yer runty little Britons after me? Hah!” His laugh was like a sharp, deep bark. “I’d like to see you try. Run back to Denmark, little brother,” he said and waved England off with his longbow. “Maybe he’ll let you kiss his arse before he takes yours.”
France sat up immediately at this, a wicked light suddenly gleaming in his blue eyes, all maidenly virtues forgotten. “C'est vrai?” he exclaimed. “Oh Angleterre, Danemark? I had no idea you were into all that pillaging and plundering.”
“Aye, he especially enjoys the plundering part,” the blue-faced warrior taunted and reared back with surprising grace as England leapt at him. He brought the end of his longbow down on the younger nation’s hand with a crack, pinning it and the dagger that he had pulled from his pocket against the rock between them. England let out an involuntary cry of pain as he did so, stretched halfway over the wall. He scowled into the man’s face.
“I ain’t going to tell you again runt,” he said, dangerously low, and ground the butt of the weapon in harder for emphasis. “Get yer scrawny arse out of my sight or I’ll break yer arm again and then some.”
England gritted his teeth and flexed his fingers, knuckles turning white as he all but snarled, “Why the hell are you defending him -” He howled again when the bow was brought down even harder than before and the man on the other side leaned right over the partition and bellowed in a voice that carried like thunder,
“I said fuck off you traitorous, buggering little brat!”
He pushed England’s hand off with the end of his longbow in brutal finality and turned away when the younger nation nearly toppled over himself in the wet grass, his face contorted with pain and fury. He tucked his quickly bruising hand closer to his body and scrambled to his feet off and to the side. Far away, France was pleased to notice, from Hadrian’s Wall as he could get.
“Mark me James,” he growled, “You are going to get what’s coming to you, and I am going to have a jolly good time saying I told you so.” The man just made a rude gesture with his fingers over his shoulder and didn’t reply, so England turned to glare at France, red-faced and with the same green fire in his eyes as the brute across from him. “And you...” he said, and all proper words failing him, turned his head and spat at the older nation’s feet.
“Good bloody luck controlling him. You two deserve one another.”
And before France could make so much as a witty remark he had turned on his heel and stalked away, muttering black curses with surprising ferocity under his breath.
“Charmant,” he drawled and leaned bodily along the old Roman wall once again so that he could look sideways at his remaining companion. “Has he always been so?”
“Oh aye, a right adorable pain up yer fuckin’ arse,” the other man replied sarcastically with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t know why we just haven’t tossed ‘im into the sea he’s such a little ray o’ sunshine. What the hell do ye want, Francis?”
France clucked his tongue. “What makes you think I want something, mon grand?” he said. “How cruel. I merely wish to compliment you on your fine skills with a bow and arrow, it was rather impressive. Have you always been so good with your hands?” He made a move to touch the man’s bicep, half-hidden under a cloak of worn tartan, his arms as thick and corded with muscle as England’s were thin and wiry.
His hand was swatted away without preamble as the man turned on his side to face him. “Your Charlemagne certainly seemed to think so.” His whole body moved sinuously, and there was something wild and untamed in the green of his eyes, hardly suppressed like England’s were, or carefully calculating like Ireland’s, even disturbingly observant as Wales’ tended to be.
France closed his own eyes for a moment, and willed himself calm before opening them again and putting on what he hoped was his most winning smile. “Indeed he did. It’s been a while, Écosse.”
Scotland gave him a long look. Then he snorted. “Couple o’ decades at the most, eh? But who’s countin’ anyway.” He paused and lifted an eyebrow. “...Yer lookin’ a right pansy, as always; one that fell over face first into cow muck at any rate. Almost thought you’d lost yer balls for a minute there when you pulled that damsel-in-distress act.”
“Ah,” France said shortly, and tried vainly to push his lank, muddy hair from his face with as natural an air as possible. “Oui, well... I suppose you have your dear frérot to thank for that. But you have to admit I wear it rather better than he does, non?” he added and postured himself over Hadrian’s Wall in what he thought was a rather attractive come-on for all the mess he was looking. Scotland stared at him with largely the same look of acute bafflement that England favoured when dealing with questionably sane Frenchmen. Then he laughed that deep belly-laugh that sent all sorts of indecent, decidedly un-maidenly shivers down France’s spine, barbarian or no.
“Aye,” he agreed once his chuckles had subsided, “it suits you.”
It was here that France tried to stroke his arm again, a grin growing on his face as he leapt on the chance and said rather forwardly, “Then since we are in agreement, mon grand - ” only to receive a faceful of the plaid that had been draping over Scotland’s shoulder.
“On the other hand stinkin’ like rainwater and dung does not,” the older nation continued in the same tone of amusement, and started to wipe the residue off in great, downward strokes that made France feel as though his nose was going to come loose off his face at any given moment. He would have commented that someone who smelled like horses, wet grass and sweat at the best of times had no room to talk, but Scotland would have been undeterred in laughing it off and that only seemed to add to his wildness.
“Get off me, you great brute,” he pushed the snickering nation away and moved to dust the excess off himself, and if his cheeks were anywhere near flushed he hoped that was only because he had rubbed too hard. Scotland watched him a moment longer.
“Och, yer as pretty as a spring day Francis,” he said with a scoff and with a firm slap on the back that made France’s knees buckle, moved to secure his longbow back in place between his shoulder blades. “There’s no use in primpin ’and preenin’ as much as you do out here, you know that right? The nearest bonnie lass won’t be less than a couple o’ miles away at best if yer headin’ for the nearest village. I can give you a ride on big Angus if yer interested.”
France gave him a vague, appraising look. “Pardonnez-moi...?” Somehow he did not think that the Scotsman was inviting him to have thoroughly engaging outdoor sex of the Highland variety, though in the off chance that he was he did not seem like the kind of fellow who would throw nicknames around when implying the size of his vital regions. He thought it prudent to clarify anyway.
“Angus,” Scotland repeated a little impatiently. “Bugger’s gettin’ a little slow and dim-witted in his old age but he’s still one o’ the finest draught horses you’ll find ‘round these parts. ‘Course,” he added, twiddling with the tangle of knotted braids near his temple, “if you’d rather turn tail the other way and deal with the runt and his pubescent angst all over again yer more than welcome to. Just don’t expect me to play hero to yer frilly, flowery arse again when he catches you.”
France thought he’d have rather much preferred the sex to be honest, but on the risk of being at the receiving end of the Scotsman’s surprising talent for marksmanship he kept his mouth shut on the matter.
“Oh, well when you put it like that, mon cher,” he said with a sigh just a little too disappointed to be put-upon. “Très bien. I am yours entirely.”
Scotland seemed to consider this. His mouth curved wickedly at both corners. And then he said, just as calm as you please, “in that case, yer ridin’ bitch.”
In hindsight the grin France was rewarded with at that point was just depraved enough to be worrying, for Angus it turned out, was not so much big as he was massive, a great beast with a shrewd eye that looked rather more of a war horse than a beast of burden. “You might want to hold on to yer skirts a little,” Scotland said in that agonizing drawl somewhere between mocking and naturally good cheer. “He doesn’t take too kindly to you delicate types.” He held his hand out to France, who was in the process of bunching the ends of his tunic together in order to better clamber over Hadrian’s Wall and who now looked up, affronted.
“Delicate -” he began indignantly, only to squawk in a rather unmanly fashion when Scotland once again lost interest in his dawdling and lifted him up under the arms like a particularly lean sapling before dropping him unceremoniously side-saddle up on the stallion’s back. Angus whickered a little and tossed his head, pawing at the earth and shifting stubbornly. He turned his beady eyes upon France as though nothing would please him more than to buck the nation off. He warily eyed it back. He was not like Spain or Portugal and had no great love or affinity for equines.
“Behave yerself, you old bastard,” Scotland said sharply; he petted the beast’s flank tenderly before hoisting himself up and over into the saddle. “Right then. Let’s get a move on.” He flicked the reins and uttered another loud, resonating cry that left France’s ears ringing and his fingers white upon the leather saddle as Angus reared and took off at a surprisingly fast gait for a horse his age. He took the opportunity to shift closer to Scotland, raked him over with his eyes as the wind tore past them; eyes greener than the hills, his chest swelled with exhilaration from the ride, that strong, stubborn jaw and that temperament. Ah, but he was so much like his brother. England was not prone to complying either.
They were a fierce lot, the brothers of the Isles. There was no love lost between them. He wondered briefly at the pros and cons of pitting them against each other. There was certainly something lustful in a power struggle; he felt hot all over just thinking about it. It sent his stomach into leaps; though that could have also been attributed to the fact that Angus had just cleared a log with a powerful leap of his own. Scotland’s arm was firm about his waist, his lips chapped as he breathed against France’s ear, “Easy,” and oh, it would be so simple to be just that, to seduce the North with nary but a word, a touch, a kiss.
Calling it an attraction was something he was not quite prepared to come to terms with. It was merely an interest, if not a mutual one at that. There was still time, France thought to himself. Scotland was simple, but he was not without intelligence. It would take time to win him over. He pressed his cheek thoughtfully against the other nation’s collarbone, thought he heard his breath hitch, but he couldn’t have been sure. He smiled.
“Now about those archers of yours, mon cher...”
Though whether it was an attraction or not, that’s not to say he had any qualms about acting upon it regardless.
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Scottish warriors were believed to have fought for Charlemagne and later in the Armies of Charles the Simple in 882. It was not however, until 1295 and the agreements that would become known as the Auld Alliance, that there was much documentary evidence of French soldiery in Scotland or Scottish soldiery in France. The Scottish Archers is one of the oldest regiments in Europe, and was first formed under the French in the 1400s, as the Scots were well-known as mercernaries, who would fight for France so long as it meant getting to beat up the English.
Charlemagne - King of the Franks from 768 until his death. Today he is regarded not only as the founding father of both French and German monarchies, but also as the father of Europe, as his empire united most of Western Europe for the first time since the Romans.
2. Mind games
He had decided by the end of the first week that it was not so much medieval as it was inexorably Spartan; the ground was uneven and caked with mud, with only a thin film of morning frost separating the stench of the soil from the already stifling fog. And France, who was more disposed by this stage to fancy chamber pots than Mother Nature herself, was in a right state. His men did not seem to be faring any better and could be heard muttering amongst themselves that the Dauphin had to be out of his mind sending them here, to the backward hovels of the Scottish Highlands, when war could always have been waged at England from across the Channel, and in suitably better hygiene.
Ireland watched with interest as the normally primp and preening nation stalked out of the woods, his golden hair hanging limp and curling at the ends. The beginnings of a scraggly beard were beginning to show; he had not shaved or bathed in days. Though that, in all honesty, was the bastard’s own fault. Hot water and lavish tubs, let alone scented oils and a fresh change of clothes were not exactly average comeuppances in the country, and if he had thought that Scotland would have cared a whit for those sorts of things to have provided them then he had been sadly misinformed.
“Lovely mornin’ eh, Francis?” he called out with a wicked grin, unable to help himself, and was handsomely rewarded when France shot him a surly glare over his shoulder. It seemed so out of place on the usually flippant nation that Ireland had to cough a couple of times to hide his snickers, bent low over the block of wood he was whittling at aimlessly. “I probably should’a warned you, but the midden’s in a bit o’ a sorry state. Suppose it’s time to fill ‘er in and dig up a new one.”
The look he had received upon the first time saying that had been priceless; now France just coloured a very unflattering shade of red and started abusing him in colourful, colloquial French that had him in stitches within seconds. And then, to add icing to the cake, Scotland had returned fresh from battle, up to his ears in blood (most likely someone else’s), grinning and stinking to high heaven of the commute, the beasts of the cavalry and various other body fluids. He greeted his younger brother loudly, to which Ireland had responded cheerfully in turn, but upon moving to acknowledge France, and brace himself for the onslaught of gropes he usually insisted upon, was immediately rebuffed.
“If we ever get out of this ditch Écosse, I will kill you,” the other nation had said waspishly and moved away with his nose in the air, about as discreetly as he could undertake without actually pinching his fingers over his own nose. Scotland watched him go.
“Aye, will ye now?” he called back, still in remarkably good spirits. “Suppose I oughta be on my best behaviour then!”
“Oui, that will be the day,” France replied, once he was a good couple of feet away from the stench. “Perhaps when pigs fly, cher.”
Scotland cocked his head thoughtfully. “That could be arranged,” he said and waggled his eyebrows. Ireland snorted at the idea of his brother caber tossing a hog; flowers and poetry it was not. “I saw a fine specimen down in the village not too long ago if yer lookin’ to eat yer words.”
France exhaled heavily, blowing back his lank hair from his forehead. “Mon grand,” he began, clear misery making him more prone to impatience, “I am going to make myself perfectly clear...”
“I hear mud’s good for the skin,” Ireland broke in, bolstering his brother’s pathetic excuse for wooing while continuing to look uninterested with the piece of wood in his hands. He made an incision with his knife. “Keeps it smooth and supple, or somethin’ like. At least that’s what any young lass will tell you.”
Scotland wrinkled his nose a little. “What bollocks,” he muttered, but scratched at the flaking dirt on his forearm regardless. “No decent man would have themselves as smooth as the backside o’ a bairn. I’d rather the runt catch me dead.” Frowning, he turned his head. “Oi, Francis.”
France, who had been in the calculative process of assessing the texture of his own skin under the muck and grime, looked up with a start. Scotland folded his arms across his chest uncomfortably.
“How do ye feel about headin’ down to the loch?”
It was a body of water, and to a reeking, dirt-ridden Frenchman there could have been nothing more inviting. “You drive a hard bargain monsieur,” he said politely, though his eyes had lit up almost immediately; completely contrary to the sulk he had been in for days. “But I suppose we must. A hard man such as yourself has an image to maintain after all.”
Scotland pressed his lips together, clearly not too eager with the notion as he was by no means vain in any way, shape or form. He grunted. “Image. Right. I suppose so. But maybe if you, I dunno, come across some free time later, would ye -”
“Cher, I would see a flying cow before then,” France replied, though there was a curious, challenging twinkle in his eye that hadn’t been there before. “Providing I do not first freeze to death.” He rapped his knuckles against Scotland’s barrel chest as he passed, more like his usual self now that hope for a chance to make himself presentable had been restored. “You make that happen and I’ll kiss you.”
Ireland rolled his eyes, though not unkindly. “He’ll be askin’ ye for the moon and stars next,” he quipped, before the other nation had barely been out of earshot. “And that’ll be just gettin’ into his pants. Enterprisin’ son o’ a bitch,” he added, without any real venom. He watched his brother watching after France and shook his head.
“For fuck’s sake Jim, you can’t be serious,” he remarked. “It’d be just like havin’ a steady girlfriend.” Scotland just grinned.
“Aye,” he said fondly; and did not seem to mind in the least. “That’s the beauty o’ it.”
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The Hundred Years' War - In May 1385, some 2000 French soldiers landed at Leith, under the command of Jean de Vienne, Comte de Valentinois and Admiral of France. This was to date the largest party of Frenchmen ever to set foot in Scotland. Trouble began almost at once. There was simply nowhere to billet such a large body of men with their attendants and equipment. They had to be split up and sent to widely scattered locations. Scotland's backwardness and poverty were a shock to the French, used to much greater comfort than the country could provide.
OCs (you can see what they look like at this art post here):
Scotland - James Lennox
Ireland - Liam O'Callaghan
I spent whatever time I had online during the holidays researching the Auld Alliance between France and Scotland, and I can honestly say I'm blown away by how much material there is to work with. I suppose it all came about from France's constant scuffling with England (and England more often than not, winning) but man. The personal bodyguards of the French Kings were Scottish, a good quarter of Jeanne d'Arc's army was Scottish, and during WWII de Gaulle made a speech about just how great the 'oldest alliance in the world' was. Though the Alliance was unnofficially broken in 1560. And then properly in 1904. Regardless they celebrated their 700th anniversary in 1995 and there's a town in France that still celebrates the Alliance every day on Bastille Day. Oh and Nova Scotia? Yeah Scotland is totally Canada's step-dad in my headcanon now fff lololol
......Sometimes I wonder about you, nii-chan. |D
This was just practice to get a feel of Scotland, I suppose. I'll probably continue it if anyone is interested. X)