The Isles Twins
Title: The Isles Twins
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: G
Summary: As twins grow up, some things change but the important things never do.
Timeframe: Prehistory (I'd guess somewhere 'round 2000 BC) to mid-1300s
Word Count: 839, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: OCs, bad accents (Including yet again Ireland's pre-1937 accent), the exact opposite of the fic I'm actually trying to write but wouldn't leave me be.
It was something she missed as they grew older. Sharing a room, a bed with her twin.
She remembered, faintly, so very faintly, being young and curling around him and he around her as they slept, with only space for the thinnest of hairs between them. Mother had allowed it, Mother said it was for the best that they did, better not to separate them. They were twins, after all. Supposedly one soul in two bodies. Better they become attached to each other, stay attached, or they would instead hate the other.
But to Brigid, there was comfort in being with him. His breathing was soothing, always there even when no one else was. Even when they bickered -- what two siblings didn’t, after all? -- he was there, there and safe and alive.
After Mother died, it was one of the few things she had left.
But by then, they’d both grown into that awkward gangly time where Llewellyn said it was no longer proper for a brother and sister to share a room, a bed. She’d fought him, they both had truly, but in the end they were separated. The first night without him was too quiet, too alone. She didn’t sleep, was too afraid to, with no one watching her back and no one’s back to watch.
They fought each other from then on, sometimes seriously, sometimes because it was what siblings did. But as they aged, the serious fights became more common before they could barely stand the sight of the other on some days, and Arthur hadn’t helped matters when he got to an age to fight them as well.
Still, they were the Isles Twins, and for all the fighting they loved each other dearly, and Brigid made sure that would always be. They were older now, old enough that Llewellyn knew better than to say anything if he noticed one go into the other’s room at night and not come out. Most nights they would silently curl around each other, just as they had done when Mother was alive and they were so much younger, each other’s breathing the only sound in the room. Other nights, and those nights were becoming even more common, Douglas would bury his face in his sister’s shoulder, neck, or chest, clinging to her tightly and asking “Why d’I do it, sis? Why d’I stay with him?”
And she would comb her fingers through his then longer hair, tangling sometimes with a curl and rub his back with her other hand, saying “Because ye love him, e’en when bein’ a poncy frog he is. And e’en when he’s off bein’ him, ye know he loves ye too. Just absolute shite at showin’ it, he is.” That was when he would take a deep, shuddering breath that was not a sob, don’t you dare say it is, sis, and those aren’t tears either, just have dust in my eyes. She would agree with him and hold him tighter until he fell asleep.
Then she would curse Francis and his nature before falling asleep as well, clinging tightly to her twin, not crying herself because she had to be the strong one, the older sister who always knew what to do. Instead she found that old comfort in sleeping with her brother, the rise and fall of his chest, the thud of his heart, letting her know that she wasn’t alone, that he was alive.
Twins stuck together and loved each other no matter what, after all.
Footnotes:
Just as an explanation, headcanon states that the ages of the Isles Family goes Wales -> Ireland + Scotland -> England -> Northern Ireland -> Sealand. Being twins of course, Ireland and Scotland bicker over which one is actually older.
Mother is Mama Britannia.
There's a great deal of superstition and myth that surrounds twins, once of the more common beliefs is, of course, that of "one soul, two bodies." I tried to find mention of twins in Celtic mythology, but the most I could find was the myth of Macha, who was forced to run a race with the fastest horse of all Ireland while heavily pregnant. She won, but died after giving birth to unnamed twins (some stories say two boys, others say a boy and a girl), and cursed the men of Ulster to have great labor pains whenever danger approached so they would not be able to defend themselves. Yeah, I don't get it either, but it feeds into a later myth about CuChulain. And of course there's the popular idea of twins either loving each other above all else or becoming each other's rival.
France/Scotland: See the Auld Alliance, the oldest alliance in the world. Ignoring the Treaty of Edinburgh, it is also the longest running, clocking in at 715 years this past July 14th. Things hit a bit of a rough patch in 1346 and France is... well, France.
Llewellyn is Wales and the OC of kyahryorin. Douglas is Scotland and the OC of eats_typos.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: G
Summary: As twins grow up, some things change but the important things never do.
Timeframe: Prehistory (I'd guess somewhere 'round 2000 BC) to mid-1300s
Word Count: 839, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: OCs, bad accents (Including yet again Ireland's pre-1937 accent), the exact opposite of the fic I'm actually trying to write but wouldn't leave me be.
It was something she missed as they grew older. Sharing a room, a bed with her twin.
She remembered, faintly, so very faintly, being young and curling around him and he around her as they slept, with only space for the thinnest of hairs between them. Mother had allowed it, Mother said it was for the best that they did, better not to separate them. They were twins, after all. Supposedly one soul in two bodies. Better they become attached to each other, stay attached, or they would instead hate the other.
But to Brigid, there was comfort in being with him. His breathing was soothing, always there even when no one else was. Even when they bickered -- what two siblings didn’t, after all? -- he was there, there and safe and alive.
After Mother died, it was one of the few things she had left.
But by then, they’d both grown into that awkward gangly time where Llewellyn said it was no longer proper for a brother and sister to share a room, a bed. She’d fought him, they both had truly, but in the end they were separated. The first night without him was too quiet, too alone. She didn’t sleep, was too afraid to, with no one watching her back and no one’s back to watch.
They fought each other from then on, sometimes seriously, sometimes because it was what siblings did. But as they aged, the serious fights became more common before they could barely stand the sight of the other on some days, and Arthur hadn’t helped matters when he got to an age to fight them as well.
Still, they were the Isles Twins, and for all the fighting they loved each other dearly, and Brigid made sure that would always be. They were older now, old enough that Llewellyn knew better than to say anything if he noticed one go into the other’s room at night and not come out. Most nights they would silently curl around each other, just as they had done when Mother was alive and they were so much younger, each other’s breathing the only sound in the room. Other nights, and those nights were becoming even more common, Douglas would bury his face in his sister’s shoulder, neck, or chest, clinging to her tightly and asking “Why d’I do it, sis? Why d’I stay with him?”
And she would comb her fingers through his then longer hair, tangling sometimes with a curl and rub his back with her other hand, saying “Because ye love him, e’en when bein’ a poncy frog he is. And e’en when he’s off bein’ him, ye know he loves ye too. Just absolute shite at showin’ it, he is.” That was when he would take a deep, shuddering breath that was not a sob, don’t you dare say it is, sis, and those aren’t tears either, just have dust in my eyes. She would agree with him and hold him tighter until he fell asleep.
Then she would curse Francis and his nature before falling asleep as well, clinging tightly to her twin, not crying herself because she had to be the strong one, the older sister who always knew what to do. Instead she found that old comfort in sleeping with her brother, the rise and fall of his chest, the thud of his heart, letting her know that she wasn’t alone, that he was alive.
Twins stuck together and loved each other no matter what, after all.
Footnotes:
Just as an explanation, headcanon states that the ages of the Isles Family goes Wales -> Ireland + Scotland -> England -> Northern Ireland -> Sealand. Being twins of course, Ireland and Scotland bicker over which one is actually older.
Mother is Mama Britannia.
There's a great deal of superstition and myth that surrounds twins, once of the more common beliefs is, of course, that of "one soul, two bodies." I tried to find mention of twins in Celtic mythology, but the most I could find was the myth of Macha, who was forced to run a race with the fastest horse of all Ireland while heavily pregnant. She won, but died after giving birth to unnamed twins (some stories say two boys, others say a boy and a girl), and cursed the men of Ulster to have great labor pains whenever danger approached so they would not be able to defend themselves. Yeah, I don't get it either, but it feeds into a later myth about CuChulain. And of course there's the popular idea of twins either loving each other above all else or becoming each other's rival.
France/Scotland: See the Auld Alliance, the oldest alliance in the world. Ignoring the Treaty of Edinburgh, it is also the longest running, clocking in at 715 years this past July 14th. Things hit a bit of a rough patch in 1346 and France is... well, France.
Llewellyn is Wales and the OC of kyahryorin. Douglas is Scotland and the OC of eats_typos.