First, I do not own "Hetalia," Trust me.
Second, I do intend to finish "Space Race," but this new idea was nagging me.
Third, this is not an accurate representation of actual countries, presidents or armed forces. Country names are sort-of needed in this story though.
FrUK is my OTP. I admit. This will mostly not contain any graphic scenes, and if a future chapter does contain that, it will be marked. That's it, enjoy!
It hurt more than one would think. The brutal process of compromise made the young nation's body ache, and whenever things went south and the various kingdoms came to war instead of terms, his small body would spasm.
Kent, Essex, and Sussex were engulfed by the larger regions. Slowly and painfully the remaining four succumbed – Wessex, Mercia, Northumbria and Anglia came together as one sovereign state… the Kingdom of England. The year was 927.
England's earliest memories were hazy. He sat under a twisted old tree, trying to recall the first few years of his life. "Few," of course, was a relative term. He vaguely remembered Rome's face, and his army occupying the country sides. And he remembered the wall they built to keep his brother out, named after one emperor or another… that must have been a few hundred years ago – but in the life of a nation; it wasn't very long at all.
England also got the inkling that he was alive before that. He had the outline of tall, well-built woman in his mind. Was it Britannia, of whom Rome had spoken of with both fondness and bitterness, or was it a figment of his imagination?
The young blonde scowled, drawing his knees up to his chest. Whenever he reminisced, he spent far too much time doing it – and now it was growing dark, and he was getting hungry. He huffed and stood up, collecting his bow and quiver in his tiny arms. They were a bit too big for him to use correctly now, but he'd grow into them. That's what Athelstan said, and he was supposed to listen to that man now.
England's scowl only got deeper the more the thought about that as well. Before the unification, he didn't need to listen to anyone – no one was his king. Sure, he had made close friends with Alfred the Great, who was kind and generous, but he wasn't ruled by the man! When England was just that – Angle Land – he hadn't needed to worry about being tied down to any continental governments. Now he did, because he was a country and not a land from here on out.
The little nation stumbled along on the cusp of the woods, watching for unseelies in case they decided to bother him. Annoying little buggers, they were.
Tmp, tmp tmp… Little England's footsteps were muffled by the moist grass, so he could clearly hear the second pair behind him.
He turned quick on his heel and pulled his bow taunt, aiming it down the path.
With such an isolated language as Olde English, it was no wonder the stranger did not understand him. The other got a little closer, tilting his head to the side. When he spotted England's bow, he raised his arms.
"Put that down, you crazy savage!"
The stranger – taller than England by at least three feet, with longer hair too, though it was the same shade of gold – spoke in a crude, newly developing language that England didn't understand. So the smaller blonde's natural response was to glare and shout again – which he did.
This time when the older boy spoke, it was in Latin. "I said put that away!"
England had retained some of the Roman language from his occupation days, and the words sounded familiar. He frowned again.
"Who?" He managed to ask.
The other just scoffed. "Who? I only see one of us with a bow, my dear!"
"No. Who?" England growled, finally retracting his weapon. He could tell already that this person was exceedingly annoying.
"Oh, moi? You want to know who I am?"
England rolled his eyes and nodded. The stranger pursed his lips, mock-pouting.
"Why, you should have asked in the first place!"
"…" England stared at the taller blonde, before he huffed and turned around, continuing on his way. Stupid foreigner, go back home! He thought off-handedly. He didn't notice that the visitor was following him until they had almost arrived at little England's house.
"This is where you live? It's a dump, isn't it?" The fancied-up boy asked, putting a thoughtful hand to his chin as he walked behind his unwilling guide. "I mean, there aren't any cathedrals, or… well, there's hardly anything!"
England growled again, dragging his equipment with one hand while he pulled his hood up over his head with the other. He was trying to block out the noisy drone of the other blonde's voice – it wasn't going well.
"Aren't you Christian? It's blasphemous not to have any churches around…"
"Pagan," England answered before the foreigner could go on.
His guest did nothing to stifle his chuckling. "Pagan? You really are barbaric!"
England curled his free hand into a fist, trying very hard not to cry out in frustration. He glanced back at the other blonde, who fixed him with an expectant stare. Then, England sped off toward his house – a fortified old castle that one of the Britannic kingdoms had used before unification. Before the stranger could follow and, goodness forbid, enter; England rushed inside and blocked the door.
"Hey! Hey! You little heathen, I wasn't finished!"
Oh, no, he just had to follow him. At least he wasn't inside. "Leave, git!" England shouted back, hoping over to one of the lower spy holes to get a look outside.
The sun had mostly set, and because of this nuisance, he hadn't gotten any dinner! Well, wasn't that just great? England was perfectly angry, and the banging on his door wasn't helping. "Leaaaave!"
But, of course, the stranger did no such thing. "I came to find you, you know! You're Albion, aren't you? With the white cliffs?"
England blinked, looking out of the shabby window again. The older boy was peering in at him, smirking. "Am I right or am I right? I can see you from my house."
England was more curious as to how he knew that he was a country's embodiment than anything else. He glared at the other and again demanded, "Who?"
This time, he got an answer.
"I am the Frankish Kingdom. But, you may call me France if you wish!"
France blew a kiss at England the next moment. Because, uncivilized or not, the tiny nation was cute. Said tiny nation didn't appreciate the sentiments, and spat right in his neighbor's eye.
"Leave," he snarled, "do not come back."
A kingdom interested in him was always bad news.
Author's Notes: Eek, it ended on kind of a bad note, huh? I promise it will get better later on.
Now, I know that this isn't exactly how Arthur and Francis meet in the series, but I wanted to take some creative liberties with this. The story most likely won't follow canon too much, since a lot of the topics I plan to cover aren't shown or are barely shown in the series. Now, what else...
OH - Leave a review!
About "Space Race," if you were waiting on chapter three, I'm sorry! When I went to write the next chapter, I noticed I had the timelines wrong. It's hard to tell, especially since I haven't exactly given you an exact date in the story, but believe me - I fucked it aaaall up. I'm debating whether to continue on like that or rewrite the first two chapters... comments, anyone?
Lastly; Arthur's exclamation in Old English is just "Who goes?"
So, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of "Kinship," leave a review and have a nice day.