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hetalia2010-01-31 06:07 am
keiko-keket.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2010-01-31 06:07 am
Entry tags:
[Fanfic] The Newest Little Brother - Part 3/?
Title: The Newest Little Brother
Author: keiko_keket
Characters: England, Denmark, Norway, Iceland, Finland, Sweden, France
Rating: T+
Warnings: Minor violence, non-descriptive warfare
Summary: As much as Denmark wishes for things to remain the same, the former British King does not. Begging for help on the continent, Edward finds a helping hand in the form of William of Normandy. And thus, a battle happens on British soil, later known as The Battle of Hastings...
Denmark watched Norway’s longboat as it headed off into the horizon, rubbing his sore cheek and grinning. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Norway and England didn’t hit it off immediately - though part of that may have been Denmark’s fault for not telling England he had other brothers... but the rest of it was definitely Norway’s fault. The kid had been perfectly fine - well, he was mad at Denmark - until he had met his new other older brother. He really should have noticed something was wrong when the little nation got really quiet - and when Norway finally left the kid started shaking. He supposed it wasn’t nice of him to tease the little guy for being afraid of his expressionless brother (which resulted in him getting punched in the cheek by England, who promptly stormed off), but he couldn’t help that - those big green eyes looking as if Ragnarok had come because of Norway was just too funny.
When the longboat was no more than a spec on the horizon, Denmark decided he’d given England more than enough time to cool off and headed off to find his charge. He found the kid after searching the castle to no avail - but a glance spared out the window saw that distinctive blonde mop out across the fields, sitting under one of the large trees. He headed outside, passing groups of warriors celebrating their victory mixing with English citizens, across the field only to hear England’s voice talking. Curious, Denmark snuck closer, because he hadn’t seen anyone nearby while he’d come closer.
“-don’t think his brother likes me.” He could hear the young voice say. “What if he decides to leave because of that?” The voice trailed off, sniffling. Denmark managed to get behind a tree before he was seen and peering around it, he still couldn’t see anyone. Was England talking to himself?
“You think so?” England carried on after a pause, confusing Denmark all the more. He watched the boy nod, shifting where he was sitting (and he was DEFINITELY laying against the tree, not against something he couldn’t see - his eyes slid a little. Yes, definitely against the tree...). “I hope so too... I don’t want him to leave.”
Denmark couldn’t keep hiding - especially after the little one wiped his eyes with his fist, trying to keep from crying. He crept around, behind the tree that England was against and snapped the boy up in his arms.
“Is that what you think? That I’d leave just because of what Norway thinks?” he asked over England’s startled yelp.
“D-denmark! How long have you been...?” the kid trailed off, his face flushing brightly when he realized that his older brother had overheard him talking to himself.
“Long enough.” he replied, shifting England so he was sitting on one of Denmark’s shoulders. “I’m going to make this very clear. Norway’s opinion doesn’t influence mine - it’s the other way around really. Hell,” he laughed while England wrapped his arms around the top of his head and mussing his hair. “Norway hardly ever approves of anything I say or do so it won’t be different from normal. So don’t cry over it.”
“I wasn’t crying!” the smaller nation proclaimed, ignoring the fact that his eyes were pink and still glistening.
Denmark grinned. “Of course you weren’t.”
Things began to settle into a pattern over the next few years - Denmark would wake up in the morning with a little boy curled up under his arm sleeping quietly. He’d wake England up, force him into taking a bath (though over the years the boy stopped protesting as much), get something to eat and send England off for lessons. The young nation was going to need to learn not only Danish, but Norwegian, Swedish, Finnish spoken and written languages. While the kid was busy, Denmark had to deal with the growing political upheaval.
The former King Edward had gone to the Roman Pope to plead his case against the Viking occupation of his lands. The Pope didn’t care so much - Denmark thought it was because he was intimidated to go up against the entire Viking fleet - but back in Normandy, the King had caught a sympathetic ear that belonged to William the Bastard - who over the years began to amass an army. The French King was willing to help out and between the two they had enough people to cause a problem.
In the year 1066, merchants who felt that the Vikings provided fairer trade than the English reported that that army was on the move and Denmark was once again forced to make a choice.
“Why do I have to go?” England whined while frowning up at Denmark. “I can fight - I’ve been fighting for years!”
The two of them stood on the docks beside the small fleet of ships that were going to ask for reinforcements - which Denmark was going to send England away on.
“Look, England.” he knelt down so he was eye level with the little nation and put his hands on his shoulders. “I need you to be gone. If I’m going to fight, I don’t want those French bastards to try and sneak around and grab you when I’m not looking. If you’re safe, then I can concentrate on kicking their asses all the faster. Okay?”
The boy flushed and complained, but in the end he agreed to go, so long as he could bring one of his friends. Ironically, when it came time for the ship to depart, no one showed up, but it didn’t seem to bother the little guy, who had placed himself as out of the way as possible without relinquishing his right to be able to see his land as they rowed away.
With that done, Denmark was able to throw himself more enthusiastically into the fight - and it was somewhat amusing to see Vikings and English fighting on the same side for once instead of against each other.
When he first heard of the invasion near Hastings, the reinforcements hadn’t arrived yet. But he was okay with that - more for him in the long run. His boss marched them east and in just a few days they all got their first glimpse of the French army. From the rough head count he could see, they were easily outnumbered two to one - maybe three. Instead of finding those odds intimidating, Denmark felt his blood begin to pump faster and that wonderful spike of adrenaline surged through him. This fight was going to be awesome.
It was different from any fight he’d ever been in - for one, actually fighting against the french versus just ambushing ports and cities was actually a challenge. Another big factor was the time. They’d started fighting in the early morning, before the fog even really lifted. Now it was sunset and the survivors from the fight were lagging, earlier adrenaline having vanished hours ago but to stop would encourage the other side to press on. Even Denmark was beginning to feel the strain - but that didn’t stop him from finding France in the leftover army and charging after him.
He didn’t bother trying to sneak up on the French nation, just rushed at him from the front. When those blue eyes caught sight of him coming, Denmark felt much better as he saw them wince and heard, even from a distance, the other nation groan.
“Oh God, why won’t you just give up already?” France managed to lift his sword to block Denmark’s swing.
“Because I’m too awesome to lose?” Denmark laughed, spinning his axe above his head and slamming it down on the others sword.
“But you will! We still have the greater numbers and God on our side - you will not win! England should not be subjected-” swing, dodge, block, swing, “- to your heathen devil worship!”
“Oh, so it’s okay so long as you’re the one subjugating him?” parry, slash, slash, dodge.
France flushed bright with anger. “I - I would never subjugate him!” he spluttered, his anger giving him another breath of fight in him. Denmark cursed, feeling the bite of the blade across his chest before he managed to leap away. He gave it half a glance, decided it wasn’t going to kill him and spun around again to swipe.
“You’re just jealous he chose my ‘heathen ways’ over you!” he laughed and ow, it hurt to laugh now.
France had opened his mouth to reply - his glare trying to spell out Denmark’s death as plainly as possible - when a loud, energetic cry came from the coast. Both fighters turned, equally exhausted and gasping for air. But it was Denmark who laughed and France who cringed back, because in the distance, they could see longboats landing on the coast and, from what Denmark could see when he squinted, those were Swedish flags blowing in the wind beside Finnish banners.
“Looks like you might want to start running again.” Denmark managed to get out between breaths. “I don’t think you want to try coming back either. Are we understood?” and he grinned, maniacal and malicious, enjoying France’s fear as he leveled his war axe at his throat.
France, unable to turn from the sight of Denmark’s wonderfully awesome reinforcements didn’t even notice he’d dropped his sword. Out of the suddenly outnumbered and fleeing french forces, France’s boss appeared and forcefully dragged the stupefied nation into the crowd - Denmark didn’t care to watch them go, just letting his axe drop to the ground, suddenly unable to hold the weight.
He was still there, staring at the slaughter of the formerly organized army when Sweden and Finland managed to find him. Finland grinned at him - both cheerful and vicious, both of them covered in blood - as he grabbed his arm and started to drag him away from the battlefield, Sweden stooping to grab the fallen axe.
“Well brother, you managed to not get yourself killed, again. Should I be congratulating you or hitting you for being an idiot and not waiting for us to catch up?” his shorter brother proceeded to jab him in the cut across his chest. Denmark hissed at the sudden enhanced pain and batted the prodding finger away.
“Congratulating me. I still would have won, even if you’d shown up tomorrow!” he pumped his fist into the air victoriously, despite the fact that it sent a line of agony down his chest. Sweden and Finland shared a quick look seconds before the Swiss nation punched Denmark in the back of his head, sending the slightly taller nation down into the dirt.
“D’n’t be st’pid.” he muttered, glaring down at his older brother - who shrank back a bit at the expression on his face.
“If you died, we’d have to greet the new brother by saying we let you die. Imagine how we’d feel - telling a little boy the person he cares for died by stupidity.” Finland pointed out, hands on hips and glaring (despite the fact that it wasn’t as intimidating as Sweden’s it made Denmark feel guilty...). “Now let’s get you home and healed - it should be a while until the French have another army and you haven’t been home in years, again.” With stern prods from Finland’s booted foot, Denmark hoisted himself back up onto his feet with a groan and let himself be dragged away.
After all that fighting, he found that home was the place he really wanted to be.
Author: keiko_keket
Characters: England, Denmark, Norway, Iceland, Finland, Sweden, France
Rating: T+
Warnings: Minor violence, non-descriptive warfare
Summary: As much as Denmark wishes for things to remain the same, the former British King does not. Begging for help on the continent, Edward finds a helping hand in the form of William of Normandy. And thus, a battle happens on British soil, later known as The Battle of Hastings...
Denmark watched Norway’s longboat as it headed off into the horizon, rubbing his sore cheek and grinning. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Norway and England didn’t hit it off immediately - though part of that may have been Denmark’s fault for not telling England he had other brothers... but the rest of it was definitely Norway’s fault. The kid had been perfectly fine - well, he was mad at Denmark - until he had met his new other older brother. He really should have noticed something was wrong when the little nation got really quiet - and when Norway finally left the kid started shaking. He supposed it wasn’t nice of him to tease the little guy for being afraid of his expressionless brother (which resulted in him getting punched in the cheek by England, who promptly stormed off), but he couldn’t help that - those big green eyes looking as if Ragnarok had come because of Norway was just too funny.
When the longboat was no more than a spec on the horizon, Denmark decided he’d given England more than enough time to cool off and headed off to find his charge. He found the kid after searching the castle to no avail - but a glance spared out the window saw that distinctive blonde mop out across the fields, sitting under one of the large trees. He headed outside, passing groups of warriors celebrating their victory mixing with English citizens, across the field only to hear England’s voice talking. Curious, Denmark snuck closer, because he hadn’t seen anyone nearby while he’d come closer.
“-don’t think his brother likes me.” He could hear the young voice say. “What if he decides to leave because of that?” The voice trailed off, sniffling. Denmark managed to get behind a tree before he was seen and peering around it, he still couldn’t see anyone. Was England talking to himself?
“You think so?” England carried on after a pause, confusing Denmark all the more. He watched the boy nod, shifting where he was sitting (and he was DEFINITELY laying against the tree, not against something he couldn’t see - his eyes slid a little. Yes, definitely against the tree...). “I hope so too... I don’t want him to leave.”
Denmark couldn’t keep hiding - especially after the little one wiped his eyes with his fist, trying to keep from crying. He crept around, behind the tree that England was against and snapped the boy up in his arms.
“Is that what you think? That I’d leave just because of what Norway thinks?” he asked over England’s startled yelp.
“D-denmark! How long have you been...?” the kid trailed off, his face flushing brightly when he realized that his older brother had overheard him talking to himself.
“Long enough.” he replied, shifting England so he was sitting on one of Denmark’s shoulders. “I’m going to make this very clear. Norway’s opinion doesn’t influence mine - it’s the other way around really. Hell,” he laughed while England wrapped his arms around the top of his head and mussing his hair. “Norway hardly ever approves of anything I say or do so it won’t be different from normal. So don’t cry over it.”
“I wasn’t crying!” the smaller nation proclaimed, ignoring the fact that his eyes were pink and still glistening.
Denmark grinned. “Of course you weren’t.”
Things began to settle into a pattern over the next few years - Denmark would wake up in the morning with a little boy curled up under his arm sleeping quietly. He’d wake England up, force him into taking a bath (though over the years the boy stopped protesting as much), get something to eat and send England off for lessons. The young nation was going to need to learn not only Danish, but Norwegian, Swedish, Finnish spoken and written languages. While the kid was busy, Denmark had to deal with the growing political upheaval.
The former King Edward had gone to the Roman Pope to plead his case against the Viking occupation of his lands. The Pope didn’t care so much - Denmark thought it was because he was intimidated to go up against the entire Viking fleet - but back in Normandy, the King had caught a sympathetic ear that belonged to William the Bastard - who over the years began to amass an army. The French King was willing to help out and between the two they had enough people to cause a problem.
In the year 1066, merchants who felt that the Vikings provided fairer trade than the English reported that that army was on the move and Denmark was once again forced to make a choice.
“Why do I have to go?” England whined while frowning up at Denmark. “I can fight - I’ve been fighting for years!”
The two of them stood on the docks beside the small fleet of ships that were going to ask for reinforcements - which Denmark was going to send England away on.
“Look, England.” he knelt down so he was eye level with the little nation and put his hands on his shoulders. “I need you to be gone. If I’m going to fight, I don’t want those French bastards to try and sneak around and grab you when I’m not looking. If you’re safe, then I can concentrate on kicking their asses all the faster. Okay?”
The boy flushed and complained, but in the end he agreed to go, so long as he could bring one of his friends. Ironically, when it came time for the ship to depart, no one showed up, but it didn’t seem to bother the little guy, who had placed himself as out of the way as possible without relinquishing his right to be able to see his land as they rowed away.
With that done, Denmark was able to throw himself more enthusiastically into the fight - and it was somewhat amusing to see Vikings and English fighting on the same side for once instead of against each other.
When he first heard of the invasion near Hastings, the reinforcements hadn’t arrived yet. But he was okay with that - more for him in the long run. His boss marched them east and in just a few days they all got their first glimpse of the French army. From the rough head count he could see, they were easily outnumbered two to one - maybe three. Instead of finding those odds intimidating, Denmark felt his blood begin to pump faster and that wonderful spike of adrenaline surged through him. This fight was going to be awesome.
It was different from any fight he’d ever been in - for one, actually fighting against the french versus just ambushing ports and cities was actually a challenge. Another big factor was the time. They’d started fighting in the early morning, before the fog even really lifted. Now it was sunset and the survivors from the fight were lagging, earlier adrenaline having vanished hours ago but to stop would encourage the other side to press on. Even Denmark was beginning to feel the strain - but that didn’t stop him from finding France in the leftover army and charging after him.
He didn’t bother trying to sneak up on the French nation, just rushed at him from the front. When those blue eyes caught sight of him coming, Denmark felt much better as he saw them wince and heard, even from a distance, the other nation groan.
“Oh God, why won’t you just give up already?” France managed to lift his sword to block Denmark’s swing.
“Because I’m too awesome to lose?” Denmark laughed, spinning his axe above his head and slamming it down on the others sword.
“But you will! We still have the greater numbers and God on our side - you will not win! England should not be subjected-” swing, dodge, block, swing, “- to your heathen devil worship!”
“Oh, so it’s okay so long as you’re the one subjugating him?” parry, slash, slash, dodge.
France flushed bright with anger. “I - I would never subjugate him!” he spluttered, his anger giving him another breath of fight in him. Denmark cursed, feeling the bite of the blade across his chest before he managed to leap away. He gave it half a glance, decided it wasn’t going to kill him and spun around again to swipe.
“You’re just jealous he chose my ‘heathen ways’ over you!” he laughed and ow, it hurt to laugh now.
France had opened his mouth to reply - his glare trying to spell out Denmark’s death as plainly as possible - when a loud, energetic cry came from the coast. Both fighters turned, equally exhausted and gasping for air. But it was Denmark who laughed and France who cringed back, because in the distance, they could see longboats landing on the coast and, from what Denmark could see when he squinted, those were Swedish flags blowing in the wind beside Finnish banners.
“Looks like you might want to start running again.” Denmark managed to get out between breaths. “I don’t think you want to try coming back either. Are we understood?” and he grinned, maniacal and malicious, enjoying France’s fear as he leveled his war axe at his throat.
France, unable to turn from the sight of Denmark’s wonderfully awesome reinforcements didn’t even notice he’d dropped his sword. Out of the suddenly outnumbered and fleeing french forces, France’s boss appeared and forcefully dragged the stupefied nation into the crowd - Denmark didn’t care to watch them go, just letting his axe drop to the ground, suddenly unable to hold the weight.
He was still there, staring at the slaughter of the formerly organized army when Sweden and Finland managed to find him. Finland grinned at him - both cheerful and vicious, both of them covered in blood - as he grabbed his arm and started to drag him away from the battlefield, Sweden stooping to grab the fallen axe.
“Well brother, you managed to not get yourself killed, again. Should I be congratulating you or hitting you for being an idiot and not waiting for us to catch up?” his shorter brother proceeded to jab him in the cut across his chest. Denmark hissed at the sudden enhanced pain and batted the prodding finger away.
“Congratulating me. I still would have won, even if you’d shown up tomorrow!” he pumped his fist into the air victoriously, despite the fact that it sent a line of agony down his chest. Sweden and Finland shared a quick look seconds before the Swiss nation punched Denmark in the back of his head, sending the slightly taller nation down into the dirt.
“D’n’t be st’pid.” he muttered, glaring down at his older brother - who shrank back a bit at the expression on his face.
“If you died, we’d have to greet the new brother by saying we let you die. Imagine how we’d feel - telling a little boy the person he cares for died by stupidity.” Finland pointed out, hands on hips and glaring (despite the fact that it wasn’t as intimidating as Sweden’s it made Denmark feel guilty...). “Now let’s get you home and healed - it should be a while until the French have another army and you haven’t been home in years, again.” With stern prods from Finland’s booted foot, Denmark hoisted himself back up onto his feet with a groan and let himself be dragged away.
After all that fighting, he found that home was the place he really wanted to be.
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