Drabble dump~ 4! Pidge-has-been-revising-Edition!
Surprisingly, quite a bit of research and knowledge behind this dump, considering most of these are inspired by my notes from class. PS: English student, prepare for England-centricity more than usual.
Rome had left again. Rome had left, and he'd taken most of his soldiers with him.
Albion watched with detached interest as boats landed on his shores. Blonde hair flashed into view, a hundred spears and shields and carts full of belongings. A whole tribe stepped off the boats, men, women and children looking hopefully upon the white cliffs. His white cliffs. Rome's white cliffs.
Nobody noticed the little boy watching them as they ascended the slope, dragging wagons with them and lifting them over the stones that would break the wheels. Behind them, an elderly man struggled, burdened by age. This one Albion watched keenly.
This was no man, this was a Nation.
As all the others filtered past without even catching Albion's eye, the old man stopped. His beard was braided and white, his face weathered but not overly wrinkled, his arms and legs withered and thin. Blue eyes, dulled with near-blindness, watered slightly from the salt-wind.
"Are you a nomadic tribe?" Albion asked, using Latin, which as far as he knew was a cipher between all Nations.
The old Nation snorted. "Speak in your own tongue boy, and I'll speak it back." his accent was different, but it was perfect Gaelic. "Your mother would be ashamed."
Albion flushed. "You knew my mother?"
"I did."
The sea wind whipped at both their cloaks. Albion shifted uncertainly, looking at the people retreating into the distance. "You should follow them. They're yours." he mumbled. "You're just going to come and try to take over, so go."
To his surprise, the elder began to chuckle. "Oh no, boy, no." he wheezed. "I'm not invading. Do I look like I have the strength?" Wrinkled, bone-like hands flexed. "A relative of mine will be over with more to do that, but with these, I simply give them to you."
Albion gaped. "W-what? Why would you-"
"I hope you'll take what you can from them, because they are good people who will give you whatever you wish." The man turned and started to walk back down the cliff. Albion jumped to his feet. "I'll not stay long, I have no doubt you've seen too many dead bodies for someone of your age."
"W-wait!" Albion shouted over the wind. Clouds sped towards land, gray skies churning with coming rain. "You'll die if you give them to me!"
The old Nation didn't stop walking. "That would be the plan, yes." the wind carried his voice back up the cliffs. Albion felt a kind of panic seize him.
"You can't just give them to me! I can't- I can't handle any more cultures!" It was so confusing already, with Rome's people and his people and the two of them mixing.
"I'm afraid, lad, that you're going to have to deal with much more than this in the future." the old man smiled, reaching the edge of the water. He did not get onto the boats, but rather started to walk into the sea.
"Wait!" Albion skidded to a stop on the sand. "I don't even know your name!"
Waist deep in the ocean, the man turned. "Anglandn." The word rang with Truth, and Albion gaped. His true name... he really did intend to die. "You may have it, since I no longer have use for it."
"It's hard to say..." Albion mumbled. This made Anglandn laugh.
"Then make it your own." the waves washed over his shoulders. "Something that does not belong to your fae or family, or to Rome, but to yourself."
As the surf covered the last trace of the dying Nation, England turned and walked back up the path to his people.
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England stared dispassionately at the men in black cloaks as they swept out of parliament. To call them oversized crows would no doubt anger his wingéd friends at the Tower, so he rather more likened them to pigs in the clothes of men.
But they were pigs that would tame his siblings.
"Arthur, is there something the matter?" Wales asked formally, subdued and slightly battered after a foolish burst of anger the night before. He could treat his sister how he bloody well wanted to, Wales had no right to tell him where he could and could not conquer.
"I am quite fine, Darren." England replied, adjusting the bow at his collar. Nothing extravagant. Not for Cromwell's Commonwealth. Even the table legs were sanded down so as to be plain and flat and joyless. "Come, we are to the scribe's. I simply must have that new book."
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"This." Scotland said around a mouth full of chicken. "Is probably the best holiday ever."
"Here here!" Wales grinned, mildly drunk.
England stood off to the side, back straight and clad in servant clothes. Female servant clothes. "I'm master of the house again tomorrow, remember that." he grumbled. Scotland turned in his seat, swallowing his mouthful and smirking.
"Aye, but this night ye'll dance f'r us." he gestured at the musicians, lords and ladies dressed down into paupers, as Wales choked on his roast potatoes and collapsed into laughter. "Play us a wee ditty, we'll have a good ol' time tonigh'!"
"I hate you so much." England growled, Wales trying not to kill himself laughing. He walked sulkily over to the fire, and the music started.
Wolf whistling was not long behind. "Show us some leg!" Scotland cheered.
"FUCK YOU!"
"Oh that's not ladylike!" Wales snorted into his wine.
"You are both on stable duty for a month after this."
"Less talkin', more dancin'!"
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The clothes were simply refusing to fold properly. Maybe it was all the patching she'd done on them. Her hands ached at the joints. Actually, everything ached and burned and stung but especially burned like she was choking and the people were everywhere and the shoes stacked so high and all of her children-
"Ima?"
Sarah jerked upright, slowly loosened her own hands from where they had clenched into the fabric. Blinking hot tears from her eyes, she turned to the door way.
"J-Jacob." she stammered, smiling weakly. For him. It was all for him, all her life she'd been waiting for him. "Come here baby."
The two year old padded unsteadily across the room to her, grasping on to her skirts. She lifted him into her arms and held him tight. It was fine. That was over now, she would never have to see those places again, even if her children lay in undignified mass graves beneath their soil and the mark on her arm would never come out of her skin and her soul felt so horribly fragmented--!
"Ima, too tight." Jacob mumbled in her ear. With a soft gasp she loosened her over-tight hold.
"Sorry baby, Ima is having a bad day again." she whispered back, stroking the young Nation's baby-soft hair in a gesture that comforted them both. "I'll be fine. Time heals all wounds."
"Really?" Jacob's eyes were wide, brown but flecked with green. So hopeful. But already the innocence was fading from them, his neighbours determined to eject him from his land.
"Really."
Translation: "Ima" means "mother" in Hebrew.
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Sometimes, Northern Ireland mused, it was interesting to get England drunk purely to see where in the country he'd settle on being from by the time he started a fight.
Apparently East-End was the flavour of tonight's brawl.
"Oh righ' mate, you think you can 'andle me, huh?"
"Twenty quid on the chav." Scotland said to Wales, leaning on the bar with a pint in hand, watching the proceedings with a grin.
Wales sipped his cider. "Which one?"
"The one that's not our brother."
"Nah, Artie's got it."
"Twenty on it."
"Thirty."
"Done."
The barman stepped between the two fighters. "Outside lads, I'm not 'avin' this in my pub."
England sneered. "Yeah, take i' ou'side y' pikey bastard."
"I'll fuckin' carve y' a new 'ole t' spew tha' shit y' talkin' out of!" the other bloke pulled a knife, and a few people screamed. England pushed him out of the pub door, pulling his own switch blade. Northern Ireland followed to watch with a few other patrons.
The two were circling, gesturing like gorillas. "Huh? You startin'? Are ya mush? I'll bash yer fuckin' face in."
"I bashed yer mum in last night."
Well that tore it.
"Fuckin' minger scum!"
"Bring i' on poshboy!"
Two ASBOs and three stab wounds later, Wales made sixty pound sterling in cold hard cash.
/goes to write more Family Ties
Rome had left again. Rome had left, and he'd taken most of his soldiers with him.
Albion watched with detached interest as boats landed on his shores. Blonde hair flashed into view, a hundred spears and shields and carts full of belongings. A whole tribe stepped off the boats, men, women and children looking hopefully upon the white cliffs. His white cliffs. Rome's white cliffs.
Nobody noticed the little boy watching them as they ascended the slope, dragging wagons with them and lifting them over the stones that would break the wheels. Behind them, an elderly man struggled, burdened by age. This one Albion watched keenly.
This was no man, this was a Nation.
As all the others filtered past without even catching Albion's eye, the old man stopped. His beard was braided and white, his face weathered but not overly wrinkled, his arms and legs withered and thin. Blue eyes, dulled with near-blindness, watered slightly from the salt-wind.
"Are you a nomadic tribe?" Albion asked, using Latin, which as far as he knew was a cipher between all Nations.
The old Nation snorted. "Speak in your own tongue boy, and I'll speak it back." his accent was different, but it was perfect Gaelic. "Your mother would be ashamed."
Albion flushed. "You knew my mother?"
"I did."
The sea wind whipped at both their cloaks. Albion shifted uncertainly, looking at the people retreating into the distance. "You should follow them. They're yours." he mumbled. "You're just going to come and try to take over, so go."
To his surprise, the elder began to chuckle. "Oh no, boy, no." he wheezed. "I'm not invading. Do I look like I have the strength?" Wrinkled, bone-like hands flexed. "A relative of mine will be over with more to do that, but with these, I simply give them to you."
Albion gaped. "W-what? Why would you-"
"I hope you'll take what you can from them, because they are good people who will give you whatever you wish." The man turned and started to walk back down the cliff. Albion jumped to his feet. "I'll not stay long, I have no doubt you've seen too many dead bodies for someone of your age."
"W-wait!" Albion shouted over the wind. Clouds sped towards land, gray skies churning with coming rain. "You'll die if you give them to me!"
The old Nation didn't stop walking. "That would be the plan, yes." the wind carried his voice back up the cliffs. Albion felt a kind of panic seize him.
"You can't just give them to me! I can't- I can't handle any more cultures!" It was so confusing already, with Rome's people and his people and the two of them mixing.
"I'm afraid, lad, that you're going to have to deal with much more than this in the future." the old man smiled, reaching the edge of the water. He did not get onto the boats, but rather started to walk into the sea.
"Wait!" Albion skidded to a stop on the sand. "I don't even know your name!"
Waist deep in the ocean, the man turned. "Anglandn." The word rang with Truth, and Albion gaped. His true name... he really did intend to die. "You may have it, since I no longer have use for it."
"It's hard to say..." Albion mumbled. This made Anglandn laugh.
"Then make it your own." the waves washed over his shoulders. "Something that does not belong to your fae or family, or to Rome, but to yourself."
As the surf covered the last trace of the dying Nation, England turned and walked back up the path to his people.
808080808080808
England stared dispassionately at the men in black cloaks as they swept out of parliament. To call them oversized crows would no doubt anger his wingéd friends at the Tower, so he rather more likened them to pigs in the clothes of men.
But they were pigs that would tame his siblings.
"Arthur, is there something the matter?" Wales asked formally, subdued and slightly battered after a foolish burst of anger the night before. He could treat his sister how he bloody well wanted to, Wales had no right to tell him where he could and could not conquer.
"I am quite fine, Darren." England replied, adjusting the bow at his collar. Nothing extravagant. Not for Cromwell's Commonwealth. Even the table legs were sanded down so as to be plain and flat and joyless. "Come, we are to the scribe's. I simply must have that new book."
808080808080808
"This." Scotland said around a mouth full of chicken. "Is probably the best holiday ever."
"Here here!" Wales grinned, mildly drunk.
England stood off to the side, back straight and clad in servant clothes. Female servant clothes. "I'm master of the house again tomorrow, remember that." he grumbled. Scotland turned in his seat, swallowing his mouthful and smirking.
"Aye, but this night ye'll dance f'r us." he gestured at the musicians, lords and ladies dressed down into paupers, as Wales choked on his roast potatoes and collapsed into laughter. "Play us a wee ditty, we'll have a good ol' time tonigh'!"
"I hate you so much." England growled, Wales trying not to kill himself laughing. He walked sulkily over to the fire, and the music started.
Wolf whistling was not long behind. "Show us some leg!" Scotland cheered.
"FUCK YOU!"
"Oh that's not ladylike!" Wales snorted into his wine.
"You are both on stable duty for a month after this."
"Less talkin', more dancin'!"
808080808080808
The clothes were simply refusing to fold properly. Maybe it was all the patching she'd done on them. Her hands ached at the joints. Actually, everything ached and burned and stung but especially burned like she was choking and the people were everywhere and the shoes stacked so high and all of her children-
"Ima?"
Sarah jerked upright, slowly loosened her own hands from where they had clenched into the fabric. Blinking hot tears from her eyes, she turned to the door way.
"J-Jacob." she stammered, smiling weakly. For him. It was all for him, all her life she'd been waiting for him. "Come here baby."
The two year old padded unsteadily across the room to her, grasping on to her skirts. She lifted him into her arms and held him tight. It was fine. That was over now, she would never have to see those places again, even if her children lay in undignified mass graves beneath their soil and the mark on her arm would never come out of her skin and her soul felt so horribly fragmented--!
"Ima, too tight." Jacob mumbled in her ear. With a soft gasp she loosened her over-tight hold.
"Sorry baby, Ima is having a bad day again." she whispered back, stroking the young Nation's baby-soft hair in a gesture that comforted them both. "I'll be fine. Time heals all wounds."
"Really?" Jacob's eyes were wide, brown but flecked with green. So hopeful. But already the innocence was fading from them, his neighbours determined to eject him from his land.
"Really."
Translation: "Ima" means "mother" in Hebrew.
808080808080808
Sometimes, Northern Ireland mused, it was interesting to get England drunk purely to see where in the country he'd settle on being from by the time he started a fight.
Apparently East-End was the flavour of tonight's brawl.
"Oh righ' mate, you think you can 'andle me, huh?"
"Twenty quid on the chav." Scotland said to Wales, leaning on the bar with a pint in hand, watching the proceedings with a grin.
Wales sipped his cider. "Which one?"
"The one that's not our brother."
"Nah, Artie's got it."
"Twenty on it."
"Thirty."
"Done."
The barman stepped between the two fighters. "Outside lads, I'm not 'avin' this in my pub."
England sneered. "Yeah, take i' ou'side y' pikey bastard."
"I'll fuckin' carve y' a new 'ole t' spew tha' shit y' talkin' out of!" the other bloke pulled a knife, and a few people screamed. England pushed him out of the pub door, pulling his own switch blade. Northern Ireland followed to watch with a few other patrons.
The two were circling, gesturing like gorillas. "Huh? You startin'? Are ya mush? I'll bash yer fuckin' face in."
"I bashed yer mum in last night."
Well that tore it.
"Fuckin' minger scum!"
"Bring i' on poshboy!"
Two ASBOs and three stab wounds later, Wales made sixty pound sterling in cold hard cash.
/goes to write more Family Ties