From the North [England]

[style=width:350px; color:#414141; font-family:tahoma; font-size:11px; text-align: justify; letter-spacing:1px; float:center; padding:2px; margin: 2px; overflow: auto; height: 450px]
It was nearing the end of England’s Dark Age, though currently, Arthur had little mind for what this period in time would be called in future generations. He was focused on the unsettling times, the confusion, and the clambering of the people into some semblance of unification. Rome had left him in shambles, but that was nearly 250 years ago. They were more than ready to move past that. Rome’s structures and unspoken claims remained untouched by his people, greatly reviled. England hoped that they would all crumble to nothing beneath the neglect and abuse as a final good riddance to the old bastard. Later, the others came. The Germanics. Fierce struggles formed and they tainted him, bled into his people, into his linguistics, and into his thoughts. Less than a hundred years later, England held the knowledge of the languages of five peoples: those of the Angles, the Britons, the Scots, the Picts, and the Latins. He is far too multilingual for his own good. And comprised off too many smaller kingdoms. It was a difficult strain for any nation to be so severely divided.

This year, however, offered a small bit of relief despite the ever growing hostilities from the north. England received his new name after the unification of the kingdoms under King Egbert of Wessex. That particular kingdom had yet to be touched by any outsiders and he was determined to keep it that way. Parts of him may have been subdued, dominated, and conquered, but he was never going to let anyone take him wholly. Never mind that he had only the stature of a rather scrawny and seemingly trivial child. He was taken in for the most part by his people, though he frequented between his four ‘untouched’ kingdoms whenever his unchanging nature became too apparent for comfort to the unaware few.

Even now, after Rome and the complicated emergence of the Germanic people, England remained small. He experienced little growth over the past number of centuries and his thinness lingered—skin almost sallow, reflecting the frequency of plague and famine among his people. The crops weren’t terrible, but they weren’t great either. The echoes of hunger could be felt in the small nation, even after a meal. Unmatched with his slow growth, however; England’s monasteries held their own variety of wealth. The unfortunate part of owning something valuable and being weak, was that it tended to attract lots of undesirable attention.

England remembered the first sign of brutality from the scruffy, blond, northern giants. It was in Lindisfarne during the year 793. They appeared quickly, miserably ravaging and pillaging everything. They polluted the sacred grounds with their cruelty and foul intentions, plundering not only the treasures of the monastery, but also the monastery’s brethren. Boy novices were stolen away to be sold into the slave market. Arthur overheard Alkuin, a witness, tell Charlemagne through his pleas for assistance that some of the young monks were also raped. Most of the elders were simply cut down, though others were carried off in chains, stripped, slandered, and cast out into the ocean to drown.

Arthur was far more furious than frightened, though secretly in awe of the vessels that his attackers traveled in. The kingdoms predictably turned on each other to blame the sudden violence as an act of God for the others’ supposedly concealed pagan behaviour, instead of focusing on the presence of a new enemy and the rapidly approaching establishment of a new age. The world outside had reached out and touched them. As isolated as England wished to be at that moment from the foreign powers, it seemed that even the sea was no longer much of a barrier.

Currently, the young nation was wandering alone amidst the trees, watching the fae with mild interest drifting in and out of the frost riddled foliage. For the most part, the fickle creatures had a mind of their own and he held little control over their actions. The most he could do was watch and wonder what sort of mischief they were possibly up to… though they seemed to have developed a fondness for him. Green eyes idly continued to watch as one settled on the end of his bow, appeased by the gentle, swaying motion as he moved. He felt the tickling movement of one atop his head, smoothing a piece of his hair over tiny limbs like a quilt.

The subtle thoughts were brusquely interrupted. The moment the giant northerners made contact with his shore, miniscule shivers whispered down his spine. It was a half hour’s walk from here. He tightened his grip over his bow, small sweaty palms now finding it hard to grasp. He was ill-prepared for anything drastic, not to mention his unimpressive, childish stature. But he couldn’t just wait and feel the suffering as it passed. Just submissively acquiring more bruises—more burns to his flesh as they scalded his people. He heard a tiny, murmuring noise as the faerie resting on his head moved away, probably annoyed that he had disturbed her in his haste more than anything. He moved quickly. If there was one thing England was good at, it was sprinting. Usually, it was a talent reserved for evading older brothers.

Time slipped by as he slowed, feeling the odd feeling that he had when he had first been approached by Rome. The natural instinct that he supposed nations had when confronted with one of their own. Heat blazed in his cheeks from the winter’s chill, nerves, and exertion. His throat tightened, attempting to quiet his harsh breath while soundlessly moving between the trees, stalking closer. The faerie that still clung to the end of his bow watched England with curious, dark eyes. He briefly returned her gaze, but his lips thinned.

Then came the loud noises. Immediately drawn to them, he moved around the loud pieces of foliage. Obviously someone was either sorely uncoordinated or lost. Thrashing about like stupid beasts… where they shouldn’t even be in the first place, his thoughts seethed. The other was close. So close. He could almost feel his thick pulse in his ears when he caught a glimpse of pale hair and a foreign arrangement of clothing. The feeling grew.

Leaning in a bit closer, a cocktail of emotions coursed through him: resentment, violation, and even a bit of curiosity with the prospect of meeting another. Lost in staring and unaware of his footing, a wrong movement caused his heel to slide into a crinkling spread of half frozen, dead leaves. The noise seemed thunderous in in the silence. Arthur’s backside landed into the pile of frost as something whirred past his head. Glancing behind, he spotted the pale glint of a throwing axe half buried in nearby brush. His entire body thrummed a harrowing rhythm as an anxious sweat broke over his brow. He felt the faerie scratching at his cloak, dangling close to his shoulder amidst the stumble.

The foreigner said something nonsensical to Arthur’s ears and the boy scrambled to the side, grasping at his bow. In his panic, he accidentally grabbed only for air at first before finding the familiar wood, nocking an arrow as he retrieved it. Small knuckles turned white and his fingers were trembling. A hard, intelligent gaze found the foreigner’s, staring with confusion and alarm. A hint of dismay curdled in his stomach upon noticing that the stranger was bigger and much stronger looking than his scrawny, around-seven-years-old-appearance.

“Swence ðu hércyme?” Arthur muttered, speaking more to himself than the stranger. He had an inkling that, likewise, he might not be understood.

*”Why are you here?”

[/style]