Oracle-Born

It was not that Scotland didn't love his youngest brother, he could never not love him. But the love he felt was equal to the fear the younger instilled in him (of and for). He knew from the moment his mother Britannia's stomach began to swell with the life of what would be England that this brother would be dangerous. He remembered the first vision, the one where the bairn was just beginning to bulge against his mother's stomach, drowned her. How the regal woman he'd copied and coveted for all his young life, collapsed in a heap on the forest floor twitching and screaming. How he ran to her side, clinging to one of her spastic hands while his wee brothers wailed behind them. How her meadow green eyes weren't anymore, instead, they were a green as foreboding as a forest's foliage at the edge of dusk.

Suddenly, she stilled, whispering nothings and some things he couldn't decipher. Hovering his ear just above her lip, he heard the most terrifying thing he could possibly imagine in his young life. "She shall fall, fall to the Great Roman Empire..." It frightened him more than the man's voice she spoke with. "Britannia will die!" the woman shrieked. Scotland tumbled back, heart pounding, and sobs already ripping from his throat unbidden. Mother stilled, and soon, she came back to herself and saw her three born sons crying.

Fussing as she gathered them to her, she asked, "What is wrong? What upset has you so?"

Scotland could only shake his head and whimper into her shoulder. How could he tell her? How could he describe? How could he possibly make her understand? Without words to impress, Scotland choked, "Don' leave, Mum, don't die."

The kisses she dotted across his face were soothing, but did not erase what happened. "Hush darling, I'm not going anywhere, I'm not dying..." she promised them.

Later, it hurt all the more to watch her slain by a man who called himself Rome, a bairn in his arm with eyes a green as foreboding as a forest's leaves at dusk…

The first time, England was too little to string much more than a word or two together. He was playing near the fire with an old bone, Wales sitting close by, minding said fire, when the toddler started to screech and teeter in his deft movements. Turning, Scotland watched the tiny body topple toward the fire. It was sheer luck Wales caught him early enough to drag him away from the flames as he convulsed. His wee brother garbled in tongues and looked at them with unseeing eyes as his little body contorted in unfamiliar ways while drool dribbled from his mouth. Leaning over the tiny child, Ireland began to shake him. Scotland punched the younger.

"Don't do that!" Scotland yelled, "what if ya make it worse!"

Rubbing his smarting cheek, Ireland bit back, "What if I make it better!"

"I doubt that's possible!" Scotland argued tense and ready to throw another punch or kick him if need be.

"Like ye know everything!" Ireland shrilled.

"STOP!" Wales cried, the two stopped, turning to look at their so often taciturn brother.

"What is it Wales?" Scotland questioned.

The wee brunet had his bitty ear held just above England's moving mouth. Pointed, freckled nose curling, the little boy whispered, "I think England's sayin' somethin'."

Coming to England's side, they all listen in hushed silence. "He will build a wall… Hadrian… Keep barbarians away. Scotland… England's The Great Roman Empire's now…"

The eyes Wales and Ireland gave Scotland were enormous. Gnawing the inside of his cheek, Scotland wondered if this was simply another way of saying he would lose his youngest brother as he lost his mother. Soon, the toddler came back to himself, tears burbling in that foreboding green. Sweeping the little boy into a relieved hug with the rest of his brothers, Scotland breathed in the sent of his hair – it was like grass and sea - he prayed it to always stay so pure.

"What happened, Arthur?" he begged. "What happened?"

The toddler sobbed. "No!" he howled. "No, no, no, no!" He would say nothing else and whenever Scotland thought to ask again, the little boy turned unhappy and listless.

Not long after, a wall began construction in the north of his family's island. Feeling the separation from his people in his very core, Scotland deserted his brothers late in the night and hid amongst his citizens past the rising wall. He heard soon after that Wales and Ireland left England too, he tried not to feel guilty, the blond across the ocean, Gaul? (No, that was his mother,) had always had a keen interest in his smallest brother. He'd protect the younger child.

Or, at least he hoped so.

It was years later, Scotland was big and strong, a man unto his own when he received the strangest of visits. He'd been busy with state work when he was told he had a visitor. Thinking back on it, Scotland knew he should have told the servant not to let them in. Getting up from his desk, he was met by a pale and worn-looking France. Smirking at the other man, Scotland inquired not displeased, "What brings ya 'round, France?"

"Your brother," he replied seriously.

A tad confused, Scotland frowned and crossed his arms. "Which one? Got three, ya know."

France's face broke into a snarl. "That heathen south of you!" he shot back.

"England?" Scotland bleated, pushing away from his desk. "What the lad do? I thought ya weren't talkin' with–" gesturing with his hands, he murmured, "–the war and all."

France scowled. "It was required talks, nothing more!" he snapped.

Scotland held his hands up. "Fine, then what brings ya here."

The Frenchman's eyes clouded. "We took a step outside the court and 'e-'e-collapsed!"

Scotland felt sick.

Thunderous, France began to pace as he ranted, "I didn't understand, nations do not have 'uman conditions! I thought maybe something was wrong with his nation when 'e began whispering." He stared at Scotland with piercing eyes. "Do you know what 'e told me? Do you?" he demanded. Scotland shook his head, feeling sweaty and dizzy. "'E told me, England shall burn France's sainted lover… Into the Thanes she'll go…"

Scotland tried to brush it off. "So?" He shrugged. "Ya know how he is. He's flighty."

Something desperate came to the man's eyes. "I haven't even told anyone about Jeanne."

His chest gave a twang. There was no easy way to tell him this. "Ferget her," Scotland finally said. "She's as good as dead."

"You're lying!" France roared. He drew his sword and pointed it at Scotland, feeling more miserable than threatened, the redhead took a step toward the weapon and then, another. He walked forward until his beating heart touched the tip of the shaking point.

"The lad's been havin' episodes since even b'fore he was born," he whispered. "Every single one 'em has come true."

"Not this one!" France swore and with sudden ferocity, the sword that threatened him only a second before fulfilled its promise with a surge of blinding pain. Gasping, Scotland couldn't stop the way he moaned when the sword was removed. Taking a step away, France's shaky voice carried a hushed hope. "Not this time..."

Scotland remembered hearing the news, the girl who led the French was dead. Burned on an English stake and dumped in the Thanes. Scotland drank a whole jug of whiskey that day, mourning everyone and everything, because, someday, England would tell more than the end of a girl, or the end of a nation. It was only a matter of time before he would tell them of the world's end.

The next time he saw his brother, he was eager and thrumming with adventure. "Scotland!" he shouted waving to him from the ship he planned to take to visit the New World. Striding over to the boat, he watched the teenager hurry to meet him. When the boy's nearly a half-foot from him, Scotland held out a hand.

Shyly – wearily – the blond accepted the hand. "I thought ya would a set off by now, wantin' ta beat Franny there," he remarked, as he brought the slighter man closer by the clasped hand he held.

England laughed. "Just a few last minute preparations!" he grinned. "Besides, if what Finland says is true, I'll surely win the lad there over as my little brother!"

Scotland smiled back, but his heart pounded. The trepidation he felt for days was slowly eating him inside out. He couldn't explain, but something - something bad - was going to happen. He knew it. England opened his mouth to say something else when that familiar shivering of his body began and without any further warning, the teen's knees buckled and Scotland was left fumbling, trying to keep the fair head from colliding with the unforgiving ground.

People stuttered in their activities, deceptively bland eyes taking in the events unfolding before them. If Wales or Ireland were with him, Scotland would have told them to shoo off the gawkers. However, today, only he was here. His brother mattered more than any idiots staring did.

Dropping to his knees, Scotland cradled England's head in his lap and hushed the teenager vainly while his limbs spazzed and tensed. Suddenly, England was screaming and Scotland knew this was going to be a bad one (like the one before the Great London Fire). Those green eyes rolled back behind his skull and his body heaved up from the ground as a puddle formed beneath them. Scotland tried not to think about it. Soon, England shifted to rigidness (like a corpse) and the foreboding green was back and nonsense spilled from those familiar lips. Sighing, Scotland leaned his ear in close and listened in to decipher the devil's message. It took longer than normal, he could hear his brother gasping and sputtering for breath, but not a single syllable. Fearfully, he lifted his face away to see that his brother was crying. Scotland's heart beat harder than ever before. England had never cried during a fit before. What could it possibly mean? Sucking in a breath, he saw England's lips begin to mouth words finally. Laying his ear upon the lips, he listened to England's babble.

"Brother-mine… Brother-nevermine… Why do you despise me so? Why do I love you so? Why can I not… Why can't I shoot?" The voice he spoke in was aged, broken and oh so sad. Not for the first time, Scotland wondered why England never spoke with his voice, but a future one he had yet to know. Bringing his brother close to cling to, Scotland feared this new brother. He'd shatter England. He would make him unrecognizable.

The world went on, people left and new ones came. Eventually, England stirred in his arms.

"Scotland?" was the hoarse whisper.

"I have ya, " he answered.

Trembling, England warbled, "Why does this happen? Why can't I control it?"

Hiding his face in the sweaty locks that no longer smell of just meadows and seas, Scotland cannot lie. "I don't know, Arthur. I don't know." Once he'd helped England clean up and settled his nerves, he watched from the port as the ship set off. Waving goodbye, Scotland hoped the chance to colonize a new country would raise his brother's spirits.

It caught everyone off guard, it was a nearly regular meeting (besides the fact that Germany had just invaded Czechoslovakia), times are lean and Europe's fraught with tension and ripe for conflict. But, here, it shouldn't have mattered. It was just a basic diplomatic meeting between England, America, France, and Russia. England was trying to keep up with two arguments – one with France, one with America – as Russia goaded the trio from his seat. That was when England stilled. France fell silent and looked on warily while the two younger nations watched with curiosity.

"Hey, England? What's wrong old man?" America fussed, making to poke the smaller nation, England's eyes dilate and he toppled to the floor shrieking and tearing at his chest. France slid down beside him, hands hovering over the slighter man's body as he cursed.

"What's going on?" Russia demanded, getting up from his seat.

Snagging England's hand before he could claw his heart out, France hissed, "Nothing, this just 'appens sometimes."

"Happens sometimes!?" America cried, "I haven't ever seen someone just collapse and start screaming before!"

"Shut up!" France growled. "If you want to be the 'ero you always call yourself, go find England's brother!"

"Brother?" Russia and America repeated in tandem (much to both their annoyances).

"Oui, England's never gone outside of the UK without one of them nearby. I assume it's for situations like this," France explained as he pinned the Englishman's arms to his side.

"Where would he be?" America asked.

"Try one of the pubs on this street," France murmured over England as he let out a renewed scream. Gritting his teeth, France spat, "They enjoy getting drunk." England was fighting harder now, like he was frightened and the Frenchman practically threw himself on top of the struggling nation to keep him from hurting himself.

"I hold him, da?" Russia offered, coming up behind the pair.

France sent him a nervous glance, but relented enough for the Russian to take over holding the bucking Englishman down. Now up and brushing the wrinkles from his clothes, France realized America had yet to go find one of England's brothers. "What are you doing?" he shouted. "Get going, you idiot!" Throwing his briefcase at America, said nation ran from the room and jogged out the building.

Meandering down the street, he stopped at the first pub he saw and took a step in. Glancing around, he noticed that it was almost empty (but, then again, it was only two in the afternoon). Nervously, he twiddled his fingers and called out, "Um, is anyone here Arthur Kirkland's brother?"

A redhead's body jerked up and the beer he held sloshed over the bar's counter. "Yeah," he slurred. "The runt brawlin' with Francis 'gain?"

"Well–" America started, taking a breath, he told the older nation all of it. "He was arguing with France and then he–" America made mayday plane sound and twirled his finger in similar motions to that of a falling warplane.

England's older brother's eyes instantly sobered as he jumped up from his seat. "Ya mean he's havin' one a' his fits?" he demanded.

America nodded.

Visibly irritated, the man snapped, "Well, take me ta him, ya wanker!"

"R-Right," America stammered, leading the redhead back whence, he came to the conference room where all was nearly as he left it. Except England was not thrashing anymore.

"Get off him!" Scotland hollered at Russia. "He's my brother, dammit!" America, though, didn't think that had a thing to do with it, because the next moment England, who could be mistaken for a corpse, lips were forming words in fast motions.

Russia surprisingly pressed in closer with a quiet mutter of, "He speaks?"

Scotland began to throw himself at the Russian man, but America held him back. He didn't want to see what the taller man would do.

"He's my wee brother! Get off him! Get OFF him!" Scotland screamed and screamed, but Russia ignored him and listened with unusual intensity as England's words started to come to coherency.

France laid a hand on the Russian's shoulder. "I think you should get up, mon ami."

But Russia shrugged him off with an icy glare. "I will hear what he says, da?" He smiled, but it was cold and America was slowly losing his grip on Scotland with each passing second

"Get AWAY from Arthur!" Scotland howled.

Abruptly, Russia pulled away from the still Englishman, his face clouded and strange. "A war of lighting that falls like rain…" he whispered to them. "You know what he means, da?" he asked the frothing redhead in America's arms.

England's brother spat at Russia. "It's nonsense, that's what it is!"

France quickly concurred. "Oui! Lapin 'as said many strange things during 'is fits."

Russia hummed his understanding as he vacated his spot on England's chest. "I see," he said, but like Russia, America believed Scotland and France were lying. However, before he could bring his doubts into the conversation, England woke.

"Scotland?" England uttered.

The redhead slipped easily from America's arms now, the need for restraint gone. "I'm here." The older man sighed.

"I couldn't stop it." He sniffed. "I can never stop it." Scotland combed his fingers through the Englishman's fair hair.

"It's fine," he soothed. "I never expect ya ta."

The hurt look England gave his brother opened a thousand doors America had previously been unaware of. "But you want me to."

Scotland sucked in a breath, "That's not true," he said. But by the way England's eyes dulled and his narrow shoulders drooped, America realized the older brother was lying. "Let's get ya back ta the room, alright?" Scotland begged, propping his shaky brother up on his shoulder.

"Alright," England relented.

The next time America saw England, it was in London, after a German bombing.

The Blitzkrieg, they called it.

Years march on, England had his fits and lived with them, delt with them. Scotland was meeting England about the inevitable separation of Scotland from the United Kingdoms; the two of them argued and hollered at one another, sometimes, they even throw things. Finally, they get to the point where they were almost talking reasonably about Scotland's leaving when England shuttered and his eyes shadowed. Rushing forward, Scotland nearly missed grabbing England before he fell to the floor (at least he won't break anything, the floor being covered in rugs and all). His younger brother jerked and howled, screamed and thrashed in his arms.

It was as Scotland noticed his brother grow stronger that he realized this fit will be one of the bad ones. Hugging him tight, Scotland squeezed his eyes shut all for a moment to see when he opened them bloody tears cascading down the younger nation's face.

"England?" the older whispered. "England?" he repeated, fearfully wiping at the tracks. Slowly, it dawned on him. This was it. England was going to give his biggest glimpse of the future yet and… And it was going to terrify Scotland.

Soon, the younger stilled mid-spaz and gazed up in that lifeless way of his. His lips began to hiss and sigh as they started to find the words they need to give Scotland for the best understanding. "…So slow, the decay… But it came, it came, it came… Upon us in the darkest hours of the night, and the earliest of morn… we end in silence, not by a bullet, not by an explosion, not by anything… All gone in just an exhale…" Scotland gripped his brother's body. He shivers in relief and terror; an end not so terrible, but no less frightening.

Soon, England came back to himself, gazing up at Scotland with guilty eyes. "What did I say?" he whispered.

Scotland kissed his brow. "That we all end," he replied.

England barked a laugh. "I must have said more, I know even now that we all will end," the Englishman bit.

Scotland frowned. "Don't make me tell ya how. I just couldn't," Scotland murmured.

He turned his head away. "Fine," England mumbled

Scotland brought him closer (the grass and sea that used to be so ripe was barely a scent any longer), relieved and unrelieved. He couldn't share his burden, but he could save what little of his brother's innocence remained. "Thank ya." The older sighed, taking strength in the beating of his and England's hearts.

Someday, in the darkest part of the night and the earliest moment of the morning, two brothers curled together for companionship and warmth would take their last breaths and fade into dust.

This is just really, really, long One-Shot for me. It's terribly AU, took me nearly three weeks just to write out and another couple days to finalize and edit; but I think it's finally done. What do you guys think? Is it good? Is it bad? I wanted to explore dynamics of Scotland and England, but I think I kind of missed the mark on that.

Thank you for reading!

EDITED: 2/15/17