Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8341765.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      England_(Hetalia)/Scotland_(Hetalia), America/England_(Hetalia)
  Character:
      England_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Scotland_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), America_
      (Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Wales_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers)
  Additional Tags:
      Torture, implied_rape, the_ships_are_more_in_the_background_than_anything
      else_but_they_are_there, Historical_Hetalia
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-21 Words: 4045
****** There Was A Time I Loved You ******
by hips_of_steel
Summary
     Late in the year 1775, England goes to Nova Scotia to visit his
     brother, Scotland. Despite the distance between Nova Scotia and the
     war, however, Scotland has heard what his brother did during the
     aftermath of the battle at Breed's Hill.
     And he is going to get revenge for the personification of the
     Thirteen Colonies.
Arthur was tired, sore, hungry, and irritated by the fact he wasn't getting
what he wanted from the man across from him.
When he had arrived at this cabin in Nova Scotia, he had expected a hot meal
and to be either lavished in kisses or punches by the man in front of him (with
Scotland, you never knew which, and Arthur had a fight tingling to get out
through his fingertips).
Sex, of course, was always an alternative to fighting, especially when Alistair
was involved. He had had scars for a few months after the last time. Hell,
France had warned him that if he wanted to look pristine, he would have to set
boundaries (Of course, the Frenchman had only said that after Arthur asked if
he had the same types of scars from the Scotsman's rough loving. He never would
have volunteered the information on his own, after all).
Instead, the Scotsman had remained quiet, nodding in greeting and not speaking
a single word as he had set the kettle to boil and began to make stew.
England was served a bowl of hot stew and was able to ignore the grating
silences for a few moments. It wore on his nerves in a way it shouldn't have.
Most of the time he wished Scotland would shut up and be quiet.
But right now he wished he would talk.
Scotland cleared up the bowls and England stood up, walking over behind his
brother and digging his fists into his shirt. "Alistair..." He asked, letting a
slight pleading note slip into his voice as the man attempted to clean the
dishes in the water basin in front of him. Arthur needed something. A reaction.
Cool green eyes met his, a scowl on the Scotsman's face as he pulled away from
England. But he kept his silence.
That was even more unnerving.
England sighed as he sat, unsatisfied with the results of his efforts. Scotland
was acting strange, but perhaps it was an anniversary of some tragedy for his
people? It was hard to keep track of all of those things, especially for a
country you didn't embody. But on those days you usually found Alistair
drinking to his fallen comrades, not brooding over his cooking.
Scotland finished washing the dishes. He took the basin of water and stepped
out back, throwing the filthy water on the ground.
Perhaps I need a bath? England thought, but if Scotland was objecting his
presence due to stench, he would have been told so the moment he entered. After
all, he’d never been afraid to say something in the past.
"You_stink."
"I'd_like_to_see_you_take_on_as_many_men_as_I_did_and_smell_like_fresh
flowers!"_England_had_replied,_making_an_obscene_gesture_at_his_brother_as_he
stumbled_towards_the_washroom.
Scotland came back in and dried the dishes.
Alright, Arthur was done with this. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms
around Alistair. "If we aren't going to have sex, can you just tell me? Or
bloody hell, just fight me?"
Alistair had frozen in place. He set down the dishes, and then suddenly spoke.
"Get your hands off of me."
That tone was one near the point of breaking, and in a way England had only
ever seen a few times before. Only thirty years ago that tone had come the
first time he had tried to approach Scotland after the Jacobite Rising.
He still had a deep scar in his leg from the knife he hadn't noticed until it
was too late.
So, thinking wisely, England removed his hands. Scotland visibly relaxed.
England shook his head. He needed to clear his mind. "Well, I guess I'll just
walk down the road to Canada's little cabin..."
"He isn't there."
Surprised that Scotland had spoken on his own, England turned. "Oh? Urgent
business in his capital?"
"No. He's on a ship headed for Glasgow."
It took a few seconds for that to sink in, and England suddenly felt rage
building up in his chest. "Why the hell is he on the way to Scotland?"
Scotland turned towards him, and his gaze seemed to taunt Arthur, as if Arthur
should know the answer to the question he had just asked. "Fucking hell,
Alistair, why is Matthew on his way to Scotland?!"
"It's safer there."
England didn't even realize he'd slammed his hand down until he heard the mug
shatter. Scot looked down in annoyance, but fury was filling him. "Are you
saying I can't keep him safe from Alfred?! Thirteen Colonies will be put in his
proper place soon enough-"
"WHAT, AS YOUR WHORE?" Scotland suddenly snarled, and the entire house fell
silent.
England was so shocked he hardly noticed that his brother was moving until he
was right in front of him. "Did you think you could get away with it, Arthur?!
DID YOU?!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about-" England began, confused by what his
older brother was saying.
The fist came flying so fast he went backwards. He realized too late that he
was in no state to fight Scot. He opened his mouth to scream. Wales had to be
nearby!
Scotland's hand grabbed his jaw. "Scream all you like, but Wales isn't coming
to your rescue this time. He told me what you did after Breed's Hill! And I
told him I'd put you in your bloody place!"
"I did what I had too!" Arthur said, realizing what Scot was speaking of. It
had been a horrible day, but he had done what needed to be done.
"YOU RAPED A CHILD!"
Alistair threw him on the ground, sinking down to pin him to the floor. "He was
coming to you as a loyalist, Arthur. He wasn't with the rebels. Wales told me
he was wearing that beautiful red and white uniform you gave him-"
"He has to be taught a lesson-" Arthur began, but suddenly Alistair's hand were
squeezing his throat, constricting so he couldn't speak.
"He came to you as a scared child! His people are divided, and he's in pain! He
came to you for help! Owen brought him to you, praying that you would help him!
Instead, you raped him!"
Arthur gasped for breath. "Alistair, please!" He said, trying to breath, but
that hand just squeezed tighter.
"How many times did he beg you to stop?! How many times did he cry for mercy?!"
Alistair snarled, shoving him into the ground even further. "Did you even pity
him as he called to Owen for help?! Did you? DID YOU?"
Arthur couldn't respond. The edge of his vision was beginning to turn blurry.
He tried to claw at the hands on his throat, but Alistair held him down
tighter.
"Did you even look at him after you were finished? After you were done with
your sick pleasure? Could you even look at him when he limped past your
pavilion tent in a new uniform, trying not to cry out in pain as Owen got him
onto a horse? DID YOU?"
The hand suddenly moved away, and Arthur gasped for breath, feeling the bruises
forming, and still seeing spots in his eyes. He wheezed in pain, trying to
catch his breath.
"Did you even think for a second that you could keep it a secret from his
brother?" Alistair snarled. "Canada knew the second Wales arrived to warn us
that you had done something unspeakably wrong. Did you think you could hide it
from any of us?"
Arthur gathered up his breath and screamed. "OWEN, HELP ME!" Wales isn't a
traitor. Wales will help me. He's not going to let Alistair do anything more.
Footsteps on the path. Arthur felt relieved. But when Owen's voice spoke, it
was cold, detached.
"Are you done with him yet, Ali?"
"No. Just beginning."
Arthur looked up in shock and confusion as his older brother set his entire
weight on his legs. He realized that as those cold green eyes gazed at him,
there was no help coming. "Owen, remind dear Arthur how many times Alfred cried
for mercy before he could only cry." Alistair almost cooed, roughly moving his
hand over Arthur's throat.
"Twelve." Owen said, still cold and detached.
"Good. Let's see how many times he does."
Arthur tried to scream again, but Alistair had him by the back of his shirt,
dragging him to the washroom.
A basin was filled with cold water, and Arthur barely had time to cry out
before his face was shoved in.
***
Hours passed. Alistair had nearly drowned him so many times he couldn't keep
track, but he was being forced too.
"HOW MANY?!" Alistair screamed as he drug his face out of the water once more.
"E-el-eleven?" Arthur said, hoping he was near the end of his torture.
"EIGHT!" Alistair screamed, slamming him down onto the ground like a broken
toy.
Arthur felt broken. He wasn't restrained, but he could barely move. He was too
exhausted to run, too sick to fight back. And what was worse was Alistair was
allowing him to recover between each near death, making his fear only stronger
when Alistair reached for him again.
"Please..." Arthur heard himself beg. "I've learned my lesson-"
A hand slammed down by his head. "No you haven't! If I could get myself hard at
the sight of a man like you, I would give you a taste of what Alfred felt! But
I don't think that could ever happen again..."
Arthur felt hands grabbing his shirt collar once more, and he cried out before
being plunged back into the icy basin, trying to block out the reality of what
was happening to him.
***
Finally, he broke.
It was the eleventh time. He cried and sobbed on the floor, unable to look at
Alistair as the man towered over him.
"HOW MANY?"Alistair screeched.
He couldn't answer.
"HOW MANY, ARTHUR?!"
He saw the hand being raised, recoiled before the blow even touched him.
Alistair grabbed his jaw, trying to force him to look at him, but he snapped
his eyes shut, refusing to meet the man's gaze. He was shaking in fear, too
terrified to move at all.
"Coward." Alistair said, suddenly dropping him to the ground. Arthur fell like
a rock. "Take courage from this little fact. Alfred was stronger than you.
Which means he will survive this war. I pray he does become independent. Owen
told him where to find Washington."
Arthur couldn't open his eyes. He would remember every word of this
conversation the rest of his life, but he'd never be able to act on it. Wales’s
small betrayal wouldn't matter.
"Owen said the boy had never seemed so broken... But he has given him a chance.
A chance to save himself from you. And I hope he took it."
Arthur sobbed his heart out. Every single sense of his hurt. He was tired and
scared.
"And if you ever touch a child like that again, Arthur? Well, remember how many
times they cry for mercy. And add twelve to that. Because I will do this again.
And next time, I won't have mercy."
He hadn't felt this powerless since he was a child and Saxon had swung his
sword through Britannia, ending his mother's life before forcing him to become
the perfect Saxon child-
Oh God.
Oh God, what had he done?
"Next time, I will kill you." Alistair finished.
Arthur could barely croak out the sentence. But he did, opening his eyes to see
Alistair watching him as he did. He looked into empty space and spoke.
"I'm so sorry, Alfred... So sorry..."
Alistair snorted, standing. He gazed down at England, and England had never
felt so small, even when Rome had towered over him and his mother.
"You know what, England? There was a time I loved you."
The spit landed right in his face, and he couldn't even move to wipe it off.
Alistair moved away, and then less than a minute later there was the sound of
feet moving through the hall towards him.
Owen opened the door, and Arthur tried to cry out, to push away, but Owen
lifted him up like a rag doll, carrying him over to a stack of dry towels.
Arthur tried to push his oldest brother away again, but Owen held firm.
"Someone has to fix the broken pieces, Arthur. Alfred will have plenty of help.
I've written to France and Spain and Prussia. Spain and Prussia have their own
little ones they'll do anything to protect, so they understand what Alistair
and I feel. And France will do it to ensure nothing like this ever happens to
Canada. And where they fail, Washington will rise to the challenge. Meanwhile,
I've been assigned to put you back together."
The hand drying his face was gentle, but the voice was anything but.
He finally opened his eyes. Brown hair, those same green eyes that they all
had. But his expression was still cold and merciless.
"Just know that next time, Arthur, I won't reason with Scotland to practice
restraint. I will allow him to kill you. He wanted to this time. I didn't think
that would establish the lesson well enough. Instead, we'll let you live with
your scars. The same way Alfred will have to live with what you did to him
every single day for the rest of his life.”
Arthur tried to cry, but he had run out of tears. Owen dried him off and then
pulled a large woolen nightshirt over him, carrying him to the second bedroom.
He was tucked into the bed, and when Wales pressed his body against him to warm
him up, Arthur shivered. Despite wanting to do nothing more than pull away, his
own body pulled him in.
These hands were not hurting him like Alistair’s had been. And for his body,
that was enough.
Finally, exhausted and hurting, his eyes closed and he slipped into a dreamless
sleep.
Of course, it wouldn't remain that way. Within days, the nightmares began.
Alistair appeared to have left the cabin entirely, until Wales could put enough
of the pieces back together to get Arthur on his feet, dressed, and out the
door.
And Scotland watched him leave the whole way, arms crossed as he limped along,
Owen still supporting part of his weight.
Arthur didn't have the courage to look back.
He wondered if he ever would.
***
The next time he saw Alfred was at Yorktown. France stood at Alfred's side.
Wales stood by his.
Arthur collapsed. He knelt there and cried. He begged for forgiveness for his
crimes.
Alfred said nothing.
Finally, Washington stepped forward. He said something to the young nation.
Alfred glanced back at England, and then turned and followed his leader.
France gazed at him with an ice cold gaze.
Wales finally pulled him to his feet and dragged him home.
He had lost what was precious.
He had lost his son.
And that was punishment enough.
***
Present Day
Scotland glanced at the door. England was upstairs in his study at the moment,
avoiding the rest of the world.
They had learned to live together again. It had taken nearly eighty years, and
the insistence of Queen Victoria, but they lived in the same house again. For
the years, Scotland had refused, his house had been kept as a refuge for the
colonies when they were scared of their father.
He still remembered one day when Canada had come in, a massive bruise on his
face, infant New Zealand in his arms and young Australia's hand wrapped in his.
Scotland had locked the doors and loaded his pistol, waiting for that drunkard
to come and just try to touch them again.
And in the morning, when he went outside and found England passed out in his
garden, he beat him, screaming obscenities into the sky.
Canada had been the one to pull him away that time, begging him to stop because
he was scaring Kyle and Avery. He had stopped, and went inside and locked all
the doors once more, reassuring the two small colonies that everything was
okay, even when it obviously wasn't. Eventually Wales came along and collected
Arthur, dragging him home. The colonies had stayed with Scotland until after
the bruises had long faded from Canada’s body.
After that, England never tried to hit them again.
But now it was Christmas in the present day, and he needed to set aside old
angers for the excitement of the season.
The door was thrown open, and somehow was still hanging on its hinges as Kyle
strutted into the house, poor Avery wincing as they followed behind. "UNCLE
SCOT! I BRING JOYOUS TIDINGS AND BEER!"
Alistair laughed. Yeah, you're my best nephew alright. "Excellent! May the
booze flow all night long!"
Owen laughed as he stepped out and took some of the packages out of Avery's
arms. "Let me help you, Zea."
Brendan leaned out of his room upstairs due to all the commotion, and Australia
saw him. "NORTH!"
"Do not hug me, I repeat do NOT HUG ME!" Brendan tried to shout as Kyle ran up
the stairs, but the effort was futile as he was swiftly embraced by his nephew.
Scotland chuckled. North Ireland was the youngest of all the people in the
house, making Australia look old and wise by comparison.
Well, wise might be stretching it.
Canada came in shortly after, cautiously followed by Siobhan. Despite the
political conflicts between Ireland and North Ireland, Siobhan loved Brendan,
and she only came to these Christmas parties to see him. She didn't give a
single flying fuck about the rest of them.
Well, at least her brothers. He corrected himself again as she pinched Zea's
cheeks and gave Australia the most exhausting hug possible, squeezing his rib
cage and midsection as if trying to wrestle one of those crocodiles Oz was so
famous for. Really, there were only two people who could compete with
Australia’s hugs, and Ireland was one of them.
Arthur eventually came down, and the Christmas party began. Presents were
unwrapped, and wine, beer, and whiskey freely passed around.
Suddenly, a very light knock was heard on the door. Brendan, desperate to
escape one of Siobhan's drunken hugs (which made her sober hugs look gentle by
comparison), answered.
Alistair was shocked to see Alfred.
Sure, America often invited them to huge holiday parties, but to his knowledge,
America had never come back to this place.
Arthur stood in surprise. In fact, the whole room fell quiet. Alfred looked
straight at Arthur, and lifted up two bottles of beer. Alistair recognized them
as some of the highest ranked beers in the US. "Hey everyone. Merry Christmas.
I was wondering if I could steal Arthur for a minute?"
A nod, and Alistair watched Arthur grab his coat before stepping outside. Part
of him wanted to rush after and supervise them, but he held himself back.
Alfred could take care of himself now. He didn't need help anymore.
***
They sat on a bench. Alfred had opened the beers and they were sipping on them
as they watched the snow fall around them.
"You know, it was on a night like this that I told Washington what you did."
Arthur froze, and then sighed. "Why are we talking about this on Christmas,
Alfred?" He asked. The sky was a dark grey, snow falling slowly. On such a
beautiful Christmas, it was the last thing he wanted to think about.
"Because I... I need closure, Arthur. For over two hundred years, we've acted
like it never happened. I spent so long trying not to fall apart inside my own
body..." He took a swig of beer.
They sat in silence, and then Alfred sighed. "I spent years planning my revenge
on you until... Until Canada told me what they did."
Arthur winced, and took a swig of beer himself, hoping the alcohol would heal
what time had not. "It wasn't anything compared to what I did. You came to me
for help. You wanted to stay with me. And I was the one who lashed out."
America sighed and stood, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cord with
a pendant. Arthur realized it was a small necklace.
England blinked in shock at the sight of it. "Is that...?"
The small pendant was carved in the shape of three figures. A parent and two
children, one on each side and wrapped in the parent’s arms. The last gift he
had given America before the Revolutionary War had begun.
But while the original cord had hung through the head of the parent, a new hole
had been carved below.
Probably because the parent's head had been broken off.
"I did that in a fit of rage... I think I nearly gave Jefferson a heart attack.
Madison as well." He pulled out a napkin and unwrapped it. Inside lay the small
head. "I tried to reattach it later on, but the damage was done. Couldn't fix
it to save my life. Not even hot glue can keep it attached for more than a
week, and that's without moving the cord."
England gazed at the pendant. He had made three. One for him, one for America,
and one for Canada. America looked at him with eyes that seemed so much older
than they should.
"Arthur, we can't change the past. But we can change the future. I can't
reattach your head on the pendant the same way we can't undo that night on
Breed's Hill or that night in Nova Scotia. But I... I want to say that while
I've never said it out loud since then... I still love you."
England was quiet.
"You're still the closest thing I have to family. You're my dad. And I-" Alfred
never got to finish his sentence, because arms were wrapping around him so fast
he was shocked into silence.
"Oh, bollocks, I'm the master of losing things. I don't deserve you for a son."
America took a deep breath and then lifted up England's head so their eyes met.
"Master of losing things? Yeah, you're definitely that. But I suspect there's
still a shred of the old England under here."
And before Arthur could react, America tried to yank one of his eyebrows off of
his face.
There was a yelp, and a shout of "Idiot!", and then peals of laughter rang
across the park. Finally, after a lot of laughter, America handed him the
necklace.
"Think you can repair it?"
"I'll try."
***
A few weeks later, Arthur pulled away from his desk, where he had just finished
whittling three new pendants.
A small figure in the middle, with two figures who were taller of the same
height on each side of the small figure. He stained the wood a dark brown and
set it down to dry.
He selected a length of leather cord and soon got to work. Once all of them
were strung, he looked back at his other piece of work.
Magic had been necessary to fix it. But despite his ability to make it a
seamless whole once more, he left a large, noticeable crack.
He sighed as he tucked the new pendant and the old together into the box. Then
he slipped in the note.
Alfred,
Sorry if this wasn't what you were hoping for. But as you said, we can't change
the past, but we can change the future.
With love,
Arthur
England turned to take the parcel to the mail, but Scotland stood in his
doorway watching him.
"What?!" He asked, partially annoyed.
Scotland pointed at the pendant under England's shirt. "You broke yours the
same way."
It was true. England had broken his own head off of the original pendant and
repaired it the same way he had with Alfred's, leaving a visible crack.
Scotland smiled slightly, a sight England didn't think he had seen in years.
"Sentimental old fool."
England stuck out his tongue as he pushed past on his way to the mailbox to
send the parcel, and Scotland smiled slightly.
There was a time I loved you.
And someday, I might be able to again.
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