A Celtic Wind

He almost couldn't feel anything past the blood and bruises.

"Sir....ye know we're surrounded. We've go' nae place tae go." He could hear his men-his people-conversing about the impending doom of the advancing enemy armies. Or. his brother's armies.

Scotland's men had been pinned behind a mere alcove. There weren't many of them left. All were strong, fiery passionate fighters...but that just wasn't enough. It didn't seem like it anyway. They were fighting so hard, so many had died for this one cause, for their rights as people and passion for freedom.

But they were dying.

William Wallace was indeed a valiant leader for all of them, and Scotland dare say, he was quite proud to have such a man be one of his own.

It was easy for the redhead to slip away from the group. He was a nation among mere mortal men. He wasn't quite noticed often by them.

His swollen and bruised, bare feet dragged through leaves, fallen branches and brush as he mingled idly through the dense forest. It was just next to the alcove where the English had pinned them. He needed breath. It was moments like these where he knew history was being made.

And he was all alone.

No-one could come help him..and he was fighting his own family. It made him cringe. He rubbed at his face, dusting a bit of blue war paint from his pale fingers.

Why did this have to happen? Why did that blonde bastard have to betray them all? Did he learn nothing of the Roman invasions when Scotland protected him?

Now he was nothing but an ant under his boot.

He stopped.

Shouts and the clanging of metal on metal ringed in his ears. Not the alcove....had one of his men seen an Englishman? It was towards the open valley to the west. Narrowing his eyes, he sprinted through the trees until he reached the massive clearing.

The battle was well unfolding before him. Blood splattered the green Scottish grass as both English and Scots fell to blades. It was a tiny squabble compared to the massive force the English had approaching. Scotland walked and shoved past men. They weren't looking for him, in war, he knew they couldn't see him. But he was looking for one man. In a battle like this, men fought men. And nations fought nations.

Then someone yelled.

It was England, clad in a mockery of knight's armour. He smirked waving his fingers. Troops moved forward from behind him....but were they peasants? Scotland blinked. Was he stepping below his pride so much to recruit mere peasants to his army? Or were they just pawns. He wanted to spit. Bastard. His own family...he never thought he'd fight, and hate, his own baby brother. It made him feel achingly alone.

On England's command, they charged. Mere blunt tools, farming tools, and clubs in their hands, they charged the equally "barbaric" Scots. Scotland tensed, pulling the sword from his leather belt. Emerald eyes narrowed, and he shoved through the oncoming horde. But England was faster. A sharp knick to his side and Scotland was stumbling back.

"You bloody FOOL. You think you can sneak up on me?" A smack with the sword's blunt end against his temple had Scotland reeling backwards. Stumbling, he swung his own blade, acquired from the body of a fallen English soldier. "I can sure as hell cut ye in pieces!" Their blades clashed, but Scotland was slowly growing weak. His game was off, England delivering multiple knicks. Nation's blood dripped to the grass. "I'd like to see you TRY!"

Scotland was thrown to the ground, the blonde pinning him there, sharp blade pressed to the redhead's pale neck. "You filth...any last words?"

A whistle pierced the air.

"HEY, BASTARD. WANNA STOP USIN' MA MEN?"

Scotland's eyes widened as an arrow flew, and hit its target. Blood poured from the Englishman's side, dripping onto the Scot's bare, blue-painted chest. "F-..fuck..." England threw himself off, stumbling back with a shaky sword in hand.

"I was always pretty damn good with those arrows. Don't ye think so?"

From a nearby tree fell a cloaked figure, but Scotland recognized his wavy orange hair almost immediately. He smirked, but his eyes glowed with happiness. "Ye feckin' eejit...."

Ireland removed his hood, offering his brother a smile. "Need a hand?"

It was then that Scotland remembered...

He wasn't alone after all.