Work Text:
England slips out of his bed, leaving the sheet askew as his tiny feet patter through the empty castle. Outside, through the occasional window, the moon shines in a serene light, but the child isn’t interested in admiring the stars tonight. Candles are the only things to guide his path, but he knows the layout of the palace like the back of his hand.
The shouting reaches his ears before he even rounds the corner, angry voices echoing through the stone walls. He has half a mind to stop and wait - surely his father would be done soon, and lately Wessex had been in a foul mood (more than usual, at least).
On the other hand, though… England frowns as he recalls the nightmare that had haunted his sleep just a few minutes prior, and while his father might not want to be disturbed, he never explicitly said to not disturb him.
The voices become clearer as he nears the door, which has already been left cracked open. Warm candlelight - or was it the fire? Seeps out from the crack, spilling out into the dark hallway. He pauses by the door, hand hesitating to push against the wood. The people inside sound angry, tired, or just sad. Is it really a good idea to interrupt his father about a nightmare?
Just to be safe, England tilts his head so that a single eye can peek through. He shuffles closer, hiding in the shadows of the corridor so that he won’t be spotted by any passing palace servants - if they’d caught the young incarnation out of bed so late, he’d surely be in trouble. Through the small gap, he can make out his father and aunts and uncle in the room.
Mercia is facing down Wessex, her hands clenched into fists as she yells, fury straining her voice. Wessex’s expression isn’t visible to England from where he stands, but from the tension in his arms, he knows his father is mad. The kind of mad Wessex got when England accidentally broke a plate and spilled his dinner all over his clothes.
The resulting scolding had made him forever eat slower, careful not to twitch too much (which was another thing Wessex often griped about in his son).
The fire crackles, shifting shadows and revealing two more in the corner. East Anglia is leaning in a chair, looking pale. Beside her, Northumbria is watching Mercia and Wessex with worry, occasionally glancing down as if he was afraid East Anglia is about to pass out. England frowns, trying to get a better look - East Anglia had been effectively quarantined for days now, and nobody would tell him why he couldn’t play with his aunt. His view is obscured by the thick doorframe, though.
The arguing redraws his attention. Mercia is talking now, anger blazing in her eyes. “You always think you know better, don’t you?” She shrieks, grabbing Wessex’s shoulders and shoving him back. “You act like we all have time to wait for you to fix everything, because everything always has to be about you-you-you even if we’re dead or dying-”
Wessex stumbles, stepping away from his sister. “Because I’m the only one who does anything! ” He shouts, pointing to East Anglia. “Look outside of your grudge, Mercia! East Anglia is at the seams and you keep acting like a child! It doesn’t matter who’s right or wrong, your pride won’t get us anywhere-”
“ My pride? That’s rich, coming from you-”
“Oh, please, don’t act like you’re-”
Northumbria stands, swiftly crossing the room to get between the pair before they start getting physical again. He holds a hand out to both, something desperate in his eyes. “Wessex, Mercia - please, can we not do this now? I thought-”
“Be quiet, Northumbria.” Mercia hisses, trying to shove past him to get to Wessex, who eyes her with contempt on the other side of their brother. “Once he gets it through his thick skull that not the entire world waits for him-”
A hacking cough draws the attention of everyone in the room. East Anglia is bent over, a hand over her mouth as she wheezes painfully, something rattling in her chest that makes England’s own ribs twinge in sympathy. Northumbria levels his siblings with a furious eye, returning to East Anglia and murmuring words of concern as he rubs a hand against her back, trying to get her to breathe.
Silence settles.
Wessex shifts, uncrossing his arms to turn to his sister. “Anglia,” He says, his voice soft - “The Danes are on your coast already.” The kingdom steps closer, resting a hand on East Anglia’s shoulder. Northumbria eyes him uneasily from her other side. “Come south, sister.” Wessex murmurs, so quiet that England has to strain his ears to hear his father. “Whoever you have left, take them and come to my lands. We’ll -
I’ll
protect all of you.”
East Anglia doesn’t respond, only staring down at her hands.
Mercia cuts in. “And what then?” She growls, circling closer to the group. “One of us goes to you, what next? We hand over everything to you? Let you play king with all of us?”
Wessex frowns at her, his hand slipping from East Anglia’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Mercia’s fury morphs to something like incredulous amusement. “You - “ She cuts herself off, a cackle escaping her lips. “Oh, isn’t this just ironic? Hah! My dear brother, you are perhaps the biggest hypocrite I’ve ever seen. Wouldn’t do that? Please!”
“I wouldn’t.” Wessex repeats, a calm in his tone that seemed somehow worse than his fury. Mercia doesn’t seem to care, only snickering at his response.
“Oh,” She wheezes. “You wouldn’t? You wouldn’t? Tell me, Wessex, did you tell that to Essex too? Before you swallowed his territory whole when he trusted you - Did you tell that to Sussex? Kent? You are an awfully good liar, do you know that?”
Wessex’s hand strikes her cheek before Mercia can react.
England sucks in a terrified breath.
Mercia stumbles, holding a hand to her face.
Northumbria springs forwards, his previously passive demeanor replaced with hidden strength as he grabs Wessex and shoves him to the other corner of the room. Wessex’s expression flickers, for a moment - just a brief glimpse of regret, before he falls limp under Northumbria’s grip, unable to struggle against his brother’s strength. Mercia is shouting. Northumbria is too. East Anglia raises her head, eyes widening in horror as she stares at her siblings.
In the chaos, England’s hand presses a tad too firmly on the door, and it slowly creaks open, revealing the child’s form hidden behind the wood. The room dulls to a slow quiet as his father and his aunts/uncle stare at him, wide-eyed as he is.
England clutches his fingers into his nightclothes, his heart skipping every other beat. His throat is dry.. “I - I had a nightmare.” He stumbles over his words, feeling something like tears prick the corner of his vision, and he tries to rub them away with a small hand. He can’t cry now, not when they were all looking.
Northumbria wordlessly releases Wessex’s hands, and his father walks to England. England searches his face for any hint of emotion - anger, fury, surprise? But he can’t glean anything from the curve of his lips or the shape of his eyes. Wessex doesn’t reprimand him for staring, only holding England’s hand in his own in and steering his son out of the room in silence, walking him back to his bedroom. England glances back at his aunts and uncle, wide red eyes still half-confused over what he’d just witnessed. None of them meet his gaze.
They’re in view of England’s door when Wessex releases his hand, slowing to turn and crouch down in front of his son. England tries again to read his father’s face, but there’s nothing to find.
“England.” Wessex says softly, but there’s an undercurrent of steel in his tone. “Listen to me very carefully, okay?”
The child nods.
“Don’t trust anyone. Do you hear me?” Wessex’s eyes bore a hole into England’s, and England swallows dryly. “Not Mercia, not Northumbria, not East Anglia - not even me. Nobody.”
England’s throat burns with unsaid questions - why? How? What if they were really nice? Did that mean he had to be paranoid of everyone all the time? But he only nods again, trying to burn the phrase into his mind. Don’t trust anyone.
Wessex gives him a quick smile, something almost proud in the grin that makes England light up. He smiles back, warmed by the rare praise, and his father carries him to the bed and tucks him in. England finds himself fast asleep in minutes, nightmare forgotten.