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fizzycherrycola · 1 year

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UK Brothers, 1900s

Summary: The UK brothers attend Queen Victoria's funeral. Ireland is upset. Scotland is bored. Wales is eating biscuits. And England is being a royal pain in the ass.

Biscuits and Black Parades

Windsor, UK; 2 February 1901

Long fingernails of ice cling to brick, matte and colourless in the overcast daylight. A thin mist of snow alights upon dark, frozen umbrellas and silky top hats. Cold and damp, the air nips insistently at Wales’ ears and he shivers. He shakes his arms, making the frost fall from his greatcoat, impervious to the aura of death and solemnity that, like the shrouds of the snivelling women who today line cobblestone streets, does drape over Windsor’s train station.

Slipping his hand into one of many pockets, his fingers wiggle about, then clasp around paper wrap. He smiles. Pulling the small bundle out, he tears open the package without so much as glancing at the label.

Scotland raises one of his great, shaggy brows. “A biscuit?” he asks. “Where’d you get that?”

“From a bakery in London,” Wales says, gazing at the confection’s fancy crucifix design. “Shop windows were piled with them; you should’ve seen it! Loads of different flavours, too.”

With a crunch, he bites into it, rolling his tongue along the golden-brown edge to avoid spilling crumbs on his ceremonial outfit. It’s a lovely flavour, pungent ginger with a dash of cinnamon, causing his toes to curl. The treat is almost enough to help him forget today’s awful weather.

Ireland nudges him. “Is that a mourning biscuit?”

“Mmm!” Wales nods, mumbling around his mouthful of food. “It is! Would you like one? I’ve got more.” He taps his weighty pocket, which rustles. Naturally, he has several treats stashed in preparation for the long day.

Ireland frowns. “I'm not sin-eating for a Famine Queen.”

Wales deflates. “That’s not fair. It’s only sin-eating if you eat it over her open coffin.”

“No, it’s.... Isn’t it if she’s within spitting distance?”

“But she’s not even that,” Scotland mumbles, nodding at Queen Victoria’s casket.

Slowly, the dark box comes off the train’s platform, obscured by wrought iron fencing and a multitude of onlookers. Ghostly clouds of engine steam linger among the pallbearers – who are equerries, rather than dukes – and they utter not a word while performing their task. All eyes are affixed to the casket, all hands treating it with reverence as it is readied for the final cortege to Windsor castle.

Ireland hums. “Not spitting distance for you, maybe, but if that wind picks up again, I'd probably be able-”

“Shh!!” England hisses, pivoting to glare at his siblings, but making no move to abandon his spot in the procession. “For God’s sakes, will you lot be quiet?”

The trio grumbles. With his soles throbbing in protest, Wales shuffles and is reminded of how relentlessly rigid his dress boots are.

“Feck off,” Ireland moans. “We’ve been on our feet all day in this damn cold.”

England sputters. “All day? It’s only been a few hours!” His eyes flick to Wales, and then narrow. “...Are you eating?”

As if it would help, Wales hides the biscuit behind his back. “Well, it’s already afternoon and I haven’t had luncheon. Figured we were allowed a bite to eat in-between processions. Besides, Her Late Majesty’s not attached to the carriage yet.”

Ireland grins, a picture of mischief. “Aye, that’s military code. Procession can’t begin until the deceased is on the gun carriage.”

“And I’m starving,” Wales pleads.

“You wouldn’t want him collapsing on route to the chapel.”

“Yes, and... well, I don’t think I’d collapse, but-”

“It’d embarrass the whole empire,” Ireland continues. “Just imagine what they’d write in the papers. ‘Great scandal befalls Queen’s funeral! Starving senior officer faints in the parade. Inquiry launched into military’s unprofessional conduct.’ Come on, England, you need to be serious about this sort of thing.”

England pinches the bridge of his nose and curses under his breath.

Weighed down, with the horsehair plume of his helmet shielding his face, he looks strained; and not unexpectedly so. Wales nibbles his lip. The effort his youngest brother put towards this funerary affair was nothing short of extraordinary, as from the hour of Victoria’s passing, the monarchy was frantic. A military funeral for a sovereign was simply not the thing to do, and yet, it was Her Late Majesty’s final request. England ran meetings with army officers, city representatives, and heaven-knows who else, funnelling crucial resources in a matter of days.

It was a race against time to get everything in order before the body... decayed.

With a deep inhale, England draws himself up. “Could you at least try to show some bloody respect? Christ, look at Australia – even he’s being civil. We’re almost at the chapel, and after the ceremony, you can bugger off and do whatever you’d like. But until then, keep quiet!”

He turns away with a huff, back as straight as the Royal Standard flagpole over Buckingham itself.

When Wales is sure that a quarrel is not about to begin in the middle of the street, he risks a glance at his other two siblings. To his right, Scotland yawns. Thankfully.

But, to his left, Ireland is quiet. Rooted within his matching uniform, a defiant lock of carrot hair pokes out the front of his Albert helmet. The metal chin strap looks too tight.

Wales gnaws the inside of his cheek. “...Ireland?” he whispers.

“What?” Ireland asks.

Wales fiddles with the last bite of his snack. “I meant what I said about the biscuits. I’m not helping the Queen get to heaven; I was just hungry.”

Emerald eyes study him for a moment, before Ireland sighs and the ice water tension trickles out of his shoulders. Small wrinkles trace the corners of his lips – the sort that only appear on stressful days.

“Never mind,” he murmurs. “What flavours have you got?”

Wales blinks. “Oh. I think I’ve got shortbread, buttermilk, almond....”

“Pass the buttermilk one.”

Riffling through his pocket, Wales finds the treat and gives it to his brother, and the moment it leaves his hand, his heart is already lighter. Taking it, Ireland opens the paper to reveal an eerie skull imprinted on the biscuit and a card, no larger than a finger, that is tucked in amongst the wrapping. His mouth twists into a wry smile.

“This one has a poem slip,” he remarks.

“What does it say?” Wales whispers.

Ireland clears his throat.

“Thee we adore, eternal Name, And humbly own to thee, How feeble is our mortal frame. What dying worms we be.

Our wasting lives grow shorter still As days and months increase; And every beating pulse we tell, Leaves but the number to be leased.

The year rolls round and steals away, The breath that first it gave; Whate’er we do, whate’er we be, We’re travelling to the grave.”

With an audible gulp, Wales finishes his own biscuit. “Oh, that’s an omen.”

Scotland snorts. “It’s not an omen. They print that poetry shite on half the wrappers; it doesn’t mean a thing.”

“He’s right,” Ireland mutters. “It’s just a reminder, warning humans that everything ends eventually. Lives, families....” He drifts off, eyes glazing for a second or two – and Wales nearly ejects something stupid, like ‘What’s the matter?’ but catches himself – before the whole biscuit is popped in Ireland’s mouth and vanishes.

In the awkward silence, Wales scratches his chin. “It could still be an omen....”

“Don’t start,” Scotland nags.

“Psst!” comes a voice behind them. Turning, Wales sees Australia standing about two metres back with the other colonies. With his wild hair and bright smile, the stuffy, high-necked uniform wholly mismatches his energy. “Can I have a bikkie?”

Wales squints. “A... what?”

“He means a biscuit,” Ireland adds.

“Oh, of course!” Fumbling for the first package he can grab, Wales attempts to pass it to Australia, careful not to move from his place in the unmoving procession.

Beaming, Australia stretches quite awkwardly, as he also refrains from stepping out of position. Wobbling like high-rope gymnasts in a circus, they reach, and Australia’s gloved fingertips are so close, grazing the paper wrap, but then his eyes go wide, and he immediately snaps away, straightening with both arms at his sides. Wales balks. Until goosebumps rise on his neck, and he turns, and England is glaring hot daggers at Australia.

He sniffs. Then, returns to face the front.

Sighing, Wales buries the confection in his pocket and browses the somber scenery for a distraction. It’s the only apt way to fritter time, between the marching and waiting that has swallowed his day.

On their parade through London, they were surrounded by an endless stream of black-clad civilians, much as they are now. Some wept, but most seemed there to merely gawk at the pomp of the whole thing. And who could blame them? The public showing, the decorated horses, the military marching, the trumpets, the gun carriage – all of it is spectacular, designed for spectacle. Past royal funerals were performed quietly. With this display, one may think a monarch had never died before.

The ceremony is not so terrible, though. In fact, when Wales saw the bakeries yesterday, overflowing with gloomy gifts, he chuckled. The occult and superstition are as close as he can get to the old days, when magic beautifully intertwined with history and science. Faint memories of ancient kings who went to their barrow tombs covered in gold and ensured the doorways aligned with the equinox and the stars. Truly, this funeral is a big, macabre celebration of death, as much as it was long ago.

But, for the sake of his family... Perhaps a quiet funeral would have been better after all.

“Why pick white horses?” Scotland mutters. “And bad-tempered ones at that.”

Wales snaps out of his daydreaming. “Horses?”

Scotland points ahead of them. “The ones pulling the gun carriage.”

Eight pale horses are adorned with elaborate gear; fine ostrich feathers, polished collars, and embroidered capes. Their heads hang low, their ears lie flat, and their heavy hooves stomp the frigid earth. “If they wanted cream ponies, they could have got some with better tempers.”

“You’re right,” Wales whispers. “What do you think has them so upset?”

Scotland crosses his arms. “It must be this fucking dreich weather. That, and I’m guessing they’re a luxury type; picked for their prettiness and not much for hard labour.”

Muttering under his breath, Ireland leans closer. “Almost as cunty as the Sassenach himself.”

Scotland grins. “You’re going to catch it.”

“Can’t help myself; not today.”

“...I know.”

“...Where we going after this?”

“Hmm. There’s a pub down Park Street that’s only half-shite....”

Their muted conversation goes on, but melts into the background as a familiar sensation directs Wales’ focus to the animals. The air crackles, ominous and still, as it does before lightening, and a shiver runs up his spine. Something is wrong.

Draped in its white pall, the coffin is at last on the carriage, and all guardsmen, dozens in front and behind, stand ready. An officer calls out for the procession to start, voice booming in the station square, but the horses don’t budge. They resist, as men tap the reigns, insisting they move.

A clink, a clatter. Then, a soldier produces a whip, raising it in the air. Wales’ stomach drops.

Leather strikes with a smack.

The horse squeals. Rearing, its front legs kick wildly. Wood snaps and splinters. And the leading horses bolt, knocking their masters to the ground. Chaos erupts.

Men are shouting. The other horses thrash, whinnying and bucking. Metal clangs to the ground and restraints slip loose. Guardsmen surround them, a mass of outstretched hands grasping at harnesses and horsehair. The carriage jostles. The coffin slips.

“Look out!”

It falls...

...slamming into a gaggle of noblemen, who catch it and buckle under its weight.

The animals dash, dodging infantry. Free beasts, they skirt the edges of the crowd. Two or three trip, collapsing, entangled by their reigns. Twisting, wide eyes fearful, lips snarling. Onlookers scream and the procession scatters. Officers rush to form a barrier. Others try to wrangle the crazed animals.

One creature darts backwards. Galloping hooves crash against stone. It barrels toward Wales, and he jumps aside. The horse blows past, an ivory blur. He slips, shoulder hitting the wet road and it bursts with pain. Cursing, he folds over, helmet scraping cold rock. He grabs his scorching arm, eyes squeezing shut, and takes a few deep breaths, willing his blood to slow, his mind to settle.

Then, flexing, he tests it.

And it moves. Painfully.

His sigh comes out like a bark. At least, his stupid limb isn’t dislocated.

Dragging himself up, gravel sticking to damp wool and skin, he shakes off the dizziness. Small mobs surround each horse; tidal human whirlpools that curve and drive the animals back into submission. Guardsmen are gaining the upper hand, bellowing orders while civilians boo and berate them.

“There are children here, you idiots,” one of them yells.

“What, in God’s name, were you thinking?” roars another.

From the back, Australia brings a horse. It jerks its head back, but he keeps a firm grip on its bridle, hushing it and stroking its neck.

“I saw you topple over,” Australia calls. “Everything all right?”

“Definitely not,” Wales moans, rubbing his throbbing limb. “I smacked my shoulder so hard; I thought I was back at Waterloo!”

Australia laughs. “Do you need any help?”

“...Have you got any whiskey?”

“I don’t.”

Wales releases a long-suffering sigh. “Never mind, I’ll manage. It’ll heal in a minute anyway.”

“In that case, could you wish me good luck?”

“What for? ...Oh.”

Plodding, his smile slightly tighter, Australia leads the horse to England.

Australia coughs. “England? This mare has ice on her hoof walls. It’s just a thin layer, but it’d be enough to put her in a sour mood. Erm... do you know how long these animals have been outside in this weather?”

But England is silent and as pale as the mare before him. Statue-stiff, he gapes at the disaster that’s become of the cortege. “England?” Australia repeats.

England startles. “Right, yes. Well done. Just, um... t-take her over to the lieutenant.” He clears his throat and points to a man. “That’s Goldie. He’ll have the answers and find somewhere to house her for now.”

Australia's jaw hangs for a moment. “...That’s it?”

“Yes, that’ll be all.”

“...Right.” Hesitantly, Australia departs on his assigned errand, horse clopping along beside him.

When he’s gone, England buries his face in his hands, fingers split open around haunted eyes, wilting impossibly further. Then, he trudges away, dragging his feet as he lumbers half-dead toward a cluster of Royal Navy officers that seem to know what they’re doing.

Wales gawks.

“This,” he exclaims, “was definitely an omen.”

There’s a tug on his collar. “Stop havering,” Scotland says, gesturing at the angry crowd. “We need to calm these idiots, or we’ll be stuck here ‘til sunset.”

Wales shoos him off with his good arm, and out of the corner of his vision, spots Ireland. “Oi, Ireland! Can you help us a bit?”

Ireland shuffles closer in a strange manner; crouched as though trying to hide in broad daylight. His wide eyes are sparkling with awe.

“Lads,” he whispers. “I think I did this.”

There is a dead pause.

Heat rises to Wales’ ears, but he keeps his tone even. “...You what?”

Scotland groans. “You unscrewed the fucking bolts on the carriage. Aye?”

Ireland blinks. “What?”

“That was it.”

Wales slaps his idiot brother. “Coc oen!!”

Ireland flinches. “Ow!”

“I was almost trampled!”

“No, that’s not what happened!”

“It is; you just said it.”

“No, listen!” Ireland leans in, arms wrapping around his brother’s necks as he pulls them near, and Wales fights the urge to toss him off. “When Vicky died, I visited the church on Croagh Patrick; the old one, on the mountain. And when I went, I said the rosary – a dozen times at least – and prayed to Saint Patrick and Saint Michael. And I asked them for a miracle, any kind, I didn’t care, but some type of divine misfortune that could happen at this funeral.” He whispers excitedly, quick bursts in hushed breaths, but his face is aghast. “And then... then, I did the same for the fae outside my cottage last Tuesday.”

Scotland squints. “You said the rosary for the fae?”

“What- no. No! I made them an offering and asked for their help, too! I wasn’t sure it would work, but... I mean, look at this. It seems like my prayers were answered!”

Scotland and Wales exchange a glance.

“Actually,” Wales mentions, “I did hear some sort of clatter before the animals dashed off; right before that oaf raised his whip.”

Scotland frowns. “I heard that, too. It could be coincidence... but maybe not.”

“There, see?” Ireland says, a delighted smile creeping up his cheeks.

Wales huffs. “Fine, but you shouldn’t have asked the fae folk. What if someone died? What if you summoned a vengeful spirit and now, we’re all cursed? And I was still nearly trampled!”

“Nearly trampled,” Ireland says. “Not actually trampled.”

“I am going to slap you again.”

“Calm down! Nobody died, right? I gave a massive offering when I went to the fae, so everything should be fine.”

“What did you give?”

“Uh... Potato bread, some shiny crystals, a few rings... bottles of ale and whiskey?”

Scotland interjects. “Isn’t it a conflict of interest to ask both the fae and the saints?”

Wales ignores him. “What if you summoned a demon, then?”

“Can’t be a demon,” Ireland says.

“Why not?”

“Because when I was praying in the oratory, I made a promise not to drink for a year if the saints came through for me. And demons don’t like that. They want you pissed, not sober.”

Wales narrows his eyes and considers this. Really considers this. Scotland and Ireland watch him, waiting with bated breath.

“Supposing it was the saints,” Wales chances, “and not the fae, that did this... how’re you planning to keep your promise to them?”

Ireland slumps, gaze falling to the ground. “Ah, well,” he mutters. “I might struggle with that part.”

Scotland pats his shoulder. Wales sighs, in sympathy and pity.

~~~

As order is restored, improvised drag ropes are brought in, lashed to the gun carriage, and the march finally begins.

Left, right, left, right; leather boots pound cobblestone, as if in defiance of the debacle which just occurred. Her Late Majesty’s gun carriage is towed by hand, by the unluckiest men of the Royal Navy. They drag their heavy load, breath fogging the air, and the general melancholy that earlier befell Windsor station, is eclipsed with wonton embarrassment.

Trumpets sound with a whimper as the parade passes under the grand frontage and onto the main road. New parade onlookers, who were shielded from the commotion by distance, are gossiping. “What took them so bloody long?”

“Mummy, where are the ponies? I thought there were ponies.”

“Why’ve they got sailors pulling the coffin?”

Rolling his healed shoulder, Wales commits today’s scenes to memory. His pockets rustle and he makes note of that, too. He’ll allow Ireland the privilege of scarfing down his half-dozen biscuits, since the poor bastard won’t be able to partake in drinks tonight.

And at the upcoming service, rather than pray for Victoria’s soul, which he wasn’t planning to do anyway, he’ll instead ask for protection against every fae and demon he can name. Because one can never be too cautious when it comes to old magic.

...Goodness, what a spectacle death can be.

End / Fin

~~~

Author’s Notes

Please note, for dramatic effect, I may have played up the danger of the horse-emergency. One source I found described the scene as a well-managed “contretemps”, while another claimed the horses bolted. So, I went with the most thrilling and possibly embellished account, as a treat.

A gun carriage is a wagon that typically transports cannons and artillery. In military funerals, it instead carries the coffin.

Mourning biscuits, common in the Victorian Era, were given out at funerals. Family members of the deceased would make or buy them in a shop before the funeral, then give them out to guests on the day of. The way Wales is eating them isn’t how they’re meant to be used.

Sin-eating is a Welsh custom where someone eats food over the deceased’s coffin to “take on their sins,” thus allowing the deceased to enter heaven.

The Irish Potato Famine occurred from 1845 – 1849, while Victoria was on the throne. For this, she was labelled as the Famine Queen.

Saint Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland. Meanwhile, in Catholic teachings, Saint Michael has multiple purposes. Firstly, he’s the leader of God’s army tasked with triumphing over Hell. He’s also the Angel of Death, carrying souls to heaven and weighing their merit. The Prayer to Saint Michael asks for the faithful to be “defended” by the saint.

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fizzycherrycola · 2 years

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Hello hello! I would love to know how you think the uk brothers + Ireland are acting, when a lovley human being is flirting with them. Or how they flirt if they are in the mood. For cute darling Wales i hardly can imagine that he would flirt by himself (without having a drink)... Whats your opinion an that? I can imagine North and Wales turning completely red first they notice someone is flirting with them. 🤔

Drawing from personal experience as a bisexual, I'd say that a lot of different factors play into how these men react. The gender of the person flirting with them makes a huge impact because they've lived through centuries of homophobia, so their old reflexes are to handle same-gender attraction secretly. And though times have changed, that trauma still exists, so a same-gender human might encounter more caution. For the sake of the ask, I'll assume this is a casual, modern encounter in a pub.

Scotland

Flirter: At first, he acts like he's not too bothered, but his moves are obvious enough. Shuffling closer, buying drinks, but looking away every now and then. He plays it cool until he can determine if the other person is interested, and if they are, his body language and tone shift to something more comfortable. He's secretly a big softie. Flirtee: This man doesn't even blink when a human starts flirting with him. He'll casually sip his beer, stone-faced as he makes a judgement call. As mentioned above, like the rest of his brothers, he relaxes around women and NB folks faster than men, but also around humans faster than nations. Flirting with him takes work, but the payoff is worthwhile; he gives great hugs.

Ireland

Flirter: "Kiss me, I'm Irish!" With a high success rate, Ireland thinks he's smooth, but he's actually just very fun to be around. Incredibly friendly, buying drinks like he's won the lottery, and warmhearted. With a sprinkle of physical touch, he's great at reading the atmosphere and keeping the other person comfortable. Will drape an arm around his new partner's shoulder on the drunken walk home. Flirtee: He's amused and will mess with the flirter, joking and teasing to break the ice. Humour is his defense but, if they pass the test, he'll open up right away and offer a Guinness as an apology.

North

Flirter: Important to note that North is the youngest of the UK brothers, so yes, he's got the least experience with flirting. However, even taking that into account, he's still at least 100 years old (and possibly much older if you headcanon him existing for a while as the Irish province of Ulster.) So, he's just slightly awkward and mimics what he's seen his brothers do. Buying drinks and, with a nervous smile and a faint blush, he tries his best. Flirtee: Happily surprised, he'll turn pink, but not red. Responds well, wearing a goofy grin and chatting openly.

England

Flirter: Will not flirt unless plastered, because flirting invites rejection, and he hates rejection. When drunk, with his walls down, he's affectionate, if a bit of a mess. All sloppy smiles and sincere conversation. Perhaps he's not smooth, but he's lively and... strangely funny? Regardless of how the night goes, the target of his affections can expect amusement. Flirtee: Give him a minute to pick up on it and figure out his response. Anyone flirting with him will have to put in extra work, especially if they're aiming for more than a shag. But, as previously mentioned, women and NB folks will have an easier time. He still has some hang-ups about sex leftover from the Victorian era, so a human could get him to flush if they whisper something very raunchy in his ear, unexpectedly. Or give him a genuine compliment.

Wales

Flirter: Don't let his looks or his size fool you; he likes to make the first move! Wales isn't shy or easily intimidated, he's centuries old and has been with many people, both humans and nations. He's straight-forward, but in a cute way; there's charm in his honesty, how he showers compliments and listens when a human talks. Flirtee: If he blushes, it'll be with an open smile. He gives a quick, positive response to most people flirting with him, talking up a storm and guzzling any booze they offer.

Idc if "flirtee" isn't a word, it's all I could think of atm lol. Anyway, thanks for the ask! My headcanons are somewhat different from yours, anon, but I hope you still got something from my answer. Feel free to send me more questions if you'd like! ❤

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