Hetalia Historical One-Shots

Viking Invasion of Ireland

Ireland, 800~ AD

The brown-haired man sits at the bar, rubbing at his dirtied forehead with his palm. The dirt smudges and sticks in his thick eyebrows, weighing them down. He sighs, slugging back another drink. The days in the fields had gotten longer, food being scarce and the people of his home fighting with other nations... and themselves. The kings of the small kingdoms that had made up Ireland were constantly arguing, picking apart at one another while the young man was forced to sit and watch. 

Cian sighs again, propping his face on his palm and staring out the warped window at the people rushing around. 

"What're they doin' out 'ere?" He mutters to the bartender, raising an eyebrow. The older man pauses to stare out the window and shrugs. 

"Must be another problem with the surrounding villages," He grumbles. 

"Still? I thought that'd be over a while ago," He sits back, jumping as a loud bang fills the room. 

"Mister Cian!" A little boy yelps, grabbing at his arm and spilling at his drink. 

"What's it?" He mutters, slipping off the stool and leaving some coins on the counter as payment for his handful of drinks. 

"Finngaill! On the coastlines!" The boy shouts, unaware of the annoyed stares he got from the other patrons. 

"Finngaill? Who?" The young man asks, raising a thick brown eyebrow. 

"The fair folk! From the north!" The boy pouts, tears welling in his eyes as his small hands shake. Cian winces, ruffling the boy's greasy brown hair as he strides towards the door. 

"Okay! 's okay! I'm sure it's nothin'!" He mutters under his breath, sweat forming on his eyebrows. His brothers had warned him of the northerners, and he'd heard stories of the viscous vikings pillaging villages and monasteries. He marches down the streets, brushing past people and mutter things under their breath about him being rude. 

A woman grabs his arm, yanking him back and making him yelp in surprise. She gulps, sweat pouring down her face and tears in her wide brown eyes. "The finngaill-" She pants. "They're in my husband's village, please..." She chokes a bit, hands shaking on his arm. He pauses, emerald eyes wide. He turns, placing both hands on her shoulders. 

"Where? Where are they?" The woman, shaking, points north, towards a small village called Rechru. He nods and runs past the small houses and shops, tripping over loose animals or trinkets. 

He finally makes out of his small hometown and books it through the fields, running past the hills and forests. He crosses his arms in front of his face as he sprints into the thick forest that separated the two villages. He sprints, tripping over a loose root. He falls forward, pain burning up his side as he gets tangled in the vines and roots that had surrounded him. 

"Not now! Fer the love o'-" He cries out, screaming in frustration as he yanks at the roots. Small glimmers of light emerge from the treetops and float around him, surrounding him in a chorus of tiny bells and the chatterings of faeries around him. They yank at the roots, their tiny hands able to undo the small knots weaved in his clothing. He scrambles up, nodding at the small beings before running through the rest of the forest. His hands and knees bleed and burn, but he ignores the feeling and continues running until he reaches a clearing. 

His chest and legs burn as he heaves for air, sprinting over the top of the large, grassy hill to see large, black clouds filling the sky above the small village. Irishmen and women run past him, screaming as a small wagon brushes past him. A loose metal beam scrapes at his arm as he's able to just barely duck out of the way. He hisses in pain, grabbing at his arm that seeps blood through his dirty tunic.