I Am Very Funny

I am very funny

Britannia Prima

My first submission for the Historial Hetalia Week 2021! I’ve never participated in an event like this and am super pumped to share my ideas with you all. Thanks so much to the @historical-hetalia-week team for organizing this event! (I’ve tagged this to the best of my ability, please forgive me if I’ve done something improperly and let me know how I can fix it!)

Title: Britannia Prima

Summary: The Roman Empire arrives in the soggy northern reaches of his emperor’s domain and meets the young boy he’s been hunting for decades.

CONTENT WARNINGS:

Brief but distressing physical roughness with a child (who in this case is also an immortal eldritch being/far older than any adult human)

Some vulgar language.

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Londinium, Britannia, Roman Empire

4th Century, C.E.

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It was raining when he arrived in Londinium. Of course it was. It was always raining in these gods—God—forsaken parts. The very edge of the earth, or so they said. Julius stalked up towards the villa as though he himself were a storm cloud descending to punish the landscape, ignoring how the mud splattered onto his calves and the hem of his tunic. He’d travelled all the way from Hispania as soon as he’d received word from the praetorian prefect, and the long journey through the tidal waves of spring had done nothing for his mood.

We found him. That was all the message had said. Him. That detail was news. No surprise, really, there had always been more males than females, when all the lands of the world were accounted for. Julius had already met one of her brats, after all: a son, already making his turns into manhood. But then, he’d seen her pregnant. Now, decades later, there was only left to see what kind of bastard she had produced.

He did not have to knock at the front door, for which he was grateful. As soon as he was over the threshold he threw off his hood, showering cold rain down onto the tiles.

“Where?” He asked, and the servant sent to receive him kept a demure look on the ground.

“In the cubiculum,” he reported, carefully extricating Julius from his cloak and offering him a linen towel for his hair. Julius ignored it, brushing off his hair with a hand and slinging the water to the ground. Without a further word, the Roman marched out of the fauces and through the atrium, where on both levels, there were not a few servants, soldiers, and other assembled house members waiting like buzzards to dissect whatever scraps they’d be able to hear from their perches. Julius ignored them, and hardly waited for the guardsmen to raise their spears before he entered the cubiculum.

“Master Romulus,” greeted the prefect, sounding at once relieved and terrified to see the empire, “I’m glad to see you’ve made it through the storm unscathed.” Julius ignored him.

Jesus Christ and all his disciples, it was a boy. Not a child, hardly more than a woodland wisp like the ones the barbarians spoke of, it was an infant. Decades of searching, Julius fumed to himself, decades. For this. The child was facing away from him, staring out the window into the rain, flanked on either side by guards and a tired-looking Breton nanny. The torchlight caught on his tangled mop of hair, which was far lighter in color than his mother’s, and made it seem as though the strands themselves had caught flame. So light of hair. There is no way he is mine.

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