Frostbite |CountryHumans|

The Disrespect!

Thursday, August 25th. 

"Training day, blah blah blah, rules, blah blah, don't kill each other, blah bleh blah blah blah, the end." 

Scotland was barely awake to hear the UN's addressing speech. He was too busy dozing off and almost falling face first into his toast and untouched coffee. He was so tired that he could have fallen asleep even with all of the noise and chatter in the grand hall. 

Only the sounds of his worst nightmare could snap him into attention. Screeches, wingbeats, scratching, caws, and squawks; the most mail so far this year was being delivered. Hundreds of winged animals flew into the hall from the open ceiling, air dropping packages onto tables and landing for letters. 

One of these unexpected airdrops was slightly off, making contact with Scotland's head. 

"Pffft, that's what you get for staying up all night, you idiot workaholic," England teased as her brother rubbed the back of his neck. 

"It isn't my fault that dragons have horrible aim," Scotland complained while looking at what exactly just tried to give him a concussion. 

"Ooooo, the combat uniforms are looking crisp this year," Iceland commented; her package didn't assault her. 

"Just in time for a training day, yaaay," Norway added unenthusiastically. 

"Isn't your fight the next one in the tournament?" England asked the Norwegian. 

Norway sighed, "If I win, I have to fight the Qin crazy, if I lose, Kalmar's name is getting thrown in the garbage." Scotland didn't think about that; losing a battle is one thing, but an elite losing a battle to a lower ranking kingdom...ouch. 

"So, are you going to chicken out, thinking about what is to come, or are you going to put effort into it?" Iceland encouraged. Norway sighed again. 

The Scot was just listening in as he sipped his drink. 'A day fully put to training...neat.' He didn't bother opening the package, since everyone was getting the same thing, their kingdom's combat wear. 

Iceland was pissed at her brother, "Oh come on, you aren't actually thinking about forfeiting to a fifth year!" 

- - - 

One heated conversation and mealtime later. 

"I am so going to beat your ass this time," England stated cockily. 

Scotland yawned, "As if I'll ever let that happen." England tried landing a punch, just for her wrist to be grabbed before her knuckles made contact. "Muscle memory and reflexes can only dampen, never leave fully," Scotland reminded her, giving her wrist a good twist before letting go. 

England held her aching joint in her hand, rolling it around, she mouthed "Motherfucker". 

Scotland tiredly looked around, it was a very bright morning, the lake waters were calm, some of the tree leaves were beginning to change their colors, the castle stood ominously behind them, and he was just becoming aware of how many flipping combat courts were scattered around. 

"Which court are we using?" He asked stupidly. 

"The one that we are walking to. Are you kelping blind?" England said in her head voice. 

"You know, sometimes I wish that I couldn't see your face," Scotland insulted. He deserved the smack that came with that statement. That gravel under tractor wheels crack of a smack. The kind of smack that leaves a red mark on your cheek, so bright that it looks fake. The kind of smack that England is always dealing out.