I wanted somewhere to put my HCs and after one of my favourite tumblr blogs suggested I should post a couple of my HCs that I sent to them via anonymous asks (Oumaheroes), I figured I would repurpose an old blog me and a friend of mine were going to use, but never did. On this blog, I'll be chiefly focusing on Britain and more specifically England, as that is where I am from. I've never watched Hetalia and I tend to look at the *canon* and ignore it entirely so my HCs will not match up with the show most likely, nor will the characters, but it is very much inspired by Hetalia blogs I follow as well as the general idea of anthromorphising land-masses.
Nice to meet you all!
One of the many times Wales had to rescue England from his own hare-brained schemes. Regaled to an exasperated Portugal and to you, dear reader.
Historical folklore UK bros (with a hint of Engport) fic set between 1605 and 2026.
Shrewsbury Museum, Shropshire, 2026
Portugal frowns as he peers into the brightly lit cabinet, reading the affixed label for the finds of a wetland archaeological survey.
“Aren’t those the earrings I gave you?”
“No.” England lies.
“Did you throw them away? I thought you liked them?” He accuses, sounding faintly offended.
“No! I mean, I did like them!”
Gabriel raises an eyebrow expectantly.
Arthur rubs the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
Shropshire, near the Welsh border, 1605
“Are you sure this is necessary?” Arthur gripes as they secure his hands behind the stake. With chains, this time, instead of rope.
“Shut up, devil-whore.” The man spits, yanking the chain tighter than necessary.
“Look you already killed me once and you know it doesn’t work.”
The man shudders, as if remembering Arthur sitting back up after being mauled by the dogs they’d set on him. The bastards had clawed one of his best shirts.
The man shuts his eyes and vows as if praying. “The Lord’s vengeance shall soon be upon thee.”
“I’m just saying that I’m the third witch you’ve killed this year. Don’t you think you might be getting a little paranoid?” His new king is fanatical about the witches and daemons supposedly plaguing his kingdom.[1]
“It is our duty as servants of God,” the man says solemnly. “To weed out evil where we find it.”
“The last one you burnt just because her neighbour’s vines died.”
“Death unto death,” he whimpers.
“Look I just don’t want you wasting all this wood.”
“God have mercy on your soul.”
“Oh, very well,” England tests the give of the chains and the thick wooden stake creaks under his nation strength but does not snap. The pile of wood under his feet is insufficient for a proper burn, which means he’ll likely smoulder and choke to death.
“I suppose you should get on with it then.” He suggests helpfully.
The fellow staggers backwards, muttering under his breath, and the vicar steps towards him with a lit torch. Arthur’s nostrils flare at the smell of smoke and his hands instinctively clench and tug again at his bindings. He restrains the urge to flinch during the vicar’s sermon every time he brandishes the spitting torch close to the kindling. He should go to death with dignity at least. But it’s almost impossible not to track the movement of the flame with his eyes.
The vicar touches the torch to the kindling and, as he’d thought, it smoulders. The wood is too green, cut down in eager haste. The acrid smoke stings his eyes and burns his throat. He tiptoes as much as he can as the heat steadily builds, and his whole body instinctively fights the bindings with the desperation of a snared rabbit as flames slowly start to lick upwards. Is this how she’d felt?
THUMP.
England looks down and sees the arrow impaled in his heart. A quick merciful kill. He only has a moment to be grateful before his consciousness slips away into the cool, shallow pool of half-death.
---
Arthur wakes up to a cool, dark room and a splitting headache. Voices murmur downstairs in what Arthur guesses is a public house, which means he must be in the next town over at least. A chair is pulled up beside the bed, as if someone had been watching over him, but the occupant is nowhere to be seen. A longbow and a quiver of arrows is propped up in the corner.
The sheets feel stifling and he’s soaked through with sweat where the healing processes of his body have generated immense heat. His soul is back, but he waits for the rest of his body to catch up.
His fingers and toes gain pinpricks of feeling as blood rushes back into the tiny capillaries. His stomach gurgles horribly as his digestive system grinds back to life, and he tastes metal in the back of his mouth from acid pooled in his throat. His diaphragm pings like a bowstring as it settles back into place. He tests his smoked lungs and throat, humming a hoarse tune into the room.
The door opens mid-tune and Wales bustles into the room backwards, carrying a bowl and cup in his hands and kicking the door shut. His hair is longer than when England last saw him, dark and curly and loosely tied back. When he turns, he has a moustache and pointed beard in the current court fashion.[2] He is dressed for the road in a dark doublet, with sensible ribbons at his knees securing the ends of his trousers to prevent draft. A pair of worn leather gloves have been abandoned on the foot of the bed.
“Oh, good you’re awake. I thought I heard you.”
Dylan insists that he came up with the melody, whistled between them over centuries of campfires and journeys across rolling plains.
His brother sets the bowl and cup down on the small bedside table and Arthur smells some kind of pottage with lentils and peas. He’s suddenly so hungry it hurts so he tries to sit, kicking back the sweat-sodden bedlinens.
“Easy,” Dylan murmurs. He helps Arthur up and hands him the bowl and a spoon. Arthur takes it and lifts the spoon to his lips with shaking hands and manages to get about half of the spoonful in his mouth.
“Thank you,” he croaks with his new throat after a few bites when he can think straight again. He glances pointedly over at the bow and arrows resting innocuously in the corner and thinks of curling flames and grey smoke.
Dylan pretends not to see it and makes him drink the cup of hot water with verjuice and honey. “It’s not much. You’re lucky I found us a room.”
Dylan is the best marksman of them all whether his weapon is a bow or a matchlock musket. The arrow through Arthur’s heart had been a perfect shot, carefully and precisely delivered. There was no luck involved.
“It’s good.”
His brother grunts to accept the veiled compliment. He settles on the edge of the bed. England’s hand has stilled its incessant trembling as the food settles in his belly and Wales fusses and taps his hand to remind him eat slower. There’s a faint crash and someone cheers downstairs. Wales gently brushes a spider away as it crawls over the bedsheets. There's dozens of them up in the rafters, recently hatched.
“How did you end up on a bonfire anyway?” Dylan finally asks.
“What are you doing here?” Arthur counters evasively.
“Delivering the king’s messages. Now you.”
Arthur shrugs. “Cursed their well.”
His brother rolls his eyes. “And why’d you do that?”
“For a laugh.”
“Arthur.”
“So that they’d have to go to the marshes for water.”
Wales frowns. “What? Why?”
“For Ginny Greenteeth.”[3]
“You didn’t bargain with her, did you?”
“Not on purpose!”
“What do you mean not on purpose?”
Arthur shrugs defensively, eyes darting anywhere but Dylan’s searching gaze. For a second Dylan can see a much younger boy squirming out of consequences for his mischief.
“I took something from the marsh.”
Dylan pinches the bridge of his nose. “You took something from faerie waters and didn’t think that might constitute some sort of bargain?”
“I didn’t know it was her marsh. She used to be further north.”
“What even was it?”
England mutters something unintelligible under his breath.
“Put your teeth back in.”
“A brooch.” Arthur says louder.
“A brooch?”
“Not just any brooch!”
Wales growls. “No, no don’t say it. You nearly got yourself burned over a piece of faerie jewellery?”
Arthur shrinks because Dylan’s anger is scarier than Alasdair’s for its rarity. “It’s manmade,” he ventures.
“Oh hag’s teeth Arthur!” Dylan cuffs him across the head. “I’ve met magpies less covetous.”
Arthur frowns and eats another spoonful of pottage to avoid replying, too embarrassed to admit the truth about the bog. And anyway, it was hardly true. He’d met magpies with far more egregious aspirations of wealth.
“What did you curse the well with?”
“Pig’s blood in the water.”
Wales makes a face. “You might be the first witch burnt to actually deserve it. I should have left you up there.”
England doesn’t feel particularly apologetic towards the people who had tried to kill him twice over, so he just slurps the dregs of his bowl obnoxiously.
“You should remove the curse,” Dylan says with a tone of reprimand—like one of the king’s bench judges. Wales has served justices before—he has the right level mind and sense of equity for it.
Arthur wipes his chin and puts the empty bowl down. “I’d owe Greenteeth then.”
“You got yourself into this mess you can get yourself out of it. Just give the brooch back.”
England blanches. “I’m not giving the brooch back.”
“What could be so special about some damn brooch?”
He shrugs again, refusing to meet his brother’s eyes. It’s part self-consciousness and part exhaustion, as the meal after his overnight resurrection has left him sleepy and warm.
Wales brother sighs and shoves him over. “Rest more. I’ll chew you out properly in the morning.”
---
Under the cover of night Arthur dresses and sneaks back to the village. He undoes the curse on the well, scuffing over his hidden curse-marks on the bottom of the bucket. It’ll give fresh clean water in the morning, and the parishioners will congratulate themselves for having burnt the right person.
What had been his house has been picked clean floor to ceiling. England reaches up and brushes his hand over the rafters over his bed. There, concealed from prying eyes, is the gold and red enamel brooch he’d taken from Greenteeth. He thumbs the trefoil patterns as he sneaks back to the inn Wales had taken him to and climbs back into bed as slowly as he can. Dylan snorts and rolls in his sleep but does not wake. Arthur sleeps with the brooch clutched to his chest.
---
“This is what you took from the marsh?” Dylan gapes, dropping his spoon into his porridge with a wet splat.
Arthur scuffs the toe of his boot under the table, looking down into his oats. “If you don’t want it, I can just give it back.” He reaches for the brooch to take it out of Dylan's hands but his brother snatches it away.
“What do you mean, give it back? This is my brooch you know.” Wales says indignantly but his eyes are gentle.
England shrugs, embarrassed. “I thought you might miss it.”
“I haven’t seen this in centuries.” Wales reverently turns the brooch over in his hands, feeling the pin tip for sharpness. “It looks the same as it did the day it went in.”
“You dropped it?”
Dylan nods absently. “I was carrying you, I think. You’d gotten an infection in your foot, and you didn’t want to walk.”
He pins it to his doublet. It looks completely out of place against the new fashion. But it makes Wales look a touch more how England remembers his earliest memories of him.
“I recognised it when I saw it,” he says.
Wales brushes a thumb over it. “I’m surprised you remember it. You would have only been little.”
There’s an unspoken truce between them. Siblinghood comes at the price of justice. Wales had lost his laws, his kings, and his sovereignty at the hands of England’s Plantagenets. Who in turn were not really England’s Plantagenets at all but descendants of France’s wayward nobility. Arthur can’t give Dylan his kingdom back. All they can do is remember and maintain the act of brotherliness. Dylan is a better man in that way than Arthur is, who still wants to tear Francis’ throat out even though his kings have not been French for a long time.
For now, at least, Arthur is away from court and Dylan, as a king’s messenger on the border between England and Wales, is closer to the crown than he is. In a year’s time it may change, and trouble is brewing around the crown’s anti-Catholic stance.[4]
“So…you’re happy to see it?” Arthur fishes for approval in a way he’d never admit to in front of his European allies and enemies.
His older brother grins. “Well let’s see if we can offer Greenteeth something else.”
---
“No.” The green hag sneers. “I’ll drown you.”
“You haven’t even considered it.” Wales replies in old Welsh and waves the brass belt buckle at her.
“I don’t want your new trinkets. I want that,” a long spindly finger reaches for them from the ragged edge of her brown cloak dripping with slime and bladderworts. Greenteeth points stubbornly at the gleaming brooch affixed to Dylan’s chest. “Back.”
“It’s not even yours,” Dylan plants his hands on his hips.
“Is mine!” She cries indignantly, spitting a fragment of broken mossy tooth in rage. “Is mine and the Wessex boy took it.” She splashes the stagnant black water around her at them, glaring at Arthur.
“I dropped it and Arthur returned it to me. That’s only fair.”
Greenteeth grumbles. “Dropped it so long ago.”
“I could say there is a dirwy due for not telling me when I dropped it.”[5]
Greenteeth licks her teeth, weighing her options against the grave charge of concealment. “Give me something else.”
Wales makes a show of turning the buckle over in his hands and considering it. “Something else?”
“Yes.”
Dylan reaches for Arthur’s ear and pulls out the golden hook through his ear lobe.
“Oi!”
Dylan shushes him and presents the earring to Greenteeth, and her yellow eyes light up with curiosity.
“Dylan,” England growls. “That was a gift from Portugal.”
“Hear that Greenteeth? This is all the way from Lusitania.”
Greenteeth blinks like a frog and turns the earring over in her hands, shaking it so that the enamel starburst jangles in the low grey light.
“Do we have a deal?” My brooch for the earring?”
Greenteeth peers suspiciously up at Wales. “They’re a pair. Both earrings.”
“Deal,” his brother says happily.
“Dylan!” Arthur says indignantly again, but his brother elbows him hard then smiles beatifically at him when he grunts.
“Give her the damn earring.”
Arthur reluctantly hands it over, mourning the loss of Portuguese gold. Greenteeth snatches it and cups the jewellery in her hands, stroking over the delicate enamel work.
“And—” Dylan reaches into their shared bag between them and pulls out a handful of baby spiders, scuttling and rolling over his hands like smoke at the sudden low light. “These. Just a few bites and your teeth will be as white as milk.”
“Like milk?” Greenteeth murmurs covetously, reaching out for the handful of baby spiders.
“By oak, ash, and thorn,” England swears solemnly.
Greenteeth stuffs the spiders into her mouth and rolls them around, chewing and making a face around globs of black spittle.
“Well?”
Greenteeth swallows and grins hopefully at him, showing a row of mossy crumbling teeth and chewed up spiders’ legs wedged between them.
“You’ll make the queen of fairies herself jealous,” Wales says.
Satisfied, Greenteeth thrusts her hand out and crunches another mouthful of spiders when Arthur hands them over.
“We have a wedd?”[6]
Greenteeth hums and nods. “I will spare you this time, green sons of Brutus.”
Shrewsbury town, Shropshire, 2026
Portugal raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Spiders?”
“Spiders.” England affirms solemnly.
The other sighs and stirs his coffee with the pink spoon provided by the trendy Danish café they’d dived into to escape the rain. He sips it, makes a face, then tears open two packets of sugar and dumps them in.
“So, am I out of trouble?” Arthur aims for light-hearted but even to his own ears it lands as a spurned husband hoping his wife will let him back in the house for dinner after staying out too late.
Gabriel’s lips pull up slightly around the rim of the coffee cup. “You’re forgiven, though I have a bone to pick with Dylan now.”
“Be my guest,” Arthur exhales, happy to be out of the line of fire.
They sit in comfortable silence, listening to the bustle of the café and the baby babbling at the table next to them and watching the rain slide down the window.
Gabriel frowns as if having recalled something and swallows the mouthful of pastry he’d been chewing pensively. “And what about that ring I gave you—the one with the carnelian? Cost a fortune. You’d better have that at least still?”
The ring is deep in the caves of the Peak District with one of the pixies who had demanded a toll fare for Arthur to leave the faerie circle he’d carelessly stepped into. To break one ring, you must gift another.
Arthur clears his throat. “Well. You see…”
Historical notes
[1] Referring to King James I (VI of Scotland), who actually wrote his own book ‘Daemonologie’, which endorsed the witch-hunting craze.
[2] i.e. the Stuarts. The fashion in the seventeenth century tended towards fuller facial hair and pointed beards.
[3] A grindylow hag-figure from English (particularly the Shropshire/Cheshire/Lancashire counties) folklore who pulled unsuspecting victims under the water in bogs and marshes.
[4] In November of the year this fic is set the Gunpowder Plot will be attempted and Guy Fawkes discovered as one of the co-conspirators. Soon after that, England will establish its first North American colonies, fundamentally changing Arthur’s place in the world and in his relationships.
Thinking about how 1,500+ years of life doesn't make Arthur a good father, but it does soften him up.
The rediscovery of Beowulf as the long 19th century begins and the first 100+ years of translations use the root word aglæc to describe both Beowulf and Grendel's mother. For Beowulf, the translators used "heroic." For Grendel's mother, "monstrous."
Arthur spoke that natively, his second language after his mother's Bythronic. He can remember the long house, warm with crowded bodies and the fire, smoky but pleasant. He can remember the voice of the bard rising and falling, the shadows in the shape of heroism on the wall flickering in firelight. He can remember the delight and shudder and communal thrum of each reaction. He can remember the loudest laughs and gasps coming from the great lady at the head of the table, who is the reason he is fed, clothed, and alive, who also holds the seax of all free people at her waist and commands the space.
His youngest two children sit in his Victorian library, perhaps with the neighbors' children, listening to their father at his finest and their uncle at his happiest, telling stories no human has heard in a thousand years. One too many glasses of port at dinner and a glug of brandy, and they're on their feet, telling tales. One or two of his mothers more than populate the compilation of the Mabinogion, and, of course, Arthur's Beowulf. And they listen as he once listened. To his mother, his sister, his brothers, and the bards. Watching shapes on the wall, the delight of triumph, and the grip of the tale.
His eldest, if not his firstborn, is content to listen from a spot apart. Leaned in a doorway, always curious about what came before the Normans made English as much of a mix of French and English as he himself. Actually understanding, born of the effort to please rather than just being entertained as Arthur wheels into a rush of English older than anything, tinged with Mercian vowels.
His next boy, social through and through, reacting as much to a sweep of the arm or an exaggerated face as to the expressions of the other children, running a finger over the illustrated copy open in his lap, eyes flicking between everything, excitement itself, holding onto the sounds because they are musical and there's nothing he loves more than melody. He will learn every song a thousand years and more can teach, but for now, he listens, concentrating on holding still.
And his last child. His girl. The very, very best of him. She holds herself high, back straight with interest, listening intently, following better than the other children despite little more inthe way of knowing. She is mouthing words, memorizing them for later, packing them away, He bounces around in the same language, between the oldest words and the newest. Her hands are on her knees, kinetic with the tale. She can be so still, but now she is alight. He finds himself telling her the story. Looking at her, facing her, orienteering like Jack does. She doesn't hide her expression and the monsters are always her favorite part. Grendel's mother takes action, moving the story, and she frowns. Rhys feigns pulling a sword from a sheath and raising it up, but the expression disappears. Zee is patient; she always has been. Time bounces across a sentence as he continues.
He knows the words of the translation; the book in Jack's lap speaks next. Grendel's mother, a woman, a wretched woman. This from aglæcwif, of the same root as speaks to Beowulf's heroism. The men will translate and transform. She becomes a wretch and later hell-bride, monstrous, evil. And later, the women translators will call her a warrior, and a mighty one at that. They are not that far yet, not in this long 19th century, but he can do better. For she as no wretch.
He can hear the bards of a millennium before, deferring to the great lady of the hall who sits in the great chair, circlet low on her forehead. The way his mother sat was commanding and tall. The bard bowed before her as he spoke the next words. His youngest before him, her back straight, He looks at her, her bright eyes are on the page near Jack's finger, and she is frowning.
Again, he hears the Bard's words and the deference there.
Grendles mōdor / ides, aglæcwif. He knows the words. He has spoken to them so often, but for so long. Zee looks up at him. She is not nameless. She is more than his daughter as the great lady was more than wife or mother. She looks at him, and he wonders if she knows. Neither helll bride nor monstrous nor wretched. He drops to her level, one knee down in a homage that is suddenly less ridiculous. She meets his eye, and he will see steel there before long. He knows the word he wants, what Zee is.
I’m so excited to finally share my Hetalia oc with you all!! She’s existed for a while now, but I’ve finally managed to make a proper introduction for her! I’ve always been obsessed with these chibi chibi character sheets Hima posted to his blog, and I think I did a oretty good job at recreating the style!
Her human name is Ellen Corlett Kirkland, and she’s related to the rest of the uk bro’s and Ireland. In the family line, she’s the third oldest after Scotland and Wales. Her cat's name is Carrey, which means friend in Manx! If you have any questions about her, feel free to ask! I’d love to answer.
I share her with my irl best friend, @quicksilvergardentower who drew her first design shown below!
This is a cosy historical fic about England's relationship to his land and to magic over the ages, and the giant sleeping under his coastline.
Historical notes at the end. The only important ones going in are that (1) Arthur is Æthelwulf in my headcanon before he changes it to Arthur (the name of Alfred the Great’s father seemed fitting), and (2) Wæs þū hāl means, more or less, ‘be in good health’ before English had the word ‘hello’.
Thank you so so much to @humble-aeruscator for listening to me ramble about giants, for all your amazing ideas about the nationverse, and for being so welcoming to a new writer in the hetalia fandom!
1068
England rips out another handful of grass and tosses it over the edge of the cliff in frustration. The wind playfully blows it back in his face and he splutters.
He’s getting cold. And he should be elsewhere. William will be angry. His new bastard-king has a quick temper and an even quicker hand. The king is staying nearby to settle a rebellion,[1] and Æthelwulf has walked for two days just to get away from him. He’ll be punished on his return, he’s sure.
Wæs þū hāl little kingdom.
England jumps hard at the deep rumbling pitch which vibrates through his feet into his bones. The giant speaks so slowly, like every syllable is dragged up from the depths of the ocean.
“It’s not fair,” Æthelwulf says out loud, now that he has a familiar audience.
Life never fair little kingdom.
“At least you get to rest out here. I have to live with him.”
Another rumble that sounds like faint amusement. The spine of blackened rock breaching the ocean surface rattles, and a flock of seabirds screech as they take flight. You could rest in sea if want.
For a moment it’s tempting, and Æthelwulf dares a meek look over the edge. It’s a long way down.
“I can’t breathe under the sea like you do,” he settles on an excuse.
Giants not breathe, Wessex.
Æthelwulf shakes his head. “I’m not Wessex anymore. I’m England.”
The sea breaks violently against the giant’s hunched back as he settles. Wessex. England. All same. Soon you become more than England.
Æthelwulf snorts derisively. “How? There’s no more island left to become something else.”
More lands. Across sea.
Is he talking about France? The thought alone makes England angry.
“France is on my lands.”
No. Over other sea.
The other sea? England has no idea what the giant means. He speaks strangely often, like he can see things in the future that Æthelwulf can’t.
“Will you come up to see me?” England asks hopefully. His mind has conjured a hundred different facsimiles of the giant’s face and he burns with curiosity. Do giants have hands? Teeth like headstones? Eyes like great sea pearls? Dripping clumps of seaweed for hair?
Not today little kingdom.
England rips out another handful of grass.
1139
Wæs þū hāl little kingdom.
“They’ve written a book about you.”[2]
The earth underneath Æthelwulf rumbles as the giant stirs with something between amusement and curiosity. A book?
Technically it’s a book about England, not Gogmagog, but he’s in it and that has to count.
“Yes. About the giants and the first men.”
The rumbling pitches lower, as if Gogmagog is recalling unpleasant memories. Threw me in the sea.
“Corineus?”
Yes.
The silence settles. Gogmagog (that’s what they said his name was) is very still today, and the sea laps lazily around the hump of his back. England runs his hand over the grass around his crossed legs and adds more to the little pile he’s been collecting.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, for lack of something better to say.
Æthelwulf is in book?
“Yes, it’s—” England’s brow furrows as he thinks on how to explain Geoffrey’s history to Gogmagog, who doesn’t seem to have the same concept of men’s lifespans as England. “It’s a book about how the first men became kings of my lands, and about their sons and daughters.”
Why need book? Æthelwulf remember.
He shrugs. “They want to make sure they remember too I suppose.”
Gogmagog muses on this. Æthelwulf forget?
“Of course not!” England says loudly into the wind, indignant at just the thought.
Gogmagog rumbles, as if he doesn’t believe him.
“Will you come up to see me this time?” England ventures. Maybe he could persuade Gogmagog to help him subdue Cymru. Swinging an oak tree like a great club and drowning his brother’s fields in saltwater.
Not today little kingdom.
England sulks. “You always say that.”
1497
“Gogmagog?”
The wind whips around England’s face, stinging his eyes and branding salt into his cheeks. He’s lying on his belly, right at the edge of the cliff, and for a long time it’s silent. England is starting to get bored when he finally hears it, the faint rumble of wakefulness off the shore.
Wæs þū hāl little kingdom. The voice is slow, sleepy. It vibrates through his stomach and chest where he’s laying down.
“We just say hail now,” Arthur corrects, but deep down he’s feeling warm relief in his chest that Gogmagog answered.
Strange man thing, Æthelwulf. To change words.
He almost feels bad about correcting Gogmagog again, but that name sounds so old and useless now that he can’t resist. “Not Æthelwulf, Arthur. My name is Arthur.”
That gets Gogmagog to stir properly in interest, and the sea crashes against him and the cliffs below.
What wrong with Æthelwulf? Æthelwulf good name.
“It’s old-fashioned. Nobody uses names like that anymore. And Arthur is a good name too.”
Arthur not as good name.
England pouts. “Yes it is, I chose it! It’s the name of an old king.”
Gogmagog seems to ponder this. Why king name good?
Arthur settles into the stories he’d heard many times over. “Arthur pulled a sword from a stone, which made him the king. Or maybe a lady from a lake gave it to him.”
Arthur suddenly has an idea, and he tips his head over the edge of the cliff to look at Gogmagog properly. “Could you give me a sword?”
Gogmagog’s answering hum sounds angry, and a spray of rocks tumbles from his back into the sea with a rattle and a splash.
No. No sword. Will not give.
Arthur looks up to the horizon with a pout. Gogmagog’s next hum is gentler.
What else this king do?
“He had a group of loyal knights—men who serve the king—and he went to the other lands and fought the Romans.”
Gogmagog does not recognise this word. Romans bad for Arthur?
England isn’t sure how to answer him. “The Romans were very strong,” he finally settles on.
He’s leaving out a part of that particular tale, about King Arthur slaying the giant at St. Michael’s Mount on his way. He’s not sure Gogmagog will understand that the giant was evil. And that Arthur was a good king because he was a strong and noble warrior.[3]
Gogmagog grumbles at England’s vagueness. You did not see me for long time. Long long time.
England knows this but he’s surprised Gogmagog noticed under the sea. “Sorry. I was busy.”
More big now. England supposes he is. He’s a squire now.
Why here?
Arthur exhales heavily, frustration bubbling under his skin. “The people near this land rebelled.”
Rebelled?
“Fought against their own king.”[4]
Gogmagog had been a king of the giants once, so perhaps he understands the weight of the crime. The earth hums. You killed them?
There’s a lump in England’s throat and he swallows angrily. “I had to. They were going to burn London. My heart city.” He plunges his hands into the grass around him and rips out handfuls of it, squeezing it into a dense green ball in his hand.
Gogmagog shifts, the rocky edges of his spine creaking. For a moment England thinks he’s going to breach the sea, huge and terrible, but he settles again.
Throw them in sea for me?
“What? No!”
Why not? Sea for dead things. Arthur will throw many men in sea.
“No, not…not dead people. Dead people get buried in the land. Or…” Arthur makes a face. “Cut into pieces. Rebel leaders get cut into four pieces as punishment and the king puts their heads on spikes on London bridge.”[5]
Sea would be more good.
“No, it wouldn’t, not for people. They have to be in consecrated ground for when Christ returns.”
Would look after them.
It might be the nicest thing Gogmagog’s ever said. Or maybe he just gets lonely between Arthur’s visits.
“I’m here to make sure no more people rebel,” he replies lamely.
When you kill them, throw them in sea.
Arthur throws the little wad of grass he’s been collecting in Gogmagog’s direction.
“Will you come up to see me if I do?” England thinks maybe his people would stop marching to London if there was a giant keeping watch.
Gogmagog rumbles. Not today little kingdom.
“Not little. You said I was bigger now.”
Gogmagog rumbles again, slower, lower, as if he is sinking further into the depths. Sea more big.
1690
England is getting tired of waiting. He’s managed to escape London for a while, but he can’t sit on the clifftop for days on end waiting for Gogmagog to answer him. His new Dutch king is in a bad mood. Parliament had just passed a new bill limiting the prerogative of the crown to exact excessive justice, impose financial burden, or practice violence against England’s people.[6] It’s a sensible bill, and Arthur admires the thought behind it. In his coat pocket he has a copy of John Locke’s newest book on the human mind and how humans acquire knowledge. It feels like its weighing him down on one side.
“I’m going to leave in a minute,” he threatens. It’s a cold grey day. He pulls out a handful of grass and lets it float through his fingers on the wind. He feels a little bit like Alfred, the petulant, impatient child that he is.
“Gogmagog!”
There’s no response and Arthur growls in outrage. Fine. He takes the book out of his pocket and starts reading where he left off.
‘…that the existence of God is made clear to us in so many ways, and the obedience we owe him agrees so much with the light of reason, that a great part of mankind proclaim the law of nature…’[7]
He’s so distracted that he almost misses the faint grumbling from the depths of the sea.
Wæs þū hāl little kingdom.
England ignores Gogmagog for a brief second, making sure to finish the sentence he’s on, before closing the book and sliding it back into his pocket.
“Took you long enough.”
There’s a long silence and England wonders if he imagined him.
The land is loud.
“The land?” England frowns.
Loud. Underground.
“Oh mining. It’s the mining you can hear. They’ve started using gunpowder. It’s a much more efficient way to mine for ore.”[8]
Make stop?
“I can’t. We need the copper and the tin in the ground to make bronze for cannons.”
Gogmagog doesn’t reply and the wind whips into England’s clothes, chilling him.
“Don’t you want to know what I’ve been doing?” he asks.
There’s no response.
“Will you not come up to see me?” England demands. If he could witness Gogmagog then perhaps he could understand him better. It’s not fair that Gogmagog expects him to keep coming back on pure faith alone.
“Are you even there?” England stands up and yells into the wind, angry.
A low rumble echoes up from underneath England’s feet but there’s no answer.
“Fine, have it your way!” England snarls, turning on his heel.
He looks back over his shoulder and pauses, just in case. The sea is flat, grey like the sky, and the hump of black rock in the water is unmoving and implacable. All of a sudden, despite his recent growth and his wardship of his new colonies, Arthur feels very young and very, very small.
He turns and storms away. “I didn’t want to talk to you anyway!”
1802
Arthur very nearly doesn’t bother. He’s travelling on the road from Totnes to Plymouth on business. The Royal Society of London has sent some scientists into Cornwall to work out why the tin and copper-miners all die so young.[9] Arthur is accompanying them, glad for the break from London and maps and kings and councils. They’re barely a couple of hours into the journey when Arthur calls out for the carriage to stop.
“Sir?” one of the scientists, Cooper, enquires when England steps out.
“I’ll meet you in Plymouth later. I have an old acquaintance in the area I have business with.”
“Very good sir.”
The walk from the road to the bay is bracing, criss-crossed with stone walls and sheep placidly grazing on the neatly divided farmland. By the time he reaches the coast he’s tired, hungry, and thinking about the warm hearth he could be sat in front of in Plymouth by now if he’d only stayed in the carriage. It’s almost evening, and the sky is putting on an eye-watering display of orange and pink clouds over his head.
England settles himself on the edge of the cliff.
It feels silly to talk to the hump of rock standing out from under the waves. But he’s come all this way.
“I’m here,” he says finally, with little conviction.
Nothing happens. Arthur huffs and pulls out a handful of grass to inspect it. Red fescue. Common bent. A sprig of purple thrift. The sunset reaches its glorious crescendo, sinking like molten ore from a crucible into the horizon.
“There will be a war again soon. I can feel it. France’s new consul is pushing for it.”[10]
England’s not sure why he’s confessing. He hasn’t been Catholic for a long time. But it feels cathartic to finally speak out loud what everyone in London is too afraid to say in words.
There’s no response from the rocks. Of course there isn’t, he tells himself. He doesn’t even bother to ask Gogmagog to come up to see him.
Angry with himself for wasting his time, Arthur stands and turns his back on the sea.
1936
England had been in the area when he’d heard of a shipwreck being towed and beached just beyond Salcombe harbour. They’re worried about the hull splitting and thousands of tons of rotten grain leaching into the water.[11] A gaggle of amused spectators are peering over the cliff edge, with the youngest daring each other to crawl closer, all under the watchful eye of the farmer’s son. Each time a new visitor walks up the boy thrusts his hand out expectantly, explaining it’s a shilling to cross these farmlands and look at the wreck. Arthur pays the boy and peers over the cliff edge. It’s a pretty ship, a Finnish clipper with tall elegant masts. The water around it is turning a murky brown as the ship leaches oil and grain out of the compromised hull. Shame it wrecked.
Arthur looks past the crowd to the stack of black rock breaching the sea just off the headland of the bay.
For a second he entertains the ludicrous thought of speaking to it.
Arthur scoffs and mutters under his breath quietly enough that no-one else can hear him. “Foolish. There’s nothing there.”
Something grumbles in his bones. No-one else seems to notice, though. It’s a hot day and he hasn’t eaten or drank anything in a while. Indigestion. He tells himself firmly.[12]
2026
The clifftops around Salcombe are well-managed. Arthur has walked across them via a neatly kept trail with helpful National Trust posts directing him to stay away from the edge.[13] After a quick glance to check he was alone he had left the path, wading through the long grass to sit on the top of the cliff over Starehole Bay. From stair, one of his very old Gaelic words meaning passage. Or crossing. Arthur can almost feel Alistair frowning with disapproval at his shoddy translation.
The wind is always brisk here, ripping up from the Atlantic to hurtle down his coastline. It tastes like salt and something wild. The hump of rock off the point of the coast is still there, but it looks greener than England remembers. As if it hasn’t moved for a very long time.
He dares not say anything out loud. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for. Some hum. Some faint rumbling stir of life. He keeps looking out to the opposite end of the cove and the jagged edge of the headland. Maybe if he pretends to not be paying attention it will happen. He plaits grass between his fingers absently, just so he has something to do.
The cliffs in this bay are inert volcanic schist, as the helpful information board had informed him at the start of the trail. Arthur risks another look at the sea stack. Nothing happens.
“Are you…there?”
He feels faintly ridiculous. The boy who never grew up, still trying to talk to giants.
“I’m here. I’m…” he pauses. There’s no word adequate, and he’s still learning how to take accountability for the last few centuries. “I’m sorry I forgot.”
There’s no sign that anyone has heard him.
He waits for a very long time.
Eventually, England gets up to leave, abandoning the plait and brushing the dust off his jeans. He turns his back and starts to pick his way back up the grassy bank to find the path.
A sigh deep from the ocean stops him in his tracks. The sea crashes and seabirds scream behind him as something large moves below the surface, breaching like a great whale, hands resting on the cliff face to support a dripping body rising from the seabed.
A deep, gentle voice rumbles up his spine, clearer than it’s ever been.
Wæs þū hāl little kingdom.
Historical notes
[1] At Trematon castle, a Norman stronghold.
[2] Geoffrey of Monmouth’s “Historia Regum Britanniae”, finished around 1136. The ‘first men’ that England and Gogmagog are talking about are the legendary figures of Brutus of Troy and his men, including Corineus who, according to Geoffrey, slew the giants that lived in England and established human settlements. Corineus killed Gogmagog, king of the giants, and threw him off the coast of Cornwall near Plymouth. The nearby Starehole Bay, where I set this story, is in Devon under modern boundaries, but having visited the area it’s one of the more remote spots on that bit of coastline and has a sea stack, so I’ve set it as Gogmagog’s resting spot.
[3] There are many versions of the Arthurian myths and legends stretching back centuries, but Arthur is thinking about Malory’s ‘Le morte d'Arthur’ in this case, which was first printed in 1485 and would probably have been accessible to him in the 1490s.
[4] The Cornish Rebellion of 1497, put down by King Henry VII at Blackheath outside London, was raised over heavy taxation imposed on the Cornish.
[5] Hanging, drawing, and quartering became the accepted punishment for treason in England sometime around the fourteenth century, though the practice is much older.
[6] The Bill of Rights, 1689.
[7] From John Locke’s "An Essay Concerning Human Understanding", published in 1690.
[8] Developed in 1689 in Somerset.
[9] Arsenic. It’s arsenic.
[10] Napoleon Bonaparte, who came to power in 1799.
[11] This is a real case of a clipper ship called Herzogin Cecilie running aground in the area in the summer of 1936 and being beached at Starehole bay.
[12] This is a slightly tongue-in-cheek reference from Arthur to “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens.
[13] The National Trust is a heritage and natural conservation charity which looks after almost 900 miles of coastline in England and Wales.
Seagulls wheeled ahead, their noisy cries filling the air as the three padded their way down a narrow path; It wound through tumbling gorse and over tufts of heath, some vestige of footsteps trodden over centuries upon centuries.
England paused briefly to regard the white cliffs, now reduced to a bright trail along the horizon before they tumbled into the North Sea; For many years, England had stood here and felt anxiety claw at his rib-cage. For many years, this was the wall between him and danger - perhaps it still was, England worrying his lip with his teeth as Scotland sauntered past him with a loud groan (A sword to the back; Splintering vertebrae as his brother collapsed at England’s feet. Northumbria would remain his for now).
With the Sun shining on his face however, and a quickly melting ice-cream in his hand, England sank onto the bench alongside his siblings. He readily leaned back, overcome with the realisation that he was with them for the first time in…days, weeks, months? Perhaps it was years, and nothing had brought the three together; Aside from their own desires, pulling them together no matter how far apart they’d become. England almost wanted to ask Scotland and Wales what had brought them here.
But, he dared not disturb their peace - England sighed with the satisfaction of their presence, of their shadows stretching over the dusty path together. Swinging one leg over the other, he leaned back against the bench’s headrest; A lonely ice-cream van had been their respite, and England was glad for it. ‘’...This is nice, eh?’’ He mumbled to no-one in particular, watching the sea quietly.
‘’Mhm.’’ Scotland hummed lightly, prodding his ice-cream with a spoon. He knew his brother was proud of his countryside; Of the South Downs and the Lake District, England could get very sentimental about it - and although Scotland was liable to wax poetic about his own countryside, he also knew that his ice cream was rapidly melting in the summer heat. ‘’Aye, it is.’’ Scotland drew in a deep breath (salt lined his lungs; bringing forth some tangle of memories, half-drowned and half-forgotten). He took a spoonful of his ice-cream, casting a ponderous glance towards England’s half-licked ice-cream before it flickered towards Wales’ portion (mint choc-chip, or as Scotland had teased on their way down towards the cliffs; Toothpaste flavour, to which Wales rebuked whether Scotland had ever brushed his teeth - an argument, that for a change, was mostly just silly claims over each other’s dental hygiene). ‘’Say England, do ye ken what that bird is there?’’ A black figure stood on the cliffs, stark against the pale chalk. ‘’I told you about it once.’’
‘’Eh? You mean when I was a child?’’ England replied, turning to peer at the bird in the distance.
With no hesitation, Scotland leaned forward - and took a great bite of England’s ice-cream; He leaned back smugly as his brother whirled around, eyes bugging in offence. ‘’...That was the bird.’’ He snorted, beaming impishly at his brother. ‘’Cormorants fly real fast, didnae ken that?’’ A crafty bugger - as Scotland might’ve put it, as he watched England’s eyes narrow. ‘’Consider that the older brother tax.’’ He teased, shrugging coolly. ‘’I don’t make the rules, it’s just the way it is.’’ Scotland licked his lips with satisfaction, humming as he glanced innocently at Wales; Who was shielding her ice-cream with her hand, watching him with suspicion. ‘’Oh Wales, you’re breaking my heart.’’ He crooned softly, biting back a snicker (mischief flashed in his eyes - as Scotland mimed wiping a tear from the corner of his eye).
‘’...I’d never dare steal ice-cream from my favourite sister.’’
‘’I’m your only sister.’’
Wales slowly began to stand up, shielding her ice-cream close to her breast as Scotland followed - some strange dance down the dusty path. ‘’Scotland! If you touch my ice-’’ Her voice broke into a shrill shriek as Scotland lunged forward - cold hand around her wrist, narrowly dodging a kick to his shins. ‘’-You bastard!’’ Wales hissed as Scotland took a bite of her ice-cream, huffing as she watched her younger brother wipe his mouth. ‘’England, attack!’’
England (not wishing to lose any more ice-cream to Scotland) looked up sheepishly, ice-cream cone awkwardly pushed into his mouth, cheeks puffed out in a suspiciously cone-like manner. ‘’Um-’’ He glanced down at his feet, scuffing them in the dirt. ‘’-I’m a bit busy?’’ Laughter bubbled in his chest as Wales sighed, tutting something or other about England choking if he didn’t chew his food (it tugged at his heart-strings, a sense of nostalgia; England wolfing down a bowl of rabbit stew, his belly aching afterwards and Wales telling him that she warned him so). ‘’Mhmph’’
Wales’ eyes goggled at the sight - and then the corners crinkled with mirth. ‘’Are you a squirrel?’’ She teased, snickering as England awkwardly swallowed (for a moment, Wales though he might choke for real - and yet he simply turned his eyes towards her, wide-eyed as if stunned by himself). Any disagreement that she might have had with Scotland over these so-called sibling taxes was forgotten, as her knees trembled with laughter - Wales wheezing as she sat back down onto the bench, sinking against the headrest as Scotland joined her, laughing soundly too.
‘’Aye, I think he is.’’ Scotland wheezed, chest heaving as he leaned forward; Arms on his knees, the Sun warming his back as he rocked with laughter. ‘’Jesus Christ-’’ He snorted, shaking his head as he reached for his ice-cream (carefully placed on the bench - so as not to be spilled while he took a younger brother tax from Wales’s ice-cream). ‘’-Hey…where’s my ice-cream?’’ Scotland jerked upright, staring at Wales in disbelief as she stared back at him, eyebrow raised.
‘’What?’’
‘’I rightfully took my younger brother tax from you.’’
Wales scoffed, shaking her head. ‘’I didn’t touch your ice-cream.’’ Her gaze flickered towards England, spotting the small plastic tub in his hand. ‘’Maybe you should ask squirrel-boy behind you?’’ She teased, watching as Scotland’s eyes snapped towards England; Astonishment on his face as familiar as ever (she remembered Scotland learning very quickly that a young England who didn’t want to bathe was very liable to pull Scotland in after him). Wales snickered as England shot up from the bench - shoving a spoonful of Scotland’s ice-cream in his mouth with a satisfied hum, darting down the little dusty path as his brother swiped at him, complaining loudly.
‘’I’m rightfully taking my younger brother tax!’’ England exclaimed, scooping another spoonful of salted caramel into his mouth; He hummed in approval, giggling as Scotland chased after him.
‘’Don’t eat it all, you prick-!’’
‘’Piss off!’’
The cormant watched them disdainfully from the cliffs, as Scotland and England chased one another through the tumbling gorse and over tufts of heath, winding their way back up the path. It seemed to sigh, shaking its sleek black head - before taking to the air with a flap of black wings.
They’re all there now, his new brothers along with himself and Alba. Young Cymru, short, stout, and gentle. Albion younger still, all bones and teeth and impatience. Mama is gone. Lost somewhere a few years ago, when they woke up one morning to find her missing, nothing there but her favourite cloak laid over them all still warm with the smell of her. Cymru too, lain awake teary eyed and refusing to speak of it.
He is ten, he thinks, physically. Two hundred, maybe more. Ériu’s body is taller, shadow longer and fuller. He feels more capable, at any rate, and notices how their people change in their manner towards him, parental to deferential, opinions asked for more and more. His people, his brothers’, theirs- the lines between them grow sharper every year.
Ériu is careful.
Does not go out alone in bad weather. Prays to the Gods before crossing the sea, never goes in when it is rough. Walks along paths well-trodden unless in a group, plans meticulous watches with Alba when they travel alone together at night, listening keenly to the hungry sounds of the forest whilst the other sleeps. He thinks before he does, debates and considers the risks before every action. Where is the danger? What could happen? How can I stop it?
Alba knows what he runs from. He says Ériu is too cautious. Says that death will come for him eventually and putting it off will only make it worse. Says that Mama spoilt him with her fretting and that he is rotting inside for the privilege. Despite himself, Ériu knows that he is right. It is worse, waiting with it. The expectation and fear of the inevitable fermenting inside him, growing and swelling and making him throw away food he cannot afford to waste because he is unable to convince himself that the colour is right.
But Ériu does not want to die. He hears Alba cry out sometimes at night, knows that he muffles the dark memories of one particular rainy day into his pack and pulls Albion closer when he veers towards deep water. And Ériu recoils from it.
They’re all there now, his new brothers along with himself and Alba. Young Cymru, short, stout, and gentle. Albion younger still, all bones and teeth and impatience. Mama is gone. Lost somewhere a few years ago, when they woke up one morning to find her missing, nothing there but her favourite cloak laid over them all still warm with the smell of her. Cymru too, lain awake teary eyed and refusing to speak of it.
He is ten, he thinks, physically. Two hundred, maybe more. Ériu’s body is taller, shadow longer and fuller. He feels more capable, at any rate, and notices how their people change in their manner towards him, parental to deferential, opinions asked for more and more. His people, his brothers’, theirs- the lines between them grow sharper every year.
Ériu is careful.
Does not go out alone in bad weather. Prays to the Gods before crossing the sea, never goes in when it is rough. Walks along paths well-trodden unless in a group, plans meticulous watches with Alba when they travel alone together at night, listening keenly to the hungry sounds of the forest whilst the other sleeps. He thinks before he does, debates and considers the risks before every action. Where is the danger? What could happen? How can I stop it?
Alba knows what he runs from. He says Ériu is too cautious. Says that death will come for him eventually and putting it off will only make it worse. Says that Mama spoilt him with her fretting and that he is rotting inside for the privilege. Despite himself, Ériu knows that he is right. It is worse, waiting with it. The expectation and fear of the inevitable fermenting inside him, growing and swelling and making him throw away food he cannot afford to waste because he is unable to convince himself that the colour is right.
But Ériu does not want to die. He hears Alba cry out sometimes at night, knows that he muffles the dark memories of one particular rainy day into his pack and pulls Albion closer when he veers towards deep water. And Ériu recoils from it.
The next morning, the split skin around his shin is hot. ‘What’s wrong?’ The next, it is even hotter. ‘Hey.’ The third day, worse.
FIVE SENTENCES. JUST FIVE. and you tell three days of building dread in less than 25 fricken words????? MASTERFUL. fuck me. this is SO good. I forgot how well you skim across history with such masterfully selected details, so we get a vivid taste of the setting and place, but a veritable FEAST of characterization.
the communal home the cloak and disappearing in the night of their mother the way he can tell there are people further down because the air isn’t thick with human stank/that humidity that arises with close bodies. man this is just packed with the world they’re living in without dragging at all its just chef’s kiss.
Finally. You took ages.’ Albion glances at him, then away. His eyes are red, ‘Thought you might be dead for real.’ ‘You’d be lucky.’ Ériu’s throat is dry and dusty but his voice is still there. Albion grins and gets up to get him water, carefully and quietly stepping around Cymru still asleep next to him. Alba is there too, arm around Cymru as if to keep him in place.
MA’AM god baby jack is just like his dad here fuck im emotional.
also The way you wrote how his senses kind of dissolve into the sensations is so dead on with that kind of decline in health
also Wales needing to be on top of a mountain!!!! baby mountain goat
Albion, the little shit, just lazing on his back eating berries, gah, I fucking love this so much still, and I can’t believe I didn’t properly tell you at some point!!!!!!
A lot of people, including myself before have claimed that this fandom is ‘dying’. My opinion has changed since joining tumblr. I don’t think that things are that bad just yet because people are still very much in the fandom.
The problem is that we aren’t very active. This is what I’ve noticed so far.
1) The Popular Blogs Aren’t Active: To have and keep your fans, you need to make consistent material, rather than posting occasionally. It’s what makes people excited and inspires them to create their own content. Even if it’s just one post a day, it’s still really important to post (if you can, of course), as it maintains people’s interest. Especially when you have such a large platform of followers!
Don’t get me wrong, there are some amazing Hetalia blogs that post several times everyday, and I’m always looking for new ones to follow!
2) Not All Fanart Is Equal: Another thing about our fandom is that new artists aren’t given a chance to thrive. There are amazing new artists out there, but people only reblog the work from the popular blogs. Why not all? If you see great content, reblog it regardless of how much attention that blog has received.
3) Reblog Reblog Reblog: Reblog everything, friends. The more you reblog, the more people see content and want to get into it. Simple!
4) Fanfiction: The fanfiction community hardly has any responses nowadays, in comparison to what it used to be. Fanfic authors spend hours of their spare time for free to create stories for you to read and enjoy. It’s so important to follow, favourite, and review. Most of the time, authors reach out and post material to connect with their audience (as is with artists too). If there aren’t any responses, then they aren’t going to bother posting. Good Fics have gotten a lot of people through some tough times, so I would hate to see that part of the community die out.
If you have an account, support the stories you read. It makes no sense not to, and any comment, no matter how short, means the world to them. It doesn’t take you nearly as much time to support a story as it does to create one. Don’t be lazy if you’re a reader – the stories aren’t going to create themselves, they need encouragement and praise to continue :)
5) SUPPORT ALL CONTENT: All art, stories, head canons, RPG’s, RPs, and anything else in this crazy fandom needs to be supported. If you love the fandom and want it to thrive, support is your greatest tool to make it happen.
I know some people are going to think I’m being melodramatic by writing this. Or perhaps I care too much. Still, I think the Hetalia fandom deserves better. Sure, there’s some really freaky content, but we’re a bunch of history nerds and weirdos anyways, so whatever, as long as you’re not being offensive.
This is the one fandom that I haven’t ever gotten bored with. The concept of countries being personified is just so ripe with creativity and potential. There is so much you can do with the large list of cast members, i.e. the mecca of ships and AUs. We’ve created a ton of content thus far, so why stop now?
We’re a community, so don’t you think we should start acting like it by becoming active again and supporting each other? The fact that we trended last week makes this even more possible!
Weighing my two pence here from the woodwork, I do also think that Tumblr’s new design has had a huge impact. My feed automatically goes to ‘recommended for you’ rather than 'following’, whereas in the past following was all that I saw
As a writer blog fan engagement is already so much harder to catch as writing is long form art that can’t be enjoyed quickly. It needs dedication from a follower to read, not to mention then reblog and engage with. As such it’s less memorable/ harder/ slower for fans to spot amongst everything else
Hiding mutual’s work behind the recommended churn further removes the chance that it’s seen
