yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flair) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
metamorphosis2010-03-26 04:16 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-03-26 04:16 pm
Entry tags:
54;
Title: Gold
Characters: Portugal, Spain, England
Rating: G
He and Portugal had found it in the late 15th century. An entire land, full of new people and new culture and, most importantly, of new nations. They had felt it on the wind, standing on the same beach, sharing a look and parting ways. Spain was only here for investigation; Portugal was the one who was here to settle. Watching his brother’s back fade into a point in the distance, he felt a twinge of disappointment.
He pushed it to the back of his mind and set out, puzzled at the growth and the animals, laughing childishly when, out of the blue, a wolf tumbled. He was heading north, away from where Portugal headed (‘The first one will be Brasil,’ he had said, ‘Brasil! And it will be warm, and as far away from you that I can manage. And that stung, it did, almost as much as when England had grinned at Portugal’s words and kissed him on the cheek for good luck, leaving Spain with only a warm hug.) and to his own discoveries.
This new world, this new land – and it was all his. From side to side, from the dense jungles to the stretching desert, from the beautiful cities of gold – gold! Beautiful, precious gold! – to the wild savages that lived there. All of it, his.
And Portugal’s of course. On his side of the line. That was his. Who needed it anyways? Spain had found gold.
The spun gold that he remembers pressing his lips to, soft and not-quite meek, belonging to a teen with a pair of searching green eyes and a book of Catholic prayers. He fingered the ruby beads on his own, kissed the golden cross, and pocketed it. England had had his own, too – made of wooden beads, painted green with the careful precision of gooseberries and various plants, and when he had shown Spain it he was covered in different colors and looked cheeky, like a little kid, so proud of his own creation, those eyes sparkling in mirth and happiness – and the silver cross was beaten; but it wasn’t silver, but it was iron beaten too much, so much it looks silver in the cascading moonlight when the rosary was limp in his hands, slumped against Spain and an arm nestled around his waist, exhausted and smiling softly, and Spain had sincerely never seen the boy at such peace, and hadn’t woken up until way into the afternoon prayers.
Matins weren’t that important for the weary.
So he pondered this, weaving his way and cutting his way and taking the treasures, taking the riches, all the way until he was back in Europe, watching them unload it, with the said teen beside him, fingers playing with the hem of his threadbare coat and watching the shiny objects in pure fascination.
“And you found all of this- all of this, just across the ocean?”
“Mmhm! Isn’t it wonderful, Inglaterra?”
“Glorious.”
Characters: Portugal, Spain, England
Rating: G
He and Portugal had found it in the late 15th century. An entire land, full of new people and new culture and, most importantly, of new nations. They had felt it on the wind, standing on the same beach, sharing a look and parting ways. Spain was only here for investigation; Portugal was the one who was here to settle. Watching his brother’s back fade into a point in the distance, he felt a twinge of disappointment.
He pushed it to the back of his mind and set out, puzzled at the growth and the animals, laughing childishly when, out of the blue, a wolf tumbled. He was heading north, away from where Portugal headed (‘The first one will be Brasil,’ he had said, ‘Brasil! And it will be warm, and as far away from you that I can manage. And that stung, it did, almost as much as when England had grinned at Portugal’s words and kissed him on the cheek for good luck, leaving Spain with only a warm hug.) and to his own discoveries.
This new world, this new land – and it was all his. From side to side, from the dense jungles to the stretching desert, from the beautiful cities of gold – gold! Beautiful, precious gold! – to the wild savages that lived there. All of it, his.
And Portugal’s of course. On his side of the line. That was his. Who needed it anyways? Spain had found gold.
The spun gold that he remembers pressing his lips to, soft and not-quite meek, belonging to a teen with a pair of searching green eyes and a book of Catholic prayers. He fingered the ruby beads on his own, kissed the golden cross, and pocketed it. England had had his own, too – made of wooden beads, painted green with the careful precision of gooseberries and various plants, and when he had shown Spain it he was covered in different colors and looked cheeky, like a little kid, so proud of his own creation, those eyes sparkling in mirth and happiness – and the silver cross was beaten; but it wasn’t silver, but it was iron beaten too much, so much it looks silver in the cascading moonlight when the rosary was limp in his hands, slumped against Spain and an arm nestled around his waist, exhausted and smiling softly, and Spain had sincerely never seen the boy at such peace, and hadn’t woken up until way into the afternoon prayers.
Matins weren’t that important for the weary.
So he pondered this, weaving his way and cutting his way and taking the treasures, taking the riches, all the way until he was back in Europe, watching them unload it, with the said teen beside him, fingers playing with the hem of his threadbare coat and watching the shiny objects in pure fascination.
“And you found all of this- all of this, just across the ocean?”
“Mmhm! Isn’t it wonderful, Inglaterra?”
“Glorious.”