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metamorphosis2010-04-17 10:51 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-04-17 10:51 am
Entry tags:
68;
Title: Divine Instrument
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: G
This one's really old. For 30smiles' prompt 'Justice'.
They lay in the grass - hands entwined, fingers locked - and close their eyes, so similar in color yet so far away. The smell of the summer air brings a faint smile to each of their faces. Spain puts his free hand over his mouth and yawns into it, shifting in the withering grass. England doesn't even glance over; he regulates his breathing, and listens to the cicadas.
Every breath brings ecstasy to the former empire; of sweet summer days, the sounds of the birds singing and of a similar situation, cuddled together refreshes his memory and he sits up, startling the man next to him. Spain sits up and scowls - he'd been trying to sleep! - and England treats him to a smile, rare in its simplicity; nowadays, when such turmoil had brought fresher wounds and fresher memories, it was unlike the nation to smile so carelessly. Spain reflects a moment, and figures it's also odd for him to have agreed to a break from the mountains of paperwork he'd glanced at through the window.
The expression on his face softens slightly, and he sighs and draws closer to England. There's a noticeable tensing; it ends slightly after a minute or two, the smile faded and the eyes hazy with thoughts of battle. Indians, French, Spanish, everyone - they had all been against him; England grimaces and turns an unforgiving eye at the sunny country.
Spain grins shyly - he was uncertain, now, of this odd-acting England - and shrugs. England sighs irritably, tiredly, and leans on the former power who had once had the same title, the same honor that he had - an empire on which the sun never set. He stretches his fingers towards a flower and plucks it without sincerity; twirling the innocent daisy, he begins to pick the petals off softly, one by one, with every word spoken.
"We thought what we were doing was right."
Spain blinks, reflects, and shrugs again. He smiles softly and cups a wildflower, and holds it gently despite the rough way he plucks the petals. They punctuate his every word; his soft voice carries only on the wind, and England has to frown and ask him to repeat it. Spain sighs, picks the empty flower, and presents it to his companion.
"At the time, with the ideal of God, it was."
England takes it and stares sullenly at it; innocent days bygone, he begins carefully braiding it into a noose.
"Was it to serve them - our royalty - or our own selfish desires?"
An odd and bitter smile works its way onto Spain's face, and he hides the look by burying his face into his knees.
"Perhaps a bit of both - after all, didn't we want el tesoro? Didn't we crave the company of smaller nations, the company of those still pure and not ravaged by war in their youth, as we were?"
The half-finished noose is dropped as England stands and yanks Spain up with him; he exhales and frowns, the look of a teenage sulk in his eyes, at his companion. His friend-turned-foe-turned-friend-turned-foe-again grins, not a trace of sorrow or regret for his words or actions or anything passed between them in it or in his eyes. England snorts and lets go of the hand, palms sweaty as he wipes them on his pants ungracefully.
"I suppose. But was there real reason for all the killing?"
"You didn't complain then."
"The past is past."
"We thought we were God's divine instrument."
England blinks and gives him a look, one that says that no, he was the only one who thought that. Spain laughs shortly, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
"Ahaha... Fine, fine. I thought I was. I was so sure of it, too!"
A mischievous light twinkles in his eyes and he looks upon England with these eyes, humming a sing-song tune. England rolls his eyes and shoves the soon-to-be offender (or that's what he thinks - nothing good ever came out of those eyes, he was sure) back, watching with an amused expression when Spain falls on his butt.
"Ay!"
"And you weren't. 'For God, Glory, and Gold,' was it?"
"Sí. For God, glory, and gold - the sun never sets on the Spanish Empire."
"For God, glory, and the queen - the sun never sets on the English Empire."
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: G
This one's really old. For 30smiles' prompt 'Justice'.
They lay in the grass - hands entwined, fingers locked - and close their eyes, so similar in color yet so far away. The smell of the summer air brings a faint smile to each of their faces. Spain puts his free hand over his mouth and yawns into it, shifting in the withering grass. England doesn't even glance over; he regulates his breathing, and listens to the cicadas.
Every breath brings ecstasy to the former empire; of sweet summer days, the sounds of the birds singing and of a similar situation, cuddled together refreshes his memory and he sits up, startling the man next to him. Spain sits up and scowls - he'd been trying to sleep! - and England treats him to a smile, rare in its simplicity; nowadays, when such turmoil had brought fresher wounds and fresher memories, it was unlike the nation to smile so carelessly. Spain reflects a moment, and figures it's also odd for him to have agreed to a break from the mountains of paperwork he'd glanced at through the window.
The expression on his face softens slightly, and he sighs and draws closer to England. There's a noticeable tensing; it ends slightly after a minute or two, the smile faded and the eyes hazy with thoughts of battle. Indians, French, Spanish, everyone - they had all been against him; England grimaces and turns an unforgiving eye at the sunny country.
Spain grins shyly - he was uncertain, now, of this odd-acting England - and shrugs. England sighs irritably, tiredly, and leans on the former power who had once had the same title, the same honor that he had - an empire on which the sun never set. He stretches his fingers towards a flower and plucks it without sincerity; twirling the innocent daisy, he begins to pick the petals off softly, one by one, with every word spoken.
"We thought what we were doing was right."
Spain blinks, reflects, and shrugs again. He smiles softly and cups a wildflower, and holds it gently despite the rough way he plucks the petals. They punctuate his every word; his soft voice carries only on the wind, and England has to frown and ask him to repeat it. Spain sighs, picks the empty flower, and presents it to his companion.
"At the time, with the ideal of God, it was."
England takes it and stares sullenly at it; innocent days bygone, he begins carefully braiding it into a noose.
"Was it to serve them - our royalty - or our own selfish desires?"
An odd and bitter smile works its way onto Spain's face, and he hides the look by burying his face into his knees.
"Perhaps a bit of both - after all, didn't we want el tesoro? Didn't we crave the company of smaller nations, the company of those still pure and not ravaged by war in their youth, as we were?"
The half-finished noose is dropped as England stands and yanks Spain up with him; he exhales and frowns, the look of a teenage sulk in his eyes, at his companion. His friend-turned-foe-turned-friend-turned-foe-again grins, not a trace of sorrow or regret for his words or actions or anything passed between them in it or in his eyes. England snorts and lets go of the hand, palms sweaty as he wipes them on his pants ungracefully.
"I suppose. But was there real reason for all the killing?"
"You didn't complain then."
"The past is past."
"We thought we were God's divine instrument."
England blinks and gives him a look, one that says that no, he was the only one who thought that. Spain laughs shortly, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
"Ahaha... Fine, fine. I thought I was. I was so sure of it, too!"
A mischievous light twinkles in his eyes and he looks upon England with these eyes, humming a sing-song tune. England rolls his eyes and shoves the soon-to-be offender (or that's what he thinks - nothing good ever came out of those eyes, he was sure) back, watching with an amused expression when Spain falls on his butt.
"Ay!"
"And you weren't. 'For God, Glory, and Gold,' was it?"
"Sí. For God, glory, and gold - the sun never sets on the Spanish Empire."
"For God, glory, and the queen - the sun never sets on the English Empire."