yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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metamorphosis2010-05-17 04:46 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-05-17 04:46 pm
Entry tags:
102;
Title: A War For An Ear, As The Saying Goes
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG
Based on the most useless, idiotic war in the entire world - aka, the War of Jenkins' Ear. Originally started over a claim made by the English parliament that one Robert Jenkins had had his ear cut off by a Spanish officer named Fandino. Around this time, the English had signed the Treaty of Utrecht to end the War of Spanish Succession which allowed them to import slaves to Spanish colonies, whereas the Spanish Empire disallowed slavery. Smugglers were abound, naturally. Robert Jenkins, captain, was one of them. Apparently he went to the Parliament in 1731 and told his story, and was called for a hearing by supposedly never went back, though vague court records mention something of it. This single oddity of a case was used to fuel an entire WAR against the Spanish. Supposedly when he was called back in 1738, Jenkins paraded his ear around like a badge, wrapped in cotton. It's highly unlikely he would've kept the ear for seven years, so there you have it: The stupidest, more pointless war in history.
The sun is brilliant and blinding the day England steps off of his ship and onto the docks of Barcelona. It’s vibrant and with it comes the warmth and laughter of the Spanish harbour, of the people that inhabit it and of the county of passion that swings his hips with the girls, laughs with them despite the times, presses kiss to their cheeks and flirts without knowing. It’s too bright when Spain sees England and falters with his rhythm, excuses himself with a quiet word, and follows the country of nothing through the alleys, and somewhere in his mind he wonders how the dog knew the way. He passed it on, later, as a dog’s excellent sense of smell (and certainly not because he had shown him the way once, pressed flushed against a wall and fingers pulling hair and tearing buttons and clothes along the way, bumping and bumbling and red and white and tan and breathing heavily against the oak door, fumbling for the key and whining for more, more, more between breaths).
They make it without a word passed between them to Spain’s cozy house, small and sweet and a summer getaway from Madrid and, consequently, Romano (though only while he went to visit his brother), with England turning the key and pulling Spain inside, slamming the door and shedding his heavy cream coat and black tricone hat, falling into the closest chair and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Spain watches, then stoops to grab the fallen items and laid them on the table – and though it was the English dog, there was no reason not to be a good host, and so he fetches a bottle of fine Spanish red wine, pours two glasses, and sets one across from England.
England takes one look at it and downs it without relishing the taste, strong and warm and sinking to the pit of Spain’s stomach when he drinks his glass, swishing the wine and swallowing. After a few minutes of silence, his fingers begin to drum against the table and he speaks.
“What do you want, Inglaterra?”
England throws something at him across the table and grimaces when it lands in Spain’s glass of unfinished wine. Spain looks down and jumps out of his seat, shoving his chair back to the ground with a loud whump and squeezing his eyes closed. He hears England stand and walk closer, boots drumming on the wooden floor in a practiced slink.
“That is the ear of one Captain Jenkins. Perhaps Fandino knows something of him? Surely you’ve heard of this…”
He pauses to grasp the word, then continues;
“…attack against the English, if we may say it that way.”
“No one except the man you claim is hurt has been ‘attacked’.”
“The honour of one is the honour of many, and I’ll see to it that such blatant assaults do not go unmatched.”
Now Spain’s the one pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and glaring between his threaded fingers at England.
“And so you’re going to declare war over an ear?”
“Yes—”
“Over a story that may or may not be true just because an Englishman said it?”
“Precisely. After all, one cannot trust the words of a lying, dirty animal.”
“Then I shouldn't trust yours, should I, Inglaterra?”
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG
Based on the most useless, idiotic war in the entire world - aka, the War of Jenkins' Ear. Originally started over a claim made by the English parliament that one Robert Jenkins had had his ear cut off by a Spanish officer named Fandino. Around this time, the English had signed the Treaty of Utrecht to end the War of Spanish Succession which allowed them to import slaves to Spanish colonies, whereas the Spanish Empire disallowed slavery. Smugglers were abound, naturally. Robert Jenkins, captain, was one of them. Apparently he went to the Parliament in 1731 and told his story, and was called for a hearing by supposedly never went back, though vague court records mention something of it. This single oddity of a case was used to fuel an entire WAR against the Spanish. Supposedly when he was called back in 1738, Jenkins paraded his ear around like a badge, wrapped in cotton. It's highly unlikely he would've kept the ear for seven years, so there you have it: The stupidest, more pointless war in history.
The sun is brilliant and blinding the day England steps off of his ship and onto the docks of Barcelona. It’s vibrant and with it comes the warmth and laughter of the Spanish harbour, of the people that inhabit it and of the county of passion that swings his hips with the girls, laughs with them despite the times, presses kiss to their cheeks and flirts without knowing. It’s too bright when Spain sees England and falters with his rhythm, excuses himself with a quiet word, and follows the country of nothing through the alleys, and somewhere in his mind he wonders how the dog knew the way. He passed it on, later, as a dog’s excellent sense of smell (and certainly not because he had shown him the way once, pressed flushed against a wall and fingers pulling hair and tearing buttons and clothes along the way, bumping and bumbling and red and white and tan and breathing heavily against the oak door, fumbling for the key and whining for more, more, more between breaths).
They make it without a word passed between them to Spain’s cozy house, small and sweet and a summer getaway from Madrid and, consequently, Romano (though only while he went to visit his brother), with England turning the key and pulling Spain inside, slamming the door and shedding his heavy cream coat and black tricone hat, falling into the closest chair and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Spain watches, then stoops to grab the fallen items and laid them on the table – and though it was the English dog, there was no reason not to be a good host, and so he fetches a bottle of fine Spanish red wine, pours two glasses, and sets one across from England.
England takes one look at it and downs it without relishing the taste, strong and warm and sinking to the pit of Spain’s stomach when he drinks his glass, swishing the wine and swallowing. After a few minutes of silence, his fingers begin to drum against the table and he speaks.
“What do you want, Inglaterra?”
England throws something at him across the table and grimaces when it lands in Spain’s glass of unfinished wine. Spain looks down and jumps out of his seat, shoving his chair back to the ground with a loud whump and squeezing his eyes closed. He hears England stand and walk closer, boots drumming on the wooden floor in a practiced slink.
“That is the ear of one Captain Jenkins. Perhaps Fandino knows something of him? Surely you’ve heard of this…”
He pauses to grasp the word, then continues;
“…attack against the English, if we may say it that way.”
“No one except the man you claim is hurt has been ‘attacked’.”
“The honour of one is the honour of many, and I’ll see to it that such blatant assaults do not go unmatched.”
Now Spain’s the one pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and glaring between his threaded fingers at England.
“And so you’re going to declare war over an ear?”
“Yes—”
“Over a story that may or may not be true just because an Englishman said it?”
“Precisely. After all, one cannot trust the words of a lying, dirty animal.”
“Then I shouldn't trust yours, should I, Inglaterra?”