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metamorphosis2010-06-14 12:59 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-06-14 12:59 am
Entry tags:
128;
Title: Last Rites
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG-13
The road and countryside is covered in white and grey, spotted with dead and cracking trees, leaves gone and naked to the wind. England draws his coat, similar in colour, closer against the humid wind and shoves his way through the snow and ice. It's perturbing at how it doesn't melt but moves away, isn't cold but slightly warm and sticky, how it isn't piled as high as snow usually is but remains close to the ground, an inch or two above the crushed grass. The sky's as clear as ever, and the sun ever bright.
It takes him a few minutes of walking to realise that it isn't snow he's moving through – it's ash. And he hurries his steps, speeding up to a jog until, finally, he breaks into a run and kicks up the dead, snowy chars, turning the edge of his black slacks grey. He hadn't noticed the weight of the box of medicine before and yet now it weighs a hundred stones against his side, jarring and clinking with the glass bottles carefully sectioned and padded nudging one another. He runs against the landscape with flurries of the soot flying past and hitting him in the face, and at long last he stops at a burning church filled with the bitter stench of kindled flesh and bone.
The strong walls are licked by dying flames and he steps past them carefully, pauses to watch the ash float by, and stands across from the charred doors, splinters of fire still smouldering on. After a moment of hesitation, he pushes a door without singing the fraying black gloves and steps into the building of God, marvelling at how even the high ceilings (painted, beautifully, with angels and scriptures) are coated in the darkness of the passive smoke that swims across the room like a shoal of sharks hunting for things to kill. It's a moment of reflection before he heads through the wreckage and sets down the medicine, shoves away the fallen beams and looks for survivors.
There are none, and what bodies he finds he lines across the floor and watches the falling embers flutter down onto their scorched, naked skin. There are none but one, and he hadn't expected to find the nation in an out-of-the-way place like this, nor a rainy place as Galicia was. When Spain looks at him through swollen, bleeding eyes, England feels his stomach drop and he hurries to take care of the wounds. The medicine isn't the best, and the food is stale, but Spain sits quiet and refuses food, citing pain as a reason for no appetite. He hates coming to Spain and not finding beaches of sand but of soot, and he hates coming to Spain and not finding civility but war.
When he can finally get Spain as fixed up as he can, he busies himself with burying the dead, clumsily digging shallow graves with his hands and grimacing when his fingernails get loosened in the dirt and roots and rip off, turning white ash to pinkish drops. Spain watches but doesn't help, and after a short while he begins to scratch at his makeshift bandages of cloth,. England doesn't notice until it's too late, and by that time night is falling like the curtain on a theatre production and God, he's too tired to give a fuck. He comes in with the setting sun and promises to finish the burials in the morning. Spain doesn't say a word, but nods slowly, tiredly, and closes his eyes to sleep right where he sits, propped up messily against the Church's altar that still stands. The church smoulders, but does not outright burn.
England wakes up to the rain dropping past the holes in the roof, the drops sliding past his skin and cleaning it of fallen ash. He shakes himself awake and looks at Spain, who stares back at him and offers a false, forced smile, all teeth and no warmth. At the sound of thunder, they both look up, and England sighs and stands, brushes himself off with little care and looks towards the outside. He rubs the raw skin of yesterday's fingernails, then stoops to help Spain up and out into the open air, even if it's not fresh and clean like it used to be. It's muggy and warm and raining, but despite these silent complaints he continues his work from yesterday and leaves the patched nation propped on the stone wall, watching like he's gone mad.
“Why do you bother?”
Even when they talk, it isn't for very long, and England prefers the silence to the croak of Spain's voice while he finishes the graves and presses prayers to the wet dirt (Grant this mercy, O Lord, we beseech Thee, to Thy servant departed, that he may not receive in punishment the requital of his deeds who in desire did keep Thy will, and as the true faith here united him to the company of the faithful, so may Thy mercy unite him above to the choirs of angels. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.). He stands and backs away from the graves, turns on his heel and walks quickly to sit next to Spain close to the wall, and looks at his hands rubbed with dirt of the decomposing. The moment he's comfortable, or as comfortable as it gets next to the gashes and open wounds of putrid infection that he thinks he needs to retreat, and soon, does he answer Spain's earlier question in a tired, fussed voice.
“They should at least be given funeral rites.”
Spain doesn't reply, and England doesn't bother getting another response, so they sit in the cool, warm rain and listen to the water wash against the ash and carry it away. Spain watches the clouds, and he wishes the rain could wash away the destruction, too.
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG-13
The road and countryside is covered in white and grey, spotted with dead and cracking trees, leaves gone and naked to the wind. England draws his coat, similar in colour, closer against the humid wind and shoves his way through the snow and ice. It's perturbing at how it doesn't melt but moves away, isn't cold but slightly warm and sticky, how it isn't piled as high as snow usually is but remains close to the ground, an inch or two above the crushed grass. The sky's as clear as ever, and the sun ever bright.
It takes him a few minutes of walking to realise that it isn't snow he's moving through – it's ash. And he hurries his steps, speeding up to a jog until, finally, he breaks into a run and kicks up the dead, snowy chars, turning the edge of his black slacks grey. He hadn't noticed the weight of the box of medicine before and yet now it weighs a hundred stones against his side, jarring and clinking with the glass bottles carefully sectioned and padded nudging one another. He runs against the landscape with flurries of the soot flying past and hitting him in the face, and at long last he stops at a burning church filled with the bitter stench of kindled flesh and bone.
The strong walls are licked by dying flames and he steps past them carefully, pauses to watch the ash float by, and stands across from the charred doors, splinters of fire still smouldering on. After a moment of hesitation, he pushes a door without singing the fraying black gloves and steps into the building of God, marvelling at how even the high ceilings (painted, beautifully, with angels and scriptures) are coated in the darkness of the passive smoke that swims across the room like a shoal of sharks hunting for things to kill. It's a moment of reflection before he heads through the wreckage and sets down the medicine, shoves away the fallen beams and looks for survivors.
There are none, and what bodies he finds he lines across the floor and watches the falling embers flutter down onto their scorched, naked skin. There are none but one, and he hadn't expected to find the nation in an out-of-the-way place like this, nor a rainy place as Galicia was. When Spain looks at him through swollen, bleeding eyes, England feels his stomach drop and he hurries to take care of the wounds. The medicine isn't the best, and the food is stale, but Spain sits quiet and refuses food, citing pain as a reason for no appetite. He hates coming to Spain and not finding beaches of sand but of soot, and he hates coming to Spain and not finding civility but war.
When he can finally get Spain as fixed up as he can, he busies himself with burying the dead, clumsily digging shallow graves with his hands and grimacing when his fingernails get loosened in the dirt and roots and rip off, turning white ash to pinkish drops. Spain watches but doesn't help, and after a short while he begins to scratch at his makeshift bandages of cloth,. England doesn't notice until it's too late, and by that time night is falling like the curtain on a theatre production and God, he's too tired to give a fuck. He comes in with the setting sun and promises to finish the burials in the morning. Spain doesn't say a word, but nods slowly, tiredly, and closes his eyes to sleep right where he sits, propped up messily against the Church's altar that still stands. The church smoulders, but does not outright burn.
England wakes up to the rain dropping past the holes in the roof, the drops sliding past his skin and cleaning it of fallen ash. He shakes himself awake and looks at Spain, who stares back at him and offers a false, forced smile, all teeth and no warmth. At the sound of thunder, they both look up, and England sighs and stands, brushes himself off with little care and looks towards the outside. He rubs the raw skin of yesterday's fingernails, then stoops to help Spain up and out into the open air, even if it's not fresh and clean like it used to be. It's muggy and warm and raining, but despite these silent complaints he continues his work from yesterday and leaves the patched nation propped on the stone wall, watching like he's gone mad.
“Why do you bother?”
Even when they talk, it isn't for very long, and England prefers the silence to the croak of Spain's voice while he finishes the graves and presses prayers to the wet dirt (Grant this mercy, O Lord, we beseech Thee, to Thy servant departed, that he may not receive in punishment the requital of his deeds who in desire did keep Thy will, and as the true faith here united him to the company of the faithful, so may Thy mercy unite him above to the choirs of angels. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.). He stands and backs away from the graves, turns on his heel and walks quickly to sit next to Spain close to the wall, and looks at his hands rubbed with dirt of the decomposing. The moment he's comfortable, or as comfortable as it gets next to the gashes and open wounds of putrid infection that he thinks he needs to retreat, and soon, does he answer Spain's earlier question in a tired, fussed voice.
“They should at least be given funeral rites.”
Spain doesn't reply, and England doesn't bother getting another response, so they sit in the cool, warm rain and listen to the water wash against the ash and carry it away. Spain watches the clouds, and he wishes the rain could wash away the destruction, too.