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hetalia2008-07-13 04:56 am
equivalent-t.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2008-07-13 04:56 am
Entry tags:
Ficlet ahoy
Hi~ I just came back from my vacation, and in doing so, I bring fic. Ficlet, actually, and it's a bit rambling. This is the first thing I've ever did, though, that contains even the remotest hints of slash, and I hope it can provide a modicum of enjoyment!
.
Title: Reconciling Life, and Life-Not
Author/Artist: ET
Character(s) or Pairing(s): US, UK, not necessarily a pairing, not necessarily not.
Rating: G
Summary: Vignette, angst maybe? Is about the Revolutionary War, and was originally meant for Independence Day celebrations. What Alfred might've been thinking, and the pitfalls of living practically forever.
.
.
The first time Alfred knew he existed was a long time ago, older than his best and worst memories, older than his first words, the first time he saw others like himself. Perhaps he was not even fully formed, merely the shadow of an idea living under the shapes of darkness in the forest, watching the older ones---not like the others as he knew now, and not like himself---dancing by the fire, whispering from tree to tree. Other things that happened at the time, he no longer remembered. He had neither name nor memory, nothing to mark him as different from the gods of deers and eagles, except they existed in the flow of living things and he merely sat aside in the shadows, watching, waiting. At the time he did not know for what. For a long time. Perhaps hundreds and thousands of years, until he realized he was simply waiting to be born.
He did not remember much of it, merely the principal things : the smells, the heat, the terror of something being killed. Perhaps it was a deer and a cougar. Perhaps it was one man and another. A beast and its prey. A man and his enemy. It didn't matter. What made it the first time, despite him having seen such things for hundreds of times, was how it was the first time he noticed. The smell of blood. The heat of killing. The terror of knowing that these things was not one with the world, that he was not one of the dead. Of knowing there were barriers between everything, that he, and the world, were mortal and immortal. It was something he could not remember and could not forget.
And if before then he did not live, then afterwards, he was living in stillbirth. Knowing every ragged breath was his, that he also was separated, that unlike the dead things in his bosom he was meaningless and immaterial for reasons unknown. He alternated from watching how things die and weeping, to glancing by like a ghost with no care in the affairs of those fated to be alive, and always in the shadows, crying, watching, walking, wandering every inch of the forest and trampling over every grave made by the older things. Things he did not remember and could only be reminded by digging up old bones and old stories. Prairie winds that he did not recognize, decayed coffins in trees that hosted families of crows, which stared at him like an unwelcome stranger. These things he did not know, but it must have happened because he could feel the history in his bones. He merely knew he existed, and how could such an existence be called 'alive'?
The second time was the first, all over again.
Like the first, the most visceral things about it were simple : the smells, the sounds, the horror of things dying. What was different was that he remembered this vividly, knew he would remember it to the end of his days, would grasp this moment again thousands of times over, this viscous thing, relive it and try to understand it like mud that slips through the fingers. The smell of blood turned to ruddy water with the rain, of gunpowder and greasy bodies. The sound of the rain itself drowning out everything except what mattered. The horror of realizing his own acceptance of how much he'd lost and how much he's going to lose, of reveling in the bitterness of it all. Of knowing that sadness can turn into happiness and vice versa, and that there was no way to be saved from such things.
He knew what he was, now, and who he was. Like the others, he'd had many names. Ones he was given before he could remember a thing, merely a passing rustle of the grass now, and ones given with love or greed, and ones he didn't care for. Sometimes a name could be all of these. He'd never liked the name America, since it was also the name of this land and not him, and he'd never liked the name Alfred because he hated names given in memory of anything but the object of the name itself.
And he also hated it because it was given out of love and made things so much messier.
The figure in front of him, the person who gave him his name, not his secret true name but the one that meant him as a thinking being, had stopped trying to speak. No noise escaped from his throat but strangled sobs, and he realized like he never before and would never again, how much this hurt them. The men behind him was silent and still, like a funeral, or perhaps they were speaking and gossiping like all soldiers do when they were not busy trying to kill other soldiers, but the rain all drowned them out. A funeral then for lifetimes of peace and quiet and happiness, with a dirge sung by the rain. Rain, this thing Arthur always used to talk about with a mixture of exasperation and fondness, would give them peace. Give them a moment in a world of their own, with no distractions, no strangers, no laws, for their farewell. He could live with that. He could live with anything, as long as he was living.
"You asked me why, and I'll tell you," he said quietly. He didn't know whether this man, who was the only person to mean a damn in this whole sorry business, could hear a word he was saying, but it didn't matter. They were things that needed to be said, and it didn't matter who heard it or not. That man happened to be Arthur. This fact, which he would never forget, will never mean a thing.
The second time would only come just once, and he needed to be alive.
"I need this freedom. I want it. Maybe it's your fault, but even if you were a saint I'll still say I deserve it."
Francis said, Arthur had always been an island among a crowd, no matter how much fire and brimstone they threw at him. But he'd always had a crowd, always had that from day one, knew what he was, the possibilities of his destiny. If this was why he wanted to be sad, Alfred would want to laugh. It would be hollow and bitter, but a laugh all the same. He'd had a thousand years of knowing he existed, but without meaning, without purpose, without all the struggles and pride and everything that makes a person alive. And, if one turn truly deserves another, wasn't it damned time he gets to live?
"I'm sorry, England."
And if he wanted to get down on his knees and put his arms around this miserable thing who used to love him so much, who taught him letters and how to ride horses and how to slide down haystacks and all those things that was how a person learned to really exist and really laugh like a living thing, he clamped that desire down and swallowed what remained of it whole. What really lasted about them, after all, was not what passed between them, but that Arthur had wanted this and deserved it, too. Only because he'd never been alone, he'd never known it.
"I made a choice. I want to be free."
And if, in saying this, triumph against time and fate caught in his throat and threatened to choke his words, or if the heart he swallowed tied itself into a knot in his chest and made him want to strangle the air until it gave him what he really wanted, if that thing was something else but this---this bittersweet victory of it all---he ignored it. Pretended it never meant a thing, not for a thousand years. Not until the third time, which may or may not come.
There are always prices, and this was what he paid to live.
.
Title: Reconciling Life, and Life-Not
Author/Artist: ET
Character(s) or Pairing(s): US, UK, not necessarily a pairing, not necessarily not.
Rating: G
Summary: Vignette, angst maybe? Is about the Revolutionary War, and was originally meant for Independence Day celebrations. What Alfred might've been thinking, and the pitfalls of living practically forever.
.
.
The first time Alfred knew he existed was a long time ago, older than his best and worst memories, older than his first words, the first time he saw others like himself. Perhaps he was not even fully formed, merely the shadow of an idea living under the shapes of darkness in the forest, watching the older ones---not like the others as he knew now, and not like himself---dancing by the fire, whispering from tree to tree. Other things that happened at the time, he no longer remembered. He had neither name nor memory, nothing to mark him as different from the gods of deers and eagles, except they existed in the flow of living things and he merely sat aside in the shadows, watching, waiting. At the time he did not know for what. For a long time. Perhaps hundreds and thousands of years, until he realized he was simply waiting to be born.
He did not remember much of it, merely the principal things : the smells, the heat, the terror of something being killed. Perhaps it was a deer and a cougar. Perhaps it was one man and another. A beast and its prey. A man and his enemy. It didn't matter. What made it the first time, despite him having seen such things for hundreds of times, was how it was the first time he noticed. The smell of blood. The heat of killing. The terror of knowing that these things was not one with the world, that he was not one of the dead. Of knowing there were barriers between everything, that he, and the world, were mortal and immortal. It was something he could not remember and could not forget.
And if before then he did not live, then afterwards, he was living in stillbirth. Knowing every ragged breath was his, that he also was separated, that unlike the dead things in his bosom he was meaningless and immaterial for reasons unknown. He alternated from watching how things die and weeping, to glancing by like a ghost with no care in the affairs of those fated to be alive, and always in the shadows, crying, watching, walking, wandering every inch of the forest and trampling over every grave made by the older things. Things he did not remember and could only be reminded by digging up old bones and old stories. Prairie winds that he did not recognize, decayed coffins in trees that hosted families of crows, which stared at him like an unwelcome stranger. These things he did not know, but it must have happened because he could feel the history in his bones. He merely knew he existed, and how could such an existence be called 'alive'?
The second time was the first, all over again.
Like the first, the most visceral things about it were simple : the smells, the sounds, the horror of things dying. What was different was that he remembered this vividly, knew he would remember it to the end of his days, would grasp this moment again thousands of times over, this viscous thing, relive it and try to understand it like mud that slips through the fingers. The smell of blood turned to ruddy water with the rain, of gunpowder and greasy bodies. The sound of the rain itself drowning out everything except what mattered. The horror of realizing his own acceptance of how much he'd lost and how much he's going to lose, of reveling in the bitterness of it all. Of knowing that sadness can turn into happiness and vice versa, and that there was no way to be saved from such things.
He knew what he was, now, and who he was. Like the others, he'd had many names. Ones he was given before he could remember a thing, merely a passing rustle of the grass now, and ones given with love or greed, and ones he didn't care for. Sometimes a name could be all of these. He'd never liked the name America, since it was also the name of this land and not him, and he'd never liked the name Alfred because he hated names given in memory of anything but the object of the name itself.
And he also hated it because it was given out of love and made things so much messier.
The figure in front of him, the person who gave him his name, not his secret true name but the one that meant him as a thinking being, had stopped trying to speak. No noise escaped from his throat but strangled sobs, and he realized like he never before and would never again, how much this hurt them. The men behind him was silent and still, like a funeral, or perhaps they were speaking and gossiping like all soldiers do when they were not busy trying to kill other soldiers, but the rain all drowned them out. A funeral then for lifetimes of peace and quiet and happiness, with a dirge sung by the rain. Rain, this thing Arthur always used to talk about with a mixture of exasperation and fondness, would give them peace. Give them a moment in a world of their own, with no distractions, no strangers, no laws, for their farewell. He could live with that. He could live with anything, as long as he was living.
"You asked me why, and I'll tell you," he said quietly. He didn't know whether this man, who was the only person to mean a damn in this whole sorry business, could hear a word he was saying, but it didn't matter. They were things that needed to be said, and it didn't matter who heard it or not. That man happened to be Arthur. This fact, which he would never forget, will never mean a thing.
The second time would only come just once, and he needed to be alive.
"I need this freedom. I want it. Maybe it's your fault, but even if you were a saint I'll still say I deserve it."
Francis said, Arthur had always been an island among a crowd, no matter how much fire and brimstone they threw at him. But he'd always had a crowd, always had that from day one, knew what he was, the possibilities of his destiny. If this was why he wanted to be sad, Alfred would want to laugh. It would be hollow and bitter, but a laugh all the same. He'd had a thousand years of knowing he existed, but without meaning, without purpose, without all the struggles and pride and everything that makes a person alive. And, if one turn truly deserves another, wasn't it damned time he gets to live?
"I'm sorry, England."
And if he wanted to get down on his knees and put his arms around this miserable thing who used to love him so much, who taught him letters and how to ride horses and how to slide down haystacks and all those things that was how a person learned to really exist and really laugh like a living thing, he clamped that desire down and swallowed what remained of it whole. What really lasted about them, after all, was not what passed between them, but that Arthur had wanted this and deserved it, too. Only because he'd never been alone, he'd never known it.
"I made a choice. I want to be free."
And if, in saying this, triumph against time and fate caught in his throat and threatened to choke his words, or if the heart he swallowed tied itself into a knot in his chest and made him want to strangle the air until it gave him what he really wanted, if that thing was something else but this---this bittersweet victory of it all---he ignored it. Pretended it never meant a thing, not for a thousand years. Not until the third time, which may or may not come.
There are always prices, and this was what he paid to live.
no subject
I am flattered by the word 'poetic'. <3 As well as the general tone of the comment. Eeeeee. Thank you! I've also been writing a fic that explores the spiritual thing in more detail, but it's just not working out. Sigh.
no subject
Ah, thank you? ^////^ Glad you liked my comment, but I really am excited for your next fic; can't wait to read it!
no subject
Wow, expectation. Flattered number two. I'll try very hard not to disappoint!
no subject
OH MAN if Germany really IS that child I will shit a brick.
Yaaay X333 *waits*
no subject
I think it's implied that the Roman Empire went to Heaven, but as far as everybody knows he was just...gone, all of a sudden. But who knows what the criteria for that are, and what actually happens since RE is so uninformative. (On this point of wounds and deaths I also wonder about the implications of going to the frontlines with your country---what represents the civilian effort at the time, then? And other related cans of worms.) And oh my god, I didn't even think about the homes of countries that way...I simply assumed he has a number of houses around the country. That's really fascinating. Russia's generally shown living in a palace-like place (Kremlin?), isn't he? Hmmm.
I KNOW AND ASSENT TO YOUR OPINION. Sigh.
no subject
Yeah, in the strip where Grandpa Roman Empire went to visit Germany and Italy, he "convinced" God to let him go and visit Italy. RE was really dodging the question, wasn't he? Germany was all "Where did you go, how did you just suddenly disappear?" and Grandpa answered NOTHING.
Man, the idea of revolutions and front lines makes one wonder, doesn't it? Like are these nations inherited when the government is turned over? My crazy mousou has it that Russia actually witnessed the murder of the czar's family at the hand of the Bolsheviks. Plus, what about Lithuania's population being so suicidal? Does that affect him??? (CAN OF...)
From what I remember, that is the case about Russia's living quarters. It almost seems like he's always in a really palace-like place with elaborate furnishings.
*flails*
no subject
Yeah, and also are civil wars. So if the country is divided into two disagreeing halves, does that make them like Italy and Romano when the war ends, or do they just disappear? Or does it depend on the war? I CANNOT TELL. Regarding the Czar's family, I think our mousou's actually coincide. And because I'm a predictable fangirl, I also tend to think that while Russia wasn't too happy with the Romanovs, he didn't hate them, either. And yeah, we never know how much the population affects the country. And there are things like national memories, which obviously aren't equal across the board--at least where their pasts and mythologies are concerned...
no subject
For the American Civil War, I imagined either America going completely batshit for the years, where he started to see doubles and UK (when he came in to help) sees two Alfreds--one with glasses and one without. Someone please stop my mind. I think it depends on the war???
I think that Russia probably grew up with the Romanovs, and from the Bloody Sunday strip, he's like a kid who was trying to follow the orders of the teacher because that is the authority, but then he ended up getting hated on by all his classmates and eventually gave into "peer pressure?" Though another part of my mousou was that he actually was rather upset when the girls were killed. Argh Anastasia.
Would it be that the nations have the "true" national memory (know the truth in history) but because of certain biases of their population, forget certain things?
no subject
Our mousou's don't differ that much, dear lord, though I figured the Romanovs grew up with Russia rather than the other way around (though he spent lots of his best formative years with them). I figured he'd be upset, too, since some parts of him still don't accept that the children are dead. Regardless of what he knows/Stalin says!
That works. Gee, I wish we know how much the thoughts and biases of the population affect what they think. Would Lithuania's suicidal population make him distressed that they are suicidal, or would they make him suicidal, too? WORMS.
France is so Sticky Fingers, btw.
no subject
Ah, dear, what I actually meant was that Russia watched them grow up, especially the children. Like I get images of Anastasia pulling on his scarf or Russia chasing after Alexei so that he doesn't get hurt. He was probably more attached to the children than he was to Nicholas II--STOP STOP STOP. *flails* (And just like the media, he probably has this small hope that Anastasia and Alexei are out there somewhere since their remains weren't found in the grave).
If only demographics of nations were more easily referenced than actually having to LIVE in the nation. My mousou (god that word is showing up a lot) is that Lithuania is at first distressed, but then starts to get affected because it's getting overwhelming. WORMS.
XDDD YES the zippers! And for some reason Romano just strikes me as Narancia...so he's Aerosmith? Heck, both Italies are like Narancia.