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hetalia2010-03-17 12:52 am
almostwinter.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2010-03-17 12:52 am
Entry tags:
[Fic] Untitled
Title: Untitled, because I'm crazy awesome like that.
Author/Artist: almostwinter
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Spain, South Italy, mentions of an OC
Rating: PG-13 to be safe. (I know nothing of rating)
Warnings: Angst, a very probably handful of historical inaccuracies,terrible writing
Summary: "What you are doing is wrong."
Notes: This is my first Hetalia fic pretty much ever, and the first fanfic in general I've written in a loooooong while. I wrote it for a friend so, uh, pleasebegentle.
The new world spent the first years of its existence in Europe travelling on the backs of rumors. It was a particularly cold day in winter when Spain came to Romano and shattered all of them to pieces with the truth.
Columbus' had started out as a modest expedition; a route to the other side of the world -- to a new world -- to something . It had felt desperate and unsure, but Romano supposed that fit well with the time then as much as it did now. Spain had not gone with them that first voyage, but now spent more of his time in the new lands than in his own.
People -- people, Spain had said, in numbers no one had ever seen. He said he'd met a nation there, a woman who called herself Arawak. She and her people greeted him kindly, and Spain in his good nature loved them for it. A strong people, he said, an intelligent people led by a nation both beautiful and exotic. Romano tried not to think of Carthage, of Egypt, of Persia and Greece. Mostly he tried not to think of how much more Spain looked like his grandfather than Romano ever had.
Romano was not happy for him for long.
-------
"What you are doing is wrong," he says now, whispers bouncing off the cold stone of the church, icy and cutting like the chill of the surrounding air. Spain is not paying attention to him, eyes darting around like he is waiting for something. He kneels before the altar, and Romano tries again.
"You can't do this to them. They are people, like yours." People in numbers no one had seen. Romano cannot ignore the similarities between that day and this one.
"I can do what I like. It is destiny."
What Spain does not say is that they deserve to die. Romano knows that this distinction is important, and latches onto the silence in his mind with everything he has. Spain clutches the crucifix on his chest, fingers it nervously. He looks as though he will start praying at any moment and Romano will have none of it. He presses, and presses. He needs to know if Spain has made the distinction as well. He needs hope though he will find none.
"You can't kill them. You are killing them, and her. You said she was beautiful, once, and now you wipe her people out like they are pests. They are people, Spain," he stresses, again, "They are a people. They have a nation -- that has to mean something to you," Romano says, and is desperate, clutching at the backs of the pews as he approaches, like he needs them to walk, to keep himself from collapsing under the weight of what Spain is doing, has done.
Romano has lived long enough to see war waged in many ways, but he has never seen anything like this on such a large scale. This is not war; it is eradication.
He met her once -- Arawak, accompanying Spain on one trip of many that he made to her island. She was just as beautiful as Spain had said -- dark and strange, but not entirely unlike people he'd seen before; even England had been strange, once. She was paler than she should have been but still kept an air of dignity, sure that she would triumph. She had looked at Romano like he was an insect, at Spain like he was a demon borne from whatever hell she believed in.
It was probably the fact that Romano didn't know what she believed that bothered him the most.
"I don't kill them, God kills them," Spain starts quietly, "It is his will -- my bishops tell me --" and Romano's boots seem to screech against the stone floor as he covers the space between them, grabbing Spain by the back of his collar and lifting, twisting him around with a strength neither of them knew he was capable of.
"This is not God. This is you playing at God. Do not tell me what is or is not his will, Spain," he says, and knows he is shaking Spain harder than he as any right to. His boss, his brother, his stupid tomato bastard, his --
"They do not even have a God, Romano, so what does it matter whether it is or isn't his will. They don't listen to him, whether he condemns them or not," Spain snarls, angry and now maybe pleading, snatching Romano's hands from his collar and shoving them away.
Spain falls to the floor, scrambles backwards. He will not look at Romano -- his eyes are focused just beyond the altar. His breath is coming harder than it should, and the pads of his fingers look on the edge of bruising for all the force Spain's pressing them against the crucifix with.
They do not speak then. With every breath Spain takes and every moment Romano's stare bores into him, the silence stretches, bends, and breaks, clattering around the walls louder than any words would have. Romano is the first to voice what they are both thinking.
"You would not give them one. You'd rather they died without even trying, just so you can have your way with their land," as if Spain thinks Romano does not know, hasn't heard stories, hasn't seen what they do to them -- he chokes, "You were the first, you bastard. Before you there was nothing. They never even had a chance at God before you decided they should die."
"I am not killing them. They aren't my slaves. They are not my slaves," Spain says, now definitely begging, still not looking at him. Spain's thumb cracks and bleeds onto the cross, but he does not notice, only staring forward out into a space he can hide his guilt behind. Romano will not give him the answer he wants.
"'A hundred castellanoes are as easily obtained for a woman as for a farm,'" Romano says, "'Those from nine to ten are now in demand.'" Spain flinches -- the words burn; his eyes meet Romano's and quickly squeeze shut. He shakes his head as if to rid his ears of the noise.
Romano continues unimpeded, "His words. And yet they are 'not your slaves.'" He is mocking Spain now, but his words cut deep despite the anger Spain feels at his insubordination. It shouldn't -- Spain shouldn't let him behave this way, he thinks. He is the one in charge here, and that should be reason enough for anything he does.
"England kills them and you say nothing. France, too -- all of them. Everyone. You and the Pope only want to interfere, sticking your noses where they don't belong. It has nothing to do with the people there."
"Is that why your bishops refuse to report to the Pope?," Romano snaps, "Do you remember the plague, Spain, because I do. Were those people Godless as well? Had only the Pope not interfered, perhaps they would still be alive by your bishops' better judgement."
It is one of those pauses again, with everything closing in around them. The church has somehow become claustrophobic, for all its stained glass windows and high ceilings.
Romano can't keep the look of disgust off of his face when Spain starts again after a moment instead of anwering him, "I'm not killing them. I'm --"
"You are," Romano says -- cuts him off because he can't do this anymore, and his words are flat and lifeless like the bodies of the Arawaks, of Arawak herself on the last trip Romano had made with Spain. He had met her again, this time with a tiny nation clinging to her breast. What she was could not be called alive. She was rotting where she stood, where she swayed like a doll propped up in the wind, a corpse seemingly animated by the magics of long ago. She spoke and breathed and lived, but as the dying do.
"This," Spain had said, the little nation rushing out of her lifeless arms and into his, "is La Española."
Spain had smiled at Romano then.
Romano had not smiled. Romano had tried not to vomit.
He tries not to again at the memory, and turns from Spain to leave him. The click of his bootheels on the floor is cold again, like the air, like the winter, like the ground in which more nations than Arawak lay buried by Spain's hands. A nation cannot stop what its people want no matter what he himself desires. Romano knows that, but he can't -- he can't. Not when it's Spain. Not when his people want this.
Romano pauses at the door on his way out and says,
"There is no God for you here, Spain."
Spain cries out to the walls of the church until there is nothing left in him. His throat is dry and his lips chapped. He rocks in front of the altar and prays until they bleed, onto the cross -- the blood of his prayers mixing with the blood caked and dried on his hands.
notes like woah:
+ the Arawaks were the unfortunate people Columbus stumbled into when he and his crew stepped off his ships on the island of Hispaniola
+ The bubonic plague is said to have wiped out 30% of Europe's population. Haiti's pre-Columbian population is estimated at somewhere around 18 million; by 1516 -- less than 30 years later, only around 12,000 natives are estimated to have remained alive after not only smallpox, but the slave trade and labor policies by the Spanish so terrible that they literally drove many indigenous people to kill their own children so that they would not have to live as slaves under Spanish rule.
+ Romano is quoting Columbus himself. The sexual aspect of the slave trade in South America was very big, and somewhat horrifying.
+ "bishops in Spanish domains were forbidden to report to the Pope except through the Spanish crown."
Author/Artist: almostwinter
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Spain, South Italy, mentions of an OC
Rating: PG-13 to be safe. (I know nothing of rating)
Warnings: Angst, a very probably handful of historical inaccuracies,
Summary: "What you are doing is wrong."
Notes: This is my first Hetalia fic pretty much ever, and the first fanfic in general I've written in a loooooong while. I wrote it for a friend so, uh, pleasebegentle.
The new world spent the first years of its existence in Europe travelling on the backs of rumors. It was a particularly cold day in winter when Spain came to Romano and shattered all of them to pieces with the truth.
Columbus' had started out as a modest expedition; a route to the other side of the world -- to a new world -- to something . It had felt desperate and unsure, but Romano supposed that fit well with the time then as much as it did now. Spain had not gone with them that first voyage, but now spent more of his time in the new lands than in his own.
People -- people, Spain had said, in numbers no one had ever seen. He said he'd met a nation there, a woman who called herself Arawak. She and her people greeted him kindly, and Spain in his good nature loved them for it. A strong people, he said, an intelligent people led by a nation both beautiful and exotic. Romano tried not to think of Carthage, of Egypt, of Persia and Greece. Mostly he tried not to think of how much more Spain looked like his grandfather than Romano ever had.
Romano was not happy for him for long.
-------
"What you are doing is wrong," he says now, whispers bouncing off the cold stone of the church, icy and cutting like the chill of the surrounding air. Spain is not paying attention to him, eyes darting around like he is waiting for something. He kneels before the altar, and Romano tries again.
"You can't do this to them. They are people, like yours." People in numbers no one had seen. Romano cannot ignore the similarities between that day and this one.
"I can do what I like. It is destiny."
What Spain does not say is that they deserve to die. Romano knows that this distinction is important, and latches onto the silence in his mind with everything he has. Spain clutches the crucifix on his chest, fingers it nervously. He looks as though he will start praying at any moment and Romano will have none of it. He presses, and presses. He needs to know if Spain has made the distinction as well. He needs hope though he will find none.
"You can't kill them. You are killing them, and her. You said she was beautiful, once, and now you wipe her people out like they are pests. They are people, Spain," he stresses, again, "They are a people. They have a nation -- that has to mean something to you," Romano says, and is desperate, clutching at the backs of the pews as he approaches, like he needs them to walk, to keep himself from collapsing under the weight of what Spain is doing, has done.
Romano has lived long enough to see war waged in many ways, but he has never seen anything like this on such a large scale. This is not war; it is eradication.
He met her once -- Arawak, accompanying Spain on one trip of many that he made to her island. She was just as beautiful as Spain had said -- dark and strange, but not entirely unlike people he'd seen before; even England had been strange, once. She was paler than she should have been but still kept an air of dignity, sure that she would triumph. She had looked at Romano like he was an insect, at Spain like he was a demon borne from whatever hell she believed in.
It was probably the fact that Romano didn't know what she believed that bothered him the most.
"I don't kill them, God kills them," Spain starts quietly, "It is his will -- my bishops tell me --" and Romano's boots seem to screech against the stone floor as he covers the space between them, grabbing Spain by the back of his collar and lifting, twisting him around with a strength neither of them knew he was capable of.
"This is not God. This is you playing at God. Do not tell me what is or is not his will, Spain," he says, and knows he is shaking Spain harder than he as any right to. His boss, his brother, his stupid tomato bastard, his --
"They do not even have a God, Romano, so what does it matter whether it is or isn't his will. They don't listen to him, whether he condemns them or not," Spain snarls, angry and now maybe pleading, snatching Romano's hands from his collar and shoving them away.
Spain falls to the floor, scrambles backwards. He will not look at Romano -- his eyes are focused just beyond the altar. His breath is coming harder than it should, and the pads of his fingers look on the edge of bruising for all the force Spain's pressing them against the crucifix with.
They do not speak then. With every breath Spain takes and every moment Romano's stare bores into him, the silence stretches, bends, and breaks, clattering around the walls louder than any words would have. Romano is the first to voice what they are both thinking.
"You would not give them one. You'd rather they died without even trying, just so you can have your way with their land," as if Spain thinks Romano does not know, hasn't heard stories, hasn't seen what they do to them -- he chokes, "You were the first, you bastard. Before you there was nothing. They never even had a chance at God before you decided they should die."
"I am not killing them. They aren't my slaves. They are not my slaves," Spain says, now definitely begging, still not looking at him. Spain's thumb cracks and bleeds onto the cross, but he does not notice, only staring forward out into a space he can hide his guilt behind. Romano will not give him the answer he wants.
"'A hundred castellanoes are as easily obtained for a woman as for a farm,'" Romano says, "'Those from nine to ten are now in demand.'" Spain flinches -- the words burn; his eyes meet Romano's and quickly squeeze shut. He shakes his head as if to rid his ears of the noise.
Romano continues unimpeded, "His words. And yet they are 'not your slaves.'" He is mocking Spain now, but his words cut deep despite the anger Spain feels at his insubordination. It shouldn't -- Spain shouldn't let him behave this way, he thinks. He is the one in charge here, and that should be reason enough for anything he does.
"England kills them and you say nothing. France, too -- all of them. Everyone. You and the Pope only want to interfere, sticking your noses where they don't belong. It has nothing to do with the people there."
"Is that why your bishops refuse to report to the Pope?," Romano snaps, "Do you remember the plague, Spain, because I do. Were those people Godless as well? Had only the Pope not interfered, perhaps they would still be alive by your bishops' better judgement."
It is one of those pauses again, with everything closing in around them. The church has somehow become claustrophobic, for all its stained glass windows and high ceilings.
Romano can't keep the look of disgust off of his face when Spain starts again after a moment instead of anwering him, "I'm not killing them. I'm --"
"You are," Romano says -- cuts him off because he can't do this anymore, and his words are flat and lifeless like the bodies of the Arawaks, of Arawak herself on the last trip Romano had made with Spain. He had met her again, this time with a tiny nation clinging to her breast. What she was could not be called alive. She was rotting where she stood, where she swayed like a doll propped up in the wind, a corpse seemingly animated by the magics of long ago. She spoke and breathed and lived, but as the dying do.
"This," Spain had said, the little nation rushing out of her lifeless arms and into his, "is La Española."
Spain had smiled at Romano then.
Romano had not smiled. Romano had tried not to vomit.
He tries not to again at the memory, and turns from Spain to leave him. The click of his bootheels on the floor is cold again, like the air, like the winter, like the ground in which more nations than Arawak lay buried by Spain's hands. A nation cannot stop what its people want no matter what he himself desires. Romano knows that, but he can't -- he can't. Not when it's Spain. Not when his people want this.
Romano pauses at the door on his way out and says,
"There is no God for you here, Spain."
Spain cries out to the walls of the church until there is nothing left in him. His throat is dry and his lips chapped. He rocks in front of the altar and prays until they bleed, onto the cross -- the blood of his prayers mixing with the blood caked and dried on his hands.
notes like woah:
+ the Arawaks were the unfortunate people Columbus stumbled into when he and his crew stepped off his ships on the island of Hispaniola
+ The bubonic plague is said to have wiped out 30% of Europe's population. Haiti's pre-Columbian population is estimated at somewhere around 18 million; by 1516 -- less than 30 years later, only around 12,000 natives are estimated to have remained alive after not only smallpox, but the slave trade and labor policies by the Spanish so terrible that they literally drove many indigenous people to kill their own children so that they would not have to live as slaves under Spanish rule.
+ Romano is quoting Columbus himself. The sexual aspect of the slave trade in South America was very big, and somewhat horrifying.
+ "bishops in Spanish domains were forbidden to report to the Pope except through the Spanish crown."
no subject
...
I don't know how I should comment on this, but a awe-inspiring fic, great insight of Spain's own feelings on being a conquistador.