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hetalia2008-08-21 05:47 am
ferus-preliator.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2008-08-21 05:47 am
Entry tags:
[Fanfiction] Another Year
Title:Another Year
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ferus_preliator
Character(s) and/or Pairing(s): Prussia and kind of sort of Friedrich the Great
Rating: We'll say PG
Warnings:Ghosts and morbidity I guess
Summary: "It is August 17th and he[Gilbert] is here to visit a dead man."
This particular bit of fic was inspired by a couple of things. First is Prussia-mun's entirely too awesome job of playing Gil in the APHDR and her knowledge of Prussian history. This was written as a gift for you bb, even if it is sort of roundabout. Second was the song Hallelujah, a partial verse of which is right over there. *points* I don't know how many times I listened to that song while writing this, but it helped so it gets credit. Third was the fact that I was in the middle of writing something kind of dark and violent for the kink meme and I needed a break to... something less violent I guess? So anyway, without further ado, on to my attempt.
Another Year
Maybe I've been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
Gilbert Beilschmidt’s footsteps echo down the marble floored halls of Sanssouci. It is August 17th, and he is here to visit a dead man. For over two hundred years he has made this journey, and he is willing to make it for another two hundred. This man, his king, deserves no less. The palace is completely empty in a way it only ever is this one time of year, no staff or visitors walk the grounds, he is utterly alone here. Gilbert prefers it this way, and is glad that his government gives him this one indulgence. He stops in the Marmosaal for a moment, leaving a bouquet of lilies behind in the empty space. He then slowly walks through the rooms and as he does, he sees them, not as they are now, with the velvet ropes and plaques, the explanations and displays, but as they were so long ago.
A maid bows to him, recognizing that he is someone respected, men nod or bow (no women though, for as Fritz wanted Sanssouci to be sans souci, without cares, so he also wanted it to be sans femmes, without women) and from somewhere he hears strains of piano music. Some of the ghosts he acknowledges, some he does not. For a moment he feels the weight of a cape he has not worn for decades and feels the movement of a sword at his side, before they fade away like the ghosts that inhabit not a place, but his own mind. He continues walking, past more ghosts, more memories that refuse to fade until he reaches the king’s study. He pushes the door open and sees the desk and chair. It almost seems to whisper to him, ghostly echoes of times long past. Laughter twines around his ears, his own and Fritz’s, whispers of intimate conversations long since done and over, yet repeated here for one set of ears. He smiles, bowing to the now empty chair, the forever empty chair. Before Fritz’s body had been moved here, this had been his destination, but now it is merely a stop before he goes to the gardens. He had never liked it when they changed the style of the room anyway, it had all been perfect just the way it was.
He looks out the window in Fritz’s study and feels a touch, light as a feather and as cold as ice on his neck. He smiles, thinking sadly that this touch is now more familiar than his living king’s touch was. All the same, he closes his eyes, leaning where a hand had at one time been as the touch moved up to his cheek. He opens the study door, walking down the hall and feels his king walk with him, the touch leaving, but he knew Fritz was still there. When Gilbert came here, he always was. Back down the halls now, past more apparitions, almost as clear as reality now, the piano music and laughter louder and more real and he knew that if he were to open this door or walk in this room that he would truly believe he was back then, back with his king and his king’s closest friends. He does not, knowing in his head that no matter how much he wishes it, he can not turn back time, no matter how much his heart cries for it. He pauses again, taking the lilies with him before crossing the hall. He reaches the door to the gardens, and Gilbert throws them wide, striding out onto the wide expanse and down to a simple stone marker. It reads “Friedrich der Grosse” nothing else. Nothing else is needed, the three simple words all that is required.
Gilbert sits before the marker, placing the bouquet on a corner, his head bowed as he counts to fifteen. He looks up, and his king stands before him. Not Fritz as he was at his death, old and wrinkled, but Fritz as Gilbert loved to remember him, vibrant and intelligent and beautiful. The wind sighs through the grass I have missed you my friend, he hears Friedrich say, the pale hand reaching out to touch on his shoulder. “I have missed you too Fritz. I always miss you.” A bird trills in the fruit trees Will you stay here with me beautiful one? Gilbert feels tears start in his eyes, but he keeps them in, he always does. “You know I can not do that Fritz.” The ghostly hand touches his cheek, floats down lips and chin and then to his neck and shoulder. A voice, low and distinct, yet so far away whispers into his ear. And how have you fared while I slept? Speak to me of the time you spent away from me my friend, my love. And Gilbert does as he does every year, he lays his head next to his king’s grave and he tells the ghost of a dead man everything that has happened to him, triumphs and defeats, quiet days and busy days, loves and hates and everything in between. All too soon he runs out of days, every event from the past year recited. He feels the touch again, a cold caress down his jaw. I will see you next year Gilbert. And the year after, and the year after. You will always return to me, won’t you? Gilbert can do nothing but nod. Then I look forward to next year mine. For the barest of moments Gilbert feels the ghost of a kiss, the barest of touches across his lips.
And then his king, his Fritz, his love is gone for another year. As Gilbert turns from the grave he sees a cluster of centaurea growing at the corner of the stone, miraculously unmolested by gardeners. He smiles and plucks it, a silent thank you is given and he strides back to Sanssouci, empty of anything for another year. And for another year Gilbert Beilschmidt chooses the land of the living over the embrace of his king. Because Friedrich is still and will always be his king, and his king deserves no less.
~*~
Author:
ferus_preliatorCharacter(s) and/or Pairing(s): Prussia and kind of sort of Friedrich the Great
Rating: We'll say PG
Warnings:Ghosts and morbidity I guess
Summary: "It is August 17th and he[Gilbert] is here to visit a dead man."
This particular bit of fic was inspired by a couple of things. First is Prussia-mun's entirely too awesome job of playing Gil in the APHDR and her knowledge of Prussian history. This was written as a gift for you bb, even if it is sort of roundabout. Second was the song Hallelujah, a partial verse of which is right over there. *points* I don't know how many times I listened to that song while writing this, but it helped so it gets credit. Third was the fact that I was in the middle of writing something kind of dark and violent for the kink meme and I needed a break to... something less violent I guess? So anyway, without further ado, on to my attempt.
Another Year
Maybe I've been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
Gilbert Beilschmidt’s footsteps echo down the marble floored halls of Sanssouci. It is August 17th, and he is here to visit a dead man. For over two hundred years he has made this journey, and he is willing to make it for another two hundred. This man, his king, deserves no less. The palace is completely empty in a way it only ever is this one time of year, no staff or visitors walk the grounds, he is utterly alone here. Gilbert prefers it this way, and is glad that his government gives him this one indulgence. He stops in the Marmosaal for a moment, leaving a bouquet of lilies behind in the empty space. He then slowly walks through the rooms and as he does, he sees them, not as they are now, with the velvet ropes and plaques, the explanations and displays, but as they were so long ago.
A maid bows to him, recognizing that he is someone respected, men nod or bow (no women though, for as Fritz wanted Sanssouci to be sans souci, without cares, so he also wanted it to be sans femmes, without women) and from somewhere he hears strains of piano music. Some of the ghosts he acknowledges, some he does not. For a moment he feels the weight of a cape he has not worn for decades and feels the movement of a sword at his side, before they fade away like the ghosts that inhabit not a place, but his own mind. He continues walking, past more ghosts, more memories that refuse to fade until he reaches the king’s study. He pushes the door open and sees the desk and chair. It almost seems to whisper to him, ghostly echoes of times long past. Laughter twines around his ears, his own and Fritz’s, whispers of intimate conversations long since done and over, yet repeated here for one set of ears. He smiles, bowing to the now empty chair, the forever empty chair. Before Fritz’s body had been moved here, this had been his destination, but now it is merely a stop before he goes to the gardens. He had never liked it when they changed the style of the room anyway, it had all been perfect just the way it was.
He looks out the window in Fritz’s study and feels a touch, light as a feather and as cold as ice on his neck. He smiles, thinking sadly that this touch is now more familiar than his living king’s touch was. All the same, he closes his eyes, leaning where a hand had at one time been as the touch moved up to his cheek. He opens the study door, walking down the hall and feels his king walk with him, the touch leaving, but he knew Fritz was still there. When Gilbert came here, he always was. Back down the halls now, past more apparitions, almost as clear as reality now, the piano music and laughter louder and more real and he knew that if he were to open this door or walk in this room that he would truly believe he was back then, back with his king and his king’s closest friends. He does not, knowing in his head that no matter how much he wishes it, he can not turn back time, no matter how much his heart cries for it. He pauses again, taking the lilies with him before crossing the hall. He reaches the door to the gardens, and Gilbert throws them wide, striding out onto the wide expanse and down to a simple stone marker. It reads “Friedrich der Grosse” nothing else. Nothing else is needed, the three simple words all that is required.
Gilbert sits before the marker, placing the bouquet on a corner, his head bowed as he counts to fifteen. He looks up, and his king stands before him. Not Fritz as he was at his death, old and wrinkled, but Fritz as Gilbert loved to remember him, vibrant and intelligent and beautiful. The wind sighs through the grass I have missed you my friend, he hears Friedrich say, the pale hand reaching out to touch on his shoulder. “I have missed you too Fritz. I always miss you.” A bird trills in the fruit trees Will you stay here with me beautiful one? Gilbert feels tears start in his eyes, but he keeps them in, he always does. “You know I can not do that Fritz.” The ghostly hand touches his cheek, floats down lips and chin and then to his neck and shoulder. A voice, low and distinct, yet so far away whispers into his ear. And how have you fared while I slept? Speak to me of the time you spent away from me my friend, my love. And Gilbert does as he does every year, he lays his head next to his king’s grave and he tells the ghost of a dead man everything that has happened to him, triumphs and defeats, quiet days and busy days, loves and hates and everything in between. All too soon he runs out of days, every event from the past year recited. He feels the touch again, a cold caress down his jaw. I will see you next year Gilbert. And the year after, and the year after. You will always return to me, won’t you? Gilbert can do nothing but nod. Then I look forward to next year mine. For the barest of moments Gilbert feels the ghost of a kiss, the barest of touches across his lips.
And then his king, his Fritz, his love is gone for another year. As Gilbert turns from the grave he sees a cluster of centaurea growing at the corner of the stone, miraculously unmolested by gardeners. He smiles and plucks it, a silent thank you is given and he strides back to Sanssouci, empty of anything for another year. And for another year Gilbert Beilschmidt chooses the land of the living over the embrace of his king. Because Friedrich is still and will always be his king, and his king deserves no less.
~*~
no subject
But honestly this is lovely. You have real talent, have i ever told you that? This made me super duper happy. I'm glad a dazzle you with the awesome that is gibert! :D
Just the tiny-tiniest nit pick. The grave has "Friedrich der Grosse" writen on it, as ß is a relatively new letter being used by germans.
no subject
*blush* Thanks. Gilbert is an awesome character isn't he? So much lovable crazy in such a lovely package. :DD
no subject
Stop feeding ego cookies. He'll get fat and so will the prodigious ego of his :DDD
:3 how could i nit-pick this? THIS? <3
no subject
no subject
But if he gets fat his ego will go down right? Honestly most of the time Gil feeds his own ego I think, the bit Roderich does isn't going to make that much difference. :D
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no subject
I want to learn mooooooore... I know next to nothing about these countries (cuz I'm American and our system really does seem to think "I'm the HERO!" when it comes to history (unless you specialize in non-American history) >_<) but this is lovely and <3333 and beautiful imagery. It was really nice to see a side of Prussia that wasn't about "vital regions".
no subject
I love how multi-faceted Prussia (and all the nation-tans when you look at them from an historic angle) can be.
I'm glad you liked it so much, now go forth and study! For fun!
no subject
This was lovely for so many reasons: Prussia acting as more than this goofy, greedy, foul-mouthed warlord (which we all love him for of course, but you know); referring to Friedrich as Fritz with such fondness; the memories of figures partying it up in Sans Soucci; how much they miss each other.
AND OF COURSE THE RUFUS ALWAYS HELPS. YES.It's all so bittersweet.This was a really special little fic for me. I've always found our Fritzy a very sad, sympathetic figure in history despite his wealth and brains and ruthlessness and you know...general awesomeness, but he's one of my favorite historical figures. It makes so much sense that Gilbert would be Friedrich's one true love. NEW OTP! YES! I can imagine watching them discuss Fritz's grand ideas over breakfast one morning; perhaps have Gilbert muttering scathing comments as he's forced to share his man's time with that insufferable Voltaire again. (Heheheh. Francis would get a kick out of this, I'm sure.)
Anyway...yeah. This was a long, rambly comment, and I apologize. Excellent fic. It's going in my memories. :)
no subject
As for the rest, I'm really not sure what to say. Um thanks for all the kind words and I'm really glad you liked it so much. I love thinking of Gil (and all my fav charas) as having more layers to them than just what's shown in the comic while still being themselves.
I liked k.d. Lang's version better, but Rufus's was good. <3I found him to be more and more interesting the more I looked into his background and he really was so interesting and sympathetic. *puts up a Gil & Fritz 4 EVER banner* That's what makes so many of these characters for me, is thinking of those little moments (even if they tend to stay in my head instead of given shape and form in something like this) I would think Gil-beans was so happy when Fritz and Voltaire had their little spat where they stopped talking for awhile. ;D
No, that's fine, I love long rambly ones where people tell me what they liked about something I did. NO APOLOGIZING! >:D It, it is? ^////^ Um wow, thank you.