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moonsheenTwo short Britain drabbles I did a million years ago, for archival purposes. Might redo the first at some point in the distant future.
Smoke rose from the burning buildings as the bombs screamed down from above. It was the tenth night of bombings and everything that hadn't crumbled, burned. The foreign officer stepped out onto one of the quays, raising his hand to shield his eyes against the night's red glare. The city was bright. The officer wound his way through the streets, pressing through the soot and the falling debris. His footing was not the best here, none of this land yet belonged to him, but he moved like it did with a steady, smart step. In spite of the filth in the air his boots shone in the firelight. He covered his mouth and he didn't cough. He stopped at a crossing and waited as a building on the curb obediently collapsed. Through the haze of what was once one of London's more bargain hotels, he saw a man. Anyone sane at this hour should have taken to the underground, or else they should have been buried beneath several tons of mortar and stone. This man produced a flask out of his own scuffed boot and was in the process of taking a sloppy swig. He didn't turn. It was possible he didn't hear the officer's approach over the noise from above. This was unlikely. He had to know he was there.
"You're being stubborn," said the officer. "We would have left you standing if you had only stepped back."
The man laughed, glancing over his shoulder. His lips were utterly chafed. His uniform might've once been green. It looked more like a dull brown from the dust and the soot. The fires had made his cheeks a bright red and his eyes shone with what was either the brandy or a good deal of madness or probably both. "Oh yes. And your master's a man of his word, is he? We all would've gotten along, then?"
"This is idiotic."
"Something we both agree on!"
The officer pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why?"
“Because,” said merry old England, drawing his wrist over his mouth and straightening his collar with a smart little snap. He looked West. To where the fires were still burning and where one couldn’t see the stars, for all the smoke. He held up the bottle: cheers, you damn upstart. “The sun has not yet set.”
On the cool morning of Novermber 17th, the year 1558, a lone traveller made his way by foot bound northward to Hatfield. He was not the first to make this trip, and he would certainly not be the last in these next few days. He moved carefully, favoring a leg and holding his arm as though it pained him, which it did, for he kept it in a sling. His stiff collar chafed his neck and his breeches showed off his weak and spindly legs. Anyone who happened to pass him on the road would've been audience to all sorts of wheezing curses against the fashions of this century, but few passed him. It was cool, and it was early, and he did not have far to go.
To be precise, he had about thirty miles. A distance which, in his shambling condition, should have taken him more than a day at best. It took him twenty minutes, and only that long because he had a damnable time collecting himself at the gate. That it only took him fifteen minutes to do this was a wonder. It seemed much longer, and maybe it might have been. The heavy watch around his neck never told the right time and he hadn't the head to track the sun at just that moment. Time was funny thing to him anyway. Some centuries crawled, and some sped by in a flash, and anyway it seemed like only a moment ago that he'd stood over Queen Mary's last mass.
To her credit, she had gone quietly. Head bent in honor of the faith she had clung to so loyally in life. He knew the measure of that faith. Among the priests, and among her sobbing ladies, no one had seen him standing there. She had not looked to him, the poor woman. She had never looked to him. It was God she sought. God, her husband, her mother's damnable country, but never him. It was just as well her last words were to God. He wasn't sure what he might've said in comfort. She was leaving him in a bad spot, and she knew it. To tell her she'd done well by him would be a lie. To tell her she'd done her duty would also be a lie. To tell her that she'd done all she could, that might have been truth, but all she could do had not been enough. She should never have been Queen. To say he had done well by her would be a lie, too.
In any case the whole mess left him outside the royal estate in Hertfordshire. The gardens were well tended. The air was brisk. And at length he saw the Lady Elizabeth, turning the bend on her customary morning walk. The cold didn't seem to faze her, and she must've been very lost in thought. She didn't see him until she was nearly on top of him, and when she did she stopped and stared. She knew him. Four years ago he had stood with her on the steps of the Tower, but she had known him even before that. The memory must not have been a pleasant one to her, but she hardly showed it. She touched her lips, and then dropped her hand, pressing it instead over the cover of the bound book she had brought with her for her walk.
"I had wondered when you would come," she said.
He knelt at her feet.
"They will come with your title." The winter had done him no favors. The blasted illness had gotten to his head. His voice came thick and stuffed high in the nose. He swallowed a cough, willing some dignity into the painful bent of his shoulders. His arm didn't take to it. His doublet rubbed the burns the wrong way. He stared ahead into the embroidered hem of her gown. "But as of now I am yours." He would not say how badly he wished it otherwise. Not for Mary's sake, or poor Jane's, or even Edward but simply for his own. He was to be given to another woman. He wondered if he would live to see the next century.
For a time, she said nothing. She could hardly be blamed for it. She had just been informed of a heavy matter, and though little showed on her face it must have been an awful shock. He was just wondering if he ought to suggest she find a place to sit, when her hand came down over the back of his neck. He blanched at the touch. She reached down to his chin, and tipped his head up.
"Who blacked your eye?" she asked, with genuine interest. She had a long, sharp face and a high, pale forehead. Not beautiful by any of his people's standard convention, but fascinating when she cocked it just so. Her fingers brushed his cheekbone. He flinched away.
"Spain," he husked, wishing she wouldn't touch him so. "When he knocked me down and stole my purse."
"And your arm?"
His fingers gave a bitter twitch. "France," he said, between gritted teeth. "When he wrenched Calais from my grasp."
"I see," she said. What else could be said? She surprised him again when she straightened and turned, gazing off across the gardens. "We'll just have to fix all that, won't we? I cannot promise you Calais immediately, but giving the Spaniards a bit of their own, I think that may be arranged."
Smoke rose from the burning buildings as the bombs screamed down from above. It was the tenth night of bombings and everything that hadn't crumbled, burned. The foreign officer stepped out onto one of the quays, raising his hand to shield his eyes against the night's red glare. The city was bright. The officer wound his way through the streets, pressing through the soot and the falling debris. His footing was not the best here, none of this land yet belonged to him, but he moved like it did with a steady, smart step. In spite of the filth in the air his boots shone in the firelight. He covered his mouth and he didn't cough. He stopped at a crossing and waited as a building on the curb obediently collapsed. Through the haze of what was once one of London's more bargain hotels, he saw a man. Anyone sane at this hour should have taken to the underground, or else they should have been buried beneath several tons of mortar and stone. This man produced a flask out of his own scuffed boot and was in the process of taking a sloppy swig. He didn't turn. It was possible he didn't hear the officer's approach over the noise from above. This was unlikely. He had to know he was there.
"You're being stubborn," said the officer. "We would have left you standing if you had only stepped back."
The man laughed, glancing over his shoulder. His lips were utterly chafed. His uniform might've once been green. It looked more like a dull brown from the dust and the soot. The fires had made his cheeks a bright red and his eyes shone with what was either the brandy or a good deal of madness or probably both. "Oh yes. And your master's a man of his word, is he? We all would've gotten along, then?"
"This is idiotic."
"Something we both agree on!"
The officer pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why?"
“Because,” said merry old England, drawing his wrist over his mouth and straightening his collar with a smart little snap. He looked West. To where the fires were still burning and where one couldn’t see the stars, for all the smoke. He held up the bottle: cheers, you damn upstart. “The sun has not yet set.”
On the cool morning of Novermber 17th, the year 1558, a lone traveller made his way by foot bound northward to Hatfield. He was not the first to make this trip, and he would certainly not be the last in these next few days. He moved carefully, favoring a leg and holding his arm as though it pained him, which it did, for he kept it in a sling. His stiff collar chafed his neck and his breeches showed off his weak and spindly legs. Anyone who happened to pass him on the road would've been audience to all sorts of wheezing curses against the fashions of this century, but few passed him. It was cool, and it was early, and he did not have far to go.
To be precise, he had about thirty miles. A distance which, in his shambling condition, should have taken him more than a day at best. It took him twenty minutes, and only that long because he had a damnable time collecting himself at the gate. That it only took him fifteen minutes to do this was a wonder. It seemed much longer, and maybe it might have been. The heavy watch around his neck never told the right time and he hadn't the head to track the sun at just that moment. Time was funny thing to him anyway. Some centuries crawled, and some sped by in a flash, and anyway it seemed like only a moment ago that he'd stood over Queen Mary's last mass.
To her credit, she had gone quietly. Head bent in honor of the faith she had clung to so loyally in life. He knew the measure of that faith. Among the priests, and among her sobbing ladies, no one had seen him standing there. She had not looked to him, the poor woman. She had never looked to him. It was God she sought. God, her husband, her mother's damnable country, but never him. It was just as well her last words were to God. He wasn't sure what he might've said in comfort. She was leaving him in a bad spot, and she knew it. To tell her she'd done well by him would be a lie. To tell her she'd done her duty would also be a lie. To tell her that she'd done all she could, that might have been truth, but all she could do had not been enough. She should never have been Queen. To say he had done well by her would be a lie, too.
In any case the whole mess left him outside the royal estate in Hertfordshire. The gardens were well tended. The air was brisk. And at length he saw the Lady Elizabeth, turning the bend on her customary morning walk. The cold didn't seem to faze her, and she must've been very lost in thought. She didn't see him until she was nearly on top of him, and when she did she stopped and stared. She knew him. Four years ago he had stood with her on the steps of the Tower, but she had known him even before that. The memory must not have been a pleasant one to her, but she hardly showed it. She touched her lips, and then dropped her hand, pressing it instead over the cover of the bound book she had brought with her for her walk.
"I had wondered when you would come," she said.
He knelt at her feet.
"They will come with your title." The winter had done him no favors. The blasted illness had gotten to his head. His voice came thick and stuffed high in the nose. He swallowed a cough, willing some dignity into the painful bent of his shoulders. His arm didn't take to it. His doublet rubbed the burns the wrong way. He stared ahead into the embroidered hem of her gown. "But as of now I am yours." He would not say how badly he wished it otherwise. Not for Mary's sake, or poor Jane's, or even Edward but simply for his own. He was to be given to another woman. He wondered if he would live to see the next century.
For a time, she said nothing. She could hardly be blamed for it. She had just been informed of a heavy matter, and though little showed on her face it must have been an awful shock. He was just wondering if he ought to suggest she find a place to sit, when her hand came down over the back of his neck. He blanched at the touch. She reached down to his chin, and tipped his head up.
"Who blacked your eye?" she asked, with genuine interest. She had a long, sharp face and a high, pale forehead. Not beautiful by any of his people's standard convention, but fascinating when she cocked it just so. Her fingers brushed his cheekbone. He flinched away.
"Spain," he husked, wishing she wouldn't touch him so. "When he knocked me down and stole my purse."
"And your arm?"
His fingers gave a bitter twitch. "France," he said, between gritted teeth. "When he wrenched Calais from my grasp."
"I see," she said. What else could be said? She surprised him again when she straightened and turned, gazing off across the gardens. "We'll just have to fix all that, won't we? I cannot promise you Calais immediately, but giving the Spaniards a bit of their own, I think that may be arranged."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-30 05:09 pm (UTC)In other words, these are very, very good stories.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-01 01:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-30 06:00 pm (UTC)The first one: ugh your writing style, I CAN'T EVEN- the imagery!! And "merry old England" aahhhhlksdfjlkasfjd. That last paragraph kills me. How England is just, "bitch please! I WAS THE GREATEST EMPIRE IN THE WORLD AND A PIRATE, AND THIS IS ALL YOU CAN THROW AT ME?" So perfect.
The second one: YESSS YOU DID IT YOU WROTE ELIZABETH FIC. I love how England is all, ugh, another woman! And Elizabeth is just, ":3" And all the little details, like how time moves differently for him omg I JUST REALLY LOVE THE STUFF THAT IS IN YOUR BRAIN OKAY.
I can't give coherent reviews but asdlfkf these are amazing and you should pretty much never stop writing Hetalia fic. ♥♥♥
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-30 11:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-01 01:42 am (UTC)And ":3" is the perfect description for some of Elizabeth's greater moments.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-30 06:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-01 01:42 am (UTC)I THOUGHT OF YOU.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-30 06:24 pm (UTC)And Elizabeth- just through England's eyes you can see the potential in her, all the glory she will bring to him but also shockingly human.
A wonderful, captivating job!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-01 01:48 am (UTC)England's a tenacious old man and he'll get by on grit and some really good booze
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-30 09:35 pm (UTC)I am very bad at coherent critique so I shall just go ahead and say that that second one, the details, Arthur's spindly legs, the "oh god not another woman fucking me up, not again", that was just perfect *wistful sigh*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-01 01:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-02 12:10 am (UTC)Talking of depressing, anything about the English Civil Wars would be depressing too.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-30 11:34 pm (UTC)And I shall echo the others: write more of this England, because FUCK YEAH. The sun has not yet SET.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-01 01:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-02 03:33 am (UTC)I love you forever. And ever.
She just - oh yes, she really felt like I personally imagine she must have been. And England - I loved his reactions. His diffidence, his weariness. His surprise!
And also, thanks for having her already know Arthur... since she did live at court a few times before her reign, so it only makes sense, at least to me. :DLove the first story too! Especially England's almost casual stance, despite the circumstances. Defiance, such an awesome thing. ♥
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-24 03:50 am (UTC)