The Courtyard is full of beautiful flowers- rich, vibrant colors, thriving, healthy life. One particular area of the garden is swept brightly with pink, red, and white geraniums. They sway softly in the evening breeze as the sun begins to dip past the horizon, casting long streaks of gold out all over the island.
A woman lays on her back in the middle of the flowers, her long hair spread out beneath her. Her skin is as pale and white as marble; her eyes are closed peacefully. She almost seems to be smiling when you first glance at her, but once you blink, you can't see it any more. She lies there, as still and impassive as if she were sleeping, and exquisitely beautiful.
Her black blood flows out from a wound going through the center of her chest, spilling over her sides and seeping out into the soil around her. The geraniums are stained with it, their petals heavy and drooping with blood. It spreads out in a wide circle beneath her.
[He reaches out one shaking hand to brush it softly against her cheek, then plucks one of the unstained flowers and tucks it gently into her hair. Red, to make up for the lack of it in her blood - she usually wore pink, but he knew her well enough to know that she was never as feminine as she seemed, that she had been raised on war and battle just as he had, that she should have gone in a blaze of fire and steel and glory, not like -- never like --
Prussia throws his head back and screams, an animal howl of rage and grief and loss and insanity, the sound of a dying country. He screams until his throat is raw and sore from it, then takes a breath and does it again.]
[Vietnam stands several paces away behind Prussia, her back to the setting sun, the only indication that she's there at all in the long shadow she is casting over the bloodstained patch of flowers. Her brother's military jacket is slung loosely over her shoulders. (It is all that remains of him, after all-)
She waits. She waits and she listens and watches him.
She thinks, distantly, that his grief appears to be palpable- that it's weighing down on her head and shoulders and smothering her- but maybe she's just imagining it. Maybe it's the horrific sound of his screaming, combined with the shock of earlier today (dead? No, he's not dead-)
But she continues to watch Prussia with a detached sort of commitment, as if convinced that he might disappear if she takes her eyes off of him.]
[He doesn't notice Vietnam standing nearby - he can't see anything other than Hungary's body and black and black and black. Hungary's body and Germany's body and the realization of what he's lost staggers him, drives him to his knees until his fists are clenched against the dirt, still screaming, the words that have been running through his head all week ripping themselves out of his throat.]
Give them back! Take me instead! Why couldn't you have taken me instead?!
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The Courtyard is full of beautiful flowers- rich, vibrant colors, thriving, healthy life. One particular area of the garden is swept brightly with pink, red, and white geraniums. They sway softly in the evening breeze as the sun begins to dip past the horizon, casting long streaks of gold out all over the island.
A woman lays on her back in the middle of the flowers, her long hair spread out beneath her. Her skin is as pale and white as marble; her eyes are closed peacefully. She almost seems to be smiling when you first glance at her, but once you blink, you can't see it any more. She lies there, as still and impassive as if she were sleeping, and exquisitely beautiful.
Her black blood flows out from a wound going through the center of her chest, spilling over her sides and seeping out into the soil around her. The geraniums are stained with it, their petals heavy and drooping with blood. It spreads out in a wide circle beneath her.
Hungary sleeps on.]
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Prussia throws his head back and screams, an animal howl of rage and grief and loss and insanity, the sound of a dying country. He screams until his throat is raw and sore from it, then takes a breath and does it again.]
Reply
She waits. She waits and she listens and watches him.
She thinks, distantly, that his grief appears to be palpable- that it's weighing down on her head and shoulders and smothering her- but maybe she's just imagining it. Maybe it's the horrific sound of his screaming, combined with the shock of earlier today (dead? No, he's not dead-)
But she continues to watch Prussia with a detached sort of commitment, as if convinced that he might disappear if she takes her eyes off of him.]
Reply
Give them back! Take me instead! Why couldn't you have taken me instead?!
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