Hetalia fic: [WIP]
Fandom: Axis Powers: Hetalia
Character(s): Teutonic Order (Prussia); Old Prussia (Prusija); Lithuania (Lietuvos, Litauen)
Progress: WIP
The uprisings were put down once more. He kept telling his brother that resisting would only bring him nearer and nearer to death, risking more than just his own life in doing so. Older than he, somehow the oldest in his own right, the other nation would simply smile, a knowing kind of smirk or grin that at once comforted and unsettled his brother. That was the kind of grin that told of things that were inevitable and already in motion. That was the kind of grin that said that the older nation would not go down without a fight.
And he fought bravely, magnificently. The knights could only keep his people down for so long until they began to stir with unrest once more.
But time itself had a hand to play in all of this. His brother grew weaker and weaker, his blood running thin, making it a longer and longer time to heal when one particular knight would strike him down. The knight, a villain in his own way, a certain devil, continued to take and take from his brother the one thing that sustained him. The very thing that the knight had nothing of he sought to steal away from his brother who was certain to die within the century.
All through that century, however, his brother did not let fear hold onto him as he knew his time grew short, the knight's influence growing steadily stronger in the region. On the contrary, his brother smiled and grinned the same way he had all those times past when he'd expressed his own fears.
"Brother, if something should happen, do not think I had no choice in the matter," he would said continuously in a manner that was self-satisfied. He offered no explanation to his confused brother, only gathered the others close to him to share what time he could with them before his new master saw that he'd once again left him. It was a comforting movement, reminding them all of times when they were younger and times, while not simpler, were at least worth reason.
What he had never thought would come of his brother or the knight overcoming his brother was the very sight he saw before him that evening while the sun set with red in the sky and on the ground, on the white tunic with the black cross and the earthen colors of a nation that was no more. Red was even in those eyes, filled with tears of a pain and suffering and guilt that he had never had thought possible, once unshakable faith had been torn, ripped to shreds the way the bloodied clothes under those blood-stained hands were. And red, that vicious color that was a sign of life, death--that color not only clung to his hands, his cloak, his eyes--its telling color was on his face, around his lip, on that pale skin that looked sickened and yet somehow healthier for the sin he had indulged in.
Stricken, he could only stare at this form--for there was only on living form now, when there had been two. The knight was no longer just as he had been; the red in his eyes the most telling change. There was a fear in those eyes, that face, but of regret, he saw nothing.
He only saw that face that was frozen in death, staring up at that red sky, at that red face and red eyes, a mocking sort of smile on lips that were not meant to smile any longer.
At that time, he was not sure how to thing or feel. The knight was the worst of villains, deplorable, even, for having resorted to such measures in order to stake a claim on a land and people that were not his to begin with. However... how miserable and how small and vulnerable the knight looked then. Somehow, he was able to tell that it had not been his intention at all, for this kind of tableau to be seen, let alone occur. The knight suddenly seemed so much younger than he had, more afraid of what he'd gained than what he might have lost--a blasphemy and sin that would never leave him and he would never be forgiven for.
It was for this reason alone that he knelt down to the knight's level and hesitantly offered a hand to his shoulder, hand squeezing tight to remind him that they were and would remain enemies, especially in this light--reddened and bloodied.
The knight's voice was at once small and commanding of attention, a different color to his tone just as with his eyes. "Do we all die like this, Litauen?"
Lietuvos said nothing in return, unable to answer--almost afraid of the answer.
Prusija had fought valiantly but it was to be his last stand, the Orden saw to that as he stood over the fallen nation, sword to his throat. They were both breathing hard, the older nation harder than the one he had lost to. Even so, he looked up to those eyes--how odd, he thought to himself, for someone to have eye that blue. It seemed almost unfitting for the way they were glaring down at him, fierce determination as well as pride and arrogance.
Ah, Prusija found himself thinking as he stared up into those eyes, a grin on his face despite the pain he was no doubt in. So this is what death looks like? It looks so innocent.
This creature before him had fought in many battles, since his birth more than likely. Fighting was obviously all it had known besides his own people who served others with the dedication of the best breed of dog. And yet, how lively this angel of death was--how painfully and pitifully human it looked to Prusija right then. He could even feel the blade move in quickly motions, small but wavering as, even though he was the victor, the Order became perturbed by the sight of the other grinning up at him.
"I grow tired of having to put you and your people down continuously," said the Orden with a malicious, tense tone. "Have I not been a good enough master to you, that you continue to rebel against me--again and again?"
Prusija gave a laugh, ignoring the pain from the blows it took to destabilize him. "Master?" he managed to ask lightly. "I have none. Nor will you."
Those heavenly blue eyes glared down at him, fiery despite their cool color. They were very unsuiting, he couldn't help to thing even as the Orden scoffed at him, "I obey the Pope and the Emperor. Unlike you, I have my place--"
"Do you? Can you show me on the map? Where are you boundaries? Where are your rivers and streams, mountains and valleys?" He took pleasure in seeing the blow land exactly where he had intended, seeing the flash of hurt and confusion in those eyes that showed that this creature honestly did not understand what he meant. So he took the blade into his hand, gripping enough to cut and to move the tip and edge down toward his breast.
The wide-eyed stare of the Orden standing over him only made Prusija's lips twist into an ironic smile.
"You continue to take from me--my land, my people. Soon my languages, my history will be lost to you, and what use will you have of a disobedient house pet? Finish me now, child. Take what it is you desire--yours is an old hunger that I had hoped to not see, but will be the end of me."
The Orden seemed to balk at this, only shaking himself out of his hesitance as he leaned forward, pressing down with his sword. "Do not test me, pagan--!"
"I test and I will continue to test until you do what it is you long for," said Prusija, cutting in sharply as he clutched the blade tighter, pulling down on it. It continued to resist. A pity. "In this way, while everything tangible of mine will die--something will remain. Take that which you seek, child. I'll willingly give it, if only to satiate that hunger for a time."
"You are mad," said the Orden simply, voice trembling as much as his hold on his sword.
The fallen nation closed his eyes for a moment, taking the sight of the bewilderment in those often smug eyes and relishing it even as he cherished it, took it for a sign that this poor child of their kind was as lost as he would like to believe. "If ever you want control of this land, have it as your own and understand the responsibilities of it, feel the pain it and your people feel with every harsh winter and every drought, you will what is necessary."
The child said nothing, only stared down at him. Fear, yes, fear was a normal emotion to show through those blue orbs. But the hunger--even knowing he was older than this creature, knowing that he should have been more than able to continue to fight against this being who wished to possess him so completely, Prusija felt a shiver run down his spine. Death's fingers at his back, waiting for him to depart. And depart he would, if only...
"Poor child," he said aloud in a mutter, almost sarcastic in tone. "You were not meant to last as long as you have. You were not meant to last as long as you shall. And it will be my heart that will keep yours beating."
Again, the Orden remained silent. He seemed to retreat, unsettled. Prusija could not blame him. He had never once found the way how the pagan's eyes would fall on him to be very comforting. Suspicious and alert, the creature above him could only take in more air--his air, once Prussia's. "Your heart?"
The fallen nation could only grin in response--just before he gripped the sword with his other hand and pulled downward. Steel and blood mixed as the Orden stumbled, pressing hard down against his own grip on the sword, eyes wide as the dark color pooled from the wound.
Character(s): Teutonic Order (Prussia); Old Prussia (Prusija); Lithuania (Lietuvos, Litauen)
Progress: WIP
The uprisings were put down once more. He kept telling his brother that resisting would only bring him nearer and nearer to death, risking more than just his own life in doing so. Older than he, somehow the oldest in his own right, the other nation would simply smile, a knowing kind of smirk or grin that at once comforted and unsettled his brother. That was the kind of grin that told of things that were inevitable and already in motion. That was the kind of grin that said that the older nation would not go down without a fight.
And he fought bravely, magnificently. The knights could only keep his people down for so long until they began to stir with unrest once more.
But time itself had a hand to play in all of this. His brother grew weaker and weaker, his blood running thin, making it a longer and longer time to heal when one particular knight would strike him down. The knight, a villain in his own way, a certain devil, continued to take and take from his brother the one thing that sustained him. The very thing that the knight had nothing of he sought to steal away from his brother who was certain to die within the century.
All through that century, however, his brother did not let fear hold onto him as he knew his time grew short, the knight's influence growing steadily stronger in the region. On the contrary, his brother smiled and grinned the same way he had all those times past when he'd expressed his own fears.
"Brother, if something should happen, do not think I had no choice in the matter," he would said continuously in a manner that was self-satisfied. He offered no explanation to his confused brother, only gathered the others close to him to share what time he could with them before his new master saw that he'd once again left him. It was a comforting movement, reminding them all of times when they were younger and times, while not simpler, were at least worth reason.
What he had never thought would come of his brother or the knight overcoming his brother was the very sight he saw before him that evening while the sun set with red in the sky and on the ground, on the white tunic with the black cross and the earthen colors of a nation that was no more. Red was even in those eyes, filled with tears of a pain and suffering and guilt that he had never had thought possible, once unshakable faith had been torn, ripped to shreds the way the bloodied clothes under those blood-stained hands were. And red, that vicious color that was a sign of life, death--that color not only clung to his hands, his cloak, his eyes--its telling color was on his face, around his lip, on that pale skin that looked sickened and yet somehow healthier for the sin he had indulged in.
Stricken, he could only stare at this form--for there was only on living form now, when there had been two. The knight was no longer just as he had been; the red in his eyes the most telling change. There was a fear in those eyes, that face, but of regret, he saw nothing.
He only saw that face that was frozen in death, staring up at that red sky, at that red face and red eyes, a mocking sort of smile on lips that were not meant to smile any longer.
At that time, he was not sure how to thing or feel. The knight was the worst of villains, deplorable, even, for having resorted to such measures in order to stake a claim on a land and people that were not his to begin with. However... how miserable and how small and vulnerable the knight looked then. Somehow, he was able to tell that it had not been his intention at all, for this kind of tableau to be seen, let alone occur. The knight suddenly seemed so much younger than he had, more afraid of what he'd gained than what he might have lost--a blasphemy and sin that would never leave him and he would never be forgiven for.
It was for this reason alone that he knelt down to the knight's level and hesitantly offered a hand to his shoulder, hand squeezing tight to remind him that they were and would remain enemies, especially in this light--reddened and bloodied.
The knight's voice was at once small and commanding of attention, a different color to his tone just as with his eyes. "Do we all die like this, Litauen?"
Lietuvos said nothing in return, unable to answer--almost afraid of the answer.
Prusija had fought valiantly but it was to be his last stand, the Orden saw to that as he stood over the fallen nation, sword to his throat. They were both breathing hard, the older nation harder than the one he had lost to. Even so, he looked up to those eyes--how odd, he thought to himself, for someone to have eye that blue. It seemed almost unfitting for the way they were glaring down at him, fierce determination as well as pride and arrogance.
Ah, Prusija found himself thinking as he stared up into those eyes, a grin on his face despite the pain he was no doubt in. So this is what death looks like? It looks so innocent.
This creature before him had fought in many battles, since his birth more than likely. Fighting was obviously all it had known besides his own people who served others with the dedication of the best breed of dog. And yet, how lively this angel of death was--how painfully and pitifully human it looked to Prusija right then. He could even feel the blade move in quickly motions, small but wavering as, even though he was the victor, the Order became perturbed by the sight of the other grinning up at him.
"I grow tired of having to put you and your people down continuously," said the Orden with a malicious, tense tone. "Have I not been a good enough master to you, that you continue to rebel against me--again and again?"
Prusija gave a laugh, ignoring the pain from the blows it took to destabilize him. "Master?" he managed to ask lightly. "I have none. Nor will you."
Those heavenly blue eyes glared down at him, fiery despite their cool color. They were very unsuiting, he couldn't help to thing even as the Orden scoffed at him, "I obey the Pope and the Emperor. Unlike you, I have my place--"
"Do you? Can you show me on the map? Where are you boundaries? Where are your rivers and streams, mountains and valleys?" He took pleasure in seeing the blow land exactly where he had intended, seeing the flash of hurt and confusion in those eyes that showed that this creature honestly did not understand what he meant. So he took the blade into his hand, gripping enough to cut and to move the tip and edge down toward his breast.
The wide-eyed stare of the Orden standing over him only made Prusija's lips twist into an ironic smile.
"You continue to take from me--my land, my people. Soon my languages, my history will be lost to you, and what use will you have of a disobedient house pet? Finish me now, child. Take what it is you desire--yours is an old hunger that I had hoped to not see, but will be the end of me."
The Orden seemed to balk at this, only shaking himself out of his hesitance as he leaned forward, pressing down with his sword. "Do not test me, pagan--!"
"I test and I will continue to test until you do what it is you long for," said Prusija, cutting in sharply as he clutched the blade tighter, pulling down on it. It continued to resist. A pity. "In this way, while everything tangible of mine will die--something will remain. Take that which you seek, child. I'll willingly give it, if only to satiate that hunger for a time."
"You are mad," said the Orden simply, voice trembling as much as his hold on his sword.
The fallen nation closed his eyes for a moment, taking the sight of the bewilderment in those often smug eyes and relishing it even as he cherished it, took it for a sign that this poor child of their kind was as lost as he would like to believe. "If ever you want control of this land, have it as your own and understand the responsibilities of it, feel the pain it and your people feel with every harsh winter and every drought, you will what is necessary."
The child said nothing, only stared down at him. Fear, yes, fear was a normal emotion to show through those blue orbs. But the hunger--even knowing he was older than this creature, knowing that he should have been more than able to continue to fight against this being who wished to possess him so completely, Prusija felt a shiver run down his spine. Death's fingers at his back, waiting for him to depart. And depart he would, if only...
"Poor child," he said aloud in a mutter, almost sarcastic in tone. "You were not meant to last as long as you have. You were not meant to last as long as you shall. And it will be my heart that will keep yours beating."
Again, the Orden remained silent. He seemed to retreat, unsettled. Prusija could not blame him. He had never once found the way how the pagan's eyes would fall on him to be very comforting. Suspicious and alert, the creature above him could only take in more air--his air, once Prussia's. "Your heart?"
The fallen nation could only grin in response--just before he gripped the sword with his other hand and pulled downward. Steel and blood mixed as the Orden stumbled, pressing hard down against his own grip on the sword, eyes wide as the dark color pooled from the wound.