A Midnight Prayer
Title: Midnight Prayers
Author/Artist: spikedtea
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Grandpa Rome, France, England, America
Rating: probably G, unless I've inadvertently started swearing, in which case PG-13
Wordcount: ~1200
Warnings: self-beta'ed.
On any other night, he would’ve abhorred the idea of being alone. Women and fraternity, wine and food, of these one could never overindulge.
And yet, tonight, it was too much.
It had been six years since he followed the silken speech of Gavis Julius Caesar into the wilds beyond the Alps. It had been six weeks since he had agreed to the “simple siege” of Alesia, the last stronghold of the Gauls. It had been sixteen days since he had held his line against the starving citizens of the citadel, caught between a home that’d expelled them and a blade that’d run through them without a morsel from either. It had been sixteen hours since he had fought alongside the silvery swords of his men, slicing through sinews driven by despair to desperation.
But it was six hours ago, at the surrender, where his night had taken a turn for the strange.
He had noticed the babe before. Abandoned in the no-man’s land betwixt his wall and theirs, the discarded swaddle cloth had deserved no second glances as the others slowly wasted away. It was only at the surrender, did the muffled warble and the glint of gold catch his eye.
Sitting now, transfixed by a low autumn moon reflected in the midnight blue eyes, Rome realized that he had never felt so calm, nor so terrified, in his long and war-weary life.
One plea, nay, only a prayer, he dared to breathe into the breeze, in a desperate hope that it might find pity with Diana above.
Let him be safe.
****
The salt air had torn through his tunic, but it was no matter. He would mend it in the morning.
Some 800 years had passed since he had been taken under the wing of Grandfather Rome. It had been some 400 years since he had last seen Grandfather Rome, his body broken and bruised after centuries of squabbles and stabbings. Yet, though the rise and fall of both men and empires, France remained but a mere pageboy, never wholly in the spotlight, nor ever wholly out of sight.
France stole a glance up at the moon. When he had first encountered it, he had momentarily thought it was another silly plaything of Grandfather Rome’s. A knife, a swear, and several arrows later, he realized that this newest addition was nothing like his brothers.
Brittania had run away from the house some time before Grandfather Rome had disappeared. Still only standing a head above his pet rabbit, he had lifted the latch and stolen into the night after pilfering anything he could carry with him. Grandfather Rome, upon discovering this, simply laughed.
On paper, Charlemagne had just brokered a trade treaty with the uncouth child. In reality, France had signed the contract in place of the bite-sized terror of a blonde. After all, he was the only one with a reasonable chance of landing on the opposite shore without a hail of fire raining down upon him.
Brittania had accepted the scroll without a word. Without so much as a cursory glance over, he clambered back to his boat and set off into the freedom of the crashing waves. Now and then a speck of white, barely visible under the glow of the full moon, bobbed precariously on the edge between surf and sky.
For the first time since his conversion, France sorely wished for news from his winged friends, the ones that surely still clung onto his cherished, Britannic brother.
One plea, nay, only a prayer, he dared to breathe into the breeze, in a desperate hope that it might find pity with Arduinna above.
Let him be safe.
****
He was not sick. He had never been sick out on the water. Not five hundred years ago, shuttling across the English Channel. Not now, five hundred miles from the English shore.
He had been fighting France on the battlefield for what seemed to be the umpteenth time since they’d met some millennia and a half ago.
Only now, instead sticks and stones, there were swords and shields. They had both grown with the passage of time, both tottering on the edge of adulthood with their bandied limbs and their breaking voices.
Normally, given the situation, he would have never fled the battlefield without having first ripped the beginning of France’s beard off his face.
His own blood brothers hadn’t been nearly so kind; at least in this brotherhood they bothered to declare war first.
And yet here he was, plunging headfirst into the darkness towards the New World, while war continued to rage on the continent.
It is mesmerizing, how a word can hold such power over a nation. It was terrifying, the effect of a witch hunt an otherwise immortal infant.
Salem. A colored servant. A naive nation. A biased jury. Trial by fire. Panicked hysteria. Death.
A pale, pockmarked moon hung above him, washing both deck and nation in a hallowed haze.
One plea, nay, only a prayer, he dared to breathe into the breeze, in a desperate hope that it might find pity with God above.
Let him be safe.
****
It was nearly halfway through radio silence. His heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears. Outside, in the airless void, was the Moon, its shadow gazing into the unspoken recesses of his being.
It had been nearly five hundred years since England had first found him, sleeping in a pile of hay. It had been nearly two hundred years since he broke free from his brother, finally free to determine his own destiny.
He had won his freedom, he had won Europe’s freedom, and he had won the race to the moon. He had won.
But, there in the isolation of the orbiter, there was no one there to celebrate with him.
There was no man on the moon. There was no Diana, there was no Arduinna, and, as far as he could see, there was no God on the moon either. Only scars, carved out by relentless bombardment of shooting stars. Stars that had borne the hopes, the wishes, the dreams of men. Prayers from desperate men, slung into the void in a vain hope that someone, somewhere, would respond in kind.
And here the moon had borne it all, shouldering the weight of the world onto its barren land.
It was approaching midnight on the moon. Soon radio silence would be over, and he would undoubtedly, instinctively, beam his good spirits back home, lest Houston panic and never let him on a spaceflight again.
But for now, it was just him and the moon, carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. A burden that even the weightlessness of space could not relieve.
One plea, no, only a prayer, he dared to ghost onto the glass, in a desperate hope that it might find guidance with the moon below.
Let us be safe.
**fin**
~~~~~
**notes**
My knowledge of Ancient Roman history is woefully lacking. That being said, it seems odd to me that nations can reproduce. Thus, in my mind, France is found and adopted by Grandpa Rome much in the same way America is found and adopted by England. France is "found" in the Battle of Alesia, which, according to Wiki, was the final, decisive "battle" that brought France into the folds of the Roman Empire. I say "battle," but it was more a siege, which are ugly ugly things.
Diana, for those who don't know, is the Roman goddess of the moon, the hunt, and childbirth. Yes, I know Rome didn't give birth, but still.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gallic_Wars
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Alesia
**
Carlemagne was, as far as I recall, the one who established Catholicism/ Christianity as the official religion of the Holy Roman Empire, and was originally French. The way I see it, he would've originally been a French king and then took a strong liking to the HRE, with France being a very uncute looking 8yo at the time.
My knowledge of Celtic mythology is pure and utter crap, supplemented heavily with Wiki and Google. I use Arduinna because she happens to be the goddess of the moon (for the Gauls) and she's loosely associated with Diana.
Charlemagne didn't really do anything with England, being busy trying to (re-?)conquer Italy and all that jazz. That being said, apparently England's first recorded trade treaty was made with Charlemagne.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlemagne
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_the_Younger
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Decline_of_the_Roman_Empire
**
In my personal head-cannon, England discovers America in and around Boston, but because of various circumstances he had to leave him in the States while he fought yet another war with France. He manages to catch wind of the Salem witch trials while fighting with France in Europe, and decides to run and retrieve baby!America before the Puritans do something incredibly stupid and decide to off their own nation in a fit of religious fervor. My earlier fic (" Salem") expands on this more than you could possibly want to know.
**
America is orbiting the moon as part of one of the Apollo missions. I'm not really sure what else needs explaining there.
****
That should be all. Questions and comments are welcomed. Thank you for reading.
Author/Artist: spikedtea
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Grandpa Rome, France, England, America
Rating: probably G, unless I've inadvertently started swearing, in which case PG-13
Wordcount: ~1200
Warnings: self-beta'ed.
On any other night, he would’ve abhorred the idea of being alone. Women and fraternity, wine and food, of these one could never overindulge.
And yet, tonight, it was too much.
It had been six years since he followed the silken speech of Gavis Julius Caesar into the wilds beyond the Alps. It had been six weeks since he had agreed to the “simple siege” of Alesia, the last stronghold of the Gauls. It had been sixteen days since he had held his line against the starving citizens of the citadel, caught between a home that’d expelled them and a blade that’d run through them without a morsel from either. It had been sixteen hours since he had fought alongside the silvery swords of his men, slicing through sinews driven by despair to desperation.
But it was six hours ago, at the surrender, where his night had taken a turn for the strange.
He had noticed the babe before. Abandoned in the no-man’s land betwixt his wall and theirs, the discarded swaddle cloth had deserved no second glances as the others slowly wasted away. It was only at the surrender, did the muffled warble and the glint of gold catch his eye.
Sitting now, transfixed by a low autumn moon reflected in the midnight blue eyes, Rome realized that he had never felt so calm, nor so terrified, in his long and war-weary life.
One plea, nay, only a prayer, he dared to breathe into the breeze, in a desperate hope that it might find pity with Diana above.
Let him be safe.
****
The salt air had torn through his tunic, but it was no matter. He would mend it in the morning.
Some 800 years had passed since he had been taken under the wing of Grandfather Rome. It had been some 400 years since he had last seen Grandfather Rome, his body broken and bruised after centuries of squabbles and stabbings. Yet, though the rise and fall of both men and empires, France remained but a mere pageboy, never wholly in the spotlight, nor ever wholly out of sight.
France stole a glance up at the moon. When he had first encountered it, he had momentarily thought it was another silly plaything of Grandfather Rome’s. A knife, a swear, and several arrows later, he realized that this newest addition was nothing like his brothers.
Brittania had run away from the house some time before Grandfather Rome had disappeared. Still only standing a head above his pet rabbit, he had lifted the latch and stolen into the night after pilfering anything he could carry with him. Grandfather Rome, upon discovering this, simply laughed.
On paper, Charlemagne had just brokered a trade treaty with the uncouth child. In reality, France had signed the contract in place of the bite-sized terror of a blonde. After all, he was the only one with a reasonable chance of landing on the opposite shore without a hail of fire raining down upon him.
Brittania had accepted the scroll without a word. Without so much as a cursory glance over, he clambered back to his boat and set off into the freedom of the crashing waves. Now and then a speck of white, barely visible under the glow of the full moon, bobbed precariously on the edge between surf and sky.
For the first time since his conversion, France sorely wished for news from his winged friends, the ones that surely still clung onto his cherished, Britannic brother.
One plea, nay, only a prayer, he dared to breathe into the breeze, in a desperate hope that it might find pity with Arduinna above.
Let him be safe.
****
He was not sick. He had never been sick out on the water. Not five hundred years ago, shuttling across the English Channel. Not now, five hundred miles from the English shore.
He had been fighting France on the battlefield for what seemed to be the umpteenth time since they’d met some millennia and a half ago.
Only now, instead sticks and stones, there were swords and shields. They had both grown with the passage of time, both tottering on the edge of adulthood with their bandied limbs and their breaking voices.
Normally, given the situation, he would have never fled the battlefield without having first ripped the beginning of France’s beard off his face.
His own blood brothers hadn’t been nearly so kind; at least in this brotherhood they bothered to declare war first.
And yet here he was, plunging headfirst into the darkness towards the New World, while war continued to rage on the continent.
It is mesmerizing, how a word can hold such power over a nation. It was terrifying, the effect of a witch hunt an otherwise immortal infant.
Salem. A colored servant. A naive nation. A biased jury. Trial by fire. Panicked hysteria. Death.
A pale, pockmarked moon hung above him, washing both deck and nation in a hallowed haze.
One plea, nay, only a prayer, he dared to breathe into the breeze, in a desperate hope that it might find pity with God above.
Let him be safe.
****
It was nearly halfway through radio silence. His heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears. Outside, in the airless void, was the Moon, its shadow gazing into the unspoken recesses of his being.
It had been nearly five hundred years since England had first found him, sleeping in a pile of hay. It had been nearly two hundred years since he broke free from his brother, finally free to determine his own destiny.
He had won his freedom, he had won Europe’s freedom, and he had won the race to the moon. He had won.
But, there in the isolation of the orbiter, there was no one there to celebrate with him.
There was no man on the moon. There was no Diana, there was no Arduinna, and, as far as he could see, there was no God on the moon either. Only scars, carved out by relentless bombardment of shooting stars. Stars that had borne the hopes, the wishes, the dreams of men. Prayers from desperate men, slung into the void in a vain hope that someone, somewhere, would respond in kind.
And here the moon had borne it all, shouldering the weight of the world onto its barren land.
It was approaching midnight on the moon. Soon radio silence would be over, and he would undoubtedly, instinctively, beam his good spirits back home, lest Houston panic and never let him on a spaceflight again.
But for now, it was just him and the moon, carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. A burden that even the weightlessness of space could not relieve.
One plea, no, only a prayer, he dared to ghost onto the glass, in a desperate hope that it might find guidance with the moon below.
Let us be safe.
**fin**
~~~~~
**notes**
My knowledge of Ancient Roman history is woefully lacking. That being said, it seems odd to me that nations can reproduce. Thus, in my mind, France is found and adopted by Grandpa Rome much in the same way America is found and adopted by England. France is "found" in the Battle of Alesia, which, according to Wiki, was the final, decisive "battle" that brought France into the folds of the Roman Empire. I say "battle," but it was more a siege, which are ugly ugly things.
Diana, for those who don't know, is the Roman goddess of the moon, the hunt, and childbirth. Yes, I know Rome didn't give birth, but still.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gallic_Wars
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Alesia
**
Carlemagne was, as far as I recall, the one who established Catholicism/ Christianity as the official religion of the Holy Roman Empire, and was originally French. The way I see it, he would've originally been a French king and then took a strong liking to the HRE, with France being a very uncute looking 8yo at the time.
My knowledge of Celtic mythology is pure and utter crap, supplemented heavily with Wiki and Google. I use Arduinna because she happens to be the goddess of the moon (for the Gauls) and she's loosely associated with Diana.
Charlemagne didn't really do anything with England, being busy trying to (re-?)conquer Italy and all that jazz. That being said, apparently England's first recorded trade treaty was made with Charlemagne.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlemagne
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_the_Younger
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Decline_of_the_Roman_Empire
**
In my personal head-cannon, England discovers America in and around Boston, but because of various circumstances he had to leave him in the States while he fought yet another war with France. He manages to catch wind of the Salem witch trials while fighting with France in Europe, and decides to run and retrieve baby!America before the Puritans do something incredibly stupid and decide to off their own nation in a fit of religious fervor. My earlier fic (" Salem") expands on this more than you could possibly want to know.
**
America is orbiting the moon as part of one of the Apollo missions. I'm not really sure what else needs explaining there.
****
That should be all. Questions and comments are welcomed. Thank you for reading.