(no subject)
Title: The Battle of the Puppet
Characters: France, Holy Roman Empire
Notes: It isn't based upon just one battle, but the ending eludes to the Confederation of the Rhine, which was the puppet state France controlled after the Holy Roman Empire's fall.
He strode (the need to limp on his injured leg was one he dismissed) upon the battlefield, sword in hand, towards his fallen enemy. Lifting up the sword, he struck the ground with such force the skull merely split in two and blood spilled into a dark red puddle beneath the point. The pink mass that clung to the sword slipped off as it rose, the young man sheathing it into the scabbard that hung off his waist. He stepped over the body, blood matting his black boots and cloak that dragged across the ground. In the distance swords clashed as angrily as the hammer that smashed upon them to create the blade true and right, the yells of men thrown into the air like the hat he had lost, the one pierced through as it hung on the blond commander's blade. Spotting his opponent, he took off towards the man and swung his sword fiercely upon the other's in hopes of disarming him. The man held his ground, fire crackling in his eyes and a smirk playing on his lips. The young man pushed hard, their faces merely inches away.
Through gritted teeth and determined stares, they exchanged insults in their respective tongues, neither understanding nor caring what the other spoke. They knew well enough that words didn't matter, only the sweet sounds of swords clashing upon one another, the scent of blood rising from the dark ground, and most importantly the certain death of one.
***
The young man lay upon the ground, watching the dark clouds as they came together and released their sorrow upon him, washing blood from his golden hair and pale cheeks. They nurtured him as a mother does her child, wiping away the tears that ran down his face and softening the hard ground upon which he lay like a stone, immovable and unfeeling. Try as he might, he could not rise from his foggy mind and blurry vision, nor could he feel the painful sensations that ran up and down his body, racking it with shudders as the warmth seeped out and cold in, lying in his bones awaiting the moment of his mind's departure. Though his mind would leave, his body would stay to rot among the others. His people, his soldiers, his commanders. Their minds had already left along with the beating of their hearts, but his pulsated strong within him because he was different.
No, he was not a human such as they, but nevertheless he felt the pain his heart of losing a loved one as they did, the numbness before Death smothered them loving into her arms, and the slap of Life upon their face as they realized the she didn't want them.
Still, it hurt to know that he was going to die, his body to become a puppet for others to play with, and one that would be used against his loved ones.
Characters: France, Holy Roman Empire
Notes: It isn't based upon just one battle, but the ending eludes to the Confederation of the Rhine, which was the puppet state France controlled after the Holy Roman Empire's fall.
He strode (the need to limp on his injured leg was one he dismissed) upon the battlefield, sword in hand, towards his fallen enemy. Lifting up the sword, he struck the ground with such force the skull merely split in two and blood spilled into a dark red puddle beneath the point. The pink mass that clung to the sword slipped off as it rose, the young man sheathing it into the scabbard that hung off his waist. He stepped over the body, blood matting his black boots and cloak that dragged across the ground. In the distance swords clashed as angrily as the hammer that smashed upon them to create the blade true and right, the yells of men thrown into the air like the hat he had lost, the one pierced through as it hung on the blond commander's blade. Spotting his opponent, he took off towards the man and swung his sword fiercely upon the other's in hopes of disarming him. The man held his ground, fire crackling in his eyes and a smirk playing on his lips. The young man pushed hard, their faces merely inches away.
Through gritted teeth and determined stares, they exchanged insults in their respective tongues, neither understanding nor caring what the other spoke. They knew well enough that words didn't matter, only the sweet sounds of swords clashing upon one another, the scent of blood rising from the dark ground, and most importantly the certain death of one.
***
The young man lay upon the ground, watching the dark clouds as they came together and released their sorrow upon him, washing blood from his golden hair and pale cheeks. They nurtured him as a mother does her child, wiping away the tears that ran down his face and softening the hard ground upon which he lay like a stone, immovable and unfeeling. Try as he might, he could not rise from his foggy mind and blurry vision, nor could he feel the painful sensations that ran up and down his body, racking it with shudders as the warmth seeped out and cold in, lying in his bones awaiting the moment of his mind's departure. Though his mind would leave, his body would stay to rot among the others. His people, his soldiers, his commanders. Their minds had already left along with the beating of their hearts, but his pulsated strong within him because he was different.
No, he was not a human such as they, but nevertheless he felt the pain his heart of losing a loved one as they did, the numbness before Death smothered them loving into her arms, and the slap of Life upon their face as they realized the she didn't want them.
Still, it hurt to know that he was going to die, his body to become a puppet for others to play with, and one that would be used against his loved ones.