Trivia (1a/?)
anonymous
November 4 2009, 15:14:17 UTC
Second!Anon (the one who posted "Multiple fills [y/y]?" apologizes for any history fail. She is neither American, or Hungarian. (Or should that be 'nor'? Anon is not from any country in the Anglo-sphere either.) Looks to be long.
The first time he sees her is in the mid to late nineteenth century (or was it the early twentieth century? He's never been particularly good with these things) at the port where all the immigrant are coming to his shores. The big ships lurch to dock, families crowded around, children pressing their noses to the windows or leaning over rails trying to get a better look at the Land of Opportunity.
He is no longer a child, but still carries himself with a carefree grin and an air of enthusiasm. (He remembers there was no Great War yet. It's probably nineteenth century, then.) America stands tall and unchallenged with a booming economy and a reputation as a land of riches and miracles. He wades through the crowds like any other day, feeling the foreign sensation of the immigrants simmer down to a vague tingle as they become Americans, reveling in all the differences around him. He has grown strong from the wars he has fought, and the work he has done. Earned it all with the sweat of his brow.
There's so much light, so much hope. Everyone has so much hope it can't help but get to him, widening his grin. There is a certain bleakness in the adults, a dark and world-wearing weight hanging on their shoulders, but it, too, is dotted with light and hope for the New World.
Some children pass him, running about and yelling in their own language. (He guesses he might have to learn a bit of that later. They'll all have to learn English, of course, because you can't really be American without it, but America figures it might be a little cool. Just a word or so, because English will be the language of Americans and everyone coming off of the ships is ready to become an American.) He smiles at them and waves.
He loves these rare, quiet days off.
There's so much to do, so much to see. He trusts the word of his leader's, but he still likes to feel it all: the heat radiating of the sun baked deserts of Arizona; the first snow, drifting down up in Michigan; the wetness of the air in Washington after rain; the hustle and bustle of people fumbling through the chaotic streets of New York City. So, so much of him and his states and his people -- it all goes so fast he think he might miss it all which is fine because he knows he will go on to see them again but sad because sometimes, and he doesn't know why, he thinks he won't. At first, he tried to remember it all, but now he doesn't. Memories fade and focus like the tides ebb, but he doesn't mind. Everyone says he's so young but he's so, so busy; this is much easier. People come in and out of him, slipping back and forth past his borders all melding to one distinct and bold sensation resonating through him.
It's enthralling.
Like other nations are becoming him. Like he's got a piece of them, close to his heart. He can feel it push against his chest as it beats, something warm and cold and soft and hard all at once. Foreign and familiar. Something like an obligation to protect, but also one to unite and accept all of his people no matter where they came from. They're all his children, he thinks, and he feels like he'll look after everyone.
He feels like he's a hero of the world.
That's why he finds himself watching the ships come in and Europeans pour out. (It's not because he feel a smug satisfaction from knowing the people of Europe are coming to him instead of their own respective nations. It's not about showing England who he's become. Not at all. Not anymore.) He stands back with a goofy grin on his face; around him is a cacophony of noises and sounds, of smells and emotions. He let's them engulf him in a haze of action, overwhelming his senses so he almost doesn't notice the other nation.
Trivia [1b/?]
anonymous
November 4 2009, 15:15:57 UTC
Nations feel different from people. It's barely noticeable, but the difference exists. While he wouldn't be able to sense her in a crowd, when he sees her, he's sure of what she is.
(Oh. Now he remembers. It's 1848. That explains why there's so many of her former? nationals floating about. She's always had a small but steady stream of them flowing into him, but now is the time where the flow surges into an burst. That happened a few times.)
A tired looking woman, leaning against the wall of a warehouse. His first impression of hey is hardly impressive. She's sweaty, dull light brown hair clumped together because of it, and the bags under her glassy green eyes are quite noticeable. There is no sudden revelation or bond of kinship, just a passing thought it his head: what's a nation doing here?
It's a rare sight to see another nation visit him this way, but it's not quite noteworthy enough to make a fuss over. The female nation keeps an eye on the crowds flowing out of the ships and he decides she must be saying farewell to her emigrants. For a moment, he thinks about approaching her and saying he'll take care of them, but he resists, wanting to check out the rest of the area before the day is over.
As it so happens, the path he wants to take coincides with the area where she's standing so she, out of courtesy perhaps, turns her head as he walks past and calls out to him.
"Hello, America," she greets in English that's fluent enough but in an accent he can't place. The greeting is polite. Friendly. Sort of grateful.
There is enough Southern gentleman in him to reply. "Oh. Hey there."
He hopes she doesn't notice the way he leaves out her name. (What is her name?)
Luck's not on his side today, though, because she raises a brow and asks, "What? You don't remember me?"
(He supposes this isn't the first time they're met. Got to make note of that.)
"What are you talking about? I remember last time..." He trails off nostalgically, feigning fond memories as he fiddles with the end of his shirt.
(Yep, it's definitely not the 1848 because he's wearing something a little more 1900s. Early twentieth century it was, then. Best not to feel too guilty about messing up the details. With this knowledge, she suddenly looks a lot more refreshed: bag under her eyes have faded a tad; eyes a brighter green, more vivid jungle canopy than cloudy glass; hair tied back neatly, still drenched in sweat. Memories keep fading and focusing, but he knows the general image is close enough.)
Her smile is soft. "It's okay if you don't remember last time. Young people don't care for such tiny details. You seemed quite busy, at any rate."
"No, no, no," he protests, huffing at being called young. "I know who you are. One of those Europeans here to see off your emigrants."
She smirks and it's a little crooked. "But you don't know which one I am, do you?"
Doing his best to cover this faint tinge of colour rushing to his cheeks, he attempts to prove her wrong. "'S not true," he mumbles, a little less confident than he would like. "You're-- You're, uh..."
He's got no clue, and so fills in the pause with a bizarre array of arm gestures that seem to imply some sort of thought pattern.
"I'll give you a hint," she says, voice somewhere between indignant and amused. "In your country, your name is Alfred Jones. In my country, it would be..." (a pause as she contemplates something) "...It would be Jones Alfred."
"There's a country in Europe that puts last name first and first name last?"
She nods, biting her lip in a way that might mean she has more to say but rather wouldn't.
"Oh," he says. "I didn't know that."
Then he doesn't know what else to say so he bids her goodbye and walks away.
Later, when he returns to his home (straight after the encounter, actually, all thoughts of wandering his cities abandoned by a desire to find out something) he tears through his library trying to find a country in Europe with that naming convention. (Isn't that an Asian thing? Pretty sure that's an Asian thing, he narrates in his head. Was she teasing me or something?) In the end, his impatience has thrown the library to disarray (he boss isn't going to like that) but he's found his answer.
Trivia [2a/?]
anonymous
March 10 2010, 15:38:45 UTC
I'm sorry I'm such a fail. Christmas. Sure. *rolls eyes*.
Now, it is still the morning after their first meeting. He wakes up to a sky that's washed with blue and yellow and a small puddle of drool in a heavy book. His glasses have popped up, frames curving a tad awkwardly because of how he must of leant on the in his sleep. The lenses sit lopsided against his face, clouding his vision with the various scratches and smudge marks.
He yawns.
The air smells the same color as the sky, a pleasant and mild sort of scent he can't quite place. Dust catches the sunlight by the window and glows like the trail of fairies England would tell him about in his childhood.
Everything is still.
America stretches, rolling his shoulders and attempting to smooth out his shirt. The books in his library are old, and he supposes this is why searching is always so hard. Dully, he thinks he should make note of changing these things, but accepts he'll probably forget.
It was a nice discovery, he thinks. His world is always exciting, and he shuffles the papers on the desk, he can already feel his people stirring, ready to face the new dawn. His world is always exciting, always busy; it makes him appreciate the quiet, the small, the everything.
Somewhere in a plain to the south, a wind is rolling over corn fields. In the west, cattle scuttle over dust. Next to his home, a few doors down, a couple is having breakfast. America loves the quiet of the morning, because, while he is still groggy and clumsy, there is no stopping the small things from reaching him. In the mornings, the great terrors of his world are still lumbering to reach him. (In the afternoon, he'll start sneezing as stocks get sold on the margin. He'll think it's hay fever.)
But this morning, in between gentle winds and thundering cattle, America wonders what mornings are like in Europe-- in its center where there are lakes and mountains and countries smaller than one of his states and where there are girls who wear wilting flowers in their hair because there are no American factories to make fakes ones that can last.
He's not sure why.
But it's the only moment he thinks that, and it's only one morning, so he doesn't mind. Anyway, he's got a country to run.
Trivia [2b/?]
anonymous
March 10 2010, 15:39:58 UTC
-
The next time he sees her is her is definitely in the early 20th century. (He can remember because of the uniforms, and he always did have a thing for uniforms.) The place is more sketchy, a loosely defined compound of sorts: not too much concrete (yet); patches of grass dotting a wide dirt field (maybe it was the other way around); far too bright for his liking (it's not just the sun on his glasses).
"Hello, America," she greets him. She speaks first, yet again.
"Hungary," he feels the need to say. Just in case she didn't notice, he repeats himself. "Good to see you, Hungary."
She smiles. It is polite, restrained, polished. (No other words, though.)
"So... what brings you here?" he continues. He used to love mornings and the quiet, but now it just reminds him too much of empty towns, scattered around empty car factories.
"Visiting," Hungary replies, curtly, vaguely. The corner of her eye gleams with something unsaid. (He's pretty sure it's amusement. It reminds him England and his Oh, you're so endearingly immature, America but he hides the frown that wants to come to his face because then he realizes it might be more like France's I'd like to see how you go on with this and then he doesn't know what he'll think in hindsight so just stops. Maybe he's imagining something. Maybe it's nothing after all. Maybe it's just a tic.)
"Oh," he replies.
Hungary takes this as some queue to continue the conversation, which he is grateful for. Small talk of some sort that he hears but doesn't listen to. (It's awfully short.) Altogether unremarkable.
She doesn't say anything more. The silents cuts him, but it hurts less then all of Europe wanting to tear his throat out. She doesn't do anything, and it occurs to him that she's too tired to move. She must be. (He vaguely recalls that, when he broke the news, she was left shivering in her seat. Which means it's 19...19? Maybe it's a little later than that. She looks better than she did at the meeting, at any rate.)
She clears her throat, and he snaps out of his daze.
"I'm on my own now," she says carefully. "I wanted to see the candidates for Ambassador."
(After World War I, he knows there were a lot more divisions on the map -- borders sliding around mountains and rivers and flatlands, dotted on maps at Versailles -- but , as bad as his geography is, he's quite sure her name's always been on it.)
"You're always busy," she comments. He really is. Busy, that is.
(1921? 1922? He always used to talk to Austria before this. That's probably why he'd only seen her twice. 1921? 1922? When'd the Ambassador get sent over?)
He shrugs, smiles and pushes the dirt around with the toe of this shoe.
"I'll be seeing you around, America."
She turns around (quick turn on her heel) and this sticks in his mind enough to be remembered clearly.
When he wakes up, he doesn't think about lakes and mountains and countries smaller than one of his states (places where there are girls who wear wilting flowers in their hair because there are no American factories to make fake ones that can last) anymore.
Re: Trivia [2b/?]
anonymous
March 11 2010, 03:39:14 UTC
Oh! I was losing hope that I would ever see an update so I am incredibly happy that you updated. Your writing style is utterly gorgeous, you really make the characters jump out of the page and come alive before your eyes. Simply beautiful, I'm glad that you decided to give us another chapter, it was amazing. Bravo!
The first time he sees her is in the mid to late nineteenth century (or was it the early twentieth century? He's never been particularly good with these things) at the port where all the immigrant are coming to his shores. The big ships lurch to dock, families crowded around, children pressing their noses to the windows or leaning over rails trying to get a better look at the Land of Opportunity.
He is no longer a child, but still carries himself with a carefree grin and an air of enthusiasm. (He remembers there was no Great War yet. It's probably nineteenth century, then.) America stands tall and unchallenged with a booming economy and a reputation as a land of riches and miracles. He wades through the crowds like any other day, feeling the foreign sensation of the immigrants simmer down to a vague tingle as they become Americans, reveling in all the differences around him. He has grown strong from the wars he has fought, and the work he has done. Earned it all with the sweat of his brow.
There's so much light, so much hope. Everyone has so much hope it can't help but get to him, widening his grin. There is a certain bleakness in the adults, a dark and world-wearing weight hanging on their shoulders, but it, too, is dotted with light and hope for the New World.
Some children pass him, running about and yelling in their own language. (He guesses he might have to learn a bit of that later. They'll all have to learn English, of course, because you can't really be American without it, but America figures it might be a little cool. Just a word or so, because English will be the language of Americans and everyone coming off of the ships is ready to become an American.) He smiles at them and waves.
He loves these rare, quiet days off.
There's so much to do, so much to see. He trusts the word of his leader's, but he still likes to feel it all: the heat radiating of the sun baked deserts of Arizona; the first snow, drifting down up in Michigan; the wetness of the air in Washington after rain; the hustle and bustle of people fumbling through the chaotic streets of New York City. So, so much of him and his states and his people -- it all goes so fast he think he might miss it all which is fine because he knows he will go on to see them again but sad because sometimes, and he doesn't know why, he thinks he won't. At first, he tried to remember it all, but now he doesn't. Memories fade and focus like the tides ebb, but he doesn't mind. Everyone says he's so young but he's so, so busy; this is much easier. People come in and out of him, slipping back and forth past his borders all melding to one distinct and bold sensation resonating through him.
It's enthralling.
Like other nations are becoming him. Like he's got a piece of them, close to his heart. He can feel it push against his chest as it beats, something warm and cold and soft and hard all at once. Foreign and familiar. Something like an obligation to protect, but also one to unite and accept all of his people no matter where they came from. They're all his children, he thinks, and he feels like he'll look after everyone.
He feels like he's a hero of the world.
That's why he finds himself watching the ships come in and Europeans pour out. (It's not because he feel a smug satisfaction from knowing the people of Europe are coming to him instead of their own respective nations. It's not about showing England who he's become. Not at all. Not anymore.) He stands back with a goofy grin on his face; around him is a cacophony of noises and sounds, of smells and emotions. He let's them engulf him in a haze of action, overwhelming his senses so he almost doesn't notice the other nation.
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(Oh. Now he remembers. It's 1848. That explains why there's so many of her former? nationals floating about. She's always had a small but steady stream of them flowing into him, but now is the time where the flow surges into an burst. That happened a few times.)
A tired looking woman, leaning against the wall of a warehouse. His first impression of hey is hardly impressive. She's sweaty, dull light brown hair clumped together because of it, and the bags under her glassy green eyes are quite noticeable. There is no sudden revelation or bond of kinship, just a passing thought it his head: what's a nation doing here?
It's a rare sight to see another nation visit him this way, but it's not quite noteworthy enough to make a fuss over. The female nation keeps an eye on the crowds flowing out of the ships and he decides she must be saying farewell to her emigrants. For a moment, he thinks about approaching her and saying he'll take care of them, but he resists, wanting to check out the rest of the area before the day is over.
As it so happens, the path he wants to take coincides with the area where she's standing so she, out of courtesy perhaps, turns her head as he walks past and calls out to him.
"Hello, America," she greets in English that's fluent enough but in an accent he can't place. The greeting is polite. Friendly. Sort of grateful.
There is enough Southern gentleman in him to reply. "Oh. Hey there."
He hopes she doesn't notice the way he leaves out her name. (What is her name?)
Luck's not on his side today, though, because she raises a brow and asks, "What? You don't remember me?"
(He supposes this isn't the first time they're met. Got to make note of that.)
"What are you talking about? I remember last time..." He trails off nostalgically, feigning fond memories as he fiddles with the end of his shirt.
(Yep, it's definitely not the 1848 because he's wearing something a little more 1900s. Early twentieth century it was, then. Best not to feel too guilty about messing up the details. With this knowledge, she suddenly looks a lot more refreshed: bag under her eyes have faded a tad; eyes a brighter green, more vivid jungle canopy than cloudy glass; hair tied back neatly, still drenched in sweat. Memories keep fading and focusing, but he knows the general image is close enough.)
Her smile is soft. "It's okay if you don't remember last time. Young people don't care for such tiny details. You seemed quite busy, at any rate."
"No, no, no," he protests, huffing at being called young. "I know who you are. One of those Europeans here to see off your emigrants."
She smirks and it's a little crooked. "But you don't know which one I am, do you?"
Doing his best to cover this faint tinge of colour rushing to his cheeks, he attempts to prove her wrong. "'S not true," he mumbles, a little less confident than he would like. "You're-- You're, uh..."
He's got no clue, and so fills in the pause with a bizarre array of arm gestures that seem to imply some sort of thought pattern.
"I'll give you a hint," she says, voice somewhere between indignant and amused. "In your country, your name is Alfred Jones. In my country, it would be..." (a pause as she contemplates something) "...It would be Jones Alfred."
"There's a country in Europe that puts last name first and first name last?"
She nods, biting her lip in a way that might mean she has more to say but rather wouldn't.
"Oh," he says. "I didn't know that."
Then he doesn't know what else to say so he bids her goodbye and walks away.
Later, when he returns to his home (straight after the encounter, actually, all thoughts of wandering his cities abandoned by a desire to find out something) he tears through his library trying to find a country in Europe with that naming convention. (Isn't that an Asian thing? Pretty sure that's an Asian thing, he narrates in his head. Was she teasing me or something?) In the end, his impatience has thrown the library to disarray (he boss isn't going to like that) but he's found his answer.
Her name is Hungary.
Now he knows that.
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Now, it is still the morning after their first meeting. He wakes up to a sky that's washed with blue and yellow and a small puddle of drool in a heavy book. His glasses have popped up, frames curving a tad awkwardly because of how he must of leant on the in his sleep. The lenses sit lopsided against his face, clouding his vision with the various scratches and smudge marks.
He yawns.
The air smells the same color as the sky, a pleasant and mild sort of scent he can't quite place. Dust catches the sunlight by the window and glows like the trail of fairies England would tell him about in his childhood.
Everything is still.
America stretches, rolling his shoulders and attempting to smooth out his shirt. The books in his library are old, and he supposes this is why searching is always so hard. Dully, he thinks he should make note of changing these things, but accepts he'll probably forget.
It was a nice discovery, he thinks. His world is always exciting, and he shuffles the papers on the desk, he can already feel his people stirring, ready to face the new dawn. His world is always exciting, always busy; it makes him appreciate the quiet, the small, the everything.
Somewhere in a plain to the south, a wind is rolling over corn fields. In the west, cattle scuttle over dust. Next to his home, a few doors down, a couple is having breakfast. America loves the quiet of the morning, because, while he is still groggy and clumsy, there is no stopping the small things from reaching him. In the mornings, the great terrors of his world are still lumbering to reach him. (In the afternoon, he'll start sneezing as stocks get sold on the margin. He'll think it's hay fever.)
But this morning, in between gentle winds and thundering cattle, America wonders what mornings are like in Europe-- in its center where there are lakes and mountains and countries smaller than one of his states and where there are girls who wear wilting flowers in their hair because there are no American factories to make fakes ones that can last.
He's not sure why.
But it's the only moment he thinks that, and it's only one morning, so he doesn't mind. Anyway, he's got a country to run.
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The next time he sees her is her is definitely in the early 20th century. (He can remember because of the uniforms, and he always did have a thing for uniforms.) The place is more sketchy, a loosely defined compound of sorts: not too much concrete (yet); patches of grass dotting a wide dirt field (maybe it was the other way around); far too bright for his liking (it's not just the sun on his glasses).
"Hello, America," she greets him. She speaks first, yet again.
"Hungary," he feels the need to say. Just in case she didn't notice, he repeats himself. "Good to see you, Hungary."
She smiles. It is polite, restrained, polished. (No other words, though.)
"So... what brings you here?" he continues. He used to love mornings and the quiet, but now it just reminds him too much of empty towns, scattered around empty car factories.
"Visiting," Hungary replies, curtly, vaguely. The corner of her eye gleams with something unsaid. (He's pretty sure it's amusement. It reminds him England and his Oh, you're so endearingly immature, America but he hides the frown that wants to come to his face because then he realizes it might be more like France's I'd like to see how you go on with this and then he doesn't know what he'll think in hindsight so just stops. Maybe he's imagining something. Maybe it's nothing after all. Maybe it's just a tic.)
"Oh," he replies.
Hungary takes this as some queue to continue the conversation, which he is grateful for. Small talk of some sort that he hears but doesn't listen to. (It's awfully short.) Altogether unremarkable.
She doesn't say anything more. The silents cuts him, but it hurts less then all of Europe wanting to tear his throat out. She doesn't do anything, and it occurs to him that she's too tired to move. She must be. (He vaguely recalls that, when he broke the news, she was left shivering in her seat. Which means it's 19...19? Maybe it's a little later than that. She looks better than she did at the meeting, at any rate.)
She clears her throat, and he snaps out of his daze.
"I'm on my own now," she says carefully. "I wanted to see the candidates for Ambassador."
(After World War I, he knows there were a lot more divisions on the map -- borders sliding around mountains and rivers and flatlands, dotted on maps at Versailles -- but , as bad as his geography is, he's quite sure her name's always been on it.)
"You're always busy," she comments. He really is. Busy, that is.
(1921? 1922? He always used to talk to Austria before this. That's probably why he'd only seen her twice. 1921? 1922? When'd the Ambassador get sent over?)
He shrugs, smiles and pushes the dirt around with the toe of this shoe.
"I'll be seeing you around, America."
She turns around (quick turn on her heel) and this sticks in his mind enough to be remembered clearly.
When he wakes up, he doesn't think about lakes and mountains and countries smaller than one of his states (places where there are girls who wear wilting flowers in their hair because there are no American factories to make fake ones that can last) anymore.
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