Winter, Snow and Warmth [3b/?]
anonymous
November 9 2009, 07:49:40 UTC
He then remembers a dark night, coming home from a festival to a house in flames. That was the first time. He can still smell the scent of burning wood, and destruction. Tension so thick in the air it clogs his throat so he can't breath. They come to gloat, to pick on him. He vaguely remembers looking down on his body as those dreadful hands wrap themselves around one of the perpetrator's sons, digits tightening as they look on for a moment, in shock.
Too far. You've gone too far.
They throw him away, like dust, while attempting to resuscitate the boy.
He remembers peering at those traitorous hands and wondering what he had done. What had urged his mind to fly as his body took those steps towards that boy, to put hands around that frail neck and squeeze. The people never gloated again, and it solidified the children's fear. He'd isolated himself, appalled at what he could have done to a citizen of his. Russia never told Ukraine; afraid that she would leave him too, and call him a bad and worthless nation. Terrified that he would only ever see that back of her as she left, and a final wave from Belarus. His beloved sister: the thought of being unable to see her grow, and become more powerful crippled him. How much he would give to keep his sisters. Even the thought of death wouldn't be too much if it was for them; one bad nation's life for two good nations seemed like a fair deal to him.
He reminisces about long walks with his sisters, Ukraine at one end, Russia at the other, and Bela held somewhere in between. He smiles nostalgically at the remembrance of feeling her small smooth hand in his, and laughs a little when he reminds himself of the rain of snow that Belarus tried to throw at him as a snowball. The tears that ran down his face then were happy, caused by too much laughter and the inability to breath.
They mirror the ones running down his face now, but he can't remember when they started. He wonders when crying became a labourious and secret ritual for him, hiding the salt drops that cradle his cheeks, then merge into his scarf to be remembered later.
He doesn't want to remember.
He doesn't know when he started making snowchildren and giving them names, but he knows that they are the only thing keeping him sane: they only thing allowing him to forget. Pulling on a coat, he dashes outside.
A small amount of notes! Russia (the country) was Christian for a time, and I think that without any explanation, they would have thought that someone who was immortal was either a god or something evil, because it was the only thing they had to explain it. So they would probably try and make Russia go away because they were afraid. Plus Russia's quite young, so I don't think that he would have grasped that he needs to move every ten years or so. If you have any questions, please ask!
Also, thank you to every anon who has posted a comment and enjoyed it; I read every one, but don't comment because it is a precious commodity here. But thank you very much! They are all appreciated!
Hopefully I'll get the next part up in few days. Hope you enjoyed it! ^ ^
Too far. You've gone too far.
They throw him away, like dust, while attempting to resuscitate the boy.
He remembers peering at those traitorous hands and wondering what he had done. What had urged his mind to fly as his body took those steps towards that boy, to put hands around that frail neck and squeeze. The people never gloated again, and it solidified the children's fear. He'd isolated himself, appalled at what he could have done to a citizen of his.
Russia never told Ukraine; afraid that she would leave him too, and call him a bad and worthless nation. Terrified that he would only ever see that back of her as she left, and a final wave from Belarus. His beloved sister: the thought of being unable to see her grow, and become more powerful crippled him. How much he would give to keep his sisters. Even the thought of death wouldn't be too much if it was for them; one bad nation's life for two good nations seemed like a fair deal to him.
He reminisces about long walks with his sisters, Ukraine at one end, Russia at the other, and Bela held somewhere in between. He smiles nostalgically at the remembrance of feeling her small smooth hand in his, and laughs a little when he reminds himself of the rain of snow that Belarus tried to throw at him as a snowball. The tears that ran down his face then were happy, caused by too much laughter and the inability to breath.
They mirror the ones running down his face now, but he can't remember when they started. He wonders when crying became a labourious and secret ritual for him, hiding the salt drops that cradle his cheeks, then merge into his scarf to be remembered later.
He doesn't want to remember.
He doesn't know when he started making snowchildren and giving them names, but he knows that they are the only thing keeping him sane: they only thing allowing him to forget.
Pulling on a coat, he dashes outside.
A small amount of notes!
Russia (the country) was Christian for a time, and I think that without any explanation, they would have thought that someone who was immortal was either a god or something evil, because it was the only thing they had to explain it. So they would probably try and make Russia go away because they were afraid. Plus Russia's quite young, so I don't think that he would have grasped that he needs to move every ten years or so. If you have any questions, please ask!
Also, thank you to every anon who has posted a comment and enjoyed it; I read every one, but don't comment because it is a precious commodity here. But thank you very much! They are all appreciated!
Hopefully I'll get the next part up in few days. Hope you enjoyed it! ^ ^
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