And to the last [1/1]
anonymous
February 11 2010, 20:17:13 UTC
Alright, anon would like to get some things off her chest. Firstly, anon was listening to Moonlight Shadow by Mike Oldfield and Maggie Reilly. It's strangely fitting for this subject, methinks.
Secondly, er, anon tried to make this as historically accurate as possible. That being said, I made HRE a little older than in the original strips where France told Italy HRE wasn't coming back. So, HRE would be around 14-16 in appearance in anon's headcanon.
Lastly, anon hopes OP finds the fill satisfactory.
He stands; sun-gold hair matted with blood and dirt, strands whipping in a wind which reeks of battle and death. He knows that this battle will be his last and it fills him with desperation so deep it is like a fire in his marrow. Beside him, Liechtenstein shakes her head in weary resignation. She is as battle-worn and weary as he is, her delicate mouth drawn into a tired grimace and her clothes travel-stained and torn. She is too young to be in this battle, he thinks. She has not yet started blossoming, not like his dearest Italy most likely has by now.
"Sire, Kellerman has the lead. By late afternoon we will be completely overrun, if not crushed. If help does not arrive soon..." her voice is faint and timid, too beautiful to belong to the battlefield and he takes her hand, gives it a firm squeeze. Her eyes widen for a second before she turns away. She is as proud as the rest of his people, he knows. She will never show her tears where others can see them and he lets her cry, hand clasped about hers in what he hopes is affirmation and comfort.
"Russia will come," he says and looks off to the horizon. Josef is taking heavy blows. The cavalry is fading and he has not heard from Austria since before dawn. It worries him. Roderich knows battle almost as well as his younger brother*, but from the beginning Francis has been unnervingly cunning and under the leadership of Napolean, his attacks have come swifter and deadlier with each battle. Where did everything change? he wonders and his thoughts drift back to Italy, sweet Italy with her warm smiles and soft hands and adorable pout. And his heart clenches painfully, a dull coursing ache in his chest, when he imagines kissing her again, holding her and never, ever letting go.
"Sire! Sire! The Russians, they have come my lord, they have come!" The shout rouses him and both he and Liechtenstein turn to the field, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed in concentration. Ivan looks terrible and grim, mouth set in a thin line as his men go to work and Liechtenstein's face lightens, her grip on his hand tightens and she pumps the other fist into the air. "For the Holy Roman Empire! For the Allies!" she cries and her cavalry take up the chant, carry it to the field where Ivan hears it and drives the French like man possessed. Russia's strength is horrifyingly magnificent, and for the first time since this battle has begun, he feels hope lift in his chest like a standard in the wind.
But all too soon it becomes clear that Francis will stop at nothing to win, and the cuirassiers are sent in. It is not long before Russia begins to flag, his blows not falling with frenzied urgency anymore. He is as tired as the rest of them, and Liechtenstein folds her hands over her eyes when Bagration flees the field. "Forgive, friend, but there is not much more I can do," Russia pants before toppling over, unconscious and heavily wounded.
"Take him and go," he instructs Liechtenstein. The battle is already over, he can feel it. "Flee and whatever you do, don't look back. If - no, when you find your brother, tell him... Tell him to tell her I will return. No more than that, he will know what I mean. Tell Austria that. Now go, go! Before you are overrun!" And Liechtenstein nods once, her young eyes unbearably sorrowful and salutes.
"Long live the Holy Roman Empire!" And then she is gone and he is left to seek out Francis. He finds the Frenchman in the middle of the fray near Sokolnitz.
And to the last [1/1] Continued
anonymous
February 11 2010, 20:18:11 UTC
"You came," France taunts, blade red with German and Russian blood and a manic half-smirk on his lips. He doesn't answer, merely draws his own blade and waits. And sure enough, Francis strikes first, movements smooth and serpentine in a way he has not been since Norman days. He twists and shifts, parrying and dodging Francis' attacks wherever possible, but he cannot keep up. "I sent your precious little Austria packing," France sing-songs. "In your place I will make an empire truly worthy of rivalling that of Rome!" he jeers. And all the while, they fight while around them men fall and bleed and die like the frail things they are.
"And I will have Italy. Lovely Italy, mine to ravage. Mine to savour!" He sees red and lunges at France. Time slows. Italy runs, her small skirts swishing as she tries to get away from him. Italy smiles, her hands soft on his own calloused ones as she directs the brush. Italy cries, eyes puffy and red when he tells her that he is leaving. Italy, Italy, Italy. The pain that rips through his abdomen is sharp and searing, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him gasping desperately for air. Francis twists the blade deeper, and he can feel something tear, feels blood bubble up in his throat like bile.
"I-Italy. Italy, promise you won't harm her!" he chokes out and he can feel wetness dribbling down his chin. Francis tosses him aside and he lands hard on his back, jarring the wound and making his lungs shrivel. France stands above him and though he's not sure, he thinks that behind the fervency, there is pity, cold and humiliating pity.
"I will not touch your precious Italy," Francis murmurs, bloodlust fading from his eyes. He kneels down and takes his hand, presses it to his lips. "You have my word. I swear it upon the Emperor." He can feel his limbs go first cold and then numb. Francis straightens, but stays. His eyes sting when he tries not to cry. It is unmanly, and he will not have France telling his love that the last thing he did was shed tears on the battlefield.
"Wait for me..." he breathes and watches through dimming eyes as the sun sets.
Secondly, er, anon tried to make this as historically accurate as possible. That being said, I made HRE a little older than in the original strips where France told Italy HRE wasn't coming back. So, HRE would be around 14-16 in appearance in anon's headcanon.
Lastly, anon hopes OP finds the fill satisfactory.
He stands; sun-gold hair matted with blood and dirt, strands whipping in a wind which reeks of battle and death. He knows that this battle will be his last and it fills him with desperation so deep it is like a fire in his marrow. Beside him, Liechtenstein shakes her head in weary resignation. She is as battle-worn and weary as he is, her delicate mouth drawn into a tired grimace and her clothes travel-stained and torn. She is too young to be in this battle, he thinks. She has not yet started blossoming, not like his dearest Italy most likely has by now.
"Sire, Kellerman has the lead. By late afternoon we will be completely overrun, if not crushed. If help does not arrive soon..." her voice is faint and timid, too beautiful to belong to the battlefield and he takes her hand, gives it a firm squeeze. Her eyes widen for a second before she turns away. She is as proud as the rest of his people, he knows. She will never show her tears where others can see them and he lets her cry, hand clasped about hers in what he hopes is affirmation and comfort.
"Russia will come," he says and looks off to the horizon. Josef is taking heavy blows. The cavalry is fading and he has not heard from Austria since before dawn. It worries him. Roderich knows battle almost as well as his younger brother*, but from the beginning Francis has been unnervingly cunning and under the leadership of Napolean, his attacks have come swifter and deadlier with each battle. Where did everything change? he wonders and his thoughts drift back to Italy, sweet Italy with her warm smiles and soft hands and adorable pout. And his heart clenches painfully, a dull coursing ache in his chest, when he imagines kissing her again, holding her and never, ever letting go.
"Sire! Sire! The Russians, they have come my lord, they have come!" The shout rouses him and both he and Liechtenstein turn to the field, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed in concentration. Ivan looks terrible and grim, mouth set in a thin line as his men go to work and Liechtenstein's face lightens, her grip on his hand tightens and she pumps the other fist into the air. "For the Holy Roman Empire! For the Allies!" she cries and her cavalry take up the chant, carry it to the field where Ivan hears it and drives the French like man possessed. Russia's strength is horrifyingly magnificent, and for the first time since this battle has begun, he feels hope lift in his chest like a standard in the wind.
But all too soon it becomes clear that Francis will stop at nothing to win, and the cuirassiers are sent in. It is not long before Russia begins to flag, his blows not falling with frenzied urgency anymore. He is as tired as the rest of them, and Liechtenstein folds her hands over her eyes when Bagration flees the field. "Forgive, friend, but there is not much more I can do," Russia pants before toppling over, unconscious and heavily wounded.
"Take him and go," he instructs Liechtenstein. The battle is already over, he can feel it. "Flee and whatever you do, don't look back. If - no, when you find your brother, tell him... Tell him to tell her I will return. No more than that, he will know what I mean. Tell Austria that. Now go, go! Before you are overrun!" And Liechtenstein nods once, her young eyes unbearably sorrowful and salutes.
"Long live the Holy Roman Empire!" And then she is gone and he is left to seek out Francis. He finds the Frenchman in the middle of the fray near Sokolnitz.
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"And I will have Italy. Lovely Italy, mine to ravage. Mine to savour!" He sees red and lunges at France. Time slows. Italy runs, her small skirts swishing as she tries to get away from him. Italy smiles, her hands soft on his own calloused ones as she directs the brush. Italy cries, eyes puffy and red when he tells her that he is leaving. Italy, Italy, Italy. The pain that rips through his abdomen is sharp and searing, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him gasping desperately for air.
Francis twists the blade deeper, and he can feel something tear, feels blood bubble up in his throat like bile.
"I-Italy. Italy, promise you won't harm her!" he chokes out and he can feel wetness dribbling down his chin. Francis tosses him aside and he lands hard on his back, jarring the wound and making his lungs shrivel. France stands above him and though he's not sure, he thinks that behind the fervency, there is pity, cold and humiliating pity.
"I will not touch your precious Italy," Francis murmurs, bloodlust fading from his eyes. He kneels down and takes his hand, presses it to his lips. "You have my word. I swear it upon the Emperor." He can feel his limbs go first cold and then numb. Francis straightens, but stays. His eyes sting when he tries not to cry. It is unmanly, and he will not have France telling his love that the last thing he did was shed tears on the battlefield.
"Wait for me..." he breathes and watches through dimming eyes as the sun sets.
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Bravo. Anon and the nations.... especially anon. This is now bookmarked.
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So lovely, anon, I adore the description. Such fantastic character voices, too!
(second author!anon, btw)
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