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.
"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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