fresh start [1/2]
anonymous
July 10 2010, 21:45:18 UTC
[Warning for delicate historical themes and discussion of suicide. Apologies for being so long-winded and melodramatic.]
--
England is nine hundred twenty-nine years old, and he has been England since he was four, and he has forgotten how to be anyone else. Feliks is sixty-three years old and he knew how to be Feliks before he was ever Poland. He had fifteen years of practice. This is probably why England is drunkenly railing at the world and Feliks is calmly reflling his glass, and the ranting echoes off the walls of Feliks's kitchen and the calm seeps out and around and keeps it from going any further.
"Latvia and Estonia are going to go looking in the morning," Feliks says, and goes up on his knees to pour again. England has curled into the corner, back pressed against Felik's cabinets - tasteful white-painted wood; there is very little dark in this house. Feliks is in pink slippers with rhinestones, because Feliks has spent his whole life, the human parts and the non-human parts, hiding in plain sight and flipping off the universe. He wonders sometimes what his predcessor was like, if the old Poland would be ashamed of him for his irreverence, his iconoclasm, his refusal to take the world as anything but a joke. He reaches back, removes one slipper, weighs it in his hand. No, hitting England across the face might be satisfying, but it wouldn't be useful. England takes the glass, his hands shaking. "It'll be easier than it was last time and it look them a hell of a time to find me but that was just, you know, circumstances, this time it should be easy. England, stop, like, wailing. It's not like this hasn't happened before. How many times have you lost France?"
"Three," England says. "Not since the Revolution." He takes a deep breath, lets it out, but at least he's not ranting anymore. "Dammit, how can you be so calm about this? He was your friend!"
"He'd only been Lithuania since the twenties," Feliks says, his eyes unfocusing. "When he got the job he was two hours from boarding a ship, and nobody managed to find him or explain things to him until he got to America. He hated it. Every freaking minute. Never learned how to not feel it every damn time somebody got shot or stabbed or drowned or gassed or -"
"But things were better now! He just got out of the Soviet Union, isn't that a good thing?" England's fingers close on midair, and he squints up at Feliks. "It's not fair," he says, like the little four-year-old human boy who must still be hiding somewhere behind the nine hundred years of nationhood.
Before he was ever Poland, Feliks's goals in life had been steadily contracting. At ten he'd wanted to go to school in Paris and become an artist and find True Love and live happily ever after. By fourteen he only wanted to get his family out alive, and when the old Poland had died, it was down to "get myself out alive". Alive. Somehow the thought of the easy way out had never occured to him then.
"Life's a bitch," he says.
England laughs, until the tears stream down his face. He is old, even by their standards. He is used to watching his friends die, over and over again. The overhead light flickers steadily, one of the dying candles set out on the counter in old beer bottles goes out, and there is no sound from outside at all.
Feliks curls up, head on his knees, and drinks from the bottle while he waits. When it goes quiet, he says, carefully, through the buzzing in his head: "He said it was the best thing. That his people needed a fresh start, and he wasn't ready to start over. If he were human he would be dying now anyway."
"It doesn't fucking well work like that." England swishes his glass around. "You carry on and you let your people carry you forward. Fresh starts happen all by themselves."
"He said it was the best thing," Feliks repeats, and does not offer his own opinion.
fresh start [2/2]
anonymous
July 10 2010, 21:46:28 UTC
With England safely seen off to his hotel, Feliks draws a bath. He forgoes his usual smelly things in the water, although he leaves the bottles open on the edge of the tub, to spread the scent of roses and lavender and all other sorts of flowers with no significance than that he likes the smell. The razor goes next to the shampoo.
Latvia and Estonia will have no problem finding the new Lithuania; Feliks has e-mailed them her address. Contrary to what England thinks, the old Lithuania did not do this casually, or without a plan. They had spent weeks in Vilnius, watching, divining, going over the candidates as carefully as marriage brokers. They chose a history student - patriotic but not zealous, friendly but without close attatchments, mindful of the past but looking to the future. Young enough to be optimistic, old enough not to break under the stress. They had asked permission.
They hadn't wanted it to be like it was for them.
Feliks lowers himself carefully into the water, watches his hair float up around his face. If one of their kind knew they were going to die, they could guide the sucession. Feliks assumed it had come as a shock to the last Poland, because who would have picked him for the job? He wasn't even that patriotic. He was terrible with people. All he had going was that he was so damn determined to live.
He rubs at his forearm. He's too thin. The bones show. He looks pretty awful, in this light. The razor sits peacefully next to the shampoo, taunting him. He's only been Poland for forty-seven years and he's so damn sick of it already.
Give it time, he thinks. Not tonight. Feliks has no problem with being dramatic. Fabulous. Over-the-top. But dying tonight wouldn't be drama, it'd be melodrama. He's no antique Roman. You carry on, and you let your people carry you forward. Or you drive them on. A fresh start, he thinks. Maybe they could do with a fresh start. Maybe in a few years he'll give it to them. Once they're out of Russia's clutches for good. Once things have settled down, and he can pick a kid. Someone like England. Someone who'll keep calm and carry on. Once they're in the European Union, maybe. Once Feliks would have been dead anyway. He'll keep finding excuses.
--
Feliciano takes Feliks to Venice, later. They lounge about in cafes and go boating and visit all the tourist spots that Feliciano saw when he visited the city the first time, with his parents, two hundred years ago. He was nine, when he got the job. Their kind wither if they can't grow. Feliciano is probably going to last, though.
"Are you going to be okay?" he asks Feliks, curled up close to him against the midnight chill. "I know - you were the last one in Europe to die before this. Well. Poland was. You know what I mean. And it's bad enough when humans die because you kind of expect it from them but it always feels so weird when it's one of us and Lithuania was really sweet and it's not supposed to turn out like this." Feliciano bites his lip. He's a sweet boy himself. He wanted to be a painter, and he never saw why being Italy should stop him.
"I'll be fine," Poland answers.
Feliks is stubborn. But there is a limit to human determination. Humans are mortal. Humans are used to death. He's worked that out. It's Poland who has to live forever.
Re: fresh start [2/2]
anonymous
July 11 2010, 05:46:07 UTC
Whoa, whoa. That was so interesting. I'm intrigued. I'm very, very intrigued. That was an amazing insight into Poland, and England. I'd kill to hear about the other nations too.
Re: fresh start [2/2]
anonymous
July 21 2010, 18:21:18 UTC
Christ, this is beautiful. Really, really heartsinkingly beautiful. And you deserve SERIOUS props for the "keep calm and carry on" line. Oh, I see what you did there, anon.
Re: fresh start [2/2]
anonymous
July 27 2010, 19:08:13 UTC
Wow. This is. Wow. Feliks. And England. Oh, England. Somehow, my heart went felt for him more. Poor Arthur, who never remembered how it feels to be human (in a way, that is merciful), bled over and over when his nation was hurt in many wars. He must be very resilient, to have managed facing many battles & storms (across the sea) without dying.
I have some confusions. Like, after being 'chosen', the substitute immediately takes on the appearance of the deceased one? Because a nation's facade is symbolic and therefore it only changes if the characteristics of the nation herself change? And what if, say, Arthur lost a limb in one of his many wars - would they grow back as long as he's alive?
Anyways, this is very touching, well-written, and inspirational. I'm itching to write a scene where Arthur bleeds from the side-effects of one of his wars, and mull over not knowing how to quit from being a nation because the idea is just unthinkable from him...
Re: fresh start [2/2]
anonymous
July 28 2010, 03:12:26 UTC
The way I imagined it, they don't take on the appearance of their predecessor, except if there was something symbolic or relevant about it - any version Italy probably gains the haircurl, for example, and any version of England would have green eyes (if there ever were another). Scars hang about, they can recover from anything short of death, but it simply wouldn't be possible for them to sustain a disfiguring injury, absent something truly horrible happening to their people - in which case, they'd be more likely to be killed outright by it.
Please do! I'd love to read it. Always pleased to know I've inspiried someone.
--
England is nine hundred twenty-nine years old, and he has been England since he was four, and he has forgotten how to be anyone else. Feliks is sixty-three years old and he knew how to be Feliks before he was ever Poland. He had fifteen years of practice. This is probably why England is drunkenly railing at the world and Feliks is calmly reflling his glass, and the ranting echoes off the walls of Feliks's kitchen and the calm seeps out and around and keeps it from going any further.
"Latvia and Estonia are going to go looking in the morning," Feliks says, and goes up on his knees to pour again. England has curled into the corner, back pressed against Felik's cabinets - tasteful white-painted wood; there is very little dark in this house. Feliks is in pink slippers with rhinestones, because Feliks has spent his whole life, the human parts and the non-human parts, hiding in plain sight and flipping off the universe. He wonders sometimes what his predcessor was like, if the old Poland would be ashamed of him for his irreverence, his iconoclasm, his refusal to take the world as anything but a joke. He reaches back, removes one slipper, weighs it in his hand. No, hitting England across the face might be satisfying, but it wouldn't be useful. England takes the glass, his hands shaking. "It'll be easier than it was last time and it look them a hell of a time to find me but that was just, you know, circumstances, this time it should be easy. England, stop, like, wailing. It's not like this hasn't happened before. How many times have you lost France?"
"Three," England says. "Not since the Revolution." He takes a deep breath, lets it out, but at least he's not ranting anymore. "Dammit, how can you be so calm about this? He was your friend!"
"He'd only been Lithuania since the twenties," Feliks says, his eyes unfocusing. "When he got the job he was two hours from boarding a ship, and nobody managed to find him or explain things to him until he got to America. He hated it. Every freaking minute. Never learned how to not feel it every damn time somebody got shot or stabbed or drowned or gassed or -"
"But things were better now! He just got out of the Soviet Union, isn't that a good thing?" England's fingers close on midair, and he squints up at Feliks. "It's not fair," he says, like the little four-year-old human boy who must still be hiding somewhere behind the nine hundred years of nationhood.
Before he was ever Poland, Feliks's goals in life had been steadily contracting. At ten he'd wanted to go to school in Paris and become an artist and find True Love and live happily ever after. By fourteen he only wanted to get his family out alive, and when the old Poland had died, it was down to "get myself out alive". Alive. Somehow the thought of the easy way out had never occured to him then.
"Life's a bitch," he says.
England laughs, until the tears stream down his face. He is old, even by their standards. He is used to watching his friends die, over and over again. The overhead light flickers steadily, one of the dying candles set out on the counter in old beer bottles goes out, and there is no sound from outside at all.
Feliks curls up, head on his knees, and drinks from the bottle while he waits. When it goes quiet, he says, carefully, through the buzzing in his head: "He said it was the best thing. That his people needed a fresh start, and he wasn't ready to start over. If he were human he would be dying now anyway."
"It doesn't fucking well work like that." England swishes his glass around. "You carry on and you let your people carry you forward. Fresh starts happen all by themselves."
"He said it was the best thing," Feliks repeats, and does not offer his own opinion.
--
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With England safely seen off to his hotel, Feliks draws a bath. He forgoes his usual smelly things in the water, although he leaves the bottles open on the edge of the tub, to spread the scent of roses and lavender and all other sorts of flowers with no significance than that he likes the smell. The razor goes next to the shampoo.
Latvia and Estonia will have no problem finding the new Lithuania; Feliks has e-mailed them her address. Contrary to what England thinks, the old Lithuania did not do this casually, or without a plan. They had spent weeks in Vilnius, watching, divining, going over the candidates as carefully as marriage brokers. They chose a history student - patriotic but not zealous, friendly but without close attatchments, mindful of the past but looking to the future. Young enough to be optimistic, old enough not to break under the stress. They had asked permission.
They hadn't wanted it to be like it was for them.
Feliks lowers himself carefully into the water, watches his hair float up around his face. If one of their kind knew they were going to die, they could guide the sucession. Feliks assumed it had come as a shock to the last Poland, because who would have picked him for the job? He wasn't even that patriotic. He was terrible with people. All he had going was that he was so damn determined to live.
He rubs at his forearm. He's too thin. The bones show. He looks pretty awful, in this light. The razor sits peacefully next to the shampoo, taunting him. He's only been Poland for forty-seven years and he's so damn sick of it already.
Give it time, he thinks. Not tonight. Feliks has no problem with being dramatic. Fabulous. Over-the-top. But dying tonight wouldn't be drama, it'd be melodrama. He's no antique Roman. You carry on, and you let your people carry you forward. Or you drive them on. A fresh start, he thinks. Maybe they could do with a fresh start. Maybe in a few years he'll give it to them. Once they're out of Russia's clutches for good. Once things have settled down, and he can pick a kid. Someone like England. Someone who'll keep calm and carry on. Once they're in the European Union, maybe. Once Feliks would have been dead anyway. He'll keep finding excuses.
--
Feliciano takes Feliks to Venice, later. They lounge about in cafes and go boating and visit all the tourist spots that Feliciano saw when he visited the city the first time, with his parents, two hundred years ago. He was nine, when he got the job. Their kind wither if they can't grow. Feliciano is probably going to last, though.
"Are you going to be okay?" he asks Feliks, curled up close to him against the midnight chill. "I know - you were the last one in Europe to die before this. Well. Poland was. You know what I mean. And it's bad enough when humans die because you kind of expect it from them but it always feels so weird when it's one of us and Lithuania was really sweet and it's not supposed to turn out like this." Feliciano bites his lip. He's a sweet boy himself. He wanted to be a painter, and he never saw why being Italy should stop him.
"I'll be fine," Poland answers.
Feliks is stubborn. But there is a limit to human determination. Humans are mortal. Humans are used to death. He's worked that out. It's Poland who has to live forever.
--
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Have all my internets, please.
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I have some confusions. Like, after being 'chosen', the substitute immediately takes on the appearance of the deceased one? Because a nation's facade is symbolic and therefore it only changes if the characteristics of the nation herself change? And what if, say, Arthur lost a limb in one of his many wars - would they grow back as long as he's alive?
Anyways, this is very touching, well-written, and inspirational. I'm itching to write a scene where Arthur bleeds from the side-effects of one of his wars, and mull over not knowing how to quit from being a nation because the idea is just unthinkable from him...
Reply
Please do! I'd love to read it. Always pleased to know I've inspiried someone.
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Here: http://aria-dc-al-fine.livejournal.com/7805.html
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This is amazing. I am in love with this concept. And that's all I can really say at this point.
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