Re: Swallow The Knife [Part 2/?]
anonymous
September 6 2010, 22:00:05 UTC
America had set the lilies down gently, stepping back a moment after. England inspected them, petted their delicate petals, found them to be suitable but looked confused as he picked them up. “... Not for eating.” It was barely above a whisper but America heard him.
“No, not for eating.”
England looked thoughtful. “Not for buying things or selling things or using.”
“Nope.” America flashed him a smile.
“... Then for what?”
“It's a gift. It looks pretty.” England smiled at that, holding them closer to his chest. And like a wraith he disappeared into the forest. America chalked that up as a good first meeting.
Their second meeting had felt almost arranged. America had been walking through the forest, charting out the flora and fauna, when he had turned to go back to camp, and had found his little friend, watching him expectantly. He held a beautiful, shining red fox pelt in his arms, which he handed over like it was made of glass.
“Thanks little buddy,” America had said cheerfully, “I'll make this into a hat, or gloves or something!”
“Nope!” England had chirped happily. America had knelt to stare at him curiously. “Not for buying things or selling things or using,” He parroted proudly, “It's a gift.”
He had disappeared again, leaving a very confused American in the little clearing.
The third time, America decided, he would take him home. Only the moment he had arrived on the misty shores and rushed inland, he was met by France and Spain, who looked down at him disdainfully. They had allied for an invasion, it seemed, and England was theirs after an invasion from all sides, it seemed. Several thousand of the island's men were dead, his body weakened and on the verge of passing out as he lay, trembling, on the ground, tied to a tree nearby. They had already planned to turn the remaining soldiers into firewood, they said, the women and children were to be sold into slavery... England was no more. Doomed. The only choice he would have left, it seemed, was to choose if France or Spain would be the one to do away with him personally, both eternally frustrated at his endless resistance to them.
America had combated this with all he had.
And eventually, after promising half of his excess crop and threatening them with the entirety of his military, he had won the right to be included in England's choice. And the moment his tether was snapped and he was free he rushed to America on weak, thin legs, threw his arms around him. He had been terrified. A warrior he was, but a child he was as well, it seemed. All he needed was a parent. This was made abundantly clear as he sobbed into his shoulder, “Not for using, not for using,” his little hands patting his own chest. America soothed him to sleep in his arms.
Re: Swallow The Knife [Part 2/?]
anonymous
September 6 2010, 23:28:54 UTC
hjxcbgsadvc
so fucking cute I need this fill in my life, so please, oh kind and wonderful writer!anon, write moarrrr
I like how America's intentions aren't entirely noble, seeing as he wants to make England a part of his territory, but at least he's not being a dick :D And I wibbled at how fierce England is, even though he's so young and how everyone wanted to invade him and and /wibbles
Swallow The Knife [Part 3/?]
anonymous
September 7 2010, 01:35:32 UTC
France had tried to join with him, get partial custody of the boy. He had been planning to drown him, his idea of a merciful death, if he had been his, and so of course America had called him some obscene name and stormed back to his harbored ship, holding little England close to him.
America didn't remember much of the following days. He had known that the sleeping child had clung to him desperately, and that he himself had refused to set him down for a good day or two, sleeping with him curled against his heart, walking around with his arms tightly around the tiny body.
But the moment he had given the order to leave and go back home for a while, England had woken up and pushed his guardian away. A colony he may have been, but he would die before he left his people. And so Alfred, in all his weakness, had followed him back into the forest to spend time there instead while he recuperated.
- - -
England made more of a pet than a normal colony, America's friends always joked. He couldn't do much, his people farmed but not nearly enough to provide anything to be sold, and being so close to Europe he was invaded so often a large portion of America's military was dedicated to the sole use of protecting the little island. Many times many bosses of America's had suggested dropping the boy, or even giving him to another nation as a peace offering. And every time, every boss was left wondering what, exactly, Alfred thought of the tiny nation, which he had named Arthur, as he had stormed out of the room, following a lengthy rant.
Arthur, of course, grew very slowly, giving Alfred plenty of time to baby him and pamper him, most of which Arthur didn't like to accept. Like a tamed tiger he was calm in mind but wild in spirit, always with immense power in the depths of his soul, power that could be used for anything. But he loved Alfred far, far too much to hurt him, right? Besides, he was only a child. He still liked to play with dolls and other toys, he suckled on anything that neared his mouth when he slept, and was entirely and totally dependent on America. Unlike his other colonies, who he'd first met in their preteens, England was a child, and was the same way for a long time.
Swallow The Knife [Part 4/4]
anonymous
September 7 2010, 01:38:05 UTC
Some moments Alfred regretted his decisions. Like when the teen Arthur said he hated him. Alfred began to hate himself after those nights, often drowning his anger in alcohol. But in the end he spoiled him, still, gave him seeds and animals and technology for free, gave him everything he wanted and ever dreamed to ask for, money and power and adoration, he fawned over him and shared his food with him and even invited him into his bed a few times, though he was refused.
This pattern continued, even as he got older and older, turning into a handsome young man. Women surrounded the budding gentleman, his own puberty going much smoother than America's had, his voice not seeming to crack, his face never once breaking out in pimples, his gait never gaudy or awkward but always practiced and perfect.
Arthur was blooming right before his eyes. Alfred felt that, as his father figure, it was a right to take some of the resources he had put into his son back. He had given him so much and Arthur had never contributed. So when Alfred was faced with war on the other side of the world, he went to Arthur and held out his hand for the money he was owed.
- - -
Alfred often found when he arrived on the dark shores of England that it was raining. It might have been a sense of narcissism or just a passing thought that it was raining because England was sad. Logically it shouldn't have made sense to him. When he himself was sad or happy the weather didn't change for him, but his reasoning never kicked in, not fully, because shortly after this thought occurred to him he would always see a tall figure standing at the edge of the beach, waiting, often with a snide remark and a terribly cooked meal there as well. And so the day that he had seen the familiar shore and had realized that it was bright and warm and sunny for once was a momentous day. He planned on celebrating it, in fact, until he found a musket aimed at his face, the metal of the bayonet shining as gleefully as the teeth on the grinning faces of the men he had brought with them, all armed.
Arthur stared him down, eyes calculating every last move he made. He had seen those eyes, had seen the destruction they had seen. The gore of it all flashed into his mind, the bodies of four little boys torn apart filling his heart with the knowledge that he was doomed, as doomed as they were.
“Get off of my beach,” Arthur had said, so poignant and so cruel, so very strong. Stronger than Alfred was. He had cursed himself that moment. “This land is my land. These people are my people. And mine does not mean yours.” The bayonet had gone through his stomach the moment he had opened his mouth, simple force sending him onto his back on the beach, white sand turning a dull red beneath him.
Arthur stood over him, eyes full of... nothing. Utter nothing.
“Did you think you could trick me?” He hissed. “You were like all the others, Alfred. You only gave because you wanted something back.” Another attempt at redeeming himself was met with the barrel of the gun. “I was never a child to you, I was an investment. Don't try to sugarcoat it. You will leave my land, and you will never, ever come back.”
Alfred shook. Perhaps it was the blood seeping from him, perhaps it was the fact that he could now see tears in Arthur's deep eyes. Perhaps it was that finally, it had started to rain a cold, cold rain.
-
WOW. That took a very, very angsty turn... ah, assume that it all ends happily for them? Somehow? I don't know, I intended to make it sappy and cute and fluffy and I got... this. I'm terribly sorry OP!Anon, if anyone else wants to do this request justice they definitely should!
Re: Swallow The Knife [Part 4/4]
anonymous
September 9 2010, 01:21:28 UTC
Not-OP, but I thought the angst was kind of fitting- in terms of how it panned out in this world this fic stops at the revolutionary war. Not the happiest of times for these two. (So it's also not too farfetched to say that it all works out eventually.) Anyway, don't worry! Some things don't turn out how you'd expect, but they can (this included) still turn out brilliantly.
Re: Swallow The Knife [Part 4/4]
anonymous
September 12 2010, 20:42:55 UTC
WOW.
I had never expected such an emotional fill when I requested this! It was great to read, and Chibi!England is so adorable but...twisted in a way. You did a really good job - OP is impressed! And what are you apologising for? It was fantastic! ^^
“No, not for eating.”
England looked thoughtful. “Not for buying things or selling things or using.”
“Nope.” America flashed him a smile.
“... Then for what?”
“It's a gift. It looks pretty.” England smiled at that, holding them closer to his chest. And like a wraith he disappeared into the forest. America chalked that up as a good first meeting.
Their second meeting had felt almost arranged. America had been walking through the forest, charting out the flora and fauna, when he had turned to go back to camp, and had found his little friend, watching him expectantly. He held a beautiful, shining red fox pelt in his arms, which he handed over like it was made of glass.
“Thanks little buddy,” America had said cheerfully, “I'll make this into a hat, or gloves or something!”
“Nope!” England had chirped happily. America had knelt to stare at him curiously. “Not for buying things or selling things or using,” He parroted proudly, “It's a gift.”
He had disappeared again, leaving a very confused American in the little clearing.
The third time, America decided, he would take him home. Only the moment he had arrived on the misty shores and rushed inland, he was met by France and Spain, who looked down at him disdainfully. They had allied for an invasion, it seemed, and England was theirs after an invasion from all sides, it seemed. Several thousand of the island's men were dead, his body weakened and on the verge of passing out as he lay, trembling, on the ground, tied to a tree nearby. They had already planned to turn the remaining soldiers into firewood, they said, the women and children were to be sold into slavery... England was no more. Doomed. The only choice he would have left, it seemed, was to choose if France or Spain would be the one to do away with him personally, both eternally frustrated at his endless resistance to them.
America had combated this with all he had.
And eventually, after promising half of his excess crop and threatening them with the entirety of his military, he had won the right to be included in England's choice. And the moment his tether was snapped and he was free he rushed to America on weak, thin legs, threw his arms around him. He had been terrified. A warrior he was, but a child he was as well, it seemed. All he needed was a parent. This was made abundantly clear as he sobbed into his shoulder, “Not for using, not for using,” his little hands patting his own chest. America soothed him to sleep in his arms.
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so fucking cute I need this fill in my life, so please, oh kind and wonderful writer!anon, write moarrrr
I like how America's intentions aren't entirely noble, seeing as he wants to make England a part of his territory, but at least he's not being a dick :D And I wibbled at how fierce England is, even though he's so young and how everyone wanted to invade him and and /wibbles
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America didn't remember much of the following days. He had known that the sleeping child had clung to him desperately, and that he himself had refused to set him down for a good day or two, sleeping with him curled against his heart, walking around with his arms tightly around the tiny body.
But the moment he had given the order to leave and go back home for a while, England had woken up and pushed his guardian away. A colony he may have been, but he would die before he left his people. And so Alfred, in all his weakness, had followed him back into the forest to spend time there instead while he recuperated.
- - -
England made more of a pet than a normal colony, America's friends always joked. He couldn't do much, his people farmed but not nearly enough to provide anything to be sold, and being so close to Europe he was invaded so often a large portion of America's military was dedicated to the sole use of protecting the little island. Many times many bosses of America's had suggested dropping the boy, or even giving him to another nation as a peace offering. And every time, every boss was left wondering what, exactly, Alfred thought of the tiny nation, which he had named Arthur, as he had stormed out of the room, following a lengthy rant.
Arthur, of course, grew very slowly, giving Alfred plenty of time to baby him and pamper him, most of which Arthur didn't like to accept. Like a tamed tiger he was calm in mind but wild in spirit, always with immense power in the depths of his soul, power that could be used for anything. But he loved Alfred far, far too much to hurt him, right? Besides, he was only a child. He still liked to play with dolls and other toys, he suckled on anything that neared his mouth when he slept, and was entirely and totally dependent on America. Unlike his other colonies, who he'd first met in their preteens, England was a child, and was the same way for a long time.
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This pattern continued, even as he got older and older, turning into a handsome young man. Women surrounded the budding gentleman, his own puberty going much smoother than America's had, his voice not seeming to crack, his face never once breaking out in pimples, his gait never gaudy or awkward but always practiced and perfect.
Arthur was blooming right before his eyes. Alfred felt that, as his father figure, it was a right to take some of the resources he had put into his son back. He had given him so much and Arthur had never contributed. So when Alfred was faced with war on the other side of the world, he went to Arthur and held out his hand for the money he was owed.
- - -
Alfred often found when he arrived on the dark shores of England that it was raining. It might have been a sense of narcissism or just a passing thought that it was raining because England was sad. Logically it shouldn't have made sense to him. When he himself was sad or happy the weather didn't change for him, but his reasoning never kicked in, not fully, because shortly after this thought occurred to him he would always see a tall figure standing at the edge of the beach, waiting, often with a snide remark and a terribly cooked meal there as well. And so the day that he had seen the familiar shore and had realized that it was bright and warm and sunny for once was a momentous day. He planned on celebrating it, in fact, until he found a musket aimed at his face, the metal of the bayonet shining as gleefully as the teeth on the grinning faces of the men he had brought with them, all armed.
Arthur stared him down, eyes calculating every last move he made. He had seen those eyes, had seen the destruction they had seen. The gore of it all flashed into his mind, the bodies of four little boys torn apart filling his heart with the knowledge that he was doomed, as doomed as they were.
“Get off of my beach,” Arthur had said, so poignant and so cruel, so very strong. Stronger than Alfred was. He had cursed himself that moment. “This land is my land. These people are my people. And mine does not mean yours.” The bayonet had gone through his stomach the moment he had opened his mouth, simple force sending him onto his back on the beach, white sand turning a dull red beneath him.
Arthur stood over him, eyes full of... nothing. Utter nothing.
“Did you think you could trick me?” He hissed. “You were like all the others, Alfred. You only gave because you wanted something back.” Another attempt at redeeming himself was met with the barrel of the gun. “I was never a child to you, I was an investment. Don't try to sugarcoat it. You will leave my land, and you will never, ever come back.”
Alfred shook. Perhaps it was the blood seeping from him, perhaps it was the fact that he could now see tears in Arthur's deep eyes. Perhaps it was that finally, it had started to rain a cold, cold rain.
-
WOW. That took a very, very angsty turn... ah, assume that it all ends happily for them? Somehow? I don't know, I intended to make it sappy and cute and fluffy and I got... this. I'm terribly sorry OP!Anon, if anyone else wants to do this request justice they definitely should!
Reply
Anyway, don't worry! Some things don't turn out how you'd expect, but they can (this included) still turn out brilliantly.
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I had never expected such an emotional fill when I requested this! It was great to read, and Chibi!England is so adorable but...twisted in a way. You did a really good job - OP is impressed! And what are you apologising for? It was fantastic! ^^
Have you done any other fills?
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