Helen And Paris (3/?)
anonymous
January 7 2011, 00:52:49 UTC
After a couple moments of embarrassed squirming, Alfred had to admit that this wasn't quite as bad as his Puritan self wanted it to be. Apart from the fact that Matthew was stroking his arm absentmindedly and was far too happy to stay in character for his liking, it was nice to have his warm body pressed against him when that was all Alfred (personally) had been fighting for in the War of 1812.
Francis replaced the nubs of hot wax with new tall candles as the light, all the while talking to them in his steady, low voice. He presented a soothing narrative on the portraits by Monsieur David. It seemed right and fitting that after such a long career of making art for others he could finally afford the materials for a piece of his own.
"I can truly say that I've never had the privilege to work with models as lovely as you," Monsieur David said absentmindedly. "I am glad that such beauty will be preserved so long as this canvas survives. What a temporal thing, is youth and the looks that go with it. Why, even I have been unable to keep it for myself..."
Neither nation of the new world thought it would be prudent to assure him that their beauty was liable to last just as long as the canvas. When looking at a man whose face's wrinkles read like a history of his beloved country and whose hands were rheumy and stiff from the thousands of hours he'd held a paintbrush, they both felt, to some extent, that never dying or growing old was suddenly an ignoble thing.
Francis saw their expressions, smiled and whistled the air of an old tune only the artist could recognize.
"Such a wonderful thing," David hummed, "when I am one of the oldest men I know, but one young man can still sing that song. We were full of hopes back then. They call me a turncoat because I paint Napoleon's picture just as soon as I finish Marat's, but that art was a living, not an ideal."
"And this is your ideal?" Alfred asked.
"Yes, it is," David said.
"But who will see your painting, once it is finished?" Matthew asked. A small frown lighted his features. "Surely it is not art if nobody sees it."
"I will see it," David said, and sighed at Matthew's beleaguered look. "To be your own aesthete has always been one of the most dangerous desires in history. Helen and Paris saw in each other the part that would make them a whole work of art, and a war was started because the idea of a shepherd and a granddaughter of Zeus together was repugnant to everyone except them. And because they wanted to make the world a little more beautiful, they were despised and persecuted."
He paused from his musings, and smiled at his models.
"I hope a different fate is in store for these lovers."
Alfred tried not to think too hard about this comment, but found it was impossible when he was lying so still with little else to do. Did David think that they were together, or perhaps had a spat. Did he sense, in that primitive way, that they were connected by the land and misinterpret it as another, less intricate connection? Or did he only mean the lovers he represented?
Matthew's hands were soft and warm, like the candlelight.
Neither nation of the new world thought it would be prudent to assure him that their beauty was liable to last just as long as the canvas. When looking at a man whose face's wrinkles read like a history of his beloved country and whose hands were rheumy and stiff from the thousands of hours he'd held a paintbrush, they both felt, to some extent, that never dying or growing old was suddenly an ignoble thing.
Absolutely beautiful and it both speaks a lot for the story and the Hetalia characters too! The purpose behind this whole scene was very moving and really pulls you into the story. It's spurred me to light a few candles too! Again I really like the concept you've got here and you've really brought a lot of admiration to David's character.
Francis replaced the nubs of hot wax with new tall candles as the light, all the while talking to them in his steady, low voice. He presented a soothing narrative on the portraits by Monsieur David. It seemed right and fitting that after such a long career of making art for others he could finally afford the materials for a piece of his own.
"I can truly say that I've never had the privilege to work with models as lovely as you," Monsieur David said absentmindedly. "I am glad that such beauty will be preserved so long as this canvas survives. What a temporal thing, is youth and the looks that go with it. Why, even I have been unable to keep it for myself..."
Neither nation of the new world thought it would be prudent to assure him that their beauty was liable to last just as long as the canvas. When looking at a man whose face's wrinkles read like a history of his beloved country and whose hands were rheumy and stiff from the thousands of hours he'd held a paintbrush, they both felt, to some extent, that never dying or growing old was suddenly an ignoble thing.
Francis saw their expressions, smiled and whistled the air of an old tune only the artist could recognize.
"Such a wonderful thing," David hummed, "when I am one of the oldest men I know, but one young man can still sing that song. We were full of hopes back then. They call me a turncoat because I paint Napoleon's picture just as soon as I finish Marat's, but that art was a living, not an ideal."
"And this is your ideal?" Alfred asked.
"Yes, it is," David said.
"But who will see your painting, once it is finished?" Matthew asked. A small frown lighted his features. "Surely it is not art if nobody sees it."
"I will see it," David said, and sighed at Matthew's beleaguered look. "To be your own aesthete has always been one of the most dangerous desires in history. Helen and Paris saw in each other the part that would make them a whole work of art, and a war was started because the idea of a shepherd and a granddaughter of Zeus together was repugnant to everyone except them. And because they wanted to make the world a little more beautiful, they were despised and persecuted."
He paused from his musings, and smiled at his models.
"I hope a different fate is in store for these lovers."
Alfred tried not to think too hard about this comment, but found it was impossible when he was lying so still with little else to do. Did David think that they were together, or perhaps had a spat. Did he sense, in that primitive way, that they were connected by the land and misinterpret it as another, less intricate connection? Or did he only mean the lovers he represented?
Matthew's hands were soft and warm, like the candlelight.
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Neither nation of the new world thought it would be prudent to assure him that their beauty was liable to last just as long as the canvas. When looking at a man whose face's wrinkles read like a history of his beloved country and whose hands were rheumy and stiff from the thousands of hours he'd held a paintbrush, they both felt, to some extent, that never dying or growing old was suddenly an ignoble thing.
Absolutely beautiful and it both speaks a lot for the story and the Hetalia characters too! The purpose behind this whole scene was very moving and really pulls you into the story. It's spurred me to light a few candles too!
Again I really like the concept you've got here and you've really brought a lot of admiration to David's character.
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