[Part 10] Soprano (Austria, Liechtenstein, Switzerland) (2/2)
anonymous
June 6 2011, 13:10:41 UTC
(She doesn't understand what's going on. She's been hungry and alone for months, and she has no idea where she is. She's in the alley again. She feels like she's dying, and tries to pretend that's not what it is.
She remembers a story Miss Hungary once told her (she heard it from Mr. Denmark). A young girl forced out into the harsh winter by her family, to do... something. She wished for things. Eventually, her beloved grandmother came and took her away.
Liechtenstein frowns. She's never had a grandmother. She more or less had a mother and father, but...
Perhaps the blond boy from when she was a baby will come for her.)
Switzerland snorts. “I doubt you care very much,” he says. “You just want to look like you didn't give them all up without a fight.”
“Were you paying any attention at all for the last-”
“That wasn't about them. At least, not the ones who needed you. It was about your own pride and glory. War usually is.”
(“Thank you, Mr. Switzerland,” the girl tells him. It still sort of disturbs him how kind and respectful she is, although it's a trait he could deal with there being more of in the world. He's not sure.
“It was good?”
“Yes.”
There is an awkward pause, and he starts to wonder who she is anyway. “...You were one of Austria's territories, weren't you?”
She breaks eye contact. “Yes,” she answers too quickly. “But the treaty...”
He nods slowly. “I guess he just let this happen?”
“I don't think he had much of a choice...” She bites her lip as if she can't be sure she believes that. Her clothes are still torn from wandering and hang loosely on her frame from hunger.
Switzerland doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell her what a fool Austria was for not fighting to keep her, or what a bastard he truly is in general, or that things will be okay now. He simply gets up, and starts making her tea.)
Austria cringes. “Even if that's true, I promise I am not here for prideful reasons,” he says. “I just wanted to check she was okay.”
“She is.”
“...May I see her?”
“No.”
Austria recoils at the suddenness of the response, and the vehemence. Switzerland sighs. “Look, Austria, you're not anything to her, alright? You're not special. You just happened to be in charge of the land for a long time. You let her go without a second thought; that is relinquishing rights. You cannot play her father anymore. Now get out.”
(The house seems too big and empty now, even though he knows it has technically shrunk in accordance with the changes. There were just so many people in his house. He's not quite sure what to do know.
He finds his hands are shaking and doesn't know why. He wants to put his hands to use, and heads to his piano. People, and territory, and loved ones can come and go, but the music is his.
(It's not much of a comfort.)
He prepares his hands over the keys to play. He's not sure what, to be honest, but he can tell it's a piece he's played a million times before. He presses down.
He hits the wrong keys.
He tries again. It doesn't work. The racket that comes makes him cringe.
His hands start to shake more violently as he struggles to get the right notes. It only makes it worse. He sounds like a cat screeching from an alleyway at night.
He bites his lip to try and keep himself under control. Tears sting his eyes when he thinks of it all, his wife, his friends, his children all gone because-
And he tries again and again, making a mess of a piece while there's no-one to hear.)
Switzerland sticks his gun a little forward, and Austria knows there is no convincing the man. There is nothing left for him here.
Perhaps Switzerland is right anyway.
“Well,” he says as he opens the door again. “I do know she did not gain my musical talents.”
She remembers a story Miss Hungary once told her (she heard it from Mr. Denmark). A young girl forced out into the harsh winter by her family, to do... something. She wished for things. Eventually, her beloved grandmother came and took her away.
Liechtenstein frowns. She's never had a grandmother. She more or less had a mother and father, but...
Perhaps the blond boy from when she was a baby will come for her.)
Switzerland snorts. “I doubt you care very much,” he says. “You just want to look like you didn't give them all up without a fight.”
“Were you paying any attention at all for the last-”
“That wasn't about them. At least, not the ones who needed you. It was about your own pride and glory. War usually is.”
(“Thank you, Mr. Switzerland,” the girl tells him. It still sort of disturbs him how kind and respectful she is, although it's a trait he could deal with there being more of in the world. He's not sure.
“It was good?”
“Yes.”
There is an awkward pause, and he starts to wonder who she is anyway. “...You were one of Austria's territories, weren't you?”
She breaks eye contact. “Yes,” she answers too quickly. “But the treaty...”
He nods slowly. “I guess he just let this happen?”
“I don't think he had much of a choice...” She bites her lip as if she can't be sure she believes that. Her clothes are still torn from wandering and hang loosely on her frame from hunger.
Switzerland doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell her what a fool Austria was for not fighting to keep her, or what a bastard he truly is in general, or that things will be okay now. He simply gets up, and starts making her tea.)
Austria cringes. “Even if that's true, I promise I am not here for prideful reasons,” he says. “I just wanted to check she was okay.”
“She is.”
“...May I see her?”
“No.”
Austria recoils at the suddenness of the response, and the vehemence. Switzerland sighs. “Look, Austria, you're not anything to her, alright? You're not special. You just happened to be in charge of the land for a long time. You let her go without a second thought; that is relinquishing rights. You cannot play her father anymore. Now get out.”
(The house seems too big and empty now, even though he knows it has technically shrunk in accordance with the changes. There were just so many people in his house. He's not quite sure what to do know.
He finds his hands are shaking and doesn't know why. He wants to put his hands to use, and heads to his piano. People, and territory, and loved ones can come and go, but the music is his.
(It's not much of a comfort.)
He prepares his hands over the keys to play. He's not sure what, to be honest, but he can tell it's a piece he's played a million times before. He presses down.
He hits the wrong keys.
He tries again. It doesn't work. The racket that comes makes him cringe.
His hands start to shake more violently as he struggles to get the right notes. It only makes it worse. He sounds like a cat screeching from an alleyway at night.
He bites his lip to try and keep himself under control. Tears sting his eyes when he thinks of it all, his wife, his friends, his children all gone because-
And he tries again and again, making a mess of a piece while there's no-one to hear.)
Switzerland sticks his gun a little forward, and Austria knows there is no convincing the man. There is nothing left for him here.
Perhaps Switzerland is right anyway.
“Well,” he says as he opens the door again. “I do know she did not gain my musical talents.”
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