Pastorale [4/6]
anonymous
April 18 2009, 22:42:22 UTC
Lithuania knew this game of Poland's: he was expecting the other to try and take a taste straight from his lips, but Lithuania would not be had - not with his two young brothers right there. Smiling serenely, the brunette reached around Poland and plucked a berry of his own from the bush. “Mm,” he agreed amicably, and strolled past Poland (who looked quite taken aback) to find a fresh bush to work from.
They moved slowly through the hillside, stopping every so now and then as a group to deforest another bush, or for Lithuania to point out an unusual flower to Latvia (the child had a prepossession with them even though he couldn't pronounce all their names yet) or explain the useful properties of an herb to Estonia. Poland, meanwhile, pretended not to listen but was interested all the same. Every few hundred meters, he would lead them all in a folk song, skipping to the rhythm of it or joining hands with Latvia and Estonia on either side of him, leaving Lithuania to carry his basket, and dancing with them like some odd six-legged race entry down the flatter stretches of ground. Their collection of berries grew slowly and none-too-surely, with Poland munching on them as often as he picked fresh ones. Latvia tripped, too, spilling his basket and bursting into inconsolable tears until Lithuania knelt beside him and told him it was all right, they could pick more berries, no one was upset with him, and Poland dropped down to kiss the palms of his hands, even though they weren't scratched. After that, Estonia walked with one arm wrapped around Latvia's waist to keep him steady on his tiny feet.
Finally they came to the crest of the hill, and from it they turned and looked back toward the city from which they had come.
“It's a lovely view,” Lithuania sighed, hoisting Estonia up to his shoulders and then lifting Latvia in his arms so that they could see better - Latvia's head barely rose above the waist-high bushes, which made it hard for him to see much of anything, but also made him an excellent scout for berries.
“I wonder if they're having mass, like, right about now,” mused Poland, though without a trace of guilt.
Glancing up at the sun, which had by now burned away most of the early morning's overcast, Lithuania considered. “It's still too early, I think. Not past nine.”
“We should probably eat lunch and head back soon, though, before it gets like totally hot.”
It may have been a matter of fashion - white skin being prized and aristocratic - or an honest aversion to hot weather, but Poland refused to do much of anything outdoors between the hours of noon and three during the summer. This was the reason they had gotten up so early: to avoid hitting the hills during the hottest, brightest part of the day.
They moved slowly through the hillside, stopping every so now and then as a group to deforest another bush, or for Lithuania to point out an unusual flower to Latvia (the child had a prepossession with them even though he couldn't pronounce all their names yet) or explain the useful properties of an herb to Estonia. Poland, meanwhile, pretended not to listen but was interested all the same. Every few hundred meters, he would lead them all in a folk song, skipping to the rhythm of it or joining hands with Latvia and Estonia on either side of him, leaving Lithuania to carry his basket, and dancing with them like some odd six-legged race entry down the flatter stretches of ground. Their collection of berries grew slowly and none-too-surely, with Poland munching on them as often as he picked fresh ones. Latvia tripped, too, spilling his basket and bursting into inconsolable tears until Lithuania knelt beside him and told him it was all right, they could pick more berries, no one was upset with him, and Poland dropped down to kiss the palms of his hands, even though they weren't scratched. After that, Estonia walked with one arm wrapped around Latvia's waist to keep him steady on his tiny feet.
Finally they came to the crest of the hill, and from it they turned and looked back toward the city from which they had come.
“It's a lovely view,” Lithuania sighed, hoisting Estonia up to his shoulders and then lifting Latvia in his arms so that they could see better - Latvia's head barely rose above the waist-high bushes, which made it hard for him to see much of anything, but also made him an excellent scout for berries.
“I wonder if they're having mass, like, right about now,” mused Poland, though without a trace of guilt.
Glancing up at the sun, which had by now burned away most of the early morning's overcast, Lithuania considered. “It's still too early, I think. Not past nine.”
“We should probably eat lunch and head back soon, though, before it gets like totally hot.”
It may have been a matter of fashion - white skin being prized and aristocratic - or an honest aversion to hot weather, but Poland refused to do much of anything outdoors between the hours of noon and three during the summer. This was the reason they had gotten up so early: to avoid hitting the hills during the hottest, brightest part of the day.
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