Farewell to Lumina [3a/??]
anonymous
June 19 2009, 10:23:51 UTC
Writer!anon would like to thank all the anons who commented before because asdfjkl;I'm flattered *________*
Also, writer!anon has realized that she should probably have named the last part '1b' instead of '2' *facepalm*
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He remembered once when he had been struck so hard across his head that his vision blurred and purpled then faded all at once to cumbersome black. He remembered stepping back, his hand a tentative distance away from his face and just listening to the chaos of soldiers and their war cries while wondering if he would be stabbed for standing in the middle of a battlefield like a half-wit ready for Death to take him on his skeletal steed. Worst of all, he imagined his brother’s triumphant laughter ringing clear from within the rising voices.
He had hated that darkness; the world continuing to move regardless of his mere partial presence in it. He had wanted nothing more than to tear that sombre tapestry down with all his might ‘til the world would greet him again in its explosion of colors; sinful and heavenly intermingled until one reflected the other perfectly. He sorely regretted not being able to accomplish such a want.
And so, England tore at his bandages.
His nails finding the edges of the flimsy material he tore and tore and tore: no more stifling darkness laying its heavy pressure on his pupils, he thirsted for it with feral clawing. If he could unburden himself from this, achieve this difficult task, then the shades that he could practically hold within his mind’s eye must be waiting on the other side. It had to be. For the British Empire could not truly be… Be so seriously hurt. His people were not that weak. To hell with the doctor with his ignorant conclusion (he was a nation damn it) and to hell with America with his utterly gullible--
“Stop it! Stop doing that! England, stop it!”
As if that mere command would cease him. His hands deftly dodged America’s own by startling it with wild gestures which all ultimately had the same purpose of trying to remove the bandages around his eyes. Since when had he ever listened to the orders of another nation? If he wanted to stop him then--
“I said stop it!”
England stiffened abruptly, his left hand still midway through the second layer as the first had already been torn through like air: his right hand was undeniably caught. Not even his twitches of pain lessened the other nation’s hold. Bitterly, the British Empire closed his right hand into a fist. America had always been strong: stronger than him in pure physical force. Despite the reckless position of his captive hand in America’s gloved grip, England pulled.
“Let go,” he hissed; the right thumb brushed against his cheek. “Let go this very instant.”
“No,” America responded, his tone firm as well as stable for the first time during this ‘talk’. England bristled though the response did not surprise him in the least: it merely angered him. “I won’t let you. Leave the bandages alone: you still need them on.”
‘Need them’ he says-- Letting out a sharp bark of humourless laughter, England proceeded to rip through the rest of the second layer.
“I said stop.”
Even before his fingers could rip all the way through his left wrist was deftly caught with another equally strong hand. He did not flinch this time.
“Let go. Let me get rid of this, America.”
The strength in those hands never faltered, though perhaps it was because America simply could not afford to as England kept pulling at them even when he could feel the cold of his hands as the blood drained from them.
“I can’t England. Not until the doctor says it’s alright.”
Farewell to Lumina [3b/??] (recaptcha: 'crams commissions' lulz)
anonymous
June 19 2009, 10:26:23 UTC
His breath was much closer than he anticipated: warm breath that smelt faintly of rich coffee tickled the tip of his nose and burned his nostrils. England grimaced, for despite the burning it seemed to ease the panic building inside his mind. ‘Coffee’, his mind whispered, before snorting rudely at the memories that came with it.
“Listen to me for once in your lifetime: let go.” He struggled to keep his voice level. The temptation to just tear it all away was enough to drive a man mad. Oh how his fingers longed to rid of the curtain, that leaden tapestry… And how his throat ached in the midst of his bedlam… He might not have a voice left after this ordeal. “I wish to remove them and no one’s goodwill or advice is going to change my mind.”
“No.”
Agitation picked at his intelligence, pain helping along with his own brand of distraction: his lips sneered of their own accord. “You have no right.”
A raw, guttural ‘guh’ escaped him despite his gritted teeth when his wrists slammed down onto the mattress, taking his prone body with it. His head felt as if it had slammed onto the very bottom of the bed frame and the rest of him-- Lord, was it possible to hurt in every single place like this and what was all that noise in his ears--
“--this isn’t about me! This is about you. This is about taking care of you. I’m only trying to help you recover so stop trying to hurt yourself again! Do you hear what you’re saying?! What’s taking off that bandage going to accomplish? Think about what might--“
“Don’t lecture me!” Yes he was shouting, shouting despite his throat feeling like it was going to tear into pieces now because he was not going to just lie here and listen to America shout at him as if he were the empire and not just a colony that had grown to be a nation. Ungrateful.
“I know precisely what I am doing! I may be injured but that does not mean that it has turned me into a fool! Now let go. Of. Me.”
“No.”
So England proceeded to kick at the carefully tucked in covers, his dignity the last thing on his mind. Why couldn’t he just understand? He just needed to get this off. Just. Just have that fleeting vision of a world that he knew waiting on the other side: naïve America that he had coddled and loved so well should know the meaning of, of improbable fantasies that seemed out of reach for everyone so why couldn’t he just do this for him?
The grip never loosened and he could not fathom how long he had struggled against America’s hands, or how many times he had banged his throbbing legs on the railings, or even how long he had sworn into America’s unseen face. He felt sweat bead at his brows while his consciousness swam dangerously to nonexistent. And even though anxiety was gradually being replaced by exhausted apathy, he was going to finish this and get this off--
“I’m not going to let go.”
England paused, breathing heavily. It may have been a mistake as the single minded drive that had been keeping fatigue at bay faded slightly to let it seep into his system. In a moment, he was too tired to even think of a response to that.
“Stop it. This isn’t how I wanted to see you. And even if,” America stopped, as if he had forgotten what he was going to say; it was hard to discern without a facial expression. “Even if you don’t want me here, I can’t leave you like this. I’m not letting go until you promise not to tear at your bandages anymore.”
Farewell to Lumina [3c/??]
anonymous
June 19 2009, 10:27:36 UTC
The Briton listened to the struggle in that voice, the difficulty in the chaining of words. He had never known how apparently adept he was at picking up America’s intonations, particularly when he was troubled. His insides wavered at it. Not want him here… He certainly didn’t want him holding him down any longer but... Despite all his aggressiveness, it wasn’t really as if… lying in an empty room wondering just what was going on was probably how he would have spent his day or night until either Churchill or one of the generals came to check up on him. He sighed as he could not come up with a proper way to enunciate that: too weary, too used. Meðe Englaland.
“Just… let go. Let go for me America.”
“I said I can’t do that until you promise.”
Promises break easier than glass: he has seen it occur many a times to humans as well as nations alike. Promise… it fit America’s image. Image of the golden haired man looking at the sky with eyes just as blue as them that not even a pair of glasses could divert. America the Beautiful, America the Bountiful; land of hopes and dreams yet--
Oh God.
“Let go. Let go.” Letgoletgoletgoletgo.
“I said promise!”
“I--“ Oh no. “promis--“
As soon as America loosened his fingers, England promptly sat up and hurled everything he may or may not have eaten onto the floor below.
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It's been a while since I've looked at Old English so I apologize if the little bit used above is not correct ;;
Re: Farewell to Lumina [3c/??]
anonymous
June 19 2009, 10:56:34 UTC
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH~
F5F5F5F5F5-ing~~~~~~~~~~~
This is making me bite my nails and sit on the edge of my seat for the next update!!! The emotions racking inside England's though... Man~ Ah, I'm incoherent now... So just please do continue this piece!
Also, writer!anon has realized that she should probably have named the last part '1b' instead of '2' *facepalm*
--------------
He remembered once when he had been struck so hard across his head that his vision blurred and purpled then faded all at once to cumbersome black. He remembered stepping back, his hand a tentative distance away from his face and just listening to the chaos of soldiers and their war cries while wondering if he would be stabbed for standing in the middle of a battlefield like a half-wit ready for Death to take him on his skeletal steed. Worst of all, he imagined his brother’s triumphant laughter ringing clear from within the rising voices.
He had hated that darkness; the world continuing to move regardless of his mere partial presence in it. He had wanted nothing more than to tear that sombre tapestry down with all his might ‘til the world would greet him again in its explosion of colors; sinful and heavenly intermingled until one reflected the other perfectly. He sorely regretted not being able to accomplish such a want.
And so, England tore at his bandages.
His nails finding the edges of the flimsy material he tore and tore and tore: no more stifling darkness laying its heavy pressure on his pupils, he thirsted for it with feral clawing. If he could unburden himself from this, achieve this difficult task, then the shades that he could practically hold within his mind’s eye must be waiting on the other side. It had to be. For the British Empire could not truly be… Be so seriously hurt. His people were not that weak. To hell with the doctor with his ignorant conclusion (he was a nation damn it) and to hell with America with his utterly gullible--
“Stop it! Stop doing that! England, stop it!”
As if that mere command would cease him. His hands deftly dodged America’s own by startling it with wild gestures which all ultimately had the same purpose of trying to remove the bandages around his eyes. Since when had he ever listened to the orders of another nation? If he wanted to stop him then--
“I said stop it!”
England stiffened abruptly, his left hand still midway through the second layer as the first had already been torn through like air: his right hand was undeniably caught. Not even his twitches of pain lessened the other nation’s hold. Bitterly, the British Empire closed his right hand into a fist. America had always been strong: stronger than him in pure physical force. Despite the reckless position of his captive hand in America’s gloved grip, England pulled.
“Let go,” he hissed; the right thumb brushed against his cheek. “Let go this very instant.”
“No,” America responded, his tone firm as well as stable for the first time during this ‘talk’. England bristled though the response did not surprise him in the least: it merely angered him. “I won’t let you. Leave the bandages alone: you still need them on.”
‘Need them’ he says-- Letting out a sharp bark of humourless laughter, England proceeded to rip through the rest of the second layer.
“I said stop.”
Even before his fingers could rip all the way through his left wrist was deftly caught with another equally strong hand. He did not flinch this time.
“Let go. Let me get rid of this, America.”
The strength in those hands never faltered, though perhaps it was because America simply could not afford to as England kept pulling at them even when he could feel the cold of his hands as the blood drained from them.
“I can’t England. Not until the doctor says it’s alright.”
Reply
“Listen to me for once in your lifetime: let go.” He struggled to keep his voice level. The temptation to just tear it all away was enough to drive a man mad. Oh how his fingers longed to rid of the curtain, that leaden tapestry… And how his throat ached in the midst of his bedlam… He might not have a voice left after this ordeal. “I wish to remove them and no one’s goodwill or advice is going to change my mind.”
“No.”
Agitation picked at his intelligence, pain helping along with his own brand of distraction: his lips sneered of their own accord. “You have no right.”
A raw, guttural ‘guh’ escaped him despite his gritted teeth when his wrists slammed down onto the mattress, taking his prone body with it. His head felt as if it had slammed onto the very bottom of the bed frame and the rest of him-- Lord, was it possible to hurt in every single place like this and what was all that noise in his ears--
“--this isn’t about me! This is about you. This is about taking care of you. I’m only trying to help you recover so stop trying to hurt yourself again! Do you hear what you’re saying?! What’s taking off that bandage going to accomplish? Think about what might--“
“Don’t lecture me!” Yes he was shouting, shouting despite his throat feeling like it was going to tear into pieces now because he was not going to just lie here and listen to America shout at him as if he were the empire and not just a colony that had grown to be a nation. Ungrateful.
“I know precisely what I am doing! I may be injured but that does not mean that it has turned me into a fool! Now let go. Of. Me.”
“No.”
So England proceeded to kick at the carefully tucked in covers, his dignity the last thing on his mind. Why couldn’t he just understand? He just needed to get this off. Just. Just have that fleeting vision of a world that he knew waiting on the other side: naïve America that he had coddled and loved so well should know the meaning of, of improbable fantasies that seemed out of reach for everyone so why couldn’t he just do this for him?
The grip never loosened and he could not fathom how long he had struggled against America’s hands, or how many times he had banged his throbbing legs on the railings, or even how long he had sworn into America’s unseen face. He felt sweat bead at his brows while his consciousness swam dangerously to nonexistent. And even though anxiety was gradually being replaced by exhausted apathy, he was going to finish this and get this off--
“I’m not going to let go.”
England paused, breathing heavily. It may have been a mistake as the single minded drive that had been keeping fatigue at bay faded slightly to let it seep into his system. In a moment, he was too tired to even think of a response to that.
“Stop it. This isn’t how I wanted to see you. And even if,” America stopped, as if he had forgotten what he was going to say; it was hard to discern without a facial expression. “Even if you don’t want me here, I can’t leave you like this. I’m not letting go until you promise not to tear at your bandages anymore.”
Reply
“Just… let go. Let go for me America.”
“I said I can’t do that until you promise.”
Promises break easier than glass: he has seen it occur many a times to humans as well as nations alike. Promise… it fit America’s image. Image of the golden haired man looking at the sky with eyes just as blue as them that not even a pair of glasses could divert. America the Beautiful, America the Bountiful; land of hopes and dreams yet--
Oh God.
“Let go. Let go.” Letgoletgoletgoletgo.
“I said promise!”
“I--“ Oh no. “promis--“
As soon as America loosened his fingers, England promptly sat up and hurled everything he may or may not have eaten onto the floor below.
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It's been a while since I've looked at Old English so I apologize if the little bit used above is not correct ;;
Reply
F5F5F5F5F5-ing~~~~~~~~~~~
This is making me bite my nails and sit on the edge of my seat for the next update!!! The emotions racking inside England's though... Man~ Ah, I'm incoherent now... So just please do continue this piece!
Reply
I´m loving this so much - it´s so intense and sad and akshajdhjk I hope England gets better soon. Ç_Ç
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Reply
*F5's like mad*
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