[FANFIC] Fallen
Title: Fallen
Author/Artist: roolley
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Germany, Prussia, Rostropovich <3
Rating: PG
Warnings: gratuitous and butchered German, some very slight GermanyPrussia innuendo towards the end if you squint.
Summary: On the 9th of November, the Wall falls. On the 10th, Germany goes looking for his brother and bumps into someone he didn't really expect.
Notes: This is sadly late but it's for the 20 year commemoration of the Fall of the Berlin Wall =p
***
The Wall was falling.
Germany stood in the midst of the crowd and watched his people tear it down, annihilating the barrier that stood between them. “Wir sind ein Volk,” he murmured beneath his breath; his words condensated in the cool morning air.
It was the 10th of November 1989, at dawn, and the Wall was falling, at last, and it was a glorious sight.
--
Prussia.
It was the first thought that had jumped to his mind as a cohort of men had woken him up and loudly informed him of the situation sometime during the night from the ninth to the tenth. At around midnight, he had been standing in front of Checkpoint Charlie, one of the first to welcome the Ost Berliner as they crossed the bridge.
He had looked for Prussia in the crowd, but had not seen him, and then, as Nations were wont to do, he had been too caught up in the adrenaline and excitement of his people to think straight, and he knew he had stood on top of the wall for a sometime while chanting “Es lebe Deutschland!” at the top of his lungs, arms slung across the shoulder of two men he didn’t even know - as if they were some human chain.
The few hours between the opening of the gate and the breaking of dawn had been a whirlwind of emotion; it was like he had just taken his first gulp of air in twenty-eight years.
--
He came to himself before the breaking of first light on the 10th. Germany stood in the middle of Friedrichstrasse, his head still light with the events.
Knowing Prussia, Germany thought with something rather, but not quite, like a smile, he was probably still on the East side, helping enthusiastically in knocking down the wall, and yelling obscenities at the top of his lungs, no doubt.
The keen desire to find his brother came back to him and he moved to join the flow of Berliner crossing to the other side in search of families or friends.
He stopped short, however, as he was about to walk into someone. He had not noticed before, but right in front him, holding what looked like a cello-case, a short old man was staring at the wall. Just like Germany a few moments before, he was immobile, a rock in the rolling sea of people that parted neatly on each side of him.
Germany cleared his throat hesitantly.
The old man turned, and his eyes met Germany’s through thick-framed glasses.
“I would play,” he said, gesturing at his case, “If I had but a chair.”
He spoke English, but with a slight and almost undetectable accent - Russian. Almost by reflex, Germany felt himself tense into a military stance, the thought of Ivan Braginski crossing his mind, before he realized just who the man standing in front of him was and the ridiculousness of this reaction occurred to him.
“Sie sind Rostropovich,” he said faintly.
“Ja, das ist mich,” the other agreed gravely, before adding, “Enschuldigen Sie mich, bitter, für meinen Deutsch.”
There was a pause as Germany observed the world-renowned musician in front of him, running a hand through his hair to slick it back in its usual strict style. He had only taken the time to slip on whatever clothes had been in reach before rushing out of his house, something quite contrary to his habit. Until then it had not mattered.
“You needed a chair?” he questioned awkwardly after a while.
The cellist reverted to English easily.
“Indeed, if that isn’t too much to ask for.”
“Not at all,” he answered, almost absentmindedly.
A chair. Where in the name of the Lord would he find a chair at this hour of the morning?
On impulse, he indicated to the musician to stay where he was, and made off through the crowd as quickly as he could; the street emptied quickly the furthest he got away from the Wall, and soon he was able to run.
He made directly for his house, and got there before the sun was fully up. It was a grey day and Germany found himself nonsensically hoping it wouldn’t rain, thinking of happy endings, wet musicians, an angry Austria and a laughing Prussia.
The house had never seemed quite as empty as it did now, as he crossed the doorstep. His heart was still racing but he forced himself to slow to a walk; it would not do to break something now that his brother was going to move back in.
It almost didn’t feel real.
It was dark in the kitchen, shutters still closed. He grabbed one of the chairs, a no-nonsense white plastic thing Gilbert, with his love of flashy objects, would have hated anyway, and started to make his way back to the Wall, not even bothering to close the door behind him.
By the time he got back to the wall, Rostropovich had extracted his instrument from its case - a no doubt priceless cello in the dank November air; Austria’s face was comical to imagine.
Germany started and faltered suddenly. It had seemed obvious to him before that the musician wanted to play right next to the wall, for him, for them, but suddenly it felt much more incredible.
He handed him the chair.
“Danke schön, Herr…?”
“Beilschmidt.”
“Danke schön, Herr Beilschmidt,” the cellist repeated, smiling kindly at him, and for some reason Germany felt his throat constrict.
Rostropovich sat down on the chair, installed his cello between his legs, and in one fluid movement he raised his bow and then it was against the strings and then he was playing…
--
Maybe it was because it was cello as he had never heard it played, or maybe it was because the Wall was finally, finally falling and a world-renown cellist was playing his music, music from one of his own composers, Bach - not Austria’s, not France’s, his - but Germany could not stop the shiver that ran up his back. It was magnificent; it was perfect.
The cello’s body vibrated and rumbled and sang under the expert hands of the cellist - it was the Prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite no.1 - it was music as he had never heard it.
Someone clapped his back.
“Hallo, West,” said a well-known, never forgotten, voice behind him. “Na, hast du mich vermisst?”
Germany whirled around, and there was Prussia, all red eyes and silvery hair, grinning his maniac’s grin, the one he always wore in the middle of battle, mouth and teeth and burning eyes. Without even stopping to think, he grabbed his brother around the shoulders and brought him nearer in a backbreaking hug.
Behind them, the cello continued playing.
***
NOTES ON THE (sadly inadequate) GERMAN
Wir sind ein Volk - we are one people. You’ve probably already heard it. It’s a famous German phrase, as it was used rather extensively during the manifestations that preceded the fall of the Wall.
Es lebe Deutschland - long live Germany. That’s the translation my dictionary gave me, anyway ^^
Sie sind Rostropovich - you’re Rostropovich (formal form)
Ja, das ist mich. Enschuldigen Sie mich, bitte, für meinen Deutsch - yes, that’s me. Excuse me, please, for my German.
Hast du mich vermisst, oder? - have you missed me ?
Na, hast du mich vermisst - missed me? (colloquial - thanks, emerald_tune !)
NOTES ON THE HISTORY
The wall was built practically overnight, in November 1961 - hence the ‘twenty-eight years’. Checkpoint Charlie was a crossing point between East and West Berlin, and it was the first that was opened during the fall of the Wall, on November the 9th at 11:30pm. Most of the fall of the Wall actually took place over the next few days.
Rostropovich (1927-2007) is a very famous Russian cellist. He did indeed play Bach’s cello suites in front of the Wall as it fell, and the rumour goes he didn’t have a chair so someone had to get him one =p
Bach’s cello suites are extremely well-known pieces for cello solo (the prelude for the first suite is the better known one; you’ve probably already heard it even if you didn’t know what it was). And they’re magnificent. And Rostropovich, of course, plays them beautifully.
Author/Artist: roolley
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Germany, Prussia, Rostropovich <3
Rating: PG
Warnings: gratuitous and butchered German, some very slight GermanyPrussia innuendo towards the end if you squint.
Summary: On the 9th of November, the Wall falls. On the 10th, Germany goes looking for his brother and bumps into someone he didn't really expect.
Notes: This is sadly late but it's for the 20 year commemoration of the Fall of the Berlin Wall =p
***
The Wall was falling.
Germany stood in the midst of the crowd and watched his people tear it down, annihilating the barrier that stood between them. “Wir sind ein Volk,” he murmured beneath his breath; his words condensated in the cool morning air.
It was the 10th of November 1989, at dawn, and the Wall was falling, at last, and it was a glorious sight.
--
Prussia.
It was the first thought that had jumped to his mind as a cohort of men had woken him up and loudly informed him of the situation sometime during the night from the ninth to the tenth. At around midnight, he had been standing in front of Checkpoint Charlie, one of the first to welcome the Ost Berliner as they crossed the bridge.
He had looked for Prussia in the crowd, but had not seen him, and then, as Nations were wont to do, he had been too caught up in the adrenaline and excitement of his people to think straight, and he knew he had stood on top of the wall for a sometime while chanting “Es lebe Deutschland!” at the top of his lungs, arms slung across the shoulder of two men he didn’t even know - as if they were some human chain.
The few hours between the opening of the gate and the breaking of dawn had been a whirlwind of emotion; it was like he had just taken his first gulp of air in twenty-eight years.
--
He came to himself before the breaking of first light on the 10th. Germany stood in the middle of Friedrichstrasse, his head still light with the events.
Knowing Prussia, Germany thought with something rather, but not quite, like a smile, he was probably still on the East side, helping enthusiastically in knocking down the wall, and yelling obscenities at the top of his lungs, no doubt.
The keen desire to find his brother came back to him and he moved to join the flow of Berliner crossing to the other side in search of families or friends.
He stopped short, however, as he was about to walk into someone. He had not noticed before, but right in front him, holding what looked like a cello-case, a short old man was staring at the wall. Just like Germany a few moments before, he was immobile, a rock in the rolling sea of people that parted neatly on each side of him.
Germany cleared his throat hesitantly.
The old man turned, and his eyes met Germany’s through thick-framed glasses.
“I would play,” he said, gesturing at his case, “If I had but a chair.”
He spoke English, but with a slight and almost undetectable accent - Russian. Almost by reflex, Germany felt himself tense into a military stance, the thought of Ivan Braginski crossing his mind, before he realized just who the man standing in front of him was and the ridiculousness of this reaction occurred to him.
“Sie sind Rostropovich,” he said faintly.
“Ja, das ist mich,” the other agreed gravely, before adding, “Enschuldigen Sie mich, bitter, für meinen Deutsch.”
There was a pause as Germany observed the world-renowned musician in front of him, running a hand through his hair to slick it back in its usual strict style. He had only taken the time to slip on whatever clothes had been in reach before rushing out of his house, something quite contrary to his habit. Until then it had not mattered.
“You needed a chair?” he questioned awkwardly after a while.
The cellist reverted to English easily.
“Indeed, if that isn’t too much to ask for.”
“Not at all,” he answered, almost absentmindedly.
A chair. Where in the name of the Lord would he find a chair at this hour of the morning?
On impulse, he indicated to the musician to stay where he was, and made off through the crowd as quickly as he could; the street emptied quickly the furthest he got away from the Wall, and soon he was able to run.
He made directly for his house, and got there before the sun was fully up. It was a grey day and Germany found himself nonsensically hoping it wouldn’t rain, thinking of happy endings, wet musicians, an angry Austria and a laughing Prussia.
The house had never seemed quite as empty as it did now, as he crossed the doorstep. His heart was still racing but he forced himself to slow to a walk; it would not do to break something now that his brother was going to move back in.
It almost didn’t feel real.
It was dark in the kitchen, shutters still closed. He grabbed one of the chairs, a no-nonsense white plastic thing Gilbert, with his love of flashy objects, would have hated anyway, and started to make his way back to the Wall, not even bothering to close the door behind him.
By the time he got back to the wall, Rostropovich had extracted his instrument from its case - a no doubt priceless cello in the dank November air; Austria’s face was comical to imagine.
Germany started and faltered suddenly. It had seemed obvious to him before that the musician wanted to play right next to the wall, for him, for them, but suddenly it felt much more incredible.
He handed him the chair.
“Danke schön, Herr…?”
“Beilschmidt.”
“Danke schön, Herr Beilschmidt,” the cellist repeated, smiling kindly at him, and for some reason Germany felt his throat constrict.
Rostropovich sat down on the chair, installed his cello between his legs, and in one fluid movement he raised his bow and then it was against the strings and then he was playing…
--
Maybe it was because it was cello as he had never heard it played, or maybe it was because the Wall was finally, finally falling and a world-renown cellist was playing his music, music from one of his own composers, Bach - not Austria’s, not France’s, his - but Germany could not stop the shiver that ran up his back. It was magnificent; it was perfect.
The cello’s body vibrated and rumbled and sang under the expert hands of the cellist - it was the Prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite no.1 - it was music as he had never heard it.
Someone clapped his back.
“Hallo, West,” said a well-known, never forgotten, voice behind him. “Na, hast du mich vermisst?”
Germany whirled around, and there was Prussia, all red eyes and silvery hair, grinning his maniac’s grin, the one he always wore in the middle of battle, mouth and teeth and burning eyes. Without even stopping to think, he grabbed his brother around the shoulders and brought him nearer in a backbreaking hug.
Behind them, the cello continued playing.
***
NOTES ON THE (sadly inadequate) GERMAN
Wir sind ein Volk - we are one people. You’ve probably already heard it. It’s a famous German phrase, as it was used rather extensively during the manifestations that preceded the fall of the Wall.
Es lebe Deutschland - long live Germany. That’s the translation my dictionary gave me, anyway ^^
Sie sind Rostropovich - you’re Rostropovich (formal form)
Ja, das ist mich. Enschuldigen Sie mich, bitte, für meinen Deutsch - yes, that’s me. Excuse me, please, for my German.
Hast du mich vermisst, oder? - have you missed me ?
Na, hast du mich vermisst - missed me? (colloquial - thanks, emerald_tune !)
NOTES ON THE HISTORY
The wall was built practically overnight, in November 1961 - hence the ‘twenty-eight years’. Checkpoint Charlie was a crossing point between East and West Berlin, and it was the first that was opened during the fall of the Wall, on November the 9th at 11:30pm. Most of the fall of the Wall actually took place over the next few days.
Rostropovich (1927-2007) is a very famous Russian cellist. He did indeed play Bach’s cello suites in front of the Wall as it fell, and the rumour goes he didn’t have a chair so someone had to get him one =p
Bach’s cello suites are extremely well-known pieces for cello solo (the prelude for the first suite is the better known one; you’ve probably already heard it even if you didn’t know what it was). And they’re magnificent. And Rostropovich, of course, plays them beautifully.