(no subject)
After I looked back at that awful Russia fic I posted, I told myself that I wouldn't post any more Hetalia fanfic on the internet. But then this story popped up in my head and wouldn't leave me alone. I'm hopping it doesn't suck like the last one did.
It’s all wrong.
Rome is dead. The city still stands, but the empire - the empire is dead. Rome was his idol. He loved Rome, worshiped Rome, treasured the land on which Rome stood, poured over his history, his life story, memorized the curves and edges of his face, traced his lines on every map he touched. He named himself after Rome, hoping that his hero’s greatness would rub off on him. As far as the young country was concerned, Rome was a god among their kind.
But now Rome is dead. All that is left of the man is a statue.
It’s far too emotionless, he thinks, too lifeless. Rome’s eyes had a fire that stone cannot replicate, his hair with all its messy curls (he sees the artist left some out) a wildness better suited to the strokes of a painter’s brush. The face is too serious, too solemn for a country raised on wine by wolves’ children. The artist was probably not one who knew Rome personally, probably not one who knew as much about Rome as he thought he did. The boy, looking up at his hero’s marble face, is sure he could do better. But I do not have the skill.
At first he loved Italy because she was Rome’s granddaughter. You have the same cities, the same soil, the same people. His mountains and streams are yours, and yours are his. His blood runs in your veins. And he wanted her greatness because it was Rome’s greatness, wanted her land and people and cities because they were Rome’s, wanted to be one with her because he wanted them (him and her, you and me, us) to be Rome.
But she was not Rome. Her cities were hers because they were not Rome’s anymore; her people were not of the same generation as Rome’s. You could tell, if you had walked in those streets all those centuries before, that Rome’s presence was gone, and that a new spirit (just as brilliant, but not as hot, not as burning) had moved in, had transformed it somehow. She did not fight, did not wish to fight, loved many things but not battle, not warfare, not the thrill and the armor and the blood and the death. She was gentle and exuberant and had a culture like a tropical bird’s feathers (colorful, beautiful, fascinating), but she did not have the heart of an empire.
And he loved her, her eyes that were bright as stars but not with fire, her smile that was foolish and not sharp, her people who were not warriors. He asked her how to paint, how to keep his pictures from being flat and dull and ugly, how to show light and shadows and water and land stretching out forever and the curves of the human body. And she taught him, patiently, kindly, correcting his mistakes. And when he had finally mastered the art, could finally capture the fire of Rome on canvas, it was not Rome he painted.
It was Italy.
It’s all wrong.
Rome is dead. The city still stands, but the empire - the empire is dead. Rome was his idol. He loved Rome, worshiped Rome, treasured the land on which Rome stood, poured over his history, his life story, memorized the curves and edges of his face, traced his lines on every map he touched. He named himself after Rome, hoping that his hero’s greatness would rub off on him. As far as the young country was concerned, Rome was a god among their kind.
But now Rome is dead. All that is left of the man is a statue.
It’s far too emotionless, he thinks, too lifeless. Rome’s eyes had a fire that stone cannot replicate, his hair with all its messy curls (he sees the artist left some out) a wildness better suited to the strokes of a painter’s brush. The face is too serious, too solemn for a country raised on wine by wolves’ children. The artist was probably not one who knew Rome personally, probably not one who knew as much about Rome as he thought he did. The boy, looking up at his hero’s marble face, is sure he could do better. But I do not have the skill.
At first he loved Italy because she was Rome’s granddaughter. You have the same cities, the same soil, the same people. His mountains and streams are yours, and yours are his. His blood runs in your veins. And he wanted her greatness because it was Rome’s greatness, wanted her land and people and cities because they were Rome’s, wanted to be one with her because he wanted them (him and her, you and me, us) to be Rome.
But she was not Rome. Her cities were hers because they were not Rome’s anymore; her people were not of the same generation as Rome’s. You could tell, if you had walked in those streets all those centuries before, that Rome’s presence was gone, and that a new spirit (just as brilliant, but not as hot, not as burning) had moved in, had transformed it somehow. She did not fight, did not wish to fight, loved many things but not battle, not warfare, not the thrill and the armor and the blood and the death. She was gentle and exuberant and had a culture like a tropical bird’s feathers (colorful, beautiful, fascinating), but she did not have the heart of an empire.
And he loved her, her eyes that were bright as stars but not with fire, her smile that was foolish and not sharp, her people who were not warriors. He asked her how to paint, how to keep his pictures from being flat and dull and ugly, how to show light and shadows and water and land stretching out forever and the curves of the human body. And she taught him, patiently, kindly, correcting his mistakes. And when he had finally mastered the art, could finally capture the fire of Rome on canvas, it was not Rome he painted.
It was Italy.