[Fanfiction] Penitant
Title: Penitant
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Angst/Horror/AU
Character(s)|Pairing(s): Spain, England
Rating/Warning(s): R, gruesome imagery, violence, probable abuse of Latin and Greek
Word Count: 942
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill. AU - The Armada was not defeated. Queen Elizabeth was executed. And Spain brought the Inquisition to England’s shores.
“Ave Maria.”
The echoes of the choir lingered sweetly in your ears as your boots thudded on the flagstones. You discarded your courtly attire, neatly hanging up your black velvet doublet with its shining bullion. One by one, you slipped off your rings and placed them in a small pouch hung near your doublet. But you kept your heavy cross, heavy around your throat on its chain of gold.
The chamber had been newly sluiced with water and the damp stone made the room chillingly humid, even with the lanterns. You put on your black leather gloves and you smiled.
“Good evening,” you said to the man bound to the chair in front of you. He did not open his eyes.
“Certain civilities should be met, you know.” Again, no reply. The imposing Inquisitor next to you shifted restlessly but you gave him a reproving expression.
“Leave us,” you told the man quietly but firmly. His lips tightened before he complied with the order, closing the door behind him.
“It has been a year,” you remarked after a moment or two. “Could you imagine that? A whole year.”
This made a single eye open, still shockingly emerald green in midst of a crimson laced white. You smiled at him, for nothing irritated him so much as smiles and because you truly didn’t hate him, this lost and misguided child.
“A year since I landed,” you continued, watching him. His maimed hands twitched, the joints swollen and badly set, like unearthed tree roots. “A year since I… set things right.”
He glared at you but didn’t speak. Then again, you recalled that he had cracked the teeth all along his left jaw; speaking would be most painful now. You stroked the cover of your prayer book thoughtfully.
“A pity about your queen,” you remarked with genuine regret. “But it is your own fault for placing a whore’s daughter on the throne. It seems right that she followed the fate of her mother. Upon the same site too, if I remember correctly. Pity we couldn’t find the same tool…”
He snarled at you then, blood spilling from his bruised and filthy mouth. “Shut up,” he slurred. He actually tried to leap forwards, only to be instantly and sharply pulled back by the leather holding him to the strong oak. Surely his feet must be in complete agony, as thoroughly… treated as they were.
You smiled at him again, patronizingly. “Though I must say that France was most pleased to hear of the account… He wishes for me to ask you if you now know his own anguish.”
He spat spittle and blood in a fine red mist. You swore it sounded almost like, “Whore.”
You sighed and opened your prayer book. “My dear Arturo,” you remarked sadly. “You have always been the lost one, haven’t you? You’ve always been alone, a veritable wild child, with no real guidance at all.” You turned the pages slowly, for the vellum was very fragile and the gloves, though well-fitted, made some finer movements somewhat difficult.
He glared at you with his one opened eye. Yes, that had been a lamentable mistake. One of the Inquisitors, in a fit of temper at the sheer pig-headed stubbornness he had been faced with, had gone too far. The man had been severely reprimanded, of course, and you had him discreetly… taken care of. The eye, or the relatively whole remains of it, remained at the bottom of a clear glass jar filled with sherry on a set of shelves to your left. It didn’t seem right just to throw it away like butcher’s offal.
You looked back at him. “It is quite simple,” you told him kindly. “It is very, very simple. The Lord forgives us all. We are all sinners and we must beg His forgiveness and perform penance.” You sighed again, because he showed no signs of remorse or even attentiveness.
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis,” you murmured, as you closed your prayer book.
“Sanctificetur Nomen Tuum,” you continued as you wound the leather cords around his fingers. He stared stoically over your shoulder, his jaw set still even as you tightened them around his ruined fingers. Slowly, bit by bit, the cords bit into raw and mortified flesh.
“Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie,” you said in a calm, uninterrupted recital as he eventually screamed, his raw throat constricting.
“Sed libera nos a Malo,” you finished quietly as he slumped backwards in a dead faint. You looked at him in pity, not quite touching his filthy, matted hair. The empty socket of his left eye still remained glued shut with blood, you noticed.
You left the room and you realized that the cuffs of your shirt were stained bright crimson. The maid would not thank you for that, you sighed to yourself, neither would the housekeeper. You took off your gloves and you put on your doublet once more but did not bother with your rings. The Inquisitor waiting outside arched a sardonic eyebrow at you.
“No luck,” he said and you shook your head sadly.
The Inquisitors didn’t like you very much; they sensed that something was odd about you. But they respected you and that was all you wanted. You held your cross in your hand, feeling the warm, warm metal against your naked palm.
“There is time enough,” you told the man with a slight, melancholy smile. “And we can only hope.”
You bowed to him and walked away, hearing voices in concert singing, “Kýrie, eléison; Christé, eléison; Kýrie, eléison.”
“Lord, have mercy,” you whispered, holding the infernally hot cross to your skin.
Notes:
-Most readers probably know that Elizabeth I was the daughter of Henry VIII and his second wife Anne Boleyn, who had been his mistress before he divorced the Spanish princess Katherine of Aragon. She was beheaded on charges of witchcraft and adultery in the Tower of London by a French swordsman.
-Spain is saying the Lord’s Prayer (Pater Noster) in Latin as he tortures England.
-The maiming of England’s fingers was not really a torture used by the Inquisition (it was actually more employed by the Italians). The strappado, or the garrucha, was generally used more often, in which the victim was hoisted up by bound wrists until they had to support their own body weight in that particularly excruciating position, leading to dislocation of the shoulders and damaged tendons. The rack was also quite popular to say nothing of foot crushing by iron or wood boots (sometimes called the Spanish boot) or breaking your toes while you were stretched out on the rack… They also had a form of water boarding as well, which they called the toca or interrogatorio mejorado del agua. I’d also like to note that some of the worst periods of torture in dungeons and such did not occur during the Medieval/Dark Ages as imagined by most but during this time, the Renaissance.
-The verses at the end are Greek, not Latin and are part of the Roman Catholic Mass. They translate to, “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Angst/Horror/AU
Character(s)|Pairing(s): Spain, England
Rating/Warning(s): R, gruesome imagery, violence, probable abuse of Latin and Greek
Word Count: 942
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill. AU - The Armada was not defeated. Queen Elizabeth was executed. And Spain brought the Inquisition to England’s shores.
“Ave Maria.”
The echoes of the choir lingered sweetly in your ears as your boots thudded on the flagstones. You discarded your courtly attire, neatly hanging up your black velvet doublet with its shining bullion. One by one, you slipped off your rings and placed them in a small pouch hung near your doublet. But you kept your heavy cross, heavy around your throat on its chain of gold.
The chamber had been newly sluiced with water and the damp stone made the room chillingly humid, even with the lanterns. You put on your black leather gloves and you smiled.
“Good evening,” you said to the man bound to the chair in front of you. He did not open his eyes.
“Certain civilities should be met, you know.” Again, no reply. The imposing Inquisitor next to you shifted restlessly but you gave him a reproving expression.
“Leave us,” you told the man quietly but firmly. His lips tightened before he complied with the order, closing the door behind him.
“It has been a year,” you remarked after a moment or two. “Could you imagine that? A whole year.”
This made a single eye open, still shockingly emerald green in midst of a crimson laced white. You smiled at him, for nothing irritated him so much as smiles and because you truly didn’t hate him, this lost and misguided child.
“A year since I landed,” you continued, watching him. His maimed hands twitched, the joints swollen and badly set, like unearthed tree roots. “A year since I… set things right.”
He glared at you but didn’t speak. Then again, you recalled that he had cracked the teeth all along his left jaw; speaking would be most painful now. You stroked the cover of your prayer book thoughtfully.
“A pity about your queen,” you remarked with genuine regret. “But it is your own fault for placing a whore’s daughter on the throne. It seems right that she followed the fate of her mother. Upon the same site too, if I remember correctly. Pity we couldn’t find the same tool…”
He snarled at you then, blood spilling from his bruised and filthy mouth. “Shut up,” he slurred. He actually tried to leap forwards, only to be instantly and sharply pulled back by the leather holding him to the strong oak. Surely his feet must be in complete agony, as thoroughly… treated as they were.
You smiled at him again, patronizingly. “Though I must say that France was most pleased to hear of the account… He wishes for me to ask you if you now know his own anguish.”
He spat spittle and blood in a fine red mist. You swore it sounded almost like, “Whore.”
You sighed and opened your prayer book. “My dear Arturo,” you remarked sadly. “You have always been the lost one, haven’t you? You’ve always been alone, a veritable wild child, with no real guidance at all.” You turned the pages slowly, for the vellum was very fragile and the gloves, though well-fitted, made some finer movements somewhat difficult.
He glared at you with his one opened eye. Yes, that had been a lamentable mistake. One of the Inquisitors, in a fit of temper at the sheer pig-headed stubbornness he had been faced with, had gone too far. The man had been severely reprimanded, of course, and you had him discreetly… taken care of. The eye, or the relatively whole remains of it, remained at the bottom of a clear glass jar filled with sherry on a set of shelves to your left. It didn’t seem right just to throw it away like butcher’s offal.
You looked back at him. “It is quite simple,” you told him kindly. “It is very, very simple. The Lord forgives us all. We are all sinners and we must beg His forgiveness and perform penance.” You sighed again, because he showed no signs of remorse or even attentiveness.
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis,” you murmured, as you closed your prayer book.
“Sanctificetur Nomen Tuum,” you continued as you wound the leather cords around his fingers. He stared stoically over your shoulder, his jaw set still even as you tightened them around his ruined fingers. Slowly, bit by bit, the cords bit into raw and mortified flesh.
“Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie,” you said in a calm, uninterrupted recital as he eventually screamed, his raw throat constricting.
“Sed libera nos a Malo,” you finished quietly as he slumped backwards in a dead faint. You looked at him in pity, not quite touching his filthy, matted hair. The empty socket of his left eye still remained glued shut with blood, you noticed.
You left the room and you realized that the cuffs of your shirt were stained bright crimson. The maid would not thank you for that, you sighed to yourself, neither would the housekeeper. You took off your gloves and you put on your doublet once more but did not bother with your rings. The Inquisitor waiting outside arched a sardonic eyebrow at you.
“No luck,” he said and you shook your head sadly.
The Inquisitors didn’t like you very much; they sensed that something was odd about you. But they respected you and that was all you wanted. You held your cross in your hand, feeling the warm, warm metal against your naked palm.
“There is time enough,” you told the man with a slight, melancholy smile. “And we can only hope.”
You bowed to him and walked away, hearing voices in concert singing, “Kýrie, eléison; Christé, eléison; Kýrie, eléison.”
“Lord, have mercy,” you whispered, holding the infernally hot cross to your skin.
Notes:
-Most readers probably know that Elizabeth I was the daughter of Henry VIII and his second wife Anne Boleyn, who had been his mistress before he divorced the Spanish princess Katherine of Aragon. She was beheaded on charges of witchcraft and adultery in the Tower of London by a French swordsman.
-Spain is saying the Lord’s Prayer (Pater Noster) in Latin as he tortures England.
-The maiming of England’s fingers was not really a torture used by the Inquisition (it was actually more employed by the Italians). The strappado, or the garrucha, was generally used more often, in which the victim was hoisted up by bound wrists until they had to support their own body weight in that particularly excruciating position, leading to dislocation of the shoulders and damaged tendons. The rack was also quite popular to say nothing of foot crushing by iron or wood boots (sometimes called the Spanish boot) or breaking your toes while you were stretched out on the rack… They also had a form of water boarding as well, which they called the toca or interrogatorio mejorado del agua. I’d also like to note that some of the worst periods of torture in dungeons and such did not occur during the Medieval/Dark Ages as imagined by most but during this time, the Renaissance.
-The verses at the end are Greek, not Latin and are part of the Roman Catholic Mass. They translate to, “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”