[Fanfiction] Rules of Engagement
Title: Rules of Engagement
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Drama/Action&Adventure/Historical
Character(s)|Pairing(s): Spain, England, France, Spain/France
Rating/Warning(s): PG-13, two males kissing and more implied, violence, language
Word Count: 1,422
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - swordplay kink. Spain and his affair with blades. What makes him lament the most is witnessing an art become a science.
It is Spain who casts the swords and balances them, making the blades hard as ice but flexible as willow, seemingly sharp enough to slice the wind. His creations glitter with deadly grace, as lovely as icicles (though he should not know of such things; he lives in a land of sun and warmth). He makes them but he also uses them.
That is appropriate.
He always smiles when he is in the ring. His eyes mock his opponent in blithe stupidity and he grins like a fool. But he moves with impossible grace, the blade an extension of his arm. He bowls into France, sends the slender rapier flying, and he still wins because fencing came from him, by the blessed Virgin, yes.
France has given the art names, has made salons and academies. But the elegant art of death is from Spain’s land, the code and cult that kills so many bravados in gilt halls and lovely gardens. He is absurdly proud of this at times.
Veneziano balks at the art of the weapon, no matter that so many of the men in his land excel. It is Romano who picks up the blade with a love and joy that almost frightens Spain. Fortunately, Romano does not always have the skill to match his passion… but he is still young.
Yet Spain can appreciate the love for the art of the blade gleaming in those little eyes and he uses the almost evil glint to force himself to further heights.
He and France duel quite often and it never ceases to amuse him. Even when they fight so violently that it seems as though they hate each other, he laughs. Because what is fighting without the intent to kill? And France never looks quite so beautiful as then, breathless and panting and bleeding from a slender wound across his cheek.
(“Mon Dieu,” France would grumble at him, fishing out a lace edged kerchief to stop the bleeding. “If this marks, I shall have your hide for a new saddle.”
And how he would yell as Spain’s hand tangles in his beautiful golden hair and pull his mouth for a kiss, only for the shorter man’s mouth to pull away and latch onto the bleeding cheek like a babe seeking its mother’s breast.)
Spain has fought on many grounds too. He has fought in the twilight in the tessellation adorned coolness of his courtyard, a porphyry fountain singing a splashing, endless melody in the background. He has fought in a gilt and marble jewel box, surrounded by a million copies of himself and his opponent dueling in a million other identical worlds. He has fought on sea and on land, against hundreds, perhaps thousands of opponents. He has fought for gold, for glory, for pride, for love, for lust, for life.
The memory that he fingers like an old gold brooch set with emeralds is always clear and always sweet, but as clear as winter ice and as sweet as the kiss of a razor.
Pérfida Albión had thought to claim another one of his ships. Perfidious England, no longer white but bloody red- and oh how Spain’s scarlet blood boiled at this. Red. What upstart, blasphemous little isle deserved to don such a color?
England ambushed him just as he dispatched an unfortunate midshipman (and in a way, he was truly sorry; the sailor could not have been more than fourteen years old). But Spain was no fool. As graceful as a court dancer, he whirled to meet the blade that came at him, meeting with blood-soaked steel.
Fighting on a ship added frustrating, intriguing dimensions to a duel. Their boots skidded on the sticky blood soaking into the planks, their steps forced a little too far or a little too close from the rocking of the ship. The pirate’s green eyes glittered in wild joy, greener than the emeralds that pinned his ears. Spain’s own eyes stung from sweat that trickled down his brow.
Even in the frenzied battle, he still had the time to scoff at the lack of quality in his opponent’s blade. The cutlass had weight, perhaps balance, but no other elegance to it and he said as much.
“Perhaps it’s time for a trade then,” cried England with a laugh, even as Spain’s next stroke took off the ends of the plumes of his hat. He slipped on a patch of blood (from the unfortunate boy whose body draped over the rail, perilously close to dropping into the sea), skidding to a knee even as Spain pulled his sword back to thrust into his throat-
It took a single moment for the curved Spanish saber to halt, a single moment after a gloved hand pulled a pistol from a holster in one smooth move.
England grinned almost lasciviously, as blood seeped into the dusty cream of his knee breeches and spread upwards like the fingers of a desperate whore. “So,” he purred. “I-”
Spain didn’t say a word but a wicked smile bloomed across his face like a flame catching on parchment as his swung, the pommel catching viciously against a wrist, sending the pistol spinning out to open sea. Blood flicked off the sword in a spray of droplets, some splashing against England’s now pale cheek, and the sharp edge rested so very close to a vulnerable throat, just almost resembling the razor paused in a barber’s hand.
“Yes,” Spain said calmly. “Perhaps it is time for a trade.”
Of course, those days have passed. They fight with words and documents now, guns and bombs (and how he detests those things- no romance in the world any longer, no art to death). Death is no longer the bewitching figure he had almost worshiped; he has seen how easy it is to kill people to be enchanted any longer. Oh, he knows how easy it is to dispatch a clumsy assassin, slit an unsuspecting throat, but there is something utterly wrenching and utterly, frighteningly devoid of anything at all about how one can just press a button and wipe cities off the map.
It kills him, just a little, on the inside every time he thinks about it.
But there is always a ghost, lingering in the doorway of the memory and present like an unwanted cat. There is the sport and it is filled with boys and girls, elegant women who show their legs in tights and confine their breasts in quilted jackets.
He finds himself being testy with England again, a rarity. Their green eyes lock across the table and Spain almost expects to see emeralds glittering again, real ones, set in lacy gold. But the nation no longer has the filthy romance of the pirate and his fingers no longer glitter with a king’s ransom.
“Perhaps we should settle this elsewhere then,” Spain says almost delicately. He smiles blithely. “Privately.”
The other nation grunts by way of reply.
“I was musing on how- rare it is to see the proper use of a sword these days,” Spain rambles. “Don’t you think?”
They are both shared by hatred of change; both of them cling to pasts and to tradition and preserving everything in glass and crystal. Perhaps England can, because his land has ice and winters that render the world silent and still. Spain’s land is too warm. Warmth brings growth but it also brings decay.
England’s eyes flicker. His lips purse slightly. “In a way,” he murmurs, obviously reluctant to agree.
Spain smiles and slides over a card. “If you care to come,” he says, lightly. “I know that you have so much to do.” He puts in that extra tilt on his tone, that slightly grating sing-song quality, the aural equivalent of a maddening grin. England mutely takes the card and makes it vanish.
Some hours later, Spain does not admit that he is nervous. He is in comfortable, plain clothes and vaguely wishes he could find some of his old fencing leathers. But no matter. He does not turn around when soft steps pad into the airy, mirrored room, pretending to be absorbed in his sword. It is not a good sword but it is passable. And he always liked a challenge.
Slowly, he turns and he smiles at England, who only nods to him. Yet there is a glimmer of something in bright, clear green eyes that evoke emeralds and gun smoke and blood stains. The two of them draw their swords and salute each other.
And they dance.
Notes:
-Thanks to advances in metallurgy brought by Muslims, Toledo became producer of the finest swords in Europe. The secret of the steel used in the blades would not be released until the early 1900s.
-Swords became popular as civilian arms in the 1400s. The first fencing manuals were published in Spain.
-Italians developed the almost exclusive use of the rapier, a weapon developed when firearms made heavy plate armor obsolete.
-The French established the base rules and terminology of fencing, after Catherine de Medici, Regent of France, imported Italian fencing masters to establish a French academy.
-Most of my fencing terminology and knowledge were referenced in this website: http://www.martinez-destreza.com/fenfaq.htm
-I couldn’t resist adding in a blood-kink; it’s my head canon for Spain.
-Pérfida Albión (“perfidious Albion) is a less than kind term for England, with it being used as early as the 1200s, or at least, the term perfidious (untrustworthy, oathbreaker). The entire term is attributed to writer Augustin, Marquis of Ximenez, who wrote a poem in 1793 with the line “Attaquons dans ses eaux la perfide Albion. (Let us attack perfidious Albion in her waters.)” This is in reference to the fact that England joined the other monarchies of Europe in war against France after the French revolution, despite showing sympathies to the revolution. Oh, and Albion is the ancient Greek term for England, should no one have realized this (probably not in this fandom). The term is still used today, usually in a sports context or a humorous context. Usually.
-In all seriousness, a knife or a sword is in fact more dangerous than a gun in close range, as police officers will tell you. An opponent with a knife less than twenty feet away can easily kill or seriously injure someone holding a pistol.
-At this end, I belatedly apologize for not much in the way of fighting descriptions; I’m horrible at them (and I know that’s no excuse).
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Drama/Action&Adventure/Historical
Character(s)|Pairing(s): Spain, England, France, Spain/France
Rating/Warning(s): PG-13, two males kissing and more implied, violence, language
Word Count: 1,422
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - swordplay kink. Spain and his affair with blades. What makes him lament the most is witnessing an art become a science.
It is Spain who casts the swords and balances them, making the blades hard as ice but flexible as willow, seemingly sharp enough to slice the wind. His creations glitter with deadly grace, as lovely as icicles (though he should not know of such things; he lives in a land of sun and warmth). He makes them but he also uses them.
That is appropriate.
He always smiles when he is in the ring. His eyes mock his opponent in blithe stupidity and he grins like a fool. But he moves with impossible grace, the blade an extension of his arm. He bowls into France, sends the slender rapier flying, and he still wins because fencing came from him, by the blessed Virgin, yes.
France has given the art names, has made salons and academies. But the elegant art of death is from Spain’s land, the code and cult that kills so many bravados in gilt halls and lovely gardens. He is absurdly proud of this at times.
Veneziano balks at the art of the weapon, no matter that so many of the men in his land excel. It is Romano who picks up the blade with a love and joy that almost frightens Spain. Fortunately, Romano does not always have the skill to match his passion… but he is still young.
Yet Spain can appreciate the love for the art of the blade gleaming in those little eyes and he uses the almost evil glint to force himself to further heights.
He and France duel quite often and it never ceases to amuse him. Even when they fight so violently that it seems as though they hate each other, he laughs. Because what is fighting without the intent to kill? And France never looks quite so beautiful as then, breathless and panting and bleeding from a slender wound across his cheek.
(“Mon Dieu,” France would grumble at him, fishing out a lace edged kerchief to stop the bleeding. “If this marks, I shall have your hide for a new saddle.”
And how he would yell as Spain’s hand tangles in his beautiful golden hair and pull his mouth for a kiss, only for the shorter man’s mouth to pull away and latch onto the bleeding cheek like a babe seeking its mother’s breast.)
Spain has fought on many grounds too. He has fought in the twilight in the tessellation adorned coolness of his courtyard, a porphyry fountain singing a splashing, endless melody in the background. He has fought in a gilt and marble jewel box, surrounded by a million copies of himself and his opponent dueling in a million other identical worlds. He has fought on sea and on land, against hundreds, perhaps thousands of opponents. He has fought for gold, for glory, for pride, for love, for lust, for life.
The memory that he fingers like an old gold brooch set with emeralds is always clear and always sweet, but as clear as winter ice and as sweet as the kiss of a razor.
Pérfida Albión had thought to claim another one of his ships. Perfidious England, no longer white but bloody red- and oh how Spain’s scarlet blood boiled at this. Red. What upstart, blasphemous little isle deserved to don such a color?
England ambushed him just as he dispatched an unfortunate midshipman (and in a way, he was truly sorry; the sailor could not have been more than fourteen years old). But Spain was no fool. As graceful as a court dancer, he whirled to meet the blade that came at him, meeting with blood-soaked steel.
Fighting on a ship added frustrating, intriguing dimensions to a duel. Their boots skidded on the sticky blood soaking into the planks, their steps forced a little too far or a little too close from the rocking of the ship. The pirate’s green eyes glittered in wild joy, greener than the emeralds that pinned his ears. Spain’s own eyes stung from sweat that trickled down his brow.
Even in the frenzied battle, he still had the time to scoff at the lack of quality in his opponent’s blade. The cutlass had weight, perhaps balance, but no other elegance to it and he said as much.
“Perhaps it’s time for a trade then,” cried England with a laugh, even as Spain’s next stroke took off the ends of the plumes of his hat. He slipped on a patch of blood (from the unfortunate boy whose body draped over the rail, perilously close to dropping into the sea), skidding to a knee even as Spain pulled his sword back to thrust into his throat-
It took a single moment for the curved Spanish saber to halt, a single moment after a gloved hand pulled a pistol from a holster in one smooth move.
England grinned almost lasciviously, as blood seeped into the dusty cream of his knee breeches and spread upwards like the fingers of a desperate whore. “So,” he purred. “I-”
Spain didn’t say a word but a wicked smile bloomed across his face like a flame catching on parchment as his swung, the pommel catching viciously against a wrist, sending the pistol spinning out to open sea. Blood flicked off the sword in a spray of droplets, some splashing against England’s now pale cheek, and the sharp edge rested so very close to a vulnerable throat, just almost resembling the razor paused in a barber’s hand.
“Yes,” Spain said calmly. “Perhaps it is time for a trade.”
Of course, those days have passed. They fight with words and documents now, guns and bombs (and how he detests those things- no romance in the world any longer, no art to death). Death is no longer the bewitching figure he had almost worshiped; he has seen how easy it is to kill people to be enchanted any longer. Oh, he knows how easy it is to dispatch a clumsy assassin, slit an unsuspecting throat, but there is something utterly wrenching and utterly, frighteningly devoid of anything at all about how one can just press a button and wipe cities off the map.
It kills him, just a little, on the inside every time he thinks about it.
But there is always a ghost, lingering in the doorway of the memory and present like an unwanted cat. There is the sport and it is filled with boys and girls, elegant women who show their legs in tights and confine their breasts in quilted jackets.
He finds himself being testy with England again, a rarity. Their green eyes lock across the table and Spain almost expects to see emeralds glittering again, real ones, set in lacy gold. But the nation no longer has the filthy romance of the pirate and his fingers no longer glitter with a king’s ransom.
“Perhaps we should settle this elsewhere then,” Spain says almost delicately. He smiles blithely. “Privately.”
The other nation grunts by way of reply.
“I was musing on how- rare it is to see the proper use of a sword these days,” Spain rambles. “Don’t you think?”
They are both shared by hatred of change; both of them cling to pasts and to tradition and preserving everything in glass and crystal. Perhaps England can, because his land has ice and winters that render the world silent and still. Spain’s land is too warm. Warmth brings growth but it also brings decay.
England’s eyes flicker. His lips purse slightly. “In a way,” he murmurs, obviously reluctant to agree.
Spain smiles and slides over a card. “If you care to come,” he says, lightly. “I know that you have so much to do.” He puts in that extra tilt on his tone, that slightly grating sing-song quality, the aural equivalent of a maddening grin. England mutely takes the card and makes it vanish.
Some hours later, Spain does not admit that he is nervous. He is in comfortable, plain clothes and vaguely wishes he could find some of his old fencing leathers. But no matter. He does not turn around when soft steps pad into the airy, mirrored room, pretending to be absorbed in his sword. It is not a good sword but it is passable. And he always liked a challenge.
Slowly, he turns and he smiles at England, who only nods to him. Yet there is a glimmer of something in bright, clear green eyes that evoke emeralds and gun smoke and blood stains. The two of them draw their swords and salute each other.
And they dance.
Notes:
-Thanks to advances in metallurgy brought by Muslims, Toledo became producer of the finest swords in Europe. The secret of the steel used in the blades would not be released until the early 1900s.
-Swords became popular as civilian arms in the 1400s. The first fencing manuals were published in Spain.
-Italians developed the almost exclusive use of the rapier, a weapon developed when firearms made heavy plate armor obsolete.
-The French established the base rules and terminology of fencing, after Catherine de Medici, Regent of France, imported Italian fencing masters to establish a French academy.
-Most of my fencing terminology and knowledge were referenced in this website: http://www.martinez-destreza.com/fenfaq.htm
-I couldn’t resist adding in a blood-kink; it’s my head canon for Spain.
-Pérfida Albión (“perfidious Albion) is a less than kind term for England, with it being used as early as the 1200s, or at least, the term perfidious (untrustworthy, oathbreaker). The entire term is attributed to writer Augustin, Marquis of Ximenez, who wrote a poem in 1793 with the line “Attaquons dans ses eaux la perfide Albion. (Let us attack perfidious Albion in her waters.)” This is in reference to the fact that England joined the other monarchies of Europe in war against France after the French revolution, despite showing sympathies to the revolution. Oh, and Albion is the ancient Greek term for England, should no one have realized this (probably not in this fandom). The term is still used today, usually in a sports context or a humorous context. Usually.
-In all seriousness, a knife or a sword is in fact more dangerous than a gun in close range, as police officers will tell you. An opponent with a knife less than twenty feet away can easily kill or seriously injure someone holding a pistol.
-At this end, I belatedly apologize for not much in the way of fighting descriptions; I’m horrible at them (and I know that’s no excuse).