[ FANFIC ]
I've been posting my writing so much on Tumblr lately that I've practically forgotten this also serves as my writing journal. Woops.
Title: The Fifth of May
Fandom: Hetalia
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Confederate States of America OC (Confred)
Rating: PG13 I GUESS?
Summary: "A wake! He had prepared his own wake! There was no one, no one, to prepare this after he died and he certainly would not allow himself to just…to just rot in a rocking chair on his front porch!"
Four years had never passed as painstakingly slow. One thousand, four hundred, and eighty-three days had went by from that early morn of the attack on Fort Sumter. Confred remembered that day so vividly; so vividly that it could have been yesterday, and yet despite that vividness, April 12, 1861 could have never felt so far away. Everything had changed.
Change was not welcome for a man who very much desired the same. The war had been long, difficult. Far too many had perished on both sides. The blow was more devastating to him, the large number of casualties such a large percentage of his smaller population. Battles had been disgusting; forty men at a time wounded from merely one cannonball, men stabbing each other when it rained, leaving only their bayonets a useful weapon.
Battles were not the only horrendous thing, of course. Rail lines were cut, homes and fields burnt, and livestock killed. There was simply no food. Crowds had filled the streets of Richmond, screaming of their hunger to his so incredibly fatigued president. As his people had starved, forced to live on black eyed peas and peanuts--Goober peas--he too had suffered. The consuming sensation of hunger was with him always. Always, hunger was there, even as he lost so many of the humans he had befriended during the times he shadowed his troops, fighting in battles alongside them. Hunger had been his only companion.
The flame, so powerful on that April morn, had slowly died out. April of 1865 had promised to be a far different situation than four years prior, as his honorable general, Robert E. Lee, had surrendered to the Yankees. Chaos had taken hold of everything. Confred remembered so vividly the bright, vibrant orange that had swallowed up first Atlanta, then Richmond. He remembered watching from the shadows as the Yankee president sat in Davis's chair; the Confederacy's president's office.
His body had been failing for some time, he realized. As more lines were cut, more cities and towns burnt, he began to fade. Change had happened far too quickly. The days spent hosting lavish parties, enjoying the easy life as his slaves produced the crops that his people thrived off of...they were long gone. The strong, enthusiastic man that had represented the infant Confederate States of America had changed, become more disillusioned as time went on. Just as his people wished for the end of the war, so did he. Death was preferable to living in the conditions they had been forced into. Death had beckoned him for some time, and yet he'd resisted; oh had he resisted!
Church had truly been his only hope. Hours were spent in those pews, his head bowed, pressed against his hands as he simply prayed to the Lord for some sort of salvation. The Bible justified him, did it not? It had always been in the teachings of his precious Southern Baptism that slavery was right; the Negros were inferior and so it was on the shoulders of the white man to oversee them! It was a favor to the Negros to enslave them. By keeping them, he was doing God's will! God was on his side. God would see that the Confederacy won.
God had ignored him. God was no different than humans or nations, it seemed.
God was not the only one to ignore his pleas.
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. Confred adored him; loved him. Arthur had been the one person he so desperately wished to have by his side. He had not been entirely ignored, of course. Out of everyone, it was undeniable that Arthur had been so sympathetic to him, had given him the most assistance. Ships had been built, he had been recognized in British harbors, money had been loaned, safe haven offered. Official recognition had been so close, yet so incredibly far. He was supposed to win. Arthur was supposed to "share his cake." How did Arthur feel, he wondered? Did Arthur regret?
It was a silly thing to muse over, really, especially as he strung black fabric across the pillars of his plantation home. The long river of black spread across the porch, draping across the wood as if they were embracing it, having nothing else to hold them, just as he too had nothing to cling to. The thin black was easily replaced by the images of women falling over, their colorful dresses staining black--the black of mourning--as they learnt horrific news that no wife should hear.
The fabric tied in place, Confred once more entered his home, the dark colors that surrounded him contrasting greatly to his white suit that now barely stayed on his body. It had been so long since he'd worn anything but thick, grey wool. Today, today, he felt like dressing up as he'd done before the war. The white suit was too large on his body, now skin and bones, the red cravat messy, having been put on by shaky hands.
Those same hands slowly closed the drapes, his home, long robbed of its ornate furniture by the Yankee scoundrels, becoming darker by the moment. Only a few candles provided light, the sun unable to peak through the silk of his curtains. Darkness was what he needed; sun should not come in at such a time. It was odd to see this place so dim. The large French windows that touched the ground had long provided nothing but light into this place.
The mirrors were covered next, towels thrown over them. Every single reflective surface was smothered, not even the slightest bit peaking out. This was also important; the most important part of this whole ordeal, he believed. It was not the first time he had done it. Out of kindness, he had helped various families with this slow, painful effort.
The Confederate paused with the last mirror, offering himself a small, sad smile as he saw his reflection for the final time. He looked like shit. The man that smiled back at him was unrecognizable, large bags under eyes that almost seemed to sink into the pale, skull-like face. The damned Yankee probably wouldn't have even known it was him. Ha, when was the last time he'd seen that man? Would he come down here soon? It would only be fitting.
As the towel was thrown over the mirror in his parlor, he swiftly turned on one foot, eyes lowering to the object that laid in the middle of this room. A simple box, nothing ornate. The box was opened, revealing flowers--plenty of Yellow Jessamine. Yellow Jessamine along with a few lone roses. The flowers hung over the sides, pinks and yellows providing warm colors, yet not too vibrant.
Candles were on every surface, giving an easy view of that box as he approached it, running a hand over the wood. A casket. Confred only laughed, his head thrown back as his laughter resonated through his home, a few tears beginning to spill from blue-grey eyes.
A wake! He had prepared his own wake! There was no one, no one, to prepare this after he died and he certainly would not allow himself to just...to just rot in a rocking chair on his front porch!
A wake prepared by the sorrowful victim, a wake with no visitors. No one would come here. He would rot in his own parlor, his body in the casket that was ready to be taken to the grave. It was disgusting; he did not wish to think of it.
Today he would die. He knew it. He knew today would be his death. He'd ran from it for far too long. It was quite amazing he'd managed to live this long. He had felt his life shortening the instant his military collapsed. Military was not what made the nation, however. No, no, it was the government, he felt, and today his government was to be dissolved.
The instant Davis finished that meeting, he would draw his last breath. Confred--Alfred--had come to accept that fact, and so he had prepared. A casket had been purchased with the small amount of money he possessed, flowers and black fabric gathered.
The dead man had prepared his own coffin. Amusing!
Arthur was the only person he reckoned he'd ever been able to call a "friend" amongst the nations. Francis perhaps as well. Neither one of them would be here. Perhaps the Yankee would come?
If there was one thing he wished he could see, it was the Yankee's face upon finding a decomposing body. It would be hilarious, he was sure. If the dead could return to life, he would rise and spit in the idiot's face.
And so, he laid himself down amongst the flowers.
Goodnight to the Confederacy.
Title: The Fifth of May
Fandom: Hetalia
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Confederate States of America OC (Confred)
Rating: PG13 I GUESS?
Summary: "A wake! He had prepared his own wake! There was no one, no one, to prepare this after he died and he certainly would not allow himself to just…to just rot in a rocking chair on his front porch!"
Four years had never passed as painstakingly slow. One thousand, four hundred, and eighty-three days had went by from that early morn of the attack on Fort Sumter. Confred remembered that day so vividly; so vividly that it could have been yesterday, and yet despite that vividness, April 12, 1861 could have never felt so far away. Everything had changed.
Change was not welcome for a man who very much desired the same. The war had been long, difficult. Far too many had perished on both sides. The blow was more devastating to him, the large number of casualties such a large percentage of his smaller population. Battles had been disgusting; forty men at a time wounded from merely one cannonball, men stabbing each other when it rained, leaving only their bayonets a useful weapon.
Battles were not the only horrendous thing, of course. Rail lines were cut, homes and fields burnt, and livestock killed. There was simply no food. Crowds had filled the streets of Richmond, screaming of their hunger to his so incredibly fatigued president. As his people had starved, forced to live on black eyed peas and peanuts--Goober peas--he too had suffered. The consuming sensation of hunger was with him always. Always, hunger was there, even as he lost so many of the humans he had befriended during the times he shadowed his troops, fighting in battles alongside them. Hunger had been his only companion.
The flame, so powerful on that April morn, had slowly died out. April of 1865 had promised to be a far different situation than four years prior, as his honorable general, Robert E. Lee, had surrendered to the Yankees. Chaos had taken hold of everything. Confred remembered so vividly the bright, vibrant orange that had swallowed up first Atlanta, then Richmond. He remembered watching from the shadows as the Yankee president sat in Davis's chair; the Confederacy's president's office.
His body had been failing for some time, he realized. As more lines were cut, more cities and towns burnt, he began to fade. Change had happened far too quickly. The days spent hosting lavish parties, enjoying the easy life as his slaves produced the crops that his people thrived off of...they were long gone. The strong, enthusiastic man that had represented the infant Confederate States of America had changed, become more disillusioned as time went on. Just as his people wished for the end of the war, so did he. Death was preferable to living in the conditions they had been forced into. Death had beckoned him for some time, and yet he'd resisted; oh had he resisted!
Church had truly been his only hope. Hours were spent in those pews, his head bowed, pressed against his hands as he simply prayed to the Lord for some sort of salvation. The Bible justified him, did it not? It had always been in the teachings of his precious Southern Baptism that slavery was right; the Negros were inferior and so it was on the shoulders of the white man to oversee them! It was a favor to the Negros to enslave them. By keeping them, he was doing God's will! God was on his side. God would see that the Confederacy won.
God had ignored him. God was no different than humans or nations, it seemed.
God was not the only one to ignore his pleas.
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. Confred adored him; loved him. Arthur had been the one person he so desperately wished to have by his side. He had not been entirely ignored, of course. Out of everyone, it was undeniable that Arthur had been so sympathetic to him, had given him the most assistance. Ships had been built, he had been recognized in British harbors, money had been loaned, safe haven offered. Official recognition had been so close, yet so incredibly far. He was supposed to win. Arthur was supposed to "share his cake." How did Arthur feel, he wondered? Did Arthur regret?
It was a silly thing to muse over, really, especially as he strung black fabric across the pillars of his plantation home. The long river of black spread across the porch, draping across the wood as if they were embracing it, having nothing else to hold them, just as he too had nothing to cling to. The thin black was easily replaced by the images of women falling over, their colorful dresses staining black--the black of mourning--as they learnt horrific news that no wife should hear.
The fabric tied in place, Confred once more entered his home, the dark colors that surrounded him contrasting greatly to his white suit that now barely stayed on his body. It had been so long since he'd worn anything but thick, grey wool. Today, today, he felt like dressing up as he'd done before the war. The white suit was too large on his body, now skin and bones, the red cravat messy, having been put on by shaky hands.
Those same hands slowly closed the drapes, his home, long robbed of its ornate furniture by the Yankee scoundrels, becoming darker by the moment. Only a few candles provided light, the sun unable to peak through the silk of his curtains. Darkness was what he needed; sun should not come in at such a time. It was odd to see this place so dim. The large French windows that touched the ground had long provided nothing but light into this place.
The mirrors were covered next, towels thrown over them. Every single reflective surface was smothered, not even the slightest bit peaking out. This was also important; the most important part of this whole ordeal, he believed. It was not the first time he had done it. Out of kindness, he had helped various families with this slow, painful effort.
The Confederate paused with the last mirror, offering himself a small, sad smile as he saw his reflection for the final time. He looked like shit. The man that smiled back at him was unrecognizable, large bags under eyes that almost seemed to sink into the pale, skull-like face. The damned Yankee probably wouldn't have even known it was him. Ha, when was the last time he'd seen that man? Would he come down here soon? It would only be fitting.
As the towel was thrown over the mirror in his parlor, he swiftly turned on one foot, eyes lowering to the object that laid in the middle of this room. A simple box, nothing ornate. The box was opened, revealing flowers--plenty of Yellow Jessamine. Yellow Jessamine along with a few lone roses. The flowers hung over the sides, pinks and yellows providing warm colors, yet not too vibrant.
Candles were on every surface, giving an easy view of that box as he approached it, running a hand over the wood. A casket. Confred only laughed, his head thrown back as his laughter resonated through his home, a few tears beginning to spill from blue-grey eyes.
A wake! He had prepared his own wake! There was no one, no one, to prepare this after he died and he certainly would not allow himself to just...to just rot in a rocking chair on his front porch!
A wake prepared by the sorrowful victim, a wake with no visitors. No one would come here. He would rot in his own parlor, his body in the casket that was ready to be taken to the grave. It was disgusting; he did not wish to think of it.
Today he would die. He knew it. He knew today would be his death. He'd ran from it for far too long. It was quite amazing he'd managed to live this long. He had felt his life shortening the instant his military collapsed. Military was not what made the nation, however. No, no, it was the government, he felt, and today his government was to be dissolved.
The instant Davis finished that meeting, he would draw his last breath. Confred--Alfred--had come to accept that fact, and so he had prepared. A casket had been purchased with the small amount of money he possessed, flowers and black fabric gathered.
The dead man had prepared his own coffin. Amusing!
Arthur was the only person he reckoned he'd ever been able to call a "friend" amongst the nations. Francis perhaps as well. Neither one of them would be here. Perhaps the Yankee would come?
If there was one thing he wished he could see, it was the Yankee's face upon finding a decomposing body. It would be hilarious, he was sure. If the dead could return to life, he would rise and spit in the idiot's face.
And so, he laid himself down amongst the flowers.
Goodnight to the Confederacy.