Poland - "Endlessly" (Part I)
I
The silence that suddenly filled the room was just as deadly as the motion of Lithuania voluntarily strangling himself with the Christmas lights. It hanged like a cloud of mustard gas, uncharacteristically grey as it distilled answers from questions best left unmade. Just as the one he had just given voice to.
Across the room Poland’s eyes glinted under half-lidded lashes, pupils dilated, dull and guarded like a frizzled cat’s. Lithuania was surprised by how with only a sentence Poland’s face -which he had learnt to read in the past century- suddenly changed. He faced a conflictive actor with switching masks; a cartoonist sketching a portrait on a blank notepad before he erases it all on a whim and starts all over again.
No more talk of the new skirt Hungary had lent him; Poland’s mouth became a thin, humourless line across his face. In anger his eyebrows slanted inwards and green eyes flashed with something Lithuania couldn’t name before he answered in a shaky voice, “You don’t like it?”
He motioned towards his torso, at how the black fabric of his garment twinkled green and red with the reflection of the electric lights. Lithuania stared. He knew Poland’s reply would be the same, uncaring of whatever he said.
Because I could care less about what anybody thinks…
So Lithuania answered with his hands, reaching for Poland, trying to read him as in all those years he’d spent learning how his body spoke. If words were not Poland’s forte, then his movements spoke volumes more of whatever his partner felt. A flicker of wheat-coloured hair… a rub of blinking, bleary eyes… twitch of the nose in mid-winter… fingers poised mid-air pressing imaginary piano keys…
“I-I’m sorry. It’s not that, Poland...” He coaxed with his most reassuring voice. Lithuania’s fingers pressed Poland’s tense cheekbones and then he passed them through the pale strands of his hair.
“Why does it matter so much to you? Why does it even matter?”
II
Fingers deftly brushed Poland’s hair, tracing zigzagging patterns, bangs twirled with the stems of roses. Only that these were not Lithuania’s fingers anymore, and Poland’s considerably younger eyes were focused on a wedding gown, blinking in the half light of an age long past but not lost from his memory. He rested his head on an apron smothered with red roses just over the lap of a smiling young girl with hair as black as the night, concentrated on the task of braiding his hair.
“You are beautiful, Polska.” The plump girl said kindly, running her slim fingers down his scalp. Her broad grin -clear sign that she was enjoying herself- marked dimples on her cheeks. “So much you could even pass for a girl.” He snorted and earned himself a tug from the young girl. “Hey- ouch! Enough pulling! Come on, Jadzia.”
“Well, I am serious! It would do you good to start listening to me more. It helps to think before acting, yes?” Despite the authoritative tone worthy of her title, Jadwiga’s grip loosened and soon she was undoing knots as carefully as when she worked on her embroidery. Glad that there was no more pulling, Poland let himself be pampered by his little ruler and soft humming soon filled the king’s chambers. His eyes resumed their exploration of the white dress hanging where the brightest shaft of sunlight would hit it.
From neck to skirts, the gown held a certain ethereal quality so that its wearer seemed to glide, feet never touching the carpet bellow. Poland smiled with pride as he imagined how his Jadwiga would definitely glow as she wore that, floating regally down the aisle until she reached the altar, splashed with vibrant colours because of the light pooling through the stained-glass windows.
Which lead him to the other matter at hand…
“So, what do you think of your future husband?” He smirked and laughed when the young girl pulled his hair again -and rather hard- so that their eyes met. She bit her lower lip and her fine eyebrows were furrowed with annoyance.
“That was uncalled for!” She whined and Poland snorted. “Well, there are only a few hours left before you have to wear that precious dress, Jadzia, so you should have expected that from me.”
She pouted and remained silent for a moment, seemingly deep in thought (and she just wouldn’t stop pulling his hair like that!), until a soft hue of pink coloured her cheeks and nose.
“W-well, I should not complain. The duke is a gratuitous man, and I am sure he will be an able ruler... and when he smiles he looks so kind and reliable…” She stopped and frowned at Poland who seemed highly amused. “Although he is a little too hairy and… his beard itches and that is quite unnerving!” As she continued she seemed honestly distressed. “And he has incredibly big ears and rumour has reached me that he snores!”
Poland burst out laughing and Jadwiga berated him with soft slaps on the forehead but he could not stop. He laughed until his sides ached and soon Jadwiga was giggling as well. It took a while until Poland could breathe without gasping and so he wiped the tears from his eyes. “Ah, Jadzia, there is nothing to worry about. It will all work out, I promise.” Jadwiga nodded thankfully and placed a rose in between Poland’s bangs, letting the velvet petals brush his temples as she did. “Promise?”
He grinned. “Promise! And in any case, we have to give our fellow, Władek, some credit, no?” Jadwiga arched an eyebrow and suddenly a mischievous smile played with the corners of her mouth.
“I am slightly curious, Fełek, about your… circumstances.” Poland looked up at her with a frown. “What about your match?” The young sovereign was keen enough to notice the furious blush that crossed her Nation’s cheeks as realization hit him. “Y-you mean Litwa? W-what about him?” He tried to seem uncaring as he attempted a nonchalant shrug that only earned him Jadwiga’s giggles. “He has… nice eyes…?”
“Oh, please! I know you fancy him.” She smiled at him (Poland could swear it was a rather devious smile) and he only managed to stammer and blush more. “Y-yes, well, he is… rather handsome…” He remained silent for a moment when suddenly he turned back smirking, “and I am quite glad that he is not half as hairy as your champion.”
Jadwiga’s angry yelp and Poland’s loud laughter reached the corridors in less time than it took King Jagiełło to shave his beard for the upcoming celebration.
III
And she did look beautiful as she walked down that altar with that dress but Poland’s mind was taking him back to when he played with Magyar, swords out and clothes torn and muddied as their necks ached under the abrasive blaze of the sun. He always admired her -Magyar. Even when she thought she was a man. He liked her more when she came to him for the first time in a dress but still wouldn’t allow anyone to braid her hair. It was ironic how to children gender didn’t matter. It didn’t even seem to exist. She would play the warrior and he the princess, after all, he always held this certain fixation towards dresses. So when she came to him in a green one and threw dirt at the young Teuton for laughing, Poland was wildly surprised by the transformation caused only by a different type of clothing.
Magyar never wanted to acknowledge that she enjoyed being a girl “officially”, but Poland smiled and offered to switch clothes with her if she ever felt uncomfortable. And as they grew, whichever clothes she wore, they were never able to hide her elegant, brash beauty. All they did was enhance it and Poland stopped to think many times how maybe, just maybe, there was no difference because gender really did not define a person. Or a Nation. Come to think of it, Nations were made of both men and women. Most of them had girls’ names even!
Seeing himself in the lake, as green eyes looked up to meet themselves, Poland pulled his hair back and touched his flat chest.
And smiled.
He could be both.
IV
He ran through the streets without knowing where exactly he was headed. His heartbeats were loud war-drums thundering in his ears and his breaths were ragged because of hate and exhaustion. He felt numb like he had been stretched as an old robe, then left to hang in a bitter snowstorm. Eagles had clawed at his skin, tearing and plunging deeper until the talons sank into his very core and he retched and screamed and bled. Poland was torn and the claws shaped like blades with rusted steel pulled away and then thrust again, crucifying him.
He ran. In pieces, but he ran searching wildly for that one little piece that was not bound or broken so he could still reassure himself and scream: “Here I am. I am Poland! I will not die!” And when he crashed against the door of his house he headed straight to his bedroom, partly by sheer instinct and habit. There, he rummaged drawers and broke everything as he searched and searched without even knowing what he was looking for. A broken blade was of no use to him anymore, a smoking gun maybe, a nonexistent flag for a smothered country was needed but not found. Until finally, in the roots of his very essence, the Nation found that proud, royal identity that he was stripped of, and he found all that in an old wedding dress.
V
Despite everything, there was nothing remotely symbolic about that day. There was no impressive sunrise to burst triumphantly with glowing rays of gold, or the intense, fiery glow of shooting stars crashing in commemoration of the victory. Everything and nothing took place during a rather unimpressive time of the day.
The fields were silent; songbirds held their breath and storm clouds hovered overhead, stirring in fat, slow circles clinging to their raindrops like the precious slivers of amber found in the shores of the Baltic Sea. The earth was damp and still, its breaths were low and hollow and the stepped-on grass shivered under the caress of some lone, chilly breeze. A low curtain of mist hung over the land, like watercolours spilt with too much water over a messy, oily landscape made of browns and pale blues, turned sleepy after mourning. The untended land - the flat and unending steppe- exhaled and shuddered as trenches ripped it in halves like gaping mouths with bleeding gums.
Sprinkled without a sense of order -just like the bodies scattered forgotten across the vast expanse of land, spread-eagled and resembling the crosses in Saint Mary’s- red poppies blossomed with their petals unfurled like wings. The flowers trembled in the wind and bent towards the grey soil, spilling their petals over the soldiers long dried of their own blood. Days ago, the crimson drops sprayed the land like rain and one by one, the men fell. Finally, when all was silent, when everything at last had fallen into a peaceful slumber and the roar of the Luftstreitkräfte had gone, their blood had turned into beautiful flowers that blossomed over the splintered riffles and stiff fingers.
Poland, muddied and silent, slung his riffle over his shoulder and ran his fingers through his hair as his boots treaded down a path of red flowers. They swayed towards him; their roots pulsated with the beat of the earth’s heart, reacting as his boots hit the ground. He sat amidst the flowers with his legs crossed, as he let out a long, shaky breath. He made himself a crown of flowers to fix his hair like in his childhood.
The eagles with blades that had chained his wings had flown away. They had fled with burnt wings because of the bombs, leaving a trail of black feathers that disappeared beyond the woods. Poland bent his head; his hair, as pale as newly-grown rye blanketed his face and hid his weary yet hopeful smile, black with grime. The garland fell slightly over his forehead, adorning it like a bloody halo. He gently smoothed his cut palm over the quivering wings of a white eaglet he found quivering inside a trench. The fledgling slept curled in his lap, barely breathing. Gruesome cuts were visible all over its light coat of velvet-like feathers. Poland hummed an old lullaby to it as he held the wounded bird between that sea of swaying red weeds.
Despite the harsh conditions, the white eagle’s heart continued to beat and wrapped around its right claw was a banner on which was sewn the flittering promise of poppies and halcyon days.
As the hollow wind blew, the creature vanished and Poland remained, with only his tear-glazed eyes looking out at the grey sky and following the trail of floating white feathers…
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PART II - http://mase992.livejournal.com/8815.html
(A/N): To my watchers, I apologize for the size but I can't manage to put this under an lj-cut, for some reason the option doesn't seem to be working for me, atm.