Disclaimer: Hetalia is Hidekaz Himaruya's
Remembering is Lavyrle Elizabeth's
Remembering
The morning is dewy, the sun burrowed deep in the grey clouds, the sunlight not reaching the windows, lighting nothing, reaching nothing. The panes are dark inside the house, no sounds to be heard, nothing. The outside was calm, waiting, waiting. The inside of the house, silent, eerie. Unusual, for it witnessed several bouts of laughter and gaiety in a regular basis. Yes, today it was serene. It was an empty morning.
The flowers on the kitchen work table had wilted, the owner forgetting to sprinkle it with the water from the sink. Two mismatched teacups with a saucer broken on the edge are a-waiting to be washed with the aged soap on the square wooden box at the edge of the counter adjacent the sink. The towels are wet, probably due to the moist it accumulated throughout the night. The plants are nourished, from the outside. Inside, it died.
The clouds are approaching fast, those fat dark ones, and a form is seen running from the canopy of a shed on the other side of the house. A man, tall, a looming figure. In his middle twenties. A day's stubble in his chin, his jaw prominent due to the contrast, His eyes, clear blue, very blue, emphasized by his white shirt with lace foaming at the wrists. It was narrowed to slits, those fascinating eyes, judging the sky as he turned his face to it. A second, no two, he looked away.
Straining his form, he lifted the sheets hanging from the clothesline, grimacing when he still found them half wet, half dry. He ran fast back, just in time, before fat drops fell out from the sky, sparing no dry patch of ground. Pit-pat-pit-pat. It was hitting the roofs, sliding from the walls of the house, bathing the earth. Warm, warm water. Pit-pat-pit-pat. It was raining.
"Will the skies cry for me, Francis? What do you think?" She said, her hands scrunched into tight fists, her nails digging hard into her flesh, leaving tiny crescent marks with the redness creeping. He was speechless, no words seem to come out of his mouth as he saw the guards force Jeanne out of the room. "Who shall shed tears first, was it you or the sky?"
"Blasted English weather." The man cussed as he hanged the white linen sheets, raking his long, tapering hands in his long hair, tied in a decent ribbon of blue, ruining it. He smoothed the creases in the cloths in the spare wire hanging suspended in the room near the dinner room. Intricate house, lots of spaces; incompetent owner, lots of useless things around the house. He sighed despairingly.
"Lovely weather we have today, isn't it?" She said, her pretty mouth curved upward, letting the sun soak in her skin, loving the warmth of it. She was smiling, by God, smiling. It was rewarding just to sneak her away from those Burgundians for a day, worth the bruises he had as they lashed at him for simply speaking to her. "None too warm, none too wet. Just nice."
He looked to his left, to his right. None greeted him. A memory maybe, in his mind. Greeting him uninvited, unprepared. Earlier, there was one, and now, again. He was none too ready. Not now, he thought as he took a few steps outside the room and locked the door. He trudged the hallway, to the left, locking all the doors that need locking, entering those that need entering.
He entered the first boarder's room, where wrappers of a day's old chips cluttered the bedside table. Shirts of different colors are carelessly thrown. Green, dark blue, crimson, red, yellow. Abominable colors when hanged side by side. Like a rainbow. He caught a glimpse on himself on the full-length mirror on the opposite side of the bed.
"You have long lashes that any lass would envy." Jeanne remarked, touching Francis' face with her hands on his cheeks and her breath mingling with his due to proximity. "You're so beautiful." Francis' eyes softened. "Careful, I bloodied several noses due to that."
He looked away, looked around, disapproving, at the sight and mindlessly, picked everything up, from the shoes where their partners had gone missing to the broken bulb obviously broken due to a childish tantrum. He remembered that day when Alfred demanded cookies for dessert that dinner and Arthur simply forced his way by flooding the kitchen platter with his fugly inedible scones. Disgusting creations they are, his scones.
"I hate the British food." Jeanne's face scrunched into a scowl as she gratefully dug in Francis' pouch of food which he sneaked from the king's court. She was allowed too little freedom, and her trial is tomorrow. Much as he want to talk her into it, she was silent as a church mouse about the matter. "Too much salt, too much sugar. Choose your poison if you will." Francis laughed, delighted, amused, fascinated, a little worried. "That bad?"
The second room was Peter's. Rowdy child, undisciplined, very much like his brother on the younger days. Blue, blue, blue, the color was a rage, bed in a mess it was. Toys everywhere, missing legs, arms. Soldiers mostly, handcrafted, wood. Just like Alfred's ones stashed away somewhere in the cabinet.
Soldiers, soldiers everywhere. With swords, faces bloodied, uniforms splashed with that red liquid as if its very part of the clothes. Jeanne, beautiful Jeanne with the sword in her delicate hands, fighting for her life, fighting for France. Damned England, losing nothing in the war, him losing everything.
He went downstairs after going to Peter's room, thoughtful, reminiscing. He sat down on the chair on the kitchen. It was an awfully long time, he lived it through, however, not actually living any moment in his life. Shrugging his sentimentality away, he got a half-filed container of coffee beans and made himself a hot drink. His face scowled in revulsion as he tasted it. Very bitter, very old. Long time the man of the house bought good quality coffee. Didn't like it he said. Only bought one to spite someone he know. Childish.
A knock was heard. Hard, pounding against the oak wood. Francis stood up, pushing his chair back and sauntered casually into the front door, bringing his sassed bitter coffee with him, only to be greeted by the sight of a soaked British gentleman with raised brows and fast-approaching formidable temper.
"Took you time to answer the bloody door, mate." Arthur Kirkland, acquaintance, ugly haircut, ugly eyes, spat as he slammed the door shut with the heel of his left boot and hanged his thoroughly drenched coat at the nearby coat-hanger. "It was raining, if you noticed?" He ruined the blue carpet as his boots left marks. "Bloody hell." He remarked as he belatedly realized the damage.
His footsteps echoed throughout the the room as he crossed it. "Damned flowers wilted Francis." He let out, as he put the flowers in the trash bin near the kitchen door leading to the outside. He dropped the flowers he freshly bought from the flower stalls he went earlier that day. The water on the vase sloshed on its side, leaving a wet grayish-yellow mark on the white faded mantel on the kitchen table. His head hung low like the great clouds outside, he politely required. "How was your morning?"
Francis eyed the irises before replying. "Eventful."
May 30, 1431.
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