A Weeping Willow and Its Lantern
A Hetalia oneshot.
Summary: All people saw was a symbolic willow tree, with a lantern swinging in the wind beneath it. Prussia however, saw something different. He saw the memories of his baby brother, Holy Rome.
Warnings: Contains HRExChibitalia. That's about it.
Note: This is kind of the foundation of this story. A much older Prussia comes and revisits the memories of his brother.
Now, the valley is destroyed by all the cement laid in the plots, erecting houses overnight. All but one tree remains, or what they call the weeper and its lantern, for a little patch of light twinkles every twilight underneath its leaves. No one knows the meaning behind it. Back at a different time though, before the houses and the roads and the industrialized smog in the sky, there was a beautiful place of memories. Sometimes those memories would grace the Earth, returning in the only form they can.
So they did this day, because an old pair of red eyes revisited the place, and thus the memories replayed again.
September was a splash of grey bleeding on the horizon. A swirl of deep slate and a newly forged gravel tone added depth to the endless pool of the sky. A sharp contraction highlighted the slops of the horizon, a lush green battling back the gaunt shadows of a sunless day. Clouds powdered the environment with their ash color, threatening to spill the sweet essence of its rainwater.
It was a gloomy world that September day.
Neither the birds nor the squirrels sought to exit the safety of their abodes. The leaves did not rustle because there was not a gust of wind to ruffle them. The world stayed motionless and still, a shuttered picture captured in a camera's memory card. The harmony of all the colors strung together on the basis of understanding form an atmosphere completely and utterly quiet. Not even a chirp dares to shatter the blissful silence. It was hard to tell what time it was. The grey made as a perfect canvas to cover it.
But deep within the folds of the tranquility, laid the undercurrent of pain, misery, and fear. Hidden beneath the soft scuffle of a fox's feet lies a river of every emotion ever bled into the ground. If it was possible, it could be read to say all the history experienced on the land. Everything characterizes it; every crack on the surface has a history just waiting to be discovered. There was a reason why the tree warped and a patch of the charcoaled ground would not regrow. Only a one people could recount everything, while others can only imagine.
In the guarded shadows of a willow tree, the long tendrils of leaves caressed the air like a lover. Drawing the world in closer as a curtain to a stage, one could unfold the leaves to reveal the wicked trunk. The trunk is deeply scared; the wounds of such magnitude cause the tree to sway. Unseen by the outside world, a number of things occurred in the gentle seclusion of the willow tree. The widowed limps tremble in the figurative wind as if its strength was giving out from the weight of these memories. The willow truly resembles a weeper, bent over at the waist, shedding it's emotions into the palm of its hand.
Apparitions danced across the past ground the red eyes saw, fading memories of events already happened.
There was a small boy, swamped by the black fabric weighing his shoulders down. His cloak tangled in his boots, clung to the soles of his shoes, and nearly tripped him with every step. His hat, bigger than his head, cups a majority of his skull until the lining reached his brows and continued to slip. His blond hair whipped his face, agitated by the constant shuffle of his hat. His blue eyes were two sapphires forged from a plentiful mine. They are ringed with layers upon layers of blue, from Egyptian power to azure to cobalt. They were a child's eyes, full of wonder, and defined by his long blond eyelashes that fluttered over his cheeks when he closed his eyes. Clasped in his hands is a sword, the gleam dulled by the willow's shadow. It was small enough so the hilt bumped against his hip bone, and the sword ghosted over the ground.
The boy was hacking away at the tree, not to chop it down, but to practice the dexterity and the arc of his swing. Even when his arms burned with fatigue, he continued to assault the bark. His blade bit the trunk, scrapping away each layer of skin. He knocked his hat off when his next swing is captured by his cloak. He struggled to untangle himself, before sighing angrily. He tore the fabric from his body, heaving the offended material as far away as he could. The sword followed it, still trapped in the folds. Giving up on the practice, he plopped down, pulling his hat into his lap. His sore back groaned when it made contact with the abused tree, crying out for a more proper surface. His head hit the trunk, disappointed with the day. It was a memory of a day spent in the luxury of the weeping willow, his own soul weeping alongside it; that day, the man could only watch. Now, he can only watch again.
Once that memory bled away into the grass's blades, a new one came to take its place. It was the same boy as before, except now he was in a fever sponsored by desperation to climb the tree. He was attempting to evade something. He was scrambling, digging his fingers into the amber soaked bark, to no avail. His small feet and tiny hand could not find enough purchase to scale the tree. Frantic now, he grabbed a fist full of leaves and coiled them around, twisting until he was completely wrapped in the willow's tendrils. The shadow color of his attire cut straight through the cover, making him completely visible to the girl approaching.
Her auburn hair was tucked behind her ears by the carefully situated bandanna on her head. The mint styled folds of her dress was bunched in the palms of her hands, a habit to signal her worry. Her skin was kissed by the sun and dusted in a natural blush at the cheeks. Her honey drizzled eyes flickered like a candle flame, portraying each sorrow and concern with every flip of a switch. She extended a hand to the hiding place, feeling the fabric of his cloak brush against her fingertips. He squeaked, cowering further from her reach. A frown drew her pale lips downward; The curiosity of it all caused the boy to cast a glance at her. She lowered her hands, drawing the material of her outfit tighter.
"Holy Rome…" She whimpered, down casting her eyes.
The young boy felt his heart be pierced by the double bladed sword of her voice. Untangling himself, he stood before the repressed girl. Setting aside the fear he originally had, something that he struggled to do, he knelt down. He clasped one of her soft, gentle hands, the hands of a baker and sewer, and placed a kiss on the skin. He allowed his lips to remain, ghosting over the fingers that gently stroked his bottom lip. She was smiling now.
"Yes?" He asked, gazing up at her with nothing but affection.
"What are you doing?" She giggled, fascinated by the sudden change.
When he tried, when he really truly tried, he was no longer afraid.
"I'm your knight in shining armor m'lady." She gasped softly, "I'm at your service."
He bowed at the waist, feeling the strands of his hair falling into his face. She as well got down to her knees, again at eye level with the boy. She took both of his pale hands, the hands of a swordsman, into her own. They were cold in her warms ones, the sharp contrast sending a shiver down her spine.
"Then I want you to love me my knight. Vanquish the fears that separate us."
The boy named Holy Rome grins.
"Will do."
The man chuckles at the sight.
The two slowly faded into the back drop when they got to their feet and abandoned the shadows of the weeping willow. When the final drop of color bled from their bodies, they evaporated, as if they never had been there before. It wouldn't be long before the next memory replaces them, but this one is darker and much more sinister.
Holy Rome was hidden under the willow, weeping alongside it. He was ripping the grass from the ground in his fury, feeling the clumps of dirt stick to his fingers. He couldn't grab enough. His fists pounded the ground, tearing feverishly at everything, scraping away each layer that stood in between him and the ground, because below the surface of a distant, unmarked grave laid his Vatti. Ramming all his willpower into his knuckles, he could feel the bones cracking at the excruciating power his mind could no longer contain. Fallen branches sliced his palm, splitting his skin into a bloody cut. The blood stuck to the grass and the leaves, but still it was not satisfying. He started kicking as well, throwing a tantrum with only the willow as his guardian. His screams were muffled by the night sky. He hated the world, hated the obstacles it offers.
In the distance, balls of light bobbled on the horizon, spreading out until the distance between the next was massive. They zigzagged throughout the trenches of trees, searching like pixies in the night for the home they misplaced. Like northern lights they were bright and scowling, burning the retinas of anyone who looked directly into the source.
It was a search party.
A lone light staggered for the willow, brightening up the environment to cast long shadows across the ground. Holy Rome freezes, his face buried in the grass, arms flailing to a stop. Pulling back a section of leaves the light steps into the sanctum, but it is a younger version of the man that held the light away from the fearful eyes.
"Holy Rome!" The man in the memory exclaimed, breathing a sigh of relief.
Anything could be contained within the rustle of leaves and the scurry of the wildlife, and no one would ever know. This by itself turned the shadows sharp and carnivorous, the branches transformed into claw and the trunks into teeth. The moving blobs of distant black figures appeared to be Death stalking in his human form, searching for a lonely soul wandering through the forest.
Pressing himself closer to the ground, Holy Rome squinted. He knew that voice, but it was almost impossible to distinguish his luminescent white hair from the bright gems of night.
"B-Bruder?" He stuttered, peeling himself from the ground.
Every fabric of him was coated in dust; the grains were still tumbling into the opening of his clothes, and the palms of his hands stung with the slightest of movements.
"I was so worried." The brother sat the lantern down, crawling over to the boy to swipe him into a hug. The fear seeping from his body caused him to squeeze the boy, chuckling to himself for nearly worrying himself to death.
Holy Rome could not contain himself. His fury gave way to hot, fat tears, his misery strangling his voice until it was just pitiful whimpers. Holding his baby brother close, the man rocked him back and forth, running his fingers through the disheveled mess that is his hair.
"It's okay…" He soothed, whispering in his ear so not even the willow could overhear, "I know it hurts. It'll be okay." A piece of his heart broke off as his tunic was soaked by the on slaughter of his brother tears.
"It's not fair!" Holy Rome screamed, wrestling his voice from the reigns of weakness. He pounded his bloody fists into the chest shielding him, like he was trying to batter the misery away.
"I know…" He ruffled the hair affectionately, but all he received in response is a punch to the face.
"Vatti left me! He left me!" His brother was screaming until his lungs too screamed, twisting and contouring his body in an attempt to flee. The stickiness remaining on his cheek caused the albino to smear his skin on the shoulder of his tunic. A streak of blood is left in its wake.
"He didn't… he had to go… it was his time." Seeing his brother like this, broken and shattered, made his eyes burn with tears, then and in the present.
Times likes this made the willow weep as if it too possessed the grief to shed.
Again the memory shifts, from the darkness of the night into the gleam of the morning, leaving behind all the fragments of sadness associated with that day. Workers littered the valley with their assorted duties. People hoisted others onto their shoulder to string lanterns through the branches of neighboring trees. It was a festival designed to enjoy the plunder of a successful war. People totted in their decorations, clotheslines of flowers and art hanging on hooks; Maids carted handfuls of quilts and children brought their homemade sparklers. Yet in the midst of the greatest triumph, the willow was left untouched and avoided. There was a good reason why couple strolled in the other direction. The festivities were soured the moment the curtain of the willow was pulled back by a man swinging a lantern.
His snow white hair, that of the purest ivory instilled in angel's wing, speratically stuck up from the surface of his skull. The strands were disturbed by the leaves when he paused in the walk way, letting the tendrils fall onto his shoulders. His skin was almost as pale as his hair, blemished only by the tinted red of having walked for such a long distance in the brightness of the sun. His sharp nose and high cheek bones drew his face into the heavy lines associated with grief. His eyes were dark and swollen, but still nonetheless shrunken from sleep deficiency. The once were the most handsome shade of red, as if it has been plucked from phoenix's pelt, but now they were dull, hollow orbs of blood red. Everything he saw now was coated by that red.
There was no happiness to speak of as he passed the threshold of the willow with a quick step.
Preserved by the tree's gentle nature was a grave, the dirt mound no bigger than four feet. The tombstone was small and modest, a simply cross with no etching to show who rested below the soil; a rod with a hooked end was stood beside it, replacing what would've been a traditional flower holder if he would have wished it so. The young man with the palpable grief knelt down, aged beyond his year, beside the grave. He smoothed down the grains of dirt ruffled by the wind, as if it was the blanket he used to tuck a certain child in at night. The buzz of construction does not fall on his ears, because the willow was performing the duty of a protector, and contained the environment within its shadow like a vial with its treasures.
Sighing softly, the man's eyes bore holes into the grave, trying to seek out the occupants like he had done many times before. All he was left with was the memories. The memories of a boy with blond hair and blue eyes who started the celebration, not because he was victorious, but because he couldn't manage to be the victor.
Smiling meekly, he hooked the lantern in its proper place.
"I brought this for your baby brother." He caressed the cross, feeling the poorly crafted thing tilt in the mud, "I hope you like it. It took a while you know, considering I'm broke."
His hand trailed to the bark, tracing a finger down all the nicks his brother left, "This was your favorite place. I'm sorry it can't be yours anymore." A few tears slipped from his eyes no matter how much he willed them to go away, and they fell to the ground he once walked on.
"Tell Vatti hi, alright?" Getting to his weary feet, he left the dirt caked onto his pants, "I'll visit again soon, I promise. I'll stay longer too. I just have to get away for a while. Those people are looking for me. I won't let them get me though because I'm too awesome."
The albino turned to leave, but before he did, he left one final message, "I love you baby brother."
The willow could not grip his cloak to keep him there, and protect him like a mother would. Nothing could be done as he walked away, leaving the lantern swinging in the wind sweeping the valley.
These are the memories left behind, the ones now only one man can remember as he stands before the tree with a wistful look upon his face. The other people who do not know, but occupy the surrounding areas that are slowly turning into a construction graveyard, still leave the willow untouched. To them, it was a weeper, a weeper that relights its lantern every night to be a beacon for a long lost soul.
But to the Kingdom of Prussia, it was the gravesite of his dear baby brother, under the embrace of his favorite tree, with a light to battle away the darkness.
SADNESSSSS :0
-Soul Spirit-