::A/N:: I don't own Hetalia, nor do I claim rights to the image used for this story.
So this is just a SeychellesxEngland. Basically, it's a human AU, and I'll be filling in the margins of common history, although this is completely fictitious- as far as I'm concerned. It's from Seychelles POV.
I found this in my writing collection and thought I would post it, so if nobody likes it, it won't go anywhere. I have three other stories in the works right now, -sigh-, so this should be an interesting experiment for me...
Bonnefoy = Francis Bonnefoy
Read, enjoy, review~ No reviews, no continuation ^.^
Summer, 1623
The man standing before me is unlike any man I have ever seen before, apart from perhaps, Papa. His eyes are a deep green, the color of the leaves on my island. His hair is a pale-golden, the color of the flowers that bloom in summer. His skin is pale and untouched by the sun's rays, the color of the sand on my beaches. But his heart, his heart is blacker than anything I have ever laid eyes on. It is blacker than nuit, for nuit is at least pierced by the stars and the moon. His darkness is pierced by nothing.
His fingers are wrapped around my shoulder in a grip that is so painful, I cannot feel it anymore. Non, the fingers are too strong, calloused from years of working their ship. It is simply a numbing sensation now. All I feel is the sea tossing beneath my feet and the wood of the vessel chafing the golden-brown skin of my legs.
The room we are in so uncomfortably together must be his cabin. The places that are not piled high with maps of conquest, are littered with his winnings. Treasure, the most beautiful example of man-made creation I have ever seen, is piled carelessly in every corner. Golden coins are caught between floorboards, his books marked with silk page holders, his papers weighted down by fat, sparkling jewels. Even the skeleton that stands for mere mockery by his polished mahogany desk is bedazzled with pearls and crowns. I can only imagine the poor princesses that lost their tiaras, maybe their lives and virginity, to this black, soulless man.
This is the man who stole me away from Francis. Mon père, as Francis likes me to call him. Papa Francis was – no, still is – my papa. This man before me, this man will never tame me as he wishes. I see in the pits of his eyes that he wants to break me. He wants to chain my soul and whip my body. I shall never let him break my spirit. He may use my form all he likes, for he will be the only one who regrets it when my temple is ravaged. Or maybe he will not after it is he who breaches me. Maybe he will discard me for no one else to use. Maybe then he will be satisfied.
"Do not test me, wench. I shall make you miserable," his voice says, so foreign to me. However, I understand the words coming from between the pale lips. Papa Francis deemed it necessary to teach me the tongue of the English. Simply to know it, he said, but if I was lucky, he had continued adamantly, I would never have to come into contact with a filthy Brit. I asked him how he would be lucky (I was very young). He told me that he would be lucky if I could stay with him forever. Oh, Papa, I suppose we are not lucky on either count.
"Why do you wish to make this so damn difficult, you bloody whore?" the Englishman spits at me, standing in frustration. His heavy boots kick coins out of the way as he begins to pace.
"I have no allegiance to you!" I announce, holding in a gasp as the feeling returns to my shoulder.
"You are mine! Mine!"
"Non, I am no one's!"
"You are that scoundrel Bonnefoy's!"
"Do not call my Papa a scoundrel!"
"Y...your papa?"
"Oui!"
"That little perverse frog!"
"He was kind to me! Unlike you!"
"He didn't rape you?" For a moment, this dark, vicious man is actually surprised.
"Non, you little bastard! How dare you? Leave us alone!"
"'Leave you alone'? You are my property now, wench. Get that into your savage brain!"
"Do not call me a savage!" I scream.
The strike comes harshly across my cheek. The stinging only fuels my fiery loathing. Never before has someone made me so angry.
Captain bends down, his face inches away from mine. I imagine we look something like yin and yang, pale and dark. I spit in the yin. He staggers back, and a lovely string of curses ensue.
"You little bitch. You dare show such disrespect?" he whispers, wiping the spittle from his cheek.
I pull uselessly on the ropes that bind my wrists to the wall. "I only show respect to people who are worth something!"
He leans so close to me, I can smell him, smell the sea salt, the rum, and the freedom that cling to his clothes and hair. "I believe that you will realize I am worth something when I am the one who dictates whether you live in misery or die in blessed happiness."
"You will never have me in the way you wish. Never. I will die before you get what you desire from me." It does not matter that he has me now. Non, for he needs my spirit to bend the will of my people.
"It is not a reaction from you I hope for, love, and here I was thinking we could have a jolly good time together, you and I," he smirks, "But we can't if you're dead, can we?"
All I can think of, is that this man is more like Yin then he knows. Yin seems light on the outside, but in reality, its center is as dark as pitch.
::A/N:: Okay so French translation (I don't know how to type the accents that should be in some of these words, so I don't have them, I do know they're there)
Oui (French) = Yes
Nuit (French) = Night
Mon père (French) = My father
Non (French) = No