It was hypnotisingly beautiful.
It had always been (even in the times long gone, the sheer beauty of it all had been captivating).
Of course, things had rather changed (centuries had flown by). Swords (and spears) had given way to guns (and planes). The sharp smoke of black powder had been replaced with the choking odor of (so-called) smokeless powder. Speaking of (he coughed a little, squinting through the fire of the anti-aircraft guns).
He'd lost them (it was like watching a balloon vanish into the sky- one second of distraction and it was gone). Squinting harder, he searched for them (the fighter planes). The glimmer of the white undersides (bared to the sky, a ritual of submission) brought them to his gaze. The sleek metal forms swished through the air, triggering memories of beauty (and of death).
Swords flashing, twinkling, blades hissing through the air and thumping into (and sometimes through) their targets. The lethal beauty of sharpened metal (the play of sun- or moon- or lamp- or candlelight). The seeping of the brilliant red (it symbolised death). The clash of iron on iron (the clangs sent sparks into the sky). Blood and sweat running (parallel lines) down his face, callused hands gripping worn leather grips. In the background (or sometimes under him) the thunder of iron-shod hooves, the bunching of muscles as the horses (noble creatures) fought just as desperately as the humans that rode them. Red ran down their coats too (their previously shiny coats now shiny for different reasons).
Later, horse and carriage was replaced by horseless carriage (the metal could move itself). Some of the beauty was (in his opinion) lost. But (as he leaned against the side of the makeshift armament and watched the flocks of metal birds swirl around one another, trails of white smoke often glowing in the path behind them) he rather thought that not all of it was gone.
He pondered the pattern of the fighters (head tilted slightly, green eyes still narrowed, although the artillery had given up trying to shoot anyone from their distance).
It was a dance, he decided. A hypnotic dance, mesmerising in its flips and turns (and twirls and bankings). The constant clicking of the guns (the whirr of the propeller) the unloading of dark bombs (and white parachutes), and the occassional heart-wrenching rip (the metal bird had lost her wings).
Static came through over the radio (which had replaced messenger pigeons). The dogfights continued (swirling gleaming figures). In the background, he heard air-raid sirens screaming (like a loud mockingbird, laughing at his miserable existence).
He remained (leaning against the makeshift armaments) and looked out over green fields and rare blue skies. The fight was not yet over (the choreography hadn't yet come to a close).
It really was a hypnotising beauty, he thought as he watched one of his planes and one of Germany's crash into the sea (the final bow).
The dance was, for these birds, over (the curtains had been drawn).
****))))((((*****
A/N: so I just watched a movie about the Battle of Britain, does it show? Anyway, I've recently discovered I have a hidden passion for planes, particularly of the older, one-man propeller fighters of the WWII-era. Hence this fic... anyway, i know it was kind of confusing, but it's basically England watching his pilots during the Battle of Britain as they fight with the German Jagdflugzeuge. And as I was watching this movie I could not get it out of my head that, were people not dying, it would actually have been beautiful to watch... -no i'm not crazy what-
Anyway, Hetalia (c) Himaruya and all that good stuff. I hope this doesn't offend anyone... u.u
And plus I needed a break from The Case of England... ^^;