Eventide Lantern
- A/N -
Technically, I finished this two-shot in September, but never posted it because it wasn't up to par with my standards. I mean, it still isn't, but hey.
For those of you who may not know what 'eventide' means, it's a rather archaic word for 'evening'.
Disclaimer(s): Possible unintentional historical/geographical inaccuracies. Logical inconsistencies in character motivation. Logical inconsistencies in general. And not owning Hetalia.
Background: The civil war referenced throughout this chapter is the First Barons' War, in which several powerful English landowners (backed by a French army) rebelled against King John for not abiding by the Magna Carta.
Also, artistic license is a wonderful thing, so now there's a random imaginary marsh outside Winchester for any mysteriously shadowy figures to be mysterious in (before mysteriously vanishing and never being referenced again). Hooray.
Part I
June 14, 1216
Winchester outskirts, England
The lantern flickers closer.
Hidden away under the hungry shadows, England watches the dusky figure approach and decides that his fate is as good as sealed.
The swamp spreads out before him, bathing in the spectral half-light of a Stygian sky. Bristling reeds stab uncomfortably at the lining of his trousers, though his feet seem unable to budge. It appears that the stars have forsaken the night, for the glow of its natural satellites is not enough to lessen his trepidation.
Alone.
He is utterly alone in the ashen darkness.
Your fault, France.
Except it is not France's fault this time—not his fault that the barons had risen up against their king, not his fault that England was in the middle of a civil war, and not his fault that he stands here. Out in the dead of night. Staring into the face of the same creature which he had been told to disregard as mere legend.
Because as much as he is sure that France is out there somewhere, gloating over his role in Winchester's unopposed capture, he had still put himself into this mess.
And now that he finds himself facing trouble, he has no one else to blame.
Slowly, the will-o'-the-wisp lowers its lantern. A biting wind tears through the debris beneath England's feet, and he shivers. He briefly thinks back to his brother Wales and the stories he used to tell, of two-legged dragons and wraithlike beasts—and he realizes that he should be more afraid.
Come at me, he thinks indignantly, staring down the figure with all the fire he has.
It does not move. If anything, it only continues to stare back at him as blankly as before.
For such a supposedly malicious trickster, it looks oddly comatose.
I shouldn't have ran off like I did back there, England chides himself, closing his eyes. In the back of his mind, he hopes that the figure is just the figment of an out-of-control imagination. I should have just left with John when I had the chance, instead of waiting until Louis arrived with his entire army.
Taking a deep breath, he opens his eyes again. And his heart constricts, but not so much at the thing itself as the absence of it.
Gone, England realizes.
The will-o'-the-wisp is gone. The lantern is gone. There is nothing left in the place where it used to stand except for the lonely memory of a passing breeze.
I'm going mad.
And yet he still sees the flame burning bright from the shadows, like embers among a pyramid of smoldering charcoal.
0~0~0
The bitter wind continues to trail behind him like a shadow, even as England begins doubling back toward the main city. After all, there was no point in cowering beside the marsh forever.
He hears the presence of Louis's army long before he sees them. It sickens him to know that the French are setting foot in his land again, even if he holds little sympathy toward his own king. But orders are orders, and refusing to escape Winchester with John had been an act of sheer disobedience.
Stepping onto the cobbled flagstones that lead to the main square, England rubs his hands together in the cold and tries to think. Now that he can see the warm lights of the city ahead of him, he feels much safer.
Well, if this is what disobedience feels like, then I like it.
The thought enthralls him, if only for a brief moment. Of course, he knows that Nations are always supposed to follow the orders of their superiors, no matter the circumstance or consequence—it is an unspoken rule passed down through countless centuries, and in a way, England had never had any reason to question it before. Ultimately, there must be some purpose behind it.
And whatever it is, he supposes he has no choice in the matter anyway.
He takes his time as he strides along the weather-beaten road, a silent sentinel with scars that show in the long fissures running through the rock. Sometimes, his mind wanders back to memories of his mother, a strong but distant figure with solemn green eyes and a dignified smile. She always wore her cloak, he recalls. And what an imposing warrior she was. Sometimes, when she took up her spear, the entire world around her seemed to freeze in a startling realm of flame and frost.
Yet she was still no match against the indifferent tides of time.
The sound of crunching leaves suddenly approaches from afar. Immediately snapping back to alertness, England turns his head around and narrows his eyes warily.
He is still a long way from his destination. And here by the forest, the night reigns over all.
Remember what is dangerous.
At first, England sees nothing. The darkness is almost impenetrable, a fortress of shadow with one way in and no way out. But then a light abruptly breaks through the walls, and the castle of his mind's eye crumbles into a mound of broken silhouettes.
"Who's there?" he calls out, struggling to see through the sudden bright glare.
Linen tunic. A sleeveless surcoat. Rich furs and embroidered shoes.
A burst of anger replaces his apprehension, and England grits his teeth.
Standing in front of him, a lantern dangling from one hand, is none other than France himself. He looks strangely exhausted, running his hand through his golden locks nervously—and for one wild moment, England wonders whether he had somehow managed to mistake him for a folklore legend. Eventually, however, he finally notes the shape of the lantern, how the curved brim of the glass contrasts with the smooth edges of its twin. And he realizes that France has come from the direction of Winchester instead of the other way around.
"Why did you come looking for me?" England growls.
France raises an eyebrow, but does not answer immediately. Instead, he makes his way down the path slowly, almost hesitantly, as if he is contemplating what to say.
They are almost the same height now, England notes. Almost.
"I... wanted to talk."
England stares at the glimmering lantern, then back at France's face. He is wary, this man who stands before him—this fair-haired Nation with feather-light eyes, the one who has already waged war against him numerous times in the space of two centuries. This nineteen-twenty-something-year-old who seems a decade older in words and a decade younger in demeanor. The Nation who is holding an expression of unassuming-turned-bitter and back again.
The Nation who helped capture Winchester in the name of English liberty.
"Spit it out, then."
"Well, you are still as rude as ever," France sighs, carefully bending down to place the lantern on the ground. A ring of dried grass around the flickering flame springs into illumination. Despite his deceptively calm attitude, however, England still manages to sense the frustration in his voice. "Oh, and I suppose I should also return something."
Immediately, England is back on the defensive again. "What do you mean?"
"Your notebook."
"What notebook? I don't have a—"
There comes the sliding of a satchel, and then it glides over France's shoulder like a lost vessel in the torrent. Before he has a chance to react, it lands with a dull thud on the ground and then goes still.
England's face pales.
Across the grass, the pages are splayed out. The creased edges catch the dew immediately, curling up in a thin papery smile, but it is not what catches France's attention. Because the illustrations scattered across the pages make him stop and stare.
"You... you can draw," France says disbelievingly.
It is an understatement. The sketches do more than merely exist. They are not quite living, not quite dead, a happy anomaly at the gateway between realms—for the shadows on the paper long to breathe, as if struggling against crushed windpipes and ruptured lungs. Some of the proportions look simply wrong, and yet with a few dark marks under the chin and a highlight against the pupils, the drawing reaches out with startling intensity and insists that it is real.
Slowly, as if in a trance, France bends down to pick it up. A wyvern stares back at him through the page, wings outstretched and barbed tail arched. A two-dimensional sketch—flat by nature. But there is no mistaking the fine details that surround its scales, or the strangely forlorn gaze in its eyes as it sinks, head snapped back, through a sea of white noise and parchment.
"Folklore legends," England mutters, face flushed. "I... couldn't throw it away."
France whistles. "How old is this?"
"More than two centuries. I still flip through the pages sometimes. It's one of the last remaining things I've saved from the time when my mother was alive."
You utter idiot. Why are you telling him?
Yet he continues.
"I... sometimes drew in it when I had nothing else to do. Much of it was influenced by my brothers' stories." England swallows. "But I've stopped a long time ago."
France pauses, staring, before turning to another page. "Why?"
"Because those legends... they're not real."
"Whether they exist is irrelevant in this case, yes?"
"I don't see what you mean."
Leaves crunch again as France shifts, brushing a strand of hair out of his face and looking up to meet England's eyes. "Yes, you do. That is not the reason you stopped, and you know it."
He opens his mouth to deny it, but no sound comes out.
"England," France begins slowly, "I get the feeling that you are not quite as... true to yourself as you should be."
The other Nation suddenly finds himself laughing. There is something odd about his laugh, like the abused sail of a wind chime in the passing gale. "Oh? And who are you to give me ambiguous life advice?"
"Someone who is older than you."
"You don't know anything about me."
"Perhaps not," he admits. "But I imagine we still have quite a few centuries ahead of us."
"Damn you."
Flustered, England reaches out to grab the notebook from him. Instead, France grins, takes a step away and holds it out of reach.
"Give it back!" he orders, a rush of irritation running through him.
"Not until you tell me why you hate me so much," France replies, laughing. "You baffle me—you really do. To think that anyone could resist my charm..."
England makes another attempt at snatching the notebook back, but to his increasing annoyance, he only manages to trip over his own feet. "How about checking your ego first?"
"How about answering my question?"
"You can go figure it out yourself, I'm sure."
"What?"
"Heavens, you're dense," England snaps, eyeing France's hands with careful calculation. "Or are you just that self-absorbed?"
France tilts his head. And then he stops.
Slowly, the mischief begins to seep away from his expression. Rubbing his eyes with one hand, still clutching the notebook with the other, France frowns and tosses his hair halfheartedly. The air is suddenly heavier, the mood between them a tentative tightrope walk. Melancholy settles in his eyes, and England sees it plainly, as clear as mist over the rise or debris on a riverbed. He looks tired, he finally realizes. Like he hasn't slept in days.
Too late now.
"It's because we're enemies, France," England states with a sigh.
The last trace of a smile disappears from France's expression.
"Look, it's not that complicated. The reason we even met in the first place was because you invaded my land. And even as William set about quelling rebellions, I remember you addressing me as if we were out on a picnic to frolic. All along, it was pity, wasn't it?"
"I... thought that we—"
"You make it a priority to give me that condescending smile day after day."
"I have never been condescending toward you."
"You claim to be wiser than me, and yet you hold none of the basic principles of being a Nation."
France falls silent.
"And you always act as if you're the authority on everything," England continues. His voice has started to rise and deep down, he hates it, hates the way that France starts to look more and more lost with every passing second, but it is the truth and he has held it in for long enough. "Why care that I despise your attitude? Why care about the enmity of the very people we represent? And decency—what the hell is that? Why not keep doing what you've always done?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Do I really need to spell it out for you?"
"Evidently, yes."
England narrows his eyes and clears his throat.
"Well, let me put it this way. You're the playboy who saunters into town and expects everyone to kiss your feet."
France abruptly freezes.
An unreadable expression passes over his face. Regret flashes briefly in his eyes, but also confusion.
And then suddenly there is silence.
(A suffocating silence.)
England does not know when he starts becoming so uncomfortably aware of his own heartbeat. The sound seems diseased somehow, as if someone is repeatedly kicking a week-old corpse. Inside his mind is a battlefield, emotions struggling for dominance and scraping against each other painfully like bloody nails on bare skin. And not for the first time, he wonders why confrontations with France always end this way.
(Why?)
He hardly registers reality when France bites his lip and finally holds the notebook out to him.
"Here it is, England."
(Why?)
He does not move. Something is threatening to crash over him, something foreign—and he fights back. He fights back with everything he has left in him, except the well of his resolve has dried up long ago and he is left standing there dumbstruck, hands empty and notebook on the ground.
(Why?)
He sees France pick up the lantern, and shadows claim the earth as their territory once more. They shift over the ground in packs, roaming the unknown like starving predators—and yet England does not see unease in the other Nation's eyes. He sees only hesitation and heartache and a little bit of everything else, and for one startling moment, he wishes to call him back, to explain everything.
But something stops him.
Lantern in hand, France begins retreating toward the lights of Winchester. Somehow, England knows that he sees something different in the dark, in that way that he sees something different in everything. Even a lonely outcast with the likes of himself. As he stares after him wordlessly, he suddenly finds himself hearing his voice inside his head.
Laugh if you want to, but... the pattern of the shadows on the ground remind me of stained glass windows. Beautiful in a way, yes? Even if no one else understands.
And then France turns around one last time. He turns around one last time, with those light blue eyes that are suddenly and frustratingly unreadable, before the dark swallows him whole and he vanishes into the distance.
(Why?)
(Because you're such a hypocrite, Albion.)
.
.
.
- A/N -
I tried writing in present tense for the first time, but it doesn't sound quite right.
Also, I hope I didn't make England out to be too much of an asshole... there were a lot of misunderstandings between them, and at the time, he truly did believe what he said.
Please forgive the blatant abuse of similes/metaphors. My writing style may have flirted with purple prose quite a bit back in September ;;
Next chapter: a different time, a different place.
~ Reviews are appreciated ~