• A p r i l _ C o m e _ S h e _ W i l l •
C h a p t e r _ O n e - T o _ b e _ c o n t i n u e d '
Author's Note; Hello there! This is my second Hetalia fanfiction, based around North Italy, Feliciano Vargas. I would hope that since my earlier fanfictions my writing style has improved and devolped, and I would any reviews or constructive critism.
April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again.
June, she´ll change her tune,
In restless walks she´ll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.
August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I´ll remember.
A love once new has now grown old.
- 'April come she will', Simon and Garfunkel.
S t a r t
This house is situated in a small village in Italy, where the sun shines, golden throughout the year. As the sun sets and rises, the rays fall onto the canals in Venice, reflecting onto passer's by face's and letting a smile grace the features. However, this house does not rest in between the water, in Venice, nor next to the great Cathedral in Milan, but rather by the Alps, in Northern Italy. Although a chill breeze passes through the mountains, dancing through them and falling between the valley's like a plague, the sun still shines as bright as ever, letting the tips of the snow covered peeks appear a warm shade of yellow, casting the illusion of hot weather, and reflecting onto the velutinous clouds that passed over ahead, flying by in all shapes and sizes.
If you were to venture into these mountains, walk between the valleys, you would soon find a wide space, sandwiched between two mountains, where the grass shone green, trimmed to perfection. It is hard to find, secluded and alone, but that is how the owners liked it. Looking around, the first thing to draw your attention would be a stone wall, built to keep others out. It looked natural, as the flowers and foliage wove their way between the slabs of rock, creating a barricade to all that wished to enter.
Walking around, however, you would soon find a small gate, modest, but delicate and intricate in detail, made of wrought iron, and fixed to the wall. It would strain slightly against the push, groan and sigh as a protest to the sudden onslaught, but swing open, none the less, presenting you with the sight of the garden, in all it's beauty. In daylight, you would now be able to tell that the wall did not, in fact, reach all the way around the garden, instead pausing for a waterfall to fall down the mountains into a small lake, the sound of rustling water breaking the silence.
The sound was not strong, just playing at the ears, but rather relaxing. They ebbed in and out of hearing, playing a tranquil and somewhat serene melody to you're ears, the beat going with the way it would fall in folds, a perfect never ending stream.
Next to the unpretentiously sized lake, lays a boat, moored to the shore, and too it's left, a path with lampposts lining it, obviously meant to light up, and illuminate the entire of the garden, come nightfall. Taking a tentative step into the area, you look around, noticing that the tall, Victorian style lampposts are dotted around the entire garden, blossom trees that would no doubt soon be in bloom, lining the pathways. The lake, however, spreads out, and you can see several bridges, lilies floating in the water in a Japanese style, reminding you of Monet's famous painting. It was as if the picture had come alive, and presented itself in front of your eyes.
Everything was in place, apart from a large fountain, in the middle. Even from a long distance away, anyone would be able to tell that the pale white stone - marble - has been carved into an elegant wreath, wrapping around the base, the pattern drawing itself up before the water spills from the top, cascading into the water. You would have liked to linger, to perhaps dip your feet in the cool water, and paddle there, to throw a penny, but you cannot stay, despite the statue that is catching you're eye, a small boy, sitting atop a dolphin.
Tearing your eyes away, you gingerly make your way across the path with is paved with small pebbles, which are somehow not suited to the surroundings, but make light work of your feet, allowing you to place with down. For awhile you simply wonder around, allowing the sounds of the waterfall, the birds ahead lull you into a sense of security, but soon an aroma that is familiar to you catches your senses.
French lavender and roses. You turn a corner, and are met with a beautiful sight. Flowers litter the ground, planted in no particular order, but a strange formality hangs about them, none the less. The roses are all a simply white in colour, and in the middle is a small summerhouse.
Drawn closer by music, you walk around the flower garden, becoming almost certain that you can hear the sweet sounds of a piano, mixing with the noises coming from the waterfall. Sure enough, as you leave the garden, passing through a tall archway with flowers crawling up the sides, you are met with an average manor, Italian in style. The architecture is what would be described as a cross between the greatest buildings you have seen, in both England, Greece, and Italy itself. It seems to suit the surroundings, made of a white stone, with contrasts with the dark colour of the mountains, until you reach the peeks. As you gaze through the wide open French doors - no doubt to let light and air through the house - there is a grand piano, placed there. The boy who is sat at the piano has closed eyes, and you dare not interrupt him. Instead, as you approach, he seems to sense you instead.
To your delight, he offers to lead you through the house, a private tour, as you seem to interested and entranced. For a minute you do not reply, simply staring at the main entrance. Tall, grand stairs lead there ways upwards, meeting in the middle before they turn into a spiral staircase, smaller, leading upwards towards what you presume is the roof. The hall is big, open, full of air. It almost like being outside, albeit being slightly warmer, and looking up, you see a ceiling. It has obviously been inspired by St. Paul's Cathedral, and your eyes widen. It seemed to be sparkling, gold, with patterns. The boy to your side seems to follow your gaze with a bemused glance, and you turn, feeling embarrassed, looking around, instead. It is circular, and there are french windows all around, seemingly pointless.
It only takes a second to scan the room, although it seems like much longer, and soon you are making your way up the stairs, a warm hand resting on the cool of the banister. The air seems hazy, almost sensual, and you start to suspect that the air is tinted with perfume. Soon, however, your mind is distracted, as your guide pushes open a wide door, and you're eyes are drawn to what you presume is a ballroom.
Step by step, he takes you through a tour of the house, and you are introduced to a large dark room in the basement, which is used for taking photos. You have noticed that there are various photo's, mounted up, along the walls, but never once did you suspect that they where taken by the owner, itself.
Moving on, you sink down into a chair, in the large Library. Expecting the chairs to be hard, unforgiving, you are met with a pleasant surprise, and use the armrest as leverage, letting yourself fall into it. It would be the perfect place to enjoy a simple tea, while reading a book. There is plenty of selection, and it is obvious that one of this boy's hobbies is reading, as well as music, and simply, art and photography, too. Books that instantly catch your gaze are Shakespeare, the entirety of his collection, including the ballads, and sonnets that he had wrote, in his time. The ceiling is high; most likely to accommodate for all the books, and bookcases are tall, so that it would be hazardous to be under one, if such misfortune was to strike, and it fell.
As a guest, you listen politely to the talk of the man, attention drawn when he says that there is a slide then winds down to the basement, ending in a swimming pool. It seemed that the house has many more secrets to uncover, such a roof garden, but you are too tired to explore them, as much as you would like too. Lulled asleep by the sounds of water, the fresh, woody scent of books, you rest your head against the chair, letting it fall.
Little known to you, the man - who would soon introduce himself as Feliciano - had brought you to a large bedroom, laying you down on the bed. As you wake you will see the wondrous design, but for now, you wriggle under the covers, curling up and muttering contentedly, asleep.
"Sweet dreams..."
T o _ b e _ c o n t i n u e d . . .N e x t - C h a p t e r _ T w o `