Back and forth, to and fro, eternal tug-o-war.
From the early ages of birth and growth, they had met, they had let emeralds meet olive leaves. And from there, they had signed their fates and the strings of fates had strapped together through history. It was bittersweet; Doomed to war and doomed to need each other. Each of the two had no intent on letting this be- But their struggles and the growth of arrogance and the rival clashes of war and steal on steal with canons exploding in the pits of eardrums only succeeded this fate. It was almost cruel, even sadistic, to say the least.
No man would let himself back down, neither would show his weakness, neither would put on masks. They knew who the other was, so there was no need to pretend or dance toe to toe with petty masks. Perhaps that was the luxury of it all? No one needed to play pretend- Neither held anything against the other for simply who he was. It was war, politics, and blood lust. Simple. There were no emotions tied to the ends of their swords, there was no regret within their bullets. Ah, but that is what they seemed to think, wasn t it? Time and time again, they found each other at their side weather it be with a blade pressed against scared skin or palms tightly, almost desperately clasped in fear of the momentarily weaker one falling in his own pit of demise.
And the scene was all too familiar. The cries of war, the sound of men screaming with dying breaths and the sound of metal smacking another without a shred of mercy on the men s back. There was the fire of a canon somewhere, perhaps, a raging echo of destructing filling the symphony of war. And there they stood. Emerald against olive, golden colored hair and auburn curls that fell over the other s shoulders. Without a second though, the tanned skinned one lunged with a furry of a pair of charging oxen, only to be countered by the slashing of a lion in battle. It was natural, of course. The Spanish Empire made a swift, motion back and the swing of a silver cutlass landed with shame against abused, splintered wood. A long blade came forth, slicing through the air and aiming for a paled neck, but the move was in vain and again the Englishman had made a quick counter.
All s fair in love and war, they say.
But one man s ideal of fair can be different from another, you know.
There was the skim of a icy cold blade against the bronze colored cheek, a warm splash of red beginning to slip down his cheek. Red was a lovely color; either of them could tell you that. With a howl of agony and short tempered rage, the Spaniard struck with such a horrific amount of force, he earned a reward with a open slash against the Brit s chest. A triumphant smirk appeared over his lips, the pride of war filling the old Empire, but oh it would not last. The gold haired man came back with a blade digging into the beaten shoulders of the darker one, a cry of pain echoing seemingly softly in the rage and chaos of battle.
But this was each encounter. Times of battle and struggles, struggles to keep what is held and to survive. This was war. It was but a battle won, never the war. There was no war to be won. Neither could win- For if one were to turn, he would come back. They were always running back to each other, doomed to never be able to think of another. Just yesterday, it seemed, they had been toe to toe with swords and daggers and pistols pressed to the other s beaten skin, but times were different. But they are nations. Even as the ages go and change, memories never do, and sentiments and bitter longings cannot be tossed away with the ticking clocks.
There they stood, face to face. No war now, thought it seemed out of place. There were no monarchs, no more war and no more plots and no more misleads. Perhaps age had more effects then one could come to understand. There was no strategic alliance, no political tie holding their hands behind their backs. It was simply them- Antonio and Arthur. There were no Kingdoms here, no Empires, no generals, no nations. As nations go, they grow to have more human qualities. They grow to hold emotions based on their own conscious, their own impulses and loves. It seemed silly, thought. To have this need based on old times for the other.
Ah, but they were here now.
The blonde s mouth slowly slid open, but no words came, his lips closed again in favor of the silence. There were no words needed, no apologies, and no confessions. They knew each other far better than any other, they knew each other s true natures, their dreams, their faults, their hardships. It was common ground. It seemed strange, very strange, to think of it that though. But that was their game. Again, their palms found one another and they stood in silence, a mutual understanding met between them that only they could understand.
No one knew of their doom, and seemed as though only they could speak to one another through simple silence. Before the English nation could gave any remark, a small smile was on his companion s lips and the blonde, too, slowly came to have one of his own. They were old now- Old men chasing their youthful ambitions. There was no need for war, they had what they need. No two nations could be as they were. So simple, yet so close, and yes they fit together like the perfect set of puzzle pieces.
No matter how time drowned them together, they were together, needing one another to maintain. To survive, to satisfy. Time was their friend, and their enemy. Antonio needed Arthur, and Arthur needed Antonio. It was a nature they had come to understand, but they does not mean they accept it- even now. Besides that was the best part of their game of love and war.
Finding new ways to fall apart.