Drabble dump~ 6! Colonial edition!
Apr. 28th, 2010 03:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hellzabethHere we go again.
"Bermuda, what did I say about sinking ships?"
"... don't do it unless they're French..."
"Or?"
"... or Spanish, American, German or Dutch."
"And what were those ships?"
A sigh. "... Portuguese."
"And what have we learned?"
"Don't do it or you end up sleeping on the couch?"
"Bermuda!"
"Sorry daddy..."
"Go apologise to your Papa. And no more spells for a week."
"But daaaaaaaaaaaddy!"
"No buts! Go!"
---
Gibraltar sulked quietly, arms folded and leaning against the wall of one of his old churches. He picked at the crumbling stone absently, wondering exactly when England and Spain would stop yelling and go back to taking him out to the cinema like they promised.
He said he wanted both of them to have sovereignty, but if it was going to be like this, was it really worth it?
"Hey."
He blinked down at the younger boy next to him, who was sweating slightly and turning an odd pink colour in the sun. "Mm?"
"Do you think they'll beat their record from last time?" Falklands sipped at his water bottle, even his hair curl drooping in the heat.
"Two days is pretty long to wait." Gibraltar replied.
"Yeah." a pause, before a grin split the paler boy's face. "You wanna go to the water park?"
Inside the church, something broke and Spain cried something in very loud and anguished Spanish.
"Yeah, let's go."
---
He had failed. His dreams of empire shattered around him like so many glass fragments. That last look his beautiful country hag given him, contemptuous around the bruises and the blood, was almost enough to make him wish for death. But no, England had decided on a fate worse than death for him. Here he stood, watching the ship sail into the distance, on this island in the middle of the ocean.
Napoleon did not weep. He did not yell. He just watched as his freedom sailed away.
"Hey!"
The Frenchman turned.
A little negro girl stood, hands on her hips and strangely oriental eyes narrowed at him. "You can't just go running around my island!" she yelled at him. She couldn't be older than six, and yet she dared to speak to him like this?
"Your island, little girl?" he sneered. "This island is England's."
She had the gall to roll her eyes at him too. "Well yeah, I'm England's too. Cause I'm the island."
Ah, that made sense.
"You are St Helena Island?"
She frowned at him. "Uhuh. And you're Napoleon."
"That is Monsieur Bonaparte to you, slave child."
Her skin was too dark to indicate a blush, but her shoulders hunched as she marched over to where he stood. Would she push him off the cliff? Hah, but England had denied him honourable death. Was there honour in being defeated by a child?
Well there was certainly no honour in being punched in the crown jewels, that was for sure.
---
Screaming, there was only screaming, though whether it was his own or his people's he could no longer tell. Maybe it was both.
There was the odd paradox that he could not breathe and yet he could still scream. He was vomiting ash and rock and bile and smoke and it burned his lips and throat and face. His eyes were hot with tears, or perhaps it was lava that flowed down his cheeks. His whole body was on fire. He was suffocating.
"Montserrat!"
There were voices in between the screaming and the rush of pyroclastic flows and the bubbling under his skin. Voices like cool water on his burning buildings and cold hands on his red-hot flesh.
"Montserrat!! Oh god--!"
They were all dying, skin melting off bones and eyes liquidising in the heat and the pain was so intense and white hot that he wanted it all to end--!
"Don't you dare give out on me, Blaine!"
The Irish language bubbled forth like a brook onto the desert, soothing his ears and dragging him from the fire and the pain if only for a moment. "Aine..." he choked, spilling forth more ash and smoke and death.
"Shh, shh, I have you, I've got you." she soothed, and for a moment touched his shoulder. A hiss of pain from her and the burning of her skin on his own molten-hot flesh caused her to withdraw it just as quickly. "It will pass, I promise it'll be over."
"Please," he coughed out, smoke streaming from his mouth and nose and curling upwards into the air. "just keep-- talking--"
A pause, a short silence, and it nearly made him grasp at her to make her talk. "I have sought to discover a haven of rest..." she sang lowly, and lava met the ocean in a hiss of steam and soothing water. "Where the sun sinks by night in the land of the west..."
To the sounds of Irish folksongs, the people of Montserrat fled.
"Bermuda, what did I say about sinking ships?"
"... don't do it unless they're French..."
"Or?"
"... or Spanish, American, German or Dutch."
"And what were those ships?"
A sigh. "... Portuguese."
"And what have we learned?"
"Don't do it or you end up sleeping on the couch?"
"Bermuda!"
"Sorry daddy..."
"Go apologise to your Papa. And no more spells for a week."
"But daaaaaaaaaaaddy!"
"No buts! Go!"
---
Gibraltar sulked quietly, arms folded and leaning against the wall of one of his old churches. He picked at the crumbling stone absently, wondering exactly when England and Spain would stop yelling and go back to taking him out to the cinema like they promised.
He said he wanted both of them to have sovereignty, but if it was going to be like this, was it really worth it?
"Hey."
He blinked down at the younger boy next to him, who was sweating slightly and turning an odd pink colour in the sun. "Mm?"
"Do you think they'll beat their record from last time?" Falklands sipped at his water bottle, even his hair curl drooping in the heat.
"Two days is pretty long to wait." Gibraltar replied.
"Yeah." a pause, before a grin split the paler boy's face. "You wanna go to the water park?"
Inside the church, something broke and Spain cried something in very loud and anguished Spanish.
"Yeah, let's go."
---
He had failed. His dreams of empire shattered around him like so many glass fragments. That last look his beautiful country hag given him, contemptuous around the bruises and the blood, was almost enough to make him wish for death. But no, England had decided on a fate worse than death for him. Here he stood, watching the ship sail into the distance, on this island in the middle of the ocean.
Napoleon did not weep. He did not yell. He just watched as his freedom sailed away.
"Hey!"
The Frenchman turned.
A little negro girl stood, hands on her hips and strangely oriental eyes narrowed at him. "You can't just go running around my island!" she yelled at him. She couldn't be older than six, and yet she dared to speak to him like this?
"Your island, little girl?" he sneered. "This island is England's."
She had the gall to roll her eyes at him too. "Well yeah, I'm England's too. Cause I'm the island."
Ah, that made sense.
"You are St Helena Island?"
She frowned at him. "Uhuh. And you're Napoleon."
"That is Monsieur Bonaparte to you, slave child."
Her skin was too dark to indicate a blush, but her shoulders hunched as she marched over to where he stood. Would she push him off the cliff? Hah, but England had denied him honourable death. Was there honour in being defeated by a child?
Well there was certainly no honour in being punched in the crown jewels, that was for sure.
---
Screaming, there was only screaming, though whether it was his own or his people's he could no longer tell. Maybe it was both.
There was the odd paradox that he could not breathe and yet he could still scream. He was vomiting ash and rock and bile and smoke and it burned his lips and throat and face. His eyes were hot with tears, or perhaps it was lava that flowed down his cheeks. His whole body was on fire. He was suffocating.
"Montserrat!"
There were voices in between the screaming and the rush of pyroclastic flows and the bubbling under his skin. Voices like cool water on his burning buildings and cold hands on his red-hot flesh.
"Montserrat!! Oh god--!"
They were all dying, skin melting off bones and eyes liquidising in the heat and the pain was so intense and white hot that he wanted it all to end--!
"Don't you dare give out on me, Blaine!"
The Irish language bubbled forth like a brook onto the desert, soothing his ears and dragging him from the fire and the pain if only for a moment. "Aine..." he choked, spilling forth more ash and smoke and death.
"Shh, shh, I have you, I've got you." she soothed, and for a moment touched his shoulder. A hiss of pain from her and the burning of her skin on his own molten-hot flesh caused her to withdraw it just as quickly. "It will pass, I promise it'll be over."
"Please," he coughed out, smoke streaming from his mouth and nose and curling upwards into the air. "just keep-- talking--"
A pause, a short silence, and it nearly made him grasp at her to make her talk. "I have sought to discover a haven of rest..." she sang lowly, and lava met the ocean in a hiss of steam and soothing water. "Where the sun sinks by night in the land of the west..."
To the sounds of Irish folksongs, the people of Montserrat fled.
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no subject
Date: 2010-04-28 02:53 pm (UTC)DESECRATING CHURCHES? IS THERE NO END TO THE PIRACY. lol I bet that was probably something priceless in Spanish gold. Poor Spain. I bet their meetings always turn out like this orz. Poor Gibraltar. Why can't his parents get along like a normal kid's? orz Poor Falklands is melting though awww. I love their bro-ness.
lol at St Helena Island being an awesome little six-year-old and punching one of France's greatest historical figures where it hurts. Now THAT'S a decisive English victory! And I'll bet England would have approved. \o/
OMG MONTSERRAT WHY. ;A; Mama Ireland. <333 I just... that's all I can say to that really. Because I'm bawwwwing. Mama Ireland. <3
no subject
Date: 2010-04-28 02:59 pm (UTC)Uhuh, and bringing his colonies along for the ride as well. XD He's such a wonderful father figure, both of them are. I don't think there are any normal parents with the Nations. There will always be some level of fucked up. Falkland and Gibraltar have such a wonderful bromance.
England totally patted her on the head for that and got her a new dress. That's my colony!
GEOGRAPHICAL DISASTERS MAN, THEY SUCK. Mama Ireland's there to make it all better. <33333
no subject
Date: 2010-04-28 03:32 pm (UTC)It's like a field trip! There are learnings to be had! \o/ Spain was worse I think... he wasn't even clingy like England. He just FORGOT he even HAD kids half the time orz. lol well I meant the little ones probably watch their humans going around being normal and kind of want that bawww, it's not fair. |D
I'll bet it was certainly an interesting talking point at the Congress of Vienna. Boasting about how HIS colony kicked France's Italian midget where it hurts and can YOUR colonies do that? I THINK NOT.
REMINDS ME OF KRAKATOA ERUPTING. Which was apparently so goddamn loud you could hear it from Australia orz. And then the island exploded. :| Thank god this wasn't like THAT.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-29 08:36 pm (UTC)How do you forget you own half a continent and then some? *facepalm* oh Spain. This brings to mind the old discussion of who was the more fail parent, the one who noticed his colonies but emotionally scarred them, or the one that forgot all about them for 99.9% of the time?
Hahahah man that would be awkward. "Oh yes, and by the way France, you know your dear 'Emperor'? Got kicked in the goolies by a little girl. My little girl. I think I hear the sound of your reputation sinking. Just like your ships! AHAHAHAHAHA!"
... Krakatoa? *wikis* Woah. /woah/ It just kind of.... boom? Yeah, definitely not as bad as that. God, I don't even want to imagine what that would do to Montserrat. óAò
Senseless comment is senseless.
Date: 2010-04-28 08:57 pm (UTC)Gibraltar and Falklands... ♥
OH IRELAND!
Can I marry that woman?Re: Senseless comment is senseless.
Date: 2010-04-29 08:38 pm (UTC)<3 they're so cute. Bromance ftw.
SURE WHATEVER
but be prepared to deal with the in-laws!Marriage, yes.
Date: 2010-04-29 08:44 pm (UTC)Oh yes, I was thinking exactly the same socute♥
OHYAY
Pff, they'll love me. They'll have to or else...