Arthur Kirkland
Administrator
23.
Played by Hat.
Offline.
|
Post by England on Aug 5, 2013 21:04:44 GMT -6
Fog.
Fog as far as he could see.
The moisture of it dampened his clothes and hair. An insidious aura hung in every drop, laden with an oppressive negativity that England's stubborn nature strained to ignore. This wasn't his fog. It wasn't the familiar mist clouding London streets beneath drab, overcast skies. It wasn't the clinging chill of damp dotting the resilient fabric of a tweed jacket, casting its embrace around the lost and lovers walking along his streets. Arthur found this fog more comparable to the breath of a great beast lying in wait, poised to strike.
In this case said beast was the hulking structure of the manor behind him.
Arthur had ventured out to seek relief from the constant barrage of negative energies beating at his aura. As a user of magic, he could shield himself from its influence to an extent. His issue was that the unceasing effort was wearing him down. That constant barrage was chipping away at his defenses, little by little, no matter how hard he tried to remain afloat. The Englishman knew it was a matter of time before this place forced his surrender in a way that no one had for centuries.
Gravel crunched underfoot as Arthur navigated his way through the mist alongside a weathered fence of wrought-iron. He followed it for lack of a better path since this was the only landmark that he'd come across in the last few minutes. The dense fog gave the illusion that the shadows further off were moving. Considering all that he'd glimpse so far Arthur knew there could be plenty of hostile beings immersed in that fog. He felt eyes on him wherever he went. Out here in the open the weight of that unblinking gaze felt sharply more predatory.
The Englishman came in range of cemetery gates. They stood open, one hanging crooked on its hinges and rusted from the elements. His eyes traveled up to the grotesque gargoyles that were perched as silent sentinels at the high point of the entrance. He lacked any genuine interest in viewing the tombs beyond this point. The remnants of brittle bones housed in these cement structures offered him no comfort or resources; but the cement pillar of this gate at least provided a sturdy surface for him to lean back against. Arthur pulled a deep breath into his lungs, legs folding slowly to crouch. A hand stripped off his hat to send fingers running through a mop of unruly yellow darkened with the damp of the fog.
His senses were playing tricks on him. The air passing to him from amongst those tombs carried a phantom scent to Arthur. Roses on the wind. He pinched the bridge of his nose with gloved fingers, chuckling low to himself. "Get it together, Arthur. Now you're smelling things."
That moment of amusement was interrupted when his ears detected the sound of something treading on the gravel further into the fog. He reached immediately for his gun to pull it free. His bullets were limited, so wasting one without knowing his target was something the Englishman refused to do. Green eyes squinted through the mist to try picking out the shape of whatever creature was coming closer. The smell of roses was stronger now. Was some fragrant phantom approaching him to strike? If he could detect it, surely it could detect him as well, so there was no advantage to trying to maintain the element of surprise. "Who's there? Take one more step and I'll shoot."
|
|
Offline.
0 posts made.
Deleted
Deleted
|
Post by Deleted on Aug 15, 2013 20:09:20 GMT -6
Francis couldn't tell where he was walking or how long he's been out here, and with all this fog suspended around him it was hard to tell whether he was getting anywhere or nowhere at all. Occasionally he had to glance over his shoulder, make sure that the Manor was still in range of view. It still wasn't anything reassuring to look at. Looming there, waiting for Francis's return. But getting lost outside wasn't any better a possibility than getting lost inside that damned building - the exterior was equally unpromising, the unlit sky casting darkness on an already discerning maze of fog. Anything could be lurking here, taking advantage of the fog as a thick, cloudy figure to conceal themselves behind.
Were that to be the case, Francis did have his rapier ready at hand. But his guard was slightly lower than it had been at the start, worn down by the chill of the air and overall disconcerting effect of Baudeau. His fingers felt frozen to the cool material of the weapon's handle, his hair weighed down by the moisture and clung to paling skin. It was almost a feverish feeling, but nothing that was enough to send him turning back. Being outside of the Manor's walls provided a sliver more of hope for escape, after all, and despite its vaster, more open space, it almost felt more lonesome out here than it did inside.
That feeling alone was frightening enough, testing the daunting idea that he could be the only one out here. Though he knew better than to let any such thoughts in just yet, focusing instead on his surroundings, being alert and attentive toward anything he might run into - a person, a creature, perhaps an item that could be of use to him. Breaths were taken in steady through his mouth, keeping his grip sturdy so that he won't be taken completely off guard by anything. The tip of that blade followed wherever his eyes went, reluctant but ready to strike at anything. His steps were slowed in attempt to hush that sound of gravel, listening for any noises that might be accompanying him. So far he couldn't hear anything else, uncertain whether he should consider that a good omen or not.
He did catch wind of a creak, though something like that he'd blame on the wind - if only for the sake of his rationality. He paused to catch his bearings again, looking around to see what had changed and whether there was anything new in sight. It was hard to pick anything out when all of it was swallowed up by dark, but he knew there had to be something out here. Something that would lure the more courageous and desperate visitors outside to find. Whatever that would be, or whether it was even anything at all, he was trying not to give in to his more cowardly desire to go back in. He continued forward again, a skyward glance bringing towering gates to his attention.
There was a brief moment of relief that he had finally made it somewhere, even if he couldn't yet see what was behind those gates. He neared closer to one side of the boarding fences, catching glimpse of some tombstones that were closer in range - and he had no time to mull over the unsettling thought of being near the dead when a voice sounded.
"Who's there? Take one more step and I'll shoot." It startled Francis, sent him a noisy step back. But not even the murky fog could mask the familiarity of it, and immediate recognition of Arthur's voice replaced all that sudden fear with relief. Relief wasn't at all what he would expect to feel at the sound of a once rival nation, though at least he was somebody. A 'somebody' that he would much prefer to find here than most other somebodies.
But Francis knew to heed to those words, announcing himself first before he makes any other move. A held breath was released, rapier lowered down and sent back into its scabbard. "It's only me, Arzur. Put zat down, s'il tu plait."
And once those words were spoken, he deemed it safe enough to take that warned step closer, stepping out of his own concealing fog to reveal himself to the English nation. Arthur's presence provided a stronger sense of relief than just his voice. Francis could almost embrace him at this point... But for now those blue eyes were locked on the barrel of Arthur's gun, and then up toward the man's face. He could only hope that no tricks were being played on his mind, and that this was actually the real Arthur.. so for now he stood still, kept his distance, and made sure he wasn't coming off as a threat. "What are you doing out 'ere..?"
|
|
Arthur Kirkland
Administrator
23.
Played by Hat.
Offline.
|
Post by England on Aug 18, 2013 5:58:35 GMT -6
It was natural for Arthur to hesitate even after those spoken words. He had jolted when Francis's voice reached to him through the fog. His eyes squinted, narrowing to sharpen their focus. The fingers of that mist spread its grip away from the Frenchman with an appearance so sudden it could have been a magician's trick. Leave it to Francis to look cool making an entrance just by taking a couple steps forward. Arthur lowered his arm, gun barrel aimed now at the ground. He did not put that weapon away yet. In echo of the Frenchman's suspicions, the Englishman was also entertaining the thought over whether this was a trick or not.
Emerald scanned Francis from head to toe. It would be easy for him to pick out any detail that proved a deception. No one knew France better than he did. He had made a lifetime habit out of reading everything there was to from the other nation; to better estimate the danger of his most constant rival. Arthur had memorized every nuance of the Frenchman. He could read the subtle shifts in Francis's posture that indicated hostility, could take a signal from the coil of those lean muscles when they were prepared to strike with lethal, languid grace. When the curve of the man's lips were sincere in their smile or twisted a fraction too much in concealed derision. Arthur knew the luster of the Frenchman's hair, the perfection of it groomed over flesh in pale, golden strands.
All of these things were tools he could use to spot any illusion of Francis that might have come upon him. It was the eyes that he decided to scrutinize most. The window into the Frenchman's soul that he himself had come in close contact with on many occasions. Arthur's stare penetrated deep into them to inspect the cerulean layers, cruel or enraged or twinkling -- he found a natural confusion in them now. Did he have the same stamp of exhaustion in his own eyes? Arthur could tell that the Frenchman's aura had been dampened from the effects of the Manor. All very real.
This was no illusion. The Englishman holstered his firearm to stride forward with a heavy crunch of the gravel under their feet. He hovered there in front of Francis with the increasing furrow of thick eyebrows drawn together. Here he had been going about working for his own survival first and foremost, to worry and fret over whether the people he cared about were faring as well, only to finally stumble across Francis in this misty, dangerous locale. "What am I doing out here? What are you doing out here? It's dangerous to be out in the open, you daft fool. For God's sake, at least come over here off the main path."
His lecture was spoken in a hoarse voice. He was sure that this sudden welling feeling inside him simply meant that his exhaustion had grown. The hand that took hold of Francis's forearm to pull the Frenchman into the sheltered space behind the gate's structure might have been clinging too hard and too hopeful, betraying his relief. It wasn't necessary to drag the other man close until their chests were lightly touching. Arthur did it anyway as a compromise to the sudden, silly notion to embrace Francis. This place was truly getting to his head. He pitched his voice low, mindful of whatever things could be patrolling around their little sheltered space. "Are you injured at all? You don't look hurt to me."
|
|
Offline.
0 posts made.
Deleted
Deleted
|
Post by Deleted on Sept 1, 2013 17:26:47 GMT -6
He was no longer acknowledging the weaponry between them, and instead studious attention was paid toward Arthur's own visage - even with particular interest taken in watching Arthur's eyes, he could see the shifts in the man's expression, the bout of inner conflict he seemed to have briefly undergone. That pair of emerald eyes that opposed him did appear alert yet worn down, as far as he could see, perhaps even ignited with the faintest amount of hope. Though he did assume that that was hope he was seeing, Francis knew better than to expect Arthur would outwardly convey any such feelings. It was further relieving to know that he wasn't the only one experiencing hope and relief here, even if both men were stubborn to show it.
Francis's posture remained rigid despite the aching in his limbs. He stood still even as Arthur was approaching, now able to see the man's distinct expression at a closer proximity. He watched with composed eyes as Arthur's eyebrows drew together, a surefire sign that he was about to be scolded - not that Francis was exactly prepared to listen to him at a time like this, or ever at all. Even as he was handled and pulled from his standstill with a grip that was tighter than necessary, the Frenchman made no effort to protest - and there was, in fact, the slightest of smirks on his face once Arthur's lecture had ended and the two were standing at an even closer and more compromising distance than prior.
"By coming out 'ere all on your own, I presume, you 'ave put yourself in as much danger as I 'ave," he mused, using Arthur's presence as an excuse not to sound as terrified as he was on the journey here. The arm not possessed by a tight vice lifted between them, the pad of his thumb sweeping along Arthur's lower lip in a thoughtless gesture. His eyes were focused on that mouth all the while, keeping his voice at a similarly quiet volume. "I was out 'ere looking for someone, not you in particular, but anyone. We 'ave to venture out at some point, it would not do anyone any good to stay 'idden in one spot to rot ou go insane ou whatever stupid zings ze Manor wants to do wiz us. Zough now zat we've wandered 'ere to each ozer's arms, I suppose we 'ave no choice but to stay togezer for safety, mm..?"
As his speech climbed he found himself heedlessly leaning closer to Arthur's ear, perhaps getting carried away with the lure of the man's scent. Whichever intoxicating mix of tea and other homely smells it happened to be, it was distracting him from the matter at hand: the less alluring scenery around them and the revolting scents that lingered in darker corners.
Francis leaned back with a clear of his throat, now lowering his hand to attempt prying Arthur's tight grip off of him. Without stepping back from their close stance, he finally went on to address the man's question. As important as his own well-being was, naturally, he didn't forget his worrying over Arthur's health just yet. "Aside from zese bruises I will now 'ave on my arm, I'm fine. Just exhausted now, and.. well, you look a little worse, don't you? Are you still keeping yourself togezer?"
|
|
Arthur Kirkland
Administrator
23.
Played by Hat.
Offline.
|
Post by England on Sept 2, 2013 18:22:22 GMT -6
He had been the one that instigated a connection with Francis. It was just like the Frenchman to take that as an invitation to invade his personal space entirely. Had they been standing together outside of this location Arthur would have been riled with offense. Circumstances had changed since Halloween. He was changing too thanks to the influence of the Manor. Arthur could only stand motionless and allow the passage of Francis's finger crossing the span of his lip. The touch was warm, familiar, real. So wonderfully real in ways that this place was not.
When Francis leaned in to take in his scent, his own face twitched inward to better bask in the presence of the Frenchman. There wasn't a time that Arthur could recall where he'd felt this glad to see the other nation. This was France, after all. An enemy at the best of times, an ally at the worst of times; an intrusive neighbour, common nuisance, and very rarely a companion to spend the night with when Arthur's loneliness grew too immense to spurn the Frenchman's advances. It was to those memories that his mind turned. Better to think about the pleasantries of elegant fingers touching his skin, a low whisper in the dark that he could pretend sounded tender in that silken voice, or merely the comforting presence of a warm body he knew as well as his own.
Arthur needed to cling to those memories and the precious, warm feelings they instilled in him. So much positivity had been sapped from him. All it took was a reminder that there were experiences to remember beyond the hardships of these grounds. That there was still hope here to be found with Francis at his side. As viciously as they had warred against one another in older times, Arthur knew from experience that they made a formidable team even if they were merely shadows of their former glory. He could feel hope again. The pressure inside of him lifted even when Francis was retreating with a sound in his throat that jarred the Englishman from his internal musings.
"I'm sorry for the bruises," Arthur murmured in a voice turning further husky with repressed emotion, "though you've had far worse from me. I just-- I needed to feel for myself that you were real. You are. You're actually here."
His composure gave way to impulse after that last rush of words. He didn't even mind that the Frenchman insinuated he looked like rubbish. Arthur went looping his arms around that nearby figure to clasp it in an embrace. There was such a tumult of relief coursing through him that the customary embarrassment chasing on the heels of this spontaneous act of affectionate expression couldn't make the Englishman pull away in time to stop it. He squeezed gently around Francis until the warmth exuded from the man's body was seeping into his to chase away some of the chill in the air.
There was still the issue of answering Francis's query. "I'm not physically hurt. Nothing bad. Scrapes and bruises that don't seem keen on healing like normal. I ache like I've been fighting a battle non-stop since things went pear-shaped at the party. So far I have managed to elude any real danger. It's just this place. The energy of it. You know that I'm sensitive to things like that. Well, let me tell you -- every bit of this place feels poisoned. I'm sure that it's poisoning me too. If you hadn't turned up then I might have finally sunk into despair. How unlike me, isn't it?"
We shouldn't linger out here in the open. It's dangerous." Arthur pointed out, starting to recede from that embrace to look around their surroundings. "We could take refuge in one of the opened tombs. Or even climb one of these trees to seek shelter in the branches. I'm leaning towards the former because of my exhaustion but the latter does seem like a more pleasant place to hunker down. Of course, we've been stuck together in worse places. What do you think?"
|
|
Offline.
0 posts made.
Deleted
Deleted
|
Post by Deleted on Sept 27, 2013 15:58:44 GMT -6
The tone in Arthur's voice, once more, was unmistakable. Intently did Francis listen to the Englishman's apology, the honesty in his words that reflected how the Frenchman himself had felt earlier. Wondering whether Arthur's appearance was only a mirage to torment his feelings. His touch was the most vivid reminder that this was a moment to hold on to, and already a majority of Francis didn't want to push any buttons between them - he didn't want Arthur out of sight nor mind, wanted nothing to come and sweep him away from what felt like the truest place to be standing. A dip and shake of his head sent wisps of blond falling over his cheeks, expressing how little a priority those bruises were. "Never mind, zat was nozing. I was wondering..."
That train of words halted in a hitch of breath, void of any resistance as he was pulled into Arthur's embrace. Any rational thinking on his part seemed to flee the mind, and instead he was absorbing all of the emotion felt by the other nation - not to mention that which was piling on top of his own. Just feeling Arthur's willingness to be close to him, his relief rather than disappointment to see him, the sound of his voice so near to his ear; that was all enough to derail Francis. His arms wound around a slim figure, head lowered down at an angle that effectively hid his expression from prying eyes. He wanted to smile, though that in itself, despite the overwhelm of his relief and tender emotions, felt like a chore. Both eyes closed and he tuned himself in entirely to what Arthur was saying, united again with the man's homely scent, the drawl of his voice meant only for him to hear, the pliancy of his touch meant not to wound Francis or push him away but to savor this rare and opportune affection that they were sharing.
He held their contact just as firmly, only hoping that his voice wouldn't sound choked up upon its release. "I-I mean I was 'oping zat what I saw of you was not a trick on me eizer. I would not zink zis place relents enough to let zis sort of luck 'appen to any of us. Eizer way I saw 'ow you were sitting and I could only zink zat you might be losing yourself, but I did not want to question zat eizer. Per'aps I just wished zat wasn't truly 'appening to you, because first of all it does not sound very much like you and I am not sure 'ow I would manage myself if you 'ad truly lost it."
His senses felt livelier than they have in all his endeavors here so far, a surge of emotion that he can't quite put to rest now. What had just passed between Arthur and himself felt like bliss compared to the outlying situation, though upon opening his eyes, of course - no matter how much his imagination might have persisted - he could see that they were still in the same nightmarish location. Driving their attention back to the matter at hand brought back those earlier fears once kept suppressed in Francis's mind. Considering himself lonesome outside of the Manor was one thing he tried not to let bother him, though the Manor was now making them difficult to ignore. He had found little to no one so far that could offer him any comfort - and now finally reaching such a goal, even if it wasn't someone he originally expected to find, has taken a stronger hold over him. Imagining himself having taken a different course of direction and ending up somewhere other than in Arthur's presence was hard to even endure.
As they began to release one another, glistening blue eyes averted to reluctantly take in said surroundings that Arthur was suggesting. He sucked in a breath, forced back into the reality that stared them cold in the face. Francis was inclined to keep at least some sort of contact with the other blond, perhaps linking arms or hands, that would let him know they had to intention of separating from each other. But for now, he refrained and settled solely for their close distance.
His gaze was drawn to the tomb in question, and just the sight of its enveloping darkness made him shudder. Being in an enclosed area where the dead were buried felt even less settling than being out here in the open. Francis sniffled softly before speaking again, voice gone softer and heavily laden with all aforementioned feelings. "I feel like if we went in zere, somezing would trap us right away."
Then his attention lifted to one of those trees, sizing up its trunk to determine how difficult a climb that would be - or more importantly, how sturdy the branches are. "Zough we would be easier to spot if we were up in ze trees, wouldn't we..?" Neither of these ideas sounded favorable to him. He turned his head to regard Arthur once more, finally managing a weak trace of the smile he's been formerly lacking. "But I won't make you climb one of zem, you worn old man. Maybe we should try a tomb to be more out of sight."
Of course, the intent behind his teasing words was nothing close to bitter. His voice held an affection unlike their past encounters. But something about insinuating his habitual teasing of Arthur made him feel better. It was only false hope, but it better enabled him to feel like they were still their true selves, like the Manor wasn't doing anything to change them. At least, he could only hope that they were strong enough not to allow that.
|
|
Arthur Kirkland
Administrator
23.
Played by Hat.
Offline.
|
Post by England on Oct 5, 2013 6:25:55 GMT -6
Arthur wasn't sure what he had expected out of his embrace of Francis. He anticipated being teased for that affection, rare as the Englishman bothered to show it to anyone else, especially the Frenchman. Throughout their entire history, Arthur could recount the number of times they had embraced this way, relieved and genuinely pleased to see each other, on one hand. The last time Arthur could accurately recall (the drunken clutches and non-sober pats on the back aside), had been at the end of that last Great War. It had been natural for them to cling together for a similar embrace; at the end of a battle that had worn them both down to the verge of ruin, and Arthur himself on the thin edge of collapse. He couldn't remember if Francis had felt the same way all those years ago, as warm and thrumming in his arms, while their racing hearts pulsed in opposing rhythms.
"It's a gracious sort of luck," Arthur murmured in agreement with Francis after the man had spoken that rush of trembling words, "so I am not going to question whatever fortune brought us stumbling together." His fingers pressed just a fraction tighter, as if they could sink in to pilfer all of those feelings that was causing the Frenchman's voice to be so unsteady. He didn't like that note of desperation; he'd heard it too often, and in those situations Arthur had been just as helpless to do anything to spare or deliver Francis from whatever had caused it. There was an impotent frustration brewing inside his chest. That he should be able to simply take Francis, spirit the other nation away from here, so they could commiserate about their struggles here over a shared bottle of wine across the table at some outdoor cafe in Paris.
He reflected on the seeming miracle of their reunion. Arthur would never have expected Francis to be someone he'd come across in such a random location. And yet, in a way, it wasn't a surprise at all. It's how gravity works. He thought to himself, fingers straying from a shaking shoulder to touch the tip of a golden curl nearby. There's only so long that two people can share the same space without being pulled together. Sharing a Channel, sharing a chunnel. Sharing wars and wounds and bunkers and beds on the rarest of occasions. Either I'm a step ahead of him or a step behind, but never more than a step away. This comfortable feeling that rose in him as Arthur contemplated these thoughts irritated him. Manor or not, it wouldn't do for him to get carried away with notions of gravitational pulls, or star alignments, or tectonic shifts as a substitute for dumb luck.
As their arms dropped away, Arthur reached to the collar of his jacket to pull it further around his throat. The air around him seemed to be cooling, as if to counteract the warmth inside of him that the presence of Francis had brought. Such pleasant feelings must have tasted like bitter poison to the energies of the grounds surrounding them. Arthur hoped that it might choke on that flavour. He listened to the Frenchman assess their options on where they should retreat to. It wasn't too appealing to Arthur to take refuge in a tomb either. The stagnant air where the dead lay at rest would cause him a slight touch of claustrophobia. At least the scent of Francis, even laden by dirt, sweat, and dust, gave him enough of a sense of the familiar that Arthur believed he could endure it.
He snorted when Francis taunted him. That old pattern was precisely what he needed to get himself put back in order, mentally and emotionally. Arthur drew himself up in a proud line, all squared shoulders and lifted chin, to frown at Francis for that comment. "If I am an old man, then you are an old woman. So, Madame, I'd suggest that we adjourn to the shelter of the tomb. I would hate for either of us to break a hip trying to scale the branches."
Arthur wasted no further time. He reached down to clasp a firm hold of Francis's hand and began to lead the Frenchman further forward into the cemetery. Every few steps he stopped, listening to the air around them, on the alert. His eyes were examining the tombs that they walked past as the Englishman tried to decide on a suitable one that would be large enough to accommodate them. The biggest tombs would be less compact yet more open to invasion. It was a compromise they were going to have to make. He did spare a glance down to the hand in his grasp, waiting for Francis to balk at Arthur taking charge of the situation without permission. Countless years ago, their positions would have been reversed, with the elder Francis pulling the younger Arthur along by the hand through fields and forests. Times had changed. "Do any of these catch your eye?"
|
|
Offline.
0 posts made.
Deleted
Deleted
|
Post by Deleted on Nov 2, 2013 21:03:01 GMT -6
If anything, he was relieved to hear Arthur's retort. The attitude in his voice was just what he was expecting - dare he even say hoping, just this once - to receive. With the possibility that their time together was limited, Francis wouldn't ask for anything else than to hear the other nation's voice, the presence he could depend on were things to get out of control. The fact alone that he was able to get Arthur back in line with just one remark was enlightening. It even had him smiling, albeit just a small sliver of the good feeling he could currently bring himself express. "Seeing as you called me Madame, you are implying zat I am a married woman. We must just be 'aving an old lover's spat."
He didn't immediately resist becoming Arthur's follower, nor did he retreat from the joining of their hands. His fingers simply wove themselves between the Englishman's, securing an even more possessive grip upon the man than he had initially ensued. A hold like this was also posed for Francis to take the lead whenever the urge would arise. He remained that way while they walked along, head turning to the left and to the right to see just how expansive their selection was. That they were dwelling even closer to all of these graves than before took a toll on his previous mood, that pleased feeling tampered once more by the darker aura of the cemetery. He paused whenever Arthur did, squinting through all this fog to try and make his decision; though naturally that wouldn't go without complaint.
"Zat is a terrible question. All of zese look awful and no less menacing zan ze ozers. Zough I suppose we will 'ave to choose one of ze larger ones, so we're not so cramped." With a small amount of courage gathered, Francis took on that role of leader and ushered Arthur along to a grave that was more promising in size. Just walking through its entrance arch diminished that ounce of courage, and his hand tightened its grip without hesitation. It was like walking through a thin, invisible blanket of menace - suddenly the air felt heavier with dark and threatening vibes that the exterior did not so vigorously supply.
It might have been a very foolish decision, but at least he didn't make it on his own. Treading on this ground felt like a crime, so he made sure to take each step carefully. He crossed over to one of the stone walls, leaning against its cold surface with an exhaled breath. Releasing the fellow blond man's hand, Francis allowed himself to hunker down and rest his legs a while, passing a hand over now imperfect hair. Those motions were similar to what he saw of Arthur when he had first wandered into the courtyard, except here he was briefly mulling over the fact that he could really use a hairbrush right now.
"It certainly is good luck zat we found each ozer, hm? Now we should 'ope zat our ridiculous luck keeps up for us. Are we planning on staying in 'ere all night, or should we eventually venture back to ze Manor?"
He did actually have his own opinion regarding that question, though he wasn't going to admit to it just yet. Now that they had settled here, alive and without harm, it felt to him like it would be too risky to try going anywhere else. Long journeys on foot were dangerous enough, no matter where it was you were headed. Francis still had Arthur here; no one (or no thing) was trying to separate them yet, and that was enough to content him. Any moment that they have together could be their last, especially in such a vulnerable, open place as this, so he might as well make the most of it.
|
|
Arthur Kirkland
Administrator
23.
Played by Hat.
Offline.
|
Post by England on Nov 4, 2013 6:10:15 GMT -6
Arthur knew that he had walked into that one. Addressing Francis as he did, he knew mere seconds after doing so that the Frenchman was bound to make a comment on it. And he was proven right. The comment about marriage and the insinuation of their relationship had the Englishman reaching up his free hand to tug the brim of his hat further forward in an effort to hide his fluster. He knew better than to start sputtering. That sound would only give Francis more satisfaction. He just growled a low answer instead. "We're not married, Francis, and no matter what papers you've got stashed I still deny signing them."
Francis stealing the lead from him after that disparaging comment about the graves wasn't expected. The Englishman had to jerk his feet into the new direction set by the Frenchman's pace, and his companion was walking with enough determination that Arthur didn't fight it. He let his attention move to the area around them, peering through the depths of the fog to watch for anything that might be following them along their path. Aside from the slow rolling of its mists, Arthur couldn't see other movement. That was worthy of relief. If they could get themselves hidden away before any creatures did come lumbering along then it'd give them more safety.
He was immune to the trepidation that Francis experienced within the tomb. Arthur was as familiar with the dead as he was with the living. In his lifetime, the Englishman had learnt that there was more to fear from the living than the dead. His steps were more confident than the Frenchman's as he moved into that space with Francis. The only thing that gave him pause was the depth of the darkness inside this tomb. The shadows further back in the structure made his skin crawl. Arthur went bumping lightly into Francis when the man finally stopped, as intent as he was in studying that patch of blackness. He fought to keep any emerging panic down inside. It was too obvious just how fearful the other man was about this place. He'd keep a brave front for Francis's sake.
Once he was released, Arthur took a seat as well. He positioned himself where he could see the fog outside beyond the archway. If anything did approach them it would come from out there. Arthur wasn't about to let a potential threat sneak up on him from behind. His legs were stretched out in front of him to let the muscles recover, and the Englishman's back finally relaxed enough to recline against the support of stone. He withdrew his pistol from its holster inside of his jacket to place the weapon on the ground near his hand. This would make it easier to shoot any oncoming threats. Plus, this position put him in harm's way as another defense for Francis. Arthur knew how to be a suitable shield.
"I think it would be safer if we remained in here until we've got our strength back." Arthur answered when Francis asked him that question. "I don't know about you but I am bloody sore. The idea of walking anywhere else doesn't sound at all appealing. If we are to be attacked, I'd prefer that it be when I am at my best. Once we've rested awhile then I'll do a spot of scouting to see if the area is clear and then we can make a dash for it. The Manor isn't that far away from here."
He turned his head to look at Francis. His face was paler than usual, strained from all the determination it had taken Arthur to make it this far without collapse. Even so, he still managed a wry smile at the other blonde. "You look like a hairbrush is the least of your worries. When was the last time that you stopped to rest while you've been here? An old man like you is bound to get wrinkles if you carry on so recklessly."
|
|
Offline.
0 posts made.
Deleted
Deleted
|
Post by Deleted on Nov 19, 2013 16:31:49 GMT -6
It took only moments of sitting down for Francis to realize how heavily his fatigue has settled in him. His body felt so heavy there on stone ground, his mind whining at him not to move. Although thoughts of sleep were prodding at him, he made a point to focus on Arthur's voice and remain aware of sounds around them - especially those that might be preparing their emerge from the shadows that accompany the two nations. "Being sore isn't so foreign a feeling to you, is it?" was what he made sure to interrupt with. The atmosphere of the tomb was now so chilling and melancholy that Francis was nearing desperation to keep himself together. His comments might be so untimely in a serious situation such as this, but he didn't appear to pose any worry about irritating Arthur.
His head lowered, knuckles visible from where his fingers remained enveloped in sodden hair, dulled gaze fixated somewhere on the ground ahead of him. The aching in his legs felt so distant, as did everything else that was outside of the tomb's interior. He was craving sleep unlike he had been at the start of his journey, lulled by the resting and stillness that his body sought - but he had to fight it. His hand released from his hair and his eyes lifted again to Arthur, hoping he hadn't tuned out too much to the rest of the Englishman's words.
The sound of Arthur's gun scraping the pavement alerted Francis to remember his own weapon. Although it seemed common sense that a gun would prove more useful than the blade that he had, his hand moved to pull his rapier out of its holster in precaution. He would continue making an effort to ignore the heavy feeling in his head and how his consciousness threatened to drift, resting his fingers on the handle of his blade now that it was out.
While the rest of his comforts felt to be dwindling, he could only hope Arthur's smile would remain there for him. Francis almost couldn't recognize his own smile, weak and hopeful as it was, deciding not to mask his weariness any longer. Arthur could read him far too well. "I'm surprised you don't 'ave wrinkles already wiz all zis worrying you are doing. I 'ave not zought about ze last time I rested - zat does not matter now zat we're 'ere." He sucked in a breath, casting his gaze aside to peer out the entrance archway. The fog obscured most of what was viewable outside, though even that was more appealing to him than focusing on what else could be lurking in here. His posture slumped, arms curling around his knees to drag them to his chest. "'aving to run anywhere does not sound good, so our luck 'ad better continue when we get out."
His hands found themselves at his face again, rubbing as if to clear his exhaustion away that way. "But zen what? I can't tell if going to sleep is any better an idea once we are back at ze Manor, but you 'ave no idea 'ow much I would like a bed right now." Though the bedrooms seemed so far away and no part of him wanted to get up from where he was. As Francis's voice had quieted, another noise from outside started in its place: the patter of rain. As if rain was anything he hasn't seen in a long time, the Frenchman's neck craned to get a better glance outside. Without wind to falter it, the rain was falling straight and at a startlingly heavy rate. He couldn't decide whether this was a good time or not.
Either way, it was enough to finally move the Frenchman from his resting spot. He came in closer to Arthur, squinting beyond the archway of the catacomb. As if the fog hadn't done enough to distort their vision, the rain was helping to make their path nearly impossible to see. He kept an eye on water that would begin collecting there on the ground, having finally lost touch with his previous mood. "Hn. I meant good luck. I suppose we should move quicker now?"
|
|
Arthur Kirkland
Administrator
23.
Played by Hat.
Offline.
|
Post by England on Nov 22, 2013 7:06:16 GMT -6
Arthur could sympathize with Francis's state of misery. It was cold inside this tomb just as much as it had been outside. The shelter of stone had not provided much better atmosphere as he had hoped. If anything, being together in that dreary space amplified the chill in a way that caused the Englishman's bones to hurt. He looked away from the opening of the tomb to regard the Frenchman, shrugging dismissively. Too stubborn to admit to his own weaknesses. "I can think of once or twice where I have been badly off. I'm sure it will get better here soon once we've had a time to fully settle in. Surely we'll adjust soon."
That glimmer of optimism was just his way of fighting off resignation. There were no better places to be found here. Every progressive step seemed to bring more trouble. Arthur was starting to wonder if this was what was expected of them; once worn down, they would be easy targets. He was a skilled enough tactician to understand that it was an excellent strategy. It was one he'd used in his own military affairs in the past. Having it directed at him now was a bitter sense of karmatic justice.
Francis making mention of his penchant for fretting had Arthur scrutinizing the Frenchman with greater intent. He didn't like how the man looked. Not because he was disheveled and in need of a hair brushing. It was because Arthur didn't like how fragile Francis appeared sitting there next to him. People often made the mistake of dismissing the Frenchman as a weakling. His pampered appearance, preference for the aesthetic and embrace of amorous living was a clever disguise that masked what was hidden beneath. If Arthur was a shield of stone, Francis was a dagger sheathed in silk; deceptively beautiful and infinitely dangerous.
How often had they clashed together, two Titans at war, flexing their power across the globe in an effort to destroy one another? Arthur had thrown everything in his arsenal at the Frenchman; men, ships, artillery, arrows, bullets, cannons. Francis had always returned from the haze of war, laughing it off like a lark, baiting him into another round. This man had endured the worst of him. He'd endured the humiliation of being conquered by hostile forces with a grace that Arthur envied. England had to admit, however grudgingly, that perhaps Francis was made out of even stronger material than himself.
Seeing Francis looking so vulnerable, so fragile, so human touched his heart in a way that left Arthur disconcerted. A slim, twisted little facet of him longed to taunt the Frenchman for showing him such a face, enjoying this sight. A much larger portion wanted to march itself back to the Manor to start wrenching it apart piece by piece as revenge for warping Francis into this state. No one is permitted to put that look on your face except me. That is the right I have earned and I'll be damned if a sodding building cheats me out of it this far along. He thought to himself as his gaze finally dropped itself from the Frenchman's image.
Arthur knew before the other man that the rain was coming. Even with the fog so thick around him it was a scent that he knew, no matter that this patch of sky differed from his own. He watched the droplets start to fall in a thick sheet of rain. The sight of the drops ricocheting off the stone of the tomb was hypnotic, reminding Arthur of how it bounced on the pavement outside of his house, on particularly dreary days when he couldn't go out into his garden without gearing up in a rain slicker. On those days he would gaze out his window, petulant as a child, with a cuppa and a crossword to pass the time. His expression wasn't too far removed from sullen at the moment.
"It does seem like we are going from bad to worse. At least I can handle the rain. Are you so spoiled by comfortable living that you can't handle getting drizzled upon?" Arthur teasingly jabbed. He felt Francis shifting closer beside him, and the warmth that radiated closer from the man's body was welcome. Sharing his personal space wasn't bothersome when it was a matter of survival. The Englishman's arm lifted to stretch across the expanse of the Frenchman's shoulders to cinch that body even tighter to his side so they could share what little heat they had. He was too cold to be embarrassed by his action. "I've been in worse than this. You remember the First Great War, of course, and all those bloody trenches? You couldn't escape the rain. It fell in sheets, just like this, and turned the dirt beneath us into mud so thick it felt like the earth was trying to suction your boots right off your feet. There would be twelve of us all hunkered together in that little hellish pit wiping rainwater off our helmets to keep it from trickling down into our faces. Having a roof over my head like this, even if it is one of the most unsettling tombs I have ever encountered, feels palatial when I think back to that time."
"Perhaps if I think of this all with that frame of mind, I'll feel better. You know, if I just say to myself, 'Arthur, old boy, you have been through far worse than this and come through the other side.' I have my health so far, and my life intact, and now I have you here for company. It could be much, much worse." Arthur finished with a subtle bob of his head. Painting the situation that way did make him feel less miserable. How long he could maintain that optimistic perspective was the real question.
His body twisted further in Francis's direction. He placed his gun down upon the floor beside his hip since there was nothing to fear from the rain, and that hand raised up to send the lengths of frigid fingers brushing into the Frenchman's hair. Arthur was gentle with the knots he encountered, working those tangles with care, until the dampened gold flowed more smoothly. His face was composed as he worked silently through this task, fingertips steady when they scraped over Francis's scalp, and with one last passage of them his job was completed. "There. It looks much better now. I promise. So even if the rain and the cold are making you miserable at least you can take comfort in knowing that your hair is presentable."
The Englishman's fingers lingered at the end of golden strands, tangled with a gentle reverence. It was no secret that as often as he cursed Francis there were things about the older man that he envied. This hair was one of them. Now that Arthur had given himself an excuse to touch it, his fingers kept petting at the strands of gold, darkened by the moisture in the air. Once he caught on to the fact he was lingering in that distraction, his hand dropped away immediately so that the Englishman could turn away to show only his profile to the other man's view. "If you need to sleep, then sleep. Nothing is going to come in here and kill you, Francis. Not on my watch. This might be the safest you're going to be -- what a frightening thought, isn't it? The idea of putting your life in my hands while you rest? I wouldn't blame you if you had objections."
|
|
Offline.
0 posts made.
Deleted
Deleted
|
Post by Deleted on Nov 23, 2013 17:45:23 GMT -6
"Zis looks like it will be more zan a drizzle to me," he muttered in response, this time taken aback by Arthur's taunt. Even so, it would only effect him as little as their previous back-and-forth teasing. "But me and my worn bones will 'ave to take it."
Still, he was relieved that they weren't making any sudden move to depart. The chill of the rain would have heightened him to a more alert state, but he couldn't imagine how wearier his muscles would feel under its weight. Putting up with these waves of exhaustion, nevermind fending them off, was stressed enough. He had been unaware of Arthur's expression and the weight of fixated green upon him, attention abruptly drawn from the rainfall when Arthur's embrace was requited. His head turned aside to look at him, and he realized that he had been neglecting to check on Arthur's status since their departure.
The weight of Francis's body melted against the Englishman's in a way that only felt natural. A crease of his eyebrows depicted confusion toward the subject that Arthur begun to bring up, but Francis did not interrupt. From this proximity it was easier to see pale skin and other details of Arthur's complexion that pronounced what all of this cold and strain has done to him over time. The content he felt to hear the Englishman's voice was returning to him. The accented drawl with which he spoke, revisiting a memory that Francis would have forgotten about, was not lifting Francis's fatigue. In fact, it made him feel more inclined to fall asleep here on the Englishman's shoulder - not out of boredom but in relaxation, what he could even call feeling serene. With this low voice and pound of rain like bullets beyond them, he might as well fool himself into thinking that they were together in England.
A hand rose to settle down on Arthur's shoulder, head drooped once it became his turn to speak. His voice was similarly low and less steady than he would have liked. "Mm. You would 'ave zought zat rain was going to flush you out of zose trenches one day. Zey were as dangerous as ze damn battlefield was, but I suppose zey were ze only temporary 'ome we 'ad. Zose outfits zat my men wore... my, zey looked nicer to wear outside of combat zan in. 'aving mud all over your pants and making zem feel even 'eavier was as bad as muddy boots. I would say ze rain was better zan snow, zough." Francis's chin rose to look up above them, not seeing tall structures of dirt and barbed wire but the roof of the tomb as mentioned. Images of war were carried away like a stream of rain, leaving him open to other memories after that one had been brought up.
"It could be worse zan it is now, but we 'aven't gotten out of 'ere yet. We can't say now whezer we will be alive and togezer when we find our way out. If we could stay right 'ere in safety for ze rest of our time at zis stupid place, rather zan risk anozer obstacle or being separated, even zat would be nice." Although he had most likely broken the optimistic streak, he was still soured by everything the Manor has done so far. His head lowered, gaze returned to where it had been watching the ground. In his state it was nearly hypnotizing to watch as each drop ricocheted off the ground, collecting small holes in each crevice they made in the dirt. "I would much razer zink of times before zat. When you were so young and so small, you always seemed lost wherever you were. When ze rain was 'eavy you would seek refuge in ze trees of ze forest, ze ones wiz great big 'oles in zeir trunks - zat was where I would always find you. ..I 'ave never stopped to zink about 'ow many rain showers we 'ave been zrough in our lifetimes until now."
He could feel Arthur's fingers, stiff yet gentle as they combed through each pesky knot worked into his hair. That affection had the Frenchman's attention absorbed, enough that he could forget the weaponry between them and ignore the brief pain brought on by those undone tangles. This was a sensation he usually did not receive from others, a caring touch he would not expect to receive from Arthur of all people; but he wanted to bask in it. Even the scrape of fingernails had him exhale, a breath through which all of his troubles seemed to subside for now. Without looking he was able to tell that Arthur's fingers did not immediately move away, but honestly he did not mind. Comfort like that was still a strong desire.
A shift in his eyes and he noticed that the other's head had turned away. With the departure of Arthur's fingers he was now free to move his own head, which he did, close enough that his lips just barely touched down upon a cold cheek. Words were murmured near the man's ear, firm although spoken with the same sincerity as all those ones before. "You 'ad better not be taken away from me while I sleep. You 'ave to protect yourself as well. I am not going to be waking up alone when you could be ze only zing left zat I 'ave."
Though he still was unsettled by the idea of sleeping, he had wound himself into too comfortable a predicament to want to continue fighting it. Those lips touched down in a kiss on Arthur's cheek, and as he pulled away he aimed his head down to settle on the man's shoulder. Again he caught himself looking out into the rain, picturing that very memory that he had suddenly sought. Memories of their youth were so far from today, so happy that they seemed to be a dream, just an old colorful dream.
|
|
Arthur Kirkland
Administrator
23.
Played by Hat.
Offline.
|
Post by England on Nov 30, 2013 17:34:14 GMT -6
Listening to Francis recount his own memories of that dark time in their shared histories, Arthur nodded along in silence. The subject wasn't a pleasant one by any means. He had no idea what had prompted him to bring it up. Perhaps just to put things into perspective for them? Because Arthur knew that if he could get through the worst of those times in the past, as miserable and exhausted and on the verge of collapse that he had been, he had still stood firm against it all. While he couldn't take any happy memories away from the entirety of that war -- or any other -- he still felt a swell of pride time to time when he considered how the odds had been stacked against him yet he had succeeded in the end.
If he could make peace with the idea of utter defeat. Of exhausting all possible resources to the point where pots and pans became weapons. Of going all in with a gamble to save the world or succumb to his opposition. Well. If those were things he had encountered in the past that had not defeated his spirit to soldier on, then he'd be goddamned if this hellish pit would be allowed to break him. That had been his way since the very beginning: Built of stone and tempered in steel, and destined to be defiant to his would-be conquerors to his last breath.
And soon, somehow and in some way Arthur could not yet envision for the future, even this place and its denizens would face retribution for what they had done.
The Englishman pulled his mind away from vengeful thoughts to hear those better memories brought up by Francis. Hearing those descriptions of his youthful self did the impossible. Arthur barked a short laugh, caught off guard by those more innocent times that swarmed to the forefront of his mind. "You were a right bastard about it, too. You couldn't just let me sleep, could you? I'd be peacefully dreaming, only to open my eyes and see your sodding smiling face right in front of me. Do you know how alarming that was to a child like me? You're lucky that I never broke anything when you gave me such a fright that I went tumbling off."
Arthur mused over those memories. His face turned distant, though the trace of warmth remained. These weren't unpleasant moments to recall. "I couldn't make any sense of you back then. You were such a bizarre creature to me. It took me a few visits before I even figured out that you weren't a girl. Here I was, just barely surviving each day, scavenging for fruits or hunting for game to eat, making my bed in whatever spot might be warm -- or settling for freezing through the night if the spot was secure enough to be safe. And there you would be, turning up in your fancy clothes, with your hair all golden in the sun, laughing stupidly like you didn't have a care in the world."
"I decided that you must have come from some paradise. Tasting the treats that you brought to render me docile, and marveling at the warmth of the clothes you would present me. You were patient with me when I would be dragged, kicking and screaming, into the water for a bath. As hard as I fought it, your hands would be so gentle scrubbing the mud out of my hair. And you were kind, which I certainly had little experience with. Everyone else around me was harsh in comparison." The Englishman's lips thinned out, pausing before he went on. "Come to think of it, in some way . . . you were the type of person that I wanted to become. The human I wanted to be like. Kind, gentle, generous, charitable."
Clearing his throat, he added gruffly, "Even if you were also still a royal bastard. Which you were. And still are. So don't get a big head due to me waxing nostalgic there."
Feeling the shifting movements of the Frenchman, Arthur went quiet when he felt the brush of cold lips on his cheek. That merely lit a fire in them. He could feel the heat spread across them and knew that even in the dim light of the tomb they were probably showing a vibrant scarlet. Receiving that affection had been unexpected. Arthur was horrible about processing such actions. Fire a bullet or swing a punch at him and he'd be on secure footing enough to handle it easily. A kiss to the cheek was more effective at rendering him into a state of shock.
Arthur's confident words disentangled into a stammering, sputtering reply to Francis's last words. "O-of course I'm not going to go s-stealing away from here. Don't be a d-daft prat. It's raining far too much for me to... to go rushing out there right now. Oh, just belt your sodding mouth and sleep before I knock you out!"
|
|
Offline.
0 posts made.
Deleted
Deleted
|
Post by Deleted on Dec 4, 2013 17:52:32 GMT -6
"Now, scaring you was never my intention. I wonder if you realized 'ow often I would take ze time to come and find you again. You seemed to look so innocent and precious back zen, at least until you decided you would start calling me every 'arsh name your little mind could zink of. Zough even zen, I wasn't going to let you go abandoned and 'ave to continue living like zat."
Those eyes no longer appeared to be watching the sheets of rain as it fell, nor the shallow puddles that were wetting the dirt in thin layers, but were staring right through, distracted as those images swam from their nostalgic exchange. Picturing those memories was troubling. Beyond them lay the Manor, its cruel aura and daunting shadows, its darkness within which hid and waited morbid creatures that decided themselves the fates of each nation. It was so opposite from the scenes his and Arthur's words have been painting that it felt hopeless to try and hold onto them any longer.
"Per'aps I was too caught up in 'ow I was living. Being by oneself and living off of whatever is supplied to you by ze forest was not somezing I could easily imagine at ze time. But just as I was getting used to you, I wanted you to be introduced to littler luxuries like zat - even zough you liked to reject some of my offers of clothes zat looked 'too feminine' or food zat looked too exquisite."
And at the same time, it was warming. Warming to know that these memories were being shared between two souls and two souls only. Even if an entity were nearby to hear them, ready to strike and separate them by any means, those past events were a personal connection shared between himself and England that nothing could take from them.
"You were different from ze ozer children I would find, but I did 'ave to be patient. It's too late to escape my 'big 'ead' now - and I don't suppose zat kind, gentle, generous and charitable are any choice words we will ever use to describe each ozer anymore."
Times were not always pleasant, so much that any pleasantry or uplifting moment felt too greatly outweighed by times which saw pain and suffering from them, but they had been exactly what shaped them and what has kept them together since then.
With heavy eyes trained in front of him, he had not even bothered to check Arthur's reaction. He knew very well, perhaps proudly and with smug confidence, he would have earned a blush or any other reaction conquered by his being flustered - as if Arthur had never been involved in a number of past intimacies with him before. Something that would attract the color back to his face to chase the pale, sickly shade away. That was just how he would prefer to see the face that was most familiar to him.
But if anything had been nice to hear, it was that quick laugh he had earned from Arthur. Of course it would not have lasted too long, for now he had returned to the scolding his ears were so used to receiving - but the way it stood out among the other gestures they have been giving one another was striking. Now Francis was slowly being drawn to the present, those memories fading and clearing away to the back of his mind. He couldn't tell whether he wanted that to happen or not. His eyes broke from their fixed daze to roll. "I meant zat you are not to let anyzing come and take you away, fool. Even I am not expecting you to up and walk away now. We 'ave gone too far into zis togezer, non? You need somezing to 'old onto and so do I."
The silence that fell then, excluding the rain, was most haunting. He almost yearned for them to continue speaking, even if it meant using their usual threats and taunts or talking about nothing at all. Otherwise, the fall of their voices, as predictable as they had been in the presence of each other, only felt to set an unsettling promise. Sleep still sounded like a dangerous notion to him, aware of each worrisome though that he might wake up back how he started, alone, or perhaps in an entirely different place than here. But the rain and desperate source of warmth were winning him over, drawing him out of his fully conscious state.
Waking up alone, waking up lost. Or not waking up at all. Threatening as they had been before, tears had risen to Francis's eyes, blurring his vision and frustrating him with their presence. His lids closed to prevent that moisture from seeping out, head shaking despite its weight leaned against Arthur's shoulder. If a threat were to come, he would rise. He knew he could not possibly miss something like that. With that vague and forceful retrieval of reassurance, the sounds around him began to drown, mind soothed enough to fade and plunge Francis into a most likely restless sleep.
|
|