ＥＮＧＬＡＮＤ♛ Arthur Kirkland (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
keepscalm) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2013-06-24 02:38 am
keepscalm) wrote in towerofanimus2013-06-24 02:38 am
Entry tags:
11. as fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st
Characters: [OU] England (keepscalm) and [OU] America (colonial), closed.
Setting: Floor 87; June 24, daytime.
Format: Prose
Summary: Ruana has released the last hints for the game. England knows what he has to do.
Warnings: Character death (mercy kill and suicide), including death of a small nation child.
He had decided, if he were to ever go home again, he would strike the month of June from the calendar entirely. Last June, he had been voted to death under the pretence of mercy by his podmates, and those he loved had suffered for it. He still had not forgiven those responsible, and England knew himself well enough to be certain that he never would. Not when there was a constant whisper of what he heard on that operating table lurking in the not-so-far recesses of his mind; imprints of those terrified screams lingered in the grooves of his subconscious, just waiting to echo back to him when the needle of a dream scraped along in the darkest hours of the night. Nothing anyone could say would ever excuse those cries.
So, of course, it was only fitting that this June, he would be condemned to another death. But there was no one else to blame for this, and no audience that would bear the heaviest weight of the burden. There was only England and the one he would be taking down with him — the centre of his world, his sunshine, the one person he couldn't pull the trigger on even when he was angry enough that his finger itched to do it nonetheless. America wouldn't be staring the gun down this time, though. On the contrary; this was a silent assault, one that not even the victim would be aware of, if they even realised they were a victim. Though England held the gun, no one would ever know where the shot came from, save for him and their dearest head administrator.
He had considered enlisting someone else for the task, but Ruana had made it very clear that only one person would fulfil the criteria, and England knew that there was no one closer to America than he. It would have to be him, or America would continue to become a monster when the sun went down and took the glamour of relative security with it. He couldn't allow that — it had been weeks since England had first been attacked, and though knowing that he had already killed America once spread a frost of cold dread through his chest, the possibility that America could have been made to kill him was so much worse. He had already hurt many others in this time, England was certain of it.
And, for that matter, America wasn't the only one. If his colony had been a monster this whole time, then there was no way England could have been falling asleep next to him every day since the attack without fail, as his memory was insistent upon. This wouldn't be the first time he had been fed manufactured memories in this fucking cesspit of a tower, though it was in the running for the most insulting. Allowing himself to become one of Ruana's little pets was one thing, but letting America rampage about was worlds away from his own situation. America was full of optimism and love, innocent even in spite of being a nation stuck in the Tower of Animus, and yet he was going to have to remember the feeling of tearing someone apart between his monstrous teeth. England felt ill at the idea that he would awaken these dormant memories by doing what he was about to do; at the forefront of his mind, though, he knew that America would remember anyway, even if England took the cowardly way out and turned a blind eye to the game. The least he could do was give America less to remember at the end of the day.
He emerged onto the eighty-seventh floor with America cradled in his arms. Vibrant crimson poppies filled his vision as far out as he could see. He had to bite back a deprecating scoff as he stepped off the staircase; it was insulting to maintain so many vast illusions of the outside world when the reality was that England would eventually hit a wall on this floor if only the film wouldn't keep him in place as he walked. At least the flowers would serve their function in this instance, despite being little else but a field full of psionic bullshit. It was pleasant enough for a nap, even disregarding that he felt sleepy just by stepping off the staircase.
"Here we are," he announced quietly to his tiny travel companion. His voice was quiet with contemplation, though it was easily mistakable for one simply trying to foster sleep. Not that he needed to try too hard — they would fall asleep here even if England shouted his intentions to the administrative levels. It was a perfect place for what he had to do.
keepscalm) and [OU] America (colonial), closed.Setting: Floor 87; June 24, daytime.
Format: Prose
Summary: Ruana has released the last hints for the game. England knows what he has to do.
Warnings: Character death (mercy kill and suicide), including death of a small nation child.
He had decided, if he were to ever go home again, he would strike the month of June from the calendar entirely. Last June, he had been voted to death under the pretence of mercy by his podmates, and those he loved had suffered for it. He still had not forgiven those responsible, and England knew himself well enough to be certain that he never would. Not when there was a constant whisper of what he heard on that operating table lurking in the not-so-far recesses of his mind; imprints of those terrified screams lingered in the grooves of his subconscious, just waiting to echo back to him when the needle of a dream scraped along in the darkest hours of the night. Nothing anyone could say would ever excuse those cries.
So, of course, it was only fitting that this June, he would be condemned to another death. But there was no one else to blame for this, and no audience that would bear the heaviest weight of the burden. There was only England and the one he would be taking down with him — the centre of his world, his sunshine, the one person he couldn't pull the trigger on even when he was angry enough that his finger itched to do it nonetheless. America wouldn't be staring the gun down this time, though. On the contrary; this was a silent assault, one that not even the victim would be aware of, if they even realised they were a victim. Though England held the gun, no one would ever know where the shot came from, save for him and their dearest head administrator.
He had considered enlisting someone else for the task, but Ruana had made it very clear that only one person would fulfil the criteria, and England knew that there was no one closer to America than he. It would have to be him, or America would continue to become a monster when the sun went down and took the glamour of relative security with it. He couldn't allow that — it had been weeks since England had first been attacked, and though knowing that he had already killed America once spread a frost of cold dread through his chest, the possibility that America could have been made to kill him was so much worse. He had already hurt many others in this time, England was certain of it.
And, for that matter, America wasn't the only one. If his colony had been a monster this whole time, then there was no way England could have been falling asleep next to him every day since the attack without fail, as his memory was insistent upon. This wouldn't be the first time he had been fed manufactured memories in this fucking cesspit of a tower, though it was in the running for the most insulting. Allowing himself to become one of Ruana's little pets was one thing, but letting America rampage about was worlds away from his own situation. America was full of optimism and love, innocent even in spite of being a nation stuck in the Tower of Animus, and yet he was going to have to remember the feeling of tearing someone apart between his monstrous teeth. England felt ill at the idea that he would awaken these dormant memories by doing what he was about to do; at the forefront of his mind, though, he knew that America would remember anyway, even if England took the cowardly way out and turned a blind eye to the game. The least he could do was give America less to remember at the end of the day.
He emerged onto the eighty-seventh floor with America cradled in his arms. Vibrant crimson poppies filled his vision as far out as he could see. He had to bite back a deprecating scoff as he stepped off the staircase; it was insulting to maintain so many vast illusions of the outside world when the reality was that England would eventually hit a wall on this floor if only the film wouldn't keep him in place as he walked. At least the flowers would serve their function in this instance, despite being little else but a field full of psionic bullshit. It was pleasant enough for a nap, even disregarding that he felt sleepy just by stepping off the staircase.
"Here we are," he announced quietly to his tiny travel companion. His voice was quiet with contemplation, though it was easily mistakable for one simply trying to foster sleep. Not that he needed to try too hard — they would fall asleep here even if England shouted his intentions to the administrative levels. It was a perfect place for what he had to do.
no subject
He did, however, know what floor this was. Not in any detail--not enough to know what it could do--but he knew that it was dangerous. This was one of the floors England told him not to play on, and so he never had, not ever. If England was taking him there, though, then while it was confusing, he wasn't especially wary. It had always seemed like a fun place to play. Like the meadow, but with even more flowers.
"It's okay today?" America's tone is alight with childish curiosity and nothing even a hair warier than that.
no subject
He forced himself to smile as he carried America further out into the field. The action felt strange, the muscles weak, like coming out from under a strong anaesthetic. It hadn't even been a full month, but it felt like years since he'd last smiled. It was regrettable that now it was only for the purpose of continuing an act. "Yeah," he confirmed with certainty, lowering himself to one knee so he could place America down amongst the flowers. "I thought you might like to play."
It was a strange statement, given that England hadn't much been up for playing since the glamour went down. But he tried to sound earnest; if there was one thing he had plenty of practice at, it was lying. Especially to America. Whether he truly had a talent for it was up for debate, but it came to him a little easier when he knew, in the grand scheme of things, that it wouldn't be the biggest lie he told today.
no subject
If lethargy began tugging at the outermost edges of his mind, his excitement for the moment allowed him to ignore it.
"Play with me? You haven't in a while!" After a moment, to make the offer more tempting, America added to the request. "I'll let you pick the game!"
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"All right, all right." The agreement came with a note of fond exasperation as England settled himself cross-legged atop the flowerbed. He thought for a moment as he eyed the petals of the poppies surrounding them; after a minute of silence, he plucked one from the ground and offered it to America. "But you can pick. You're far better at most games than I."
Or, more accurately, America was in a much better state of mind to be creative about these things. England was a tad preoccupied with other things, and America was the one who wanted to play, anyway. England would rather do what America wanted to. It seemed like a fair exchange, given England was signing the child's death warrant by coming here.
no subject
"Okay! Um--hold on." America sat down again and yanked unsuspecting poppies from the area directly in front of him and to his sides, until he had a pile of poppies that were satisfactorily high enough above the rest of the flowers to be noticed at a distance. "This is my treasure. But you're a pirate and you took some of it." America handed the poppy England gave him back over to the other nation. "An' you wanna run away with it and keep it but I wanna stop you! So I stand here by the treasure and count to te--five--and then you run as far as you can while I count, like a head start! But once I finish counting I chase you and try to get the treasure back!"
This was not really a game England could win, but that didn't seem to occur to America.
"Is that okay?"
no subject
When America started to explain, England suddenly understood where he was going with this. Pirate games weren't terribly unusual for them to play (amusingly enough, given England's past), so England was no stranger to games where he was the villain. He didn't mind being the bad guy, but somehow he felt now that maybe he should have picked the game when America gave him the opportunity.
At least the game involved running. Hopefully that would tire America more quickly than telling a story or playing a conversation game.
With the poppy in hand, England gave another forced smile and a nod. "Brilliant." He stood, straightening his legs and brushing out his slacks. "You're going to have to run fast, you know— I'm very good at stealing treasure."
no subject
And then, satisfied with that warning, he covered his eyes again. England was already up, so that counted as him being ready as far as America was concerned. Stifling another yawn, he began counting. "One! Two!"
no subject
He started off at a jog while America was counting, accustomed to taking it easy on America while they played games. However, after thinking about it, he realised it might work out more conveniently for him if he challenged America a little; the faster he ran, the more quickly he would get tired. And the sooner the end to all of this would come. So, while his head-start was in progress, England started to run in the opposite direction of the stairs, until he was something like eight metres away from where America was standing (or so it seemed; England knew the Tower couldn't sustain that distance for real).
He didn't want to be too far away, though. Just his legs were at least twice the height of America's entire body. It was a bit of an unfair advantage.
no subject
America took off in England's direction. While faster than a child his age should be, England still had a considerable advantage in speed and distance. But America was definitely going to catch him anyway, so it didn't really matter.
no subject
As he ran, he glanced back over his shoulder at America, to make sure he was chasing as promised. It didn't occur to him at the moment to say anything in-character; he was more focused on maintaining a constant speed and trying not to think about when the monster in the golden mask was out after his hide.
no subject
America could run faster than this, though, or rather he knew a trick that would let him close some distance. He hopped like a rabbit might, utilizing his unusual strength and kicking off the ground with his arms as a balance. He repeated the unusual movement twice before he returned to a more human sort of run. He didn't seem discouraged by the faster pace--he liked challenges.
no subject
It was a good thing his back was turned, so that America couldn't see the look of alarm on his face, and that there was enough distance that it was impossible to see how his knuckles had gone white around the stem of the poppy.
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"Ye'll never catch me!" He forced an exaggerated gruffness into his voice that made it clear he was, indeed, the pirate in this scenario. Though admittedly, it was mostly in the hopes of easing his own frazzled nerves — not all that effective when he had done pretty much the same thing to the laughing monster.
no subject
No, something still seemed strained about it. But America didn't know what it could be, and so it could be ignored because England was playing the pirate and, more importantly, was turning, which meant America could cut him off.
"You can't take my treasure!" America sounded excited, but it wasn't at its usual volume. There was an edge of sleepiness to it, as if he'd been playing all day and not for such a short period of time.
He shifted direction, catching dirt under his feet at the abrupt turn, to try to catch England while he curved around.
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He didn't notice America running to cut him off, too preoccupied by his own thoughts and the slowly-emerging fatigue in his body as the fog of momentary panic dissipated. It was a reminder that at least America wouldn't be alone in his death.
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He didn't know why he was so tired already, but he tried to ignore it.
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He tumbled to the ground regardless of America's strength, bringing his arms up to shield America and twisting so that England wouldn't land on top of him when they fell. He was used to the manoeuvre, given America's tendency to be far too enthusiastic with his jumping, though his shoulder would never fully make the transition to shock absorber, as convenient as that would be.
The rolling motion put him on his back after landing with America held safely on his chest. England blinked up at the glamoured sky of the poppy field, disoriented by vertigo and fear. "You got me," he eventually confirmed, distraction and breathlessness evident in his voice.
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"I'm not tired," America said, "but we can play something else if you want."
Which, of course, meant he was tired and he didn't want to run around anymore for a while.
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"Well," he began, and it was as much in consideration of his own words as it was to the beginning of a pre-planned sentence. "I'm a little tired— older nations need their rest and all. I think I'm all right with staying here for now."
He hoped America wouldn't put up a fuss. It was obvious that he was tired too, but England wasn't sure how stubborn his colony was feeling at the moment. He was counting on the exertion speeding up the process — it had definitely taken its toll on him, at least.
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"We can rest if you're tired," he said, very magnanimously in his opinion. "We could just play a game where you stay sitting down."
Or laying down, in this case.
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"That sounds splendid." With far too much effort for a simple motion, he lifted his head to meet America's eyes. "Perhaps a story. What do you think?"
If he had a story to focus on spinning, it would be easier not to fall asleep.
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He began pulling at poppies idly, chaining them together into a crown out of habit. "I wanna hear a story! Story time!"
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From a deep trench in his recent memory came a thought — 'I'll save you.'
After another moment, England began to speak.
"Once upon a time," began the story, as so many others did. "There was a little boy who lived in a city that thrived with happy, energetic people. He lived alone in the tallest building of the city. He very much liked to watch the city people, but the building was meant to house people with very powerful magic. He had very powerful magic, so evil forces kept him trapped within the building."
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"He was all by himself?" America frowned at the idea--someone locked up alone, only able to watch people, would get terribly lonely! "Who were the bad people? Were they real strong, too?"