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Arthur sat on the stoop, sobbing inconsolably. Time froze around him. He was wrapped in his own sorrows like some clinging, heavy cloak that had tangled around his heart and refused to lift. He had no knowledge of time’s passing. He simply sat and mourned.
He remained immobile and silent, like some gargoyle on the eaves of a cathedral. He sat, and his heart ached and bled. Even the sky mourned along with him. Sparse tears of the clouds dotted the dirt path and Arthur’s unruly hair. The numbing cold of the evening rain seemed strangely pleasant, it promised of relief from this horrible sorrow that had placed a hollow where his heart should have lain.
He turned his face slowly to the gray clouds showering the woebegone youth in their tears. The sky—so bright and warm when he had entered town that morning—was now in a gloomy and cold evening storm. He had sat on the stoop all day.
With unconscious movement, Arthur leaned his head against the doorframe and allowed the rain to numb him with its chill. He wanted oblivion; he wanted peace; he wanted emptiness. Closing his weary eyes, Arthur felt the warm shawl of sleep—the greatest agent of forgetfulness—enshroud him overtop the clinging cloak of misery.
Arthur did not receive the blank nothingness he desired. Instead, his slumber was filled with flitting memories and visions of his beloved. Like leaves in the wind, they swirled and spiraled around him, tormenting him with what might have been, killing him with the corpse of hope.
There was _________ skipping through the rain-drenched pathway, her eight-year old face in a wide, near-toothless grin.
Arthur tried to close his ears to her bell-like laughter. ‘Let me forget!’ he whispered, ‘I want to forget!’
There was _________ crying on his shoulder the day her beloved mother and father died, her thin shoulders heaving and quivering under his comforting hand.
Arthur fell to his knees, ‘God! Be merciful and let me forget! Don’t make me relive this!’
There was _________ weaving daisies into a crown and placing it delicately upon her head, the clean white of the petals like snow in her (h/c) hair.
Arthur screamed until his voice grew ragged and broken, ‘Please! Stop it! Please!’
There was ________ placing her warm hand over his, her sincere, (e/c) eyes staring gently into his soul.
‘Let me forget! I don’t want to remember! Let me forget!’
He screamed until he could scream no more. He screamed even in silence, with only air escaping his lips. The flaxen string of his heart, once soft and comforting, was now a cruel and malevolent dagger, stabbing him at every heartbeat.
‘Arthur!’ a scream echoed in the hollows of Arthur’s mind.
Arthur stopped his keening for a moment, his heart on pins and needles. Had he heard--?
‘Arthur!’ the scream repeated, panic and helplessness lacing its cry.
In a twinkling, Arthur scrambled to his feet and ran with all his might. That voice! It was unmistakably hers, clear as a bell. He couldn’t forget, not if a thousand lifetimes were granted to him. He couldn’t give up, not if a million trials stood between them. He had to run, he had to find her!
“__________!”
Arthur jolted awake on the cold—now rain-soaked—steps of _________’s estate. He gazed around, his neck stiff from its awkward angle, fire and iron now coursing through his veins. His blood thrummed with new-found zeal and determination. He was not going to accept that _________ was dead, not without a fight.
He knew she was alive. Somewhere deep in his soul, he could tell _________ still drew breath. His flaxen string—thought it stabbed and wounded him with every pull—was still intact. Not even the scissors of Atropos could sever that connection. He was going to find his lost lady, even if he had to travel to the ends of the earth.
Clutching the sliver band with the force of hell-bent resolve, Arthur stood up and strode off to the local prison, ignoring the rain that soaked him to the skin.
***
“You have eight minutes,” Beilschmidt stated gruffly, showing Arthur the doorway into Vash’s holding cell. Arthur nodded in understanding and swung open the heavy, oaken door with a plaintive creak.
The cell was black as pitch, and it smelled about as pleasant. Arthur wrinkled his nose as the scent of urine, sweat, and mold assailed him. With torch in hand, Arthur walked down the ancient stone hall, his footsteps echoing in the air like ripples in a puddle.
The iron bars of the cells cast ominous shadows as Arthur proceeded past the empty holds. A constant drip-drip-drip of moisture from an unknown source accompanied his footsteps.
A rattle of shackles and a harsh, “Leave me alone, you good-for-nothing gossips! I’m innocent!” revealed Vash’s location. Arthur walked over to the cell and was shocked at the sight that greeted him. It was a far cry from the man he once knew.
Vash Zwingli’s once well-groomed hair was ratty and unkempt, his proud, healthy physique had shriveled to skin and bones, and his once dapper clothing had been reduced to filthy rags. Yet even in his filth and squalor, there remained the unshakable pride that was so characteristic to Vash.
Once again, the shackles around his hands rattled as Vash stood with a start. “Arthur Kirkland, is that you?” his voice would be no more surprised than if Gabriel himself had arrived.
Arthur nodded. He would save his words for what was most necessary.
Vash walked from the straw-covered corner that served him as a bed to the gate of his cell, the harsh clanking of his chains clattering through the damp air. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about what happened,” he remarked sardonically.
Arthur replied coolly to Vash’s gallows humor, “No, actually. That’s what I came to talk with you about.”
Vash sighed, gripping the bars that separated him from Arthur. “What’s there to tell? _________ went out early one morning to gather flowers and never returned, and Edelstein,” Vash spat the name like a bitter piece of tobacco, “had the nerve to suggest I had murdered her for my sister’s inheritance.”
Arthur tried not to grow exasperated at Vash’s brevity. “What more can you tell me?” he asked impatiently, the hunger of grim curiosity in his emerald eyes. “I need you to tell me everything.”
Vash’s eyes narrowed as he caught the feverous expression on young Kirkland’s face. “You still love her, don’t you, you nameless worm?”
Arthur grimaced at Vash’s directness, and the fresh wound bled anew. “Yes, sir, I do, and I fully intend to find her and clear your name.”
“Huh, you have the gall to suggest such a wasted venture?” Vash laughed harshly at the messy-haired youth’s proposal as he turned back to his straw heap, “Leave me be you pauper. There’s no hope of finding her.”
“Vash, can we put aside my past for just one minute and think of the problem at hand?” Arthur raised his voice in vexation. Something in his words made Vash stop and turn to face the young student.
Vash looked at Arthur, the torchlight emphasizing the now-sharp edges of his wasted face. Green, cynical eyes met green, fervent eyes as each searched the other.
Sighing, Vash looked down at the floor. Something in the earnestness of those eyes broke through his wall of hate. “I love her as if she was my own child.”
Arthur interjected, “And I love her with every bone in my body.” With desperation, Arthur begged, “Vash, let me find her! Help me. For _______, please.”
For a few moments, Vash said nothing. He simply sat on the cold, stone floor and readjusted the rags he had stuffed into his shackled to protect his wrists, contemplating Kirkland’s offer.
Vash had never really liked the boy, since he could never offer _________ a stable life as she deserved. On the other hand, if Arthur could find his niece, if Arthur could find her… Vash’s heart thrilled with elation at the thought of his little ________, safe and sound from whatever pair of cruel hands that had taken her.
Reluctantly, Vash raised his eyes to Arthur. Cold, emerald fire danced in his eyes as they reflected the flames of the torch. “Bear in mind, boy, I still do not like the arrangement, but I will put my trust in you to find ______. If you find her, make sure she’s returned with nary a hair on her head missing. And if she is dead,” Vash’s eyes grew hard as steel, “kill the devils that took my niece’s life, or don’t return.”
Arthur extended his free hand to Vash, slipping it in between the gaps of the cold bars, “I swear on my life, and on the grave of my mother.”
Vash’s bony hand clasped Arthur’s strong and slender hand in a motion of trust. His eyes, known to freeze even beer, bored into Arthur, rooting him to the spot. “As you have said.”
***
Arthur looked out over the valley, still as clean and pure as the day _________ had shown it to him. The valley, Vash had said. That was the last place he knew she was. Arthur adjusted the pack upon his back, arranging it more comfortably on his shoulders before striding forth to the hills.
“I’ll find you, __________,” he whispered quietly to himself. He clutched the ring, tied around his neck by a piece of leather for safe-keeping. “I swear, I will find you.”
He remained immobile and silent, like some gargoyle on the eaves of a cathedral. He sat, and his heart ached and bled. Even the sky mourned along with him. Sparse tears of the clouds dotted the dirt path and Arthur’s unruly hair. The numbing cold of the evening rain seemed strangely pleasant, it promised of relief from this horrible sorrow that had placed a hollow where his heart should have lain.
He turned his face slowly to the gray clouds showering the woebegone youth in their tears. The sky—so bright and warm when he had entered town that morning—was now in a gloomy and cold evening storm. He had sat on the stoop all day.
With unconscious movement, Arthur leaned his head against the doorframe and allowed the rain to numb him with its chill. He wanted oblivion; he wanted peace; he wanted emptiness. Closing his weary eyes, Arthur felt the warm shawl of sleep—the greatest agent of forgetfulness—enshroud him overtop the clinging cloak of misery.
Arthur did not receive the blank nothingness he desired. Instead, his slumber was filled with flitting memories and visions of his beloved. Like leaves in the wind, they swirled and spiraled around him, tormenting him with what might have been, killing him with the corpse of hope.
There was _________ skipping through the rain-drenched pathway, her eight-year old face in a wide, near-toothless grin.
Arthur tried to close his ears to her bell-like laughter. ‘Let me forget!’ he whispered, ‘I want to forget!’
There was _________ crying on his shoulder the day her beloved mother and father died, her thin shoulders heaving and quivering under his comforting hand.
Arthur fell to his knees, ‘God! Be merciful and let me forget! Don’t make me relive this!’
There was _________ weaving daisies into a crown and placing it delicately upon her head, the clean white of the petals like snow in her (h/c) hair.
Arthur screamed until his voice grew ragged and broken, ‘Please! Stop it! Please!’
There was ________ placing her warm hand over his, her sincere, (e/c) eyes staring gently into his soul.
‘Let me forget! I don’t want to remember! Let me forget!’
He screamed until he could scream no more. He screamed even in silence, with only air escaping his lips. The flaxen string of his heart, once soft and comforting, was now a cruel and malevolent dagger, stabbing him at every heartbeat.
‘Arthur!’ a scream echoed in the hollows of Arthur’s mind.
Arthur stopped his keening for a moment, his heart on pins and needles. Had he heard--?
‘Arthur!’ the scream repeated, panic and helplessness lacing its cry.
In a twinkling, Arthur scrambled to his feet and ran with all his might. That voice! It was unmistakably hers, clear as a bell. He couldn’t forget, not if a thousand lifetimes were granted to him. He couldn’t give up, not if a million trials stood between them. He had to run, he had to find her!
“__________!”
Arthur jolted awake on the cold—now rain-soaked—steps of _________’s estate. He gazed around, his neck stiff from its awkward angle, fire and iron now coursing through his veins. His blood thrummed with new-found zeal and determination. He was not going to accept that _________ was dead, not without a fight.
He knew she was alive. Somewhere deep in his soul, he could tell _________ still drew breath. His flaxen string—thought it stabbed and wounded him with every pull—was still intact. Not even the scissors of Atropos could sever that connection. He was going to find his lost lady, even if he had to travel to the ends of the earth.
Clutching the sliver band with the force of hell-bent resolve, Arthur stood up and strode off to the local prison, ignoring the rain that soaked him to the skin.
***
“You have eight minutes,” Beilschmidt stated gruffly, showing Arthur the doorway into Vash’s holding cell. Arthur nodded in understanding and swung open the heavy, oaken door with a plaintive creak.
The cell was black as pitch, and it smelled about as pleasant. Arthur wrinkled his nose as the scent of urine, sweat, and mold assailed him. With torch in hand, Arthur walked down the ancient stone hall, his footsteps echoing in the air like ripples in a puddle.
The iron bars of the cells cast ominous shadows as Arthur proceeded past the empty holds. A constant drip-drip-drip of moisture from an unknown source accompanied his footsteps.
A rattle of shackles and a harsh, “Leave me alone, you good-for-nothing gossips! I’m innocent!” revealed Vash’s location. Arthur walked over to the cell and was shocked at the sight that greeted him. It was a far cry from the man he once knew.
Vash Zwingli’s once well-groomed hair was ratty and unkempt, his proud, healthy physique had shriveled to skin and bones, and his once dapper clothing had been reduced to filthy rags. Yet even in his filth and squalor, there remained the unshakable pride that was so characteristic to Vash.
Once again, the shackles around his hands rattled as Vash stood with a start. “Arthur Kirkland, is that you?” his voice would be no more surprised than if Gabriel himself had arrived.
Arthur nodded. He would save his words for what was most necessary.
Vash walked from the straw-covered corner that served him as a bed to the gate of his cell, the harsh clanking of his chains clattering through the damp air. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about what happened,” he remarked sardonically.
Arthur replied coolly to Vash’s gallows humor, “No, actually. That’s what I came to talk with you about.”
Vash sighed, gripping the bars that separated him from Arthur. “What’s there to tell? _________ went out early one morning to gather flowers and never returned, and Edelstein,” Vash spat the name like a bitter piece of tobacco, “had the nerve to suggest I had murdered her for my sister’s inheritance.”
Arthur tried not to grow exasperated at Vash’s brevity. “What more can you tell me?” he asked impatiently, the hunger of grim curiosity in his emerald eyes. “I need you to tell me everything.”
Vash’s eyes narrowed as he caught the feverous expression on young Kirkland’s face. “You still love her, don’t you, you nameless worm?”
Arthur grimaced at Vash’s directness, and the fresh wound bled anew. “Yes, sir, I do, and I fully intend to find her and clear your name.”
“Huh, you have the gall to suggest such a wasted venture?” Vash laughed harshly at the messy-haired youth’s proposal as he turned back to his straw heap, “Leave me be you pauper. There’s no hope of finding her.”
“Vash, can we put aside my past for just one minute and think of the problem at hand?” Arthur raised his voice in vexation. Something in his words made Vash stop and turn to face the young student.
Vash looked at Arthur, the torchlight emphasizing the now-sharp edges of his wasted face. Green, cynical eyes met green, fervent eyes as each searched the other.
Sighing, Vash looked down at the floor. Something in the earnestness of those eyes broke through his wall of hate. “I love her as if she was my own child.”
Arthur interjected, “And I love her with every bone in my body.” With desperation, Arthur begged, “Vash, let me find her! Help me. For _______, please.”
For a few moments, Vash said nothing. He simply sat on the cold, stone floor and readjusted the rags he had stuffed into his shackled to protect his wrists, contemplating Kirkland’s offer.
Vash had never really liked the boy, since he could never offer _________ a stable life as she deserved. On the other hand, if Arthur could find his niece, if Arthur could find her… Vash’s heart thrilled with elation at the thought of his little ________, safe and sound from whatever pair of cruel hands that had taken her.
Reluctantly, Vash raised his eyes to Arthur. Cold, emerald fire danced in his eyes as they reflected the flames of the torch. “Bear in mind, boy, I still do not like the arrangement, but I will put my trust in you to find ______. If you find her, make sure she’s returned with nary a hair on her head missing. And if she is dead,” Vash’s eyes grew hard as steel, “kill the devils that took my niece’s life, or don’t return.”
Arthur extended his free hand to Vash, slipping it in between the gaps of the cold bars, “I swear on my life, and on the grave of my mother.”
Vash’s bony hand clasped Arthur’s strong and slender hand in a motion of trust. His eyes, known to freeze even beer, bored into Arthur, rooting him to the spot. “As you have said.”
***
Arthur looked out over the valley, still as clean and pure as the day _________ had shown it to him. The valley, Vash had said. That was the last place he knew she was. Arthur adjusted the pack upon his back, arranging it more comfortably on his shoulders before striding forth to the hills.
“I’ll find you, __________,” he whispered quietly to himself. He clutched the ring, tied around his neck by a piece of leather for safe-keeping. “I swear, I will find you.”
Literature
AustriaxReader-Play the High Notes
AustriaxReader: Play the High Notes
Roderich Edelstein; was so great when it came to music, so when you were asked by your mom`s friend (_insert name_) to sing at her wedding, you wanted to me sure you had the right voice. The only person you knew would understand you better was Roderich anyway, because he listened to you without a fuss. You thought he was such a sweetheart, and played the piano so well. He seemed so..perfect..in every way that it kind of annoyed you, yet he was just a person. A country too, Austria, which made him seem even more special than he already was. Everything about him was floating around in your mind, as you
Literature
Request - Prussia x Reader x Austria
You were sitting on a bench in a lovely garden with Roderich, who your boyfriend Gilbert had introduced you to a while ago. Roderich had become a close friend of yours, even though you teased him about the mole on his face when you first met him ... and Gilbert joined in, which made a small joke into a full scale insult session between the two nations. It was hilarious, until it got violent, of course ... and you had to separate the two and calm them down, which was no small feat
"Is something wrong, [Name]? You seem distracted" Roderich said
"Not exactly ... I was just thinking about how we met" You said, smiling
He gave a small smile and
Literature
REQUEST Austria x Reader - The Perfect Composition
"It's so close, but it's missing something... Unique." you said to yourself as you played the piano.
You were working on a composition to show to Big Brother Austria, but it wasn't perfect enough yet.
"I can't put my finger on it, but it's almost done..." You were the country of __________. A small territory owned by Austria, but you preferred to be called by your human name of _______.
You had known Big Brother Austria ever since you were very little, and he had found you about 120 years ago. You had developed a crush on him over the years.
"Miss __________!" One of the townsfolk called to you. "Mister Austria will be here any moment."
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Here's the next part of The Lost Lady Found. I didn't end this chapter with a verse of the ballad this time because I need a few chapters to flesh the next verse out. Anyways, England is off to rescue you and your Uncle Vash. Stay tuned for the next chapter, (hopefully it won't take me half a year to update next time...)
I do not own Hetalia, or The Lost Lady Found, but I do own the story.
Enjoy.
Prologue: [link]
Ch 1: [link]
Ch 2: [link]
Ch 3: here
Ch 4: [link]
I do not own Hetalia, or The Lost Lady Found, but I do own the story.
Enjoy.
Prologue: [link]
Ch 1: [link]
Ch 2: [link]
Ch 3: here
Ch 4: [link]
© 2013 - 2024 sylphwriter24
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So am i rich and Iggy is poor?