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Entry tags:
monarchy
For Junefield; posted.
He had deceived her three hundred years ago, when her lands waved green with tobacco plants and skies still icy blue and the forests thick and dark and damp and full of hope, yes, hope. In his land, they marked trees for silver-scepter kings, marked them with the blood of the poor. In her land, the trees should have stood proud, free.
He had betrayed her three hundred years ago, and the silver-scepter and gold-crowned and majestic king stood before her again, smile sewn across his face, covered with the blood of the poor.
Meriken stopped a few steps into the yard, hand hovering over the perfect white fence of the perfect square house of the perfect little town.
“Hey, England,” she greeted, voice cracking midway so the land trailed off. “You sounded kinda weird on the phone.”
She had barely finished her sentence before he cut her off. “Arthur,” he said smoothly, like the grease in her printing presses that whined for freedom, freedom. “It’s Arthur Kirkland. Don’t you remember?” Easily, easily, he slipped through air and walked towards her, each step measured, each step patient.
She took a step back, each step nervous, each step heavy. Her fingers rested against the rusted latch of the garden gate. His national flower was roses, but none had bloomed yet, he had said, in their garden full of only artificial perfect grass. He had said many things. He had said that she would grow up bright and strong. He had said she would have all the rights of his citizens.
He had said he loved her.
“You’re, uh.” She fumbled at the latch. “You’re not acting like yourself.”
“No,” he said easily, his serpent tongue flickering, green eyes flashing. “I’m acting perfectly like myself.”
“No,” she heard herself insisting, “You’re really not.”
The latch was stuck, even as she jammed her fingers under the cold metal and scraped at the rust so it got smeared on her fingers and cracked under her nails. She scrabbled at it, because this wasn’t her England. And a little voice in her head laughed bitterly and told her that of course this wasn’t her England, her England didn’t care about her back at home, her England wore Victorian dresses and gold crowns and looked blankly at her, and she was just playing a game, wasn’t she, look at little Meriken playing a game, and the stupid latch wasn’t opening, and little Meriken played house and little Meriken played like she had actually been loved and the stupid latch stupid latch stupid latch—
A strong hand grasped her wrist.
Instinctively, she yanked it back and tumbled a few steps away, her back against the white fence.
He stood there, happy, peaceful, but vacant smile on his face.
“Stay away from me! You’re acting really weird,” she said, and her voice trembled and shook like the tumultuous oceans that surrounded her rocky shores.
He held out his hands, a motion of peace. “Come here, Meriken,” he said. “I love you. I would never hurt you.”
Love?
She flushed suddenly, pinching her nails into the flesh of her hands. She must have heard wrong. Yeah, she’d been having hearing problems lately. But she let him approach, let the march of the soldiers echo on her grassy slopes, sea of red sweeping across the land.
“Meriken,” he said softly. “I love you.”
She flinched, and waited for the but or the and or the not that was sure to follow. Because she couldn’t be loved by England. Not since she was a child, and she remembered playing with the wooden toy soldiers, and remembered seeing kind eyes watching her, and warm laps, and soft kisses.
“I love you,” he insisted softly, and he was close enough now that she could see that he had changed his outfits, that he was wearing a suit with a proper tie and his cuffs were done up properly and his collar nicely starched. His hand reached out, but not to her. He seemed to be undoing his sleeve, but her eyes slowly focused on his kind, tender smile, and honest eyes.
“Why are you—”
“You’re such a good child.” He slowly unwound his sleeve. “Don’t leave me again.”
Her sense of justice flared. “Hey! Why are you accusing me? I told you I wouldn’t leave, didn’t I? We’re allies.” The little voice chanted in her head, yes, little Meriken plays at allies, yes, little Meriken played with the world, yes, little Meriken tried to be loved, little Meriken tried so, so hard—
“I know,” he said, his voice mechanic, soft. “Now you’ll never leave again.”
“England?”
And then there was a brief flash of silver and she was leaping back into the sharp fence where it caught at her jacket, but a few strands of blond hair fell to the ground, and he stood there with a knife and a smile, vacant, peaceful, happy.
“What are you doing?!” The scream barely escaped her lips before he approached again, swaying slightly, but his eyes fixated on her with the maniacal smile growing on his lips.
“You’ll never leave,” he said, and swung his knife again. His movements were slow and clumsy and she found herself dodging it by instinct alone. She was nervous, she was sweating, her clothes stuck to her skin, hair to her eyes and mouth.
“What the hell? Are we allies or not?”
And a little voice in her head chanted little Meriken wants allies little Meriken wants love little Meriken wants to play games. But little Meriken forgot something very, very important.
The knife swung down again, and this time she couldn’t dodge in time. It caught onto her clothing and she stumbles, briefly, but it was enough time for him to trap her onto the ground, and she screams as a heavy hand pushes her shoulder into the ground while another grinds the knife into her body, and it hurts it hurts it hurts no stop it it hurts please please stop and she tries to kick, but there’s no response.
“You—” Her breathing grew ragged with pain, and she inhaled and exhaled only in short bursts, and she could smell the lawn and even worse, she could smell him, as his cold gloved hands held down her neck. He smelled like tea and books and rain and love.
“You bastard—” And then she couldn’t finish because he had driven the knife even further into her body and there was blood oh god so much blood no please god somebody stop him somebody stop somebody save her and was she screaming because her mouth was open and the grass hurt against her neck wet and damp and three hundred years ago he painted himself with the blood of the poor the gold crowned king and she was screaming and screaming and screaming and stop it stop it stop it
“This…” Her breathing hurt. Everything hurt. The world hurt. “I was willing to trust you again—” Was she talking to herself? She must have been talking to herself. “You said you wanted to be allies—” And the voice in her head chanted chanted chanted and she was sobbing into the wet grass and it hurt it hurt it hurt
If she twisted her head, she could see that the blood had splattered across his face and his suit, but not across his smile.
“I love you,” he breathed. “You’ll never leave me. I love you. You’ll never leave me. I love you. You’ll never leave me.” He was chanting, and he was maniacal, and he wasn’t right in the head, and he was hurting her.
She was sobbing now, though she wasn’t sure of it. But she could hear the choked sobs from her throat, and the numbing around her fingers, and she was crying and it hurt and she felt his hand grab at her dirty blond hair and felt him on her neck, and he was stroking her hair, grasping at strands and petting it down helplessly, in rough kindness. No, his hand was shaking, badly shaking, and she could feel his trembles as he grinded the knife slowly deeper into her side, and his fingers were slick with blood, and he was crying, and he was muttering into her neck and not moving very much at all.
“I…” She was saying something, and she meant it, and her words dripped with as much rage as she could muster as she lay helpless in the most perfect little town and the most perfect little prison.
“I love you,” he said into her neck, and the knife gently shifted out before suddenly, abruptly, shoving back into her. She might have screamed, she might have fainted, she might have done so much, but she couldn’t remember because she had been sobbing and dizzy and angry, rage, betrayal. The knife wound didn’t hurt as much as the person gently trying to untangle her hair.
“You’ll never leave me,” he said, and his voice shook, and his face twisted into a gruesome smile that didn’t reflect back into his eyes. “You’ll never leave me again, will you? You’ll never leave me. You won’t leave me. You won’t leave me alone.” The desperation in his voice rose to a trembling wave, and he was trying to stroke her hair, and he was desperate, and his hand was rough, and he was pressing his face down into her neck, and he was pleading, begging, desperate, fearful.
“I hate you,” she said.
And there was a choked laugh, except it wasn’t a normal laugh, it was a strange laugh, and she would have shuddered if the world hadn’t swam before her in the heavy salted tears that she could taste with the dirt and grass and blood.
“I love you.” And this time, it was his voice that cracked into tears somewhere between the I and the you, and she felt the knife finally dig so deeply into her that there was nothing left in her except his shaking warmth and a chanting voice.
Little Meriken had forgotten one very, very important thing.
This wasn’t her England.
So she closed her eyes and tried to believe in his love, tried to ignore the betrayal, tried to believe that he was crying for her and not his brother, tried to believe, tried to die with some semblance of peace. But all she could do was die bathed in the dripping, sticky, wet blood of the poor.
He had deceived her three hundred years ago, when her lands waved green with tobacco plants and skies still icy blue and the forests thick and dark and damp and full of hope, yes, hope. In his land, they marked trees for silver-scepter kings, marked them with the blood of the poor. In her land, the trees should have stood proud, free.
He had betrayed her three hundred years ago, and the silver-scepter and gold-crowned and majestic king stood before her again, smile sewn across his face, covered with the blood of the poor.
Meriken stopped a few steps into the yard, hand hovering over the perfect white fence of the perfect square house of the perfect little town.
“Hey, England,” she greeted, voice cracking midway so the land trailed off. “You sounded kinda weird on the phone.”
She had barely finished her sentence before he cut her off. “Arthur,” he said smoothly, like the grease in her printing presses that whined for freedom, freedom. “It’s Arthur Kirkland. Don’t you remember?” Easily, easily, he slipped through air and walked towards her, each step measured, each step patient.
She took a step back, each step nervous, each step heavy. Her fingers rested against the rusted latch of the garden gate. His national flower was roses, but none had bloomed yet, he had said, in their garden full of only artificial perfect grass. He had said many things. He had said that she would grow up bright and strong. He had said she would have all the rights of his citizens.
He had said he loved her.
“You’re, uh.” She fumbled at the latch. “You’re not acting like yourself.”
“No,” he said easily, his serpent tongue flickering, green eyes flashing. “I’m acting perfectly like myself.”
“No,” she heard herself insisting, “You’re really not.”
The latch was stuck, even as she jammed her fingers under the cold metal and scraped at the rust so it got smeared on her fingers and cracked under her nails. She scrabbled at it, because this wasn’t her England. And a little voice in her head laughed bitterly and told her that of course this wasn’t her England, her England didn’t care about her back at home, her England wore Victorian dresses and gold crowns and looked blankly at her, and she was just playing a game, wasn’t she, look at little Meriken playing a game, and the stupid latch wasn’t opening, and little Meriken played house and little Meriken played like she had actually been loved and the stupid latch stupid latch stupid latch—
A strong hand grasped her wrist.
Instinctively, she yanked it back and tumbled a few steps away, her back against the white fence.
He stood there, happy, peaceful, but vacant smile on his face.
“Stay away from me! You’re acting really weird,” she said, and her voice trembled and shook like the tumultuous oceans that surrounded her rocky shores.
He held out his hands, a motion of peace. “Come here, Meriken,” he said. “I love you. I would never hurt you.”
Love?
She flushed suddenly, pinching her nails into the flesh of her hands. She must have heard wrong. Yeah, she’d been having hearing problems lately. But she let him approach, let the march of the soldiers echo on her grassy slopes, sea of red sweeping across the land.
“Meriken,” he said softly. “I love you.”
She flinched, and waited for the but or the and or the not that was sure to follow. Because she couldn’t be loved by England. Not since she was a child, and she remembered playing with the wooden toy soldiers, and remembered seeing kind eyes watching her, and warm laps, and soft kisses.
“I love you,” he insisted softly, and he was close enough now that she could see that he had changed his outfits, that he was wearing a suit with a proper tie and his cuffs were done up properly and his collar nicely starched. His hand reached out, but not to her. He seemed to be undoing his sleeve, but her eyes slowly focused on his kind, tender smile, and honest eyes.
“Why are you—”
“You’re such a good child.” He slowly unwound his sleeve. “Don’t leave me again.”
Her sense of justice flared. “Hey! Why are you accusing me? I told you I wouldn’t leave, didn’t I? We’re allies.” The little voice chanted in her head, yes, little Meriken plays at allies, yes, little Meriken played with the world, yes, little Meriken tried to be loved, little Meriken tried so, so hard—
“I know,” he said, his voice mechanic, soft. “Now you’ll never leave again.”
“England?”
And then there was a brief flash of silver and she was leaping back into the sharp fence where it caught at her jacket, but a few strands of blond hair fell to the ground, and he stood there with a knife and a smile, vacant, peaceful, happy.
“What are you doing?!” The scream barely escaped her lips before he approached again, swaying slightly, but his eyes fixated on her with the maniacal smile growing on his lips.
“You’ll never leave,” he said, and swung his knife again. His movements were slow and clumsy and she found herself dodging it by instinct alone. She was nervous, she was sweating, her clothes stuck to her skin, hair to her eyes and mouth.
“What the hell? Are we allies or not?”
And a little voice in her head chanted little Meriken wants allies little Meriken wants love little Meriken wants to play games. But little Meriken forgot something very, very important.
The knife swung down again, and this time she couldn’t dodge in time. It caught onto her clothing and she stumbles, briefly, but it was enough time for him to trap her onto the ground, and she screams as a heavy hand pushes her shoulder into the ground while another grinds the knife into her body, and it hurts it hurts it hurts no stop it it hurts please please stop and she tries to kick, but there’s no response.
“You—” Her breathing grew ragged with pain, and she inhaled and exhaled only in short bursts, and she could smell the lawn and even worse, she could smell him, as his cold gloved hands held down her neck. He smelled like tea and books and rain and love.
“You bastard—” And then she couldn’t finish because he had driven the knife even further into her body and there was blood oh god so much blood no please god somebody stop him somebody stop somebody save her and was she screaming because her mouth was open and the grass hurt against her neck wet and damp and three hundred years ago he painted himself with the blood of the poor the gold crowned king and she was screaming and screaming and screaming and stop it stop it stop it
“This…” Her breathing hurt. Everything hurt. The world hurt. “I was willing to trust you again—” Was she talking to herself? She must have been talking to herself. “You said you wanted to be allies—” And the voice in her head chanted chanted chanted and she was sobbing into the wet grass and it hurt it hurt it hurt
If she twisted her head, she could see that the blood had splattered across his face and his suit, but not across his smile.
“I love you,” he breathed. “You’ll never leave me. I love you. You’ll never leave me. I love you. You’ll never leave me.” He was chanting, and he was maniacal, and he wasn’t right in the head, and he was hurting her.
She was sobbing now, though she wasn’t sure of it. But she could hear the choked sobs from her throat, and the numbing around her fingers, and she was crying and it hurt and she felt his hand grab at her dirty blond hair and felt him on her neck, and he was stroking her hair, grasping at strands and petting it down helplessly, in rough kindness. No, his hand was shaking, badly shaking, and she could feel his trembles as he grinded the knife slowly deeper into her side, and his fingers were slick with blood, and he was crying, and he was muttering into her neck and not moving very much at all.
“I…” She was saying something, and she meant it, and her words dripped with as much rage as she could muster as she lay helpless in the most perfect little town and the most perfect little prison.
“I love you,” he said into her neck, and the knife gently shifted out before suddenly, abruptly, shoving back into her. She might have screamed, she might have fainted, she might have done so much, but she couldn’t remember because she had been sobbing and dizzy and angry, rage, betrayal. The knife wound didn’t hurt as much as the person gently trying to untangle her hair.
“You’ll never leave me,” he said, and his voice shook, and his face twisted into a gruesome smile that didn’t reflect back into his eyes. “You’ll never leave me again, will you? You’ll never leave me. You won’t leave me. You won’t leave me alone.” The desperation in his voice rose to a trembling wave, and he was trying to stroke her hair, and he was desperate, and his hand was rough, and he was pressing his face down into her neck, and he was pleading, begging, desperate, fearful.
“I hate you,” she said.
And there was a choked laugh, except it wasn’t a normal laugh, it was a strange laugh, and she would have shuddered if the world hadn’t swam before her in the heavy salted tears that she could taste with the dirt and grass and blood.
“I love you.” And this time, it was his voice that cracked into tears somewhere between the I and the you, and she felt the knife finally dig so deeply into her that there was nothing left in her except his shaking warmth and a chanting voice.
Little Meriken had forgotten one very, very important thing.
This wasn’t her England.
So she closed her eyes and tried to believe in his love, tried to ignore the betrayal, tried to believe that he was crying for her and not his brother, tried to believe, tried to die with some semblance of peace. But all she could do was die bathed in the dripping, sticky, wet blood of the poor.