✎ Fel's Creative Journal (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tinfoiltennis) wrote2009-09-08 03:11 pm
tinfoiltennis) wrote2009-09-08 03:11 pm
✎ drabble/ficlet - hetalia/ddd - [untitled]
Title: [untitled]
Fandom: Hetalia/DDD (ish)
Characters: England, Spain, Elizabeth I, brief blink-and-you'll-miss-it mention of Portugal [OC]
Rating: PG-13
Summary: They don’t talk about how she was dignified to the last as they led her away to the Tower to await her sentence as a heretic, an illegitimate child of the king who had dared to break away from Rome.
Timeframe: AU; late 1580s
Word Count: 531
Notes: Based on the current What If? virus going on on DDD at the moment, where me and the resident Spain are exploring a "What If the Spanish Armada had succeeded?" scenario and during our discussions about it, this suddenly popped up in my brain and refused to let me go.
Warnings: Essentially an alternate universe of history itself, so... yeah. A bit of unsavoury language and death of a historical figure. Also, this is completely unbeta'd as I thought of it, typed it out and posted it in the space of about two hours.
Also, apologies for the one sentence of unbeta'd Spanish I use in this, I haven't practised all summer so I'm sure it's wrong somehow. <-- corrected now by the lovely Lylith! ♥
✎ ✎ ✎
Since the Restoration (no one refers to it as an Armada anymore, not amongst anyone that they don’t trust utterly), nobody in England talks about the heretical former Queen.
They don’t talk about how when the ships were scattered and the army was finished and the great fleet swept up the Thames, she was waiting for them, as proud as she had ever been, refusing to abandon her people.
They don’t talk about how she, their Virgin Queen, refused to cower and hide from the Spanish invaders despite how her ministers pleaded with her; because, she said, a Prince does not run from the enemy.
They don’t talk about how she was dignified to the last as they led her away to the Tower to await her sentence as a heretic, an illegitimate child of the king who had dared to break away from Rome.
And they don’t talk about the man who was with her; a member of her court, one of her favourites, or so they would say if they talked about him. They don’t talk about how just as she refused to leave her people, he refused to leave her. They don’t talk about how, stubborn to the last, he refused to stand aside until forced to by the young Spaniard who was leading the force that stormed the palace.
"Basta ya, Arthur. Se ha terminado."
They don’t talk about how on the day of the execution, she was led out with her head held high, and although her make-up was gone and her hair was short and she had on none of the finery she had arrayed herself with since her coronation, she was still every inch the queen. They don’t talk about how, upon seeing her face death unflinchingly, every loyal English man or woman in that crowd saw in her their queen, their Gloriana, and not the bastard daughter of that whore Anne Boleyn that the executioner was telling them all that she was.
They don’t talk about how his eyes, from his place in the crowd among the Spanish conquerors, never left her face once; about how he didn’t look away for an instant; they don’t mention how he was as composed and dignified as she, but that when the blow was struck he couldn’t hold back a choked cry. And they don’t mention, either, how his friend with the dark hair and eyes (bizarrely, the brother of the very same Spanish man who had stormed the palace, they might have whispered, had they dared to) gripped his hand tightly as they held her head up for the crowd to see.
They don’t talk about how while the ladies wept into their aprons and some men groaned and the invaders nodded in satisfaction and crossed themselves and still more men shook their heads with regret and muttered under their breaths about how today was a dark day, a dark day indeed, he shook with anger and shock and grief, and still he did not look away.
No, they say their prayers dutifully in Latin and then again in English when they’re certain that no one is listening, and they don’t talk about this at all.
Fandom: Hetalia/DDD (ish)
Characters: England, Spain, Elizabeth I, brief blink-and-you'll-miss-it mention of Portugal [OC]
Rating: PG-13
Summary: They don’t talk about how she was dignified to the last as they led her away to the Tower to await her sentence as a heretic, an illegitimate child of the king who had dared to break away from Rome.
Timeframe: AU; late 1580s
Word Count: 531
Notes: Based on the current What If? virus going on on DDD at the moment, where me and the resident Spain are exploring a "What If the Spanish Armada had succeeded?" scenario and during our discussions about it, this suddenly popped up in my brain and refused to let me go.
Warnings: Essentially an alternate universe of history itself, so... yeah. A bit of unsavoury language and death of a historical figure. Also, this is completely unbeta'd as I thought of it, typed it out and posted it in the space of about two hours.
Since the Restoration (no one refers to it as an Armada anymore, not amongst anyone that they don’t trust utterly), nobody in England talks about the heretical former Queen.
They don’t talk about how when the ships were scattered and the army was finished and the great fleet swept up the Thames, she was waiting for them, as proud as she had ever been, refusing to abandon her people.
They don’t talk about how she, their Virgin Queen, refused to cower and hide from the Spanish invaders despite how her ministers pleaded with her; because, she said, a Prince does not run from the enemy.
They don’t talk about how she was dignified to the last as they led her away to the Tower to await her sentence as a heretic, an illegitimate child of the king who had dared to break away from Rome.
And they don’t talk about the man who was with her; a member of her court, one of her favourites, or so they would say if they talked about him. They don’t talk about how just as she refused to leave her people, he refused to leave her. They don’t talk about how, stubborn to the last, he refused to stand aside until forced to by the young Spaniard who was leading the force that stormed the palace.
"Basta ya, Arthur. Se ha terminado."
They don’t talk about how on the day of the execution, she was led out with her head held high, and although her make-up was gone and her hair was short and she had on none of the finery she had arrayed herself with since her coronation, she was still every inch the queen. They don’t talk about how, upon seeing her face death unflinchingly, every loyal English man or woman in that crowd saw in her their queen, their Gloriana, and not the bastard daughter of that whore Anne Boleyn that the executioner was telling them all that she was.
They don’t talk about how his eyes, from his place in the crowd among the Spanish conquerors, never left her face once; about how he didn’t look away for an instant; they don’t mention how he was as composed and dignified as she, but that when the blow was struck he couldn’t hold back a choked cry. And they don’t mention, either, how his friend with the dark hair and eyes (bizarrely, the brother of the very same Spanish man who had stormed the palace, they might have whispered, had they dared to) gripped his hand tightly as they held her head up for the crowd to see.
They don’t talk about how while the ladies wept into their aprons and some men groaned and the invaders nodded in satisfaction and crossed themselves and still more men shook their heads with regret and muttered under their breaths about how today was a dark day, a dark day indeed, he shook with anger and shock and grief, and still he did not look away.
No, they say their prayers dutifully in Latin and then again in English when they’re certain that no one is listening, and they don’t talk about this at all.