(Yay, you liked it! :) And also yay for headcanon correllation. The whole USUK relationship is... argh, complicated is the best summary! And inextricably linked with France and Russia. Chapter 6 is a ridiculously long chapter, AND IT'S ALL THEIR FAULT. Also Austria and Hungary's fault (I love writing Hungary. Can you tell? :)). Oh, by the way, have a link to the poem Ireland keeps referencing: http://www.potw.org/archive/potw351.html This section picks up directly from the last Ireland and Belgium scene, by the way.)
--
“What?” asked Belgium.
“It’s from a poem,” explained Ireland. “’The Second Coming’, by Yeats. It’s a visionary sort of thing – it describes some kind of catastrophe that the poet foresaw, where the world begins to descend into chaos. ‘Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold’. It’s based around the Christian notion of the second coming of Christ, except it’s more about – well, the end of the world as we know it. Written in 1919, so you can hardly blame him for thinking world destruction was at hand!”
Belgium nodded, confusedly.
“Wars, revolutions, fighting for independence and all that,” explained Ireland. “You know, I guess Yeats is sort of vindicated by what’s happening now. Who knows – maybe he predicted this!”
“You,” said Belgium, “have a really morbid sense of humour.”
“Yes, yes I do.” They laughed together.
“So,” said Belgium. “Yeats?”
“Yeah. I’ve always liked the way that poem goes from miniscule to colossal. It begins with the falcon, spinning away out of control, and then ends in worldwide devastation. Like one action that goes hideously wrong. It’s as though the whole thing gains momentum – until everything collapses.” Ireland accompanied this with expansive hand gestures, presumably the better to illustrate concepts such as ‘devastation’ and ‘hideously wrong’.
“Like an alien pressing a tiny button to destroy the Earth,” said Belgium, wryly.
“Oh yeah. Ugh. Speaking of that alien thing – it’s staring at me.” Ireland shuddered.
“Ignore him,” said Belgium, dismissively.
“Can’t I go bash its head against the wall? Just a little bit? Please?”
“Ireland,” said Belgium, reproachfully.
“Not even enough to do any real damage!” Ireland assured her. “Just enough to repay it for effectively murdering us all!”
“Ireland!” This time, Belgium’s reproach was more sharply expressed.
“You’re just no fun,” said Ireland, pouting.
“Tell me the rest of the poem,” said Belgium, unexpectedly. She keeps doing that, thought Ireland. Saying unexpected things, that is.
“Huh? You want me to read it out to you?”
“Yes please.”
“All right... but – well, poetry read aloud never sounds as good as when you read it. I'm serious! It never matches up to the voice in your head. Everyone reads a poem differently – it seems to clash really awfully when someone adds a different intonation to a word, or – well, you get the picture.”
Belgium listened, nodding. “Ireland?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Just read me the poem already.”
“Tch. If that’s what you really want... ‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear...”
Re: DIY Doomsday (6f/?)
This section picks up directly from the last Ireland and Belgium scene, by the way.)
--
“What?” asked Belgium.
“It’s from a poem,” explained Ireland. “’The Second Coming’, by Yeats. It’s a visionary sort of thing – it describes some kind of catastrophe that the poet foresaw, where the world begins to descend into chaos. ‘Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold’. It’s based around the Christian notion of the second coming of Christ, except it’s more about – well, the end of the world as we know it. Written in 1919, so you can hardly blame him for thinking world destruction was at hand!”
Belgium nodded, confusedly.
“Wars, revolutions, fighting for independence and all that,” explained Ireland. “You know, I guess Yeats is sort of vindicated by what’s happening now. Who knows – maybe he predicted this!”
“You,” said Belgium, “have a really morbid sense of humour.”
“Yes, yes I do.” They laughed together.
“So,” said Belgium. “Yeats?”
“Yeah. I’ve always liked the way that poem goes from miniscule to colossal. It begins with the falcon, spinning away out of control, and then ends in worldwide devastation. Like one action that goes hideously wrong. It’s as though the whole thing gains momentum – until everything collapses.” Ireland accompanied this with expansive hand gestures, presumably the better to illustrate concepts such as ‘devastation’ and ‘hideously wrong’.
“Like an alien pressing a tiny button to destroy the Earth,” said Belgium, wryly.
“Oh yeah. Ugh. Speaking of that alien thing – it’s staring at me.” Ireland shuddered.
“Ignore him,” said Belgium, dismissively.
“Can’t I go bash its head against the wall? Just a little bit? Please?”
“Ireland,” said Belgium, reproachfully.
“Not even enough to do any real damage!” Ireland assured her. “Just enough to repay it for effectively murdering us all!”
“Ireland!” This time, Belgium’s reproach was more sharply expressed.
“You’re just no fun,” said Ireland, pouting.
“Tell me the rest of the poem,” said Belgium, unexpectedly. She keeps doing that, thought Ireland. Saying unexpected things, that is.
“Huh? You want me to read it out to you?”
“Yes please.”
“All right... but – well, poetry read aloud never sounds as good as when you read it. I'm serious! It never matches up to the voice in your head. Everyone reads a poem differently – it seems to clash really awfully when someone adds a different intonation to a word, or – well, you get the picture.”
Belgium listened, nodding. “Ireland?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Just read me the poem already.”
“Tch. If that’s what you really want... ‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear...”