You taught me language, and my profit on't is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you /for learning me your language! – William Shakespeare
The first time England meets France is at the coronation banquet for his new king. Their new king, he supposes. He hovers in the corner feeling out of place as he watches the boy with the curly blond hair and big blue eyes talking to the new king, a group of nobles surrounding them. He looks healthy, happy and carefree while England is still nursing a broken arm from Hastings and is wondering how offended the new king would be if he makes a run for it, because Lord he’s not in the mood for this.
After a while one of the attendants brings England to them. Up close, the boy is even prettier. The attendant introduces the boy to the king and the blond boy, who is apparently the nation of France. England swallows nervously and bows clumsily. He stammers out “How do you do?” in his own language.
Silence. The king looks baffled while the nobles stare at England, aghast. After a moment, France giggles. He says something to the king, who roars with laughter. The laughter spreads, until the whole court is laughing at the boy with the funny words, looking down at his feet and trying not to cry.
* * * The next day one of the nobles summons England to his chambers, where he is informed that he was forbidden to address the king or France in his “barbarous language”.
“You are to speak to him in French.”
“I do not speak French.”
“Well then use Latin- you do still speak Latin, yes?” He does, but he hasn’t used it outside church in a while and he’s afraid of being teased. He then becomes aware of France hovering outside the door, smiling. England decides that he doesn’t like France’s smile. Stupid frogface. The noble explains that France has “very graciously” offered to teach him French and he is to behave respectfully, and pats him on the head. England barely resists reminding the noble that he is in fact older than him and decides to let out his frustration by pulling faces at France when the noble's back is turned.
His lessons begin the next day. France refuses to speak anything but French to him. He pinches him every time he speaks in English and once- after England calls him a “whoreson” in a fit of temper- slaps him. He claims it’s for England’s own good, that he’s a nation and he can’t go around talking like a “common serf”.
England would resist more strenuously except, well. Words. And France’s words are so pretty. They rise and fall and lilt and England can’t stop listening to them. They almost make France bearable.
Little by little he forgets. He starts using words like chivalry, measure, beef, poultry, dance courage and many, many more. France gives him more words than Rome did, and he treasures them all. He learns words from France, beautiful words that dance in the air around him, and he almost forgets that his own language has its own magic as well, that it is not inferior to French and could stand on its own, given the chance. The monks stop writing about his history in English, and England’s ability to read English fades through lack of use. He reads French instead, poems and songs about gallant knights and fickle, cruel ladies.
But...sometimes he likes to remember. He hides from France when he comes looking and escapes to the countryside or the nearest town. He walks among his people and listens to them talking about normal, everyday, almost boring things like the harvest and what they’ll buy at the market, all in English. His people don’t let him forget English, and so he doesn’t. And after France leaves, after the plague strikes down the ones who speak Latin and the king starts using English to give him orders, after Chaucer shows that English can be beautiful too, he falls in love with his own words again.
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The Property of the Imagination Part 2
(Anonymous) 2010-09-20 12:45 am (UTC)(link)The first time England meets France is at the coronation banquet for his new king. Their new king, he supposes. He hovers in the corner feeling out of place as he watches the boy with the curly blond hair and big blue eyes talking to the new king, a group of nobles surrounding them. He looks healthy, happy and carefree while England is still nursing a broken arm from Hastings and is wondering how offended the new king would be if he makes a run for it, because Lord he’s not in the mood for this.
After a while one of the attendants brings England to them. Up close, the boy is even prettier. The attendant introduces the boy to the king and the blond boy, who is apparently the nation of France. England swallows nervously and bows clumsily. He stammers out “How do you do?” in his own language.
Silence. The king looks baffled while the nobles stare at England, aghast. After a moment, France giggles. He says something to the king, who roars with laughter. The laughter spreads, until the whole court is laughing at the boy with the funny words, looking down at his feet and trying not to cry.
* * *
The next day one of the nobles summons England to his chambers, where he is informed that he was forbidden to address the king or France in his “barbarous language”.
“You are to speak to him in French.”
“I do not speak French.”
“Well then use Latin- you do still speak Latin, yes?” He does, but he hasn’t used it outside church in a while and he’s afraid of being teased. He then becomes aware of France hovering outside the door, smiling. England decides that he doesn’t like France’s smile. Stupid frogface. The noble explains that France has “very graciously” offered to teach him French and he is to behave respectfully, and pats him on the head. England barely resists reminding the noble that he is in fact older than him and decides to let out his frustration by pulling faces at France when the noble's back is turned.
His lessons begin the next day. France refuses to speak anything but French to him. He pinches him every time he speaks in English and once- after England calls him a “whoreson” in a fit of temper- slaps him. He claims it’s for England’s own good, that he’s a nation and he can’t go around talking like a “common serf”.
England would resist more strenuously except, well. Words. And France’s words are so pretty. They rise and fall and lilt and England can’t stop listening to them. They almost make France bearable.
Little by little he forgets. He starts using words like chivalry, measure, beef, poultry, dance courage and many, many more. France gives him more words than Rome did, and he treasures them all. He learns words from France, beautiful words that dance in the air around him, and he almost forgets that his own language has its own magic as well, that it is not inferior to French and could stand on its own, given the chance. The monks stop writing about his history in English, and England’s ability to read English fades through lack of use. He reads French instead, poems and songs about gallant knights and fickle, cruel ladies.
But...sometimes he likes to remember. He hides from France when he comes looking and escapes to the countryside or the nearest town. He walks among his people and listens to them talking about normal, everyday, almost boring things like the harvest and what they’ll buy at the market, all in English. His people don’t let him forget English, and so he doesn’t. And after France leaves, after the plague strikes down the ones who speak Latin and the king starts using English to give him orders, after Chaucer shows that English can be beautiful too, he falls in love with his own words again.
Re: The Property of the Imagination Part 2
(Anonymous) 2010-09-22 03:00 pm (UTC)(link)Re: The Property of the Imagination Part 2
(Anonymous) 2010-09-22 08:09 pm (UTC)(link)Your fill is gorgeous, please never stop writing.
Authornon
(Anonymous) 2010-09-22 10:30 pm (UTC)(link)OP :'D
(Anonymous) 2010-09-26 12:28 am (UTC)(link)Dear lord, I love you so much right now ♥
England, you're such a word whore XD
Write more~~~ :3