The sunlight weaving into her hair suits her; the gleam of death in her eyes greets the dawn. Strands of her hair are sticky with congealed blood, pressed to her left cheek and the slope of her neck – it hides the bruises.
“What do you think?” Hungary says with a grin. Her breaths are steady, heaving; she’s been exerting herself again, and it’s left her needy for air and approval. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Bulgaria concedes. He’s kneeling in the centre of the bloodied grounds, so he has a good view of the Danube plains. Right now they're breathtaking, truly; the sight that meets his eyes has stolen his ability to formulate meaningful sentences, so he tells her such, earnest. “I... I don’t know what to say.”
Hungary’s grin becomes a beam. “You like it, then? Is it good enough?”
Bulgaria thinks for a moment before responding. He’s known for a while that Hungary has a crush on him, but he didn’t know she would go to these lengths just to prove it. She has the dramatic flair of some of her neighbours, but she’s more subtle about it. Her decision to fight him was completely unexpected, wholesomely welcomed.
He likes being wooed.
“Of course it’s good,” Bulgaria replies eventually, gently easing himself to his feet. He keeps his answer cryptic, calculated; he wouldn’t want to get the poor girl’s hopes up when he isn’t entirely sure how he feels about her yet. “It’s one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen.”
“This will be even prettier,” she says, gesturing to the hillside, “when they’re all dead.”
His gaze follows her gesture. Aside from the corpses, there’s no sign that there was ever a battle here, and if he couldn’t hear the drum of footsteps in the distance, he would almost describe the scene as peaceful. More soldiers are on their way, be it by foot or by horse, and very soon the battle will have to recommence.
For now, Bulgaria enjoys her handiwork.
She’s worked wonders with his people, their limbs spread ragdoll-limp over blushed grass. They died in such interesting ways; though they met their ends at her sword, and the swords of her army, they didn’t just die from the regular slashes and hacks. Patterns have been carved, marks have been made.
The nicest part, however, is how she’s arranged her own deceased. Some, she’s left to float in the Danube itself, dyeing the waters crimson, shades matching the sunset atop the horizon. Others, she’s draped with flowers – bouquets, all for him, rigor-mortis hands clutching stems of just-blooming tulips.
“I’m not going to be dishonest with you,” Hungary says. “You’re probably going to lose this war. But it’s worth it, isn’t it? We can burn settlements, if you like.”
szerelem [1a/1]
To him, she is a work of art.
The sunlight weaving into her hair suits her; the gleam of death in her eyes greets the dawn. Strands of her hair are sticky with congealed blood, pressed to her left cheek and the slope of her neck – it hides the bruises.
“What do you think?” Hungary says with a grin. Her breaths are steady, heaving; she’s been exerting herself again, and it’s left her needy for air and approval. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Bulgaria concedes. He’s kneeling in the centre of the bloodied grounds, so he has a good view of the Danube plains. Right now they're breathtaking, truly; the sight that meets his eyes has stolen his ability to formulate meaningful sentences, so he tells her such, earnest. “I... I don’t know what to say.”
Hungary’s grin becomes a beam. “You like it, then? Is it good enough?”
Bulgaria thinks for a moment before responding. He’s known for a while that Hungary has a crush on him, but he didn’t know she would go to these lengths just to prove it. She has the dramatic flair of some of her neighbours, but she’s more subtle about it. Her decision to fight him was completely unexpected, wholesomely welcomed.
He likes being wooed.
“Of course it’s good,” Bulgaria replies eventually, gently easing himself to his feet. He keeps his answer cryptic, calculated; he wouldn’t want to get the poor girl’s hopes up when he isn’t entirely sure how he feels about her yet. “It’s one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen.”
“This will be even prettier,” she says, gesturing to the hillside, “when they’re all dead.”
His gaze follows her gesture. Aside from the corpses, there’s no sign that there was ever a battle here, and if he couldn’t hear the drum of footsteps in the distance, he would almost describe the scene as peaceful. More soldiers are on their way, be it by foot or by horse, and very soon the battle will have to recommence.
For now, Bulgaria enjoys her handiwork.
She’s worked wonders with his people, their limbs spread ragdoll-limp over blushed grass. They died in such interesting ways; though they met their ends at her sword, and the swords of her army, they didn’t just die from the regular slashes and hacks. Patterns have been carved, marks have been made.
The nicest part, however, is how she’s arranged her own deceased. Some, she’s left to float in the Danube itself, dyeing the waters crimson, shades matching the sunset atop the horizon. Others, she’s draped with flowers – bouquets, all for him, rigor-mortis hands clutching stems of just-blooming tulips.
“I’m not going to be dishonest with you,” Hungary says. “You’re probably going to lose this war. But it’s worth it, isn’t it? We can burn settlements, if you like.”