A finales del siglo VIII, nobles muladíes —ciudadanos de origen visigodo o hispanorromano conversos al Islam—que habitaban mayoritariamente Toledo, decidieron rebelarse contra Córdoba y ponerse bajo la autoridad del rebelde Ubayd Allah ben Jamir. No había sido la primera vez, pero será la última. (Fortuny) Toledo era una ciudad de gran importancia, era la llamada capital de la Marca Media, una…
I just had to share this. This is part of the fic Vola book two of Salmagundi's fic Beltaine. The first book involves noncon and is quite dark so warning you should probably read the description before giving it a read. The second book is all about Alfred's path to recovery after what the other countries did to him in an misguided attempt to help him. In this middle of this is this great little flashback that I feel could almost/ could stand on it's own.
****************
He traced his fingers along the edge of a pale scar across his belly, watching the motions of his doppelganger in the mirror doing the same. Touching it brought him a flash of emotion so strong that he almost staggered.
This was the big one, the scar that ran deepest and longest across his body. If he traced the entire length of it, he would remember the nebulous shape of the Mason Dixon line; remember the divide between his people and the battles, the men who'd died. He'd given himself this.
He bit his lip, eyes drifting closed as he followed the mark around - it was deeper in some places, rougher, the skin still tender to the touch where the scar dipped into the hollow of his hip and leg...
Fic Source Link (warning mention of noncon before flashback.)
*************
His laugh died immediately under the looks they were giving him, a distant sort of pity that made his stomach twist and cramp. He didn't want them. Didn't want their help. Didn't want their Emancipation Proclamation. He wanted to fall apart in peace. "I don't need help. I'll be fine."
"Alfred-" And the tone was that of an adult talking to an unruly child. Him, talked down to like he didn't know any better..
"I said leave it!" He struck the bandages from the physician's hand and a silence fell as the roll bounced across the smooth wooden floor, unraveling as it went. America met the president's dark eyes, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl, daring the man to challenge him. He was only barely on the Union's side, held there by the part of himself that clung desperately to his self-preservation instinct.
The doctor hesitated, drew back as Alfred struggled to his feet. The motion tore at his wounds and he could feel them settling, deepening, a yawning gap in his middle. You've done this to me.
I've done this to myself.
When they still said nothing, America let his head dip a bit, heaviness creeping into his limbs, pervading his whole body. "Just go." He didn't look up, but he knew when they finally submitted to his demands and let him be. It wasn't going to last... they'd be back soon enough, trying to fix him.
America brushed his fingertips through the welling blood, the move smearing it across his skin. He followed the trickle upward, to the deep gash that meandered across belly and hip. Fingers traced the edge of the wound, delicately, before he shifted the angle of his hand. He grazed a fingernail over the hardening edge of a scab that was beginning to form over the injury, gnawed on his lower lip for a second in contemplation, then curled his nail beneath the scab. America felt the sting, sharp but shallow, but he didn't relent. He scraped at it, struggled, clawed deeper and felt warmth blossoming over his fingers as he worried at the torn flesh.
He drew his hand back, fingers dripping with crimson, eyes narrowed. There was a tight feeling in his chest, need and desperation clawing inside of him. His gaze went to the doctor's things, sitting neatly beside the bed. He was on his knees beside it in a heartbeat, tipping the bag open, scattering the items within. Crude tools, the best that could be spared with the nation in such a state. It didn't matter, the blade of the knife was sharp - sharp enough.
America traced the tip across that bleeding gap, the ragged edge of Kansas - that should have been a proper border, should have, but they'd sundered it and the edge had never come back together quite right... He flicked the blade over the border of Texas, a widening wound, reflected again in the chipped edges of his glasses. Drawing the knife lightly across his middle - not cutting, just marking with the blood smeared tip - he lingered over a spot near his navel. Kentucky, still so split. His breath came out slow and heavy, tongue flicking across his lips as he skirted just a fraction lower.
No hesitation now, his shaking hand still managing to move with eerie precision as the tip of the blade slid into the skin. For a moment there was no pain, just an odd sensation of heat. Something dark flickered behind America's eyes, his arm jerking sideways, tearing, a jagged hole that followed the North-South border. The slight warmth gave way to a flaring heat, fever hot, America's head jerking back in silent agony. Lips parted in a cry that never came, as somewhere in that vicious slash, men lay in their own death throes among the bodies of their brothers - their enemies.
Fic Source
A twist of his wrist...
And here... a man shoots the boy he once raised. Shoots because as long as he flies the free flag, no blue coat will come into his house to take what is his. Fires through the tears in his eyes - I raised you better than this, damn you - and he curses the cruel fate that forces him to bury his only child long before his own breath is spent.
Another tear: longer, steadier. The pink flash of his insides bared to the world. Any lower, any deeper, and his intestines might tumble out across his bare toes...
They line them up, their Confederate captives, bound but still defiant. Their way of life will not end without a fight. A demand for their cooperation, but they will not give the satisfaction of showing fear. They laugh defiance until the Union forces cut them down in a spray of bullets.
And yeah, it hurt - but it's what they want, isn't it? This is what they're fighting for - and America panted, breath coming in sharp rasping bursts as he turned the blade. Readied himself to cut again, deeper, sunder the lands upper from lower. He could be two nations... somehow. A wild mental image of his severed lower half running around without the rest of him and he almost barked in hysterical laughter. Ludicrous, if not for the fact that he was struggling so hard to make the image a reality.
America missed the sound of the door, conscious of nothing but the need to do this, the thoughts of secession foremost in his mind, blocking out all the rest.. A hand on his wrist halted the movement before it could begin. His head jerked up, a frustrated whine in his throat, cut short as he met a pair of violet eyes and a face bereft of the smile America was familiar with. Russia.
Their gazes locked as America shifted his hand in Russia's grip, testing the strength of it. But the hold, like Russia's expression, was unwavering. The tendrils of madness began to unwind themselves from around America's thoughts, the sense of disassociation fading to allow him to actually feel the pain harrowing up from his torn gut. His breath came out in a shuddering gasp, his lean frame trying to curl around the wound, to hide it.
He wasn't allowed the move, Russia's forearm pressed against his chest, preventing him from being able to fold himself at the middle. America's hiss of protest was quelled as Russia spoke. "America-" and then, because he had permission, because there was no other goddamn nation out there who deserved to call him by his personal name anymore... "Alfred."
Hearing his name from Russia didn't elicit the same kneejerk reaction as hearing it from his boss had. America let his grip loosen, his body jerking slightly as the knife hit the floor with a clatter. Eyes were wide and unblinking as he sank down to sit on the bed, felt it dip beside him as Russia settled beside him. America could only watch with a feeling of numbness beginning to spread through his limbs as Russia wiped at the bleeding wound, dabbed away the splatters of red on America's skin. There was a hand on his shoulder - he wasn't even sure whose anymore - and he relented to let it guide him down onto the bed.
The doctor was there again and America could feel the distant pain of the needle, pulling together the ripped flesh; mending America with small, precise stitches. If only the real wounds could be fixed so easily with a bit of thread...
America's fingers twined in the trailing edge of Russia's scarf and Russia did not push them away. "You're here." Surprise laced his tone, he couldn't help it. The others... the others... "They want me dead."
"Who does?" Russia asked, but he had to know already...
"England." And there was no reason that should have bothered America as much as it did, not when he'd been the one to defy his former brother. It wasn't like he cared what England thought.
"I'm afraid, Vanya..." The diminutive slipped easily from his lips and Russia didn't even blink. America would not have admitted it, not normally, but there was no one else to tell, no one else to confide in. And it was true. "I don't want to die."
Fic Source
Don't be silly, America, this has happened to many other countries before. Even if they succeed, you'll still live.
Yes... but I won't be me anymore.
"Then why not choose to live?" The question was so simple it would have seemed callous if not for the hand holding his own and the gentle stroking of his hair. He turned his head to look at Russia, his expression blank. It was question enough, "You said once that you are many things, da? That you rebelled against England because of an ideal. All different people, but united as one nation. And you are all of the things you are. Not the North, or the South alone, da?"
America closed his eyes, his chin dipping a bit. "Yes." He did believe that. It didn't mean he'd forgotten - For all you've done for me... thank you.- but it did mean there were things he would have to let go. And some things I must keep... America swallowed, closed his eyes and idled his free hand against the bare skin of his leg. "You're right, Vanya. I'm the United States of America. That's what I stand for."
"Then stand, my friend."
Eyes darted up to meet Russia's. There was still that smile, the one that never wavered, but he knew Russia well enough to read the set of his jaw, the slight curve of his brows that showed both seriousness and leashed strength. I can't, America wanted to say, some part of him pointing out all the reasons it was impossible. It's too hard, it hurts too much, there's too many people who think I shouldn't - that I should never have tried in the first place. That... that...
His fingers tightened over Russia's, the doctor falling back - inconsequential, forgotten - as America's feet touched the floor, legs wobbly as a foal's. He stumbled, limbs trying to buckle out from beneath him as he committed his weight to them. And Russia was still there, steady and immovable and most of all, silent, as America regained his bearings. America was still aware of the pain - God knew he couldn't exactly miss it, not like this - but he was aware of something beyond the pain now: the molten core of himself. He was America, damn it all; just as much Texas as he was New York, or Mississippi, or Maryland... He couldn't give that up and still be the United States of America.
Because one is many... Is one...Is all...
We are.
I am.
He turned his head a little, smiled at Russia as he let his fingers slip away from their desperate grip on Russia's hand. "Thank you, Vanya. I can stand on my own now."
Somehow he wasn't surprised to feel Russia's hand rest on his shoulder, or hear that curious soft tone to his voice. "But you will remember that you don't have to, da?"
Despite everything else that could come crashing down around him with the slightest nudge, America found himself smiling, raising his hand to rest on Russia's. A whispered word, both teasing and grateful. "Da."
http://www.treilo.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/c5cdc__m02ampd20130813ampt2ampi762491994ampwampfhampfwampll460amppl300amprCBRE97C19MS00.jpg - Reuters: Top News By David Ingram and Karen Jacobs WASHINGTON | Tue Aug 13, 2013 4:51pm EDT (Reuters) – The U.S. government on Tuesday...
U.S. sues to block AMR-US Airways merger; stocks fall - http://www.treilo.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/c5cdc__m02ampd20130813ampt2ampi762491994ampwampfhampfwampll460amppl300amprCBRE97C19MS00.jpg - Reuters: Top News By David Ingram and Karen Jacobs WASHINGTON | Tue Aug 13, 2013 4:51pm EDT (Reuters) – The U.S. government on Tuesday...
