#engportweek

[rosesandalfazemas]

Day 2 (May 9th) ~ Across the sea (sailor au)

Long time no see, mate!

Some old effect for sailors with XX's century outfits, from different countries. After months in the sea they meet again. And yes Arthur is jumping

Hope you like it! :D

@engportevents

[engportevents]

Get your keyboards ready, your pens, your tablets, your makeup, etc! EngPort week is coming soon!

Yall… It’s almost time!

I know I’m still early, but May 2024 is right around the corner and I got something new in mind! I’ll let you guys know what’s coming in due time.

Meanwhile…

If anyone has Prompt ideas, I’m 100% all ears! (I’ll give you guys until the 1st of may)

Art by @chiring-art as always, with permission.

All further information in the google doc.

[farmazgony]

Engport week started today, so let’s go with first prompt, „surprise/gift” ❤️ :D

@engportevents

[needcake]

Day 1: surprise/gift

Engport | G | 1.3k

@engportevents

.

.

Small socked feet padding softly across the wooden flooring woke him up on Sunday morning.

Their room was still dark, a faint sound of light rain coming from behind the closed blinds, Gabriel’s steady breaths coming from his side of the bed. Arthur reached blindly for the alarm clock behind him and opened his bleary eyes to stare at the red numbers marking over half an hour before seven. Gabriel grumbled sleepily and he agreed, putting the clock back down and returning his arm around his warm waist.

He was almost, almost, falling asleep again when he heard it once more: small feet trampling the floor going up and down the corridor, scurrying away like mice on a ship.

“I think the boys are up,” he whispered into the collar of Gabriel’s pajamas and his husband groaned tiredly, pulling the sheets tighter around himself and excluding Arthur from his cocoon.

“And why do I have to be?” came Gabriel’s sleepy response, to which Arthur couldn’t think of something equally smart to answer back so he just grunted at him, peeling back the warm covers and blinking at the floor to find his slippers.

He yawned out into the corridor and noticed a single raisin on the floor. Half a meter away he saw another one, and then another one half a meter away from that, trailing all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

In the kitchen, he found the two scurrying culprit mice.

“What are you two doing up?”

A pair of Asian boys ages 8 and 5 looked over their shoulders at him, frozen and caught. It took one too many seconds for Arthur’s brain to connect the dots and fully understand what the hell was going on. There was spilled milk in the counter dripping down the kitchen tiles, an empty bag of raisins on the floor, eggshells on the counter, orange peels hanging from the kitchen sink faucet. His oldest was holding a pan on top of an open flame on the stove and his youngest stood on a precarious three-legged stool perched beside him, holding scissors.

There was also something burning.

“What the f—”

“You’re not supposed to see!” Leon yelled loudly, jumping from his stool and dashing towards him with the scissors and Arthur barely had time to dodge him and take a step back before the door was slammed on his nose.

He gaped at the door.

Then he huffed.

And then he went back for reinforcements.

“Gabe, wake up,” he said, turning on the lights and the human cocoon on the bed squirmed away, hiding his head under the pillow. “The kids are in the kitchen.”

More squirming. “So what?” came a tired response, muffled from under the pillow. “Come back to bed. They’re probably just making cereal.”

A plate crashed downstairs and Gabriel jolted upright, eyes wide open and alert.

“They are in the kitchen,” he repeated, with emphasis.

A multitude of expressions flashed through Gabriel’s expression, from horror to surprise to bewilderment, back to horror.

“And you just left them there? Arthur!” Gabriel whispered-screamed, untangling himself from his twist of sheets and emerging from the bed an angry butterfly, pulling on the first pair of pants he saw – Arthur’s – and stealing a robe from the rack – also Arthur’s –, spitting hair out of his face as he stood in front of him with his hands on his hips and clothes a size too small for his body. “There are knives in the kitchen! Open flames!”

He stepped aside and Gabriel passed by him, nostrils flared, pulling the sleeves of his robe up to his forearms and puffing like a dragon coming out of its lair ready to breathe fire over an unsuspecting village with Arthur hot on his heels.

As they reached the kitchen, Gabriel raised his fist ready to pound the wood into submission, but just as was about to the door opened a small gap and Leon stuck his head out.

“Vicente said Dad can come in, but only Dad,” he said, and Gabriel’s fist slowly uncurled, still held confusedly suspended in the air.

He looked behind his shoulder at Arthur and they pointed their fingers to one another in a silent argument over who ‘Dad’ was, both of them slowly turning their fingers back towards themselves.

Leon’s little hand darted out from the open crack in the door and grabbed the ends of Gabriel’s stolen robe, dragging him inside and shutting the door on Arthur’s nose again.

Arthur stood there, his mouth still trying to articulate his confusion, when a few seconds later Gabriel was pushed out of the kitchen and stumbled into him, hands catching on Arthur’s arms to steady himself and the two of them barely securing their footing before the door to the kitchen closed again.

He didn’t seem any less confused than Arthur though, which was something of a feat.

“I think…” he started, looking genuinely startled. “I think our sons might be evil geniuses.”

Arthur held his husband by the elbows and remembered to close his gaping mouth.

“Huh.”

-

Gabriel relayed the instructions he had received: they were supposed to stay in bed and wait for the surprise. So back to bed they went, sitting stiffly side by side, staring at the open door waiting for something to happen.

“Still think having kids was the right decision?”

Gabriel turned his head to blink slowly at him, not quite getting it.

“We could be sipping margaritas at a beach somewhere right now,” he continued, and Gabriel’s confusion dissipated, but it was replaced with a warm, humorous something he didn’t have time to articulate into words, because right as Gabriel opened his mouth to answer, a pair of tiny feet sounded on the corridor and the conversation was stalled in favor of both of them turning towards the door.

A pair of flour, butter, sugar-coated boys came in holding a tray of oatmeal-raisin muffins, burnt scrambled eggs, raggedly sliced oranges and tea, which was deposited at the foot of their bed.

“We wanted to surprise you,” Vicente said, and Leon shrugged slightly beside him, supporting a disgruntled little pout on his lips (much too similar to some of Arthur’s to go unnoticed).

And so he was the first one to break out of their stupefied stupor, internally shaking himself and sliding the tray towards them over the duvet. “Well, I’m very surprised,” Arthur said, putting on what Gabriel called his dad-voice, looking at the slightly under-baked muffins and the odd-chopped orange slices and the watery tea. “And you did this all by yourselves?”

Small heads nodded, and Gabriel huffed out a little defeated chuckle through his nose.

“Come here,” Gabriel said, opening his arms to welcome Leon and pull him up into the bed, setting about cleaning his flour-dusted cheeks with Arthur’s robe sleeve. “Whose idea was this?”

“Mine!” Leon piped from his lap, and Arthur saw the small honest smile on Vicente’s face.

He beaconed the child closer and silently asked for his glasses, giving them a good wipe with the hem of his sleeve before handing them back. “Was it?” he asked privately, and Vicente shook his head. He smiled at him and ruffled his hair, making space for the boy to climb on the bed with them.

Arthur winced at the taste of the tea, and Gabriel gagged around a bite of a gooey muffin. But their eyes met over their children’s heads and they held back their laughter.

“You know what?” he said, holding a moment of suspense, looking at his children’s expectant expressions and his husband’s amused raised eyebrows, a mess of sheets and crumbs and droplets of tea on the duvet, Gabriel in his robe and sugar on the kids’ noses and chins. He smiled at it all. “This is actually perfect.”

[rehsunshine]

Day 4 (May 11th) ~ Home

“I saw home in your eyes.”

Arthur Kirkland: @rehsunshine | instagram: reh_sunshine

João Henrique Lisboa-Carriedo: @amitiel-halfm00n | instagram: amitielcosplay

📸: instagram: shi.shooting.stars

@engportevents

[kaimaciel]

England: Top 5 men.

Portugal: At the same time?!

Portugal: 🤔

[amitiel-halfm00n]

Extra day (May 15th) ~ NOT MANDATORY/Free

A farewell kiss. 💜

We are very happy to participate in an event for one of our favorite ships in Hetalia. We are extremely delighted with all the participation and the affection received. Honorable mention to @rosesandalfazemas for letting us know and supporting us at EngPort week.

Thank you very much and until next time!

Arthur Kirkland: @rehsunshine | instagram: reh_sunshine

João Henrique Lisboa-Carriedo: @amitiel-halfm00n | instagram: amitielcosplay

📸: instagram: shi.shooting.stars

@engportevents

[kpop-emo-trash]

Engport week: 1&2

Cause I forgot yesterday

[rosesandalfazemas]

Day 5 (May 12th) ~ Rivals to Lovers / Not you again

Somehow, they're wild creatures defending their territory. That's why, telling you the truth, they're not human at all.

Little headcannon from my idea that they've got a lot of phases in their composition and sometimes ones mix with others in the same realm, especially when they're angry... even if they love each other.

Hope you like it! @engportevents

[engportevents]

Voting is over! Time for ENGPORT event!

I have finalized the prompts on the Google Doc (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ExjGh4aP5nZTl3LWWYYEv6hFdCjKnchA_ZgyT4fnJOc/edit )

Here they are for easy access:

Day 1 (May 8th) ~ “Oh no, they were roommates” (opening day)

Day 2 (May 9th) ~ Across the sea (sailor au)

Day 3 (May 10th) ~ Spy au

Day 4 (May 11th) ~ Greek mythology / Goddesses (nyo!engport)

Day 5 (May 12th) ~ Rivals to Lovers / Not you again

Day 6 (May 13th) ~ Regency Ball

Day 7 (May 14th) ~ DnD (any concept)

Extra day (May 15th) ~ NOT MANDATORY/Free

Now, no day is mandatory, of course! Although, if you wish to participate for each day, this “extra day” is a freebie. Draw anything you would like to conclude the week ٩꒰๑ ´∇`๑꒱۶

Like last year, this will be somewhat of a competition!

Info is in the google doc, but for easy access; the winner for this year is chosen by popular vote (who has the most tumblr notes)! The event starts on the 8th and ends on the 16th. You will have 8 days to post at least 1 piece of art.

Read the rules in the Document before participating!

Blog creator note:

I’m moving out of my city the 14th, so if I don’t repost right away or am a few days late on stuff, it is completely normal and I ask everyone to be patient with me! Knowing you guys, this won’t be a problem at all, but I just wanted to give a warning here in case.

Have fun! <3

[needcake]

Day 5: how to lose

Engport, Fruk | PG | 3k

@engportevents

.

.

The deeper they go into the ancient forest, the more restless his brother becomes.

“This is a mistake,” Wales whispers, voice tight, low. There’s a warning of fear and danger in his tone but England cannot and will not listen to it. He has come too far, he has lost too much. He dodges the low-hanging branches and thick protuberant roots. France is winning the war with the aid of a teenage girl and he cannot let that happen.

They have left the sunlight behind them, here in the thick of the woods no light can guide their steps.

Wales is shivering beside him, his hands gripping his bow with an arrow ready to be strung and released if his sharp eyes see danger in the dark. England places a hesitant hand on top of the pommel of his sword strapped to his waist as well. It is known that the witches live where men’s new age cannot find them. To seek their help in order to win the war of a hundred years against France, England knows he must first cross the gates of no return and abandon all fear.

He stops. Wales turns his head sharply over his shoulder and his voice struggles to find words when the sound of England’s belt and sheath hit the hard, frozen ground.

“What are you doing?” he hisses at him, but almost immediately after England lets go of his weapon, a small fire lights in front of them.

“We’re here,” he says, he knows. Deep inside himself, he knows where they are and that had found the place they set out to find.

“England—” his brother still tries, tries to dissuade him from the idea, tries to foolishly pull him back with a warning, reasonable hand on his elbow as England moves to pass him by on his way to the flickering red-orange flame, but he shrugs off all caution and marches on.

He won’t lose. Not to France, not to anyone.

The flame burns hot in front of him. He has no questions in his mind, only a single, resolute wish.

“I’m ready,” he tells the flame and the fire grows bigger, hotter, warming his skin to the point of discomfort, sweat gathering under his clothes. He reaches inside his cloak for a small leather bag of golden coins and offers it forth. “I can pay the price.”

But the fire licks the bag and turns his riches into a pile of ash.

A voice echoes in the ancient forest, coming from inside the flame, deep and guttural, as old as the tall, powerful trees, as wise as their roots.

Fate has been sealed, you cannot change it.

“England—” Wales warns him again, but England still won’t listen.

“I make my own fate,” he declares, loud and proudly, stuffing his chest to stare down at the mystical flame and the incomprehensible power hidden within. “Give me victory, name your price.”

A tendril of fire licks his chest, burning his skin without singeing his clothes, touching his heart.

Your heart, the voice echoes, and he hears Wales rustling behind him, trying to reach for him before it’s too late. Give us your heart, land of the Angles.

“That’s too steep a price—!” Wales hisses near his shoulder, but England has come too far. He will not come back empty-handed.

France has told him time and time again that he has no heart to speak of. What a small price, it seems. The gains far outweigh the losses.

“Take it,” he concedes, ignores Wales’ sharp intake of breath behind him. “Take everything inside it. Give me victory over France and his allies.”

Fire engulfs and burns him, his screams echo in the forest as pain blinds him.

He remembers Wales calling out his name.

And then nothing.

-

A twig breaks in the woods and England blinks himself back to awareness. In front of him only a few meters away, a young stag stares at him blinking slowly before dashing away. He looks down on his hands at the arquebus he carries in his arms.

He lets the animal flee. A small mercy in the grand scheme of things.

“Sir, would you like us to continue the pursuit?” a servant comes bustling through the trees to ask, breathless and red in the face, immediately bowing down to him in deference and fear, shoulders and hands trembling. “It is my fault we lost it, your grace, I accept responsibility. Please don’t punish my family.”

England blinks at him. “It’s just a stag,” he says slowly, frowning, trying to remember who this servant is, where they are, what is happening.

The young man glances up at him strangely before turning his eyes back down.

“Would you like us to continue the pursuit, sir?” he asks again, but England shakes his head.

He looks at the woods around him, looks at himself. He is dressed in different, richer clothes, a style different from what he normally wears. The woods seem to be the ones outside London and not the ancient forest of the before. Sunlight filters through the leaves and warms his face, it must be summer.

“I’d like to go back home now, please,” he says, and the servant again lifts his head to look at him strangely, wide-eyed.

“But the hunt, sir… Are you feeling quite alright, sir?”

England rises to his feet, feels the weight of the firearm in his hands. “Why do you ask?”

The young men forgets himself as he looks him directly in the eye, frowning in confusion, speaking slowly when he says, “It’s just that… I have never heard your grace say ‘please’ before.”

-

As he enters the palace, people bow before greeting him, whispering his name in fright and awe.

Hung above them on the stone walls, he sees tapestries depicting battles England cannot remember fighting, scenes of a powerful cavalry marching over the French countryside, trampling the French banner under their hooves. The fashions of the courtiers lining the walls near the windows seem different from what he remembers as well as, similar to the clothes he himself is wearing yet foreign to him altogether.

But as the servants open the doors to the great hall, in the process of being richly decorated for a lavish and important event, he is met with the most astonishing surprise of all: France, as he lives and breathes, turning to face him with a snarl of discontent and aversion.

“The servants tell me you let your catch escape, so much for wanting to serve our enemies with the spoils of your hunt,” he says loudly, derisively, in what England supposes is a mockery of his hunting efforts that morning. France gives him an exaggerated sigh, swirling his hand in the air. “No matter, I have already arranged for something else to be served instead, I didn’t want you near the kitchens scaring my cooks anyway.”

England looks at the hand France has is the air, gesturing as he speaks, and notices a golden band around the ring finger. He looks at his own left hand, where a matching ring adorns his own ring finger.

“We are married,” he says slowly, questioningly, eyebrows raised, and France interrupts his tirade to stare at him dumbfounded, caught off-guard. “Are we not at war with one another anymore?”

France’s eyebrows scrunch in a way that is most unflattering and could potentially cause the wrinkles that he oh so hates. He doesn’t have a chance to speak of them because suddenly France is stalking in his direction and gripping his face in both hands none-too-gently, turning his head from side to side, up and down, looking at him as strangely as the servant in the woods had before him.

“Did you hit your head during the hunt?” France demands, but England shakes his head, struggling against his tight grip, ineffectively trying to push him away. “If this is your idea of a joke, it is not funny. I’m stressed about tonight as it is, I will not have you ruin tonight’s negotiations over a ridiculous prank—”

“What negotiations? France, you’re hurting me.”

France’s hand fall immediately limp to his sides and England takes a small step back, thumb and forefinger massaging his chin where France had seized him. France’s eyes are wide when he looks at them again, blue eyes staring at him as if England had gone completely mad.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” he says weakly, the snarl of his lips coming undone in his shock.

But right as England opens his mouth to speak, a servant hurries into the room.

“Sir,” he says to France, doing a quick double-take as he sees England there as well and immediately retreats a step to bow, keeping his eyes down, his posture so promptly changing into something like submission in his presence that England feels sick to his stomach at the sight. “The Azorean delegation has arrived.”

“Shit,” France whispers under his breath, too low for anyone but himself to hear, but as England directs a questioning glance at him, he shakes his head, a nervousness he has never seen in France showing through the cracks of his composure before it is quickly and efficiently smothered away. Turning to the servant, he orders firmly, “See them to their quarters and make sure they do not leave until we’re ready.”

The man nods, stealing another quick glance at England before turning on his heels and moving to comply.

“Who are the Azoreans?” England asks privately, frowning at the space the servant had been standing on only seconds before.

France takes him roughly by the arm in a bruising grip that has England yelping and looking up sharply at him in alarm.

“That is not funny,” France hisses in his face, “You have no idea what I had to do to convince him to meet us tonight, you will not ruin this with your wicked sense of humor and untimely insolence. I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, but you will snap out of it.”

He doesn’t know how to respond. England gapes stupidly in face of France’s anger and the act of doing so seems to surprise France as well because his grip loosens, his eyes widen by fractions.

“Do you really—do you really not know?” France whispers in horror.

England might have been thrown into a world he doesn’t recognize or understand, but he knows better than to let France of all people see through his momentary weakness and use it to his own benefit. So he stiffens his spine, raises his chin in defiance. He pries France’s hand from his arm with a firm shove. “If you will not tell me, I’ll find the answers myself,” he says, but France is still looking at him in stunned silence, frozen in place. “I’ll be in my quarters getting ready for our important dinner with the Azorean delegation.” And he knows it was the right thing to say when that seems to snap France out of his daze, his eyes narrowing at him, lips pressed into a thin line, doing nothing to stop him as England leaves him for the corridors, trying to avoid the whispering courtiers as much as he knew how.

Perhaps they were no longer at war, but it was clear to him that he and France were not friends. No golden bands on their ring fingers had changed that, and it seemed that it still wouldn’t in the near future. Centuries of war and loss couldn’t be so easily overcome, even if England couldn’t remember anything after the fateful meeting with the witches in the forest.

He knows he’s missing something. Information, facts, time. Time had elapsed from his memory, but from the way people cowered away from him in his path, he knew his presence had been felt.

He needed to think. He needed someone he could trust who could tell him what was happening. He couldn’t go into a diplomatic meeting blind.

“Do you know where I can find my brother?” he asks an aide on his way to his chambers, but the man just looks at him in confusion, eyebrows tightly drawn. England huffs impatiently and moves on. As he enters another corridor and goes up a flight of stairs, he meets another aide and asks again, “My brother, Dylan Kirkland, do you know where I can find him?” But again he is met with confusion and wariness.

He is distraught and frustrated by the time he pushes the doors to his rooms open, but thoughts of finding Wales leave him as he stares up at the portrait hanging on the wall opposite to the entrance.

His last memory before finding himself in the woods outside London this morning, was of fire consuming his body, a scream being ripped from his throat as he felt his heart gripped in pain.

What he had become, the man he had turned into after that moment, looks back at him from the canvas on the wall, dressed in fine Venetian cloth and expensive ermine furs, holding scepter and royal orb, eyes so vile and wicked it sends a shiver up his back.

A man without a heart.

Tears line his eyes and England cannot hold them back.

What had he done.

What had he done.

-

“Those are not the clothes we agreed to,” France hisses at him when England forces his feet back into the great hall dressed in the old fashion, with clothes he found buried into his trunks. He ignores France’s indignant huffs and puffs beside him. This is what he feels comfortable wearing, he doesn’t care how it makes him look.

“Let’s get this over with,” he says firmly back, and the gruffness of his tone seems to be something France is already used to because he promptly straightens, looks sharply ahead without commenting on his garments any further.

The hall is decorated in their colors, vivid red and royal blue, golden lions and fleur-de-lis embroidered on the banners hung around them. An entire pig had been roasted with vegetables and a generous coat of butter, the smell of it reminding England that he hadn’t had anything to eat all day. The place on the table reserved for the King is vacant. When he asked about the King’s whereabouts before, all he had received as an answer was a vague reference to an unexplained illness. Perhaps after this dinner was dealt with he could convince France to explain it to him on clearer terms.

The woman sitting on the Queen’s side was young, far younger than the Queen he remembered, and French. That would explain the union with France, but there were still so many questions on his mind. Did they win the war? What happened to the girl leading the French army, the maiden from Orleans? And what had happened to their other neighbors? Where was Wales? And Scotland, and Ireland? Had Castile and Aragón not opposed to his union with France? Had not Portugal?

The last thought sends a knot of anguish into the pit of his stomach.

In their last exchange of letters, Portugal had confided that he would be attempting to take the north of Africa in a campaign that could potentially take years and that would leave his country virtually defenseless against Castile if he ever tried something. What if the worst had happened? What if England had failed to help him in his hour of need?

The Azorean delegation is announced and their noble titles are listed. It’s a small party, only a plenipotentiary, an Admiral and two guards. Such a small party, he catches himself thinking, such a small party for them to have put in place such lavish decorations.

He tugs the ends of France’s doublet beside him, and France grimaces at his hand and then at him, throwing him an irritated questioningly glance.

“I seem to…” England starts, licks his lips, France narrows his eyes at his hesitancy, “I seem to have forgotten,” he says, trying to find the right words, to navigate strange waters he himself cannot quite comprehend. “You called the Azoreans our enemies before, when did— when did it start?”

France’s lips part. His body turns more fully towards him. “Did you really hit your head during the hunt? I wasn’t sure before, but—”

“Just answer me!” England whispers with vehemence through clenched teeth and France’s knee-jerk response to the bark is to snarl, turning back around to face the incoming party, shoulders tense.

“Nineteen years ago,” he replies in clipped, low whispers. “Ever since they were forced out of Europe and took refuge in a cluster of islands they found in the Atlantic. Now they have us landlocked with their navy, they dominate the sea and the trade of spices, and they will not trade with us or allow us to trade with others.”

England frowns. “Why not?”

France turns to look at him as if it was obvious, as if England should be the last person to ask that question.

“Because you betrayed them.”

England stares back at him. How could he betray someone when he doesn’t even know who they are?

“It is our honor,” the young Queen says loudly to greet the foreigners that enter the great hall, and both England and France are forced out of their whispered conversation to look at the incomers. “To welcome you, distinguished sirs. May you come in peace.”

England feels light-headed. He feels sick. The smell of the richly roasted pig now makes him want to hurl.

Because coming at the front of the Azorean delegation, dressed fully in black with a hand wrapped menacingly on the pommel of the sword at his waist, his long hair firmly tied behind his head and a battle scar running across his face partially hidden by a black eye-patch while his right green-colored eye, the color of the shallow waters on his beaches they had walked across together not too long ago, when they were young and carefree, now glared at him with a hatred so deep England could barely keep his knees from folding under him, is Portugal.

“We thank you, your highness, for your hospitality,” Portugal – Azores – responds to the Queen’s greetings, but stands tall and proudly in front of her, openly refusing to bow in respect, his single eye still fixed on England. “But our peace shall be determined by your own actions on this evening.”

.

[engportevents]

Aweee these are so cute! I love your style💕

Thank you for participating!!

Yes, I know I'm a little late xD, but having two jobs isn't the smartest thing I've done lately (don't do it (???))

All my drawings will probably be silly sketches, but I'll do my best (???

Day 1 "oh no, they were roommates"

Day 2 I only read the part of a sailor Au, maybe i little wrong with this x,D sorry

<3

@engportevents ~~

[amitiel-halfm00n]

Day 5 (May 12th) ~ How to lose

How to lose a sword fight... And score yourself a husband in the meantime 👀

Arthur Kirkland: @rehsunshine | instagram: reh_sunshine

João Henrique Lisboa-Carriedo: @amitiel-halfm00n | instagram: amitielcosplay

📸: instagram: shi.shooting.stars

This photo is inspired by @rosesandalfazemas's wonderful art! 💜

https://www.tumblr.com/rosesandalfazemas/700329067378016256/al-andalusian-port-meets-pirate-eng-d?source=share

@engportevents

[kpop-emo-trash]

Engport week: 8

And sketched and outline

[mr-nauseam]

EngPort Week 7. Reencarnación

Temas: Muerte del personaje principal. Universo alternativo. Magia.

Un bosque de un aspecto sombrío, donde la vida y el color se habían esfumado de los árboles y el silencio anunciaba la soledad, estaba atrapado en este desolador escenario un hombre que yacía arrodillado en el suelo y sostenía entre sus manos con temor una pequeña flor de lavanda.

Era el único objeto en aquel paisaje que no pertenecía a la melancolía o al dolor que sentía, lucía en cambio alegre y esperanzadora pero las manos temblorosas que la sostenían revelaban una verdad terrible, esta era que la bella flor moría.

Agonizaba con calma.

Y eso provocaba que las lágrimas quisieran rozar la pálida piel de Arthur, el alma lastimada que tenía una sola oportunidad para lograr salvar su corazón, en su regazo un maltratado libro de hechizos estaba abierto de par en par, tenía ante sí las palabras prohibidas, sabía que se condenaría a sí mismo al hacerlo, pero no tenía más opciones.

Cerró los ojos en un intento de tranquilizarse, pues necesitaba sus pensamientos en orden y debía recuperar el control de sí para lograrlo, dejó que el viento le arrullara con una canción de infancia, fue en ese instante que se dio cuenta este era su despedida, no podría regresar, sin importar que anhelara seguir soñando.

Si quería regresar al pasado para volver a correr en los jardines, acompañado de su amor, sosteniendo su mano, debía reconocer que estaba renunciando a esa posibilidad, y saber esto sólo aumentó el dolor. Se sentía un alma vieja y cansada, estaría atrapado por toda una eternidad en el ciclo sin fin de violencia y muerte, las banshees, las vidas perdidas lo atormentarían, estaría solo.

Era un sentimiento desgarrador, pero no desperdició la oportunidad de que él, podría seguir viviendo de alguna forma, de salvarlo, de asegurar que en el mundo su delicada flor violeta jamás se marchitará. Así que sujetó con firmeza su pequeño tesoro, pronunció las palabras y aparecieron ante sí fantasmas del tiempo pasado; la primera vez que se encontraron sus miradas, la tarde en que compartieron un beso, los brillantes ojos de su amado que le habían admirado con adoración y fascinación.

"Como extrañare el don que tenías para verme como alguien digno y valiente, cuando no soy nada de eso, soy un simple cobarde que lo ha perdido todo, perdóname..."

Soltó la lavanda, la dejó caer, sintiendo que su mundo caía con ella. Se sintió ligero, como si flotara en el aire y antes de poder decir una última palabra se desvaneció sin dejar rastro.

...

—Deja de verlo, se va a dar cuenta —anuncio antes de sacudirlo por el hombro.

—¿Qué, de la, eh? —respondió distraído Arthur, Francis quien le había sacado de su ensoñación comenzó a reírse de él.

—Que palabras más elocuentes las tuyas cher, te decía que dejes de ver a Paulo con tanta intensidad, te va a descubrir.

—¡No me va a descubrir! —balbuceo aprehensivo y agrego tardíamente— ¡Yo ni quiera lo estaba viendo!, te lo habrás imaginado.

—Ajaa, tu no lo estabas viendo con tu carita de enamorado y yo no soy el chico más encantador del salón.

—No lo eres. Eres el tipo más molesto que conozco —dijo mientras ordenaba sus apuntes, levemente sonrojado por las palabras de su amigo.

Y es que sabía que estaba actuando como un tonto enamorado, lo que le irritaba pero no podía evitar sentirse así, por alguna razón desde que se cruzo en el pasillo con Paulo por primera vez, este invadió cada uno de sus pensamientos… en ellos siempre una idea ridícula y absurda se le cruzaba y es que… aunque carecía de lógica y era una creencia irracional, algo en él joven le hacia sentir que se entenderían a la perfección, como si se conocieran de otra vida pero tal certeza era absurda, ¡Arthur lo sabía bien!

Y, aun así, no podía dejar de sentir que tal vez vio a Paulo escapar de sus sueños…

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@engportevents

El ultimo día está aquí finalmente, después de una muy larga espera: esta week en específico significo mucho para mí, pues a pesar de haber sufrido mucho fuera de ella, es la primera week del engport que hubo. Por años Inglaterra y Portugal han sido mi pareja preferida, ambos personajes significan mucho para mí, Inglaterra fue mi primera musa -por él comencé a escribir- y luego Portugal tomo su lugar, ambos me han dado tantas ideas que espero de todo corazón algún día plasmar, además debo confesar que muchas veces me sentí tan solitaria en mi adoración hacía la pareja, que es tan genial para mí que con el tiempo eso ha cambiado.

A ti lector déjame decirte que si has llegado hasta aquí sin duda no tengo palabras suficientes para agradecerte por tomarte el tiempo de hacerlo, especialmente al tener en cuenta lo mucho que tarde en acabar, lo lamento mucho por eso, pero lo diré fuerte y claro: ¡Gracias, por estar aquí!

PD: Tengo un mini engport por allí que tal vez publique como día extra pero no sé si quisieran verlo. Es una adaptación de un caso de Sherlock Holmes. :D

[rosesandalfazemas]

So romantic!

Regency Ball -Nyo!Portugal x England

@engportevents