Prussia x Reader: Soul of a Writer

20. Fortitude


“Representative?” You asked as the teacher eyed you wearily. Clearly he’d been looking for a representative for… something (?) for a while now.

“Yes. Understand that the school, specifically the parts involving language and written word could receive a large grant if you were to represent us.”

“Could I ask why me specifically?”

“You came highly recommended.”

“By whom?!”

“This person has asked to remain anonymous. They won’t let anyone else do it.”

“Why won’t they do it?” The teacher sighed wearily as if he, himself, wasn’t entirely sure what the answer was.

“They won’t. I assume it has something to do with reputation.”

“May I ask what it is I’m representing?”

“Poetry.”

“Poetry?”

“Yes. There’s a something like a contest going on where schools will have exceedingly large amounts of money donated to them by one of five generous benefactors. We believe we have a shot to do this so we won’t have to close down the school paper. We lack the funding to keep it going. Now someone who knows someone on the paper has submitted an extraordinary piece of poetry that could pull us out of this slump, but they refuse to present it. Instead they asked for you, so on behalf of the school and all who value writing in its purest forms I ask you to represent us.”

“O-okay,” you agreed. It was hard to say no when he put it like that….

“Excellent!” the teacher said, quickly standing up and clasping his hands together. “We practice poetry recital every other day after school. I understand you’re a member of the drama club, so I’ll speak with them to get you free those afternoons. It shouldn’t be too hard since they rely on this too. First practice is tomorrow afternoon in the auditorium. Here’s the poem you’ll be reading,” he said as he handed you a sheet of paper. “Give it a few reads tonight for homework, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that he left the classroom. You gazed down at the paper.

“'Vision’ written by ‘B’.” Who was B? You ran down a list of names of students you knew with a name that started with B. There were only two that came to mind: Bella and Berwald. Bella wasn’t the type to be so shy about all of this, but Berwald didn’t seem like the poetry writing type. Maybe one of them was going to surprise you – in that Bella was shyer than she seemed or Berwald was a secret poet in the making.

~

You read and reread the poem time and time again. Initially you had started to read the poem to memorize it, but after the first run-through you were simply mesmerized by the poem itself. It was beautiful and complex. You couldn’t understand it but the imagery it used was very clear. It made it feel off to not be able to decipher the poem itself.

Vividly warm and lively, life is breathed into the body
The soul writhes around with new energy it had never known before
As it stretches and grows it recognizes its being
It has a body
Fingers curl in strange fascination
So this is movement
It felt joy in the wonders of its new vessel
It was unmarked
But true beauty had yet to be discovered
It lived life that colored it an array of vivid hues and shaped it into new forms
It discovered true beauty and pain
Oh the pain
It was horrible wrenching it and twisting it and contorting it
It was not the soul it once was
It had been horribly disfigured
Yet when the soul had to leave its vessel at the end of its life
It looked upon the many scars it had acquired
Some were natural and others were self-made
Lessons learned through life and proof that life had been lived
It was marvelous
The life it had lived was hard but so magnificent
It was not the same soul it had once been
It had grown to fill the body it had gained and loved
Then it left
As easily as it had entered this world so had it left
Taking with it knowledge and pain
Happiness and experience
Love and Satisfaction

This was powerful. Apparently, you weren’t the only one who thought so.

“It’s so, like, beautiful isn’t it?” Feliks asked you when you saw him at the practice.

“You mean the poem? You’ve read it?”

“Totally. I wanted to read it, but Gilbert solely wanted you to do it.” You sputtered with your response.

“Gilbert wrote this?!”

“Well, yeah. I know he’s doing this whole anonymous thing, but I trust you, hon,” he said as he put an arm around your waist and pulled you close. Ah, so he was still doing the flirty thing with you. Or maybe this was normal?

“So what does ‘B’ stand for?”

“His last name.” Now you remembered. His last name was Beillschmidt. “Who did you think it was? Pfft. Berwald?” he snickered. Then he saw your flushed face. It had been clear at one point you did. “Well I guess I can’t blame you,” he consoled, “Even he seems more likely than Gilbert.”

“But why doesn’t Gilbert want to read it. It’s really good.”

“Good? It’s amazing! But he thinks it’ll make him less of a man or something. You know since he’s writing instead of clobbering a meathead holding a football.”

“But there’s nothing wrong with a guy being into stuff like this. It’s actually a really good thing and I think women would find it attractive. Isn’t he, like, all about women?”

“He is a playboy isn’t he?” Then Feliks’s eyes lit up. “I bet if you told him that, he’d read it. Talk to him tomorrow at lunch. As soon as he knows the women will be all over him, he’ll be all over you.” You weren’t sure you quite heard that right, as there was some loud microphone feedback from the stage where the current poet stood reading her poem.

“What?”

“I said he’ll be all over it when he realizes how many women love poetry,” he said with a smirk.

“Oh okay. I’ll speak to him. It really should be him to read this.”

~

“Gil, can I speak to you?” you asked him at lunch. He was sitting with his brother, Alfred, Matthias, and Ivan. All of them were into some sort of sport. You assumed these were the ones he didn’t want to know about his writing talents. “Alone?” The boys watched you cautiously. What did you want with Gil?

“Of course, fraulein,” he answered with a smirk. You pulled him by the wrist out of the cafeteria. But he grabbed your hand instead. You blushed and looked at him, and just smirked down at you and winked. Once you had reached a secluded area, he trapped you against a wall, his hands resting on either side of your head. You flushed deeper as his blood red eyes peered down at you.

“How can I be of service?” he asked lowly. Your heart beat rapidly.

“Th-this is yours!” you blurted, shoving the piece of paper at him. He blinked and backed up, grabbing the sheet of paper and glancing down at it.

“Who told you?”

“That’s not important! But you have to read this. It’s amazing!”

“Poetry isn’t really my thing.”

“Apparently it is. Gil what you wrote surpasses so much more poetry I’ve read before. And you know, women like a man who can get into his feelings like this.” Gil stiffened. He looked down at you, he almost seemed to be studying you.

“You owe me.”

“Of course,” you said with a smile. You told him the information about the practices before going on your merry way, unaware a pair of ruby eyes gazed at you longingly.

~

“What made you change your mind?” Ludwig asked when he, Gilbert, and Germania returned to their home after the poetry reading. Gilbert set his poem and blue ribbon on the table.

“I was doing it for someone.”

“Someone special,” Germania questioned.

“Someone extraordinary,” he replied.