31_days: The Wars of the Little Boss in Grey
Title: The Wars of the Little Boss in Grey
Day/Theme: June 30th / L'esprit d'escalier.
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Character/Pairing: Arthur Kirkland/Francis Bonnefoy
Rating: PG
MY FRENCH IS TERRIBLE, so I write like pidgin franglais. Just. Be warned. Also, sometimes Francis is overly dismissive on purpose, but the Napoleonic Wars are Not My Forte, and I apologise for any errors on my part that I may have missed.
The Wars of the Little Boss in Grey
I.
France rose from the ruins of l'autocratie, Venus from the foam. It was at the behest of a little man in grey that he did this, and it was at his behest again that France was crowned with the Low Countries -- Oostend, Antwerp, Amsterdam shining proud and bowed and prized in his opulent haberdashery. His sceptre was the rangy spine of the Alps, running through Switzerland and the Italian states. Few nations could stand before his might, so they fell instead in obeisance at the the feet of his little boss in grey.
But to run from ruin to windfall calls for the span of more than a day, not unlike the raising of Rome. That which Rome had not maintained, why, could not France -- France of the bold and liberty -- could he not surpass?
Mais oui, of course, of course, certainement.
II.
In the fading rubble of tradition, the old strictures to survive must adorn themselves in new masks, new guises -- so in the name of liberté, in the manner of the chevalier galant, he found himself paying address to a lady once more. Madame was quick and sharp, keen as a blade. She advanced bold statements that no man alive could refute. Ah, how bright she was! How much a woman, to be irrationally rational! He was infatuated. To dance with her was a treat, and with this Madame Guillotine he danced with such wild abandon in so unfurtive a manner that a chevalier of old could surely never approve.
He danced and danced until his feet ran with blood and stained his new fashion of the sans-culottes (Or perhaps it was an old fashion? Ah, what matter? It was French, and therefore could not help but be la mode superbe).
One morning, he looked down, and to himself, he uttered, "Alors! How unsightly!" And he sent the Madame away into the arms of conflagration. He threw his old boss out too, for good measure. There can be never too much of a good thing, non?
III.
He mused, perhaps he would not fight himself so much if he fought another. This seemed to him rational, but still, the response to his challenge caused him to be taken aback.
Herr Roderick in the east ceased his musical aspirations to raise standard against him, and his lady wife in strident form beside him. A loutish warmonger in the states of Germany cursed and swore eagerly at the prospect of a fight. What a miracle France had wrought! to unite two so very bitter enemies!
The small countries that lay beneath the height of the swelling tide sat up like small Furies to raise small armies, and the old pretender to Calais sent his naval strength to bear against the war upon the land. Oh, that one. Coarsely put, which is to say 'in his uncouth tongue' -- what a fathead!
IV.
Against such odds, one might ask, in depressingly low faith, at what price la gloire?
Oh, Thomas, Thomas, how sorrowing is your disbelief. Did we not have the little man in grey, who but for the roulette of chance might have sat boss in a backwater Italian state, or wasted beneath command of the abominable fathead? He came to save la France, racing home from far away. How they piled accolades upon his crown, laurel wreaths of song and verse! He was a hero, celebrated, and even in unlovely languages, they wrote odes for him. He was as gilded a prince as any grand Henry or other (there had been so many) could ever have been.
And so the little general gleamed beneath the gaze of the beaming sun, in a manner such that even the fourteenth Louis in his mirrored halls could never hope to best.
When France awoke one morn to find himself subservient to no less than an Emperor, it was with an air of inevitability that he shrugged the matter loose. "Caesar himself would deny him not the office," said he.
V.
But jealous Carthage across the sea said, "Hang on a tick, that can't be right."
There they stood, one crowned in the conquered riches of all the nations, the other stifled in the mercantile wealth of the world.
And the wars began again.
VI.
Across the Channel, under which trains run today, there went a number of sunny days, by whose light, but for the grace of God, burned away the mist and drear. Because these impediments went the way of clouds in the Sahara, it was eminently possible to see that poncy blighter drilling away at getting landing parties from the decks of (inferior-quality) warships onto the banks of the Seine.
As an island nation, Great Britain was naturally concerned. When one took into account the few important nations yet to be conquered, the vast expanse of wide, unwieldy Russia -- and at any rate, Britain was the only one bound by the sides of the sea any longer -- it can hardly come as a surprise that horror gripped the English shoreline. It only held for an instant, for the stalwart spirit of the Britons was of a natural disposition to prevail. Fishermen harried the coasts, and men from holt and hamlet turned out to arm themselves.
"We'd thank you to kindly bugger off," said Britain.
"What terrible manners you have," said France. "Almost as terrible as that sorcerous practice you term 'cuisine'."
But the white cliffs of Dover stood resolute against the cabling of any little man in grey.
"If you hurry," he said, "We will take the old foe by the end of the day."
VII.
"What a magnificent victory!" exclaimed France. "The Eagle of Austerlitz, such a grand title, non?"
Britain sniffed, "Isn't your boss a trifle drab for that title?"
They parried, and withdrew, and engaged once again.
"From one who has made a fashion, if such attire could be termed 'fashion', of sad, sorry colours -- from such a he, I expect crude comprehension," said France.
"You will kindly take your comprehension and sod it," advised Britain.
Marchings were undertaken from here to there; allies were gained and defeated, and all the while Carthage matched Rome.
"But I do not consort with traitors to the charms of freedom," said France. "What more were you before Guillaume d'Orange plucked you out of that backwater stupor you were cultivating in so loving a manner? His Holland is one of my large collection of vital regions now, you know."
VIII.
"Here am I, in Paris," he said. "And there wends your little grey boss, on his way to Elba."
IX.
A final encounter in the wars of the little man in grey ensued, and this was Waterloo.
Britain returned home, and he said to his people, "This is the greatest victory we will have ever won; we shall memorialise it for what it is, no more and not a whit less."
France returned home, and he said to his people, "This is the greatest defeat we shall have ever suffered; we shall immortalise it for what it might have instead become."
But before these two events occurred, on the battlefields far from Paris and far from London, where pennants snapped out in the wind like dragons and bayonets dropped bloody stains upon the soil, France said to Britain, "When we come to one of those flimsy truces again, you must visit me; I shall teach you the meaning of Sauvignon."
"Nonsense!" said Britain. "I do not consort with foul-breathing bounders like you."
"If there is a foul breath in scenting distance," said France, "why, it must be yours, for is it not fact that one's breath can never be foul when one's cuisine is the most exquise? In truth, it must be your own breath you are smelling."
"Rot!" said Britain. "I shan't visit you at all!"
But he did, of course.
Day/Theme: June 30th / L'esprit d'escalier.
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Character/Pairing: Arthur Kirkland/Francis Bonnefoy
Rating: PG
MY FRENCH IS TERRIBLE, so I write like pidgin franglais. Just. Be warned. Also, sometimes Francis is overly dismissive on purpose, but the Napoleonic Wars are Not My Forte, and I apologise for any errors on my part that I may have missed.
The Wars of the Little Boss in Grey
I.
France rose from the ruins of l'autocratie, Venus from the foam. It was at the behest of a little man in grey that he did this, and it was at his behest again that France was crowned with the Low Countries -- Oostend, Antwerp, Amsterdam shining proud and bowed and prized in his opulent haberdashery. His sceptre was the rangy spine of the Alps, running through Switzerland and the Italian states. Few nations could stand before his might, so they fell instead in obeisance at the the feet of his little boss in grey.
But to run from ruin to windfall calls for the span of more than a day, not unlike the raising of Rome. That which Rome had not maintained, why, could not France -- France of the bold and liberty -- could he not surpass?
Mais oui, of course, of course, certainement.
II.
In the fading rubble of tradition, the old strictures to survive must adorn themselves in new masks, new guises -- so in the name of liberté, in the manner of the chevalier galant, he found himself paying address to a lady once more. Madame was quick and sharp, keen as a blade. She advanced bold statements that no man alive could refute. Ah, how bright she was! How much a woman, to be irrationally rational! He was infatuated. To dance with her was a treat, and with this Madame Guillotine he danced with such wild abandon in so unfurtive a manner that a chevalier of old could surely never approve.
He danced and danced until his feet ran with blood and stained his new fashion of the sans-culottes (Or perhaps it was an old fashion? Ah, what matter? It was French, and therefore could not help but be la mode superbe).
One morning, he looked down, and to himself, he uttered, "Alors! How unsightly!" And he sent the Madame away into the arms of conflagration. He threw his old boss out too, for good measure. There can be never too much of a good thing, non?
III.
He mused, perhaps he would not fight himself so much if he fought another. This seemed to him rational, but still, the response to his challenge caused him to be taken aback.
Herr Roderick in the east ceased his musical aspirations to raise standard against him, and his lady wife in strident form beside him. A loutish warmonger in the states of Germany cursed and swore eagerly at the prospect of a fight. What a miracle France had wrought! to unite two so very bitter enemies!
The small countries that lay beneath the height of the swelling tide sat up like small Furies to raise small armies, and the old pretender to Calais sent his naval strength to bear against the war upon the land. Oh, that one. Coarsely put, which is to say 'in his uncouth tongue' -- what a fathead!
IV.
Against such odds, one might ask, in depressingly low faith, at what price la gloire?
Oh, Thomas, Thomas, how sorrowing is your disbelief. Did we not have the little man in grey, who but for the roulette of chance might have sat boss in a backwater Italian state, or wasted beneath command of the abominable fathead? He came to save la France, racing home from far away. How they piled accolades upon his crown, laurel wreaths of song and verse! He was a hero, celebrated, and even in unlovely languages, they wrote odes for him. He was as gilded a prince as any grand Henry or other (there had been so many) could ever have been.
And so the little general gleamed beneath the gaze of the beaming sun, in a manner such that even the fourteenth Louis in his mirrored halls could never hope to best.
When France awoke one morn to find himself subservient to no less than an Emperor, it was with an air of inevitability that he shrugged the matter loose. "Caesar himself would deny him not the office," said he.
V.
But jealous Carthage across the sea said, "Hang on a tick, that can't be right."
There they stood, one crowned in the conquered riches of all the nations, the other stifled in the mercantile wealth of the world.
And the wars began again.
VI.
Across the Channel, under which trains run today, there went a number of sunny days, by whose light, but for the grace of God, burned away the mist and drear. Because these impediments went the way of clouds in the Sahara, it was eminently possible to see that poncy blighter drilling away at getting landing parties from the decks of (inferior-quality) warships onto the banks of the Seine.
As an island nation, Great Britain was naturally concerned. When one took into account the few important nations yet to be conquered, the vast expanse of wide, unwieldy Russia -- and at any rate, Britain was the only one bound by the sides of the sea any longer -- it can hardly come as a surprise that horror gripped the English shoreline. It only held for an instant, for the stalwart spirit of the Britons was of a natural disposition to prevail. Fishermen harried the coasts, and men from holt and hamlet turned out to arm themselves.
"We'd thank you to kindly bugger off," said Britain.
"What terrible manners you have," said France. "Almost as terrible as that sorcerous practice you term 'cuisine'."
But the white cliffs of Dover stood resolute against the cabling of any little man in grey.
"If you hurry," he said, "We will take the old foe by the end of the day."
VII.
"What a magnificent victory!" exclaimed France. "The Eagle of Austerlitz, such a grand title, non?"
Britain sniffed, "Isn't your boss a trifle drab for that title?"
They parried, and withdrew, and engaged once again.
"From one who has made a fashion, if such attire could be termed 'fashion', of sad, sorry colours -- from such a he, I expect crude comprehension," said France.
"You will kindly take your comprehension and sod it," advised Britain.
Marchings were undertaken from here to there; allies were gained and defeated, and all the while Carthage matched Rome.
"But I do not consort with traitors to the charms of freedom," said France. "What more were you before Guillaume d'Orange plucked you out of that backwater stupor you were cultivating in so loving a manner? His Holland is one of my large collection of vital regions now, you know."
VIII.
"Here am I, in Paris," he said. "And there wends your little grey boss, on his way to Elba."
IX.
A final encounter in the wars of the little man in grey ensued, and this was Waterloo.
Britain returned home, and he said to his people, "This is the greatest victory we will have ever won; we shall memorialise it for what it is, no more and not a whit less."
France returned home, and he said to his people, "This is the greatest defeat we shall have ever suffered; we shall immortalise it for what it might have instead become."
But before these two events occurred, on the battlefields far from Paris and far from London, where pennants snapped out in the wind like dragons and bayonets dropped bloody stains upon the soil, France said to Britain, "When we come to one of those flimsy truces again, you must visit me; I shall teach you the meaning of Sauvignon."
"Nonsense!" said Britain. "I do not consort with foul-breathing bounders like you."
"If there is a foul breath in scenting distance," said France, "why, it must be yours, for is it not fact that one's breath can never be foul when one's cuisine is the most exquise? In truth, it must be your own breath you are smelling."
"Rot!" said Britain. "I shan't visit you at all!"
But he did, of course.