US HISTORY EXAM CRAM, HETALIA STYLE
RED ALERT. AZZIE ACTUALLY ATTEMPTED A HETALIA FIC.
I realize France probably wasn’t really at Ghent, buuuuttt I thought what the hell. Reps from everywhere probably hung around in one capacity or another! ASLO. GHOSTIE DIDN'T PROOF IT, SO BEWARE. :B
The date was December 24th, 1814. It was Christmas eve, a night that was usually dedicated to family, drink, dance and occasionally random women in various states of undress.
Well, more than occasionally, for France at least. Tonight, instead of wining and dining a gorgeous princess, this caviler gentleman-nation was stuck here, at Belgium’s house of all places, dutiful standing by in hopes of preventing either England or American from cleaving the other’s head from his shoulders.
Poor Ireland was doing much the same in the elder empire’s corner.
Honestly, it had already been two years since the war. Would it have really killed either of them to simmer down and think things through logically for once?
Oh, yeah. Who was France kidding, exactly? America, logical? Hah! England would have fainted on the spot.
At France’s quiet laughter, the boy at his side stirred from his silent reverie. Reaching for the elder nation’s hand, Canada couldn’t help but miss Kumajiro horribly. Why hadn’t France just let him bring his bear?
The older nation barely registered the gesture, although on some level France could not yet fathom, it irritated him that America had tried to kidnap Canada to use as his bargaining chip. He was just a kid, after all. Even if his annexation miffed the empire enough to make him loosen some of his damned trading policies, there was still no defense for involving a child.
Good thing Canada was more resilient than he appeared.
From his post at the window, France surveyed the room with a politely blank expression. Diplomats and ambassadors alike milled about, each expressing his anxiety in varying degrees.
Belgium hurried through the sedately gray, gold trimmed sitting-room donning an emerald dress that complimented her blonde hair marvelously, though France thought she looked a bit silly with that apron and the tea tray she tried so adamantly not to topple.
Far be it from France to offer any assistance. Seeing to the guests was women’s work, after all.
Of course England’s representatives were their usual haughty selves, each confident in their assumption that their King would finally force the traitorous rabble to heel. France knew that England would never truly regain control of his wayward protégé, and it was wrong to keep trying. This was precisely why he had finally sided with America.
This put quite a bit of strain on France and England’s relationship, naturally.
"I already said I am prepared to offer the area surrounding the Great Lakes. Greed is unbecoming, America," England cautioned, looking very civilized in his gray trousers and black riding coat.
America, clad in full battle regalia, snorted without humor and slapped the negotiation table for emphasis. "It was my land to begin with, England. You can’t just come over to my house and dictate who goes where!"
"You will create the buffer in Ohio, or else I shant release any territory a’tal!"
Of course this had America and his diplomats immediately up in arms.
Whilst the arguing recommenced, France turned both himself and consequently the boy-commonwealth at his side toward the snow-glazed window. Pressing his forehead against the frosty glass in order to stave off a full-fledged migraine, he was more than a little surprised when a tiny hand wound itself through his pony tail to knead the back of his neck. Casting a curious glance at the boy, he found that Canada had clamored onto the silk backed dining chair situated against the window in order to achieve a height closer to the older nation’s.
If Belgium caught him up there, she would surely pitch a fit.
"What’s going to happen to me, papa?" Canada whispered, leaning close enough that his peculiar spring of bang brushed France’s forehead.
"Nothing bad, garcon." France whispered back theatrically, his lips so close they brushed the boy’s temple as he spoke.
"Promise?" Canada probed, seeming all at once skeptical and scared.
"Would I lie to you?" France chuckled, wrapping his arm around the boy’s shoulder in what was supposed to be a subtle ploy of distraction.
Canada wasn’t fooled for a second.
"If it suited you."
"...My prisoners of war for yours, America. But why the devil would you want the slaves too?"
"Never," France intoned in a stage whisper as he turned to fully face the commonwealth. The blonde was petit, clad in kneed trousers, silk socks, leather heels, and an obviously expensive miniature duster jacket.
He looked nothing like his dolt of a big brother. France needn't care for what anyone said.
"Liar." The boy smiled, undaunted.
So the invisible one sees right through his charismatic facade? How ironic.
"...Why are you so worried about my trading, nancy-pants? Don’t you have bigger problems to deal with?" America growled with a pointed head jerk in a certain nation’s direction.
The barb would have probably gone unnoticed by a preoccupied France had it not been for England’s scathing protest.
"Leave him out of this! Neither he nor his Corsican Emperor has anything to do with you and I!"
Well, that wasn’t completely accurate...
"You’re kind of at war with him right now, dumb ass. So of course he has something to do with us." This from the awesomely experienced nation who spent most of his time fighting savages.
As if America could honestly comprehend what ‘war between England and France’ actually entailed.
"Enough!" England relented, looking agonized. "10,000,000 acres. That’s my final offer!"
"Fine," America quipped, crossing his arms and fighting hard not to look too pleased with himself. "And I’ll make that buffer, but I give that Indian Coalition idea of yours a year, tops."
"Fine," England enunciated, carefully, like his gums hurt. "So do we have an accord?"
"It’s a start," America beamed, positively incorrigible.
And so, on the night celebrating the birth of our Lord, Jesus Christ, the ordeal that would be known throughout the ages as the signing of the Treaty of Ghent finally concluded.
And not a second too soon, if you asked France’s not-so-humble opinion.
I realize France probably wasn’t really at Ghent, buuuuttt I thought what the hell. Reps from everywhere probably hung around in one capacity or another! ASLO. GHOSTIE DIDN'T PROOF IT, SO BEWARE. :B
The date was December 24th, 1814. It was Christmas eve, a night that was usually dedicated to family, drink, dance and occasionally random women in various states of undress.
Well, more than occasionally, for France at least. Tonight, instead of wining and dining a gorgeous princess, this caviler gentleman-nation was stuck here, at Belgium’s house of all places, dutiful standing by in hopes of preventing either England or American from cleaving the other’s head from his shoulders.
Poor Ireland was doing much the same in the elder empire’s corner.
Honestly, it had already been two years since the war. Would it have really killed either of them to simmer down and think things through logically for once?
Oh, yeah. Who was France kidding, exactly? America, logical? Hah! England would have fainted on the spot.
At France’s quiet laughter, the boy at his side stirred from his silent reverie. Reaching for the elder nation’s hand, Canada couldn’t help but miss Kumajiro horribly. Why hadn’t France just let him bring his bear?
The older nation barely registered the gesture, although on some level France could not yet fathom, it irritated him that America had tried to kidnap Canada to use as his bargaining chip. He was just a kid, after all. Even if his annexation miffed the empire enough to make him loosen some of his damned trading policies, there was still no defense for involving a child.
Good thing Canada was more resilient than he appeared.
From his post at the window, France surveyed the room with a politely blank expression. Diplomats and ambassadors alike milled about, each expressing his anxiety in varying degrees.
Belgium hurried through the sedately gray, gold trimmed sitting-room donning an emerald dress that complimented her blonde hair marvelously, though France thought she looked a bit silly with that apron and the tea tray she tried so adamantly not to topple.
Far be it from France to offer any assistance. Seeing to the guests was women’s work, after all.
Of course England’s representatives were their usual haughty selves, each confident in their assumption that their King would finally force the traitorous rabble to heel. France knew that England would never truly regain control of his wayward protégé, and it was wrong to keep trying. This was precisely why he had finally sided with America.
This put quite a bit of strain on France and England’s relationship, naturally.
"I already said I am prepared to offer the area surrounding the Great Lakes. Greed is unbecoming, America," England cautioned, looking very civilized in his gray trousers and black riding coat.
America, clad in full battle regalia, snorted without humor and slapped the negotiation table for emphasis. "It was my land to begin with, England. You can’t just come over to my house and dictate who goes where!"
"You will create the buffer in Ohio, or else I shant release any territory a’tal!"
Of course this had America and his diplomats immediately up in arms.
Whilst the arguing recommenced, France turned both himself and consequently the boy-commonwealth at his side toward the snow-glazed window. Pressing his forehead against the frosty glass in order to stave off a full-fledged migraine, he was more than a little surprised when a tiny hand wound itself through his pony tail to knead the back of his neck. Casting a curious glance at the boy, he found that Canada had clamored onto the silk backed dining chair situated against the window in order to achieve a height closer to the older nation’s.
If Belgium caught him up there, she would surely pitch a fit.
"What’s going to happen to me, papa?" Canada whispered, leaning close enough that his peculiar spring of bang brushed France’s forehead.
"Nothing bad, garcon." France whispered back theatrically, his lips so close they brushed the boy’s temple as he spoke.
"Promise?" Canada probed, seeming all at once skeptical and scared.
"Would I lie to you?" France chuckled, wrapping his arm around the boy’s shoulder in what was supposed to be a subtle ploy of distraction.
Canada wasn’t fooled for a second.
"If it suited you."
"...My prisoners of war for yours, America. But why the devil would you want the slaves too?"
"Never," France intoned in a stage whisper as he turned to fully face the commonwealth. The blonde was petit, clad in kneed trousers, silk socks, leather heels, and an obviously expensive miniature duster jacket.
He looked nothing like his dolt of a big brother. France needn't care for what anyone said.
"Liar." The boy smiled, undaunted.
So the invisible one sees right through his charismatic facade? How ironic.
"...Why are you so worried about my trading, nancy-pants? Don’t you have bigger problems to deal with?" America growled with a pointed head jerk in a certain nation’s direction.
The barb would have probably gone unnoticed by a preoccupied France had it not been for England’s scathing protest.
"Leave him out of this! Neither he nor his Corsican Emperor has anything to do with you and I!"
Well, that wasn’t completely accurate...
"You’re kind of at war with him right now, dumb ass. So of course he has something to do with us." This from the awesomely experienced nation who spent most of his time fighting savages.
As if America could honestly comprehend what ‘war between England and France’ actually entailed.
"Enough!" England relented, looking agonized. "10,000,000 acres. That’s my final offer!"
"Fine," America quipped, crossing his arms and fighting hard not to look too pleased with himself. "And I’ll make that buffer, but I give that Indian Coalition idea of yours a year, tops."
"Fine," England enunciated, carefully, like his gums hurt. "So do we have an accord?"
"It’s a start," America beamed, positively incorrigible.
And so, on the night celebrating the birth of our Lord, Jesus Christ, the ordeal that would be known throughout the ages as the signing of the Treaty of Ghent finally concluded.
And not a second too soon, if you asked France’s not-so-humble opinion.