Hetalia | Netherlands, Belgium | The Royal We (2/3)
Title: The Royal We (2/3)
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: Horrible attempt on my part to write a historical fic, and ten shades of wangst.
Summary/Description: Netherlands and Belgium attend La muette de Portici, the opera that sparks the beginning of the Belgian Revolution on August 25th, 1830 and are caught in the middle of the riot that develops.
I also have to give gigantic ridiculous thanks to my amazing bro and personal Netherlands, ms_barcode who gave me tons of info about the Revolution since the Internet is useless in that regard, and her university is far superior than mine in terms of libraries and having good books in them 8Ia I honestly could not have written this without her help ;3;
As a reminder: Jan is my headcanon name for Netherlands, Margot for Belgium.
Part one is here.
The Royal We
We are ready for the siege
We are armed up to the teeth
Be careful how you live and breathe
Release what's broken underneath
“I hate getting dressed up.”
“I don’t blame you. You look like a cat that’s been choked to death.” Netherlands has just enough time to notice a heeled shoe flying towards him at record-breaking speed before ducking, a self-satisfying grin on his face despite his near scrape with what could have been a debilitating concussion via his sister’s shoe. He pops back up. “So you agree with me then?”
“You try spending hours in one of these things,” Belgium replies, tugging the milk-white corset higher up her midsection. “Anything that requires a couch for you to faint on shouldn’t be allowed to exist.” She glares sourly at her reflection in the looming cheval glass, wondering whether her shallowed breathing is enough of a price to pay for beauty. She decides it’s not, and reaches behind her to tug the laces apart until the corset loosens and she takes a delicious, full gasp of air. “Much better.” She nods satisfactorily and resumes dressing. Her brother groans impatiently.
“Are you going to be finished any time soon?” He checks his pocket watch. “We’re going to be late.”
“Since when have you ever cared about being on time?”
“You’re right-- honestly I’m just bored to death of waiting for you.”
“Then go without me,” she shrugs. “It’s not like I can’t fetch a carriage by myself.” She slips the top half of the outfit over head-- annoyingly, without the corset on it just barely fits; very carefully, she reaches up and begins doing her hair.
Netherlands sighs. “You know Boss expects us to show up together.”
“He’s not even going to be there. I don’t think a little deviation from his original plans is going to kill anybody.”
He falls back on the bed tiredly, getting the feeling like he's explained this before already. “I mean, there's one carriage for us.”
“So he can’t spare one more for me?”
“He wouldn’t.”
Belgium doesn’t say anything back, partially because her lips are clamped around a bobby pin while her hands works her hair into an elaborate bun, and partially because what he says is the truth. She quietly removes the pin from her mouth and sticks it into a bundle of golden hair. Tiny curled tresses spill out from each side, she checks her work in the mirror, then reaches for a heavily jeweled necklace on her bureau. She fastens it while staring into the mirror with more concentration than is necessary, and it’s obvious to Netherlands that she’s choosing to ignore him. When she’s finished, Belgium grabs her pocketbook.
“Are you coming?” she asks without turning around, heading downstairs before Netherlands has a chance to answer. Shrugging to himself, he knows he struck a nerve (he seems to be very good at that), and pushes off the bed and follows his sister out.
---“You know this is a horrible idea,” Belgium comments as she and Netherlands sit in their rumbling carriage, neither one looking particularly excited about the evening’s activities. She rests her chin in her palm as she watches the town pass by outside and there’s a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach that at any other time she might have mentioned to her brother, but tonight she keeps it to herself.
Netherlands frowns. “What, going to an opera? Why?”
She opens her mouth to say something, but second-guesses herself and closes it. Instead she asks: “You do know what La muette is about, don’t you?”
He looks up in thought. “Yeah, it's, uh, something about a Spanish uprising. So?”
The way her brother responds like that, disinterested and almost dumbly unaware and even a touch confused makes her angry at first, then worried that perhaps she’s just overthinking this whole thing, and then angry again because why isn’t he worried? Doesn’t he realize how impressionable the lower provinces are right now, how desperately they are searching for that last straw and how easily this could be it? Or maybe he does realize this and he’s just choosing not to say anything, and she can’t decide if that makes her even more upset, but in regards to whom, him or herself, she doesn’t know, so finally she decides to shut herself up and just pay attention to the scenery. “Nevermind,” she answers.
He shrugs, leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to talk about it either.
--- When they get to the theatre, they’re immediately ushered into sectioned-off seats, and there’s a little placecard on each one with the king’s monogram-- obviously they’re just here for show and they know it, but they assume their roles without complaint and sit down and wait for the performance to begin. Belgium twists carefully in her seat and cranes her neck to get a look at the rest of the audience. The house is full, and the hundreds of voices like the humming of a giant machine echo within the building. It makes her feel suddenly claustrophobic. She turns back around and sighs.
“You okay?” Netherlands asks, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
“Yeah!” She gives him a smile that she can already tell looks forced. She notices him bouncing his knee up and down, a nervous habit they both share, and considers asking him the same question. Knowing full well, though, that he won’t answer her truthfully either, she sits back and tries to relax in spite of the nervousness growing in her stomach. Soon, the lights dim, the audience becomes hushed, and the show begins.
The opera starts off strong, and both Belgium and Netherlands find it enjoyable to watch, but neither tells the other about the strange feeling growing in the pit of their stomach. An anxious nervousness that intensifies as the performance wears on, and once the character of the rebel fisherman begins to sing, Belgium’s hands are shaking. There is a palpable restlessness coming from the audience as the song continues, and soon they can hear the crowd joining in, quietly at first, then stronger:
Sacred love of country gives us fortitude and audacity
My country gave me life
I shall give it liberty!
Stronger still until Belgium feels sick to her stomach and Netherlands grips the back of the seat in front of him to ward off a sudden dizzy spell. The familiar rustle and click of pistols being drawn are heard and Netherlands eyes quickly dart from one side of the room to the other, nervous and questioning, imagining what will most likely happen next.
What does happen next finally comes. Angry shouts rise above the orchestra music. The audience becomes riotous almost immediately and a wave of citizens lurches up from the pit, the aisles, seeping everywhere until they burst through the doors and out into the streets. Netherlands immediately reaches for Belgium’s hand as soon as he hears gunshots but they become separated in the aggravated churning of well-dressed men and women. Vive la liberté! they all cry, like a battle anthem. Belgium fights against the crowd, attempting to reach the mostly-deserted orchestra pit in hopes of waiting out the madness, at least for now. She hears her brother call her name; normally deep and loud, now it carries weakly against the shouts and cries still echoing throughout the opera house.
“Jan!” she shouts hoarsely, waving both arms in the air. He sees her, and some of the coldness in his stomach is eased. He pushes his way through the crowd and despite the fact that he is at least a head taller than most of the people swarming around him, he still finds it a bit of a struggle. Was this really the product of his boss’s oppression? Admittedly he hadn’t thought much of it and always imagined his sister was just acting bratty, but as he watches the mob pour out into the streets and hears their angered cries he wonders for the briefest of moments if maybe there is some validity to their revolt. His stubbornness only allows for that sentiment to linger another moment longer, but he is relieved when he reaches his sister, pulling her off to the far side of the building.
“I think there’s a side exit,” she tells him and grabs his hand to lead through the darkened aisles until they reach a door that leads into a thin alley along the side of the opera house. The shouts and cries from inside can be heard in the streets, and carefully Belgium and Netherlands peek out from the alley and for the first time they see the extent of the damage the rioters have caused. Thousands of citizens wield arms, makeshift weapons, shouting their dissent with the Dutch government; broken glass lines the streets and unsuspecting posts crack and split as they are struck and broken by the mob as they march, Belgium and Netherlands realize, in the general direction of many Dutch officials.
A sudden impulse strikes Belgium and she begins to walk out into the crowd to follow them, when Netherlands grips her arm tight and pulls her back into the alley. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hisses. “You’re gonna get yourself killed. Or, well, really hurt,” he adds, rethinking his previous statement.
“Jan I have to go, these are my people,” she pleads, pulling her arm away, but he only grips her tighter.
“I’m not letting you go out there and get yourself hurt, Margot!”
She scowls. “You couldn’t care less if I get hurt, Jan, you just don’t want a full-blown revolt on your hands, do you?” He’s about to open his mouth and return fire when one of the king’s guards appears in front of them on horseback, announcing that William demands Netherlands return home immediately.
“Tell him to piss off, I’m busy!” Netherlands replies sourly.
The guard sighs. “I was told not to return without you.”
Netherlands mutters a curse or five under his breath and reluctantly lets go of his sister’s arm. She watches as he hoists himself up behind the guard and takes one last look back at her. “Margot,” he begins, halfway between a desperate plea and a stern warning, “don’t do anything... stupid, okay? I’ll come back tomorrow.” He doesn’t have time to wait for her response before they’re off, leaving Belgium in the alleyway alone.
As soon as he’s out of sight, Belgium takes a deep breath and marches out into the streets and follows the crowd in their revolution.
Notes
La muette de Portici: The French opera about the historical revolt against the Spanish Hapsburg rule
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: Horrible attempt on my part to write a historical fic, and ten shades of wangst.
Summary/Description: Netherlands and Belgium attend La muette de Portici, the opera that sparks the beginning of the Belgian Revolution on August 25th, 1830 and are caught in the middle of the riot that develops.
I also have to give gigantic ridiculous thanks to my amazing bro and personal Netherlands, ms_barcode who gave me tons of info about the Revolution since the Internet is useless in that regard, and her university is far superior than mine in terms of libraries and having good books in them 8Ia I honestly could not have written this without her help ;3;
As a reminder: Jan is my headcanon name for Netherlands, Margot for Belgium.
Part one is here.
The Royal We
We are ready for the siege
We are armed up to the teeth
Be careful how you live and breathe
Release what's broken underneath
“I hate getting dressed up.”
“I don’t blame you. You look like a cat that’s been choked to death.” Netherlands has just enough time to notice a heeled shoe flying towards him at record-breaking speed before ducking, a self-satisfying grin on his face despite his near scrape with what could have been a debilitating concussion via his sister’s shoe. He pops back up. “So you agree with me then?”
“You try spending hours in one of these things,” Belgium replies, tugging the milk-white corset higher up her midsection. “Anything that requires a couch for you to faint on shouldn’t be allowed to exist.” She glares sourly at her reflection in the looming cheval glass, wondering whether her shallowed breathing is enough of a price to pay for beauty. She decides it’s not, and reaches behind her to tug the laces apart until the corset loosens and she takes a delicious, full gasp of air. “Much better.” She nods satisfactorily and resumes dressing. Her brother groans impatiently.
“Are you going to be finished any time soon?” He checks his pocket watch. “We’re going to be late.”
“Since when have you ever cared about being on time?”
“You’re right-- honestly I’m just bored to death of waiting for you.”
“Then go without me,” she shrugs. “It’s not like I can’t fetch a carriage by myself.” She slips the top half of the outfit over head-- annoyingly, without the corset on it just barely fits; very carefully, she reaches up and begins doing her hair.
Netherlands sighs. “You know Boss expects us to show up together.”
“He’s not even going to be there. I don’t think a little deviation from his original plans is going to kill anybody.”
He falls back on the bed tiredly, getting the feeling like he's explained this before already. “I mean, there's one carriage for us.”
“So he can’t spare one more for me?”
“He wouldn’t.”
Belgium doesn’t say anything back, partially because her lips are clamped around a bobby pin while her hands works her hair into an elaborate bun, and partially because what he says is the truth. She quietly removes the pin from her mouth and sticks it into a bundle of golden hair. Tiny curled tresses spill out from each side, she checks her work in the mirror, then reaches for a heavily jeweled necklace on her bureau. She fastens it while staring into the mirror with more concentration than is necessary, and it’s obvious to Netherlands that she’s choosing to ignore him. When she’s finished, Belgium grabs her pocketbook.
“Are you coming?” she asks without turning around, heading downstairs before Netherlands has a chance to answer. Shrugging to himself, he knows he struck a nerve (he seems to be very good at that), and pushes off the bed and follows his sister out.
---“You know this is a horrible idea,” Belgium comments as she and Netherlands sit in their rumbling carriage, neither one looking particularly excited about the evening’s activities. She rests her chin in her palm as she watches the town pass by outside and there’s a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach that at any other time she might have mentioned to her brother, but tonight she keeps it to herself.
Netherlands frowns. “What, going to an opera? Why?”
She opens her mouth to say something, but second-guesses herself and closes it. Instead she asks: “You do know what La muette is about, don’t you?”
He looks up in thought. “Yeah, it's, uh, something about a Spanish uprising. So?”
The way her brother responds like that, disinterested and almost dumbly unaware and even a touch confused makes her angry at first, then worried that perhaps she’s just overthinking this whole thing, and then angry again because why isn’t he worried? Doesn’t he realize how impressionable the lower provinces are right now, how desperately they are searching for that last straw and how easily this could be it? Or maybe he does realize this and he’s just choosing not to say anything, and she can’t decide if that makes her even more upset, but in regards to whom, him or herself, she doesn’t know, so finally she decides to shut herself up and just pay attention to the scenery. “Nevermind,” she answers.
He shrugs, leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to talk about it either.
--- When they get to the theatre, they’re immediately ushered into sectioned-off seats, and there’s a little placecard on each one with the king’s monogram-- obviously they’re just here for show and they know it, but they assume their roles without complaint and sit down and wait for the performance to begin. Belgium twists carefully in her seat and cranes her neck to get a look at the rest of the audience. The house is full, and the hundreds of voices like the humming of a giant machine echo within the building. It makes her feel suddenly claustrophobic. She turns back around and sighs.
“You okay?” Netherlands asks, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
“Yeah!” She gives him a smile that she can already tell looks forced. She notices him bouncing his knee up and down, a nervous habit they both share, and considers asking him the same question. Knowing full well, though, that he won’t answer her truthfully either, she sits back and tries to relax in spite of the nervousness growing in her stomach. Soon, the lights dim, the audience becomes hushed, and the show begins.
The opera starts off strong, and both Belgium and Netherlands find it enjoyable to watch, but neither tells the other about the strange feeling growing in the pit of their stomach. An anxious nervousness that intensifies as the performance wears on, and once the character of the rebel fisherman begins to sing, Belgium’s hands are shaking. There is a palpable restlessness coming from the audience as the song continues, and soon they can hear the crowd joining in, quietly at first, then stronger:
Sacred love of country gives us fortitude and audacity
My country gave me life
I shall give it liberty!
Stronger still until Belgium feels sick to her stomach and Netherlands grips the back of the seat in front of him to ward off a sudden dizzy spell. The familiar rustle and click of pistols being drawn are heard and Netherlands eyes quickly dart from one side of the room to the other, nervous and questioning, imagining what will most likely happen next.
What does happen next finally comes. Angry shouts rise above the orchestra music. The audience becomes riotous almost immediately and a wave of citizens lurches up from the pit, the aisles, seeping everywhere until they burst through the doors and out into the streets. Netherlands immediately reaches for Belgium’s hand as soon as he hears gunshots but they become separated in the aggravated churning of well-dressed men and women. Vive la liberté! they all cry, like a battle anthem. Belgium fights against the crowd, attempting to reach the mostly-deserted orchestra pit in hopes of waiting out the madness, at least for now. She hears her brother call her name; normally deep and loud, now it carries weakly against the shouts and cries still echoing throughout the opera house.
“Jan!” she shouts hoarsely, waving both arms in the air. He sees her, and some of the coldness in his stomach is eased. He pushes his way through the crowd and despite the fact that he is at least a head taller than most of the people swarming around him, he still finds it a bit of a struggle. Was this really the product of his boss’s oppression? Admittedly he hadn’t thought much of it and always imagined his sister was just acting bratty, but as he watches the mob pour out into the streets and hears their angered cries he wonders for the briefest of moments if maybe there is some validity to their revolt. His stubbornness only allows for that sentiment to linger another moment longer, but he is relieved when he reaches his sister, pulling her off to the far side of the building.
“I think there’s a side exit,” she tells him and grabs his hand to lead through the darkened aisles until they reach a door that leads into a thin alley along the side of the opera house. The shouts and cries from inside can be heard in the streets, and carefully Belgium and Netherlands peek out from the alley and for the first time they see the extent of the damage the rioters have caused. Thousands of citizens wield arms, makeshift weapons, shouting their dissent with the Dutch government; broken glass lines the streets and unsuspecting posts crack and split as they are struck and broken by the mob as they march, Belgium and Netherlands realize, in the general direction of many Dutch officials.
A sudden impulse strikes Belgium and she begins to walk out into the crowd to follow them, when Netherlands grips her arm tight and pulls her back into the alley. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hisses. “You’re gonna get yourself killed. Or, well, really hurt,” he adds, rethinking his previous statement.
“Jan I have to go, these are my people,” she pleads, pulling her arm away, but he only grips her tighter.
“I’m not letting you go out there and get yourself hurt, Margot!”
She scowls. “You couldn’t care less if I get hurt, Jan, you just don’t want a full-blown revolt on your hands, do you?” He’s about to open his mouth and return fire when one of the king’s guards appears in front of them on horseback, announcing that William demands Netherlands return home immediately.
“Tell him to piss off, I’m busy!” Netherlands replies sourly.
The guard sighs. “I was told not to return without you.”
Netherlands mutters a curse or five under his breath and reluctantly lets go of his sister’s arm. She watches as he hoists himself up behind the guard and takes one last look back at her. “Margot,” he begins, halfway between a desperate plea and a stern warning, “don’t do anything... stupid, okay? I’ll come back tomorrow.” He doesn’t have time to wait for her response before they’re off, leaving Belgium in the alleyway alone.
As soon as he’s out of sight, Belgium takes a deep breath and marches out into the streets and follows the crowd in their revolution.
Notes
La muette de Portici: The French opera about the historical revolt against the Spanish Hapsburg rule