De Profundis: A Hetalia Fanfic
Title: De Profundis
Summary: When Ireland loses someone very important to her, France a shoulder to cry on. France/Jeanne, Ireland/? (Guess who)
Genre: Friendship/Hurt-Comfort
Rating: PG
Warnings: Anti-English sentiments, language, death
She just could not believe he was gone.
She received the letter one afternoon long ago and was not sure what to do with it. She wanted to burn the wretched thing and treasure it at the same time. She hated the news but realized it would likely be the last piece of news she ever received regarding him. He was gone, her beloved witty poet was gone. They said it was cerebral meningitis, and his last words were how he was duelling to the death with the dreadful wallpaper in the hotel room where he passed. He said one of them had to go.
Her first reaction was to blame her brother Arthur. It seemed since the middle ages she could plausibly blame most of her problems on him. She sat, silent tears streaming down her freckled cheeks as she clutched the letter in her fist, her knuckles becoming as white as the paper the cursed message was written on. It was all his fault. His people had done this to her beloved poet. It had been his Marquess that had started all this, his courts prosecuted him, his prison had broken him. She fumed silently, blaming her brother. Why did this have to happen to her poet? Because of who he loved? Granted as a Catholic she could not entirely accept that sort of thing, but she would not have killed anyone because of it.
Was it England’s fault? No…somewhere deep inside her Ireland knew that her brother really had nothing to do with it, and that it had been his people and not her brother himself that, if anyone, were to be held accountable. Still, it helped, saying it was his entire fault helped. After all, if it was all England’s fault, none of the blame would be on herself or her poet. She let out a slight gasp. Was it her fault? Could she have saved him? Could she not have brought him home and tended him when he was released? Could she have stopped the trial? No…no she couldn’t have…it was all England’s fault after all. She sniffled and carefully tucked the letter away out of sight, trying to convince herself that her brother was in the wrong for this.
She had to calm down after all. She still had to go to France and bury her poet.
Once her poet had been released from Reading Gaol he had decided to wander in France under a new name. It bothered Ireland that he had not come back to her, but he had always been fond of France, and it was just so like him to do something as melodramatic as this. But if she’d known he would have died…well…
She boarded the ferry. The funeral was cheap, two of his former lovers as chief mourners. She waited until the others left. She wanted to be alone with him. It seemed not so long ago when she was watching him grow, becoming more charming and intelligent by the day. Not to mention his size. He had been a very big man, completely dwarfing her in size. He had loved her folklore, her rebel poetry, her old language, but of course that was not enough to sate him and he went to make himself famous in London…
“I thought I would find you here Erin…”
Ireland did not even turn. She knew who it was anyhow, so why bother. Her eyes were fixed on the grave. She had seen the body, watched him being lowered down into the earth, seen shovel after shovel heap loose earth upon him. But she still could not believe it.
“Erin it’s December, you need to come inside or you’ll get sick,” said France firmly.
“Piss off frog…” she managed to mumble.
She heard Francis sigh and his footsteps come closer. She did not want to look at him, not France. France looked and acted too much like Him. If she saw him the tears would come all over again and she would not be able to stop them. Their build, their hair even their personalities were alike. She wanted France to go away, to not take a step closer to her. She felt a gloved had squeeze her shoulder.
She shook herself, trying to remove his hand and finding that unsuccessful brutishly shoved his hand away and pushed him back. He came again anyways. Ireland felt a lump in her throat. She could not face France, not like this, not heartbroken weak and vulnerable as she was. She felt a hand clasp both her shoulders firmly, a sign that he would not be so easily thrown off this time.
“Erin, you’re frozen, you need to come inside,” he insisted.
“Francis I can’t…I can’t leave hi…” It was all she could manage to get out before having to squeeze her eyes shut and choke back sobs.
“He would not want you sick. Erin…I know…Je comprande…” he trailed off.
“And what the feck would you know!!” she cried out, unable to contain herself anymore. “He’s dead Francis and I…England and…”
Franc e chastely wrapped his arms around her from behind as she trembled with grief and rage. She felt his blond stubble tickling her tearstained freckled cheek as he settled himself comfortably. He took a few deep heavy breaths, his breath fogging the air around her. She had not noticed the cold before, but having a warm body so close to hers made Ireland suddenly realize how cold she really was. France had been right admittedly, she would not be able to stay outside much longer.
He waited a few more moments, as if building up the courage to say something. “You’re…a good Catholic girl, oui?” he asked. Erin nodded. It was a very well known fact that she was Catholic, she was always fighting with England about it. Good? Well, she was not sure if that was true. But she was not in the mood to crack jokes about her violent and rude reputation.
“Then you know your patron saints well?” he asked again. Once more Ireland nodded.
He took a few more minutes and Ireland remained quiet. France contemplating something was not very common and whatever he wanted to tell her was likely important, at least to him at any rate. It was a good while before he was able to speak again, “When I was a young man…there was a young shepherd girl…”
He paused again and Ireland felt him shake. He held her a little tighter and she made her hands into fists so she would not swing back and hit him. “She said that she would drive England away…”
“Francis…you don’t have to go on…”
“She won many battles but then…after…she…” he stopped, unable to go into details, even five hundred years later. “Anyways, I know…I know very well.”
Ireland leaned back against him, partly from being cold and partly from being exhausted. Her eyes were still fixed on the grave as she listened to France’s story. It was…not a pretty grave, with a reading from Job etched on it. He wouldn’t have liked it, she thought. She stood staring at it as her breath mingled with Frances before disappearing into the air. She felt his body close to hers. It was like His. Tall, with that over grown hair tumbling into hers.
“I don’t think he’d have liked this grave…he hated ugly things…” she said finally.
“Maybe in a few years someone will make him a nicer one,” he said kindly.
“You…remind me of him…you know that?” she said, her voice feigning cheerfulness as icy tears welled up and froze to her lashes.
He moved back and forced her to turn. For the first time that day she looked at France and had to cry. She HAD to. They were just too much alike, France reminded her too much of him. He had a fondness for France so it was really no surprise when she found they looked a little bit alike but still… She looked up into his face, her expression mirrored in his own watery eyes.
“And…you remind me of her…if only a little,” he replied, “I saw her in you back at the end of the seventeen hundreds…you remember?”
“One of me first major rebellions…” Ireland choked out, “England was…so pissed when he found out you were helping me.”
“We had a good run…almost had him…”
The two stood facing each other, but looking at someone completely different from the person standing in front of them. Ireland at her poet and France as his shepherdess. France smoothed back her frozen red hair, searching for a semblance of his beloved in the freckled face and lightly traced the Celtic knot on her cheek. Ireland gripped his arms, wishing France was not quite so fit and resisting the urge to force those arms around her.
“I just miss him so much…” she said finally.
“Je said…” said France with a nod, “Elle me manque…tousjours…”
“What…what the feck are we doing…standing out in the cold like a couple of eejits. Let’s…let’s go get a glass…” suggested the red haired nation, flushing from the cold and suddenly realising her proximity to the world renowned pervert France.
“D’accord. But, no getting drunk and only fine drinks. No hard whiskey or that…black je ne sais quoi you’re always drinking now,” France compromised.
“What, Guiness? It’ll be the dog’s nuts some day.”
“…Please don’t talk about dog’s nuts…”
Ireland took France’s arm, her last ladylike act for the day, and was glad she was since her no longer had any feeling in her feat and would have stumbled quite a bit if France had not been there. She cast one more look over her shoulder. She would come back sometime when the weather was warmer to visit, make plans for a prettier grave and bring flowers, ones he would be sure to like. She squeezed Frances arm as they made their way to the carriage, “You’re…you’re a flahulach sort of fella…but not bad…”
“Et vous etez une jolie petite fille…quand vous voulais…” he smiled back, neither of them having understood a world the other had just said, but understanding the meaning none the less.
Notes:
De Profundis: A letter written by Oscar Wilde to his former lover Alfred Douglas while he was in prison.
Ireland’s poet is Oscar Wilde. For a complete biography look him up online or go to the library and read a damned book >:3 As for the basics, he was a famous wit, poet, play writer and author. He was tried on accounts of sodomy and imprisoned in Reading Gaol. After he seldom wrote and spent the remaining two years of his life in France. He died in 1900AD.
Ireland blaming England: Creative license was taken for this part. My character Ireland has a bad habit of blaming England for everything.
Je comprende: French for ‘I understand’
Feck: The equivalent of the F word. From what I have heard it’s a very common adjective >_>
France of course is referring to Jeanne D’Arc (Joan of Arc in English). He asks Ireland if she’s a good Catholic girl who knows her saints, trusting that will be enough for her to know who he is talking about. For more information…read a damned book ;)
The rebellion at the end of the 1700s: In 1798 France did in fact assist Ireland in the Irish Rebellion of 1798. It was largely unsuccessful, costing many lives with atrocities committed by both the English and Irish. Of course since history is written by the victors, greater emphasis was put on the Irish murdering Protestants in Wexford. For more history read a damned book :3
The dogs nuts: The genuine article, or something neat. Though France does not seem too fond of this crass expression.
Flahulach: Irish for flamboyant, or someone who spends money frivolously. France is probably both to be fair.
“Et vous etez…”: And you’re a pretty girl…when you want to be. Ireland probably would have hit France if she had known what he was saying.