[Fic: Hetalia] Le 14 juillet 1789
This was supposed to be for July the 14th but I didn't finish it in time and then I just forgot I wrote it. So here it is, over a month late. orz
Title: Le 14 juillet 1789 selon un certain monsieur Francis Bonnefoy.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Character(s): France (mentions of others)
Pairings: None
Rating: PG'ish
Warnings: Nothing much, heavy on history. Maybe a bit over-dramatic
Summary: The slow flow of events leading to the Revolution, from France's point of view.
A/N: I'm interested in the Revolution and I've been planning to write about it for a while already. So I guess this is kind of like warming up and building up the setting.
It was Sunday afternoon, July the 12th, 1789. France's heart raged, and he knew something big was starting. Paris was flaming with internal fire. There was not one person who didn't feel the unrest, safe for perhaps some obese, complacent rich clergyman or nobelman who had too much confidence in the old ways.
The King... the monarchy. Louis XIV, there was a man France had learned to rely on, who had taken the power from the nobles and the church and taken control of the country so completely that he could say: "L'état, c'est moi." And it was true. France was so fully in his power that he could have been an extra arm in Louis' armpit.
That was a secure time for him as a nation, but it only lasted so long. France had known it would happen but perhaps he had hoped the sons would follow the path their fathers layed for them. The Monarch was strong, but that is only good when the monarch is a competent one.
France knew that Louis XVI wasn't bad at heart. He would have found him quite adorable in a pitiful way, had he not been the King. But he was the King. He had been forced into power at a young age, uncertain and inexperienced. For a long time it was all perfectly understandable. But the more confidence he gained, the clearer it became that he did not have the natural skills and wit of his great-great-great-grandfather. Not only that but he began his reign in a difficult position due to the recent losses. The disaster called the War of the Austrian Succession had cost France most of his precious colonies. And as much as France enjoyed paying England back, the following war along with young America (goodness how the boy had grown!) only worsened his situation despite the victory.
For once he could say he was in rather good relations with most European powers safe for England, but it did little to help his economy. "Du har magrat", commented even the ever-so-silent Sweden who had become a usual visitor in the court. (France wasn't sure what to think of the northern kingdom and that charming count of his.)
Suffering from the worst cold since the Black Death, he was mostly in his bed, only hearing the news from messengers coming to his house to keep him up to date. But he wasn't completely out of it. It was the people, he could still feel their voices in his heart.
It was not the first time rebellious thoughts had crossed his mind but he had always been loyal to the King in the end and he had no intention to break that record.
Or so he thought.
His treacherous heart was yearning for something different, for a new beginning. In all those restless, feverish nights he couldn't help remembering his lively conversations with Jean-Jacques and Voltaire in The Café Procope. Oh, those men made him feel young and naïve again, they made him believe there was another option.
He couldn't tell when the hopeful, childish idealism had turned into rage.
He didn't blame the King, he felt it was more of the fault of the greedy nobels who influenced him. Greedy nobles who refused to pay taxes even if it were to save their own country. It hit France harder than it should have. He should have known they would do just that, but he had let himself hope for help from them. No, the nobles had no loyalty to any nation, their only loyalty was to each other.
Why then were they the ones who decided about what would happen to him? What about the brave true Frenchmen who sincerely cared for him? The people who made him France?
Jeanne.
France shivered suddenly, remembering the young woman, the little girl. She had been no noblewoman and the nobles, his nobles had betrayed her, her and what she stood for: him.
Oh, Jeanne.
By July, things had changed rabidly. France was again starting to have hope. The King had listened to the people, to the Frenchmen, and let them speak up. He was so happy he rose from his sickbed and rode to Versailles to thank his King, to swear his loyalty to him anew. He was with the people and France, not the nobles after all.
The spark of happiness died on July the 12th. He was confused, betrayed, he felt like a child thrown into the world of the cruel adults. He felt like a fool.
The anger in his heart manifested itself as the Frenchmen and Frenchwomen stood up and marched to the streets. His fever grew worse, so painful he thought he was going mad. He was dying, his people were dying, his body was killing itself from the inside. Whatever messages he received from the other nations, he ignored them, not having the strength or will to care.
On the 14th, the Tuesday, he found himself stepping out of his house. Perhaps madness had finally taken over him in his sickness but he knew he had to go out, had to do something, anything, lest he became crazy.
It wasn't until he had wandered around the city for some while that he heard that there was something going on at the Bastille. His blood surged through him in a hot wave. The old soldier in him could smell battle, and the battle was calling him through the heated whispers and cries of the public. He set his course to the Bastille, not knowing who he was to fight for but he knew that if his people fough, he would fight along with them.
He had very little clear memories of that day. Even afterwards he couldn't understand what had happened. Even afterwards he didn't know on which side he had fought on. He only knew that he celebrated with the invaders, the victors, the revolutionaries. Somewhere in the chaos his anger had been sated and he felt better, peaceful. For now.
He left his sickbed for good that day. Even as the pain burned deeper and sharper in his body he felt stronger, driven by something abnormal, madness the others called it. He would call it justice, he would call it ideals, he would call it by the three words of the Revolution.
Title: Le 14 juillet 1789 selon un certain monsieur Francis Bonnefoy.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Character(s): France (mentions of others)
Pairings: None
Rating: PG'ish
Warnings: Nothing much, heavy on history. Maybe a bit over-dramatic
Summary: The slow flow of events leading to the Revolution, from France's point of view.
A/N: I'm interested in the Revolution and I've been planning to write about it for a while already. So I guess this is kind of like warming up and building up the setting.
It was Sunday afternoon, July the 12th, 1789. France's heart raged, and he knew something big was starting. Paris was flaming with internal fire. There was not one person who didn't feel the unrest, safe for perhaps some obese, complacent rich clergyman or nobelman who had too much confidence in the old ways.
The King... the monarchy. Louis XIV, there was a man France had learned to rely on, who had taken the power from the nobles and the church and taken control of the country so completely that he could say: "L'état, c'est moi." And it was true. France was so fully in his power that he could have been an extra arm in Louis' armpit.
That was a secure time for him as a nation, but it only lasted so long. France had known it would happen but perhaps he had hoped the sons would follow the path their fathers layed for them. The Monarch was strong, but that is only good when the monarch is a competent one.
France knew that Louis XVI wasn't bad at heart. He would have found him quite adorable in a pitiful way, had he not been the King. But he was the King. He had been forced into power at a young age, uncertain and inexperienced. For a long time it was all perfectly understandable. But the more confidence he gained, the clearer it became that he did not have the natural skills and wit of his great-great-great-grandfather. Not only that but he began his reign in a difficult position due to the recent losses. The disaster called the War of the Austrian Succession had cost France most of his precious colonies. And as much as France enjoyed paying England back, the following war along with young America (goodness how the boy had grown!) only worsened his situation despite the victory.
For once he could say he was in rather good relations with most European powers safe for England, but it did little to help his economy. "Du har magrat", commented even the ever-so-silent Sweden who had become a usual visitor in the court. (France wasn't sure what to think of the northern kingdom and that charming count of his.)
Suffering from the worst cold since the Black Death, he was mostly in his bed, only hearing the news from messengers coming to his house to keep him up to date. But he wasn't completely out of it. It was the people, he could still feel their voices in his heart.
It was not the first time rebellious thoughts had crossed his mind but he had always been loyal to the King in the end and he had no intention to break that record.
Or so he thought.
His treacherous heart was yearning for something different, for a new beginning. In all those restless, feverish nights he couldn't help remembering his lively conversations with Jean-Jacques and Voltaire in The Café Procope. Oh, those men made him feel young and naïve again, they made him believe there was another option.
He couldn't tell when the hopeful, childish idealism had turned into rage.
He didn't blame the King, he felt it was more of the fault of the greedy nobels who influenced him. Greedy nobles who refused to pay taxes even if it were to save their own country. It hit France harder than it should have. He should have known they would do just that, but he had let himself hope for help from them. No, the nobles had no loyalty to any nation, their only loyalty was to each other.
Why then were they the ones who decided about what would happen to him? What about the brave true Frenchmen who sincerely cared for him? The people who made him France?
Jeanne.
France shivered suddenly, remembering the young woman, the little girl. She had been no noblewoman and the nobles, his nobles had betrayed her, her and what she stood for: him.
Oh, Jeanne.
By July, things had changed rabidly. France was again starting to have hope. The King had listened to the people, to the Frenchmen, and let them speak up. He was so happy he rose from his sickbed and rode to Versailles to thank his King, to swear his loyalty to him anew. He was with the people and France, not the nobles after all.
The spark of happiness died on July the 12th. He was confused, betrayed, he felt like a child thrown into the world of the cruel adults. He felt like a fool.
The anger in his heart manifested itself as the Frenchmen and Frenchwomen stood up and marched to the streets. His fever grew worse, so painful he thought he was going mad. He was dying, his people were dying, his body was killing itself from the inside. Whatever messages he received from the other nations, he ignored them, not having the strength or will to care.
On the 14th, the Tuesday, he found himself stepping out of his house. Perhaps madness had finally taken over him in his sickness but he knew he had to go out, had to do something, anything, lest he became crazy.
It wasn't until he had wandered around the city for some while that he heard that there was something going on at the Bastille. His blood surged through him in a hot wave. The old soldier in him could smell battle, and the battle was calling him through the heated whispers and cries of the public. He set his course to the Bastille, not knowing who he was to fight for but he knew that if his people fough, he would fight along with them.
He had very little clear memories of that day. Even afterwards he couldn't understand what had happened. Even afterwards he didn't know on which side he had fought on. He only knew that he celebrated with the invaders, the victors, the revolutionaries. Somewhere in the chaos his anger had been sated and he felt better, peaceful. For now.
He left his sickbed for good that day. Even as the pain burned deeper and sharper in his body he felt stronger, driven by something abnormal, madness the others called it. He would call it justice, he would call it ideals, he would call it by the three words of the Revolution.