[Fanfiction] Global Symphony
Title: Global Symphony
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: General/Historical/Angst
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Austria, Prussia, Spain, South Korea, America
Rating: PG
Warnings: Possible sexual innuendo? Language
Summary: Written for a kink meme request inspired by the Youtube Internet Symphony. Nations and musical instruments, because when you live for hundreds of years, you can’t help but pick up a skill or two.
Austria - God of Music
Austria knows all the instruments in an orchestra like old friends, like family members in some great clan, their names and moods and history arrayed in some great tree. He has played flutes of bone and reed and wood and shining silver, from the tiny piccolos with their piping voices to the great instruments cast in gold (though he does not play this lovely silver lady too often). He has picked through the horns until they too became cast of silver and brass, their voices like laughing boys and the cries of horses. He has plucked the strings of all those harps, until they became the slender and elegant curves of the violin and the fiddle, the torsos and bellies of cellos, with voices young and old, deep and sweet. He has puzzled out the intricacies of percussion, mingling rhythms with bells and what peculiar sounds can be procured from wood and metal.
But he reserves his regard for one instrument.
The pianoforte does not have the lengthy history of many other instruments; it is actually new in the great history of music. But the piano is more than a friend to him, as he caresses ivory and ebony keys, hears the great instrument sing at his touch. One voice made of many can be coaxed from this lover of his, this goddess of the orchestra. She sings with all the notes of her brothers and sisters, her forebears and her descendents, and she gives back melodies to them, so that they may join her and more voices sing.
‘If there is a god of music,’ he prays as he gently opens her and sits down upon the bench. ‘Let me sing his glory.’
He caresses her like a new lover, shy and inexperienced. She sings tentatively back to him in return.
‘Let voices rise up and let not noise mar our ears.’ He plays on, his fingers no longer so tentative, for she is a patient one.
‘Let my eyes fade, let my body turn to dust. So long as I have ears to hear.’ He goes faster and faster now, relentlessly pounding upon her ivory keys. But she does not protest; she only sings louder and wildly.
His body bows before her as he plays. He worships her, for it is through her grace that he can play, that he can free those peculiar things named notes from the confines of his head. Perhaps they will only flutter away but they are free now, to go as they will and to live, if only for a single moment.
A perfect moment.
Austria brings his fingers down in one final chord, panting. Sweat beads down his brow and he feels tears at the corners of his eyes. And he smiles at the great piano, his head bending over her.
‘If there is a god of music, let me serve you forever.’
Prussia - Tribute
The military knows music, for music keeps the men going. In the stolid madness and discipline of the army, the mind finds rhythms to occupy it, in the thud of feet and horse hooves. A disturbing song can be found in the sounds of battle, of the screams of men and horses, starting with the hiss of steel clearing a scabbard like the hiss of a snake, like a frost edged wind ghosting in the night across snow.
Some years after the fall of the Berlin Wall, Prussia doesn’t know why he bought it, recklessly spending several hundred Euros in the expensive instrument shop. He had gotten curious looks from other customers and one or two school girls had goggled at him before giggling. The owner of the shop had given him a sharp look as well and he had glared right back, knowing how disquieting his peculiar red-violet eyes were.
He stares at the long black case and watches his fingers open it carefully. The light glints on silver against deep red velvet. His fingers stop before reaching for it, unwilling to touch the newly forged metal. He can see himself against the metallic surface, though his reflection is oddly distorted. It’s a pretty thing…
Old Fritz would have marveled over the flute in front of him, a top of the line Gemeinhardt. He would have examined it with greatest of interest and puzzled out the keys, murmuring compliments and critiques. Then he would have played it, mastering it in only the way a virtuoso could, and Prussia would have listened to him, unable to tear his eyes from the sight.
Finally, his scarred and worn fingertips dare to touch the cold metal. He strokes it delicately. No, he’s not a stranger to instruments, but only instruments of war. Nothing that is made only for beauty for beauty’s sake, not the perverse beauty men find in battle fields lest they go mad from the disturbing things they make in destruction. Prussia takes a deep breath.
His fingers know more than his mind and they assemble the flute quite easily. He holds it dully, staring at it. Does he remember the notes? Does he know where to put his fingers? Does he even know how to make noise from this thing?
The former kingdom of Prussia puts the instrument down gently. He picks up the sheets of music that the shop had added to his purchase. Discarding most of them, he selects the last one, remembering that composer Old Fritz had admired.
“Flute Sonata in E flat Major by J.S. Bach” reads the top of the sheet.
“I hope I don’t fuck this up too badly for you,” says Prussia with a slight smile, glancing at a small portrait by the door. “You’re not around to throw something at my head.” He raises the instrument to his lips, hearing the first, soft, breathy note.
And he begins to play.
Spain - Romantic
He had first heard one of Romius’s servants play the instrument and it had intrigued him. The empire had caught his hungry, curious expression and had laughed. “You like it, boy?”
He had nodded, rapidly. And Romius had tousled his dark curls and had a tutor sent for and a student instrument made. The child Hispania had kept the student instrument, even as his fingers lengthened as well as his limbs and torso, requiring him to get new one. But by then, his own people knew how to make instruments and they changed it. He resisted the other instruments his brothers so liked, the lute. Spain played the instrument that he had gained from Romius, the instrument he had made his own.
Centuries lengthened the neck and multiplied the strings. The instrument gained a curved belly, like the sinuous curves of a mature woman. And he had learned to play them all, all the little variations in construction and sound. He picked up new instruments over the years and let them accumulate. A pang of regret still echoed in his heart for his beloved vihuela, however, as he finally put it down and picked up the guitarra.
What eased that passing was in playing the guitarra for the Italy brothers. Veneziano would dance, skirts twirling around his little legs. Romano would frown and pout but he still would stay to listen, his eyes fixed on tawny fingers dancing across the strings and golden wood. And Spain would come to teach them both how to play.
He would sit them on his lap, guide their chubby little fingers on the strings, show them the chords for joy or melancholy. His fingers would hold theirs as he taught them how to pluck the strings. Naturally, Veneziano would learn quicker, delighting in the music he made, as Romano struggled to remember the simplest chords. But the younger Italian did not truly love the instrument, not in the way Spain did. He did not bother to seriously compose music; what melodies he created were things created on the spot, never written down and rarely played again. Not that he hated it, on the contrary, he loved music. But the guitarra was only one little interest, one little delight in the arts of life. No, it was Romano who truly loved the guitarra, though he struggled every step of the way.
Spain would watch the child painstakingly practice when he thought no one was listening. The chubby fingers picked out each chord and repeated them, over and over. A pouting lower lip would be caught between little teeth, a held breath released in a long whistle of frustration. But sometimes, there would be success. The boy’s fingers grew familiar with the strings, he began to pick out songs that no longer twanged and paused ponderously. And Spain would smile as each chord and note mastered, a melody completed, another, more difficult song selected.
Romano would never play for him, never directly, only in surreptitious concerts. So the Iberian nation played for surly South Italy and sang to him. He played all the songs he ever wrote, the new melodies he would write after being unexpectedly inspired by a beautiful lady in a red gown or a handsome boy facing a bull or some new opera about unrequited and faintly ridiculous love. And Romano would listen, eyes partly closed and lips tight.
As the years passed, he would pass on his beloved instrument to his other “children.” They all learned from him and they made it their own, to his bittersweet delight. As he listened to Mexico play in her mariachi bands, yipping and howling against the thrumming strings, as he observed Cuba thump on the scarred wooden body and nearly snapping steel strings of an ancient, cheap guitar, as he continued to surreptitiously wonder at Romano’s painstaking compositions, he wondered if this was what Romius had felt, long ago. And he wondered if Romius would smile to see this legacy, in the form of many voices and many strings.
South Korea - Carrying Voices
As long as he had existed, he had drums. Drums were necessary in a land where security was uncertain, when invaders came from land and sea, when one could not even trust neighboring villages. The pounding of the drums traveled faster than the swiftest horse. Something was primal about drums and the music they made. Perhaps it was because they were not pitched, like human voices, though they could sing loud and soft. Perhaps it was because they reminded one of a heartbeat, thrumming through the body fast and slow, quickening and slowing. The absence of their sound was just as powerful as their presence, just as profound.
Drums protected and summoned. Their sounds roused up guards and called armies, heralded kings and threatened the approaching enemy.
Drums played music; they made the feet and body rise up in a frenzy, in grace and deliberation and joy and energy that became dance. Yes, dancing… Even as your feet remained on the ground, you leapt and skipped, flying through the air like a bird or butterfly, only to land again on firm, welcoming earth.
Each year he danced with the mudang and the farmers. Each year, he wore colorful jackets and wildly adorned hats, beating wildly upon his drum. Sometimes he played the changgo, the hourglass drum with the staccato beat, or the buk, the round and solid drum who provided the base. Sometimes he rounded up with the jing, the big gong, to punctuate the song, or rarely, very rarely, he led them all with the kkwangari, the little gold gong that clattered in a bright, carrying voice. They danced and stomped and pounded, singing away the bad, rotten luck of an old year and welcoming the fresh, bright spirit of a new year. Their feet in their straw sandals ground spirits into the dust. What was of the ground stayed in the ground, not wandering the Heavens or troubling Man.
Man was not of Earth or Heaven but stood between, his own self.
The music died when Japan came. Korea watched in horror as his beloved instruments were consigned to the flames. Stretched cow hide singed and disintegrated, lacquered wood blazed bright and hot. The gongs softened and deformed, their voices silenced as they were forced into new and unnatural shapes. But still, Korea had resisted. He still had his voice, two good feet, and his hands. Stubbornly, he still sang, he still danced, if only to himself. He sang and danced in the sanctum of his own mind, where Japan could not go, not easily, even as his lips cracked and he screamed from the bamboo switch lacerating his shins and feet.
And yet… as his people forgot, he forgot. He found the memory of songs and dances and rituals slipping from him, like fine, fine sand slipping from his hands. And in the dark, alone, he wept, just to himself, because no one would ever understand.
But one learned to adapt and to continue. That was what he did, what he had always done. When Japan went away at last, Korea lifted his head and found the breath and joy and life in him to raise his hands to the heavens and to dance.
He watched his people pick up the pieces of what they had and put them back together. Perhaps it was not perfect; perhaps it was not as fine as it once was. But they had something and it was theirs. He watched hidden instruments emerge from clever caches; he watched grandfathers scrape the wells of their memories.
Korea danced with them all, the children of farmers, the children of former farmers, the children of beggars and thieves and soldiers. He passed through them, another young man with a smiling face and sturdy limbs, who knew all the lyrics and all the beats, all the dances and all the stories, who bawled out the loudest and yet didn’t overwhelm their voices. They danced and sang their pride, their heritage and history, their anger and regret, their hope and their determination.
And lovingly, proudly, he watched and listened.
America - Greet the Sun
To England’s exasperation, America had been a very poor music student. He had none of the deftness and sensitivity that a piano required and there was simply no way that a violin would suit after those disgraceful initial music lessons. So the older country had thrown up his hands in despair and settled for more suitable activities. However, should England have been a little more patient, he would have discovered that America simply needed the right motivation as well as the right instrument.
Young Alfred had been a guest at Doctor Franklin’s shop and had gleefully played on his armorica under benign supervision, delighting in making actual music from a habit he had strictly been forbidden from doing at the supper table. But that had been the extent of that. Then, as he grew from child to an adolescent, he learned how to play the drum. A drummer boy taught him and soon he was good enough to be mistaken as part of the regiment, much to England’s disapproval. The fife had eluded him (probably to the relief of all). Then he had picked up the bugle-horn.
Prussia had given it to him and taught him a note or two. But General Washington had frowned upon its use and so America reluctantly gave it up. Yet he couldn’t resist the sound from the great brass instrument, those first ringing notes that echoed across the forests. The pale-blond nation had grinned manically at him when he had tried.
“Blow, kid,” he had leered and then howled with laughter. “Blow harder!”
America hadn’t gotten that joke for a few years, until Doctor Franklin had had a very delicate but very informative talk with him.
After the Revolution, he had picked it up again and continued to play the new and odd shapes the bugle-horn took. He watched it work its way into the military bands and into the complex language of signaling. The brass coiled and uncoiled like some odd snake, its morning glory flare blooming or shrinking…
America considered the brightly polished instrument. He knew now that time wasn’t kind to metal instruments. His first horn, the one Prussia had given him, was in a museum somewhere; he forgot the others. This trumpet had only been bought about five years ago. He touched it with his gloved hands carefully before picking it up.
Its tassels dangled by his wrist. He looked at himself in the mirror for the second time, at his impeccable uniform. England would have been impressed to see him dressed this sharply, in dark blue and gold. His sleeve bore no rank insignia. A smile crossed his reflection’s face and America went out into the late autumn sunshine.
To many of them, he was an anonymous member of the military. Perhaps some would know him as “Alfred F. Jones.” A select few would know who he really was and as it were, his boss gave him a little nod. This had taken months of persuasion. But America had gotten his way. He usually did. And this was nowhere near as odd as some of the other things he had gotten away with over the years.
The wreath was laid at the tomb. And then it was his turn.
He raised the trumpet to his lips and he blew.
Over the years, people had put lyrics to this song. This simple song that an exacting, thoughtful General had written during a psychotic time… It only had four notes, four notes that you simply breathed. You didn’t have to have lyrics; words only tripped up the song.
But he personally liked one newer version.
Fading light
Falling night
Trumpet call, as the sun, sinks in flight
Sleep in peace, comrades dear,
God is near.
Sleep, my brother. My friend. My citizen. My son.
America heard the clear gold and silver notes fly to the horizon. He heard them fade but he knew they weren’t gone. They echoed still, bright and brilliant and sad and deep all at once. And they would still echo, even after the trumpet in his hands rusted to bits. So long as he was here.
Notes-
God of Music:
-There are various arguments on whether gold plated flutes are better than silver flutes. I really can’t tell, though some proponents claim that gold-plated flutes have a “warmer” sound, and this is from about six years experience as a former flautist.
-While there have been various predecessors to the piano (including the zither and dulcimer), the modern piano was developed independently in England and Germany in the early 1700s.
-Cellos do have a peculiar resemblance to a human torso, don’t they?
Tribute:
-Old Fritz, otherwise known as Frederick II of Prussia or Frederick the Great, was quite good at the flute and composed several concertos. I really recommend you listen to them; they’re very lovely.
- Gemeinhardt is a fairly well-established manufacturer of woodwinds (flutes, piccolos, oboes, clarinets, saxophones), though I prefer Yamaha on the whole for instruments. A German company seemed more appropriate for Prussia though.
-Johann Sebastian Bach and Frederick the Great were contemporaries, to the point in which Bach composed several pieces for him, including on the pianoforte (a relatively new and novel instrument of the time).
-The flute is considered a somewhat feminine instrument, yes, but it is hardly inappropriate for boys, who have a larger lung capacity, which is very helpful, I assure you.
Romantic:
-The guitar can be traced to a Roman-era instrument called the cithara, which was brought to the Iberian peninsula around 40 AD. It became modified over the years with the influence of a Moorish instrument called the oud. The Scandinavian lute, otherwise known as the lut, became popular outside of the peninsula but never really caught on in Spain and Portugal. A direct ancestor of the modern guitar was the Spanish vihuela, which had most of the characteristics of the modern guitar, including a guitar like body and tuning pegs. Unfortunately, the vihuela was only briefly popular in Spain and Italy before being replaced with the Renaissance guitar and baroque guitar, which had more strings.
-The Spanish developed the method of string-plucking, which was taught to the Italians.
Carrying Voices:
- Drums figured very strongly in Korean history as long distance communication and they were very effective. They also figure very strongly in Korean shamanism.
-Mudang: a Korean shaman or wise woman
-The ritual that Yong-soo refers to is called Chi-sin-balp-ki, which literally means, “Stepping on the Earth spirits,” which occurs during a festival on the first full moon after the lunar new year. It was believed that around the beginning of the year, earth spirits would try to rise up, disrupting the balance of the world. In order to keep things in the proper place, people would dance, sing and play drums to tread down on the spirits and to clear away the old and tired luck of the past year and to welcome in new, clean luck.
-A popular motif in Korean philosophy was a square inscribed in a square with a triangular figure in the center, which represented heaven, earth and man, emphasizing a philosophy not based on dualities, but rather two opposing forces and a neutral. Another example of this trinity would be in the mere action of breathing: one inhales, one exhales, and one holds the breath.
-Traditional Korean music was generally divided into three categories: “farmer’s” or folk music, court music, and Buddhist music. All of these were banned with Japanese occupation, but folk music, which became dubbed as “nongak” or literally “farm music,” was especially ground out. Some practitioners now detest the use of “nongak” in particular because it was a manufactured word and prefer to use the term “poongmul.” Having played in a traditional Korean group for a few years, I can go on and on and on about this but I won’t, for the reader’s sake.
-Folk music actually has a tinge of negativity that has nothing to do with being provincial music because during the fifties and sixties, students and radicals held rallies in which people played these instruments. Even now, several groups dedicated to this art hold protests for various political causes, mostly foreign policy and immigration laws.
Greet the Sun:
-The armorica was an instrument not necessarily invented by Benjamin Franklin but a modified version of what was called the “glass harmonica” or the “glass harp.” Basically, it works just as you get a squeaky noise from rubbing the rim of a wine glass with a wet finger, except the glasses are sideways and spun with use of a treadle.
-The trumpet was introduced to America via foreign troops during the Revolutionary War. However, it wasn’t favored because it was commonly used by the Hessians and the British military and soon gained negative associations.
-The horn is considered a rather masculine instrument in various cultures, owing to… ahem, phallic symbolism. Let’s not get into all the other jokes you can make.
-“Taps” was written during the Civil War, though its story is a little muddled and difficult to verify. The going story is that Brigadier General Daniel Butterfield modified a French bugle call called “Tattoo” in order to have a better signal for a formal ending or “lights out.” Whatever the case was, it spread quickly and both the Union and Confederate troops were playing it during the war.
-November 11 is marked as Armistice Day and in the United States, at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, every year at 11 AM, a presidential wreath is laid, with an honor guard made up of representatives from all branches of the military, and “Taps” is played.
-The traditions of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier are really very interesting. One tradition in particular is that the guard on duty has no rank insignias on his uniform, so that he doesn’t outrank the unknown soldier. I’m not very experienced in military rituals and traditions so forgive me if I presume too much with this.
-Lyrics have been written for “Taps”; the set mentioned here were written by John Wayne.