Fanfic Post - Changeover (Hetalia)
Apr. 5th, 2021 08:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristenskThis is a weird, random Hetalia short I wrote a while back. I hesitated to post it as it's very much inspired by HerdOfTurtles' short, Against Nature. After reading that, I had this idea for a similar situation that went in a different direction. Mostly, I once again wanted to explore the nature of personifications. This is set in no particular time and could be past or future.
Changeover
Arthur Kirkland, personification of England, ran a hand down the fine material of his vest, smoothing it. If only he could as easily smooth over the growing sense of anxiety - of fear even - building inside him, inside his people.
Instead, he pushed it down and focused on the matter at hand. He was waiting to meet with his fellow personifications from the continent today. That was quite a step up. A splendid improvement really.
His hands were shaking.
Arthur concentrated, forcing them to still. The post-death tremors should be lessening. They usually would in this amount of time.
Though he wasn’t sure he’d ever been killed so many times in such quick succession before.
His mind wandered. Had it been purely punishment? An attempt to break him? Or had they hoped he would stay dead?
His new ruler wasn’t like most of the others. The majority had known Arthur for what he was either from the previous generation or by instinctively recognizing him, as members of his people should.
This new one…
‘Usurper,’ his mind whispered. ‘Not mine.’
He had endured those before. Invaders as well.
But, usurpers and invaders alike had always known him as a prize to claim, a symbol of their conquest and, if he could be won over, a sign of its completion. ...Though no few of the invaders wouldn’t have cared if he had faded and their own personification had taken his land. That was a symbol of its own.
So, what did this latest usurper want?
His people weren’t sure either. There were rumors. Machinations brewing in secret. Schemes Arthur was no longer privy to. His connections in the government had been neatly severed with every execution. His own and those of his contacts.
The trembling was back, worse than before, spreading.
Seated at the prepared conference table, he started tapping his foot as though to silent music to hide the shaking in his legs. There was little else to occupy his mind. He knew what he was to say. It was banal formalities that told him nothing and would tell his fellow personifications less. His only job was to assure them all was well in his realm.
Nothing was well.
The fear was intensifying. Was something happening?
Pain bloomed in his chest, in his heart.
Something here in London? No. Deeper than that. More his true heart than any capital could ever be.
His people...
Arthur moved to stand and fell, the trembling in his limbs now spasms and the pain in his heart crushing.
Something was happening to his people. His hands clawed uselessly at the plush rugs. His legs twisted. Fear and pain filled him. His heart pounded in his ears, and his vision swam in and out.
There was a shout. Suddenly, strong hands were on his shoulders.
A familiar face flashed across his shuddering vision, blue eyes and thin brows and a sharp nose all framed by long, blond hair. Francis.
The personification of France said his name and Arthur thought he might have answered, but his tongue was so thick he doubted it was intelligible. His vision was blurred and darkening.
He had the distant impression of hurried feet and more people moving around him.
Then, there was an odd stillness.
Francis' hands, which he distantly realized were still holding him, stiffened and withdrew. Voices murmured above and around him.
Arthur forced himself up from the waiting darkness and fought to hear what was being said over the roaring of his heart.
Suddenly, Francis was there again, tutting and tapping Arthur’s cheek with a manicured nail. “Then, you should not have been so quick with your executions.” His English was short and clipped. “Changing loyalties takes time. What use are we if we are fickle?”
Arthur heard heavy footsteps near his head.
“Please explain what you mean, Monsieur Bonnefoy.”
That voice. When had his new ruler gotten here? This was not how Arthur wanted the man to see him, weak and writhing on the floor like a dying animal. The man had already seen him dead often enough.
“I mean…” Francis gripped his chin with enough of his nation strength Arthur knew there would be bruises. For an instant, Francis forced their eyes to meet, and what Arthur saw in the other man’s face almost made him stop wishing he had enough muscle control to bite him viciously. “…When he wakes, he will be your creature. It is always so.” Francis released him abruptly, dismissively. “I shall speak to the others. We will wait and meet with Arthur after, when he is better able to relay your wishes.”
His voice was fading into the roar in Arthur’s ears, but Arthur didn’t fight it this time. He had gotten Francis’ message. He wondered what the other nation was going to demand in return for the favor and for what he knew, but that was something to worry about later. For now, he could give in to unconsciousness. And, hopefully feign sleep long enough when he woke to decide what level of fawning it would take to convince the usurper that Arthur was indeed now his most loyal ally.
His people’s fear and pain still throbbed in the heart of his being, and, as he fell into darkness, Arthur swore that he would not let them down.
Changeover
Arthur Kirkland, personification of England, ran a hand down the fine material of his vest, smoothing it. If only he could as easily smooth over the growing sense of anxiety - of fear even - building inside him, inside his people.
Instead, he pushed it down and focused on the matter at hand. He was waiting to meet with his fellow personifications from the continent today. That was quite a step up. A splendid improvement really.
His hands were shaking.
Arthur concentrated, forcing them to still. The post-death tremors should be lessening. They usually would in this amount of time.
Though he wasn’t sure he’d ever been killed so many times in such quick succession before.
His mind wandered. Had it been purely punishment? An attempt to break him? Or had they hoped he would stay dead?
His new ruler wasn’t like most of the others. The majority had known Arthur for what he was either from the previous generation or by instinctively recognizing him, as members of his people should.
This new one…
‘Usurper,’ his mind whispered. ‘Not mine.’
He had endured those before. Invaders as well.
But, usurpers and invaders alike had always known him as a prize to claim, a symbol of their conquest and, if he could be won over, a sign of its completion. ...Though no few of the invaders wouldn’t have cared if he had faded and their own personification had taken his land. That was a symbol of its own.
So, what did this latest usurper want?
His people weren’t sure either. There were rumors. Machinations brewing in secret. Schemes Arthur was no longer privy to. His connections in the government had been neatly severed with every execution. His own and those of his contacts.
The trembling was back, worse than before, spreading.
Seated at the prepared conference table, he started tapping his foot as though to silent music to hide the shaking in his legs. There was little else to occupy his mind. He knew what he was to say. It was banal formalities that told him nothing and would tell his fellow personifications less. His only job was to assure them all was well in his realm.
Nothing was well.
The fear was intensifying. Was something happening?
Pain bloomed in his chest, in his heart.
Something here in London? No. Deeper than that. More his true heart than any capital could ever be.
His people...
Arthur moved to stand and fell, the trembling in his limbs now spasms and the pain in his heart crushing.
Something was happening to his people. His hands clawed uselessly at the plush rugs. His legs twisted. Fear and pain filled him. His heart pounded in his ears, and his vision swam in and out.
There was a shout. Suddenly, strong hands were on his shoulders.
A familiar face flashed across his shuddering vision, blue eyes and thin brows and a sharp nose all framed by long, blond hair. Francis.
The personification of France said his name and Arthur thought he might have answered, but his tongue was so thick he doubted it was intelligible. His vision was blurred and darkening.
He had the distant impression of hurried feet and more people moving around him.
Then, there was an odd stillness.
Francis' hands, which he distantly realized were still holding him, stiffened and withdrew. Voices murmured above and around him.
Arthur forced himself up from the waiting darkness and fought to hear what was being said over the roaring of his heart.
Suddenly, Francis was there again, tutting and tapping Arthur’s cheek with a manicured nail. “Then, you should not have been so quick with your executions.” His English was short and clipped. “Changing loyalties takes time. What use are we if we are fickle?”
Arthur heard heavy footsteps near his head.
“Please explain what you mean, Monsieur Bonnefoy.”
That voice. When had his new ruler gotten here? This was not how Arthur wanted the man to see him, weak and writhing on the floor like a dying animal. The man had already seen him dead often enough.
“I mean…” Francis gripped his chin with enough of his nation strength Arthur knew there would be bruises. For an instant, Francis forced their eyes to meet, and what Arthur saw in the other man’s face almost made him stop wishing he had enough muscle control to bite him viciously. “…When he wakes, he will be your creature. It is always so.” Francis released him abruptly, dismissively. “I shall speak to the others. We will wait and meet with Arthur after, when he is better able to relay your wishes.”
His voice was fading into the roar in Arthur’s ears, but Arthur didn’t fight it this time. He had gotten Francis’ message. He wondered what the other nation was going to demand in return for the favor and for what he knew, but that was something to worry about later. For now, he could give in to unconsciousness. And, hopefully feign sleep long enough when he woke to decide what level of fawning it would take to convince the usurper that Arthur was indeed now his most loyal ally.
His people’s fear and pain still throbbed in the heart of his being, and, as he fell into darkness, Arthur swore that he would not let them down.
