Hello everyone and welcome to Historical Hetalia Week 2023! This year, the event will be held from February 20st to February 26th, 2023.
Prompts:
Day 1 (20.02): 10,000 BCE – 5000 BCE // Heirlooms
Day 2 (21.02): 5000 BCE – 0 // Celebrations
Day 3 (22.02): 0 – 1500 // Discovery
Day 4 (23.02): 1500 – 1800 // Ages (Ex: Iron Age, Gilded Age, Ming Dynasty)
Day 5 (24.02): 1800 – 1945 // Shadows
Day 6 (25.02): 1945 onwards // Reform
Day 7 (26.02): Free Day
Rules & Content Guidelines:
Your work must be tagged with the following: #historicalhetaliaweek and/or @ this blog, Day and prompt being fulfilled (i.e. #hhw day 1 & #prompt: 0-1500), proper tagging for any mature or triggering content (please see a non-exclusive list HERE)
The event prompts will be broken into time periods to encompass all of history. However, there will also be additional prompts provided for each day. Participants are required to fulfill at least one prompt for that day. Content made for the addition prompt must have a historical setting, but not necessarily the time period it is paired with.
Works including topics like genocide, ideologically sensitive issues, or recent tragedies will not be accepted. Works portraying topics like incest, pedophilia, rape, gore, and graphic violence will also not be accepted. If you are unsure if a work/idea conforms to this rule, our ask box is always open.
Additional Rules and Tagging Guidelines can be found HERE
If you have any questions about the prompts or any of the rules, please don’t hesitate to ask! Our ask box is always open and we are happy to clarify.
Day 3: 0 - 1500 // Discovery || @historical-hetalia-week || Instantly thought about Zheng He the Chinese explorer! China has an impressive history of seafaring with ships that were larger than the Spanish’s own largest ships. The voyages were mainly used to discover the world around them and boast about China’s might. They brought a lot of tribute from as far as Africa back to China. Here I drew China next to him looking up at a giraffe that made it to China as a tribute and impressed the emperor who mistook it for a unicorn-like creature! I'll be posting links later to talk a bit more about him ~
Hello! This is for @hwsasiaweek ! Also for @historical-hetalia-week .
I guess this could be tangentially related to Day 6 “The sun shines for us all”, but I guess it applies more to Day 5: OCs, because the central character here is an OC. Though this fic focuses on the relationship between this OC and China, so maybe one could file this under Day 3: China, Vietnam too. But it covers too many prompts so I ultimately decided to submit under Day 10: Free day! For HHW, this is also Day 7: Free Day.
First of all, I’d like to introduce my OC; Father Korea, as I like to call him. He basically represents Korea before the split, specifically from Goryeo to the Korean Empire. I thought he’d represent Silla too, but after doing a bit more research I thought it would be best if Father Korea started as Goryeo. His human name is still being debated though, because it’s an artifact from when he was still Silla. My idea is that basically, North and South Korea, Hyun and Yong-Soo respectively, were raised by him as Egg Realms, realms in waiting.
Also, Alt-talia is still nationverse, but a bit AU. Characterizations are very different. This particularly stands out with China here.
CW: Drugs, mention of death at the end
Ming Dynasty era The sun set gently over the western horizon, bathing the land below in persimmon light. A palace stood below, an ornate,
The servant announcing him did not shout but immediately the hall hushes into thick silence. All eyes turn to Arthur, crowd already parted along the sides to leave a walk way in the middle for newcomers and he steps forwards into it, feeling every bit an executioner as the man condemned.
At the end of the hall on the dais, draped in cloth of state and royal finery, sits a young woman. She is pale and drawn but composed, crown jewels glinting on her ears and around her slender neck as she breathes like a glittering shackle. Borrowed, not stolen- rightfully hers, depending on who one asks.
The Duke of Northumberland flanks her in his finest, proud and gleaming with one hand on the top of the throne. He beams when he sees him approach, whole face alight with a relief and desire which Arthur finds pathetic. He does not spare Northumberland the glance of validation and approval he knows that he seeks and instead bows low in greeting, focusing on the young woman in front of him.
‘Lord Kirkland, I am glad to see you safely returned. Spain, was it?’
‘Portugal, Madam.’
She takes him in. There is a recognition in her expression that Arthur does not like and this increases when she tilts her head in slight deference, ‘I have been told about you, Sir.’
Arthur cannot help but glance to Northumberland now. The small, smug quirk that briefly lights at the corner of his lips makes Arthur want to rip them off, ‘I’m afraid that you may have been told things that you should only hear from myself.’
‘His Majesty the King told me everything that he knew.’ Her eyes flick to focus on each of his in turn, searching, ‘He wanted all proper ceremonies to take place for my coronation, as is tradition.’
‘It was a shame that I could not have been there for him in his final hours. I was not aware of the severity of his health until it was far too late.’
‘It was a sudden change,’ Northumberland speaks for the first time, ‘His passing shocked us all.’
‘I’m sure.’ There is no disguising the contempt in Arthur’s voice and the lady holds out her hand to him, forcing Arthur to return his attentions to her.
He bows to kiss her ringed fingers, centuries of English monarchs smoothing the metal which bites against his lips.
‘Thank you for coming today.’
‘It is my honour,’ Arthur pauses. What he has to say is not for the eager crowd behind him to hear and he keeps his voice low when he speaks, the words in his mouth bitter and heavy, ‘Thank you for receiving me, my Lady.’
Lady Jane Grey’s breath catches.
My Lady.
A beat of silence, then two.
‘Yes,’ she says, so softly Arthur hardly hears her. She does not appear to be surprised.
Arthur’s refusal to use Jane’s proclaimed royal title is damning; she understands the implication.
England does not acknowledge her as his new Queen.
Her reign, and this court, will not succeed.
Northumberland understands this as well. He stiffens, hands clenching into tight fists at his sides and Arthur feels a vindictive flame of satisfaction at his reaction. He always did enjoy it when power hungry men met their cold mortality, recognised their end before them as it took shape in the day.
Jane’s hand in Arthur’s shakes, fingers stiff and cold even through the glove and the heat of summer and Arthur squeezes it gently before he rises in a futile attempt to reassure her, reminded with pained regret that it is not just Northumberland whose fate he has just foretold. The desperation of greedy men have forced this child to step to a tune of treason and she is as damned as they.
‘Why have you come here?’ Jane's face is smooth once more, voice clear and steely. She has won Arthur's respect, if nothing else.
‘It is not something I would miss,’ he says, ‘It is an event that I must remember.’
‘I hope that you remember the truth of it.’
Footsteps at the back of the hall sound a new arrival and Arthur’s time with her here is up. He steps back and bows low again and Lady Jane shifts, a sudden twitch of her whole body as if to reach for him that she forces still. When Arthur looks up again her eyes are wide and fearful.
‘Don’t let them see,’ he wants to tell her, ‘Don’t let them see that you’re afraid. Don’t let them see that you have a weakness to be used.’
He would do so, usually. To another Queen or King. Would stand behind them at the seat of power where he belongs and whisper in their ear the oldest advice they will ever hear, first hand experiences now centuries old and worth more than all the gold lost to gain them.
But the flow of English history does not lead to her, but straight through. Arthur feels the tug of influence pull him in a different direction, to a different Queen and to show allegiance for Jane would be foolish at best, war at worst. She is instead just a girl, a poor, innocent girl pushed and forced to sit atop a throne that does not bleed for her the way she will certainly bleed for it. Already, religion barks a hunting song in her name, a triumphant Catholic return after a sickly Protestant end approaching closer every day.
Arthur can do nothing for her but meet her eyes with kindness, seeing her rather than her father-in-law and husband’s ambition. Understanding and empathy are things she sees far too little of, he knows, and she will get no more in the future.
She is only seventeen.
Arthur feels sick.
He steps away from her, melting into the crowd which part to accept him, but her eyes linger on him as he goes, a keening, desperate wish clear for all to see in one quick flash: ‘I do not want this.’
‘I know,’ he thinks, as she rearranges a mask of indifference on her face and settles on her next introduction, ‘I know. But it will make no difference.’
--------------
AN:
A historical Hetalia fic from me that actually has some true history in it, huzuh!
(I misread the dates, I though Day 3 was 1500 onwards so I am slightly incorrect in my prompt and day here. Sorry about that!)
Historical Notes:
Warning. These historical notes contain dark historical detail.
Lady Jane Grey, 1537 – 12 February 1554, was an English Queen who ruled for just nine days and as such is known as the ‘9 Days Queen’.
Born into a noble family and related to King Edward VI (son of Henry VIII) as his first cousin once removed, she was also the daughter in law of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland.
In June 1553, 15 year old dying Edward wrote her as the successor to the English throne in his will, bypassing his Catholic half-sister Mary (later Mary I- ‘Bloody Mary’) and Protestant half-sister Elizabeth (later Elizabeth I- ‘The Virgin Queen’, ‘Good Queen Bess’). Although it was likely Edward's decision, (evidence does point that he was very much in favour of this) naming Jane Grey herself was possibly instigated by Northumberland who was very much involved with Edward’s Kingship. Due to Edward's young age, Northumberland ruled on his behalf as Lord Protector and some believe this was a conspiracy to put his family on the throne.
I won’t go into the why this succession change happened too much (there’s a LOT of historical religious drama to unpack there, alongside Henry VIII’s own meddling and problems) but in short, Edward did so on the basis that religion and illegitimacy made his sisters unfit for the crown and that the next best person, of the same religion and close blood relation to the King, was poor Jane.
This was not a good idea. Regardless of religion change and regardless of anything else, Mary was the eldest surviving child of the previous King, Henry VIII, and was expected to be next in line after Edward, should her brother die without issue. Support for Mary grew quickly and Northumberland set out from London with troops on 14 July to capture her. Potentially realising that popularity for Mary was far too great, or potentially due to a sneaky coup d’état in his absence, the Privy Council switched their allegiance and proclaimed Mary queen in London, on 19 July.
Jane, by all accounts, did not want to rule. She accepted the crown with reluctance and refused to name her husband, Guildford Dudley as King as it would require an Act of Parliament. Although she did sign documents as "Jane the Quene” it is a general belief that none of what happened was her doing or choice. Little of her life seemed to be, when she was younger, she is said to have complained:
“For when I am in the presence either of father or mother, whether I speak, keep silence, sit, stand or go, eat, drink, be merry or sad, be sewing, playing, dancing, or doing anything else, I must do it as it were in such weight, measure and number, even so perfectly as God made the world; or else I am so sharply taunted, so cruelly threatened, yea presently sometimes with pinches, nips and bobs and other ways (which I will not name for the honour I bear them) ... that I think myself in hell”
Mary originally decided to spare Jane but after the rebellion of Thomas Wyatt the Younger in January 1554 against her plans of marriage with Philip of Spain, she was deemed too risky to keep about and it was decided she would be executed. This was carried out on 23 February 1554 via beheading.
I’ve been fascinated by Jane since I was small. She was so stuck, given so little choice and freedom and so young, yet paid the highest price. Maybe that cruelty really resonated with me, or maybe it was the idea of someone being so helpless im regards to having any say in her own life that I’ve never been able to forget her.
Another submission for @historical-hetalia-week
The prompt for this time period was “Music”.
Warnings: Post-WWI thoughts
Grey Havens
Bordeaux region, France; 16 June 1920
A morning chorus of shrills, beeps, and long, lonely coos filters through the seam of unconsciousness. Dreams melt like heated wax, grim images of war bubbling and spilling away to nothing. The melody of birdsong signals a new dawn, another step by Saturn, putting evermore distance from the terrible past.
Sleepily, France blinks and peers at the curtained windows, dim sunlight stubbornly peeking around the fabric edges, broken by the small, darting shadows of wings. Truthfully, it is his own fault for feeding the feathered animals every morning; now, they have grown accustomed to the luxury of farm seed for breakfast.
He should slip out from under the shelter of his sheets and feed them, but his bed is so perfectly warm, and England’s arm, a soothing weight over his hips.
Rolling over, the bedroom’s alabaster ceiling blurring into pillows, he looks at England, whose face is half sunk into the duvet. His breath comes softly.
France drags a finger across his forehead, brushing aside his messy, haybale bangs. “Are you awake?” he whispers. After a moment, England sighs and mutters something unintelligible, his words muffled by cotton. “Would you mind doing me a small favour?”
England cracks open a drowsy eye. “...You want me to attend to your adoring public?”
“Mm-hm.” France curls an arm around his bare waist, knuckles tracing circles along his spine, glancing over the odd scar or two. “It is important for me to get my beauty rest.”
“They’re your birds,” England murmurs.
“I can make it worth your while.”
Leaning in, France kisses his neck, and the alluring smell of sex swirls through the air. It would be very nice to stay like this for a long time, floating gracefully in oblivion, right on the shores of sleep and lust. His lids flutter shut, tasting the skin of England’s throat, but just as he is ready to forget the birds entirely, a thumb and forefinger find his nose and pinch it. France blinks.
“You’re daft,” England says with a smirk, “if you think that will work on me.”
Scoffing, France bats the offending hand away. “Can’t you pretend to have a romantic side?”
As an answer, England snorts, muttering something about differing opinions on romance and France yawns.
He throws off the blankets and sits up, rubbing his nose and pushing cobwebs from his mind. Once he gathers his bearings, his lips twist into a pout, because his gorgeous baroque room is a mess. Clothing is strewn everywhere, from the furniture to the floor, and yes, those are trousers hanging on his mirror. Sullied sheets are piled in a corner, empty wine bottles clutter the bedside table, and yesterday’s cigarettes lie smashed in the ashtray.
He probably should have tidied up a bit yesterday, or the day before that, but regardless, he is not cleaning any of this now; it’s far too early.
Pulling on a dressing gown, France shambles to the balcony doors and flings open the curtains, wincing at the sudden blast of sunlight that floods the bedroom. England grumbles, burying under the pillows like a rabbit and France nearly grins. Nearly. Grabbing the paper bag of feed from his desk, he steps outside, and the light-hearted chirping erupts into a full orchestra.
Squinting against the shock to his groggy senses, France waves to the birds. “Yes, good morning to you as well!” he greets, then fishes a hand into the paper bag. “Now, listen to me. If you keep waking me up at such unholy hours, I might have to stop feeding you. Understand? I am very happy that you have come to adore my presence, but at some point, it goes a little too far!”
He tosses grains across the balcony floor and the flock swoops in, a flurry of tiny, brown wings soaring from the treetops to the tile. Larks and sparrows, bouncing with energy, gobble up their food and flick away the seed husks. “Ah, what have I done?” France mourns. “My leisurely distraction quickly became an obligation. You would be helpless without me at this point, wouldn’t you?”
There is a coo behind him, and France turns. A single rock dove is perched on the stone railing, its smooth feathers, a brilliant white. “Welcome back, Pierre,” France says to the dove. “I assume you are still a gourmet, no?”
Reaching again into the bag, he retrieves half a loaf of stale bread, an awful tragedy of England’s doing, when he forgot to properly wrap it up in cloth. France presents it to Pierre and the bird leaps on it, talons gripping the tough crust, pecking and nibbling at the treat enthusiastically. “Wonderful,” France manages, a sarcastic smile on his lips. “I am glad that my baking will not go to waste.”
With the birds serenading, a chanson spills unbidden from France’s memory and quietly glides from his lungs.
“Trois beaux oiseaux du Paradis,
Mon ami z'il est à la guerre
Trois beaux oiseaux du Paradis,
Ont passé par ici.
Le premier était plus bleu que ciel,
Mon ami z'il est à la guerre
Le second était couleur de neige,
Le troisième rouge vermeil.
Beaux oiselets du Paradis,
Mon ami z'il est à la guerre
Beaux oiselets du Paradis,
Qu'apportez par ici?”
Slowly, France’s harmony trails off; he should have chosen a different tune. The skin around his face is tight, a familiar heaviness woven into his eyelids, at the corners of his mouth. He tries to focus on something tangible, like the warm tiles beneath his feet or the wind, but his smile falls and he ends the chanson halfway through. “Pierre,” he sighs, “these days, everything I sing is so woefully depressing. How long will it be before I am myself again?”
The dove pauses and cocks its head as if listening, and France chuckles. These creatures were such a blessing during the war. On long days, where he only saw the damp walls of a foxhole and slate skies, the occasional flock would soar overhead, high above the sickly abyss. If it was a quieter afternoon and artillery did not bury their cries, he could hear them chirping, an angelic chorus in a world without God – a reminder that there was still life in his land, in his veins, and in his spirit.
Dropping his voice to a murmur, France asks, “Tell me, how do you do it? You and your friends sing so cheerfully each morning. Do you think you could teach me? I would like to learn how to be happy once more.”
Pierre is steady, his pure feathers barely ruffled by the breeze; his dark eyes are trained on France and he tilts his little head once more.
Then, a sudden swish and he flies off.
France starts, watching him flap his noisy wings and glide into the distance. He is usually such a tame bird; what on earth provoked that response? Tension builds in France's shoulders and he huffs. “Pierre, how rude! You are an ungrateful pigeon. Homemade bread was a rare delicacy on the frontlines, you know.”
He tuts and heel-turns, scattering a few more handfuls of seed for the larks before returning indoors. Abandoning the feed on an empty armchair, breadcrumbs be damned, he begins rooting through the disaster of his bedroom for a cigarette and finds England’s tin case first. A pair of quiet emeralds observe him as he pops open the case and swiftly lights one with the snap of a match, fresh smoke filling his lungs and sedating his mind.
Wordlessly, he crosses the room and offers a second cigarette to England, who takes it, reaching up from his prone, lazy position and slipping it between his teeth. France leans over him, touching the end of his tobacco stick to England’s, and with a practiced inhale, lights it, the embers glowing orange.
England sniffs, screwing up his face. “This brand is terrible,” he mutters.
“Well, they are yours, after all.” France plops down on the edge of the mattress, sitting cross-legged because he is too awake to resume his beauty rest. England grunts, his thighs shuffling against France’s lower back, and wisely does not deny the allegation.
They smoke in silence and France allows the tobacco to settle his ire. A soft breeze enters through the balcony door, carrying a gentler birdsong than what they awoke to.
England shifts, resting his knuckles on his cheekbone. “Will you be starting your own choir?” he inquires.
“Hmm?”
“That hymn you were singing.”
“Ah, that was not a hymn; I do not sing those anymore.” France takes a drag of his cigarette, sighing on the release. “It was a chanson I heard in Paris, after the treaties were signed. When I was finally able to walk without a crutch, the first place I went was a salon, one I knew well. The hostess, she had a lovely voice and occasionally her patrons would convince her to show it off. She began singing that melody, by Ravel, I think, just as I stepped through the doorway.” Then, grinning, France asks, “Did you like it?”
“No,” England clips, stone-faced. “It felt like I was visiting a funeral service.”
France giggles. “It is quite depressing, isn’t it? Yet, I cannot get it out of my head. A thousand years of bard songs, lullabies, and anthems... but now I am stuck on only the most morose tunes.”
“Hmph. Since when have you been a fan of the macabre?”
France pauses. “...Since when?” he asks, voice rising an octave in disbelief. “When do you think?”
England falters, his mouth slightly ajar. A minor headache needles at France’s temple and he releases a much suffering sigh. This truly is not his best morning. “Never mind... I am going to prepare breakfast. I need a café au lait, or perhaps two.”
He moves to stand, to head downstairs to his blissful kitchen, but a rough hand catches his wrist. Glancing back, he sees England balking, frozen, as if surprised at his own actions. Then, he works his jaw.
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
His hand is warm from the bed, but shivering; a tremor that comes and goes, the mark of a new ailment known only as ‘shell shock’. Crisscrossing scars snake along his shaky limb to his shoulder, dull shades of maroon, weaved short years ago by barbed wire and shrapnel. Slowly, his expression shifts to something rare and sincere; brows lightly arched, eyes open, walls down. He swallows. “I know that you’ve... That it has been....”
A knot tugs at France’s chest, poignant and tender. It has been hard, hasn't it? For both of them.
“Four years,” France murmurs. “It was only four years, but it felt like a century.” England’s lips purse, he averts his gaze, and says nothing. “You know,” France continues, “when I had the idea to come here, I thought that all I needed was to escape those awful post-war meetings. Just some time away from the inspections... the visits to my fields.”
He hated those days and the potent reminders; witnessing his obliterated lands, poisoned with chemicals, craters, and trenches. Vast areas of nothing in places where there should be farms, forests, and whole villages bustling with laughter and children. Chunks of his heart cut out and snatched away, the empty spaces filled in with sour bile, landmines, and skeletons.
And so, he packed up a leather suitcase, caught a train from Paris, with England at his heels – what a pleasant surprise that had been – and ran for shelter. Blue skies rolling over lush vineyards, dotted with cypress and plane trees. Rich soil and tranquil wildlife. “But, on its own, my chateau is not enough.”
The fingers on his wrist loosen, but France catches England’s hand before it sinks, because although it trembles, his hand is an anchor; it has been for a while. Is it strange to feel this safe with him, given everything; their tumultuous past, but also their circumstance? Perhaps, but nothing about this century has been unexceptional. “Here I am, surrounded by life, but to me, this place is like a shapeless painting without spark. I do not know why this is, or why my songs are still so mournful, but....”
Throat tight, France hesitates. They have barely dipped their toes into this peculiar, delicate thing, and maybe he should stop there – but the cork is loose, and though only whispers, the words are tumbling out regardless. “That is why I am glad you are here with me. Thank you... for everything.”
England balks. His pupils are darting, studying France’s face as rouge steadily crawls over his cheeks and nose, blossoming under ginger freckles. As is his wont, he may insist that he didn’t do it for France’s sake; not his aid in the war, nor the company he now gives. Oddly, it's frightening to think that may be true, but even if it is, just his presence has been enough to make these days less dim.
Slowly, lips parted, England inhales. He holds it for what must be a minute.
“...You’re welcome,” he murmurs.
France releases a breath he did not know he was keeping. He touches a free thumb to England’s chin, brushing the trace of stubble there, and leaning closer, kisses him. A soft gasp escapes England’s throat and he falters the kiss, wavering before his shoulders sag and he presses back.
A taut ribbon pulls on France’s ribs as he tastes tobacco, old gunpowder, and behind them, the memorable tang of sea salt. A pair of hands come up to lace in France’s hair, fingertips curling against his scalp, and cutting past the cigarette fumes is a bouquet of fresh garden rain. It surrounds him and the metronome of his heart quickens.
His hips, ever unashamed, arch so slightly, and all at once France loathes his dressing gown. England’s mouth brands heat where it roams, tongue slipping over pliant flesh, and it’s so fervent, so adoring – he kisses like every time is their last. Biting teeth prick France’s neck and he loses himself, a wild craving flying up his spine.
He takes one last gasp of his cigarette before dropping it in the ashtray to join England’s. Then France, wrapping arms around his lover, giving in to gravity, falls easily into bed.
---
It is quiet; the birds have long left.
A satisfying soreness runs through France’s frame, along his exhausted limbs and down, down through his core. He sighs, wistfully, and ties back his hair, still damp from the bath. The afternoon sun is getting low, and it is well past the time to be tidying up. Slipping on slacks and slippers, he steps through the balcony doorway, broom in hand.
As he sweeps away the remnants of bird seed, a peculiar shape catches his eye. He pauses, heart suddenly tight.
An English rose, delicate and red, is deposited on the tiles. Swift wings flutter, a flash of white, and France glances up. Against the azure sky, slowly becoming a speck in the distance, little Pierre soars off. He is singing beautifully, and it is enough that France nearly cries.
End / Fin
~~~
Author’s Notes:
Bordeaux is an area of France famous for its wine vineyards. It’s on the western coast, near the Atlantic, and its farmland was spared the horrors of WWI.
Other areas of France were devastated by the war. Entire towns were shelled to nothing, literally blown off the face of the earth. Many civilians were displaced from their homes and never returned, because there was nothing to return to.
Shell shock was poorly understood in 1920. Today, it is called combat stress reaction (CSR) and it can be a precursor to long-term mental illnesses, such as depression, anxiety, and PTSD.
By salon, to be clear, I don’t mean a hair salon. The French salon was a cultural hub where writers, artists, and other intellectuals could gather, debate, and share ideas.
The chanson is called ‘Trois beaux oiseaux du paradis’ by Maurice Ravel, written in 1916.
In the song, the three birds represent the Tricolore flag (blue, white, red), and they appear before someone, usually a woman, that has a ‘beloved’ fighting in The Great War.
Dumb homeless boy stole a uniform and ran away from his asshole older brother in the middle of the night and now he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing !!
