Sovereignty

Warning: This story is about the TRAGIC LOVE between France and Napoleon, and also my own little love affair with the French Revolution, so if that's not your cup of tea, please, don't read. There's nothing explicit but there is some gay subtext so, yeah. Also please excuse bad internet translated Franglish.

Pairings: FrancexNapoleon, obviously, with minor FrancexUS and hints at FrancexUK.

Timestamp: September 1797, various flashbacks

SOVEREIGNTY  a hetalia fanfic

The wine was good, but there was no bread to go with it. France was very upset about this. He'd scoured the larder and kitchen and all he could find was half a carrot. So he drank the wine instead. It was very good wine. There was no other explanation for the way the room was blurring.

The paintings were gone. Why were the paintings gone? Instead there were awful horrid ugly rifles hanging on the walls.

France had the most awful headache. He put his hands to his head. There was something wet and warm and sticky dripping down his matted hair.

       This really would not do at all.



He climbed the steps buoyantly, with a spring in his step, because it was all about style, you know? He smiled at a pretty girl in the crowd. He wanted to blow her a kiss but his hands were inconveniently tied behind his back. The crowd was cheering. He looked out at all the people, his wonderful beautiful Parisians, such fickle tempers but easily entertained. Paris was beautiful this time of year, although the blood running through the streets clashed rather with the pink and orange houses.    

“Francis Bonnefoy,” a voice declared from the sky, “vous êtes accusé de la high treason.  You have betrayed votre pays et personnes.”

Well, that was quite absurd; he could not betray himself nor his people; could he? Could a Nation commit treason? It was all highly ridiculous. He was the State and the People and surely they could not condemn their own country.

“Kneel,” commanded the voice, and he obeyed. The guillotine was shining in the sunlight. The light and brightness and the noise was so overwhelmingly loud- he could not think. Paris was so beautiful this time of year.

“La mort au traître. Death to the traitor.”

But it was not me, he wanted to scream- I never did any of it- not on purpose, anyway-



France woke, shivering, on the cold stone kitchen floor. He staggered to his feet, and discovered he had been wrong about the lack of food. There was a bowl of dark red plums on the table. The fruit was bruised and rotten, and flies buzzed about in swarms. He ate it anyway, the sickly sweet taste exploding in his dry mouth, his lips stained bright crimson. The flies settled on his eyelashes as he sat leaning against the wall in a studied pose of relaxation that came as automatically as breathing.

There was something he wanted, something more than food or wine- he didn't know what. France thought about it for a while, and realized he wanted America. He wanted that bright, idealistic, idiotic grin and those sky blue eyes that had never known a cloud. He wanted America to hold him and tell him how proud he was that France had followed him into self-sovereignty. He remembered what America had told him at the signing of the Treaty of Paris:

“There's this thing called democracy, right, and it was invented by Greece's mother, or maybe that old Rome guy, I'm not sure, and it means we get to decide what to do, without any bosses! No kings or gods! Or parliaments,” he spat out disgustedly.

“But you do have a king,” France had pointed out. “Your lovely Washington.”

“No no no, France, you don't get it!” America had said so loudly. He was so volatile, that young one. “Actually we kind of asked him to be king, and he said no and told me why, and I agree with him! He's 'president' which means I get to decide whether or not he's in charge.”

“That does sound nice,” France had replied, thoughtfully.

“Oh, and, uh.” America had sounded almost guilty. “Look, I'm really grateful for your help, for the money and all, but I, um, don't think I'll be able to pay you back right now. It's really hectic, what with setting up a government and all-”

“Do not worry about it,” France had said magnanimously. “Louis says you do not need to pay us back. It is worth it, you understand, just to see the look on Angleterre's face?” He had smiled at the memory.

“Yeah,” America had said sadly. Then he had clapped France on the shoulder. “I've got to go talk to Adams- but look, you're a really great country, you know? Think about what I said.”

And France had been left to stare after him and ignore the ever-present twinges of hunger.

And now France sat there and drank more of the wine to wash out the taste of the rotten fruit and pondered. He did not really want America. He wanted Angleterre. He wanted England to admit he'd been wrong. To admit that France was great (that he was a really great country). That he was still a great world power.

France had been feeling terribly obsolete of late. No one ever came to visit any more. He remembered the days when the philosophe had cued up for the privelege of ascending the stairs into his apartment to discuss Reason and Religion with their Nation. He remembered the ever-optimistic Rousseau and the prolific Diderot and of course the brilliant, bitter Voltaire. He had not seen any of them in such a long time. Had they forgotten him? Had the world forgotten him? Not even the politicians came any more. He had lost track of who his boss was, but he remembered that Maximilien had used to come and inform him of goings-on. Slight, immaculate Maximilien with his charming bourgeoisie views. Maximilien Robespierre, that was the man's full name. He had stopped coming a year ago and France was terribly lonely.

Also the bread had stopped arriving, which was something that needed to be remedied. Right now, however, he was feeling very full from the sweet fruit and very tired also and so he dragged himself to his bed and lay down.



His voice was hoarse from screaming. The chains were falling. The doors were opening. He felt feverish with excitement and the heat of the crowd. The drawbridge was down- he was running, surging, being pushed along by the others. He was still screaming. Explosives were being hurled, guns shot. The summer air filled with smoke.

Everyone was screaming. Screaming of liberty, of freedom. Spirits were alight with a firey new idea: we are worth something.

The new concept of citizen.

He was falling. The crowd was pushing him under. First his feet, then back, were stepped on and tripped over. The crowd kept moving, but he was left behind. He hurt, in every inch of his body.

Screams. Gunshots. He staggered to his feet only to feel a burst of pain. Francis Bonnefoy sank to the ground, staring incredulously at the dark red blood staining the flagstones.

that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights,

life, freedom and property.

And for this we will fight. And for this we will die.



He could think a little clearer now. It was easier to distinguish himself, France, from all the other zombies. I am a Nation, he told himself. A Great Nation.

He remembered that there had been times worse than this. He remembered his mother screaming as the Roman Empire dragged her off in chains. He remembered a childhood in slavery, and then sudden, disorienting abandonment, as he had been traded and bartered between the barbarians. He remembered the years of invasion and fire and sacking and rape; and he remembered also that there had come a time when he had woken up to find himself tall and strong, and forged great empires. He remembered that he was older than Christ and more cunning than the fox. And he remembered Jeanne's tear-stained face, and Saint Louis' words of justice, and Descartes' clear Reason. And he remembered other things, too; he remembered waking up in bed with England and an awful hangover and looks of mutual horror, and Spain's expression when he'd seen France looking at that adorable little Southern Italy. He remembered, vaguely, his mother's touch and her old religion. He remembered that once, he had had brothers. He remembered, and he was terrified that he might forget.

France stopped drinking the wine. It was almost gone, anyway.

He was depressingly clear-headed, now, and he realized that no one had come up here because he had not wanted them to, and what mortal could possibly find a Nation that did not wish to be found?

There came a sudden, stabbing pain in his chest and he knew that Robespierre was dead.

With an effort, France sat up in bed, leaning against bare stone walls that once were decorated with embroidered wall hangings. He pulled the thin blanket closer around himself, then reached for the nearest rifle on the wall and started to load it, just in case. When he finished he laid it over his knees and sat there, waiting for something. He did not know what.



"The principle of any sovereignty resides essentially in the Nation. No body, no individual can exert authority which does not emanate expressly from it."

As France signed with a flourish, he had thought with a strange pain in his heart of how proud America would be.

He most deliberately had not thought of England.

Do I now rule myself?



France opened his eyes when he heard the tread of footsteps on the stair.

He wondered with a dull sort of curiosity who it could possibly be. The steps were too light for it to be Russia, coming to kill him. Too heavy for Seychelles or Canada, worried about him. For a moment he hoped desperately that it was beautiful young Amerique of the sky-blue eyes and the hilarious Puritanical modesty.

There came a gentle knock on the door. France was too weak to get up even if he had cared to. “It is not locked,” he called out hoarsely. He realized that his fingernails, long and dirty, were digging painfully into his palms. There was someone else it might be, someone that might signal death or something else.

The handle turned and the door opened, and it was a man. A mortal. One of his, and yet- there was something-

“France,” breathed a voice.

France opened his eyes a bit more. The man was not physically imposing- rather small, really, and dark. A Corsican. One of those troublesome little people darling Romano was always yelling at him about. He was rather pretty, though, something France could still appreciate. The Corsican was wearing the uniform of the French military. A general.

“Who are you,” France muttered, falling back onto the mattress, shoving away the unneeded rifle. He was so very tired.

“My name is Buonaparte,” the man told him softly and courteously, his French somewhat painfully accented. He waited subserviently in the doorway, but France could tell that was a lie. This was not a man to bow to anyone, not even his country.

“I'm afraid I'm not well-equipped to entertain guests at the moment,” France laughed. How had the man got in? How had he found this place? Only bosses and other nations could find it. France had no boss, and there was no nation which would care to visit him.

“Sir,” Buonaparte replied, and raised his eyes. They burned, fiercely, the eyes of a man who would do exactly what was necessary to accomplish his goals and nothing more. A man with no loyalty save to himself.

France giggled quietly to himself. He thought the paintings were looking at him, but then he remembered the paintings were gone. So then he thought the rifles were were looking at him, but then he blinked and remembered that of course, there was nothing there but light patches in the paint.

“Get up,” the man commanded him, like a whip striking France's cheek.

France was startled into yet more laughter. He could not breathe. After he had calmed down, he said leisurely, “Who are you to command me, you filthy little Corsican?”

“Come here,” Buonaparte told him. “Get up. Now.”

“No,” France said petulantly.

“I gave you an order.”

Weeping silently, France gathered his strength and stumbled out of bed, miraculously landing on his feet. He stood there for a moment, shaking.

“Come here,” Buonaparte hissed.

France stepped forward and fell and kept on falling right through the floor and the apartments below and the ground down into a long endless rabbit-hole until he landed inside himself in the place America worked, that they called White ever since England burned it down. Wait, had he burned it down? Or was that something yet to come?

“You- you will not help,” he said, angry and bewildered and hurt.

“No,” America replied. His fingers drummed a restless pattern on the desk he was seated behind. He seemed to notice and began to shuffle papers, moving them to different files. France wished America would stand up. He was so tall these days, almost as tall as France himself, his slim young body defined by muscle. He was so busy and business-like, building and trading and 'establishing himself'.

“Why not,” France asked, his voice going a bit high at the end. There was a pounding in his head. He wanted to be drunk, but at the moment he was painfully sober, a condition he planned on ending as soon as he got back to Versailles.

“Our treaties were with King Louis,” America said, in a flat monotone, but something was going on behind those sky-blue eyes. France imagined it was apology. He hoped it was guilt. “Louis is dead. You killed him, if I recall, something I was raised to think impossible. Congratulations.”

“But- I did it for you, mon chere,” France said, smiling his most charming smile. He was too thin to seduce, these days, but he thought he might still be able to charm. “No kings or gods or parliaments, you remember?” He leaned across the desk, reached out to stroke America's cheek. America closed his eyes and sighed. France leaned further. “I thought you would be proud,” he whispered wistfully.

“No,” America said. The monotone had cracked, but he was determined. “No, you're going about it the wrong way.”

France drew back, recoiled almost. America drew in a sharp breath, almost a gasp, but stayed where he was, unmovable.

“I helped you,” France accused. The anger was seeping into his bones, his aching, tired bones. “I gave you all the money you needed, that's why I'm in this mess you ungrateful little peasant!”

“Your boss gave me the money-”

“It's my people who are paying for it-”

“Look, don't think I don't appreciate all you've done-”

“You owe me. Without me you're nothing!”

The words rang in a sudden silence. America was frozen, the words echoing again and again in the bleak tasteless white office.

And France had never heard the conversation, but oh, he could imagine how it had gone, so many times: You've disappointed me, America. America, I don't know why I invest so much in you. You're worthless. Your brother is so much better than you. You haven't even begun to pay me back for that little scuffle you called a war. You owe me. I made you. You have an allegiance to the Crown. Without me you're nothing.

And America was crying.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “But I don't owe anyone anything.”

And once upon a time France would have gathered the younger nation in his arms and whispered that it was all right, that everything would turn out for the best. Once he would have told him to believe in himself, to not let anyone tell him otherwise.

But France was old and France was wise and France had been hurt in oh so many ways and he knew that it was not all right, that things generally turned out for the worst, and that it was always the most confident that fell the hardest. And he was cold and hungry and so very tired. And so instead he said,

“I can't believe this.”

America said nothing, just looked at him through proud watery eyes like still lakes.

“You've turned out exactly like him.”

The New World country shook his head slightly, once, a single negation.

“Of course debts don't mean a thing to you. Of course you hide in the small print. Of course you think nothing of a knife in the proverbial back.”

America shook his head more swiftly. “No, France, it's not like that-”

He was hurting America, France was glad to see. “It's exactly like that. Well, I should have expected this. Like father, like-”

“Shut up,” America shouted, jumping to his feet.

There was a long silence.

“Don't you see,” America said gently, at last. “Don't you see that your revolution is too violent, too spontaneous? There's no method, no organization, just mindless bloodshed.” He walked around the desk, to stand in front of France. Their eyes were almost on the same level. “Can't you see that it's driving you to madness?”

France laughed uneasily. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Good day, Mr. Bonnefoy,” America stated briskly, returning to his desk and picking up the files. “I believe this meeting is at an end. Close the door on your way out, will you?”

and France slammed the door on his way out and stepped into another room, vastly ornamented and gilted, with endless mirrored walls and rococco plaster peacocks on the ceiling.

King Louis XVI turned away from the window and asked, “Why?”

France turned away from the peeled grape he'd been contemplating. He'd found it fascinating: the delicate, exposed light green veins... “I'm sorry, sir?”

“Why have they turned against me?”

France popped the grape into his mouth and enjoyed the burst of flavor. Such delicacies were still served on the royal table, despite the fact that most of the populace could not even buy potatoes any more. He chewed, slowly and thoroughly. There were many answers to the question, such as, because you are not good with money, or because you do not think of any one except yourself and Marie, or even, most honestly, because you were a bad king. Not a bad person, but a bad king. He did not say any of these things, instead choosing to enjoy the grape. That was one of the things that made him French: an enjoyment of good food, even when there wasn't very much of it.

“The mob is approaching Versailles,” Louis said. He seemed to expect some kind of an answer. France had never much cared for other people's expectations.

“I am still king, am I not?” Louis murmured to himself. He stated again, louder and more confident, “I am. I rule by divine right.”

“What makes you so sure?” France murmured back, his attention focused on a piece of lark's tongue.

Louis looked as though the answer were obvious. “Because you are still with me, of course,” he explained.

France could have said: I am here with you, yes, and I am also out with that mob approaching to carry you off to the guillotine, and I am also a prisoner in the Bastille, and I am inside the New Legislature as they discard of you utterly, and also I am dying in a cheap apartment in Paris whilst a dark-haired Corsican general watches, and perhaps that is the only truth and the rest are all the hallucinations of a starved French aristocrat who thinks he is a country.

He did not.

Instead he rolled off of the expensive seventeenth-century velvet upholstered couch and fell through the thick-carpeted floor and down through the ceiling of his apartment and onto a very cold hard floor, or would have if there had not been strong reassuring arms around him, holding him up.

He was sobbing, crying, coughing up blood. And a voice was murmuring in his ear, It's all right. I've got you. I've got you, it's all right, my country, my love, I'll look after you.

It had been a very long time since any one had said such things to France, and he was so very ill and tired, and so he surrendered himself up to the kind touch and soft voice.

“What do you want from me?” he asked quietly some time later. He was not certain whether or not he cared what the answer would be.

“I want to make you the greatest nation on earth,” Bonaparte whispered. His gentle fingertips raised France's head as he sought France's mouth.


and France was still France enough that he made sure it was a good kiss.