freedom at 21
/the exploration of a character/
Note(s): My personal interpretation on the development of the character Belgium (meaning, I do not take the actual territory in account.); use of European history; mentions of Catholicism, imperialism and general debauchery; employment of historical characters and events; narrowing immortality; expanding immorality; Spain x Belgium. –references to Libertade, mi amor and Difficile est saturam non scriber.
Warning(s): Purple prose and winks at contemporary pop culture; vague sexual implications; immorality; battlefields; death; erotic asphyxiation; etc, etc.
Summary: from the cradle to independence, and some graves in between. /historical!Belgium-centric - SpaBel/
Extra: Why yes, the title originates from Jack White's eponymous song. -listen to it.-
I hereby disclaim any rights.
i. macrocosm
When she opens her eyes experimentally for the very first time, there is a war against a Mediterranean empire, a common enemy of these various tribes, these warriors and shamans and farmers, and she is born from the realization of an intrinsic difference between the aggressor and the defender. Her body stretches and grows as her territory is occupied and colonized. She is still a vague concept.
I. - Rome
She does not remember much from her antiquity. Just the scent of worn-leather sandals, laced around muscled sun-kissed calves and the bronze of a breastplate practically glowing in the late afternoon. Branches of olive, which did not grow on her own green meadows or inside her dark forests or along the riverside of Marne nor Seine, were being proffered by calloused fingers and accompanied by hearty chuckles, rumbling from organs stuffed deep inside the ochre armor of the legionary. Soothing were the foreign words tumbling from chapped lips as he read from commentaries of his own emperors and she, faintly, can imagine the amused twinkle in those almond-shaped eyes as he recounts the stories unfolding on the papyrus.
He defines her, this amalgam of Celtic and Gaul tribesmen as Gallia Belgica and he praises her as brave –horum omnium fortissimi- with a simper, charming like the merlot fabric spilling from his broad shoulders and the laurel wreath crowning his unruly mop of chestnut hair. She flails her tiny arms in his strong embrace, not understanding, nor even grasping the gravity of his words. He sounds warm though, and this acknowledgement creates amusement and the gleeful chortles quake her tiny frame when he ruffles her wheat-blonde curls.
II.- France
They speak in curt, ceremonious drawls; these men with peculiar tonsures and earth-brown robes; these men who consider the words of ages ago in faraway places as an absolute truth and conclude their statements with a solemn 'amen'; the very same men who press a small wooden cross against their pursed lips and condemn the belief in forces of nature as heresy. Religious differences give way to the awareness of a community and in turn, the consciousness of herself as a separate entity expands. Her appearance shifts from that of a toddler to that of a child under Merovingian rule, under the precarious gaze of saints and kings.
Sometimes there is a boy crystallized in the chandelier-shards of those memories; he has dimples in his cheeks when he guffaws in joy, holding her mouse-like hands high above her head as they dance. His irises are the color of expensive gemstones, an undetermined shade of blue, bright like the sky and they narrow around dark unsavory pupils in the waves of sunlight, trickling through the shade in numerous needle-points. Golden locks bounce upon his shoulders as they move, those long tresses affiliate him with his monarchs, he had once whispered in a confidential tone, and she likes to twist them around her slender fingers.
In the confinement of castle walls, where the light of a candle clings to the stone like sweat to skin, he ties a ribbon into her hair. It's a piece of cloth, a vibrant vermillion, torn from clerical robes he uses to play charades in. Her body bends over the leather-bound tome as he gingerly wipes stray strands from her rosy cheeks and coaxes her to softly read the psalms in cursive handwriting.
III. – Holy Roman Empire
From the coronation of Charlemagne by his papal majesty, Leo III, in 800 stems the mysterious trouvaille of a nursling; a reflection of a cherub with his straw-blonde hair and heavenly blue eyes, striking and enthralling, and his cheeks were silken-soft. The emperor immediately demands his baptism and the bishop dips him in the christened water of a stone bowl, where a chiseled serpent embraces the width with a cool, diminutive gaze, They regard him as the representation of an empire and proceed to enrobe him in portentous black. He grows rapidly, this clerical child, and outlives his Carolingian roots; only to be crowned 'sacral' by their successors. She observes this unusual process with the curiosity only her physical appearance could imply.
She wades through tall blades of glass like one would part the waves in torrent; her silhouette is sketched against the horizon, her shadow a blotched transparent black, relentlessly moving, progressing. Her gaze falls upon the lifeless form of a robin, the gray of the feathers glittering in the April sun and she gracelessly, swiftly falls upon her knees to examine the helpless animal. There is no rustle as she cradles the bird in her hands, gently inducing an instinctual movement, but the head merely lolls from left to right. As if the neck is a flexible rope instead of vertebrae. One eyebrow is raised by the lack of response.
One twig snaps as a figure approaches; the heavy robes flutter and flit over the soil. "There is no use in waking the dead." She promptly picks out the adulthood from underneath the boyish timbre.
"Shall we bury it instead?" He seems to consider this proposal in all earnest, irises as innocent as the heaven he ought to represent, and nervously picks his hat from his head, wringing the material in between greedy fingers.
There is resignation in his voice, "Animals have no soul." He studies the Bible every night, underneath the beams of a lily-white moon and the hollow yellow of melting paraffin; he reads and consumes and indulges, strategy and liturgy, side by side. "Humans do." Somehow frustration seeps into the staccato, short but palpable.
She hums at the statement but even more so at the underlying implication; we are no humans either, we are not flesh and bone and soul, we play pretend. Precariously placing the robin back upon solid ground, she turns and smiles ruefully. His silken-soft cheeks dust a lovely shade of red, the color of her dress, of her ribbon, of the dead creature's chest.
"Are you afraid of death?" She asks in a hushed whisper, conspiring almost.
His hands seem to scavenge his hat, stretching and bending the material in vigor as he recites, "In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum…" He holds out his hand to assist her in standing upright, the gesture nothing short of chivalrous and friendly. However, after the condemning final words of Christ, she hesitates to reciprocate. Perhaps later, looking back upon this passing moment frozen in time, she could draw parallels between the empire and the messiah he paraphrased. Because at a determined point on the timeline, the paths of God would become his undoing and leave his territories scattered like lambs to a pack of wolves.
IV. - Flanders
Trade unravels over the landscape, connecting cities and ports with invisible threads, sketched upon charts in leaders like the web of a spider. Merchants of various tongues flocked to her markets, some traveling over land and others arriving by ship. Confrontations cultivate the awareness of her own traditions; she matures quickly through the contrast between her culture and those of her trading partners. Churches, chapels and shrines are build in the honor of Catholic saints and decorated with strips of Mosan art. Her embroideries and draperies, fanciful patches of wool, are exported all over Europe and are considered to be prized assets to any court.
Politics leave her fractured and the clutch of the clerical child weakens considerably; especially after the victory of the French monarch in the battle of Bouvines. She fragments into various fiefs, each one bound to either France, England or the Holy Empire but despite the incisions upon her soul, she remains one representation of a mismatched whole. Clans of incestuous lineage habituate her castles and belfries, efficaciously steering her into directions to make themselves prosper and when they are deemed unworthy themselves, the scepter of power is passed down to another house of counts.
She twirls along in circles until she falls to the ground and along with her, the house of Dampierre.
ii. transition
Under the predomination of Margaret II of Flanders and the second son out of her second marriage, Guy of Dampierre, her weavers encounter difficulty with the English suppliers of wool and the resistance against the shire of Flanders raises. However, the count is amicable towards her and pats her wheat-blonde tresses in passing whenever she abides in his residency, built from stone and mortar. Under the melodical guidance of troubadours, he teaches her how to properly dance the carola, joined by hands with his beautiful daughters he intends to use as marital pawns in politics, and he educates her in Epicureanism; the flavors of venison and peacock, the smells of exotic spices, how bread dipped in sauce melts on the tongue and the richness of wine. She looks wonderful in loosely fitted gowns of various colors, her ensembles completed by mantles, brocade cords and jewels of gold.
In a dangerous game of marriage arrangements concerning his beloved daughter Philippa and the prince of Wales in order to fortify an alliance, the count enrages the monarch of France, Phillip IV. As a king is wanton to do in order to effectively spread his authority, his armies march in the direction of the county, bearing the arms of majestic lilies, and cause strife upon various battlefields with thunderous hooves. There is nothing fair about how her forces are defeated, she thinks sadly behind the protective walls of Guy's stronghold, and she actually wonders if the French king is as unmoving as a statue like a bishop once asserted.
Cold winter winds moan when the French take the count and his son away from her; Francis, all serpentine smiles and beautiful gemstone eyes, rimmed by thick, long eyelashes, tightens his chokehold around her pretty neck. She answers directly to Phillip IV, to the fair liege, and when the economical situation in Bruges worsens two years prior to the kidnapping of her count, she sees things unravel from a whole different perspective.
I. – Brugse Metten / Bruges Matins
She hears terrible stories, about men, her men, entering the garrisons where the French guards are stationed, with weapons in hands and contempt wrinkling their faces, guiding their actions and bringing soldiers to their untimely deaths. She hears about a supposed shibboleth to distinguish the Flemish from the French, about tongues being twisted and fear bursting behind retinas. She hears about blood coating the cobblestones and dripping indolently down the canals. The governor and a few guards, favored by fate or perhaps blessed by speed in their legs, have escaped the city of Bruges.
When the lady of a bedchamber asks her if she wants some warmed milk to ease the shivers racing down her back, she nods dully. Honey, sweet and luxurious, tinges the bottom of the cup when she finishes, but her throat does not warm nor does her tongue distinguish the taste from the milk.
Something boils deep inside her veins, this emotion races in competition with the scarlet blood when Pieter de Coninck, one of the leaders of the uprising, announces he is preparing militia for a war near Kortrijk, she does not hesitate to join the troops as a symbol. She grows because of them and they are willing to seek death for her. They are in a devastating symbiosis of awareness and protection of the awareness and fighting for the awareness. She smiles when they bestow her with a goedendag, the wooden handle lying heavy in her small, delicate palms and the pin is sharp and bright.
II. – Battle of the Golden Spurs
Valor is an ounce of ideology, two thirds of fear and an uneven shred of stupidity: her cavalry exists out of a mere four hundred nobles and when the horses fall to the muddy soil, they tumble to the ground and from their gashes streams crimson instead of azure, while the French forces number a total of two thousand five hundred equestrians with the golden lilies fiercely blazing on their shields and robes. Her opponent compounds his army typically feudal, relying mainly on his cavalry with a core of bowmen and spearmen. She might have numerical advantage, but Francis has experience and tactics. However knights scream just as loudly as any man when they are getting their heads bludgeoned by a mace, she notices in slight panic as she runs across the sloughy battlefield.
Ditches and streams cross the land, proving to be a hindrance for the chevaliers and while the infantrymen proceed to prepare make-shift bridges out of planks, some stumble on and get surrounded by her militia. Holding her hand in front of her mouth in horror as they clobber the squires, she takes a few steps back haphazardly and nearly loses her balance over a bleeding militant. His garb is tattered and the flesh of his leg that she can observe, is swollen and a bruised purple. She drops her spear in horror as he clutches at her dress, fingers folding and unfolding. His knuckles are bleeding.
He mutters softly, his throat raspy and hoarse, "Please… Help me.." His native dialect constricts her chest in recognition and she shakes her head lightly. Tears pricking at the corners of her fearful eyes.
"Oh, ma chèrie. Do be a darling and help your soldier." Francis crows, perched upon his white stallion, a sword leisurely in his hand and a spiteful smirk gracing his pale features. "He's here for you. More or less."
Ringlets bounce as she feverishly shakes her head, "What can I do? I can't… I can't drag him.. Can't drag him behind lines." Her voice croaks and shatters, the vocal equivalent of a mirror broken to pieces.
He dismounts his horse gracefully, the blade eerily glowing in the summer sun's rays and he nears her with camaraderie. His irises narrow around the pitch black pupils, his gaze turns predatory, dark and daring while his arm encircles her shoulder and he leans in to whisper soothingly in her ear; "You'll have to be merciful here. You'll have to take my sword." He raises the weapon aforementioned, "And stab him in the heart. Soutiens-lui."
Somehow the earth beneath her very feet shifts and transfigures, she chokes out in a shrill high-pitched tone, "I can't kill the poor man!" Scanning Francis' face for any signs of jest or untruths, the girl stares back at the delirious soldier, whose hands shiver endlessly and whose cheeks seem to sink against the very bone underneath.
"Of course you can. He pledged to die for you.. Or die against me." He adds in afterthought, index finger mindlessly rubbing against the stubble on his chin."God will welcome him in heaven." His gemstone eyes twinkle at the very mention of the Lord.
Her stomach contracts as she senses the reasoning behind those words, "God will condemn us to depths of hell."
Francis guffaws and experimentally pricks his blade between two ribs, the flesh squeaks in protest at the intrusion and a groan leaves the man's mouth. "If we ever die, ma belle." Blood oozes from the fresh wound as the sword digs deeper into the body. He repeats his former statement, "If we ever die." The militant's eyes seem to roll back into his sockets when his last breath leaves his lungs.
She wins this battle, watches how the remaining French troops retreat, their silhouettes painted against the horizon and the golden spurs glitter upon the meadow like stars flare upon a blanket of night and resentfully listens to the cheers of triumph. She personally hangs a few in the church of Kortrijk and doesn't pause to indulge in prayer. Images of a dirty face contorted in pain don't leave her dreams for many nights to come.
III.– Aftermath
Three years prior to the battlefield riddled with golden spurs, she signs the treaty of Athis-sur-Orge to concede defeat; she pays the monarch of France tons of golden coins to compensate for the troubles and gives up the cities of Lille and Douai. When the ink dries on the document, the black a stark contrast against the faded yellow of the parchment, Francis glides his lean artistic fingers through her golden curls in remembrance of their bleeding childhood and presses his pursed lips against her temples.
"Are we immortal, grand frère? Are we truly forever?" She wonders aloud and the fragility of her posture nearly breaks the Frenchman. He cannot answer her truthfully because he knows of principalities disappearing continuously, counties being swallowed by expanding empires, but she has been around since the original Roman Empire.
He settles for a rueful smile as crestfallen as the victims on the numerous battlefields that scatter over the canvas of the European continent. "Still mulling over my words, mh? Ah, chèrie, we are as eternal as this cruel world allows us to be."
When the plague voyages amongst her citizens decades later, when this disease, this scourge of God, creeps into the nooks and crannies of their poverty-stricken houses in the form of ravenous rats, she doesn't hesitate to affront destiny. Unlike the beak-doctors from Rome, she refuses the protective garments, the aromatic items and the mask with the infamous beak, but simply enters her people's homes in regular dark robes. Her wardens, beautiful noble women who glorify her appearance with grime and jewelry, dare not to follow her down the alleyways of infestation and black deaths; they weep about her self-destructive tendencies. Yet she doesn't weaken considerably, there are no regular symptoms of plague manifesting themselves on her body. No skeleton in a cloak and carrying a scythe who tracks her down; she continues to exist.
Mercantilism luxuriates amongst the cities, like poppies open their charred hearts to the public on the countryside and stand proudly along the cobblestone roads criss-crossing her territory. She often opts to abandon the estates of nobility amongst the woods full of wildlife to enjoy the marketplaces of important bustling cities such as Bruges and Ghent. Her host, a wealthy trader with bulb flushed cheeks, shows her the wares from the exotic East; daggers, spices and multi-colored silk. She sticks one of the daggers through the palm of her opened hand; the pain barely skims her nerve endings although the blood drip-drops to the Persian rug underneath her feet. Her superintendent screams and his outrage reverberates all through the hallways of his mansion. Scrutinizing the wound with a clinical interest, she notes how the hurt barely registers. Her host dies from an infarct, she forgets him all the same.
Her color turns burgundy in the fifteenth century; she and her siblings adjoin the territories of Philip the Good and she especially prospers under the care of the duchy. Paintings and magnificent tapestries become her trademark and she excels at producing wool-woven sceneries of both Testaments of the Bible and also excels at manufacturing Grecian deities in cotton with occasional threads of gold, silver and silk. These masterpieces are desired by all royal households on the continent. She becomes the mannequin of the duchess, who gladly dolls her up in houppelandes of precious fabrics and exquisite prints of pomegranate and artichoke. Her eldest brother smiles kindly at her when she teeter-tatters over the courtyard in her newest garderobe and he gladly arranges her hair ribbon more appropriately. She believes herself to be happy.
After two generations, the lineages of Burgundy and the Spanish Habsburgs melt together by the marriage of Joanna of Castile and Philip the Handsome and everything changes.
Part II: the continuation under the Spanish Empire / appearance of Spain and South Italy / more prominence for older brother Netherlands / mentions of love, sex and hate.
I'm not quite sure if I depicted France accurately, but I like to stress how much of an older sibling he really is for Belgium because their relationship is heavily neglected in the Hetalia-verse. Penny for your thoughts?