Sonnet 20
Rating: T
Warning: Mentions of sodomy, cussing, one-sided boyXboy
Info Line: Did you know that Shakespeare wrote this sonnet for a young man? *One-sided England/Shakespeare*
Finals are coming up, so I decided to publish this before the craziness begins. There have been many theories on whether Shakespeare was gay or not; however, in the Hetalia world, anything goes. So this is my take on it—and I've subsequently come up with a new historical pairing (to me at least) in the process.
Unfortunately, I don't own Hetalia. That's the property of Hima-papa himself.
XXX
William Shakespeare peered out from behind the velvet curtain, biting his lip. He always had this affliction whenever he performed for the Queen. Stroking his ruff, he gazed over the expectant audience, and produced a sharp smile—the courtiers, while not wanting to endure Queen's Elizabeth's infamous temper if she found out they weren't present, eagerly awaited the play's start. But there was another reason why he was so nervous when the Queen requested a rendition of a play.
Every time he gave a performance for Her Majesty, he was always there by her side.
There he was now, seated next to her, whispering something into the Queen's ear that made her cover her mouth to hide a snicker before coming back at him with a witty retort. The young man's emerald eyes were luminous in the lights of the grand room an effect that made Shakespeare's poetic heart beat wildly. Never had he seen a man who had intrigued him to the extent that this man had, with his natural grace and presence, almost a kingly aura. Never had he seen a man who so attracted him.
"Lord Arthur Kirkland," he muttered, fixed on the other man's lively face as the Queen held up a hand for Arthur to stop talking and to listen to what she had to say, "art thou a mystery that will never be solved?"
Lord Kirkland was an attendant and advisor to the aging Queen, and she and Arthur made quite the contrast—Queen Elizabeth showed age such as the telltale wrinkles that she detested seeing in portraits, while Lord Kirkland was like an eternal Adonis. Aphrodite and Demeter would surely have wanted him if they had graced him with their presence. His natural beauty seemed a gift from God himself.
Uttering a growl, he snapped the curtain shut and clapped his hands twice. "Gather 'round my players!" he shouted. "We are at the Queen's residence as her guest tonight! Pour your heart and soul into this performance! Make this a night she will NEVER forget!" Make it a night Lord Kirkland will never forget either…
As his group applauded him, he thought he heard the tinkling of bells hovering around him. Pushing the thought out of his mind, he made a sign that the show was about to begin.
~*SONNET 20*~
"Give me your hands / If we be friends / And Robin shall restore amends!" Thunderous applause greeted the beaming boy as he completed his soliloquy and stood center stage, drinking it all in.
Clapping along with everyone else, Shakespeare watched as the other actors filed onstage to their standing ovation; Hermia, Lysander, Demetrius, Helena, Titania, Oberon, they all disappeared through the curtain into the wild night to receive their well-deserved praise.
As always, he waited until the last person had left before joining everyone else. He wanted the drama to be kept at its maximum—and what better than to deliberately prolong the arrival of the artist who wrote the enchanting piece?
Striding out, he was reminded once more of his love for the arts as he took center stage, next to Puck and Hermia, and smiled smugly at his adoring public. Taking the hands of his fellow actors, he raised them high in the sky and brought them down for a flourished bow to the fervent hands of the crowds.
Queen Elizabeth was clapping—a good sign—but Lord Kirkland was nowhere to be found.
Disappointment riddling his features for a brief moment, he tugged on his earring and produced a fake smile for the crowds who didn't know any better. A shame really, for his players had given their all that night; but, the fact that Lord Kirkland was not there made his blood boil.
Once a final curt bow was made, he swept offstage and headed somewhere backstage so he could be alone, avoiding the giddy actors, who were now removing wigs, dresses, breeches, and an ass's head, chatting about the finer points of the performance.
"You did tremendously well as Titania, John. I daresay you look better in woman's dress than you do in men's!" A laughing adolescent joked, patting the smaller boy's shoulder and winking at him.
"I wouldn't say that…ol' Kevin here looked ravishing as Hermia—he pulled off the voluptuous figure juuuust right."
Amidst the friendly sport Shakespeare retreated to his sanctuary and threw himself into a chair, brooding about the absence of Lord Kirkland. He shouldn't be feeling this broken when an audience member left the theatre—hell, when he had been first starting out the critics had left the theatre in droves. Every step of the way he had been dogged, flogged, and mobbed and was an old hat to the competition of England's theatre scene. He even did it himself from time to time.
So why did this young lord transform him into a jealous lad? Shakespeare was utterly baffled. He thought he heard the jingle of small bells as well, accompanied by the softest whisper.
"Mr. Shakespeare?" The voice jolted him out of his thoughts and he twisted his head around to see who had called. Met with a smiling countenance of golden hair, emerald eyes, lily skin, and pearly teeth, the poet was rendered speechless. For if it was possible that Lord Kirkland looked like a fantasy from far away, up close he reminded Shakespeare of Ganymede, who was seduced by Zeus himself… "Ah, there you are, how fortunate; I thought I would find you here."
"Naturally, Lord Kirkland," Shakespeare replied smoothly, rising from his chair and bowing respectfully. He tugged on his earring, "Did Her Majesty have a message for me? If it's about another private performance, there's a time next week when we can—"
A light chuckle stopped him at once. "Not this time. As a matter of fact, I wanted to personally congratulate you on this rendition of A Midsummer Night's Dream."
Beaming, Shakespeare replied, "It was an honour as always Lord Kirkland. Quite frankly I believe it's one of my more memorable works."
"It was a privilege to watch it all the same. You have constructed some of the best literature I have read and seen, and trust me—" the mysterious grin darkened his features "—I have read a substantial amount."
If he was asked at that moment how he felt, he would have responded that he felt like one of the many young lovers in his plays, traitorous feelings of his heart. It wasn't right, not one bit. He shouldn't have feelings that were this strong for another man, despite the fact that sodomy was typically tolerated in England if kept private.
Wait, those thoughts weren't right! He had Anne, the delight of his life, and his children, his daily joy. Arthur Kirkland, thou art more dangerous than a siren.
Lord Kirkland continued with his compliments, "You also depicted a realistic look into the everyday life of the Fae," a proud grin spread across his face, "but of course, leave it to an Englishman to have the proper view of things." Lord Kirkland focused his gaze on his desk and smiled distractedly at nothing.
"I—I'm sorry, did you say Fae?"
"Indeed my good man. You see, the Faerie Court's been having quite some problems lately," Lord Kirkland nodded knowledgeably at the desk, "the Faerie Queen's not that happy with her husband right now—some trouble with a river nymph from what I've heard—but they were both so pleased to hear about your work. They couldn't stop chatting about it all night."
Shakespeare raised an eyebrow, "Lord Kirkland, I believe that you escaped during my play to get a drink." Insecurity mixed with elation in his voice. There was a small part of him that wanted this to be true, and ever since he was a child he would listen to his mother's stories of the little folk. He would dream sweet dreams about the Fae, dancing 'round and 'round in one of their faery rings.
"Mr. Shakespeare, this is no folly." Lord Kirkland's eyes glinted in suppressed mirth as he faced the playwright. "If the Fae weren't real, than how in the name of the Queen did this appear?" With a flick of the wrist, Lord Kirkland brought out an exotic peacock feather quill, glistening with numerous hues. "A sign of their favour, although the Faerie Queen was displeased with how she went back to Oberon so willingly. However, she could not deny your talent."
Shakespeare's hand quivered as he picked up the quill from the outstretched hand. "Why are you telling me all this?" he examined it closely and smiled. "Great works will come out of this quill, but why show favor to me?" He was both confused and delighted with Lord Kirkland's words, and glanced at him from lowered eyelids. The second his eyes met those emerald orbs, he looked away while his heart sped up.
Lord Kirkland coughed. "There is something…different about you. Your way with words, your ambition, your seamless melding of fantasy and reality." Lord Kirkland smiled at a breathless Shakespeare, "I am sure great achievements will come for you."
Had his heart always been beating this loud when Lord Kirkland was with him? After swallowing, he, William Shakespeare, had trouble finding his words. "Well, I thank you for the praise you and the Fae have bestowed upon me."
"Indeed. It is certainly good that you accepted the gift; Marchioness Terra and Marquis Oliver spent a substantial amount for that gift. They even call themselves King and Queen of the Faeries and are renaming their manor Faerie Court in honour of your success." With a hint of a cheeky grin, he pivoted around and made for the door, "And now, I must return to Her Majesty."
A single ring of a distressed bell was stopped by, "Now wait just a bloody minute Lord Kirkland!"
Coolly, Lord Kirkland turned around, surveying the flustered playwright. "Yes, Mr. Shakespeare?"
Shakespeare actually fumbled for words as he surveyed the young lord. "Fae—not real—gift—Terra—you deceived me!" He pointed a finger at Lord Kirkland. "Answer me this Lord Kirkland, are the Fae real or figments of yours and mine imagination!"
"You believe in the Fae?" an eyebrow rose.
"I...I..."
Lord Kirkland laughed to himself, a satisfied laugh that warmed Shakespeare's skin. "How am I one to know if they exist?" He strode out of the room, but paused to look back. "After all, the Fae are nothing but children's tales…any sensible man could see that."
But due to the mysterious grin on Lord Kirkland's face, the one that stayed in his head for the remainder of the hour, Shakespeare was sure that they weren't sensible men.
Parchment lay scattered about Shakespeare's desk that night, the candles waxed low and casting a faint yellow glow about him. Franticly scratching words onto yet another sheet with a plain quill, he bared his teeth in frustration.
"No, no, no, and NO!" With a strangled yell, Shakespeare crushed the paper in his hands and violently threw it against the wall, watching with satisfaction as it hit the floor. The forlorn quill quickly joined it thereafter.
Tugging on his earring and running a hand through his hair, he laid his elbows on the smoothened wood, casting a baleful gaze at the failed parchments. None of them were satisfactory, every single one of them!
Bells of reassurance came to him once again, and with that music came thoughts of Lord Arthur Kirkland. Images of him raced through his mind again, and he clutched his head. "Out, out, thou beautiful demon! It is not good for me to think of you in this way!" He had Anne, lovely, kind Anne, the mother of his bloody children for God's sake! His feelings for Lord Kirkland were like a love potion—intoxicating and hard to distinguish from reality. Shakespeare should not feel this way, he shouldn't.
So why did his heart feel like it was being torn in two different directions?
Furiously gnashing his teeth, he flung himself back into his chair and commenced brooding. These feelings must have been put on his soul by Venus herself, the mischievous goddess. One thing was certain; he must not tell Anne of this development—he was happily married to a woman he adored, and he had no intention of shattering it. However, did he adore another, a man with emerald eyes and hair the color of gold?
Bloody hell! He clenched his heart, wishing that it was made on with the same caliber as Lady Macbeth's—cold, vulnerable, determined. But the vulnerability, oh, damn the frailty of human hearts!
With the right subtle weaponry, a person could break and mend at the lightest touch, the softest sound. A woman possessed that power; thus, it was no wonder Queen Elizabeth had become a master of dancing circles around potential suitors.
The chime of a bell floated around him, and a whisper eased itself in his soul. "Nature gave her a woman's face and gifted her with a mind of a man."
Wait…
"A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted…" glowing emerald eyes danced before his own, mysterious smile lyrically swaying to and fro.
A spasm inflicted his hands for a faint second, and then he spotted the exotic quill Lord Kirkland had gifted him. Seizing it, his fingers tingled with an energy he never knew, and the energy flowed into the quill and onto the parchment. The feather started racing across the parchment at lightning speed as the words spilled from the fountain, pouring forth the feelings he couldn't say.
He was so busy working he didn't notice the white fairy hovering over his shoulder, laughing a joyful, bell-like tune, delighted that the boy she had watched over his whole life had found the words at last.
~*SONNET 20*~
England sat in his sitting room, deep in thought.
This didn't happen very often; if America wasn't breaking down his door in order to announce the making of The Hobbit (which he had known about already), France would be knocking repeatedly, inquiring as to whether he would care to enjoy the homemade aphrodisiac he had brewed himself.
His eyes drifted to his bookcase, lined with dusky leather and regal hard backed volumes, and stood up, pausing to pet Flying Mint Bunny. Making his way to the bookcase, he let his fingers lovingly glide over the books before selecting one.
It was navy blue, the color of a starry sky, if he chose to give in to his inner romantic, and smelled of wisdom and adventure. The golden lettering, a bit faded with age, spelled out The Complete Collection of Shakespeare.
Returning to the sofa, he plopped down rather unceremoniously and opened the volume reverently, as a piece of history deserves to be handled. A creamy envelope was neatly tucked away inside a pocket that he himself had sewn inside the book. The rivets of the texture dipped to his fingers as he pulled it out. The envelope was flipped as he read the name of the person who it was for in fading black ink—"Lord Arthur Kirkland". He always did this; it was like a routine to him, to check if it was still meant for him.
The parchment was yellowed and frayed, the effect of being folded, read, and refolded numerous times. England felt himself being pulled back in time to the Elizabethan Era; the white ruff about his neck, the tights that he was sure he would be ashamed to wear again, evenings of watching play performances at court.
Memories floated in his mind's eye as he unfolded the parchment, drinking in the words that caressed the parchment like a lover:
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
~W.S.
England laughed to himself as he remembered their conversation all those years ago, "Ah, William…did you ever know that the Fae were with you your entire life?"
Even more important, did you ever know that I have admired you ever since?
XXX
Think about it guys! Since Shakespeare was the rock star playwright of the Elizabethan era and is the most famous writer in the world, don't you think England would've felt a little something for him? Respect in the very least?
-Sodomy was the Elizabethan term for homosexuality. It was typically tolerated if kept private, especially if one was wealthy and had high social status.
-A Midsummer Night's Dream was believed to have been written 1590-1596 so Shakespeare would be around 26-32. Elizabeth died in 1603, so she would have been quite old but alive when the play was written
-There's a series of Shakespeare sonnets that talk about a handsome youth and the speaker who watches from afar
-The Hobbit is being released in theaters towards the end of 2012! Martin Freeman is Bilbo Baggins and Benedict Cumberbatch is Smaug :3