So, let's start this author's note off by saying that I don't own Hetalia. However, the narrator of this story, Adrien-Luc Dante Luciani, more commonly known as Adrien or Corsica, is my OC. He has blonde hair and heterochromia; one eye is blue, and the other one green.

Brief history of Corsica for you: The island spent most of its history under the rule of Genoa, a kingdom in northern Italy. 1729 saw the start of a 26 year war for independence was fought, resulting in the Corsican Republic being formed in 1755. In 1769, the French took over Corsica, and it was incorporated as a province in 1770. That's when this story takes place.

Also, readers should know that I've been to Versailles twice, so I do know what I'm taking about in my descriptions. The palace of Versailles is actually not in Paris itself, it's in another town close by Paris. In that time, I'm taking an educated guess to say that Paris wasn't as developed as it is today, resulting in some empty land between the two places. Corsicans during that time period had a very clear accent, and Napoleon Bonaparte, who was born in Corsica in 1769, was teased about it when he attended military school on the mainland. Of course courtiers can be as cruel as children at times, so I'm sure they would've jumped on Adrien's accent too. Finally, the flag of independent Corsica has a design called 'The Moor's Head' on it, which is the flag that Adrien finds on his bed. I'll shut up now, and give you translations of the French in this story, and then you can ready the actual story yourself.

Translations:
"Est-ce que tu voudrais faire une promenade avec moi?" = "Would you like to take a walk with me?"
"Oui." = "Yes."
"Adrien. Dis moi. Maintenant." = "Adrien. Tell me. Now."
"Je ne veux pas être ici." = "I don't want to be here."
Le Château de Versailles = The Palace of Versailles
"Je ne peut pas aller!" = "I can't go!"
Chéri = darling, dear, dearest
S'il vous plaît = please (formal version)
Mon Petit Chéri = my little darling
Mon Beau = my beauty
"Adrien, nous sommes chez moi." = "Adrien, we are at my home."
Monsieur = Master

It felt horrible to lose the freedom I had grown so fond of. I knew my bosses felt the same way. They had looked uneasy through negotiations, and now they bore a kicked puppy glint in their eyes. I'm sure the look was mirrored in my own mismatched gaze.

I looked around the room, trying to find something else to focus on instead of the quill strokes that spelt the demise of my brief independence. My eyes were drawn to my French counterpart, the beautiful and affectionate François Bonnefoy.

For a fleeting moment, I feared that he had forgotten me. That I was unrecognizable to him now. I had gone from a ten year old to a twenty year old, after all. My lip curled as the roots of a deep attachment began to reform. My dear companion, Feliciano, began to fade from my mind as François became more prominent.

His sapphire gaze lifted to mine and our eyes met. I averted my eyes quickly and felt a furious flush rise when he chuckled in response. So lost was I in how inferior I felt to him now, that I did not notice him approach me. "Adrien." He purred my name against my ear. "Est-ce que tu voudrais faire une promenade avec moi?"

My face burned. Tu. The familiarity of that term. I absolutely loathed the way I felt a thrilling shiver go down my spine when he said it. It was as though we were lovers. I cursed myself for liking that idea and turned my head to look at the floor. The table. My thigh. Anywhere but him at this point. "Adrien?"

I bit my lip. It would be a terrible idea to refuse him. "Oui." The French sounded so odd coming out of my mouth. I was used to Italian, or the language of my island, so closely related to Italian: Corsu. He offered his hand to me, and we slipped into the shadows.

I never realized how much the French court was driven by excess. We passed beneath elaborate murals on the ceilings, strode across expensive Oriental rugs, and were surrounded by carefully crafted furniture.

I hated it. All of it.

Even through my disagreeable mood, I could see that François was a perfect host. He made conversation, telling me where we were, what happened here, how to get to another place from here, and much more. For a few minutes, I was silent, glaring at everything, but soon, his bubbly personality wore me down, and I started talking. Soon, we were having a very in depth conversation about the rooms around us.

Then, I heard the snickers.

At first I tried to ignore it, telling myself that they were just gossiping. They were courtiers; that was part of the job description. Then I heard the word 'accent' being tossed around. I knew they were talking about me. My voice diminished, until I stopped speaking entirely. This time, it was out of insecurity instead of anger.

"Adrien?"

I didn't respond.

He squeezed my hand and pulled me into a hallway. We were alone. "Adrien? They're gone now. Tell me what's wrong."

I shook my head.

"Adrien. Dis moi. Maintenant."

To the Parisians — and courtiers at Versailles, by extension — my Corsican accent was provincial, basic. It was painfully obvious that I was from the country. I could never be accepted here. I wouldn't lose what my island made me to fit in here, at the French court. I looked at France through my eyelashes, thinking that he probably hated my accent too. Worry shone in his gaze, and a small voice in me whispered that perhaps he didn't mind my accent.

"Je ne veux pas être ici." I muttered finally, pushing past him and striding over to where doors opened onto a small balcony.

It wasn't enough. I could still hear the snickers and whispers echoing in my head. I needed to get away, far away, from all this.

It wasn't a far drop, so I swung over the railing and dropped onto the ground. It was raining. I brushed my hair away from my face and started to walk.

"Adrien!" I heard him yell after me. He shouted something else, but it was lost in the wind. My stomach twisted in knots as I ran, and I felt bile rise in my throat. It was done, I realized, I was now completely French territory. It was a cruel lesson for those who ended up as provinces: disobeying your nation had consequences.

I felt hot rage build inside me, directed at the French officials for doing this to me, to my people.

My feet stumbled on the stairs and I fell down the rest. I landed harshly at the bottom in a crumpled heap, pain stabbing me everywhere. My stomach did not make it any better. "Adrien!" He shouted again, his voice closer. Was he chasing me?

I pushed myself back onto my feet and headed towards one of the many hedge gardens. I couldn't stand looking at that. . . place. I had a sick feeling that Le Château de Versailles would become my own personal hell. I would fight François before he ever brought me back here again. At least, I hoped I could fight him.

I got lost within the tall hedges, ending up standing in a long passage that seemed to lead to nowhere. I sat on the ground, trying to calm down. It wasn't working very well. I don't know how long I sat there. I was already soaked; sitting in the rain did me no harm any longer.

"Adrien!" I heard relief in his voice. His arms wrapped around me, and just like that my stomach knots undid themselves. He wasn't mad at me; I wasn't in trouble. I guess he just wanted to hold me. "We must go back."

"Je ne peut pas aller!" I responded, sounding borderline hysterical. "Please, don't make me go back!"

His grip on me tightened. "Don't you want to go back? To see your people again?"

My heart stopped. I had left all of my officials during the negotiations. Surely they would be returning to Ajaccio soon and I would be left alone. I found myself leaning against François, staring at the hedge a few feet away from me. "I'll go back with you, but I w-w—" I couldn't force the word 'won't' through my lips. I guess provinces don't get to make decisions that easily. "But I don't want to live here." I finally whispered, brokenly.

François helped me to my feet, gently taking my hand. "Here is what we will do. We will return to the palace, but you won't have to speak at all. We'll go to my rooms and change into some dry clothes, and then you can have dinner with your officials. Just you and them." My heart soared and I found myself walking closer to the beautiful man that now ruled me. "After dinner, we will go to my mansion in Paris, and you can rest there."

He took me through the least trafficked hallways in the palace, taking my hand gently when we passed through areas with other courtiers. He opened a beautiful white door with gold designs around the edges, elegantly motioning for me to enter first. His apartment was just as elaborate as everything else in Versailles. A servant girl, who was just about my age, appeared with towels.

She lowered her gaze after François and I took the towels, murmuring, "I will go set out clothes for you." A quick curtsy, and then she retreated deeper into the suite. After a few minutes, we followed, and I caught the hem of her skirt whipping out of sight. Desperate to get out of my wet clothes, I immediately started changing.

It took me a few moments to feel the prickle on the back of my neck. I glanced over at François, who was roving his eyes over me with a lustful gaze. I was no stranger to sex or the look that I was being given, but I felt my cheeks light on fire and blood rush down to my groin.

I groaned and turned away from the Frenchman, changing quickly and willing my growing erection to go away. France took his time changing, surely reveling in my constant glances as I waited impatiently.

Finally, he brushed his wavy hair and tied it back with a red ribbon. I leapt to my feet and he chuckled, "Impatient, chéri?"

"S'il vous plaît, François, take me to my officials." I whispered. The French words no longer felt wrong to me, and I was desperate to return to my people, the officials that had come to the foreign mainland with me, so I could speak my beloved Corsu.

"Ah, ah, ah, mon petit chéri!" He wiggled his finger at me, and I felt my blood rise again, anticipating a short lecture on patience. "You will address with me with 'tu' and all of its forms, chéri."

I let out a pathetic whine of displeasure, wanting to leave. I felt his calloused palm press against my cheek, and I unconsciously nuzzled it, even more distraught when I realized that I had nothing against being touched by him. "Come with me, mon beau. I will take you to them." The hand tightened around my jaw, and my eyes closed as he came closer. I felt his lips press against mine in a kiss — chaste, quick, nothing compared to what every nation knew he could do. He pulled back just a fraction, to whisper, "My beautiful Corsica," against my lips.

He led me away again, through the elaborate halls of this former royal hunting lodge. They were all the same to me. Elaborate. Gaudy. It was quickly giving me a headache. We stopped in front of another door, and he opened it for me, once again making that elegant gesture.

My head snapped around when I heard the door close behind me, and I was shocked to see that he wasn't standing behind me.

"Adrien!"

My head turned again, to the delegation of my people. They were, all at once, my fathers, my brothers, and my sons. They were everything to me. My people.

Immediately, I heard one of them rambling in Corsu. I nearly cried to hear my beloved language again. Dinner was intimate, with all of us sitting closely around the same table, speaking Corsu, trying to avoid the inevitable topic of departure.

If I closed my eyes and hid all of the French finery from my view, it was almost like being on my island again.

.~:*:~.

"Did you enjoy your dinner?"

I did not respond at first, too busy making faces at Versailles as the carriage pulled away.

"Adrien."

I finally turned my head, staring at France with my mismatched gaze. I could've sworn that I heard his breath hitch, and my lips curled in a grin, proud of myself for getting such a result out of the greatest lover among the nations. "I beg your pardon?"

"Did you enjoy dinner?"

My heart clenched and I whispered, "I did. Thank you for doing that."

He beamed and preened, ruffling his blonde hair attractively, clearly proud of himself for knowing how to help me. I looked out the window and found myself sinking into my thoughts. My ambassadors weren't leaving until early tomorrow morning; they were still at Versailles.

There was a possibility that I would never see them again. I couldn't help but pray that François would be kinder than that. But even then, it would be months, perhaps even years, before I was able to return to my island.

It was then when my eyes began to tear up, but I would let no tears fall. I would be strong in the face of my new nation, who was dozing across the carriage from me. I could see why; it was well past midnight as we traveled into Paris. He had done me a great kindness by taking me away from Versailles, for it meant that we would be traveling the roads in the dead of night, which could be dangerous, and that the carriage driver was tired, possibly impairing his control of the horses.

I was too. I started to feel the exhaustion soaking into my body. Each time I blinked, my eyes were closed for a fraction of a second longer. Eventually, my eyes closed, and they didn't open again.

I was woken by a gentle hand on my arm, and a soft voice murmuring, quite close to my ear, "Adrien, nous sommes chez moi. Come, I will show you your room."

We left the carriage, and were met with a lamp by a tired looking maid, who would probably have to be up in a few short hours.

A great kindness.

François seemed to realize this too, for he said, "You will have a day off tomorrow, Manon. You may take another day off this week; tomorrow will not count against you."

She curtsied with a soft, "Merci, Monsieur Bonnefoy. I have turned down the bed sheets for you, as you like, and I have prepared Monsieur Luciani's room for him, exactly the way you wanted." I blinked. How would she know my name?

"I thought I asked that the younger ones be put to bed?" François inquired softly, looking up the stairs. I saw several children standing at the top, ranging from about seven years old to about fifteen years old. A few of the older looking ones were holding candles, casting shadows over their young faces.

A clock chimed somewhere in the house, hailing that it was one in the morning.

"They were all put to bed by nine this evening, as you instructed, Monsieur Bonnefoy." She responded, anxiety crossing her features. "They must've just woken up again. I will go put them to bed."

François took my hand, leading me up the stairs with Manon. Once at the top, he took her candle, and she took one from one of the children. I realized that they were other French properties. I could barely see them, so I was unable to see if they looked healthy. Looking at them would give me a gauge of what I would look like in the future.

"I'll show you to your bedroom, Adrien." He murmured, still holding my hand as he led me through the hall. "Tomorrow, I will give you the grand tour, so you don't get lost." He set the candle down on a nightstand in my room, and I saw something white and black spread across the pillows.

I seized the candle from its resting place and held it close to the cloth, careful not to let the flames touch it. Through the feeble light, I could make out a black head with a white headband.

I was staring at my flag. Spread over my pillows with the utmost care. I set the candle down, in shock of how kindly I was being treated.

"When you are ready, I will have someone hang it above your bed, Adrien." I heard François say quietly from behind me.

I could only choke back a sob and clench the pristine material in my hands, bunching it up and pressing it against my heart. I curled up on the bed, gripping the cloth tightly enough to turn my knuckles ghost white as I started sobbing. I felt the mattress dip and stopped my sobbing for a moment, just remembering that I was not alone.

François kissed my forehead, whispering, "If you wish for company, my room is at the end of the hallway — the double doors. I will see you tomorrow, Adrien." A few tears slid down my cheeks at the paternal kiss. He took the candle with him when he left, leaving me in darkness.

It did not matter, for I could still feel the cool material of my flag in my arms. I sobbed louder than before, finally letting every tear that I held back during the course of the day out. My shoulders shook as I stained my flag with the brine. I barely noticed the feeble light at the bottom crack of my door, unable to recognize that my nation was standing there, listening to me sob.

I cried myself to sleep, still in the clothes that I was loaned earlier. Even in my sleep, I didn't relinquish my vice grip on my flag. It was the only relic left of my freedom, my island, and my people.

I would need it in this foreign place I was now supposed to call 'home'.