Shattered Mirror, an Axis Powers Hetalia fanfiction

Rating: K+ to T

Characters: Hungary, mentions of Austria, Prussia, and Turkey

Pairing: AusHun

A/N: Hey everyone! Finally managed to type out something, hehe xD Wrote this back in May for a Canadian Literature assignment of all things, as it's based off the poem, "Trick with Mirrors," by Margaret Atwood, which you should really read x3 Enjoy!

Sweep. Dust. Polish. Clean.

Clean the house, clean it well.

Do your job, Eliza, for this is your role.

I sigh as I lean on my broom for a moment, gazing around the music room. The piano is polished and dusted, the floors and windows shine, and all is spotless. The rest of the house is in a similar state of cleanliness. I have done my task well. I have been taught well.

Again, I sigh; if only the splinters and blisters on my palms were from the wielding of a bow or broadsword as opposed to a mop and bucket.

The early evening sun shines in through the window. I watch bits of dust swirl through yellow beams of light and gaze out the window to the grounds of the grand house. At one time, I would be out there instead of inside this beautiful cage of stone and marble, riding home to my camp after a hunt, followed by a sparring match with my soldiers, my comrades.

Once the cleaning supplies are away, I prepare a meagre meal for myself and retire to my chambers; Roderich, the lord of the house, is away, off battling that Prussian idiot, and I have no appetite.

As I untie my apron and kerchief and reach to unbutton my dress, I gaze in the mirror on my wardrobe door and see myself.

Rather, I see myself, a mirror, for that is what I am.

I am a mirror, for I am what people see.

I am a mirror, for I am what people want to see of me, a woman.

I reflect what I was told, by cruel Sadiq, by my lord and ruler Roderich, by a horrified and devastated Gilbert.

I reflect what is expected of me, for I am a woman, and I must be a mirror.

I am a mirror, reflecting, for that is what I must be.

But…

But, what if I was a pool? A pool of water?

I shake my head; such odd thoughts you have, Elizavéta.

But, dear Eliza, a pool is deep; it holds many secrets, mysteries. Even the clearest of pools hold much more then what lies on the surface.

I look at my hands, their smooth, soft skin marred by the redness and blisters of an honest woman's work. My hands are mirrors.

Wait, Eliza, look deeper, like you would a pool; your hands are pools.

Scars and burns cover my hands, and old callouses peek from my palms, all wrought from blade, torch, and arrow. These are the scars of a warrior; the scars of a man.

And a man I was; a warrior, a soldier, a leader, and protector of my people. That is what a man is to be.

Yet, I was not. I am not. I was simply what let me have the privledge of fighting; everyone knows a simply woman cannot fight, silly Elizavéta.

I sit on my bed, lost in thought, my dress slowly slipping off my left shoulder. I look at the pools that are my hands, the pools hiding the warrior who wished to be a boy, to be a man.

And oh, to have been a boy; to have been a boy and remained so, in my head. A boy can fight; a man can be a warrior. A boy can be free, free to hunt, to fight, to die alongside his comrades; a girl must be caged, a woman locked up.

As a boy, I fought, and was free. But, in the end, I am not a man; I was and am a woman, and that must be reflected.

Roderich, oh Roderich, you have taught me well, I think as I lay back across my bed. I came to Roderich, lost and not knowing my place in the world, wanting to know what I must be. He taught me what he knew a woman to be, poor man, but he taught me well. He taught me to throw down my sword and pick up a broom, to cast off boots and breeches for dresses and aprons. It is what he knew, and it is what I learned.

He taught me what it meant to be a mirror.

Oh, Roderich…

But...

But, dear Elizavéta, mirrors can shatter.

This tiny thought hits me like a skillet to the face. I sit up.

You have a warrior's hands, and a woman you are. I look at my hands again. A warrior you were, but a warrior you still are.

Shattered mirrors are bad luck. Of course, I was never really superstitious.

Shatter. Eliza; shatter and let the light show the world the depths that you hide.

My gaze darts to my nightstand. A letter sits, a letter from Roderich. He is no warrior, and yet his gentle, musical hands are forced to lead floundering Austrian troops in the face of that Prussian idiot and his devilish army. And oh, how well-acquainted I am with Gilbert's prowess in battle; some of these scars that litter my body are gifts from his blade.

Roderich, my lord, my naïve teacher, my love… He struggles to face the fire of Prussia, abandoned by his allies. Hope is fading. He is no warrior.

But you are, Eliza. You are a pool, and you are deep; you hold so much more than what you appear to, for you are a woman who fights.

I stand, rushing to my wardrobe, dropping my dress from my body. I open the doors. There, there they are, still waiting for me.

I leave my room, striding down the marble hall in the dimness of the twilight through the windows. Adorned in a shirt of Roderich's, breeches and boots, and a billowing cloak, I carry my old sword at my belt, though it will surely need sharpened. A wide hat rides low on my head, nestled on my tied-back long locks.

I am a pool.

I am a warrior.

I am a woman.

I will shatter my mirror for Roderich's sake; no, for myself. Then, the world will realize my depths, my complexity, my long-hidden spirit.

I am a woman and warrior both.

A servant of Roderich and of the Austrian Empire I may be, but now, I serve as a knight, a knight for my lord in need.

I race to the stables, and then away on horseback. To battle I ride, to face Gilbert, that dear Prussian idiot, with clashing blades and wicked grins once more, as I have many times before.

As I race through the night, I am new once more.

I am a pool, for I am more than what lies on my surface. I am a woman, but I am a soldier one more, a soldier for my lovely Roderich.

I am Elizavéta Hédeváry, Kingdom of Hungary, born of a proud warrior history.

I am a woman.

By my mirror is shattered.

End

A/N: Yeah, it was a little weird; I think it reads a bit like a slam poem, sort of. To anyone wondering, there is no real historical events this is pointing to, really, except maybe the War of the Austrian Succession; I had no real research or facts available to me, besides what I remembered from the World Series episode, sadly, so no flames for inaccuracy, please ;w; Feel free to review, though; I like feedback! Ciao for now, everyone ^^