Disclaimer : I don't own the characters of Hetalia, and this fiction is not supposed to portrait any actual country.
Rating : PG-13
Character : fem!France
Notes : Please note that english is not my first language - french is. I hope there's not too much mistakes ?
This is a picture I had in my head, about France (here, as a woman) at the time of the Revolution. I tried my best to portray it.
Taste of Terror
Paris - 1794
Liberty tasted like blood.
Like dirt, powder and blood, it tasted like death in fact, but oh it was still the best. There was nothing like liberty. She was now her own master : la République Française.
Under the white sky of Paris, she felt the cool air of dawn running against her face, her exposed neck and shoulders. Loose hair and clothes covered by dust, her skin reddened by numerous bruises - the days when she was all laces, powdered wigs and velvet dresses were now nothing but memories.
Somewhere near, she heard songs and voices of a crowd.
« Vive la France ! »
Well said, citoyens ! Sing more, cry more !
They were all free, her people and herself. The king was dead and in the same time felt the head of the traitors. Everyday, everytime. It was the cost of freedom. Those who opposed the Révolution, the weaks, the ennemies. Those who weren't the Nation's allies had to met the cold justice of the Guillotine and leave their heads and lifes to the blade. France wasn't one for spilling her people's blood and every life taken was a thorn in her own heart, but this – this sacrifice was necessary.
The monarches's death too was necessary. For the sake of this new-born Republic they had to die, the King and that austrian child that was his queen. They were the ones that starved their own people -her people- to death !
It was necessary. She repeated these words for so long now, in her head or out loud when singing with revolutionnaries ; trying to convince herself. It was the cost of freedom.
She laughed as she looked at the pale sky. Of course everything was right, it was all for the best. She kept laughing, hearing the sharp sound of the Guillotine's blade falling nearly.
Ô Louis. Vous le saviez, n'est-ce pas ? Combien je vous aimais.
When Louis XVI's head fell, France fell with it like the blade had cut her legs too. For a few seconds she stayed face against the ground, couldn't breathe nor move. For a few seconds she felt like dying.
She was, actually ; a part of her died with the monarchy.
The King is dead. Long life the… !
Nobody in the crowd even noticed it.
…
Vous le saviez, n'est-ce pas ?
When Marie Antoinette's head fell, tears fell on France's cheeks though her expression and face didn't change. She didn't try to stop it, as it was a feeling stronger than she was. Strange and sad vision she offered at this time, silent and still through her own tears, in the chaos of Revolution around her.
Yes it was necessary, all of this.
No more kings nor tyrants in France !
Her hands slowly opened like she waited to catch something from the sky, these hands covered by a blood only her could see. This thought made her chuckle some more, her voice bitter. Louder and louder. Her great and painful laugh filled the morning sky and her head, covering the voices and faces still haunting her night and day. Just for a moment, it covered everything.
They had to kill more traitors, more foes, to use them as the cement of the Republic. It would make her feel at ease. Her people was the strongest and Death her best ally.
Her new flag was high in the pale dawn sky.
Blue, like the eyes they ripped of the corpses of the foes.
White, like the skin of these corpses, those who never did work in the sun.
Red, like the blood they spilled – this flag was perfect and so much like her.
The laugh finally died in her troath, and France suddenly felt lonely. Liberty tasted like dirt and blood right, so disgusting and good ; and she needed to feel it again and again now, have this taste in her mouth all day long so she wouldn't feel anything else. Wouldn't think. Wouldn't remember the faces of those who turned their back at her, those who left.
No. There was nothing like liberty.
Nothing.
("Ô Louis. Vous le saviez, n'est-ce pas ? Combien je vous aimais."
- Dear Louis, you knew didn't you ? How much I loved you.)