The Droste Effect


- A/N -

First Hetalia fic here. Yay. Just going to get this out there.

I know the title seems a bit arbitrary, but hopefully it will make a little more sense by the end.

Obviously, there's no way to fit everything I wanted to cover in only twelve chapters (without sacrificing quality in the process). But hopefully this will suffice.

Characters: France, England, Joan of Arc, Italy, America, Canada, and brief mentions of others.

Genres: Angst, Hurt/Comfort. I dunno, something like that.

Rating: T for language and violence (although not especially graphic). Most of this will not apply until later chapters, however.

Disclaimer(s): As I'm not particularly well-versed in European history, there may (and probably will) be inaccuracies. I apologize in advance.

Also, be aware of some slight deviation from canon for plot purposes—namely, how well France and England knew each other in their early days. In any case, they'll get a lot more chances to interact, starting from the next chapter.

Anyway, without further ado, go enjoy this crappy fic. I feel so nervous posting this ._.


1. Antiquity Period


Prologue

Early 500s CE

Things changed.

Names. Lands. Borders. Even his age, although he had looked fourteen for quite a long time now. But the one thing that had been a constant in his life was his mother, however pathetic that sounded. Especially for someone as old as himself.

The truth was, Gaul was almost never around. Her visits were short and far-in-between, especially as she had a tendency to leave the following morning with nothing more than a few waves and a pat on the head. ("Romans," she would say in some kind of explanation while cracking her knuckles.) He knew he should have more to cling to in life than someone he barely saw, but then again, he and his mother were different from the rest.

At least, that was what he assumed. Gaul, for one, hardly seemed to know what to make of him. She had offered suggestions, of course—those islands off the coast, that nice seaside city, and look, what about Aquitania, you could be Aquitania or Belgica...

Excuses.

Just excuses to cover up a painful truth.

He had an inkling of the real answer, but didn't quite dare voice his thoughts out loud. The times, he knew, were changing again. For the first time, the Roman Empire's power was waning, a receding light source in the course of his world. Although clearly, it had already left its mark. Because the old days were gone forever, however much of a fight Vercingetorix had put up. And Gaul as a nation just wasn't what it used to be. Or however much it could be called a nation.

Like everything else, it had evolved.

The world was moving on, and it was leaving his mother behind.

One morning, Gaul left again and never came back. The recollection was blurred, fuzzy at the edges, seemingly as insignificant as any of his other memories—and it made him upset, mostly because he hadn't known he was saying goodbye. She had been dressed in a plain black dress that day. A bag slung over her shoulders, her characteristic cheerful expression on her face. To this day, he still didn't understand where she had gone.

Gaul had pushed open the door, a ray of sunlight spilling onto the floorboards. Paused, turned around, gave one last smile. And for once, she didn't put forward her stock explanation of "Romans".

Instead, she simply said, "Be good."

Whether she realized he would be replacing her soon, he would never know. Then she stepped outside, closing the door behind her, and he never saw her again.


And for the next few hundred years after Gaul left, he learned to operate in her place. Clovis the First had come and went, conquered kingdoms, established a dynasty that fell apart as soon as he died. The land was split again, this time into four pieces, and all the while, their Nation stood by and watched—still hiding behind what his mother had left him.

Francia had no idea why he existed. He had always seen those different squabbling kingdoms and tribes as independent among themselves, even when they occasionally banded together to face some common threat. And he had tried to find other explanations, traveling from land to land as he strove to keep himself out of trouble.

But he felt nothing.

Years went past, turning into decades.

Certain names rose to prominence before fading into obscurity again, a testament to the short grasp that mortals held over the realm. But Francia was still there, still alive behind the shifting scenes, and still, irritatingly, looking sixteen. He didn't believe that anyone realized who he was, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted that to change.

Another century turned. He changed his name once again, this time to France. At this point, he'd managed to convince himself that he would stay like this forever, always lurking in the shadows. That even if there were others in the world just like him, they would be too far away to reach.

And then the day came when he met a young, peculiar boy holding a rabbit.


900s CE

They would have met sooner or later as enemies on the battlefield. But miraculously, their first meeting did not involve swords and arrows and scars that never healed.

France was walking along the northern coast, watching the opposite shoreline listlessly with the wind whipping at his hair. He used to dream of leaving forever, of exploring the world for himself with just the clothes on his back. After all, he'd discovered that he was semi-immortal a long time ago, and almost no one even knew he existed.

Once they find you and realize who are you, her mother had said, they won't let you out of their sight.

But something had stopped him.

Perhaps it was a sense of duty to his nation, although he wanted nothing to do with the politics and infighting and invasions. Perhaps this was the only place where he felt secure, like he at least knew where he was. Or perhaps he was just waiting for something to change.

Whatever the reason was, he'd stayed. And remained there for centuries.

At first glance, that day didn't appear any different from the rest. The sky was slightly overcast, and rain clouds looked as if they were pressing in from the north. But this was nothing unusual, and in any case, France didn't take it upon himself to speculate about the weather.

The first sign that someone was watching him came in the form of tiny footsteps.

France turned around in surprise, eyes wide. In front of him stood a little boy—several heads shorter than him and with messy blond hair swaying in the breeze as he clutched his rabbit protectively. He didn't look like anything special, but there was a certain defensiveness in his glare that France found both endearing and unnerving. Surely an eight-year-old shouldn't wear such an expression?

The boy suddenly asked something in a language France couldn't quite catch.

He frowned. "Excuse me?"

Still glowering pointedly at the other Nation, the boy repeated his question. Nevertheless, France couldn't understand him any better, but it did remind him of some Germanic languages. "Are you lost?"

The boy didn't even make an attempt to respond this time. He spun around, muttered something under his breath, and began skulking away.

"Wait..."

France trailed off.

The strange child didn't even look back once.

Shaking his head, he watched him disappear into the distance. Why the boy was here, alone, was anyone's guess. He couldn't have possibly gotten across the channel by himself. But France had better things to worry about.


.

.

.


- A/N -

Reference(s):

[1] Aquitania and Belgica were both Roman provinces in Gaul. Today, what used to be Belgica is now Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands.

[2] Vercingetorix was chieftain of the Arverni tribe (and many of the Gallic tribes in general) who led a revolt against the Romans after Julius Caesar's army conquered much of their land.

Note(s):

[1] I believe the modern name for France had already been adopted by the 10th century, but feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.

[2] England was likely speaking in some variation of Old English—which is to say, before the language became influenced by the Norman Conquests.

(I know the Nations might speak some sort of 'special' language to communicate with each other, but I find this way a bit more interesting to write.)

~ Reviews are appreciated ~