Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia and never will.

Monday, November 23, 2015: I saw a recently-posted request in the hetalia kink meme that caught my eye and decided to write it.

Hetalia Kink Meme Part 27 Pg 30: "[Any, killing boss' lovers] The nation doesn't have to be in love with their boss, just thinking that the lover is getting in the way of their ability to lead - I like the idea of a young nation seeing the boss as a parent, in particular. Arranging for their death rather than striking the killing blow might work better. I recently developed the headcanon that, while nations can kill their own citizens, they will suffer the same wounds, or at least the pain of same, so if that's worked in I'll adore you."

I veered a bit from the prompt but provided this minifill there.

"No, Digory. Men like me, who possess hidden wisdom, are freed from common rules just as we are cut off from common pleasures. Ours, my boy, is a high and lonely destiny."

- C. S. Lewis, "The Magician's Nephew"

Fealty

They swear him in as President after a mockery of an election. Everyone in the world knows this man will stay in office until his dying breath or until some heir of his becomes old enough – groomed enough – to take his place. But that's a triviality to her. She has a country to run, and she doesn't care much who takes the ceremonial throne.

She represses an unladylike snort as a thought crosses her mind in the middle of a National Assembly meeting. Japan once had a style of government where the supreme emperor held only ceremonial powers, compared to the shogun with the real authority. She always presides over the National Assembly, and the human representatives who know her real identity see her as a sort of figurehead. Hah. They think her their empress, sitting there in an elegant if not dated dress, examining the proceedings with eyes broadcasting the boredom she feels over watching this scene play out tirelessly over many generations.

Little do they know how absolutely pointless their caricature is.

The discussion pauses as the main doors open, and in walks the much-esteemed President now… with his son and his wife. A polite smattering of greetings and deference piddles around the room while the leader of her country makes his way up to the podium next to her, to sit next to the Republic, to flaunt his authority over these humans, to groom his son for the task of leading once he is gone. But his eyes linger on his wife – admittedly beautiful, and charming, and intelligent enough. It's easy to see that while he loves his country, that human woman holds his heart in her hand.

Other Nations who knew this one might assume, with good reason, that the reason her eyes narrow at his devotion is jealousy. But nothing could be further from the truth. This man, this President, he has a country to run, and his woman will only impede him.

Something needs to be done.

She does not want to hurt her own citizens. Every pain and frustration of her people belongs to her, too, though it exists more as a background hum in the life of a Nation. Generously, her first step of action is inaction. She waits, she watches, she plans each step of the deconstruction should it become necessary.

Phase One. Whispers follow the inaction. Alone in the private offices of the President, with no audience and no bugged furniture or persons, she tells him, point-blank, his responsibility as President: love your country first and your family second. Slacking off in office will not be tolerated. It is unseemly to spend so much time out with his wife, leaving affairs of state to others. He seems chagrined and reticent, and she tries to pretend it's not just an act, that he isn't just a child in Presidential clothing, that he won't revert to his old ways the second Teacher takes her eyes off him. So she heads off his wife, and mincing no words explains what she told her dear President: that country comes first. The woman seems abashed, then understanding, and then – did she have the gall? – pitying.

It takes all of a month for her lectures on "country first" to slide off them like water. They are young, they are human, they are in love, and so what if this man is President? It just means that, for their short tenure on Earth, they can really believe that they live on top of the world.

She doesn't like cocky, disobedient Presidents, but she does like Jenga.

Phase Two begins with encrypted conversations and transactions, on the dark web, between masked people, relaying instructions into a nightmarish paper trail of confusion, on computers built and prepared privately which will be destroyed after one use each. Money leaks from a bank and vanishes from the strictly-monitored web as it changes into physical currency, shipped beyond her borders in innocuous suitcases and numerous envelopes, to the right people who will get it to her business partners discreetly and do what she requests.

Phase Two ends with a spectacular Presidential motorcade finale of gunshots, screams, grief, and dead Presidential wives.

Black drapes her country's buildings in an omnipresent funeral shroud. The populace mourns, wails, cries for revenge against the monsters who would commit such a heinous crime. In broad daylight! In front of her child! During such a happy celebration!

She cries with them because it fills her with deepest remorse that her Presidents lack common sense.

Phase Three takes place on a tense afternoon four months after the shooting. National grief has long subsided, although the President still mourns, and it shows in his step and his mannerisms. He stands in his ornate office, staring out a wide and opulent window down at the gardens and the bustle of the capital beyond. The sun shines while his heart rains. Enough is enough.

She enters quietly and announces herself, and her President turns to greet her. His eyes light up with fondness, and pride, and love for his country, but nothing like the love that burned for his wife. Nothing like the kind of steadfast, unbreakable loyalty she needs.

"Get over it," she snaps without preamble, and her boss flinches back, confused. "Excuse me?"

"Your wife. Her death. Get over it." Loss crosses his face now, and then fury. But before he can launch into a righteous tirade that would make Shakespeare envious, she raises her hand. "I understand human grief. Humans need time to heal from tragedy. You have had time. Now get back to work."

"How dare you speak to me like that?! I am your leader! Your leader!" He snarls.

She snorts. "Yes. The last dictator of Europe. And what a pathetic dictator you are." Without missing a beat, she paces, she circles her prey, looking every bit the ancient nation the world knows her for. Her dark blue eyes momentarily gleam with something her leader cannot place – violence, intent to hurt, ambition, jealousy?, anger. Her platinum blond hair fans out behind her as she walks, her navy skirts parting in graceful waves, her dainty gloved hands reaching for a set of sinister knives the President knew she always had on her person, and she looks utterly bored.

"I have better things to do today than lecture you," she says, and every syllable of her tone dripped with that very message, "so stay silent and do not waste my time.

"All you human bosses think it some sort of right to rule over us, to hold power over us Nations, the entities that withstand mortality and represent the people, their hopes, their dreams. You craft these governments for yourselves, you elect leaders, and then you make all the important decisions with the blessing of your obedient Nation. Damn that pestilence France and England for their inane blabber about the 'rights of man'! Long before anyone thought you up," a knife whizzes until the acute point rests directly between his eyes, "We Nations ruled ourselves. Humans commanded at our discretion. We led as kings. We have no need of humans to lord over us."

The President finds his voice then. "No human wants to live under the thumb of a person who will never die!"

"Yet you pray to an eternal deity," she smoothly returns. "Look at you, spouting progressive ideas about the rights of man, when not even five hundred years ago absolute monarchy literally reigned supreme. Back then, we Nations grew up fast or fell under the boots of another. We came, we saw, we conquered. And we did not let the weaknesses of our people weigh us down. Weaknesses like love." she spits.

"Love is the pinnacle of all human emotion-"

"Love," she interrupts, "is the epitome of all human emotion. When you raised your hand and you swore your solemn oaths, boy, you declared, in front of your citizens, that you would protect and serve your country to the end of your days. Not your family. Not your lover. Your country. Do you know what that means? You essentially took a vow of chastity - a vow to never engage in the emotions of human hearts, in the weaknesses of human flesh – never to collapse from your wounds when you want to die, never to falter when you want to run, never to compromise when you only want to accept the unacceptable and face total destruction.

"You swore lifelong fealty to me. You claimed that I would always be your first priority, the holder of your strongest loyalty. That woman – she tempted you, made you break your vows never to engage in the carnal delights of being human, pulled you into weakness and away from your duty. We Nations entrusted our leadership to you, child, and how bitterly most of you disappoint us.

"Do you know why we Nations have human leaders, Mr. President? It's so a human can see, for his or her tragic little lifespan, what a Nation feels like for eons on end. Raising up an unruly citizenry, defending them from outside harm and inside dissidents, giving them a morally strong upbringing, ensuring their safety and happiness and future, watching over them like a parent, a king, perhaps even a god. This is our divine purpose as Nations, Mr. President, and you, as my leader, get to share in my responsibility for your short stint on Earth."

She removes the knife when the President's skin turns pale beneath her stare, as the weight of his chains finally sinks in and his duty stares him in the face at long last. Her blade returns to the sheath; she is once again demure and refined Belarus. Her work here is done, she has other duties to attend to today, she turns to leave.

"You may groom your son, Lukashenko." She says this because both of them know that for now, she truly is allowing her boss to do so. "I do not care what the other countries say about being the last dictatorship of Europe. As long as we have food, everything will be fine. As long as there is order, we have a future. But mark my words," she says as her hand closes over the doorway. "You may groom him but not love him more than you love your country. We all know what purpose he was born into…"

Her hand clenches over the handle, and she wrenches it to the side.

"And I can groom him just as well as you."

End

So yeah, dark ending is dark but I hope you like it.

Also, moral ambiguity is morally ambiguous. The quote by Digory's uncle suggests that certain men are above the law, and Belarus in this story favors absolute monarchy and rule by divine right, as in the days of the Царя (tsarya - Tsars - kings). She also compares the Nations to minor deities and overall presents Nations as loving their citizens until they step out of line or displease them. Belarus is considered the last dictatorship in Europe because one man has ruled since 1994 (Lukashenko) and eliminated the constitutional limit of two five-year terms for President.

The Lukashenko Belarus mentions in this story is supposed to be the current President's son after he himself grows up, because while I was interested enough in this oneshot to research the Belarusian government, I was not interested enough in the President to research his family. All I know is, the son of the current president has been given gifts such as a literal golden gun. Charming, amirite?

Also, checking out YT channel Geography Now for info on Belarus had me updating my headcanon of her to someone who wants to be close to Russia, but not one with him.