"For we all desire the same thing. We desire before all to lift from the shoulders of humanity the frightful weight which is pressing on them, so that humanity, released from this weight, may at last return joyfully to work."
- Woodrow Wilson's Opening Address at the Paris Peace Conference, 18 January, 1919
28 June 1919
The Palace of Versailles
He wonders if perhaps there is a sort of poetic justice in it all.
Francis remembers this room, golden strands of left behind summers floating through the air, weaving themselves into his peripheral vision. Things that do not belong in this day and age, the ladies with their silken skirts and gentlemen with their fine powdered wigs dance in the spaces he cannot see, disappearing every time he turns his head.
Nations, he muses silently, only half-listening to the proceedings before him, must be careful when discerning the past from the present. It is too easy to get caught up in the feelings and sentiments of a world long gone. Too tempting, too indulgent, all too dangerous.
(Somewhere in the corner vestiges of this room, Marie-Antoinette gives him a red wine-stained smile that he cannot return.)
So he reluctantly drags his attention back to the table before him. Glances over at Britain, his posture ramrod straight in his high-backed chair as only someone with centuries of aristocracy and nobility could be. Perhaps France looks the same; it would not surprise him, despite having given up such frivolities long ago. They are the righteous princes, they are the God of Moses, angry and unforgiving with the power to annihilate, take and destroy everything until there is nothing left.
France wants to. Oh, how he wants to. He can feel the hatred bubbling up under his skin, coloring his world (this world, this world that someone soaked in kerosene and lit aflame, with castles built of bone and skin surrounded by blood-filled trenches instead of moats), he has not felt this since, since…
Francis remembers this room. He stood at the windows, watched the rain trickle down the glass, as scores of women stood in the courtyard. Of course someone had to die. He remembers their bloodlust, their screaming for bread, for liberty, for justice...
(He watches her hair drift to the floor, the barely perceptible snip of a life falling away. She laughs at him, tilts her head, bares her pretty little white neck.)
And America clears his throat ("the savior," he remembers Clemenceau mocking, this young nation who thinks himself so grand, Wilson and his Fourteen fucking Points), America stands up and speaks, his French horribly accented, but much better than that throaty garbled language Britain calls his own.
"Since we've finished covering the penalties outlined in Articles 227 through 230, does anyone have any questions?"
He is met only with silence.
Francis can hear the humans speaking in the Hall of Mirrors, the murmurs of the crowd gathered within and the flashbulbs of the camera, but it is faintly muted as if far away. The five of them sit in the War Salon instead, hidden away from the public eye. It is more waiting than anything, though Nations know the stirring of sentiments in their blood, know which way the wind blows. They could not influence it if they tried.
"All right. Onto the next article. 'The Allied and Associated Governments affirm and Germany accepts the responsibility of Germany and his allies for causing all the loss and damage to which the Allied and Associated Governments and their nationals have been subjected as a consequence of the war imposed upon them by the aggression of Germany and his allies…'"
France rejoices. France remembers 1871. He hated Bismarck with every fiber of his being.
(Francis makes eye contact with Gilbert from across the table. He looks away. He can still feel the German's stare burning into his skin long after Alfred has finished talking.)
"Are there any objections?"
"Perhaps we should get to the point," Britain interrupts sharply, drawing his eyebrows together in a frown and crossing his arms over his chest. "The Italian delegation has long since run off, and there is nothing else of note to discuss. I move that we end this discussion and proceed to the signing -"
"Yeah, I've got an objection."
...oh.
Francis snaps his attention back to the table in front of him, mentally scolding himself for letting his mind wander. There are no ghosts here. Just piles of paper stacked neatly, waiting to be signed, like the one Alfred holds so stiffly in his hands right now. There is silence and the taste of their own stale breaths, waiting, waiting. Arthur's face deepens into a scowl. This was not in the plan.
Most interestingly of all, though, are the two men sitting directly across from them, hands clenched into fists under the table.
(No. Not two men. One boy, not even a century old yet, who sits and lives and breathes with the textbook art of a soldier. Whose eyes are young, were so young, so terrified at Austerlitz and so terrified now, waiting for the judgement and destruction France so desperately wants to give him and oh Allemagne why did you have to be born...)
But it is not Germany who speaks, and Prussia has never been one to mince words.
"This is bullshit."
(Not two men. One boy and one idea, not even really a nation. Who led armies of brave men and waved black and white banners and shouted songs from hilltops, who stood on the edge of the world and laughed.
Were you ever really a man at all, Gilbert?)
Francis doesn't even realize he's speaking until he hears the brittle tone of his own voice.
"Eloquent as always, I see, Prusse," He tilts his head, forces a polite and perhaps slightly mocking smile. "But I'm afraid you shall have to elaborate a bit more on what you find so disagreeable with this treaty."
"I protest," Arthur cuts in before Gilbert can open his mouth again. The line of his jaw is clenched firmly in a way that Francis knows only too well. "The terms are non-negotiable. As the surrendered party, Germany was to have no input whatsoever. The fact that they are even in here at all, listening to us go over it, is ridiculous!"
He is not Arthur. Not right now. Not the cool, calculated gentleman, but the furious Nation, the Empire he is supposed to be. Centuries have allowed Francis the luxury of learning to tell the difference. He sees it in the anger that lurks just beneath the Englishman's emerald eyes, the way he spits out every word directed towards the German brothers. He is Britain and he is thinking of 700,000 graves, of every grieving widow and child that goes with each one. He is seeing not the beauty of Versailles but the horror of Gallipoli and he breathes not air but mustard gas, and Britain is furious, still so furious and he is terrifying and he wants, he wants...
(He wants what France wants, exactly the same thing. And Francis knows this because he is still right beside him in the trenches, and he feels slightly sick.)
"To the victor go the spoils," he murmurs, turning his gaze to rest on the young man still standing at the head of the table, quiet for once in the presence of such animosity. "A phrase coined by one of your senators, was it not,Amérique?"
America seems slightly startled at being addressed so suddenly, but he quickly squares his shoulder and lifts his head to meet the eyes of the other powers. "My boss argued for leniency," he says in a voice that carries and does not quiver. "Technically it was upon those terms that the Germans surrendered-"
"It does not matter what terms your boss discussed!" Britain snaps, smacking his palm against the table, right on top of one of the stacks of paper. "What matters is what is being discussed, here and now, and it is generally agreed that Germany must be punished for his actions, to prevent anything like this from ever happening again."
"Yeah, but is this all really necessary? Don't you think a League of Nations will be sufficient enough in preventing-"
"No. I don't think it shall."
There is a short silence after this. Arthur is still glaring daggers, shifting his gaze back from Alfred to the two brothers on the other side of the table. It may be Francis's imagination, but Ludwig seems to flinch when the Briton turns his angry stare towards him. So calm and collected on the battlefield, he remembers, like he had been firing bullets into warm bodies his entire life, now sitting scared of a few pieces of paper. The irony makes Francis almost choke on the soft laugh that rises up in his throat.
Gilbert is staring up at the ceiling now. The painted panels shine as brightly as they did the day Le Brun created them, France's enemies conquered one by one. Francis remembers 1871, this very same room, Gilbert staring up at the ceiling with that horrible grin and laughing, hey, look at that, what would ya call that, irony? There is Spain's roaring lion and Holland's upside-down lion, and, say, look, there is the might German eagle kneeling in conquest and it was so very funny back then and now Gilbert is not laughing but his eyes flash with something like scorn when he looks back at Francis and Francis wishes that everyone would just take their fucking irony and poetic justice and just choke on it...
"That's what you can do with this," Gilbert says. "Take your goddamn 'treaty' and choke on it."
Arthur nearly rises from his chair, hands clenched into fists, and if looks could kill they would all still be at the Somme. "The mortals have already agreed to this. The war is over, there is no room for negotiations. Germany will sign this, and that is the end of it."
"You would have Germany take on full responsibility for this war that Austria started," - and that name is so very nearly a snarl, spat out like a dirty word and tossed out onto the table - "devastate his economy, leave him with nothing, not even a goddamn army to defend himself with. Just the blame and a mountain of debt to be paid to you, Francis, enlighten me as to how that's fucking lenient!"
Francis swears he can see the gleam of the those words as it they cut through the room like a sword, sharp and ringing in their wake. There is silence for a moment more, a pregnant pause during which Arthur has fully risen from his chair and Alfred's face has taken on an incredible crimson hue. Ludwig is burning a hole in the table with his gaze, his knuckles turning white underneath the table, Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he swallows tightly.
Francis drums his fingers on the table, looking everywhere but his (best?) friend, up at the baroque clock about to chime the hour, towards the door where he knows the delegates are waiting, out the window where crowds have gathered to hear the end of the war to end all wars. He avoids focusing in on the corners of the room where the shadows blur and he cannot distinguish between the past and present, where he swears he can see an Austrian princess dance in the dark places where the people cannot reach.
"Your new goverment, mon cher ami, what was it again?" he finds himself saying, as though the words are already there, written for him even though they cannot possibly express what he really wishes to say. "The new German Empire, non? And under that new regime, you are...what?"
The quiet is nearly deafening. He still cannot look Gilbert in the eyes when the other finally speaks.
"Freistaat Preußen."
"The Free State of Prussia," he repeats, the words tasting slightly sick on his tongue. "You are a state under a republic, and as such really have no business in international affairs such as this. You do not have the authority to speak for Germany any longer. I do not even know why you are in this room."
There is the sound of the chair scraping against the floor, and both Alfred and Arthur unconsciously reach for the nonexistent weapons by their sides, as the Free State of Prussia suddenly stands and slams his fist on the table.
"Say that to my face, you coward! Look at me and say that again, I dare you!"
(And, oh, that anger, so fierce and caustic and constant, whether it's on the fields of war wielding a sword or in a concert hall with fingers dancing across a long-forgotten flute...)
Slowly, deliberately, Francis turns his head to meet his gaze, this idea that is neither Nation nor man. The Prussian's eyes are burning, shining bright. Wet.
And France, he hates and hates and hates.
"Bruder."
The German Nation - child, he's just a child - speaks for the first time, his voice so much deeper than it should probably be, too mature for his age. His eyes betray his soldier's body, the callouses on his hands do not match the softness of a mouth that is unused to smiling. He is not smiling now. He is afraid.
"That's enough." Ludwig breathes in deeply through his nose, clasps his shaking hands together underneath the table. "My mortals have accepted the terms of this treaty, and so shall I."
"Are you crazy, Ludwig, don't you understand what this means - "
"I do. I understand, Gilbert," and his voice cracks just ever so slightly on his brother's name, those blue eyes closing for one moment as if in pain. "America explained it - France will have his reparations, the Rhineland will be demilitarized, I will lose Alsace-Lorraine, and...Silesia and Western Prussia shall be ceded to Poland."
Gilbert flinches ever so slightly, as though those words are blows, like they're bullets. But as soon as the moment occurs, it passes, and he steels himself again for the next barrage, like the good soldier he's supposed to be.
"I appreciate your concern, Bruder, but it's over. Our people need this to be over. We need to move on." Ludwig doesn't say what everyone is thinking, but it's there all the same.
"Finally, someone with some sense," Arthur murmurs, sauntering forward with a fountain pen in his grasp. "From the Jerry, no less...but once again, I move that we end this discussion and proceed to the signing. Does anyone second?"
He expects Francis to second it, of course, but instead Francis lets his mind idle for a moment longer and watches a muscle in Gilbert's jaw twitch, as he clenches his fists and squares his shoulders in that familiar way.
"I..." He catches Ludwig's furtive glance, that slight shake of his head, and it's as though the fight suddenly leaves his body. Suddenly, Francis realizes just how old his friend seems. "I second the motion," he finally says, forcing the words out through his teeth.
"It has been moved and seconded," If America realizes the slight erratum in procedure, he doesn't point it out. "Let's get to it, then."
The next few minutes happen in a blur - Francis watches the ink bleed into the paper, the looping swirls of his name, La Troisième République française; Arthur's gentle cursive, The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland (Dieu, what a mouthful); Alfred's broad scrawl, The United States of America; and then, finally, the pen makes it's way into Ludwig's hands.
"Wait."
A hand on his shoulder, Ludwig does not say a word, but instead gently presses the pen into his brother's grasp. The boy-nation lifts eyes to meet the gaze of anyone who might object as Gilbert adds his own signature to this document of humiliation. No one does.
(This diplomacy might just be worse than the war. This is France's triumph, and Francis's misery.)
The handwriting is remarkably neat and tidy, almost a work of calligraphy with the wrong name: Königreich Preußen. Below that, Ludwig makes short work of his own: Deutsches Reich.
The moment the pen is lifted from the paper in finality, there is the tumultuous sound of applause, the barrage of a gun salute just outside the palace. The cheering of a crowd drifting in through an open window, suddenly Versailles is alive again and Francis watches the shades of the air shimmer as perhaps the tiniest bit of his heart rejoices.
France is celebrating.
And it is Britain who grins now, clasping America's hand in a firm shake, nodding his head in France's direction, saying, "It's finished. The war is over."
The war is over.
(Later, he'll come back the Hall of Mirrors, emptied of all humans and Nations. All that is left are a few scattered pens left by reporters. A discarded slip of paper here and there.
A state that doesn't belong to this world doesn't look at him, instead still staring out the windows at the dark estate, as though waiting for the sun to rise again and fill the room with light.
"You never wanted him to be born," he says. "You think it's some sort of...poetic justice, you're punishing him because you're angry that he even came to be. You're afraid of his power, even now, that's why you're trying so hard to destroy him. You're scared."
Fear. Francis certainly knows what fear looks like. He's tasted fear first-hand.
So instead of denying what his friend says - because they are friends, aren't they, even though their histories might say otherwise, even if there is a part of him that wants to wrap his fingers around Gilbert's pale throat and shake him fiercely for all his cruelty and laughter in ages past -, instead of telling him that's not the case, Francis lets out a breath he has been holding for far too long, and asks in return, "Aren't you?")
The war is over. The crowds roar until their voices are hoarse.
He tries to ignore the distant sound of a blade falling, and the silence that always follows.
"There was a final hush. 'La séance est levée,' rasped Clemenceau. Not a word more or less.
We kept our seats while the Germans were conducted like prisoners from the dock, their eyes still fixed upon some distant point of the horizon."
- Sir Harold Nicolson's observations on the signing of the Treaty of Versailles
.:to be continued:.
Historical/Author's Notes:
- The Treaty of Versailles was signed June 28, 1919, in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, and officially ended World War I. The terms of the Treaty were decided by the "Big Four", which was comprised of America, Britain, France, and Italy (the new Soviet Union was left out of the peace talks due to the fact that they had pulled out of the war during the Bolshevik Revolution). The Central Powers were allowed not allowed to be present at the conferences until the signing, so they had no input whatsoever. Interestingly enough, the treaty was signed exactly five years after the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, whose death had sparked the beginning of the Great War. Pretty neat, huh?
- The best description of these peace conferences I ever found was on where it detailed how "[t]he political wrangling became intense. At one point [Woodrow] Wilson had to step between Lloyd George and [Georges] Clemenceau to prevent a fist fight. At another time Wilson threatened to leave the conference. [Vittorio] Orlando did leave for a time".
- Basically, America (the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES FOR CHRIST'S SAKE) literally had to step between England and France to prevent a fistfight and Italy bailed. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.
- The first 26 articles of the Versailles Treaty outlined the League of Nations (Wilson's idea, kind of a precursor to the United Nations and part of his Fourteen Points proposing peace to the Germans on lenient terms of surrender - many of the other European powers saw Wilson as naive and ignored the points, the French delegate Clemenceau in particular exclaiming something along the lines of, "Fourteen! The good Lord himself only had ten!" or something like that). The rest of the 440 articles outlined the punishments of the Central Powers.
- Article 231 was particularly tricky. Known as the War Guilt Clause, it's commonly known as the article that placed full blame of the war on Germany (due to the unfortunate and later regrettable wording). In actuality, the clause was also included with minor changes in wording in other peace treaties signed by Germany's allies - if the same clause was applied more of less to the other Central Powers, why is it so strongly tied to the idea of German humiliation in the post-WWI negotiations? Article 231 was actually supposed to provide a legal basis for the reparations Germany was to pay to the Allied Powers. It served as kind of almost a "blank check"(haha, irony) for the billions of marks Germany was supposed to pay. In all honesty, the vehemence against the article by the Germans surprised the Allies, who mainly thought of the clause as a definition of German liability, nothing more. They didn't account for the national sentiment of the German people, who viewed it as humiliation in addition with their surrender.
- Along with the War Guilt Clause, Germany was to pay billions of marks in reparations to the Allies (mainly France, as a result of war damages), lost various territories such as the ever-disputed Alsace-Lorraine, Northern Schleswig, and West Prussia, Posen, and Upper Silesia (to Poland, which you can imagine probably would not have made Prussia very happy, considering he was part of the Polish Partition just a few centuries back). Germany's army was reduced to only 100,000 men and not allowed a navy or tanks. The industrial heartland, the Rhineland, was also occupied by Belgian and French forces, further crippling German economy. Finally, Germany was not allowed to unite with Austria. These stipulations would all be obviously ignored in about twenty years or so.
- France held a particular vehemence towards Germany. Hate probably wouldn't be too strong of a word here, actually. It's no coincidence that many of the stipulations of Versailles were parallels of the Treaty of Versailles of 1871 that ended the Franco-Prussian War (relinquishment of Alsace-Lorraine, enormous reparations to the winning power, national humiliation). French and German relations sucked, to be frank, partly due to the ferocity of the German army as it invaded France, as well as centuries of French and Prussian animosity (Napoleon, Bismarck, ect. I love the idea of the BTT, I really do, but its a wonder that Gilbert and Francis aren't actually mortal enemies). Personally, I think the only thing stopping the French delegates from suggesting total destruction of the German state was the rising threat of Communism in the east and the desire for a buffer state if worst came to worst.
- After the abdication of the German Kaiser Wilhelm II, a new German government took the place of the monarchy. Though known by historians by the Weimar Republic, it was in it's time simply known as the German Reich. The thing that's really fascinating about changes in government and Hetalia is that it completely reconfigures how you're supposed to regard the nations. Prior to WWI, Prussia was technically a kingdom under the German Empire, therefore still something equivalent to a nation. Like Scotland under the United Kingdom, sort of. Under the Weimar Republic, though, it became the Free State of Prussia, giving it's power of about the equivalent of New Jersey in America. And I really don't think that America would be taking New Jersey to World Meetings.
- However, with Gilbert being the equivalent of an older brother/mentor to Ludwig, I'd like to think that his position, even as a state, would still be a bit higher than his Nation status gives him. He would still have an enormous (if declining) influence. My personal headcanon is that up to now, he's been acting in sort of an advisory capacity for Ludwig as the young German nation, therefore it wouldn't be quite that far of a stretch to have him present in international affairs. Francis pointing out his status was kind of a dick move, yeah, but it also serves as a signal for the beginning of the end. From here on out, it's not going to be good for Prussia.
- The back and forth between the use of human and Nation names was done on purpose, if done rather badly. It was supposed to show a disparity between the sentiments of a nation and the sentiments of the human, particularly in Francis, who has to deal with his friendship with Gilbert as well as the want and need for revenge as a nation. Please don't judge me too harshly on this, I tried something and it didn't quite work out. Ugh.
- This is an introduction to Part 1 of a series I have planned. The Finder deals primarily with Amelia Blattson and the former Nation of Prussia. While it does rely heavily on an OC, it is not meant to be a romantically-oriented story. I have taken care to try and make it as historically-accurate as possible, as well as make Amelia as realistic a character as possible. This is meant to be a slow-building, thoughtful story that I hope will not come off as too cliche. If anyone has any questions or doubts, please feel free to PM me about them!
- Thank you for reading! If there are any grammatical errors or historical inaccuracies, please please please let me know! History is an intense passion of mine, and I love anything I might learn or discover and sharing that with other people. (thank you to matthewavaughan1998 for catching my mistake about Britain's name).
Mischief Managed!