DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

B.C.E.

BEFORE COMMANDING EMPIRES

ONE

ROME'S HOUSE

The two soldiers—big, steel-clad sentries carrying long pilums—held the boy's slight biceps, marching him like a prisoner into the capital. It was unlike any place he had ever seen before, surrounded by thick walls so high that they touched the sky. It was loud and crowded and bustling with activity; men, women, and children too busy with their business to spare a second glance at the newcomer. There was no doubt on their suntanned faces; they knew exactly who they were and what their patron represented. The boy whipped his head from left-to-right, trying to memorize everything he saw. It was a famous, rich city meant to impress, and it did—even the roads were paved!

"Face forward, boy," said a soldier, jostling him. They pulled him up several flights of steep steps and into a sprawling palace. He stared in awe at the architecture and pristine sculptures adorning the interior as he was paraded into a long, carpeted hall, where they stopped before a dais.

"Welcome to Rome," said the man lounging upon it. He was a sun-browned man with broad shoulders and thick, well-muscled limbs—arms and legs bared by his clothes—and big, callused hands. He had a handsome, sculpted face with deep-set amber eyes. Yet, despite his kingly persona—the arrogant cock of his head and lazy half-smile—he did not embody the terrible, ambitious Empire the boy had expected. In fact, he felt rather relieved by Rome's cavalier nature. "What's your name, child?" Rome asked, dismissing the soldiers. They bowed and left them alone.

"France," he said, looking directly at Rome. He didn't want Rome to think that he was weak, or afraid.

"Son of the Franks and the Gauls," he said knowledgeably. France nodded, then felt a stab of nerves as Rome cocked his index finger, gesturing him forward. "You're such a pretty child," he said, examining France's slight figure; measuring the strength in his youthful limbs, his slender waist; fingering the boy's silky, ash-blonde curls. He held his breath as Rome's callused thumb brushed his high cheekbones, his angular jaw, and full lips; staring intently into his sapphire-blue eyes. Then he smiled, and said: "Do you understand what has become of you, France? Your homeland belongs to me now." Tenderly he cupped the boy's cheek. "But I don't want you to be afraid of me. You'll like living here, I'll take good care of you." In good-faith he clapped his hands: "First let's get you bathed and fed, and"—he rubbed France's coarse tunic between his fingers—"find you something nicer to wear." Grandly he stood, stretched his powerful arms, and then extended his hand. "Come with me, young France."

Cautiously France looked up at him: Rome, the largest, most famous Empire in the world. France was young and naive about Empires, but he wasn't stupid; he knew how much Rome could support and teach him if he stayed. It would be mutually beneficial. Decidedly, he reached out and took Rome's outstretched hand: "Okay."

France, this is Spain and Portugal," said Rome, introducing them. "They're your foster-brothers, both belong to me as well. You've got much in common," he smiled, placing a hand on France and Spain's shoulders. "I'm sure you'll all be the best of friends. Take care of each other," he added, then left.

France surveyed Spain: a handsome, sun-kissed boy with dark hair and emerald-green eyes; he was smiling in a friendly way. Totally clueless, France thought, not unkindly. Then he looked at Portugal: a long-haired, youthful boy with intense, bright green eyes. He looks untrustworthy, France thought, but didn't know why. They in turn were staring expectedly at him. "Bonjour, mes amis," he said politely, extending his hand. Spain clasped it between both of his, shaking energetically; his touch was pleasantly warm.

"Hola, amigo," he grinned. Portugal nodded silently in greeting.

They spent the next few weeks together, getting to know one another as roommates and foster-brothers; they had a lot in common, despite their difference in heritage. It didn't take France long to determine that he really liked Spain—his naivety and giddy, sunshine smile. He was such a vibrant personality, yet he preferred the simple things in life, like farming (he loved tending to Rome's gardens). Portugal usually tagged along, but, somewhat younger than his fellows, he was much less invested in the friendship. He often rolled his eyes as France and Spain carried on, laughing together about an inside-joke. Especially during Rome's lessons, which he taught rather infrequently. Usually the boys were taught by an underling of the Roman Empire because Rome was too busy ("which means he's napping, eating, drinking, or bedding women," France translated, somewhat admiringly. He and Spain had started to think of Rome as a role-model). "He really knows exactly who he is, doesn't he?" France said, and Spain agreed.

One day France and Spain were walking back from afternoon lessons when they spotted a stranger in the gardens. He was an olive-skinned brunette with an absent expression and earthy-green eyes that always looked thoughtful, philosophical. "Bonjour," said France, waving. "Qui êtes-vous?"

The young man looked at France and Spain, and blinked: "Greece," he said. "I brought an olive tree for the garden," he added, gesturing to the healthy, knee-high tree.

"Gracias!" said Spain, happily taking the potted tree.

France glanced between them, then remembered Portugal. Everyone has green eyes and brown hair except for me, he realized, recognizing the physical and cultural similarities between the Mediterranean nations. Curiously he took Spain's hand and studied the difference: I'm so much paler than they are. My fingers are longer and thinner.

"You have an artist's hands, France," Rome said when asked. Kindly he took France's hand and held it in his. "These hands are not meant to toil in the earth, digging and plowing; nor made to fish. They are suited to much more delicate work, to tie grape-vines. I'm going to teach you how to cultivate and make wine," he suggested. "It'll make you very popular, I promise." He winked. He left France under the tutelage of his Master wine-makers in Northern Italy with instructions to teach the boy everything they knew. France observed and learned the basics quite fast—he was a clever child, eloquent in his learning—and, soon enough, he was brewing his own recipes, teaching himself. Rome was rather pleased by the boy's initiative, and delighted by the various wines he produced.

As promised, his talent did not go unnoticed. France's popularity continued to grow. He was already a lively, flamboyant child with a pretty face and a sweet-tempered climate; the fact that he could make exceptionally fine wine was a bonus. France enjoyed the attention, smiling and playing the role forced upon him: Rome's charming accessory. He sat beside his foster-father at banquets and festivals, learning to dance as Spain played a lute; smiling and giggling as people flattered him, took his hands and spun him around. He gushed when Rome introduced them to his two newborn grandsons:

"Mes frères bébés, they're so cute! May I hold one of them, please?" he asked, lifting the closest Italian baby. "Bonjour, mon petit. I'm your big brother," he said, tickling the baby's belly. Italy giggled in delight as France bounced him. "Je adore les bébés," he cooed.

"Oh, me too," said Spain, holding Italy's older brother. The baby sputtered and frowned, pouting adorably. "Hola hermanito— no, no, don't cry!" he rocked the baby, singing softly. Romano blinked big, hazel eyes and cracked a smile. He reached up and yanked Spain's hair, wanting to touch it, then giggled at the look on Spain's surprised face.

Rome collected his grandsons and foster-children into his arms and hugged them, embracing them with the warmth, richness, and protection of the entire Roman Empire. He threw a lavish banquet to show-off his conquests, letting his guests fawn over their beauty and accomplishments. France enjoyed the attention, the flattery; he was a naturally charismatic person and performer. Naively, he felt safe in Rome's house—he had been spoiled for too long. He didn't recognize manipulation and depravity for what it was, as long as everyone wore a smile. Young as he was—a preteen—he didn't comprehend what was happening when Rome cocked his finger for Egypt, whispering into his ear; or when Turkey cornered Greece, speaking lowly and lifting his chin. France and his foster-brothers merely celebrated with everyone else, and Rome indulged them, feeding the boys wine until they were flushed and had to be carried up to bed. The foster-brothers slept together, guarded by Roman sentries. The Romans loved the young boys. They often snuck into the room late at night and woke them, wanting to tease them and play with them; wanting to touch them. It was affectionate, or so France believed.

The Romans loved what France could give them. And what they could take from him.

It's alright France, don't be afraid," said the sentry, who was supposed to be guarding them. He was big and powerful, the pride of his patron's reputation. But Rome wouldn't have condoned such manipulative behaviour; Rome was—if nothing else—straightforward with his intentions. "Son of the Franks and the Gauls," he said, touching France's cheek gently. "You'll submit to we Romans, we'll civilize you; teach you," he leaned closer. Heart pounding, France tried to move away from him, but the sentry grasped him. Four of his fellows stood behind him, holding Spain. "France is such a beautiful, fertile country, perfect for Roman cultivation, don't you agree?" His hand slipped beneath France's robe, and the boy panicked. He fought the sentry, but futilely. Soon enough, he found himself leaning over the bed's edge, exposed from the waist down. In disbelief, he bit back tears; drawing blood. He wouldn't let them break him; he wouldn't yell or cry. But they were mean-spirited; they wanted to hurt him, took pleasure in it. "Son of the Franks and the Gauls," he repeated in mockery; his fellows laughed. "You're just barbarians in need of subduing. Let us teach you submission, boy." Indelicately he forced his hard cock into France's body, pushing his head down. France clawed at the hands holding him, but to little effect; it only egged the Romans on. He could hear Spain screaming at them, begging them to stop: "Leave France alone!" but they ignored him, promising that he was next.

France fisted his hands, clenching the bed-sheets, and squeezed his eyes shut. It hurt— It hurts so badly! but though his body trembled, taking abuse, he swallowed his cries. He could feel the Romans invading his homeland. They slaughtered and raped his people, pillaged and plundered, and burnt settlements to the ground. As each sentry took a turn abusing his body, so too could he feel them abusing his country. He never stopped trying to fight back, but they held him in a compromising position as they laughed and sneered, mocking his attempts to defend himself and his homeland. He could hear Spain crying, shrieking loudly for Rome. France was terrified that they would hurt Spain as well: No— don't hurt Spain, please don't! he panicked, even as pain radiated throughout his body.

Finally the abuse ended and he was left on the floor, curled-up and holding his bruised ribs; shaking; his legs splayed and sticky with blood-mixed-semen. "N-no—" he said softly, reaching out as the sentry's approached Spain. He was sobbing, his emerald-green eyes wide and fearful. "Please don't hurt him—"

A loud, booming voice interrupted Spain's sobs: "Stop it at once! What is the meaning of this?! I demand to know what is happening here!" Rome's formidable figure filled the doorway, big and strong and angry; his amber eyes looked like wildfire as he glared at the sentries, who quaked beneath his wrath. He stalked forward like a wolf and grabbed the nearest sentry by the neck, then flung him aside. "You're supposed to protect them! Your orders were to scout and conquer and colonize their lands, not— this!" he raged, shoving more of them aside. "How dare you take advantage of those under my protection! How dare you abuse my foster-sons!" Reaching Spain, he pulled the boy into a tight embrace, kneeling to look at him eye-to-eye. In a softer tone, he said: "My child, are you hurt?" searching Spain's tear-streaked face for signs of misuse. Spain hiccuped in relief and clung to Rome's robe. He shook his head, then wordlessly pointed to France. France met Rome's eyes and felt simultaneously afraid and ashamed. Rome's face contorted, looking murderous. "Leave us— now!" he roared. The sentries didn't need to be told twice; they ran from the bedchamber. "France," said Rome in disbelief. He looked ashen-faced as he approached. "My poor, sweet child, what have they done to you?"

France flinched at Rome's touch and buried his face. He wanted to run and hide, to escape this humiliation; he didn't want Rome to see him cry. But he couldn't move. His body ached: raped and beaten.

Rome's hand hovered over France's soft head, wanting to touch him; to comfort him, but he didn't. At a loss, he hugged Spain closer in grief. He shook his head, and softly said: "France... I'm so sorry."

France's voice trembled: "Laisse moi seul." Just leave me alone.

FRANCE

In the dead of night France left Rome's house. He ran away as fast as he could, taking nothing with him, and without looking back, and did not stop until he reached his native soil. He hid from Rome's influence, dodging his attempts to find and reconcile with the young, embittered boy. He crawled to the banks of the Seine and finally stopped, feeling tired. There he discarded the fine clothes Rome had given him, exchanging them for a pale-blue frock, and he let his curls grow long. Barefoot, he collected rocks and piled them high in a clumsy circle on an island in the Seine to repel invaders; to garrison himself from Roman soldiers who came looking for him. It was cold and lonely during the winter months, and France missed the warmth and comfort of his foster-brothers, especially Spain, snuggled close to him; he missed feeling safe.

It wasn't long, however, before he met a curious white-haired boy who accompanied a tall warrior. His name was Prussia—the boy; his father was called Germania—and he managed to penetrate France's defenses. "You call this a fortress?" he laughed, hands planted arrogantly on his hips. "This is just a pile of rocks, dummkopf. It'll never keep the Roman's out," he added, "that is what you want, isn't it?"

France didn't know how to reply. He brandished a stick like a sword in defense, knowing that it was useless against Germania's cold, hard steel—like the unyielding look in his ice-blue eyes. These Germanics were not going to leave quietly, he realized, but he had no intention of being taken-in by another seemingly benign Empire. He would die before that happened. "How do I make myself stronger?" he asked Prussia, cautious of the other's wine-red eyes.

"How do you defeat Rome, you mean? That's easy: deny him."

France frowned. "Aren't you afraid of him?"

Prussia threw his head back and laughed loudly, dramatically. "Of course not! I'm not afraid of anyone! You're a funny boy— France, was is? You're so pathetically weak that I'm going to help you."

Prussia was loud and brash, an uncultured barbarian if ever France saw one, but he was incredibly strong and he kept his word. Without ulterior motives, the Germanics helped defend France's land against the Romans. They fought wildly, unschooled as the Roman's were, but effectively; unlike Roman soldiers, who fought in units, Prussia's kinsmen won fights by their individual merits. He was younger than France, but he swung his sword as if he was born to do so, and his face was always alight with glee. "I'll tell you a secret," he said proudly, whispering to France. "My Vater is going to defeat Rome. He's going to march into Rome's homeland and burn it! So don't worry, you'll never have to worry about Roman conquest ever again." And he pat France's back in friendship.

France nodded, forcing an amicable smile. But he couldn't deny that he felt sad about Prussia's confession. Rome, himself, had only wanted good things for France; he had fostered him for a long time, protecting him from the outside world. Unfortunately the corruption was within.

Eventually, with the help of the Germanic and wild Northmen tribes (who kept the Romans very occupied), France managed to rebuild his fort and found his capital: Paris. He took what he had learned from Rome and mixed it with what he learned from the northerners, and dedicated himself to becoming a strong and independent nation. "I won't go back," he repeated, like a mantra. "I won't ever go back to being anyone's pet. I'll become my own nation: big and rich and strong. I'll have my own culture and customs; my own language; my own people to govern. I'll become the envy of Europe. I don't need Rome's protection anymore, I can do this myself."

France had already learned everything that Rome could teach him about commanding an Empire, the good—as well as the bad. "If I ever have conquests or colonies," he said to himself, "I'll never hurt them, I promise."

One day, several decades later, France was walking along the shores of Calais when he saw something through the fog. Across the narrow channel was an island. How could I not have noticed it before? he wondered. A new landform, or a new country? Cautiously he touched his sword's hilt. Out of necessity he had learned to fight, indirectly taught by the Germanic and Northmen tribesmen who—having helped him repel Rome—liked to bully him. But his swordsmanship was effective, if not schooled, and thus far he had managed to keep himself safe. But this new, potentially threatening island unnerved him; it was floating very close to his homeland. He squinted through the ghastly fog, and saw:

A boy younger than he washing his hands in the water. He had short, wheat-blonde hair and a face smudged with mud, as if he had been pushed face-first into a mire. He looked like a vagabond splashing cold water up his arms, wearing mismatched, torn clothes; a hooded cloak dragged on the ground, too big for him. But his forest-green eyes were fiercely determined. As if he knew France was watching, the boy looked up and locked eyes with the Frenchman. And in that moment France was not afraid. He should have been anxious about the unknown, but something inside of him felt tender; he looked at the lonely boy and saw a reflection of himself before Rome, a kindred spirit. He sheathed his sword and called out to him: "Bonjour!"

The boy blinked. He stood up slowly, cautiously, and drew a dirk.

France tried again: "I'm France," he said smiling, conveying innocence. "Who are you?"

"I don't talk to mainlanders," the boy returned; his accent was unlike any France had ever heard. "Don't talk to me. I-I don't like strangers," he said, voice betraying fear. He flinched as France crossed the channel, holding up his dirk in defense. "What're you doing? I said—"

"I heard you," said France, surrendering his hands. "I'm not here to fight."

"Do you think I believe that? I wasn't born yesterday. Rome's already tried to—"

"Do I look Roman?" France interrupted, matter-of-fact. "What's your name?"

The boy hesitated. He eyed the Frenchman skeptically, but in curiosity. He was a scrawny and malnourished boy, suspicious of strangers; he looked weak, but his hands—slight fingers—were hard, fingernails caked with dirt. He was a tough-fibered boy who was no stranger to toil; France could see it. They shared hardship, both having suffered at the hands of someone else; someone bigger and more powerful (though France's scars were less visible). If nothing else they trusted this fact in each other. Finally, the boy said: "I'm England."

"Enchanté," France replied.