Historical arc Roderich. One of the things that has always really bothered me about some fanart is how people trying to portray him in a past time change his clothing style but not the style of his hair or glasses. XD So I decided to draw his face if he conformed to period fashions in those respects, too.
In case you're wondering why the 18th century one doesn't have a little haircurl, that's because he's wearing a wig with his natural hair pretty much shaved beneath it, like most men did during that time.
Also, for some reference, the 18th century one would be what he looked like during my Politics of the Heart fic, and in the 19th century one he's sporting a style that might have been around at the time that he married Liz (Hungary.)
As for the fanfictions, I'll start with the one from another uni and then go to the Hetalia...
Title: Morbid
Rating: PG
Warnings: This is an Ionverse fic. I haven't done one of those for a while, so if you're not that familiar with the basics of that universe, I suggest you read the Ionverse summary. Otherwise, this might be pretty confusing.
Notes and things-to-know: This was originally part of a three-drabble compilation I did when I got on an Ionverse kick a couple months ago. This one is Nebilim-centric; the other two were Ion and Dist-centric, respectively. The document, unfortunately, was lost when my laptop crashed, but I was able to recover this one (and I may rewrite the Dist one from what I can remember of it; I liked that one a lot too.)
Gelda Nebilim always kind of fascinated me in the Ionverse because she was more or less the most 'normal' of the group. She, did, though, have some skeletons in her closet like the rest of them, particularly involving Ion's father after the death of Ion's mother Kiselle. I never really explored her background effectively, so I sorta wrote this to do that.
Summary: Even Gelda has her reasons for being there, and even she is capable of being trapped by the treads of dependency that grow to intertwine them all.
“Ah,” Ion says upon seeing her, “The penitent is here.”
It takes a moment for her to realize that the understanding in his eyes, the wry curve of his lips is not because anyone told him anything. It is because the boy all but reads minds—he watches and feels what is past and draws conclusions that no one else can. She realizes that he read about Evenos, about her, and that he can pretty well ascertain why she agreed to this.
She wonders whether he knows why his father is dead.
It’d be cruel to ask. She tells him, “I’m here because I’m best for the job.”
Ion chuckles. “You’re only best because you’re next-of-kin. Van figures family is more likely to keep secrets. There isn’t much to be done, you know, at any rate.”
“There is plenty to be done, even if your illness is terminal.” She strides across the room, sits down on the bed. “I’m going to make sure you go as painlessly as possible.”
She opens her bag. Ion observes as she pulls out a pill bottle, a blood pressure cuff, a stethoscope.
“I think,” he remarks, “you have a taste for the morbid, Ms. Nebilim.”
She opens the bottle. In her mind’s eye she sees Kiselle, white-haired and white-faced in her coffin. She sees Evenos—or rather, his face, the rest of him obscured by tooled brass and ceremonial drapery. She sees patients lying still and intubated, recalls the odd silence of a hospital room when its occupant ceases breathing. She thinks of the books in her room, the reading material she uses to unwind, full of grisly discoveries and paranormal occurrences.
“Maybe I do,” she concedes, silently adding that it’s more from familiarity than anything else.
Ion stays smiling. “Good for you. I doubt you’d be able to carry out this penance otherwise. It’s going to be a long, ghastly road ahead.”
She decides not to respond to that. She decides not to think about Evenos and how she insulted him. She decides not to think about how mangled his body might have been beneath the brass and cloth, wrecked by his own son.
“Get a glass of water and take this,” she instructs, handing Ion a pill. “You’ll need to take one a day to stave off the symptoms.”
Ion stands, doesn’t pester her further, and takes quiet, measured steps on his way out. For one so burdened by knowledge and sin, his tread is oddly light.
*
Evenos had ignored his son after his wife’s death. He had been a good man but he had loved her too deeply to function after Kiselle was relegated to the catacombs. Young as Gelda had been at the time, distracted as she had been with her schoolwork while staying with him, she had known Ion was suffering from neglect.
She’d watched Ion sometimes, sitting on the railing of the courtyard while he paced listlessly around the grass, kicking a ball back and forth.
She watches him now as he takes his turns about the enclosure, past the trees and flowerbeds and broken fountain, hands clasped and eyes cast upwards in prayer. She’s found that he speaks little of religion, of eternal life, and she wonders whether he does his daily walk out of habit or belief.
He has many habits. While impulse keeps his confined existence interesting, habit keeps him grounded. He always awakens at the same time, partakes in the same ceremonies, uses the same hours for reading and eating and working. He doesn’t let his sampling sessions interfere with what is set.
Sampling—how disgusting. She has him strip and takes a sponge to his chest afterwards to clean and cool the burns. Mentally she curses Mr. Neis, the man she will not sit with at table, that she will not sit beside during mass. She can argue with Van about his presence but because his presence is at Ion’s request, there is nothing to be done.
She can only try to ensure that he doesn’t make Ion die quicker.
She tries and she copes by, when she can, pretending Neis doesn’t exist. She is too used to being called into patients’ rooms at strange hours to be a creature of habit. She goes about her business, whatever it may be, and doesn’t acknowledge Neis, barely acknowledges Van, because if she thinks too hard about what the former does and the latter allows, she might be too revolted to stay.
Besides, she took Ion’s comment about penance as a challenge of sorts, and backing out of the game now would be losing.
*
Neglect is a strangely expressed thing. Most of the time, Ion seems stable, sensible, wise. He isn’t kind, per se, as he likes to gently prod and provoke and unsettle people to see how they might react, but he isn’t cruel either. When Arietta comes to visit him, he strokes her hair and hands her treats like a fond master with his puppy. He knows when to push, when to disagree, when to love.
But she does see him slip now and then, when she takes his blood or listens to his breath. She sees the flickers of fear and rage in his eyes when she straightens, when he is reminded of his own morality. He smiles, but he doesn’t want to die. He chuckles, but would spit in the face of fate if he could.
One night, she inquires, “Are there things you keep yourself from reading, when you read the Score?”
“Some things,” he admits indifferently. “There are different kinds of tragedies in this world. Ones that it is better to expect and plan for and ones that are better left unknown. Ones you can change and ones that can’t be helped. I try to avoid the latter.”
Does she dare? She dares: “Like deaths?”
“Not all,” he says, “but some.”
He is not smiling. He is deeply calm but he is not smiling, and he knows that he killed his father, albeit accidentally. He found it out some naïve, curious day when he went looking for answers, perhaps saw himself standing stunned over Evenos’ corpse, felt again the attendants’ hands as they dragged him away.
Complacently detached as he is, he wouldn’t use such discretion otherwise.
He knows why Evenos died and why Evenos threw Gelda out, denying that he had abandoned his child. He knows that Evenos had afterwards understood, tried too hard to make up for lost time, teaching his son skills too difficult for Ion to control. He knows that Gelda, in a part of her mind that she keeps under lock and key, has never forgiven herself for urging Evenos towards that outcome, even if her observations about Ion had been correct.
He knows quite a bit but offers few clues to the depth of his knowledge, only flickers of otherwise obscured emotion. He remembers as she looks at him that he has yet to take his pill. He gets to his feet, takes a step.
Maybe it is because she has dredged up some memories, but his step is heavy and he stumbles on light, weak legs and she rises to catch him. She puts her arms around him to catch him and his face falls into her chest and his fingers grip her sides like she is more a piece of furniture than a person.
She steadies him and releases her hold but he does not release his.
It takes a moment for her to realize that he is crying.
Maybe it is because of the mother he never knew, saw alive only in the Score. Maybe it is because of the father he killed. Maybe it is because of guilt, or helplessness in the face of his destiny. For some reason or other, Ion starts crying.
Gelda awkwardly hugs him, feeling helpless herself because Ion will die, Neis’ closest replica will replace him, and try as she might she can’t, more and more lately, stop thinking about it.
She can’t keep pretending inevitably, nor can she leave. She has become involved, connected, someone that Ion can cry to. Taking herself from the scene would be like ripping out part of her patient’s heart.
She stays there with Ion until he quiets, stays with him in the instances when it happens again. She stays at the cathedral and begins to open her mind to what she can no longer pretend isn’t real, and somewhere along the way she starts trying to treat Neis, too, who has plenty of things he can’t forgive himself for. She starts to understand and draw conclusions that aren’t quite as harsh as the ones she drew previously.
When the day comes that she meets Neis in the hallway, bloodstained and tearful and as lost as a man doomed to die, she hugs him too, more out of familiarity with the sight than anything else. She lets his palms leave crimson stains on her back.
She’s involved, after all, and well-used to the morbid.
It takes a moment for her to realize that the understanding in his eyes, the wry curve of his lips is not because anyone told him anything. It is because the boy all but reads minds—he watches and feels what is past and draws conclusions that no one else can. She realizes that he read about Evenos, about her, and that he can pretty well ascertain why she agreed to this.
She wonders whether he knows why his father is dead.
It’d be cruel to ask. She tells him, “I’m here because I’m best for the job.”
Ion chuckles. “You’re only best because you’re next-of-kin. Van figures family is more likely to keep secrets. There isn’t much to be done, you know, at any rate.”
“There is plenty to be done, even if your illness is terminal.” She strides across the room, sits down on the bed. “I’m going to make sure you go as painlessly as possible.”
She opens her bag. Ion observes as she pulls out a pill bottle, a blood pressure cuff, a stethoscope.
“I think,” he remarks, “you have a taste for the morbid, Ms. Nebilim.”
She opens the bottle. In her mind’s eye she sees Kiselle, white-haired and white-faced in her coffin. She sees Evenos—or rather, his face, the rest of him obscured by tooled brass and ceremonial drapery. She sees patients lying still and intubated, recalls the odd silence of a hospital room when its occupant ceases breathing. She thinks of the books in her room, the reading material she uses to unwind, full of grisly discoveries and paranormal occurrences.
“Maybe I do,” she concedes, silently adding that it’s more from familiarity than anything else.
Ion stays smiling. “Good for you. I doubt you’d be able to carry out this penance otherwise. It’s going to be a long, ghastly road ahead.”
She decides not to respond to that. She decides not to think about Evenos and how she insulted him. She decides not to think about how mangled his body might have been beneath the brass and cloth, wrecked by his own son.
“Get a glass of water and take this,” she instructs, handing Ion a pill. “You’ll need to take one a day to stave off the symptoms.”
Ion stands, doesn’t pester her further, and takes quiet, measured steps on his way out. For one so burdened by knowledge and sin, his tread is oddly light.
*
Evenos had ignored his son after his wife’s death. He had been a good man but he had loved her too deeply to function after Kiselle was relegated to the catacombs. Young as Gelda had been at the time, distracted as she had been with her schoolwork while staying with him, she had known Ion was suffering from neglect.
She’d watched Ion sometimes, sitting on the railing of the courtyard while he paced listlessly around the grass, kicking a ball back and forth.
She watches him now as he takes his turns about the enclosure, past the trees and flowerbeds and broken fountain, hands clasped and eyes cast upwards in prayer. She’s found that he speaks little of religion, of eternal life, and she wonders whether he does his daily walk out of habit or belief.
He has many habits. While impulse keeps his confined existence interesting, habit keeps him grounded. He always awakens at the same time, partakes in the same ceremonies, uses the same hours for reading and eating and working. He doesn’t let his sampling sessions interfere with what is set.
Sampling—how disgusting. She has him strip and takes a sponge to his chest afterwards to clean and cool the burns. Mentally she curses Mr. Neis, the man she will not sit with at table, that she will not sit beside during mass. She can argue with Van about his presence but because his presence is at Ion’s request, there is nothing to be done.
She can only try to ensure that he doesn’t make Ion die quicker.
She tries and she copes by, when she can, pretending Neis doesn’t exist. She is too used to being called into patients’ rooms at strange hours to be a creature of habit. She goes about her business, whatever it may be, and doesn’t acknowledge Neis, barely acknowledges Van, because if she thinks too hard about what the former does and the latter allows, she might be too revolted to stay.
Besides, she took Ion’s comment about penance as a challenge of sorts, and backing out of the game now would be losing.
*
Neglect is a strangely expressed thing. Most of the time, Ion seems stable, sensible, wise. He isn’t kind, per se, as he likes to gently prod and provoke and unsettle people to see how they might react, but he isn’t cruel either. When Arietta comes to visit him, he strokes her hair and hands her treats like a fond master with his puppy. He knows when to push, when to disagree, when to love.
But she does see him slip now and then, when she takes his blood or listens to his breath. She sees the flickers of fear and rage in his eyes when she straightens, when he is reminded of his own morality. He smiles, but he doesn’t want to die. He chuckles, but would spit in the face of fate if he could.
One night, she inquires, “Are there things you keep yourself from reading, when you read the Score?”
“Some things,” he admits indifferently. “There are different kinds of tragedies in this world. Ones that it is better to expect and plan for and ones that are better left unknown. Ones you can change and ones that can’t be helped. I try to avoid the latter.”
Does she dare? She dares: “Like deaths?”
“Not all,” he says, “but some.”
He is not smiling. He is deeply calm but he is not smiling, and he knows that he killed his father, albeit accidentally. He found it out some naïve, curious day when he went looking for answers, perhaps saw himself standing stunned over Evenos’ corpse, felt again the attendants’ hands as they dragged him away.
Complacently detached as he is, he wouldn’t use such discretion otherwise.
He knows why Evenos died and why Evenos threw Gelda out, denying that he had abandoned his child. He knows that Evenos had afterwards understood, tried too hard to make up for lost time, teaching his son skills too difficult for Ion to control. He knows that Gelda, in a part of her mind that she keeps under lock and key, has never forgiven herself for urging Evenos towards that outcome, even if her observations about Ion had been correct.
He knows quite a bit but offers few clues to the depth of his knowledge, only flickers of otherwise obscured emotion. He remembers as she looks at him that he has yet to take his pill. He gets to his feet, takes a step.
Maybe it is because she has dredged up some memories, but his step is heavy and he stumbles on light, weak legs and she rises to catch him. She puts her arms around him to catch him and his face falls into her chest and his fingers grip her sides like she is more a piece of furniture than a person.
She steadies him and releases her hold but he does not release his.
It takes a moment for her to realize that he is crying.
Maybe it is because of the mother he never knew, saw alive only in the Score. Maybe it is because of the father he killed. Maybe it is because of guilt, or helplessness in the face of his destiny. For some reason or other, Ion starts crying.
Gelda awkwardly hugs him, feeling helpless herself because Ion will die, Neis’ closest replica will replace him, and try as she might she can’t, more and more lately, stop thinking about it.
She can’t keep pretending inevitably, nor can she leave. She has become involved, connected, someone that Ion can cry to. Taking herself from the scene would be like ripping out part of her patient’s heart.
She stays there with Ion until he quiets, stays with him in the instances when it happens again. She stays at the cathedral and begins to open her mind to what she can no longer pretend isn’t real, and somewhere along the way she starts trying to treat Neis, too, who has plenty of things he can’t forgive himself for. She starts to understand and draw conclusions that aren’t quite as harsh as the ones she drew previously.
When the day comes that she meets Neis in the hallway, bloodstained and tearful and as lost as a man doomed to die, she hugs him too, more out of familiarity with the sight than anything else. She lets his palms leave crimson stains on her back.
She’s involved, after all, and well-used to the morbid.
Title: Lunacy of Greed
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some sensuality. No sex, of course, but some possessive kissing and stuff.
Notes and things-to-know: Politics of the Heart is easily one of my favorite Hetalia fics I've written. I just really find Roderich and Celia's relationship intriguing for some reason and keep wanting to explore it in different ways.
This is more or less a darker take on them, a little while after Roderich loses her lands to France. Though both of them knew from the start that Roderich might very well have to give her away with her territory, thus ending their relationship, they certainly still have feelings for each other. The problem is that while Celia very much wants to draw out his (as well as give him some crap for handing her off), Roderich's struggling to suppress his. And when she does crack his demeanor, the results are hardly pretty.
Summary: Celia makes advances on Roderich when he cannot have her and he finds himself hating her, just a little, just enough to make a point about who really has the power here.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.
John Dryden
They think they can have everything.
It slips and slithers into the way they talk and dress, the way they move and act. In the grand parlor he can see it gleaming in the gold braid of Antonio’s coat and hear it clear as a bell in Arthur’s laugh. He can feel it in the rough, firm grip of the hand Ivan extends to him, uncouth as ever, and he knows it must linger in the taste of François’ lips as they press against another noblewoman’s rouged cheek. It is everywhere, wafting in the smoke of the dripping candles, drifting in the perfume, smirking behind fans and silently casting glances that speak volumes quoted from vicious script on still-fresh parchment.
It will destroy them, Roderich thinks—the greed. He steps neatly about them and tries not to inhale too deeply because it is so easy to catch the contagion, to let it twist diplomacy into hoarded knots. It is so easy to get lost in the gold and the wine, in the giggling of the women and the soft strains of the quartet, to be too much an individual and not enough of a ruler. When they debate, it is about reputations and power and the maneuvering of armies like pieces, bloodshed hidden in politeness and hate under tact like a sheen, and it is easy to forget that it is not all some game played by men named England, France, Russia.
He has to remind himself here and there that he is Kaiser Edelstein, not Austria, to maintain his place in reality.
He knows he cannot have everything. He plays along, certainly, as a matter of communication, as a way of watching his back, pretending everything is in his hands and meeting their glances with features set and chin uplift. He plays and plans and watches, looks for telling motions and furtive meanings, for he has to dance on the edge of their gambling match—yes, that’s the trick to it. On the edge but never quite in. Part of the madness but unafflicted by it.
It is a dance, a careful minuet, and it is so very easy to make the mistake of enjoying it, especially because of what is perhaps one of his greatest weaknesses—a penchant for beauty.
Beauty—such a dangerous, logic-confounding thing. She confounded him once, twice, so many times with it, and when he sees her alongside François his breath stops because of it and the flush rises to his face because of it. He feels himself teeter on the edge as she looks at him. He forces himself to stiffen, stand straight and show nothing as she smiles.
“Roderich,” she breathes when she has glided to his side, “It’s been too long.”
It hasn’t been long enough. He wants to retort, to tell her to rejoin the man that has her bound in paper shackles locked by bitter pens, but he does not have the strength. She has long-lashed eyes that glisten like emeralds and golden curls and when she smiles her little, teasing smile he recalls too much and he wants what, for a multitude of reasons, he cannot have.
She violates custom, takes him out into the center of the room and dances not the minuet but the waltz, hands squeezing his shoulder and his palm, and he tells her only once, he will allow this only once, because his head is spinning with vertigo and he needs to step back. She doesn’t hear him. She is just like the rest—she thinks she can get everything with a smirk and a laugh and a turn of her hips, when she will only get herself stabbed in the back. Caught in it all, she cannot realize that they will kick her and destroy her when she ceases to be funny, charming, interesting, when François—
Then they are in the hallway, the chatter and music muffled behind the half-open door, and she is saying, “I don’t mind François so much. He’s surprisingly gentle. When I let him hug me, he rubs his hand up and down like this…”
He thinks of François’ hands and where they have been, of François’ lips and how many women he has tasted, and he looks at her and sees her smirking and he knows damn well what she is up to. He knows but he still stumbles and feels himself falling, because she is so beautiful and he can’t help it.
She winds her arms about his neck. His hands fall on her back. Her lips alight on the line of his jaw and it is like a shock running through him, shuddering through his stiffness and restraint. He feels her breath, sickly sweet as she shifts, brushing his chin, his mouth, and his blood is burning through his veins.
He cannot help himself as she says, “And he kisses me like this…”
He kisses her, grasping her cheek and holding her to him. He kisses her because he cannot stand to hear the truth. He kisses her and she tries to tilt her head, search for new softness and new angles, but he holds her still and tightly and doesn’t let her. His fingers smear and wring the powder from her cheek, force their way beneath the back of her neckline, seizing gauzy folds and pinching ivory skin.
He feels her twitch with pain. Roderich doesn’t let her go, keeps his lips pressed to hers so she can say nothing more about François and the things that bastard does to her because he can, because not a thing in the treaty says he can’t. Roderich holds her and pins her arms as she begins to struggle and hates her, just a little, just enough to want to oppress her in this game where he is Austria and she is nothing, a possession, currency of trade—
She gives a small cry. He breaks his kiss and shoves her face into his shoulder and mutters breathlessly, sullenly, “You should know better than to do this to me.”
And she can say nothing so he lets his hands wander, just like François, because when he falls he is just the same as the rest of them, just as cruel, just as greedy. He traces the curve of her spine and backside, rounds the edges of her shoulderblades, tangles his fingers with her curls.
He whispers that she is his, she is his as much as she is François’, since treaties and lives are so easily torn and shattered and he can have whatever he wishes, provided he can take it.
When he lets her go at last, she is red and disheveled, pulling up her sleeves and smoothing her gown, and she stumbles in her slippers off to fix the limp ringlets of her hair. She gives him a look, not quite of scorn, but more of fear.
It is the way things should be, Roderich thinks. She should be afraid, not bold.
He adjusts his cravat, climbs carefully up from madness and re-enters the parlor, reminding himself once more that he is Kaiser Edelstein, not Austria, capable in spite of his blunders of residing above the lunacy of the game.
But capable as he is, when François questioningly meets his eyes, he can’t help but bare the smallest of smiles.
Title: The Delusion
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Gilbert's mouth at one point.
Notes and things-to-know: This is basically the result of my friend Lauren and I having a discussion about Roderich and his political ventures. At one point, she realized that what we'd been imagining him doing that really stopped making logical sense, and remarked that she thought he was actually delusional. Lots of excited flipping out commenced after that. XD
I remarked on my Reality fic that I've been wanting to do something in which Roderich gradually alienates the people he's close to due to his politics, and what better way than to have him get a persecutory delusion, thinking some other nations are after him in spite of all evidence to the contrary? It's kind of a hidden sort of insanity that I haven't played with before (Dist was more of just numb and dissociated when he went crazy) and very, very fitting for normally logical-minded Roderich.
So yeah, this is more or less a little scene (in my universe, as not to offend any actual Austrian) where he talks to one of his advisors, followed by a scene where he's in a world meeting. All parlimentary procedure stuff was learned from Haley, who used to do Model UN. XD I apologize for any inaccuracies that might have slipped in on that front.
Summary: Gilbert tries to convince the world that Roderich is unfit to rule, and Roderich reveals just what years of job-related stress can do to a person.
“Why does France have designs on us?”
“Why not? France has been hungry for power for years since his duchy collapsed. He probably sees us as easy prey in our time of weakness.”
“And Spain?”
“Spain and France are bound by treaty to support each other. Most of the world has forgotten since the last war, but the terms still stand. If France attacks, Spain must follow.”
“What about Prussia?”
He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Prussia has always wanted our land. If he sees an opportunity to occupy some region, he’ll take it.”
“And you have proof that France is mobilizing?”
“In bits and pieces, yes. But every piece is part of a greater picture, and there are just enough to make out the shape. I’ve heard France take credit for the riots and speak of moving his army. I know that he wants to destroy us.”
“And the only solution is to destroy him?”
“The only permanent solution. I present that solution to you now because this is the first time in my reign that we may be able to achieve it. France is weak, Spain is distracted, and Prussia is nowhere near the force that he used to be. Though our military clout has decreased as well, with the right combination of alliances, we can ensure that our old enemies will never pose a threat to us again.”
“Do you truly think this would be a wise venture, sir?”
Roderich turns, regards his advisor with resolute eyes. “I think in the grand scheme of history, this may be one of the wisest things Austria will have ever done.”
*
“…So again, the Duchy of Austria offers its full support for renewed economic aid to be administered to the Countship of Italy by the German states. Due to the relative position of the Countship of Italy to the Duchy of Austria and the Countship’s status as a center of trade, the Duchy of Austria predicts adverse effects on its own economy if the Countship’s state of economic downtown is allowed to continue. Therefore it—”
“Point of order,” Gilbert says, waving his placard, and Roderich’s gaze flits to him in disdain.
“Yes, March of Prussia?” answers Arthur, motioning for him to speak from his seat in the center of the room.
Gilbert stands, pauses for half a second, then cries, “How can you all sit by and allow this? Don’t pretend that you don’t see what he’s doing! In the past couple months he’s renewed alliances with Germany, strengthened his presence in Poland, and even struck a deal with freaking Turkey, for goodness’ sake. And now he wants Italy? He’s preparing for war!”
“March of Prussia, that is not a point of order,” Arthur scolds. “You will have time to make a response when it is your turn to speak. Sit down.”
“Look, I know this issue is not going to reach the damn table unless I put it out here, and now is as good a time as any. He’s going to go to war, and he’s going to do it because he thinks France is—”
“March of Prussia, if you don’t sit down, I’m going to motion to censure you.”
“You’re going to shut up and let me save your country,” spits Gilbert, and before Arthur can give a flabbergasted reply, he continues, “He thinks France is going to attack him. We all know that isn’t true—especially you, England, because you’ve kept an eye on France since his duchy fell. France’s army is in no state to do anything. Austria’s going nuts because his duchy is falling apart too and he can’t help it. He wants France—and Spain, and Prussia—out of the picture because he doesn’t know who the hell else to blame. And how do I know? Because he threatened me, told me he knew the three of us were making all these secret military treaties behind his back with the intent to take him down. And I found this on his desk.”
He reaches down, fishes out a wide, rolled-up sheet of paper from beneath his chair and spreads it out on the table before him. “He’s got a ton of maps, all like this, all marked up. Look at this mess. He’s planning out the whole course of his delusional war and he’s dragging everyone else into it.”
On the other side of the table, Feliks and Ivan lean over curiously to examine the map. Vash rises from his seat and walks over to peer at it, frowning suspiciously.
“That is a classified document highly pertinent to the security of the Duchy of Austria!” Roderich exclaims. “Neither Mr. Beilschmidt nor the rest of the council have any right to see it!”
Arthur stands, walking towards Gilbert. “March of Prussia, you are in violation of numerous international regulations. Hand over that document and submit yourself to censure.”
“Here,” says Gilbert, holding it out to him. “Take it. Give it a good, long stare. You’ll see what I’m talking about. In fact, I think I’m going to make a motion of my own. The March of Prussia motions to declare the seat of the Duchy of Austria vacant until the mental health of its representative can be properly assessed.”
“Point of order! Mr. Beilschmidt’s conduct is entirely dilatory! I demand that I be allowed at least fifteen extra minutes to respond to his flagrant accusations!”
Arthur, in spite of himself, glances down at the map in his hands, then up at Roderich, barely processing his words.
“Fifteen minutes, please!” Roderich repeats. “I will not stand to be subjected to such treatment!”
“Fine,” Arthur says, looking down and up again, apprehension showing on his face. “Fifteen minutes to explain.”
He brings his gavel down on the table beside him. Roderich straightens, compulsively smoothing his waistcoat and hair, and begins to speak.
“Before I address the claims the March of Prussia has brought forth, I seek to remind the council that the March of Prussia has had a long and disputatious history with the Duchy of Austria. Though the March and the Duchy are not currently in a state of war, the March’s stance towards the Duchy of Austria has not grown more tolerant or accepting in recent times. The March has publicly opposed the union of the Duchy of Austria and the Countship of Hungary, and it has threatened aggressive action against the Duchy under anti-imperialist pretenses four times in the past five years. The Duchy invites all to keep in mind the March’s essential biases and possible motivations as it considers the March’s statements.”
“Opposed for perfectly good reason, you—” Gilbert begins, but Arthur shoots him a glare and he falls silent.
“First of all, the Duchy acknowledges that the alliances it has recently constructed have a defensive element to them. The Duchy is attentive to the recent uprisings within its borders and wishes to have strong bonds with its neighboring nations if the need for outside aid to ensure its internal peace arises. The Duchy reminds the council that defense is one of the most basic, and fully legal, purposes of an alliance, and assures all that it does not act out of anything more than the best interests of its citizenry.
“Furthermore, the Duchy asserts its right to make plans for defensive action without the express permission of the council. The Duchy has indeed made preparations for numerous possible situations recently, the internal riots rendering defense an increasingly imperative issue in its legislators’ minds. The secrecy of the progress and nature of these preparations is guaranteed under the war crimes protocols outlined by the Treaty of Vienna. The Duchy assures the council that in spite of these plans’ secrecy, they contain nothing outside of the laws of war and do not represent certain action, only possible response.
“Finally, I, Roderich Edelstein, counter Mr. Beilschmidt’s personal attack on my sanity by saying that the conclusions I and my advisors have drawn are the result of study of gathered intelligence, not ideas pulled from the air. I would never begin a conflict in order to save my reputation or push aside personal guilt. I do what is best for my nation, for my people, and I have always followed that ideal. Whether or not an individual like Mr. Beilschmidt trusts my judgment is inconsequential to me—I listen to my advisors, my citizens, and the opinion of the council at large, and let my logic speak for itself.”
Ivan raises his placard. Arthur nods to him.
“I believe I speak for all present,” he says, “when I ask for the Duchy of Austria to inform us whether it indeed currently views the March of France, the March of Prussia and Duchy of Spain as enemies.”
“The Duchy of Austria reserves the right not to declare its diplomatic alignments until in an official state of war.”
“The Duchy of Russia believes that this right may be suspended if the Duchy of Austria has the express intent to enter a state of war.”
“The Duchy of Austria has no such intent.”
“The chair rules that, due to the nature of the Duchy of Austria’s plans, the Duchy’s statement is perjurous,” says Arthur, raising the map. “There are dates written here.”
Roderich pauses, flushing a little. “Which dates?”
“Dates from June onwards, at weekly intervals appearing to approximate the transport times of infantry regiments.”
“The Duchy affirms that such a conclusion about the meaning of the dates, as well as their presence in a concrete plan, cannot be proven.”
Arthur eyes him for a moment, then says quietly, “The chair rules the Duchy’s remark dilatory and orders the Duchy to answer the question posed by the Duchy of Russia.”
Mild surprise shows on Roderich’s features. He looks from Gilbert to Arthur and back at Russia, and says, “The Duchy of Austria considers the Marches of France and Prussia and the Duchy of Spain enemies.”
Vash raises his placard and says, “The Countship of Switzerland requests more details on the matter in the interest of international security.”
“The Duchy of Austria has made plans against the nations in question in the event of attacks by the nations in question. The Duchy considers this a matter of national security and references the treaties of Florence, Paris and the late treaty of Berlin as evidence of its strained relations with these nations and the probability of future attack. It, again, reserves all its rights to make plans and initiate defensive action if attacked.”
Vash again raises his card. “The Countship of Switzerland would like to know whether the Duchy of Austria has been attacked by any of these nations in the past year.”
Roderich considers the question for an instant, weighing his options, before saying, “Yes. The Duchy has reason to believe so.”
“Elaborate,” Arthur demands.
“The Duchy makes no solid accusations, but it has retrieved intelligence suggesting a link between the March of France and a number of riots along the Duchy’s borders.”
“Bullshit!” Gilbert exclaims. “If François was here, he’d—”
“Intelligence from where?” inquires Arthur, raising a hand to cut Gilbert off.
“The Duchy wishes not to disclose its sources in the interest of maintaining security.”
“In that case, the chair is afraid that, for the sake of the security and well-being of the members of the council, keeping in mind recent and longstanding alliances, a motion for a warrant must be put forth. All members of the council that support the creation of a warrant to investigate the source material of the Duchy of Austria, please raise your placards.”
A flurry of placards go up.
“All members opposed, please raise your placards.”
A few, half-hearted placards rise.
Arthur bangs his gavel. “The motion passes by a wide margin.”
Roderich blinks incredulously, mouthing some soundless retort. His hands grip and pull anxiously at his clothing.
“Proceeding along, I would also like to motion to place the March of Prussia under impeachment for confessed theft of intelligence and exceptional dilatory action. All in favor.”
A number of placards go up, though less than those in favor of the warrant.
“All opposed.”
One or two placards rise.
“The motion passes. Mr. Beilschmidt, while the investigation and trial are underway you are under probation and may not attend meetings. Please leave the room and begin making arrangements to send a different representative in your place.”
“Sure,” says Gilbert, striding away from his seat. “Though, trust me, you want to replace Roderich too. He already lied to you once and he’s going to keep lying until it comes time to start his war and he doesn’t have to worry about hiding it anymore.”
“I did not lie!” Roderich cries after him. “How dare you say such a thing!”
“The chair did rule your earlier statement perjurous,” Arthur reminds him. “The map belonging to you obviously contains battle plans to be initiated within a specific timeframe, rather than a hypothetical course of action.”
“It only appears that way because of Mr. Beilschmidt’s accusations! Were you looking at that map without comment from him, you would believe what I have been telling you! He’s attempting to sabotage me!”
“I assure you, Mr. Edelstein, the chair is considering this issue in as unbiased a manner as possible. The map as it is appears to point towards scheduled warfare, and hopefully the investigation of your sources will convince the council there is adequate reasoning behind that.”
“It won’t,” says Roderich. “Not with Beilschmidt around. He’s doing what he can to sway opinion against me, can’t you see? He’s trying to prevent me from fending off France and its allies, and he will be whispering in your ear all throughout the investigation about how mad and misguided I am! He’s already planted the seeds of partiality in you and he’s going to make sure they grow to fruition!”
“Mr. Edelstein, if you are so concerned about Mr. Beilschmidt interfering in the investigative process, we can ensure he will not have any hand in the investigation’s proceedings. You can trust that—”
“You need to trust me,” Roderich pleads, and all eyes are on him now, watching angry desperation leak through his composure. “You need to stop believing him and you need to trust me. I am doing what is best for my nation. France has indeed attacked Austria, and he is indeed planning more attacks, and he and Spain and Prussia want to rip Austria all to shreds. I am not inventing this information, I have intelligence indicating it all, and I would be a fool to ignore such intelligence! You all need to stop listening to the baseless claims of my enemy and listen to what I am saying!”
Arthur raises his eyebrows. “If you would be willing to disclose the sources and nature of your intelligence, and the council found it fit, the council would place its full faith in that information. Considering the current state of France, the council is currently hesitant to believe without proof that—”
“France isn’t as weak as he seems! It’s obvious that he’s only been portraying weakness in order to avoid harsh reparations and military action against him! Since the war he’s been gradually building his forces, and he is fit and ready to send thousands of men across my borders!”
“Mr. Edelstein, we don’t know where you found reason to believe that—”
“My God,” Roderich says, his voice jumping in pitch, fingers stiffly clutching the podium. “He has you all so well-deceived. He, Prussia and Spain all have you deceived, trusting them, thinking they’re decent men without designs or intent. This is ridiculous, I—I can’t believe how foolish you are! All of you! This is beyond simple persuasion, you’re—you’re truly allied with them, aren’t you? You’ve been bent against me, haven’t you?!”
“Mr. Edelstein, calm down, the council is not—”
“You are and you don’t even know it! I’m surprised you haven’t impeached me too in your deluded ignorance! I tell you, I won’t stand for this—if any, any of you take action against me, try to depose me or meet me on the battlefield, I will show you no mercy! I will treat you as one of them! I will disobey the world if it means protecting my nation—”
Arthur steps slowly towards the podium, hand outstretched. “You’re not well, Mr. Edelstein. Come on. Come sit back down. No one’s proposing that you leave your position…”
“You’d like to, I’m certain! You’d like to have me out of it, because I’m mad, right?! Because I’m blaming other countries for my problems and starting wars without reason! You’ve swallowed his whole message; you’re all sympathetic to that damnable—”
“Mr. Edelstein—!”
“Austria!” he exclaims, taking quick steps past Arthur and snatching up the map. “As far as you are concerned I am the Duchy of Austria, and I am done with being needlessly doubted and disrespected! ‘You’re not well.’ You’re not well, and I have better things to do with my time than put up with this preposterous conduct!”
He turns and walks straight out the door, shaking with fury, face aflame and hands clutching, gripping, pulling. The council watches him go with widened eyes.
“Motion to place Mr. Edelstein on temporary leave,” Arthur says softly once he is out of earshot.
All placards rise.
1 comments:
Lovely sharp post. Never thought that it was this easy. Extolment to you!.
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