food for thought: why don’t hetalia personifications rule?
they are portrayed as advisers and diplomats with limited political impact, but are the personifications not the perfect rulers themselves?
they embody all the people, all the culture, all the history of a nation. they are the most democratic rulers the masses could possibly hope for. why haven’t the nations risen up to the task of being kings and queens to replace the imperfect and petty mortal human rulers? why have they rejected their rightful position among the ancient city gods and surrendered control over history? what nation is driven by lust for conquest and desire for power yet has not seized the most obvious means for securing it–from the very heart of government?
they are the great hobbesian leviathan themselves. they are the perfect prince. i wonder what would happen if they seized the throne.
0.) I went back and added this section after i wrote all the other ones buckle up we’re going Back in Time.
Once upon a time when a lot of the great ancient civilizations were theocratic city states with way less people to manage… maybe they did. China, Egypt, and Babylonia among others have a foundation mythology that presupposes that their earliest rulers were immortal, or otherwise not entirely human. And these same civilizations love a good story where somebody sits on the throne for too long and finally becomes corrupt and gets overthrown.
1.) It’s a Dangerous Gamble that is Overriden by Self Preservation
Nations want to survive. We see that they will go to incredible and morally ambiguous lengths to ensure they survive and are not victimized by their rivals. But! I think they also fear their people a lot of the time, especially since the will of the individual can interfere with the will of the majority or the commons. Whether or not they’d be venerated depends entirely on the cultural lens they are filtered through; once we move past the age of theocratic polytheistic societies, they’d probably be seen more as witches or other such freaks of nature. And it’s not as though they can smite revolutionaries with a wave of the hand; all they have on their side is youth, resilience, and regeneration. Ergo, they’re still vulnerable and death may not be the worst fate that faces them if they cross the wrong people. I think the prospect of a literal eternity of torture, imprisonment, or solitary confinement would be enough to dissuade anyone from taking such a huge risk in revealing themselves. Like that Twilight Zone episode!
2.) Everyone Would Hate Them and It Would be a Shitshow
Given that nations are representations of a group identity rather than a discrete unit of land, this is especially true for multi-ethnic countries. It’s basically asking to incite ethnic and sectarian violence on a social level, which leads right back to point 1. Nations are absolutely terrified of anarchy, and the possibility of causing it is enough of a fear to make ruling oneself a taboo.
3.) They Don’t Feel Like They Can
Nations are implicitly at the mercy of people and systems. They can never escape politics, economics, revolution or popular changes in sentiment because those things seep into their emotional and physical well-being no matter where they are. In an autocratic system, perhaps seizing power for themselves might seem like a great way to take matters into their own hands but… well, the problem is they’ve all seen how it goes. They know how volatile absolute power can be, how it can create rifts and revolutions. They know that even well-regarded leaders had factions and people who hated them and plotted against them. And furthermore, the closer we get to the modern day, the more the idea of an eternal leader is anathema to people who value the ability to choose their leaders. Since nations generally seem to care what their people it stands to reason that they’d hesitate to (and possibly physically couldn’t) disregard what they want.
4.) Maybe Ruling Just Fucking Sucks
Fielding endless complaints, thwarting insurrection, and being personally held responsible for the well-being of millions? God knows a lot of them are not up to the job, and maybe they know well enough to know that they don’t want it for the rest of eternity.
good content good content this is exactly what i wanted to talk about i just thought you fell asleep so i made a post about it
i think it’s really interesting because there would definitely be certain nations that would be more ambitious and crave the power of being direct rulers because of the ideal of glory and the physical power but at the same time the risk is high and may not be worth it since, like you said, they are immortal but not immune to physical pain and violence and do not ultimately control the masses, only represent them. i really want to explore certain nations battling with temptation to seize power though–especially empires crumbling from incompetent rulers when there is so little to lose and so much popular support to gain if suddenly there is a coup and a new, charming, powerful, and desperate new leader replaces the old. it’s a precarious balance of ego + belief in one’s own competence to rule as an immortal personification with vast inhuman knowledge and experience versus fear of coups and pain and being hated by their own people and doubts about whether or not this would be just–all of which seem to come from the more human and individual facet that every nation has.
i think ultimately, it’s down to nationhood/representative inhuman nature of personifications battling it out with the individual and human aspect they have, like their own personalities and experiences and relationships.
there’s so much potential for them to be good rulers because logically it would make sense given who they are but theory never works quite like expected in practice and fear + need for self-preservation ultimately trump everything else.
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Written god knows how long ago for a prompt game, but posting for context since the sequel was requested. This one feels very strange to post again in 2026, but it's a good fic, so here it is. Post-Civil War. TB, known as consumption at the time, is often an opportunistic infection that sets in when the body is in distress. I'm not sure what could count as more distressing than a whole Civil War.
He disembarked on muggy September day in 1865 wishing like hell he could be anywhere else. The clipper ship he'd made the journey down from Halifax on rocked gently as it rose on the incoming tide. Beards of algae on the neighbouring dock pilings trailed in swirls on the tide, shiny black mussels occasionally showing through. Somehow the water seemed thicker this far south, and so did the air. An unhealthy climate, he decided, shouldering his rucksack as the gangplank was drawn and the first mate's whistle announced to the anemic group of passengers it was time to disembark. The street stones were slimy in the humidity and his boots slid across them more than once. He flicked sweat from his face. No wonder Alfred was ill.
He'd arrived home to Ottawa from London to a fistful of letters in his brother's larger, looped handwriting that grew shakier and less legible each time Matthew had opened another, at first awkwardly implying he needed help, then saying he probably would be needing help, and then the last one, postmarked from a month before, flat out asked. And even included the word 'please.' That had gotten his ass on a train in a day and then a ship within a week. The letter sat heavy in his trouser pocket, weighed down with Matthew's guilt for not arriving sooner, tied in one of his spare ribbons currently unused as his hair was still cropped short for the purposes of kissing English ass for Confederation. Curls clung uncomfortably to his neck.
He wished he could appreciate his brother's country more, but this far south didn't agree with him. New Orleans was a beautiful, bustling city, bursting with activity. He heard people calling out in a sort of French very different from his own, but still achey and familiar. The damp and heat had him choking. The urge to gag hit him just breathing, the air absolutely choking even though everyone around him was utterly unbothered. London was far worse, as far as stinks went but at least it wasn't hot. Even Ottawa could be sweltering in the summer but this made him want to swoon.
Walking felt more like going for a swim in the humidity even after he unbuttoned his collar and stripped off his coat. Cypress trees hung heavy with Spanish moss as he walked. He paused once to consult the address of Alfred's landlady he'd written on the envelopes and had to ask for directions twice, once in English and then again because Mother of God he had to focus hard to understand, but eventually found the place. He hoped like hell she would have an address for him or a clue as to where the hell Alfred was.
It was a neat middle-class neighbourhood and away from the stink of the city center. The house shaded heavily in trees and it seemed to be easier to breathe. When he knocked on the door frame clean but weathered and warped by the humidity no one came to the door for a moment, but he saw curtains flutter in the window and a neatly dressed woman appeared.
"Yes?" She said, peering suspicious eyes up at him, hand on her hips at the band of her starched apron.
"Ma'am," He said, giving an awkward dip of his head. "I'm looking for a Mrs. Lewis?"
"What for?" She asked, frowning, wary of him.
Digging the well-worn letters from his pocket, he held them out to her, urging her on with, "My brother, an Alfred F. Jones, wrote to me from this address? Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"
"Gone?" The woman laughed, all the caution flung from her face. She put a hand to her hair wrap and gave him a jolly, incredulous look. "Why he's gone nowhere! The poor child's burning up in my back bedroom as we speak! You're the brother, then? From Nova Scotia? We'd nearly given up on you!"
"Yes, ma'am," He said, and as if to punctuate the fact he was indeed just that fucking Canadian, he had to prop himself up on the doorpost as a blow of lightheadedness passed through him like a storm front. "I only received word he was ill when I returned home from England,"
The flush of dizziness that came next had him nearly off his feet and he was honestly surprised it hadn't happened sooner. The further south he got, the more the heat seemed to bother him. He rejected the warmth of the south the way he would a poorly matched blood transfusion. Like Alfred was trying to push him out entirely. The wall turned to mush under him and he might have hit the floor had the landlady not caught his elbow and kept him from keeling over completely.
"You'd best come in, then, Mr... is it Jones?"
He nodded. The American papers in his rucksack, lifted from Alfred's pocket last time he'd come south to look after him in 1863 had been changed and identified him as one Matthew Jones rather than Williams. It was easier to gain access when he had Alfred's last name anyway. It wasn't as if using Alfred's last name instead of his own was any worse than having Arthur's Union Jack on his flag.
"You'd best come in then before you melt, then!" She laughed and cheerfully opened the door to tug him through. The house was neatly furnished in dark stained wood and markedly cooler, thank God. He breathed in a sigh for the first time in ages and wondered how the construction worked to make the coolness so different from the outside.
"Can I offer you some water?" She asked. "You should collect yourself before you see him,"
"Is it so dire?" He said, frowning.
"I'm afraid so," She said, shaking her head. "The poor boy,"
Matthew really didn't like the sound of that. When he had gathered his strength, drank two glasses of water and generally didn't feel like he was about to keel over, Mrs. Lewis showed him to the back of the house. As she opened the door, she had a sad, maternal look to her.
"Mr. Jones, you have a visitor,"
There was no reply but when Matthew took a cautious step into the room he was met with a nod from the landlady.
"Alfred?" He called out, trying to be audible but gentle. "It's me,"
The bedroom was comfortable looking at least, large windows flung open to the warm breeze and least some effort had been made to equip the room pleasantly. There was a large basin and jug, a square side table with a full fruit bowl and a vase of sweet-smelling flowers on it. A corner had been set up as a parlour with two rattan chairs. In the center of it all was the bed. White lacquered ornate iron, it was equipped with two well-stuffed feather mattresses and fresh bedding. He smelled clean linen. At least, he thought, it wasn't a rotting hospital tent this time.
The core of him, the thing in his chest that tied Matthew to Canada fluttered a little as he approached Alfred as if the rustling wings of the angel of death beat around America on the bed. He glanced uncertainly at Mrs. Lewis, who shook her head and tugged uncomfortably at her hair wrap like making herself neat made things less unbearable. She had obviously grown fond of Alfred.
It was with a gasp he rounded the peaks of white linen bedding that he finally saw his brother's face.
"Mattie?" Alfred muttered and loathed himself for his own weakness but just the turning over on his side had left him hacking and breathless. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, he reached out where he thought he heard a faint exhale of breath.
There was a startled heave and Alfred heard muffled profanity, creaking planks and finally, the mattress sank under the weight of a body heavier than his own. He was perfectly still but his body felt like it was pitching to and fro as if at sea. Opening his eyes felt far too risky.
"It's me," He heard Matt say, sounding like he was on the verge of a sob. "Are you awake, Alfred?"
He heard his brother's anxious inhale of breath and two warm hands caught his own between them. Alfred nodded and was immediately filled with regret as the entire world seemed to spin.
"Mattie," Alfred groped with his other hand for Matt's arm. He didn't ask but Matt seemed to sense the question, knowing his thoughts even before Alfred did sometimes. "You came?"
"Of course," His brother said, easily. Because always did when Alfred needed him. Alfred felt a rush of fondness, or maybe it was catarrh because the next thing he knew he was twisted onto his side and hacking, coughs dragging out him like they were snared in his lungs with fishhooks. When the world stopped spinning, he found himself lifted against his brother's shoulder, oddly broad feeling and finally opened his eyes to see the back of what must have been his brother's nice grey serge waistcoat and the snowy linens. He wasn't sitting on the bed anymore but had somehow dragged the chair over.
"God, Alfred," His baby brother said, sounding as near to tears as Alfred felt.
"I know," Alfred said, faking a grin as he gasped for air. "I look like shit, huh? Congrats on being the sexiest brother now,"
Matt snorted, more startled than amused but Alfred felt him shake his head in that fond way of his that meant "God, you're hopeless." Alfred clung there in the not-quite a hug for a long moment, letting Matthew hold him. His baby brother felt like the most real thing in the world just then and by far the sturdiest. After a long squeeze, Matt arranged the pillows and set him against them, at least giving him the dignity of being a little upright. He even brushed his hair from his face and it only made Alfred want to cry a little.
"What the hells wrong with you anyway?" Matt asked after a long moment.
"Consumption," Alfred said, knuckling his bony sternum, urging himself not to cough.
"Consumption?" Matt sat back in the chair. "Jesus Christ,"
"I know," Alfred said, preparing himself for a rise of emotion from Matthew, even tears, but was shocked by a bolt of laughter from him instead.
"Consumption?" Matthew repeated, this time at a near howl. He grinned. "Jesus Christ, what'd you do? Go and lace your corset too tight, there, Sally?"
"Oh fuck you," Alfred shot back.
"You absolute girl," Matt practically cackled. "Consumption? Really? Alfred, Jesus, when I told you masturbating instead of just having it out with another lad was going to kill you one of these days, this isn't what I meant!"
"Matt,"
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Matt dragged a hand down his face and pinched his nose like he had a headache. Alfred did all the time these days. "All this just from a human disease? Jesus, Alfred, I thought you were dying,"
"I am," Alfred said, gesturing to his wasted body.
"I mean dead dying," Matthew hissed, mood souring in an instant. He glanced at the door and his voice dropped to whisper since there were... normal people within earshot. He gripped the arms of the chair with both hands. "I thought the war had actually broken you somehow even with the victory! Jesus Christ, Alfred, you frightened me. How did it even get this bad this fast? Consumption takes years. Even for us."
"It's galloping consumption," Alfred deflected, lifting a sarcastic hand over his heart as if touched, doing his damndest to forget he'd just spent weeks wondering if Matt had abandoned him for good what with the diplomatic shitshow going down with Arthur over Confederate shipping. "Aww, you do care,"
"Of course I fucking care," Matt muttered again and Alfred saw his knuckles were white with tension where he was holding the iron frame of the rattan chair. "For fuck's sake, Alfred. Why haven't you just, you know," He glanced at the door again, making sure they weren't overheard and mimicked cocking and firing a revolver under his chin. "Reset,"
"It's a sin," Alfred hissed. They could do that sometimes, shake off human illness or a particularly bad injury with death but Alfred had never liked it. There were specific passages of the holy book that banned the practice and he was sure of that, even couldn't actually remember which just then.
"Oh, for the love of the holy mother. It's not actually suicide, Alfred! Not when we," Matt gave another paranoid glance to the door. "Not when we don't actually die,"
Alfred glared at him. "It's close enough,"
Matt palmed his face and more too himself than Alfred said, "You can take the boy out of the Puritans but not the Puritan out of the boy,"
Alfred didn't quite know what to say to that because he was most certainly not a Puritan anymore if he ever had been but he was also feeling drained again. While he'd managed to sit up a bit so far, he had to slump against the pillows again, tacked there by exhaustion as firmly as a butterfly was to a collectors frame by pins it the wings. When he could focus again, his brother was leaning forward, his hands on his thighs, brow drawn low.
"Holy hell, Alfred, is that why you wrote me? To come down here and do it for you?" Matthew hissed and his face pinched up in that way it did when he was being angry because he felt guilty for being frightened. "For fuck's sake, sneaking down here is one thing but killing you? We're already in the shit over those blockade runners,"
"No," Alfred said and without being bidden, tears came to his eyes and he had to look down, embarrassed to his core. "No, Mattie, no. Please just listen!"
"Hey," Matt immediately sprang from scolding to something far softer, his cool hands found Alfred's face to turn chin up to look his brother in the eye. "Hey, it's all right, Alfred, okay? I'm listening,"
He didn't know why but somehow Matthew's reassurance made it far worse. He just didn't want to die bloody. Just this once! That was all. The bed creaked and he scoot over awkwardly, forcing Matt to pull his chair forward so he could take Alfred in close. Safely buried in Matt's chest, he let the tears come. Matt held him, pet his hair and made all the right sympathetic noises. His baby brother was good at that, consoling and mothering. When he wasn't being a British shithead at least.
"I'm listening," He said sadly. "It's all right. Alfred, I'm here and I'm listening, okay? We'll do we what we need to do."
Alfred cried on his brother for another moment, letting Matt tell him he'd be okay and taking all the comfort Matt could give him. He knew, somewhere deep down that cost Matt, for all that happened between them in recent months, or between their peoples at least. sob throbbed through his body and his brother made more of those soft, consoling noises like Alfred was a spooked horse about to bolt.
"Mattie, I don't wanna die violent, again," He gasped, coughing again and shutting his eyes tightly, trying to deny the world his tears but utterly unable to do so. He'd been shot, stabbed, starved in the last years. He'd fallen over dead on the march of camp fever or typhoid more than once, been blown to pieces and lost three weeks until his limbs reconstructed. He couldn't fucking bear the thought of another mark on his body, another new scar to join the slew that had come from the too recent civil war.
"Hey," Matt said, and took his hand and pat it. Matt had always been everything tender about North America and as he laid his head down on the mattress next to Alfred's useless fucking body and looked at him so full of apologetic empathy and Alfred's hand in both of his, Alfred loved him so much for it. "Hey, hey, hey. You don't have to. It's okay. It's really okay. We don't have to do that, okay? However you want to do this. However you want to get this done, Alfred, I'll be right there. Swear to God,"
Alfred nodded and reached for his brother again to press his cheek to Matt's sternum. Usually, Matt running a few degrees colder than the normal person was annoying, but Alfred had been running a fever on and off for months and now his brother's cool skin felt like the best thing on all the earth.
"Do you want to go out west to Colorado? That's where people go when they've got consumption, right?" Matt said, running his hand on what was visible of Alfred's forehead to push his damp hair back. "Or California? Maybe you'll get better out there. I'd say British Columbia, but I think the damp would just kill you faster,"
"Home," Alfred croaked. "I want to go home,"
"What, to Virginia?"
Alfred shook his head.
"You mean Massachusetts?"
He nodded into Matt's chest and felt the heave of his brother's sigh rather than heard.
"Alfred, the winter will kill you,"
"I want to be in my own house," Alfred croaked, feeling pathetic. "In my own bed,"
"Which one? The row house in Boston?"
"No. Plymouth," To the little saltbox house with the steep slate roof and the low wall of layered flagstones that he'd put together himself as a gawky child and the fruit trees everywhere he'd ever planted and grafted them.
"Plymouth?" Matt squinted at him.
"Plymouth!" Alfred said. "Remember, my place on the harbour with all the apple trees? I want to go home,"
"Okay," Matt nodded, giving Alfred one of his gentle smiles as he made to stand up. "Okay, I'll take you home. Lets get you packed,"
Alfred grabbed hold of his brother's sleeves, pulling him back into the seat. "Will you stay?"
"What?"
"Would you stay with me?" Alfred let words rush out of him, thinking of when he'd grown taller first and had easily held Matthew on his shoulders and tossed him in the air among the leaves of the apple trees, using that freakish strength of his to make his baby brother shriek with delight. "You called it home when you were still a crabapple,"
Matt made the grumpy pinched-up face at him again. "My home is Canada, Alfred, you know that,"
"Still a goddamn crabapple," Alfred muttered, letting go and trying not to be upset at his brother just for existing so far from him even if the hollow in him made him want to cry on his brother again.
"But I'll stay," Matt said, something dawning on his face, reaching for Alfred's hand and squeezing it. "I won't let you die alone this time, Alfred. Promise. You'll die warm and as comfortable as we can make you, all right? If you don't get better. Does that sound... better, at least? Then the war?"
Alfred nodded, anchoring himself on Matt. "There are worse ways to die,"
Hi...Do you have more detailed head canons about how Alfred got his name? I think you've said Arthur named him? Im not sure how nations choose their names in the manga, I think its left up in the air...
i personally think some nations chose their own name (yao, for one) but yes, my headcanon is that arthur chose the name 'alfred', though alfred later chose 'jones'.
'alfred' for alfred the great, king of the west saxons (and later anglo saxons). on one level arthur names alfred the way a father does his firstborn son. on a nation level, for 1600s arthur as a rising empire, naming is claiming. if we consider imperial cartographies like say, hong kong's capital being named "victoria", mexico being "new spain" or the philippines being named for philip ii. as the british empire, arthur is very intentional about this cultural aspect of imperial domination; wielding the power to define ideas and people in his image.
nations aren't confined to human lifespans, and empires like to think they're immortal and don't need heirs the way human monarchs do. imo arthur envisioned alfred perpetually being his imperial subject, but all the same, he named alfred after someone he considered a great man as a statement about his own history/culture. my headcanon is that when arthur first meets alfred at jamestown, alfred had other names. the settlers had one for him, perceiving him as an orphan (and likely an illegitimate child) of murky origins. naturally, nations like powhatan or croatan that interacted with the jamestown colonists would refer to alfred by something else. so, arthur quite intentionally wants to overrule all of that with "your name is alfred (kirkland)".
alfred, even if he tries to deny it, is very much his father's son; they don't look alike, but in terms of ambition. even if alfred likes to cast himself as an ideological opposite to his father being a scheming old world empire. in my view, englishness and europeanness is not the sum of who alfred is—there are moments where this comes out and presents very real differences between alfred and arthur—but at the same time, the modern united states is also a product of the british empire. and so during the revolutionary war, it wasn't easy to disclaim 'alfred'. hence, it's only his surname he disowns.
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I wanted to draw it so much and it happened. Soon I want to make a design of Tatarstan and a couple silly sketches in it (And yes, I made a mistake in writing the country again 😭)
top right: female libya in an irdaa (referenced from painter abdurrezagh alryani)
bottom right: libya in the attire of some senussi fighters against italian colonization (referenced from photos of omar al-mukhtar)
center: libya in a traditional holi/jard (the large cloak wrapped around him)
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