Anon has seen this implied in some fics but never really examined as a whole.
Gender equality is something very recent (and still in-progress), for most of history -- particuarly once Christianity and its different branches became the dominant religion -- women have had less rights than men in many ways.
Anon can't help but think that this must have applied to female nations too and would like to read a fic about the way they coped with that. Things like maybe a ruler who refused to let them fight and insisted they stay feminine and out of 'mens work', prejudice from male nations and men in general, crossdressing to be taken seriously in political matters or other tactics to get round the barrier, their reactions to the suffragettes and womens rights movements (and involvement) etc.
Female nation(s) involved can be canon or a genderswitched nations. Personal prefs would be Hungary, Belarus, fem!UK, fem!France or maybe even mama!Greece and Egypt if you want to examine Ancient Historical attitudes about women for this.
England didn’t want to do that to him. George III, for all his faults, for all the heavy burdens of his no-good predecessors, was not a bad man. Most of her monarchs were not Bad Men, if only because she was old enough to have some wisdom accorded to time.
He was a kinder man than the previous Georges. He was less prey to veniality and vice, impulse and wrath. But softness perhaps was not what was best for a monarch, while iron rigidity only shattered them.
She traced the lace of her gown as she listened listlessly to the arguments of the Cabinet. They couldn’t see her, thanks to a judicious invisibility spell and their own stubborn blindness. A woman should not be in these chambers and thus, they did not see her. She was no maid, not with the very fine gown she wore (cream colored silk and Brussels lace) and the light dusting of pale powder upon her sandy hair.
England shook out the embroidery she was working on to let her mind wander. She traced her still coarse fingertips across the fine silk webbing making out cornflowers and pink roses.
Ah, they were coming to an accord of sorts. But half the men had stormy expressions. Good. They needed a good kick to the arse, the lot of them. Half being appeased? That was a better result than imaginable.
George III remained in his chair, looking blankly out a window. He looked too old, suddenly. The years had caught up to him in a rush, fat piling on upon his unfortunately rounded face. England got to her feet and made her silent way over, through the men filing out after making their respects to their monarch.
She let the spell slip away and watched him jump as she suddenly appeared before him.
“Were you here all this time?” he asked, hand going to his heart.
She shook her head. “I was passing by before realizing you were here.”
“They will think you are my mistress,” he sighed.
“Only the stupider ones,” she retorted. “They know what I am. They know what I am capable of.” Her voice grew steely at the end of her words, sharp and tense as a taut bowstring.
“It is war then,” George III said needlessly.
“And I am going there,” she replied too calmly.
He gave her a sharp look. “No. You know I cannot allow that-”
“You let me fight in the Seven Years’ War,” she said in a low voice. “I heard no complaints from you then.”
“That was different-” he began.
“Your grandfather had no issue with my sex. Neither did his father.”
“They cared little of this country,” George III replied far too reasonably. “They were not born on this soil.”
“No, they were not. Not like you.”
He looked at her. “You are a woman, England,” he said. “You are the fairer sex. You are not made for the likes of war. Not at all. I do not know what madness would send you to the battlefield, to face that terror and torment-”
She had had enough of this. Kindness meant little for her now. She didn’t scream; she didn’t rip apart the delicate material still in her hands. England took a deep breath.
“I have seen battlefields since the Conqueror’s time, George,” she said softly. “I was there when the Armada was defeated when your many great grandmother was precarious on her throne.” Her lip curled upward in a snarl. “Kindly do not forget that I am no mere human, particularly no human woman.”
He lifted his hand then, a terrible anger lighting up his eyes.
“You let that hand fly, George,” she warned. “And… I will never darken your door again.” She met his eyes quite squarely, her heart pounding in her chest despite her calm, cold demeanor. “I am not one of your daughters to sequester away from the world.”
“You will not go with my blessing, England,” he said at last. “Should you leave this Isle.”
She smiled but that sort of smile did not rouse matching amusement or kindness. “Do I look like I want it?” And she took no delight in the pain that sparked across his eyes.
England handed over the delicate linen and silk smock she had been working on for the past few days. “Give this to one of your daughters, yes? If they will not wear it, perhaps they will garner some use from it.”
George III accepted the fragile, pretty little thing mindlessly and nodded. He looked as if he did not trust himself to speak, whether out of fear or out of anger. She did not curtsey to him. Instead, she gave him a bow that would have made the most withered admiral proud and swept out of the room.
A boy in a well-used but tenderly mended red uniform boarded a ship a week later. He did not speak overly much, but he did not need to, as he took care of the ship as ably and lovingly as any of the sailors. Even the most inquisitive couldn’t bring themselves to look into his eyes, not for long.
At the end of the American Revolution, a quiet bruised England returned up the Thames. She put on her gowns again and busied herself with eavesdropping on Parliament, visible only to George III. Who knew what else she was up to in between and he made no further remark. When the king became his ignominious descent to madness, England merely watched, knowing that she could do nothing for him. How many of her monarchs had begged her at the end of their days to extend their too brief lives, if only for a day? How many of them thought she had some magical elixir that kept her young?
The Prince of Wales thought little enough of her, she who lacked fine turn of leg or lovely breasts. But he could read the winds well enough. When France’s little Corsican started his row upon the Continent, England went to her chest and then to her tailor.
She paid a last visit to George III. He saw her clearly, wearing a brand new naval uniform, her hair cropped short once again. He closed his eyes upon seeing her and said, “Just go. Just go.”
England paused and made as if to touch him but he shrunk away from her. “Be well,” she said and both knew how empty those words were.
Notes: -George III was the first king of the Hanoverian dynasty to actually be born on English soil and grew up primarily speaking English (though he was also quite good at German).
–He genuinely loved his wife and unlike his predecessors and his heirs, he took no mistress. Compared to his grandfather (George II) and his son (The eventual Prince Regent), he was rather prudish and kept his daughters closed up in a kind of nunnery, refusing to let them get married.
-As a king, George III has been both maligned and praised, considered both a ruthless tyrant and a clever administrator throughout the years after his reign and death, considering his involvement in the Seven Years War (fought in the early part of his reign and part of British domination on the seas) and of course, the American Revolution. Both interpretations are subject to scrutiny and criticism, particularly as he had once rather bluntly said: “[let not] the tongue of malice may not paint my intentions in those colours she admires, nor the sycophant extoll me beyond what I deserve.”
-Apart from being the “evil Tyrant” of the American Revolution, George III is also remembered for his famous madness that struck him at the later years of his life. Medical historians hypothesize that he was affected by porphyria, a rare genetic disorder that causes psychosis and many other physical problems. What also exacerbated this condition was the crude attempts at curing it by doctors, including uses of purges (laxatives), bleeding, burning, and doses of toxins such as mercury and arsenic.
-The Prince Regent (who became George IV) was a particularly infamous lecher.
Didn't expect a fill so fast! Wow. Thank you author!anon, this was a great read and informative too! England is wonderful in this, fiercely independent and strong willed, determined to do what she considers she has to regardless of her kings wishes. Love it!
This is beautiful. I love how you painted the greatness of a nation, the insurmountable difference between England and King George. And that you painted George kindly, for he was good man.
Very nice! I like how determined England is, and how George approaches things - true to the era, but acknowedging the weirdness of England being, well, England.
Wang Bao was an excellent artist. She could capture the beauty of a pig pen if she wanted, Jia thought while watching her dip her brush in the ink well. Bao chose that moment to glance up and meet Jia's eyes before glancing back to her painting.
Jia followed her gaze, the house she had painted was beautifully rendered. Browns and greys with splashes of red. The lanterns glowing gold against the impending dusk. But Jia's eyes were drawn to the railings, railings devoid of their banisters and rendering the otherwise lovely painting incomplete.
"The most important part." Bao said more to herself than anyone else, as she carefully moved the brush across the paper.
The banisters complete, Jia read them, "I think that's good, Wang Bao, but isn't it a little obvious."
The woman snorted, "Men don't notice anything outside their own head, aru. Remember that."
-
It had gotten late and winter was drawing in fast. Jia blew on her hands and shrugged her ill-fitting jacket back on her shoulders. Around her the mountains enclosed them like they were the only people in the world and in the distance the sky was darkening but above it looked like one of Bao's paintbrushes had been taken to it. Puce and amaranth mixed into the sun's dying gold.
Jia thought that was a rather odd way to think about it, but she had always been a strange child. So when the even stranger Bao arrived without a husband, brother or father, Jia had found herself drawn to her. She had delighted in being the one who, for once, was the more knowledgeable. She directed Bao's hand and said; no, you write the word as it sounds. We don't give a meaning to a mark, we give it a sound. She'd shown her, admittedly clumsy, embroidery to Bao, who read the poem with the slowness of a newly acquired language and then praised Jia's imagery.
They were Sworn Sisters and Jia passed down everything her mother had taught her.
-
The few years they had passed quickly and Bao watched as people started to gather for the marriage ceremony. She knew it was just another part of life and that this new husband would keep Jia safe and, with any luck, happy - even if he did look rather too pleased with himself. But Jia was beautiful and Bao wondered if she was the only one who could see the absolute terror in her eyes. They always grew up, her people, however much she wished to keep time still and life happened. She sighed, four thousand years and she still couldn't accept that.
She followed the procession down the mountain road, through the forests and fields before coming to the young man's village and Bao saw them to his house.
The party lingered until the third day when everyone began to make the preparations to go, leaving the young bride alone in her new house with her new family.
Jia stood outside her new doorway and clutched at her mother's arm. Words were exchanged and a gift was given, Bao knew what it was because she had one herself and the moment Jia's mother turned away despite her daughter's protests, she moved forward.
"Bao." Jia said, now clutching at her sleeve instead.
Bao held out her book and Jia took it with trembling hands.
"It has everything, everything I know and you'll ever need," Bao lent closer as she finished, "and if you ever feel alone, aru, you can write in it too, I left room."
Jia clutched the book to her chest, next to her mother's, "Please don't go, Bao, please."
Bao couldn't bare to look back as she left the village to go back to the mountains and what had felt like home.
-
In the night Bao packed up and moved out, it never did do to stay in one place too long. You formed attachments and that never worked out well.
I am honestly not trying to take away from the fill above this one (it's so much better anyway), but when I saw the request it just reminded me of Nu Shu.
Nu Shu is a form of writing developed by the women of the Yao people. Traditionally only the men were allowed to read and write so the women developed their own alphabet, which was phonetic, and used it instead. It was a well kept secret and incorporated into pictures and embroidery. The women who knew it were 'Sworn Sisters' and when a girl was married she'd be given a book written in Nu Shu as a token of how much she'd be missed.
This is probably not what OP wanted, since it's a much more discreet way of sticking two fingers up at society and this fill got a bit convoluted. I hope you don't mind FemChina.
I also want to apologise for how much I have probably butchered this culture, sorry. China has always been one of my favorite places since I was small and I honestly don't mean to be insulting (if I have, I hope I haven't).
Two fills in one day, goodness I am a happy OP :D And it perfectly fit the theme that I wanted. It's not all about open rebellion (as much as that is awesome), the quieter ways as demonstrated here are fascinating as well. I never knew this about Chinese women before! I love these fills as they teach me as well as give good reads.
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female nation - Historical gender inequality
(Anonymous) 2010-09-16 04:02 pm (UTC)(link)Gender equality is something very recent (and still in-progress), for most of history -- particuarly once Christianity and its different branches became the dominant religion -- women have had less rights than men in many ways.
Anon can't help but think that this must have applied to female nations too and would like to read a fic about the way they coped with that. Things like maybe a ruler who refused to let them fight and insisted they stay feminine and out of 'mens work', prejudice from male nations and men in general, crossdressing to be taken seriously in political matters or other tactics to get round the barrier, their reactions to the suffragettes and womens rights movements (and involvement) etc.
Female nation(s) involved can be canon or a genderswitched nations. Personal prefs would be Hungary, Belarus, fem!UK, fem!France or maybe even mama!Greece and Egypt if you want to examine Ancient Historical attitudes about women for this.
Up on the Nail [1a/1]
(Anonymous) 2010-09-16 05:35 pm (UTC)(link)He was a kinder man than the previous Georges. He was less prey to veniality and vice, impulse and wrath. But softness perhaps was not what was best for a monarch, while iron rigidity only shattered them.
She traced the lace of her gown as she listened listlessly to the arguments of the Cabinet. They couldn’t see her, thanks to a judicious invisibility spell and their own stubborn blindness. A woman should not be in these chambers and thus, they did not see her. She was no maid, not with the very fine gown she wore (cream colored silk and Brussels lace) and the light dusting of pale powder upon her sandy hair.
England shook out the embroidery she was working on to let her mind wander. She traced her still coarse fingertips across the fine silk webbing making out cornflowers and pink roses.
Ah, they were coming to an accord of sorts. But half the men had stormy expressions. Good. They needed a good kick to the arse, the lot of them. Half being appeased? That was a better result than imaginable.
George III remained in his chair, looking blankly out a window. He looked too old, suddenly. The years had caught up to him in a rush, fat piling on upon his unfortunately rounded face. England got to her feet and made her silent way over, through the men filing out after making their respects to their monarch.
She let the spell slip away and watched him jump as she suddenly appeared before him.
“Were you here all this time?” he asked, hand going to his heart.
She shook her head. “I was passing by before realizing you were here.”
“They will think you are my mistress,” he sighed.
“Only the stupider ones,” she retorted. “They know what I am. They know what I am capable of.” Her voice grew steely at the end of her words, sharp and tense as a taut bowstring.
“It is war then,” George III said needlessly.
“And I am going there,” she replied too calmly.
He gave her a sharp look. “No. You know I cannot allow that-”
“You let me fight in the Seven Years’ War,” she said in a low voice. “I heard no complaints from you then.”
“That was different-” he began.
“Your grandfather had no issue with my sex. Neither did his father.”
“They cared little of this country,” George III replied far too reasonably. “They were not born on this soil.”
“No, they were not. Not like you.”
He looked at her. “You are a woman, England,” he said. “You are the fairer sex. You are not made for the likes of war. Not at all. I do not know what madness would send you to the battlefield, to face that terror and torment-”
She had had enough of this. Kindness meant little for her now. She didn’t scream; she didn’t rip apart the delicate material still in her hands. England took a deep breath.
“I have seen battlefields since the Conqueror’s time, George,” she said softly. “I was there when the Armada was defeated when your many great grandmother was precarious on her throne.” Her lip curled upward in a snarl. “Kindly do not forget that I am no mere human, particularly no human woman.”
He lifted his hand then, a terrible anger lighting up his eyes.
“You let that hand fly, George,” she warned. “And… I will never darken your door again.” She met his eyes quite squarely, her heart pounding in her chest despite her calm, cold demeanor. “I am not one of your daughters to sequester away from the world.”
“You will not go with my blessing, England,” he said at last. “Should you leave this Isle.”
She smiled but that sort of smile did not rouse matching amusement or kindness. “Do I look like I want it?” And she took no delight in the pain that sparked across his eyes.
Up on the Nail [1b/1]
(Anonymous) 2010-09-16 05:36 pm (UTC)(link)George III accepted the fragile, pretty little thing mindlessly and nodded. He looked as if he did not trust himself to speak, whether out of fear or out of anger. She did not curtsey to him. Instead, she gave him a bow that would have made the most withered admiral proud and swept out of the room.
A boy in a well-used but tenderly mended red uniform boarded a ship a week later. He did not speak overly much, but he did not need to, as he took care of the ship as ably and lovingly as any of the sailors. Even the most inquisitive couldn’t bring themselves to look into his eyes, not for long.
At the end of the American Revolution, a quiet bruised England returned up the Thames. She put on her gowns again and busied herself with eavesdropping on Parliament, visible only to George III. Who knew what else she was up to in between and he made no further remark. When the king became his ignominious descent to madness, England merely watched, knowing that she could do nothing for him. How many of her monarchs had begged her at the end of their days to extend their too brief lives, if only for a day? How many of them thought she had some magical elixir that kept her young?
The Prince of Wales thought little enough of her, she who lacked fine turn of leg or lovely breasts. But he could read the winds well enough. When France’s little Corsican started his row upon the Continent, England went to her chest and then to her tailor.
She paid a last visit to George III. He saw her clearly, wearing a brand new naval uniform, her hair cropped short once again. He closed his eyes upon seeing her and said, “Just go. Just go.”
England paused and made as if to touch him but he shrunk away from her. “Be well,” she said and both knew how empty those words were.
Notes:
-George III was the first king of the Hanoverian dynasty to actually be born on English soil and grew up primarily speaking English (though he was also quite good at German).
–He genuinely loved his wife and unlike his predecessors and his heirs, he took no mistress. Compared to his grandfather (George II) and his son (The eventual Prince Regent), he was rather prudish and kept his daughters closed up in a kind of nunnery, refusing to let them get married.
-As a king, George III has been both maligned and praised, considered both a ruthless tyrant and a clever administrator throughout the years after his reign and death, considering his involvement in the Seven Years War (fought in the early part of his reign and part of British domination on the seas) and of course, the American Revolution. Both interpretations are subject to scrutiny and criticism, particularly as he had once rather bluntly said: “[let not] the tongue of malice may not paint my intentions in those colours she admires, nor the sycophant extoll me beyond what I deserve.”
-Apart from being the “evil Tyrant” of the American Revolution, George III is also remembered for his famous madness that struck him at the later years of his life. Medical historians hypothesize that he was affected by porphyria, a rare genetic disorder that causes psychosis and many other physical problems. What also exacerbated this condition was the crude attempts at curing it by doctors, including uses of purges (laxatives), bleeding, burning, and doses of toxins such as mercury and arsenic.
-The Prince Regent (who became George IV) was a particularly infamous lecher.
OP
(Anonymous) 2010-09-16 07:13 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Up on the Nail [1b/1]
(Anonymous) 2010-09-17 06:22 am (UTC)(link)Re: Up on the Nail [1b/1]
(Anonymous) 2010-09-18 06:57 am (UTC)(link)Woman's Writing
(Anonymous) 2010-09-17 12:23 am (UTC)(link)Jia followed her gaze, the house she had painted was beautifully rendered. Browns and greys with splashes of red. The lanterns glowing gold against the impending dusk. But Jia's eyes were drawn to the railings, railings devoid of their banisters and rendering the otherwise lovely painting incomplete.
"The most important part." Bao said more to herself than anyone else, as she carefully moved the brush across the paper.
The banisters complete, Jia read them, "I think that's good, Wang Bao, but isn't it a little obvious."
The woman snorted, "Men don't notice anything outside their own head, aru. Remember that."
-
It had gotten late and winter was drawing in fast. Jia blew on her hands and shrugged her ill-fitting jacket back on her shoulders. Around her the mountains enclosed them like they were the only people in the world and in the distance the sky was darkening but above it looked like one of Bao's paintbrushes had been taken to it. Puce and amaranth mixed into the sun's dying gold.
Jia thought that was a rather odd way to think about it, but she had always been a strange child. So when the even stranger Bao arrived without a husband, brother or father, Jia had found herself drawn to her. She had delighted in being the one who, for once, was the more knowledgeable. She directed Bao's hand and said; no, you write the word as it sounds. We don't give a meaning to a mark, we give it a sound. She'd shown her, admittedly clumsy, embroidery to Bao, who read the poem with the slowness of a newly acquired language and then praised Jia's imagery.
They were Sworn Sisters and Jia passed down everything her mother had taught her.
-
The few years they had passed quickly and Bao watched as people started to gather for the marriage ceremony. She knew it was just another part of life and that this new husband would keep Jia safe and, with any luck, happy - even if he did look rather too pleased with himself. But Jia was beautiful and Bao wondered if she was the only one who could see the absolute terror in her eyes. They always grew up, her people, however much she wished to keep time still and life happened. She sighed, four thousand years and she still couldn't accept that.
She followed the procession down the mountain road, through the forests and fields before coming to the young man's village and Bao saw them to his house.
The party lingered until the third day when everyone began to make the preparations to go, leaving the young bride alone in her new house with her new family.
Jia stood outside her new doorway and clutched at her mother's arm. Words were exchanged and a gift was given, Bao knew what it was because she had one herself and the moment Jia's mother turned away despite her daughter's protests, she moved forward.
"Bao." Jia said, now clutching at her sleeve instead.
Bao held out her book and Jia took it with trembling hands.
"It has everything, everything I know and you'll ever need," Bao lent closer as she finished, "and if you ever feel alone, aru, you can write in it too, I left room."
Jia clutched the book to her chest, next to her mother's, "Please don't go, Bao, please."
Bao couldn't bare to look back as she left the village to go back to the mountains and what had felt like home.
-
In the night Bao packed up and moved out, it never did do to stay in one place too long. You formed attachments and that never worked out well.
Woman's Writing Notes
(Anonymous) 2010-09-17 12:28 am (UTC)(link)Nu Shu is a form of writing developed by the women of the Yao people. Traditionally only the men were allowed to read and write so the women developed their own alphabet, which was phonetic, and used it instead. It was a well kept secret and incorporated into pictures and embroidery. The women who knew it were 'Sworn Sisters' and when a girl was married she'd be given a book written in Nu Shu as a token of how much she'd be missed.
This is probably not what OP wanted, since it's a much more discreet way of sticking two fingers up at society and this fill got a bit convoluted. I hope you don't mind FemChina.
I also want to apologise for how much I have probably butchered this culture, sorry. China has always been one of my favorite places since I was small and I honestly don't mean to be insulting (if I have, I hope I haven't).
OP
(Anonymous) 2010-09-17 02:33 am (UTC)(link)Thank you author!anon!
Re: Woman's Writing Notes
(Anonymous) 2010-09-22 06:26 pm (UTC)(link)I will always remember this line. Well DONE.