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monabela · 6 years

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for the claim, ‘Early Republic of the United Netherlands, 1588-1609′, I present my (first) contribution to @aphabriefhistoryoftime aaaand I know it’s not the best thing I’ve ever written but I just wanted to give my Dutch provinces OCs some time in the limelight and talk about what I think the Origin Story of the Netherlands is. he is still Holland in most of this fic. I called places by the names used in English... for consistency I guess.

for some background; at this point in time, the Dutch Revolt/Eighty Years' War is going on - largely speaking, the fight for independence from Spain. it started in 1568, and at the point this fic starts, the seven northern provinces have formed a sort of union and are fighting to gain control of the southern provinces, which are under Spanish control. it's almost the modern-day Dutch-Belgian border, if you want an easy way to visualize it. here's a map!

title is from the national anthem's original text, meaning "loyal to the fatherland I will remain until I die".

den vaderlant getrouwe/blyf ick tot in den doet

characters: The Netherlands/Holland, the (other) Dutch provinces

word count: 3558 summary: A series of seven meetings Holland has from 1588 to 1609, while he and the other provinces solidify their stance as the Republic of the Seven United Netherlands - which is far from free of internal struggle.

also on AO3

I. The Hague, 1588

They had run out of options.

In a rare turn of events, all seven of them were present in The Hague, scattered in various stages of exhaustion on Holland’s furniture, coats and hats and even shoes discarded.

Guelders and Overijssel were leaning their backs against each other, Zeeland and Friesland were bent together and whispering, Groningen was eyeing them warily, and even Utrecht wasn’t looking his usual put-together self, his hat lying next to him and his dark hair falling across his eyes.

Holland sighed. The United Provinces were mostly united in exhaustion at this point.

Well, at least that meant he’d possibly be able to speak without being interrupted for once. He stood.

“Spain no longer has an armada,” he started, because honestly, that was the best news in a long while. “Thanks to England. We, however, no longer have a monarch.”

“No thanks to England,” Friesland added, her eyes flashing. She looked much like England, at many times, but he never had such fire in his gaze.

Holland only nodded at her. They were on speaking terms now, but fighting towards a common goal, but their last war was still fresh in his memory, and undoubtedly in hers as well. Friesland wasn’t the forgetting type. She looked away again.

“Our people have given up trying to find a monarch, the English sent here are returning to England, the Spaniards are going to France to fight there, and none of us have seen Spain since—when was it?”

Raising his eyebrows at Holland, Zeeland was the one who replied, “I saw him about, oh, three years ago. He was going to Flanders.” With a dark note to his voice, he added, “That man has too many fingers in too many pies.”

“Yes, I—”

“Holland, why are we in The Hague?”

He took a very deep breath and wondered he ever let Zeeland say anything. He was worse than Friesland in many ways.

The other five started chattering as well, and Holland couldn’t tell if they were defending him or Zeeland or if they were just being contrary for the fun of it. He sat back down, pressed his fingertips to his temples, and waited.

It wasn’t as though he was in charge of them; the seven provinces, united in their desire to be free from Spain, were all equal in their arrangement as it stood. Whoever was available could represent all of them to their people—could speak as the United Netherlands when seeking aid from England, when trying to convince Brabant to help them because some of her lands were in their hand after all, when meeting with Flanders, who was now by the grace of Spain the representative for all of his territories in the Low Countries—but Holland knew his stadtholder had him pegged to be their only personification abroad, to further the sense of unity.

He hadn’t told any of the other provinces this—just having Zeeland and Friesland nagging him about everything was enough.

Eventually, everyone quieted down again.

Groningen, ever the calm one, turned to the group at large.

“If we don’t have a monarch,” he started, and everyone leaned towards him to be able to understand his breathy voice, “that means we’re a republic.”

And wasn’t that just strange? How could something like that just happen, without intent?

“We have a prince,” Zeeland said.

“The prince lives in Spain and he’s Catholic,” Friesland retorted. “And your stadtholder isn’t a legitimate prince until he dies, you know that.”

They were all silent again.

Holland and Zeeland had the same stadtholder, the young Maurice of Nassau, who had also been appointed Captain-General of the army the previous year. Maurice was a smart man, and Holland liked him for his keen eye for warfare. It reminded him of his father, with whom he had started the revolt against Spain.

Groningen spread his hands forward and tossed his lovelock over one shoulder, which made Friesland roll her eyes at him. He, as usual, ignored her.

“So we’re a republic, be that we like it or not. And we’re still at war.”

“We should go to Flanders,” Zeeland interjected, then actually recoiled when Groningen shot him a dirty look. Overijssel and Guelders snorted as one.

“What we need to do is stop being petty about where we meet and get ready to assist our stadtholders in their next move.”

Holland shot him a grateful look. Not all of Groningen’s land was part of the Dutch States’ territory, but he was on their side with more conviction than Friesland was.

“He’s right,” Utrecht added, having regained some of his composure and straightening his doublet. “We need to learn to work together, and not—Zeeland, will you stop making that face, please.”

Zeeland was pulling the most innocent face possible when Holland exasperatedly glanced his way, and leaning an elbow on Friesland’s shoulder. His mustache was twitching at one corner, betraying the look.

“Don’t make fun of Utrecht’s poor eyesight,” Holland sighed.

“Don’t rub it in!” Utrecht said, angrily picking up his glasses and pressing them to his nose.

And just like that, they were all off again.

Holland resolved to make sure no more than three of them would be in one room at any given moment from now on.

II. Leeuwarden, 1593

Holland was so tired of Friesland.

He shouldn’t even be here. He should be with his stadtholder on his own ground—he could feel Maurice’s troops gathering around the last city on them that was still in Spanish hands—but Friesland was just…

“I’m staying here,” she said again, crossing her arms. She was wearing a man’s doublet, her hair tied back from her face so that her dark eyebrows seemed to take up the largest part of it. Green eyes were hard. This was the way Holland knew her best, the stubborn, headstrong woman who’d resisted him for so long, resisted anyone who came near.

“You know we voted in favor of this,” he said, glancing forlornly at Groningen, who wasn’t contributing anything whatsoever. “The Spanish are expecting us to go to Groningen when the troops return from Luxembourg.”

The past few years had been hectic; Maurice of Nassau was now also stadtholder of Utrecht, Guelders and Overijssel, and had booked significant successes for the United Provinces—that Friesland still vehemently refused to call anything containing the word ‘republic’ or ‘Netherlands’. They were now centrally governed from The Hague, with each province getting a vote of their own in the States General. Well, except for Drenthe, but she somehow didn’t seem to mind much.

Even as everyone agreed on making sure all of Holland was truly theirs, Zeeland kept nagging about Flanders—but at least he eventually agreed to help—and Friesland refused to go anywhere else than Groningen, insisting they had to get all of that province in hand. She was staying on her own territory for now.

Groningen didn’t seem to have an opinion one way or another.

Which brought Holland here, hours away from his own home, to the north of the Republic, to “try and talk some sense into her before the Spanish realize that Luxembourg is a diversion”. He still liked Maurice, but he hadn’t been dealing with Friesland and her stubbornness for as long as Holland had, and it showed.

He spared a thought for Luxembourg, who was an unwitting victim in all of this. He never seemed very interested in what Holland or Flanders were getting up to.

“So, Holland,” Friesland was saying now, snapping him from his thoughts, “run on back to your stadtholder and tell him I’ll be waiting here with my people until he realizes he needs us and comes to help.”

Groningen had swung both his legs over the armrest of his chair and was writing something with an inkwell precariously balancing on his knees, cushioned by his hose. Holland obviously shouldn’t expect anything from him. To be honest, none of the other provinces were ever inclined to get between him and Friesland, not even Zeeland.

Holland bit the inside of his cheek, picked his hat up from the table, and put it on his head. Friesland made no move to see him out, so he left on his own, without as much as a goodbye. He’d see her again soon enough. Groningen was to be taken next year.

III. Groningen, 1594

It was official now. They were, the seven of them and Drenthe, the Republic of the United Netherlands. Friesland could keep complaining all she wanted, but that was how the world would know them.

Holland sat on the steps of a building in the sun, listening to the noise that was Maurice of Nassau arriving in the city to celebrate their victory. The seven provinces were once again complete now that Groningen was all theirs.

“I thought I’d find you here.” The breathy voice was expected, and Holland merely nodded up at Groningen himself as he sat down next to him. His pale hair still shone in the sunlight, glinting nearly painfully, but he looked weary. There were dark circles under his brown eyes, and he was squinting down the street. Holland remembered how drained he’d felt after sieges in his own home—Leiden the most immediate one coming to mind—and patted the man’s knee.

Groningen huffed a laugh.

“Thank you, Holland.” Swiping his ever-too-long hair out of his face, he turned to him shrewdly. “Although I suppose we’ll be calling you Republic of the United Netherlands before long, isn’t it?”

Holland leaned back on his hands and looked down the street unseeingly.

“It makes sense,” Groningen continued. He seemed unperturbed, but he nearly always did. “And that’s not saying I like it, but if a new nation were to appear to represent us, they would have been found by now. I’ve heard the Holy Roman Empire appeared before anyone could even start to argue about representation. The situation was different, of course, but if anything is comparable, that would be it.”

Holland knew this; he’d been part of the Holy Roman Empire himself at the time, just a child and unaware of much that was happening on the rest of the continent. He’d explained what he could of the appearance, the duty, of nations to Maurice, and the man had concluded there was no other option than for one of the seven provinces to become the Republic of the United Netherlands. Holland reluctantly agreed, knowing it would be him and knowing the other provinces would hate him for it.

“Maybe we can rotate,” he said feebly, and Groningen laughed again.

“Oh, Holland. Once you are the Republic, you will forever be the Republic.”

“I know.” He sighed. “But, actually, I think I’m going to go with just ‘The Netherlands’.”

“Friesland will hate that even more.”

“I know,” he repeated. “There’s no helping it.”

They sat silently for a long time, a summer breeze lifting Groningen’s hair and threatening to upend Holland’s hat, and Holland reflected that even amid all the chaos of the revolt—had it really been almost thirty years already?—it was nice to do nothing sometimes.

IV. Flushing, 1596

“England, Holland!” Zeeland was coming after him. “England?”

“Stop saying my name,” Holland snapped, halting abruptly and spinning on his heels. “We’re in public. And, listen, I know you don’t like him—”

“Don’t like him?” Zeeland made an expansive gesture, almost knocking his own hat off. “I hate him, and now he’s in charge of one of my main cities!”

“He’s not—it’s just a lease.”

“Hol—Maarten, I can see that. It was important for us to have allies, and to be recognized as an independent nation by England and France is great, but why Flushing?”

Holland has explained this time and time again already and knew that Zeeland understood it perfectly well; he was a smart man. England had been an immense help even before he, France and the Netherlands officially vowed their triple alliance against Spain, and he’d needed compensation. Just two cities on lease, Flushing in Zeeland one of them.

Of course, it was never that easy when Zeeland was involved. The second-richest province, the second-most important port, second anything, Holland could understand where his feelings of betrayal came from, but he could hardly have let England take over Amsterdam, could he?

They stalked through the streets of the city; Holland could hear the sea rushing close by, an autumn storm building. He imagined, if he stood on the docks and the weather was clear, he’d almost be able to see Flanders on the other side of the sea, could feel the pull of its personification. He felt strangely close to her now, now that they had the same role of being the representation for all the provinces in their sphere of influence, even if Flanders was only so because Spain decided she should be.

“Why Flushing?”

They had actually reached the shore now. Holland sighed.

“I don’t know everything, Marinus,” he said, addressing Zeeland by his human alias in turn. Some humans passed by behind them, on the way to the market. Despite everything, trade in the whole Republic was flourishing. “You know none of us have much power over our people anymore.”

“I know. But your people have a lot of power over mine.”

They were back to the familiar argument, and Holland was tired of it. He whirled on the province.

“I didn’t ask to be the Netherlands, Marinus! I never wanted to pretend to be more than any of you!”

The humans stopped and stared at him; Zeeland did as well, holding on to his hat, his coat flapping in the wind as it picked up. He was used to storms, Holland knew, was used to feeling the water and the wind tear at his islands. In that way, he was maybe the strongest of the seven of them, but Holland didn’t envy him for it.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now,” he said through clenched teeth. “Maybe after we’re free, but—”

“No, you’re right, I know you are.” Zeeland rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It will take time to get used to it, but I know you’re the best choice. And don’t make me repeat that. Can I ask one thing?”

Holland nodded, flummoxed by the turn of events. Zeeland of all people, recognizing him as the Republic of the United Netherlands?

“Let me represent us on the water.” He grinned in that way only he could. “Name some newfound land after me, maybe.”

That sounded quite all right. New Zeeland would be a good enough name for a country.

“We can work something out.”

“Thank you, Maarten.” He tilted his head. “The Netherlands.”

V. Utrecht, 1598

“Oh, Holland.” Utrecht stood up behind his modest desk, resting his fingertips on the dark wood. “I was told you’d come.”

Holland smiled tightly and let himself flop down on the chair on the other side of the desk. He felt as though he hadn’t sat down for weeks now. Utrecht would at least not bother him; he was like that. None of them were as organized as he was, and in the face of Holland’s own neatness, that was impressive indeed.

So he sat there, listening to the scratch of quill on paper as Utrecht wrote something down, and had almost drifted to sleep when the province finally spoke.

“How is Flanders?”

Holland looked up, blinking.

“She’s fine.” He huffed. “We’re supposed to call her the Austrian Netherlands now, I presume.”

Utrecht shook his head. Holland had no idea what he was trying to say with the gesture, because his expression was unreadable. It tended to be. He pushed his own hair away from his face. It was getting too long.

“You’d think we’d be used to it,” Utrecht said calmly. He marked something off on his paper. “The humans treating land as if no one lives in it. I suppose that’s what we’re supposed to be for, to remind them.”

Holland had never thought about it like that, which just went to show that they were better off together. Utrecht thought about things.

The Spanish Netherlands were now the Austrian Netherlands, just because the King of Spain decided to give them to his daughter when she married the Archduke of Austria. It went like that. Holland himself had been gifted back and forth a lot in the dark ages.

They sat in silence for a while longer.

“I’m tired,” Holland eventually said.

“I know,” Utrecht replied. “But we aren’t there yet. We will have to keep going.”

But for how much longer? It had already been thirty years, and neither the Republic nor Spain was ready to give up. The triple alliance had all but fallen apart now that France made peace with Spain. Holland was feeling the pressure all around him.

“We’ll get there.” Utrecht’s ice-blue gaze was steady on Holland when he looked. “With or without Flanders.”

VI. Nijmegen, 1604

Holland knew he was fleeing, this time. He knew he couldn’t face the damage wrought on Flanders quite yet. He’d have to face her sometime, but for now, it was enough to feel the loss of his own people like an ache in his chest.

His people were getting quite desperate; now that the triple alliance was definitely done with after the reconciliation of Spain and England, and attempts to make peace were not getting anywhere, even if the Austrian Habsburgs were marginally better than the Spanish, all the focus was on the Republic again. For months now, there had been a siege going on in the only city in Flanders still under their control, and it wasn’t pretty.

So here he was instead of in Flanders, where his people were losing to Spain’s.

Guelders and Overijssel—and really, did those two ever go anywhere without the other—were both milling around the room restlessly. Holland hadn’t seen either of them for a while. They weren’t as annoying as the other provinces tended to be. Guelders took his role as being the first one allowed to cast his vote in the States General quite seriously, and he was always ready to help other people when none of the other six were.

Well, except for Drenthe, who was really the nicest one.

They kept forgetting about her.

“How are things in Amsterdam?” Overijssel asked.

“Same as ever,” Holland replied, pretending everything was all right. “Busy above all else.”

“Of course, of course!” With a sweep of his arm and a snag of his sleeve, Overijssel had sent papers flying everywhere. Guelders shot him a flat look and went about gathering them. Holland watched them with faint amusement.

Things weren’t well at all, and he was actually hoping to come to at least some sort of truce by now even if his stadtholder was unwilling, but at least these two didn’t change.

VII. Antwerp, 1609

And then there it was. The first time all seven of them were together again for the first time in year and years, and Drenthe was there too. And Spain, and Flanders, and there was a truce.

There was a truce.

“You don’t really think this means we’ll get a reprieve, do you?” Utrecht asked, pressing his glasses to his face, cheeks sunken in the flickering light in the hall.

Holland closed his eyes and held his hands up. He knew there was too much internal tension for there to be peace in the United Netherlands, but at least they wouldn’t have to fight Spain while hashing it out. Moreover, after the truce, they could go to Brabant, maybe even Limburg, maybe even Flanders.

Spain called him the Netherlands, albeit in French and with a condescending twist to his voice, but he recognized that they were one. He recognized that he spoke for all of the provinces.

“I still hate it,” Friesland said.

“We know,” said everyone who heard her, although it wasn’t all that clear whether she was referring to the name or her ostentatious dress.

“I’m going to sail,” Zeeland announced, and Flanders looked as though she’d be happy to be rid of him for a while. Holland—the Netherlands—smiled helplessly at her and found his own eyes reflected in hers. She smiled back equally helplessly through the throng of people, humans and nations alike. It seemed as though all the southern provinces—the Spanish, the Austrian, the Habsburg, whatever anyone called them—were all in Antwerp for the signing of the truce as well. Luxembourg was loudly complaining to Spain about the food of all things. He was a weird guy.

Maybe they wouldn’t go to Flanders. Maybe, Flanders should be on her own.

No one would agree with him, Netherlands thought.

Well, when did they ever?

Brabant was looking at him from her corner of the room as if trying to seize him up. They’d done quite some damage to her largest cities while trying to advance, and she seemed to be trying to stay out of everything as much as she could. Netherlands nodded at her. She nodded back and turned away to talk to her people.

The future was looking less grim now; time to make some money.

Netherlands was going to sell so many things to Spain.

#aphabriefhistoryoftime #aph netherlands #Hetalia #w: 5000 #u: canon #u: historical #fin #np #this is bad and I never want to see the provinces again #that's a lie I love them but #you know the only reason guelders/gelderland and overijssel are continuously together in this #is because I personally Cannot remember which is which #it's terrible

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