A/N: This was written for Round 3 of the Hetalia fanfiction challenge contest on Deviantart. I just decided to upload it here =) Every round writers are eliminated and a new prompt is given. This time around:

PROMPT: Violin and Piano

REQUIREMENTS: Ficlet, max 500 words

Not for the first time since the bricks of the Bastille had been torn from the mortar, France felt torn amongst the Paris crowds.

At first, he let the distant trill of a grand piano guide him along the road. Every polished key struck smooth and sure through the windows of a nearby music shop, and it was enough to keep him from straying too far into his head. For a little while.

He neared the street corner, where a violinist began to slide his bow with a wistful hand until a cry was pulled from the strings.

France frowned at the sudden war that assaulted his ears, tugging uneasily on the heavy white ribbon at his throat (a fancy contrast to the scarlet ribbons of Robespierre's razor). He stopped in his tracks as opposing concerts grated against the wind, one pair of hands conjuring a song that resisted the other. The crescendo was nearly violent, and sent him reeling into frustration.

How much longer must I listen? However human he pretended to be, he was a nation—he was no sans culotte, not a Jacobin or Girondin, nor was he a noble. He belonged to no estate but belonged to all of them. There was nothing to do but witness the chaos unfold and pray the terror would settle into something worthwhile.

Something beautiful, perhaps. Like the little girl who rocked on her heels beside a hollow bakery.

France fell slowly to his knees, meeting her gaze. "Bonjour, petit." Dust was smeared along the little girl's nose, her eyes drawn wide and curious. France felt a comfortable grin part his lips. "Where is your smile? Mon dieu I do not like a frown," he sighed, straining for the solid tone of the piano, trying to find strength in the purposeful toll of every note. "Hm. Do you like music?"

After a stillness, she nodded.

"Très bien. I as well." France pointed a finger into the air as the piano trilled again. "You hear it, non? Isn't it beautiful?"

A quick grin flashed across her face. "Oui, I love the violin."

"Ah…I see. The violin." So that is which one she hears; the croon. "There is a piano too, listen close."

And so she did. "But they do not go together."

"Non. Not this time. Maybe the next song, hm?"

Nations had always struggled to preserve their power, so perhaps there was some great fault in the core of France's character, because as he watched the little girl frown in thought, his inhuman heart longed only to preserve the beauty. Beauty was painted on every inch of Parisian soil, but somehow blood had soaked through, painting footprints in the streets and trickling along the blade of the guillotine.

France could do nothing but endure and continue along the road, somber to watch his people become rivals in a stale revolution. He marched to the rhythm of the violin and the piano, which was no rhythm at all.