DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse the use of non-Elizabethan language, as well as my taking liberties with some character names & relationships.

This story is a Hetalia-spoof based on Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew (1593-4).

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

GERMANY: Ludwig Beilschmidt (Lucentio)

NETHERLANDS: Lars van den Berg (Tranio)

ROME: Roma Vargas (Baptista)

ROMANO: Lovino Vargas (Katherina)

ITALY: Feliciano Vargas (Bianca)

PRUSSIA: Gilbert Beilschmidt (Gremio)

FRANCE: Francis Bonnefoi (Hortensio) *alias, Francois

ENGLAND: Arthur Kirkland (Widow) *children, Alfred & Matthew 5

SPAIN: Antonio Fernández Carriedo (Petruchio)

RUSSIA: Ivan Braginski (Pedant)

GERMANIA: Herr Beilschmidt (Vincentio)

ACT I

SCENE I

PADUA

a public place.

Enter LUDWIG and LARS.

Ludwig Beilschmidt, the twenty-year-old son of the noble House of Beilschmidt, was sitting on a low garden wall beneath a blooming yellow tulip tree, a heavy leather book open upon his lap. He flipped a crinkled page, bored. His loyal companion and first-cousin Lars van den Berg looked sideways at him and sighed. They had arrived in Lombardy the week before, as they were studying their way across the map of northern Italy on Herr Beilschmidt's bottomless funds. It had been he—a wealthy German merchant—who had commissioned the trip, with the intention that his two sons and nephew receive a rounded education if they were someday going to inherit his trade empire. He trusted the young men's judgement and self-discipline, which is why they travelled with no tutor to supervise their activities. First the trio had visited Pisa, then Florence, and now beautiful Padua. It was a rich, fruitful city, the garden of Lombardy. It was a nursery of the fine arts, a place of ingenious studies. Here, the young men had the opportunity to learn philosophy, rhetoric, music, mathematics, metaphysics—! The privilege to learn in the cradle that had birthed the prolific great thinkers of ancient times! And yet...

"I'm so bored," said Lars flatly, closing a book. "This heat is cooking my brain."

Ludwig glanced at the tall clock-tower in the piazza. It was noon and the sun was at its sweltering meridian in the cloudless sky. He, too, felt overdressed in his layered finery; a symbol of his high-born status. A trickle of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. He hooked his index-finger beneath a decrepit page and turned it lethargically. The sun's glare reflected off the yellowed paper and he blinked, feeling groggy. The subject was dry; the language difficult to understand. He longed to do something physical, but he was determined to fulfil his father's wishes (even if he was the only one).

"Ludwig." Lars reached over and closed the book on Ludwig's finger. He flinched. "I admire your devotion to your studies, really I do. But it's time for a break," he said, trying to pry the book from his cousin.

Ludwig shrugged him off. "No, I should—"

"We've been studying since breakfast," Lars justified, "I can't absorb any more today. Besides," he smirked in a rakish way, his sage-coloured eyes flitting sideways, "I don't think it's philosophy we should be studying right now."

Enter ROMA, LOVINO, FELICIANO, GILBERT and FRANCIS.

"No?" Ludwig asked obliviously. "Then what?"

"Anatomy," his cousin replied.

"Anatomy?"

Discretely, Lars inclined his head in the direction of the sunny town square, where a party of gentleman had gathered. Ludwig's sky-blue eyes took note of the proud Italian patriarch—Roma Vargas; the richest man in Padua—who was speaking sternly to two young courtiers. A handsome Frenchman, dressed fashionably in sapphire; his long, roguish curls shone in the piercing sunlight like spun-gold. And—coincidentally—Ludwig's older brother, who's stark albinism made his skin glow like a lit lantern muffled by layers of black clothes. "Is that Gilbert?" he asked needlessly. He suppressed a sigh. Of course it was Gilbert, the cheeky scamp! Gilbert was supposed to have met he and Lars at their hotel hours ago to tutor his younger relatives, but he especially wasn't taking the educational trip seriously. Since they had arrived in Padua, he hadn't returned to the hotel once. Ludwig doubted that he had forgotten his duties as the eldest; most likely, he had found something more deserving of his fickle attention.

"He's supposed to be tutoring us in Latin," Ludwig grumbled disapprovingly to Lars. But Lars wasn't paying attention. He was staring at the party in slack-jawed awe. "Lars—?"

Lars whistled low. "Wow," he exhaled. "Would you look at those two beauties?"

At first Ludwig only saw his brother and the flamboyant Frenchman, and he cast his Dutch cousin a rather confused look. Then Gilbert stepped restlessly aside and revealed the most beautiful boy that Ludwig had ever seen. He looked like a golden-eyed angel, dressed modestly in creamy damask, which hugged his delicate figure; so soft and serene and silent. His rich auburn head was bowed respectfully, his lovely lips pressed shut as his elders conversed. He stood obediently beside Roma—his grandfather; the familial resemblance was obvious—and didn't so much as bat a long eyelash, even though his marital status was the topic-of-conversation. Ludwig stared bashfully, struck dumb by the young Italian. He barely noticed the other boy standing beside him.

"Gentleman, please," Roma was saying, "you will not influence me on this matter. I will accept no proposals for my sweet Feliciano until Lovino is wed. The elder of my grandsons must be married first. If either of you wishes to declare love for Lovino"—he gestured to the sullen older boy—"then you have my leave to court him at your pleasure."

Lovino bristled, red-faced in insult. "What am I, Grandpapa? A piece of meat?" he spat viciously. "Are you so afraid I'll spoil that you're willing to sell me off to these cheap bastards?"

"Meat? Ha!" the Frenchman laughed snidely. "I wouldn't buy you at a discount, Lovino Vargas. Not without a little tenderizing first. If only you were a little gentler, a little milder—"

"Oh, shut up, you frog-eating bastard!"

"Lovino!" scolded the patriarch.

Lars snorted. "That boy is stark mad," he said to Ludwig, enjoying the show, "or very willful. Either way, he's not to my taste. Am I right? Ludwig? Hey," he added, noting his cousin's focused gaze. He snapped his fingers in front of Ludwig's face.

"Oh, sorry. I was just..."

"Staring shamelessly at the lovely Feliciano?" Lars teased.

Ludwig blushed, but squared his broad shoulders and sat straighter. "I'm merely impressed by his sobriety."

"Sure," said Lars, grinning. "It's got nothing to do with how drop-dead gorgeous he is."

Ludwig grunted, sky-blue eyes transfixed on the youngest Italian.

"Yes, of course," Feliciano was saying to Roma. "I'll focus solely on my studies if that is what you wish of me. Books will be my only companions until you order me otherwise, sir; until my brother, Lovino, is married. I trust your judgement, because I know that you only want the best for us. I'm yours to command, dearest Grandpapa," he smiled, inclining his head in submission.

A smile tugged absently at Ludwig's lips. The boy was perfect. He's so well-behaved; so selfless and kind; so polite and obedient and disciplined. So very, very beautiful. I want him, he decided. It was a sudden feeling, but a strong one. A true one. I want that boy, Feliciano Vargas, to be my spouse.

"I hardly think that's fair," said Gilbert, annoyed. Ludwig frowned, reminded of his brother's—now rival's—unwanted presence. "For this fiendish hellcat," he glared accusingly at Lovino, "you're going to punish Feliciano, too? You're condemning him to a life alone, Signore Vargas, because, trust me, no one is ever going to want that shrew!"

"Yes, I agree," seconded the Frenchman. "Why, he'd have to be just as raving-mad himself to want Lovino!"

"Mad?" Lovino repeated darkly. He clenched his jaw and fists, and his face had gone tomato-red; in anger or humiliation, Ludwig didn't know. "Then all of Padua has gone mad! I would sooner die then wed either of you shallow bastards!" he shrieked, storming off.

Exit LOVINO.

"I won't apologize," said Roma hoarsely. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed of his heir. "Lovino must be wed before I consider anyone for Feliciano's hand, is that understood?" Both young suitors nodded glumly. "I'm glad. I dislike confrontation between friends." Roma smiled, as if the matter was settled. "Now come, my dearest Feliciano," he said, parading the angel away. Over-the-shoulder, he added: "If either of you wishes to endear himself to me, then find me the finest tutor for my darling grandson. I'll pay handsomely for good teachers. Ciao!"

Exit ROMA and FELICIANO.

"That little shrew can go to hell for all I care," said Gilbert sulkily, crossing his arms. "I'm not that desperate to be married. I have absolutely no interest in Lovino Vargas, but you're more than welcome to him, Frenchie. In fact, I encourage it. The only thing I want is Feliciano. I can't wait for him to be mine," he said dreamily. "He and I would be the perfect match. My family is rich and powerful. Feliciano would be well provided for with me as his husband. I'd make sure of it. I can be very charming, you know," he bragged (rather insolently). "I really am the most awesome choice to marry that sweet little thing."

Francis tut in disagreement. "I think not," he replied, but his attention was elsewhere. He looked thoughtful. Eventually a sly grin curled his lips. "Say, Gilbert?" he said conspiratorially. "I know that we're not exactly allies, but—for the sake of Feliciano—I think it would be in both of our best interests to work together to solve this little problem, don't you agree? If we could find someone to wed the shrew," he chuckled, "then that would put Feliciano back on the market. Let's just put our rivalry on-hold until Lovino has been wed, what do you say?"

Gilbert cocked a silver-white eyebrow in disbelief. "Do you really think there's a man out there who wants to marry into hell? I'd rather endure daily torture than have to put up with him. I like my boys much better behaved than that. Anyone who takes Lovino would have to be a shrew-taming champion."

"Oh, come now," Francis goaded. "Just because neither of us wants Lovino doesn't mean someone else won't. Some men like a challenge. And Lovino Vargas is certainly a challenge... and incredibly wealthy. His dowry is worth a fortune, remember. All we have to do is find a man who values money more than love."

Gilbert grunted. "Frankly, I'd pay him to take Lovino off the market," he said.

Ludwig eavesdropped on the gentlemen's conversation until it evolved into other topics that did not concern the courtship of Feliciano Vargas. All's the better, he thought. He had no interest at all in the strong-willed Lovino; let the two of them scheme out how best to deal with him. Ludwig's heart yearned only for Feliciano... not that he would ever describe his feelings like that, of course, or entertain the notion of love-at-first-sight. No. His desire for Feliciano was purely altruistic. It simply made good, logical sense to choose the loveliest, kindest, most obedient spouse.

"Oh, my," Lars mocked in a cloying tone. "You're completely infatuated, aren't you, dear cousin?"

Ludwig felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment. "No, don't be absurd," he denied. "I was just considering how cruel Signore Vargas is being by punishing Feliciano for Lovino's faults." As a second-born son, himself, Ludwig knew first-hand what it was like to take the blame for a troublesome older brother. "I suppose it's nice of him to care about the boy's education, at least. He's eager to hire a good tutor for him."

Lars' crafty sage-coloured eyes suddenly lit. He snapped his fingers with gusto. "Ludwig!" he grinned. "I have an idea. We should disguise you as a schoolmaster and present you to Signore Vargas as a tutor for Feliciano. It'll get you close enough to win his affection so that, by the time you reveal your true self, Feliciano will have fallen so in love with you that he'll beg his grandfather to let you marry him."

Ludwig pursed his lips, hiding a smile. "Do you really think that will work?"

"Yes," said Lars confidently. He stood. "All we have to do is switch identities. Signore Vargas is expecting the Beilschmidt brothers, but he's only met Gilbert so far. He doesn't know what you look like, Lud, and he doesn't know anything about my presence. If you pretend to be me, we can tell him you're a tutor. I'll pretend to be you and begin negotiations for a marriage proposal. Then, once everything is arranged, we'll switch back. You can wed Feliciano, and I'll have been thoroughly entertained by the whole thing."

Ludwig eyed Lars skeptically. True, he and his first-cousin did look enough alike to fool someone who hadn't ever met them. Even if Ludwig's appearance had been described to Roma, Lars would easily fit the same description, but Gilbert would reveal the lie if they didn't warn him not to.

"Gilbert can't know that I intend to wed Feliciano," Ludwig said in consent.

"No, you're right. Hmm... Oh! I know!" Lars was having fun playing the puppet-master. He grinned wickedly, and said: "Let's have Gilbert present you to Signore Vargas as his gift. Gilbert will think that you're doing him a favour by getting close to Feliciano; talking him up, you know? But in reality you'll be laying the groundwork to steal the boy right out from under him. Gilbert is too trusting to expect that you, of all people, would betray him. It'll be hilarious!"

Ludwig frowned. "It sounds cruel."

Lars exhaled in exasperation. "Are you in love with Feliciano or not?"

"Yes," said Ludwig in reflex. He blushed.

Lars smiled. "Then you've got to be merciless, Lud. You don't want to lose the boy to someone else, do you?"

"No," Ludwig growled.

Lars clapped him companionably on the shoulder. "Good. Now hurry up trade clothes with me before anyone spots us. This just became a game, Lud, and you and I are going to win."

Exit LUDWIG and LARS.

Enter ALFRED.

A small, golden-headed blur crashed suddenly into Francis' legs before tumbling clumsily into the street. Hooves like thunder signalled the speedy approach of a carriage. In reflex, the Frenchman dove forward and grabbed a fistful of a satin-blue coat, pulling the five-year-old back to safety as a carriage sped by. A moment later, a furious English accent shouted:

"Alfred!"

Enter ARTHUR and MATTHEW.

A golden-haired young Englishman was rushing across the square, toting a second child by his tiny hand. He nearly flew, missing steps as his father pulled him. The gentleman's Lincoln-green eyes were wide with worry. "Alfred Kirkland!" he raged in panic. Letting go of the second child—the second of twin boys—he bent down and snatched the blue-eyed child from the protective circle of Francis' arms. Briefly, he crushed the child to his chest in a relieved hug; then he held him at arm's length to inspect him for damage. Once satisfied, he straightened, took both children by the hands, and addressed Francis.

"Thank-you," he said, inclining his head gratefully. "I owe you a great debt, sir." Spotting Gilbert, he nodded politely. "Herr Beilschmidt."

"Mister Kirkland," Gilbert acknowledged in reply.

As they left, Francis heard the Englishman scolding the blue-eyed child. "What have I told you about running off like that, Alfred? The streets are dangerous! You must always stay with me when we're out. That goes for you, too, Matthew. Do you both understand?"

"Yes, Daddy," the children chimed.

Exit ARTHUR, ALFRED and MATTHEW.

"Do you know that man?" Francis asked Gilbert, watching the family's hasty departure. "He's very beautiful."

"I guess," Gilbert bobbed his head noncommittally. "His name is Arthur Kirkland. He's from London, I think, but he was married to an Italian aristocrat. I've only met him a few times, but I knew his husband through a friend."

"Knew?"

"He's dead. Arthur's a widow. An exceedingly wealthy widow, by the way. He's almost as independently rich as Roma Vargas. He comes from a land-rich family. They're very influential in the British Isles—not that anyone really cares about the British Isles." He shrugged. "Cute twins, though," he added in afterthought.

"Yes, very adorable," Francis agreed. "Kirkland, you say? I don't recognize the name, but he seemed rather dignified—despite being an Englishman. Not a virgin, obviously, but he's still young. Doesn't he have any suitors after his money?"

"No." Gilbert shrugged blithely. "It's probably because of the rumours. Let's just say, the circumstances of his late-husband's death were a little suspicious."

Francis frowned. "Oh? How so?"

"I knew his late-husband," the German repeated hesitantly. "He... wasn't a nice man. It was no secret that he abused Arthur, and that's putting it gently. I wouldn't be surprised if those cute little twins were conceived by rape. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't the Italian's sons at all. Honestly, I wouldn't even blame Arthur if they weren't. The twins look nothing alike the Italian did. Anyway," Gilbert began anew, "Arthur was only fifteen when he was married to the man, who was a lot older—and bigger—than him. It was a bad bargain from the start; I don't know who arranged it. But everyone knew that he used to beat the living-hell out of Arthur whenever he could."

Francis felt his stomach knot, but he said: "It's not illegal for a husband to beat his spouse."

"No," Gilbert ceded, "but it was more than just disciplinary, much more. It was ugly. I saw it a few times. The man was a violent, short-tempered drunk, but Arthur endured it. He's got pride, I'll give him that. He played the good spouse and never fought back, he never made a scene. In fact, he never said a word. Then one day the fucking bastard went after the twins instead."

This time, Francis couldn't suppress a gasp of horror. "Les bébés?"

Gilbert nodded. "The next day, he was dead."

"Arthur killed him?"

Gilbert shrugged. "I don't know, no one does. But I wouldn't put it past the crazy Brit, or blame him if he did. He's fiercely protective of those twins."

"Surely there was an inquiry if the Italian died so suddenly?" Francis asked.

"Yes, of course there was, but there wasn't any evidence of foul-play. Not that there would've been," Gilbert added. "I should probably tell you, Arthur Kirkland has a reputation for being something of a... chemist," he chose his words carefully, reading Francis' reaction.

"Poison?"

Gilbert glanced from left-to-right and lowered his voice for privacy. "A practitioner of the Black Arts," he said secretly. "Take my advice, friend, and abandon any interest you have in Arthur Kirkland right now. He's not worth it."

Francis scoffed at the German's warning. "Oh, please," he said self-importantly. "Rest assured, my friend, I have absolutely no interest in any Englishmen. It was mere curiosity, nothing more. My heart, as you know, belongs to Feliciano."

Exit FRANCIS and GILBERT.