He doesn’t see the memory so much as he feels it, and even then it’s only colors, temperature; warm greens peppered with yellows, pinks, and whites, yellow sunlight in a sky flecked with clouds.
He walks forward, frowning, and bends down. He feels as though something’s just within his reach, a bud blossoming and becoming more real with every passing moment.
His fingers are inches away when a gloved hand swoops down and takes the stem, picking the rose up. Francis blinks and looks up at Ludwig, who turns the rose in his hands.
“It has thorns on the stem,” Ludwig says in explanation. “I do not want you to hurt yourself.”
Francis shakes his head and shivers, tries to hold onto that something. But it’s no use; it fades as Ludwig drops the rose, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot until the butter-yellow petals are as dirty as the ground underneath it.
Francis sees that the stem indeed, has thick, sharp thorns. ___
The first time Francis feels himself grow smaller is on the tenth of November in 1942.
At first it’s a creep, an itch, something he can brush off as he writes a letter to Canada. The itch becomes sharp pain; it becomes pressure building behind his temples, it becomes paranoia as he feels himself grow smaller, smaller. The presence grows sharper and more defined as it creeps on him, and it’s not long before Francis can put a name on it.
Ludwig.
No. That’s not right. Francis stands, putting on his coat and running outside. Of course it’s not. Ludwig wouldn’t – he promised –
Francis runs out of his house and dashes down the streets.
He stops dead in his tracks, his mind reeling as rows of German soldiers march past him. Their boots make harsh, pounding noises on the cobblestone streets.
When the shock wears off, Francis starts running again, shoving past soldiers and moving as fast as he can. It’s not – it can’t be –
Francis rounds a corner.
“We seized all but three battleships, 28 destroyers, and 20 submarines, sir.”
“I see. That’s a bit of a disappointment, but we’ve at least managed to capture Vichy, and Herr Vargas has Corsica and the Mediterranean coast.”
Francis stops in his tracks and watches Ludwig converse with one of his generals as though they were discussing a piece of classical music, or the weather that day.
As though this was something normal.
Anger spikes through Francis and he darts forward, grabs Ludwig’s arm. “You – you said –”
Ludwig snatches his arm away. “We can’t afford to leave any open spaces,” Ludwig says, and Francis thinks that Ludwig’s eyes look so cold.
“Ludwig,” Francis says, his expression stricken and betrayed.
Ludwig stares at Francis a moment more, expression unchanging and stone-hard.
“You will be fighting with your Milice forces,” Ludwig says, “to ensure peace and order throughout France. Your government shall continue to run civil affairs in France. If you work with us, we can continue to eliminate the undesirables.”
Francis thinks about this. Undesirables. That’s right, the ones that beat him and left him to die in the rubble….
“Will you?” Ludwig asks, slinging his rifle off his back and holding it out to Francis. “Will you accept this responsibility?”
Francis hesitates only a moment more.
And then he reaches out and takes the rifle from Ludwig. ___
Within a few days, Canada sends a formal telegram stating that his government no longer recognizes the État Français or the Vichy government.
Francis spends the rest of the day in a daze. He’s not sure why this information distresses him so. He curls up under his sheets at night and wonders why Canada’s rejection makes his heart hurt.
He also wonders what Canada meant by saying “Arthur” was worried about him. As far as Francis knows, he doesn’t know an Arthur. ___
“Francis.”
Francis jumps, cursing as he spills his coffee on his fingers. He whirls around to find Ludwig staring at him, an eyebrow crooked. Francis raises a shaking hand to his heart and clasps the material there.
“I…I am sorry,” he says. “You startled me, Ludwig.”
Ludwig raises both eyebrows. “You do not strike me as one easily scared.”
“I…”
Francis’ throat freezes. For some reason, he cannot say he feels as though he’s falling apart.
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [4/?]
He walks forward, frowning, and bends down. He feels as though something’s just within his reach, a bud blossoming and becoming more real with every passing moment.
His fingers are inches away when a gloved hand swoops down and takes the stem, picking the rose up. Francis blinks and looks up at Ludwig, who turns the rose in his hands.
“It has thorns on the stem,” Ludwig says in explanation. “I do not want you to hurt yourself.”
Francis shakes his head and shivers, tries to hold onto that something. But it’s no use; it fades as Ludwig drops the rose, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot until the butter-yellow petals are as dirty as the ground underneath it.
Francis sees that the stem indeed, has thick, sharp thorns.
___
The first time Francis feels himself grow smaller is on the tenth of November in 1942.
At first it’s a creep, an itch, something he can brush off as he writes a letter to Canada. The itch becomes sharp pain; it becomes pressure building behind his temples, it becomes paranoia as he feels himself grow smaller, smaller. The presence grows sharper and more defined as it creeps on him, and it’s not long before Francis can put a name on it.
Ludwig.
No. That’s not right. Francis stands, putting on his coat and running outside. Of course it’s not. Ludwig wouldn’t – he promised –
Francis runs out of his house and dashes down the streets.
He stops dead in his tracks, his mind reeling as rows of German soldiers march past him. Their boots make harsh, pounding noises on the cobblestone streets.
When the shock wears off, Francis starts running again, shoving past soldiers and moving as fast as he can. It’s not – it can’t be –
Francis rounds a corner.
“We seized all but three battleships, 28 destroyers, and 20 submarines, sir.”
“I see. That’s a bit of a disappointment, but we’ve at least managed to capture Vichy, and Herr Vargas has Corsica and the Mediterranean coast.”
Francis stops in his tracks and watches Ludwig converse with one of his generals as though they were discussing a piece of classical music, or the weather that day.
As though this was something normal.
Anger spikes through Francis and he darts forward, grabs Ludwig’s arm. “You – you said –”
Ludwig snatches his arm away. “We can’t afford to leave any open spaces,” Ludwig says, and Francis thinks that Ludwig’s eyes look so cold.
“Ludwig,” Francis says, his expression stricken and betrayed.
Ludwig stares at Francis a moment more, expression unchanging and stone-hard.
“You will be fighting with your Milice forces,” Ludwig says, “to ensure peace and order throughout France. Your government shall continue to run civil affairs in France. If you work with us, we can continue to eliminate the undesirables.”
Francis thinks about this. Undesirables. That’s right, the ones that beat him and left him to die in the rubble….
“Will you?” Ludwig asks, slinging his rifle off his back and holding it out to Francis. “Will you accept this responsibility?”
Francis hesitates only a moment more.
And then he reaches out and takes the rifle from Ludwig.
___
Within a few days, Canada sends a formal telegram stating that his government no longer recognizes the État Français or the Vichy government.
Francis spends the rest of the day in a daze. He’s not sure why this information distresses him so. He curls up under his sheets at night and wonders why Canada’s rejection makes his heart hurt.
He also wonders what Canada meant by saying “Arthur” was worried about him. As far as Francis knows, he doesn’t know an Arthur.
___
“Francis.”
Francis jumps, cursing as he spills his coffee on his fingers. He whirls around to find Ludwig staring at him, an eyebrow crooked. Francis raises a shaking hand to his heart and clasps the material there.
“I…I am sorry,” he says. “You startled me, Ludwig.”
Ludwig raises both eyebrows. “You do not strike me as one easily scared.”
“I…”
Francis’ throat freezes. For some reason, he cannot say he feels as though he’s falling apart.