Ludwig’s expression slides back into somberness, the stern look of a German soldier. “I am taking some of my troops up to Pas de Calais. The Allies should be invading any day now, and I want to be ready for that. Do you think you can stay here and protect Vichy?”
Francis does not want to deny his friend, but for the first time he feels his throat seize up with panic, with the feeling of something inside of him unspooling and decaying.
“I….” I feel as though I am falling apart. I feel as though I am forgetting something.
“I will be all right. I will help command the Milice and the troops while you are away, though I will miss the chance to attack the Anglais bastard.” And here he lets his lip curl in disgust and remembered hatred.
Ludwig’s face relaxed into a smile. “I knew I could depend on you,” he said, reaching a hand out to pat Francis’ shoulder.
Francis doesn’t even realize his body has twisted out and away from Ludwig until the other is blinking at him, puzzled, hand still outstretched.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quick and tight. “I…I am not feeling well.”
“Go home and rest, then. We need you to be strong and healthy.”
They salute one another, sharp and crisp.
Francis doesn’t allow his unease to show until he turns his back.
Ludwig is his friend. Ludwig pulled him from the wreckage and brought him to Vichy –
But something feels wrong. Something in the corner of his mind bubbles and murmurs, something about resistance and deception and de Gaulle.
Arthur.
Francis shakes his head and rubs his temple, trying to ward off the slow, steady onslaught of pain in his temples. He lifts his head and starts off towards his home.
Ludwig is right. A nap sounds really good right now. ___
It is morning on the sixth of June when Francis jolts awake with a gasp, eyes going wide and breath coming short. His heart pounds; his body tingles and twitches.
Something’s wrong.
Francis stumbles out of bed, hears shouting in both French and German.
Sword Beach.
Juno.
Omaha.
Francis can feel it, by God, he can feel the Allies pressing in and around him.
But this is wrong –
They were supposed to come from Pas de Calais –
“We were tricked,” Francis whispers, horrified.
The shock and the numb feelings curdle and shake inside of him before exploding outwards into anger and rage. He marches across the room and out the door, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.
He will not let the Allies have his État Français.
He ignores how he feels himself growing smaller, miniscule, how there’s nothing of his former self left. ___
By the time he and England meet once more in Elbeuf, he is no longer France. He is not even Francis. The Allies and the Axis powers wage war on his lands; his own people fight against one another and in his name. Ludwig has not returned, and
He is whirling and tired and numb. It’s hard to focus; it’s even harder to remember.
It is easy to take the safety off his rifle and let the bullets fly, to let his mind careen between oblivion and lucidity.
By the time he sees a green uniform and sand-blond hair at the end of a street, he’s wondering how his uniform got so stained.
But then the man turns his head, and he sees a sharp profile; thick eyebrows, green eyes. And clarity breaks through his haze – memories of burning ships and broken, bleeding bodies, memories of his men dying at this man’s side –
“Alfred!” the man calls, too focused to see him walk up, cocking his rifle. “Alfred, up here, get your ass in gear –?”
Click.
The man freezes at the feel of his rifle’s barrel pressing against the back of his neck. And he just takes a moment to taste revenge and hate and –
“Francis,” the man says.
“I’m going to kill you,” he snarls back. He’s completely unaware of how inhuman he sounds, how rough.
“You won’t.” The man starts to turn his head; Francis jolts and jabs him with his rifle.
“D-don’t move!”
The man ignores him, turning completely and locking their gazes.
“Try to shoot me, then,” the man says, simple and direct.
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [5/6]
“I – what did you want to discuss?”
Ludwig’s expression slides back into somberness, the stern look of a German soldier. “I am taking some of my troops up to Pas de Calais. The Allies should be invading any day now, and I want to be ready for that. Do you think you can stay here and protect Vichy?”
Francis does not want to deny his friend, but for the first time he feels his throat seize up with panic, with the feeling of something inside of him unspooling and decaying.
“I….” I feel as though I am falling apart. I feel as though I am forgetting something.
“I will be all right. I will help command the Milice and the troops while you are away, though I will miss the chance to attack the Anglais bastard.” And here he lets his lip curl in disgust and remembered hatred.
Ludwig’s face relaxed into a smile. “I knew I could depend on you,” he said, reaching a hand out to pat Francis’ shoulder.
Francis doesn’t even realize his body has twisted out and away from Ludwig until the other is blinking at him, puzzled, hand still outstretched.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quick and tight. “I…I am not feeling well.”
“Go home and rest, then. We need you to be strong and healthy.”
They salute one another, sharp and crisp.
Francis doesn’t allow his unease to show until he turns his back.
Ludwig is his friend. Ludwig pulled him from the wreckage and brought him to Vichy –
But something feels wrong. Something in the corner of his mind bubbles and murmurs, something about resistance and deception and de Gaulle.
Arthur.
Francis shakes his head and rubs his temple, trying to ward off the slow, steady onslaught of pain in his temples. He lifts his head and starts off towards his home.
Ludwig is right. A nap sounds really good right now.
___
It is morning on the sixth of June when Francis jolts awake with a gasp, eyes going wide and breath coming short. His heart pounds; his body tingles and twitches.
Something’s wrong.
Francis stumbles out of bed, hears shouting in both French and German.
Sword Beach.
Juno.
Omaha.
Francis can feel it, by God, he can feel the Allies pressing in and around him.
But this is wrong –
They were supposed to come from Pas de Calais –
“We were tricked,” Francis whispers, horrified.
The shock and the numb feelings curdle and shake inside of him before exploding outwards into anger and rage. He marches across the room and out the door, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.
He will not let the Allies have his État Français.
He ignores how he feels himself growing smaller, miniscule, how there’s nothing of his former self left.
___
By the time he and England meet once more in Elbeuf, he is no longer France. He is not even Francis. The Allies and the Axis powers wage war on his lands; his own people fight against one another and in his name. Ludwig has not returned, and
He is whirling and tired and numb. It’s hard to focus; it’s even harder to remember.
It is easy to take the safety off his rifle and let the bullets fly, to let his mind careen between oblivion and lucidity.
By the time he sees a green uniform and sand-blond hair at the end of a street, he’s wondering how his uniform got so stained.
But then the man turns his head, and he sees a sharp profile; thick eyebrows, green eyes. And clarity breaks through his haze – memories of burning ships and broken, bleeding bodies, memories of his men dying at this man’s side –
“Alfred!” the man calls, too focused to see him walk up, cocking his rifle. “Alfred, up here, get your ass in gear –?”
Click.
The man freezes at the feel of his rifle’s barrel pressing against the back of his neck. And he just takes a moment to taste revenge and hate and –
“Francis,” the man says.
“I’m going to kill you,” he snarls back. He’s completely unaware of how inhuman he sounds, how rough.
“You won’t.” The man starts to turn his head; Francis jolts and jabs him with his rifle.
“D-don’t move!”
The man ignores him, turning completely and locking their gazes.
“Try to shoot me, then,” the man says, simple and direct.