I see that you already have a fill for this, but I did want to give it a try. I hope you enjoy. ___
These are the days he loves best; when it’s just the two of them sitting together in a field, teaching Arthur how to make daisy chains.
But England isn’t here right now, so Francis entertains himself by running his fingers over soft petals and gentle blossoms. It’s funny; when Arthur is here, they do nothing but bicker and argue over Francis draping flower necklaces over Arthur’s tiny neck. But when Francis is alone –
When the boy’s not here, it gets very lonely.
“Francis!”
Francis blinks and looks up. He sees a small figure making its way across the field towards him, small legs almost tangling into one another as he runs. Loneliness melts away and he smiles.
“Did you run all the way over here, brother?” Francis asks, as Arthur doubles over and pants.
“I…I was just being chased!” Arthur says, glaring up at him through shaggy bangs. Francis smiles, indulgent and gentle, though his eyes tell Arthur he knows everything. He’s keeping one hand behind his back.
“What are you hiding from me, Arthur?”
“M’not hiding anything from you!” Arthur snaps, pulling his hand out from behind his back and thrusting a rose at him. “I – I saw this on my way here and thought it was girly and smelly! Like you and your stupid –”
Francis leans forward and kisses Arthur on the nose. “Thank you,” he says, and reaches out to take the rose. His hand closes over the stem, and he feels his skin dimple and give far too late.
“Ow!”
Francis jerks back, holds the rose in his hand. There are thorns on the stem, and a small drop of blood wells up on his punctured thumb.
“…D-did you hurt yourself?” Arthur asks. Francis looks up to find Arthur looking away from him, cheeks flushed, eyes a little bit ashamed. “Y-you should have looked for thorns, y’know.”
And Francis smiles again, because he knows this is Arthur’s way of saying “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind.”
“B-but you’re bleeding, and –”
Francis laughs, puts the rose aside, and holds out his arms, taking one of Arthur’s hands.
“Come sit on my lap, Angleterre, and I shall tell you a secret.” ___
He opens his eyes to a spinning ceiling and a splitting headache. He groans and lets his eyes flutter shut again, willing himself to stay very still.
“Are you awake?”
He does not move; his mouth feels full, his head feels heavy. He’s not so much thinking as floating in murky soup.
“I’ll ask again. Are you awake?”
He opened his eyes again, squinting as the world careened in and out of focus. He somehow managed to fix his stare on a blond, blue-eyed man with a hard face and a solid body.
“I…y-yes,” he rasps out, and wonders why his throat feels so dry. “I…wa-water, please….”
The man fixes him with a piercing glare before standing, and he feels panic as the other leaves the room before he sees a light flicker on and hears a faucet running. His companion emerges a few minutes later, sits down and presses the glass to his lips. “Drink,” he says, “but be slow.”
Francis doesn’t even care that it sounds like an order, his mind winking into a blissful blankness as the water touches his lips, slides onto his tongue and down his throat. His head still hurts, but that’s all right, because at least his throat doesn’t feel shriveled and cracked anymore.
“Thank you,” he manages to say when he’s finished, as the man puts the glass on the bedside table. He lifts a hand to his head and feels hair on his fingertips, gauze on his palm. “Did you save me?”
The man frowns. “What?”
“I….” The man tries to sit up, feels pain lance through his brain and slither down his spine. “Who are you? I don’t…I feel so foggy….”
“What is your name?”
The man’s voice is sharp, but that’s not what causes him to blink once, twice, and lift his head from his palm.
“I’m not sure.”
He looks over at the man he assumes to be his benefactor again and catches him frowning and muttering to himself.
“…perhaps it was the blitzkrieg, there’s no other explanation for this –”
“What?”
The man’s head jerks up, and he seems to realize something. “Oh…it’s nothing.”
He doesn’t shy away as a gloved hand reaches up to touch along his bandaged head. “I am relieved you are all right. When I found you in the alleyway, I thought they’d gotten you….”
“Who?”
The man lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “Why, the undesirables, of course. You are overrun with them – they would have crushed you for sure in Paris, had I not been there to salvage you.”
He frowns. Undesirables. Paris.
Smoke and guns and tanks.
“A battle,” he says. His head hurts a little less now; he feels as though he’s on a tightrope, wobbling, ready to fall one way or another into realization.
“My country – Germany – came to help you against those Jews -” the man almost spits out the word, so it must be bad, “ – and to ensure you stay a free country.”
He frowns. “You saved me?” He feels something taking shape in his mind, just beyond words.
“Yes. And we’ll be more than glad to help you keep your country free. I will have to speak with my boss, but I’m sure something can be arranged.” The man smiles at him, and Francis sees a flash of white teeth. “I suppose if you’d been mortal, you’d be dead right now.”
There.
He remembers; the pain in his head and neck dissipates, and he remembers and feels rage.
“I am no mere human,” he murmurs, flings off the sheets and stands. His uniform is stained with blood and too warm, but it doesn’t matter as he looks back at his savior. “You aren’t, either.”
The man grins up at him. “I am Ludwig. You may call me Germany, if you want.”
Francis pauses a moment before he speaks.
“I am Francis Bonnefoy. I am the État Français.”
They grin at one another, dark, conspiring. ___
The next time they meet, it is at Compiègne, standing behind their respective bosses as they speak in low tones and discuss the armistice.
Francis stands with his back straight and his eyes forward, fixed on Ludwig’s. His eyes are blue, but a lighter shade than his own. It does not matter much, anyway – Ludwig has assured that his Führer would fully support eugenics research in France – what better way to weed out the same impurities that tore him down?
Francis remembers more from that day, thanks to Ludwig’s testimonies. He remembers how men with dark hair and eyes and Stars of David beat him with the backs of their guns, how they kicked him when he begged and wept and pleaded for them to stop – saved only when Ludwig had found them over his unconscious, bleeding form.
Francis grins at Ludwig in gratitude; the other does not react, merely looks down as his boss puts his final signature on the Armistice. Ludwig does not show much emotion; that’s fine with him. Ludwig is his savior, not his friend; it’s enough to feel gratitude simply for that.
Francis closes his eyes as Pétain signs the armistice. And he feels something welling up within him, strong and overpowering – the feeling of a free state, his state, here in Vichy.
He does not feel something break away at the same time, too consumed in the feeling of independence to realize he’s merely gotten smaller. ___
By the time he meets England on the shores of Mers-el-Kébir, Francis has learned to sense just who is a Nation, and who is not. So when he steps through the carnage of his thousand sailors, he directs his glare straight at the man with shaggy hair and caterpillar eyebrows.
“Francis,” England says, and lets his bayonet slip from his fingers and to the ground.
Through his own rage, Francis doesn’t see the regret in England’s eyes.
“They were my men,” Francis says simply, and keeps his voice strict. England’s head snaps up at that, and Francis wonders at the bewildered look in those green eyes. It’s only there for a moment, though, and melts away to be replaced by anger.
“Th-they were a threat to us!” England says as Francis walks towards him, step by careful step. “If the Nazis had taken your Navy, they’d be in the perfect position to challenge our –”
England is so busy with his pathetic defense that he does not see the butt of Francis’ rifle come up and catch him hard across the jaw. ___ More tomorrow, hopefully.
OP is really in love with what you have so far. I like your idea of Francis having a kind of selective amnesia as well as that nice flashback in the beginning. Can't wait to see more~
The flashback was adorable! And Francis' amnesia makes it all the more heart-wrenching. I especially love the way you portray Ludwig. Not wanting to be cruel, but is forced to be.
And also, if this isn't deja-vu, the refenerence to the sinking of France's Navy. I just read another fill based on it. ;__;
You win many internets! Please continue! I can't wait to find out how this plays out.
“They were my men,” Francis says. He keeps his voice cold and measured as England looks up at him from the ground, pathetic and sniveling. “You are no ally of mine, England.”
England’s eyes don’t break from his, so it’s easy to bend down and grip his slender chin in a firm grasp. “You looked so proud in the paintings Ludwig showed me,” he murmurs. “And look at you now.”
He drops his hand and turns on his heel, walking away.
“Francis,” he hears England call. He keeps walking.
“Francis! What’s my name? Call me by my name, dammit!”
Francis does not look back.
“Francis!”
Francis refuses to answer, and his ignorance is a thick, impenetrable wall between them that grows with every step he takes around the corpses. ___
Not everyone is as stubborn as England.
“Look, Francis, we’re not saying that you shouldn’t be friends with Germany,” America says, and Francis excuses him as he plants his elbows on the table. “We’re just saying you shouldn’t go too far with your support.”
Francis thinks about this over a long sip of wine. “Clarify,” he says, his smile all smooth and velvet as he grins at America and Canada.
America leans back, rubs his eyes, and sighs. “Look. I’m just saying that if it isn’t directly listed in the armistice, you shouldn’t do it, you know?”
“Why not?”
“Because –” America’s fingers twitch against the tablecloth as he sighs, “it might affect the Allied Forces.”
“And why should you care? You are not in this war, correct?” Francis asks. “So it should not matter to you.”
“Matthew’s fighting for the Allies!” America counters.
Canada’s head jerks up. “W-wait a minute, Al, I recognize Francis’ state, don’t be like that –”
Francis frowns. Something feels wrong. “Who are you talking about?” he asks. “Who are ‘Matthew’ and ‘Al’?”
Both boys stop talking to stare at him. Canada’s brows knit in confusion. “Francis? Are you all right?”
“What kind of question is that?” They are Canada and America. He has seen pictures of both, has heard Ludwig talk about how important it is that they recognize Francis’ government in Vichy….
Matthew. Al. It’s familiar.
Francis’ eyes flicker to the mantelpiece as he thinks. He loses the train of thought as he realizes what time it is. “Ah. I, ah, thank you for this meeting, but I’m afraid I have to go,” he says, standing and taking his coat from the back of the chair. “I have several rounds to make today, I’m afraid. It’s been a pleasure to speak with you both, Canada, America.”
He sees their confused looks for about a split second before Francis turns on his heel and walks across the room, out the door, and down the hall.
Perhaps they were just surprised with such civil treatment. He knows that they’re both interacting with England, after all, and the damn man could be so rude –
He shoves the thought of England from his mind and keeps walking.
The curfew on the Jews will not enforce itself, after all. ___
“You’re running things here very well,” Ludwig says.
“Thank you. I’m doing my best.”
“Mm.”
Ludwig and Francis stand outside the entrance of Camp Gurs, watching the rows and rows of undesirables slouch towards imprisonment in neat little lines.
“It’s a disappointment that we lost Russia as an ally,” Francis murmurs, and feels Ludwig flinch beside him.
“…Mm,” the other says after a moment.
Francis smiles, half-curled lips hiding a secret. “You were the one to pull me from the wreckage,” Francis murmurs, looking at Ludwig out of the corner of one blue eye. “It’s only natural that I follow you.”
He sees Ludwig return the smile, a modest flick of the edge of his mouth. “Of course,” Ludwig says, quiet and gentle.
A girl stumbles past them, cries out as the quick pace of the line makes her stumble and drop what’s in her hand. The sky is heavy with clouds, and the inmates don’t wear colorful clothing.
Perhaps that’s what makes the yellow rose and its vibrant, green stem stand out against the cobblestones and backdrop of Paris.
Francis blinks at it and stares. The smile drops from his face, and Ludwig’s voice becomes static and vague.
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.
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.
He smirks, and his finger twitches against the trigger, ready to blow the man’s brains onto the street in a spray of blood.
A moment passes. Two.
The man watches as he starts to shake, as his smirk turns into a snarl of frustration.
“Why – why won’t my finger –”
The man reaches up and lowers the rifle with one hand, uses his other to pry his fingers from the trigger. “You used that finger,” the man says, the smallest of sad smiles twitching at his lips.
He shakes harder; the man lowers the rifle to the ground and reaches into his breast pocket, pulling something out – something red and delicate and wrong amidst the debris and death.
The man says nothing as he presses the rose into his hand, closes long, slender fingers around its stem. He hisses as he feels several sharp stings in his palm, and the slow, wet, stickiness of blood.
“Do you remember?” the man asks.
“What is there to –”
“It’s there, Francis. Just let it come.”
Francis gasps as something rings through him from the cuts in his palm.
“It is not such a bad thing to bleed sometimes,” Francis says, rubbing one of his thumbs across the back of Arthur’s tiny hand.
“But it hurts and it’s going to scar!”
“It does,” Francis says, and his gaze lifts from the shaggy mop of blond hair to his thumb, wrapped in a piece of Arthur’s cape. “And it will. But that is a good thing. It is a memory I share with you and of the lovely rose you gave me.”
“I-I didn’t give it to you! And you’re stupid, to remember something like that!”
Francis laughs and presses his cheek to Arthur’s head.
“My Arthur, I am the thumb, and you, the thorny rose. You pierce through me and linger through the sweet scars you leave.”
When Francis opens his eyes again, he’s not looking at the vague man, he’s not even looking at England. He’s looking at Arthur, at Arthur, and finally he remembers.
Arthur gazes back at him for a moment, lifts a hand and runs his fingertips over Francis’ cheek. “They’re still there, aren’t they?” Arthur asks. “Those scars.”
“Arthur,” Francis whispers, and then he feels synapses and neurons connect and spark, overloading him with memories of Matthew and Alfred and his friends, his dear friends and who he is –
The memories overload him. Francis’ eyes roll back into his head, and he tumbles forward into Arthur as he blacks out. ___
When Francis comes to again, he is warm and safe, resting in a makeshift bed with a heavy blanket draped over him and a pounding headache. It takes him a few moments to realize the blanket is Arthur.
“Angleterre,” he murmurs, lifts a hand and runs it over the man’s hair. Arthur shifts, tightens his arms around Francis’ neck.
“Three days,” Arthur murmurs, making Francis jerk in surprise. “You…you’ve been asleep for three days, you git. I….”
Francis runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair and doesn’t speak.
“Who are you?” Arthur asks.
“I am Francis Bonnefoy. Also known as France by others.”
Arthur sniffles and presses his face into France’s neck.
“…It hurt,” Arthur murmurs. “You bloody wanker, you just…just cutting off contact like that – making me worry about you –”
Francis feels his lips quirk up in a grin. “Ah, Arthur, am I your thorny rose as well?” he asks, and braces himself for the inevitable smack by squeezing his eyes shut.
Instead, Francis feels trembling fingers curl against his cheek. “I wish you weren’t sometimes,” he whispers. “By God, I wish you weren’t.”
“Do you mean that?”
Francis feels warm breath over his lips.
“No,” Arthur says. “I suppose I don’t.”
And when Arthur presses their lips together, Francis tilts his head back and accepts it, accepts Arthur, accepts his rose and the dew that drops onto his cheeks along with all its thorns. ___
I’m hoping the other!anon will come back with something that sucks slightly less. I might expand on this and out myself someday, but that will be long in coming; I have many other fills I’d like to do in the meantime.
I hope the OP and others enjoyed this somewhat, nonetheless. Thanks to all for reading.
Author!anon, you're officially my hero. I just... simply LOVE this. I really liked how you portrayed Francis' train of thought as he was starting to realize that something was wrong. And that flashback scene and the ending scene were just amazing.
Thanks so much for the lovely fill, anon♥ I'll probably be re-reading this over and over throughout the next week or something just because this is so good!
This... This tore at my heart a little. The amnesia part, the sweet memories at the beginning of the fill, the shared significance of the rose between Arthur and Francis, and of course just about everything else.
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And You, the Thorny Rose [1/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-21 10:01 pm (UTC)(link)___
These are the days he loves best; when it’s just the two of them sitting together in a field, teaching Arthur how to make daisy chains.
But England isn’t here right now, so Francis entertains himself by running his fingers over soft petals and gentle blossoms. It’s funny; when Arthur is here, they do nothing but bicker and argue over Francis draping flower necklaces over Arthur’s tiny neck. But when Francis is alone –
When the boy’s not here, it gets very lonely.
“Francis!”
Francis blinks and looks up. He sees a small figure making its way across the field towards him, small legs almost tangling into one another as he runs. Loneliness melts away and he smiles.
“Did you run all the way over here, brother?” Francis asks, as Arthur doubles over and pants.
“I…I was just being chased!” Arthur says, glaring up at him through shaggy bangs. Francis smiles, indulgent and gentle, though his eyes tell Arthur he knows everything. He’s keeping one hand behind his back.
“What are you hiding from me, Arthur?”
“M’not hiding anything from you!” Arthur snaps, pulling his hand out from behind his back and thrusting a rose at him. “I – I saw this on my way here and thought it was girly and smelly! Like you and your stupid –”
Francis leans forward and kisses Arthur on the nose. “Thank you,” he says, and reaches out to take the rose. His hand closes over the stem, and he feels his skin dimple and give far too late.
“Ow!”
Francis jerks back, holds the rose in his hand. There are thorns on the stem, and a small drop of blood wells up on his punctured thumb.
“…D-did you hurt yourself?” Arthur asks. Francis looks up to find Arthur looking away from him, cheeks flushed, eyes a little bit ashamed. “Y-you should have looked for thorns, y’know.”
And Francis smiles again, because he knows this is Arthur’s way of saying “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind.”
“B-but you’re bleeding, and –”
Francis laughs, puts the rose aside, and holds out his arms, taking one of Arthur’s hands.
“Come sit on my lap, Angleterre, and I shall tell you a secret.”
___
He opens his eyes to a spinning ceiling and a splitting headache. He groans and lets his eyes flutter shut again, willing himself to stay very still.
“Are you awake?”
He does not move; his mouth feels full, his head feels heavy. He’s not so much thinking as floating in murky soup.
“I’ll ask again. Are you awake?”
He opened his eyes again, squinting as the world careened in and out of focus. He somehow managed to fix his stare on a blond, blue-eyed man with a hard face and a solid body.
“I…y-yes,” he rasps out, and wonders why his throat feels so dry. “I…wa-water, please….”
The man fixes him with a piercing glare before standing, and he feels panic as the other leaves the room before he sees a light flicker on and hears a faucet running. His companion emerges a few minutes later, sits down and presses the glass to his lips. “Drink,” he says, “but be slow.”
Francis doesn’t even care that it sounds like an order, his mind winking into a blissful blankness as the water touches his lips, slides onto his tongue and down his throat. His head still hurts, but that’s all right, because at least his throat doesn’t feel shriveled and cracked anymore.
“Thank you,” he manages to say when he’s finished, as the man puts the glass on the bedside table. He lifts a hand to his head and feels hair on his fingertips, gauze on his palm. “Did you save me?”
The man frowns. “What?”
“I….” The man tries to sit up, feels pain lance through his brain and slither down his spine. “Who are you? I don’t…I feel so foggy….”
“What is your name?”
The man’s voice is sharp, but that’s not what causes him to blink once, twice, and lift his head from his palm.
“I’m not sure.”
He looks over at the man he assumes to be his benefactor again and catches him frowning and muttering to himself.
“…perhaps it was the blitzkrieg, there’s no other explanation for this –”
“What?”
The man’s head jerks up, and he seems to realize something. “Oh…it’s nothing.”
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [2/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-21 10:03 pm (UTC)(link)“Who?”
The man lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “Why, the undesirables, of course. You are overrun with them – they would have crushed you for sure in Paris, had I not been there to salvage you.”
He frowns. Undesirables. Paris.
Smoke and guns and tanks.
“A battle,” he says. His head hurts a little less now; he feels as though he’s on a tightrope, wobbling, ready to fall one way or another into realization.
“My country – Germany – came to help you against those Jews -” the man almost spits out the word, so it must be bad, “ – and to ensure you stay a free country.”
He frowns. “You saved me?” He feels something taking shape in his mind, just beyond words.
“Yes. And we’ll be more than glad to help you keep your country free. I will have to speak with my boss, but I’m sure something can be arranged.” The man smiles at him, and Francis sees a flash of white teeth. “I suppose if you’d been mortal, you’d be dead right now.”
There.
He remembers; the pain in his head and neck dissipates, and he remembers and feels rage.
“I am no mere human,” he murmurs, flings off the sheets and stands. His uniform is stained with blood and too warm, but it doesn’t matter as he looks back at his savior. “You aren’t, either.”
The man grins up at him. “I am Ludwig. You may call me Germany, if you want.”
Francis pauses a moment before he speaks.
“I am Francis Bonnefoy. I am the État Français.”
They grin at one another, dark, conspiring.
___
The next time they meet, it is at Compiègne, standing behind their respective bosses as they speak in low tones and discuss the armistice.
Francis stands with his back straight and his eyes forward, fixed on Ludwig’s. His eyes are blue, but a lighter shade than his own. It does not matter much, anyway – Ludwig has assured that his Führer would fully support eugenics research in France – what better way to weed out the same impurities that tore him down?
Francis remembers more from that day, thanks to Ludwig’s testimonies. He remembers how men with dark hair and eyes and Stars of David beat him with the backs of their guns, how they kicked him when he begged and wept and pleaded for them to stop – saved only when Ludwig had found them over his unconscious, bleeding form.
Francis grins at Ludwig in gratitude; the other does not react, merely looks down as his boss puts his final signature on the Armistice. Ludwig does not show much emotion; that’s fine with him. Ludwig is his savior, not his friend; it’s enough to feel gratitude simply for that.
Francis closes his eyes as Pétain signs the armistice. And he feels something welling up within him, strong and overpowering – the feeling of a free state, his state, here in Vichy.
He does not feel something break away at the same time, too consumed in the feeling of independence to realize he’s merely gotten smaller.
___
By the time he meets England on the shores of Mers-el-Kébir, Francis has learned to sense just who is a Nation, and who is not. So when he steps through the carnage of his thousand sailors, he directs his glare straight at the man with shaggy hair and caterpillar eyebrows.
“Francis,” England says, and lets his bayonet slip from his fingers and to the ground.
Through his own rage, Francis doesn’t see the regret in England’s eyes.
“They were my men,” Francis says simply, and keeps his voice strict. England’s head snaps up at that, and Francis wonders at the bewildered look in those green eyes. It’s only there for a moment, though, and melts away to be replaced by anger.
“Th-they were a threat to us!” England says as Francis walks towards him, step by careful step. “If the Nazis had taken your Navy, they’d be in the perfect position to challenge our –”
England is so busy with his pathetic defense that he does not see the butt of Francis’ rifle come up and catch him hard across the jaw.
___
More tomorrow, hopefully.
OP
(Anonymous) 2009-05-23 07:41 am (UTC)(link)I like your idea of Francis having a kind of selective amnesia as well as that nice flashback in the beginning. Can't wait to see more~
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [2/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-23 07:16 pm (UTC)(link)I look forward to reading more!
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [2/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-23 07:23 pm (UTC)(link)And also, if this isn't deja-vu, the refenerence to the sinking of France's Navy. I just read another fill based on it. ;__;
You win many internets! Please continue! I can't wait to find out how this plays out.
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-26 03:47 am (UTC)(link)England’s eyes don’t break from his, so it’s easy to bend down and grip his slender chin in a firm grasp. “You looked so proud in the paintings Ludwig showed me,” he murmurs. “And look at you now.”
He drops his hand and turns on his heel, walking away.
“Francis,” he hears England call. He keeps walking.
“Francis! What’s my name? Call me by my name, dammit!”
Francis does not look back.
“Francis!”
Francis refuses to answer, and his ignorance is a thick, impenetrable wall between them that grows with every step he takes around the corpses.
___
Not everyone is as stubborn as England.
“Look, Francis, we’re not saying that you shouldn’t be friends with Germany,” America says, and Francis excuses him as he plants his elbows on the table. “We’re just saying you shouldn’t go too far with your support.”
Francis thinks about this over a long sip of wine. “Clarify,” he says, his smile all smooth and velvet as he grins at America and Canada.
America leans back, rubs his eyes, and sighs. “Look. I’m just saying that if it isn’t directly listed in the armistice, you shouldn’t do it, you know?”
“Why not?”
“Because –” America’s fingers twitch against the tablecloth as he sighs, “it might affect the Allied Forces.”
“And why should you care? You are not in this war, correct?” Francis asks. “So it should not matter to you.”
“Matthew’s fighting for the Allies!” America counters.
Canada’s head jerks up. “W-wait a minute, Al, I recognize Francis’ state, don’t be like that –”
Francis frowns. Something feels wrong. “Who are you talking about?” he asks. “Who are ‘Matthew’ and ‘Al’?”
Both boys stop talking to stare at him. Canada’s brows knit in confusion. “Francis? Are you all right?”
“What kind of question is that?” They are Canada and America. He has seen pictures of both, has heard Ludwig talk about how important it is that they recognize Francis’ government in Vichy….
Matthew. Al. It’s familiar.
Francis’ eyes flicker to the mantelpiece as he thinks. He loses the train of thought as he realizes what time it is. “Ah. I, ah, thank you for this meeting, but I’m afraid I have to go,” he says, standing and taking his coat from the back of the chair. “I have several rounds to make today, I’m afraid. It’s been a pleasure to speak with you both, Canada, America.”
He sees their confused looks for about a split second before Francis turns on his heel and walks across the room, out the door, and down the hall.
Perhaps they were just surprised with such civil treatment. He knows that they’re both interacting with England, after all, and the damn man could be so rude –
He shoves the thought of England from his mind and keeps walking.
The curfew on the Jews will not enforce itself, after all.
___
“You’re running things here very well,” Ludwig says.
“Thank you. I’m doing my best.”
“Mm.”
Ludwig and Francis stand outside the entrance of Camp Gurs, watching the rows and rows of undesirables slouch towards imprisonment in neat little lines.
“It’s a disappointment that we lost Russia as an ally,” Francis murmurs, and feels Ludwig flinch beside him.
“…Mm,” the other says after a moment.
Francis smiles, half-curled lips hiding a secret. “You were the one to pull me from the wreckage,” Francis murmurs, looking at Ludwig out of the corner of one blue eye. “It’s only natural that I follow you.”
He sees Ludwig return the smile, a modest flick of the edge of his mouth. “Of course,” Ludwig says, quiet and gentle.
A girl stumbles past them, cries out as the quick pace of the line makes her stumble and drop what’s in her hand. The sky is heavy with clouds, and the inmates don’t wear colorful clothing.
Perhaps that’s what makes the yellow rose and its vibrant, green stem stand out against the cobblestones and backdrop of Paris.
Francis blinks at it and stares. The smile drops from his face, and Ludwig’s voice becomes static and vague.
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-26 01:08 pm (UTC)(link)G-great job, anon! ¤___¤ this is so awesome. I love how Vichy!France would have memory loss...
Keep it up!
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-26 04:23 pm (UTC)(link)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/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-27 08:05 am (UTC)(link)Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-27 10:00 am (UTC)(link)Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [5/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-28 02:54 am (UTC)(link)“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.
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [6/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-28 02:55 am (UTC)(link)A moment passes. Two.
The man watches as he starts to shake, as his smirk turns into a snarl of frustration.
“Why – why won’t my finger –”
The man reaches up and lowers the rifle with one hand, uses his other to pry his fingers from the trigger. “You used that finger,” the man says, the smallest of sad smiles twitching at his lips.
He shakes harder; the man lowers the rifle to the ground and reaches into his breast pocket, pulling something out – something red and delicate and wrong amidst the debris and death.
The man says nothing as he presses the rose into his hand, closes long, slender fingers around its stem. He hisses as he feels several sharp stings in his palm, and the slow, wet, stickiness of blood.
“Do you remember?” the man asks.
“What is there to –”
“It’s there, Francis. Just let it come.”
Francis gasps as something rings through him from the cuts in his palm.
“It is not such a bad thing to bleed sometimes,” Francis says, rubbing one of his thumbs across the back of Arthur’s tiny hand.
“But it hurts and it’s going to scar!”
“It does,” Francis says, and his gaze lifts from the shaggy mop of blond hair to his thumb, wrapped in a piece of Arthur’s cape. “And it will. But that is a good thing. It is a memory I share with you and of the lovely rose you gave me.”
“I-I didn’t give it to you! And you’re stupid, to remember something like that!”
Francis laughs and presses his cheek to Arthur’s head.
“My Arthur, I am the thumb, and you, the thorny rose. You pierce through me and linger through the sweet scars you leave.”
When Francis opens his eyes again, he’s not looking at the vague man, he’s not even looking at England. He’s looking at Arthur, at Arthur, and finally he remembers.
Arthur gazes back at him for a moment, lifts a hand and runs his fingertips over Francis’ cheek. “They’re still there, aren’t they?” Arthur asks. “Those scars.”
“Arthur,” Francis whispers, and then he feels synapses and neurons connect and spark, overloading him with memories of Matthew and Alfred and his friends, his dear friends and who he is –
The memories overload him. Francis’ eyes roll back into his head, and he tumbles forward into Arthur as he blacks out.
___
When Francis comes to again, he is warm and safe, resting in a makeshift bed with a heavy blanket draped over him and a pounding headache. It takes him a few moments to realize the blanket is Arthur.
“Angleterre,” he murmurs, lifts a hand and runs it over the man’s hair. Arthur shifts, tightens his arms around Francis’ neck.
“Three days,” Arthur murmurs, making Francis jerk in surprise. “You…you’ve been asleep for three days, you git. I….”
Francis runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair and doesn’t speak.
“Who are you?” Arthur asks.
“I am Francis Bonnefoy. Also known as France by others.”
Arthur sniffles and presses his face into France’s neck.
“…It hurt,” Arthur murmurs. “You bloody wanker, you just…just cutting off contact like that – making me worry about you –”
Francis feels his lips quirk up in a grin. “Ah, Arthur, am I your thorny rose as well?” he asks, and braces himself for the inevitable smack by squeezing his eyes shut.
Instead, Francis feels trembling fingers curl against his cheek. “I wish you weren’t sometimes,” he whispers. “By God, I wish you weren’t.”
“Do you mean that?”
Francis feels warm breath over his lips.
“No,” Arthur says. “I suppose I don’t.”
And when Arthur presses their lips together, Francis tilts his head back and accepts it, accepts Arthur, accepts his rose and the dew that drops onto his cheeks along with all its thorns.
___
I’m hoping the other!anon will come back with something that sucks slightly less. I might expand on this and out myself someday, but that will be long in coming; I have many other fills I’d like to do in the meantime.
I hope the OP and others enjoyed this somewhat, nonetheless. Thanks to all for reading.
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [6/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-28 04:14 am (UTC)(link)Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [6/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-28 06:06 am (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2009-05-28 06:13 am (UTC)(link)I just... simply LOVE this. I really liked how you portrayed Francis' train of thought as he was starting to realize that something was wrong. And that flashback scene and the ending scene were just amazing.
Thanks so much for the lovely fill, anon♥
I'll probably be re-reading this over and over throughout the next week or something just because this is so good!
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [6/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-28 07:09 am (UTC)(link)Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [6/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-06-02 02:20 pm (UTC)(link)Thank you author!anon for this.