Shackles.
Metal against metal. Like the sound of swords but thicker. French swords. English shackles. The fiery feisty girl lost to the fire. Charred, marred body paraded like a treasure. Oh mon dieu. Oh God in the heavens, in His stained glass cathedrals, in her eyes, in the cool touch of streams. Streams as in water streams. Pure water. Pure water so chaste and so pure and so chaste. Like Jehanne- how she signed her name in a shaky script.
Bite the dust as you fall down, bite the dust, he hears the one before him speak. Grinding teeth, accusing glares from across the meeting room. Odd strand of hair obscured by gel. Odd strand so very prominent as he ran through shallow streams of water. He is like Jehanne. Lost to the fire, but not the same fire. He imagines the dust in his mouth- dry, salty, painful to his throat that once sang for little rabbits. Had a good voice, wrong technique though. He clears it out with imaginary streaming water. Heavy with innocence. So, so heavy.
He sins, he does. He sins so much. His only escape the scent of skin to clog his mind from thinking. He smirks. He whispers something in that good voice. The thick alluring and poisonous voice. He did not use this voice while singing to rabbits or to the little thick-browed country. Not to the sky blue eyed one with the odd hair. Not to the little baby who he found in vast amounts of snow. The little baby so much like Jehanne, although quieter. He learned to write well in a pretty script. So pious. Innocent. Violet eyes stare up at him.
It takes him a while to realise this is not his little baby His little Nouvelle France (Jehanne would've adored him when he was little.). But they are not eyes of adoration. It is someone else he has brought to taint. Another relief. Another notch upon his bedpost. He can predict what happens. The boy would moan. Scream. Noises that will bring heat to pool at his stomach. Once the boy is asleep he will wipe his sin away from his thighs. Put on his clothes and leave the room. He will never see the boy again.
The aggression is not because he is passionate about this. It is just in his blood. It is just in his character. Just routine.
He pushes the boy on the bed. Inexperienced teenager. He knows it. The boy blushes and shies away. He grabs the hand, pins it to the headboard. Straddles.
And then he lets go and gets off.
"Go home." He tells the boy with violet eyes. He stares back incredulously.
"I said go home!" It sounds more like begging than scolding.
It is not night yet. The boy will go home. The boy will try to forget about it. He hopes.
He runs to the cathedral. Musty smells of incense. He can taste it and imagines it in his mouth, erasing the bitter taste of sin, the bitter taste of bitten dust. Here the metal is not the metal of blades and bondages, but of rusty crucifixes and their corpus christi, their rosary beads long forgotten and dusty. But he can't help looking at Jehanne. He swears he's seen a tear trickle down the brass cheek. During the revolution, at dawn, searching sanctuary from the outside. Swears to Dieu.
He sits himself near the confessional box. Maybe he'll leave. He probably will. But he sees something catch sunlight near the statue. Ah. The tears. Like pure cool water from the stream.
His tear is not cool, it is warm. A remainder that he is alive.
But it doesn't matter. He might go in and face the priest behind the box. He might just sit here. But he is happy to sit in the ethereal silence, spoken by the lips of an angel.
A ghosting chaste kiss on his forehead.
Drabble-ish. It's a bit weird, but yeah. Ah well, I'm always in a dilemna of what is appropriate in my stories cause I've been raised with really strict Catholic principles. I've always loved Normalhuman!France and Jeanne, and I find there's a lack of such fics. Review please -puppy eyes-? #forevernoreviews.
Disclaimer time- If I owned Hetalia, a lot of your happy time would be destroyed. :/