January 6, 2013
Dear Jeanne,
Happy birthday. You don't think I forgot, do you? I would never forget today, not after you insisted that I remember it forever. A lot of the other nations remember the day you died. Honestly, I don't. And the others don't remind me.
I miss you. Every day I miss you. I miss everything about you. I miss your smile, your laugh, the sweet smell of your hair, the way your eyes lit up when we spoke of something you liked. I miss those calm afternoons we would find time for, even in the middle of a war. We'd sit on the riverbank in the grass and talk for hours.
In case you're wondering, I've been doing fine. I get through the day without too much trouble for the most part. I do have days where I wake up and don't even want to be here anymore. Then I think of you and how you would want me to persevere and I make myself push through the day. I don't have very many depressed moments where thinking about you won't help. Although, I'll admit sometimes thinking of you makes me sad. Those are the days when Antonio or Gilbert help me back on my feet, remind me of what I already know: you would want me to push on.
England and I don't fight very much anymore. We still get on each other's nerves, but otherwise we leave each other alone. He's preoccupied with America—remember him? I told you about him some centuries back—and since we worked together during the World Wars in the early 1900s and 1940s, we've been relatively normal towards each other.
Did I ever tell you he apologized to me about what happened? Not the war, but you. It was on one of my down days, when I wasn't being particularly talkative. During a break in the world meeting, he pulled me aside and said he was sorry. It wasn't easily or lightly said, and I appreciated it more than I could say.
I could fill an entire book with things to say to you, but I know you're probably watching me from wherever you are and you know how things are. I miss you so much, and I love you. I will always love you.
Sincerely,
Francis
He folded the letter and put it in an envelope, sealing it and signing Jeanne's name on the front. He stood from his desk and moved to the fireplace in his office, turning the gas on and lighting it. He took the letter from the desk and threw it into the flames, watching it burn. It was a tradition Antonio had suggested to him not long after Jeanne died.
"Write her letters, and then burn them as a way of sending them up to her. Maybe you'll still feel like she's here."
It had helped Francis a lot during the years following Jeanne's death. For a long time, he wrote her letters both on her birthday and the anniversary of her death. Not long after, he decided he wanted to forget the latter. He never read about the war in historical books, and he insisted that no one else remind him of the date. It had disappeared from his mind, and he preferred it that way. He could still remember her request.
"Francis…when I die, promise me you won't remember how I died, but rather remember how I lived."
Another FranceXJeanne for you guys, because I have serious feels. This one isn't nearly as sad as my other one, Broken Promise. I'm thinking about compiling a bunch of FranceXJeanne one-shots into a 100-theme challenge.
Also, this is a new headcanon of mine. France writes letters to Jeanne on her birthday. I think it's sweet and something he'd do.
Review and let me know what you thought!