This is very, very rough, but I loved the idea, and there is not enough Revolutionary!France in proportion to Revolutionary!America. Seriously. Way more angst in the latter.

For the record, this personification of Death is supposed to be the one from the Viennese musical 'Elisabeth', which I've just been acquainted with and will likely love forever. I'm not putting this in the cross-over section because people can read this and still get it if they're unfamiliar with 'Elisabeth'. For those who are familiar with the musical, please envision Uwe Kröger's incarnation of Der Tod (sighs, utterly in love).

Disclaimer- Neither Hidekaz Himuraya's personifications of Nations nor the personification of Death indigenous to 'Elisabeth' are mine. Pity.

Ou Mort

Francis has apparently met Death several times before in his lifetime, but he first recognizes him in the midst of the Revolution. He remembers that same face in the mobs of the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre (1), years and years before. It occurs to him that his visitor was no mortal, and no Nation either. The knowledge in his visitor's eyes is older than any Nation's. Slowly, through the haze of drugs that his mind has become, Francis puts two and two together.

"Monsieur La Mort," he murmurs, and twists the bedsheets in his restless spidery hands. He calls Death 'Monsieur' because of the clothes that he wears, and not through any actual certainty of his gender. "It's not often that I get a visitor of such gravitas in my humble abode. What is the occasion? Have you come to take me away, perhaps? Is there a young one born of Liberté-Égalité-Fraternité (2) to take my place?"

"No, Francis Bonnefoy," Death promises. "You have a long time before that eventuality."

"What is a long time to you?" Francis whispers.

"That's immaterial," Death smiles reassuringly sitting down on the bed beside Francis. "You needn't be scared of me, Francis. I've been with you ever since your first battle, when you couldn't even hold a sword in your two small hands, when you made your first kill."

"... Mon dieu, I don't remember my first kill," Francis laughs weakly, and offers a drink from his bedside table that Death politely declines. "They started to run together in my head after the first century or so."

"I find it strange that you Nations start to forget little things like that," Death says softly.

"I remember what my people choose to remember," Francis says, though this is a lie he tells to every leader who asks him about his sometimes defunct remembrances. "My memories are regulated to what's been written. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Why don't I believe you?" Death asks pityingly, and his hand strays to Francis' cheek. His touch is strangely comforting, the promise of a long rest after too long a day. Francis finds himself leaning into Death's hand, though he knows it's unnaturally morbid. But it's been too long since he's been deprived of the comfort of an embrace.

"I am tired," Francis admits after a moment, "and when I am tired, I like to forget."

"Yes, many do."

"It's not bad that I like to forget, right?" Francis insists, finding a need to defend himself in the face of that obtuse response. "Many others remember for me, old men with thick glasses and an education that have backs the shape of upside-down 'j's from reading the books all the time. I... ah, why are you laughing... are you even real? Or did I just make you up?"

"I am not laughing at you, Francis," Death assures, and his lilting chuckle subsides. "And though you probably don't believe me, I am quite real, or as real as I can be. You can remember me, can you not?"

"Oui, mais..."

"However anecdotal it may be, I daresay that your memory is as trustworthy as it has always been, even with that drug in your veins," Death says, attempting to dispel Francis' doubt before it even leaves his lips. Leaning forward conspirationally, intimately, he continues. "You doubt yourself only because they doubt you. Don't you believe deep-down, that you are succeeding?"

"At what price?" Francis says, and he knows that Death can hear the weariness in his voice, the unconscious plea for his kiss. "Why must everything come at such a price?"

"Well, to paraphrase your dearly departed Queen, when you can't afford bread, go eat cake (3)."

Death smiles cruelly, and leaves Francis in agony.

Historical Notes

1. The St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre was an extremely bloody clash between the Roman Catholics and a religious group called the Huguenots starting on August 23, 1572 (St. Bartholomew's Day, of course). The violence was mainly directed at the Huguenots, and was believed to have been triggered by the marriage of Henry III of Navarre and Marguerite de Valois, which took place six days earlier.

2. Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité ou Mort is believed to have been the rallying cry in the French Revolution. Translated, it means, 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death'. It remains the national motto of France, according to wikipedia.

3. In the time following the Revolution, Marie-Antoinette (apparently) said, in response to complaints over the high price of bread, "Let them eat cake", which displayed, in several people's minds, an ignorance and callousness over her citizens' plight.