This was posted before on my previous account on 18/10/12.

Author's Note: My first Hetalia fic ever, so please be gentle regarding errors? :D Inspiration for this fic was sparked by the meme 'Draw me like one of your French girls' - no, seriously - and one of France's listed hobbies being sketching. I intend for this to be a series of vaguely connected one-shots, but who knows?

This chapter is set during the time France first acquires Canada. She is around 5-6 years old in human years, so yeah, no romance in this one. Human names are used and, while I prefer Mathilda for fem!Canada usually, I went with Madeleine here.

1. Inspiration

When he first sees her, she is just a child. As cute as he remembers Feliciano to have been, but in a different way. Wide violet eyes framed by pale blond strands of hair, chubby-cheeked and cherubic, little body awkwardly clad in a dress that matches her eyes but is one size too big for her.

Francis feels proud and protective; proud because he managed to secure her to himself, protective because she looks so fragile it almost frightens him. He carefully holds out his hand and watches her study the long fingers and perfect nails curiously.

"Take my hand, ma cherie." he tells her softly, in a voice he hopes is reassuring, and she glances up at his face, violet catching sight of blue.

When she takes his hand without hesitation, Francis feels his heart warm in a way it never has before.

He sits her down with him on the luxuriously comfortable couch near the fireplace and tells her fairytales, watches her face transform into wonder as his language swirls in the air around them. She does not understand French yet, but he can tell, she appreciates it nevertheless.

He will teach her eventually. One day she will be able to understand it as well as he, and she will sing all the songs that are so dear to him and so many of his countrymen.

For now she drifts off to sleep in his lap and he brushes through her hair and marvels at how much it feels like sand. He wonders if it's the flickering lights from the fireplace or just her innocent nature that makes her look like she's shining.

Feeling an urge he hasn't felt in a few centuries, Francis gently slides the girl onto the couch, resting her head on a plush golden cushion, and stands. With some amusement he watches her thumb disappear inside her mouth. It doesn't look very elegant at all, but he will let her keep this habit for now.

Walking into his room, he opens his closet and reaches into the very back, frowning and coughing when dust enters his nose and mouth. He believes he's found what he's looking for when his fingers brush against frayed paper and he pulls it out to see that, indeed, it is his sketchbook. The pouch containing his charcoal is the next thing he pulls out. Then he closes the door and indignantly brushes himself off.

But no matter his - utterly ruined - clothes. What he will produce with these two items is worth the sacrifice of one exquisite outfit.

He slips quietly back into the parlor and takes a seat on a stool he determines is positioned just correctly in relation to the couch where his subject lies. Not too close, but not too far either.

He studies her face first, more closely than he had before. He notes that she has dimples on her cheeks that would probably be more pronounced if she were to smile; that in her sleep she's scrunched her nose up into a cute little button and she has thick lashes that flutter every time she breathes. And then he takes into consideration her full form. She's on her side with her legs bent, feet touching the upholstery, one arm behind her head and the other curled up, the thumb on its hand still trapped between her lips.

Francis pulls the string on the pouch and sets it down on an end-table he's pulled to his side. He then rolls up his sleeves before smoothing his hand over the coarse surface of a blank page of his sketchbook, clearing away any particles of dust that mars it. It prickles his skin and he thinks that he cannot even remember the last time he felt this sensation.

And neither can he remember the feel of charcoal between his fingers, the texture rough on his fingertips as he examines the chunk and deems it satisfactory.

To his surprise, he's hesitant to touch it to paper at first. He has never doubted his talent; he can hold his own just fine against Feliciano and Yao when it comes to artwork. But when he glances up to look at the figure still deep in slumber, he realizes the extent of his anxiety.

What if he fails to do her justice?

He nearly snorts in disgust at his own insecurity, wondering about possible ramifications if he now worries about drawing a child. She isn't just any child, of course, but still.

Shaking his head to clear out the nonsense, he focuses on his inspiration, on the desire to create and immortalize that has awakened inside of him after so long.

Francis lowers the piece of charcoal to the paper, his eyes flicking momentarily to her face before going back to copy down every detail of every feature. He grimaces when he sees the terrible dress again, mentally vowing to go out the next day to personally buy the best cloth available in Paris and to have proper clothing made for her by his most trusted tailor. He decides to take some liberty and put his flair for fashion into use, drawing her in a long-sleeved gown with embroidered hems that in his imagination is the truest violet. He foregoes drawing the entire background in favor of just the patterned throw and cushion beneath her.

When he has gone over and defined, corrected and added everything to his desire, he drops the charcoal back into its pouch and takes out a handkerchief to wipe the black stains from his hands. The complete sketch and the real scene, both illuminated by the fireplace, fill his vision next to each other and he smiles triumphantly at his own work.

Of course his worries were absolutely silly. He has done justice to her.

Sliding soundlessly off his seat, he carefully takes his sketchbook back to his room and lays it on his desk so the charcoal can begin to set. When he re-enters the parlor he discovers his charge wide awake and waiting for him with groggy eyes.

He smiles warmly, "Did you have a nice nap, ma bichette?" The girl's response is to point to her stomach with a sad expression and Francis laughs when he realizes what she means, "Are you hungry? No worries." he smoothes her hair, takes her tiny hand in his and gently leads her down from the couch and towards the dining room.

It takes only a single gesture from Francis for the chefs and maids to go into overtime, the former producing all of their best dishes and the latter setting the table in record speed.

Her eyes are wide in awe as she sees the spread being assembled in front of her. Francis fondly pats her head as the head maid begins to serve the entree. She stares at her plate and then turns to him, as if asking permission.

He reaches forward to scoop some of the ratatouille onto a slice of baguette and holds it up to her mouth. She blinks and takes a tentative bite, chewing slowly at first and then faster when the taste fully registers. Her face lights up in delight and she makes a happy sound. Francis feels pride, but even more than that, he feels affection.

He sits with her through the entire meal, helping her with the knife and fork, encouraging her to try new dishes, and watching her reactions to it all. He thinks of all the blank pages in his sketchbook and how they need to be filled; how he may be able to now that he's finally found a subject who inspires him with every excited gesture, every joyous expression, every trusting smile.

And as the days go by he does turn all the pages of his sketchbook into replicas of her visage. Does so until he needs more blank pages, more materials and eventually a small bookcase just to house all the tomes of art. He names her Madeleine and writes it at the beginning of every volume. She changes and grows with each passing season and he captures every moment and freezes them with charcoal.

He completes almost every sketch of her that he starts, sometimes with her there as a living, breathing reference; other times just from memory, kept vibrant from seeing her every day.

But the last one he does of her while she is still with him he never gets to finish. Arthur Kirkland wrenches her away from him before he can.

Thanks for reading! Concrit is very much appreciated :) I've never drawn with charcoal so I might have fudged some details there.