my first fic in a while! based off the drawing of wickedalbion- beautiful, as always!
since i don't... really know how to insert links i'l just do so here like so — post/124941386328
i do realize that the name that the op uses is francine, but i much prefer marianne. i hope that it doesn't bother anybody too much! as another side note, guerlain is a cosmetics company which was founded in 1828 in paris.
"And what do you think you're doing?" she asks coolly, loosely applying a dark, red shade of lipstick against her lips. Marianne learns to control her tone, through countless encounters with higher powers who are bent on docility from those who are under their power or title, and are terrifyingly eager to showcase their influence if she, or anybody else even showed a hint of resistance or attitude. Patience is her virtue, and through long, painful trials past does she finally perfect the skill of letting people hear what they want.
A stiff nod from the man who towers over her confirms that he is satisfied with the way she refers to him. For now.
Wilted roses lie in a beautiful vase, addressed to her in fine print on a crisp piece of paper. She presses her lips together gently, staring at the mirror in front of her. Guerlain, she thinks fondly. Cold bitterness aches in her heart as she thinks of her homeland. The few possessions she is allowed to bring are measly remedies for the cold, sinking feeling in her chest as countless days spent locked in her room pass.
"I'm here to stand guard," the man behind her replies brusquely. 'To make sure that there are no misconducts from a woman such as yourself while left alone', he does not bother to add in to his sentence. Marianne raises an eyebrow at him through the mirror. "As it stands, you are still expected to attend the event that is being held downstairs."
Marianne almost laughs- her, a nation who was born of a dead language that traveled the tongues of ancient warriors from Rome, being watched over by a young, reckless country who's a few thousand years short on her.
She's disgusted.
She presses her lips together, staring at her image in the mirror. Slight track marks from hours-old mascara runs just past her cheekbones, a shy reminder of her earlier behaviour- hot tears rushing down her cheeks as she realized her situation, aching for the home she held so dear, for the people of her beautiful country, and the lover she never thought she'd call her own. The vanity table she sits at is a cruel reminder of the flashing lights of rising cities, and wondrous economic growth just years earlier. A movie star, she thinks of herself, as she galnces at her loose, red dress, the straps sliding off her pale shoulders. The hint of a grin graces her face as a cough is heard, and the figure behind her turns slightly, a hand covering his mouth.
As Marianne stares evenly at her own face, she realizes that she looks exhausted, her eyes almost looking helplessly back at her. A silent plea. Subtle, swollen eyelids and subdued, red eyes. Marianne stares at the blue in her irises.
The Herr always did love blue.
But all he gave her was red.
Marianne fixates her stare towards the armband on Ludwig's arm and sighs.
"Mon cher, that colour really does clash with your eyes."