Paris.
The city of beauty, love, and lights.
We find the one whom this story is about gazing out of his extravagant townhouse, smiling idly at the horizon. It was early morning, the sun beginning to rise and painting the skies a peculiar shade of pink. He stretched and yawned, then scratched the the scruff upon his chin thoughtfully.
The alarm clock blared an annoying series of beeps, but Francis had long been awake. He had been losing sleep lately, but hadn't thought much of it, shoving it off as either stress or perhaps too much rest, for he hadn't worked for almost 8 months now. He felt fine, or at least he told himself he did. He turned the infernal machine off, and began his usual routine of showering and dressing himself.
You see, Francis Jean-Marie Bonnefoy was a renowned artist, a prodigy, in fact. But alas, he hadn't had any inspiration as of late. What is an artist without inspiration? Francis wished he could answer that question, but found it too difficult. The best answer he could think of in response was "Nothing, absolutely nothing!" which he would then brood over. Hah, and they sought to call him a great, a genius, perhaps. But an artist without inspiration is a genius without intelligence.
Nothing.
Francis sighed softly when he found his way back to the window he always gazed out of, thinking the skyline would make a marvelous painting. He looked around his bedroom, only to find half-finished work, uncreative and doomed from the first swipe of his beloved paintbrush. He turned and his eyes wandered to his abandoned studio, the contents locked away to even his own eyes.
Our dear Francis-who was normally overly confident and (by all means of the word) cocky-was at a loss, almost in a state of depression. Everything he tried to paint, sculpt, or even sketch on a piece of paper seemed too dark, morbid. Such a change from the precious artistry locked away in that studio of his, he thought. Not that he dared a glance at the past that his place of peace now held. No. He had no desire to see the evidence of change and loss.
He jumped suddenly at the sound of a violent buzzing, his cell phone causing a raucous as it wished to sing, but was forced to be set to vibrate. Francis looked down at the phone upon his nightstand, and smiled to himself at what the Caller ID read. He didn't pick up, figuring that if the message was truly important it would be left politely in his voicemail.
And that it was.
"Answer your phone, you bloody sod!...You best be awake, you useless twat. Get your raunchy French arse down here and we're getting breakfast." Click.
How lovely. Arthur decided to pay him a visit.
Francis chuckled, threw his overcoat on, and decided as he walked out the door that maybe this was a new beginning.