Names used: Belgium (Emma [Emmy] Rose), England (Arthur Kirkland), France (Francis Bonnefoy), Luxembourg (Lammert Rose), Monaco (Camille Bonnefoy), Netherlands (Marijn Heeren)

Author's note: So I'm now on a Luxembourg/Monaco kick mainly because I think Luxembourg is so interesting and Monaco is my girl, she needs to demand more love of those around her. Coupled with the insane amount of Downton Abbey I've been watching to catch up, I thought a short WWI LuxMona would do the trick for all of us.

They call each other « ma biche » and « mon chou » which are simply French terms of endearment, the way in English we might call someone honey and darling. « Je t'adore » is slightly different from « je t'aime », which is more literally I love you, so I'm not sure how I'd translate it and have it make sense because it's like love but also has the idea of adoration and worship.

This story is told through several letters Lammert (Luxembourg) writes as well as through Camille (Monaco) living her life. The poem referenced at the end (first and last line are what you see) is by Pierre de Ronsard, and between its passion and age I thought suited them well. You can Google around for a translation of the full poem though I don't know how easily you'll be able to find one.

Le jour, tant soit-il court

To my Emmy darling,

I am sorry for the tardiness of this letter but I hope what good news it brings shall make up for that fact. It is my dearest wish that you remain safe and comfortable at Mr. Kirkland's residence in the English countryside where I may find you, as I have been granted a short period of leave from the front line. Before you fret too much it was simply my foot that was shot, and while it causes me great pain it is nothing compared to what I have seen. Oh Emmy, perhaps it is a curse to survive all this with memories of what I have seen! Do stay naive for me, that I may at least pretend the world is still good when I am once more with you.

As always, your most loving brother,

Lammert

Camille sits by the tree at the lake, too tired to continue standing and pacing. She closes her eyes for what seems like only a moment when there's a rustling beside her. Big blue eyes look up and find Lammert standing over her, holding out a hand. "My lady," he whispers in soft French and she takes the offer, rising.

"Lammert," she sighs, glad to see him alive and mostly well. One foot is clearly bandaged though it would heal; their kind always did, somehow. "Have you stopped by the main house yet? Your sister has been waiting most anxiously for your return and would be most offended if you had come to seek me out before her."

"I had thought," Lammert sighs, holding out an arm, "perhaps you would accompany me to the house? That way I may answer both your questions together."

The Monegasque smirks, takes his arm, and together they head back to Arthur's summer house where they were being kept while the men fought on the continent.

Francis–

Your sister is quite fine, just as she had assured you, and I will attest to that wellness myself if you do not believe her. Between Camille and Emmy they speak of little else beyond having you home for Christmas this year. My prayers are with you that your soldiers be strong and your country stronger; we will get through this.

–Lammert

Camille finds him sitting just outside one of the doors from the study. Judging by how the Luxembourgish man is slouched in his chair, he had been fast asleep for quite some time by now. Carefully she moves around his dog laying happily at his side to sit herself on Lammert's lap, laying her head on his.

"Biche," he whispers, his name for her only when he felt most confident. Normally Lammert was shy and quiet, a hard worker who preferred to let his brother or, worst, her brother control the conversation. But in times like these where all seemed lost, where men died too young and too many women were forced to wear black, Lammert often found the strength inside himself to stand up taller and speak more loudly. Camille loved that about him.

"I'm here, mon chou."

An arm wraps around her waist and the woman feels content for the first time since the war has started.

To my brother Marijn,

Calm down, our sister is fine. She and the Lady Bonnefoy pass their days tending to Mr. Kirkland's house and caring for those of our kind who are injured. Well, those of our kind they deem worthy– and I'm not quite sure you and your neutrality will make the list, so do be careful. I feel I myself am only here because I chose to enlist with Francis, and you know Emmy can't be mad at both of us at the same time.

As to the matter you last wrote me about, I know. Do not think I'm unaware of what an incredible beauty she is or how her intelligence is second to none of our other women. But I cannot make her take me as I am while occupied and pulled in a thousand different directions. I am more gentleman than that, even if you think me ridiculous for it.

I remain still, the sibling you are normally less frustrated with,

Lammert

She finds him in the hallway, straightening out his uniform. "I wish you did not have to leave so soon," Camille sighs, stepping carefully to him to fix his medals. "It is terrible to see you and then be forced to let you go."

"I am healed," Lammert says and the Monegasque wouldn't argue what he was really communicating: that it was better he who would live and be injured than those who would die. "It would still be pleasing if you came with me to the station, ma biche."

Camille shakes her head. "I could not bear to say goodbye to you where others might see my tears."

Thin fingers take her hand, holding it still, and so she meets the soft gaze of this young man she has known for so long. "Will you cry for me? When I leave?"

"Do I not every time?" Camille sighs. Most men she could tease, could bruise their ego, and the game was most enjoyable. With Lammert though she felt as if such trivial things weren't worthy of their relationship; he made an honest woman out of her. "I do not wish to share them with anyone else."

"Then let me take them from you," and his free hand pulls her head to him. Lammert's kiss tastes of chocolate and coffee, his tongue teasing hers, their noses pressing together. Camille worries for the day he might need glasses, as she does, if the gas were to roll into the trenches. Or else the day he could no longer hear her, where they could no longer banter. Perhaps she worries about all the possible days to come, just as she always has, because this is a war that is so much more than warfare. "There," her Luxembourgish love sighs, "now your tears are mine as I leave for the continent."

"Come back to me," Camille whispers, feeling helpless. Like seeing Francis leave for war time and time again, each goodbye felt horrible, a knot in her stomach. "Come back to me and I will heal you."

With a bow, a kiss to her hands, and a whisper of, "Ma biche, je t'adore," Lammert heads down the stairs and out the front door. Camille squeezes her eyes closed, though whether to keep away the tears or let them come sooner she isn't sure.

"I love you Lammert," she whispers to no one in particular.

Ma biche,

Your image fills my mind. Imagine my hands are the ones that dry your tears as you sleep and I will imagine this space beside me in bed when I lay down is a space you occupy. I would never demand of you what I am not worthy of, but know that you are forever in my heart. I fight for you; I fight for us.

Maîtresse, embrasse-moi, baise-moi, serre-moi,

Le jour, tant soit-il court, vaut mieux que la nuitée.

Faithfully yours, till that day where we may never part again,

Ton chou