Author's Notes:

Here's yet another fic for the Doomsday-verse AU! This one however moves the focus to a Survivor-Nation in the French wastelands, namely the Duchy of Orleans. At the same time though, there are quite a few twists compared to most of the other fics in the AU: one is that it's told from the perspective of a regular person like in The Vanishing Shadows, though someone from the 1983: Doomsday source material. Another is...well, you'll figure it out.

I'm not going to spoil much aside from the fact that Monaco and Luxembourg are still alive, France is gone (though his presence is there), and that a certain historical figure dear to the Nation makes an appearance. I'll give two hints in French: Ce n'est pas Napoleon, et La Puchelle d'Orleans.

And just to be sure, this is not meant to be a political/ideological/propaganda screed. This is a work of fiction. Apologies in advance as well for my still basic grasp at French despite having taken it as a college course. I neither own Hetalia nor 1983: Doomsday. All rights belong to their respective owners.

With that said, hope you enjoy!

*UPDATE* I realized a bit too late that there were some typos. The fic's been tweaked and corrected. Still, hope you like the result!

A Rose over the Wastes

Or, a 1983 Doomsday Tale through a Person's Eyes

Outside the Hotel Groslot, Duchy of Orleans. 2010.

A sense of unease struck Dr. Cayne Armand as he walked outside the gates. The sight of the centuries-old mansion behind them in all its ornate if faded beauty did little to calm his nerves. Neither did the fact that there were few people out and about. For in a few hours, this place would host a special conference between the Survivor-Nation delegates he was part of and none other than His Highness, Jacques d'Orleans himself.

"Who knew this would happen?" the man mumbled dryly, if nervously to no one. Despite his own credentials, the prospect of meeting an actual monarch was a considerable step up from the warlords and elders he encountered even before becoming a WRCB envoy. In another time, the very notion of a royalist pretender having power in France of all places would have been unthinkable. That time passed long ago, he mused silently with a cold smirk.

It was common knowledge by that point that the Republic itself perished in the fires of Doomsday, leaving behind some islands in the Pacific as well as a handful of Survivor-Nations that until recently were largely unknown to the outside world. To make matters more complicated, the Celtic Alliance, Alpine Confederation, and even once small countries like Monaco and Luxembourg were all gaining bits and pieces of what were now known as the French wastelands as the local Survivor-Nations continued to struggle. But if all went according to plan, the conference could very well open up the Duchy if not help bring hopes of reunifying the lost country a step closer to reality. Unless we screw up. The people here do seem very protective of their Prince.

His eyes turned across the cracked cobblestone road to the old Hôtel de Ville, which had clearly seen better days. Like much of Orleans, those dark days had since weathered and worn out, though not entirely erased its Old World dignity. To his surprise, the words Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite were still legible on the façade, though partially covered by the altered Tricoleur that served as the Duchy's flag.

"Those are nice words, sont-il pas?"

Startled, Dr. Armand cautiously turned around find a young lady in an old Gendarmerie uniform.

"They – they sure are, Mademoiselle," he replied, baffled as to how she managed to get past the guards only for a nagging feeling to silence it. "I suppose some things never change. Even if their meanings may have – no disrespect."

The girl chuckled softly before coughing. "None taken, Monsieur. Though you'd be surprised. The Ancien Regime was no utopia. But then, neither was the Revolution, as much as I – well, we still cherish its ideals – and the country that tried to uphold them."

"Point taken," the envoy shrugged as he adjusted his tie. "Vive la Republique."

"Oui," she replied in a faint, oddly wistful tone. "Vive la France."

It was only then that he noticed something peculiar about the young lady. As far as Dr. Armand could tell, she was perhaps no older than 19 at best, though the girl's short, dark-blonde hair could easily have her mistaken for a boy if not a peasant's daughter from a distance. Oddly though, her accent sounded at once too rustic, regal and archaic to be any familiar form of French. There were also hints of grime and what seemed to be sickly blemishes on her skin, just barely covered by an outfit his own grandparents would have considered conservative.

Yet there remained a nagging thought that somehow, he had seen her before. But where? Old history textbooks came to mind, and so did artworks recovered from the Louvre's ruins. Maybe it had to do with her eyes, which seemed to belong to someone much older, if not holier than anyone else in this city. The man tried to brush it aside. Must be nothing.

"Is something wrong, Monsieur?"

"Je m'excuse," he sighed, smiling even as he mentally cursed himself for being so sloppy. "I haven't introduced myself. I am Dr. Cayne Armand, envoy from the World Census and Reclamation Bureau. A pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle."

"Please Docteur. Call me Puchelle, if you so wish," the girl replied as she warmly returned the gesture. "Would you mind a short stroll to ease your worries?"

How did she… The man couldn't quite shake off the feeling of something being amiss, though he let it slide. Perhaps a walk was what he needed. The conference is delayed anyway. "Sure. I suppose an brisk detour wouldn't hurt."

-o-

Walking along the Loire must seem such a quaint pastime for the average Orleanais. In Dr. Armand's eyes though, it felt like such a surreal luxury to indulge in. True, there was more scaffolding than building facades across the river, while the surrounding greenery looked more fitting for a wild forest than in the middle of a city. Yet he still found it hard to believe that all this living, rustic beauty was mere kilometres from an irradiated nightmare. Still, it took the sight of some frail people being helped along by nurses to break the illusion.

"It's the price we continue to pay for living here," Puchelle replied at his unvoiced question even as she strained to clear her throat. "For escaping the hellfires that burned elsewhere. But even with the silent death still plaguing us – we keep going. We owe it to the Almighty, to ourselves, our forefathers and – and…" She paused for a moment before sliding into a wistful if solemn serenity. "Life has to move on. I wouldn't think it would do anyone justice if we just perished. Most definitely not Fra-"

"Desole, I meant no disrespect," the envoy apologized as he interrupted her. "But to think that this place –this city actually survived so close to Ground Zero!" He took a deep breath; like many of his colleagues back in the RTFA, it was still hard for him to accept that the sea of glass further north used to be called Paris. "To be honest Mademoiselle Puchelle, until recently we didn't expect to find much of anything left here, let alone a Duchy."

"Then be glad that you were wrong," she replied with a bittersweet smile before gazing somewhere on the horizon. "Long before His Royal Highness and his entourage arrived all those years ago, we hoped that this part of the world wasn't the only bastion holding out against the dark. But now – I believe Monsieur Bonnefoy would be happy knowing his former people live on. That we are no longer alone…"

"… pardonnez moi?" Dr. Armand stopped, his eyebrows rising up upon hearing the name. He knew of the stories some among the WCRB's higher-ups spoke of in whispers. About "those people:" the so-called "Nations." And in particular a certain Francis Bonnefoy: the young-looking man who supposedly was France itself. Rumors had it that he died at some point after Doomsday, long before a Prussian expedition discovered a peculiar corpse among the glass and ashes. Is she tied to him?!

It was then that he noticed the girl looking firmly into his eyes. "You know about him, do you not?"

Her voice remained gentle, yet the more he stared at her, the more uncomfortable he became. Something about her felt so familiar despite that sickly facade, the envoy was sure…until finally it hit him. Perhaps it was a vague memory of his Catholic upbringing. Maybe it was some engraving preserved in a history book or as absurd a notion as it seemed, divine intervention. But even he couldn't believe what he said next as he knelt in growing awe before the saint.

"S-Sainte Jeanne d'Arc, c-choisie par Dieu à Domrémy, priez pour n-nous..."

He found himself being raised up by the long-dead heroine of France before he could finish the half-remembered prayer, however. He also noticed something else about her eyes as he stood. For a brief moment that seemed to last much longer, it seemed as if he saw not only her past but also that of an entire region, stretching back decades if not several generations into the murky past. A Survivor-Nation's heritage, all condensed it seemed in one person.

"Please, Docteur Armand," she pleaded softly despite coughing. "You needn't resort to that. God has allowed me this opportunity to uphold this realm but I do not seek praise or adoration, painful as – parting was."

"B-But why did you return?"

"I understand how nonsensical this may seem. But so too are many things. I myself am not certain on how it's possible. But I couldn't bear to see my countrymen or anyone suffer." She smiled sadly. "Though my time as La Puchelle d'Orleans had passed, my love for this place – this country hasn't. There is still hope here yet even after all the madness. Thus here I am, different from who I was yet the same."

Dr. Armand found it difficult to accept what was going on. Saint or Nation, by all accounts he had stumbled on a potentially massive discovery, one that could take him to the WCRB Director's chair and beyond. Even if few were to take his word, the evidence before him would be enough; the possibilities seemed endless. Non…I can't. The man shook his head. He knew deep down that, it would be an injustice to not just the Puchelle but Orleans itself, if not all their countrymen. She wouldn't want the attention anyway. It's not fitting h-

"You needn't worry," Jeanne reassured him, smiling as she held his hand. "You have already won my favor. And his."

Dr. Armand returned the gesture before glancing at his watch. They had been out for close to an hour. Shortly he knew, he would be meeting His Highness and this realm's officials in a conference that could shape the future of the French wastelands. And yet somehow, that prospect didn't unnerve him anymore. Not as much at least, he mused as he followed the Survivor-Nation back down the river. Somehow, the notion of an enlightened, reunified kingdom didn't seem so bad.

"It may seem perhaps too late. Maybe old news by now," he added as they walked. "But my sincerest – condolences for Monsieur Bonnefoy's loss. I'm sure he would have appreciated all you've done."

Jeanne smiled knowingly.

"Who is to say that France is really gone?"

As for reference:

The Duchy of Orleans is a Survivor-Nation based around the city of Orleans, about 130 kilometres (81 mi) southwest of Paris. Despite being close to many of the nuclear targets in Doomsday, the region survived more-or-less in one piece and managed to hold together. It wasn't until 1991-93 that the ruling Prince, Jacques d'Orleans (who had been part of an expedition to former Paris from Monaco) settled down and restored the monarchy. But though it's a safe haven in the wastes, radiation sickness remains a big issue.

Dr. Cayne Armand is the same from the 1983: Doomsday source material (with the code-name "Louisiannan") as an envoy of the World Census and Reclamation Bureau or WCRB. Originally set up in 2004 by the ANZ Commonwealth (Australia-New Zealand), it's an international, neutral organization whose mission is to explore and document the post-Doomsday world, reconnecting survivors out in the wastes along the way. In the Doomsday-verse, this extends to keeping tabs on certain "confidential" records.

The RTFA is short for the "Republic of the French Southern Territories," a French Survivor-Nation based around Tahiti and the former Outremer territories in the Pacific Ocean that has plans of one day uniting all the other French-speaking survivors into a reunified France.

The Hotel Groslot is an actual historic mansion in Orleans dating back to the 16th Century that has served at different times as a royal residence, town hall and function hall. In real life, it's located not far from the Cathedral and the present Hotel de Ville (City Hall); coincidentally, City Halls in France all tend to have Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite (Liberty, Equality, Fraternity) somewhere on the building.

The Ancien Regime is the name commonly used for the old Kingdom of France before the French Revolution in 1789. The Tricoleur meanwhile refers to the French flag as known today.

...and as for the French prayer, it's a snippet from an actual Catholic litany for St. Joan of Arc.

Sont-il pas? - "Is it not?" (French)

Je m'excuse - "I apologize." (French)

Desole - Sorry (French)

Pardon? - "Excuse me?" (French)