The quotes are from Maya Angelou's poem, On the Pulse of the Morning, hence the title.
Starlight cascades in milky rays, flitting through the trees and dappling the ground in thing, wispy rays. Delicate and soft with their own special light. Midnight. A warm chill rises from the soft grass he walks upon and morphs the ambiance into a quieter, sweeter sensation, as if to lull him into sleep.
Dusty night clouds roll across the stained canvas of the sky and showers him in the form of an evening mist. Stars freckle the night sky as if to speak for droplets of dew on newly frosted glass, as if to watch with another.
A pale, comma of a moon hangs suspended, illuminating the murky black shadows. Faded moonlight trickles down from a familiar, graceful sliver; a witching-hour indigo grows darker and deeper the longer he stares, as if the cerulean could infect his own azure irises like the permanence of ink or paint.
Though he always liked watercolors more, he thinks.
France is not at all foolish in any way, or so he likes to believe. His actions may beg to differ, but any way he wanted to look at it would present him with all of the same answers. This was not real.
This gentle unearthly glow on the unblemished, shimmering forest he walked upon did not exist. This was a dream. An image conjured by his unconscious mind to satisfy sleeping desires.
But if it was only a fantasy, than God, please let this on be true.
Although he wears a mask that is so easily bought by others, his emotional state is like that of a rose petal — fragile, soft, and easily torn despite its sweetness. He was broken inside. He held no doubt in his mind that he was empty, similar to so many others these days.
His jagged, imperfections are brought into focus under this light, for when he reaches a clearing, for he is elated and crushed at the same time. He wants to be selfish and surrender to his positively ecstatic side, although the dread that lies across his shoulders is the truth and he knows it.
He wants to turn away, his heart aches at the sight, because it is so real, but it is impossible too. His eyes travel down her figure; he can imagine her feathery blonde hair framing her face, bright, energetic blue eyes… But she is not facing him, and while France wants nothing more than to close the seemingly yawning gap between them, he is afraid.
He is afraid because he does not want to see hollow, blank eyes. He is afraid because he does not want to see accusation and hate when he knows he tried, but that wasn't enough to save her.
He does not want to hear a dead voice, spitting insults and words that cripple his heart. He wants to be selfish and hope for forgiveness that he does not deserve. He wants to hear healing words to lay his heart to rest, though he knows they will never be.
Jeanne D'Arc, his dreams of her had never been particularly pleasant… But he's missed her. She wears a plain white dress, billowing behind her in waves by a sudden gust of wind. It clings to her in all of the right areas, hugging her waist and wrapping her shoulders in a gently sloping crevice to reveal a creamy smooth back…
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom, is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon me, back and face your distant destiny, but seek no haven in my shadow. I will give you no hiding place down here
He feels a rough, heady surge of protective instinct so powerful that it leaves him breathless, full of love with no room to breathe. He crosses the clearing in wide strides, drinking in her presence while it lasts, he grasps her by the shoulders, gently, as if a sudden movement would send her crumbling away under his touch. But she is beautifully solid and wonderfully tangible beneath his fingers, it seems too good to be true.
He is not aware that he is holding his breath, until he sees her eyes, sparkling and full of life, and he is filled with an emotion that makes him want to laugh and cry at the same time. But it will not last, because this is not real. He knows how it works. He knows what is to come in the false memory.
He lets go of his breath shakily, before enveloping her in a bone-crushing hug, he breathes in her scent, a sweet, unique perfume on her skin that he had long since forgotten. His arms travel down her supple waist, pulling her in closer in a way that is innocent and not suggestive to the slightest.
"Mon Cher, I've missed you," He breathes, a tremor in his voice.
His breath comes out in gasps, hiccups, as he desperately tries to hold back sobs. He is unaware of his quaking shoulders until he feels her soothing touch on them, pushing him back.
He does not want to separate, in fear that if he let go of her she would be lost forever. She smiles at him, a simple gesture, but it takes his breathe away all the same. It is then when he wonders how he can live without her, how it is that he can wake up each day and pretend that he is whole and happy with his position in life.
You, created only a little lower than the angels, have crouched too long in the bruising darkness. Have lain too long, face down in ignorance; your mouths spilling words.
Armed for slaughter, the Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.
He needs her, he knows that now. It's been a while. Too long. His liquid blue eyes gaze back helplessly as he opens his mouth to apologize, to pour his heart out and let her know that he hasn't changed even after all these years.
She needs to know that he knows she was brave and please, please forgive him for being so weak but he needs to hear her voice one more time, he needs something to hold onto. He knows that it was long ago but time hasn't changed him, oh no not one bit.
She's still beautiful, still has the looks of an angel and even after all these years how could he forget that his heart will always belong to her?
He may have bed many men and woman in the past, but none of them will fill the gap that only she had claimed. When his vision refocused, his look of hopelessness morphs into one of dread and horror, because he's had this dream before and he should know how it works by now, but he forgets every time.
Her delicate, slender fingers become swollen with death and they fall uselessly to her side. She sways on her feet, but still stands as she wilts before his eyes. Her peaceful smile is resolute as her clear indigo eyes become glassy and clouded, peering into him with a condemnatory glare that he could never hope to match because how could he hate this girl?
He doesn't know if she can hear her but he tries anyway, tries because they both need to hear that no matter how many times he relives this nightmare, no matter how many times he realizes that it is the truth and she is never coming back, he still needs to speak.
Anything to drown out her screeches and wails that would soon breach the solemn atmosphere.
"I'm so sorry…" He whispers, his eyes widening with pain and fear as her head lolls to the side and her serene smile grows crazed and blood dribbles from her mouth.
The unmistakable scent of burning flesh reaches his nose and it takes all he has not to retch, because he's seen this all before. A re-occurring nightmare that was the reality, and maybe if he witnesses enough he'll be sure to remember it and accept it. She's not coming back, she never will be, he knows this, and it is foolish to hope but he does anyway.
Across the wall of the world, A River sings a beautiful song. It says, Come, rest here by my side. Each of you, a bordered country, delicate and strangely made proud, yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit, have left collars of waste upon my shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet today I call you to my riverside, if you will study war no more. Come clad in peace, and I will sing the songs the Creator gave to me when I and the Rock were one.
Her glossy eyes burn into his as they roll back into their sockets and seem to melt, yellowing at the edges until it's a pulpy, dried mess of membrane and something clear and crusty running down her face like tears. Her hair is spiked and rugged with dried mud and stained with blood as the flames lick at her legs and mutate her as they curl up her figure.
"I never meant for this to happen," He continues despite his own growing anxiety, as if his words could halt her unraveling and revive the calm and angelic girl he had known before.
Her morbid deterioiration is enough to send him into hysterics, choking out a mantra of apologies that even he could not distinguish, as if the words alone were enough to turn back time and save this girl.
This was history, and as everything below her hips is reduced to ashes, he knows that as her death hardened muscles grow stiff and the flames eat up her side, that he cannot change history, no, all he can do is watch.
This is his punishment and she is still smiling as the flames crawl up her face and mar it with red and brown and liquid skin. He is crying. He knows it and he does not try to deny it.
There's a great, terrible knot sitting squarely, deeply in France's chest, but it won't come out. It can't. He's blinking it all back fiercely, but he just knows that soon the regret will be too much to take and he will die a little more inside.
"Forgive me…" His voice cracks, but he does not care because there's no one around to hear it. He's alone in a dark clearing with only his misery and her ashes for company.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow and when you knew, you still knew nothing.
The River sang and sings on.
Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare, praying for a dream. I am yours - your passages have been paid. Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need, for this bright morning dawning for you.
-/-/-/-
When he awakens, he can tell it's much too early without looking at the clock. The shades are drawn, the room is dark, and France wants to cry. The fact that the man-nation that killed her is lying next to him sickens him.
He feels like a coward, the guilt eats him alive and he's in bed with the man responsible for her death. It does nothing to improve the situation.
He turns away from England's sleeping face, disgusted with himself for being in a relationship with this man. How could he forget? How dare he disgrace her memory like this? How dare he ask for forgiveness that he does not deserve?
He curls into himself, as if the act alone could banish the gnawing self-loathing that he holds for himself after his failure. She was so young, and she did not deserve her fate, and yet he did nothing to change it.
History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again. Lift up your eyes upon this day breaking for you. Give birth again to the dream.
Women, children, men, take it into the palms of your hands, Mold it into the shape of your most private need. Sculpt it into the image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts, each new hour holds new chances for a new beginning.
He weeps, muffled, bitter tears in the dawn because it was his fault. He knows it is wrong to blame England. He knows that he already holds himself responsible and apologizes almost daily for it, as if he truly believed he was at fault.
France could not understand how England could not see how he was already forgiven for it, it was France's failure to change history that made him so distraught and torn up inside. But he loved England, and his personal demons could do nothing to change that.
He was haunted by her memory, and he knows, as the tears stream down his face, that he will never be forgiven, he had let her down and he did not-could not save her. She was gone. And he was cursed with his burden to bear alone.
It was his mistake alone that cost her her life, everything else dulls in comparison. Thus begins his monochromatic life.
Do not be wedded forever to fear, yoked eternally to brutishness. The horizon leans forward, offering you space to place new steps of change. Here, on the pulse of this fine day you may have the courage, to look up and out and upon me, the Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
Here, on the pulse of this new day, you may have the grace to look up and out. And into your sister's eyes, and into your brother's face, your country and say simply,
Very simply,
With hope -
Good morning.