Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.
L'histoire française
Peace
Camille's arm helps to hold Francis upright as they walk up the winding road, his cane in his other hand. "I'm old," he grumbles. His sister smiles sweetly, a hand brushing his cheek.
"No, Francis, you are strong but hurt. There is nothing wrong with that." It must be a testament to how old and senile he is, the Frenchman thinks, that she's being so nice to him. "Did you at least enjoy the performance?" Francis had come down to Monaco to recover after the last great war, Camille taking him about the small country in an effort to boost his mood.
He sighs contently. L'Orchestre National de l'Opéra de Monte-Carlo had been wonderful, and sharing something so special to Camille with her had been just as wonderful. The great war had not left Francis much time for such beautiful pursuits; it had been years since he had seen a ballet, or an opera, or read a book. Cover to cover, a simple book; not too long, nothing too in depth, but it had been years. And being back here, on the southern coast, with his pretty little sister, dressing in elegant clothing….
"Perfect," Francis sighs. "It was perfect. Thank you Camille." They come to stand beside a wall overlooking the coast, the French nation leaning on it heavily. As the wind blows, the smell of sea salt filling his nostrils, Francis breathes deeply. Far below them water laps against the coast.
Despite his eyes being closed, the older brother can sense his sister's eyes on him.
"You're worrying," he murmurs.
"I always do," she sighs. A head falls on his shoulder, a body presses up against his arm. Francis lays his head on Camille's. "If you would like…."
"I'm listening," he mutters.
"Well," and one of the Monegasque's arms slips through his, her pink coat mingling with his dark blue one. "I am always the one depending on you. Perhaps you can stay here while you recover? You can, for once, be the one depending on me. That would be nice," and the way Camille says that last sentence lets Francis knows this is coming from the bottom of her heart, but also coming from her country. Because her country is small, because it does not command the respect and power that France does.
"How do you do it Camille?" he chuckles. "This place is so peaceful. It's nothing like my life in Paris."
"In my humble opinion, it's all in the feet."
"The feet?" Francis starts.
"Oh yes," Camille assures him. "And the wrist. The ballet of life. One must have a large orchestra to play for them while they dance."
"Larger than their army?" Francis teases. Camille pulls a face at that.
"I have peace, you have back pain." That has the Frenchman howling despite how it hurts his side, because sometimes the simplest observations are the most accurate, and few other nations are capable of that sort of insight.
