9th of June, 1941
Francis curled up as much he could with the shackles locked around his wrists which denied him the ability to move farther than two feet from the stone wall they were attached to. His gold strands of hair lay limply on the dirt ground around in a halo around his head as he attempted and, not for the first time, failed to rest. Eyelids fluttered open to reveal bloodshot cerulean eyes, lost and unfocused.
There was no way for him to tell how long he'd been locked up, he only knew that it felt like far too long. He'd been blindfolded the handful of times he'd been brought before Hitler himself, the last thing he'd seen on the outside being General Pétain shaking hands with the very thing he feared and hated the most.
Francis felt his eyes burn but the tears would not come. That well had dried up long, long ago. Nothing could satiate the gnawing hunger in his gut, like his insides were squirming to free themselves from his body. He knew his people, his country, was starving and the abrupt panic that caused his heart to race every time Ludwig came to feed him left Francis knowing that les françaises were terrified.
And yet, even as he cowered away from the larger man as he would attempt to feed him stale bread and dirty water, he felt the smallest desire to please him, to please Hitler, the Gestapo, whoever, if only to make it stop.
But he couldn't; as futile as he knew it was, Francis couldn't give in. At times, he resented his people. But they couldn't possibly understand how painful it was for him, and even if they could they were far too busy worrying about themselves. His people didn't know the reason he hadn't slept in forever was because each time he would drift off, a new bruise would blossom somewhere, in sync with whatever bomb had just been dropped on his country.
They knew so little about him now that they weren't even his people anymore. They were Ludwig's.
Francis knew he could not put all the blame on the other blond, however. At first, Ludwig's pleasure had been clear, as he reveled in his revenge against Francis, against the Treaty of Versailles and the mud it had dragged him through. But as time went on, and Francis began to wither, he saw the change.
Ludwig had grown paler, more tired, and jumpy to the point of making Francis even more fearful of the giant than before.
An odd warmth ignited in his feet and traveled upward along his side. It was a pleasant feeling, like sitting by the fireside on a cold night. Until it got hotter.
A scream ripped from his throat as the side of his body, the East, seared with mind shattering pain.
The shackles clinked and chimed in tune with his writhing and each shriek seemed grow louder.
He was burning, burning hotter than a dark blue flame. Just burning, burning, burning burning burningburningburningburning!
Ludwig flinched as screams reached his ears. He was used to screams that would echo up from the cellar. Since they had invaded Belgium, he had chosen to stay with the Gestapo stationed at Fort Breendock. It had been a desperate attempt on his part to escape the chaos surrounding his own home. While Hitler had become his superior, it was Ludwig's people who were suffering. The camps were horrendous and after his first patrol he'd seen more horrors than he ever wished to share.
But the Fort was hardly any better, the occasional German being hauled in for interrogation, political prisoners, trucks of Jews to be sent to Auschwitz…A shudder ran up his spine and he had to set down the report he was reading.
It had been little over a year since they'd invaded France, bringing Francis back as a prize of sorts. When the so-called 'hero' of the First World War, Pétain, signed the armistice, he'd agreed to hand the blond over. Ludwig had relished in the betrayal, and was pleased to be set loose on the perverted nation. He'd broken Francis' nose once for every one billion marks he'd paid in reparations. That was twenty satisfying crunches of bone. And every time, it would fix itself before two days passed.
Perhaps Francis had taken so many beatings in his lifetime as a country that his body had learned to heal itself faster. He used to laugh at the idea, how weak the other blond was. France's time had come and gone, now he was just a sack of bones.
But that was just it. Francis was all bones. His flesh had slowly disappeared as he became thinner and thinner, the bombs dropped on Paris left sickening bruises across his prominent ribs and spine. The fearful look in his eyes whenever Ludwig entered his cell perturbed him. This was what he had wanted, needed even; Francis cowering before him…yet…
Francis wasn't the cowering sort. He was supposed to get right back up so he could be shoved down again. That was just the way he was! As embarrassing as it was to admit it, he missed the lean but ever so lightly muscled body that Francis would show off at the most inopportune times, the innuendos, the pranks…
All that was left now was a shaking bundle of defeat.
A frown creased Ludwig's lips as another scream bounced off the walls of his office. It sounded familiar, but—could it be Francis? What could possibly….
The Gestapo were forbidden from entering Francis' cell and surely they wouldn't disobey direct orders….But what else? He stood tenderly, carefully avoiding his right leg. It had begun to ache as of late, no doubt in response Chełmno, not yet ready for use but nearly there. He'd likely be unable to walk once the killings started.
He limped down the hall to where the screams emanated, piercing his ears. He threw open the door and was met with scent of burning flesh. His eyes widened and he could only watch in horror as Francis flailed, tugging violently at his restraints, nearly wrenching his wrists from their sockets with each tug.
Ludwig grasped him by the shoulder, needing to make him stop.
"FRANCIS!" He barked, but he was drowned out by the screams and the body beneath his fingers began to twitch and shudder. "FRANCIS!"
Ludwig would spend four days with Francis. By the second morning, the smaller of the two would have screamed his throat raw and have lost his voice entirely by the third. On the fourth day, Ludwig would finally see the shiny burns that had crawled from Francis' left foot up the side of his body until encompassed the bottom half of his face.
He would leave the cell to learn of the fire that had sealed France off from outside influence, a blanket of smoke over the sky that would make it impossible for pilots to check the area or get messages to troops.
Antonio would stand at the base of the Pyrenees Mountains, looking on with fear for his old friend even as his people and his superior refused to spare the resources to clear them to find out France's current status.
The West coast of France would be plagued with dangerous waters, hurricanes forming and breaking down, losing speed before hitting land and merely fading off before the beaches were hit.
After six days, the fires will have stopped, and German pilots would uncover nothing but charred forests, towns, and the bodies of thousands of Gestapo, most dead by smoke inhalation, the same would go for one quarter of those who lived in France, their corpses scattered about.
However, there were still 3.5 billion French men, women and children missing.
And when Ludwig would return the cell he'd left Francis in, delirious and unmoving but for the occasional twitch, he would find it empty but for a pair of bloodied shackles dangling just above the ground from where they hung on the dirty stone wall.
Francis would be gone and his people with him.