November, 1781
Le Château de Versailles, Queen's Apartments
State Cabinet
Louis strode towards the Parliamentary meeting with an irritable France in tow.
"Why's this meeting all the way in the Queen's Apartments?" he whined.
"Because I want it to be," Louis grumbled.
"But the drawing room really close to my room was doing fine."
"France," he sighed. "Stop."
"So, are you planning on getting anything done today? Or are you going to have to 'think on' every single thing that's brought up again, hm?" France asked him, quickening his pace to walk backwards facing Louis, hands clasped behind his back.
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Louis asked as equally irritably back.
"Oh, nothing, nothing." France said knowingly. Louis glared at him.
"France, if you start another fight with Parliament today . . . "
"Oh! Non, non, non, mon ami, I will be on my best behavior!" Lately, France had found out why sarcasm was Britain's fail-safe for everything. "In fact, I won't even have to speak! You don't listen to me, anyway, so there's no reason for me to try and appeal anything to you!"
"You better get rid of that attitude problem you've developed, and quickly. I don't know what's come over you lately since the party, but . . . " They reached the conference room and France held the door open for Louis. Before he entered, the King turned back and stared hard at France. "No matter. It's all behind us. I just want you to know that I have France's interests at heart. I hope you can forgive me."
That statement was so out of context and sincere that it knocked the sass right out of France's mind. "Wait, what?" he asked. "What are you doing? What does that mean?"
Louis turned his back on France and walked into the meeting, waving to the lords to sit down. As soon as Louis took his place at the head of the table, a paper was handed to him. He cleared his throat heavily, like he was going to begin some loud, riveting, and powerful speech, then spoke softly. "The subject of a sanction to the advisor Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy has been brought to the Parliamentary table today. The members of Parliament and myself, King Louis XVI, have all met in secret to discuss the behavior and attitude of Monsieur Bonnefoy. His conduct at court has been less than exemplary, as displayed by the utter and complete lack of social etiquette, over consumption of wine at social gatherings, constant sexual advances on multiple women and men at court, and lack of respect shown to his king and queen, Louis XVI and Marie Antionette, in both public and private settings."
"What is this?" France asked nervously, glancing around the table. All of Parliament was staring at him, victimizing him, belittling him with their haughty glares, and suddenly he felt small. Very small. So he was right to think Louis was detaching from him.
"Furthermore, examining his stances on all manner of political affairs, the extent and manner with which he disagrees, venturing as far as to purposefully cause rifts and fights among Parliament-"
"Ça n'est pas vrai!" he yelled, "Je n'ai jamais déclenché de dispute!"
Louis glared at him, but continued reading, " . . . has led His Royal Majesy Louis XVI to rethink his position as advisor. He constantly argues with the King, Louis XVI's judgements, criticizes all political decisions and actions, and is a hinderance to King and country. The rumors and discontent his presence causes at court is a further hinderance to everyone that resides there."
"What rumors?" France questioned. He could feel his face heating from embarrassment- embarrassment! France was actually embarrassed!
"For one, there are rumors circulating that you are a raging drunk, even going to the point of ignoring le Roi et la Reine to indulge yourself and get dead drunk in your room!" a Parliament member began.
France's face fell. Ok, so that was only PARTIALLY true. He would at least do what was asked of him, even if he was drunk. "So somebody has twisted facts! You want to fire me for it?"
"It is said that half the cellar at Versailles is emptied every day at your hands!" someone else accused. "All the money goes to replenishing the stock!"
Not true at ALL! It was a little less than half! France fumed, too shocked at this blatant attack to even begin to defend himself.
"And the last and most prominent one," Louis began like he was spreading the juicy gossip himself. "It is rumored that he's fathered at least ten children to Marie's courtiers."
"Oh please, are you that naïve to think it could not POSSIBLY be any one of these men?" he said, gesturing wildly around the table. "I've heard and seen NOTHING to prove that!" He immediately regretted that. More sass wasn't the answer right then.
"You see, Votre Majestée?" someone asked him. "This is exactly the kind of attitude we want away from you. You don't need him next to you, burdening you. You don't need this kind of man leading you astray."
France laughed incredulously, but sat back in his chair, defeated. He knew he wasn't going to defend himself well enough for them, no matter what points he brought up. Why not the sass, then? "Are you all just upset because nothing, literally, NOTHING has been passed since the 'Aiding America' disaster? Are you looking for a scapegoat? Is that what this is?" Panic began to surface, shallowing his breath and making him squirm and sweat in his pretty blue outfit. The room felt like it was spinning, collapsing in on him. Paranoia swept in. How long had they been targeting him? He needed to get out.
He got up on shaky legs to make his way to the door, but Louis stopped him. "Don't you DARE walk out of this, Francis!" he screamed. France paused where he was, but didn't turn back. Louis flapped the page so it would stand up in his hand and continued reading. "As a result, Parliament and I, King Louis XVI, have decided that we do not want someone whose focus isn't on France interfering with the political process. Francis Bonnefoy is to be removed from the position as King's advisor. He shall be allowed to remain at Court, but not participate any longer in political, social, or financial reformatory actions."
Francis Bonnefoy, the fancy and fashionable aristocrat, understood completely. He was out of line, on all accounts. He admit it. He knew of his mistakes. Everyone did. But he had hit the point where he cared about as much as Louis. How was he supposed to apologize for that? Who apologized for having a good time, a bit of fun, a good, hearty laugh, with or without females? He didn't even feel bad enough to apologize.
Francis the nobleman understood. France the Nation, on the other hand, was livid.
He spun around to face Louis, laughing loudly in his face. In retrospect, it wasn't his best career move. Laughing at the very man who controlled his essence. But he laughed, whirling around Louis and glaring him full in the face, challenging him to a battle of wills, right there. He knew what his gaze looked like; he'd seen it thousands of times in the cold glares of the other Nations: the weight of hundreds of years, the weight of forever, etched into the chasms and mountains of blue in his irises that dipped into the pools of infinity that were his pupils. He screamed the question in his mind out through his eyes, he put all that weight into it, and he was SURE Louis heard it. "Who could be more focused on France than the EMBODIMENT OF FRANCE?! HUH?! RIDDLE HIM THAT!" He spread his arms and his smile wide, not breaking eye contact, and said, "Well at the rate YOUR reign's going, Louis, who WOULDN'T yell 'allez vous faire voir' and just ride the carriage wreck?" For dramatic effect he spun around, looking around the otherwise empty room for the group of people he was metaphorically referring to.
He expected people to gasp. He expected people to scoff, to cover their mouths with their hands, to shout, to do SOMETHING. But everybody froze. Everybody froze and everything became deathly quiet. Settling his gaze back on Louis, he maintained his challenge, crystalline blue intimidating and beating down soft grayish-blue until they submitted, and Louis looked away.
"Remove him," the King called softly, motioning for the guards. "From here on out he is not to return to another meeting!" The guards grabbed his widespread arms and forced them painfully behind his back, marching him roughly out. They tossed him to the floor and shut the doors behind them, locking his King and future away from him.
Thinking back, he wasn't sure what exactly made him say that clear insult and challenge to Louis, but one thing he was sure about was:
He regretted nothing.
He didn't regret the partying, the sass, the attempts to push Louis towards reconstruction. He didn't even regret saying "fuck you" to the King of France. His King. Embarrassing him like he did France.
Those stupid rumors were probably started by Parliament members to ruin his reputation and credibility at court and with Louis, too! Well, it worked. Bâtards. They got the whole entire palace whispering, and Louis detached himself from France.
He ran a hand through his hair, watching the strands slip through his fingers like he knew France was slipping through both his and Louis' hands. He was losing himself.
There was wine to be drunk and problems to forget.
December, 1781
Le Château de Versailles, Queen's Private Chambers
Marie's Bedchamber
Louis' son, a perfectly healthy and absolutely adorable baby boy, Louis-Charles, was born. (Finally, it seemed like Louis' bed was being put to more use than France's.) France should've been happy- the PEOPLE should've been happy! If only for the TRADITION of the thing. But even as France watched Marie cuddle the little, squirming, beautiful bundle from the doorway, he couldn't shake the indigestion.
January, 1782
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartment
France's Bedchamber
France staggered back to his room from another party, but it wasn't from the wine. Completely doubled over, his angry stomach growling and howling and protesting. With each ticking second he could feel his barren stomach painfully shrink more and more in starvation. He pushed the doors open with his back so he wouldn't have to move them from his abdomen and collapsed on his bed, writhing and crying out as the pain intensified when he tried to curl in on himself.
The winter was brutal. No matter how much he ate at Versailles, France was still starving. No matter how many blankets he ordered each night, France still felt the frostbite.
February, 1782
Le Château de Versailles, State Apartments
Venus Drawing Room
'¡Hola, mi amigo!
Sorry to bother you if you're really busy, but me and Prussia haven't heard from you in a while. We miss our trio! America says you haven't been answering him, either. Romano and I just wanted to check up on you and say hola, and make sure everything was ok, because we're a little worried about you! I understand if you're busy, but even if you are you can take a minute out of your day to answer this, right? I'll spread the word to the others, too. Just in case you don't get this, I'm telling Canada to write to you, too. Maybe he'll be able to slip a letter past England. Again, sorry to bother if you're really busy. Just get back to us, ok?'
Espero que todo está bien,
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo; El Reino de España
P.S. Romano told me to send some tomatoes over! Tomatoes make everything better! Expect a package in a week, ok?'
Four months, and he hadn't attended a meeting.
So here he was, pacing outside the door to the conference room under guarded supervision. NOW he regretted it. Louis grew cold and distant, like Parliament told him to stop talking to him completely. They never told France anything anymore. He was almost completely in the dark about political affairs besides what he could get out of Marie's courtiers, which wasn't much.
What did they talk about in there? Did Louis stand his ground?
It was difficult to get his hopes up. . . Because Louis wised up and realized things like that were bad ideas, but had NO IDEA what to do in place. So he became stagnant. Too hesitant to do something on his own, too unwilling to jump into Parliamentary decisions, too ashamed to turn back to France for help. Odds were nothing would get done. The only changes would be that the people grew hungrier and the cost of flour would go up again.
There was just . . . too much diversity. The royal government included too many divisions and subdivisions, too many different standards, agents, methods (most of which France ignored with the exception being the Versailles Parliament). His institutions were a mess, in shambles. Chaos and disorder assembled into a system of no systems.
On the other side of this stomach-cramping, energy-draining paradox, he was having trouble NOT getting his hopes up. Maybe Louis would FINALLY put his foot down on SOMETHING, since he technically had the final say. Maybe he'd do something, anything, just to vindicate that ONE last shred of faith France had and prove he wasn't totally incompetent.
France heard scuffling on the other side of the guards, so they stepped aside as the doors opened. France went to go right to Louis but the guards blocked him until the King and Parliament members passed. He didn't even acknowledge France. Parliament did, however, and a lot of them looked too smug for France's comfort. What went ON in there? France tried to not let his fear and anxiety show to them. The guards moved after the whole group passed, and France followed behind them until Louis broke away to go to his chambers.
France ran to catch le Roi. "Well?" he asked eagerly. "How did it go? What did you discuss?"
This was the first time he even approached Louis since he was led out of the meeting. Louis continued his four month long silent treatment.
"Oh come on, you cannot still be mad! I apologized months ago! Profusely! I've apologized since then, too!"
Nothing.
"I didn't REALLY mean it, Louis-"
"France, you are to address me as 'Votre Majestée,' 'Majestée,' or 'Mon Roi,' with the proper respect I deserve. No more of this 'Louis' nonsense. I am your King. Treat me as such." Crap. He was still mad.
France was silent in shock of Louis' authoritative tome. It wasn't like him. Louis glared down at France and for once, just once, their eyes met and Louis didn't look away. It was France who crumbled. "O-oui, Majestée."
"What's more is you will be France unless we are in public. I rarely refer to you as Francis, but we will use proper titles with each other. I am not your ami. I am your monarch."
"Oui, Majestée. How . . . how did the meeting go? What was discussed?"
"That is none of your business anymore."
"None of my-" he began loudly, but swallowed it down. Louis wanted him in the dark. So be it. He couldn't stop him. "I . . . I see."
France retreated a step behind Louis but still followed him to his chambers, hoping uselessly that Louis would decide to indulge him. He was disappointed. "I'll just . . . leave you to your thoughts then, Majestée." He bowed and turned to go, but Louis' command halted him.
"Wait!" France turned. "We need to talk."
France swallowed.
Louis held the door open for him and France warily strode past him into Louis' room. Marie was in there crooning softly to her baby and bouncing him back and forth. She glanced up, saw France and Louis, and her face fell. "Marie, leave us," Louis said softly. When she left with the baby and shut the door, Louis didn't speak for a long time. France didn't either for fear of upsetting him further.
"France," he said finally. France jumped in spite of himself. "I want you to leave court and return to your château in Paris."
"Ex-excusez-moi, Majestée?"
"I said I want you to return to Paris." No, France heard right. No. No! This was not happening! He couldn't go to Paris! Not now! Things were too bad! Louis was too stupid! He could not - COULD NOT - leave Louis alone with Parliament-
Aaah. So that was why they looked so smug. He was the topic of the meeting.
France's spine seized. This was his worst nightmare. Totally leaving France in the hands of those people. His legs went numb. He had to sit before he passed out. He collapsed into a chair against the wall, jaw opening and closing repeatedly as he tried to come up with emsome/em defense. "You can't-" No, he couldn't order le Roi to do anything. It'd only make him angry, anyway. "But you need me here-" No, no he didn't. Parliament sufficed according to Louis. "You'll ruin France on your own-" Oh sure, France, insult him more! Good plan!
Louis continued in France's silence. "Quite frankly, France, you've turned into more of a nuisance. With nothing to do, you're no better than a courtier! Drinking all the wine and reaping all the benefits of living here. From your CONTINUED misconduct at court and impropriety, to the blatant disrespect you continually show me . . . you're a hinderance. I neither want your opinion anymore, nor desire your presence. You've no further use here at court. Not only that, but you're fatigued. You're not thinking straight lately. I suspect some time to yourself will allow you to recharge, rethink yourself. I suggest you take this leave of absence as a good thing. The time away will do you much good."
"Non, non, non, Votre Maj-"
"You know what? Don't even start. I don't even want to hear what you have to say. You are to return to Paris tomorrow. I've already ordered your coach. I suggest you pack your things tonight."
"B-but," he sputtered. "For how long?"
" . . . As long as I want you away," Louis decided. "But right now, you need the time away, and I need the time to myself."
'To myself', like France was some pest. For doing his job as the National Personification of the Kingdom of France, and trying to make France, his country, his people, his land, the best he could.
Rational thought wasn't working too well for France at the moment, so the next closest thing surfaced: anger.
"Oh! Oh, I see! Fine! FINE! Excuse ME for BOTHERING you with France's REAL problems! Excusez-moi for laying the solutions at your FEET, only to have you walk all over them like I don't know how to fix my own COUNTRY! FORGIVE ME if I WON'T let you RUIN France by not rolling over and easily letting you do what THEY want! PARDONNEZ-MOI for trying to rid myself of the HEADACHE that has assaulted my TEMPLES since 1774! Je suis TRÈS desolé for trying to be the ruler you CAN'T be!"
France was close to going on a one-way trip to La Bastille if that last comment didn't do it. If he was leaving court anyway, he had nothing to lose. France stood quickly, pointing his finger at Louis. "Si tu ne veux pas de moi ici, soit! I'm gone! But you BETTER start forming your own opinions and stick with them to get anything done, instead of letting them sway you into insecurity. And when Parliament disagrees with you and abandons you, don't you DARE come back to me! I'll probably be dying anyway because of you, one way or another. You wonder why I'm exhausted? Why I look like I'm teetering on the edge of collapse? Look at FRANCE! Look at YOURSELF!"
Through France's outburst, Louis controlled his reaction well, which both impressed France and frustrated him beyond words.
"Get out of my sight, France. Pack your things for tomorrow, and be outside at 8:00 a.m."
"Oui, Votre Majestée," he growled between his teeth. He stiffly bowed and left.
Back in his room he stopped at the mirror to see how 'tired' he really looked. Stupid Louis. He was France. He always looked beautiful. But when he meet eyes with his reflection he was actually shocked by his appearance. His normally bright, mesmerizing, crystal blue eyes were dull and dead and empty beyond recognition. A slight black ring decided to plant and take root around both of them, making him look as exhausted as he honestly felt. He pulled the ribbon out of his hair and let his hair, his beautiful, beautiful hair, flow down his shoulders, but it had lost its fluff and shine, like the sun gave up on it. The lively bounce in his curls was gone as well. His hair lay flatly, lifelessly, against his head. How long had he been this pale and sickly looking?
Rage bubbled in his heart. His fingers curled around the vanity counter so hard his nails bit into the wood. he wanted to break something. Stab someone. So badly he had to brace himself against the wood. His fists shook. A jolt of fury stabbed through him, radiating from his chest down his spine.
It was Louis' fault.
He ripped the mirror and what had become of him, his people, his country, from the wall. He gave himself one more glance, and in those dead eyes he saw pain, fury, resignation, power, resolution, ambition, passion. France would not die. He lifted it over his head with a cry and threw it to the floor. It shattered on impact, glass scattering everywhere throughout the room, skittering across the floor, or glinting in the air before clattering to the marble floor. It littered the room, and France walked over it, crunching and grinding it into the floor to get to his armoir. He had packing to do, after all.
He hated him.
He hated Louis.
France. Would. Not. Die.
May, 1783
Opéra, Paris
There was always at least ONE perk to being shunned.
The perk of the first year was that he was home. His home was Paris. His heart was Paris. Living in Versailles since 1682 almost made him forget what home felt like.
The hooves of horses and the rattle of coach wheels on the cobblestones were a constant and familiar backdrop to the noises of life, the bustle of the people. They were talking, shouting greetings, kissing cheeks; the children were laughing; the drunks were celebrating loudly in the taverns; the wives were screaming at their husbands; the shop owners were shouting orders to their workers; if he was out at the right time les dames de la nuit called to him, giggling and blowing kisses (some of which he called back to) . . .
All around France was noise. The kid of positive noise you enjoy just by existing and experiencing it. Energy. He drank it all in like a fine wine.
Of course, he was referring to the richer, better off parts of the city. The 5th through 9th districts, where his home was and where a majority of the bourgeoisie owned estates, but still.
They were France's people.
After 101 years, he was home.
He spent all of his time walking the streets. He surrounded and immersed himself in Parisian life. He felt secure, encompassed by the cramped and crowded buildings and narrow rues. They were all around him, they hugged him close along with the sights and smells: a mix of bread, sweet wines, and slight eaux d'égout. Absolutely charming.
Just BEING in Paris, experiencing the essence of France and the people was more comforting and revitalizing than he could even express, physically or emotionally. Being at court DID take a lot more out of him than he recognized. Or maybe it was a capital thing? Maybe these feelings were why the Nations who lived in their capitals with their bosses seemed better off emotionally than those who didn't. England was an exception. That insufferable swine would always be miserable no matter where he was. Either way, France just felt better. He sort of forgot about his festering hatred for Louis. No matter what the people felt, he was overjoyed to be home.
Yes, for the first year, living in Paris was a blessing. His relief and the immediate rush of wholeness and satisfaction and peace that swelled in his heart was enough to cover up everything else.
They physical aspects of economic depression.
July, 1783
Opéra, Paris
France's Château
They wrenched his hands behind his back, jamming his clenched fists painfully into the small of his back. He eked out a squeak of pain, and they forced him to his knees, stepping on his ankles until they bound his hands. His shoulders screamed in pain, and as soon as they were done he relaxed them. For a second. They pulled him to his feet by his ponytail and shoved him roughly out the jail doors into the open sunlight. The harsh light hurt his eyes but when he went to shield them he wrenched his bound hands and jarred his strained shoulders. They shoved him forward when he tried to withdraw back into the shadows.
That was about as substantial as he felt. A shadow. A phantom. He wasn't France anymore. No one was France. Mass chaos, total anarchy, THAT was France.
They pushed him towards the stage, and as the crowd parted, throwing the bread they didn't eat and the crops that didn't grow at him, he saw it on the platform. The prized possession of France. They symbol of the anarchy. The guillotine.
He choked back his defeated sob, but his heart took a nose-dive into his stomach and his knees wouldn't hold him anymore. They were going to kill him. He was going to die. They still managed to lift him up, and suddenly he was standing there on the stage. He looked to the faces in the crowd, looked for anyone he could appeal to, anyone who would help him. "Please!" he screamed to nobody in particular. "Please, someone help me!" He was drowned out by the crowd. He tried to run off the stage, jump into the crowd and get away, but the guards held his arms tight, forcing him to another knee instead. He continued to desperately search, and in a section of the crowd he saw people he recognized.
Angleterre. Other nations, too: America, Spain, Prussia, Austria, Russia, China, Belgium, Netherlands, to name a few. "Britain!" he screamed, relief flushing through him. "Help me! Please!" Britain didn't react. His face remained stone cold. All of them did. No one would help.
He was completely alone. Oh, God, he was going to die. They were going to kill him.
Someone else grabbed his ponytail and with a swift flick of the knife his hair was sheared away. The cold breeze hit his neck, blowing straight through his dirty, thread-bare shirt, making him shudder. The chill of cold, endless, spiraling death. There was no escaping it. All hope was gone. His breath started coming in short, gasping breaths and he heard laughing above him, coming from the blade of the guillotine. Laughing at his peril. Laughing at his helplessness. He released the cry he tried to hold in and tears streamed down his faces they stood him up and flattened him to the board, tightening the straps around his back. His ponytail they tossed into the crowd, and they ripped it apart, holding strands of it up and screaming in joy at the souvenir they would take. They tipped him over, and his chin smacked off the board when it hit the bed of the machine.
They slid him forward, inch by slow, painful inch, letting his tears wet the basket beneath him.
They clamped his head in place with the top securing board around his neck.
SSCCCHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR- THUNK!
France shot awake in the middle of the night feeling like America was punching him in the stomach.
Well, ok, that was an exaggeration. He woke up only feeling something wasn't right. He immediately chalked it up to the nightmare, although it felt like more than a cold sweat. Being a Nation, when those kinds of warnings came and those kinds of alarm bells rang, it didn't matter what you thought it was. You didn't question them. You got ready for something to hurt.
France didn't get ready fast enough, or well enough.
"Oh, boy, what is it now?" he though groggily, roughly rubbing his eyes and neck where the guillotine cut into him, embarrassingly thankful that he was, indeed, alive despite knowing it was all a sick dream. "Probably some new bill Parliament talked Louis into- Ow!" he squeaked suddenly. A stab of pain punched into his stomach like knife. He sat up on the edge of his bed and curled up, but it almost made it feel worse. He flopped back onto his bed and tossed and turned, trying to find SOME position that would relieve him in any way.
He never found it.
"Wh-why?" he thought. "Why is this-" And then it hit him. Literally. He couldn't even breathe when the next pang hit, and France curled up tighter, despite the whopping nothing it did for the pain. Oh. Now he remembered.
There was kind of a crisis going on. People were starving. These pains were theirs. His stomach hurt again along with the 90% of the Third Estate. They couldn't even afford flour, let alone bread. France knew it wouldn't go away until Louis acted.
He could feel himself beginning to sweat an actual, sickly sweat, so he raised his hand to his forehead only to realize he was trembling. Either way he could tell he was running a fever. He tried to roll out of bed, but as soon as he moved his stomach regretted it instantly. He curled back up, face twisting in pain.
October, 1783
Opéra, Paris
France's Château
The people were holding another riot. He could feel it. He could tell the MORNING it was going to happen. He was too exhausted to get out of bed for the whole day, and he waited in tense, paranoid, anxiousness for the pain to start. The bruises from the businesses and people they destroyed and killed. Thankfully, none marred his beautiful face, but they were still tender.
He had mood swings that would sometimes lead into fevers every time the poorer sections of the city held on of their illegal rallies in the streets. These bouts turned into the new constant. Sweaty, achy, chilled shivers. Since he was closer, much, much closer to the discontent.
For about a month after the start of it in July it floored him until he found a way to mentally detach a bit in August. He withdrew to the inside of his chateau. He stopped seeing the people. He stopped enjoying Paris. He cut himself off from the strolls, the wines, the laughter, even the women. He stopped the humanity of living in Paris and stopped feeling the negative effects of Louis' blind eyes turning away. At least a little bit. It never FULLY stopped, and some days were better than others, but if he just didn't move, didn't react, didn't THINK, the brunt of it was pushed somewhere deep inside of him, where he could bury it and manage to function a LITTLE.
The ONE person who he continued to see without fail was the royal courier. Louis sent letters to him every day since the pain started in July.
And then the ONE perk shifted. For the second year, the perk was ignoring Louis.
The first letter he ever received said"
'Francis,
I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris. I also hope you are enjoying your time off-'
France stopped reading. This wasn't just some vacation he took to have fun and enjoy himself! And even if it was he certainly wasn't enjoying it. He dragged his fatigued body over to the fireplace, bracing himself on the carved marble against a head rush and a wave of dizziness.
He threw the letter into the fire.
The one he bothered to open this October read:
'Francis,
"I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris.'
He always began his letters to France like that. Like nothing was wrong.
'It's been a little over a year and four months now since you've been away from court, and-'
'Away from court?' Like he left of his own volition. Louis was too cowardly to admit his mistake, even in letter form. What a pansy. What a coward.
Into the fire.
November, 1783
Opéra, Paris
France's Château
'Francis,
I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris. My other notes don't seem to be, judging from your lack of correspondence. Although, the courier tells me a "handsome blond fellow" answers the door. Handsome and blond are adjectives that suit you, but I'll have to get a check on ton château's address.'
The sarcasm he detected in Louis' pen almost made France crush the glass of water in his hands. He swore he would neither read nor reply to the letters until an apology was in the first few sentences, and an on-the-knees-plea for him to come back was transcribed into the next one. But this was downright rude. The bâtard would have to swallow his pride or cowardice, whichever applied here, and apologize. For his mistake, for Parliament, either one would suffice for France. Not even flattery was going to make him crack.
Into the fire.
February, 1784
Opéra, Paris
France's Château
France was too sick to get up and answer the door. The knock set his headache roaring, and he contemplated tearing that stupid brass knocker off the door. His bedroom was around a few corners and right at the top of the stairs, but his door was open and his house was large. His weak, quavering voice echoed to the man in the foyer when he called the courier in.
"Hello?" he called hesitantly into the house. "U-ummm, j'ai une lettre pour vous, Monsieur," he yelled.
France wiped the sweat from his brow and threw the thick, heavy fleece blankets off of himself. Unfortunately, as soon as his body was bare he became instantly, furiously, freezing cold. Hot UNDER the covers, cold OUT of them. The touch of the blankets made him ache, he shivered without them. He sat up slowly to try and spare himself the dizzy spell, but it still crept up his back and into his head so fast blackness spotted his vision and the room swam and spun into an unidentifiable blur.
"S'il vous plaît, b-bring it up to me," he called back, as loud as his head would allow. "First bedroom at the top of the stairs. P-pardonnez-moi, but I'm not decent." His bare chest and back were shiny with sweat, and all he had on were breeches. He ran a hand through his knotted, sweat-slicked hair and curled a blanket around is shoulders. It didn't help the rest of him, or his shivers, but it was a little better.
France saw the courier's head clear the top of the stairs so he said, "In here, Monsieur."
The man took one look at him and paled. France realized he must look really bad.
"Est- . . . Est-ce que vous êtes Monsieur Bonnefoy? Sa Majestée, Louis XVI, bid me ask you."
The courier asked him something. France just wanted him to hand over the letter so he could lay back down. When a question surfaced, France wasn't even paying attention. "Pardon?"
"Are you Monsieur Bonnefoy?"
"Oui, j'en ai bien peur. Forgive my appearance, but as you can see, I am not well."
"I'm sorry to see you so sick, sir," the courier awkwardly said, stuck between formality of duty and care for another human being. "I . . . um . . . I have a letter for you."
France took the letter and collapsed back onto his pillow. He went to work trying to break the seal, but his hands were shaking. He couldn't get a solid grip on the lip.
"Would you like some help?"
"Non, non, je peux le faire," France said. His tongue protruded from his lips, the show of how much concentration he was putting into such a simple task. He jabbed his thumb into the slit and pried, but his other hand was shaking too badly. His thumb slipped and the parchment gave him a superficial paper cut that was the bane of his existence.
"Merde!" he yelled.
The courier flinched, but pulled an envelope knife from his bag. "May I?" France handed the letter back and he sliced through Louis' seal with ease. He made a move to have it back.
"Ah! Non, just read it to me."
"Oui, Monsieur.
'Francis,
'I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris. I understand if you do not want to correspond while you are taking your leave, but frankly, this utter refusal to answer my letters is becoming childish-'"
"Stop," France told him. "Arrêtez. Burn that. Right now."
"But I haven't finished-"
"Je sais. Burn it anyway."
The courier did as he was told, then turned back to France. "Monsieur, can I get you anything? A cold towel for your face? Some water? Extra blankets? I could call on a doctor for you."
"Non, non, that's quite alright." Human treatments didn't help a Nation anyway. Their maladies were directly linked to national happenings. "I'll be alright-" He cut off to cough. Well that was a new development. That was the first time he ever coughed because of a bad time period. Oh, God, if his people had pneumonia . . .
The courier looked skeptical, but France waved him off. "I suggest you go. Merci beaucoup."
"Je vous en prie." He left.