September, 1784
Opéra, Paris
France's Château
As he adjusted and resigned himself to his foreseeable future of pain, it began to change. Things seemed to come to France in weekly waves.
-The stomach aches. Always first. Days on end. Building inside of him until he screamed, cried, threw up. One, or any combination, of the three. Add dizziness, irritability, fatigue, weakness, achiness . . . He was mentally decaying with them. Physically he looked gaunt and grey. He couldn't keep food down. He was dehydrated. National alarm bells tolled day in and day out for him, for his body, for France, ringing in his ears, a constant and unnecessary reminder that if nothing changed soon . . . or maybe they were death knells. Who knew? Who cared?
-The tension built day by day until it was released in a short, fulminating burst of a Bread Riot. Or an estate-looting. Or a lynching. He could sense where they were in the city, starting on the other end of the Seine and working their way in, getting closer and closer to his home. The bells morphed into screams, shrieks of pain and terror, cries of triumph, scratching metal on shattering glass, jeers and shouts of fistfights over the freshly-liberated bread. Feverish, he lost touch with reality, screaming himself awake from delusional nightmares. Of that guillotine. Of a laughing, jaunting Louis and Parliament. Marie making a gory and disgusting headpiece out of his severed head.
-The cold. As May waned and September waxed the nights grew chilly. He shivered and shivered uncontrollably, until he shivered himself into exhaustion. Sleep would claim him for an hour, maybe two.
No longer random and erratic as they used to be. It was a system, a stupid system, isolating each of his problems clearly for no one to listen to. Bearing them to the forefront of his mind with no alleviation. Throw in a letter or two from Nations and Louis, and voila! The miserable, suffering bundle of joy that was France.
At least the isolation was sort of starting to help.
'France,
Spain told me to write to you since you haven't been answering any of his letters for almost a decade, now. Or Austria's, or Al's, or Prussia's . . .
Are you okay, Papa? Is everything okay? Is anything okay?
Even Britain seems concerned. At least, when I see him he looks concerned. He's always traveling from Britain to Canada and back again. He actually seemed excited, not mad, when he caught me trying to slip this letter past him. Sometimes I catch him muttering to himself about you. "Hope the bloody frog's alright," and things like that. And roses. He keeps mentioning something about roses. He always catches himself when he sees I'm there, though. Britain! Acting like that! Can you believe it?
I think he knows something about what's going on- if something is, sorry to assume if it's nothing- but he won't tell me.
I'm scared. And I'm upset. Him not telling me scares me. I know you're mad at him, eh? So am I still, in a way. Mad at both of you. You two turned me and Al against each other to supplement your vendettas. La guerre de la Conquête - The French and Indian War as Al calls it - took a large toll on our indigenous people and your settlers. But I still care about you, and I think he cares about me now, he really does. I think he's not telling me because he doesn't want to scare me, but . . . him not telling me is what's scaring me.
I'm scared for you, Papa.
So please, talk to us!
You're shutting the world out, and Britain says that's dangerous. We all want to help you! Let Spain and Prussia help you! Austria! For the love of maple, if you're that desperate, call on Russia! Just please, whatever's happening, take care of yourself and stay safe, okay? For me?
Au Revoir, et bonne chance.
Mattieu Williams; The British Colony of Canada'
He couldn't answer the letter. He couldn't.
No one could help him now, anyway.
This was civil war that was brewing. Nations got caught in the middle. That was just how things went.
No two battles felt the same. It depended on the size of the armies, how thin they were spread, rations, who was winning, who had been winning, so many things. But Nations learned how to deal with battle since they were mostly physical. Over time they learned how to physically handle it in the charge, forcing it away so the only thing left to focus on was how hard you stabbed the other guy, or how hard you got stabbed. Delivering the killing blow to the other Nation as quickly as possible.
This was civil war. His body, his mind, his essence, was literally fighting with itself. There was no escape, nowhere to hide. There was no solace, no relief. He was hoping the isolation would do it. Eventually.
Back to the letter, France thought solemnly. No, he wouldn't answer. Besides, he didn't even know what to say. He was ashamed, exhausted, embarrassed. He was too embarrassed to let anyone see him like this, groveling on his knees for help. Eck. Plus, he wouldn't be caught DEAD with his hair looking as dull, flat, and lifeless as it did now.
He abandoned the letter to the top of the growing pile of National letters to him on his bedside table. Right as he grabbed the next one his stomach wormed inside of him. Like a fist grabbed it, crushing it in its massive fingers, and twisted. He lurched over the side of the bed and emptied the minuscule, burning contents of his stomach into the chamberpot. Used to sudden, violent purges like that he calmly drained the rest of the water in the pitcher unhealthily to wash the searing out of his throat and opened the next letter. The Hapsburg royal seal. Austria.
'France,
What in the WORLD is going ON over there, you fool?! Not answering my letters, not passing a SINGLE law or mandate or ANYTHING since 1779! What is WRONG with you? Are you even TRYING to run your country? Are you even TRYING to manage your monarch?!
I'm only going to say this one more time, you idiot: MY royal family is starting to panic because YOUR royal family, their son-in-law, is daft! Twiddling his thumbs for years on end! They think Marie married a ninny! They think she married a coward! A simpleton! An oaf! An ignoramus! A dolt, a dunderhead, a moron, a twit, an imbecile!
NEED I GO ON?
He is shaming and discrediting the Hapsburg name! Did you know that the AUSTRIAN court is poking fun at MARIA-THERESA for Louis' incompetence! 'What's she doing over there,' they say, like it's HER FAULT! He is RUINING France and bringing US down with him. You better do something about him soon before you have another fight on your hands. Get off that rose-petaled posterior of yours, and do something. I am only going to ask you this one. last. time. before I march in there and take her back to Austria myself. Are we clear?
Make. Louis. Do. Something. Before. Marie's. Reputation. Is. Ruined!
And at least answer this letter, you buffoon. I hope you know that Haydn and angry Bach have been playing through my lady's palace because of you!
Roderich Edelstein; Kaiserthum Oesterreich'
That actually made France chuckle! Angry musical insults! But the laugh died and he winced as it made his chest hurt. Hah! As if France was the only one who would ruin her reputation. It was ruined the moment it took her more than six months to conceive a child with Louis. Despite it not being her fault, she still bore the brunt of the insults.
Fine. Austria could barge in and lay waste to France if he wanted to for all France cared.
It wasn't like he could get any worse.
February, 1785
Opéra, Paris
France's Château
It took a few months, but the distance was finally doing France good. For the most part.
Everything dulled considerably, enough for him to plaster on a faux smile and have it look reasonably convincing for the courier. Hardly any more headaches. No fevers. He stilll shook, but he had strength. He chalked it up to the fear of the riots reaching his district.
He opened the door confident he wouldn't blow chunks and the courier smiled, pleasantly surprised by the bit of color that returned to France's (still gaunt but filling) face.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Bonnefoy! You look well!"
"Merci beaucoup. I am feeling better."
"Votre lettre."
"Merci."
"Je vous en prie. I can't stay and chat. I've got more letters to deliver. Glad to see you so well. Au revoir."
"Au revoir."
He shut the door and snapped the letter open with ease, glancing at the first few lines.
'Francis,
I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris. I'm sorry-'
Qu'est-ce que c'est? Could Louis actually be apologizing? France recovered from his shock to keep reading eagerly.
'I'm sorry to hear that you haven't been well.'
Of course not. Still, though, ONE apology gave him hope. He continued reading.
'I suppose if that is the reason for your lack of response, I forgive you.'
Into the fire.
August, 1785
Opéra, Paris
France's Château
France his a point in the middle of 1785 where he could sleep through the night. Sometimes it was natural, healing sleep, sometimes it was the dull pain that lulled him into unconsciousness.
Either way, sleep was sleep.
Sleep meant respite. Beautiful, peaceful respite. Not even the riots could wake him.
Louis stopped sending letters. So the courier stopped coming.
France was officially alone.
The perk shifted to dreaming. France wasn't sure if his newfound talent was the case with the other Nations and frankly, he didn't want to ask. Each Nation had their own special quirk, or skill set. America had his super-strength, and he and Canada both could track and hunt game better than everyone. Russia, for the life of him, could not get drunk- the direct result of years and years (and years) of unknowingly building up a tolerance with vodka. But the teenage country could aim, shoot, and reload a pistol so fast and accurately . . . it just made everyone that much more afraid of him. Spain could dance better than anyone. If he watched a dance for a few seconds he could pick it up instantly. As good as Britain was at sailing, the Nordics would trump him any day. Little Italy could look at any painting, any at all, and know the artist and year. He could also replicate it to a T. The cute little boy could just paint in general! The fine arts were his to command.
It was usually things like that, things connected to their peoples' passions. France had one of those talents, too. He could taste any wine, blindfolded, too, and know, just KNOW, the name, the color, the age, the vineyard where the grapes were grown, each individual ingredient that went into it, the family that mixed, fermented, aged, and bottled it, everything. All from one small taste. That was his generic one just like everyone else.
So when he found that he had this other little talent, he jealously guarded his secret. Even if the others could do it, acting like it was his and his alone made him feel special, prideful, set apart from the others (besides in his recovering beauty and fashion sense, bien sûr).
Sometimes when France dreamed, he slipped into the lives of his people and relived their days. He wasn't sure why. Probably because of the crisis. His subconscious mind was showing him what life was really like for the Parisians in Louis' wake.
That answer took the magic and the special feeling away from it, though, so he pretended it was a special feeling or talent. He closed his eyes and they opened on someone else's house or family. He'd live an hour in a man's shoes, or maybe spend a whole day as a single mother. He got snippets and clips of each of their days, their handling of their own issues brought on by the depression. Sometimes they were good, and sometimes they were not so good.
He could be a woman who just got laid off. He could be a wealthy nobleman who just collected his tax. He could be a homeless person with their two children, toes and fingers freezing in the chill of night no matter how warm the weather of Paris was, the life bleeding out of them into the cold, unforgiving streets. He could be a proud worker who made enough to happily feed his family. He could be a sweaty, ripple-muscled farmer whose cattle were diseased. He could be stricken with pneumonia, anything. Anybody. They were good. They were mostly bad.
France didn't care. They were human. They were the life and the experiences he cherished before the onset of the pain. He got to be with the people in spirit, pain-free. The only horror of the dreaming was that if they were bad, he got a clear, raw, uncensored view of the social turmoil. And he was helpless to do anything about it in real life, lest the horrible, horrible waves start crashing into him again, crippling him. Sometimes the dreams even made him sick if they were bad enough, but not usually.
It took him a while to get a handle on it, and figure out how to root himself in one person or situation. Before that he shot dizzily from place to place, a farmworker, a Bourgeois, a Parliament member, a clergyman. Around and around and around until he jerked himself awake, back in his body and scared out of his mind. "Where am I? WHO am I? Is this real?"
Once things settled down and he chose who to see next he started to notice a pattern. Two names kept popping up, over and over, in conversation, in gossip on the street, at the dinner table, across social classes. One France remembered; he used to be head of finances of France under Louis XVI. Jacques Necker. Fired in 1781, he published a book or something detailing the finances and their allotment by the crown, and the people ate it up until they realized it was falsified. Then they ate HIM up. He had slowly been gaining back his reputation. The other name he missed. Always half-whispered in awe.
Rob . . . Robes- something-or-other.
He never remembered by the time he woke up.
December 4, 1785
Opéra, Paris
France's Château
'Francey-pants,
Seriously, where've you been? We're all worried sick about you! And, frankly, a little mad! You haven't answered any of me and Washington's letters or even Canada's! What the hell, France?!
Spain thinks you're dead, Canada's scared out of his mind for you, Austria's sending threats to ME to get you to talk to him, Prussia told us he'll give up the title of biggest feet to you if you'd just talk to the man! Whatever that means.
Me and Britain aren't exactly on speaking terms yet, but even HE spoke to me long enough to say you haven't even written to him to insult him. We all know something's wrong by that alone!
Look, President Washington told me that your guy Louis XVI hasn't been good for France. He says that our Revolution bankrupted you and your country. He doesn't know much more beyond that, though, so he couldn't tell me anything else. But if you need help, France, just lemme know, okay? I still owe you for helping my Revolution, anyway. I'll help however I can.
Or, something Washington always says is "It's the people, Alfred. The people are the key. They fought for their own right to put people like me here. And they have the right to take it away just as easily. That is the system we built, you and I, when we took this country and freed it. It's the least I can do to go in the direction they tell me to, especially when they were generous enough to hand me the reins. There is no government, ANY government, without the people. There isn't even God without people."
Profound, right? Not sure I get it completely, but if your boss is that bad, try something on your own! Help the people any way you can! If you're sick maybe it'll make you . . . not sick!
I guess now's a bad time to invite you to my Christmas party, especially if you've got issues over there, but just know that if you ever want a break, my house's open!
Hope everything works out, France!
Alfred F. Jones; The United States of America'
L'Amérique. That physically 19 year old, chronologically 8 year old Nation could sometimes see things better and more concretely than the oldest and wisest. He had the ability to look at things as though they were black and white. If there is a problem, you either fix it or you don't. If you choose to fix it, you either choose option A or option B.
Naïveté at it's finest. An advantage in simple situations and at the best times for concise, prompt decisions, but otherwise, in average and the worst of times, a hoodwinking hinderance. The things you don't account for manage to corrupt the simplicity at every opportunity they get. It didn't account for the grey that spanned the middle of the black on the left, and the white on the right, like a river. America didn't worry about the stability of the bridge, only that a bridge would get him across, so build one! He did not understand that even if you took the direct route across a difficult problem, the consequences and side problems of the grey river babbled and splashed over the rocks, spattering your clothes. You made it to the other side, sure, but sopping wet.
Things were never black and white.
Still, he gave France an idea. Help the people. If Louis was stagnant officially, why couldn't France work locally? Why couldn't he be the Christmas that wouldn't normally come to the people of Paris? The people needed his aid, so France would go to their aid.
Great. Alfred made him idealistic.
The rational, analytical, pessimistic Britain inside of him laughed at the naïve America taking root. 'Speak for yourself,' it said. 'You weren't born yesterday. You knew all along that the people need to be helped. The reason you haven't done it yet is because of your selfish fear.'
Did he really want to risk the pain and the exhaustion again? What if he ventured out into the cold, starving world and it didn't work, and he forced himself back into year-long remissions? He wasn't emotionally ready to take that leap of faith. He couldn't do it if it happened again. He was desperate, unhinged, pathetic. No way was he willing to risk leading this cocoon, this little bubble of comfort he carefully and meticulously crafted around himself, as fragile as porcelain. It wasn't worth it to silently spite Louis if it wouldn't help him.
America fought back, 'The spite would just be a perk if it didn't work! The people need help! Just try it! For YOU! Who are you if not the people?'
All they did was confuse France, sticking him on the edge of that grey river, each prodding towards black and white until he lost his balance and was swallowed by the grey. Swallowed by the indecision and brittle, flimsy avoidance which would pop his cocoon anyway.
He wanted desperately to help, but this would also be an experiment. If they felt better, he would hopefully feel better. His heart was with the people. His head was trying to make the pain stop, for the love of God. Why not both?
He thought he was stuck, but America opened the door. L'Amérique gave him hope for BOTH the people and himself, something absent in France for a long time. All France had to do was peek in and see if it was the right door, damn the consequences.
He had a rarity in France in his château- a personal oven. And he had stores upon stores of flour to spare. He got straight to work.
He had baking to do.
March, 1786
Opéra, Paris
France's Château
'Francis,
I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris. I'm told there are riots everyday now, due to some "food crisis". I have heard nothing of this so-called crisis. Just do be careful.
I'm afraid that Parliament has not been truthful with me. I think they are hiding matters of those kind from me: issues and grievances. Brushing them under the rug because they fail to see how they affect France. While I may agree on some of them, I would still like to see them.'
"Oh, STUFF IT!" France yelled out loud to the letter. "It's not like you'd make a DECISION on them, or do anything to FIX them if you DID agree!"
'If I am being honest, I miss your grounding presence and voice of reason. I feel like a blindfold has been placed over my eyes and I am being led around. At least while you were here you had my other hand, acting as my eyes. I have no one here who I feel will explain things honestly, good or bad, to me.'
What a laughable joke. "Acting like you would've changed your mind or even LISTENED to me! You still did exactly what they wanted!"
'I know we parted on poor terms, but I would like for you to consider returning to court, and returning to your positions my advisor. In the meantime, I will be doing my best to get to the bottoms of these problems. It would be easier with you here.
Please consider it. I anxiously await your answer.
Louis'
Robespierre. The man's name was Robespierre.
Maximilien François Marie Isidore de Robespierre.
No, really. France wasn't kidding. That was his full name.
The people continued to fawn over him and Necker. France picked up the whispers as he passed out bread and blankets. A lawyer and a banker. Formidable indeed.
France walked through the streets of the poorer districts with the bread wrapped up in the blankets so he isn't immediately attacked. Anyone he passed huddling in the street he gave out whole baguettes to.
May, 1786
Opéra, Paris
France's Château
France's eyes shot open.
Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
He could feel eyes on him. Someone was in his room! His chest squeezed in on his heart and a scream FOUGHT to leave him, but he clamped his mouth shut and managed to quiet the residual squeak of fear. It grew dead silent, like the person sensed he was awake and froze. The two sat in absolute stillness, absolute darkness. Shouts came to him from outside. Whoops and cries of excitement and anticipation, extremely close. France couldn't hear what they were saying. He didn't make the connection.
Some of his belongings shifted and his heart leapt into his throat as he started. He suddenly lunged for the wine bottle on his bedside table, sitting up quickly and loosing it towards the foot of his bead, where the attacker was. It shattered lamely against the opposite wall instead of someone's head, and fe saw that he was actually alone. There was no one there to begin with.
But he heard a noise. More than sure he was being watched. Someone. Something. Waiting. Waiting for him to get up and investigate. He could feel it. Black fingers creeping up his back and seizing his chest. Tightening it in fear until he was having trouble breathing. His heart throbbed so loudly and powerfully his whole body pulsed with each pound. He watched the dark corners of his room tensely, warily, not even daring to breathe in the silence. He gripped the blanket tightly, scanning as well as he could around him, shuddering as his imagination ran rampant, picturing a giant black beat with red eyes diving onto his bed and holding him down. Chomping his neck. Squirting blood. Or a poltergeist, choking the life out of him as he lay defenseless. Blood oozing thickly down the wall instead of wine-
A loud knock on his door banged like a gunshot and he jumped so violently he fell out of bed. Or was it the door slamming? Oh, God, someone was in his house! He quickly jumped up, frozen, rooted to the spot by the sounds coming from the foyer and outside. Unsure what to do. Oh, God, OH GOD!
His pistol was down in the cellars. All the guns he had mounted on the wall from different points of his history weren't usable. The swords weren't available to him either. All his historical artifacts had a room all to themselves. He just left his workable pistol when he grabbed the wine. He had no weapon. "Improvise, France!" he screamed at himself. "Don't just stand there like a debutante at a fashion show!" He could use the fire poker. It would have to do until he could get down to the cellars. He slowly crossed the room, chiding at every board that creaked, every pound his attempted light-footedness made on the floor. Snatching the cooling weapon from the dying fire he lightly padded back across the room and flattened himself to the wall, leaning over and peeking out the door into the foyer. The noise was gone again, and so were the people. Maybe they heard France upstairs and hid. Something else clicked against the front door and he heard noises and voices outside, matching the sounds he heard from his room. He sighed in relief. No one was in his home, he didn't think. They were trying to get inside. That was much easier to handle. France saw the light dancing against the windows. They had torches. It was impossible to tell how many there were outside, though.
France had to hide. Or he had to get his gun. If he could get to his gun, he could take care of these bastards quick.
A protective, violent sort of anger suddenly sprang up inside of him. They thought they could break into HIS house? Loot and steal from HIM?! From France HIMSELF?! They had another freaking thing coming!
He gripped the poker, two handed, white knuckled, behind him like a club. He had to get past the door to get to the pantry, then to the wine cellar. He angrily and confidently stomped down the stairs, bravado as large and intimidating as he could make it, getting about halfway down before the clicking and banging resumed on the door. They were trying to pick the lock. All pretense of his bravery gone in a second, he froze there on the steps, expecting them to be successful any second and barge in.
"You sure this is the place?" he heard through the door.
"Ouais, I followed him back here after he handed out the bread. So he has to have flour."
"Maybe he's just rich enough to buy bread at the price now."
"Either way. Doesn't matter. We're still getting something out of this."
The light danced brighter and brighter in the window next to the door, and he realized too late that one of them with the torch was going to peek through the window. He dashed for the dining room.
Too late.
The light pooled into the foyer, distorted by the glass, and he got caught right in it. He stopped, frozen in fear.
"He's in there! Go! Go! Go!"
Someone smashed the window with the butt of his bayonet and crashed through, showering glass on France. With a gasp he shielded his face and ran right past them to the left into the dining room. He vaulted the table completely, using one arm to gracefully throw his legs over then continued into the pantry, the footsteps and shouts echoing through his vast, empty house. But he didn't look back to see how close they were. As he reached the pantry he threw upon the trap door to the wine cellar but he never got his legs in to slide down.
One grabbed the back of his nightshirt and clotheslined him, choking him and staggering him back. Like a striking snake France half-spun towards the man and swing the poker over his head, down on the man's elbow. His arm snapped and he wailed in pain, drawing away, and France threw a heavy shoulder into his chest, knocking him down. As another entered the room and charged he swung the poker and clocked him in the side of the head and knocked him out. Another was on him instantly, diving onto his back. He stumbled forward and crashed into one of the storage cabinets. Kettles and pots clanged loudly all around them, littering the floor. France straightened up and tried to detach the man's bear hug from around his arms as footsteps pounded into the room.
"Shoot him! Shoot him!" the guy on his back roared, grabbing his ponytail to probably expose more to shoot. France tried to turn away but he heard the pop and a bullet embedded stinging into his thigh. He screamed and his leg crumpled, hot, wet blood immediately soaking uncomfortably into the fabric of his pants. The man's full weight landed on France's back right as he exhaled, so all the rest of his breath left him in a whoosh! He gasped and choked; the man climbed on top of his back, putting one knee between his shoulder blades and the other into the back of his neck, grinding his cheekbone unpleasantly into the floor. He kicked uselessly, crying out at the fire that shot through his thigh.
The one that shot him tossed the gun to the man kneeling on France and he put the cold gun to the back of France's head. He leaned down and looked France in the eye.
He found out over history that people had . . . problems . . . harming their Nation. People hesitated. Whatever they did more often than not had some sort of emotional repercussion, some sort of regret, both at the moment and afterwards. Just because of the power and essence of the Nations. People felt that, literally, a part of them died, was cut away, so he's been told.
Usually people have problems, ESPECIALLY looking their Nation in the eye. Not this man. He glared triumphantly down at France, jammed the gun sharply into his neck. He heard the click as he cocked it again, saw the flash, heard the bang, then everything went black.
France's eyes peeled open.
Immediately his temples started to throb; little searing lightning bolts of pain shot from the back of his head to the front and back again, deadening his thoughts. His ears pulsed. His head pulsed, his vision pulsed with each head pulse.
He moaned in agony and clutched at his head around the wound, the source of the pain. Awareness came to him little-by-little, in simple thought phrases.
Dark. Eyes dark. Can't hear.
Pain. Head hurt. Bad. Really bad.
Leg. Also pain. Getting better. Healing.
Hair. Feels wet. Sticky. Crusty. Blood.
Blood on clothes, blood on floor. Uncomfortable. Slimy.
He still couldn't see, couldn't hear. The blast deadened both of those as well. So he gently twitched his fingers against the floor when movement occurred to him.
Hardwood. Pantry. ATTACKERS! GET OUT, GET OUT!
What happened? His mind screamed with ferocious clarity. How did I get here?! Fighting away the pounding and confusion, he numbly felt himself frantically peel his body from the floor. He made it to a hunched over position before a head rush rammed his brain full-force, like a battering ram. The darkness gyrated messily in his eyes. He tipped over, stumbling head-long into the cabinetry, woozy from loss of blood, and held both sides of his head to literally steady it. Though he could feel the healing process vein to dull the pain, his head throbbed evilly. As the room began to poke clear through the darkness, and his hearing came back to him, he gently breathed himself back to lucidity.
He looked around.
They destroyed, absolutely destroyed, his home. Took everything that looked remotely valuable, and destroyed everything else. All the silver and glass plates were gone, the cabinet tipped and shattered. Silverware, gone. The whole dining table and chairs, tipped and broken, the legs tossed through the windows. All of his paintings and candlesticks ripped from the walls, his curtains shorn and defeated, limp and dead. They scratched the wallpaper with knives, took the mirrors, looked the chandelier to the floor, stole all the furniture, scratched up the wood . . .
That was just all he could see of the dining room.
Instinct, first-aid, National impulse told him to take care of his wounds. Dress them, clean them, make the healing easy on himself. Despite the groans of protest from his head he stood and staggered dizzily, but not to take care of himself. He ignored the endless, lifeless echoes of nature and got up to look around his empty, decrepit home. It would heal no matter if he wrapped it now or later. He just had to look at his home first. He just had to. Every window shattered. Everything broken.
He moved to the artifact room he had, and collapsed to a knee when he saw that every statue was stolen. Every knick-knack of the centuries, priceless treasures of his life, busts, maps, swords, paintings, treaties, books, music, everything that ever allowed him to call himself France, ripped away from him. The library was no better. Books ripped from the shelves, torn apart, and burned, white parchment scattered all around like confetti. Confetti from a bloody fun party.
All his instruments, his pianoforte and early harpsichord, partitive organ, his vielle from the Medieval Era, his oboe and flute, cello, viola, violin, like someone took a club to them. Polished and varnished wood scattered all about. His flute broken in half. And a gun. Yup. Those were bullet holes in his pianoforte.
He couldn't stand to be in there anymore. All that history, gone, like the Library of Alexandria. His knees felt weak in its wake, and it took every ounce of his power to not fall to his knees with how badly his heart hurt and cry right there. So he moved out to the stairs. He crawled painfully slowly up on all fours- he wasn't sure he could make it if he was upright- and looked in his bedroom. They cut up his sheets and stabbed his bed. Feathers, cotton, the drapes, a layer of snow on the floor. His drawers were all ripped open and tossed to the floor, and he followed the trail of discarded garments to the rock-shattered window, peering at the charred pile of his clothes in the yard. It was a big fire.
He guessed, based on the ashes and consistency of his blood in his hair, that he was out for about four days. He couldn't be sure. Nobody could tell him, either. The testament to how weak he had become. He should've healed in a day, two at the maximum.
France stumbled around his room, tripping left and right on littered splinters, finally reaching the bare table where he kept the pile of National letters. All gone. The whole pile. All the voices of genuine concern for him from Austria, Spain, Prussia, Canada, America, yes, even Britain . . . all gone. In a way that made him feel the worst. Not the attack, not the fear, not the cold chill of a gun to his head, not the physical after-effects, not even the history. Even though he knew he wasn't going to answer any of the letters, just knowing they all were there was a sort of emotional solace where it lacked in him physically. Knowing people cared about him made him sort of happy. Meh, whatever. They probably read them and burned them, unable to make sense of the language of the Nations.
Good thing he burned his letters from Louis, or they would've hung his body in the streets knowing he was 'close' to the King.
The spiteful, ignorant, fool of a man.
'Take care of your head,' his impulsive thoughts whined, making it throb harder than the other times to prove their point. He ignored them further. They just weren't convincing enough. He wanted to be sad right now, and his head wasn't pressing enough to interrupt it.
The only thing left completely unharmed was the chest at the foot of his bed. The monster padlock was scratched; they obviously tried to get into it. It looked a little skew as well, like they wanted to move it. They must have realized it was too big and heavy to take and abandoned it. Good. Something went right for him. If he would've lost what was in there . . .
At least something survived.
'Ok, now take care of your head!'
He didn't feel like it. He mindlessly, obligatorily picked up drawers to put back in the dresser, and began piling up the larger, unsalvageable pieces of wood just to ignore his head. He couldn't even bring himself to muster anger. They were needy, they were desperate to survive. He could never understand what it was like to be them. His life wasn't on the line like theirs. Not yet, anyway. Blink, and a human is gone. He could not and would never understand their mad desperate SPRINT to simply survive, and THEN sprint further with the weights of life on their ankles. He would never understand their stone-hard resolution to lift those weights JUST so they could say "Yes! I've DONE something!" when they CRAWLED across the finish line. He could admire it. And he did! But he couldn't understand.
All he had left instead of admire was apathy. No anger. This attack was how they lift their chains.
Who was he, a man with decades, centuries, EONS to spare, to lift his chains, to get in the way of their hundred meter dash?
August, 1786
Hôtel-de-Ville, Paris
Pont Neuf
That got him thinking more.
It all began with one thought. He had it as he laid in bed, staring glumly into the embers of the fire he was too lazy to poke. As he listened to the cacophony of screams in his head. The calls of justice in the secret meetings. The incessant whining of Parliament that everything was fine. The anger and passive, lazy acceptance of blind eyes.
"I'm going to die."
He dismissed it immediately, harshly scolding himself for being so over dramatic.
'France,' he laughed internally at himself. 'Francis Bonnefoy, if you survived the Plague you can survive this.'
He sighed at that inner voice. Why couldn't it let him be dramatic? He had a right to complain every once in a while. But he still listened to himself, dropping the subject.
For about ten minutes.
The more he thought about it, the more he started asking questions. What ifs. The worst kinds of questions to ask yourself when avoiding things. Because they make you look at your actions, really look at the very thing you want to avoid, and see just how the consequences play out. And then front here it spirals DIRECTLY down into the worst-case scenarios and THIER effect. And then you believe they're going to come to be, no matter how skewed they become, so no matter how SCREWED you though you (didn't care you) were by not doing the thing, you'd be ten times MORE screwed if the worst-case scenario came to fruition. So you did the thing anyway, shitty and half-assed and last-minute.
"What if this kills me?"
'You can't die anyway,' he thought to his over dramatic self. 'Ok. Now let it go.'
"But what about Rome?"
'Uuugh! Let it GO!'
"What if what happens . . . you never know! What if it collapses France? No more French Empire. No more Royaume de France!"
'Well I WON'T die. Like I said, if I survived the Plague . . . Now drop it.'
"What if you're doomed? What if you just fade into History like Rome?"
'I said drop it!'
"What if everyone forgets about you after you die? What if Louis' legacy is France's lasting mark?"
What happens if a Nation . . . dies?
That question right there sparked an internal theological, theoretical, philosophical struggle of the century. You can guess it led to MORE questions. About should. And the possibility of his death and Purgatory. No, not Purgatory, just . . . nothing. That Nations just cease to be in the mortal world one day, with nothing.
Fear. Guilt.
What happened when a Nation died? What would happen to France when HE died?
"OH, MON DIEU!"
All of it was his fault. All of it.
His lack of better influences over Louis XV to dissuade him from the wars, the women, the wanton and billowy reign. His failure to clean up the mess before Louis XVI and Parliament stepped in his way. His failure to push the timid Louis harder than Parliament. His lack of contribution to the economy, the people, the taxes. This collapse, this total low that he had sunk to, that he'd let his BODY, his COUNTRY sink to . . .
He had no one to blame but himself.
This civil war was his fault. Because of him people killed each other over a morsel, a tiny speck of food, people did what they did to him and his home to other people. He was to blame for their pain, and his own.
He hated himself for it.
Like Lady Macbeth he felt dirty, unclean, tainted. He couldn't wash the blood of his innocent countrymen off his hands, no matter how hard he scrubbed. They were trapped because of him, HE was trapped because of himself. HE lost their jobs and he killed off their families with cold and disease and HE broke their homes and hearts and HE pulled their triggers and tied their nooses and hung their bodies and chopped off their heads.
Blood was on him constantly, every waking minute. It spattered each brand new petticoat he bought, seeping into his handkerchief so he wiped his face with it. It ran thick through his hair with each labored stroke of his brush, coating and coagulating messily, knotting, dulling the shine that almost returned that he didn't deserve. It seeped through the wallpaper he bought, puddled in the new wood he bought for a new table and chairs. Always around him. Always guilty. Always always, always.
It led him to think about all the blood he spilled. National or otherwise. All the men he killed in battle against whoever he was fighting. All their blood was on his hands too. All of his sins. All of his centuries, all the poor decisions he made.
He hated himself.
But what could he do? After the first few, eating bullets wouldn't relieve him. He didn't want to wait long enough to deprive himself of sustenance and go that way. All forms of punishment lost their luster with the knowledge that he would wake up again to face his crimes. His sentence. Eternity.
He started thinking that no matter what awaited his soul, his existence, if it was good he wouldn't deserve it, wouldn't get to have it. Just another empty eternity like this one. No peace. No respite.
What awaited him? When he died from this? When it finally killed him? Were his sins too great?
That was how he found himself walking to Notre Dame.
He finally felt safe enough to show his face around all of Paris without being recognized, or targeted, or anything. The looters had long since moved on. He could make it.
He grudgingly turned away from the people he saw littering the streets. He dutifully committed his gaze to the ground at any screams, or cries, or coughs, or pleas for money, or cries of Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. Never mind that it was daylight.
God, how he hated himself. Too exhausted to get involved anymore. It wasn't life in the Parisian streets anymore, like when he got there in 1783. It was ominous. The city itself held her breath, waiting tensely for that figure to jump around the corner and attack. But Paris couldn't even tell who the enemy was anymore.
The huge columns of Notre Dame loomed peacefully above the other buildings, aesthetically pleasingly symmetrical, like a confident fille who knew she was pretty, but still was welcoming to the less pretty buildings. France supposed he was one of the less beautiful PEOPLE going there now.
As he crossed the bridge to the island, more of the beautiful features became visible: the Rose Window, the three gates, and with them came the memories of the construction. For 30 years he watched la Cathédrale take root in his heart with the influx of fear, awe, wonder, and inspiration it gave the people. Of course, he'd been inside since they finished, but just to look. Not for the purpose he'd gone there for on this day. Suddenly, he was looking right at the entirety of the Western Façade, the front. Slowly, painfully, he crossed the courtyard, meeting eyes with all the gargoyles. Accusing. Menacing. They did their job well, frightening away the evil and unworthy spirits. They made him want to run. Maybe he was evil. He consciously fought every single urge in his body to run. He shouldn't be there. He shouldn't go in there. He shouldn't sully such a beautiful place, built for humans to cleanse themselves.
He stepped up to the middle of the three doors- the one he thought most fitting- the Portal of the Last Judgement, craning his neck back and shielding his eyes from the glaring sun to peer at the intricate, magnificent architecture. Statues representing good and evil, an angel and the Devil himself, separated by scales. Her face was inclined upwards along with the other souls behind her, staring in awe and serenity and joy and fear all at once at Christ Jesus on His Holy Throne in Heaven, presiding over court and judgement. All arched to the taper around Him were the rest of His angels and saints, all probably with judgements of their own, wings of the angels filling each slot allotted to them. The Devil's . . . almost cartoonish sneer, standing stooped and ugly, tugged at souls towards his Hell on the right. A sharp contrast to the beautiful Jesus.
France's eyes finally settled on the crazy, inconsistent, jumbled mass of souls, floating aimless and frozen in stone Purgatory, waiting for their chance to step up to the scales and be judged. He chuckled miserably, identifying with them. This mindless existence, his painful, mindless Purgatory. He may never move, may never reach peace, and neither would their frozen stone bodies. When would he face his scales?
He wasn't sure if there was any judgement, good or bad, to look forward to.
He didn't want to go in. He got another wave of . . . somehow he felt . . . too dirty, too . . . too unworthy . . . to enter such a hallowed, BEAUTIFUL Cathédrale. So he put it off, looking at every bit of exterior architecture he could. The left door, the Portal of the Virgin, all dedicated to Mary in her final moments, and the Portal of Saint Anne to the right. He walked around the entire MASSIVE structure to the Northern Cloister Portal, also a dedication to Mary and Jesus' childhood, the Portal of Saint Stephen. France himself didn't know much about Saint Stephen, only that he was a martyr.
Though the majority of his people were Catholic, giving him inherent Catholic knowledge, he didn't practice. Really none of them did. The Nations. For various reasons, but if France had to guess the biggest reason was because of his exact question. Maybe too afraid of the Catholic fate knowing all of their sins. Centuries upon centuries of accumulation.
He went and closely inspected the modest Red Door, the flying buttresses in the back, each Rose Window in all directions. About 5 trips around. As he walked around the West front one last time, backing away to re-check the view he had walking IN, he ran out of things to marvel at.
Crossing the courtyard he gave one last glance to Jesus on His throne before forcing open the ridiculously heavy door and entering in.
Immediately he was struck by the fractals and riotous color of he stained glass, hues spattered on the blue and white checkered floor by the midday sun. Pink, light green, sky and royal blue, red and orange and black all mashed together. All four Rose Windows and all the side windows had their own artistic story to tell.
He didn't sit and stare at too much else, slowly lowering his pointer finger into the crystal basin of Holy Water. He was afraid to dip his finger in too far and drip it all over- like a precious nectar every drop was meant to be treasured. So he awkwardly tipped his hand over and back, waiting for the cool touch of water. Finally he felt it, and chuckled jokingly when it didn't burn him. He shook a drop back into the basin just in case, then crossed himself, naturally in rhythm with what his people knew.
'In the name of the Father,' - the forehead- God
'And of the Son,' - the heart-ish area- Jesus, son of God
'And of the Holy Spirit,' - left and right shoulders- God's will
The Nations all used to practice dutifully with their rulers- in Europe, anyway, France remembered. It dictated everything a man did back then. You didn't do ANYTHING without worrying about how it effected your soul in God's eyes. Out of fear of damnation Mass was attended every single week. Until the Renaissance. People started asking why, how? They took a step away from the church and from there it became a National choice. Most of them opted against it.
France refused to look around- if there were people in there he knew he would back out. He was there on a mission, dammit, and he would get his answers. He felt eyes on him constantly, though, and did his best to think through it as he chose a seat among the rows and chairs. As soon as he was seated he allowed himself a peek of the whole place, but when he raised his head his eyes shot instinctually to the ceiling. He still felt like he was in the wrong for being inside. His eyes perused the beautiful and ornate paintings and the chandeliers. The arches and column all around him, cold, hard stone, yet somehow . . . captivating. He traced the designs carved with his eyes.
All just as he remembered. He chanced a glance straight ahead to the altar and saw in the very back the huge, graphic crucifix still mounted back there, past the choir's seats in the curved back. Illuminated on all sides by the windows, and a light directly above.
"That's enough looking," he scolded himself. "None of this is new to you. Just get on with it."
As he peeled himself from the pew and slowly dropped his knees on the cold tile, he imagined everybody up there in Heaven laughing, scorning, jeering at what was sure to be a pathetic attempt at prayer. God Himself, all His angels, saints, all France's past rulers, even Jeanne. His vision of her sweaty, blood-spattered, battle-worn, dirty face made him hesitate a second longer. What would she say?
No doubt she'd be disappointed, disgusted, angry. She didn't fight, didn't die for this. For France, the Nation and the nation, to look like this. He acknowledged the thoughts, then forcibly SHOVED them as hard as he could into the deepest chasm he could imagine, shutting it tight around them.
Finally, with as deep a breath as he could muster, he crossed himself again, 'Au nom du Père, et du Fils, et du Saint Esprit, Amen,' and launched into his piece. 'My name is The Kingdom of France. La Personnification Nationale du Royaume de France. My personal identity is Francis Bonnefoy. I'm sorry. I'm not sure if You're real. I'm not sure if You were just created by humans or what. I know I'm not worth of talking to You regardless.
'God . . . God is an odd concept to us,' he thought, lowering his head sheepishly. 'We are eternal. You understand us in that regard. But humans are born. They live. They die. Like lightning they grace this world and are gone. Not us. Not You. They- whether they know it or not- they realize their mortality. They know they've only maybe got 3/4ths of a century to leave a mark. Your promise of eternity after - Your "heaven", if it's up there - is an easy draw. Up there next to You. Where their life won't be snuffed out like a dying candle. Whether they made a mark here or not becomes irrelevant up there. So if they have a belief system, if they have something to look forward to, some end goal that they'll reach eternity, and it helps them live, who are we to question? Who are the Nations to impede, or scorn, or judge? There's no proof, but so what? They don't need it, because they have hope. It's odd to us because we don't know if we even should believe in the first place. We're not even sure if we need to.
'It's almost like we reserve it for humans. We leave them to it on the expectation that we're here forever, so we don't need it. All their sins are absolved in that Heaven when they get there. But what about us? What about our sins, our souls? We'll never reach Heaven, because we don't die. So if we even have souls to offer, what happens to us?
'Is there a judgement day for us if we somehow perish? Do we get a Heaven, or a Hell based on our choices, our lives? Or do we just . . . cease to be, the same way we somehow came into this world? I'm so scared,' he admitted, both to himself and God. 'I'm so scared of all that's happening to me and around me. I'm scared of how it'll change me if I survive. Right now, I don't see me surviving, and I'm scared to death of the chance of abyss, of nothing waiting for my soul. So I'm turning to You. To wipe clean my slate, and prepare my soul to be worthy of Your embrace, just in case. Selfish, I know. I know it's a lot to ask from someone who stopped worshipping, and just questioned Your existence. Boy, I'm ruining this. I'm sorry about all this. But hope is what I need. You give it to the humans, and so I need You to give it to me. However You can.'
"Heh," he chided himself out loud. 'What is hope to an immortal being? Maybe You can tell me, if You're up there.
'Especially if You're up there. Especially if You're the one who put us here. If You're the one who breathed life into us for Your unknowable plan, or if we were born of this earth . . . I don't care either way. I've stopped questioning with the rest of us. But even if You didn't put us here, if You're even up there at all, if You do exist in Your paradise and You are listening, and this isn't just some farcical human folly of hope, and You're not a display either . . . then I need you to . . .
'I don't even know what I need. Forgiveness? I guess that's a good place to start. I need to know that even though I messed up, and messed up big, and messed up big for centuries, I didn't ruin people's hopes they have in You, Your plans for them, the dreams they long for before they meet You at the gates. They don't deserve that if I ruined it for them. I need to know that the people who already have met You in these troubling times feel safe, loved, not furious or mad at me for my fault in this.
'I need to know that I isn't ruin my own soul's hope. That a heaven is real and exists to the Nations and is available to us in some form. A place that will wipe away our transgressions like humans, where we can coexist in a delightful eternity with the Nations who came before us. That is all. May You have mercy on my soul, our souls. Clean me of these guilts, clean my soul, and prepare it for my dying moments, if it should be soon in this merde-
'Whoops. Sorry. Mess. I'm scared,' he admitted again, his shoulders sagging and a passionate, heartfelt tear slipping down his cheek. 'I'm scared of death! I'm scared! Undeserving of your human paradise, not even worthy of Hell. I'm not even scared of HELL! I need You to have mercy on me. Please show me there's hope, even for a Nation, in life and death!' He took a deep, calming breath, but unsure how to end it, just awkwardly said, 'Thank you.'
There. He did it. He got it all out. A little less succinct than what he wanted. Long, rambly, repetitive. But he was unpracticed and if God was listening, He'd get the point. France hoped. But at least he tried. He surprisingly FELT at peace. Like all the weight of the world was off his shoulders. Like getting that all out into the world, leaving the ball in God's court, had already freed his should. The Catholic in him that was in his people knew God was forgiving, and would see him safe. The rest of him, pessimistic, starved, injured, attacked France scolded his stupidity. He thought ONE honest prayer session after CENTURIES would do it? Was he crazy?
He smiled in the face of his other self, unable to become scared or enraged because of how much better he felt now. Besides, that particular failure he wasn't ready to face. In defiance of that France and to boost his own confidence he stayed for Mass in the Cathédrale. He knew what to do, how to respond, as his people did, and when they all spoke the Lord's Prayer, he made sure to put his effort into the smooth French. Not just empty words. Another sincere plea.
'Notre Père, qui es aux cieux,
Que ton nom soit sanctifié.
Que ton règne vienne,
Que ta volonté soit faite sur la terre comme au ciel.
Donne-nous aujourd'hui notre pain de ce jour,
et Pardonne-nous nos offenses,
comme nous pardonnons aussi à ceux qui nous ont offensés.
Et ne nous soumets pas à la tentation,
mais délivre-nous du mal.
. . .
Car c'est à toi qu'appartiennent le règne,
la puissance et la gloire, pour siècles des siècles.
Amen.'