April 4, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber

"Monsieur Bonnefoy? Sa Majesté requires your presence in his chambers."

As if France's arms throttling his pillow in pain didn't give away his answer. As if the butler couldn't see his set jaw, or his furrowed eyebrows, or his squinted eyes, or hear his strained vocal chords laboring to unleash the screams and moans he choked off and suppressed since the night before. As if the huge, black and blue and red and puffy and hypersensitive scratch - that didn't even break his skin but still caused this much pain - on his bare back that he tried to air out, cool off, wasn't a big enough hint, or the fact that he deliberately ignored the call for breakfast and lunch from the same butler, obviously pretending to be asleep, or the fact that he was in the same position, on his stomach on the bed, as he was those other two times, or his utter lack of propriety, half-naked and not even out of bed for callers or visitors. No, GOD FORBID that SOMEONE around Versailles would get a CLUE!

France turned away from the man and shoved his face back into the pillow, constricting his breathing at the cost of hopefully proving his point.

"Monsieur? He insists upon its urgency."

France meant to roll over and snap a nasty retort about where Louis could stuff his urgency, but the sudden twist of his back aggravated the scrape so terribly he stiffened up and jammed a bit of the blanket in his mouth to muffle his whine.

"Sir?" he started, stepping forward in alarm, but France shut his eyes and shook his head. He waited for the waves of fierce and piercing stabs to stop their shooting throbs down the length of the wound before gently straightening his back and lowering himself back to the plush comfort of the mattress that became (that he made) his prison.

He burrowed his face back into the pillow's divots that by then contoured perfectly to his nose and cheekbones. "Tell him I'm indisposed," he muttered, only it came out sounding like "Terrmemindspesst," swallowed by the pillow.

"Pardon?"

"Terr im. Erm. Indespesst."

"Indisposed, sir?"

"Oui."

"Should I . . . also call upon the physician?"

"Non!" he said, lifting his head. "Call no one . . . s'il vous plaît," he lamely tacked on the end.

" . . . Are you sure? You seem to be in . . . much pain, Monsieur."

"Do I?" he countered sarcastically. "Tell Louis I'm too ill to see him right now, and that if he wants to see me, he'll have to get off his ass and come to my room for once."

"Would you like me to tell him this verbatim, Monsieur?" he asked tentatively. Afraid of the answer he knew France would say in his bitterness.

"Oui. Verbatim."

"Oui, Monsieur Bonnefoy." He briefly bowed and left France alone.

Despite his harsh no, France knew the butler would tell Louis to bring a doctor. Not exactly disobeying him, but not entirely complying either. And Louis would, too. He knew that human doctors couldn't help France, and he would still bring one. France used to have a personal doctor specifically for him under Louis XIV and XV, but Louis XVI had him fired early in his reign under the impression that France was lying to him, joking with him. About being a Nation. Luckily for France, he had Marie Antoinette's embarrassed and hesitant testimony about the existence of Austria that made him begin to come around. To half-convince him. Which was fine! At the time.

At the time, France brushed it off - forgot about it - how could he expect Louis to suddenly believe something so far-fetched? That he suddenly had a crazy person here claiming to embody his land, his kingdom, his country? Prodding and questioning him. Pushing him. Forcing him to THINK, for the love of God.

He probably waltzed into this job expecting smooth sailing. He ignored the signs and warnings of the weather and his crew and he strutted on the ship expecting to grab the wheel and tilt his head back, enjoy the sun, spin the wheel a fraction of an inch or so every so often. But then the clouds moved in. The crew shouted, they waved, they warned, but he shut his eyes and his ears and still set sail, trying desperately to fulfill this dream of a lazy pleasure cruise. And then, everything else hit at once: the thunder, the lightning, shaking the ship. The rain BATTERED down on everything, including him. The frothing waves, the roiling sea, the boat rocking out of control, ripping the wheel from his hands. The sky went black. The sea splashed up on all sides, the darkness and the rain blocked all hope of visibility. Tossed back and forth, hitting the rails, ropes lashing everywhere as the sail tore free. Burning salt, stinging. But his eyes were still shut. He still thought he was living perfection, that the crew would handle it.

And suddenly there was this PERSON here, this . . . this obscure concept with eyes that seemed to convey everything and nothing all at once, this person screaming in his face, bumping him off the wheel, telling him that he represented the unhappy sea. That the storm was its voice, speaking through him, and Louis better listen to him if he wanted to calm it down. But before he could explain why the sea was acting up, Louis scoffed. Got upset at France's gall. How dare he take control of me, of my ship, issuing orders when he had NO RIGHT-

That's how he saw France. Someone who, despite his cruise falling apart around him, was interrupting his happy moment. Getting in the way. A usurper, stealing the position of Captain. And he opened his eyes, he saw the carnage and he saw the panic and the storm and the destruction, he saw his cruise in shambles. And he had the NERVE to turn to France and ask him why. Why did France bring the storm? Why did he ruin his cruise?

That was how he saw France.

And that was ok! At first. Skepticism was natural, and obviously expected by all the Nations by now. He didn't blame Louis for initially blowing him off. But once he knew, there was no excuse. Once he knew France wasn't lying, or crazy, or blowing smoke, once he knew what France was and who and what he stood for, once he understood that France wasn't trying to overtake him, but rather HELP him . . . once he KNEW, and he STILL looked down on France . . . It wasn't ok anymore. Still isn't.

His patience had officially run out with Louis Capet.

Where was he going with this? How long had he been on this carriage of thought? He had no idea.

Well, whatever. His mind was made up. He was done with Louis' nonsense.

France realized with a sudden burst of pride that his answer was perfect! Smart, concise, rude, and perfect! Because if this really was important, Louis would have to do exactly what France told him to do - get off his ass and come to him, and, probably, nurse a bruise to his laziness almost as big as France's back. If it wasn't urgent, then he looked pretty silly "insisting upon its urgency" like the butler told him. So he'd have to nurse a bruise to his illusory superiority, and accept the fact that he wasn't always worth France dropping everything for.

Now would be a perfect time for him to recognize those subtleties France mentioned during the Assembly. He remembered thinking Louis was observant. Which made this whole thing worse! Because France should've realized sooner that any blindness on Louis' part was selective. Ah, well. It didn't mean anything anymore. He was an ass. Nothing would change that.

With all concepts of time skewed by his zoning out, France decided that rather than wait on Louis for what could potentially be hours he should just sleep instead. He squeezed and punched his pillow into a nice, even tube shape and turned his face to the right, definitely sure that he would wake up stiff and sore, but not really caring.

No sooner had his eyes shut that three light knocks forced them open again.

"Are you SERIOUS?!" he yelled into his pillow. He twisted his neck the other way to face the door, throwing on his best "I'm annoyed" look. "Come in," he called. "Pardonnez-moi, but I'm not decent-"

The door flew open and Louis strode in already talking. "Why did you send me-" He stopped, shocked as he gazed around the messy room and at France, lip curling in disgust. "What are you doing?"

"Nice to see you too," France spat.

"This room is filthy!"

"Well, in case you didn't get the butler's message, or you didn't listen, which is more likely, I haven't exactly been well enough to clean it! I know you were so worried."

"You're incorrigible! Is that why?" he asked, wiggling his finger at France's back. "That looks nasty as well."

"How I have so missed you these past few days," he said, voice straining as he hoisted himself up. He rolled his whole body evenly to the side to face Louis. "I was about to get some rest, so could you please make this quick?"

Louis' eyes widened and his head cocked to the side. France struck a nerve, and Louis didn't know how to react. "I will drag this out as long as I want, France," he threatened. But his voice grew softer and his rapidly blinking, fleeting eyes betrayed him. "Would you put a shirt on?! You're making me uncomfortable!" he roared, changing the subject.

"I can't," France smirked back at him. "It'll aggravate my back. I tried to warn you that I wasn't decent, but-"

"No matter. The butler told me you were ill so I called upon the doctor. He will be here shortly. Though you seem more injured than ill."

Was that . . . was that supposed to be some kind of dig? Some kind of jab? France couldn't tell - if it WAS a dig it was weak, trying to call him a liar. IF it WASN'T, what was his point? The frailty of the comment weakened France's constitution and drained the power to fight with the man behind it so quickly and completely, he sighed tiredly and flopped back down, all his bite gone.

"Yes, well," France said awkwardly, wanting to break the tension. He just didn't have the energy or the care to fight. Plus, if he became too heated his back would start hurting. Not in front of Louis. He would NOT look weak in front of Louis. "Nations have the unfortunate pleasure of physically hurting alongside their country. I may get sick, pending the effects of this stalemate with the Assembly.

Louis nodded. "Yes, I received your letter. You want to break the impasse with Calonne's dismissal?"

"Exile, actually."

"That seems a bit . . . excessive coming from you."

"Why? You had a pretty easy time with it the last time you sent someone away from the palace." Ouch. France's lip curled up in a smirk. That was a good one. Louis opened his mouth to protest but France spoke quickly over him. "The Notables will never listen to anything he has to say anymore. We need someone new. New ideas, new presentations. And I suggest it's someone who already has the people's support. Someone who doesn't have to try and win their hearts while he tries to win they're minds."

"I truly am sad about Calonne," Louis said absently, fiddling with a ring on his finger. "I don't want to get rid of him. I like him, and he still has my full confidence."

"I understand that, but he didn't have the majority's support. Neither did you, if you think about it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it was just as much your proposal as it was Calonne's. And they rejected it."

"I just thought . . . I don't know. I confess I feel betrayed."

"Well that's why someone new, who the people support, will reunite you and them. I say you try and bring back-"

France and Louis both offered the man in their thoughts at the same time:

France- "Jacques Necker."

Louis- "Étienne Brienne."

"Who?" France asked. Louis froze up. Unsure how to react, what to do. Afraid of France's tongue if he repeated the answer France didn't approve of. "Who?" he asked again, craning his neck.

Luckily for Louis, the doctor arrived to save him. "Shall I get that?" Louis asked happily, obviously relieved. He strutted over to the door and opened it to the startled face of the physician.

"Votre Majesté!" he said, bowing deeply. "You sent for me? To see Monsieur Bonnefoy?"

"Oui, he's in here." Louis stepped aside and let him in.

He took one look at France's back and said, "Ouch! How in the world did that happen?"

"I ail as France ails," he said softly.

"Pardon?"

"I was thrown off a horse. Is it alright if Sa Majesté and I continue while you're here? We were just discussing something urgent."

"Oui, bien sûr, if it is first alright with him," he said, turning back to Louis.

Louis frowned deeply, but France could see he couldn't think of a reason why not. He nodded grudgingly.

"Why Brienne?" France asked as the doctor took a closer look at the scratch. "Who is this Brienne?"

"Étienne Charles de Loménie de Brienne. Marie actually recommended him to me, with her full support. She practically demanded he be instated. I personally don't like him, but he was the President of the Assembly-"

"Oh! So this carriage wreck had a PRESIDENT! Glad I knew!" France said sarcastically, wincing as the doctor lightly prodded the wound. He fought through the other natural reactions of excruciating pain since Louis was still looking at him.

"It didn't break your skin," the doctor said, "and it didn't draw any blood, but I'm still going to wipe it down and clean it out. It's hot to the touch, and has the possibility of infection."

"Merci."

"Oui, France, it did have a President. Brienne was Monsieur Calonne's most ardent opponent, and though I find him to be shallow among other things, I cannot deny that he brought much to my attention much that I had not previously considered, and otherwise wouldn't have considered with Calonne."

"Did he?" France questioned incredulously. "Care to-" A FREEZING cold towel touched his back and he sucked a breath in through his teeth as the man roughly scrubbed, washing it out. "Care to- . . . indulge me?"

"No. Even if you find them good ideas I know you'll find some way to oppose them. Just so I'll consider your man."

"You're kidding, right?" France asked. "Do you - Ow! - think me that - Ngh! - shallow? - WOULD YOU EASE UP?" he yelled. "You're hurting me!"

"I'm barely touching it, Monsieur! Is it that tender? We may have a problem!"

There was no way. Each stroke was like he was scrubbing clothes on a washboard. Each fiber of the cloth shot white-hot lightning bolts across the length of it, stinging and burning. "It's a SCRATCH, mon ami, of COURSE it's tender!" he quipped. "Do you think me that shallow, Louis? Because if I'm being honest," he snarled, anger reawakened by his pain, "I accused you of the exact same thing!"

Louis rolled his eyes like a child. "I want the best for France-"

"And yet, when it comes along . . . " France began, spreading his arms wide on the bed.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You and I clearly have very different ideas of what that is."

"How in the world could you not understand that I-"

"Leave us," Louis said quickly to the doctor. "You may continue when we are finished." The man rose and bowed silently, slinking from the room. As soon as the door shut Louis sighed. "France, I merely want to keep my options open. Even since before you left, I . . . Can you really blame me for not immediately trusting you completely again?"

"Yes! Yes I can! Options? I have given you more than enough options."

"I let you collaborate with Calonne, but that was a bust. So now it's time for me to consult someone else. You need to suppress your childish jealousy, and let me, the King of France, make decisions since yours. did. not. work."

"Only because of you! How many decisions have you made since your ascension? How many things have YOU brought to Parliament on your own, WITHOUT me pushing you? I'll give you a hint: none! None, Louis! I used to think it was an act, but now I'm sincerely starting to believe that you're simple. The second you're left on your own, you panic. You panic, you freeze up. You stagnate. Look at the entire time I was in Paris. You need me. Don't you DARE pretend that I'm in YOUR way!"

"How DARE you-"

"How dare YOU! I represent FRANCE! The people! The land! Everything! You don't do a THING without it effecting me! And I've been dealing with ILL-EFFECTS since Louis XV! If you could've SEEN our might, our majesty, our riches, our ease of comfort under Louis XIV, you'd be in AWE! That's a direct result of years and years, decades, of planning, stabilizing. Each estate needs to be comfortable WITHIN THEMSELVES. And I worked and worked and worked to achieve that. We finally reached it with Louis XIV, and in addition to his good, strong leadership, with the OCCASIONAL input from me about something a little extra to placate the people . . . You understand that there is no government without the people, right? All that I've done has never- I'm not trying to-" His thoughts tangled in his head, the right, riveting words he wanted escaped him. He tried to talk it out. "You don't understand. You have this idea in your head that's it's you VERSUS the people. I don't know who put it there. Parliament, maybe? The top two Estates? It doesn't matter. But from that moment it BECAME you versus them, rather than you working WITH them. I am every bit as content with the monarchy as you are. There is no government without the people," he said, quoting America and George Washington. "So the instant they began to struggle was the instant things started to turn awry. And you continuously took my suggestions and decisions as siding with the people and against you! Diminishing your power by stepping in control where you wouldn't. But all I was doing was trying to make your job as easy as possible. Trying to achieve such stability that your hardest decision would be where to APPORTION the crown's steady income, just like Louis XIV. He had the easiest, smoothest run I've ever had a King make! The French monarchy has been stable for generations of the Bourbon House! I was just trying to achieve it again!"

He looked up and saw that he had Louis' attention. For once. "We don't have fun jobs, you and I. Or easy jobs. Comfortable, yes. But not easy. And if it's hard on you, you can bet it's a hundred times worse for the Nation. You need to start understanding that I don't want you to pass what I want just because it goes against what you think is right. You need to understand that . . . that the alleviation of my symptoms goes hand in hand with France's stability. I know how to fix me. I know how to fix France. And no, it may not be what you expect, or what you want, and it certainly isn't what Parliament wants. But it's what France needs. And you have got to work with me, here! You have got to kick the habit of being swayed by the last person that you talked to! You're hurting my attempts at stability. Parliament is too, but I am powerless without you. They are not. That's the only difference between me and them. Ok? It's time for you to get your head out of your-"

"And that's exactly what I'm doing!" Louis said. "That's why I'm exiling Calonne from France completely, as you requested. But I want Brienne instated in his place, not Necker."

"Oh, Mon Dieu-"

"You've lost the topic of this conversation, France!"

"You know? I've figured it out! You are compulsively allergic to the truth! You call me stubborn and yet-"

"While you were absent these last few days, I already ran it by Parliament, and Brienne has their support as well."

"I can't believe I just gave you the entire LOGIC behind why I do what I do and want what I want and you still-"

"I still what, France? I assumed you'd be PROUD! You lazed around for DAYS in here! Wallowed in your misery after the ONE fail of the Assembly! So I took the initiative! Just like you've always wanted! And now that you've come back, now that you've CRAWLED out of the shadows, you're upset that I made a decision? Who is the hypocrite here, France? WHO?"

"We both are," he said. "Two hypocrites who never practice what they preach. Do what you want, I suppose. You're going to anyway. I may as well give you my false blessing to make myself feel better." France knew he was in the wrong here. He knew Louis was right in this circumstance but only this circumstance. He disappeared for days, and suddenly showed back up angry at the progress made? He tried to say that it wasn't in the right direction, that the progress was going to lead them into more disaster when Brienne failed, but he couldn't force himself to believe that. Louis was right. At least right now.

"I have nothing more to say to you. I'm instating Brienne, and exiling Calonne. Des problèmes, des questions?"

"Non."

"Good. Sir?" he yelled, calling to the physician. He stormed past him on the way out.

"Bâtard," France muttered, absolutely fuming. He would never see. And he had more nerve to call France the stubborn one? He thought France was the one blinded by selfishness? Of all the stupid things . . .

No. France wasn't the problem. No matter what twisted logic Louis used to try and make him believe it, he never would.

Louis was the problem.

But really, what did he expect? Why did he continually do that to himself, expect something to change? Something to be better? Why did he think that a victorious verbal sparring match with Louis would change Louis' mindset, his opinions, his willingness? It was like Louis was determined to see France's downfall. Just to spite him.

He sighed tiredly. He replayed the conversation back in his head, but all it did was make his heart feel sick. Back to square one. Back to stagnation. He exhausted all of his verbal, physical, emotional, psychological resources on the Assembly, on Louis, on himself. Now what?

April 5, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber

Nothing.

The Assembly was supposed to convene again, but by then it had become a farce. One big jest. He could picture all the laughs, all the pointing fingers, angry shouts, dismissive gestures and whispers of rumors and they were all directed at him, standing meekly in the center. He decided the night before he wasn't going.

France still woke up poorly that morning.

He stirred, floating gently towards awareness, but the bed was too warm and his back was too comfortable and the blankets had accepted him as one of their own. He didn't want to betray their cozy trust. The world was too bright for his lids when he tried to open them so they forced themselves back shut, screaming "No! Please no!". He was right there with them. His brain felt weak, slow, and he could practically feel the onset of the dizzy, disengaged, and off-putting feeling sitting up would bring him. Lethargic, the more he lay there the more tired his eyes and his body grew, the more stiff his neck grew, and the more tight his spine wound from laying on his stomach for days on end. For two hours he slipped in and out of sleep, never falling deep enough for rest or refreshment but not necessarily awake, wishing desperately that he could just roll over but . . .

By the time he actually woke up, unable to fall back asleep anymore no matter how hard he tried, and by the time he found the morning's motivation to simply move, never mind getting up, it was already 11:30. Almost not morning.

He had about three hours to ignore the guilt balling in his stomach for not going. Guilt! For what, exactly? There was no way he was willingly going to go there and face Louis and this new Brienne man! No way was he going to bow down and submit! All he would do was perpetuate Louis' idea that no matter what, he could always do whatever he wanted. He could walk all over France, and France would always come back. He just prayed that this guilt wasn't a National call to action to go to this thing. If it was it would only get worse as the Assembly loomed closer. Because he knew deep down that he could never ignore those calls; he would always listen whether he wanted to or not, even if it ruined the symbolism behind his defiance. National duty didn't care if Francis Bonnefoy had a point to prove.

France wished that for once those calls would understand that he was doing his best. Doing the best with what he had. With Louis' pig-headedness, with the Assembly and Calonne, with self-control and perseverance, with everything. Then maybe they wouldn't be so harsh. "Well, you're trying, and we know you're trying, so here's a bit of relief for you."

He slowly kicked the covers off and stuck his legs off the bed, rolling to a sitting position. As soon as his head was upright that odd feeling slammed into his forhead, right between his eyes. Instantly light-headed, like his head was bobbing on rough waves. His mind went blank, his brain rolled messily around in his head, his equilibrium tipped to the right. His eyes lost focus, the room smeared and reset, smeared and reset. France toppled over sideways, luckily catching himself with his arm and propping himself up on his elbow. The light-headedness spread across his eyebrows in the form of a pressure, building and building until it reached his temples and spiderwebbed into a full-blown, splitting headache. He dumbly, unwittingly leaned forward in pain and spilled to the side, falling off the bed face first. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his thumbs harshly into his temples, waiting for everything to subside, his breathing the only constant he had to cling to.

He thought of laying back down, but looking back at the bed, at his place of confinement, the last thing he wanted to do was crawl back in there. Or move.

Only three hours.

An absolute waste of a morning. Waste of emotion. Of sentiment.

He couldn't believe he felt guilty at all.

He fought his headache. He groaned through the pulsing of his temples. He fought off the black in his vision, the randomly occurring dizzy spells, the urge to drop where he was. He had the doctor come to his room and bandage his back, just so he could function while he had a shirt on. He blinked blearily through the patterns on his clothes that screwed up his eyes and brought on the feeling of throwing up or falling over. He went to the trouble of getting dressed, of dragging his heavy and dead limbs out of his bed, out of his room. Trudging tiredly, each step as heavy as his eyelids. Like he hadn't slept for days.

To be fair, he really hadn't slept. Not through the night.

And then when he got there, when he set foot in the antechamber designated to contain the destruction of this earthquake, when he looked around, all of his efforts felt wasted.

It was so pathetic. So disappointing. What was once the manifestation of his desperation and hope was thoroughly trampled out. There were maybe 20 people in attendance. 20. Out of the original 144. Most of them were milling around, trying to strike up a conversation with each other in hushed whispers, but France heard them sour and turn awkward fast in the wake of the fact that they were the only ones talking, and there was only one thing to talk about. Louis sat dejected in his seat of honor, fist shoved unceremoniously into his cheek, eyes to the floor, clearly bored out of his mind. Someone who France could only assume was Brienne sat beside him, whispering urgently to him. His back was to France. He couldn't see his face.

France's lips thinned into a pursed line. "Right," he thought, nodding his acceptance as his eyes scanned the scene around him. "Uh-huh. I should've known. I should've known."

He did know. He guessed it before he ever fathomed getting out of bed. But he supposed that something subconscious somewhere inside of him was still searching for vindication, validation. He couldn't say why. The human inside of him's nature, he guessed. Hurt again and again, but still trusting in the innate-but-buried-and-suppressed goodness in people, and continuously willing to open himself up to more. Could he blame himself? Not necessarily. He wanted to believe in the good in people, he really did. But that sub-level desire inside of him constantly failed to realize that society was not idealistic, defeat after defeat. French high society demanded ruthlessness, selfishness. Louis wasn't a good person. The courtiers weren't good people. Parliament wasn't a body of good people. Could he blame them? Not necessarily, either. They knew how to play the game. Where Louis flawed over them was in the fact that he was just starting to understand desperation as opposed to blindness, and STILL did nothing about it in the name of selfishness. He was understanding that everything he knew was on the verge of collapse, and yet he tried to deny and avoid the seriousness of it as he stared the people's beast in the mouth. He didn't understand, and France doubted he ever would understand the extent to which it was falling apart. Because if he did he would try as sorely and critically and fearfully as France. He would listen to France, he would use France for rebuilding rather than for a rug. Sure, France understood that people were self-centered, greedy. At least consciously he did. He could still be subconsciously idealistic if he learned to surround himself with people who embodied the ideals. Otherwise, there was no excuse. He just simply had to prepare. He could dream, and he could wish, as long as he was on guard.

As if to laugh at him, to spite him, his headache flared. His vision slid away and went black so fast in the wake of the abrupt pain he couldn't prepare, and he leaned over grasping at his head. He tried to lead himself over to the wall, blindly throwing his arm out to hopefully feel it before he bumped embarrassingly into it. Before he even touched it his weakened knees buckled. His shoulder rocketed full force into the wall and he leaned there, waiting tensely to recover from the vertigo before he blacked out.

He still felt everything start to slant to the side despite his lack of vision. He straightened up in an attempt to force it away faster, and to his relief it worked. He was glad he had the wall to lean on. Otherwise he knew he would've been on the floor. His sight faded back in quickly; he slowed his breathing and massaged his headache back into a manageable state before raising his eyes again. He was done here. Time to leave.

Unfortunately, when he careened into the wall he garnered Louis' attention. Louis and France made direct eye contact, and Louis blinked in pleasant surprise, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. He beckoned France forward with a finger and gestured to the seat beside him, but France froze. Froze, forgot every pretense of his grudge against Louis and instead withdrew in instinctual panic. He stepped back, his eyes wide, a cold chill shooting down his spine into every nerve, so icy he shuddered. No, no, no! Absolutely not! He was NOT doing that to himself. Seeing how far it had fallen from a second-hand point of view, from word of mouth and the feeling in his gut, was enough. It probably aggravated is headache in the first place. Knowing it was going to crash and burn today. He did not need to see it for himself.

He shook his head FURIOUSLY at Louis, momentarily forgetting about his headache, and he had to freeze and cradle his head again for a moment. When he looked up again Louis' surprised look slumped into a frown, then a look of concern at France's pain. Crap. France's surprise betrayed him. Caught off-guard, too shocked to cover up his weakness with his anger at Louis, which, after a second under pressure, he realized was a farce anyway. Louis could stuff his concern. He couldn't be angry anymore. Just irritated, tired. Before the guilt had a chance to creep up on France again he backed away from the room, holding Louis' gaze with a look of absolute terror he couldn't hide. Louis started, shuffling to the front of his chair to get up, but France turned and ran.

On the way back he stopped more than once, both for his head and for his feelings of dejection and heartache. Melancholy. Despair. Call it what you will. What was going on on the outside? In Paris? He didn't have the desire to walk around the town of Versailles anymore. Things were too good. This world was so complacent, uninteresting, and dead to him. Versailles was dead, Versailles would always be dead. No matter how many people were there, no matter what was happening at the palace, it would be dead. And cold. He wondered what was happening on the outside, what was going on in Paris. Was Robespierre still a crowd favorite? Was there still color to be had, energy and vitality and passion to be seen? Was it violent passions? Or the passions of life? Or maybe both? Were Bread Riots still a normal occurrence? How volatile were the crowds that gathered illegally? How often did a home get destroyed the same way France's was? He was detached. Abandoned and alone.

He wanted their influence again. Their anger. Their passion.

Versailles drained the energy he needed to pursue it.

The Assembly dissolved that day.

April 10, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber

"What would you like me to write in the letter, Monsieur Bonnefoy?" the scribe asked, pen poised at the ready on the parchment on France's desk.

"In English, please. Address it to Britain. Next line- Send my regards, and my regrets, to Spain. Sign it from Francis Bonnefoy - B-O-N-N-E-F-O-Y - semicolon, Le Royaume de France."

"Oui, Monsieur. Where am I sending this to?"

"Palacio Real de Madrid - Royal Palace of Madrid, Spain - to the temporary resident Arthur Kirkland," he said, tripping over the awkward Spanish as it rolled off his tongue.

April 13, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber

Spain's conference.

It was a really, terribly difficult decision for France, but . . .

No.

Just no.

France rolled to his side and tried to go back to sleep.

April 18, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, ?

He had no idea where he was. What he was doing there. Why he was running.

But he was afraid for his life.

There was only one way to run in the grey, dark corridor. The yellowing wallpaper, once immaculate white now caked with dirt, cracked and peeled. Dirty windows let in brown, disgusting light, corrupted by dust particles everywhere. Planks of wood and pieces of the architecture littered the floor everywhere. Mirrors broken, the marble floors cracked and chipped away completely in some places. He didn't even know what he was running from. But it was scary, and it tied ropes around his heart and drug it towards the floor in dread. He heard clanks and shouts, the sounds of weapons. He saw the dancing light of the torches and heard stomps, bangs, glass shattering.

It was a mob. A mob of the people was after him. To kill him. To murder him for his failures. Fear rose inside of him like a wave and heaved his heart back up into his throat. Fear of pain. Fear of destruction. Fear of what was to come. The darkness. His breath hitched and a scream of fear rocketed from his mouth as he tried to run even faster than before. A hot gust of air hit him in the back and he chanced a backwards glance to see the people running after him. Faces twisted in sick, grotesque grins, ready to tear him limb from limb, ready to draw and quarter him with their own hands. A black mass, a sable horde of dark energy, stretched the width of the hallway behind them, chasing him with the crowd to swallow up anything they left of him. The already decrepit building degenerated faster wherever it touched, wherever its tendrils ventured hungrily, searching for him. Splinters cracked, broken mirrors and windows spiderwebbed.

He pushed himself faster and faster, as fast as he could possibly go. To his horror, the darkness surged forward as well, perfectly at pace with him. It crept up the crowd, swallowing them within its infinite maw as it dashed to catch him. Closer an closer, cold emanating off of it into his neck, seeping into his skin, slowing him down The end of the corridor came up quickly on him, and he tried to snap around the corner. His bare feet slipped on the dirt, the grime, the mold. It coated him thickly, gumming his whole body into a sluggish mess. He crashed into the wall ahead of him instead. France huffed like a train. Realization that he was dead, that it would kill him, hit him hard. He couldn't turn to look as it engulfed him.

He fell, weightless in the clutches of the blackness.

He landed on his back, and was surprised when it didn't hurt him. He looked around in alarm before a rope lashed around his throat from behind, choking him. Disoriented, he kicked and struggled, desperately trying to jam his fingers between the rope and his skin, throat gagging and snorting as it tried to suck in air. His attacker leaned over him and sneered with pride in his face, and who he saw made France falter.

"Spain?" he mouthed, no air escaping to form the word. His face stretched into a smile, stretched and stretched until it nearly split his ears, and France fought to get away, to distance himself from this creature. In his hesitation another person strung ropes around his arms and wrists, and Spain hoisted him up so they could force his limbs behind his back. Prussia. America and Britain leapt from the shadows encircling him and the former held him down completely with his strength while the latter roped his legs and ankles.

The last person to emerge from the blackness around him was Austria. He calmly strutted forward as opposed to the others who crawled and jumped like wild beasts. He straddled France's worming body and leaned far over, staring deeply into his face. Behind the cracked glasses his eyes were black balls, as black as the darkness that chased him, and its tendrils pooled and snapped out of his sockets, kissing France's face with needle-like stabs. France squeezed his eyes shut and turned away but Spain squeezed the rope tighter and forced France's head straight.

The Austria before him cupped his chin roughly. "France," it hissed on top of a throaty growl.

He screamed in fear and wrestled to pull away

"France!" The monster pulled his hand back and slapped France hard.

France's eyes snapped open and the first thing he saw was Austria, still with his hand on France's chin, squeezing his cheeks.

He shrieked in absolute terror and slid his arms under his pillow, scrabbling for the knife he kept buried there just in case. He whipped it out and stabbed it over the side of the bed at the monster but it was fast. Too fast for France. It deflected his hand with its forearm and shoved him roughly away into the headboard, ripping the weapon from his hand.

"You sleep with a knife now?" Wait. That voice. Annoying, whiny, German accented. Normal. Not monstrous or growling. France blinked to full awareness and met Austria's wildly smirking, condescending face.

"A-Austria? Diable! What are you doing here?!" France knew exactly what he was doing here. He remembered the letter. He just didn't really want to deal with it. Didn't want to react. Didn't know how to react. He supposed it depended on what Austria said.

"I have been granted a leave of absence to travel with the Austrian virtuoso Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart on his tour across Europe. I took his performances in France as an opportunity to get to the bottom of this. Despite the aid you gave Prussia during my War of Succession and his seizing of Silesia, which I have not forgotten about, I have decided, out of the goodness of my heart, to check on your well-being. I guess you ignored Spain's letters, too. Thanks for that, now I know not to take it personally. That must've been a horrible dream. You were screaming something terrible. Someone would've thought you were being stabbed."

France wiped at the sweat on his neck and face and slumped back against the headboard, glad for the bandages protecting his scrape. "Well, when you've been shot in the head in your own home in your own capital, you learn to prepare!" he quipped nastily.

Austria face fell into a frown but before he could question France, another voice spoke up. Speaking French. "He says he's been planning to come for about five days, now. He says he sent letters." France followed the voice and saw Louis perched worriedly on the couch in his room, Marie next to him working as Austria's and Louis' translator. Well, she seemed worried. He just looked annoyed. "Why didn't you inform me of Austria's visit, France?"

Oh, great. Louis and Austria, a formidable combination. "J'ai oubliée," he lied. "I forgot."

"Ha! As if you would!" he snorted. He turned to Louis. "Spain, Prussia, Britain, Canada - formerly your father's New France, Eure Majestät," Austria said, addressing him in German. France snorted before he could stop himself. It had been so long since he heard the sound of any language other than French or a romantic language, a long time since he heard Prussia's scratchy, gruff tones. It just sounded ridiculous to him that Austria showed up randomly at his palace and start using his own ugly language, winning the favor of his monarch. He probably did come with good intentions but siding with Louis from the start and not listening to France wouldn't help anybody. Except Louis. And he didn't need any more help.

Austria paused and cleared his throat, then continued speaking to Louis like France wasn't even there. "Spain, Prussia, Britain, Canada, the United States, Italy Veneziano - via the Holy Roman Empire, and myself ALL sent him letters."

Louis waited patiently for Marie's translation. "So you have been ignoring them then?" Louis asked, wide eyes probing France for an answer.

France's defenses instantly fortified. "So what if I am?" he asked. "You've been ignoring me just as obviously."

"Don't be ridiculous-" Austria started, cutting Marie off mid-translation.

"Oh, SHUT IT, Austria!" he snapped. "You have NO IDEA what's been going on in France! NO IDEA!" he shouted, abandoning Louis and Marie for the catch-all language of the Nations.

"Only because you've been shutting us out."

"Ta Gueule! Do you have any idea WHY?"

"Ja," he said haughtily. "We have all had struggles! We have all had pains, you baby! It comes with the job! It doesn't mean that after one little rough patch you-"

Every time he thought of explaining the extent to which he was hurting, to which France was failing, to which Louis was an IDIOT, he felt drained. Just the thought of delving deep into his own self just for the sake of someone else's surface understanding made him upset, made him deeply irritated and frustrated. It made the weight press down harder on him. It made him want to stay in bed, made him pity himself. Austria wouldn't understand.

He furiously started ripping at his buttons, pulling at his shirt to get it off over his head. As soon as the bandages were exposed Austria stopped in fearful curiosity. France tugged and ripped as carefully, but as quickly as he could, wincing as the bandages ripped away from the ever-so-slight seepage that started to leak the last few days. As soon as the scrape was free he popped to his knees on the bed and rolled around so Austria could see his wound.

France couldn't see all of Austria's face over his shoulder, but he saw the color in his face drain and his eyes widen. "Does this look like a LITTLE rough patch?!" he yelled, slightly smug that he finally shut Austria up. "Hm? Does it? It is SO much more than that, mon ami," he said without the slightest touch of affection. He sent a pointed glance at Louis and Marie and Austria followed his gaze.

"Was meint er damit?" he asked Marie.

"Ne fais pas ça! Ne parle pas Allemand! How dare you come to my house, demand things from me, accuse me, before you understand the whole picture. How dare you. If I say I don't want to talk to you, then stop sending me letters. If I say I want to be left alone, then leave me alone! This is much, much bigger, much worse than you ever imagined, Autriche. So leave me the HELL alone!" He turned to Louis and Marie. "I want him gone." In French. So Austria couldn't understand. "Je veux le parti."

"Nein!" Marie said, slipping into German momentarily. "Non! We have arranged for Mozart to perform for us at Versailles. As long as Mozart is here, Austria is staying."

France got up off his bed and snatched up his shirt and soiled bandages. Crap. He'd have to get new ones. "Wherever he is I won't be. I can't talk to him-"

"Have you ever considered telling the Parliaments about the Nations?" he called to France's back.

France paused. Did he?

Maybe that was what he should do. Why not?

Oh my God.

Maybe he should just TELL PARLIAMENT. Just try and convince them that he knew! That he knew best for France since he freaking WAS. FRANCE. Why in the WORLD didn't he think of that before? As in, as SOON as things started to go awry? And WHY, he added in a twist of bitterness, did he have to hear it from AUSTRIA? God, he felt so STUPID, so blinded by panic and grief and pain. Just as blind as Louis. Just as erroneous as Louis. He also felt relief. He felt relieved to finally, FINALLY have a plan! Granted, he'd have to wait for Brienne to pan out first. He had to wait for Louis to be directionless before he offered his solution. Fine. He'd have two solutions for Louis when that time came: bringing in Necker, and offering up the truth to Parliament. Hell, he'd take a bullet if it meant proving it to them sooner. He felt so embarrassed for . . .for everything, he thought glumly. He thought his world was over but if saving it meant offering up himself in the process then he was going to. What kind of Nation was he if he wasn't prepared to do that for himself? For his land?

A brief moment of doubt flickered in his mind like a nearly snuffed out candle. If it failed . . . then what? If they chose to ignore him further, if they refused to still work with him, then he was done. He'd never accomplish anything ever again for Louis XVI.

He made a decision: if it didn't work, he would leave Versailles. He would leave, and he would take up arms with the people any way he had to. Just like he promised before he even returned.

He swore he would mean it this time.

April 20, 1787
L'orangerie, Les Jardins de Versailles

"I honestly thought you were coming here to attack me. What changed your mind?" France asked, leading Austria out one of the doors into the crisp air.

"I honestly did come here to attack you! Ignoring all of us was extremely rude of you. Verging on painful for Spain and Prussia."

"Hm. Rude," France repeated, "Désolé, I suppose. Sorry. I was just . . . well to sum it up, tired."

"I know that now, but I'm not the one you need to apologize to. I wasn't necessarily bothered. Spain and Prussia were. You looked bad not answering our letters, but while most were mad, those two were mostly concerned. They asked me to send a letter to Maria directly, rather than through you. So I corresponded with Maria, and she said everything was fine with you. When you didn't respond even then our concern turned to anger. The others grew fearful. I received my leave of absence to tour with Mozart, and it was Prussia who suggested I check up on you. Have you ever heard Mozart play?" They reached one of the brown barriers around a quarter of the spiral paths so France waited until they stepped over it to continue.

"I vaguely remember his first tour when he was a child. He was amazing back then."

"He's even better now! Phenomenal! A compositional genius, an incredible performer. He writes his own concertos, and each cadenza is different every time he plays it. He publishes them again and again with new cadenzas he improvises on stage that he remembers and writes down afterwards to sell more copies of his music." France nodded, delighted by Austria's passion. "The way he combines sonata form with solo work is just wonderful - he's calling it double exposition sonata form! The arias in his opera buffas are absolutely- Sorry," he said sheepishly, adjusting his glasses. "I get very excited about his music. I probably lost you a while ago."

"It's ok," France said, smiling genuinely at him. He didn't realize just how badly he missed having a Nation's presence. Having some sort of friend. Someone there he could connect with despite what he thought before. Being alone for so long, self-induced or not, feeling so alone, so dull, so surrounded by negativity . . . and while Austria was no best friend, his passionate presence was grounding and revitalizing. Watching someone else be happy about something for once . . . France's heart swelled with joy, indescribably comforted and thankful for pleasant interaction with another soul.

"Anyway," Austria began again. "You asked what changed my mind. Well, your condition, for one. Nations don't just let themselves fall to the wayside. It's impossible. The pains are too strong to ignore, and once we are compelled to do something, once something that could help us comes along, we are going to do it, to the best of our ability. Whether we want to or not. It's National impulse. We just cannot disobey. You wouldn't let yourself get to the point you're at now. Obviously it's a product of mismanagement."

"What point am I at?" France asked, alarmed by Austria's hint of quantification. Of maybe gauging the effects of this in the long run. "How long is the timeline, and at what point am I at?"

"I can't tell you, France. It's different for all of us. It depends on too many factors. What may be my final straw may not be yours. And how my final straw pans out won't be the same way yours does. But may I be honest?"

"Of course."

"Physical injury? From internal affairs? That doesn't bode well, France. Usually they come from warfare. How are Louis and Maria helping?"

"They're not. They made the financial situation worse! I've told him since 1776. I told him the moment we sent aid to America that we'd have to be careful about money. Marie just spent and spent and spent, we had to take out more loans, the deficit just kept getting bigger and bigger, and Louis failed to try and grasp how the tax imbalance harmed things. Do you have any idea how much we're in debt?"

"How much?" Austria asked, crossing his arms tightly as they strolled, glaring at his shoes, troubled. France let a soft smile grace his lips at Austria's nuances. He was so frugal he almost couldn't function, and the anxiety of hearing about France's poor financial situation started creeping up on him.

"Last time Calonne checked half a year ago it was 1.3 billion livres-"

He looked up sharply. "Mein Gott-"

"Do you know how much it is now?"

"How much?"

"Six billion livres. I don't know how much that is in your currency, but . . . six billion." France stopped walking so they could focus on the conversation. "Calonne tried to implement tax reforms to stabilize the crown's income, and we had Louis' backing. Though I think by that point he was thinking 'Just do whatever you want, whatever you think you should.' They were rejected by the Parliaments."

"And Louis can't overrule them?"

"Oui, he can, but they convinced him otherwise. He has no spine, Austria!"

"Hm. Maria said as much in her initial letters after she first met him. That was my other clue that it wasn't simply you being snooty old you," he said jokingly.

He looked up quickly. "I'd rather be beautiful and snooty than boring and stuffy!" France kid back. He cocked his head and they continued their promenade around the shapes and spirals. "The finances are only the root of the problem. Parliament is the water, making it blossom. The public is frustrated as well. They see the poor management causing them worse pain. They understand the lack of action and change. They're upset with the system. They're frustrated with the fact that just because they weren't born noble, they deserve to be stepped on their entire lives. They want to be allowed to better their situation. They want the right to . . . to live."

"I understand. The entirety of Europe watched America break from Britain," he said, looking at France earnestly.

"They're turning violent. They're pillaging their own towns, looting nobles, destroying businesses, homes, bread because of the harvests failing. Which was just another petal on the blossoming flower of problems. They attacked me in my district. Barged into my home, attacked me. Shot me in the leg and brought me down, then shot me in the back of the head."

"So that's what you meant earlier."

"Yes. I haven't gotten anything passed since . . . I can't even remember. I either ran into the Parliamentary road block or the Louis road block if he didn't agree with me right from the start. The people are angry, and both are effecting me so deeply . . . I feel like I don't even know who I am anymore as a monarchy, as a nation, and as a Nation. Things are spiraling out of control, and I am so afraid that it's only a matter of time before I collapse. Before things totally turn violent, before everything is flipped upside down, and I . . . " He looked up into Austria's face and hesitated when it was marred with a serious frown.

"France," Austria said sternly. "Stop it."

"No, you don't understand! I am genuinely concerned that-"

"Stop it!" Austria roughly grabbed France's shoulder, as if to shake the thought from his mind. "You're allowed to be afraid. But you're not going to fade. I promise. You're not."

"How do you know? Every time I think about Rome, I get this pit feeling and it doesn't feel like anything will ever be right again, and I can't help but entertain the notion that something bad's going to happen and I won't be able to handle it and one day I'll just fade away no warning did you know it was so strong I went to Notre Dame and-"

Austria furiously shook his head. "No, France. No. Everything is going to be fine."

"But how. do. you. know?"

Austria paused. "We're young, you and I. Young of human age and young of Nation age. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that our human age doesn't matter. We age as Nations. Right?"

"What's that have anything to do with-"

"Let me speak. How long have you been physically 18 or so?"

"Since . . . the end of Louis XIV."

Austria nodded. "I would look at this as a growth opportunity then, rather than a threatening circumstance. France has been the same for almost a hundred years, now. Maybe the people, maybe your symptoms are just trying to propel France forward. Trying to help France grow the way it needs to grow. I'm not saying it should be with violence, because that's not going to feel like growth. That's just going to hurt. But after talking to Maria I feel Louis is honestly trying, he's just ill-equipped and unsure. Maybe France is trying to grow and change and Parliament is holding you back."

"So how do I get rid of them, then?"

"I can't tell you that. You need to work with Louis, work with the dynamic of your court to figure that out."

"And if you're wrong?"

"You're in pain, yes, but there's new stubble on your chin. You're growing. Not all of you is falling apart. I don't think I'm wrong."

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*****06/09/15***** UPDATED WITH A DISCUSSION BETWEEN FRANCE AND AUSTRIA THAT JUST WOULDN'T LEAVE MY HEAD!

-Keyblader41996