June 2, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber
France took a careful, genuine approach to Spain's letter.
'Spain, mon ami,
Thank you for sending Austria. Merci beaucoup.
I know I have much explaining to do. So let me just preface this with an apology.
I am so sorry.
Things in France are not going well at all. They haven't been going well for a little over a decade. No doubt by now Austria sent some word of my plights. They're painful. But they are no excuse for how I acted. I panicked, and overreacted, and I took it out on all of you by pushing you away and rejecting your concern for me. I'm so sorry. For the conference, for everything.
Je suis très désolé. Not that it sounds any better in my native tongue. Lo siento. Ugh, never mind. It does. We all know the amorous sound of French over that of Spanish.'
Spain would know he was kidding. Playful jabs were his type of humor.
'I want to see you. Firstly to apologize in person, and secondly and mostly just to see you. To talk to you, to laugh with you. To hear your voice. Austria was a nice surprise, but he made me realize how much I miss you and Prussia. My best amis. The trio. As soon as your King and Queen give you a leave, come to Versailles. We can have a night on the town.
Hopefully we can arrange a time with Prussia.
Until we see each other again.
Au revoir,
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'
He took an entirely different approach to Prussia's.
'Prussia,
Look who's back and better than ever! This apologetic asshole- I mean Frenchman!
So . . . you deserve an apology. An on my knees, desperate, crying apology. Sorry you had to hear about France's status through Austria. Sorry I've been elusive, sorry I've been rude, sorry, sorry, sorry. I'm prepared to grovel on my knees before the ever-glorious Prussia and personally apologize for everything you prepare on a very detailed and extensive list. I'll even provide you with an artist to immortalize the moment if you want.
But! I can't do that unless you and Spain come to Versailles! Then once the trio's back together, and you and Spain kick my ass, we can dedicate a whole night to alcohol, debauchery, and other mildly suggestive activities.
In all seriousness, I really am sorry.
Let me make it up to you.
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France
Clockwork.
France looked up into Spain's face, grimacing as his face stretched into the evil, deformed grin. France's own mouth curled up in disgust and he withdrew as far as he could.
"Spain?" he mouthed, horror grabbing and twisting his innards so hard he felt he would be sick. As if it wasn't obvious to him anymore. Frozen in confusion and fear of the monster before him, he failed to see Prussia, America or Britain as they lashed ropes around him. Tied him down. Paralyzed him. Spain twirled another inch of excess rope around his hands and lifted France's back a whole foot off the ground so he could lean down and giggle darkly in his ear, forcing him to stare his torture, his demise, in the face. Oh, God, what would they do to him?! Austria arrogantly emerged from the shadows and leaned over him, pooling black eyes behind broken frames stabbing into his face. He pulled his hand back and France flinched for the slap, but rather than strike him the hand clamped harshly down on his shoulder, jarring him.
"Monsieur! Monsieur, wake up! Francis! FRANCIS!" he screamed, hot breath hissing in France's face. Suddenly Austria shook him. Shook him hard. Whipped him uncomfortably back and forth, thrashing and bucking his head back and forth until his eyes snapped open.
He would shoot awake, straight into the arms of a butler's red, wooly uniform. "Are you alright, Monsieur?" he asked every day. And France would come to. The terror would subside. His eyes would focus. He would realize where he was, what happened. That it was all a dream. Every morning.
Clockwork. Every morning, every single morning France woke up shaking in cold sweats from the same nightmare: running in unadulterated terror through the decrepit corridors of Versailles, away from the pain of the mob. Escaping from them, only to be swallowed up by the darkness. Spain choking him, smiling that smile, Prussia, America, and Britain hog-tying him, Austria harming him, jolting him awake. Every morning he woke up to someone shaking him, usually the same butler every day who heard him screaming. Every morning the butler caught France when he shot awake, talked him into lucidity, filled a bowl and a glass with water so he could wash his face and drink, even laid out the outfit France picked for the day. A serious breach of etiquette, running into his room uninvited when he wasn't going in to draw the curtains or start France's day, but France didn't mind at all. He saved France from whatever fate the dream-Nations had in store for him. Though he knew they could never physically hurt him, it took a toll on him, watching his friends twist into grotesque monsters before his eyes, ready and willing to do him harm. Every night, no matter what he did before he went to bed, when his eyes opened in the wastes he couldn't root himself in the dream, couldn't gain control. As soon as his feet hit the ground the fear tightened his chest and overtook his mind and his legs just started running in fear for his life.
At exactly 8:00 every other day the physician came, bandaged him up. They made small talk. He left by 8:30. France dressed. He brushed his hair, recently deciding to let his gold waves fly freely more often rather than tie them back with a ribbon. He felt more confident that way, more dazzling. He held himself higher, proudly brandishing his hair, his prized possession. Really his looks were the only thing he had left at the moment.
Just like clockwork.
But France decided he would make an effort to ignore it, to move past it, to not think about it, to fight through his aches and weakness, to change his bandages every time he felt dirty, to do anything other than let it cripple him. He figured he would rather die than slip back into the rut he had been in for years and years and years.
Austria's visit changed much for him.
He felt better, at least emotionally. Physically he was still a wreck but he was getting better, and was definitely better equipped to deal with it. Austria's wise sentiment grabbed him by the ankles and drug him forcefully out of the black pit, the crippling sadness he sunk into. It hefted him up, shoved him to his feet, lifted his chin, wiped his tears, gently slapped his cheeks, dusted him off and fixed his clothes. It pushed him forward, forced him to keep going until he realized he could go forward alone. It gave him a brighter, less destructive outlook on the future of the whole situation. He had a new mental and emotional clarity, a relaxed but confident new approach that was ready to work, and work hard. A new attitude and direction. Things would change. Hopefully.
He just still had to deal with the current pains. Louis. His back. Aching. Seeping. His dizziness and weakness. Shaking. Progressively getting worse. Physically still deteriorating, mentally ready to handle it.
Add the stress of working with Brienne on top of it all. That was the worst at the moment. The dread. The absolute stomach-churning fear that this man wasn't going to help France move in the right direction. Granted, France was ready to move himself in the right direction, but it was a matter of speed. With this man and Louis, if they were smart and swift and concise, France could be healing in a year or two. Without him . . . who knew?
And no, France thought proudly, that 'who knew' wasn't a desperate, despairing 'who knew'. It was merely an unfortunate, unforeseeable 'who knew'.
He prayed and prayed that this Brienne knew what he was doing. That he would listen to France if he wanted to change something about his proposals, if he wanted to add something, wanted to disagree. He hoped the man wouldn't be as affronted and immature as Louis if France took charge over him-
Stop.
He had to stop hoping. Now. Emotionally fortify and detach as much as possible. It did nothing except hinder him, amplifying the emotional response when his hopes did not pan out. He didn't need that for himself any more.
" . . . getting worse," the physician told him, ripping him from his thoughts.
"Hm?"
"I said that it seems to be getting worse. It's been a whole month! How did it go from not breaking your skin to opening up and seeping this badly?"
"Is it very deep?"
"No, but . . . it's concerning me. Is the pain worse?"
"Tout à fait!"
France wondered if he should divulge this man. Probably, considering he would be the one everyone at Versailles would call upon if France ever keeled over in front of any humans. He didn't really care who found out anymore. Especially now that he was planning on telling Parliament anyway.
June 5, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Dining Room
"I sent you-" Louis began, jamming a disgustingly large bite of bread into his face, " . . . a summons this morning-" he washed it down with a sip of wine when he was ready, ". . . France."
God, he wasn't in the mood to be poisoned by Louis' toxicity. He already woke up volatile. "Did you?" France feigned ignorance, pretending to be too focused on his soup to look up at Louis. "Désolé, Mon Roi. I must have missed it."
Louis' chewing noises paused, and France froze. Oh crap. He probably knew France lied. Well, his 'I didn't get the message' excuse probably was wearing thin after those other two times. He swore to make June a month all to himself. He wanted to indulge himself, he wanted to be lazy, he wanted to relax. To do everything that he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it. To make himself happy despite what was going on around him. And recently he started blowing Louis off at this point to do whatever he wanted. Because at least while he was busy he could occupy his mind and body for a while. Ignore the pain. He could construct a flimsy, surface level of content, and maybe could at least fake being happy and healthy; maybe remember what it felt like so he had something to cling to. The ideal situation would be that he came back fully prepared mentally for Louis' next disaster. But he didn't want to hope anymore, so he entertained that notion without actually delving deep into what it meant to him.
It wasn't like Louis needed him, right? He had enough to worry about with both Prince Louis-Joseph and Princess Sophie-Hélène being ill. He wouldn't miss France.
"No, no, I know you received it. The butler returned to my quarters to tell me it was delivered to you directly."
He forced himself to keep eating calmly, normally, and tried to peer through his curtain of hair if Louis was staring at him.
"You were supposed to meet Brienne today. I want you two to collaborate."
"Oh, do you?" France asked incredulously. "I was under the impression that you thought me too immature to even listen to his ideas! Remember that conversation? Because I clearly do!"
Louis set his glass down hard, and the base banged loudly off the table. "Well, I changed my mind!"
"Big surprise there!" France slapped his own spoon down in a clear challenge and glared at Louis.
"I decided I don't want to continue until I hear your opinion too! I'm sorry that it's such an inconvenience to you!"
"Mon Dieu, you're really going to embarrass yourself in front of Marie and all these people? You had my opinion for a decade." How many times did they have to go through this? Every time France told him he said he understood. And the next second he brushed France off like he forgot how much France mattered in this fragile situation. WHY? WHY did he do that? There was something wrong in his head. Something childish and selectively blind and deaf. Was he stalling? Or what? "I can't understand you, Louis Capet! One moment you treat me like I'm just some defiant teen you don't want around, the next moment you're desperate for my input. I don't know whether I should back off or throw my entire lot in because of how frequently you go back and forth."
France stood up, feeling like his June would be vindicated. "I am trapped. Trapped in a circle. You and I stand on opposite sides and we just go around and around and around, neither one gaining on the other. Don't ask for my opinion unless you're ready for it. I won't be bothered only to have the door slam in my face." To his embarrassment, a sharp twinge shot down his back and his knees crumpled. His arms stiffened to hold himself up, but Louis saw, everyone at the table saw. He took a deep, bracing breath and willed his knees to hold him up, and as he downed the rest of his wine, he glared over the glass at all of them. Bowing stiffly to the whole table, he walked out. Wow, that was mortifying.
June 10, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, Parterre du Midi
Overlooking Les Jardins l'orangerie
'Britain,
As a dismal, dreary island all-too familiar with rain, you must also be familiar with the smell of rain.
The clouds emit it like a sleeping agent. It descends upon the world, sedating it in a quiet, dream-like haze.
It seeps into the air, and it sludges thick, suspended with the rise of humidity before the chill that comes holding hands with the first drop.
The birds fall silent, the trees try to shake it off with a breeze but all it brings is more and more of the smell, coating the branches and leaves.
The streets go quiet as people breathe it in. Permeating the air and hitting their nostrils. They retreat to their homes, put to sleep by how it clings to the inside of the bridge of their noses.
It rises off the cobblestones and rooftops in verdant steams in the North, it mists the vineyards and pastures of the South.
All the flowers wear it on their dresses like perfume. Every blade of grass, everything in nature that has a surface for it to rest on acts as its pillow.
It sounds oppressive, non? It sounds miserable and sad, just like you.
But it's not! It's pleasant! As I sit here writing, parchment curling up, it sedates me as well.
It's absolutely beautiful.
More beautiful than the rain itself.
Refreshing.
There's just one little problem.
It's tainted. Unclean. Perverted.
The entire world has you so closely associated with rain that all I can think about is your terrible face! It's ruining the beauty! Terrorizing my over-head view of the Versailles Gardens! Atrocious! And how dare someone as dull as you get to experience such beauty on a daily basis!
An eloquent, classy, and elegant poem about rain, by France:
"Britain is so ugly,
I swear I'm going to die.
The raindrops are the sky's tears;
It looks at him and cries."
You're welcome.
Hugs and kisses from France.
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France
P.S. I miss you. Thank you for your letters and concern. I honestly do appreciate it, more than I could ever say. I'm in a considerably less volatile mood, and am doing much better than I was a few months ago. I'm feeling much more like my old self, if this letter didn't tip you off. Just pray it lasts a long while.
I'm not going down that easily.'
Pleased with himself for the truth in the last line, France folded up the letter and stuffed it in his coat pocket, leaning back in his chair. He deeply inhaled the aromas he described to Britain. It really did put a damper on things, he decided. It was hot and thick, not at all refreshing when it rushed into his lungs. But that wasn't important. The smell was important. The smell brought the dread for most people, and the dread of a potentially scary situation ruined the beauty. Rain wouldn't scare him, though. The rain would be worth it, since thunderstorms weren't a norm in France.
A gentle but threatening rumble roared across the countryside, and as he looked up into the ominous cloud, a gentle wind carried the chill's whispers. Despite the tenderness, it ghosted through his jacket and vest, cut right through his skin, raising the goosebumps on his arms. He shuddered, shutting the lid of the ink well to carry it inside. It wouldn't do to get caught in the middle of a storm-
A drop hit his hair. He murmured a hasty, "Merde!" and instinctually ran forward a few steps to rush inside, but as the drop slid down the front of his face it felt warmer than he thought. Not at all as unpleasant as the clouds would lead him to believe. He paused in surprise to tilt his head back to test out the next few, and one hit above his eyebrow and dripped down his cheek. The next on his other cheek. His forehead. Just as amiable as the first one. Faster and faster until it was one right after the other, each one slapping his face, jarring him mild shock.
In a split second decision he laid the ink well and pen back down on the stone ground and ripped off his jacket and vest, tossing them carelessly on the ground next to them. He could waste a jacket. It wasn't even one of his favorites. If it were, no way would he leave it there to perish so poorly. His cravat was untied and off with an elegant flick of his wrist, and he laid it on the pile too. Closed his eyes and smiled in pleasure at the water's fresh, pure touch.
Drip. Drip drip. Drip drip drip drip drip - the hisses and splats of steady rain on the ground rose up all around and on him. Thick, fat drops fell fast and hard on his hair, and within seconds the tops of his shoulders and head were drenched. He spun around, letting the lukewarm water flick off of his face in all different directions, flying from his ponytail to join their fallen brethren. He fluffed and shook his hair out like a dog, letting the water soak the rest of his clothes, refreshing him. Cleansing him. Clinging to his mildly feverish skin, his aching back, his chest, his socks and pants in comfortable relief.
The lightning flashed behind his eyelids, and almost immediately after the thunder cracked all around him. It shook the ground hard, shook his serenity into momentary fear, but he forced himself to stay calm, and stay out there. Desperate to NOT THINK. Desperate for a chance to senselessly ENJOY something beautiful. Desperate for a meaningful rest, a mental recharge. He sat down right where he was on the wet stone, rolled back until he was on his back, threw his arms out to the sides and sprawled there, shifting until he was comfortable.
He lay there, in the warm rain. At momentary peace with self and with nature. He knew it couldn't last. But he didn't care.
He couldn't relax, though. Not with the fat, harsh rain slamming into his face, his eyelids, interrupting his lack of concentration. What was the word Japan used? Zen or something? France tried shielding his face with his arms, but within moments he realized that was dumb; he was too lazy to stay like that since his arms would get tired, and he couldn't sleep like that anyway. He solved his dilemma by flipping over and crossing his arms, resting his cheek on his folded hands. There. Much more comfortable.
He breathed, in and out, in and out, forced it deeper and deeper in his lungs, drawing his consciousness deeper and deeper with each exhale. He didn't even notice Sleep creeping up behind him.
The first thing he did when his eyes opened was shiver. Before much could register he stretched his cold, stiff limbs and rolled to his feet, snatching up his ruined jacket and vest. He checked the pocket for the letter and sure enough, it was also destroyed. The parchment was soaked, falling apart in his pocket, and the ink bled, staining a huge blotch on the color. Oh well. He'd have to write another one.
He ran inside as fast as he could, desperate to dry off and warm up.
June 13, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, Servant's Quarters
'¡Dios mío, Francia!
You know, if there's one thing I learned in my long life as both a world power and European power, it's forgiveness. I have done things I am not proud of in my life. All of the older Nations have. Anyone who says otherwise is lying to you, and to themselves. But the past is the past, and for Nations, if we don't learn to forgive each other we're going to hold a long, miserable grudge for a long, long time. And that poisonous mindset and lifestyle is no way to live. It'll prevent the happiness we need to enjoy the good parts of our hard lives.
I just don't think I can forgive you for this, though, Francia. For how you treated Prussia and me.
You ignoring us is inexcusable. You not letting us help you was childish and immature, and hurtful, and it may take me and Prussia a long time to get over it. . .
I'm completely joking with you! I missed you SO MUCH!
¡Hola, hola, hola! I'm so happy to finally hear from you again after decades, mi amigo! You have no idea how happy your letter made me. I was actually on a ship at the time helping unload some cargo when the courier brought it to me and I just jumped all over the deck when I read it I couldn't stop smiling like an idiot. I ran straight back to the palace and scared Romano because I was squealing like a little girl and he thought I was dying.
You know you don't have to apologize to me. I mean, if you really want to, I won't stop you. Hahaha! We're best amigos, no? The trio's not done yet, right? I'm the booty, you're the beauty, and Prussia's the brute-y.
Don't tell anyone I said that. Ever.
I think you just got lost somewhere in the chaos and the pain. Which is okay! But where you went wrong is in thinking I - or we - couldn't relate to your pain, and couldn't help you. We've all had horrible bosses in our lifetimes. We all know what it does to us and how it hurts. Okay? I just want to make sure you know that you can talk to me or Prussia about anything.
I'd love to come and see you, as soon as possible! Let's make sure we plan it early enough ahead that both me and Prussia can come. I'll put in a request for the first week of September. Sí, mi amigo?
If you still feel bad, don't. Just let it go. I already have. Just know for the future that we're here for you.
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo; El Reino de España'
The kitchens.
France could think of maybe three times he'd ever been to the kitchens, and every time he wasn't sure he stayed more than a few minutes.
Not today. Today he was a man on a mission. An extremely important, France-morale-boosting mission that would increase his mood about ten fold.
He wanted desperately to bake some bread. The essence French life. Of his life. The shortage in Paris mixed with the overabundance at Versailles made his stomach sick for it and his heart ache for it. He wanted to squeeze the moist, firm dough in his hands and watch it ooze out between his fingers. He wanted flour caked on his hands. He wanted his wrists and forearms to ache with the rough labor of kneading. And he wanted to ignore Louis for a while, so really his reasons were two-fold.
It took him forever to find the kitchen, to his frustration. France thought that the lack of exterior glitz and glamour in this section of the palace would make the servants' quarters easier to navigate, but he was horribly mistaken. Including their quarters there were 700 rooms in the entire structure, and they curled in on each other and weaved left and right just as confusingly as the floors above. By sheer luck he found the linen storage rooms and an elderly maidservant who pointed him in the right direction after 20 minutes of aimless wandering (and the occasional pause to adjust his shirt over his uncomfortably tight bandages. They felt like they were lopsided, resting higher and pushing up under his shoulder blades on his right side and squeezing over his shoulder blades on the left side. He felt disproportionate and slanted. And dirty.) He was supposed to look for a maidservant named Gwen. But he'd be lucky if he found her by breakfast tomorrow.
He already lost count of the doors he was supposed to pass, but he assumed he was getting closer. He could feel the ovens' heats, hotter and hotter. He started randomly checking as he came across them, left and right. Cabinets upon cabinets of extra cooking supplies, bowls, grains, extra cutlery, towels and napkins, faced him over and over again, and he tried as hard as he could to not let it wear away at his patience and make him quit in frustration all together. Finally, as he ripped open the last one with a growl of rage, he came face to face with a short maid leaving the kitchens. Beautiful green eyes, long brown hair clasped in a bun, young face, wide nose and eyes. Beautiful. He jumped and took a step back but she fared much worse. Gasping and jumping in alarm, she spat out an instinctual, "Merde!" and struggled to juggle all the trays in her hand. France smoothly reached out and steadied them in her arms. Like flipping a switch, the fact that he was staring at a beautiful woman registered. He confidently wore his best charm and poise, and she looked up into his face, blinking in surprise.
She was bad at concealing her emotions. Out of embarrassment and shock at his (clearly beautiful) face, she immediately turned beet red, curtsying as low as she could with all the junk in her hands. "S-steamy-sexy-I MEAN-SORRY! Sorry, sorry, sorry, Monsieur," she stammered, trying to hurry past him as quickly as she could.
"Hold on, hold on," France said, sliding into her path. He smiled as sweetly as he could, flashed his teeth, softened his piercing blue eyes. "You think I'm sexy?" he asked with his eyes. He took a second to formally bow to her and asked with his mouth, "Are you Gwen?"
She raised her eyes at her name, then shot them back to the floor, refusing to look at him. "Oui. And I have some work to do right now, so . . ."
"My name is Francis Bonnefoy. I was told you're the . . . beautiful woman to see around here if a man wants to bake some bread."
She smiled instinctually, raising her beautiful green eyes to his face and looking him up and down. "I know that name. Aren't you the King's advisor?" she asked, skeptically perusing his common appearance - his wrinkled, thin shirt that showed his bandages, his plain beige trousers. Suddenly her demeanor changed. She snorted in disbelief and pushed past him, making him chase after her. "You wanna bake some bread? A nobleman? Why?"
He followed her to one of the storage cabinets he yelled at earlier. She struggled to reach the shelf for the trays so France eased them from her. "Here, let me," he said, reaching the top shelf on his tiptoes. "I just wanted to. And, of course," he added, leaning against the wall next to her. "I knew it would allow me to spend time with you, belle." He smiled what he knew was a dazzling smile, smothering her, blinding her with his attractive allure.
She considered his charisma with a flick of the hair falling out of her bun and an interested eyebrow raise, and France's spirits lifted, thinking she would concede immediately in his handsome wake. To his surprise she shook her head. "Désolé, Monsieur, but I already soaked the flour and leavening in the water, and-"
France's bravado shattered, an audible crack in his ears. Every conscious effort he used to captivate her evaporated and his true desperation rang pathetically through. "I can still mix and knead the fresh dough! Oh, come on, please?" he whimpered, clasping his hands. She rolled her eyes and turned away from him, and he followed her back into the kitchens. "I've been looking forward to this all morning! I won't get in your way or slow you down - I already know how to make it so you don't have to show me anything! I promise I won't make you get behind in your routine. Please, Gwen?" She paused and he watched her shoulders heave as she sighed deeply. He gently grabbed her elbow and spun her around to face him. "Please?" he softly pined again. He leaned down and peered into her face, blinking as much of his pathetic, heartbreaking, and miserable plea into his eyes as possible. And, he admit, a bit of his National influence. If bread meant as much as it did to the average Frenchman, imagine how much he could make it visibly matter to the epitome of the word 'French'.
"O-okay, okay," she submitted, blinking in the odd, removed wake of National auras. "Fine, but . . . Just wash your hands first," she said, sliding the bowl over to him. He poured himself some fresh water and scrubbed his hands profusely, proving to her that he was doing it right. He even scrubbed between each finger.
"Okay?" he asked after he dried them, holding them out to her and turning them over, palms up. She nodded her approval but France offered his hand again, and she looked up at him questioningly. "Now you have to let me check yours!" he teased, grabbing them from the counter top. He turned them all around, checked every delicate angle, traced every contour and callous, then held hers up and laced his fingers between hers, gingerly stroking the backs of her hands with his thumbs. "Looks good to me," he murmured. He paused a moment to smile at her and though she tried her best to look down and hide her own it managed to creep up her reddening cheeks.
Alright, he decided, he teased her enough. For now. France pulled away and quickly got to work. He scanned the ingredients she already laid out. "Is this the water we're using?" he asked, peering into the pitcher. She nodded. "What kind?"
"Well water, Monsieur." Eh, he liked rain water better. He thought it gave the bread better flavor, but oh well. He dipped a finger in it to make sure it wasn't too hot since it was summer, and to his delight it was the right, lukewarm temperature. He moved on. Milk, probably bought. Again, fresh from the cow and unhanded was France's personal choice, but he was a harsh bread critic. The cream congealed smoothly on the top from sitting, which meant it was untainted. Two eggs, bushels of white salt, probably from Normandy. If the salt was from the deposits it was grey. White salt was beach salt. Butter. If he had to guess, imported from the Netherlands or Denmark. Some old dough, probably from breakfast, and yeast. Powdered. "You let the yeast sit for a while, right? To ferment it?"
"Oui."
"Bien." And the last, and most important thing, most troublesome thing, the reason boulangeries were raided, the reason he was shot in the leg and in the back of the head in Paris, the flour. He experimentally pinched a bit and rubbed it gently between his fingers, nodding his approval at the coarseness of the grain. "Okay! Let's get started!"
He grabbed an empty bowl and confidently slapped it down in front of him. She handed him the pitcher of water and bucket of milk, and he poured as much water as he felt should be there in the bowl. "Measure out a pint of milk for me," he told her, and she filled a cup, handing it out to him. He could tell she was a professional at this; her measurements were almost exactly right despite being estimated. He poured it in with his water and moved to mix the yeast mixture in next, and pinched some of the salt, sprinkling three pinches with a flourish before starting to mix it up. "Break me off some butter," he ordered, "but not too much. We don't want it to turn bitter."
"I know what I'm doing," she snapped, but from the sound it was more playful than annoyed. He chanced a glance out of the corner of his eye at her, small smile stretching across his face. They met eyes and he fully glanced into her face, and they didn't break eye contact, even as she hand-broke the butter on a small plate for him. She handed it over and after he dumped it into his mixture he grabbed her hands and wiped as much butter off of her hands as he could. She giggled and rolled her eyes but didn't pull away, even as he grabbed a towel and cleaned off her hands.
He turned his attention back to his forming dough, and scanned the counter for the eggs. "Want to mix this?" he asked her, gesturing to it with a cock of his head. "I have to beat the eggs." She nodded and took over, and he cracked two eggs into a separate bowl. "Where's the whisk?" he asked her, opening and searching through some drawers.
"Over there," she told him, pointing to the other end of the kitchen. "In the tall cabinet, second shelf. There should be a whole bunch in there."
He retrieved one of the better looking ones, and loudly whirled it around and around the bowl, rolling his wrists to keep it the same thick, yolk consistency. The scraping sound against the bowl was so nostalgic to him. He felt like he was returning home, like he was returning to Paris again for another fresh start. Only it was considerably lighter, and less formidable than the last time. He was there to make happy memories instead of live in fear.
Ugh, how pathetic he sounded. He'd never voice that out loud, as true and heart warming as it was to him. Everybody would laugh at him.
Figuring she was the kind of confident woman who would appreciate it, France took the bowl over to her and made a bold first move, flattening himself to her back, reaching around her over her shoulders and dumping the eggs into the bowl. She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, and he rested his chin on her shoulder, staring deeply, suggestively into her eyes. He knew he had her now. "You are very beautiful," he affirmed. "Almost . . . " he put his lips on the nape of her neck and ghosted them up to her ear. " . . . Angelic."
She shuddered violently beneath his touch. "Merci," she said softly, lamely. He could sense she was comfortable underneath him, and he read the scene. His hands found their way up her arms as she mixed.
"Stunning," he breathed. Caressed her shoulders and rolled down her torso. "Enchanting, tantalizing, mesmerizing, radiant, ravishing, divine." Smoothed down her wide dress to find her curves. They found their way to her hips and just began their daring journey towards her behind, but she quickly spun around and flicked a tiny bit of flour in his face, peppering his skin. He let out a sheepish grin and wiped it away with a section of her apron.
"In a moment," she chuckled, ruining the moment despite the intense desire he could see in her cheeks and eyes, in her body language, the way she leaned into his touch. "It's starting to cling. Add the flour and leaven and knead it a bit, and we'll let it sit." Finally, someone who knew how to flirt! The art of give-and-take, push-and-pull. She knew how to use her body and her words. She was perfect.
He raised his eyebrow sexily, trying to convey, "Later," and blew an affectionate, promising kiss at her.
France took over the mixing, shooing her to the side. He checked the consistency of the mixture, deciding it needed to be thicker. He pointed to the flour, all business once again. "Measure out a half chopine of extra flour for me. This needs to be more firm."
As she scooped it from the bowl she barked out a quick laugh. "What?" he asked, glaring hard at her. "Are you thinking dirty thoughts?" he concluded when he realized he just said the words 'more firm.'
"No . . . " she chirped, handing it over to him. He poured a small amount in and mixed until it was too firm for a bowl. He scooped it out and slapped it down onto the counter, peppering some flour on the counter to keep it from sticking. "Wash your hands again," she ordered him, sliding the bowl over to him again.
"I know!" he exasperated, rolling his eyes. He scrubbed his hands again thoroughly. "You act like I've never baked bread before in my life! Oh, mon Dieu, stop pestering me!" He made a grand show of showing her his newly clean hands again and gestured to his dough. "Can I knead the dough now?" He went to start folding it, but she stopped him again.
"Wait! You need to roll up your sleeves!"
"Oh, now you're just messing with me-"
"I am not!" she scoffed. She made it her turn to trace her hands along his arms sensually, just as hungry for the extra contact as he was, and a jolt of ecstasy shot through him at her touch. He fought the intense desire, the burning temptation to leave the bread to suffer and focus on her, submit to her touch. She stopped to rub her finger back and forth over a small scar he had on his forearm, and as she went further and further up his arm, pushing his sleeves up, she curiously rubbed each raised pink mark she found. "So many scars . . . " She looked questioningly into France's face and he shrugged, unwilling to delve deep into his past lest he ruin this for himself.
"Battle," he offered.
She quickly rolled his sleeves up past his elbows for him. "Merci," he muttered, leaning in and pressing a peck to the tip of her nose, still fighting the animalistic lust to bend her over the table. Not too much, France. "Just a peek," he meant to say to himself, but his hot breath trickled out of his mouth and spoke the words out loud. He put a hand on her cheek thumb moving almost of its own volition to rub under her eye, slide to her nose, between her eyes, up and around her eyebrow, down the side of her face, trace her jawline to her chin. As he gently cupped it she tilted her head back, exposing her neck to him, inviting him, and he hungrily ran his hands down as far as he thought he should, too scared to spoil the moment with over-assumptions and over-indulgence. She grabbed his hand and led it for him, across her collar bones, closer and closer to her chest.
He decided to tease her, to take his turn in their push-and-pull, retreating and starting to work the dough, gathering it into a pile. It was still sticky, and fell apart as he tried to ball it up, so he scooped and flattened and scooped and flattened until it clung to itself.
"I hope you know how to punch it!" she teased breathlessly, crossing her arms.
He sneered, pressing the heels of his hands forcefully into the dough. "Puh-lease! I'm French, of course I know how!"
France knew how, but he was out of practice. Almost immediately his back started aching, radiating sorely into his shoulders. His forearms started to burn and his wrists twinged with each press of the dough after three minutes. He winced but resolved to fight through it, since easing up would threaten the quality of the dough. Plus, he wanted to look tough for this beautiful lady. He snuck a peek at her, but she was staring at him and she caught it. "What, tiring out? You've worked up a sweat!" she asked him, walking over. She bumped him aside with her hip and gloated, "Here. Let me take over. You're soft, nobleman hands couldn't handle the rough work, hm?"
"No, it's not that," he flirted. "I was just distracted by a fine-looking mademoiselle!"
She started kneading where he left off, folding and punching to spring the dough until it smoothed out, and he watched her whole body - arms, legs, shoulders, back - clench lithely, coiling and uncoiling erotically to work the dough. "I, um . . . I think we can pick up where we left off," he muttered, butterflies rising in his stomach and fluttering in his chest, making his heart race and breath hitch. He jaunted forward on shaky knees and pressed up against her again, letting her move him to her rhythm, writhing under him, her tiny form surprisingly strong and firm. He wrapped his arms around her waist and literally felt her abs contract, imagining her naked body doing the same under his own. He closed his eyes in rapture for a moment before taking a deep, controlling breath and kneading with her. Folding the dough over both of their hands, maintaining as much contact as he could. Pressing delicate kisses to the back of her neck, the tops of her shoulders, nipping at any exposed skin. Hot to the touch, silky smooth. Nibbling her earlobes. So close to her, he could feel her legs shake as his shook; he could feel her thighs clench together and her head toss back, eyes closing in ecstasy. He lost track of how long they had been kneading after a few moments, so he was lucky when she finally wiggled underneath him. He released his grip.
"Ok. It can sit now," she said, turning towards him. "We have two hours." She closed her eyes and leaned in and he pressed his lips to hers violently, his plump, luscious bottom lip catching on her cracked, roughly chapped top lip. He pulled her close, pressed her ample chest to his own, ran his hands up and down her back. Her nose pressed uncomfortably into his cheek and he pulled away to tilt his head the other way and reset with a wet smack. He ran his hands along the top of her head to the back, tangling his fingers messily in her curls and she did the same to his soft blond hair. Mussing, pulling, kissing passionately, his tongue parted her lips and tracked the contour of the teeth in her mouth, hers lolling and colliding sloppily, messily, warmly, with his. She hissed out a breath that squeaked into a sigh. She had been chewing on peppermint leaves, he noted pleasantly. Her breath was cool and had a tingling, fiery bite to it as it entered his own lungs from hers. He pulled her closer, their legs locked, their chests touched, and he could feel her heart beating fast and loud in excitement, as fast as his as her chest skimmed tantalizingly against his chest.
"Let's go somewhere else," he breathed. She continued to press kisses to his neck and jaw line, even biting him as he set the dough aside and draped a towel over it. He let out a squeak of pain, whispering, "We just made that bread. Let's not defile it." She nodded and let him take her hand and lead her from the room.
June 17, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber
'You git,
You think that after one letter I'm just going to forgive you? You're mad! You're simple! You frog! I heard nothing- NOTHING!- and suddenly you show back up like everything's normal? Damn you, Francis Bonnefoy; damn you, France!
And then you write that childish, immature poem about me? You don't even try to address the issues at hand? You don't even try to apologize? You hurt me deeply, France. You scared me, and if I'm going to all this trouble to even admit that then you're going to say you're sorry!
I swear to you I will not speak to you again until you do! Do you understand me, France?
Arthur Kirkland; The Kingdom of Britain
Rather than make him feel bad about himself as it would have a month ago, the letter just pissed France off. He was in no mood to coddle Britain and cater to his fragile feelings when he was finally so focused on his own. When he was finally happy. He wrote his own candid, sordid response.
'Britain,
I still haven't received a genuine apology for 30 May, 1431.
You're going to have to swallow - choke down - choke ON - your pride and apologize to me first. Then maybe I'll consider us (severely lopsidedly) even.
Casse-toi.
Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'
'Frankreich,
HAHAHAHAHA! I wish I could've seen your face when you read the first half of Spain's letter! Mein Gott, I bet it was rich! Of course he told me the prank he was gonna play! What, did you pee your trousers? I'll bet you even cried a little!
He was content to just accept your apology and forgive you. What a nice friend! But I'm not going to let you off that easily! Now that I think about it, I'd really appreciate that artist you mentioned. I'd love to hang a portrait in my King's house of you begging on your knees for forgiveness before me! I'll expect one ready for when me and Spain come over the first week of September.
That's another thing: we agreed on a time that works for both of us, and that's the week. So we're coming over whether you want us there or not, and Louis has to entertain! Especially since this is 'official National business', and an 'extremely immediate problem' we will be discussing.
At least, that's what we're gonna tell Louis if he asks questions. Geez, I hope he won't. He's not gonna be a bother, is he? He strikes me as the kind of person who's just a bother, you know? Ugh, I can already feel his bother seeping into my skin. It's annoying!
One more thing: You maybe, sort of, kind of, almost owe Austria an apology on my behalf. Let's just say when he returned from his visit with you he was taking a really really long time to lay out the details and I grew a little impatient. Sorry. You should take care of that.
I can't wait to see you, though! We're gonna have FUN!
Gilbert Beilschmidt; Das Königreich Preußen'
He rolled off of Gwen and sprawled out, cooling off above the covers that they managed to kick off anyway. She turned towards him, still panting, and inched forward until she was up against his bare, warm chest, blearily smiling up at him. He threw his arm over to absently stroke her arm with his thumb.
"Mmmm," she rumbled, closing her eyes.
He was tired too. He gathered the sheets to evenly cover the two of them again, then leaned down and kissed the top of her brown hair. Glad to have her there to wake him up from the inevitable nightmare.
June 29, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Private Cabinet
"Be at my cabinet by 10:00. You are meeting Brienne. Against your recent wont of walking around the palace while wearing as little clothes as possible, please look decent. - Louis"
The only deviation from that usual morning routine was that he was getting dressed for Brienne, not just for himself. Today was the day. Louis finally stopped twiddling his thumbs and ordered France to do something.
France's body couldn't decide what to feel, physically or mentally. Mentally he was half-ecstatic. Delighted with Louis for still wanting to include him despite their fight and what Louis said about France's shallowness. France had another chance to help himself consensually before he took matters into his own hands as much as he could. On the other hand, Louis scoffed, he chided, he grew angry when France didn't approve of Brienne, and now he wanted France's input again on the man's ideas? After he accused France of being too close-minded to even listen? It was so ridiculously annoying and laughable France knew he was going to have to try and contain it while he talked to them.
Physically, he was flip-flopping between stress - dread, anxiety - and every heightened joy on the spectrum of excitement. The stress balled in his stomach, thick and black. It wormed inside of itself like it was alive, occasionally rising up into his chest, blocking his heart and blood and lungs, tensing him up, panicking him like he panicked in his dreams. Sometimes it burst inside of him, making his knees shake and his head swim. He initially took it as a National sign that it wasn't going to go well, but as it drew closer and closer something changed inside of him. A realization, or something. Austria's sentiment, maybe, seizing control. Forcing him to realize that this was for the best. The next second, an instant after recovering from the effects of the pressure, he would pick back up. His heart would rise up in his chest, up into his cheeks before he could stop it until he was smiling like an idiot. This was his opportunity to help France grow like Austria said. It felt like a strong, unburdened breath of fresh, clean air. Another clean slate, the cleanest it had been since he went to Paris for the first year, since he returned to Versailles. He had another chance. Not a month ago he was ready to roll over and die right there. He thought he was finished, that he would just have to watch Louis run France so deep into the ground he would already be six feet under. Not yet.
He was excited for once, actually excited for this meeting, for another chance to do what Calonne could not - and from an entirely different angle! Maybe Brienne would have some new ideas France himself hadn't even thought of. France surfed his mental database and the Versailles staff's gossip circle and found that Étienne Charles de Loménie de Brienne used to be a member of the clergy. Born in Paris, he was a doctor of theology and even traveled to Rome to become a Bishop. Which was good. Having an agent of the upper class willing to help the lower classes was an excellent step in the right direction for everyone's perspectives. Including Louis', if he chose to be cooperative and open-minded.
France was in a wonderful mood. A confident mood. That entire month to himself was the best decision he ever made for himself in his entire National life. Despite the occasional bout of pain in his back he looked good, he felt good. He wore his new attitude like a proud piece of jewelry. He only had one problem with it though: he couldn't decide if it was genuine or if it was all talk, just a frenzy he talked himself into but didn't necessarily believe or support. Whether or not the majority of it was a façade, a false persona, as long as he wore it proudly he was ready to face Louis and Brienne. No matter what they threw at him. He would try and handle it. He would try to worm his way in, use his influence as much as he could.
He needed an outfit to match his good mood, so despite the butler laying out a plain columbia blue jacket and waistcoat, France scoured his wardrobe again for something much more fancy, much more elegant. He opted for a pristine pine green coat with a beautifully patterned leaf green lace trim. About an inch and a half thick, it trimmed the front of the jacket and the pockets, as well as the end of the sleeves with flowers and roses in the lace. He went for a black waistcoat (because hey, black flatters everyone, right?) and socks, with bright green pants and cravat, layering the greens over the deep black.
France checked himself in the mirror. Green wasn't really his color. His blond hair and blue eyes contradicted it quite a bit, but he made the outfit work with his layering so he left it on. He parted and brushed his hair, making sure it didn't cling to his face or clothes and left.
As he consciously strutted down the corridors, bouncing his step and swishing his hips, chin up, he closely inspected the decorated walls, the gilded trim on everything - the ornate panels covering the walls, the decorative art, the glass, the vases and artifacts on the pedestals, the flowers, the frames around the paintings on the ceiling. These were the same hallways that became the setting of his dream. It was hard to think of them as the same shredded and gutted corridors. And yet the more he looked, the more he drew parallels. This version started to look more and more like the haunted one, France realized. The fake one. Too ridiculously pristine. Too false. Ironically fabricated, forever trapped behind a gilded lens. The two versions weren't comparable in the slightest, and yet they were exactly the same. This version had its own dirt, but it was covered by years of denial. Everything at Versailles was hiding behind a delusion of perpetual grandeur. He imagined the glittering powder getting thicker and thicker as he drew closer to Louis' chambers. France's dream version was the actual version, without any falsifications. The actual version was swallowed up, falling apart, morals sunken lower than the Parisian catacombs.
"Ugh, let it go, France," he told himself. "You're just ruining your own good mood. You have a job to do."
He smoothed out his outfit and finger-combed his hair, making sure everything was in order before he knocked. France's chest swelled with pleasant anticipation and he let himself in, flashing a brilliant smile and bowing deeply as soon as he saw Louis.
"Mon Roi," he purred.
"Good morning, France." His eyes scanned France up and down, and Louis nodded his approval. "I see your fashion sense is as impeccable as ever."
"Merci, je sais!" he said confidently, verging on arrogantly. Ah, well. He looked good. Nobody had to tell him he looked good. He knew.
"It's wonderful to see you in such a good mood for once."
"I am excited to meet Brienne!" He sashayed over to him and when the two met, they bowed deeply to each other. As France drew himself to full height, he noticed Brienne didn't shrink back at all. Rather, he smiled and folded his hands amiably behind his back.
"Oui, as I am excited to meet our Nation, in the flesh."
France looked him over, sizing him up right in front of him, knowing he was being rude but wanting to assert his presence. He had the look of a clergyman about him: a long, slender face and nose underneath a wide forehead. His lips were small but thick, and his close-set eyes were extremely big and wide, giving him a perpetual look of alarm.
"Monsieur France-?"
"I hope you'll forgive me for being frank, but I am in too much pain for this to go any other way than exactly how I want it to. I have," he started, holding up his thumb and middle finger and putting about a centimeter of space between them, "about this much patience left. That's it. This is all you get before I have you out of here faster than you came-"
"France!" Louis began incredulously.
"Oh, stop it! I am in pain and sick. France is, obviously, in pain and sick. Marie brought you in, you and nobody else, to work with the country incarnate to try and fix it. So I need a few things from you, right from the start. One: TRUST ME! Two: Be open to changes I want to make to anything laid out in your financial plans, and I will be open to new ideas from you. Three: Don't be afraid to bring anything to my attention that you think of. With a little bit of debate, a half-hearted idea can be turned into a definite plan of action. Are we clear? France is teetering on the precipice of-" No matter how bad things were he still couldn't bring himself to commit to the word 'revolution.' "I have no time for one-man armies, or heroes. Listen to me, listen to Louis - unless we disagree, then listen to me-"
"France!"
"And France could be healing in a year or two. Are we understood?"
" . . . U-uuuuuh, oui. Oui, we are clear."
"Perfect! Now, tell me everything you have in mind. I'm all ears."
"Okay! Um, Monsieur Calonne's first order of business was to impose a land tax on the upper class and clergy-"
"Which you ardently opposed," France reminded him. "I'm not sure why, if I am being honest. I thought that was a very good idea. The logic was sound, and I had a feeling it would have balanced the lopsidedness of the crown's income."
"I believed it to be sound as well, but where I saw the flaw was in the focus on the crown's income rather than the peoples'. The crown should be our second priority if we are to avoid social disaster. We need to do something that directly helps the people and their pockets first. Otherwise, if they don't see anything helping, they won't believe anything is helping. Even an illusion of financial and social improvement will work wonders, though I pray we do something to genuinely assist."
"That makes sense. What do you propose then?"
"I suggest improved wages, less restrictions on internal trade and higher restrictions on foreign trade. The boost in population over the last century has expanded France's economy. Let's cater to that and internalize. I had a good friend of mine - Jacques Necker -"
"I'm familiar with the name," France said.
Brienne nodded. "I had Necker run statistics for me, and a mere two percent increase in pay for those employed by nobles or bourgeoisie would leave the upper class still with enough money for nearly a ten percent increase in tax deductions."
"So I say we adopt Calonne's overhauls and reforms then, including the land tax," asserted France. "I'd have to reread his proposal to see the exact numbers he conjured up for the increases, but if they can withstand that substantial of an enlargement, I say we do it. We can kill two birds with one stone if we accompany a wage increase with tax reform."
"That makes sense," Louis said, already dabbing a pen in the ink well to record it. "'Increased wages; tax reforms'" he wrote, speaking it as he penned it. "What else?"
"More civil liberties - rights of assembly, press, speech."
"Why?" Louis demanded. "Won't that just encourage their unrest?"
"Think about all your social powers as King, Louis. You can seize property on an individual level if you see fit. You can control the very expression of their thoughts, with your censorship of the press - books, newspapers, writings, speeches. You can muzzle them completely if you want. You can imprison them with a mere order without trial, and for as long as you want. Giving them a little more leeway and freedom with those would probably improve their opinion of you instantly. Would it spark unrest? I don't believe so," France told him. "Though they'll be allowed to publicly voice their opinions they'll lack the power to actually do anything about it."
"That's not what I remember you telling Austria," Louis argued. "Shot, what, twice, was it?" France sighed, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. He didn't realize his hand slowly crept to the gunshot wound's scar.
"They were in a bad place. Starving. And you were stagnate at the time. They didn't see an end. I agree with Brienne, that even the smallest action will create positive ripples across France. Do you know where I see us encountering a problem? Parliament. We'd be putting much of our faith in their opinions of the general public. And I can tell you they aren't good."
"Sa Majesté cannot exercise power over them?" Brienne put in.
"He values their opinion." France tried to hide the malice he naturally started to put in his tone. Tried. Probably failed. "Though I wish he wouldn't. He'll want to bring it up to them, right, Louis?" He nodded. "I'm warning you, Majesté, as soon as we publicize this, the moment the people see what they may be free to do . . . if Parliament disapproves, there will be chaos. They will exercise those rights anyway, if they aren't exercising them already, but there will be violence rather than peace. America proved too much to them with his Revolution and new democracy for them to admit defeat against legislation again. Our goal is to convince Parliament of what you just told me, Brienne - the importance of people first, crown later. What may seem superficial could make all the difference. They need to know that."
"And what if Parliament disagrees?" Louis, ever the one to consider all possibilities, offered.
Brienne and France made eye contact, each brainstorming what may (which France thought would) become the biggest obstacle. "Then . . . " France began, "I use my National identity. If we have exhausted our hand and our chips, I become the trump card."
"What if they don't buy it?" Louis asked. "Disbelief is stronger than reason in most situations." As if France didn't know that - and by Louis' own hand.
"Even with Votre Majestée's support?"
France shrugged. Noncommittal, but with its own touch of cynicism. He wanted to say yes, but couldn't dedicate his thought processes to the negative idea that they would laugh him from the room no matter what.
"Let's assume the worst case scenario," Brienne reckoned. "They don't believe you. Are you willing to risk your reputation? They very well may never take you seriously again, for as long as they claim their positions."
"Je sais," France mumbled. "I know." He started second-guessing his plan to tell them, embarrassed for thinking it would be worth a shot in the first place. There were more tangible risks than reward, but there were more psychological rewards than risks. They were at an impasse in his heart.
"But! I have a solution!"
"You do?"
"Oui! We give the people the chance to pass it themselves. During the Assembly there was mention of the States-General - do you remember? If these edicts fail at Parliament I suggest we call the États-Généraux, and present the exact same thing to them. Like you said, the new freedoms will appeal to them, as will their improved stations."
"We'd have to rid ourselves of Parliament completely before the États-Généraux ever convenes," France said, strategically choosing the words 'rid ourselves'. Like they were a burden in need of removing. Old chamberpots in need of emptying. Ok, ew. He shouldn't have went that far. He looked into Brienne's eyes and could see the wheels turning as he worked through the problems.
"Hm. Rid ourselves . . . " he muttered. "Technically, we don't have to go through Parliament at all. We may not even have to play our trump card, France. Not if we bypass Parliament altogether. Not if King Louis uses a lit," Brienne said.
"A what?"
"A lit-de-justice. You may still tell Parliament if you wish, but a lit-de-justice is a monarchial veto, if you will. Certain laws require you to go to Parliament, but a lit is your ticket to over rule them if you're desperate for-"
"I'm sorry, what?" France interrupted, tapping his ear. "I'm not sure I heard right. There's a VETO option?"
"You didn't know?"
"NO! NO I DID NOT!"
"I did my research," Brienne said. "The last lit was in 1718. You just forgot it was an option-"
"You're telling me I could've called a lit and we could've avoided this entire FREAKING mess back in 1774?" he glared hard at Louis, and the King threw his palms up in a gesture of innocence.
"Don't give me that look, France! I didn't know either!"
"Oh, well it's not like you would've used it!" he spat. "You just did whatever Parliament wanted anyway-"
"Gentlemen," Brienne said, taking a small step to put himself slightly between them. "I'm sure there are some things you two have disagreed on in the past, but now is not the time to hash them out, in the middle of our discussion. We have very important things to cover, and God willing, we will instate all of them. If he has to, King Louis will call a lit, n'est pas?" he asked. Good, France noted. He was making Louis commit to something. Maybe he read him as well as France did.
"Oui," he said, writing it down on the parchment. "'Bring elements to Parliament; if disagree, call lit; call States General for future legislation.' I don't like it, but . . . We're placing much faith in the people, not just Parliament."
"You're sure you still want their opinion? After everything we just told you could go wrong?" France questioned.
" . . . Oui. I am," he said, nodding.
France sighed, earning him an irritated look from Louis, but he wasn't trying to be passive-aggressive. He was trying to expel all negative pre-conceived notions, and nodded back. No, he didn't think Parliament would work. But he had to try and focus. To handle every problem as it comes with a clear head and assertive plan.
"Ça ira, Louis. Trust me," France assured both himself and Louis. He honestly had a good feeling about the peoples' acceptance. As Brienne said, anything that was looking like it was helping would placate them. It was Louis who was worrying him. He had to play his part perfectly, not give in on anything. "What else?"
"Do you want to end it there? Let's make this our initial plan of attack. Increased wages, tax reforms, civil liberties. We can accurately gauge the fervor and strength of our opposition in Parliament and in people. Or, if this passes smoothly, we will almost immediately see improvement."
France nodded his assent, and the two turned to Louis for his approval. He gave a somewhat curt nod, but the nod was enough for France.
"Excellent!" he said, holding out his hand to Brienne. As they shook hands he smiled genuinely in the man's face. "I look forward to working with you."
"You too, France."
A/N: I actually listened to the sounds of rain on Youtube while I wrote - despite all the rain we got in Pittsburgh I couldn't find any ACTUAL rain that corresponded with my writing schedule. I encourage you to listen to rain noises while you read if you choose to go back. Either sounds of rain or Frédéric Chopin's "Raindrop Prelude", if you're into Romantic Era music. I hope I described it real enough WITHOUT the sounds, but it adds a WHOLE NEW LEVEL of immersion! :)
Sorry this took me so long, and that it's two sections, but this chapter gave me some issues with saving it since it was so long. I also had issues as far as expression. France feels trapped in this repetitive cycle, and it's wearing away at his willpower, but he's also DESPERATE for life and activity, so I tried to capture that dead, dreary feeling with the addition of France's indulgences, helping him tread the dead, horribly complacent waters. If you have time to leave a review, let me know if you think I did well! **This was ALSO my first attempt at a hotter, more sensual scene with the bread baking, so let me know about that, too!**