A/N: NSFW (Not Safe For Work) WARNING FOR THE FIFTH SECTION OF THIS CHAPTER. June 16, 1788! Sexually explicit content.

May 8, 1788
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Louis XVI's Library

"France?"

The stack of old letters in France's hands claimed his attention, but he could tell it was Louis talking to him without even having to look up. France stopped on a dime, threw it in reverse, and backpedaled out of the room.

"France! Hey!" He heard the armchair creak as Louis stood up. "Stop!" No, no, no. Not today, Louis. Not when he was feeling especially . . . ick. Yes, that was a good word: ick. All day, he felt ick. Different than his usual ick. This ick had an edge to it, a potent sting. Something was off about the day. Something Nationally abnormal. And something was about to go down. Hard.

He thought he prepared. But there was no way he could have prepared for it. He just didn't realize it would come on as quickly, and as painfully, as it did.

France turned and quickened his pace, trying to run away from Louis without actually "running." Unfortunately, Louis had a head start. He appeared around the corner before France could disappear behind another. There was no escaping him now, France decided, turning around. Louis leaned against the door frame, looking over his shoulder one last time as though checking for an escape route. For a few seconds he stood there, either thinking of what to say or waiting for France to initiate.

"Can I help you?" he obliged.

"I . . . How are you?" France's stomach churned in response. Harder than it had done all day. He started to feel like he had a ball in there, growing bigger and bigger with each second.

"How are you?"

"I'm well."

"Brienne?"

"Also well."

France nodded once, and the gesture seemed to hang in the dead air.

"What are those there?" Louis asked, pointing to the papers in his hand.

"Just some old letters, from an old friend." France's stomach rolled again, his heart skipped a beat and started racing, but he carefully controlled every reaction to his discomfort with the exception of his mouth. His lips pursed tightly. His chest and heart felt tight, like any moment they were going to erupt in pain.

"I see."

" . . . "

" . . . "

" . . . I didn't mean to intrude," France started, edging towards the door.

"Oh, no! Not at all, you're not intruding."

"I should go-" he pressed. The dull aching gradually intensified, stronger and stronger. Coming on hard, and fast.

"Please wait."

"Yes, Louis?" he squeaked out. Even to him his voice sounded clipped and tight. Heat rushed to his neck and face, burning through him. He started to sweat feverishly. Ow. Ow! Ow! Sharp, wave-like, radiating through him. Like he was being punched. With a knife.

"W-will you speak to me?"

"I'm- Uuuuh, I'm actually, umm- No, I-" France shifted to the side to lean against a table. He couldn't move, couldn't think. He winced, face contorting in pain.

"Are you alright?"

"F-fine."

"You don't look it. You're all red. Are you feverish-?" he asked. He reached out and touched the back of his hand to France's forehead before France could back away. "You are!"

France shook his head. "I'm fine- mm!" he whimpered, curling in on himself. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and released it slowly. "I'm fine." Suddenly he doubled over, letting out a cry.

"France! What is it?!"

"I- I don't- Agh!" Another pang slammed into his stomach and his knees buckled. He collapsed, dropping all of Jeanne's letters in his hands.

"Brienne!" Louis screamed, kneeling next to him. "Brienne, get in here, NOW!" France tugged his knees to his chest, squirming for any position on the floor - any - that would relieve him. Within seconds Brienne's footsteps rocketed into the room.

"What's wrong?" The instant France's eyes locked into Brienne's, he knew. Another punch stabbed into him, but not in his stomach. In his cut. He shrieked, his back arched, his shoes scraped uselessly off the floor.

"Nrgh- Riot! Riotriotriot-" he sputtered. "Grenoble!"

"Grenoble?" Louis repeated, shooting a wide-eyed look at Brienne. "We hit Grenoble first, didn't we-"

"What did you do?" France screamed. "What did you DO?" The last word cracked. Tears sprang into France's eyes and spilled instantly, streaking down his cheeks in rivers.

"Well, we did some work with the Parliaments, but-"

"BUT WHAT DID YOU DO?! Oh, God," he moaned. "People are being SHOT!"

"We disbanded them! We thought it was the right thing to do!" Brienne shouted. "I'll get the doctor-

"No!" France yelled. "Won't-" His back arched against another spasm. "Won't help!"

"What can I do?"

France couldn't answer.

"I'm so sorry, France! It's going to be alright!" Brienne assured.

Someone took a hot poker and raked it down his back. He opened his mouth to scream but his whole body was already so tense, it froze in his throat.

May 10, 1788
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber

France's eyes opened.

He immediately caught sight of the intruder. Easily seven feet tall. Silhouetted shoulders as wide as his door. His room was dark but the thing was darker, sucking all the available light back into itself. Peering between the cracked door and the doorframe.

A black mass in his doorway. A person. Staring right at him. He couldn't make out any features, except for one eye. One lidless, cloudy eye. His heart started to throb out of his chest. Each pump pulsed his whole body with its force. Caught between adrenaline, sending his body into a frenzy, and dread, freezing him in place. As if it knew, it cocked its head to the side. The darkness on its face cracked, and a crooked smile broke through. An icy blast struck France's face and blew the door open wide enough for it to slip through. It stepped across the threshold, smiling, cocking its head back and forth.

France wanted to scramble away, to do anything but sit there and wait for its next move. He felt dizzy, his breath came in short gasps. The entire right side of his body started to burn. Urging him and screaming at him to get away, to crawl away. But he couldn't. The pins-and-needles sensation tickled his fingertips. It froze his fingers in their half-extended state. Crept into his wrists, and he felt its breeze between every tiny bone. Making goosebumps on his nerves. Tingled into his forearms and elbows. As is touched his injured shoulder, it was as if someone jabbed it with a prod. Bursting into flames, it shot down his spine and into his legs. Melted like a poison between his muscles and sinew and gummed there, holding him still. His toes curled in on themselves. His knees locked into place.

He couldn't take his wide eyes from the creature. Cocking its head back and forth, back and forth. Out of the corner of France's eyes Versailles seemed to bleed. The white wood cracked and peeled, the gold on everything dripped and ran like water around him. The walls themselves bent, leaning away. The shadow took one step. Just one. Cocking its head back and forth, enjoying watching him squirm. "No, no, no, please don't hurt me, please don't hurt me-" ran through his mind, over and over. Cocking its head back and forth.

It took another step. Only a few more from his bed. He needed to scream. It was going to kill him. He needed to scream now. The butlers would hear him. Someone would hear him. France shut his eyes, and immediately regret it, as he lost sight of the horrible creature he didn't want to see anyway. But he needed to scream. He needed someone. He sucked in a breath, shoving it from his throat with as much force as he could muster. The air hissed through his vocal chords. "Hhhhhhhhhhhh! Hhhhhhhhhhhh!" No sound. No one coming. He didn't want to open his eyes again. He just kept screaming, screaming.

Until his eyes opened again.

A force pressed him an inch down into his bed and pillow, actually making it squeak in protest. Sitting on his back. The air started hissing through his neck again as hard as it could, but the heaviness shifted. It shoved into the small of his back, and into the back of his neck, choking his scream, grinding his cheek uncomfortably into his pillow. It leaned down and looked France in the eye with its toothy smile and milky eye. It glared triumphantly down at him, poked him in the back of the neck.

Just like the civilians did, when they barged into France's home.

He blinked and suddenly he was on his back. The thing was still there, squatting on his stomach. With its knees curled up to its chest, but as it cocked its head towards him, Louis' face met him. Lidless and grinning. He pulled out a knife, and lifted it over France's face. He opened his mouth to scream.

But then he slit his own throat. Louis' head snapped back, his blood immediately sprayed all over France. In his open mouth. He gagged as more poured up his nose, all over his face, in his hair, in his eyes-

France jerked awake.

Nothing on top of him. He was back on his stomach, head turned towards his door. Bright morning light in his room. Light, breathable air. He knew immediately that it was no more than a dream, but the small doubt nibbling at his heart forced him to be sure. He quickly looked around his room, his bed, his everything, to ensure it looked normal. No gold bleeding into the floor. No shattering, rotting wood. No melting walls. He scrambled up to his hands and knees on his bed and as he scanned to his windows Louis was there on the settee, staring with that same wide-eyed stare. France startled, throwing a hand over his heart. "Jesus!"

Louis startled as well. He reached out and put a hand on France's sweat-soaked shirt, but France shook him off. He felt too odd and violated to be touched. "France. Are you alright?"

"Scared me," he grumbled. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed furiously, smearing away all residual traces of sleep from his eyes. Rubbed his face and raked back his sweaty hair, collapsing face-first onto his pillows. "Mmmmmmm," he moaned.

"What happened?"

" . . . Bad dream," he decided. That basically encompassed all of it. He didn't want to talk to Louis. He rolled back to a sitting position and shuffled towards the edge of his bed, but Louis stood quickly. He grabbed both France's shoulders and pushed him back towards the bed.

"Wait!"

"Get off me! Why are you so touchy-touchy this morning?"

"You need to lie down. You're still feverish."

"It's just a cold sweat this time. I'm fine."

"After looking at all the blood on your back, I beg to differ. France, please. The doctor's on his way to ensure-"

"He's here," came from the doorway. "Majesty," he said, bowing low to Louis. France didn't turn to look as he waltzed right in. "Bon matin, Monsieur. How did you sleep?"

"Don't ask."

"How's your back?"

"Same as usual," he growled. He got up and walked to his armoire to get dressed.

"You're not going to show me?"

"You're not going to let me put pants on first?" France muttered. Good thing his shirt was long enough to cover himself. Poor Louis was probably mortified.

Louis scoffed. "You're cranky today!"

"I'm still recovering-"

"We're only trying to help-"

"Get out of my room!" France said.

Louis crossed his arms and looked away, planting himself back on the settee. "I'll not leave until the doctor takes a look at you."

"Fine!" He reached behind his head and clawed at his shirt collar until he found the hem, ripping it over his head. He threw it to the floor and spun around, standing completely naked in front of both of them.

"There's something wrong with you- FRANCE!" Louis yelled as soon as he looked, throwing his hand up to the side of his face. He turned away. "For the love of God, man!"

He threw his arms up, and slapped them back to his sides in reply. "Well? Take a look at the cut!"

"Put some pants on!"

"Mmmm, no. This is my room. Deal with it, or get out." He felt blood drip, rolling down his back. He ignored it.

"Not until I know you're alright."

"I hope you understand a fraction of the irony in that declaration. Even if I'm not, what are you going to do about it? Go in the drawing room at least if you're that uncomfortable."

"France," Louis said evenly. "Put. Some. Pants. On."

He would have to put pants on eventually. But rub salt on Louis' wounds, paper cuts though they were? Of course. " . . . Please," France prodded him.

"Put some pants on, please."

"I guess." France swore he heard Louis mutter something involving the word 'child'. They sat in silence while France selected his breeches and socks, and he took the time to make a quality color selection. As he hopped around on one foot pulling his socks on, he struck up a conversation with probably the only man that would talk to him anyway. "What's your name, Monsieur?"

"Me?"

"No, not you, Louis! Him!"

"Cesare Buonnaroti."

"Buo- Buonno-?" he asked, stumbling over the pronunciation. "Italian born?"

"Both my parents were. But I'm French through and through, sir."

"Hm," he mumbled. Then he decided that probably sounded rude towards his heritage and he quickly remedied, "I don't doubt it, Monsieur."

"It is . . . an honor . . . to meet the personal representation of our great nation," he said, carefully choosing his words. France paused in getting dressed.

"You told him, Louis?"

"Yes." Louis still had his eyes shielded with his hand. "He shared his concerns over your wound with me, that it wasn't getting any better. I spoke of you as 'France', and while we conversed he guessed it for himself. When he asked, I confirmed."

France stepped into his breeches and pulled them up, making sure they were properly positioned around his knees before tying the drawstring. "Okay. I'm clothed."

"Are you lying to me?" Louis asked.

"No!" France yelled incredulously. Geez. If he would have talked to Louis XIV like this, he would have been backhanded by now.

Louis sighed and dropped his hand. Red as a tomato, France had to frown the smile off his face.

"His Majesty told me you've slept restlessly."

"How does he know? This is the first time he's shown concern," he thought to himself. He shrugged. "I've been trying to sleep on my back."

"Has it been working?"

He chuckled dryly. "No. I thought thicker bandages and daily cleaning of my wound would do it. Unfortunately, bandages tend to lack the dexterity of the human body. They refused to fold and bend with me when I tried a night on my side. I got no more sleep than I would have on my stomach." He sighed, "I guess I should just resign myself to the fact that I'm not going to sleep comfortably anymore."

It also didn't help that he simply wasn't a stomach sleeper. At all. If he had a choice he preferred to be on his right side or his back. Plus, with his neck craned the way it was . . . He suspected he sometimes woke up because his neck was in pain, but what could he do? He couldn't shove his face into the pillow. He had to breathe.

"You also haven't been sleeping with it covered."

"Yes, well . . . " he began. He didn't really have any defense. Monsieur Buonnaroti was right. France had been ripping the bandages off to give it air for a week or so. He crossed the room and showed his back to Monsieur Buonnaroti, and Louis leaned in to get a good look before hissing a breath in through his teeth.

"Ouch. I remember when that was just a scratch," he commented. France guessed they weren't going to talk about how or why it grew to be this bad.

"As do I," Buonnaroti said.

"It feels hot. What's it look like now?" France asked. "I haven't checked it in a while."

"Open cut, severe bruising, weeping, bleeding. I'm just going to . . . " He touched France's back on either side of the cut, and France felt hm peel the two flaps of skin apart with a wet smack. "It's a deep wound. A very deep wound. What would you say to some stitching?"

"Stitches wouldn't help me. This cut represents a National problem. They would keep the skin closed, but they wouldn't exactly heal me. No," he said, shaking his head.

"You should have him stitch you up. It may relieve some of your pain," Louis said.

"As if you get a say," France snorted to himself.

"That is true," Monsieur Buonnaroti agreed. "I'd wrap it just as thickly, and maybe-"

"No." He huffed, shaking his head.

"Are you sure? I'm not sure if someone like you can even . . . get infections, but that's another risk."

"I'm sure."

"I'd advise against it."

"I know. Just bandage it again."

"It looks too bad for simple bandages," Louis offered. "Get the stitches."

"No!" France snarled. "Just bandage me up," he said.

"O-oui, Monsieur."

Another bout of silence clouded thick in the air like humidity, but none felt it appropriate to break it. France stood with his arms extended while the doctor smoothed a pain-killer on his cut, then wrapped it in layer after layer. Circling around him over and over with the roll of gauze, trailing around and around, over and under, nice and tight against his cut until he felt padded and puffy enough for a boxing match.

"Do you drink before you go to bed?" he asked France when he was finished.

"Oui."

"For a restful night's sleep I would suggest replacing your usual glass of wine with brandy. His Majesty told me your tolerance is strong. Drink as much as you have to." He turned to Louis. "I've also got some laudanum for him if you think he needs it, passionflower, lemon balm, lavender-"

"He's right here!" France said, waving his hand in Monsieur Bounnaroti's face. "And he doesn't think he needs them. Merci."

"All the same, at least keep some on you just in case," he said, digging in the pocket of his trousers. He pulled out a small vial with a clear looking liquid sloshing inside. France took it from him, certain he would only throw it away later. "Even though you're stronger, I'm positive it will still knock someone like you right out."

"You don't have to treat me like I'm some sub-human thing. I'm a person. Merci."

"Désolé. Je vous en prie."

"Well, gentlemen, this has been an incredibly awkward and uncomfortable morning and I'm sort of in a really bad mood so if you'll excuse me." He gestured towards the door to drive his point home, bowing to Louis. He picked his shirt up off the ground and noticed the blood stain from the right shoulder down to the left hip.

"Actually, I was hoping you could help with something," Louis offered sheepishly.

"What?"

"Brienne and I still haven't been able to come up with an appropriate response to the Declaration. Would you be willing to help?"

"No. I wouldn't be. Thank you. Good bye."

There was a long pause before Louis sighed. "You can't keep this up. You can't keep avoiding me, or avoiding Brienne, or avoiding your own country. Based on previous descriptions of your obligations, I'm not even sure how it's possible. You said so yourself your back wouldn't heal unless the country's problems are solved. The last choice we made about Grenoble and Brittany clearly wasn't the right one, and I'm afraid to cause you more pain. Because I care about you, and because if we've caused you pain we've caused the country some kind of pain-"

There were so many things wrong with what Louis just said, France didn't even know where to begin to counter. He'd never reach this man. Ever. He couldn't make him feel his terror of losing his sanity to Revolution, or losing his head to the guillotine, or losing his body like Rome. He couldn't make him understand just how at fault he was for all of it, either. France leveled a glare so malicious at him that he visibly recoiled. His small voice trailed off, he stared nervously at France like a person backing away from a wild animal. Louis stood, and so did Monsieur Buonnaroti. He dug in his jacket and pulled out a stack of letters, tossing them casually on the bed.

"I offered to bring these to you. Brienne and I will have a public response by tonight, ready to be released tomorrow. You are welcome to stop in to my apartments at any time today, to offer your much needed assistance." Pause. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I said that I am sorry."

"What is that, your attempt at a pathetic apology?"

"No . . . Yes. I'll admit, the conversation leading up to it was far more cordial in my head, but I'm trying my best-"

"Do you mean it?"

"What, my apology?"

"Yes. Do you mean it?"

"You know I do."

"See, that's the problem. I don't think I do. I've been trying to help you for years. I've watched you praise my advice to my face, then turn around and take someone else's advice, or not act at all. And then when I've confronted you, I've listened to you snivel and apologize and squirm. And then nothing changes despite all your promises," France said.

"What can I do? How can I prove it to you that I am sincere?"

He wished he had something to give Louis. A motive, or a reward to work towards, and then if he completed it, at least France would know he was sincere. But he didn't have anything. Louis had officially ran his course with France's patience. " . . . You can't."

Louis' shoulders visibly slumped. He nodded, "Then I will do whatever I can do without you, I suppose. Brienne and I both." He turned away. Both men left the room, and France waited until he heard the door to his drawing room close as well before sitting on the bed and grabbing the letters.

'How ya doing, loser?

Just checking up on you since me and Spain left!

Story time: So I was invited to pay my greatest friend in the whole wide world Austria a visit last week. He wanted to discuss the return of Silesia in Old Fritz' wake. Hah! As if! The Great Prussia doesn't just give back land he took!

So anyway, take the day to get to Austria's house, right? Guess what?

When I finally make it, he's not even there to greet me! No! You know who was there? Joseph II, his stinkin' EMPEROR! He intercepts me in the courtyard of the palace (which is nowhere near as big as my palace) and says all that nonsense, "Thank you for coming." Blah blah blah. Then he says, "Roderich is inside, playing the piano. He does not like to be interrupted."

That louse made his OWN EMPEROR come intercept me because he didn't want to be interrupted while he was playing the piano.

What a pretentious loser! Give me a break! He couldn't stop playing for a few hours just to come and intercept me, the clearly Awesome Prussia, for a meeting over HIS LAND? He's got them all so wrapped around his long, creepy, piano-player fingers.

Of course, I didn't have a problem with interrupting him, so I ignored his Emperor and kind of pushed my way through the palace until I found him. Scared him kinda bad, I think, when I threw the door open. Him and some other guy were sitting on the bench together. Both jumped a mile. Hah!

Anyways, that's all I have to say. Write me back, loser!

Gilbert Beilschmidt; Das Königreich Preußen'

Prussia must never have received France's letter. Oh well, France sighed, those things happen. At least he was checking in on France. He could reply once he read Spain's letter.

'France,

Hey, buddy! So, I finally got around to answering your letter! Sorry about that. I've been really busy lately because King Carlos got in some more fights with Pope Pius over the promotion of sciences in my country, and well, you know how stubborn the Papacy gets sometimes. I've been back and forth between my house and Rome. Plus, I have to make sure Romano isn't around when Carlos and I talk about it. Romano's really sensitive when it comes to Popes and most days I end up with a frustrated head-butt to the groin.

You'd think Pius'd leave Carlos alone at this point - the man's 72 years old! We're just about done getting his affairs in order, you know? Boy, I'm gonna miss him when he's gone. He had such a good run! I remember going with him the first time he met his wife, Philippine when he was 22 - Well. I guess you'd know her since she was the Duke of Orléan's daughter. Haha, isn't that weird to think about? Like, Carlos and Louis XV were cousins. We're basically brothers by blood if you go back far enough.

Ew. Anyway.

Do you still want my advice? Too bad! Here it is. I think I'll start with the tax situation.

Try. Try again. And keep trying. And if that doesn't work, find some loopholes. Use the same tricks the Parliaments are using. Do some digging, pull up treaties, documents, the works. Read up on anything and everything you can regarding powers and who has them, when. I think you'll be surprised to find that more often than not it isn't the King. Find where your position can insert itself into the process. Switch your tactics, and try to be a monkey wrench rather than fighting against the Parliament's.

I'm dead serious, mano. How do you think the people without any of the "power" manage to do things? They actually take the time to read the fine print. (Because usually they're the ones who wrote it in the first place.) Now, I know you said you're finished. And I won't tell you to jump back in to Louis' life just for the sake of my advice. But I think you and I both know that if your country needs you, you'll go back and do what you have to do. I'm just saying, if you end up going back, keep trying. Look for your own hoodwinks while you're at it. It feels like you're cheating the first few times but you'll get over it. That's the best advice I got on that.

Okay, next thing: Britain.

I'm not judging you for reaching out. I'd rather you reach out to Britain than no one at all. So Bretaña's King Jorge is sick, huh? That stinks. Maybe I'll send him a letter or something. Just to check up on him. We fight sometimes too, but it's the right thing to do.'

Spain made France smile. What a forgiving Nation. What a pleasant, loving, generous Nation. Spain and England's relationship was about as terrible and France and England's. They held such resentment for each other ever since the late 1400s. The Armada's defeat was humiliating, absolutely humiliating for him. The only difference was Spain and England had the maturity to treat each other like gentlemen when not on a battleship.

And yet, Spain was willing to shove all that history aside in the wake of a suffering Nation. France hoped someday he'd have the liberty to make the same generosity a priority.

'That stinks that he couldn't go to Versailles. And it's okay to admit that you're sad. I'm sure you've been lonely, especially since Prussia and I left - it really is hard to deal with the silence after the loudest friends you have stay with you for an extended period of time! But you know what that means, right? It means we gotta meet up again! Silly old me missed your "beginning of May" deadline, but that's okay, because now it gives us time to talk to Prussia and see when he's free!

You know what I just thought of? The Seven Years' War, when you and I sat camped on the coast of Portugal for almost a month in April and May waiting for a British attack. That was fun. How much money do you think we lost each night playing Cacho and Alouette? Good times!

Anyway. I get side-tracked easily.

Okay, what else? The horses? I'm not even mad about the horses. It was for a good cause, right? I'm at least glad you took the initiative and got yourself out there with the people. I know it was short-lived, and you didn't really learn much, and that's a bummer. But seriously, after you've been clearly depressed for so long, getting up and doing it is a good sign in my eyes. Don't think I'm letting you off the hook that easily, though!

Here's what I would do about the people. I hope you still want my advice! Wait for it to blow over. They won't even remember your face or your name in a month, and you can easily change one of those if you have to. Don't go to Paris anymore, and if you do, stay as far away from that side of the city as possible. Especially if most of the people you were talking to are affluent or close to affluent. If you want the real nitty-gritty, I'd go talk to the people at the very bottom of the totem pole. Beggars, whores - if you think I'm kidding, I'm not. Do you know how many drunk men spill the beans to prostitutes in brothels every night? A lot more than you think! In fact, we were two of those people in 1643 if I remember right. :)

Did you see that smiley face I drew? Isn't it cute?

Go find the underbelly of the city. They're not gonna lie, and most of the time they're the ones with the stones to do something anyway.

I learned most of these techniques from Prussia. He bitched at us for a whole month and a half when Old Fritz made him read all the treatises, remember? I decided it was a good idea and went ahead and found all of my stuff too. Really pays off.

Actually, that kind of makes me wonder a little bit why you never did it. Maybe it's because of how long-standing your monarchy is. I mean, back when Kings had absolute power, they had councils and stuff but nobody did a thing without his approval. My guess is over the centuries its been power after power after power that they've "taken" from the King, and it was too gradual for you to notice. Not that you asked or anything. Or that I needed to share that. What? Never mind.

Please, please, pleeeeeease take care of yourself. If you feel sick, rest. If you feel odd, or disconcerted or something, please talk to us! Especially if it becomes bad again. Promise me you'll keep us updated. I'm gonna send a letter to Prussia, and ask him if May 20th is good for him. Check your dates, too.

Hasta la vista, mano.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo; El Reino de España

Spain was an extremely young Nation despite his physical appearance. It wasn't until the late 1100s that Hispania started to deteriorate. According to the records, one day Hispania was just . . . gone. Like Rome. In his place, a little baby boy.

It was weird. When France took leave to see the new Nation, he saw the resemblance to Hispania. And the characteristic awareness that was always in the Nations' eyes was there, but it was different. Like little Spain recognized all of them. Hispania was in there, but as Spain grew up he had no memory of anything before himself. He was the fastest growing Nation any of them had ever seen (since America, of course!). A baby in the 1200s, a grown boy by the 1300s, maybe eight or so. He stagnated in the 1400s, having to split himself between two thrones, then in the 1500s started to grow again. To their amazement he was eighteen years old by the 1550s. France remembered going through spans of time where he didn't see him, then not being able to recognize him. Still looking for a small child and seeing an adult in front of him.

Why did it feel like even young Spain knew what to do? Why did it feel like everyone but France knew what to do?

'France,

The piano is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Thank you.

Even my teacher, Joseph Haydn, offered his approval. And he is rarely anything but critical.

Unfortunately, the two of us were so rudely interrupted the other day by none other than the Demon Douche himself. I didn't even know Joseph II received him, but apparently when he told Prussia I was in a lesson, the man went on a rampage. He stormed all throughout my palace knocking things over, pounding on doors left and right, following the music until he found where we were. He crashed in like a wild animal, screaming about "How DARE I snub the ever-glorious Prussia." Scared Haydn to death. And scared me, quite honestly! When you're that mentally invested in something, and then someone like Prussia just barges in and ruins it, it's frightening!

He's such a brute. Why are you friends with him? He has no sense of class, no taste in anything refined, and no refined taste in anything! You know he broke my glasses once? Right off my face, during his seizure of Silesia! Ugh.

I don't know why I bother. You're friends with him, of course I'm preaching to the wrong choir. Thank you again for the beautiful piano. I know you said you'd consider us even, and I accept your offer. We are officially, monetarily, and personally even.

If you ever want a private performance from Haydn, Mozart, myself, or anyone, do not hesitate to write me. We all love the performance and the attention. Speaking of Herr Mozart, I'll have to personally call on him to return to the palace to play my brand new piano.

Italy says hello. Holy Rome offers well-wishes as well.

Roderich Edelstein; Kaiserthum Oesterreich'

'Francey-pants,

That's a real good question, buddy. I don't know what you're supposed to do about the unforgiveness thing. And unfortunately, I can't ask Chief Wahunsenacawh about it either. But I think if I asked him, he would have imparted more of his wisdom to me. And he would have said, "Wapi, when you throw dirt, you lose ground. You must weigh them in your heart: does the throwing mean so much to you? And does the lost ground mean so little to you?"

I don't know if that even answers your question. Your question was, "What do I do," right? He'd never advise anybody outright, if that's what you were expecting. He'd just give you a little piece of perspective. It was your choice to peer through his perspective or not, and once you looked it was your choice to act. Usually, though, things became clear for you after speaking to him.

I can't tell you what to do. About anything you're going through. Just try to keep things in perspective.

I will look up that treaty in the meantime. Sorry I can't be of more help.

Alfred F. Jones; The United States of America'

No letter from Canada. France's heart twinged in sadness, and he had to work to bury it beneath some other emotion - any other emotion. Even if it was negative as well. He hurt and insulted Canada. He should expect no kindness in return.

No letter from Britain, either. Well, since France was embarrassed by the whole thing anyway, he decided to return his and Britain's relationship to the status quo. Nothing out of the ordinary here. No desperate France, calling upon Britain for emotional support. Nothing to see here. Move along.

'Britain,

I didn't receive a reply from you! What, was my last letter too much for you? Oh, come now, it wasn't even that insulting! Did I even put a single insult in there?

Or maybe, your simple mind just couldn't comprehend the fact that I am the more mature one out of the two of us, and was willing to show you a small bit of concern. However false and through-my-teeth it was.

Your invitation is officially revoked. I have Spain and Prussia to hang out with anyway.

I told you how sad I've been lately, but I think I've found my remedy! Whenever I feel lost, or get very upset, or feel hopeless or directionless, I just think of Hastings, 1066. I'm not sure why it cheers me up! Maybe it has something to do with the fact that because I gave the Normans a bit of help, it was one of the worst military disasters you've ever suffered and led to the Norman conquest of England, or something. I don't know-'

Crap. France remembered that England was only a baby when that happened. He wouldn't remember it. Oh well. Any English failure was a good English failure. He couldn't scratch it out without having to write a whole separate letter anyway.

'I don't know. You know he claimed you as his own immediately, don't you? William the Conquerer? I stayed and celebrated with him after his victory and he let me meet you, calling you 'His England.' Saying how he felt you were special when he looked at you. Good luck swallowing that tidbit down.

Or maybe Stirling Bridge in 1297. William Wallace and the Scotsmen really did a number on your well-equipped, twice-as-large-and-better-trained army, didn't they?Bannockburn? 1314?

Spain's revenge on the English Armada with a wounded and recovering fleet? 1589?

But really, who's keeping track?

Or maybe, to bring up something recent, the American Revolution. The first shots in Lexington on April 19th, 1775.

Enjoy scrambling around the sickly George III.

Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'

May 30th, 1788
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Bedchamber

That was the last attempt Louis made, for almost three weeks. Versailles went dead around France - well, okay, for all France's intents and purposes, Versailles went dead. In all other circumstances, it couldn't have been more alive. And he hated it. He only wished he could go dead inside Versailles as well. His body was still a live wire. He felt like he was trying to balance on a rope. Sometimes his heart pounded, his chest squeezed. His muscles twitched and twinged without his permission, and his shoulder . . .

Louis and Brienne had met on the daily until they responded to their Declaration of the Fundamental Laws of France. France never found out what the document even entailed, or what they did in response. Of course the document piqued France's interest, then and now, but he couldn't do anything to explore it anymore. That ship sailed. He used to be proud in his defiance. He used to think pushing Louis away was the good choice. It would have been, had he been among the people again. But not while he was still at Versailles. He effectively isolated himself.

No, life continued as normal, just without him standing over Louis' shoulder. Without France whining and fighting and clawing his way out of regal and parliamentary hoodwinks. Instead he watched jealously from the sidelines while his absence made smaller waves in the water than he wanted. He wanted a tidal wave. Expected a tidal wave. He got maybe the occasional ripple that blurred the water's surface. Life went on. Louis moved on, and so did Brienne. France was the only one who didn't.

He had to occupy himself, and pretend outwardly that everything was fine.

How long since he went to he opera? No matter how hard he thought about it he couldn't remember. All the years blurred together, and he couldn't even remember the last production he saw. But at any rate, when he heard that the performers from the Paris Opera House were coming to Versailles to give the King and Queen a special performance, he decided to go. He decided to try and inject another shot of normalcy in his life.

"I wish you'd allow me to stitch this, Monsieur," Monsieur Buonnaroti said.

"I know," France said.

"Why do you hesitate?"

"Knowing it's not going to help defeats a lot of the purpose, I suppose."

"But you won't accept an improvement? Stitching would stem a lot of the bleeding. And-" He paused for a moment, and France could tell he was deciding whether or not to let out whatever it was he was thinking. The desire for release must have been stronger than whatever verbal offense he would commit. "I'm running out of bandages," he muttered under his breath as he tied off the end and tucked it into the layers.

Whether the last bit was intended for France's ears or not, France didn't have anything more to say about it. He just didn't want stitches. And he knew he was making it hard on himself, ruining shirts and causing himself more pain than he had to, but he just simply didn't want them. "Monsieur," France started loudly to hopefully end an argument before it began. He walked over to his armoire and chose a clean shirt. "You need only tell Louis that you need more. Whatever the King orders will be on the steps of Versailles within the hour. You know that."

"I do," he admitted, nodding slowly. "Have you been following any of my advice?" He asked it like an honest question, but France could hear the shallow undertones of accusation and skepticism.

Honestly, if Buonnaroti didn't get so far under France's skin today he would have been honest. "I have."

"Has it been helping?"

"No," he lied, slipping his arms into the puffy sleeves of his shirt.

"With or without the laudanum?"

"Without," France told him, nodding to his bedside table. "I still have the bottle, though. Just in case." He never did throw it out like he thought he would. A combination of never quite getting around to it and a worming feeling in his heart that he may very well need it prevented him from doing so.

Monsieur Buonnaroti nodded. "Please hold on to it. That vial holds probably two nights' doses for you. Any normal person would get a week or so out of it, but . . . I also gave some to His Majesty."

"Did you?" France asked, somewhat surprised by it. "I didn't know Louis was having trouble sleeping!" Louis didn't lose a whole lot of sleep over anything, really. "Wonder if he's been taking it?"

"I doubt that," Buonnaroti said.

France immediately took his comment as a dig at Louis. "Me too!" he grinned, flashing his teeth. Monsieur Buonnaroti didn't smile at all, so France quickly killed his own mood. "Oh. What do you mean?"

"The laudanum's actually for you. Just in case you went through your supply quickly, I wanted someone who you see on a more frequent basis than me to have some ready for you."

"Oh. How nice of you," he muttered sarcastically. Ah, Monsieur Buonnaroti didn't deserve that. He was only trying to help. "Thank you," France said, meeting his eyes to show his sincerity. "If I need some, I will ask Louis." Buonnaroti's eyebrow quirked questioningly, so France added, "I promise," to the end.

France figured (hoped?) Buonnaroti would leave after that, but instead he walked over to one of the chairs in France's room and sat down on the edge. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Buonnaroti dropped his gaze to his lap. "I don't know if I quite understand, but when I think I do understand, I don't like the implications. You represent a country. The people, and the places? How do the places manifest themselves?"

"Paris is the capitol. I feel happenings in Paris right in here." He patted his chest."

"Your heart. So your capitol is your heart. And are other cities represented by body parts?"

"To lesser degrees. Paris holds more weight, if that's what you mean."

"So when the country goes through disasters, it affects you in different ways?"

"That is correct."

"Is it . . . proportionate?" He said the word extremely slowly, unsure if it was the right one to use but unable to come up with another one.

France scrunched up his face in thought. "Uh, no?" he said, tilting his hand back and forth. "Sometimes? I don't know, honestly. Geographical things usually . . . are," he said carefully. Natural disasters, like floods and things, are proportionate most of the time. Like, one time in 1316 there was a really heavy rain over England that ruined all of his crops. A lot of his population died from starvation and disease, and so in turn Britain starved, and he got really sick. And then in the Great Fire of London in 1666, his body actually received horrible burns on his chest - over his heart. He kept coughing up smoke and black ash, too. And blood."

"So this thing on your back? What is that?"

"Actually, it's a combination. It's not just geographic things. Economic, social, and political strife will mess us up, too. This appeared the day after the Assembly of Notables busted. That was the first time people of all social classes thought, 'It's us versus them.' As in, it's the people versus the crown. And it's only gotten worse as the discontent grew to what it is today. It's like . . . literary symbolism, only instead of a vague metaphor, it's physical." He was oddly proud of that comparison. He thought it was perfect.

"And what is the worst you can endure?"

"Civil war," France said. "Revolution, Frenchman against Frenchman."

Buonnaroti nodded. "And that is what I am afraid of. This is across your entire back, like it's tearing your entire body in half. If it's symbolic, like you said, it could mean something disastrous. Do you think-"

"That revolution is imminent? Yes. Yes, I do. Don't tip-toe around it like Louis is. It's going to happen, and soon. We just have to wait and see. It could've been avoided a long time ago, I think, but Louis did not help in the slightest. Even when I was warning him in the early 1780s. Which is why I'm so cross with him all the time."

"Yes, I've noticed that you're very casual with His Majesty," he said carefully. "No one else in the palace - and probably the kingdom - would dare talk to him the way that you do."

"Half of them are just being suck-ups. The other half haven't tested the waters enough to know that Louis lacks the constitution to ever punish them yet. Besides," he said, "When you have the relationship I have with him, formality isn't an issue."

"And what type of relationship is that?" France barked out a laugh before he could help himself, and Monsieur Buonnaroti was quick to remedy, "I'm sorry, Monsieur Francis, that was very untoward. I would say I don't mean to pry, but of course I do. I spend so much time around you and His Majesty that I often overhear much of what you two discuss."

"You're fine," he insisted, but he refused to answer. He couldn't talk about it without explaining every detail, and to explain every detail would require far more time than he had that morning. That week. Still, he felt lighter. There was a specific word he was looking for . . . The fact that Monsieur Buonnaroti understood what was happening and what it meant made him feel . . . vindicated! That was the word. Vindicated. He wasn't just crazy, or blowing anything out of proportion. Somebody else understood. He sighed, exhaling some of the dark cloud that had been following him for a while.

France pulled out his outfit for the day, tossing it on the bed in hopes that Buonnaroti would take the hint and leave. But when France looked he was still slumped over, eyes glassy, staring emptily at the floor. France cleared his throat, and the noise did the trick. Buonnaroti started, standing quickly.

"Désolé. Au revior," he said, bowing low.

As Buonnaroti passed him, France offered him his hand. "Au revoir." They shook hands, then he gathered up his things and left.

Compared to the company of conversation, dressing in the complete quiet felt unusually isolated. France felt hyper-aware of his body and his actions, he felt like he had to physically tell his arms and fingers to move and do things, rather than just doing them. Reach out. Grab the pants. Lift them up. Undo the three buttons around the knees, one at a time. One, two, three. Step into the pants, pull them up. Redo buttons around knees: one, two, three.

His choice of outfit for the opera was a nice one: silky, soft blue jacket woven with opal colored thread. When the light hit just right, the fabric shimmered in every color - white and cream, sky blue, lavender, soft pink, bright and pale yellow, every shade of green from pine to emerald. The full-length waistcoat underneath was woven with blue and yellow swirls, and the jacket overtop was trimmed to match around the hems. The sleeves were plain blue, but they had wide cuffs that folded back and sported the full design, even on the cuff links. Definitely one of his most elegant and opulent suits. Even a strip on the bottom of his pants had the design on it.

Pale yellow cravat, but he went for a modest knot. France wrapped it around his neck twice and knotted it twice in the front, leaving the two tails out. Side ponytail today; his hair just was not cooperating. Not cooperating by France's standards, of course. His hair "misbehaving" was a relative term, considering it never lost an ounce of its glory. Maybe a little flat today, but who had to know? God forbid France ever found a split end. He stared at himself in the mirror, turning, twisting, checking himself from every angle. He looked amazing. Clean. Well-kept, confident - what an excellent façade.

Façade. What was it Louis VI told him?

"Your Majesty?" France asked, knocking lightly on the door. "How are you feeling?" He went ahead and let himself in to the King's bedchamber despite the extreme social offense he would commit. Good thing he did. Louis VI did not look well. He had his covers up to his chin, but France could see the sheen of sweat on his red, blotchy face. He tossed and turned, moaning gently. Practically panting.

"Francia!" he yelled. Or, tried to yell. It came out small and weak despite his attempt to fill it with the usual spark he had. He coughed so violently, his shoulders lifted off the bed. He wheezed and hacked, eventually rolling to his side to stifle it. "How are you today?"

France scoffed. "Me? How are you?"

"No, no! That's not-" He winced. "Ach, my head aches! That's not the answer we agreed on, is it?"

" . . . No." Louis wouldn't budge unless France obliged him. "I'm feeling beautiful, happy, and-" Louis shifted uncomfortably, worming underneath the covers. Before France could stop himself he sputtered, "healthy." He went and sat by his bedside. "There. Three positive words."

"Very good," he sniffled thickly. France took the cloth out of the water basin by the bed and wrung it out. He draped it across Louis' forehead, and his King sighed in relief. "That feels nice."

"How are you feeling?" France asked again.

Louis suddenly threw the covers off of himself. "I'm actually very glad you're here. Help me up," he said, holding his hands out to France. "And get me my clothes."

"What?"

"I didn't stutter, and I spoke Capétian French!" he said, snatching the rag from France's hand. He dabbed at his own face before throwing it across the room. "Hurry up, my aches are coming back!"

"You shouldn't! You have to let the fever break!"

"Francia, I am fat. And you are strong. Are you really going to watch a sick fat man get up all by himself when you could help?"

"But Sire, you're not well!"

"Am I supposed to expect the whole Kingdom to stop for me? Or life? Is life supposed to stop for me? Of course not! And so I will get up, and do my duty. I owe it to my people, and to you. Besides, I have appearances to uphold - I am a King, and as a King, I should look proud and strong and noble at all times. Nobody should see me at anything other than my best, do you understand me?"

No. Not at all. "Y-yes?"

"There's a lesson here, Francia, so listen, and listen well: don't ever let anyone see your weaknesses. Even when you feel like a pauper, dress like a King. Even when you feel ugly, walk around like you're beautiful. Even when you don't feel well, get out there, and soldier on. You're probably thinking, 'But King Louis, why?' Because this Court, and this world, will eat you alive, my friend, if you don't look and act like you're confident. You're probably thinking, 'But King Louis, how do I do that?' Go on, ask!"

"But King Louis, how do I do that?"

"The keys to a convincing façade are your clothes, and your outward physical appearances. Best way to hide inner turmoils. You could be sick as a dog. Look strong. You could be boiling inside." He paused to cough again, and France waited patiently, even as he struggled to suck in a breath between each bout. "Ugh," he grumbled, rubbing his sore throat. "Even if you're really upset, look calm, look level-headed. You could feel disgusting. Look clean, and elegant. And they will never know the difference, because they'll go ahead and make the assumptions for themselves. 'Oh! Look at Francia! He always looks so nice! What a classy person!' And they will respect your pride - maybe even fear you and your confidence."

France remembered it vividly.

It wasn't hard. France knew that he was one of those Nations, naturally endowed with overflowing beauty and charm, envied all the world over. Louis just helped him refine his style. It took some time, but over the centuries France fine-tuned his style as he built up his self-esteem. With Louis VI's guidance he took genuine interest in fabrics, colors, styles, trends. Everything about him and his appearance became carefully planned, and it really did become a cycle. He felt better about himself because he looked better, and since he felt better about himself he wanted to look better.

Now France could pride himself on the fact that the world could literally fall apart around him, and he'd still look good. He'd always be in proper cleanliness, he'd always have good taste in nearly everything. His fashion sense was impeccable, and his hair was always groomed and shining.

After that, Louis VI's lessons moved to the social arts. He learned to excel in social situations. Louis always said read people first, talk later. He taught France the nuance of body language, and people became his area of expertise. Presentation, eloquence and oratory, public speaking, communication, he flourished in all of it. He could have pointed people out in a room who were hiding something, based on subtle body language and social air. The timid, scared France was gone within a month, and the new France, the suave, poised, confident boy, took his place while Louis VI improved the state.

He held his head high. He rarely let anyone know anything was wrong. Until Louis XVI. Under Louis XVI's extreme duress, everything he learned fell violently to the wayside.

Or, at least, he never had the opportunity use it under Louis XVI, and lost a lot of his skill. Louis never exactly hid anything. He just never quite had anything there to begin with. And whether or not France spoke with the fires of passionate conviction, he'd never convince Louis of anything long enough to take action. Or Parliament. There was no way to twist his words in such a way to sound like something they'd be interested in. Because at the very core, what he wanted and what they wanted were so fundamentally simple he couldn't change it. He couldn't talk circles around them and make them believe something, then re-word it later for his benefit.

Anyway, the only thing that outwardly ruined his façade were the dark circles embedded in his skin. And the slightly pale complexion he had. Pretty good by his standards, considering there were moments in the day where he came close to blacking out. As France reached the North Wing, all he had to do was head down the Galerie de Pierre to the box levels of the Opera House. France didn't want to sit with the other rich nobles, though. He wanted to enter from the first floor so he could sit with the "less entitled rabble" as he heard Louis XV say once during a performance. France instead went down the Grand Staircase, at the juncture of the Center Wing and the North Wing. When he hit the landing of the ground floor, he was in the Chapel Vestibule, where he broke down in front of Brienne that one day. How long ago was that? A few weeks? No, months. It wasn't months already, was it? Time passed so slowly and so quickly at the same time.

Plus, it didn't help that he often lost chunks of time that he couldn't account for.

France passed the chapel to his right, and through the Gallery Hallway leading straight to the Opera House. Staring down at his shoes, he watched the checkered pattern pass by his feet - black, white, black, white, black - until he thought he heard a shuffling to his left. Thinking he almost ran into someone, he glanced up to apologize.

And came face to face with Carloman I.

"Oh my-!" he yelled, startling backwards a step. He blinked, staring at the unmoving figure in absolute confusion until he realized he was looking at a statue. There was one underneath each archway carved into the hallway. A statue in each little inlet. France stared at the same Carloman I that he skipped over in the Basilica. Son of Pippin the Younger, as well as Charlemagne's younger brother. Carloman was the King who opposed Charlemagne and nearly deposed him.

Carlemagne wheeled his horse around towards the forces gathered in the distance.

"Francia!" he yelled. He leaned down low in his saddle, offering his hand way low to France. "Want to come along?"

France's little heart swelled that Charlemagne, the most noble man he knew, wanted him along. He sprinted over to the horse, only coming up to its knees. Craning his neck straight back to look at Charlemagne, way up high and proud and big. He had to jump to reach Charlemagne's hand, and with one arm, he hoisted France up and planted him on the saddle in front of him. He kicked the horse forward.

The next thing France remembered was bits of the conversation with Carloman.

"Brother!" Charlemagne boomed behind him. "Brother! I ride for Aquitaine to meet you, as was in your letter! Why do you intercept me here?"

He ignored Charlemagne's question completely. "I see you've brought your . . . " He trailed off, sneering at France. " . . . prize." The ferocity of his gaze frightened France. He shrank back, fearing Carloman would hurt him. He nestled into Charlemagne's tummy, and the heat on his back comforted him and enveloped him. France clutched at Charlemagne's tunic, and he wrapped a big, comforting arm around France's waist.

"It was in our father's will that Francia be entrusted to my care, Carloman. He is no prize - just as our Kingdoms are not prizes. They are duties . . . "

France quickly zoned out. They started saying a lot of words France didn't know.

Suddenly, Charlemagne started shouting. "BASTARD!" he screamed, scaring France. Even his horse skittered to the side, and he struggled to control it. "I ride all the way to Aquitaine with an army to SAVE your churlish arse from the rebellion - UPON YOUR REQUEST!" He ripped the helmet from his head, slamming it to the ground. "And what do you do? You intercept me at Moncontour to tell me, 'Oh! I've got it under control! Why'd you ride all the way out? Who told you to, you're making me look like a fool-' YOU did, you idiot! YOU told me to!" Carloman dismounted and Charlemagne followed suit. France moved to slide himself from the saddle as well but Charlemagne shoved him back up. "Stay there!"

France remembered watching from the saddle while they shoved each other, then tackled each other, rolling on the ground.

"This is our FATHER'S land, and you're just going to abandon it for me to handle? Crooked-nosed, yellow-bellied KNAVE!" Charlemagne yelled.

France moved on to the next statue, King Pippin. Next to her, his Queen Berthe. And next to her, Queen Hermentrude - Charles II's Hermentrude. A small blurb of a memory came to him:

She leaned over, resting her hands on her knees. "I know you're bored, child. Want to learn how to embroider?" No, he didn't. That was for women to do. And he was big and strong. Like Charlemagne.

Clovis II next.

Carloman II. The serious King to balance out Louis III's silliness.

"Oh no! Help me! Hellllllp me!" King Louis III shouted, throwing the back of his hand across his forehead. He raised his voice a few octaves to sound feminine. "Oh, if only there were a brave, handsome knight to come and rescue me!" France galloped over on his imaginary horse, brandishing the stick that was his makeshift sword. "Doth I see my knight in shining armor?"

Carloman II entered the hall where they were playing. Louis III let out a high-pitched shriek, so loud Carloman had to cover his ears. "Oh no! The dragon, the fierce, fire-breathing dragon! Slay him, Sir Francia!" France ran over, swinging his sword. Luckily, Carloman had the reflexes to back-pedal and dodge him, but one particularly careless swing caught him in the stomach.

"Mmf!" he grunted, doubling over. "Ouch! Why do you play with him so, Louis?" he asked, voice tight from pain. "He'll never learn to manage himself if you don't allow him to grow up." He gently nudged France back, and he ran back to Louis III. "Boy, you need to learn about finances and war and politics! Not dragons and princesses from my lazy brother. When you're finished, come with me. Your lessons should begin as soon as possible. For if hard work is your weapon, success will be your slave."

"You certainly have a lance up your ass! He's only a boy, Carl. And if you didn't notice he's going to stay a boy for a while. Why not let him enjoy it while he can?"

France smiled, affectionately tapping Carloman's stone foot. He couldn't see who the next statue was, so he peered around the column blocking his view. Who he saw made his smile vanish immediately.

Robert II.

He grabbed a fistful of France's hair, twisting it so hard he pulled France to his feet. France squealed in pain, clawing at his wrist and struggling against him. Robert II paused to backhand him, then continued to drag him down the castle hall. France knew where they were going. To the chapel basement. Robert hauled France in front of him, throwing him against the doors to bodily force them open.

"This boy is a heretic!" he roared to anyone and everyone in the chapel. Monks turned and stared, silent parishioners turned and stared, bowing to the King. He dragged France to the front and threw him down directly in front of the altar, where the priest usually stood for Mass. "Kneel," he snarled. France clamored to a kneeling position, folding his hands. His shoulders heaved with sobs that he had to choke down if he didn't want worse punishment. "He is an abomination - a sorcerer! Satan has a hold on this poor boy's soul and he has surrendered himself willingly! He has been granted a perpetual youth that is an affront to God's authority over eternal life! If he cannot renounce Satan and the evil powers he has so easily accepted, his soul will be purged and cleansed!"

"OurFatherwhoartinHeavenhallowedbeThynameThyKingdomcome-" France sputtered, babbling like a madman. "ThywillbedoneonearthasitisinHeavenandg-"

France heard a snick! A knife slid free from its case. France tensed, waiting for Robert to stab him. When the cold, sharp tip jabbed into France's neck and drew blood, he let loose a sob. "G-Giveusth . . . giveusthisdayourd- our daily bread . . . "

"Do you see?! He stutters in prayer! He stutters at the Lord's prayer! Fetch me the fork!"

"Noooo," France wailed. "No, please! Please!" Robert grabbed under his chin and snapped his head back, holding him there with the knife to his throat while someone ran and got the torture device. He did the honors, first tying France's hands behind his back then strapping the vertical fork around his neck like a collar. He threw France to the floor and left him there, his hysterical convulsions distorted by his extended throat.

The memory attacked him so forcefully, France snapped his head back, scratching at the collar that wasn't even there.

Move on, who was next? Aw, Louis VI. Why did one of France's favorites have to be next to one of the worst? Normally, he would have stayed and waited for another fond memory to appear, but the next statue caught his eye for its difference. Positioned forward from the others in its little alcove, he could see who it was before he even went over to it.

The statue was a beautiful likeness. A perfect likeness. Every detail of her face, her clothes, her armor, her hair, was exactly as he remembered. Those appearances Louis VI always told him to uphold, France was good at them. Despite his capital resting in English hands, France always managed to look poised, confident, strong.

But every time, every goddamn time he was in Jeanne's presence, France always felt deplorably insufficient in every way.

"I'm here to see the Dauphin. I am Jeanne d'Arc, from Domrèmy." She said softly, but full of purpose.

The impersonator next to France on the throne nodded. Her test, to see if she indeed was who she said she was. "I am the Dauphin. Charles VII."

Jeanne looked at him, looked him up and down. She withdrew a step in hesitation before her eyes squinted and she shook her head. "May I please see the Dauphin?" Her eyes flicked to France, and he could tell something came over her. The skeptic squint vanished, her green eyes widened and she drew herself to full height. Her mouth even dropped open before she caught herself. "The Dauphin, please!" she cried, loudly, confidently. Her eyes burst with a chill that pierced straight to his bones, rattling his frame. Clear, direct eyes. She rivaled the snow-storm of France's blue. "I come bearing a message from God! Borne to me by the Archangel Michael, Saint Margaret of Antioch, and Saint Catherine of Alexandria!"

"Girl, I am the Dauphin!"

"I will find him myself!" Jeanne turned her back from France and from the imposter and waded calmly through the crowd like a boat in the water. Her keen eyes scanned until she looked up suddenly, and practically pushed through people. She fell to her knees before the real Dauphin, dressed in plain clothes like a commoner. "Charles VII, Dauphin of France, God has commanded me to crown you King, and bring victory to France."

France knew instantly that she was indeed who she said she was. If France was honest, he mistook her for a boy when she first walked in to the hall. She had her hair cropped short and she wore trousers. It took an up-close glance at her to realize her facial features were those of a girl's: slender jawline, sharp nose, et cetera. But once he saw her, really saw her, he couldn't take his eyes off of her. She looked ethereal, with sandy blonde hair that framed her face in a sloppy bob cut. The brightest and most vibrant green eyes he'd ever seen, rivaling - no, surpassing - those of England's. She had a beautifully slim figure, well-endowed if it was safe for him to comment to himself. He felt it too, that she was his destiny. If "destiny" was even the right word for her. She had a glow around her - God's radiance, she called it, proclaiming to others that she was indeed His chosen. And he could see a fire in her eyes that burned, hot and bright, in his soul and ignited his will to fight.

She was staggering. If ever anyone embodied French power, French will, France, it was her. It wasn't him. It wasn't the Nation.

France grasped the handle and heaved with all his might, inching the chest twice his size towards her door. Even as strong as he was, it was hard for him! The wood howled on the stone floor; France grit his teeth against it, hoping that he didn't disturb anyone enough to be reprimanded. As soon as he was close to the door he dropped it where it was and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead before waltzing straight into the room. He threw the door open. "Wait until you see this! How much do you weigh?" he spewed. "And how big is your chest? The Dauphin-"

When France looked at her, even with her tomboyish outfit, with the shirt that was much too big and the leggings that hugged her shape and made her look even more ridiculous, his heart jumped in his chest. He loved the way her collarbones were just exposed by the ties of the shirt. He loved the sharp lines of her face. He loved the way the shirt hung loosely off her shoulders, leaving him to imagine how it really looked under there. And how warm she'd feel to his hands if he got to touch her. Her, this ethereal creature. This beautiful woman, touched by God, burdened with responsibility. The two of them sat in awkward silence while France stared at her, until she broke it.

"What?"

France blinked. "Le Dauphin has sent me to take your measurements."

"Monsieur?" she asked, shooting him a perfectly insulted look.

In France's head, he had it all planned out. He knew what he was going to say - it was so simple! All he had to do was tell her to try on the armor. And if it didn't fit, Charles would make her another set. But in the spell of her green eyes, it jumbled up in his mind like a knot and came out even worse. "He, um, he has this armor, you see, and he wanted to see if it would fit but he told me you had to be certain measurements though and he said that women have different measurements than men and so if you weren't the right measurements he would make you another set just for you but first he wanted you to try this on and so here I brought the chest it's kind of outside your door let me go grab it!" He stumbled, he stuttered, he tripped on his way out the door and had to run to catch his balance.

He heard her giggle behind him - the sound electrified his blood in his veins. It sounded like joy itself. Like if an Angel could laugh, that's what it would sound like.

France drug the chest into her room and threw it open. Jeanne peered in, the glimmer of awe shining in her eyes. As she leaned over, her over-sized shirt hung low and exposed a lot more than she intended. But she didn't notice, and while France so very wanted to stare, he resisted the urge, staring at her face.

"I don't know how to wear it," she admitted.

"I'll help you try it on." They pulled everything out piece by piece. "So, when you put armor on, start from the bottom up. These things go over your boots. They're called sabatons. You slip them on like regular shoes." He offered her his hand, and when she took it he led her over to her bed. She sat and he knelt in front of her, taking her heel in his hand. He gently lifted her foot up and slipped the sabatons on.

"I feel like Cinderella," she commented absently. France looked up at her and smiled, but she seemed embarrassed by the comment. "Sorry."

"Don't be. You feel like Cinderella because you are a Princess, Jeanne d'Arc."

She smiled, and France returned to the chest for the greaves. "Then the greaves go around your calves - if you get new armor, ask for them to extend past your ankles just so you're protected. I'll do it!" he insisted, when she stood to take them from him. "Just hold them up for now. I know they're really big. Then for the cuisses you put the belt on first. Oh. Wait. Let the greaves go and lift up your arms for a second."

She did as she was told, and France did the honors of reaching around her to circle it around her waist. He could have clasped his arms. He could have hugged her frame, he could have hugged her warmth to his and melted from it.

But he didn't.

He cinched the belt around her and Jeanne followed him to the chest despite his protests. She rummaged through, finally pulling a metal cup-shaped piece, strapped to leather belts. "What's this piece for?" God, she was so innocent. She was so perfect and innocent.

France about died laughing, crying as he explained to her that it was a codpiece, used for protecting a knight's manhood on the field.

The armor did not fit her at all. The sabatons were far too large for her feet. The greaves could have wrapped around her slender legs twice, and the belt for the cuisses could have went around her trimmed waist at least three times. The chest plate swallowed her up, and they didn't even try any of the arm pieces. France took her measurements, and Charles had her armor made within the week.

Her statue in the gallery wore the armor Charles made for her. France remembered helping her into it every time they rode into battle. He remembered being her Prince Charming, swiftly kissing the tops of each holy foot as he slipped the sabatons on her feet like glass slippers. He remembered clasping the greaves around her calves, tracing the contour of muscle with his fingers before the metal closed them off to him. Every time she put them on, every time without fail, she would kick her leg straight out and roll her ankles to check mobility. Every time.

Even though she had leggings on, France would turn away while she hitched up her skirt and clasped the belt around her waist. Jealous, bitterly, bitterly jealous that she wouldn't allow him to do it for her. Consciously banning the ridiculous thoughts. She would also attach her own cuisses to her thighs, and the only solace France was allowed was closing the leather buckles around the backs of her legs. He didn't dare make any extra attempts to touch her. Even though there wasn't a blemish in those leggings and he imagined rubbing his hands there. He would emerge from under her skirt, hands shaking and heart pounding and face sweating. Charles had a special chest plate made for her, more narrow about the waist and then more bowed around the hips to accommodate her figure.

She would slip it over her chain mail shirt, and France would tighten the buckles around her shoulders, around the sides, and his hands would gently brush her waist but he wouldn't touch her, wouldn't touch her, wouldn't touch her. Despite every nerve screaming at him. God, she was so beautiful. She was an Angel herself - she had to be! That must have been why she could see them so readily. She was one herself. And her wings were lined with gold, the feathers were the dirty blonde of her hair, speckled with light. And she would save him. She would save France and she would save him and then he could marry her. He could marry her and hold on to her forever and love her forever the way she deserved it because she was grace and she was elegance and she was everything he wanted to be.

He would hold the vambraces while she slipped her arms through, and the etchings and design made her look even more like a goddess. He would slide them up her arms and clasp them to the curve of her shoulder, and he would admire how the sharp point forged at the elbow made her look more sculpted and how the shield-like plates that protected above and below her elbows made her look fierce at the same time. France used to stare at her throat and collarbones while he laced the pauldrons overtop. Poking out just over the top of the chest plate's curve. Not at all teasing him, because she wasn't like that. But at the same time teasing him all the same. And every time, when he finished lacing the pauldrons she would roll her shoulders. And the way her head turned and the way she exposed her neck and her jawline and her sharp lines to him when she looked down her arms would burn inside of him.

And every time, he got the chance to hold her hands. Every time, just before he would slip the gauntlets over her hands, he would take them in his. And he would hold them. And lace his fingers in hers if she'd allow. And he'd stroke her thumb and the soft part of her hand with his thumb. And he would stare into her eyes and he would let her know that no matter what, no matter what happened in this life or in this world, he'd always follow her. He'd always believe her and believe in her. If she had no one else in this world, she had France. And blue would stare into green and everything would be absolutely right with the world. For a moment, they would forget they were riding into battle. That she could die and that he'd be alone. And they'd share a simple moment. He would kiss the top of her hands. And he'd lose them when he slid the gauntlets over them. And he'd pray it wouldn't be the last time he saw them.

He would wrap the scarf around her neck for her, and he'd brush her messy hair back with the same hairbrush that he used on his own locks. He brushed her hair until it shone like his. He stroked and brushed and caressed until he felt satisfied that she looked the part of the savior that she was and he held her hair back while she slipped the helmet over her head.

How appropriate that her sculpted face angled down towards him. How appropriate that she looked down upon him from her perch where she belonged. Watching over him in stone and in Heaven.

"Want to dance?"

Her eyes widened. She looked like France just asked her to do something a little more intimate than dancing. "What?"

"Do you want to dance with me?"

"I would, Monsieur, of course. But I'm afraid all I know are country dances-"

"What's wrong, Maiden?" La Hire asked her. "Don't they teach you how to dance in the countrysides? The same way they don't teach you to read or write, or wash your clothes and hair, apparently-"

"You stop that!" France yelled, placing himself between her and him. She looked so frightened, so out of place. So lost in the big, dreary world that was the Dauphin's Court. Hands clasped tightly in her lap, never raising her eyes past anyone's tunics. There was no relief for her. They harassed her all night. Every one who had the social status to mock her did mock her.

How dare they, France thought angrily. How dare they attack the very woman who would bring them salvation? Whether or not they believed her, how dare they pick on a poor girl? He turned back to her. "Jeanne d'Arc, Maiden of Lorraine," he said, emphasizing her new title in his voice. It tasted sweet on his tongue, and he wished he had an excuse to just repeat it over and over and over. "It would be my honor to lead you in a dance." He knelt down beside her chair and bowed his head low, letting his arm curl elegantly in front of him a few times.

Her normally assertive voice crumbled in her embarrassment. "B-but I don't . . . "

France leaned in to her ear and whispered, "Don't worry. I'll lead you." He pulled away and looked straight into her green eyes. And he set his own alight with a command: 'Do not let them intimidate you. Do not show them any weakness. Do not show them your embarrassment.' He nodded once more, and he was finally able to coax her hand into his. And he noticed the corner of her mouth quirk up into a smile. And he saw the gratitude transfer from hers to his. And that glow that always seemed to be around her surged and almost blinded him and she was just heart-stoppingly radiant. He knew he'd have trouble breathing soon. He led her straight out to the middle of the floor, and other couples around them cleared the floor like they had the plague. Jeanne's head swiveled and watched them go, and France saw the panic arise in her body language. So he quickly tried to reassure her.

"I promise I won't let them embarrass you. I am on your side, mon ange."

"'Ton ange?'" she asked.

"Oui, bien sûr," he said. "You are France's angel - my angel! It doesn't make you uncomfortable, does it?"

"No, not at all," she said, shaking her head. And her short, dirty blonde hair almost brushed across his face because she shook her head so hard. And France stared down at her through his lashes and kissed her hand, much to the chagrin of his aching heart. Anything more would have been improper, but . . .

He knew he looked like a prim, proper, pampered pageant-boy next to her simple beauty. Others may have thought the other way around, that she looked plain compared to him. But she could never look bad in his eyes and never would. He had on gaudy rust-colored leggings - the style then, of course. Made from the finest, and softest fabrics imported from Italy. And his cream-colored tunic, with the puffiest sleeves ever, and with gold fleurs-des-lis peppering, it fell just above mid-thigh. The tunic had its own black, elbow-length and skin-tight "gauntlets" sewed onto its sleeves, which kept the puffiness in check below his elbows. He wore a thick belt made of linked gold rings, and three little yellow jewels in the front, which he clasped loosely enough to hang from his hips instead of around his waist.

Rust and gold? Ugh! France could vomit with how atrocious 15th century fashion was.

He also had a decorative rust-colored cloak to go with it, but he left it at his seat. It would just get in the way. Same with the hat. He let his hair fall freely in its perfectly curled ringlets.

Jeanne had on a white dress. Though, white would be pushing it. It was crusted with dirt and practically thread-bare at the hems. Didn't anybody bother to get her a dress? Didn't anybody care enough about her, or her mission? Anybody who knew about France should be making a huge deal out of his preference for her. The thought made him burn with resentment, but he swallowed it down with a promise: he'd make her feel respected. He'd make her feel loved.

"What dance do you want to do?" he asked her.

"I don't know any court dances-"

"Name a country dance! I know all of them!"

"The Farandole?"

"Farandole it is!" France clapped to the musicians (who had long since gone silent anyway), and said, "You heard her, the Maiden of Lorraine! We desire a Farandole!"

"Can we do a Farandole with two people?"

"Of course we can!"

The drum pounded out a simple beat in bouncy 6/8 time. France grabbed her hand, massaging her knuckle with his thumb, before kissing her hand and bowing low to her. Upon straightening up, she curtsied in reply, and the flute started the melody. France moved next to her, and at a good starting point, they began their dance. Shuffle to the left. ONE a-two kick, left kick, and down. Shuffle to the right.

He wasn't supposed to look, but every time he caught her in his peripheral, with her eyebrows furrowed in concentration and her shoulders tense - this girl - no, this woman! His heart surged, and with a sudden rise of emotion he faced her and grabbed around her waist, hoisting her in a lift. She gasped, staring deeply into his eyes.

'What are you doing?'

'Having fun!' he said silently back to her. He winked playfully, and as he let her down, before she even had a chance to react he took her hand again and spun her around. Her dress flared around her and he watched her shoulders relax as he twirled her into him. Grabbing her waist again, he lifted her again, spinning around with her. A childish giggle escaped from her lips and it was so precious and so cute coming from her that it made him giggle too. He let her down, and they did another round of the real Farandole steps.

He stared at her the whole time. And she stared at him, with a joy in her eyes that wasn't there once since she set foot in Chinon. Joy belonged on her face. Sparking in her eyes.

"You are," she sputtered, "absolutely ridiculous."

"And you love it?"

She blushed, looking down. "I do," she laughed. "Of course I do."

He laughed, tugging her hand to pull her close again. She moved to do the next step, but France linked his arm around her waist and held her there. She looked up at him in confusion, and he said it. "I'm so glad I met you, Jeanne d'Arc, Maiden of Lorraine. You are a real wonder, a force of nature, and you toss me around until I can't even think. You make my heart so happy, and you lift my spirits and when I look at you, I see hope. You've given me hope and that's something I haven't had in a long time. Thank you."

"I'm glad I met you, too, Monsieur France," she practically whispered. He wanted her to say more. He was dying to hear her say more. But the drum beat slowed down, and the flute sounded like it was reaching its end.

"Call me François." France let her go and held her at arm's length, bowing low to her. She curtsied in reply, and at the final chord, France pulled her in for a tight hug. Which she returned. And when he felt her arms around him, all was right with the world.

France loved love. He loved the rush of heat that came with seeing someone. He loved the feeling of his heart about to burst with emotion, he loved feeling like he just wanted to squeeze something.

He never loved her intimately, but he loved her more than he ever loved anyone, and he knew in his heart he'd never love anyone the same way again.

France rode behind her into Orléans. The French standard, the Fleur-de-lis went first, as it should have. And then Jeanne, and then France, and then her other Captains. He would have rode abreast to her - in fact, he tried. But he couldn't ride abreast to her because the crowd was already gathered there to intercept her. Peasants, all wanting to see the Maiden from Lorraine. To see for themselves if the legend was true, if their savior had really come. And they touched her white horse and they touched her armored feet and they adored her like the saint she was.

And they spoke her name, they moaned it, they WAILED it, "Jeanne! Jeanne! Jeanne!" They tugged at her colors and at her arms and they lunged to touch her hair, so desperately that France had to nudge his horse forward and block at least some of them. And behind her Captains came the caravan with food for the starving and livestock for the slaughter and for raising, and provisions so desperately needed. And battalion after battalion of soldiers.

And whether or not they believed in her Mission, France thought after, she was still their savior. She was their hope for a free France, as she was his. Free of the tyrannical occupation of England.

"Look - this bridge, leading straight to the South Gate of Orléans from the Château de Tourelles, do you see it?" Jeanne said, putting her metal-gloved finger on it. France bristled in discomfort. The way she was saying it sounded extremely condescending. And although they needed it, she needed them to trust her.

" . . . Yes," Captain Dunois sighed bitterly. "Yes. I see it."

"The Tourelles end of this bridge was destroyed!"

"Yes!" Jean, Duke of Alençon asserted. "My force destroyed it!" he said arrogantly.

"Right! That means that the Tourelles will be quiet while the English rebuild it," Jeanne argued. "Because they have no means of positioning any sort of force or artillery across the bridge, to the direct South of Orléans! Make sense?"

No one answered her. France nodded his ascent. "Yes," he said. "It makes sense."

She stared at France a second longer than she had to. "Thank you. I say we need to re-cross the Loire, pass the Tourelles and retake the Augustine fort tomorrow while they're busy. And after that attack the Tourelles directly from the South side! The broken bridge will cut off their escape route and trap them in their own fortress. We'll set up artillery on the sound side of the bridge, and all along the ridge, firing across the moats. And archers. If we have the archers cross and fire upon the fortress from the North, the concentration will pull their attention away from the South. Where Captain Bonnefoy and I will lead the charge. We'll be able to breach the walls from here," she said, pointing to another point on the fortress wall.

" . . . Orléans sits on the North bank of the Loire," Captain Dunois said.

"What's your point?" Jeanne argued.

"Look at all these garrisons surrounding Orléans on the North bank of the Loire in English control - Saint Loup from the East, Saint Laurent from the West. What is to prevent General Talbot and the English forces from massing and attacking Orléans from the North?"

"God will stop them. God tells me they will not launch an attack on Orléans from the North." Disgusted glances were shared all around her, but either Jeanne chose to ignore them, or she truly was focused on the map in front of her. "We give the English one final chance to leave the Tourelles peacefully. If they do not, we attack. Tomorrow."

"That makes no sense!" Dunois said, slamming his fist on the table. "The Tourelles is impregnable already! And they WILL attack Orléans from the North! They will! And while the Augustine and the Tourelles are under fire, why WOULDN'T the English send reinforcements from Champs Saint Privé and Saint Jean-le-Blanc on the SOUTH BANK?!"

"I swear to you, God-"

"God, God, God! Where was God when the entire half of France was being occupied?"

Jeanne winced like she was physically hurt. "All you have to do is do what I say, and you will be victorious! What could be simpler than that? God is commanding me! He is screaming at me, screaming, screaming, and none of you will listen!"

"And who will follow you anyway, hm? What will people say when our power has been usurped by a woman?"

Jeanne withdrew a step. France tried to come to her defense. "You all are ridiculous! She is the Maiden of Lorraine! She walks around us with God's radiance!" France rested a hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off.

"Then what does our Nation say?" he said, gesturing to France. He probably hoped France would crack under the pressure of direct fire and take his side. He was probably hoping that France's National intuition would side with him. Oh, they wanted France's opinion? Fine. He'd give his opinion.

"I take Jeanne's side," he said without hesitation.

"What?"

"She has more than proven her connection to God. If she says God is on my side, I believe her, and if she says that God will protect Orléans from the North, I believe her. Plus, you gentlemen that have been in battle with me before know that I'd get a bad feeling if we were setting up for failure. I do not get that feeling with Jeanne's plan."

"Do you get it from mine?"

" . . . No, Dunois. But Jeanne's connection to God gives her a leg up. I'm sor-" He almost apologized - why? He wasn't sorry. "I'd follow Jeanne."

Dunois threw his hands up in defeat and stomped from the room, plate armor and chain mail clanking with each step.

Every day, every single day, it didn't matter if she had a good plan or a crazy one. It didn't matter if she was at all victorious the day before. 'Well, she's a woman. What does she know?' And they very conveniently forgot who God was. And they stopped asking France, too, knowing he'd usurp them further. Which he had the authority to do! They knew France could have the final say, at least Charles VII gave him that luxury in a time when he had very little others. So of course they tried to prevent any situation where they asked France, 'What should we do?'

Before the battle, before they finally settled on Jeanne's plan, France stopped by her room in the Orléans tavern where the Captains were staying.

France knocked on her door. "Jeanne?" When he entered, he found her on her knees by the window, hands clasped so tightly they were shaking. Muttering fervently in prayer.

"Sire Père, qui es es ceaus, sanctifiez soit li tuens uons; avigne li tuens regnes. Soit faite ta volonte, si comme ele est faite el ciel, si foit ele faite en terre. Nostre pain de chascun jor nos donne hui, et pardone-nos nos meffais, si comme nos pardonons a cos qui maeffait nos ont. Sire, ne soffre que nos soions tempte par mauvesse temptation; mes, Sire, delivre-nos de mal. Sire Père . . . "

He listened to her go through the prayer at least three times. But not once did he think to interrupt her. How could he interrupt her special connection to God, when He was granting them so many graces? No, he waited until she finished, crossing herself for the final time.

"Jeanne." She startled, and France realized she never even heard him enter. She sniffled thickly, and even with her back to him France could tell she lowered her head to wipe her eyes.

" . . . Yes?"

Wait, she was crying? "I, um, I was just- um . . . " What had he been saying? "I'm sorry. About them. They're all just a bunch of-"

"Don't," she said. "Leave them be. It is understandable that they'd be wary of me. I'm just a-" Her breath hitched and her voice cracked, and tears threatened to spill again. "Just a girl from the country." She spat the word bitterly, like it was poison on her tongue.

France stepped forward and knelt down behind her, wrapping his arms around her. He pressed his chest to her back, he wanted her to feel his calm, strong heartbeat. He wanted her to know that he trusted her. That she was beautiful and he trusted her with his life. "I think you and I both know that you are so, so much more than that, mon ange. Come on, let's go to bed. We need to rest up for tomorrow."

He took her hand and pulled her up from her kneeling position, guiding her over to the lonely bed against the wall. He let her get comfortable, reluctant to leave her in her sadness. She nodded at him, his permission to go, but just as he turned around, he saw her turn over and face the wall. She exposed her entire back to him, her dirty dress. The entire contour of her body, outlined in the sheets for him.

"What are you doing-?" France was climbing into her bed before he even knew what he was doing. All he did was wrap his arms around her.

He rested his chin on her shoulder. "It will be alright." Feeling her heat.

"I know . . . I'm ready."

" . . . Are you scared?"

Jeanne shook her head. "No. We're going to succeed, I know it. It may take a couple battles, but I trust God and I trust you. We will retake Orléans-"

"No, I mean of dying."

She paused, craning her neck to face him. Her eyebrows were furrowed in anger. "Dying? Do you mock me?"

"Mock you? Why would I mock you?"

"You know you can't die so you tease others about it?"

"Of course not! I was just curious! You don't have to answer that," he said, peeling himself from her with reluctance. "I'm sorry."

"N-no. Yes? I'm not sure. I am afraid of battle, but not of dying, if that's possible."

"Of course it is." France settled back down next to her, but she rolled around to face him.

"And what about you? You probably aren't afraid of much, knowing you cannot die."

"It's a little more complicated than that," he told her. "Nations can fade away, too. It happened to Rome, to Hispania - even my father, Gaul, disappeared as well."

"Really? That's sad," she said.

"And then when England took the top half of my body, my land, I thought it was the end for me. I thought . . . Never mind. It's stupid." How in the world could he expect a human's pity? Talk about selfish, France.

"It's not stupid."

" . . . It is."

"François," she said. That's all she said, was his name. And her green eyes pooled into his and seemed to scoop the thoughts straight from his mind.

" . . . I started to show symptoms of fading away. And I started settling my affairs, leaving them in place for either England to take or a new France to use to start with. And I grew afraid. For someone like me, what even is death? Do I even have a soul like a human? And does it even get the chance for the human Heaven or Hell? I don't know."

"If you're asking me because of my connection to God, I don't know. And they are questions that I hope you never get answered."

"Thank you," he said.

"That's why I'm here, is it not?"

"It is." They lapsed into a comfortable silence.

"Do you believe in destiny?" she asked after a while.

" . . . I do now," he said.

They hardly got any sleep before the invasion. France would always blame himself for the next day, when Dunois started the invasion without her. Without their Maiden and without their Nation. Both of them were too deeply asleep to hear anybody leaving that morning. They had to ride in together and stop an already fleeing French army.

They intercepted Dunois and the other Captains halfway across the field of retreat. Both her and France started shouting immediately.

"What happened? What happened?"

"Who gave the order to attack?"

"Dunois, you bastard!"

Suddenly, Jeanne hoisted her banner and kicked her white horse forward, towards the crowd of retreating soldiers.

"Jeanne!" France shouted. His stomach wormed inside of him. He grew momentarily dizzy, teetering in the saddle. "No, no! She'll be KILLED!" He drew his sword and charged after her. "JEANNE!"

"Follow me!" she screamed, over and over to anybody who would listen. "Follow me and I will give you victory! Follow me and GOD will give you victory! Au nom de Dieu! In Dei nomine! In Dei nomine!" Her glow shone bright, so brightly France wondered if anyone else could see it.

France watched a crowd of tired, bloodied, broken men rally behind her. He watched as their eyes lit up at the sight of their Maiden, and he watched the embarrassment of defeat burn away into a fire of rage. All around her, shouts rose up, swords and weapons lifted in the air. France's own heart surged, and he watched the very woman who embodied French hope charge headlong towards an English fortress. He charged after her. "Allez!" he had yelled. "Allez, mes frères!"

And that was only the Augustine. The same day she wanted to retake the Tourelles.

By the time Dunois and the war council convinced Jeanne to retake Saint-Loup first, Charles VII called France back to Court. He had to hear about her Saint-Loup victory through a letter she wrote. He returned by the time they planned to retake the Tourelles. It took them two days. The first day busted when she was shot.

France and Jeanne helped the men lift the ladder, and she yelled in triumph as it clattered against the stone wall of the Tourelles.

"Go! Get up the ladder! Go!" she shouted, grabbing men and shoving them towards the wall.

She went first and France followed, both of them blocking their faces from stones, arrows whizzing past, anything flying towards their faces from the battlements. France looked behind him to make sure they were being followed. "Let's go! Come on! Vive la France! Pour la liberté! Allez! Allez-"

Something heavy, something very heavy crashed down on his head. The shot to his head and neck knocked his vision away. Metal clanged against metal, setting his ears ringing, and he was ripped backwards off the side of the ladder. France hit the ground, the metal thing landed on top of him, knocking all the air out of him with a whoosh! His chest plate dented, crushing his chest further. He choked, he gasped air in that didn't reach his lungs. Ow, ow, can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe!

Chest plate off! Chest plate off! "Help me!" he yelled to anybody that could listen. He sucked air in but it did not relieve the pressure. "Help me! Can't breath! I can't breathe!" He sat there and waited for his breath to come back. He had to. Nobody could help him. "Jeanne! Where are you!" By then his vision had come back to an odd sort of black-and-white, and he craned his neck up the ladder, ignoring a sharp pain that shot down his whole back.

She wasn't on the ladder. She was what fell on him.

"Jeanne! Jeanne!" he screamed. He searched the immediate area, and when he found her, his blood ran cold in his veins. She had an arrow shaft sticking out of her chest. France scrambled over to her. "No! Jeanne!" He crawled over to her, kneeling over her. "No, no!" She couldn't be dead. She couldn't die! He quickly put his ear to her chest, cursing the ringing in his ears. The silence otherwise ached in his gut like a sword blow. "JEANNE!" he screamed. And he heard a deep shudder and a rush of air in her chest.

She was alive. God be praised.

Her eyes fluttered open and she moaned quietly, and France gathered her up in his arms. He dizzily stumbled away from the fortress, praying he didn't get shot in the back while he took her to safety.

She returned to the battle maybe 20 minutes later, after having the arrow removed, but by then, the French forces were broken and in need of a rest.

Jeanne rode forward with France in tow, lifting high her colors with her good arm. She shouted across the field to the commanders in the Tourelles.

"Talbot!" she screamed. "Talbot!"

"And England, address England," France told her.

"Talbot! England! I give you one last warning! The King of Heaven commands you through me, Jeanne the Maiden, to leave your fortresses and return to your country! And if you do not, so I shall make an uproar that will that will be forever remembered!"

There was a pause from the fortress. Everyone, even France, held their breaths, waiting for a reply. Everyone but Jeanne. She just looked furious. Suddenly, a head popped up from the battlements. France couldn't see many details but the shock of blonde hair caught his eye. "That's England," she told Jeanne. "The bastard."

"Don't swear, François. Shh! Listen,"

England yelled something. It was a little muffled by the distance, but as it carried on the wind, France caught the tail end of it. "Froggy whore," he thought he heard. "Sent . . . Hell once . . . Go back . . . Devil!"

"Fair enough," Jeanne sighed tiredly. She wheeled her horse around, and her and France rode back to the army.

"Gentlemen!" Jeanne shouted out to the rabble, dismounting. "Gather around me, and take a knee." To France's surprise they did as they were told, and Jeanne waited until they were all in place to begin. Actually, it didn't surprise him at all. Everyone who saw her jump the stone barrier around the Saint-Loup and cut Englishmen down by herself before anyone else got there believed her now. "Let us pray," she said, crossing herself. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. Bless us, O Lord, and keep us safe as we carry out Your will today. Subdue, under us, those who rise against us, and allow Your strength to be made perfect in our weakness. We pray You pull us out of any any snare the English have laid for us, for we rely on Your strength. In Jesus' name, we pray. Amen."

A muttered chorus of, "Amen," rose up around Jeanne, and she crossed herself again. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

Her page brought her horse back over, but France ran and caught her before she mounted. He gently touched her arm, and as soon as she turned around he hugged her tightly. "If we lose each other, good luck."

"Good luck, François."

France held her at arms' length. "Here's one for courage," he said. He kissed her left cheek. "Here's one for cunning." Her right cheek. "And for a little bit of luck," he said, kissing her forehead. "See you when it's over." He supported her hand while she mounted. She handed her banner to the squire, then drew her sword.

"Let all those who love me . . . follow me!" she yelled. A chorus of yells rose up around her, and she led the charge with France in tow.

They didn't lose each other. Somehow they managed to stay next to each other the whole time.

There were very few things in his life that France would say were better than England's face from the parapet when France and Jeanne burst through the gate.

The fire and smoke grew so thick France could no longer see her face. And he screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed-

France had to shake his head of the memory. A dizzy spell assaulted his temples, vibrating in his skull, and he had to slump against her statue to keep himself upright. His vision faded away, his ears roared with the crackle of fire and screams - both hers and his. He froze there, sure that if he moved he would pass out right there on the floor. And he waited for it to fade, arms wrapped around her cold stone greaves. He felt safe to move when he could see etchings on her greaves and when her statue stopped gyrating in front of him. He glanced up at her, stared into her dead stone eyes. And she looked disappointed, clutching her sword to her like it was the only comfort she had left. Not him, anymore. He'd squandered everything she did for him so much that he could no longer be a comfort, no matter how many times he said he believed in her.

If he believed in her he would have tried harder with Louis. If he cared about French glory he would have . . . done better.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "You led me to glory, and now look where I am. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It wasn't working. It wasn't doing his pain justice. It wasn't a strong enough word to explain his remorse for allowing himself to fall so far from grace. It wasn't the right way to explain his contrition for ruining everything she did for him. How disappointed he was in himself, and how . . . None of it worked.

He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to move on after leaving such a pathetic apology. But he had to.

He skipped the rest of the statues. He didn't feel up for the memories anymore.

The opera already started by the time he walked into the foyer. He didn't even know what was playing. He didn't have a playbill. He arrived so late the staff already retired for the performance. France could hear a lone tenor voice soaring above the music from inside the performance hall - speaking French! That was odd. Italian was the so-called "Language of the Opera." Hearing an opera in anything else was off-putting for a moment. He listened carefully for the words.

" . . . -cours des for- . . . vas enceinte. Touché mon destin . . . en vain, . . . -ainte, ma triste plainte. Ma triste plainte."

Some of them were swallowed up by the venue. But he could tell by the contour of the melody that it was Orphée et Eurydice. The 1774 French revival of Christoph Willibald Gluck's Italian version from 1762. Louis XIV would be proud that he remembered something, especially after he made France slave over it. Orphée et Eurydice was a tragedy . . . France really wasn't in the mood for death and sadness. He'd had enough of that just thinking about Jeanne. He wanted to laugh until he cried, at a bare minimum. But, he had nothing else to do, so he still decided to take a seat.

The stairways to the upper balcony where Louis and Marie were sitting loomed in front of him, laughing, jeering, daring him to go up them. He no longer had the fortitude to accept their challenge. Although, when he entered the lower level and sat extremely close to the stage, he did manage to peek a glance to the Box Level seats. To try and find Louis. But the angle was poor. He only saw the white wig and Louis' eyes, focused intently on the production. France pushed and wormed his way to an open seat, ignoring the huffs and coughs and rude glared he received in reply.

"Dieux! Je la reverrais!" Orpheus shouted on stage.

"Oui, mais pour l'obtenir, il faut te résoudre à remplir, l'ordre que . . . " L'amour answered. Hah! L'amour! Irony truly hated France.

He listened, but only half-heartedly. He had to keep his mind from wandering back to her - but small things. Like, remembering how she sometimes blinked one time harder than the others in a cluster, or her face caked with sweat and dirty and blood, but she still looked elegant. Or that one time when France handed her a pen and tried to teach her to write her name-

The sound of chuckling in his section ripped France from his reverie with a start. Giggling, like a giddy school girl. With a wheeze on the front end of it that instantly irritated him. France and the person next to him made direct eye contact with the same confused expressions on their faces, though France wasn't in a confrontational mood after his trip down memory lane. They would quiet down soon enough.

France heard the slap of skin, like they tried to cover their mouth. Trying to stifle their giggles, but all they ended up doing was snorting louder. France turned and started scanning the crowd, blatantly looking for the perpetrator. But, he found out, it wasn't coming from his section at all. No, wait! It was, right? He swore he heard it directly behind him- No! It was above him!

France couldn't see Louis on his way in, but Louis must have inched his chair forward. France had full view of him, leaning over the balcony giggling hysterically. Mon Dieu, he was so embarrassing! People were starting to stare! France's second-hand embarrassment rose up in his cheeks, flushing his face out, and he had to listen in absolute mortification as Louis' giggles morphed into that ugly laugh. That guttural, real, ugly laugh, that overpowered the sound of the orchestra. Suddenly, his hand shot out and pointed down at someone in France's section. He looked around. Who was he pointing at?

Peoples' heads turned, whispers sparked all around him like a riot. And France realized they were talking about him. Louis was pointing at France. Laughing, laughing, laughing.

"What?" he asked on impulse, taking a step back. "Why are you laughing at me?"

In one eerie motion, everyone in his section twisted in their seats and looked at him. His heart skipped a beat, his stomach wormed inside of itself. Louis' contagious laugh infected everyone in France's section. The music stopped abruptly, and all that echoed in the hall was the laughs all around, echoing, surrounding him, amplifying by person and by venue. The entire performance stopped.

"Stop it!" he yelled. "Louis! Stop it right now!"

But Louis was too in hysterics to listen to him. Everyone was laughing. Laughing at him. He had to get out. He had to, he had to, before his face grew too hot and before . . . He got up and sprinted through the seats, knocking knees and banging elbows and knocking people over left and right, but he had to get out, had to get out! The chuckling followed him. It followed him through the foyer. He shut the door behind him but he could still hear it, and it crawled under his skin and scuttled around like fire ants. Their points followed his back, even after he turned the corner he felt them still pointing at him.

He threw open the doors to the Stone Gallery.

And almost screamed.

Every statue's head swiveled in his direction. And they were all chuckling in unison. He froze there, unable to comprehend what was happening in front of his eyes but still seeing it all the same. "Stop it!" he screamed, covering his ears. "Stop!"

He took off down the hall, closing his eyes and his ears against their onslaught. Staggering back and forth and knowing he would hit something eventually but not really caring. But the sound was coming from inside his head and he couldn't block it out no matter how hard he tried. He ran past Marie de Bourbon, with her folded hands. She looked like she just clapped them together in delight at his failure. Smile breaking through her chubby cheeks. Shoulders heaving. Past Béatrice de Bourbon, with her tinkling, bell-like laugh that hung in the air and rang in his ears. Philipe Auguste, Constance of Castille, and both of them turned to follow him while he ran past. Henry I, Louis III.

Louis III, laughing at him. His very heart dropped into his stomach.

France approached her statue. Swore he wouldn't look. There was no way he could handle-

He looked anyway. Jeanne's effigy cried.

She still had her sword, but cradled in the crook of her elbow. Both her hands covered her face, and her sobs wracked her body so hard she trembled. "Jeanne?" France yelled, pausing before her. "N-no! Jeanne, don't cry! Don't cry! Look at me!"

She hunched over further, hair spilling forward and further covering her face.

"Jeanne, look at me! JEANNE!" he yelled. No, no, no, he couldn't make her cry! No! "I know I messed up but I promise you I'll fix it! I'll make France rich and powerful again, and I'll rebuild everything that you built for us that Louis destroyed! Jeanne, LOOK AT ME!" he screamed. He jumped up and grabbed her cold stone arm to wrench it away from her face-

And "woke up" outside the Opera House doors. He never went in.

June 1, 1788

'France,

Agincourt, you asshat. 25 October, 1415.

Joan of Arc, burned at the stake for heresy and witchcraft. 30 May, 1431.

Bastard.

Arthur Kirkland; The Kingdom of Great Britain'

No. No way.

There was no way irony hated him this much.

France refused to allow Britain to call up her memory, and in such poor taste. He would bring up Jeanne on his own terms, and he would remember her for who she was - brave, articulate, passionate in warfare.

'10 March, 1429

I now dictate this Letter to a Cleric the Day after my Audience with Charles, Dauphin of France, in Chinon:

Six People accompanied me from my Home in Domrèmy. Six fully armed King's Men. And on my Way to Chinon from Domrèmy, my Escort told me about you. They told me of an odd Being who attends the Dauphin's Court and calls himself "France." I pictured a towering Figure. A built Man, at least 10 Cubits high, atop an even taller White Mount. His rich and dark Hair billows elegantly in the Wind behind him, he lifts high the Standard of Shimmering Silk, and in his other Hand he grasps a Sword made of the purest Sea-Pearl. I pictured another Angel sent by God.

My Escort laughed. They told me the Man who calls himself "France" is no more than a Boy of Sixteen. A Boy, they told me, and yet the Way they described him made him seem Anything but. They described a Boy with chin-length Hair like the Sunlight itself stopped to bask atop his Head. They said his Eyes were like the clearest, and most cloudless Sky. Of course they said More. But I could not understand and so their Words were lost on me. Despite their Claims to your Age I could not help but still picture a Man.

Almost immediately before I threw myself at the Dauphin's feet, I saw you. A Boy indeed; you can't be any older than me at Seventeen. Maybe Fifteen Years old at the youngest. With the blonde Hair they described and a Poise that seemed both otherworldly and completely Human. You are walking Juxtapositions - You hold your Head high but your inner Pride does not match it. You keep your Eyes strong but emanate Frailty. They flick about in Awareness but your Mind wanders.

I saw the Eyes of a Prisoner. Trapped in every Sense of the Word, and in every Way a Person can be trapped.

I'm right, aren't I? God's Angels told Me Thus.

Another Vision from God reached Me after our Eyes met. I had a Vision of you as a Man - maybe Twenty Years old. A gold Crown sat atop the Dauphin's Head, and you were taller and stronger because of our Victories over the English. When the Images faded, above your very Head the Heavens opened up. I knew that God sent Me to meet you. To fight for you and to fight with you. I knew that you were my Mission.

You simply stared at me, just as Everyone in the Room, before I showed you God's Sign. But your Stare was not one of Malice, Skepticism, Scrutiny, Accusation, or even Humor. Yours was a heavy Stare, of one gazing upon the World for the first Time, trying to take in as Much as possible as Soon as possible. Looking at you, any Doubts I had about my Mission were erased. I hid Them well in the Presence of the Dauphin but They were Nothing to be thought of when I looked at you. I looked deeper and saw a wicked Tiredness that seemed to deaden My own Limbs. Shame, after Agincourt, and Resignation to your Fate of Defeat. I saw Fear. Desperation. I felt the Sorrow of the French People under English Occupation. My Heart bled for you and for them, and then It swelled with the Knowledge that God chose Me to be France's Liberator. Your Liberator, I suppose, since you are indeed France. I grew Resolute. I grew Proud, Steeled, and Hopeful myself. And I proclaimed my Message before the Dauphin with the true Passion that I felt. The Words, inspired by the Holy Spirit, poured from my Mouth with nary a Stutter nor false Utterance. I was empowered, and I could tell you were as well.

But you said Nothing yesterday while I told both my Story, and God's Message, to the Dauphin. Therefore, I know not what you think.

It matters not your Age. It matters not your Prowess in Battle. All that matters is that you hear me now, and heed what I say. I pray this Letter has made it into the Hands of the Person who calls himself "France." I pray that Person is like his Eyes: Reasonable, Strong-willed, Fearless, Perceptive, and Sensible overall, as well as Kind-hearted towards One who humbles herself before Prince and Country alike. And above all, I pray he is God-fearing. For I bear His will, and perhaps His ill-tidings should my Pleas be ignored, and His Message silenced.

Take care what You do, for in Truth I am sent by God, and you put yourself in great Danger.

The Words I say are true. God really does speak to me through His Angels, and They tell me, "Go. Go to the Dauphin. He will give you an Army, and you will fight. You will fight, you will lead, and you will win back your Homeland. You will lead the Dauphin to His Coronation." I believe these Words with all of my Heart, but I know the Dauphin needs convincing. Please. Please, help me. I know you believe me, and I know He trusts You. I saw him glance at You again and again while I spoke! You, and you alone can convince Him to help me.

Place your Faith in me. More importantly, place your Faith in God, that I am indeed who I say that I am. Believe me, He has a plan for this Land.

Yours,

Jeanne'

The very first letter she sent him was stiff, awkward, uncomfortably formal, and absolutely, poetically gorgeous.

"She's crazy!" Charles yelled, slamming his fist on the armrest of his throne. "Visions? Voices? 'God's Angels', speaking to her? She's mad, I say!"

"I do not think that she is!" France protested! "I truly think she's telling the truth - I feel it, in my heart! I've told you that when I feel something-"

"And what if she is not who she says she is, hm? I'm about to give her an ARMY! I'm about to entrust my entire Kingdom to her. I'm about to put my absolute trust in a GIRL! A girl who claims to have visions from the Lord, our God Himself! And if she fails, I'll have nothing. Nothing!"

France rolled his eyes. "And how is that any less than what you have now?" Charles was silent, so France took that as his cue to continue persuading him. "You've lost your legitimate claim to your own throne to an illegitimate, self-proclaimed Englishman! King Henry V's taken Brittany, Normandy, Champagne, Maine!" France counted them on his fingers as he listed them. "He's captured Rouen, Soissons, Reims - that bastard England has TAKEN PARIS! And never mind all the land in traitorous French hands!"

"She hears voices! She could be a sorceress! A witch, François!"

"I don't think so. All she wants is to see you crowned."

"So we trust her then, is that what you're saying?"

"I'm saying you have nothing more to lose. Just give her a chance."

'19 April, 1429

François,

You asked me at Dinner today the Circumstances surrounding my Visions. I did not answer, because I know that my Mission is still met with Anger and Disbelief. Making It seem even more Fantastical than It already is would have jeopardized Its Credibility, even with God behind It. So I tell you now. I tell you now Something I have never repeated to Anybody else, save for the Final Message that the Angels delivered me. And I tell you through a Letter, so I do not Misspeak or Stutter. Because I must not, I absolutely must not diminish what it is I tell you in any way.

I have no Desire to tell another Soul - save you. Not even the Dauphin, because I sense he does not Believe me. But you, your Blue Eyes pierced me to my very Core when you asked me to Explain. You are France and I am French and I am fighting for Who you are and for Who I am and for What we are and every Time you look at me, for just a moment, everything I'm feeling inside of me makes sense. You looked Straight through me, with a Softness of Rolling Blue Waters that reminded me instantly of the Stream on my Father's Land. You looked at me with such Friendship and Amiability I have never sensed in Anyone in my whole life. And I felt Safe, and I felt Trusted. I felt such an Urge to tell you earlier that I had to bite my Tongue.

I remember it so clearly. I was Ten Years old, and I was in My Father's Garden when the Visit happened. The day was Bright, Happy, Sunny, as one would Imagine a Day that an Angel would choose to visit.

My Father owns Acre upon Acre of Land for the Cows and the other Animals, but there are Trees on his Land as well. And it is through the Trees where my Favorite Spot is. A Stream runs Parallel to the Tree Line about Thirty Feet in. And every day I would run along the Trail and Splash in the Stream and Feel the Water between my Toes. And on this particular day Everything seemed Sharper and Brighter than before. Like I was looking through a piece of Yellow Glass. And the Water felt especially Refreshing between my Toes. And I ran in the Stream, under the Canopy of Trees and Leaves, in the Beautiful Shade.

Let me describe my Favorite Spot to you: The Stream, if followed, Leads me to a Clearing. And in the Clearing, there is every Wild Flower you could guess, of every Color. Pink and Purple and Red and Yellow and Green - Green for Miles. I Walked for a while, Running my hands along the Peonies, when, all of a sudden, Sound seemed to just go Away. My Ears started to Ring. And the Colors around me grew Brighter still, blinding me.

I felt dizzy, and collapsed there in the Meadow.

Things began bombarding my Senses: I saw Bells Ringing without any Sound. I saw myself wearing Armor and Lifting a Sword. I saw a Crown of Jewels being Placed on Someone's Head (I know now it was the Dauphin, but at the time I was at a loss).

When I awoke, kneeling over me was a figure. I could not see his Face, for the Light of the Sun was behind him. But I saw the Glow of Heaven Warming my Soul around him. And he had a Crown of Light around his head. And he had wings of pure, the most purest White you could imagine. The Archangel Michael. He laid the sword on me, and clasped my Hands around it, and everywhere he touched felt like Pins were sticking into me. Raw Power, I felt. God's power.

There was a Flash, and everything changed. I heard the Thunder of Hooves. I saw a Throne made of Stone in my Meadow. I heard the Crackle of Fire and its Heat burned me and I had to turn away. I tried to get up and I tried to run but everywhere my Back turned lit the Meadow on Fire until I was surrounded. Before my Very Eyes my Meadow turned into a Town and Knights on Horseback rode Straight Past me, nearly nudging my Shoulders with their horses.

I screamed and screamed, clutching the Sword to my Breast. And my screams mixed with the Townspeoples' Screams until I could no longer distinguish mine from theirs.

And then Again, everything changed. I was lying in the Meadow again. And the Archangel Michael was next to me. And Saint Catherine was behind me, stroking my Hair and Saint Margaret had her Back to me and was picking Flowers. And I knew if I looked at any of Them They would vanish so I closed my Eyes, and all Three said in unison:

"Jeanne d'Arc, In the Name of God, Lead the French Army to Glory, and Crown the Dauphin."

And I made it to Chinon, through 500 Leagues of Enemy Burgundian Territory, to Deliver the Message. Because it Burns inside of me.

I Care not what you Do with the Information, with the exception of keeping it between the Two of us. Just until I find the Strength to tell the Dauphin. Though, I suspect God will find the Strength and Force It upon me long before I am ready for it.

You are such a good Friend to me, François. The best Friend I have at Court. I appreciate your Acceptance of me.

Yours,

Jeanne

'5 May, 1429

François, mon amour,

The taking of the Fortress of Saint-Loup was marked with a Bitter Struggle. Once again, Dunois and his Men planned an Attack without me. I arrived late, and it took Hours, but by God's Will we were Victorious. We can now use the Fortress as a Base of Operations for Many Outgoing Campaigns, though if I am Honest, I Pray no more Bloodshed befalls the Loire's Banks. Before we proceed, I am going to send each English Garrison around Orléans a Message: to Abandon their Fortresses in Peace. But the English are Proud. I fear it is Hopeless.

I am meeting Opposition on both sides of this Conflict. My own Captains do not trust me without you. They shake my Confidence in myself, and the whole Army's Confidence in me. And I feel I would have it without them! Sometimes even I cannot explain the Feelings I have and the Sensations I feel, and when I hear their Jeers while Stumbling over my Words, it is difficult to maintain Belief in myself. Though I will not Admit it, I am often Beset by Doubt. I often question myself, my Capacity for this Task God has chosen me for, and my Faith. It is often a Battle within myself: is my Faith strong enough to push back my Fear? Is my men's Faith in me strong enough for them to Follow me? My heart often Struggles to find Words riveting enough to Rally them. For they listen to me, but only because they have to, not because they Believe in me or Believe in my Mission from God.

I will speak Plainly: You are the only person who makes me feel Ultimately and Perfectly Loved.

And we've now known each other for several Months, so if it is not in Haste, I feel it is the proper Time for me to Admit that I Love you as well. Unconditionally, with a Deep-Rooted Love that sees beyond the Outer Surface. With a Love that Accepts you for exactly who and what you are, Regardless of your Flaws, your Shortcomings, or your Faults. The same Way that you Love me.

I miss you deeply. And I Smile when I think of all the Time we've spent Together; Staying up for Hours and Talking, sharing our most Intimate Feelings but Never diminishing our Affection for One Another. And because Words sometimes are not enough to show Someone that you care about them, I hope that I often show you How much you mean to me. I hope you Know that I Love your Smile and the way you Tuck your Hair behind your Ears when you're Concentrating. Even if there isn't a Hair out of place. And while that only Encompasses two examples, let them Paint the Picture for you.

Until I see you again.

Affectionately Yours,

Jeanne

'François,

My English Captor has allowed me One Final Letter, since he is physically Writing it himself.

I do not have a lot of Time, so I will be Succinct:

They are going to Execute me. My Crimes are Heresy, Witchcraft, and Wearing Men's Clothing, and my Punishment is a Purge of Flames. I know not when, and I know not why.

You know of my Undying Affection for you. I need not Reiterate how much you mean to me.

I may never get another Chance to say so: I Love you, I Love you, I Love you.

Remember what I said about Death. I am not afraid.

Do not Weep for me, for I go Willingly into God's open Arms.

Yours Forever,

Jeanne

He sold her.

Charles VII sold her to the English. For money, like she was some slave and not the Savior of his goddamn kingdom!

France still had the transcripts of her trial. The worst document he ever owned, lying in the same sacred space as her letters, the best documents he ever owned. He never read the transcripts. The only time he ever tried made him flashback so forcefully he woke up screaming.

Why did that have to happen, why?

France had to jam the fleshy part of his hand into his mouth and clamp down to muffle a sob.

France's fists clenched with emotion. His heart felt heavy in his chest, and he just wanted to break something. Break someone. He sniffled thickly and wiped at his nose, momentarily taken aback by the red streak on his finger. He let his hot, angry tears fall freely, but they weren't falling fast enough. He still felt rage, he still felt defeat, and the shaken cocktail of his emotions was ready to blow the cork.

He released a sob, feeling a little better that his tears fell and fell and fell, one right after the other, warm on his cheek.

He left her letter on his bed and sprinted over to his dresser, throwing his arm across it and spilling everything on it to the floor. Glass shattered, wood clattered, but it wasn't enough. He grabbed the whole thing and with a roar or rage flipped it onto its back.

Unbeknownst to him, Louis watched silently from his Drawing Room.

June 16, 1788
Le Château de Versailles, Servant's Quarters
Linens

At any point in history, France was ready to say he was proud of his accomplishments:

773 - Battle of Pavia. Though France did not participate, Charlemagne and the Frankish forces defeated the Lombard King, Desiderius. Italy went under the Holy Roman Empire's control, since Charlemagne was both King of the West Franks and the Holy Roman Emperor.

1066 - Battle of Hastings. That time France did participate, at the center of command with Willian II, Duke of Normandy. And he and his Norman-Frankish army defeated the English. The Norman Conquest of England immediately followed (which was when France met Britain for the first time).

1372 - Battle of LaRochelle. French-Castilion fleet won control of the English Channel from Britain.

1429 - Jeanne's siege of Orléans.

1429 - Jeanne's victory at the Battle of Jargeau.

1429 - Jeanne's victory at Beaugency. All of them France fought alongside her. And that was only the 15th century.

1707 - Battle of Toulon. France and Spain's combined might crushed Austria and Britain. Et cetera.

And that was only military victories! It was a little harder to quantify surviving the bodily affects of political loss, military loss, social regression, and other nonsense. It was hard to describe just how proud he was of his social skills and physical appearances due to Louis VI.

Clearly, he wasn't exactly on top of the world right now, but the course of history had seen him at least eighty percent of the way there. And the view he used to have (of himself and his country) from the height was always satisfying. Women could only make that satisfaction more intense. Specifically Gwen.

Of course, if he wanted to go deeply into it, he could say that his hormones were raging. In the wake of preoccupation, love was pushed violently to the wayside. He had been depriving himself of the physical affection he always craved so passionately for so long that his body (and all of him, to be honest) was desperately trying to tell him that it was time to get back into the swing of things. He admit to himself more than once on his way down that he felt a little strange about it after spending so much time thinking about Jeanne. But then he remembered that he spent the first 100 years after her death wallowing in every sort of sadness imaginable before feeling confident enough in her projected peace with him moving on.

Of course, if he wanted to go deeper into it, he could assume that he was acting recklessly in an attempt to fill the black void in his life called "The Looming Threat of Revolution." Deep and cavernous.

But he didn't want to go deeply into it.

The door to one of the many linen storage rooms opened up and she stumbled out, juggling several rolled towels. Brown hair still in that same loose bun. With delicate, frizzy strands trailing out the sides and framing her face. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair. He wanted to smell it and stroke it. She looked so precious, he just wanted to squeeze her. A cute little forest sprite, he thought, and he couldn't keep the smile from his cheeks. White chemise, bare white stay laced overtop. Pushing her breasts up and squeezing them together, but he tried not to note them too heavily. Not yet, anyway . . . Beige skirt with a white apron to complete her bland servant's outfit. Wrapped up in her work and her thoughts, she didn't see France. She kicked the door closed behind her and turned down the hall away from him. "Gwen!" he yelled, chasing after her.

She turned and smiled stiffly at him, not really looking. Suddenly she perked up and did a double take, pausing in her stride. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open before her eyebrows furrowed and her lips twisted into a frown. "What are you doing down here?" she asked coldly. The warmth that he usually associated with green eyes was completely absent in her.

He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't go down there hoping for another week of . . . distraction. He wanted to break out his cocky, seductive self and exercise his charm. But of course he couldn't tell her that. He had to change his tactics, and fast. He really didn't want to ruin her friendship in a bout of selfish insensitivity.

Maybe he could dodge her obvious anger. He smiled at her, pretending he didn't notice her tone. "I haven't seen you in ages and that's my greeting?"

"Hah!" she barked out a laugh. "What, do you think you deserve anything better? You've been back at Versailles for forever now! Why didn't you come see me?" she asked.

France closed the distance, with an easy, graceful, calculated minimum of movement. "I was busy," he said casually. He tenderly drew his finger down her cheek.

"Busy," Gwen huffed, slapping his hand away. "You couldn't call on me once? You couldn't stop down here even once?"

"I know, I'm sorry."

"Well while you were 'busy' I've been lonely. Thinking this whole time I did something to make you angry-"

"No, no, I promise it wasn't you!"

"Then why didn't you come see me?!"

France threw his arms up in defeat. "I don't know, I had to take care of Louis! I have responsibilities, ma cherie, just like you do!"

"Your responsibilities didn't seem to bother you the first few times we met."

He scrambled for a retort, weakly settling on, " . . . That was different."

"Different my ass! I was just doing my work, cleaning the pans and making the bread, and then you came along like a pathetic dog begging for scraps!"

"A dog? A dog! Out of the two of us, I really don't think I'm acting like the bitch right now."

Bad move, France, bad move! He instantly regretted the comment. A heat wave rose in the back of his neck and rushed up in his cheeks. He felt his face redden as she blinked once at him. Blinked twice. Craned her neck and raised her eyebrows, mouth open. "O-okay, Gwen? I didn't-"

"Get out of here," she spat. She spun on her heels and stormed away. He messed up.

"No, I didn't mean it! I swear!"

"I don't care! Go away, I never want to see you again!"

Warning! Warning! "Wait!" He ran after her, spewing verbal remedies like a fountain. "Please, Gwen, I didn't mean it! I'm sorry. That was really rude of me, and horrible, and- . . . I shouldn't have said that. You have every right to be mad at me about everything I did to you! Just- . . . Just don't- . . . " She wasn't stopping. "Don't go!" Each step was a stab to his already aching heart. If she walked out he'd never forgive himself for what he said. He'd never forgive himself for ruining one of the only good things he had left. The thought of her cut away from his life forever made panic knot in his stomach. France dashed after her, and in his desperation, he grabbed a fistful of her skirt. Anything to stop her there. "Don't go."

She was tugged off-balance and dropped the pile of towels in her hands. Gwen whirled back around as far as her captured skirt would allow, and used her momentum to whip her whole arm around and slap him. Her palm and all five of her fingers connected with skin, so hard that stars burst in France's vision and he staggered back. His entire cheek ignited in flame, and he had to let go of her to rub out the five-star welt already reddening on his cheek. He froze, afraid that if he moved he'd fall over until his vision came back and the room stopped spinning and his eyes focused.

"I'm sorry-" she said tersely.

"No, no! I deserve it. I completely deserve it." He hissed in a breath through his teeth and exhaled slowly. "Ow. Please don't apologize." As soon as he trusted himself, he stood up straight and ignored the mild headache rooting itself to his temples in her wake. "You should meet my friend America. You'd give him a run for his money."

"Are you a jerk to him, too?" Her eyebrows were still furrowed, her jaw was still set. She was still just as mad as before she hit him. Geez. He had to clean his slate, and clean it fast.

"Gwen, I don't know how to tell you how sorry I am. I'm sorry I didn't come and see you. I know it looked like I was ignoring you, and that probably hurt a lot. Just know that it wasn't anything you did. It was my own laziness. I promise to come and see you more often than before, if that would make you happy. It certainly would make me happy." He waited tensely for her to scoff, scorn him, hit him again (well-deserved). "And I'm sorry for what I said. Please consider my most sincere apology." Like France used to do all the time under Louis XIV, he placed his hand over his heart and bowed.

"I'm not going to say it's okay, because it's not," Gwen muttered softly. He checked her face, and saw that her accusing eyes had softened. Her tense hand and wrist relaxed at her side. "You really hurt me."

"I know. I don't expect you to forgive me right away, if at all," he continued. "And I'll even leave if you want me to." He turned to go, but her hand on his arm stopped him.

"No, I don't want you to leave," she sighed. "I suppose that after all this time, I am somewhat happy to see you."

He turned back around, and she met his eyes so timidly she almost looked childish. He smiled down at her softly. "Oh - so am I! I really am happy to see you, too! Can I give you a hug, then?" he asked, opening his arms for her. He poured as much emotion in to his eyes as possible. Blinked in every sad regret he had until they welled up like tears; pooled every hope of her forgiveness in the blue of his irises. Willing her to see how desperate he was for her approval. He added a lop-sided grin, piling on one more plead for her to cling to. She closed the distance. He felt her arms snake around his torso, and he wrapped his around her shoulders, rubbing small circles over her shoulder blades until she pulled away. "Thank you." His heart felt lighter and happier. A huge weight was definitely lifted off his shoulders and mind.

Mission: Apologize.

Status: Complete.

She sighed, shoulders slumping, but unfortunately he couldn't tell if it was because she was relieved as well or frustrated. "Okay, so you're not mad at me anymore, right?" he asked playfully, hoping she'd laugh. To his alarm she pulled away.

"What? Yes!" she insisted, but the fire was gone from her tone. "A little." The corner of her mouth quirked up. She hadn't gotten any better at concealing her emotions.

He was in the clear. Time to work his magic the way the old France would have. Time to brush the cobwebs off his charm, his dashing smile, his charisma, his seductive body language. Like flipping a switch he perked up, ready to work his social talents and properly seduce a woman who wanted it. Read her, let her read him, act, and react. France smirked, lifting an eyebrow as a catch-all gesture: he'd turn it into a challenge if she was serious, and make her want to play along. He'd respond sensually if she was kidding, adding to it.

"Oh, you are?" he murmured quietly. He leaned in to her, as though about to share a secret. To his delight her eyes flared in interest. "Well, I can't have that! I'll have to make it up to you some more." Wink. He edged a bit closer to her, nearly pressing the whole right side of his body to hers. He was struck with an overwhelming urge to lean in and kiss her. On her wide nose, on her cheeks, her forehead, and her chiseled lips. Ah, but he'd do that and so much more later. For as much her pleasure as it would be his.

If there was ever a problem with loving oneself as much as France loved himself, that was it - he cared far too much about himself to ever consciously deprive himself of much. But he resisted now. He took her hand in his, massaging her knuckle with his thumb before lifting it to his lips, staring at her the whole time through his lashes.

Her own eyebrow quirked in response. "Oh, really? Are you sure you can?" She searched every inch of his face, scanning for any kind of flaw or imperfection (or insincerity, perhaps?) in his new persona. But he was a professional, and he truly wanted her in an adolescent lust kind of way. Eventually he would show her how paper-thin his bravado was, and eventually he would make himself vulnerable to her. And he would cup her pushed-up breasts and slide his hands up and down her sides, feeling the contour of her beautiful body from the lumpy flesh of her backside to the soft, pillow-like mid-section. But not yet.

That was his favorite spot on a woman. The curves. That one little spot where it was the most narrow before widening back out. He liked to fit his palms right in the little divot, he liked to feel how it folded his fingers back a little. Then he liked to splay his fingers and run them wherever they felt like going. And then he liked to nuzzle his face in there and trace the shape with his breath, then with his then his lips, then his teeth, then his tongue. And Gwen had a perfectly cuppable, nuzzle-worthy waist. He had to clench his fists to his sides, because he knew that if he touched her there, that would be it. There'd be no stopping him.

Geez, he was practically salivating. He hoped he hadn't been staring at her waist. "Is that a challenge? Because I am most definitely sure. I cannot rest knowing a woman as heart-stopping as you is wearing a frown by some fault of mine." He took a calming breath, mentally warned his hands, then when he felt safe, he brushed a stray hair away from her face and touched his lips to her forehead. Not invasive, but definitely an open door. "How about now?"

"Still kinda mad," she said quickly.

"Let me try this: You are absolutely, astoundingly gorgeous, and that is the least interesting thing about you," he said, bending his knees so he could peer into her face.

The corners of Gwen's lips twitched and another smile threatened her gimmick. "Please. You're so cheesy!" Gwen rolled her eyes and looked down to hide it, and France took the opportunity to snake his hand under her chin and slowly lift her face close to his.

When their foreheads touched and their noses nuzzled she closed her eyes. Her lips parted in anticipation, waiting for the moment that his would connect. But France paused just before their lips touched. It was just a tactic he picked up, to create anticipation, but in his own desperation for affection, it made his own heart ache. Sent a small electric charge through him. He desperately wanted to kiss her. To touch her. But first he could only look at her. He wanted to catch her in this vulnerable in-between. Just on the edge of opening up to each other. So close, he could feel her heart beat fast against his chest. He heard his own body's reply. He could feel her warm breath on his cheeks, and he inhaled slowly, filling his lungs with as much of her air as he could. He saw her eyes closed, her slightly open mouth. France stroked her cheek with his thumb and she opened her eyes.

"What?" she asked quietly. "Aren't you going to kiss me?"

He nodded. "I'm just looking at you first. I never forgot how lovely you are, Gwen. But seeing you now . . . I'm speechless." Her teeth slid over her bottom lip and clamped down.

She leaned in to him before he was ready. France didn't want to give too much too early - it could ruin her expectation. So France let their lips touch once, but barely. He wouldn't call it a real kiss. Their mouths just gently ghosted over each other, their noses and foreheads rubbed. She sighed, though it came out more like a whine, situated in the back of throat. Her lips were still smooth and soft, just as he remembered. He suddenly felt self-conscious about his chapped, probably sickly feeling lips.

She grinned, giggling sheepishly. His shoulders relaxed and he rubbed her cheek again. "I really missed you," he said.

"I missed you too." He'd done this a thousand times. He knew what to do. And yet, his heart still beat a little harder. Like he got a shot of adrenaline and was waiting for it to kick in. His senses sharpened the slightest bit. He noticed things he never noticed before - the slight downward tilt to her eyes, tiny flecks of green that jumped out against the rest of the rich color. He noticed her blinking more rapidly than before, long lashes closing over dilated pupils. The way her nostrils flared the tiniest bit as she breathed. The contour of her lips was just a little more pronounced than before. The corners looked sharper, they looked plumper. He longed to touch his lips to hers. To lick them and taste them and suck on them and let her know how beautiful they were to him.

He didn't even realize he licked his own lips.

He wanted to kiss her and please her and watch her like it. His desire was back, so instantaneously and so desperately that France felt a little dizzy.

But, one step at a time.

"I missed how beautiful you are. I missed your touch. I missed touching you, loving you. I missed talking to you and confiding in you over wine and ruffled sheets." He swallowed thickly and tried to control his breathing as he roved his gaze over her eyes, lips, and back again, showing her his intentions. Telling her how beautiful he thought she was. How he felt the natural draw to her lips. Creating a pull for her into him. As if she sensed it, her eyes twinkled, her heart fluttered against his chest and he knew he had her. She wanted him, of course she wanted him. Everyone in Versailles wanted him, he thought, in confidence more so than in truth.

He shifted his arms to her wrists and pulled her closer, kissing her more roughly, pressing his face to hers with more force, feeling her nose nudge into his cheekbone. She sucked a deep breath in through her nose, and each exhale grew more and more forceful than the other. The warmth of her lips and her breath on his cheek sent another energizing tingle through him, and as she splayed her hand on his chest and wrapped the other around his back, he enclosed her in a hug of his own. Feeling like he'd never get her close enough to him. That if he could, he would fold her inside of him. She freed another small, warm sigh from between her lips, and he grew a little sad. He was tempting her and teasing her - not very quickly, or intensely but all the more it built and built at just the speed he wanted. The familiar scent of cool mint on her breath invaded France's nostrils, and he wanted to taste it on his tongue. He wanted to taste her on his tongue.

He licked her bottom lip. She opened her mouth wider, and on the next kiss their lips closed around the others', interlocking. His heart started to race, keeping the pace as their kisses moved from tender to hungry. His breath came faster with hers. His hands, clammy with the start of a sweat, rubbing her back. Their heads tilted around each other, they rolled their tongues over each other, their kisses set and reset, wet smacks articulating each one until he grew dizzy. Just as well, because she eased up too. He opened his eyes and sucked on her bottom lip, gently nibbled it, made her pull away from him. Just like that, the kiss was over.

"I'll be really honest," he told her breathlessly, "I came down here for two reasons. The first was to apologize." He kept her wrapped in his arms and kissed under her jaw, delicately trailing one of his fingers down her neck. She shuddered violently and angled her head, exposing more for him to touch. He nestled his face into her neck, smiling as she giggled, and for each inch his finger traveled, he kissed. Gently biting, sucking on her skin, huffing warm breaths on her. Enjoying the goosebumps he noticed on each spot.

"And what was the other reason?"

He withdrew to wink coyly. "I think you know," he whispered in her ear. He thought about nibbling her earlobe, but held off. If she said yes he could save it for later. He waited a second, then asked her flat out, "Do you want to? I'm hard . . . " He had a little ways to go, but she probably felt it anyway when they were kissing up against each other. Come on, just a quickie . . .

She didn't reply. Instead, she grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the linen closet where she emerged from earlier. The butterflies started to flutter excitedly in his stomach, and he practically ran her over in his haste. She let him in first, and he assessed the space. It was big, almost as big as a drawing room. Plenty of space for what France had in mind. Plain (and probably thin) walls, with shelves of folded sheets and towels and washing cloths and even shirts and skirts. France turned back towards her to get started, but he caught her double checking the hallway behind her before closing the door.

"What?" he asked her. "Afraid to be seen with me?"

"Absolutely," she taunted. He noticed her eyes flick down his body momentarily before shooting back to his face, pupils shimmering with the anticipation of their excursion. They flared, her eyebrow lifted.

"Ha-ha," he mocked. He broke nearly every one of his own rules as he rushed her, pushing her shoulders against the door. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and hauled him bodily the rest of the way. Their lips collided before he could react; her hand wrapped around his back and her other stroked his chest near his collarbone. He closed his eyes and felt her skin flush and heat up as he ran his hands up and down her back. Massaging, rubbing - ah, no! He wanted to touch skin. And he wanted her to massage his skin. He blindly searched for the string of her stay while their lips were locked, their teeth were clicking together, their foreheads were pressing together. Their tongues were licking, biting, sucking on each other. Tasting skin. Breathing on each others' faces. Her hands scratched at his back, his shoulders, his chest. Never at rest for a moment. As soon as he found the knot in the laces he ripped at it, growling in frustration against her face as it caught once again.

He pulled his face away and rested his chin on her shoulder. "Un moment, mon ange." She stopped to catch her breath, wiping at her face and fanning herself. Gazing down her back, he pulled and tugged until the bow was undone. The damned thing was still laced, though. He just wanted it off. He pulled the laces out of the first two holes completely to loosen it, then ripped it as open as possible from top to bottom. "Lift up," he told her, tapping the underside of her arms. She disentangled herself from him and slid her arms from the straps, and he pulled the stay up as hard as he could. He actually lifted her on her toes, and he briefly panicked when the narrow bottom (that covered his favorite part) got stuck around her shoulders. "Uh-oh." Luckily, she shimmied a little, and it was finally off. Saved him some embarrassment. He tossed it carelessly to the floor and she waited while France shrugged his jacket off his shoulders. He kicked it away behind him.

"Good God, you're- . . . excited," she said, deciding awkwardly on the word.

Hell yes, he was. The only thing he could squeak out in reply was, "Mm-hm!"

While she wrenched his cravat away from his neck, he started on the buttons of his vest. She planted a quick peck to the tip of his nose, their eyes met - boy did she know how to tease him with those green eyes. They had a hunger in them, smoldering and melting all the ice he had in his blue. Then she worked on her own apron and skirt, sliding both down her legs at once. She only had one more layer before she was completely naked in front of him. He let her handle his shirt as well. At the sight of his bare chest, she bit her lip and her hands were on him again, sliding up and raking down, on his stomach, his chest, his collarbones. And everywhere her hands left trails of fire. Like tracing words in the air with a sparkler, everywhere she touched left a residual burn that sank beneath his skin, into his nerves.

Her excitement energized France, vitalized him. He crouched down and grabbed under her butt, hoisting her up. She quickly wrapped each of her skinny legs around his hips. "Don't drop me," she pleaded, staring hard at him.

"I won't." He wanted that sweet, smoldering look back. He kissed her throat, walking her back into the wall for support. Unfortunately, he accidentally slammed her there harder than he thought.

"Oww," she whimpered, throwing her hands back against the wall.

"Mm! - Sorry. . . You okay?" he asked between kisses.

"Mm-hm!"

She didn't seem to mind much, as her hands found their way back to his neck. She pulled his face into hers again, and France immediately jammed his tongue onto her mouth again, tracing in and around her bottom lip.

"I really - mm. I really - am sorry. For not coming to see you."

"S'okay."

He leaned all his weight under her hips and pressed her back tight against the wall to free one of his hands. He waited until he felt sure she wouldn't fall, then hiked up her shift. Slipped his hand under. Kissed her nose, her face, her eyebrows. Everywhere he could. France replaced his hand under her backside to make sure he still had her, then dug his fingers into the smooth, fleshy skin on the back of her thigh. He drew his fingers down to her knee, then firmly kneaded his knuckles back up. On each run he circled inward, moving closer and closer to her opening. When he felt the 'v' shape of her hips he followed the contour downwards, fingers brushing gently to the point of tickling her. She squirmed harshly underneath his hand but he persisted, as far as he could go before his own body leaning into hers obstructed his hand.

He very nearly growled in frustration as his desire surged. His hips practically bucked against her, even with his pants on. He just wanted to slip inside of her to satisfy himself. He wanted to feel her close around him and he wanted to feel the grinding and the sensation and the build up and he wanted to release - But not yet. He'd only hurt her, and that was cruel and selfish - extremely cruel. He had to excite her a little more, first. So he denied himself again, for the second time, burying the overwhelming urge to just . . . rrgh.

France's arms were starting to burn anyway. He slid her down the wall, but when she stood he sank lower, kneeling down low beneath her. He looked up at her, staring hungrily like an animal. God, his eyes probably looked crazy. Panting in anticipation like a cat staring down a mouse. He probably sounded asthmatic. Smirking like a bad boy. He met her eyes, long, hard, complete eye contact. He flared his eyes, he put a question in them: "Do you even know what I'm going to do?" France played with the hem of her shift for another second before throwing it up in the air and ducking under it. He dipped his head between her legs.

France started stroking her thighs again, practically raking his nails down, kneading his knuckles up like he did before. He nudged the top of his head into her tummy, and her legs tensed as his silky hair brushed on her. He slowly lifted his head, trailing his nose up and then his tongue, licking up her entire abdomen. He pulled away and reset, putting the tip of his nose straight into that "v" shape of her that was so tantalizing before. He traced downwards, and as his tongue lapped at her opening, he felt her clench in anticipation. Salty, like a buttery salty, coated the tip of his tongue, and he could have been mistaken but he swore there was the mint that was so often on her breath down there as well. He inhaled the scent, massaging her thighs. Wiggling, playing, just on the verge of entering but not.

Suddenly, he pressed his tongue up inside of her and rubbed back and forth on her clit. He held her legs to steady her, but she still jerked against the wall. "Mmm," she whimpered. Her legs went stiff, and he worked and shifted his tongue inside of her. Rolling, flicking, he clasped his lips around her and sucked. Every so often flicking his tongue back over her nub. Slipping his tongue inside and back out, playing with her inner walls.

He could feel her trembling. See her knees trembling.

While he worked, she clenched around him and he inhaled again, smelling that mint, tasting that salty flavor. When he felt her freeze above him, felt her entrance tighten with the rising climax, he stopped, retreating quickly. Her hips rolled up, "Don't stop," she breathed, but he had other plans. That was just to get her going. She was practically dripping. "Please, don't stop."

Still with her shift over his head, he stood straight up and pulled the loose garment over her head in one fluid motion.

If she looked at him in any way, he had no idea. Her body there for him was too gorgeous to pass up. Holy. Crap. He became hyper-aware of everything about her - he noticed her curves, and that EXACT mid-point at her waist where her hips rounded out and her torso began. The point that he loved so much. He himself touched those curves many times, but somehow, in the dim, yellowed candle-light and in her bare, creamy, beautiful skin, her figure was twice as contoured, her waist was twice as tiny and sharp, her hips twice as round this time. His blood electrified in his veins, and he actually had to clench his fists again to keep himself back. Not yet, France. Not yet. He followed the shape up to her breasts. Perfectly pear-shaped when not pushed up by the stay, and just as tantalizing. He already explored further up and further down.

God, women were so beautiful. What was it he told Spain? Kaleidoscopes. Multi-shaped, multi-colored. Each one fantastically different, each one a different display and with a different delight to offer. The tube itself could be plain, or it could be ornate. It could be easy to bring the colors into focus, or different to bring them to focus. Some with vibrant and blinding colors, other with subtle, softer colors. France could look over and over and over again, he could think he'd seen everything about a woman. But in her power she could have a single calculated word, a phrase, or a gesture that she decided to show that could change the whole thing. Some small, minuscule detail never seen before could mean all the difference. Some were good at manipulating his view, some were not. But either way, there was an indescribable, worldly beauty to each one that would always captivate him. This one was red, pink, lilac, arranged around a flower in the middle like a wheel. The spokes were sea-foam and lime green, and white connected each repetition of the pattern. Beautiful. Beautiful, breathtaking, brilliant.

She didn't have a chance to react before he lifted her up again. He pressed her there to the wall and held her, leaving his hands free to finally - finally! - caress her waist. Her hands clasped around his neck, leaving herself there for him, unimpeded. France nuzzled his face straight between her breasts, running his nose, then his tongue up and down her sternum. She tossed her head back and let loose a low moan that rumbled in her chest.

She must have ripped the ribbon out as she ran her hands through his hair, gently scraping her nails in blond waves. Mussing, tousling, tangling her fingers. He released his content sigh against her face as her hands brushed a certain hair - one that he normally kept so carefully in line with the rest of his loose curls it was completely indistinguishable from the others. A rush, a tiny pressure, not uncomfortable at all, just pressure, shot down him and built up in his whole body - short-circuiting his brain, fluttering in his stomach, lighting his thighs, hips, and groin before fizzling out into nothing as her hands kept running, circling. Never long enough to fully ignite him. Whether she knew it or not she was teasing him, the way no man should be teased. To return the favor he inched his tongue along the contour of her flushed, plump breast, tasting the saltiness of her sweat, circling in around her nipple. Taking her in his mouth, he felt it draw tight in his mouth as he flicked it with his tongue, kissed it, sucked it, ever-so-gently bit it-

"Francis- mmh," she grunted.

He sighed against her chest. "I love it when you call my name-!" Her hand caught that strand again, and his words were swallowed by a moan that he couldn't bite back. He clenched against her as the familiar pressure rocketed through his length, staying there the second time. His fingers dug into her behind, his hips rolled, a tingling warmth went through his whole body. He could feel his arousal bulging against his trousers, and he sucked in a shaky breath.

"Your . . . hair?" she questioned, struggling to speak between breaths.

"Mm-hm!" he yelled. She began combing through again, and he cried out when she found it. "Y-yeah! Right there. Hold on. Untie my pants." His head swum, he felt dizzy, dazed, intoxicated by her. Heart pounding. Blood rushing. He was sweating, their slick skin kept chafing against each others. With their bodies so close, they shared the terrible warmth rising of their bodies, radiating. Sizzling with heat. Smoldering, blazing heat. It felt like six layers in the summer, pulsing inside of each of him until France felt his core was melting.

She started to slide down the wall again while she undid the drawstring, and he needed a small break anyway. He let her down to the floor again and shook out his arms, but as soon as his pants were off and he sprung free he pushed her back against the wall again and lifted one of her legs up around his hips. He tried to throw her other leg up as well but she struggled against him to keep it down. Probably to ground herself. France let her do whatever she wanted. Just as long as she was happy when he finally sealed the deal. He hefted her up, leaving her other foot on the ground for her to support herself. He wasn't sure if she could. Her whole leg was quaking.

He thought about holding out just a little bit longer and teasing her some more, but France's willpower crumbled pathetically. Too aroused to play anymore, he crouched down. He pushed in to her, feeling her hot wetness cling to him. The warmth of her walls clamping and closing around him, sliding along him, pressing in on him, he relished in it. Her breath hitched. She gasped, arching her back, and her hands found their way back to his hair, grabbing fistfuls, roving around the general area where he said he liked it before. "Mmmm," he grumbled. He thrust once, tentatively. He thrust again, taking the back of her thigh in his hand. Her face contorted in pleasure, he loved watching her eyes roll back as the waves of ecstasy rolled over her. She re-positioned her leg around him and he took that as permission to go a little faster.

Every nerve ending was alight, a gentle pulse started to beat in his shaft, every gentle sensation was world-shattering. With each stroke inside of her the pressure rose, rose and rose higher, the feeling intensified, until he was trembling as well. France used the pulsing to set his rhythm. Hips pounding into hers, simultaneously moving her up and down side to side while driving her against the wall behind them. Sweat started to bead everywhere he was aware of - his forehead, his neck, his chest, his stomach, his thighs, dripping on both of them. He shut his eyes, his chest tightened and their pants filled the room around them.

"Hnng! Francis! Mm! Nng! Yes, right there!" Each moan he elicited from her was enjoyable than the last. Such beautiful music, that even Austria would be proud. Maybe even jealous, that the music of their love would rival his and rival Bach's and rival Mozart's. The grunts of France's exertion added the bass voice as well.

His eyes started to lose focus, and he knew he was coming close. He couldn't quite think straight. The room seemed to go dark around him and his shallow breathing grew even shallow. Until he got a tap on his chest.

"H-hey," she said. "Hey, Francis?"

"Oh no," he thought selfishly. She wouldn't cut it off, would she? Why? No way, he needed this - he needed her! Wasn't he doing a good job? He kept up; he was getting closer and closer and it was feeling so good. If he stopped now . . .

No, he couldn't do that to her. He had to stop. He paused inside of her. "What, what?"

"I . . . I think I'm losing circulation." She slid her leg down his whole leg until it was on the floor. She sighed in relief. "Can we switch?" She lifted her other leg and planted it in the same spot on his other hip. When she was ready, only at her not did he continue at exactly the same pace he was at before. He didn't even have to change rhythm.

Before long his upper body grew cold. All the heat built up in his abdomen, slithering to his groin. His legs trembled, he had to pause, the THROBBING pressure that was even bucking and rolling his hips for him, the warmth built-built-built, like someone was squeezing him over and over. He managed to hold off on his own satisfaction by dedicating his thoughts to her. He'd buy her something. Anything. That was what men did for women they liked, so he'd heard. A château. He'd buy her her own château. With a marble courtyard and a fountain. Diamond jewelry. Emeralds and sapphires and gilded carriages and dresses and-

Only few more pumps before sweet, pleasant relief, like releasing a coiled spring. The sound spun away from his ears, his vision blurred, France's head swam. His warm spray erupted inside of her, over and over with each throb. He bucked his hips harder into her, and his cry overpowered hers while she retreated to erotic whimpers. Gradually, each pulse grew less and less intense until they stopped completely.

France relaxed, releasing a contented sigh.

"Are you done?" she asked him.

" . . . Yeah," he said, retreating off of her.

"Okay," she said. She gently slid down the wall and fanned her face desperately, still panting. France collapsed back as well. The cold Versailles floor felt nice on his hot body, and he sprawled out.

"That was great," he said absently. His whole body still felt tingly. They sat in warm, comfortable silence, recovering from their exertion. When he finally felt alright, he crawled to his feet and snagged a couple clean towels off the shelves, taking it to his groin to clean up. "Here," he tossed her the towel, and in a touch of odd irony that he didn't understand, she turned away to dry herself. He grabbed his pants and started looking for his socks before he realized that she never took them off. They were still tied around his thighs with the garters. Whoops.

"Merci, ma cherie," he said, smiling at her. Smiling fully, because he meant it. That was probably the best thing to happen to him for a while, even if it was only twenty or so minutes of happiness. He got it all: mindless screwing - literally mindless, to his delight; pleasuring a woman; seeing a woman in pleasure; release; satisfaction. Everything.

"Francis, I think this is the last time I'm going to see you."

And it all crashed in a second.

" . . . What?" Did he hear her right?

"I said I think this is the last time I'm going to see you."

"B-but . . . we just- . . . but why?" he sputtered. His heart sank and crashed into his abdomen. All the tingling was gone. "Didn't you . . . what?"

She started to put her clothes on. Though he supposed part of it was so she didn't have to look at him. "You looked like you needed it today. But that's not the girl I want to be, is your stress reliever when things go a little wrong for you."

"Y-you're not . . . you're not just a stress reliever!"

"Well, what am I, then?" she asked, throwing the shift over. The first step in covering that body. "I thought you loved me the first few times, but you don't. And that's okay!" she quickly added. "That's fine! I'm not hurt or upset. But I'm also not stupid, Monsieur. You didn't come see me when you were busy, and then I could see it in your face when you got here. You were desperate for a distraction. And while I was happy to oblige this time, I don't want it to continue."

"I . . . Gwen . . . " If he admit it was true, he'd accept that he used her to be selfish, and he didn't want to do that. He didn't want to just accept that the last (unfortunately distant) constant was about to walk out of his life. But he couldn't lie to her. "I . . . I can't stop you." The words tasted acidic on his tongue. "While I don't like your decision, I respect it."

"Thank you." It lacked any affection whatsoever. She had gathered up his clothes, and as she handed them to him, she kissed his cheek. His limbs felt dead. His soul felt dead. He couldn't react. This conversation was dead, how could she seem so calm? She didn't realize that she meant so much more to him than a distraction. She didn't realize that she was his emotional savior right then.

She didn't realize that she was the last person he had before he was completely and totally alone.

He had to watch her walk out.

That night he had a nightmare. Jeanne standing on the fire, and her skin melting off. And he was standing next to her, clutching at her blistered skin, trying to place it back where it belonged and literally hold her together so she could jump off, but she simply stood there and let the flames lick at both of them until he woke up screaming with Buonnaroti and Louis standing over him.

July 7, 1788
Les Jardins de Versailles
Plaine St. Antoine

"I don't have much time, so I'll make this brief: you're starting to scare me, France."

"Is that so?" he asked, flopping back on the lush grass.

"You haven't slept in days - don't lie to me!" Louis yelled when France shook his head.

"Nope! Nope, nope! I haven't!"

"You're so tired you're practically hallucinating! You wake up every night screaming! And I know it affects you during the day! And I am concerned for you - Buonnaroti as well! You are showing symptoms of-"

"Of what? A crumbling infrastructure and an empty treasury?"

" . . . Do not turn this into what it is not. This is about you. I insist that for the next few days you stay in bed and rest!"

"I am resting. Just on the grass today."

"You're worrying me-"

"Could've used it a long time ago, but thanks for the sentiment."

"Rrgh!" Louis growled. He wheeled his horse around and galloped away.

July 13, 1788
Le Château de Versailles
Galerie des Glaces

When he woke up, France ignored the quiet sound of raindrops hitting the windows.

When Monsieur Buonnaroti cleaned his wound, he ignored the sharp pings of cork-sized hail on the walls, resonating through the halls of the entire palace.

When he dressed and ate lunch by himself (though 'eating' may have been a strong word), he ignored the growing size of the hail and the crescendo of the sound, the lightning, flashing in the sky. Beautiful in any other circumstance but this one. His heart started to ache, and he knew the storm hit Paris as well.

By the time he decided to take a stroll around Versailles to pass the evening, he could no longer ignore it. The hailstorm threw apple-sized chunks of ice down onto the Palace like frozen Armageddon. Lightning split the sky, directly over Versailles and miles away in Paris, and the thunder that immediately followed shook the floors and the walls, and made all the glass and fine china and statues and accessories of Versailles tremble. He felt short of breath, his heart throbbed and pain radiated through his whole chest and stomach.

From the sounds and force of it, the windows could crack any minute, and France was waiting, waiting, waiting for when they did. If there weren't windows in the Palace that hadn't cracked already. This was bad, this was really really bad. If the rain kept up the Seine would flood Paris and everywhere around it and then if the Seine flooded the crops would be shot and then if the crops were ruined there would be no food to eat and if there was no food to eat then the people would starve and then if the people starved then the people would get angry and if people got angry they would start the attacks again and then if they started the attacks again-

The Hall of Mirrors looked so strange without any of the chandeliers lit. It looked abandoned and dejected and sad, like all the happiness of the dancing candlelight had been sucked out of it. The second he crossed the threshold, he felt out of place. He felt like there were people in there, ghosts, and he interrupted their peace and they were staring at him. With malice. His stomach rolled inside of him, he felt like he had to get out. But while France passed through, the lightning strobed again. The light flashed, outlining a person, standing at one of the many windows in the middle of the Hall. France could tell the silhouette was Louis, even in the gloom and with the light behind him. Staring out the window at the mess outside. The thunder rumbled directly under their feet.

He had his hands firmly clasped behind his back, shoulders and back ram-rod straight, but to France it looked completely ironic. Like in his forced resolve his outline looked more vulnerable than France had ever seen him. Standing resolute against the storm? The one thing he couldn't control? France realized he was glad he couldn't see the man's face. It would have ruined any illusion of pride Louis had.

The idea entered France's head that he should go to him and . . . do something. Speak to him? Just stay there with him? He wasn't entirely opposed to either of those ideas, which was a pleasant relief to his exhausted emotions. Perpetual anger took more out of a Nation than anybody realized. Plus, the very idea dulled the storm's persistent ache in his chest. National impulse, saying, 'Go to Louis.'

Louis probably didn't hear France's footsteps over the tenacious hail slamming against the glass, but even when France drew level, Louis barely twitched. He did not even blink. He stared, unflinching despite the extremely loud hail heading right for the glass and the flashes of lightning. France watched out of the corner of his eye, waiting for Louis to make the move - whatever he was comfortable with. Talking, standing, whatever, he'd let Louis decide. He followed Louis' gaze to the Latona fountain, and both stood for France didn't know how long, watching in awe at the hail making huge splashes in the fountain's basin.

"I've never seen hail like that in my life," Louis said solemnly. "This is the work of an angry God. Heaven itself is out of balance."

France sat down on the cold floor and hugged his knees to his chest. "Hm. God," he muttered. Maybe. "People are being killed," France told him. "The hail is big enough and falling hard enough to kill people. Who do you think He is punishing?"

The lightning flared, and France couldn't see a single outline of a cloud. The whole sky was one big black mass, as far as the eye could see.

Louis waited for the Palace to stop shaking before sighing, "Me."

France couldn't think of anything soft enough to comfort him. But his heart felt heavy and he knew he wanted to. "Do you at all think about the future?" he asked, changing the subject. The release of those few words lifted some of the weight, and he wanted to get them out. "Of the France you will leave behind for the Dauphin, and the France that he will leave behind for his children?" France waited to see if Louis would consider it rhetorical or not. He himself wasn't sure what it was. He continued, "Because I do. I say that I don't, but . . . Charlemagne always used to tell me that one of the purposes of a King was to leave a strong foundation so the next generation could build off of it with the utmost of ease. And I shudder now to think-" He stopped. Anything more that he said would only sound like he was blaming Louis, and though he should be blamed, it wasn't what he needed at the moment.

"There's nothing you're going to say that I haven't already thought of."

He guessed that was Louis' permission. "I shudder to think of what I am going to be when you're through. And what Louis XVII will inherit. I'm afraid I won't be me anymore. Do you even care?"

"Of course I care. And I am trying, don't you see? Actually trying. It's just not working. When I was young and a fledgling King, right after my grandfather died, I couldn't even have said that much. I was underprepared and had no idea how to even begin to run a country. I just sat back and waited for you and for others to solve my problems for me, since I didn't know where to begin. I really don't think that I would have done anything back then even if I knew, in all honesty. I've really screwed you over, haven't I?"

"Yes," France said.

Louis nodded, just nodded. So France couldn't tell if his unapologetic affirmation hurt him. It shouldn't have, not if Louis was being this honest about his feelings. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I am doomed to be remembered as the worst monarch in your history." France understood what he was feeling, but couldn't relate. He couldn't imagine being a human with only sixty or so years to leave behind a legacy. And working so hard only to leave behind a horrible one. Everyone wanted to be remembered, and poor Louis was feeling the despair of being remembered with scorn and hatred.

"History will make it up to you," France mumbled before he realized it.

"What?" Louis asked, looking down at him. It was the first time he looked at France since the start of their conversation. "What did you say?" France looked up at him and saw that his eyes were wide with surprise.

Should he have told Louis? Maybe, maybe not. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and in hindsight France would never say he regretted it, per se. But he would always feel like he betrayed a secret part of his heart that no one was allowed to know besides him and Jeanne. " . . . I believe that when someone gets . . . " What were the right words? " . . . Toyed with by history, like, um . . . Jeanne d'Arc, or, um . . . Hans Hermann von Katte from Prussia . . . people like that. People who can't get a break, know what I mean? I believe that they earn a second chance to live a long, happy, and fulfilling life. Does that make sense?"

"Reincarnation, you mean?"

"Sure. Like maybe Jeanne will be reborn as an innkeeper, a well-respected noblewoman. And she'll find a husband and get married and have children and live a life of love for those children-"

"I'm not sure if I believe it. But do you find me worthy of such a thing?" Louis said, a little too quickly.

" . . . It's not up to me."

August 14, 1788
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Library of Louis XVI

France missed the majority of the conversation, but from what he heard, he was glad he did.

"Alright," Louis affirmed, nodding quickly. "Submit a suspension on the loan payments, and release a statement to the press. The Estates-General will convene on the 5th of May, 1789."

"Oui, Sire," Brienne said.

"France!" Louis greeted him amiably. France was almost whisked away, back to the Opera House. With a vision of Louis leaning over the balcony to point and laugh at him. He had to forcibly shove the image away, locking it tight in his mental chest.

"Bonjour," France said. He bowed low to Louis, then to Brienne.

"You look . . . tired," Louis said.

France only nodded. As if he didn't see the dark circles that morning.

"Thank you, Monsieur Brienne. That is all. I must speak to France alone for a moment."

"Shall I wait?"

"No, merci. Shut the door on your way out."

He bowed to Louis and made strong eye contact with France, raising an eyebrow. France only shrugged. 'I don't know what he wants.' Brienne's face softened, and they waited for the soft snick of the door to begin.

"What is this, Louis?"

Louis stood behind his desk. "There is no easy way to say this," he began. He kept his eyes down, idly tapping the tips of his fingers against the corner of his desk. "But Brienne has run his course," he said suddenly, looking up at France. "He and I have done all that we could, but it is time that we bring in someone new once again. I am forcing him to resign."

" . . . Oh. Well, yes, that is a shame," he said awkwardly.

"Marie insisted I keep him - it seems she has a favor for Monsieur Brienne, but unfortunately, he has brought us to another stalemate."

He wanted to be polite, but of course his curiosity bested him. "Who are you bringing in to replace him?"

"Probably Jacques Necker. But I'm not sure!" he quickly added, as if France would judge him.

"Hm!"

"Are you . . . pleased with my selection?"

"I guess," France shrugged. "I mean," he chuckled darkly. "Can't possibly get any worse, right? Ha-ha-ha."

'Monsieur Étienne Charles de Loménie de Brienne,

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for a year of loyal servitude to Louis XVI, to the Kingdom of France, and to me. As thanks, please accept a gift of my appreciation: 5,000 livres from my personal savings.

I wish you all the happiness in the world, and all the success you could possibly desire.

François Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France

'Louis,

I realize that Brienne's resignation will leave France in an even more precarious position than we are already in until you find his replacement. To that end, I have decided to step back into my role as Royal Advisor - temporarily. For the time being, it will be as before. I will try my best to help you however I can, with whatever may be brought to the table. This includes legislative and financial reforms. You may decline my offer if you feel it is right that you should do so.

HOWEVER, if you accept my offer let me be perfectly clear on two things:

I will not be your doormat.

I am no longer able to be your failsafe, either.

Things are bad now, Louis, very bad, do you understand? I don't know what you expect, but I will not be able to reappear and suddenly make things right anymore. Keep your expectations and your hopes low. The situation is dire, and much of what we do will not help tremendously. We may ease the suffering of this country, but to completely save it from whatever crisis we are careening towards would require changes too quick and too vast for functionality.

On another note, I now write to you this evening of the 15th to forewarn you of my absence on the night of the 25th.

The newspapers in and around Paris officially confirmed the rumors: Ten days from now, the streets of Paris will be alight with a party in Brienne's wake, celebrating his resignation. You have made me more than aware of your objections to the very idea of it, but I am writing this letter to let you know that while I acknowledge your protests, I am still going.

Do not interfere. This is a National matter, worthy of my full presence and attention. Should there be an emergency, National obligation will force me back to Versailles, as quickly as possible. Otherwise, do not expect me at Versailles for the entirety of the evening, or the morning of the 26th.

Yours,

Le Royaume de France
François Bonnefoy

August 25, 1788
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
Dining Room

France,

Have lunch with me today at 13:00. We need to talk.

Louis

Party night!

For the first time in a while France was alert, energetic, and had a certain mental clarity he lacked for a long time. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would ruin his good mood. Not even this talk with Louis. Louis would not deter him.

France dressed in his best, knowing perfectly well that he was going to change into something more bland for the party. He chose a silky magenta jacket with extremely wide, folded back cuffs. The embroidered stitch trimmed the front, pockets, and cuffs with soft yellow roses and gentle pink lilies on green stems. Cream vest underneath, which sported a minuscule version of the design, and every button had a flower on it. He kept the matching magenta pants and white socks, and made a bow out of his lace cravat. But rather than tie all his hair back, he pulled the very front and the very back into the ribbon, and left a few pieces underneath down in the front. The waves curled around and framed his narrow face well, giving his hair a smooth, cascading look.

It's party night. It's party night!

His heart felt like it could burst, his soul just wanted to leap! And he wanted to dance. He threw the doors to his room open and sprinted clear through the room over - one of Louis' council chambers. Conveniently located next to Louis' bedchamber, and in a conveniently wrong direction than the dining room. "It's party niiiiiiiiiiiight!" he yelled as he ran the length of the Hall of Mirrors. He wanted it to echo in the whole palace. He imagined his voice wrapping back around and enveloping him, further smothering him in his own joy. He paused at the very end of the hall, at the very edge of the Queen's Apartments. Panting, excited, happy for the release.

Lunch time.

Nothing would ruin this for him.

Nothing.

He stood a while in the Hall to catch his breath. As soon as he felt calm enough, he confidently strutted back down the Hall, back through his bedroom and a couple other rooms. The doors to the dining hall opened for him, someone said, "Francis Bonnefoy, Your Majesty."

Let lunch commence.

It began cordially enough, which was good. France had no intention of making it verbally violent. Oh, there were only two chairs. "No courtiers, Louis?" France asked. He also noticed that Louis had the chair set on the lengths of the table. He wouldn't be seated in any higher position than France.

"Not today. Since Marie has escaped to her trainon this week, I figured the two of us could take this time to talk."

Upon his approach to the table, a butler pulled the chair out for him, and pushed it in as he sat. A wine glass was in front of France before he even situated himself at the table. "Merci," he said, smiling to the man.

"You're in a good mood," Louis said, watching him closely. "It's nice to see, since I know you're in pain. And not sleeping hardly at all."

"Does Monsieur Buonnaroti tell you all my dirty little secrets?" he asked.

"Not all of them," he assured France, smiling softly. His eyes twinkled. "Only the particularly dirty ones, like your sleeping habits."

France chuckled in reply, then waited for the butlers to make his plate. They piled on beef, duck, boiled potatoes, filled his bowl with soup - he stopped them there. He wanted to save room for the party in Paris. There would be plenty of free food - all kinds of meats roasting, the tantalizing aroma permeating the streets, the bland Parisian stews cooking over a fire. Free alcohol, raising glasses, clinking, the sounds almost as sweet on the ears as the music. Singing, guitars, dancing in the streets, celebrating, fireworks, tavern-crawling. He could practically hear the booms overhead and feel the ash falling in his eyes and burning them.

His heart swelled in excitement at the thought of it. "I'm in a good mood," he said, "because Paris is in a good mood. They are throwing a city-wide party in Brienne's wake."

"I know," Louis near whispered. "The one that I said I don't want you going to."

So Louis was going to make it dangerous, huh? "I hear there are going to be fireworks! You're not going to stop me, are you?" France asked smugly. Go on and try it. Louis maintained hard eye contact for another moment before looking away.

"No. I'm not. Though I am strongly against it."

France tried to think of all the possible reasons why Louis would disapprove - perhaps he was afraid France would leave and never come back? Just like he thought when France absconded to Paris every night. If France left, Louis would officially be on his own until they found a replacement. If they found a replacement.

Or maybe, he was jealous of France's newfound independence. France could come and go as he pleased without the weight of responsibility on his shoulders anymore. He was confident enough in himself to make a decision, and he could act upon it.

Maybe he was afraid of the symbolism of his Nation going to celebrate the sacking of a most trusted advisor. On a more surface level, maybe Louis was jealous of France having fun when he was clearly sinking into some sort of emotional funk.

"And it's not just me! Monsieur Buonnaroti does not think you should go, either. He wishes you would stay in, and try to get some rest." Louis paused, shaking his head. "I did not know Brienne was so hated."

France shrugged. "I guess. You never liked him yourself, right? What is it you called him? Pompous?"

"I used to think so. My opinion has since changed, but only slightly. I find him . . . found him . . . to be quite dull in personality."

"I'm going to that party," France enunciated slowly.

"Let's change the subject," Louis said. "I don't want to discuss it any longer."

Fine by him. "What of my offer to help? Just until you find Brienne's replacement?" France quickly remedied. He didn't want Louis getting any false ideas that he'd be back for good. "Do you accept?"

"I do," Louis said quickly. "Thank you very much for the offer." He made direct eye contact with France and nodded his sincerity, and France smiled in reply.

"Of course."

"Contrary to what you think, I really do care about you, and about this country, France."

France didn't want to grace that statement with a reply. Of course Louis cared. It wasn't Louis' capacity for concern that upset France on the daily. It was the fact that Louis was ill-equipped, and knew he was ill-equipped. And still he entertained the notion that he didn't have to listen to who was more equipped, only whoever said their opinion the loudest.

France grabbed his glass and took an experimental whiff of the aroma. He smelled Château Lafite, and . . . something odd. Something he didn't recognize. He smelled it again, deeper, ignoring the clingy alcohol scent and pushing straight through to the flavor. The grapes were from Château Lafite - Louis' favorite. A good-quality, fruity scent reached him first, and he thought maybe he imagined whatever it was he smelled the first time.

He committed a social faux pas and stuck his nose right to the edge of the glass, sucking in an audible breath of it. Soft and sweet, it smelled like a full-bodied wine, which was characteristic of Château Lafite. Probably velvety. Perhaps a little bit faded and shallow, but France could deal-

Wait. There it was again! Lingering in the aroma, an off-kilter and extremely bitter smell, or an extra bite that shouldn't be there.

"Is the wine spoiled?" France asked. He glanced up and saw Louis closely watching him. Fork paused in the air next to his open mouth. "What?" France asked.

"Nothing," he answered quickly. "I was just about to ask you if you noticed something off about it. You've been smelling it for a good minute."

"It's . . . I don't know. It smells how the vintage should smell. It's fruity, full-bodied and everything. But I keep smelling, sort of, an extra sourness. Like a dry kick to the end."

"I asked for an acidic wine tonight. If it's dry-"

"No, no, no. Château Lafite makes soft red wines."

"I don't believe it is Château-"

"It is!" France insisted incredulously. "I can't believe you just said that! You really don't trust my nose?"

"It's not that! Just taste it! I assure you, it's acidic." Louis grabbed his own glass and swirled the wine around a few times before gulping down most of it. His face puckered and he bared his teeth against the bitterness. "Try it."

Something worming in the pit of his stomach warned him that this was amiss. That there was something wrong with this picture. He prided himself in wine tasting. It was his national pride, and his National skill. He knew, he knew he was smelling Château Lafite. He knew his nose was correct. He knew their red wines were soft. He knew white wines were the dry wines, and they don't come from Château Lafite.

"No. Something doesn't feel right," he said. He put his glass back down and gestured a servant along the wall over to the table. "New bottle, please," he said. "Ah! Actually, new vintage. Make it a Bordeaux Claret. I think it'd pair better with this meal." Plus, Clarets were so named for how clear they were, to the point where the drinker could see the other side of its container through it. If the Claret was blemished, he would know. The servant took his glass from him and bowed away from the table before leaving.

"What is wrong with you, huh?" Louis asked. "Why are you being difficult?"

"Difficult? I'm not being difficult! Excuse me for being cautious that the grapes were bad!"

"That wine was perfectly fine! That's not caution, that's paranoia! I told you something's not right with you lately-"

"No. It didn't feel right. Something didn't feel right."

"You mean in a National way?"

No, he didn't feel . . . this wasn't as deep-rooted as a National problem. National problems almost always hurt. His back could attest to it. And his exhausted, aching body could scream out the woes of his situation. This wasn't the same. His stomach churned inside of him, as if to confirm for him that he made the right choice, but when describing it to Louis he just felt silly. He wasn't sure why.

"I . . . I don't know," he finally answered, looking with false interest at his plate. While waiting for his new glass he threw his elbow on the table and rested his cheek on his fist.

"France," Louis said matter-of-factly. He stabbed a piece of beef far more violently than he had to. "You're unhinged. Probably very, very tired. Your behavior lately has been concerning me, and I've been keeping tabs on you, you know. I know you haven't slept a wink in five days, now. Days on end. You're seeing things, you're hearing things. Pretty soon the dark circles will be ingrained in your skin. Am I wrong?"

Of course he wasn't wrong. But he asked it like a rhetorical question, so France declined to answer.

Throwing the piece in his mouth, Louis gurgled thickly, "The change in financial advisors may be taking its toll on you as well, even more than you think. So I have a hard time believing you're on edge over wine."

France almost laughed. Almost. He choked it down to a mild snort and grinned up at Louis in a way that he knew was perfectly smug. "Don't pretend you know me, Louis XVI."

At the mention of his full title, Louis' chewing faltered. It started back up again in an instant, but slowly, manually. "I know what you're doing," Louis said into his plate. "I know that you're going to try and intimidate me with that look you give me."

"What look?" he asked. Just incase Louis could see, France quirked an eyebrow up, blinking methodically.

"You know. That look, you make your eyes look . . . very deep, and you . . . catch me in them. And then you look at me like you're looking straight through me. And you know everything about me and I feel very . . . small. I don't know how to explain it." The doors opened behind France and saved him the trouble. Louis purposefully leaned to the side to stare past him. "There's your wine."

The servant carried a tray over with a pitcher and glass on it. France watched as he filled the glass, then offered the tray to him. "I tell you what," France said, grabbing it. "Merci," he murmured. "That is the most articulate explanation of it I've ever heard. From any of my monarchs." He inspected the wine, holding it up to the light to ensure its clarity. He inhaled it and it smelled proper, healthy. It was bitter as well, but a proper bitter for a claret. His stomach still felt a little odd, but he wasn't getting the same feeling as before.

"Is it to your satisfaction?" Louis asked.

"It is," France decided. He took a large gulp and affirmed, "Much better." Admittedly, a little flat as well. Geez, what was it with the wines today? But he figured if he made a fuss a second time he was being difficult. And France would rather drink a mildly discomforting wine rather than let Louis grill him on a personality flaw.

"Much better in the taste, or the pairing?" Louis asked, poking fun, and France could hear the smile in his voice.

"Both," he shot back. "Lord knows I can't trust you to make a quality choice." France laughed at his own quip, while Louis' smile grew and he giggled heartily, nodding his admittance. Before France's glass was even close to empty, Louis called for a refill. They poured more Château Lafite into Louis' glass and more of the Claret into France's, and Louis lifted his off the table.

"May I propose a toast?"

"To?"

" . . . To getting you back. And . . . " he sighed, but said amiably, "to a great party tonight."

France couldn't keep the smile from his face. His shoulders relaxed in relief. "Thank you!" he yelled, throwing his own glass in the air. He and Louis both tossed their glasses back, but as soon as it touched France's tongue-

Ugh! The horrible, bitter taste was back! France choked, spitting whatever wine he didn't swallow out and sending the rest shooting down his windpipe. He hacked and coughed, and the acidic alcohol burned every inch of his chest and throat. He scrambled for his water, waiting for a break in his coughing fit before tossing it back as well. The aftertaste was so strong, he tasted it in the water, too. Gulp after gulp, he drained the acid, slamming it back on the table.

"Are you alright?" Louis asked carefully.

France nodded, still feeling droplets all down his throat. He waved for another glass of water, and as they filled it he cleared his throat multiple times, wiping away the tears in his eyes. He easily chugged his second glass, but then felt odd. He could still taste the bitterness, churning fiercely in his stomach, sitting restlessly on his pallate and throat. He made to put the water glass down, but his arm responded clumsily, sluggishly, and he accidentally knocked it over. He tried to pick it up, but his fingers refused to curl around it. His eyes lost focus, his vision blurred, suddenly there were three glasses, three plates, three Louis's.

The room started to warp and slant. The balance in his mind shifted, toppling over, and France shook his head to try and clear the dizziness and the spinning of his head. "L-Louis . . . ?" he mumbled. What was happening? He blearily looked at his glass, trying to analyze through the fog slowly building in his mind.

Wine . . . bad? Wine making him sick?

"Louis . . . "

"France, I'm sorry," reached his ears, but it was muffled, like he was hearing it underwater. It took a few bleary-eyed blinks before Louis came into focus for just a moment, holding up a small clear bottle. France stared dumbly at it, trying to process what the three swirling objects in front of him were. He'd seen that before, where- "It's the laudanum Monsieur Buonnaroti gave me. I'm sorry about the party, but I just cannot let you carry on like this for much longer. You need sleep. You need it now."

His lids started to feel heavy, and France blinked hard to keep them open. He stood up fast, or, as fast as he could, but his legs had stopped responding. He couldn't feel them underneath him. He dumbly still took a step out from his chair and collapsed into the table, his elbow thrown on the top the only thing holding him up. With each blink he resisted the heaviness in his lids, the urge to drop to sleep. The room was spinning too fast . . . he had to shut his eyes . . .

The white blur that was Louis got up and ghosted over to him. With a sharp nudge he slid France's elbow from the table, and he crashed to the floor. His mind was blank, too clouded to fight, and his lids slid shut.

"How much did you put in his glass?" Louis' warbled voice said.

"In the water, enough to kill a man. In the wine, enough to kill a horse. Probably two," came the reply. France recognized the voice, but couldn't peel his eyes back open to see who said it.

"He tasted the bitterness. He's going to hate me . . . "

" . . . Needs the sleep . . . "

The drowsiness won, finally claiming him, and France dropped off to sleep.

AN: Leave a review if you have time!

Longest chapter ever. The word count right now not including this note is 36,561. Hope you all like it. I had another round of intense research on Jeanne, on the Kings, on France's age as I project it across the centuries, a BUNCH of stuff, but it's all worth it to make the story historically accurate!

We're about a year away from Bastille Day.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has stayed with this fic for this long! And a special thank you to my beta-reader - you know who you are!

-Keyblader