Starting here, the chapters really start to vary in length. It's mostly because that's where I decided would be a good place to cut up the text, otherwise I would have ended up with, like, three chapters of 20k each and I don't have the energy to deal with that.

Matthieu returns to his country after more than a hundred years in Versailles and doesn't recognize it at all.

Gone are the green meadows, and the silent forests, and the cloudless blue skies. He could no longer hear the bird calls and the whispers of the wind through the long grasses of the hillside. Instead, smoke rises from the hundred chimneys of a stone-walled city. The air, which had once been so clear and so still Matthieu could taste the stardust in the wake of the night, was now ashy bitter, like the air of Paris was.

And Matthieu hated it. The one place he'd thought would remain constant in his life, the one place Matthieu dreamt softly of in his dreams, the one place he'd learned love and longing, acceptance and rejection, peace and warfare, was gone.

He stood on the docks at the Port du Québec, frozen in place as he took in the landscape that had once been his home. The long grasses of the plains had been razed short to the ground, earth packed and cobbles inlaid in the narrow paths that wound between the cramped buildings of the city. The wispy clouds that had once graced the cobalt sky were now replaced by great expanses of canvas as the sails in the harbour stood proudly unfurled, like the wings of proud birds that flew in on the winds of change.

Matthieu spent the walk from the port to their new house in a daze. The heels of Matthieu's shoes clicked on the cobbles beneath his feet. The city was abuzz with noise, carts rambling down adjoining streets, colonials bustling about their day, the nickering of horses as they waited for their masters outside taverns and shops. Matthieu briefly entertained the idea of stopping to pet the beautiful bay tied on a post nearby, but François put a hand on his shoulder and moved him along.

François stopped them outside a small two-story on the corner of la Rue de Meulles. The sandy mortar that held the stones together sparkled in the afternoon light. "I had this commissioned when we were in Versailles," François explained, gently nudging Matthieu forward until he reached the steps. "I thought it was time we returned to the colony."

He says it simply, an offhand explanation that would be taken for the truth by any other boy. But Matthieu was the son of the French aristocracy, a child-Nation who grew up in the royal courts of Versailles. He heard things people never knew he had. He knew all the hiding places in the palace, all the niches and false panels that he could tuck himself away in and no one would be any the wiser that he was there.

Matthieu knows that François isn't telling him the full truth about why they're there, just as he knows that tensions have been increasing between his father-country, and Britain and Prussia. He isn't blind; he's seen the bags under his father's eyes that have formed in the past few months. He's heard the shouting behind the closed doors of the palace. He's seen the documents and plans that are hastily covered when he enters the room.

Matthieu is no longer a child, but people keep treating him like he is. If he was a normal, mortal boy, Matthieu reflects, he would have already joined the workforce, or, if he was lucky enough to be the child of the nobility like he currently is, would have already undergone the commencement of his courtly training - his tutors, his father, preparing him to inherit his family's estate. If Matthieu had remained with his mother and his brother {don't think about him - no, don't think about the what ifs and might have beens} and their siblings, he would be free, no longer a bird trapped in a gilded cage. He could do whatever he wanted, be whoever he wanted to be. He could have continued to explore the land with his brother, racing, daring to see what lay beyond the frozen plains of the north and the dry mountains of the south. Perhaps, in another life, Matthieu would never have had to see his family fall apart, their fragile relationship fracturing at the seams until it shattered completely. In another life, he might have been blissfully happy, raised to manhood in the loving arms of his mother, gentle kisses pressed to his brow by his sisters, and his brothers holding him tight to chase the nightmares away.

Perhaps this would have been Matthieu's life if he had been born in a different place, at a different time, to different parents who had stayed. But those dreams would never be and Matthieu was now the colony of la Nouvelle France, no longer a child standing in his mother's shadow.

So Matthieu would walk up the steps to his new home and not think about the circumstances that led him there. He would forget about the sister he'd been entrusted to, he'd forget about lazy days under the summer sun with Soaring Eagle, and the warmth of his mother's arms around him, and he would concentrate on being his father's heir. Just as the city of Québec had evolved into one of the most prominent ports in the New World, Matthieu would have to grow as well. He was the last link to the wild days of the world, the legacy of both the old and the new, an ancient soul trapped in the body of a child. He was Magni, strength incarnate in this modern age, and though his twin, the missing half of his soul, was no longer with him, he would ascend to places his father could only ever dream of. Matthieu would build on the legacy François was giving him, but he knew that this colony would someday be his to inherit. François could only hold onto him for so long before he began to clip his wings.

He would let these stone walls surround his city, protect it just as they were always supposed to, but Matthieu would no longer run from what he was. When the war reached these shores {and he knew it would; he could smell it on the wind}, he would be ready - ready to shape and adapt and morph into whatever his country needed him to be. It would be hard - dear God it would be hard - but Matthieu was a Nation, and life had a funny way of making them pay for their immortality. There would still be time to make memories as Matthieu Bonnefoy, heir presumptive to Lord François Bonnefoy of Versailles - memories more appropriate of a child his age, but the breeze blew in on the wings of War and he could feel a stirring beneath his feet. It was subtle and silent, just a quiet prodding in his mind, an aching in his bones, but it was there.

Whether he liked it or not, change was coming to Matthieu's colony, and he desperately hoped he was ready when it came.

He couldn't explain how he knew, but he did. Something big was creeping toward the French Empire, and Matthieu knew the glory days of Versaille were coming to an end.

{Even a falling star falls in flames, but the fire it leaves in its wake is the most beautiful of all}.

oO0Oo

Matthieu's favourite part of Québec was the battlements. From atop the stone fortifications, he could see for miles around. From up high, the man-made walls mocking the trees that had once been in their place, he could gaze upon the fields and the forests of the distance, and almost pretend that they hadn't been won through blood and brutal betrayal. As he gazed across the endless expanse of rolling hills, he could almost pretend that it all belonged to him, that he was the only one of his kind for miles around.

Strictly speaking, Matthieu wasn't supposed to be on the ramparts in the first place. Only soldiers and the militia were allowed to walk on the stone wall as they made their rounds, and it certainly wasn't the place for a child. But Matthieu was growing, flourishing under François' guidance, and as the colony matured, so did he. He was no longer content to stay within the city's looming walls and he wanted - he needed to see the forests outside Québec, just to remind himself that they were still there. Despite the illegality of it, no soldier dared reprimand him or drag him before the court of law. Matthieu's father was one of the few nobility in the whole of la Nouvelle France and rumors circulated amongst the guards as to the exact nature of François' position in the royal court. The soldiers eyed him when they thought he wasn't looking, perplexed by this eternal-child who spoke softly but with authority, who never seemed to grow older despite the years since he'd begun climbing the ramparts every day, and seemed to know the city and the surrounding countryside like the back of his hand.

So the soldiers turned a blind eye to him, and in return Matthieu sent grateful smiles their way and made an effort to get to know every man. He knew that Henri's wife was set to give birth in a few weeks. He knew that Jean Claude was an old man who hated unnecessary chatter. He knew that Antoine was the newest guard, a young man not much older than Matthieu himself recently arrived from France. Another man, a born colonial, would ruffle Matthieu's curls and predict the weather of the coming days to near perfection.

It was with this man that Matthieu stood on the day War sailed up the Saint-Laurent in the form of the greatest navy the world had ever seen.

It was a day Matthieu would remember long after he became Matthew. The golden fields in the distance had recently been razed and the wheat stooks were mere pin-pricks from the ramparts of the city. The trees had just begun to turn, their leaves a gradient of yellows, reds, and green. François had begun to keep the fire burning at night, letting the warmth from the flickering embers sweep beneath the heavy quilts on Matthieu's bed to warm the crisp wind that blew gently through the shutters.

François had been subdued, as of late. More than once, Matthieu woke up in the middle of the night to find his father pouring over letters and documents by candlelight, and François began to look sickly, his pale skin becoming waxy and the bags under his eyes darkening. It worried Matthieu. Once, when François had taken a walk to clear his head, Matthieu opened his desk drawer where he kept all his correspondents from France, and unfolded the letters that had made his father bury his head in his hands.

They detailed the war in Europe, the victories and losses taken by François' army and the ever-increasing odds against them. Matthieu dropped the letters, suddenly feeling sick. Now he understood why they left Versailles in such a hurry. He'd known about the war, of course, but it was different when faced with evidence. Matthieu had seen the casualty list, had seen the description of battle tactics, and now he saw a report that the British had captured l'Île Royale and had a clear path directly to the heart of Matthieu's colony.

He'd tried to put it out of his mind - really, he'd tried, but he found the knowledge invading his dreams. Several times François had shaken him awake and then held him in his arms until he calmed down again because he'd been having frightful nightmares.

Matthieu tried to convince himself that his dreams were foolish. Surely the British, powerful as their navy may be, wouldn't be so foolish as to attack the walls of Québec, one of the most well-defended cities in the new world. Québec meant where the river narrows in Algonquin, and the city was built on a natural choke-point in the river, rendering the navy near useless and incredibly susceptible to the cannons mounted on the ramparts.

Of course, Matthieu was still new to this form of warfare, with their guns and cannons and ships that harnessed the wind like a bird. If he strained his eyes across the expanse of the river, he could see the smoke trails of the campfires from the British base directly opposite. Already they'd attempted a brief attack on one of Québec City's upper boroughs {and hadn't that given Matthieu an anxiety attack} but had been quickly pushed back by the militia. Now, they'd cut off the French's supply route to Montréal and Matthieu could feel the city teetering on the edge of fear and anticipation and full-out war as the British grew bolder in their movements, hoping to bait them into battle.

François was trying to hold off confronting the British until Matthieu could be squirreled safely out of the city. He held Matthieu in shaking arms as their window of opportunity closed and the enemy drew closer to their gates.

Matthieu didn't even know if he'd be safe if he escaped Québec. Already his body ached as the British rampaged around the surrounding countryside, burning and pillaging the local villages and wrecking the picturesque landscape, miniscule cuts and burns littering his skin every time he woke in the morning only to be gone and healed by nightfall. Though not insignificant by any means, the petty destruction of small villages wasn't enough to cause lasting damage to Matthieu's colony, and by proxy, Matthieu himself. A thrill of fear went down Matthieu's spine at the thought of what would happen if Québec was taken. Would those wounds heal and fade like the others? Or was Québec City of enough magnitude that the consequences and aftermath of the battle would map itself across his pale skin in jagged, puckered scars?

Even though he'd never experienced it himself, save for a small crescent-shaped scar behind his ear from when Vinland fell, Matthieu had seen the scars that criss-crossed across the skin of his siblings and his mother. François was more subtle when it came to the evidence of how his country had clawed its way to power, but sometimes he slipped and the silvery, age-worn scars peeked out beneath the cuffs of his sleeves or beneath the carefully applied makeup dusted across his cheeks. Sometimes, late at night, Matthieu would catch him sitting in front of the fireplace, a snifter of cognac in his shaking hands, and his face looked so much older, his eyes weary and old wounds peeking out of the undone laces of his tunic.

On nights where Matthieu found François in such a state, he would carefully remove the glass from his father's grasp, and lead him outside to the courtyard. There, Matthieu would fall asleep with his head resting against François' chest as the other nation told him stories in a quiet, shaking voice, or sometimes they would just lie in silence under the stars. His tutors had told him the Classical legends behind each of the European constellations, and Matthieu in turn came up with new stories for each of them, each pattern of stars representing another member of his family.

He and Soaring Eagle were the same constellation, Matthieu had decided. They were Castor and Pollux, Magni and Modi, the twins of the New World. They couldn't be seperated, no matter the distance between them. Even if Matthieu was on one side of this war and Soaring Eagle on the opposite, they were brothers and nothing could change that.

Except, Matthieu feared, deep down in a part of himself he was ashamed to admit existed, what the decades apart had done to his bond with his brother. François said that Soaring Eagle was in the hands of a cruel, sadistic empire. His bedtime stories had doubled as history lessons as his father ran through every conflict and squabble he'd ever had with l'Angleterre. His older brother - now long-Faded - and his Norman Conquest of Britain, the Hundred Years War, Jeanne d'Arc, the Fall of Calais. And most recently, what had been happening to Acadia. Horror stories of burning houses and children ripped from their parents and women being taken away, never to be seen again replayed in Matthieu's mind at night. This was the empire Soaring Eagle was currently living in, the legacy he'd first experienced Europe with. It terrified Matthieu to think that his brother, the other half of his soul, might have grown into something he would no longer be able to recognize.

The man next to him let out a breathless curse that rocked Matthieu back to the present. Glancing at the pale-faced soldier beside him, Matthieu quickly whipped his gaze back to the open plains beside the city and felt all the strength leave his body.

Redcoats, hundreds of them, marched across the plains straight towards Québec City. They advanced like a tidal wave of crimson, unrelenting and uncaring of anything in its path. Matthieu grabbed onto the wall of the fortifications to keep himself upright as the world swam around him.

There were so many.

There were so many. And they were unprepared, no reinforcements in sight and -

Matthieu vaguely registered the words of the man next to him. He was telling Matthieu to go home, he was sure, but Matthieu was rooted to the spot.

He'd never seen war - not like this.

War had always been a distant thought - his siblings' rivalries leading to bloodshed, battles being fought an ocean away, but this was here and it was real. He'd never felt the grit of gunpowder beneath his fingernails, he'd never speared a bayonet through someone's chest. The most he'd ever done was hold the rifle of a courier du bois, and even then François had been hovering, quick to snatch it away the moment Matthieu turned it to look in the barrel.

This was different. Matthieu had been growing - growing up - for this moment. All those nights as his muscles ached as his country matured had been in preparation for this. All those nights in Versailles when he played chess with his father. All those lessons his tutors taught him about the victories and defeats of fallen empires, of how the smallest action could tip the balance of fate.

But this was Matthieu's colony. He wasn't supposed to be like those empires of old. The New World was meant to be something different, a second chance for the European powers. They were meant to be the best parts of the Old and the New, learning from mistakes made before their time, and thriving in the peace that François had promised would reign.

"Matthieu." Matthieu finally tuned into what the soldier was saying. Sweat ran down the man's brow. "We've sounded the warning bell. Go find your father; this is no place for a child."

Matthieu answered in a daze {though he wasn't quite sure what he'd said} and stumbled down the steps. Each heartbeat corresponded to the click of his shoes resounding off the weathered stone. He missed one close to the bottom and slipped, scraping his hands and knees when he hit the gravel ground.

The pain shocked him and he sprang to his feet, sprinting down the street. Tears pricked at his violet eyes, and the rocks embedded in his hands and knees stung, but he ran faster - faster than was probably appropriate of an aristocrat's son. But here he wasn't an aristocrat - not really. He was just a son of la Nouvelle France like every boy born here was. He had no expectations save for the promise of crisp night air and the cool bubbling of the streams in the forest. At that moment, he was just a child, promised an innocent world and instead thrust into a war that had no bearing to him. This was his father's war, the fight of the generations before. But Matthieu and the children of Québec were meant to be the first in an innocent era, the first who would grow up in this land of new opportunities, of second chances. This was not how the story was supposed to go!

Shouting began to ring through the streets and people ran past him, equally as fevered. In the distance, Matthieu could hear the popping of gunfire and it sent another wave of pain crashing through him. He grit his teeth and stumbled in his stride. Merde, it hurt.

Matthieu slowed to a stop in front of his house, the pain finally catching up to him in agonizing pulses that ran through his shuddering body, just as the door was yanked open from the inside and François stepped out. "Matthieu! Oh mon Dieu! What happened to your knees?"

He looked down at the blood that flowed freely from the gashes in his shaking legs. Matthieu knew he should feel something at the sight of the crimson soaking in and staining his creamy stockings, but inside he was just numb.

Numb at the lies and the broken promises of a new tomorrow.

"The British," he managed to say, though his tongue felt swollen and heavy in his mouth. "They're here."

Matthieu remembered nothing more as he collapsed on the porch. He didn't remember François' frantic cries or the strong arms that carried him to bed. He didn't remember the cool cloth that dabbed at his forehead and his father yelling for a doctor, only to be told that there aren't any available, monsieur. He didn't remember thrashing about and screaming in his sleep, or the way François held him close to his chest, praying for him to stay silent as they were smuggled out of the city.

Matthieu didn't remember the fall of Québec City or the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, or the chaos that had followed in the aftermath. He didn't remember, but he was never allowed to forget.

The angry red scar stretching between his left ribs ensured that.

oO0Oo

When Matthieu woke, it was in a dim room he didn't recognize. Hushed voices penetrated the silence of the room, though they were so quiet and rushed that he couldn't understand what they were saying. The room was a harsh mixture of blinding whites and soft, soothing greys and beiges. Women in long robes bustled about stopping beside bedsides to place their hands against foreheads or fill bowls with water. As his vision cleared and the room came into focus, Matthieu realized that the women were nuns and that the beds were occupied, mostly with young men.

He rolled his tongue over his lips. They were achingly dry and swollen. He turned his head to the side and reached for the small jug of water on the table beside his bed. Or at least, that's what he tried to do.

When he extended his arm, something in his ribs twinged and sent a spasm of pain through his whole body. With a yelp, Matthieu curled back in on himself, clutching at his throbbing side.

"Matthieu!"

That was his father's voice, and he opened his eyes to see François rush over to his side of the bed and kneel so they were at eye-level.

"Papa, what -"

"Hush, mon petit," François brushed a lock of sweat-dampened hair from Matthieu's face and turned to pour him a glass of water. "Drink."

Matthieu accepted the glass gratefully with trembling hands. With François' help, he managed to sit up against the propped-up pillow. He took careful sips, aware of how the water rolled in his empty stomach.

"Where are we?" he asked at last.

"We're in Montréal, at l'Hôtel-Dieu. Drink it slowly, Matthieu," he advised. "You've been here for several days now, but the sisters are confident you'll be discharged soon."

Matthieu hummed, nodding his head, and then abruptly stopping when it made his vision swim. "Why are we here?" Then the memories of Québec City rushed back and he stiffened, immediately regretting it when the action sent another bolt of pain through his ribs. "What happened - to Québec, I mean."

François' fingers stilled where they were carding through Matthieu's hair. "Don't worry about it. You're safe, and that's all that matters right now."

Something akin to fear pulsed in Matthieu's chest. "It's gone, isn't it?"

"Perdu à l'Anglais," François admitted with a bitter tone in his voice.

"But - but how?" Matthieu cried desperately. "It was so well defended and they couldn't use their navy and -"

"Both generals are dead," François interrupted. "Wolfe in battle and Montcalm soon after."

"Oh," Matthieu's heart plummeted. François' words confirmed the aching suspicion he'd had the moment he woke up. He'd seen it in his dreams, but had hoped to God that it wasn't true.

"You cried out his last words in your sleep." François continued, clearing his throat and rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. "'Tant mieux! Je ne vivrai pas pour voir la capitulation du Québec.' Matthieu, you - you scared me."

"I'm sorry, papa." A lump formed in Matthieu's throat. Gone was his home in the New World, now forced to fly the flag of the British instead of their own fleur-de-lis. His eyes grew heavy as he thought of the damage sustained by his city. One bitterly triumphant thought was that the British had no idea the hell that was coming in the form of the Canadian winter.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, mon cher," François continued to brush his fingers through Matthieu's hair. "We will take it back. Now sleep. I'll be here when you wake."