I believe this is where my grandmother stopped editing for me, so any mistakes after this are my own.
Through the foggy glass of a nearby window, Matthieu could see the stars. They shone on, infinitely bright against an indigo sky, like the final, crackling sparks of the fire ships trapped in eternity in the great expanse of space. Matthieu wished he was a star, forever running the same course, never knowing the pain of chance. His tears fell down his cheeks like the ruins of a thousand galaxies clinging to what they once were.
It was over now. Everything was over.
Was this what the end of an era felt like? Was this was his kind was doomed to do - to change their entire beings to support the fanciful wishes of humans? It ached deep in his bones, somewhere primal and unforgiving, that need to forget what he once was and change to what he could be. Matthieu wondered how many times this had happened to his papa, to his brothers and sisters, to his mother, to the father-that-could-have-been and the child who'd followed along in his shadow.
Matthieu tugged at a loose thread at his collar. Beneath his crisp white button up and the slightly rumpled light blue overcoat was a bandage. Two scars lay beneath it, one between his ribs, one slicing across his gut, both puckered and shiny and sore. Careful balms were applied regularly, but just as his colony hadn't recovered, neither had he. Montréal and Québec City, both forever marring his skin, never letting him forget how he failed his people.
It had been three years, but they still pulsed and stretched with every move he made, threatening to open in retaliation. Three years, and Matthieu still needed ointments and salves to numb the pain. François had said it would likely remain that way until the war ended and the state of his country improved.
Matthieu could see that the years were taking a similar toll on his father. His skin was waxy and wan, dark circles under his eyes that deepened with each passing week. Matthieu wasn't even sure he was sleeping. Sometimes, Matthieu would slip out of bed to get a glass of water, only to find his father in his study, pouring over an endless pile of documents, or sitting in front of the fire, a half-empty bottle of alcohol of some sort on the table beside him, and François sitting motionless in his armchair, his head in his hands.
Matthieu had known, even then, what that meant. He'd stayed silent, hoping to God that it wasn't true, that his father {his fearless, undefeatable papa} would manage to win the war, that he had some sort of hidden alliance - a proverbial ace up his sleeve, of sorts - or long-forgotten magic he could call upon.
He knew it was silly; magic only existed in fables and the myths of old. But as he sat outside the office, in a rickety wooden chair that looked as though it could collapse any minute, he wished that magic did exist. There would be a solution to everything, mankind would want for nothing, and perhaps his papa and his enemies could put aside their differences and learn to live. Perhaps magic would be able to seal the wounds along his torso permanently, chase away infection and ensure that no scar remained to mar his pristine skin. But magic didn't exist and there was no easy solution to the situation they found themselves in, and he shouldn't pretend otherwise.
{He ignored the faint memories of a long-forgotten time. Of brothers who showed him the Spirits that danced in the Northern Lights. Of sisters who watched as the smoke from the ceremonial fires formed shapes and told the future. Of the legends of Magni and Modi and how, when he clutched his amulet, he could almost believe them to be true.}
Matthieu could hear yelling coming from the wall behind him, and he let his head fall back against the cool wood paneling. Everything smelled like ash and soot, now. Even though the fighting in Québec had ended almost three years before, the haunting echoes of the war seemed to have seeped into the worn wooden panelling. His clean, pale blue skeleton suit was trimmed in gold thread - an utterly fanciful waste in the current predicament they found themselves in. The only thing out of place in his outfit were the shoes he wore, a size too small and scuffed with stone dust and dirt. There hadn't been time to fashion him a new pair when he'd woken up one morning to find that he'd grown, seeing as leather was in short supply.
He shifted in his seat, grumbling internally at the way the jacket pinched his newly-broadened shoulders. François had told him to wait outside while he and several other men discussed important war matters in the office. It irked Matthieu slightly that he wasn't allowed in, but as he listened to the voices increase in volume from behind thick oak doors, he was suddenly glad to not have people yelling in his face.
Then the voices died down to a murmur and Matthieu turned to press his ear against the wall, attempting in vain to hear what had caused the argument to fizzle out so suddenly. There were hushed noises, but no more yelling, and the clinking of glasses, as though the Nations inside had stopped to have a drink.
Matthieu licked his cracked lips. He wished he had a glass of water to slake his thirst, but all the servants that had previously occupied the building were now gone, and Matthieu didn't know what happened to them.
Suddenly, his body gave an involuntary shudder - no more than a twitch, but it was wracked with pain. Matthieu's breathing sped up as his heart beat faster, the searing pain rushing through his bones - his very soul - beginning to crescendo.
The scream that ripped from his throat was nothing short of agonizing. It tore at his lungs, at the absence of air he was able to breath in, and scraped the back of his throat raw. It was the scream of a grieving mother, the final battle cry of a wounded soldier, the last call of prey as they know they're being stalked in the night. Hot, salty tears stung his eyelids and slid like raging rivers down his cheeks.
Matthieu's entire body was on fire. It seared through his veins and his bones and lit explosives behind his eyelids. His body seized again and he fell off the chair, both him and it crashing to the ground. There was screaming in the background that Matthieu would only realize much later was coming from him.
Then, as suddenly as it came on, the pain disappeared, leaving Matthieu gasping on the ground, his bones aching and his lungs fluttering as he tried to breath. He curled in on himself, coughing, and noticed in a haze the thick pool of dark blood that slowly grew bigger beneath his right arm.
Oh, he thought with a hysterical sort of giggle, I've been hurt.
Slowly, reality came back to him. First it was the smell - the coppery tang of fresh blood and the lingering smell of soot coming from the walls. And then it was the feeling of the sticky, blood-slick wooden floor he was lying on, and the wall opposite him slowly came back into focus. Last was his hearing, which still rang slightly in his ears, but now he could make out the muffled voices in François' office.
Matthieu wasn't even sure they'd stopped talking when they heard him scream - though they surely must have heard, for it echoed in Matthieu's own ears. They certainly didn't come out to investigate, and, for some reason, that knowledge made something deep within him ache.
He'd known he wasn't François' only colony. He knew it just as he knew that he was la Nouvelle France. François would leave, sometimes for months, once or twice for a year, as he visited his other colonies, leaving Matthieu behind in the care of his nurses and tutors.
He'd known that, but somehow he'd managed to convince himself that François loved him most. He was the only one who lived with him in Versailles, François had built him a house in Québec City and stayed there with him, and Matthieu was sure he was one of the few who called the Nation papa.
And yet François hadn't come out when he'd heard Matthieu screaming.
Tears poured down his cheeks with renewed vigor, but Matthieu couldn't even muster up the energy to wipe them away. His arms were heavy - so heavy, and he felt like he could sleep for a week.
There was a low groan as the doors to the office opened and three men stepped out. One of them was his papa, another was tanned and had dark hair and the biggest axe Matthieu had ever seen strapped to his back, and the last was blond with green eyes and enormous eyebrows.
"Get up, Matthieu," François said, his voice frigid, not sparing a glance to the boy lying on the ground or the blood oozing from his arm.
Matthieu tried to hide his whimpers as he pushed himself into a sitting position.
"Have we come to an agreement?" The man with the eyebrows asked, speaking in the universal language of the Nations.
"You already know we have, connard," François spat. "He's yours. La Nouvelle France officially belongs to the British."
"Papa?" Matthieu asked in a trembling voice. He shakily rose to his feet, his hand clenched around his right bicep, trying to stem the blood flow. "What's - I don't understand? What's going-?"
François cut him off before he could finish his sentence. "You weren't worth trying to keep." His voice was aloof and distance, his eyes cold and hard. "You belong to the British now."
The dark-haired man gave a small cough, perhaps in surprise, but said nothing.
Matthieu's world was collapsing around him. He'd often wondered if there was something about him that made everyone leave. First it was his sire and his other child, gone before Matthieu even got to know them. Then it was his brothers and sisters, driven apart by pride and human grudges. Then his brother, his twin, left without a word, not saying goodbye or even trying to contact him in the decades that followed. His mother left him alone and never came back, and he didn't know what happened to the sister she'd entrusted him to. And now his father - his true father - was leaving and seemingly couldn't care less about him.
Matthieu's knees went weak and time slowed as he stumbled after François, trying to catch his coat tails, only to be snatched up by the man with the eyebrows and held tightly against his chest in a hold Matthieu couldn't break.
"Papa!" Matthieu cried as his vision became watery once more. "Please, I don't understand!"
The man holding him called François' name and he stopped, already half-way down the hallway.
"Be good, Matthieu," François said, not turning around to look at him. "I raised you to be a gentleman, prove to me that I shouldn't have done otherwise."
With that he continued down the hall, the heels of his boots echoing hauntingly in the ruins of the place he'd once ruled.
Matthieu screamed.
