June 11, 1775
 The Coronation of Louis XVI
 Notre-Dame de Reims

At 5:45 a.m. on the morning of June 11, 1775, France walked to Notre-Dame de Reims to find his beloved cathedral profaned and desecrated beyond recognition.

Some kind of false wooden wall was standing in front of the cathedral's real stone façade. Ugly, mismatched, and unnaturally flat, the wall covered up the carved intricacies of the portals, as well as all the statues on either side of them. Two of France's favorite statues, including the smiling Archangel Gabriel, and even the Virgin Mary to whom the cathedral was dedicated, were hidden by the carnage. The wall was painted blue and covered top to bottom with fleurs-de-lys, with three man-sized holes cut into the bottom as makeshift 'doors' as though the cathedral's original ones weren't enough. A stage of sorts, with stairs leading up to it from the ground, stretched out from the wall like an unsightly growth, and it was covered overhead by a flat wooden roof. The gabled and spired roofs of both the portals and the rose window peeked out over the top edge of the construction, as though trying to hop over it to still be seen.

He expected to see an ethereal and timeless piece of his culture and history. One of his symbols of National pride, where he had been "born" as the Kingdom of France under Clovis I, and where he had crowned nearly every single king of France since. Instead, he found a wooden mockery. A million questions forced their way into his head at once and his heart took a leap into his throat, pounding away at the base of his neck.

The coronation ceremony wasn't set to start for another hour and fifteen minutes, but already the crowd of spectators massing around the manufactured abomination in front of his cathedral entrance was incredibly large. Guards stood shoulder to shoulder with their bayonets braced horizontally across their bodies, locked together to keep the happily energetic people from rushing the stage. The train of glittering carriages of nobles not deemed important enough to have been given a space in the Palace du Tau stretched back down the road for well over a mile, hindered by both the people running alongside them waving and cheering, and by the traffic jam that the false façade caused in the courtyard. France allowed himself to be swept up into the crowd, gently ushering people out of the way in front of him.

He finally reached the wooden stage, and before he could stop it, "Oh, what in the world is this thing?" slipped from his mouth. Those around him shot him questioning glances but he ignored them, more concerned with the thing in front of him and what in the world it was. Rather than try and force his way through the guards, he pushed and prodded his way to the right, slipping around the corner of the building. He walked along the outside of the southern wall, sliding his hand along the cool stone base of each buttress to make sure they were still there and hadn't also been defiled by whatever spectacle they had planned out front. The south side of the cathedral only had one portal, and luckily the statues spreading out to either side of the door were free of any alterations. The huge dark wooden door dwarfed him as he approached, but France tried the handle of the real, smaller door in the right corner. The latch refused to drop, locked from the inside. France pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the door, running inside and quickly shutting the door behind him in case anyone from the crowd saw him enter and got any ideas.

The Archbishop of Reims, Charles-Antoine de la Roche-Aymons, already dressed in his vestments, whirled around in alarm at the sound of the door shutting. "Remove yourself from this sacristy-!"

"It's me, Your Excellency!" France said, throwing his palms up in a gesture of peace. "Sorry! It's me."

He sighed, shoulders slumping in relief. His narrow face relaxed and wide, baggy eyes sagged into their deep wrinkles as he shook his head, rubbing his hands down the front of his long, floor-length white and gold robes. "France," he said, his voice returning to the soft crackle of an old man. He pointed to his hair. "Do you see these grey hairs? They're from you."

"You're 78 years old, Your Excellency. Your entire head is grey, so I doubt I was the whole cause," France lightly teased back. The Archbishop smiled widely, and France couldn't help but smile back. His kindly eyes and jolly nature gave him an excellent disposition as a priest, and gave France the impression of a gentle grandfather.

"Good to see you!" he said while France bowed to him. "We missed you yesterday."

"Yes, well, I'm staying with friends at Les Roues de Chariot instead of the Palace du Tau, so I missed the rehearsal call time. But here I am!" he finished brightly, spreading his hands to his side.

"And Louis is better with you here, I'm sure," the Archbishop said. His face grew suddenly stern, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening as his eyes narrowed. "How in the world did you get a key to the sacristy?"

France shrugged, quickly sliding it into his jacket pocket before the Archbishop could decide to take it from him. "Jeanne d'Arc gave it to me, in 1429." He smiled in a way that he knew was completely smug, teasing the Archbishop by pulling his 'historical and religious importance' card.

He raised an eyebrow and shot France a dull look. "Alright, alright. Lock the door behind you and then get out. You really aren't supposed to be back here."

"I know," France said. "Hey - what in the world is standing outside in front of the cathedral, and who is responsible for it?"

"Ugh!" he snorted. "Isn't it ugly?"

France nodded his head fast, almost making himself dizzy. "It's profane!" he cried.

"It absolutely is," the Archbishop replied. "Some kind of stage - cut out in the middle so that carriages can ride through! I haven't the slightest clue who is responsible for it, but I'm not happy about it. Just wait until you see the inside," he said, pointing over his shoulder to the door leading to the inside of the cathedral.

France's hands and feet grew suddenly cold in a chill that shot down his spine. "The inside? What did they do to the inside?"

"Go see it," the Archbishop said, rolling his eyes.

France narrowed his eyes, waiting for another reply. A 'just kidding' or maybe a 'gotcha'. But it never came. He turned away from the Archbishop and gently cracked the door open, just enough to peek out.

The structure they built inside was even worse than the outside. It was as if a forest of clean-cut timbers had been erected in the church, disrupting the texture and aesthetic of the architecture. Row after row after row of tall wooden poles sat planted on the sides of the center aisle, removing several feet of space on either side of the church and closing it in. An entire second floor, complete with wooden stairs leading to it, had been constructed at the front of the church over the doors, with several box-like compartments and seats for nobles to sit and watch. The wood was gilded with gold and painted blue, the official colors of the monarchy, but it was fake and unnatural next to the beautifully smooth stone. Golden tassels and decorations hung from every perceivable part of the wooden construct, further adding to the opulence. France could barely see the tiny arches around the portals that held little stone scenes of his past.

It looked like an opera house. They turned his cathedral into an opera house.

And already, guests were being ushered up the stairs and seated in their 'box' based on their rank. The most important people, those closest to the king who would sit in the chairs on the newly made 'ground floor', were meandering around inside the church, chatting or taking instruction or giving instruction.

"Oh, Jesus," he hissed, figuring he would be off the hook for the curse since he was in a cathedral.

"Yes, indeed," the Archbishop intoned sadly, peeking over his shoulder. "The tradition is ruined. Never in my life have I seen such disrespect and irreverence toward a house of God. I made every attempt to have this monstrosity overturned. I talked to the Prior of Saint-Remi, even, and had him on my side. But someone very close to the king has convinced him otherwise."

"Hm," France hummed, and his heart grew heavy and sad in his chest, lamenting the loss of his beautiful cathedral for a ceremony so important. He closed the door and turned back to the Archbishop who straightened the collar and extremely wide cuffs of France's silky, off-white jacket. He tugged on the bottom of France's vest and straightened the black sash that would mark him as someone of importance during the ceremony. France twirled the ends of his long, wavy ponytail around one of his fingers and curled it elegantly over his shoulder.

"How do I look?" he asked once the Archbishop was finished preening him.

"Excellent. You should take your place," the Archbishop told him. "I'll have to leave soon with Bishop Talleyrand and a few others to get the anointing oil from the monks in Saint-Remi Abbey."

"Well," France said, and he couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice at having to partake in the ridiculous show about to transpire. "Don't keel over before you get there, old man."

"You're older than me, you fop. Also, since you couldn't make it yesterday, I am supposed to tell you, as if you don't already know, that your role is to bestow upon Louis the sword of Charlemagne after his vows. The sword awaits you by the altar, and the Prior was sufficiently upset that you couldn't practice yesterday in person. Now, go away."

He sent France on his way with a shooing motion, so France left the sacristy and the Archbishop behind him. He closed the door and maneuvered his way through servants, clergymen, nobles, and others, running around to put the finishing touches on the preparations. At the front of the church, shadowed underneath the newly constructed balcony, France found Bishop de Beauvais, the court confessor at Versailles. And, France noted, his soul sinking further, Anne Robert Jacques Turgot, Louis's finance minister. Turgot stood where he knew France was supposed to stand so he could intercept him. Turgot's eyes locked on France's and they flared angrily at him. France sighed, deciding to bear the brunt of Turgot's scolding now rather than later.

He still owed Turgot after all, in a way. He owed him for suppressing the Flour Wars in May by fixing food supply lines, by putting a fix on the grain prices, and by swiftly deploying minimal soldiers where they were needed.

"Your Excellency," he offered to the Bishop with a low bow before Turgot could say anything. "Monsieur Turgot," France greeted flatly, and Turgot bristled. The moment he straightened up, Turgot began his interrogation.

"Where were you yesterday?" he demanded.

"Yesterday?" France asked, feigning innocence.

"The rehearsal. For the coronation of the King of France," he hissed.

"Never change, Turgot," France said, throwing him a casual wave. "Monsieur, I've been attending this ceremony since the year 509, and I've been participating in this ceremony since the year 768. It's been almost exactly the same for my last forty-six-or-so monarchs. I think I've got it down. Now," he added quickly before Turgot could argue, "if this had been in Paris, as it was discussed, then maybe I would've been more pressed to attend. Just to make sure I knew where to be in the cathedral."

"It was Louis who decided to keep the coronation in Reims, not me," Turgot said. "It was he who decided on this pomp and circumstance." He gestured to the wooden nightmare around them. "Someone convinced him otherwise."

France moved behind the Bishop's back and pointed to him, raising his eyebrows to Turgot in an obvious question. Turgot shrugged, mouthing back, "Probably. Maybe the Archbishop of Paris," he finished aloud.

France made a huge show of throwing his head back and rolling his eyes so far back in his head that Turgot would only see the whites. "Clergy," he muttered under his breath. "Did you try and tell Louis how much this Reims coronation would cost? I already ran it by him once-"

"Of course I did. And at first he seemed entirely on board with Paris. A day went by between my first meeting with him and the next, and all of a sudden, it's, 'Reims! Reims! Tradition!' He said he talked to . . . " Turgot paused to point wordlessly at the Bishop, still with his back to them. " . . . and the Archbishop of Paris as well, and probably the Comte de Maurepas too, his 'premier minister,'" he mocked, putting it in air quotes, "who already hates me for our differences in handling the bread riots last month, and then he talked to them, and then went off to me about how the coronation was meant to symbolize a union between the king and his subjects which did little to prove his point, and it sounded like he was just echoing someone else's words-" He cut his own rambling off and threw his arms to the sides to show his exasperation.

"Deep breaths, Turgot, deep breaths," France soothed. "Well, I mean, Louis is not wrong about that stuff, but . . . I don't believe we need all this to convey the symbolism."

"Right. This looks like some kind of farce. Like a child's dream of a coronation. The nation doesn't have enough credit to borrow for something like this. There's a whole sub-section in my suggested policy that nobody seems to want to read that talks about curbing the spending of the crown." He sighed heavily. "I'm going to have a seat now, before I think more on how expensive this spectacle is." Turgot massaged his forehead as he left France's side to take his seat in one of the chairs on the floor, to the right side of the nave.

At that moment the Bishop said, without turning towards him, "Don't you have a sword to pick up?"

France sighed. "Indeed I do, Excellency. Don't you have some oil to be collecting with the Archbishop of Reims?" He didn't wait for the Bishop's reply. He slowly worked his way up the center aisle, trying to decide if he should have been upset by Louis's change of heart or not. It wasn't the opulence of the ceremony that he necessarily held in contention even though Louis's additions were ugly by France's standards. France still loved the coronation ceremony. It held many, many fond memories for him of his kings throughout the years, and he felt it should be elevated to any height his King deemed appropriate. But at the same time, he felt a bit betrayed. Louis had directly asked for his opinion on the Reims or Paris matter. It sounded like he truly listened to France and agreed with him - that Paris was better. Cheaper, more visible. To have him change his mind so quickly was both confusing and a bit disconcerting.

His heart began to thump hard against his ribcage, and a cold sweat began on the back of his neck, the first feelings of discomfort he felt since the day he met Louis. He quickly loosened his black cravat to allow some cool air on his neck despite the sour glare he received from some of the clergy seated in the choir behind the altar.

Charlemagne's sword was prepared for him on a wide silver plate to the right of the altar. The very sight of the gold scabbard and fleurs-de-lys etched in relief brought a smile to France's face and eased some of his nerves. Charlemagne would have hated this kind of glittery ceremony. He was a man of function and practicality. He found value in things that had direct uses. At least, that was what France remembered about him.

He took the sword in his hands and unsheathed the blade a few inches to peek at the unblemished steel. Two roaring lions stretched out from the ends of the crosspiece. The grip was inlaid in a zagging pattern, and the large pommel held one final massive fleur-de-lys surrounded by swirls and designs. France delicately held it out in front of him. The sword had been recently shined, it seemed, and it glinted beautifully in the yellow sunlight that had begun to pour into the rose windows. Charlemagne always kept the blade pristine. It made France proud that the monks in the abbey at Saint-Denis kept its condition. France was only five, but he had followed Charlemagne and the sword to the war camps in Italy, Saxony, the Iberian Peninsula, and across the entirety of Western Europe. Though France wasn't permitted to partake in the battles themselves, he remembered when Charlemagne wielded the sword, carrying it at his side almost at all times. Each time he left a camp, he would hold it out to France and have him kiss the blade. "For luck," Charlemagne used to say.

France lifted the sword and pressed it to his lips. "I hope my magic is still in effect," he whispered to the heavens, praying Charlemagne heard it and would intercede. He carried the sword in his hands and made his way back to the doors, bearing all the stares he received. The Bishop was gone.

After a long while people began to take their seats, sensing the start of the ceremony. France stared at the doors and waited. Suddenly, a presence was at his side, pressing up against his awareness. He stole a quick glance out of the corner of his eye and found Austria on his left. Slightly taller than France, he kept his eyes on Austria's white cravat to not draw attention to the movement. "Austria," France whispered in a greeting, nodding his head.

Austria's spine stiffened, but he refused to respond. "Hmph!" he snorted, turning his head away from France and sticking his nose in the air.

"Still not talking to me, huh?" France replied dully.

"Shh!" Austria hissed.

"Guess that's a no," he shrugged, sighing loudly. "Come on, you can't be mad at me forever-"

"Oh, yes I-" Austria started, head snapping back in France's direction. He frowned as he remembered he wasn't speaking to France and scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Pfah!" he grumbled, crossing his arms indignantly.

France had to turn away so Austria couldn't see his lips curling into a smile. It wasn't his intention to make Austria angry, but he was just too funny when he was upset. "Okay, well, talk to you at the after party."

"No you won't," Austria said, so low and under his breath that France almost missed it.

Some time later, the bells in the cathedral sounded the turn of the hour, 7:00 a.m., when the ceremony was to begin. The cathedral doors opened, and France and Austria stepped outside onto the wooden stage.

It was covered overhead and almost completely dark. Luckily the light of the still-rising sun, slanting in from just over the tops of the cathedral, barely illuminated their makeshift path. It bathed small parts of the stage in a beautiful golden light, but to France the concept was ruined by the imperfect structure around them. A massive, gilded litter lay off to the right, heavily curtained with red velvet and gold tassels. Louis and Marie lay stretched on top of the soft bed inside, wearing silvery-white clothes that shimmered even in the low light. France realized that Louis's vest and breeches and Marie's white dress were studded with some kind of iridescent stone. The cravat around Louis' neck and the large, thick royal cloak hastily concealed the rest of him, like he subconsciously wanted to bury his discomfort and just be swallowed up. The cloak itself was blue velvet with a fur collar, embroidered with heavy houndstooth and fleurs-de-lys all over it. Louis glanced up at France, wide-eyed and obviously nervous, but at least the cloak hid the way he was no doubt fiddling with the lace from his sleeve. France tried to smile at him, and Louis forced a stiff twitch of his lips. Marie looked just as wide-eyed, but in wonder, not in nerves. She looked ready to take on the experience. Her blonde hair was tied in a beautiful up-do behind her with white ribbons and braids, and a long piece that strayed from it curled over her shoulder. France offered her a smile as well, soft and reassuring, and Marie returned the gesture with so much poise and elegance that she outshined Louis. The bearers of the royal litter stood at the corners ready to hoist them up and process them through the doors.

Louis and Marie's chamberlains stood behind them. An unnamed, low-ranking clergy member lined them all up, starting with the participating clergy members in front, then Louis and Marie on the litter, then France and Austria. There was another small waiting period, and lastly the four men bearing the Sacred Ampulla of anointing oil arrived on horseback from Saint-Remi Abbey. The Bishop de Beauvais and the Archbishop of Reims were among them, and they dismounted and took their place at the back of the procession. The poor Archbishop nodded to France as soon as they were ready, his face red and wind-burned, mouth open as he huffed and puffed raggedly. He had not weathered the ride well, it seemed, and France regretted the keel over comment he made before he left the Archbishop's side.

Someone signaled to the inside of the cathedral and the large doors shut behind them with a loud clang to begin the entrance ceremony. Three knocks sounded from the inside, and Louis's chamberlain yelled, "What do you want?" as loud as he could through the closed door.

"We want Louis XVI, whom God has given us as king!"

Palais du Tau
 Salle de Banquet

The Archbishop of Reims upheld the long-standing coronation tradition of hosting a celebratory dinner in his Palace after the ceremony. The Banquet Hall in the Palace du Tau was covered wall-to-wall in blue curtains with gold fleurs-de-lys, pulled aside only for the doors. It made them look ridiculously small in comparison to the rest of the room. The windows were thrown wide open but the night sky and stars let very little light in. Instead, a huge fire in the massive stone fireplace and hundreds of candles and braziers had been lit, bathing the room in dim gold light that danced its way along the tapestry. It created a warm, cozy ambiance that France had always enjoyed.

That night, France's role in the social hierarchy was somewhere after the Princes of the Blood. Louis was installed at the head of the dinner table. The Comtes de Provence and d'Artois were at Louis's immediate right and left. Next sat the Ducs d'Orléans and de Bourbon in the next positions, and the Princes de Condé and Conti. Finally, France shared his position at the middle of the table opposite a mix of other nobles. He didn't know most of them. Marie Antoinette sat perched at the other end of the table with her retinue - mostly Princesses of the Blood, Austria, and the Comte de Mercy-Argentou, the Viennese ambassador to Versailles. The entire night was an unpleasant mix of sharing awkward silences with Louis (who seemed more interested in the food on his plate than conversation), sharing nasty looks with the Duc d'Orléans, making small talk with the Comte d'Artois, graciously deflecting the Duc's jabs at him, sharing nasty looks with Austria across the table, and sharing half-curious glances with Marie Antoinette. Several times she caught him staring, and each time he tried to offer her some kind of gesture. He tried a small smile, a lift of his glass, a casual wink. Each time she looked away before he could manage anything, whispering hurriedly to the ladies at her sides.

He hadn't yet had the chance to really be alone with Marie Antoinette and learn who she was and what she was like. He knew a little about her based on what her mother, Empress Maria Teresa, wrote to Louis XV. In person, Marie looked different than that caricature. Her mother made her out to be an innocent and docile child who was eager to please those around her, almost to the point of patheticness. France saw something stronger than that in her eyes. An upbeat and positive disposition, a childlike wonder that wasn't too overly naïve, an overall zeal to pursue the things she loved (no matter how frivolous those things were), and an inward confidence that allowed her to be unashamedly herself. She was delicately beautiful, with her ash-blonde hair and fair complexion. France could tell she was purposefully muting some of her energy, no doubt scared to misstep in the intricacies of the French Court.

He vowed to devote some time to her after the dinner.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy!" came a haughty sneer to his left. France knew who it was without having to look. He heard the predatory tone, like an animal about to pounce on its cornered prey.

"Monsieur le Duc!" France answered, methodically swiveling his head to stare down the Duc d'Orléans. "Thank you so-o-o-o, so much for indulging me in conversation tonight!" France said, acting as though he had been the one to pester the Duc and not the other way around. It exploited the Duc d'Orléans's habit of looking down on everyone around him. France kept his face neutral, but poured sarcasm over his words until he was sure they dripped with it. He crafted his next insult carefully. "And here I thought you didn't like me, but I appreciate that you have a lot to say to someone who you think is low-ranking, like me." The insinuation that the Duc continuously associated with 'someone low-ranking like him' was insult enough.

At the same time that the back-handed compliment registered on the Duc's face, the Comte d'Artois snorted loudly, slapping his hand over his mouth to try and hide it. Unfortunately, it gathered more attention than he wanted. Even the lower ranking nobles at the middle of the table began to tune in, eager to be a part of whatever it was that made him laugh. He quickly hid his reaction behind a sip of his wine and stared down at the table to avoid displaying his smile. Louis, finally disturbed enough to look up, did so with wide eyes, looking around as though realizing for the first time where he was and that he had company.

"Hm?" he asked pleasantly. He saw that all the attention was flitting between France and the Duc and waited patiently for whatever was happening to continue, unaware of the social warfare playing out in front of him.

"To what do I owe this immense pleasure?" France added, shaking his head slowly to emphasize the weight of the Duc's attention.

The Duc d'Orléans bristled, cheeks turning red. The Comte d'Artois's shoulders heaved in silent, repressed laughter. He leaned further over the table, hands over his face, and it caused the other princes to laugh outwardly. Only the Comte de Provence frowned disapprovingly at their verbal sparring match. France picked up his glass and swirled it around, never taking his eyes off the Duc's even to the point of awkwardness. The Duc, surprisingly, rose to the challenge despite the obvious humiliation he had to have been feeling.

The Duc cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders to steel himself again. "I merely wanted to ask if what I heard about you was true!" France silently cursed. If the Duc made up a horrendously vicious rumor now, with everyone listening, it would be spread around the entirety of Versailles in the week before France could refute it. Even if he refuted it now, he'd have a hard time eradicating it completely. "I heard that you were an advocate of having the coronation ceremonies in Paris and not in Reims!"

A part of him inwardly sighed with relief. He thought the Duc would try for something below the belt. But still, the subject of the coronation was a big deal to the court, as most major social functions were. France carefully watched the reactions of the other nobles, even though he knew his fleeting eyes would look suspicious. Several of them directly across from him blinked their surprise at him or narrowed their eyes in confusion, wondering why in the world he would have suggested such a thing. Even some of the Princes, clearly out of Louis's administrative loop, looked concerned that he would advocate for Paris. France quickly decided on the best course of action.

"Yes," he said slowly. "That is correct - I was an advocate for it. The idea of Paris was brought to my attention by Monsieur Turgot in response to some . . . concerns that he had." France knew the sentence sounded incomplete, but he didn't want to spout the financial downslide of the crown in front of everyone. Especially since it would only sound like an embarrassment on Louis's part. "I agreed with Monsieur Turgot. But I thoroughly enjoyed today's ceremony and festivities, regardless of their location!" he smoothed. "I'll be honest: it was a difficult choice for me to make, choosing between prudence and tradition. Most of you know that I'm horrifically sentimental!" He smiled, gesturing to some of the other nobles around the table and hoping to endear them to him. To his delight, he received some small smiles and slight nods. The Duc's rage heightened, and France almost felt its heat from his seat. "But, I ultimately left it up to His Majesty, and what a great ceremony it was!" To hopefully end the discussion, he raised his glass in the air. "A toast to King Louis," he said, nodding to him, "and to Queen Marie-Antoinette!" He turned and nodded to her as well and she finally returned the gesture, smiling radiantly, her eyes crinkling in genuine happiness. So genuine and beautiful that it seemed to draw light from the rest of the room. She clearly relished the attention. Next to her, Austria bristled as well, and between him and the Duc d'Orléans France felt closed in by two people that wanted to murder him at the moment. He wished Prussia or Spain were there with him. Prussia could have intimidated anyone away from him and Spain would have done something cute and charming to take the attention off of him. "A vos santés, Majestés!"

After the toast, the Duc wasn't finished with him. "His Majesty tells me that you found Louis XIV and Philippe IV to be your best leaders in history. Do you think Louis XVI will rank up there with them? What similarities do you see between them all?" An evil glint sparked in the Duc's eyes, and France knew the Duc had scored a point in their little game. He resisted the urge to sigh or roll his eyes, already fed up with the mess he created by provoking the Duc.

The Duc used a perfect tactic. It was out of the question that France say something negative about Louis. But at the same time, if he sang Louis's praises despite Louis's obvious defects and character flaws, then France proved himself to be untruthful. It could seem as though he only maintained his position next to the King because of a silver tongue. Not to mention his relationship with Louis. If he spun a web of compliments and adoration and they ever clashed later, Louis would think him a liar.

France realized he was taking too long to answer. "W-well," he began, stalling by taking a large sip of his wine.

"Leave him alone, please," Louis's small voice intoned, like a parent scolding a child, sparing him the trouble. "You've badgered him enough tonight. And besides, I don't want to be compared to Le Roi Soleil or Philippe le Roi de Fer. I want to be Louis XVI, and nothing more and nothing less." France blinked, not expecting Louis's intervention at all, let alone Louis's intervention with something so wise and poetic. "Monsieur Bonnefoy has so far been a good friend and a wise advisor and I'm growing to trust him more and more, day after day. Do you dispute my judgment, Cousin?"

"Not at all, Sire," the Duc replied, casting his eyes down in deference.

"Thank you," Louis said, acting as though the Duc's denial was a compliment and effectively ending the dispute.

Louis confidently met France's eye. France felt Louis's resolve, unwavering and strong for the first time that France could remember. He mouthed, "Thank you," to Louis, and Louis nodded once and returned to his plate. Regular conversation started up again until the end of the dinner, when they were allowed to roam freely.

For most of the night, finally freed of social conventions, Louis stayed comfortably nestled somewhere between his brothers and the other princes playing cards, and Marie stayed nestled between Austria, the Comte de Mercy-Argentou, and her other courtiers simply talking. Sometimes one of the princes would detach to talk to their wives or grab another drink, and the princesses would check on their husbands and ensure that they were winning. France watched from a nondescript corner of the room, not-really sipping at his wine, trying to determine the best way to get Marie away from her courtiers and especially away from Austria. He probably wouldn't permit her to talk to him.

After a while of mapping out the strategic conversation in his head and even the positioning he would need to ask to speak to Marie before Austria could refuse, Louis made eye contact with France and quietly excused himself from the card table. He made his way over and stood next to him.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked France.

"Yes, I am. Congratulations, King Louis! We are officially each others's problem on paper!" France said. He smiled up at him and Louis laughed, raising his glass. France clinked his against Louis's, and together they took a sip. "Thanks for the save earlier. Maybe I do know why the Duc hates me," he muttered, laughing bitterly.

"Well," Louis chuckled, "you're welcome, but that was as much for you as it was for me. The Duc tried to corner you and I know that, but it was a good opportunity to . . . assert myself." That bluntly honest streak in Louis forced its way out of him in the next sentence, and Louis said, "You made me feel much, much better about my situation and my temperament the other day, but even so, the thought of what you could say about me in comparison to your past rulers terrified me. I know I don't measure up, and I couldn't bear to hear it. Not from you, who I know has . . . seen some poor rulers."

France shook his head hard, hair whipping across his shoulders. "You're not a poor ruler, Votre Majesté," France insisted. "You haven't even had the chance to do anything yet!" That was definitely the wrong thing to say, because Louis frowned into his wine glass. "But when you do, I'm sure you'll be fine! I'm here to help you, not to judge you. I'm just a guide, so let me help, but make your own decisions. Be firm."

"Firm," Louis repeated. "I'm sorry about the coronation, speaking of firm." He grabbed at his sleeves, looking more like a child apologizing than a grown man. "I told you Paris and then I switched it back to Reims on you. I should have stuck to my first decision."

France's immediate reaction was to brush off the apology, tell Louis it was fine, but he still felt a little betrayed by the abrupt change, especially after Louis went to such a length to hear him out. He couldn't think of the proper way to describe that in the moment, so instead he decided on, "I . . . It's . . . It ended up . . . " He blanked, thinking of the disgusting disfigurement of Notre-Dame de Reims. "No, I said I'd support your decision," he finished lamely.

Louis stared skeptically at the floor, clearly not believing that he was forgiven but unable or unwilling to meet France's eye. Wordlessly they surveyed the room together, and France kept his eye on Marie. Before, her infectious happiness seemed to radiate outwards. She seemed to make others around her happy as well, whether they wanted to be or not. Now, it seemed Austria and the Comte were discussing something troubling. She sat stiffly on a settee, with her hands clasped in her lap and face downturned into a frown. The natural shape of her lip made her look even more pouty, and she constantly cast pleading glances over her shoulder to the Princess de Lamballe - one of her closest friends. The Princess was a widower, and before Marie arrived she had constantly sought out different friendships while at Court. Her and Marie connected immediately, and the two rarely spent any time apart since Marie arrived in France all those years ago. Unfortunately, the Princess was wrapped up in conversation with the Comtesse de Provence, and wasn't paying any attention to the help that was requested of her.

Austria leaned close, placed his hand on Marie's arm, whispered something in her ear, and she shook her head, replying quickly.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Louis asked, nodding in their direction.

France tried to tune in, but even with his heightened senses the raucous laughter of the party, the sound of playing cards flapping, the chatter, and the clatter of glasses on tables drowned out the finer pitches of their conversation. "I don't know," he answered. "He's speaking French to her, at least, and not German."

The Comte de Mercy-Argentou leaned over her and spoke to Austria, who shrugged, pointing to himself then to Marie. He replied to the Comte, and Marie shook her head again, her towering hair bobbing threateningly. She placed her hand on both of their chests and they separated beside her, and France read her lips clearly: "Do we really need to discuss this now?" She smiled softly and peered up through her lashes to each of them, and to France it looked like she was trying to beguile them into dropping the subject.

"Whatever it is," France said, "Marie doesn't like it."

"Hm," Louis hummed. A picture entered France's mind, of Louis, tall and valiant, rushing over there to save his wife and his queen. France left a perfect opening for something like that, and the silence hang thick in the air, building and building with each second that Louis let tick by. France's shoulders crept closer and closer to his ears, coiling tighter and tighter with the impulse to do it himself, but at the last second, the Comte d'Artois stood up from the table. He threw his cards down, spreading his arms proudly, and the table erupted around him, with shouts and pats at what had to be a good hand. He smiled and bowed humbly before stepping out from his chair and inching over to the couch that Marie, Austria, and the Comte were perched on.

He struck up a conversation after the proper bows and etiquette, and France sighed, releasing all the tension. Perhaps the Comte d'Artois had seen her discomfort.

His boisterous exit had called the card game, and some of the other Princes of the Blood rose and dispersed around the room to continue with their partying. The Comte de Provence collected his wife from her frivolities, and together they wandered back over to Louis along with the Princess de Lamballe and the Duchesse d'Orléans, the Duc's wife. The Princess's round face and plump, rosy cheeks gave her a youthful energy, but her arched eyebrows and bulbous nose provided a mature grace that France thought was more her style. She wore a sky blue dress with lace lining the neckline and sleeves, and satin blue gloves over her fingers. A wide, flat hat with flowers and ribbons perched over her natural brown hair, which curled elegantly over one shoulder. Even in its simplicity, she outshone the Duchesse next to her. The Duchesse was also very young, but she sported a white powdered wig over her hair that made her look older. France and Louis paid their respects to the ladies, and they all turned and stood in silence watching what Louis watched - Marie, talking to Austria, the Comte de Mercy-Argentou, and the Comte d'Artois.

"Who is that she's with?" the Duchesse asked, "There, on her right?"

"An Austrian diplomat," France answered. "Someone I know."

Her eyebrows lifted and her nose wrinkled in disapproval. "Someone she knows too, it looks like."

"Yes, I think she's known him since she was a child-"

"Well, she looks awfully comfy with him, doesn't she?"

"What do you mean?" France asked, shrugging and gesturing towards them. "Of course she does, if she's known him since-"

"Look at how close they're sitting. Their legs are practically touching!" She hadn't even heard him say that they're familiar with each other. "Madame du Barry used to sit close to Louis XV like that - in his lap and whatnot. That's a sign of something if ever I've seen one." France clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, not caring if anyone saw it, and the Princess de Lamballe offered a grateful glance in his direction, appreciating that he wasn't buying in to the gossip. That kind of purposefully vague language was the kind that was favored at Versailles - anyone could fill in the blanks with anything that they wanted in order to embellish a rumor, and it still could make sense with enough twisting.

"Yes, she looks terribly happy right now," France said sarcastically. The Princess de Lamballe smirked in agreement, but the Duchesse either didn't hear or didn't care to acknowledge what he said.

"And look at how she looks at him. He keeps touching her arm like that . . . You know, I also heard," she said, lowering her voice so only those around her could hear, "that she spent a little too much time with that Swede when they met last year, if you know what I mean."

"I liked Count Fersen!" France interjected, attempting once again to change the subject. "He was nice! Very, very handsome too, if I remember-"

The Comte de Provence nudged Louis with his elbow. "You'd best keep your eyes on her. If I was you, I'd bed her down before anyone else does. You could learn from the Comtesse and I," he said, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her into him. A hugely large man, she seemed to fold into his chub. She smiled up at him. "We're at it four times a night most nights!"

She scoffed and slapped his arm with her fan, but Louis barked out a laugh. "I know that's not true, brother. You can't even see your toes, let alone your genitals."

France and the Princess de Lamballe broke down into laughter. France nearly doubled over, and watched the Comte's reaction. He shrugged it off, snapping back, "You don't need to see it if you know what to do with it." Louis abruptly stopped laughing. "Look at her. Good thing Charles went over there to break them up. She was probably conspiring against you with those Austrians as we speak!"

France's mood was killed immediately by the implication that she was conspiring against them just for speaking to Austria. He could understand their wariness to trust Marie after the War of Succession, but baseless accusations were far more damaging than simple apathetic acceptance of her presence. His anger surged and his fists clenched at his sides. He may not have known Marie well but he knew for certain she didn't deserve that kind of slander. "Okay-" France fumed. He turned, finger out, ready to defend his Queen to them, but to his surprise Louis's tiny voice carried over them, for the second time that night.

"Stop that," Louis said. "She is my wife, and your queen, and you will refrain from speaking about her like that."

The Comte and the Duchesse looked shocked by Louis's defense. The silence that immediately followed was so awkward, France contemplated curling up inside of himself on the spot and never emerging. It was probably the lamest defense France ever heard, but it worked. France threw back the rest of his wine, offered his arm to the Princesse de Lamballe and said, "If you would, Madame de Lamballe, let's go offer Her Majesty some better company." She took his arm and he led her away. He tossed his head back over his shoulder and added, "Surely better company'll be mutually beneficial to us and to her." He met eyes with Louis who offered him a nod before France turned away.

He led her over to Marie Antoinette. She seemed relieved to see the Princesse de Lamballe, and she reached out for her to clasp her hands while France bowed to the Comte d'Artois, Austria, and the Comte de Mercy-Argentou. Austria seethed, squinting up at France from behind his glasses without getting up as he should have. France ignored the insult.

"Madame, you look wonderful," France said. "Just beautiful."

She tilted her head. "Awww," she cooed, "thank you so much!"

"And when I saw you smile earlier, I thought the stars had been pulled from the heavens!"

"Oh, please," Austria snorted. "Hön nicht auf ihn. Es ist sinnlose Schmeichelei." French was abandoned on purpose, so France wouldn't understand what was said.

"Come on, Austria, don't be like that."

"I told you not to speak to me!" Austria snapped in the catch-all language that the Nations shared. "Not unless you have an update on a certain situation that I told you about in a letter."

France did not, in fact, have any updates on any situations. So he remained quiet, unsure of how to follow that up. Austria turned to Marie and said, "Er und ich reden nicht."

"Why not?" she replied in French.

"Weil er Preußen geholfen hat, Ihrer Mutter Schlesien wegnehmen. Ich mag ihn gerade nicht."

"In French, please?" France asked lamely, hating to give Austria the power in the discussion.

"Yes, in French," Marie said. "I told you that I was only to speak French once I settled here. I understand you may be mad at each other, but this is my coronation party! If you don't want to talk to him, Roderich, that's fine. You may entertain yourself with the other guests. You know how much I love and miss you, though, and how much I miss home, so I'd love it if you stayed. Please?"

"Fine," Austria grumbled, and then he stiffly stood and offered the Princess his seat. She settled in next to Marie and the Queen leaned in to her, resting her head affectionately on her shoulder. The Princesse wrapped a comforting arm around Marie's shoulder.

"The magnificent France!" Marie said. "It's so nice to finally talk to you in a setting like this."

"The pleasure is all mine, my radiant Queen. Congratulations." He offered her his hand and smoothly kissed her knuckle.

"Thank you," she said, nodding with such poise and grace she looked unreal. "Well, let's start with your hair," Marie said. "It's gorgeous."

"Oh, stop!" France said, playing at being embarrassed. He smiled sheepishly, half-turning away, and pressed one of his hands to his cheek. He waved the other dismissively. "I don't take compliments well. That'll go right to my head."

Marie and the Princesse laughed, and even the Comtes d'Artois and de Mercy-Argentou cracked small smiles.

"I love that. I love the confidence that you have, too. It's so refreshing." France couldn't tell if there was a deeper meaning there. Was she trying to subtly say that it was refreshing because Louis had so little confidence? It already seemed like Marie Antoinette had more confidence in her pinkie finger than Louis had in his entire body.

France dashed the thoughts away. "That is so kind of you!" he gushed back to her, thoroughly enjoying the positivity that she shared so generously. "Now, I'm no philosopher," he said, kneeling on the floor in front of her to park himself into the discussion. Marie shifted to the edge of her seat and leaned in to him. "But I believe that true, healthy confidence begins with total love for yourself."

"I completely agree," Marie said immediately, with surety. A direct contrast to Louis's quiet contemplation. In comparison, it looked like Louis had never held an original opinion in his life. "We share that belief."

"What do you love about yourself, Madame?" France asked, a clear invitation to learn more about her.

"I love that . . . I am meant to be a link between-"

"Between France and Austria? Sure, but that's a diplomatic answer. What do you love, Madame? What makes you happy?"

"I think . . . hm," she hummed, shoulders slumping while she considered it. "I love . . . simplicity," she decided on, narrowing her eyes and nodding as she said the word.

France nodded back. "Interesting," he said, propping his chin in his hands and resting his elbows on the couch. "Explain," he prompted. Nothing about her physically seemed simple, from her hair to her beautiful face to her silk slippers.

"Everything here is so . . . tense and public. Everybody watches everything I do here and sometimes I feel stifled. I miss the country feeling of my mother's palace in Austria and I miss the simplicity of that country life. I love the quiet of the outdoors. I love nature all around me and I love beauty and . . . We used to go sledding in the winter, my brothers and sisters and I. There probably won't be any of that here," she said quietly, as though afraid to insult someone by saying it. "But the gardens here are so nice for walking!"

France found her definition of 'country' to be a bit misplaced in comparison, but he understood what she meant. She had the same glittering imagination of a rural lifestyle that most nobles held - only the pretty scenes of birds chirping and animals braying and soft breezes. None of the manual labor or refuse involved. "Hey - His Majesty loves the outdoors!" France said, swiping his hand in Louis's direction. "That's something you two have in common. Maybe you two could go hunting together!" France stared at Austria as he said it. 'See? I'm trying.'

"Maybe," Marie said, polite but noncommittal. She rubbed her hands down the skirts of her dress as though she was drying her palms on them. "Oh, and I love the clothes here in France," she said, still drawing her comparisons. "The colors and the fabrics are beautiful. And fans," she said, spreading hers out in front of her face. Emblazoned in iridescent jewels and paints were her initials: M-A. "I just love this fan, don't you? I think it suits me."

"Of course," France said, delighted by how easy she was to talk to. "It matches your shoes. Very fashionable choice."

The Princesse de Lamballe added, "Madame, you should tell them about your works of charity." Lamballe turned to France and said, "She has such a generous heart, too. She's been working on a project lately to open a home for unwed mothers and orphans."

"Ah!" France yelled, throwing his hand over his chest. "What a beautiful idea! Austria, you've sent me an angel. I just love her!" he said loudly, in a way he knew would make Austria incredibly jealous. His cheeks colored and his fists clenched at his sides, almost trembling with building rage.

"Well, it's not official yet," Marie said. "I'm still working with Louis on it. But most of you know how much I just adore children, and there are so many who suffer needlessly. I believe that whatever we have in excess we should be willing to share with the downtrodden."

"Brava, Madame," France said. "What more is there to say? You're wonderful. I already feel a connection to you," he said, staring deeply into her eyes. "And I think you and I are going to get along just fine-"

"France?" Austria snapped, practically growling his name. "A word." He grabbed France's arm, yanked him up to his feet and dragged him back behind the settee and against the wall.

"Ow - ow - ow!" France squeaked. "What? Are we talking now?"

"You listen to me, right now," Austria hissed. France prepared himself for the scolding of a lifetime.

"I didn't say anything rude-"

"Shut it. Look at me." Austria looked over his shoulder like he was going to share a secret and wanted to be sure they were alone. Sufficiently satisfied with the distance between him and the others even though they were all staring, he turned back to France. "Look at me," he said again, poking his fingers towards France's eyes and then back at his own. France recognized the depth Austria was reaching. National sentiment, imploring him with a much more forceful push than regular words could reach. "Take care of her."

France blinked. "What-?"

"Take care of my Antonia. And you better tell Louis to take care of her, too."

"Okay, okay-"

"I'm serious."

"I can tell."

"I'm not sure how much of what you just did was for show to find out about her, and how much of it was genuine interest in her. Just knock it off, and be genuine with her. Be a friend. She desperately, desperately needs one. You two have a lot in common, and I know she looks young and frivolous and silly, but that caring heart is real. She loves the world and she loves life. She has a certain way of speaking about things that just . . . captures your heart and makes you like her." His tone softened with each word that he spoke, and France could tell how much Austria loved her. He understood in that moment why Austria had been so nasty to him. Sure, he was still upset about Silesia, but he seemed to have a more special bond with Marie Antoinette than Nations normally had with their royal families. He probably felt like France was stealing her from him as well. France's own heart sank, and he smiled sympathetically at Austria, vowing to be better towards him now that he understood. "Your court already hates her," Austria continued. "They're going to think she's weak and they're going to tear her apart with their intrigue and their rumors and their pettiness. But she's not weak, and I will not see her ruined by them. Don't let them destroy her. Okay? Don't let them turn her bitter and jaded."

"I won't, Austria."

"Promise me you won't let anything happen to her."

"I promise-"

"Promise me you'll take care of her."

"I promise."

A/N:

Some History Notes:

I use a combination of English titles (Your Majesty, Your Highness, Your Excellency, etc.) and French titles (Monsieur le Duc/Madame la Duchesse, etc.) because I can't keep all the official hierarchial names right in my head. What I mean is that The King was Your Majesty to everyone, and I think the Queen was Madame to everyone. But then the Comte de Provence can be called just Monsieur (reliably, with all knowing who is meant) with a capital 'M' because he's the Premier Prince of the Blood, but his wife is not simply Madame, she is Madame la Comtesse de Provence because the Queen is Madame. I tried to sort it out and I couldn't haha. The Princess de Lamballe is NOT a 'Your Highness' in the French hierarchy but I couldn't figure out 'who she was' in the hierarchy, so to speak.

Despite discussions of potentially having the coronation in Paris, due to Louis's indecisiveness and the influence of strict traditionalists in his circle it ended up staying in Reims and became this hugely expensive deal for everyone involved. I punctuated the ceremony, but there is almost a play-by-play record from one of the nobles in attendance. If you care to read it, here's the link: .edu/~

Marie Antoinette came to the French court as a fourteen year old girl and almost immediately she was disliked for being Austrian despite her works of charity and her open, loving heart. Unfortunately, her education in all matters (social, political, academic, etc.) was pretty atrocious in comparison to her peers and contemporaries. Plus, the lifestyle of the French was drastically different than what she was used to, and often times she would go about her days with the temperament and activities she possessed naturally, blithely unaware of the social implications. On top of that, she was pressured to produce an heir to the French throne by everyone around her. Her mother Maria Teresa would berate her, question her beauty and wiles, and question her ability to arouse Louis through constant onslaughts of letters. Count Mercy-Argenteau would also pressure her because Maria Teresa would throw some heat down on him. Her and Louis's inability to consummate their marriage becomes a major, major issue to the court. It honestly wasn't her fault but she bore the brunt of it.

As always, leave a comment if you have the time. This chapter was not in the original, so let me know what you think!