A/N - So I updated for reals this time. Sorry about the accidental chapter 9 thingy to those of you who have this on story alert!
Sorry - this was a tad rushed in the writing, because I promised it'd be out by the end of today having forgotten about the fact that for once I have a life. (I was more surprised than anyone.) So it's a bit crap.
Anyway, enough excuses - on with the story!
Francis couldn't do it.
He'd tried to shoot Arthur. It wasn't as if Arthur would be the first Francis was to kill - not by a long way - but it wasn't the same. Francis killed when he needed to, killed protecting his friends. But Arthur was defenceless, and Arthur was telling him to pull the trigger. And Francis had, but the last second he'd twisted the gun away to shoot Arthur in the arm.
Jeanne's face haunted him, had haunted him in dreams ever since he'd found out what happened to her. He'd sworn to avenge her - it had been the whole reason he'd turned to piracy, for Chrissake - and now the man who'd killed her was at his mercy, and he couldn't even kill him.
Francis growled and paced across his cabin.
After what felt like an age, there was a knock on his door. "Entrez," he snapped.
Gil entered with Roderich. Arthur slumped between them and Francis felt his gut twist. "He was shot," Roderich said. "I've removed the bullet and cleaned the wound. He should be alright." He paused delicately. "Unless you don't want him to be."
Gil glowered, red eyes sparking flames of fury. "There is no 'unless', Roddy." He turned to Francis. "Why d'you shoot him?"
Francis ignored him. "Put him there," he said, indicating a chair.
Once they had done so, Francis ordered them to leave. Roderich inclined his head and turned for the door, but Gil stayed obstinately still. He stood in front of Arthur with his arms folded protectively.
"You can't hurt him, Bonfoy. You can't."
"If I wanted to kill him I would have done so already. Leave us."
Gil didn't budge. After a few seconds Roderich rolled his eyes and tugged Gil's arm gently. "Come on," he said; this time Gil obeyed.
The door closed behind them and Francis was left to his thoughts.
Jeanne. Jeanne. Jeanne.
Memories of her ran through his head. Her eyes, her smile, her laughter. The sound of her voice. The habit she had of flipping her hair when she was happy. The way she'd lift her chin and stand back up, no matter how hard they pushed her down.
He bound Arthur's hands behind his back. He took out a knife and then Francis sat down opposite his most hated love, waiting for him to regain consciousness.
It couldn't have been more than five minutes before Arthur's eyes slowly blinked open. Francis raised the dagger and pressed it lightly against Arthur's throat. Tiny beads of blood sprung up against the bright silver, and then Arthur lifted his gaze to look directly at Francis. Faced him unflinchingly and openly as if ready to accept - welcome - whatever pain Francis inflicted on him.
Francis hated him for it.
"You murdered her."
Arthur couldn't move. He could feel time slipping away, stretching and warping endlessly before his muscles finally unlocked and he could speak. "I did."
"You hate yourself for it," Francis said. "I can see it in your eyes, you hate yourself for it."
Arthur said nothing. Francis was right; there was no point in him interrupting.
"You hate yourself for it - and I don't give a shit that you do. Contrition can't bring her back, Arthur. Nothing can. Killing you won't, either, but right now it seems like a good idea."
The blade flashed suddenly. Then it was hovering over Arthur's heart, the point dipping and twirling with Francis' indecision in a macabre dance.
Suddenly several things happened in quick succession. Francis threw the knife down hard enough that it embedded itself into the wooden floor. Next he pulled back his fist and punched Arthur, so that he saw stars.
And then he yanked Arthur upwards with his free hand and crushed their mouths together in a bruising kiss. Arthur let out a hiss of pain and Francis took the opportunity to slip his tongue between Arthur's lips, plundering every corner of his mouth. Arthur tasted the iron tang of blood - he wasn't sure whether it was his own or Francis'. It snapped him back to his senses, and he jerked his head back.
They were still incredibly close. Francis' lips were kiss-swollen and he was panting slightly. "Je te déteste," he breathed. He lowered his head and bit Arthur's collarbone once, sharply. "Je te déteste," he repeated. Arthur felt a drop of warm water land on his bare skin, and he realised with a shock that Francis was crying.
Neither of them moved for a while after that. Arthur had no idea how long it had been - minutes? hours? before Francis lifted his head and asked the last question he had been expecting.
"Tell me what happened."
Arthur's eyes flashed up. "You can't possibly -"
"Tell me."
They stared at each other, unblinking. For the first time in his life Arthur was the first to look away.
He gnawed at the corner of his lip. The story was as hard for him to tell as it was for Francis to hear, maybe even more so. "What do you know of Ivan?" He stalled.
"I know that he was in the army. I know that he is brutal and ruthless even to his own. I know that there are countless rumours about him - and that many of them are true. I know enough."
Arthur stared at the floor. He could still feel Francis' eyes on him, expectant, and presently he said mechanically, "I was in the army, too."
He was silent for a long while and Francis waited, knew not to push him.
When at last Arthur did find the words, it was difficult to stop them. Memories poured out unbidden, as if he was just a vessel, a reservoir of the words and the stories.
"When I was younger, I was a conscientious objector. War was something that I loathed, in the purest sense of the word. I didn't – don't – see the point. It's a waste of life."
The unspoken words hung heavy in the air. If you felt that way why did you kill her?
"But I had Al to think about. You don't need to know my whole messy family history but to cut a long story short, my little brother was important to me. And what was important to Al was being the hero. He'd always wanted to be a soldier, to fight for King and country. I followed him into the army because I thought it was the only way to protect him.
"We served under Ivan. Even then, he was the same as now. He'd just been demoted for killing a fellow officer. But when it came to – to torture, he was still the best, and they knew it. They brought her to our unit, and Ivan – God. I don't know what he did; we didn't rank high, we weren't supposed to even know she existed.
"The next time we saw Ivan was after about a week, and he was dragging her with him. We were all pretty shaken up. And then he says, 'Kirkland II, you're youngest. You get the right to kill her.' – and Al just froze. He didn't move. Eventually Ivan said that if Al didn't kill her, he'd be disobeying a direct order from a superior and he'd be shot.
"Al still didn't budge. In the end, I took out my sword and I killed her. And then – and then Ivan shot Al."
Once he'd finished Arthur just hunched over himself, huddling miserably into the chair. Arthur had never admitted any of that out loud before and some small part of him had expected to feel – different, afterwards. Not as far as catharsis, but at least relief. He didn't feel anything but hollow emptiness, as if he'd been pithed.
From the corner of his eye Arthur could see Francis' hand hover as if to touch him. Irrationally he flinched. Francis ripped his hand back as if he'd been burnt.
Eventually he said, "You didn't kill her, Arthur." His voice was low and soft but the words were emphatic, urgent.
Arthur said nothing.
Francis left.
Francis' head spun with a hurricane of thoughts and emotions. He felt guilty, relieved, angry, confused, idiotic. Above it all was a whirling torrent of self-loathing.
He'd believed Ivan rather than trusting Arthur, despite knowing both of them. He'd hurt Arthur when he should have listened.
That tiny flinch was at the forefront of his mind. It was to be expected, of course – Arthur may have been naïve but he'd known cruelty, knew what men could do – but even so, it was Arthur. The man who'd stood up to Ivan, of all people. The man who'd arrived on the Achéron knowing only that his life was in Francis' hands and had fought back tooth and nail.
The man whom Francis had fallen in love with; the man who had, with one tiny flinch, terrified Francis more than anything Ivan could have said or done.
Because he knew what that flinch meant. It meant that Arthur was scared of him, and it meant that Francis had done exactly what Ivan had wanted.
He'd broken him.
Awkward timez. God this needs concrit…
Does anyone happen to know when the term 'conscientious objector' was first coined? Because I have no idea whether it is appropriate for the (admittedly vague and unspecified) era in which this story is set.
Also does the last part make sense? Or did people have to go back and reread to find out what the heck Francis means?
Finally, how many more chapters would be good? I can either wrap things up in I'd say four or five chapters or it can be a tid longer, not sure how much - 'twould depend on events that have not as yet transpired. Basically, how interested in this story are you?
(Hugs and FrUKky fluff to whoever answers the above questions? :3)
*insert shameless plea for reviews* Thanks for reading!