[APH fanfiction] Fleur de Paix
Title: Fleur de Paix
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: France, England, hints of FrUK
Rating: PG-13 for dark imagery and angst
Timeline: 1944-1946
Warnings: Angst, dark imagery, hints of torture
Summary: When England manages to find France again, it's worse than he expected.
Notes: The title is French for 'flower of peace'. I really need to stop writing fics at 3am when I have the flu. Written for fruk_giftbasket, for twilightrose2. She wanted something to do with the Blitz, or failing that, WWII and Vichy France in general.
Posted to what_the_fruk and hetalia_uncrack
~*~
Normandy is a blur of salt water and sand and shouting men and bullets and blood. England thinks he might have been shot at some point, but he's not entirely sure. All he can remember is screaming orders to his men until his voice cracks, rallying his troops to secure the beaches.
He had hoped that France might be here to meet them.
He's not.
The British forces are to stay in the north, to secure Normandy and hold the beaches while the French forces move to liberate Paris. England doesn't know if he'll be able to stand it, and is infinitely relieved when he receives private orders from Churchill; to advance to Paris and find France.
They press south.
The march takes weeks. England has to resist the urge to abandon his post and race ahead, to scour Paris. He doesn't know, none of them know what might have happened to France. Yes, they have contact with the French Resistance, but the communication is too valuable and rare to waste on inquiring after one man, no matter who that man might be. So Churchill says, and England must reluctantly agree. He knows that were their positions reversed, France would never stoop to pestering de Gaulle about England's fate. Or perhaps he would. One never knows, with France.
It seems to take forever to liberate Paris. England, secure in his private orders and his status as a British secret agent, can move freely among the Allied forces. Even before the city is quite secure, he begins his search.
Whenever he can spare a thought, England prays that France is still alive, that Vichy hasn't murdered him.
It takes days, endlessly long days, before one of the Frenchmen comes running up to him and snaps off a near perfect salute. "Monsieur Kirkland! You are searching for a member of the Resistance that went missing, non?"
Close enough, England thinks, and if that's the cover story that de Gaulle came up with for France, then so be it. He nods. "Yes, a chap about my age and height, blond, last I saw he had a bit of a beard. Francis Bonnefoy."
"We think we found him, monsieur."
England's back snaps straight in shock, his entire body going rigid. "Take me to him!"
The place is disgusting. It looks like it might once have been government offices, but now it is a prison. French forces are slowly beginning to clear it out, cataloging who is here and why. The young officer leads England through the halls and down into the basement. England has to hold his breath against the stench, and even he, who has seen so many wars, has to fight not to retch at the sight.
He wishes more than anything that the officer could have been wrong, but he knows that he was not.
Numbly he dismisses the man, not even remembering what he said as he slowly approaches France, moving like one approaching a wild animal. Or at least, he assumes this must be France. For all he knows, this could very well be Vichy. "France?" he asks softly, voice echoing oddly in the empty room.
There is no reaction. France is seated staring at the wall blankly, arms hanging limply at his sides. The men who found him unbuckled him from his restraints, and it looks like they'd started to patch up the worst of his wounds before they'd realized who it was and someone had been sent to find England.
England swallows, bracing himself as he moves around in front of France. His blue eyes are staring blankly, dull and emotionless and empty. Defeated. Broken.
England bites back a sudden sob, fists clenching at his sides and grinding his teeth so hard his jaw aches. In their centuries of fighting, he'd never seen France this way. He'd been wounded, defeated, conquered, but never like this.
Never like this.
Forcing himself to move, England calls upstairs for a medic. He watches through a haze of red anger as the worst of the wounds are bandaged. Half-healed slashes across his thighs England identifies as Dunkirk and Ypres. The raw, still bloody burns across his shoulders must be Normandy. The welts that cross his back and chest England saw during the last war; the trenches that cross his land.
But there are other wounds, too. Wounds that England knows are not a reflection of his land, but rather the curious Nazi knife on a man who apparently cannot be killed.
England has never been so angry in his life. When his next set of orders come through, personally scribbled from Churchill's desk telling him in no uncertain terms that he is to care for France, England is relieved. He thinks he should probably avoid Germany for the next decade or so, or risk beating him to a bloody pulp.
They move France to the hotel that up until a few weeks ago was housing high-ranking Nazi dignitaries, and is now being used by the officers. They're given a suite away from the worst of the bustle. Once they're left alone, England gathers France into his arms and softly sings La Marseillaise, stroking his hair back from his pale face.
Time passes, and still France does not wake.
He will move, if England prods him enough or bodily shoves him, but he remains silent, his eyes staring, not even seeming to recognize England. England speaks French to him as much as he can, hoping it will help.
The truth is, he's known French for hundreds of years, he just doesn't like giving France the satisfaction of hearing him speak it. But at this point, he would be glad just to have France tease him or call him rosbif, anything that means that France is still behind those empty blue eyes.
England's world narrows down to France, and France alone. He only vaguely registers his own British troops arriving in Paris. For a few days he entertains hope that maybe France will wake once Germany surrenders and Vichy is officially dissolved. When that fails to happen, he despairs, wondering if whatever the Nazi scientists did has broken France for good.
He doesn't even register how much time has passed, doesn't register when the army boys bringing them food change to the hotel's normal staff instead. He only vaguely notices in that the food trays now have a vase with flowers in them every morning.
Outside, Paris is healing.
England knows that. He can see France's physical wounds healing.
When he finally notices the flowers, it rouses him enough that he goes to speak to the maid the next time she comes, quietly asking her not to bring them roses anymore.
She looks startled. "Ah, I'm sorry monsieur, I just thought, because you are British... a rose would be a little bit of home, non?"
England feels his throat close in a sudden tightness. How can he even begin to explain that he hates roses, because France loves them? That the first time he saw a rose it was in a tangled forest thicket a thousand years ago, and France found him tangled up in it and teased him for decades after? That France insists on sending him a dozen red roses every April eighth? He just shakes his head, clearing his throat. "No roses," he tries to keep his tone from being too harsh. She didn't know. "...Bring lilies instead," he offers lamely.
The girl brightens now that she knows what will please him, and bobs a curtsy before hurrying off to other duties. England stares after her for a long moment, wondering why he suddenly feels so tired. He wonders if it would make any difference if he left now, if he shut the door and didn't look back and let France crumble away into dust.
But he doesn't. He steps back and shuts the door and returns to sit by France's bedside. He doesn't even know why. Churchill ordered him back to London ages ago, and then gave up when it became clear that England wouldn't be coming back.
But really, he does know why.
Really, he wouldn't have missed the wars with France, or the endless sexual harassment, or the mocking. It's a thousand little things that he'd miss if France were gone for good. It's rabbit fur mittens and arguments about wines, it's walking along the Seine together under a clear sky and laughing at the newspaper cartoons that they both think are probably more accurate than life. It's being able to glance across a crowded room and share a Look, because there's a thousand years of history there and England doesn't know what he'll do if it's all gone.
It's a good thing France is asleep, England thinks, because he'd never hear the end of it if the frog saw him cry.
The next morning, a delicate vase with three white lilies is sitting on the breakfast tray. England stares at them for awhile, and then starts laughing so hard he thinks he might come apart. He takes the lilies and lays them on France's chest, moving his hands to fold over them and hold them in place, still giggling rather hysterically.
"Is this a sign, France?" he wonders out loud, still grinning rather manically at the sheer macabre humor of it all. "Three lilies for the three ladies you loved best; Jeanne, Marie, and you."
He drops heavily into a chair, unable to stay standing any longer, and puts his head in his hands. He wonders how long it's been. If there's lilies growing, it has to have been at least a year, but for the life of him he can't recall if it's been one or two. He vaguely recalls a letter from Churchill last week, which he only glanced at before tossing it into the trash. Something about a formal ceremony. Perhaps if it's still in the trash it'll have a date on it that he can check-
"Angleterre?"
His voice is husky from disuse, and England is quite sure he hallucinated it. He curls his hands in his hair, fighting down a hysterical giggle and wondering if perhaps he should go back to London after all before he becomes one of those mad people who collects Bibles and talks to their houseplants.
Then he feels a hand touch his hair, and jerks his head up to stare at France, who is looking back at him vaguely quizzically.
"Angleterre, why are there lilies in my bed? ...Non, I take that back. Why is this not my bed?"
He never does find out the answers to those questions, because England has tackled him back onto the bed in a pile of flailing limbs ("Ow! Mon cher, those were my ribs!") and England is laughing and crying and trying to kiss him all at once, and France is terribly confused.
Once England manages to calm down and tell him the story, France stares at him in shock, then looks down at his own hands. "I don't remember," he murmurs, and England sags in relief. "I feel..." France's brow furrows as he searches for the proper word in English. "...Unmade. Non, not quite right. Perhaps, reborn. Like I did after the Revolution."
England smiles, reaching out to take his hands. "Then that's alright, then. I'm just glad you're not Vichy."
France snorts. "Angleterre believe me, if I were Vichy, I would go fling myself out of that window tout de suite and save you the trouble."
And they smile at each other, lilies scattered on the floor and forgotten.
Outside, Paris is alive with celebration.
~*~
Notes:
de Gaulle - General Charles de Gaulle, leader of Free France during the war and the temporary French government set up after the war.
Nazi scientists were known to conduct some pretty nasty and depraved experiments. I can only imagine (and don't really want to) what they would have done to an immortal they got their hands on.
La Marseillaise - The French national anthem, if it wasn't obvious from the context
Rose - the British national flower
April 8th - The anniversary of the Entente Cordiale. And if you don't know what the Entente Cordiale is by now, why are you reading a FrUK fic anyway?
Newspaper cartoons - Specifically, England is thinking of the "John Bull and Marianne" propaganda cartoons, wherein England is depicted as a burly gentleman-type chap and France is a painted lady in a skimpy dress.
White lilies - I know at least in North America, white lilies can be seen as a symbol of death. I'm pretty sure that also holds true in at least Britain, if not France.
Jeanne - Jeanne d'Arc
Marie - Marie Antoinette, who was beheaded during the French Revolution
Formal ceremony - Probably not clear in the fic itself, but I'm not sure how to make it more obvious without making it look really out of place. The formal ceremony Churchill's letter was about was the signing of the formal documents on 13 October 1946 that established the Fourth French Republic, rather than the temporary provincial government that had been ruling up until that point. That is the reason that France awoke right then.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: France, England, hints of FrUK
Rating: PG-13 for dark imagery and angst
Timeline: 1944-1946
Warnings: Angst, dark imagery, hints of torture
Summary: When England manages to find France again, it's worse than he expected.
Notes: The title is French for 'flower of peace'. I really need to stop writing fics at 3am when I have the flu. Written for fruk_giftbasket, for twilightrose2. She wanted something to do with the Blitz, or failing that, WWII and Vichy France in general.
Posted to what_the_fruk and hetalia_uncrack
~*~
Normandy is a blur of salt water and sand and shouting men and bullets and blood. England thinks he might have been shot at some point, but he's not entirely sure. All he can remember is screaming orders to his men until his voice cracks, rallying his troops to secure the beaches.
He had hoped that France might be here to meet them.
He's not.
The British forces are to stay in the north, to secure Normandy and hold the beaches while the French forces move to liberate Paris. England doesn't know if he'll be able to stand it, and is infinitely relieved when he receives private orders from Churchill; to advance to Paris and find France.
They press south.
The march takes weeks. England has to resist the urge to abandon his post and race ahead, to scour Paris. He doesn't know, none of them know what might have happened to France. Yes, they have contact with the French Resistance, but the communication is too valuable and rare to waste on inquiring after one man, no matter who that man might be. So Churchill says, and England must reluctantly agree. He knows that were their positions reversed, France would never stoop to pestering de Gaulle about England's fate. Or perhaps he would. One never knows, with France.
It seems to take forever to liberate Paris. England, secure in his private orders and his status as a British secret agent, can move freely among the Allied forces. Even before the city is quite secure, he begins his search.
Whenever he can spare a thought, England prays that France is still alive, that Vichy hasn't murdered him.
It takes days, endlessly long days, before one of the Frenchmen comes running up to him and snaps off a near perfect salute. "Monsieur Kirkland! You are searching for a member of the Resistance that went missing, non?"
Close enough, England thinks, and if that's the cover story that de Gaulle came up with for France, then so be it. He nods. "Yes, a chap about my age and height, blond, last I saw he had a bit of a beard. Francis Bonnefoy."
"We think we found him, monsieur."
England's back snaps straight in shock, his entire body going rigid. "Take me to him!"
The place is disgusting. It looks like it might once have been government offices, but now it is a prison. French forces are slowly beginning to clear it out, cataloging who is here and why. The young officer leads England through the halls and down into the basement. England has to hold his breath against the stench, and even he, who has seen so many wars, has to fight not to retch at the sight.
He wishes more than anything that the officer could have been wrong, but he knows that he was not.
Numbly he dismisses the man, not even remembering what he said as he slowly approaches France, moving like one approaching a wild animal. Or at least, he assumes this must be France. For all he knows, this could very well be Vichy. "France?" he asks softly, voice echoing oddly in the empty room.
There is no reaction. France is seated staring at the wall blankly, arms hanging limply at his sides. The men who found him unbuckled him from his restraints, and it looks like they'd started to patch up the worst of his wounds before they'd realized who it was and someone had been sent to find England.
England swallows, bracing himself as he moves around in front of France. His blue eyes are staring blankly, dull and emotionless and empty. Defeated. Broken.
England bites back a sudden sob, fists clenching at his sides and grinding his teeth so hard his jaw aches. In their centuries of fighting, he'd never seen France this way. He'd been wounded, defeated, conquered, but never like this.
Never like this.
Forcing himself to move, England calls upstairs for a medic. He watches through a haze of red anger as the worst of the wounds are bandaged. Half-healed slashes across his thighs England identifies as Dunkirk and Ypres. The raw, still bloody burns across his shoulders must be Normandy. The welts that cross his back and chest England saw during the last war; the trenches that cross his land.
But there are other wounds, too. Wounds that England knows are not a reflection of his land, but rather the curious Nazi knife on a man who apparently cannot be killed.
England has never been so angry in his life. When his next set of orders come through, personally scribbled from Churchill's desk telling him in no uncertain terms that he is to care for France, England is relieved. He thinks he should probably avoid Germany for the next decade or so, or risk beating him to a bloody pulp.
They move France to the hotel that up until a few weeks ago was housing high-ranking Nazi dignitaries, and is now being used by the officers. They're given a suite away from the worst of the bustle. Once they're left alone, England gathers France into his arms and softly sings La Marseillaise, stroking his hair back from his pale face.
Time passes, and still France does not wake.
He will move, if England prods him enough or bodily shoves him, but he remains silent, his eyes staring, not even seeming to recognize England. England speaks French to him as much as he can, hoping it will help.
The truth is, he's known French for hundreds of years, he just doesn't like giving France the satisfaction of hearing him speak it. But at this point, he would be glad just to have France tease him or call him rosbif, anything that means that France is still behind those empty blue eyes.
England's world narrows down to France, and France alone. He only vaguely registers his own British troops arriving in Paris. For a few days he entertains hope that maybe France will wake once Germany surrenders and Vichy is officially dissolved. When that fails to happen, he despairs, wondering if whatever the Nazi scientists did has broken France for good.
He doesn't even register how much time has passed, doesn't register when the army boys bringing them food change to the hotel's normal staff instead. He only vaguely notices in that the food trays now have a vase with flowers in them every morning.
Outside, Paris is healing.
England knows that. He can see France's physical wounds healing.
When he finally notices the flowers, it rouses him enough that he goes to speak to the maid the next time she comes, quietly asking her not to bring them roses anymore.
She looks startled. "Ah, I'm sorry monsieur, I just thought, because you are British... a rose would be a little bit of home, non?"
England feels his throat close in a sudden tightness. How can he even begin to explain that he hates roses, because France loves them? That the first time he saw a rose it was in a tangled forest thicket a thousand years ago, and France found him tangled up in it and teased him for decades after? That France insists on sending him a dozen red roses every April eighth? He just shakes his head, clearing his throat. "No roses," he tries to keep his tone from being too harsh. She didn't know. "...Bring lilies instead," he offers lamely.
The girl brightens now that she knows what will please him, and bobs a curtsy before hurrying off to other duties. England stares after her for a long moment, wondering why he suddenly feels so tired. He wonders if it would make any difference if he left now, if he shut the door and didn't look back and let France crumble away into dust.
But he doesn't. He steps back and shuts the door and returns to sit by France's bedside. He doesn't even know why. Churchill ordered him back to London ages ago, and then gave up when it became clear that England wouldn't be coming back.
But really, he does know why.
Really, he wouldn't have missed the wars with France, or the endless sexual harassment, or the mocking. It's a thousand little things that he'd miss if France were gone for good. It's rabbit fur mittens and arguments about wines, it's walking along the Seine together under a clear sky and laughing at the newspaper cartoons that they both think are probably more accurate than life. It's being able to glance across a crowded room and share a Look, because there's a thousand years of history there and England doesn't know what he'll do if it's all gone.
It's a good thing France is asleep, England thinks, because he'd never hear the end of it if the frog saw him cry.
The next morning, a delicate vase with three white lilies is sitting on the breakfast tray. England stares at them for awhile, and then starts laughing so hard he thinks he might come apart. He takes the lilies and lays them on France's chest, moving his hands to fold over them and hold them in place, still giggling rather hysterically.
"Is this a sign, France?" he wonders out loud, still grinning rather manically at the sheer macabre humor of it all. "Three lilies for the three ladies you loved best; Jeanne, Marie, and you."
He drops heavily into a chair, unable to stay standing any longer, and puts his head in his hands. He wonders how long it's been. If there's lilies growing, it has to have been at least a year, but for the life of him he can't recall if it's been one or two. He vaguely recalls a letter from Churchill last week, which he only glanced at before tossing it into the trash. Something about a formal ceremony. Perhaps if it's still in the trash it'll have a date on it that he can check-
"Angleterre?"
His voice is husky from disuse, and England is quite sure he hallucinated it. He curls his hands in his hair, fighting down a hysterical giggle and wondering if perhaps he should go back to London after all before he becomes one of those mad people who collects Bibles and talks to their houseplants.
Then he feels a hand touch his hair, and jerks his head up to stare at France, who is looking back at him vaguely quizzically.
"Angleterre, why are there lilies in my bed? ...Non, I take that back. Why is this not my bed?"
He never does find out the answers to those questions, because England has tackled him back onto the bed in a pile of flailing limbs ("Ow! Mon cher, those were my ribs!") and England is laughing and crying and trying to kiss him all at once, and France is terribly confused.
Once England manages to calm down and tell him the story, France stares at him in shock, then looks down at his own hands. "I don't remember," he murmurs, and England sags in relief. "I feel..." France's brow furrows as he searches for the proper word in English. "...Unmade. Non, not quite right. Perhaps, reborn. Like I did after the Revolution."
England smiles, reaching out to take his hands. "Then that's alright, then. I'm just glad you're not Vichy."
France snorts. "Angleterre believe me, if I were Vichy, I would go fling myself out of that window tout de suite and save you the trouble."
And they smile at each other, lilies scattered on the floor and forgotten.
Outside, Paris is alive with celebration.
~*~
Notes:
de Gaulle - General Charles de Gaulle, leader of Free France during the war and the temporary French government set up after the war.
Nazi scientists were known to conduct some pretty nasty and depraved experiments. I can only imagine (and don't really want to) what they would have done to an immortal they got their hands on.
La Marseillaise - The French national anthem, if it wasn't obvious from the context
Rose - the British national flower
April 8th - The anniversary of the Entente Cordiale. And if you don't know what the Entente Cordiale is by now, why are you reading a FrUK fic anyway?
Newspaper cartoons - Specifically, England is thinking of the "John Bull and Marianne" propaganda cartoons, wherein England is depicted as a burly gentleman-type chap and France is a painted lady in a skimpy dress.
White lilies - I know at least in North America, white lilies can be seen as a symbol of death. I'm pretty sure that also holds true in at least Britain, if not France.
Jeanne - Jeanne d'Arc
Marie - Marie Antoinette, who was beheaded during the French Revolution
Formal ceremony - Probably not clear in the fic itself, but I'm not sure how to make it more obvious without making it look really out of place. The formal ceremony Churchill's letter was about was the signing of the formal documents on 13 October 1946 that established the Fourth French Republic, rather than the temporary provincial government that had been ruling up until that point. That is the reason that France awoke right then.