The Eternal Note of Sadness, a FrUK fic
Characters/Pairings: light FrUK, France, England, Charles II
Rating: T
Warnings: emotional hurt comfort, implied madness, melancholy, history
Synopsis: Calais, 1651 - Having fled his land with his king to escape Cromwell's power-grab, England finds himself adrift and longing to return. He stays in Calais where the channel is narrowest and he can still see the White Cliffs of Dover -- home -- just across the sea.
The Eternal Note of Sadness
by crashedtimemachine
Calais, France, November 1651
Arthur-England-Arthur kicked a pebble, then glared at it as if his foul mood were somehow it's fault.
The sea breeze whipped birds-nest tangles into his already unkempt hair; blond wisps of it kept trying to block out his vision of the white cliff faces that stood opposite the shoreline in stark relief against the horizon.
He crossed his arms over his chest, stuffed his hands under his armpits to keep them warm, and turned his back against the cutting November wind blowing in from the sea. It was doing him no good brooding over what could not be changed, no matter how frustrated-how powerless-it left him feeling. For who knew how long they were to be trapped in that God forsaken country (though everyone knew God was no longer with Britain, either, if truth be told and England was honest with himself.)
He picked up another pebble and tossed it, sending it flying across the waves, skipping here and there until it was lost at sea.
Yes, that was how he felt. Lost.
A not-so-subtle cough issued from just over his shoulder and Arthur-not England now, just a man feeling too small-he turned abruptly. But when he realized it was only France-Francis-his gaze fell and he guiltily hid his balled fist, clutched around the gilded hilt of a dagger, behind his back.
“Uh…” was the particularly eloquent greeting he uttered.
“Bonjour, Angleterre.” Francis didn't acknowledge Arthur's overreaction, which only put him more on guard. One never knew what to expect from the French, and it was best not to lower his defenses so easily.
As if sensing his thoughts and hesitation, Francis sighed. “Jumpy, non, mon petit lapin?” He climbed carefully over a few of the treacherous rocks, then hopped down to land on the damp, well-packed sand of the shoreline.
Arthur didn't reply, but at least he sheathed the small dagger and returned it to its hiding place within the folds of his clothes. He turned in on himself, then, as much in reaction to the sharpness of the chilly wind as the awkwardness of the quiet settling in between himself and Francis.
A sea bird called from above.
The waves continued to pound the shore.
And the white cliffs of Dover remained there, across the sea, so close and yet so very out of reach. It was painful for him, physically, to be so far away from the land that had rooted him to existence without any hope of returning for the foreseeable future. It made his heart ache. The soles of his feet itched to tread barefoot across the moors, to venture just to the edge of those teasing, beckoning clifftops.
He might have been comfortable here, in France's lands, once long ago, but too much time had passed. He had changed. His connection to the continent had eventually been severed. His connection with France, tenuous at best, had also suffered; years of constantly being at each others throats had frayed it, laid it bare, and now their coexistence on was tolerated with the kind of pity England couldn't stand to see in his enemy-cum-protector's eyes.
And yet...blast… And yet. That truth stung, too. When it had been abundantly clear that Charles was no longer safe within the confines of their little island, it had been Francis-France-who had offered them shelter from the oncoming storm. England had been on the verge of losing it, slipping into fits of rage and madness, alternately hungry for blood and an end to the violence. Something had broken inside of him.
He had fled with Charles to France as a last resort. As a matter of survival.
And here, detached from his own land and his people, England had found himself numb. His heart beat laboriously in his chest, matching the slow rush and retreat of the waves. His eyes seemed forever misted over as if he brought a touch of the fog he loved so well with him wherever he went, even on such a bright, clear autumn day-so clear that he could see his beloved home, so clear that should he reach out to touch it he might believe his hands would graze the cliff faces.
Finally, probably growing tired of the awkwardness, France made a noise in preamble so as not to startle him and put his hand on England's shoulder. “Mon ami, your Charles has taken to Paris like a fish to water.” He chuckled softly and didn't remove his hand. To England's credit, he didn't shrug it away, either. But perhaps he just couldn't be bothered to move.
The heat seeping into his shoulder through the layers of fabric was trickling into his veins. It was setting his stomach in knots and shortening his breaths. The rest of him-watching from a distance, unmoved, somewhere inside himself-retorted roughly, “Nothing more could be expected from an English monarch with a French mother.” His throat tightened around the words, but he forced them out anyway, mumbling that, on principle alone, it was surely a disgrace to the Stuarts...and to England, and…and...
His voice faltered at the last until there was nothing between them, once more, but the crashing of waves and France sighing to no one in particular.
England knew he could be infuriating; he'd never been more aware of it than that first week after landing in Calais, when his madness had worsened and his heart was breaking.
It had been France-Francis-who had picked him up, put the pieces back together. Sometimes he read to him, or they talked between his fits of inconsequential things. Occasionally, when nothing seemed to console him, Francis would wrap his body around England's-Arthur's-and desperately offer the only solace he knew how. (And he held him afterward, when their bodies were exhausted and Arthur could no longer erect barriers or protest to protect his dignity and pride. For what pride could remain after giving himself so completely to his enemy in so many treacherous, tender, heart-rending ways.)
More rarely, in the depths of fever, Arthur was sure he'd awoken to find Francis's eyes-bits of captured sky set into them-staring down at him framed in the dim candlelight. He had been cooing softly in accented English and French and mopping Arthur's brow with a cloth. Though it could have been but a fevered delusion...he would never be sure.
On the shore, when Francis-France-started to remove his hand from his shoulder, having clearly given up any hope of bringing him back to his senses, Arthur-England-took his wrist in a vice-like grip and tugged France forward. He didn't stop there; he wrapped his arms around France's waist and drew him close. He hugged him against his chest and buried his nose in the heat of his neck. And as he breathed him in, he prayed with all of his heart that he could take in enough of his scent, enough of the restorative warmth radiating off of him, to melt into his body and cease this charade. Was he only pretending to live? To what purpose? He could return to his land, he knew that, but his soul would remain here in France, with Charles.
He was trapped.
He was damned, no matter what decision he made.
So he chose, instead, to absorb France into his skin and lungs. He pressed his lips to the tender juncture of his jaw and neck and felt rather than heard the soft intake of breath when his teeth grazed the pulse beating furiously there.
France's fingers dug into his back, holding him tight, not asking for anything more than the closeness being offered. It was a silent promise: I'll protect you, mon cher...
It wasn't going to last, they both knew that, but for now, England conceded, this would be enough.
..
Rating: T
Warnings: emotional hurt comfort, implied madness, melancholy, history
Synopsis: Calais, 1651 - Having fled his land with his king to escape Cromwell's power-grab, England finds himself adrift and longing to return. He stays in Calais where the channel is narrowest and he can still see the White Cliffs of Dover -- home -- just across the sea.
The Eternal Note of Sadness
by crashedtimemachine
Calais, France, November 1651
Arthur-England-Arthur kicked a pebble, then glared at it as if his foul mood were somehow it's fault.
The sea breeze whipped birds-nest tangles into his already unkempt hair; blond wisps of it kept trying to block out his vision of the white cliff faces that stood opposite the shoreline in stark relief against the horizon.
He crossed his arms over his chest, stuffed his hands under his armpits to keep them warm, and turned his back against the cutting November wind blowing in from the sea. It was doing him no good brooding over what could not be changed, no matter how frustrated-how powerless-it left him feeling. For who knew how long they were to be trapped in that God forsaken country (though everyone knew God was no longer with Britain, either, if truth be told and England was honest with himself.)
He picked up another pebble and tossed it, sending it flying across the waves, skipping here and there until it was lost at sea.
Yes, that was how he felt. Lost.
A not-so-subtle cough issued from just over his shoulder and Arthur-not England now, just a man feeling too small-he turned abruptly. But when he realized it was only France-Francis-his gaze fell and he guiltily hid his balled fist, clutched around the gilded hilt of a dagger, behind his back.
“Uh…” was the particularly eloquent greeting he uttered.
“Bonjour, Angleterre.” Francis didn't acknowledge Arthur's overreaction, which only put him more on guard. One never knew what to expect from the French, and it was best not to lower his defenses so easily.
As if sensing his thoughts and hesitation, Francis sighed. “Jumpy, non, mon petit lapin?” He climbed carefully over a few of the treacherous rocks, then hopped down to land on the damp, well-packed sand of the shoreline.
Arthur didn't reply, but at least he sheathed the small dagger and returned it to its hiding place within the folds of his clothes. He turned in on himself, then, as much in reaction to the sharpness of the chilly wind as the awkwardness of the quiet settling in between himself and Francis.
A sea bird called from above.
The waves continued to pound the shore.
And the white cliffs of Dover remained there, across the sea, so close and yet so very out of reach. It was painful for him, physically, to be so far away from the land that had rooted him to existence without any hope of returning for the foreseeable future. It made his heart ache. The soles of his feet itched to tread barefoot across the moors, to venture just to the edge of those teasing, beckoning clifftops.
He might have been comfortable here, in France's lands, once long ago, but too much time had passed. He had changed. His connection to the continent had eventually been severed. His connection with France, tenuous at best, had also suffered; years of constantly being at each others throats had frayed it, laid it bare, and now their coexistence on was tolerated with the kind of pity England couldn't stand to see in his enemy-cum-protector's eyes.
And yet...blast… And yet. That truth stung, too. When it had been abundantly clear that Charles was no longer safe within the confines of their little island, it had been Francis-France-who had offered them shelter from the oncoming storm. England had been on the verge of losing it, slipping into fits of rage and madness, alternately hungry for blood and an end to the violence. Something had broken inside of him.
He had fled with Charles to France as a last resort. As a matter of survival.
And here, detached from his own land and his people, England had found himself numb. His heart beat laboriously in his chest, matching the slow rush and retreat of the waves. His eyes seemed forever misted over as if he brought a touch of the fog he loved so well with him wherever he went, even on such a bright, clear autumn day-so clear that he could see his beloved home, so clear that should he reach out to touch it he might believe his hands would graze the cliff faces.
Finally, probably growing tired of the awkwardness, France made a noise in preamble so as not to startle him and put his hand on England's shoulder. “Mon ami, your Charles has taken to Paris like a fish to water.” He chuckled softly and didn't remove his hand. To England's credit, he didn't shrug it away, either. But perhaps he just couldn't be bothered to move.
The heat seeping into his shoulder through the layers of fabric was trickling into his veins. It was setting his stomach in knots and shortening his breaths. The rest of him-watching from a distance, unmoved, somewhere inside himself-retorted roughly, “Nothing more could be expected from an English monarch with a French mother.” His throat tightened around the words, but he forced them out anyway, mumbling that, on principle alone, it was surely a disgrace to the Stuarts...and to England, and…and...
His voice faltered at the last until there was nothing between them, once more, but the crashing of waves and France sighing to no one in particular.
England knew he could be infuriating; he'd never been more aware of it than that first week after landing in Calais, when his madness had worsened and his heart was breaking.
It had been France-Francis-who had picked him up, put the pieces back together. Sometimes he read to him, or they talked between his fits of inconsequential things. Occasionally, when nothing seemed to console him, Francis would wrap his body around England's-Arthur's-and desperately offer the only solace he knew how. (And he held him afterward, when their bodies were exhausted and Arthur could no longer erect barriers or protest to protect his dignity and pride. For what pride could remain after giving himself so completely to his enemy in so many treacherous, tender, heart-rending ways.)
More rarely, in the depths of fever, Arthur was sure he'd awoken to find Francis's eyes-bits of captured sky set into them-staring down at him framed in the dim candlelight. He had been cooing softly in accented English and French and mopping Arthur's brow with a cloth. Though it could have been but a fevered delusion...he would never be sure.
On the shore, when Francis-France-started to remove his hand from his shoulder, having clearly given up any hope of bringing him back to his senses, Arthur-England-took his wrist in a vice-like grip and tugged France forward. He didn't stop there; he wrapped his arms around France's waist and drew him close. He hugged him against his chest and buried his nose in the heat of his neck. And as he breathed him in, he prayed with all of his heart that he could take in enough of his scent, enough of the restorative warmth radiating off of him, to melt into his body and cease this charade. Was he only pretending to live? To what purpose? He could return to his land, he knew that, but his soul would remain here in France, with Charles.
He was trapped.
He was damned, no matter what decision he made.
So he chose, instead, to absorb France into his skin and lungs. He pressed his lips to the tender juncture of his jaw and neck and felt rather than heard the soft intake of breath when his teeth grazed the pulse beating furiously there.
France's fingers dug into his back, holding him tight, not asking for anything more than the closeness being offered. It was a silent promise: I'll protect you, mon cher...
It wasn't going to last, they both knew that, but for now, England conceded, this would be enough.
..