France as the main protoganist ...

Jun 25, 2012 17:13


doesn't mean he's the subject of the plot.

Title: Delicate life
Author:
traumschwinge
Claim: Germany
Characters: Germany/HRE, Austria, France
Table/Promt: Historical / 14. Fallen
Wordcount: 1258
Rating: T+
Warnings: You can read this as "Character Death" although it's not meant that way. This story is pretty dark and there's blood.
Summary: France comes back as promised to take what's rightfully his.


France kicked the gates open. With his sword in the hand, his blood spattered clothes and boots and the smug smile on his face, standing in the brightness while everything else was in twilight, he pretty much looked like a angel of judgment. And he liked it. Those past twenty years had been so confusing, there had been so much chaos and change. But now, everything was clear. He knew who was in charge and pretty much enjoyed it being his turn now.
"Austria! Where are you?" he yelled. "I came to take back what's mine! Stop hiding!"
He slowly paced the hall, always at alert. Gripping his sword tighter, he stopped in the middle of the hall. "Bring me the boy!" he yelled. "You've lost. You've been defeated. Your emperor betrayed you. The boy's mine now!" He paused. Took some new breath. "Bring him to me or I'll come to get him. You won't stand in my way long! Russia fled. You're all alone. Prussia won't save the two of you."
Everything stayed silent. Nothing moved. Not even the air. If he hadn't known better, France would have thought he was the only living soul in this castle. It was even darker in the hall than it should be. Outside, it had been bright day. The more he went away from the gates, the more the twilight became darkness.
He crossed the hall and reached a small wooden door. It opened to a damp dark staircase. A cold wind blew down from the upper levels.
France shivered.
Praying for Austria being on his own and as weak as he had been after the battle on the day before, France grabbed a torch. It took him a moment to light it. Somehow, the light and heat felt unreal, not fitting the place. None the less, France started to climb the stairs, his sword in one hand, the almost dying torch in the other.
There were no doors leading away for the staircase, but now and then the torch revealed bloody brown handprints on the wall or steps, eventually old drips of blood as well.
There were only two directions: up to where his enemy, his price was, or back down again and even further down. The small circle of light parted the darkness for a few steps ahead and behind. As soon as France moved, twilight regained the light's place, soon followed by the pitch dark owning this place.
After an endless time, France reached the end of the stairs. There was another wooden door. Rust covered the angles and lock, the wood looked like it would crumble as soon as been touched. But the traces in the dust on the floor and a bloody handprint showed that it had been open not long ago.
France gulped.
Something was not right. There hadn't been as many enemy soldiers as there should have. There was too much dust. And on the stairs had been only the footprints of one adult, none of a child.
After some resistance against leaving it behind, France placed the torch in a holder on the wall next to the door. He couldn't see a light behind the door, but now and then, he had the feeling like there was a fading glow. It took him some effort to open the door, but much to his surprise, the door was neither locked nor barred.
When the door was open wide enough for him to push himself through, France took up his sword, guarding himself with it.
He wasn't attacked when he entered the room. He'd almost expected this. The shutters of the windows were closed, all cracks stuffed with rags. No sunlight came into this room. It was cold in here, even cooler than on the staircase. But it wasn't dark. There was a small candle burning on the nightstand next to a big bed, not nearly spreading enough light to chase away the darkness.
France wasn't alone anymore. He could see a figure kneeling next to the bed, the head placed on the crossed arms resting on the bed. He wasn't sure whether there was anyone lying in the bed or not. Realizing that there was a noise, France stopped. It took him some time to understand that there were words within the whisper. An almost silent prayer.

“Fac eam, Domine, de mortem transire ad vitam,” a hoarse, mortified voice whispered.

France lowered his sword. He cleared his throat. No reaction. The praying went on just like before. Slowly, France took a step forward, towards the bed. If this was a trap, Austria had a much worst taste than France would have thought.

“Austria!” he hissed. “Is that you? Or is this Death himself?” Somehow, it didn’t sound this off, the figure being Death come to fetch who ever was dying on this bed.

With a rattling breath which sounded like from the grave, the figure rose. For a second, France feared that this indeed was the grim reaper, but then, the travelling coat slipped from his shoulders and revealed a once white uniform now covered in blood and mud. His hand shaking, Austria raised his own sword, the tip supposed to point at France painted circles into the air.

“What do you want, France?” he panted. Now, France noticed the big stain of blood on his stomach. But his eyes soon moved back to his opponent’s sword. “…came to finish killing me? I won’t let that happen too easily.”
France took his smug smile back up. “You sure about that? You can’t even hold your sword properly.” He, too, raised his weapon, readying himself for the first strike. “I came back to take what’s rightfully mine. Hand over the boy and I … I let you die on your own up here.”

“Niemals!” Austria yelled as he leaped forward. France blocked the blow without any effort and thrusted his sword against his enemy in return. Hadn’t the latter stumbled, he would have hit him pretty hard. Austria was in no condition to fight anymore. Fast, France let his sword strike his enemy. The blades connected. Austria tried to fight him back, but soon, much sooner than on other occasions like this, Austria stumbled, fell on his left knee first, then on both, before the sword slipped from his grip and the blow took him down.

France kicked the fallen man’s sword away, out of reach. “See? You don’t stand a chance against me,” he whispered as he took the few steps towards the bed. Sleeping there, next to a wet stain on the bed, was a blonde child. France stroke his cheek softly. “I came for you, my other,” he said.

He brushed the blanket away. The boy was so light, so thin. It still felt like touching a ghost. “I’ll make you strong again,” France murmured. “Strong and whole.”

He took up the boy, pressing the small body against his chest. If it hadn’t been for an occasional breath, France could have thought he’d already died. He was so cold, cooler than every living human should be. Soothingly, France placed a kiss on the small, sweaty forehead. “I won’t let you die, my precious,” he murmured. “I’ll make you get better, be mine.”

Without another glimpse at the bleeding man at the floor, France left the room, the boy tightly in his arms. He sheathed his sword, taking the torch from the wall. Darkness took back the top landing. “Libera nos,” Austria whispered, before the darkness took over his mind as well.

Annotations:

1. This takes place shortly after the Peace of Pressburg. So at the end of the First Napoleonic war. France now has forced a lot of German states to leave the HRE and form the Confederation of the Rhine. Which means, this peacetreaty was the end of the HRE.
2. Translations: The quotes here are taken from the "requiem" (= catholic mass for the dead) and alteret to fit the situation (Yes, I wrote ei instead of eis on purpose):
Fac eam, Domine, de mortem transire ad vitam - Make, oh lord, that the dead becomes alive again.
Libera nos - Save us (-> is suppose to point towards the War of the forth Coalition)
.

character:france, fanfiction, character:germany, fanfiction recomendation, character:austria, table challenge

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