Pretty in Blue - Part 4qualapecDecember 3 2010, 09:31:19 UTC
They chose a small, nondescript room in her embassy used for sleeping by visitors and staff. England shut the door quietly behind him as she established a seat at a round table under the light.
He took the seat across from her and avoided eye contact. His hands were clutched together to the point that his knuckles were white, and everything about him shook with anxiety. England had loved France…and had been in a very stable relationship with him during the latter half of the century. However, none of that changed the fact that France had hurt him in the past, and there was a certain, morbid corner of his mind that told him he was merely going to learn that France had given him little more than a final fuck-you.
“You first,” he finally said, and wished he’d had the good mind to grab some liquor before beginning this little exercise.
Marianne swallowed thickly. “My name was Alexandrie, and I was a doctor working with my government at the time of the terrorist strike. He was brought to my office with two gunshot wounds to the chest.” She looked very distant, like she was seeing what was in front of her without seeing. “I was aware of your kind’s existence, and knew from the training I’d undergone that you would recover from terminal wounds, even death. However, Francis was not…the bleeding did not stop. We later learned that the bombs had been placed at economic, military, and executive centers simultaneous to the sniper’s move. It was all very elaborate. He was weakened enough in the moments following the explosion that his body thought the nation was dead and didn’t recover like it should have. We tried, but you know how the story ends.”
It was her turn now. “Why me? Why was I chosen to become the new France?”
“I was somewhat curious about that myself. In my lifetime, I have seen my own kind die, even killed one or two myself. I’d never seen anything like this before.” He’d settled into a neutral zone now, something intellectual, words and theories that he could focus on instead of his feelings. “It used to be quite rampant, it seems. Most of the hints I obtained came from records written at the dawn of civilization. Of city-states. From what I could gather, the right to the land passed to the nearest vassal of that nation’s power.” Awkwardly, he smirked, and Marianne suspected he felt a little proud of himself for figuring it out. “Quite frankly, it was Fortune that chose you when Death took him.”
So…her body had been hijacked by some ancient force not because she’d done anything to deserve it…but it was rather a matter of proximity. Marianne felt cheated.
England looked pale as his turn came around again. “Did he…” He pressed two fingers to his forehead. “Was he in pain?”
“I don’t know,” Marianne found herself quivering at the memory, but answered honestly. “Everything happened so fast, it’s hard to tell.” Her recollection of the event was disturbed somewhat by the burst of light and pain and pressure that had overwhelmed her body in the seconds following his death. “He fought bravely,” she comforted when England shook.
With a smirk of an old friend jesting, England muttered, “That’s a first.”
“He thought I was you.” The confession spilled out. “Towards the end. He thought you were with him and it…” she ran her fingers over her hand to calm herself, “it was a comfort to him.”
England was quiet for a long time. “Thank you,” he choked. It couldn’t have felt right to him, not having been there when Francis died. “Thank you for giving us that.”
Marianne cursed this responsibility more than her duties as a nation.
He took the seat across from her and avoided eye contact. His hands were clutched together to the point that his knuckles were white, and everything about him shook with anxiety. England had loved France…and had been in a very stable relationship with him during the latter half of the century. However, none of that changed the fact that France had hurt him in the past, and there was a certain, morbid corner of his mind that told him he was merely going to learn that France had given him little more than a final fuck-you.
“You first,” he finally said, and wished he’d had the good mind to grab some liquor before beginning this little exercise.
Marianne swallowed thickly. “My name was Alexandrie, and I was a doctor working with my government at the time of the terrorist strike. He was brought to my office with two gunshot wounds to the chest.” She looked very distant, like she was seeing what was in front of her without seeing. “I was aware of your kind’s existence, and knew from the training I’d undergone that you would recover from terminal wounds, even death. However, Francis was not…the bleeding did not stop. We later learned that the bombs had been placed at economic, military, and executive centers simultaneous to the sniper’s move. It was all very elaborate. He was weakened enough in the moments following the explosion that his body thought the nation was dead and didn’t recover like it should have. We tried, but you know how the story ends.”
It was her turn now. “Why me? Why was I chosen to become the new France?”
“I was somewhat curious about that myself. In my lifetime, I have seen my own kind die, even killed one or two myself. I’d never seen anything like this before.” He’d settled into a neutral zone now, something intellectual, words and theories that he could focus on instead of his feelings. “It used to be quite rampant, it seems. Most of the hints I obtained came from records written at the dawn of civilization. Of city-states. From what I could gather, the right to the land passed to the nearest vassal of that nation’s power.” Awkwardly, he smirked, and Marianne suspected he felt a little proud of himself for figuring it out. “Quite frankly, it was Fortune that chose you when Death took him.”
So…her body had been hijacked by some ancient force not because she’d done anything to deserve it…but it was rather a matter of proximity. Marianne felt cheated.
England looked pale as his turn came around again. “Did he…” He pressed two fingers to his forehead. “Was he in pain?”
“I don’t know,” Marianne found herself quivering at the memory, but answered honestly. “Everything happened so fast, it’s hard to tell.” Her recollection of the event was disturbed somewhat by the burst of light and pain and pressure that had overwhelmed her body in the seconds following his death. “He fought bravely,” she comforted when England shook.
With a smirk of an old friend jesting, England muttered, “That’s a first.”
“He thought I was you.” The confession spilled out. “Towards the end. He thought you were with him and it…” she ran her fingers over her hand to calm herself, “it was a comfort to him.”
England was quiet for a long time. “Thank you,” he choked. It couldn’t have felt right to him, not having been there when Francis died. “Thank you for giving us that.”
Marianne cursed this responsibility more than her duties as a nation.
“Thank you, France.”
She met his eyes, and saw that he was genuine.
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