Dieu Et Mon Droit -1/?-
Title: Dieu Et Mon Droit (God and My Right)
Author: Me.
Pairing: UK/France, but it's not very pairing-heavy.
Rated Overall: M for ideologically sensitive material, violence, gore, Nazi themes.
This Chapter's Rating: PG-13 for violence and gore
Summary: The blitzes are going on in London and France has been taken over by the Nazi defeatists. Despite the fact that Arthur is sickened and weak from the nightly bombings on his city, he'll die before he surrenders, and he'll be damned if anyone but himself hurts the fucking frog across his channel.
Warnings: Ideologically sensitive material, violence, gore, Nazi themes, starvation, cruelty, agony, and general over WWII insanity.
Word Count: 1,481
Posted on: deviantArt, fanfiction, facebook, livejournal
Phew! I've been MIA for months! Sorry, I've been extremely busy. Another chapter of Comrade will be up soon, but for the meantime, enjoy this WWII drama story!
The sky was a metallic grey in the pre-dawn existence of England in the summer of 1940. Orange dotted the horizon, and if one were naïve they would think it the early summer sunrise- however one could not afford to be naïve in such a day and age. London was burning, and to an eye trained for distance the spaces between orange dots of flame was not only heartbreaking but also devastating. Though it were impossible, a certain Frenchman fancied that he could see the carnage clearly across the channel, a deep fire and brimstone haze to the air that made him lament- whilst their rivalry with England was a long one, the British were their only hope in the war since America had nothing to do with Europe and the German defeatists had already started to move in.
They called it surrender for the good of France- France called it blasphemy in the highest order. The country was now called Vichy France. The entire north was taken over by Nazi troops and completely overrun with Germans, especially throughout Paris. A German newspaper had begun to be processed and printed that very week-it disgusted both a certain Francis Bonnefoy and the people, the news of the bombs raining down on their allies over the channel… But, Francis supposed, he was in the wrong for calling the British allies. He was, after all, in Vichy France now.
Across the channel, the city of London was in ruins. People lay in the streets, gasping and bleeding from falling debris and the blasts of shrapnel from falling bombs. Fires were being put out all over the city, but it was already too late for many of the structures… They were gutted. During the attack the night before a certain Arthur Kirkland was in a hospital, the only one there, save for a bed-nurse and six mothers with their newborn babies. The hospital he was in was in the southeast end of London, the west the part effected by the bombings. The infants' beds were all partially covered by a metal cover to protect them from falling glass in case a blast would occur- London, Arthur supposed, was expecting the attacks.
It was still an excruciating pain he had felt as the first bomb dropped. It was surreal, the way it had happened. He had been standing near the window, his heart beginning to pound inexplicably. "We're under attack," he had remembered whispering. It was then that the windows were blown out, a bomb coming down and trailing down the hill, crossing the Thames and ploughing into a building on the other side of the river. "Bloody-Ghhk!"
Arthur didn't remember pitching forward, nor did he truly remember the pain coursing through him. Oddly enough, the thing that he did remember, perfectly clearly, was the bed-nurse diving across the children's beds. She had done so to cover them from the broken glass. The last thing Arthur saw was her rolling over, glass cascading off of her back like rain, before the world went black.
Which, brings us to where we had started. I know all of this first hand, for one simple reason. England was in shambles when I had awoken, yes. London was in ruins, and I could feel it in my heart- it felt as if a searing iron had touched my heart, even as it throbbed painfully in my chest. There was blood dribbled down my lip, I supposed from the state of my heart… I knew now that I was in a serious condition. My name is the same as that certain Arthur Kirkland because I am him- and I can attest that that night was one of the most painful nights I have ever lived through. When you're a country, you can hear the suffering of your people ringing in your ears. War drives us mad- war makes us think in a mentality that would cause frigidness to the core had anyone else heard our echoing thoughts.
Waking up in such a state sent me into a deep moment of thought- I had heard of France's surrender, and I had known that the German army had been planning some sort of attack on England since the beginning of the war. However, something of this magnitude… Of total war status… had been completely unexpected. Before France had surrendered, my boss and his parliament had composed a bill requesting a marriage of our two governments at my request. What was I to do? My frog was in trouble, and in danger of being seriously damaged. I'm the only one allowed to hurt him.
However, that defeatist idiot Petain had already been in power. He claimed to 'know' that the British government was up to something and declined my offer. That was the first time I had seen France cry in centuries… The one time I don't refuse is proposal for marriage- strike that, I even asked him, myself- and he is forced to deny. How I had pitied him in that moment. I had simply kissed his forehead and whispered for him to stay strong. It would seem my meanness towards him had disappeared, as it often will in times of strife. In those few months that had passed following the failed proposal, I never had even dreamed I would wake up with my heart on fire and my eyes misted over with pain.
I was devastated from the bombs not only decimating my heart physically, but emotionally as well… I knew the Nazis must have departed from France, as leaving from Germany they would have had to run out of fuel. The bed nurse (bless her heart, the dear woman had the kindest soul I have ever witnessed- a beautiful woman from the Cleethorpes and Grimsby area, a small port in the north, about 300 miles from the border of Scotland) helped me to a bed, ignoring her own small but numerous wounds that the glass had gouged into her back.
Exhausted and in pain, I fell into a deep slumber.
It was two days later that I had received a letter from Francis, explaining to me that he had been watching the channel desperately as the city burnt and told me verbatim his thoughts that I had mentioned above. He called himself devastated- I called him a coward. I was angered beyond the point of being forgiving when I had gotten that piece of paper. My rival (read as best friend), my idiot frog (that I had called 'lover' [reluctantly, mind] since the end of the first great war), had given up on himself and, on a greater scale, given up on me protecting him.
I suspect he must have known something about the blitzes, because it wasn't long after he had surrendered that they had started. Bedridden, feeling alone and used, I had written my angry letter telling him exactly where to go… And I tossed it away. His words on that parchment were express evidence that he hadn't given up on me- I knew just how much he was risking, sending me a letter under both Hitler and Germany's watchful eyes in Paris. It took hours for me to calm, but when I had finally done so I composed a longer, more express letter.
Dearest frog,
I cannot pretend to express my utmost confidence and love for you in this moment, because truth be told, I do find your actions to be of cowardice and betrayal. My city is burning… my heart city. I am in pain. It's a searing, harsh, indescribable pain that I know you've felt before by my hand… And I cannot express how sorry I am, now, having felt such agony. Despite my finding you a coward, self-preservation is far more desirable than to take the hero's route. You've never been good with pain…
I want to take you into my arms and tell you that everything will be all right. I want to press kisses to your lips, and I want to be able to scowl and glare at you and call you an arse for leaving me in lieu of your precious city… But you know I wouldn't mean it. Paris is beautiful… And I can feel what you must have felt when it was under threat of bombing, especially after all the pain we both felt in the first Great War. Keep your beautiful city safe, France…
I plan to be the martyr this time.
I will drive the Germans out of your lands and I will bring you peace once more, even if it kills me.
Deepest love,
Arthur.
As I sent the letter off with the bed-nurse to be delivered, I couldn't help but feel as if I were lying through my teeth… It's hard to fight a war when you are bedridden.
-TO BE CONTINUED-