L'ÉTAT, C'EST MOI

"Moi, je t'offrirai des perles de pluie venues de pays où n'il pleut pas. Je creuserai la terre jusqu'après ma mort, pour couvrir ton corps." - Ne me quitte pas, Jacques Brel (This is an independent RP blog for France from Hetalia: Axis Powers; This blog is NSFW; This blog uses Travis Fimmel as its face claim; This blog is inactive.)

[x-going-to-be-deleted-x-deactiv]

La Résistance - Paris, February 1943

[mephistos-archive-one-deactivat]

I left the burning village behind me and turned into a country road, following the street for a while. Gloved hands shoved deep inside my coat pockets, collar raised and hat pulled down covering my face, I paused. My tired eyes wandered over the horizon. Nothing but flat plain. In the near distance smoke arose again. In front of me a sea. Frozen. Like everything at this time of the year. The people, who lived here once called this season winter. I called it a fucking graveyard – one I dug out all by my own.

I crinkled my nose as though the stench of burnt flesh had reached my nostrils and grabbed for my hip flask. Fumbling at the screw cap, I turned my head around, narrowed eyes fixed on the dark forest. The naked branches rustled in the cold wind. Frowning still, I brought the small bottle up my lips and took a big swig of cheap brandy. For a split second I was sure that two icy blue eyes were staring at me from between the woods, but at second glance they were gone. I was getting paranoid, I thought and averted my gaze when—

“Marie!” I croaked, voice hoarse. Her half-lidded eyes travelled silently over my body, from my polished shoes to my sharp face. Broad jawbone, prominent cheekbones, aquiline nose, broken so many times I stopped counting. “It’s cold, darling”, I said thoughtfully as I stretched out my arm to stroke an ashen hair curl behind her ear. I hoped for an impulse; flushed cheeks, the sound of a heart beating faster, a smile, lips red, flashing white teeth as they moved. But she was cold. As always when she visited me these days. “I’m dreaming, right?” She gave me a short nod and pointed at the sea and then at the axe covered with snow and dirt. A coldness, hard as the Russian winter, overcame me, crept through my limbs and immobilised my entire being. I swallowed hard.

“I can’t go there, Marie. He will be there”, I said, voice merely a whisper, aghast, afraid. Her bony hand touched my face as he eyes slowly turned glassy. I shook my head, a pleading upon my lips. And then a scream. Loud and painful. With all my weight, my entire burden I fell onto my knees and crawled forwards. “Don’t leave me, please”, I begged her, fingers tearing at her velvet, red evening gown. Her lips twitched at my touch. For the blink of an eye I was so sure that she smiled at me. Her usual warm, vivid smile. But then it was gone. Her body fell apart. It started with her skin. It turned pale, so much paler than the snow surrounding us, first, then her cheeks, hollow, her teeth shed, and her ashen hair blew through the wind. How often did she die in my arms like this? How often did I lean in and stole a last single kiss from her dry lips, the taste of death and burnt corpses on my tongue?

A tear dropped at her skin and for a split second there was life. Her green eyes flashed, gleaming like the stars above it. I shifted and crawled closer. I stroke her cheek bone with my thumb as I whispered gentle words, a lovely promise I couldn’t keep. I breathed against her collarbone, hard, and kissed her again and again. Death never tasted sweeter. I closed my eyes and clutched her hands tight when they crumbled into dust. I wanted to touch her, to smell her, taste her – love her a last time. But in vain. Maggots crawled out her mouth. The penetrating smell of dozen of eggs was in the air. Not even the cold winter wind could blow the stench away.

My gaze flicked from Marie to the axe in the snow. I sighed, but then got back to my feet, took the axe and strode onto the frozen sea. With shaking hands, I brought the axe down – again and again, breaking the frozen sea within me. Once the ice crumbled and held my breath and waited for the shadows to crawl out of the darkness, reaching for me, holding me, then pulling me downwards. Down, down. To the bottom of the sea. Without complaint my mind was dragged away. Reflections, faces were playing in the water, dancing and smiling at me. A hand, fingers long and bony reached for my wrists and led me to him.

There he sat. A boy with eyes as blue and sharp as mine. He held a scythe in his right hand and a fountain pen in his left. He sat on a giant mountain of corpses, some screaming my name, some long gone, other slowly vanishing. Each the pen scratched over the paper lying in his lap, he swung the scythe. Death is a Master from Deutschland. A stinging noise resounded, broke through the water and left me paralysed for a brief moment. The crippling clumsiness faded as soon as he continued to work through his list. A lost so long – who could see the end? Heavy-footed, I approached the mountain of death and misery. Hesitating I climbed the mountain. On my way to the top I found a golden key. Heine was smiling at me when I took the key from his fingers. Step by step I came closer. I tightened my grip around some dead arm, pushed myself further and further.

“A new song, a better song, my friends will be my aim! We should right now on earth, a kingdom of heaven proclaim.” He lifted his gaze and looked at me with a blank expression. I knew the words. I knew the words far too well and listening to each syllable made my heart ache even more. “I am sorry. I…” I trailed off, lips trembling as I reached out for his ankle, a heavy chain attached to it. “I hate you. You’re rotten from the inside Deutschland”, he said bitterly and withdrew his foot. “Please let me—” – “NO!” he cut in, voice as sharp as the crack of a bullwhip. “I once had a beautiful Vaterland. The oak tree was so tall; the violets nodded gently. It was a dream.” He shook his head, lips pressed together into a stern line, but his eyes – he was in pain, great pain. “Each day, each minute more arrive. You promised me a kingdom of heaven, dear Vaterland. This, Deutschland, is Hell. The mountain you see here – that are our people. All of them you’ve sold out for power, driven by greed and pride. If I had known that this is your dream of a kingdom of heaven, I would have never left Prussia’s bosom.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine. With eyes wide and fearful I looked up at my younger self. “I… I…”, all I mustered were some stuttering. What was there to say? To excuse, after all? After everything I did? I betrayed my own culture, my people, myself. He was right. Ludwig was right. I was rotten from the inside. “I know I promised you a better future. But I…” The key slipped through my fingers. Quickly, I turned and flicked my arm, tried to reach for the key when the scythe came down.

My eyes cracked open. I gasped for air. My heart was racing, my legs shaking, my mind spinning endlessly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want… didn’t—”, I broke in mid-sentence the second the realization sunk in. “France”, I croaked in surprise when I made an effort to get up. Only now I noticed the heavy weight around my ankles and wrists. Jerking as though I could loosen those heavy chains by simply pulling at them, I let out a hiss followed my spiteful curses. Pulse pounding in my ear, mind still in a haze, I let my glance wander, searching for a way out but no matter where I looked, ugly French grimaces were staring back at me. “I really hope this is another bad dream.”

[lagrandenation]

I assumed that when Jacques kicked Ludwig's head, Ludwig suffered a concussion. He was unconcious, and was probably regenerating. I started pacing after an hour, and asked a friend who owed me a favor to buy cigarettes for me. When he returned, I placed the cigarettes in my cigarette case, except one which I lighted.

I stopped pacing, and inhaled the cigarette smoke. I sighed as I exhaled, and the smoke floated above me before it dispersed into the air, which was thick with smoke. I thought that if someone wanted to find us, they could follow the smoke to this chamber, but I doubted that anyone would look for us in the sewers. It was cold and dark here, and although it was possible to live here, it wasn't comfortable.

I had something here, though. I had something here that I didn't have anywhere else: freedom, and having that was good enough for me. I remembered when I was captured in 1940, the prison that I was in was as cold and as dark as these sewers, but I prefered the sewers to the prison because at least here I wasn't confined to a small space or chained to a wall.

I glanced at Ludwig behind me. I suppose that his situation is as bad as my situation was... but not quite, at least he had the radio to listen to.

[mephistos-archive-one-deactivat]

Face Off – Summer 1940

[mephistos-archive-one-deactivat]

My lips gashed into a wide, wicked smile. What am I doing here? Well well, take a wild guess, France. I came to visit an old friend, someone I dearly missed all these years. Ah, scratch that, who am I kidding? I came for revenge and nothing else. And I started my Alexandrian revenge campaign with a forceful slap. His head snapped aside, a muffled scream echoed in the small cell followed by a frantic gasp when my gloved hand flicked forward. I slammed his head against the wall with a heavy crack, holding him right there as my fingers tightened the grip oh so slowly.

God, what a lovely melody. The death rattle of France. The second act of my opera – my Gesamtkunstwerk – written by the God of War himself. The wide smile never leaving my face, I withdrew and stood. Lightening a new match, I turned and went back to the door, knocking against it two tims. I told the SS-man to switch on the light before I closed the door shut again. The darkness fled the dim light slowly and revealed the whole dimension of my people’s work. Efficient and precise, as expected. Pleased with the sight in front of me, I strode back towards Francis, who was still coughing and blinking away the last black spots blurring his vision. With a mix of irritation and confusion he looked up at me when I unchained him lock by lock. The heavy chains dropped onto the cold, wet ground and Francis was free – but only for so long.

I tilted my head, mocking a pitiful expression before I lunged and smashed Francis against the wall. A deep, pained groan echoed in the cell, making my smile grew even wider. Oh France, what did you expect after everything you’ve done to me? Mercy? I barked a short, humourless laughter as another blow came down against his face. Too weak to fight back, hm? Mighty France – la grande nation – far too weak, too exhausted to throw a fist at me. It was so easy to dodge him and then trash him back against the wall once more.

Growling beneath my breath, I started to encircle him. Step by step. I pulled myself to full-high, face hardening into what I considered my battle expression, eyebrows furrowed, lips set into a stern line. My gaze flicked through the small room, then back at Francis who pushed himself away from the wall, taking the offense. Fool. There was no way winning this battle. He has lost. Lost against a far superior opponent, against someone who was born on a battlefield. I breathed warfare since the very beginning, since Otto the Great beat the Hungarians, took the Italian Crown and forced the Pope into submission. Europe had been in my hands once, and it was in my reach again.

I clenched my hands in fists as I shifted my weight from my right foot to my left. Francis made the attempt to attack my right flank – a mistake. I knew he would do that. My right hand was my stronger one after all. But I changed my plans, and concentrated my full strength in my left fist as I broke through wood, through stone, through cities and armies, finally reaching the centre: France. If is nose wasn’t broken already, it was for sure broken now. He crushed against the wall. A scream of agony stimulated my blood thirst, adrenaline rushed through my veins. I was invincible.

I went two steps aside and cut off Francis’ escape path, moving as quickly like a sickle slicing grass. I punched his guts hard, broke though the centre with an iron fist of heavy infantry, the roaring sound of bombers echoed between the walls as I slammed my elbow down his neck. Combined warfare. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. I clicked my tongue and took a step aside before I brought up my leg and kicked him hard in the stomach, forcing him down to his knees again – the only right place for him. Quickly, I pressed my shiny leather boot against his shoulder. He looked up, eyes dull – as dull as his stupid battle plan, made to stop me and turn me down. Ha! Me! Nothing, nothing in this damn world could put a halt on my wrath now. Poland was merely the first part of my Ring opera. A lovely overture, a concerto with two violins bowing in perfect harmony. Valhalla’s trombones resounded in the North, slowly announcing the second act. My Leitmotif? The rumbling sound of my artillery, the battle cries of my soldiers followed by victory chants in the most threatening sense.

This was the moment I was waiting for since 1919. Since this ‘Schanddiktat’. Since Versailles. Since the day he’d whistled for me as though I was a fucking mutt he could order around. When I came – when I had to come – I didn’t come as an equal and that little shit here never intended to treat me like one. Never. Had to sign this treaty. No matter what. There were no options. I had to taste my own unjust defeat on that day again and again. And when I came back, when I saw my country, my nation burning in flames of Communistic slogans, the fire of rifles, the trigger pulled by lost soldiers, the rumbles of stomachs – millions to fill, I knew that he would pay dearly for this humiliation. He brought this fate upon himself. He pushed me, further and further. Versailles, the Rhineland Occupation, being left out of any kind of international community. Bastard.

With a final hard kick, a scream of rage and victory resounding, I knocked him down for good. My heart was pounding, breath came and went in quick gasps, my hands were still shaking. Francis lay on the ground. His arm stretched out, fingers twitching as he glanced up at me. I smiled, and buried his hand beneath my boot, grinding against his fingers. And so Siegfried defeated the evil dragon, and he will take the ring – the one who grants him the power to rule the world. Truly beautiful, I thought when I crouched down. A master piece of art. The combination of all arts – new instruments – tanks, planes, soldiers chanting, screaming, fearing and fighting – the clearest and most profound expression of humanity. All individual arts were subordinated to a common purpose – a greater goal: victory. A final victory of France – the heritage enemy.

Almost gently, like a mother lulls her baby to sleep, I hummed as my hand stroke through Francis’ blood-soaked hair. With my free hand I reached for my dagger and cut off a golden-blond strand of hair. I knotted the two ends together and put on the ring. Once I stood again, I went back to the heavy iron door and waited until the guard opened. To my surprise a Sturmbannführer opened. He wasn’t older than I, short-cut brown hair, dark eyes, small pupils gazing into the cell. “Heil Hitler”, he said in a rather sloppy tone. “Should I call someone to clean up this mess or…” His voice, higher pitched than mine, trailed off when I shoved him to the side and closed the door behind me. Whatever we were discussing now was none of Francis’ business.

“No”, I answered clipped as I continued walking, the young Sturmbannführer following me with each step. “Don’t switch the light off! And don’t open the door under any circumstances. I want him to rot there for another day. Then wash him, dress him nicely and give him some water – I don’t want that he thinks we’re barbarians”, I told the guard as we passed the entry of the cell block. “Where’s the SD headquarter again?” – “Ah yes, that’s why I came here. The Abwehr took quarter in the Hôtel Lutetia – last floors. I’ve thought you should be informed”, the Sturmbannführer said. “Good”, I gave him a nod and we stepped outside the building. “I want France there in a day. Call the Ritz. That’s where we are.” – “Nice place”, he said, mocking a slightly impressed expression and I couldn’t help but grin a bit. “Lutetia wasn’t the worst choice either. Nice Art Deco building if I remember correctly.” – “Ah Herr Deutschland, I don’t care so much for architecture and art. There’s a lot of work to do.” He pulled out a brown envelop and handed it over to me. I gave him a curious look, but then decided to read it later. A car was waiting for me. “What’s your name Herr Sturmbannführer?” I asked when the driver opened my door. “Schellenberg, Herr Deutschland. Walter Schellenberg. Heil Hitler.” His heels clicked and his arm flicked towards the sky. I returned the gesture and took a seat. The door shut close and we drove the long boulevard back to the Ritz, my fingers playing with the golden ring again. 

[the-iron-kingdom]

1763

1763

Gilbert was still in his usual quarters at Versailles. Although arrived by carriage, the month of travel had made him weary and grateful for the luxury with which he was provided. Yes, the hallways were filled with dog shit and urine, but this was true splendour anyhow. Everything was gilded and adorned, making him feel plain in comparison. Fashion had changed, and instead of embroidered silk, he now wore wool. Causal clothing for a man in the mindset of the beginning of this century. His wig too, was infinitely simpler and smaller. Gilbert would wait for the servants to unpack his clothing, but for now, he washed himself.

However, within an hour of arriving, dusk just arriving judging by the rolling pink clouds he could see from the large windows, he was already bowing in front of Francis, peeking up from his slitted eyes, Gilbert’s shirt was pulling at his shoulders, too tight with his recent fit of expansion just the year previous. Yes, his shoulders had broadened, muscles enlarged as he had cannibalised Poland in a great feast. Perhaps he’d ask for a tailor here, a magnificent French one that served the court. He was the kind of man who understood nothing of fashion, and left it up to other. Just get me whatever is popular, he usually said, furrowing his brow at even the thought of having to make the choice himself. Rising from his curtsy, he pulled at his clothes, the seams seemingly bursting with the new borders he had drawn for himself.

"My apologies for surprising you at such short notice," Gilbert said with a grin. At first, this was just a routine delegation, but Gilbert craved more than just land.  He wanted recognition from a country to the standards of France. His French was perfect, the trace of an accent barely audible. Oh yes, he stood here in deep appreciation as he looked at the man who still forced him into subservience as he simply sat. A wig perched on top of his head, well-made in typical Versailles court fashion, and smelling faintly of lavender. His hose was made from the finest silk, no doubt, and his shoes had unmistakably Parisian buckles, with the intricate metal work and faux inlaid stones. If he did find this tailor, he would point at Francis Bonnefoi and ask for the same with no shame. "But I thought my personal presence might be warranted in the light of recent events," Gilbert said, smiling broadly in an attempt to be charming. But really, what he wanted was approval. He wanted praise from this revered nation. To be validated as correct, great even - this, he craved more than redrawn borders.

"Finally, Royal Prussia is mine, and I have one greet sweep of territory in the East!" he exclaimed enthusiastically, gesturing with shining eyes. "The Polish threat is neutralised! My king simply does not stop impressing the world, it seems, with his cunning and talent. My army is unstoppable! But no worry, I don’t even carry a firearm with me. Not even a new map. My king remains at Sanssouci, or Prussian Versailles. I don’t think you have been, yet?" he inquired, eyes glinting mischievously. It was almost rude, to point at this shortcoming on Francis’ part, without directly offering an invitation. Those same cheeky eyes lingered over Francis, not quite so covertly.

There was something about France that automatically meant admiration. Was it the gentle rolling hills of its landscapes? The muted palettes that inspired all artists alike? The quiet charm of Normandy versus the almost sleezy, slovenly brightness of Provence with all its contrasts. Gilbert knew swamps and dull forests, the grey Baltic sea, and fields of rye that stretched forever. How his eye loved France, how it loved to linger. The bright blue of his eyes was the Côte d’Azure, the blond the fields of the North with its wheat and champagne. Or the great Massif Central, an impressive jutting feature, beautiful in its wretchedness. This, was France. And Gilbert saw a country he wanted to immortalise, if only he could do it justice. He thirsted to reach out with his hands and drink from the Gironde.

Gilbert would run the pads of his fingers down every plane, and curl his body against the others just so it would take on the same shape in a sorry impression. His cheek against the other, a deep whiff of wine and lavender and Mediterranean sea salt, before his hand sought to grab it all, the Alsace with her siren’s voice and so much more than that. And he could speak French and would speak French and fully abandon his German, murmur nothing but the words this man could understand before sighing happily that indeed, there was something close to a heaven on this Earth. It was not to be found in the Baltic Sea he so loved, nor in the great quiet woods he would gallop through with an exasperated heart. No, it was France, for all his promises and meaning. 

[valorwon]

Blue Waltz

Even though she wouldn’t admit it, it was nice to have a weekend with Francis all to her self. Even better they were both going to be doing their shared passion: ballroom dancing. Back in the day she had wonderful tutors show her the art of dance, the only art she was able to put her whole self into, but Francis had remained her favorite partner. No one else compared to the older man.

After checking into their lavished hotel room in the Jefferson, she had called a few dance studios she frequented and asked for a favor. Yolanda had agreed to let her use hers privately after hours. That was where she’d wait for the man. Dressed in a crimson red practice dress that came down to her upper thighs that had dropped shoulder sleeves with a skirt that when she twirled opened like a small flower petal. She loved the feel of the material and how empowered it made her feel as she danced. It was a dress better suited for the Latin dances but this was just a practice. Not the real thing.

Her sensible one and a half inch heels clicked on the hardwood as she practiced a few moves by herself  until she heard the door open. Smiling at Francis, she put her hair in a messy bun on the back of her head. “You look handsome.” Alaynah complimented him. “The CD’s are over there. Pick which dance we do. After all, it’s the male who leads.” The woman gave a playful wink with a small chuckle, excited to dance with him again.

[wansui-a]

⌈ ✯┊ 王耀 ⌋ — » 

                   ◤ Yao blinks, and pink lips part as he listens to the Frenchman expound upon his problems.  It’s times like these that he misses his strictly agrarian society and his old, traditional habits.  In looking at him, he’s reminded of just how stressed each one of them is —- how much they’ve got to go through simply to maintain the status quo of the world.  It’s not a burden that any of them would have chosen, he’s sure.  But four or five thousand years has seen quite a bit of change.  It never used to be this difficult before. ◢

         If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure Alfred is feeling the pressure from all sides, so I don’t know how long he’s going to be able to keep up what he’s doing.  As for me, ah, we all have our good days and our bad.

                   ◤ It brings him a vicious sort of satisfaction to think that Alfred might be having as much trouble as the rest of them.  Not that he wished any of them harm, truly —- but his issue with the States almost feels personal at this point.  It’s something that he feels he’s got to settle before he can truly move forward as a country.  But of course, he’d not tell anyone that.  Whether or not he comes out on top, he will always be the Middle Kingdom.  It is ingrained within him.. ◢

         不是 —- no, thank you.  But yes, it certainly seems like the people have built us up to a point where we can truly say that we’ve moved past everything that happened the past few centuries.  I shouldn’t say, but I’m rather proud of them.  It’s rather like watching your child fall and pick herself back up.  I wouldn’t say that we’ve moved so far as to say we’re truly on par with the others, though.  We still have quite a bit to deal with internally.

                                                                                                                                                ✯✯✯ 

[ausdemwald-archives-blog]

Sous les Arbres

[ausdemwald-archives-blog]

Francis had never seen Ludwig as calm and comfortable as he was as the walked down the path away from the town. “Berlin is nice and I enjoy working with my people there but that’s why I make my home outside the city proper. It’s too crowded for my tastes. I try to limit the smog and pollution but there are too many people to completely avoid it,”

He looked at the greenery off the path but decided ultimately not to risk it. He didn’t know how good Francis was at traveling through unpaved woods. It would have to wait for another time.  Instead he turned so he was walking backwards facing the Frenchman, “Did I ever tell you about my earliest life? That I have memories of that is.” 

Going into the wild with Ludwig was a good way to get to know him better. He was much less tense and guarded around the splendor of his lands. 

[lagrandenation]

And So We Return

[the-iron-kingdom]

Like an animal, Gilbert could smell nothing but fear. The air lay heavy with stress hormones, a beautiful bouquet of wild roses to his nostrils. Epinephrine for Francis’ undamaged heart, which beat like a fever drum at the mere thought of what Gilbert was able to do.  Norepinephrine increased the rhythm of that drum, the sound full and inviting him to action. Cortisol is what made it sweet, Francis’ blood sugar increasing as if inviting Gilbert to put his lips to the wound and suckle it like a babe on a mother’s breast. Androstenone was different, made the bouquet heavy and soured the room. That was him. If one had to describe androstenone in a single word, it would be dominance. Every pore of his secreted it as he was offered a blade, Francis’ own blade to sink into his flesh.

No. This luxury would not be allowed. Gilbert had to make do with foreign steel intruding into his body rudely, and so would Gilbert. This wasn’t about friendship, but about the settling the oldest of claims Gilbert had. This was for 1806, and 1806 alone. Francis forgot so easily about 1919, about 1945, and those crimes were so much greater than the humiliation of having the most vital, the most precious organ ruthlessly destroyed because he did not kneel. What a far cry from the calculating man the world had known in the 17th and 18th centuries, for he thought that just this would settle the score. It was a beginning.

“I’m not Ludwig’s friend, Francis,” Gilbert said slowly, smile feral as he took the knife gracefully, before slashing his right palm.

Eyes narrowed, he looked at the cut, not having moved a bit. Blood dripped onto the floor, always so unnaturally bright when fresh. It spread like blooming flowers in Francis’ carpet. Perhaps the blood looked so theatrical because all Gilbert was doing, was putting on a show. He wanted to make his marionnette dance for him.

“This won’t do,” Gilbert then exclaimed, dropping the bloodied knife careless, a flick of his wrist directing a spatter of blood at Francis. His face turned stern, and he narrowed his eyes before grinning once more. “You should have cooking knives, yes? Quality German steel, like Wüsthof. A butcher’s knife. Oh, don’t bother getting them. I’ll find it.”

The singing of steel as it was removed from the rack was music to Gilbert’s ears, and he turned around with it clutched firmly in his hand. Eyes flicked up to Francis, then back down as he ran a fingertip across. His own blood tasted like it always had, like iron. A forearm soaked in red marked his own wounds, but he didn’t care. Gilbert was born to dole out and take pain, to fight. Francis wasn’t. At the mere mention of death, his pupils dilated, his breath hitched, and heart picked up the beat. He was a liar, and a bad one at that.

“Do you remember, Francis? The way you held me by the shoulder with a hand, your hands dirty and gritty and breath smelling stale? First you just stabbed, but then you saw who, and laughed and twisted back and forth in my ragged flesh until my shoulder collapsed from beneath you,” he said, tone dangerous and tense although his eyes shone like the well-kept blade in his hand. “This might jog your memory,” Gilbert said off-hand, unexpectedly plunging the blade into Francis.

His shrill laughter filled the room, bloody right hand on Francis’ shoulder as he twisted and twisted and pulled out an in until the body slid off of his blade.

“You’re a fool, Francis,” Gilbert said, shaking his head as his eyes crinkled with his smile. He wiped the blade on the trouser leg of the body in front of him, still conscious for a matter of seconds. That was the beauty of killing by attacking anything but the body. The pain was still felt. A naughty school boy smile appeared on his face as he stuck the knife into Francis’ stomach. “For safe keeping,” he snickered with a pat.

“But you should know, as you bleed out, that this mere five litres won’t suffice. Oh yes, I need your blood, only so much more than this. Paying in installments, my friend.”

Gilbert tucked a lock of Francis’ hair behind his ear, a tender smile on his face as he felt the sweet taste of revenge flood his tongue. Friends. The end destination of this road Francis had chosen to travel. What a fool he was after all, for what friends did Gilbert have? What friends had he ever had? Their blood always ended up on their hands. He left the room with his smelling like lavender, like the soap from Provence Francis had in his apartment.

“Until next time,” Gilbert ominously said, before the door thudded closed.

[whattheendoftheworldlookedlike]

Paris, 1944.

[chevalierviolet]

The French Resistance (French: La Résistance française) is the name used to denote the collection of French resistance movements that fought against the Nazi German occupation of France and against the collaborationist Vichy régime during World War II. Résistance cells were small groups of armed men and women (called the Maquis in rural areas), who, in addition to their guerrilla warfare activities, were also publishers of underground newspapers, providers of first-hand intelligence information, and maintainers of escape networks that helped Allied soldiers and airmen trapped behind enemy lines. The men and women of the Résistance came from all economic levels and political leanings of French society, including émigrés; conservative Roman Catholics, including priests; and citizens from the ranks of liberals, anarchists, and communists.

The French Resistance played a significant role in facilitating the Allies’ rapid advance through France following the invasion of Normandy on 6 June 1944, and the lesser-known invasion of Provence on 15 August, by providing military intelligence on the German defenses known as the Atlantic Wall and on Wehrmacht deployments and orders of battle. The Résistance also planned, coordinated, and executed acts of sabotage on the electrical power grid, transportation facilities, and telecommunications networks. It was also politically and morally important to France, both during the German occupation and for decades afterward, because it provided the country with an inspiring example of the patriotic fulfillment of a national imperative, countering an existential threat to French nationhood. The actions of the Résistance stood in marked contrast to the collaboration of the regime based at Vichy.

After the landings in Normandy and Provence, the paramilitary components of the Résistance were organized more formally, into a hierarchy of operational units known, collectively, as the French Forces of the Interior (FFI). Estimated to have a strength of 100,000 in June 1944, the FFI grew rapidly, doubling by the following month, and reaching approximately 400,000 by October of that year.Although the amalgamation of the FFI was, in some cases, fraught with political difficulties, it was ultimately successful, and it allowed France to rebuild the fourth-largest army in the European theatre (1.2 million men) by VE Day in May 1945.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Resistance

[jasta11]

This is where the village of Fleury once stood, this place had been captured by the French and the Germans 16 times during the Battle of Verdun, in 1916. During the war, the town was completely destroyed and the land was made uninhabitable to such an extent that a decision was made not to rebuild it. 

[the-iron-kingdom]

& (Hmmm, maybe when they were having their affair?)

Gilbert smiled up, eyes crinkling in mirth as Francis lay on top of him. It was spring, so outside the grand double arched windows, there was greenery blooming and even the faint chirps of birds. But inside this room, it smelled musky and warm with a tinge of sweat. It smelled like sex. The mattress indented beside Gilbert as a flat hand found itself there, propping Francis up. His hair was almost shoulder length beneath his wig, soft and ticklish while Gilbert’s was cropped for ease.

"What?" he asked, about to prop himself up. With one smooth movement, he was pushed back down, two blue eyes studying his body with close concentration. "Why the look?"

Fear was hard to ignore, even when it bubbled up with a fist of lust. Something inside him protested that his first instinct was to rock his hips upwards, moaning wantonly in order to avoid whatever it was that Francis was focusing on. Fear and dread went hand in hand now, skipping through his heart whose beat went faster and faster the longer he saw those two azure eyes scan every inch of his body."You’re so nervous, mon chou,” Francis responded, tutting softly. “Why? Self-conscious?” He snorted. The Frenchman pinched the skin by his, right where the pelvis protruded, making him yelp. “Do not make such ugly noises. Pigs sleep in stables.”

"I’m no pig," Gilbert responded with a grin, a hand moving to Francis’ backside, heartbeat slowing down as he began to relax.

"No. You’re mine, hm?"

"No," he said, a little too fiercely, now sitting up in a single smooth movement, two hands moving to his shoulders. "What makes you think that?"

"Oh, it’s a figure of speech!" Francis sighed, rolling his eyes. "You are my lover alone, right?" A finger tilted his chin upwards, the azure eyes twinkling and mouth wrinkling wryly in a self-satisfied grin. "Ah, I am," he then purred, finger sliding down the nestle in the hollow of his throat. "You were so tight I wondered how often you find yourself in the sheets like this."

"Don’t be lewd," Gilbert mumbled, turning his head away as he felt a sure blush warm up his cheeks and even the tips of his ears.

He didn’t have a lot of sex. Barely any, really. It was strange to be vulnerable like this, naked, with another nation right next to you the same, and to do it all for pleasure. Doing this with humans was just a road to regret, so Gilbert abstained in most cases, conquering what he liked but never in bed. 

"You are such a gory man, nowadays, and yet you shy away from vulgarity. Tell me, do you avert your eyes when you slit a throat?" Francis laughed, the finger tracing the parallel scar across, until it wrapped around and fingers curled in the nape of his neck.

"Gory? You are the biggest war monger on this continent."

"And soon you will be if you continue at your current pace. But tell me, what do you do when you fire your rifle? Bare your blade?"

"Usually?" Gilbert said, baring his neck a little more, lifting his head to enjoy the other’s touch, "I grin. I watch the blood pulse out, the folds of skin, the muscles and tendons and bones all unearthed. Their expressions as they fondle and caress their wounds."

The smile disappeared from Francis’ face, but Gilbert didn’t see with his eyes trained up at the chandelier above them.

"What did you do when you got this scar?" Francis murmured, retracing the line as his hand wrapped around that vicious throat.

He was a warmonger, yes, but not like Prussia. Not like Gilbert. He did not slaughter for the art of slaughter, admiring it like he did like a piece of music or a tapestry.

"That? It was Tannenberg. 1410. First they beheaded the Grand Master, Ulrich von Jungingen. Then, just a metre or two away from the corpse, Poland held me down, and Lithuania swung the sword. I was told that they didn’t manage to behead me, and you can see," he said absent-mindedly, without much fervour as he thumbed the still smooth skin on the left side of his neck.

What did it matter to Francis, his history and struggles? He was simply a lover, somebody to live out hedonistic fantasies with in the present. A small offering. All Francis knew was Prussia, who won every battle and was blessed by God himself to win. Prussia, who carved up Poland with ease, never satisfied, always ready for more. He did not know Prussia, who lost and sank through one knee when addressing Poland, Prussia, who struggled to keep cities under his control, Prussia, who thinned out and was laughed at in German court. Prussia, that was pathetic and hopeless, a sold out hull of glory he only now was managing to reclaim. Now, he lies in bed with France on top, with the power to overturn.

With one smooth movement, he let them both roll, Gilbert now hovering above Francis. If he was Francis’, then was Francis was his. Before he could be pushed off, pushed below like the upstart kingdom he was, he bit right above the Adam’s apple, and sucked hard. Mine. The mark would not last like his scar, but he would remember these days, even though he rocked his hips and moaned invitingly, like desire told him to. Francis laughed, squeezing a buttock roughly with nails digging in, already hardening beneath him.

[tristamateer]

I swear I am no longer looking for ways to apologize to the hungry parts of you that I could never satiate. I am working a lot on breathing. I am working less on running away from the sound of you: 

loud, loud, loud.

Like the beat of some bloody drum. Like the rhythm of some snarling heart. Sometimes I’m still afraid you’re going to jump out at me from the dark. Sometimes I’m still afraid that you won’t.

I swear I am no longer looking for ways to apologize to your grabbing hands and your sticky fingers. I don’t know how to interact with you without getting you all over me. I want to be all over you. I want to be over you like water under a bridge. It doesn’t sound right, but it works; I promise.

I swear I am no longer looking for ways to apologize to you. I don’t even want to say “hello”. I don’t want to coax greetings out of you. I don’t want to charm words out of you. I already know your angry hiss; I already know your bite and it doesn’t come from a basket.

I am only looking to learn to move my mouth in a way that is honest but doesn’t betray my own trust. All I want to do is learn to smile at you and mean it before I cross the street to avoid you.

[writerswritecompany]

Happy Birthday, Frédéric Mistral, born 8 September 1830, died 25 March 1914

Five Quotes

Trees with deep roots grow tall.

The five fingers of the hand are not all equal.

When the Good Lord comes to doubt about the world, he remembers that he created Provence.

Each year, the nightingale dresses with new feathers, but it keeps the same song.

He who has seen Paris and not Cassis has seen nothing.

Mistral was a French writer and lexicographer. He won the 1904 Nobel Prize in Literature. 

Source for Image

by Amanda Patterson for Writers Write

[comicsalliance]

GENE LUEN YANG TO COMIC CREATORS: DON’T LET FEAR STOP YOU FROM WRITING DIVERSE CHARACTERS

By Matt D. Wilson

In a speech at the National Book Festival at the Library of Congress last weekend, The Shadow Hero writer Gene Luen Yang threw down the gauntlet.

Yang challenged comics creators to overcome their fears of bring criticized for inaccurately portraying characters who are different from them — in terms of race, gender, or other identifying factors. In brief, he told writers to do some research and get it right, but first and foremost to step outside themselves.

Here’s a brief excerpt:

We’re afraid of writing characters different from ourselves because we’re afraid of getting it wrong. We’re afraid of what the Internet might say.

This fear can be a good thing if it drives us to do our homework, to be meticulous in our cultural research. But this fear crosses the line when we become so intimidated that we quietly make choices against stepping out of our own identities.

After all, our job as writers is to step out of ourselves, and to encourage our readers to do the same.

READ MORE

[unspeakablevice-deactivated2024]

Friendship played an important, though often ambiguous, role in the emotional history of eighteenth-century France. It was recognized as a sincere and fundamental human emotion. The intensity of some friendships between men in the eighteenth century has made some historians speculate that they often involved a homoerotic dimension, but this can be difficult to ascertain from letters alone. This was a society in which there were strict rules about social conduct, and limited mingling of the sexes, therefore male friendships (and female friendships) could serve a deep emotional need for closeness. The codes of letter writing in the eighteenth century allowed for friendship between men to be expressed in terms of love. In many ways, their understanding of love, friendship, and homosexual desire was different from ours, and differently expressed, which makes it a hard task to infer anything about the nature of that closeness in the absence of other evidence. On a more concrete and ascertainable level, the growth of Masonic lodges and provincial academies and societies also provided a forum for friendship as a social and cultural institution, though here friendships were collective and part of a rhetoric of fraternal, rather than individual, personal relationships. Such ‘fraternal’ societies provided a habits where the ideas of public spiritedness and bienfaisance were to the fore, and which would serve as models for the network of Jacobin Clubs. Fraternity would be a key idea of the Revolution.

Marisa Linton, Choosing Terror (pg 43)

[italian-luxury]

Versailles

[sheepskeleton]

Lestat de Lioncourt