A Past Not to be Forgotten [France/Germany][sm;dt]

[Francis Bonnefoy]

Silence.

It was the only thing that the embodiment of France could hear while confined in the chains. Well, it wasn't the only thing; the sound of water dropping from above him echoed around the room. It was only this sound that broke through the darkness to let him know he was still alive. Well, that and the steady beat of his heart that sometimes pounded in his ears. For as long as he was alive, he country still stood, and he would fight; never yielding to the power that had devastated his land and took siege to the capital that had stood as a center of hope when the rest of the country had fallen. Paris had once stood for a while when the rest of the country was taken. That was centuries ago with a different type of warfare. A more honest type of warfare. As the time passed here in this room, he forgot all about days and hours that had passed; it didn't matter in the long run how much time was down here, it was all about survival.

Days came when he felt as strong as he was before the war started, able to do anything that he needed to. Francis knew that this was because his resistance fighters were doing harm to the enemy, sabotaging the Germans in wonderful ways that made his toes tingle. Then there were also days that he couldn't even hold his head up. All that he could do was hang slack in the chains, just waiting for the usual visits of interrogation and pain. His body was weak to pain, not quite numb to it, but he was learning how to live with certain undercurrents of it under his skin. The darkness was what bothered him most, and not the silence. Francis knew that the darkness would be a problem for him here on out, would haunt him into the future.

In the darkness, Francis had found his brain had a tendency to hallucinate. Sometimes he saw people he knew, humans that begged him to do anything to free them and stop the awful things that were happening to them. Other times it was his colonies, not saying anything, but just staring, looking at him as if he were a sad, pathetic man. And deep down, Francis knew they were right. The worst was when he saw Arthur or Hamish or even Matthew. Their lips moved as though they were trying to tell him something important, but no words could be heard from their lips. Sometimes there faces held shame, sometimes it was anger, but most of the time, it was an expression he couldn't name.

The only time that he actually had real people in the room when his captors came to visit. He didn’t remember much of what they asked him, only remembered the actions, for he never responded and they punished. But that had changed during this past month. Tension in his land was higher than normal; the tension of his geôliers was beyond what it should be. Francis could only wonder if things were finally coming to a conclusion.

The days were silent. Francis had no idea how many days had passed since anyone had walked down those stone steps and into the complete dark to check on him. There would be a point, he knew, that if things kept going on the path they had been on since he had gotten captured, that he would be physically taken to what the people had started calling the Fatherland. And this was perhaps the fate he was dreading most of all. Somewhere inside him, the knowledge bubbled that he had to have a plan; he had to find a way out of this darkness and save his country. He wanted to believe that he would be rescued. But a small part of him, every day that went by with his arms being sore from stuck in chains, helped put another brick between him and those hopes.

Francis could remember a time when he wasn’t captured. His country was, but he had escaped to join a group of rebels that wanted nothing more than to free the country that loved all. The spies in their midst was the reason that Francis had ended up here; taken in the middle of the night, just before laying down. The soldiers had invaded and had taken him to this location, this prison that had once been a beautiful treasure trove. Though that was at least a year ago, if not more, Francis knew that that moment would be forever burned in his brain. Tightening his arm and back muscles with a surge of strength that came from remembering how his beautiful landmarks and history, like this building had been turned into pain, he flexed his arms apart from where they hung over his head, unable to get more leverage while his knees were on the floor. Muscles bulged with the effort, but the chains only creaked in protest.
Letting his muscles hang limp, he relaxed as he thought. He was still no stronger than a normal human and had no way to break the chains. Warmth welled up in his eyes with the need to cry, to release his frustration with this situation; but he refused to let them see it as a sign of weakness. His captors often came when he least expected it, and there would be no sign of tear marks on his cheeks.

He could only wait for his next visit from his captors; he needed to find out what was going to him and his Country.

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Ludwig Beilschmidt
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[Ludwig Beilschmidt]

There were few things that Ludwig wholeheartedly agreed with when it came to this war and his on role in it. Very few. But at the moment, he had little say in the matter and it has his task to deal with the other national representatives while their men killed one another on the various fronts. It was his task to ensure that his soldiers followed through and did as they were instructed—some he hardly had to worry about pushing. Some were zealots that were up to their ears and believed in the cause they fought for and everything that the Third Reich stood for—they bowed their knee to Hitler and raised their hands in salute with as much loyalty and excitement as any human could muster. Germany hated working with those the most. They were oft the cruelest and the most detached from their humanity.

Furthermore, they were the ones that made Ludwig himself numb to many of the actions that he himself carried out. They were the ones that helped his sadism peak and his own cruelty to poke its head through the darker crevices of his personality. That wasn’t to say, however, that he didn’t have an inner conscious that held the guilt of his actions over his head every night and that haunted him nearly every working moment. Really, Ludwig’d been reluctant to do many things, but now…he was just numbed. If he had to shoot someone in the back of the head and kick them over into a mass grave, he wouldn’t like it…but he’d do it. The same went for taking advantage of the other nations. Many of them still had a bone to pick with the blonde due to the previous war—there was still plenty of hate on nearly every side, but he had little true satisfaction in taking any of them as prisoners or the like. Most of them were piss-poor when it came to gathering intelligence, but every now and then, he’d managed to drag out a bit of information using various methods.

One of the ones that intrigued him the most, besides the stereotypical torture was one of his officers’ methods. Kindness. He got what he wanted through being kind and friendly with those whom he was interrogating, though Ludwig highly doubted such a tactic would work on his non-human peers. Still, perhaps Herr Scharff’s methods could offer Ludwig something…not much, but as long as it was enough to count, it could be considered. He may employ a bit of it this time, but not enough to throw the Frenchman into shock and make it obvious that it was buttering him up for his secrets.

Walking down into the area where they had been keeping Francis, he sent his men from the room, stationing them outside the door instead, before entering himself with a young man, a private, following in his wake.

“Francis, you’re awake already. I was half-expecting you to still be asleep,” he had donned his gestapo uniform for this occasion, the black of the outfit nearly allowing him to blend into the shadows of the room. Had it not been for his pale features and striking blue eyes, it would have been more successful. “You do know what day it is, don’t you…?” the clack of his boots on the pavement echoes softly as he approached, reaching toward the man and undoing the clasps around one wrist as the private moved behind him. There was a light clatter as the young man nearly dropped one of the cups he had been carrying. This warranted a quick look from Ludwig, before his gaze refocused on the Frenchman. Still, the unease from the young man could nearly be felt due to the steely look he received from his superior. He quickly set up the rest of the items and took his leave.

“It’s Sunday.”

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Francis Bonnefoy

[Francis Bonnefoy]

That was one thing about being a country that he didn’t like, but in situations like this, it was a god send. They really didn’t need to eat. They got their strength from the people. Yes they could get hungry, but they didn’t need to eat to fuel themselves as the humans did. They also didn’t need to sleep, but they did so for enjoyment. Yes it strained their body, and yes they needed to rest, but these were the advantages of being linked to their country. Francis had been awake for a while, only napping here and there…. Well, if napping was what you could call it. He more or less passed out when it became too much strain, outside and internally. But he had been awake now for a few days, expecting something to come up as it had been too long since he had seen anyone. He knew it was getting close to a visit, if not from the regular soldiers, then from either Germany or Prussia himself. He wouldn’t call them by name, not in this situation. For in war, they were not an individual, they were the country they represented. Ludwig wasn’t Ludwig, he was Germany.

Hearing the sound of the door and the footsteps, he watched from under the bangs that were laying partially over his face, not making a sound, just watching. His eyes were cold, determined to give no reaction there, not more than needed. He also saw the man that followed him with something on a tray. He didn’t want to think about what could be on it, as he there was a wide range of things his mind could conjure giving the history of torture in his own country.

“Francis, you’re awake already. I was half-expecting you to still be asleep,”

Francis just looked at him, straight faced as that statement was made. More like passed out he probably meant, but all in all, it wasn’t much of a difference. It had been a while since Germany himself had visited him; was this because the others had given up trying to make him talk, or had they just got tired of him. He knew that to have the German himself visit him couldn’t be good, he wasn’t one to make small talk, not during a war, and he wasn’t one to visit on a whim. What did he want? He was having problems seeing him, but that might have been the point. Between the low lighting, the shadows that were almost constantly playing at the edge of his vision, and the play of the black uniform served to make him near invisible. Not quite though, the shades of black were different, allowing somewhat of an outline to be seen. There was one thing he had to give to the designer who had made the uniforms, they certainly cut a good figure, especially on men like Germany. The only difference was that he had seen these uniforms stained with the red of blood of their own people, and that debased the over impression it was meant to give, at least to Francis. The Frenchman knew true fashion, and what the attempts of this were meant to do. It was an old game to him, and one that he was not going to fall for, at least not intentionally. It was hard to say given the state he was really in, all that he had left was a bluff.

“You do know what day it is, don’t you…?”

The way that the German approached him asking that question, and reaching for the cuff to undo it caused his heart rate to pick up. He could hear its thud in his ears, feel it in his throat and through the hand and arm that now had proper blood flow. It near burned as his fingers and wrist had to adjust to proper blood flow again. If he could hold it close to his body, rub it to help the circulation, he would. But for now, it just hung limp by his side. Did Francis know what day it was? Not particularly. Did he have a guess? Yes, he did. Was this the day that they finally took him to the German land? Did they claim victory over the French forces? Was that why he was so week, that he was captured in all forms now, that he was a territory of the German and he was gaining that much more strength from it? He was afraid to answer, afraid that his voice would give way and betray the emotions that he was feeling. Honestly, if this was the answer, he would break down, he would cry and not care about the last of his possessions had been taken, his pride would fall and so would he, only the one arm left hanging would be all that would keep him up if those were the words out of his mouth.

All those thoughts spiraled through his head as he watched Germany, nearly jumping in his own skin at the clatter from behind him. He was so focused he had forgotten about the older soldier behind him. Nearly wrenching his head at trying to see what he was doing, he could tell he was giving away too many of his own thoughts, but he couldn’t control it. Could Ludwig see what he was trying not to show? Seeing the fear in his eyes, the unsureness in his face, the way his body trembled? Was he trembling? He couldn’t tell. Slowly he looked back to Ludwig, trying to get control of himself, trying to control his breath again, to center himself using the burning in his arm as a grounding mechanism.

“It’s Sunday.”

If Francis wasn’t being held up still by his one arm in a chain, he would have fallen in a form of relief. He wasn’t sure what Sunday was supposed to mean to him, but he would take that answer over anything else that could have been said. What could he say to that? He wasn’t about to tell Ludwig what thoughts were actually running through his head, he was trying not to speak at all. He just took a shuddering breath, eyes closing as he heard the other man leave… leaving Ludwig and him alone. What was going to happen to him now? Once he felt like he had control of himself again, he looked up at him. If there wasn’t a twinkle of defiance in his eyes, there was at least not the look of defeat, not yet… not yet… Arthur would never forgive him if he gave up this easy… For Arthur would be the only one that would accept his defeat, he would never forgive him if he gave into someone else.

“Les importances du dimanche est?

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Les importances dur dimanche est? means the importance of Sunday is?

Ludwig Beilschmidt