Unfettered || Francis [1944] [sm/dt]

[Arthur Kirkland]

August 25th, 1944

Great Britain had waited a long time for this moment, among many other moments crucial to this horrifying, blood-drenched war. Europe would never be the same. It would be torn to shreds, left with barely the strength to put itself back together. Arthur could feel the strain on his shoulders, over his muscles, burning against his skin like his capitol had been burning for days, like those recently wrought blitz wounds burned across his flesh. They were still open, he could only stop the gaping wounds from bleeding with bandages, because healing only took place when his people worked to heal the gashes on his soil, monuments and among his people.

He had been shouldering Europe to keep it from falling, most of his allies captured or seeking refuge behind his walls. He was putting all his money into keep it from falling. He could feel it draining his resources—he knew that he was essentially sacrificing his Empire to keep Europe from completely falling. But none of that mattered now. What he’d been spending a thousand years building would be worth nothing if Operation Sea Lion had been a success. Nazi Germany taking him meant the death of his people. He’d caught a report from the lips of Heinrich Himmler, military commander of the Nazi party, that it had been his intention to kill 80% of the French and English populations by Special Forces of the SS squad after German victory over Great Britain. Commander-in-chief Walther von Brauchitsch had drawn plans to deport the English male population into slave labour and terrorising the remaining people after plundering the country for anything of financial, military, industrial or cultural value. Arthur couldn’t bend the knee. For his own sake, for Francis’s sake…

France had been taken four years ago. This was probably the longest they’d physically been apart since the enactment of the Entente Cordiale. Part of the agreement that he held in his alliance with Francis was providing cooperation and protection. A small part of him felt as if he’d failed Francis on that particular promise. A personal motivation had been to antagnoise Germany with that alliance while Germany's chancellor had been purposefully alienating France from allies, a maneuver that probably worked a little too well in conjunction with everything else that created the perfect storm.

The burden was made lighter when America came through in the end, just like Churchill said he would. Arthur had been insistent, perhaps a bit too insistent that they liberate their allies, starting with France. Throughout the war, a part of his heart had warmed slightly with news of the French Resistance. Wherever Francis was, something unbreakable still seemed to burn in him. And liberation began when the French Forces from the inside staged an uprising against the German garrison as the US approached. Initially, they were hesitant as Hitler had ordered the German military to completely destroy Paris should the Allies try to take it back—a proverbial gun aimed to destroy Francis’s heart should they approach any closer. The Allied generals agreed that Paris was considered too valuable, culturally and historically, to risk its destruction. Arthur would have to agree. But as if in defiance, the French Resistance within had risen in rebellion, as if Francis himself was struggling against his restraints wherever he was, baiting the German generals to do their worse.

The battle for Paris was intense, and it wasn’t until three days into the fighting that Hitler gave the order to “inflict maximum damage on the city.” Arthur’s own heart felt like it had frozen in the fray upon hearing that transmission. To cause a nation the most pain was to aim for its heart. It wasn’t until the following day that the Germans had finally surrendered. Despite repeated German orders that the French capital "must not fall into the enemy's hand except lying in complete debris," which was to be accomplished by detonation, the commander of the German garrison surrendered at the Hotel Meurice.

Hitler’s voice was said to have been famously screaming over the phone to the German garrison "Is Paris burning?!"

"Is Paris burning?!"

"Is Paris burning?!"

The Hotel Meurice was a beautiful building, gilded and reminiscent of older eras, but it held no beauty for Arthur in that moment as they made their way through the premises. This building was being used as the headquarters of the German garrison, now a horrible stain in its history. Arthur could feel him, as surely as he could feel any other nation nearby. He broke away from his own commanders, ready to tear apart the hotel brick by brick if need be. He descended down, into the belly of the building’s foundation, in a world of mortar, brick, and musty darkness. It took him a moment to find the lights and when he switched them on, the area was only bathed in a weak light. It was musty, dirty, and it smelled like piss and old blood.

His gut tightened painfully at the thought of another nation being down here, in the dark, alone, for God knows how long. He moved deeper into the room, his boots heavy against the cold, concrete floor. It was so silent, not even the sound of the soldiers moving around on the ground level floor could be detected through the thick stone and wood. Silence alone is what would’ve driven Arthur insane. He saw the chains first, and when he saw who they were attached to, he stopped. His breath felt strained in his lungs. Feet rooted to the ground, his eyes trailing across what could have been a broken body… a dog. A dog would’ve seen better treatment.

He swallowed the thick tightness in his throat and he approached slowly, his voice is soft, the softest it’s been in days… months… when it had been screaming orders minutes ago, shouting over a group of men, and sharp in meetings. ”Francis…” His voice still sounded loud in that awful silence. ”Francis,” he repeated, breaking the ever thickening space around them, as he approached the slumped figure, not too close. Arthur's muscles tighten in his back, in his arms, in his calves, preparing himself to move quickly if he needed to. He reached for one of the chains holding the nations arms in place. His fingers felt for one of the links and with the strength he’d grown used to during his Empire days, he snapped it apart.

...

Tag // Francis Bonnefoy

[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. 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. As the time passed, he forgot all about days and hours, 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. 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.

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.

Holding his breath as the tale-tell sound of a door opening met his ears, he forced his breathing to shallow as if he had was either asleep or passed out. This was the chance he was looking for to escape, he could overpower whoever they sent down to see to him. Waiting as the footsteps reverberated down the stairs and started towards him, he heard his name spoken in a low tone. It had been too long in such a stressful situation, too long with only enemies to recognize a friendly voice at this moment. All he heard was the tone used to make him think he was amongst allies and attempted to trick him into giving up his secrets.

Deep down, Francis knew that they must have broken past his barriers a few times, but his mind, even with its different psyche than humans, refused to admit the shame of giving in. Slowly the man approached and Francis had to force himself to stay relaxed. His head remained bowed so the top of his head was visible and his hair would remain hiding his face. His breath was smooth, enough to where he hopefully would look like he would fall as soon as released if not awake first.

He felt one of the chains on his wrist tighten, confusion running rampant in his mind at the action for it wasn't normal, but he quickly pushed it off to a new tactic on their part. The Frenchman knew the time was close when he could act and fight for his freedom. The seconds ticked by in his head as he felt someone snap the chain on his right arm. Not taking the time to process why it was snapped and not released by the cup, he gathered the strength he had gained, and with all his frustration and anger, he swung at his released, getting as much of his body behind it as he could. His legs were screaming at him and he lunged, suffering from the effects of misuse, and his arms screamed in agony. But that would not stop this one chance of freedom.

He could only hope and wish that this one shot he had landed true.

[Arthur Kirkland]

August 25th, 1944

Even now, as Arthur approached him, the silence was deafening, from the drip of moisture, the clatter of his boots, the broken breath from his lips, and every soft rustle of his uniform. All of it carved out the silence. Sure enough, Arthur had mistaken Francis’s even, barely present breath as him being unconscious or too drawn into himself to take notice of his surroundings. He hoped it was the former. Breaking other nations out of dissociation, a frame of mind that was reserved for mental self-preservation, could be a challenge. And it would give him some justified wariness over the state of Francis’s own people. And it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise when immediately after snapping one of Francis’s chains that the previously lifeless hand tightened its fingers into a fist and swung at him. Arthur only had a second to react to the motion and he felt a jarring pressure as he attempted to dodge the swing, Francis’s fist effectively clipping his cheek.

Despite being somewhat stunned by the movement and the half successful hit, Arthur’s mind continued to race and his fingers reached for his own Webley revolver, dropping it to the floor and kicking it with the side of his boot so that it slide into darkness on the other side of the room, out of reach for the both of them. The last thing he needed was for the potentially half-crazed nation getting his hands on his own weapon. Arthur also reached for the dangling, broken chain still attached to Francis’s cuff and yanked hard, attempting to create tension so that Francis wouldn’t swing at him again. Arthur stared at him, wide eyed and alert, the green in his eyes acrid whenever the adrenaline was awash in his veins. He’d grown used to being hyper-vigilant and taken by surprise, and despite this being his partner, his muscle memory from the past handful of years in particular was not surprised. This was routine, the adapted way of life.

Contrary to his harsh movements and the tension that he was creating with Francis’s chain, his voice was still soft. ”Francis… look at me,” he ordered gently. Arthur’s cheek was throbbing and hot, but he was ignoring the pain, just as he ignored the pain of his open wounds, several of them freshly opened beneath his bandage and uniform with the harsh movement as he attempted to restrain Francis. ”You’re being held at the Meurice Hotel… there are British, American, and Free French officials and officers currently at the level above. The German garrison surrendered… Paris is taken back, liberated… and I’m taking you back.” His voice broke a little on that last statement, but he kept his composure. Only while he softly repeated his statements, trying to mentally ground Francis, reorient his thoughts, his eyes took in the condition of his body. ”Please look at me…” he repeated.

Regret. Shame. That it had taken Arthur four bleeding years to get here. He was angry with himself, livid beyond words. But it only showed in the way that was grinding his teeth behind tightly closed lips. The chain mangled beneath his tight grip. Strength that he’d only known being an empire, strength that he knew was rapidly deteriorating. Arthur was sure that he wouldn’t have an empire by the end of this war. Or at least it would be greatly diminished, no longer the Great British Empire that stretched across the world. He was sacrificing it to keep Europe alive. Still, he reached for Francis’s wrist where the metal cuff held him steady, attempting with whatever strength he had left to tear it apart like a roasted chestnut, for now, only managing to warp the metal and was now able to see the raw skin beneath. ”I’m sorry, Franics,” he spoke quietly, a fresh tightness in his throat, whether he was apologising for his initial roughness and noticing Francis’s condition or not getting to him sooner, he wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps both.

...

Tag // Francis Bonnefoy

[Francis Bonnefoy]

It had been years, decades, even perhaps centuries since he had actively believed in some form of deity. Through all the trials and tribulations that they had been through, through all the wars and the almost literal hell that they had each subjected each other to on whims of their own mind and of the creation of their governments, it had seemed comical and near stupidity to believe in, to hope that something that couldn’t be seen, that judged someone on actions and did nothing to help those in need would somehow come to his rescue. But when he felt the hit land and himself grunt with the pain that seared through his hand, he could have cheered. It seemed that his prayers, his hopes and everything else that he had been secretly wishing had come true. Breathing deeply, he tried to keep moving; for momentum was the best thing that he could hope for at this moment. He had spent most of his time down here, when he was conscious at least, thinking about how he would escape when he had a chance. Sometimes, they had provided enough light so that they could see what they were doing to him, Francis had taken note of the positions of where on their uniform they had kept their guns, their clubs, anything that could be considered a weapon. So it came as no surprise when he heard the sound of metal on concrete, the sound of a weapon being thrown away before it could be used against the owner. That action alone nearly put a grin on his face. A small part of his mind wondered if that type of grin would make his captors think that he had gone insane… and perhaps it had, but he couldn’t worry about that this instant. This would return to near perfect working order once he was free and so was his country.

He kept moving though, even with the chance of a weapon gone. If he stopped now, he knew he would lose his chance and it would be near impossible to get his limbs moving with the strain he was subjecting them to. He started coiling himself back, preparing to lung forward to break the chain from the wall.. or to break his hand, he wasn’t sure which one he was going for at the moment, just something to where he would be able to get out and flee, find his way to his secret fighters that he could feel in his blood. Their rage was boiling in him, something was boiling in him and he needed to get out. But this was cut short. With one yank, his free hand was caught and pulled by the blasted chain that had just been freed. Growling deep in his throat, he felt like a caged animal, just waiting for its chance to bite the one that caged it. And when it came, he was going to tear flesh and spill blood and make his captors wish that they had never captured Francis Bonnefoy. For there was one thing that every Frenchmen knew, and that others dismissed at their own peril: The Kingdom of France was built on Romance…and at the heart of romance was passion…. Each action that had been taken against him and his country had been building a fire that was fueled with the passion of revenge… and there was no darker passion than revenge and vengeance.

“Francis… look at me”

He didn’t want to look at his captor… looking at his captor would put a face with his torment, one that would haunt his dreams, making them into nightmares as every pain that was ever inflicted would be by that person. But he didn’t hear the gentle sound of the voice. He couldn’t analyze the voice tone like he usually did. It was just a voice with an order that had no recognition associated with it. He growled again and tried to jerk out of the hold. He could feel himself using up the bit of strength that he had gained from his own country fighting.
 
“You’re being held at the Meurice Hotel… there are British, American, and Free French officials and officers currently at the level above. The German garrison surrendered… Paris is taken back, liberated… and I’m taking you back.”

“Be thankful I am not free otherwise my guillotine would feel like a flower compared to what I would do to you.”

He growled out in French as the others words sunk in. not all of the words had reached him though, and from what he could feel, how his strength was being quickly sapped from him, he could only imagine it to be true. Held at the Meurice Hotel, British, American and Free French … sundered… Paris is taken…. Taking you back. Taking you back. Those words is what hollowed out his heart and made it feel like it had frozen and sunk into his stomach. His body stilled as it processed what was said. Did his allies really surrender to this threat? Was he really being taken to the so called Fatherland? Sagging in his bonds he felt like he was boneless. His eyes that once were clouded with rage and from being stuck in this hell for too long were now clouded with grief as he looked at the floor. How could they all lose? The Arthur that had fought tooth and nail with him, never giving up the fight until things had turned out how he wanted… did he really kneel at the feet of another so willingly? And the child that he had seen fling around buffalo and pick up cars with nary an effort.. Did he turn his coat so easily after it seemed he had been pulled into the fighting as well? Two people he cared about; were they in the same situation as him currently? Sorrow and despair were now creeping into his heart and mind, coating everything with a different type of numbness that he hadn’t felt before.

“Please look at me….”

Why was his captor so intent on having him look up? Perhaps he wanted to see the face of defeat, to revel in it and boast that he had finally been the one to break the stubborn Frenchman? He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

“I’m sorry Francis”

Why was this man saying his name like that; like he was a trusted and true friend, one that knew off of his secrets. He couldn’t understand, it didn’t make sense at all. Breathing in a shuddering breath as he tried not to let the tears fall, he knew what he had to do. He could ask one last favor from Gilbert.. and he knew it would be honored. So he just hung there, waited for himself to be recuffed to the wall, or wait for himself to be moved. He only hoped that he could see Arthur one more time. Without his wanting to, one tear did well up at his eyes and then fall, followed by another.

“Do not feel pity for me, feel pity for yourselves… you’ll have to live with the consequences of your action….. The world is forever changed, and not for good. I hope you enjoy the thousand year reign, for I’m not going to be around to see it.”

[Arthur Kirkland]

August 25th, 1944


Witnessing Francis’s reactions against him, from the low growl in his throat to the way that he struggled against him, while there was a hint of frustration rising in Arthur, there was a dark sort of pride warming the British nation in the way that Francis fought back, even if it was against him and not entirely appropriate at the moment. Arthur knew very much about Francis’s occasionally deep thirst for revenge; it was something that he had tried to sway in the past. The First World War being a prominent example. Despite British attempt to convince France otherwise with more logical retributions, France needed to extract harsh retribution on the Germans, a play that they were very well paying for at the moment. This time, revenge should have no place in their hearts, and Arthur was set on cooling that desire in Francis once he’d managed to get him out of here and back on his feet. The world would be weary of war and blood after this was over, there should be no more desire for it, no desire to it keep it steadily burning like the wretched curse it was.

Francis continued to look away from him and it was when he responded to Arthur’s words with a threat in French that he realised that the nation believed him to be one of the Germans. ”Do I sound like a Boche to you?” he responded dully, using one of the French slurs for the Germans. Arthur still kept his restraining hold tight against Francis when the other had growled in French to him. Arthur laughed, humourless for the most part, at Francis’s threat and he responded lowly, switching to Francis’s language to counter. Normally, he wouldn’t be caught speaking French, but Arthur knew it very well and was more than capable. And right now, it felt more appropriate, saying things that he didn’t feel anyone else would be saying to Francis. ”Et vous m'avez fait pire que ça, François… Tu m'as déjà blessé avant. Je connais bien.” (And you’ve done worse than that, Francis… You’ve hurt me before. I know it well.)

Heat entered his already hot face, his cheek still throbbing with that heat, as he added something else, something quieter, eyes briefly averting from Francis’s face. Somehow, it was easier saying certain things when he wasn’t admitting to them in his own tongue. ”Mais vous perdre a été cent fois pire.” (Losing you felt much, much worse.)

And there was a change in Francis, he seemed to slump in his restraints before going completely boneless, and Arthur had to awkwardly loosen the chain that he had been hanging onto to keep Francis restrained, still gripping it tightly in his own hands just in case this was another ruse. The nation was staring at the floor, not moving, not responding. Arthur noticed wetness hit the floor and came to the slow realisation that Francis was crying. His heart stilled, his muscles slackened. And then he heard his words, also realising that he’d interpreted all this as the Allies had lost and that he was potentially being taken back into Germany.

Arthur decided to take a risk, giving a lot of slack in the chain as he slightly knelt close to Francis, tentatively reaching out to brush Francis’s hair back, raising his chin. ”Francis, look at me… It’s me, Arthur… I’m here to save you. We haven’t lost, we’re still fighting like the stubborn, hard-arsed bastards we are.” His throat likewise felt like it was tightening, seeing more of Francis’s condition, seeing his tears, and seeing him wear defeat like that. Arthur's gloved thumb moved to wipe away that tear.

He switched back to French, it felt safe to say vulnerable things in the dark, in the cold, damp darkness where they were both bruised, nearly broken, and barely, but still hanging on. ”Je t'aime et j'ai craint…” (I love you and I’m afraid...), A slight tremble in his body, always so secretly wary, so adverse to saying those words, admitting to such things, but he always meant them whenever he did. Ever since their alliance; however, those difficult words were slowly starting to become more comfortable to say. This year would be the fortieth year of such an alliance. Arthur swallowed thickly, the outline of Francis and the chains becoming increasingly difficult to see clearly. Fuck it all... ”Et il m'a fallu presque te perdre pour réaliser combien.” (And it took me nearly losing you to realise how much.) Stubbornly, even in the midst of all this, Arthur wiped at his eyes with the edge of his gloved fingers before anything could fall, already mortified enough as it was. ”J'ai peur de te perdre à nouveau.” (I’m afraid of losing you again.) There was a slight strain in his voice, a tight breath, but he continued by taking more of those tight breaths, like bristling shivers against his throat.

Arthur tried clearing his throat, attempting to regain that iron-clad self-control that he was so painstakingly well known for, now glancing over Francis with clearer eyes, assessing the damage close up and how he was going to take him away from this nasty place.

...

Tag // Francis Bonnefoy
Notes // a uni friend studying French gave me the translations, so I don't know how accurate they are, but it's what I was given, so hopefully they're not too awful. ;D

[Francis Bonnefoy]

”Do I sound like a Boche to you?”

Truth was, everything sounded alike to him currently; enemies, friends, those who fell somewhere in between all were registering as enemies to him. It was the only way to protect himself in this environment. Shoot first and ask questions later. He had been fooled by Gilbert himself, and he should have known better. So there were no friends in this dark room, only enemies.

”Et vous m'avez fait pire que ça, François… Tu m'as déjà blessé avant. Je connais bien.”

Speaking in his own tongue was a new one, not even Gilbert had done that with him. Unknown to him, the familiar tone that he couldn't registered at that moment as friendly, combined with those words in his language had created a weak spot in his armor of protection around himself. It has been so long since he had heard his own beautiful language; for all that had passed his ears was the rough English and the even more boorish German.

”Mais vous perdre a été cent fois pire.”

This combined with the words that the allies had lost, he didn't know how to take it. Everything was a blur of protect himself mentally, don't reveal more than he already had, nothing was making sense besides the deep anguish, the sorrow and despair that filled his whole body. The chains went slightly lax, bit Francis didn't care anymore; there was no use in getting free only to find his allies joining his cage. He knew he was crying and he didn't care. He didn't care if the enemies knew he was broken now, he didn't care that the emotions from his own people were sending him mix messages. There was no time to straighten them out, not since he has an officer still holding onto him, abet loosely.

”Francis, look at me… It’s me, Arthur… I’m here to save you. We haven’t lost, we’re still fighting like the stubborn, hard-arsed bastards we are.”

He felt the hand on his face, trying to turn it towards him and he didn’t resist. He did keep his eyes shut though. There was the need to not see the face, to not see the mismatch with the name of the face, the crushing of hope that was trying to build in his chest that it was Arthur there with him. He knew that would break him more than he was already, break him further into a shell of his former self. The feeling of leather across his skin was not new, but this gentle touch was. Before, the touches were harsh, painful, meant to show him who was in charge and who was the one subject to pain and the unending darkness. One of his tears was wiped away with that gentle touch, and he was finally convinced him that he needed to see who was taking such care with him. Even if it wasn’t Arthur, perhaps he had found an ally in this place that could get him free and back to his own people. After all, the one chain was broken, one more and he would be free.

”Et il m'a fallu presque te perdre pour réaliser combien. ”J'ai peur de te perdre à nouveau.”

Slowly, two orbs of Azure appeared. It took a moment for them to focus on the figure in front of him; but once they did, a small sound that mimicked the beginning of a sob mixed with a sound of relief was pulled from his throat. His eyes showed his vulnerability, how easily it would be to hurt him in this moment, in this darkened place that held only pain and fear. He didn’t know if it was the soft touch, the words in his native language that always resonated so close to his heart, or a combination of the two that had convinced him to place the small bit of trust he had left in his body in this man, but he was thankful that he did. This man was his rescuer in more ways than one today. He couldn’t think clearly still, couldn’t put two words together to tell of him how thankful he was, how the joy suddenly filled his heart, all he could do was let a few tears fall; tears of happiness and not the accustomed pain and fear.

“I’m not hallucinating? You are actually here?”

His voice was soft, sounding; it was as if it was close to breaking, and hoping that it wouldn't. He wanted to hold him and be held by him in return. He needed the physical comfort of another friendly presence to help ground him and to convince him that he wasn’t once again dreaming and wouldn’t wake back up so utterly alone.

“Please be real, I don’t think I could stand it if you were not….”

[Arthur Kirkland]

August 25th, 1944

Arthur’s eyes trailed along Francis’s bruised and battered body, and yet couldn’t overlook the silent admiration he felt for the strength that still resided there, the French who were still resisting, still fighting. He saw the tears, but that spoke more clearly on the state that the other nation was in. The price of that strength was intense suffering; and he knew that Francis had suffered a lot in those years of captivity. And when Francis turned to face him, Arthur’s fingers encouraging the motion with gentle pressure. He saw Francis’s eyes focus on him, and his heart did that silly little tightening whenever he felt his penetrating stare. A secret sort of heat that he tried to keep to himself, though hints of it shown over his cheeks, a soft color. He swallowed thickly, feeling the emotion tighten his throat, also coming to terms with the fact that it really was Francis right here in front of him, and that this all wasn’t another hopeful dream of a successful military retrieval.

He felt the hot tears streak down his cheeks before he could do anything to stop them and he nodded slightly in response to Francis’s question if he was really there. Arthur stubbornly wiped at the wetness with the back of his glove, sniffing softly before straightening his back, pulling himself together rather quickly. Arthur broke the other chain, fully freeing Francis from his restraints. Once that was accomplished and Francis could let down his arms, Arthur moved forward to envelop him tightly in his arms, holding him close. He never was very openly affectionate when it came to the prospect of others seeing him show it, but right at this moment, he really didn’t give a damn if the whole of his unit was just upstairs at the moment, potentially breaching the cellar at any moment.

Right now, he felt that it was probably the most appropriate response in this situation; not having seen, spoken to, or touched the other man in years. As he held him close, his fingers trialed softly through Francis’s hair. He could tell that it was grimy and unkempt from the foul treatment of the Germans, but that was also the least of his concerns at the moment.

”I’m real, love…” he murmured lowly, the words quiet enough for only Francis to hear. Arthur’s attention didn’t remain on their surroundings, the dripping walls of mortar, the stained concrete beneath their feet, all of it was witness to terrible memories that would be difficult to wash away. ”Let’s get you out of here,” he added, an uneasy tremble touching his spine that he didn’t quite want to dwell on. Arthur swung one of Francis’s arms over his head and around the back of his neck, his other arm encircled Francis’s waist, pressing him close against his own body for support.

Arthur couldn’t ignore the small details that made his heart cringe, just how different Francis felt against him after years of that brand of treatment or even the fall of his tears that said more than words could in that moment. And given their newly-forged union matched with their already extensive history, he knew every bit of Francis far too well. So, even the smallest changes seemed like a world of difference to Arthur. His jaw tightened and his lips thinned, struggling to keep it together as he attempted to move with Francis in a gentle manner, encouraging him to at least start moving with him away from where he had been chained like an animal. ”You held on… You held on, and now you’re here… now I’ll take care of you.” He said it almost more for himself, a constant reminder, a reiteration that this wasn’t another disturbing dream. The hopeful ones always were the most disturbing the moment he woke and realized that it was just a fanciful vision meant to plague the mind.

...

Tag // Francis Bonnefoy

[Francis Bonnefoy]

"I'm real, love..."

His voice was loud in his ears, even though Arthur was only whispering. Francis couldn't respond, he couldn't get his voice to work. All he could to was lay against Arthur, crying, letting out all of the pain and frustration and all the doubt he had. It was cathartic in a way. His newly freed hand curled into Arthurs jacket, holding him close as he was held, a solid strength in front if him, one that had never faltered once a goal was in sight. He held on, his mind empty of everything else in this moment,

"Let's get you out of here."

Nodding as his arms were moved, he couldn't help but hiss in pain as the one was moved over Arthurs shoulder, moving muscles in ways that they haven't been moved in what felt like forever. He wanted to cry for a whole new reason now, but he just bit his lip. As he was held close and moved to standing, he had to lean heavily against Arthur. It had been so long since he had walked, been so long since he had used his legs thst they screamed in protest with every step. His progress was slow, and all he could so was watch the ground under him as he forced the steps with help. It didn't take long before he was out of breath, all of his energy drained from his previous movements. He could feel his own relief in him, as well as the relief of his people. There was sadness and pain, those were the deep emotions he felt, ones that would be present long after the initial joy had passed .

"You held on... you held on, and now you're here... now I'll take care of you."

He did hold on, mostly through sheer stubbornness and pride, but he was here. Francis didn't know what was left of himself though, but he was here. Arthur was his light in the darkness, the spotlight that lead sailors safely home from a sea voyage. Looking at him out of the corner of his eye, he could see the strength in him, the solid foundation. He could see the sea in Arthur, one that rose and fell, always moving to adjust itself to the situation, willing to smash anything that got in its way when it was angry.

With every slow step francis took, he coukd feel the ground under his feet, bit he felt as if his own foundation were gone, stripped away, and he was left floundering, ready to sink beneath the waves. But Arthur was keeping him afloat, the waves gentle, holding him up, softly brushing across his cheek and skin. Clearing his throat softly, he spoke, the words were just as soft through misuse of his voice now that anger and contemp weren't fueling him.

"Do you have water? I don't think I can walk up the stairs, I can barely walk now.....I'm sorry.....and your gun, don't forget your gun... I promise I won't try to use it now."

His thoughts were all in a jumble, a mess of different things he felt that he needed to say, and things he couldn't say yet. He had to trust that Arthur understood and didn't think less of him for it, for any of this.

[Arthur Kirkland]

August 25th, 1944


It was always difficult for Arthur to witness what war, famine, or other such tragedy did to a nation, especially to a nation of Francis’s stature, at least the stature that he once held years prior. And just how rapidly that internal deterioration touched him, ravaged his body. And as they approached the stairs that led out of this dripping, dank prison, he heard Francis’s words that he didn’t have the strength to go up the stairs. He hesitated, pausing also when Francis told him not to leave his gun. It would’ve been careless to leave it down here, but now Arthur had to retrieve it and leave Francis for a bit. ”Here, sit for a moment while I look for it…” He muttered something about it being ‘so sodding dark down here’ before carefully lowering his body so that Francis could rest on the floor. After that was accomplished, he searched the general vicinity of where he kicked his gun out of Francis's frenzied reach. He felt around for a bit before his fingers incidentally came into contact with the cold, heavy metal. He secured it into its holster before he made his way back to Francis.

And remembering that Francis had asked for water, Arthur lowered himself to Francis’s level and unstrapped his canteen, handing it over. It felt like it was still about half filled. ”I’ll get more for you once we’re out of here..” he murmured, his eyes still darting about the area, as if inspecting the dark corners of the cellar, a hint of paranoia in his bearing over the thought of someone lying in wait. Arthur knew that he was hardly in a state to be trusting his inclinations, especially when nearly every noise made him jump, every shadow made him suspicious, and every dark, confined space felt like it was closing in on him. He swallowed and took a few slow breaths to bring his focus back to Francis, his heartbeat feeling like a twitch in his tightened chest.

He wet his dry mouth before speaking once more. ”I’m going to carry you out of here. We’re not staying here longer than necessary, alright?” He said the last part more as a reassurance that Francis wouldn’t have to languish in his proverbial cage for much longer, and as a reassurance to himself that he wouldn’t have to either. And he gingerly picked himself from the floor and he glanced over Francis’s form once more, mentally mapping out the best way to do this with the injuries that he could see and the weakness that he felt against him as he helped him this far.

”Alright, love… I’m going to have you on my back. Just tell me if anything hurts while I get you settled,” he muttered this as if half distracted, which was a typical habit of Arthur's whenever he was concentrating, mapping things out in his head, a habit that Francis was probably very privy to throughout the years. Arthur was very careful in the way he maneuvered the other nation, touching him softly, but firmly enough when it was necessary. He reached for his arms and guided them so that he could grasp about Arthur’s shoulders and upper chest as he was hoisted against his back. Arthur’s grip supported the back of Francis’s thighs as he straightened his posture.

Francis was much lighter than he should’ve been, something that Arthur immediately noted. And although he was still the British Empire for the time being, Arthur could also immediately tell that his own strength had greatly waned from the time prior to the wars. He’d hardly spared a second thought to himself throughout the war, only focusing on surviving the dark and endless nights filled with bombings and burning pain, focusing on how he was going to fulfill his promise to Francis and save him from this Hell. He couldn’t afford personal thoughts, particularly when he was the last thread that was keeping the entirety of Europe from falling to the Nazis. Having that sudden realization of his physical failings in that moment with Francis in the dark caused a slight, sickening tightening in his stomach and in his heart. This loss of strength wasn’t normal to him, even in the middle of a war. Arthur knew that something significant was happening to him or would be happening very soon.

Even with that realization, his jaw tightened, and he soldiered on. Even if this would be the last of the British Empire, he was grateful to have the opportunity to use what strength he had left to liberate France, to finally pull Francis out of his nightmarish enclosure. Arthur carefully made his way up the stairs, holding Francis securely and closely.

Arthur also had trouble finding his words, after so many years of being apart from Francis and finally being the one to carry him out, none of those words surfaced but a simple few. ”Toi et moi… ça ne changera pas. C'est pour toi que je suis là.. mon coeur..” You and me… it doesn’t change. I am here for you.. my heart.. Arthur whispered, giving Francis more of his native tongue, which he probably hadn’t properly heard in ages. In any other situation, Arthur wouldn’t have given it to him, but he made an exception for today.

As they reached the end of the stairway, Arthur had to shift Francis slightly as he reached to open the door, letting in the light and fresher air once they made it to the main floor, a maze of corridors that led to the various back rooms of the hotels, such as the kitchens and laundry. English, from both the Americans and his own, along with some French, could be heard by nearby soldiers.

...

Tag // Francis Bonnefoy

[Francis Bonnefoy]

A million thoughts were going through Francis’ head at the moment. The thoughts of his people were foremost, for they had survived something that Francis had been rapidly been coming to think of as unwinnable. But a majority of his thoughts were focused on taking that next step, getting one more step in; as long as he kept walking, kept moving, he knew things were going to be alright. He had always been a nation to keep moving forward, no matter how dramatic it had been. He had seen revolutions, had been beheaded by his own people… Civil wars and wars with other countries were in his bloody history, there would always be that metaphorical blood on his hands. Even the blood of the Nation that was helping him currently was on his hands. Honestly, something Francis could only marvel at how far the two of them had come. Here they were, helping each other out of a situation of hell, whereas he had once had Arthur under him, knife at his throat. They had both moved on and now he couldn’t even think of doing half the things to Arthur he had once had. Honestly, he couldn’t stand the thought of anything bloody or violent or destructive, it made him sick to his stomach. Or perhaps that was now with the realization that he stank of iron and ammonia; of blood and urine. He had bleed and soiled himself multiple times. Perhaps he should be thankful that one soldier had taken pity on him and changed his outfit before the tension increased before Arthur came for him.

“Here, sit for a moment while I look for it…”

“Look for?”

Oh,, that was right, he had mentioned that Arthur needed to find his gun. He had rambled so many things that he had nearly forgotten what he had said in that short period of time. His mind had been working so well before… or at least he thought it was; why was he starting to have issues now? Oh, that was probably why. Watching Arthur find his gun, he realized what the difference was. He didn’t have to be on high alert, he could afford to let his hair trigger go. And with that, his thought process was threatening to shut down, to only focus on the important. He had been so hyper focused for so long, his brain had had enough. Swallowing drily, he did his best to pay attention to what was going on. He couldn’t afford to be spacing out now, there would be time for that latter when they were truly alone and not still in recent enemy space.

”I’ll get more for you once we’re out of here...”

Looking back up at him, he could only nod and move to take the canteen. Carefully sipping some down, he repeated this a few times, careful not to make himself sick by drinking the water too quickly. Old war habits were ingrained in him, and this shutdown of extra brain function would not cause some things to be lost or forgotten. Closing his eyes as he used the feel of the tepid water in his mouth to help ground him, he focused inward, hoping to bring himself more back to the present where his thoughts threatened to take him every which way. Finally he moved to give back the canteen, wiping the few drops that escaped away with his arm. He could only half smile at Arthur, hoping it even got a fraction of the thankfulness through.

”Alright, love… I’m going to have you on my back. Just tell me if anything hurts while I get you settled,”

Being moved onto Arthurs back, he realized fully how bad of shape he was in. He, as the French Republic, was showing the strain that the nation as a whole had been under. And while there was a victory, he showed how the nation was currently fairing. There was a lot of work to do to get him back to a semblance of normal, but he knew it would be done eventually. For now, he was just grateful it was only Arthur that saw his state. His dearest enemy would be the only one to know how he faired, having seen him in other such conditions. He laid his head on Arthur’s shoulder, trying not to make sounds as he was moved, knowing that Arthur didn’t need to know how his muscles protested at being moved, at how his shoulders ranged from pain to numbness. His thighs and legs hurt just as much, but overall, he had a sense of them being a constant under his skin to the point he only became aware of them if they were forced to flare up. He stayed quite as Arthur carried him up the stairs, the only thoughts of how thankful he was that it was Arthur, how strong he always seemed. He would do anything for this man to make it up to him, to pay him back for this. He wanted to help Arthur, even if the reason was half selfish to help him forget his own problems for a while.

”Toi et moi… ça ne changera pas. C'est pour toi que je suis là.. mon coeur..”

With those words, Francis couldn’t help the few tears that leaked out and onto Arthur’s jacket, the only help that he couldn’t feel them. He had cried enough in front of Arthur already today, and he had a feeling he would do more later on as they both healed. He didn’t want to seem weak to the man, but he couldn’t help the feeling that those words drew out, at how they were immediately shot to his heart. It truly showed how they were in a partnership, and it made Francis realize how he hadn’t kept up his end of the bargain. What had he done for Arthur besides be a nuisance, to be the stereotypical damsel in distress that can’t do a thing to save themselves. It was unfair to Arthur, yet here he was still helping him.

As they reached the top of the stairs and through it into a brightly lit corridor, Francis could only blink at the light. It had been so long since he had seen such a scene. All the colors looked almost too bright to him, the light was near blinding to him. Squinting his eyes, he sighed as he heard his own people, Along with Arthur’s and what he thought were Alfred’s, he squeezed around Arthur’s shoulders. The mess between the two of them could be taken care of later, for now, he had to put on a front to his men, to the others to show that the French were still as strong as they were before. Perhaps it was a good thing that Francis had mastered his mask such a long time ago… well, to all but Arthur, who could read through it as if looking through water. Taking in a shuddering breath, he nodded against Arthur’s back.

“Let me down, I have to greet my people on my feet, to show them that we still stand and that we will survive… Just… stay with me, please?”

While he knew he needed to show that he could stand on his own two feet, he also needed them to see Arthur with him, how their combined efforts could lead them through anything and bring them through victorious.
 
“As the Kings of Old, my people cannot see any flaws in me, not at this time. I might appear hurt, but I must show unscathed. They will understand how important it is that you came, that England came, but my pride will not allow me any other way.”

---

Arthur Kirkland    1293 Words

[Arthur Kirkland]

August 25th, 1944


Arthur could feel the tightening of Francis’s fingers against his shoulders, and he could almost read his thoughts in that simple action, because he knew bloody well how he would feel in this situation. He wouldn’t stand for being carried like an invalid, especially in front of his own people... or anyone’s people, for that matter. He still waited long enough to hear Francis’s words and to start gingerly lowering him to the ground. ”Your people still stand. Free France was an extraordinary group of brave, audacious individuals who still believed in you, in what you stood for, despite the Germans keeping you locked down there like chattel. They still fought for you. Perhaps you felt them.”

He still moved rather slowly, not wanting Francis to stumble once he got to his feet, which may be more embarrassing than not being on his feet at all. Once Francis was more or less able to somewhat stand, Arthur still supported him, wrapping an arm snuggly about his waist and keeping one of his arms across his shoulders in a secure fashion. ”I’ve always been with you. Perhaps not physically in the past four years… but nevertheless, our alliance still held firm. And it will continue to do so.” As he spoke, switching back to English as he led Francis through some of the corridors, running into a few soldiers who were making their way between various rooms. There was still an air of urgency, like unspoken electricity that hummed through their veins.

One of the English generals approached Arthur and Francis, reaching to grasp both of their shoulders in a firm and quietly proud manner, the thinnest veil of tightly-secured emotion in his eyes before he continued on his way to the main conference room where the other Allied generals for this successful maneuver were meeting to discuss their next immediate plan. As they passed various rooms, there were a few other noticeable important figures on both of their sides that looked at the two of them with a certain pride and hope in their eyes. This was the sort of break that they’d been hoping for in their own endeavors. Today’s victory was an important victory. And seeing the two of their countries as they were was a visual representation of that.

Arthur led Francis further down until they reached one of the informal dining areas connected to the kitchens where the English and Americans had transformed it into a hasty makeshift area for treating injuries. "I have quite intimate knowledge of your French pride over the many centuries that I’ve known you... However, I hope that your insufferable pride will allow me to at least look you over for injuries that I can at least address.” His tone left very little room for argument and the glance he flashed at Francis almost dared him to challenge his decision. Deep down, he didn’t think that Francis really had it in him to argue in the first place, so he immediately led him to one of the unoccupied, covered tables.

”Sit up here, love,” he ordered in that typical fashion of his where he was quite used to his orders being obeyed. Arthur glanced over Francis’s head first before moving on to the rest of him, glancing along his brow, and scalp as he pushed his dirty hair back every which way in order to detect if there was an unseen injury there. He was also watching for any flinches from Francis that would indicate pain while he did this. ”I feel like we’ve done this so often with each other in the past, it’s almost become it’s own monotonous pattern… perhaps that’s a good thing,” Arthur murmured as he inspected Francis, steadily moving down to unbutton his shirt to look over his torso and neck next. He wanted to continue speaking to keep Francis’s thoughts from wandering down darker places, and to keep him focused on this moment. ”Tell me if you feel pain… And if you can, tell me where you’re feeling it.” Arthur had a feeling that the pain might be a general radiation of everything that had happened, both in the past four years of his captivity and the tremendous stress of what had occurred today, as positive as it was for the both of them.

Nearby helping hands were already offering Arthur much needed materials for tending to wounds, the disinfectants, bandages, and other instruments as needed. He knew that there would be some injuries that he wouldn’t be able to heal, the ones that were inflicted by the damage done to their land, to their people, but he could treat the more superficial wounds in the meantime. At the very least, he could attempt to contain the ones that would take a much longer time to heal due to the nature of who they were.

...

Tag // Francis Bonnefoy

[Francis Bonnefoy]

”Your people still stand. Free France was an extraordinary group of brave, audacious individuals who still believed in you, in what you stood for, despite the Germans keeping you locked down there like chattel. They still fought for you. Perhaps you felt them.”

He did feel them, he felt them in every waking moment, in every breath his body took, in every twitch of his muscles, in the pain that seared his bones and left him yearning for a peace that he knew he could never had. He felt them in the hope that sprang through his chest, in the strength that flooded his systems in the dark, a pitched fever that made him feel like he could escape and single handedly free his country. He felt the whispers in his ears and the screams in his bones. He felt every moment of his people, of the damage being done to the land. He knew that Arthur knew this, and he knew it was meant to bring home the fact that he was free. And it did. He could feel the celebrations of the people, the bittersweet joy that sang through his blood, and if he focused, he found the strength of those freedom fighters, the strength to let him get though the upcoming meetings, the nerve that he once had to face his men, Arthur’s and Al’s too; and hopefully even enough to stare down his captors. But as strong as he felt, he knew that at the moment it was a fragile strength, a façade that could easily be broken given the wrong catalyst.

Slowly lowering himself so he was standing behind Arthur, he still held himself close, Arthur’s back pressing against his chest. Breathing in the scent, Francis could smell the sharp tang of blood, of the iron that seeped from the bandages that were sure to be hidden; the smell of cotton of the uniform, the scratchiness of it. Somewhere mixed in with the smells of war, there was the hidden saltiness that always seem to be present on his skin; the ever present sensations of the ocean around Arthur. Part of Francis knew that that was more than likely sweat, but he longed for it to be the sea, to be a reminded to him of a strong Arthur, a pillar of stubbornness and pride. A pillar of strength personified, as in the days of old with the legends. Holding close his pillar of strength just for a moment longer, he took a deep breath and nodded his head, slowly letting go of Arthur and standing tall on his own. Breathing in deeply a few more times to help get himself situated in his body, pushing away the physical pains and the metal scars, he raised his head and backed away. He tried to put the mask back in place, one to hide how broken he was inside. They could see him worn, but not how many pieces he was in.

”I’ve always been with you. Perhaps not physically in the past four years… but nevertheless, our alliance still held firm. And it will continue to do so.”

Francis never doubted that for a minute… alright, that wasn’t perhaps the truth, even Arthur had saw how he had broken down at the suggestion that England had taken a knee. He had let Arthur down in that regard, willing to let the belief that his dearest enemy would let someone else defeat him. He wasn’t sure if that showed a lack of trust, or stress or a chipping away of faith and metal fortitude, but it was something that Francis knew he was going to have to address with Arthur. For now though, he just held his tongue and kept walking, trying to think of what to say to Arthur in this moment.

“I thank you for that… my people could not have broken free without your help, without knowing that you were waiting for a sign that we were ready, that we had not given up ourselves. I am thankful to you for keeping up our alliance, for being the rear guard we needed, the Après-garde to surprise the enemy… I will never be able to properly thank you for the support you showed us.”

Francis knew there was much he didn’t know about exactly how England had kept up their alliance, but he was sure he would be learning about it soon once he was able to meet with his leaders and read the gathered information. Though he was sure Arthur would tell him if asked. Though for now, instead of dwelling on those thoughts, he had to focused on the general that approached them. Focusing a bit more heavily on looking relaxed and not fearful of the strange man who approached, he could only smile softly as the English General touched him, a fact he only figured out after taking the time out to observe and not let his emotions dictate him, he muttered a thank you lightly in French, sure that the general would understand. He didn’t let his voice get much higher than a whisper, for it still hurt his vocal cords to talk for long periods of time and he just said quite a bit to Arthur. He was so unused to speaking anymore, it would be strange to now. For now though, he reminded himself he was among allies, and for every look that he got from the men in the uniforms of his allies, he waved slightly with his good arm, an acknowledgment that he saw them, recognized and thanked them for their efforts in freeing his country. He knew the was wasn’t over yet, but this was a big victory in the right direction.

Watching the rooms pass him by, he focused on one foot in front of the other, glad that Arthur was walking slow and was still supporting him. Without him, Francis knew that he would not have been able to cross this distance anymore, not in the state he was in. It would take quite a bit of work for him to be able to function as he used to, but he would get there eventually. Moving into the final room of the hallway, he could only look around. Once upon a time, this room had served as a beautiful dinning room, once where people would come to enjoy themselves with food, good company and the beauty that all the hotel could offer. Now though, now all that Francis saw was the stains of war across the floor, the tables turned into beds, a hospital wing. He was sure this image would be forever burned into his brain; an image that would always be overlapped whenever he gazed upon this area.

"I have quite intimate knowledge of your French pride over the many centuries that I’ve known you... However, I hope that your insufferable pride will allow me to at least look you over for injuries that I can at least address. Sit up here, love,”

Moving to sit where he indicated, he carefully sat so that Arthur could look over any of him he so wished, putting on a face of regretful acceptance, though he was sure that Arthur could see right through it. He let his hair be pushed this way and that, unsure what he would find in there at the moment. He knew that head lice were a problem, but he wasn’t if they would have survived this long. He thought that the only real issue there was the dirt that was matted there, the built up oil from not having a chance to wash it. He knew it looked lifeless; it felt that way to him.

“Arthur, most of my pride is long gone, all that is left is the need for my country to see me alive, standing to support them as they have supported me. To see that France itself is indeed free from under the thumb of captivity and death. Beyond that, I’ve suffered to much to really have much pride with anything anymore. Look me over for injuries and bandage them… I can attempt to do the same for you if you will allow me?"

Of course he couldn’t look at Arthur while he said that, but that was fine by him. He knew that bit of truth was probably a shock to his companion, and he really didn’t want to see his reaction, to see the potential hurt and sadness that went through his eyes. Francis felt he could be honest with Arthur, honest to a fault. He trusted him, trusted him to not betray this, to know that it would take time to get him on his feet again. He was still processing the fact that he was free, that this part was now over.

”Tell me if you feel pain… And if you can, tell me where you’re feeling it.”

“Everything hurts… but mostly my arms from where they were hanging like that.. Beyond that.. I can’t pinpoint once general area of pain… I’ve learned to live with a certain undercurrent of it under my skin Though areas of my shoulder are still radiating numbness from the red zones… that almost feels good in a way, a few pinpricks of areas that will never be able to feel the pain again, that I can focus on to remember what it was like living without the constant pain…”

He just shook his head and closed his eyes. As much as he hated being alone down in that room for all that time, there was almost too many people around now, he wasn’t used to it anymore. He needed to get away, somewhere with less people, somewhere that it was just him and Arthur.

“Can we go somewhere else… there’s too many people… to much stimuli… to many noises. “

The constant sounds of whispering, of scissors cutting bandages, of bottles sloshing the alcohol and whatever else medicine they had.. the smell of the antiseptics, the blood, the gunpowder. There was too much noise, an overload of smells, there was just to much going on for him at the moment. Years of only one or two stimuli, then to be faced with hundreds within a couple of minutes were all to much for him. Apparently he did have a bit more pride left, he wouldn’t let himself break down here in front of all the different men that were depending on him. Finally, he forced himself to look up at Arthur, his mask slipping out of place for a moment.

“Please, Arthur?”

---

Arthur Kirkland