U.K./Vichy France Inspired by this fanart (http://i42.tinypic.com/34i683p.gif) U.K. is forced to fight against a brainwashed or amnesiatic France during the Vichy regime.
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [2/?]
anonymous
May 21 2009, 22:03:51 UTC
He doesn’t shy away as a gloved hand reaches up to touch along his bandaged head. “I am relieved you are all right. When I found you in the alleyway, I thought they’d gotten you….”
“Who?”
The man lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “Why, the undesirables, of course. You are overrun with them - they would have crushed you for sure in Paris, had I not been there to salvage you.”
He frowns. Undesirables. Paris.
Smoke and guns and tanks.
“A battle,” he says. His head hurts a little less now; he feels as though he’s on a tightrope, wobbling, ready to fall one way or another into realization.
“My country - Germany - came to help you against those Jews -” the man almost spits out the word, so it must be bad, “ - and to ensure you stay a free country
( ... )
OP is really in love with what you have so far. I like your idea of Francis having a kind of selective amnesia as well as that nice flashback in the beginning. Can't wait to see more~
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [2/?]
anonymous
May 23 2009, 19:23:42 UTC
The flashback was adorable! And Francis' amnesia makes it all the more heart-wrenching. I especially love the way you portray Ludwig. Not wanting to be cruel, but is forced to be.
And also, if this isn't deja-vu, the refenerence to the sinking of France's Navy. I just read another fill based on it. ;__;
You win many internets! Please continue! I can't wait to find out how this plays out.
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [3/?]
anonymous
May 26 2009, 03:47:17 UTC
“They were my men,” Francis says. He keeps his voice cold and measured as England looks up at him from the ground, pathetic and sniveling. “You are no ally of mine, England.”
England’s eyes don’t break from his, so it’s easy to bend down and grip his slender chin in a firm grasp. “You looked so proud in the paintings Ludwig showed me,” he murmurs. “And look at you now.”
He drops his hand and turns on his heel, walking away.
“Francis,” he hears England call. He keeps walking.
“Francis! What’s my name? Call me by my name, dammit!”
Francis does not look back.
“FrancisFrancis refuses to answer, and his ignorance is a thick, impenetrable wall between them that grows with every step he takes around the corpses
( ... )
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [4/?]
anonymous
May 26 2009, 16:23:24 UTC
He doesn’t see the memory so much as he feels it, and even then it’s only colors, temperature; warm greens peppered with yellows, pinks, and whites, yellow sunlight in a sky flecked with clouds
( ... )
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [5/6]
anonymous
May 28 2009, 02:54:25 UTC
“Francis?”
“I - what did you want to discuss?”
Ludwig’s expression slides back into somberness, the stern look of a German soldier. “I am taking some of my troops up to Pas de Calais. The Allies should be invading any day now, and I want to be ready for that. Do you think you can stay here and protect Vichy?”
Francis does not want to deny his friend, but for the first time he feels his throat seize up with panic, with the feeling of something inside of him unspooling and decaying.
“I….” I feel as though I am falling apart. I feel as though I am forgetting something.
“I will be all right. I will help command the Milice and the troops while you are away, though I will miss the chance to attack the Anglais bastard.” And here he lets his lip curl in disgust and remembered hatred
( ... )
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [6/6]
anonymous
May 28 2009, 02:55:12 UTC
He smirks, and his finger twitches against the trigger, ready to blow the man’s brains onto the street in a spray of blood.
A moment passes. Two.
The man watches as he starts to shake, as his smirk turns into a snarl of frustration.
“Why - why won’t my finger -”
The man reaches up and lowers the rifle with one hand, uses his other to pry his fingers from the trigger. “You used that finger,” the man says, the smallest of sad smiles twitching at his lips.
He shakes harder; the man lowers the rifle to the ground and reaches into his breast pocket, pulling something out - something red and delicate and wrong amidst the debris and death.
The man says nothing as he presses the rose into his hand, closes long, slender fingers around its stem. He hisses as he feels several sharp stings in his palm, and the slow, wet, stickiness of blood.
“Do you remember?” the man asks.
“What is there to -”
“It’s there, Francis. Just let it come.”
Francis gasps as something rings through him from the cuts in his palm.
Inspired by this fanart (http://i42.tinypic.com/34i683p.gif)
U.K. is forced to fight against a brainwashed or amnesiatic France during the Vichy regime.
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___
These are the days he loves best; when it’s just the two of them sitting together in a field, teaching Arthur how to make daisy chains ( ... )
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“Who?”
The man lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “Why, the undesirables, of course. You are overrun with them - they would have crushed you for sure in Paris, had I not been there to salvage you.”
He frowns. Undesirables. Paris.
Smoke and guns and tanks.
“A battle,” he says. His head hurts a little less now; he feels as though he’s on a tightrope, wobbling, ready to fall one way or another into realization.
“My country - Germany - came to help you against those Jews -” the man almost spits out the word, so it must be bad, “ - and to ensure you stay a free country ( ... )
Reply
I like your idea of Francis having a kind of selective amnesia as well as that nice flashback in the beginning. Can't wait to see more~
Reply
I look forward to reading more!
Reply
And also, if this isn't deja-vu, the refenerence to the sinking of France's Navy. I just read another fill based on it. ;__;
You win many internets! Please continue! I can't wait to find out how this plays out.
Reply
England’s eyes don’t break from his, so it’s easy to bend down and grip his slender chin in a firm grasp. “You looked so proud in the paintings Ludwig showed me,” he murmurs. “And look at you now.”
He drops his hand and turns on his heel, walking away.
“Francis,” he hears England call. He keeps walking.
“Francis! What’s my name? Call me by my name, dammit!”
Francis does not look back.
“FrancisFrancis refuses to answer, and his ignorance is a thick, impenetrable wall between them that grows with every step he takes around the corpses ( ... )
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G-great job, anon! ¤___¤ this is so awesome. I love how Vichy!France would have memory loss...
Keep it up!
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“I - what did you want to discuss?”
Ludwig’s expression slides back into somberness, the stern look of a German soldier. “I am taking some of my troops up to Pas de Calais. The Allies should be invading any day now, and I want to be ready for that. Do you think you can stay here and protect Vichy?”
Francis does not want to deny his friend, but for the first time he feels his throat seize up with panic, with the feeling of something inside of him unspooling and decaying.
“I….” I feel as though I am falling apart. I feel as though I am forgetting something.
“I will be all right. I will help command the Milice and the troops while you are away, though I will miss the chance to attack the Anglais bastard.” And here he lets his lip curl in disgust and remembered hatred ( ... )
Reply
A moment passes. Two.
The man watches as he starts to shake, as his smirk turns into a snarl of frustration.
“Why - why won’t my finger -”
The man reaches up and lowers the rifle with one hand, uses his other to pry his fingers from the trigger. “You used that finger,” the man says, the smallest of sad smiles twitching at his lips.
He shakes harder; the man lowers the rifle to the ground and reaches into his breast pocket, pulling something out - something red and delicate and wrong amidst the debris and death.
The man says nothing as he presses the rose into his hand, closes long, slender fingers around its stem. He hisses as he feels several sharp stings in his palm, and the slow, wet, stickiness of blood.
“Do you remember?” the man asks.
“What is there to -”
“It’s there, Francis. Just let it come.”
Francis gasps as something rings through him from the cuts in his palm.
“It is not such a bad ( ... )
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