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ddd_news2010-08-03 08:27 pm
tripled_mods) wrote in ddd_news2010-08-03 08:27 pmAPPLICATIONS -- 2010; 001
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tripled_mods) wrote in ddd_news2010-08-03 08:27 pm
Francis Bonnefoy 2/lots
And this isolation from Europe lead to something unbelievable: an alliance with England, and later still with Russia. It appeared that there was a general sentiment of “I’m the only one allowed to defeat you.” And so they became allies, while still not getting along very well, and all was well until everyone went to war multiple times in a row. World War I was not very much fun. France nearly got levelled, Austria and Hungary got divorced by the end, and Russia had to quit in the middle due to revolution. And France, France was so angered by Germany, and what he’d done to his country, that he created his own worst enemy in his victory.
Twenty years later, France fell to Germany. It was so desperate, so fast, so vicious, that France even tried to marry England to prevent it. Which, obviously, didn’t go through, but I digress. You almost couldn’t call it the battle a fight at all. Things could be said, about cowardice, and surrender, and flashy uniforms, and Vichy, and Resistance, but those things are ugly, and France never liked thinking about ugly things. Luckily, Germany took a play from Napoleon’s book and went to invade Russia. Luckily, England had a channel, and a place to broadcast from, and friends in high places. Luckily, America was a hero, and liked airplanes, and really, really wasn’t the kind of person to make angry. Luckily, Italy sucked at war even worse than France did. And it was all very lucky, except for Russia kicking Germany’s ass, because some things come standard.
And so some things remain constant. France still spends an inordinate amount of time trying to get other countries out of their clothes. France still spends every minute possible antagonizing England, because some things never get old. France still makes allies and breaks their hearts as much and as often as he likes. France still recognizes Canada, or at least can tell him apart from America, even if he wishes Quebec would leave him alone. France still remembers Jeanne. France still carries his past with him, wherever he goes, the beautiful parts and the ugly parts, because some things you don’t forget.
Personality:
France, or Francis if you’d like, has absolutely no shame. This explains quite a lot. There’s no delicate way to put it: he’s a slut and doesn’t take any great pains to hide this fact. France doesn’t just love (well, a certain kind of love) other countries, he’s also a little bit in love with himself. He wants to think that everyone loves him, and if they don’t, they will, and therefore with a little bit of convincing and the proper lighting, he can get anyone into bed with him. His actual success rate is mixed, to say the least, but his reputation has to come from *somewhere*, and he takes great pride in it.
Francis Bonnefoy 3/lots
Francis has absolutely no shame, and he loves beautiful things. His history, though, is ugly and full of defeat and revolution and chaos and pain and love. Especially love. Bringing up Jeanne d’Arc is a surefire way to get a punch to the face, as a matter of fact. He has a bad habit for romanticizing his past, making everything glorious, everything beautiful, even through all the suffering. He doesn’t like thinking about the ugly things, not one bit. He tends to distract himself from these thoughts with excess. To be specific, an excess of wine, women, song, and love. Especially love. His relations with other nations are complicated, as he thinks he knows what’s best for everyone and will not hesitate in telling them so. This makes him act like a smug, sarcastic, French bitch. He revels in this. And yet, somehow, he doesn’t totally suck at being a big brother figure.
France has absolutely no shame. What he does have, in spades, is pride. It’s what makes him so full of life, and it’s also his biggest flaw. Attacking his pride tends to make him desperate. It also makes him drop the cool mask that he always tries to leave in place. His strengths can all become weaknesses, because he’s nothing if not overdramatic. He tends to go overboard when victorious, and tends to flounder when defeated. He’s always exuberant, even when despairing. And even then, half the time he’s too lazy to be arsed to do much of anything.
Francis has absolutely no shame. What he does have, in spades, is ideas. And sometimes, those ideas make him brilliant, like gemstones, like stars, like love.
Of course, other times he decides to invade Russia. Can’t win ‘em all.
Other: The mun really does know very, very little french, and will be abusing google translate whenever required. When the joke requires actual french being there, I will try not to fuck up translating it, but otherwise, blue font = french.
Additional Links: canon = wikipedia abuse.
Francis Bonnefoy 4/lots
[Voice. It sounds like he’s promising the moon. An extra curl here, a hint of promise there. A voice reserved for things that shouldn’t be spoken in daylight, but at night, under covers.]
Peinture de la clôture. Arrosez les roses et de lis. Assister à une réunion avec mon patron. Allez faire l'épicerie. N'oubliez pas le lait. Fluff les oreillers. Pas de cette façon. Changer les draps. Souvenez-tu de ne pas lancer Angleterre.*
[Pause. An intake of breath. You can almost hear a smirk. Almost, but not quite. The gasp covers it up. And then he almost laughs. Almost, but not quite. More of a smirk.]
Oh! Pardon me! I am just trying to prove a point here to some friends of mine, regarding language. Please, don’t think you’ve interrupted anything sordid. [Don’t you wish you had? It’s almost asked. Implied. But not spoken. That would spoil it.]
Everything sounds so much more romantic in French, non?
[Even when it’s just meaningless chatter. Because it’s not just the language. It’s the voice, and the meanings within meanings, and the layers on top.]
*Paint the fence. Water the roses and lilies. Attend meeting with my boss. Go grocery shopping. Don't forget the milk. Fluff the pillows. Not that way. Change the sheets. Remember not to kick England.
Francis Bonnefoy 5/lots
Francis remembers when the lights first went up in Paris. They were nothing more than torches, technically. Little fires lit to keep the dark at bay, to keep business going just a little longer, practical little things. But Francis was very young then, maybe not even France, and he remembers seeing the sparks in the night and wondering if they were fireflies. The sparks never left. Just grew bigger and joined other sparks. It made his city bright, and he liked the feeling of being illuminated. Not just glowing, but seeing things with the glow, things he would’ve missed in the dark.
Francis liked the torches. They stayed. His city grew bigger. He started becoming France. The lights remained. The city around them changed. Walls grew and fell. Fires spread and were put out. Englishmen walked the street to pick up fashion tips that they just as quickly left behind. His city never burned. But he remembers, clearly, a day when he felt the world turn darker. When he felt the world reduced to ashes, ashes and a cross hidden in them. The torches didn’t go out, of course. The light kept shining on. But in his memory, he always remembers darkness for days when She burned. As if the ashes from England blocked out the sun.
Later, the torches became lamps. Gas, whale oil, flammable liquid instead of wild fires. They lit the path. They lit the way. People could read by them, and pages were printed and spread. He listened to the people when they talked in the lamplight. They spoke of so many things. Different ideas. Big ideas. Small ideas. An endless stream of ideas, and they flowed around him in the not-quite-dark. In the dark of the night, Francis feared where he was headed, but by the glow of the lamps, he found himself enlightened.
Now, of course, the lights of Paris are electric. They hum with power, always. Even when black and red flags hung from his walls, his streets, his lamps never seemed to stop shining. A blessing, when times were good. A curse, when times were bad, and oh, how they were bad. The lights drew people in, like moths to a flame. Only he’d be the one being burned. But even the flags were temporary. The lights remained. Electric, glowing points in the night. Sometimes, they seemed like stars, and other times, they just seemed like little bulbs powered by currents and nothing more.
But Francis loves his city, and he loves his lights. Every night, when sunset becomes night and the electric lights powered by atoms come on, he watches them in awe and remembers when they were torches.
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