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towerofanimus2011-10-25 11:33 am
creme-master.livejournal.com) wrote in towerofanimus2011-10-25 11:33 am
Entry tags:
Let the good times roll.
Characters: Francis and YOU.
Setting: Dormitories [1-10], Floor 13
Format: EITHER
Summary: In which Francis is a hermit and a lost man.
Warnings: Possible → mentions of surgery/flashbacks, looming possibility of character death thanks to event specifics. Definite → heavy despair
Dormitory 1-10
The triumphant return to regular life as he knew it was neither bombastic nor rewarding. In fact, it was immediately after being reintroduced to the main floors of the Tower that the once grandiose man had holed himself away with no intent of socialization. Francis had always partaken in the mantra of ‘eat, drink, and be merry’ to the best of his abilities. To say that he was stinted would have been laughable.
‘Eat’ and ‘drink’ were automatically nixed without the necessary organs though try as his brain might to keep up with over a millennium of deeply rooted habit. The knowledge that he harbored something grotesque – and that he appeared in comparison malformed – kept him from being anything outside of contemplatively glum. Whatever it was, he spent the majority of his time tucked away out of sight where he wasn’t reminded of who he had been forced to become or able to slip up and hurt someone he loved.
Before he had been taken away Francis had plotted out the Tower as he saw fit, blocking off floors completely that were dangerous. Now, even those places he had gone to stay sane had quietly surrendered to join the rest. He had these four walls, at least…
Floor 13: Cathedral
This was not a sanctuary for Francis.
For a time, even before his stay at the Tower, his faith had dwindled. Anyone that had seen the things he saw and experienced all he had would have a difficult time proving to themselves that their God was a merciful being. As the years melted against one another Francis had gone from devout and fearful to a skeptical romantic; it was fine for others and the concept novel, but wholly unrealistic. Despite that, he still believed in hell. He thought that he had seen every shade of hell on earth there was.
There had been a moment... one wavering moment that he had prayed to whatever would listen to him… for death or salvation; he may have intertwined the concepts. The collars had kept on their task and had left him hollower than he had been before with not a lick of mercy from above. There had been no mercy for anyone, not even a child. Faith had done nothing but lead them in to calamity and yet…
Here he was, seated at the back of the Tower’s elaborate Cathedral, doing what he could to justify being here. It was quiet. It reminded him of the Gothic architecture back home. People would not bother him even if they noticed him huddled in the corner by his lonesome; they had their own grief to deal with. And it went on.
Truth be told there was that shameless hope that the one thing that could hear him now would, that for once there would be some sort of divine intervention. He wanted to be moved if only one time; he wanted to be proven wrong.
He’d been here for hours undisturbed and the only thing he could be moved by was despair. The anger and loathing had passed. The denial now as well. No matter how difficult the trial Francis had been annoyingly resilient – he had, after all, survived for a very long time and through many a dilemma. He had pushed through. He had, if anything, himself.
Francis had never mourned the man he was. In fact, he was quite unapologetic.
He mourned now, nothing but a shell of the person he used to hold so much pride in. For once he didn’t feel like France. Didn’t feel like anything. He was detached, a man bound up and bowed at the back of some nameless place of worship grasping for straws and finding nothing. It was a strange realization - to feel so unimportant, so mortal for once; it hit the man hard and he hated it as he'd hated those that took him and God Himeself. There was nothing he could do but press his face to the back of the pew in front of him, fingers tight on the wood as the tears finally came.
Francis was alone, forced or not, and it was a bitter pill to swallow.
Setting: Dormitories [1-10], Floor 13
Format: EITHER
Summary: In which Francis is a hermit and a lost man.
Warnings: Possible → mentions of surgery/flashbacks, looming possibility of character death thanks to event specifics. Definite → heavy despair
Dormitory 1-10
The triumphant return to regular life as he knew it was neither bombastic nor rewarding. In fact, it was immediately after being reintroduced to the main floors of the Tower that the once grandiose man had holed himself away with no intent of socialization. Francis had always partaken in the mantra of ‘eat, drink, and be merry’ to the best of his abilities. To say that he was stinted would have been laughable.
‘Eat’ and ‘drink’ were automatically nixed without the necessary organs though try as his brain might to keep up with over a millennium of deeply rooted habit. The knowledge that he harbored something grotesque – and that he appeared in comparison malformed – kept him from being anything outside of contemplatively glum. Whatever it was, he spent the majority of his time tucked away out of sight where he wasn’t reminded of who he had been forced to become or able to slip up and hurt someone he loved.
Before he had been taken away Francis had plotted out the Tower as he saw fit, blocking off floors completely that were dangerous. Now, even those places he had gone to stay sane had quietly surrendered to join the rest. He had these four walls, at least…
Floor 13: Cathedral
This was not a sanctuary for Francis.
For a time, even before his stay at the Tower, his faith had dwindled. Anyone that had seen the things he saw and experienced all he had would have a difficult time proving to themselves that their God was a merciful being. As the years melted against one another Francis had gone from devout and fearful to a skeptical romantic; it was fine for others and the concept novel, but wholly unrealistic. Despite that, he still believed in hell. He thought that he had seen every shade of hell on earth there was.
There had been a moment... one wavering moment that he had prayed to whatever would listen to him… for death or salvation; he may have intertwined the concepts. The collars had kept on their task and had left him hollower than he had been before with not a lick of mercy from above. There had been no mercy for anyone, not even a child. Faith had done nothing but lead them in to calamity and yet…
Here he was, seated at the back of the Tower’s elaborate Cathedral, doing what he could to justify being here. It was quiet. It reminded him of the Gothic architecture back home. People would not bother him even if they noticed him huddled in the corner by his lonesome; they had their own grief to deal with. And it went on.
Truth be told there was that shameless hope that the one thing that could hear him now would, that for once there would be some sort of divine intervention. He wanted to be moved if only one time; he wanted to be proven wrong.
He’d been here for hours undisturbed and the only thing he could be moved by was despair. The anger and loathing had passed. The denial now as well. No matter how difficult the trial Francis had been annoyingly resilient – he had, after all, survived for a very long time and through many a dilemma. He had pushed through. He had, if anything, himself.
Francis had never mourned the man he was. In fact, he was quite unapologetic.
He mourned now, nothing but a shell of the person he used to hold so much pride in. For once he didn’t feel like France. Didn’t feel like anything. He was detached, a man bound up and bowed at the back of some nameless place of worship grasping for straws and finding nothing. It was a strange realization - to feel so unimportant, so mortal for once; it hit the man hard and he hated it as he'd hated those that took him and God Himeself. There was nothing he could do but press his face to the back of the pew in front of him, fingers tight on the wood as the tears finally came.
Francis was alone, forced or not, and it was a bitter pill to swallow.
;;
He hadn't seen Russia enter the cathedral. In fact, he was unaware completely thanks to the strange silence that hung over the floor. If he had known what Ivan was thinking at that moment he probably would have agreed, would have said that he was merely a ploy for whatever the tower had in store...
There he was, a blond fish out of water (and lone, in a barrel). Francis pressed his forehead harder against the pew and wiped his face off with a grimace, staying down for another moment before slowly sitting up, pushing the mussed hair off his forehead. Hands returned to the pew, thumb grazing the wood as he stared blankly ahead.
Nope. Not noticing the six foot tall, impossibly paranoid Russian.
Ilu france, I really do. ;;;;;;
"You should be telling me where you are putting moy Frantsiya, da?" And he had on the 'I'm going to fuck your shit up' face that he only wore on a very, very rare occasion, when he was too angry to play.
NU UH.
He doubted he could make a move for the journal and pen he had taken to carrying with him on the rare occasion he'd venture out. Sudden movements meant a bullet got lodged in his head.
Francis also couldn't speak. The one time he had attempted to speak he'd come to realize it sounded muddled; bit hard to speak when sludge blocked most of his useless airway. The toxicity would cue more of Russia's paranoia.
He couldn't tell him that he was the one that had taught him so much when he was younger. He couldn't reassure him that he was genuine in any matter, and now? Now he was frozen in place because he couldn't use his usual sweet talk to urge Ivan toward sanity.
YEAH HUH
"I was asking you simple question, you should be answering, da? I do not like when people are hurting those I care for. Especially not people who chose to wear their face," he was angry, and obviously so, pressing the gun harder into the other's skull, eyes narrowed, watching, finger on the trigger. It was obvious the Russian had snapped, had decided that this was not Francis Bonnefoy, the Republic of France, the man who had been a long time friend, and instead thought this an enemy.
Of course, the lack of words did not help.
:T
Perhaps he was right, Ivan. Maybe he was some ploy from the Tower wearing only a face. If the Tower had kicked the Russian's paranoia to the point of jabbing the barrel of a gun against a 'former' friend's skull...
It took going against learned behavior to part hips lips and the blackness was quick to take advantage of such an opportunity, spilling thickly down a pale chin. He refused to wipe it away. If anything, he wanted the man to get his answers before blowing away that once attractive skull of his.
"Look at what the tower has done to us, mimi" The endearment is almost unintelligible and his voice is already wavering from disuse. "Perhaps you would be doing me a favor, pulling the trigger. I am a tired man. Still yours."
The sludge had fallen to the floor, singed a few messy holes clean through without a sound. He fell silent, waiting.
<:C
And Ivan stared, watching the Parisian, rolling the words around in his head, the paranoia still there, which meant he refused to put the gun down, refused to let the other go.
"I was not asking what you are doing to us," he replied, a tiny frown on his lips, eyes narrowed."And I was not asking to have you using his words, his voice. I am not liking that, and I am getting rid of things I am not liking, da?" He gave a smile then, though lost it soon after. There was another moment when he was quiet, watching the Parisian.
"Perhaps this is being his body? Is that why you are not being able to be answering me?"