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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.
no subject
Not to mention he hadn't been able to find France.
In a small way Canada was thankful for his invisibility, taking to wandering silently on floors that people didn't seem to like to lurk. Going up from the aquariums the shadow of someone coming down the stairs made Matt duck into the cathedral. He'd always felt odd in extremely religious settings, as a nation he had so many and the overly christian motifs made him glance around.
The one thing that caught his attention though was France sitting in one of the pews close to the back. From behind Matt wasn't sure if the man was praying or crying, both were equally viable for what was going on.
Without much of a thought Matt moved silently into the pew and sat down beside his former father figure, letting him have his moment before placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
no subject
It was even better than it had been Mathieu who had avoided the experiment that was driving the Tower's inhabitants stir crazy. Or genuinely crazy rather. Despite the boy's sanity, the floor's tricky silence had quieted his former charge's approach and he jolts under the hand. There is no racing pulse. No gasp of surprise. Just a man sitting up straight with wide eyes that relax soon after.
He can't speak, but he leans back against his touch in a silent hello, feeling the shame creep deep. There'd been a time when Francis had been more worthy of his mentor role. Now reduced to nothing, he couldn't help feeling as if his plight was letting the boy beside him down.
sorry it's a tl;dr tag
Time he knew had not been kind to either of them, and France he knew was a man who liked company, friends and companionship. Here within the tower Canada wondered just how alone France was and if he had fallen short in some places of trying to keep tabs on the older nation, to make sure he was okay. It wasn't Matthew's job to do this, far from it, although he still felt a small push to try to look after France despite their differences and a few grievances that Matthew still held in his heart from being left as a child to the mercy of the British Empire.
But sitting beside him France looked so fragile and beaten down, worn and exhausted with everything. It's something he's never seen from France before. Not from the exuberant, colourful man he usually is with his sharp tongue and snarky wit.
Matt doesn't say anything but gently tugs France into a hug. He knows that Francis needs it more than he does and he wasn't about to leave the man high and dry when he very obviously needed someone there.
Ain' no thaaang
Mathieu was a stronger man than most believed him, having compassion no matter the hardship and capable hands. Francis gave a quiet shudder, something that sounded like a muffled sob, and leaned in against the boy's side, clamping his eyes closed.
no subject
A broad hand moved its way into France's golden hair, giving the silky strands a pet before Matt shifted enough to try to console Francis. Matthew knew that the only thing he could offer to him was a medial comfort, a shoulder for him to cry on. He didn't even know what had happened to him to upset him so, and he had been worried. Oh he had, wandering the tower in search of Francis, inquiring about him and it all yielded the same result of it being unknown.
He held Francis, not saying a word, but letting the man find a small piece of comfort in his ex-colony that Matthew believed that Francis wouldn't find in others.