Another, much longer and waaay more thought out present for Himi. ~_~

Warnings: Incredible amount of angst, here. Not to mention rape. And bad French.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just my ideas. ~_~ Well, along with actual history...

Revenge
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Revolution scarred the earth. The scattered hatred of steel and powder, the horror of so much spilt blood and so many killed, rose and fell in waves around one man, transcendent of mere mortality. In torrents, the human carnage and dissolution crashed over him, and he felt every single cruel death as if it were his own.

What was it to be the embodiment of a nation? Louis had often asked, and Francis had never been entirely sure how to answer. C'est comme être un dieu, he would say, but that wasn't it, not really. Gods were all-powerful, their beauty unrivaled; they were the creators of lives which would look to them as the irrefutable truth. But what more was Francis than a creation, the fragmented ideal of a generally united society? His power, his beauty, they were not his own as much as he wished they could be; they were traits dependent on the state and structure of the very nation he represented.

As such, revolution was the single most frightening experience for the Embodiments, for nothing was more capable of destroying them than the complete deconstruction of their existence. Francis examined his body, and even though he had never lifted his sword—even though he hid during battle and cried out the pain he felt for every wound, every laceration, every God forsaken, innocent life lost—he still carried the bruises upon his arms, his chest, stomach, back, legs, everywhere; all the gashes and tears were there, as if he himself had been on the battlefield, as if the pierce of swords had gone straight through his flesh, over and over and over, until the skin that at one point had been soft and pale turned perpetually red with scars and scabs and sometimes fresh blood that might soak his clothes or dye his hair.

And while the battles raged on, while Francis watched with awful consternation the head of Louis roll to the ground while the reformers cheered in triumph, he wondered weakly if he would ever be put back together, if the scars would ever go away. At this rate, Francis was sure the excessive bloodshed would tear him beyond repair, and the thought frightened him. Would he, after all this time, truly die? Could he die? It was possible; nations of the past had died out before, buried deep under each new age.

This revolution was nothing like Alfred's, either. Francis thought with a bitter, helpless conviction that Al had merely gone against his father; Al had been able to focus his hatred and need for freedom on an outside force.

Francis only had himself.

Several years passed, and even though he thought the revolution must have been over, Francis still hid in the countryside, afraid of the people he was supposed to love, afraid of what they would do to him. But even hiding away from civilization was not enough.

Arthur found him.

Somehow, Francis could not force himself to be surprised as Arthur stepped over him, vindictive grin pulling at his slightly parted lips. No, Arthur had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to finding Francis, and all the better to see him like this. Beaten, broken, helpless and hopeless, a Francis who could barely stand but for the inevitable strength of the reformists.

As he had countless times before, Arthur stooped down and took Francis' chin in his hand, roughly, nails digging into the scars which had recently begun to recede. He reached up, arm trembling from even this small exertion, and could only manage to place a hand on Arthur's forearm; he tried to speak, but could not find his voice, and could only try to tell Arthur, his eyes begging, s'il te plaît, ne fait pas. But Francis knew Arthur would feel that hand and take it as provocation; he would see eyes pleading to be left alone, but recognize only pleading. "You're asking for it," he said, and Francis closed his eyes and allowed himself to be pushed back.

This – the hot breath and heavy hands, taking all while refusing to give – this Francis could accept, because this was reality, an action committed out of inevitability. It was the fact that he knew deep within himself that, had Arthur been in a similar situation (n'avait-il pas?), Francis would have stooped this low (il avait) which made him think that maybe he did deserve to die.

Francis' personal interest had not been so much in fur trading, nor in Alfred, particularly. What Francis enjoyed most was the look on Arthur's face as he slowly came closer to Al, the protective gleam in his eyes that said, "If you lay one bloody finger on him, I'll cut your throat out."

Nevertheless, it had never been Francis' wish to appease Arthur; he preferred their tempestuous relationship to remain tempestuous. While he lovingly watched over Matthew, he befriended the Natives of the Ohio River Valley, pushing ever closer to territory which he knew Alfred wanted, and to which many of Alfred's citizens were already moving. He knew Arthur could not ignore him any longer.

A final push was necessary, and Francis felt a certain thrill at the thought of what Arthur would do. Things had become monotonous in the past years, and Francis was sure that this would at least bring the spark of love mixed with unbearable hate back into Arthur's being.

He made sure that if Matthew must follow, it was at a distance. He knew all too well the severity of Arthur's anger, and was too afraid that he would take out his frustration at Francis on Matthew.

Sure enough, Arthur responded violently, hands clasped tightly around Francis' neck, overcome by that lustful, animal impulse (baiser?) to kill—and Francis grinned smugly while Alfred watched from one side and Matthew the other, frightened. But Arthur had no intention of killing him; Francis knew Arthur could never bring himself to such an extent, especially when it was in his interest to keep Francis alive. However, as Francis was soon to find, there were worse things than death.

He figured that Arthur would have to expel him from the Americas, and did not take it personally. After all, he had lost the fight. No, it was when Chevalier de Levis pulled him aside and murmured that rumor was getting around that Arthur had publically claimed Matthew as his own, and was already doing what he could to convince Alfred to think of Matthew as his brother. It was only when Arthur returned and locked gazes with Francis that he knew; knew just from Arthur's vindictive expression that he had no intention of letting Francis see Matthew ever again.

Until revenge found its way into Francis' life, somehow life did not seem worth living.

Francis groaned painfully but hadn't the strength to fight as Arthur bit at his neck, viciously tearing the already tender skin. Blood oozed from the reopened cuts and stained Arthur's lips, but he smiled his vindictive grin and placed a hand confidently against Francis' still-clothed crotch. Francis felt tears in his eyes and said deftly, "Fait pas," but to no avail, for Arthur merely pressed harder against Francis' guilty arousal and whispered close to his ear, "You like this kind of thing, don't you? Horny fucking bastard." His fingers traced the outline of Francis' sex, and Francis moaned incoherent French slurs, only to suddenly feel the sting of Arthur's fist against his cheek. Francis cried out, and Arthur hit him again, growling, "Shut up," before tearing at his trousers.

Something in Arthur must have snapped, for out of all the time they had found themselves in this situation, he had never been so violent, so full of hate. And Francis knew and accepted that he had brought it upon himself. He should have known better; it was only out of the sheer desperation of anguish and betrayal that led him to the conclusion that revenge, no matter how successful, could lead to any happy end.

The Proclamation of 1763 outrage Alfred to no end, and it was just the beginning. Francis watched Arthur, destitute and desperate for some sort of foothold after the Seven Year's War, attempt to reign the already self-sufficient, practically independent Alfred. Direct taxes and unwelcome British soldiers to enforce said taxes enraged all Americans. Francis smirked at their constant bickering, Alfred righteously incredulous and Arthur helplessly confused at his sons feelings, and knew as soon as Alfred declared independence that it was his time to act: he would have his revenge.

"Vraiment, j'ai du respect pour toi, Alfred," Francis said soon after the war had been declared. Alfred, still young and innocently defiant, gazed at Francis in confusion, so Francis repeated in English, "I really have respect for you."

Alfred grinned, though warily, and said confidently, "Thanks, I guess. Uh, I assume you're talking about that asshole Arthur. You two don't really get along, do you? Not that I get along with him either, I was just making an observation is all."

Francis smiled. "Arthur and I have been enemies for quite a long time. Though I am sure," he added, his voice smoothly disarming, "that my hate for him could never rival yours."

There was a gleam in Al's eyes as he shouted, "You bet! I can't tell ya how much I wanna tear that son of a bitch to pieces, you know? But I," he said more softly, withdrawing a bit and averting his eyes, "I'm just worried that my people don't have the strength to take him on. I mean, you fought us before. We're not as strong as he is." Francis savored the weakness in Alfred's widened eyes as he gently touched the boy's cheek.

"J'ai quelque chose pour donner a toi," he said and took Al's hand, leading him away without receiving much resistance.

Later in an inn, with excuses of "important political discussions" hanging dishonestly behind them, Francis sat Alfred down on a bed before sitting down next to him. Seconds passed until he took Al's chin in his hand and turned his head so that they were facing each other. "Je veux t'aider," he said, and Al only half understood before leaning in and pressing his lips inexperiencedly against Francis', his tongue innocently poking out to touch the man's beautiful, pink skin. So Francis expertly drew Al's tongue into his mouth and sucked, and knew he would be triumphant as Al trembled and moaned.

Minutes passed and Alfred was lying on his back, pink-faced and perspiring as Francis sucked instead on his burning arousal, eliciting frequent gasps and high-pitched whines. Al clutched at the sheets and cried out as Francis hummed, lips stretched tight around him and long hair tickling the insides of his thighs. Francis knew why Alfred was allowing him to do this, why he had chosen to seduce him as he had. It came down to the fact that Alfred was scared and confused, unsure of what to do or on whom he could rely. Francis naturally took advantage of the chaos in Alfred's mind, the desire for comfort before plunging into a life of ultimate independence, a life where Arthur would no longer be there to pick up the pieces. As plainly as he could hear Alfred's erratic breathing, feel Al tighten around the finger he pushed as gently as he could into his body, Francis could see the fear in Alfred. Not fear of intimacy, for that would be detrimental to Francis' purpose, but fear of being utterly alone.

With deliberate care, he pushed his finger farther inside and abandoned Alfred's erection to kiss him deeply, but in feeling Alfred resist, unused to the musky taste on Francis' lips, he instead placed feather-light kisses along Al's neck. To his relief, Alfred began to sigh and relax. He thought of Arthur and smiled at the thought of his expression when he found out what Francis had done to his darling child. Softly, Francis whispered into Alfred's neck, "Tu n'as pas besoin de lui."

Alfred looked at him through bleary eyes. "Ahh – nn. Wha–aah –t?"

"You don't need him," Francis replied, lips tracing over Al's pink skin. "All you need is power. I want to give it to you." His finger brushed the prostate, and Al cried out. "I want to give you everything."

Suddenly, Alfred sobbed and nodded shakily.

"Thank you," he moaned tearfully. "Th-Thank you…!"

As easily as that, Francis had won. He had seduced the Prince, blind to Francis' ulterior motives, and in so doing would humiliate the King.

"You took him," Arthur growled and shoved himself inside. Francis screamed, his body jolting and convulsing, wound up and so breakable. There was the ripping of tight rings of muscle, and blood covering his buttocks and Arthur's thighs.

"Je suis désolé," Francis cried. He wanted nothing more than to express his regret to Arthur, but what could he do? Explain that going through a revolution had changed him, made him see the error of his ways?

The searing pain, each time Arthur stabbed into him with the force of deep, angry conviction, Francis felt his own stupidity. Had he actually thought that Alfred had been blind to Francis' ulterior motives? No—Francis himself had been blind, and summoning every bit of strength his body contained, Francis reached up and kissed Arthur's neck before falling back to the ground.

Foolish, reckless; these things could barely describe Francis' thoughts of himself. Despite all their fighting, Arthur had been the only one who, no matter what, was always there. Before, during his revolution, while his insides seemed to tear themselves apart and there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent it, Francis had realized, the sensation cold and almost unwanted, that he loved Arthur. And when he was completely honest with himself, he knew that no one in his long life had ever meant anything near what Arthur did to him.

"Embrasse-moi," he moaned, a lack of energy making his effort to spread his legs further fail. "S'il te p-plaît…!"

But he knew, even despite how Arthur acknowledged the unexpected kiss and the twitching of Francis' legs, that it was too late. Francis had taken away something that Arthur had not understood, but had cherished deeply nonetheless. His only response to Francis' attempts to apologize, to the longing in Francis' weary eyes, was to move even more harshly against him, saying quietly and with a focused bitterness so intense that Francis' body shivered involuntarily,

"Never."

Our wounds remain unrectified
And our souls won't be exhumed
Sing for Absolution, Muse