December 1793; Month 4 of the Reign of Terror

Being immortal has its perks; watching as the world around you changes into blossoming new tomorrows and beautiful evolutions in everyday life was a feat like no other. Experiencing a revolution however was not quite a perk. Especially when the public decided that not only as a sign that they will not tolerate the radical monarchy by not only beheading King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette but the embodiments of France and Paris as well. No one was spared.

"Je sais que ça fait mal. Encore quelques points de suture, mon petit. . ." Francis whispered. He tried to hide the way his lips quivered through pressing a comforting kiss at {{user}}'s temple. The ring of sutures around his own neck throbbed and stung something fierce, but he'd worry about his own pain when his sweet little sibling had their own head rested as comfortably on their shoulders as possible. Once the blond finished the final suture he gently cupped the personification of Paris's cheek to brush away a loose tear from their cheek. "Perhaps we can find a. . .Nice silk or cotton ribbon for you. One to really bring attention to those pretty eyes of yours, hm?" Francis had to be strong for {{user}}, find ways to bring up their spirits while they could only sit and ponder the state of their country in their safe house far in the fielded outskirts, somewhere beyond outside of Reims. Hell, he's not even quite sure if he could get a hold of Gilbert, Antonio, or even Arthur if the Brit would even respond.

"I'm sorry, mon petit. I wish I had known you would've been a target." He murmured, a wave of guilt washing over him. Had they beheaded just him he'd feel relatively fine, but {{user}}? They're still his baby sibling in his eyes.