(France x Reader) Visceral

The daybreak was soothing and she nearly was wiped clean of all memories that blotted her conscience like a sweltering wound; nearly forgetting the alarming cries and pained screeching she heard late at night. She had lied upon the linen sheets rigidly, and could not succumb to sleep- her body producing little warmth, the havoc occurring out her bed window kept her staring at her ceiling.

The maids have already begun their chain of ordered chores, and were, with much struggle and disdain for said maids, able to coax the lady out of her chambers for washing. She was beyond fighting however; and was willing to be pulled out of her nightgown and into decency just enough for a mealtime.

She had not spoken of this manifestation though, her food occupying her weakly. It scarcely had been a distant recollection of the time she'd gone out with her mentor, only to see a horse-drawn carriage, its own mane flecked with disease and pelt of grime, spotted three corpses piled upon each other in a poorly fitted way.

Their flesh was stippled with open blisters, their faces beyond recognizable due to the swelling, yet more so because of the leaking blood and pus that trickled out of every orifice. The skin seemed to stretch and cling to the vulnerable muscle underneath, that rippled uneasily and even tearing. Limbs were thrown around haphazardly, and yet the entire body was heavy of pox.

The man sitting affront was void of empathy, and carried on the cargo without a sympathetic, or otherwise, manner. Her findings could not fathom in the slightest, harboring a certain assumption of one's absolute heartless disposition, was utterly recoiling. The shivering infestation left her particularly empathetic, though in an ironic sense where she could not do else than turn her cheek.

She previously wished for iced water, instead was given another breakfast tea that she cared little for. She drunk it, tongue empty of joy. The cracker between her fingers crumbles, and she is scolded only momentarily as she splays her fingers and sweeps it onto the floor- but she does not doubt she will get a light beating for such disgraceful manner.

It was not of her current concern to care.

She dared herself not to look any further that day, and it had only become gradual news of how disease will sweep the city from the north shores, but it become no major notice. The populace had still been burdened with war, the soldiers becoming less acute in their drawings, altogether appearing to care very little about the community that thrived there- or once had. It was not uncommon to see the soldiers thrust their bayonet in any intervening person- man, woman, or child.

She had seen when a child poked above the glass window to catch sight of the commotion, his dewy eyes wide, and the soldier shot him on the forehead. She did not dare to speak during the sequence that led a young mistress to be rammed through with spindly lance, spine snapping bitterly, and despite her evident pregnancy, was given no merciful avail.

The safety of oneself was a throw of die every single moment they step out of their abode, or equally possibly, they are anywhere near vicinity of the terror.

Amidst her thoughts, an envelope is pressed against her extended palm, meaning for a biscuit, but it snatches her curiousity nonetheless, the material inside being of high priority.
The letter was brief and its forwardness appealed to her, the text dedicated to impose as an invitation. She had originally been of no place to deny such a elegant offer, and the thought of it was of such sanguine nature, that it would have never crossed her mind into doing so.
The days up the event were mere placement-holders for a more extravagant, vital event, and she admits to her evident excitement as any would.

No one expected otherwise, yet she could not even begin to fathom her distinct enthusiasm- perhaps the conception of ridding filth seemed particularly ideal unto her standards. The assumed idea was amusing all the same.

She read only fragments of Latin and Greek, and was never given actual material since the tragic departure of her previous mentor, and instead spent rest of the time doing other activities, those that did not require creative or artful supplements nor supplies. The lady spent a decent duration out, against all the precautionary warnings and denials, she walks into the heart of the city.

She has walked through the same route to a number she hardly remembers, and yet, her fascination with city itself is glorious, though its disposition to travelers were terrible foul, as it should be.

The still of fertilized soil from the city outside became the stench of rancid meat and defecation brought by ship vermin scattered upon the streets The smell has long since bothered it, and finds it ironically relaxing, since it seemed to mask her entire mind, allowing her to smear away inner misfortunes. She goes down roadside without a second's hesitation, gripping the book with ginger hands.

Her usual accompanying servant, one only know to her as 5-06, had been so kind, so against her orders, to bring a book of stories into the lady's hands. If ever uncovered, there is little doubt the maid and her will be punished- but until then, she carried the book with severe possessiveness, holding it against her breast with dignified protection as a mother may do towards her child. And Lord, bless 5-06, it was in Latin.

She could not be seen carrying such book in the manor, for it would be despicable to her name and no other, and found it necessary, for the mere sake of her literature, to travel towards city-side, where no ill-mannered encounterance involving the literary tool will be at risk of corruption. Her concern is otherworldly, and she believes her perception of reality has unraveled sharply due to the recent events, jagged edges scraping her common sense.

The sudden turn of cold in the atmosphere raises bumps upon her flesh, and she shivers, affected, and inhales the frosty air deeply. Taking quick corners around tattered and broken buildings, she reaches the shop that emitted warm light and a subtle joy through her; the shop delighting her as she steps inside with defiance. There's a fire glowing deeply in the fireplace, and a young man using a poker to readjust the embers, and already she feels thoroughly heated, her cheeks once bitten by ice were softening up.

"Hello," she calls, briefly stating her notice there.

The shopkeeper looks up only once from his accumulating pile of books, though she has already settled herself down on the vintage armchair, that sunk with constant usage, beside the same young man who had been tending the fire earlier. Immediately she flips open the book, the aged pages thankfully saved from the dreary wetness.

It begins to pour heavily, though she does not glance out the window for her attention has all been focused into the stories weaver through the collection of letters, strung together into understanding. At least, she does not do so until the patters of rain droplets have become nothing more than a dull noise in the back of her mind, to which her gaze is met with the man who seemed wholly fascinated in her.
This sudden contact disarms the lady and begin to feel cornered, and mocked with silence; it perturbs her so greatly, she is coerced into verbal tactics, "Can I help you with anything?"

The sheer disruption of the otherwise quiet of flipping pages and crackling flames causes the man to fixate his gaze elsewhere, in an awkward sense of prolonged apologizing, to which he does. "I mean no disrespect, miss." His tongue grasps a foreign tint upon the tip, one she would only describe as French, instead of the common British-licked vocals in these areas. Another heavy pause is at work, and when she believes that is the end of that, she returns to her book just as he opened his mouth again. "I was only struck with your beauty. Is it out of my place to-"

To this, she laughs drily, her lips curling into a sneer of sorts. "Do not presume me as brainless, sir. Compliments will not get you anywhere."

"That- that was absolutely not my intent, you merely look familiar." His eyes widened, displaying a range of surprise to confusion, an glistening solid blue.

She stared at him with less the emotion, contemplating her next decided movement. She settled upon nodding, eyes back onto the page and pursing her mouth. "I'm afraid you've been mistaken."

He lets a shallow heave escape. "Ah. Pity, then. I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me."
The lady does not reply, her focus once more swept by wistful tales of Rome, but reciprocates by pressing an acknowledging pull of lips.

They sit an arm-width away from each other, both corrupt in their own thoughts for the next hour until the sweep of rain has nearly entirely ceased its downfall. Her eyelids shut and open with a certain deliberation, and she snapped her book shut, finding it simpler to sit there without a particular cause to fulfill in the moment. As she does so, the man beside her stood up, the seat he left with an evident indentation of usage.

She does not stop herself when she trails her eyes to his walk toward the counter, placing two nondescript books upon the counter with a strange sort of finesse. He stands there, shifting his feet without thought, patiently waiting for the shopkeeper to arrive from his office in the back. She cannot stop her awful gaze, as the man, admittedly, intrigued her. What was his business here?

"Put these on my tab," the man says, once the shopkeeper pulls out from behind the ragged curtains. "Bonnefoy."

With those final words, he exits the bookstore without flourishing about, and she can only watch from the distance until he vanishes from view entirely. It appeared utterly appalling to consider the mere fact that he had even struck a conversation with her- if it'd been the same Bonnefoy family member that basically mistook her for another noble. She does her best not to gape, and she quickly stands up, feeling a slight rush of blood, and leaves the building with the nonchalance fluidity of a mule.

Turning round in a circle, determined to spot the man who she had so rudely snapped at without concern- though effortless, the man already engulfed into the riot, making it nearly impossible to find him. The lady stands there, a sort of peculiar distress eating her, and she thinks, I'd been wrong. She expects somehow to be disowned- for her simple action of turning away a Bonnefoy so rudely.

She finds it best to just return to the manor, at this point.


--

She is relatively early during the time she passes her invitation to the guard and steps onto the grand banquet floor, its tiles a meticulously-fitted pattern that appeared to fit no symmetrical design.

To her right, she could distinctly hear the women from the second estate over talk about the men in the room- how they were all barbarians, how they were begrudgingly attractive and made their heart rattle against their ribcage, and how they smelt of beef. She was disinterested upon this topic, yet having no other current activity made her less open to socially-accepted discussions.
She does not doubt that a similar conversation is becoming raised on the opposing room side, swapping sex roles however.

The silk of her fingertips pull the fabric of her dress stubbornly, glancing across without a sense of direction. It is only a mingling few that dare to covered with the unfamiliar, the rest straying towards the edges of the mass. She is early, and occupies her time dumbly with overarching urges of boredom pulling her every movement like a marionette doll, acting as though she had better tasks at hand than mope around at a party. Which, admittedly, was utterly untrue, the party of which she expects higher standards of prolonged thrill of such gathering. However, the obscure gossip had not been lost on her conjured basics of the fête.

The door chimes every individual moment one enters through it, and she naturally glances up, perhaps to spot a familiar face amongst the open unknown. Time begins to dull at this point, any tick or click becoming ceaseless thrum in the equally gray atmosphere. She finds no mirth into talking to either parties which only continues her downhill of celebratory feel. The lone lady draws a tongue over her mouth, staring down at her clasped hands affront her petticoat. How odd it must be to exclaim the eccentric pattern of the floor! Though she is tempted, no such words arrive, only a smile flickering displays any existence.

They do not prepare for the feast until an hour has passed from the entire count of guests has arrives, which was a pity. A decided, disappointing pity.
She is inspecting a torn leaf from a corner potted plant, the growth drooping pathetically, when she is spoken to, all too suddenly.

"Miss?" She hears this inquiry, although feels no need to turn about, as the speaker was most likely not directing his words toward her- it has a familiar, foreign tint which was unidentifiable other than-

"Miss?" He begins to prompt once again, and she turns with a lack of fluidity she certainly found shameful. Her direct field of vision lands just at his collar, taking very little effort into fixating her eyes above to the man. He is excruciatingly clean above any pointed standard of the class, though his muzzle was left scruffy, as thought it had been pointless to completely be  clean-shaven to the degree of sheen to the skin.
She would never admit it appealed to her, however.

She nods in a strict acknowledgement, shifting her eyes downcast upon the pearly tiles once more. "My lord, it must be great fate that allow us to meet again."

"Sir," he responds a soft, gray-tone. "Sir, is fine. And yes, I agree of course. When you denied me in the bookshop, it is strange to see how we meet again."

It is an alarming theory, of which his family must have disowned him in the time she had known of him, otherwise it would have been somewhat impossible, unless he had brought the decision upon himself, and cut him away from the manor; losing his honorable title. A peculiar thought, in the least.

"Sir," she says in an alike voice, "Sir Bonnefoy, it must be horribly rude of me, though I cannot help but wonder of what else business you inquiry here?"

With a faint smile, he muses, effectively crumbling the apathetic effect he held. "Yes, it does sound rather funny with the sole idea of arriving here, another world even, for a diseased party. Though my purposes here require research this event will fortify me with."
He waves a hand in a further direction and nods to a linen-clothed table with a spacious jar on it. The angle is too difficult to see what is the material within the glass, though it appears rather evident in the circumstance. "Excited?" he asks, the smile becoming more acute.

"Hardly. I haven't drawn blood in years." Despite her discomfort with the imminent, her face slackens into a grin, silent encouragement from the man that faces her, who emits an absurd amount of curiously euphoric sense.

"I wish I could say the same," replies Sir Bonnefoy simply, "but don't fret, the whole exchange must be very brief."

"I suppose so."

"Say, I don't have your name. What are you called?" The man extends a hand, of which she places hers upon. As he levels her wrist and lays a kiss at the center, she only sighs.

"It is not of import, I'd say. After all, we'll part ways once this party is complete."
There's a brightness in his gaze, all the while he releases her hand, speaking a falsely naïve tongue. "Yes, but what of fate? The sort of destiny that brought us together before may occur again."

She says nothing, and only laughs.

The conversation continues with short exchanges that last for an immense amount of time, and it is quaint to think how she had spent her entire evening with a man she hardly knew, discussing vague articles of interest though still feeling content in those matters.
It is only during their hearty meal with the rest of the boisterous guests that her tongue loosens with alcohol, spilling away her identity with slow shards of phrase. The man does not seem to mind, and it does not goes beyond her conscious of his effort to support her- guiding with slim fingers upon her shoulders, though a polite distance between their bodies ever palpable.

There is an odd amount of people watching them, whatever public place they may be, and while the lady is awfully disconcerted by this intense, quiet mockery, he is utterly unperturbed by the commotion that continues to fester underneath vocative reaches and deep within the throat.
This is hazy to her eyes, yet the blade that draws beads of blood across her inner arm in a superficial wound activates hypersensisitively practically, and she is aware of how she digs her fingernails into the flesh of his hand during the procedure.

The wretched jar, now up close for the viewers, has a shallow pool of infected pus congealing from the contact of air as the lid is unscrewed, a single hair is meticulously doused into the fluid, then slid across the wound thoroughly, for the foreign disease to irrevocably soak into the patient, which had unfortunately been the lady.

The line gradually diminishes as every guest gets a portion of the infection into their system through alike ways, securing a strip of cloth over the wound to cease the bleeding- the party continuing as it was prior.

"I do not know what to think," she says finally, once Sir Bonnefoy has stepped away from the operation chair.

"I fear for the results," grimaces the man, examining the bandage that stretched tightly over his arm, "though I do not expect the worst."

"I wish I could say the same," she reciprocates, and they both laugh.

They bid each other farewell, and with forced smiles, they depart the banquet to their designated chambers, heaving back blood that began to wash their mouth.

For this, was the beginning of Hell.