literature

Nothing Gold Can Stay [France x Reader]

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She knows that the moment she sees the man walking through the door of the inn, nothing will ever be the same.

He wears a shabby cloak which looks like it has seen better days, with fraying seams at the bottom and a multitude of small holes speckled across the gray, thin fabric. His hair, a shaggy blond mass that reaches a stubbly chin, frames pale and dirtied cheeks. Bright blue eyes stare ahead impassively - eyes that, if she were to guess, once knew how to laugh - as he steps cautiously across the wooden floor like he fears being assaulted at any moment. The man heads straight for the counter where her father, the innkeeper, counts the day's wages. If (name) were to be honest, she would assume he looked like the normal, everyday traveler that happens upon their inn. Normal in every manner except the thick, black leather gloves that cover the hands that lay at his side and the almost frantic pressure that seems to envelope him in a heinous sheath.

It is the middle of summer. Anyone in their right mind knows that such apparel was just begging for heatstroke. 

"I need a room." The man's words echo in an aloof, distant tone throughout the main floor of the inn. His voice holds the lilt that only the nobility had, deeply accented and certainly uncommon in the small village. The few occupants sitting at the tables sipping mead and nibbling on bread turn their heads towards the man as soon as he spoke, faces swimming with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

The atmosphere of the inn turns rotten instantaneously. 

(Name) watches silently from the door to the kitchens as the stranger and her father stare at one another for a few moments, clutching the serving tray to her chest. The village was is to travelers, of course; the inn had been built to accommodate such people while they journeyed from one kingdom to the next and her father had jumped to the opportunity immediately to become the keeper after her mother's death. But the man whose eyes did not reflect the light of the fireplace and whose voice held such a peculiar accent was obviously not welcome.

"We don't have any. They're all occupied. Sorry." Her father flicks his gaze towards the stairs that led to the upper floor, where all the rooms were located. It was a lie - (name) had just cleaned two rooms earlier in the morning after their residents had left. The inn has plenty of room.

Just because he talks strangely does not mean you have to turn him away, Father. What is going on? (Name)'s father is, quite frankly, a greedy man. Bewilderment floods her mind as she observes the two men; any chance for more money is what her father lives for.

"Please, sir. I am desperate. I have traveled for a week with no shelter and barely enough food or water. This village is the last until I reach my destination and this is the only inn." Out of the corner of her eye (name) observes the man's gloved hands clenching into tight fists and his admittedly handsome face narrows into a fatigued mask. His words are somewhat difficult to pick out due to his strange accent, especially when she is so far away from the exchange.

"And I said no." Her father leans forward, scowling deeply as he shoves the box of coins underneath the counter and away from prying eyes. "Try one of the farms outside the village. I'm sure someone won't mind you staying the night."

(Name)'s breath catches in her throat when the man turns his head from her father to the shadowy corner which she is standing in. His eyes meet her own (e/c) ones and for the briefest of moments, she feels as if he has plucked her heart straight from her chest and is squeezing it with decadent fingers. She feels as if she were a wounded deer cornered by a hungry wolf with salivating jaws.

She is trapped in the color of the summer sky for what seems to be an eternity, even though she knows it is only half a moment.

"I have already asked. They directed me towards this inn." The stranger's gaze returns to her father and one gloved hand slips into the folds of his disheveled cloak. (Name) releases a relieved sigh and her body relaxes, though her skin prickles with a peculiar chill as she regards the man's movements. Slowly, almost deliberately, the hand crawls back from the confines of the tattered clothing and onto the counter. "I can pay in advance for many nights."

When the hand moves from the counter, a small pile of golden coins is revealed.

Even from her spot (name) can hear the choked gasp that leaves her father's lips as his eyes set their sights on what is before him. Gold is something not often seen in the village. Silver and copper is the common currency in this small hamlet of farmers and workers - gold is a myth, a fanciful dream that only few ever get to see come true. (Name) can practically see her father's mind turning over and over as he watches the gold as if a demon is about to rise from the glittering surface and devour his very soul. 

It does not take long for her father to snatch the coins into his hand and hastily count them one-by-one, giving the stranger a curt nod. He then turns his head to (name) and she stiffens - the greed that is swirling within her father's eyes as he pockets the gold is an avarice that she knows will not lead to a favorable outcome.

"(Name)! Show our guest a room that's available. We're closed for the day now. Everyone else get to your rooms!"

The harsh order grates on her ears and she winces as the few guests all hurry from their chairs and to the stairs to the second level. (Name) sets the serving tray on a table and makes her way slowly to the man with the gold, uncertain as to why her heart is suddenly beating wildly in her chest. "Follow me, sir," she says to him in a low tone, seeing out of the corner of her eyes that her father is unlocking the door to the back room of the inn, where he will most likely once again count the earnings of the day. The man says nothing as (name) leads him up the stairs and towards the end of the hallway, where one of the empty rooms lay. She can feel his eyes on the back of her head as she restlessly unlocks the door with her ring of keys, clearing her throat and stepping away as the door slowly opens.

"Here you are, sir. Please enjoy your stay. We serve a breakfast two hours after sunrise, lunch right at noon, and supper just before sunset."

She turns to leave when the man's voice stops her in her tracks.

"Your name is (name), yes?"

The man is gazing at her with an intense curiosity. She feels her cheeks heat up and she grips the fabric of her blouse in an attempt to calm her sweaty palms. "E-er..." The words leave her mouth in a stammer and (name) coughs nervously. "Yes. I am (name). I am the daughter of the innkeeper. ...please, sir, do excuse my father for his rash behavior. I do not know why he acted the way he did." She does not know why she feels the need to apologize for such a thing to a stranger.

The man with the blond hair and blue eyes smiles. It is a small, tired smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I do not mind. A village such as this has reasons to be wary of someone like me. Your father was merely acting upon his instincts."

"Pray tell, sir, but what do you mean by that?" Now she is the one who is curious and she inches forward, head tilted.

"You are young. I do not expect you to understand entirely." The man shakes his head and slips into the doorway of the room, one gloved hand on the doorknob. 

Indignation rises within (name)'s chest hotly and she crosses her arms, giving the traveler what she hoped was an offended glare. "I am nineteen, sir. That is not young."

He laughs. It is a rich sound that echoes in a lovely tenor throughout the hall in throughout her mind. The weariness seems to drain from his handsome face all at once and his eyes are bright with an inner fire, though (name) can still see the faintest shadow etched into his skin. "Ah, I suppose that is an age where one would not consider themselves young. My apologies. I did not mean to be insensitive."

He turns his head towards the interior of the room then and starts to close the door. (Name) lurches herself forward and, to her utter shock, stops the door with her hands before it latches all the way.

"W-wait!" Her voice sounds a bit strangled to her ears and her throat goes dry. "I-I am sorry, but...may I have your name, sir? In case I need it for...anything." It is a lie and not a very good one at that. Truth be told she merely wants his name just for the sake of knowing it - but whether or not he can tell that by her tone of voice, (name) does not know.

The man hesitates. She watches as he fidgets with unease, a gloved hand balling itself into a fist as he looks past her and at a wall like it is the most captivating thing in the world. After what feels like half a century he sighs and the dismal, world-heavy smile returns to his lips.

"Francis. My name is Francis. Have splendid night, Miss (name)."

With that he closes the door gently and (name) finds herself alone in the hallway with a heart that's beating ten times too fast and his name twisting in and out of her ribcage like a serpent.

xxx

The next morning (name) awakens earlier than what is the norm and sets about to do the usual mundane chores of an innkeeper's daughter. She collects the eggs from the chicken coop behind the inn and sweeps up the front room; she does the laundry in the cool summer's morning and puts bread in the oven for this evening's supper; all this she finishes long before her father or any of the inn's guests awaken.

Or so she thinks.

With the tasks of the morning complete (name) walks to the small expanse of forest that surrounds the village, admiring the dew on the leaves and the pink clouds of the sunrise. There is a stream located within the forest that she often visits when she has the time and being that she is awake long before most living creatures this morning, she figures now is a good a time as any.

If (name) is being completely honest with herself, she did not get an appropriate amount of sleep. The traveler with the gold - Francis - had occupied her mind much of the night. It is...something she is not used to. It is like an infatuation that has taken a vicious hold of her heart and yet, deep down, she knows it is something entirely different.

Francis was like a prince to her. Not that she has ever met a prince despite being the closest village to a kingdom; but the subtle elegance that she had sensed within him, the noble manner of speaking, and the gold - of course, the gold...

I wonder why he is traveling. I sensed something urgent within him. I want to know more about him. But I'm just the innkeeper's daughter...

(Name) is not used to such discord in her mind or heart. It is as if Francis has plunged an arrow straight into her chest and made it so her thoughts revolve around him and only him. It is an intoxicating distraction, one that she welcomes yet is anxious about.

When she at last comes upon the stream (name) is surprised to see a figure standing before the calm and peaceful water. She recognizes Francis immediately - he's still wearing the black leather gloves but has discarded the ratty cloak in favor of a simple tunic and trousers. His blond hair is no longer a haggard mess from what she can see; no, it shines as bright as the golden coins he had given to her father the night before, as if it has been spun from sunlight itself. (Name) bites her lip and flattens herself against a tree, unsure if she should show herself just yet as she observes Francis in silence.

Her actions prove to be the correct ones because the next minutes are filled with something that she cannot explain.

Francis bends over and picks up a handful of pebbles from the stream's edge in one hand. He seems to inspect them one by one, very slowly and meticulously, before bringing his free hand up to his mouth and biting down on the thick leather material of his glove. Confusion fills (name)'s mind as he tugs the glove off with his teeth and it drops to the ground like a forgotten memory.

His hand is smooth and slender and looks like it has never known a day of hard work. It is a beautiful hand, like the gods themselves crafted it with nothing but adoration. His fingers hover delicately above the handful of pebbles and, the moment they make contact, it happens.

(Name)'s mouth hangs open when the dismal gray and brown stones instantly transform into a brilliant shade of yellow. It starts exactly where Francis's fingertips are and grows across the pebbles like a golden disease, making them shine and shimmer in the morning sunlight. She feels herself step back a few feet as something akin to terror creeps into her skin, shooting icy stabs of fear through her veins.

Witchcraft?!

The thought overcomes (name)'s mind and she clamps her hands over her mouth to interrupt the gasp that desperately wishes to come forth so that the man cannot hear her. Is this why her father had turned him away at first? Had he known what Francis could do? 

"Why...?"

The plaintive, soft cry that comes from where Francis stands interrupts (name)'s thoughts and her attention returns to him. He is staring at the handful of golden pebbles, face full of morose shadows and blue eyes wavering with a mixture of rage and agony. He suddenly flings the stones into the air where they land in the stream with a loud plop and collapses to the ground, body shaking as if he had become extremely ill.

"Why must it never end...?"

The dread that had settled in the bottom of her stomach gives way to something else as (name) watches the man on the ground. His uncovered hand lays against the dirt and grass and from it grows another shimmering, golden pool that stops just short of his feet. Francis's back is against (name) as she slowly, cautiously, makes her way towards him despite her every instinct screaming at her to run back home and tell her father.

"...Francis?"

His head snaps up at the same time his uncovered hand shoots out towards her like a wounded animal about to attack. (Name) steps back instantly as the fear spikes back up and the urge to turn and run away creates a sour taste in the back of her throat. Francis's expression is almost a wild one, with wide eyes and a parted mouth, and his cheeks are flushed with a ruddy emotion. When his eyes meet her (e/c) ones he relaxes ever so slightly, though his uncovered hand trembles weakly as he hides it behind his back and covers the golden spot of ground with a foot.

The forest is silent save for the soft rhythm of their breathing.

Finally Francis speaks. His voice is low and hoarse and a wave of golden hair falls into his eyes as he looks down in shame.

"You saw it, didn't you?"

For a moment (name) flounders for the right words. She does not want to tell the truth for fear that, if it is witchcraft, he will do something to her. But there is a part of her, deep within her heart, that tells (name) she must not lie about such a thing. So she doesn't.

"Yes." (Name) nods with uncertainty. "I saw...I saw..."

...I actually do not know what I saw.

"It is a curse. It is my curse." Francis reached his gloved hand for the other glove that was on the ground and grasped it tightly, slowly slipping it back onto his other hand. His movements are forced, as if he is in an entirely other world, and when he manages to get back onto his feet and finally looks her in the eyes once again, (name)'s chest blooms with compassion.

He is crying. Tears roll down his dignified cheeks in fat bundles of grief and he looks ashamed as they do. Francis takes a deep, shuddering breath that sounds as if his very being has been ripped in half.

"I have been cursed so that everything I touch with my bare hands turns to gold. Everything and...everyone."

"A curse that turns everything to gold?" (Name) blinks and turns her gaze to the gloves that hide his hands. The fear and unease that had morphed into empathy now transforms inquisitiveness, and she cannot help asking, "Then what about those?"

"An alchemist made them for me. They have been transmuted so that the curse keeps at bay as long as I wear them." Francis hastily wipes his face and gives (name) a look she cannot read, though it does not seem to be a negative one. "Are you...afraid, Miss (name)? That I will turn you into gold?" 

"...no." Her answer surprises herself and, judging by the wide-eyed expression on Francis's face, him as well. She stands straight and gazes at him with determined eyes, shaking her head. The more sensible side of her being yells and screams at her once again but she promptly ignores it for favor of giving the man with the cursed hands a shy, tender smile. "I do not fear you, Francis. But please...tell me. Tell me of how this happened. Perhaps I can help in some way."

Francis lets out a somewhat bitter and harsh laugh at her words before sobering, looking apologetic as he shakes his head. "I do not think a girl like you could help me. The witch who placed this curse upon me was a very powerful one. But if you truly wish it, I will tell you of how it came to be."

Five minutes later they are sitting on a fallen tree trunk as the summer sun begins its blazing ascent into the sky. The forest slowly begins to awaken as birds chirp to one another sleepily and squirrels hop from branch to branch in a hurry to find acorns. Francis holds his gloved hands out in front of his face as he begins to speak, eyes becoming blurry as they travel to somewhere only he knew.

"My home is a kingdom far away from here. I have been away for three years. I was twenty when I was cursed. I was the son of a wealthy lord who owned much of the countryside. I was...not a kind person, Miss (name). I abused the servants with harsh words. I demanded anything that I ever wanted. I was selfish and greedy - nothing would satisfy me. Until...until I met her."

Francis's lips upturn into a whimsical smile as he closes his eyes. (Name) cannot help but notice just how handsome he truly is up close and her heart skips a beat as she imagines herself leaning forward and placing her lips softly on his cheek.

"Her name was Jeanne." His voice becomes a lilting tempo as he continues to speak, a dreamy quality mixing into the noble accent. "She was a new servant girl and she was like...like an angel sent straight from heaven. I was drawn to her like moths are drawn to a flame. I loved her - at least, I believed I did. Oh, how I believed. But alas...I was a fool."

He opens his eyes again and this time they are filled to the brim with remorse.

"I gave her gold, Miss (name). More gold than any one person could do with. I told her I was going to make her my wife. Jeanne...did not like that." A quiet, self-deprecating scoff leaves his lips like poison. "It was then I learned of her powers. She cursed me - cursed me for my greed, my arrogance, my lunacy...and then told me the only way to break it was to wander the land without any of my belongings and reach a certain kingdom. The kingdom that is just beyond this forest, as a matter of fact."

Francis glances over at (name), who has been enraptured the entire time by his tale. She feels herself heat up under his gaze and she quickly clears her throat, tugging on a strand of (h/c) hair nervously.

"I...I am so sorry, Francis." She does not know exactly what to say. She believes it - she saw the curse in action, after all. But she is unsure as to what he wants to hear and so she simply says nothing more, instead giving him a sympathetic look.

"The reason your father acted the way he did yesterday is because he knew I was once a nobleman." Francis gestures to his drab clothes with an indifferent shrug. "It is my accent that gives it away. But I have changed - in my three years of wandering the kingdoms in search for a way to rid myself of this curse, I have changed, Miss (name). I swear to you that I am no longer a man who hungers and lusts after every little thing he can possess." His expression is one of fiery conviction and his eyes burn with the same fervor that gold shines with. 

In that moment, (name) realizes that she wants to care for this man more than she has ever cared for anyone else. She can see the pain that has coiled itself around his heart and in response, her own heart desires to heal it.

"I believe you, Francis. I do not really know why, but I do. And I want to help you." She peeks at his gloved hands for a moment before her eyes train themselves back onto Francis. "I can ask around the village if anyone knows something about curses. Unless you were...planning on going on ahead right away instead of staying here for a few days." (Name) knows her face is getting redder as she speaks and once again, she coughs nervously. "Wh-which is fine, of course."

Francis gives her a smile that makes her feel as if he is looking into the confines of her heart.

"I will not leave here for a week. I would like to spend that time with you, Miss (name), if that is alright. I feel...a kinship with you. It is strange and I cannot describe it. Perhaps it is because you are the first person to see my curse and not run away in fright to gather a mob with pitchforks."

"Curse or not, you are someone who needs help. I am not about to let you go without it, even though I am afraid I will not be able to do much being that my knowledge of magic and such things is very limited," (name) admits as she attempts to shake away the fluttering sensations in the bottom of her stomach, like birds are dancing within her.

"Thank you. Truly...thank you, Miss (name). Thank you for listening to my story. Thank you for not fearing me. Thank you." Francis beams and the brilliance of such a smile is worth more to (name) than all the gold he could conjure up for her in that very moment.

xxx

The next days pass for (name) in a crisscross of seconds, minutes, and hours. She busies herself with taking care of the inn as more travelers come and go and her father continues to count the revenue as if the coins were his precious sons. Francis, knowing that the people of the village do not trust him, stays in his room most of the time and it is (name) who brings him his supper before the sun sets in the horizon.

When the inn goes to sleep, Francis tells her stories.

Tales of his travels that she could only dream of. Mighty dragons that spew fire from their jaws and nostrils as easily as a human can breathe air as their roars shake mountains to the ground, herds of pure-white unicorns whose horns could either kill a man or cure him of any disease - except curses, evidently - sirens which rule the seas with their evocative tongues as they send ships to the depths, elegant elves that guarded ancient trees with keen eyes and sharp arrows...

(Name) hung onto his every word. She had never truly left the village in all her nineteen years. Hearing Francis speak of how wondrous the world could be invoked a vigorous wanderlust within her that begged to be let free.

All the while (name) covertly inquires everyone and anyone about curses and if anyone knew how to fix them. Not a single person gives her a hopeful answer and the more villagers she questions, the more scrutinizing and skeptical looks her father gives her. The hunger that gleams in his eyes every time Francis deposits a new small pile of gold on the counter to ensure his stay for the day makes (name)'s skin crawl.

Before she realizes it, it is the last night before Francis is going to leave for the kingdom to hopefully get rid of his curse once and for all.

"I'm sorry I could not be much help to you, Francis," she murmurs contritely as she hands him a plate full of the evening's supper, avoiding his eyes. "I suppose a village like this just isn't the right place. You'll have better luck in the kingdom. I know it."

"(Name), do not say such a thing! You've been a good friend to me for many days. Too good of a friend. I do not deserve your kind words and sweet smile." Francis's tone is soft yet reprimanding as he sets the plate aside, giving her a stern look. "You are the only one who has ever treated me like I am still a normal human being and like I was never a terrible man in my past. You have done so much for me that I fear I can never repay you."

Neither he nor she mention the fact that if he touched anything in the room with his bare hands, it would be able to support her for years to come. (Name) knows how much Francis despises his beautiful hands now - she would never dare ask him to do such a thing. Instead, she manages to give the former nobleman an appreciative nod, lips curling into a shy smile. 

"You're a different man than you were before, Francis. Why would I not be your friend and  try to help the best I can? It is the right thing to do. I do not need any payment."

"If only it had been you who had become a servant girl three years ago, and not Jeanne." Francis's voice goes so quiet that (name) can barely hear his words. At first, she does not know if she has heard him correctly. But when he leans forward and, with a touch so cautious and so light that the cool leather of his gloves barely makes contact with her cheek, he whispers, "If it had been you who I had fallen in love with, I would have become a better man who did not need a curse to make it so." Blue eyes shimmer with a mixture of regret and tenderness as a gloved thumb caresses the round curve of her cheek with the pressure of a spring breeze. "I feel ashamed...that I have come to care for you deeply now, when I have been turned into nothing short of a monstrosity."

Just like that his hand is gone from her skin and (name)'s face goes up in flames. The flames hungrily consume the blood in her veins, setting it to a boil as the sheer gravity of his words become fully comprehended. Her mouth gapes and her (e/c) eyes go wide as she stares at the man with cursed hands in utter astoundment.

"...Francis? Did you just...?"

"Jeanne was just a silly infatuation of a foolish, greedy boy, my dear (name)." The look that settles upon Francis's face makes (name)'s heart want to jump from her ribcage, crawl up her throat, and throw itself into his arms. "You, however...you, I feel as if I have been waiting to meet and come to love for a very, very long time."

(Name) cannot speak. Instead all she can do is stare with her mouth hanging open, the fire beneath her skin growing hotter and hotter by the second.

Francis just...he just...said he...loved me...?

"B-but I'm...I'm just an innkeeper's daughter, Francis!" (Name) stammers, hands clamping down on her cheeks as she turned her head away to hide from his passionate eyes. "A-And we have only known one another for a week - not even a full one at that! How can you possibly say you've fallen in love me? How can you possibly fall in love with someone like me? I am not...someone that a man like you falls in love with."

It is not like (name) is a simple fairy tale heroine who marries the first man she sees. She is sensible - at least, she believes herself to be. 

But she finds herself faltering in Francis's presence and quite frankly, she does not know if she can monitor her words properly.

"Should any of that matter? I know what my heart is telling me. And I do not mind if you don't share my feelings. It is enough for me to tell you, (name)." His smile does not falter and for a moment, (name) does not see Francis as a prince as she normally does - no, the tenderness etched into his skin and the affection that is swimming in his eyes reminds her of an angel. An angel whose heart is one of gold.

(Name) realizes then that as hard as she tries, she cannot deny the fact that her feelings for Francis go beyond friendship.

"It isn't that I don't feel the same, Francis! In fact, I care for you deeply!" she answers in a hectic manner, heart still begging to wriggle from her chest to her tongue and nestle itself against Francis like a spoiled child. "But I am afraid. My father despises you even if you do keep giving him gold. And word has gone around the village that I've been inquiring about curses - I think he believes you are trying to drag me into witchcraft. My father is not a kind man, Francis. Even when my mother was alive, he hungered for all the money he could get his hands on - money that you have continuously provided. If he wished to, he would harm you and steal what you have. So I am afraid."

She hangs her head in regret, a dread-filled sigh echoing throughout the room.

"I love you, Francis. But for your sake, I can't allow you to love me. When you leave for the kingdom tomorrow, please forget about me."

Silence. Terrible, horrendous silence.

And then (name) feels two gloves hands cup her cheeks and lift her face upwards. (E/c) eyes meet blue ones and Francis shakes his head, a pensive laugh escaping from his lips.

"Then at least allow me to kiss you once, my sweet (name). Just once and I swear that as soon as this village is at my back, I will forget your name and face even after my curse is broken."

(Name) nods. She can see it in his face - the pain her words have caused him. But her desire to protect him from her avaricious father keeps the guilt at bay and when his lips descend upon hers, the flavor that she tastes is a bittersweet one.

The kiss does not last long. It is fleeting and she can barely feel the pressure of his lips against her own. But the things Francis is able to convey in those brief moments - his yearning, his grief, his hope - crawls under her skin and spreads throughout her entire being, refusing to leave. When Francis pulls away, (name) knows it is time to leave. He does not ask her to stay. He does not ask her to accompany him to the kingdom. He knows better; despite the wanderlust that constantly hides beneath her heart, (name) belongs in the village. It is just the way things must be.

She does not want to believe the wetness she feels on her cheeks as she exits the room are tears.

xxx

The next morning (name) awakes to the aggressive dissonance of fighting.

She is disoriented at first. There is a stabbing ache in her chest that she cannot explain. Her eyes feel like she could scratch at them forever and never rid them of the irritation. 

But then she remembers what had happened the night before.

I cannot think about that now. Something is going on. I have to see what's wrong.

(Name) quickly wraps herself in a shawl as she exits her room on the bottom floor of the inn. The shouting is coming from the second floor where all the guest rooms are - perhaps a brawl had broken out between some occupants? Whatever it is, (name) can feel a steady sense of foreboding as she warily makes her way up the stairs.

As soon as she has entered the second floor the first thing she sees is a figure being thrown from the last room down the hall. They hit the wall and crumple to the floor, a groan rising from their form.

It is Francis.

His face is bruised and swollen and there is blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. From his room steps (name)'s father, cracking his knuckles and giving the blond man a sneer that evil a demon would be vigilant of.

"You've been ripping me off, haven't you?" her father demands in an oily tone, spitting at Francis as he looms closer. "You didn't think I'd notice being from the country? Hah! I'm the most well-educated man in this godforsaken village when it comes to money!"

"I haven't been...ripping you off," Francis grunts out with some effort, grabbing the wall with a gloved hand and pulling himself up. (Name) gasps quietly when she gets a proper view of his face - it's not just bruises and swollen. It looks like an army has trampled all over it and judging by the crimson smudges on her father's knuckles, a corrupt army at that.

"Oh yeah? How the hell do you explain the coins getting smaller with each payment, you bastard?" (Name)'s father snarls like a beast as he rushes forward, grabbing Francis by the collar and yanking him up to his height. Fear trickles down her neck in a cold, harsh tremor that plants a seed in the bottom of her stomach and grows into something sour. Before she knows it, she's racing down the hallway in desperation, putting her hands on her father's shoulder.

"Father, stop! What are you doing?!"

She is shoved aside roughly and Francis's face grows dark when she falls against the wall with a soft exclamation of pain.

"He's been ripping me off!" her father roars with rage, shaking Francis by the collar as if he were nothing but a ragdoll. "The bastard thinks I'm stupid just because I live in the country! Well, I know that the coins he's been giving me are getting smaller and smaller, even if they are gold! No one swindles me and gets away with it!"

"No, stop!" (Name)'s cries fall on deaf ears when her father's fist makes contact with Francis's face. The air erupts with a sickening crunch and he crumples to the ground once again, gloved hands clutching his face as a groan of agony rises from his body. The coppery scent of blood soon fills her nostrils and her father lets out a sinister chortle.

"Weak. Pathetic." (Name)'s father shakes his head in a mocking gesture. "You're probably just some snobby son of a noble who wanted to go sightseeing. Or maybe..."

His eyes glow with a nasty gleam and (name)'s heart drops to the very pit of her stomach.

"Maybe you have come to corrupt my daughter with witchcraft."

Francis coughs with a feeble gasp of air as he struggles to stand up again, wiping his mouth with his hand. The blood stains the black leather and glows like the plague in the dim light of the torches of the hallway. One eye is swelling shut and his handsome face is a miasma of black and blue already. "I...am not here to corrupt your daughter," he says in a hoarse tone, good eye flickering to (name) for the briefest of moments.

Her chest tightens painfully and she knows she can't let this prolong any further.

"Francis isn't doing anything of the sort!" she exclaims, shaking her head wildly as she steps between the blond man and her father. Her legs shake with the slightest of tremors as she looks her father square in the eye, hoping she does not appear as frightened as she feels. "He has become my friend during his stay. He tells me of his travels and the wonders he has seen. There is no witchcraft involved, Father. Please...leave him alone."

The last words are whispered in a pitiful plea as she bows her head, feeling as if she may vomit at any moment.

He seems to contemplate her words with a surprising calculating expression. Her father looks from Francis to (name) with unreadable eyes before nodding. "I suppose the witchcraft claim is a bit ridiculous. There is no such thing in these parts. But! The only way I will let him be is if the bastard pays me what is due," her father barks and the harsh tone cause (name) to flinch. He gestures roughly to the open door at his back, which shows Francis's inn room. "I know you're keeping your wealth in there. Bring me more money and perhaps I may just let you go without anymore trouble."

"Francis, please go," she whispers offhandedly to the man standing behind her. "Bring anything. Please."

I do not wish for you to get hurt anymore because of me.

Francis says nothing as he limps forward. When he brushes past her father and into the room, her father follows close behind like a bloodhound. (Name) has no other choice but to do the same. His meager belongings - just a tattered cloth bag with his clothes and money - lay undisturbed on the floor by the bed. Francis bends over gingerly to pick the bag up and when (name) sees the flash of metal, it's too late.

Her cry reverberates in a discordant wail throughout the room.

"Francis!"

The jagged dagger that (name)'s father had pulled from the confines of his tunic buries itself in the back of Francis's shoulder at the crook of his bare neck. There is a gargling, choking sound and Francis falls to the floor in a slump, the contents of his bag spewing across the wood as soon as it leaves his hand. Various golden baubles - coins, trinkets, brooches, and the like - gleam as her father voraciously attacks them with nimble fingers, a gleeful and twisted laugh spilling from his lips.

"Rich! I'll be rich! Ahaha!" 

(Name) rushes past her cackling father to where Francis lays still on the floor. Panic rises in a sour bile in her throat and she carefully slides her hands under his head, turning him to face her without jostling the knife that has taken refuge within his fair flesh. "Oh, gods, no," she whispers as he gazes up at her with already dimming eyes, the blood draining quickly from his face as it all coalesces behind the blade. "No...Francis..."

Her father is in an entirely different world as he begins to count the treasures with a psychotic frenzy. Francis raises a shaking gloved hand and it barely makes it high enough to touch (name)'s cheeks before it falls back down limply. His battered face grows paler and paler as his once beautiful blue eyes turn into a mirror that (name) can see herself in - a young woman whose (e/c) eyes are filled with tears as her (h/c) hair spills forward.

"I get it now," Francis manages to gurgle out, his words slurred painfully slow. A clot of blood spews from his tongue and mars a lock of golden hair. "The way to break my c-curse...was death..."

It's cruel.

It's cruel and (name) does not want to believe it to be true.

He is dying and it is all because of me.

"Stay with me, Francis. Please." The words come out as a beggar's appeal and (name) caresses his rapidly cooling cheeks, shaking her head. "Don't die. You have to break the curse. You cannot die. Please..."

"Forgive m-me, (name)." Francis's eyes slide shut and she can feel his head growing heavier in her lap. He gives a wet, shuddering cough that causes his entire body to tremble violently like an earthquake. "I a-am afraid I..."

He does not finish the sentence.

His mouth grows slack and the labored ups and downs of his chest grows still. Despair wraps itself around (name)'s heart as she stares at the dead man, growing tighter and tighter until it finally snaps her in two.

Her father seems to finally notice the scene at his side. His eyes scouring the body of Francis and then (name) up and down before a sly grin crawls upon his lips; he resembles more of a rapacious serpent than a human man. "I hadn't expected that to do him in! I suppose I hit something lethal, eh? No matter. His riches are now ours, (name). Ours!"

"You are a monster." (Name)'s voice rises in a dangerously low tone as her hands gently set Francis's head to the ground. She tugs the dagger from its place between his neck and shoulder and the blade is coated with crimson - the blood that once flowed through his veins. She feels nothing and yet she feels everything - her soul is weeping, her fingers are trembling, and she knows that there are flames burning within her eyes. She meets her father's gaze head on, teeth bared as she snarls, "You're a monster! A greedy monster who cares for nothing but gold and riches! He was just a man - a man who had changed his entire self so he could become better; so he could break his curse! And you murdered him when he had his back to you!"

The scream is one reminiscent of a banshee's.

(Name)'s father gapes at his daughter with a flabbergasted expression. He opens his mouth to speak but she cuts him off violently, wrath pumping through her body in a perverse mockery of adrenaline.

"How much do you think those little trinkets are worth, Father? A man's life? No? Yes? Well, what about a life-sized statue completely made of gold?"

She knows it's hysteria and she knows that Francis would not want her to do it, but (name) cannot help it. Francis is dead. Nothing will ever be the same.

(Name)'s hand shoots out and grasps the bloodied and slack, gloved hand of the man that she had miraculously fallen in love with. For a moment she hesitates - will it even work now that Francis is dead? She does not know. But she does know that if it does, she will care about nothing more.

The glove slides off his hand with ease to reveal smooth skin that will never feel ever again. (Name) gazes at the hand as if it is a god; reverently and in silence, before glancing over at her father. All at once a calm slowly envelops her in a gentle embrace and she can almost hear Francis's lovely voice from afar, beckoning for her to join him.

She smiles.

"You're going to have to find a new maid, Father. But don't worry. After this, I am certain you will have sufficient funds to pay one."

When she touches the already cold skin, her world explodes in a brilliant golden flash.
flails wildly

This is really bad I'm so, so sorry. It's an early birthday present for vienna-kangaroo, whose birthday is November 8. I've been working on this off and on for a week and I'm extremely displeased with how terrible it turned out to be, but it can't be helped. I realized halfway through writing this that it was a story I wanted to read, not write myself. But alas, I had no time or energy to dedicate to an entirely different story, so here it is.

I know that I could have gone a lot more in depth into this and it felt a little rushed. I realize that France and the reader actually didn't have a lot of interaction. I know his character was a bit off  but for some reason, I just could not get this story written the way I wanted to. It just wouldn't work. I'm sorry. I promise I'll make up for this. I've just been stressed and my writing kinda died after I spent it all on my Rome x Reader.

The title comes from one of my favorite Robert Frost poems. Which is actually a somewhat happy poem. This is not a happy story.

Jeanne, of course, is Jeanne D'Arc. Since she was accused of witchcraft in real history, I figured I'd make her an actual witch who cursed Francis. I wish I had more time and energy to really build this story up. It had so much potential and my lack of skills let it fall flat.

This is basically a fantasy world with magic. The kingdoms remain anonymous because, frankly, I could not think of coherent names/figure out a proper geography for this story. Whether or not there was truly a way to break the curse is up to your interpretation - but not even death would stop it, which is why it still turns the reader to gold. 

Ack I'm rambling. Again, I'm really sorry, Sophie! I swear I'll do something much better in time as an apology for this garbage. I hope you have a good birthday though and that you enjoyed this to some degree. I promised that Francis would suffer :'D 
© 2014 - 2024 lupus-astra
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Lizardhero123's avatar
And now along with being arrested for manslaughter, he will never see his daughter again. And likely she'll eventually become a statue in some noble's house.