Chapter Text
She should have been used to the amount of security she has around her by this time, but it still shocks her every now and then. It has only been a few months, yet feels like decades— she certainly feels like it.
Goodness God, when will it end?
She wants her family by her side, them protecting her instead of these soldiers; a show of a peaceful nation. That is no more, not since that night in Paris. She wants to go home as well, which is funny because it is only a few miles Northeast— well, a few miles under.
Trapped in this underground sealed bunk is where the people of Paris have lived. It’s smelly, stuffy, and a complete opposite of the splendor she grew up in. She knows for a fact that her citizens feel the same way, even those who were in Guinevere’s Giving Housing. She sighs quietly, shoulders slumping and coming back up to the leader she is forced to be.
She wonders if Timmy is following protocol, but knowing that boy since infancy tells her that he is, in fact, making his soldiers want to point their guns to their ears and shoot. She wants to go home, but home isn’t here. It is likely all rubble, perhaps some parts still standing thanks to the Franklins.
She’ll never know until Phase 4 is completed. White Leader raises his hand to his earpiece. They all wait with a baited breath, pretending others around them aren’t. “
Wilco, over.” He slings the rifle to his back, “Prison Capture completed, they’re currently being accounted for in the medical wing.”
They make eye contact, this man has been in the Royal Guard for decades. Despite almost being of legal age, Andre Howard still makes her feel the time when he gave her a stern talking to after she threw a tantrum in public at five years old.
“We have orders to bring you back to the Command Center by Representative Gaspard Delacroix.”
She represses a smirk at the squint that hints at his displeasure of the man. “I want to see my cousin,” jutting her chin as she saw it multiple times from her when stubborn against an opposition.
He nods and talks back to his earpiece, and heads out the unsealed doors after a possible begrudged affirmative.
With each step, dread continues to fill her stomach as the general air around her feels the same as times of defeat. They succeed in their mission, they’re finally back with their loved ones, what is there to be mournful about?
“Amy!”
She whips around to see her other cousin, the only confirmed living family she had for months and, hopefully, the second. Their arms instinctively move to each other and clasp hands, squeezing to the point of white-knuckled grips.
As they grow closer to their destination, more and more medics are clamoring around the place. It’s the same fear and grim determination she’s seen on too many people— another thing the British had stolen from them; blissful innocence.
Head Medic Leroy catches her eye as he briefly looks up from his holoboard. The series of emotions cross his face in varying degrees of panic, sadness, and empathy. Bile begins to rise in her throat, she swallows in anger.
She will not do this here, not while everyone is barely keeping it together.
Leroy walks to her in careful steps, “Your Majesty, Your Highness.” He nods at her, then at Timmy.
The way he licks his lips already tells her enough, “Just tell me, sir, it will do no one harm.”
He represses a sigh and tells them to follow him.
They walk deeper into the medical wing, and she forces herself to look forward after she sees one of the patients. Their head shaven and body shrunken into itself, she couldn’t even recognize their physical gender. As they and their assigned medic talked, she couldn’t stomach looking them in the eye.
It was enough to know they were a living skeleton.
The hand clutching hers makes her look at Timmy, whose eyes are darting to every face as they pass.
“Amélie, I’m scared,” he says in a small voice. There were a few times that he talked in that tone, making him feel like they were their ages.
It isn’t fair, she wants to go home.
She isn’t strong enough to take care of herself, much less Timmy, and especially not the people of Paris. Yet, he looks at her for hope, the exact same as everyone else.
How can she inspire hope when she doesn’t herself?
What kind of a leader is she?
A pretender.
She certainly felt like it, then and now. She was barely third in line, likely ineligible for the throne as Théodore and Antoine grew older. And in one night, the Holy British Empire destroyed that sanctuary of peace for her— for all, and she’ll never forgive the strife they made them endure.
They stop and Amy sees her through the glass, covered in white—
“She looks…” Timmy trails off. She can’t continue his sentence in her head, just staring at her.
Leroy clears his throat, Amy doesn’t dare tear away her gaze.
“Her Highness sustained bruises, starvation, and other forms of torture. This seems to be the case for most, if not all, of those captured. She will be kept here for the time being to rest and heal.”
She walks into the room, the door sliding open automatically. She looks just like that person earlier, and it makes her sick.
How can the British break down the impenetrable Harmonia Gates? So strong, so stubborn, so secure in her entire being, now lays in a heap of unstable breaths.
She opens her eyes, once so bright green, dull, and locked to her own blue. They flick to Timmy’s violet-blue eyes, so much like Al’s— Grandma Nevere’s, the echo of Harry’s husky voice makes
Amy releases a sigh of contentment. Security.
Harry closes her eyes, tired from the minute long exercise. She takes her hand away from Timmy’s, cold air pricking at the bare skin, and finds Harry’s necklace.
It’s a beautiful little thing; four big blue diamond petals with four little red diamonds in between and a circle topaz at the center. And it is one of the greatest inventions the Franklin family ever made. Amélie, herself, couldn’t figure out its full potential by itself, even with the cryptic details from Athena Franklin. The only person who knew besides her was Harmonia, its rightful owner.
She gave it to Amy before pushing her and Théodore to the underground passageway, running off to find Timothée. Glancing to her side, she knows he’s remembering that awful night, he never fully forgives himself when Harry was declared missing.
Amy doubts he does now, looking at the state she’s in.
Taking one last look at the necklace, she opens a fisted hand and puts it inside— clenching after Amy pulls hers away and back into Timmy’s.
Harry doesn’t acknowledge them once.
Taking a deep breath, the presumed Queen Amélie of France walks out the door to her newly acclaimed Dauphine de France.
Victory will be in their hands, but will they even achieve it when most of their forces have already given up hope?