Work Text:
Congo, 5 September 1940
The messenger stumbled into the command tent, chest heaving. “S-sir… sir… the… personification… of… Belgium… is… here!”
Congo froze, panic prickling at his neck. “What? No… why… why now?” He grabbed his coat, tugged it on hastily, muttering under his breath, “He never bothered to come personally before…”
Stepping out of the tent, he hurried toward the edge of the camp where she had been spotted, each step quick, anxious. The messenger struggled to keep up, trailing behind in short, ragged breaths.
“About that, sir… it’s a she,” the messenger added as they walked, voice catching.
Congo shot a confused look, but said nothing, his mind spinning.
Finally, he reached her. She stood calm and composed, surveying the camp, hands loosely clasped. Congo straightened immediately, adopting his most formal posture.
“My sovereign nation,” he said through his teeth, bowing slightly, “it is an honour to have you here.”
Belgium inclined her head. “Where do you need help?”
Congo froze. His mind scrambled.
Belgium’s voice cut through the pause. “I assume you know this. They’re your people, after all.”
He swallowed, bowed slightly, and gestured toward the main tent. “Right… Yes, of course. I’ll show you.”
They walked together through the camp, the tension easing slightly with each step, though Congo’s thoughts still raced a mile a minute.