Strife

Chapter One

It was late, but Francis didn't care. Two weeks ago he woke up from a coma of some sort, and he wanted to go into the village—against his mother's wishes. He couldn't remember anything from before he fell into that long sleep; it seemed to last ages, but he told himself he didn't need that. All he needed were friends.

The Gaulish boy made his way into the market place as the sun was setting, because he remembered overhearing a boy inviting another to come play at dusk. He thought maybe he could play with them for a while and they'd become friends.

Finally, the blond boy spotted that strange kid with bright white hair; the boy who invited this Iberian boy over. He didn't quite know how to approach him, but it seemed the red eyed boy noticed him and waved. The boy Francis would later know as Gilbert came up to him and smiled.

"Well you look better!" Gilbert beamed at Francis; he spoke with a weird accent, but Francis didn't care. He was just curious about how this boy knew him.

"Ah, oui," Francis smiled politely. Meanwhile a cute little brown haired boy came up behind Francis and hugged him. It felt like ages since he'd seen his Gaulish friend.

"Franny!" the child laughed, "You're back!"

To this day Francis didn't understand how these children knew him; or where they went two summers later. He gave up trying to look for them a while ago, but they stayed in the back of his mind.

From the towns people, Francis heard that they moved back to where their ancestors were from. The Iberian Peninsula and Germania. He missed them, but he also knew they were both probably dead by now.

One day, after a significant amount of time passed, Francis found himself in a field of wheat. He had just wandered, but no one seemed to notice; after all he had the appearance of a seven year old at most. He wandered a bit more, just so he was out of the field, and saw there was a nice little tree just sticking out, surrounded by kilometres of tall grass. The blue eyed boy decided he might take a 'siesta' under the tree—that was a word he'd learnt from his friend Antonio, the one who was probably stuck in a grave somewhere.

He climbed up to the tree; which wasn't too easy with the fashionable blue and gold robe he was wearing. He hadn't noticed how steep the hill was, but by now the poor little boy knew he was immune to most deadly things. In fact he had fallen from worse heights and bled for merely minutes until it patched up; doctors called him a miracle, but what kind of miracle gets abandoned by his mom?

Upon perching on the top of the hill, under the shade of the beautiful oak tree; Francis could see something in the distance. What he thought to be an infinite mass of water split apart, and gave way for another chunk of land. He could barely see it, but it was almost like another kingdom. He wondered if it was occupied; he had heard the tales of famous adventures, they were all looking for new land.

He made a quick mental note to try coming back here; for now though he would take a nap. Under the shade of this beautiful tree.

Another thirty years. Of nothing later.

All promises to that tree forgotten, all hope abandoned, and too many tears shed later; Francis found himself on the streets of Paris. There were guards everywhere, patrolling, controlling all signs of patriotism. He didn't know what went wrong. Francis had returned to his village after spending the night at the tree and getting a meal from the lovely farmers, and there they were. It was a month from then, and Francis was skinnier than ever...that didn't even make sense! He ate, he slept—or at least tried to, but this pain would start on the inside, and he just couldn't make it stop, not until it stopped in it's own time.

They called themselves the Romans, they were ruthless and cold. Every time Francis would go out into the streets this one man caught his attention. He was brawny and had a fiery look in his chocolate brown eyes. It seemed Francis also caught his eye, because one faithful day he pulled the boy from his spot near a fruit stand.

"You were staring boy," the language was foreign, but Francis willed himself to understand; and surprisingly he did.

"I am sorry sir," he told the older, scary man. The boy couldn't force his eyes to look at the Roman's. He didn't feel it would be wise to be so bold. He was right.

"Do not do it again," the man snapped and left after looking down at the boy's head for a moment more.