Lettre à France

Day 0

Moonlight was softly steaming in through the window, bathing the room in a soft, pale glow. It bled gently through the crack in the softly rustling curtains, the only movement in the still room as they were carried by the breeze. The window was cracked open, bringing in some fresh air. This was not the only chill moving through the room. 

The occupants of the room, who had barely managed to find the energy to crawl under the covers not but a few hours ago, now were uneasily dozing, the dread of the waking hours haunting the night, and their subconsciouses. Lying in the center of the bed, tucked between the soft silk sheets and the heavy down comforter a brunette man spooning his wife to him tightly seeking her comfort, her warmth. Even in his dreams he could not stand to be too far from his blonde, but on nights like tonight her presence became an imperative. He needed his safe harbor, his anchor, his love. She too needed the refuge her husband provided, only feeling relaxed enough to sleep when she could burrow closely enough into him that they were as one, his limbs surrounding her, his smell comforting her, his heart beating steadily, reassuringly against her back.

 Neither of them heard the ringing, as it got progressively louder, and as the aides grew more panicked by the lack of response from their boss. For a man with multiple phones, who was nominally a light sleeper (or at least, a man who didn't need much sleep), it should have been easy to rouse him, the iPhones resting in their charger on his nightstand by his head. She too did not stir with the sound of her ringer, coming from her matching device on the other side of the room, leading to a brutal wakeup call in the form of a brisk, harsh knock to the sturdy oak door that separated their bedroom from the rest of their private apartment.

 Emmanuel startled awake at the knock, his heart now hammering loudly in his ears as it took off at a gallop from fear. He sat ramrod straight up in bed, pulling his wife with him as he went, and waking her in the process, holding her ever closer in a vain attempt to protect her from, what was in his still sleep addled mind, the intruder outside. 

"Who's there?"

"Mr. President," the voice boomed from the other side, indicating as he could by words and by tone that he was a friend, not foe. The pause that followed was just long enough for reality to catch back up with Emmanuel, causing his heart to sink, as he realized there was only one reason there was an aide trying to wake him right now, only one reason anyone would feel bold enough to enter the private apartment he and his wife had made more than clear was off-limits to anyone but their family, the private safe space that was their sanctuary. Brigitte had realized it too, her soft gasp speaking volumes about the terror running through her own head as one of her hands slid to cover where his were joined across her chest, pressing her comfort into his skin. 

"Madame Macron," he continued, acknowledging the First Lady's presence, knowing as they all did just how close she is to her husband, physically, emotionally, and politically. There was no question in this aide's mind that on the other side of the door the First Lady was awake, was holding her husband's hand, and knew what the next words out of his mouth would be. "It's started. Ten minutes ago. You're wanted in the bunker for a security briefing as soon as possible."

There was an answering silence, a stillness, as the weight of that announcement settled in. They sat there, like deers in the headlights, time slowing as they tried to process what comes next. 

"Sir? Ma'am?" The aide asked after a few seconds, disconcerted by the lack of a response. 

Clearing her throat as she realized her husband had yet to so much as blink since the announcement, Brigitte answered the aide, "he will be out with you in five minutes," before trying to remove herself from his arms to encourage him to get a move on. "Darling," she said softly, so as not to be overheard by the intruder on the other side of the door, as he only tightened his grip on her in response to her attempts to break away, "you need to get dressed. You need to let me go."