((Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither do France and England. Or Jeanne D'Arc.))

It was the cruelest thing Arthur could have done to him… and he did it.

Francis fell on his knees, coughing and puking into the mud. His hands trembled, body shaking as he retched and sobbed into the night. Nothing would have hurt more…. Nothing would have been so terrible.

There was a line… and England crossed it.

Francis collapsed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the grey sky, tears and rain rolling down his face. It was bad enough to do it… to take what was most precious to Francis and destroy it… her… but to do it in Rouen? In France? Where he must look upon it? Upon the remains of the girl… woman… he loved more than any other?

She had been a beauty. A beauty like no other, with the strength of ten men and the heart of an angel. But she was not so beautiful with the flesh burned off her face… and the light gone from her eyes, her body made only of charred bones.

But even then it did not stop, and Francis was not allowed to stop watching. Again… and again… twice more she was burned before his tear-blurred eyes. She burned until even the bones became ashes.

And where was her flag? Where was her smile? Where were those bright eyes? Those calloused hands that gripped a sword and lead him to victory?

They were gone – ashes dusted into the Seine, washed away forever.

A pair of black boots stood over him, bright green eyes looking down at the pitiful Frenchman as the rain drenched them both.

"…You look pitiful."

"You look evil."

There was silence between the two as the thunder rolled along the hills and lightning flashed above, lighting the sky with its brilliance. Arthur continued to stare at the other for a long time before looking away.

"…Everyone else has left. What's wrong with you? Lying here like some pitiful, kicked dog? Too weak to stand up?" Arthur kicked at the sole of Francis's boot, "Are you ready to submit to me? Are you ready to give up?"

"Are you ready to die?" Francis asked in a strained voice, weak from screaming and crying. Arthur's eyes furrowed and he kicked a bit harder.

"Give up, frog. I've won this."

Francis closed his eyes. She wouldn't give up. She'd never give up.

"Leave me," he whispered to the Brit. "I hate you."

There was no venom in his voice. There was no malice or anger on his tongue. It was a small, cold little fact that came from a small, broken little heart. What it had, though, was the finality of a sharp arrow to the chest.

It was quite possible the cruelest thing Francis could have said.

Arthur staggered back as if he'd been punched in the gut. France could hear his feet splashing the puddles underfoot. Francis didn't move, didn't look at him. He didn't need to. He didn't want to.

"….bugger off then!" England finally yelled, storming off… or maybe he was running. Far, far away, where he couldn't look at the damage he'd done.

The rain began to let up. But the storm in their hearts was far from over.

End.

(A/N: Sooooooooooo? How was it? I've been wanting to do a fanfiction for this for a while…. And I know someone's going to tell me it wasn't raining when Jeanne died or something else is going to be wrong, but I did my best to be accurate.))