Hey guys! This was part of a story I wrote a while ago, when I was studying the hundred years war. I think that France doesn't get enough appreciation for the abuse he goes through. I mean, jeez, he won that war and England still whooped his ass. Anyway, here's a oneshot about it that might turn into a story, if people are interested.
One of my worst experiences was during a battle with England. Was it the Hundred Years War? Or was it some outburst he had while being pissed off at the Crusades? My revolution? I don't remember. It was quite a time ago.
If you know anything about French history, you'll realize that this is not going to end well. If you don't, congrats. You won't know of my suffering. I suggest you go outside and play while I talk with the people prepared for this with prior knowledge.
So, as always, I was being beaten by England. It was even more painful when mon petit lapin was the one throwing the punches.
He continued to hit and kick me, being in quite a sadistic mindset. This was near the end, when I gave up fighting back. I just curled up and let him hit me, get out his frustration. I love him, I don't want him suffering. If that means my personal pain, then let it be. I'm used to it.
Blood was staining my clothes, and a cut on my forehead was blurring my vision. Everything was a red blur. Pain, all I felt was pain. And hopeless desire for it to be over. England wasn't my little bunny, he wasn't anything but the one of my shadowy tormenters. He just happened to be the best at hurting me, because he always let me fall in love with him before and then get crushed. Again. And again. World without end.
He gave me one final kick in the stomach, and I let out a light whimper. "You better be in pain, you bastard."
"O-oui…" I said miserably. I'd say whatever he wanted to make him stop. This is the trouble with being so weak, you get no chance to fight back.
He sighed exasperatedly and started walking away.
I curled up and finally started to cry. My sweat and blood intermingled with the tears. A bashed area on my cheek stung. I guess that's what I get for letting myself fall in love, yet again. Salt in the wound. Insult upon injury.
Oh god, how it hurt.
I was thinking miserable thoughts about how to end it all. Suicide was a sin, but I've done worse. Besides, it's not like any god cared anyway. I would have killed myself, easily. But… then I got distracted.
I felt someone start moving me from my curled up position, pulling off my shirt and making me lie out on my back.
Instantly, my mind thought of other invasions. The ones of people who felt lust along with distaste. Who wanted to use me further than just beating me up. So I immediately started screaming and trying to squirm away. I couldn't see who it was, I only saw a reddish blur. The person kept me still.
"Shut up, I'm not going to hurt you." The person said. A man? It seems like it.
"N-non, non, s'il vous plait…" I said miserably. I couldn't handle any more pain. But the person didn't listen to me. He kept unbuttoning my shirt.
"My god, that brit really got you." He said mildly, with a hint of bitterness. I heard the scuffling of him searching for something.
I squinted, and managed to discern a mess of brown hair. I knew I recognized that voice. Spain was going to hurt me, just as all the others had. I thought I had at least one friend.
"Non, Spain…" I frantically tried to get away, but he restrained my movement. I let out a miserable whine and shut my eyes. I didn't want to see my best friend hurt me right after my true love. Dying seemed better and better.
He scoffed. "Yeah. Fusososo, whatever." Then he started cleaning away the blood with a washcloth, and put a bandage over one of my wounds.
I blinked, confused. "You're not going to rape me?"
"No. I'm helping you." He was starting to get short with me. But why would he want to help me?
Well, it's important to thank him for that anyway. I stammered out a 'Merci'.
"Sure, you're welcome. Just stop calling me Spain, okay?"
So he didn't want to be called Spain? Did he want me to call him Antonio or something? Was he not even Spain? Who was he?
He continued to clean off blood, carefully dabbing the cuts and bruises on my face. He let the towel linger, holding my face. Then he quickly moved away to get more bandages. I still kept my eyes closed, they hurt to much to open. So I didn't see the man.
Besides, they say that you shouldn't look at your guardian angel. It could blind you. And there was no other person it could be. It must have been either some sort of god, or a guardian angel. It made perfect sense. That would mean that I should stay alive, because things must be better once your guardian angel visits you and offers help.
Finally, he finished bandaging. "Well, looks like I'm done here. Do me a favor and kick that brit in the balls, okay?"
"Very odd thing for a guardian angel to ask for…" I quietly said.
He let out a chuckle. "Yeah, well…" Then he paused, and kissed my forehead. It was the first sign of affection someone had given to me in what seemed like forever. Guardian angel indeed.
"Don't die, France, people care about you." He said, knowing exactly what I needed to hear.
I nodded weakly, trying to open my eyes. I wanted to see my angel, I wanted to know what he was, what he looked like. Brag to England when I kick him in the balls.
He covered my eyes. "U-um, no."
"Am I not allowed to see my guardian angel?" I was pouting. How unfair, I just wanted to see him.
"Yeah, exactly." He sounded like he was smiling.
He got up and started walking away. No goodbye, nothing.
With a force of energy, I sat up. The world fuzzed out, slightly, and I swayed. I softly told the retreating blur, "Thank you, angel…"
He waved his hand in the air, everything starting to turn gray. Then I fell back over and passed out.
That was the day hope was returned to me by that beautiful mystery of my guardian angel.