Author's Note: My third story, which is another oneshot... :P I'm planning on writing a story with chapters, but so far, it's just long oneshots. Anyways, this story is France x Joan of Arc (Jeanne d'Arc). Warnings: language and themes. Thanks for Reading!
Songs for this Story: "Drunk" by Ed Sheeran, "Candlelight" by Relient K, "Eclipse (All Yours)" by Metric
"Enough shots..." I burbled a hiccup from my lips, wiping my mouth with my shirt sleeve. I smiled when the bartender smacked an ice cold bottle of liquor in front of my shaking palm, and I added how much more that would be for the bartender in my mind. I was surprised that the alcohol hadn't seized enough control for me to forget math at the moment.
Taking a large swig, the liquor burned my throat going down, but I welcomed the ache. Enough alcohol could take away any emotional pain, I knew the feeling well. And, if the drinks didn't completely satisfy, I was completely aware that a warm body could dissolve any lingering hurt that stubbornly grasped for life in my heart.
After another long swig, I coughed and hacked on most of it. Quite a bit had tried to go down my windpipe instead.
"A Frenchman with straight up liquor? Who knew such a thing could be possible?"
I snarled angrily, gripping the bottle tightly in my palm. I had feared being found out by him. Damn the man.
"Who in the hell invited you?" I spat, refusing to make eye contact.
"I didn't come in for a drink, mind you. I came for you specifically. How long will this last, France?" there was a tone of concern, but I could hear the arrogance resting on his tongue. His thick eyebrow was most likely raised, and there was probably a small smirk on his mouth.
"Shut up, I don't even know what in the hell you're talking about."
"Oh please, frog. You think I don't bloody know what's going on?"
"Get lost."
"You sound like me after I've had a couple shots, how much have you drunk?"
"Leave me alone."
"You still haven't answered the question."
Unintentionally continuing to shake the bottle, I snarled, "Drop dead, Angleterre!"
"I take it you've drunken more than your fair share, and probably double the amount I consider mine. Grab your coat, I'm taking you home."
"Hell no."
"You're going to bloody sit here all night?"
"Like you care, damned Britain."
"I'm concerned that your way with dealing with pain is drinking yourself sick and then rutting yourself blind later on. You think that'll remove your ache? It won't."
"How do you know what and what won't help me?"
"Neither are healthy, fucking idiot, and it's happening more and more often. You need to stop."
Turning on him, I spun around on the bar stool, "You don't tell me what to do! And if I want to drink and have sex, then I will!" Britain's arms were crossed and his green eyes were narrowed in annoyance. His face was in a concerned frown.
He sighed, "Look, France, I know you're in pain...but you need to find another way to deal with it."
I snapped, "How about killing you? That would make me feel a million times better."
The Englishman groaned, "No, you need to let her go. Go find yourself another woman to love, and not some whore that will take care of any man's needs, frog-face."
I growled, turning back to face the bar, "I can't do that, mon ami."
"And why not...?"
The tale was something that would never leave me, and it was originally a beautiful story, but the ending was heart-shattering...at least for myself.
Times were simpler back in the 15th Century. France didn't have as many responsibilities, he was a free man whom only served Charles VII. His only worries was that damn England to the west of him, who was beginning to grow more powerful recently, as if the previous wars before weren't enough to deal with.
He had been eating breakfast one morning, when one of his men came in with a letter, bearing the seal of his supposed-to-be King. He sighed, and reluctantly opened it with the knife that he had been using in order to break the seal. Resting his fist under his ear, he read the message he had been expecting: "Charles VII wishes to have an audience with you about important matters."
Probably something dealing with the damned English that had been encroaching upon French lands under the rule of English Regent Duke Lancaster.
He asked the messenger to tell Charles VII that he would be there tomorrow, and went back to playing with his food. I guess meeting with the future King would be something a little more interesting than walking around Paris or looking about the countryside like a child who could no longer think of what to do with his life. Not even wine or women or anything could brighten his dull life, and if he was correct, then Charles VII would just put him back in yet another war with England. Normally, the Frenchman looked quite forward to another duel with his arch-nemesis, even if he caught the memory of a previous failure.
The strict man with a wild side caused the blood in France's veins to pump a little quicker. The man was ruthless, and not just in battle. Shaking the thoughts of the Englishman from his mind, he focused on other matters as he prepared for his conference with the King.
The next day, he appeared in more formal attire, and approached the King's throne room.
The guards allowed him inside, and he bowed before Charles VII, "You wished to see me, your Majesty?"
"Oui. I wanted to speak to you about fighting against the encroaching English."
It was everything France could do to not groan or sigh, he knew this was coming. He merely replied, "I understand, sir."
"Unfortunately, with our low population, due to the Black Death a century ago..." That time was certainly rough for France, but he knew that most of the neighboring countries went through the same thing. "...our army will most likely be lacking and therefore vulnerable to the powerful English armies."
Suddenly, there was a slam against the throne room's door, and France and his future King turned to see three figures stumbling within the chamber. There was a young woman, and two men flanking on either side of the girl. The burly men didn't look of Charles VII's guard, but France's eyes were locked on the woman. She had short sandy blonde hair, even shorter than his own hair, and brilliant periwinkle blue eyes. They were wide with curiosity and anxiousness, but that made her much more appealing to France.
The girl sputtered, "Charles VII, I wish to speak with you about the English threat."
The future King looked amused and charmed by the young lady, "How ironic, that is what we were speaking about." He then asked, "But, what would a young woman like yourself offer about the English?"
She replied, "Well, when I was twelve, I received a vision of Saint Michael, Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret. They told me that I was to lead the French army to victory over England, and allow you to have a formal coronation in Reims."
The man looked somewhat surprised, "They told you that?"
She nodded, "Yes, your Majesty." With a bright look in the eye, she spoke brave words, "I am ready to serve the French army with my life. You are the true King, Charles VII."
Charles VII looked pleasantly surprised, "You're a brave woman, and I commemorate you for approaching me. May I know your name?"
She smiled and nodded, "Jeanne d'Arc."
After the meeting, and by the time that France had gone home, he couldn't stop thinking about the girl who came to the throne room. The girl who claimed she was nothing more than a mere peasant, she seemed like an angel sent from God. Those beautiful blonde locks, those perfectly majestic pale blue eyes, that warm heart-twisting smile.
Even her name rolled off France's tongue perfectly: Jeanne d'Arc.
How could such a stunning and beautiful girl wish to enroll herself in the army? Even if she held a grudge for England as strong as the one he held himself, France wouldn't have been able to understand her wish to fight his enemy, if she didn't include the sign from God. Perhaps he wasn't the only beautiful person who held God in such a high honor.
All France really knew was that he wanted to see Jeanne d'Arc once again, to be able to speak with her on more casual terms.
But how...? He knew how to contact her, since he had a basic awareness of how to deliver messages, but would she even accept the invitation?
He sighed, and eventually managed to walk over to his desk and scribe out a message that was not too dull, but not too romantic at the same time. He wanted Jeanne to accept it, not scared away by forwardness. Besides, just because France couldn't stop thinking of her didn't mean that he had fallen in love with the girl.
He found a messenger who knew someone that could deliver the message to Jeanne, and immediately, France felt his heart flutter slightly. It was an odd feeling for him; normally, he was used to spreading his "love" to any woman who crossed his path, and not tied out by one single woman. But, the more he thought about Jeanne, the less he desired the feel of a whore or some willing woman. He not only held feelings for the young woman, but no other person could take her out of his mind.
Eventually, the messenger returned. It had been about a week since France had sent the messenger his letter to Jeanne, and he was eager to hear her reply. As soon as the man came up to his doorstep, France nearly ripped the letter from his palm and took it inside the house, closing his door with a snap.
Under candlelight, he read the young woman's message in her beautiful, delicate script:
"I was truly flattered when I heard that I received a letter from the handsome stranger that was present in my true King's courtroom. I will accept your proposal to meet with you once again. Is the 21st of March fine? I wish to meet with you at the terrace in Orléans, which isn't too far from my home. I look forward to seeing you again, stranger.
- Jeanne d'Arc"
France smiled, folded the letter once again, and placed the paper in his breast pocket. The 21st of March was in a few days, and he could travel to Orléans in that amount of time.
The appointed day had arrived, and France headed to Orléans to seek out Jeanne. Heading to the terrace, he smiled when he caught sight of her looking down towards the river, a look in her eye that made him think that she was in a daydream.
Careful to not startle the young woman, he made his way out to the balcony and rested against it, gazing at her until she realized that he was there. Jolting in surprise, she blushed at her fidget, and greeted him.
"It's a pleasure to see you once again, monsieur," she said politely.
"As it is to see you, demoiselle Jeanne d'Arc," he placed a kiss on the back of her palm like a dashing gentleman.
She smiled sheepishly, "Is it wrong to ask your name, monsieur? I wish to know the name of the man who took interest in me at the true King's court."
France grinned, "Non, demoiselle. You don't have to be so polite and nervous, Jeanne. Just relax and be yourself." He replied, "I'm the personification of our country. Most call me 'France', but I am also known by 'Francis Bonnefoy'."
The girl's eyes shined impressively, and she blushed. She whispered in awe, "To be called upon by the very one who personifies us...it's almost too much..."
France blinked, "I am but a simple man, though, ma dame. I experience the same things that many a man experiences." He bowed and offered a hand, "May I prove that to you?"
Jeanne asked, "In what way?"
France replied, "May I escort you on a walk?"
She nodded a little nervously, and rested her palm in his. France gently led her out of town, and over the bridge to the meadow that rested on the other bank.
The two conversed over everything, mainly about Jeanne's life and what she liked.
Currently, the couple was seated at the edge of the meadow in the grass, where France was tucking flowers into her hair.
Jeanne smiled, "You know, France, when I first saw you...I believed you were a God."
France's hands paused as he was tucking another wildflower into the beautiful sandy locks in his palms, he glanced to look over at her, "Is that so?"
She nodded, "But, you represent our country too...no wonder I felt that way." Looking back at him, she asked, "Is that something strange to think?"
France shook his head, "Of course not," he chuckled softly, and moved so that he was sitting next to her, "I believed that you were an Angel sent from our Lord."
Jeanne blushed, "You jest."
"Of course not. I still believe it."
The girl was flustered, and felt her body moving on it's own to lean into France's chest, "Those words belong to a noble lady or a Queen, France. Certainly not for me. I'm just some meager peasant."
France smiled, and cupped the girl's face with his hands, "I care not about your background, Jeanne. Your radiance is no match for a Queen's. Believe me, I've served many in my long life." Carefully, he pressed a feather-light kiss against her lips. Tender, because he was afraid of being too rough for the delicate angel he held in his hands.
Jeanne blushed, and pushed France over, climbing on top of him. From there, she laughed her whimsical giggle, and kissed him in return. The love blooming between them was only comparable to divine peacefulness of the Lord's embrace in Heaven. Both of them swore that they climbed those steps to get there, and rested in Eden's garden after their climb.
After that day, the two of them visited regularly, almost always heading to that special spot in the meadow where they fell in love with one another.
However, today was different. Jeanne asked if they could stay in town today, and she led him to one of her favorite spots. She rested against the stone wall, and pulled herself up to sit on top of it. France climbed up after her.
The mood had been bright and cheerful, until the two of them caught sight of a funeral procession, dumping the body into the river. France nearly spat that he didn't understand why they couldn't have just buried the body, but he didn't want to sour the air anymore than the funeral had.
It was Jeanne who spoke first, "France...where do you think we go when we die?"
France looked to her, and watched as she played with the silvery cross necklace that dangled below her throat. He replied, "Why do you ask?"
Jeanne looked to the body rushing down the river and said, "Some people say that pure people will rest peacefully in Heaven, while the sinners will be condemned to the depths of Hell..."
"That's what they say..."
"But, what if a sinner and a pure one become separated...? What right does the Lord have to separate them? Are there dangers in Heaven too? Would that even make it a Heaven anymore?"
France calmed her, "Is something ailing you, mon amour?"
She whispered, "It's just that...I just began to think this way, because I was wondering if personifications die like men do. If people like you die, where do you go?"
France blinked, that wasn't exactly a question he could answer, "I don't know, I guess I never gave it much thought..."
"Do personifications have a Heaven and Hell too? Are they our Heaven and Hell? Is there a God to decide which nations go where, and if nations participate in some kind of war...are they doomed to go to Hell too? Is that Hell the same as a human's Hell? If it isn't, will a dead person and a dead personification ever see each other again if they meet?"
France looked at her, his eyebrows turning in sadly, "Jeanne..."
She felt her voice becoming thick, "I ask this, because I'm afraid that once I perish in this world, that I will never be able to find you again, France."
France wrapped his arms around her shoulders, "Do not worry, mon amour, I would break God's sacred law to find you once again. Even if I were to never see another soul again, I would risk everything to be with you in Heaven, Hell, or otherwise."
She kissed him long and hard, "Dearest France, I'm afraid that my destiny will lead to my death. And if it does, I could never be so selfish to ask you to die with me."
France kissed her again to silence her, "Enough, Jeanne. I love you here and now, and we are both very much alive." He pulled the girl into his lap, "Do not fret on tomorrow, the day after, or the future. Focus on today, and that I am with you today."
The two fell deeper and deeper in love with each other, and France had made no move to touch her, not just yet. He wanted to be sure that she was ready, she was still so young in his opinion. Only seventeen.
However, they knew that their time together was running out. Charles VII had been seeing both of them more often, and rallying his troops to prepare for battle against the English.
Even so, France was still hesitant about it, while Jeanne was worried that the war would be the event that separated them. So, one afternoon, they were heading back to their meadow once again, and had reached their private sector so that they would be alone.
Jeanne asked, "How will I know if I am to ever see you again, though?"
France cupped her cheek, "I will be right beside you, my love. I'll make sure that you won't be hurt."
Jeanne shook her head, "I can't ask you to do that for me. We may be in love, but I was sent by God to do this. I don't want you to be hurt when I am not. God created me to fight England."
He kissed her and chuckled, "Non, Jeanne. That's what I was created to do. That's what I've been doing for centuries..." However, when he was about to break the kiss off, she lingered, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her fingers weaved their way into his long blonde hair, and he pulled her in tighter. But, before his skilled hands could do what they itched to do, he broke away for breath, "Jeanne, I don't want to hurt you..."
She smiled, and her periwinkle eyes shined, "I love you and I trust that you won't hurt me."
He whispered, "But I can't be sure if..."
She breathed in his ear, "I want you to make love to me, France. If I were to die, I don't want to die knowing that I didn't give away my chastity away for you."
He protested, "Once it's gone, it can never be given back."
She nodded, "I know. And I might as well give it up to someone who truly loves me." She stared into his beautiful bright blue eyes and said, "France, take my chastity from me. I don't want it anymore."
"If you wish it so, mon amour, I will..."
It was the end of April, and war had broken out between the French and the English. Jeanne had blamed herself, due to the meetings she had attended, and finding out information on possible attacks that the English had planned.
But, by now, they were heading out towards the siege of Orléans to do battle with the enemy. Once within Orléans, Jeanne was immediately challenged due to the fact that she was a woman, but with her wits and quick thinking, she was allowed entry to most battles and meetings on how to counterattack the English threat.
They had turn the tides of war, surprising the arrogant Englishmen with their strategies.
France couldn't be more proud of her, who swore she held more morale, strength, and smarts than any soldier he had ever known. She was popular with the people, who believed her to be some kind of demigod, leading them to victory.
One night, he surprised her in her room with a gift. It was a sliver pin with a flower shaped end.
She sat down at the edge of her bed, and let her love place it in her hair.
He whispered to her, "I thought it would be fitting."
She laughed, "How so?"
"I wanted to remind you that you're not just a powerful soldier. You're a woman as well."
She frowned, "I know I'm a woman, France. But my gender will not keep me from continuing to fight and capture forts. I've already assisted in capturing three."
France protested, "You've already done more than a hero would be remembered for. Why don't you go back home and rest?"
She spat, "Rest? That's the word that will replace the idea that you don't want me hurt like a regular soldier?"
"I don't want you to be hurt at all, Jeanne. When you came back with a neck wound, I knew that you had come too close to death. What if the marksman had a more careful aim?"
She crossed her arms, "I was sent by God to defeat the English. I haven't done that yet. God holds my destiny in his hands, and when I am to die, I will die."
France gripped her shoulders, "Please, listen to reason! Your actions have already changed the tides of war, even if you went home now, you'd be more than honored."
She snapped, "I don't care about honor! I care about fulfilling the prophecy I was given when I was twelve!"
France groaned, and left her room, leaving the thought for her to dwell upon, "You may be a heroine, but you're also my love."
It had been a couple months, and both France and Jeanne were heading back to Charles VII for a status update. Ever since the day France gave the flower clip to Jeanne, their relationship had it's ups and downs, but now, they were nearly back to where they had been before the war had started.
But, France and Jeanne's hopes were very different from one another's. France was hoping that he could convince Charles VII to make her stay away from the battlefields, while Jeanne wanted, and succeeded, in getting Charles VII's approval to push on to Reims, in order for him to be coronated as the King of France.
France had prayed to God everyday that she would live on to be with him after this was all over. Before he knew it, he and Jeanne were heading back to fight.
Reims had been a long trip, but Jeanne had successfully protected her King until his coronation, and thus...Charles VII became the King that France had prayed for.
Then, their next destination was Paris.
She gained many followers with her smart thinking and need to live on and fight. France was terrified to watch her fight, so he would simply look away to avoid running towards her and protecting her. He knew that wasn't something she would want.
But, how could she be so sure that her fate was already carved in stone by God? And, what if it meant that he did need to jump in to protect her in order to keep the carve of her destiny true?
However, he was even more afraid when he found the man he wished had never come here: Arthur Kirkland, the personification of England.
England smirked, "Rumor has it that you have a little bird hidden in your army. A smart one, who's gained the affection of France."
France hissed, "And? Why do you care?"
England pointed the tip of his sword at France and smiled wickedly, "I think I could grow fond of plucking the wings off a fragile helpless bird."
France snarled, and clashed swords with his arch-enemy. There was no way that France would allow him to come anywhere close to Jeanne, he couldn't bear to think of what England could do to her if he got his damned hands on her.
But, the struggle for Paris was long, and soon, the King had called for his troops to head back towards home. Even so, Jeanne wasn't finished.
She attempted to capture two forts, which the latter one ended in failure, and she finally agreed to come home with France by December. The King was so delighted with all Jeanne had done, and he granted her and her family nobility.
France had spoken with her the night that she became a noble, "Jeanne, I've missed having alone time with you, with all this fighting going on."
She nodded, "I have too."
France whispered, "Are you ready to give up your position as a soldier fighting for God?"
She suddenly stiffened, and glared at the personification, "This is why you came here?"
France wailed, "Jeanne, I can't stop asking. Please, just sheath your sword away and live your life. You've already done so much; sustain injuries, capture forts, and lead armies under God's will."
She snapped, "You damn idiot! Why do you want me to be like everybody else? You fell in love with me because I was different! And now you tell me to stop fighting for what I believe in?"
He protested, "No one can deny your faith in the Lord, but if you keep going like this, I'm worried you'll loose your life, dearest..."
She shook her end, and those periwinkle eyes filled with tears, "I wasn't fighting for just the Lord, stupid France! I WAS FIGHTING FOR YOU!"
France gasped, his eyes widening in surprise. Jeanne continued, "I'm fighting to free you from England's grasp. I'm fighting for you too!" She wailed, burying her face in France's chest, "You're gaining scars and wounds and everything and I'm failing to free you! Why are you trying to stop me from redeeming myself in your eyes? France, you are my God!"
France pulled her body into his chest, and held her close, whispering, "Jeanne, you don't have to redeem yourself, you've already done so much. I love you, and one day I will be freed. But, Jeanne, I don't want you to give up your life for my sake. I'll live for a very long time, and this small fleeting time with you I want to be as peaceful as possible." He felt tears working their way into his eyes, "Allow me peace at heart by knowing that you're safe and happy. That's all I could ever want. Your love and more is something a nation like me doesn't deserve."
They cried together, holding onto one another tightly.
France whispered to her, tears still falling down his face, "Promise me that you won't head back into battle. Our truce will hold strong."
She whimpered into his chest, "I promise. I promise, France."
The two of them spent the New Year together, and the first two months of the year were peaceful, and devoted entirely to each other. Jeanne had promised France that she would begin to treasure herself more...but, by March, she had begun to go behind his back.
The Hussites were on the move, and Jeanne had thought of them wicked people fallen to heresy. She began to write them letters, demanding that they remove their heresy and turn back to the faith of God, or she would remove their lives from Earth. Although they had already survived against crusades sent by the Catholic Church, Jeanne was confident that she could defeat them if they refused.
But, her problems soon rested with the fall of the truce, and her need to go back into fighting for her God and France. France was certain that he was going alone to Compiégne in May, but he didn't know that Jeanne was following after him. The two of them, although France was unaware she was there, defended the city from being completely overtaken.
It wasn't until he heard of a rash attack at Margny, that he realized that Jeanne was leading them into a battle they couldn't win.
France was struggling with a soldier, "Jeanne d'Arc and her followers will be slaughtered! I have to head there to help!"
The soldier argued, "She'll be fine! She's escaped death for the entire year of being in the French army."
It wasn't before long that the cavalry and soldiers arrived, and one of the captains reported to France, "We still have others coming, we lost many men."
France snapped, "Was anyone captured?"
The captain's face fell, "One was."
France's eyes widened, and grabbed the man by the soldiers, "You let Jeanne be captured!"
He protested, "I'm sorry, sir! There was nothing we could do!"
France clutched his blonde locks in frustration, and nearly punched a wall out of anger. She promised him that she wouldn't fight again, and thanks her damned pride she was captured!
When Charles VII asked France to come back to French territory, it was all he could do to respond maturely and peacefully. Who knows what was happening to his love right now...? Was she safe? Was she hurt? Were they interrogating her? Were they already condemning her to death? France's mind was filled with grief, and Charles VII had to keep him locked in the castle in order to prevent him from doing anything rash.
France spoke very little for the rest of the year. Many were afraid of talking to him as it was. It grew so terrible, that France would be locked in his room for weeks at a time, having the servants bring him his food and then leave him be.
Though he would never admit it, that time without his beautiful Jeanne had left him empty and emotional. He never considered that when one is so empty that they could still have the strength to cry as much as he did.
Eventually, the only other person besides a serving wench that entered his room was a man who had something that France would take interest in.
The, now ragged, nation was seated at the window, staring out at the sunlight that reminded him so much of Jeanne.
The timid man spoke, "France...?"
The country didn't reply, his voice gone from relieving his emotional pain. He felt too empty to speak as it was.
He whimpered, "I...I have news about Jeanne d'Arc."
The blonde turned back to look at him, revealing his untrimmed hair and neglected beard. His sunken eyes filled with hope, and ran up to the man, gripping his coat desperately.
His voice cracked as he asked, "Where...where is she? Is she safe...?"
The man trembled, "She...she's being trialed..."
France whimpered, "When can I see her again?"
He shook his head, "I-I don't know. I will continue to r-retrieve information for you."
And he did, the messenger sent frequent updates about Jeanne's progress and being tried, though a lot of it made the Frenchman burst into tears, especially when she was denied able to have Frenchmen in her trial as well, and when she was supposed to be guarded by nuns, she was instead guarded by English soldiers...which made France's heart sit in his throat. He was worried that perhaps she had been defiled already, and had no one there to console her.
As May approached, France's sorrow grew larger and larger, and was considering escaping the castle in order to grovel at England's feet and beg for him to release her and show her mercy.
Finally, the messenger told him that he would be able to go see Jeanne again on the 29th of May, but when France pressed on if she was still alright, the messenger couldn't say.
Arriving at Rouen, France had found out that Jeanne was in a private, guarded cell, and that she was awaiting his arrival.
Heading down the dark corridor, he passed a familiar face: England.
France hissed at him, "If I hear from her that you touched her in anyway...I'll make sure you and your people go through Hell."
England, surprisingly, didn't reply. He just tuned his head towards the cell where Jeanne was. He whispered gravely, "Save your voice for the girl."
France decided to not send another threatening remark, and take his anti-friend's advice. Heading quickly down to the cell, where two burly Englishmen guards were standing in front of, they allowed France access, but not without glaring at the rivaling nation.
When the door opened, his lover was standing with a ragged dress and the light in her face was absent. However, relief shone through when France charged into her cell and wrapped his arms around Jeanne.
She immediately burst into tears, and whimpered into France's shoulder.
France whispered, "It's alright Jeanne, I'm here now."
She sobbed, lifting her head to look at her beloved, "France...I-I'm so afraid..." Her periwinkle eyes wide and full of fear, tears streaming down her paled hollow cheeks. Drying her eyes, France felt his throat swell, ashamed that he had let his delicate lover be so damaged, so alone, and so helpless.
He cooed, "Mon amour, mon amour, you don't have to worry anymore...I'll do whatever it takes to get you out of here." He choked, tears spilling over, "I'm so sorry that I couldn't protect you, I'm so, so, so, sorry..."
But, it was her words that she then spoke that froze France down to the marrow of his bones, "I...I am sentenced...to...to...death..."
Seizing her body, pulling her closer, he hissed, "Why? Dammit, why?"
She shook, her tears making her words choppy, "H-Her-Heresy..."
He pulled her beautiful face to look at his own, and kissed her passionately, not able to find the words to comfort his walking dead lover. Her blonde hair was dirtied, her eyes were cold, and her soul was shattered. Not even France's return could relight the candle that had burned away inside of her.
Her candlelight, that once was brighter than anyone's...had flickered out, never to be lit once again. Jeanne would never know true happiness again.
France demanded, "Did they hurt you any, amour? Please, tell me the truth. Do not lie for my sake."
After a minute, she dropped her head back on his shoulder and nodded. The very thought of his love being molested, raped, defiled, it was a stake to France's heart. She wailed, "A...A lord came onto me..."
Clutching her tighter against his chest, he whispered, "I could apologize a million times, dearest...but I know that it's never enough..." His body trembled with Jeanne's, "I'm so sorry, Jeanne. I'm so sorry that I wasn't there for you..."
She looked up, kissing him, and giving him a sad smile, "At...At least I could see you once before I died."
France growled, "You're not going to die, Jeanne."
She blinked, "France...?"
France snapped, "I'm getting you out of here, or I'll die trying."
Jeanne's eyes widened, and protested, "France...! You can't...!" It was too late, the guards had heard France through the doorway, and seized him, one grabbing each arm.
He struggled and yelled, "You can't do this to her! She's innocent! She's innocent! Merde! She's innocent!" He called, "Jeanne!"
They shoved him out of the prison, and he was carefully escorted, though France used every ounce of his strength to struggle, back to a place where he could be monitored.
They had released him that morning to be able to go to the execution, to which France felt as if the guards were toying with his feelings. They were letting him so freely go to watch those fucking English bastards kill his light, his soul, his love.
Shoving him towards the wall that surrounded the burning sight, France stood up front, and watched his beautiful lover being tied to the post by chains. He nearly began crying right then and there. But, she turned to see him, and a small smile appeared on her face. He saw her speak something to him, but midst all the noise coming from the people who were there, English, French, or otherwise...he could only try to piece together what she said by the way her mouth was moving.
Suddenly he heard her voice in his head, most likely repeating what she tried to tell him in person. She spoke with her beautiful, sing-song voice, "I love you France, I don't care if my soul must wait thousands and thousands of years to see you again...but, I shall wait in Eden for your soul to return to me. My God...My Savior...My Light."
He felt his heart racing, and his eyes watering. Not caring that he was in public, he began to weep bitter tears for his love. He didn't deserve such words coming from the Angel that was Jeanne d'Arc.
The tears began to fall, and he caught himself thinking. He was a nation, and she was a human girl. The Lord would never bless their relationship, and he wanted to curse God and turn away from the Light. Why was it so damned hard? Why couldn't personifications fall in love with humans? Why did they simply become immortalized and serve their people? Why couldn't France have truly been born a human male, Francis Bonnefoy, and loved Jeanne as a human male should have?
Instead, she had fallen in love with the nation she was trying to free, and was now being killed for it. Or, as they accused her of, heresy.
He wanted to scream to the pope and to anyone who was there that the woman tied to the stake was innocent, but he couldn't be thrown out again. He had to stand by her until the very end, like he had failed to do when she was captured.
The logs below her were set ablaze, and within the hour, France watched in horror as the maiden he had fallen in love with was reduced to nothing more than ashes, as they burned her body several times. He hadn't even realized that there was someone else, crying along with him as Jeanne d'Arc burned.
Hours later, they had dumped the ashes into the river, to which France cursed anyone who cheered in joy when the girl was dead.
Charred logs still remained, and France was finally given permission to go down into the pit and search around for anything that remained, though they swore that they aimed to burn everything.
Digging around in the blackened logs, he found two items of importance. One was the cross necklace that she played with in her fingers when she questioned him about where people and nations go when they die. The second, made him cry once again. It was the flower pin that he had given her.
Holding them close to his heart, he vowed that he would never forget Jeanne, although he didn't deserve to honor her memory. She had never failed him, he had failed her. He didn't even deserve her forgiveness.
Heading back home, he took the items to the base of a large tree that sat behind his home. He could remember taking Jeanne here after he first made love to her, the first and only time.
He constructed a cross for her, which he nailed into the ground, and draped the necklace over the top of the cross. He wrote on it:
Jeanne d'Arc
Aged 19
Died in Rouen
My Light, My Love, My Life
A Strong Spirit Who Waits for Me in Heaven
After making sure that the necklace was secured to the grave, he took the pin inside, and found a box to seat it in. He set the box that now held the pin by the window, where he could see the cross for Jeanne.
He wasn't sure if he could ever love someone that strongly ever again, but after what happened with her, he swore to never forget that he would never be able to deserve another being so pure, so bright, and so spirited.
If he had allowed Jeanne to be burned at the stake, then he could make the same mistake again...
I snarled, "...You know why." I ran my fingers through my hair, and pulled on the roots with frustration. I snapped, "You know. You were there!"
Britain said behind me, "France, did you really think I wanted Jeanne to die too?"
I flinched at the sound of her name, but was surprised by his answer. I turned back to face him, "You...didn't?"
Britain shook his head, "No, of course not. She was innocent, just like you said."
I smacked the bottle down on the counter, I stomped over to the man and snarled, "If you knew she was innocent, then why didn't you stop those damned men of the Pope? You let her be burned alive, Angleterre...!"
Britain yelled back, "I TRIED!" I blinked, and he tempered his voice, "I did try and talk reason into them, but they wouldn't listen."
He sighed, "I may not have loved Jeanne like you did, France...but you have to stop blaming yourself for her death. You have to stop mourning over her. If what she told you was true, then she's still with you..." He placed a hand on my shoulder, and said, "...there's probably not been a day when she hasn't watched over you, and she's probably upset that you're still torn over her. She doesn't want to watch over you while you're beating yourself up over her death and wallowing in your sadness. She wants to see you embrace life once again, and see you happy...like you and her were when the two of you were together."
I felt tears threatening to spill, and I forced my emotions to steady.
He smiled, "Francis, she doesn't want you to spend your entire life mourning her. You have to let her go, and when you do die...then you can spend eternity with her in Heaven. Until then, live life, like she'd want you to."
I felt my body trembling, and I pulled the other nation into a hug. Britain made a noise out of surprise, and I whispered, "Merci, Arthur..."
He pulled himself out of the hug and sighed, "You're welcome, hopeless idiot." He smiled a little, "Get your coat, I'll drive you home."
Translations:
1. Angleterre - England
2. Mon Ami - My Friend
3. Monsieur - Mister
4. Demoiselle - Young Lady or Damsel
5. Ma Dame - My Lady
6. Mon Amour - My Love
7. Non - No
8. Merde - Dammit
9. Merci - Thank You