This was a combination of a really bad day and my obsession with reading history books (you have no idea how fascinating the Arab Empire is). This story is sad, it's graphic, and not for those looking for a light hearted read. Yes, Britain is the bad guy, no i din't hate him, he's one of my favorite characters. Yes, I love France as well. This was written on my phone, but I tried to proof read as best as possible.
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There was nothing France could do. His lovely Joan, so young, so full of life, would die. Because of him.
"Britain please! You cannot do this!" He begged. He was on his knees, arms twisted behind his back as two soldiers held him. Dirt and blood smeared his face, tears slowly streaking through the mess. Britian stood coldly before him, armor shining in the setting sun.
"I can and I will. Perhaps you will learn your place in my empire." He sneered.
"This is murder!" France yelled.
"Women are not allowed to fight. This is her punishment." Britain said.
"Then take me in her place! Punish me! Just don't kill her!" France begged desperately. He could hear the tromp of boots and the soft cries of a young woman. France's demands became louder, harder to ignore. He slipped into french, his native language slurred by sobs.
Britain ignored him, instead striding to the pier where Joan would die.
"Joan D'arc you have been convicted of heresy and are hereby sentenced to death." The english nation said coldly. The young woman struggled against the men holding her to no avail.
"Joan!" France screamed. He fought against the men restraining him with renewed vigor and managed to shake one loose. With his now free arm he swung a fist into the jaw of the other man. The human crumpled and France dashed towards the young woman he'd grown to love.
"Stop him!" Britain barked. More men rushed forward to intercept the defeated nation. France weaved through them, throwing out a punch whenever someone came too close.
"Aucun Francis ! Sauvez-vous !" Joan screamed.
"Non ! Je ne vous laissera pas !" France yelled back.
"This is getting tiresome." Britain sighed. He took three steps forward and whipped an arm out. His armored fist connected with France's head as he passed and the blonde collapsed.
France's head ached when he came to. He groaned and reached a hand up to rub at the spot only to realize he couldn't move his arms.
He raised his head slowly, eyes opening to a scene of horror. Soldiers stood in ranks before him, eyes forward, Britain at their head. When he saw France's return to alertness he stepped forward, a triumphant smirk on his lips. France struggled against his bonds, feeling something hard against his back.
"If you love her so much you can burn with her." Britain said, malice writhing in his words. It was then that France heard the soft cries, whimpers really, behind him, on the other side of the wooden beam.
"Dieu ne" he whispered. "Joan"
"Francis ! Oh Dieu, Francis ! Je ne veux pas vous mourir trop!" She said in a wavering voice.
"Ne vous inquiétez pas à propos de moi mon amour ! Tout ira bien !" He replied in what he hoped was a convincing tone.
"I'm afraid that's not true." Britain said. "Not true at all." He snatched a torch from one of his men and approached.
France and Joan were elevated from the ground, Britain had to climb the wood pier to stand face to face with the blonde nation. He leaned in close until his lips brushed the other's ear,
"This won't kill you. This isn't enough to kill someone like us." The whispered words tickled France's ear and he tried to flinch away.
"But I can guarantee it's going to hurt like hell." He placed a chaste peck on the edge of France's jaw. Britain climbed down from the pier and with a contemptuous flick of the wrist the torch went spinning through the air, landing at the base of the pier.
The fire spread quickly, twisting and devouring its way around, aided by the torches of other soldiers. The heat grew as the flames rose, it licked at France's bare feet, making him squirm and whimper. He felt a warmth on his hand and realized it was Joan's fingers clawing for his own. He twisted his hand enough to grasp at hers, twining their fingers together for the last time.
Flame licked up his legs, his trousers catching fire. Pain lanced through him as the fire began its work. The rank smell of cooking flesh permeated the air as the flames continued to climb.
Joan screamed in pain and France could only image how much worse the pain was for the human woman. Being a country lent him a high level of tolerance, much higher than anything Joan could endure.
"Francis!" She screamed, the cry shrill with agony.
"Je suis ici mon amour ! N'ayez pas peur !"
Her hand tightened around his. The fire continued to consume them. His legs and waist were wreathed in flame, skin bubbling, charring, flaking away. It felt like hours before Joan lost consciousness from the pain. France was not so lucky, his nerve endings weren't dying like they were supposed to. Instead they continued to send and receive messages of agony from every inch of his body. He was left to burn as Britain watched, a small smile on the smaller man's lips. His screams resounded through the smoky air, hoarse and choked from the fumes of his own charred skin.
At last his black release came, the burning red sky fading from his vision along with the lines of troops and the twisted nation who led them. The last thing he felt before fading into oblivion was Joan's blackened hand within his own, still gripped around his own. Even in death she was strong, always there with him, never allowing him to fall alone.
I will only write a second chapter to this if it is requested multiple times. Also, the french was done with a translator app seeing as i speak only english, spanish, and german. Thanks to any who read this.
"No Francis! Save yourself!"
'No! I won't let you!' "
"God no!"
"Francis! Oh God, Francis! I do not want you to die too!"
"Don't worry about me my love! Everything will be fine!"
"Here I am my love! Do not be afraid!"
these are rough translations, I'm sure the grammar is wrong in places, but like i said, i don't actually speak french.