A/N: Hi, this is a short story I wrote earlier this year. As you're reading you'll probably notice it jumps a bit, that's because this was written for an English assignment with a 1.1k word limit. I'll probably rewrite this in the future. Rating is for Francis' Language (translation at the bottom). I apologize in advance if anything offend you, I just wanted to capture the relationship between France and England. Another thing is that there is a lot of content in here that is unnecessary if you're familiar with Hetalia as a whole but my English teacher had never heard of Hetalia (THE HORROR).

Because so much is uncertain/debated about the history of Jeanne D'arc I feel like I should specify some things:
Jeanne was born January 6th, 1412
In this story France was formed in the 300's (AD/CE)
Gallia is the personification of Gaul (Mother of Francis)

[[text]] - narrator
text - thoughttext - flashback
"speech"

[[France felt every single death. He prayed for an end to the war and decades later, the war raged on. The constant aching in his joint reminded him of the pain and bloodshed that ravaged his country. January 6th, 1412 was the day that he felt a ray of hope pierce through the fog in his heart. It was the birth of France's saviour. Change would come at long last to his battle-weary land.]]

A fair-headed young child stood uncertainly at the threshold of the ramshackle dwelling and watched as a mysterious blond man approached the house. With his signature charm, he pulled a rose out of seemingly nowhere and smiled mysteriously.

"Bonjour mademoiselle, my name is Francis Bonnefoy, I was on my way to Paris to speak with the King Charles VI. I do beseech you to allow me a place to rest; my carriage was robbed not 3 hours ago."

The fair-headed child hesitated a moment and disappeared for a second leaving the blonde haired man on the doorstop, shifting from foot to foot. As Francis awaited the child's return, he mused to himself. Perhaps I should have tried something more subtle. Oh well, I am known as the country of Amour after all. Better luck next time. He was quickly startled out of his thought at the reappearance of the child.

"Papa says you may stay, he offers his apologies for not greeting you in person but alas Papa is ill. Do come in, we do not have much but it would not do to turn away those in need." The little child babbled on, and Francis couldn't help but gaze in wonder at the compassion such a young person held.

"This must seem terribly rude of me monsieur, I haven't introduced myself yet. My name is Jeanne D'Arc; it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance monsieur."

He left the next day to a tearful farewell and the promise to return and his heart felt strangely… full. It was a surprise to him, being a nation tended to dull your emotions. He did visit again, many times in fact, there was something so alluring about the childish curiosity that Jeanne had in addition to the overwhelming warmth his soul was smothered in whenever he was in her presence.

He watched over Jeanne as she grew and blossomed into a fine young lady. She was a good Christian, devoted to helping the less fortunate even when she had naught for herself. He witnessed the experiences that would mould Jeanne into a woman whom possessed the virtues of humility, honesty, grace and courage. It was not to Francis's great surprise when she claimed to see God, and demanded to have an audience with the King. God always was a meddling fool.

He watched with bated breath as she overcame any hurdles that dared to challenge her, and with each victory his pride soared. For the first time in over eleven centuries, he felt genuine love. Ever since the fatal day, when his mother Gallia was brutally murdered by Romulus, Francis had been too emotionally scarred to love. With Jeanne, his smooth words had been reduced to stuttering's and blushes, his words of praise turned into mumbles, centuries of practise and an air of effortless charm ruthlessly transformed into dewy eyes and weak knees. In his eyes she was everything, and he would have given anything to protect her.

As a tender light bathed his room in its eerie glow, Francis awoke with a start; it had been a while since he dreamt about Jeanne D'Arc. How fitting it was though, to be dreaming of her on such an auspicious day. All of his beloved citizens were out and about celebrating Bastille Day. To others this day was to mark the rise of France. To Francis it was the day to celebrate and remember the woman who taught him to love again and the only person to ever fill the bottomless depths of his heart. After her untimely demise, he had bedded thousands of women –and men- in an attempt to plug up the hole in his heart, but none captured his heart quite like Jeanne did.

A sudden chime broke the tranquil silence and for a brief moment, he wondered who would bother him on such a day. Amongst the nations, it was considered customary not to disturb a nation on its national holiday. The aforementioned man rolled towards his bedside table and picked up the offending machine, grumbling slightly.

"Bonjour? Qui la baise est-ce et pourquoi diable vous me tracasse aujourd'hui? Abruti!"

"Listen here you bloody frog, just because I understand your language doesn't mean you get to insult me. I was just calling to remind you of the World Conference today. You know the very important meeting you are supposed to be hosting? You. Better. Be. There."

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Francis vaguely identified the voice as Arthur. The blue eyed Adonis attempted to stave off the boiling hatred that seared through his veins. He replied in a scathing tone to the annoying Brit.

"Oh I do apologise dear Angleterre. I hadn't noticed I was speaking my native language. The world meeting is today? It must have slipped my mind, many thanks for reminding me."

"… Just make sure you are there, cheese-eating surrender monkey"

With a loud click resonating in his ear, Francis tossed the phone to a corner and rose off the bed.

The nerve of that uppity English fool, surely he hasn't forgotten what today is, what today means? After all he is responsible for the death of my Jeanne. I could do nothing to protect her. I stood by, powerless and unable to help her. I watched as they tied her to a stake, she had refused to cry. She confessed her love for me as Arthur strode towards her, bearing a burning flame. As the swirling inferno engulfed my one true love and for the second and last time in my life, I shed true tears as the dancing flames etched themselves into my memories. I promised there and then, that none would have my heart as it had burned with the girl that stole it away.

My love, My Jeanne

Armour = Love

Angleterre = England

"Bonjour? Qui la baise est-ce et pourquoi diable vous me tracasse aujourd'hui? Abruti!" = "Hello? Who the fuck is this and why the hell are you bothering me today? Asshole!"

So this is my first fanfiction and I welcome any and all constructive crits. Flames will be used to summon Russia.