A/N: Hello, everybody! New story here. I didn't have anything too particular in mind when I wrote this, just the urge to write something medieval with a fight. I hope you enjoy!
Désespoir
Crimson waves of bloodied cloth flew, swords clashed.
This was it; this was the final battle, this would end it all.
England, now on foot, fought fiercely and with an odd kind of determined grace. The clinging and clanging of metal against metal, life or death, ricocheted against his ear drums. It had been years now. Over a century, and they were still at war. Not another war, but the same war. The Hundred Years' War.
His fights with France went far back, back to when they were small and inexperienced. If they were not at war, they were incessantly bickering over who was better than the other. Rapiers, fists, or wit were always at hand.
England is the competitive type, and would never turn down a challenge—especially if it meant defeating his neighbour. France was always eager to show the younger nation up, as they both knew that England would copy almost anything France did.
"Give up already, frog. It's useless to fight back!" England shouted over the sound of swords and battle cries.
France, not one to particularly fear England, lashed back at him with a challenging smile. "Non, we will continue fighting until you have been driven from my land! Do you not sense the smell of defeat?"
With a growl, England stepped forward, carefully maintaining balance as he swung his sword at France.
"I know of no such thing," the Briton sneered, a bitter grin stretching from ear to ear.
Relentless as he was, England was sure he would win.
After the Battle of Herrings, into the Battle of Orléans, England had become very antsy. The siege began early October, with England pressing forward with swordsmen and the skilled archers of Cheshire. English troops were advancing. An overwhelming sensation of pride swelled up inside the English nation, and he had no doubts that he would turn out victorious. The land was filled with the sound of travelling armour, horses' hooves digging into the ground, and the wind barrelling against the archers' jackets.
That is, until the arrival of a strange leader—a woman, Joan of Arc, to be exact. After six months of sieges, the French had obtained a new leader, and she wasn't about to back down. England felt edgy when confronting this leader, but his people fought bravely and with confidence.
…
An astonished and mortified England retreated with his troops in May, after the French had oppressed them.
"How could this possibly be?" England marvelled, donned in a white surcoat and green archer's jacket. He had taken on the role of archer to aid the struggling archers against the French raid on their troops.
He was pacing to and fro, a faerie hovering over his shoulder. "There is a new leader, Albion," she reminded him. "France's heart is strong; and there is the struggle back home ..."
"Don't even remind me of that, Sunngifu," England glowered, sighing heavily. "I have all of that unrest back home, and this war with France has been waging onwards for over a century now." He balled one hand into a fist, pounding it into his palm. "This requires a swift ending. I will inform Thomas and William to-night and France will be done for."
To England's chagrin, all attempts failed over the course of twenty one years. Numerous sieges ended with reluctant retreats and England's army of 5,000-strong had lost 4,000. With political unrest in the west and France advancing in the east, imports through Calais were deemed extremely difficult. How could it have turned out this way?, England pondered in distress. Later on, an odd exchange occurred between his people and Burgundy. An exchange that would throw England and France into an abyss of deep despair.
"Are you happy now, you démon!"
"F-France, I had no part in this, I—"
"Your people did this to her … A wonderful young lady with so much potential, and it's all gone! Disparu! Such a fate for a human being is cruel in itself, but her? I thought you had some kind or morals, Angleterre."
"Listen to me, France," England demanded feverishly, stepping forward. The heat of the distant flames glowed warmly on their faces. France's expression was one of despair and disbelief. England saw that France was heartbroken. Did he … ? "Was there something between the two of you?" England started slowly and hesitantly. His voice was unsure, but unwavering.
France glared menacingly at England, causing the Englishman to shrink back a bit. He retorted in a venomous tone, "Not as you are implying it, Angleterre. She was special, and would have done many great things for my people if you hadn't done this!"
As much as they were rivals, England had never intended to hurt France in that way. The flames engulfed her body, burning it to ashes. The smell of searing flesh smelt rotten, and along with it carried turmoil and uneasiness. Joan of Arc's body, with a stake driven through it, engulfed in fire, made England feel like a monster. He knew he wasn't really a monster, but the actions of Burgundy and the ransom of Joan left England with an enormous surge of guilt. He feared that France hated him for this, that it was no longer a petty rivalry between the two of them. The absence of bickering and competition made this bond feel dark and dour, full of regret and grief. And it was all of his fault. He had never meant for this to occur. This kind of revenge was unfruitful, daemonic. England only had himself to blame for France's deep depression.
"I couldn't have ever imagined that in a thousand years, you would have done something like this. Adieu, Angleterre."
England made no attempt at a response, he couldn't bring himself to. As France's dark figure moulded with the night, he made a promise to himself that he would do whatever it took to ensure that France could heal, even if that meant the painstaking reality of having to keep his distance from him. As much as they were rivals, they were friends as well, and it would be difficult for England to not check up on him for a while.
"I'm so sorry," England whispered mournfully, gazing out into the dull night.
Several more battles ensued, and the English were quickly losing ground. Countless territories in France were reclaimed by the French, and it was up to the final troops to save the last of the territory—Bordeaux. It was the Battle of Castillon, and the battles were incessantly passionate.
England took the role of swordsman, as did France. The two clashed once more, swinging and dancing in an evenly matched duel. England swung this way and that, focusing his energy into the swords aim. Because the two had an almost equal amount of experience, neither one of them could hit the other. As England's impatience and ferocity grew, he focused more of his energy on power rather than accuracy. He flung his blade at France, screaming a string of curses and mockery. France remained confident as he pinpointed England's mistake. Dodging a blow to the side, the Frenchman dashed to the side and made a jab towards England's midsection. England emitted a painful yelp as France's broadsword cut through flesh from a small opening in England's armour.
"I refuse to fall down before you," England winced, trying to allow the wound to heal itself after France messily drew the sword out. It had gone deep, so it wouldn't be for several minutes until his body was ready to heal itself.
England lurched forward, blood spilling out of his armour, and swung a mighty blow at France (or so he thought). In reality, he had stumbled forward and messily swung, making it easy for France to block England's sword. England fell forward and lost his grip on the sword. He kept himself up with one hand, the other reaching inside his armour just so his fingertips could reach his wound. It was tender and burning, but a warm sensation told him that his body had begun to heal itself.
"Give up now," France warned the Englishman, his sword to England's head. "Surrender now and I'll leave you intact."
England remained quiet for a mere few seconds before removing his fingers from his armour and rolling away, grabbing a nearby lance. With its long wooden pole and menacing sharp end, he could fight France from a distance. It was not gentlemanly to fight with two different weapons, but England took what was at hand.
"Never in a thousand years would I willingly submit to your demands," England scoffed, poising for battle once more.
They fought again, both passionately and skilfully.
In the end, France had struck England so he could no longer stand and fight, and French soldiers successfully drove the remaining English soldiers back to Calais, where they sailed back home.
England felt it coming, and knew France would fight harder than he had before. Joan of Arc's leadership had brought the French into high spirits and motivated them, and after her death it only made them stronger. Especially France himself. England didn't believe that France was specifically looking for revenge; he was the Language of Love. That did not necessarily mean he wanted to have sex with anything that breathed, but rather that he loved with all of his heart. He was a compassionate and loving nation, and England hoped that he would be able to forgive him someday.
France didn't put up a fight when England decided to keep Calais, but didn't offer any kind of treaty, either. With that the Hundred Years' War had ended, and instead of the tension dissipating, it only grew.
England knew he owed an apology to France. What a morbid way to end such affairs.
A/N: I hope this one wasn't fast-paced like I feel my other story is. I intend on keeping this as a completed story, but if anybody wishes for a second piece (hurt/comfort scene with France and England, perhaps? ;)) then I would be more than happy to do so! Tell me how you felt this went along. Sorry for not being able to explain much of the war to you guys, my memory is a bit rusty and I didn't want to make it extremely detailed.
Basically, the war begins due to the fact that Edward III of England refused to pay homage to Philip VI of France. In other words, Edward refused to recognise him as king of France because he believed he was the rightful king, since his uncle had been the previous ruler. So as all of this happens, the two kingdoms declare war and fight for over a century. The war lasts from 1337 to 1453, and the first phase ended with Treaty of Bretigny. In the end, there was no treaty that officially ended the war. England lost practically all of the territory it had in France, save for Calais. The French reigned victorious though, and didn't bother trying to get Calais back. As far as I understand, the English never obtained the French crown, therefore keeping the same monarch in both kingdoms.
It's all very complex and I know I could have portrayed it better, but my writing is still a bit rusty. Maybe another day I can try to freshen it up!