Author's Note: I do not own Hetalia in any way, shape, or form.
It was a rare and glorious English morning, and for once the sun shone bright and unimpeded by clouds. All the townsfolk were out and had gathered around the edges of the square; their excited chattering drowning out the song of the morning birds. It seemed a happy day, a wondrous and glorious day.
But for many, most of whom were beyond the far banks of the Channel, it was not so. It was, in fact, and dreaded and even fearful day. It was especially so for the figure tied upon the post in the otherwise clear center of the square. All were eager to get a glimpse of her; but all kept their distance.
All, that is, save for a single man. The crowds parted for him and his torch, and he made his way to stand at his station beside the woman. His moss-green eyes shone with pride and fear. Relief was evident there, too- though in the days to come it would be replaced with shock and still more fear. The pride would never leave, though; for he could not afford shame. Not now, not now…
He ran a shaky hand through his messy, short blond hair; too weary to attempt to hide the scars and cuts that covered the limb. Soon, it would all be over. Soon, he wouldn't have to hide one hundred years of scars…
And then from the balcony, the bishop gave the signal with the raising of his hand. The man set the torch on the brush-and-wood pyre the woman stood on, took a step to the side, and averted his eyes as the pained whimpers turned to screams. It felt like he stood there forever, never daring to look, never daring to move away, breathing in the sickening smell of burning flesh and hair.
And then the screaming stopped, and- without looking- he stiffly made his way through the now dispersing crowds. In a daze, he made his way to an inn, and then to his rooms. Shutting the door behind him and leaning against it, he wondered why he didn't feel as victorious as he should have. He should have known better, and he answered his own question.
"God save my King and I, for I fear I have burnt a holy woman."
For I fear I have burned Saint Joan of Arc.