The little boy heard the footsteps long before he saw the man. Soft golden locks, wavy and tied back into a loose ponytail, suspended by a single ruby red ribbon and looping around to rest lightly on his shoulder. The man was sporting a royal blue coat, embroidered elegantly in gold; his suit complimented by white lace cuffs and polished black boots. He had picked the boy up, and they had looked at each other – emerald green eyes staring into cerulean blue ones – until at last the small lad had asked:
"Who are you?" I asked, phrased as more of a statement than a question.
"Pardon?" The stranger had replied, words demented so thickly in a French accent that they were basically the 'language of love' itself. My features must've crumpled into a sneer, I mean, who could blame me? because the man had scoffed.
"You're that French scum!" I yelled accusingly, gesturing at my surroundings – fully able and ready to blame the entire 'accident' on him. Burning crops and the charred remains of a village surrounded us, bloodied bodies littering the floor as I glared the man down through the thick layer of smoke hanging in the air – choking us, as our ragged gasps was the sole sound filling the silence.
I was the only one left, a small boy no older than 5, and yet wasn't it always like this? No matter how many kicks, cuts and punches came my way, I'd always gotten back up, I would always live. They'd never leave more than a bruise or a scratch, and even those would heal overnight. I was- no, I am a monster.
"Oh… ne savez-vous pas?" I gritted my teeth at that, what little I knew of French bothered me to no end.
"To hell with your accursed language!" Turning at that, I marched off, green cloak billowing behind me as the French bastard watched me go, a mix of shock and hatred adorning his stupid face. Why did I always get stares? I thought, and shortly after, as expected – the sound of quick footsteps were approaching me.
"Angleterre."
1, 2.
"Angleterre!"
3, 4.
"ANGLETERRE!" 5, 6, 7, 8 and a gloved hand had clasped onto my shoulder. I was pivoted, staring up at the bastard. "What?" He was breathless, What a wimp.
"Laissez-moi vous expliquer." This guy just really doesn't get it… I don't speak French, or français, or whatever.
"V-vous êtes un – "
"Anglais, s'il vous plaît."
"You're a country. A personification of… well… Britannia."
What?
The words were coming out in a rush now. "You'll live forever; you can't die unless your country falls. I'm France –" He was stopped there, met by a powerful kick to the shin.