"If we approach Rouen from the west…" Francis was saying, pointing to the spot on the map. "And from there, lay siege to England's occupational government…"

The military officers from the assembled companies were all surrounding the table, beneath the blue and white tent erected in the field, listening to France's latest concocted scheme to halt the false trial the English were throwing. It was a farce of justice to be sure, but France's interested was personal.

"Monsieur France, that is a fight we cannot win," disagreed the head general standing next to him. To call him 'monsieur' was almost a mockery; he was barely as tall as the chests of his generals, having not yet hit his growth spurt. He could hardly have been more than fourteen, his cheeks still plump, his voice still high and soft. Yet there he stood, in light armor, moving around pieces of the French army on a map and directing the course of nations. "It is too closely defended or we would have taken it already!"

"We must!" Francis insisted, looking up and meeting his general's eyes with that intensely blue gaze. "For her! We must!" A few of the generals exchanged looks, but no one spoke. It seemed France's fervor to save the Maid of Orléans was not shared. A fact France himself would not learn until much later. "Or else…we can send a small team," he mused aloud, rubbing his chin with a black-gloved hand. "Just enough to break her out…and rendezvous with a slightly larger force outside of the sight of the English…"

"France…the best we can do is hope for a good outcome from the trial," General Dubois said, placing a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder.

"We can't wait for that!" France cried, turning to look up at his general. "You know the English will not give her a fair trial, you know it in your heart! It is pointless to trust in that!" His face contorted in frustration and upset for a moment. There had to be a loophole, something he was overlooking, something he hadn't yet seen…

The officials began to disperse. Today, as the day before, nothing was going to be done on the matter of the Maid of Orléans. The fact of the matter was that the English were simply too protected at Rouen; there was no way French forces could take them there without destroying themselves in the process. They had made several rescue attempts already, but the English had beaten them back each time; they were determined that the French should not recover their powerful leader.

France, however, wasn't resigning himself so easily. He continued to pour over the map, moving army pieces this way and that, certain that something could be done. Until a messenger arrived.

"It's a message from the English," the man puffed, handing it over to the one general who stayed to watch France and see if he did uncover some great secret they could use to save their savior.

"They want to parley," General Dubois said as France watched him read it, barely seeming to blink.

"Parley about what?" France demanded. "Do they have conditions for Joan's release?"

"It doesn't say," the general said, shaking his head and offering the letter to France. "Only that we are to meet them at the halfway point between here and Rouen."

"Allons-y then!" France exclaimed when he'd glanced over the letter. "Let's go!" He got to his feet, vacating the chair he'd taken from one of the departed officials and strode towards his tent to collect the rest of his armor before they went.

The messenger bowed and took his leave. General Dubois looked up as France disappeared into his tent. This war had been going on since before Dubois' grandfather had been old enough to go to war. His father before him had been a soldier at Agincourt and told him of the brutality of the English there—France still bore the mark of it: he'd lost his right arm in that fight and, while nation-tans were disturbingly regenerative little things, it had not yet grown back into place even halfway. The state of the country stunted his healing; the wound was not only a reflection of Agincourt, but the condition of France. The war and English occupation were quite literally crippling him. He'd just had to learn to make do with his other hand, practicing long hours to learn to wield a blade with his non-dominant arm and compensate for the weakness of his right side.

He looked so tired sometimes, he truly showed his age. Not the physical age, the true age. Dubois didn't know much about him, but he knew this child, this tender boy that stood before him, had seen the decline and fall of Rome, and the rise of France and so much more in between.

When the horses were saddled and everyone read, France was jumping at the bit to be on their way. He clutched at his horse's reins and paced about impatiently while his posse of men mounted their own steeds.

"Allons-y!" He drove off without waiting for Dubois's orders as soon as they were all seated. He had been revived by the arrival of the Maid of Orléans. Before that, his father had told him, things had been looking like the end for France, the nation and the boy. For all his age, mentally, in many ways, France was still too young for all of this—just barely a teenager. And this constant attack on his being wore on him, the demoralization of it wore on him; he was exhausted. But then she had come and revitalized him and even now, her danger drove him to action, to zealous energy, as if he would run to the ends of the earth for her, should she ask it of him.

For his part, Francis was intent only on rescuing his Maid; everything else was secondary and had been since her capture. He would see her safely returned, he was sure of that. He simply wouldn't stand for anything less. He hunkered down over his chestnut mare and drove her faster, the wind whipping through his blond curls, his eyes squinted against the rush of air. His generals' lack of action frustrated him to no end; they seemed incapable of sharing his urgency when it came to the matter of Joan's rescue. They didn't understand. Without her, how could he fight? Without her, what was he? A failure. She had breathed life back into a lost cause, she had taken his hand and pulled him back to his feet, she…she had believed in him when no one else did. As she had saved him, he would save her.

He was too jumpy to rest and even his assembled soldiers were anxious to hear what the English wanted to parley about, so they didn't bother resting, but rode straight on to the appointed meeting place, outside a small village. When they drew near, they could see the English waiting for them. Quite a lot of them, actually. But France rode straight up to them and now Dubois could see what was noble, almost royal, in him—the straightness of his back, the proud thrust of his chin, the controlled look in his eyes. Regardless of the arm, to which England's eyes darted immediately, he remained as characteristically prideful—bordering on arrogant—as ever.

If France was young, England was more so. He really was just a boy, being some three years physically younger than France. He was much less often seen on the battlefield and for the most part, used a bow and arrow. When he did wield a sword, a small, light one crafted specifically for him, it was near the end of a battle—such as when he'd taken France's arm at Agincourt, when the fighting was all done. King's orders, he'd said. Which was true. France was lucky he didn't lose the other three limbs, if one asked the rest of his soldiers who'd suffered that day (not that they were giving answers; their prayers were all said).

Like France, though, the look on his face now was not one of a child. They did that sometimes, said things or did things or looked a way that was far too adult for their youthful faces. The smug, cocky look on England's face did not bode well, Dubois thought. England's face curled into a reptilian smile as France drew near. Their pale cheeks were rouged from the wind chill.

"France," he greeted the other nation, almost pleasantly, but for the underlying tension of hostility. The English were quite good at that, sounding polite when a close listen to their tone revealed they were considering all the ways to impale you with your own fork.

"What is it you want to parley about?" France demanded, in no mood for false pleasantries. "It's about my Maid. What have you done with her?"

"Well you'll be glad to know," England said, running his hands over the reins of his horse and pausing before he looked up with that deadly smile, "that she's been released." The French all hesitated, squinting at the English to determine if they'd heard right. England gave them a moment before continuing. "Right to the Heavenly Father she so claimed to love."

France's back went rigid and Dubois brought his horse forward to stand next to him. The nation-tan's eyes were wide and fixated on England; his chest barely moved with breath.

"No," France whispered, drawing the reins up to his chest. "You haven't. There was a trial. There was a trial!" His voice grew louder on the last word.

"And then there was a barbeque the likes of which Rouen has never seen before, I'm sure!" England called.

France screamed and Dubois was sure as long as he lived he would never forget the sound of France's scream cutting through his ears. His hand let drop the reins and went up to cover his mouth; he convulsed and for a moment Dubois thought he'd be sick.

"All isn't entirely lost though," England carried on in the same easy tone, as though they were discussing the possibility of rainfall that evening. "I'm sure if you scrape the bottom of the Seine, you might uncover what's left of her ashes."

"You lie!" France shrieked, the words ripping through the air, piercing the foggy noon with the sound of his agony. There were no words to describe the horrible sound of his voice, the manic look on his face. "You lie!" he bellowed, his voice cracking.

"You'll lose now without your pathetic girl to defend you," England taunted him. Suddenly, the smile was gone and his lip curled. "Filthy spawn of Rome."

Before anyone could grab him, France dismounted his horse, crossed the distance between them to the English, grabbed ahold of England with his one good arm and jerked him off his horse. "You liar!" he screeched, throwing the boy to the ground and hitting him. It was difficult, without a hand to prop himself up, but England was caught off-guard and busy trying to protect his face for the moment being. "You liar! What did you do with her? You've got her somewhere! You filthy, lying, English whore! Give her to me! Give her to me now!"

"France, stop!" Birds took wing from nearby trees and even the sound of the French and English generals crying out was lost to France's howls. Dubois dismounted and grabbed onto his nation, trying to pull him off the other boy, but France fought him, seeking his revenge still.

"You're a rotten liar! You think Rome was bad to you?" he hissed, thrashing about to keep Dubois off of him. "I'll wipe you off the map, I'll be ten times what Rome ever was to you! Give me my Maid!" Dubois finally grabbed France around the chest and hauled him off of England, still kicking and screaming. He managed to drag the young nation back over to the French side while the English gesticulated and cried out in their language, helping Arthur to his feet and making sure he hadn't been injured.

France dissolved here into senseless wailing. Dubois was half-afraid to let go of him, should he charge back after England, but he merely slumped to his knees, the fingers of his hand digging into the soft grass and dirt and he let out a horrible, keening cry, as if someone had, right there, reached into his chest and ripped his heart out, leaving him to bleed his life away into the mossy ground.

The French were taken aback. It had been a good many years since France's last stress-induced temper tantrum, so most of them had never seen him lose control of his emotions. It was an awful thing, even England, across the way, looked at least repulsed by this display, if not regretful for his actions.

Dignity and all thoughts of propriety were gone from Francis' mind; nothing was there but a black void, an all-consuming grief that felt like it should destroy him. He wanted it to destroy him, so he would no longer have to bear up under it. A few choking sobs escaped, but he was too far gone to even weep; this pitiful lamentation that seemed to echo around the area was the only thing he could give.

The English turned to go and France raised his head to shout after them.

"I will never forgive you, England!" His voice was hoarse and ragged from all his screaming. "Never! If I live a thousand years I will never forgive you for taking her from me!" His voice broke and he lost the ability to speak coherently.

In the centuries after this day, those words would come to haunt England. Sometimes, alone, he would hear them bounce around in his head, the tone, the inflection of France's voice just the same as it was now, when they were first uttered. Long after the signing of their alliance, he would wonder if France had ever truly forgiven him.

His Joan, his Maid, burned. Alive. Tossed into the Seine, the river that ran through his own heart. Not even a body for him to look at, to bury. Not even the ashes! She would never rest on hallowed ground! Never be buried in a proper cemetery! What if she was doomed to purgatory forever? The thought was too painful for France to linger on and the emotional distress was too great—he collapsed.

"What's wrong?" a lieutenant asked, rising out of his saddle to see over the others.

"He's fainted," Dubois reported from where he crouched by France's side. "Come get him," he ordered the lieutenant. The man dismounted and gathered the nation up, hauling him onto the horse in front of him. "We need to return to camp and report back," Dubois called to the others.

Sometime on the way home, France began to wake, mumbling incoherently. He refused to open his eyes; he didn't want to return to this horrible consciousness where people did such awful things. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to stave off his waking, but the jolting and jostling of the horse was not conducive to sleep. Eventually, he did have to face the real world again.

"If you are awake, take your horse back," Dubois said. They came to a halt and France reluctantly slid off the lieutenant's horse and took the reins of his own back from Dubois. As usual, clambering onto the thing with only one useable hand was a challenge, but he managed, and then they were off again. He felt a curious sort of numbness, as if nothing in the world was truly affecting him. It all felt far off and distant, like a book or a fever dream. It didn't feel real, even though he knew it was.

When they got back to French camp, he dismounted and, without a word or a backwards glance, shuffled into his tent, where he stayed. He wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

When they returned to the French provisional government (as Paris remained in the hands of the English, despite their best efforts), he went to the church. He wanted answers. And no one around here could give them to him, but there was one place. The chapel was empty, or at least France saw no one as he made his way up the narrow staircase to the main room.

"Why?" he asked, approaching and looking up at the cross. "Why did You take her from me? What did she do?" His voice cracked and for a moment it was too difficult to go on. "Why did she have to die for me? What makes her life worth more than mine?" He passed a hand over his face and looked up plaintively up at the cross again, his eyes glassy. "How could it be? She lived to serve others! I only serve myself." He lapsed into silence again and his eyes fell to the floor. His loyalty and his life belonged to France; everything he did was to further the interests of France, ensure the safety of France, the prosperity of France. What country ever acted selflessly? None; it served no purpose. And yet, he lived, while Joan was dead. What sort of cosmic justice was that? Cosmic joke was closer.

"She was so good…she came here, she did everything You asked!" he cried. "She risked her life at Your behest, she left her home and her family, she led armies! Armies! And this was her fate? Was it always so? How could You bring her here, raise her up, only to take her away like this?" He was ashamed at the way his voice quivered, and tears spilled over onto his cheeks. He wiped them away on the back of his hand. "Why? Why would You give her such a fate? She deserved so much better!

"…Why am I here?" he asked, casting his eyes around the glittering stained glass windows that threw a rainbow down on the floor, reds and blues and greens lighting up patches of his pale skin and light hair. "Do You hate me so much?" he whispered, his hand shaking. It clutched uselessly at his breeches, trying to stabilize itself. "That You would condemn me to this life? To watch everyone I love die? Why couldn't I save her? I loved her!" Again his voice broke and he forced the words out anyway, through the rough break, as fresh tears poured forth. "Why wasn't that enough? Why isn't my love worth anything?" It never had been though, had it? He had loved his father, and that hadn't stopped Rome from felling him and taking France (then still known as Gaul, his father's name) into the empire. He had loved Nanny Oda, the sweet woman who had brought him treats from the kitchens and soothed his ruffled feathers when his kings treated him like the child he was. That hadn't stopped old age from withering her away before his eyes. He had loved the redheaded Genevieve, who kissed his cheeks to make him blush and giggled like a little sprite, but that hadn't stopped the Plague from taking her before she was tall enough to reach the middle shelf on a bookcase.

There was no answer and the silence seemed deafening; it made the tears come even faster. The sound of his sniffling and whimpering sounded too loud in the big empty room and again he felt abashed by this childish behavior; he was glad no one else was around to see it, as much as he craved comfort from someone. He hadn't expected some angel to step down from the heavens to answer his questions, but the fact that there was nothing at all made him feel so horribly alone. Slowly, he got down on his knees on the steps.

"Tell me she is at least with You," he whispered. "Tell me the English did not damn her to purgatory by refusing her burial on consecrated ground." His shoulders shook. The cavernous ceiling arched above him, full of stale, chilled air. But as he knelt there, hunched over the steps, a sort of quietude washed over him. He felt warmer, more at peace. The tremendous grief was still there, lurking just off to the side, but for this moment in time, he managed to distance himself from it.

He lay down on the step, not wanting to move from this one place where he suddenly felt as if there were something to ease his suffering. The stone was hard beneath his head, but it didn't bother him enough to make him move. Tears continued to drip silently down his face, darkening the floor beneath him, but slowly, his trembling, harsh breathing began to return to normal.

She had to be there. Of course she was, he thought, closing his eyes. God did not always deal in absolutes; Joan had a special case. It was no fault of hers she had been unable to be buried properly and she had died on the mission God Himself gave her. There would be an exception for her. Of this, France was suddenly certain. At least, he thought, he had this miniscule thing to cling to. She had died in agony, but she would not suffer it beyond the grave.

When he finally left the church, it was dark outside and he had fallen asleep on the step. The brief comfort he had felt did not extend to his return to court.

King Charles was not happy about Joan's fate either, but his reasons were arguably more practical—she had been winning them battles, restoring French moral, driving the English back. She was responsible for his being crowned. Without her, were they doomed to return to the time before her, when things had seemed so bleak and hopeless? Could they win without her?

Francis didn't want to see his king. He didn't want to see much of anyone at court. Or anyone at all, really. And he wasn't above shirking his responsibility if he didn't want to do it, so Dubois made sure that he personally escorted the young nation to the throne room, lest he attempt to skip out on an audience with His Majesty.

"You lost the Maid of Orléans," Charles said to France. The blond stood with his head bowed, not looking up or acknowledging the king, aside from his brief bow when he approached the throne.

"I tried," he said hoarsely. The king looked at Dubois over France's head—they would be having words after this. From what he had heard—and what he saw of France now—it would do no good to reveal any potential treason by his own officers in regards to the Maid.

A tremor went through France.

"I wasn't strong enough," he went on, rubbing his upper arm like he was cold. It seemed to be something he had only recently been realizing. "I couldn't…I couldn't save her…" He got that foggy look in his eyes again, the one Dubois had seen far too often in him since the execution. It made him look far away, lost in that moment over and over again, still trying to find a way to rescue his champion.

"You will go back to the battlefield," Charles told him. There was no room for argument, there could be no question. As long as there were foreign troops on French soil, there was no choice for Francis. He had to fight.

"I don't want to fight," he said simply, raising his head at last to look at Charles. The look of sorrow and weariness in his eyes was so draining the king could almost feel it dragging him in like a vortex.

"You must," he said. Again, he refused room for wriggling out of this. It was France's duty to serve his country. No one else in the room spoke, waiting, slightly tensed, to see what France would say. None of them there were old enough to remember France before the endless war. His sunny smiles and relaxed demeanor were almost foreign to them—they knew him only battered, broken down and worn out from constant warfare and occupation. Still, this was the worst it had been, they could tell.

"I'm tired," France said. The French never claimed to have emotional breakdowns—they only ever grew 'tired'. Charles regarded the boy for a moment. Times like this were tricky positions for the king. Arguably, no one should be able to refuse him. The pain of it was death, should he chose. But how could he kill his nation? He couldn't. France would outlive him, so punishment was a difficult thing to manage, to say nothing of the fact that he needed this person. So what was he then to do, when France denied a command that was absolute? "I don't want to fight," he repeated. "I want to die." He raised his head once more to look Charles in the eyes. "Will you do it for me? Look, I disobey. So do as you would with others, and put me to death." His voice was so calm, so reasonable one could almost believe the request was completely logical.

That, Charles thought, was not at all a good sign. Still, he considered how best to address the issue. France looked to one of the open windows, tilting his head up, trying to see how far below lay the earth. Charles gave a subtle gesture of his hand and one of the guards moved to stand in front of the window. No sense in courting risks.

At last, something came to him.

"Then you would waste everything she did while she was here with us?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. He needed to goad France to fight; he needed his nation to be strong, or they would be again overwhelmed and Paris would fall. If he could turn this blow to motivate France rather than destroy his will to fight, he was sure they could win.

Sure enough, France's eyes fixed on him with new interest, an almost offended look.

"She fought for France," he said. "She won battles, destroyed armies, for France. She gained back French land, for France. If you do not fight, you let that all go to waste. If you cease to fight, you let fall the sword she held, let her dream fall into the dirt. She wanted to see a France free of the English. Will you deny her that?"

France was thinking hard about it, Charles could tell. No, he didn't want to fight. He wasn't naturally disposed to it. But Joan and her dreams had been of the utmost importance to him and the king knew France would never dishonor her memory.

"She would want you to carry on," he added. "Carry her torch, finish her fight. Do not let the English make a triumph of her death." Still, the boy remained silent. Deciding it would not do to press him too hard, he relented. "Think about it," he said. "I will give you a few days' time to contemplate it before the next battalion moves out. I will have my answer by then." After yet another moment of thought, France gave a small nod.

Charles spoke to his wife on the matter of Francis. He wanted to know what could be done. She spoke to the court librarian, who was the oldest man in the court and might remember previous occasions when France was…tired.

The librarian suggested they write to Spain, who had come to see France after the Battle of Agincourt, when he'd thrown an absolute fit, screaming at his generals and throwing things onto the floor in a display so out of character that everyone could only stare until Spain gathered the hysterical nation up and took him back to his room to soothe him with kisses and gentle words. France was normally such a well-behaved little nation, it was difficult to believe the scale of the temper tantrums he could throw as a child. A psychologist might speculate this had something to do with his tumultuous upbringing in the house of the man who had killed his parents, along with several colonies who could claim the same. No one got attention in Rome's house by being quiet. And he'd mostly grown out of it, but the stress and upset of this endless war was breaking him down; sometimes it was just too much.

At the time, he had needed Spain there to calm him down and make him take deep breaths. To assure him all was not lost and he was still beautiful, even with his injuries, and that England wouldn't win—things would be alright in the end. France refused his offer of comfort in other ways, but hearing his voice had helped immensely. Spain had gotten him to sleep, curled up to Antonio with his head on his companion's chest and when Spain had ridden back to Madrid, France felt much calmer.

So Charles wrote to Madrid for permission to let Spain come up to Paris. King John was reluctant to let Antonio venture into France, given the state of it, but Charles assured him southern France was nearly fully under the control of the French; they would encounter no danger there, as long as he avoided Bordeaux.

He arrived late in the week, approaching Charles' deadline for France giving into going back to the battlefield. That day, as with all previous days, France was in his chambers. What he did in there, it was difficult to say, because he took no visitors.

Spain arrived via carriage and paid quick respects to France's higher ups before making for his friend's rooms. He was a year younger, physically speaking, than France, but was much less emotionally sensitive, so he frequently found himself in the position of being the one to comfort France. He didn't wait for anyone to announce his entry or turn him away, but pushed open the doors uninvited.

"Francia?"

"I'm not taking visitors," called a dull voice from somewhere inside. Spain shut the door and wandered through France's chambers until he found him sitting on a window sill, looking out at the grounds. He was half-dressed, his feet bare and he had that terrible look on his face that made one feel the world would never be right again.

"Francis?" France turned his attention to Spain at the sound of his voice, recognizing him now when he had not earlier.

"Antonio?" he whispered, his eyes widening, his face softening. His lower lip trembled and Spain stepped forward at the same time France climbed off the window and threw his arm around Spain, burying his face in Spain's shoulder. "They took her away," he sobbed, breaking down at once. Spain had to grab France's waist to hold him up, because he leaned all his weight on the Spaniard as soon as he got close. "They took my Maid away from me—he did—I'll never forgive him—I swear it, never, never, never. And I can't—I should have been able to save her, but I couldn't, I couldn't, I'm so weak Spain!" He clutched frantically at Spain's clothes and back, now crying too hard to form real words.

"Woah, hold up," Spain tried to get France to slow down. He got a better grip on the French boy and eased him down on a bench below the window, taking a seat beside him. For a few minutes, there was nothing to do but let France cry himself out. Despite what one might think, it was not something he indulged in frequently—France actually did not cry that often, not for real. This was an unusual event and Spain felt the weight of his friend's grief. But at last he couldn't cry anymore and fell silent, the only sound in the room his hiccupping and uneven, raspy breathing. He didn't move his head off Spain's shoulder, but remained there, keeping his arm around the other boy. Spain rested his hand on France's back and kissed the top of his head. Then he gave him a slight smile, hoping to cheer him up a bit.

"Why are we like this, Antonio?" France asked quietly, turning his face into Spain's shoulder and closing his eyes. "This existence we have…why? I don't want to spend a thousand years watching people I love die."

"You can't think like that, Francis," Spain said, knowing he couldn't let France wander down that path of thought. It would lead to nowhere good. "Things are bad for you right now, but—"

"They'll get better," France sighed wearily. "That's what you said last time." Spain looked guilty for a flash. Okay, so France's hard time was going on a lot longer than he'd anticipated.

"But they will," he insisted. "It's just…taking a long time. But you've held out this long, you can do it! Your king was coroneted and you gained back a lot of ground, that's not nothing!" he reminded France.

"But not Paris," France mumbled in reply. He ached for his beautiful capital city; he hadn't set foot in it for nearly ten years now, since the English captured it in 1422. It was his heart and he had been cut off from it. It was no wonder fifteen years after Agincourt his arm still wasn't healed!

"You will though!" Spain encouraged. "You can keep fighting and you'll get it, I know you will Francis!"

"I should have been stronger," he whispered, his hand curling up on Spain's side. "If I was stronger…I would have been able to save her. The rescue attempts would have worked. Or I—I could have stopped her from being captured in the first place. They're right. I am weak."

"That's not true!" Spain didn't bother asking who 'they' were; it didn't matter. "Francia, sometimes things just happen. And there's nothing we can do; it's not your fault!"

"But it is," France insisted, raising his head to look at Spain. "She believed I was strong. But if I had been…she would still be here." He looked away, wistfulness overtaking his face again.

"Francis!" Spain grabbed his shoulders. "Come on now, that's not going to help anyone. Okay so maybe Joan is gone now. But you're still here and your people are still here! They need you! They need you to guide them." France didn't meet his eyes.

"Charles said if I didn't fight, I would be letting her victories go to waste," he sighed after a few moments of silence.

"He's right!" Spain agreed immediately, softening his grip on France's shoulders. "Francia, she had a vision for you, don't forget it! She believed in you. That hasn't stopped because of this." France's eyes searched Spain's, looking for a lie, for some sign that he didn't really believe what he was saying. Finding nothing, his contemplative gaze moved away. "One mistake doesn't mean you're worthless," Spain added.

"It was a lot of mistakes!" France exclaimed, leaping on the chance to blame himself again. "We tried to rescue her more than once! And we let her get captured in the first place!"

"That still doesn't make you weak!" Spain argued. "Rome had lots of days where he lost battles, even wars! Everyone has good days and bad days. She would know that. Even Joan lost battles, Francis."

"She never lost me," he murmured.

"That's not the same and you know it," Spain said firmly. "She was human. There's only so much you could do. She wouldn't want you to give up because you can't speak with her anymore." When France said nothing, Spain embraced him again and they sat in silence for a time. Spain placed a gentle kiss or two on France's face, knowing soft attentions like that soothed him. France pressed his face into Spain's shoulder and didn't say anything else.

Spain stayed only briefly, just a couple days, but he did coax France out of his room and get him to take his meals with the others again. When France came to say goodbye to him, he was fully dressed, to his usual standards, and walked with him to the courtyard to kiss his cheeks goodbye.

"Goodbye, Espagne," he said. "Thank you for coming to see me." The gratitude was visible in France's eyes, even though he'd never asked for Spain to come.

"Of course, mi amigo," Spain said, patting France's arm. "I know you would do the same for me." France hugged him and Spain held him for a moment before getting into his carriage. "Kick England back to the island!" he called, waving with a smile. "I know you can do it Francia!"

France didn't wave, but he watched the carriage disappear down the road. When it was long gone, he sighed and turned to go back inside. He had made his decision and had to speak with Charles now, but it would be several years before he was recovered from the death of Joan of Arc.

"I have my answer," he said to Charles when he stood before the throne.

"Yes?" Charles leaned forward, looking expectantly at him. He wondered if France would dare refuse him a third time. While it was possible, it was not good for a nation to disobey their ruler. Only in times of the greatest distress—or with the worst unrest of the public against this action or that—could it be done. Otherwise, it showed a sickening disconnect between the government and the people. And it wasn't a good example, for the French nobles and courtiers to see their own nation disrespect their king.

"I'll fight," he told the king at last, though he looked no more enthusiastic about it than before, until he raised his head and Charles saw the blue fire burn in his gaze, fighting with the despair and hurt. "England wants a fight—let's give him a fight. He has always loathed my Roman blood—so let us remind him what the power of Rome's legacy can do." After all, France hadn't carved this kingdom out of nothing; it had been centuries of warfare with other rising and falling powers after Rome's collapse. He had been a mere child then, but still, he had lived—and had a kingdom bigger than most in Europe. "He says that I am weak, that we are weak—well I will show him." He raised his head, thrusting his chin up, his back straightening. He pressed his hand against his thigh to hide the trembling of it. "I will show him and all of Europe just how strong France can be!"

Author's Notes:

Okay I actually have quite a bit to say about this piece so I'll try to keep it to the main points:

1. Ages. I once broke down France's age, assuming he ages about the same number of human years per century here: journal/History-Major-WIP-496574407 . This leaves him at about 14/15 at the time of Joan of Arc's death; while you may not agree with my age breakdown, it's undeniable he was far from an adult when she died. So I wanted to portray a semi-age accurate fic, since I've never seen him as anything but an adult at the time of her death. England is canonically 3 years younger than France (and Spain is 1), so he's about 11 here. Spain is 13.

2. This ended up turning into a sort of character study and a chance for me to express several headcanons I have about France. The injury he suffered at Agincourt comes from an actual event. Previously, after a battle, the victors would go around and find all the dying soldiers and slip a dagger into their armpit to dispatch them quickly and painlessly; every man carried a dagger for this purpose. However, after the English won Agincourt, their king, Henry V, ordered instead, that they should find all the injured/dying Frenchman and cut off all their limbs, and leave them to die. Thus, France's injury. Additionally, because of the chaotic state his country is in with the war and the occupation (and the fact he got the wound from another nation rather than a human) is severely slowing the healing process.

3. Regenerative powers. It seems to be a collective agreement in the Hetalia fandom that the nations have regenerative powers, since it's doubtful none of them have ever lost an eye/arm/some other part of their person. The way I imagine France's arm growing back is somewhat like a fingernail-it'll just look like it was cut off further and further down as it grows back.

4. Historical figures. General Dubois is fictional; I just wanted someone through whom we could have a look at France. French King Charles VII really was the king of France at the time; it was thanks to Joan of Arc he was able to get to Reims and be coroneted, as the English had it in their grasp at the time. Spain's king was indeed King John and England's was Henry V.

5. The Maid of Orléans. At the time of her life, Joan of Arc was not called Joan of Arc; she was known much more commonly as the Maid of Orléans (La Pucelle d'Orléans); thus, that's what they call her in the fic. She was 13 when she had her first vision and 19 when she died after a ridiculous trial that she had no chance of winning, despite her quick wit with her answers.

6. France and Joan. I want to be very clear on the fact that France does not have romantic feelings for Joan. When he says "I loved her", that was in a purely platonic sense, which I should hope does not at all diminish the power of it in the eyes of my readers. Her death still absolutely devastated and destroyed him for a time and she will always be one of the most important people in his life.

7. England and Joan. A note about England's behavior: yes, he does come to regret killing Joan the way he did and especially how he acted about it towards France. But at this point, he's young and has grown up surrounded by men who ARE proud of killing her and happy to deal such a blow to France, and let's face it: England is not a very emotionally sympathetic person. That is, I don't think he actually understands the severity of the pain Joan and France were both put in yet. It takes him losing someone he loves dearly before he grasps the full nature of what he did. As for burning people, well, sadly it wasn't really seen as cruel and unusual punishment at the time. So he comes off as pretty heartless in this which is sort of true but not entirely. He gets better.

8. Cemeteries. In old Catholic beliefs (I can't speak for nowadays or other types of Christianity; I'm not sure), to get into heaven, you had to be buried in a proper Catholic cemetery, because that cemetery would have been consecrated by a priest. So France is freaking out because since Joan wasn't able to be buried in a cemetery (no body + the English dumped her remains in the Seine), she might be doomed to purgatory (a place between heaven and hell) forever. So that's what that's about, if you didn't know.

I think that's everything.