She was no more than 16 when France first met her. Joan was a young girl who had not yet fully grown into a woman. Her hair was short like a man's and her will was stronger than any of the soldiers France had met in the battlefield. Joan was determined, she often said, to save him and his people as God had asked her to do, and France, whose faith in everything had diminished during the many years of battle, grew to love her. The more battles she won, the more she "seemed like a ray of light shining onto the tired soldiers and pushing the darkness back". When France told her this metaphor on a particularly inspired day, Joan simply told him to save that for the days when he was sovereign again.

France did not see her before she rode out on the day she was captured. The last few days had been a rush, an incessant race towards freedom and they were so close he could almost feel it. He did not think much of it when they tell him she had left – it had not been the first time, and she usually came back overnight. But night came and passed, and so did the next day, and the next. It took a few days for the news that she had been captured and was awaiting trial to reach him, and by the time he managed to do something ('-anything, please, Dauphin, I beg of you-'), it was too late.

The war was finally ending.

He did not see England right away, or even during the negotiations that followed. He did not see him until five years later, when he went into the wrong room by mistake and there he was. England –or Arthur, as he had been trying to go amidst his people in an attempt to use the most uninspired name he could have thought of- had stood up in a rush, obviously not expecting him. France had stared back blankly, the many of emotions inside him fighting with each other and not finding a winner, wondering exactly how this short, stumpy, hairy, ugly man had brought so much suffering to him. In hindsight, France could recognize he had been angry that day, and maybe even somewhat bitter when he remembered that the man in front of him used to be that tiny, lonely child with a desperate need for a haircut.

It was England who finally broke the silence, coughing in a way that almost seemed to be unintended. He looked up to the decorations of the room, pacing, as if he would find the appropriate words written on the walls. "You look well" he said after some time of silence, and France could tell by the way he flinched a few seconds later that he realized the insensibility of what he had just said.

Nonetheless, France humored him, doing a flare with his hand. "Mon cher, even on my worst day, I would still look better than you".

England did not appreciate the insult, and shot him a side-glance of annoyance. The room fell silent once again, but at the moment France was eyeing the door, England spoke up once more. "I do hope you understand my reasons. It was necessary".

France stopped himself, not facing him. He did not know what England was calling necessary – her death, the attempts of conquest, the whole war. All he knew was that the grief and exhaustion he had been feeling over the last hundred years had just resurged, stabbing him in the back like a sharp-edged sword and staying there like the legendary Excalibur. He stood still for what felt like an eternity, realizing at that moment that the end of the war does not mean the beginning of peace. "Of course" he said, and without another word, he left the room.

~o~

If there was with which one word France could describe America, it would be vibrant. Even on the edge of a revolution, his people smelled of fresh grass and made him feel joyous by simply being there – even if France was sometimes reminded of the way a puppy chased after an nonexistent bug. The young colony ('yes, forgive me, you are a nation now') seemed to enjoy running around and making him feel comfortable whenever possible, trying to prove himself as good as any other world power, and France could not help but be reminded of the way a boy tries to stretch his head to try and reach his father's height.

It was on the battlefield, however, that France felt he could get to know America better. The small boy who had never seemed more than an attachment to England's leg now stood in front of him as man, encouraging his people on to fight a war they could not lose against someone who would never allow them victory. He almost felt inspired at the way the soon to be country would fall to the mud but get up again, ignoring the dirt on his clothes and dashing forward.

Which is why he was surprised when one night, America silently came to visit him. There were no loud invitations to eat and drink, only a quiet question ('do you mind if I come in?') and a sudden new, silent partner. France counted to twenty before turning to America with a smile. "Well, I am sure you did not come here to watch me".

America laughed, awkwardly, and rubbed his hands. When he spoke, his accent still echoed England's, but there were already small vestiges of change in his voice: "Do you think this is the right thing to do?"

France was dumbfounded for a second or two. Was this boy, after the pain and suffering he had gone through, backing down? After a deep breath, however, France was able to understand his point of view. In spite of his optimism, his people were suffering like they always did during any war. It was almost impossible to fight against an Empire such as England, and (this France thought was the most important reason) America was afraid. He was afraid that after all the fighting and war, it would not be worth it, and he would simply crumble without the safety England provided.

France could see it in his eyes, in the way he kept averting them and focusing them on everything but his face. He was waiting for an answer, he realized, and when France finally spoke, he did it in an elegant, confident manner. "Have you seen the people around you?" America looked almost offended - how could he have not seen them! - but France did not let him interrupt. "They are ready to call themselves one of you, mon cher. How could you even ask that question, when they are ready to stop being British subjects, and become one of yours?"

He said this with confidence, and he could see it going through the room and into America, who lighted up in understanding. His doubts seemed to be casted away as he stood up – and at that moment, France would have sworn on his own life that the boy did seem taller than usual. "You're right! This isn't for me, is it? It's for them!" France smiled, knowingly, and let the soon to be former colony fill himself with energy before he left- not without an invitation to eat that was politely declined.

It was a few years later that France ran into England in familiar circumstances – this time, the Brit was the one who walked into a wrong room as they were finishing the preparations. This time, however, there was no forced conversation, no need to try and act peacefully – after all, France was but a third party in the situation. They stared at each other, France smugly and England furrowing his brow until there seemed to be no separation between his eyebrows, until the tension in the room became unbearable, and England stormed off.

If France had felt any less dignified, he would have snorted. He knew why England was upset, although he would never be one to apologize for his actions. He could admit, he thought to himself as he walked back to the room where the negotiations were taking place, that his motives had not been particularly pure, but did it actually matter, as long as the deed was done? France knew very well that it was not a desire to see America surface as independent that motivated his words that night in his tent, but something else entirely. What had surfaced when America asked his question was an old face, someone he had not thought about for hundreds of years, and the desire to take from England something that was just as important as what he had taken from France.

Finally, over three hundred years later, France could try to pull that sword out of his back.

~o~

France did not always have the opportunity to take some time and remember. It wasn't easy to find time: when there was not a meeting going on somewhere, there was an economic crisis to be dealt with, or an important competition to care about. That year, the time and the circumstances had all managed to match, and on that May 30th, he decided to enjoy a picnic in Compiègne.

It would be an understatement to say he had been surprised when, after merely an hour of enjoying the air of the northern city, he felt a tap on his shoulder and heard a low cough behind him. France had not been expecting anybody, much less England of all people, to be there that day, and he could not help but stare for more than a few seconds with -what he imagined- was a very rude expression on his face. England seemed taken aback, as he coughed some more and looked away. "Look, I didn't come here looking for you or anything! I simply happened to be here and saw you, and I thought you probably were trying to pick up some innocent person so you could do God-knows-what to them, and I simply refuse to be a witness of that and not do anything!"

It was now France's turn to be taken aback –he stared at England's reddening face for a few seconds without finding the words. It didn't take him too long before he started chuckling, his composure fully regained. "Of course, mon ami. It does not have anything to do with the fact that it is lunch time, and you would prefer to eat my food over those poisonous rocks of yours, does it?"

England sputtered, offended, and for a moment it looked like a fight was going to start, but he contained himself at the last minute. He sat down next to France with a frown, but said nothing, and it wasn't long before silence fell around them. In the park, couples were taking romantic walks, families were playing, and children were taking their dogs for walks, but neither of them did anything other than watch their surroundings for a while.

It was France who finally broke the silence. "So, England, I was not aware you were interested in exploring the northern part of France. I can assure you, the southern part is just as fascinating~"

"Oh, be quiet! I merely felt like visiting – as far as I know, I am not banned from crossing your borders."

"If you were interested in crossing my borders-"

"Do shut up!"

France complied, and silence fell once again. He couldn't help but think of the passage of time, and how much things had changed in the last hundred years. The mere idea of sitting on Compiègne with England, teasing him and not involved in a bloody war, would have seemed ludicrous to him six hundred years ago. He closed his eyes, remembering: historians had called it the Hundred Years' War, and when he thought of all the time spent fighting, of all the blood spilled and all the damage done to his home, he could not help but be a little thankful for their banter.

France leaned over to the basket, reaching for the bottle of wine and the glasses he had brought (regardless of anything, a conquérant such as himself should always be ready for any circumstance that might arise). France was about to offer some wine ('nothing like that colored water you like to call wine'), when England spoke up. "I spoke with her".

France knew exactly who he was referring to, but he did not seem affected as he uncorked the bottle. "Did you, now?"

"N-Not now, of course. I meant way back then, a few days before her execution". England didn't falter, and France felt oddly thankful for it. "I asked her, 'is it really worth it to throw your life a way for that ungrateful prick?'" France laughed, interrupting him, and England shot him a glance of annoyance before looking away again, concentrating. "She wouldn't answer. No matter how many times I asked, she just stared at me, as if I was asking her the dumbest question in the world".

France chuckled again, closing his eyes fondly at the memory. "That is because you were, sourcils." He would know – he had asked her the same thing several times when he first had met her, and he had been met with what he imagined was the same stare.

England merely growled something that sounded like "shut up, frog" and went quiet for a couple of seconds before speaking up again, sounding uncomfortable. "I think that if she could see you now, she would have been certain her sacrifice was worth it."

The words shocked France, who turned to look at England, but he was already leaning towards the picnic basket and grabbing a pastry, criticizing it even as he took a bite. He looked up in an effort to regain his composure, and was met with the sight of a dove, flying across the cloudless sky. Maybe it was this, or the fact that England had just started to choke on his second éclair, that made him smile and turn back to face him, filling a glass of wine to help him. "I would hope so".

Finally, the scar on his back had disappeared.

Notes:

He did not see him until five years later, when he went into the wrong room by mistake and there he was.

The Congress of Arras: a diplomatic congregation established in Arras in 1435 between representatives of England, France, and Burgundy. Toward the close of the Hundred Years' War, both the Congress and Treaty of Arras represented diplomatic failures for England and major successes for France. It happened five years after the execution of Joan of Arc.

It was on the battlefield, however, that France felt he could get to know America better.

France provided supplies, ammunition and weapons to the rebels from 1776, and the Continentals' capture of a British army in 1777 led France to enter the war in early 1778, which evened the military strength with Britain.

It was a few years later that France ran into England in familiar circumstances – this time, the Brit was the one who walked into a wrong room as they were finishing the preparations.

Treaty of Paris: signed on September 3, 1783, ratified by the Congress of the Confederation on 14 January 1784 and by the King of Great Britain on 9 April 1784 (the ratification documents were exchanged in Paris on 12 May 1784), formally ended the American Revolutionary War between the Kingdom of Great Britain and the United States of America, which had rebelled against British rule.

That year, the time and the circumstances had all managed to match, and on that May 30th, he decided to enjoy a picnic in Compiègne.

The Siege of Compiègne (1430) was Joan of Arc's final military action. Her career as a leader ended with her capture during a skirmish outside the town on the 23rd of May, 1430. Her execution was on the 30th of May.

Sourcil: eyebrows

Conquérant: conqueror