Author Commentary: This is something that I did for creative writing... I'm contemplating continuing it to have the character that dies haunt the character that lives. Let me know what you think.
Title: A Gentleman's Duel
Characters: Arthur/England, Francis/France
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
Warning: Character death.
Arthur Kirkland was a gentleman who had been insulted. Like any gentleman would, he planned to defend his honor, to the death if need be. He had challenged the man who besmirched his good name to a duel. The Frenchman would pay for his biting words.
As he strapped on his sword belt, the myriad of sword strokes, parries and weak spots on the human body that Arthur had learned ran through his mind. He knew that he was more skilled than the nancy could ever hope to be! Nonetheless, swordplay continued to roll through his mind like he was in a trance. One could never be too prepared, after all.
Finally, he was done dressing himself for the fight that was set to occur behind the hedges in the park. After glancing one last time into the mirror and taking one last look into the mirror to futilely attempt to smooth down his unruly eyebrows, Arthur left his house. A thrill ran through his body as he thought that this could be the last time that he left the house in which he had grown up. Shaking that morbid thought out of his mind, he put himself into the correct mindset and made his way to the place where some life would be ending that day.
Francis Bonnefoy rolled out of bed. Today was the day that he would rid the world of one more pesky Brit! Everyone on the planet should be grateful for what he would be doing because who really liked the British anyway? They were far too stuffy and uptight and their tea tasted like absolute and utter crap.
Smirking to himself at the images of death flashing through his mind, he pulled on his showy dueling outfit. Over that went his elegant, gem encrusted sword belt, which was casually tilted to the side, as was the fashion those days. The sword itself had an intricate, gleaming hilt and a pulchritudinous ruby that was cut to look like a rose and was set into the pommel. Being French, of course everything that the man had was of high fashion, or as the French preferred to call it, haute couture.
Grabbing his dueling gloves, he headed off to meet that idiotic Brit, whom would be meeting his making shortly.
Just as Arthur had expected, the Frenchman was late for their appointment. He was about to start asking around for the plonker when he spotted the man striding cockily toward him. All the words that came to Arthur to describe how ridiculously the man looked in his outfit were far too ungentlemanly to say aloud, but the gist of them led back to connecting the Frenchman to a male peacock that was attempting to impress his mate. Of course, attempting was the word that needed to be stressed in that sentence as the man looked nothing short of foolish.
"I am ready to begin," the Frenchman announced in a rather buoyant voice for one who was about to meet an untimely death while he pulled on some rather nice gloves over his long, pale fingers. The gloves were the only part of that entire ensemble that did not look farcical.
Arthur snorted and stood across from the other man, ready to add another life to the long list of men that he had killed.
The man whom Francis had chosen as the judge placed himself halfway between the two and a few steps back so that he would be out of the way of swinging blades. After babbling for a moment about how he wanted a fair fight between the two of them, he indicated for them that it was finally the time to begin.
Without hesitation, the two rushed at one another, swords swinging. The clang of metal on metal resounded as strikes were launched on the part of both men, only to be blocked by a quick move of the opponent. Frustrated grunts came now and again when someone was sure that they had the other, only to be met with an unyielding sword rather than the resilient flesh that was expected.
A few times, a blade managed to break through defenses, scratching its way through the layers of flesh, bringing blood bubbling to the surface. Even so, the bout raged on, both men equally matched. It seemed as if the duel would continue forever until finally a fatal planning flaw was recognized and taken advantage of. A blade caught itself on a sleeve, ripping it and tearing into the flesh and muscle beneath, causing the owner's hand to go limp, dropping the sword, and a blood curdling scream to rent the otherwise calm morning air. With quick movements, the sword was brought back, only to be thrust back in elsewhere. The new target was the man's belly, and the weapon buried itself deep there, then was twisted and yanked out again.
The tortured man's voice could no longer make its way past his lips, so his mouth merely hung open in a silent scream as his guys spilled from the hole in his abdomen, hitting the ground with a stomach churning, squelching, plopping sound.
Francis fell to to his hands and knees, rolling onto his side. His mouth gaped open like a fish tossed carelessly onto dry land.
"You deserved if, Frog," Arthur said in an imperious tone as he looked down his nose at his sword's newest victim.
The mouth simply continued to open and close itself, trying to form his last words. In a raspy gasping voice with his accent thicker than normal, he managed to say, "Z-zis... eez not... ze... last you... 'ave seen of... me..." With his words finally spilled out in the open, along with his blood and intestines, the Frenchman began to lose what bit of life he had left in him. The color left his face and a glassiness overtook the beautiful cerulean eyes. They almost looked like something that you'd keep on your shelf... except that they were human body parts, and Arthur really wasn't one to keep trophies of the men who had slighted him.
At any rate, now the Frenchman was dead and Arthur's honor was in tact. Yet... for some reason, Arthur felt uneasy. He couldn't place the reasoning behind it, and that really bothered him. Doing his best to shake the feeling, he cleaned off his sword and headed home with every intention of celebrating his victory.