Scotland lay in the barren battlefield. He and his troops fought until they could fight no more and Scotland could feel every death that the battle had cost coursing through his infinitely sore body. He was sure he was done for, just as sure as he was that the battle had given France enough time to beat England.
Francis...
The name echoed in his mind as his world went dark.
France couldn't focus on celebrating with his men. Before the celebrations, they had made a silent prayer to the Scottish army that had allowed their victory-an army that was completely destroyed. It hadn't even been a few minuets of partying when France slipped away to search. He ran through the battlefield, calling out his name.
"Alistor! Alistor! Ali-" France ran into someone and fell back. "Désolé," he murmured before he looked at who he had run into. Seeing first green eyes glaring from under bushy eyebrows, he though he'd found Scotland, but a proper look showed him England. They stood there, staring at each other, both teetering on the edge of a flow of nasty words. England opened his mouth first, but there was a sound behind him.
"Francis..." very faint. France raced to the voice, forgetting England instantly. The rust-red hair was obvious, even against the blood-stained ground.
"I am 'ere, mon ami," he said gently, kneeling next to the wounded Scot. He looked up feebly and grinned.
"D'ya beet 'em, Franny?"
"Oui, zanks to you."
Scotland chuckled and rolled over. France gasped. There were several broken arrows protruding from the Scot's chest. A normal man would've been long dead.
"Help me ge' up, will ya?" Scotland asked struggling to sit up.
"Non! You must stay! Let me get zese awful zings out of you." It took a few painful minuets to removed the arrows but Scotland hardly made a sound. Once they were gone, France looked around frantically for something to use as a bandage. A clean cloak fell into his lap, and France looked up just in time to see England walking away. Francis smiled softly and set back to healing his Scotsman.
