Rated M for future.
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June 1348
"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before." Edgar Allen Poe
Arthur thought to himself with his thumbs tightly pressed against a quickening pulse. 'No need for safe words...' That's how the complex situation always was for them. One word said, and a fist thrown, a busted lip and bloody kisses. They knew how the play would continue from there, but every now and then there would be a change in the script, and an act on the cutting room floor would be picked up again into action. They never saw this coming.
The Frenchman's eyes had turned magnificent shades of emotion as the seconds tricked by. Both their eyes were trapped in a fierce language of madness between betrayal and heartache. The nation of love had his back arched,and his nails clawing on the Englishman's shoulders. His body writhed in an age old dance of survival, but Arthur could not save him, and would not. Those eyes had shown cockiness, confusion, pain, fear,relief, and now nothing as Francis lost consciousness with one last futile scratch of nail against skin.
The victor's hands slowly released as a bloody smile realized its victory. He looked down at the sprawled man beneath him, more vulnerable and beaten than he had ever seen him before. Did he let Arthur win, as some last show of ...dare say he love, or hope that he would fall to his own doom later. Either would have been likely from the Frenchman.
Arthur finally stood, and reminded himself that gentleman did not kneel over such filth, he couldn't contaminate himself after all. After the dirt was carefully picked out of his clothes he looked down again as a cold familiar whisper fell against him. There were never any words in that whisper, just the touch of velvet and the stench of death. Stepping slowly away from the beautiful body he could hear the drag of heavy torn wings and claws following him closely. In all the years and centuries he had felt this presence on the battlefield. The chants spoken in a language cloaked in magic, and again he would feel it there. He would come to realize this was the one fae, he could never completely see, and possibly never would. For what he could not see he could feel. The power that surged between them filled him with the rage and the power to conquer, kill and survive.
He exhaled as it inhaled and as the realization of what he did made him weak, the fae fed him to go on. A touch was softly placed on the back of his neck, as if to say there were always casualties in war. Arthur had muttered that phrase more than once in sweat drenched nightmares, but France would survive as he always did, because he had to. They all did.
The fae beside him hummed in approval, with that sound almost inside of Arthur as well. They both felt the satisfaction, that they were once again safe, and would do anything to keep it that way. The fae slipped feathers and thorns over England as if soaking in the reassurance, and breathing it deeply to steady itself.
They turned with a well known synchronization away from Frenchman who would later come to the realization of his demise. He did not know how they would proceed after what had happened, but as he heard the footfalls of his fae he didn't care. They were safe and for now that was all that mattered.
He walked into the safeguards of his castle and tried to shut the troubles of the world behind him, as he had to now watch over the care of his own. He hoped his foolishness had not welcomed the enemy into bed to lay, only to have it destroy all he had built. As he stepped into the bedroom the evidence of the accidental betrayal was still evident. The sight should have sent pleasure but it left nothing but distaste and sadness. Covers half off the bed, mocking the throes of passion that had earlier been there. Then there were the broken rose stems on the headboard, and the shattered glass, and then he blocked out the rest to torn to continue.
The fae that had been with him for most of the night was suddenly gone, perhaps preparing for the battle to come forth. The Brit however could already feel the strength inside of him begin to wane, but he could not sleep yet. He pulled the sheets and the pillows and everything that had been touched and took it behind the castle. Hours later he was sitting against the cold wall and watching the last few embers burn what remain of the horrible night.
A part of him hoped that the one small act had helped, as if the fierceness of a fire was supposed to change everything. The other part of him knew that it would not, and that this would not be the only fire to burn in England in the coming weeks. As the fae unknown to Arthur slept within him, and as the last flame burned out, so did that first hope he had for England, but in they would survive, because after all... they were English.
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A/N
Thank you for reading this mess of a fic * bows * I honestly have little to know idea where this was going. Even as I wrote ideas continuously bounced and transformed in my brainz. Reviews and critiques welcome. 3!
I guess I'll do the last and final chapter from France's POV, and hopefully that will clear up some of the mystery. I'm still deciding on what exactly Arthur's new 'imaginary' friend is, and will reveal it later hopefully.
Also I don't know the do's and don't of Human and Nation names, I just use them interchangeably, but if there is an etiquette about it let me know!
Thank you for reading!