Prologue
"Hello, you old frog."
There was despair in England's voice as he stood at the graveside, staring at the gold inlaid stone. A stone that taunted him. His hands shook, knuckles white from clutching a tattered book too tightly.
His spellbook.
France's grave lay on top of the hill, the light of the full moon pooling at his feet. In the distance, lights from the Eiffel Tower twinkled in the night. The world was silent. The sky was clear. It was perfect for what England was about to do. He knelt down in the grass, ignoring the dampness of the ground. Resting the thick tome on his knees, England reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing a long, curved blade. Rubies and emeralds were embedded in the hilt and glittered in the moonlight.
He rolled up his sleeve. Pressed the blade to his forearm. Ignored the pain as crimson blood welled.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Three drops of blood. A necessary sacrifice, in England's opinion.
He quickly bound the small wound in a strip of cloth he had brought. Fumbling the aged pages of his spellbook, he soon found the spell he was looking for. And he began to recite.
The old language was familiar on his tongue as wisps of green light rose from the ground. After centuries of practice, his pronunciation was perfect. The light grew brighter and brighter, to the point where England was surprised that no one had come to investigate. But then, even if someone did come, he wouldn't care. He only had one thing on his mind at this point.
Getting his beloved back.
The last whisper of Latin escaped his lips, and the light faded, leaving nothing but the silence from before. But now something was different. The silence wasn't dead, and the air hummed with energy. And England was hopeful.
So he waited.
He waited until his blood was caked and dried on the knife. He waited until the last of the magical energy was gone, seeped into the earth. He waited until shards of morning light shone over Paris. He waited until his hope had faded. His face had twisted into an impatient scowl.
"I knew it." He muttered, standing and ignoring the grass stains now adjourning his knees. "I BLOODY KNEW IT!" England howled to the world, all the anger and guilt and grief he had kept bottled up finally emerged as he hurled the book as hard as he could. It cracked against a tree, opening to the spell he had used as it fell to the ground. A mockery. A mockery of him.
"I know it didn't work," England growled at the book. He picked it up roughly, along with the knife, and stormed back to his hotel room. Chucking the two on his bed, he ran a hand down his face. "It was too bloody good to be true…"
England chose then to treat his wound, washing it clean and disinfecting it with alcohol, letting the pain wash away old memories. Memories that were too painful to remember.
He took a swig of the alcohol as hot tears slid down his face.
England thought the spell didn't work.
He didn't realize that it would take his love three years to dig himself out.