To my readers: When I started posting Hetalia stories 4 years ago, I'd simply post it online as quickly as possible and never look back. That's because I was too insecure about my writing then, that if I even tried to read it again, I was sure I would take it down right away. So now that I've outgrown that (somewhat) and am in the process of fixing my stories, I have found so many typos! Gah. A thousand apologies to all of you who had to put up with that! 8I
Warning: Gothic-inspired, creative liberties taken.
Disclaimer: Please take the time to read the (lengthy) standard disclaimer on my profile page. It's for all my Hetalia stories. Good news is, once you've read it you'll never have to read it again. Cheers! :3
Story #62:
"Thy Monstre"
He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee. – Friedrich Nietzche
-x-
There was a storm that night, and the young Nation of England was very scared. His constant companions, the faeries and magical creatures, were nowhere to be found. He was all alone.
It is the storm they fear, nothing more. That's what he kept telling himself. But even so, he couldn't stop shaking. He didn't dare close his eyes for fear that something would get at him unawares.
Why does he always appear when I least wish to see him, but never when I most want to…? England lamented, biting back a shiver, ashamed to admit that during nights like these, his fears were beyond him; so out of bounds that he was desperate enough to seek the company of the only other 'human being' whom he often came into contact with. The one who only also happened to be the most obnoxious and infuriating person he has ever had the misfortune of knowing.
A brilliant flash of lightning momentarily cancels out the darkness surrounding him, almost blinding him in an instant, but he dared not close his eyes. He could feel it watching, skulking… Just beyond the mouth of the cave that was his hiding place. Even if he refused to trust his senses, his mind believed it all the same. Another blinding light cleaves the horizon— and there it was!
A shadow cast upon the rock, with empty eyes and long protruding talons…
England froze, a wave of fantastic panic apprehending him. He curls into himself and rocks vigorously, desperate to distract himself. When the fear nearly chokes and rips out his heart, he finds himself finally closing his eyes… and humming.
It wasn't any random tune. But one so akin, so perpetually earwormed into his subconscious, that long before he understood the words, he could sing it perfectly by mimicking the sounds alone. This song had a special place in his heart, for it was the first utterance that flowed from the other boy's lips that he didn't have to know in his own native words to understand. He secretly longed to hear it sung to him whenever the strange boy with the girly face from across The Channel came to visit. It struck him with such beauty, both tragic and consoling in its fragile melancholy, that tears always fell whenever he heard it. He disliked being made to cry or feel sad, but the song comforted him nevertheless— and right now, any feeling was better than fear, even if it was heartache.
Even with his eyes closed, the shadow persisted in his mind. It was reaching for him now, its arms or tendrils, or whatever they were– were so close that he could smell it, a dank, earthen, primeval smell… Drawing in a sharp breath, he opened his mouth to sing louder, even if the words came out wrong, it didn't matter. He only wanted to drown out the storm, the shadows… the thundering of his palpitating little heart. But the more he listened—holding his breath, face pressed down into his knees—the more the thunder ceased to sound like thunder, and more like the rumbling footfalls of an unspeakably horrific thing. Tears vainly spill over as he shrinks deeper into the unmerciful walls of the cave, screaming and thrashing inwardly at the shadows, as it engulfed him inch by inch…
Until he knew no more.
-x-
"Tu ressembler à meme plus exactment comme en peluche petit d'or chenille, ondule en un accaparer de cette manière!" (You look even more just like a furry little caterpillar curled up in the corner like that!)
England's puffed-up tear-stained eyes fly open.
"Mon petit chouchou…" (My little pet…)
France!
Half expecting to be attacked, the older Nation braced himself, mildly shocked when he feels tiny arms around his waist in a fierce hug instead.
"Rester avec moi s'il tu plait ! N-ne pas partir moi!" (Stay with me, please! D-don't leave me!)
France blinks at the owner of those trembling arms, noticing how the rest of the boy's frame was shaking just as pitifully. Willing himself to recover from the giddy stupor brought about by the rare warm greeting, and the even rarer event that his ward spoke in his native tongue, he prodded gently, "Angleterre! Qu'est-ce du problème..?" (England! What's wrong?)
No response followed, only more trembling. So he prodded gently, "Did you wet yourself again? I promise, I won't laugh at you for it. Shh, hush now."
Clearly, this wasn't the case, but England seemed exceptionally distraught. And as always, France found himself determined to cheer him up in his own unique way. England tended to be a cry-baby, and France never said it openly but he hated seeing his little caterpillar so sad; he would much rather have him furious and angry, even if it were at his expense.
But it seemed today was full of surprises for the French Nation as England did not get angry. He didn't even get furious; didn't pound, punch, kick or shower him with his endearing array of articulate insults. Instead, he merely sniffled and sobbed, and held on tighter, face buried firmly in the fabric of his tunic. It was enough to break France's heart in half.
"I don't care if you tease me, laugh at me, make fun of me or even ask me to braid your hair! J-just p-please! Don't leave me, France…!" he sobbed. "I- I'm so scared!"
And with that final mortifying confession, more erratic sobs rack England's tiny body. At that point, France too had to steel his resolve to keep from being swayed to tears by the painful tugging at his heart. He was le grand frère after all, and older brothers had to be strong at all times.
"Shh, hush now, petit Angleterre. I am 'ere. I am not going anywhere." The hug gets even tighter as if the boy didn't believe those words, clinging to France like his life depended on it (which wasn't to say he didn't believe it so).
France sighs softly, gently patting the smaller Nation's head. He tried to bend down to take the boy into his arms, but found himself rooted to his position by the unyielding embrace. So he settled for standing still, if it meant reassuring England that he was not going away. He stood there for as long as England needed him to, within the young Nation's crushing embrace.
Silence passed, and when England felt France not making any move to release himself, he loosens his grip a bit, and cautiously peers up, tears still spilling over his cheeks down to his chin…
France was still there, he wasn't dreaming! And he almost broke into sobs again from utter relief. Before he could though, France manages to get down to meet his eyes, carefully bringing the hem of his tunic up to wipe away the tear trails and snivel, running his slender fingers affectionately through England's—more than usual—ruffled hair.
"You look terrible!" he teased, "I am guessing you did not sleep well last night, oui?"
When England didn't deny it, and merely sniffed in response, he brings the boy close and ushers him to his lap. The young Nation did not resist.
France always smelled like sunshine and lilies, and that was one of the many things that comforted England about him— and there were many more, he just never bothered to add them up. The older Nation's body was always so warm, the lush material of his tunic felt soothing against his cheek– so much better than the cold, hard and dirty confines of the cave he had struggled to make beddings in the previous night.
England never knew what it was like to have a best friend or a mother, but he thought of France as both oftentimes, as odd as that may seem.
"France…" England spoke up meekly. "Will you… sing for me…? Please…?"
To which the French Nation, shamelessly expressed his willingness. And so, that soft but steady voice beckons the heavy fog of exhaustion from a restless, sleepless night to come crashing down upon him in inundating waves. He momentarily fights it, only to reach up to cling firmly onto France's sleeve for good measure. Even in slumber, he didn't want to be alone.
In no time at all, the tranquil vibrations had carried him through an enchanted forest. He laughed happily as he ran across shallow flower patches, and around grassy knolls. He ran and ran, as fast as his little legs would take him, giggling irrepressibly as his faery friends and magical creatures took chase. Flopping onto the soft grass, he took a deep breath and sighed contentedly. The song wafted through the thick trees and sparkling foliage. Finally feeling at peace, he allowed his eyelids to drape down over his tired eyes, the last vestiges of daylight glistened tantalizingly through the slivers of his lashes, impressing surreal hues that crossed over to his overtaking subconscious, until his eyes finally seal shut.
When he opened them again, however, there was no sparkling sunlight, no more flower beds, and magical creatures. He bolted upright, anxiety gripping him. There was no more song!
"France…!" he called impatiently trying not to sound so high-strung. He was terrified to move from under the tree's shelter, but when he looked up and saw nothing but a leafless tangle of dead limbs, with its decaying branches reaching out to him menacingly, he nearly choked on a scream and frantically stumbled away.
"France!" he called again, voice unsteady. He said he wouldn't leave me! His eyes starting to sting with hot tears all over again. A loud rumbling caused him to snap to attention and wheel around. He saw nothing. Just blackness stretching around him in all directions.
It's here! In the darkness, he felt it! The shadow, the monster, whatever it was—it was back! His body goes numb, cemented to the spot in sheer terror. It's here and it's coming for me! A voice chanted over and over in his head until he could feel the creature's ominous presence looming over him. He squeezed his eyes shut and screamed, but no sound escaped his lips.
The shadow that seemed impossibly blacker than the blackness enveloping him, dissolved as soon as he dared open his eyes. When he turned, he saw that only his shadow remained. Out of breath but somewhat relieved, he sighed shakily, allowing some of the tension to dissipate. But strangely his heart refused to follow suit, as if it knew something he didn't, and it was quickly convincing his mind to rise in panic once again. It was only his shadow, why would he be afraid of it?
But… weren't shadows supposed to just mimic?
His silhouette against the ground had one of its arms raised, wielding something— something sharp and sinister in shape. And England recoiled, stomach caving in at the realization of what it was… A knife! And at the very tip of the blade's crooked outline on the forest floor near his feet, was a puddle of swelling scarlet.
Laughter echoed in the distance, but he could see no one. The voice sounded horribly familiar, only distorted as if in a manic frenzy, but he couldn't quite place who it belonged to. It wasn't important, but the identity of the voice nagged at the edge of his consciousness. The chortles turned from manic to blood-curdling, as it continued to reverberate through every inch of the pitch black chasm he was in.
He desperately covered his ears, but his hands never made it that far, for he only became aware of his fingers tightly wrapped around a cold glinting object. He gasped and released his grip and a blood-stained knife thunked at his feet. The howling wind calmed and the laughter died down, but he didn't notice, couldn't even breathe as he tried to remember when he got a hold of the knife, and why it was dripping with fresh blood. Following the trail of scarlet, his sight came to rest on a figure on the ground. He nearly gagged and fainted upon recognition.
No, no… it can't be…!
The long tunic and silvery blond hair…
France…!
He dropped to his knees beside the crumpled Nation's form, hurriedly turning him over. But his eyes were shut and bright redness dribbled from his lips… more of it oozed from a wound in his belly—a wound made by a sharp, cold knife…!
The older Nation's body was so pale… and so still.
"NO!" England wailed, shattering the silence as he fell to his knees and pulled France's face close to his. His tears mingled with France's blood, smearing his cheeks, and seeping into his cowl; he didn't care. He clutched the limp body close with all his might even if the other's skin burned like ice. "Dammit France, wake up…!" he begged, "No please, please, please, don't die… You— you promised…!"
The silence he got in response was so loud, and all he could think was that now he was never going to hear France sing ever again…
"Angleterre!"
He blinked. Once. Twice. Indigo-blue eyes, blinked back at him, filled with concern and fear.
"Wake up, petit! You're 'aving a bad dream!"
"F-France!" he choked, that painful constricting in his chest slowly unknotted itself as reality dawned upon him. "You're not—!"
Dead…!
His hands tried to reach up to the other, though still too weak with fear to move; but he no longer had to, because he was lifted up and embraced.
"Oui petit, I'm right 'ere, see? Don't be afraid, it's all right now."
England allowed himself to be held like this for a while until the sobs and tremors subsided; letting the other's warm embrace and comforting whispers console him until his breathing was steady again.
"T-there was a monster…" England spoke up feebly, as calmly as he could muster, "And you were…! I- I was…! Oh, it… it was dreadful!" he fumbled in between faint hiccups, still distraught at the images vividly imprinted in his mind.
France… sweet and beautiful France… without breath… so much blood! And his eyes… those eyes that twinkled like diamonds in the sky…
The thought of it seemed so unbearable. Although he has yet to comprehend why…
The monster… it killed France…!
France waited while England struggled with words and emotions but failed to elucidate further so after a few minutes of waiting he simply says:
"Shh, it's okay now. You are tired. Do you wish for me to sing again?"
England looked up at him, and bright defiant pools of golden verdigris glinted with remnants of tears, but a silent pleading ghosted fleetingly on those trembling red lips. And without waiting any longer, France smiled, took a deep breath, and sang.
England's tense fingers flexed and unflexed on the fabric of his tunic, and he could feel the young Nation's full weight slowly settling into a tranquil state.
"Tu ne arretez pas… continuer de chanter alors même que je s'endormir… s'il tu plait…" (Don't stop… Keep singing even if I fall asleep…) England murmured weakly, sleep already heavy in his voice.
France gave his hand a soft squeeze in acknowledgement. It didn't take long, and the Nation was almost fast asleep. Just as those green eyes were veiled too far for France too see –he missed them instantly– but then they opened so suddenly that his own blue eyes grew wide with surprise.
"Promettre tu ne partez pas moi !" (Promise you won't leave me!) He begged one last time, trying to sound commanding but failing utterly, fists balling tightly around France's dress.
"Je promettre solennellement." (I solemnly promise.)
"I will hate you if you go… I mean— even more than I already do…"
"I won't leave you," France patiently assured him, holding him closer. "So rest easy now… mah belle Angleterre."
He was face to face with the shadow this time. But he could hear the song faintly ringing in the back of his mind in spite of the blackness, and it made him feel braver, much braver. He knew France was with him, and that this was all only another dream.
"Who are you?" he called out to the shadow. "Why won't you leave me be?"
"That's impossible, my stupid England." A voice chillingly familiar returned coldly.
"Because I am you."
-x-
England's eyes fluttered open.
Their eyes met, and France ends his song with a flourish, sighing a little melodramatically, "Finally! Now I can stop singing!" he joked watching England slowly blink the fog of sleep from his eyes and register that he was not a figment of his imagination.
It was night time again.
"Look what I 'ave, some scrumptious forest delicacies! We can roast these tasty wild mushrooms, while zees herbs and flowers will make lovely tea!" France hardly ever hunted game unless absolutely necessary. "You are hungry of course, I know I am! Singing for 'ours on end can get even ze best of us famished!"
England sat up and stared as France proceeded to start a bonfire.
He went to pick mushrooms and herbs… but never stopped singing?
"Don't worry." France looked at him with a reassuring smile. "I did not go far. Besides you 'ave to eat some'zing! You're getting a too scrawny for my taste, petit lapin." When England remained speechless, he added, "Oh smile, mon jeune maître! You 'ave ze gorgeous and talented grand frère France attending to you! You must know 'ow lucky you are!"
England managed a weak snort. "You make it sound like you're fattening me up to eat me."
"Well, what else would I be taking care of you for?" the French Nation quipped. "I won't let your monster friend beat me to it!"
England's face fell. "T-that isn't funny at all…"
"But your face is."
"Shut it."
France pouted, "And you were so sweet to me before grand frère's beautiful voice scared away ze monsters…"
England had no retort to that. True, the monster was still in his dream, but it didn't hurt anyone this time, and he was able to confront it because strangely France's song gave him courage. He would never admit if he could help it, but a lot of things were less frightening with France close by.
"France…"
France looked up from the fire he had been nursing, over to where England had quietly resigned to skewering the mushrooms on sharpened twigs. It was the first time since the previous night that England spoke about why he was so spooked. Again, France waited patiently for him to continue. But after some seconds when he heard nothing more, he glanced over at his companion, and the expression he saw nearly made him laugh out loud. The young Nation's face was all contorted in a funny childlike way, like he was about to burst into tears again, only summoning all of his will power to prevent it.
"Oh, petit Angleterre!" France suppressed a chuckle, turning his attention back to the fire and the meal to be cooked. "Don't think about it so much! It was only a bad dream. Like your *faeries and unicorns, monsters do not exist."
"YOU'RE WRONG!"
France stopped. The fire was ready now.
"The monster was real! And— and—" England hastily wiped the tears budding from his eyes. "You were dead! And— and… there was…" nothing I could do…! The tears were back in an instant, however, more relentless than ever, betraying his very fragile heart. England furiously rubbed at his face, desperately trying to mask the anguish and heartache; fighting the pain and embarrassment… and fear.
Warm hands took his face gently, stroking his warm and clammy cheeks. France was at his side now, shushing, smiling. "Oh, lapin, you are such a cry-baby."
"I-" England held back a sniffle. "…am not!"
"Well, I am here, am I not? I am real, an' I am very much alive. I can't die… at least, I won't die so easily. We are Nations, 'ave you forgotten? We will live for a very, very long time. So long in fact, zat you will come to realize eventually, zat death izzn't so bad…"
England seemed to be pondering this as his eyebrows creased, eyes scrunched into slits like he was battling his mind into believing those words.
"I can sing for you whenever you wish. I promise zat monster can't 'urt you as long as I'm 'ere."
"It's not me I'm worried about!" England blurted out before he could stop himself, shoulders heaving as he spoke. "I… I couldn't…" Oh, why was he even bothering…?
"I know."
"Why won't you— Wait… What?"
"I know," France repeated.
"You…" England tried to gauge how serious he was. "…do?"
"I know 'ow much you love me, Angleterre!" France practically glomped him. "And grand frère Français could just eat you up whole from so much happiness!"
"Gaaahhhh! Unhand me!"
France only chuckles as England's tiny feet flatten against his cheeks.
"Oh, Angleterre, tres mignon~!"
"Put me down!"
"I knew it! I knew you loved me!"
"I. DO. NOT!" England huffs, finally managing to squeeze free.
"You are not very charming when you lie."
"I am not lying!" But his cheeks gave away too much already, embarrassed as he was, he could still try to be dignified about it right?
"Ah! Denying you are worried about me would be tantamount to admitting that your monster friend is not real!"
"The monster was real! And it isn't my friend! And I wasn't worried at all about you-!"
"Aha, lying again— not very gentlemanly, young master!" France exulted.
"I wasn't worried…" England started trembling. "I was—"
Scared to death…!
And… Tears once again prickled England's eyes. So very… very…
"… sad."
France fell silent as England turned his back to him to quietly sob in resignation. It was no use denying it, fighting it, when his heart wrenched at the very idea of hurting and losing France. He understood nothing of it, and his young, untamed mind only understood what he felt. The need to pretend otherwise was something he understood no better. It was more instinct and pride than anything. But he knew he would be fooling no one but himself in the end…
France was his only friend. Without him, things would never be the same…
"I thought I'd never see you again…" England finally spat out amid the sobs. I can't imagine what it would be like… He gasped as France's arms wrapped around him, hugging him fiercely from behind.
"Désolé, mon petit Angleterre."
"I hate you. I get so irked by your face!" France sweat-dropped but England did not flail from his embrace, and even if he did, France would not let go. "I know there's no one else I could ever hate more than you! You annoy me to no end! And now I've gotten so used to hating you, I don't think I can manage without it anymore… You just keep pestering me with your existence, now I've become weak because of you! This is your fault you stupid— insufferable— bearded frog! I hate you! I hate you so much!"
France says nothing still but continues to hold him close –so close that he could hear the French Nation's heartbeat and smell the sweet sunshine and lilies, making him blush furiously. But before England could continue his tirade, his eyes fall upon France's forearm, fully exposed now that his long sleeves have rode up all the way past his elbows.
"F-France… y-your arms…"
"Quoi?" He follows England's stare down to his own forearm, which he had completely forgotten had been badly cut and bruised in a recent battle. He had wiped it clean and didn't even notice it was bleeding again. "It iz nuzzing." He quickly pulls his sleeves down over it, making the younger Nation wince as the fresh oozing fluid seeps into the fabric, staining it ominously.
"The monster… did get to you."
"Non, non… not monsters!" France forced a laugh meaning to dismiss the embellishment but decided against it. Perhaps 'monster' did quite fit the description. "…well, you could say they were monsters –but I assure you– nothing I could not handle."
The island Nation said nothing, instead remained pensive for the remainder of dinner, shaken by the discovery, head in a flurry of conflicting thoughts.
France has his own monsters to fight too… and they had hurt him. Were they anything like his? But what did it mean? His dream, about the monster being him…? Was he going to be the one who killed France? He knew he hated the other's guts but somehow, no matter how hard he tried to imagine it, he knew he could never do such a thing as kill another living thing… or could he…?
England's gaze darted away as France smiled up at him from his stew, embarrassed to be caught staring.
"C'est bon, oui?"
England blushed and nodded. He didn't even realize how hungry he had been, and how many servings he's already had. Rarely ever given the chance to eat anything as delicious, he couldn't help himself. He hated himself for secretly wishing France would always be there to cook for him. He hated himself for even having to depend on the other this way… But he didn't know what else to do…
Could his dream be a sign that he was going to harm France somehow? England's eyes fall once again on the wounds that France had now hidden from him, but was marked plainly by the fresh bloodstains. And suddenly, he was overcome by an entirely new feeling as a realization dawned upon him like a brilliant flash of lighting. And with this new understanding, he feels the weight lifting ever so slowly but surely off his chest.
"I think I'm beginning to understand now…" he says under his breath, eyes transfixed on the flickering bonfire.
The monster is me. The weak part of me. My weakness hurt and killed France.
France watched him carefully and chuckled at his serious expression. It always amused him how such a slight child of a Nation could look so serious, he couldn't resist teasing him whenever he was this way. "Talking to your magical creatures again, petit?"
"France," England spoke up determinedly, not even hearing the other's jest. "I promise I won't be a burden to you for long. I will get much stronger! So I can protect you too!" Then he fought another flush rushing to his cheeks. "It's… it's the least I can do… for… everything. I don't want to be weak… anymore…"
It took the older Nation a few moments to process the mature words from the little Nation's mouth. To say he was shocked would be an understatement.
"It's only proper…!" England quickly added. "I-I don't want to be indebted to you, of all people!" By now his face was shining rosy pink - he looked like a rose with a face.
"Well I'm sorry but you will forever be indebted to me," France teased haughtily, but smiled. "Though being the elder brother, I really don't mind it one bit. Must be my motherly instincts… they always thought I'd be a girl… Oh but there is a way to make it up to me…" France's eyes twinkled. "Will you sing for me too, whenever I can't sleep?"
England's face turned sour in feigned disgust, but it was all just a reflex, a cover-up for the hurt he felt. In all the time he had known the other boastful Nation, not once did he ever admit to any weakness of any sort. Most especially of vulnerability and loneliness, and he didn't know why, but it hurt. Perhaps because this only confirmed what he conjectured; that France had his own share of aches and burdens as a Nation, and everything he did and said was a clever front to conceal it all.
And somehow… somehow, he deeply admired France for that. Though now was not the moment he expected to be made privy to such a precious little secret, and he had expected no less than a more selfish demand as payment from the French Nation, not at all something as simple, and even silly, as singing for him. So he could not deprive France of it, for as a gentleman, he knew he owed him much, even if he hated it. Nodding faintly, a moment of silence passes before he awkwardly looks up and speaks,
"Do you… do you have nightmares too, France?"
"Oh, petit, we all do…" France answered half-truthfully. "But they're not so bad once you get used to it…" he half-lied.
"Then I will sing for you… if it will keep your nightmares at bay."
"Je suis heureux…" (I am happy…) France beamed, blue eyes dancing. "I shall look forward to my nightmares from now on, young master." And with that, he scoots to where England was, leaned down and pressed his lips delicately over England's cheek. "My little rose."
England stiffens and instantly feels hot all over.
"D-Don't get me wrong, frog! I- I am only paying a debt! And will you kindly stop calling me ridiculously stupid pet names!" he sputters defensively.
"Oui, oui, mon petit rose."
"Warg!"
That night England slept soundly with France stroking his hair and singing to him until he too fell asleep by the smaller Nation's side.
Je t'aime aussi petit Angleterre. I promise. I will never leave your side… we'll fight the monsters together, and then it won't be so bad… so don't cry anymore, okay?
-x-
When the time came for him to leave, England saw him off and wished France the best of luck as he drifted in his little boat, back towards the coast of Calais, to his own country. Each watched the other – England's eyes unwavering, as France cheerily waved and blew kisses, bidding 'farewell till their next rendezvous' (which wouldn't be too soon France promised and England yelled back at the top of his lungs that he didn't care) – until each were completely out of the other's sight. If they did shed any tears after that, neither would ever admit it.
England would receive letters every now and then from across the Channel, courtesy of the French Nation's trusty bird, Pierre. They rarely saw each other after when the invasions began, and were too busy trying to keep their countries peaceful. It became his secret pleasure. Though France almost always just teased him about seeing faeries, and monsters; or about the ghastly things he was forced to eat now that there was no lovely chef to cook him something palatable. He was irked, but he grew fond of those silly nothings, for when France wrote serious letters to him, it always made him want to cry. He received such a letter many months past, one exceptionally cold night when he could not sleep— the night before the arrival of William the Conqueror.
Mon Petit Angleterre,
It is true. The world is full of monsters. They'll come for us one day and force us to be at odds with each other. When that day comes, I know you will be strong. That you will understand what you must do. And you will understand that I too, will not be acting completely of my own free will. We exist among mortals but we are nothing like them. We serve as beacons to the beloved nations we represent; we must bear the strength to move nations; destined to live for as long as time itself. And yet, our lives is of far less importance, and blessed with so little freedom, that we suffer so much, and love so measly that our hearts will eventually become cold and impenetrable.
That is what Great Grandpa Rome always told me, and I am so afraid of that day. But you… you my precious little golden caterpillar have saved me from that. The day I met you, was the day I found myself, and who I really wanted to be. I know now, that I will never become what I fear as long as I stay by your side. Even if who we are designated to be may not always grant us the freedom to express what we feel, know that I will cherish our bond forever, and as promised, I will never leave your side.
Be in friendship, rivalry, war, and enmity… and someday hopefully even… love.
I will do the best of what I can in the only way I know I can, and in any way I can, whatever it takes; to keep you. I vow to protect you, to serve you, and even hurt you if necessary, that no one loves and in essence, hurts you most, but the one you entrust with your life. And I pray that you still choose me. As I have chosen you with this. And so now, let it be a solemn vow between us.
To you, I entrust my pain and my secrets. My monsters… my all.
Francis Bonnefoy
-x-
"France!?" England regurgitates blood, coughing and sputtering a few times before he could bring up any more words. "What are you doing here?"
Upon seeing the older Nation's straight expressionless set face, his eyes widen in horror, and he gapes at him, nailed to the spot as he realizes he had a gaping belly wound— and France's sword was dripping with his blood.
"Désolé, mon cher Angleterre."
"F-France…!" England collapses into France's arms, more blood erupting from his mouth. The wound on his belly drained the very last ounce of his strength. But after having endured several battles all in one go, he was at his limit, and his young, fragile body was already ridden with numerous bloody cuts, bruises, gnashes and broken bones. All of which he was used to by now…
The sensation, however, of his heart breaking, was something new.
France holds him tightly. "Everything will be all right."
England's hands grasp at France's body seeking that comforting warmth, only to be met with hard, cold armour. Tears flow freely from his former charge's eyes, and France could almost hear his own heart ripping in two. He held those beautiful albeit tired golden green eyes bravely as breath deserted that battered body in slow, painful wheezes; willing with all his might that England would not falter in his faith. That he would know in his own heart what his words could not ever convey.
"I missed you, cher. Forgive me…" he whispers more fervently, his resolve finally cracking as England's eyes are finally veiled. "I must do this, to keep you safe. I will uphold my promise. The other monsters must be kept at bay…"
-x-
"France… how do you defeat the monsters that are far stronger than you?"
"By making them your ally. By loving them. Only when you are able to do that, will you realize that the monsters aren't real."
"So you believe that love is the best weapon there is."
"Oui. For it is the weapon with which we are born with, far stronger than any weapon when used in its full power; but it is also the hardest to wield."
-x-
My Dearest France,
Do you remember what you told me then before you left…? One of the foolish little secrets we shared? I haven't forgotten… It was so cold that night; winter had begun to settle, and everything was turning white. I never told you how truly frightened I was to be left alone then, but I promised you I'd become stronger, and I meant to keep that promise, so I did my best not to cry.
You always say I belong to you, and you want me to be just like you, and that you knew I could make you proud. And I hated you so much for thinking that I wanted that. Or perhaps you didn't really care what I wanted, you just wanted to have your way. But that night the only thought that kept me from crying was thinking that I wanted to make you proud of me. Somehow your dream became mine too without me knowing it…
I didn't think that night could get any colder, but it did when you left… still, I did my best not to cry…
Did I make you proud?
Arthur Kirkland
-x-
"A name."
"What?"
"I've been thinking about your monsters and how to get the best of them…"
"And what's a name got to do with it?"
"Sometimes it helps if we give these monsters a name."
"That's the silliest thing…"
"Well, you are smiling already…" France smiled back albeit the shivers, as the cold settled into their veins. "It makes the monsters less scary if we give them a funny name."
England thought for a moment then whispered, "How childish."
"But it works! I think I shall name my monster- Angleterre!"
"What!?"
"Because when I think of you, I get a good kind of fright and not the scary one…"
"Stupid bearded frog!" he was supposed to be insulted, that was supposed to be the case… but then England secretly liked to be a monster to France for once, 'his little monster', and not something silly and laughable, like a rabbit, a flower, a piece of meat, or a cabbage…
"Mon petit monstre Angleterre…"
"Hah! Well, if that's the case, then my monster's name shall be-"
-x-
France,
You said that I shouldn't be afraid. That we will live for far too long, and see far too much but never feel enough… Sometimes it's the nothingness you speak of that truly scares me. How you can love so much, and care so little. It's but one of the many things I envy in you… because I've only known one love and one hate, and I didn't have a choice. I don't think I ever had a choice.
Sometimes I convince myself that you didn't either, but perhaps that is my optimism. I've had so many nightmares since, that it's commonplace by now. You were right. It's not so bad, and it doesn't surprise me anymore… but I think that is –in a way- even far more frightening.
You never did take me up on that song… I think about that a lot, and always try to sing it as perfectly as you do. I've been practicing you know, in case you need me one day… It saddens me when I think that perhaps you might have never needed me to chase away your nightmares in the first place… But what scares me more is thinking that you may be even more alone than I am… and that you need me but I can't be there… And I will never be able to repay my debt…
The hundred years that followed was so much colder than that one unforgettable night you left…
Can you hear me singing where you are now?
Arthur K.
-x-
"You were wrong France," England spoke barely above a whisper, no emotion, just coldness. "The monsters do exist. In our hearts."
No amount of blood or bruises could make France's smile shine any less on his beautiful face. "Yes, love. But they are not always what they seem." Pressing their lips together, England kisses him back. His first real kiss after a full cycle of a lifetime, taken by the same man, the same Nation.
It was so cold, everything was frozen, but with every kiss, his heart melted a little. It was always so unnerving, so frightening, how this one entity seemed to affect him so entirely.
Kisses, like the monsters, are not always what they seem. They go by different names… But with him, it was always impossible to name, because it was always nothing and everything all at once… Everything beautiful and horrific and disarming— innocence, first love, searing hatred, unquenchable lust… and sweet, sweet betrayal… Though impossible to name, it was only ever consistently one thing; It was always good; Too good to be real.
-x-
There was a first hundred, and it always meant so much more to the world than it could ever mean to the both of them –he never did understand why– but sure enough, there was to be a second.
Their next rendezvous was shared with swords. The bloodlust; the veiled innocence in every incensed attack; the desire welling up in them like an untameable hurricane in their souls…
"France. Your arrogant and pompous king* has gone too far. I'm afraid I am going to have to stop you."
"I must say I am flattered that you joined the fray just to see me again. I thought you are not very much fond of Europe, isn't that right, black sheep?"
"It seems that as long as you exist, I shall never have my rest. Forever, we shall be each other's torment and curse."
"I missed you, mon petit monstre Angleterre. You look very 'andsome in your uniform."
"I am *Grande Bretagne now…" he corrects France with a smile. "Thanks to you, frog."
"Oh, celebrations are in order."
"Over your defeat, it seems."
"Don't flatter yourself, mon ami."
"No endearments now? Your king's follies have really gone to your head. Although I must admit, those overly flashy robes suit you. You're even more beautiful than I remember— blood brings out the brilliant blue in your eyes." England licks the blood off his sword, relishing the taste of France's ebbing life in it. "So breath-taking… makes my mouth water just thinking of how I will enjoy carving the scarlet to your golden skin, you seduce me so."
"Sadistically romantic an' twisted as ever I see… Ah, but you must not profess your love for ze enemy, for it is to your disadvantage…"
"Is it? Didn't you teach me that monsters are best defeated by making them allies? By loving them…?
"Rubbish."
-x-
I asked The Creator, if monsters like us, will ever know death- as gods or mortals...
The answer was given in the guise of a riddle:
'Soon you shall meet the one entity that shall be your absolute undoing. You shall be bound by fate, and even in this knowledge, it is he you will choose as your destroyer.'
Death, for us, it seems— is no different from this concept we call living; nothing more than an aggrandisement of ticking breath.
Then 'monster' is an embodiment of one's fear, as 'love' is but a masquerade of death.
You see, I've discovered that sometimes, the same monster goes by many different names. And that sometimes we need those monsters to keep us brave, vigilant, and wilful.
You were right. The monsters cease to be monsters if we give it a name.
I finally understand now. The dream I had that night, the one where you died. I never told you, but the monster who killed you in my dream…
It was me.
Not as England. Not as Arthur.
But me. As a monster.
Its name- is love.
And you, are its creator.
The End.
Notes:
Okay, I don't know what I wrote (haha). This is one of those stories that just begged to be written and I don't even remember writing most of it afterwards. I do remember the feeling of endless hours of toiling, though. XD
Uhh, and yes, this weirdness has notes…
The is supposedly set and touches upon the pre-Norman invasion, so France technically doesn't exist yet and is different from Normandy. But to avoid complications, I chose to use a headcanon wherein they already had their actual Nation names or human names before their countries came to be known as such.
*France is La Belle Francais, but Hima-sensei made him a boy. I used Belle Angleterre for England too since Angleterre is a female noun as well. I actually have a shiny little headcanon that they are not so strict with genders as Nations.
*France can see England's faeries, unicorns, and magical creatures (etc.)(as established in the web manga), but my headcanon is he only got the gift to see them when he conquered England in 1066 and united their kingdoms.
*France's 'arrogant and pompous king' is Louis the XIV (I think). Honestly, I forgot who I was referring to when I wrote this years ago, and by the time I was in the editing stage, I was too lazy to open my books…
*I had the dilemma of using "Britain", exclusively, instead of calling Arthur "England". But seeing as he really has become England (because the other characters of Scotland, Ireland & Wales showed up eventually), I decided to keep calling him "England" and also later on "Britain", since "England" is sort of his name, and later he does become the representative of all of Britain. But it's an interesting mistake (although I don't believe it was coincidence at all), since he really isn't "Britain" (as the Funimation dub made him later), and can't be named "Britain", at least not in the world of Hetalia because France only really was directly at odds with England. His relationship with Scotland and Ireland are very different. I find this not only cute but just pure brilliance!
And- that's that (haha)! Cheers to all you lovelies who made it this far! –Marie
(09/16/2012 - 06/15/2013)(03/23/2016 - 04/17/2016)
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