Terrible Love

He misses her being burned at the stake-he doesn't know if he should feel relief at this or if he should feel terribly guilty for not being there with her in her final moments. He's here now though, he's here and he watches with absolute horror as they dump her ashes into the Thanes. "No.." he hears himself murmur, taking a step towards the river; as if he can stop it. He should have kept his mouth shut, he realizes when someone comes in step beside him. Turning his head, he blinks at the sight of a grinning England.

"'lo France!" He coos. Averting his gaze from the lighting-blue, France grinds his teeth. He won't talk to him. He won't. Not to the person who killed the first person he ever loved. His silence only brings laughter from the other nation. "Come now," he giggles, "Aren't you the one who always told me love was for idiots?"

"Maybe I was wrong," France whispers, voice hoarse from the strain.

Those unreal eyes flash with something terrible. "Oh no.." The younger nation purrs, "I think you are absolutely right."

Eye brows shooting up to his hairline, France comes to face the other young man fully. "What do you mean?" He demands.

A grin half-crazed and half-overjoyed overtakes the Englishman's face. "You really want to know?" he asks, "Because I don't think you do." And with a bounce in his step, the strawberry-blond begins to walk closer towards the Thames.

Shoving past people, France hurries to catch up with England at the river's edge. Staring down at the water's rippling surface, the other nation doesn't look at the Frenchman as he speaks. "Do you know what she said in her final moments? In her last day?" He implores. "I do," he says, lifting his eyes glimmering to meet France's violet.

Swallowing thickly, France finds himself without words as the younger man presses on. "She cursed you," he states, damning the Frenchman's heart. "Cursed the men who were her comrades for abandoning her in her time of need, when she came to their rescue in their own time of darkness; cursed the man she fell for-you, cursed you for boasting strength you did not posses, cursed you for lying, cursed you for leaving her to this fate, and she cursed herself. She cursed herself for ever listening to the guiding angels, cursed herself for thinking that her country would care what happened to one measly girl when they felt no ache for any man lost and she cursed herself for ever being spun to believe a fairytale from the lips of a devil disguised as good man-an angel."

Speechlessness overcome, the Frenchman chokes, "You're lying."

This brings happy laughter from the other, "Oh, but I'm not!" He exclaims, spinning around; he waves his arms at the people still milling about. "Ask anyone my dear," he starts, a vicious smirk on his lips, "They shall all tell you the same!" The Englishman proclaims.

Furious more with himself than England, he shoves the man into the Thames; feeling only a little satisfaction as he squawks and thrashes. He knows the man cannot swim, but, it doesn't matter; he's far too angry to care (besides, someone else will help him out-he thinks).

Taking up the younger nation on his suggestions, he does ask the many Englishmen and women milling around; each time, he gets an answer nearly identical to the last-nearly identical to England's answer. Each time he hears this answer, it breaks his heart again; he loves (loved)Jeanne. He went against everything he believed for her, he-he had been inspired by her! He had believe Jeanne when she said they could win this war! He believed in her enthusiasm, he hadn't even stopped his fondness of her from growing to something stronger-something he despised.

And here he was, doing something he never thought he'd stoop to-crying over someone he loved. Disgusted with himself, France wipes away the tears leaking from his eyes and stalks away from the scene. How stupid he is, how ridiculous! How could he have done this to himself? How could he have broken his principles? How could he be letting himself cry over someone who obviously hated him in her last minutes? Love. Love is a mess. Love never lasts. Love is a lie. He's known this for years. But...Jeanne had swept him away, made him believe and he knows he should hate her for betraying him. Yet, he can't.

He loves her now. He will love her forever. This won't do. Love is a lie and he's always been the first to say so. What does that mean now? He loves someone (who's dead) and if it gets out...well, he'll just have to make sure England keep his mouth shut, won't he? It wouldn't do for his reputation to be ruined too. Wandering the streets, France finds himself at an inn. He hesitates; the Frenchman's always enjoyed drinking, but not in excess. Now, though, an expression comes to him;

Come and drown your sorrows

That's what alcohol does, it makes you forget, it takes the edge off. Gnawing his lip, France takes the fateful step inside the inn; he needs to forget, he needs to numb the pain Jeanne causes and caused. A woman not quite young, but still buxom and with her teeth, approaches him. "What can I get ya, love?" She asks.

"Whatever," France replies, "Just give me a lot of it."

Her eyes flash. "Aye," she agrees and moments later she comes over with a large jug; slapping down a payment, the Frenchman takes his first swig. It burns all the way down and it's poor quality; however, it still makes his middle warm and tingles at his mind-so he shall not stop.

He won't ever stop.

2P!France! What do you guys think? Is he good? Bad? I always love the whole Joan of the Arc angle and how this affects France, because she is a human and even if she hadn't been burned in England; she would have died eventually. I know 2P!France isn't supposed to believe in love, but, then where would Joan have come in, ya know? So I thought maybe she would have been an exception...even if she broke his heart.

Thank you for reading and review pretty please!