Nothing to Bury

A Twizardck production

I do not own Hetalia

Birthday Update Fest – Number 8

France and Jeanne d'Arc is one of my OTP's… So I needed to write something for them. So here is this little drabble.

The pain didn't just go away. No, it festered and grew, a disease, cancerous. It was a world full of agony. And I'd rather experience all the physical pain in the world than have this continue forever. Grief. Grief is the worst torment the human mind has ever thought up.

But perhaps that is why he did it. Perhaps that is why he took her from me, dangled her over my nose, dropped her in the cooking pot. Maybe it was all my fault, letting him see the way I looked at her – the way she looked at me back. Forbidden. Forbidden it was, and I know why. Yes, I knew she would die eventually, but even I will someday. Just not in that way.

She was so young and full of life. It was impossible to look at her and not see that. He must have seen that. Cold hearted heathen. Delinquent. Pirate. He says that he is growing, changing. He says that he is becoming a gentleman but I know otherwise. No gentleman does such a thing to a lady. And no matter what might be said, she was a lady.

I have been proud of a great many of my people. But she was something different. A halo of light followed her and I fully believed her story that God had given her visions to save her native land – though had God predicted this? Had he told her that it would end in tragedy?

I wanted her to have a full and happy life, tried to give her everything she asked for. Foolish it had been to do that. It was what led to her death.

Jeanne d'Arc. She had been taken from my side, bought by the British, dangled for ransom that I wanted desperately to pay but could not without permission that was not given, then burned. And burned again. And burned again. Until there were nothing but ashes, not even a charred corpse.

Nothing to bury. They left me nothing.

And so now I stand with my head in my hands, crying though it is 2010, so many years since the death of my own true, honest love. Everything changed when Jeanne died. There was no one to look forward to seeing again. So I am afraid that I have turned quite… They call it perverted. But it is really my own brand of crazy, is it not? The crazy that England brought on by burning her. Then running to my house and rubbing it in my face, that stupid grin there.

He hasn't changed. He burned an innocent girl doing what she thought was right, accused her of heresy. For daring to wear the clothes of a man, for daring to fight despite her gender. And who was he to judge?

I loved her. I loved her, loved her, loved her. And now there is no one to love anymore. Everything has been taken from me.

They all deserve feeling my crazy. Especially England, who left me nothing to bury.