Arthur sighed as the sun peaked over the horizon, blazing red at the back of the French army. His men were tired, exhausted and ready to fight until their lives were taken. They knew only the nobles would be spared and that the French army, fresh and better equipped would most likely lead to their demise. But they were ready, priests had come, had cleansed them of their sins and now all they would have on their conscience as they passed on would be the guilt of fighting for their King and country.

Sitting atop his prized horse, Francis smirked as he watched the hill gradually brighten as the sun rose. He knew Arthur was trapped, he knew they were tired and he knew most of all; he outnumbered them five to one. All he had to do now was wait for his additional troops, he chose not to advance on the English army yet- to wait. His men busied themselves with either feeding their horses or chatting amongst themselves- This battle was surely going to be a French victory.

Henry's word to more up was met with a dogged obedience. Stakes were pulled, dragged and re-hammered into place. The longbow men anxiously played with the feathers on the end of the bows as Arthur stepped out in front of the stakes, scanning the line of French Calvary carefully. There, poised and condescending as ever, was France. England's hand tightened around his bow.

As much as France was eager to charge for the English and initiate the battle, he knew that it would be folly to go up against the English defense. The Frenchman watched the slow English advance and his horse's feet danced nervously as it's breath snorted out and rose like fog. He turned to one of his generals, talking quickly and trying to encourage his army to strike now- while they were moving; but he was met only with excuses about the narrow terrain and needing to feed their horses. Arrogance

Smirking slightly, Arthur grinned. The stakes were stead into the ground and the bowmen were finally ready to attack. Flashing two fingers before hurrying back behind the line. He caught eyes with his king, who gave a cut nod from his position far back. Lifting his bow, and watching hundreds of others do the same, he shouted the order to fire, his voice harsh in the silence of the valley.

Arrow whizzing past his head, Francis' horse reared up and he raised his sword, shouting his own order to his troops to charge. The charge was weaker than it should be, he knew, his men had been caught by surprise by the sudden assault of arrows even if they suffered only a few casualties. Not only was the charge weaker, but France's eyes darted about as he led the charge- This is not the right terrain for a battle like this.

Watching the charge falter, Arthur keep firing, the stakes protecting his troops. The spark of the small victory simmered low in his troops. Seeing France leading the charge, one green eye closed while the other traveled along of line of his arrow straight to the chest of Francis' horse. "Too easy..." he muttered, letting lose the arrow.

Horse balking as the arrow settled deep into it's flesh, Francis was sent over the head of the beast hard, landing and rolling slightly before regaining his composer and narrowing his eyes. He went back and picked up his sword, closing his visor and starting toward the English again, only to be met with deep, soggy mud as he made his way with his thick armor. His men were in a similar situation to him, the English arrows not providing so much of a threat as the thick mud.

Arthur grinned, grabbing his own sword and pulling out with a flourish. "Aim further back!" He called, vaulting over the lines, avoiding the last few short arrows and advancing on Francis, "Fancy armor's not helpful now is it?" He called at Francis, his own lighter weight and lack of protection proving useful.

France was panting hard, eyes glaring at the Englishman with a heavy amount of hate and frustration. "You waste your arrows on us!" he called back, trudging closer to Arthur as quickly as he could, but finding himself exhausted from the battle with the mud as he finally reached the man, barely able to lift up his sword to swing.

"Your horses would say otherwise!" Arthur said, swinging at Francis' head, whacking the side of his visor with the flat of his blade, laughing before holding up his sword in a defensive position, "Let's settle this you French bastard."

Gripping his sword with two hands, Francis' chest rose and fell hard with his breaths, his head was ringing under the helmet and his hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, starting to get into his eyes. He circled Arthur slowly, sword out in front as he heard his second line joining the assault and his men around him quickly falling. "Let's!" he roared, swinging the sword at he lightly armored Englishman again with the remaining strength he had.

Blocking, Arthur jumped back, thrown off by the force of the blow and tumbling into the mud. He pulled himself out, absolutely covered. Grunting and swinging for the Frenchman's neck, Arthur's eyes narrowed at weak point in the armor.

Francis barely got his blade up in time to parry the attack, countering it slowly with his own thrust at Arthur's abdomen.

Pushing himself to the side, Arthur felt the sword graze his side before throwing caution to the wind and launching himself at Francis.

The force of the blow sent him backwards into the thick mud with a grunt. He struggled trying to get the Englishman off but failed, breathing too hard and to exhausted to get up from his spot. "Merde!" he growled lowly.

Pinning Francis, Arthur wrenched the helmet off while around them chaos still reigned, French soldiers trying to advance, the English holding strong but wavering. "Thought you were gonna win this one?" He smirked, bringing up his sword and holding it above the sweaty neck.

France winced as the helmet was taken off of him, glaring up at Arthur as his teeth clenched from the pain of his troops being slaughtered, especially his nobles. He could feel his own line wavering heavily with the loss. "Anglais saluad-" he panted, struggling and trying to get free again while arching his neck away from the Brit.

"That armor's made you too heavy... silly, silly Frenchman." Arthur cackled, watching the mud in his hair drip onto Francis's pale face. His sword drifted a little closer to the neck, pressing but not drawing blood. The victory and success from his men was leaking into him, making him giddy. "I think you should try dying... then maybe I can keep your land for good."

Nose flaring, France's heart started to race as he struggled harder, trying to bring up his legs but finding them too weak to lift up the heavy armor. "France will never be your's," he growled lowly, defeat slowly sinking into him as he closed his eyes against the dirt and the sweat of the other man. "Jamais..." he breathed.

Smirking, Arthur flicking his sword along the neck, drawing a small trail of blood. "It's been mine. You have been mine and you will always be mine." They were deep in the mud now and Arthur, basically covered in the heavy substance got to his feet, seizing Francis' hair and starting to drag him to the cover of trees.

"Not like this..." Francis grit his teeth as he let himself be dragged away from the scene of carnage. His eyes stayed firmly shut as he remembered the small, angry little child that he once knew as England- Only to be taken over by this tyrant of an adolescent. His neck leaked slightly, but that pain was nothing in comparison to his people being killed and captured by the thousands. He had lost.

Throwing Francis down in a clearing, Arthur paced away from him, sword nervously tapping against his calf. "Then how exactly are you mine France?" He asked, circling around Francis, "If not like then, in utter and humiliating defeat then how?!" His boot lashed out, digging into the Frenchman's side.

France was glad for his armor now, the boot only causing him to cough slightly and curl up onto his side as he tried to struggle to his feet again. He refused an answer, his head shook side to side slowly, dirty and wet hair swaying side to side as he struggled to his hands and knees.

Swearing slightly, Arthur kicked him over again, pressing his boot onto the Frenchman's chest while his sword flicked up, touching the cut at Francis' neck. "How."

Grimacing again, Francis tried to push himself into the ground more, away from the sharp point of Arthur's blade. He looked up through narrow eyes and sneered at the Englishman. "I was willing to be your ally, Angleterre," he said breathlessly.

Laughing, Arthur stepped off Francis, striding away from his bending over and letting his laughter echo in the forest. "Rich." He said, looking at Francis, eyes flashing, "You, ally with me? what mad land do you hail from because no Frenchman would ever willingly align with an Englishman."

"You give us no chance," Francis panted, giving up any attempt of getting up and laying there on the wet ground, eyes closing against the agony his body was in. "You take our land and try to make your kings our rulers and you expect us to ally with you?" he said bitterly.

"That's how an empire works, no?" Arthur spat back, rounding on Francis, "And what do you call it when your men landed on my shores? A friendly little chat!?"

Fingers covertly working on his armor's binds, Francis shook his head. "I may 'ave been in ze wrong then..." he admitted quietly, straps of his leggings falling away silently. "But you are no empire..."

Staring at the Frenchman, Arthur's laughter died down. "What did you say?" He advanced on him, sword clenched tightly in his hand, "I am an empire! I will be an empire! And you won't stop me!"

France swallowed, he would only have one chance and he knew it wouldn't end well- But he had to try. "You are sounding like a spoiled brat, Angleterre- You should learn some humility," he said quietly, rolling away from Arthur and out of his leggings, struggling quickly to pull off his armored top and standing up. He face England in a defensive position, knees bent.

Staring at Francis, Arthur smiled at him. "You're going to fight me?" He said, chuckling darkly, "With your own hands? Are you an idiot France?"

Smirking slightly, Francis shook his head. "Live to fight another day- Non?" he said quietly, turning on heel and sprinting away from the Brit, back toward his own forces. "Adieu Arthur!" he yelled back, turning only slightly while he ran towards the woods to blow a kiss.

Bolting after Francis, Arthur huffed slightly. "Get back you coward!" He called, latching onto a tree, breathing hard, nails digging into the bark, "Tell me why! Why... Why France?" He shivered, "WHY FRANCIS!?"

France slowed only slightly, wary of England capturing him again- He may have lost the battle, as some said, but he would not lose this war. Starting to run backwards, huffing slightly, he raised an eyebrow at Arthur. "Why what Angleterre?" he called back.

"Why I am only a child..." Arthur said, spitting mud and blood from his mouth at Francis' feet as his eyes began to feel uncomfortably warm, "Why am I just...not good enough yet?"

The words made France slow a bit, stopping a safe distance away from England so that if he tried to charge at him again he'd have a chance. He swallowed and stared at the emerald glinting eyes. "What are you talking about Angleterre?" he asked back, quieter.

Arthur wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, leaving smears of mud on his face. "I fight and fight and fight but I'm still just a fucking child." His glare moved from the ground to Francis' face, "And you're always there. Still standing, still breathing, still mocking me! Don't you get tired of it?! Putting me down!?"

"Do you wish for me to leave?" Francis asked quietly, arms crossing and legs firmly stuck in place as he returned the glare back to the Englishman. "First you must leave then Angleterre. France will not bow to you- I would advise you to stop trying."

Leaning against a tree, Arthur gripped the bridge of his nose. "I do not care if you stay or leave..." He said quietly, "And you will bow to me." He hissed out, "One day... you will be mine."

Francis spat toward Arthur (a habit he only used when an absolutely vial idea was spoken, the taste bitter on his tongue) and started to turn again. "Jamais Angleterre. Neither I nor France will ever be your's- Au revoir Arthur!" he said quickly before starting away again.

Surging forward, Arthur shoved Francis violently, gripping his sword and flicking it to the Frenchman's back. "I said..." His breath was harsh, "bow."

"Non..." France hissed out, the side of his face littered with small cuts from the rough bark of the tree he was pressed up against. "Do your worst Angleterre- but France will never fall..."

Grabbing the back of Francis' neck, Arthur pushed himself against the Frenchman. "And yet here it is pressed against a tree, at the mercy of the English empire."

"What mercy..." Francis muttered under his breath, closing his eyes tightly and feeling weaker from the recent lost battle. He was still panting hard, and the still sore neck would Arthur had inflicted earlier was pressing unpleasantly against the bark, causing it to start bleeding again.

Smirking, Arthur pulled his sword away, instead dragging it up his leg. "If I said I was going to slit your throat. Would you beg France?"

Francis shuttered at the cool, damp metal against his lightly clothed leg. He had only worn thin clothing under his armor because of the intense heat he would have to suffer through otherwise. "I would politely ask you not to," he said indignantly, "But never beg..."

Voice lowering a tone, Arthur pressed himself in closer. His mind was telling him to stay away, to hold back but his body was telling him otherwise. "Politely..." he whispered, "Can I hear what that sounds like France?"

Unable to hold back the smirk, or the chance, Francis politely said, "Ne coupez pas s'il vous plaît ouvert mon cou vous le fils d'un Anglais de chienne," pausing for a moment before adding again, "Please~"

Digging the blade into Francis' side, Arthur dug his foot into the heel of the Frenchman. "care to translate?"

Francis cried out and quickly clenched his teeth. "Ah-- It simply means please do not cut my throat, Englishman- no?" he winced, swallowing hard.

The blade pushed in further. "Do you like lying you French pig?" He said, biting Francis' lower neck.

"Fils de-" Francis grunted, pressing his face closer to the tree. "If you are going to kill me get it over with!" he hissed out, tears forming at the corners of his eyes unwillingly.

Digging his teeth deeper into the Frenchman's skin before pulling back Arthur grinned, pulling out the sword. "Would you beg me to kill you." he said, taking one of his legs and shoving it up between Francis'.

"Ze day I beg you for anything is ze day zat you give up tea," Francis breathed, laughing weakly and grimacing at the feeling of metal leaving his body. He swallowed as he felt the leg force it's way between his and attempted to close his legs again.

Arthur pushed up harder with his knee while slipping his sword along his neck, leaving it there. "I have been considering whiskey more often..."

Francis thought Arthur must be drunk- Maybe that was the cause of all of this, a very, very long drunken binge. That would explain why the sweet, if not a little angry, boy that he had helped bring up, that he had considered a friend and had cooked for and groomed- Was suddenly this monster of an empire. "S'il... te plait-" he murmured, just above a breath.

"One more time." Arthur said, staying in place and not shifting an inch, "Beg like the sick dog you are."

I will not forget this Angleterre... he thought to himself, eyes firmly shut and eyebrows furrowed in pain. "Please..."

Pulling away from Francis, Arthur grinned. "Good boy." He said, using his sword tip to tug at the tie of the Frenchman's hair, "Go on then."

Without another thought or word, France bolted off again, running madly through the trees, ignoring the screaming pain in his side and neck as he retreated away from England. This wasn't over.