HAPPY BIRTHDAY REGGIE! Now otherwise known as dancer4life1234! X3 YOU ARE AN AMAZING, EPIC, INCREDIBLE PERSON!
This story is dedicated to my best friend and this, her favorite pairing, because both are so awesome! She turns 14 on the 21st of June, but I already gave her this story as part of her gift, and she asked me to post it early...so I did! XD I pulled many all-nighters in order to accomplish this-I know I didn't have to, but it would've nagged at me otherwise. Besides, I like seeing my friends fangasm.
I have to say...if it weren't for AusHun, these two would most likely be my OTP. Their past is so freaking beautiful and tragic!
WARNING: There is so much fluff in here it is NOT EVEN FREAKING FUNNY. I did it somewhat on purpose, since I was trying to appeal to the fangirl senses...but I'm afraid I went overboard. XP Also, I'm sorry this is such a long one-shot, but I found it pointless to split it into chapters. There are many historical references, but creative license was also used. And finally, I probably misused some French terms. Please don't hurt me...
Ugh...long-ass author's note is long. XP I'll quit my babbling now so you can ENJOY! (And to those who read my fic "TERRA", I promise that after this I will get off my lazy ass and continue working on it...^^')
I do not own Hetalia or "Dreaming with a Broken Heart".
This is a story of when I was strong…
And the person who made me that way.
"When you're dreaming with a broken heart,
The wakin' up is the hardest part.
You roll out of bed and down on your knees,
And for a moment you can hardly breathe.
Wondering, was she really here?
Is she standing in my room?
No she's not,
'Cause she's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone…"
-John Mayer, "Dreaming with a Broken Heart"
France stepped unhurried through the fertile green fields, relishing in the simple beauty that only the observant could appreciate. Grasses brushed up lightly against his ankles as though welcoming him. A lone flock of blackbirds soared through a cloudless sheet of blue, rising upwards to greet the shining sun. Not far behind him was a small, quaint village—one called Domrémy. He noted the way the land stretched on towards forever, until it melted away into the horizon line…and even then it went on indefinitely, beckoning others to explore the mysteries that lay beyond the meeting place of the heavens and the earth.
Something without an end: what a comforting thought.
These days he often felt the only thing that would last forever was the war. He had withstood the decades-long conflict so far, but certainly not without a cost. The top half of his body was blotched with ugly bruises and battle wounds, causing him daily pains. New injuries appeared nearly every day. He could feel himself getting physically weaker and less resilient. And all of it was because of that stupid, haughty, brutish pirate-asshole England. The next time that Brit laughs in my face, I'll rip his damn tongue out, France thought menacingly, even though he knew it was unlikely to happen at this point. Right now this place that he was in, the northeastern part of the country, had not yet been conquered by the English; that may change at any time.
He needed a miracle.
Suddenly he heard yelling and the sounds of a scuffle behind him, and whirled to see Domrémy being invaded by British soldiers. Women screamed, flames began to rise atop the roofs of a few houses, and France was enraged that this rare peace had to be dashed by the enemy. Already he felt a faint pain beginning to flare up like a struck match in his chest, as he did when any French city was suffering a crisis.
As much as he wanted to fight, though, he knew that he could not face the invaders without the rest of his army. So he ran, though where to he was not sure. Perhaps he would try to warn the nearest town, though that could be miles away for all he knew.
It was then that he saw a spot of yellow in the pasture, floating like a toy boat in a sea of swishing plants. And it was…moving. As he got closer, he came to the stark realization that it was the blonde head of a child who could be no more than five years of age. Without thinking twice, he quickly scooped the young one up and raced over to the relative safety of a cluster of nearby bushes.
As he tried to catch his breath, he felt the young girl in his arms desperately but uselessly beating her small fists against him, probably believing that France was attempting to kidnap her. Tears slipped down her round pink cheeks, and more were in the corners of her closed eyes, ready to fall. His soft spot for children took over, and he smiled gently as he began to reassure her. "Shh…c'est bien, un Brother France would never hurt such a sweet little girl like you. Don't cry, mon cher."
She froze and looked up at the nation's face with innocent, light blue eyes, fearful but also intrigued.
His grin grew. "What is your name, enfant?"
She shyly averted her gaze. "J…Jeanne," she responded cautiously.
"That's lovely!" He held her a bit tighter, allowing her to crawl into his lap and bury her face into his cloak. Though his expression was content, inside he felt disdain that this girl was like so many others, having to endure this strife at such a tender age. He started humming a soft lullaby as she began to nod off.
Eventually, Jeanne's frantic parents and three older siblings came searching for her. After thanking France profusely, they walked off to assess the damage done to their home…but not before the little child looked back at the nation, feeling the desire to someday repay him.
*Eleven Years Later*
The female soldier stood alone in a great palace room, in awe at and somewhat intimidated by the incredible grandeur of the place. Until a few days ago, she never believed that she would ever be where she was at that moment: inside the castle at Chinon, the place where the French royal court resided. Certainly she would never had dreamed up the absolutely insane idea that she would have a meeting with his Majesty.
Yet there Jeanne was, having just had a meeting with King Charles VII himself. Of course, it was God alone who had brought her there, He who had called on her to defend her beloved homeland. She had seen the specters of the Saints Michael, Catherine, and Margaret, telling her to serve in battle as a man would. And through Him, she—the lowly peasant girl, the humble shepherdess, the unworthy—she had been accepted into the French army. She would be going to Orleans to fight…and there she would not toss away the opportunity she'd been given.
Of course, there was another reason she was so eager to delve into the war. She wanted to once again meet the person that she'd secretly had a juvenile admiration for since that fateful day so long ago, when her tiny town had been burned nearly to the ground. This time, though, she would be able to interact with him on the level of an adult, and on a daily basis.
She allowed herself a small smile as she mused, coming up with her own theories and fantasies as to what France was truly like.
Just then, a servant came through the door and announced, "Introducing Monsieur France!"
She was too taken by her excitement to notice the look of slight pity the servant sent her way.
Before she could so much as say hello, the country strode forward with all the self-importance of a bold peacock and gave his own greeting.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle! Say, how would you like to bear my children?"
It took a moment before the words fully registered in her mind; when they did, she could only process one thought in her shock: This…is him?
She struggled to comprehend the fact that this flamboyant blonde was the same man that had been so comforting to her all those years ago. He gave a deep chuckle, showing off a devilish white smile and as he seductively stroked the faint stubble that accented his sharp chin. The pools of his eyes reflected a sense of great mischief, but there seemed also to be emotions and personalities concealed within the blue irises. For a nation experiencing the hardships and inevitable pains of nearly a hundred years' violence, he was surprisingly well-groomed and lavishly dressed in bright colors and fine materials. It was odd, but he almost seemed to be oblivious to why he and Jeanne were there, as though he had the ability to simply forget about the entire war whenever he wanted.
She quickly closed her mouth, which she had inadvertently allowed to fall agape as she stared dumbfounded at France. She then cleared her throat and attempted to come up with a remotely appropriate reply. "Er…b-bonjour, Monsieur.I-I hope you realize that I'm only here to fight, not-"
"Ah, that reminds me!" he interrupted. He went over to a small nearby table, grabbing a stack of parchment and a quill. Jeanne tensed, hoping that he did not intend for her to use either of the objects, as she could write little else besides her name.
Fortunately, he took the pen in his own hand and dipped it carefully into the inkpot by his side. "I know his Majesty has already interviewed you, but I would like to ask you some questions of my own, if you don't mind!" He winked at her.
"Oh…well, I suppose that would be alright," she obliged, though instinct led her to believe that doing so was a bad idea.
"D'excellentes! Now…what is your favorite color?"
She cocked an eyebrow at the simplicity of the question, but did not argue. "Green."
He rapidly scribbled something. "Do you play an instrument? And if so, which one?"
"I played the flute when I was younger, but that's all, really."
"I see…what is your preferred sex position?"
She sputtered, completely incredulous and realizing too late that allowing him to do this was, to say the least, a bad idea. "M-monsieur France! I-I don't feel c-comfortable answering that!"
He laughed, apparently deriving some sick amusement from all this! "Non, non! I assure you, all these questions are required! So…are you going to answer, cher?" He seemed to lean slightly closer.
She swallowed a lump in her throat. "W-well…if you must know, I'm God's virgin, so—"
"Oh, you're one of those types…my, how boring!" he snickered. "You never even want to try it? Just once?"
She narrowed her eyes and fixed the country with a glare, but restrained herself from doing anything to him. She reminded herself that she was already devoted, and she certainly could not desert now. She would do it for the Lord and her people.
"Just…continue the interview, please," she muttered, hoping that they could finish as quickly as possible.
"Oui!" France agreed energetically. "Do you have any pets?"
"I grew up on a farm with many animals."
"And have any of the aforementioned pets ever tried to sexually molest you?"
Her palm came into contact with his cheek as she allowed her temper to control her actions, leaving a vivid, red, hand-shaped mark on his pale skin. She felt her own face quickly becoming flushed in both embarrassment and anger.
This will be a long battle…
To be perfectly honest, he found her annoying.
France had come to this conclusion after having been in the army with her for a little over a week. He couldn't quite pinpoint one single reason why she irked him so much. Perhaps it was simply that she had been getting so much attention lately, and that people were apparently forgetting one critical fact: in reality, she was still just a simple peasant girl who had yet to prove herself in battle. He couldn't see why everyone was suddenly resting every responsibility right on her shoulders.
Then there was the problem of her having developed an aversion toward him and his perverted ways, and had a tendency to slap him whenever he tried to make conversation with her. Granted, said chats were usually centered around sex…still, he found her hitting unnecessary, and had it not been for his moral code against treating women badly, he would have smacked her right back long before then. For one so pious as to be chosen by God, she had a surprisingly fiery and stubborn nature concealed just beneath the surface of her quiet exterior.
But perhaps the thing that vexed him the most about her was her humility. She never bragged about any of the skills that she supposedly possessed. When anyone asked her about the voices of the saints she claimed to hear, she did not brag or act as though she was deserving of any special praise because of it. She even went about in men's clothes to hide her feminine figure. Her meekness seemed almost like an act. But it wasn't—she was being completely sincere. And that irritated him, because he couldn't understand it.
Still…he had tried just about everything else. If this girl gave him half a chance to get through this war, so be it.
His scars continued to deepen.
He stopped walking as he came to the stream and heard something moving and splashing in the sparkling, softly trickling brook. He peered over one of the bushes and spotted Jeanne.
And she was…naked.
Any normal man would have run away blushing at the sight of a bathing woman. France was not most men. He continued to drink in the delicious sight, as any true-to-form sleaze-bag would. Even if she was a pain in his derriere, her rustic beauty wasn't to his dislike.
She rose up out of the clear waters and looked thoughtfully upwards, as though reading the clouds. Her lips began to move as she offered up a quiet and spontaneous prayer. Her voice was subdued, so he wasn't able to catch what she was saying. He stealthily crept closer, curiosity growing by the moment.
Had he managed to get within earshot, he would have known that she was asking the Lord something which she had been wondering from the very first moment: why she, of all people, had been selected to save her country. She was simply requesting more of His guidance and assistance in the fight to come.
However, at that moment, she suddenly stopped talking and paused as though waiting for a reply. It seemed, though, that her heavenly Voices were holding their silence, for the only reply she received was that of the April winds dancing through her short hair.
…Followed by the sound of a certain snooping nation slipping on the slick surface of a stone and crashing clumsily into the small river.
She couldn't stop herself from letting out a shriek as she turned around to see a very damp France looking back. Her shocked transformed into outrage in less that a second. "Were you spying on me, you bastard?" She snatched her clothes up from the side of the bank and attempted to cover herself up with them.
He lifted himself up and smirked back, which only served to further infuriate the modest girl. "Ah…'spying' is a rather unflattering term, non? I was merely looking. There is quite a big difference, you know!"
She aimed a kick at his crotch, but he dodged the surprise attack at went on simply to see how much more enraged he could make her. "Say, I thought you would know that God wants us to 'be fertile and multiply'!"
This time her foot did not miss its target. "I know how to use a sword, you know," she threatened darkly, watching with satisfaction as he crumpled to his knees with a loud gasp of pain. "I could take away your ability to 'multiply' at any time."
A few days later they found themselves at Orleans. The entire battalion stood waiting at the ready to attack the British fortress.
Even France had to admit that Jeanne looked fairly impressive. She sat proudly atop a horse the color of ghostly morning fog. The suit of armor she wore appeared as though it were made specifically for her body, and when the sun caught the metal, it seemed to blaze a brilliant white. She did not cover her face, so he could see the emotion in her eyes. She did not come across as terribly nervous—rather, there almost appeared to be an eagerness about her. She looked happy to be defending her homeland against the menace of the enemy.
But the most striking thing about the sight of the warrior was the spectacular banner she carried. It was emblazoned with the image of Jesus and the Blessed Virgin, surrounded by hand-stitched golden stars that shone like the real things as the flag waved in the stiff wind. It seemed to have almost a silent battle cry all its own, calling the others to arms. It also made Jeanne a flashing target for bullets to find, but still she insisted on bearing it—she seemed strangely attached to the thing.
"Well, well…looks who's here for another crushing loss."
France, Jeanne, and the other soldiers turned to face the source of the voice that had come from behind. Not far away was the English army, standing at the ready. At the head of them all was a hideous creature. It had on a dark maroon uniform, the color of blood after it begins to dry. Its green eyes were predatory, fox-like in their cunning. The mop of yellow hair on the top of its head was mussed and wild, apparently not having been tamed by a brush for quite some time. A mocking smirk was painted nauseatingly across its face.
The beast's name was Arthur Kirkland.
France attempted to come up with a suitably scathing reply. "You look rather thin, England…did those concrete blocks you call scones block any real food from getting into your stomach?"
The remark was petty, but the Brit always took offense to his cooking being insulted. The smug grin fell away and was replaced by a glower as he drew his broadsword. "I heard you were betting the outcome of this war on a little girl, France…I wouldn't be making fun if I were a pathetic weakling like you!"
Suddenly Jeanne felt the magnitude of her opponent was sink in. This whole whirlwind of an ordeal had occurred so suddenly that she had not really had time to think about it beforehand. She only now fully realized that this was the person who had been terrorizing her land for the past century, that it had been he and his armies who had come near to destroying her village and herself.
And she was now more determined than ever to stop him.
"Whatever happens, hold your ground." The way she announced the battle order with such authority made everyone around her listen. "Do not retreat unless ordered to do so!"
She then turned, drew her own weapon, and faced the terror that was the English army.
"EN MAIN!"
France was still struggling to believe it. Yet all around him were the shouts of victory and the joyful clamor of celebration.
The British army had experienced the bitter, pungent taste of defeat. Orleans was theirs.
And she was the reason for it.
It was perfectly easy to see how formidable Jeanne was in a fight simply by watching her in action. She moved with an intense focus and motivation, her blade flashing like liquid silver as it slashed and stabbed, almost always reaching its target as though guided by some otherworldly force. She moved through the ranks of her rivals as swiftly and naturally as a knife slicing through butter. Yet, astoundingly, though she left a trail of destruction in her wake, the blows she dealt were never fatal. They only served to incapacitate. She fought, but she did not do so to kill. It seemed impossible…but then, so were most of the things she'd done as of late.
For a few minutes after the skirmish had ended, she simply sat atop her steed and tried to catch her breath while giving God her silent praises. The breeze had died down once evening had come, so her banner hung limp at her side, unmoving but still strikingly beautiful nevertheless.
It wasn't long, however, before she was swarmed by the admiring members of the battalion. They surrounded and applauded and commended her over and over again. Though she looked overwhelmed by the large crowd, eventually a sheepish but genuine smile appeared on her face as her fellow soldiers continued expressing their gratitude.
France was one of the few who stood a good distance away from the rest. He was still stunned by what had just happened, and a thousand thoughts moved chaotically around in his head like leaves tossed by a stormy gust. There was no way of denying that she had just saved him…or at least a part of him.
Perhaps she isn't so bad, he mused. He noticed then that his scars were hurting less than they usually did.
It wasn't until later that he decided to approach her. Jeanne was back in her masculine clothes, dangling her bare legs in the same small rivers in which she had bathed earlier. The current flowed gently around her feet; the water reflected the dark night sky and became an opaque, inky black. She stared down into it without really seeing it, so deep in thought that she did not hear the sound of the nation coming up behind her until he loudly made his presence known.
"Bonjour, chere!" Lovely night, isn't it?"
She groaned and turned around to face the country. "If you intend to see me in the nude again, you'll be sadly disappointed, monsieur!"
"Non, I do not," he promised in a somewhat quieter and more serious voice, shaking his head earnestly. "I…I just wanted to give you something."
She was surprised not only by the statement itself, but also by the way he said it—with none of his usual naughtiness or scheming, but instead sounding rather apprehensive.
"You…have something for me?"
He shrugged. "It seemed only right after today…it's a bit of a thank-you, I suppose." He brought his hand out from behind his back. In it was a plate of food that looked good enough to be gourmet. "It's not much—I just made it with what we had on hand."
She observed him suspiciously, grabbing his offering without taking her eyes off him. Reluctantly she took a bite, and instantly her eyes widened as a burst of flavor exploded on her tongue. She'd had no idea of his incredible cooking skills. "You made this? It's amazing!"
He smiled, glad that she was so impressed with it. "Well, if you like it so much, then someday I will make you a real feast. Sometime when I have the right ingredients."
She copied his pleased expression as she continued eating. "I would like that…I suppose you cook for women a lot, though."
He gave a short, embarrassed laugh. "Actually, no…women usually don't stay with me long enough for me to make them anything. The same goes for men."
She was startled by his response—having expected a much different one—and turned away slightly so that he would not see the pink tinge that was beginning to appear on her cheeks. "O-oh…I'm sorry. I just assumed that-"
"I know," he mumbled, cutting her off. "Usually they only stay around long enough for me to f…" Fortunately, he realized what he was saying and stopped himself before the words could slip carelessly past his lips. "Well, never mind!"
They sat next to each other in silence for several long minutes before the stillness was pervaded by the sound of far-off music drifting towards them. It was coming from the base camp, where still the soldiers were reveling in their success.
France stood, turned to the girl beside him and grinned. "Do you like to dance?"
She seemed a bit taken aback by the question. "I've never really danced much before. I'm not sure if I know how…"
He held out his hand as his smile grew larger. "Then I'll show you."
She stared unsurely at his open palm, then up at him. He couldn't help but chuckle a little—though she was mature beyond her years in many aspects, he could see that there was still a part of her which remained naïve and child-like.
Cautiously, she grasped his hand and allowed him to pull her up off the ground. He then put his other arm around her waist, and began guiding her to the beat. She was surprised at how comforted she felt, and by the sincerity in his countenance. His azure eyes bored into her lighter ones: blue meeting blue, ocean mingling with sky.
As they both grew in their confidence, they began to go faster and faster as one. He twirled her around as she laughed brightly, a laugh as playful and flowing and free as the night wind that blew around them.
Suddenly, a devious idea formed in her head. As soon as they moved once again towards the bank, she let go of his hand, causing him to lose his balance and sending him once again into the stream. When he resurfaced, she was bursting with triumphant laughter.
He smirked darkly. "Oh, so nice of you to try cooling me off…here's something for your kindness!" He threw water right in her face, then dragged her down with him into the water. The second battle of the day began, a battle where they were soaked and splashed rather than speared and shot at. There was no winner, since both of them were equally drenched when they emerged, laughing like hysterical fools at their ridiculous actions.
Neither of them could remember the last time they'd ever felt more lighthearted and untroubled…perhaps never.
Their days were spent much like that for a while afterwards: after every battle, and often on days when there was no conflict. They didn't necessarily do very much—in fact, they made a point to make their antics and conversations as utterly useless and vain as possible during this time in which it seemed like everything had to be taken seriously. At other times they would simply not bother to talk at all. Strangely enough, France had no urge to try any of his usual funny business with this girl. He simply enjoyed her company. When he saw other women, he was somehow less inclined to go over to them and begin courting them as he normally would—he simply didn't have the drive to do so anymore. And as more and more fights were won because of her, his injuries began to gradually fade away and disappear.
She was saving him. There was simply no other way to put it. She was saving his life.
It was on one of those afternoons by the stream that it happened. On this day, a gray-white sheet of cloud rolled overhead, and the air carried with it the smell that always signaled coming rain.
He looked down at Jeanne, whose head was resting serenely against his shoulder. He never failed to marvel at how different her expression was in a war situation compared to the peaceful gaze she exhibited at times like this.
"The lilies are starting to bloom," he remarked finally, breaking the silence just as the first few drops began to fall from the sky.
She nodded, smiling slightly. "They're lovely this year."
He reached over to one of the said flowers and broke it off its stem, studying the way the droplets of rain clung to its pale surface so delicately, like precious gems, like fragile glass prepared to shatter at the slightest touch. He then tucked the blossom behind her ear gently. Her hand went up to her hair so that she could gingerly touch the soft petals as she looked up at him gratefully.
He grinned. "Non, I didn't think so."
She cocked her head curiously. "Didn't think what?"
She involuntarily stiffened as his knuckles lightly brushed against her face.
"I didn't think," he whispered, "that they would be as beautiful as you. I was right."
"F-francis?" She stared at him in shock as he continued to lean in ever closer.
He looked at this woman who was such a wonderful contradiction to herself: mild yet defiant, gentle yet strong, wise yet innocent, shy yet bold, faithful yet fighter. He looked at the person who had rescued him not only from the English, but also from his own personal inner void of nothingness and indifference.
"Jeanne," he continued, this time with a bit more urgency in his tone, "I won't pretend that I don't have a reputation. I don't blame you if you won't take me…you've done far more for me than I deserve already. I'm just…just asking for this one other favor from you. And I swear to you that I will be as loyal as you've been to me."
She shivered as what he was trying to tell her began to slowly weave its way into her mind and sink in.
"I…I can't Francis," she told him against every instinct in her body. "Y-you know I've pledged myself to God."
"He has a purpose in this life for all of us, chere," he mumbled into her ear. "I am your purpose…and you are mine."
The instant his lips pressed tenderly against hers, a blazing warmth was ignited within her, a heat from the very depths of her spirit which spread like electricity through her veins, to every inch of her body. Waves of emotion crashed over and around her, the tide of feeling threatening to carry her away with it—somehow she wouldn't mind if it did. She felt as though she were straddling two worlds. One was full of rain and lilies and war, and was horribly ordinary and bleak. Then there was this other surreal realm, one of ecstasy and mystery and beauty, and she did not want to leave it. Ever.
A miniscule part of both their minds thought about the cursed truth: that a relationship between a country and a regular human was bound to meet tragedy at one point or another. France would long outlive Jeanne, since he aged much more slowly. He would see her being committed to the Earth long before it was his own time.
But that's alright. We still have plenty of time left.
For France, victory was easy to get used to…too easy.
That is why he was shaken so deeply when the Siege of Paris ended in failure.
Jeanne had been hit in the thigh by a crossbow bolt, he'd been told. Someone had said that she had to be carried off the field against her will, and all the while she continued urging her men to continue the fight. How typical, he thought.
But it was to no avail. They'd lost.
And when he came to see her as her wound was being tended to, she beamed at him the moment she saw him rushing towards her. "It's nothing," she assured him, smiling brightly through the pain that she denied. "It's not that bad."
Still, from then on, he worried when she went into battle. He feared anything worse happening to her.
This is exactly how he felt in the early April of 1430. Winter was just beginning to lose the seasonal tug-of-war, but it had not yet released its cold and dismal grip on the land.
"Mon amour…are you sure you want to go?"
The warrior rolled her eyes at her lover in exasperation. "Of course I'm sure. Why do you keep asking?"
France paused for a moment, eyes down, gazing at nothing in particular. "It's just…something doesn't feel right about today. Don't you sense it? There's something foreboding about it all…" His voice tapered off as he realized how irrational he sounded.
She couldn't help but grin at his concern for her. "Do not worry about me, amoureux. This battle will end the same way as all the others have—with me coming back."
She pecked him affectionately on the forehead, then turned so he could not see the uneasy frown on her face. She didn't tell him that she had received a vision of her saints informing her that she would be captured in the combat to come.
She did not tell him…because she had resolved not to let it happen.
Jeanne watched in horror as the city of Compiegne's gate locking her and the rest of her army outside. The English had ambushed them from behind a large hill, and they were quickly advancing towards her and the other soldiers. There was nowhere to retreat.
Trapped. They were completely trapped.
Why didn't I listen to Francis? she asked herself. Why?
Everything that she had prayed would never happen—everything that she had been afraid to even consider—all of it was now unfolding before her eyes.
But she refused to fail.
Gritting her teeth in fierce determination, she turned around and held her banner high, facing the forces of the enemy.
With adrenaline coursing furiously through her body, she led the charge, even though it was plain to see how outnumbered she was. Her sword swung in every direction, but the moment she struck one opponent, another would take his place.
She refused to fail.
It was then that she felt a forceful tug on her vest, yanking her off her horse. In the brief moment before she slammed into the ground, she realized that her greatest fear—the fear of being taken by her foes—was now coming true.
Capture—even the sound of the word was despicable.
All at once she was surrounded by English soldiers, feeling like a fox cornered by a pack of hunting dogs. Then, with a sickeningly nonchalant arrogance, another man stepped forward.
"England," she snarled.
Said country chuckled and grabbed a fistful of her short, wheat-colored locks, pulling her painfully towards him. The eagerness reflected in his reptilian emerald eyes showed how much he was relishing in this moment, one he'd been waiting for since he'd lost that first battle.
"Well, if it isn't the little peasant-bitch. You've gotten yourself quite the little reputation, haven't you?" He put his saber up to her throat. "But you won't shame my magnificent army again. Now surrender!"
She spat on the Brit's face. "Non! Not a chance! I'll never give in to a bastard like you!"
He growled, then kicked her in the stomach. She gasped at the shock of the sudden sharp hit.
"Shut the fuck up! Surrender to me or I'll continue attacking your precious little France…and this time you won't be around to rescue his pathetic little ass!"
"N…ne pas," she said in a choked whisper, still breathless and reeling from the blow. "J'abandonne."
His twisted grin returned as he savored the words, a feast for his ears. "Excellent…men! Take her away. She'll be tried for heresy!"
As she was seized be the arms and carried away, she experienced defeat for the first time, in every sense of the word.
France snuck past just a few of the innumerable prison guards, attempting to find his way to Jeanne's jail cell. He had heard about the outcome of her unfair trial. He knew that she was scheduled to be executed the next day. And he knew that his boss was doing next to nothing about it, that he was just going to sit by and allow them to burn a heroine.
France, on the other hand, would not. He didn't know how, but he was rescue her the way she did him.
At last, he located the place she was being held. The sight of her tormented him, the agony clawing at his chest, tearing through flash and sinew. He could barely contain it.
She was much thinner, clearly not having been properly fed. She seemed to be suffering from some sort of illness, as she appeared so much frailer and more pallid, delicate as a puff of smoke that could be dispersed by the slightest breeze at any moment. The glowing aura that had always surrounded her was now gone, leaving her looking like a shell of her former self. Shackles, like cruel iron serpents, chained her to the small bed that she had been provided. The defiant, proud girl she had once been was now nowhere to be found. A withered lily.
Her eyes widened the moment she saw him. She jumped up and went over to meet him, and it seemed as though his mere presence gave her back a sliver of her previous strength. "Francis! Mon amour, what are you doing here?"
"I'm here to get you out, of course!"
"Non…you can't." She shook her head slowly, solemnly. "I have tried to escape many times…and anyway, even if you were to somehow break me out…I would only be a hindrance in this state. We would never make it."
"Don't talk like that!" he commanded. "We'll figure something out! We'll-"
"Francis," she interrupted, eyes pleading. "Please…you're here now. That's all I need. I can die happily now, because I know that I've served you well. Just let me have this moment now…please."
She kissed him through the prison bars. There was more passion than ever before, as well as desperation. He wanted to take the suffering out of her through the touch of their lips. They both were trying to make up for the lifetime of moments like this that they would not have.
They only parted when they heard the footsteps of English soldiers echoing down the halls nearby, growing louder as they approached.
"Hold on," Jeanne whispered quickly as she removed her cross pendant from around her neck, the one which she wore close to her at all times. She said a quick prayer over the little wooden object, kissed it, and tucked it into his palm, closing his fingers around it. "Keep it in a place where you will see it every night before you go to sleep. Now get out before—"
"Hey, it's him!" one of the guards announced to his fellows as he spotted France and began rushing towards him.
"Francis, leave!"
"Not as long as you're here."
She realized arguing would do no good. "Dieu soit avec vous," she said just before he was dragged away and out of her sight.
The next morning, England walked with an air of obvious pride and loftiness. He had no reason not to—at last he would be permanently rid of the person who had plagued him and his military for three years. He had beat her…and now, to make it all even better, he had the opportunity to taunt France about it.
He reached the cell of his fellow country, who had not slept or changed his position all night. The stupid frog simply sat hunched over and motionless, staring out the barred window, clutching the necklace that the witch had given him as though it were some sort of lifeline that was keeping him from slipping over the edge of a precipice and into an obscure and sinister abyss. Metaphorically, that is exactly what it was.
England smirked at his arch rival's pitiful condition, preparing to rub salt in his wounds. "Do you have any idea what today is, France?" The words poured slowly and torturously from his lips, coiling out of his mouth likes venomous snakes.
He received no response—his opponent was emotionally numb, frozen.
"Now, just because you're stupid doesn't mean you have to act that way, France…you know that this is the day that witch is going to burn. I'm going to kill her."
No response.
"I can't tell you how long I've waited for this day France…well, actually I can. I've been waiting for it since the day I was defeated by that witch. And now I'll be able to execute that disgusting, stupid, worthless whore-"
The merciless grin disappeared from his face in an instant when France, with all the ferocity of a confined lion, suddenly jumped up out of his depressed stupor and flew at him. Had the bars not been there to separate the two countries, England felt sure that he would have been strangled on the spot.
"HOW DARE YOU SPEAK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT! HOW DARE YOU EVEN THINK THAT ABOUT HER! YOU KILLED HER! YOU DAMNED MURDERER! YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD!"
After his tirade, France slumped over and broke down into heavy sobs. England simply stared at him in surprise. He had never seen such sorrow in France—he didn't know he was capable of such powerful feeling. But the crazed look he'd had in his eyes just then…it went beyond mere anger and rage and pain. It was something that sprung up from the very bottom of the soul in only the most desolate of moments.
England suddenly felt a brief but sharp pang of remorse for the verbal beating he'd just given the other nation. Truth be told, despite all the girl had done to humiliate him, he didn't really want to see a young virgin meet such a horrid fate.
"England, please…I need to be there when it happens."
He scoffed. "Impossible! You know I would never do that for you…and anyway, my boss would have my head for it-"
"You may do what you will with me afterwards," he promised, imploring him, "but I have to be there."
England understood it at that moment: he loved her.
He continued looking at the other nation's face for a moment. Then, showing no emotion, he pulled a key out of his pocket.
He didn't know why, but he opened the door and let France go.
And he did go. He ran so quickly that he felt as though the wind would lift him up and carry him there faster. He ran swiftly enough to challenge the hawks that swooped overhead.
He ran…and collapsed to his knees as soon as he reached his destination.
All that remained were pieces of charcoal and blackened bones and the putrefying odor of burning flesh still poisoning the air. The shadowy smoke coiling its way into the air mocked him before it faded away. The dying embers mocked him.
That was all that was left…but he could see the actual event, as though it were happening right at that moment.
He sees her tied to the stake, hands behind her back and legs bound. She holds her head high in her persistence and bravery in spite of it all. Fearless, as fearless as ever. She prays fervently to herself, her dedication to the Lord not dampened in the least by the all that had occurred. And the spark is ignited, releasing the beasts of flame from their cages. They send out their red-orange tongues of fire, hungrily and excruciatingly tasting her pale, vulnerable skin. She cries out for her Savior as she is consumed…and then she is gone.
"When you're dreaming with a broken heart,
The giving up is the hardest part.
She takes you in with her crying eyes,
Then all at once you have to say goodbye.
Wondering, could you stay, my love?
Will you wake up by my side?
No she can't,
'Cause she's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone."
*Present Day*
France woke up late that morning. He always slept in on days when there was no world meeting scheduled.
He had dreamt about her last night. They were sitting together on the banks of that stream, as they always used to. And there was no fire, no war—nothing but them and the lilies.
He turned to look at her cross hanging by his bedside, and gave a small smile. Though he didn't dare tell anyone, from that very first night without her, he had followed her instructions, wherever he went: he put the pendant in a place by his bed where he could always see it, and he made sure it was the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes and slipped past the border of unconsciousness. And every time he did this, he would have a dream about her, as she had always been: his vibrant, beautiful joy.
And he had kept his promise to her—he had been loyal. No matter who he attempted to charm or who he fooled around with, he never felt the same way about any of them as he did with her.
After all, she was his miracle.