January 6, 1412
Somewhere in the crumbling cities of France, a young nobleman, who was much older than he appeared, awoke with a start. He had been feeling horrible these past few years, with his relationship regarding a brash, foul Englishman becoming increasingly strained. Today, however, was different. He was filled with a sense of comfort, peace, and a great measure of strength had enterred his weary bones. Something great had just happened, specifically, in Greux-Domremy. He knew it.
Indeed, it had been an extremely auspicious day, for that day marked the birth of Jehanne Darc...
October 12, 1428- May 8, 1429
The Siege of Orleans
He fought bravely, trying to keep an eye on his brash, fiesty commander as he swung his sword mercilessly. The young girl with wiry, raven hair and calloused hands had been climbing a rope ladder the last time he checked. Currently, though, he was having a slight trouble locating her. Swearing under his breath- something which she most certainly would scold him about- he glanced around, scanning the battlefield for the glint of the five crossed blade of Fierbois as it protected it's master without harming a single person. Unfortunately, his concern came a little too late. Quite suddenly, there was scuffling and chaos within their ranks as the soldiers were desperately trying to pull something, or someone, to safety. He caught sight of a familiar small body being passed on to the back of their army. Shoving people aside, he himself rushed to where she was being dragged off to, praying he had made some kind of mistake. Sadly, but rather obviously, he hadn't. His dear commander was screaming in pain and fury, urging the rest of her men to continue fighting, as a hideously large arrow had been lodged into a chink in her stained armour, spreading a large pool of scarlet underneath her metal breastplate. He reached her just as she was gently placed on the hematic battleground. "We have to retreat," he heard himself yell as he bent down to pull out the long projectile, the cause of her misery. His hand was promptly slapped away and his cerulean eyes met her sienna orbs as she silently warned him to keep his hands to himself. "No!" She yelled, grabbing the arrow and personally yanking it out with a scream. "We must win! Jhesus-Maria!" She yelled, charging back to the front of the battle, leaving him watching in awe. Eventually, the battle was over. It had been the first taste of victory he had tasted in a while. The image of his commander standing in triumph- her cobalt hair flying, her tanned arms gripping her trusty sword and fluttering flag, and her bright, dazzling smile- was one he would never forget. "Jhesus-Maria."
July 17, 1429
Coronation of King Charles VII of France
He stood in Reims Cathedral, watching the man he would soon call 'King' be crowned. This was the proof of all their years of hardship and fighting. The rightful King of France was finally taking his true place, and it was all because of his stubborn commander. It felt more of her moment rather than the King's. He glanced towards her, unsurprised when he saw that she was positively glowing with joy and pride. She still wore her armour, which had been polished until it shone, and held firmly onto her flag, blessed by the holy figure of Jesus. Brown eyes transfixed on the ongoing ceremony, she quietly murmured a prayer, a few tears escaping her sparkling orbs. Suddenly, the hall erupted into loud cheers and he saw her roughly wiping away her sign of weakness as she joined in with the loud applause. Her "Gentle Dauphin" had finally gained the title of 'King of France.' A king he would grow to hate.
May 30, 1431
Execution
He watched, powerless, as she was towed toward the menacing stake. The revolting crowds of English people jeered and harassed her tauntingly, flinging rotten vegetables and eggs at her as she was brought closer and closer to her undeniable fate. She was dragged out of the wooden cart, making it sickeningly clear of the torture she had gone through in the hands of the English. There were wounds from the countless beatings she had underwent and cuts from her attempt at suicide. Her taxing 'trial' had left her looking weary and thin, adding to the satisfaction of the English citizens present. He watched, horrified, as her dark locks of hair were shaven off and thrown to the gawking crowd. Try as he might, he failed in catching even a single strand of her short tresses. He looked up pleasingly to where a familiar Englishman stood watching emotionlessly. What had she done to deserve this? If the man had noticed his stare, he hid it well. Turning his attention back to where his general, he saw that she had already been half-tied to her execution post. Abruptly, she asked her executioner, in the gentlest way possible, to wait for a moment. She faced the man proudly and unafraid. "Might I have a cross to hold onto, dear sir?" She requested, unafazed by the jeering of the people around her. The Englishman nodded, keeping his face deadpan, before sliding his emerald eyes to where he was being restrained. It was an offer for him to spend one last moment with his beloved general. He didn't even care that it may have been an act of pity. Tearing away from the arms of the guards, he dug around within his pockets, producing a small, wooden cross. Shoving his way to the front of the crowd, he yelled at her. "Jeanne!" She turned, her eyes widening in shock as she realised whom it was: The most infuriating, carefree, stubborn man she ever had the misfortune to lead. She smiled softly. "Francis." She acknowledged as he reached the platform, panting and terrified. He felt tears threaten to spill down his cheeks as he wordlessly pressed the makeshift cross into her rough fingers. Smiling sweetly, she whispered words meant for only him to hear. "Thank you. Jhesus-Maria." Then, he was dragged away and she was plunged into a garden of recalescent, vermilion blossoms. Truly, there was nobody who could have left with as much grace, beauty, and dignity as she.
Later, when all that was left of her entire existence were the thick, grey ashes she left behind, he walked up to the last place he had seen her. Feeling completely numb, he fell to his knees and ran his hands through her ashes. How had this happen? Why hadn't he done anything? Why had he allowed that miserable wretch of a king to live comfortably while she had been thrown into a dingy dungeon? Why had she been betrayed by the very people she had been saving? A sharp gasp shook his body as he realised he was crying. Throwing his head back, he allowed himself to scream and sob desperately into the evening, not caring that the smog choked him and stung his eyes. She had faced a much harsher punishment than this. Pounding the ground pathetically with his fists, he cursed that man's future, at his own future. He would never forgive him for what he had done to her. The torture he had placed on her frail self, the lies he had pinned her with, the despair he had presented her with... One day, he would make him pay for it. A soft pattering signaled someone had came up behind him. He didn't have to turn to know who it was.
England stood in silence, watching his enemy weep in a heartwrenching mixture of pain, regret, and fury. A fury directed toward the Englishman, no doubt. He didn't say anything as he placed a lock of dark brown hair beside his enemy. He didn't have to. Turning away, he made as though to walk off before rethinking his actions and facing the Frenchman once again. "I'm sorry," he stated monotonously before striding back to his castle. France clenched his jaw viciously as he picked up the Englishman's little 'gift'. Kissing it gently, he made a vow which would soon be fulfilled, although he didn't know it. "One day, Angleterre (England). One day, I shall have you taste the pain of losing someone whom you love as dearly as I did Jeanne." He swore, slipping her hair into his pocket.
And that oath was fulfilled, specifically on September 5, 1781 at the Battle of Chesapeake: the battle which sealed American victory against the British during the American Revolutionary War...
January 6, 2014
France awoke with a strangled gasp, his heart slamming against his chest and sweat pouring down his face. Sitting up in his warm bed, he looked around his room. Fresh clothes laid out, dressing table stacked with a variety of different products, and a jar of beautiful roses by his bedside. Everything was as it should be. Stabilising his bated breathing, he flopped back down with a sigh. "Why that dream...?" He wondered groggily before he was struck by a bolt of realisation. "That's it! I'm forced to see the stupid, black sheep of Europe's face today!" He exclaimed. As though irritated with him, a small picture frame fell from the top of a ledge positioned above his head and hit him painfully. Swearing loudly, he picked up the picture and stared at it for a few seconds. All of a sudden, he smiled and lightly touched his lips to the glass before picking up his phone and swiftly typing out a message. He then got ready and left within that hour, being certain to leave his phone behind.
To: Angleterre
Re: The Meeting
Se coucher avec-lui. (F*ck it.)
The crisp, clean air of Paris greeted France as he stepped out of his glamorous, intricate mansion. The sky hadn't quite accepted the sun's rebirth, yet; still maintaining its hazy, layered colours of violet flower, fuchsia, and cadmium red light with strokes of broadway pink and the still shy branches of royal yellow peeking from behind the horizon. It was a breathtaking sight to behold and one he did not see often. Tightening his striped muffler, he traipsed casually around the sleeping city, taking his time in admiring each little detail of it. The maze-like structure of the entire city; the numerous tiny, but detailed, fountains; the neatly trimmed, flower bursting hedges; and, of course, the wondrous iron lattice, man-made phenomenon that was the Eiffel Tower. Soon, France found himself in front of a petite, open florist shop which was vaguely familiar. Propelled by curiosity and need, he quietly slipped into the shop.
A small bell tinkled melodiously at his entry. "Coming!" Cried a feminine voice from behind the shop. The voice was soon accompanied by the sound of pattering footsteps and a young lady emerged from the back. She was slim, with honey blonde hair and equally yellow, wavy tresses which reached her neck. She wore a brink pink dress which was vertically striped with black and had a secure bow around her waist. Staring at him for a few moments, her eyes widened with realisation and her lips parted into a radiant beam. "Oh, you must be Monsieur France! My husband talks about you all the time," she laughed brightly. France smiled and nodded in greeting. "What brings you here today?" The young lady enquired, clipping her fringe to the side with a steel pin adorned with a red circle. "I actually came to buy flowers for somebody who was very important to me," he explained with a slightly sad smile. Her smile disappeared instantly. "I see. My condolences," she said, frowning in sympathy. "Is it her death anniversary," the girl continued gently. "No... Actually, it's her birthday," France replied as he looked around the shop, breathing in the sweet symphony of scents. The maiden nodded thoughtfully before pulling out a pair of scissors and a pristine, white ribbon. "Why don't you tell me what she was like? I'll make you a special bouquet," she said, dragging out a stool for France. Eyes shining, he pecked her forhead in a fatherly fashion and murmured, " Merci. Vous êtes aussi gentils. (Thank you. You are too kind.)" She laughed before seating herself down and getting to work.
By the time the bouquet was done, it was a rowdy, enchanting mix of all sorts of flowers; ranging from the unshakable anemone, to the courageous borage, to the pious iris and pure white lily, the bouquet was made to suit her entire personality. It had taken a mere half an hour for the lady's skillful fingers to find, cut, and position each flower in a fantastic way only she could master. Once finished, she had ushered him out of her shop, refusing any form of payment and instead asking him to give the birthday girl her regards. Waving goodbye to the friendly florist, France continued on his journey, making his way to his destination: Place des Pyramides.
Upon arriving, France saw that he wasn't the only one visiting Jeanne in that dreary, grey area. An old man, with wrinkled brown skin and cotton white hair, left a single red rose by her shimmering gold statue, the only burst of colour in the entire premise. He then bent his head in prayer before shuffling toward France. Reaching out his free hand, the nation offered to assist him but was told by the smiling man to instead go and visit her. "La Pucelle d'Orleans Jeanne d'Arc," the ancient looking man had chanted mysteriously as he slowly made his way across the empty streets. "La Pucelle d'Orleans Jeanne d'Arc..."
Once the queer hermit was out of sight, France continued his short distanced stroll to where Jeanne's monument stood, magnificent and proud. It was truly a beautiful piece of art, each feature on her face painstakingly crafted with master workmanship; the specific flow of her flag as she rode in the wind; and the resemblance to the real Jehanne Darc made it a statue fit for a king. However, there it was, standing in the midst of one of the bleakest parts of France, shedding light and hope to whomever looked at her. Perhaps, that was why he liked it so much. Not because of the expertise placed into building it, or because of the glistening gold it had been coated with. Simply because this statue seemed to carry on her message of love, kindness, and harmony even centuries after her passing. Looking up at her, France chuckled softly. "Even after death, you are still as cantankerous as you were in life, huh, Commander?" He murmured affectionately. Forthwith, a voice, whose sweetness could only be described as a gift from the heavens, spoke up. "I told you not to call me that. The only ruler you need is the holy Father."
She walked out from behind her statue, appearing precisely as he remembered her all those years ago. Same raven black hair, same feisty, sienna orbs, and the same petite stature. The only difference France could identify were that she had allowed her unruly locks to grow until they touched her lower neck, covering her red, miniscule birthmark. That, and the fact that she had exchanged her heavy, burnished armour for a modest, cyan cotton frock. "J-Jeanne...?" France questioned, hardly believing his eyes. "Oui. Who else would it be?" She confirmed, looking up at her statue. "I don't look anything like that." She decided. France swallowed down his emotions, trying to keep his composure. "Don't you? I can see the resemblance," he responded, his voice quivering slightly. "The proud seating, the volatile temper in your eyes, the flatness of your chest-" he continued afore she silenced him with a hard punch. As gripped his arm in pain, she examined him in a cool, irate fashion. "Even after five hundred years, you still haven't learnt how to still that prattling tongue of yours." She stated, struggling to resist the urge to yell at him. She mightn't have cared about her appearance, but she didn't enjoy being reminded of her faults, either. France looked up from where he was kneeling in pain and managed to smile mischeviously. "Of course, mon cocotte (my darling). You have always told me to speak the truth." He teased, staggering up, only to be hit once more. "You are lucky that my time with our Father has softened my temper, Francis," she seethed warningly. "Really?" He groaned, "I think I'm only lucky you didn't bring your sword with you." A few tense seconds passed as France waited for another blow. Eventually, he heard Jeanne sigh as she bent down and offered her hand. "You really haven't changed at all," she grinned tiredly as she pulled the ultramarine clad nation to his feet.
Once he had recovered, France looked at the woman he loved slowly. "What are you doing here, Jeanne?" He voiced with slight difficulty. The brunet did a small spin, before parting her lips. "It's my birthday," she stated as though it were an obvious answer. France didn't press the issue, however, instead passing her the elaborate bouquet. "Oui. Anniversaire heureux. (Yes. Happy birthday.)" She accepted it gratefully, albeit, surprised. Taking a moment to breathe in the colourful mixture of scents, she then beamed brightly and embraced him. "Thank you. May God bless your soul," she whispered happily. He returned her hug tightly, wishing they could stay like that for all eternity. They couldn't, though, and she soon pulled away, the wooden cross around her neck swaying gently. France smiled lightly as he recognised the feebly tied, ligneous charm. Clinging to her present, Jeanne faced him seriously. "Francis... Just what are you?" France's smiled vanished to be replaced with a blank look. Jeanne sighed in impatience. "It's been 583 years and, not only haven't you passed on, you look exactly the same as you did back then. What are you?" She huffed. France hid his smile as understanding dawned upon him. He had never told her about himself being a personification of the country she adored so much. She had never asked(probably because she wanted to have as little time with him as possible back then). Facing her in utmost significance, he first asked, "Are you really certain you want to know, Jeanne? My answer could change your view of this world forever, you know?" Her resolve seemed to falter a bit at this before she shook her head and replied with, "I am no longer a part of this world. I am ready." France kept a deadpan face for a while longer afore he smiled and nodded wisely. "I see... You are indeed ready to face the truth." Standing up straight and looking her directly in the eye, he took a deep breath before replying, "I'm an angel."
'Bam!'
France whimpered as he nursed his aching head. Jeanne had calmed down enough by then to talk without screaming. "You really never learn, do you?" She simmered with an almost malicious smile. "That didn't work on me as a child. If you truly thought I'd believe you today, you're horribly mistaken." She continued, referring to the time when Francis first visited her when she was twelve. She had kicked him out of a tree, certain he was a thief. He had tried telling her he was an angel sent by God and she had promptly said that the angel Michael had already visited her and he was pitiful by comparison. France somehow managed to laugh and sob simultaneously as he replied, "V-Very well, Jeanne. I'll show you what I am, no jokes." Arising, he offered his hand, trying to take his mind off the throbbing pain in his head. Cautiously, she slipped her coarse fingers into his and allowed him to guide her to wherever it was he wanted to go. Soon, they reached their destination: the awestriking, pride of France. "La Tour Eiffel..." Jeanne whispered, her hair swishing in the cool morning air. The tower stood majestically, its polished iron gleaming in the emerging snippets of morning. France nodded, as though afraid of shattering the beauty of the lattice of iron. He led her into the observatory and pulled her into a lift, instructing her to close her eyes. At the second floor, they took another elevator, one that would bring them to the peak of the Eiffel Tower. Finally, France helped her out of the lift and murmured, "We're here..."
Jeanne's eyelids fluttered open, and she was instantly welcomed with the delightful sight of the scintillating sunlight soaring over the horizon, bathing the city in its warm radiance. The sunrise gave light to Paris's watch-like structure, making it seem as though the city had suddenly burst into life. The shops slowly began to open their doors, each of them appearing to have their own personal colour and greeting. Gradually, people streamed into the streets wearing multicoloured suits and dresses, some of them carrying bunches of flowers whose petals were thrown into the air, encasing Paris in a storm of iridiscence. Jeanne gasped involuntarily. "It's beautiful," she breathed, her face glowing with wonder. France smiled with amour-propre. Walking up bedside her, he took her face within his hands. "It's me. The whole of France... Is me." He said fervently, his sharp blue eyes burning into her brown ones. At first, she was stunned. Then, slowly, a mixture of trust and understanding bloomed within her and she smiled. She knew he wouldn't lie about things like this, and it was an answer which made some amount of sense. Abruptly, she pulled away, turning to squint at something below the elaborate tower. After a number of minutes, she looked back at France sadly. "I'm sorry, Francis, I have to go." She said, her usually bright eyes shining with tears. "Go?" France echoed desperately, "Go where?" Jeanne laughed. "Go back to our Lord's side, of course," she chuckled, a few tears slipping from her orbs at the sudden movement. France barely realised he was crying as well. "No..." He whispered, his silky voice cracking, "No, Jeanne, please! Don't leave me. Not again!" Jeanne grinned, her form fading. "My dear, silly France! I have never left you. I will always be beside you. Dry your tears, my country, my home. You were, and are, always in my thoughts... I don't hold anything against you nor the English, France. One life is all we have and we live it as we believe in living it. But to sacrifice what you are, and to live without belief, that is a fate more terrible than dying. I chose my path, France, you are not at fault. Se rappeler que je t'ai aimé, Francis... Jhesus-Maria!" She cheered laughingly as she disappeared completely, leaving only a single white lily behind. France stared at the spot where his love had been standing only moments ago. Bending down, he plucked up her blossom and hugged it to his heart.
Once again, he wept for her, but, this time, it was different. There was no sadness, hatred, or anger tucked within each teardrop. Only peace, thankfulness, and joy. Looking out onto the bustling streets of Paris, he thanked her for making him such a wonderful place, whispering words only meant for her ears. "Je - aimer toujours toi, Jeanne."
Toutes les larmes ont leur raison
Toutes les nuits ont leur histoire
Et les yeux rivés au plafond
Je fais appel à ma mémoire
Je vis la vie d'ici
Bien que tout soit dehors
Je prolonge les nuits
Sans faire aucun effort
Je placarde mes mots
Sur un mur incompréhensible
Qui ne sera compris qu'à demi-mots
Par les âmes sensibles
Toutes les larmes ont leur raison
Une histoire qui commence, qui finit
Un cœur qui bat de différentes façons
Jusqu'à la fin de sa vie.
(All the tears have their reason
Every night has their story
And eyes glued to the ceiling
I appeal to my memory
I live the life here below
Despite that everything is outside
I extend the nights
Without making any effort
I plastering my words
On an incomprehensible wall
Which will be understood that half-words
By sensitive souls
All the tears have their reason
A story that begins, which ends
A heart that beats in different ways
Until the end of its life.) -
Disclaimer: Hetalia, nor the poem(Toutes les larmes ont leur raison), belong to me. They each belong to their respective owners. Thank you.
A/N:- Hello! Um, yeah... This was for my dear Feli (fanofmusic9292), on today, her belated birthday. I promise it was supposed to be up yesterday, but, you know, things happen... Anyway, happy belated birthday, Feli! I'm sorry that it sucked badly and that I didn't wish you yesterday. I wanted this to be a surprise... And it turned out to be the worst of my writings so far. I'm so, so, so sorry! ;A; You really deserve a much better birthday gift because you are such an amazing person, but this was all I could come up with... I'm really sorry! It's so choppy and random and augh! (Vomits) I'm very sorry... I'll try and write you a better one if you want... This is so horrible, I feel terrible now... (Sobs) Anyway, I just wanted you to know that you're a beautiful, wonderful, freaking awesome person and that, no matter what, I'll support you in whatever you do! I'll always be there for you to remind you of your epicness, so anytime you're feeling blue, feel free to talk to me. I hope all your troubles will be over real soon, and that the rest of your birthday presents weren't as crappy as this. I'm gonna go cry and grow mushrooms in a corner, now. HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, YOU UNFAIRLY AMAZING WOMAN! ;D XD ;* (HUGS AND KISSES AND ROSES IMPORTED FROM FRANCE AND THE EXORCISM OF ENGLAND'S SCONES FOR YOU, MY DEAR!) I LOVE YOU!
P.S:- The translations for France's and Jeanne's last lines are... Jeanne:- Remember I loved you, Francis. France:- I shall always love you, Jeanne. Also, I used Jeanne's historical character description for this so it doesn't match up with Hetalia's Jeanne. And, yes, her name was really 'Jehanne Darc'. The reason France calls her 'Jeanne' is because she herself testified that when she went out into France, people referred to her as 'Jeanne'. And the part where she says things about living without faith is worse than death is a real Jeanne d'Arc quote. Bye! ;)