I – Falling For the Enemy Never Goes Out of Fashion
"Go now!"
England ground out. Teeth chattering as his fingernails dug harshly into the hilt of his sword.
"Quoi…?!"
"I said go! You're bloody free to go, now get out of here!" He retracts his blade from the mud and turns to spit the blood from his mouth.
Slowly, shakily France got to his feet. His gaze bore into his young enemy's back, feeling cheated of defeat and wretched to even have engaged in this travesty of a duel. Such an odd place to find himself, after only moments ago when the younger Nation's unsteady blade was poised at his neck…
He preferred England's blade, over his mercy. There was always a catch when the English Nation showed him kindness in the battlefield. Now that England was relinquishing his win and refusing to take him prisoner, it scared him to quite a degree; Far more than the prospect of defeat, humiliation, or torture.
He knew why they had come. He had known for some time now that The Queen of the Sceptred Isle coveted France –him, to be more specific. And it wasn't that he didn't expect them to come sooner or later, but he was hoping against hope that it wasn't this.
The queen's soldiers, he was prepared to face. But not England himself, not when he was still so young, and was almost never sent to battle if not to serve as a mere beacon. The moment he caught sight of the younger Nation's slight form clad in heavy armour and unsheathing his sword, he knew only too well— this was one of those battles he was destined to lose before it began.
All these bloody rendezvous… all these wars, and everything he came to know as a Nation ceased to make sense ever since countless years ago— once upon a time in the woods… when he first came face to face with a pair of unforgettable eyes that seemed to defy nature itself in its innocent splendour. He understood then. There were battles far more important than the ones he had been fighting up to now; One not won by soldiers, armament or bloodshed… A battle to win another's heart.
He understood that his real destiny… was that of a prisoner.
A prisoner to his own heart.
"Non." Young France stood tall in spite of himself. And though his legs still shook badly from fatigue, his tone didn't waver, "I lost."
"You bloody imbecile." England grated through blood-soaked teeth. "I said you're free to go! What bit of that don't you understand?!"
"You're ze one 'uu doesn't understand any'zing." replied the French boy, unable to mask the bitterness he felt. "I am never free. Not now, not ever…" He blindly reached forward, hands seeking that familiar warmth that was England, but only cold, stained armour met his fingers. "Do what you must widz me for ze queen, you will always be—"
"No!" England snapped stepping away, heaving sharp, shaky breaths. "I am not! And we never will be! You… are the enemy!"
"S'il tu plait—" France advanced once more, but the tip of England's shaky blade came up between them. However, that wasn't really what stopped him…
"I implore you… Don't make me change my mind." England's bleary eyes burned with unshed tears. "Make no mistake… I will kill you if I must! So, go now! While I still have enough madness in me to allow it."
The French Nation met those eyes brazenly, fists balled up so tightly he could barely feel the bloody crescent moons blooming in his stood there challenging the other's resolve, wanting him to understand that none of this mattered to him anymore; Nothing could parallel the fear that consumed his heart at the thought of England's own life being in peril! All he wanted was to spare England of whatever punishment awaited if he didn't return with his prize. This was the second time England had been sent to capture him, and the second time he would fail. And France knew –from the unnerving amount of bruises, cuts, and freshly formed scabs on the younger Nation even before their duel began– that the queen did not take kindly to failure.
"Non…" France said adamantly. "I won't let you do zis. I vowed to protect you. It's what friends do!"
"I DON'T WANT HER HANDS ON YOU DON'T YOU BLOODY UNDERSTAND THAT?!"
For a few moments, England truly looked like a young boy instead of the embodiment of a powerful Nation. Tears welled up in his eyes and feeble sobs shook his delicate frame. But the image was gone too soon, as he viciously dried his eyes, the fire in it restored when he looked up again. "I don't wish to be indebted to you… of all people."
Before France could say more, the sound of hooves rumbled ominously in the distance, and suddenly the ground beneath him had vanished, suddenly he was beyond the cliff's edge, momentarily suspended over the raging waters below. But the young Nation's push hadn't been strong enough, and only a few feet into the fall he manages to grab onto some protruding rocks and roots; He dangled steep enough to remain unseen, but still close enough to hear what transpired above.
"Where is the filthy little Nation?!" A man's scratchy voice boomed.
"G-got away…" England's stammered breathlessly. His voice seemed so small in France's ears all of a sudden.
"What?! Again, you've failed her majesty!"
"N-next time I promise, I'll—!"
A loud crack reverberated across the mountain, and France's bloody palms dug deeper into the earth.
They hit him…! How could those soldiers hit their own Nation? England may be half immortal but he was still a child –a child of thirteen years human age in appearance! The heartless bastards!
The blow sounded hard enough to knock even a grown man unconscious, and the silence that followed confirmed his fears. When the sound of galloping hooves faded away completely, he gingerly hauled himself up and collapsed to his knees.
Only the tell-tale signs of the battle that had transpired minutes ago remained…
England was nowhere in sight.
End of Part I.
Continued in Part II...
