Gracias,Antonio

Révolution

France was awoken from his sleep to a loud crash. Jumping out of bed, he looked out the window. He saw the slaves attacking his French settlers all around. Still recovering from what happened back at home to his king a few years back, he limped over to his dresser and quickly put on his gear. The bandages around his chest and arms were tightened. Grabbing his sword, he ran down the hall to Saint Domingue's room. Instead of knocking, he kicked in the door to find his little sister out of bed, her sword and gun gone from their cases. In panic, he ran out side, some of his men following him. The scene before him made him gasp. In front of him, his men were beaten to the ground. Trying to get passed the attacking slaves, he made it his mission to find Tamarah and make sure the slaves didn't find her.

Soon coming upon the path to Tamarah and Raquel's birth place, he spotted a figure in the dark, a flag raised in the background. He took a step forward, his sword ready.

"'ho ahr you? W'ere iz my Tamarah?" Francis yelled. Hazel eyes glowed in the dark. It took a few steps forward. France slowly raised his sword, ready to attack. His blue eyes squinted in the dark trying to make out a face. The figure stood in place, its hazel eyes drilling into the Frenchman's blue ones.

Anger. Hurt. Vengeance. Those eyes flashed multiple negetive emotions. The figure drew its sword and began to walk towards the blonde in a quick, graceful motion. France matched its pace and began to circle the perimeter of the grassy area that was enclosed by large trees. Not taking his eyes off of the figure, Francis began to yell for Tamarah, thinking this figure had held her captive. The figure giggled. Wait... Giggled? France stepped closer to the figure.

"Papa Lafrans (Papa France...)"
Francis lowered his sword as he heard the voice of his younger nation. The figure moved into the middle of the large area, where the moon's light peaked through the trees. France became wide eyed, dropping to his knees. His chest became hot and began to tingle as he looked at the figure. Her hazel eyes piercing his heart, his mind, his body. His own creation of a nation, turned against him, and ready to kill him.

With a new flag presented behind her, Saint Domingue's face became dark as she stood before him, now age thirteen in human years. Dressed in a tan military uniform, she gritted her teeth at him.

"Why? Why, Tamarah? 'ave I not been de fatehr you wanted?" France yelled tears falling down his face. Saint Domingue took out a French flag from her back pocket. She held it up to the new flag standing behind her.

"Do you like it,Papa, Lafrans? We used your flag to make it." The hazel orbed teen asked bitterly.
" Que faisez-vous mon cher?(what are you doing, my dear)" Francis roared.
Taking her sword, she threw the French flag in the air and slashed it twice. As the fabric fluttered in from of the blonde, he noticed that the white stripe was cut out.

"I have always waited for the perfect day; one chance to fix you Europeans up. Oh, the pain you caused me, papa Lafrans... " Tamarah paced around the Frenchman nonchalantly with a small smile on her lips.
France couldn't stand. The feeling in his legs left him. Is this how it was suppose to end? He wanted to become the greatest nation in the world. He had conquered the majority of Europe...but the one thing he actually cared for...the only thing he had a chance to make his forever...gone out of his grasp in a blink. The only thing that he can call his, standing before him, was ready to end his life. He has lost the control of his own people for France itself. His king is dead, the Terror had struck. And for what? His boss was dead by order of the people of his revolution ((A/N: Louis XVI)). And yet another self proclaimed monarch comes along and every other country begins to attack him when he fell to his knees in Russia ((A/N: Napoleon I)).

" Pourquoi? Tamarah! What 'ave I done to you-"
Tamarah took off her hat and threw it on the ground. She undid the buttons on her military coat. The coat dropped to the floor. France stared in horror as red scares and bruises became visible on Saint Domingue's arms. She wore a white shirt, the blood seeping through it as she heard the cries of more of her people fighting against the French.

"This... Papa Lafrans, is the treatment you casted on me. You may have housed me, taught me to read, to write, to speak, to feel. But you used your advantages as a powerful country and used me for your own needs. Imprisoned me with in a cage, not letting me out-"

"I 'ave never-!"

"Then explain what is happening before you, Papa Lafrans! My people were dying and all you cared about was making money, getting power...I may be young, but I know well enough that no human should ever be treated the way you treated my people!" Tamarah cried, tears rolling down her now blood stained cheeks.

France tried to move. He was able to finally stand, gathering the energy to face her. He watched her cry in front of him, the blood stains growing bigger and bigger. Pulling her self together, she wiped her eyes and put her tan military coat back on. She placed the matching hat on her head and glared at him, her eyes watching as he tried to stand straight against a tree. France took hold of his sword and put a hand on his chest. A final tear escaped his eyes and he met her steady gaze. Lifting the sword he pointed it at her.

"I...want independence from you," she said casting her own sword.

" Je ne le permets pas! (I won't allow it!)" France roared before charging at her with full force.
He swung at her. The pain in his chest growing as they exchanged swings and blows. They were both trained in fencing. He had taught her how to fence when she was a little girl. How to hold a foil. How to strike. How to never give mercy. Her speed matched his, and each blow became heavier and heavier with the force of hate and sorrow. All France could do was block and wait for an opening. Soon it came, but she was able to block it swing, the two nations were face to face now. Their weapons the only thing between them, battling for dominance.

"Well, played, Papa Lafrans..." Tamarah struggled against his sword against her own trying to push him or find a way to swing.

France was ready for any thing she would throw at him. He glared down into her eyes. The older nation gained the confidence to go against his heart and try to control his corrupted creation. He grew angry as he looked into her eyes. But then, he lost his sense of feeling all over his body. A white light made him blink. Before him stood a toddler version of Saint Domingue, smiling up at him holding out her hand. France looked down, he was in his pirate clothing, the ones he wore when he first stepped onto the island with Spain. Smiling down at the girl, he took her hand.

Francis found himself on the floor, his chest burning. Looking up, Tamarah stood over him, her gun pointed at his head, her sword on her hip. Her native people encircled them, watching and cheering. Her chocolate skin was wet with blood and sweat. She spoke.

"You will leave once the sun is high in the sky. And you will never return, Papa Lafrans."
The people around her cheered. Pocketing the gun, she turned to her people.

"Nou se gratis nan frè m 'pase a, m' ak sè! No longer ap mache nan franse sou tè nou an, ap pran nou pou yo akòde!( We are free at last, my brothers and sisters! No longer will the French walk on our land, taking us for granted!)"

Tamarah put her fist in the air and cheered along with her people. Turning back to France, she grabbed him by his collar and ordered one of her people to take him back to the hut, under watch. As Saint Domingue watch the sun raise over the trees, France sat in his room, his things packed, hand over his chest. He was trying to be a great father to her. If Hispaniola saw what he had done, he'd die of guilt. Hispaniola would cry and hit him. She'd curse him and have the her people torture him. There was nothing he could do to fix this.
Absolutely nothing.

Révolution