The calloused hand covering Francis' mouth became clammy as footsteps drew nearer. Arthur's eyes darted about like a deer through the thicket, on alert. He seemed prepared for flight rather than fight, although his other hand did hover over the hilt of a miniature pocket knife that Francis could now see poking from the inside of his boot.
Squirming his face out of the tense grip the French nation whispered close to the others' ear, "what is wrong? They are only people."
He was sharply hushed once more as disembodied voices came close enough to hear clearly, there were three distinguishable, all male.
"Has to be here somewhere," one spoke with more thrashing of leaves as they approached.
"Who knows if he's even out here, this could be a wild goose chase," said another, now almost on top of them.
The pair peered through the branches, Francis curious but Arthur ready to sprint in an instant. They were men from the village, that much was clear from their sun browned faces and strong frames. All three carried various tools that they clearly intended to use as weapons. Shifting in his squatted position, Francis' heartbeat picked up when they stopped centimetres from the shrub they hid in.
"He has to be along the river somewhere, it's the only water source in the forest," the gravelly voice of one man spoke, "it's like hunting anything else."
"But what if she was lying? This all seems rather far fetched," another hesitated.
Looking over at Arthur, the older boy saw his face pallid with worry, eyes wide and staring. A frightened rabbit in its burrow.
"If there's a reward in it it's worth a look," the first man convinced them as they began to move on, steps heavy.
Francis hadn't realised he had been holding his breath until he let the air free from his lungs, remaining still until the men were out of sight. They could still be heard marching through the undergrowth, their voices protruding the still calmness of their surroundings but their words lost to the breeze.
Turning to his companion, expecting the same relieved smile he expressed, he had barely made eye contact before his nose stung with the impact of a tiny fist.
"Traitor!" came Arthur's hushed yell as he stood to glare down furiously at the boy clutching his face in pain.
The sting turning into a deep throb, Francis pulled a hand away, relieved to see no blood, but still shocked, and fairly angry, at the gesture.
"What have I done now?!" he raised his voice and stood to be taller than the child, not meaning to intimidate but unable to hold back his irritation.
However, the smaller boy wasn't the least bit remorseful, continuing to shoot fire with his eyes as he spat in disgust, "I knew I couldn't trust you! You're a traitor and a liar!"
"I have not lied to you once since I met you! I have no clue what you are talking about!"
A finger was pointed in his face as Arthur only grew more enraged, his switchblade temper in action once again.
"Don't insult my intelligence," he warned, "those men are looking for me and it's your fault!"
"How?" Francis demanded, arms folded. He really was beginning to grow tired of this boy's constant insults and had to refrain himself from throwing one back.
"You come over here and start telling them there's a person that the king is looking for somewhere around, of course they're going to come looking for me!" he all but screamed, not only fury in his tone but a hint of panic also.
"Wait," the French nation paused, anger dissipating somewhat, "your king is looking for you? He does not know you are here?"
The other snarled in his direction, "well of course he doesn't! There's been a bounty on my head for months and now you're going to turn me over to gain his favour, aren't you?"
Sighing heavily, Francis rubbed his sore nose with a long, pale finger, flinching as he felt the swelling already setting in. He couldn't show frustration now, but it seemed to be one misunderstanding after another with this child. It really was draining.
"That is not the case, Arthur," he groaned.
"So, you're saying you didn't tell them I was here?" a heavy, sceptical eyebrow was raised and Francis realised that he was right about at least that.
"Yes, I am the one that may have informed someone you are here," he admitted begrudgingly, "but it was by accident. I had no idea you were being looked for, you must trust me."
"Not looked for, hunted. You heard them, they'll drag me to the palace, kicking and screaming, just for a reward. How can I trust you when my own people would do that to me!"
He had a point. It seemed there was a reason for all this mistrust and wariness after all and he had no idea how to convince him otherwise.
Defeated, the Frenchman's shoulders slumped. "I do not know what to say to you," he muttered, shaking his head, "it was an accident."
All he got in return for his explanation, however, was the same furious gaze. He had no idea how to recover from this and knowing he had failed so soon in his mission was a ball of lead that settled in Francis' stomach, weighing with the sense of shame he deserved. How could he return home and explain that he had not only made a terrible impression, but caused a deep-seated mistrust between the two of them? Hopefully, he would figure something out back at the inn, as he had last time, but he knew when a battle was lost.
Heavy-hearted, he gave up, "I will leave you alone."
As he was about to turn and leave the stern tone of the other stopped him in his tracks.
"I can't let you go," Arthur halted him before he could move, "what if you go back and tell them where I am? I can't let you do that."
The two stood watching each other a minute.
"So, what do you propose I do?" the older boy asked, not sure why he was waiting for orders.
Face showing his thinking, Arthur took a moment before he replied, "you'll have to stay here, where I can make sure you don't give me up. Until you go back home, at least."
Francis blinked, "are you saying you are holding me hostage?" he asked, dubious of what was happening.
"Not hostage just…captive…" the Brit trailed off, as though he had not thought this plan through thoroughly, which he probably had not. At the incredulous look he was given, he continued in his defence. "I don't know if it was an accident or not but, like I said, how can I trust you?"
"Alright," Francis shrugged, nonchalantly.
He easily could have walked away and gone back to the inn but if he did that his mission would be over and he'd have failed. Staying with Arthur meant he could regain trust and carry on. It wouldn't be easy but he appreciated a challenge.
Side-eyeing the older boy, Arthur furrowed his brow. "Alright? You don't seem to mind. I'm holding you against your will, you realise."
The Frenchman simply smiled, his anger from earlier forgotten.
"One should always make the best of their situation, non?" he chirped, "so what now?"
Back inside the little natural bunker, both nations sat the same as they had the previous night eating the remainder of the stew. Chewing the soft chunks slowly, Francis now realised how bland and tasteless the orange mush was but ate it anyway. Perhaps, while he was here, he could teach his 'captor' a thing or two.
They had not spoken much since their little tiff, Arthur seeming awkward. However, Francis did not feel the same and had a burning question from earlier that he longed to ask.
"Arthur?" he began, keeping his tone conversational but careful.
The man he addressed looked up, mouth full, with expecting eyes. Francis continued.
"Earlier you mentioned your mother…"
Swallowing his mouth's contents, the British nation took another spoonful, turning his focus back to the food. "Yes, and?" he muttered, as though there were nothing odd in what they were talking about.
"What I am trying to say, Arthur, without being rude, is how is that so?" the older boy tried not to fumble his question.
Setting down his bowl, Arthur turned to face the other, his expression one of confusion.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Francis bit his inner lip, trying to think of a way to put things delicately.
"If you are a nation how is possible that you have a mother?" he waited for his answer.
"I don't know how else I would have gotten here," the younger boy said as though it were obvious. Good lord speaking to this child was impossible.
"You are a nation though," the boy growing frustrated reiterated, still perplexed.
"So was she," Arthur shrugged, avoiding eye contact, "and why do you even want to know, can't we talk about something else?"
"But who-"
"I said can we talk about something else…" Arthur interrupted.
Unlike the other times he had cut in while Francis was speaking, his words carried not bite, only a desperation for the subject to be dropped. Thinking about it, that probably had something to do with the past tense that was being used in relation to the woman. A twang of guilt plucked at the older boy's heart strings when he fully understood what they had been talking about and he conceded to stop talking about it with no further mention. He did, however, glance at the smaller boy, whose virid eyes had grown delicate red veins.
"Very well," he spoke, attempting to be cheery in a distracting way, "what are we going to do to pass the rest of the day?"
It took a moment for the other to break from his suspended state, causing further guilt on Francis' part, before he sniffed and spoke, looking at him, "I need to clean all these pots and pans and get food for tonight and collect more firewood. I suppose you're going to have to help if I can't leave you alone."
The idea of manual labour wasn't one that excited Francis but he did not wish to be a hindrance and so agreed eagerly.
"I would be happy to help but is it safe to go outside again?"
"Those men are gone now," the other said, collecting together the dirty pots and pans to take out.
"How are you sure?" Francis enquired and was shot an exasperated look in return.
"Do you ever stop asking questions?" the younger boy drawled, but answered anyway, "Alwin followed them. She keeps watch over the woods. Lets me know who comes and goes. Like a guard."
Heaving up the weighty looking load of metal and wood under his arm, Arthur proceeded out the door expecting Francis to follow, which he did. Once outside, the Brit passed his companion the stack and pointed in the direction of the spring.
"Tip what's left on the ground and wash them out in the water, I'll be back with some firewood soon. And don't even think of leaving."
"So that's why you wanted me to stay, I am to be your slave," the Frenchman joked.
The other rolled his eyes, a reaction Francis expected, and let out a little breath of a sigh.
"Just do it," he commanded.
If he hadn't been holding a load of dirty dishes, Francis would have taken the joke one step further and saluted but could only reply verbally. "Yes sir," he nodded and watched the other's caped form flutter away into the thick of the wood.
Shifting the load in his arms with a quiet clatter, he made his way over to the glistening pool and knelt on a cluster of rocks. One by one he tipped out the sloppy contents of the utensils on the ground behind him, sloshed them in the clear water and set them to one side to dry. It didn't take long to clean everything he had been given and, left alone, entranced by the glittering surface, he wanted nothing more than to jump in. His skin and hair felt filthy, having not bathed since before he arrived, as were his clothes. Trailing a hand in the barely detectable current, he looked about him for any sign of movement.
"Arthur?" he called out.
With no reply, the lure of the cool freshness was too much to resist. Stripping down to his undergarments, Francis slowly lowered himself in with a shiver. His creamy skin tingled with the contact in chilling pleasure and he began to wade out, hands floating on the surface. Eyes drifting closed in bliss he stopped at the centre. The pool was deeper than it looked, the clear water magnifying the ground to give the illusion of shallowness, and was chest height on the nation. He began to splash himself gently with the frigid liquid, letting it drip down his face and neck, avoiding his eyes. It was a heavenly sensation to feel so clean. So much so that he was caught completely off guard when he was splashed from behind, letting out a not so manly shriek as icy tendrils slapped him in the back. Turning with his mouth agape in paralysis he was met with the English nation, smirking in triumph.
"I thought I told you to wash those pots," he tried to sound authorative but there was unmistakable amusement in his words.
Francis looked at him a moment, closing his mouth and forming a smirk of his own as he lowered both hands beneath the water's skin and doused the small boy in retaliation. Arthur stood, frozen as Francis had been, ashen yellow fringe plastered to his face, covering his eyes. The older, and supposedly more mature, of the pair couldn't hold in a snorted laugh at the other, standing like a drowned woodland creature.
Peeling back the sodden hair from his sight, Arthur glowered across at the other nation, not with irritation or anger as Francis had expected but with mischief. To the other's surprise, he removed his cape and boots, waded in up to his waist and proceeded to drench his rival with tidal waves of water.
"Ah! Mon Dieu! You beast!" Francis screamed, raising his arms shield himself from the attack, beaming all the time.
"Filthy frog, I thought you wanted a wash!" the younger boy shouted, his own smile evident in his voice.
"Non! Please, have mercy!" the squealing Frenchman peered through his fingers to watch the grin on the other's face for the first time. Now that was how children were supposed to look. Happy. A sense joy filled his chest in seeing Arthur feel something other than rage or sullenness.
"Surrender!" the attacker exclaimed in glee.
"In the name of France, never!" the victim hollered back as he returned fire.
Their raucous of laughter could surely be heard for miles as the two fought, both drenched and breathless, until their arms grew too tired to carry on any longer. Crawling from the water, still shaking with chuckles, they lay flopped on the bank like beached fish. Rays of dappled sunlight littered their dripping bodies, warming them in patches.
"We should take the wood inside," it was Arthur who broke the peace, "I saw some dark clouds not far off, the weather could turn."
Rolling his head to the side so their faces were inches from one another, Francis admired the echo of a smile that still rested on the other's pink lips. "Why don't you let me cook," he offered, "in return for your hospitality."
"Alright," Arthur agreed, "but I still have to find something for you to cook first."
Standing, the smaller blond wrung out his hair, now longer with the weight of the water. Together, they carried in their belongings and Arthur began to build up the dwindling fire.
"I could stay and stoke the fire while you find food," Francis suggested, adding, "I won't run away, I promise."
The look he received suggested that Arthur still did not completely trust him, but he conceded anyhow. "Be careful," he warned, taking up his bow and a quiver of arrows as he exited again.
By himself once more, the Frenchman crouched by the fire to feed in the pile of small logs he had been left, prodding it every now and then. He chopped some potatoes he found beside the stove and fetched some water that he left to boil. Without much to do, he sat beside the fire to dry off his golden locks and waited for Arthur to return.
It didn't take long before light footsteps resonated down the rock hallway and the pale nation appeared with a dead and ready skinned hare slung over his shoulder. He slapped the bare animal down on the table for Francis, who grimaced at it.
"I thought you said you wanted to cook," he said, noting the disgusted expression.
"Non, I will," the older boy replied, reluctantly picking up the body.
It was still warm and slimy but Arthur must have washed and gutted it outside, for which he was very grateful. Borrowing his host's small knife, he began to take the meat from the bone and place it in with the already boiling potatoes.
Behind him, Arthur set about sharpening his arrows, grinding at them with some sort of tool. They did not speak for quite some time but the silence was different from the silences before, now more companionable. The day had seemingly passed in a blur, not that Francis minded so much, however, he now realised his limbs begin to ache from the amount of work they had done. Unused to living this way, he was tired beyond anything he had felt before and had to stifle a yawn. They both ate hungrily, and, even though it was far from a delicacy, Francis was proud of what he had managed to do with just two ingredients.
"How's your nose?" a rather sheepish voice asked.
Touching it to feel only a slight bruise, Francis gave a small smile. "It is alright, it does not hurt," he assured the smaller boy who looked a little guilty.
"I'm sorry I hit you. I was angry," he muttered, cheeks growing a shade redder.
He was a hot-headed boy, that was for sure. Paranoid and bitter, too, but not savage as Francis had feared. Something in the way his eyes could not hide his thoughts, his constantly shifting emotions, that proved this. In Francis' experience of him, he was nothing more than a child, left alone and lost. He couldn't help but feel sorry for him.
"I know and I appreciate your apology. All is forgiven."
Deep orange light glowed through the small gap of a window and bathed the room in welcomed heat. Although the sun had not yet set, both boys were exhausted from their days, Francis physically and Arthur mentally.
Falling into their bunks once more, the French nation came to a realisation from the previous night.
"Arthur?" he spoke up, lying on his back and staring at the low ceiling.
"Yes," he heard back.
"Did you and your mother used to live here?"
There was a brief pause in which he worried he had upset the young boy once more.
"Yes," the small voice replied, "we built it together."
As much as he felt bad for the boy, there was something else Francis felt tugging at his chest. Jealousy? He, himself, had never known a real family but at least that meant he never had to lose one too.
"It is lovely," he complimented, meaning it.
"Thank you," was the equally sincere reply, "goodnight."
Outside, the wind picked up and a faint, wet pattering sounded. The smell of disturbed ground wafted through but neither boy noticed, already asleep.
So much for the next one being faster but all I can do is apologise as my time is limited. Another, somewhat, boring one, I know but I had a bit of writer's block. Thanks for baring with me xx