A/N: Final chapter, guys! :) If you're thinking, Hallelujah! Finally! right now, I know what you mean xD But this is like two chapters in one, so…
Back in the spare room...
"Is it okay if I go and check on him?" France asked Joan, whom he was embracing.
The saint gently poked his right shoulder in positive reply.
"I don't want to leave you on our own tho-"
SMACK!
"Right! You're not a child anymore!" the Frenchman hastily said as he stood and began to stroll down the corridor in the direction of where England had walked. He had never been allowed into England's house before, so everything was brand new. How haunting without illumination the corridor was. The verdant carpet, dark and endless. The cream walls, pale and ghostly. The chink of white light, the monster at the heart of the abyss. Despite all this, France decided to shake off the eerie insect creeping up his back that was fear and continued on like a man. Suddenly, he heard a spluttering noise coming from the room from which the light was emanating that just added to the freaky atmosphere. Oh, it's just the pipes, he thought, listening out for another sound in silence. There it was again. He stopped. That definitely wasn't the pipes. That was the sound of someone being sick. "Arthur!" he called, quickening his pace. Hurriedly, he slammed open the bathroom door to find blood, blood and more blood. "Merde!" he swore, rushing to be by his ill lover's side to comfort and aid him.
Between coughs and scarlet splutters, England managed: "It's the Feeling! It hasn't gone!"
"It's my fault! Oh, Dieu, it's my fault!" the other yelled to no one but himself.
More vomiting and spluttering. "Shut the hell up and call a bloody ambulance!" the English nation practically screamed. "And no, Joan, you can't do anything about it!"
France turned around at the impact of hand on shoulder. "Jeanne…" he whispered. "Save him… Please…" And he received a gentle tap to his right shoulder.
It was then that the miracle of all miracles took place, and boy, was it spectacular. Angelsong floated around the room, defeating any darkness that lurked in hidden crevices. Blinding, white light that faded to gold in the corners of the room engulfed the figure that was hunched over the toilet. An amazing sensation of ecstasy overwhelmed him and tugged at his lips to form a smile so wide that it was a white cloth draped across his face from ear to ear as the light raised him into the air. England hovered approximately five inches above the carpeted floor, arms flailing in search of balance, while France stared in disbelief. He turned to Joan and tightly hugged her, but his arms cut through thin air. He grinned as he felt a tap on his left shoulder and imagined that the saint was probably giving him a smug look. A beautiful, angelic, smug look. The French nation returned his attention to England. To his surprise, he had landed on two feet and the glow was beginning to subside. Ever so upright and healthy he looked, with his skin full of colour that had been drained by sickness.
"I don't know what to say," said a dazed England, swaying slightly in the aftershock of being… He didn't know what Joan was doing to him, to be honest.
"Answer my question first then! Are you alright?" the older said with a flicker of a relieved chuckle, embracing him softly in loving, strong arms, careful as to not harm his normal body that was neither dangerously thin nor deathly pale for a marvellous change.
"Yeah, sure! I've never felt better!" the other replied, remembering his previous jealousy and, subsequently, 'forgetting' to thank the very person that had just saved him, on purpose.
Joan tolerated this with great struggle, as she was fuming inside. Ungrateful creature! If I am not mistaken, he is in a state of jealousy! her mind spat. Unfortunately, it turned out that she had thought out loud.
"Excuse me?" the Englishman shot acerbically in the saint's direction. Truth be told, deep down he knew that he was on the edge of crossing the line, and that his behaviour was downright repugnant and that he was just being damn perverse*. But he chose to go on all the same.
It would be unholy of me to utter an insult, but he is my rival...
France sensed the tension in the atmosphere between his dead and alive lover. Could it be that they're jealous of each other? That's not like Jeanne or Arthur but it's possible, he thought, trying not to be flattered that they would go so far as to argue over him. Shaking it off, at last he asked Joan about the events of… 'before', let's call it, since no one can actually recall when everything occurred, or place those pictures in chronological order. "Jeanne, what happened? You know… Why are we alive? Why is that creature, that I'm going to presume was Death, gone? And why are you here?"
Despite his jealousy of Joan, England dictated her words for his lover's sake. "I have an explanation that shall answer all three of your questions simultaneously, if that is to your satisfaction."
"Bien sûr," the Frenchman chirped to where the saint had stood last with a smile.
"To explain how the two of you are alive completely would take quite some time, so make yourselves comfortable," the English nation droned on with a poisonous edge, glancing at Joan every once in a while just to intimidate her*[2]. His eyes dark, at her he discreetly threw a face that whispered: 'get away from Francis; he's mine'.
What in the heavens is he planning? Ah, I shan't worry – to each their own, thought Joan as she gave England a suspicious look out of the corner of her eye. However, I do find it unvirtuous and peculiar for him to be so jealous of me, for he is the one who is living and able to comfort Francis. But I have to keep remembering that himself he is not. Prior to his illness, he was a decent man who had a difficult past… One has to feel sympathetic towards him.
"There once was a time in which Death was a soul, a spirit of a deceased being, who had no name and dwelt in heaven because of his righteous life in the Realm of the Mortals (your realm) and on one fateful day I asked him (it was a 'him' back then) about who he used to be," England continued. "Little did I know, for him it was a sensitive subject. He did not answer, but walked away in both agitation and haste. The following day, I questioned him again, and he shouted at me to let him be… The next thing I know is that God Almighty has banished him to hell as a result of overhearing his shouting and stripped him of the right to be called a soul, therefore being known as 'it' instead of 'him' forever after. I felt like the fault was all mine, and he was one of my closer friends, but I was not allowed to share my feelings of guilt and regret or I would have been banished too. I should not have been so persistent in asking him, thought I. But the crime that it committed only recently was truly unworthy of forgiveness: As it became bored of its job, It began harvesting souls that were not destined to be harvested so soon, including yours, Francis, and almost yours, Arthur. To make a joke, it did it 'for the hell of it'." England somehow managed to spare a moment to groan, which caused Joan to roll her eyes then slap herself across the face lightly in realisation of her actions being unholy. "Of course, God Almighty found out and, having had enough of Death's sins, sent me to this realm to dispose of it. I caught it in the act and proceeded to persuade it to bestow upon me the thousands of 'innocent souls', as we call them in the buisness of soul-trafficking, that were being held captive in a sphere. I continued on to dispatch it in the name of God Almighty, and then found myself not knowing how to resurrect the deceased soul owners. Furthermore, most would have been deceased for a long time and would have been buried or cremated."
"How did you come up with the solution, ma cherie?" questioned an awe-struck France, engrossed in the saint's words that flowed from England's mouth.
"I prayed. I performed not the usual species of prayer, but a Prayer of Shift Resurrection, which not only revives the dead but returns the body to its normal state and moves it if it is in any way contained," replied Joan through England. "It was a long, arduous experience, but it was successful."
The Englishman faced Joan and asked, "So if my soul wasn't harvested, then why am I here?"
Silence fell as the saint replied in sentences that did not reach France's ears, which pined for her voice.
"She says that the way of doing a Prayer of Shift Resurrection has always had a fault that no one has corrected. Apparently, any dead being attached to the soul-owner in any way will be revived as well as the soul-owner themselves! That's superb," England commented with genuine interest.
How intriguing, that he should switch between personalities in a matter of mere seconds, Joan thought, beginning to delve into the English nation's condition in greater detail.
"I'm just glad we're here, all thanks to you," the Frenchman sighed in a lonely kind of contentment in Joan's direction. "But, Jeanne, I have another question for you…" He walked over to her and tenderly felt for her shoulders, which he held. "Do you really still love me?"
England flinched. The jealous half, anyway. Why would he ask such a question?!
France felt a hand grasp his right shoulder. "That's good," he said, glowing in his blissful relief. "Because I still love you too; you mean the world to me."
While all this one-sided 'gooey lovey-dovey talk' was going on, England was scheming something malevolent that would make dear Francis his, once and for all. He had been observing Joan and France's actions like a hawk. Like a cartoon villain, he rubbed his hands together slowly as his aura turned black. And when France said those words, England saw his chance and seized it. He rushed behind the older and smacked him across the face, making sure to deliver the blow to the side on which he previously stood when he made his dictations, in order to give him time to get back into position while France's head was turned. It was flawless.
"Jeanne…?" the Frenchman gasped in shock. "Pourquoi…?"
All poor Joan could do was frantically tap France's left shoulder, the force increasing with every touch. With each impact, the heart of the French nation, who was interpreting the saint's message incorrectly, shattered into the number of pieces it was in before times itself. Devastation. Confusion. Panic.
"Come on, let's get away from her," England said in insane ecstasy, every word spiked with venom and acid. "She obviously doesn't want you." And with that, he roughly grabbed his broken lover's limp arm and yanked him out of the room and down the corridor without sparing a single thought for his feelings. He cackled psychopathically, partially to block out the sounds of stifled, angry sobs that escaped from the spare room.
Joan steadied herself with difficulty. Emotionally and physically. She was even about to mutter a curse under her breath, but was stopped by a holy message that read:
He says that you may return now. I have seen everything, and I personally think that staying in the Realm of the Mortals shall damage your moral.
- Catherine
Joan sighed. She agreed with Saint Catherine of Alexandria completely, but she didn't desire to admit defeat just yet. She led the French army to victory countless times; this was a petty situation! Ignoring Catherine's holy message, she battled on, throwing the door open and advancing down the phantom-ridden, deep green carpet battlefield, ready for anything. Anything for France's sake. As she reached the living room in which said nation and the disgusting England sat cosied up on the sofa. I must be Francis' saviour! I must be Francis' saviour! the chant echoed repeatedly inside the saint's head while she boldly strode over to England and gave him a whole-hearted… nothing. I shall become as much a sinner as he if I am to inflict damage unto him.
England pretended not to see Joan and snuggled up to France. The Frenchman noticed the eerie change in his lover and put two and two together, acknowledging the saint's presence by utter chance. He whispered, "Hey, Jeanne, you can leave, you know."
Joan patted his left shoulder with gentle defiance.
"You slapped me… and said that you didn't feel the same about me anymore."
Left.
"Trust me, Jeanne… If you leave, m-my heart won't hurt like it does now."
Keep going, Francis! sang England's mind.
Left again.
"Please! Jeanne… If you love me, you'll go."
Joan stopped and started to shiver with grief. Alright, she finally thought, leaning down to kiss her past lover farewell. Au revoir*[3], mon amour.
And she was gone.
"I don't know about you, but I'm starving!" England laughed, but France didn't laugh with him. He gazed up at the heavens and silently began to cry.
Epilogue
On an immaculate floor of pure gold sat a girl whose halves of her heart clutched desperately at the cheap stitches that barely held them together. Every day for the past fifteen years, she merely sat in the very same position, in the very same spot on the floor with her head in her hands. Then one day, she lifted her head, a distant expression upon her face. Planning. Planning. Planning. Saint Joan of Arc was never one for revenge. Such a disgusting concept it was. But now… it seemed like a pretty good idea.
*In case you didn't know, this word does not mean perverted.
*[2] England's only acting like this because he hasn't fully recovered from the mental state that he was in when he was ill, therefore he's susceptible to mood swings, jealousy and not being able to distinguish right from wrong.
*[3] If 'farewell' is adieu, then au revoir means what…? ;) Thanks for reading!
