Unsent Letters
France whacked his head on the sloped ceiling. Cursing loudly and clutching his head, he pause to scowl menacingly at the offending part of his house before continuing with his task. It was high time he cleaned the attic; after all, he thinks that the last time he was up here was after the Second Great War ended. France isn't really one to dawdle in the past. After all, the time at hand is the time most enjoyable, he thinks. He pushes his way through artifacts, smiling at some and frowning at others, shaking layers of dust off of the objects alike. He passes a sword from his war with Prussia and Spain, the very first act of friendship among the Bad Touch Trio, and he laughs aloud at the memories of their drunken nights camped out on the battlefield. He frowns at a bloodstained handkerchief, a remnant of the Terror, his darkest days. Silk stockings and lipstick from the height of artistic popularity in the 20s-he knew he had something from Zelda around here somewhere. Lace fans and artificial roses from the grandeur of the 19th century, leaving him lost in a wandering daydream of high kicks and swirling skirts. Ropes of pearls from the grand masquerade of the Cloth of Gold, and a splintered lance from a tourney that he rode in what feels like eons ago. He wades in past years and dust mites and long forgotten memories, including those that should have perhaps stayed buried.
He isn't looking for the chest when he finds it; rather, it is a painful discovery bravely undergone by one of his toes as the rest of him was tending to far less adventurous tasks. The chest looks older than anything else in the room. It is battered cherrywood, and the bronze that holds it together is well scratched. The lock is crudely made and engraved with some of his earliest art that still evokes the Celtic styles of Gaul. The dust on this one is so thick that he needs to sweep the lid three times before he can see it for what it truly is, and he laughs. The sound is a little tinny.
Gilbert-dear Gilbert, who thought himself the centre of the universe-wrote diaries (although recently he'd upgraded to blogs). He wrote by himself, for himself, about himself; his was a history told in the written word, told in self-contemplation. Antonio preferred mementos; his was a story told in trinkets. All nations kept reminders of their great ages, of their times of greatest power, of war and culture; but Spain was a borderline hoarder. He kept anything of the littlest significance, from a quill he once used to write phallic poetry in the fifteenth century to a pair of shoes he'd danced in at the latest Eurovision contest.
But Francis-Francis's life had always been about other people. France was the nation of love, of art, of culture, all of which needed the appreciation of other people to thrive. So France's history was told in letters.
Mildly curious (and yet dreading to know, or rather confirm, what was inside), France spent the next several minutes searching for the key. When his attempts succeeded in no venture except perhaps ruining his clothes, he simply shrugged and grabbed the nearest weapon: a pistol. He slammed the butt of it into the lock (after checking that it was unloaded, he was not an idiot), and on the third try it cracked. The contents of the chest were remarkably well preserved, especially considering their age. Shunting aside boxes and military uniforms and old canvases, he sinks down until he is sitting cross-legged on the floor, and then pulls the leaves of paper into his lap and begins to read.
Dear England,
You're stupid. I hate you. You and your stupid messy hair and those horrendous caterpillars you call eyebrows.
France
Dear England,
I will never forgive you. If it weren't for you, Jeanne wouldn't have died. Know this, bâtard-I will never, ever forget that you were the one who took her away from me.
France
Well, that wasn't very encouraging. He continues to sort through the vellum and parchment, and soldiers on in his reading.
Dear England,
Remind me to never ever ever invite you to a "conference of mutual interests" again. In fact, I think it would be better off for all of us if our royal families perhaps never even met again. I never knew festivities could be so...boring. Also, your food is barbaric to the point of it being hardly edible. If I am served one more piece of boiled, brown, unidentifiable meat I will scream. And your "delicacies," like the peacock...burnt beyond the point of rescue. Horrendous.
France
P.S. Your fashion sense is improving, though. That green doublet you were wearing made you look almost attractive. Must be all the times you've been watching moi.
Dear England,
...I don't know why I care, but your leaving the Church worries me. I know this Henri of yours can be difficult, but surely you can come to some sort of agreement? I worry for your soul.
France
Dear England,
Occasionally I forget what an idiot your queen is; it's a trait she shares with you. I know you're utterly enamored with her, but she will never love you. She's refused every proposal of marriage, and she will die soon anyway. It shan't be tomorrow, it shan't be next week, but to us it will seem the blink of an eye. And I hope you will understand what it means to love a mortal and have them taken away from you. I hope all your love freezes in your heart in shards and you finally understand what I lost when I lost Jeanne. Strange, how it gives me no pleasure to write this. Perhaps because I know she is lost to me. I think I have drunk too much wine; when Elizabeth dies I advise you do the same.
France
Dear England,
My dear Arthur, you can't possibly be serious about making Prussia your ally. I concede that you and I have had our spats, and no one will deny that I am eager for another chance to show you up, but I can't help but fear for your sanity. Prussia? Ten minutes with Gilbert will leave you mad, if you aren't already. I hope you know what you're doing.
France
Dear England,
America is my little brother. End of.
France
Dear England,
If you can't have America I get Canada. It's only fair. Otherwise we won't be neighbours anymore and how will we continue our squabbles then?
France
Dear England,
Oh, cher, I am so sorry. I know you didn't want to lose Alfred. He meant the world to you, didn't he? He was your world, your new world, your fresh and shiny chance. You had to let him go, though, don't you see? Because otherwise he would have grown to despise you more, had you kept him there. And I can't think of anything that would break your heart more. I was wrong, when I said Elizabeth was your Jeanne. Alfred is. Alfred is your ashes-of-roses.
Je suis desolé.
France
Dear England,
Fuck you, you son of a whore. By what right do you seize my ships? By what right do you block my trade? Are you the king, that we all must bow down to you? Are you a god now? You don't believe in god, you heathen, so instead you made yourself one.
France
Dear England,
I tried to warn you not to try and take Alfred back. It only hurts you the more. Didn't you learn that from watching Canada and myself? Don't you ever learn, you stupid, arrogant, foolish, prideful nation?
France
Dear England,
I know it's been a while since we've talked last. I just can't shake the feeling that something dreadful is going to happen soon...like the world will fall out from under our feet.
France
This has to be written quickly. Even ink is rationed now. Please get here quickly. We need you. Men are dying, some shot some gassed some starving but we're all dying. Please hurry. I'll even grovel but...I don't want to be the next one found dead in a ditch. We need you-I need you, Arthur.
Dear England,
If we're going to die we might as well die together. I cannot think of a nobler, braver, more stubborn companion to die beside. You're waking, so I should hide this. Can't have you reading my letters.
France
Dear England,
You must be sick...you must be sick too. You are, aren't you? God knows poor Alfred's taken the worst of it economically, but it seems to be contagious. How ironic. Don't...don't worry yourself worse over him. I know you always do. He fought in the war with us, he can take care of himself. Unlike you, apparently, because you are so busy with everyone else. Please don't forget being England when you are being an Empire...after all, that happened to me in Russia and I have never been the same since.
France
Dear England,
I thought we were done with hellfire. I thought we were done with Great Wars. I thought we were done with all of this...god, Arthur, please be alive, please still be fighting, because the world doesn't stand a chance without you. Stay strong, my knight.
England
Dear England,
I saw Ludwig today. I don't think I've ever seen him look that miserable. He's at war within himself as much as I am; for every man who shoots a prisoner ten are smuggled across the border. I've seen him helping them, trying to reach for the good inside him. Promise me...promise me you'll never let your boss get as evil as his. I don't think I could live through seeing the emptiness in your eyes.
France
Dear England STOP
I am so hungry even your food sounds appetizing to me now STOP I didn't think I'd ever get that desperate, but the moment has arrived STOP
Alright, so I didn't send this just to insult your food STOP I know about the Blitz, and I want you to send me a telegram as soon as you receive this STOP Let me know you're safe STOP I know you're in pain, let me help you if I can STOP Be sure to telegram Alfred, he worries about you STOP Don't let Scotland handle the get well food you know he'll make haggis without you to supervise him in the kitchen STOP Please be safe be strong STOP ...After all, who will I bicker with if you leave STOP
France STOP
Dear England,
100 years of the Entente Cordiale, hmm? Who would have thought it would last this long? If you told me three centuries ago I would have laughed. Maybe spat in your face, who knows? But I want you to know I'm glad we signed it. I'm glad we fought in the Wars as allies. I'm glad you made it through okay. Yes, I'm glad.
France
Francis let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. He wasn't certain what it meant, to have all of the letters laid out in the open, and he wasn't sure he liked it. It left him vulnerable, exposed to the truth he and Arthur kept denying.
Arthur. Arthur-yes, he knew exactly what he was going to do with the letters now.
Arthur Kirkland is not expecting mail. Although he has always been a lover of the written word and old fashioned communication, both his boss and the other nations prefer using more modern technology in order to communicate. Humans wouldn't be sending him mail-so why would there be a package on his doorstep. Shrugging, he lugged it to the kitchen table-it was heavy, what in the world was in it?-and set to unwrapping. Being unable to find a pair of scissors, but discovering the box to be heavily taped, the unwrapping had taken the better part of an hour. And when he finally opened the box, he was greeted by a perfectly ordinary sight-paper.
No, not paper. Letters. Hundreds of them. Who would send so many letters at once? Who had written them all? It had to be one of the nations, no one else could have lived that long, but still, it seemed awfully impractical of them. Still, Arthur had never been one to turn down a good mystery (after all, his nation had created Sherlock Holmes) and he set to reading. The first few letters he hardly spared a glance-he should have known it was France sending him hateful letters, and wondered how long he'd been writing these; probably Antonio had put him up to sending them at long last, now that he didn't have an army and pirates at his back. He considered burning the letters, or wondered if shredding them would be more satisfying.
But even for France, a plot of hate-mail revenge seemed a bit much; and if it turned out to be the case, then he could always use what was written in them as fodder for revenge. But he noticed that the letters, which had started off so cruel, grew to blow hot and cold, and there was almost something like genuine affection in the latter ones.
England, unlike France or the Italies, may not have styled himself an expert on romance, but he was a master of storytelling-and even he knew what kind of story had been written on these pages. He might have found amusing that the so called "country of love" could not bring himself to confess, had it not been...rather touching. Fishing his cellphone out from the jumbled reading material that had piled up on his breakfast table, he dialed France's number, determined to spit out what the other nation could not. The phone rang once, twice, a third time-and he finally picked up.
"Allo? C'est Francis qui parle. Comment ça va?"
"France. France, it's me."
"Oh! Arthur!" For once, Francis switched over to English without being hounded about it twenty times. "To what do I owe the...pleasure of this call?"
Arthur would have rolled his eyes at the innuendo, had he not been so focused on trying to spit out his next words.
"Francis, I-"
"Oui?"
"I-thank you. Just thank you."
A long and pregnant pause on the other end of the line. Arthur could have sworn that his heart had stopped so long ago any mortal being would have been dead by now. Had he misread the letters? Did Francis not understand that this was his confession, as much as he could muster? Then Francis spoke.
"You are most welcome. Lapin, would you like to accompany me to dinner?"
And Arthur smiled and smiled and smiled, and replied in return,
"Oui."