Prompt: Friends
Characters: France, England
Notes: Yeah, so... I kinda disappeared off the face of the Earth for a while there, didn't I? *chuckle* I'm sorry. It's been so long, and this is so short and meh and I don't even know. Things have been pretty bad lately, and I haven't been able to write for quite some time. But it's okay. They're getting better. I promise.
Also, this is really more of a drabble/relationship study than any kind of real story. I'll probably delve more into it later.
"Friendship is not about whom you have known the longest; it is about who came and never left your side." -Unknown
France was quite certain his arch-nemesis was dying. The strangest part was, he wasn't even the slightest bit happy about it. He'd spent so many battles—Sluys, Calais, Poitiers—wishing the English boy would crash headfirst onto the bloody grass and mud, his crossbow slipping from his expert fingers, and disappear forever. No more war, no more bloodshed, no more England. But not like this. Not in this feverish delirium—Francis whatever are you doing here why are you on fire oh no it's got you too—not soaking in sweat (France had run out of dry blankets for him long ago), not crying from fear, his whole body shaking and trembling in near-convulsions.
France himself wasn't any better, of course. In fact, his own black fingertips and burning fever had first driven him to hunt down the younger nation—and not because of the war. He'd seen the bodies littering the otherwise-deserted streets of London and Paris. He'd watched droves of people flee the cities and hide in the countryside, heard the rats scurrying about in alleyways and sneaking into homes. He'd stood in the shadows (who wouldn't be ready to blame him and the others for such a hideous disease?) watching the few brave clergymen who remained steadfast servants of the people, giving last rites to a mother one moment and then carrying out her child to the cart of shriveled bodies the next.
But, he thought to himself sometimes when he felt particularly miserable, at least the people had the release of death. At first, that thought had only made him want to curl up in the corner of his home, knees to his chest and blankets smothering his body, and pity himself all the more. Then, the teenage nation began to think of England, that strange boy with his wild blond hair, perpetual frown, and untamed magic that made his land come alive, even in the midst of their war. That nation who spat in Denmark's face hundreds of years ago while half-hiding behind the cloak of his great king. That child who, rough and just-oh-so-savage as he was, could (when no one was nearby, of course) sing the most beautiful songs about King Arthur and his court. And so France had named him, christened him after his great hero. Oh, how England had resisted—how furious it had made him when one of France's poets had dared insist that Lancelot, of all knights, had slept with the great, honorable, virtuous, beautiful (wait that last one doesn't count I said nothing shut up you French idiot) Queen Guenevere and written about something-something-something Holy Grail. And oh, how long he'd chased after France upon hearing him call him Arthur for the first time (I heard your singing little Arthur and I couldn't help but find it so magnificent)—
He had to go. Of course he had to go. Little Arthur, demon though he be in war, couldn't die. Not like this.
"Little Arthur" hadn't agreed, of course. The moment France had walked up to his house near the coast, he'd found a crossbow and arrow pointed at his throat.
"Relax, England." France held up his hands and laughed. "I'm not here for a battle today."
England scoffed and then broke into a coughing fit.
"Hey, are you all—wait, wait, don't get that thing any closer to me." The older nation took a step back when the arrow grazed the flesh near his jaw. More than anything else, he feared that weapon in the hands of the English boy. "I just came here to—hey, England!"
Red-tinged saliva dribbled down England's chin as his knees buckled beneath him and he crumpled at France's feet.
Despite his own fever-induced weakness, France had put a hand to the boy's speckled, hot forehead, and then immediately picked him up in his arms and carried him inside. He set England down on his disheveled bed and stared with wide eyes at the dark stain on his pillow. After swaddling him in blankets (a difficult task, given England kicked and fought in his delirium as much as he did when fully conscious), the older nation hurried outside to the well with an old bucket clenched in his white-knuckled grip. Even as sweat dripped down his brow and he fought to keep himself from collapsing from dizziness, he filled the bucket and brought it to the other nation's side.
"Come, Arthur." France picked up a carved wooden spoon from inside the bucket and tried to help England drink, but he couldn't hold it still and wound up spilling the water all over the younger nation's face. England moaned.
"I know, I know. And I'm sorry." The Frenchman took a deep breath to steady himself. He patted England's head, though he only growled and pushed him away. "I'm sorry."
Three more attempts, and France still couldn't get the cool water into England's mouth. The burning, feverish ache beneath his skin had begun to overwhelm him long ago, but he had been able to push it to the back of his mind—until now, at least. The world spun, and the undulating ground seemed to swallow him as he collapsed beside the other nation. Still, his brain throbbing and his bones groaning, he struggled to his knees and grabbed the spoon and bucket again (no no you can't yet come Francis you have to take care of Little Arthur).
Fifty million people gone silently overnight, after all. His people. England's people. Europe's people.
He could not let England join them.
Historical Notes:
Sluys, Calais, and Poitiers were all English victories in the Hundred Years' War. The English fought with crossbows, a new innovation that basically allowed them to mow down the French knights.
All that stuff about King Arthur and England singing? Yeah, that's just a way for me to throw in some of the coursework and research I've done in my Medieval Lit class lately. x3 Although King Arthur is considered a very British figure, the French troubadours had a large influence on his "mythology," so to speak. The love affair between Lancelot and Guenevere (I'm spelling her name this way because all of my books spell it like this...) and the story of the Holy Grail? All from a French poet, Chretien de Troyes.
Oh, and the "great king" behind whom England hides is Alfred the Great (of Wessex), perhaps the greatest English king in history. At the time, Wessex was the only kingdom not under Danish rule. After a great struggle, Alfred defeated the Danes and kept them out of his kingdom. He then became the main ruler of England and the first to call himself "King of the Anglo-Saxons," which was a big deal because England was still divided and decentralized at this point.
I'm sure it's clear, but this is about the black plague, which ravaged Europe in the 14th century. I got this idea from - again - my Medieval Lit class. My professor was talking about the psychological effects of the disease one day, and... I guess it hit all of us really hard. I kinda felt that I had to write this.
With regard to future updates: I'm feeling more like myself again, yeah, but I have NaNoWriMo and a crapton of college work coming up. I am writing a FACE fanfic "novel" this year, however, so I'll have something to post at some point. I'll try to update this fic all the same, but we'll see. Thanks for sticking around. I love you guys.
"Enemies" is next. I'm sure you can guess what that'll be about.