Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Note: I would be using their character names, mostly. Also, I would like to apologize early for any out of character behaviour and/or poor plotting.
..
Françis looked ahead at the silent meadow. All the grass, weeds and flowers swayed gently from the wind's caressing breeze. With the wind carefully playing with anything that stood in the lonely space, the man was found to be certainly of no exception from the element's time of amusement. The trees around were rather bare, but it was a good enough of a number.
If one is to be a photographer or an artist (or even a movie director), then that person should never miss this wonderful place. It was like a short glimpse of what heaven would look like, one could say. Of course, Françis will never have the chance of going to that sacred place.
Actually, he just probably needed to wait a few more centuries or so to fade away—he didn't know.
Will there be a 'God' (if he were to die)? Would the creator welcome the fallen country with wide, open arms?
Again, Françis had no clue.
Averting his attention from his thoughts to the picturesque landscape in front of him, he quietly scanned the place. As he stopped turning his head around in his small search, he found what looks to be a cross of some sort.
As the man walked his way over to the strange monument, it was now clear that it really is a cross—it just had been aged and weathered from the many years it had stood in the meadow. It was made of wood that now looked as if it could hold on for another year or two; he'll change it, soon.
How many years—decades—centuries has it been, already? Four? Six? Possibly something even higher? Also, when was the last time he'd visited this meadow? It's probably been a few years, now; he had been rather busy, lately. The grass had certainly grown from his last trip; the cross was almost lost in the vast sea of green and small spots of other colours.
The man had slightly forgotten. He had longed to forget something, but he also had been hopelessly preserving his memories. The images in his mind had been blurred since long ago; sometimes he'd wonder what exactly what he was trying to remember—who was he trying to remember?
He hadn't even memorized the name of the place he was currently in. It was both a pleasant and a sorrowful pasture, he felt. It was a familiar place (not much of a surprise since he pretty much walked on every piece of land he had). He was certain that he was at the eastern side, though.
He didn't understand why he had brought a bouquet of one of the most beautiful flowers that his country could grow. The flowers were of the colour white—sometimes dubbed as a hue rather than a colour; he obviously didn't care. It usually meant something of purity or of innocence, he recalled.
In the back of his mind, a blurred image of a girl slowly crept into his mind—ah.
It was her.
It was that girl.
The cross that now stood in front of him only made the man get a painful feeling in his chest. He now remembers what had happened; he'd recalled who was supposed to be under that cross; he also reminded himself of the people responsible of the loss of this innocent girl. Although, everything is still one large blur. Nothing was of certain clarity. Even the things he had spoken and heard at those times were either low mumbles or untrustworthy words that had stuck to his memory.
Nothing was clear to him. That point in time had been a very long time ago. The nation was even convinced that some other countries were not even born yet. It was not as extravagantly long ago as some people might think, but it felt like a reasonably long time for Françis.
The world does not stop for anyone, so the new things he'd face did not stop coming in. One cannot blame a man to explain a memory so buried in the back of his mind and tell every distinct detail from then on.
Françis was not so gifted as to have that ability—to remember every single thing he saw, heard, tasted, smelled, and touched in great precision. Sometimes, he'd wished himself to obtain it. Other times, the man felt genuinely lucky to not have the gift.
His mind soon went back to the girl and the aged cross in front of him. That girl was barely a full-grown woman—only around the age of nineteen, he evoked. He wasn't exactly sure if she had golden hair or brown hair (most of the images were of when she had brown hair, though), but he did remember that she had cut it short at some point in her life.
Ah. It was because it was better that way; it was for the benefit of the war they had faced.
He instantly recalled that she had not been the most appealing as other women had been. She was also born in the countryside— Françis then realized that he was standing in her home province. Even if the girl had lacked the beauty of those in the cities, the girl's strength and spirit had made up for it.
No. It only added to her (now definite) innocent and raw beauty. Had she worn make-up at the time, if ever it was even invented? He concluded that she did not and would not. She had no time for it, or maybe wasn't even interested in it. Having most of the girls now in the twenty-first century caring to have it, Françis didn't think the girl would easily fit in this new world with such women.
After another second to ponder, maybe she would. Women, nowadays, have been climbing up ranks alongside the working men. The girl might not have fitted as easily, but at least she'll have a chance to feel the independence she had for herself. Back in her time, it was simply outrageous for a woman to excel in anything men were known to handle best—a real shame that was, really.
For one, it was rather unheard of a woman to lead a vast army to numerous victories.
Françis, with the bouquet still in his hand, sat down at the bare ground (a few grass and weeds acted as a cushion of some sort). He gingerly picked out a flower from the bunch in his hand—it was the smallest he could find, and he let the others left in the plastic bind to be placed right at the feet of the cross. Slowly feeling the soft petals of the small, white flower, he tried to recall if he ever had touched the girl.
Not as in doing any sort of sexual deed, no (actually, probably yes). Had he at least brushed his fingertips at the side of her cheek, or had he even had the chance to hold onto her hand? He believed that he had. There had been many times he had held her hand, in fact. Usually, it was either out of comforting one another or pacing slowly at the free time they were given before, between or after each battle.
He recalled that he would sometimes scold her about ruining her body from the many skirmishes that she had fought in. The girl's body would be full of bruises, wounds and scars both old and new. Her reply, if memory would serve correct, was that she would not mind to damage her body if it were to bring her nation back at its feet.
Françis then decided that she was perhaps the first woman whom he ever loved. Well, maybe not in the way that couples were typically in. Rather, it was the kind of love that sees another to be admired and a symbol of hope for the future.
So was all of it admiration? He didn't think so. It was probably more than that, really. Certainly—somewhat certainly, he believed that it was not purely romantic love. It was something more complicated to be sure about, he concluded.
What he was sure of, however, was that the girl had loved her country. In short, she loved him. His greatest rivals, though, would have to be her love for his people, the lands that were claimed and held onto and just about everything else—you could say that she even loved the animals raised in her province.
Even with all of that, it still came down to the fact that she greatly loved Françis. As he felt for her, it was not of pure romantic love. The man sighed deeply to himself. This was becoming confusing, already.
What if Françis had become mortal, instead? Would he be able to love her in a certain way?
No. It was because of the fact that he is the nation, so he was able to be close to the brave girl. If he had become like her, then she would surely not fall in love with him. He would have to share that love with the other citizens that had been there. That is how much she loved her country. Thinking about it now, it was somewhat disheartening to him.
Contently, it was safe to say that she still loved—loves Françis (even beyond her life, he realized, she would still love her nation). He soon decided that he had no rivals. Most of her love was for him.
The man gently smiled to himself.
His smile quickly soured into the frown after realizing that he had betrayed her, in the end. After everything she had done for him, Françis had betrayed her. As she fell off from her horse, he had done nothing but become held back to watch her as she was taken away. He knew that she might think of what had happened as something that the Lord had planned, but he'd have none of it.
His bitterness soon turned to the pirate nation that was involved—he then blocked out the unnecessary hazy details and skipped to the finish of the soon-ending story. Françis wanted to have none of the tea-drinking bastard in his mind.
This trip would only be meant for remembering everything about the girl that once lived. It would be memories that were strictly of her, only.
His mind then recalled the cruel fate the girl faced. After being captured and sold, she had been locked up—with other men. Françis could only turn pale at the evident event that was bound to happen to her. It was one of the reasons why she had dressed as a man, again. It was to fend off any future occurrences of the unwanted ordeal in her cell.
By redoing such an act, she had shortly been punished because she only meant to protect herself. It was of a natural habit to defend oneself; she had been to war, had she not? They said she had been guilty of a capital crime or something of the sort. She was innocent. She is innocent. She always had been as such and she always will be. He and his people had already proved of her blamelessness, but it had been already a few years later.
The final stretch of the nation's memory of her had been, by far, the worst of them all. As she stood tall (unmoving from the ropes) and with a firm look on her face, one could tell that she had accepted her end. A small cross was found at her feet; it had been made by a fellow peasant.
Françis had been to the tragic and vindictive scene; he nearly cried out her name as the fire started to build up at the bottom of her feet. When she looked at him as he stood before her, she had smiled at him—it was as if she were telling him that everything would be alright without her.
The man already knew that he would never be forgiven because she hadn't hated him for a second. Even with being useless in saving her, no ill thoughts were thrown at him by the girl—he wanted to kick himself. He wanted to do something worse to himself. He deserved an insult from her, at least.
She had winced in pain when the flames had started on her legs, but she had never once screamed (even when the blaze had slowly charred her every limb). Françis could only presume that she thought only screaming would ruin everything she had done for her country. She was the only who remained strong at that moment. Françis could recall that he had hopelessly collapsed on his knees; he had no awareness of the other people that watched with him.
The moment he had finally shouted out at protest was when she had to be burned for the second (third and fourth) time.
Until now—surprisingly, the faint smell of the fire manages to surround the Frenchman at some random days and nights. He hated the wretched stench, but he told himself that this was sort of what she had smelled like in the final moments of her life. His final image of her was the ashes that managed to be swept up in the playful air. After the slaughter was done, Françis remembered, he had no strength to go up to the girl reduced to ashes and bury his hands in the soot.
Only when everyone left had he walked up to the spot where she had been murdered. Nothing was left behind—not even her rosary was found in the pile. She was a religious person, he recalled. At that moment, Françis had let it all out and cried.
He had nothing to remember her by, now.
The rest of her that was on the ground was soon swept up by another man—it was the executioner. Neither of the two had uttered a single word to each other. Françis could only stay paralyzed as the other finally told him that her remains shall be cast at Seine. The grief-stricken man wished to drown himself alongside her, but he knew that she'd be mad.
If only he'd have something left behind for him, then he would not have to momentarily forget about her. Françis would have kept her moving image vivid in his mind. He admits that he regretfully sees everything as a blur. He felt pathetic. He doesn't even recall what the colour of her eyes was.
As a small atonement of some sort, he made a cross of his own—he made it as her gravestone. He had travelled all the way to a meadow where it had been clad in nothing but small sprouts of whatever plant shall grow there. She had been born around the place, so he decided to at least put up the cross there in memory of her. Picking a random but beautiful spot, he set the hand-made cross to stand amongst the growing life around it.
He then felt the same playful air pulling him back to the present times, and it is surely mocking him. It must be the same wind from back then.
With a final sigh to himself, Françis then stood up and placed the small flower in the breast pocket of his coat; the flower made a complete contrast to all the black he wore. The small thing would be his little remembrance of her, he decided. When it would die, he'd still keep it.
After patting the dirt away from the back of his trousers, the man smiled at the cross, once more—as if the girl had been there the whole time.
"A bientôt," Françis bowed as a performer would do to an audience—displaying both grace and appreciation of the crowd's attention. "m'ange." It had been said so quietly that it could be described as a whisper of some sort.
And with that, Françis had returned to the direction he had come from. He wasn't sure when he'll be able to visit here again, but he was certain that he'd see her again. He might say something more, this time—he laughed.