Chapter Three – A story of 'Vows broken, Promises Fulfilled'

Fourteenth of October – 1066

Arthur was one to remember the past vividly; he remembered a time when that place was once filled with life – luscious green grass shrouded over dells and an expansive forest to the east, blue skies blessing the land with the warmth and friendliness of the sun's rays, flowers… (Daisies, poppies, snowdrops, tulips, colours of the rainbow with happy luminosity beyond imagination scattered like seeds upon the waiting field) dancing within the wondrously relaxing eastern breeze.

For him, this place was once one of beautiful solitude. A place to visit when one was bored of the busy lifestyles they lived to bring about some distilling peace back into their hearts. It was a beautiful place, Hastings; not too far from the sea – if you squinted, you could certainly see the vague blue shape of the ocean in the distance – and filled with good people. People who did not deserve to suffer. His people…

One of his favourite places was ruined; never again to retain the same sense of beauty or dignity. The luscious green grass was stomped to a splattered mess; sodden mud unearthed and foliage crushed under the feet of two contrasting armies. The flowers lost their favour – their beauty faded away just as easily as the light in a child's eye when their innocence became irreversibly tainted. Even the light of the sun had been clouded away; the heavens opening with wrath, spurting unending rain to wash away the violent dirt ripped into the beautiful body of the English countryside.

The solitude was gone. What was once tranquil silence was now replaced by men's tortured screams, battle cries and pleads for help – praying to whatever god would save them from their inevitable suffering demise. What was once beauty was now dirtied with the ugly legions of bodies, a horde of immobile soldiers, and the horrific weaponry and tools of war like abuse splattered to and fro from every direction – murdered corpses already beginning the awful process to rotting away, degrading into soil and returning to the planet.

Arrows snapped, shields abandoned, swords embedded within flesh, clashing metal ringing in the remaining men's ears… the list of unconformities could last forever. And the most devastatingly of all, to him, was the ocean of blood draining out and enveloping the land with the thickest stratum of red that his young eyes had ever had the displeasure to see. He had never seen so much blood; and the blood of his people no less.

Their battle had come to a catastrophic end. The war was over. All was lost. The only vague sense of life that remained from his side, his loyal people, belonged to those straddling behind – awaiting a timeless death, to be labelled forever among those who never survived the last battle for Britannia's pride. The Normans were already busying themselves with slaughtering the last of those containing a drop the English blood. Only a minimal remnant of his brave soldiers had managed to escape to the forest over the way. …But now, it was too late to run.

There was no longer anyone to save him.

…It was pointless for him to continue fighting back now. His hands were already covered with the dried blood of his enemies. Palms raw and knuckles white from clutching tightly against his sword with the remaining extent of his strength. He had continued to fight even after his king was slain by the conqueror and his knights, arrow through the eye and sword wounds ripped into his now deceased body. Being the embodiment of Britannia itself was an advantage in itself – his body far tougher than those of the human kind; effectively immortal from those despicable human's hands. He had slain too many of the opposition's men singlehandedly for him to count…

Strictly speaking, he was still a boy – a teenager no less; approximately seventeen years of age, if you counted his age only in physical appearance. To another's eyes, he would have been deemed weak; the boy's body was incredibly frail in comparison to those of his defeated army – small shoulders and hips, no real muscle filling him with strength. Many of the enemies had tried to challenge him and had been quelled; unawares of the definite title he kept. Had they known that he was the person they were fighting for; to steal away his freedom or to protect him; then their actions certainly would have been different…

He was immortal by human standards; though he was still violently vulnerable. Arthur was practically on his last breath; sword wounds gashed into his side through his armour protruding more blood than Arthur cared to acknowledge. His left leg was snapped, bone uncomfortably jabbing against his flesh, disabling him indefinitely. He could no longer fight back.

He was paralyzed with both immobility and fear. Head pulsing violently with the shrillest of pain, hair soaked with dirty cascading rain, sword bloody and abandoned on the spoilt ground, tunic and armour splattered with the blood of his people, the enemies, and his own. Defeated, he knelt; eyes darting across the battlefield to peer forgiving out on those he failed. He pleaded they would forgive him for allowing their lives to be spent. They all died for him – for his pride and freedom…

What was going to happen to him now?

He had been invaded before. Saxons, Norwegians, so on and so forth. He had seen blood before; far too much for one sporting the physical shape of a teenagers body should ever witness. Like the crushed flowers within the battlefield of Senlac Hill; his eyes had faded of their colour and the innocent glimmer was already ravished long ago. He was already tainted with the pains of war, a child with only the possibilities of a good future to come; though nothing tainted him more viciously than the horrors of this…

…Within this battle, only one could slay him. The true battle of warfare was between the countries themselves. The rights to invade him; rip him of whatever wealth or resources he could ever present, strip him of everything he ever found sacred, ravish his women, and men at that, destroy his pride, and use him beyond his worst imagination belonged only to the soul of his invader.

He supposed it was inevitable. They promised him that they would come back and make him theirs. …He just never realised it would have been like this…

Arthur peered out into the crowd, watching with disgust as the French slaughtered the rest of the straggling Englishmen, eliminating the last of his forces and strength to fight back. Arthur gagged, clutching his throat to stop himself choking up blood as spears pierced his men's flesh and swords slit their throats and let their veins run dry. The link between their blood and his being spilt was very clear. If they suffer, he suffers. A small dribble of red ran down from the corner of his lips. The pain, suffering and anguish his people felt condensing all into his body. With every man slain, his population taking a devastating dive, Arthur died a little more inside…

Eyes linked with his; and one of the stray groups of Norman soldiers approached him – speaking with that bitter language he loathed more than any other; voices arrogantly touched with joy that the victory was theirs to celebrate, a spite that Arthur cared nothing for. His eyes widened as he saw one step forward and draw their sword, metal tang glistening ominously as the sun poked through the clouds and lit the scene with calamitous illumination. The violent predatory look in their eyes distilling unadulterated fear into the heart of the only Englishman remaining alive as the one that stepped forward pressed the metal to his neck and lifted his chin. His emerald eyes were filling with vulnerability as the Frenchmen chattered and laughed to themselves, awfully antagonistic smiles on their sickening faces.

Arthur batted the sword away, getting to his feet – haphazardly, it must be said – and suddenly lunging to pick up his own sword's hilt, ready to fight back in retaliation. Another Frenchman jumped forwards, kicking the murderous metal out of his hand while the last two grabbed his body roughly and pulled his arms behind his back; throwing him back down on his pitiful knees. Arthur yelped loudly in agony as his damaged leg hit the floor. The group laughed at his failed attempt to escape, amused by the Brit's inferiority and warbling moans. Once again, that blade was pressed at his throat.

"Il est beau, non?" The Frenchman lifting his chin laughed to his friends; rubbing congealed blood from the Brit's cheek with an outstretched thumb. Arthur squirmed underneath the man's grasp as he bent down to his level and begun to play absently with the Briton's dirty blond locks. "-Pour un sale Anglais".

As the group of Frenchmen burst into another bout of spiteful laughter, the Brit shouted bloody murder at them and begun to struggle harder in their arms – all too aware, regrettably, of what those scum had said. The seeming leader gave a dissatisfied tut and violently pushed down the teenager's chest, forcing him to the ground with his blade pressed lightly against his throat. The other three men withdrew their own swords in preparation, ready to strike the Englishman if he dared to try squirm out of their grasp again. Arthur stilled, glaring daggers at the vicious invaders; his skin crawling with disgust as they touched him. The leader lowered his blade away from his jugular, and began to quickly rip away the armour protecting him from lethality, and slowly cutting into the tunic underneath; stripping away the fabric concealing his adolescent chest, ignoring the Brit's loud and violent angry protests.

The leader clasped his hand over Arthur's mouth firmly, lowering the volume of his screams significantly to that of a low growling mumble. He parted the shredded fabric and ran his dirty fingers over the milky white sheen of the Briton's flesh, pleasuring himself with the touch as Arthur continued to writhe underneath. The Norman Soldier's strident smirk shone down upon him with intentions as plain as day. His free hand begun to lower, freely groping the flesh and curves of the man, the country, they fought to dominate and forced his legs wide apart. Arthur's protests finally begun to die away; the battle was lost. The war was over. They had won… he no longer had the strength or right to bat away their hands. The group's leader begun to fumble to remove his own armour, crushing Arthur's jaw underneath his hand as the Brit finally begun to give in. There was no hope… not anymore… their laughter provided the melody of his misfortune.

"Qu'êtes-vous en train de faire?" Another voice not belonging to the group of Norman ruffians spoke out, breaking the piercing laughter with even sharper viscosity. French rang naturally off of the man's tongue; his efforts obviously belonging to the other side. So why were they bothering to save him? Arthur glanced up and blinked with surprise. A great degree of gratitude reflected in the Brit's faded green eyes. The enemy soldiers had suddenly fell silent; and no wonder why. He knew he recognised that voice… " Ne savez-vous pas qui il est? C'est Angleterre lui-même!"

"C'est lui? J-je suis désolé, mon seigneur!"

"Ne le touchez pas, compris? Il est mien! Maintenant partez!" Francis pushed the men out of the way, shouting at them to sheathe their swords and leave. They immediately obliged and scattered away quickly, unwilling to bear the grunt of their own home country's wrath. Francis sighed deeply, watching them leave with a scowl on his face. Arthur stammered; unable to comprehend whether he was supposed to be thankful for being saved or not…

It was because of Francis that all of this happened. It was all because of him that the blood of his men, his good people, was strained out and fixed the atmosphere with a peculiar thick smog of choking metallic taste. It was all because of him that he was suffering. The Frenchman had cursed his lands with misery and torment for far too long, fighting for his leader's right to become his King. All of it was his fault. And for that, Arthur loathed him. He loathed absolutely everything he represented; his awful language, his land, his people… he hated every single thing about him.

But yet, he loved him all the same.

What kind of moron was he?

"You!" Arthur blurted out after a minute or so of exasperated silence; the fierce ferocity between them sparking to something of an insanely critical calibre. Arthur could insanely feel his whole skin crawl desperately with sensitivity as the Frenchman locked his eyes with Arthur's body, drinking in the Briton's half naked demeanour. The atmosphere was incredibly tense, and neither Frenchman nor Englishman had the audacity to utter a single word to each other – let alone look each other in the eyes. Finally Francis begun to move, leaning in to look at Arthur's critically damaged leg – though the teenager slapped away his advancing hands.

"Don't you dare touch me, you fiend!" Arthur growled, shuffling away a little. Francis scowled in return, and got up to his feet.

"You wound me, Angleterre. Do you not understand your situation? You are under my command now. I have the right to touch you as much as I so desire." Francis stated clearly to Arthur; acting as if his speech was as standard as a businessman stating his objectives. Arthur scoffed in return, narrowing his eyes.

"I wound you? You are the most insufferable cretin I have ever had the misfortune to meet! Look around you! Whose lands are you standing on? Whose people have you killed? Whose heart is being sombrely ripped into two, you fool?" Arthur screeched with anger, pointing his finger up accusingly to the French nation. The Frenchman barely moved, standing and staring at the Briton knelt down sorrowfully on his feet.

"Anglete-" Francis begun; stepping a few paces forwards before his slow calming speech was immediately interrupted by the cocky Brit.

"MINE! That's whose! And it's all because of you! This is all your fault Francis! I'm dying because of you! What you stand for!" Arthur pointed to himself, the white intensity of anger almost blinding him with rage.

"Angleterre…!" Francis frowned deeply, trying to still the Brit's words. His voice was no longer calm – agitation brought to its limits.

"Why? Tell me! Why did you do it? Just because one man wants to become my King? Never! I will never accept him, or you! This battle may be over, Francis, but you'll never succeed! You hear me? NEVER!"

"ARTHUR!" Francis shouted, tensions and anger scathing between them. "You continue to misunderstand! You do not have an option. You will accept William into your monarchy. You will surrender yourself to us both. And I already have succeeded. You have lost, Angleterre. Victory belongs to me!" Francis said bitterly, taking another step closer with each heated sentence. The Brit grinded his teeth with profuse discontent; fists clenching until his knuckles turned page white. He began to struggle to his feet, mouth open ready to object; but was immediately felled by a swift kick colliding with his chest.

Arthur gasped for oxygen as Francis winded him, scowling deeply and crushing his adolescent chest underneath the Frenchman's armoured boot. Every time Arthur tried to lift himself up with the minimal extent of his remaining strength; he pressed down even harder, eyes shining coldly with a ruthless chill and frowning ever more unforgiving than the Briton had ever seen before. The Frenchman looked positively possessed, vacant of heart, as he bent down and whispered in Arthur's ear.

"Do not think, for a single second, that you are the only one whose heart is being torn!"

As Francis whispered, devoid of his usual arrogant splendour – reducing himself to the raw essences of being – Arthur whimpered underneath his heel. His attempts of frantically clutching for air were finally quenched, lying stilled on the muddy ground as the realisation that he truly had been conquered dawned upon him. Their eyes at last locked; blue violet orbs swarming with bitterness while green irises shone dully with anger and defeat.

No one to save him…

Francis sighed, released his weight off of the Brit's chest, and glowering with acrimony as Arthur panted in silence for the remainder of his breath. He didn't wait for him to calm down, and grabbed his ankle; beginning to drag him off of the battlefield. Arthur writhed and yelled, swearing blindly and trying to grasp hold of the grass to help lever himself away – blades of green giving him little cuts and stains; a mockery of his failed attempts. Francis kept his glance focused on the area in the advancing distance as he forcibly hauled the Brit kicking and screaming for help as they entered the forest surrounding the bloodied Senlac Hill. Once deep enough into the woods, Francis dropped the adolescent and propped him up against one of the oaken trees.

"Y-You..." Arthur stammered, unable to speak with any more strength since his throat ran callously dry and weakness was slowly overcoming him. "What are you going to do to me now…?"

Francis acknowledged Arthur's pained expression, giving it his own look of animosity in return. The Frenchman reached forwards, grabbing Arthur's already ruined tunic and prising it apart – ripping it completely off of the youth's chest. He wagered a chaotic smile as he saw Arthur's eyes widen with realisation. Once again, Francis leaned down; causing a shiver to find its way formidably up Arthur's spine, shuddering mildly as hot breath trailed across his neck.

"I've said it before, mon amour. Je t'aime. Tu es à moi." Francis murmured into his ear and immediately continued from where his soldier had left off; stroking his hands over the darling boy's exposed skin. Arthur trembled, closing his eyes firmly, clenching his teeth together as he swallowed the urge to moan out in bliss as the Frenchman softly fondled his skin with clear expertise. As much as Arthur loathed him, as much as Arthur wanted the vile git to die and finally leave him in seductively desirable peace, he couldn't bring himself to reject the feelings setting alight in his chest. Arthur squirmed; hating that his cheeks were burning red and detesting the hands pulling his body closer. He wanted more than anything to run. But he couldn't. His leg was broken, and even if he was not wounded – he would always be found. He was a nation after all. He couldn't escape from them. Not from him. There was no where to run and no where to hide… it was hopeless. All he could do was to plead.

"N-no… Francis… Francis, stop!" Arthur panted when he felt the other's hands at his waist, stripping his sash free and abandoning it besides them. The man frowned and grasped Arthur's hips roughly, pulling him underneath his legs – ignoring the Brit's request.

"Francis, p-please…! I-I'll do whatever you need… so p-please d-don't… don't do that!" Arthur wriggled, glancing up at Francis with his large emerald eyes shining with moisture threatening to fall down his cheeks. As soon as they locked glances, Francis's eyes darted away again; focusing intently on the job at hand. He knew he didn't want to stop; he knew he wanted to make love to the Englishman. Because Arthur was the only true love he lent his heart out to in the whole world. Sure; the Frenchman had been akin to romance in the past, staying within the beds of both men and women despite his relatively young displacement (approximately twenty or so years of age in human terms)…

…But he had never been in love with anyone else - no one but the young boy underneath him, on the brink of crying and pleading for freedom…

"Ahn… Francis!"

He was in love with him, so strongly that it ached his heart to see him whimper and suffer. To see his blood spilt because of something Francis and his leader had done. But he had to do it. He wanted to take Arthur for his own. Seize him and make the gorgeous boy his.

He didn't want to stop.

"F-Francis… N-no…"

…but Arthur's mews were already getting to him. The panic in his voice as he begged was heartbreakingly solemn. Francis grimaced profoundly as Arthur begun to stop struggling – giving in and accepting his fate. He didn't want his petit lapin to give up hope. The glimmer was already faded away in his beautiful green eyes, the colour of murky spring… tainted by the awful sights and depressions of war. No light, no hope…

Francis shook his head, realising that his hands had ceased and continued his handiwork. He clutched Arthur's hips firmly between his thighs to keep him in place as he begun to strip himself of his own clothes and armour – chucking them quickly to the floor. He scoffed as Arthur averted his glance from his now naked body; embarrassed flushes cursing his cheeks. Continuing about his business, he ran his hands onto the Englishman's juvenile thin framed hips and quickly unburdened him of the remainder of his clothes. The Briton barely moved, whimpering now sadly to himself. No hope.

The Frenchman felt his breath hitch as he drunk in the beautiful visage of Arthur's young adolescent form – exposed for his blue bordering violet eyes to enjoy alone. He was thin of body; bordering slightly into the more concerning levels of health, though this was not anything surprising considering the state of irrational affairs gripping the world with famines or wars. Skin ever pallid; barely a tone above that of milk… the lack of true sun and warmth gracing the young teenager's lands showing very clearly on his physique. The only real appearance of colour within his pigments was gracing the boy's face, blushing profusely red, as he trembled with fear and embarrassment. That and the collections of blood that had gathered at his side and broken leg, along with the grass stains imprinted onto his fingers.

Silently, their eyes met again. Arthur's emerald irises filled with nerves and wordless hatred for Francis and what they both knew he intended. They terrified him dearly with the intensity of loathing, the will of his people, and petrifaction. Although he still couldn't get enough of those eyes. He loved them gazing at him, thinking of him, making his skin tingle as they devoured his appearance… he adored the feeling of attention… and Arthur's attention was all he could ever desire. He really loved those eyes, and especially the man they belonged to. He smiled briskly, and ran his hands across the insides of Arthur's thighs – pleasing himself as the Briton let out an exasperated gasp.

Britannia was his. Those eyes and the young man they belonged to was his…

He couldn't stop…

"W-Why!" Arthur choked out – breathing cutting out short.

"…Mm, what do you mean, mon petit lapin?" Francis purred; leaning down on top of the Brit, pulling the boy's torso into his arms, and beginning to spread kisses across his soft white collar bones.

"Why are you doing this to me…?" Arthur panted, digging his fingers into the ground firmly until his fingernails were caked with dirt. Francis paused for a second, thoughts flooding him, before immediately dismissing whatever they were and continued to nip and lick at the Englishman's bare shoulders, pleasing himself with Arthur's soft groans in complaint.

"Why, mon amour? Because I promised I would. I promised you that one day, I'll make you mine – did I not? I want you Angleterre, Arthur, and now you belong to me… I'm going to show you just how much I love you." Francis spoke softly into Arthur's white skin, trailing his lips across the boy's thin, fragile neck while his hands groped at his thin torso – leaving lingering red imprints behind his finger's paths. The eager hands fell further downwards, grasping the English boy's ass to the reward of an exasperated squeak from his trembling beloved.

"…I-If…" Arthur groaned, eyes still shining with the beads of moisture that threaten to leave his eyes so ominously. Yet they never left. A ghost like shiver finds its way through his spine to the base of his neck as Francis nibbles affectionately at his flesh. He doesn't bother struggling anymore. His people have been killed… too much of his own blood had left him in the heat of battle for him to even have the strength to react to the anger boiling up in his chest. The fluttering feelings of his thrilled heart somehow dissipate the fury. He really was a traitor to his own people and his self, for this. For daring to fall pray to his foolish infatuations. He couldn't help but hate himself for it. He just didn't want to get hurt.

"Mm?"

"If you loved me… y-you wouldn't…" Arthur whispered, burying his head against Francis's shoulder. He was horrified beyond belief. Internally he could feel the tragedy tearing his people apart, women and children weeping the sorrows of the slaughtered, the remaining populace losing hope now that the battle was over. The war was over as well; no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. Even if they fought back… it would just be useless. They didn't have the will, the way, or the power to retaliate. He was undoubtedly conquered. His mind flashed to the images of his people lamenting for his misfortune once more.

It was for them that he didn't ever cry. For them, he was determined to hold a stiff upper lip. He was British, after all. If they cry for him… then he'll just have to hold in his own tears. That was the British way… his way. They deserved some comfort - some inner strength. Though patriotism is nothing significant to the world he recognised within himself… he needed to give them, and himself, the same reassurance that he had lost to their faded wills.

If they had no hope; he'd have to fight for it by himself.

…He'll fight back one day… that childish dream echoed in his mind. He wanted to rule the world. Become the largest empire there ever was. It was an inspiration he was determined to fill. His people were merely impatient demons waiting for the time to awaken and retaliate against the world that made him tremble. The seas that surround and engulf him will be his to sail and command. He'll seize countries beyond his secluded isles – conquer just like Francis and everyone else had gone to him before. Redemption will come. He'll show them how it feels. He'll show them that he is not to be underestimated. He was merely too young to act yet. His golden moments were just a swallow's flight away.

All he had to do was wait, for the time for those demons inside to awaken. Then the world would be his.

But… for now… he couldn't stop grimacing in fear. He was too young. Too young to see blood like that, and too young to have his innocence stripped away from him, by him.

"I wouldn't what?" Francis said in a callous voice, withdrawing as Arthur whimpered and sobbed dryly against him. He seized the Brit's chin, not bothering to be gentle with brittle bones, and forced the boy to look at him in the eyes. The blush had increased to an even more violent shade of ravished blood red. Pupils contracted with fright. Francis licked his lip, loving the contact of Arthur's eyes flooding upon him. He wanted it so strongly. Fear or love, hatred or care – it didn't matter… whichever way; those dulled eyes, his tremulous frame, and those cautious emotions… were all for him. Because of him. All his. His.

His Angleterre, his love.

"If you loved me… you wouldn't hurt me."

Francis laughed.

"I am afraid, mon amour, that the real world is not as kind as you wish it to be - especially for people like us. Wars are only the beginning of the endless nightmare. Famine is just an illness that will come and pass. Immortality… is the biggest curse for us all. We have to slowly watch everything we love degrade and disappear. If we do not let go and adapt… we'll never be happy. They say scars, tragedies, last forever, mon amour. And love is the biggest tragedy of them all. Someone is always hurt when love appears. There is no happy ending. There is no ending whatsoever for us." He grinned. An obvious look of apparent sadness was clouding the nation's eyes. "Not until the day when the world ends, or our citizens lose all hope."

"…Hope…" Arthur whispered. The glance at the Frenchman never wavered away. The beautiful sheen of emeralds completely dulled to the faded luminosity of blood-soaked, trodden grass. "On that basis, Francis… you've already killed me."

"Non, Angleterre. The one who has killed you is yourself. I, mon cher, will be the one to bring you back to life." Francis replied strongly. Arthur's words had touched his last nerve. The look of ferocity on the Briton's face in the form of furrowed eyebrows and defensive scowl driving him over the edge. He always found his anger so appealing. He loved the flustered blush and grumpy glares. It was a form of lust and ecstasy that drove him over the edge... the little voice in the back of his head, shouting at him to stop and leave his petit lapin alone, becoming clenched and muffled by blinding want. Francis grabbed Arthur's hair and yanked his head back, exposing more of the neck that the Frenchman had the severe desire to kiss.

"Ahnnn! W-Wait! Francis! Don't!" Arthur shrieked; holding in muffled moans as the Frenchman shifted so that his knee fitted in between his thighs with a monstrous smirk cursing his features, propping the Brit further against the trunk of the oak tree. Francis barely batted an eyelid to his increasingly more hysterical complains. He was already bordering possessed with yearning.

"I-I'm still a virgin! I-I-I don't want it to end this way! Please…!" Arthur begged, bringing his hands up to cover his face from the embarrassment and scrutiny. Francis paused again - actions slowing and hands wavering. He looked down at his stilled hands; as if considering them traitors against his will. The voice in the back of his mind was now screaming at him to retain his sanity and leave the boy alone. 'Still a virgin' repeated itself in his consciousness. He was not only going to strip him of his dignity, but also his innocence… the guilt stayed buzzing in his chest as he reanimated to suddenly force the English boy's legs apart.

"F-F-Francis!" He protested still – voice becoming increasingly high pitched. Francis stared back at him, frowning with annoyance after realising that the gaze of the Brit's eyes was concealed by his hands. Francis leapt up and snatched the boy's wrists, a brief flutter in his mind noticing how small Arthur's wrists were still in comparison to his, tearing his fingers away with ease and shoving them hard against the bark of the tree. The Frenchman felt his breath hitch once more as he saw the innocent frown filled with sadness staring back at him – devoid of anger, devoid of fear. Francis released his constricting grip, and brought his fingers back to lightly brush the Brit's cold cheek. He looked so beautiful… and he was all his.

Francis leant down, and pressed their lips together passionately; barely waiting a second before slipping his tongue into Arthur, exploring the depths of the English boy's mouth without caring for restraint. He stroked the surface of his cheek, allowing a deep moan to pass from his lips as he seized the adolescent nation strongly. Arthur didn't fight back for dominance at all… barely moving underneath the Frenchman's grasp except to tremble slightly in his wake. His eyes were closed lightly, scrunched slightly as if he was trying to figure out what to do. Francis drew back, taking a gulp of air before softly kissing Arthur again.

But this time, it was different… Francis parted again with haste, looking at Arthur with bemusement. The Briton still had his eyes closed, sealed shut tightly in either denial or a deeper confusion. He was noticeably quivering all the while.

He felt the boy kiss back.

…

He watched Arthur in absolute shocked awe. He wasn't wrong… but, but why? Why did Arthur kiss him back?

Francis ran his hand softly over the boy's cheek, wiping away the dirt that had gathered on his skin – spots of blood and blotches of mud ruining his expression. He leaned down to seize the Brit's lips again, to taste and to feel that he was correct… and he must have been… he wouldn't be wrong about something like this. Why was he so confused? The Brit was screaming out for help only a second ago, denying that the nation of France had any sort of hold on him at all. And now, here they were. As Francis brushed their lips together again, teasing and testing him, Arthur leant up and kissed the Frenchman back. And again, and again – each kiss as nonchalant and amorous as the last. Arms quickly wrapping around each other's waists and necks, mouths open and tongues ravishing each other with adornment and passion, fingers roughly trailing through the opposite's hair and stroking at their exposed skin. Francis frowned, dropping the Brit tangled loosely in his arms and scrambling backwards a few steps.

…What…

Finally the Brit opened his eyes and enveloped Francis within his glance, emerald irises glowing as the sun cascaded from the skies above; rays of light shining through the dispersed grey clouds and gracing the lands of Albion with a sharp and sad reassurance. The light trickled in between leaves and branches of the tree canopies overhanging ahead, spreading patches of the unkindly mocking shine across the Brit's naked torso. The younger's chest rising and falling quickly as he gasped for breath and wrapped his arms protectively around himself. Francis nibbled his lip absently, drinking Arthur's visage in once more.

He was so young, so thin… bright and filled with potential and a clear adolescence gripping him. He looked so innocent with his milky complexion, radiantly red blush, and slim hips… so undeniably beautiful in his youth. Unspoilt as of yet; despite the foul fights and savage hand of war the teenage nation had witnessed in his more barbaric past. Lean, strong and beautiful… this was the boy that will eventually become the largest empire the world has ever seen. Albion, Britannia, England… Arthur.

His Arthur…

…What was he doing?

The boy was quivering dramatically, lip wavering sadly and tears in the corners of his blisteringly beautiful eyes. Francis felt his heart sink in his chest. How could he dare touch such a child? It was like taking a wondrous painting and ruining it with nonchalant doodles. Ruining its splendour, purity, charm… just like that with no disregard. He even was still holding onto his virginity... the heart beat dying out in his chest stabbed him even more painfully at the thought. Britannia had felt its lands being plundered and ravished before, but never like this…

What kind of villain was he? Falling so far prey to his lust that he tried to seize everything he wished to be his without even thinking of the consequences. Albion would hate him forever if he did it. He'd never forgive him. He loved those eyes looking at him either way; with hatred or anger, sadness… he adored Arthur's attention on him with a passion.

But he loved it when those eyes were filled with happiness the most.

"…I… cannot do it." Francis finally blurted out after what seemed like hours of hesitation. Arthur's expression noticeably lit up as at least some hope was restored. The Frenchman gave the lightest of smiles in return, gazing at the young child he wanted to corrupt with reverence. "…I cannot spoil something so beautiful and so innocent…"

"Francis… w-what are you…?" Arthur stammered, staring up at the French nation in absolute disbelief. Francis sighed deeply, and leaned down to kiss his sweet pert cheeks on both sides – a gesture of comfort, he begged Arthur would realise. The boy was no longer trembling with fear, though his critical immobility had come as possibly a more frightening silence. Francis could hear both their hearts beating in unison, the hush in the forest now that the cruel battle still echoing noise of arrows swiftly hurtling through the air and clashing of swords grinding metal against metal had dispersed seemed so unforgiving now he took the time to hear it. There was nothing around; nothing in sight but animals, trees, and killed leaves. They were so isolated… just Arthur and he.

His inner voice had finally reached him through his burning desire, and now that Francis could hear it, it whispered softly and told him that everything was okay. He would be forgiven for what he was thinking; what he very almost did to the young teenage nation – his love, his Arthur. He would be forgiven… since he stopped himself before it was too late… Francis laughed lightly to himself, clear undertones of sadness in his voice. What had he done? He really was a villain, it seemed. Who was he to ruin something so perfect?

I'm sorry, Arthur.

"Arthur... one day, one day I will make you mine. But… today, today is not that day. Je suis desolé. Please… forgive me." Francis muttered slowly, allowing a calm breath to pass through his lips. He ran his hands through the Briton's soft sandy blond hair, toying with it delicately like a bird cradled in his grasp or water rushing past his fingers. All of them were supposed to be free; the bird, the water, Arthur… who was he to capture just a precious thing? It went completely against his morals… his vague illusion of love, true love, always brought out the worst in him.

He quickly left the boy against the tree to redress himself, and begun to wrestle back on his own tattered and blood stained clothes; feeling Arthur's eyes set on him once again. Francis picked up his sword and scabbard, gave the Brit one last reassuring smile, and begun heading back to his people – the victors of their fight. His own fight, well, he was still at battle with himself; but at least now, the enemy had been put at bay... for however long that would be. The ground crunched underneath his feet as he left Britannia alone to care for himself. He knew that was what Arthur probably would have wanted… to be in solitude for a while, and calm down in peace without worrying about other people's impressions of him. Arthur was the most self-conscious person he knew, and he so believed it all was an absolute secret. Francis smiled dearly at the thought.

"J-Je vous pardonne."

He stopped immediately and turned around to look at the Brit, desperately covering himself with the tatters of his clothing – seductive curves and milky pure white skin still exhibiting itself for Francis's eyes to drink with delectability. Look, but don't touch. Francis's smile had disappeared completely, replacing itself with a questioning gape. His voice faltered when he wanted to ask the adolescent to repeat what he had said. His own language had somehow suddenly become alien to him… or maybe it was just because it was so unusual to hear those lips speak it so willingly. Either that or he had gotten it wrong. …But he knew he heard it correctly. The sentence filled his slowly blackening heart with joy.

"Thank you Arthur, thank you." Francis said calmly, clutching his scabbard tightly in his hands, and promptly left the forest to rejoin his men.

TRANSLATION NOTES:

Il est beau, non? – He is beautiful, no?

Pour un sale Anglais. – For a dirty Englishman

Qu'êtes-vous en train de faire– What do you think you are doing?

Ne savez-vous pas qui il est? C'est Angleterre lui-même! – Do you know who he is? He is England himself!

C'est lui? J-je suis désolé, mon seigneur! – He is? I-I am sorry my liege!

Ne le touchez pas, compris? Il est mien! Maintenant partez! – You do not touch him, understand? He is mine! Now leave!

Je t'aime. Tu es à moi. – I love you. You are mine.

Je vous pardonne – I forgive you.