It was finally time.

Both the French and English armies drew back, forming a silent ring around the two duelers.

This one fight would determine the fates of the two powerful nations.

The final battle had come.

I the center of the circle, two men were locked in the heat of battle. They struck and parried and swirled around each other in a deadly dance, bloodied swords flashing like rubies in the sunlight.

"Do you really think you can beat me?" one hissed as blade met blade, the resulting CLANG! a mock allusion to church bells on Sunday. "You know you're just a pitiful weakling, Francis."

For a moment, the other was silent, all of his attention focused on trying to land a blow on his worst enemy.

"I'm not a weakling. I've pushed you this far, oui?" he retorted, wincing slightly at the other's blade stabbed at a point in his articulated armor.

"You may have won at first, but the people of your little town of Bordeaux welcomed me back with open arms. This isn't over."

The two were quiet for a few moments, each too concentrated on the other to speak. Francis feinted for the joints of the other's armor while aiming for the neck, but he was blocked, forced to go onto the defense.

"You're fighting so hard for this stupid wine guzzling country of yours, Francis. Why not just give up?"

The Frenchman gritted his teeth at that, blocking the other's feints and stabs with expert precision while searching for a chance to strike back.

"I can't give up. Not now."

The Englishman smirked, slashing a shallow cut across Francis' cheek with a mere flick of his wrist as he fumbled to defend himself.

"What, and burning that little whore of yours was the proper motivation?"

That taunt successfully sealed his fate.

Francis suddenly roared with incomprehensible rage, tripling his efforts at the insult. Azure eyes smoldering in fury, he destructively stabbed and sliced at his ancient rival, managing to surprise him with his ferocity.

"JOAN."

A cut to the cheek, sending blood trailing down his pale face.

"IS."

A stab to the throat, blocked by a last minute dodge to the side.

"NOT."

Another feint to the neck with a slash to the forehead, blinding the Englishman with his own blood.

"A."

A push while his opponent was distracted, sending Arthur toppling to the ground.

"WHORE!"

Francis stood over his enemy, the tip of his sword pressed against the vulnerable flesh of Arthur's neck. They were both panting from exertion, eyes meeting with glares bursting with fury and hatred. The Frenchman could feel the growing excitement from his army as they sensed the end of the war. Arthur merely gritted his teeth, hands clenched in absolute rage and disbelief.

"D-damn you!" he hissed, one hand scrambling to retrieve his fallen sword. Francis swiftly kicked it out of his grip and it skidded harmlessly away from its master. He returned his attention to the Brit at his feet, pressing his sword to his unprotected throat until a single bead of crimson blood bubbled to the surface.

A voice was screaming inside of him to kill him, kill the idiotic Brit now while he had the chance, to kill him now! It would be so easy, he just had to press down a little harder and the man who had killed the only woman he had ever loved would be dead, completely and totally dead.

Francis wanted to kill Arthur, wanted to stain his hands with the Englishman's blood so, so bad…

And yet…

Ye couldn't.

A life for the life… In the end, it meant nothing. Killing his rival would not leave his lover back, not at all. And even if it did, she would hate him so much for it. He almost smiled at the thought of her losing her temper at him as she often did, crossing her arms as her lips set into a perfect pout.

Joan…

"Get the hell out of my country."

For a moment, he pressed harder down onto Arthur's jugular, eyes blazing as he glared down at the man he hated the most in this world.

"Or next time I won't hesitate to kill you."

Francis whisked his sword back into the sheath and gave his army a sharp nod. They rose in a great cheer, running crazily after the suddenly retreating British army.

The Frenchman, seemingly oblivious to the clamor about him, smiled up at the perfect sky, staring at the one fluffy cloud tucked away in that sea of endless blue. For just a moment, he could've sworn he saw a dark haired maiden wave down at him, smiling as he fluttered off into the endless heavens with wings as white as those of doves…

But perhaps it was just his imagination.

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History time:

100 Years War (1337-1453): The British gained control of almost the entire top half of France, but were then pushed back into their home country.

When everything seemed hopeless, a peasant girl named Joan of Arc rose up and took control of the entire French army at the age of 17, due to the fact that she claimed to hear voices from God. There was a long standing prophesy at the time that a maiden would rise up to save France in its hour of need, so she was declared leader of the entire French army.

May 30th, 1431- After a series of military victories, Joan was captured by the British and burned at stake for heresy.

1453- The last battle of the Hundred Years war, won by the French.

(Note: Joan of Arc is also known as Jeanne d'Arc, The Maiden of Orleans, and is a patron saint of France. She gained sainthood on May 16th, 1920.