[fanfiction] It Had To Be You 1/12
Title: It Had To Be You
Author/Artist: twilightrose2
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/UK but with the whole cast (Rome, Gaul(OC), Richard I, Belgium in this chapter)
Rating: T (M in one later chapter)
Genre: Romance
Warnings: Lots of history. lots.
Summary: There are a hundred ways to say 'I love you'. It only takes England one-hundred-and-eight times.
Author’s Notes: Writer's block with some other stories so I'm trying out this one. It's a detailed following of France and English's relation from the Roman years to modern days.
It Had To Be You
407
The first rose Arthur ever gives Francis is a mistake.
England has been taken from his island by the man with the booming voice and the head of curly dark-copper hair. He does not like this man very much (he seems to delight in picking up England and cuddling him and England has found that he does not enjoy being cuddled) but must follow anyway because he has no voice, no words, no sound. He is fledging, waiting to find wings and until then must ride on the backs of others.
So there he stands amid larger nations, clinging slightly to Rome's legs, his scared eyes scanning the crowd. No one is his size and all at once he is proud of this fact and hides a little tighter against the leg. A large hand reaches down and with all the softness of a gentle breeze gently nudges England away from his leg. "Britannia," he says, crouching next to the tiny boy, holding him out a flower.
The green eyes immediately absorb every soft lip of red and the twisted stem with thorns. His fingers touch the velvet petals which remind him of a rabbit's fur and Rome presses the stalk into his hands, careful not to catch a barb on the soft palms of the island nation. "This is a rose." Rome says, "It is a flower of love and I want you to do something very important with it. I need you to give it to another."
England frowns. He does not want to give up this treasure. His lower lips juts out and Rome chuckles, ruffling the sandy hair. "Don't worry Britannia, you will find other roses, but this one is important." Grumbling, but nodding anyway, the green gaze looks up at the empire, "I need you to give this to a girl with long blond hair, alright? Her name is Belgica."
Nodding, England waddles off, looking around the milling people, fingers still greedily feeling the petals as though enough touch will eventually steal away all the softness and give it to him. But he spots someone with blond hair and judging from the powder blue skirts that cling to the outline of thin legs, it must be a girl.
Allowing his nose one last breath of the heavy scent, England quietly walks forward, head held a little higher than normal as he taps the girl's shoulder, holding out the rose proudly.
The girl turns, bright blue eyes alighting first on the rich blossom and then on the little nation offering it. He does not seem to be much, a mark on the map, merely something to be looked over but the eyes find the green ones and immediately see the spark of something. Something that will surpass even Rome, that will reach far across the sea and conquer lands.
So France takes this rose from England, curtsying quietly, thanking him in a tongue England has never heard. Behind France, a tall woman walks up with long, deep gold hair as she kneels beside France, looking at the rose as he presents it proudly, chattering away.
"Oh Gaul…" Rome's voice says from nearby and Arthur looks around to see the empire grinning down at the woman with the deep golden curls. "I guess… Britannia got the wrong person." He starts to laugh, other surrounding nations joining in. England looks around, slightly frantic, missing what the joke was. His eyes start to fill with tears.
Then, amidst the crowd emerges another girl, her hair the same as the one in the blue dress but she is much softer and her eyes burn fiery green. "Britannia," Rome says, wiping at his eyes, gesturing towards the new arrival, "this is Belgica. And this-" this time to the one with the navy eyes, "is Francia. He is Gaul's oldest."
England can only bow his head trying to hid his blush and tears while France twirls the rose between his fingers, humming, now showing the rose to his sister who huffs, looking away, jealousy clear in her eyes.
Looking up to Rome, Gaul shakes her head, making sure to keep between her two children. "This will not work." She says, hand on her hip, "Not my little treasure with your… Thing."
The elder can only smile, patting the island nation's head.
1066
The second rose Arthur gives Francis is the beginning.
The forests that France has grown up chasing England in now seem hostile and dangerous, each trunk gnarled and turning towards him, blurring the lines that animals and creatures have made, leaving the Frenchman to wander the wood in endless circles. He did not mind, he has a mission and after and hour passed, he finally finds his prey.
England is on the edge of a small lake, breathing hard, half naked as he attempts to tend to his wounds. It is hard, his short and young arms and already aching body making it impossible to reach the most painful gashes that ran jagged along his spine and bit in pain every time he moved.
Around him, the faeries and other mystical beasts are gathered, trying to help him but holding back, for each time they approach, the nation would snap at them, swatting them away. He is surrounded by herbs and poultices and when he grows tired of trying to bandages, he churns up the delicate petals of a rose, knowing the velvet will soothe.
As a twig cracks at the other side of the lake, the Brit turns around quickly, tearing open a barely healed wound, causing him to cry out in pain. "F-France!" he snarls, feeling the blood seep down his back and into the waistband of his pants. "Get out of here!"
"Oh mon lapin!" France cries back, faking hurt feelings but most just grinning at England from under the ring of his extravagant hat, "You are still so wild! Can you not be kinder to your new leader?"
England struggles to his feet, wavering as more wounds open and lines of blood begin to cover his skin. He does not understand why he is hurt because before this, he was untouched and peaceful but now the ugly claws of war are finally sinking in on his vestal and pure body and form that day on it will never leave him. "No! T-The crown was mind F-France, you had no right to take it!"
"The crown was promised to William!" France shouts, starting around the edge of the water, drawing his sword (the blood on it is dried and still smells of England.) "Your Edward promised it and then William did not receive it. We do not take kindly to broken promises."
Scrambling backwards Arthur bumps into a tree and hisses as the bark latches onto the wounds and he must lower himself off, the rose clutched in his hand digging its thorns into his flesh, but merely an after-thought compared to the agony in his back. He slumps to the ground, scowling up as France stands over him, that victorious smirk, the one England has had to deal with for six-hundred years, in place on the still slightly chubby face.
"Get away from me." England spits.
"Non." The blade presses to the underside of his chin, "Not until you bow to me. I am your superior. You will never be nothing more than an island of France. You will never become your own nation!"
For once, the forest is silent. England wants to argue but he has no proof, he has always been under someone's foot. England wants to run but the more he shrinks away from the blade, the more his back impales itself on the crooked bark of the tree. England wants his old France back, but he knows better.
Blood running down his arm, he leans forward and get on one knee. France smiles above him, waiting. So England offers the rose. "Take this," he says quietly, "and one day, you will regret it because I will come at you with everything I have. I will not be yours forever France."
France eagerly snatches the rose from Arthur, smelling the fresh blood and the heavy perfume of the flower. "I await the day petit lapin."
1100
The fourth rose that Arthur gives Francis is in the house of God.
Westminster is dark. Shadows are at every turn and the clouded moonlight barely can reach through the windows of the abbey. England is holed up here, body lean, taller (still not tall enough) as his boots echo in the empty hall and in his hand rests a rose. Like Rome had promised centuries ago, the rose would be his and now, for the first time since Normandy had lay siege to his beaches, a king of his own land now takes head.
Henry, born of Windsor (on a night so dark and damp that England swears he will never forget the chill), has taken the crown. He is an English nation, born and now breed. He can eel his people more intimately now instead of a blur and hazy. Now he feels the heartbeat of London as the city settles in for the night and the wind that ruffled his flags. England felt strong and free, the sentiment of his people and his king sinking into him and suddenly fear felt like a footprint upon one of his beaches, something to be washed away.
The thorns on the stalk of the rose no longer frightened him.
He sits down in a pew, watching the moon travel across the circular window above the door and just before it disappears completely, the large double-doors open and a figure stands on the threshold of the church, panting, hair messy and clothes dirty. There is no smirk of victory, merely a snarl, because it is England's turn to grin in triumph.
The doors slam shut as France strides into the room, attempting to smooth himself out, tucking hair back, pulling at his coat and collars, anything to look like he hasn't just lost part of himself. "England." He says coldly, then, apparently correcting himself, "Angleterre."
"You're right." Arthur says, standing up to face the other. Behind him, the hallows of the church stood proud and the cross, his cross, lined with his straight shoulders. "It is English land now. Isn't is wonderful?"
France's face contorts into an ugly snarl and he makes a grab for his sword but England simply shakes his head. "In the house of God? My, my." The hand drops for the sword, settling instead folded tight across his chest.
"You will be mine again Angleterre." France makes sure to run the 'r' for a moment longer than usual. "Just you wait. You 'ave always been mine and you will always be mine."
England's fingers run over the petals of the rose as he cradles it, eyes focused on the curves and swells of the red while catch whatever moonlight manages in, causing everything around the blossom to be grey save for the bright and fierce green eyes and the glint of the Frenchman's cobalt. "Is that so?" England asks, looking up, fingers gripping the edge of a single petal, the only one that, unlike its companions, is black with the poison of age. "Do you remember what I said, all those years ago France?"
The Frenchman shakes his head. "I do not remember every filthy word that 'as come out of your ungrateful mouth."
"I said that one day I would at you with everything I had." Arthur watches him carefully, weighing his every word as the moon finally slips away and the curls falls into a heavy darkness. "That day is coming France. Even if it means I must battle for a hundred years, I will. Because now-" he steps forward, offering the rose, "-now I have a grudge."
There is a full minute before France finds himself. With trembling hands, he touches the rose, pulling back once the soft skin touches the black and rotten petal. England reaches forward and rips the dead petal off letting it flutter to the ground. "Take it."
France takes the rose and England merely smiled, tracing a line from his forehead to his chest and then to his shoulders, which are now taller and prouder than ever. "Godspeed France," he says, sliding back into his pew and getting to his knees, "prepare yourself for my invasion, because I am coming for you."
1199
The tenth rose that Arthur gives Francis was the eve the Lion passed.
The king lies dying in his mother's arms while a few feet away; the nation of England is on his knees, sobbing. The castle has been emptied by order of England as he cannot stand to watch others gape and mourn his king. That is his right, one that he has earned and will forever hold to his heart.
"E-England…" Richard breathes out, a hand weakly reaching for the young teen, who scrambles forward on his hands and knees, clutching the weak hang, kissing it tenderly. "I have a j-job for you…" he coughs and his mouth soothes his fevered brow with soft kisses as she pets his hair.
The nation bows his head with hesitation. "Of course my Lord…" he says, kissing the hand again, "Anything." He can feel the control slipping from the lion and into another; someone weak and nothing like the leader leaving him. His fingers grip Richard's palm tighter as if he can keep him from passing on just my holding him.
Not bothering to smile (lions never did) Richard grips England's hand with the last of his strength. "R-Remember…" he says, his getting ever-so-quiet that Arthur must lean in close to catch the last breath and words that pass from his lips. "D-Dieu et mon Droit."
Arthur promises the body that he will remember, his tears sliding down the limp hand.
They bury him but England cannot bare to part ways with both the lion and his rose so clings to the flower, not daring to lay it on the grave. Richard's mother is the first to leave the sit, followed by the archers of the castle and then the foot soldiers. Only England remains on the edge of the fresh earth. A cool wind tears at him but he does not move.
"Angleterre." Even at this, he does not turn around.
"What are you doing here?"
A pair of boots join his beside the turned earth. "I came to see 'ow 'e was doing. I was 'oping to watch 'im before 'e died." He shrugs, as if the king dying was tantamount to an ant being crushed, "I am too late I suppose but c'est la vie."
England is quiet, fingers tight around the rose, cupping its soft head in his hand. "I have a question for you France."
Finally they both look up, finally look at each other properly for the first time in almost a century. France is still taller, but stockier and more muscle from his lands while England is thin, lean and awkward. Their faces promise good looks but are still awkward and not quite their own those Francis' boasts the ghost of a beard. The sandy hair is untidy and unkempt as it always has though it hangs around his head and windy mess while France's escapes the tangling fingers of the wind by being pulled back, only allowing his bangs to separate and curl in the breeze.
But their eyes have not changed. They never do.
"Dieu et mon Droit." England says quietly. "What does it mean?" Rain begins to splatter down on the world, a storm boiling around the edges of the grave, waiting to wash the feeling of loss away. The English nation thanks the rain silently.
France shifts on his feet, sighing. "God and my right. It means that your king recognised no one higher than God."
"Oh." England says.
They are quiet until the rain is pounding down so hard it is impossible to hear anything above the crash of lighting and rumble of thunder. England shivered violently but couldn't bring himself to move. France finds his back and shoves him away from the grave into the safety of the castle. "Thank you France." England says, "For the translation."
Suddenly there is another clap of lightning and Francis looks at Arthur, hair hanging in his eyes. "I 'ave a name." he announces quietly, "Francis Bonnefoy. I am not just France." This was so profound and so new to England that it took him a moment to recover. Suddenly they were more human, more mortal and softer and immediately the loss of Richard weighs even heavier on his tiny shoulders.
England sits down and rubs his eyes. There is a moment where France turns away, his cheeks pink at the admission and he rests his hand on the door. "I thought you might like to know just who you are fighting." He pushes the door open, lightening creating a jagged line of light through the crack of the door, but England's voice calls Francis back and it is not the first time a mere word from the Englishman
"Arthur," England says quietly, "My name is Arthur Kirkland." Looking down at the soaking rose in his hand, Arthur holds out the rose and Francis takes hi, hiding the tiniest of smiles behind the petals.
|Next
Author's Note
OKAY, so this was originally planned for the Entente Cordial but I couldn't make the deadline in time... This story will span the entire history of the France/UK relationship until 2010 meaning about 12 chapters with 44 dates and historical events. Now there is a lot of historical embellishment for these because doing them perfectly would require so much research that the story would be lost within the research.
On a plus note, it's my birthday! I'm finally 18! And happy St. George Day to all you Brits out there.
Historical Notes (may be inaccurate, please correct any major problems.)
407 - Just a year during the times of Roman rule in Britain. Gaul is what is known as modern-day France but I made her his mom instead because it's cuter that way. Rome's original plan it to get Belgium and England together but that doesn't work because Arthur fails like that.
1066 - This is the beginning of the Normandy invasion which was basically the king of France running into England taking the crown because the previous king, Edward, said he could have it. But when Edward passed, William didn't get the crown, thus, INVASION.
1100 - Henry the I was not the first king born on English soil, but he was the first king born on English soil since the Normandy invasion. His coronation took place in Westminster Abbey.
1199 - Richard the I (better known as Richard the Lionheart) was killed through infection after being shot by an arrow. He was a very significant figure in history and also crowned he phrase "Dieu et mon Droit" which is still used by British monarchy to this day.
Author/Artist: twilightrose2
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/UK but with the whole cast (Rome, Gaul(OC), Richard I, Belgium in this chapter)
Rating: T (M in one later chapter)
Genre: Romance
Warnings: Lots of history. lots.
Summary: There are a hundred ways to say 'I love you'. It only takes England one-hundred-and-eight times.
Author’s Notes: Writer's block with some other stories so I'm trying out this one. It's a detailed following of France and English's relation from the Roman years to modern days.
It Had To Be You
407
The first rose Arthur ever gives Francis is a mistake.
England has been taken from his island by the man with the booming voice and the head of curly dark-copper hair. He does not like this man very much (he seems to delight in picking up England and cuddling him and England has found that he does not enjoy being cuddled) but must follow anyway because he has no voice, no words, no sound. He is fledging, waiting to find wings and until then must ride on the backs of others.
So there he stands amid larger nations, clinging slightly to Rome's legs, his scared eyes scanning the crowd. No one is his size and all at once he is proud of this fact and hides a little tighter against the leg. A large hand reaches down and with all the softness of a gentle breeze gently nudges England away from his leg. "Britannia," he says, crouching next to the tiny boy, holding him out a flower.
The green eyes immediately absorb every soft lip of red and the twisted stem with thorns. His fingers touch the velvet petals which remind him of a rabbit's fur and Rome presses the stalk into his hands, careful not to catch a barb on the soft palms of the island nation. "This is a rose." Rome says, "It is a flower of love and I want you to do something very important with it. I need you to give it to another."
England frowns. He does not want to give up this treasure. His lower lips juts out and Rome chuckles, ruffling the sandy hair. "Don't worry Britannia, you will find other roses, but this one is important." Grumbling, but nodding anyway, the green gaze looks up at the empire, "I need you to give this to a girl with long blond hair, alright? Her name is Belgica."
Nodding, England waddles off, looking around the milling people, fingers still greedily feeling the petals as though enough touch will eventually steal away all the softness and give it to him. But he spots someone with blond hair and judging from the powder blue skirts that cling to the outline of thin legs, it must be a girl.
Allowing his nose one last breath of the heavy scent, England quietly walks forward, head held a little higher than normal as he taps the girl's shoulder, holding out the rose proudly.
The girl turns, bright blue eyes alighting first on the rich blossom and then on the little nation offering it. He does not seem to be much, a mark on the map, merely something to be looked over but the eyes find the green ones and immediately see the spark of something. Something that will surpass even Rome, that will reach far across the sea and conquer lands.
So France takes this rose from England, curtsying quietly, thanking him in a tongue England has never heard. Behind France, a tall woman walks up with long, deep gold hair as she kneels beside France, looking at the rose as he presents it proudly, chattering away.
"Oh Gaul…" Rome's voice says from nearby and Arthur looks around to see the empire grinning down at the woman with the deep golden curls. "I guess… Britannia got the wrong person." He starts to laugh, other surrounding nations joining in. England looks around, slightly frantic, missing what the joke was. His eyes start to fill with tears.
Then, amidst the crowd emerges another girl, her hair the same as the one in the blue dress but she is much softer and her eyes burn fiery green. "Britannia," Rome says, wiping at his eyes, gesturing towards the new arrival, "this is Belgica. And this-" this time to the one with the navy eyes, "is Francia. He is Gaul's oldest."
England can only bow his head trying to hid his blush and tears while France twirls the rose between his fingers, humming, now showing the rose to his sister who huffs, looking away, jealousy clear in her eyes.
Looking up to Rome, Gaul shakes her head, making sure to keep between her two children. "This will not work." She says, hand on her hip, "Not my little treasure with your… Thing."
The elder can only smile, patting the island nation's head.
1066
The second rose Arthur gives Francis is the beginning.
The forests that France has grown up chasing England in now seem hostile and dangerous, each trunk gnarled and turning towards him, blurring the lines that animals and creatures have made, leaving the Frenchman to wander the wood in endless circles. He did not mind, he has a mission and after and hour passed, he finally finds his prey.
England is on the edge of a small lake, breathing hard, half naked as he attempts to tend to his wounds. It is hard, his short and young arms and already aching body making it impossible to reach the most painful gashes that ran jagged along his spine and bit in pain every time he moved.
Around him, the faeries and other mystical beasts are gathered, trying to help him but holding back, for each time they approach, the nation would snap at them, swatting them away. He is surrounded by herbs and poultices and when he grows tired of trying to bandages, he churns up the delicate petals of a rose, knowing the velvet will soothe.
As a twig cracks at the other side of the lake, the Brit turns around quickly, tearing open a barely healed wound, causing him to cry out in pain. "F-France!" he snarls, feeling the blood seep down his back and into the waistband of his pants. "Get out of here!"
"Oh mon lapin!" France cries back, faking hurt feelings but most just grinning at England from under the ring of his extravagant hat, "You are still so wild! Can you not be kinder to your new leader?"
England struggles to his feet, wavering as more wounds open and lines of blood begin to cover his skin. He does not understand why he is hurt because before this, he was untouched and peaceful but now the ugly claws of war are finally sinking in on his vestal and pure body and form that day on it will never leave him. "No! T-The crown was mind F-France, you had no right to take it!"
"The crown was promised to William!" France shouts, starting around the edge of the water, drawing his sword (the blood on it is dried and still smells of England.) "Your Edward promised it and then William did not receive it. We do not take kindly to broken promises."
Scrambling backwards Arthur bumps into a tree and hisses as the bark latches onto the wounds and he must lower himself off, the rose clutched in his hand digging its thorns into his flesh, but merely an after-thought compared to the agony in his back. He slumps to the ground, scowling up as France stands over him, that victorious smirk, the one England has had to deal with for six-hundred years, in place on the still slightly chubby face.
"Get away from me." England spits.
"Non." The blade presses to the underside of his chin, "Not until you bow to me. I am your superior. You will never be nothing more than an island of France. You will never become your own nation!"
For once, the forest is silent. England wants to argue but he has no proof, he has always been under someone's foot. England wants to run but the more he shrinks away from the blade, the more his back impales itself on the crooked bark of the tree. England wants his old France back, but he knows better.
Blood running down his arm, he leans forward and get on one knee. France smiles above him, waiting. So England offers the rose. "Take this," he says quietly, "and one day, you will regret it because I will come at you with everything I have. I will not be yours forever France."
France eagerly snatches the rose from Arthur, smelling the fresh blood and the heavy perfume of the flower. "I await the day petit lapin."
1100
The fourth rose that Arthur gives Francis is in the house of God.
Westminster is dark. Shadows are at every turn and the clouded moonlight barely can reach through the windows of the abbey. England is holed up here, body lean, taller (still not tall enough) as his boots echo in the empty hall and in his hand rests a rose. Like Rome had promised centuries ago, the rose would be his and now, for the first time since Normandy had lay siege to his beaches, a king of his own land now takes head.
Henry, born of Windsor (on a night so dark and damp that England swears he will never forget the chill), has taken the crown. He is an English nation, born and now breed. He can eel his people more intimately now instead of a blur and hazy. Now he feels the heartbeat of London as the city settles in for the night and the wind that ruffled his flags. England felt strong and free, the sentiment of his people and his king sinking into him and suddenly fear felt like a footprint upon one of his beaches, something to be washed away.
The thorns on the stalk of the rose no longer frightened him.
He sits down in a pew, watching the moon travel across the circular window above the door and just before it disappears completely, the large double-doors open and a figure stands on the threshold of the church, panting, hair messy and clothes dirty. There is no smirk of victory, merely a snarl, because it is England's turn to grin in triumph.
The doors slam shut as France strides into the room, attempting to smooth himself out, tucking hair back, pulling at his coat and collars, anything to look like he hasn't just lost part of himself. "England." He says coldly, then, apparently correcting himself, "Angleterre."
"You're right." Arthur says, standing up to face the other. Behind him, the hallows of the church stood proud and the cross, his cross, lined with his straight shoulders. "It is English land now. Isn't is wonderful?"
France's face contorts into an ugly snarl and he makes a grab for his sword but England simply shakes his head. "In the house of God? My, my." The hand drops for the sword, settling instead folded tight across his chest.
"You will be mine again Angleterre." France makes sure to run the 'r' for a moment longer than usual. "Just you wait. You 'ave always been mine and you will always be mine."
England's fingers run over the petals of the rose as he cradles it, eyes focused on the curves and swells of the red while catch whatever moonlight manages in, causing everything around the blossom to be grey save for the bright and fierce green eyes and the glint of the Frenchman's cobalt. "Is that so?" England asks, looking up, fingers gripping the edge of a single petal, the only one that, unlike its companions, is black with the poison of age. "Do you remember what I said, all those years ago France?"
The Frenchman shakes his head. "I do not remember every filthy word that 'as come out of your ungrateful mouth."
"I said that one day I would at you with everything I had." Arthur watches him carefully, weighing his every word as the moon finally slips away and the curls falls into a heavy darkness. "That day is coming France. Even if it means I must battle for a hundred years, I will. Because now-" he steps forward, offering the rose, "-now I have a grudge."
There is a full minute before France finds himself. With trembling hands, he touches the rose, pulling back once the soft skin touches the black and rotten petal. England reaches forward and rips the dead petal off letting it flutter to the ground. "Take it."
France takes the rose and England merely smiled, tracing a line from his forehead to his chest and then to his shoulders, which are now taller and prouder than ever. "Godspeed France," he says, sliding back into his pew and getting to his knees, "prepare yourself for my invasion, because I am coming for you."
1199
The tenth rose that Arthur gives Francis was the eve the Lion passed.
The king lies dying in his mother's arms while a few feet away; the nation of England is on his knees, sobbing. The castle has been emptied by order of England as he cannot stand to watch others gape and mourn his king. That is his right, one that he has earned and will forever hold to his heart.
"E-England…" Richard breathes out, a hand weakly reaching for the young teen, who scrambles forward on his hands and knees, clutching the weak hang, kissing it tenderly. "I have a j-job for you…" he coughs and his mouth soothes his fevered brow with soft kisses as she pets his hair.
The nation bows his head with hesitation. "Of course my Lord…" he says, kissing the hand again, "Anything." He can feel the control slipping from the lion and into another; someone weak and nothing like the leader leaving him. His fingers grip Richard's palm tighter as if he can keep him from passing on just my holding him.
Not bothering to smile (lions never did) Richard grips England's hand with the last of his strength. "R-Remember…" he says, his getting ever-so-quiet that Arthur must lean in close to catch the last breath and words that pass from his lips. "D-Dieu et mon Droit."
Arthur promises the body that he will remember, his tears sliding down the limp hand.
They bury him but England cannot bare to part ways with both the lion and his rose so clings to the flower, not daring to lay it on the grave. Richard's mother is the first to leave the sit, followed by the archers of the castle and then the foot soldiers. Only England remains on the edge of the fresh earth. A cool wind tears at him but he does not move.
"Angleterre." Even at this, he does not turn around.
"What are you doing here?"
A pair of boots join his beside the turned earth. "I came to see 'ow 'e was doing. I was 'oping to watch 'im before 'e died." He shrugs, as if the king dying was tantamount to an ant being crushed, "I am too late I suppose but c'est la vie."
England is quiet, fingers tight around the rose, cupping its soft head in his hand. "I have a question for you France."
Finally they both look up, finally look at each other properly for the first time in almost a century. France is still taller, but stockier and more muscle from his lands while England is thin, lean and awkward. Their faces promise good looks but are still awkward and not quite their own those Francis' boasts the ghost of a beard. The sandy hair is untidy and unkempt as it always has though it hangs around his head and windy mess while France's escapes the tangling fingers of the wind by being pulled back, only allowing his bangs to separate and curl in the breeze.
But their eyes have not changed. They never do.
"Dieu et mon Droit." England says quietly. "What does it mean?" Rain begins to splatter down on the world, a storm boiling around the edges of the grave, waiting to wash the feeling of loss away. The English nation thanks the rain silently.
France shifts on his feet, sighing. "God and my right. It means that your king recognised no one higher than God."
"Oh." England says.
They are quiet until the rain is pounding down so hard it is impossible to hear anything above the crash of lighting and rumble of thunder. England shivered violently but couldn't bring himself to move. France finds his back and shoves him away from the grave into the safety of the castle. "Thank you France." England says, "For the translation."
Suddenly there is another clap of lightning and Francis looks at Arthur, hair hanging in his eyes. "I 'ave a name." he announces quietly, "Francis Bonnefoy. I am not just France." This was so profound and so new to England that it took him a moment to recover. Suddenly they were more human, more mortal and softer and immediately the loss of Richard weighs even heavier on his tiny shoulders.
England sits down and rubs his eyes. There is a moment where France turns away, his cheeks pink at the admission and he rests his hand on the door. "I thought you might like to know just who you are fighting." He pushes the door open, lightening creating a jagged line of light through the crack of the door, but England's voice calls Francis back and it is not the first time a mere word from the Englishman
"Arthur," England says quietly, "My name is Arthur Kirkland." Looking down at the soaking rose in his hand, Arthur holds out the rose and Francis takes hi, hiding the tiniest of smiles behind the petals.
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Author's Note
OKAY, so this was originally planned for the Entente Cordial but I couldn't make the deadline in time... This story will span the entire history of the France/UK relationship until 2010 meaning about 12 chapters with 44 dates and historical events. Now there is a lot of historical embellishment for these because doing them perfectly would require so much research that the story would be lost within the research.
On a plus note, it's my birthday! I'm finally 18! And happy St. George Day to all you Brits out there.
Historical Notes (may be inaccurate, please correct any major problems.)
407 - Just a year during the times of Roman rule in Britain. Gaul is what is known as modern-day France but I made her his mom instead because it's cuter that way. Rome's original plan it to get Belgium and England together but that doesn't work because Arthur fails like that.
1066 - This is the beginning of the Normandy invasion which was basically the king of France running into England taking the crown because the previous king, Edward, said he could have it. But when Edward passed, William didn't get the crown, thus, INVASION.
1100 - Henry the I was not the first king born on English soil, but he was the first king born on English soil since the Normandy invasion. His coronation took place in Westminster Abbey.
1199 - Richard the I (better known as Richard the Lionheart) was killed through infection after being shot by an arrow. He was a very significant figure in history and also crowned he phrase "Dieu et mon Droit" which is still used by British monarchy to this day.