Have some FrUk.
Title: Inveterate
Characters/Pairings: England/France
Rating: PG-13
Summary: All that was left to do was wait for one of their armies to retreat. When that happened, one of them would find that their wounds didn't heal quite so neatly.
Author's Note: Hundred Years War setting.
Mud slicked down the slope of his chest, through the armor, and pooled into the hole torn in his abdomen. He realized, indifferently, that his left shoulder had left the socket and was twisted at an odd angle. Somewhere above him, people were still pounding past, kicking up mud and gore from the ground. They were his men, and even though he was laying on the ground, bloodied, gutted, they were not retreating.
There was one reason why they didn’t withdraw, why they simply moved around him: they knew.
The cheering of the men who had specifically targeted him, who had taken it into their heads that they had downed a devil, stuttered and waned to shouts as England sat up.
His arm snapped back into place.
He cricked his neck as he stood, skin closing over the sword wound. Internally, his body would take longer to repair, but he wouldn’t have to worry about anything spilling out as he continued forward. With a grin that seemed to cause a staggering ripple in the line of Frenchmen, he wrapped his hand back around the hilt of his blade and took casual steps towards them, his men still rushing past on either side.
xxx
Arrows were painful things and did as much damage coming out as they did going in. France had experience with this. He’d pulled four from his side in the last half hour. The ragged gashes had closed but that didn’t stop the damnable ache of them.
Expression hardening, he pulled back on the reins. His horse teetered slightly to the side as he searched the surge of soldiers, trying to find England in the gore-spattered, yelling faces. He hadn’t seen England since the start of the battle, when they’d still been in neat little lines across a field, when the trees hadn’t held sheltered longbows, and when France still held an illusion of winning.
His fellow nation was not difficult to find. All he had to do was look for a circle of men edging away from one in the middle who, as per usual, was grinning savagely.
France smiled. His little brother seemed to have lost his horse.
xxx
England had enough time to look up at the pound of hooves and raise his sword before France’s first strike slammed into his body. It thrummed through the blade, into his hands, and nearly knocked him off his feet. Fortunately, England had the balance of a man who belonged on a ship, and he remained stubbornly standing.
As his broken fingers cracked into their rightful position, England looked up to see France’s face bright and wild above their armies. When their eyes met, France turned and made for the line of trees.
Cursing, England ran after him. If the bastard wanted to meet in seclusion, away from the troops, that was perfectly fine. It was even preferable. The fact that he was being drawn away from the battle itself didn’t matter. It was clear to him by that point that his men would defeat the French with or without his presence.
All that was left to do was to wait for one army to retreat.
When that happened, one of them would find that their wounds didn’t heal quite so neatly.
xxx
France’s mind was only partially invested in their fight. His thoughts circled around images not so full of mud and blood and bits of bone. He knew the distance in his expression must have been obvious and that it was driving England mad. It wasn’t something he minded in the slightest.
“Fight me, damn it!” England demanded furiously, pushing forward, their faces close over their crossed weapons.
“I am, sweetling,” he replied with a gracious smile, before turning on his heel and forcing England’s blade to the side. There was a moment when he thought he’d freed it from the other nation’s grip, but England pulled away with the jarring scrape of metal against metal. “I even gave up my horse to confront you more personably.”
They separated slightly, a few feet of space between them that their swords could still navigate.
“Or are you dismayed that you don’t hold my full attention?” France questioned, light and mocking. “Because I’m afraid I can’t help but think of home.”
xxx
There was a shallow quality in France’s eyes that didn’t belong there. It made England think of a hidden cellar door that belied how deep a place really sank into the earth. He felt like he was fighting a golem, a doll, something made of clay.
Because I’m afraid I can’t help but think of home.
Of course that was where France’s mind tarried. He was watching his land and people being cut away from him. He was facing the possibility of a rival, an enemy, taking possession of his crown. France was losing a war and could in the process lose his integrity as a sovereign nation. The daring, nonchalant charm that usually lit up France’s face was still there, but it was little more than a film of gold over something somber and aggrieved.
England realized, like someone realizes they’ve been staring at something too long or they’ve missed a turn in the street, that there was an ample amount of blood on his sword, and France had a thin cut just beneath his hairline that had failed to heal.
xxx
France felt it acutely: a sudden shock, purple and red spasming in front of his eyes, the sensation of his head snapping back too far as his body buckled, the angle forcing open a tear in his throat.
He felt the pain.
It didn’t stop him from being far more aware of bitter antipathy towards the nation that gave him the wound.
xxx
One of England’s knees was in the mud beside France, the other crooked to support his arm. He watched as a light pelt of rain washed the deep, nearly claret blood from the slit in France’s throat and into the surrounding soil. The blue eyes were glazed, dead, focused somewhere to the side of England’s face.
In a few hours time, France would wake up. Then, barring apocalypse, they’d reenact the day at a new location with a possibly different outcome.
England kissed the deathwound, and then lifted his head to briefly press his mouth to France’s before he walked away to find where his army had gotten to.