APH Fanfiction - May 1940
Title: May 1940
Author: Spyramy
Characters: Britain, France
Rating: G
Warnings: None, if not bad writing and a tone which ended up sounding unitentionally disrespectful.
Summary: Dunkirk is hailed in British history as one of the most glorious military successes of the 20th century, but Arthur will never forget the lingering shame of retreat.
-----
“It’s true then... The British are evacuating.”
Sitting in France’s ruined house, the subsequent silence stretched long and painful. Here before Britain sat all that had previously been hateful to him, for centuries had he glared across the channel with the strange feeling of security that a flamboyant, floppy-haired nation was glaring back at him. Britain hated France, but he couldn’t remember why. And all these years they’d bickered and fought, never more than a tiny stretch of sea away from each other, and if Britain were to glare across the channel and somehow know that France was not on the other side glaring back, then Britain would worry that something was very wrong, and know that it had to be put right. And that wasn’t hatred, was it?
“We’re assembled on the beaches. They fenced us in and this is the only way out. The ships are coming to evacuate my soldiers. Early tomorrow morning... It’s not an ideal situation for me either. They’re shooting the horses.... a- and...
Arthur shifted uncomfortably as he trailed off, looking at his boots and the imprint their soles had made on the ash and debris which coated France’s fine, expensive carpet. France’s grand, elegant house had been a contrast irritation to him once, but that didn’t mean he was glad to see it like this.
“We have no choice, Fran- Francis...”
He corrected himself to use the other nation’s given name. Then wished he hadn’t, as it felt more like a personal betrayal. Ashamed green eyes found blue irises, the colour of the deep summer sky, of glorious spring mornings and lazy afternoons. The colour of revolution. Now the colour of accusation.
“And this is your glorious military aid is it?”
France’s words were sharp and quiet, though alive with potential violence, his posture upright and his expression set with eyes narrowed in hurt and anger.
“This is our alliance?”
Arthur sat up straighter.
“Now wait one mome-“
But Francis interrupted, shocking Arthur back into his seat.
“There is not a moment! There are no moments... Germany is coming! He’s taking my towns, he’s killing my people... My army is in tatters and everything is burning or burnt. There will soon be nothing left.”
France had gotten to his feet, approaching. Britain sat back in his chair, unable to find a glimmer of familiarity in the cold desperation of the other’s face. The other nation was close, a hand was gripping his lapel, France was so close that he could see the pockmarks of artillery shells on French farmland, the ash smothering towns and villages and the reflection the fear of an army of German soldiers sweeping through and finishing the job. France’s voice had lowered again, and Britain wondered if he was having trouble breathing, as with each new breath he wheezed as if a fine smoke hung in the air, clogging his lungs.
“... Nothing left.”
The nation gasped and fell to his knees before Arthur’s chair, still clinging limply to the lapels of his uniform, all pride lost.
“... And now you’re abandoning me too...”
Arthur counted the long moments. Something was torn in him... His pride was wounded. He couldn’t protect his friends... he couldn’t even protect his closest, dearest, most treasured enemy from the approaching threat. He could barely protect himself.
They sat this way for a long time before Britain managed to force himself to do the thing he’d wanted to since this conversation began. He leaned forwards and slowly, slowly and gently wrapped his arms around France whose shoulder stiffened briefly before weakening to the embrace. He held the neighbouring nation tightly, feeling each rattling, gasping breath and the spasms of sobs... The grief which France would not yield to. And into Francis’ ear he whispered.
“I will return for you... “
-----
Dunkirk was hailed thereafter as a great British achievement. The media got hold of the event and ti turned into a frenzy. People celebrated, songs were sung and flags were waved in the light of what was perceived as a glorious victory for the resilient, British spirit.
But Arthur had never forgotten... Nor was he ever likely to forget every time he stared across the wide channel, looking for his most beloved rival, that for all the lives that were saved and the eventual outcome of that long and draining war, Dunkirk had been a retreat, and a betrayal.
Author: Spyramy
Characters: Britain, France
Rating: G
Warnings: None, if not bad writing and a tone which ended up sounding unitentionally disrespectful.
Summary: Dunkirk is hailed in British history as one of the most glorious military successes of the 20th century, but Arthur will never forget the lingering shame of retreat.
-----
“It’s true then... The British are evacuating.”
Sitting in France’s ruined house, the subsequent silence stretched long and painful. Here before Britain sat all that had previously been hateful to him, for centuries had he glared across the channel with the strange feeling of security that a flamboyant, floppy-haired nation was glaring back at him. Britain hated France, but he couldn’t remember why. And all these years they’d bickered and fought, never more than a tiny stretch of sea away from each other, and if Britain were to glare across the channel and somehow know that France was not on the other side glaring back, then Britain would worry that something was very wrong, and know that it had to be put right. And that wasn’t hatred, was it?
“We’re assembled on the beaches. They fenced us in and this is the only way out. The ships are coming to evacuate my soldiers. Early tomorrow morning... It’s not an ideal situation for me either. They’re shooting the horses.... a- and...
Arthur shifted uncomfortably as he trailed off, looking at his boots and the imprint their soles had made on the ash and debris which coated France’s fine, expensive carpet. France’s grand, elegant house had been a contrast irritation to him once, but that didn’t mean he was glad to see it like this.
“We have no choice, Fran- Francis...”
He corrected himself to use the other nation’s given name. Then wished he hadn’t, as it felt more like a personal betrayal. Ashamed green eyes found blue irises, the colour of the deep summer sky, of glorious spring mornings and lazy afternoons. The colour of revolution. Now the colour of accusation.
“And this is your glorious military aid is it?”
France’s words were sharp and quiet, though alive with potential violence, his posture upright and his expression set with eyes narrowed in hurt and anger.
“This is our alliance?”
Arthur sat up straighter.
“Now wait one mome-“
But Francis interrupted, shocking Arthur back into his seat.
“There is not a moment! There are no moments... Germany is coming! He’s taking my towns, he’s killing my people... My army is in tatters and everything is burning or burnt. There will soon be nothing left.”
France had gotten to his feet, approaching. Britain sat back in his chair, unable to find a glimmer of familiarity in the cold desperation of the other’s face. The other nation was close, a hand was gripping his lapel, France was so close that he could see the pockmarks of artillery shells on French farmland, the ash smothering towns and villages and the reflection the fear of an army of German soldiers sweeping through and finishing the job. France’s voice had lowered again, and Britain wondered if he was having trouble breathing, as with each new breath he wheezed as if a fine smoke hung in the air, clogging his lungs.
“... Nothing left.”
The nation gasped and fell to his knees before Arthur’s chair, still clinging limply to the lapels of his uniform, all pride lost.
“... And now you’re abandoning me too...”
Arthur counted the long moments. Something was torn in him... His pride was wounded. He couldn’t protect his friends... he couldn’t even protect his closest, dearest, most treasured enemy from the approaching threat. He could barely protect himself.
They sat this way for a long time before Britain managed to force himself to do the thing he’d wanted to since this conversation began. He leaned forwards and slowly, slowly and gently wrapped his arms around France whose shoulder stiffened briefly before weakening to the embrace. He held the neighbouring nation tightly, feeling each rattling, gasping breath and the spasms of sobs... The grief which France would not yield to. And into Francis’ ear he whispered.
“I will return for you... “
-----
Dunkirk was hailed thereafter as a great British achievement. The media got hold of the event and ti turned into a frenzy. People celebrated, songs were sung and flags were waved in the light of what was perceived as a glorious victory for the resilient, British spirit.
But Arthur had never forgotten... Nor was he ever likely to forget every time he stared across the wide channel, looking for his most beloved rival, that for all the lives that were saved and the eventual outcome of that long and draining war, Dunkirk had been a retreat, and a betrayal.