He knew the consequences when he decided to do it. He knew that it would be final, absolute. There would be no going back. That's why he decided to do it.
He wouldn't have to fight with France anymore. He saw what happened after Russia lost Prussia. France would probably just become as icy cold as that nation, and it would be no big deal. France wouldn't ever fight with anyone ever again. England could have hegemony without worrying about challenges! He would be free! He would be mighty! He would be everything France wasn't!
England sat outside Jeanne's jail cell with a smirk.
She deserved to die. Wearing men's clothes? Pfft. That was clearly a sin.
There was no spark of defiance in her eyes, but she certainly hadn't given in yet. She just sat there as if she was being dignified by going quietly. She had accepted her fate, so why wasn't she struggling?
England knew a way to fix that.
As he walked out of the room, he whispered to the guard: “You can do as you please with her.”
The guard grinned.
...oOo...
France knelt down in front of him, tears streaming down his previously flawless face.
It was a nice change to see him like this. Kneeling in the dirt, hair matted and dirty, uniform tattered.
“S'il vous plaît, Angleterre... Vous ne pouvez pas le faire... Je vous en supplie...”
England smirked. The nice thing about the French language is that you can tell when someone is speaking to you as if you are superior.
“In English, frog.”
France grabbed for England's hands, desperate, pleading.
“Please, England... You can't do this... I beg you...”
England wrenched his hands away, but then leaned down to France's level.
“Oh, but I can. And I will.”
“Please, don't,” he whispered, “I'll do anything.”
England looked thoughtful for just a fraction of a second. France saw it and continued:
“What do you want? Money? Resources? Part of the harvest yield?”
No, I want your entire country. I wanted you to surrender to me. I wanted you to be mine, and mine alone.
“I want to kill Jean on account of heresy.”
“Non, Dieu cher, non. She has done nothing, she is still a virgin!”
“I don't care,” England whispered.
They both looked over as a horse-drawn cart rolled slowly by. Jeanne was sitting in it with her hands tied behind her back, and a blind-fold over her eyes.
France scrambled to his feet.
“Jeanne!” he shouted, running over to the side of the cart. “Jeanne!”
“Francis?” she looked around, even though the cloth was over her eyes.
England ran after France to stop him before he could untie her. He grabbed France's shoulders and pulled him back, forcing his hands behind him and holding him back.
“I can't stop it, Jeanne!” France shouted, as the cart stopped a short ways from them.
England covered France's mouth hastily.
“I know, Francis!” she shouted back. “It's okay! I'm going with God now. Je reconte Dieu... La monde est bien maintenant...”
France didn't even bother trying to say something. Somehow that made England feel uneasy. The feeling increased slightly when England felt hot tears slide silently over the hand covering France's mouth.
He almost let go.
He almost let France stop the soldiers from tying Jeanne to the pole.
He almost let France pull her from the fire.
He almost felt sorry for what he had done when she called Jesus' name.
He almost told France he was sorry when France went limp in his arms.
He almost let France cry on him.
But England released him, and allowed him to fall to the dirt to sob quietly for his lost lover. He saw the red thread go limp as well, as if what was holding it tight had been cut, and it just needed to be retied.
To keep his mind from his conflicting emotions, he glanced to a spot far off on the horizon. The spot where his own red thread disappeared to. It was taught, so taught. So taught, it was as if it was pulling him to some distant place...
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
In Love and War [Part 1/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-05 06:28 am (UTC)(link)He wouldn't have to fight with France anymore. He saw what happened after Russia lost Prussia. France would probably just become as icy cold as that nation, and it would be no big deal. France wouldn't ever fight with anyone ever again. England could have hegemony without worrying about challenges! He would be free! He would be mighty! He would be everything France wasn't!
England sat outside Jeanne's jail cell with a smirk.
She deserved to die. Wearing men's clothes? Pfft. That was clearly a sin.
There was no spark of defiance in her eyes, but she certainly hadn't given in yet. She just sat there as if she was being dignified by going quietly. She had accepted her fate, so why wasn't she struggling?
England knew a way to fix that.
As he walked out of the room, he whispered to the guard: “You can do as you please with her.”
The guard grinned.
France knelt down in front of him, tears streaming down his previously flawless face.
It was a nice change to see him like this. Kneeling in the dirt, hair matted and dirty, uniform tattered.
“S'il vous plaît, Angleterre... Vous ne pouvez pas le faire... Je vous en supplie...”
England smirked. The nice thing about the French language is that you can tell when someone is speaking to you as if you are superior.
“In English, frog.”
France grabbed for England's hands, desperate, pleading.
“Please, England... You can't do this... I beg you...”
England wrenched his hands away, but then leaned down to France's level.
“Oh, but I can. And I will.”
“Please, don't,” he whispered, “I'll do anything.”
England looked thoughtful for just a fraction of a second. France saw it and continued:
“What do you want? Money? Resources? Part of the harvest yield?”
No, I want your entire country. I wanted you to surrender to me. I wanted you to be mine, and mine alone.
“I want to kill Jean on account of heresy.”
“Non, Dieu cher, non. She has done nothing, she is still a virgin!”
“I don't care,” England whispered.
They both looked over as a horse-drawn cart rolled slowly by. Jeanne was sitting in it with her hands tied behind her back, and a blind-fold over her eyes.
France scrambled to his feet.
“Jeanne!” he shouted, running over to the side of the cart. “Jeanne!”
“Francis?” she looked around, even though the cloth was over her eyes.
England ran after France to stop him before he could untie her. He grabbed France's shoulders and pulled him back, forcing his hands behind him and holding him back.
“I can't stop it, Jeanne!” France shouted, as the cart stopped a short ways from them.
England covered France's mouth hastily.
“I know, Francis!” she shouted back. “It's okay! I'm going with God now. Je reconte Dieu... La monde est bien maintenant...”
France didn't even bother trying to say something. Somehow that made England feel uneasy. The feeling increased slightly when England felt hot tears slide silently over the hand covering France's mouth.
He almost let go.
He almost let France stop the soldiers from tying Jeanne to the pole.
He almost let France pull her from the fire.
He almost felt sorry for what he had done when she called Jesus' name.
He almost told France he was sorry when France went limp in his arms.
He almost let France cry on him.
But England released him, and allowed him to fall to the dirt to sob quietly for his lost lover. He saw the red thread go limp as well, as if what was holding it tight had been cut, and it just needed to be retied.
To keep his mind from his conflicting emotions, he glanced to a spot far off on the horizon. The spot where his own red thread disappeared to. It was taught, so taught. So taught, it was as if it was pulling him to some distant place...