England looked around in alarm, but the fairy settled herself comfortably on England's shoulder and pointed off to the side. He turned to see a whole battalion of soldiers kneeling on the battlefield.
At first he was confused, but then saw a man standing at the head of the congression holding a Bible.
He forgot that Jeanne would have mass on the battlefield.
He spotted France kneeling too. He knelt beside Jeanne, and he repeated what the preacher said with his eyes closed, putting his whole heart into the words. France had a vibrancy that England forgot he had ever possessed. He looked so young and... alive.
The fairy moved some of his hair to whisper in his ear:
“That was when he still believed in God.”
When the mass was over, everyone stood up and France looked at Jeanne with pure admiration.
England looked away. He didn't like seeing that look on France's face.
“You knew he loved her, England. So why did you do it?”
England didn't respond. He just watched his army approach from the distance. France turned to Jeanne and said, “Sois prudent.”
Be careful.
Jeanne smiled and took one of his hands with the quiet, dignified grace that used to irritate England so much.
“Je sera.”
I will.
The red thread was taught between them. Almost as taught as the thread between England and America. He didn't know the mechanics of the thread, but he figured that the thread was taught when some sort of promise for the future existed between the two people it connected. He could almost hear the tension from the thread in the air. England really had heard that tension at some point.
He held his hand up to his shoulder, silently asking the fairy to bring him somewhere else.
...oOo...
When England blinked again, they were on a different battlefield.
He looked around wearily, guilt still heavy on his soul.
He spotted America. He was younger though, he didn't have his glasses yet. He was standing with France on a big open field and they were shaking hands.
“Why are you helping me?” America asked the older man.
France chuckled airily.
“Oh, you could say I have long-standing score to settle with him.”
America raised an eyebrow.
“You two always have a score to settle. Why do you fight so much?”
Francis simply shrugged.
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
When America looked unconvinced, France continued:
“Well, I don't know why we started, at least.”
And the thread at his side swayed in agreement. The vibrancy and life from the past battlefield seemed long since gone. He knew that they indeed were. Guilt continued to boil inside him.
“Yeah, England,” the fairy whispered, “Why did you do it?”
“Why are you asking me these questions?” England asked instead.
“Why aren't you answering them?”
“Are we going anywhere else?”
The fairy sighed and nodded. She pressed her hand to his cheek.
The first thing England saw was a giant pile of wood with a metal pole in the middle. There was a large crowd gathered around to see a cart pulled into the courtyard.
England's heart clenched painfully in his chest.
It was Jeanne.
He watched himself hold France back from saving her. He saw that cruel look of twisted pleasure on his face as he had realized France was crying. And he watched himself drop France and let him cry alone on the ground.
Maybe though, just maybe he was the only one who could see the conflict behind the cold green eyes of his past self.
Some tears came to his own eyes as he watched France sob brokenly on the ground. England knew that he couldn't do anything, but he sat down beside France as he whispered prayers to God in French.
England wasn't sure why he sat down. Maybe he wanted to make up for what he failed to do in the past, or maybe he just wanted to suffer with France now.
The fairy jumped from his shoulder and watched the two nations cry together, yet apart.
“I'm sorry, France,” England whispered, wiping tears from his own cheeks. “I'm so sorry.”
When the past-France was done crying, he looked up at England first with despair, and then with loathing. England was surprised to see such an expression come from that handsome face, and he wondered how on Earth he missed it at the time.
England looked to the face of his past self. His past self was gazing into the horizon, to where his red thread had disappeared.
England thought that he deserved the look France had given him.
“England,” the fairy began, “I need you to come with me.”
He looked at the little pink being, and then looked back to France, who had returned to crying.
“Can't... Can't I stay with him for a moment longer?” he asked with a sniff.
She shook her head sadly, her expression tender, and reached her hand out.
“It's alright,” she said softly, “We're going somewhere else.”
Without standing up, England reached over, and touched her hand.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Love and War [Part 3/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-05 06:37 am (UTC)(link)England looked around in alarm, but the fairy settled herself comfortably on England's shoulder and pointed off to the side. He turned to see a whole battalion of soldiers kneeling on the battlefield.
At first he was confused, but then saw a man standing at the head of the congression holding a Bible.
He forgot that Jeanne would have mass on the battlefield.
He spotted France kneeling too. He knelt beside Jeanne, and he repeated what the preacher said with his eyes closed, putting his whole heart into the words. France had a vibrancy that England forgot he had ever possessed. He looked so young and... alive.
The fairy moved some of his hair to whisper in his ear:
“That was when he still believed in God.”
When the mass was over, everyone stood up and France looked at Jeanne with pure admiration.
England looked away. He didn't like seeing that look on France's face.
“You knew he loved her, England. So why did you do it?”
England didn't respond. He just watched his army approach from the distance. France turned to Jeanne and said, “Sois prudent.”
Be careful.
Jeanne smiled and took one of his hands with the quiet, dignified grace that used to irritate England so much.
“Je sera.”
I will.
The red thread was taught between them. Almost as taught as the thread between England and America. He didn't know the mechanics of the thread, but he figured that the thread was taught when some sort of promise for the future existed between the two people it connected. He could almost hear the tension from the thread in the air. England really had heard that tension at some point.
He held his hand up to his shoulder, silently asking the fairy to bring him somewhere else.
When England blinked again, they were on a different battlefield.
He looked around wearily, guilt still heavy on his soul.
He spotted America. He was younger though, he didn't have his glasses yet. He was standing with France on a big open field and they were shaking hands.
“Why are you helping me?” America asked the older man.
France chuckled airily.
“Oh, you could say I have long-standing score to settle with him.”
America raised an eyebrow.
“You two always have a score to settle. Why do you fight so much?”
Francis simply shrugged.
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
When America looked unconvinced, France continued:
“Well, I don't know why we started, at least.”
And the thread at his side swayed in agreement. The vibrancy and life from the past battlefield seemed long since gone. He knew that they indeed were. Guilt continued to boil inside him.
“Yeah, England,” the fairy whispered, “Why did you do it?”
“Why are you asking me these questions?” England asked instead.
“Why aren't you answering them?”
“Are we going anywhere else?”
The fairy sighed and nodded. She pressed her hand to his cheek.
Love and War [Part 3b/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-05 06:38 am (UTC)(link)The first thing England saw was a giant pile of wood with a metal pole in the middle. There was a large crowd gathered around to see a cart pulled into the courtyard.
England's heart clenched painfully in his chest.
It was Jeanne.
He watched himself hold France back from saving her. He saw that cruel look of twisted pleasure on his face as he had realized France was crying. And he watched himself drop France and let him cry alone on the ground.
Maybe though, just maybe he was the only one who could see the conflict behind the cold green eyes of his past self.
Some tears came to his own eyes as he watched France sob brokenly on the ground. England knew that he couldn't do anything, but he sat down beside France as he whispered prayers to God in French.
England wasn't sure why he sat down. Maybe he wanted to make up for what he failed to do in the past, or maybe he just wanted to suffer with France now.
The fairy jumped from his shoulder and watched the two nations cry together, yet apart.
“I'm sorry, France,” England whispered, wiping tears from his own cheeks. “I'm so sorry.”
When the past-France was done crying, he looked up at England first with despair, and then with loathing. England was surprised to see such an expression come from that handsome face, and he wondered how on Earth he missed it at the time.
England looked to the face of his past self. His past self was gazing into the horizon, to where his red thread had disappeared.
England thought that he deserved the look France had given him.
“England,” the fairy began, “I need you to come with me.”
He looked at the little pink being, and then looked back to France, who had returned to crying.
“Can't... Can't I stay with him for a moment longer?” he asked with a sniff.
She shook her head sadly, her expression tender, and reached her hand out.
“It's alright,” she said softly, “We're going somewhere else.”
Without standing up, England reached over, and touched her hand.