Mon cher, Angleterré.

Prologue

I pushed through the small waves that the midnight breeze had caused. It was truly an unique experience, swimming in French waters when the only presence was the light of the full moon that shined upon the ocean. Some would have considered it rather terrifying and compared the dark surface to poison in the colour of the darkest purple there was - but the world is in fact a terrifying place. Swimming in the dark, though, was not at all different from swimming in daylight. Unless there were sharks, obviously.

Oh - hold on. I haven't introduced myself. How rude of me, as a certain Briton would say. My name is Francis Bonnefoy. Or well, it isn't - not really. I'm not like the other Frenchmen. The reason of that being the fact that my real name is France. Yes, you heard me right. It's not some sheepish and irresponsible joke my parents came up with. My name is France because I, in fact, am France.

The personification of France that is. That, of course, makes me very beautiful, sweet, gentle and the perfect lover. Arthur Kirkland, the personification of the British Empire, would probably disagree but do not listen to him. I know that deep inside, he does indeed think that I am both beautiful and the perfect lover.

I heaved a sigh before relaxing, allowing myself to sink below the surface. The thick liquid of salt water floated through my hair, and caught my arms, pinning them above my head. I opened my eyes, greeting the darkness that engulfed my view with a small smile on my lips. I never really understood why people feared it so much. While the light awoke you, the darkness was your friend as you fell asleep.

It was a beautiful concept, actually. Two opposites that worked together to satisfy the universe.

The density brought me back to the surface and oxygen filled my lungs once again as I began to swim in the direction of the massive and only house in sight. Vanilla yellow light emerged from the windows, guiding my way to the small staircase.

It was summer. I had decided to take England and our two most precious colonies here for the best holiday experience they could get. France - not me, the country - had marvelous beaches and I did own a villa and a private beach. Could things get any better?

Once I had dried, slipped into comfortable clothes and wrapped a towel around my hair like the fine lady I was, I made my way inside to check on the family. What caught my sight was the Briton who had fallen asleep on the sofa with a book and two children in his arms. His reading glasses (they made him look adorable) were less than an inch from falling off his face.

I smiled a bit at the sight and walked over to them, removing the book and the glasses and putting them on the table. Carefully not to wake them up, I threw a blanket over them and tucked them in gently.

"Goodnight.." I whispered as I turned the lights off and left the living room to head to my own. Love was truly a beautiful thing; a miracle.

If only the British island with no sense of fashion or taste in food loved me the way I loved him.

... If only.