"Angleterre," he whispered softly, any traces of determination gone from his voice. It was empty, a hopeless sound. "I'm terribly afraid of dying."
Earlier that same day, Arthur had been sitting alone in his home, waiting impatiently for news. The fight had ended months ago, but it left France in ruins. No one in England believed they could pull through. They thought it might be the end of the once powerful country.
Arthur tapped out a rhythm on the smooth oak table, leaning forward. He was a religious man, but he couldn't bring himself to pray right then. He should've, but he couldn't. He was denying there was anything to pray for. He relaxed a bit, letting his back brush against the back of the couch. He winced and sighed, the battles had left his country with a rather large debt and casualties as well.
But he had won. He had brought down his old enemy to his knees, and he was victorious. His men pulled him back as his enemy collapsed. They cheered, but shock left him numb. He won.
But what did that mean for Francis?
He sprung to his feet when he heard a hesitant knocking at the door. He struggled with the doorknob in his haste, finally managing to get it open. It just missed hitting a royal guard in the face. The guard was a younger man, with dusty brown hair and a light beard. His eyes were dark and full of the pain of the war.
"Excuse me, mister Arthur Kirkland?" Arthur nodded and gave him a look that said everything. His emerald eyes shined with dread and anticipation. "Well, um, yes. I bring you a message from her majesty the queen." he fumbled with a note, but he already knew the news. Everyone did. Except the worried Brit at the door. "Well, you see, um," he cleared his throat and began to read.
"My dearest Arthur, I have news on what is happening in France. Forgive me for the old fashioned mode of telling you, I'm sure there were more efficient ways, but I just thought this would be best. You may want to sit down before hearing this part. I...I don't know how to put this lightly. France, a place we have fought countless wars with, has now truly given up, for the final time. It's over. The country of France has been officially dissolved."
Arthur stared, his body motionless. "W-what?"
The guard looked down at his note. "She told me to tell you negotiations for the land will begin soon-"
"I don't give a damn about negotiations!" he snapped, his eyebrows knitted. He let out a stream of air, pinching the bridge of his nose when the man flinched. "Sorry, sorry for the language. That wasn't very gentlemanly of me. It's just..." he faltered. "it's just..."
His knees gave out and he sank to the floor. "P-please, just go back. Leave me be." the guard nodded and went on his way. Arthur reached a shaky hand up and shut the door, locking it.
"You asshole!" he growled to himself, trembling. "Shut up! Just shut up! What do you think you're doing!? God damn it all..."
He called upon his strength to crawl over to his desk, his fingers feeling around for his leather bound book. He dragged it over and started flipping through the pages, stopping on a yellowed paper that was torn at the edges. He read it over to himself a few times before reciting it out loud.
"Ubi est cor meum, et transmisisti a corpore wartorn ante. Silentium mox videbimus lumen." a green glow surrounded him and he let his eyes flutter shut. He held his breath as he appeared before an old church. It looked strangely familiar, reminiscent of the one hundred years war. He stepped inside, peering around.
"A-Arthur?" Francis blinked as the shorter man entered the church. He glared when he saw Francis kneeling before the altar, and he ran over.
"You stupid frog!" he yelled. "What the bloody hell is this all about, you git?! Mum just sent me a letter saying you had given up being a country!"
An airy laugh escaped the Frenchman's lungs. "Désolé, Arthur, but I'm afraid it's true. My boss thought it was best this way..." he trailed off, his eyes distant.
He smiled incredulously, shaking his head. "No, oh no. This is a trick isn't it, to make me feel bad for you. Well it's not going to work."
Francis stood, extending his long legs silently. He was dressed in only black, his usual smug grin was absent. He turned to face Arthur, who took a step back, overwhelmed by the intensity in Francis' lost gaze.
"N-no...this has to be some sort of intricate act..." his words meant nothing even to himself. A man didn't look so dead inside when they were trying to play a prank, or trying to get a benefit from someone's pity. They looked like that when they were empty shells, their lives spent. "Please..."
"You were right," he spoke up finally, his once strong and clear voice now cracking. "everyone, they were always right. I'm...I'm weak, Arthur. I'm a coward." he took a step closer, a pitiful smile breaking his glass expression. "It..it really hurts, you know...it feels like my body is turning to ash. It's...going to be slow..."
"W-what are you saying?" Arthur spat out, his eyes showing through his tough exterior, he was terrified. Francis stood inches from him, and cupped his hands in his larger ones. Arthur felt something slip in between his quaking fingers.
"Angleterre," he whispered softly, any traces of determination gone from his voice. It was empty, a hopeless sound. "I'm terribly afraid of dying."
Arthur backed up, but Francis still clutched his hands like a last lifeline. He seemed so frail right then, but his grip was still firm as ever. "Please...make it end."
He seemed to fight internally, but he did let go of Arthur's hands. Arthur pulled them back in closer, examining what Francis had given him. He froze, a sickness rising up his throat. There was a small knife with the inscription of 'pour mon amour, Jeanne d'Arc.'
"You have taken nearly everything from me, Angleterre," he breathed, a bittersweet sting filling Arthur's heart. "So why don't you take the one thing I have left?"
Francis guided his hand with the knife to his own chest, pressing it up against it softly. Arthur shook harder, wishing with all his might he could gain control over himself. Tears pricked his eyes.
"I-I'm not going to kill you, b-bloody frog," he gritted out. "You can still live, have you seen Gilbert? He's not a country anymore-"
"It hurts," he muttered suddenly, catching Arthur's gaze with his own. "I told you, I'm weak. I can't live with this pain. I'm too much of a coward to do the job myself, so I thought it was only fitting for you to. You've killed Jeanne, and now my country, so why don't you kill me too? I thought you hated me."
"I-I do," he choked out, fighting to make sense of the words trapped in his throat. "I hate you so damn much sometimes...but I didn't want you to die! We've only had each other for so long...I-I guess I just took it for granted that we'd always be here...that we'd always be together..."
"Arthur Kirkland, personification of the United Kingdom of England, if you ever cared about me once in your life you will end my suffering once and for all."
Something overtook him, an animalistic fear. He had no control over his hand as he raised the knife up. Tears clouded his vision, and he shook his head.
"No...I didn't want it to end this way...I-I didn't want it to ever end...please..."
He swallowed hard, eyes closed, ready to embrace the cold fate staring him down. "what can I do...?"
Arthur's resolve grew stronger, he was a country. Here was his childhood 'friend,' here was someone he owed so much to. He could do it. "Just do one thing for me, alright?" he forced a smile, a caged laughter breaking loose. "tell me something to let me know it's going to be okay, you smug bastard."
Francis chuckled weakly. "Your wish is my command, Angleterre." he opened his eyes slowly, leaving them half lidded. An honest smile grew on his gentle face. The bags under his eyes made him look old, and it made Arthur feel mad at the world.
"It's been fun, black sheep. Let's do it again sometime."
