Chapter Text
— Chapter One —
1500s
Paris
"Well, the rate of blood loss would be one critical factor," Francis begins.
There is a certain gleam to his eyes, cold and distant like the night skies of their childhood — and it startles Arthur more than he can admit to anyone, much less himself. Around him, the room is spinning. Velvet and leather and gilded ornamentation converge into an incoherent blur, leaving him nothing to blame but the copious alcohol.
Vaguely, he tries to remember why he is even in France's home in the first place. When he draws a blank, he reluctantly forces himself to shove the bottle away.
Get your shit together, he tells himself.
France does not appear to notice. His attention is undivided, fixed solely upon the sword in his hands, the one that he turns over and over as delicately as if it were a newborn child. One of his newest possessions, Arthur guesses. And certainly his favorite.
On the table in front of them, the sheath lays abandoned. As England watches the other Nation warily, he proceeds to run an affectionate finger down the length of the polished steel.
"What would happen next," France continues, looking up, "depends on the location of the injury. If the wound happens to rupture a major artery , then you may only have a few moments left to live. After all, I suspect that my beloved is rather... efficient at her task, if I do say so myself. Although, under certain circumstances, your death may be prolonged as you slowly bleed out."
He smiles.
"Of course, this is all harmless speculation."
England knits his brows together distrustfully. Over the white noise in his own mind, he can barely hear himself think. "Are you... threatening me?"
"You asked me about it out of curiosity, actually, " France answers smoothly, gently sliding the sword back into its sheath. His posture is strange—cautious yet relaxed, vigilant yet indifferent. An uncharacteristic attribute which still defines him, at least in those moments. "About this very sword. Although I may have unwittingly strayed from the original topic of conversation."
And then he shrugs infuriatingly.
"Forgive me for doing so."
The other Nation does not forgive him.
Instead, England rises to his feet, chair scraping against the cold floor with an earsplitting screech. Leaning forward, the dancing torchlight floods the harsh features of his expression and bathes them in tainted gold. He can see Francis clearly now, flaxen hair and ashen cheekbones, gazing up with that maddening smile playing on his lips and that ever-present glint in his eyes—the only life to be found in a sea of dead stars. A persona untouched by etiquette or sense. It tempts Arthur into a feeling of significance, as if no other soul aside from him has ever seen this side of him. But he knows better.
He is far from being the only enemy within these borders.
"Yes?" France presses.
England sneers . Leans in close, so close that their foreheads almost touch and their eyes are mere inches apart. Come another century, he might have listened to the voice in his head—the voice that tells him to stop, to reconsider the lies he tells himself, to understand. But the voice drowns once again, for those lies are his foundation and without them he falls.
"I like it when you act this way," he laughs.
.
.
.
and then he adds another brick to the kingdom in his mind.