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England woke to a sharp kick to the back of his skull.
He yelped, instinctually curling away from the blow, and wrapped his arms around his head in a pathetic attempt to shield himself. His entire body hurt, a dull, heavy ache that washed into awareness like a flood.
‘Ah, you are alive. How unfortunate.’
A familiar voice that he would recognise anywhere, a bitter fury and relief flooding him instantly.
‘Piss off.’ England opened his eyes, hearing the shift of boot against dirt and squinted against the late afternoon sun. France loomed over him, his armour catching the light. It was stained, as his own likely was, scuffed and bloodied. He had removed his helmet, at least. Perhaps it was lost like England’s own, knocked off at some point in the fray.
Smoke caught like acid in the air, a thick and fleshy burning smell that turned his stomach and filled him with dread as flashes of the day came back. Screams and cries above a pounding of noise. Horses kicking and bucking amongst the tangle of metal bodies with white, panicked eyes, like a beacon in a sea of drowning men.
A drummer, sounding their final steps, a trumpet of charge before the crash. A monstrous lullaby for the final rest that England had slept to far too many times.
It was silent now, nothing but birdsong. Birds and France, the tight clicks of his armour as he moved.
‘Your men have gone, you know. Or are dead. Whichever you prefer to think about, neither are good, are they?’
‘Francis-‘
A sharp kick again, to the stomach this time. Boot against breastplate, a red-hot agony that forced the air out of England’s lungs with the spike of broken bones as he was sent spinning to the side. He coughed against the dusty cobbles, wheezing into the mixed remains of mud and men and forced his weight onto his knees to press his forehead down into the ground that bore them.
France grabbed his shoulder and wrenched him up, slamming him around and backwards into the remains of a wall. A house, once.
‘You started this.’ A knee to the stomach, armour ringing with the impact, ‘You and your Kings thinking that they can take and hold lands that are not rightfully theirs.’
Another rattling hit to the stomach, hidden injuries protesting. England would have folded, knees too weak to hold him but France pinned him there steady, cradling his upper body close against his own as he slumped forwards.
France smelt of sweat and exhaustion and something else- a fetid stench of death and decay that leaked from under his armour to expose him.
‘You started this,’ England managed to say against his shoulder, the cool metal a welcome relief against his cheek, ‘You started this in 1066 when you claimed my lands as yours. Elizabeth is a descendent of your Kings that took me, heir to these lands by your own choosing.’ (1)
‘Elizabeth should have learnt, by now, that a family born of lies and deceit will be expelled eventually. Like a tumour, your people spread and grow until the only way to stop their poison is to cut them back.’ France jerked his shoulder upwards, shoulder clanging against England’s teeth to throw him off, and he fell back with a cry.
‘Born of your own consequences!’ England held a hand to his mouth, blood seeping through his fingers.
‘Of your own warped sense of validity!’ Abandoning his arms France grabbed at his throat, either intending to choke him or smash him back against the wall but England scrabbled for purchase, pulling at his fingers with useless, clumsy hands and kicking out wildly to prevent him, ‘Of that family’s ability to twist reality to their own gain!’
‘The Plantagenets were yours,’ England bucked and struck out at France’s knees, hitting one at enough of an angle to force him to loosen his grip just enough for England to breathe, ‘Their rule of these lands is their right.’
‘These lands are mine,’ France leant closer, twisted face inches away from England’s own and squeezed, ‘And regardless of any past claims they have lost them.’
England choked, the world bursting into thousands of muted stars.
‘You have lost. Your army is gone or lay dead around you. Your Queen’s claims are void and your foothold here in my land is done.’
Suddenly, France released him. England slumped down, unable to hold himself up, and fought to breathe. There was something huddled and dark next to him by the door, unmoving. It bore his colours.
‘This whole war was a joke. Your existence is little more.’
England spat a tooth at France’s feet and sat back against the wall, ‘And yet here you are.’
‘And yet here I am,’ France sneered at him, ‘I had to make sure that you knew.’
‘I care nothing about whatever it is you wish to tell me.’
France snorted and shook his head in disgust, ‘You are the same as your monarchy. Twisting the truth to suit you. Your royalty is yours alone until it is better to be mine. Your people are yours until mine need to share your history to validate you. Your culture is your own until it better suits you to say that it is born of greatness that you cannot possibly live up to.’
‘That’s not true-‘
‘My language replacing yours. My culture, my songs and my stories fill your lands and you disguise them as your own just to give yourself any culture to cling to.’
‘And who’s fault is that to begin with-‘
‘Yours!’ France roared, kicking him back square in the chest to ring against brickwork. Before England could react, his hands were on him again, grabbing against his straps and breastplate to lift him up. His feet scrabbled to hold him, desperately fighting against the weight of his armour to find stable balance, ‘Yours for being too pathetic and pale of life to have lost your own so easily! Yours for not having a culture strong enough to withstand time!’
Another shove, England’s head smacking against brick, ‘Yours for failing to understand that you were supposed to die and that my virtue alone has saved you.’
England barked a laugh, world spinning. His ears rang with a rushing storm of anger and his heartbeat in his ears, ‘If that’s what you must name it to keep you sane.’
‘The same can be said for you, my dear. God and my right, hein? (2) But that’s French isn’t it, the motto of your people. My words define you.’
‘You’re wrong,’ England forced a grin through a traitorous mouth forced to speak French words, Anglo-Saxon still burnt unforgotten on his tongue, ‘Because no matter how hard you fucking tried, I’m still here. I’m still here and I’m never going to go.’
Old English words lost to time, Old English songs and traditions smothered under the burden of shame French Kings and their nobility imposed on the language, stuck to stay with mud and blood and stone. But yet the tongue lingers in the words of the common man: water, man, house, live- the pillars of daily life scored into them all. They hold up the extravagant opulence of the courts, the heights of acceptance and elegance resting on foundations of old, long held words. (3)
Reaching out England grabbed the back of France’s head, crashing their mouths together, ‘You did this to us,’ England breathed English words against his kiss, ‘You wove us together like this.’
‘I am not Normandy.’
‘But you were, you claimed as much.’ England grinned, teeth against France’s lips, before he bit down- tasting blood, tasting them, ‘You too rewrite reality in whatever light looks best.’
‘Poor Albion,’ France did not pull away as England expected. Instead, he kissed him back, fighting for or against that messy truth that lay between them. A hand grabbing at the straps of his armour, nails raking at the exposed skin of his neck to claim him, ‘A rewritten reality is the only way anyone will ever want you at all.’
‘I will make you regret your virtue,’ England pulled back, gasping for breath, and spoke softly against France’s ear, reaching around to undo him, ‘I’ll push my culture back into yours, cover your language with my own. Your people will speak my stories and I shall stay to watch them do it.’
France bit against his throat and England hissed against the pain of it, tugging down at the buckles holding France’s armour in place with a growing urgency, heat rising.
‘Another sweet lie, another impossible reality,’ France moved away and cupped his cheeks, thumb running over the bones of his face to dangerously ghost under his eyes. His nails were ragged, chipped and blackened with recent death. They pressed down into unresisting flesh and England screamed, ‘A pretty hope for an ugly life.’