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Today Francis had been set on two missions.
Floating in the sea in front of him were dozens of English boats containing a mixture of privateers and pirates ready to fight the French ships for their resources. Francis ignored them as his first mission was to locate the boat carrying the other personified country. With his telescope, he scanned each boat of the English fleet looking for one man in particular. Gazing boat to boat, looking at every man, until Francis saw blond hair peaking out of a black hat with a white feathered plume.
“Target ahead,” Francis tells his men in French as he compacts his telescope and returns it to his pocket.
As if that lucky old hat would save you, Arthur, Francis thinks to himself. With the first mission complete it was time for the more difficult second one: destroy the boat containing his most beloved, most despised Arthur Kirkland of England.
The waves crash around the front of the boat, the wind blowing black Francis’ shoulder-length hair as he stares, eyes fixated on the ship.
“It has been a while since I destroyed you, Arthur,” Francis says softly to himself and the wind.
On the other boat, an Englishman shouted out, “Starboard! Boat heading towards us starboard!"
“Ah, Francis,” Arthur mutters expectantly to himself as he squints at the French boat rushing towards them.
Of course Francis was here. He always was. As if knotted tightly to Arthur by an unbreakable string of fate, and right now they were being pulled together to fight once again.
However, it had been a while since their paths had crossed. Arthur had been itching for a fight with Francis, to once again feel his heart pounded in a rhythm that only Francis could make it drum. It was their Kings, Queens and politicians who commanded that they kill each other, but the pair also enjoyed it.
Attacking a personified country was like gorging out some of a country's life force - death to Francis or Arthur weakened the nation and made it easier to seize.
“Start loading the cannonballs,” Arthur bellowed to his men, instructing them to fight and not flee.
If that's what Francis was after, he’d give him a good fight.
The French ship had been gaining and was nearly alongside the English one.
“It has been a while Arthur,” Francis sighed to himself, eyes still fixed on the English boat. “It has been a while since I had you at my mercy and got my hands around your throat.”
He couldn’t help the excitement building up inside himself. He loved to fight his oldest, most beloved, most detested enemy.
“Sometimes we kiss each other, sometimes we kill each other,” Francis whispers, closing his eyes and remembering the times gone by. “We’ve always been his way.”
“Monsieur, what are your orders?” a sailor asks Francis.
“We fight,” he replies.
The fight commences with the French firing first. Then the English cannons blast their preloaded cannons back at the attacking ship. After several reloads, skilled manoeuvres to avoid the cannonball fire and the rapid repatching of holes in the wood, Francis tuts. He's bored.
It was taking too long. The cannons were barely hitting the manoeuvring English ship. This wouldn’t do.
Francis felt particularly impatient today. He wanted to get his hands on Arthur. Now.
The men shout for him to stop and get down from there, but Francis doesn't listen as he grabs the rope firmly and swings onto Arthur's boat. He lands with a thump on the wooden deck.
The Englishmen immediately draw their guns and swords and point them at the trespasser. Francis swiftly retrieves his sword, ready to start striking down the men until he gets to Arthur.
“Don’t shoot,” Arthur commands loudly. “He’s mine.”
“Want me all to yourself, Cheri?” Francis asks playfully turning towards Arthur who steps out of the crowd.
“Are you here to surrender?” Arthur asks ignoring Francis’ question.
“No. I’m here to kill you again.”
“Huh,” Arthur shrugs unphased. “Well, that would ruin my afternoon plans.”
Francis chuckles to himself at the British understatement, “Couldn't you cancel your little afternoon tea for me?”
Arthur tries to hold back the bubbling bloodlust and excitement as he asks, “You’re insane for jumping onto this boat you know, Froggie? Any of my men could have shot you and that'd have been goodnight to you for a few days.”
“I knew that you’d stop them.”
Arthur smirks raising an eyebrow, “Did you now?”
“Mhm,” Francis says locking eyes with his Arthur. “I knew you couldn’t give anyone else the pleasure of killing me.”
Silence sat thick in the air for a few moments as they smirk at each other.
The English sailors had already pushed themselves well out of the way along the edges of the boat to watch. The Frenchmen had stopped firing cannons and were watching from their boat also. Both boats were stationary with the anchors down. The stage was set.
“Come on, Cherie,” Francis purrs. “Cannons and guns are not for us now, are they? We do best with old-fashioned swords.”
Francis gestures his drawn sword at Arthur then continues, “Just like the good old days.”
Arthur nods smiling fondly while drawing his sword, “Just like our good old days.”
With an expectant smile, Francis lunges at Arthur who manages to block the blade with his own emitting a loud metal clang.
“You were always nimble,” Francis mutters, his face barely a foot from Arthur’s face.
“You were always stupid,” Arthur replies pushing Francis away and then lunging back at him.
"I'd prefer you to call me a hopeless romantic," Francis replies as they clash swords again.
They continue stepping back and forward. Circling each other and blocking each other's blows. Metallic clanging and clattering echoed across the boat. The English crew shuffling out of the way of the skilled swordsmen.
“Though, I must ask,” Arthur says pulling back from the fight.
Francis stops to humour him.
“Do you want to die by my sword?” Arthur mocks. “Or should I throw you overboard alive and let you wash up somewhere days later after getting chewed by the sharks?”
“The French King just wants you dead not me, Cherie,” Francis replies, “I don’t intend to lose.”
Francis starts up the battle once more. The clashing swords continue their loud song.
That is until Francis knocks Arthur’s sword out of his grasp and it clatters to the floor.
With a menacing grin, Francis points his sword at Arthur’s throat.
The English crew shuffle about. They draw their guns and swords once again to kill the Frenchman and protect their nation.
“Let me fight with honour. I command you not to shoot,” Arthur yells at them.
Francis' grin widens as he pushes Arthur’s chin up with his sword to expose his throat more, “That’s the Arthur I know and love. He always prefers to die at my hand.”
Arthur scowls at Francis.
“I’ve missed fighting you,” Francis sighs longingly. “Maybe another 100-year war will break out and then we’ll be sick of seeing each other again."
Arthur knows Francis too well. Whenever he wins, he loves to say a good final oneliner and then impale him before he can snap a snarky back. But the humiliation of losing and standing in front of his men with the Frenchman's sword against his throat is annoying him.
“Get it over and done with then,” Arthur spits. “When I beat you next I’ll spare you the chitchat and kill you swiftly."
Francis' face softens. He chuckles before lowering his sword, much to Arthur’s confusion.
“Maybe next time…” Francis sheaths his sword. “Maybe next time I’ll slay you.”
Arthur’s shock at their usual routine being thrown off just makes Francis chuckle more.
“Don’t spare me!” Arthur fumes incredulously at the Frenchman. “I don’t want your mercy.”
Francis shrugs, “I don’t feel like killing you anymore today.”
Arthur stomps toward Francis, boiling with anger. He grabs Francis by his overcoat collar as he shouts in the Frenchman's face, “How DARE you jump on my ship and DARE you humiliate me like thi-.”
Francis rolls his eyes. Of course, Arthur wouldn't appreciate the romance of sparing his miserable little rosbif life just this one time. Francis impulsively cuts off Arthur's shouts by leaning forward and pressing his lips against Arthur’s to plant a quick peck there. Francis pulls back and Arthur's surprised face turns back into a frown and his mouth opens as if to complain. Francis this time cups Arthur's cheeks and kisses him more deeply until Arthur bitterly kisses Francis back.
Then they pull apart.
“I missed you amour,” Francis whispers just for Arthur to hear in his ear. "We never get time to be lovers anymore."
"Not until our Kings order it," Arthur whispers back bitterly.
Francis takes a large step back with a sigh, “It’s farewell again, mon amour.”
They wordlessly observe each other. Each knowing it might be a while until they would meet again and no way to tell if it would next be as lovers, friends or foes.
“But really, don't you need to fulfil your Kings orders and kill me?” Arthur asks in a soft voice only reserved for Francis.
Francis just shrugs.
“But your King...?” Arthur questions.
Francis shrugs again, “Disarming you and beating you today will be enough to please him and weaken England a small amount.”
Francis turns his back on Arthur, trusting he won’t be backstabbed, as he walks back to where he set down the rope to swing back to his own vessel.
Arthur stays put, quietly watching the Frenchman.
“Adieu,” Francis calls back over his shoulder, tipping his feathered hat. “A bientot. Until we meet again, mon amour.”
“Farewell for now,” Arthur mutters as Francis swings and lands back on his boat.
The red string of fate loosens just for a while, as they sail away from each other.