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July 8th, 1758. The day that would replay in Arthur’s mind for centuries - and centuries to come.
It was just another battle. Another meaningless battle against France, fighting over the colonies. Fort Carillion, to be exact. It was nothing new to any of them, not Arthur nor Francis, neither Alfred nor his brother (though they were young, and are yet to experience the true tragedy of war) along with all of the thousands of soldiers plastered with the stubborn pride of Great Britain and armed many different types of guns.
Arthur knew it would be an easy win. How could they lose? The French were completely outnumbered at 1 to 5 and the British finally had the upper hand! England himself only had one task which would end the battle entirely. One task which would take a lot of guts and a complete lack of heart.
One task which, deep down, Arthur knew he could not commit to.
The pistol was already raised. The aim may have been slightly off due to Arthur’s trembling hand possessing the gun but the direction in which the bullet was intended to go was painfully obvious; Francis’ forehead.
“You mean you’re actually going to kill me?” Francis implored, more curiosity than fear in his voice.
He wasn’t scared of this death, partly due to the fact that he knew damn well that his death would be solely a political statement against France and partly due to the fact that both he and Arthur were well aware that he wouldn’t be dead for long, maybe even a few hours if he were lucky.
None of the Nations knew the extent of their immortality, and a mere gunshot wound to the head would definitely not kill him as a nation (unless something drastic happened to his country in the next few hours), however they obviously didn’t want to tempt fate and don’t enjoy the feeling of dying.
“I mean just that.” Returned Arthur, his eyes narrowing as they stared a hole in the ground just past France’s head, desperately avoiding eye contact with the man.
“Well,” France, however, was surveying the other with an unnervingly blank expression, “go ahead.”
Now this shocked Arthur. France was a proud, stubborn nation, reflected in the personification’s prideful personality. He was not one to give in to anything, especially anything involving England. He would definitely not be one to let his enemy kill him for “political symbolism”.
Regardless, England was also a proud nation. Perhaps even more so than France. He was definitely more stubborn than Francis at least, and he was not going to allow Francis to take the upper hand in his own death. That was made clear to him by his superiors. That no matter what, always have complete control over the situation to ensure a definite political message.
Arthur made sure to respond accordingly; “I’ll do this my own way.”
“You won’t do it. You can’t pull the trigger.”
Arthur shot his head up, finally making eye contact with the other man. How dare he. How dare he declare what Arthur will and won’t do.
Perhaps it was just one last pathetic attempt at regaining control over the inevitable, perhaps he was trying to distract Arthur from the task at hand (or perhaps, there may have been a small chance that he actually had a reason for saying Arthur wouldn’t do it). He must be toying with Arthur. Of course he could pull the trigger! He’s not weak!
Francis stepped forward until he his forehead was touching the front of the pistol and he was close enough to reach out to hold Arthur’s face with his left hand; “You can’t pull it because you love me.”
England was now frozen in place. He did not love Francis. He hated him! Right? He was supposed to hate him at least. He surely could not love an enemy - much less this enemy.
Their eyes were still locked and Arthur felt he could not look away. He was stuck, standing in the body filled battleground, staring into his nemesis’ eyes as he delivered this speech.
He continued bluntly; “It takes a very brave and a very cold man to do that, Arthur. I don’t think you can.” France glared at Arthur, still gripping the loaded the pistol (although the height at which he was holding it was starting to waver with his ever trembling hand). He was being way too cocky for a man who’s life depended on another.
Yet, Arthur did not know what to say or how to respond. He was painfully aware that Francis’s hand was still on his face and that they may be standing slightly too close for rival soldiers, one of whom was supposed to be shooting the other. However, neither parties moved away. Francis stayed close enough to feel Arthur’s ragged, uneven breathing on his face and Arthur stayed close enough to see through Francis’s expressionless façade; underneath it, there was pity.
Arthur despises pity. That look in someone’s eye that tells you all you need to know about what someone sees in you. All they see is someone to look down on, someone to feel bad for. It’s never enough to just understand - people feel the selfish need to feel bad for you, to gaze at you sadly like you’re an injured puppy. Arthur is no one’s injured puppy. Arthur needs no one’s pity. Especially not Francis’s.
England usually held his head too high in the clouds to see other’s pity (if there was any), but today the sky came crashing down on him, pushing him and his pride down so far that he was forced to stare into Francis’s disturbingly compassionate eyes. It made Arthur nervous, Francis never had this much kindness or sorrow for him - well, not for anyone for that matter, but especially not for him.
God, how long had they been staring? The silence was starting to suffocate Arthur, but he was still speechless and had no idea on how to break it. Until France broke it for the both of them.
“Your silence speaks volumes for you, mon ami.” The tension remained. Francis finally removed his steady hand from England’s face, tucking a loose strand of messy hair behind Arthur’s ear before lowering it to his shoulder, in a supposedly reassuring way, though it felt like mocking. The whole situation felt like mocking.
Finally, Arthur had enough of it.
“Don’t you dare call me your friend you frog. Especially not in your godforsaken language. How dare you insult me under the guise of compassion saying that I cannot shoot you. I can shoot you. I am a trained and incredibly skilled soldier, if I do say so myself - I have had over seven hundred years of practice, might I add. I will not have you insulting and mocking me like this.” He snapped, but this did not phase Francis.
“I am not doubting nor insulting your shooting skills. I am not saying you can’t shoot. I have seen you do such first hand before and I don’t doubt that you would do it again. I am simply saying you won’t shoot me.” His voice lacked the intense emotion Arthur had grown so accustomed to, and he was so calm England almost forgot that he was in the middle of a war.
“That is a very proud accusation to make, Bonnefoy. You have too much nerve for the losing side.”
“I’m losing? Arthur, look around. You don’t even try to deny your feelings for me and I distract you so much that you do not even notice which side of the war is losing. We are standing in the middle of the battleground chéri, and you do not see who is losing?”
Arthur’s stomach dropped. He had been so absorbed in his ego and the belief that it’s impossible for the great Britain to lose that he hadn’t bothered to judge the actual situation. Sure enough, the ground was littered with abandoned weapons, wounded (or worse) bodies and discarded military uniforms.
He had lost.
Almost.
Arthur thought of the words of his commanding officer, General James Abercrombie. He had always been fond of Arthur, due to his dedication to battle and lengthy experience. He was counting on him.
“One task.” The voice of General Abercrombie dictated in his mind, “You only have one task, Arthur. Remember it, don’t mess it up and the fate of this battle will be ours.”
Arthur thought of the colonies. Canada was older than America but slower in growth. France mainly took care of him. Alfred was always the more troublesome child, wanting to be grown up and independent yet still helping on England’s side of the war. Alfred believed in him. He couldn’t let the first child to look up to him be disappointed.
Finally, Arthur thought of the speech given to him by his oldest friend. The friend who drove him mad with teasing. The friend who he would fight with at any chance he could. The friend who put sinful thoughts in his head and, ultimately, the friend who could make or break the battle for him.
“You can’t pull it because you love me.”
Arthur would prove him wrong. He would pull it. He would save the battle for Britain. He would show Francis that he cared for him less than he cared for the fate of this battle. It would just take his finger to tighten around the trigger and -
BANG
The end of the battle. The final decision. The decisive action.
The battlefield didn’t exactly go silent - that was something that only happened in dramatic fiction books and old stories. No, in reality the raging external fight was way too loud for anyone not in the nearest few meters to hear. However the noise was deafening for the man holding the weapon.
England fell to his knees, like the weight of his realisations finally pushed down on his shoulders. His arm was still holding the pistol high above his head, threatening the sky with another bullet. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes.
How could he be so weak?
“I knew you wouldn’t do it, mon vieil ami,” There was the pity again. Arthur would honestly prefer for Francis to be angry at him over this damned emotion.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur choked out, “God, I’m so sorry. I can’t do it. You were right. How could you be so right? Why do you make me feel like this? Damn you Francis Bonnefoy.”
“Angleterre, I fear you may have more pressing matters on your hands than me guessing your feelings correctly.”
England shamefully lifted his head and made eye contact with General Abercrombie, who was glaring daggers at the Nation. A young soldier was urgently waving a white flag in the air, signalling British surrender. God, Arthur was going to get hell for this later.
Cautiously, he stood up and re-sheathed his pistol, looking anywhere but France’s eyes, and staggered towards his relinquishing army.
After a few steps, he turned back around to face Francis - sensing he hadn’t yet left to rejoin and celebrate with his own undefeated army. Francis was surveying Arthur with a knowing look. A look that said ‘I know why this has happened, but do you?’. It left an uncomfortable air between them.
England knew Francis wouldn’t let this go, and next time they met (which would hopefully be at a more appropriate place than in the middle of a battlefield) he would get questioned, Francis would ask Arthur what he already knows, just to confirm the theory in their heads. Arthur just hoped he would have time to think it through so he wouldn’t be caught tongue-tied again.