hetalia_kink

Non...rien de rien...

France regrets many things, all of them in the past, as regrets must be. But a nation's past is so much wider and deeper than a human's, fraught and fractured, with so many complexities and discrepancies. And it means so much more.

...Non je ne regrette rien...

France regrets many things, all of them in the past. The same things, over the centuries, as history repeats itself in ways as complex and simple as a spider's web. He regrets the deaths of his people that happened so inevitably, so hopelessly. He regrets not being cunning enough, after so many centuries, to see the outcome of the battles. He regrets not being strong enough to save victims.

...Ni le bien...qu'on m'a fait...

France regrets many things, all of them in the past. He and the other nations were at war many times in the past, and so many cruelties happened between them that it’s impossible to count them all. He does not hold grudges for harm done to him back then. It is no use. He prides himself on being forward-looking. Plenty of things happened in the past, but he can live with the memory and the sadness. He can move on. Europe is no longer fraught with war, as it once was, which is a much welcome change.

...Ni le mal, tout ça m'est bien égal...

France does not regret things.

It hurts still, sometimes. Many times. Almost a physical pain, as vivid and lingering and irreparable as any scar from the Battle of Ardennes or the Battle of France. He has dreams that, though few and far between, are enough to tear his heart ragged once again. But mostly he manages to keep the sadness at bay.

On May the 30th, it all comes rushing back. Unbidden, the memories come blazing, shrieking, mourning with the sound of the highest note on a violin. They flash through his mind, always in the same order, an echo that travels across time without fading.

On May the 30th, in the corner of his vision, in every shadow, whenever he closes his eyes,

he

sees

Jeanne.

It was early March, so a fire burned in the fireplace of the great hall at Chinon, but a chill still lingered in the air, sliding over the wall-stones like water. Charles’ eyes glinted in the firelight, intrigued, desperate, and slightly contemptuous, as he stood dressed in the clothes of one of his courtiers. And France stood by his side, by the man who should be his king.

And Jeanne entered, and France did not know what to think, did not know what to make of her. When he looked at her, dressed in men’s clothes, standing straight and tall, something inside him cried. There was something about her, some tilt in her chin, something about how she radiated confidence and faith in a faint corona that made France utterly speechless. It was like, suddenly, there was something to hold onto in a world where they, he, were all drowning and lost with despair.

And then she knelt before the disguised Dauphin and spoke.

“God give you a happy life, sweet King!"

And the scene changes...

...and they were at Orléans, and this time France stood at Jeanne’s side, because he could not bear to leave her.

“Are you not afraid, la Pucelle? Do you not have doubts, Jeanne?” He said, and watched as she knelt on the ground in the forest, away from camp. Her hands, callused and raw, were folded and her eyes closed, and her face was calm and serene and beatific.

“Dear France,” she said, tenderly. “Do not worry. The grace of God is with us, we shall retake Orléans.” And she stood.

“I am not afraid; I was born to do this.”

Oh god, this is so beautiful. I love Jeanne-fics (I'm working on one myself) and this is so lovely so far. I love the sort of whimsical writing style, that it's not exactly being told in order because it's France remembering. I can't wait to see the next part.

To be honest, I'm not all that familiar about French history so I'll be no help with determining whether your history is accurate or not.

But I can comment on your style and characterization, and you're doing a great job with them so far. I really like the poetic feel of this piece, and I'm eager to see how you develop France's relationship with Jeanne.

And when Jeanne came to Charles and asked to be put in command of the army, so she could retake Reims, France supported her.

“It must be Jeanne,” he said. “It will work with no one else. It must be her.”

Because by then he loved her, and the people loved her, for she was their Jenne, their holy maiden, their savior.

She owed nothing to them, yet she chose to rise up out of nowhere at a time when they were not only fighting a losing battle but a losing war--

--it’s no wonder they loved her. No wonder he loved her. He had never been so proud to be France, to be the country she loved and honored.

She was his hope; when she spoke, he believed her words.

She would lead them to victory. They would win, and France would be saved.

And memories flashed by, yanked out from the deepest depths of his mind, each giving a little twang at his heart as it emerged before his eyes, and he was filled with dread, because he knew how it would end--he had seen it again and again in the darkness--

The month of June flew by, heavy and white-gold, filled with the smell of hot metal and battles under a burning high sky.

...One victory followed another; ...Jargeau, Meung-sur-Loire...Beaugency...Troyes...

And Jeanne shone bright and proud, like summer itself, as she waged war against those who claimed France’s land for their own.

And Dauphin Charles was King Charles VII...

“I am sorry, mon cherie Jeanne. I tried to persuade them...la Trémoille...”

Her hands with fingernails cut to the quick as she re-tied the bandage around her leg...

--and a solemn face.

“I admit I am a little troubled about this turn of events as well, dear France. But do not worry. I am sure His Majesty will make the right decision in the end. We shall yet prevail. God is with us.”

It was a minor battle.

--was in the last group to leave the battlefield, riding hard on the heels of the rest of the army--

--Burgundians--like a tide--surroundi--

“Go, France! Flee! I will be all right!”

--her horse rearing as the arrow caught it in the side and she was silhouetted for one moment against the sky and it her Jeanne Jeanne Jeanne there was screaming but he was the only one hearing the--

He heard later that she refused to surrender.

Ahh, this is so amazing. I love the way you are writing their relationship, all the detail and emotion. Just perfect. Getting tears in my eyes just reading this.

<3 I like this...I LOVE this...<3

I can't wait to see the heartbreaking conclusion

*wibbles* Oh, anon. I can feel my heart breaking as I read this, just like it did when I read "Sky Watcher and the Angel." You're doing an excellent job at conveying emotions, and I loved how France's "It must be her" was phrased exactly like Diego's and yet had a different feeling to it; pride and happiness rather than jealousy and bitterness, which just makes the end result even sadder. The way you make France's memories mirror the robot's broken-up movie clips just drives the sadness further home because it makes it clear to even readers who haven't read Gunnerkrigg Court how strong and immense France's guilt is and how he probably has been reliving these memories multiple times ever since Jeanne's death.

“...Jeanne’s capture is unfortunate, however, we can continue.”

“...you cannot do this..!”

“France, remember where your loyalties lie. I am king.”

“My loyalties lie with the maiden who saved me! You owe her your throne! You must remember where your gratitude should lie!”

“With God, you mean, as she says? If it is true what she says about God, then God will save her.”

“...No...no, you cannot do this! No...no...”

France had not thought even her death could break his heart any further. He knew it was coming, he told himself, steeled himself.

He did not hear all of what they told him on that day. But he heard enough.

“Charles...that monster! He forced me...he wouldn’t let me save her! Jeanne...”

Non rien de rien
Non je ne regrette rien

“She was...all alone. Waiting...when she died. And I did nothing.”

And then there was noise. Everything was filled with noise. It never stopped and never dimmed...

The wailing. High, tuneless, and wordless, the sound of absolute despair--

Fire, burning. A grief in the shape of a fire, burning a body to ashes.

Jeanne was dead and all was lost.
Jeanne was dead.
Jeanne.

And even when his breath ran out and his throat would not make another sound, when the wailing died from hearing, it was carried on, reverberating throughout his body and jarring against his bones until his heart was stripped bare and raw and tender and he was numb with a loss he could only feel the magnitude of.

On May 30th...

France regrets. France does not regret.

Regrets. Does not regret.

Regret-does not-regret-do not-regret-not-regret-not-regretnotregretnotregretnotregretnot--

Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait
Ni le mal, tout ça m'est bien égal

--regretnotregretnotregretnotregretnotregretnotregretnotregretnotregretnotregretnotregretnotregretnotregretnot--

She died...

Elle mourais...

France did not regret the things done to him. Come suffering, come war, famine, plague--he did not regret them.

France regretted the things done to her.

He should have saved her.

...and I did nothing...

...et je ne faisais rien...

He can never, never reconcile that.

And the noise and regret spread and spread, overflowing the confines of a mostly human soul, pouring into the land and the people.

On May 30th, the words are echoed by the people, unknowingly, unconsciously.

...scribbled on a post-it note...whispered absentmindedly...threaded through the notes of a tune...uttered in a dream to unexplainable tears...

Everywhere, from the streets of Paris, to the shores of the Seine and the cliffs of Normandy--they are engraved in the walls of every city, in the rivers, the plains, the mountains, the shores of the sea...

The land remembers. And the people feel. Something that was never seen by living human eyes is felt in the human heart, for their nation remembers. They are he, and he is them.

On May 30th, Francis Bonnefoy mourns.

She died and I did nothing.

Elle mourais et je ne faisais rien.

And all of France mourns with him, whether they realize it or not.

She died and we did nothing.

Elle mourais et nous ne faisions rien.

The words carry on.

not OP - Everything about this is just beautiful. Not only the research, but France's conflicts and guilt, the descriptions were succinct but powerful. I love the last section most of all, how France continues to be haunted by Jeanne's death, how all of the nation somehow remembers and feels his pain. I love how you addressed an important part of what it must be like to be a personified nation, with emotions and memories far beyond a normal human's capacity. Perfect.

Rest assured that you've made me cry long and hard for this last part; it means that you most definitely did your job.

Like the above anon, I loved how you showed that France's emotions are even greater than an ordinary human's, and...just everything you did in this part to convey France's anguish and regret. It wasn't melodramatic in any way, it was just...raw yet exquisite pain.

Thank you so, so much for giving me such a beautiful and haunting fill, talented anon. This is going straight to my bookmarks. (As soon as I have yet another cry over this fill, that is...)

The repetition really nails the guilt. GJ :)

Thank you all so much! I really enjoyed writing this, and to know that so many people liked (err, cried at) this fill of mine really makes my day! I love getting comments~ <3 <3 <3

Utterly, hauntingly beautiful authoranon, just like the quote and story that originated it.

I cried more times than I can count. Please never stop writing.