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France could feel his blood boiling.
Not in the literal sense, of course, but it was a familiar feeling. A feeling that had been simmering under his skin for centuries, until the Northmen had, metaphorically, added the final log to the fire. Now France could finally feel all his frustration, all his hopes, all his tears, boil and pour out of him, only to be wiped away by the rush of men from Normandy to the shores of Britain.
It was quite a nice plan, with good timing. The results would be good too, if it worked. France hoped it would work.
This marked a new book in the history of France, of Gaul, of Francis himself. He was sure of it. The Northmen were being driven out of Western Europe, even if they left their descendants behind. Charlemagne was long gone, even if France remembered him fondly. Rome had been dead and gone for centuries, even if France had to keep reminding himself of that and forced himself to ignore the marks that remained on his body of empires long gone. Now that book, those chapters, were done. Over. He'd never be conquered again. From now on it would be him that the others would have to bargain with, to defer to.
Now it was his turn. And England's of course.
***
Or it would be, if he could find him. Honestly, what was that brat doing? He'd lost! He was supposed to surrender now and crown Guillaume. Then he would glare at France before meekly running into his arms, hiding a smile, just happy to be with his real big brother again and finally free of those horrible vikings.
France really did hate them.
But that wasn't important anymore! England had gotten rid of Denmark and Norway (all on his own! So cute!) and Guillaume had already taken control of London, now that England's old king was gone. Everyone was already submitting to him. It was pretty funny to see, really. France was looking forward to seeing England bow in front of someone from the other- the generally superior- side of the channel. But first he had to find him, and drag him out of whatever ditch he was hiding in back to London. Preferably, France thought while doing his best to ignore the chattering faeries hovering above his head- slightly behind him, so they were in his blind spot-, before nightfall. The sun was already setting and France had to stop himself from mentally running through all the stories his mother had told him to try and remember if there were any monsters that only came out at night.
Soon, France was completely lost in the English woods. He had been sure England would have gone to hide here, but maybe he was with the few rebels left after all. "Angleterre!" He shouted into the silent woods. No response. "Angleterre! If you don't come out now, you won't get any dinner!" Funny, that used to work. "Angleterre!"
But then, very quietly: "Go away."
Aha. "Angleterre, come on, you're being silly."
"Go away."
"Your king will be angry if you don't listen to me!"
"He's not my king!" Finally England leaped out from a hedge France was sure he had already searched, twigs and leaves stuck in his hair, clothes covered in dirt and blood and generally looking like one of his brothers had dragged him by the foot from one end of their island to the other. France briefly wondered if that was how he had gotten south so quickly after driving Norway off.
Whatever the story behind it was, France instinctively began plucking wildlife out of the smaller kingdom's hair and wiping at his face with a handkerchief. "Mon dieu, Angleterre, look at yourself! What have you been doing?"
"Running away. I said he's not my king!" England batted France's hands away and covered his head. "Go away and take him with you!"
"Don't be ridiculous, of course he's your king. He's being crowned tomorrow! That's why I came to look for you." France took advantage of the terrified expression on England's face to resume his cleaning. "... Why is there egg in your hair?"
"Nooooooooooo!" England howled and started tugging on France's tunic. France winced at the thought of whatever was on England's hands staining the fabric. "He can't he can't he can't! Harold's my king, not him, I was gonna be independent! This isn't fair, make him go away, France, make him go away!"
"It's not up to me, brat- Stop crying!"
“I'm not crying!” England insisted through his sobs. France sighed. It was almost as if the little island didn't want to be conquered.
"You can't be stubborn forever, Angleterre," France said in his best 'stern older brother' voice. He'd been practicing it. "Harold is dead and he's not coming back." England sniffled but France continued. "Guillaume is your king now, be happy. He's a very strong and intelligent man, he'll lead you well."
"But it's not fair..." England muttered weakly, wiping his face with his equally dirty tunic. It didn't do much good.
"I don't care. Now let's go get you cleaned up and fed."
***
It didn't take them long to find their way to the small cottage France had commandeered for as long as he was staying in England. France accounted this to the fact that he had England to lead him through the maze like woods, and insisted that England must have been joking when he said that he'd simply asked his fairy friends to remove the spell that had been making France go round in circles earlier. He didn't have time for silly stories, he'd told England. He had to make dinner before it got too dark to see properly. England had pouted and gone to hide under the bed covers by the window. This suited France perfectly, since it was one of the few occasions where he knew exactly where England was, yet England was quiet and not annoying him. Perfect.
However, once the food was done and England had snuck out of his blanket fort to take a bowl of delicious French cooking and disappear once again under the covers, France began to get annoyed. "You could at least say thank you!"
"I have the food now, so you can go home." England replied simply. There was a pause and then a tiny hand appeared out from underneath the blankets, holding an empty bowl. "Seconds."
"Ungrateful brat! Say please! Say 's'il vous plaît, France!'" France yelled, stamping his foot in irritation. Honestly, that boy was so spoiled, he had no idea where he got it from. He knew his brothers did anything but spoil him and Rome and Germania hadn't been that kind either.
"Seconds."
"Spoilt brat..." France mumbled and he grabbed the bowl and began to fill it again. It must have been Denmark and the Northmen. Yes, it must have been their fault. Well, he'd soon fix that. He held the filled bowl just out of England's reach. "You have to say "merci" now!"
A tiny, dirty, eyebrowed face appeared out of the mound of blankets. "Just give it to me."
"Say 's'il vous plaît' and then 'merci'!"
"Give. It. To. Me."
"... Brat." France scowled at England but handed the bowl over. Well, he'd fix it eventually. These things took time. Baby steps.
By now, England had disappeared yet again, but France could hear him eating noisily. In between slurps, he appeared to decide to deign France with some conversation. "I really hate you."
"I hope Guillaume drives you into the ground."
... Sniffling came from under the blankets. Oh, sacre dieu, was he really going to start feeling guilty now? England should be happy to have a king like Guillaume. So things had gotten a little... Bloody. Honestly the boy should be used to it by now. After all this time spent being invaded and conquered, why would he even care anymore?
After everything they'd been through already...
France wrapped his arms around the mass of blankets that he was still reasonably certain held the little kingdom and hugged tight. "It'll be okay. Things will start getting better now, I promise." The sobbing's volume increased.
"When- When I get big-" England managed to stammer out. "I'll beat everyone up! Everyone!” France frowned and squeezed a little tighter.
"Don't beat me up, otherwise I won't be nice to you and cook anymore."
England paused and seemed to consider this. "I'll beat you up just a little to teach you a lesson and then you can be my servant and do everything I say." This idea seemed to please him enough to make him stop crying.
"Or I could beat you up again and you can live in my house as my servant and eat my food," France, who was still getting his head around the idea of what having servants generally entailed, suggested.
"That's stupid. You're stupid. You can come live in my house instead and cook for me there." England, who had somehow managed to understand the concept of servitude much better, responded.
"Ah, the delusions of a child..." France said wistfully, tugging at England's blankets. "Are you ready to come out of there yet?"
"Nooooooooooo-"
"Come on- Oh la la, you're filthy... Look at your face... Stay still, I'll clean you up!" France grabbed a comparatively clean piece of blanket and dipped it in water before attacking England's face with it, trying to remove the dirt, tear stains and left over stew.
"Noooooooooooooooooo-"
"Non, you're all dirty! If you're all dirty, people won't recognise you and they'll think you're a monster! They'll see you and go 'Oh, no! It's the demon caterpillar, Mechanterre! Run away, run away! He's come to devour our souls!' and then they'll run away and you'll always be alone and everyone will be scared of you and you'll have to live alone in a cave eating other caterpillars and dirt and you'll keep getting dirtier and dirtier until it won't wash off and then you'll never stop being a demon caterpillar and it's a dreadful, endless cycle." France paused to catch his breath. "And that's why you need to wash your face."
England sniffled but finally stopped crying and nodded, staying still as France scrubbed his face. "But I'm not a caterpillar..."
"You won't be when I'm done with you, oui."
After that, England seemed content to sulk in silence as France worked his way through the layers of grime. Eventually, though, he interrupted him again with a quiet whisper. "Hey... When I'm bigger... Things'll be better, right?"
France paused and avoided eye contact with the younger country, avoided thinking about what history had proven so far. Then he nodded and leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. "Oui, I promise. For both of us."
"Okay." France wondered if England noticed that he was smiling slightly. "... I bet I'll be bigger than you."
France scoffed and kissed him on the forehead again. "Maybe in your dreams, chéri."