Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

As nations, they see things. They see birth and they see death. The older they get, the more they see. As one of the older nations, France had seen almost everything. He'd seen life come and go, wars begin and end, and he had his greatest friends hold a blade to his throat in their name. It all became so much that at one point, he forgot what it was to feel. He forgot what it was to be almost human. He supposed that every nation goes through this at some point of their lives, but it still hurt. It hurt more than anything to forget.

But then, she came.

At first, he was curious about her. A woman dressing like a man and laying down her life for his sake was strange to the French man. What was even more strange, was that she claimed to be God's messenger. She spoke of his angels telling her to leave her home, cut her hair, don the attire of a man, and fight. When he had finally worked up his nerves to personally ask her what God's angels were telling her, she looked him in the eyes and said, "They tell me to send the rats back to England."

There was a fire in her eyes.

After that, their conversations of God and what his angels told her changed to more personal things. What her life was like before, who she knew, who her family was. Before they knew it, they became close. It was the first time France had felt free in what felt like forever, because he fought under her banner and command. He stood by her as she chose to continue fighting despite being shot with an arrow. He was there with her when the new king was crowned. He came to love her and even though his love was not returned, he was content. He was content because she had taught him how to feel something again.

She had taught him to enjoy life.

...But all dreams have to come to an end.

It was May 30, 1431. It was dead silent, despite the multiple people that had gathered around to watch the display. She was tied to a tall pillar in the Viewux-Marche in Rouen. Her armor had been stripped away and was replaced with a dress. She had new wounds that littered her body, a sign that she had been molested while the English had held her. Her head had been shaven.

"Let it be known that this woman, known as Jeanne d'Arc, immodestly cut her hair and don the attire of a man, continuously bringing disorder to the world with her unruly and bloodthirsty nature!" The priest shouted, cutting the silence harshly. "Moreover, she has rejected the laws of the church, choosing to only submit herself to her false visions of God!"

Then a man with messy blonde hair, thick eyebrows, and bright green eyes stepped forward. "For these sinful acts against our faith, the witch shall hereby be put to death!"

"Wait!" A new voice rang out.

Everyone seemed to turn their head toward her, surprised that she had chosen to speak now.

"What is it, witch?" The blonde man asked.

"I demand a crucifix!" She said in heavy accent.

The blonde shifted uncomfortably for a second, but turned to two of the clergy and told them to present a crucifix in front of her like she asked. He asked if that would do and she gave a single nod. As he watched, the blonde's eyes grew hesitant. He muttered something around the lines of 'bloody hell' and squatted down. He picked up a few small sticks and tied them together. Soon, he made them into a cross necklace. He gently held it in his hands for a moment before turning to her. Their eyes met and he walked up to her. She stared at him, a strange spark in her eyes, but she didn't make any move to escape him as he began to work the make-shift necklace around her neck.

"You're the one that called Francis a loser." She said quietly, suddenly breaking the uncomfortable silence. "You're England, aren't you?"

The blonde paused to look at her for a second, but he said nothing, confirming that her suspicious where true.

"Do not worry; I forgive you."

Now England finally spoke. "I do not ask for forgiveness."

"Angleterre, please. There is one last thing I want you to do for me."

"And what is that?" He asked as he finished tying the necklace together.

"Preiz pour moi s'il vous plait."

He was silent. "If that is what you wish..."

Meanwhile, by the time France had heard the news and finally arrived to Rouen, the flames had already been set. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't say anything. All He could do was stare. She met the fire with such composure and bravery that it made his heart ache. For so long, he had been detached and alone, but she had cared enough to clean his wounds and call him home. But now, seeing the English expose what was left of her body, burn her twice more, and finally throw her in the Seine as a final injustice against her when she had only wanted to free her people, made him long for death. It made him feel like his life was taken and what was left was emptiness.

What had made his life worth living had been taken away and all he could do was mourn.

But then, she came.

It was in the spring and at Mont Saint Michel. He didn't know why, but something came over France and told him to go there. So, he did and at first, nothing really seemed to spark his interest. Until he heard a voice. He froze and, confused, turned his head towards the voice. That's when he saw her. He felt his eyes widen and his heart come to a stand still. He felt like he was in a dream and before he knew it, he was right in front of her. Shocked by his sudden appearance, the girl quickly blurted out, "I'm sorry for taking your picture without asking!"

The girl's voice was gentle, but had some sort of an unexplained edge to it. Her hair was roughly cut around her ears and her bangs were pinned up with a small pink flower pin. Just by hearing her voice he could tell that she was most certainly not French. He suddenly felt like he was staring at her for too long and quickly stuttered out a reply.

"Well, it's not like that. I'm sorry, too, for scaring you like that. It was just that you're so..." He then found himself looking over her.

He suddenly closed his eyes and told himself to stop. He took a breath and sighed, slightly frustrated. To tell the truth, France wanted to hug and hold her close so nothing could ever take her away from him again. He wanted nothing more than to tell her how much he missed her and how sorry he was for not reaching her in time. He wanted to do so many things. But, as much as the truth pained him, she was not her.

Despite that fact, however, France knew the minute he saw her the girl that she simply had to know.

So, he decided to lead her through Mont Saint Michel, telling her everything there was to know about it, learning along the way that the girl's name was Lisa. After a while, he even told Lisa about her. He told her how she came and gave the people hope, how she led the French with the grace and wisdom that no one else seemed to have, how she fought the English to see the new king crowned, and how she did it all in just the span of four months. And finally, looking over the sea with the sunset's rays shining down upon them, they spoke of Jeanne's end. He allowed himself to close his eyes as the memories of fire filled his vision before finally speaking of things he was never meant to tell any mortal.

"All the people that get tossed about by history, I always hope they'll be reborn into a normal life, fall in love, and end up living happily somewhere. When I first saw you, I thought God does wonderful things. So, please be happy this time." Then, with no hesitation, he walked up to her and rested his hand upon her own. As he did, a soft rush of warmth raced up his arm and he smiled a bit wider.

"It seems like my wish has come true." He said quietly.

"What? What are you ta-? " Lisa turned to him, only to find that she was alone. She quickly became confused, if not a little scared. "What? He was right there just a second ago..."

She reached out for something unknown, a strange feeling of melancholy overcoming her.

"...Who was he?"