485 – First King of the Franks

Well something had to fill the void left by the Romans, and while France couldn't say he was pleased about this self-imposed Germanic rule, the settlers did at least seem to be independent of Prussia and his brother, who seemed to be just as lost in the wilderness right now as the rest of them were.

It had been nine years since Rome and Germania had died, and they had been nine years of confusion and disarray. The people of Germania's kingdoms panicked and spread out across Europe looking for somewhere they could feel secure again.

Prussia and his younger brother seemed to have disappeared entirely, France hadn't seen either of them since they'd spoken on the battlefield. Despite everything that was currently happening, he hoped they were okay, the loss of their father must have weakened them.

That concern also brought him to Feliciano as well, another Nation he hadn't seen since the battle who seemed to have vanished into thin air. The little Italian Nation had always been so reliant on his grandfather, was it even possible for him to survive alone?

The sickening weight of guilt tightened around his stomach and chest, pressuring his heart into a pained submission. It was true he hadn't liked Rome's influence, and it was true he felt that the old Nation had overstepped his bounds, but he hadn't wanted this.

The memory of Rome's dying eyes had been burned into his memory, and even now France could still feel the hilt of that sword in his hand and feel the panic that had possessed him when he'd seen the Roman Nation poised over his friend, ready to strike.

He didn't regret saving Spain, but he was certain that if he'd only thought faster then he could have found another way. Perhaps his mistake had been even taking Spain to that fight. He'd underestimated the desperation of the other Nation when it came to Feliciano, he'd never really taken Spain's intensive questions and chatter as something potentially dangerous.

Spain was however, the only Nation he had seen since then. They didn't speak as often as they had done, and when they did there was a tension in the air that neither one of them dared to address. The truth was that France resented and blamed him for what had happened, even if a part of him knew that wasn't fair; and he knew that Spain could sense it.

Flicking a lone pebble on the beach, France sighed. Immortality gave you eternal life, but everything else was fleeting; friendships, family, purpose. All that seemed to withstand the centuries was malice and bitterness. So many Nations had hated Rome since the day they had taken their first steps, and they had maintained that hatred through the long and tireless years. But now, with Rome dead they had nowhere else to point that contempt than at each other.

How long had he been alive for now? Four-hundred? Five-hundred years? Something like that at least, and considering he was still one of the younger Nations around that really spoke volumes for just how long they'd all been at this. Wouldn't this all eventually stop? Surely it couldn't go on forever.

"Monsieur France, are you coming?"

Flicking his eyes up to the horizon, the blonde slowly straightened up and stretched. Right, it was time to go.

After several months of deliberating he'd decided he was finally going to do it. He was going to cross the ocean himself. His ability to visit The Dream Field had gone after he'd killed Rome, which meant he'd lost access to the small scrappy Nation he'd spent the last couple of hundred years chatting with and teasing.

He wouldn't have described the two of them as great friends, but there had been a kinship between them as they'd found themselves to be mostly alone for quite some time. But, most importantly, England was one of the few Nations that still felt set apart from all this. Sure, he'd been invaded by Rome, but he'd never shown his face on the mainland, and he'd kept away from all the political and militaristic struggles between borders.

France needed to remind himself of what that was like, and Britania seemed like the best place to do that.

He had been given permission by one of the merchant boats to travel with them. It would be a very rough crossing, but France knew he had nothing to be afraid of. Worst case scenario a wave split the ship and he had to swim back to shore, he couldn't drown or even freeze to death. It would be unpleasant of course, but nothing more than he could handle.

The merchants had been loading their cargo onboard, but it seemed like they were done now, and France did not want to be left behind. So, seizing one side of the boat he helped to push it into the water, jumping in with the rest of the men as they set off for the Britannic coast.

"You know it's odd," one of the merchants shrugged, as they directed the ship as best, they could away from the coastline, "That we are now ruled by Franks, it's almost like we were meant to be ruled by them?"

One of the others stiffened and glared at him, "What in the name of God makes you think that?"

The first merchant seemed unabashed despite his response, "Because his name his France" he nodded towards the young-looking Nation on their boat, "France, Franks. Rome wasn't the one who gave him that name after all."

That… That had never occurred to France before.

After all, not all Nations had the same names as their countries. Feliciano's name simply described a wider space of land, and according to Antonio, his country hadn't taken on his name until almost seven-hundred years after he'd been born.

How had he decided his name was France?

Straining to think back, France tried to pull up the first moment he'd taken up that name, but it was as if no memory existed. Was this like the Dream Fields, were their just some things they weren't supposed to understand?

Antonio had told him Feliciano and his brother had been born to a human woman, but was that true for all of them? Was there even anybody alive today who could answer that question?

Focusing his attention once more on the direction they were heading in, he considered England. That was another Nation who had a name that didn't match their country, or did he?

The Angles and Saxons had ravaging their way through Britannia almost the moment Rome and Germania had died, it was chaos up there from what France had heard, but hopefully these traders would know the safe places to land.

Angle… Land? No, that just sounded stupid, and yet it was similar to the jump made between France and the Franks.

With Rome and Germania gone was Europe simply becoming the place it was always supposed to be?

He slept most of the journey, none of the merchants tried to make him do any of the work. It took all day in their heavy-set ferry, with every man aboard, and every young Apprentice heaving their muscle against the ocean waves as they rowed onward towards the distant coast of the island of Britannia.

As France's eyes began to drift open, there was one thought that struck him rather heavily. It was wet. There was no other way to describe the scene slowly unfolding around him as the beach along the coast came closer and closer into view. The sky was a damp grey, the sand a miserable dark brown, and the spittle of water he'd initially mistaken for the sea turned out to be rain, which grew stronger and harder the closer to the Britannic shore they came.

"Classic Britannic weather" he heard one of the men laugh, to the echoed chorus of the others.

"It always rains here?"

The group all turned towards him looking surprised, perhaps they'd believed him to still be asleep.

"Well not all the time" the first man who had spoken shrugged, "but enough of the time." He grinned, "Don't worry we'll get you home again soon enough, just don't wander too far. The last thing we all need at a time like this is our Nation going missing."

They didn't have to worry on that, Francis fully intended to return. He just needed to see this place for himself first. He reassured the men in the boat that he'd be back long before they returned from the market town they were heading for. But this only seemed to alarm them further.

"You aren't coming with us?"

The young boy shook his blonde head. He often found it was far better that your first impression of a country be of its land, rather than its settlements. Villages, towns, cities, they all changed so much over a seemingly short period of time, the land itself however, always remained familiar.

Yes, this cold and damp country, this was the land that belonged to England, it suited him.

Stepping off the boat, France promised once more that he would return before they set up cmp, and then, before anyone could stop him, he hurried along the beach and up onto the bracken beyond, feeling a rather short-lived rush as he laid his eyes out across the land for the very first time. That moment passed within moments as his foot sunk immediately into a heavy, thick patch of bog.

"Merde!" He swore loudly, taking hold of his leg firmly between both hands and pulling it clear. He took another step forward, only for the same to happen again. This was disgusting, why would anyone want to live in such a dirty and unpleasant place.

Scanning around, France spotted a relatively dry bundle of grass nearby and heaved himself towards it, straining with every step. He had almost reached the thick patch of grass, when a sudden yelp caught him by surprise, causing the French Nation to tumble backwards, feet catching in the mud as he fell with a painful splat in the mud behind him, ankles snapping painfully. He'd broken them, great.

"Show yourself!" Despite his position, France clambered up as best he could, ignoring the protest from his broken bones – they'd heal in a moment. Great, now he was filthy! What would his people say when he went back to the boat now? There was no way he could wash himself and his clothes in the sea without catching something before they got back.

The grass in front of him rustled again, and a single bright green eye peered out from between the blades.

There was a short silence, then the small figure lunged forward with a stick.

For one confusing moment, Francis thought they were going to hit him, but the stick stopped just short of his face, and a sharp childish voice commanded, "Hold onto it!"

Doing as instructed, Francis blinked, wondering what was about to happen next.

Then, with an inhuman amount of strength the small figure pulled on his end, guiding France out of the bog and over to the island. He wasn't quite strong enough to do the whole job by himself, as France felt himself having to exert his own muscles once more, but finally he was out and panting on the (relatively) dry land once more.

"Thank you" he gasped, still straining to catch his breath as he waited for his ankles to reset themselves.

"What are you doing here?" That voice again, and as France looked up, he realised he'd been an idiot not to recognise it.

"England!" Jumping back to his feet with ecstatic excitement, France lifted the small Nation up into his arms and spun him around joyfully, almost sending the both of them back into the mud.

"Put me down!" The boy snapped, his appearance still very much that of a five-year-old boy. "I asked you a question!"

"Sure, sure." Setting the boy down, a wild smile still plastered across his face, the French Nation beamed. "Thought I'd actually come and take a look at this place, I've never been so…" he ruffled England's hair, still utterly delighted that he was finally meeting the northern Nation in person. "I just came over for a quick visit."

England frowned suspiciously, running a hand through his wild and tangled hair. He looked a mess, just like he always did. From past experience France knew it was pointless to try and comb his hair, the first and last time he'd tried the tiny Britannic Nation had bitten him.

"This isn't a good time to visit" he growled, the sound was primitive, but not hostile. "It's dangerous here at the moment."

"Dangerous?"

"Saxons" England hissed, "Don't you know anything stupid!"

Well of course he knew about the Saxons. Folding his arms stubbornly, the taller blonde frowned. "There's no need to be rude. What about them?"

England's eyes widened, looking dumbfounded at what France had just said. Then he shook his head, "It's none of your business anyway, just get out of here you bastard!"

What in God's name was wrong with him? Wasn't he pleased that France had come all this way to visit him? The ungrateful little rat.

England was pushing at his back, almost shoving the older Nation right back into the mud, but France dug in his heals. He wasn't going anywhere until this whole thing was explained to him.

"I told you to get out of here!" England snapped, now throwing his whole weight against the small of France's back. "It isn't safe. They're not on this coastline yet, but it's only a matter of days, could even be hours!"

"Hours? We are learning fancy words." France couldn't resist teasing him, but it only earned him another sharp shove, and this one almost overbalanced him completely.

"Faigh a-mach an seo mus tilg mi a-mach thu!" The boy looked furious now, dropping the Latin, as he reverted to his own language. France didn't need to understand to know he was probably being insulted and told to leave again.

"Fine!" He snapped, moving off to the side with a suddenness that sent England falling into the mud. "If you want to be like that after I came all this way, then fine!"

A small part of his mind tried to reason with him. England genuinely seemed to be worried about these Saxons, perhaps they were really that dangerous. But the emotional part was screaming over any other thought he had and consumed any reason he might have been able to spare.

In response to that England only clicked his teeth, narrowing his eyes as if he thought France was being ridiculous.

What right did any Nation as tiny as that have to regard him in that way!?

He was France, one of the most powerful remaining Nations in Europe… well, Western Europe at least, and who was England? Some little backward country to the north.

"Your country is horrible anyway!" He snapped, "Like I wanted to spend another minute knee deep in sludge."

He could feel the hostile glare from England burning into his neck, but France was not going to do him the satisfaction of turning around, England had asked him to leave, so that was what he was going to do.

France made it a dozen steps before he finally felt the temptation to turn. When he did however, England was gone.