This is the result of an RP that myself (DestinyShiva) and Hannaadi88 conducted. Remember that there are two authors!

This is a fanfic segmented into two parts, so be sure to read both of them!

Summary: Conflict on the isle of Britannia was over and the Kingdom of Wessex prevailed, now renamed the Kingdom of England. However after the unification of the country, Wessex disappeared. As a young lad named Francis sailed towards shores of white cliffs from Calais, the men on his ship make a startling discovery – and one that would reshape the entirety of Francis's life. Who, then, is this emerald eyed boy, and what does he mean for the future of England?

Warnings: Use of OCs (aka Scotland, Ireland, and Wales). Suicide, murder, character deaths, violence. Child abuse. This works on the principle of 'if a nation dies, they are able to revive themselves'.

Meeting by the Cliffs: Part One.

England. A country formed from the now unified kingdoms of Wessex, Sussex, Kent, Dumnomia, Essex, East Anglia, Northumbria and Mercia. A place consisting of the main body of the Isle of Britannia; just north of their beloved home of France. The people were rough, so they say. The descendants of the Angles from Angeln, Saxons from Lower Saxony, and Jutes from the Jutland peninsula.

Overrun by the Vikings coming from the East, residues of the long deceased roman empire holding the place like a structured strong hold - surrounded by a small moat of coarse seas... 'Engla-land' was not yet a force to be reckoned with, but a threat all the same. Born of strong blood, the now unified lower half of the island was far more desirable than it had ever been before.

It was also their goal. Ever since they had left from Calais with aims to hit the coast somewhere in the previous land of Southern Wessex; the seas had been churning horrifically. Passage was much safer at night, and so they sailed through when the weather was an its most chaotic. It was as if God was trying to stop them from their quest. A quest, of course, that none of the crew members knew of apart from one. Nobody cared, of course. They were paid handsomely, and so sail they shall. It was all part of discovery. It was the age of empires, after all.

The Frenchmen on the boat worked as usual. The boat itself was not very big and there were little more than ten crew members, along with their self-proclaimed captain. Nobody knew who that person was, but all they knew was that they had nobility and authority. It was easy for them to fall under his leadership - that handsome blue eyed, waxy blond haired boy. They could tell that he was special.

White cliffs were in clear view. The crew members smiled broadly, recognising that their passage would soon come to an end. Sailing through the sea was a burden, and they had lost a man at least overboard. They couldn't have gone back for him. That was how it worked. Overboard, and that's the end of your life.

Looking at the path in front of them, the French looked unamused at the amount of small jagged rocks that the ship could threaten to run into. It was dangerous to pick a way through. One mistake and they were all dead. So imagine their surprise as the boat hit something, a rather muffled thud cracking into their ears.

Desperate, crew members ran to the side of the boat to see what they had crashed into. But there were no rocks in the way, and they were still half a mile from shore. Confused for but a moment, they kept looking overboard until one man - having the fright of his life - spotted something.

It was a little boy floating, drowned, just underneath the water's surface. Young, perhaps only five or so years of age. But that wasn't what surprised them. What surprised them was that the little boy seemed to have white wings attached to his shoulder blades.

Several men had noticed by now. There were shouts, cries, and a lot of sudden effort to fetch that little boy out of the water. They were religious men. An angel was an angel. A blessing. How could they have let that boy stay there, drowned?

The men picked the boy up out of the water, horrified at how the wings disappeared when he was pulled from the sea. He was stone cold and clammy, obviously dead. But they all knew what they saw. A cherub, they told each other. A child with wings...

They placed the drowned boy on the side, circling around. They did not know what they were waiting for. Perhaps, it was a sign from God.

They were answered.

A minute after they found the boy; he choked back to life, spilling water from his throat as he tried to breathe.

England. A new country that promised fortune and opportunity. Angleterre - a country that would be his.

Francis Bonnefoy prowled the deck of one of his homeland's most elegant and exquisite ships. Ships that were usually reserved for noblemen- royalty, even. Francis was neither. He was simply...special. Not like the humans surrounding him, living and dying without any trace or consequence. No. Francis couldn't be like them. At the tender appearance of a human teenager, he was in fact more than a hundred years old. He didn't age as fast as everyone else. He never felt the hurt as much as others did. The only times he felt extreme physical pain was when his beloved homeland- France- was attacked or hurt.

The conclusion that his superiors came to was that Francis Bonnefoy had some strange connection to their country. A dangerous, mysterious connection.

Ever since then, Francis had been supervised closely. What he ate, how he felt, what he did- they knew it all. As much as he felt uncomfortable with it, the Frenchman had gotten used to it by now. His own existence was strange to him. Even he couldn't tell what he was exactly. But within him- a wild, strange part of him- he thought he knew. He wasFrance. He had been there ever since the beginning. How could it be any other way? What other explanation was there?

But he never dared voice out his thoughts aloud. He would be locked away forever, for sure. For now, though, he was content to be treated well and granted his any wish. Even a wish that would take him across the sea to a new land. Was it only the curiosity he felt about a new country revealed, formed? Or was it his boredom with his own land? Or was it, perhaps, the burning urge to find the truth about himself and a couple more children like him? And- was it even possible?- find traces of his long forgotten grandfather?

Francis continued walking back and forth, anxious to arrive to his destination as soon as he could. But there was something that paused the constant movement. His sailors started a frenzy race against time, calling out 'C'est un ange! C'est un ange!'.

What were they talking about? An angel?

The Frenchman gasped as a young boy was pulled aboard, cold and pale. Death was written all over his features. Francis rushed over to the still figure and gazed at him, curiosity sparking in his eyes momentarily before sighing and loosing all interest. It was more the fact that the other was dead than what had happened to him that confused him. He was about to stand up and leave when he heard suddenly a faint gasp.

The boy himself lurched, coughing up salt water from his starved little lungs. His throat was burning horribly from the intake, damaged and coarse. Hair was matted, no doubt covered in sea matter - little insignificant pieces of sea weed, dirt and grit smashed off from the beautifully white cliffs half a mile in front of the small vessel. As he breathed again, his skin seemed to come quite quickly back to colour - veins and arteries pouncing back to life.

Bringing up the contents of water inside of him, the young one's eyes flickered open. Rich emeralds - just as expensive looking as jewels acquired in the far east - darted around, terrified. That was, until they met another's. Azure blue, slight hints of purplish tilt - a rich colour revered by Kings. For a moment, the world ceased around him; heart stopping almost as it did only about a minute ago. Only when a large wave hitting the boat made him choke and splutter did he look away. There were something incredibly familiar and yet odd about them. A connection between them that was only as deep as the sea they sailed.

The sailors froze and backed away, crossing themselves. A boy back from the dead? An angel or a devil? They didn't want to know.

The child watched as the sailors backed away, mumbling strange obscenities in a tongue that the boy didn't understand at all. Quivering, the boy looked around in confusion, wondering if the water in his ears had gargled their speech. The young one covered his ears, wincing away from their eyes and their noise. Intakes of breath and shouts were filling his mind, but he didn't understand. Three languages were known fluently to the English at that time; Gaelic, Cornish, and their native of Englisc. The words surrounding him clearly intimidated and confused. Had he known much about the Franks to England's south, he probably wouldn't have been so shocked.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember what had led him to be there. The salt on the tip of his tongue and the disgusting feeling on his skin was evidence enough to prove to him that he had fallen into the sea. His heart soared with discomfort as he remembered sailing through the air, falling to what he thought was his inevitable death. It fell like a stone again when he realised why.

An outcast, they had called him. Arthur Kirkland - A child detached and dissimilar to them; the people he was supposed to consider as his brothers. The bounds of flesh and blood, apparently, were not as strong as the connection that tied his older siblings but not to him. They were immortal, they said. He was different. The same as the people. Mortal and able to be wounded easily, dying just as crudely.

The young boy recalled one particular night when he was just a runt, barely able to understand words and even less capable of speaking them. His skin felt raw as pulp with bruises that the manual labour his brothers had him do had given him, whole body aching. It had turned to the hours of night by the time that he was done, utterly exhausted from his work – personally damning his relatives. They had arms and legs and strength that made his childish muscles pale in comparison – why did they get him to work for them?

There was a light nearby, and Arthur knew that it was from the fire that his siblings erected every night. Usually he could hear laughter and merriment around it as he approached with his arms shaking but filled with kindling and wood to fuel their source of heat. On second thought, that was probably why they made him work so hard – to keep him away, while they discussed and enjoyed one another's company, without him. It was so hard to understand. Why did they reject his existence so?

Tonight was different somehow. The air felt colder than usual, and he wondered if it was drawing to the winter months again. There was no laughter like he would have suspected, and the boy approached nervously, keeping out of sight. Instead, it felt like there was an air of pure mourning.

"My men and I confirmed it…" He heard his eldest brother's husky voice call through the crisp atmosphere, sucking in a large sigh. Arthur's emerald eyes fixated on him questioningly through the leaves of the bush he hid behind, not willing to go any closer. "Mercia's house was destroyed. Since Northumbria was living with her, we should assume that he died too when Wessex conquered them. Damn him and his blasted King Alfred—Still, at least the Viking bastards will be destroyed, finally. They were coming too far towards the North for comfort."

Arthur swallowed, trying to understand what those words had meant. He had heard his brothers discuss it before; how the lands south of his eldest brother and east of the Welsh became slowly whittled down. There had been eight countries that the land was divided into originally, before the countries of Mercia, Northumbria, and Wessex killed and conquered effectively a third of the land each through time. After the Vikings from Scandinavia invaded the north, Mercia and Northumbria tended to band together. But in the end, it was Wessex who prevailed; defeating Mercia and Northumbria and unifying the land as a whole country.

"You should call him by his new name now." Another one of Arthur's brother's chimed in, and Arthur glanced at him wonderingly. "England, or at least that's what the Germanics are calling him. The Kingdom of England – what a disappointing name. They should have stuck with Wessex."

The new country, one that barely came into existence a few years ago; a little before Arthur was discovered in the wilderness. England was the combination of so many previous countries combined into one single nation, reborn and rekindled with strength. Wessex had succeeded in becoming the personification of the whole land, the winner of a fight for supremacy.

"There is another side to this. Although Mercia and Northumbria we should assume now to be deceased – has anyone actually seen Wessex after his victory? He is too full of himself – surely he would have appeared and demanded us to respect him by now?" The third older brother spoke, plunging the threesome back into an uncomfortable silence until one regained the courage to speak.

"I broke into his lands a while ago, but there was no sign of him." His red-haired brother said, lips thinning into a small downwards curve. "The earth felt different – it does not have the same atmosphere as it did. If I did not know better, I would suggest that he fought Mercia and Northumbria and suffered a pyrrhic victory."

"…Mutual destruction…" Another muttered under his breath. "That would explain his disappearance—But what of the land? We might not have seen him because he is busy. A country does not just disappear. Wessex exists as England now. We can see that all too clearly. He is alive. He must be."

Little did they realise, but the former Kingdom of Wessex had stopped existing when the land was unified, just like they suspected; leaving a newborn behind as the new successor. A successor that they did not realise existed with immortal blood running through his veins. The inheritor of the entirety of England shifted, dropping the wood in his hands and running—wondering why hearing his brothers speak hurt so much, and why tears were pouring from his large, glistening emerald eyes. The emerald eyes that were almost a direct shadow of those Wessex once owned.

But he was mortal, as they always said. Too vulnerable, too young, too non-existent. He would never be strong like his siblings. Or at least, that was what Arthur and his brothers were lead to believe, as Wessex's death remained unreported.

Why then... why did he remember plummeting to his death? Why did he feel the horrible shrill feeling of pain jolt through his body as he smashed against the rocks? Why had the cracks in his skull, crushed bones in his ribs, and dislodged jaw managed to fix themselves... returning almost completely now to the condition they had been in before?

Why was he alive, now, if his brothers told that he was supposed to be mortal? ...It made no sense.

As the words suddenly became hushed, and quiet yet confident steps reverberated on the planks of wooden decking; the child looked up, eyes wide and petrified. He really was a timid little thing. Francis gazed wide-eyed at the young boy, hurling sea water as fast as his little lungs could afford to do so. After a few moments of silence and intense staring, the Frenchman addressed the other in a shaking voice.

"Qui es-tu?"

Arthur found himself meeting those blue orbs again, sapphires and emeralds selling themselves out with shock. A teenager, he evaluated. He swallowed thickly, hating the pain that followed. The silence that filled the boat lingered, interrupted only by the sound of the crashing waves and the caw of birds in the far distance. Although when the silence of man stopped, words passing the teenager's mouth, Arthur maintained his confusion.

Eyebrows furrowed, he wiped his mouth and sat up in his place - hating the startled looks he received and the quick movement backwards by most of the men. The teenager was different though. Standing his ground.

"...Key-ess-tu, what?" He said, blinking.

Francis held his breath as the boy parted his lips to answer. But instead, weird and Barbaric noises came out of the gentle mouth. The Frenchman cringed and motioned for those who were still there to go back to their posts, leaving him alone with the child. The miracle child, as he would now refer to him as.

He wanted to know everything. Where he was from, who he was, what he was. But to be able to do that, they would have to find a common language.

The Frenchman sighed and lifted the child in his arms, carrying him to his room. Placing him down gently on his bed, Francis began looking through his wardrobe for clothes that might fit his guest. Not so successful, he sat down next to the other, determined to be able to do something.

The boy was easily pliable in the other's hands, only struggling slightly when he was scooped up. He was definitely afraid, but more so confused. He found himself seeking more comfort in the teenager encompassing him in his arms than fright. Arthur tried not to seem dependent, but the cold clothes clinging to his skin were making him shiver so much that it was hard not to huddle into warmth - even if it was of another person's body.

He glanced around as he was brought further into the boat, quivering away from the harsh and disbelieving looks of the other sailors. As he was finally brought into the cabin in the middle, being brought straight into what would have been the captain's room - although such knowledge was far beyond him at that point. But the look of the rather primitive 10th century boat did intrigue him - Arthur drunk in the appearance of the place happily. It looked rather luxurious to him, although the place was made out of wood and relatively cheap fabrics at the best.

He didn't have a home with his brothers. Even if they did, he knew he would not possibly be allowed to live with them. Although in the event of his death and resurrection; he was unsure whether or not that would still be true. 'We are of the land', they said. 'We cannot die'. ...So... did that mean they were wrong? He was the same after all...?

Shaking on the bed, he wrapped his arms around himself and curled up - watching the other through terrified, intimidated eyes. He sort of expected the other to find a bow and start shooting poison tipped arrows at him any minute, or throw stones, or even try stabbing him with one of those 'sword' things. Like his brothers. He didn't have the experience at all to realise that such a thing was not normal human behaviour. Albeit though, the other was not a human at all...

Still wet and dripping from his sea related excursion, slight traces blood tipped on the edges of his dark green cloak from where the water had not soaked off completely; he jumped back when the other sat down next to him. Green orbs widened, and he shrunk back against himself - pouting uncertainly.

Pointing at himself, the Frenchman proclaimed his own name slowly. "Fran-cis." Pointing at the child, he tilted his head, hoping the other would understand and give him his name.

As the other spoke, the boy frowned, trying to understand what on earth the other was trying to get at. It didn't take too long before he twigged. He pointed to himself, like Francis had done. "A-Arth-thur..."

His eyes. . .

The last time Francis had seen a pair of such frightened eyes was many years ago, when he had visited his grandfather on a daily basis. He could recall perfectly the way the elder's brown eyes sparkled as he offered to take the Frenchman- but a little child then- to someplace he called 'the arena'.

Curious, the young blond agreed, happy that his grandfather had invited him,and him only. As far as he could tell, his cousins wouldn't be tagging along par usual.

Trailing along, they arrived at a marvelous and perfectly designed stone building, shaped as an exact circle. It was not the first time Francis had seen such splendor in his grandfather's country, and yet his eyes remained wide open, drinking it all in. Chuckling softly, the other had pulled the Frenchman inside, seating him down next to him on the ground floor. Very soon the seats all above him were filled by chatting peasants, dressed in their best clothes.

"Qu'est-ce qu'on va voir, grand-père?" He asked, excitement building up and stretching his little heart. His grandfather simply winked and answered that he would find out soon enough. And that he did.

It began with a display of ferocious beings, his grandfather pointing out the crazed look in their eyes, explaining that they were half starved. Then, onto the stage were pushed a bunch of frightened people, whom Francis assumed were slaves, according to their apparel. He wondered what they were going to do with the weapons in their shivering hands. He was answered by a deafening roar from the audience as the chains to the beasts were cut, the hungry animals rushing towards their next meal. The slaves.

Francis screamed along with the crowd, but his was one of sheer terror, not excitement. Much less enjoyment. He couldn't bring his eyes to look at how the people were torn to shreds in front of his very own eyes, blood and gore everywhere. He placed his hands over his ears, trying to block the sound. But what made him open his eyes in amazement was the sound of laughter. To his horror, he saw his grandfather cheering and laughing among the others.

Later, after ridding his stomach of the contents of his lunch, Francis walked past the cage in which the animals were kept. He dared a look and almost lurched again as he noticed the trace of blood on the beast's lips. But before he was able to tear his gaze away, he noticed something peculiar. Studying the other's eyes, he was surprised to see that they were not those of a crazed being. No, they were the eyes of a tortured and frightened animal.

He hadn't seen anything like that until today, gazing into those Emerald eyes.

The child cowered away still, refusing to drop his glance on the Frenchman - as if thinking that if he so much as blinked, the other would take pre-emptive advantage against him. Arthur clearly was not raised in good mental condition, taught subconsciously to have habits that were rather abnormal. Nobody showed him what was right and wrong, so he had to evaluate and learn for himself.

There were a lot of little cuts and bruises on his limps, hands and feet - all results of experience and experimentation. Squirrels, for one, bit when you tried to pull their fuzzy red tails. The spines on a rose's stem hurt when prodded. Simple, little things, but nobody ever told him how they felt to the touch, or reacted to such as well. Smells even, sights, sounds - every day came as a new discovery. He now knew the sea was rough, for example; cold, ferocious, and unstable. There was a very slight urge deep inside his heart that told him that one day he would conquer it, or never stop trying.

A wave of pity overtaking him, the Frenchman pulled the young boy towards him, locking him in his arms. "Il va bien...vous êtes en sécurité..." He murmured in a calming manner, stroking the other's damp hair soothingly. As his warmth seeped into the small body, he noticed that the child was shivering. The Frenchman pulled away, grabbed hold of the blanket on the bed and wrapping it tenderly around the boy's cold figure. He smiled at the sight, determined not to let that jeune garçon to share the same fate of those poor beasts. Hungry, lost and terrified.

The aforementioned froze as he was pulled into those arms; going immediately rigid as they started petting his head. Arthur simply didn't know how to react. Isn't that what you did to animals when trying to calm them down? He was quietly offended, though the soft hearted touches were slowly making him obviously more relaxed. He was starting to stop shivering at this point, feeling a little more homely in that room. Frankly, this strange person was treating him much better than his siblings. Wasn't the bonds of flesh and blood supposed to be much more important?

"Arthur?" Francis said aloud, trying to pronounce it the way the other had. Instead, his 'r' rolled a bit, unintentionally giving it a feline quality.

Arthur pouted more pointedly, fidgeting awkwardly as the blanket was brought over him. He naturally found himself absorbed happily in the warmth, tugging it immediately around his thin little body. The boy looked up at the other, raising a quite thick eyebrow at the pronunciation.

"Not 'Arrrrrthur'! My name is Arthur. Ar-thur. Get it right, you nonce!" He scoffed, shuffling in his place. Really; the way this foreign person rolled their r's... it sounded as if he was going to make that croaking noises the frogs make in the marshes...! "You are not called 'Frrrrrancis', are you? No! 'Frrrrog'? Neither! Do not make my name suffer the same scrutiny!"

Rude little thing he was, as it happens.

The Frenchman stared blankly at the young boy, ranting in that course language of his. What he could make of the whole thing was that the other was making a point to exaggerate his pronunciation of 'r', along with what Francis thought was his own name. Besides, the way he raised his brow (he had never seen such brows in his life) was more comical than anything. Added his cute pout and the agitated blush. . . it was hard to take him seriously.

Francis laughed. It seems that the sea had yet to quench that fiery personality of his. . . no matter. I like it.

Tears of mirth blurring his eyesight slightly, Francis stood up with anew determination. He approached his wooden closet once more,making a show op opening it as wide as it would go, showing off the fine fabric, looking over his shoulder and smirking when the other stared at it wide-eyed. That done, the Frenchman began searching for a garment that would somehow fit Arthur. His smallest outfit, at least.

The English-boy frowned agitatedly, shifting backwards a few feet on the bed - until he was sitting right in the middle, by the pillows. Arthur had his arms folded, legs curled up, and body deflated. He really was without manners and without real rational sense. Watching the Frenchman with his eyes as wide as an owl's, he found his eyes flickering naturally to the beautiful colours inside that closet of his.

After a couple of moments, he found something that would probably fit the other's figure. A nice shirt that would probably reach Arthur's knees, in the color of. . . purple. Royal purple. That enforced a problem, as said color was worn by royalty only. Would he dare break such a primary fashion code for the young stranger on his bed?

"Si seulement tu pouvais me dire qui tu es..."

He had never seen such rich colours. Arthur found his mouth slightly agape. The child had the urge to scramble eagerly to the edge and have a closer look, but he was too stubborn to move from his now comfortable position. Nibbling his little, cute pink lip; Arthur eyed the clothes that the Frenchman held.

"...'s pretty..." He whispered, puffing up his cheeks.

Francis looked from the shirt to the boy and back. It looked like Arthur really liked it, but. . . It just wasn't right. After a second look at the other's ruined garments, stained by sea salt, the Frenchman gave in. He wasn't about to let the poor boy walk around in that. As long as no one else saw him wearing it, it should be fine. He would have enough time to run out and find something else. . .

"Tiens," He handed the shirt to the other, smiling.

Arthur snapped to attention again as Francis came back over, holding a wonderfully coloured shirt in hand. He gaped at the colour, revelling in its beauty. The colour of pansies, he told himself. Dyeing of clothes was available back then, of course, but the technology was pretty rare and rich. The English-boy hadn't seen anyone wearing such wondrous colours before. It was an absolutely foreign concept to him.

Without taking off his wet cloak, he tried to wrestle his way into the shirt. At some random point, he started making little grunts of complaint and flailed his arms. ...Seemed he tried to get his head through the sleeve and had gotten rather childishly distressed...

Chuckling, Francis removed the shirt gently from the other and set it aside, raising a manicured brow. Mumbling something about rushing into things, he lifted Arthur's damp cloak over his head properly, a violent blush spreading over his face and blue eyes widening when he discovered that the other wasn't wearing anything underneath. Tearing his gaze away from the lower half of the child's body, he concentrated in helping the other into the shirt- which turned out to fit him as a tunic more than a shirt.

The Frenchman bit his lip, trying to suppress a laugh.

The English-boy complained, wiggling his little legs as the cloak was lifted over his head; carrying him in the air by one or two inches before he and it came loose. He didn't find much of an aversion to being naked in the other's company - mainly because he didn't figure it as inappropriate - though he was pretty glad to have the shirt shrugged over his shoulders when it did.

He looked down at himself, seeing how it hung right the way down to past his knees. The boy was pretty tiny. Arthur looked pleased, and gave Francis an accomplished smile.

"Good!" He said, grinning. It felt so much drier and warmer...

As the other voiced out his approval- Francis assumed- he couldn't get over the fact of how adorable he looked. But it was alright to think he looked cute, right? After all, most kids were cute. . .

And hungry.

Francis mentally slapped himself. Arthur was probably starving by now- after all, drowning could lead to hunger. . .? Not that the Frenchman could be sure. Or was it that it was really tiring? How could he ask the younger as to what he wanted to do?

Deciding that he would simply supply both, the Frenchman smiled fondly at the other before leaving the room hastily, racing towards the kitchen. He just hoped that Arthur wouldn't leave his room before he came back- it wouldn't do for the sailors to see him in that outfit. Aside from it being purple, it looked like a dress on him. And he wasn't sure how they would respond to that.

As Francis left the room with a kindly smile on his face, Arthur looked around the place; grinning fantastically. The little boy had not seen such a good layout for a home before, and it pleased him a lot to look randomly around at the treasures held within. Arthur scampered up, wobbling on his feet as he stood on the bed. He had never seen a bed before now, but he knew it was comfy and smother-able in softness. The child jumped on it, feeling the straw and down squish under his little padding toes.

Giggling to himself, Arthur flapped his tiny arms about - loving how the fabric swirled over his skin. It felt far better than that coarse cloak of his; the fact that it was dry and clean was more than a bonus to him. The English-boy hopped off of the bed, deciding to investigate the room before the strange Frenchman on the sea came back. He found Francis comforting and helpful, but that didn't necessarily mean that he liked him. Arthur didn't want to mess around while the other was lingering and watching his every move. He knew better than to step out of line in the presence of another. His brother's would kill him for the same level of curiosity.

Arthur quickly found some bottles in vials. Sniffing them, he choked as he inhaled fumes coming out from the top. It smelt just like Francis, and it made his nose tweak and shiver. Putting it back down, he went to investigate the closet. Inside were the other bright, beautiful clothing... and random accessories and trinkets. Arthur reached right up, grabbing a skinned fox and slinging it over his shoulder. The animal's head smiled at him, tongue flapping out. He wasn't sure that he liked the dead thing looking so happy. Chucking it back inside; Arthur's sense of adventure decided to take him elsewhere.

Looking around the room one last time; the little boy decided to go see the rest of the ship. He wobbled haphazardly as the boat sailed nearby the rocks, tossed and turned on the sea; footsteps making padding noises as he scampered out and he wandered over to the rest of the boat.

There wasn't much to eat on the boat, Francis found out quite fast. His search through the cabinets and shelves proved fruitless, save from some bread and dried beans. It could be made into a stew, the Frenchman supposed, but he wasn't sure he had the time for that. He had to go back to Arthur as soon as he could, less something happen.

The Frenchman picked up the freshest loaf of bread and hurried out to the deck, rushing to his room. Halfway there, he heard loud voices whom he recognized to belong to his crew. Probably a little fight. It happened often- being stuck together on such a small vessel, you are bond to get on someone's nerve. Bristling past them, Francis wouldn't have stopped if he hadn't heard what they were exactly saying.

"C'est le démon!"

The men paused as soon as they saw him. Arthur smiled back at them, looking as prim and innocent as ever. As terrifying and big as they were; they all spoke the same language and bore a slight resemblance to Francis that he couldn't quite understand. Though he was scared of them - he figured that they were not dissimilar to the Frenchman that had taken care of him like a good man, and so held slightly more comfort around them than before. Although that was probably his number one downfall. Arthur was never the sort to be sure when a person is trustable or not. He was far too easily to be betrayed.

The shouts were the first indication to the little English-boy that something was wrong. He blinked, happy expression fading almost immediately. His steps backwards were followed by their wide and irate eyes. Harmful words were thrown at him, to and fro, pointing and seemingly scorning him for his state of dress. A boy wearing the colours of Kings over his shoulders, harbouring no respect or manners and decency, was nothing short of a horrendous insult. The anger was alight on their faces, and Arthur's own filled quickly with fright.

Several of them rushed forwards; shouting something along the lines of 'demon'. Evil was the word of accusation lingering in the air. Arthur panicked, ducking away from their grips and darting in-between their legs to try escape from getting grabbed. His heart pounded, taking their sudden hatred towards him directly to heart. He was young, small and fast - able to run away from them as they tried to make a grab; but there were only so much space on the boat, and it was twenty at least against one.

With a shriek, Arthur stubbed his toe on one of the decking boards - falling forwards with an 'oof' onto his front. Groaning at the sudden pain in his knees as he collided heavily with the ground and scraped along it; Arthur looked ahead. His eyes were going into double vision, surroundings tossing uncontrollably in front of him. He felt his heart beat in horrible jolts as two feet appeared in front of him. They took one step, two, closer. His pulse increased with every inch.

Thief, they claimed him to be. A thieving demon pretending to be an angel to win their hearts, while he stole their riches and plunged daggers into them come when they fall asleep. Arthur could understand none of the accusations, but could feel all of their ferocity. Even in another language, he could understand when things were taking turns for the worse. He could tell that they wanted him dead.

Arthur felt too numb to scream when he felt the back of his shirt grabbed. He was dragged backwards, into the air and against one of the French sailor's chests. Turned for all of the other's to see his frightened expression, they moved their hand up to his mouth and held him there. His breathing was forcibly stilled by the hand covering his face, though not nearly as prominently as when he felt a blade to his throat.

He looked up, terror filling him monochrome. Those gigantic eyes scanned through the small crowd frantically, searching for help. His eyes connected with those of violet blue... but then it was too late. Life left him as his throat was deeply cut and blood gargled out of his neck, dribbling down the front of his torso and into the purple fabric. The men cheered and looked relieved, tossing the child's limp corpse to the side.

Francis gasped, dropping his load and rushing towards the forming crowd. Pushing through the sailors, he was just in time to see a muscular man approach Arthur- how had he gotten there?- and pull him backwards, slitting his throat with a pocketknife. The Frenchman's eyes widened as he screamed, petrified. It was the arena- the 'circus' as his grandfather put it- all over again.

Arthur laid, jumbled on the floor - limbs tangled and blood seeping down his front. His eyes were still open, glaring sadly out onto the deck.

They didn't notice when some of the blood retracted inside of him, and the wound began to rapidly heal...

Francis, getting over his initial shock, raced over to the still body thrown carelessly on the floor, as if he wasn't anything of worth. Tears fell easily down his pale cheeks, leaving a thin and wet trail in their leave. He was at an age in which every grievance had the potential of forcing those accursed drops out of his eyes, crying easily over every little sorrow in his heart. The fact that Arthur had been in his care, and that he couldn't protect him made it all worse.

He sat down next to the boy, his eyes shutting tight at the sight of spilled blood. He gripped the limp hand tightly, sobbing quietly. But- could it be?- the young Frenchman felt a pulse. Faint, but real. He hesitantly opened his eyes and gasped- Arthur was slowly opening an eye, the cut in his throat fading away. Francis blinked as the realization hit him- the young boy next to him was like him. Not human. Immortal.

The first evidence of life - that is, to the little English boy, revived again from the dead - was the vague rushing sensation in his hearts. A distinct sound of gushing wind, spinning the world around him like a vortex. Sea vapour spitting at his face from over the side of the decks. The second evidence of life was the slight flickering in his ears; the presence of a beating heart, blood pounding through him, immortal potion healing him like an elixir as it fled to the very tips of his body, essence of the core inside him that will never fall as a human body would.

The third evidence of life was the sudden voice that filled his ears with life and reality when his eyes flitted open, dilating in the dark and adjusting to the bruising low light level. Arthur hissed out a breath, feeling his neck slowly close the gap ripping his veins in half. He reached his hand up, hesitating his fingers barely two inches away, too afraid to touch. The boy was shell-shocked.

Lifting the fragile form in his arms tenderly, he turned to face the crew. "Ne lui faites pas peur! Il est comme moi!"

The men turned back in amazement, staring at the revived child and their master. Silence enveloped them before one- the very sailor who had previously murdered the English-boy- shouted to them all that if it was so, that Francis and the demon child were the same, then their own master was nothing more than a demonic pretender. Alarmed, Francis took a couple steps back, the men rounding up on him. A few moments later, he felt the railing pressing against his back, his very own crew surrounding him.

What was he to do?

When he felt himself lift, Arthur looked even more startled; turning to stare with timid, wavering eyes at the person how held him in his arms. The weight from his heart lifted when he saw who it was holding onto him, though he felt the burden increase tenfold as soon as he saw the familiar fear in the other's dark pupils. Watching the image reflected in those eyes was enough to make Arthur freeze like stone. He grimaced, seeing a man rush forwards with his blade glinting in the crescent moon's light - hiding his head away against Francis's body.

Suddenly, without warning, a young man stepped forward and rushed at Francis with a knife. Reacting to his instincts, the Frenchman backed and before he knew it, he was diving head-first into the watery depth. A silent scream passed his lips, feeling his grip on the child loosen.

The next thing they knew, they was engulfed once again by waves. The salty darkness whirled over Arthur's vision, the black of the sky seeming distant as he sunk back into the water. Gasping out made him choke, gurgling in water. He watched the bubbles float towards the surface in a frequent blast - and he thrashed, desperate to stop the water from filling his lung once more. The world went silent, other than the distant garble of cheers and waves slapping against the cliff's rocks barely a quarter of a mile away. Arthur panicked, trying to reach out. To find some hope.

"Ne me lâche pas!"

He held onto the small hand tightly, eyes shut tight and lips racing in prayers.

Only then did he feel the hand encompass his. Pulled back to the surface, Arthur spluttered the water out of his throat. The tiny little hands grabbed at what they could find, tugging himself closer against the French adolescence's body. He held onto Francis like a lifeline as they bopped up and down in the water - wailing and crying as he hung on desperately. Those sweet earthy eyes cracked open again, after blinking the blurriness away, frantically searching around in the water for nothing.

He swallowed, whimpering as he saw the boat set sail again - needlessly returning to their own shores now that their contractor had departed and demons saturated the British lands. Shaking his head, he clung to the Frenchman. Although he knew that his life would not end, or at least he now hoped not; he didn't know that the teenager he had in his miniature arms was not vulnerable to the loss of life as well...

Concentrating on breathing, Francis moved his limbs wildly, trying to remain afloat. He found it difficult with his one hand occupied with holding the precious little palm tightly, not daring to let go. He couldn't. He hadn't made any promises to the other, but he felt responsible for him somehow. After all, it was his men that killed Arthur before. The least he could do is save him this time around.

He couldn't do anything while he himself was half-drowned, though.

Francis slipped out of his shoes, immediately feeling lighter. Pulling the younger behind him, he used his other hand to make his way through the waves, fighting them. His blond hair stuck to his neck and face, blocking his vision. Breath came in limited gulps, the water engulfing him more often than not. The young Frenchman was becoming dizzy, the lack of oxygen taking it's toll. But he had to get to shore- it shouldn't take more than ten more minutes. . .

Fifteen. . .

Thirty. . . .

As his feet sunk into the wet sand, Francis took in a shaky intake of air, burying himself in the damp ground. His hands clutched at the surface, forcing his body to stay put. His hands?

With what strength left, he stood up and rushed back into the waves, searching frantically for the one he had tried to save. Where was he? He cursed under his breath, hating how he couldn't even hold onto such a small thing. Save such a small thing. Was he completely that worthless?

God, if I ever find him, I promise to take care of him for the rest of my life. Whatever happens. Just. . . Just let him be here.

Sinking to his knees in prayer, Francis found the sound of the waves deafening. They were cruel, ruthless. They planted mirages in his mind, making him imagine soft pants and groans. But unlike his usual daydreams, those sounds became louder and did not stop. He opened his eyes, turning around.

Somewhere, as Arthur clung onto Francis's clothes and held that bigger hand cupped in his tiny fingers; the English boy had lost grip. The seas in the dead of night were rough, and the time was high tide. It was obvious that the person he held onto was entirely exhausted - fighting mercilessly and continuously against the waves as the shore became closer and closer. It was not easy at all, and Arthur could hear it in his starved breath.

Barely a couple of metres away from the shore, a particularly forceful gush of water knocked his hands away from him. Arthur shouted and reached out, but it was just no good. In Francis's desperation to drag himself towards the shore, he hadn't remembered that there was something missing out of his hand. The little English boy cried out frantically, calling and calling for him. The waves muffled his shouts, and soon smothered him. Dragging deeper and deeper, down and down. The child waved his hands, internally begging the Frenchman not to leave him. Not to abandon him and let him die. But he just kept moving away. Away, away, away...

Eventually, the waves managed to kick the little boy upon the shore - snagging him onto the sand. Grains clogged onto his hair and Arthur grasped handfuls of it, breathing with his chest sated with stutters. The cold consumed him with shivers. He whimpered, curling in on himself.

"No, no, noo... I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here, I don't. I don't!" He whined, most of his speech being kept under his breath. The little child wanted to leave this land - a place where there was his own brothers there to abuse him and what there was of him to break. Yet, he knew better now that death had claimed him twice. He was bound to the land in a way his brother's explained but he never bothered to understand. Why was he still here?

The amount of times he would wish, far in the future, that he had crashed and died upon those rocks long ago would have staggered him. But he would have empathised with the feeling.

Being immortal was nothing but tragic.

Shoving his own fear combined joy down his throat, Francis rushed towards the other, hesitating as he knelt next to him. Looking down at the trembling figure, he was captivated once more by those eyes. Eyes, he noticed in dismay, that reflected fright and betrayal. The young Frenchman felt like crying- he had failed Arthur once again. If his theory that the younger had no other caretaker in the world aside of Francis was correct, he wouldn't be sure how he would be able to forgive himself.

A rabbit. A small, innocent and frightened rabbit. That is what he reminded him of. A rabbit with the eyes of a tortured wolf. Francis made a resolution to change that. Arthur would not wear that expression any longer, if it was up to him. If the other would let him.

"Petit lapin," He asked quietly, placing his palm on the other's damp back, "Est-ce que ça va?"

The little English boy dropped the sand in his hands, watching as the grains bristled away in the slight breeze plaguing the British isle. Arthur sobbed like the small child he was, having an internal tantrum at the fact he was home. More than anything, he wanted to leave this place. He didn't like the connection he held with it. He wanted to get on one of those wonderful boats and sail into those waters and find other lands - like where this strange teenager came from. There were other worlds out there, and he was sure of it. There just had to be. But he just couldn't leave - not in death, not through water, nor spirit.

He was imprisoned. Enslaved to the land - and he hated it. Arthur wanted to break away from this place. A million times would he curse himself for being the epitome of the people of the English land. Their opinions, hatred, fears all running through his veins. He wished that his brothers were right. That he really was just a pathetic little runt. Someone that will always sink and not swim - crash and drown, not life to breathe another day.

Arthur turned around, wobbling slightly as the water floated into the beach around his ankles. The child reached for the Frenchman's hand, squeezing it blindly in the dark.

Sighing and clutching the other's hand tightly, Francis shot him a comforting- though strained- smile, pulling him gently forward. His thoughts turned to surveying his surroundings, drinking it all in. If he could have asked where they were, he would have. But although he felt closer to Arthur, he still couldn't understand a word he was saying.

The English child nestled his cheek upon the French teen's back, feeling his eyes droop as the other started to walk. Arthur's hands crumpled in on themselves inside Francis's clothes, fisting and grappling to keep the other close to him. The sweet boy snapped his eyelids open, staring at the path's ahead of them - out of the beach, into the fields and the grass - in apparent concentration. In hardly any time at all, the boy found that he was fighting against it; trying desperately to stay awake for simply no reason.

A few moments later, he had fallen asleep - drooling ever so slightly on the other's back, though only mingling with the slight wetness of his clothing from the sea regardless. He whimpered softly in his sleep, curling up even closer than ever. He was entirely dependant on the French adolescent carrying him away. But he trusted him all the same.

Arthur murmured, breathing his fatigue away into the wind.

As mentioned, England is the result of eight countries that merged together over time. Wessex was the country that prevailed. Alfred the Great, King of Wessex, was the first to declare himself 'the King of the English'. His predecessor ruled over the Kingdom when the Kingdom of England was officially unified in 927.

The assumption of Arthur's mortality was born on the principle that his brothers assumed the living nation of Wessex would have naturally progressed and renamed to be England, rather than dissolved in the unification. Since they did not realise that Wessex is not alive anymore, they assumed that there was no land for Arthur to represent – and therefore they thought he was mortal. I hope this clears things up.

On why Arthur appeared as an angel to the French: There is a common misconception that the name 'England' comes from 'Engla-land', which is translated to 'Land of the Angels'. This can be misconstrued to mean Angels as in Heavenly angels, although in reality it refers to a Germanic tribe from the Jutlandic district of Angeln. This Germanic tribe were the founders of several of the Kingdoms in Anglo-Saxon England. And yes, you guessed it – the 'Anglo' part is from the tribe too.