So, this is about the nations and the humans they love. I'll try to do it chronologically, but there will be a few mess ups. I'm probably going to have a majority of France and England, but I'll try to branch out...

Dislaimer: Hetalia is not mine.

France and Jeanne d'Arc

Angst

Sometimes, early in the morning, before he is fully awake, he opens his eyes and he can almost see her silhouette standing in the doorframe. Sometimes in the silence he can almost hear her laugh. Sometimes, as the days flow by, he almost feels her presence...

It is the Revolution. Screaming and shouting, a woman runs by. For a moment, he could swear it was her. Then he sees the woman's face and the illusion evaporates.

Napoleon is leading him to war, again and again, and he is battling the English. Not for the first time he tells himself he is fighting for revenge. For her.

It is WWI. Francis is in the trench, and the dust makes him choke; he thinks of that fire.

France is occupied. WWII. He sits in a little cell. He wishes, in the back of his mind, that she could rescue him.

Francis can still remember the first time he met her. She strode in, planted her fists on her hips, and declared that she would save France. Looking back, he wishes he had sent her away, sent her home, kept her safe (saved her life). But he didn't. He was suffering, and he needed help. She was his saviour, his heroine.

Why didn't he tell her that? She should have known. She deserved to know.

Now, of course, it's too late. Too late, and there's no going back. The smoke billows in the air, choking him, but he refuses to leave. He fights through the crowd.

"Jeanne!" She looks up, surprise flitting across her face.

"Francois! Why are you here?" A look similar to annoyance gleams momentarily in her eyes.

"Jeanne, I'm so sorry! I tried to save you! I really did! I'm so sorry, so sorry!" He babbles, unsure if she understands; all he knows is that this is his fault.

"It's okay, Francois. It really is. I'm just glad you're here," She has freed one hand, and she caresses his cheek with it. The flesh is painfully hot. He can see that the smoke is getting to her; her eyes are fluttering, her face heated, her arm trembling.

"Jeanne! Jeanne, je t'aime!" And then she falls limp.

Jeanne d'Arc is gone.

Years pass. He has been in many battles, loved many individuals, seen many things. But he can still feel her fire-hot hand on his cheek.