The Pure One

He always thought it odd how he got the pure one. Everyone called him a pervert- everyone believed he was a pervert, filthy, smutty… but at the end, he got the pure one.

She looked like an angel.

She was as pure as an angel- no, she was an angel. Her hair short and delicate around her porcelain face, her wide innocent eyes, her naïve blush, her childish smile, the flowers in her hair, her clear white dress… everything about her was pure. Jeanne. Touched with blessings and a gift from the heavens… she was pure.

His love was deep. His love was passionate and raw while hers was innocent and clean- the complete opposite. He had to hold her as gently as he could, caress her as though she were thin feathers, finger her like precious glass… he couldn't passionately gaze at her pure form, couldn't whisper lovingly in her ears before the night's end, could press her tiny form against his and feel her innocence drown to him. No. She was pure- untainted- and the greatest feat of love he had ever shown was how much distance he could put between them.

"I fight for France," she said softly, breathing against his shoulder, "I fight for you."

He savored the feeling of her little fingers that gripped his shoulders like small leaves. He placed his hand on the small of her back and rubbed against her shirt, soothingly circling the tension in her shoulders.

"France fights for you," he whispered quietly in her ear.

He sometimes felt jealous of England and his hot-headed, ginger-haired queen. He saw them by the bridge, nothing but a glowing flame of lust and passion. His blood pulsed when he saw how low the Englishman's hands could get or how tightly the strong woman could grip his hair, or how lustfully they gnawed at each others lips, or how they panted with huffed chuckles before nipping at each others necks… That must've been the only time he envied the thick-browed nation- felt true jealousy run in his veins.

He could've done that with many other women, but wanted nothing more but to hold Jeanne with that unguarded love.

But his biggest feat of love was keeping his distance.

"It looks beautiful," he said softly, "it suits you."

She tugged at the white carnation brooch pegged on her dress and blushed, bowing her head slightly. He reached up, gently running a finger down her cheek. Why was his heart hammering in his chest? Why were his fingers trembling as he ran them down her fair skin?

"I-I-" she blushed and stuttered, "thank you."

Hungary would drape herself on the back of the Austrian, her fingers tugging at the edge of his pale shirt and whispering excitedly in his ear. She was this energetic flame of emotion and he was this cool, collected austerity… but when they clashed, they were beautiful.

Even though years passed, wars reigned and regimes were overthrown, they were still able to look at each other with the gazes of first love. They were rivals before she was his maid, then she was his wife before they got divorced, then they got separated, they were pressed by broken nations… yet he still holds her hand when he walks her out the conference room, still pulls the chair for her to sit at meetings, still stands when she enters the room, still sends her valentines, still kisses her every night… still loves her.

But his love, France's, was long gone.

His eyes stung.

He rubbed at them, running circles around his temples.

"Have mercy! She's just a child!" he screamed.

All dignity lost, he threw himself on the ground, clawing at the Englishman's knees. He felt tears run down his filthy face just like the oil that dripped down his dirty, matted hair. He didn't care though- the woman he loved was sentenced to die.

"Get off-" England started coolly.

"Please- she'd nothing but a child you can't- let her out- let- let her out-"

"Take him out of here," he said lazily to the guards.

"NO! NO! PLEASE!" he screeched, writhing against the pair of arms that pulled him away. "JEANNE! JEANNE!"

He would listen to Spain's descriptions of the luscious women he'd overpowered on his conquests to the new world when he'd finally crack the modest man out of his optimistic, laidback character. Though his Spanish friend was happy-go-lucky and cheerful, he could turn into a whirlwind of uncontrollable passion and fury- hot like hell's flames- that even France would grow weary of him and back away.

But Jeanne was a doll… if he got too fiery with her, she'd melt. Just as Spain did with all the women he found- made them bend under his will- not caring if they burned and writhed with raw moans that were hurt and heavy.

But his love had burned away…

Tears dripped down his eyes.

The fire slowly encircled her, reluctantly touching her with pain, as though it was guilty of the act it was forced to do.

Oh how she had screamed.

"JEANNE!" he yelled from the distance.

She could not hear him- could not see him- she was writhing- so much pain

"JEANNE!"

Her own screams echoed through the wave of cheers. She struggled against her bindings, tears melting off her blackening face.

"JEANNE!"

He felt those green eyes- as venomous as a snake- stare at him smugly. But he didn't care- he didn't care if he was losing his composure- if he was losing his cool- his love was burning and so was his heart.

"JEANNE!"

He didn't have the chance. He couldn't be as carefree as America was with Amelia Earhart when he saw them laughing away their worries with tales about the skies and the seas. The way the two bustled about in the streets, running and talking and yelling like they were the only ones in the world- that sense of freedom that they carried wherever they went that reminded him how he had been locked in the cages of war with Jeanne. The way they dared the skies, dared the seas, traveled afar and still loved so strongly.

"Jeanne," he said softly.

Though his hand was on hers, he wanted to run them up the smooth skin of her arm, brush the hair the tickled her collar bone and breathe the creamy scent off her clean, clean skin. But she was a saint- she was pure… untouched and never to be touched.

"Remember that… you're also a woman," he rested his forehead on hers, "and that war shouldn't be the forefront of your mind."

"It isn't," she replied. It was probably the first time he heard such surety in her soft voice, "you are." A small smile crept on her naïve face , "I fight for France. I fight for you."

He sighed, "I know the people want you to-"

"Listen," she whispered, "I fight for F-Francis. And F-Francis is France. I fight for you."

Small tears- faint and wispy- fell from his eyes as he leaned down to kiss her. A small kiss. A chaste kiss. It didn't have that fiery lust like England, that whirlwind of passion like Spain, that eternity like Austria, that vigour like Hungary, that freedom like America… no. But it had that love that only he had in his chest. It had that love that couldn't be replicated because it came from his own, unique heart.

She was young… a chaste child.

Perhaps like Anastasia, he mused, the princess Russia had loved. He had seen them together in the endless parks of the Tsar castles, huddled under the delicate, wintry snow with flushed faces and elated smiles that warmed the icy air. She had brought him peace just like Anastasia did with the Russian nation- a warmth amidst the everlasting iciness of General Winter.

But unlike the two, Jeanne was never lost from him.

He lost her.

He bowed his head, crying into the crook of his arm, his hands tightly gripped around the white carnation brooch that had survived the flames.

"I love-"

He shushed her gently and put a hand on her lips. Oh how it ached to feel them so softly against his skin and hold himself back. He yearned for those words- yearned to hear them caress his ears and send blissful tingles down his back. But... terrible things came to humans that nations would love. Looking at her chaste, angelic face, he didn't want to see it pained.

But… a piece of his heart- the human part of Francis Bonnefoy- was tugging relentlessly in his chest.

"Say it," he said softly even though his mind screamed with protest, "say it, ma chérie."

"I-I-" her face was crimson and her fingers shook as they gripped his shirt, "love you."

His mind deflated to helplessness but his heart soared. He took in a deep breath of relief and held her fingers up to his lips, kissing them lightly one by one. He slowly moved towards her, running his hands delicately around her thin waist before he pressed her frail form to his own, resting his cheek softly on her shoulder. He breathed in her scent and closed his eyes, treasuring the moment.

"Je t'aime," he breathed, "Jeanne."

A sob escaped his lips, his fingers tightening painfully around the brooch.

"Je t-t'aime, Jeanne," he croaked, "J-J'adore…"

He could see nothing but the darkness behind his closed lids and feel nothing but the heavy hand on his back that was running soothing circles at his shoulders, whispering condolences and understandings in his English accent. But his heart was wiped clean from remorselessness, anger and rage… so it would have more room to contain the love that never ceased to flow from him for the woman- the girl- that promised to fight for him.

That he promised to love.

AN: The 'Hot-heated, ginger haired queen' was a reference to Queen Elizabeth I. If there are any questions then don't fret to ask! Review please?