Seychelles was dreaming.

He stroked my hair with his ever gentle caress, saying that it smelt of the sea, and that he liked it. He let my strands fall from his fingertips, before running through them again, as though my dark mahogany hair was the most interesting thing there was.

"I love your hair best. It's absolutely ravissant."

"Last time you said you loved my eyes best," I said with a pout. "Are you always so fickle?"

He laughed, a musical sound I enjoyed hearing, perhaps even more than the sound of crashing ocean waves. He scooped me up easily into his arms, holding my petite frame against his.

"No, ma chère, it's just that I love everything about you. I love you."

I flushed with pleasure, relishing in those wonderful words I never tire of hearing. Why would he love me, out of everybody else? I was nothing special, just an island that was so obscure and without any influence at all, compared to the other mightier nations in the world. And yet this handsome, amazing nation, who was like the radiant sun to me, a soleil, whispered into my ear every day those enchanting, magical words I adored and drank in without fail.

"Say that again. Please, say that again."

"I love you, Seychelles. Je t'aime."

He didn't come to see her anymore. And she missed him; his voice, his touch, his face, everything about that alluring Frenchman who had brought her up.

"Please, you know him very well. And I'm not in a good position to ask England. Can you please tell me why he doesn't visit me anymore?" Seychelles asked meekly to the imposing Asian woman in front of her.

Vietnam narrowed her eyes coldly. "And why would I know that? France sees whoever he wishes to, whenever it pleases him."

"But," Seychelles tugged on one of her pigtails absentmindedly, "you and him were so close before. I just…I just don't understand why he showers so much attention on others, but he doesn't seem to notice me anymore."

Vietnam smiled in cold amusement. "You don't understand why? It's simple really. France doesn't care for you that much. Who are you to him? You are insignificant, nothing."

"That's not true!" the younger girl flared up in protest. "France loves me, I know he does!"

"He loves you, you say?"

"Yes! He told me so himself. He says it, every time he's with me. How much he cares for me, how much he enjoys my company. I can make him smile and laugh and he says all his troubles disappear when I'm around. He loves me!"

"Ngu si," Vietnam scoffed, folding her arms. "That is completely foolish thinking. You cannot believe anything that thằng ngốc tells you. He says it to please you, to enchant you with his lies. He doesn't mean it at all."

"You're lying! He does! He does…"

"He takes you in his arms," Vietnam continued slowly, as though not noticing the sobs escaping from Seychelles, "and you rest against his chest, while he strokes your hair. He looks you in the eye as he whispers Je t'aime, and he does it with such sincerity and tenderness that you believe him every time. Every damn single time."

By now, even Vietnam has tears welling up in her eyes, but she blinked them away as they threatened to fall, upholding the steely exterior she displayed to practically all who meet her. She studied Seychelles, and her cold and uncaring expression from before turned into one of sympathy. Seychelles didn't like that look one bit.

"I know because I've been there," the Asian woman said softly. "I learnt it the hard way. I was like you once, so naïve and full of hope that he'd love me back. But in reality, that can never be." She chuckled wryly, as though berating herself for her own childish innocence in believing that before, her own stupidity, and turned on her heel to leave.

"He doesn't love you, Seychelles. Not the way you want him to."

"H-How could you say that!" Anger was boiling up in Seychelles as she choked between her sobs, glaring at Vietnam's back. She couldn't, no, she refused to believe her beloved soleil was pulling her heartstrings but without feeling anything for her at all. "Why…Why do you say that… Why he doesn't love me?"

Vietnam turned her head slightly, and gave a sad, wistful smile. "Because you are not her."

"Her?"

"The one France loves most in this world."

Vietnam walked away, her footsteps echoing in the hallway, and there was no one there to comfort the weeping Nation left behind.

An extremely unpleasant concoction of envy and heartbreak tormented Seychelles, and she wasn't able to sleep well at night since then. There were no more dreams of gentle, affectionate France, and she couldn't conjure him up in her thoughts without having her cheeks getting wet. To know that someone you trusted and adored for years had been toying with your emotions was a betrayal the young girl couldn't handle. A knife wound she felt would never heal.

And the next thing she knew, she was on her way to Paris.

Blue, red and white ribbons adorned her dark hair, ribbons that France had given her the day she was handed over to England. It was something she only wore when she wanted to especially please him, for he said that among the many pricey gifts he had presented her, those silk ribbons were his favourite. And because of that, they were hers too.

There seemed to be a festival going on in Paris, but Seychelles paid no heed to the celebratory French as she wormed her way through the crowds for France's manor. She had to know if Vietnam was right, whether he had been feeding her pretty lies with a silver spoon all this time. Whether there was indeed someone else he loved more than her. Loved, not lusted after. Seychelles knew France didn't want her for her body.

There's no way, she thought. Vietnam's wrong.

And yet, she clenched her fists as she half-walked, half-ran towards France's home; her fingernails digging into her palms. It was something she instinctively did whenever she told a lie, whether to others or even herself.

She caught sight of something very familiar to her and she halted in her tracks; her heart in her throat. There, on a bridge over the river Seine…there he was.

Beautiful. He really does deserve to be my soleil, was her automatic thought as she stared at France, as the sunlight did wonders in enhancing his facial features.

Anxiously, Seychelles pushed past the crowds, shoving whenever she had to and ignoring the looks of annoyance cast at her. She hesitantly approached the male Nation who stood ever so still. Was the sunlight playing tricks on her? No, he was there, he was really there. How long was it since she last saw him, apart from the world meetings when she never had the courage to approach him? There was a sudden urge to forget all the hurt she'd been feeling lately; she just wanted to run up towards him, wrap her arms around his waist, bury her head against his coat, and take in his familiar and soothing scent.

France sighed, and that made Seychelles notice his sad smile. It was an expression she had never seen him wore on his face, and she had seen him tear up when she was taken away by England. France had a mixture of sadness, nostalgia, contentment and calmness emanating from him. Enthralled, she went closer but was afraid to reveal herself, so she hid behind a lamppost.

"Je te manques, mon amour," France muttered, that strange sad smile still pulling on his lips. He reached inside his coat pocket, only to take out a brilliant scarlet rose. He brought it to his lips, before relaxing his grip on it, letting it fall into the calm waters below. He stared intently at the flower as its gorgeous red hue was engulfed by the Seine, before tearing his gaze away from the river.

"J'espère que vous êtes heureux dans le ciel. Je pense toujours à toi, Jeanne." The blond Nation blew a kiss into the sky above him, and he turned away, away from Seychelles, as he made his way off the bridge.

Jeanne.

Jeanne.

It was then when Seychelles knew to whom Vietnam was referring. The one France loves most in this world. She fell onto her knees and she hugged herself in her bitter disappointment, freely letting the tears fall, tiny crystal droplets falling like drizzle onto the stone pavement.

The legendary Jeanne d'Arc… of course Seychelles had heard of her. The mortal woman that was revered by all of France, the people and the Nation as well. Seychelles may be a Nation who would live forever so long as her people survived, but she knew deep down that even so, she would never be able to compete with Jeanne for France's heart.

Compared to her, Jeanne d'Arc was significant. Beloved. She had an important place in history, and she was remembered and celebrated even after her death, as a matyr. For Seychelles, she felt and understood the sheer impossibility of having France saying those magical words with utmost honesty to her again, because the mere memory of a human woman barred him from ever doing so.

Francis. Je t'aimeras pour toujours.

The author speaks: I picked the river Seine as that was where Jeanne's remains were cast after her execution. Also, the celebratory crowds in Paris mentioned was due to it being Jeanne d'Arc's feast day in my fic.

As my knowledge in French and Vietnamese is practically non-existent, I depended on Google Language Tools for translation. [Updated: Thanks reviewer Hanaakarii for the French help!]

ravissant – lovely

ma chère – my dear

soleil – sun

Je t'aime – I love you (I bet nearly everyone knows this one! XD)

ngu si – foolish

thằng ngốc – idiot

Je te manques, mon amour. – I miss you, my love.

J'espère que vous êtes heureux dans le ciel. Je pense toujours à toi, Jeanne. – I hope you are happy in heaven. I think of you always, Jeanne.

Je t'aimeras pour toujours. – I'll love you forever.

Please R&R (: