DATE: 20th November 1815

"Angleterre… where are you?" France sang loudly, his crimson smeared sword left a trailing line along the bloody ground of the silent battlefield. He had very little regard for all the corpses lying around him. The person he searched for had to be standing alive somewhere. He was too equal an opponent to give up and walk away and this agitated the Frenchman. Why couldn't he see him? "Angleterre… WHERE ARE YOU!?" He caroled his opponent's name before screeching the last three words after. France wanted to spill more blood despite the admittance of defeat from Napoleonic army a long time ago. He strode over bodies of French and English soldiers until he finally found a man in red uniform still standing. It had to be him. There was no doubt that he would be the only one standing (maybe Prussia too but he already defeated him a while back). A wicked smile crept on the Frenchman's lips as he drew closer to his self-proclaimed opponent. "Zhere you are Angleterre… England…" France let out a giggle. "I've been looking all over for you."

The man stared blankly at the Frenchman with very little care. "Shouldn't you be at home, licking your wounds? This battle has already been won and it was won by Prussia and myself."

"Victory may belong to zee Duke of Wellington but zee battle between us nations is far from over," Sniggers escaped France's mouth as one hand tried to contain them.

England just sighed. "Look at yourself; you're in no condition to be fighting anymore." France looked down himself: his black hat had already been lost in battle leaving his blonde hair tied up in a messy ponytail. His blue jacket, white trousers and black boots had been stained with brown mud and red blood. Of course England looked similar with the substances dirtying his red uniform but he didn't look that rugged. Maybe it was his unkempt, blonde hair. This sent a chuckle to France.

"I am in zee perfect condition to fight," He pressed his hand on the left side of his chest. "My 'eart says so."

"Your mind has been shattered France. You need to go home now," England tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword.

"You want me to give up? Is zat what you're trying to tell me? You're saying zat Francis Bonnefoy, zee personification of France to give up and go 'ome?" He unleashed a maniacal laugh. "I'll never give up! Never! Never! Impossible is a word found in zee dictionary of fools!"

"And look where that quote got you," England drew his sword from his hilt. It looked clean like it had never been used. "This will be your last warning Francis: go home or I shall smite you without hesitation."

France let out a gleeful squeal and pointed his blade at the Englishman. "Now zats zee Art'ur Kirkland I know! I'm going to enjoy zis little fight. Victory shall be mine and I shall be glorious!" France charged at England with his sword ready to strike. This was it! The moment where France would redeem himself through a victory in the sword fight of the century! He shall leave England on the battlefield lying in his own pool of redness, begging for mercy. France shall return to Napoleon and tell him that the battle has not been lost and he shall be praised for his efforts. Napoleon Bonaparte shall smile and rise to power and defeat everyone who was obstacles in his world domination dreams.

So why was there a sudden sharp pain in France's stomach? Why did his body feel agony so suddenly? His haggard breaths became coughs and that's when his worst fears had been confirmed: red. Red blood dribbled from France's mouth and down his chin, dripping onto the soil. He looked to his stomach and it too began revealing the crimson substance spreading across his blue jacket. England's blade had impaled his front and is spreading the redness like a disease. Once the sword had pulled out from him, France collapsed onto his knees and held his wound. England was infecting him with this virus, trying to convert him into English territory and this sent panic into the Frenchman's fragile mind. It had happened once before and it was going to happen again. France tilted his head with what little strength he could muster and revealed himself to be crying. "I wanted… I wanted to spread love… just like you said I should…"

England frowned. "What are you talking about? I said no such thing."

"You did! Remember? At zee court'ouse!" France's voice strained before coughing up more blood. "I tried to stop everyone but I failed… you were just a talking 'ead…"

The Englishman stared at his fallen opponent as if he meant nothing to him. "Francis, you've gone insane. You're still mad after the French Revolution. You are sick Francis. You have an illness."

"Zen change my colour back to blue!" France snapped. The salty tears and blood merged together. "Change me back to blue again! I 'ate zee colour red! Red is bad! I 'ate it! I 'ate it!"

England gave one last pitiful look at the Frenchman before turning and walking away. He couldn't stand this madness anymore. France desperately stretched his arm out to England even though he knew he couldn't grab him. "Art'ur! Come back! Come back!"

No matter how loud France cried England did not return for him. The Frenchman sobbed until he lost the battle to stay conscious. Before his mind eclipsed into darkness, he wondered if he'd see his beloved Jeanne d'Arc the next time he opened his eyes.

DATE: 23rd November 1815

Distorted sounds swam in Francis' head as he finally regained consciousness. The noises individually distinguished themselves causing the Frenchman to wince a little, squeezing his eyes open. His whole body felt groggy while he sat up when a sharp pain shot into his chest unleashing an anguished hiss. Francis' hand grabbed the spot where it hurt, only to feel bandages there. He blinked in confusion and grazed his fingers over the white material.

This was it! The moment where France would redeem himself through a victory in the sword fight of the century! He shall leave England on the battlefield lying in his own pool of redness, begging for mercy. France shall return to Napoleon Bonaparte and tell him that not all the battle has been lost. He shall praise his efforts and rise to power and defeat everyone who was obstacles in his world domination dreams. So why was there an agonizing pain in France's stomach all of the sudden? His haggard breaths became coughing and that's when his worst fears had been confirmed: red.

They trailed down his torso and stopped to more bandages wrapped around his stomach.

Red blood dribbled from France's mouth and down his chin, dripping onto the soil. He looked to his stomach; the crimson substance spread across his blue jacket. England's blade had impaled his front and the redness furled like a disease. Once the sword had pulled out of him, France collapsed to his knees and held his wound.

Francis couldn't understand why he was bandaged up. He could have sworn he was somewhere else before. How on earth did he travel from one place to another without his knowledge? He didn't remember passing out at any point.

"So you're finally awake Francis."

The Frenchman snapped his head to the direction of the voice. It was male and had a British accent, so there was no doubt that it would be Arthur Kirkland, dressed in a brown suit, sitting on the wooden chair. Francis stared at him for a few seconds before looking around the grey room. Everything minus what was on the two men and the oak chair and bedside table seemed to be that colour. When he locked his startled sapphire eyes with Arthur's green, his breathing increased in speed and shallowness. He raised his hands to cover his face.

England was infecting him with this crimson virus, trying to convert him into English territory, sending panic into the France's fragile mind. It happened once before and he was sure it was going to happen again.

Arthur saw the fear creeping into the Frenchman and knew this could turn into the worst-case scenario if he didn't find a way to calm him down. He stood from the chair and dragged it closer to the bedside before sitting on it again and gently grabbed Francis' wrist. "Francis, listen to me; you're in a hospital. You're no longer on the battlefield. It's all over."

The Frenchman's hands and head shook under the trails of blonde hair hanging over his face. "Change-moi au bleu…" He stammered before screaming the sentence again. "Change-moi au bleu! CHANGE-MOI AU BLEU!"

"I won't let you turn me into English territory again! I can't! I won't!" France screamed and bought his pistol from his holster and aimed it at England, only for another shot of pain to ring from his right shoulder.

"I said it's over! Napoleon has been defeated and exiled from your country! You're never going to see him again!" Arthur raised his voice a little despite keeping his intense stare on the patient.

"Get away from me!" Francis screeched, pulling away from the Englishman. "You'll turn me red! I 'ate red! I 'ATE IT! I 'ATE RED! Turn me back to blue! AAARGH!" The wounds he received made him yelp in agony again. Arthur instinctively wrapped his arms around Francis.

"Don't move frog! You'll open up your wounds again and the healing process will start again!" He yelled, which worked because Francis stopped struggling and sobbed into the other blonde's suit. Arthur slowly snaked his arms around the Frenchman, making sure he didn't cause him any more injury than he already had. He could hear Francis chant the sentence, "Change-moi au bleu", into him.

The Englishman stared at his fallen opponent as if he meant nothing to him. "Francis, the French Revolution has driven you insane. You have an illness."

To see him in that pitiful state tugged at Arthur's heart a little. The French Revolution and the Napoleonic wars had left Francis unhinged and forced him to unleash the bloodshed on people he never meant to kill. He was innocently sane to some degree before the revolutions began. Arthur could see the scratch marks where Francis had scraped his nails on his neck, just to rid himself of the 'itch' he kept complaining about.

"I wanted to spread zee love just like you said Arsur."

"What are you talking about? I never said anything about 'love'."

"Yes you did! At zee court'ouse, remember? I tried to stop everyone from cutting off your 'ead but I failed. I failed because I didn't do enough to save you."

"I said no such thing. The revolutions and this war have clearly broken your mind."

Arthur felt odd giving the man he stabbed and shot, the same comfort a parent would give to a child. When Francis' repetition of words died to incoherent mumbles, the Englishman asked himself if and when the two nations would finally come to an agreement of peace.

!

Hey guys!

I always wanted to write a fan fic based on France's madness in the Battle of Waterloo (I know I've written about France being a total nutcase loads of times but never in this type of setting). I actually wrote this a very long time ago but I didn't think it was good enough until my older sis said I should post it up. So here it is.

I'm intending to make this a two shot so a second chapter may come up depending. Until then, enjoy, review and fave!