Title: The End of the World

Rating: G

Characters: Young!England, Young!France

Notes: Set sometime after the Norman Invasion

Summary: England broke a special gift given to France, and France is less than happy.

"You horrid little ogre!"

England cried out in pain as France's fingers tangled more tightly into his hair, pulling at his scalp as he was dragged along. France's usually pretty face was twisted into a snarl. England hated it. France was much prettier when he smiled, but he was scowling now, dark and dangerous, like the day that England's king had been killed.

He stumbled after a particularly hard tug, grazing his knee on the ground which made him wail, chubby fingers prodding it until blood ran down his leg. But France just switched his grip to England's collar, dragging him up and giving him a little shake, a savage look in his eyes. "Stop screaming, stupid baby! You're such a horrible little country! It's your fault!" He gave England another rough shake and started walking again. His hand was still fisted in England's collar, forcing him to match pace or be pulled along the stony cliff path on his belly.

France didn't stop until they were right at the end of the point, where the land jutted out into the sea like the prows of the dragon-ships that England remembered so well. France pulled him around so that England was facing the sea, his feet right at the edge of the crumbling cliff. When he looked down, he could see waves crashing against the sharp rocks, and his eyes widened hugely as France pressed down on his shoulders, forcing him to lean over and stare at the churning water below.

If he fell, he might not die, probably wouldn't die, not forever, but it would hurt; smashed bone and blood and he hated blood. He'd seen his people covered in it before, dying in battlefield filth. Was France going to push him off the cliff and watch him bleed?

A terrified sound escaped him at the thought and after a moment, France pulled him back from the edge a few steps. "You're a rotten little barbarian!" France snarled, spinning England around so that he had to look at France. "You don't appreciate anything I do for you!"

"'m not a barbarian, stupid France!" England yowled, showing France in the chest as hard as he could. France didn't budge though, and there was a crack as his hand collided with England's cheek in a hard slap. England stared at him in shock, reaching up to touch his stinging cheek.

"It was a present, Angleterre!" France yelled, his eyes very big and very blue. "It was a present given to me and you broke it! And... and next time I'll throw you off the edge of the world and there are dragons and they'll eat you!" His lips were drawn into a tight line and after a moment he turned away, scrubbing at his eyes sniffling softly.

England tried to keep his scowl, kicking at the ground petulantly, but France was crying so it was difficult to stay angry. He liked unhappy France even less than angry France. "I didn't mean to," he said, lower lip sticking out. "It was pretty an' I just wanted to see it."

"It was a present and it's gone," France muttered, turning back around, his eyes red ringed and still damp. England felt suddenly very bad, but it had been an accident! He pouted, torn between wanting to scream at France and wanting to start crying and instead just pressed up against France, hugging him around the waist, face pressed against his stomach.

"'m sorry France. Was an' accident." He sniffed pitifully, clinging to France's tunic.

France sighed heavily and then rested a hand against England's head, soothing the pain that he'd caused earlier. "I am still very unhappy with you, Angleterre," he muttered, giving the back of England's head a light cuff. "You cut your knee did you not?" he asked then, pulling a cloth handkerchief from his pocket. "Let me see or the blood will attract monsters and I really will leave you to them."

England stepped back, crouching down and pointing to his knee which was already starting to scab over. France spat onto the scrap of cloth and rubbed it over England's knee, making it sting, but getting rid of some of the dirt and grit from the cut. "I'm gonna go to the edge of the world one day," England said with absolute certainty as France straightened up, peering up at his caretaker and pointing vaguely towards the west, across the vast expanse of ocean. "An' I'm gonna make friends with a dragon an... an..." He yawned widely, stifling it with his hand.

"Of course you will," France said, lips curling with amusement as he patted England's head. "Maybe a dragon runt. It will be the only kind that can put up with your shortness."

England scowled at him, pushing himself to his feet. "I will! An' I'll become a big empire. Bigger 'n Rome an then you'll have to do what I say."

France laughed brightly, taking his hand and starting to walk slowly back along the point. "No matter what happens, mon Angleterre, that is something that I will never do."