Sweet, Sweet Sabotage

Falling forward, my throat is caught by a strand of silken smiles;

Leaning barely back, warnings wind around my waist.

Pivoting my arm off the side, it slams against the titillating tiles;

Around my neck the charming, chiming chain is laced.

Bonds banish breathing,

Temptation starts teething.

Knowledge forbids my morbid fancy as I tremble against my restraints.

Arrested and rearing, I refuse to relinquish what is right.

The tiles assuage their tension by singing, evoking evocative sounds;

Moans float beneath my throat—the noose is too tight.

A finger snakes along my spine;

It inquires, "Are you yet mine?"

Golden orbs gleam with sickened, seductive, groping glee;

Recognition of their forbidding presence is chilling.

Among the trilling of the confinement, it occurs to me to flee;

However, the creeping curiosity is far too thrilling.

Tongue tangoing with my own,

I try to suppress a groan.

However, as the sweetness of sin seduces me, the smiles frown;

The warnings make my waist collapse and cave;

Falling apart, succumbing to wails, the tiles start to drop down;

The charming, chiming chain directs me to my grave.

Love meant the world to France until it stole his world away. Standing in the city of Rouen, the breeze tousled his golden waves, delivering a lost whisper upon the wind. Clutching his scarf, France listened quietly; memory served as his punishment, vindicating him as the wind's voice took form. Four words reached his ears, clear as church bells, scorching as the flames of Hell:

"I love you, Francis."

France stiffened. Hundreds of years could not douse the spark igniting in his soul every time she pierced his thoughts. Whether her lips were burning his body with fervent kisses, or screaming until his blood boiled, her memory enflamed his passions. Every touch that electrified him and every whisper that intoxicated him was seared into France's remembrance. How he loved Jeanne D'Arc; France staggered as a gust overpowered his senses. His embittered smile weakened. "Your love haunts me so, ma chèrie."

The breeze brushed his face again, softer this time, but it burned all the same.

"I love you, Francis."

France laughed gently, caressing her cheeks. "Do you really?"

"Yes, I would do anything for you," Jeanne peered earnestly into his eyes, seeing herself in him.

France's eyes flashed. "Anything?"


The only time someone said something so powerful to him and meant it was when Jeanne was saying it. The determination to devote herself to France distinguished Jeanne from everyone France loved and admired; she was different to him, special. When she looked at him and said, sometimes whilst looking down her nose, "I love you, Francis," the essence of his being was stirred intensely.

Hot eyes hazing with tears, France sighed and tightened his clinging scarf; he blamed himself for endearing Jeanne to him so much that it killed her. If only he could have refused her more strongly, perhaps her demise might have been avoided. But there was no denying that he needed her and it was that selfishness that killed her.

"Come with me," Jeanne turned to France, "God has given me this mission. I can help you, Francis."

"Ah, that is quite the task," France rarely looked so bleak. "I could not give you such a burden."

"Then if you refuse to give it to me," Jeanne frowned, "I shall just have to take it."

"What?" France bristled, trying to remain calm. "I cannot allow that."

"And why not?" Jeanne reproached. "I will give you everything."

The way she stared at him made France uncomfortable. "Why would you do something like this?" France narrowed his eyes. "I cannot defy God, but I want to know why it has to be you. What if something terrible happens? What if I lost you? Then what would I do? You're my hope, Jeanne." Frustrated and heart-sick, he met her softening stare. "Je t'aime; I love you."

With a gentle sigh and lonesome smile, Jeanne replied, "Because your happiness is my hope; Francis, I love you so much that only I can fulfill this duty. Since I am your hope, since I am dedicated to you, understand that I live for you and will die for you if necessary. Even if God didn't choose me to help you, my heart would have."

France's breath hitched as her smile brightened.

Those romantic words fell from her lips as easily as they did lovingly; that was the truest sincerity. Brilliant blue eyes admired France, seducing him as she beckoned that he come closer. Vibrant and victorious, Jeanne D'Arc beamed at France as she offered her hand, knowing that he would take it. All she wanted was to serve him and she was well-aware that he could not decline her offer. As France accepted her hand, he surrendered, beginning the end.

France knew from the moment he laid eyes on her that his affections were wrong and it was wrong to get as close to her as he did.

But he couldn't help himself.

"F-Francis!" Her eyes widened as he came down upon her. "Ahh! Francis!"

Lips moving against her neck as he thrust his hips forward, France whispered, "Je t'aime, Jeanne. I refuse to let anyone else 'ave you!" Intensifying his kisses, he penetrated her deeper as she arched into him. "Oui! Move just like that, yes!" The way she cried out his name in utter ecstasy made his soul shiver. "Nnn...ahh, Jeanne!" The effect of her love was so profound, so forbidden, that France fell in love for the first and last time.

"P-please!" Jeanne gasped, sweat catching strands of hair upon her forehead. "Ah! Give me everything!"

Seduced by the flushed female writhing beneath him, almost overwhelmed, France became determined that he would not stop advancing until he was sheathed to the hilt, sheathed in Jeanne. Voice full of need, overflowing with lust, France moaned into her skin, "Devenir un avec moi!" (Become one with me!)

"O-oh Francis! Francis!" Jeanne's entire body clenched, climaxing. "Y-yes! Yes!"

The moment she was his, it ended.

Clutching his chest, France reeled. This was too much. He didn't dare remember what it felt like to watch her pinned to the stake as she had been pinned to his bed. Those two images became so tightly entwined that remembering one always provoked memory of the other and it made timeworn ashes blaze. France clenched his fists. England had laughed at him for falling so hard for her; such a bitter laugh, as France vaguely recalled.

Perhaps the English nation foresaw Jeanne's death.

But France never blamed England—

—only himself.

Walking away with misery leaving his heart black as charcoal, France tossed his head back into the wind. To think that he loved and lost everything; no one could really understand. France walked faster, picking up his pace until his legs ached. Heart pining, France decided with a small, sad laugh that this was what he deserved.

How painful it was, bestowing everything he had for the result of nothing more than sweet, sweet sabotage.