Bigger Army Diplomacy

XI

        Small mentions of gore

"Why are you so damn hard to break?!" Paris yelled, smacking the man over across the face again. He groaned for it opened up another bruise the ruthless servant had given him.

Paris stormed off again, probably to go tell Vichy about the man's persistence and also horrible state.

Who was the man?

Ireland, of course.

"He's still alive?!" Paris winced at Vichy's loud -and frankly scary- tone. "I told you to kill him if he didn't agree!"

Paris winced again. Even though she was known as the most ruthless of Vichy's servants -sometimes even considered more ruthless than the head honcho himself- still had to bow down to the king.

"Let me see the fucker for myself." He groaned and stomped down the stairs to see Ireland for himself.

Ireland winced. He could hear the stomps of the exact man he dreaded since day one of this nonsense. They were loud, but regal like he was a king. Well, he was a king, but that's beside the point.

See, it was a while back it happened. in fact, two years ago on this day. He supposed Vichy must've thought, "Hey, I'm gonna steal England's brother whom he dearly loves and also hates to get all his secrets! Because that'll totally work!" Spoiler alert, it didn't.

"You scum of the earth!" He yelled. "You filth!"

He pointed his finger at Ireland, who winced at the sight of it.

What happened? He had to ask himself. I used to be Ireland. A person. Not this shell of a man.

"What will it take to break you?!" He yelled again. Vichy took out a knife from his back pocket and nicked the side of his face. Ireland felt warm blood trickle down the green side of his face.

"What do you want?" Ireland finally whispered.

"That depends." Vichy mused. "What do you want?"

Ireland noticed that the man was calmer now, something that normally seemed to happen. After all, he'd been here two years. Ireland knew Vichy like his backhand.

"I want to see my son again." That was it. That was all that he wanted to do.

Vichy tsked. "I'm afraid I can't do that. Any other requests?"

Ireland stood up, his eyes blazing. "You can do that." He pointed a finger at the man, some of his old courage back. "Coward." He hissed as Vichy took a tentative step back. "You have to hide behind your servants. Pathetic."

"I am not pathetic." Vichy hissed. A step forward was all Vichy took before Ireland spoke again.

"Prove it. Let me see my son. Talk to him. For a little while. Please." Ireland's tone turned pleading at the end of his risky statement.

"You have one week," Vichy growled. "And don't try anything. I do have spies in that pretty palace of yours." This statement, surprisingly, wasn't shocking to Ireland. Having been in the man's palace for... well, two years, he, again, knew the man like the woods he'd play in as a child. Which is to say, very well.

The man walked up the stairs like he did all the time, the only difference being that he didn't close the door. And that was that.

Ireland was free.

The first problem, transportation. Not actually a problem, because Vichy took care of that indiscreetly, by having Paris there to shove a map in his face and tell him how to get a boat to travel up the Rhone and other rivers. Ireland did that, traveling upriver in no time (like three weeks) before finally reaching the Thames. From there it was a straight shot to London. To his brother.

To his son.

What, you thought this story was just going to be sunshine and rainbows? Hell no!

:)