Author's note:

Well, hi! This is supposed to be a continual of a previous OneShot I wrote. You don't have to read it, but you could if you want to.

Warnings:

Mpreg. Mentioning of previous Mpreg. Human names used. Slight mentioning of rape. No sense of history whatsoever; unless it takes place in an AU, or in a distant future.

Don't like? Don't read it then.

French Lullaby

It's interesting how the world works. Things can be going by smoothly for months - even years! - in a row, and then, on the other hand, all hell can break loose in the blink of an eye. I've seen it happen several times, and laughed at those who became victims of it. There was a certain glee in seeing havoc wrecked upon those I dislike. Never once has such a thing happened to me, there has always been a foreshadowing. Everything has its time, I suppose, and I don't have anything against it. Hell could break loose on me and family as easily as I can blow out a candle. It might be, actually.

I blame it on Berwald for hosting this week's World Conference in a small Swedish town in the middle of nowhere and probably also next to nothing.

"He said the meeting was to be held in the library." I remind Francis on our third time circling the town centre.

"I know." he snaps. "I just can't read these silly Swedish signs. What's a `bee-blee-oh-teek, ´ anyway? How do you even pronounce it?" he proceeds to squint at the sign he's been trying to read from. `Bibliotek, ´ it says, neither of us knows what it means. The sign belongs to a building with several doors and curious colourful balconies. "It sounds like some kind of disease."

"Don't make fun of the host's language." I sigh, having told him this several times today. "I'm sure he finds your French quite silly too, and for a reason. Many do, you know."

"I don't." Matthew smiles timidly from the backseat, the curl in his hair bouncing slightly with his words. That boy is so sweet, I can hardly believe he's the same as the child I once gave birth to. If only he didn't look so much like my imbecile brother…

"You, too, speak it, Mattie. That makes your argument invalid."

"What about the baby? What is he going to speak?"

No, you're not mistaking; he did say baby, and for a reason. I never learn, do I? You'd think performing magic when drunk once is enough to learn, but no. I managed to, once more, get pregnant with Francis. Sure, there's a significant difference this time. Instead of last time, when he practically raped me and left me to take care of Matthew by myself. The two of them, Francis and Matthew, has adopted the idea of the baby being a boy, making me stuck with them calling my tummy `him´ or `my brother/son.´ It's enough to drive a man mad as a hatter. Another difference is that this child is much more eager to prove its existence at all times.

"He'll speak English, of course. It's bad enough you started speaking French in your rebellious years. Two children of mine speaking frog would just be too much." I nudge Francis with my elbow, grinning wickedly.

"Won't it be easier just to ask someone for directions?" Matthew suggests.

"Non." Francis grunts stubbornly. "That's unnecessary. I can find my way in this despicable pit."

"But you really can't, though." I snort, leaning back to take some of the pain of my aching back. I wish the baby would just hurry up and be born soon, being pregnant is tiresome.

With a splunge and a doing, the car stops in the middle of the street.

"Oh…" Francis bites his lip with an embarrassed expression.

"What have you done?" I ask through clenched teeth. "Why did we stop?"

"We ran out of gas." Francis smiles sheepishly. "C'est la vie."

"Yeah!" Matthew agrees from the back seat.

"Oh, shut it, Mattie. What are we going to do now?"

"I don't know." Francis glares at the car, as though that might do any good. Nothing happens.

"Nothing happened, frog-face." I tell him with a wicked grin.

"Perhaps we should just ask the way." Francis sighs.

"Already done!" Matthew calls, and we both look at him in shock. He's not usually one to talk to strangers. Then we look at the girl he asked for directions.

"Bonjour, Annika." Francis grins at the blonde outside the car. "How are you?"

"I'm just fine." she pushes her glasses further up on her nose. "You guys are really late, you know."

"I know, sweetie. Francis just can't drive properly. The French can only drive if they're drunk."

Annika giggles. "Sure they can't. But, seriously guys, you should really hurry up; dad's not very patient."

I should probably explain this. When Tino learned I'd accidentally used magic to become pregnant, he used all the sweetness he posses to talk me into helping him and Berwald to have a child of their own. So now we have a pair of twin teenagers demanding to become their own country. Annika is the brains of the duo, while Eljas, her brother, are the muscles. It's much the Italians; Lovino and Feliciano, except these two have a bit more brains. Despite the age gap, Annika is good friends with Matthew, and she might have a crush on Alfred's son Nikolaj, even though I'm not sure on that part. Where Eljas is concerned, I frankly don't know. He's very quiet, much like Berwald, so no one really knows much about him.

We finally manage to enter the meeting hall. Apparently `Bibliotek´ is the Swedish word for `Library.´ Go figure. Berwald, the host, is glaring at us when we scatter onto the only vacant seats; next to Austria who's eying my tummy with obvious suspicion. I'm ready to bet that he'll blame it on my black magic.

"Y're l't'." Berwald grumbles.

"Pardon." we sigh in chorus.

"W' w'r' d'sc'ss'ng wh'th'r L'pl'nd's g'ng t' b' 'n 'wn n't'n 'r n't. Wh't're y'r 'p'n'ns?"

"What?"

"He said," Annika assists me, "We were discussing whether Lapland's going to be an own nation or not. What are your opinions?"

"I think," Matthew starts talking, actually gaining some attention. He's become more, well; visible to the other nations since little Mercy was born. "That they should get to have a go on being their own nation. And if they pull it off, they can be one."

Both of the twins glare at him, they'd obviously been expecting him to be fully positive for their independence.

"Oh, I'm certain you'll do just fine." Matthew squeals, hiding behind the bear he drags around all the time.

Eljas shrugs and walks over to his friends; the other children in the room. There's not very many such, especially since Peter became a real nation. Yes, I'm just as shocked as you are. Now he spends much of his time looking proud and acting as though he's some big hot-shot.

"What do you think, uncle Artie?" Annika pulls her sweetest face on me.

"I think that- Ow!" a flash of white dart across my vision as I stand up, and a painful sensation spreads over me. "I think-"

The lights all turn out.

"Tu crois qu'il est mort ?" It's Francis voice. That would be like him to ask such a stupid question.

"Je ne suis pas sûr. De quoi il a l'air quand il meure, d'habitude ?" I'm not sure this time, but it's probably Matthew, or Mercy. It's someone who speaks French, let's just go with that.

"Je n'en sais rien; il n'a jamais trépassé avant." Francis again.

"He's breathing." someone points out. "Then he's not dead."

"Of course I'm not dead, you git." I grumble, opening my eyes to the bright lights around me.

"What happened?" Francis looks so nervous; in any other situation, I would laugh at him.

"The baby… I think it's going to be born now."

"He's not supposed to be born in another month. You can't let him be born now!" Francis howls in panic.

"I don't really think I have a choice." I pull a face at the strange feeling. "Does anyone happen to have any warm water and some towels?" I pant.

"Take it easy, Arthur, I'll help you." Tino smiles. "Berwald, get the kids out from here."

"Men mamma!" Annika complains. "Jag kan hjälpa till."

"I'm not a woman! And this is nothing for children to see. Just get out, please."

The twins huffily agrees; followed by Ludwig, who's carrying a Feliciano that's sobbing in fright.

"I don't want to!" is the last I hear of him before the doors are shut.

"Just remember to breathe, and everything will be fine. Francis, could you grab those towels over there?"

Francis is looking inhumanly pale, with a tinge of green of the face that's responsible of all this. We manage to get half through the birth without any larger problems. (No, I'm not going to tell you the details. That's nothing I'd like to explain at all…) Then a sharp jolt of pain travel through my spine, more intensive than earlier.

"Francis! You're never getting close to me again, understood?" I howl. I think it's quite understandable, his child is trying to rip me in half. "You'd better be running, because when I'm done with this; I'll kill you with my bare hands!"

To my embarrassment, I black out again.

"Is he dead this time?"

"Don't get your hopes up Francis, I'm still alive." I smirk. "So, where's your dear son?"

"Right next to me." Francis smiles fondly at the delighted Matthew. "it's a girl, Artur, not a boy. Isn't it wonderful?" he's taking this seriously? I hadn't expected him to ever be even slightly serious.

"Where is she, then?" I ask, propping myself up on my elbows. Now I can see that Francis is holding a little bundle in his arms.

"Just look at her." he breathes. "Isn't she belle?"

She really is beautiful. On the top of her little head is a tuft of blonde hair, almost light enough to be white, and she has clearer blue eyes than every other baby I've seen. They look like the ocean a sunny day; like she's about to laugh any second.

"She's very pretty." Tino agrees. "What's her name?"

"Rose." Francis says at the same time I do, and laughs. "Ma belle Rose."

I nod in agreement. "Rose it is."

Author's note:

I finally managed to finish this! I've been trying for ages, and now it's finally done. It's a bit sappy at the end, I think. But you'll just have to deal with it. Flames are sent to Russia; Ivan can always find some use for it… *cough*BURNstuff*cough* Well, you can't blame me, it's 11 PM where I live, and I havn't been getting enough sleep. If you want to know where all those other kids came from, check out the story called `Babies´ by Memento Mori-Pontifex Mortis. I think that's how it's spelt. Geesh, why'd you have to have such a long name? Just kidding.