It hurt. Peter Kirkland could feel only white-hot agony coursing through his veins, each breath, each heartbeat bringing another burst of pain. He needed to find his brother, his brother would help him, he had to. Sealand winced, trying to convince himself that no, his brother wouldn't leave him for dead, wouldn't abandon him to the elements.
But he would... Sealand remembered 1956, when he was abandoned by the British army for over ten years, left to the harsh sea in the belief that it would destroy him. But that was 50 years ago, he wouldn't leave me now, right?
Either way, he needed to ask. The pain was only growing, and some of it gave way to fear... Was the guard safe? Could he burn so badly that he would die? If Sealand died, would any of them even care?
Those thoughts plagued his mind as he ran towards England's house, or at least, they did at the beginning. Then even thinking became too painful for him, and he tried to simply move forward, eventually only jogging, as that slightly took his mind off of the agony, made it slightly more bearable, and slightly convulsing in pain.
Thankfully, it wasn't long before Sealand found Arthur's home in the middle of London, after all, he had been there before, many a time. Just never a time as urgent as this. He stumbled up the porch, to the doorbell, however, he found himself to be in too much pain to reach up to it, it was just above his height. So, instead, flailing about, he attempted to grasp his brother's attention the only other way he could.
Hammering his fists against the door, hoping, wishing that England would help him, that he could just stop the damned feeling of being on fire. It was summer, and England was, thankfully, experiencing rain at the time, the cool droplets providing at least some form of relief for the pained childish form. Or at least, they would, or should, but in reality, each droplet felt like a spatter of boiling oil upon his skin.
After several minutes of screaming, pleading, trying to get Arthur's attention, Sealand found himself physically too weak to continue any longer, to him, the pain started to be fading, it almost felt like... the fire was going out?
Or perhaps, more likely, Sealand was finally falling into the arms of the monster known as 'unconsciousness.'
Black spots danced around his already tainted vision, his eyes were forcing themselves to close, and by then, Sealand was just a collapsed body twitching in pain, the occasional irregular breath to remind itself that it was alive.
When he awoke, he saw the others. All of them, mocking him, taunting him, laughing at him. "So you think you're a country, but you can't even bear the slightest bit of pain? How pathetic." Of course it would be England who would say that, who would confirm his worst fears. He really was just a silly little micronation after all, trying to be something that he wasn't . The slightest bit of pain that a country feels and he breaks down. He can't even sort himself out he had to go to that jerk England's house for help.
He blinked, his eyes starting to well up with tears, but when he reopened them, the scene seemed different somehow. Instead of facing towards him and jeering at him, most of them weren't even there, only England and about five others. One was Prussia, perhaps? They were gathered around a television, and when he walked closer, he found that England didn't try to shoo him away, in fact, none of them did. They didn't even notice he was there.
"...Was completely burned down, reports are saying that one body was found in the wreckage..." The calm voice of the news reporter that Sealand heard did not fit the tone of the subject she was covering at all, in fact, it seemed almost disrespectful to him, "...Independence almost 39 years ago..." At this point, Sealand realised what they were talking about. Completely burned down... So he was dead, then? Is that why they couldn't see him? He was a ghost?
It would've been cool if I could move objects or something, then I could haunt jerk England for being a jerk, he laughed, even if it was only to himself, even if he knew that he'd probably miss England.
"Haha, now I guess that we won't have to go to the trouble of blowing that little fort up! In the end, he did it all himself, how stupid can you get?" Again, it was Arthur who was laughing at him, it was always Arthur who told him that he would never be a fully-fledged country, that he was too young to even understand what being a country meant.
But he did. Peter had been at war twice, he knew the horror of it, especially the first time round. He'd seen how humans have short lifespans, and age, and die, or, as the fort that had at one point been nicknamed "Fort Madness" remembered, jump into the sea to die. And now, he was feeling his first major catastrophe. Peter Kirkland knew just how painful it was to be a country. He even knew the loneliness.
He also knew some things that the other countries probably would not, and had not experienced. Most sentient beings generally don't jump at the idea of spending eleven years on a small platform 7 kilometres from the mainland, without any contact with the outside world. At least prisoners have guards.
As these thoughts and memories swirled the brain of the child, he noticed a strange sensation in his right arm. Or rather, he noticed the lack of one. He had heard that when countries die they fade away, but he didn't expect it to be quite so literal. He had not expected to end up with a transparent arm at the time of his death. He wouldn't go so far as to say that he hadn't expected his death, a flimsy sea fort that had been left to the elements? He remembered what had happened to Fort Tongue Sands, to Fort Sunk Head.
And as he thought of the other forts, of the times when they existed, he found himself standing there. On his home, only a year or so after his birth. Already he had reached the physical appearance of a seven year old. If you were a representation of a place that was created to fight, and was put into operation only half an hour after being deployed, you would most likely have to grow up fast. Especially during World War Two.
He remembered the night that he found himself at. In fact, he remembered it more than he wanted to. The stars shone bright above him, but it was a new moon. About thirty metres in front of him was the silhouette of a man, arms outstretched, looking down upon the violent water below.
Peter Kirkland remembered this moment only too well.
He remembered being rooted to the spot.
He remembered seeing the man's body fall.
He remembered the sound of it hitting the water, being lost among the ever pounding, ceaseless waves.
But mostly, he remembered discovering what mortality truly meant.
And he hated it.
At once, the gravity of the situation hit him, and he collapsed onto his knees, onto the cold, damp metal that formed his home. That formed him.
Within a few minutes, he could barely distinguish the tears on his face from the spray of the saltwater. The sinking feeling of guilt, mixed with crushing sadness and shock ... No child should go through that. But he did, many times.
In short, growing up as, or on a war fort in the middle of the ocean was not exactly fun.
And then, in his right arm, a stabbing, no burning pain. A million red hot needles poking at his skin, jolting him back to reality. Twitching in pain, staring straight ahead at the clouds, counting repeatedly to five in order to contain the scream building up in his throat.
Still collapsed on the ground, he made no attempt to move. Or rather, he felt he could not, it was effort enough to try to remain sane.
Through the blur of involuntary tears and agony, Peter could make out a figure in front of him. He wasn't sure how far, approximating a distance seemed like a painful waste of energy. The only thing that mattered, was that when the blurred humanoid being approached, he was able to recognise enough of his face to be sure that it was his older brother, Arthur.
The child looked up, barely enough energy to maintain eye contact; barely enough will to do so. However, he knew that he had to at least try to get some of the message across to England, as, at the moment, his brother was the only one who could help him. The child looked up, and, barely audible, "Please... I..." He blinked, swallowed, and mustered as much of his strength as possible. He sat up, and, a lot clearer this time, "I'm on fire. Please help. It hurts!"
He gritted his teeth, trying to maintain some dignity in front of his older brother, who spent most of his time with Sealand telling him exactly why he couldn't be a country. He would not let him add insult to injury.
Of course, considering the circumstances, with Sealand being in a puddle on the road, begging for help, the only shred of his dignity that he could hold onto was the fact that he hadn't screamed in front of his brother.
Arthur knew how much pain Sealand was in, his younger brother was shaking on the floor, doing everything he could to not scream, biting his lip, counting to keep away the pain, and to keep his mind occupied.
Apparently falling victim to a devastating fire ran in the family.
Arthur picked up his younger brother, and carried him into his house, setting him down on the pale blue sofa, telling him to fall asleep. Meanwhile, he called for the emergency services to be sent the the fort nation, hoping that it would not be too late to save his youngest brother.
As he waited for news, he attempted to inspect the damage, noting that a large patch on the back of his head seemed to have been damaged, as well as there being many red marks along his arms. He guessed that they would scar.
Arthur knew that, although he could not help lessen the pain unless the fire itself were put out, he could at least stop it from hurting more than necessary. Hopefully.
He made sure that Sealand was sleeping, after all, you don't feel as much pain when you are unconscious.
I guess that Iggy here didn't know about the nightmares Sealand had been having, didn't know that they could, occasionally, cause pain to rival that of the agony Peter was feeling now.
At that moment, Peter was dreaming of an experience so completely, almost ironically different to the one he was enduring then.
Running, Slipping, Falling.
Screaming, Sinking, Drowning.
He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes, he was flailing about in darkness, his steel body weighing him down, each instant bringing him further away from the sweet, sweet oxygen that we so often take for granted.
As the air in his lungs began to grow stale, and he was forced to pop his ears, he made one desperate attempt to swim upwards. The excess of carbon dioxide in his lungs was making him want so desperately to breath out, but at the same time, he knew doing so would only bring more agony, less air.
At this point in time, I would say that his vision started to go dark, but considering that his eyes were already closed, I feel like that statement would be redundant. Instead, he could feel his thoughts get blurrier, his chest hurt more and more, like his lungs were rabid animals, screaming and pounding to be let out of their cages.
It didn't take long for Sealand to agree to their demands, and let out what little air he had left.
Dreaming of drowning whilst he was burning up?
He almost could've laughed.
To this day, Sealand still did not know how exactly he had survived the event. The most he could recall, if any, was a faint memory of somebody shouting, and being dragged onto a boat in a fishing net.
He spent several hours in this state, recalling, reliving his worst memories, imagining his worst fears. The last dream he had, however, almost made him smile, if only out of nostalgia. Of course it was then when he woke up.
When he did awake, it almost felt as if he was floating; the pain was gone, almost. It was still there, in the sense that an injury will still hurt whilst healing, however, not as much as it hurt when the wound was in the process of being inflicted.
It felt nice to be able to breathe in without the air scorching his throat and nasal cavity.
He tried to talk, but the only sound that managed to escape his lips was a quiet, but harsh cough. However, it was enough to bring his older brother to his side, and, soon enough, he heard Arthur.
"Peter? Are you awake?" His voice sounded full of concern, not at all like Sealand's dreams had painted it to be. Not mocking. Worried.
Peter opened his eyes a crack, enough for him to be able to see a small amount in the dimly lit room.
Slowly, he nodded, and turned his head to face his brother. He fully opened his eyes, and attempted to take in his surroundings.
He recognised the room he was in, it was his bedroom of sorts, where he slept when he came to stay with England.
Again, he attempted to speak, but no sound, barely a whisper managed to find its way out of his mouth. Arthur smiled at his attempts, "I think that you won't be able to speak for a while, you were burned quite severely. No matter, you're safe now. I'll look after you until you're healed."
Sealand stared up at him.
"Would you like to try sit up?"
Peter nodded, and then attempted to sit up. It proved harder than expected, but he decided he had to. He couldn't appear weaker than he actually was, he couldn't make himself out to be completely defenceless. Even if he was then, of sorts.
He smiled at his brother, but then tried to signal that he was tired, after all, he was barely awake, he still hurt all over.
However, despite the painful, less than fortunate circumstances, at least Peter was glad then. At least, then, he was finally able to receive confirmation that his brother didn't hate him. Arthur didn't want him to die. Perhaps those 11 years had finally been forgotten.
Then the boy's eyes closed, and, with a smile on his face, he fell back asleep.
No nightmares.