Everyone, please pray for our lovely France. He must be in horrible pain right now.
England, November 13th, 2015
2:15 p.m
England was already having a bad feeling before France.
When France came in, wild and terrified, his bad feeling strengthened.
England sent him out, hoping the feeling of terror would fade.
England, November 13th, 2015
6:18 p.m
England paced around the door, guilty for kicking France out. He felt that something was terribly wrong.
He was on his one-thousandth six hundredth ninety-fifth pace when the door flew open, revealing France.
France looked awful. Golden hair was messy and tangled, his cheeks flushed as if running for a long time, his blue eyes feverishly bright.
England was shocked, and invited him in, cleaning him up and feeding him (burnt) food. France was too frazzled to care.
"I have the most awful feeling," breathed France, hugging his stomach. "I don't know what's going to happen, I don't want to know! I feel it. Something terrible is going to happen. And I'm afraid. I'm afraid, Angleterre!"
England sat next to him, wrapping an arm around him. He rubbed France's back, comforting him, his own stone in his stomach getting heavier. "You are France," he said soothingly. "Whatever happens, you'll survive. You may not be the strongest nation, but you will survive."
France smiled shakily, nodding.
England saw that the other nation was getting tired, and carried him to the guest room, bridal style.
France slept on the bed, and England sat on the chair next to him, dozing off.
Every now and then, he'd wake up with a jolt, but then he'd slip back into sleep. Until drowsiness swamped him and he fell asleep completely, head falling forward ever so slightly.
England, November 13th, 2015
9:20 p.m
England was awakened by screams.
Leaping to his feet, bad feeling confirmed, he rushed over to France, who was screaming, eyes so wide one could see the pupils.
He was thrashing, and as England tore his green shirt off, the crimson was already soaking through.
There were four thick lines slashed jaggedly on France's heart, blood flowing out like water in a dam. His face was twisted in agony, and his screams were getting louder by the second.
It tore England's heart in two.
France started to writhe, thrashing and getting blood all over the white sheets.
England ripped apart the green shirt, creating green strips of cloth that he wrapped around France's chest, nimbly avoiding the flailing arms.
France was now crying, sobs escaping in between howls of pain. "They're dead...dying..injured..." France wailed loudly as another slash appeared on his chest, blood flowing out and splashing in the puddle already formed around his body.
England pressed more bandages on his chest desperately, trying to stop the blood flow. "Don't die on me now, frog..."
Eventually, France was too exhausted to thrash, and his screams died down to quiet sobs. England worked frantically, France reacting less and less to every push.
Finally, after one painful moment, France relaxed.
England carried him into his bedroom and placed him under the covers, then painstakingly cleaning off the sheets and re-applying them to the guest bedroom. He put a pair of dark blue pajamas on and put a pair of red pajamas onto France.
England fell onto the bed next to him, and promptly fell asleep.
England, November 14th, 2015
1:34 a.m
It was in the middle of the night when England woke up, France sobbing into his shirt.
"What's wrong?" England asked gently. "Why are you hurt?"
"Islamic State," sobbed France. "Mass shooting a...at a rock concert! One hundred twenty nine dead...two hundred fifty one wounded...ninety-nine critically injured..."
England patted his back and murmured consoling words.
France kept repeating the statistics of his country's health.
For two hours France cried, repeating the deaths and injured over and over again. He fell asleep almost instantly after that.
England, hugging him close to him, comforting him, decided that he was going to bring this up at the next meeting. That the Islamic State would pay. Running his fingers through France's damp hair, he too fell into sleep.
England, November 14th, 2015
4:52 a.m
Waking up once again in the middle of the night, England made France breakfast. This time it wasn't burnt. France was still depressed, looking down at his fingers and frowning sadly.
"You're France," said England. "Frog, show me some of that romance you're known for."
France laughed bitterly. "My children are all dying. And the Islamic State has said that France will be the one that is targeted. Because of some stupid things we did that nobody died from. My children are being killed, the innocent ones that had nothing to do with it! And I'm worried. I'm worried and scared, Angleterre. Because there are young children out there. And I don't want them to die. Yet I can't do anything against it. Since we are just representatives. We have no power over what our people do. That's our bosses."
"Francis-"
"Arthur, a young girl won second place in a Invent-and-Design competition. She invented recyclable plastic. You can put seeds on it and throw it in your garden and flowers will grow."
"Francis, we'll make sure that her invention-"
"That girl was killed."
England gave up on speaking and hugged France, enveloping him with warmth and kindness.
"I can't promise you it'll be okay," he murmured. "But I promise you that I will be there for you."
France smiled shakily, and returned the hug. "Thank you Arthur. That means a lot to me." And once again he cried into England's shoulder, crying until there were no more tears to cry.
New, what do you own the world?
How do you own disorder
Now, somewhere between the sacred silence, sacred silence and sleep
Somewhere between the sacred silence and sleep
Disorder, disorder, disorder