Hey guys. I know, it isn't E294. I wont be updating soon, since on the eighteenth is the anniversary of my grandmother's death, and then we have Christmas. Not to mention finals which are coming up on the ninteenth. Also, since I have the flu now, I feel like crap and I don't wanna write it. So, yeah. Angst galore. Enjoy.
The motionless form of the once beautiful country, France, lay on the floor, sad smile forever pasted on his pale face. His glossy blue eyes saw nothing, only aggravating his assaulter more.
"You bloody frog!" the shorter blonde man screamed, tears coursing down his face. "It's not my fault! You are the one who deserved it!" he fell into a sobbing fit, falling to his knees, holding the Frenchman's head in his arms.
Before the other countries could find him, he left the room, intent on making sure he wasn't blamed.
~~Days Pass…~~
The blonde Englishman had fallen into a pit of despair. He stood at his lover's funeral, barely noticing the Spaniard holding his little Italian close, sobbing into his shoulder. Nor did he see his eldest son bawl into his albino boyfriend's chest, or his younger son trying, and failing, at staying calm. All he saw was the offending white casket, showered in roses and rose petals, with his Frenchman laying still, a peaceful mask taking place of the small, sad smile his face had just a few days ago.
Why did he do it? Well, truth be told, England wasn't so sure himself. It was spur of the moment, he just did it because the man affection. He loved and loved, and never seemed to get angry with the Brit. Even on his deathbed, the blonde had whispered, 'Ar…Arthur, I for…forgive you.' That is what made him go crazy and kill the only light in the gloomy life of the country.
"Angleterre~! I'm home!" Francis called, not noticing the mess Arthur had set up, trying to make him mad. No one knew the Brit was staying with him.
When he entered his favorite room of his house, the kitchen, he gasped in shock. The beautiful white countertops were scratched and broken, random broken glassware or food scattered on the once pearl white surface. The stove was broke, black smoke billowing from the open door, showing burned scones as the culprit. The oak floors were covered in grease and flour, a petite figure sitting in the middle of it, a wild smile painted on his face. "Hello, poppet. How are you?" he stepped up to France. "Doesn't this mess just want you to yell… smash things?"
When Francis just sighed, and started cleaning, the blonde got mad. "Oi, bloody wanker! Didn't you hear me?" grabbing a random knife, he advanced on the unsuspecting blonde.
England grabbed his head, images of that night flashing through his mind. A blood curdling scream ripping from his lips, as he fell on his knees in front of the offending casket. Barely noticing the arms wrapping around him, he just continued to shake.
"A-Angleterre?" the man whispered, before feeling the knife cut into his arm. The man screamed in pain, as the knife ripped through him again. Over and over, he saw his cities crumble. First Albi, then Digne Les Bains, all until Paris fell, leaving a crumpled husk of the once great country.
~~Later…~~
The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland sat motionless, another boring meeting going on. Canada was ignored, Germany was yelling, America was proclaiming he was the hero, the only difference was that France and England weren't fighting.
The man seemed to be watching the clock, waiting for the time to finally come, waiting for the clock to strike four pm, so he could begin his plan.
Finally, the clock struck four, and men and women alike ran into the room, coming from the door and window. The unsuspected countries were taken by surprise, so weaker countries, like Italy and Latvia, were quickly taken hold of, and killed. Finally, the only ones still alive were America, Canada, and England, who had calmly sat through the violence, even smiling a bit when his fellow countries were taken down.
"You Bastard!" America screamed, tears pouring down his face while he cradled his dead lover, Russia, closer. His brother, Canada, was doing the same, bawling over he lover, the once great Prussia. "Why did you do it?!" he sobbed, hiding his face in the Russian's scarf.
The country smirked, and held a gun up. Quickly killing the small Canadian, he looked at his former colony's pain filled face. "Power." He simply stated, before shooting.
Germany was holding his dead Italian close, his heart ripped out by some Englishman. Spain was holding Romano close, as if to shield the smaller body from the pain. China wasn't as fortunate, his love, Japan, having been thrown across the room, so he died alone. Turkey was lying next to Greece, hands intertwined as death consumed them. Austria lay, a sword sticking out of his heart, with his lover, Switzerland, sitting up against the wall, the Austrian man's head in his lap. All died on that fateful night, the night England went insane.
Sorry, I know it's terrible. So, you see more pairings I ship. AusSwiss, ChuNi, TurkGreek, plus a bunch I didn't mention.
Bye, and have a wonder filled Christmas.