The blond nation gently shut his bedroom door, willing this stressful day to be over. First Alfred came, begging to borrow the TV due to Tony having broken the other one. Then that stupid frog dropped in, rambling about monetary shite on his day off! England was on his final straw when Spain wandered through the front door, blathering on about how he was so terribly wronged way back in the era of no one giving a shit. Green eyes opened, and Arthur tried to smooth the angry wrinkles out of his forehead. It had been a stressful day, and all he wanted to do was-
"Hello, Arthur." Pinching his eyebrows together in frustration, the nation glared at the shadowed speaker. "Not you again. I'm not in the mood to deal with blithering idiots." The man shifted, stepping into a pool of light cast by the lamp. England resisted shuddering. This particular 'imaginary friend,' as the other nations referred to them, was more grotesque than the others, and was certainly more desperate. The thing was here for only a few hours at a time, but he came every day and wouldn't take no for an answer. Fabric rustled as the man resettled, greasy black hair dripping like oil over his face and down his shoulders. Shiny, black, soulless eyes stared forever into Britain's brain. Blackened skin faded to pale flesh at his wrists, flesh that was pockmarked with disease and torment. The man's dark jeans were ripped and stained, and stank. He positively reeked of disease and of blood. Dark wings trembled, threatening to fall off of the man's bare back, which was traced with scars. Patterns, really. Delicate lines swirled into each other, curving with each muscle hidden beneath the skin, ending at the nape of his neck and just before the small of his back.
A slight clicking noise drew Arthur's wicked green eyes back to the man's face. Pointed ears poked out from in between strands of sickly long hair. Dark eyebrows faded away into darkened and mottled skin. And the thing that was the most creepy, even more so than the never-ending pools of black rimmed with wrinkled lids, was the protruding beak. Literally, a bird's beak. The man opened it, revealing the only hint of color besides gross, and it was still revolting. A flaming tongue resided in its shell, forked at the end and covered with sores. How can he even talk?
"I don't care if you don't feel like it. I need help and you're the only one who can see me. Sit down and hear me out for once." A chair found its way behind the blond, and he sat down, feeling nauseous from the godforsaken smell that permeated the now cramped room. "Look. There's no way I'd be able to help you, alright? I said no the last few times as well, which is about all I remember besides your stink. Please, just leave me alone." A swishing noise alerted Britain to the man's movement, and he looked up in time to come face to face with him. "It's not like you ever cared to listen. All you do is tell me to go away, but whenever anyone else needs your help you're all ears. Do I not count? I'm begging, okay? Please hear me out and I'll leave you alone if you decide to help me. If not, then I will make your life a living Hell. Please?" England frowned.
"That doesn't sound very promising either way. And I'm already living in Hell." Those eyes seemed to roll, but as they were completely black it was sort of hard to tell. The man leaned in, clamping his pock-marked hands onto the armrests of the chair.
"Ha. If this is Hell, then I want to live here. Will you listen or should I just jump in with the fire and brimstone right now?" The blond leaned away from the beak, gathering his response and trying to gain some leverage.
"Fine. I'll listen. I may or may not help you; it all depends, really. Let's start with your name first, shall we?"
A name, huh? It's been awhile since I even used one. When I go back to that stagnant place I use a number... The souls of innocents are captured by servants of the Dark and brought to this strange cave-like structure that is as dank and ill-lit as it is searing hot and illuminated. You can see as far as you want, but at the same time your field of vision only goes to the end of your nose. Time is distorted there, at once day and night. I was one of twenty in a group, and we quarried stone, farther underground than any man with wings should be. There was a collapse; dust and grit flew everywhere, and so did my acquaintances. I awoke and found that I was trapped in a hole, deprived of air with only one way to go. So I dug, ignoring the aches and pains of an malnourished body. Ignoring the scraping of bitten fingernails on rock and dirt. Ignoring the blood that flowed, copper in my mind's eye. But I'm stuck. Encased by rubble, never going to die in the menacing dark because of the magic that binds us all to the stone and the heat and the cold of that place. Where is it, even? It's been months, and my broken hands still scrabble at their hopeless task, trying and failing to free me from my rock tomb. But a name? What was my number? I can't remember... Being away from roll call must have helped my tired brain to forget.
England stared at the foul abomination. He had been quiet for a while, gathering his thoughts or maybe calling on some sort of dark magic. The guy certainly looked the part. Arthur sat back, waiting for a response.
"Faolán. My name is Faolán. I think. I honestly haven't used it in years." The dark-haired man inched away, giving the nation some space to breathe. When he had made it across the room, the blond listened to the quiet and gruesome story that weaved its way between them, filling the air and pulling at England's heartstrings, not that he would admit to having any.
"So... If you're stuck under a pile of rubble... How are you here?" Faolán shook his head.
"I'm not sure. I just looked up one time and was here. All I could do was ask for help. That's all I want. To be free from wherever that is and go on my merry way."
"How do you think that I would be able to help you in any way, shape, or form? I have work to do, and you're a complete stranger."
The bird-man's hands balled into fists, "so you won't help me?" The words were dangerously acidic, hinting at his fear and displeasure. "So you're going to leave me to scrape around in that airtight place, asphyxiating and digging forever? You're more heartless than the people who brought me there. I don't even want your-" The blond stood up, smirking.
"I never said that I wouldn't help you." Faolán blinked, beak clicking angrily.
"Well, what were you saying then? That there's a price? I don't have anything to give you in return except my thanks."
"You are an A-class dimwit. Everything has a price, otherwise nothing would get done. I'll think about it. You won't die for a while yet, correct?"
"My body won't."
"Then you'll be fine. I'll have a decision later." England blinked, sure that he was seeing things. Faolán was literally fading into the shadows, and that's when the blond noticed the lack of fingernails, almost as if they had been ripped off. Then the bird-man was gone, leaving small, coppery streaks across the floorboards and into the corner.