*Sealand's POV*

I sit on the swing, pumping myself gently back and forth. A gentle breeze blows through my hair and onto my face, making me calm. Sighing happily, I tip my head back, letting the air fly around my neck.

All of a sudden, there is a "CRUNCH" from the chains above, holding the swing to the beam. I don't think much of it - it's probably just the swing going back and forth. But all of a sudden, there's a SNAP! and something drops.

The chain of the swing breaks, taking me down with it. I land hard on my back with a THUD! My back is punctured with sharp stones, and my elbows and knees have a few scratches on them.

I just lay there stupidly, trying to gasp in the wind that was knocked from me after I fell. But it hurts to breathe, and the scratches burn like fire. I'm unable to do anything.

Minutes later, I hear the door to the house open. "Pet'r?," someone calls out. I hear a gasp, and someone running across the yard over to the swingset.

I open my eyes soon enough to someone's face come into view. My blurred eyes meet those of my adopted father, Berwald. Although, I just call him Papa.

"Pet'r? Y'u 'kay?," he asks. "Y'u h'rt?"

I try to sit up, but it hurts, so I remain lying down. "O-ow," I squeak, tears welling to my eyes.

Papa frowns, and carefully picks me up. "Ev'ryth'ng's goin' t' be f'ne," he whispers, standing up and patting my back. "L't's g't y'u ins'de."

Papa carries me upstairs to the room he shares with Tino, or my Mummy, and puts me down on the bed. Kneeling down, he brings my chin down to look into my teary eyes. "Wh're d'es it h'rt?," he asks me.

I sniffle. "M-my back, my elbows, my knees...a-and I can't breathe anymore," I sob, wiping my eyes.

"W'll, l't's g't y'ur bre'th b'ck f'rst," Papa says, placing a hand on my back. "D'ep bre'th."

I take in a shaky deep breath, though it hurts a lot. "G'ud," Papa says. "'Gain."

I breathe again, the pain going down even more than the first breath.

"H'w d' y'u f'el?," Papa asks softly.

"B-better," I respond.

Papa helps me with a couple more breaths before the air returns to me.

"Alr'ght," Papa whispers. "L't me j'st g't m' f'rst aid k't, 'n I'll l'uk at y'ur scr'tches."

Papa strolls into the bathroom for a minute before coming back with a tin, light blue box. "L't P'pa se'," he says softly. I sniffle, and hold out a battered-up arm to him.

He looks at it for a minute before muttering out a "hnn." He takes out a bottle of clear, liquid cleanser, and a cotton swab. "M'ght st'ng a lil' b't," he warns me, getting the swab a bit damp with the cleanser. He gently twirls it around in the cut on my arm, getting out and dirt that could infect it. The liquid does end up stinging a little bit.

"O-ouch!," I cry, more tears running down my cheek.

"M' s'rry," Papa apologizes, patting away my tears.

He cleans out the scratch completely before setting the cotton swab aside. "G'ud," he says softly. "M' j'st g'nna p't s'me m'dicine on it."

Papa takes a tube of cream from the box and pops it opened. He squeezes a tiny amount onto two of his fingers, then rubs it onto the scrape. Going through the first aid kit again, he pulls out a large, square-shaped band-aid, and sticks it over the spot.

"Ther'," Papa whispers. "H'w d'es th't f'el?"

I sniffle. "I-it feels good, Papa," I whimper.

"G'ud. L't me do th' oth'r on's n'w." Papa does the same for the scratch on my other arm, and both knees.

"Ther'," Papa whispers gently. "L't me se' y'ur b'ck."

I let him push up the back of my top, and lie on my belly to let him see.

Papa cleans out each wound on my back, then places his palm over each to give them some warmth. He then puts on medicine and a small, circular band-aid. As I sniffle again, Papa sits me up, and places me in his lap. Very gently, my Swedish father gently places his warm lips on my cheek for a second. "Al' b'tter," he says, the ghost of a grin on his face.

I giggle, and cuddle his chest. "Thanks, Papa," I whisper to his neck, cuddling up close.

Both of us are quiet for a bit, as Papa pets my back gently. "You know Papa," I say softly. "You're a good nurse!"

Being the shy person he is, Papa blushes darkly, and his small grin becomes a smile. "Tack, Pet'r," he says quietly, squeezing me tight.

Though my Papa's really very shy, and some find him intimidating or scary, I'll always love him. He's there for me always, and makes me feel safe. It makes me feels warm inside to know he's here to care for Mummy and I!