Arthur wanted to know, wanted to know how they got here. Amongst the ash and fire and rubble laid his comrades, unconscious and injured from the barrage. Francis was beside him, stomach down, a hand in his, his breath gentle. They had taken shelter in what was the nearest building at the time – a café, small and aged yet sturdy enough to not shatter completely from such a large blast. The Brit wanted to lay there longer so he could be with Francis, to know the Frenchman was safe, and to be safe himself from what was ahead. Alas, he was not a coward. Laying here for comfort and safety in a battleground would not suffice for a hero.

Hero. Arthur positioned himself to his hands and knees and began crawling, making his way out of the destroyed building. The word hero turned his stomach as he was reminded of Alfred. He was not the hero. Even through the past year and a half, no one could quite figure what had happened to the boy. Matthew had suffered greatly as well – mostly due to his brother's own misfortune and ignorance.

The Englishman stopped and wiped his eyes, the smoke burning them and bringing tears. If he could only blame it for his sadness too. He was a gentleman. Gentlemen don't cry. "Damnit all!" He cried, sitting against the wall with his face in his hands. He knew. He knew this was going to happen but he never said anything. This wasn't America's fault. It was his. Perhaps he should have raised him better; not left him alone for so long so many times. Or maybe not have been so harsh on him to begin with.

Sounding as though someone was approaching, burning and broken boards falling to ground, England's head shot up, tears streaking down his cheeks. "Francis?" He breathed a sigh of relief at the sight but didn't smile, wiping the tears away. His best friend held out his hand. He took it. "I'm sorry for leaving you- "

"No, you're not." Francis crossed his arms, his uniform torn, the ascot around his neck, loose. There was a scratch on his cheek and his left eye was bruised. Dust and dirt littered his hair.

"No," England admitted, shamefully. "I'm not." He sighed again. "But…I couldn't stay. I needed to scour the area and find-"

"It's war. I understand." He took Arthur's hand and gave it a light squeeze. "This isn't his first battle."

Arthur looked up at his lover. "It's quite obvious. I'm more worried about it being his last. He's reckless,"

"He's always been reckless."

"And now he-" The older man took him into his arms for a brief hug.

"Mon cher," The Frenchman started as he caressed the Englishman's cheek. "It's going to be okay. And do you know why?" Arthur stared back, waiting for the answer he didn't know. "Vous n'êtes pas seul."

"It… Thank you, frog." He accepted Francis's statement and continued his way out of the broken-down café on his feet this time. He listened as the blonde behind him followed. From his view above the ground, he quickly realized how bad it truly was. He had seen terrible things, dreadful things, but the destruction and death he was witnessing took the cake. Bodies were strewn about, no more than a foot apart. The corpses were not just innocent bystanders. They belonged to the enemies; soldiers of the Bloc were among the dead.

The Bloc could be something compared to the Axis Powers but fell short by one nation. Their goal was, most assumed, global domination. They had already taken over South America and Canada, half of Africa, the Middle East, and almost all of Asia. Europe was difficult. Most nations had a thousand plus years of fighting experience. For those that did not or had a sibling to protect (Switzerland, for example), they were swiftly taken down and imprisoned someplace with everyone else. What happened to them afterwards, Arthur didn't know. He was afraid to know. Would they die? Killing a personified country sounds difficult enough but do things like this, and it will die very easy.

"Arthur." Francis's voice brought him out of his thoughts and back into the real world. "We should see if we can find anyone else."

Arthur nodded and walked opposite of the male nation, green eyes looking hungrily through the debris. The crackling of the fire stayed the silence, the Englishman's footsteps echoing in the dim light. If he was where he thought he was, Germany should be in this area. This is where he was before the attack, before the shower. "Germany." He called, expecting an answer. Nothing. He continued his search, instead finding a brother laying out rather oddly in the middle of what once was the road. England rushed and knelt by his side, checking his vital signs. Alive. "Gilbert, can you hear me?"

It took a moment and a bit of shaking but said man opened his eyes, flinching and reaching for his side. England spared a glance to see it was bleeding. "Can you stand?" Prussia gave a small nod and wrapped an arm around the Englishman's neck. "You wouldn't happen to have seen anyone, have you?" He questioned once they were standing.

"What kind of question is that?" Gilbert asked through his breath, gripping his side as he spoke. Arthur frowned.

"I was only curious. Francis and I must be the only conscious ones then if I found you first. You were lying in the middle of the road."

The albino hung his head as he thought. "You haven't seen my little brother?" Arthur shook his head. "He was right here-"

"I know and that's who I was looking for." The Brit informed before sighing and setting the man down on a chunk of concrete. Prussia was getting heavier and it wasn't he that was getting tired. The silver-haired man was severely injured and needed medical attention. Considering that he was no longer a country, it was important he not be in these situations. "Let me see." Arthur demanded of the other male who obliged by first unbuttoning his jacket and tossing it to the ground then lifting his shirt. "Shrapnel." England frowned and pulled up his sleeves.

"This is going to hurt." He had done this many times before, especially during the World Wars but he had never perfected it. Magic isn't perfect. The energy flow, no matter how controlled, cannot soften the removal itself. That requires another spell all together but there's no time for that in dangerous situations. He heard Gilbert hiss in pain before relaxing. Arthur took his jacket and began to tear it into strips, handing them to the man. "I'm sure you can handle the rest on your own."

"I-"

He shouldn't do it himself because it would not be done correctly but Arthur had to find his friends. "I'll be over there." He pointed down the street and made his way.

It's been a long time. I have stories to finish but I like this and it'll be five chapters at the most.