He's gone, he's gone and I can't find him.
"Where is he?!" The shout echoed through the stone hallways of the Sectinian military base.
A man with spiked up blond hair and an axe threw a grunt against a wall, cracking it.
"Sotapäällikkö Tanska! Please stop!" A man ran to him, a rifle clutched in his left hand. With his military uniform, he wore a white beret - the cap of an artillery commander. "P-please stop! You're going to destroy the base at this rate!"
The first man turned to him with a crazed and furious look in his eyes. "I-I can't go on like this..." He sank to his knees. "I... Need to find him. Please understand, Finland."
Finland gave a small smile. "I understand, really. He's our friend too! We all want to see him again. In the meantime, we want our sotapäällikkö back, the one who's always smiling! We want you back to yourself. Okay, Denmark?"
Denmark looked up at him, tears falling from his cheeks. "I'd do anything to get him back..."
Finland nodded. "And we'll help you. Stop destroying the base and killing people though, okay?"
Denmark shakily stood, and picked up his axe with a shadow covering his face. He slowly followed Finland down the halls.
At a window looking up to the obnoxiously blue sky, he stopped.
"Hvor er du? Min kærlighed ... Island." He murmured, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
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The sound of slowly dripping water burned it's way into the ears of the one who listened.
His normally sparkling purple eyes were dull and blank, staring somewhere beyond the concrete walls of his cell.
His silvery brown hair hadn't been brushed in a long time, and it was matted, but he didn't seem to care. He bobbed his head to a silent tune that no one else could hear.
Heavy handcuffs hung around his thin wrists as he sat, back pressed to the metal bars that stopped him from going the one place he wanted to go - home.
His breathing was shallow and the frown on his face only expressed a fraction of his inner turmoil.
"Vinsamlegast finna mér ... ástin mín, Danmörku." His hoarse voice muttered, heard by no one.
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The sweet notes of a piano rang throughout the concert hall. Enrapturing all who listened, they flowed perfectly, tinged with the musician's painful emotions, sorrow and loneliness echoed hollowly as the undertone. As a result, most of the audience silently cried with the music.
The pianist seemed lost, like a boat searching for a lighthouse to guide it to shore. His eyes were full of regret and sorrow, and his lips were set into a frown.
In the hallway, not exactly inside the concert hall, a man sat cross-legged, tracing a crack in the ceiling with his eyes. Across his lap sat a rifle. He drew circles on it's hilt.
"I'm sorry... Austria." His quiet voice faded before it reached any listening ears.
He slowly stood, letting the light fall on his white cap. Letting it reflect on the badge on his army jacket, a white plus sign on a red background. And the little embroidered name, 'Switzerland'.
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France was shown to his tent after a long talk with England about their respective brothers.
The tent was simple, but clean and homey. There was a cot for him in the corner, along with rows of cots for patients. In the corner there was a little desk with a file cabinets so he could document injuries.
He set down his kit on his cot with a dramatic sigh. "Today was hard, frère." He looked down at the picture in his hand.
He set it on his nightstand. After changing into his pajamas, he didn't even bother to get under the covers, and just stared up the cloth roof, tracing it's seams with his eyes.
He was pulled into memories.
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He was running.
He couldn't stop, no. They'd catch them if they stopped.
He held the hand of a younger boy, who was silent and panting from running so long.
"B-big brother France..." The boy murmured.
France looked back at his exhausted face. "Hang in there, Canada," France murmured back. "We're almost there."
The boy nodded even though he looked about ready to pass out.
Finally they reached a small house, and France frantically pounded on the door.
It was quickly opened by a young man with silver hair. "Come in! Quickly!" The man hissed, closing the door behind them.
Canada collapsed on the floor, and France caught him. The silver haired man grimaced. "Here, let him use the guest room, it's the most ready to accommodate someone right now. You take my room, and I'll use my cousin's, since he's away."
France nodded his thanks. "Much appreciated, mon ami."
The man nodded. "You'll be fine now. You're in good hands."
France smiled. "I know. Thank you."
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The flashback faded into darkness as France fell asleep.
