Requiem of the Red Dragon

It had been a very long time since he had seen Wales so ecstatic. It was a bit annoying, especially when Wales would take a hold of the bar on the back of his wheelchair and push him around. England wanted to protest, or at least put on a hat which hid his identity from everyone, but finally just gave in.

It really had been a long time since he had seen Wales so happy. It picked at a scab that England had not even known existed. Back when he was taking care of Wales as if the other was his younger brother. Back when Wales would come to him to ask questions, permission, and run off as if he had not a care in the world other than to get along with him. How long ago was that?

When had Wales turned into an alcoholic mess? England had not even noticed. Too busy paying attention to the rest of the world, too busy taking charge of home.

"I love these li'le stores," Wales said with affection. "All these baubles and things... no one thinks twice about them. They get rid of them... and they look like they have so much put into them...!"

England was rather inclined to agree. He was a part of the entire chain. Small things which would mean nothing to anyone else, some he would get rid of. Then he would come to an antique shop and buy something which would mean absolutely nothing to anyone and it would become important in some way. Some day in the future he might forget enough to get rid of it, or force himself to let it go. And the cycle repeated.

It could be an analogy of his life, really. Something suddenly thought it meant nothing to him and would go off to be important to everyone.

England tried not to think about it. He covered a cough with his handkerchief.

"Look at these shakers... Arthur..." Wales held them up, almost like an excited child. England fought a smile. He succeeded when he saw the cruet set.

Roses...

"I remember... you like roses," Wales continued to babble at his slow pace. "Planting them all the time... ever since France, remember? Giving you that large bouquet... It is all you speak about when it happens."

England choked on his tongue, because there were no words to stumble over.

Wales had been drunk for a long time. It had been a long time.

Giving me flowers, telling me I was the only one... God, I was so young and stupid.

A very long time.

He took the salt shaker out of the cruet and stared at it for a while before setting it back. Wales put it back on the shelf before taking a few more steps in a different direction. England wheeled himself out of that particular section as quickly as he possibly could.

He was looking at some bells when Wales caught up with him. "Arthur... doesn't this butler's tray look like... the... one... in my..."

Just like that Wales' smile was gone. England looked from him to the tray clutched, now tightly, in his hands. He reached out and let his hand rest on Wales' hand. Wales continued to stare down at the tray.

"I... I shall get it."

England knew Wales was not going to get it. Suddenly he wanted to speak again. He wanted, beyond anything, to just be able to say something to Wales right now. Writing would not cut it. It was not the same.

Instead, he pointed. Wales looked up and slowly over.

"Funny... seeing one of those here." England gestured once more toward the old thing. Wales went over to inspect it. "It is... missin' some strings. Otherwise it's doing really well..."

England wheeled up behind him, grabbing his wrist and leading his hand to rest on the strings.

"Oh... I have not been playing the harp for ages, Arthur. I shouldn't..." England could tell Wales did not want to protest. The idea seemed to appeal to the Nation greatly as his other hand graced the other side of the instrument.

He had forgotten how beautiful the harp could sound.

Before they left England payed for the cruet set.

France was trying not to think of England (of the blood he could still taste) when he heard those footsteps again.

He stayed put, as if he were asleep on the couch. Curiousity was eating away at him, but so was his exhaustion and restlessness. Very conflicting feelings which caused to to have to force himself to stay still. He had been rather hoping to fall asleep and put all of those thoughts out of his head, but now...

He swallowed two more capsules and waited to hear the footsteps vanish through an open door. As they did not seem to, he rose to his feet silently and made his way toward the sounds.

The child started but France grabbed him with his useful arm before he could run for it. The other struggled, but it felt like nothing. The Micro Nation had no real strength, not against Nations.

"Lemme go! Lemme go, you creep!" Sealand yelled. France stared down at him, not certain whether he should be relieved or annoyed at the other's intrusion. Sealand was not usually someone that anyone noticed, after all. His very existence was laughable. Still, he had managed to sneak into England's house and had done very well in not being noticed.

"Who are you calling for help from?" he asked. Sealand stopped, somehow hearing his quiet voice, as he thought about it. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you care?" Sealand asked. "This isn't your house!"

"And it is not yours," France agreed. "So on our equal grounds of visitation... I care because I have been staying here."

"I know that," Sealand said crossly. France chuckled

"I answered your question."

Sealand pouted, pushing once more at France's arm. "I... was just lookin'."

"For England?"

"No!" Sealand denied it vehemently. "Just looking around an' stuff. See how things're goin'."

The child lied so obviously that France could not retort. Sealand was worried about England. The brother who cast him out. Funny, how this family who had only ever attacked each other would come to protect each other now.

Then again, back in the day fighting was so natural. Now it was monotonous. Now it hurt more than just physically. Winning used to mean something. Now it just meant you were not dead.

"You should not be sneaking around," France mentioned as he let go of the other, who quickly ran forward a few steps and turned around so he had made some distance between them. "People can be very suspicious after wars... not like you would know."

"I know perfectly well!" Sealand said quietly, staring at the ground.

How were Sweden and Finland? How was Belarus?

"If you know so well, you should know better," France rolled his eyes and left for the kitchen.

"Wait, France!"

He turned to face the boy who had so ever wished to become a Nation.

"Don't tell Arthur!"

"Alright then."

France did not know whether he would tell England or not. But it seemed to satisfy Sealand, who ran out of the house.

Funny, how small the world was now and even so it was easy to forget parts of it.

It was probably the worst part of knowing fairies. They were friends if one believed in them, no matter how strangely they would show it (strange by Human standards, Scotland knew he could never understand them and had accepted that). They were curious when it came to death. They mourned their dying. They celebrated their dead.

So whenever Scotland would show up and see the fairies in such a mood he would suddenly think the worst. Right up to the point he remembered cell phones.

Ah, the pest of all existence, cell phones. Someone would have called. He would have known. If someone was dying, dead, he would know right as it was happening.

America was not a very good example of any of this. But America always had fancied himself made out of a different mold. Of which he would have been right. Not that it mattered.

"Feelin' be'er?"

England, who was looking down at a salt shaker in his hand, looked up at him.

"Ai'll take tha' as a 'somewha'," Scotland shrugged, leaning back against the wall. "France givin' ye any trouble?"

England rolled his eyes and Scotland could not help but grin.

"O' course 'e is..." he repeated words he knew would have been there if England could speak. "An' Wales? 'e's na pushin' ye 'round too much, is 'e?"

England snorted. Scotland chuckled.

"Did nae think so."

After a few moments of scribbling England lifted up the pad of paper in front of him.

anything new lately?

"Communication?" Scotland rose his eyebrows. "Arthur, Ai'm surprised a' ye!" England threw the pen at him. Scotland caught it. "Anythin' new? Not really. The Nile is startin' to flood in the spring now."

England glared at him.

"No? Well, Ai suppose Egypt woul' be makin' some actual noise if tha' happened. Big developments since the las' meetin'? Nothin' ye prolly haven't 'eard. Ye 'eard o' Italy? 'e's actually out of the house an' goin' strong. Nice to 'ear 'im recoverin'."

England nodded, staring off at the window. Scotland felt his stomache rumble and stood up straight. "Ai'm stealin' some o' yer food."

Arthur shrugged, not very interested.

"Nice cruet se', Arthur," Roy commented as he left the room. He did not miss Arthur's stricken face. Well, his little brother should have known better before he bought something which would be such a sensitive subject.

He just had to look out for the fairies. Wait for them to return to normal. Wait for them to return to normal without a sudden celebration of someone they would miss.

"Hungry... France?"

"Yes, please," he responded quietly, watching as Wales wandered around the kitchen. It took a while to realize that Wales was actually walking with any sort of purpose, but France still did not know whether Wales was doing any of that on purpose, or whether it was all just on a whim. If that was the case it would explain a lot about the Nation. France did not believe it was nearly as simple as that.

Still, he was not about to pry into the one person who could cook in these islands. France could only make so much of his own food with one hand.

When would his arm heal?

He let himself lean against the counter and watched Wales cook. Watching Wales cook was much different than watching England cook. England seemed to concentrate as if it were the most important thing in the world, as if he were willing it turn out correctly. Wales did not look as though he cared much about it.

Though France was getting a little sick of sea food. At least it was food.

"You seem... much be'er now," Wales commented. "Good for you."

"It helps having something to eat," France smiled. Wales stopped to stare at him for a second.

"Now... I think you're just trying to be mean."

France's smiles could sweep most people off their feet, especially if they did not know how often he used them. Wales was one of those people. France found himself rather put out. "What do you mean?"

"You are... always saying that," Wales explained, going back to the stove. "I think you're just saying that... to annoy Arthur."

"Have you tasted England's cooking?" France asked, shocked. Wales thought about it.

"I... like Arthur's cooking."

France nearly gagged, but managed to at least turn his head away first. "C'est probablement le concept le plus effrayant que j'ai jamais entendu."

"Whu...?"

"Oh, nothing," France waved it off. "Forget about it."

Wales stared at him. Or seemed to be. France really was wondering if the man even had eyes.

"I'm... watching... you..." Wales said stubbornly.

France tried not to snicker. "All right." Wales gave a curt nod and went back to cooking. France reaffirmed a previous theory that everyone who lived on these isles outside of Europe was rather insane.

"Wales, why do you help him?"

This question was taboo. This question was horrible. This question was hypocritical. And France was asking it for the last reason alone. Maybe if he heard someone answering it he would understand it when he did the same thing.

"Help who?" Wales questioned, facing him once more.

"England."

"He's my li'le brother," Wales replied with little thought. France nearly laughed. He had spent a lot of time pretending to be England's older brother. Of course, that was before he realized that the reason why England was so against it was because the two brother's he had in the north who fashioned themselves as his older brothers actually were his brothers.

"So?"

"Yeah..." Wales nodded. This time France did laugh.

"You don't even feel like defending your claim, étrange." He slid his hand under Wales' chin to turn the Nation's head his way.

"What?"

France kissed him so he would stop tasting blood.

Wales hit him. It took him a while to comprehend that. Wales actually hit him. Hit him and ran off. The second thing he noticed was that it had not really hurt.

Which left France wondering which he should be more curious about – the fact the action had upset Wales so much or the fact Wales' fist had not hurt when colliding with his recently broken jaw.

"'ello, puddin'."

France grimaced and rubbed at his jaw. "I told you to stop calling me that."

Scotland chuckled and lifted the top of the pot on the stove. "Mmm... Tatws Pum Munud..." Scotland dipped the ladle in and pulled it up, blowing at it for a few moments before sipping some of it. "Where's Wales?"

Scotland's punch would hurt. France shrugged.

His jaw started to hurt.

And he could still taste the blood.

The small lull in the rain was over. By the time Scotland left he was feeling rather stupid for not having brought his umbrella. He could have taken one of England's, but the last time England had bough an umbrella was a few hundred years ago and those things were such a pain to even open.

"'ere."

Scotland pushed some of his sopping hair out of his eye to see the red head, who shoved the umbrella in his hand.

"I'm... sorry," Ireland mumbled, before he turned and left, running through the rain.

Scotland watched him as he often watched his brother. With irritation and a little bit of grudging adoration.

Mabon was laughing. Scotland flicked him.

"My bro'ers are insane," Scotland lamented to the crying sky. Where was Wales? He had not seen the other while he was there. And then he realized something.

Damn. Does that mean I have to apologize to that stupid Irishman?

"No! No! It is not me! I haven't done it!"

A part of Wales wondered if this was an overreaction. The rest of Wales was content to react. Either way the Nation was freaking out, only a little short of a full blown panic attack. Running down the muddy hill, sliding down after falling, ending up covered in brown with the rain still coming down not to wash any of it off, but to simply make everything wetter.

Wales had long ago come to the conclusion that without England there was no use for the Nation who used to spend all time out on the edge of the water. No use at all. Without England, there was nothing.

Staring down at the water which came up to the roof, Wales sobbed, arms wrapping around torso as if holding tighter would keep everything together.

When had there been such hydrophobia? A long time ago. When the realization came that Wales was useless without England.

Wales hated to see England sad. Wales hated it when England was hurt. France usually caused one of those. At least, that was what Scotland had said, when the haze of the alcohol had finally left. France and England circled each other so often...

Wales could remember that. It had been going on so long it was something Wales could actually remember.

The only person, the last person, Wales could remember telling anything to was England. But tell England this?

Wales stared down at the water and cried.

People can proceed to make their 'France is a jerk or not' related comments now~

"C'est probablement le concept le plus effrayant que j'ai jamais entendu." = "That concept probably is the most frightening that I have ever heard."

"Étrange" = "strange one."

Hey look, Wales' weird way of talking is more noticeable in this. I hope no one got completely lost when the Nation failed to speak in past tense. And Wales' hydrophobia is about large bodies of water, not in drinking it or the rain. Not until it becomes the depth capable of drowning someone.

First time writing Sealand... I hope I did not utterly botch him up. Anyone who guessed Sealand (which was quite a few, but I will take you all in because I love you!) can send me their request for a drabble! No worries, it will not make updates on this story hesitate at all, it will simply give me some other things to do when I have a bit of writer's block.

And yes, I did mean to mention Belarus there. Why? You will find out, though most likely only by the prequel.

For anyone curious about the time... this was a piece of November for our lovely Nations.