I just found out a little while ago, that if this were a songfic, the songs used would all be by Red. They have songs I can use as themesongs for every character here! The one for Wales, I can give already, seeing as there are no spoilers there... 'Take it all away', and especially these lyrics: "I'm breaking, I can't do this on my own. Can you hear me screaming out, or am I all alone...?"

And of course, thank you, That One Guest, for another great review!

And uh... warning for this chapter: sadness. Lots of sadness.

As it was already late when he arrived, Wales stayed with Ireland that night. The following day they went to London together, where they arrived late as well and stayed at England's place. And the next morning, they had to be at the harbour early already to pick up the youngest of their brothers. England really didn't look good, but most of all, he really didn't look pleased. Ireland could understand that feeling, as he too had been going through it: he wanted to fight for his people in their rising and battle for independence so bad, but he hadn't had a real chance to do anything for a long time. England would experience that same feeling of uselessness now, and Ireland almost felt bad for him. Almost.

They were on their way home now, Ireland driving with Wales beside him, England on the backseat of the car. The youngest nation's expression showed nothing but frustration, and Wales' questions did nothing to help. "So how're you feeling now, Arthur?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at his brother, who sighed. "Just fine, thank you." Ireland barked out a short laugh at his answer, and shook his head while saying, "Lad, I can tell ye have a fever just lookin' at ye, an' yer here fer a good reason. Or didn't ye realise yer breathing squeaks a lil'? Yer lungs are in no condition, yer throat is obviously ruined -I can tell by yer voice, 'tis raspy- an' yer mood... By God, I've never seen one in such a terrible condition!" The last part was a joke purely intended to piss off his little brother, and it worked splendidly. England huffed in anger -again with that squeaking noise Ireland had mentioned- and gritted his teeth. "Just shut up, will you?" he muttered. "And honestly, where has your English gone? The language you're speaking right now resembles it just the slightest, but..."

"Left it at me home," Ireland replied with a smirk. "I'll go pick it up sometime later, after we've picked up Allistair th'day after t'morrow." In the mirror, he could see England suddenly looking at him with narrowed eyes. "Allistair? Why is he coming home a-" Suddenly it dawned on him, and his expression changed to one of complete horror as he breathed, "H-how bad is it...?" Wales sighed and shook his head slowly, then looked over his shoulder at England again. "He's currently fighting to even stay alive," he told him, then looked at Ireland and added, "which is why I think we won't be picking him up like we did Arthur, just visiting him in hospital until he's recovered enough. If he ever will." It was silent for a moment before he asked his older brother, "Do you think you can stay away from Dublin for so long?"

His question struck Ireland quite hard. Damn, he hadn't even though about that. He'd missed a training session with the Volunteers the day before, he knew that already. But he wasn't going to leave until Scotland was awake again at the very least. He would just have to call Clarke and tell him he wouldn't be available for anything for a little while. And the mand would just have to understand, and if he didn't, that was his goddamn problem, not Ireland's. He had a personal life as well, and that was being turned upside down right now. And if anyone dared to tell him he had duties to fulfill, well, just let them hear two of their younger brothers are sick and injured, one of them fatally. Let's see what they'd have to say then. Ireland's only duty now was to take care of all three of his younger brothers.

Around midday two days later, the three of them were in the hospital where Scotland had just been brought in and examined, and they were now questioning the doctor about his condition. "Most importantly," Ireland eventually said, "will he live?" The man took a deep breath and nodded. "Fortunately, he will. Being a nation, his wounds have healed pretty nicely over the past few days." England, Wales and Ireland all sighed in relief, tiny smiles showing up on their faces for the first time in days. "However," the doctor went on, catching their attention again. "He is still nowhere near healed and he will have to remain here for at least another day. After that, he can come home with the three of you, but make sure he doesn't walk around too much and gets plenty of rest. Check his wounds frequently to see if they're infected, and if they are, I'm sure you know what to do. If it gets too bad, return him here." Wales nodded, agreeing to this. "Ofcourse. Anything to make him all right again."

The human sighed for a moment. "One more thing, though. Chlorine damages the lungs, airways, throat and inside of the mouth, but other things as well." Ireland's heart skipped a beat as he heard these words, and he was afraid of what was going to be said next. But he still just listened. "And considering he wasn't wearing a mask by the time the attack started, I'm afraid I have to tell you... his eyes will be damaged too." Ireland heard England gasp softly and saw him looking down at those words, and he himself just breathed, "Y-you mean his sight will be...?"

The doctor shook his head. "I'm afraid not. It will not just be bad, sir, it will be nonexistent." A large crevice seemed to open up beneath Ireland's feet at that moment, and he felt as if he was falling into the darkness and just kept on falling. His dearest little brother would be... blind? His stomach twisted and he felt a sudden nausea coming up, but he surpressed it as much as he could. After a moment of shocked silence, Wales softly asked, "Will it be permanent?" The doctor just shook his head again and confessed, "There's no telling at this point. Humans who have survived this were almost all blind as well, only some weren't -the lucky ones. But seeing as you're nations, I cannot say for sure if he's even blind -though I suspect he is- and wether it will only be temporary or permanent, we'll just have to wait and see. I'm sorry."

After that, the three brothers were allowed to see him, and so they did without a second of hesitation. If they weren't shattered already, they were the moment they saw him lying there: despite the muscle he'd gained over the months in battle, he looked so frail with his upper body bared but almost completely wrapped in bandages. The only things left open were his fingers, neck and face, though he had a cut on his cheek that was bandaged as well. His lips were dry and cracked, blistered as well. His firey red hair stood out even more against his pale skin. His chest rose and fell slowly, but rythmic, and that at least was reassuring.

"I should have gone in his place," came England's voice, rather sudden, whispering. Both Wales and Ireland looked at him in shock. The youngest nation was looking at his older brother with glassy emerald eyes, guilt evident in them. "I knew I should have been the one at the front... then this wouldn't have happened..." Wales grabbed his hand quickly and went to stand in front of him, forcing England to look at him. "Do not blame yourself, Arthur!" he said, tears welling up in his mossy green eyes. "Don't you dare! None of this is your fault, you hear me?" England opened his mouth for a moment, but no sound came out. Then he just bit his lip and only after half a minute did he nod. "Good," Wales said, having a hard time keeping his voice steady. Ireland was still impressed, though: he couldn't even speak at the moment. "Now let's just sit down and... be with him. It's all we can do for him now."

All three of them just grabbed a chair for themselves and sat down beside Scotland's bed, Wales and England on his left, Ireland on his right. And so they sat in silence, neither of them even dared to breathe properly, afraid that they wouldn't hear if Scotland's breathing suddenly stopped, even though they knew for sure he would survive the ordeal. After a while, Ireland found his voice back. "What date is it, actually?" Wales smiled sadly and didn't take his eyes off Scotland. "August 7." Ireland sighed, the same smile appearing on his face, and placed his hand on that of his injured brother. "It's been a full year then," he said softly to him. "Welcome back, Al."

They were at the hospital the following day again as well. It depended completely on Scotland waking up that day or not wether or not he was coming home with them. He did seem to be waking up for an hour already, twitching from time to time and his expression changing with the minute. He seemed to be having a nightmare, though that wasn't too surprising after everything he'd gone through. The three other nations were softly talking to eachother as they sat there, waiting for something to happen. Eventually, Scotland woke up indeed, though he didn't open his eyes yet. "Cear'l?" he rasped softly after hearing his older brother's voice. "Wot're ye doin' 'ere?" Ireland's heart nearly fluttered out of his chest as he leaned forward and gently grabbed Scotland's hand. "I'm visiting ye, o'course." Scotland hummed for a moment. "'M tired... can't ye come later?"

Ireland smiled and shook his head. "Nah, I'm here now, ain't I? Dylan an' Arthur are here too." Scotland's lips moved as if he was saying something, but this time, no sound came over them. England leaned in closer as well and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "How are you feeling, Allistair?" he asked, his eyes shining but glassy again. The half-awake nation hummed again, then answered. "Tired... talkin' hurts... Why're y'all here?" Now it was Wales' turn to speak. "We were worried about you, that's why. Do you remember anything about the past few days?" Slowly, Scotland shook his head, his eyes still closed, much to the brothers' relief. At least they had a chance to tell him what happened before he realised he... Ireland didn't even want to think the word. "You were in an attack," Wales explained, swallowing the lump that was forming in his throat, barely managing to keep his voice steady. "And you got hurt real bad. There was poison gas, and... well, you're in a hospital in London now." Scotland showed no clear reaction to his, just another hum. "Also..." Wales went on, losing the steadiness of his voice now. "There's something else... it's not certain yet, but it will be in a moment... can you open your eyes for a moment...?"

As Scotland's eyelids began to twitch in his effort to open his eyes, Ireland's breathing stopped for a moment. He was scared, so scared for his little brother. And once his eyes were open, the shock didn't fade and nausea took over. Scotland's eyes were glazed over with some sort of milky fog, his blue eyes dull and greyish. The pupil was completely gone. The nation blinked once, twice, then mumbled, "Can't see...?" Wales swiftly got a hold of his older brother's free hand, and nodded. "I-I was afraid this would be the case... Allistair, I-I'm so s-sorry, you... you're blind." Scotland's eyes widened in shock, but quickly relaxed again. "I see... Because of the gas?" It was clear now this last piece of news had jolted him awake completely, as he was fully focused on what his brothers were saying and could finally reply in full sentences again. England confirmed this, to which Scotland narrowed his blind eyes slightly and noticed, "Ye don't sound too good, lad." He lifted his left arm, the side where England sat, which Wales then let go off, and held it out to where he thought his little brother sat. England understood what he wanted to do, grabbed his hand gently and placed it against his own chest, breathing deeply. Scotland felt slight bubbling in the younger nation's lungs as he breathed and heard soft squeaking and rasping, and knew instantly this was an indirect effect of the poison gas.

"Ye should get a doctor t'look at that, Artie," he said sternly, moving his hand up, tracing England's neck and jawline, placing his hand over one side of his face. He didn't look pleased with what he felt. "An' that fever too, lad. Yer sick... take care o'yerself, aye?" England placed both his hands over Scotland's, gritting his teeth. Ireland could see tears quickly welling up in his visible eye, which Scotland must have felt beneath his fingers, as his hand covered the other one. "Oi, Artie, lad," Scotland said softly, a smile spreading on his face. "Don't ye cry now, y'hear me? 'S not necessary. Promise me ye won't be cryin' over me now." At this, England smiled as well, though a sob also escaped his lips. "O-only if you promise me you'll be fine," he replied, laughing for a second. The answer was a quick and determined one. "I will, brother. I will." Taking a deep breath, England nodded and let go of Scotland's hand again. The older brother moved his hand away from the younger one's face, but instead placed it behind his neck and softly pulled him closer. England got the message in an instant and gently hugged his brother, avoiding any injured body part, hiding his face in the crook of Scotland's neck. He did his best, but he couldn't fight every sob that tried to escape.

Looking at this, Ireland could feel warm tears in his own eyes as well, and saw them also rolling down Wales' face, who was smiling at his two brothers, his hand now on Scotland's leg for the sake of keeping contact with him. Scotland had closed his eyes again, giving him a fairly normal appearance aside from the many bandages, and looked completely at peace like that. Looking at the youngest of the family, though, Ireland could almost picture him as the young child he'd been the first time Ireland had seen him after his birth. Only difference was, now, he got the chance to do the one thing he could never do in his early childhood: the simple act of hugging someone when needing that warmth and comfort. Moments like these always stung to Ireland, and he felt a pang of guilt as he realised this. He himself had grown up with his mother, the same went for Scotland. Wales had Scotland in his first years. England had no one, and that had been entirely their fault, as they had completely ignored the fact they had a little brother to take care of in their grief for their mother.

Some minutes went by like that, and at some point, England had moved away and it was Wales' turn to get a good hug from the brother he'd missed so much. And then, when he let go as well, Scotland tilted his face in Ireland's direction, trying to look at him despite not seeing him. "When I'm free to go home again," he began, at which Ireland smiled and said "which is today". Scotland smiled as well and went on, "Well then... Since Artie is sick and Wales must be busy... Can I come home with you, Cearul? I don't want to be a bother to our wee brothers." Ireland grabbed his hand again and took a deep breath. "I'd like nothin' more than to take ye home with me, brother. Yer always welcome."

Scotland's fate was sealed the moment I read the effects of chlorine... sorry 'bout that. It's a terrible weapon, that gas, and I'm still wondering how people could use it back then. I mean, how the hell could they? (And yes, the British and the French used gas as well eventually, not just the Germans)

And poor Arthur... I felt bad writing this, but I just had to, otherwise this fic will portray him mostly as some heartless monster, which he is not. He can feel guilty about things, as he did here, and he really does care about his brothers. Except Ireland, but that's mutual hate between those two. (Though Ireland's older-brother instincts can kick in now and then, mind you)

Anyway, sorry for doing this to Allistair, and thank you very much for reading! I hope you liked it, and please leave a review! I love hearing/reading what my readers think.