I apologize if this update is a bit… spacy, but I've been pretty sick for a while, so my mind isn't at its peak XD, plus my grandpa fell in his kitchen and they put him in a nursing home, so things are getting hectic DX. Other than all that, it's mostly because this is just one of those places in the story where important things just seem like fillers. Just wanted to say that before I put it out.
Lastly, I was just wondering if anyone would mind helping me with the cover. I have an image I can use, but it's only of America and Canada, and, of course, it's not the rare 'over-protective Canada' picture(I'm pretty sure it's HetaOni, to be honest). I can draw it myself, but I don't think it would be exactly 'quality', but I trust that my favorite readers can lend me a hand XD
...
…
….Part 9: Lament….
Dear God, let this be just a bad nightmare.
Roy Horn
…
Mathieu stayed up the rest of the night with Alfred, even after he was able to coax the other to sleep.
The Canadian didn't want him to wake up for a while, so every time the American moved or shifted even the slightest, Matt would shush him kindly till he would rest again. Alfred didn't wake up much, but it was hard to get him to sleep after he did, but at least they didn't wake up the others. Matt guessed that it was almost morning at the moment, but everyone appearing to be sleeping so soundly, he didn't want to wake them.
Since Alfred wasn't moving too much, he laid the wet cloth on his twin's forehead and put his good arm around his chest to pulling his sweating, feverish body closer.
After a few seconds of just watching Alfred, Mathieu hesitantly started to play with this hair, just to keep himself occupied.
Alfred flinched a little at the sudden movement, like he did every time he felt something touch him, and he reflexively started to move away a little, though not enough to make the wet cloth fall.
Matt sighed and pulled him back, "I'm so sorry, Al," he leaned his chin on Alfred's shaking shoulder, "I'm so sorry I don't know how to help you."
It was so wrong for something like this to happen, the Canadian was confused over what to do. He himself knew his main role at the moment was to do exactly what he was doing; take care of his brother. That and make sure they and everyone else got out of here alive. He had those goals, but Matt just didn't know how to accomplish them.
They were already beyond damaged (the things they saw in the cell would stay with them forever), but Matt just wanted to get his brother home. After what had happened, he felt that he deserved that much. But he didn't want his Papa and England to be upset when they reunited, even though he couldn't do much to help, but he needed to at least try to fix the damage Smirnov and his men had done.
But, as he looked at Alfred's sweat and tear covered face, he found himself wondering if the task was too large, or too impossible, or even not worth the effort. Just at a glance, he could see his twin was lost, broken, and, most importantly, hurting.
Alfred had always been the strong one since they were born, and Mathieu had no idea how to take on his role. He would probably fail horribly at being a protector, but goddammit if he was going to let anyone do something this to Alfred again! He had to try; it wasn't a question, it was a fact. Matt had to do whatever it took to save him, and he would do it gladly, he just needed to find out how.
Suddenly, he felt a motion against his chest pulling him out of his thoughts.
Alfred flinched in his sleep, biting a quivering lip. His shaking increased as he gasped, eyes shut tight.
Nightmare, Matt inwardly sighed, How many of those had he been through all alone during his torture? The Canadian tried not to think about that question as he went into action.
"Shh…" he whispered, taking his hand, "It's okay. I'm here."
Alfred tried to get away from his hand.
"It's just me, Al," Matt sighed, "Don't worry."
He quietly gave a small sob and shook harder.
"Take a deep breathe," he wiped some sweat from his brow with the cloth, "Remember where you are, Al. You're with me, Alfred. You're safe now."
Alfred's eyes jolt open as he almost flew forward. He panted, eyes wide as he felt like vomiting. Matt flinched for a second as his broken arm was thrown forward, but recovered in a second.
The Canadian used his good arm to led Alfred against his chest and he laid them both down on the floor, "Just breathe," he whispered, stroking his hair, "Just keep breathing for me, alright?"
Alfred registered who was holding him quickly, and turned into the warmth behind him so he could bury his tear covered face in the fabric.
"Shh…" Matt soothed, trying to hide his sadness at seeing his strong brother reduced to this state, "It's alright. They aren't going to hurt you anymore, Alfred. I swear it."
And they stayed like that till morning, the American's sobs eventually subsiding as he fell asleep against Mathieu's chest.
"Please hold on," Mathieu lamented, "I can't do this for much longer. I can't watch all of my friends suffer anymore. First little Peter, now Alfred, who's next? I don't understand what I need to do to help them. We won't survive at this rate. We're never going to make it." He buried his face in Alfred's hair, just to try and calm himself down, "How am I going to do this?"
In his lamenting, he didn't notice the shadow over him. He also didn't notice when Roderich's jacket was wrapped tighter around his shoulders and another jacket was placed on him as well.
Matt didn't look up as a hand brushed hair from his eyes, or when a small kiss was placed on his head; he knew who it was, so he didn't do anything about it.
Elizabeta's motherly hand gently caressed him sadly, "We're going to be fine," she whispered, "Have faith."
"There's no faith left," Matt quietly cried without lifting his head.
"We need to just find our own then," she smiled, "Giving up hope so soon isn't worth it. We have nothing to do but hope."
Matt raised his head slightly and looked at his twin's face, "I don't want them to break us."
The Hungarian sighed, "Then don't let them."
….Part 10: Summarizing….
I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
Jack Kerouac
(aka. Danny couldn't find any quotes)
…
Five weeks later, not much had changed for group.
They were only visited every morning by a soldier, who would throw them a small amount of food, and leave. Alfred was healing well, but he still remained silent, except for the occasional sigh or such noise. Mathieu was still a bit upset about his brother's sudden trauma-induced silence, but he realized that there was no point in trying to make him speak. He figured Alfred would talk when he was ready, and he would wait if his twin wanted him to.
What had happened the night the American came back was something they chose not to talk about. They tried to ignore the rare, quiet sobs they could hear at night from the brothers' corner, as well as did they dismissed the gentle shushing. They're was not thing they could do at the time, and whenever anyone besides Matt tried to subdue Alfred in his feverish hallucinations, the American would only hide his face and tense up, his breathing turning even more labored.
On rare occasions, Alfred was sometimes able to find enough strength to open his eyes and actually answer short 'yes or no' questions if they weren't to prying or reminded him of anything. When they did manage that much, all they would receive would be a small nod or shake of his head, though the effort normally would lull him to a tired sleep after one or two questions.
Despite of that, they were quite glad to have their American back, regardless of his mental state. Alfred was at least a little safer physically with them than he was under the torture of their captors, even if he was so weak he can barely move. They just wanted to get him home in one piece.
So, five weeks had past, and all seemed well.
"Here, boys," Elizabeta smiled as she handed them food rations.
Mathieu reached over with his good arm and took them, "Thank you, Lizzy."
The Canadian took the bread and started to ripe it into small, easy-to-chew pieces for his twin. He also did the same to half of the second piece, which was meant for him.
"Feeling any better, Alfred?" she knelt down and looked down fondly to the American in Matt's lap.
Alfred looked up at her hesitantly shaking slightly. He attempted to shrug slightly as answer, but it came out more of a wince.
The Hungarian chuckled, "I'm glad your back. I truly am."
When she left, Matt took the bread and tried to coax the other to eat the bread.
Alfred turned away from the stale bread and shook his head.
"Come on, Al," Mathieu sighed, insistent, "You need to eat something."
He could feel his brother just settling deeper into his arms, hiding his face.
"Alfred," he said warningly, "I'm not giving in until you eat."
The American gazed up slowly, tired eyes begging for him to just let him sleep.
"No," Matt said, trying to get the food to his mouth again, "Eat."
Alfred looked at him considerately, before allowing Matt to put some of the bread in his mouth.
While Matt mentally celebrated his little triumph, Roderich startled the others by biting his thumb until blood dripped to the ground.
"Roderich!" Peter jumped, "What are you doing?"
The Austrian ripped a medium size cloth from his shirt, "I'm going to try and get contact with the others."
"You mean-" Elizabeta started.
"Yes, the other nations," he said as he put the fabric on his lap, "I'll ask Toris to take it to them as soon as he comes back again."
"That's a good idea," Matt said from other side of the room, "They're all probably so worried."
"With good reason," Roderich nodded, "I figured that keeping contact might very well keep us occupied for a little while what with all that's going on. That, and I think they would like to know what's going on from us directly instead of just from Toris."
"What should we tell them about?" Lovino asked.
"Whatever we want," Roderich said, "As long as it fits on the cloth."
"I think..." Matt sighed, leaning his chin in Alfred's hair, "We should be honest. Tell them everything."
Roderich smiled, "That won't fit on the cloth."
"We make it fit."
...Part 11: A Letter Home….
Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.
Samuel Johnson
….
To the remainder of the free nations.
That was how the letter started.
To the remainder of the free nations, we are still alive.
Arthur had read those reassuring words so many times, he could recite it better than America could his Preamble.
Though this place is our hell on earth, we have hope for a speedy end to this war and our freedom.
They were strong words, a little naïve, but they made the Englishman feel like he wasn't the only one willing to fight this war.
The rest of the letter Toris had brought them was simple, and to the point; We are still here, but we need help.
It was written on filthy cloth in blood, but Arthur expected nothing better, what else would they have to spare? He did hope the blood wasn't America's or Sealand's, such a thing would be too gruesome for him to look at, but, by the rather fine fond it was in, he guessed either Austria or Hungary had written it (though he thought the rather poetic and vivid greeting line sounded eerily like a certain document that had haunted him for years).
They told them threw the letter that they were all alive, but Arthur could see the implied. He knew they were in pain, even if they didn't specify how. He would find out what they needed, got it to them, then he would save them.
Though it did seem that he was the only one who was coming to their rescue.
Arthur forced himself to stop his thoughts and put down the letter.
He didn't think he could get the other nations to help, so, other than that frog, Francis, he was alone. Arthur needed more help if he was going to do anything for them, but he could see he wasn't going to get it.
"Everyone wants to help you, you know," Toris guessed what he was thinking, "They just need a push in the right direction."
"Torture and kidnapping isn't enough anymore?" Arthur scoffed as the Lithuania sat beside him, "What more has to happen before they feel the need to lend us a hand?"
Toris looked over to him sadly, without saying anything.
"What?" Arthur looked at him, confused, "Did something happen?"
"…" Toris bit his lip, "Arthur…" he sighed, "He's dying, or at least he's close."
Arthur froze, "Who?" he grabbed Toris' shoulders, shaking him roughly, "Who's dying, Lithuania? Tell me now!"
The Lithuanian didn't try to fight him off, "England… its America."
Arthur stopped shaking him and dropped his hands to his sides, "W-What? That isn't… that isn't possible… He's too strong he… He couldn't be dying."
"Even heroes can fall, Arthur," Toris sighed, "You of all people should know that by now."
"But he's America!" the Brit insisted, turning away with a hand to his forehead, "Nothing can kill that idiot, not even Russia!"
"I said he's close," Toris stated calmly, "But he's in enormous pain and Austria tells me he's showing clear signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. He won't tell anyone exactly what happened (he won't say anything to be exact), but we have a good idea what happened by his appearance."
"How?" Arthur breathed, "What could break him? What in the world could the do to America that could do that?"
"Arthur," he forced the Brit to face him, "They raped him."
Arthur just looked on, "W-What? T-That… No, he would never let that happen! America is too strong for that!"
The Brit blew off Toris' calming hand and ran up the stairs, "No! I won't believe it!"
He speed into his bedroom, taking the letter with him, and slammed the door shut.
He sunk down against the wall, wiping tears from his eyes as he tried to stop the thoughts of his brother from his mind. Arthur couldn't stop his imagination from drawing up the screams and wails he put with the images of all the war time atrocities he had seen in his life time. He didn't want to pair the bright, happy, and sometimes annoyingly joyful young man with such a horrible act, but he knew that he had no reason to doubt Toris. It had to be true.
"Why?" he cried into his arm, "Why would this happen?"
He looked down shakily to the letter, skipping most of it, till he came to the very end. The prisoners had written their names on the bottom in their own blood (obviously individually as they all looked different).
Arthur quickly acknowledged the loopy script of 'Roderich' and the small 'Elizabeta' and 'Lovino', till he came to his boys.
He chuckled as he ran a hand over the rough capitals of a childishly written 'SEALAND'. He missed the little boy so much, it hurt worse than the blitzkrieg. 'Canada' was written small and loftily on the very bottom, though he skipped over it to look at another.
At first, he didn't even recognize the writing, but after what Toris told him, Arthur guessed that his twin had guided his hand to form his name (the Englishman also figured that if he was that injured, it was probably written in Canada's blood and not America's). The sloppy signature made him hold back a sob.
Arthur knew his brother's signature like the back of his hand. Large, flamboyant, curvy, and bold; all in all, clean yet impossible to miss. But the rough, jagged, and forced lines making the name 'Alfred' just weren't right. They hand that wrote its owners name had to be shaking quite a bit, but it just scared Arthur further.
"Why couldn't it have been me?" the Brit cried quietly with his head down, "Why did this have to happen?"
He heard the door open, but didn't move.
Francis sunk down next to him, snaking an arm around his neck, "Toris told me what happened to your Amerique."
"It can't be true," Arthur shook his head, "It just can't."
"Angleterre…" the Frenchman sighed, "Please try to calm yourself."
"Shut up, frog," he growled, "What would you do if it was Canada?"
"I'd mourn," Francis nodded, "I'd mourn the loss of my petit lapin's happiness, and safety, and innocence, but then I would do what any good Papa would do."
Arthur scoffed, "And what would that be?"
"I'd go and I'd kill the person or persons who did it," he smirk, "I'd probably loss my cool and the bastards who dared to even think of touching my dear little frère would meet a fate far worse than death. Of course, you're a gentleman, so I would expect a little more planning from you."
"He didn't deserve this, Francis," Arthur buried his face in his hands.
"No one does," he rubbed his friend's back, "But our Amerique the least. Then again, this is war. Nothing surprises me."
Francis gently eased his hands away from his face and gently kissed his forehead, "Have no fear, Angleterre. Your little brother is as much as my little brother. I know that you will never be happy until your brother is safe by your side, and his tormentors are dead and buried. You aren't alone in this battle. We will bring all of them home together."
"Francis…" Arthur was stunned, "I-I…"
"Sh," he smiled as he pulled both of them to their feet, "We should have Toris bring Amerique some clothes. He's probably freezing by my guess."
The Englishman regained himself, "I-I think I have some of his clothes in the guest room," he forced a small chuckle, "America always leaves something lying around."
"Good," Francis smiled and led him out of the room, "Then let's hurry."
"I don't think we have much longer to wait," Arthur sighed as he left the room.
….
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