Special thanks to Fluffy's Lady, Mrs. Ivashkov4Eva , Dragonna, HorsesRain, Fionn Rose, MyJen, aquamarinetiger98, cheshiresapprentice, Inspirationally Red and Kosaji for their reviews. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
"Stupid America... Wanker... Immature brat... Why didn't he give up?! We could have gotten along so well! He shouldn't have grown up! We were so happy!"
Francis looked down at the sobbing man in disgust. Ever since he had arrived here, he had been having mood swings from yelling and demanding to see his former colony to curling up in the corner and crying over the times they had shared before. When he wasn't doing any of that, he was covering the living room floor with crumbled pieces of papers that would often begin with 'Dear big headed prick' and end with 'Just come home to me!' whilst being smeared with tears.
But at least he hadn't caused any serious trouble since he got here. Unless you counted that time when he first spotted Francis and tried to break his nose. Scotland had cut in before a full on fight happened and banged their heads so hard that Francis saw stars.
Now the French nation was supporting a headache and a bandaged nose.
"He would have remained my little brother!"
Pitiful. Francis rolled his eyes and decided it was best to just ignore him. Francis didn't even want to touch that mess who was hiccupping between the tears. He laid out the dinner plates on the table. He had spent the last hour slaving away in the kitchen to cook a meal that would have to feed four Englands, Scotland, and himself. Still, it had given him time to calm down and think over Alfred had been ranting on about down the phone.
He sighed and removed his hair-bobble to redo his ponytail that was beginning to come undone. Scotland had been moving between the basement and Arthur's bedroom and demanded the assistance of the knight. The child hadn't even come down to cling to him and Francis was starting to miss having him around. Merde, even the knight would have been better company than that idiot in the living room.
"Pull yourself together and help me dish up!" Francis said sharply to the red coat figure in the corner. "I can trust you to get out the knives and forks, oui?"
The Revolution!War Arthur turned around and gave Francis the darkest look he could master with his cheeks tear-stained. "Go to Hell..." he whispered in a voice that could summon the Devil.
Why had he expected any other response? Francis glared sharply at him, ignored the shiver that went down his spine, and resisted the urge to throw the spatula at him. He failed and it hit the England at the back of the head as Francis went past and headed up the stairs and ignored the threats and insults being called up after him.
France knocked on the door to Arthur's bedroom. A foul smell was emitting from it. Francis pinched his nose and waved his hand in front of his face. Just what were they all doing in there?
He didn't get any reply so invited himself into the room to find out what the source of the stench was. A large cauldron was resting in the middle of the room. Scattered around it were several herbs and ugly looking things that France didn't want to know. The Knight was knelt down beside the cauldron and stirred it while wearing an expression that told him he really didn't want to be there.
Scotland was sitting cross legged in-between the cauldron and the bed with a thick leather bound book sitting on his lap. He was muttering to himself and tossing ingredients into the cauldron. The child was still lying upon the bed with the original Arthur. None of them bothered to look up at him or even give any signs of acknowledging him.
Francis cleared his throat in a poor attempt to get their attention. None even battered an eyelid. Francis's patience was growing thin with the British nations. He slammed the door behind him and snapped in annoyance, "I am not going to be wasting my time here! You all get downstairs now and have dinner or you won't be getting anything later!"
"We'll eat it cold," Scotland muttered without looking up.
Francis wanted to cry. Did no one here except him have any respect to real food? It wasn't something that you could put into the microwave and heat up! All his hard work would be put to waste and he did not approve of wasting good food! Not only that but he was now being treated as a housemaid, cook, and babysitter with no respect being given to him for all the hard work!
He opened his mouth to argue back when Scotland suddenly closed the book with a loud bang and stood up.
"What are you doing?" The Frenchman asked in spite of himself.
"There's five Englands running around, all coming from one source. Their history has been shared out along with their immortality. It's fixed so one cannot have more than the other. Which means –"
"- their immorality is thinning out?" Francis finished off with a large lump hitting his stomach.
"Precisely."
"You don't mean that –"
Scotland knelt down beside the cauldron and poured the foul smelling mixture into a flask. "I mean they're becoming more mortal like with each new comer." He raised a finger and pointed at the Knight who flinched. "Take a look at his scar."
"Hmm?" Francis knelt down beside the knight who leant back his head so show an ugly fresh scar on his neck from where the pirate had slashed through. Nations healed at an extreme rate and a wound like that would have appeared to be nothing more than a thin fading scar but this one looked so fresh that Francis half expected it would open again. It made him feel sick to look at it.
Francis finally looked at the corpse like figure on the bed that his instincts had tried to prevent happen. The original Arthur had not been responding to anything and barely had a heartbeat left within him since the last split. Francis then spotted the child who was clinging to Arthur's chest with a tearful gaze but was stubbornly refusing to cry. Francis swallowed the lump in his throat but was unable to go over to comfort the child with the two nations and equipment blocking his path on the floor.
"Will he make it?" Francis attempted to sound less concerned than he really was. It was difficult not to feel close to someone who you have been stuck next to for a thousand years and, though he didn't want to admit it; France would be terribly upset if something happened to England.
"Ya can bet on it." Scotland took the flask over to the bed and poured out a small amount. Francis was surprised to see that, despite its smell, it was of a golden colour. Scotland poured a small mouthful of it into Arthur's open mouth and rubbed the Englishman's throat so he swallowed it.
The Scot waited but nothing happened. This appeared to have been a good thing for there was a faint trace of a smile on his lips. He sealed the flask and placed it on the bedside table. "That will keep him going until we can get to America."
"We're going to America? You believe what he said? But it's ridiculous!" In all honesty, a small voice at the back of Francis' mind said, the whole week had been nothing but one ridiculous and unbelievable thing after another. Firstly it was mention of all this magic and now he was being told about advanced alien technology? How he longed for the time where everything made sense to him.
"England and I both know that it's not any normal magic that caused this. Therefore, it has to be something out of our league and if that means in believing its coming from a force off this planet then so be it."
It was amazing how sudden people could alter their lifetime worth of beliefs when death was creeping in on them or someone close to them. Francis was no stranger to that and would pray to any god from any religion if he thought he was going to die. It was a 'better safe than sorry' practice he had grown up to have.
"Give him a mouthful of that every half an hour," Scotland instructed him. "Don't you dare forget to and don't be a minute late about it."
"Are you now leaving?"
"Aye. I'm gonna get the last two pieces we need to fix this."
Francis sighed. "Bien, those stuffy guards have been waiting outside for you for the last forty minutes! I cannot stand to see the sight of them any longer!"
"Tough cause they'll be with us for a while." Scotland headed downstairs with Francis following behind him. "They'll be taking us straight to America's when we get back so be ready to leave when I get back 'cause I'm not waiting around for ya."
Patient as always, Francis thought bitterly, had everyone forgotten about his assistance on the first few days of this madness? He shook his head and held a hand to his forehead that was still aching. "But what about dinner?"
"Had a whiskey not so long ago."
"That doesn't count as a meal!"
Scotland smirked as he pulled on his coat and opened the backdoor. "Don't die," he added as he closed the door and walked off.
Francis stared at the backdoor and stamped his foot in frustration. Damn those British brothers! "I want payment for all of this!" he yelled at the door. A Frenchman was not made to do all this work for no pay!
His sleeve was soaked with blood. It mixed unpleasantly with the sea water that continued to splash ruthlessly against him. The salt seeped under the clothing and into the wound and made the pain almost unbearable. Had he been human, he would have passed out and drowned by now but being a nation meant that he just grinded his teeth together and dealt with it.
He spat out a mouthful of salt water and licked his lips but instantly regretted it when he tasted the saltiness. That pirate had highly underestimated him if he thought he would go down from only one shot. He was a nation. He was the United States of America! No mere gun would be enough to keep him down!
Reflexes had saved him from a far worst injury. Using the knowledge he gained by watching many of his action movies and the countless amount of experience he had had in the past, America had timed himself to perfection. When the pirate fired at him, the nation fell back so the bullet only gazed his arm and he hit the water with a huge splash. He recovered fast enough to swim over to one of the fort pillars and clung on for dear life.
"Fucker!" Alfred snapped as he glared up at the fort above. He'll give the pirate major payback for that! But he would need to get up there first...
Keeping himself against the pillar so the current couldn't drift him away, Alfred tugged off his jacket and then his shirt. He didn't even bother to check the injury for his urge to punch the pirate in the face overcame any pain.
He tied a sleeve of the jacket to the sleeve of the shirt. The dress-up shop owner did inform him that this was one of the best materials and now it was time to put that to the test. He removed Texas from the pocket and placed his glasses back onto his face then he tossed the improvised rope around the pillar and tightly grasped hold of both ends. He pressed his foot against the pillar and slowly began to heave himself up.
Man, the pirate was going to get his arse kicked big time!
But he barely managed a few feet up when the fort began to move. He lost his balance and slipped down into the water but kept a firm hold of the clothed rope. He glared angrily at the fort above him.
Gritting his teeth together again, Alfred made his second attempt up the pillar. His shoes were not made to have a good grip and several times he slipped.
He angrily kicked at the pillar, yelping when he hit his toes, and shook off as much water from the shoes as he could. The waves were still hitting into him and the speed of the fort was putting him at risk of falling back from the high wind.
His anger faded away to give way to a growing smile. A hero never gave up! No matter what the odds were against him! He'll defeat the villain and save the victim! With this new found confidence building inside, Alfred began another attempt up the pillar.