Rating: T

Talking: Okay, here's today's chapter! I'm also debating on whether I should publish a fifteen-chapter fanfiction about Switzerland being so done with the world.

Also, the Scottish Gaelic here is from Google Translate so I've got no clue if it's right or not. I hope! :)

And a third thing: my computer decided to finally let me see the weird coding thing in a few of the chapters (please tell em if you find any more). And instead of copy and paste, I rewrote it all. It was great. *sarcasm approaching god-level*

Disclaimer: I do not hold or claim to hold any sort of ownership or rights over the characters in this story: they belong to Hetalia/Hidekaz Himaruya

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

England is bent over a complicated but familiar array of sigils drawn on a summoned chalkboard, his wings twitching anxiously and folded tightly, his movements quick as he begins to chant.

I can't hear him-muffling spell, probably the same one he used yesterday when I had that battle with Spain-but I can see him, and I know exactly what's going on. Can he hear me, too? Or does the spell work both ways?

"Non!" I shout, and I know he can hear me because he jumps and turns, the spell broken. Then, promptly, the whole thing blows up in our faces.

I don't really register anything until I notice that I'm lying on the ground, my wing trapped painfully under a wooden beam and canvas covering my wing and arm. I'm staring up at the blank blue sky and listening to England's shouts.

Wait, what?

"Dè bha sibh a 'smaoineachadh?" he yells, and it takes me a second to figure out what he's saying, and what language he's speaking in. Scottish Gaelic. Why is he using his brother's language? Don't they hate each other, anyway?

So what's he saying? "What were you thinking?"

"Uill, tha mi duilich, cha do rinn thu ag iarraidh fhaicinn ann an Coma, Sasainn," I call back, sitting up and gingerly pushing the canvas off me.

And what am I saying? "Well, sorry I didn't want to see you in coma, England."

I can see his head emerge from the center of the collapsed tent, and dimly, I realize that we have an audience. He glares at me fiercely, "Like tha fo ur cùram mu dheidhinn sin."

What? No! Of course I care! "Mì-chùramach! Tha thu ro-chùramach, Sasainn!" And he is too reckless, too careless. He needs to learn that nations can still die, and that he's not truly immortal.

"Archmage, Head Practitioner, please stop shouting!" Germany orders, stepping forward from the crowd that has gathered.

"What language was that?" I hear someone whisper, and I'm glad that at least England chose a language not many speak-at least, not here.

And how did England know I speak it? I learned it from his brother a long time ago, back when our people had a strong alliance. But from what I know, England tried to stay away from us. We emwere /emhis two worst enemies, after all.

Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was magic. Maybe he was smarter than I thought.