Well, obviously, I never did update last week. However, I did have a wonderful vacation, and am fully back into the swing of things again!

I find it amusing that no one figured out who Panem is starving, but, never fear, you will find out in this chapter.

So, without further rambling by me, "Written in Blood", Chapter 14!

Chapter Fourteen: Sever

China had expected torture, and he had braced himself for physical injury. What he had not expected, however, was the dreadful pain in his stomach after two days in his cell without food or water. He had not expected that he would be abandoned in a cold, dark cell, perhaps forgotten by everyone. Perhaps he had been left to die. But he had not expected starvation, not at all.

He had not expected the weak, tired feeling, the thirst, the pain of slipping closer to death, in and out of a painful, starving, thirsty haze.

As the haze of pain grew thicker, though, China welcomed it. He was almost resigned to death, in this moment, because he would finally be able to rest, to sleep without worrying about might have happened in the world by the time he awoke. After four thousand years, China had grown very, very tired. He thought that this might not be such a bad fate-certainly not one as terrible as his younger siblings had suffered.

But on the second day, someone brought him out of the haze. Something cold and smooth was pressed to his lips, and as China looked up, blinking through tired, heavy eyelids, he saw none other than Estonia holding a glass of water to his lips.

"You look like you could use this," Estonia said, his voice oddly quiet and subdued, even for his usual demeanor.

"Thank you, aru," China said, taking a large gulp of water before he realized that it might be better to let himself die of thirst than to prolong whatever pain Panem had in store for him. Still, now that he had water in front of him, he was not quite ready to give up yet. The water brought a slight, revitalizing burst of life into his tired body, and he drank a little more, feeling more of his strength return to him.

There was a long pause, and as China drank, he could see Estonia watching him. There was a sad, tired look in the boy's eyes, an almost broken look, and China felt for Estonia. He remembered then that Lithuania had thought of Estonia as his brother. And then he remembered that Panem had told Lithuania that she had tortured and hurt Estonia.

"She didn't torture you, aru," China said.

Estonia's eyes clouded with fear and pain, and China realized that he was wrong.

"Why would you…? Oh, that's right. You were there when Panem told Lithuania that I'd gone mad, weren't you?"

There was a matter of fact note in the way Estonia spoke, but there was also pain there, and regret.

"She lied to him to make his final moments as painful as possible," Estonia said, and this time there was an unmistakable anguish in his voice.

He looked over at China, a desperate, half mad look in his eyes.

"Did she kill him? After she turned the camera off, did she…?"

China hesitated.

"I don't know, aru," he said slowly, "She knocked me out because I didn't want to…to leave him alone to die."

There was a long silence, and the turmoil in Estonia's eyes startled and hurt China, who wished yet again that he could find some way to rescue these children from this cruel place, and from the terrible fate that doubtless awaited them all.

"I see," Estonia said at last, "I hope he died quickly. But…"

He looked up at China, a sad half-smile on his face.

"Thank you for trying to save him. I'm sure that meant a lot to him, that someone would try to help."

"I should have tried harder," China said, "Maybe then, he…"

"No," Estonia said, "He would have died anyways. That idiot always was good at giving his life for others. They say that is the greatest kind of love. I…I think it's stupidity, but… I'd do it myself, if I was brave like he was."

There was a long, painful silence, and in that silence, China reached out to Estonia, his slim hand brushing across the boy's short hair. Estonia bowed his head, saying nothing, merely watching China through his sad, half-dulled eyes.

"Panem's placed you on a starvation diet," Estonia said at last, "You get one glass of water every two days. I'm to take the glass away when I leave. Can't have you finding some way to kill yourself with it, knowing she's slowly..."

"Don't feel bad about it, aru," China said, managing with difficulty to disguise how painful it was to realize that he was going to die, not quickly as Lithuania had, but slowly and in pain. For if he refused to drink the water that was brought to him, Panem would doubtless still find some way to make him drink just enough to keep him alive and in pain for as long as possible, all the while withholding food from him. And China knew, now, that with water in front of him, he would not be able to refuse it. He would drink whatever water Estonia brought to him, and thus would condemn himself to a longer, more painful torture.

"It's not your fault."

"Maybe not," Estonia said, "But it's still horrible."

Then, the blonde boy stood up. By this time, China's glass of water was empty.

"I'll see you in two days," Estonia murmured, the sad half-smile on his face again, "Take care, China."

China nodded, smiling softly in an effort to reassure Estonia. As the door closed behind the Baltic boy, however, China lay back wearily on the cold floor, all traces of a smile gone.

"Two days until he returns… This will be a long, painful wait, aru."

Belarus' sole wish at this moment in time was that she could reverse the clock. She had seen a film somewhere, a long time ago, in which a girl had the power to heal wounds and reverse the aging process, among other gifts. Now, she wished to have those powers, and not only that, she wished for the power to reverse time itself, sending her back to a time when she could change the course of history.

She also wished that she could throttle Panem. She wanted, more than anything, to see the girl die as brutally as possible. Her sister-Ukraine-was dead. Lithuania was also dead. She herself was in prison. And it was Panem's fault.

She managed to keep from breaking down completely, however, until the second day. She had been left alone before then, other than Latvia's brief, stammering intrusions.

But sometime after the small boy had left, on the second day, there was a buzz of static from somewhere above her, and then, a recording began to play.

She did not realize what it was at first, but then, she heard the high-pitched, nervous voice amid the static, heard an agonized scream, and she knew with a horrible certainty that Panem was trying to break her. How Panem even knew that this would break her, Belarus had no idea. But as she sat there, in the half-darkness of her cell, trying not to listen, she felt herself drifting dangerously close to an overwhelming despair.

It was Lithuania, of course, whom she had to listen to scream over and over again. Somehow, Panem had managed to figure out that playing the audio from the Baltic boy's torture and probable death was the best way to break Belarus.

Maybe it had been something in her eyes, or in her voice, that had alerted Panem that there was far more to the situation than Belarus' apparent hatred for Lithuania. In any case, Panem had picked up on Belarus' feelings, and was now using them against her.

And now, Belarus had no choice but to remember, over and over, exactly how Panem had tortured Lithuania.

"After everything… The person I loved the most hated me. I…I think I did something to make her angry with me… I don't know what, but it must have been horrible… And anyways, no one needs me… Not anymore… So… I… I want to die because… Because I don't have anything to live for…"

"Make it stop…" Belarus murmured, "I don't want to hear it anymore…"

She did care. She did not hate him. She should have told him so. She knew all this, but Lithuania was dead and it did not matter, and if the sounds of his torture did not stop, she would go insane.

Perhaps she was already insane. Perhaps she had been insane from the very beginning, and it was this insanity that had led her to believe that what she had done would not irreparably damage Lithuania. She had underestimated his love for her, it seemed, and at this moment, she wanted to reverse time, so that somehow, she could have at the very least shown him that she cared. She wanted to have been able to comfort him, just once, to tell him…

"He is dead," Belarus whispered, her voice choked, "What you wanted does not matter. Lithuania. Is. Dead."

But if Lithuania was dead, then why was not his memory dead also? Why could she not forget?

"Don't act like you care…"

"I did care…" Belarus choked out, "I did. I'm sorry."

"Belarus, why did you hurt me, in the end…? I don't understand… I don't understand any of this… It hurts…"

Hearing those words repeated for what seemed like the thousandth time, Belarus buried her head in her hands, her knees tucked up close to her chest. She was shaking, sobbing, and she wanted the recording to stop. She wanted to put the dreadful, painful memory far from her and, if she could forget that memory, she would never look back.

But she had to look back, because there was that voice, familiar and kind and hurt. And at that moment, Belarus had never blamed herself for anything more than she blamed herself for what had happened to Lithuania.

"I'm sorry! I'm so very sorry! Please, just let me die!"

Belarus began to cry.

"I-if I had just t-tried to save him… To s-show him I c-cared… W-would he h-have wanted to l-live…?"

England missed his magic desperately. It had been so useful, being able to use magic to get out of a tight situation. Of course, even magic had limits, and he would eventually have had to pay some sort of price for the overuse of his gift. But he would have made that sacrifice gladly to get America and the others out of this dreadful prison.

For the past two days, Estonia had brought them their food, and seeing pain and fear in the Baltic boy's every movement had rekindled England's anger.

Now, though, he was not only angry, but frightened. He was now handcuffed to a table, but the odd thing was that he was allowed to sit in a chair. Only his hands were secured, cuffed directly to the table. It frightened him, not knowing what Panem might do.

He was also painfully aware, by this time, that America would be forced to watch whatever was in store for him. Whether it be live or on video, whatever happened here, America would see it. And that made England even more determined to stay strong, if he could.

"I'm England. I am the United Kingdom. I'm an empire, I'm strong, I'm… Nothing, anymore."

His mental pep talk had failed miserably. But if he could only remember that he must stay strong for America, it would be all right.

As if to prove him wrong, the door slid open, revealing a smiling Panem. England hated that girl's smile. It always meant that something horrible was going to happen, whether to him or to someone else, it did not matter. Panem's smile was frightening and dangerous.

"Hello, England," Panem said, sliding into the chair across from him, "How are those burns healing up?"

Involuntarily, England winced. His burns were still not fully healed, and every time they were mentioned, he found painful memories rising unbidden to haunt him.

"Flames. So many flames, throughout history, and there were some directed against me as a person, not me as a nation… It was frightening…"

He bit his lip, hard, trying to disguise his discomfort.

"Not too well, I presume, judging by the pathetic whimpering noise you're making," Panem commented, "Well, let's see if we can't boost your mood. I have a little something in store today that may not be as frightening to you as flames… But I think it will scare your precious America."

"So he is watching. Whatever happens, America will see…"

"Do your worst!" England snapped, "I don't care what you do to me, but leave him out of this!"

"No can do," Panem said with a quiet laugh, "I'm doing this to get my revenge on him, after all. I couldn't let him miss the show."

Reaching into her pocket, the girl drew out a long, glistening knife.

"I love playing with people's hands," she commented, "Fingers… Such delicate things. Have you ever lost one, England? I'm told that on a nation, they regenerate. But…"

There it was again. That frightening, wicked smile.

"You're not a nation anymore, are you?"

England bit his lip harder. He would not scream. It was not as if he could cast magic anymore, anyways. What were a few fingers…?

It was quick, and the pain came a few seconds after it happened. England had just a second to stare in a detached manner at his own severed fingertip. And then the pain hit him. He had never realized before just how much it hurt to have a finger cut off.

There was a tangy, interesting taste in his mouth, and it took him a moment to realize that his lip had begun to bleed. But he had not screamed. Although his lip was now bloody, he had not screamed.

"Ooh," Panem said, seeming incredibly interested in England's severed fingertip, "That came off really easily! I like this!"

She poked at the fingertip, which England decided to stop thinking of as his own. It did not belong to him anymore, anyways.

It hurt more when the other half of his finger joined the first half, and he whimpered slightly as he bit his already bleeding lip, trying desperately not to break down and beg Panem to stop, to not maim him any further.

He wondered how far she would go. He had already lost his smallest finger, and he wondered… How many more would join it before this torture was over? How long would it be until he screamed, and America heard it? He did not want the boy to witness this.

There was so much blood…

America had never thought that he would be given a reason to hate television. But now, he had a very good reason.

Watching someone being tortured in live and in person and watching the torture on a television were only different when you didn't know the person being tortured. And America knew England very, very well.

Or, at least, he thought he did. He was slightly confused, though, at England's repeated insistence that he, America, be left out of these torture sessions. As far as America knew, England thought of him as an idiot, and improbably as the kid he had raised. But as a friend? As a brother? That thought had rarely crossed America's mind, considering the way England generally behaved toward him, but now it would not leave him alone.

Did England actually care?

It wasn't the world's most important question now, considering the circumstances, and America had no choice but to turn back to the television.

England only had four fingers on his right hand now. There was a lot of blood, more blood than America had known anyone had in their hands, and as he watched, Panem raised an already bloodstained knife.

America winced and looked away, but not fast enough. He saw the knife slash down out of the corner of his eye, saw half of one of England's fingers lying on the tabletop with the two halves of his smallest finger.

"Don't hurt him…" America whispered pleadingly, knowing that he could do nothing, but not wanting to think about it, "Please. Why him? You don't even hate him! Come on, why…?"

He had to admire England's bravery, although it was agonizing to watch and know that it was his own fault that the older man was being tortured like this. England still had not screamed, and he did not scream until the fourth cut. When he did scream, it was surprisingly loud, and America realized that the older man had been deliberately trying not to scream.

"Why? For me? Because he doesn't want me to know he's hurt? But that's stupid… Well, I would do that, if… If I could. Which I probably couldn't. I'm not strong enough…"

There was unmistakable, acute agony in England's eyes, and it hurt America more than anything else. More than seeing Lithuania die, more than seeing how much Panem had screwed with Latvia's mind in such a short time. Seeing England tortured like this, knowing that it was because of his failure, was nearly unbearable for America.

He tried to be strong. But it was too much, seeing England in pain, trying so very hard not to scream because he did not want America to hear this, did not want him to see this, did not want him even to know about this. England, it seemed, was trying not to scream for the sole purpose of sparing America as much pain as possible.

It hurt too much. America began to cry, barely paying any attention to the events on the TV screen. It did not matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was that England was being tortured for the third time, because of him. Because he had failed.

In that moment, America decided that he had to find a way to become the one being tortured at every turn. Somehow…

"That's the only thing I can do. I have to somehow get Panem to torture me. If I can only do that… Then maybe I can still be the hero? Maybe? Please, please, I have to find a way… There must be a way… I have to save the others… I have to save England… Somehow… Please…"

England was barely conscious of what was going on around him as the guards walked him back to his cell. Everything around him seemed oddly foggy, and he felt almost as if he was completely detached from the world.

Then, the cell door opened, and he was shoved in. Brought back to reality with a cruel jerk, England tried to catch himself, but ended up on the floor, letting out a quiet whimper as his mangled hand collided with the flooring.

He had only two fingers on his right hand, now. Panem had assured him that he would soon have no hands at all, but England did not quite believe her. There was only so much she could do to him without it getting dull for her. He doubted that he would have more fingers removed anytime soon.

"England…" America's voice was oddly subdued, and as the boy crouched in front of him, England saw unsuppressed agony in America's eyes.

"I'm sorry," America whispered. The hug England received then nearly crushed him, but he fought down the pained gasp as his healing burns were once again subjected to the pressure of America's embrace.

"Iggy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" America was sobbing. America, who never cried, was crying. Again. And England did not know what to do, although his first instinct was to comfort the boy, who was, after all, just a child caught up in a bloody war.

"It's not your fault," he said, although he knew that, in a way, it was, "You didn't know what you were doing."

That at least was true. America really hadn't known what he was doing to Panem by ignoring her in the way that he had… Had he? England did not believe that the younger boy knew what he had been doing. No, judging from America's actions now, he had not realized what was going on until it was already much too late…

"She hurt you," America said, his voice choked with tears, "She just keeps hurting you… And I'm so sorry for what I did, I really am, but she won't listen, and anyways, there's no reason she should forgive me, but… Iggy, I'm sorry!"

England reached up with his left hand, stroking America's hair.

"It's fine. I don't mind, America. Better me than you, naturally. You're just a child, so there's no reason…"

"I am not just a child," America whispered fiercely, "And I'm gonna prove it to you."

England felt an unexpected rush of pure horror.

"Alfred…"

"No, Iggy, listen to me!" America's voice was determined beneath the brokenness, and England was afraid for him, for the boy who, it was clear, was about to make a foolish choice.

"I don't know how yet, but I'm going to make sure Panem hurts me instead of you," America said, "However long it takes, I'll find a way…"

"I told you, I don't care what happens to me…" England was cut off by America, who had pushed him away slightly, presumably in order to look him in the eye.

"I can't care what happens to me anymore," America said, "England, don't you see…? I just want to save you… I want to save everyone. And taking the torture for you and anyone else I can… Becoming like Lithuania was… That's the only way left."

Later that day, Latvia watched as Estonia cried his eyes out. He knew the other boy thought he was asleep, or not paying attention, but he could see every bit of the pain on Estonia's face. He could hear the blonde Baltic's sobs and he had to wonder if Estonia was crying over what he, Latvia, had done, or about something else entirely.

"Raivis…" Estonia's voice was quiet, choked, agonized, "W-why…?"

So it was about him. He had made Estonia cry. Latvia almost felt guilty, but, he remembered, it would be okay. He just needed to die before he went insane, or he needed to kill Panem. The latter would be impossible. And death… He was not brave enough to consign himself willingly to death.

"If I can just stay away, I won't stab him and shoot him and kill him… He'll die if I go insane. I think it'll kill him if he sees that happen to me. So I have to make him not care… I have to… Oh my God, Belarus!"

It struck Latvia suddenly that Belarus might well have had the same plan that he had now, only in regards to Lithuania. And if that was so, then his plan was doomed. For Estonia might not cease to care, and if he did not grow cold toward Latvia, then all this was in vain.

"But I don't wanna go insane!" Latvia whimpered, and he must have said the words aloud, for suddenly, Estonia was sitting up, his eyes red, his face tearstained.

"You won't go insane," he said quietly, "I won't let Panem hurt you."

"You'll become Lithuania for me!" Latvia shouted, suddenly angry with Estonia, who was supposed to be the smart one, but who seemed to understand nothing of what was going on inside his head, "That's all you'll do!"

He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the effect his next words would have on Estonia.

"You can't take it," he said, his voice still raised, "You can't do that for me. I saw, Eddy. I saw you go insane once. I don't want to let it happen again, so I won't. But I won't be like you, either! I'm stronger than you. I'm not going to end up like you."

There was a long, tense silence.

"So you do hate me," Estonia said quietly, "I thought you might."

Latvia said nothing.

"If he thinks I hate him, he'll hate me, and… And he won't try so hard to protect me. He won't worry so much, and he won't go insane… And then if I go insane, it won't matter to him."

"I… I should have known you wouldn't forgive me for it," Estonia said, "You never did, did you? Why? Because I tried to protect you… Or because I did it the wrong way?"

The Estonian's eyes filled with tears, and the agonized look on his face was painful to Latvia, who wished at that moment that he were anywhere else but here, with Estonia.

"I'm sorry," Estonia said, "I tried. But… I… I'm sorry, Raivis."

Latvia said nothing. But he, too, was terribly sorry, not for what Estonia had done, but for what had happened to them all. He wished again that he were somewhere else, or better yet, that he were dead.

He wished that he were anywhere else but this prison, watching Estonia cry. He wished that they were not both going insane.

Lithuania tried to avoid situations where he might be attacked or injured. They did things to him, those kinds of situations. He would wake up in the night, frightened, half-mad, and it hurt to even think about his dreams, but of course he had to think about it, because he had just relived some of his life's most traumatic moments in nightmares.

Such was this night. Lithuania woke in darkness, and for one long moment, he could not remember where he was or why he was crying.

Then, he made the mistake of moving his hand. Pain shot through his hand, down to his fingertips and up his arm.

And he remembered his dream. His dream that was not a dream. And for one moment, he could not recall whether he had dreamed of this memory, or whether what he remembered had happened just now.

Frightened, he ran to the bathroom, which was just down the hall from his room. Throwing the light on, he ran over to the mirror, holding up his hands to it.

He still had ten fingers. He still had all of his fingers. There were bandages on his hands, but he remembered now that it was Panem who had tortured him and left him to die, and he knew that his dream was just a dream. It was only a dream, that is, if you did not think about the fact that it had happened.

Shaking, Lithuania sank down onto the cold floor, his knees tucked close to his chest.

"It's all right…" he murmured, his voice trembling nearly as much as he was, "It was a dream. You just dreamed it, that's all."

"What were you dreaming?" asked a puzzled voice, "And why would you be sitting on the floor at this early time?"

"Russia, please, go back to bed," Lithuania said, keeping his voice low, "I don't… I can't…"

He could not talk to Russia now. Not after that dream. He did not even wish to see Russia, let alone hold a civil conversation with him at three o'clock in the morning.

"Are you being all right…?"

"No!" Lithuania said, raising his head and staring desperately up at Russia, "I am not all right! There happen to be a lot of things that trigger me, and being attacked and hurt by people is one of those things! Please, Russia, leave me alone…"

He saw the hurt in Russia's eyes, and he also saw a flash of understanding.

"If that is what you would like," Russia murmured, "But you should go back to your bed. This floor is not a very comfortable one."

With this piece of advice, Russia left, leaving Lithuania sitting on the floor, still shaking.

"I know about bathroom floors," he said quietly, "I've spent a bit of time… Lying on my bathroom floor at home… W-watching myself bleed… And actually enjoying it."

He laughed softly, bitterly.

"Hurting myself… Suicide attempts… Those were the days, eh? Of course, now that I can die… I…can't just leave him! He needs me!"

Then, sitting on the cold bathroom floor, alone in the only lighted room in what was probably an apartment somewhere, Lithuania began to cry, perhaps harder than he had ever cried before.

Unseen by him, on the other side of the half-opened bathroom door, Russia watched. He was crying, too.

OK, so, I just realized that I completely forgot that France and Canada existed. I'll have to work a scene with them into the next chapter.

Thank you all for your amazing reviews so far! They really make my day, and it's nice to see such supportive reviewers! :)