Author's Note: This time, I'm pretty sure it's the last update before next week. But you still get plenty of time to review before then, yes? (^.-)~
I feel like posting another stretch of timeline, so here we are:
On day ten, Japan killed Russia, Canada killed England, and France killed Spain.
On day eleven, Estonia and Poland found Italy and Liechtenstein.
On day twelve, Japan killed Hungary and Austria and was killed by Austria, it began to rain, and China killed America.
On day thirteen, Italy left Romano and Spain.
On day fourteen, Russia killed Liechtenstein.
Whew, shooting through time now, eh? Let us continue.
England
No sooner have I woken up than pain starts flashing through me. Everything significant is from my head, about the crown but mostly at my forehead. What happened...?
I try to look around a bit, but I can't make out anything save for a blurry swath of moonlight on water. Right now, my vision isn't quite as sharp as my sense of smell. And what I'm perceiving there makes me glad I have a strong stomach. Something is rotting, badly. The stench is unbearably foetid, but I'm too tired to move away right now. What is that, anyway?
Augh, my head hurts. I can't remember at present what happened, but... I certainly feel like I've been dead, so I'll assume I had a fatal head wound. I'm unable to recall what it was after a minute, so I carefully reach up and feel at my forehead, just to get an outline. It's tiring just to raise my arm. Of course, I'm a bit on the starving side at the moment...
Aside from triggering a bit more pain, feeling at my wound is unnaturally... squishy. I can't tell if it's my forehead or my fingers, so I lower my hand and look at it. It's difficult to make out at first in the dim light, but I begin to make it out. Aside from the fingernails looking off and some sort of blotchiness, it's not bad... Except... it's a bit... green. With purple blotches. Rotting. My hand, myself, is what's rotting.
Supposing I don't have such a strong stomach after all.
Thankfully I at least have enough energy to keep from regurgitating bile on myself, but I don't exactly get to the water first. I'll... take care of that later. As if it doesn't smell disgusting enough already. Although that's not really the greatest of my worries at the moment.
So I'm rotting. Isn't that... just lovely. Certainly a new experience, as I'm usually revived well before my corpse starts to fall apart. This can't be a good sign as far as the immortality goes.
Oh, my head hurts. What was I just doing? Er... Checking my wound. That's it, right?
I gingerly put my fingers back to my forehead and feel at the gash and accompanying indent. It's fairly straight and then crooks off at the end. So... Ah! It was the pipe, wasn't it? Yes, that's it! Um... Who hit me with it? Russia?
Wow, I'm ridiculously hungry for someone who just threw up. Thirsty, too. I should go out and get something. Oh, wait, I can't really move much. Maybe I won't go. Should I just sleep? I am rather sleepy, and it's night.
Night. When was I killed? Head trauma takes a while to patch up, though it's not quite healed. I think it's still bleeding, and it certainly still hurts.
Oh, wasn't I trying to go to sleep? I should probably at least get away from the puddle of bile, if I can move enough. It takes a bit of effort, but I manage to get away from the tree on which I was leaning. I won't be making it to one of the shelters, but the sand's good enough for me.
I settle down, lying face-up. My head's going to be pounding no matter which way I lie. Bashed in with the pipe, huh? Hope I didn't get lead poisoning like the last time that drew blood from me. I'll keep an eye out for hallucinations of my big brother chasing me with a bloody axe. Until then...
By the time I wake, the sun is baking me adequately. What time is it? What day is it? How long have I been here? I'm still on the island, yes? I'm definitely lying on sand. Everywhere outside my immediate vicinity is too hot to touch, so I have to place my hands carefully when I start to sit up.
My hands look much better. Still blotchy, but the marbling is flesh-coloured rather than purple. I'm still mostly green, though.
I think the heat's making my head pound worse. Or thirst. In whatever case, it shouldn't hurt to get out of the sun.
I start scooting back towards one of the shelters. Only then do I catch a glimpse of America. He's a few trees way, lying on his back with limbs in disarray, his skin in a similar condition to mine last night. Were we killed at the same time, then? But he doesn't appear to be breathing yet... And now that I think about it, I don't believe we were showing any signs of rot while alive the first few days we were here, though in this weather, we'd have to. I must have been in worse condition than that before I started to heal up. But what kind of condition would that be...?
I really think I should get something to drink. I don't feel like I'm sweating appropriately for this temperature. Although that may be because my skin isn't entirely back from the dead. In either case, I'm still desperately thirsty. There are a few puddles in the sand, so I'll check those out first.
Getting to my feet, I linger in the shade for a while before walking out towards the shore. The thin waves are lapping at the toes of my shoes before I really get confused. What was I doing out here again? Just... cooling down, or...?
It takes a moment of looking round before it comes back to me. I'm going for the puddles of rainwater over there. Gah! What has happened to my memory? I swear my attention span is about the size of America's right now...
Although my forehead's still grieving me substantially. Perhaps I have brain damage about that area? Er... That's the frontal lobe. Not that naming it in any way helps me to recall what it does...
Ha. Oh, yes, do I have brain damage? I can't tell, as I appear to have brain damage.
Let's just worry about... what was I—water. Let's just worry about getting water for now.
I pad over to the nearest puddle and, after briefly examining it, take in handfuls. The water is unfortunately rather warm, and I have to ignore the condition of my hands while I'm using them, but a drink is a drink. It's not like the boiled water I had been drinking was any cooler. Well—should I be boiling this? I can't imagine it's anything but rainwater, but I don't know how long it's been sitting here. Hm.
I look back towards camp before I realise I haven't yet seen China out here. Was he killed, too? Or did he run? If he ran, he surely would have been back by now, for I've had a long while to sit here rotting. Except America has possibly been down for a bit less time than me, so if China was still...
...And I've completely lost track of what I was getting at. Wonderful. I guess I'll have to limit myself to tasks requiring lower intelligence until I'm starting to feel better.
Lowering my gaze back to the puddle in front of me, I decide to go ahead and rinse off my face. I'd really rather not look, but it feels like some sticky blood made it down to the bridge of my nose before the cut stopped bleeding. And there's certainly a mess of the stuff in my hair, but I'd rather leave that alone until I'm sure my locks aren't going to up and fall off.
Though I'm careful not to scrub too hard in case I lose skin, I rub below the wound hard enough for some eyebrow hairs to come off in my hands. It hardly matters; they tend to grow back within the minute, anyway.
After cleaning up enough, I feel as fresh as is likely possible given the mottles of dead green still on my person. After a bit of disorientation, I proceed to drink out of the next puddle in plain sight and then return to my piece of shelter. I can only rest for a moment before I start to become fidgety.
Over there, America hasn't budged. He certainly hasn't improved much, though. The smell is less overwhelming now that I'm no longer contributing myself, but I'm sure it's coming off him even more. It could be my imagination or lack of working memory, but I think he looks worse than he did just an hour or so ago. In particular, the blood spilt over his face seems more noxious.
Hn. But if that came from a forehead wound, it seems rather likely we were taken down by the same nation. Same technique and type of weapon, at least.
After deciding I don't have much better to do, I dare to venture over, keeping a hand over my nose and mouth. It wouldn't do to throw up on him, after all. Even if he has done it to me before. Of course, he was just a little kid back then. An adorable, somewhat manageable, loving little kid...
Shaking my head, I examine him as he is now. It's not surprising he doesn't look any better up close. Taking note of the hint of bloating, I don't think it would be a good idea to touch him at all, even just to wash off the wound. I can sort of make out the shape of it, anyway—a curve. Not the ninety-degree bend of the pipe that hit me, but a larger curve.
The wok. It must have been the wok. For whatever reason—The Rules stand out—China waited for his chance, took down America before he had a chance to punch him to the sky, and fled or disappeared. Not sure how long ago, but...
I can't keep looking at this. This thing that's become of America. Death doesn't suit him at all. I can't... I just can't.
Somehow managing to feel more distraught than ill, I go back to my part of camp and settle back down. He... He'll be all right, though, won't he? O-Of course. I probably came back with worse damage, after all. And even if he was killed a bit after me, he certainly has a chance. A-a good chance. Yes. He'll be back to annoy me some other day. He wouldn't dare do anything else.
Say, wasn't I working on arrows a while ago? I don't think I ever finished any. Was that what I was doing when I was attacked? I'm not sure. It makes sense.
The bow, finished and bloodstained, is still right here, next to some decent-looking finger-sized twigs. I don't think I ever started on the arrows, really. They'll be rather difficult to make without a knife, and I still need to find something suitable for heads. And I'l have to find some feathers, preferably still on a bird so I don't have to hunt as much.
Augh, it still reeks out here. Well—I never took care of last night's incident, did I? Let's just get that out of the way now...
I get that mess taken care of and settle back to my spot of shade, examining the shafts-to-be and rubbing any bumps off against the tree behind me. It's really still too hot to bother with the other components of an arrow, but I don't feel much like continuing to sit within eyeshot of America's dead body. And if I can stand to eat after everything, I should do that, too, or I won't even be strong enough to search out arrow ingredients.
Putting the bow and shafts under some leaves, I haul myself to my feet. That alone is surprisingly difficult. Is my body resorting to eating away my muscles already? How long has it been since I've eaten? Not counting being dead—or maybe I should. Did my muscles rot, too?
I'm just not doing well... Halfway to starvation, long periods of death... I wouldn't be surprised if the next time I die, I don't come back. Of course, that idea terrifies me, but what am I going to do? I'm starting to believe my venenireception is never coming back, at least not while I'll still be able to act on what I sense. The others haven't tracked us down yet—probably because they don't believe they need to use magic—and I don't know what else I'm supposed to do. Go killing, of course, but... I don't have any way to know whom I have to kill, and it's only a matter of time before I wouldn't be able to, anyway. It would be difficult to track nations down, so if my nation is someone other than America, I probably wouldn't find him.
And if it is America... Well, first off, I can't kill the dead. B-but of course he's coming back, so... After that...
My head hurts too much to think about this. Let's just go find food. That's more important right now.
I set off, feeling a little better once I get used to the movement. Maybe I've just been tired. Stronger nations can go a long while without starving to death, so I shouldn't worry myself so much. It's fine. I'll just find something to settle my stomach, go wait for America to come back complaining of hunger, and look more. Hopefully my head will heal up a bit faster—though I think I've been doing better in the last couple of minutes, anyway—and I can think things over a bit better.
Until then, food scavenging it is.