AN: Hey everyone! Here's the second chapter. No warnings for this one. Also, side note: I'm sorry about the missing tabs in the beginning of the paragraphs but I don't have word and I don't know how to download google docs so I have to use the copy and paste one.
About a month went by before Anabel could sense other people coming onto her island. She climbed atop the nearest tree and following the sounds of their careless footsteps, jumping from branch to branch. At last she saw them; two men, both in what appeared to be in their twenties. They were yelling at each other, the slightly shorter blond man with green eyes holding a map and the one with longer blond hair and bright blue eyes pointing out it's uselessness furiously.
"I'm telling you Angleterre, no one has been here before! You bought a map from a con man! This island doesn't even have a name! 'Tree Island'? Only a fool would believe that!"
The shorter man glares at France. "Who knows? It's not like you did any bloody better! You show up and you don't even have a boat! How did you expect to get here?! Were we supposed to walk across the bloody water?!"
As they argue, Anabel watches them curiously, wondering why her island wouldn't have a name. A bird starts to peck at her arm and she pushes it away, but it doesn't stop. She ends up making more movement than she would've liked and falls right at the feet of the two men that were currently arguing. Her large blue-green eyes blinks up at them and they stare right down at her.
Anabel scrambles to her feet, her dress made of animal hide swaying around her. She tries to talk but her tongue is tangled up in knots from not speaking in so long. The older nations can sense her fear and instantly soften their faces. "Hello, love. What's your name?" Asks the British one as the other helps her steady herself. She just watches them.
"We're not here to hurt you, mademoiselle," France says, trying to get any reaction out of her.
"Anabel," She manages to get out and the men smile. She points to them.
"I'm England, but you can call me Arthur. I'm here to take you home."
"I'm France, but you can call me Francis, and- Angleterre, remember that we agreed we'd let her choose!"
"I changed my mind, frog. Come on, now," England holds out his hand for Anabel and she takes it as France swears in french and continues to glare at England.
"You always seem to get the pretty ones, don't you? At least I got my dear Mathieu..." He doesn't shut up the entire way to the boat, but England lets him continue, still happy about getting the newest nation.
Once they arrive at Arthur's house, they have Anabel go into the bathroom to freshen up.
"She looks older than we expected her to be. Most new nations start out around ten, but she has to be, what, sixteen?" The green-eyed man whispers suspiciously to France.
"Oui. Maybe it's because of something else? She has to be the nation, no one else has gone there yet."
"I hope your right."
Being her first shower in around a month, Anabel reveled in the warm water flowing down her body. She found, to her amazement, that Arthur had a full stock of body washes and some very feminine hair products. After finishing anything she needs to do, she pushes the curtain open and steps into the cold bathroom. Grabbing a towel, she dries herself before almost screaming as she sees herself in the mirror.
Her hair, that she had kept braided tightly using a vine as an elastic, was now wavy and longer than she remembered, her porcelain skin was much more tan and covered in bruises; but that was not why she had to stop herself from screaming- she was younger than she remembered, sixteen at most. Anabel closes her eyes and counts to ten then opens them again, finding a younger self looking right back at her. She pulls on a dress that England had lent her from back when he housed many other nations under his control. She would need to remember to ask him to go shopping; it was a very girly dress, and not something Anabel was interested in wearing. She brushes her teeth and, finding a brush in one of the cabinets, she fixes her hair back into a braid, this one clean and out of the way.
After taking a moment to compose herself, Anabel opens the bathroom door and walks down the darkened hall, clenching the skirt of the dress in one hand, of the large mansion, lit by small chandeliers on the ceiling. As she goes, she lets her other hand reach out and drags her fingertips against the slightly cracking green wallpaper. After a few minutes she spots both England and France in the large living area, a small fire burning.
"Ah. Do you feel better now?" England asks, smiling warmly despite having just been concentrated on his paperwork.
"Much, thank you. About the dress..."
"You look beautiful, don't worry," compliments France, sweeping over and kissing her hand. She just looks down at him with a straight face.
"It's not something I'd wear. If I get a job I can work up the money-"
"Non. You don't need to pay for living here, Arthur kidnapped you! If theres anything you need at all, just ask him," he pauses, winking, "and if he says no, I'll get it for you, oui?"
"I really couldn't accept that..."
"He's right for once. You're my guest, I'll make sure you're comfortable. I can take you shopping tomorrow, if you'd like. There are plenty of shops around London-"
"Or we could take her to Paris," France reminds, butting in.
"There is no we in this, Francis. She's my responsibility. We're not turning her into another America, remember? I will take you shopping around London tomorrow. How does that sound?"
"Fine," she responds, and her stomach grumbles.
"Would you like anything to eat, ma cherie? If you're going to be living here with Angleterre, then you won't be able to have any decent cooking for a while."
England scoffs but Anabel nods cautiously. She's been living off of bitter berries for a month, any real food would taste amazing compared to that, right? France wanders off into the kitchen, gathering ingredients and starting to make a delicious smelling french dish. Anabel wanders over towards him, quickly boring of England and his paperwork.
As she watches him cook, their words from earlier finally hit her. They're calling each other France and England, like the countries. That could be just nicknames, unless- but Anabel does not dare imagine what that would mean; that was just too absurd, even after waking up in a deserted island.
"Something on your mind?"
She quickly looks over at francis to find him staring at her, letting the food cook and leaning against the counter. She finally gets a good look at him, his hair longer than what she was used to on men and swept back into a low and loose ponytail. He certainly looks like he could be the embodiment of the French Nation.
"Mademoiselle?"
"Why do you call each other France and England?" She asks, not being one to make small talk. "Those are countries. People aren't countries."
He blinks. She really didn't know. "Non, cherie, sometimes people can be. I am the personification of La Republique de Francais. Arthur in there is my long time enemy, the United Kingdom. And you, my dear, are the newest nation. I want you to try something for me, oui? Close your eyes, that's it, now remember how it felt on that island. Can you hear a name? It may call at you through the wind, maybe even from a stream or the trees moving. But it's there. Listen closer, don't scrunch up your face. Relax."
"Faxland," Anabel says finally after a few minutes. Francis had gone back to preparing dinner, but had thrown glances at her every few seconds to make sure she was alright.
"Faxland, you say? Not a bad name. But I think I'll stick with La Petite Isle. It suits you." He finishes the food and sets it on serving dishes, Anabel helping him bring them out. "Merci."
They sit down to eat, Anabel struggling a bit because of the dress and England still doing his paperwork. "Arthur, if you are going to enjoy my meal, you have to enjoy it properly! Put the papers away, they'll be there after you eat my magnifique meal."
Grumbling, the younger man does as told and complains half heartedly about how he hates french cooking. Anabel watches them then takes a few bites herself. Her mouth waters instantly; it was the most delicious food she's ever tasted. Better, even, than her mother's. The other two nations can see it on her face, causing France to smile and England to glare at the other man.
After dinner, all three of them go back into the living area, but England soon retreats back into his office. Francis turns on the television, watching a french cooking show. Anabel soon realizes that it's the same one that her mother used to watch and she sighs slightly, causing him to look over at her. "What is it?"
"Nothing. I just like this show." She responds, still not completely sure if she can trust either of them with anything yet. She watches the show, pulling up memories of her mother, until it is late.
"Would you like me to show you to your room?" France asks, stifling a yawn. Anabel nods, and they go up the stairs into a maze of rooms labeled with names, finally stopping in front of one. Walking inside, she could tell this room had never been used before; she walked over to the bed, cautious, and then thanked France.
On the far right, against the wall and below a window, there is a dark wooden bureau. Anabel goes over to it and finds that it has a small amount of dresses, all looking older than her. She finds a silk nightgown and puts it on, going back towards the door and flicking off the light switch. There are two more lamps, one on either side of the bed, and she goes over and leaves the one closest to the window on. Instead of going into the bed, she sits by the window on a small loveseat.
It's after midnight when she finally decides to go to bed, and she quickly falls into a deep, dreamless sleep; for once not filled with a dining room table and whiteness.
AN: It's gonna start to pick up from here, and I'm gonna also try to start updating every week. Probably on Saturdays or Sundays.