Disclaimer: The Hetalia manga and anime series do not belong to me
Themes 11-20
11 - Inspiration
She was very young when she first decides to be strong. Up until that point she had bee quite shy and meek despite her people's ferocity. Unlike her brothers she preferred to fade into the background then to stand apart. A childish belief that if she made herself small and unimportant the invaders would leave her alone, Rome would leave her alone. Even as she watched her warriors fall against the organised might of the Roman army she still didn't feel an urge to fight. All she wanted was for it to return to normal; when it was just her and her brothers in the world, even though they could be mean.
Then she sees her; her queen. Her first true queen.
At first it was just a strange feeling in her chest, Rome's might began to lift from her lands. Rumours reached her ears of a woman proud and strong, who had sworn personal revenge against the Romans. Her name was Boudicca, queen of the Iceni tribe.
The first time she saw her is engraved in England's mind. She'd watched from a tree as a large group of her people had gathered. They were talking in hushed voices and looking expectantly at the horizon. For a moment there was quiet and then a low thudding. The noise grew closer and closer, the young nation's heartbeat got faster and faster and then the woman herself, Boudicca, arrived.
Her chariot shot over the hills and raced towards the gathered men, the horses slowed to a stop in front of them and England stared at the figure of the queen; her queen. She was nearly as tall as some of the men and though not as heavily muscled as them there was an aura about her that drew your eyes. An untamed mane of red hair surrounded a strong but beautiful face and her eyes burned with an intense passion. Standing on her chariot; proud, defiant and rebellious, England felt their hope. The hope that this woman promised, the hope for freedom.
Then she began to speak, she spoke of the injustice that they suffered, of the pain and humiliation under the Roman's rule and of the deaths of those who had fought before. Then she spoke of the future and the fight ahead. England listened, her mind committing every word to memory; words of determination and strength, words of resilience and ferocity and the words of rebellion and retaliation. She heard them all and her soul drank them up greedily.
Though she didn't know it at the time those words and the feelings behind them would sustain her for years to come. Throughout all the wars she would hear that strong voice in the back of her mind urging her on no matter what.
12 - You
Great, another ball. Why did Alfred keep throwing these things? They weren't exactly vital or helpful to world politics and it usually meant that she would be making a fool out of herself in a dress. After the American's exuberant greetings she had quickly found herself a spot on the wall to stand by and observe the revelry.
It wasn't that she couldn't dance, it was that she hated dancing in public, the dance-floors where always busy and people kept bumping into her and stepping on her dress. Speaking of her dress she glared down at the gown that her boss had suggested (forced) her to bring. It was light blue and moulded to her form quite nicely but she could hardly move! Years of fighting had given her a hatred of being restrained, how was she supposed to defend herself when she could hardly move?
Still as long as she stayed against her part of wall she should be OK. From the corner of her eye she saw Canada rather nervously dancing with Ukraine, and from the look on her face England was glad that Russia was too busy avoiding Belarus to notice them. Prussia was trying to convince Austria to drink something that looked very suspicious and was failing spectacularly. Hungary had a rather manic look in her eye and had a video camera aimed at Italy, who was talking very animatedly to Germany. Belgium was looking for Spain, who was looking for Romano, who was looking for Belgium.
She frowned, two of the three idiots were accounted for but where was...
"Bonjour Angleterre." Well her evening had just gone down the drain. "Wait where are you going ma cherie?"
"Away from you frog."
"Aww don't be so mean petit lapin."
"I told you not to call me that surrender monkey"
"And here I thought you might actually act like a lady for once. I guess the dress can't hide the brute within you."
"I'd rather be a tough woman than a girly man."
"Congratulations you can pass for both!"
"...Agincourt."
"Hastings."
"Waterloo!"
"Rosbif!"
"Frog!"
"You've used that one already." She let out a frustrated groan and turned around.
"Just leave and find someone's bed to crawl into. I can't deal with you tonight." She waited for him to leave so she could go back to her observing the happily dancing couples, whom looked stupidly happy and content and no she was not jealous.
"Would you like to dance with me?" Furious that he had not left she whirled around eyes blazing.
"Listen you I've ha-" She trailed off as what he'd said actually registered in her mind. France was gifted to a rare sight: England was speechless. Her jaw was nearly touching the floor and the anger and been extinguished by confusion.
"W-W-What did you say?" He grinned enjoying the moment immensely, it wasn't often that he got one-up on his rival.
"Would you like to dance with me?" He deliberately spoke in a slow, patronising tone and right on cue she bristled and glared at him again.
"I heard what you said the first time!" She took a deep breath and met his gaze with an unusually serious one. "Why would you ask me that?"
This time it was France who frowned, his eyes travelled up and down her body and he could practically feel her temper rising; the word pervert on her lips, but he wasn't leering he looked only to judge. The woman before him was loud, ill-tempered, violent, terribly blunt and had no cooking ability whatsoever. There was absolutely nothing feminine about her except for her face, which he grudgingly accepted was pretty in an elfish way, when she wasn't scowling. She would disagree with him over the colour of the sky and had on a number of occasions wounded him deeply, not that he hadn't done the same for her.
Yet, she'd also stood by him during some of his toughest battles. She could look him in the eye without flinching and he, like so many others had been ensnared by that odd fire burning in her gaze. They were England and France; rivals, enemies, allies, friends, equals.
She was not a beautiful woman, but tonight she looked stunning and she wanted to dance.
"Because I want to dance with you." Her eyes softened marginally and she slowly placed her hands in his.
13 – Confused
Green eyes stared down at the sleeping figure on the bed, eyes filled with confusion and a dark possession that bordered on obsession. A hand raised and hesitantly? Gently? Moved a lock of blonde hair that was blocking his view of her face. The strands were slightly course and crusted with sea salt and the bright yellow had faded a little from overexposure to the sun. It smelt of forest though, of wide green forests and fresh cut grass with a whiff of a sea breeze; her nation's scent remained despite her months on the ocean and he was curiously thankful for it.
The woman stirred slightly and her figure curled in on itself a little; he remained silent, watching her in his bed. She looked like some strange fairy and he knew that when he woke up the next morning she would be gone with no trace of her staying except a dent on the pillow and the fingernail marks on his back.
He didn't know how she managed to always get off and on his ship without detection but he did know that if he asked she would never come again. He would never again open his cabin door to see her sitting on his chair rubbing a piece of gold between her fingers, so he would let her keep her secrets, for now.
It was odd how shy he felt now, after he'd just spend the last few hours exploring her intimately, surrounded by her warmth. If he closed his eyes he could still feel her hands on his back, clawing at him, could still see her bright green eyes hazed with lust staring up at him and could still feel the softness of her skin against his. Of course her skin wasn't perfect, his eyes dropped down to her neck where there was a light scar running all the way across.
The punishment for pirates was hanging after all. He'd actually watched once himself. She'd known he was there and made sure to stare at him right up until the trapdoor had opened and the rope pulled tight. Even then she had mocked him, even as she fell a smirk had been on her mouth as if to say "You win this round but we both know there will be many others." Sure enough a week later she was back attacking his treasure ships and two weeks after that she was in his room, waiting for him.
He knew he had to stop, he knew he had to beat this obsession with her, had to stop her invading his mind. It seemed like every time he closed his eyes there she was: smiling, smirking, fighting, fucking, dancing with him. Dios save him, he didn't want to get over it.
It was against his very nature to let her go. She was his, she belonged to only him or at least she should. Anger burned inside him, he wasn't the only one entranced with the Pirate Queen. She knew this and seemed to throw it in his face time and time again, throwing it in his face that he needed her more than she did him. He hated it.
So why was she always the one to come to him? Why was she the one to appear in his bed and not the other way round. He sighed and continued to stare at the confusing nation in his bed. Tomorrow she would be no-ones, but for tonight and a couple of others she was his. Not France's, not Prussia's, not Turkey's, not Denmark's nor his brothers, his.
He didn't know why she came to him over the others, in a few days they would be at each other's throats with blades and blood would be spilled. She looked glorious covered in blood, the Red English Rose. He would sleep soon and wake to an empty bed but for a few moments more she belonged to him, she was Spain's.
14 – Affection
In the middle of an expensive Roman Villa a small child sat in the courtyard, well sat was wrong the little brunette was asleep. The child wasn't a nation, yet, for the moment he was quite happy for his mother to be in control. She was in her bedroom "talking" with Rome, their current occupier. Heracles was dreaming under the Mediterranean sun and would have been fine their for the rest of the day, but it was not meant to be.
"You will behave little barbarian because if you don't Master Rome will never let you see that savage island of yours again!" The loud shrill voice woke the child and he opened one eye to see who it was who had angered Sulpicia, the head servant of Rome's villa. She was a formidable woman, devoted to her master and possessed a poignant distaste of anyone non-Roman.
"Let go of me hag! I'm not doing anything that bastard says, and you look like someone disfigured a pig and through it in a river to rot!"
Now that was interesting, apparently there was a new nation in the villa. Only nations would be able to understand what the girl, he presumed from the voice, had said.
"Don't speak to me in that gibberish brat!" Hmm, the nation must have done something really bad to make Sulpicia this mad.
Finally, the two figures appeared in the archway. The usually pristine and dignified Sulpicia was rumpled, hair out of place and breathing heavily. Squirming in her grasp was what looked like a small, yellow, fluffy caterpillar and it took a second or two for him to see that it was actually a child, true a very feral looking child but a child nonetheless.
The irate servant dragged the girl into the centre of the courtyard, right next to him, and dropped her on the ground.
"Now listen to me you vile child! You will sit and wait here until Master Rome has decided your punishment." Said nasty child merely hmmphed and turned away. Giving a final shriek the woman turned and left the courtyard leaving Heracles alone with the wild girl.
"Evil bitch, just wait until my brothers get a hold of her." She snarled and Heracles thought it was time to make his presence known.
"You shouldn't really call her names." The girl nearly jumped out of her skin and wide green eyes whipped round to stare at him. "She may not be very nice but Rome likes her and she can make your time here very difficult." The girl scowled and seemed to lose any apprehension she'd first had.
"I don't care, I hate her and that Roman idiot as well. I don't want to be here." She sniffed and something suspiciously wet appeared in her eyes. Quickly rubbing them away she turned to him again. "What's your name then?"
"My name is Heracles Karpusi." She scowled again and he got the feeling she did it a lot.
"What kind of country is that?" Unperturbed by her abrupt manner he shrugged.
"I'm not a country yet, my mama is known as Greece. Mama says that I will be a nation one day." He stared at her and she wriggled a bit, unsure how to react. He wasn't Rome and she could really use someone to talk to in this horrible place. Suddenly shy she stared at the ground when he spoke again.
"What's your name then?"
"Britannia, though my brothers used to call me Albion." He frowned at that, she looked young, slightly younger than him yet she reminded him of his mother and Rome, surely she wasn't-
"Are you a proper nation?" She nodded and Heracles felt his eyes widen, she was so small and tiny. "But what about your parents?"
Oh. That was clearly the wrong thing to say, she looked like she was about to cry.
"She died when I was born, I don't know about my father, my brothers don't speak about him." So small and young, it didn't seem fair. Heracles wondered how he would fare if his mother suddenly died and he became Greece. He didn't want to think about it. Determined to lighten the conversation he struck a thinking pose.
"I can't call you something as serious as Britannia, and Albion is not a pretty name either." She bristled again and he allowed a lazy smile to cross his face. "I'll call you kitten instead."
Silence.
"WHAT?" Her cheeks were bright red and she looked angry again. "That's insane why would you want to call me that?"
"Because you remind me of a small fierce blonde kitten, always hissing and spitting when someone tries to tame you." She looked like she was about to punch him. "And I think your cute too." Her fist dropped and she looked away, face still a bright red.
A hand reached over and patted her head. She stared at him with wide green eyes, too big for her face. He smiled. "Yes definitely adorable." She scoffed and looked away.
"You're no help at all, I'll chose my own name." She looked up to the sky thinking of all the tales her brothers had told her. A name was very important and she would only tell it to those she trusted absolutely.
Centuries later she walked into a conference room already anticipating the headache to come. Desperate to sit far away from America and France her eyes sought a haven. She found it.
Greece knew the second she slid into the chair next to him. One eye cracked open to see the blonde spreading her files on the table.
"Hello kitten." He murmured and as usual she glared at him.
"How many times do I have to tell you to not call me that." She hissed, which wasn't really helping her case. A sly look came into her eyes and she glanced around to check that no-one was listening.
"It's Alvara." He shrugged and gently patted her head again.
"Whatever you say kitten."
15 - Joy
The sun hits her face as it rises and she lets out a groan, desperate to hold onto those last few seconds of sleep. England is not, nor will she ever be a morning person. She cannot function properly until she's had at least two cups of tea and some food.
So, on this day when she wakes up and sees a collection of her "family" sitting on the end of her bed all beaming at her, it should be no surprise when she immediately buries her he ad back into the pillow.
"Go away." A mumbled growl comes from the pillow, but for some reason the equation England + early morning = pain was not computing in some of their heads.
"Come on sis, it's your birthday." Clearly her twin was either the bravest or the stupidest of the bunch. She pokes her head slightly out and gives him a glare that has been known to send men run away screaming.
"Wales, you know damn well how I feel about mornings. So, if you wish to retain the ability to bring children into this world I suggest you leave me alone.
"Aw don't be like that pommie." So Australia was here as well eh, which meant that New Zealand was here too and probably Canada. Someone approached her bed and she stiffened.
"Scotland don't you dar-" Her voice is cut off by a shriek as her older brother heaves her out of bed and over his shoulder. She yelps indignantly and thumps his back.
"SCOTLAND, PUT ME DOWN!" A few of the others wince and she feels a vindictive pleasure but the lump carrying her downstairs seemed completely fine.
She catches sight of some bright banners and balloons as they pass by the living room and she bites back a groan when she sees Sealand rushing into the kitchen. What next?
With an oompf she is let down on a chair and stares blankly at the cake in front of her. It's covered in red and white icing and someone has very sloppily written in blue Happy Birthday England. She raised an unimpressed face to the crowd around her table.
"Who on earth eats cake for breakfast?"
"Oh can't you relax a little it's your birthday." India spoke up from the back and England shook her head.
"Look I appreciate it but-" Someone cuts her off.
"Just shut up and eat your cake brat." She freezes, that voice, not daring to believe it she turns her head to see if it really is him.
Her other brother. Ireland.
He hadn't been in her house for years and whenever she went to his it was with one of their other siblings or with her boss. She swallows the lump in her throat, they'd always used to spend birthdays together and they'd always end up fighting too. The past century though had shifted things and she hadn't seen him at her birthday for years.
Blinking away something that just may be tears she drinks in his face. There is still suspicion, pain, uncertainty and wariness, though that may be because Wales and Scotland are glaring at him, on his face but he's here. He's here with her at least for today.
She turns to try a bit of her birthday cake, before her family demolish the rest and tries to stop her happiness showing on her face so that she doesn't end up grinning like a fool.
16 - Horror
7th July 2005 – London Bombings
Australia pushed through the hospital doors in a flurry of panic, Z is not far behind him and both of the nations are sprinting for the emergency room. The usually cheerful nation ignored the shouts of surprise and cries to stop; his entire being was focused on the corridors in front of him. The sterile smell of the building made his nose itch but he didn't complain. Part of him didn't want to believe he was here, that she was here. He wouldn't believe it until..
The final doors opened and they both saw her.
She was dwarfed by the bed and all the machines surrounding her, her skin was much paler than usual and the normally blazing green eyes were shut. The worst thing was the unnatural stillness, the lack of life in her body. The only indicator that she was still alive was the constant beeping of the heart machine.
Australia felt his knees buckle and Z had to grab him to make sure that he didn't fall. Forcing his eyes away form her he looked at the other occupants in the room: Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, Ireland, Sealand, Seychelles, India, South Africa, Canada and others would probably arriving soon. He and Z had been in Europe when they'd heard.
His eyes met Scotland's.
"What happened?" His voice was low, monotonous.
"Bombs in London's public transport systems during the rush hour. They're not sure of the casualties yet but," he cast a glance at his sister "it's gonnae be bad." He took a deep breath. "Auryn was with me and the young'un was with Ire-, with Riordan. We all felt something when the bombs went off." Australia knew that they only used their humans name if it was really important, Here the nation broke off and clenched his fist. "But we didn't check on her." Loathing began to slip into his voice, along with fear and anger. "The second I found out we rush back to her house and-" he broke off and looked away.
Wales took up the narrative, though his voice shook a little. "We found her lying on the floor in the kitchen. There was blood on her mouth and on the floor and she was clutching her chest. She wasn't moving, we thought.." He drifted off and resumed staring at the bed. Australia collapsed into a chair and felt hollow, the scene suddenly painted vividly in his mind.
8:50 am the first bombs went off. London was her heart and the trauma of this attack would have damaged it severely. She would probably have been making a cup of tea wondering what trouble her brothers were going to give her that day and then she would have been on the floor, coughing blood, feeling her people die and scream. She would be alone and frightened waiting for someone to come help, but no-one came until after the next bombs went off.
Why wasn't anyone there? Anger, fierce and terrible welled up inside of him and he wanted to scream at someone, he wanted to shake her and tell her to wake up. Like magnets his eyes were drawn back to the still form on the bed, waiting for her to sit up and scream at them for crowding the room when other people needed it.
He knew she'd get up, nations survived nearly anything but that stillness, that terrible lack of movement struck him like a knife. This wasn't the same vibrant woman he had fought for, lived with and loved. That wasn't England!
Yet it was, and right now she was somewhere where they couldn't help her, and it was a tough pill to swallow. She's been such a presence in his life that to see her like this was maddening and wrong. His eyes fixed on her face, even though she was unconscious he could detect lines of pain there.
He made himself comfortable on the chair, switching off his phone as well. He wouldn't miss her waking up for anything. He needed to see that life in her and that spark that was uniquely England; fierce but beautiful. He would wait for it to return.
17 – Acceptance
It is a harsh realisation when she realised that yes, there were in fact some men out in the world whom she was attracted to. She denied it, tried to fight it and raged against it but she eventually reaches the final stage of accepting it. Of course she'd rather carve out her own eyes than admit it to anyone, she has a reputation to uphold.
It would surprise some people to know that the first male she had a "crush" on wasn't France but Denmark. What could she say? She was young and foolish. The blonde had been annoying and stubborn but he'd also been a descent warrior and was much more involved with her than Rome had been. It didn't help that he'd grown up tall and hot and she blamed him for her attraction to tall guys. When she had been under his rule he'd followed her around all the time and dragged her with him wherever he went. She'd been confused at the attention at first and had lashed out violently but he kept on after her and she grew to appreciate the attention which neither Rome nor her brothers had given her.
Another crush was Turkey, he was so different to her and the mask gave him an air of mystery. She was amazed by the fact that after nations like Rome, Germania and her mother had disappeared he had lingered on. He wore his power confidently and she was drawn to it. His strength fascinated her and she allowed herself to imagine and to dream. He could be charming when he wanted to and he had a quick mind too.
Her interest in power had of course, attracted her to Spain, her rival. She admired the Conquistador and his abilities. They were two opposites pulling the other in with an electric force. So when they fought with blades and occasionally guns, a hand would brush a hip, fingers would ghost over a neck and eyes would become conflicted between hate and lust. Balanced on the tip of a knife.
There were others, they drifted in and out of favour as the centuries rolled by but she kept it hidden, repressed under her icy demeanour and fiery temper. Her eyes drifted to where Russia was sat next to the Baltic brothers, the familiar spark danced across her skin and she turned her attention back to the current speaker. She may accept it but she wasn't about to advertise it.
18 – Sympathy
She honestly did not know how Ukraine did it, the eastern European nation must have an infinite supply of patience to deal with her situation because England had never once heard her complain about it. Out of the corner of her eye she watches the group of countries that used to be the soviet union and she feels for Ukraine, she really does.
It couldn't be easy having to deal with Russia, even when he was acting relatively normal there was always something...off about him. On his own he was enough of a problem but Ukraine also had to deal with Belarus too. She didn't envy the female country at all, the three Baltic states were far too frightened to help and Ukraine was the only one who knew them well enough to actually try and control them. Well, not control more like look after and mother.
England had an inkling of what she might feel, her family wasn't exactly calm and collected either but the ex-soviet states made the UK look like "the Brady Bunch". None of her family had gone insane, at least she didn't think they had, and not one of her brothers were too afraid of her to speak to her. They certainly weren't afraid of telling her when she was acting like a bitch and she didn't mind telling them when they were being utter bastards.
Anyway, from what she could see Belarus was trying to edge closer to her big brother with the usual fanatic gleam in her eye. Russia had an uncharacteristically terrified look on his face and had forced Latvia to stand between them. Latvia looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whilst his brothers stood to the side with mixed expressions of worry and relief that it wasn't them. The whole thing was a recipe for disaster.
Ukraine had clearly sensed this and was hovering around nervously trying to distract her sister and get her away from her brother. England really did feel sorry for her but she also knew that Ukraine did not feel sorry for herself at all because to her they weren't a burden, they were her family and she wouldn't be happy without them.
Her eyes slipped to America and Canada, whom were having a conversation about super robots again (well America was, Canada was listening politely), before glancing back towards Ukraine.
For a second their eyes met and England nodded her head in respect towards her fellow nation, Ukraine nodded back; a nod from one big sister to another.
19 – Holding
How the hell had he gotten into this mess? Or, more importantly, how was he going to get out of this mess with his manhood still intact? Denmark could only pray that Odin was watching over him this morning.
The reason for the Dane's panic was clear: last night he had gone out drinking with Prussia and a few other nations, it had been fine until about 3am when his memory had started to go a little fuzzy. The morning had come and he had something more then just a hangover; clinging on to him with surprising force was a sleeping blonde woman. A blonde woman he knew very well, who had a notoriously short temper and limited patience.
What in Thor's name was England doing in his bed? The slim woman had somehow entwined her legs with his and her arms were draped across his chest, she was wearing one of his shirts and from what he could see, that was all. He was dressed in a loose pair of cloth trousers, so they hadn't had sex then; which was oddly disappointing. He must have been really drunk last night and she must have been as well; which was odd because he couldn't remember seeing her there at all.
One thing was very clear, he had to get away before she woke up. First thing to do, get his legs away untangled from hers. Moving achingly slowly he manoeuvred himself away from the sleeping beauty, trying to control his suddenly awakening hormones. He was only a man after all, and her skin felt so good and soft. His eyes trailed down her body; admiring the pale whiteness of her legs.
He absently noticed how much she'd grown since he'd first met her. She was the first girl country that he'd met and he'd been fascinated by the passionate little island. She hadn't been afraid of him, not even when they'd met on the battlefield and he admired her for it.
He gently lifted her hands off of his chest, marvelling at how small and slight they were; how could such delicate hands wield a blade with such skill. He'd seen her cut down men twice her size, covered in blood with a wide grin on her face she had looked like a human Freya: deadly, majestic, enthralling.
His thumb started to stoke her left wrist and his gaze became heated, unaware of this the slumbering woman mumbled and curled up against his side. The shirt she was wearing rode up revealing more of those milky white thighs.
The voice screaming at him to get away was fading as something else thrummed in his veins, something hot and heavy that only grew with every second he watched her. He knew that he'd be taking advantage of her like this but he was a Viking and when he wanted something he got it.
What would she be like? Would she fight him every step? Would she be submissive? What did she taste like? The answers to these questions were very important. Banishing any further arguments against it, he pinned her hands above the bed and leant down to her face.
Lazily, her eyes flickered open and she was met with the sight of a semi-naked berserker staring down at her with clear intent in his eyes. She quickly realised her trapped position and her eyes widened before something akin to a smirk flitted across her face.
20 – Defeated
Drip. Drop.
He'd done it.
Drip. Drop.
He'd actually done it. He'd left her.
Drip. Drop.
She couldn't understand what she'd done wrong. Had she been too harsh? Was she not good enough? Sure he'd been getting restless lately but she'd never expected this. She'd not expected to lose either.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
Was it raining? Her skin felt cold but it was nothing compared to the growing numbness inside of her. She'd lost battles before but this, this felt like her heart had been ripped out of her chest and stamped on. Green eyes stared vacantly at the ground.
Drip. Drop.
Wait, were those tears too? No, it must be the rain, she didn't cry, she hadn't cried in centuries. Even if they tasted saltier than other rain drops, they weren't tears. Someone, was walking towards her, the squelch of boots in the mud pierced through the sound of the rain but she didn't look up. She felt horribly drained and empty.
"E-England?" God what was he doing here. Hadn't he gotten what he wanted? His precious independence. Pain pierced through the numbness and she felt her heart bleed. He'd won, she had lost, what more could he possibly want from her?
Drip. Drop.
There was a sudden harsh noise of marching and the cocking of a gun. Someone was behind her and aiming a gun at her bro- at America.
"Leave her alone Alfred." If she could feel anything it would be surprise. She thought she'd told Canada to stay back at the base. There was something cold and angry in his voice that she'd never heard before. Am- He took a step back clearly shocked.
"M-Matthew, what are you-"
"Leave her alone. Your men are looking for you." Again the cold harshness in Canada's voice unnerved her but she couldn't seem to lift up her head at all. There was a slow squelching of mud and the figure in front of her moved away. A hand was placed on her shoulder, she could practically feel the boy's worry. The numbness vanished again and she looked up into the rain and screamed.
AN: OK the second instalment is up. A note on the names, in this collection they only use human names when emotions are really running high, and not all the nations know each others human names either. I chose Alvera for England because I wanted something different than the usual Ann, Abigail, Amelia etc for femEngland. Remember that you guys can request pairings or situations as well. I hoped you enjoyed this.
Alvera - "Elf warrior" = England
Auryn - "Golden one" = Wales
Riordan - "Royal poet" = Ireland