A/N: I'm still grounded, but I'll just make it up as I go along, and hopefully it won't deviate too much from what I'd originally planned. Oh, and, by the way, I'm not shipping anyone in this. You can, but I'm not. ;) If I get any of the characters all weird, feel free to let me know. Apologies for the short chapter~
His throat hurt from screaming. The visions of the carnage he'd seen danced before his eyes.
England groaned, even that small sound hurting his throat, and put his head in his hands, beating it against his palms, trying to wipe out the horror, the hell.
It didn't work. Of course not.
Involuntarily, he glanced at his wrists, reassuring himself that there were no chafe marks on them from the chains that had speckled with blood as he'd pulled harder against them, trying to escape. But it's hard to escape hell when you can't even close your eyes to hide, no secrets under his eyelids after they'd been ripped out-
He whimpered, a vulnerable sound, and curled into a ball under the bench. There was barely enough room for him. Don't remember that, England. You don't bloody want to remember.
He opened his eyes, desperate to focus on something, anything other than the silence of his thoughts. There was a tray- lightweight, partially translucent- on the ground by the bars, and it held some sort of mushy brown-green glop and a cup of discolored liquid. He couldn't really think of it as water. Disgust warred with thirst and thirst won. He gulped the liquid down, feeling the particles in it against his tongue. Immediately after, he made a face, but it soothed his throat.
Then, England sampled the food. Even if it did resemble his cooking sometimes, the taste was completely different. Truly a disgusting meal, he thought, grimly attacking the contents of the tray. When he was done, he hurled it against the bars, feeling a bit better. It clanged to the ground and faded away like smoke.
"Who's there?" A thin voice reached England's ears. He recognized it instantly.
England tried to make a sound, but his raw throat threatened to bleed. Screaming without end was no good for it. Finally, he managed to whisper, "It's me, you bloody frog."
"England? What'd you do to your voice, mon ami?"
"Wore it out." whispered England shortly. "You know."
"Yes. I do." France's voice was weary, and the strangely eyebrowed nation heard the strain in it. "I wonder why all the bad things happen to the gorgeous people." France went on.
England attempted to smile. That was more like the France he knew.
"I mean seriously, all you ugly people are fair game, but shouldn't I be granted an exception?"
England's smile faded. "France," he whispered as menacingly as he could, "stop using the fact that I am trapped in this cell and cannot give you the beating you deserve to your advantage."
France laughed delightedly. "Oh, oui, I'll be quiet, but first you have to say you missed the melodious sound of my voice."
A vein bulged in England's forehead. "What?" he roared, with no regard for his throat. "YOU BLOODY WANKER!"
"I'm sorry, what was that?" France purred. "Were you saying you missed the melodious sound of my voice?"
"I will bloody kill you, you arsehole!" England seethed.
France merely laughed agian. "You missed the melodious sound of my voice, didn't you? Go on! Say it! I know you did!"
"You...you..." sputtered England. Suddenly he coughed violently, barely having enough time to suck in air to cough with. Ah, hell.
France was not fazed. "I assume you're coughing to disguise the fact you missed the melodious sound of my voice?"
The coughing increased in volume and then cut off.
"I'm coughing up blood, you ass-hat!" England whispered as loudly as he dared.
France was alarmed. "What? Blood? Really?" He took a few steps towards the bars.
The coughing stopped again, and a few rattling gasps could be heard. "I missed the melodious sound of your voice," whispered England, sounding defeated. "Now shut the hell up, and leave me alone."
For once France did as England told him to.