/ Here's chapter two, as promised. /

II

Alistair

Edinburgh, UK. March 21, 7:59 am

Alistair opened his eyes to the drab ceiling of his room. It was a rude awakening, to say the least. He had wanted to sleep in, maybe stay in bed until 3 in the afternoon, before hitting the pub and finishing its stock of scotch and sleeping in again the next day. Just like he did almost everyday anyway. But it was - where did that blasted clock go - 8 in the morning and he was awake. Why was he awake?

There was a slight feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Something must have happened... But what? The sky was clear, he wasn't hurting anywhere so he was sure Scotland was fine... Did something happen to his brothers?

He quickly scrambled to the phone and dialed Dylan's number. It was picked up immediately.

"Yes?"

"Did something happen to you?" Alistair asked and waited for his brother's response with bated breath.

"Funny, I was about to call you to ask the same thing."

"No, nothing's going on with me." Alistair paused. "Well, there's this feeling of dread in my stomach..."

"Me too. Something bad definitely happened. But what?"

Alistair couldn't answer that question. "I'll call Connor. You call Arthur."

"He's at a G8 Meeting."

"So? That's great luck. We can disturb their boring meeting and annoy him."

A pause from the other end of the line. "What if something bad happened to him?"

Alistair laughed. "To Arthur? Ha. It'll take a nuclear missile to take that guy out. Probably not even then."

Dylan chuckled. "You're exaggerating. But yeah, I guess you're right."

"Arthur is strong," Alistair said more seriously. "He always has been."

It was only when he hung up that he noticed that he had been clutching the phone too tightly. His hands were shaking and sweaty and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get them to still. He let out a sigh and ran his fingers through his flaming red hair. Perhaps getting on with his life could help ease his anxiety...

Yet the hours went by and even as he sat in front of the television, watching news of an abnormally peaceful day in the UK, the feeling of dread in his gut never went away.

~.;*;.~

Edinburgh, UK. March 22, 5:27 pm

Alistair never did hear word of what had happened when Dylan called Arthur, if he had at all. Still, he was expecting a call either from his calm brunette brother or a livid blond one, so he wasn't too surprised when his phone rang. He muted the television, which had been on all night - how could he get some sleep with that sick feeling pooling in his gut? - and turned the phone speaker on.

"Ecosse?"

Francis? Now that was unexpected.

"Does Angleterre still happen to be in the UK?"

Alistair's eyes widened and he almost dropped his phone. The feeling of dread in his gut intensified tenfold at what he had heard and he felt like something had wrapped itself around his throat and heart, squeezing hard, and he couldn't breathe...

"No," he croaked. "He definitely boarded a plane to LA."

"He's not here. The hotel clerk said he never checked in." There was worry in Francis' voice. "Where do you think he could be?"

"I don't know... He wouldn't-"

Alistair stopped in mid-sentence. What he was seeing... No, it couldn't be...

"Ecosse?"

His eyes were fixed on the international news where it showed an occupied gurney being pushed inside an ambulance. The body was covered in bloodied sheets and the face almost couldn't be seen from all the blood and the respirator covering the nose and mouth, but that blond hair, even though it appeared mostly crimson at that point, was unmistakable.

"No..." He let out a breath, unable to believe in what he just saw. There was no way...

"Did you see the news, Alistair?"

France's voice. Asking about the news. Was he talking about the same news?

"There's no way..."

"They found an ID in the victim's pocket."

"There's no way, Francis! That couldn't have been-"

"It was Arthur."

That's it then. His greatest fears in three words.

"The news didn't cover his condition after he arrived in the hospital, but since he wasn't announced dead on arrival, there's still hope." Francis' voice was strained, as if he was not only convincing Alistair but also himself. "I'm sure he'll live, Alistair. He wouldn't go down without a fight." With that, he hung up.

One by one, tears fell from the redhead's eyes, despair and terror gripping him. Arthur was strong. Arthur was a nation; he wouldn't die easily. But getting crushed by a truck! Surely it hurt. Surely it was agonizing.

Because it hurt for him. It was agonizing for him. Because, yet again, he wasn't there. He had always left his youngest brother alone on the excuse that he was strong, that he didn't need any help, that he didn't need pity. But no matter how strong a person was, they can only take so much. No matter how strong anything was, they can only stand so long before they start to crumble from age and wear.

Alistair was an idiot for not realizing that perhaps, his brother had been exhausted from centuries of fighting, worn out from trying to appear strong, tired from all the pain and suffering. Hadn't Arthur always shielded them from everything? Hadn't Arthur always done everything for them? How could it have slipped his mind, even for just a second, that Arthur was still human? Immortal, in a sense, but human.

Alistair was the weak one. Wasn't that why he allowed Arthur to do everything? Wasn't that why he always insisted that his youngest brother was strong? Wasn't that why he always said that he hated the other, that he wished they weren't related at all? Because he was jealous. Because he couldn't stand to be in the shadow.

So now Arthur was in pain, perhaps even dying. Nobody could grasp the concept of their immortality fully, and there wasn't really a reason to believe that nations couldn't die like mortal humans do. Maybe they healed from their wound from wars, maybe they were revived after being assassinated time and again, but didn't know how that worked. There were cases where the nations didn't revive even when the country was still alive...

Arthur may be dying and Alistair was still sitting in his living room, bawling his eyes out, instead of beside his brother and encouraging him to live. What a useless brother he was.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered, wiping the tears from his eyes and sniffing. "I'm your older brother. I should be the one protecting you and yet..."

He shook his head. No use dwelling on thoughts now. Actions speak louder than words, and he could only hope that his actions now would be enough to nullify the hurtful words he had said before.

"Hang on, little brother," he said, putting a coat on and putting his phone and keys in his pocket. He was out the door in a heartbeat. "I'm coming for you."

/**

* To Victoria H: In response to your review on Encounters (as well as everything else, I guess) - Thanks for reviewing.! As for your interpretation on stuff, I'd say you're right. I mean, the deal with that story is that you can put whatever meaning you have in it. I actually used to think it's just a bunch of bs that I wrote to fight off boredom, but apparently it meant something to somebody so I decided to post it. So, whatever you think will always be right. But if you want to know how much your interpretation synced with mine after the revelation that it actually meant something, then I suppose you're half right. Like, the half that Anovia didn't get right. Once again, thanks. And I hope you read my stories still. :)

* Please review.!

*/