"Stop!" I screeched. "Russia!"

Russia stopped in his tracks. His mask vanished and the shovel dropped, and the clangs from the impact echoed in the basement as he rushed to me. There were splatters of rot over his face. The mark of what he had done was plastered to his body, dripping off in chunks to the floor like he had come in soaked from a rainstorm. He seemed unconcerned by it as he glanced over the wound on my shoulder, the slash from the chainsaw, and even the drops of blood under my nose and over my knuckles.

But then he saw the horror and anger in the piercing glare that I directed at him. Russia flinched, confused, but then minded my wounds again with a troubled frown. He dropped down and scooped under me. I shoved weakly at his chest and hollered at him, slipping away and causing him to retract his arms.

I had not wanted America to experience pain. Russia had been there when I had argued with Britain and France, and yet, he had done more damage to him than they had ever intended to do. Russia skittered back to his feet, eyes wide from the aggression he faced from me. He was silent, swallowing, and eyes shone as he tried to understand how he had failed me.

The pain was a pulsing burn that contorted my face, but I managed to snap, "How could you do that, Russia? Why did you have to hurt him like that? You knew I didn't want it! I tried so hard to spare him, and now-"

"Canada…" he whispered, bowing his head and trying to brush away the gore. It smeared, worsening. "He was hurting you…"

Britain pulled himself off the wall and growled, "All you had to do was get him off. Now look at what you've done! You've destroyed his insides and bones… Cutting off his limbs is one thing, but now America is going to become more dangerous than before!"

I flinched from his words, and moaned in pain. Britain pushed Russia aside, who let himself be moved away so that Britain and France could reach me. Before their hands touched me however, Russia had second thoughts and hurried back to jam his hands under me. I hissed and squirmed despite the pain, while trying to get myself away from the one who I felt had betrayed me.

"Let me go!" I pushed against him, but the impenetrable wall of his chest did not bend to my struggles. The continued efforts to shove sparked agony in my torn shoulder. I dropped my arms finally, gasping, and feeling the tear opening up even further as the arm dangled. Russia tossed the affected arm over my chest, before he ran up the stairs and fled the scene.

Russia raced right onto my side of the building, slipping into the kitchen and laying me down on the tiled floor. Towels were then hurried to me, and Russia grabbed a thick one to wrap around the bite mark that pumped out the most daunting amount of blood. He pressed down and held his hands in place just as Britain and France arrived, charging into the kitchen. Once they had caught sight of what he was doing, they held their protests and prioritized my injuries with him.

I lay upon the cold floor and became more aware of the pain that lit up all over my body. I gasped constantly and groaned, slamming my eyes shut and hardly noticing which hands belonged to who. France and Britain snagged some of the smaller towels from Russia's pile, wetting them and washing away the blood of my other injuries. They snipped off my filthy and ruined shirt, washing my skin with warm water, then busying themselves by pressing down on the long cut across my chest.

"Canada…" Russia's voice was low as he still focused on slowing the bleeding by my neck. "You are hurt for me. You put yourself in front of me, and now…"

I did not know what to say, so I clenched my jaw and refused to meet his eyes. The emotional stress of knowing how America had suffered tore at my heart, but I knew by Russia's eyes and voice that he was truly thankful for what I had done. He saw me like a hero, yet I felt a certain regret that I had rescued Russia. Guilt too, that I felt that way. Nevertheless, if Russia had been the one attacked, then I could have stopped America without damaging him.

"Oh, Canada…" Britain murmured when I had not answered Russia. "Why didn't you listen to me? Why didn't you trust me? I told you that America was strong and dangerous. If you had let us do what we had intended, then you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

"I'm sorry…" I whimpered. "I'm so sorry…"

France shushed me. The three all held me for a while, trying to stop my bleeding, but the silence became thick as we all considered what Russia had done. France eventually left and came back shortly after with the bottle of alcohol. We all understood the intention. They wanted to apply it now and hopefully save me from the nasty infection that Britain had gotten.

Russia peeled back the towel. The messy bite mark was bleeding slowly, but I turned my gaze away from it as France poured a heaping of burning alcohol straight over it. I cried out, and Russia rushed to pet my hair and brush my tears away. I reached up and tried to slap away his hand, switching my gaze onto him and catching a glimpse of the rotted smears on his face. My anger and stress had returned, and when Russia saw it, he halted and took his hand back.

His hand's retreat caused my heart to sink, for now I had chased away his comfort.

"You're okay, Canada," France shushed me. "You're doing great."

Russia moved further back, shying away after my abnormally harsh reaction. He extended out his arm to keep the pressure on my wound, and maintained the furthest distance he could keep from me. Although he was still helping me, it was now only the other two who commanded the duty of relaxing me. Russia remained quiet throughout the entire ordeal.

It seemed to take an eternity before my bleeding had stopped. My injuries were disinfected once more, then bandages were secured to hide away the red. Immediately after his job was done, Russia crept away in the opposite direction while Britain and France led me to rest in my bed. Frightened and admittedly wary of Russia's departure, I wheezed, "Where is he going?"

Britain slipped out from the room to trail him. Soon, he reported to us that Russia was merely washing himself off. Russia made an appearance a bit later, cleaned of gore and seeking new clothes from his suitcase in my room. He changed in the bathroom, then slunk back into the room slowly, almost timidly, like a feeble deer. It was all part of his cautious approach to the bed, for he expected to be ordered to leave at any notice by me. I blinked at him as Russia dared himself to sit beside me with his back half turned to me.

He sighed, "I am sorry, Canada. I was very angry at America for many things… Not just for biting you. I was angry that America started everything and because it is his fault that you are sad all the time. Everyone is sad and hurts because America was stupid. He never thought about how you felt and never listened to you before. I think that America has always been bad to you, but you care more than you should about him…"

I tried to raise my head, but then I gave up and let it settle back down onto the pillow instead. From there, I whispered, "No. I do not care more about him than I should. Okay, so sometimes he is an idiot... a hotshot… everything that you just said… but he's my brother and I love him."

Russia turned just a bit more towards me. I could see more easily now, the true lack of understanding in his eyes. "I do not know why you do. He is selfish. I hate listening to every word that escapes his mouth… I hate seeing the cocky look he has many times in his eyes. He ignores you and forgets you. America-"

"Hate…" My voice was faint, and trailed off into a soft sigh. Although I was quiet, and even quieter than my usual self, Russia fell silent. "Did you ever tell him that you hate him? I… You've never said such strong words before… Why are you angry, when you used to ignore me too? Everyone treated me like him… Months ago, you would have never listened to me if I hadn't been America first."

Russia stiffened, then dropped his gaze. There was guilt in those purple orbs, a quality that I realized that Russia did not show to other people. Recently, so many parts of him were being revealed that I had not known were inside him. I waited to see what would come next, my glare easing in my stirred interest over the emotions he would expose.

"I do not think that he will change," Russia replied. "Or maybe he will for a little bit, but then America will be back to how he was before. I am different to you because I will treat you like my friend."

"Friend?" Britain scoffed. "You've just tried to destroy his brother!"

Russia closed his mouth. I took over now, prompting him in a wavering whisper, "Russia… Why did you do it, even if you were angry?"

"Why?" He glanced at me with a scrunched-up forehead. He had not understood the question.

"Why did you choose to be violent when you were angry?"

Russia looked even more lost than before, despite my elaboration. He hesitated so long with his response that an uncomfortable thickness hung in the air between us all. My words had sunk in, but Russia did not seem to know how to answer.

"I don't know…" he murmured at last.

The next question had more weight to it, but I spoke gently so that I could milk out the truth from him. I asked, "Were you trying to kill him for good, or just hurt him?"

Russia breathed, "I… I knew I was hurting him, and I liked this."

After a second had passed, France said, "Russia… You didn't answer all the questions that Canada asked. Did you want to kill him?"

Russia slammed his eyes shut. He shook his head, insisting, "No, I did not think about it… If I wanted to do that, then I would have hit him with my full strength. But I did not because…"

"Why not then?" Britain interjected. "If you were so mad at him and did not care about what Canada wanted, why didn't you just strike him with all of your might?"

"I don't know," he exhaled again. "Maybe it is because I am still thinking that Canada being America was America. It makes me think that America is good, but he is not. When I was not having the time to think a lot, I was hesitating although I was angry. Now, I can think more."

My hands flopped back onto the mattress, forming cups that faced the ceiling. I let my eyes fall halfway closed as I whispered, "And if you were thinking as you are now, would you have hit him harder?"

"I am not sure."

Britain bristled and France rose up. Their eyes widened, although there were more offended thorns in the gaze that Britain directed at Russia.

"What did you just say?" Britain snarled.

His answers to these questions were cooling the core of anger in my chest. I suddenly found faith in him, although the other two only seemed to become more upset by his honest words. Russia may have just insisted that he hated America, but his hesitation in the shovel strike proved that I could still hold some hope for him. Russia needed convincing to understand my stress, and yelling at him would only strengthen his opposition.

"Russia," I murmured. "I believe that America can change, but you have to give him a chance. Remember… No one else thought that you should have been given one. But I was nice to you, and I was surprised when you became my friend. And… and I know he ignored the things you sent him, but he didn't understand what he could have gained. But I can help you, Russia, and you can be to him like I was to you."

The tension in Russia's face disappeared, and he regarded me with clearer eyes that allowed me to view the tender thoughts within.

I finished, sighing, "I just can't imagine living without him. An-and… after all of this, I think that he will learn a lesson. It isn't fair either, that he died when he didn't want to… That is why you can't hurt him. He just wants to live and he'll be so happy to be with us again."

Russia nodded slowly with shadows of regret cast over his face. He scanned my injuries, then shifted closer to touch my non-injured shoulder. His hand stayed there, heavy and warm as he whispered, "I am sorry."

No one said anything. I met Russia's eyes and knew that it was important to accept his feelings and encourage his progress. My heart still ached since he had hurt America, but I tried to understand that he had been overprotective over more than just the wounds I had received. So I allowed my own eyes to liquify with warm forgiveness, because if I did not forgive him, then no one would.

"No one has ever done a sacrifice for me like that," Russia mumbled. "Canada… You showed me how good a friend you were… I did not want you to be treated badly by anything. But I did something that hurt you… I am sorry."

It was strange for all to hear Russia, of all people, apologizing so much for his own actions. I was moved. I shushed him and exhaled, "Okay… just don't do it again. And say sorry to America when we get him back..."

That was certainly an absurd idea, since no one had actually seen Russia apologizing to America before. Nevertheless, Russia agreed quietly and stroked his hand down my arm. He then set it back over his leg and stared away, unsure of what to do now.

Britain sighed before he focused his attention once more upon me. "Are you alright?"

I closed my eyes and settled down. "Yeah…"

France echoed Britain's sigh. "You'll need a lot of rest. It's been hard for you lately."

"Is there anything we can get you?" Britain asked.

"No… Not right now."

Russia murmured, "Maybe you want a drink?"

"Um…"

"I will make you cocoa," he continued, hardly leaving any room for dispute. "You did this for me, and it made me feel better. I want to take care of you too."

My head turned back to the side, falling over weakly. "You've already done that, when I was sad…"

"This is no debt," Russia smiled softly. "Whenever I can, I will try to make you feel better. It does not matter who is doing more."

Russia lifted himself up from the mattress and padded across the carpet. He turned into the hall, the fluttering end of his scarf the last of him to disappear from sight. Once he was gone, the other two moved closer to me and began fretting and caressing me.

"You were brave," France breathed. "Throwing yourself out in front of Russia like that…"

Again, I did not know how to respond to that, since I still felt some regret about it. No one expected an answer however, and so they sat with me for a while without saying more. The silence that came to reign over the bed unnerved me. I felt sure that they were thinking about America, and how they still wanted to cut him up.

"When are you going to do it then?" I sighed. They knew exactly what I was talking about.

"Tonight," Britain replied. "Before America gets even stronger from what Russia did to him."

"So that will make him stronger…"

"Indeed."

France pleaded with me in a tentative voice, "Please, don't be upset about it. It is like we said… America would be alright with it if it was the only way to protect you. Just from what he has already done, he will feel bad."

"So…" Britain began.

"Fine…" Tears leaked from my eyes and my aching body began to quiver. "Just do it then..."

France assured me gently, "Russia can wait with you. You'll be okay."

"Everything will be okay," Britain whispered. "I promise."

"Play some music and drink your cocoa," France said. "Don't think about it. You won't ever have to see him after so…"

My muscles clenched, straining my cuts, but I said nothing. I nodded stiffly and felt fatter tears rolling over the curves of my cheeks. There was music I could listen to: the Russian classical music that Russia had played to calm me back at his place. The volume could be cranked up, then he would sit beside me and ease me with his accented whispers. I wouldn't have to hear or think about the running chainsaw in the neighbouring basement.

We waited for Russia to return bearing a steaming mug for me. I continued to lay like a wooden board however, unable to relax with America on my mind. The tears kept releasing themselves and I fought against quaking and jolting the ribs under my cut. France and Britain tried to comfort me, but I was too on edge to relax my body.

A screech of a cat caused me to fly upwards. The injuries all tore simultaneously, causing me to yowl and fall back down. The other two hushed me and prodded at me carefully, while the strangled screech echoed into nothingness, never returning. It had been so short, but it had been loud and near, and I could hear the claws and writhing within it. It might have been the territorial dispute between cats, but I worried more that a coyote had nabbed one of them.

Wishing that the worst had not just happened, I groaned to them, "Could you look outside? Make sure…"

France was already up and glancing out the window. His head turned from side-to-side, but he reported, "I don't see anything."

"Sounded like it was in the front yard," Britain commented. He pointed off forward and to the right. "That way."

France walked briskly from the room and into the hall. My worries about America were distracted for the minute, my heart pounding at the thought of being informed of a cat's harm. Someone's pet and beloved family member. I imagined the torn mess of an injured tabby being brought inside and to me by France. I shivered and continued my crying, but France did not come back right away.

We waited, yet France never returned. I assumed that he must have gone outside, but then a shrill scream of terror came flying down the hall. I was the first from my room, tearing away as though I could feel none of my wounds. I charged down the hall in the general direction that he had gone, with his name flying from my mouth like burning fire.

"France!"

He was still screaming. Behind me, Britain was shrieking his name as well, but I was snapped into silence the moment I found him. There were his feet, then his upright legs that rose like twin stalks. France was standing, and he was unharmed, but now his scream was dying into a gaping-mouthed silence.

From the doorway to the kitchen, he continued to stare forward and downward with utterly wide and white eyes. I dove to his side in order to instantly behold all that he did. What I saw was difficult to comprehend at first, since I could not fathom how it was possible, but all was there and indisputable.

The destroyed body was no longer in the basement that Britain had surely locked up. It had somehow found its way here, past two doors and into the kitchen, and strong enough to do more than just stand. We knew now that the sound we had heard before had been no cat screech. That awful and tortured cry had been Russia's, before his throat had been torn out by the emaciated skeleton which now lay over him. Russia could make no sound now, and could only squirm weakly under America.

Russia was not dead, but he should have been. His front was split open from the neck to abdomen, and all the skin and muscles had been pulled apart to reveal gleaming organs. The corpse rasped over him with the bright piece of new meat glued to its own throat, vocal once more, although sounding like its victim. America jammed his own bony fingers into the holes of his own stomach and ripped it open, tearing the shirt and then the threads of the stitches. The blasted and crushed insides were hastily yanked out from himself, the white-boned hands unraveling discoloured intestines and casting all anyway.

I was already dashing forward, but not before the hands jammed their slender fingertips into Russia's ribs. The twig-like arms snapped out to the side, snapping open the cage of bones with thundering cracks. I lunged and spun out a kick, hooking America around the middle, but it was not he who was flung. Like striking a rock, I fell over him and smacked into the tile floor. America had kept a powerful grip upon the bones and could not be removed so easily. The light skeleton regained its balance, before plunging his hand into Russia's chest.

I rolled out of the way as France and Britain tackled America. Through my spread fingers, I saw America going down, but not without something large and red tearing free from Russia. Immediately, Russia's back arched as he screamed without a sound, bubbles of blood erupting from his throat instead. Russia's face contorted into such a horrified, excruciated expression, and from the position I had now on his other side, I could see the worst of it all.

America was off him, but the right eye was gone and a bleeding socket was left behind. On the same side, the skin and muscle from his temple to lips had been slashed clean off. I saw teeth that were now left completely exposed to the air, and the scarlet mess of where his lips, which I had now noticed, had been torn off.

Britain and France struggled with groans and hollers to hold America down. I leapt forward and joined them once I had noticed just how easy it had been for America to sit up. He snarled and swung out at us, trying to slap us all away to get at the victim he truly wanted. I threw down my weight and fell over him, coming face-to-face with America once again. It had only been over an hour, but now I was the one over him and staring into one large, dark hole of his face.

One, since the other socket had already been filled. I faced the gnashing corpse who stared directly at me with Russia's violet eye and with various pieces of fresh meat cemented onto him. Minutes ago, I had looked into those eyes and had seen a pool of colourful emotions. Days ago, I had been admiring their hues. To see the eye here however, was different. I had never seen an eye without emotion. It was a living eye, and yet, it was as dead as the cadaver that bore it.

I screamed, but it was drowned out by the frantic screech of America. He had been quiet for so long, but here was his voice again, albeit it now had a Slavic flavor. It still did not sound like Russia however, not when it became the warbled, high-pitched cry of an inhuman being. His torment erupted into the world and shook the air around us with the mere intensity of that scream.

All three of us were tossed away. The greasy skeleton pelted through our arms and bent forward. Squeezed still in its hand, was Russia's dripping heart. America crammed it into himself, then dove back onto Russia's shaking body. His scratched for Russia's other eye, but Russia slapped his hand over it and pushed vainly against him. America moaned and ripped off the skin on the back of his hand, desperately applying it and trying to get past the barrier.

France fled the room and I knew exactly where he was going. The basement, because that was where the gun was. Britain had a different idea however, seeing that we were pressed for time. He flung himself to the side and yanked the largest knife free from the rack on the counter. In one fluid movement, Britain dropped down onto America and plunged the knife through his back. The steel entered through the rotted meat easily, slipping in right until the hilt.

America curved back and screamed, his orange teeth flashing at the blind ceiling above. Russia's eye in his skull flashed to the side, before America whirled to snap at the one who had attacked him. Britain tugged out the knife swiftly, and once America was facing him and wailing, he stabbed him in the face.

The knife sank in but got stuck halfway. America stood and scrambled back, screaming his blood curdling yells of agony and slapping at the knife. Yet no matter how he screamed and stumbled, he was soon down again, driven so much by the need for Russia's warmth. He tried to roughly grab hold of Russia's right lung, but I was already there, kicking the knife deeper into his face.

Bone crunched as it drove in deeper into his brain. America fell back onto the floor and flailed, but I was already over him. I shot my hand into his opened gut, reaching up under his ribs and finding Russia's heart. I felt its beating against my fingertips. When I grabbed hold of it and tried to pull, however, I felt the tissue resisting. The organ was already fastened to America.

America kicked me back and pounced upon Russia. I grasped his shoulders and pulled back, but the iron grip had returned. America clung to Russia's angled and broken ribs, until some broke free and America toppled back onto me. Screeching in desperation, America turned on me and his jaw snapped at my face. He was through with waiting. He would take from whoever he could if no one would let him have Russia.

The gunshot came at last. The bullet split the air and suffocated the sounds of America's screaming. America was hit in the side and he fell over, finally limp and no longer struggling. The handle of the knife still stuck out from his face, but all he could do was paw at his new wound. Gurgles snaked out from his broken mouth and blood poured out from the hole. Red, fresh blood. Russia's blood was erupting from America's body.

I wailed and fell over, collapsing onto Russia accidentally, and feeling hot stickiness under my palm. My hand slipped and slid across the floor into the drenched end of his bloody and torn scarf. My head snapped back to Russia, making eye contact with Russia's one remaining eye. The damaged hand that had protected it had already dropped away. Now, the flowing tears were now revealed as Russia locked his terrified gaze onto me.

He was not dead, but he had no heart. France could not be blamed however, for it was more than the exploded heart that ensured that Russia would die. The broken ribs had splintered and poked into other organs, leaking juices into the already massive puddle of blood under Russia. There was no way to fix him now, and Russia knew it. He was scared. There was incredible pain and indescribable fear within Russia, but there was nothing that I could do to save him.

But I had been pouring my hope into Britain for so long. In my panic, I wanted to rely on him. Surely, there was something that he could do.

"Britain," I moaned. "Oh, please do something..."

The gun fired again. In my peripheral vision, America fell back down. I had not noticed how he had been dragging himself closer again, but France had been watching him.

Britain dropped to his knees on the other side of Russia, his pants becoming painted with Russia's red. "I was afraid of this," he whispered. "But I feared that it would be you."

I did not want to hear this now. It did not seem to have any meaning or use, so I cried, "Britain, s-save him!"

"I can't!" he snapped at me with his voice and sharp eyes. "There's too much damage!"

My body became petrified. Russia shook and turned his head to the side towards me, reaching out his hand to me. I took his blood-soaked hand into both of mine, bringing it close to my chest. His trembles begged for me to do something to help him.

"No, Russia…" I mewled. "We have to save him, we have to… take him to the hospital!"

France murmured, "It won't help him."

"We have to do something! He can't die! What are we going to do if-"

"Canada!" Britain barked. "Listen now, I know what to do!"

I lost control of myself, my body breaking out into sobs as I demanded, "What? What c-c-can-"

Britain leapt to his feet and sprinted from the room. Seconds later he was back, returning from America's side and bearing one item in his hands. It was the container, and it was now slammed onto the counter.

"Wait, wh-what are you doing?" I gasped.

France cried, "Britain, that's for Ame-"

"Yes," he uttered. "It is for America. It is only missing two ingredients, but we have them now, more or less. We can cure America this instant."

France stammered, "Ar-are you saying that with Russia-"

I yelped, but Britain quickly cut both me and France off. "There is enough of the potion for two people! From the start, I was always afraid that something would happen to Canada, so I have been making double the necessary amount! If we cure America now, then there will be enough of the potion left to cure Russia in only a few weeks or less!"

America growled and turned over. France pointed the gun at him with a trembling hand, gasping, "Do it, Britain. If we can't save Russia, then it's all we can do…!"

Britain lowered himself and yanked the knife out from America's face. The empty-eyed skull screamed and lay back down. Britain approached Russia with the upturned chef's knife, murmuring, "I only need his liver and stomach…"

Russia threw up his hand and grabbed onto Britain's wrist. He shook and tried to keep Britain at bay, but he was far too weak.

"Britain!" I sobbed. "You can't, you just- Russia's not dead yet!"

He was suffering and afraid. Now, we were collected by him and the last thing he would experience before the dark, was the merciless face and knife of Britain. I leapt in and pushed Britain back, pleading, "Not like this, please, please!"

He sighed, "I don't know how long it will take for him to die."

I whimpered, "He's suffering."

"I know…" Britain glanced down to the knife. "But because we can't save him… perhaps we could shorten that."

I whined and looked back to Russia. He could hear all that we said, and he was even more frightened. Everything upon his face begged me to stop Britain. Russia did not want to die, but there was so much pain that he could not take. No one could watch someone stealing their organs while they were dying, even if it meant saving another.

"R-Russia…" I whispered. "You're going to be alright. Britain… he'll, he'll fix you in only a few weeks' time."

Tears leaked from his eye. Russia tried to speak, but blood spilled from his neck and no sound was produced. I held his hand still and looked right into the quivering orb. Britain snuck around him as I turned Russia's head to me. He would not have to look at what Britain was going to do next.

"You won't have to suffer," I sniffed, my throat seizing up and straining my voice into the tightest of whispers. "And when you wake up… I'll be there for you."

Russia closed his eye and quivered with his own crying. Britain put the blade tip by his torn throat and winced, before he plunged it into it. The eye flew back open and Russia convulsed, his pupil flashing in every direction. The knife went deeper and sawed; Russia's hand tightened its grip on mine, the fingers scraping desperately for help. Then, a point had been reached, and the final struggle ceased. Russia went limp and his eye closed completely.

France collapsed onto his knees and slapped his hands over his eyes, shivering and dropping the gun. Britain inhaled rapidly and found that he as well, could no longer hold the knife. He stared at what he had just done, and I knew his shock. He had just murdered Russia, and whether he had liked him or not, this was the thought that haunted him.

Russia's lifeless hand slipped out from my own. It had still been warm, so I grabbed it again and kept it close to me. But everything was growing colder the longer I knelt and kept staring. A haze spread over my vision, and from elsewhere, came my own panicked screams. Just like the screams that had erupted on the mountain trail, I shrieked the fallen one's name, although he would never hear me.

Russia…

There were no tears left to cry when the blackness came. It was almost a relief when the stress overtook me once again. I fell over Russia, ignoring all the exposed organs and broken bones in order to awkwardly fumble my arms over him. I held him by his shoulders, losing my sight, then my hearing, as I hugged him and set my cheek onto his lacerated collarbone. All the other senses tingled away, until the last thing that I felt was touch. I felt Russia and I felt Britain's quaking hand, since he needed me to move out of the way, although in only a second would I fall anyways.

This hug was empty. There was nothing here that was familiar or comforting. The clean-smelling clothes and soft cotton were now drenched with the heavy weight of blood. The scarf that I had once pressed my face against was ruined and wet; the part that touched me now left a slap of crimson on my forehead. No careful arms wrapped around me, and no calming heartbeat came from the ravaged torso that no longer held a heart. The solid warmth of the chest that I had rested against during my time of anguish was gone now, and I would have never imagined that this warmth would have ever faded away like this.

He was growing even colder now.

Russia…

When I passed out, I was spared from what would come next.