|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Mon Jun 21, 2010 7:05 pm
Title: Trigger Point {Axis Powers: Hetalia Fanfiction}
Author: Evermore Reality (Alias: ThreeBlackRoses)
Summary: When the Iron Curtain descends once again across Europe, the already war-torn globe threatens to rip into shreds. Seperated from his brother by a wall of human flesh, East Germany must rally his northern neighbors to meet the coming onslaught of a Russian bent of getting the one thing he's always desired: everything.
Russia knows what he wants, and this time, he may just get it. After all, this time Alfred's worn to thin to lend a hand, Britain's to weak to do more than protect his already failing borders, France lost before the war even began and this time Russia has the ace in the hole. All that's left is for the clock to strike midnight.
Disclaimer: The plot is mine. Everything else belongs to somebody else.
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: Swearing, violence
Special Thanks: deadzonedragons and Indigo Pheonix for endless support during my mad ramblings.
Notes: I start college this fall and doubt I will have time for NaNoWriMo. This is my replacement. This is also the first fic I may ever actually finish.
Response: I will be posting this here and on FanFiction.net. I will accept replies on either and both sites. Crit is desired, compliments make my day! biggrin
Goal: 50,000 words
Acheived: 6,139/50,000My Fanfiction Profile
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Jul 13, 2010 10:25 am
1. Division
"And we shall be as never before, two nations united by the most common of goals, a peace and prosperity shared by all. We shall be as brothers, markedly different but connected on a level mankind has yet to probe."
"Well, what do you think?" Germany questioned, hands resting lightly on his young brother's shoulders as they watched his Prime Minister address the world on the eve of East Germany's ascension to independent statehood.
"I think I'm glad that they're finally getting around to setting everything up. Not to imply that I find living in your home the least bit distasteful, brother, but I feel well and ready to inhabit my own land. It tastes of victory, albeit a bitter one." East Germany replied, massaging his temples with a hand.
"Bitter?"
"Come now, Brüder. However dearly you may love me, your bosses feel no such kinship to my people. I am but a reminder of a shattered nation that apparently refuses to die," East shook his head slowly, smiling up at his elder sibling.
"Nonsense I won't stand for any such talk about my family. Prussia is dead, and East must stand apart from West. This is right, Brüder, and let no one tell you otherwise," Germany snarled in return, lifting his hands to the other's temples and massaging in slow, deliberate circles. "Headache any better?" he inquired tone softening as his fingers slid through the younger's white hair.
"Yes," East lied, wincing as the migraine rattling about within his cranium threatened to rip his skull in two.
"Liar." Germany's calm tone lacked discernable accusation, but his eyes held the concern of a father when East looked up. "Tell the truth. Will you be alright to attend the ceremonies today?"
"Of course," East cried, startled into motion. "Our nations have been planning his for years now. We can't just move the date because I have a headache," he drew out the syllables, sounding so like the petulant child he had until recently been that Germany smiled and resumed stroking his "son's" brow.
"Be that as it may, should you be too ill to be in attendance, only our bosses would truly notice the difference, and even they will be preoccupied come time for the presentation. Besides," he continued with a grin, "I could just tell them that Italy's jabbering finally sent you over the edge. We both know they'd believe it."
"Be that as it may," East began, before the renewed pain of his headache stole the worlds from his lips and sent an array of colors dancing across the backs of his eyelids.
"Be that as it may," he began again, grinding the words out with determination, " I have an obligation to my country to make an appearance. I promise," he mollified at Germany's disbelieving stare, "On my honor as a young, impressionable country, I will beg out as early as possible, veg about in my new home and generally accustom myself to unfamiliar territory."
"See that you do," Germany grunted, only slightly more comfortable with this plan. He removed his hands from East's head and stared down at his younger brother. Deceptively innocent-looking blue eyes stared back, the only visible difference between the young nation and his former self. A minor detail, thought Germany, but one that had won other nation's to their cause in the first place. Hesitant to put another Prussia in a position of power, the world's major powers were hesitant to allow East Germany statehood of its own. Finally, after years of work , countless hours of training poured into the impressionable young nation and personal interviews with every nation individually, East's first chancellor was being named today.
Germany's thoughts broke off abruptly as a cry of "Pastaaaaaa~~!" echoed throughout his house.
East smiled and rose from his seat, turning the television off as he went. "I suppose that's our cue," he chuckled, "Italy's late for everything."
With a resigned sigh Germany conceded the point and followed his younger brother out of the room, worried frown still shadowing his normally stoic expression.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Germany knew his brother was in pain. He could see it in the grim set of the younger man's mouth and in the tightened skin around his eyes.
Yet somehow the younger man lasted through the entire ceremony, through lengthy speeches by important political figures and the first address of his own chancellor to the people of East Germany.
Despite Germany's fretting about his brother's health, the actual ceremony went off without a hitch. Two nations gathered together as one people to celebrate the independence of their brother country. So seamlessly, if fact, did the people come together, that Germany knew for a fact that something was wrong.
"You worry too much Brüder," East scolded him sullenly when he voiced his growing concern. "It's a headache, not cancer. I'll get over it. In fact, I bet it's nothing more than my people's excitement."
"But-"
"Enough already!" East snapped. "I have no more patience for conspiracy theory today. You saw your people's joy. You heard my chancellor's speech. Now go home and let me rest as you instructed!"
Germany didn't bother to add that he wished his brother would rest with him nearby. He simply stood and inclined a respectful half-bow to his young sibling. "Good day then."
"I'll come by tomorrow, when I'm feeling better." As much of an apology as East will ever give him, Ludwig knows.
"Noon?" Apology accepted.
"Eleven. Let's live on the wild side."
"Understood. I will see you then."
Dusk enveloped the world outside of his brothers door, muffling and muting every light and sound. The people had long since retired and the air felt taught with tension to Germany's frayed nerves, almost as though this entire community was waiting for the most minute of signals to erupt.
Dismissing is fears as irrational conspiracy theories brought on by his worry, he continued on his way, intent on sleeping some before his brothers arrival.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"East Germany has become its own nation today, da? You find this exciting?" Russia looked down at his comatose companion, knowing full well that no answer awaited him.
"Do not worry, darling," he soothed in a falsely jubilant tone, twining his fingers through the others hair and curling the strands around his gloved fingers. "Don't worry. Soon enough we shall reclaim what is ours."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Jul 13, 2010 10:27 am
2. Splinter
The headache endured. It followed East Germany home and slept beside him. It rose with him in the morning and watched as he made his coffee and tossed two aspirin down his throat. It answered the phone and listened as he spoke with his new boss of the events the night before. The headache followed East Germany into the bathroom, where, the pungent scent of vomit still hanging like a shroud, he answered a phone call from his brother.
"Hello?" East Germany rasped, clutching the receiver with the hand that was not preoccupied with clutching the porcelain edge of the bathtub.
"Bruder? I thought you were coming over this morning. Are you still ill?"
East considered admitting to the debilitating pain in his head. He considered telling his brother everything and having him rush over and sit with him through the waves of nausea that wracked his body and blurred his vision. But some strange forced stayed his tongue. Pride, fear, or perhaps even some raw premonition prevented him from voicing his condition.
Instead he forced himself to straighten, take a deep breath and declare, "I'm fine. Something just…came up."
"What something?" West questioned his tone reminiscent of a hundred incidents from East's mischievous childhood, making the younger nation cringe with guilt.
"A meeting something," he snapped in return, scrabbling to save face with a plausible excuse. "I'll come by another time."
"Would you like me to come by for a little while instead?" His brother asked kindly, only adding to the wretched guilt building in East's chest. "You must be tired."
"No!" East barked. "For the last time, I'm busy!"
He shot to his feet to punctuate his point and regretted it instantaneously as nausea rolled through him. He slammed the phone down into the Formica counter in his bathroom, effectively cutting off the conversation and fell to his knees, leaning forward over the toilet to retch helplessly for a moment, stomach long since emptied.
Staggering to his feet he seized the phone and hurled it out of the room in a fit of frustration before meandering down and stumbling across the foyer to lock his front door and draw the blinds, coating the room in a refreshingly cooling layer of shadow.
Too tired to return to his room, he curled up beneath a quilt on his sofa and drifted into a miserable, restless parody of sleep. He tossed fitfully, helpless at the mercy of innumerable nightmares. He dreamt of dying alone without a heart beating in his chest, of tall men with their visages shadowed by dark cowls that dropped down over the loose cut of their long robes, and of constantly slipping just to the edge of his dream world but being unable to wake, lying trapped as though just beneath the surface of a pool, the sun caressing his face but dark water smothering the breath in his lungs.
After an eternity of terrors, East jerked awake with a gasp as a caconophy of sound exploded from just outside of his front room, startling him back into consciousness.
It was West, fit to be tied and trying valiantly to break down his locked door.
East rolled over and attempted to rise before another wave of disorienting pain left him gasping for breath, curled pathetically on his side, arms wrapped around his body as though he meant to hold himself together.
He flinched at the brittle shriek of breaking glass as his brother finally gave up and broke the window just beside the door. A moment passed in silence and East assumed his brother had reached around to the doorknob and was letting himself in. He heard the door's new, unused hinges squeak softly as the door slid open, followed the reassuringly heavy sound of his brother's powerful tread proceeding down his front hallway.
A moment later, West rounded the corner and stepped into the living room.
For one brief instant furious sapphire met dull, feverish teal. Then, in the span of a heartbeat, West was at his brother's side, hand snapping to his forehead to feel for a temperature. East flinched at the pressure assailing his throbbing skull, but permitted West to continue checking him over.
He waited in agony for the inevitable question bound to some from West's lips: Why? Why did you let this happen? Why wouldn't you let me help?
It never did.
The hand that stroked his brow remained as careful and gentle as ever and the arms that scooped him up off the couch and held him against his brother's solid torso, near enough to feel his steady, beating heart felt warm and secure, just as they had during his childhood.
It wasn't until he was safely tucked into his bed once more and his brother had brought him a cool glass of water and a mixing bowl so he wouldn't have so far to move to dry heave, that the elder brother sat down and laid a hand over his younger sibling's forearm.
"Are you alright?"
"No," East rasped helplessly, blinking up at West through tired eyes. "I feel like I'm going to die. Is that normal for a new nation?"
"Definitely not," the elder replied, pushing back East's bangs to examine his burning forehead and feverish eyes again.
"Why is this happening?" East asked, feeling scared and helpless and knowing that it showed on his face.
"I don't know, but I plan to find out. Can you manage for an hour or two until I can get someone here to help you? I'll bring up some food and some extra blankets. I'm going to try and get to the bottom of this," West explained, running a soothing hand through his brother's hair.
"Yes," The younger rasped, feeling himself fast fading into a deeper sleep than before.
"Sleep tight, brudelein," Germany said softly, closing the door solidly behind him. His instincts told him to stay close to his brother and protect him from this awful pain, but they were no longer one nation; staying near could do more harm than good. Instead, he called the new chancellor and informed him that his brother, the nation of East Germany, was terribly ill and could he please send someone over to watch him for a few days.
Once he felt comfortable that someone was indeed on their way, he threw his coat back on and walked out the door. England seemed like a good place to start, particularly seeing as France had been hanging around the island nations home considerably more often than usual lately. If they didn't have an inkling as to what was going on, he would be at a total loss.
On the way, he opened up his phone and dialed Feliciano. The Northern Italy may be a hazard to have around at times, but he was much, much safer by Germany's side.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alfred F. Jones, the personification of America and self proclaimed Hero, wanted to kill someone.
More specifically, he wanted to kill his twin's new prime minister.
Unfortunately, the man himself was currently hiding in the northern reaches of Canada if he was on the continent at all.
Even more unfortunately, he had sent Canada himself to convey his message.
The man had worked a change in his formerly mild mannered brother than America absolutely hated. Where before he had been kind and considerate, Matthew suddenly snapped at everyone, growled at his brothers and generally ostracized the world's population.
Every time America brought it up, Canada argued so bitterly in the man's favor that the southern brother finally dropped the subject and contented himself to venting to an equally concerned England and silently stewing with fury at the man who was ruining his brother. Secretly, America knew that once Canada's people turned on the man, like the Germans after Hitler, his brother would return to normal. He just couldn't help hoping that day would come sooner, rather than later.
Today, however, the prime minister's news turned out to be the straw that broke the camel's back. "Russia!" he exploded at his twin. "He's signing a treaty with Russia? Matt, I won't let this happen."
"You won't let it happen?" his brother had asked mimicking his authoritative tone of voice. "What can you do to stop us? This treaty will be good for my people Al."
"Good? Good? Matthew, this will make you Russia's pet. It's just the first step, can't you see?" Alfred asked, desperate to make him comprehend.
"It's just the first step? No Al, that happened a long time ago. This treaty will keep Russia from devouring my nation and my people. Don't you see?" For the first time in months Matthew matched his brother's emotion and Alfred almost found himself nodding in agreement before he caught himself, disgusted and stepped forward to seize his brother by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.
"He can't have you, Matt. He can ravage the world, but he can't have you," Alfred declared, determined to make his twin see truth.
Instead Matthew violently slapped his hands away and stepped out of reach, livid. "Last time I checked, frère, I wasn't your to give away," he snarled before turning on his heel and exiting the room, leaving his Prime Minister's notification of the treaty on Alfred's oaken desk.
His brother stood for several long moments, heart breaking into pieces as he watched his oldest friend stride away.
Moments later, once he finally felt equal to the task of moving once more he dragged himself to his telephone and dialed England. England would know what to do. England always knew what to do.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Russia watched with calculating violet eyes as the figure on the bed stirred, restless with agony and smirked, rolling a small, circular amber stone between his fingers.
"Not long now at all," he crooned, staring beyond the figure and out the tower window at his boss speaking with Canada's just outside in the garden. "Everything is coming together splendidly, don't you agree?" he asked the fidgeting frame on the bed, laying one hand on the unnaturally cool and permanently pale cheek.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Jul 13, 2010 10:29 am
3. Smoke Signals
The thick, black smoke rolled languidly from the stout, blackened stump of a chimney’s mouth, with utter disregard for the ominous clouds gathering overhead. The roiling black masses threatened to drench the unsuspecting ground below. America pulled his jacket closer around his shoulders and adjusted his grip on his satchel, hurrying down the lane towards the stately Victorian manor at the end, eager to out run the coming rain.
Another fierce gust of wind tore at his clothing, ripping at it as though determined to tear the garmets from his body. The hurricane gust sent the lawns uncut grass flying, pressing it first left, then right, always close to the ground.
Alfred frowned, unsettled by the house’s outward obvious disrepair. Arthur prized his home and garden and kept both in pristine condition. He unwound by working outdoors and for his grass to grow so long and his roses to die so young on the bush seemed impossible to America. As he redoubled his pace, vaguely unsettled, a thunderous sound reached his ears.
America broke into an open jog, trotting forward with renewed vigor. Drawing near to the door, he realized the cacophonous noise emanated from a figure on the porch pounding ceaselessly on the door. Further inspection reveal the figure to be none other that Ludwig, looking none to pleased with the state of the world that fine Tuesday morning.
Hastening more quickly yet America raised a hand skyward and called out a greeting, although surely unintelligible from even that narrowing distance.
Ludwig spun around as though electrocuted by the indiscernible words, relaxing only when he ascertained the identity of the approaching figure.
Not that he ever really relaxes, America groused silently, nodding in acknowledgement of Germany’s responding salute.
He took the porch’s bleached steps two at a time, long legs pulling him effortlessly to stand beside the rigid Germanic nation.
“What’s shakin’ Luddy?” he chortled, slapping the other nation’s broad shoulder with an open palm. “I thought you’d be partying it up with your little bro.” Worries aside, he genuinely wondered what the other nation could want so badly he would travel to England of all places in the middle of the day.
Germany shook the hand off with a grimace and turned his attention back to the door. “My brother feels…unwell today,” he replied equivocally. “I came to see England on the off chance that he would know of some reason, political or otherwise for that to be. Unfortunately, it seems whatever afflicts East is catching. Or perhaps it’s me. For some reason, I can knock until my knuckles bleed and no one answers the door.”
America flinched unconsciously when Germany’s voice unexpectedly rose at the end of his response. “So,” he ventured uncertainly, “you can talk like a human being? Not, y’know, like a robot?” The look he received in response could have killed what remained of England’s tattered rose bushes. “Wait,” he continued slowly, thinking hard, “Iggy’s not answering the door? What if he’s hurt? He needs a hero!”
“If you break my door down again,” a voice threatened from the other side of the white, wooden barrier, “I will kill you so dead your economy will feel it for centuries.”
“Iggy!” America cheered. “I knew you weren’t dead on the kitchen floor.”
“Not dead, no,’ the older nation answered, swinging the door open and observing the two young men on his porch. “But yes, in the kitchen. I was cooking and I couldn’t hear you over the sound of the pots rattling together.”
America and Germany exchanged an alarmed glance and England’s heavy brows knitted together in irritation.
“I don’t suppose you’d like a sample,” he asked nastily.
“We’re fine,” American began hurriedly, only to be cut off by the German beside him.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like something entirely different.”
Something in his tone gave even England cause to halt in his snide response to America and give the other nation another quick glance over.
“Yes,” he said at last, leaning back into his house and scanning Germany’s eyes with his own. “I suppose it is all the same to me. Please, come in.”
He opened the door wide and disappeared inside. Walking behind him, just in front of Germany, America noticed for the first time how the older nations normally crisp, business-like gait had slowed, morphing into a jerky, meandering stride. Now that he thought about it, England’s shoulders looked more stooped than usual and his face unusually pallid, with dark bags forming beneath his eyes. He inhaled to inquire about them before deciding against it. With Germany just two paces behind him, England would surely deny any sickness.
He would wait and ask if they chanced to be alone.
England motioned them into the drawing room with a tilt of his head and took a seat on the room’s smallest armchair, fingering velour worn by centuries of hands running over it. America and Germany sat across from him either end of the sofa. America propped his feet up on the coffee table between them, pointedly ignoring the filthy look England directed his way.
The older nation sighed and turned to Ludwig. “What was it you needed help with then?” he asked, looking anywhere but at America examining the sole of his boot. “Problems with Italy?”
“Why would he come to you for advice in his love life?” America guffawed as Germany flushed carnation pink to the roots of his short blonde hair.
“And what would you know about my love life?” England asked icily. America merely flashed him a sly smile in response and resumed examining his footwear.
“That wasn’t what I came to ask,” Germany broke in forcefully, steering the conversation nearer to a productive track. “My brother is sick. I wanted to know what could have caused it. We don’t catch colds, England. Something is wrong, and I want to know what.”
England paused, leaning forward so as to prop his elbows on his knees and support his chin with one palm. “No,’ he agreed. “We do not get sick without dire cause. You paid attention, of course. Nothing wrong with his economy? No diseases ravaging his people?”
“Not even an outbreak of the common cold and you know it too,” Germany affirmed.
England’s attention shifted inward for a moment, contemplating silently. “There have been…rumors,” he began, “that some of the nations are dissatisfied with their role in our global community.”
“What do they want with my brother?” Germany demanded.
“Oui Alemange, that would be the question,” an unmistakable voice drawled from the doorway.
America straightened immediately, swiveling in his seat to see France standing not five paces behind him. He shot England an incredulous glance, which the older nation met with cool indifference.
“That’s not an answer,” Germany pointed out.
France tilted his head in agreement before gesturing dismissively with a hand. “I hadn’t thought I’d need to point it out,” he replied in a tone oily enough to grease a rusty hinge, earning a low murmur of distaste from America. “Whoever stands to gain the most from splitting Germany, or even from another devastating war.”
“War?” Germany questioned. “Who would want another war?”
“Another fine question from l’Alemange,” France drawled. “It could bolster economies, or destroy them. In short, another war could change the face of the world entirely.”
“This hardly seems the opportune time,” England cut in. “If there ever is an opportune time for war, that is.”
“Yeah, and why wait until they were about to split up, anyway?” America interjected. “Why not cause a ruckus by splitting a whole country.”
“Perhaps to prove that our goals cannot be achieved?” Germany ventured, expression thoughtful and guarded. “That two nations cannot operate separate but conjoined.
“That could very well be,” England conceded, frown deepening at the thought of such intentions populating the world community.
“I need to consider these possibilities,” Germany sighed, rising. “Thank you for your hospitality, England, but I will take my leave. America. France.” He nodded to each nation in turn, then spun crisply and strode down England’s hall, out his front door and away without another word.
“Jeez,” America began. “That guy can sure be frigid when he wants to be.”
“I’m sure he’s under plenty of stress,” England admonished, shooting his former charge an irritated glare for his discourtesy.
“Be that as it may,” France interrupted, tossing himself down into Germany’s now-empty spot on the couch, “l’Amerique has a point. Most distressing, how he marched out of here.”
“America turned the glare he’ used to return England’s withering look to France. “Is there anywhere else you could be for a little while?” he asked, icicles dripping from his words.
France simply grinned his most infuriating grin and looked to England. “Could it be the moi has been requested to leave a room? And fully clothed, too!”
“Just go, frog,” England answered testily, waving the flirtatious nation to the door.
“Very well,” France sighed, shoulders sagging with contrived angst. “Call me when you yearn for my presences once more.”
“More like ‘if,’” America muttered. England shot him a silencing look, before turning his attention back to France, who was currently preoccupied with slinking from the room with the most hangdog expression he could muster plastered across his face.
Only once the other nation had vanished from sight around the corner did England turn his attention back to the sole remaining guest in the room.
“What in the hell is France doing here?” America snarled, whirling on England the instant the flirtatious nation vacated the room.
“I really don’t see,” England replied testily, “how my houseguests are any of your business.”
“Where have I heard that before?” America muttered darkly. Aloud, he said, “You were the one who talked about the ‘global community’ right? I should know as much about your relationships as you know about mine. Besides, Russia’s already staking a claim in Canada; I don’t want France to, like, conquer England, y’know?”
“Fat chance,” England replied flippantly, “but what’s wrong with Canada now?”
America took a deep breath, looked over his shoulder to ascertain that France was not standing in the doorway, eaves dropping and emptied his thoughts onto England’s antique carpeting. He shared all of his concerns with his one-time ruler, that Russia would continue to ingress into Canadian territory until they became impossible to tell apart, that his brother would be lost to him forever, that if Mattie ever did come to his senses he would be too far gone to reason with and, most of all, that he, himself, the Hero, would not be strong enough to save him.
England listened patiently throughout his torrential explanation and sat in silence for several minutes after he finished, mulling over this new influx of information. Finally, looking more deeply tired than he had yet that day, England slowly replied.
“I suppose the only thing we can do is wait them out,” he sighed, shifting to a more comfortable position in his chair.
“How so?” America asked, confused. He had expected to be sent home to try and talk some sense into his brother, not twiddle his thumbs and watch Matthew self destruct.
“The damage has been done,” England explained, grimacing, “and we can do nothing until someone else makes the first move. Attacking Canada will achieve nothing but earning its people’s animosity and talking to his obviously does no good at all.”
America, who had gone rigid at the prospect of attacking his brother, clenched one hand into a fist before forcing his body to relax and nodding his head. “So we wait for Russia to make it clear what he intends to do. Makes sense, I suppose, but say his intentions aren’t bad in the beginning. What then? Do we sit by as his plans become steadily more notorious?”
“That,” England said, standing up and rolling his shoulders, “is a battle to be fought in a political arena. We leave those wars to our politicians.”
America mirrored the older nation, standing and stretching before turning to the door. “Hey,” he called over his shoulder, “You feeling okay? You’re lookin’ a little under the weather.”
“I’m just tired,” England replied, shrugging. “My economy’s been experiencing some…turbulence. Give me a week and I will be fine.”
“Whatever you say old man,” America replied lightly, shrugging into his jacket. “See you later then.”
England stepped around America to open the door and prop it up with a rubber stopper. “Yes, I don’t doubt that you will,” he replied, feigning exasperation.
America leapt off the porch without a backwards glance, intent on reaching home and requesting that his boss join his efforts to help Canada return to his senses.
Behind him, England shut the door with a sharp report, standing in his hall and leaning his head against the heavy wood for a long moment, until he heard France’s soft step behind him.
“Something ails mon petit Canada, then?” the nation inquired and England didn’t even need to turn around to see his head titled inquisitively to the side.
“Yes, you bloody frog, and as long as Russia had his claws in Matthew something’s going to ail us all. I’m sure he’s not in it alone, but what other nation would be mad enough to help him?”
“Who indeed, l’Angleterre?” France echoed, voice sounding hollow even in the enclosed space of the entryway.
England, struck by his fellow nation’s odd tone, pushed himself upright from the door and began to turn, only to jerk forward and fall to his knees with a sharp cry at the explosion of agony at the back of his skull. He braced a hand on the floor and turned to France, his other hand raised in front of his face to avoid another blow from the clay pot France held, snatched from his own cabinet.
France seized the extended limb and pushed it off to one side. “Who indeed,” he repeated, the skin around his mouth tight with stress and his eyes burning with a loathing turned entirely inward. “Who indeed?”
England saw the pot descend once more before the world burned white, then faded to a swirled combination of color and noise and finally fell entirely black.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
