Mortal Nations

Mortal Nations: Two

When Alfred arrived back in the camp, having calmed down enough to be presentable, it was bustling with life. Lovino was napping, leaning against the wall of the horse shack. His curl drifted up and down with each outward breath he took. Someone had set up a campfire with some wood that they had managed to keep dry, and Antonio was cooking what smelt like some sort of soup over it.

Francis and Gilbert were tacking up the two horses from the shack whilst trying not to wake up Lovino. The tall stallions- a glossy black one and a dapple-grey- were bucking and whinnying and adding to the chaos. They had to go out hunting soon, as they were running out of fresh food. Feliciano, Ludwig and Matthew had gone out to fetch some water from the waterfall.

"Hey, dude!" He called out to Francis as he passed. Francis paused and gave him a wink. He was clad in his full hunting gear; a pastel blue tunic with red breeches and black boots accompanied the sword at his belt, the bow and arrows slung over his shoulders and the assortment of knives visible from beneath his cloak. "How's it going, Al?" He asked while Gilbert struggled to fit a saddle on the back of the black horse.

"Not too bad, I guess." He shrugged. He found it both easy and difficult to talk to Francis. Despite them sharing most in the losses they had suffered, he had adapted faster than any of the others to the environment, and Alfred was somewhat jealous of him.

"Bad dreams again? Matt told me that you went out for a bit." Francis asked with concern. Alfred shrugged it off casually.

"I've had worse." Francis still looked worried, but let the American walk away without questioning him.

The birds were just starting to wake up. Their chirps clashed in a noisy chorus as he went to join Antonio by the fire. Antonio looked up with one emerald eye from where he crouched by the flames, prodding the embers with a sick. "Morning, Al." He said with a half-hearted grin, patting a space next to him for Alfred to sit.

Antonio had lost his right eye in an attack on their camp a while ago, and his country healing powers had failed to bring it back. Despite his attempts to keep up the mood of the camp, he always had a hint of depression in his voice as his lack of distance conception was too bad for him to fight or hunt properly. He was left at the camp to cook and help out in less testing areas. Alfred missed the old Antonio, but he knew he was still there.

"Morning! Whatch'a cooking?" Alfred grinned, smelling the contents of the metal pan resting on the fire. The contents was lumpy and a strange sickly green colour but it still managed to smell delicious.

"Oh, just some leftovers." Antonio sighed, tucking a strand of his scraggly wavy hair behind his ear. "You know, berries and potatoes and a bit of um... Grouse I think?"

"Where did you get the grouse from?" Alfred asked. "They live up on the highlands, don't they?"

"Yeah. Francis and Gilbert decided to be a bit more adventurous on their latest hunting trip." The spaniard said bitterly. He glanced over to his two former partners-in-crime as they prepared to leave again, wishing he could be by their side and not grounded back here at the camp.

"Is it nearly done?" Alfred asked, oblivious to Antonio's jealousy. He snapped out of his trance, slipping over slightly as he looked back up into Alfred's scarlet-tinted eyes. The sapphire blue had lost its glow over time to be replaced by the odd colour for no apparent reason. Alfred had never noticed.

"Wait a couple of minutes, can't you?" Antonio asked exasperatedly, shooing him away with a flick of his hand. Alfred sighed, pulling one of the tools they used for cooking from the ground and swinging it around carelessly in the air. It couldn't exactly be called a utensil; more like a poorly carved stick really.