Mortal Nations

Mortal Nations: Three

A couple of days passed without anything too eventful. Gilbert and Francis hadn't yet returned from their hunting excursion and the camp was running low on food supplies. There was only too many times that you could eat a stale stew of gristly leftovers before you started getting crabby, and the atmosphere was a little tense.

As the remaining ex-nations at the camp took turns on various duties, there came a night when the only person awake was a distraught Alfred on night duty. He paced up and down between the trees, swinging his arms and legs about carelessly, muttering under his breath. Every now and then the precautionary dagger at his belt would be taken out to be slashed into the bark of the pine trees, or thrown to stick quivering out of the ground.

"Uh.. What was it... Why not... How long since... Was it really... No, green eyes.... What was the name... Ugh, why can't I....?"  The frustrated questions hissed out from between his teeth as he tried desperately to recall his memories from years past. They were a treasured possession, stored deep within his brain. He had to unlock the key frequently before they slipped too far out of reach. So many fond times, so many faces and smiles and sentences that he had seen and heard and lived through.

The sky was tinted a mint green over the tops of the trees. The dawns near the camp were always so beautiful, no matter the season, and Alfred longed to climb up the hill by the camp and watch as the sun rose from behind the hazy mountains and relax, but he knew he had to stay and protect the camp. Grounded in a valley only deepened his frustration. He stopped in his pacing, eyes blurring staring up into the air, when a flurry of black feathers crossed his vision with a chaotic skwaking.

His attention was caught as the crows flapped away into the distance. A faint rumbling was heard from the north-west, where the entrance to the camp was. He crouched low, snatching his dagger from the ground and holding it in a defensive stance. He soon recognised the sound to be hooves accompanied by a few accented voices, and backed up a little in case he got trampled by a returning Francis and Gilbert on horseback.

"Alfreeeeeeeeed!" Gil screeched, leaping over the camp barriers and skidding to a halt, tearing up the floor as he jumped down from the back of his glossy black horse. Francis entered through the actual entranceway, dismounting slightly more elegantly and smirking at the American. He noticed more figures on the backs of the horses however, and his face lit up.

"Yao! Ivan! Kiku! Man, I haven't seen you in ages!" Alfred called, helping down a disgruntled looking chinese man from the back of Francis' horse and the smaller Japanese behind him. Ivan swung himself off Gilbert's horse which may have explained why Gil was so eager to get off it first.

"Ah, hello Alfred." Yao said, dusting off his long coat and straightening his hat. Yao, Ivan and Kiku had become what could only be called pirates. They had managed to uncover some old warship and figured out how to use it, and had been traveling around looking for traces of anything useful for a few hundred years now. What with the full seventeenth century pirate outfit that he had nicked from somewhere, Yao had somewhat the striking appearence.

"Hi Al." Kiku said quietly, already turning to unpack the saddlebags. Ivan merely smiled slightly, and Alfred passed back a sheepish wave and a half hearted grin.

"So, how's things going? Miss us?" Gilbert asked, strutting over and leaning on his shoulder. Alfred looked at the floor moodily. "We were at a loss without your presence." He muttered sarcastically. "Of course we didn't. Did you get the food?"

Gilbert nodded proudly. "Uh-huh. One roe deer, we found it on its own with a broken leg. Nothing wasted." Alfred sighed with relief. A hunting trip without any product would mean at least another week with low rations, and the approaching winter made it ever more likely.