From the diary of Griselda Vargas-Beilschmidt

33

I didn't even plan to write a chapter this soon, but HAVE YOU HEARD THE NEWS?!?! If you haven't, after reading you'll have.

I bullshitted time and stuff so please excuse that. I wrote this in one sitting, so it's probably bad...*shrughs*

No nightmares in the dream world, at least.

I stir awake with a very light knocking on the door. It's still dark, who could it be? Mr England's head peeks from the slightly open doors and he blinks in our darkness. Nobody else is awake, so I go over to him.

"Mr- *yaaaaawn*.."

"Good early morning, Griselda, could you please fetch me George?" he asks, his voice empty of the usual attitude. Something is wrong. And horribly so.

He usually calls me Miss Vargas-Beilschmidt, which I think is very nice and professional of him, since literally no one else calls me that. It makes me feel on his level, which is just not how I feel when talking to most adults, because how come they can use my name and I have to say Mrs or Mr or Miss?

But back to the subject. I turn to find the channel laying on his side, being hugged by Ash from behind. Cute. I'd take a picture if I could. I shake his shoulder.

"George? Your....," I pause, not really sure what to use for Mr England. Father? Hell no, I said it once and both cringed so hard. Cousin? They're closer than that. I think he calls him frére, that means brother, right?

"...brother requires your attention to whatever." His answer could be described as something between "hnnnnngh", "alllllghhhhhhchfch" and a yawn.

"GEORGE," I repeat. No other signs of waking up. Well then...

"Lord forgive me for this, but I find there's no other choice," I pray, then lean inches away from his ear and yell "GET UP SOLDIER!!!!"

He sits up immedietally, all scared. It doesen't wake up anyone else, though.

"Hsndhgjfjsjakak," sound leaves his lips. Then he starts talking to me in some language I don't know - it's not french (I don't know french, though I do know italian and spanish, but this doesen't sound like it), not english, it sounds...celtic? Kind of?

"-orge? George? Calm down and come here," the british voice commands and the boy slowly follows, grimacing at the sudden light, rubbing his eyes.

"What's so important it requires my presence at like, two in the morning?!" he asks, irritated, but it soon changes to worry and shock as his brother replies.

"Notre Dame is burning."

A series of curses spill from the ash blonde's mouth as we hurry through the halls to the room where Mr France is having a panic attack in. Both Mr England and George insisted I go back to sleep, but I'm already up & fresh AND I'm not going to sleep when someone needs my help...as much as I can give.

The room, lit only by a bedside lamp, is -as expected- dark and there's a bundle of skin shaking terribly on the bed. Small whines escape France as he's nonstop crying. I wholeheartedly agree with George when he examines the situation and exclaims "SHIT." 

We don't need a doctor to see he's hurting.

The channel goes over to him and starts mumbling what probably are sweet, calming french words. I trot over and not being fluent in french, do the next best thing I can think of, which is gentle petting his head as my dads did with me at least a billion times, and softly singing a lullaby. He might be a bit...uh, uncomfortably friendly, and annoying, but no one deserves to be left alone hurting. Even George stops frantically comforting him in french and listens.

The song doesen't have a thousand verses, though. But when it ends, it seems he's out of the worst, the shaking slowing down.

"Thank you, Griselda," George chokes down a sob. I merely nod. That's the least I can do and if I can do something to help a friend, you bet your ass I'm going to do it.

"Now, now, Francis," says Mr England, kneeling on the bed, holding and opening a box of tissues. "Let's dry you up, alright?" Holy shit, I didn't know Mr England's voice can be this soft!! What the hell!!

After what felt like hours of England using the full box to dry France's face, he proposed me and George to get the hurt nation some food while he would stay here with him and keep an eye on him, as France was now washing his face in the bathroom.

George nudges me. "Let's get going and leave them some," he looked directly into Mr England's eyes "privacy," he wiggles his eyebrows. Him wiggling his eyebrows is honestly a nightmare material, but about that some other time.

"Wha- Excuse me, just what did you mean?!?! GEORGE! I'M TALKING TO YOU!"

Me and the said nation were already behind a corner.

"What did you mean?" I ask.

"Oh, dear Gris," he replies with a chuckle "so innocent. So pure."

"Huh?"

He smirks a little behind his tired expression.

"Let's put it this way - how do you think England found out about this as the first one?"

"...because their rooms are right next to each other?"

"...well, yes, but - he wasn't crying god-knows-how loud. And burning of a large cathedral isn't a matter of five minutes, either."

"So what are you saying is...?"

"...that he must've been there with him when shit went down."

"Oh. And?"

"And what do peop- nations usually do this time of the night together?" Now he was just full-on smugly grinning.

"Sleep?"

The sigh he left could be heard from miles away.

We asked the kitchen staff for some food and were allowed to grab some bread and cheese and make sandwiches out of it.

Knock knock. No answer.

George listens for a while, his ear against the wood of the door.

"Okaaay, it should be okay if we entered..."

On the bed lay two nations, ones cheeks wet with new tears and nose puffy, cuddled in each others embrace, safe and sound, sleeping. 

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NOTRE DAME. WAS ON FIRE YO!! You can look up the videos. It's...terrible.

Sending prayers from Czech republic. Stay strong, France!