Etched .:Hetalia Horror Story:.

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight:

Alfred watched as Arthur stayed near Francis’ body. It had felt like hours since they had found the poor man, and the basement doors closed—and locked—behind them. All Alfred could do was try to calm his nerves and think about the situation they were in. Though, being locked in a dark basement with only the bright moon glittering through the window for light and a dead body didn’t exactly help. He started to feel a panic attack coming on…

Arthur yelling at him didn’t help either! What was he supposed to do, just sit here as calmly as Arthur and try to sort out all their problems? He wasn’t a freakin’ problem solver! Someone needed to think about what was going to happen after they got out of here and what to tell the others. 

He pitied Arthur, though. He and Francis had been quite close, even if most of the time they fought furiously back and forth. Alfred wasn’t sure when had not seen them fight—it was just something they were made to do as bordering countries. They were rivals—yet they were close, nonetheless. And Alfred was certain Arthur was having a…hard time, dealing with the French nation’s death. Especially since, during their whole lifespan, they were told they weren’t supposed to die from natural causes. It was unheard of. Through all the war and destruction, they had survived—gunshot wounds and all. 

But no…this was…

This was just cruel.

“Artie…” Alfred whispered, as he forced his self to his feet and started in the direction of the Briton. Arthur didn’t look up. He trained his eyes on the ground, those once shining emeralds now emotionlessly dull. “Artie, can you hear me?” But, he couldn’t. He was too lost in his own thoughts. 

Arthur was having flashbacks of the moments in his country’s history that hit him deeply—such as the current event. He remembered the industrial revolution, his days as a pirate, the day Tino brought Francis and him to see a child-Alfred and the day Alfred declared independence, and during World War II when the German Luftwaffe dropped their bombs along London. The Blitz…

So many painful and happy moments in his life…

And now this…

To be honest, Arthur had always assumed that, when Francis would finally leave him alone and never return, he would be able to rejoice in celebration. “Hah! That cheeky Frog’s gone!” He would say, as he tipped back a shot of ale and drank until the next morning’s light.

But, really, he felt no need in rejoicing. Actually, he felt quite like the opposite. It hurt…so much. Who knew that having a nation so close to you die would hurt so badly? He had lost so many colonies in the past, and that had been ever so painful. But this was…excruciating. 

“Arthur…” He heard his name being called, and he finally looked up, out of his reveries and nostalgia, to the other person there with him. For a moment, he considered the idea of it being Francis. Francis would jump from behind the staircase and laugh his notorious “Ohohohon...” while Arthur would stand to his feet and try to kill him, shouting out, “This isn’t some game, you git!” and repeatedly hit him. But, he knew that would never happen. 

Francis was dead now. And he wasn’t coming back. 

“Artie? You in there, bro?” Alfred asked, coming up to stand beside him. Arthur tried to force something other than an emotionless countenance, but it was no use. He really had gone numb. He still had his wits about him, but his emotions had dulled. Losing a…friend. Yes, losing a friend. It did that to you. 

“Yes…I am…” He murmured, standing to his feet with the American. He took note that the only other light in the room was from the overhanging moon shining in through a small window at the side of the basement. He glanced over to the door, which had been shut abruptly and locked. Arthur cursed under his breath.