Hold Me Close [1/?]
anonymous
May 3 2009, 20:08:45 UTC
Thank you so much, OP!Anon.~~ :] Well, here's your story, Part 1!~ I have a feeling this may end up pretty long, so I hope you all stick with me to the end!
It's damp and empty; their footsteps are resounding throughout the ghostly walls like in a horror movie where the group is walking through the ruins, and all of sudden a ghost should come up and try and strangle them, but no ghost comes.
They are not ghost-hunting, after all. They are looking for someone, or more specifically, a nation. The half of the United Kingdom whom represents the England part of it, in other words: Arthur Kirkland.
“You're walking to slow, America.” France bluntly states, and America jumps at France's voice, “D-Don't scare me like that, France!” America demands and France chuckles; despite the serious atmosphere, it is no less fun to scare America. The golden blond does, however, pick up his pace and walks a bit faster. They move their flashlights among the prison cells, filled with skeletons and blood and gore and honestly, despite their age, both nations were disgusted to the core.
“America, do you honestly think England is here?” France asks, and America pauses, but replies, “I don't know. He hasn't been in the others, but there's still a chance.” France narrows his eyes, but they push onward. A sudden rustle comes out from deeper in the prison, and both nations get out their pistols with a swift movement.
There is no following noise though; “Who's there?!” America shouts, and there is another sound, but it does not sound of pulling out a gun. It sounds like the movement of chains and America, oh God, oh God, it can't be, is it--
His pistol hits the ground and he makes a run for it through the jail cells, his flashlight moving like stage lights. France follows America, but slows his pace when he finds the young nation, standing in front of a cell. He is in what looks like perpetual shock, as if... as if, no, there is no way England can be dead in his cell, right...? No way in hell, France is sure, and he is right.
The sight he sees is far from rewarding though. When he stands beside America, he sees a stranger, because the England he knows would give a smart remark when he's found, but this England does nothing.
He sits there, he's completely motionless, not doing anything at all; “England?” There is no reply. America knocks on the cell bars; “England!” He doesn't say anything. The younger nation grips his teeth, and pulls on the doorway into the cell, but it doesn't open.
He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a ring with keys slung on it and ringing together like a poorly done symphony. With haste, he opens the door and walks in; “England!” he shouts again, but even then, he does not react.
England sits, his wrists cuffed with shackles that are chained to the wall. His eyes are half-glazed, they are a disgustingly dull green and America hates it. France though, notes the condition instead. England's shirt is gone, and he's stuck with a pair of pants, that, mind you, are in no better condition then he is. They are torn and, oh God, are they burnt too?
France knows the sight would be disturbing because it's Russia who took England in the first place, but this is just terrifying. He is covered, head to toe, in scars and burns over his old, dried wounds, and he is thin, so thin, you can see his ribs and cheekbones peering out, and he's pale, so pale as if he's dead.
“England...” America says softly, and his fingers reach out to touch England's cheek; the moment they make contact, England's reaction is wild. He says nothing, but he slaps away America's hand as if he is trying to feed him poison and crawls away until his aching back touches the wall behind him.
It's damp and empty; their footsteps are resounding throughout the ghostly walls like in a horror movie where the group is walking through the ruins, and all of sudden a ghost should come up and try and strangle them, but no ghost comes.
They are not ghost-hunting, after all. They are looking for someone, or more specifically, a nation. The half of the United Kingdom whom represents the England part of it, in other words: Arthur Kirkland.
“You're walking to slow, America.” France bluntly states, and America jumps at France's voice, “D-Don't scare me like that, France!” America demands and France chuckles; despite the serious atmosphere, it is no less fun to scare America. The golden blond does, however, pick up his pace and walks a bit faster. They move their flashlights among the prison cells, filled with skeletons and blood and gore and honestly, despite their age, both nations were disgusted to the core.
“America, do you honestly think England is here?” France asks, and America pauses, but replies, “I don't know. He hasn't been in the others, but there's still a chance.” France narrows his eyes, but they push onward. A sudden rustle comes out from deeper in the prison, and both nations get out their pistols with a swift movement.
There is no following noise though; “Who's there?!” America shouts, and there is another sound, but it does not sound of pulling out a gun. It sounds like the movement of chains and America, oh God, oh God, it can't be, is it--
His pistol hits the ground and he makes a run for it through the jail cells, his flashlight moving like stage lights. France follows America, but slows his pace when he finds the young nation, standing in front of a cell. He is in what looks like perpetual shock, as if... as if, no, there is no way England can be dead in his cell, right...? No way in hell, France is sure, and he is right.
The sight he sees is far from rewarding though. When he stands beside America, he sees a stranger, because the England he knows would give a smart remark when he's found, but this England does nothing.
He sits there, he's completely motionless, not doing anything at all; “England?” There is no reply. America knocks on the cell bars; “England!” He doesn't say anything. The younger nation grips his teeth, and pulls on the doorway into the cell, but it doesn't open.
He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a ring with keys slung on it and ringing together like a poorly done symphony. With haste, he opens the door and walks in; “England!” he shouts again, but even then, he does not react.
England sits, his wrists cuffed with shackles that are chained to the wall. His eyes are half-glazed, they are a disgustingly dull green and America hates it. France though, notes the condition instead. England's shirt is gone, and he's stuck with a pair of pants, that, mind you, are in no better condition then he is. They are torn and, oh God, are they burnt too?
France knows the sight would be disturbing because it's Russia who took England in the first place, but this is just terrifying. He is covered, head to toe, in scars and burns over his old, dried wounds, and he is thin, so thin, you can see his ribs and cheekbones peering out, and he's pale, so pale as if he's dead.
“England...” America says softly, and his fingers reach out to touch England's cheek; the moment they make contact, England's reaction is wild. He says nothing, but he slaps away America's hand as if he is trying to feed him poison and crawls away until his aching back touches the wall behind him.
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Adfahsdfhs. OAO You have me at the edge of my seat Writer!Anon.
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And yes! ♥ I was hoping I'd have you waiting for more, LOL;;;.
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