Note: Assume that France's speaking, when in italics, is in French. I didn't write some of it in French because I don't like making you scroll all the way down for an entire sentence's translation! The untranslated is pretty much all little French endearments for children.

The rain beat down in a steady rhythm, like Scotland's drum tattoos. The pond's surface was a shifting mosaic and the trees, smooth-branched and twisting, were wreathed in fog- a heavy mist of droplets nearly big enough to see. The world was narrowed down to this glade, everything beyond it silent and only blended shades of grey-green and brown. Arthur sat wrapped in a thin, damp blanket and cradled in the knotted roots of an old oak tree, alone.

There was a crunching sound of to his right. England curled up deeper into the hollow of the tree roots. At this time of the evening it might be a badger, or a fox...but it sounded bigger than that. Maybe it was a dragon? Wales had said that if England didn't shut up and get out of his way like a good little boy then a dragon would come and take him away. But he'd only wanted a little of the stew Wales was making! Surely a big dragon would understand what it felt like to be so hungry...

The crunching grew louder and Arthur whimpered, throwing his ragged blanket over his head so he wouldn't see the great, scaly form coming through the trees. If the dragon did understand hunger, it'd probably only want to sate it by eating him!

'Mon Dieu, what a wretched country...I cannot understand what they want of it!'

That didn't sound like the voice of a dragon...

'Ah, at last! Had I known the walk would be so unpleasant I would not have insisted on the need for fresh water.'

The crunching- too light to be the footsteps of a dragon, Arthur now realised- passed his tree and headed toward the pond. Curiosity battled with fear for a moment but curiosity quickly won out. He raised his dirty grey blanket a little and peeked out from underneath. No dragon: a person knelt at the side of the pond, hair the colour of clean straw- not dirty straw like Arthur's- tied in a wavy tail low on his neck. He wore a blue shirt without any mud or stains on it, like it had just been made. Arthur had never seen that colour of cloth before. It was like the summer sky without any clouds, or one of his fairy friends' wings. He wondered if it was made of fairy wings, and uncurled a little, putting his hands up on the tree root circling his hideout and leaning forward for a better look.

A twig snapped beneath his shuffling knees.

The man spun around, bolting to his feet and swiftly drawing a short sword from his belt, holding it out towards the direction of the noise. Arthur flinched and dropped back into a ball like a little hedgehog, throwing the blanket back over his head. There was a moment of silence, save for the steady rain, then crunching footsteps made their way toward Arthur's tree. He squeezed his eyes shut and trembled, clutching his blanket tightly around him and the footsteps drew nearer. They stopped. Arthur opened one eye and could see through the thin fabric the shadow of a hand reaching out towards his head. He shivered harder, and the hand paused.

'Ah, mon mignon, there is no need to be frightened,' the voice said, this time in English. 'Your blanket is all wet, that can't be nice. Let's take it off and get a good look at you, hon?'

The hands insistently pulled the damp, dirty blanket away from Arthur's grasping little fingers, set it aside, and wrapped gently around his shoulders to sit him up properly. Arthur flinched away and scooted back to the base of the tree. The long-haired man didn't seem angry, the way Scotland got when Arthur didn't let him grab him. This man just let his hands drop to the ground to help him balance his crouch and smiled. It was a nice smile, not like Scotland's sneer or Ireland's smirk. His voice was nice, too, even if he sounded strange.

'And what is a little one like you doing out here all alone, mon chou? Are you lost?'

Arthur shook his head, bringing his knees up to his chest. The man frowned, but still didn't look angry.

'Ah, pauvre petit, your knees are all scratched! Have you been crawling around the forest? Where are your parents?'

England stayed stubbornly silent. This man was maybe being too nice, he thought. Like the bandits village women talked about who were ever-so-charming until they stabbed you and stole everything out of your pockets. The bandit sighed.

'Well, you can't stay out here alone,' he said. 'Will you come with me, mon poussin?'

Arthur quickly shook his head and clapped his hands over the pocket inside his ragged green cloak. The man looked surprised.

'Eh? What do you have there?'

Arthur shook his head frantically, inciting another gentle smile.

'Don't worry, mon chaton, I won't take anything from you. Je te promets. I promise.' He held out a hand. 'But if you won't tell me where your parents are, wouldn't you like to come back with me where it's warm and dry?'

Arthur stared at the hand. Was it some kind of trick? It would be nice to go somewhere warm, though. Now that he'd upset everyone he probably wouldn't be allowed back into the house until they forgot, which could be days.

'Surely you don't want to stay out here in the cold and wet, ma petit caille? You'll get hungry!'

Arthur looked down at his stomach. He was hungry...well, he was always hungry. But what if this man was even worse than a bandit? Maybe one of the bad spirits that his fairy friends told him wandered the wood? It seemed like something a bad spirit would do, to wear a shirt made of fairy wings. He reached out, tentatively, and touched the bright blue fabric, running his fingers down the man's sleeve.

'Eh? What are you doing, mon cher?'

'Your shirt, is it made of fairy wings?'

'Hahah! Of course not, mon minet! It is fabric, like your own shirt. There is no such thing as fairies, silly.'

'Yes there are!' Arthur pouted, crossing his arms back over his chest. The spirit-or-bandit might have a kind smile and laugh, but he was obviously stupid.

'Ah, well. Will you come back home with me, let me clean you up and feed you? We can find your parents tomorrow.' The man offered his hand again, still smiling.

Arthur glowered. Idiot or not, he was offering food and a warm place to sleep- and if he was a bandit, or tried to demand anything in return, he was probably stupid enough that Arthur could sneak away first. He placed his tiny hand in the bigger one.