Prussia's hands twist around the little wooden block, knife digging out chunks and letting them drop to the floor, letting them clump together in a rough pyramid form that continually falls to pieces and gets under the rough rug. The mess is bothering England, but he refrains from snapping and just glares at the small pile of woodchips. The block is starting to resemble a horse, and Prussia keeps his eyes fixed on his fingers, refusing to look elsewhere. Sweden's lips are tight, almost as bleached white as his knuckles, and he's determinedly not looking at Prussia's creation, keeping his gaze fixed to Norway's face.

Norway's voice is very quiet and rough, almost scratchy, as he responds to England's careful questions. "Denmark went missing in April. We were on the pier, and I left, and…" he trails off. Sweden wipes a tear that begins to spill over from Norway's dull blue eyes. Norway doesn't notice. "…He never came to breakfast. Or lunch, or dinner, or just...No one had seen him. He didn't come. I waited three days, and then I ran."

"To here?" England asks quietly. Norway nods. Prussia's knife slips as red eyes peer through a fine fringe of almost-platinum hair, and it jerks out from the wooden block and gashes his thumb. He swears and slips out of the room, fingers raining red on England's floor. Norway watches him leave, mouth parted as if in the middle of speaking, watching the blood drip into the cracks of the floor, and England is compelled to repeat his question.

"Oh. Um, yes."

England leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and balances his chin on the tips of his pointer finger. "How did you get here? Horse? Boat?"

"I walked." Norway sounds so exhausted, and the explanation certainly explains the blood and blisters dotting his feet, the mud dried between his torn and worn toes. Sweden's free hand, resting on his thigh, clenches, veins and bones sticking out in a clear contrast to his white skin. "It…um, it got easier, I think. The pain kind of helped. It made me not think about Denmark as much – at least, not until I collapsed."

Sweden's jaw is clamped shut, his expression unreadable but for the slightest hint of jealousy. The ache of loss never quite fades, and Sweden has lost more than most can even comprehend. England pokes him, gently, and mouths breathe at him. Sweden just scowls in return, and England rolls his eyes before turning back to Norway. "When did you last eat?"

Norway's eyebrows draw together as he ponders that. "Three…no, four days…no…I don't know, somewhere around three to four days ago."

"That's not good, Norway," England says tightly. Sweden nods silently, and then he clambers to his feet.

"I'll fetch toast," he mumbles, gingerly draping the hand he'd been clutching across Norway's stomach. "För fan, Norge, sköt om dig," he mutters, stalking across the room, footsteps heavy and almost furious, the hunch of his shoulders screaming displeasure. The words mean nothing to England, but Norway manages a slight giggle, almost slightly hysterical in its pitch. He shifted on the couch, trying to pull himself up. England's glower gives him pause, and he sinks back down, features twisting with irritation.

"I am not a mere bairn, England; I am fully capable of taking care of myself," he grumbles as he slips back down, pulling the ratty blanket over him and smearing mud and dried blood all over the fabric.

It's a struggle not to smirk, so England settles for a dramatic rolling of his eyes. It just makes Norway scowl deeper. "I'm not!" he insists, tightening his grip on the blanket.

"I am aware of that, but you did choose to run to run here all the way from Denmark without a thought for your health, instead of doing the rational thing, such as sending a letter," he replies curtly.

Something shatters in Norway's gaze at that – it starts at the pupil, then spirals out; England can almost see the faded blue of Norway's eyes cracking, slipping, with something much darker and more sinister flashing from deep within. "You would do the same for America, or France, or Canada," Norway says quietly.

That brings pause. "Most likely, I would," he admits, twisting his fingers together and glancing at the kitchen – he can hear pans rattling and Prussia conversing with Sweden, curses mixed in with directions, and he wonders what they are doing.

Norway stares him – and this is not the gaze of a mortal, one who has seen horror and lived to speak of it. This is of a near immortal, who has lifetimes of horrors and lifetimes of betrayal, an immortal who has tortured and murdered and destroyed, and will most likely do so again if given the chance, and that is what makes England jerk to his feet and mutter about helping Sweden, because they have lived nightmares, millennia of them, and he has never seen a Nation yet who looks so devastated and destroyed as Norway does then.

He slips into the kitchen, where Sweden is standing at the stove, frying a thick, grainy bread in butter, eggs cracking merrily, and Prussia is chugging a glass of frothy milk, thumb swaddled in a bloody rag. England ducks into the pantry to find a tray, shutting the door half behind him in the pretense of searching so the others cannot see his face.

He leans his head against the shelf, staring at the label of a can of baby corn – one of the last; he's saving it for Canada and America's birthday next week as a treat, although France scoffs at him and waxes poetic about how he is sure the twins would much prefer a crepe than a can of old corn.

England is old, exceedingly so, has lived lifetimes beyond memory, and still, he does not think in all of his vast experience, all of his thousands and thousands of years, he has ever encountered something half so heartbreaking as lost, broken, bloody Norway with sores on his feet and ribs protruding from his chest, sobbing from grief, searching for one of the few links he still has to a time of serenity, if not happiness.

England cannot even begin to understand how that must feel.

He shudders and grabs the tray, locking the pantry behind him as he slips out.

Author's Note

Chapter three. They'll get longer soon; pacing picks up next chapter.

Okay, few questions answered from last chapter (I paraphrased, because I'm lazy):

Why is Prussia working in the woodshop with Sweden? Isn't he too wild and destructive for that?

In my headcanon, Prussia is a very complex character, very hard to understand. Yes, he is destructive, but the way I see him, after he was formally declared not a country, he's begun to have panic attacks. No one remembers Prussia that well, and with the destruction of so many books, there is a very good risk he'll fade entirely. So, he creates in order to have something of him left behind.

What do you mean by fine clothes? How do you have fine clothes at the end of the world?

This is set about fifteen years after America's entry in the Log. They've started trading and creating their own clothes again. The Nations still can recall how it is done.

Why Sweden in this chapter isn't looking at the horse Prussia is making is because it reminds him of his Dala horses, which are one of the symbols of Sweden, and in turn, that reminds him of Finland. He's a mite bitter about everything, and he's jealous that Norway still has Denmark, because Sweden has lost most everyone close to him, and the Danes and Norwegians and the Swedes have this odd three way rivalry...when I was living in Sweden, I went down to Denmark, spoke Swedish because I'm silly like that, and the lady I was ordering food from ignored me until I asked her in English xD