Again, I want to thank all of you for reading this as far as you have. It really makes me happy to see people embracing my little Goth!Talians like this. As a note, this chapter features an OC of my friend's that she created just for this story, and has graciously allowed me to use. Thanks again, cher~!

France could no longer tell where the whip ended and the blood began. The tiled floor around him had turned into a small crimson sea, pooling around his feet and fed from the cuts created in his shoulder-blades. His legs had collapsed ages ago, but the cuffs embedded in the wall into which his wrists had been roughly chained kept him from sinking to the floor.

Jack Kirkland's wicked veridian eyes appeared in his peripheral vision, gleaming with hostile lust and pride, brushing his choppy midnight-blue bangs out of the way. "You're very strong, my pet. Little Night would have passed out by now."

France could certainly understand why. Besides that cruel whip, Jack had used all sorts of wicked devices on the poor Frenchman's body. A knife, a switch, he swore he'd even seen the psychotic Englishman pluck a pair of sharp-nosed scissors from his table of instruments. Not that he knew what each felt like; all France knew at this point was that parts of his body that were never designed to withstand pain were screaming in agony, and that the sheer volume of drying blood on his limbs was enough to make him feel chilled.

A hesitant knocking at the door took those wicked eyes away from him. France glanced back and saw a boy that was immediately recognizable as Italy, even with his bright-burgundy hair. The little Italian bowed to Jack, speaking to him rapidly and in a high, frightened voice. Jack stiffened and followed him out, leaving France to stew in his own bodily fluids and ponder what he might have done to deserve this.

Another knock, this time to the high-set, small window to his left, brought the Frenchman back to reality. A second and third knock, and then a combat-booted foot broke through and shattered the glass. A girl soon followed, landing catlike on the floor. She glanced at the Frenchman, eyes a dull red color, and seemed surprised to see him staring back. Without a word, the girl crept over and picked the locks on his bindings, pulling him along and out the way she had come in before he could get out a word of thanks.

The mysterious girl didn't stop running until they had left Jack's castle-for, really, what else could that huge estate be called?-far behind. Though their surroundings were as familiar to the Frenchman as good food was to England, he felt a sense of... home emanating from the low stone buildings. The girl pulled him into one of these buildings, outside of which a small sign said, in yellow lettering, "Liberté."

Inside, everything was dark. France heard a quiet shuffling, a pair of hushed voices conversing in worried tones. Dim lights flickered on overhead, revealing honeysuckle-colored walls, soft-beige carpeting, and two men. The one on the left observed him impassively from behind black, wire-rimmed glasses and red-and-black bangs. France assumed him to be this world's Spain. The other, with silver, black-tipped hair and ruby-red eyes, paced back and forth, sending a quick glare at the other every now and then. He must have been Prussia.

The girl, France's savior, approached the Spaniard and greeted him with a nod. She then turned to France, ebony hair swishing with the movement. "Qui êtes-vous?"

The Frenchman blinked, the amount of blood he'd lost messing with his mind. "Er... Francis. Francis Bonnefoy."

She nodded to herself. "That explains why you weren't unconscious." She turned to the Spaniard. "Care to explain why he's here instead, Iommi?"

The man in question pushed is glasses up the bridge of his nose and regarded France with somber, lime-green eyes. "Even I don't have the answer to that, amiga."

The girl nodded again and turned once more to the Frenchman. "Well as long as you're here, we'll protect you, Francis." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Elle BeRellif, and this is Iommi Carriedo," she gestured to the Spainiard," and Gil Beilschmidt," this time to the still-pacing albino.

Gil looked more upset than ever. "How could you lose him, Io?! Seriously! You told me he vas safe vith you!"

Iommi's expression remained unchanged. "Don't blame me for this, Gil. I've been telling you for years that there's a rat amongst us."

Elle stepped between the two, giving each of them a withering look. "Stop it, now. You two will just have to get along and take care of Francis until we can find Night."

Again with this Night fellow, France thought. "Excusez-moi, but who is zhis Night person I keep 'earing about? And on zhat note, where are we?"

It was Gil who answered him. "Night is our personification of France. Und I'm pretty sure you can figure the second one out by now."

He couldn't. Whether is was from the lack of blood or the complete turnaround he'd experienced when he was dragged out in the dead of night, France had no idea where they were. Iommi seemed to notice this, and his expression changed to something close to pity. "Let me show you something, amigo."

Without waiting for a reply, the Spaniard walked out onto a small veranda overlooking a rather pathetic dead yard and, beyond that, a dark, low skyline. One shape stood out from the black shapes of the buildings below, a shape that France had only seen in such a state back before it had been finished. His heart clenched painfully, the sudden shock dulling his injuries for a moment.

Iommi gave him a sad, sympathetic smile. "Welcome to Paris, capital of New Britain."

Translations:

liberté: freedom or liberty

Qui êtes-vous?: Who are you?

excusez-moi: excuse/pardon me

amigo: friend

And just to recap; YES, the little redheaded Italian IS Italy, Iommi IS Spain, and Gil IS Prussia.